Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean loosened his tie as he stepped into the bar, his polished leather shoes clicking against the tiled floor. The interior was dimly lit, with golden sconces casting a warm, flattering glow over the sleek, modern décor. It was the kind of place that reeked of curated affluence: marble countertops, minimalist chandeliers, and patrons who wore tailored suits but left their wallets just out of sight. The faint hum of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the space, blending into the smooth jazz playing softly in the background. He approached the bar and slid onto a stool, exhaling as though shedding the day like a too-tight coat. The bartender, a wiry man with a sharp vest and sharper eyes, nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t rush. Here, service was part of the performance. Dean tapped his fingers against the bar, his manicured nails catching the light. It had been a long week, longer than most, and his usual methods of stress relief —gym sessions and green smoothies— had done little to scratch the itch of restlessness beneath his skin.

“Whiskey. Neat,” he said when the bartender finally came his way, his voice measured, deliberate. It was the kind of drink that felt like rebellion in a glass for someone who usually lived by calendars and deadlines. He glanced around as he waited, scanning the crowd. Most of the patrons fit the mould: men and women with perfectly coiffed hair and designer watches, talking too loudly about mergers and ski holidays. Dean recognised some of them —colleagues, acquaintances— but none he cared to acknowledge tonight. His gaze lingered on a man at the far end of the bar, slouched in his seat, his shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. The man looked like he belonged in another world entirely. His dark hair fell in careless waves, and his beard —just shy of scruffy— gave him an air of nonchalance that bordered on defiance. He cradled a glass of something amber, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the table as though lost in thought. 

When Dean’s drink arrived, he took a sip, letting the warmth slide down his throat. It was strong, smoky, with a bitter edge that matched his mood. The man at the end of the bar caught him looking and tilted his glass in a lazy salute, a faint smirk playing at his lips.

“Long day?” the man drawled, his voice low, rough around the edges like gravel smoothed by years of use. Dean hesitated, then nodded. 

“Something like that.”

“Join the club.” The man gestured vaguely to the empty stool beside him. “Might as well be miserable together.” Dean considered the offer, his corporate instincts cautioning against it. But there was something about the man —his unpolished ease, the way he seemed completely unbothered by the curated perfection around him— that made Dean curious.

“I’m not so sure misery loves company,” Dean said, sliding off his stool and taking the seat anyway.

“Maybe not, but it does love whiskey,” the man replied, flashing a quick grin that was gone almost as fast as it appeared. “Castiel,” he added, holding out a hand. Dean hesitated, his grip firm but his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the man before him. There was something about the name— Castiel —that didn’t quite ring true. It felt deliberate, chosen, fake. Dean’s instincts, honed from years of reading people in high-stakes sales meetings, nudged him to play along.

“Michael,” Dean said finally, releasing the handshake. It wasn’t a lie exactly—more of a test. If Castiel could give him a false name, why shouldn’t he? Castiel’s lips quirked into a half-smile, his eyes sharp with amusement. 

“Michael,” he repeated, as though tasting the name. “Let me guess—corporate job, lots of meetings, not enough coffee?”

“Something like that,” Dean replied, unable to suppress a faint chuckle. “What gave it away?” Castiel leaned back, gesturing vaguely at Dean’s attire. 

“You’ve got the look. Everything in its place, right down to the knot in your tie. Let me guess, you’re a…director? No, wait—sales. Definitely sales.” Dean raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

“Good guess.” Castiel shrugged, lifting his glass as though toasting his own accuracy. 

“It’s a gift.” Dean took another sip of his whiskey, letting the warmth settle in his chest. It wasn’t often someone read him so easily—or so correctly. But he was tired of talking about himself, tired of being summed up in neat, predictable lines. He shifted in his seat, studying Castiel more closely.

“And you?” Dean asked, tilting his head slightly. “What’s your story? You don’t exactly scream ‘corporate.’ More…bohemian drifter, maybe.” Castiel chuckled, low and unhurried, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Close enough. I paint things people want to hang on their walls so they can feel cultured. Sometimes they even pay me.” Dean’s gaze lingered on Castiel for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, though the edges of his lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He let his glass settle on the counter with a quiet thud and leaned forward just enough to close the space between them.

“So why are you here?” Dean asked, his tone measured, curious. Castiel tilted his head, his fingers still circling the rim of his glass. He didn’t answer right away, as though weighing whether Dean’s question deserved a real answer or another deflection. When he finally spoke, his voice was light, teasing.

“Maybe I like the expensive drinks.” Dean’s lips twitched. It wasn’t the whole truth, not even close, but he didn’t press. Instead, he nodded toward Castiel’s half-empty glass. 

“And is it worth it? The price tag?”

“Depends.” Castiel smirked, a faint gleam in his eyes. “Are you talking about the drink, or the company?” Dean felt a flush rise to his neck but ignored it, keeping his expression steady. Castiel’s response was a challenge, a question wrapped in a joke, and Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to unpack it just yet.

“I was asking about the drink,” Dean said smoothly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a faint quirk. “But I guess that answer works for both.” Castiel chuckled softly, his voice a low hum of amusement. He raised his glass and studied the golden liquid, as though it might hold some kind of answer. 

“Worth is subjective, don’t you think? Sometimes, it’s about what you need at the moment. Even if it costs more than it should.” Dean nodded slowly, unsure if Castiel was talking about the drink or something else entirely. There was something about the man —an odd mix of self-assuredness and melancholy— that made him unpredictable, impossible to pin down. It was intriguing, but it also left Dean feeling slightly off-balance, as though Castiel had an unspoken upper hand in their conversation.

“So what do you need right now?” Dean asked, his voice quieter, the words slipping out before he could think better of them. Castiel didn’t answer right away. He set his glass down, his fingers lingering on its edge, and met Dean’s gaze. His eyes were a startling blue, intense and searching, as though he could peel back the layers of Dean’s carefully crafted persona if he looked hard enough.

“Same as you, Michael,” Castiel said finally, the hint of a smile returning to his lips. “A little distraction. And maybe someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.” Dean held his gaze, unsure whether to feel disarmed or impressed. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said, lifting his glass in a small, silent toast. Castiel mirrored the motion, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. For a moment, neither of them spoke, letting the faint murmur of the bar fill the space between them. Dean wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to control it. Castiel tilted his head, his eyes glinting with something unreadable but undeniably self-assured. He rested an elbow on the bar, leaning just slightly toward Dean, his voice dropping low enough to feel like it was meant only for him.

“Do you live close?” The question caught Dean off-guard. His hand froze mid-motion as he set his glass back down on the polished counter, the faintest clink breaking the momentary silence. Castiel’s gaze stayed steady, unbothered, as though the answer wouldn’t affect him one way or another. And yet, there was a pull to the question—a current that made Dean’s skin prickle.

“Erm... yeah?” Dean replied, more an instinct than a proper response, the hesitation in his voice betraying him. A smile played at the edges of Castiel’s lips, sly but not unkind. He pushed his chair back slightly, the scrape of the metal legs against the floor sounding louder than it should in the softly lit room. 

“Then let’s get out of here,” he said, rising from his seat as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

Dean blinked, his mind scrambling to catch up with the moment. The logical part of him —the disciplined, career-oriented part— was already listing the reasons this was a terrible idea. He didn’t know this man. Not really. He’d had a long day, a long week, and getting involved in something impulsive was not what he should be doing. But then there was Castiel, with his untamed confidence, his shirt that refused to stay tucked, and those piercing eyes that seemed to say, ‘Just this once, break your own rules.’ Dean stood before he even realised he’d made the decision, his movements brisk and purposeful to mask the uncertainty bubbling beneath. Castiel watched him with quiet amusement, his hands shoved casually into his pockets as he sauntered toward the door. He didn’t look back to see if Dean would follow, as though the outcome was already decided. 

The night air hit them as they stepped outside, crisp and biting against Dean’s skin. The city buzzed faintly around them—distant car engines, muffled laughter from another bar a few doors down, the rhythmic click of heels on pavement. Castiel turned to Dean, his posture loose, his expression easy, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath the surface. Anticipation, perhaps.

“Which way?” Castiel asked, his voice lighter now, almost playful. 

Dean nodded toward the right, his hand brushing against the edge of his coat pocket, as though grounding himself in the small, familiar motion. They walked in silence for a few minutes, their footsteps falling into an unspoken rhythm. Dean caught himself glancing sideways at Castiel more than once, trying to decipher him. There was an unpredictability to the man that was both unnerving and magnetic, like stepping onto unfamiliar terrain without a map. As they reached the edge of Dean’s block, Castiel broke the silence, his voice cutting through the quiet like a low hum.

“You’re a bit of a mystery, Michael,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue with just the slightest hint of mischief. “You don’t really seem like the type to pick up strangers at bars.” Dean huffed a soft laugh, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. 

“I don’t usually.”

“And yet, here we are.” Castiel’s lips quirked again, and this time, his smile reached his eyes.

Dean hesitated, his steps slowing as they approached his building. The glass entryway reflected the streetlights in fractured patterns, its sleek design mirroring the clean, curated life he had built for himself. But for the first time, standing there with Castiel at his side, it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a box he had carefully locked himself into. He turned to Castiel, his hand hovering near the keys in his pocket. 

“Are you always this forward?”

“Only when it works,” Castiel replied with a low chuckle, leaning slightly closer. There was a warmth in his gaze now, a quiet patience that seemed to say, Your move.

Dean exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool air. Against his better judgement—or perhaps because of it—he swiped his key tag  and pushed the door open, holding it just long enough for Castiel to step through.

“Welcome to my perfectly organised life,” Dean muttered, more to himself than to Castiel, as they entered the pristine lobby. The faint scent of fresh linen lingered in the air, mingling with the soft hum of the elevator waiting in the corner. Castiel tilted his head, his eyes scanning the space with lazy curiosity. 

“Let’s see if it’s as perfectly organised as you think,” he said, his voice laced with that same playful edge that had drawn Dean to him in the first place. Dean didn’t answer, but as the elevator doors closed behind them, he felt a strange mix of apprehension and exhilaration settling in his chest. For once, he didn’t know what came next. And, strangely, he didn’t hate it.

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the polished interior catching glints of light from the sleek panel buttons. Dean leaned against the mirrored wall, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. Castiel stood casually next to him, his posture loose, almost careless, as if this whole situation was no more than a mild curiosity to him. Dean could feel the man's presence, close but not intrusive, a quiet energy that somehow filled the small space. When the doors slid open onto the top floor, Castiel stepped out first, his boots tapping against the hardwood floor of the hallway. Dean followed, first swiping the key tag and then pressing in his code. A quiet beep, a faint click, and the door was unlocked.

Dean’s apartment unfolded before them—a pristine expanse of clean lines and muted colours. The open-concept layout stretched out into the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, glittering like a sea of stars against the night. The furniture was sleek, minimalist, every piece carefully chosen to complement the aesthetic: a low-profile grey sofa, a glass coffee table, and a single abstract painting on the wall. The kind of place that looked ready for a magazine shoot but felt just shy of being lived in. Castiel stepped inside and surveyed the space, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a slow, deliberate glance around, he let out a soft snort. 

“You live here alone?” he asked, arching a brow. Dean shut the door behind them, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Yeah,” he replied, shrugging off his coat and hanging it neatly on the rack by the door. “Why?”

“Just seems… excessive,” Castiel said, gesturing vaguely to the room. “This place is massive. Do you at least throw dinner parties for ghosts, or is this all for you?” Dean rolled his eyes, though there was no real irritation behind it. 

“I like the space. It’s quiet.”

“Quiet,” Castiel echoed, walking further into the room. His gaze swept over the spotless surfaces, the lack of clutter. “It’s more than quiet. It’s sterile. You live in a furniture showroom.” Dean opened his mouth to respond, but Castiel wasn’t finished. “I mean, look at this.” He pointed to the coffee table, a glass surface so spotless it seemed to repel the very idea of fingerprints. “Where do you even put your feet when you’re watching TV?”

“I don’t watch much TV,” Dean said, his voice defensive, even though he hated how true Castiel’s words rang.

“Of course you don’t.” Castiel smirked, moving to the windows and peering out at the city below. “And let me guess—everything’s organised into neat little categories. Your pantry, your closet, probably even your sock drawer.” Dean crossed his arms, leaning against the kitchen island. 

“There’s nothing wrong with being organised.”

“No,” Castiel agreed, turning to face him, that faint smirk still tugging at his lips. “But there’s a difference between ‘organised’ and ‘afraid to live in your own damn space.’” That hit closer to home than Dean wanted to admit, so he changed the subject. 

“I suppose your place is a mess, then? Junk everywhere, mismatched furniture, that sort of thing?” Castiel grinned, clearly unfazed by the jab. 

“Oh, absolutely. It’s chaos. But at least it has personality.” Dean couldn’t even argue. He glanced around his apartment, seeing it through Castiel’s eyes—the cold, calculated design, the lack of warmth. It wasn’t the first time someone had commented on it, but it was the first time Dean had really felt the truth of it. This was a place designed to impress, not to live. “So, what’s this?” Castiel asked, wandering over to a small bookshelf tucked against the wall. He crouched slightly, examining the spines of the books lined up in perfect alphabetical order. “A man who doesn’t watch TV but keeps these on display? Let me guess—you’ve read half of them.” Dean bristled. 

“I’ve read all of them.” Castiel glanced back, one eyebrow raised. 

“Impressive,” he said, though his tone was laced with just enough sarcasm to make Dean question if it was a compliment. “Let me guess—mostly business and self-improvement?” Dean sighed. 

“Some fiction.”

“Good,” Castiel said, straightening up. “At least you’re not completely hopeless.” Dean shook his head, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t sure what it was about Castiel —his bluntness, his irreverence— but it was disarming. Somehow, the man had a way of poking at the parts of Dean he didn’t like to acknowledge, and instead of being irritated, Dean felt… relieved. It was like Castiel could see through all the polish and pretence and didn’t care one bit about maintaining the façade.

“You done making fun of my place?” Dean asked, pushing off the counter and heading toward the kitchen.

“For now,” Castiel said, leaning back against the window. “But only because I’m thirsty. Got anything better than overpriced whiskey?” Dean opened a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of red wine and a pair of glasses. 

“You like wine?”

“Depends,” Castiel said, watching him. “Is it as pretentious as your furniture?” Dean snorted despite himself, shaking his head. 

“You’re kinda rude, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Castiel said, his tone almost teasing. “But at least I’m interesting.” Dean poured the wine, handing a glass to Castiel. For the first time in a long time, he felt the quiet tug of something beyond routine, beyond the careful boundaries of his life. And maybe —just maybe— that was exactly what he needed.

The wine was smooth, a velvety red that left a faint warmth trailing down Dean’s throat. He swirled the glass absentmindedly, watching the way the light from the kitchen reflected in the dark liquid. Across the island, Castiel leaned on his elbows, his posture loose, his fingers curling lazily around his own glass.

“So, Michael,” Castiel said, the name dripping with playful mockery as he tilted his head. “What do you do for fun? Or is it just spreadsheets and quarterly reports until you drop?”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I have hobbies.”

“Oh?” Castiel’s eyebrows arched, his grin widening. “Do tell.” Dean took a sip of his wine, stalling. What did he do for fun? The gym? Reading? The occasional weekend hike? All of it felt so sterile when laid out under Castiel’s curious gaze. 

“I... run sometimes,” he said finally. “It clears my head.” Castiel let out a soft chuckle, setting his glass down. 

“Running. Of course. I bet you time yourself, don’t you? Gotta hit a personal best every time.” Dean smirked despite himself. 

“And what about you? Let me guess—drinking, smoking, maybe a little actual work when you’re not doing one of the first two?”

“Sounds about right,” Castiel said with an easy shrug, his grin unwavering. “But at least I don’t apologise for it.” 

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but the words froze on his tongue as Castiel leaned closer, his arm brushing against Dean’s where it rested on the counter. The touch was casual, fleeting, but enough to send a flicker of heat through Dean’s skin. He didn’t pull away, and neither did Castiel. The conversation ebbed into something softer after that, the teasing giving way to quieter musings about the city, about people, about the strange paths that had brought them both to this moment. Castiel’s voice, low and rough-edged, was hypnotic, drawing Dean out of himself in a way he hadn’t expected. The wine helped too, loosening the knots of tension that had wrapped themselves around his shoulders for months, maybe years. As they talked, Castiel grew bolder. A hand on Dean’s arm when he made a point, a brush of fingers against his wrist when he reached for his glass. Each touch was casual enough to pass unnoticed if Dean had wanted to ignore it, but he didn’t. Instead, he found himself leaning into the warmth, into the small, electric shocks that jolted through him every time Castiel’s skin met his own. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like this—casually, without pretense or obligation. It wasn’t part of a handshake or a professional gesture. It wasn’t calculated or planned. It was spontaneous, human, and it left Dean disarmed in a way he hadn’t been in years. At one point, Castiel’s hand lingered on Dean’s forearm, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against the fabric of his shirt. Dean glanced up, meeting Castiel’s gaze. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes—half amusement, half something deeper, something that made Dean’s chest tighten and his breath catch.

“You seem tense,” Castiel murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel like a secret.

“I’m fine,” Dean replied, though his voice was softer, less convincing than he would have liked.

“Sure you are,” Castiel said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He shifted closer, his knee brushing against Dean’s under the island. “But you don’t have to be, you know. Not here.”

Dean exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. The wine buzzed pleasantly in his veins, mingling with the warmth of Castiel’s proximity. The air between them felt different now—charged, alive, like the moments before a summer storm. Dean could feel it in the way his skin prickled, in the way his thoughts blurred at the edges. He set his glass down carefully, as if grounding himself, but it didn’t help. Castiel was still there, close enough that Dean could smell the faint traces of his cologne—woodsy, with a hint of something sharper, like citrus. Close enough that Dean could feel the pull of gravity between them, subtle but undeniable.

“You’re persistent,” Dean said finally, his voice low but steady, though there was a faint quirk of humour at the edges.

“It’s part of my charm,” Castiel replied, his smile softening into something warmer. His hand slid down Dean’s arm, stopping just above his wrist. “I don’t think you mind.”

Dean didn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, he turned his hand over, letting Castiel’s fingers slide into his palm, warm and steady. He didn’t know where this was going, didn’t know what it meant, but for once, he didn’t feel the need to map it out. For once, it was enough just to be here. As Castiel’s fingers lingered in Dean’s palm, a deliberate warmth that sent a quiet hum through the air between them. His gaze was steady, almost expectant, as though he could see right through the polished mask Dean wore so tightly. When Dean didn’t pull away, didn’t deflect, Castiel’s lips curved into that familiar, knowing smile.

“You did invite me over,” Castiel said, his voice soft but teasing, the words slipping into the quiet like they belonged there. Dean huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, leaning back slightly against the counter, though he didn’t let go of Castiel’s hand. 

“Technically, you invited yourself,” he replied, his tone lighter than it had been all evening.

“Details.” Castiel’s grin widened, and he took a small step closer, closing the remaining space between them. The subtle shift in proximity was enough to make Dean acutely aware of every point of contact—the press of their knees under the counter, the heat radiating from Castiel’s arm where it brushed his.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Dean said, shaking his head. He wasn’t irritated —far from it— but there was a thread of disbelief in his voice, as though he still couldn’t quite believe he’d let this stranger into his pristine, carefully controlled space.

“Maybe,” Castiel replied, his thumb brushing faintly over the back of Dean’s hand. “But you don’t seem to mind.” Dean’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. He couldn’t argue with that—not when Castiel’s presence had somehow smoothed the rough edges of his evening, peeling back the layers of stress and tension like they didn’t belong here. Not when he felt more relaxed, more present, than he had in months.

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” Dean said, tilting his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as if to study Castiel more closely.

“Not always.” Castiel’s voice dipped, quieter now, the playfulness softening into something more thoughtful. “But sometimes you have to act like you are. Makes the world a little easier to deal with.” Dean nodded slowly, the words settling into him in a way that felt more profound than they should have. He recognised the sentiment, the quiet desperation of it, though he wasn’t sure whether Castiel was hiding something or simply speaking the truth as it was. Either way, it hit close to home. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Castiel leaned against the counter now, his posture easy but his gaze fixed on Dean, waiting. Dean knew he should say something, do something —anything to reassert control over the situation— but instead, he just stood there, caught in the quiet pull of Castiel’s presence.

“You’re not what I expected,” Dean said finally, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Castiel arched an eyebrow, his smile tilting into something more mischievous. 

“What were you expecting?” Dean hesitated, unsure how to answer. Someone more straightforward, maybe. Someone less perceptive. Someone who didn’t unravel him with a few well-placed comments and the simplest touch.

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “But it wasn’t this.”

“Good,” Castiel said simply, his hand slipping from Dean’s but not before his fingers gave a soft, lingering squeeze. “Would’ve been boring if I was.”

Dean shook his head, laughing softly, but he didn’t argue. Castiel wasn’t wrong—he had a knack for unsettling Dean, for poking at the carefully constructed walls of his life, and yet Dean couldn’t bring himself to push back. Instead, he poured them each another glass of wine, the act giving his hands something to do while his mind tried to catch up with everything that was happening. As Castiel reached for his glass, their fingers brushed again, and this time, Dean didn’t look away.

Dean caught himself watching Castiel again, his eyes tracing the curve of his jaw, the way the dim lighting caught the faint scruff along his cheeks. Castiel was leaning back slightly against the counter, his body loose, his expression unreadable except for the faint quirk of his lips, as if he was quietly amused by a joke only he knew. He was calm, almost maddeningly so, sipping his wine like he had all the time in the world. Dean, on the other hand, felt the quiet tension simmering just beneath his skin. It wasn’t a bad tension—more like a spark waiting for ignition. He was acutely aware of every moment they’d spent brushing against each other, every lingering touch, every soft glance exchanged. And yet, for all of Castiel’s confidence, for all his boldness, he hadn’t made a move. ‘Why hasn’t he kissed me?’ The thought came unbidden, and Dean immediately dismissed it, only for it to circle back, louder, clearer. It didn’t make sense. Castiel had leaned into him, flirted with him, lingered in his space as if he belonged there. And still —nothing. Dean felt his grip on the wineglass tighten slightly, his thumb running along the smooth edge of the stem. He could feel the quiet buzz of the alcohol mingling with the faint adrenaline in his veins, heightening his awareness of everything. The sound of the city below, muted by the thick glass windows. The faint scent of Castiel’s cologne, woody and sharp. The way Castiel’s fingers played absently with the edge of the counter, the faint scrape of skin against polished stone.

The silence between them felt charged, not awkward but alive, like the seconds before a storm. In the office Dean did not hesitate. There he wasn’t the type to sit in uncertainty, to let a moment pass him by while he over thought it into oblivion. And yet, with Castiel standing there, so close and yet so untouchable, Dean felt like he was hovering on the edge of something, unsure whether to leap. Castiel’s eyes flicked up to meet Dean’s, and the intensity there made Dean’s pulse quicken. His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but whatever it was, the words never came. Dean set his glass down on the counter with more precision than was necessary, the sound faint but grounding. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he leaned forward. The space between them disappeared in an instant, and he pressed his lips to Castiel’s. The kiss was tentative at first, a test, a question. Dean’s heart raced as he felt the faint scratch of Castiel’s scruff against his own clean-shaven skin, the warmth of his breath mingling with his own. For a split second, Castiel didn’t move, and Dean’s mind sparked with a thousand possible outcomes, each more embarrassing than the last. But then Castiel tilted his head slightly, and his lips moved against Dean’s, slow and sure, like the answer to a question Dean hadn’t even known he’d asked. Castiel’s hand found Dean’s waist, his grip firm but not demanding, grounding him even as the rest of the world seemed to tilt slightly off its axis. Dean leaned into the touch, one hand reaching up to curl around the back of Castiel’s neck, his fingers brushing against the soft, unruly waves of his hair. The kiss deepened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Dean let himself go, let himself feel without overthinking, without analysing. 

When they finally broke apart, Dean’s breath came in short, quiet bursts, his forehead brushing lightly against Castiel’s. He opened his eyes to find Castiel watching him, his expression unreadable but his lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Well,” Castiel murmured, his voice low and rough around the edges, “you really don’t waste time once you make up your mind.” Dean chuckled softly, his thumb brushing absently against the side of Castiel’s neck. 

“You weren’t exactly making a move.” Castiel’s smile widened, and he leaned in slightly, his lips grazing Dean’s ear as he spoke. 

“Sometimes it’s more fun to see what the other person will do.” Dean pulled back just enough to meet Castiel’s gaze, his own smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“You’re something else.”

“And yet,” Castiel replied, his hand sliding up to rest just beneath Dean’s ribs, “here we are.” Dean didn’t have a response to that—not one that mattered, anyway. So instead, he kissed him again, letting the rest of the world fade away. Castiel pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low and edged with that familiar teasing tone. His gaze drifted over the pristine living room, his lips quirking into a smirk as he gestured toward the row of identical white doors lining the far wall. “I doubt you want to do it on the couch,” he said, his tone playful but undercut with something darker, something that made Dean’s stomach flip. “So, which of these immaculate doors leads to your bedroom?” Dean blinked, caught between the heat still coursing through him and the absurdity of the question. He glanced over at the four doors, all perfectly painted, perfectly aligned, their uniformity suddenly feeling ridiculous under Castiel’s scrutiny.

“Take a guess,” Dean replied, his voice dry, though his lips twitched in a faint smile. “The options are gym, office, bedroom and bathroom.” Castiel tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he was genuinely considering it. 

“Hmm. That one is not the bedroom,” he said, pointing to the first door. “Bathroom, right? Gotta be. Too close to the living room.” Dean nodded reluctantly, and Castiel grinned, moving to the next door. 

“This one feels... gym-like. I bet it smells like effort and overpriced protein powder.” Dean couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him, shaking his head. 

“It’s not that bad.”

“Sure it isn’t.” Castiel stepped past the third door, his hand trailing along the frame. “Office,” he declared confidently. “I bet it’s just as soulless as the rest of this place.”

“Thanks for that,” Dean muttered, though he couldn’t argue the point. The office was functional, sleek, and completely devoid of personality. Finally, Castiel turned to the last door, his smirk softening into something more mischievous. 

“So that leaves this one,” he said, resting his hand on the handle. “Unless you’re hiding some secret fifth door where you actually live.” Dean crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter as he watched Castiel with a mix of amusement and anticipation. 

“You gonna open it, or are we standing here all night?” Castiel chuckled, his hand twisting the knob and pushing the door open. The bedroom beyond was just as neat and minimalist as the rest of the apartment, with crisp white bedding on a low-profile platform bed and a single abstract painting hanging above the headboard. The large windows mirrored the ones in the living room, offering a sprawling view of the city lights. Castiel stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the room. He let out a low whistle, turning back to glance at Dean. 

“Of course your bedroom looks like it belongs in a boutique hotel.” Dean rolled his eyes, following him in and closing the door behind them. 

“Sorry it doesn’t meet your high standards.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Castiel said, turning to face Dean again, his smirk softening into something warmer. “It’s just missing... you know, a soul. But we can work with it.” Dean stepped closer, the space between them narrowing again. 

“You’ve got a lot of opinions for someone who invited himself over.”

“I do,” Castiel agreed, his voice quieter now, his eyes locked on Dean’s. “But you seem to like that about me.”

Dean didn’t reply, at least not with words. Instead, he reached out, his hand brushing against Castiel’s hip, pulling him closer as the faint city lights cast long shadows across the room. The banter, the teasing—all of it fell away, leaving only the quiet pull of gravity between them. 

The soft hum of the city outside seemed distant now, a faint backdrop to the charged quiet that filled the room. Dean’s hand lingered on Castiel’s hip, his thumb brushing absently against the fabric of his jeans. Castiel didn’t pull away; instead, he leaned in slightly, his eyes tracing the line of Dean’s jaw as though committing it to memory. Dean’s bedroom felt too still, too polished under the glow of the city lights streaming through the large windows. The faint scent of clean linen from the neatly made bed mixed with the lingering trace of Castiel’s cologne—sharp, earthy, and utterly disarming. The contrast between them was almost laughable: Castiel, all rough edges and unapologetic chaos, standing in the middle of Dean’s perfectly curated world. Yet, somehow, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt inevitable.

“I was right,” Castiel said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “This place is definitely you. Neat, controlled...” Dean arched an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

“And?” Castiel’s smirk softened, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Dean’s chest. 

“And it’s begging to be messed up.” The words sent a ripple through Dean, equal parts amusement and something deeper, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in far too long. His pulse quickened under Castiel’s touch, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo in the quiet. He wasn’t used to this—to someone like Castiel, who didn’t just step into his space but completely disrupted it, unapologetically.

“I don’t usually do this,” Dean admitted, his voice quieter now, the words coming out before he could think better of them. Castiel tilted his head, his gaze softening as he studied Dean’s face. 

“I figured,” he said, his tone free of judgement, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “You seem… careful.” 

Careful. 

Dean felt the word settle over him, familiar and yet strangely hollow in the moment. He was careful—careful with his time, his choices, his perfectly balanced routines. And what had it gotten him? Nights spent alone in a spotless apartment, sipping whiskey and staring at the city lights as if they might offer some kind of answer. But tonight, with Castiel standing there, so close he could feel the warmth radiating off him, careful felt like a prison.

“I don’t want to be,” Dean said, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. Castiel’s lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that held no trace of mockery. He leaned in, his hand sliding from Dean’s chest to the back of his neck, his fingers threading lightly through his hair. 

“Then don’t be.”

The words were simple, but they carried a weight Dean couldn’t ignore. He closed the small distance between them, his lips finding Castiel’s with a quiet urgency. The kiss was slow at first, tentative, as though testing the edges of something neither of them could quite define. But then Castiel deepened it, his grip on Dean’s neck firming, his other hand sliding up to rest against Dean’s jaw. Dean felt himself relax into the kiss, the tension that had followed him all week melting away under Castiel’s touch. His own hands moved almost of their own accord, one settling at Castiel’s waist while the other slipped around to the small of his back, pulling him closer. Castiel fit against him in a way that felt maddeningly right, his body warm and solid, his kiss confident but never overwhelming. When they broke apart, both breathing slightly harder, Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s, his eyes half-lidded but glinting with quiet amusement.

“You’re not bad at this,” Castiel murmured, his voice rough and edged with a playful smirk. Dean huffed a laugh, his hands still resting on Castiel’s hips. 

“You’re mouthy.”

“And yet,” Castiel said, his lips quirking into a smile, “you’re still here.” Dean didn’t reply, because what was there to say? Castiel was right. He was still here, standing in his too-perfect bedroom with a man who seemed to have walked straight out of a daydream—or maybe a storm. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t second-guessing himself. He wasn’t holding back.

“Stay,” Dean said suddenly, the word coming out quieter than he intended but no less certain. Castiel’s expression shifted, the teasing fading into something softer, almost surprised. He searched Dean’s face for a moment, then nodded. 

“Okay.”

It was just one word, but it settled something deep inside Dean, a tension he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, his lips twitching into a faint, genuine smile. For once, he let himself simply feel, without trying to name it, without trying to control it. And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough. Castiel reached up, his fingers brushing lightly against Dean’s chest before finding the knot of his tie. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, and his gaze stayed locked on Dean’s as he tilted his head with a faint smirk.

“We should get rid of this tie then,” Castiel said, his voice low and edged with something playful but steady, like he had all the time in the world to see how Dean would respond. Dean swallowed, his breath hitching just enough to be noticeable, though he didn’t stop Castiel. Instead, he nodded faintly, unsure if his voice would betray him. Castiel didn’t seem to need verbal confirmation; his fingers were already working the knot loose, tugging gently until the fabric slipped free. The tie came away easily, a sleek strip of navy silk that Castiel twirled between his fingers with idle curiosity. “Why do you wear these things anyway?” he asked, his tone light, teasing. “Trying to intimidate the interns? Or just habit?” Dean chuckled softly, his lips twitching into a small smile. 

“Part of the uniform,” he replied, his voice quieter now, more relaxed than he’d expected. “Sales isn’t exactly casual.”

“Hmm,” Castiel mused, letting the tie drape over the edge of the bed as he took a small step closer. “Well, it’s gone now. I think you’ll survive.” Dean didn’t have time to reply. Castiel’s hands were back on him, one resting lightly against his collarbone while the other traced a line down the front of his shirt, fingers brushing against the crisp buttons. The touch was light, exploratory, but it sent a ripple of warmth through Dean’s chest, down to the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t sure whether to marvel at Castiel’s boldness or envy his ease, the way he moved as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy telling me what to do,” Dean said, his voice quieter, a faint edge of humour weaving through it. Castiel grinned, his fingers pausing for a moment as his eyes flicked up to meet Dean’s. 

“Only because you’re good at following instructions,” he quipped, the teasing lilt in his voice unmistakable. Dean’s breath caught, not at the words themselves but at the weight behind them. He wasn’t sure if Castiel meant the apartment or something deeper, but either way, the truth of it settled over him like a quiet revelation. He had let Castiel in—into his space, into his carefully constructed routine, into the parts of himself he usually kept under lock and key. And now, with Castiel standing so close, his eyes sharp and his hands steady, Dean didn’t regret it. Not even for a second. Castiel’s fingers moved again, resuming their path as he began unbuttoning Dean’s shirt, his touch slow and purposeful. Each button came undone with a soft sound, the fabric parting to reveal more of Dean’s skin. The room felt warmer now, though whether it was from the city lights spilling through the windows or the quiet intensity between them, Dean couldn’t tell. “You’ve got too many layers,” Castiel said, his voice soft but teasing as he pushed the shirt off Dean’s shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a quiet heap. Dean let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reached for Castiel, his hands settling against his hips. 

“Says the guy still fully dressed.”

“Well,” Castiel replied, his grin widening, “maybe you should do something about that.” Dean leaned in, his hands sliding up Castiel’s sides, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt give way to the warmth of the man beneath. For the first time in what felt like forever, Dean wasn’t thinking about what came next or how this fit into the carefully ordered puzzle of his life. He wasn’t analysing, wasn’t overthinking. He was just here, in this moment, with Castiel.

And for now, that was enough.

Dean’s fingers lingered at the hem of Castiel’s shirt, his knuckles brushing against the soft fabric before he tugged it upward. The shirt bunched as it slid over Castiel’s torso, revealing lean muscle and skin that caught the faint glow of the city lights streaming through the windows. Castiel lifted his arms slightly to help, his movements unhurried, as if he enjoyed watching Dean take his time. The shirt joined Dean’s tie and his own discarded shirt on the floor, and for a moment, Dean’s hands stilled. He let his gaze roam over Castiel, cataloguing every detail—the dip of his collarbone, the light scattering of hair across his chest, the way his skin seemed to radiate warmth. Dean wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but standing this close, his hands brushing against Castiel’s sides, he realised he hadn’t imagined this at all. He’d never let himself. Castiel didn’t fill the silence with words. Instead, his fingers found the line of Dean’s jaw, tilting his face upward. His touch was firm but not rushed, his thumb brushing lightly against Dean’s cheek as if testing the moment. When he leaned in, the kiss was slower this time, less a question and more an answer. Dean felt the press of Castiel’s lips against his own, warm and deliberate, his hands tightening against Castiel’s hips as if to ground himself. Dean’s world had always been defined by boundaries —plans, schedules, expectations. But with Castiel, those boundaries blurred, the lines between want and need dissolving into something unspoken but undeniable. His fingers moved instinctively, tracing the curve of Castiel’s spine, the slight hitch in his breath when Dean’s hands dipped lower.

“You’re quieter than I expected,” Castiel murmured against his lips, his voice low and tinged with amusement. “Figured you’d have more to say.” Dean huffed out a soft laugh, his forehead pressing lightly against Castiel’s. 

“I’m not exactly used to this.”

“This?” Castiel repeated, tilting his head, his expression curious but still carrying that faint, teasing smile. Dean hesitated, his hands still resting lightly against Castiel’s waist. 

“Letting someone in,” he said finally, the words quiet but unguarded. Castiel’s smile softened, the sharpness of his teasing replaced by something warmer. 

“Well, you’re not doing too bad,” he said, his hand sliding down to rest over Dean’s. “And for what it’s worth, you’re better at this than you give yourself credit for.”

Dean didn’t know how to respond to that—not in words, at least. Instead, he leaned in again, his lips brushing against Castiel’s in a way that felt less like an impulse and more like an inevitability. The kiss deepened, their movements slow but insistent, and Dean felt himself sinking into the moment, the world outside his apartment fading into nothing. Castiel’s hands moved too, skimming over Dean’s shoulders, his back, as if mapping him out piece by piece. The room felt warmer now, the cool precision of its design offset by the heat that seemed to gather between them. Dean barely noticed the soft press of his legs against the edge of the bed until Castiel nudged him gently, guiding him to sit. Dean let himself be moved, his pulse quickening as Castiel stood over him for a moment, his presence filling the space like a quiet storm. When Castiel leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of Dean, their gazes locked, the moment stretched into something electric.

“You look like you’re thinking too much,” Castiel said, his voice soft but with a playful edge. Dean let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re not wrong.”

“Well, stop,” Castiel said simply, his lips curving into a faint smile as he kissed Dean again, the kind of kiss that left no room for second-guessing. Dean let himself go then, his hands gripping Castiel’s sides, pulling him closer as the world outside the room disappeared entirely. For once, he wasn’t thinking about what came next or what this meant. He wasn’t thinking at all. He was just here, with Castiel, and that was more than enough.

Dean felt the mattress dip beneath him as Castiel followed his lead, their movements fluid and unhurried. The room was quiet save for the faint murmur of the city beyond the windows and the sound of their breathing, growing heavier in the closeness between them. Dean let his hands roam, skimming along Castiel’s back, the heat of his skin grounding him in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. Every touch felt deliberate, a conversation carried out without words. Castiel’s hands slid over Dean’s shoulders, his grip firm, reassuring. His lips ghosted along Dean’s jawline, a slow exploration that sent a shiver down his spine. Dean tilted his head back slightly, his eyes fluttering shut as he let himself be consumed by the moment, the sensation, the quiet intensity that filled the room. It wasn’t like Dean to surrender control, not even in the small moments of his life. He was the planner, the problem-solver, the one who kept everything neat and orderly. But now, with Castiel above him, his movements unhurried but purposeful, Dean felt something inside him loosen. It wasn’t just the wine, though the pleasant buzz lingered in his veins—it was Castiel, his presence steady, grounding, the perfect counterbalance to the noise in Dean’s head.

“Relax,” Castiel murmured against his skin, his voice low and warm, more a suggestion than a command. His hands skimmed over Dean’s chest, the touch light but sure, as if coaxing him to let go. Dean exhaled slowly, his hands coming to rest against Castiel’s waist, his fingers brushing the curve of his hips. He wasn’t sure when the tension in his body had started to melt away, but it had, replaced by a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in years. The kind of calm that came not from silence or solitude, but from being fully present with someone who didn’t expect anything of him beyond this moment.

“You’re good at this,” Dean muttered, his voice rough, tinged with a quiet humour that felt like his only defence against the way Castiel seemed to unravel him so effortlessly. Castiel chuckled, the sound low and warm, his breath brushing against Dean’s collarbone. 

“At what? Kissing you? Or getting you to stop overthink?”

“Both,” Dean admitted, his lips twitching into a faint smile. Castiel leaned back slightly, his eyes catching the light from the cityscape outside. His expression was soft, thoughtful, though the teasing smirk still lingered at the edges. 

“I think you just needed the right incentive,” he said, his tone playful but tinged with sincerity. 

Dean let his head fall back against the mattress, his gaze shifting to the ceiling as a rare sense of contentment settled over him. Castiel shifted beside him, his presence warm and solid, a reminder that this wasn’t just some fleeting dream. For once, Dean let himself stay in the moment, his mind quiet, his body at ease. The world outside could wait. For now, this was enough.

Chapter Text

The smell of old bourbon and faint cigarette smoke lingered in the air, curling in the dim light of the bar. Castiel lounged against the back of his chair, his shirt half-unbuttoned and untucked, his dark hair an unkempt halo around a face shadowed by a faint beard. He swirled his glass lazily, the amber liquid inside catching the faint glint of the neon beer sign above the bar. Across from him, Balthazar was the picture of contrast—immaculately dressed in a tailored navy blazer, his cufflinks catching the dim light like tiny stars. He sipped his whiskey with the grace of a man who viewed alcohol less as a crutch and more as a tool for indulgence. The faint smirk that curved his lips didn’t falter, even as his sharp eyes tracked Castiel’s every move.

"You’re already two glasses in, Cassie," Balthazar drawled, leaning back in his chair and gesturing with his own glass. "I thought the point of this was to keep up with each other, not to drown your sorrows while I remain tragically sober." Castiel snorted, setting his glass down with a dull thud. The table between them was a rickety thing, marred by water stains and stray scratches, a far cry from the pristine marble counters Balthazar preferred to haunt. But tonight, Castiel had chosen the venue. It was tucked away in the less polished part of town, the kind of place where no one looked twice at a man drinking alone—or with company he wasn’t sure he wanted.

"Maybe I’m just better at this than you," Castiel replied, his tone light but tinged with the faint edge of challenge. He pushed the glass away and reached for the bottle sitting between them, topping off his drink. The motion was careless, the amber liquid sloshing slightly as he poured. Balthazar chuckled, the sound rich and sardonic. 

"Hardly. You’ve just had more practice recently. Speaking of which—why don’t we do this anymore? You used to be tolerable company." Castiel’s smile was fleeting, more a twitch of his lips than a real expression. He glanced down at his glass, the liquid within shifting with the slightest tilt of his wrist. 

"Gabriel," he said finally, his voice heavy with the name. "He thinks we’re bad influences on each other." Balthazar let out a low whistle, leaning forward slightly. 

"Ah, yes. Gabriel. Patron saint of hypocrisy. Let me guess—he told you this while sipping a scotch that cost more than my watch and sitting in one of his unnecessarily large leather chairs?"

"Something like that." Castiel took a sip of his drink, the burn of it familiar, grounding. "He thinks I smoke too much, you enable me, and together we’re... what was it? 'A symphony of chaos.'" Balthazar barked a laugh, the sound sharp and genuine. 

"He’s not wrong, though, is he?" Castiel didn’t reply immediately. His gaze lingered on the edge of his glass, his fingers tracing its rim absentmindedly. The low hum of conversation in the bar filled the space between them, mingling with the distant strains of a piano tune being butchered by the jukebox.

"We were always chaos," Castiel said at last, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. "Even before Gabriel decided to start playing the responsible older brother. He just didn’t care until recently."

"Ah, well, he has a reputation to uphold now," Balthazar said, his smirk widening. "Can’t have his little brother sullying the good Novak name by… what is it you do again? Oh, right. Living." Castiel shot him a look, but there was no heat behind it. 

"He worries. That’s all."

"Let him worry," Balthazar replied, swirling the last of his whiskey before downing it in one smooth motion. "We’re adults, Castiel. If I want to drink myself into oblivion with my favourite nihilist, that’s hardly his concern." Castiel’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. He reached for the bottle again, but Balthazar’s hand shot out, covering his. The gesture was firm but not forceful, a silent command to pause. Castiel blinked up at him, surprised. "Not yet," Balthazar said, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. "I’d like to at least pretend we’re having a civilised conversation before you lose yourself in that bottle."

"Why bother pretending?" Castiel asked, though he released the bottle with a sigh, letting his hand fall back to his lap. "You’re just as guilty as I am. Or have you turned into a saint since I last saw you?" Balthazar grinned, a flash of white teeth that was more wolfish than kind. 

"Hardly. But unlike you, I know how to pace myself." He gestured toward Castiel’s glass. "What’s the hurry, anyway? You’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow. Or do you?" Castiel hesitated, his gaze flicking to the scuffed floorboards beneath their table. 

"It’s not about the hurry," he said quietly. "It’s about the noise. Sometimes it’s the only thing that drowns it out." For a moment, Balthazar didn’t reply. He studied Castiel carefully, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as though trying to decipher a particularly complicated puzzle. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, his expression softening.

"You always were a poet when you were drunk," he said, his voice laced with a faint, bittersweet amusement. "What would Gabriel say if he could hear you now?"

"Something sanctimonious," Castiel replied, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Or worse, something sincere." Balthazar laughed again, though it was quieter this time, less cutting. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink, his movements unhurried, deliberate. When he raised his glass, his expression shifted—still teasing, but with a note of genuine camaraderie that was rare for him.

"To chaos, then," he said, tilting his glass toward Castiel. "And to being the bad influences we were always meant to be." Castiel’s smile grew, faint but real, and he lifted his own glass in return. 

"To chaos," he echoed, the words slipping from his lips like a prayer. 

The glasses clinked softly, the sound lost in the hum of the bar, and for a moment, the noise in Castiel’s head quieted. Not gone —never gone— but muted, if only for a little while. The bar’s dim lighting threw long shadows across the worn table, the scratches and scuffs on the surface catching the flickering glow from the neon sign above the bar. Castiel slouched deeper into his chair, his fingers loosely cradling the nearly empty glass of bourbon as he fixed Balthazar with a slow, deliberate look. His lips curved, faintly amused, faintly daring.

"Maybe," Castiel said, his voice slipping out low and casual, "we should sleep together again." Balthazar stilled, the glass he had just picked up freezing halfway to his lips. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth, though his eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. He placed the glass down carefully, his movements unhurried, as though taking the measure of the words and the man who had just uttered them.

"Is this about you thinking the world’s ending again?" Balthazar asked, his voice light, though the faint edge of warning didn’t go unnoticed. "Nothing matters, chaos reigns, all that nonsense?"

Castiel didn’t respond immediately. He swirled the remaining bourbon in his glass, watching the liquid catch the dim light in amber waves before he threw it back in one swift motion. The burn was familiar, grounding, but not enough to silence the quiet hum of his thoughts.

"It’s not nonsense, it’s always the end of times; most people just don’t notice," Castiel said, setting the empty glass down with a faint clink. He looked up, meeting Balthazar’s gaze, his lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "But no. Not this time." Balthazar leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest as he studied Castiel with a mix of amusement and exasperation. 

"Pissing off your family, then? That’s always fun for you."

"Please." Castiel’s smirk widened, his tone edged with something playful but faintly self-deprecating. "You’re the most ‘agreeable’ person they’ve ever seen me with. You might as well be an honorary Novak." Balthazar’s laugh was soft and rich, a low ripple of sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shook his head, reaching for his glass again. 

"I am charming, aren’t I?" he said, raising the glass slightly in a mock toast to himself before taking a measured sip. Castiel’s gaze flicked to the glass in Balthazar’s hand, lingering just long enough for the intent to be clear. Before Balthazar could set it down, Castiel reached for it, his fingers brushing the edge of the glass. But Balthazar was faster, pulling it away with a lazy but precise motion that kept it just out of reach.

"Ah, ah," Balthazar said, his voice lilting, a note of warning threading through the amusement. "Cassie." Castiel froze mid-reach, his hand falling to the table with a quiet tap as he met Balthazar’s gaze through the thick sweep of his black lashes. His expression shifted, his eyes wide and guileless, his lips parting slightly in a soft pout that bordered on theatrical innocence.

"What?" he asked, his voice pitched just right—soft, questioning, perfectly disarming. It was the kind of performance that had fooled less wary men a thousand times over. But Balthazar wasn’t so easily swayed. His eyes narrowed slightly, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts exasperation and delight. 

"You’re  not getting this drink," he said, shaking his head as he leaned forward, setting the glass deliberately out of reach. "Try again."

Castiel leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face as he watched Balthazar with a kind of idle curiosity, like a cat considering whether it was worth chasing a particularly shiny toy. He didn’t make another grab for the glass. Instead, he settled back into his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the table as he tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful.

"You’re no fun anymore," he said, though the faint glimmer of mischief in his eyes suggested he didn’t mean it.

"And yet you keep inviting me out," Balthazar replied smoothly, his smirk widening as he raised his glass in a deliberate, slow sip. For a moment, the noise of the bar faded into the background, the hum of distant laughter and clinking glasses dimming as the air between them grew taut with unspoken words. Castiel broke the silence first, his lips twitching into a faint smile as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

"You could at least pretend to be tempted," he said, his voice soft, teasing, the faintest hint of something darker threading through the words. Balthazar’s smirk softened, his gaze lingering on Castiel’s face for a beat longer than necessary. He set the glass down, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the table as he leaned forward slightly, his tone low but edged with something knowing.

"Oh, I’m tempted, darling," he said, his voice dropping just enough to make the words feel heavier than they should have. "I just know better than to indulge you when you’re in one of these moods." Castiel’s smile faltered, just for a moment, before it curved into something sharper, a faint gleam of defiance sparking in his eyes. 

"And here I thought you liked chaos." Balthazar chuckled softly, his gaze steady as he leaned back in his chair, his fingers curling lightly around his glass. 

"I do. But even I have my limits." The words hung between them, unspoken questions and half-truths swirling in the space where silence lingered. Castiel didn’t push further. Instead, he reached for the bottle again, pouring himself another glass and raising it in a small, ironic toast.

"To limits," he said, his voice laced with dry humour as he tipped the glass back. Balthazar watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before raising his own glass in return. 

"To limits," he echoed, the words slipping from his lips like a quiet promise.

For now, the conversation ebbed, the sharp edges smoothing into the quiet rhythm of familiarity. But the tension lingered, a thread unbroken, waiting for the right moment to snap. Balthazar tapped a finger against the rim of his glass, watching the amber liquid inside shift with the faint motion. His gaze flicked up to Castiel, sharp and cutting but softened by the faintest smile that tugged at his lips. The smile of someone who enjoyed a game even when they knew the ending.

"You know," he said, his tone light and lilting, "you’re the only person I’ve ever met who goes to a bar and buys the entire bottle." Castiel tipped his head, one brow quirking upward as if to say he was unimpressed by the observation. He took a slow sip from his glass, letting the quiet stretch between them. The faint buzz of other patrons’ conversations drifted around them, distant and inconsequential, like a backdrop to their private play.

"You’re drinking from it," Castiel replied finally, his tone dry, as if that answered everything.

"True," Balthazar conceded, raising his glass in a small, mocking salute. "But that’s hardly the point. You don’t buy the bottle when you go out alone, do you?" The question hung in the air, laced with just enough curiosity to nudge at Castiel’s composure. For a moment, Castiel didn’t respond. His glass paused halfway to his lips, his gaze sliding to Balthazar with a sudden sharpness.

"Of course not," he said, his voice clipped, though the faint edge of defensiveness crept into the words. He set his glass down with more force than necessary, the sound punctuating his next words. "I know how to pace myself." Balthazar leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing lazily over the other. His expression was maddeningly unreadable, a perfect blend of amusement and disbelief. He steepled his fingers under his chin, watching Castiel as though waiting for the punchline to a joke only one of them knew.

"Do you?" he asked, the question soft but pointed. Castiel’s glare was immediate, the dark sweep of his lashes only sharpening the intensity of his blue eyes. His fingers curled loosely around the base of his glass, as if resisting the urge to grab the bottle instead. 

"Yes," he said, his voice firm, almost indignant. "I go to that expensive bar." Balthazar’s smirk widened, his teeth flashing briefly as he let out a quiet laugh. 

"Ah, the Gabriel way," he said, the words dripping with mockery. He raised his glass, swirling the remaining liquid idly before taking a slow sip. "All appearance, no substance. You sit there, drink overpriced whiskey, and pretend you’re the picture of moderation. How very noble of you."

"It’s not pretending," Castiel shot back, though his tone lacked its earlier edge. He shifted in his seat, leaning back with a faint huff. "It’s… controlled."

"Controlled," Balthazar echoed, the word rolling off his tongue as though testing its flavour. He tilted his head, his gaze narrowing slightly as he studied Castiel. "You do realise that buying a whole bottle isn’t exactly the poster child for restraint, don’t you?"

"It’s efficient," Castiel replied, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "And it keeps me from dealing with people."

"Ah, there it is," Balthazar said, pointing at him with a mock accusatory gesture. "The real reason. You’d rather be alone with your vices than endure the company of strangers. Not that I blame you, of course." Castiel shrugged, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something darker. 

"Strangers are fine. They’re just... loud. And boring."

"Unlike me," Balthazar said smoothly, his grin widening. He raised his glass in another small toast, his voice dropping into something closer to sincerity. "You’re lucky I tolerate you, Castiel. Few others would."

"And I tolerate you," Castiel countered, though his lips quirked into a faint smirk. He reached for the bottle again, but Balthazar’s hand darted out, resting over his before he could pour.

"Careful," Balthazar said, his voice quieter now, the teasing edge softening. His hand lingered just a moment longer than necessary before pulling back, leaving Castiel’s fingers resting on the cool glass. "Even chaos needs boundaries." Castiel’s gaze flicked to Balthazar’s hand, then back to his face, his expression unreadable. He didn’t pour the drink, but neither did he let go of the bottle. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the glass as he let out a slow breath. Balthazar’s sharp gaze lingered on Castiel, his lips pressing into a thin smile that betrayed both affection and exasperation. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as though drawing a boundary with his body. "No, Cassie," he said, the words soft but firm, warning woven through them like a taut thread. Castiel stilled, his fingers curling loosely around the neck of the bottle. He tilted his head, his dark lashes casting soft shadows over his cheekbones as he fixed Balthazar with a look of innocent defiance. His lips curved into a faint pout, the corners tugging downward in a way that would have been almost convincing, had Balthazar not known him so well.

"What?" Castiel asked, his voice lilting, light as air. Balthazar sighed, his grip tightening around his own glass.

"I won’t have you puking your brains out tomorrow," he said, his tone deceptively casual. He lifted the glass to his lips, pausing to add with a pointed glance, "Or worse—tonight." Castiel scoffed, the sound low and incredulous. He leaned back in his chair, the bottle slipping from his hand as he folded his arms loosely across his chest. 

"I don’t puke from alcohol," he said, the words slow and deliberate, as though daring Balthazar to challenge him. Balthazar arched a brow, his smirk widening as he set his glass down with deliberate precision. 

"Don’t you?" he asked, his voice laced with mockery. "And here I thought Novaks were supposed to be honest."

"I am honest," Castiel retorted, though his tone held more amusement than annoyance. He picked up his glass again, swirling the amber liquid as though it held answers. "I just also happen to hold my liquor better than you think."

"Better than most people, perhaps," Balthazar said, leaning back with a lazy elegance that made even his exasperation seem charming. "But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you drink yourself under the table tonight. Especially not when I have to be the one dragging you out of here afterward." Castiel’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his pout. He glanced at the bottle, then back at Balthazar, his expression softening into something that was almost playful. 

"You worry too much," he said, though there was no real heat in the words.

"And you don’t worry enough," Balthazar countered smoothly. His voice dropped, soft but pointed, as he added, "That’s why someone has to." For a moment, neither of them spoke. The noise of the bar buzzed around them, the low hum of voices and the clink of glasses filling the silence between their words. Castiel’s gaze lingered on Balthazar’s face, his expression unreadable, before he let out a soft huff and reached for his glass.

"Fine," he said, lifting the drink to his lips. "But only because you’re intolerable when you’re right." Balthazar chuckled, his smirk softening into something warmer. 

"I am," he said, lifting his own glass in a small toast. "But you adore me anyway." Castiel didn’t reply, but the faint quirk of his lips as he took a sip said more than words ever could. Balthazar let out a long, exaggerated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as if the mere presence of Castiel was enough to try his patience. He sat up straighter, smoothing the lapels of his blazer as though steadying himself for a monumental task. "Alright," he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative tone that could charm or command, depending on his mood. "Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to buy you a Coke, and you’re going to drink it. Like the responsible adult I’m choosing to pretend that you are." Castiel blinked at him, his expression somewhere between affronted and amused. He tilted his head, dark lashes fanning against his cheek as he gave Balthazar a look that could have been described as childlike innocence—if not for the faint glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I don’t want Coke," he said, his voice even, deliberate. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his lips quirking into a faint pout. "I want Pepsi." Balthazar’s laugh was sharp and sudden, ringing out over the low hum of the bar. He raised a hand to his chest, as though the sheer absurdity of the reply had physically wounded him. 

"Pepsi?" he repeated, incredulous. "You want Pepsi?"

"Yes," Castiel said simply, his tone entirely unbothered. He swirled his glass idly, the movement slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to entertain this conversation. Balthazar shook his head, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

"I’m not indulging you on this," he said, leaning back in his chair with an air of finality. "You’re getting Coke. It’s not up for negotiation."

"And here I thought you cared about my happiness," Castiel replied, his voice lilting, teasing, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed the act.

"I do," Balthazar countered smoothly, his smirk widening as he gestured toward the bar. "That’s why you’re getting Coke. Because your happiness tomorrow —when you’re not lamenting your life choices with a pounding headache— is infinitely more important than indulging this ridiculous preference of yours." Castiel huffed, though the glint of amusement in his eyes didn’t waver. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms loosely across his chest. 

"You’re insufferable."

"And yet, you keep inviting me out," Balthazar said, rising from his seat with effortless grace. He shot Castiel a look over his shoulder, his grin as sharp as it was fond. "Coke it is. You can thank me later." 

As he sauntered toward the bar, Castiel watched him go, the faintest smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Castiel leaned back in his chair, letting his head tip lazily against the high back as his gaze drifted upward. The bar’s ceiling was an unremarkable expanse of stained plaster, its surface cracked in places where age and neglect had left their mark. A faint shimmer of dust clung to the beams, catching the dim light in muted streaks. Castiel’s eyes followed the lines of one particularly deep fissure, tracing it absently as though it held answers to questions he hadn’t quite formed. The ambient sounds of the bar wrapped around him—the low murmur of voices, the faint clatter of glassware, the distant hum of a tired refrigerator somewhere behind the counter. It was a familiar kind of noise, a dull backdrop that softened the sharp edges of his thoughts but never fully quieted them. He let his arms dangle loosely at his sides, fingers brushing the worn wood of his chair as he breathed in the faint, mingled scents of spilled beer and cheap cologne. Balthazar’s absence was a quiet reprieve, though Castiel wouldn’t admit it aloud. Being alone in a room full of strangers was easier than navigating the sharp glances and sly remarks Balthazar wielded with practiced ease. The ceiling didn’t offer much in the way of answers, but it didn’t demand anything either. That was the appeal of it, Castiel thought. It didn’t smirk at him, didn’t challenge him with cutting quips or pointed questions. It simply was—cracked, silent, and indifferent. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment as the faint buzz of alcohol settled in his chest. The soft scuff of footsteps against the worn floorboards signaled Balthazar’s return before he could see him, but Castiel didn’t move. He stayed as he was, his head tilted back, his lips curving into the faintest smirk as he waited for Balthazar to break the silence.

"You look like you’re contemplating the secrets of the universe," Balthazar’s voice came, smooth and faintly amused. The words were followed by the sound of a glass being set on the table with deliberate care. "Or maybe just debating whether Coke will actually kill you." Castiel cracked one eye open, glancing downward just enough to meet Balthazar’s smug expression. He straightened slightly, his hand reaching for the glass without a word. The ice clinked faintly as he lifted it, studying the dark liquid within with an air of mock solemnity.

"Do you think," he began, his tone thoughtful, "that Gabriel would be more disappointed in the Coke or in you?" Balthazar grinned, sliding back into his seat with all the ease of a man entirely unbothered. 

"Oh, definitely me," he said. "But what else is new?" Castiel smirked, lifting the glass in a silent toast before taking a sip. 

It wasn’t Pepsi, but it would do. 

Balthazar swirled the last of his whiskey in his glass, leaning back in his chair with an ease that suggested he could spend the entire evening there without a care. He gestured vaguely as he spoke, recounting some workplace drama with the kind of flair reserved for the truly self-absorbed—or for someone who knew their audience wasn’t really listening.

“So there I was,” he said, his tone dramatic, “sitting in the meeting room, waiting for the pitch to fall apart as it inevitably does, when Gregory —oh, you’d hate Gregory, by the way— starts mansplaining to me about how best to finesse a client. As if I didn’t just close a deal last week that paid for his stupid designer watch.” Castiel tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated fascination. He rested his chin on his hand, his lips quirking into a smile that somehow managed to look both intrigued and a little too perfect.

"Fascinating," he murmured, his voice low and soft as though Balthazar had just revealed the secrets of the universe. "And what did Gregory say next?" Balthazar arched a brow, his lips twitching into a faint smirk as he studied Castiel. 

"Oh, Gregory kept talking, naturally. If arrogance were currency, he’d have a second yacht by now."

"No," Castiel breathed, leaning forward slightly, his wide eyes sparkling with faux wonder. "A second yacht? I simply must meet this Gregory. What an inspiration." Balthazar chuckled, his gaze narrowing as he shook his head. 

"You’re laying it on a bit thick, Cassie."

"Am I?" Castiel asked innocently, his lashes fluttering just slightly as he reached for his drink. He took a slow sip, his expression remaining composed despite the faint glint of mischief in his eyes. "I’m just riveted, Balthazar. Do go on." Balthazar tilted his head, his smirk softening into something almost fond. He could see through the act —of course he could— but he didn’t call Castiel out. Better this, he knew, than the alternative. Drunk Castiel in a mood like this, pretending the world outside their table didn’t exist, was far preferable to the version of him who stared into his drink like it held the end of days.

"Well," Balthazar continued, playing along, "then Gregory made the mistake of suggesting I should focus less on charm and more on substance. Can you imagine? Substance." He gestured broadly, as if to say the very idea was ridiculous. "I almost pitied him. Almost." Castiel hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head as though genuinely considering it. 

"Poor Gregory," he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "I suppose charm isn’t for everyone."

"Certainly not," Balthazar agreed, lifting his glass with a sly smile. He sipped slowly, his gaze lingering on Castiel. "And it’s not for you either, I imagine. But you seem to get away with it nonetheless." Castiel grinned, the expression lazy and crooked, he wasn’t sober but still entirely in control. 

"It’s a gift," he said simply, swirling his glass before setting it down with a quiet clink. Balthazar shook his head, leaning forward slightly as his smirk gave way to something softer. 

"You know," he said, his voice quieter now, "as much as I love your Oscar-worthy performance tonight, you don’t have to humour me, Cassie." Castiel’s lips twitched, the edges of his smile faltering for a brief moment before returning. 

"Who’s humouring who, Balthazar?" he asked, his tone light but edged with something faintly sardonic.

"You, obviously," Balthazar replied with ease, his smirk returning as he reached for his drink. He gestured toward Castiel with the glass, his expression turning briefly serious. "But I’ll take this version of you any day over the one who thinks we’re all about to be swallowed by the abyss." Castiel’s grin lingered, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. He tipped his head back, letting his gaze drift toward the ceiling once again as he murmured his reply. 

"It’s always the end of the world, isn’t it?"

"Not tonight," Balthazar said firmly, his tone cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Tonight, it’s just you, me, and our friend Gregory’s tragic lack of self-awareness." Castiel’s soft laugh broke the tension, and he let his head roll back down to meet Balthazar’s gaze. 

"Gregory," he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. "A true hero among men." They clinked glasses, the sound light and fleeting, and for a moment, the world outside their conversation faded into something distant and unimportant. 

Balthazar leaned back in his chair, swirling the last remnants of whiskey in his glass as though it carried the weight of his grievances. His gaze drifted past Castiel for a moment, focusing on some unseen point in the middle distance. Then he sighed dramatically and fixed Castiel with a look that could only be described as long-suffering.

"Do you know what they’ve done now?" he began, his voice rich with theatrical disdain. He didn’t wait for an answer, launching straight into his tirade. "They’ve upped the price of my coffee at the grocery store. My coffee, Cassie. The only redeemable reason to step into that dreadfully pedestrian establishment. Can you imagine? A man of my calibre, forced to pay more for basic civility in the morning." Castiel’s lips twitched as he tilted his head, adopting the same exaggerated expression of fascination he’d worn earlier. He rested his chin on his hand, his dark lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks as he leaned forward just enough to look deeply invested. 

"No," he said, his voice soft with mock reverence. "Tell me everything. What coffee is it? Surely it must be extraordinary to inspire such devotion." Balthazar arched a brow, clearly unimpressed with Castiel’s feigned interest but amused enough to play along. "It’s not about the coffee itself," he said, his tone haughty. 

"Though, yes, it is extraordinary. Single-origin, hand-roasted, imported from the highlands of Ethiopia—"

"Naturally," Castiel interjected, nodding solemnly.

"—but it’s the principle," Balthazar continued, ignoring the interruption. "The audacity of them, knowing full well that people like me have no choice but to indulge. And for what? A 15 percent increase? I don’t know how they sleep at night."

"Monsters," Castiel murmured, his lips curving into a faint smile. He reached for his glass, swirling the remnants of Coke with the same casual elegance as if it were the finest bourbon. "How will you survive?"

"That’s the question, isn’t it?" Balthazar leaned forward, his smirk widening as his voice dropped into something conspiratorial. "I’ve considered switching brands. Perhaps even—" He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes narrowing slightly. "—trying instant." Castiel gasped softly, placing a hand over his heart as though Balthazar had just confessed a terrible sin. 

"Don’t say such things," he said, his voice low and weighted with mock gravity. "Instant coffee? Surely it hasn’t come to that." Balthazar chuckled, the sound low and indulgent, but before he could reply, Castiel’s phone buzzed on the table between them. The faint vibration broke the rhythm of their conversation, cutting through the hum of the bar. Castiel glanced down, his brows furrowing briefly before he reached for the device. He unlocked the screen with a flick of his thumb, his gaze skimming the notification before he hit the side button to silence it. The motion was smooth, practiced, but it wasn’t enough to escape Balthazar’s notice.

"Well, now I’m intrigued," Balthazar said, leaning forward slightly, his tone taking on a teasing lilt. "Who could possibly pull you away from my scintillating company at this time of night?" Castiel’s lips twitched, but he didn’t look up immediately. He set the phone down with deliberate care, his fingers brushing the edge of the table as though grounding himself. 

"Michael," he said finally, his voice casual but carrying a faint edge of resignation.

"Michael?" Balthazar repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with obvious curiosity. "And who, pray tell, is Michael?"

"A guy I met a couple of weeks ago," Castiel said, waving a hand as if the details didn’t matter. "He’s… " He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line before quirking into a faint smirk. "He calls every time he’s stressed and wants to hook up." Balthazar blinked, then let out a sharp laugh that drew a glance from the bartender. He raised a hand in apology before turning his attention back to Castiel, his grin widening. 

"So you’ve become someone’s therapy session with benefits? How very modern of you."

"Something like that, I met him at that expensive bar," Castiel replied, his tone light, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was less flippant about the situation than he let on. He leaned back in his chair, his arms folding loosely across his chest as he studied Balthazar. "He’s harmless. Just… predictable."

"Predictable," Balthazar repeated, tapping a finger against his glass. His expression turned contemplative, though the teasing edge never fully left his voice. "And you? Do you indulge him every time he calls?"

"Not every time," Castiel said, shrugging one shoulder. He glanced at his phone again, the screen dark and silent now, before adding, "But often enough." Balthazar tilted his head, his gaze narrowing slightly. 

"And tonight?" Castiel shook his head, his lips curving into a faint smile. 

"Not tonight," he said simply, lifting his glass to his lips. "I’m too busy listening to you complain about coffee prices." Balthazar chuckled, though his sharp gaze lingered on Castiel a moment longer. 

"You’re deflecting, Cassie," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "But fine. I’ll let it go. For now." Castiel raised his glass in a silent toast, his smile widening. 

"You’re too kind," he said, his tone dripping with dry humour.

"And don’t you forget it," Balthazar replied smoothly, his smirk returning as he leaned back in his chair, the tension between them slipping back into the easy rhythm. Balthazar tilted his head, his sharp blue eyes gleaming with curiosity as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, his expression shifting into something far too interested for Castiel’s liking. "I want to know more about this Michael," Balthazar said, his voice slipping into that smooth, honeyed tone he reserved for prying information out of people. Castiel exhaled, his lips pressing into a faint line before curving into a small, amused smile. 

"There isn’t much to tell," he said, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip, as though the subject was hardly worth the air it required.

"Oh, come now," Balthazar said, his smirk widening. "You’re not the type to entertain just anyone, Cassie. This Michael must be fascinating in some way—or incredibly boring, which might explain your interest. Opposites attract, after all." Castiel rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched at the edges. He leaned back in his chair, the wooden frame creaking faintly as he settled in. 

"Like I said he is… predictable," he said finally, the word landing somewhere between an insult and a grudging compliment.

"Predictable," Balthazar repeated, his tone coloured with incredulity. "You’re going to have to do better than that. What’s he like? Or shall I guess?" Castiel arched a brow, tilting his head slightly as though considering the offer. 

"By all means, guess," he said, his voice light with mock indulgence. Balthazar’s grin widened. He tapped his chin theatrically, as though pulling from a mental file of stereotypes. 

"Alright, let’s see. Michael is... impeccably groomed. Clean-shaven. Probably wears suits so sharp they could cut glass, even when he doesn’t need to. And he drives something infuriatingly practical—like a Prius." Castiel’s lips twitched, but he said nothing, his silence betraying just enough for Balthazar to pounce. "I knew it," Balthazar declared triumphantly, his laughter warm and rolling. "Let me guess: he’s one of those disciplined, health-obsessed types too, isn’t he? Salads, Pilates, the whole package."

"Yoga," Castiel corrected, almost absentmindedly, before he could stop himself. His fingers toyed with the rim of his glass, his gaze flicking briefly to the dark screen of his phone before returning to Balthazar.

"Oh, this just keeps getting better," Balthazar said, his grin widening into something bordering on predatory. "So he’s the kind of man who counts calories, keeps a schedule down to the minute, and probably prides himself on his resting heart rate."

"You’re not wrong," Castiel admitted, his voice dry, though his lips curved into a faint smile. He swirled his drink idly, his gaze distant for a moment. "He’s… polished. Clean-cut. The kind of person who looks like he has everything figured out."

"And yet," Balthazar said, tilting his head, "he keeps calling you. Funny, isn’t it? Someone with such a ‘perfect’ life turning to you every time he’s stressed." Castiel’s eyes flicked to Balthazar’s face, narrowing slightly, though his expression remained composed. 

"He’s not as perfect as he looks," he said, his tone quieter now. "No one is." Balthazar hummed thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on Castiel as he sipped his drink. 

"And what do you get out of it, Cassie?" he asked, his voice softer, more curious than teasing this time. "The calls, the hookups—why indulge him?" For a moment, Castiel didn’t answer. He let the silence stretch, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the condensation gathering on his glass. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost contemplative.

"Because," he said, his eyes meeting Balthazar’s, "he doesn’t ask for much. And he doesn’t expect anything. Sometimes... that’s enough." Balthazar’s smirk softened into something less sharp, though his eyes still gleamed with curiosity. He leaned back, lifting his glass in a silent toast before taking a measured sip.

"You’re an enigma, Castiel," he said finally, his voice carrying a faint note of admiration. "Even to yourself."

"That," Castiel replied with a faint chuckle, "is probably the only true thing you’ve said all night." Balthazar’s smirk sharpened slightly as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and tilting his glass lazily in Castiel’s direction. His gaze was piercing, though his tone carried the same practiced nonchalance as always.

"So," he said, the word dragging out like a slow drawl, "you’re not as touch-starved as you seem, then." The statement hung between them, a quiet provocation disguised as an offhand remark. Balthazar studied Castiel’s face, his sharp eyes catching the faint flicker of something —too brief to name— before Castiel masked it with a faint smile. Castiel didn’t reply. Instead, he reached for his glass, lifting it with deliberate care. The condensation on the outside slicked against his fingers as he tipped it back, draining the last of the Coke in one slow motion. The glass hit the table with a muted clink when he set it down, and his eyes flicked upward, meeting Balthazar’s gaze with a quiet steadiness that betrayed nothing. Balthazar leaned back, watching him with a faint air of amusement, though the glint in his eyes carried a weight that made the silence feel more loaded than any reply would have. "You’re not going to answer that, are you?" Balthazar asked, his tone light but edged with curiosity. Castiel tilted his head slightly, the faintest smile curving at the corner of his lips. He reached for the glass again, his fingers idly tracing the rim as though considering whether it was worth indulging Balthazar’s question. After a moment, he shrugged, his gaze drifting toward the muted flicker of the neon light above the bar.

"What would I say?" he asked, his voice quiet but deliberate, as though the question wasn’t rhetorical. Balthazar chuckled softly, shaking his head as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. The faint clink of ice against glass filled the space between them, a rhythm that seemed to punctuate the quiet.

"That depends," Balthazar said, his voice carrying a faint lilt of humour. "Are you denying it? Or admitting that you find all your company in convenience?" Castiel’s lips twitched, his smile widening just enough to suggest that he found the entire line of questioning absurd. He looked back at Balthazar, his gaze steady but distant, as though he were studying him from behind a carefully constructed wall.

"Does it matter?" he asked finally, his tone light but tinged with something thoughtful. Balthazar didn’t answer immediately. He sipped his whiskey, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s, though the sharpness in his expression softened just enough to suggest he might not press further.

"To me?" Balthazar said eventually, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "Not particularly. But I’d argue it should matter to you." Castiel let out a quiet laugh, the sound low and brief, before shaking his head. He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his fingers still toying with the glass in front of him.

"You’re relentless," he said, though there was no irritation in his tone—just a faint thread of amusement that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Comes with the territory," Balthazar replied, his smirk widening as he raised his glass in a mock toast. Castiel didn’t lift his glass this time, but he watched Balthazar with a faint smile that lingered at the edges of his lips, as if to say that —for now— the moment was enough. Balthazar leaned back in his chair, the shadows from the flickering neon light catching in the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His smirk was as confident as ever, a playful edge curling his lips as he studied Castiel over the rim of his glass. He set it down gently, his fingers drumming against the table with languid ease.

"You coming home with me?" he asked, his tone casual, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement. Castiel didn’t hesitate. He met Balthazar’s gaze with a faint smirk of his own, lifting his chin slightly as he replied. 

"Who else?" Balthazar chuckled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. 

"Well," he drawled, his voice carrying a mocking lilt, "that Michael fellow seems pretty interesting—"

"Don’t," Castiel interrupted, his voice sharp, cutting the words off before Balthazar could go any further. His expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. Balthazar paused, his smirk lingering but softening at the edges as he tilted his head, studying Castiel with the kind of curiosity that always made him seem dangerous. 

"What is it with him?" he asked, the teasing edge of his voice giving way to something quieter, more deliberate.

"Nothing," Castiel replied quickly, his tone clipped. He leaned back in his chair, reaching for the empty glass in front of him, though he didn’t lift it. Instead, he stared at it as though it might offer him an escape. "He pays too much for drinks. He has a boring apartment. Probably a boring life and job, too." Balthazar didn’t react immediately, letting the silence linger just long enough to be unsettling. Then he tilted his head, his smirk returning in full force as he said what they both knew:

"It bothers you." 

Castiel’s eyes snapped up to meet Balthazar’s, his expression shifting into a glare so pointed it could have cut through glass. But he didn’t say anything, his silence speaking louder than any retort. Balthazar chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned back once more, his fingers curling lazily around the glass he hadn’t yet finished. 

"You want him to want you for more than sex," he said, his tone light but undercut with a quiet note of certainty.

The words hit their mark, and Castiel’s jaw tightened as his glare sharpened. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the worn wooden floor with a sound that made a few nearby patrons glance their way. His movements were fluid, purposeful, but there was no mistaking the tension that coiled beneath them.

"Fine, fine," Balthazar said quickly, raising a hand in mock surrender as a grin tugged at his lips. "I won’t press on how the infamous Castiel Novak—manwhore extraordinaire—has fallen for a yuppie."

Castiel’s glare lingered for a moment longer, the heat in his gaze promising retribution, before he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. He didn’t bother responding, his silence cutting sharper than any retort could.

Balthazar watched him with a satisfied smirk as Castiel turned and strode toward the door, his long strides purposeful but unhurried. The faint click of his boots against the floor faded into the background noise of the bar, leaving Balthazar alone at the table.

"Such a romantic," Balthazar muttered to himself, lifting his glass and draining the rest of his whiskey with a grin. 

When Balthazar finally stepped outside, shrugging into his coat with the casual grace of someone who had all the time in the world, the first thing he noticed was the faint glow of a cigarette. It hovered in the dim light near the edge of the sidewalk, a tiny ember of defiance against the night. Castiel stood with one shoulder leaned against the cold brick of the bar’s exterior, his head tipped back just enough to let the smoke curl upward into the crisp evening air. The faint, acrid scent mingled with the sharper chill of the city, cutting through the lingering haze of the bar behind them. His free hand was tucked into his coat pocket, his posture loose and unbothered, though the sharp angles of his silhouette betrayed his restlessness. Balthazar paused at the top of the short flight of stairs leading down to the pavement, his lips curving into a faint smirk. Relief settled in his chest, quiet but unmistakable, though he masked it with his usual air of nonchalance.

"Well, this is a surprise," he said, his voice carrying the kind of amused lilt that only Balthazar could manage. "I half-expected you’d already stormed off to wherever it is that angry Castiel hides away."

Castiel turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at Balthazar out of the corner of his eye. His lashes were dark against the faint glow of the streetlamp, his expression unreadable but not entirely cold. He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before he exhaled, a thin ribbon of smoke escaping his lips.

"I didn’t feel like walking alone," he said, his tone casual, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Balthazar chuckled softly, descending the steps with an easy stride until he was standing beside Castiel. He leaned back against the wall, his hands slipping into his coat pockets as he tilted his head toward Castiel, his smirk widening.

"I’m touched," Balthazar said, his voice rich with mock sincerity. "You waited for me."

"Don’t let it go to your head," Castiel replied, though his lips curved into a faint smile as he flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. Balthazar watched him for a moment, his gaze sharp but fond, taking in the way the soft glow of the cigarette cast fleeting shadows over Castiel’s face. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable —it rarely was— but there was a tension in the air, subtle but present, that made Balthazar’s smirk soften into something more genuine.

"You know," he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, "it’s nice to see you standing here instead of spiraling into some grand existential crisis." Castiel huffed out a laugh, though it was short and dry, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he found the statement funny or sad. He brought the cigarette to his lips again, his fingers steady despite the faint chill in the air.

"I’ll save the spiraling for later," he said, the words slipping out with the faintest hint of humour. Balthazar tilted his head, studying Castiel as though searching for the truth hidden beneath the easy facade. He let the quiet linger for a beat longer before speaking, his voice light but edged with something that felt almost like concern.

"You’re not that angry with me, are you?" he asked, his smirk returning, though his eyes were still searching. Castiel didn’t answer immediately. He took another slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl around him before exhaling into the night. Then he turned his head fully, meeting Balthazar’s gaze with a look that was both familiar and enigmatic, as though he were weighing how much to reveal.

"No," he said finally, his tone measured but honest. "You’re obnoxius, but you’re not wrong." Balthazar’s grin widened, a flash of teeth against the faint glow of the streetlamp. 

"Ah, there’s the Castiel I know and adore," he said, his voice warm with satisfaction. Castiel rolled his eyes but didn’t bother hiding the faint smile that tugged at his lips. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out beneath his boot with a deliberate motion before straightening from the wall.

"Are you done gloating?" he asked, his voice light but edged with feigned impatience.

"Not even close," Balthazar replied, his grin unwavering as he pushed off the wall and fell into step beside Castiel. The two of them walked down the quiet street, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the distant hum of the city. And for the first time that evening, the tension between them eased into something more familiar, more comfortable—a rhythm that was entirely their own. The cold air wrapped around them, each breath visible in faint puffs that mingled with the low hum of the city around them. Castiel’s hand dipped into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a battered lighter. He paused mid-step, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he flicked the lighter with practiced ease, the tiny flame casting warm shadows across his face. The cigarette caught instantly, the ember glowing faintly as he inhaled, his expression momentarily softening. The scent of burning tobacco curled around them, sharp and acrid, mingling with the crisp bite of the evening air. Castiel exhaled slowly, the smoke trailing upward in delicate spirals before dissolving into the dark. Beside him, Balthazar raised a brow, his lips curving into a smirk as he reached out, plucking a cigarette from the pack still in Castiel’s hand. 

"Sharing? How uncharacteristically generous of you, Cassie." Castiel didn’t respond immediately. He tipped the pack back into his pocket and glanced sideways at Balthazar, his lashes low as he exhaled another stream of smoke. 

"Don’t get used to it," he muttered, though the faint quirk of his lips betrayed his amusement. Balthazar inspected the cigarette between his fingers as though it were a fine wine, turning it slightly before placing it between his lips. Instead of reaching for a lighter, he tilted his head, the cigarette catching the ember of Castiel’s as he leaned in close. The faint glow illuminated the sharp angles of Balthazar’s face, the heat of the momentary proximity almost palpable.

He inhaled deeply, the cigarette catching with a quiet crackle, before leaning back with a satisfied hum. The smoke curled from his lips as he spoke, his tone light but carrying that familiar thread of amusement. 

"You know, there’s something poetic about this," he said, gesturing with the cigarette before taking another drag. "You, me, and a bad habit that’s older than our sins." Castiel snorted softly, his gaze flicking up to the faintly lit windows of the buildings around them before returning to Balthazar. 

"You make everything sound more significant than it is," he said, his voice low, almost contemplative.

"That’s my charm," Balthazar replied, his smirk widening as he tapped the ash from his cigarette. "Though I’m starting to think it’s wasted on you."

"Probably," Castiel said, his lips quirking into a faint smile as he flicked the ash from his own cigarette. The embers scattered to the ground, glowing briefly before fading into the night. They walked in companionable silence for a while, the faint click of their boots against the pavement and the soft sound of their breathing filling the space between them. Castiel found himself stealing glances at Balthazar, his friend’s easy confidence and careless elegance both familiar and, in moments like these, strangely grounding. It wasn’t until they passed the soft glow of a streetlamp that Castiel spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "You don’t smoke Reds usually," he said, the statement more an observation than a question. Balthazar tilted his head, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he glanced at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. 

"No," he admitted, his tone as casual as ever. "But they’re your brand. It feels… appropriate." 

Castiel hummed thoughtfully, his gaze dropping to the cigarette in his hand. He didn’t reply, but the faint twitch of his lips suggested he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the sentiment. Balthazar watched him for a moment, his expression softening as he flicked the cigarette away, the ember skidding across the pavement before extinguishing. 

"Well, Cassie," he said, clapping a hand lightly on Castiel’s shoulder, "as charming as this little shared moment of ours has been, shall we get out of the cold before we start to resemble icicles?"

Castiel nodded, the faintest of smiles lingering on his face as he took one last drag before flicking his own cigarette away. The ember sparked faintly before vanishing into the darkness, leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke and the quiet comfort of shared solitude. Together, they turned toward the street ahead, their steps falling into an easy rhythm as the city stretched out before them.

The walk to Balthazar’s building was a quiet one, their conversation trailing off into the easy silence that only long familiarity could allow. The city buzzed faintly around them —car engines purring in the distance, laughter spilling out from a bar a few streets back— but none of it reached them in any meaningful way. Castiel’s steps slowed slightly as they approached, the faint warmth of the cigarette still lingering on his breath as his gaze lifted to the building before them. It was exactly what he expected—and exactly what annoyed him about Balthazar. Sleek, modern, and utterly immaculate, the building rose like a pristine monument to wealth and taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the front façade, their clean lines glowing faintly in the light spilling from the opulent lobby within. The entrance itself was framed by polished marble columns that shimmered faintly in the golden glow of the sconces above them, a statement of elegance and affluence that was impossible to ignore. Castiel slowed to a stop just before the entrance, his lips parting as though to sigh, but he caught himself at the last moment. Instead, he rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as he glanced at Balthazar, whose smirk had widened perceptibly.

"Go ahead," Balthazar said, his voice rich with amusement. He gestured toward the building, his movements as fluid as ever. "You can say it. Pass the Novak judgment. I’m waiting." Castiel didn’t rise to the bait immediately. He let his gaze drift upward again, lingering on the polished symmetry of the upper floors, the faint glow of the rooftop terrace just visible against the dark sky. His lips twitched, not quite a smile but something close.

"It’s... excessive," he said finally, his tone measured but betraying a faint thread of exasperation.

"Excessive?" Balthazar repeated, arching a brow. "That’s all you’ve got? I was expecting something more cutting. I’m disappointed, Cassie." Castiel shook his head, the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes softening his expression. 

"If I said anything more, you’d take it as a compliment."

"And why shouldn’t I?" Balthazar replied smoothly, stepping forward and swiping his key card at the sleek glass door. The lock released with a soft chime, and he pushed the door open, holding it for Castiel with an exaggerated flourish. "Elegance, after all, is a dying art." Castiel stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the polished marble floors of the lobby. The air was warmer here, tinged with the faint scent of fresh linen and something faintly floral that Castiel couldn’t quite place. The minimalist décor —gold accents against cream walls, sleek furniture arranged with meticulous precision— radiated the same calculated effortlessness as Balthazar himself.

"You live like this, and you still complain about coffee prices?" Castiel asked, glancing around with a faint smirk. Balthazar let out a rich laugh, stepping past him to press the button for the lift. 

"What can I say? One must have principles, even in luxury." The elevator arrived with a soft chime, its interior just as pristine as the rest of the building. Castiel stepped inside, his reflection catching in the mirrored walls as the doors slid closed behind them. He leaned against the wall, his gaze shifting to Balthazar, who stood with his usual air of effortless confidence, one hand casually tucked into the pocket of his coat.

"You’re ridiculous," Castiel said, though his voice lacked any real bite.

"And you’re predictable," Balthazar shot back, his smirk softening into something closer to a grin. Castiel didn’t reply, his eyes drifting to the numbers flickering on the panel as the elevator ascended. He could still feel the faint hum of the city beneath them, a distant vibration that seemed to fade the higher they climbed. When the elevator finally stopped, the soft chime signaling their arrival Castiel straightened. Balthazar gestured for him to exit first, his grin widening. "After you, Cassie. Welcome to paradise." 

When the elevator doors slid open to reveal the private corridor leading to Balthazar’s penthouse Castiel rolled his eyes, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat as he stepped into the hallway. He didn’t reply, but his faint smirk and the slight shake of his head spoke volumes. Balthazar’s world was excessive, indulgent, and maddeningly perfect—everything Castiel pretended not to care about and everything, perhaps, that kept drawing him back. The plush carpeting muffled his steps, and the soft glow of recessed lighting along the walls lent an almost ethereal quality to the space. It was silent up here, the kind of silence only money could buy, as though the hum of the city below had been deliberately muted. Balthazar followed behind, his gait unhurried as he reached into his pocket for the key. The door to the penthouse loomed ahead, a sleek expanse of dark wood with a polished brass handle that caught the light in warm glimmers. Balthazar approached it with the same effortless grace that seemed to define everything he did, his fingers deftly turning the key in the lock. The door swung open with a faint click, revealing the kind of space that could have been ripped from the pages of an architectural magazine. The living room stretched out before them, its open floor plan framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the city’s glittering skyline. Modern furniture in muted tones was arranged with meticulous precision, and a statement chandelier hung above, its delicate crystals catching the light in a thousand tiny prisms. Everything about the apartment screamed luxury and refinement, a place where everything had a purpose and nothing was out of place. Castiel lingered on the threshold for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the pristine interior. He didn’t sigh this time, but there was a subtle shift in his expression—something faintly weary that he didn’t bother hiding.

"You know," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet as he stepped inside, "I liked your old apartment more." Balthazar paused mid-step, the door still ajar behind him. He blinked at Castiel, then turned to close the door with deliberate care before setting his keys down on a small marble console table near the entrance. His smirk returned, though it was tempered by a flicker of genuine curiosity.

"My old apartment?" he repeated, arching a brow. "You mean the one that had character? The one you always claimed smelled like ‘overpriced cologne and regret’?"

"That’s the one," Castiel said, his lips twitching into the faintest of smirks. He shrugged off his coat, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair with casual disregard before turning to face Balthazar fully. "It had charm. Personality. This place..." He gestured vaguely at the pristine surroundings. "It’s like a showroom. All polish, no soul." Balthazar let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he crossed the room to the bar cart near the windows. 

"Ah, but that’s the appeal, isn’t it?" he said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "A place like this doesn’t demand anything of you. It simply exists. Clean. Controlled. Perfect."

"Exactly," Castiel said, taking a step closer, his gaze fixed on Balthazar with quiet defiance. "It’s too perfect. Your old place was messy. Lived-in. It felt like… you." Balthazar stilled for a moment, his glass halfway to his lips. He glanced at Castiel, the sharpness in his expression softening into something more thoughtful. 

"And you liked that?" he asked, his tone lighter now, teasing but not unkind. Castiel shrugged, leaning against the back of the nearest chair. 

"I didn’t hate it," he said simply, though the faint quirk of his lips suggested there was more to the admission than he let on. Balthazar watched him for a beat longer, then let out a quiet laugh as he took a sip of his whiskey. 

"Well," he said, setting the glass down on the bar cart, "I’ll take that as high praise coming from you, Cassie."

"You should," Castiel replied, his smirk widening as he pushed off the chair and moved toward the windows. The city stretched out before him, a sea of glittering lights and distant noise that felt worlds away from the pristine quiet of the penthouse. Balthazar lingered near the bar cart, his fingers curling loosely around his glass as he watched Castiel approach the windows. The faint gleam of city lights reflected in the dark glass, mirroring the glitter of amusement in Balthazar’s eyes. He took another sip of his whiskey, the warmth sliding down his throat as he leaned casually against the sleek counter.

"We both know why it was messy," he said, his voice low but edged with teasing familiarity. Castiel turned his head slightly, the faintest arch of a brow his only acknowledgment of the comment. He slipped his hands into his pockets, his posture deceptively relaxed as he glanced out at the city. The light from the penthouse framed him in soft gold, catching in the unruly strands of his hair and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"You’re blaming me for that?" he asked, his tone dry, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Not blaming," Balthazar replied, stepping closer with that signature air of easy confidence. "Simply observing. You stayed over all the time. Your mess spread like wildfire—coffee cups on the counters, your stupid socks in the living room. That pile of sketchbooks you insisted couldn’t possibly live in your own apartment."

"They couldn’t," Castiel interrupted smoothly. "The lighting was better in yours."

"Right," Balthazar said, his smirk widening. "And of course, your argument was completely logical—just as logical as you commandeering half my closet and my best chair because, what was it again? Ah, yes. ‘Your place is too tidy, Balthazar. I’m doing you a favour.’" Castiel shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the skyline as though the memory didn’t amuse him as much as it clearly amused Balthazar. 

"I was right. You can’t deny it." Balthazar chuckled softly, the sound rich and indulgent as he moved to stand beside Castiel. 

"Oh, you were right about one thing," he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he looked out at the city with him. "It did feel more alive back then. A little chaotic. A little less… curated." Castiel’s smirk faltered slightly, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression before he hid it behind another casual shrug. 

"And now you’ve swapped chaos for… this," he said, gesturing vaguely at the pristine expanse of the penthouse.

"Not entirely by choice," Balthazar replied, his voice softer now, though his tone retained its usual lightness. "But I can’t say I hate it. And let’s be honest, you’ve hardly been around to mess this place up for me. Not like before." Castiel turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting Balthazar’s for the briefest moment. The comment lingered between them, carrying more weight than it should have, though neither of them seemed eager to unpack it.

"I’ve been busy," Castiel said finally, his voice quiet but steady.

"Of course you have," Balthazar said, his smirk softening into something closer to a smile. "And I’m sure the chaos follows you wherever you go. But for what it’s worth," he added, his tone almost wistful, "I didn’t mind it. Not really." Castiel didn’t reply immediately. He looked back out at the city, his hands still tucked into his pockets as though anchoring himself to the moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more contemplative.

"Don’t get used to the quiet," he said, the faintest hint of a smile returning to his lips. "I might start staying over again." Balthazar’s grin widened, his sharp gaze flicking to Castiel with an almost predatory amusement. 

"Oh, please do," he said, raising his glass in a small toast. "This place could use a little life—and I could use the reminder of just how annoying you can be." Castiel let out a quiet laugh, the sound low and fleeting, before shaking his head. 

"You haven’t changed at all," he said, his voice carrying a faint edge of fondness as he leaned slightly against the window frame.

"And neither have you, Cassie," Balthazar replied, his voice warm with satisfaction. "That’s why this works."

Chapter Text

Dean sat at the sleek, polished table in his minimalist apartment, staring at the glowing screen of his laptop. The presentation glared back at him like an accusation, its carefully curated slides a stark contrast to the fraying edges of his focus. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair—though it was less perfect now, strands dishevelled from an hour of frustrated pacing and listless edits. The presentation was flawless. Of course it was. He’d gone over it a dozen times, tweaking every chart, refining every line of text until it gleamed with corporate precision. Tomorrow’s meeting was the kind that could make or break his trajectory at Novak Enterprises—the owners would be there. Balthazar had casually mentioned that Charles might even show up, which Dean took as code for ‘you’ll be on trial, Smith.’ Yet, as perfect as the slides were, he couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of unease in his chest. The feeling that no matter how well he performed, it wouldn’t be enough—not for the Novaks, not for Balthazar, and definitely not for himself.

His fingers hovered over the trackpad, but he wasn’t seeing the numbers anymore. His gaze drifted to the far corner of the apartment, to the faint glow of his phone screen, lying face down on the granite countertop. He knew the notification light wasn’t blinking. Castiel hadn’t replied. Not to the texts. Not to the voicemail he’d left last Thursday, when he’d been desperate for… something. Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair. Castiel was good at making him forget—at pulling him out of his own head long enough to just exist. That peculiar alchemy of biting humour and soft, grounding touches, the way Castiel’s voice could draw him out of his spiralling thoughts with a single, careless remark. But Castiel had been distant lately. Ignoring messages. Leaving Dean on read. It wasn’t the first time —Castiel wasn’t exactly known for consistency— but it was maddening all the same. Dean didn’t have time for this kind of distraction, not when he was already fraying at the edges. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the hardwood floor. The faint scent of lavender from his freshly cleaned space did little to calm him. He glanced around the apartment, his eyes flicking over the spotless surfaces, the carefully arranged books, the meticulously categorised pantry visible from the open kitchen. It was perfect. Sterile. Suffocating.

He needed out.

Dean grabbed his coat, hesitating only briefly before snatching his phone from the counter. His thumb hovered over Castiel’s name in his contacts, but he shoved the phone into his pocket before he could press it. If Castiel wanted to play aloof, fine. Dean didn’t need him. He’d find another way to relax. The city sprawled before him, a labyrinth of glass and steel under the faint glow of the moon. Dean walked without a clear destination, his polished leather shoes clicking against the pavement. The cold night air bit at his cheeks, sharp and bracing, but he welcomed it. It felt real in a way his pristine apartment didn’t. The bar wasn’t one he usually frequented. It was tucked into a side street, its neon sign flickering faintly, as if unsure of its own existence. Dean hesitated at the entrance, his corporate instincts protesting. This wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to be seen if you were climbing the Novak ladder. But something about the dim glow and the faint hum of music filtering through the door called to him. Inside, the air was warm, laced with the faint tang of spilled beer and cheap cologne. Dean slipped into a seat at the bar, his movements brisk and deliberate, as if the act of sitting might anchor him.

“Whiskey. Neat,” he said, his voice firm, measured. It wasn’t a question, and the bartender nodded without comment. Dean’s gaze drifted over the other patrons, his eyes catching on a man at the far end of the bar. His shirt was rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms, and his posture was a picture of careless ease. For a moment, Dean’s chest tightened. The man wasn’t Castiel, but the resemblance —the slouch, the defiance in his stance— made Dean’s breath hitch. He turned back to his drink when it arrived, lifting the glass to his lips with a precision that felt too practiced. The whiskey burned, sharp and smoky, but it did little to quiet the noise in his head.

“You don’t belong here.” The voice was smooth, tinged with amusement, and unmistakably British. Dean turned to find a man sliding onto the stool beside him, a glass of what looked like scotch cradled in his hand. His suit was impeccable, tailored to perfection, and the glint in his eyes was both sharp and playful.

“Balthazar,” Dean said, his tone flat but edged with surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“That makes two of us.” Balthazar’s smirk widened as he leaned against the bar, his sharp gaze taking in Dean’s presence with lazy interest. “Let me guess. Big presentation tomorrow? Couldn’t sleep. Thought whiskey and questionable company might do the trick?” Dean exhaled through his nose, taking another sip of his drink. 

“Something like that.” Balthazar tilted his head, his smirk softening into something almost genuine.

“Careful, Smith. You’ll ruin your perfectly polished reputation if you keep hanging around places like this.” Dean bristled, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. 

“What are you doing here, then?”

“Oh, you know me,” Balthazar said, waving a hand lazily. “I thrive on contradiction.” His gaze sharpened slightly as he leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret. “But you? I suspect you’re here for something more than a stiff drink. Looking for distraction, perhaps?” Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Balthazar’s smirk widened, as if he’d already pieced together the puzzle. “Well,” Balthazar said, straightening. “If distraction is what you’re after, I might know just the thing.” Dean arched an eyebrow, his grip tightening on the glass. 

“And what’s that?” Balthazar’s grin turned sly, the kind of smile that promised trouble. 

“Let’s call it an experiment, shall we? A chance to step out of your meticulously constructed box for a while. You might even enjoy it.” Dean hesitated, the noise in his head warring with the instinct to keep control. But as he looked into Balthazar’s knowing eyes, something shifted. Maybe, just this once, he could let go.

“Fine,” Dean said, his voice quieter now. “Lead the way.” 

Balthazar led Dean out of the bar, the cool night air hitting them as the door swung shut behind them. The street was quieter now, the hum of the city dimming into the background. Dean walked a few steps behind, his hands in his pockets, waiting for whatever "experiment" Balthazar had in mind. But as soon as they stepped into the open, Balthazar's posture shifted. His usual smugness faded, replaced by an air of sharp pragmatism. He turned on his heel, facing Dean squarely under the flickering glow of a streetlamp.

“Go home, Dean,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. Dean blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. 

“What?” Balthazar's gaze narrowed, the playful gleam in his eyes replaced with something colder. 

“I said, go home. Now.” Dean furrowed his brows. 

“What the hell is this about? You were just all ‘adventure and distraction’ two seconds ago.” Balthazar exhaled, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair.

“Because I thought you needed a push to clear your head.” he sighed deeply,“ Tomorrow’s presentation is way too important for you to fuck up by doing something stupid tonight.” Dean’s confusion deepened. 

“What?” Balthazar’s patience visibly thinned. 

“I’m serious, Dean. You’ve worked too bloody hard to let tonight’s escapades ruin your shot. Go home.” Dean tilted his head, his frustration mounting. 

“Why? What’s so damn important about it?” Balthazar’s mask of composure cracked, just slightly. His voice sharpened. 

“Because if you do well, it’ll be the kick they need to make you a director. A seat at the table. The kind of power and influence you’ve been chasing since day one.” The words hit Dean like a splash of cold water. He stood there, stunned for a moment, as Balthazar’s intense gaze bore into him. 

“Director?” he echoed, his voice quieter now.

“Yes, director,” Balthazar snapped, his irritation breaking through. “So get your arse home, get some sleep, and show up tomorrow like the golden boy you are. Can you manage that, or do I need to personally drag you back to your apartment?” Dean opened his mouth to argue, to push back against Balthazar’s condescending tone, but the weight of what he’d just heard stopped him. Director. The word carried a gravity that cut through the noise in his head. It was everything he’d been working toward, even if he hadn’t allowed himself to think it possible. After a long pause, Dean nodded, his jaw tightening. 

“Fine. I’ll go.” Balthazar’s smirk returned, faint but victorious. 

“Good. Smart choice, Smith. Now, run along. Tomorrow, you’ll thank me.” Dean turned without another word, his footsteps echoing against the pavement as he walked away. But even as he made his way home, a question lingered in the back of his mind: Why had Balthazar cared so much?

By the time Dean stepped into his flat, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality, the buzzing inside his head had grown relentless. The thought of the presentation —of the expectation, the opportunity, and the sharp directive in Balthazar’s voice— clung to him like static. His polished apartment, all clean lines and muted tones, felt suffocating tonight, the neat rows of books and perfectly arranged furniture mocking the chaos swirling inside him. Dean tossed his keys onto the counter and loosened his tie further, his movements brisk, distracted. His pulse thudded in his ears, his nerves jittering under his skin like tiny electric shocks. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt like this—like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, staring down at a drop he couldn’t measure. But tonight, there was no calm, no carefully constructed rationale to tether him to the ground. He rubbed his hands over his face and let out a slow, uneven breath. Sleep was a distant hope, a mirage on the horizon of his restless thoughts. He could already feel the tension winding tighter with every passing second, the tightness in his chest like an iron band pulling against his ribs. 

Castiel could fix this.

The thought came unbidden, clear and sharp as glass. Castiel had a way of making the noise stop, of cutting through Dean’s endless loop of thoughts and anchoring him in the present. His unpredictable nature, his irreverent humour, the way he moved through life with a defiant disregard for rules—Castiel was everything Dean wasn’t, everything Dean needed tonight. Dean grabbed his phone from the counter and hesitated, his thumb hovering over Castiel’s name. The screen glowed faintly in the dim light, illuminating the smooth surface of the device and the faint smudge of fingerprints. He could still feel the sting of last week, the unanswered calls, the messages left on read. Castiel had pulled away —why, Dean didn’t know— but it hadn’t stopped him from wanting, from needing. His jaw tightened as frustration curled in his chest. He wasn’t used to this—needing someone, feeling so unmoored without them. It went against everything he’d built for himself, the neat, orderly life he’d worked so hard to create. But Castiel wasn’t just someone. He was the exception, the crack in Dean’s perfect façade. 

Dean swore under his breath and hit call before he could second-guess himself. The phone rang, each tone like a beat of a drum, hollow and endless. His foot tapped against the polished floor, a rhythm of impatience.

Voicemail.

The automated voice filled the line, too cheery, too impersonal. Dean hung up without leaving a message, the quiet click of the call ending echoing in the stillness of his apartment. He stood there for a moment, staring down at the phone in his hand as though willing it to give him an answer, a solution.

It didn’t.

“Dammit, Cas,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. The strands were stiff with product, a reminder of the polished version of himself he’d presented to the world earlier, the version that now felt impossibly far away. The silence pressed in again, too loud, too empty. He paced across the living room, his footsteps muffled against the plush rug, his mind circling the same restless thoughts. He couldn’t face the night like this, couldn’t lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling while his brain dissected every possible outcome of tomorrow’s presentation. He needed Castiel—his chaos, his unpredictability, his maddening way of cutting through Dean’s control and leaving him raw, exposed, alive.

Dean sank into the couch, the soft leather cool against his back as he leaned into it. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, each pop of the thread tension against the buttons a small release. The fabric fell open, baring the fine cotton vest beneath. It should have felt relaxing, but his chest still felt like it was wound too tightly, the band of nerves pulling against his ribs refusing to let go. The remote was within reach, perched neatly on the armrest. He grabbed it and flicked on the TV without much thought, the room filling with the flat, dispassionate cadence of the evening news. The images spilled across the screen in muted colours: politicians gesticulating, maps swarming with red and yellow overlays of disasters, solemn-faced reporters delivering words he didn’t fully absorb. It was noise —just noise— but not the kind that helped. The stories, grim and unyielding, only stoked the restless fire in his mind, the ache of helplessness and the weight of choices too far beyond him. Dean frowned and rubbed at his temple, his fingers trailing down to his jaw where tension lingered, sharp and immovable. His eyes flicked to the corner of the screen where the time was displayed, the minutes crawling forward, mocking his inability to simply be.

The anchors transitioned to a human-interest story—a bright-faced woman standing in front of a town square strung with holiday lights. The cheer on the screen felt abrasive, distant, like it belonged to a world he didn’t have the key to tonight. His thumb hesitated over the remote’s power button, but instead of switching it off, he let the broadcast play. The faint hum of voices was better than silence, though just barely. Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the open shirt pooling around him like discarded armour. His head dipped low, his hands tangled together as if bracing for something unseen. He couldn’t shake the thought of Castiel, the way the man’s gravelly voice cut through the fog in Dean’s head, sharp as broken glass but somehow comforting, steadying. Castiel always made things make sense—or at least made Dean believe that chaos wasn’t something to be feared.

But Castiel wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t know if that was because Castiel didn’t want to be, or because Dean had somehow failed to give him a reason to stay. The newscast droned on in the background, the bright, sharp voices melding into an indistinct hum. Dean stared at the floor, his reflection faintly visible in the polished wood. It looked warped, distorted by the uneven light. It felt fitting.

The news transitioned smoothly into the weather, the reporter’s overly cheery tone contrasting sharply with the thoughts Dean couldn’t seem to quiet. Maps of swirling clouds and arrows predicting wind currents swept across the screen, and Dean let his eyes close, tuning out the artificial brightness of it all. He tried to focus on the faint hum of the television, willing his muscles to unclench, willing his mind to quiet.

But then came a sound that didn’t belong—the soft ping of a message arriving.

Dean’s eyes snapped open, his gaze immediately locking onto his phone resting on the coffee table. The screen glowed faintly, cutting through the room’s muted light like a lighthouse beam. His breath caught as he reached for it, the motion quick, almost frantic. The name on the screen sent a jolt through him, sharp and electric.

Castiel: I do work, you know.

It wasn’t much. Just five words. But they were his five words. They carried that familiar edge of Castiel’s humour, dry and pointed, the kind of statement Dean could almost hear in his voice, unbothered and low. Dean felt his heart slam against his ribs, the pulse of it pounding in his ears as though it had been waiting for this moment to remind him it existed. His grip tightened around the phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. A flicker of relief, excitement, and something else —something harder to name— coursed through him all at once.

Dean stared at the message, his thoughts spiralling again, but this time in an entirely different direction. What was Castiel doing? Why now, after days of silence? Did he know what this did to Dean, how it made the steady ground beneath him feel suddenly unstable? He swallowed hard and leaned back into the couch, his fingers tightening around the phone as if holding onto it might steady him. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He didn’t want to seem too eager, too affected—but damn if that wasn’t exactly what he was.

After a moment, he started typing. The words came out too easily, a reflection of the longing he hadn’t allowed himself to fully admit.

Dean: Funny, I was starting to wonder.

He hit send before he could think better of it, the text flying off into the void of cyberspace. And then came the wait, the excruciating stretch of seconds that felt like hours, his heart still thudding too hard, his mind running through every possible reply Castiel might send—or not send.

The screen stayed silent for now, and Dean let out a slow breath, his grip loosening slightly. The room felt different, charged in a way it hadn’t been moments before, as though the air had shifted just enough to make everything feel new. He wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse, but he knew one thing for certain:

Castiel was back in his head (and hand), and Dean wasn’t sure he wanted him to leave.

The phone vibrated softly in Dean’s hand, the faint buzz cutting through the low hum of the television. His eyes darted to the screen as Castiel’s reply appeared.

Castiel: Were you worried about me, Michael?

Dean’s jaw tightened at the name. Michael. It was such a small thing, but every time Castiel used it, it left an ache that settled deep, like a bruise forming under the surface. It wasn’t his name—at least not really. But it was the name Dean had given that first night at the bar, a feint in the game they’d been playing. And Castiel had taken it, twisted it into something both mocking and affectionate. Dean let out a slow breath, forcing the hurt down as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He didn’t want to give too much away. Not yet. Not when the ground between them felt this unsteady.

Dean: You’re the one who disappeared. Shouldn’t I be asking if you’re okay?

The reply came quickly, almost too quickly, as though Castiel had been waiting for Dean’s message.

Castiel: I’m always okay. You, though… you seem tense. 18 missed calls, countless texts…

Dean could picture him saying it, could hear that faint drawl, see the way Castiel’s lips would curve into a lazy smirk as if he were peeling Dean apart with nothing but his voice. Dean leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand down his face. His shirt hung loose around his shoulders, his collar open and wrinkled now from the nervous fiddling he hadn’t even noticed himself doing. He took a breath, his fingers moving slower this time as he crafted his response. Careful, measured. He couldn’t let Castiel see how much of an effect he still had on him, how desperately Dean had wanted this conversation.

Dean: You’d be tense too if you had the week I’ve had. The presentation tomorrow is huge.

This time, Castiel took a little longer to reply, the silence stretching just enough to make Dean second-guess his message. Had he sounded too whiny? Too mundane? He cursed himself under his breath, thumb hovering over the phone, as if willing Castiel to respond would make it happen.

Finally, the screen lit up again.

Castiel: Ah, a presentation. Another chapter in Michael’s grand opus of corporate perfection. I’m sure it’ll be riveting.

Dean exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. There it was—that edge of playful disdain that Castiel wielded so effortlessly. But beneath it, there was something else, wasn’t there? Or was Dean just imagining it, hoping for something deeper in those flippant words? He started typing, pausing to backtrack twice before settling on something that felt safe.

Dean: And what about you? What masterpiece are you working on tonight?

The response came quicker this time, sharp and teasing.

Castiel: I’m working on surviving, Michael. That counts, doesn’t it?

There it was again, Michael. Dean’s chest tightened, his fingers gripping the phone a little harder. It wasn’t just the name—it was the way Castiel used it, a reminder of the distance between them, of the walls Dean couldn’t seem to break through. And yet, it was also intimate in its own way, a private language they’d built together.

Dean typed back before he could stop himself, the words spilling out faster than he could overthink them.

Dean: You don’t have to call me that, you know.

The silence that followed was deafening, the seconds dragging into what felt like an eternity as Dean stared at the screen, willing Castiel to reply. His chest ached with the quiet weight of the moment, his mind racing with possible outcomes. Had he pushed too hard? Said too much?

The phone buzzed again, and Dean’s breath caught as he read the response.

Castiel: What should I call you, then?

The question felt like a challenge, light on the surface but carrying a depth that made Dean’s pulse quicken. He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the keyboard as he considered how much to reveal. Did Castiel really not know, or was this just another one of his games?

Finally, Dean typed, the words feeling strangely significant as they appeared on the screen.

Dean stared at the phone for a moment, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. Was he really going to do this? His throat tightened, a flood of nerves and something else—something warm and reckless—coursing through him. Castiel’s messages always had a way of disarming him, peeling back layers of carefully built walls until there was nothing left but raw honesty, whether Dean wanted it or not.

The phone’s keyboard waited, blinking like it was daring him to go through with the thought taking root in his mind. He took a deep breath, his lips pressing into a line as he tried to muster the courage to type the words that hovered at the edge of his thoughts.

Finally, he hit send, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Dean: You can call me sexy.

For a beat, there was nothing but silence. No vibration, no reply, just the low hum of the television and the faint whir of the ceiling fan overhead. Dean exhaled slowly, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. What had he been expecting? For Castiel to laugh? To play along? God, maybe he was desperate.

But then, the phone buzzed in his hand, the sound sharp and startling in the stillness. His breath caught as he glanced at the screen.

Castiel: Is that an invitation or a title?

Dean couldn’t help it—he laughed, a sound that broke the tension in his chest like a dam giving way. Castiel’s wit always carried that particular edge, playful but somehow hitting just where it hurt and healed at the same time. Dean leaned his head back against the couch, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly as he typed his response.

Dean: Depends. What’ll it take to get you to use it?

Another long pause. This one felt different, though—not like Castiel was ignoring him, but like he was thinking. Dean tried to keep his cool, scrolling absently through the television channels without really looking at the screen. His heart pounded in the quiet moments that stretched between them.

When the reply came, it was simple, but it hit like a shot of adrenaline.

Castiel: Come see me, and maybe I will.

Dean froze, the words sinking in slowly, as if his brain refused to process them all at once. His hand tightened around the phone, his thumb brushing over the edge of the screen as he read the message again, half-expecting it to vanish or change if he looked at it too long. Castiel wanted him to come over. Tonight. Dean’s first instinct was to argue—to push back with some sarcastic quip about how he had work in the morning, how he couldn’t just drop everything. But the truth was, he wanted to go. Desperately. The ache in his chest had only grown over the course of their conversation, a longing that felt too big to ignore now.

He typed back, his fingers moving on their own, before he could talk himself out of it.

Dean: You’re serious?

The reply was instant, as if Castiel had been waiting for that very question.

Castiel: Always.

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He pushed himself off the couch, his hands running through his hair as he glanced around the room, trying to think, to plan. What would he say? What would he do when he got there? And more importantly, could he even trust himself to keep it together?

But even as his mind raced, his feet were already moving, his keys clutched tightly in one hand as he grabbed his jacket with the other. Whatever came next, Dean was certain of one thing: he wasn’t staying home tonight.

Dean shrugged out of his button up shirt and pulled a hoodie over his head, the fabric soft but slightly worn—a quiet comfort against the hum of nerves in his chest. He grabbed his keys from the counter, their familiar jingle grounding him for just a moment before he stepped out into the brisk night air. The Impala waited for him in the driveway, its dark frame glinting faintly under the streetlights, a steadfast companion for what felt like an impulsive and dangerous journey. The streets of the city passed by in a blur, the soft purr of the car’s engine the only sound breaking the quiet. Dean’s mind raced as he drove. The last time he’d been to Castiel’s place, it had been under different circumstances—a night when curiosity had given way to something deeper, something he hadn’t been prepared for. The place itself had been a revelation, a chaotic reflection of the man who inhabited it. A vibrant, cluttered mess of art and warmth, but so unapologetically personal it had left Dean feeling like an intruder. Or maybe it hadn’t been the space itself but his reaction to it. The way he —no, Michael — had stiffened, thrown off-kilter by the raw authenticity of it all. Dean remembered the flash of hurt in Castiel’s eyes when he’d faltered, unsure of how to respond to a place that felt more alive than anywhere he’d ever called home. It had been overwhelming, and he’d handled it poorly. Since then, Castiel had never invited him back. Until now.

The drive seemed shorter than it should have, and soon Dean was navigating the winding streets of Castiel’s neighbourhood. The difference between here and Dean’s part of town was palpable. The buildings were old but lovingly maintained, their façades draped in ivy and lit with warm, golden lights. It was the kind of area where people strolled leisurely, even late at night, and cafés spilled onto the pavement with the smell of coffee and fresh bread. Castiel’s place, for all its bohemian clutter, sat squarely in one of the city’s most expensive districts. Dean pulled up to the building, a tall, narrow structure with wrought iron balconies and arched windows. He killed the engine, sitting in the silence for a moment longer than necessary. His palms felt clammy against the steering wheel, his earlier bravado shrinking under the weight of what this visit might mean. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter, that this was just Castiel being cryptic and playful like always, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight carried a different significance.

He stepped out of the car, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he approached the entrance. The building’s door was old but well-kept, with an intricate brass knocker that Dean didn’t dare touch. Instead, he pressed the code Castiel had given him long ago and waited, his heart thudding in the quiet. The door clicked open, and Dean pushed it inward, stepping into a small, warmly lit lobby with mosaic-tiled floors. He took the stairs two at a time, his nerves pushing him forward even as his mind begged him to slow down and think this through.

When he reached Castiel’s door, the sight of it brought a strange sense of déjà vu. The painted wood was a deep, inviting blue, with small scratches around the handle—a detail he’d noticed the first time he’d been here, evidence of countless keys fumbling in locks. He raised his hand to knock but stopped short when the door swung open on its own. Castiel stood there, barefoot, in a loose sweater that looked as though it had seen countless nights of paint splatters and creative fervour. His hair was slightly dishevelled, a lock falling over his forehead in a way that felt almost deliberate. He met Dean’s eyes, his expression unreadable, though there was something soft in the way his lips tilted into the faintest smile.

“Michael,” Castiel greeted, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. “You came.” Dean’s throat tightened again, the name striking him with a familiar pang of guilt. But as Castiel stepped aside to let him in, the warm, chaotic glow of the apartment spilling out behind him, Dean knew there was no going back. Whatever he was looking for tonight, he was certain he’d only find it here. Dean stepped inside, the familiar smell of paint and something faintly herbal —maybe tea?— washing over him. The warmth of the space pressed against his skin, a sharp contrast to the chill he’d just left outside. Castiel lingered by the door for a moment, his sharp blue eyes trailing over Dean in a way that felt both casual and piercing.

"I like the hoodie," Castiel said, his voice carrying that same calm, deliberate tone he always used, though there was a flicker of something teasing beneath it. "You should wear it more." Dean glanced down at himself reflexively, brushing a hand over the Stanford emblem emblazoned across the chest. The maroon fabric was soft and worn, frayed a little at the cuffs. He hadn’t thought much about it when he grabbed it—just something comfortable to throw on, something to anchor him when his mind was scattered.

"Yeah, well," Dean said, trying for nonchalance as he shrugged. "Didn’t think you’d care much about my wardrobe." Castiel tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly in that way that always made Dean feel like he was being studied. 

"It suits you," he said simply, stepping away from the door and heading toward the kitchen. Dean stood frozen for a moment, his fingers absently brushing the edge of the hoodie again. ‘It suits you.’ The words echoed in his mind, digging deeper than they should have. It wasn’t just the compliment—it was the way Castiel said it, like it carried more meaning than the words themselves. Like he was peeling back layers Dean didn’t even know he’d built around himself.

"Didn’t peg you for a fashion critic," Dean muttered, following Castiel into the kitchen, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. He leaned against the counter, watching as Castiel busied himself with the kettle, moving with an ease that made the cluttered space feel like an extension of himself. Books and sketchpads spilled onto the counters, brushes sat in jars, and there was a plate of half-eaten toast abandoned near the sink.

"I’m not," Castiel said, glancing at him over his shoulder. "But there’s something about it. A sense of… place. Memory." He paused, turning back to face Dean fully, his gaze softening. "You really went to Stanford, didn’t you?" Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he considered lying, deflecting, anything to keep that part of himself hidden. But there was no point. Castiel always seemed to see through him anyway.

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "It’s… old. Haven’t worn it in a while." He didn’t add why—it felt too personal, too tangled up in the version of himself he used to be, the dreams he’d had before everything changed. Castiel nodded, as if that was all the answer he needed. 

"You should wear it more," he said again, his tone softer this time, like he understood something Dean hadn’t said. Dean looked away, his gaze landing on the scratched wooden floor instead of Castiel’s face. The warmth of the apartment, the way Castiel spoke, the way he moved through the space like it was a world he’d built entirely his own—it all made Dean feel unsteady, like he didn’t quite know where he fit.

"You don’t have to flatter me, you know," Dean said, trying to inject some humour into his voice, though it came out rougher than he intended. "I’m already here." Castiel smiled faintly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

"I’m not flattering you, Michael." His voice dipped, quieter, but no less sure. "I’m just telling the truth." Dean’s chest tightened at the name again, the sting sharper now that they were face-to-face. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Castiel’s gaze. 

"You really don’t have to call me that," he said, his voice low. "Michael. It’s...not who I am anymore."

For a moment, Castiel said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, his eyes flickering with something that looked like understanding—or maybe it was something else entirely.

"Alright," Castiel said, his voice soft. "Sexy, then." The sound of the word on Castiel’s lips sent a strange thrill through him, grounding and unsettling all at once. Dean leaned back against the counter, trying to steady himself, but the warmth of the space, the weight of Castiel’s gaze—it was all too much and not enough at the same time.

"So," Dean said, his voice tight as he tried to shift the mood. "You gonna offer me a drink, or do I just stand here looking pretty?" Castiel’s smile deepened, a quiet chuckle slipping out as he reached for the cupboard. 

"Tea or something stronger?" Dean raised an eyebrow, a flicker of his usual smirk returning. 

"Guess that depends on how long you’re planning to put up with me tonight." Castiel poured the tea without answering, but the faint, amused look in his eyes spoke volumes. Castiel reached into one of the cluttered cabinets, pulling out a half-empty bottle of vodka. The label was faded, curling at the edges as if it had been through careless handling. Without a word, he grabbed two mismatched glasses from the counter. One was a faded tumbler with a geometric pattern; the other looked like it belonged to an entirely different set, adorned with tiny hand-painted flowers that had begun to wear away. Dean watched as Castiel poured the vodka, his hands steady despite the chaos that seemed to define the rest of his surroundings. The sight of those mismatched glasses drew a faint smirk to Dean’s lips. He wondered if anything in Castiel’s apartment matched. Except, of course, for his socks. Dean had noticed, almost embarrassingly so, that when the younger man wore socks they were always black. Every time, without fail.

"Do you own anything that goes together?" Dean asked, leaning back against the counter with an air of mock seriousness. He let his eyes sweep the room exaggeratedly, taking in the patchwork of textures, colours, and clutter. "Like, anything ?" Castiel set the bottle down and handed Dean the tumbler, his expression unbothered, though there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

"My socks match," he said simply, as if that were a perfectly reasonable response. Dean raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. 

"Yeah, I noticed. All black, huh? That your signature look or just a coincidence?" Castiel took a sip of his drink before answering, his gaze steady and calm. 

"It’s practical. No thought required." He gestured vaguely at the rest of the apartment. "I prefer to save my energy for more meaningful decisions." Dean let out a low laugh, the vodka warming his throat as he took a sip. 

"Right, because matching your glasses would just be too exhausting." Castiel gave him a pointed look, though his eyes glimmered with a quiet amusement. 

"Precisely." Dean shook his head, the tension in his chest easing just a little as they fell into this easy back-and-forth. It was like Castiel had a way of diffusing him, smoothing out the jagged edges of his mood without even trying. He took another sip, the burn of the vodka sharper this time, and let his gaze wander across the room again. The climbing plants, the stacks of books, the half-finished paintings leaning against the wall—it was all so Castiel. Messy, creative, unapologetically personal.

"I don’t get it," Dean said after a moment, his voice quieter now. "You live in the most expensive part of town, but it looks like your furniture came from a flea market." Castiel tilted his head, considering Dean’s words for a moment before replying. 

"I suppose I’ve never valued things the way others do." He gestured vaguely to the room. "Everything here has a purpose, a story. That’s enough for me." Dean let that sink in, swirling the vodka in his glass as he thought about it. It was such a Castiel thing to say—cryptic but honest, making him feel like there was a depth to every little detail in the room.

"Yeah, well," Dean said, raising his glass slightly. "Here’s to mismatched glasses and meaningful decisions, then." Castiel clinked his glass against Dean’s with a small, genuine smile, the kind that made something deep in Dean’s chest stir. It wasn’t much, but it felt… comfortable. Real. And Dean would be lying if he said he hadn’t been craving this. 

Castiel leaned back against the counter, his glass cradled loosely in one hand, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. There was a glint in his gaze, sharp and knowing, but also laced with something softer. He took a slow sip of his drink, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint smile that felt too deliberate to be casual.

“So, sexy,” Castiel said, his voice low and teasing, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a casual intimacy that made Dean’s chest tighten. “What’s up?” Dean barked out a short laugh, more out of surprise than humour, and ran a hand through his hair. Castiel had this way of throwing him off balance, like he was constantly tugging the ground out from under Dean, just enough to make him stumble but never enough to make him fall. Dean took another sip of his drink, the burn of the vodka grounding him as he tried to think of a response.

“What’s up?” Dean repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s what you’ve got? I drive all the way over here, and you hit me with ‘what’s up’?” Castiel tilted his head, his smile widening slightly. 

“Would you prefer I roll out a red carpet? Light some candles?” His tone was dry, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a challenge woven into the words. Dean shook his head, the smirk tugging at his lips betraying his attempt at annoyance. 

“You’re hopeless, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.” Castiel’s voice softened just a touch, though the playful edge remained. He set his glass down on the counter, crossing his arms as he leaned against it, his posture deceptively relaxed. “But you didn’t come here to tell me that, did you?” Dean hesitated, the question landing heavier than it should have. He could feel Castiel’s gaze on him, probing, as if he were peeling away Dean’s layers with nothing more than his presence. It was unnerving how easily Castiel seemed to see through him, how quickly he could strip away the carefully constructed walls Dean spent so much time building. He cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence.

“Maybe I just wanted a drink,” Dean said, lifting his glass as if to prove his point. The deflection sounded weak, even to his own ears, and he winced internally at how transparent he felt.

“Hmm,” Castiel hummed, his expression unreadable as he watched Dean over the rim of his glass. “Somehow, I doubt that’s all.” Dean shifted under Castiel’s gaze, the tension in the room crackling like static. It wasn’t accusatory, but it wasn’t entirely gentle, either. It was just… Castiel. Direct. Honest in a way that made Dean feel exposed, like every excuse he tried to muster would wither under that unflinching blue stare.

“I just—” Dean started, but the words caught in his throat. He looked down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid as if it might give him the answers he was searching for. The truth felt too raw to say out loud, too tangled up in the noise of everything he’d been feeling lately. “I couldn’t stay home tonight,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter, almost resigned. “It was… too quiet.” Castiel didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. Dean’s heart picked up as Castiel leaned against the edge of the counter beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing. The warmth of Castiel’s presence was palpable, grounding, like a steady anchor against the chaos in Dean’s head.

“The kind of quiet that gets too loud,” Castiel said softly, not a question but a statement, like he knew exactly what Dean meant. His voice carried a weight that settled over Dean, but it wasn’t oppressive. It was steadying, like a firm hand on his shoulder. Dean nodded, his throat tight as he forced himself to meet Castiel’s gaze. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Something like that.” Castiel studied him for a moment, his expression softening in a way that made Dean’s chest ache. 

“You could have called,” he said simply, his voice gentle but laced with a quiet sincerity. “I would’ve answered.” Dean let out a short laugh, sharp and humourless, as he set his glass down on the counter with a muted thud. He turned to face Castiel fully, his gaze narrowing in disbelief. 

“I did call,” he said, his voice edged with frustration, though the hurt underneath was impossible to hide. “You didn’t answer.” Castiel blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before a sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“Whoops,” he said, the single word delivered with such casual audacity that Dean’s irritation almost evaporated on the spot.

“Whoops?” Dean repeated, incredulous. “That’s what you’ve got? Whoops?” He gestured vaguely, his words stumbling over his exasperation. “I’m over here, drowning in my own head, calling you, texting you, leaving you voicemails like some kind of… desperate idiot, and your answer is whoops?” Castiel tilted his head slightly, his expression teetering on the edge of amusement and something softer. 

“It’s not the most articulate response, I’ll admit,” he said, his voice calm but not dismissive. He leaned a little closer, his presence a steadying force even as his words poked at Dean’s frayed edges. “But it’s honest.” Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his face.  Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his face, his exasperation spilling into the air between them. 

“You’re impossible.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, his head tilting ever so slightly, that infuriating mix of bemusement and calm radiating from him. He stepped closer, crossing his arms casually as if Dean’s fraying temper was nothing more than an intriguing puzzle. 

“Am I?” he asked, the question soft but pointed. Dean met his gaze, his frustration simmering just below the surface. 

“Yeah, you are,” he said, his voice taut with a mixture of irritation and something else, something raw. He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it more dishevelled than before. “I thought this was… you know. Physical.” Castiel blinked, his expression flickering through a brief series of emotions —confusion, amusement, and something Dean couldn’t quite name— before settling on a faint, knowing smile. He leaned back against the counter, his body relaxed but his eyes sharp as they searched Dean’s face.

“Physical,” Castiel repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with deliberate slowness. He gave a soft hum, his gaze narrowing slightly in thought. “Interesting choice of words.” Dean’s jaw tightened, a faint flush creeping up his neck. 

“You know what I mean,” he said, his voice lower now, almost defensive. “This... thing between us. It was supposed to be simple. No strings, no… whatever this is.” Castiel’s smile deepened, but it wasn’t mocking. If anything, it carried a weight of understanding that made Dean’s chest tighten. 

“And yet,” Castiel said, his voice quiet but steady, “you’re standing here, in my kitchen, talking about strings.” Dean opened his mouth to argue, to deny it, to push back against the truth Castiel was unearthing so effortlessly, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he looked away, his gaze falling to the scratched surface of the counter. The vodka in his glass shimmered faintly under the soft, uneven light, a reflection of the chaos swirling inside him.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Dean muttered, his tone quieter now, almost to himself. Castiel stepped forward then, closing the space between them with a quiet ease that made Dean’s pulse quicken. 

“Maybe not,” Castiel said, his voice low and steady, like the rumble of distant thunder. “But you’re here, Michael. You’re here.” Dean swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the storm of emotions Castiel’s words stirred in him. For all his frustrations, for all his insistence that this was supposed to be something simple, he couldn’t deny the truth staring him in the face. He was here. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to leave. Castiel set his glass down on the counter with deliberate care, his eyes fixed on the liquid inside as if it held some great secret. “Besides,” he said, his voice casual, almost too casual, “if what you need is to sleep with someone, you could have just gone to a bar. You’re handsome—clearly, picking up someone wouldn’t be a problem. After all, you picked me up.” Dean blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. The words hung in the air, sharp and teasing, but also loaded with something heavier—something Castiel wasn’t saying outright. For a moment, Dean didn’t know how to respond, his brain tripping over itself as the memories of that night, the charged atmosphere of the bar where they’d met, came rushing back.

“I—” Dean started, his voice faltering. He straightened his posture, one hand gripping the edge of the counter as if to steady himself. “You think I haven’t tried?” The words came out sharper than he intended, his frustration bubbling to the surface. Castiel’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Something flickered across his face—a flash of surprise, maybe hurt, though it disappeared as quickly as it had come. He glanced away, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. The moment stretched between them, taut and fragile, before Castiel’s voice broke the silence.

“You tried?” he asked, his tone quieter now, the edge of teasing gone. He didn’t look at Dean as he spoke, his gaze fixed somewhere over Dean’s shoulder, as though he were studying the faint lines of the paint-splattered wall. Dean exhaled, the tension in his chest coiling tighter as he thought back to earlier that night—the neon lights of the bar, the swirl of strangers’ voices, and then Balthazar’s infuriating smirk as he’d told Dean to go home. He hadn’t expected to run into his boss of all people, let alone get lectured about his priorities and sent packing like some wayward child. The memory burned, sharp and humiliating, and now here he was, facing Castiel’s question like it was some kind of test.

“Yeah, I tried,” Dean said, his voice rougher now, though whether it was from the frustration of the memory or the weight of Castiel’s question, he couldn’t tell. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment before meeting Castiel’s gaze again. “Didn’t exactly pan out.” Something shifted in Castiel’s posture then—his shoulders tensed for the briefest moment before relaxing again, his expression smoothing into something neutral, unreadable. He finally turned back to face Dean, his eyes searching, as though trying to piece together the story Dean wasn’t telling.

“And then you ended up here,” Castiel said, his voice low and even, though there was a faint edge to it—something Dean couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but it carried a note of something unresolved, something tangled. Dean’s jaw tightened, his frustration bleeding into his words. 

“Yeah, I did. Because—” He cut himself off, the words catching in his throat. He didn’t know how to explain it, didn’t know how to put into words why he’d ended up at Castiel’s door instead of anywhere else. It wasn’t just the failed attempt at the bar. It wasn’t even about the night’s frustrations or the presentation looming over him. It was Castiel—the way the man seemed to pull him in, no matter how hard he tried to keep his distance. The way being here felt like both a mistake and exactly where he was supposed to be.

“Because what?” Castiel prompted, his voice softer now, though the intensity of his gaze didn’t waver. Dean shook his head, letting out a sharp breath. 

“Because no one else gets it,” he admitted, his voice dropping into something quieter, more vulnerable. “No one else… makes it better.” The confession hung in the air between them, raw and unpolished. Dean half-expected Castiel to laugh, to brush it off with one of his cutting remarks. But Castiel didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stood there, his eyes locked on Dean’s, the flicker of something unreadable passing over his face again.

“Maybe I shouldn’t.” Castiel said softly, after what felt like an eternity. Dean frowned, the words catching him off guard. 

“Shouldn’t what?”

“Make it better,” Castiel said, his tone steady, though his gaze dropped to the floor for the briefest moment. “Maybe it’s not what you need.” Dean stared at him, his chest tightening as the words sank in. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to the quiet honesty in Castiel’s voice. All he knew was that the ache in his chest wasn’t easing—it was growing, expanding, until it threatened to swallow him whole.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Dean said finally, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. Castiel looked up then, his blue eyes meeting Dean’s with a depth that made the air between them feel charged. 

“Don’t I?” he asked, and there was something in his tone —a challenge, a question, an invitation— that made Dean’s breath catch.

Neither of them moved, the moment stretching out, fragile and electric. Dean’s grip on the counter tightened, his pulse pounding in his ears as he tried to figure out what to say, what to do. But before he could speak, Castiel turned away, his movements smooth but deliberate, as if he were putting distance between them.

“I’ll get you another drink,” Castiel said, his voice quieter now, almost matter-of-fact, though the tension in his posture betrayed him. He reached for the bottle of vodka again, his back to Dean, as though the conversation had ended.

But for Dean, it was far from over.

Dean watched as Castiel poured another splash of vodka into his glass, the sharp scent filling the space between them. The younger man’s movements were measured, deliberate, but there was a tension in the way his shoulders remained stiff, the curve of his neck taut under the soft knit of his sweater. Dean leaned against the counter, his gaze trailing over the cluttered room, searching for an opening to cut through the silence.

“So,” Dean said finally, his voice steady, though there was a hint of something lighter in it, an attempt at normalcy. “What’s had you so busy, huh? Ignoring calls, leaving me on read… Did you take up a secret government job or something? Or is this just your way of keeping me on my toes?” Castiel’s hand froze for a fraction of a second, the bottle hovering mid-air before he set it down with a soft clink. He didn’t look at Dean, his eyes instead fixed on the surface of the counter as he swirled the glass in his hand. The silence stretched a beat too long, and Dean shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his question sink into the room.

“I’ve been working,” Castiel said at last, his tone flat and clipped. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze sliding away toward the bookshelves as though the jumble of spines held answers he wasn’t ready to share. Dean raised an eyebrow, refusing to let it go. 

“Yeah, I got that much from your message. But what kind of work? Art? Something new?” He gestured toward the half-finished canvases leaning against the wall, their edges vibrant with paint. “Or is it something else?” Castiel’s eyes flicked to Dean then, sharp and defensive, like a cornered animal. 

“Why do you care?” he asked, his voice calm on the surface, but there was a brittle edge beneath it. “I didn’t realise my productivity was suddenly a matter of interest.” Dean blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. 

“Whoa, okay,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just making conversation, man. No need to bite my head off.” Castiel’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away again, his shoulders pulling tighter. 

“You ask too many questions,” he muttered, taking another sip of his drink as if to punctuate the statement. Dean frowned, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. 

“And you dodge too many of them,” he shot back, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to steady himself. “Look, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with you. You’ve been MIA for days. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong.” Castiel’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. But just as quickly, he turned away, busying himself with a stack of sketchpads on the counter, his movements a little too deliberate.

“You didn’t do anything,” he said quietly, though there was an undertone in his voice that made Dean feel like the statement wasn’t entirely true. “I’ve just… been busy.”

“Right.” Dean crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on Castiel’s back. “Busy enough to ignore me completely.” Castiel froze again, his hands hovering over the sketchpads as if caught between actions. He turned his head slightly, just enough for Dean to catch the edge of his profile, his expression tight and guarded.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Castiel said, his voice low but firm. It wasn’t angry—more like a shield, a line drawn in the sand. Dean felt the words like a slap, his chest tightening as he struggled to keep his own temper in check. 

“You’re right,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, the fight draining out of him. “You don’t. But I guess I thought we were… I don’t know. Friends.” The word hung in the air, fragile and uncertain. Castiel turned then, his eyes meeting Dean’s with a flicker of something —regret? Sadness?— whatever it was, it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Castiel’s gaze lingered on Dean for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, like he was weighing the words Dean had just said. Then, as if pulling an invisible shutter closed, he turned back to the counter and busied himself with a stray paintbrush, his fingers turning it over idly.

“We aren’t,” Castiel said, his voice quieter but no less firm. He didn’t look at Dean as he spoke. “And that means you don’t get to pry into everything.” The words hung in the air like a low chord, reverberating between them. Dean stood frozen for a moment, his chest tightening as if the ground had been yanked out from beneath him. He swallowed hard, the faint burn of the vodka still clinging to his throat as he forced himself to move. Pushing off the counter, he straightened his back and nodded slowly, his jaw tightening.

“Got it,” he said, his voice steady but edged with something raw, something brittle. “Message received.” He turned on his heel, walking toward the couch with deliberate steps, every fibre of his being fighting to keep the emotions surging through him in check. Dean sank into the cushions, his shoulders stiff, and placed his drink on the table in front of him. For a moment, he just stared at it, the clear liquid catching the dim light and refracting it into sharp, fractured patterns. He felt fractured too, though he wasn’t about to let it show. Castiel didn’t move, his back still turned as he fiddled with the clutter on the counter. Dean didn’t know if it was avoidance or simply indifference, and maybe that made it worse. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling quietly as he leaned back into the couch, trying to let the tension drain out of him. But it didn’t. It clung to him, winding tighter with every second that Castiel remained silent. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he glanced toward the kitchen. “You’re good at this, you know?” Dean said, his voice low but cutting. “Shutting people out. Making sure no one gets too close.” Castiel stilled, his hand pausing mid-motion. He didn’t turn around, but Dean could see the way his shoulders tensed, the faint clench of his jaw visible even from where he sat.

“You’re projecting,” Castiel said after a long moment, his voice calm but laced with a subtle defensiveness. “Just because you want answers doesn’t mean you’re entitled to them.” Dean let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back again.

“You’re right,” he said, his tone sharp. “I’m not entitled to anything. But maybe, just maybe, you could try letting someone in for once. Or is that too much to ask?”

The words came out harsher than he intended, but he didn’t try to take them back. He was tired—tired of the dance, of the walls, of trying to figure out where he stood with someone who refused to give him a straight answer. Castiel turned then, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes met Dean’s, and for the first time all night, they weren’t guarded. They were bright and piercing, a flash of frustration and something else—something softer, almost fragile.

“I don’t need saving, Michael,” Castiel said quietly, his voice steady but tinged with an emotion that Dean couldn’t quite place. “And I don’t need you to fix me. Whatever it is you’re looking for here… I’m not sure I can give it to you.” Dean’s chest tightened again, the words —especially the use of his fake name— hitting him harder than he expected. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath as he looked away. 

“I’m not trying to fix you, Castiel,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I’m just… trying to be here. Isn’t that enough?” 

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them stretching thin and taut like a string ready to snap. Then, slowly, Castiel set the paintbrush down and walked toward the living room. He stopped a few feet away from the couch, his arms crossed over his chest as he studied Dean with an intensity that made the air feel thick.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said finally, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “Maybe.” Dean looked up at him, the weight of those words settling between them like an unspoken truce. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And for now, that was enough. Dean shifted uncomfortably on the couch, his gaze darting to Castiel, then back to the vodka in his glass. The whole night felt off-kilter, like he’d stepped into a conversation he wasn’t sure how to finish. He hadn’t come here for soul-searching or cryptic back-and-forths. He’d come here because Castiel had a way of making the noise in his head go quiet. Or at least, he used to. Now, sitting in Castiel’s mismatched apartment, surrounded by paint-streaked chaos and books that looked like they were read more than stored, Dean felt like the quiet was farther away than ever. He drained the rest of his drink, the burn doing little to ease the tension coiled tight in his chest. Castiel was standing near the edge of the living room, leaning against a bookshelf that looked one hard shove away from collapse. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture deceptively casual. But there was something in his eyes—sharp and unreadable, like he was trying to figure out what Dean wanted and why Dean didn’t seem to know either. Dean ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. His voice felt tight in his throat when he finally spoke.

“So, uh… how does this work, exactly?” He gestured vaguely, his hand circling the air between them. “You and me, tonight.” Castiel’s brow furrowed, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“I thought you were the one with the plan, Sexy,” he said, the nickname landing with that same maddening mix of sarcasm and intimacy. “I’m just the… distraction, isn’t that right?” Dean clenched his jaw, the heat of frustration rising in him again. 

“Yeah, well, you’re not doing a great job of it right now,” he shot back, though his tone lacked bite. His fingers drummed against the armrest as he tried to gather his thoughts. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what he’d expected in the first place. A drink. Some banter. Then sex. That was routine. But the idea seemed less plausible the longer they circled around each other like this.Castiel tilted his head, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Dean. 

“You didn’t come here for me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more contemplative. “Not really.” Dean froze, his fingers stilling on the armrest. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Castiel’s lips pressed into a faint line, his gaze unwavering. 

“You came here to forget. To let go of something you can’t seem to carry anymore. And for some reason, you think I’m the solution.” He paused, a small, bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “Or maybe just a temporary fix.” Dean bristled, his chest tightening at the accusation—or maybe it was the truth of it. 

“That’s not—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know, okay? I just…” He gestured helplessly, his voice lowering. “I just wanted to not feel like this for a while. I figured you could help.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something that looked almost like pity. 

“And you thought sex was the answer?” Dean didn’t respond right away. His hand tightened around the empty glass, the cool surface grounding him as he searched for words that didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. 

“I thought… maybe,” he admitted, his voice rough. “It’s not like you haven’t… I mean, we have before.” Castiel didn’t look away, but something shifted in his expression, a flicker of something Dean couldn’t quite place. 

“We have,” he agreed, his voice even. “But you weren’t like this then. And I…” He hesitated, the faintest crack in his composure. “I don’t think I’m what you need tonight, Michael.” Dean winced at the name —Michael. It felt like a jab, a reminder of the distance between them, the lie Dean had told to keep himself hidden even as he’d let Castiel get too close.

“Don’t call me that,” Dean said, his voice sharper than he intended. Castiel’s eyebrows lifted slightly, his smirk returning with a hint of edge.

“Then what should I call you?” he asked, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of challenge. “Sexy? Handsome? Something else entirely?” Dean’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists as he leaned forward on the couch, his frustration bubbling over. 

“I don’t know, okay?” he snapped, his voice louder than he intended. The words came out rough, raw, like they had been clawing at the back of his throat, waiting for an opening. Castiel blinked, startled by the outburst. For a moment, he just stood there, the tension crackling between them. Then he raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of mock surrender. 

“Okay, jeez,” he said, his tone light but edged with something Dean couldn’t quite place. “No need to shout, sexy.” Dean let out a shaky breath, leaning back against the couch. His head tipped back, and he stared at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling as he tried to calm the thrum of energy coursing through him. The room felt too warm, the air too close, and Castiel’s piercing gaze wasn’t helping.

“I didn’t mean to—” Dean started, but he cut himself off, the apology dying in his throat. What could he say that didn’t sound weak, or worse, vulnerable? Castiel tilted his head, his expression softening slightly as he studied Dean. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the edge of the bookshelf again. 

“You’re wound tight tonight,” he said, his voice quieter now, more observant. “Like a spring that’s about to snap.” Dean laughed dryly, the sound hollow. 

“Yeah, well, that’s me. Just a walking ball of stress.”

“I can see that,” Castiel said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But snapping at me won’t solve it.” Dean exhaled sharply, his hands scrubbing over his face as he tried to gather himself. Castiel was right. Of course he was. Snapping hadn’t helped. It hadn’t made him feel better, hadn’t taken the edge off. If anything, it had made everything worse.

“I just…” Dean paused, his voice catching. He dropped his hands and looked at Castiel, his green eyes shadowed with something vulnerable, something he couldn’t quite hide. “I don’t know how to do this, Cas.” Castiel’s brows lifted slightly at the nickname, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he stepped closer, his arms uncrossing as he stood in front of Dean. His gaze softened, the sharpness fading as he regarded the man sitting on his couch, so clearly at war with himself.

“Do what, exactly?” Castiel asked, his voice low, gentle. It wasn’t mocking this time. It wasn’t a challenge. Dean shook his head, his gaze dropping to his hands. 

“Any of it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “This whole… thing. You. Me. Whatever the hell it is.” Castiel was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed softly, lowering himself into the chair opposite Dean. 

“It doesn’t have to be anything, you know,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “We don’t have to define it. We don’t even have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.” Dean glanced up at him, his jaw tightening. 

“And what? Just keep pretending like this is normal? Like it’s not messing with my head?” Castiel leaned back against the counter, his expression unreadable. 

“Why did you come?” he asked quietly, his voice was even, calm, but there was something searching in his tone, something that made Dean’s pulse quicken. Dean met his gaze, holding it for a long moment. 

“You know why,” he said, his voice low, firm. He didn’t elaborate—didn’t think he needed to. The words hung between them, heavy with meaning, daring Castiel to challenge them. 

Castiel hummed softly, the sound carrying a note of contemplation, almost amusement. He turned to the sink, his movements deliberate, and Dean’s eyes followed as he picked up the half-empty bottle of vodka. Without a word, Castiel tipped it over, letting the clear liquid pour down the drain. The sound of it splashing against the metal seemed louder than it should have, filling the silence between them. Dean’s stomach tightened as he watched. He couldn’t stop the memory that surged to the surface—of his father pouring whiskey down the drain with a sharp slam of the bottle, the argument that followed so fierce it had left an ache in his chest for days. In Dean’s experience, nothing good happened when someone started throwing away food or drink. That was usually the moment when the real fights began.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, his voice sharper than he intended, laced with a tension that had nothing to do with Castiel and everything to do with the ghost of something long buried. Castiel set the empty bottle aside and turned back to face Dean. 

“You don’t need more of this,” he said simply, his voice calm but resolute. “Not tonight.” Dean stood, feeling like he was caught in a game he didn’t know the rules to, and Castiel, as always, seemed to hold all the cards. 

“And you think you know what I need?” Dean asked, his tone defensive, laced with an edge he couldn’t quite hold back. Castiel tilted his head, studying him with that piercing gaze that always seemed to strip Dean bare. 

“I think you’re looking for something you’re not going to find at the bottom of a glass,” he said, his words soft but cutting. “But if you want to prove me wrong, feel free to raid the rest of my kitchen.” Dean let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. 

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” He straightened, running a hand through his hair, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I didn’t come here for a lecture, Cas.”

“And I didn’t invite you for a pity party,” Castiel shot back, his voice still maddeningly calm, though his eyes flickered with something that might have been irritation. “If you want someone to coddle you, you came to the wrong place.” Dean bristled, his fists clenching at his sides. 

“You think that’s what I want?” he demanded, his voice rising. “You think I need someone to hold my hand and tell me it’s all gonna be okay? That’s not—” He cut himself off, exhaling harshly as he tried to rein himself in. His chest ached with the weight of everything he couldn’t say, the things he didn’t even know how to put into words. Castiel didn’t respond right away. He just watched Dean, his gaze steady, unflinching.

“Then what do you want, Michael?” he asked quietly, after a long pause. The name was like a slap, a reminder of the distance between them, the lie that had started this whole thing. Dean’s jaw tightened, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t know how to answer. Didn’t know if he could.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally, his voice breaking on the last word. It felt like a confession, raw and unguarded in a way that left him feeling exposed.

For a moment, Castiel said nothing, his expression softening just slightly. Then he pushed away from the counter, stepping closer until there was only a small space between them. He tilted his head, his blue eyes searching Dean’s face.

“When you figure it out,” Castiel said softly, his eyes held Dean’s for a moment longer, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Then, almost too casually, he stepped back, creating just enough space to feel like a deliberate choice, “maybe I’ll pick up,” Castiel said, his tone light but laced with that maddening edge of ambiguity he wielded so effortlessly. Dean blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Castiel’s tone. It wasn’t quite an apology, and it wasn’t quite a joke, but it hung in the air between them like a challenge. His jaw tightened as he searched Castiel’s face, looking for some clue to what the man was thinking, but Castiel’s expression was as frustratingly unreadable as ever.

“You’re full of shit, you know that?” Dean said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. There was no heat in his voice this time, just a rough edge of exhaustion. Castiel’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners. 

“I’ve been told,” he said simply, his gaze steady, unbothered. “But you still showed up.” Dean let out a breath, running a hand over the back of his neck as he glanced away. Things always went wrong when they talked Castiel always had a way of getting under his skin, of twisting the conversation until Dean didn’t know which way was up which worked wonders in the bedroom but this, this wasn’t that. And the worst part? Castiel was right. He had shown up. Despite the silence, the mixed signals, the endless, infuriating push and pull—he was still here.

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, his voice quieter now. “Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.” Castiel hummed softly, the sound carrying a note of amusement as he turned back to the sink, rinsing out the now-empty vodka bottle with deliberate precision. 

“Or maybe,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful, “you know you wouldn’t get what you’re looking for anywhere else.” 

The words hit Dean harder than he expected, cutting through the haze of frustration and uncertainty that had been clouding his thoughts. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t—not without giving away more than he was willing to. Dean’s jaw clenched as the words lingered between them, his grip tightening on the edge of the counter. He couldn’t deny the truth in Castiel’s observation, no matter how much it annoyed him. But instead of addressing it, instead of leaning into the vulnerability that Castiel seemed to see so clearly, Dean fell back on what he knew best—deflection.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, his voice low and edged with frustration, “it seems like I’m not going to get it here either. More likely to get poisoned by the paint fumes.” He gestured vaguely at the cluttered apartment, at the stacks of canvases leaning against the walls, their surfaces bright with swirls of colour and sharp lines of abstraction. Castiel stilled, his posture straightening slightly as he glanced over his shoulder. His blue eyes met Dean’s, sharp and assessing, and for a brief moment, something softened in his expression. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the same guarded detachment that drove Dean crazy. Castiel turned back to the sink, setting the empty bottle aside with deliberate care, as if it required his full attention.

“If that’s what you feel, Michael,” Castiel said quietly, his voice even but carrying an unmistakable edge, “then maybe you should leave.”

The words hit Dean like a cold wind, and for a moment, he just stood there, his breath caught in his chest. He didn’t know what he’d expected—an apology, maybe, or some sign that Castiel cared enough to argue. Instead, Castiel had thrown the choice back at him, leaving him to decide whether to stay or go. Dean exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. His chest ached with a familiar frustration, the kind that came from wanting something he couldn’t quite name, let alone reach. He hated this—hated the way Castiel always seemed to pull away just when Dean thought they were getting somewhere. But even as the anger flared in him, there was something else beneath it, something quieter and harder to ignore.

“Maybe I should,” Dean said, his voice quieter now, though it carried a faint edge of bitterness. He pushed off the counter, grabbing his jacket from where he’d draped it over a chair. His movements were brisk, deliberate, but his chest felt tight, like something was pulling at him to stop, to stay. Castiel didn’t respond, didn’t turn around, and for a moment, Dean thought he’d already been forgotten, dismissed like a passing thought. But just as he reached the door, Castiel’s voice cut through the silence, soft and quiet but unmistakably firm.

“You don’t have to go,” Castiel said, his words hanging in the air like a thread waiting to be picked up. “But if you stay, stop looking for answers I’m not ready to give.” Dean froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He turned slowly, his gaze locking onto Castiel’s back. The younger man hadn’t moved, his hands braced on the edge of the sink, his posture rigid but not tense. The words weren’t an apology, not exactly, but they carried a weight that made Dean pause.

For a moment, Dean didn’t say anything, the air between them taut with unspoken questions. Finally, he let out a slow breath and shrugged his jacket back off, tossing it onto the couch.

“Fine,” he said, his tone gruff but laced with something softer, something closer to understanding. “No more questions. For now.” Castiel glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes meeting Dean’s again. There was a flicker of gratitude there, faint but genuine, and Dean felt his chest loosen just a little.

“Good,” Castiel said simply, turning back to the sink. Dean leaned against the wall, watching him for a moment before letting out a quiet laugh, the sound carrying just enough warmth to break the tension. 

“You know, you’re a real piece of work.” Castiel’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t turn around. 

“So I’ve been told. But it’s not like you’re any better; you're a walking stereotype.” Dean let out a short, dry laugh, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall. 

“Oh yeah? And what stereotype is that, exactly?” Castiel turned to face him fully, one eyebrow raised, his expression carrying that infuriating mix of amusement and judgement that only he could pull off. 

“You’re the overachieving golden boy with a chip on his shoulder. A polished exterior hiding all those messy little cracks you think no one can see.” His eyes flicked over Dean, sharp and knowing. “You wear it like armour. Suit, tie, that painfully meticulous haircut—it’s all part of the act, isn’t it?” Dean’s jaw tightened, his stomach twisting at how easily Castiel seemed to cut through him. 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” he shot back. “What’s your excuse? Brooding artist, too tortured to answer a damn text?” Castiel smirked, leaning casually against the counter as if Dean’s retort had been nothing more than a mild breeze. 

“Brooding artist is a bit dramatic, don’t you think? I prefer to think of myself as… selectively available.” Dean snorted, shaking his head. 

“Selective, huh? Is that what you call ignoring someone for days on end?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel replied smoothly, tilting his head in that way that made him look both infuriatingly smug and maddeningly attractive. “Or maybe I just like seeing how far I can push you before you snap.” Dean’s eyes narrowed, his frustration simmering just below the surface. 

“You’re annoying, you know that?”

“And you’re predictable,” Castiel countered, his voice calm but his eyes sparking with challenge. “But don’t worry, Michael. That’s part of your charm.” Dean stared at him, his lips pressing into a tight line as he tried to come up with a response that wouldn’t give Castiel the satisfaction of knowing he’d struck a nerve. But before he could say anything, Castiel’s expression softened, just slightly, and he straightened, taking a step closer. “Relax,” Castiel said, his tone quieter now, almost conciliatory. “I’m not trying to piss you off. Not really.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, glancing away, “you’ve got a funny way of showing it.” Castiel sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, his gaze lingering on Dean for a moment longer than felt comfortable. 

“Maybe,” he said, almost to himself, before turning away again. “But you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t like it.” Dean opened his mouth to argue, to deny it, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he let out a breath, leaning back against the wall and watching as Castiel moved to tidy up the already-chaotic kitchen. Damn him for being right.

Dean leaned against the counter, watching Castiel whose movements were erratic but deliberate, like a man trying to burn off energy he didn’t know what to do with. Castiel was clearly in the middle of some kind of spiral—though Dean wasn’t sure if that was a regular thing or just tonight’s feature attraction. Either way, it wasn’t helping. 

No, wait—it was helping, but not in the way Dean had come here for. The sharp back-and-forth, the way Castiel’s mood swung between pointed and introspective, was a distraction. A weird, frustrating, oddly effective distraction from the knots Dean’s own life had tied itself into. But this —this much talking— was new. They didn’t do this. Not like this. Not this much. Dean ran a hand down his face, letting out a low sigh. 

“Is this... normal for you?” he asked finally, his voice cutting through the tension hanging in the air. “You having a full-blown existential crisis in the middle of your ‘paint fumes and vodka’ nights?” Castiel glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow quirking up in faint amusement. 

“Normal is a subjective term, Michael. And besides,” he paused, setting a stray paintbrush in a jar of murky water, “it’s not like I forced you into the chaos. You came here.” Dean straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Yeah, because I thought we were gonna—” He stopped himself, the words catching in his throat. Castiel turned to look at him, his blue eyes glinting with something Dean couldn’t quite place.

“Thought we were going to what?” Castiel asked, his voice calm but probing, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to watch Dean squirm. Dean shrugged, looking away as his jaw tightened. 

“I don’t know. Just... not this.” Castiel leaned back against the counter opposite him, crossing his arms in a mirror of Dean’s stance. 

“What did you expect, then? A quick fix? A neat little distraction so you could get back to your perfectly planned life?”

The words stung more than Dean wanted to admit, and he met Castiel’s gaze with a glare. 

“Yeah, maybe I did. And maybe I’m starting to think I came to the wrong place.” Something flickered in Castiel’s eyes—hurt, maybe, though it was gone so quickly Dean wasn’t sure he’d really seen it. 

“You’re free to leave anytime, Michael,” Castiel said, his voice soft but laced with an edge. “No one’s keeping you here.”

Dean opened his mouth to snap back, to throw out some biting remark that would cut through the tension, but the words died on his tongue. Instead, he let out a frustrated exhale, raking a hand through his hair as he turned away. This was stupid. All of it. He hadn’t come here to argue, to get drawn into whatever crisis Castiel was having. But now that he was here, walking away didn’t feel like an option. Not really. Dean turned back, his shoulders stiff as he leaned against the counter again. 

“Look,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Forget it. Just... what’s going on with you tonight? You’re all over the place.” Castiel stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re one to talk,” he said, though there was no real bite to the words. He pushed off the counter, moving toward the sink to rinse out another paintbrush. “Maybe this is what you get for prying.” Dean narrowed his eyes, a spark of irritation flaring again. 

“I’m not prying,” he said, though the defensive edge in his voice made it sound like he was. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell’s going on with you.” Castiel set the paintbrush down, turning to face him fully. 

“And why is that, Michael? Why do you care?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Dean stared at him, his jaw tightening as he searched for an answer he didn’t have.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, the words coming out quieter than he’d intended. “Maybe I shouldn’t.” Dean let the words tumble out before he could think better of them, his voice steady but tinged with something raw, almost vulnerable. "Castiel, can’t we just move to your messy bed in your messy home and make out messily?"

For a moment, silence fell over the room, thick and unmoving. Castiel froze, his fingers still gripping the edge of the counter. His blue eyes fixed on Dean with an unreadable expression, the kind that always made Dean feel like he was being quietly dissected. The pause stretched too long, long enough for regret to creep in, for Dean to wonder if this was it—if this was where Castiel would finally tell him to get out and not come back. Dean’s pulse thudded in his ears as he waited. Castiel didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look amused either. His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flicking down as though he were considering the words, weighing them in his mind. Then, without a word, Castiel turned, the paintbrush in his hand flying into the sink with a soft clatter. The sound broke the tension like a crack of thunder. Castiel faced Dean again, his eyes narrowing with something almost challenging.

"Yeah, whatever," Castiel said, his tone dismissive, but the faint pink rising to his cheeks betrayed him. Dean blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. He’d been expecting a sharp retort, or worse—silence. But now that Castiel had agreed, the tension inside Dean’s chest twisted into something else entirely. He didn’t know whether to laugh, smirk, or run for the door. Instead, he just nodded, trying to play it cool even as his heart picked up speed.

"Alright, then," Dean said, his voice low but steady. "Lead the way."

Castiel rolled his eyes but turned toward the sleeping nook anyway, his steps purposeful, though there was something stiff in his posture that betrayed his usual careless ease. Dean followed, trailing close enough to feel the warmth of the space radiating off Castiel. The room was smaller than Dean remembered—though maybe that was just because it was so unapologetically lived-in. The bed sat in the corner, framed by strings of fairy lights and a patchwork of framed art that seemed to climb the wall like ivy. The blankets were tangled, half-pushed to one side, and the mismatched pillows were stacked haphazardly, as if they’d been thrown there without a second thought. Castiel stopped by the edge of the bed, glancing back at Dean with an expression that was almost… hesitant. It wasn’t a look Dean saw on him often. Usually, Castiel’s eyes held that sharp, knowing glint, like he was always two steps ahead, like he knew exactly what you were thinking before you did. But now, there was something softer there, something unsure. Dean stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until he could feel the faint press of Castiel’s presence, solid and grounding. He reached out, his hand brushing Castiel’s arm lightly, testing the waters. Castiel didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move closer either. His eyes flicked up to meet Dean’s, his lips parting slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Dean tilted his head, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. 

"We don’t have to—" Castiel cut him off with a quiet scoff, though the sound lacked its usual bite. 

"You talk too much," he muttered, his hands finally moving to rest lightly on Dean’s shoulders, his grip tentative at first but growing firmer. Dean let out a quiet laugh, his breath brushing against Castiel’s cheek. 

"You’re the one who’s always—" The words were lost as Castiel closed the gap, his lips brushing against Dean’s in a kiss that was hesitant for a fraction of a second before it deepened. It wasn’t neat or careful. It was clumsy and warm and alive, their movements mismatched at first as they found their rhythm. Castiel’s fingers tightened against Dean’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and Dean responded in kind, his hands settling at Castiel’s waist, his thumbs brushing the hem of that worn, paint-smeared sweater. The bed was right there, but neither of them seemed to care. They stayed where they were, tangled in the messy push and pull of the kiss, the fairy lights casting a soft, golden glow around them. Dean could taste the faint bitterness of vodka on Castiel’s lips, mixed with something unplaceable but uniquely him. When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder than before, Castiel’s hands lingered against Dean’s shoulders, his fingers brushing against the collar of the hoodie. His blue eyes searched Dean’s face, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. Dean raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning despite the heat still burning in his chest. 

"So," he said, his voice rough but teasing. "Messy enough for you?" Castiel stepped back slightly, his hands dropping to his sides as he held Dean’s gaze. His blue eyes were sharp, but his expression remained unreadable. The moment stretched uncomfortably, Castiel seeming to deliberate over something only he understood. Then, without breaking eye contact, he spoke, his voice low and steady.

"No."

The single word hit Dean like a slap—not because it was cruel or dismissive, but because it carried a gravity he hadn’t anticipated. Castiel didn’t elaborate, didn’t soften the blow with any kind of explanation. He just stood there, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, waiting for Dean to respond. Dean blinked, momentarily thrown. 

"No?" he repeated, his voice rising slightly, not out of anger but out of confusion. "What the hell do you mean, 'no'? You just—"

Castiel tilted his head, cutting him off without a word. His gaze, piercing as ever, didn’t waver. He didn’t move to leave or push Dean out; he simply waited, an expectant silence hanging between them like a drawn curtain. It was the kind of silence that demanded honesty, that stripped away every layer of pretense and left Dean feeling exposed. Dean ran a hand through his hair, letting out a low laugh that carried more tension than humour. 

"Alright, I’m gonna need a little more to work with here," he said, his tone somewhere between frustration and exasperation. "You say no, but you’re still standing here. What’s the deal, Cas?" The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. 

"You think this is about being messy?" he asked, his tone almost amused, but there was an edge to it. "It’s not about the bed, or the fairy lights, or the... whatever you’re trying to distract yourself from." Dean’s stomach tightened at the last part, his jaw clenching as Castiel’s words hit closer to the mark than he was ready to admit. 

"I’m not—" he started, but Castiel cut him off with a look, sharp and unyielding.

"You are," Castiel said, his voice calm but firm. "You came here because you’re trying to run from something. I’m not going to be your distraction, Michael." The use of the name —Michael— was deliberate, a knife twisted just enough to make its point. Dean winced internally, his hands clenching at his sides as he fought to keep his composure. 

"So what, then?" he shot back, his voice tight. "You want me to just walk out of here and deal with it on my own?" Castiel’s gaze softened slightly, though his posture didn’t waver. 

"No," he said again, quieter this time. "I want you to stop pretending that what we’re doing —whatever this is— can be fixed with a messy bed and a messy kiss." Dean’s chest tightened at the words, his breath hitching as he processed what Castiel was saying—or trying to say. He looked away, his gaze falling to the floor as his thoughts spiraled. Castiel wasn’t wrong. Dean had come here hoping for an escape, a way to drown out the noise in his head. But now that he was here, standing in the warmth of Castiel’s chaotic world, he couldn’t ignore the truth staring him in the face.

"You make it sound so simple," Dean muttered, his voice low, almost defeated. He glanced up, meeting Castiel’s eyes again. "And it feels like you’re angry with me," he said, the words tumbling out before he could think them through. He met Castiel’s gaze, his green eyes flickering with something vulnerable. "But you won’t tell me what I did wrong, so I don’t know how to act around you." Castiel blinked, the faintest crease forming between his brows, but he didn’t interrupt. "You invite me over," Dean continued, his voice rising just a fraction. "And then you attack me. You ask if I want a drink, and then you pour out the damn bottle." He gestured towards the sink, the memory of the vodka swirling down the drain like a taunt. "I ask what’s going on, and you shut me out." Castiel’s expression didn’t waver at first, his features a picture of calm intensity. But there was something in his eyes—something that flickered, just for a moment, like a shadow passing across glass. Dean ran a hand through his hair, letting out a short, bitter laugh. "You know, I came here because I thought—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "No. I don’t even know what I thought anymore." The silence that followed felt thick, the kind that pressed against Dean’s chest like it was daring him to fill it. But Castiel didn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he tilted his head, studying Dean in that disconcertingly direct way of his, like he was peeling back layers with nothing but his gaze.

"I’m not angry with you," Castiel said finally, his voice low and steady. "Not the way you think, anyway." Dean scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back. 

"Could’ve fooled me." Castiel stepped closer, closing the space between them until Dean could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. 

"I’m frustrated," Castiel admitted, his tone measured but not cold. "With you, yes. But also with myself. With… all of this." He gestured vaguely, as though the apartment itself held some part of the answer. Dean stared at him, his brow furrowing. 

"Frustrated with what?"

"With the fact that you come here," Castiel said, his voice soft but edged with something raw, "looking for something I don’t think you even understand. And I…" He trailed off, his eyes flickering downward for the briefest moment before meeting Dean’s again. "I don’t know how to give it to you without losing myself in the process." The words hit Dean like a gut punch, his chest tightening with an ache he hadn’t expected. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. Castiel had a way of cutting through him, of reaching places Dean didn’t even realise he’d hidden away.

"You think I’m here to take something from you?" Dean asked, his voice quieter now, though the edge of frustration still lingered. "That I’m just using you?" Castiel’s expression softened, but there was no relief in his gaze. 

"No," he said, almost gently. "I think you’re trying to find something in me that you’re too scared to face in yourself." Dean flinched at the words, the truth in them cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor as his thoughts spiraled. He hated this—hated feeling so exposed, so vulnerable. It was easier to hide behind sarcasm, behind the version of himself he showed the world. But with Castiel, there was no hiding. Not really.

"I’m just…" Dean started, his voice faltering. He swallowed hard, his hands clenching at his sides. "I’m trying, okay? I don’t know how to do this any better than you do." Castiel’s gaze softened even further, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. For a moment, he looked as though he might say something, but then he simply nodded, stepping back and giving Dean the space he didn’t know he needed.

"Alright," Castiel said quietly, his tone losing some of its earlier sharpness. "Then let’s stop pretending we know what this is supposed to be." Dean looked up at him, his chest tightening again. But this time, it wasn’t from frustration or anger. It was something else—something heavier, but also lighter, like the promise of something just out of reach.

"Yeah," Dean said after a moment, his voice rough but honest. "Okay." Castiel leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms as he studied Dean with an unreadable expression. 

"So, honesty," he prompted, his voice soft but laced with that familiar edge, as though daring Dean to lay himself bare. Dean let out a slow breath, his shoulders sinking under the weight of the moment. He hated how vulnerable he felt under Castiel’s gaze, like the man could see every crack in his armour. But there was no point in dodging the question now. Castiel would see through it anyway.

"I came here," Dean began, his voice low and unsteady. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh. "I came here because I’ve got a stupid presentation tomorrow, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop thinking, period." He paused, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to meet Castiel’s gaze. Those piercing blue eyes didn’t waver, didn’t let him look away. "And you’re the only one," Dean said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "The only one who can make me think less."

For a moment, Castiel didn’t say anything. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of what Dean had just admitted. Castiel’s expression softened, the sharp edges of his usual demeanour melting away into something quieter, more thoughtful. His head tilted slightly, as though he were trying to piece together everything Dean wasn’t saying.

"You’re giving me a lot of credit, Michael," Castiel said at last, his voice low and even. But there was no mockery in it this time, no sharpness. Just an honesty that matched Dean’s own. Dean huffed out a breath, his lips twitching into a wry smile. 

"Don’t let it go to your head," he muttered, though the words lacked their usual bite. Castiel’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, as if he were trying to decide what to say next. Then he pushed off the counter, stepping closer until the space between them felt charged, electric.

"I didn’t realise I was your cure for overthinking," Castiel said, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper. "Should I be flattered or concerned?" Dean smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

"Maybe both," he said. "Depends on how much you like the idea of me showing up uninvited whenever my head gets too loud." Castiel’s lips curved into a small smile, the kind that made something in Dean’s chest tighten. 

"I think I can handle it," he said softly. "As long as you’re honest about why you’re here." Dean swallowed hard, his smirk faltering as Castiel’s words settled over him. He felt exposed, raw, but there was a strange comfort in it too—in the way Castiel didn’t flinch from his honesty, even when it was messy and uncertain.

"Yeah," Dean said after a moment, his voice rough but steady. "I’ll work on that."

“We should turn off some lights,” Castiel’s words hung in the air for a moment, the suggestion so simple, so quiet, that it took Dean a second to process. Castiel turned toward the nearest lamp, its warm yellow glow spilling across the room like liquid sunlight, and reached for the switch. The light clicked off with a soft snap, leaving the space dimmer, softer. The remaining light came from the cluttered corner of the room where a string of fairy lights flickered faintly above the bed, casting uneven patterns on the walls. Dean shifted on his feet, his eyes adjusting to the change. The softened glow blurred the edges of the room, making everything feel a little less tangible, a little more dreamlike. Castiel moved past him, brushing close enough that Dean caught the faint scent of paint and something herbal—sage, maybe. "Better," Castiel said, his voice low, like the dimmed lights had drawn out a quieter version of himself. He turned towards the bed, his silhouette illuminated by the faint glow of the lights. His movements were unhurried, casual, but there was something deliberate in the way he settled onto the edge of the mattress, resting his forearms on his knees. Dean stayed still for a moment longer, feeling like he was suspended in some fragile in-between space. His chest tightened with the weight of the unspoken, the distance between them both physical and not. He didn’t know if the change in lighting was meant to calm him or something else entirely, but the tension between them felt different now—less sharp, more intimate.

"You gonna stand there all night?" Castiel asked, his voice laced with a faint tease. His head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Or are you actually gonna relax for once?" Dean snorted softly, the sound breaking through the quiet like a ripple across still water. His boots scuffed lightly against the floor as he moved toward the bed. 

"Relaxing isn’t exactly my strong suit," he muttered, though the edges of his words had softened.

Castiel leaned back, his weight shifting onto his hands as he watched Dean approach. His gaze was steady, unflinching, and Dean felt the familiar prickle of unease that came with being seen too clearly. He stopped just short of the bed, his hands brushing over his thighs in an unconscious attempt to ground himself.

"You’ve got the hoodie for it," Castiel said, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "Might as well lean into the vibe." Dean rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint twitch of a smile. He reached for the hem of the hoodie, tugging it down as if to shield himself from Castiel’s unrelenting scrutiny. 

"Yeah, well, it’s not exactly my usual style," he said. "Don’t get used to it." Castiel hummed, the sound low and thoughtful. 

"I think it suits you," he said, his voice soft enough that Dean almost didn’t catch it. The words hung between them, weighted in a way that felt too much and not enough all at once. Dean hesitated, his gaze flicking to the fairy lights above the bed, their faint glow reflecting in Castiel’s eyes. 

"Why’d you want to turn off the lights, anyway?" he asked, his voice gruff but quiet. "You afraid of seeing me in full 4K or something?" Castiel chuckled, the sound warm and unexpected. 

"Hardly," he said, leaning forward slightly. "It just felt… right. Less pressure. Less noise." He gestured vaguely to the space around them, as if the room itself had shifted with the lighting. "Don’t you think?" Dean considered that, his gaze lingering on Castiel’s face, the way the dim light softened his sharp features, made him look less guarded. Maybe he had a point. There was something about the subdued glow that made it easier to breathe, easier to think—or not think, which was what Dean had wanted all along.

"Yeah," Dean said finally, his voice low. "Maybe you’re onto something." He lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He leaned back on his elbows, his eyes still on Castiel. "But don’t expect me to thank you for it." Castiel’s lips twitched into another faint smile, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he shifted closer, his movements slow, deliberate. Dean’s breath hitched as the space between them shrank, the faint glow of the fairy lights casting shadows across Castiel’s face. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words and the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows. And then, finally, Castiel spoke, his voice low and almost hesitant.

"You think less when you’re with me," he said, his gaze searching Dean’s face. "But what do you feel?" Dean swallowed hard, the question catching him off guard. He didn’t have an answer—not one he was ready to say out loud, anyway. But as he met Castiel’s gaze, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name, he knew the answer was there, just waiting to be found. Castiel’s fingers brushed against the hem of Dean’s hoodie, the light tug catching Dean’s attention. The motion was unhurried, almost absent-minded, as if Castiel were testing some unspoken boundary. Dean hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking to Castiel’s face, but the faint, expectant look in Castiel’s eyes nudged him into action.

"Alright, alright," Dean muttered, leaning forward to pull the hoodie over his head. The fabric bunched and resisted slightly before sliding free, leaving his hair tousled and static-prone. He tossed the hoodie onto the floor with a faint thud and straightened, feeling oddly exposed despite the plain white undershirt still clinging to him. Castiel tilted his head, his gaze drifting downward as though cataloguing every detail. But when his eyes lingered on the undershirt, his expression shifted—something between bemusement and disappointment flickering across his face. Dean huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching in something resembling a self-deprecating smile. "It’s November," Dean said, his tone defensive but light. "It’s cold. Sue me for layering." Castiel’s lips quirked faintly, the disappointment giving way to amusement, though his eyes remained sharp. 

"Practical," he said, his voice carrying that dry edge that always seemed to unsettle and amuse Dean in equal measure. "But boring." Dean raised an eyebrow, leaning back on his hands as he tilted his chin slightly. 

"What, you got a problem with me staying warm?" he asked, his voice dipping into something playfully challenging. "Would you prefer I froze my ass off just to look good for you?" Castiel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out again, his fingers brushing the hem of the undershirt this time. The touch was light, almost curious, but it sent a flicker of heat through Dean’s skin that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.

"Maybe," Castiel said finally, his voice quiet but pointed. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric, as though contemplating whether to tug. "I’m not saying you should suffer. Just… live a little." Dean let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. 

"Live a little, huh?" he echoed, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. "Is that what you’re doing, Cas? Living?" The question hung in the air between them, unspoken layers folding into the space like invisible threads. Castiel’s hand stilled, his fingers releasing the edge of the undershirt as he leaned back slightly. His eyes flicked upward, meeting Dean’s gaze with a sharpness that felt almost like a challenge.

"Sometimes," Castiel said after a long pause, his tone evasive but not dismissive. "When I remember how." Dean frowned, the words tugging at something deep inside him. He shifted, sitting up straighter, his forearms resting on his knees as he tried to get a better read on Castiel’s expression. The dim light played tricks on his features, softening the edges but leaving the depth of his eyes unmistakable.

"Does this," Dean began, his voice hesitant, "does this count as living for you? Right now, I mean?" Castiel didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Dean’s face, searching for something—answers, maybe, or reassurance. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost too soft to hear.

"Depends," he said, his lips curling into the faintest ghost of a smile. "Are you going to take the damn shirt off, or am I going to have to live with the disappointment?" Dean laughed despite himself, the tension in his chest loosening just slightly. He shook his head, the sound low and warm in the quiet room. 

"You’re damn impatient, you know that?" he said, but his hands were already reaching for the hem of the undershirt. The fabric clung stubbornly for a moment before sliding free, leaving him bare-chested in the low, flickering light. "Better?" he asked, his voice edged with mock exasperation as he tossed the undershirt to join the hoodie on the floor. His skin prickled slightly in the cooler air, the faint glow of the fairy lights casting uneven patterns across his shoulders. Castiel’s gaze swept over him, slower this time, more deliberate. He didn’t answer right away, but the faint shift in his expression —a flicker of something softer, more intent— was answer enough. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, tinged with a sincerity that caught Dean off guard.

"Better," Castiel said simply. His eyes met Dean’s again, and this time, there was no teasing, no guardedness. Just a quiet, unspoken understanding that settled between them like a truce. The warmth of Castiel’s fingers brushed against Dean’s skin, tentative at first, almost as though testing the surface for cracks. His hand traced the faint line of a scar just below Dean’s collarbone, fingertips skimming over the raised ridge with a featherlight touch. Dean’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as he struggled to keep still under Castiel’s scrutiny. Castiel’s eyes, impossibly blue in the dim light, never left Dean’s face. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between curiosity and quiet focus. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, a murmur that barely rose above the ambient hum of the room.

"What do you feel?" Castiel asked, the words soft but deliberate, like a stone dropped into still water. Dean’s heart thudded in his chest, loud enough that he swore Castiel could hear it. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, as he tried to pull his thoughts into something coherent. What did he feel? The question seemed to ripple through him, touching places he’d worked hard to ignore.

"I…" Dean’s voice faltered, and he exhaled sharply, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "I don’t know. Warm, I guess. A little… exposed?" He let out a faint, humourless laugh, shaking his head. "Not really something I’m used to." Castiel’s lips tilted upward, not quite a smile but something close. His hand moved lower, ghosting over the hard planes of Dean’s abdomen, his touch as steady as it was unhurried. 

"Exposed doesn’t always have to mean vulnerable," he said, his tone carrying that same quiet certainty that always seemed to disarm Dean. "It can mean open. Honest." Dean’s chest rose and fell in measured breaths, though his pulse betrayed him, quickening under Castiel’s hand. He wanted to say something, to push back against the simplicity of Castiel’s words, but he couldn’t quite find the will. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of Castiel’s hand against his skin anchor him. "And honest feels… good, doesn’t it?" Castiel’s voice dipped lower, his hand pressing just enough to remind Dean he was still there, still waiting for an answer. Dean opened his eyes, meeting Castiel’s gaze with something like defiance, though it softened at the edges. 

"Sometimes," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "When it doesn’t feel like I’m standing in front of a firing squad." That earned a faint huff of laughter from Castiel, his hand stilling briefly before continuing its slow path along Dean’s ribs. 

"I’m not your enemy, Michael," Castiel said, his voice dipping into something warmer, something almost tender. "I’m just trying to see you. To feel what you feel." Dean’s jaw clenched, his instinctive need to deflect flaring up before he forced it down. He exhaled through his nose, his shoulders loosening by degrees as he let himself settle into the moment. 

"Fine," he muttered, his voice rough but steady. "What do you feel that I feel, then?" Castiel paused, his hand stilling over the centre of Dean’s chest, where his heart beat strong and insistent beneath his skin. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as though listening for something only he could hear.

"I feel…" Castiel began, his voice trailing off as his gaze flicked between his hand and Dean’s face. "A story. A rhythm. The way the pieces of you fit together, even when you think they don’t." Dean blinked, his breath catching at the unexpected answer. It wasn’t what he’d anticipated —wasn’t even close— but somehow, it felt truer than anything else Castiel could have said. He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he let the words settle over him.

"You make me sound like some kind of puzzle," Dean said, his tone lighter now, though there was a thread of something unspoken beneath it. "Complicated."

"You are," Castiel replied simply, his hand finally lifting from Dean’s chest. He stepped back just slightly, enough to give Dean a moment to breathe. "But complicated isn’t bad. It’s just… more to discover." Dean let out a slow breath, his hands uncurling at his sides as he met Castiel’s gaze. For a moment, the air between them felt almost too still, charged with something unspoken yet undeniably present. Dean shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders as he tried to find the words that felt just out of reach.

"You really know how to get under someone’s skin, don’t you?" he said finally, his voice low but edged with something like admiration. Castiel’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. 

"Only when they let me," he replied. "And you, Michael… you always let me." Castiel’s lips brushed along Dean’s jaw, the touch warm and deliberate. He moved slowly, as though tasting every inch of skin, his breath soft against Dean’s neck. The room seemed to narrow, folding in around them until the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only Castiel’s touch and the low hum of Dean’s pulse thrumming through his veins. Dean’s hands hovered uncertainly, finally coming to rest at Castiel’s waist, gripping lightly, grounding himself. The air between them thickened with unspoken things, and Dean’s breaths came quicker, shallower, as Castiel’s lips trailed lower, along the curve of his neck, the edge of his collarbone. Each kiss was deliberate, a point of connection that lingered just a moment too long. Then Castiel stopped. His lips hovered over Dean’s skin, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he looked up, his sharp blue eyes locking with Dean’s.

“What do you feel?” Castiel asked, his voice low and rich, a quiet demand for something honest. Dean blinked, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to form an answer. His fingers tightened slightly at Castiel’s waist, his mind fumbling for words that felt just out of reach. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough, uneven. “It’s… a lot.”

Castiel hummed, the sound resonating softly between them, before pressing another kiss just below Dean’s ear, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. Dean shivered, the sensation sending a ripple down his spine. Castiel paused again, pulling back enough to look up at Dean, his expression calm, searching.

“Try,” he said simply, his gaze steady and unwavering. Dean swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He felt raw under Castiel’s scrutiny, as though the other man could see every flicker of doubt, every unspoken thought swirling inside him. 

“It’s… warm,” Dean said finally, his voice quieter now. “Like… it’s pulling me out of my head. Out of… everything.” Castiel’s smile deepened, faint but genuine, as though the answer had been exactly what he was waiting for. 

“Good,” he murmured, before leaning in again, his lips trailing lower, pressing against the hollow of Dean’s throat. Dean tilted his head back instinctively, his breath hitching as Castiel’s mouth moved with practiced intent, every touch a deliberate act. Again, Castiel stopped. His hand rested lightly on Dean’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall, the rhythm of his breathing. When he looked up this time, there was something sharper in his gaze, a quiet intensity that made Dean’s pulse quicken. “What do you feel now?” Castiel asked, his voice softer this time, almost reverent. Dean hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He felt exposed, like every layer he’d carefully constructed had been stripped away, leaving nothing but the raw truth of himself. 

“I feel…” He trailed off, exhaling sharply, his hands tightening at Castiel’s waist. “I feel like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, but I don’t want it to stop.” The admission hung in the air between them, fragile but unyielding, and for a moment, Castiel said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile that carried none of the smugness Dean might have expected. Instead, it was quiet, understanding, as though Castiel knew exactly what Dean meant without needing further explanation.

“You’re here,” Castiel said simply, as though that answered everything. “That’s enough.” And with that, he leaned in again, his lips brushing against Dean’s collarbone, slow and deliberate, every touch measured, thoughtful. Dean’s chest tightened, his breath coming in uneven pulls as he let himself sink into the moment. He didn’t have to think. Not here, not now. Castiel had a way of pulling him out of himself, of quieting the endless noise in his head. Dean closed his eyes, his fingers pressing lightly into Castiel’s sides as the other man continued his careful exploration. He didn’t know where this was going, didn’t know if he could even ask. But for now, it was enough to feel, to let go, to let Castiel guide him into a space where everything else fell away. Castiel’s hands trailed over Dean freely, fingers brushing over Dean’s chest with an infuriating deliberation. The touch wasn’t firm, wasn’t fleeting; it was somewhere in between, more a question than a demand. Castiel kissed along Dean’s throat again, slow and methodical, his breath warm against Dean’s skin. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed. Castiel moved like he had all the time in the world, and it made Dean feel both maddened and anchored at once. Dean exhaled sharply, his hands hovering at Castiel’s waist, unsure whether to pull him closer or let him keep leading. It wasn’t like him to relinquish control, but something about the way Castiel touched him, moved around him, left him raw and pliable. Castiel seemed to notice because he paused, his lips ghosting just below Dean’s jaw, and murmured, “Still with me, Michael?” Dean’s breath hitched. The name wasn’t him, not really, but it was Castiel’s version of him—sharp-edged, biting, affectionate in a way that made Dean’s chest tighten. He couldn’t bring himself to correct it, not when Castiel’s voice softened like that. 

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice low and rough. “Still here.” Castiel leaned back just enough to meet Dean’s gaze, his eyes sharp but unreadable. He studied Dean for a moment, his head tilted slightly, and Dean got the distinct sense that he was being evaluated—his thoughts, his choices, everything he wasn’t saying. Castiel’s lips quirked upward in a faint, knowing smile, the kind that made Dean’s chest twist in ways he didn’t want to examine too closely.

“What are you thinking?” Castiel asked, his voice low and even, his hands still pressed lightly to Dean’s chest. Dean huffed a quiet laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. 

“You really wanna know?” Castiel nodded, the motion slow, deliberate. 

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” Dean ran a hand over his face, exhaling deeply. He wasn’t used to this—the talking, the vulnerability Castiel seemed to pull out of him without even trying. 

“I’m thinking,” Dean began, his voice hesitant, “that this is… new. For me. For us.  And I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do next.” Castiel’s expression didn’t change, but his hands moved, sliding down to rest just above Dean’s hips. The touch was steady, grounding. 

“There’s nothing you’re ‘supposed’ to do,” Castiel said softly. “Just… be here.” Dean’s throat tightened at the simplicity of the words. Be here. It sounded easy when Castiel said it, but Dean’s mind was never quiet, never still. Except now. Except when Castiel looked at him like this, like there was nothing else that mattered. Dean nodded slightly, his jaw clenching as he let himself lean into the moment. 

“Okay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here.” Castiel’s smile softened, and he dipped his head again, pressing a kiss to the hollow of Dean’s throat. Dean let his head fall back against the wall behind him, his hands finally finding their place at Castiel’s waist. He gripped lightly, grounding himself in the warmth of Castiel’s body against his own. The room felt smaller somehow, the cluttered chaos of Castiel’s apartment fading into the background. The faint smell of paint and lavender lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of their closeness. Castiel’s lips moved again, trailing downward with unhurried intent, and Dean felt himself relax, his breath evening out as the tension in his shoulders began to ease. But then Castiel stopped, pulling back just enough to look at Dean again. His blue eyes were sharp, piercing, and his lips quirked into that same faint smile, as though he could see every thought in Dean’s head. 

“Tell me what you feel now,” Castiel said, his voice quiet but insistent. Dean’s chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t nerves—it was something deeper, something he didn’t have words for. 

“I feel…” He paused, swallowing hard as he searched for the right answer. “I feel like… I can breathe again.” Castiel’s expression softened, and he nodded slightly, as though that was all he needed to hear. 

“Good,” he murmured, and then he leaned in again, his lips finding Dean’s with a tenderness that took Dean by surprise. 

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was careful, deliberate, the kind of kiss that demanded presence. And for once, Dean let himself be. 

“What do you feel, Cas?” Dean asked softly, almost offhandedly, but when the other man didn’t answer right away, a knot of apprehension began to form in his chest. Dean hadn’t expect the question to hang in the air for so long. He watched as Castiel leaned back, his gaze steady but inscrutable, and began pulling his shirt over his head. The fabric caught briefly on his collarbone before falling away, revealing pale skin that bore faint streaks of paint along the edges, like traces of his restless creativity. Dean’s breath caught. Castiel wasn’t hurried in his movements; he never was. Everything he did had a kind of deliberation to it, a quiet certainty that unsettled Dean even as it drew him in. Castiel pressed lightly against his chest, a silent suggestion, and Dean obeyed, lowering himself onto the bed with an awkward kind of grace. The bed was messy, like everything else in Castiel’s apartment, but it was warm, lived-in. Personal. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, its uneven surface surprising him briefly before he settled in. Castiel followed Dean down on the mattress, his movements fluid but hesitant, as though testing the boundaries of their closeness. Dean felt the mattress shift as Castiel settled beside him, leaning down until his head rested against Dean’s chest. The warmth of Castiel’s skin pressed against him, grounding and intimate in a way Dean hadn’t anticipated. He felt the weight of Castiel’s presence more than he’d ever felt anyone else’s, as though the man’s quiet intensity filled the entire room. Castiel stilled, his ear pressed just over Dean’s heart. Dean didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a moment, as though afraid to disturb whatever was happening. He could feel the faint, uneven rhythm of his own pulse beneath Castiel’s touch, and it struck him that this was one of the most vulnerable moments he’d ever experienced. He glanced down, catching the faint flutter of Castiel’s lashes as he closed his eyes. 

“Calm,” Castiel murmured, his voice low and nearly inaudible, the single word carrying more weight than Dean expected. Dean didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. The knot in his chest loosened, unraveling slowly as he let the word sink in.

Calm.

Dean swallowed hard, his hand moving almost instinctively to rest lightly against Castiel’s back. His fingers grazed over the warm skin there, hesitant at first, before settling more firmly. The touch was unfamiliar but not unwelcome, and the simple act of holding someone, of being held, sent a strange kind of peace through him. It wasn’t the peace he’d expected —sharp and definitive, like solving a problem— but something softer, quieter, like the eye of a storm. Dean closed his eyes, letting the tension in his body ease as he focused on the sound of Castiel’s breathing. It was steady, measured, and it matched the rise and fall of Dean’s chest like a rhythm they’d fallen into without trying. For once, Dean’s thoughts didn’t spiral. They didn’t dart from one worry to the next, dissecting every word, every moment. They just… were. And as the silence stretched, Dean felt his mind start to drift, his earlier worries about the presentation slipping further and further away. The numbers, the charts, the weight of expectations—it all felt distant, unimportant. All that mattered now was the quiet warmth of Castiel against him and the steady cadence of their shared breaths. Dean opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. The dim light from the streetlamp outside filtered through the blinds, casting faint, uneven stripes across the room. The shadows danced lazily on the walls, moving with the occasional shift of a branch outside. It was imperfect, chaotic, and yet Dean found himself comforted by it.

“You always do this,” Dean said softly, his voice rough from disuse. Castiel didn’t respond, but Dean felt the faintest shift of his body, an acknowledgment without words. “You make everything… stop,” Dean continued, his hand still resting lightly against Castiel’s back. “I don’t know how you do it. I don’t even think you try. You just…” He exhaled, the words catching slightly as he searched for the right ones. “You make me forget how to overthink.” Castiel’s lips quirked into the faintest smile, though his eyes remained closed. 

“Maybe you just need someone to remind you how to exist,” he murmured, his voice low and almost dreamlike. Dean let the words settle between them, his chest tightening briefly before loosening again. He didn’t know how to respond to that, didn’t know if he needed to. Instead, he let his hand trace small, absent-minded patterns against Castiel’s back, grounding himself in the moment.

The stillness stretched on, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a stillness filled with meaning, with presence, with the kind of connection Dean had spent years convincing himself he didn’t need. And for once, he didn’t feel the urge to run from it. For once, he let himself stay. Even if this wasn’t what Dean had come for. It wasn’t what he’d expected, what he’d prepared for. Even if this was far from their usual routine of sharp banter and stolen touches that always seemed to carry an edge of defiance, as if either of them could claim they didn’t care too much if they just kept it casual.

This was soft.

It wasn’t the desperate kind of release Dean had been seeking when he’d stormed out of his apartment, fists clenched and nerves frayed. It wasn’t the distraction he’d thought he needed, the blunt force of something physical to drown out the noise in his head. This wasn’t that. This was something quieter, something that didn’t just distract—it dissolved the chaos in a way Dean didn’t know was possible.

It was affectionate.

The way Castiel’s head rested on his chest, his breath even and steady, was too deliberate to be dismissed as anything casual. Dean felt the warmth of it spread, not just in the places where their bodies met but in the corners of his mind he usually kept locked away. His hand on Castiel’s back moved without thought now, slow, tracing circles like a silent promise that he didn’t know he was making. Castiel didn’t seem to mind the rhythm; if anything, he leaned into it, his weight a subtle, grounding anchor that pulled Dean further from the overthinking spiral that had dragged him to the brink just hours ago.

It was loving.

Dean’s breath caught as the word slipped into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Loving wasn’t what this was supposed to be. Loving was dangerous, messy in a way he couldn’t handle. Yet as he glanced down, his eyes drawn to the way Castiel’s dark lashes rested softly against his skin, he couldn’t deny the truth of it. There was something here—something bigger than the neat boxes Dean usually shoved his feelings into. It made his chest ache in a way that wasn’t unpleasant but was far too unfamiliar to ignore.

And Dean didn’t hate it.

That was the strangest part. If anything, he found himself sinking into it, letting the sensation wrap around him like the warmth of a fire on a winter’s night. He didn’t have to fight it, didn’t have to prove anything or pretend it wasn’t happening. He could just be here, in this moment, with Castiel’s presence anchoring him to something he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.

“I think I get it now,” Dean murmured, his voice low and rough. His words felt loud in the quiet of the room, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if Castiel had heard him. But then Castiel shifted, tilting his head just slightly to glance up at Dean, his blue eyes catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. They were unreadable, as always, but there was a softness in them that made Dean’s throat tighten.

“Get what?” Castiel asked, his voice quiet but steady, carrying that peculiar weight of attention he always seemed to wield. Dean hesitated, his fingers stilling briefly against Castiel’s back as he considered how to respond.

“This,” he said finally, gesturing vaguely to the space between them. “The calm. The… whatever it is you do. I came here because I thought you’d help me forget, but… you don’t. Not really.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“No?” Dean shook his head, exhaling a laugh that felt too quiet, too real. 

“No. You don’t make me forget, Cas. You just… make it easier to deal with.” Castiel didn’t say anything at first, but the smirk faded, replaced by something gentler. He reached up, his fingers brushing lightly against Dean’s collarbone in a way that felt deliberate, grounding. 

“That’s good,” he said softly, his voice like a thread of warmth in the quiet. “You don’t need to forget, Michael.”

Dean flinched slightly at the name, but for the first time, he didn’t feel the need to correct it. Instead, he leaned his head back against the pillows, closing his eyes briefly as he let the quiet stretch between them again. Castiel’s hand stilled against him, resting lightly, as if he’d found the perfect place to stay. 

And maybe, Dean thought, as the edges of sleep began to tug at his mind, that was enough. Maybe this —this soft, unexpected connection— was enough.

“My dad hired me.” Dean blinked, the soft rasp of Castiel’s voice cutting through the quiet like a thread of smoke curling into the air. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard right, the words so unexpected that they didn’t quite settle in his mind. Castiel’s voice was barely a whisper, the words slipping out like they’d been waiting too long to be said. Dean felt Castiel shift slightly against him, the warmth of his body pressing into Dean’s chest as if grounding himself in the moment. Dean’s brow furrowed, his mind racing to make sense of it. He hadn’t expected Castiel to say anything personal, let alone this—a confession that carried an unspoken weight beneath its simplicity. Castiel had never been forthcoming about his job, and Dean had always known better than to press. The man guarded his life with a quiet ferocity, sharing only the pieces he wanted Dean to see, and even those felt carefully curated.

But this? This was different. This felt raw.

Dean opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. He could feel Castiel’s heartbeat where their bodies touched, steady but just a little too quick, like the man was bracing for something. The tension was subtle but palpable, and it made Dean’s chest tighten.

“That’s why you’ve been... all over the place?” Dean finally asked, his voice low, careful. He didn’t want to push too hard, didn’t want Castiel to retreat into himself like he always did when the conversation got too close. Castiel didn’t answer right away. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as if the admission had cost him more than he’d expected. 

“I wanted to prove something,” he murmured. “To him. To myself.” And suddenly, it made sense. The texts left on read, the unanswered calls, the distracted edge that had clung to Castiel like a second skin. Dean felt the pieces slotting into place, painting a picture he hadn’t seen before. Castiel wasn’t just busy—he was carrying something, a weight that wasn’t just about the work itself but about who it was for.

“Your dad…” Dean said slowly, his words trailing off as he searched for the right way to say it. He wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or just trying to fill the silence. Castiel shifted again, his head tilting up just enough to meet Dean’s gaze.

“He’s—” Castiel stopped, his lips pressing into a thin line. His eyes flicked away, his expression hardening like he was steeling himself. “He’s not the easiest man to please.” Dean exhaled, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with Castiel’s weight against him. He understood that, maybe more than he wanted to admit. The desire to prove yourself to someone who always seemed just out of reach, to chase approval that felt more like a mirage than a reality. He’d lived that, too, in his own way.

“That why you’ve been ignoring me?” Dean asked, his voice lighter this time, an attempt to cut through the tension. He tried for a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Too busy impressing the old man to answer my calls?” Castiel’s lips twitched, but the smile didn’t come. Instead, he let out a soft breath, his gaze distant. 

“Something like that,” he said. Then, after a beat, he added, “It’s... more than that. I don’t want to mess this up.” The words hit Dean harder than he’d expected. There was something in Castiel’s tone—a vulnerability that felt too real, too unguarded. It made Dean ache in a way he wasn’t used to, a deep pull in his chest that he couldn’t quite name.

“Cas,” Dean said softly, his voice steady even as his thoughts churned. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t,” Castiel interrupted, his voice sharp but not unkind. His gaze snapped back to Dean, his eyes piercing. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. It does.” Dean held his gaze for a moment, the tension between them a thin wire stretched taut. Then he nodded, his hand resting lightly against Castiel’s back. 

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I get it.” And he did. Maybe not all of it, not the intricacies of Castiel’s relationship with his father or the expectations that came with it, but enough to understand why it mattered. Enough to see the pressure Castiel was under, the way it gnawed at him from the inside. So for a long moment, neither of them said anything. The quiet stretched out, filled only by the faint sounds of the city outside and the soft rhythm of their breathing. Dean’s hand moved again, tracing slow, soothing circles against Castiel’s back, and he felt the tension in the man’s body ease, just slightly.

“Why’d you tell me?” Dean asked finally, his voice quiet but curious. “About your dad. About... all this.” Castiel’s eyes flicked up to meet his again, and there was something raw in his expression, something unguarded. 

“Because you asked,” he said simply, his voice low but firm. “And because you’re here.” Dean blinked, the words settling over him like a soft wave. They weren’t much, but they carried a kind of weight he couldn’t ignore. Castiel didn’t share things lightly—Dean knew that. If he’d opened up, it was because he’d chosen to, because he trusted Dean enough to let him in. For the first time in what felt like forever, Dean didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. He didn’t need to press, to pry, to demand answers. Instead, he let the quiet speak for itself, the warmth of Castiel’s body against his enough to anchor him.

This wasn’t what he’d come for, but maybe —just maybe— it was exactly what he needed.

Dean’s arms tightened around Castiel, pulling him closer without a word. The faint press of Castiel’s body against his own was grounding in a way that Dean couldn’t explain, as though holding him might somehow make all the chaos in both their lives seem smaller. He wanted to ask —about the painting, about Castiel’s father, about the weight that seemed to settle between them every time something in Castiel’s life came up— but he didn’t. Something told him that was a line Castiel wasn’t ready to cross, and Dean wasn’t about to push. Instead, he let the question sit unspoken, tucked away with all the other things he didn’t say. The quiet stretched between them, not awkward but heavy with unspoken meaning. Castiel’s breath was warm against Dean’s collarbone, his fingers idly tracing patterns against Dean’s side, as if the act of touching him kept his mind from wandering too far. Dean pressed his lips together, unsure of what to do with the knot in his chest. He wasn’t used to this kind of silence, the kind that wasn’t an absence but a presence—a moment so fragile it felt like speaking might shatter it.

“Cas,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. Castiel didn’t respond, just shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against him. Dean let out a quiet sigh, his hand trailing up to Castiel’s back. He traced the faint ridges of Castiel’s spine through his skin, slow and steady, a grounding gesture as much for himself as for Castiel. He wanted to say something —anything— that might make this easier, might make the tension in Castiel’s shoulders melt away. But all the words that came to mind felt inadequate, too small to hold the gravity of what was happening between them. So, he didn’t speak. Instead, he let his actions fill the space. He rested his cheek against the top of Castiel’s head, his other hand brushing gently through Castiel’s hair. It was soft, slightly mussed from where Castiel had been running his fingers through it earlier, and Dean let his hand linger there, as if the small, tender motion could say everything he couldn’t put into words. He felt Castiel’s breath hitch slightly, and for a moment, Dean wondered if he’d overstepped, if the gesture had pushed too far. But then Castiel’s body relaxed against his, his fingers stilling against Dean’s ribs as he let out a long, slow breath.

“Thanks,” Castiel said quietly, the word so soft Dean almost missed it. Dean’s chest tightened, and he swallowed hard before responding. 

“For what?” he asked, his voice just as quiet. Castiel didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but laced with something deeper, something raw. 

“For... staying. For not asking.” Dean blinked, his throat tightening at the admission. It wasn’t much, but it felt like everything—a small, vulnerable crack in the armour Castiel wore so well. And for once, Dean didn’t feel the need to fix it or fill it. He just let it be.

“You’re not exactly easy to leave,” Dean said finally, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. It wasn’t the most eloquent thing he could’ve said, but it felt right—light enough to ease the moment but true enough to hold its weight.

Castiel hummed softly, a sound that felt more like acknowledgment than agreement, and Dean felt a small, rare flicker of satisfaction at the noise. Dean closed his eyes breifly, letting the quiet settle around them again. He could feel Castiel’s heartbeat against his own, steady and real, and for the first time in what felt like ages, his mind wasn’t racing. It wasn’t empty —he doubted it ever could be— but it was quieter, the chaos muted under the steady rhythm of their breathing.

This wasn’t what he’d expected, wasn’t what he’d planned when he’d climbed into his prius earlier that night. But it felt real, raw in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. Dean lay still, staring at the ceiling, the faint glow from the streetlights outside filtering through the sheer curtains and casting shifting patterns on the walls. He knew he should go. Every instinct drilled into him —his schedule, his responsibility, the looming presentation— urged him to slip out from beneath Castiel’s loose embrace and head back to his apartment. But when he glanced down, ready to gently untangle himself and mumble an excuse, he froze.

Castiel was asleep.

His face, so often set in a mask of quiet intensity or razor-sharp humour, was now softened by sleep. His lashes casting long shadows against his cheekbones, and the faint rise and fall of his chest was the only sound in the quiet apartment. Castiel’s head rested against Dean’s chest, his hand lightly curled against Dean’s side, and for a moment, Dean forgot how to breathe. The sharp excuse he’d prepared —something about needing to get home and prep— died on his lips. He swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on the peaceful expression Castiel wore, as though the chaos that normally surrounded him had stilled, if only for a little while. Dean tilted his head back against the pillow and sighed quietly, the sound barely more than a whisper. He should wake him. A quiet shake of the shoulder, a soft nudge—Castiel probably wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t even question it. But as he lay there, Dean found he didn’t have the heart to do it. Castiel looked too peaceful, too settled, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to shatter that fragile calm.

The clock was ticking, he knew that. The presentation was waiting, along with the sleepless night he’d probably have trying to get every last detail perfect. But for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, the weight of it didn’t press down on him. Here, in Castiel’s messy little world, things felt quieter. Softer. Dean’s fingers brushed against the back of Castiel’s neck, a small, unconscious motion. The skin there was warm, his hair slightly damp where it curled against his temple. Dean let his hand rest there for a moment, grounding himself in the small, steady signs of life that radiated from Castiel. The faint hum of his breathing. The warmth of his skin. The way his body fit so effortlessly against Dean’s, as though this wasn’t something rare, but something they’d done a hundred times before. The thought struck Dean like a flash of cold water. This wasn’t normal for them. It wasn’t the way things worked. What they had was sharp, teasing, a tangle of physical connection and guarded truths. It wasn’t this—this quiet vulnerability, this intimacy that didn’t rely on clever words or deflective humour. And yet, as Dean shifted slightly to get more comfortable, careful not to wake Castiel, he realised he didn’t hate it. In fact, he liked it more than he was ready to admit. He let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting back to the faint light on the ceiling. The knot in his chest that had driven him here in the first place had loosened, replaced by a softer ache, one he didn’t entirely understand but wasn’t ready to let go of.

“Guess I’m staying, then,” Dean muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. His voice was barely audible, but it felt like a promise nonetheless.

He settled deeper into the bed, the unfamiliar scent of Castiel’s home—paint and books and something faintly herbal—wrapping around him like a cocoon. Tomorrow could wait. For now, Dean let himself stay in the moment, the warmth of Castiel against him lulling him into a peace he hadn’t realised he’d needed.

When Dean stirred awake his mind surfaced slowly from the depths of sleep, untangling itself from the strange yet comforting dreams that had filled the night. Years of discipline had him waking early enough to get in a workout before leaving for work, his internal clock whispering that it was around six. He didn’t need to check. The light filtering through the curtains confirmed it, a soft, silvery glow that blanketed the room in quiet stillness. The first thing Dean noticed was warmth. Not just the kind that came from blankets and body heat, but something deeper, more grounding. His arm was draped over Castiel’s waist, their bodies tucked together like puzzle pieces that had always been meant to fit. It was a rare sensation—peaceful, unguarded. Dean blinked against the faint morning light, his lips quirking into a small, private smile as the realisation hit him.

They had shifted in their sleep.

He was the big spoon, his chest pressed against Castiel’s back, his arm snug around him. The rise and fall of Castiel’s breathing was a gentle rhythm, steady and calming. His hair, slightly mussed from the night, brushed against Dean’s chin, soft and faintly carrying that herbal scent Dean was starting to associate with him. It was the kind of moment Dean would never have pictured for himself, but now that he was in it, he couldn’t help but think about how right it felt. Dean tightened his arm slightly, his hand splaying against Castiel’s stomach, as if to remind himself that this was real, that Castiel was real and here, warm and pliant in his arms. He glanced down at the tangle of their legs under the blankets, a faint chuckle rumbling in his chest when he realised how effortlessly they’d managed to entwine themselves.

They really did fit together.

The thought caught him off guard, and for a moment, Dean froze. It wasn’t just about their bodies fitting together in the literal sense —though they did— it was the way being close to Castiel seemed to calm something inside him that was always teetering on the edge. The way their breaths seemed to sync without effort. The way Castiel’s presence filled the gaps Dean hadn’t even realised were there. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead lightly against the back of Castiel’s neck. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disturb the fragile quiet of the morning. If he shifted, Castiel might wake, and Dean wasn’t ready for that yet. Not because he didn’t want to face him —he did— but because this moment, this perfectly unspoken stillness, felt like something rare. Something to be protected.

He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat, pushing away the stray thoughts that threatened to intrude. His presentation was waiting, looming over the horizon of the day like a storm cloud, but for now, it could wait. Everything could wait. For once, Dean let himself stay in the moment, his fingers tracing small, absentminded patterns against Castiel’s side. The thought whispered again, unbidden but unrelenting: 

We really do fit together.

And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Dean let out a slow breath, careful not to disturb Castiel. The warmth between them was a tether, a quiet solace that wrapped around him like the soft glow of the morning light spilling through the room. His hand still rested on Castiel’s side, fingers splayed over the younger man’s soft skin. Dean could feel the steady rise and fall of Castiel’s breathing beneath his palm, a soothing rhythm that made it easy to forget the noise waiting for him outside of this space. The apartment was silent save for the occasional groan of the pipes in the old building and the faint rustle of fabric as they shifted against each other. Dean’s gaze flicked around the room, tracing the chaotic beauty of Castiel’s world in the soft morning light. The half-finished paintings leaning against the walls looked softer, less insistent in the pale glow, as if they too were taking a moment to rest. The climbing plants on the bookshelf seemed more alive, their tendrils casting playful shadows on the walls. It all felt like an extension of Castiel himself—messy, vibrant, and deeply alive. Dean’s chest tightened slightly as his thoughts wandered. He hadn’t come here looking for this—whatever this was. He’d come for distraction, for escape, for the kind of fleeting comfort he didn’t have to think too hard about. But what he’d found was something else entirely, something that had rooted itself deeper than he was ready to admit. Castiel wasn’t a distraction. He was something far more dangerous. He made Dean feel seen, not just in the way Castiel teased or called him out on his bullshit, but in the way he existed with him. Like the sharp edges of Dean’s world didn’t scare him. Like he was okay with the parts Dean kept hidden from everyone else. Dean shifted slightly, his arm tightening around Castiel’s waist again as he rested his chin against the other man’s shoulder. His eyes fluttered closed again, but his thoughts wouldn’t stop. He’d spent years building walls, carving out a life of precision and control. Letting someone in, even in these quiet moments, felt as foreign as it did natural. The contradiction gnawed at him, but he didn’t let go.

Castiel stirred slightly in his sleep, his body pressing back into Dean’s, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Dean froze for a moment, unsure if he’d woken him, but Castiel didn’t open his eyes. His breathing settled again, his body relaxing further into Dean’s hold. It was such a small thing, barely more than a reflex, but it sent a wave of warmth through Dean’s chest. He smiled faintly, his lips brushing against Castiel’s shoulder in an almost absentminded gesture. He didn’t know what this meant, what it could mean, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to find out. But for now, he let himself stay in the moment, in the quiet certainty of the way they fit together. The world could wait. The presentation could wait. Even his doubts could wait. For the first time in a long time, Dean allowed himself to simply be, his heart beating in time with Castiel’s, steady and sure. When Castiel stirred for real, it was with the languid, unhurried grace of someone who hadn’t yet decided if waking up was worth the effort. His arm stretched above his head, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s chin as he let out a sound —a peculiar mix of a groan and a squeak— that startled Dean before sending him into a quiet fit of laughter. It wasn’t just the noise, though that had been ridiculous enough—it was the sheer lack of awareness with which Castiel made it, as if this little monster-like growl was just a natural part of his morning routine. Dean shook his head, his chest rumbling with low laughter as Castiel blinked blearily, turning his head toward him with a look of half-asleep confusion.

"What?" Castiel’s voice was scratchy, still thick with sleep, and his brow furrowed in what could only be described as offended innocence. Dean grinned, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. 

“That noise. You sounded like…” He paused, trying to find the right words but failing as another chuckle escaped him. “Like something out of a low budget horror movie.” Castiel huffed, his expression softening into something close to amusement, though his eyes narrowed playfully. 

“I do not,” he said, his voice low but carrying a faint edge of mock indignation. He shifted onto his back, stretching again with a more deliberate effort this time, the line of his neck arching slightly as he yawned.

“You do,” Dean insisted, unable to stop smiling. He rested his hand lightly on Castiel’s side, feeling the warmth of his skin through the soft fabric of his shirt. “Seriously, Cas, that was some straight-up cryptid shit.” Castiel huffed again, the sound deep and gravelly, as though he were too tired to properly argue. He turned onto his side, facing Dean now, his expression caught between drowsy amusement and a glimmer of quiet challenge. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, his voice still scratchy from sleep. Dean smirked, his hand brushing lightly against Castiel’s side, fingers splayed as though testing the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“Whatever you say, monster man,” Dean teased, his grin widening as Castiel’s brow furrowed in that way that always made him look like he was caught between irritation and a reluctant urge to laugh.

“Monster man,” Castiel repeated, deadpan, though his lips twitched faintly as though he couldn’t quite suppress the humour threatening to break through. He tilted his head slightly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing in that piercing way of his. “You’re awfully smug for someone who came here looking for a distraction.” The words landed softly, their edges dulled by the quiet intimacy of the moment, but they still made Dean’s smirk falter. His breath hitched, just slightly, though he recovered quickly, leaning back on one elbow as he let out a soft scoff. 

“Is that what you think I came here for?” he asked, his voice low, calm, though there was a faint edge beneath it. Castiel didn’t look away, his gaze steady and unyielding. 

“I know that’s what you came here for,” he said simply, his tone measured but carrying that quiet certainty that always made Dean feel like Castiel was peeling back layers he didn’t even realise he had. Dean exhaled through his nose, his chest tightening as he glanced away, letting his eyes focus on the faint pattern of light filtering through the curtains. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching briefly in the tousled strands. 

“Maybe I did,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “But I stayed.” Castiel’s expression softened, the faint challenge in his gaze giving way to something quieter, something Dean couldn’t quite name. 

“You did,” Castiel said after a moment, his voice low, contemplative. He shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so that they were more level with each other. “Why?” Dean’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming lightly against the mattress as he considered his answer. He wanted to deflect, to throw out some sarcastic remark that would ease the tension building in his chest, but the look in Castiel’s eyes stopped him. There was no judgment there, no impatience—just quiet curiosity, the kind that made Dean feel like he could say anything, and Castiel would listen.

“I don’t know,” Dean said finally, his voice rough. He glanced back at Castiel, his green eyes flickering with something unspoken. “Because it felt… easier. Being here.” Castiel tilted his head, his gaze softening even further. 

“Easier than what?” Dean let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. 

“Than everything else,” he said simply, though the words carried a weight he didn’t entirely understand. “Than being stuck in my own head. Than trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.” Castiel hummed softly, a sound that was neither agreement nor disagreement. He shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly beneath his weight.

“You think I’m easier?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest edge of teasing, though his eyes remained steady, searching. Dean barked out a short laugh, the sound rough but genuine. 

“Hell no,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “You’re a pain in the ass, Cas. But you…” He paused, the smirk fading as he searched for the right words. “You make it quieter. Up here.” He tapped two fingers lightly against his temple, his gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets between them. Castiel watched him carefully, his expression unreadable, though his hand moved instinctively, resting lightly against Dean’s chest. The touch was grounding, steady, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—it was full, charged with meaning and the quiet hum of the city beyond the window.

“Maybe that’s what you needed,” Castiel said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not a distraction. Just… quiet.” Dean swallowed hard, his throat tightening as the words settled over him. 

“Maybe,” he said quietly, his voice rough. He glanced at Castiel again, his gaze lingering on the faint curve of his lips, the way his hair caught the morning light. “Or maybe I just needed you.” 

The admission hung between them, raw and unpolished, and for a moment, Dean thought he might take it back. But then Castiel smiled, a small, genuine curve of his lips that made something deep in Dean’s chest ache. Castiel’s hand moved slightly, his fingers brushing against Dean’s collarbone as though tracing the outline of something fragile and real.

“You’re not as complicated as you think you are, Michael,” Castiel said quietly, his voice carrying that same quiet certainty that always seemed to unravel Dean’s defences. “You just forget to listen to yourself sometimes.” Dean huffed out a breath, his lips twitching into a faint smile. 

“Yeah, well, maybe you can remind me,” he said, his tone light but carrying a thread of sincerity he couldn’t quite hide. Castiel tilted his head, his eyes glinting faintly with amusement. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

And for the first time in a long time, Dean believed him.

Dean glanced down at Castiel, his lips twitching into a faint smirk as the quiet warmth of the morning settled around them. His hand brushed absently against Castiel’s side, the movement almost unconscious, as though grounding himself in the simple fact that Castiel was still here, solid and real.

“So,” Dean murmured, his voice low and tinged with amusement, “what do little monsters eat for breakfast?” Castiel huffed, a sound that vibrated softly against Dean’s chest as he shifted onto his back, his blue eyes narrowing in mock disdain. The sunlight filtering through the curtains caught the angles of his face, softening his sharp features in a way that made Dean’s chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Little monsters,” Castiel repeated, the words slow and deliberate, as though he were testing their meaning. He turned his head slightly, his gaze sliding toward Dean with that familiar mix of exasperation and quiet amusement. “You’re assuming I eat breakfast.” Dean raised an eyebrow, the smirk tugging wider across his face. 

“What, you don’t?” he asked, feigning disbelief. “What kind of self-respecting cryptid skips the most important meal of the day?” Castiel’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile—not fully. Instead, he propped himself up on one elbow, his hair falling into his eyes as he regarded Dean with an expression that bordered on indulgent. 

“If you must know,” he said, his tone carrying a faint edge of sarcasm, “little monsters prefer their breakfast… unconventional.” Dean snorted, his hand coming up to brush Castiel’s hair back from his face, the gesture casual but lingering a moment too long. 

“Unconventional, huh? Like what? Eyeballs on toast? A nice bowl of, uh…” He paused, his grin widening as he pretended to think. “Souls and cereal?”

“Souls and cereal,” Castiel repeated, deadpan. He blinked slowly, his gaze piercing in that disarming way that always made Dean feel like he’d just lost an argument he didn’t even know he was having. “Do you wake up every morning this insufferable, or is it just for my benefit?” Dean laughed, the sound low and unguarded. 

“It’s a special talent, Cas,” he said, his voice warm with a teasing edge. “You’re lucky to experience it firsthand.” Castiel didn’t respond immediately, his eyes flickering over Dean’s face as though considering something unspoken. Then, slowly, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur. 

“If you’re so concerned about breakfast, perhaps you should feed me.” Dean blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Castiel’s tone. His smirk faltered for half a second before he recovered, his eyes narrowing with a playful gleam. 

“Oh, is that how it works now?” he asked, his hand sliding to rest lightly against Castiel’s arm. “I’m supposed to just whip something up for you like some kind of—what? Cryptid chef?”

“Isn’t that what you do?” Castiel asked, tilting his head slightly. “Provide for lost and hungry little monsters?” Dean let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he pushed himself upright, the bed creaking faintly beneath him. 

“Fine,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. “But if you expect me to cook, you’re gonna have to settle for something a little less… monstrous. Like eggs. Or toast. Or eggs on toast.”

“Disappointing,” Castiel remarked, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed his amusement. He followed Dean’s movement, sitting up with a languid grace that made Dean glance at him a moment longer than necessary. Dean shook his head, dragging a hand through his hair as he stood and stretched, the tension from the night easing from his muscles. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a regular letdown,” he said, his tone light. He glanced back over his shoulder, catching the way Castiel watched him, his expression quiet but intent. “But you’re still eating whatever I put in front of you. Deal?” Castiel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood, his movements slow and deliberate, and stepped closer until he was standing just a little too close. Dean felt the shift in the air, the faint press of Castiel’s presence like a thread tightening between them.

“Deal,” Castiel said finally, his voice low and steady. And though the word was simple, the way he said it felt like an agreement that went far beyond breakfast. Dean swallowed, his throat tight as he nodded toward the kitchen. 

“Alright, monster man,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Let’s see what kind of feast we can scrounge up.” 

As they moved toward the kitchen, the apartment seemed to come alive around them—the creak of the floorboards, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the scattered clutter that told a story Dean didn’t know yet but found himself wanting to learn. The morning light spilled across the room, painting everything in soft gold, and for a moment, Dean forgot about the presentation, the noise, the world outside. 

Right now, it was just them. And somehow, that felt like more than enough.

Dean opened Castiel’s refrigerator with a creak that echoed faintly in the quiet kitchen. The moment the cold air spilled out, his brow furrowed in disbelief. The shelves were a sparse arrangement of mismatched items: a half-empty bag of shredded cheese, some of those singular packages of cheese that technically aren’t cheese but ‘cheese product,’ a bottle of soy sauce, a jar of pickles, and what looked suspiciously like a very expired carton of almond milk. Dean leaned down, peering further in, as though the act of searching harder might conjure actual food. It didn’t.

“Okay,” Dean muttered, straightening and closing the door with an exaggerated slam. “What the hell do you even eat, Cas?” Castiel, standing by the counter with his usual unhurried grace, was focused on a small pot of water heating on the stove. He didn’t look up, his fingers deftly handling a bundle of dried herbs—sage, chamomile, and something else Dean couldn’t identify. The faint scent of them filled the room, earthy and calming, completely at odds with the chaotic state of Castiel’s kitchen.

“I eat when I remember to,” Castiel said evenly, as if that was a perfectly reasonable response. Dean scoffed, throwing open a cupboard this time. It was worse. Shelf after shelf of condiments greeted him: hot sauce, mustard, jars of chutney, and what appeared to be an alarming number of obscure spice blends. In the back, he spotted a single can of baked beans in tomato sauce and what might have been a forgotten box of pasta. His fingers brushed the edges of a jar of something unidentifiable. Was it honey? Was it molasses? Was it glue? He opted not to find out.

“This isn’t eating,” Dean said, turning to Castiel with an incredulous look. “This is…” He gestured toward the cupboard. “This is… condiment hoarding. You live on spices and tea?”

“Mostly tea,” Castiel admitted, his gaze flicking toward Dean with a faint glimmer of amusement. “The spices are for the rare occasion I decide to cook.” Dean barked out a laugh, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the counter. 

“Rare occasion, huh? Judging by this, I’d say it’s more like a once-in-a-blue-moon thing.” Castiel didn’t argue. He simply tilted his head, his expression unbothered, and turned back to the stove. 

“Cooking requires time and effort,” he said, as though explaining a universal truth. “I don’t always have the patience for it.” Dean snorted, glancing at the barren landscape of the refrigerator once more. 

“What do you do when you’re hungry, then? Just... meditate your way through it?”

“I manage,” Castiel replied, plucking a ceramic mug from the shelf. He moved with the same deliberation Dean had come to recognise as distinctly him—unhurried, but never uncertain. Dean shook his head, stepping aside as Castiel poured the now steaming water into the mug, the dried herbs unfurling in the warmth like tiny, blooming flowers. The aroma deepened, rich and complex, and for a moment, Dean forgot what he’d been complaining about.

“How do you live like this?” Dean said, his voice softer now, though the teasing lilt hadn’t disappeared entirely.  Castiel turned, his gaze steady as he held the mug in both hands, the faint steam curling around his fingers. 

“I live,” he said simply, his tone carrying no defensiveness—only a quiet certainty. “That’s enough.” Dean studied him for a moment, his arms still crossed, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. 

“Alright, then,” he said, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. “But if you think I’m letting you survive on tea and mystery cheese, you’ve got another thing coming.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. 

“And what do you suggest, Michael? Enlighten me.” Dean reached for the bag of shredded cheese, shaking it slightly as if to make his point. 

“First, we see if this is even edible,” he said. “Then, we see if your spice hoarding can actually make something edible. Deal?”

“Deal,” Castiel said, his voice soft but carrying a hint of challenge. Dean grinned, shaking his head as he pulled open another cupboard. This wasn’t the breakfast he’d imagined, but there was something oddly satisfying about the task. Castiel watched him with quiet amusement, his tea forgotten on the counter —much like the tea had been yesterday— and for a moment, the two of them moved in tandem—Dean sifting through chaos, and Castiel standing steady, like a quiet anchor in the middle of it all. Dean ran his hand through his hair, glancing back at Castiel, who stood by the stove with that effortless ease of someone completely detached from the chaos around them. The steam from the herbal tea curled lazily upwards, catching the sunlight streaming through the thin kitchen curtains. Castiel seemed unfazed by the scrutiny, entirely at home in his sparse, condiment-laden domain.

“I go out to eat a lot, you know,” Castiel said, his voice smooth, almost careless. He picked up his mug, cradling it like it was a holy relic rather than a simple vessel for tea. “I don’t need to keep things at home. Just tea, really.” Dean turned back to the fridge, waving vaguely at its barren interior. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” he muttered. “You and your tea. I’m guessing the last time you went grocery shopping, they still took cash.” Castiel smiled faintly, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. 

“I survive.” Dean stepped back, letting the fridge door fall shut with a dull thud. He folded his arms across his chest, his carefully tailored shirt straining slightly at the motion. 

“Survive, huh? That’s all well and good until you’re starving at three in the morning with nothing but, what—” He gestured toward the cupboard. “Chutney to keep you company?”

“It’s good chutney,” Castiel said, taking a sip of tea and watching Dean over the rim of his mug. His tone was teasing, but there was an edge of something quieter beneath it, something almost resigned. Dean sighed, leaning against the counter and eyeing Castiel like he was trying to solve a puzzle. 

“So, you’re telling me you’re one of those guys. Eats out every meal, doesn’t even bother with a loaf of bread or a box of cereal. That right?” Castiel set his mug down gently, the soft clink of ceramic against the counter breaking the silence. 

“I prefer to experience food,” he said. “When I do eat, I want it to be meaningful. Prepared by hands that care.” Dean’s brow furrowed, and he tilted his head slightly. 

“What, like… a spiritual thing? You’re too good for takeout or frozen pizza, is that it?” Castiel chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed almost out of place in the otherwise quiet kitchen. 

“It’s not about being ‘too good,’ Michael.” Dean stiffened at the name but didn’t correct him. Not yet. “It’s about the moment,” Castiel continued. “The connection. Food prepared by someone who puts their soul into it—it’s… art. Anything else is just sustenance.” Dean let out a short laugh, shaking his head. 

“Yeah, okay, angel,” he said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “But most people don’t have time to sit around contemplating the soul of their breakfast. Some of us just eat so we don’t pass out in a meeting.” Castiel smirked, his eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s. 

“'Angel,' is it? And here I thought I was the only one assigning nicknames.” Dean felt his cheeks flush slightly, though he covered it by clearing his throat. 

“Look,” he said, changing the subject. “You’re lucky I’m here. I’m gonna find something edible in this mess, and we’re going to make it work. None of this ‘spiritual experience’ nonsense.” Castiel leaned back against the counter, his mug in hand once more, and watched as Dean started rifling through the cupboards again. There was something unhurried in his movements, something almost serene, as though he were perfectly content to let Dean take charge.

“You’re very determined,” Castiel said after a moment, his tone light but tinged with genuine curiosity. “Do you always take it upon yourself to fix other people’s problems, Michael?” Dean paused, his hand hovering over a dusty box of couscous. For a split second, Castiel’s words hit a little too close to home, but he masked it with a casual shrug. 

“Somebody’s gotta,” he said, pulling the couscous down and reading the instructions only to place the dusty box of couscous back into the cupboard, dismissing it as too much effort. His gaze swept over the kitchen again, landing briefly on the mismatched stack of chipped plates on the counter. He tapped his fingers against the edge of the counter before turning toward Castiel, who was now leaning lazily against the wall, his mug of tea still in hand.

“How do you afford eating out all the time, anyway?” Dean asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity. He didn’t look at Castiel right away, instead pulling open another cupboard and finding a small bag of shredded cheese. Well, it wasn’t much, but it was a start.

“I’m an artist,” Castiel replied simply, like that explained everything. He took another sip of tea, his expression as serene as ever. “I do art.” Dean paused, turning to face him fully. He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying Castiel’s face for any sign of a smirk or glimmer of irony. But no, Castiel looked completely serious. His eyes held that same quiet intensity that always managed to throw Dean off balance.

“Right,” Dean said slowly. “You do art.” He tilted his head slightly, trying to gauge if Castiel was messing with him. The guy didn’t exactly scream ‘starving artist,’ but he also didn’t seem like someone pulling in commissions from high-end galleries either. “That… pays for all your meaningful meals, huh?” Castiel shrugged one shoulder, his linen shirt shifting as he did. 

“Art is about connections, Michael. Surely, you must know how important connections are.” Dean frowned at the sound of the name but didn’t bother correcting it. Again. He turned his focus back to the cheese and found a pan in one of the lower cupboards. 

“Connections,” he muttered under his breath, setting the pan on the stove. “Yeah, sure. That’s a thing.” He wasn’t about to admit that he didn’t know the first thing about the art world. For all he knew, Castiel could be some up-and-coming talent whose stuff was selling to rich people with more money than sense. Or he could just be the guy painting caricatures at the park. Either way, Dean didn’t press further. It wasn’t like he was here to interrogate the guy. Instead he sprinkled the cheese into a pan, watching it melt and sizzle.

“What the hell is that?” Castiel asked, his voice cutting through the quiet. Dean glanced over his shoulder to see Castiel watching him with genuine curiosity, his head tilted slightly and his mug now cradled in both hands. 

“Cheese crisps,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “The ultimate kitchen hack for the underprepared and over-caffeinated. You’ve got cheese, you’ve got a pan—boom, instant snack.” Castiel’s lips twitched upward into something like a smile, though it was hard to tell if it was amusement or mild disbelief. 

“Cheese crisps,” he repeated, the words slow and deliberate, like he was tasting them for the first time. “Michael, that might be the least spiritual food I’ve ever encountered.” Dean turned back to the stove, ignoring the way Castiel said his fake name like there was something going on between them. He flipped the cheese crisps with a spatula, the edges golden and crispy. 

“Not everything has to be spiritual, angel,” he said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “Sometimes it just has to taste good.” He placed the crisps on a plate and turned back to Castiel, holding it out like an offering. “Try it,” he said, a challenge in his tone. “If it’s not life-changing, I’ll let you take me to one of your fancy restaurants.”

Castiel hesitated, setting down his mug and stepping forward. He took one of the crisps between his fingers, inspecting it like it might reveal some deeper truth about Dean’s character. Then, with deliberate slowness, he took a bite. Dean watched him closely, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Well?” he asked after a moment. Castiel chewed thoughtfully, his expression inscrutable. Then he swallowed, his eyes meeting Dean’s with a flicker of something warm and amused. 

“It’s… an experience,” he said finally, his lips curving into a small smile. Dean rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. 

“Yeah, okay. You’re welcome, by the way.” Castiel’s smile widened slightly, and for a moment, the tension in the air felt lighter, like they were just two people sharing a moment in an otherwise quiet kitchen.

“You’re full of surprises, Michael,” Castiel said, and the name hit Dean like a reminder of the lie he was still wrapped up in. Dean’s smirk faltered for a split second, but he covered it quickly, turning back to the stove to hide the way his shoulders stiffened.

“Yeah, well,” he said, his voice casual but a little strained. “Stick around, angel. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Dean leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze settling on Castiel, who had perched himself on the edge of a sagging chair near the small table. The apartment was chaotic in a way that made Dean’s tidy, minimalist home feel sterile by comparison. Art supplies spilled out of open boxes, canvases leaned precariously against the walls, and an eclectic mix of books was stacked on almost every available surface. It was a space that felt alive, much like its owner.

“You owe me a meal,” Dean said, the words slipping out with a casual confidence that didn’t quite match the way his stomach was tightening. Castiel’s eyes lifted to meet his, and for the first time, they seemed to light up. Not with the usual sardonic humour or vague amusement, but with something softer. Warmer. It was like watching a sunrise over a battlefield—unexpected and a little disarming. They’d never done this before, this lingering, this talking. Usually, Castiel would slip into the shower and leave without a word. Either in the dead of night or while Dean was in his home gym, pounding out another round of cardio like the perfectly organised machine he pretended to be.

But this? This felt different.

“Okay,” Castiel said, his voice soft, almost uncertain. His hand tightened slightly around his mug, like he was anchoring himself. “Yeah, okay, Michael.” And the way he looked at Dean —like he was seeing him for the first time, really seeing him— hit Dean like a gut punch. Dean felt his throat tighten, his carefully crafted walls trembling under the weight of something he couldn’t quite name. Regret coiled in his chest, sharp and unyielding. The lie —the stupid, meaningless lie he’d told when they first met— loomed larger now, casting a shadow over every stolen glance, every quiet moment. When Castiel had introduced himself with that wry smile and a handshake that lingered just a second too long. And Dean, thinking this had been some kind of weird game, had answered, ‘Michael.’ What had felt harmless then now felt insurmountable. Castiel didn’t know his real name, didn’t know the man Dean actually was, and every time Castiel said Michael in that low, intimate drawl, it felt like a blade twisting deeper into his gut. Dean shifted his weight, suddenly restless. He didn’t know how to fix it, how to unravel the knot he’d tied himself into without losing whatever fragile thing this had become. Because this was turning into something more than hookups, more than casual mornings where they barely acknowledged each other before going their separate ways. And Dean wasn’t sure anyone could come back from, ‘Actually, no, my name isn’t Michael. I lied because I thought you were lying, and my real name is Dean, and every time you say Michael, I feel like a fraud.’ 

“You okay?” Castiel asked, his voice cutting through Dean’s spiral. His head tilted slightly, that familiar look of curiosity flickering across his face. Dean nodded quickly, too quickly. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just… thinking about how you’re gonna pay me back for all these cheese crisps.” Castiel’s lips quirked into a faint smile, but his gaze lingered, searching. Dean could feel the weight of it, the way it seemed to peel back the layers he worked so hard to keep intact.

“Dinner,” Castiel said after a moment, his tone decisive. “I’ll take you out for dinner.”

“Yeah?” Dean said, forcing a smirk as he leaned further into the counter, trying to hide the fact that his knees felt like jelly. “You’d better not be thinking fast food. I’ve got standards, angel.” Castiel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Michael.”

And there it was again, that name, that lie, like a brand searing into Dean’s skin. He swallowed hard, his smirk faltering just for a second before he pushed off the counter and turned back toward the stove.

“Looking forward to it,” he muttered, not trusting himself to say anything more. Dean glanced at his watch, the sleek design catching the soft morning light filtering through Castiel’s cluttered windows. His heart felt like it was pacing in a race his body hadn’t signed up for. The words tasted wrong in his mouth before he even said them, but they were necessary—logical. “As much as I’d like to stay,” he began, his voice attempting a casual tone that wavered slightly, “I do have that presentation.” Castiel, still sitting in the rickety chair by the table, didn’t move. His posture was languid, his eyes half-lidded, but there was no missing the way his fingers traced the rim of his mug—an unconscious pattern, slow and deliberate. He looked up then, meeting Dean’s gaze with a knowing expression, one that suggested he’d expected this. Maybe he’d been waiting for it all along.

“Yeah,” Castiel said softly, his voice carrying a resigned warmth. “I know.” Dean lingered where he stood, caught between the reality of his day and the pull of the moment. Castiel had a way of filling the silence that shouldn’t have made sense—a room littered with chaos and yet it felt like home in a way Dean couldn’t quite pin down. He cleared his throat, shifting his gaze to the wall, where an unfinished canvas leaned at an angle, swathes of deep blues and greens swirling like a storm barely held in place. Dean wasn’t sure why he said it, wasn’t even sure he wanted to know the answer. But it slipped out before he could stop himself.

“If I call you later,” he asked, his voice quieter now, “will you answer?” Castiel blinked, caught off guard, and the faintest crease formed between his brows. Then his expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but enough for Dean to notice. The corner of Castiel’s mouth lifted in a way that wasn’t quite a smile—something gentler, something real.

“I might,” Castiel replied, his tone teasing but laced with something deeper, something Dean couldn’t ignore. “Depends on if you say something worth answering.” Dean huffed out a laugh, the tension in his chest loosening just enough to let him breathe again. 

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. Castiel tilted his head, studying him, his blue eyes catching the morning light like shards of stained glass. 

“I believe you will,” he murmured, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that made Dean’s heart skip a beat. Dean straightened, his professional mask slipping back into place, though his hand lingered on the edge of the counter, his fingers brushing over the cool surface as if trying to hold onto the moment just a little longer.

“I’ll see you around, angel,” he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue with practiced ease, though his chest felt tight as he said it.

Castiel just nodded, his gaze following Dean as he gathered his things—his hoodie, his phone, his shoes, his jacket, and the leftover tension that hung in the air. The door clicked softly behind him, and the sound seemed to echo in the quiet apartment. As Dean walked down the hallway, his footsteps steady and measured, his mind was anything but. The question still lingered, not Castiel’s response but the choice Dean had made to ask it. The lie about his name weighed on him more with each passing second, and he knew that if he didn’t find a way to come clean soon, it would only grow more unbearable. But for now, he tucked it away, a secret hidden in the pocket of his carefully tailored life. And maybe, just maybe Castiel would answer when he called.

As Dean slid into the driver’s seat of his Prius, the door closed with a soft, decisive click. The faint scent of Castiel’s apartment clung to him—something herbal, earthy, and entirely out of place with the crisp, artificial scent of the car’s interior. He sighed, pulling his phone from his pocket, the sleek black rectangle cold in his hand. A quick tap illuminated the screen. The time stared back at him, later than he’d hoped.

"Perfect," he muttered under his breath, drumming his fingers against the smooth curve of the steering wheel. His morning had already spiralled away from his meticulous schedule, and the weight of his lie— Michael —pressed against his chest, far heavier than any forgotten task or looming deadline. He hesitated, staring at the contact list. His thumb hovered before he hit Charlie’s name. The phone rang once, twice, then picked up with a chirpy, familiar voice.

“Well, good morning to you, Dean,” Charlie said, the faint hum of her background noise—keyboards, probably, or some podcast—filtering through the line. “Or should I call you the Novaks’ favourite golden boy? What’s the occasion?” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Funny. Real funny, Charlie.”

“I live to serve,” she quipped. “What’s up?” He leaned back in his seat, his head resting against the headrest as he stared through the windshield. The city stretched before him, orderly streets and polished buildings, all humming with purpose. It was a sharp contrast to the mess he’d left behind in Castiel’s apartment.

“I need you to do me a favour,” Dean said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He softened his tone, adding, “I got caught up this morning, and I’m running behind. Can you swing by my place and grab me some clothes? You know, something for the office. Oh, and my hair stuff—can’t be looking like I just rolled out of bed.” Charlie’s laugh was bright and easy, the kind that made Dean simultaneously grin and roll his eyes. 

“Let me guess, gym shower?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I’ll get ready there. I just... didn’t have time to head back.” There was a beat of silence on her end, then her voice returned, tinged with curiosity. 

“Okay, but what’s the story? Who is this mysterious someone who’s got Mister ‘Perfectly Planned’ scrambling to make his morning work?” Dean groaned, letting his head drop forward, the steering wheel pressing lightly against his forehead. 

“There is no one.”

“Oh, come on,” Charlie said, her tone practically dripping with disbelief. “Dean, you’re late. You never let your schedule get messed up. Not for anyone. So unless you’ve been abducted by aliens or secretly fighting crime in your off-hours, there is someone.”

“There’s no one,” Dean repeated, the words feeling hollow even as he said them. He sat back again, his grip tightening around the phone. “It’s just... work stuff. You know how it is.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push further. “Fine. But when I get there, if I see evidence of a someone —I don’t know, a sock that isn’t yours or a toothbrush that screams ‘mystery guest’ —I’m calling you out.” Dean chuckled despite himself. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just grab the clothes, will you? I’ll owe you lunch or something.”

“Deal,” Charlie said, her tone lighter now. “See you at the gym, Mister Definitely-Not-Hiding-Anything.” The call ended with a faint beep, leaving Dean in the quiet hum of his car. He dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and exhaled slowly. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel again, but now there was no rhythm, just a restless energy he couldn’t quite shake.

‘There is no one,’ he’d said. And yet, Castiel’s face —messy hair, those piercing blue eyes, and that maddening smirk— lingered in his mind, refusing to fade. He turned the key in the ignition, the Prius purring to life as he merged into traffic, his thoughts a tangle of questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

Dean pulled into the underground car park of Novak Enterprises, the familiar beige walls and faint smell of engine oil grounding him in the present. The Prius hummed to a halt, and he let out a long breath before stepping out, adjusting his suit jacket. The clock on the dashboard told him he had about half an hour before his official start time—enough to salvage what was left of his morning. As he walked towards the building, his eyes caught sight of Charlie leaning casually against one of the sleek, modern pillars near the entrance. She held a canvas bag in one hand and her phone in the other, her signature mischievous grin already forming as she spotted him. Dean quickened his pace, a rare, genuine relief washing over him.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, taking the bag from her and peeking inside to ensure she’d gotten everything. “I owe you.” Charlie arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she tilted her head slightly. 

“Oh, you owe me all right. And maybe you could start by telling me where you spent the night.” Dean snapped the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder, his lips twitching into a wry smile. 

“Maybe you could stop being so nosey.” Charlie leaned in closer, lowering her voice as though sharing a grand conspiracy. 

“Dean, I work in IT. Being nosey is literally in the job description. You’re the one who decided to give me breadcrumbs. What else was I supposed to do, not pry?” He rolled his eyes, but the amusement in them betrayed his feigned irritation. 

“I didn’t decide anything. You’re the one making up stories about my life.”

“I don’t have to make anything up.” Charlie gestured dramatically at him. “The evidence speaks for itself: unshaven, no tie, gym bag in hand. Oh, and the way you said you ‘got caught up’ earlier? Very suspicious, Dean.” Dean shook his head, a faint chuckle slipping past his usual reserved demeanour. 

“Charlie, you’ve been watching too many detective shows.”

“And yet, I still haven’t gotten to meet the mysterious person who’s messing with your life schedule,” she teased, her eyes sparkling. “I mean, whoever it is must be worth it.” Dean’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second, his thoughts flickering back to Castiel—the tea, the crumpled sheets, and that look in his eyes that had stuck with him all the way here. He cleared his throat, brushing it off with a casual shrug.

“There’s no one, Charlie. Just work stuff.” She smirked knowingly, raising her hands in mock surrender. 

“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. But just so you know, I’m on to you.” Dean adjusted the strap of his bag, offering her a parting smile. 

“You’re always on to something. Thanks again for this—I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better,” she called after him as he headed towards the gym entrance, her voice laced with playful accusation. “And you owe me the good coffee this time!”

Dean laughed softly, shaking his head as he pushed open the door to the company gym. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, and the smell of disinfectant mingled with sweat and rubber flooring. He stepped into the gym’s changing room, the faint hum of the ventilation system providing a quiet backdrop to his hurried routine. The place was empty, the early hour granting him a rare reprieve from the usual clatter of lockers slamming and chatter between colleagues discussing weekend plans. He was grateful for the solitude, though a part of him still moved with a sense of urgency, as if someone might walk in at any moment. He tossed the bag onto a bench, his mind already beginning to focus on the day ahead. But no matter how hard he tried to shove it aside, Castiel’s voice lingered in his thoughts, along with the same gnawing guilt he hadn’t figured out how to confront. The showers, thankfully, were single stalls with frosted doors that offered a modicum of privacy. Dean started pulling out his things—clean shirt, fresh tie, his go-to hair products, and that small bottle of cologne he kept for travel. The tile underfoot was cool and slightly damp, a reminder of the dozens of employees who’d probably shuffled through here before him. He wrinkled his nose but pushed the thought aside. Stepping into the shower stall, Dean twisted the knob, and the water sprang to life in a spray that was neither too hot nor too cold, just somewhere in the middle—mediocre, like everything else about this morning. He ran a hand through his hair, letting the water wash away the remnants of last night, as if it could rinse out the memories too. The feel of Castiel’s apartment—the mismatched furniture, the lingering scent of herbal tea—still clung to him, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off.

"Focus," he muttered to himself under the water, scrubbing shampoo into his scalp. He had a presentation to deliver, and Novak Enterprises didn’t exactly care if you had a complicated morning. Hell, they didn’t even care if you had a life outside of work. All that mattered was that he walked into that boardroom sharp, polished, and convincing. Dean Smith, model employee.

Except that wasn’t really him, was it?

Dean pressed his palms flat against the tile, letting the water cascade over his shoulders. For years, he’d perfected the act. The suit, the spotless schedule, the careful smiles. And yet, somewhere between last night and this morning, it all felt just a little harder to maintain. He could still see Castiel’s face, the way his lips quirked when he said ‘okay’ —like he meant it, like it was more than just an answer. Dean shut off the water with a decisive twist. Enough. He didn’t have time to spiral into whatever this was. He grabbed a towel from the rack and dried off quickly, slipping into his fresh clothes with the precision of someone used to operating under time constraints. His tie was crisp, his shirt neatly pressed, and by the time he stood in front of the mirror with his hair gel in hand, he looked every bit the professional Novak Enterprises expected him to be. 

But as he styled his hair, smoothing back the last few strands, Dean couldn’t ignore the faint twitch of his own reflection. There was something in his eyes—something restless, like he was searching for an answer he didn’t want to admit he needed. When he finally stepped out of the changing room, bag slung over his shoulder, Dean felt a small flicker of relief that no one else had wandered in. The last thing he needed was an audience for the cracks he was starting to feel in his carefully constructed armour. He headed towards the elevators, forcing himself to shift gears.

Work first. 

Question life choices later.

If only the latter didn’t have a habit of creeping in at the worst times.

A few minutes later Dean sat at his desk, his polished workspace gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The office was quiet this early, the usual hum of Novak Enterprises not yet fully underway. Outside his window, the city stretched in gleaming symmetry, all glass and steel, reflecting the muted morning light. He sipped his coffee, the bitter taste doing little to soothe the restlessness knotting in his chest.

The words Balthazar had spoken last night replayed in his mind like a scratched record. 

‘Director.’ 

‘A seat at the table.’

‘The kind of power and influence you’ve been chasing since day one.’

Dean set the mug down carefully, his fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm against the desk. He’d worked hard to reach this point. Too hard, really. Long nights, countless sacrifices, burying parts of himself to fit the mould of the Novak standard. He was a machine here—polished, efficient, dependable. But Balthazar’s words had landed differently, as if they’d peeled back a layer of his carefully cultivated ambition to reveal something raw underneath. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly. The silence of his office wasn’t comforting; it was suffocating. The space was so neatly ordered, so perfectly arranged, that it felt like a monument to everything he was supposed to be. The pristine lines of his desk, the framed degrees on the wall, even the sleek design of his laptop—all of it felt like a trap he’d built for himself.

Dean exhaled slowly, opening his eyes to stare at the clock. Forty-five minutes until the meeting. He had time. Time to centre himself, to reassert the professional image everyone expected to see. His eyes drifted to the notes he’d made for the presentation, each page meticulously prepared. There was nothing wrong with it. It was flawless. Yet, he couldn’t shake the unease that curled in his stomach. His phone buzzed against the desk, breaking the quiet. He glanced at the screen. Charlie’s name lit up, accompanied by a short message: 

Charlie: Good luck today, boss. You’ve got this.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. Charlie always knew when to reach out, her intuition sharp in a way that bordered on uncanny. He typed back a quick thanks before setting the phone down. The distraction was brief but welcome. He stared at the cityscape again, his reflection faintly visible in the glass. For a moment, he thought of Castiel, of the way he’d smiled last night when Dean had asked if he’d pick up the phone. There was something about that moment —a softness, a fragility— that stuck with him. Castiel was chaos personified, his world so utterly unlike the rigid structure Dean lived within. Yet, there was a pull there, something magnetic that Dean couldn’t quite name. Dean’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his mind wandering. ‘If I call you later, will you answer?’ His own voice echoed back to him, laced with something he hadn’t meant to reveal. Castiel had said yes, but the memory of it made Dean’s chest tighten. He didn’t know what he wanted from Castiel, not really. All he knew was that it felt dangerous, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

With a resigned sigh, Dean stood and adjusted his tie. He smoothed a hand over his shirt, ensuring everything was in place. His reflection in the window stared back at him—polished, composed, every bit the image of success he’d spent years cultivating. But something in his eyes looked off. Restless. Like the pieces didn’t quite fit anymore. Dean’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his office door swinging open. He turned, frowning slightly as Balthazar strode in without so much as a knock, the man's presence as unapologetically disruptive as always. The faint scent of his cologne—expensive, subtle, and irritatingly on-brand—preceded him.

“Ah, there you are,” Balthazar drawled, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He carried a cup of coffee, holding it as though it were a prop in some grand performance. “I heard an interesting rumour this morning.” Dean tilted his head, his patience already thinning. 

“Good morning to you, too.” Balthazar ignored the greeting, stepping closer and leaning against the edge of Dean’s desk, his posture casual but his gaze sharp. 

“Imagine my surprise when I heard our golden boy was seen emerging from the gym showers at the crack of dawn. A gym, Dean. You hate gyms.” Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. 

“I don’t hate gyms. I just... have priorities.” Balthazar’s smirk widened, his amusement clear. 

“Priorities, you say? And what, pray tell, compelled you to subject yourself to communal showers and subpar lighting? A sudden health kick? Or perhaps something —or someone— kept you from your perfectly curated apartment last night?” Dean’s jaw tightened. 

“What does it matter? I’m here, I’m prepared, and the presentation’s flawless. Isn’t that what you care about?” Balthazar sipped his coffee, his eyes gleaming with mischief. 

“Oh, I care, darling. I care deeply. Which is why I’m here, checking in on you. Because as much as I adore watching you unravel, I do have a vested interest in your success today. And, frankly, seeing you act out of character worries me.” Dean shot him a flat look. 

“I’m fine. It helped me clear my head. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Clear your head, yes. But this?” Balthazar gestured vaguely at Dean, as though the act of getting ready in a gym were some great affront. “This reeks of desperation. Let’s hope it doesn’t mess with your chances, hmm?” Dean leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his expression hardening. 

“It won’t. You’re overreacting.” Balthazar’s smirk softened into something more genuine, though no less maddening. 

“Am I? You’ve spent years crafting an image, Dean. One that screams competence, control, and untouchable ambition. Don’t let one night —whatever it entailed— be the thing that unravels it all.” Dean exhaled sharply, his irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Why do you care so much? Last night, you couldn’t decide if you wanted to lecture me or drag me into trouble. Now you’re my mentor?” Balthazar straightened, his smirk returning with a flourish. 

“Call it a passing interest. I do so enjoy watching you squirm, but I’d enjoy watching you succeed even more. Call me sentimental.” He set his coffee cup down on the desk with a deliberate clink and stepped back. “Good luck, Smith. You’ll need it.” As Balthazar turned to leave, Dean spoke, his voice quieter but firm. 

“I don’t need luck. I’ve got this.” Balthazar paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder with an infuriatingly knowing smile. 

“We’ll see.” And with that, he was gone, leaving Dean alone with the echo of his words and the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air. Dean ran a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. He didn’t have time for Balthazar’s theatrics. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, counting down the minutes until the meeting. He squared his shoulders, picked up his notes, and focused on the task ahead. Whatever doubts lingered, they would have to wait. 

When Dean finally entered the conference room he did so with his usual measured confidence, his shoes tapping lightly against the sleek, polished floor. The space was a pristine reflection of Novak Enterprises’ ethos: minimalist design, sharp lines, and an air of understated luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, the morning light spilling in and casting faint reflections on the glass tabletop that stretched almost the length of the room. The long table was already partially occupied. Balthazar lounged on one side, his posture effortlessly relaxed, as though the meeting were merely a formality for his amusement. His sharp suit seemed to catch the light in just the right way, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he noticed Dean’s arrival. Next to him sat Gabriel, dressed in a semi-casual blazer and leaning back with one arm draped over the chair beside him. Gabriel’s expression was one of vague curiosity, though his eyes betrayed an alertness that suggested he was more invested than he let on.

At the head of the table sat Charles Novak himself. The man carried an air of authority that needed no embellishment. His presence filled the room, though he sat with a deliberate stillness, his hands clasped lightly on the table in front of him. His salt-and-pepper hair was meticulously groomed, his tailored suit impeccable, and his piercing blue eyes swept over the room with an intensity that made Dean’s chest tighten slightly. This wasn’t just any meeting—this was the moment Dean had been preparing for. Dean took his seat near the middle of the table, carefully arranging his notes in front of him. His movements were deliberate, his expression composed, but internally, he was recalibrating. Every glance exchanged between Balthazar and Gabriel, every slight shift in Charles Novak’s posture, felt loaded with unspoken implications.

“Smith,” Balthazar said, breaking the quiet. His tone was light, almost mocking. “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I see. Gym showers must agree with you.” Dean didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he offered a polite smile, his voice crisp. 

“Good morning, Mister Freely. I see you’re as focused as ever.” Gabriel snorted softly, but Charles cut through the undercurrent of banter with a simple gesture, his gaze fixing on Dean with laser-like precision. 

“Let’s begin,” he said, his voice low but commanding. It was the kind of voice that didn’t need to rise to be heard. 

Dean stood, straightening his jacket as he walked toward the large monitor at the end of the table. His presentation glowed to life on the screen, the first slide pristine and professional. As he began to speak, his voice carried the same polished authority that had won him countless sales pitches before. He outlined the market strategies with precision, every statistic and chart delivered with an air of unshakable confidence. But even as he spoke, he could feel the scrutiny in the room. Charles Novak’s gaze was unwavering, dissecting every word. Gabriel occasionally leaned forward, his fingers tapping idly on the table as though assessing Dean’s performance against some unseen metric. And Balthazar—Balthazar sat with that infuriating smirk, as though he were privy to a secret that Dean wasn’t. 

Dean’s internal monologue ran parallel to his presentation. 

Stay sharp.

Don’t overcompensate. 

Keep Novak’s attention on the data—not on you.  

The room was quiet except for his voice and the occasional soft click of Gabriel’s pen against the table. As he neared the conclusion of his presentation, Dean glanced toward Charles Novak, gauging his reaction. The older man’s expression was inscrutable, his sharp eyes giving nothing away. Dean pushed forward, summarising his recommendations with a confident flourish, his words hanging in the air like a final note of a symphony. When he finished, there was a brief pause. It wasn’t the kind of silence that came from disinterest—it was the kind that preceded judgment. Charles leaned back slightly, his fingertips pressed together as he regarded Dean with that same piercing gaze.

“Impressive,” Charles said at last, his voice calm but weighted with meaning. “Well-researched. Thorough. I can see why you’re on Balthazar’s shortlist.” Dean’s chest eased slightly, but he kept his expression composed, his gratitude conveyed through a simple nod. 

“Thank you, Mister Novak.” 

“Of course, the true test will be implementation.” Balthazar chimed in, his voice smooth. “Plans are lovely, but execution is where most people fail.” Dean turned to him, meeting his gaze evenly. 

“That’s where I excel.” Balthazar’s smirk widened just a fraction, but he said nothing further. Gabriel, meanwhile, exchanged a look with Charles that Dean couldn’t quite decipher. Charles finally stood, adjusting his cufflinks with a quiet precision. 

“Good work, Smith. I’ll be watching closely.” His words lingered as he exited the room, leaving an air of both approval and challenge in his wake. As soon as the door closed behind him, Gabriel leaned back, letting out a low whistle. 

“Tense, wasn’t it?” he said, glancing at Balthazar. “Almost thought he’d crack.”

“Dean?” Balthazar said, his tone faintly amused. “Crack? Please. He’s practically a machine. Aren’t you, Smith?” Dean exhaled slowly, gathering his notes. 

“You’ll have to find another hobby, Balthazar. I’m not here to entertain you.” Balthazar chuckled, a soft, knowing sound. 

“Oh, you do entertain, my dear. You do.” Dean left the room with his head held high, but as he walked back to his office, Balthazar’s words lingered. ‘Execution is where most people fail.’ It wasn’t a threat—it was a reminder. One he didn’t intend to forget.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s feet padded softly across the cool, wooden floor of his apartment, the loose fabric of his yoga pants brushing against his skin with each unhurried step. The morning sunlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting streaks of gold across the cluttered space. It was messy, sure—an artist’s kind of messy, with abandoned canvases leaning against walls, jars of paint and brushes scattered across surfaces, and books stacked precariously on chairs and shelves. But today, it felt less like chaos and more like potential, the kind of creative disarray that held a certain charm. He swung open the fridge door, his face illuminated by the pale glow of its interior light. Reaching past a half-empty carton of almond milk and a bottle of wine with a questionable cork, he grabbed the familiar jar of honey. The lid came off with a satisfying pop, and he dipped a spoon inside, pulling out a golden scoop. He stuck it into his mouth, savouring the sweetness as it melted and coated his tongue. The hum of a half-remembered melody escaped his lips as he wandered through the apartment, the honey spoon still between his teeth. It was strange how light he felt today. Michael had stayed the night. And not just stayed—listened. That alone was unusual enough to buoy Castiel’s mood, but there was more to it. Michael hadn’t questioned his explanations, at least not outwardly. He had accepted Castiel’s half-truths with an ease that felt… forgiving, even if it came with that familiar pinch of guilt Castiel always carried when withholding the full story. The thought of the murals crept into his mind, unbidden. His father’s voice echoed in the recesses of his memory, deliberately and frustratingly paternal: 

‘It’s time to put your talent to better use, Castiel; this could be your chance.’ 

Chance. Right. As if Gabriel’s meddling wasn’t obvious. It was either him, or him in league with Balthazar, nudging their father to dangle an opportunity in front of Castiel that felt more like a leash than a lifeline. Painting murals for Novak Enterprises wasn’t art—it was marketing. It was giving in. It was…

He sighed, his humming faltering as he parked himself by the window. He leaned against the sill, the honey spoon clicking softly against his teeth as he stared out at the world below. From his vantage point, the city sprawled in every direction, a patchwork of glass and stone and endless motion. Somewhere out there, Michael was navigating his corporate labyrinth, polished and composed as always. Castiel smiled faintly. There was something grounding about Michael’s presence, something steady.  Even the smallest gestures from him carried weight. The fact that Michael had listened last night and accepted Castiel’s rambling as truth—that had meant more than Castiel was ready to admit, even to himself.

Pulling the spoon from his mouth, he glanced back at the apartment. It looked... the same. Maybe a little sadder in the daylight, the mess less like creative flair and more like neglect. For a moment, the urge to straighten up bubbled to the surface—not for himself, but for Michael. He didn’t want Michael to walk back into this space and think less of him. Not that he cared about appearances, exactly, but—no, he did care. Castiel sighed again, louder this time, pushing off from the window. He started with the books. Stacking them into neat piles felt almost therapeutic, though he only managed two before realising there wasn’t enough shelf space to accommodate the rest. He moved on to the paintbrushes next, gathering them into an empty coffee mug. The act of tidying felt foreign and oddly amusing, like wearing someone else’s shoes. 

“Michael,” he muttered under his breath, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Castiel  had never before met anyone named Michael who looked like that, moved like that. But he liked the way the other man sounded, the way the silence that had enveloped them the day prior tasted. But Castiel was no fool, he knew that Michael was hiding something, desk job people always do. And if Michael wasn’t ready to be honest yet, well, Castiel could wait. For now, there was something endearing about the lie, the way it wrapped them both in a shared pretense neither wanted to break.

By the time he’d cleared off half of the coffee table, Castiel’s hum returned, lighter than before. His spoon found its way back to the honey jar, and he let himself indulge in another golden bite. The sweetness lingered on his tongue as he moved to the canvases, propping them against the far wall in some semblance of order. For once, the apartment didn’t feel like just his. It felt like it might belong to someone else too—at least for a little while. And that thought, impossibly, didn’t scare him. Castiel sank into the couch, the cushions sagging slightly under his weight as he tucked his knees up and balanced his laptop on his thighs. The room was quieter now, save for the soft hum of the computer as the screen flickered to life. The faint scent of honey lingered in the air, a subtle reminder of his earlier indulgence. He let out a small sigh and adjusted the angle of the laptop, his fingers brushing over the trackpad with a practised ease. The mood boards stared back at him, an organised chaos of images and colours that felt both inspiring and suffocating. They were supposed to guide him, spark something inside, but instead they loomed, a silent reminder of the task ahead. Three murals. One for the entrance floor, to ‘set the tone’ for Novak Enterprises—his father’s words, not his. Another for the third floor, where new clients were met with smiles and carefully rehearsed handshakes. And the last for the fourteenth floor, the sanctum of directors and board members, the pinnacle of the company’s world.

The third-floor mural was giving him the most trouble. His father had described it with infuriating vagueness, something about ‘showing strength’ and ‘elegance,’ which sounded more like buzzwords than guidance. Castiel clicked through his folder of references, his eyes lingering on a photograph of an ancient marble frieze, the figures locked in motion, their limbs taut with effort. It was beautiful, sure, but it didn’t feel like him. Nothing about these murals did. He leaned his head back against the couch, the warm glow of the laptop casting shadows across his face. His mind wandered, skimming over the conversation with his father, the sharpness in Gabriel’s tone when he’d called last week to ask if Castiel was going to take this seriously. And then there was Balthazar, lounging in his usual careless way but with a glint in his eye that always suggested he knew too much. 

“This is your chance, darling,” Balthazar had said, swirling a glass of something expensive. “The great Castiel Novak, finally stepping out of the shadows. Don’t tell me you’re going to squander it.”

Castiel clicked away from the frieze, opening another tab, this one full of modern abstract pieces—bright, messy explosions of colour that felt closer to what he wanted. But even those felt wrong. Forced. Like trying to fit himself into a shape that didn’t exist. He scrolled through them anyway, his movements slower, almost absent-minded.

And then, there was Michael.

Or sexy, though that name was more of a tease than anything else. Castiel smiled faintly, his gaze dropping to the edge of the bed where Michael had sat the night before. It was strange, the way Michael fit into his life so easily, even with all the lies between them. Michael had stayed. Really stayed. He’d listened, even accepted Castiel’s half-truths without pressing for more. It had been disarming, the way Michael had looked at him, not with pity or judgement but something else entirely. Something softer. Castiel’s gaze flicked back to the laptop screen, the mood boards waiting like a silent jury. The murals weren’t just murals anymore—they were a reminder of how tangled his life had become. Of his father’s expectations, of Gabriel’s meddling, of Balthazar’s sly smirks and cryptic remarks. And now, somehow, of Michael too. But the thought of Michael stepping into the Novak building, polished and perfect, made Castiel’s stomach twist. Would Michael recognise his work if he ever saw it? Would he care? Castiel shook his head, brushing the thought away. It was pointless to dwell on. Michael was a distraction, albeit a welcome one, and the murals were his responsibility. 

He closed the tab of abstracts and opened a blank document, staring at the empty page for a long moment. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words refusing to come. In the back of his mind, he could hear his father’s voice again, calm and unyielding: 

‘You’re talented, Castiel. Don’t waste it.’

And maybe he wouldn’t. But not for his father. Not for Gabriel or Balthazar or anyone else at Novak Enterprises. If Castiel was going to do this, it would have to be on his terms. Even if he hadn’t figured out exactly what those terms were yet. 

He set the laptop aside, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. For now, he would let the ideas swirl, unformed and chaotic, until something clicked. Because it would. It always did. Eventually. Castiel stretched, his arms reaching high above his head until his shoulders gave a satisfying pop. He let out a low groan, rolling his neck to loosen the tension that had settled there after hours hunched over his laptop. The apartment hummed around him, messy but familiar, a chaos he found oddly comforting. 

He padded over to his bed, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. The bed, unmade and spilling over with mismatched pillows, stood next to a tall wooden dresser serving as a makeshift bedside table. Without much thought, he pulled open the top drawer, rifling through its contents until his fingers found fabric with the texture he was looking for: a button-up shirt and a pair of dress trousers. They were second-hand, the shirt’s fabric slightly worn around the cuffs, and the trousers just a bit too long unless he rolled them up. His father wouldn’t approve—not because of their style but because they weren’t new, weren’t polished enough to scream Novak pedigree. Castiel shrugged to himself, letting the drawer shut with a soft thud. 

“Good enough,” he muttered, more to the air than to anyone in particular. With the clothes slung over one arm, he moved toward the bathroom, kicking aside a stray sketchbook as he went. The door creaked faintly on its hinges as he pushed it open, revealing a space that felt worlds apart from the rest of the apartment. Bright and cheerful, the bathroom was a haven of order and light. A pastel-striped shower curtain enclosed the tub, its soft hues catching the morning light filtering through a small, frosted window. A collection of leafy green plants perched on the edge of the sink and along the windowsill, their vibrant leaves spilling over their pots in a display of quiet vitality. The vintage-style sink, with its rounded edges and slightly chipped enamel, stood beneath a mirror framed in weathered wood, its surface reflecting the colourful serenity of the room. Castiel set the clothes down on a wicker laundry hamper and turned to the tub. He reached out to adjust the knobs, the rush of water filling the space with a steady hum as steam began to rise. The warm air mingled with the faint scent of lavender from the bar of soap resting in a ceramic dish near the tub. He caught his reflection in the mirror—messy hair, the beginnings of a beard shadowing his jaw, and the languid, sleepy eyes of someone who hadn’t quite decided whether today would be productive or not.

“You look like a disaster,” he said to his reflection, though there was no malice in his tone. Stepping out of his yoga pants, Castiel left them crumpled on the floor and stepped into the tub. The warm spray of water hit his skin, and he sighed deeply, letting his head tilt back and the tension wash away. The pastel stripes of the shower curtain rippled slightly with the draft, a splash of colour that felt absurdly cheerful given the mountain of expectations waiting for him when he got out. But for now, in this moment, with the water cascading over him and the plants watching from their perches, Castiel let himself feel something close to peace.

Castiel stepped out of the shower, steam billowing out into the bright, plant-filled bathroom. He grabbed a towel from the hook on the wall, the fabric worn soft from years of use. Patting his skin dry, he moved back into the main room, water dripping from his hair and leaving faint spots on the wooden floor. His clothes waited where he’d left them, neatly draped over the wicker laundry hamper.

Pulling on the second-hand dress trousers, Castiel rolled the cuffs once to avoid dragging them underfoot. The button-up shirt followed, the fabric cool against his skin. He fiddled with the buttons for a moment, his fingers lingering on the slightly loose thread of one before shrugging it off as a problem for another day. He tucked the shirt into his trousers with the kind of casual effort that gave it a deliberately dishevelled look. His father would hate it. That made it just perfect. Grabbing his phone from where it lay face-down on the coffee table, Castiel flopped onto the couch, the cushions sinking beneath him. He wiped a hand through his damp curls, tousling them into an artfully chaotic shape, before opening the messaging app. The screen glowed in his hand as he scrolled through past conversations until he found the name he needed.

Castiel: Is Dad still at work?

The text hovered there on the screen for a moment before he pressed send. Castiel stared at the message bubble as it shifted from ‘delivered’ to ‘read,’ then set the phone down on his knee, tapping absently at the back of the case with his fingers. The anticipation of Gabriel’s answer was light but insistent, a soft buzz at the back of his mind. Gabriel always took his time replying, and Castiel expected nothing less now. He leaned back into the cushions, his gaze drifting to the chaotic mess of sketches and half-finished canvases scattered around the apartment. A faint grin played on his lips. If Gabriel didn’t answer soon, Castiel figured he might just show up at Novak Enterprises anyway. He could cause a little chaos, maybe prod at Balthazar while he was at it. If nothing else, he’d get the satisfaction of making his father sigh. 

Castiel’s phone buzzed against his knee, startling him from his thoughts. He glanced down to see Gabriel’s name light up on the screen. The message preview gave nothing away, so Castiel tapped it open, half-expecting something flippant.

Gabriel: He isn’t. 

The words were simple, yet they carried a twinge of finality. Castiel stared at the message for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing idly along the edge of the phone. Of course, his father wasn’t at work—it wasn’t like Charles Novak to linger in the office unless there was a critical reason. Castiel knew this, but the confirmation still tugged at his thoughts in an irritatingly persistent way. Then another message came.

Gabriel: We had a meeting with some guy from sales that Balthazar thinks should be the next director of sales now that Naomi’s retiring. Dean Smith, ever heard a blander name? Anyway, you know how Dad is, always gotta go for a walk before making a decision.

Castiel typed out a quick reply, the keys clicking softly beneath his fingertips.

Castiel: Noted. Thanks for the thrilling update.

Gabriel’s response came almost immediately, as though he’d been waiting for it.

Gabriel: You sound excited. What’s the occasion? Actually, don’t answer. I’m sure it’s another one of your artistic crusades.

Castiel exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. He could practically hear Gabriel’s dry tone in the message, layered with that usual mix of affection and veiled derision. He fired back without hesitation.

Castiel: You’re not wrong. Dad wants murals. Apparently, I’m his artist in shining armour.

Gabriel’s reply was slower this time, though no less biting.

Gabriel: Better you than me. I’d end up painting something inappropriate and getting disowned. Again.

Castiel smiled at that, the familiar push and pull loosening some of the tension in his chest. He tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him and stretched out his legs, resting his bare feet on the edge of the coffee table. The faint sound of traffic drifted in through the cracked window, mingling with the hum of the fridge in the corner. He let his gaze wander to the half-packed bag sitting on the floor near the couch. The clothes were a half-hearted attempt at blending in—a thin layer of polish over his usual unruly existence. His father would see through it immediately, of course, but Castiel wasn’t dressing for his father. Not entirely. He told himself it was practical, an easy way to avoid another lecture, but a small part of him wondered if he’d subconsciously tried to dress for someone else. His fingers brushed over his damp curls as he leaned his head back against the couch. He thought of Michael—of the way his face had softened when Castiel had agreed to meet him later. That little flicker of something beneath Michael’s polished exterior, the one that made Castiel’s chest ache in ways he didn’t quite understand.

The phone buzzed again, pulling him from the thought. He glanced at the screen.

Gabriel: Good luck with Dad. Try not to turn the lobby into an existential crisis in paint form. Or do.

Castiel laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that filled the otherwise still apartment. He sent a thumbs-up emoji in response before tossing the phone back onto the couch. He stood and padded across the room, retrieving a half-finished sketchpad from the cluttered kitchen counter. Inspiration didn’t strike often these days, but something about Gabriel’s message and Michael’s fleeting smile lingered in his mind, pressing against the edges of his thoughts.

Maybe the mural didn’t have to be just another job. Maybe it could mean something.

Castiel: I was thinking of coming by.

Castiel stared at the glowing screen of his phone, Gabriel’s message sitting smugly in their chat.

Gabriel: To make out with Balthazar?

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, though the sharp pang of annoyance tugged at the corners of his mood. Gabriel’s wit had a way of finding his weak spots, needling him in just the right place to elicit a reaction. He tapped a reply, fingers moving more deliberately now.

Castiel: We’re not always like that.

The words lingered on the screen, almost taunting him. Not always like that. Castiel ran a hand through his damp hair, the curls sticking to his fingers as he stared at the phrase. It was true—there were times, brief and fleeting, where Balthazar had been more than a sarcastic bedfellow. Moments of companionship, of genuine laughter, where Balthazar’s charm wasn’t a façade but something almost… real.

Almost.

The phone buzzed again, shaking him from the thought.

Gabriel: Oh, forgive me. You’re right. Sometimes it’s just the drinking, the cigarettes, and the self-loathing. My mistake.

Castiel let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. Gabriel’s ability to summarise his life in such sharp, cutting tones would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so irritating. His thumb hovered over the keyboard as he considered his response. There was no use defending himself—Gabriel always won these exchanges, not by logic, but by sheer persistence.

Castiel: You should try being the younger brother sometime. Loads of fun.

The reply was petty, but it still brought a faint flicker of satisfaction. Castiel tossed the phone onto his bed, watching it bounce against the crumpled duvet before settling face down. He leaned back against the edge of the dresser, arms crossed, his gaze drifting to the open window. The afternoon sun spilled lazily across the room, its light catching on the stacks of sketchbooks and half-finished canvases scattered across the space. The idea of visiting the office made his chest tighten, the kind of pressure that wasn’t quite fear but close enough to leave him uneasy. He could already picture the way his father’s face would crease with that familiar mix of disapproval and resigned acceptance. The inevitable lecture about professionalism, about expectations, about carrying the family name with dignity. It was always the same, and yet it always stung.

His phone buzzed again. He sighed, pushing himself off the dresser to retrieve it.

Gabriel: If you’re really coming by, at least bring snacks. And don’t wear anything that looks like it’s been through a thrift store war zone. Dad might keel over.

Castiel rolled his eyes, a faint chuckle escaping despite himself. He typed out a response without much thought.

Castiel: I thought you said Dad wasn’t there right now.

The reply came almost instantly, as if Gabriel had been waiting for that very question.

Gabriel: Physically, no. But always in spirit.

Castiel exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. That was Gabriel in a nutshell—always ready with a quip, always dancing around the edges of what he actually meant. Castiel let the phone dangle loosely in his hand as he paced the room, his bare feet silent against the worn hardwood. The light breeze from the open window stirred the curtain, casting fleeting patterns of shadow across the floor. His father’s presence was a weight he carried whether he was in the same room or not. It wasn’t just the expectations; it was the unspoken sense of failure, the feeling that he was always two steps away from being disowned—emotionally, if not literally. Even now, as an adult, the thought of entering his father’s domain stirred a strange mixture of defiance and dread. He turned back to the bed and tapped out another response, slower this time.

Castiel: Why do I get the feeling you’re baiting me into something?

The pause before Gabriel’s reply stretched just long enough to make Castiel suspicious.

Gabriel: Because I am. It’s one of my many charms.

Castiel let out a short laugh despite himself. Gabriel was infuriating, yes, but there was also something oddly grounding in the way he handled things—like a constant reminder that no matter how messy life got, humour could be weaponised against it.

Gabriel: You coming or not?

Castiel stared at the message, his thumb hesitating over the screen. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure. Facing his father wasn’t high on his list of priorities, but the alternative was staying here, stewing in the uncomfortable mix of guilt and resentment that always seemed to linger after an attempt to clean up his apartment. At least if he went to the office, he could get it over with—and maybe, just maybe, he could convince his father to drop this mural idea altogether.

Castiel: Fine. I’ll be there soon.

Gabriel’s reply came before Castiel could even put the phone down.

Gabriel: Can’t wait. Bring snacks.

Castiel shook his head, slipping the phone into his pocket as he grabbed his bag. Snacks. As if that was going to soften the blow of whatever awkward interaction was waiting for him at Novak Enterprises. He ran a hand through his hair, half-dry and curling at the ends, and glanced at his reflection in the cracked mirror above the dresser.

“Good enough,” he muttered, tugging at the hem of his shirt. It wasn’t as if his father would approve no matter what he wore. 

The city air hit him the moment he stepped outside, warm and humid with the promise of a lingering summer afternoon. Castiel pulled his bag higher on his shoulder, squinting against the sun as he started walking. Whatever was waiting for him at the office, he’d face it the way he always did—with a mixture of defiance, resignation, and just enough humour to keep himself sane.

The corner store was small, with narrow aisles crammed full of essentials and little indulgences. Castiel pushed the glass door open, the bell above it jangling softly as he stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of cleaning products and something sugary, a welcome contrast to the city streets. His gaze drifted across the racks of snacks and the fridges humming softly in the back. He made his way to the counter first, where a display of brightly wrapped candy bars stood piled in a slightly chaotic heap. Gabriel liked anything obnoxiously sweet, so Castiel grabbed a handful of the most garish wrappers he could find—peanut butter, caramel, nougat, whatever else was packed into these over-the-top sugar bombs. It felt like a bribe, albeit a small one, to keep his brother from pushing too hard when he got to the office. Castiel turned toward the wall of cigarette packs behind the counter. The clerk, a young woman with dyed blue hair and a bored expression, raised her eyebrows at him.

“Marlboros,” Castiel said, gesturing vaguely, “Red, soft pack.” 

The clerk grabbed the pack without a word and set it on the counter alongside his candy bars. Castiel placed a few crumpled notes on the counter, not bothering to check if they were exact. He wasn’t in the mood to fumble with change today.

“Keep the rest,” he said absently, stuffing the cigarettes and candy into his bag. 

The clerk offered a shrug that might’ve been gratitude, then went back to scrolling on her phone.

Back outside, Castiel stood on the pavement for a moment, fishing out the fresh pack of cigarettes. He tore the plastic wrapper with his teeth, the soft crackle oddly satisfying, then tapped the pack against his palm to loosen one of the sticks. The sharp tang of tobacco hit his nose as he slid one between his lips, fumbling for his lighter in the bottom of his bag. The first drag was familiar, grounding. He exhaled a long stream of smoke, watching it swirl lazily in the air before dispersing. His shoulders relaxed slightly. He didn’t smoke as much as he used to—it had started as a teenage rebellion, then transformed into a crutch. Now it was more of a ritual, a quiet moment to settle his nerves.

He started walking again, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. The Novak Enterprises building loomed a few blocks away, its sleek glass façade gleaming in the sunlight. Castiel found himself walking slower as he got closer, the initial bravado he’d felt starting to waver. But then his hand brushed against the candy bars in his bag, and he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Whatever awaited him inside, at least he’d come prepared. Gabriel would have his sugar fix, and Castiel would have his nicotine. They’d survive the day —probably. 

Castiel took his time walking to the Novak Enterprises building, the slow rhythm of his steps punctuated by the occasional flick of ash from the end of his cigarette. He managed to finish three before he reached the sleek, imposing structure. The burn of each drag left a faint warmth in his chest, dulling the low thrum of unease that always came with stepping into his family’s orbit. He exhaled the last stream of smoke, stubbing the final cigarette out against the edge of a trash bin just outside the front doors. The glass reflected his disheveled yet passable appearance—trench coat, dress pants, button-up shirt, slightly damp hair curling at the ends from his rushed shower. It was enough to scrape by under the watchful eye of their father, though it wouldn’t fool Gabriel for a second.

Pushing the door open, he was immediately greeted by the building’s pristine interior. The polished floors gleamed under recessed lighting, and the faint scent of antiseptic and wealth filled the air. Castiel adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and headed for the lift, tugging his collar away from his neck as the lingering smell of tobacco clung to him like a guilty secret. As the doors closed Castiel got a message.

Gabriel: Dad’s back, wants to see you.

When the elevator doors opened on Gabriel’s floor, Castiel stepped out and found his brother waiting by the reception desk, leaning against the counter with the casual grace of someone who never had to try too hard. Gabriel’s golden-brown hair was immaculately styled, and his tailored blazer made him look every bit the effortless heir. As Castiel approached, Gabriel’s nose wrinkled in an exaggerated fashion. 

“Oh, for the love of—Cassie, you reek. Three? Four, maybe?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock dismay.

“Three,” Castiel admitted, smirking faintly as he tossed the bag of candy bars onto the counter. “But I brought you these, so maybe you could be less insufferable for five minutes?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow, grabbing one of the brightly wrapped candy bars and holding it up like a prized trophy. 

“Bribery? You do know this is just enabling me, don’t you?” He tore the wrapper open and took an overly dramatic bite. “Not bad, though.”

“It’s not bribery if it’s a peace offering,” Castiel said, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter beside him. “And you’re welcome.” Gabriel smirked around a mouthful of chocolate.

“You know Dad’s going to smell it on you too, right? You’re not fooling anyone.” Castiel rolled his eyes, glancing down the hallway toward their father’s office. 

“I wasn’t trying to fool anyone. Besides, you think he’s going to comment? He’ll just give me that disapproving look, like I’ve personally ruined the Novak legacy.” Gabriel swallowed his bite, the smirk softening into something gentler. 

“He won’t say it, but you know he worries. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t keep pushing you.” Castiel snorted, though it lacked conviction. 

“Yeah, because that’s not about him or the company at all.” Gabriel’s gaze lingered on Castiel for a moment, as though he wanted to argue but decided against it. Instead, he shoved a candy bar back into Castiel’s hand. 

“Here. Sugar’s supposed to help with cravings, right? Or something like that?” Castiel stared at the candy bar, then up at Gabriel, whose expression was a mix of smugness and something resembling genuine concern. He shook his head and laughed softly, pocketing the candy. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re predictable,” Gabriel quipped, turning toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before Dad starts pacing. He’s in one of his moods today.”

“Fantastic,” Castiel muttered under his breath, trailing after his brother. The cloying sweetness of the candy bar lingered in his pocket, mingling with the faint tang of tobacco on his fingers, a reminder of the strange mix of tension and familiarity that always came with being home. 

Charles Novak was a man who carried purpose in his stride, his tailored suits whispering of wealth and power, his sharp eyes surveying every room he entered as though cataloguing its potential. He was, above all, efficient—cutting through pretense like a blade, ensuring that no moment of his day was wasted on platitudes or niceties. Yet, for all his briskness, Charles Novak was also a father, and his sons had a way of softening the edges of his otherwise impenetrable exterior. Castiel had known this about his father for as long as he could remember. It was there in the subtle ways Charles showed his affection, gestures as quiet as the man himself. The indulgent pause when Gabriel told one of his long-winded, irreverent stories. The way he’d linger just a second longer than necessary after clasping Castiel’s shoulder in greeting. His love was a tempered thing, measured but unyielding. As Castiel stepped into his father’s office behind Gabriel, he could feel the familiar hum of their father’s presence, the room saturated with the calm authority the man exuded. The office was all sleek lines and dark wood, with windows that framed the city skyline like a living painting. Charles sat behind a wide desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose as he scanned a set of documents. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, his posture impeccably straight, the very image of control.

“Castiel,” Charles greeted without looking up, his voice low and even, a tone that was neither warm nor cold but unmistakably paternal. “And Gabriel, of course. Punctual, as always.”

“Dad,” Gabriel said, his usual flippancy muted in his father’s presence. He gestured toward Castiel with a small flourish. “Cassie’s here to discuss the mural project.” Charles’s gaze flicked up, settling on Castiel with the quiet intensity that always made him feel like a teenager again, caught sneaking cigarettes behind the garage. 

“Good,” Charles said, setting the papers aside and removing his glasses. “We’ve invested a great deal into this building’s image. I trust you’ve given some thought to how your work will complement it.” Castiel swallowed, shifting his bag on his shoulder. 

“Of course,” he said, his voice steady despite the faint prickle of nerves under his father’s scrutiny. “I’ve been putting together concepts for each floor. I think you’ll like them.” Charles leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied Castiel. 

“It’s not about what I’ll like. It’s about what our clients and investors will see when they walk into this building. Every detail sends a message, and these murals will be no exception.”

“I understand.” Castiel nodded, pulling a tablet from his bag. “I’ve kept that in mind while planning. Would you like to see?” Charles gestured for him to approach, and Castiel stepped forward, activating the tablet and placing it on the desk. The screen lit up with his mood boards, a carefully curated collection of images, sketches, and colour palettes. Charles examined them in silence, his expression unreadable as his eyes moved over the designs. Gabriel leaned against the edge of the desk, watching their father’s reaction with faint amusement. 

“He’s good, isn’t he? Not that I’m biased or anything.” Charles ignored the comment, his gaze lingering on one particular sketch—a sweeping, abstract piece meant for the entrance floor. 

“This one,” he said, tapping the screen lightly. “Explain it to me.” Castiel drew a breath, his mind sorting through the right words. “It’s meant to represent movement and ambition,” he began. 

“The colours are bold but not overwhelming, and the shapes suggest upward motion—growth, progress. It’s abstract enough to leave interpretation open but structured enough to feel deliberate.” Charles nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. 

“It’s strong. Distinctive without being overbearing.” Castiel’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension easing just enough to let him breathe. 

“Thank you.” Charles shifted his gaze to meet Castiel’s, his eyes softer now, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“You’ve done well, Castiel. I’m glad you’re taking this seriously.” The words carried a weight—not of judgment, but of expectation. Castiel nodded, tucking the tablet back into his bag. 

“I want it to be right,” he said quietly. Charles inclined his head, a subtle gesture of approval. 

“Good. Keep refining. And when you’re ready, I’d like to see full renderings.” Gabriel, sensing the conversation had reached a natural conclusion, clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

“See? Told you he’d like it.” Charles shot Gabriel a look, his lips curving into a rare, fleeting smile. 

“I never said like. I said it was strong.” Gabriel grinned. 

“Close enough.” Castiel let out a soft laugh, the moment easing some of the tension in the room. For all their differences, for all the unspoken pressures that lingered between them, this —these moments of shared understanding— reminded him why he kept coming back, why he still tried to bridge the gap between who he was and who his father wanted him to be. Charles's voice cut through Castiel's thoughts just as he was about to leave.

“Cassie, we need to talk,” Castiel froze mid-step, his hand tightening briefly on the strap of his bag. He turned back slowly, his brows knitting together in faint confusion. His father rarely called him ‘Cassie’ anymore. It was a name reserved for moments of vulnerability, a softer address that Charles only used when he was speaking as a father rather than a CEO. It carried the kind of weight that made Castiel's chest tighten, a blend of nostalgia and unease. Gabriel straightened from where he leaned against the desk, his expression sharpening with curiosity. 

"Ooh, sounds serious. Should I stick around, or is this a father-son moment?" Charles cast Gabriel a pointed glance. 

"Close the door on your way out, Gabriel." Gabriel held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

"Fine, fine. Don’t have too much fun without me." With that, he sauntered out, the soft click of the door closing behind him leaving Castiel alone under his father’s steady gaze. Charles gestured to the chair in front of his desk. 

"Sit." Castiel hesitated for only a moment before sinking into the chair, his posture instinctively defensive. He rested his bag on his lap, his fingers drumming lightly against its worn leather as he tried to gauge the tone of the conversation. His father leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his expression unusually solemn. “Cassie,” Charles began, his voice low, measured. “I’ve been patient with you. I’ve given you the freedom to find your own way, even when it went against my better judgment.” Castiel’s jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening. 

“I know.” Charles held his gaze, his eyes sharp but not unkind. 

“Do you? Because I’m not sure you understand the opportunities you’ve been given—or the ones you’re squandering.” Castiel swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. 

“If this is about the murals—”

“This isn’t about the murals,” Charles interrupted, his tone firm but not harsh. “Your work is good, Castiel. That’s not what I’m worried about.” Castiel frowned, his fingers tightening on the strap of his bag. 

“Then what are you worried about?” Charles exhaled, leaning back slightly. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his words, his gaze distant. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, tinged with something that sounded like regret. 

“I’m worried about you. About the choices you’re making. The company you keep.” Castiel’s stomach twisted, a flicker of defensiveness rising in his chest. 

“I’m not a kid, Dad. I can handle myself.”

“I’m not questioning your independence,” Charles said, his tone steady. “But I see a pattern, Cassie. You take on these projects, you show flashes of brilliance, and then you burn out. You disappear. You push people away.” Castiel looked away, his gaze flicking to the window. The city stretched out beyond the glass, a sea of buildings and lights that suddenly felt too distant. 

“I’m not pushing anyone away,” he muttered, though the words rang hollow even to him. Charles studied him in silence for a moment before leaning forward again. 

“I want you to succeed, Cassie. Not for me, not for the family name, but for yourself. You have talent—more than most people will ever dream of. But talent isn’t enough if you don’t take care of yourself.” Castiel’s jaw worked, his teeth grinding together as he fought the impulse to snap back. He knew his father wasn’t wrong. He knew that his late nights and bad habits were catching up to him, that the cracks were beginning to show. But admitting that —letting his father see that vulnerability— felt like a surrender he wasn’t ready to make.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, his voice tight. “I can handle it.” Charles’s expression softened, and for a moment, Castiel saw not the CEO but the father who had once carried him on his shoulders, who had stayed up late to help him with school projects, who had always expected more from him because he believed in what Castiel could be. 

“I know you think you can,” Charles said quietly. “But you don’t have to do it alone.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Castiel swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he nodded, unable to meet his father’s eyes. 

“I’ll finish the murals,” he said, his voice quieter now. “They’ll be what you want them to be.” Charles nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“I don’t doubt that. But this isn’t just about the murals, Cassie. You’re capable of so much more than you’re allowing yourself to see.” Castiel stood abruptly, his bag clutched tightly in his hand. 

“I should go,” he said, his voice clipped. “I have sketches to finish.” Charles didn’t stop him, but as Castiel turned to leave, his father’s voice followed him, soft and steady. 

“Don’t let the world take more from you than you’re willing to give, Cassie. You’re worth more than that.”

Castiel paused, his hand resting on the door handle. He didn’t turn around, but he nodded once, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, before stepping out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, but his father’s words lingered, threading through his thoughts like a quiet refrain.

If Castiel had been a braver man, he would have turned around, faced his father, and called out the hypocrisy that weighed down every word of their conversation. He would have pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that Charles Novak had no right to lecture him about ‘the company he keeps’ when the only real friend Castiel still had was Balthazar—Gabriel’s best friend from university and one of Charles’s most prized employees. He would have asked his father how it made sense to worry about Balthazar’s influence on him when that same man was trusted to sit at their boardroom table, making decisions that affected hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

But Castiel wasn’t that man. Not today, at least.

Instead, he walked down the hallway with his shoulders slightly hunched, his gaze fixed on the polished floors as if the reflection of the overhead lights might provide some clarity. The words his father had spoken echoed in his mind, rubbing against him like sandpaper. ‘The company you keep.’ Castiel bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing the retort that bubbled just under the surface. It wasn’t worth it. Not here, not now. Charles had no idea what Castiel’s life looked like outside these walls. And why would he? They operated in completely different universes. To his father, Castiel was still the same wayward son who had spent his late teens in a blur of bad decisions and wasted potential. He probably thought Castiel was out every night with people like Balthazar, indulging in whatever fleeting pleasures they could find. But the truth was far less dramatic and far lonelier than Charles could imagine.

Balthazar wasn’t a bad influence. Not really. If anything, he was one of the few constants in Castiel’s life, one of the few people who hadn’t given up on him entirely. Their friendship wasn’t perfect —it was laced with sarcasm, old grudges, and the occasional shared bed— but it was real. And if Charles was so worried about Balthazar’s effect on Castiel, maybe he should take a long, hard look at why someone like Balthazar thrived under the Novak name and someone like Castiel floundered. As he reached the elevator, Castiel jabbed at the button harder than necessary, his jaw tight. He could feel the frustration simmering in his chest, a mix of anger at his father and disappointment in himself. Why hadn’t he said something? Why hadn’t he thrown it all back in his father’s face? He wasn’t a child anymore, yet every conversation with his father left him feeling like he’d been sent to his room without supper.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Castiel stepped inside, leaning against the mirrored wall. He stared at his reflection, at the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight scruff on his jaw that he hadn’t bothered to shave. His father would hate this look—too casual, too dishevelled for a Novak. But Castiel had stopped trying to fit into that mould years ago. He pressed the button for the ground floor, watching as the doors slid shut. If his father really knew what Castiel’s life was like now, he wouldn’t have anything to worry about. The truth was, Castiel wasn’t reckless anymore. He wasn’t indulging in wild nights or chasing after people who didn’t care about him. These days, he worked. He painted. And when he wasn’t doing either of those things, he spent his time with someone who didn’t know Castiel’s last name but somehow made him feel seen in ways that no one else ever had. And yet, even that was complicated. Castiel didn’t know what to call whatever it was he had with Michael. It wasn’t a relationship, not really. It wasn’t just sex, either. Not after last night.It was… something in between, something fragile and undefined. But it was his, and for now, that was enough.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached the ground floor, and Castiel straightened, brushing his hair back with one hand. The lobby was bright and sterile, filled with people who looked like they belonged here far more than he ever did. He adjusted the strap of his bag and walked briskly toward the exit, his steps echoing faintly against the marble floor. If Charles wanted to talk about patterns, maybe he should look at his own. At the way he pushed people away with his expectations, his need for control. Castiel stepped out into the fresh air, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. He took a deep drag, letting the smoke curl in his lungs before exhaling slowly. Charles could worry all he wanted about Balthazar or anyone else Castiel chose to keep close. But at the end of the day, Castiel had made peace with the fact that his father would never really understand him. And maybe that was okay. Maybe some things weren’t meant to be fixed.

Castiel felt the vibration in his pocket as he stepped onto the pavement, the cool air biting at his cheeks. He pulled out his phone with his free hand, his cigarette balanced between two fingers of the other. Gabriel’s name blinked on the screen, along with the message: 

Gabriel: You ok? You left in a hurry.

For a moment, Castiel just stared at the text. His thumb hovered over the keyboard before he typed out a single word.

Castiel: Peachy. 

He hit send and shoved the phone back into his pocket without waiting for a response. He took another long drag from his cigarette, the acrid smoke filling his lungs and mingling with the tension curling in his chest. He knew what would come next. Gabriel wasn’t stupid, nor was he particularly subtle. Castiel’s use of ‘peachy’ was a dead giveaway—it always had been. It was his shield, a word he used when he didn’t have the energy to explain or the desire to be honest. And Gabriel, damn him, always saw right through it.

The phone buzzed again, and Castiel sighed, pulling it out to read the reply. 

Gabriel: Peachy, huh? Where are you?

Castiel stared at the message, debating whether to respond. Gabriel’s persistence was a blessing and a curse, the kind of thing that could feel suffocating in the moment but oddly grounding in hindsight. Still, Castiel didn’t want to talk about his father or the conversation that had left him feeling raw and restless. He took another drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke swirl into the air before he exhaled. He let his thumb hover over the screen again, considering his options. He could tell Gabriel he was fine, that he didn’t need to be checked on like some fragile glass figurine. Or he could ignore the message altogether and deal with the fallout later.

Castiel: Nowhere. I’m just walking. 

Castiel: I’m fine, Gabriel.

He hit send and slipped the phone back into his pocket, quickening his pace down the street. The nicotine buzz wasn’t enough to dull the edge of his thoughts, but it was something, a small distraction. Castiel didn’t know where he was going, but that was part of the appeal. No destination meant no expectations, no judgment waiting for him at the end of the road. He could imagine Gabriel now, frowning at his phone, probably pacing his office or wherever the hell he was. Gabriel would give it a minute, maybe two, before deciding whether to call. And Castiel wasn’t sure if he wanted that or not. Part of him craved the familiar sound of his brother’s voice, the way Gabriel could make him feel anchored even when everything else felt like it was slipping away. But another part of him —stubborn, defiant— wanted to keep walking, to let the city swallow him whole for a little while longer.

The phone buzzed again. He ignored it this time, taking another drag from his cigarette and flicking the ash onto the pavement. Whatever Gabriel wanted to say could wait. For now, Castiel just needed to breathe. Castiel pulled his phone from his pocket again, exhaling a soft plume of smoke as he gave in to the persistent vibration. He expected another message from Gabriel, perhaps a demand for his location or a plea to ‘talk this out.’ Instead, the name glowing on the screen made him pause: Balthazar.

Balthazar: Heard you were at the office, wanna come by?

A flicker of a smile played at the corner of Castiel's lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back against a lamppost, staring at the message for a moment before his fingers moved across the screen.

Castiel: I left already.

He hit send and took another drag from his cigarette, the embers glowing faintly in the dusk. The response came almost instantly.

Balthazar: What a shame. Here I thought I could win you over by telling you that our coffee mugs are now 100% biodegradable.

Castiel let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. The image of Balthazar holding up one of those corporate-approved mugs with faux sincerity sprang to mind, complete with a well-rehearsed speech about saving the planet, all while he sipped from a drink that probably cost more than Castiel’s entire lunch budget for the week.

He thumbed out a reply.

Castiel: You mean they finally stopped being made of the tears of interns? How progressive.

Balthazar: Don’t be ridiculous. Those tears are for the water cooler, not the mugs.

Castiel snorted, the sound breaking through his otherwise quiet mood. He flicked the spent cigarette into the gutter and pushed off the lamppost, resuming his aimless walk. Despite himself, he could feel some of the tension from earlier beginning to loosen. Balthazar’s absurd humour had that effect, even when Castiel didn’t want it to.

Another buzz.

Balthazar: So, what are you doing? Brooding on a street corner somewhere?

Castiel hesitated, his gaze sweeping the empty stretch of pavement ahead. He tapped out a quick response.

Castiel: Something like that.

Castiel: Don’t you have board meetings to disrupt or interns to torment?

The answer came almost immediately, as though Balthazar had been waiting for it.

Balthazar: Already done for the day. Now I’m tormenting you. It’s much more rewarding.

Castiel rolled his eyes but found himself smiling despite his sour mood. Trust Balthazar to inject himself into Castiel’s life at precisely the right (or wrong, depending on perspective) moment. He tapped out a final message.

Castiel: I’ll keep that in mind when I need a biodegradable coffee mug to throw at someone.

This time, the reply took longer to arrive, but when it did, it was quintessentially Balthazar:

Balthazar: As long as it’s not me, darling. See you around.

Castiel tucked the phone back into his pocket, shaking his head as he walked on. The exchange had lightened the knot of tension in his chest, though it hadn’t entirely unraveled it. Still, it was enough for now, enough to let him keep walking without the conversation with his father replaying endlessly in his mind. Sometimes, distraction was all he needed, and Balthazar was more than adept at providing that. Castiel pulled out another cigarette from the battered pack in his pocket, his fingers moving with the kind of familiarity that came from years of repetition. He paused briefly, rolling the unlit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as if testing its texture or mulling over its necessity. The act itself was meditative—a pause, a moment to recalibrate. He placed the cigarette between his lips, letting it hang there as he fished for his lighter. The metallic click of the lid flipping open was sharp in the quiet, followed by the soft rasp of the flint wheel. A small flame flickered to life, casting warm orange light across his face. He cupped it against the faint breeze, his fingers creating a protective shell around the delicate fire. The tip of the cigarette caught instantly, the tobacco glowing with a smouldering ember as Castiel took his first inhale. The smoke was sharp, acrid as it hit the back of his throat, but the sensation was grounding. He exhaled slowly, watching the pale ribbons of smoke curl and twist in the evening air before dissipating into nothingness. His free hand slid into his pocket, his fingers brushing against a stray receipt and a set of keys. The cigarette bobbed slightly between his lips as he inhaled again, this time holding the smoke in his lungs for just a moment longer before releasing it in a steady stream. He watched it drift away, his gaze unfocused, lost in thought.

The cigarette felt warm and steady in his hand, a reliable constant in a moment when his mind felt anything but. The rhythm of smoking calmed him—the sharp inhale, the slow exhale, the occasional flick of ash against the pavement. It was a ritual, one that carried a quiet intimacy, as though the act itself was a conversation only he could hear. He took another drag, his lips curling slightly around the filter, the ember flaring brighter in response. The flavour of the smoke, bitter and earthy, mixed with the faint sweetness of the honey he'd eaten earlier. He wondered absently if Michaelwould hate the way he smelled right now. Castiel smirked faintly at the thought, though the expression quickly faded, replaced by something softer, almost wistful. Flicking the ash off the cigarette, he tilted his head back and gazed up at the darkening sky. The first stars were beginning to emerge, tiny pinpricks of light breaking through the twilight haze. He tapped the cigarette gently against his lip, watching the ember glow faintly in the gathering dusk. By the time he reached the end of the cigarette, his fingers were stained with the faint, tell-tale scent of tobacco, his breath heavy with smoke. He dropped the filter to the ground, grinding it out under the toe of his scuffed shoe with a slow, deliberate motion. The faint hiss of extinguished heat against concrete followed, and Castiel stood there for a moment longer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, as the evening folded itself around him.

Castiel’s phone vibrated in his pocket, pulling him from the haze of his cigarette-induced reverie. He fumbled for it, his fingers brushing over the scratched screen before pulling it free. The name ‘Michael’ flashed across the display, and for a split second, his heart quickened. He wasn’t sure why. He thumbed the answer button and held the phone to his ear, leaning against the brick wall behind him.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Castiel drawled, his tone light, but there was an undertone of curiosity he couldn’t quite hide. Michael cleared his throat on the other end, the faint sound of ambient noise from wherever he was filtering through. 

“Hey. Erm, so… were you serious about that dinner thing?” Castiel blinked, momentarily thrown. He’d said it casually that morning, not entirely sure if it was an offer or just another one of his offhand remarks. 

“Serious?” he echoed, stalling as he tapped the crushed cigarette against the wall absently. “Well, I’m serious about a lot of things. World peace, biodegradable coffee mugs…”

“Castiel,” Michael interrupted, his voice sharper, though still tinged with hesitance. “I mean it.” Hearing his name like that —his actual name— Castiel straightened, the teasing smirk on his lips fading slightly. He realised he was holding his breath. 

“You’re asking if I’ll take you to dinner?” he said, slower now, the words carrying a touch of disbelief. There was a pause on the other end, just long enough for Castiel to imagine Michael pacing, his forehead creased in that careful, overthinking way of his. 

“Yeah,” Michael finally said, his tone steady but quieter. “If you meant it. I mean… I’m free tonight.” For a moment, Castiel didn’t respond. He could hear the faint sound of cars passing in the background, the distant hum of street life bleeding through the connection. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing at the cigarette butt near his shoe. He’d meant to straighten up the apartment, hadn’t he? Or maybe he’d meant to do anything but this—this feeling that was slowly working its way into his chest whenever Michael spoke.

“I wasn’t joking,” Castiel said at last, his voice softer than before. “But I figured someone like you didn’t do public dinners with someone like me.” Michael exhaled audibly, the sound carrying over the line like a soft gust of wind. 

“Yeah, well,” he said, his voice lighter now, like he was trying to mask whatever had been sitting underneath it. “You didn’t seem like the type to care.” Castiel smiled faintly, though there was a flicker of something bittersweet in it. 

“Touché.”

“So?” Michael pressed, and Castiel could hear the faint tapping of his fingers, probably against his steering wheel. “You free, or what?”

“Where would you even want to go?” Castiel asked, feigning nonchalance, though the idea of planning something normal —a dinner, no less— felt oddly foreign. “Because I’m not wearing a tie, Michael.” Michael chuckled softly, a sound that felt more personal than it should have. 

“No ties. Got it. But, uh, if you’re picking the place, just… no weird herbal stuff, okay?” Castiel couldn’t help but laugh, the sound catching him off guard as much as the invitation itself had. 

“Fine. But I’m picking the drinks. You need something better than a protein shake.”

“Deal,” Michael replied, and the word carried an unexpected warmth that settled somewhere deep in Castiel’s chest. “Text me when and where.”

The call ended with a soft click, and Castiel stared at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone back into his pocket. His fingers lingered there, brushing against the fabric, as he turned toward the street. It was strange, he thought, how a simple question —an invitation, even— could shift the rhythm of his day. Castiel pulled out another cigarette but didn’t light it, letting it rest between his fingers as he began to walk. Dinner with Michael. The words lingered in his mind like smoke, curling around his thoughts as he started planning, for the first time in a long time, something that felt like a future.

Castiel: Conor’s diner, anytime.

Castiel slipped his phone back into his pocket after sending the last text, letting out a slow breath as he leaned his shoulder against the weathered brick of the building beside him. Conner’s Diner. It wasn’t flashy or impressive—not the kind of place someone like Michael might frequent. But it was real. The kind of spot where the food was messy in the best way, and the coffee tasted like something you’d pour at three a.m. in the middle of nowhere. He glanced down at the cigarette still unlit between his fingers, the filter slightly bent from his absentminded grip. He debated lighting it but decided against it. Instead, he twirled it idly, letting the smooth paper roll over his fingertips. It gave him something to do while his thoughts churned.

Michael. Castiel rolled the name around in his head as he tried to piece him together, one layer at a time. Mister Perfectly Pressed Shirts wasn’t the type to eat burgers in a diner with cracked leather booths and a jukebox that only played half the songs listed. And yet, Michael had said for Castiel to choose. He had laughed. Michael had called. Castiel smiled faintly to himself, though it faded just as quickly as it appeared. He hadn’t meant for this… whatever this was… to get tangled like this. It had been simple at first. Nights that didn’t require explanations. Mornings that didn’t ask for promises. But now, every time Michael texted, the fact that he had stayed —it chipped away at the walls Castiel had so carefully built. The phone buzzed in his pocket again. Castiel fished it out, his thumb swiping across the screen to reveal a new message.

Michael: Conner’s Diner? Really?

Castiel huffed out a laugh, the sound a mix of amusement and exasperation. He typed back quickly, his fingers moving on instinct.

Castiel: Trust me, it may not be fancy, but they have the best burgers.

He stared at the screen for a moment, watching the little bubble appear, disappear, and then reappear as Michael typed. When the reply finally came, it was simple.

Michael: Alright. I’ll head over soon. Be there in like 20/25.

For a moment, Castiel felt lighter, the knot in his chest loosening just a fraction. He tucked the phone away again and straightened up, flicking the unlit cigarette into the bin nearby. The thought of seeing Michael at Conner’s, of watching him sit awkwardly in the squeaky booth and maybe loosen his corporate armour for just a second—it made Castiel’s steps a little quicker, his breath a little steadier. As he started walking, he couldn’t help but wonder what Michael really thought of him. Not the version Michael saw —the dishevelled artist with too many bad habits and an apartment he could never quite bring himself to clean— but the person underneath all that. Did Michael see him, or was he just another distraction? Castiel wasn’t sure which answer scared him more.

The diner was a short walk from where he’d been loitering, its red neon sign buzzing faintly in the dim light of early evening. Castiel pushed the door open, the familiar jingle of the bell above it ringing out as he stepped inside. The air was warm, carrying the scent of frying onions, grilled beef, and coffee that had been brewing for hours. He slid into a booth near the window, his eyes flicking to the door out of habit. He ordered a coffee while he waited, his fingers drumming idly against the laminated menu. He’d picked this place for a reason, though he wasn’t entirely sure if it was for Michael’s benefit or his own. Something about it felt grounding, like it could pull him back to earth if he started spiralling again. 

When the bell over the door jingled again, Castiel didn’t have to look up to know it was Michael. The energy shifted in the small space, as if the air had sharpened just slightly. He glanced up anyway, watching as Michael stepped inside, his sharp silhouette somehow both out of place and perfectly fitting in the diner’s worn charm. And just like that, Castiel felt the knot in his chest tighten again. He looked away, focusing on the steam rising from his coffee. Whatever this was, it was about to get complicated. He just hoped he was ready for it. 

Michael slid into the booth opposite Castiel with a kind of polished ease, his movements deliberate but not stiff. He unbuttoned his jacket as he sat, the faint creak of the leather seat punctuating the moment. For a man who seemed to belong in corporate boardrooms and pristine, climate-controlled offices, the fluorescent-lit diner felt like an odd backdrop. But then again, Michael had always surprised him in little ways.

“Hi,” Michael said, his voice low and casual, but there was a warmth in his tone that Castiel hadn’t expected. It settled somewhere in Castiel’s chest, unwelcome and pleasant all at once.

“Hello, Michael,” Castiel replied, his lips quirking into a small smile as he reached for his coffee. The ceramic mug was chipped at the rim, and the coffee itself was nothing to write home about, but it felt comforting in his hands. He took a slow sip, letting the warmth of the drink linger as Michael studied him from across the table. Michael tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in mild curiosity. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a burger guy,” he said, leaning back in his seat with an air of playful challenge. His hands rested lightly on the edge of the table, fingers drumming absently as his gaze flicked to the menu Castiel hadn’t bothered to touch. Castiel raised an eyebrow, setting his mug down with deliberate care. 

“No?” he said, his tone amused. “And what exactly do you peg me for, Michael?” Michael smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching as he considered his answer. 

“I don’t know. Maybe some sort of artisanal flatbread thing? Kale smoothies? Something that comes on a wooden board with a garnish I can’t pronounce.” Castiel laughed softly, the sound unexpected even to himself. He shook his head, the curls at the nape of his neck brushing lightly against his shirt collar. 

“Shows what you know,” he said, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded Michael with faint amusement. “These are the best burgers in the city. Trust me.” Michael’s smirk softened into a genuine smile, his fingers stilling on the table. 

“Alright,” he said, a faint hint of challenge lingering in his tone. “Prove it.” Castiel’s eyes sparkled with something mischievous as he waved the waitress over. She arrived with a pad of paper and a pen tucked behind her ear, her expression tired but pleasant. Castiel didn’t even glance at the menu as he ordered. 

“Two double cheeseburgers, everything on them. Two pepsis. And fries.” He looked at Michael, arching an eyebrow. “You good with that?” Michael nodded, his expression curious as he watched Castiel interact with the waitress. 

“Sure,” he said, leaning back again as she scribbled down their order and walked off.

“Trust me,” Castiel repeated, his voice quieter now, but there was a certainty in it that made Michael sit a little straighter. For all the chaos that seemed to follow Castiel, there were moments —like this one— where he exuded a calm confidence that was hard to ignore. Michael leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table as he folded his hands together. His gaze lingered on Castiel, taking in the subtle ease of his posture, the faint smudge of paint still clinging to the cuff of his sleeve. 

“You come here often?” Castiel shrugged, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee mug. 

“Often enough,” he said. “It’s the kind of place people expect to find someone like me.” Michael’s brow furrowed at that, his lips pressing into a thoughtful line. 

“Someone like you?” Castiel’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he looked at Michael. 

“You know,” he said, his voice light but carrying a weight beneath it. “Someone who doesn’t quite fit.”

Michael opened his mouth to respond, but the waitress returned with their drinks—two sodas in glasses that looked like they hadn’t changed since the diner opened decades ago. Castiel wrapped his hands around his glass, his fingers brushing against the condensation as he took a sip. For a moment, the two of them sat in companionable silence, the sounds of the diner filling the space between them. Castiel glanced out the window, the neon glow of the diner’s sign casting faint reflections across the glass. Michael, meanwhile, watched Castiel, his expression unreadable.

“So,” Michael said eventually, breaking the silence. “What’s the story behind this place? Why here?” Castiel turned back to him, his smile softening as he leaned back in his seat. 

“It’s simple,” he said. “Good food, no pretenses. It’s the kind of place where you can just… exist.” Michael nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful as he reached for his soda. 

“I can see why you like it,” he said after a moment. “It suits you.” Castiel’s smile widened, though there was a flicker of something more vulnerable in his expression. 

“And what about you, Michael?” he asked, his voice low. “Does it suit you?” Michael hesitated, his fingers tightening briefly around his glass. He glanced around the diner, taking in the cracked booths, the worn tiles, the faint hum of the jukebox in the corner. 

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I think I could get used to it.”

The words hung between them, unspoken truths and unasked questions filling the space. Castiel watched Michael for a long moment, his gaze searching but not demanding. And then he nodded, a quiet acceptance passing between them as the waitress returned with their food.

The burgers arrived on chipped plates, the fries piled high and glistening with salt. Castiel wasted no time, picking up his burger with both hands and taking a bite. The satisfaction on his face was immediate, and Michael couldn’t help but chuckle as he followed suit.

“You were right,” Michael admitted after his first bite, his tone somewhere between surprise and admiration. “This is good.” Castiel grinned, his eyes lighting up as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. 

“Told you,” he said simply, and for the first time in a long time, the knot in his chest felt just a little looser. Castiel took a sip of his soda, his gaze flicking up to Michael with an air of casual curiosity. The light above their booth buzzed faintly, its glow soft and uneven, casting faint shadows across Michael’s sharp features. For a moment, Castiel studied him, the line of his jaw, the way his hands rested on either side of his plate, fingers just brushing the edge.

“So,” Castiel said, setting his glass down with a gentle clink, “how did the presentation go?” Michael paused mid-bite, his gaze lifting to meet Castiel’s. There was a flicker of something in his eyes —satisfaction, maybe, or relief— but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, setting it down beside his plate before leaning back slightly.

“Well,” Michael said, his tone even but with the faintest hint of a smile. “It went… well.” Castiel arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching in amusement. 

“That’s it? Just ‘well’? After all the stress you were carrying around, I thought you’d have a whole speech prepared about how you dazzled everyone with your charm and PowerPoint skills.” Michael chuckled, the sound low and warm, as he reached for a fry. 

“You’re assuming I didn’t,” he replied, popping the fry into his mouth. “Maybe I’m just being modest.”

“Modesty,” Castiel said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you try that before.” Michael rolled his eyes, but his smile widened just enough to soften the gesture. 

“It’s not that exciting,” he said. “I did the presentation, they liked it, and Charles didn’t find anything to nitpick. That’s about as close to a standing ovation as you get in my world.” Castiel tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. 

“Charles is the one who matters, though, right? As long as he’s happy, you’re golden?”

“Something like that,” Michael replied, his gaze dropping to his plate. He picked at the edge of his bun, his movements slow, almost absent-minded. “He’s not an easy man to impress, but I think I managed to pull it off.” Castiel watched him carefully, noting the way Michael’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction, the tension that seemed to cling to him like a second skin easing slightly. 

“Well,” Castiel said softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of sincerity, “good for you, Michael. I’m glad it went well.” Michael’s eyes flicked back up to meet Castiel’s, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them—a brief, fleeting connection that neither of them was entirely ready to acknowledge. Then Michael’s smile turned teasing again, his usual armour slipping back into place.

“Thanks,” he said, leaning forward to take another bite of his burger. “Now, if you’d like, I can give you the full PowerPoint presentation right here. I even have charts.” Castiel snorted, shaking his head as he reached for another fry. 

“As thrilling as that sounds, I think I’ll pass.” Michael smirked, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. 

“Your loss.”

For a while, they ate in comfortable silence, the conversation lingering in the air like the faint scent of coffee and grease that filled the diner. Castiel glanced at Michael again, the corners of his lips curving into a faint smile as he watched him settle into the space, his polished exterior softening just enough to feel… real. It suited him, Castiel thought. This place, this moment. Maybe more than either of them realised.

“So Charles, is that your boss?” Castiel asked after awhile. 

“Erm…kinda? He's the ceo.” The connection snapped into place, sudden and undeniable. His hand twitched, and the glass slipped from his grip. It hit the table with a sharp clatter before toppling over, spilling pepsi across the laminate surface and cascading onto the floor. “Novak enterprises? And his son was there too Gabriel—” Michael —Dean— froze mid-sentence, his wide-eyed expression shifting from surprise to alarm. “Castiel?” he asked, his voice careful, unsure. “What’s—?”

“Your name,” Castiel said, his voice low and deliberate, each syllable like the scrape of a knife, “isn’t Michael.”

The words hung between them, heavy and inescapable. Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes darted to the mess on the table and then back to Castiel. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, his carefully constructed composure crumbling in real time.

“I—” Dean started, his tone flustered, almost pleading, “I can explain—” 

But Castiel was already reaching into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills. He tossed them onto the table without counting them, the gesture brusque and final. He slung his bag over his shoulder in a single, sharp motion, and he stood, ready to leave. 

“Castiel, wait,” Dean said, his voice louder now, edged with urgency. He reached out as though to stop him, but his hand hovered in the air, unsure, unwilling to cross the fragile boundary that had just shattered between them. “Please, just let me—”

But Castiel didn’t wait. He didn’t even look back. His steps were quick, purposeful, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he moved toward the door.

“Castiel!” Dean called after him, his voice cracking slightly on the name— his real name, not the teasing nickname Castiel had come to expect. It was raw, unguarded, and it made Castiel falter for just a fraction of a second. But the anger and betrayal twisting in his chest pushed him forward.

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped out into the cool night air, the sounds of the city swallowing Dean’s voice as it called after him again. Castiel didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. Not now, not with the pieces of his own tangled reality scattering at his feet. The streetlights cast long, uneven shadows as he walked briskly down the pavement, his hand gripping the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles turned white. His thoughts raced, colliding into one another with a force that left him breathless.

Novak Enterprises.

Gabriel.

Dean Smith.

And now, this—this was a lie, this was betrayal. He felt foolish, exposed, like he’d been the subject of some elaborate joke that only now was being revealed.

By the time Castiel reached the corner, he stopped, leaning against the cold metal of a streetlamp as he tried to catch his breath. He reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, his hands trembling as he pulled one out and lit it. The first drag was harsh, acrid, but it grounded him, gave him something solid to cling to amidst the chaos in his head. He stared down the empty street, his mind racing with questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Behind him, the diner’s red neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a faint glow that felt far too warm for the storm churning inside him.

Who the hell was Dean Smith? And more importantly, why had he lied?

Castiel exhaled a long stream of smoke, the ember at the tip of his cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. He didn’t have the answers, but one thing was certain: whatever this was, it had just changed—and there was no going back.

Chapter Text

Balthazar’s office was a study in curated indulgence. The desk was a sleek, polished piece of craftsmanship, a statement of both wealth and taste. A half-empty glass of scotch sat on a coaster, its amber liquid catching the light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind him, the city sprawled in a glittering haze, but Balthazar barely spared it a glance as he leaned back in his chair, his phone in one hand and a sharp smile playing on his lips. The door swung open without warning, and Gabriel strolled in, his leather jacket slightly askew and his brow furrowed in a way that immediately drew Balthazar’s attention.

“Well, hello to you too,” Balthazar drawled, setting his phone down with deliberate slowness. “What brings you to my humble lair? Trouble at the family empire?” Gabriel ignored the quip, pacing across the room with an energy that felt out of place against the relaxed elegance of the space. 

“Have you seen Castiel?” he asked, his voice clipped, the words tumbling out in rapid succession. “Because I haven’t. Not for a week. And he’s got that meeting with Dad tomorrow.” Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something closer to curiosity. 

“What’s this? Concern for our wayward artist? How touching.” He folded his hands behind his head, his tone as casual as ever. “But no, Gabriel, I haven’t seen him. Why? Did he disappear into one of his existential funks again?” Gabriel stopped pacing long enough to fix Balthazar with a glare. 

“I’ve been trying to call him all day. He’s not answering. And knowing Castiel, that probably means he’s ignoring me, which is fine, except that Dad’s already on edge, and I don’t feel like being the one to explain why his golden child isn’t showing up.” Balthazar tilted his head, studying Gabriel with a mix of amusement and mild irritation. 

“So you came here because…?” Gabriel crossed his arms, his expression tight. 

“Because I know you have a spare key to his apartment. Don’t pretend you don’t.” At that, Balthazar let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Of course I do. I’m nothing if not prepared. But breaking into his apartment? That feels a bit dramatic, even for you.”

“Dramatic?” Gabriel shot back, his voice rising slightly. “He’s got a meeting with Dad. Tomorrow. Do you want to explain to Charles Novak why Castiel’s MIA? Because I sure as hell don’t.” Balthazar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he regarded Gabriel with something bordering on sympathy. 

“And you’re sure this isn’t just another of his ‘disappear and reappear when the mood strikes’ routines?” Gabriel’s jaw tightened, his frustration palpable. 

“I’m not sure of anything. That’s the problem. And if you’ve got the key, then we can find out.” Balthazar sighed, the sound exaggerated but not entirely without feeling. 

“Fine,” he said, reaching into the drawer of his desk. He pulled out a small silver key, its surface gleaming faintly in the office light. He twirled it between his fingers before tossing it to Gabriel, who caught it with a sharp, practiced motion.

“You’re a saint,” Gabriel said dryly, pocketing the key. Balthazar smirked. 

“Hardly. But I do have one condition.” Gabriel arched an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“If you find him sulking in his studio with a paint brush in one hand and a cigarette in the other, do try to be gentle. He’s fragile, you know.” Gabriel rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“Noted. And if he’s not there?” Balthazar shrugged, leaning back in his chair once more. 

“Then it’s not my problem, darling. But do let me know. I’d hate to miss out on whatever drama you’re about to unleash.” 

Gabriel didn’t respond, already turning on his heel and heading for the door. As it closed behind him, Balthazar reached for his glass of scotch, his gaze drifting to the skyline. A flicker of unease passed through him, brief but persistent. He shook it off with a sip, his expression settling back into its usual mask of disinterested charm.

“Here’s hoping he’s just being moody,” Balthazar murmured to himself, though the words carried less conviction than he would have liked. Gabriel exhaled sharply as the elevator dinged open, the quiet hum of the building’s interior contrasting with the storm he felt brewing in his chest. Castiel’s floor was silent, save for the faint hum of an air conditioner. The hallway leading to his brother’s door was lined with minimalist décor—art pieces chosen more for their neutral appeal than personal taste. It was a sterile, controlled world, and Gabriel couldn’t help but think of how out of place Castiel’s chaotic energy always felt in spaces like this. He reached the door and slid the key into the lock, pausing for a brief moment as his hand rested on the handle. Gabriel steeled himself, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open.

The sight that greeted him hit like a punch to the gut.

The open floor plan, once a testament to Castiel’s vibrant creativity, had become an unrecognisable disaster zone. Books spilled across the floor like fallen soldiers, their spines bent and pages torn. The bookshelves themselves looked as though they’d been ransacked, some leaning precariously, others entirely toppled over. Picture frames lay shattered beneath the gallery wall, the photographs they once held now scattered among the shards of glass. Gabriel stepped cautiously over the mess, his shoes crunching faintly against broken glass. The air was thick with the acrid scent of stale cigarettes and spilled alcohol. The windows, usually a source of soft, calming light, were streaked with smudges and fingerprints, as though Castiel had paced in front of them, running his hands along the glass in some restless fit. Climbing plants that had once brought life to the bookshelves now hung limply, their leaves browning as if they’d absorbed the chaotic energy of the room.

“Cassie…” Gabriel’s voice was barely above a whisper, more an exhalation of disbelief than an attempt to call out. He didn’t expect a response, not really. His eyes swept the room until they landed on the reading nook. Castiel was slumped there, his body half-sunken into the deep cushions. His clothes were wrinkled, the same ones he’d worn the last time Gabriel had seen him at the office a week ago. The fabric clung to him as if it hadn’t been washed in days, and Gabriel could see faint streaks of paint on his sleeves—a remnant of whatever project Castiel had abandoned before this descent.

Cigarette butts and empty bottles littered the floor around him, a small mountain of neglect. A glass rested precariously on the edge of the low table beside him, its contents long dried into a sticky residue. Castiel’s head lolled against the bookshelf behind him, his face pale and drawn. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring blankly ahead as though the world around him had dissolved into a meaningless blur. Gabriel swallowed hard and glanced toward the piano bar. It was one of Castiel’s prized possessions, a piece he’d restored himself and repurposed into a functional centerpiece. Now, its top was bare, the usual display of bottles replaced with nothing but dust and emptiness.

“Fuck,” Gabriel muttered under his breath, the weight of what he was seeing finally sinking in. This wasn’t just a bad day or a typical Castiel tantrum. This was something worse. Something darker. He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as though any sudden motion might shatter the fragile atmosphere. “Cassie,” he said again, louder this time, though his voice still carried a note of hesitation. “What the hell is this?” Castiel’s eyes flickered, barely acknowledging his brother’s presence. He shifted slightly, a sluggish, half-hearted movement that only made him look smaller, more crumpled. 

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “Go away, Gabriel.” Gabriel ignored the dismissal, crouching down to Castiel’s level. Up close, the state of his brother was even more alarming. His usually expressive eyes were dull, rimmed with red as though he hadn’t slept—or had been crying. Probably both. The faint stubble on his jaw was unkempt, more shadow than style, and the faint smell of alcohol clung to him like a second skin.

“Nothing?” Gabriel repeated, his tone sharp with disbelief. “Cassie, look around you. This is a fucking mess.” Castiel let out a hollow laugh, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. 

“Always the observant one,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Go home, Gabriel. I’m fine.” Gabriel shook his head, anger and concern warring within him. 

“Fine? You call this fine? Jesus, Cassie, I haven’t been able to get ahold of you for a week. You’ve got a meeting with Dad tomorrow, and you’re sitting here like this?” At the mention of their father, Castiel’s expression darkened. His eyes flicked to Gabriel, a spark of something sharp and bitter cutting through the haze. 

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“Bring him into—” Gabriel cut himself off, exhaling sharply as he ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. Forget Dad for a second. This isn’t about him. This is about you. What the hell happened?” Castiel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for one of the empty bottles beside him, turning it over in his hands as though the label might hold the answers he didn’t want to give. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost resigned. 

“Nothing happened. I just got tired.”

Gabriel stared at him, his frustration giving way to a deep, gnawing ache. He knew Castiel better than anyone—better than their father, better than Balthazar, better than anyone else who claimed to understand him. And he knew that when Castiel said ‘tired,’ it meant more than just exhaustion. It meant drowning, slipping under the surface of something too vast and too dark to name.

“Cassie,” Gabriel said softly, reaching out to grip his brother’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone. Whatever this is, we can figure it out.” Castiel flinched under the touch but didn’t pull away entirely. For a moment, his gaze softened, the faintest glimmer of vulnerability breaking through the cracks. But then he shook his head, his walls slamming back into place. 

“I don’t need your help,” he said, his voice flat. “I just need you to leave.”

Gabriel hesitated, his hand lingering on Castiel’s shoulder. He wanted to argue, to push back, to demand answers. But he knew that pushing too hard would only make Castiel retreat further. So instead, he let out a slow breath and stood, his hand falling to his side.

“I’ll leave,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “But only if you promise me one thing.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, his expression sceptical. 

“What?”

“You show up tomorrow,” Gabriel said, his gaze steady. “Even if it’s just to tell Dad to go to hell. You show up.” Castiel let out a short, bitter laugh, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that looked almost like agreement. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “Whatever gets you to stop hovering.” Gabriel nodded, though the tightness in his chest didn’t ease. 

“Good,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “And clean this place up, would you? It looks like a tornado hit it.” Castiel didn’t respond, his attention already drifting back to the empty bottle in his hands. Gabriel lingered for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage of the apartment and the wreckage of his brother before finally stepping out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, but the weight of what he’d seen stayed with him, settling heavy in his chest. He pulled out his phone as he walked toward the elevator, his fingers hovering over Balthazar’s contact. After a moment’s hesitation, he tapped the name and brought the phone to his ear.

“Gabriel,” Balthazar answered, his voice smooth and nonchalant. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Gabriel’s jaw tightened, his tone clipped. 

“We’ve got a problem.”

“Problem?” Balthazar echoed, his tone light but carrying a trace of curiosity.

“It’s Castiel. He’s... he’s gone off the rails, Balthazar.”

“Off the rails is his natural state, Gabriel. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I mean really off the rails. I’m just leaving his place. It’s worse than I’ve ever seen it. He is drunk out of his mind, the apartment’s trashed, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. And if he shows up like that tomorrow…”

“And you think I can fix this? What do you want me to do, Gabriel? Stage an intervention? Drag him to a spa?”

“You're his friend,” Gabriel snapped, his patience clearly fraying. “And he listens to you. Sometimes. We both know you’re the only one who can talk him down when he gets like this.”

“And what makes you think he wants to be talked down?”

“Don’t,” Gabriel said, his tone firm. “Don’t give me that cynical bullshit right now, Balthazar. He needs help. He’s spiralling, and you know it.” Gabriel leaned against the wall of the elevator, his free hand pressing against his forehead as if the pressure might keep his frustration in check. Balthazar’s voice carried its usual air of smug detachment through the line, but Gabriel could sense the tension beneath it. That tension was the only reason he didn’t hang up.

“Spiralling,” Balthazar repeated, drawing out the word as though testing its weight. “Aren’t we all?” Gabriel’s jaw clenched. 

“Don’t deflect. This isn’t one of your quips. I’m serious, Balthazar. He’s a mess.”

“And again, what do you propose I do?” Balthazar’s tone sharpened, though it still carried that maddening lilt of amusement. “I’m not his babysitter. I’m not his therapist. If he’s determined to self-destruct, he’ll do it with or without me.” Gabriel’s patience snapped. 

“Dammit, Balthazar! You’re supposed to be his friend. Or do you only care about him when he’s entertaining?” The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Gabriel stepped into the lobby, his anger barely contained. He ignored the curious glance from the doorman as he stalked toward the glass doors, the phone still pressed to his ear.

“Careful, Gabriel,” Balthazar said, his voice losing some of its flippancy. “You’re starting to sound as desperate as your father.” That comment stopped Gabriel in his tracks. He turned sharply, glaring at his reflection in the glass door as though it might reflect Balthazar’s face back at him. 

“Don’t compare me to him. Ever.”

The silence on the other end was brief but heavy.

“Fine,” Balthazar said eventually, his tone smoother, more measured. “You win. I’ll go check on him. But don’t expect miracles. Castiel has a knack for rejecting good intentions.” Gabriel let out a slow breath, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. 

“I don’t need a miracle. I just need him to be sober and coherent by tomorrow.”

“And if he isn’t?” Balthazar asked, though there was no malice in the question. Only curiosity. Gabriel hesitated, the thought twisting uncomfortably in his chest. 

“If he isn’t, then Dad will make him regret it for the rest of his life. And honestly? I’m not sure he’ll survive that.” Balthazar hummed softly, the sound more thoughtful than mocking. 

“Understood. I’ll do what I can.”

The call ended with a soft click, leaving Gabriel standing in the middle of the lobby with the dull hum of fluorescent lights above him. He slid his phone into his pocket and ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on the strands as he tried to shake off the lingering frustration. He knew Balthazar would go above and beyond for Castiel. Beneath all the wit and charm, Balthazar had a soft spot for Castiel—one that Gabriel couldn’t fully understand but was grateful for nonetheless. Still, the knowledge didn’t entirely ease his worry. Balthazar might be able to talk Castiel down, but what happened next? What happened when the novelty of intervention wore off, and Castiel was left alone with his mess? 

Gabriel stepped outside, the city air sharp and brisk against his skin. The streets buzzed with evening energy—cars honking, people laughing, the faint melody of a street musician’s guitar floating on the wind. It felt worlds apart from the stifling atmosphere of Castiel’s apartment, and the contrast made Gabriel’s chest tighten. He needed to think. To plan. Castiel showing up tomorrow wasn’t just a matter of family optics—it was about keeping him tethered to something, anything, before he slipped too far into the void he seemed so determined to sink into.

By the time Gabriel reached his apartment, his exhaustion had settled deep in his bones, but his mind refused to quiet. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as he sank into the leather armchair near his desk. His office was a sanctuary of sorts, all clean lines and muted colours, a deliberate contrast to the chaos he often found himself mediating. But tonight, even the order of the space felt suffocating. He sipped the whiskey slowly, the burn steadying him as he stared out the window at the city skyline. His thoughts kept circling back to Castiel, to the look in his brother’s eyes when Gabriel had found him in the reading nook. It wasn’t just sadness or anger or even exhaustion—it was something deeper, something fractured. Gabriel hated that he hadn’t been able to reach him, hated that the one person who might be able to was someone as unpredictable as Balthazar.

The thought of their father lingered too, a shadow that loomed over everything. Charles Novak wasn’t cruel, but his expectations were relentless, his disappointment sharp enough to cut. Gabriel had felt it himself, more times than he cared to admit, but he’d learned how to deflect, how to keep his father at arm’s length while still meeting the bare minimum of what was required. Castiel, on the other hand, had always worn his defiance like armour, and Charles had never known how to handle that. Tomorrow’s meeting wasn’t just about the murals. It was about Castiel proving he could still be part of the family, still contribute something of value to the Novak name. Gabriel knew that pressure could break him—or worse, push him further into the spiral he was already caught in. He drained the rest of his whiskey and set the glass down with a soft clink, his resolve hardening. He couldn’t control Castiel or their father or even Balthazar, but he could control himself. And tomorrow, when the pieces of their messy family came together in that boardroom, Gabriel would be there to make sure Castiel didn’t have to face it alone.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could do. For now.

Chapter Text

Balthazar’s car glided smoothly into the parking lot, its sleek black finish catching the dim glow of the overhead lights. He adjusted his sunglasses—worn despite the encroaching evening—and glanced at the bag of red grapes sitting in the passenger seat. 

“God forbid Gabriel actually stock anything edible,” he muttered, reaching over to pluck a single grape. He popped it into his mouth, savouring the burst of sweetness before letting out a resigned sigh. The moment he stepped into the corner store earlier, he’d known he was buying time. Grapes were a small offering, a meagre peace token for the storm he was about to walk into. He grabbed the bag, smoothing the plastic over with one hand, and locked the car. The building loomed ahead, its walls a dull grey under the streetlights. He straightened his suit jacket, as if that might somehow shield him from the mess he was about to face. By the time he reached Castiel’s door, his usual air of practiced aloofness was beginning to fray. He tapped lightly with his knuckles but didn’t bother waiting for an answer. He twisted the spare key Gabriel had oh-so-helpfully thrown at him and pushed the door open.

The scene hit him like a physical blow.

If Gabriel’s description had been dramatic, it hadn’t been inaccurate. The apartment was a disaster. The chaos felt palpable, as though the air itself had absorbed Castiel’s despair. Books were scattered like abandoned ideas, their spines cracked, some pages torn. Paint-splattered canvases leaned against walls or lay discarded on the floor, their colours dulled by neglect. Empty bottles glinted in the low light, a silent testament to long nights and restless thoughts.

And then there was Castiel.

Slumped in the many cushions of the reading nook, he was a shadow of the man Balthazar knew. His shirt hung loose over his thin frame, creased and stained, as though it hadn’t been washed in weeks. His hair was a dishevelled halo of dark curls, falling over his forehead in a way that only emphasised the gaunt lines of his face. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, its ash threatening to drop onto the already ruined fabric of the couch.

“Well,” Balthazar said, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. “Isn’t this a charming little tableau?” Castiel’s head turned slowly, his eyes glassy and unfocused. For a moment, it seemed like he might not recognise Balthazar, but then a faint, humourless smile ghosted across his lips. 

“Balthazar,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Come to join the party?”

“Darling, if this is a party, I shudder to think what Novak funerals look like.” Balthazar stepped over a toppled stack of books, his shoes crunching softly against broken glass as he moved closer. He set the bag of grapes on the coffee table, brushing aside an ashtray that teetered precariously close to the edge. “Though I suppose I should thank you for at least keeping your wardrobe consistent with the decor.” Castiel let out a dry laugh, though it sounded more like a cough. 

“What do you want, Balthazar? Come to gloat? Lecture me? Join me in wallowing?”

“None of the above.” Balthazar perched on the edge of the table, his sharp eyes scanning Castiel’s face with an intensity that made him squirm. “Gabriel sent me, if you must know. He’s terribly worried about you. Practically hysterical, really.” Castiel scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Gabriel’s always worried. It’s his default setting.”

“And yet,” Balthazar said, leaning forward, “this time, he might have a point.” The air between them grew heavier, the playful edge in Balthazar’s tone softening into something gentler, though no less cutting. “Castiel,” he said quietly, his voice losing its usual theatricality. “What the hell are you doing to yourself?” For a moment, Castiel didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to the cigarette in his hand, the ember burning low, its glow fading with every passing second. He flicked it into the ashtray with a practiced motion, then looked up at Balthazar, his expression raw and unguarded.

“Does it matter?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing does. Not the murals, not the meetings, not any of it.” Balthazar studied him for a long moment, his sharp features softening in a way they rarely did. He reached for the bag of grapes, pulling it open with a deliberate slowness. 

“Eat,” he said, holding the bag out to Castiel. Castiel blinked, his brows knitting together in faint confusion. 

“What?”

“You heard me,” Balthazar said, his tone brooking no argument. “Eat something. Preferably one of these delightful little red spheres I went out of my way to procure for you. Organic. Pre-washed.” For a moment, it seemed like Castiel might refuse, but then he sighed, reaching into the bag and plucking out a single grape. He popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly, as though the act itself required more effort than it should have. Balthazar watched him closely, his expression unreadable. “See?” Balthazar said, his voice lighter now. “Progress. And while we’re at it, maybe you could explain why your apartment looks like a crime scene.” Castiel’s lips twitched, though it was unclear whether it was an attempt at a smile or a grimace. 

“Artistic expression,” he said dryly.

“Ah, yes,” Balthazar replied, leaning back against the table. “The ever-elusive muse, demanding chaos as her sacrifice.” They simply existed in silence for a moment, the hum of the city outside filtering through the cracked window. Balthazar reached for another grape, popping it into his mouth before speaking again. “Look, Cassie,” he said, his tone losing some of its usual sharpness. “I’m not here to fix you. God knows I’m the last person qualified for that. But Gabriel’s right about one thing—you can’t keep going like this.” Castiel stared at him, the vulnerability in his gaze flickering like a candle in the wind. 

“And what if I can’t stop?” Balthazar didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he met Castiel’s eyes head-on. 

“Then you let us help you,” he said simply. “You don’t have to like it, and you sure as hell don’t have to make it easy. But you let us try.” The silence stretched between them, heavy but not suffocating. Castiel looked away first, his gaze dropping to the bag of grapes on the table. He reached for another, the motion slow but deliberate, and Balthazar allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

It wasn’t a solution, not by any stretch. But it was a start. And for now, that was enough. Balthazar settled into the reading nook without a word, the cushions sighing beneath him as he found a place among the chaos. Castiel barely hesitated. As soon as Balthazar’s back met the worn fabric of the seat, Castiel shifted toward him, his movements awkward but determined. He wrapped his arms around Balthazar’s torso, pressing his face against the older man’s shirt, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he was holding back tears. Balthazar stilled for a moment, startled by the uncharacteristic vulnerability. But only for a moment. With the same fluidity he applied to everything in life, Balthazar let his arms come up and wrap around Castiel, one hand resting against the back of his head while the other splayed across his shoulder blades. He pulled Castiel closer, his own movements deliberate but unhurried, as if to say ‘I’ve got you. Take your time.’

“Cassie,” Balthazar murmured, his voice softer than usual. It was free of sarcasm or wit, carrying instead the gentle cadence of someone who cared more than they let on. He didn’t say more, didn’t need to. Words would come later. For now, he just held him. Castiel sniffled into Balthazar’s chest, his grip tightening as though he feared letting go might shatter the fragile moment. The older man’s cologne —a warm, woody scent with a faint trace of something spicier— filled his senses, grounding him in a way the chaos of his own mind couldn’t. The silence wasn’t awkward or forced; it was a kind of quiet sanctuary. Balthazar’s fingers moved to Castiel’s curls, brushing through them with absentminded care. He knew better than to push, to prod at whatever had broken inside Castiel and spilled out in the form of this rare, unguarded moment. Instead, he let the younger man bury himself in his arms, his grip strong but never stifling. “Y’know,” Balthazar said eventually, his tone light but not mocking, “if you wanted a cuddle, darling, you could’ve just asked.” Castiel let out a muffled laugh against his shirt, though it was tinged with the wet sound of held-back tears. 

“Shut up,” he mumbled, his voice trembling but fond. Balthazar smirked faintly, his chin resting lightly against the top of Castiel’s head. 

“Oh, but I live to provoke,” he replied. His tone was teasing, yes, but the softness beneath it lingered, his hand still combing through Castiel’s hair in soothing strokes. “Though, for you, I might make an exception.” They sat like that for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. The world beyond the nook faded into irrelevance, leaving only the steady rhythm of their breathing and the occasional sound of Castiel sniffing against Balthazar’s shirt. At some point, Castiel’s shoulders began to relax, his body leaning more fully into the embrace as the tension seeped out of him.

“Thank you,” Castiel whispered finally, so quiet that Balthazar almost missed it.

“For what?” Balthazar asked, his voice just as soft. “For being devastatingly handsome? Or for letting you ruin my shirt with your sniffles?” Castiel pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him with red-rimmed eyes and a faint, almost shy smile. 

“For being here,” he said simply, his voice still shaky but earnest. Balthazar’s smirk softened into something warmer, more genuine. 

“Always, Cassie,” he said, brushing a stray curl away from Castiel’s forehead. “Always.” The words hung between them, unspoken promises woven into the quiet intimacy of the moment. For now, it was enough.

“I can’t do this.” Castiel muttered, his voice cracking. Balthazar tensed slightly, his hands still resting on Castiel’s shoulders. He wasn’t sure what ‘this’ was, but his mind jumped to the worst. His gaze flickered over Castiel’s pale face, his bloodshot eyes, the way his fingers curled into fists against the fabric of Balthazar’s shirt as if holding on for dear life.

“Do what?” Balthazar asked carefully, his voice calm and measured despite the pang of unease curling in his chest. Castiel let out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the floor as he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. 

“Be an adult,” he muttered, his words muffled but laced with raw frustration. “This whole… pretending I have my life together. That I know what I’m doing. That I’m not just—” He broke off, his breath hitching as he struggled to find the right words. “It’s too much. I can’t do it. I’m not built for this.” Balthazar’s shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. He let out a soft exhale, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips. 

“Ah, well, that makes two of us,” he said lightly, though his tone carried more sincerity than humour. His hand moved to Castiel’s chin, tilting his face up gently so their eyes met. “But let me let you in on a little secret, darling: no one’s built for it.” Castiel blinked, his brows furrowing as though trying to process the words. Balthazar continued, his voice softening. “Adulthood isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about… managing the mess. Finding the right wine for the wrong day. Picking yourself up after you’ve tripped over your own disastrous decisions and pretending it was all part of the plan.” A faint, watery laugh escaped Castiel despite himself. 

“That’s… not reassuring.”

“No?” Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning, though it was tempered by something gentler. “Would you rather I lie to you? Tell you everyone else has it all together, and you’re the only disaster in the room? Because I assure you, even Charles Novak has moments where he stares at his empire and wonders what the hell he’s doing.” Castiel shook his head, but the smile lingered, small and fragile. 

“I don’t think Dad has those moments. He’s too busy being perfect.”

“Perfect,” Balthazar echoed with a scoff. “Nobody’s perfect, Cassie. Not your father. Not your brother. And certainly not me.” He paused, leaning back slightly to give Castiel some space, though his hand remained resting lightly on his shoulder. “But you? You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to show up.” Castiel swallowed hard, his throat tight as he tried to absorb Balthazar’s words. 

“What if I don’t know how?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar’s gaze softened, his sharp features losing their usual edge. 

“Then you fake it,” he said simply. “And when faking it doesn’t work, you call someone who knows how to pick up the pieces. Preferably someone with good taste in wine.” Castiel huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“You really think wine fixes everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything,” Balthazar admitted with a grin, his hand squeezing Castiel’s shoulder gently. “But it’s a good start.” For a moment, the room felt lighter, the oppressive weight of Castiel’s despair lifting just enough to let him breathe. He leaned back into the cushions, his body still tense but no longer on the verge of breaking. And Balthazar, ever the picture of poised chaos, stayed right where he was, an anchor in the storm. “You’re not alone, Cassie,” he said quietly, his voice carrying none of its usual teasing. “Not in this. Not in anything.” Castiel nodded, the motion small but genuine. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words heavier than they sounded. He wasn’t sure he believed Balthazar —not entirely— but for now, it was enough. Balthazar tilted his head, studying Castiel with an expression that was unusually devoid of its usual smirk.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice low and careful, as though he didn’t want to shatter the fragile moment they were sharing. Castiel shook his head almost immediately, his curls brushing against Balthazar’s chest as he kept his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. 

“No,” he murmured, his voice tight and small. His hands, still curled into loose fists, rested limply on his lap. “I can’t.”

Balthazar nodded slowly, his mouth forming a quiet, understanding ‘okay.’ He didn’t push, didn’t prod, though the flicker of curiosity and concern in his eyes made it clear that he wanted to. Instead, he adjusted his posture slightly, leaning back into the corner of the reading nook while keeping one arm loosely draped around Castiel’s shoulders.

They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city muffled through the smudged windows. The room still smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and spilled alcohol, but the oppressive air had eased somewhat, replaced by the quiet rhythm of Castiel’s breathing as it began to even out.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” Balthazar said softly, breaking the silence with a gentleness that was rare for him. “But when you’re ready —if you’re ready— you know where to find me.”

Castiel let out a faint hum of acknowledgment, though he didn’t look up. He was still too tangled in whatever had dragged him down to offer more than that, but Balthazar didn’t mind. He stayed right where he was, grounding Castiel with his presence and the quiet assurance that, for now, nothing else was required of him. Castiel’s voice broke the quiet, barely louder than a whisper but laced with a rawness that cut through the stillness. 

“Stay, please.” Balthazar paused, his hand hovering momentarily over Castiel’s shoulder before settling there with a gentle squeeze. He tilted his head to glance at the younger man, his sharp features softening into something close to tenderness. Castiel’s plea, so simple and so laden with vulnerability, hung in the air between them, fragile but insistent.

“Of course,” Balthazar said quietly, the words slipping out with an uncharacteristic sincerity. There was no teasing lilt to his tone, no smirking commentary to soften the moment. Just the truth, plain and unadorned. Castiel shifted slightly, his head leaning more heavily against Balthazar’s chest. His curls brushed against the smooth fabric of Balthazar’s shirt, and for the first time that evening, the tension in his body began to ease. His arms stayed wrapped loosely around his own torso, as if he were still trying to hold himself together, but he leaned into the warmth of Balthazar’s presence like a lifeline.

“I mean it,” Castiel murmured, his voice muffled against Balthazar’s chest. “Don’t just say it to make me feel better. I can’t…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into the quiet. Balthazar let out a soft sigh, his hand shifting to rub small, slow circles against Castiel’s back. 

“Cassie,” he said, his tone low and steady, “We’ve dealt with far worse messes than this, and I’ve stayed through all of them. Trust me, darling, I’m not going anywhere.” The room seemed to exhale with them, the chaos of the scattered books, shattered glass, and empty bottles receding into the background. For now, it didn’t matter. The mess could wait. The deadlines, the expectations, the ever-present Novak family pressures—they all faded into irrelevance as Balthazar’s arms tightened around Castiel, anchoring him. “You’re not alone,” Balthazar said, his voice barely above a murmur but carrying a quiet conviction that made Castiel’s chest ache. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if I have a say in it.”

Castiel didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. The faint hitch in his breath and the way his fingers clutched at the fabric of Balthazar’s shirt said more than words ever could. And Balthazar, for all his usual bravado and glib remarks, simply held him, letting the weight of the silence between them settle into something that felt almost like peace. Balthazar shifted slightly, leaning back just enough to look down at Castiel, who still clung to him as though letting go would unravel him completely. The sight pulled at something deep in Balthazar’s chest, a feeling he usually kept buried beneath layers of wit and self-preservation. Castiel’s eyes, red-rimmed and half-closed, stared past him, distant and unguarded in a way that was painfully rare. Without a word, Balthazar reached up, his hand sliding gently along the back of Castiel’s head, fingers threading lightly through the unruly curls. The motion was soft, unhurried, as though he were handling something fragile. He hesitated for the barest of moments before dipping his head and pressing his lips to Castiel’s forehead. The kiss was brief, chaste, but full of a quiet intimacy that neither of them dared to name aloud. It wasn’t performative or calculated—it was a gesture of comfort, an unspoken promise that Balthazar would stay as long as Castiel needed him. As he pulled back, his hand lingered, cupping the side of Castiel’s face with a tenderness that caught even him by surprise. Castiel closed his eyes, leaning into the touch as though it were the first solid thing he’d felt in days. His breath hitched slightly, and his fingers tightened their grip on Balthazar’s shirt, as though afraid the moment might slip away if he didn’t hold on.

“Thank you,” Castiel murmured, so quietly that the words barely carried in the room. They were simple, unadorned, but the weight behind them was unmistakable. Balthazar’s thumb brushed along Castiel’s temple, his expression softening into something almost vulnerable. 

“No need to thank me, darling,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?” Castiel opened his eyes, their usual guardedness tempered by a faint glimmer of something warmer. 

“I don’t know,” he said, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips despite the lingering exhaustion in his voice. “You’re pretty insufferable.” Balthazar chuckled, the sound light but genuine. 

“True. But I’m your insufferable problem now.” For the first time in what felt like hours, Castiel’s lips curved into a faint smile, small and fleeting but real. And in that moment, under the quiet weight of the night, Balthazar decided he could live with being a problem—so long as he could be Castiel’s solution too.

Balthazar let his hand fall from Castiel’s face, resting it lightly on the younger man’s shoulder. He leaned back slightly, keeping enough space to watch Castiel’s expression without breaking the quiet connection between them. The soft glow of the lamp in the corner cast gentle shadows over Castiel’s face, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his features.

“Do you feel up to meeting your father tomorrow?” Balthazar asked, his tone low and even, free of judgment. It was more a question of fact than persuasion, and he already suspected the answer before the words had fully left his mouth. Castiel’s reaction was immediate but understated. He shook his head, a small, reluctant motion, his curls brushing against Balthazar’s chest. His eyes remained downcast, fixating on some invisible point near the edge of the coffee table, as though avoiding Balthazar’s gaze might soften the reality of what he was admitting.

“Yeah,” Balthazar said after a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint, wry smile. “That’s what I thought.” The words carried no reproach, only an acceptance that was as matter-of-fact as it was surprising. Balthazar’s hand moved back to Castiel’s hair, his fingers resuming their soothing, absent-minded movements. The rhythm seemed to settle something in both of them, grounding the conversation in the unspoken understanding that Castiel wasn’t ready—and that was okay.

“I don’t know what to say to him,” Castiel murmured after a moment, his voice barely audible. There was a rawness to the words, as though admitting them was almost as painful as the thought of facing his father. “Every time I try, it just… it doesn’t come out right.” Balthazar hummed thoughtfully, his gaze flicking to the window where the city lights twinkled faintly in the distance. 

“Charles has a way of doing that to people,” he said, his tone laced with dry humour. “He’s got this uncanny knack for turning conversations into performances. And let’s face it, darling, you were never one for sticking to the script.” Castiel let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound weak but genuine. 

“No,” he agreed. “Never was.” The quiet stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Balthazar waited, giving Castiel the space to untangle his thoughts without pressing him for more than he was willing to give. When Castiel finally spoke again, his voice was heavier, tinged with frustration. “He just… expects so much,” Castiel said, his fingers gripping the fabric of Balthazar’s shirt as though anchoring himself. “And I don’t know how to be what he wants. I don’t even know if I want to try.” Balthazar tilted his head, his hand pausing in Castiel’s hair to rest lightly against the back of his neck. 

“Then don’t,” he said simply. “Stop trying to be what he wants and focus on what you want. If you can figure that out—and I mean really figure it out—the rest won’t matter nearly as much.” Castiel looked up at him, his eyes searching Balthazar’s face for something he couldn’t quite name. 

“You make it sound so easy.” Balthazar’s smirk softened into a more genuine smile. 

“Oh, it’s not easy. It’s a bloody disaster most of the time. But it’s worth it.” The sincerity in his voice caught Castiel off guard, and for a moment, the weight on his chest felt just a little bit lighter. He didn’t know if he believed Balthazar entirely, but the quiet confidence in his words was enough to keep him from spiralling further.

“I’ll think about it,” Castiel said finally, the words hesitant but not dismissive.

“That’s all I ask,” Balthazar replied, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of genuine care. He gave Castiel’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before settling back into the cushions, his arms still loosely draped around him. For the first time in days, Castiel felt a flicker of something that wasn’t despair. It wasn’t quite hope —not yet— but it was close enough. And for now, that was enough. Balthazar shifted slightly, letting Castiel settle more comfortably against him. The tension in the room had eased, but there was still a lingering heaviness in the air, the kind that came with too many unspoken fears and unresolved doubts. His hand slid down from Castiel’s neck to rest on his shoulder, a steady presence amidst the chaos. “And tomorrow,” Balthazar said, his voice softer now but still carrying that effortless confidence, “if you want to go, I’ll personally drive you.” Castiel tilted his head just enough to glance up at him, his brows furrowing in quiet disbelief. 

“You’d do that?” he asked, his voice cautious, like he wasn’t entirely sure if Balthazar was serious or just humouring him. Balthazar met his gaze without hesitation, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Of course, Cassie. Consider it a chariot ride to your grand performance—or a getaway vehicle, depending on how things go.” The lightness in his tone wasn’t meant to dismiss the weight of the offer but to make it feel less suffocating, less like a decision Castiel had to get right. It was Balthazar’s way of saying he’d be there, no matter what, without making it a lecture or an obligation. Castiel huffed out a soft laugh, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.

“You make everything sound so dramatic.”

“Well, if I didn’t, who would?” Balthazar quipped, his smirk widening. “But seriously, Cassie. If you decide you want to face the great Charles Novak tomorrow, I’ll be there. And if you don’t, I’ll still be here. No judgment. No pressure.” For a moment, Castiel didn’t say anything. He let the words sink in, the quiet reassurance they carried filling some of the empty spaces inside him. Balthazar’s presence was like that—unapologetically steady in a way that made Castiel feel less adrift, less like he was fighting his battles alone.

“Thanks,” Castiel murmured finally, his voice almost too soft to hear. He leaned back into Balthazar’s arms, letting the warmth and closeness pull him further away from the mess in his head. “I mean it.” Balthazar didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pressed a light, almost absentminded kiss to Castiel’s forehead, his lips lingering there for just a moment before he pulled back. 

“Anytime,” he said, his voice a low murmur that carried all the sincerity Castiel needed. The room fell into a comfortable silence, the weight of the next day still present but less daunting. Balthazar shifted to grab the blanket draped over the arm of the couch and pulled it over them both, tucking it around Castiel’s shoulders with a practiced ease.

“Now,” he said with a theatrical sigh, “if we’re doing this whole emotional bonding thing, at least let me make sure you don’t freeze to death. You’re an artist, not a bloody Renaissance sculpture.” Castiel snorted softly, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Balthazar shot back, his tone teasing but warm.

Castiel didn’t answer, but the small, grateful smile on his face said enough. Balthazar sat back against the cushions, one arm loosely draped around Castiel’s shoulders. His free hand tapped idly as he weighed his options, his gaze flickering to Castiel’s dishevelled state. The tang of alcohol clung to him, mingling with the smoke and the stale scent of days without proper care. It would have been easy to suggest a shower, even frame it as a gentle nudge toward feeling better—but Balthazar knew Castiel better than that. He knew the fragile thread that held Castiel together in moments like these, and he wasn’t about to risk snapping it.

He sighed softly, letting his head tip back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. The golden light from the lamp on the cluttered table nearby cast a warm glow across the room, softening the edges of the chaos. Castiel’s apartment was a testament to neglect and distraction, but to Balthazar, it was also a kind of map—a reflection of the storm Castiel carried inside him. Every toppled book, every forgotten coffee cup, every smear of paint on the floor told a story Balthazar had learned to read.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Castiel mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of Balthazar’s shirt. He hadn’t moved from where he was curled against Balthazar’s side, his head resting heavily against his chest. Balthazar’s lips quirked into a faint smile. 

“Am I?” he asked lightly. “My apologies, darling. I didn’t realise my brilliance was audible.” Castiel let out a small huff that might have been a laugh if he weren’t so utterly drained. 

“You’re trying to fix me.”

“Fix you?” Balthazar repeated, arching a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Cassie. You’re a puzzle far too complicated for mere mortals like me to solve.” That earned a faint snort from Castiel, though he didn’t lift his head. 

“You’re not subtle,” he muttered. “I know you’re thinking about making me shower.” Balthazar chuckled softly, brushing a hand down Castiel’s back in a soothing gesture. 

“And yet, I haven’t said a word about it,” he pointed out. “Though, for the record, I’m not entirely sure how you can stand to smell like a distillery and an ashtray combined.”

“Charming,” Castiel muttered, his tone dry but lacking the usual sharpness. He shifted slightly, his body relaxing further against Balthazar’s. “If you’re going to insult me, at least make it entertaining.”

“Would you expect anything less?” Balthazar quipped, his smirk softening as he glanced down at the top of Castiel’s head. “But no, darling, I’m not going to force you into the shower. That would be cruel and unusual punishment, and I am nothing if not merciful.”

“Magnanimous of you,” Castiel murmured, his eyes fluttering shut. He sounded more tired than sarcastic, his voice trailing off into something softer, more vulnerable. Balthazar’s hand stilled on Castiel’s back as he considered him. Castiel’s exhaustion wasn’t just physical—it clung to him like a second skin, a weariness born from the relentless cycle of self-doubt and overthinking that Balthazar knew all too well. Pushing him, even gently, wouldn’t help. It would only drive him deeper into himself, and that was the last thing either of them needed. Instead, Balthazar leaned down, pressing a light kiss to Castiel’s temple. 

“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “That’s all that matters right now. The rest can wait.” Castiel didn’t respond, but the way his body softened further against Balthazar’s said enough. For now, this was enough. The shower, the mess, the unanswered questions—they could all wait. What mattered was the quiet, fragile peace that had settled over the room, a moment of stillness in the chaos. Balthazar closed his eyes briefly, letting the rhythm of Castiel’s breathing guide his own. Whatever came next, they’d face it together. For tonight, though, there was nothing else to do but sit in the silence and let it hold them.

“You’re old. That’s your problem.” Balthazar tilted his head, his expression hovering somewhere between amused and indignant. 

“Old?” he echoed, cutting through Castiel’s sleepy slur with a sharp note of mock offence. “Cassie, if I’m old, then what does that make your father? A relic?” Castiel ignored the interruption entirely, his words rolling on as if Balthazar hadn’t spoken at all. 

“The problem with you old people,” he drawled, his voice low and thick with both exhaustion and alcohol, “is that you always think you need to… to think for everyone younger than yourself.” Balthazar blinked, his brows raising slightly as a smirk tugged at his lips. 

“Think for everyone younger, you say?” he asked, his voice laced with humour. “What a revolutionary critique. Please, do continue enlightening me, Socrates.” But Castiel wasn’t listening—or perhaps he was simply too far gone to care about the sarcasm dripping from Balthazar’s tone. He shifted slightly, tucking his knees closer to his chest as he burrowed further into the crook of Balthazar’s arm. 

“You don’t let us… make our own choices,” he mumbled, his words running together in a way that made Balthazar suspect he might actually fall asleep mid-sentence. “Always… always guiding, meddling… Like we’re toddlers…” Balthazar leaned his head back against the cushions, suppressing a laugh. 

“Guiding and meddling, am I? And here I thought I was providing much-needed wisdom to you poor, clueless youths.” Castiel made a noise that could only be described as a grunt, his face scrunching briefly against Balthazar’s shirt. 

“You think you’re so wise,” he muttered, his words barely more than a mumble now. “So… so wise and perfect…” Balthazar chuckled, the sound soft and warm as he tightened his arm around Castiel’s shoulders. 

“Oh, I assure you, I’m far from perfect. But wise? Yes, I’ll grant you that one.”

“Not wise,” Castiel grumbled, his words becoming increasingly incoherent as sleep began to drag him down. “Just… old…” The last word was little more than a whisper, trailing off into the soft rhythm of his breathing as he finally gave in to the pull of sleep. Balthazar glanced down at him, his smirk softening into something more genuine.

“Old,” he repeated quietly, shaking his head with a faint laugh. “You’re lucky you’re charming, Cassie.” He adjusted the blanket around them both, letting the warmth of the moment settle over them like a balm. Castiel’s critique —if it could even be called that— hung in the air between them, and though Balthazar didn’t take offence, there was a flicker of truth buried beneath the slurred words. Perhaps he did meddle too much, guide too forcefully. But Castiel, in all his chaotic brilliance, was someone Balthazar couldn’t help but care for—no matter how much he grumbled about it. “Sleep, darling,” Balthazar murmured, brushing a hand lightly over Castiel’s hair. “And in the morning, you can continue insulting my age. I look forward to it.” 

Balthazar drifted off more easily than he expected, the steady rhythm of Castiel’s breathing lulling him into a rare sense of calm. The reading nook, with its cushions and its dim lighting, wasn’t the worst place he’d ever fallen asleep—not by a long shot. And with Castiel tucked close, soft and pliant in sleep, it was far from the worst moment they’d shared. Still, none of that mattered now. What mattered was this fragile peace, the way Castiel’s weight rested against him, grounding them both in a rare moment of stillness. The cluttered apartment, with the faint smell of cigarettes lingering in the air, receded into the background. Balthazar’s usual sharp awareness dulled as he let himself sink into the warmth of the blanket Castiel had pulled over them earlier. The faint hum of the city outside, the occasional creak of the floorboards as the apartment settled, were the only sounds that accompanied the quiet intimacy of the space. He shifted slightly, careful not to jostle Castiel, whose face was half-buried in the folds of Balthazar’s shirt. The younger man let out a soft sigh, his breath warm against Balthazar’s collarbone, and the sound made something twist faintly in Balthazar’s chest. He didn’t let himself examine it too closely—it was a feeling he knew well but avoided defining, something better left in the quiet corners of his mind where it couldn’t grow too loud. Castiel mumbled something in his sleep, the words incoherent but laced with a soft vulnerability that tugged at Balthazar’s resolve. He tightened his arm around Castiel, his fingers brushing absentmindedly against the fabric of his rumpled shirt. The act was automatic, more instinct than thought, a silent reassurance that he was still there, still steady. Balthazar had slept in worse places before—cramped cars, unfamiliar couches, the occasional regrettable motel room after a night gone wrong. The reading nook was practically luxurious by comparison, even if the cushions were a little too soft, their edges worn from use. But what truly set this moment apart was Castiel himself, the way his presence filled the space, even in sleep. Castiel’s chaos had always been magnetic, drawing people in with a combination of charm and quiet self-destruction. And Balthazar, for all his aloofness, had never been immune to it. His own eyes drifted shut, the faint ache in his shoulders from leaning against the bookshelf fading into the background as sleep began to take hold. The last coherent thought that flickered through his mind was a quiet hope—that this moment, this tenuous peace, might be enough to anchor Castiel through whatever storm awaited them in the morning.

Balthazar woke slowly, the kind of waking that came naturally, without the jarring insistence of an alarm. The first thing he noticed was the way the morning light filtered through Castiel’s mismatched curtains. The pale, golden beams softened the apartment’s edges, casting warm, dappled patterns over the chaos of books, bottles, and scattered paint supplies. It almost looked serene, like a moment frozen in time—a fleeting pocket of stillness within the storm that was Castiel’s life. He stretched slightly, the ache in his shoulders reminding him of the awkward angle he’d slept in. The cushions of the reading nook had cradled him better than he expected, and the blanket Castiel had tossed over them still held a faint trace of warmth. For a moment, he considered closing his eyes again, indulging in the fragile quiet that wrapped around the apartment like a soft haze.

But then he heard it.

A muffled sound, soft and trembling. It was so faint he almost convinced himself he’d imagined it. But when he shifted to glance down, his stomach tightened. Castiel sat curled at the edge of the nook, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. His face was turned away, but the telltale shake of his shoulders and the way he wiped at his cheeks with the heel of his hand betrayed him. Balthazar’s drowsiness dissolved in an instant. 

“Cassie?” he said gently, his voice low, careful not to startle him.

Castiel didn’t look up. He stayed curled into himself, his head bent, as though the act of folding inward might make him smaller, less visible. The sound of another sharp breath broke the silence, a jagged hitch that wrenched at Balthazar’s chest.

“Hey,” Balthazar tried again, shifting so he was fully upright. He reached out carefully, his fingers brushing Castiel’s arm in a gesture that was both tentative and deliberate. “What’s wrong?” Castiel sniffled, his head tilting just enough for Balthazar to catch a glimpse of his tear-streaked face. His eyes were red and glassy, the skin beneath them dark with shadows that told of too many sleepless nights. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, his voice breaking on the word. He didn’t say what he was apologising for—whether it was the mess, his breakdown, or the simple act of being seen like this. Balthazar’s hand lingered on Castiel’s arm, his touch firm but not forceful. 

“Don’t apologise,” he said softly, his usual sardonic tone replaced with something gentler. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” Castiel shook his head, his curls brushing against his knees. 

“I shouldn’t—” He paused, his voice faltering as he struggled to string the words together. “I shouldn’t be like this. I—I shouldn’t still feel this way.”

“Feel what way?” Balthazar asked, his voice steady. He wasn’t pressing, but his presence was unyielding, an anchor against whatever current was threatening to drag Castiel under.

“Like everything’s too much,” Castiel admitted, his words spilling out in a rush, as though he could force them into the open before his shame caught up with him. “Like I can’t keep up. Can’t be what everyone needs me to be. Can’t even be who I’m supposed to be.” Balthazar’s chest tightened, the weight of Castiel’s words settling heavily over him. He’d seen Castiel crack before, had watched him drown himself in distractions and bad habits, but this was different. This wasn’t just Castiel being messy or defiant. This was raw. This was Castiel breaking in a way he rarely let anyone see.

“You don’t have to be anything for anyone,” Balthazar said firmly, his hand slipping from Castiel’s arm to rest against his back. His touch was light, reassuring. “Least of all for me or Charles or anyone else with the Novak name.” Castiel let out a hollow laugh, the sound choked and bitter. 

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s constantly reminded how much of a failure you are.”

“Failure?” Balthazar scoffed, the sharp edge of his voice tempered by the warmth in his gaze. “Cassie, if you’re a failure, then the rest of us are utterly doomed. You’re the only person I know who can turn chaos into art, who can make people feel something just by holding a brush.” Castiel’s shoulders trembled, and for a moment, Balthazar thought he might argue. But instead, he leaned forward, pressing his face into Balthazar’s shoulder. His curls brushed against Balthazar’s jaw, and his hands gripped the fabric of Balthazar’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely. Balthazar’s arms came up around him, holding him close. “You’re allowed to feel this way,” he murmured, his voice soft but unyielding. “You’re allowed to be messy and unsure and tired. You’re allowed to not have all the answers.”

Castiel didn’t reply, but his grip tightened, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps against Balthazar’s collar. Balthazar closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly against Castiel’s curls. He stayed silent, letting the steady rise and fall of his own breathing serve as a quiet reassurance. The sunlight continued to filter through the curtains, casting warm patterns over them both. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Castiel let himself be held, the weight of his vulnerability shared, if only for a little while. Castiel rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, the motion rough and unrelenting, as though he were trying to physically erase the evidence of his emotions. The skin around his eyes, already raw from tears, flushed further under the pressure. Balthazar watched the movement with a faint wince, his lips parting as though to protest, but he thought better of it. Castiel didn’t need another comment on what he was doing wrong—he needed something simple, grounding. Balthazar leaned back slightly, his arms still loosely draped around Castiel’s slumped form. 

“Well,” he said, his tone deliberately light, “if I know you —and I do— you don’t have anything in this place that even remotely qualifies as breakfast. So, I suppose we’ll be making do with the grapes I bought.”

Castiel didn’t respond. His hands fell from his face, landing limply on his lap as he stared blankly at the floor. His silence wasn’t unusual, but it carried an unfamiliar weight now, as if even the thought of forming words was too much to bear. Balthazar tilted his head, studying Castiel with a gaze that was sharper than his casual tone suggested. 

“Just a handful,” he coaxed gently, his voice softening. “You’ll feel better. Trust me, Cassie.” For a moment, Castiel didn’t move, his eyes still fixed on some indeterminate point on the floor. Then, slowly, he turned his head to glance at Balthazar. His expression was a strange mix of resignation and faint irritation, the kind of look that said ‘fine, if it’ll shut you up.’ “Good,” Balthazar said, patting Castiel’s shoulder before standing up with a smooth, practiced grace. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. Not that you’re particularly inclined to, but still.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Castiel in the quiet embrace of the reading nook. The sounds of cupboards opening and closing punctuated the stillness, followed by the soft rustling of a plastic bag. Castiel’s gaze drifted to the nearest window, where the light filtering through the curtains had begun to shift, warming as the sun climbed higher into the sky. He felt strangely detached from it, as though the morning existed in a different world from his own. Balthazar returned a moment later, holding a small bowl filled with the vibrant red grapes. Their smooth, glossy skins caught the light, and he plucked one from the pile with an almost theatrical flourish. 

“See? Breakfast of champions,” he declared, popping the grape into his mouth before setting the bowl on the edge of the nook within Castiel’s reach. Castiel glanced at it, then back at Balthazar, who had settled onto the cushion beside him once more. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Castiel muttered, though the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Perhaps,” Balthazar agreed, his tone unbothered. “But I’m also right. Eat, Cassie. Just a few. Indulge me.” With a sigh that bordered on melodramatic, Castiel reached out and plucked a grape from the bowl. He turned it over in his fingers, the skin cool and smooth against his touch, before finally popping it into his mouth. The burst of sweetness was unexpected, almost startling, and he chewed slowly, as though testing its ability to coax him back into the present. Balthazar watched him, his smirk softening into something closer to satisfaction. “See? Not so bad,” he said, leaning back against the cushions with an air of victory. Castiel didn’t answer, but he reached for another grape, and then another. The simple act of eating, of tasting something other than the lingering bitterness of last night’s wine, felt oddly grounding. He didn’t know if it would make him feel better, not really, but for now, it was enough. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay. Balthazar leaned back into the cushions, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one hand resting on the arm of the reading nook as he lazily swirled a grape between his fingers. His tone softened, losing some of its usual flippant edge as he glanced at Castiel, who was still mechanically eating, each grape more a distraction than sustenance. “I know you don’t want to hear it,” Balthazar began, his voice measured but carrying a weight that even he couldn’t quite conceal, “but we’re here when you want to talk. Me, Meg, Gabriel…” he paused, his lips twitching into a faint smirk, “ even Gabriel’s damn dog.” Castiel snorted softly, though the sound was more an involuntary exhale than genuine amusement. He didn’t look up from the grape he was rolling absently between his fingers, his gaze fixed on its glossy surface as if it held answers to questions he didn’t want to ask. “Don’t laugh,” Balthazar continued, his smirk broadening just enough to lighten the mood. “That dog’s more loyal than either of us combined. Hell, he probably knows more about your moods than Gabriel does.” Castiel’s lips curved faintly at that, a ghost of a smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared. 

“That’s not saying much,” he muttered, his voice hoarse but steady.

“True,” Balthazar conceded, popping another grape into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “But my point stands. You don’t have to do this alone, Cassie. Even if it’s just me showing up with biodegradable coffee mugs and a handful of grapes, you’ve got options.” Castiel finally looked up, his tired eyes meeting Balthazar’s. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something, his mouth opening slightly before he thought better of it. Instead, he exhaled slowly and leaned back against the cushions, his body sinking into the nook as though it might swallow him whole.

“I’m fine,” he said after a long pause, though the words sounded like they were meant more to convince himself than anyone else. Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp but not unkind. 

“You’re not,” he said simply, the faintest edge of firmness in his tone. “And that’s okay. God knows, I’m not about to win any awards for having my life together, but you don’t have to lie to me. Not about this.” Castiel shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around the edge of the cushion beneath him. He hated how easily Balthazar saw through him, how effortlessly his carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble under the weight of that damn knowing look.

“It’s not that simple,” Castiel muttered, his voice barely audible.

“It never is,” Balthazar replied, his tone gentler now. He reached out and placed a hand on Castiel’s knee, the gesture steadying but unintrusive. “But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone. Let us help, Cassie. Even if it’s just sitting here, eating grapes, and insulting Gabriel’s taste in pets.” Castiel glanced down at the hand on his knee, the faint pressure grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. He didn’t pull away, though he didn’t acknowledge it either. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken things, the kind of silence that felt like a fragile truce. Finally, Castiel reached for another grape, his fingers brushing against the edge of the bowl. 

“Gabriel’s dog is ridiculous,” he muttered, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Balthazar laughed softly, the sound low and warm. 

“See? Progress already. I should charge for this level of emotional insight.” Castiel shook his head, the faint smile lingering as he popped the grape into his mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now. And for the first time in what felt like days, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone as he thought. Castiel leaned his head back with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Jack Russells aren’t real dogs,” he said, his voice raspy but laced with mock disdain. “They’re glorified rats.” Balthazar, who had been lazily spinning the now-empty grape bowl on the edge of his fingertips, froze mid-motion. His head tilted slightly, a look of exaggerated offence spreading across his face.

“Glorified rats?” he repeated, his voice dripping with theatrical outrage. “You take that back, Cassie. That ‘glorified rat’ has more personality than half the people I’m forced to deal with on a daily basis.” Castiel snorted, the sound abrupt and unrefined but strangely satisfying. He turned his head just enough to glance at Balthazar, his eyes still heavy with exhaustion but carrying a flicker of amusement. 

“Personality?” he asked, his tone sceptical. “Is that what we’re calling relentless yapping and chewing through every pair of shoes Gabriel owns?” Balthazar couldn’t help but grin at the image, though he feigned disapproval. 

“First of all, Gabriel’s shoe collection is excessive. He could do with a bit of culling. And secondly,” he added, leaning closer and lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, “Jack Russells have spirit. Energy. They’ve got that je ne sais quoi.” Castiel let out a low chuckle, his fingers absently picking at a loose thread on the cushion beside him. 

“That ‘je ne sais quoi’ is rabid chaos wrapped in fur. I don’t trust any creature that small with that much confidence.”

“Ah,” Balthazar said, leaning back and crossing one ankle over the other, the picture of relaxed indifference. “And yet, here you are, trusting me—a man of considerable confidence and just the right amount of chaos.”

“That’s different,” Castiel muttered, looking away as his smirk softened into something almost self-conscious. “You don’t fit in my lap and bark at the postman.”

“Not yet,” Balthazar quipped with a wicked grin, earning a roll of Castiel’s eyes. The moment hung in the air between them, light but not meaningless. Balthazar watched Castiel carefully, his sharp gaze picking up on the subtle shift in his friend’s posture. The lines of tension across Castiel’s shoulders had eased slightly, and his hands, though still restless, no longer clutched at the fabric of the cushions as though they might ground him. “It’s a shame, really,” Balthazar said, breaking the silence as he reached for another imaginary grape from the empty bowl. “Jack Russells have a certain charm. Like tiny, aggressive diplomats. They demand attention, and they get it.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. 

“Diplomats? You mean terrorists.” Balthazar laughed, the sound rich and genuine, filling the room in a way that made the earlier tension feel like a distant memory. 

“Terrorists, diplomats—depends on the day. But I’ll give you this: they’re an acquired taste.”

“Like you,” Castiel shot back, though the insult lacked any real bite.

“Exactly like me,” Balthazar agreed smoothly, leaning his head back against the nook’s edge. He turned his face toward Castiel, his expression softening. “But acquired tastes are always more rewarding, don’t you think?” Castiel didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on the bowl in Balthazar’s hands as though it held the answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked. Finally, he shrugged, the movement small but deliberate. 

“Maybe. Or maybe they’re just harder to get rid of.” Balthazar’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he set the bowl aside and stretched out his legs, the hem of his tailored trousers riding up just enough to reveal bright, mismatched socks. Castiel noticed but said nothing, his gaze flicking away to the window, where the afternoon light spilled through the curtain in uneven patches. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt quieter now, not heavy but calm, the kind of stillness that carried the promise of better days. And while Balthazar wasn’t entirely sure what the next step would be—whether Castiel would make it to his meeting or find another reason to stay curled up in this nook—he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. Not until Castiel was ready.

Balthazar leaned his head back, his gaze drifting to the way the sunlight caught in the threads of the thrifted curtains, painting uneven golden patches on the chaotic room. His voice was softer now, carrying none of its usual teasing lilt. 

“I wish I could help you feel better, Cassie.” The sincerity of the words hung in the air, cutting through the lingering haze of smoke and exhaustion. Castiel, still curled up against the cushions, didn’t respond immediately. He traced a finger along the edge of the fabric beneath him, the movement slow and almost absent, as though he were considering the weight of Balthazar’s statement.

“You do,” Castiel said eventually, his voice rough and quiet, like he was testing the truth of his own words as he spoke them. “I don’t think I’d still be here if you didn’t.” The admission was bare, unadorned, and it hung between them like an exposed wire. Balthazar turned his head to look at Castiel, his sharp eyes softening at the edges. He reached out and let his hand hover over Castiel’s for a moment before finally settling it there, his touch light but firm enough to anchor.

“Well, that’s something,” Balthazar said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still, I’d rather see you do more than just… exist. You deserve more than that, Cassie.” Castiel let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it carried no humour. 

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Balthazar quirked an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and offence. 

“I’ll have you know, I’m the picture of thriving adulthood. Fine wine, fine suits, fine company—that’s practically the trifecta.”

“Fine distractions, you mean,” Castiel muttered, though there was no real venom in his words.

“Touché,” Balthazar said, his smile turning wry. He tilted his head, his gaze flicking to the empty grape bowl and then back to Castiel. “But this isn’t about me. This is about you, Cassie. And you’re not allowed to waste that artist’s soul of yours moping around like some tragic protagonist. It’s boring, and frankly, it doesn’t suit you.” Castiel glanced at him, his blue eyes glassy but sharp enough to hold Balthazar’s gaze. 

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I probably don’t,” Balthazar admitted, his tone losing some of its usual bravado. “But I’m here. For whatever that’s worth.” Castiel looked away, his gaze settling on the window where the sunlight filtered in through streaked glass. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like a truce, a quiet acknowledgment of everything neither of them knew how to say.

“Thanks,” Castiel murmured eventually, so softly that Balthazar almost missed it.

“For what?” Balthazar asked, his voice equally quiet.

“For staying,” Castiel said, his fingers brushing against Balthazar’s in a fleeting, hesitant movement. “For not pushing.” Balthazar’s smile softened into something genuine, something free of sarcasm or mischief. 

“Always, Cassie,” he said simply. He didn’t need to say more. For all his flamboyance and wit, Balthazar understood when words could only do so much. Sometimes, presence was enough. Sometimes, simply being there —quiet and steady— was the most anyone could offer. Castiel let out a dry laugh that surprised Balthazar, the younger man’s head lolling against the back of the reading nook as he fixed Balthazar with a tired but knowing look. 

“For every bottle of fine wine you buy, you also buy one cheap bottle of liquor.” Balthazar raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in amusement. 

“Ah, the duality of man,” he said, his voice as smooth as the wine he often flaunted, though it carried the faintest edge of self-awareness. “Or perhaps, just the practicality of a man who knows when to impress and when to indulge.” Castiel shook his head, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his face. 

“You can call it practicality if it helps you sleep at night. But don’t think I haven’t noticed how that cheap stuff disappears faster than the Bordeaux.” Balthazar smirked, his expression unrepentant. 

“Guilty as charged. But you’re missing the point, darling. The cheap bottles? They’re not for showing off. They’re for… other purposes.”

“Like drinking yourself to oblivion on nights you don’t want to think too hard?” Castiel asked, his tone light but laced with something heavier beneath the surface. Balthazar leaned back, his expression softening as he regarded Castiel. 

“Now, now, don’t project, my dear. Besides,” he added, gesturing vaguely with his hand, “oblivion is vastly underrated. At least it’s consistent.” Castiel huffed a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. 

“You really do have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“It’s a talent,” Balthazar said breezily, though there was a flicker of something more serious in his gaze. “But let’s not pretend I’m the only one here with… methods of escape.” Castiel didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he glanced down at his hands, which were idly tracing the frayed edge of a cushion. The room seemed quieter now, the golden light from the window casting a gentle glow over the scattered mess. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter, as though he were speaking more to himself than to Balthazar.

“I think I’m tired of escaping,” he admitted, his words barely above a whisper. “But facing everything… it’s worse.” Balthazar studied him for a long moment, his usual mask of wit and charm slipping ever so slightly. 

“It always is,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “But that doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.” Castiel looked up, his eyes meeting Balthazar’s. For a moment, he seemed caught between disbelief and something almost hopeful.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Balthazar said with a small laugh, his voice regaining some of its usual lightness. “But that’s the thing about cheap liquor and good friends. They make it… manageable.” Castiel’s lips quirked into a faint smile, and he let out a quiet exhale that could almost be called a laugh. 

“So, that’s your grand philosophy? Balance fine wine with the occasional bargain bin special and hope for the best?” Balthazar grinned, leaning back against the nook with the air of someone who had just delivered a profound truth. 

“Precisely. It’s all about equilibrium, Cassie. Chaos and control. Luxury and necessity. Me and… you.” Castiel rolled his eyes, but there was warmth in the gesture, a faint glow that softened the sharp edges of his exhaustion. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but his voice carried none of the bitterness it so often did.

“And you,” Balthazar said, his tone almost fond, “are far too clever to let yourself drown. So let me be your cheap bottle of liquor, at least for now.” The absurdity of the statement made Castiel laugh, a sound that was hoarse and rusty but real. 

“You’re insane,” he muttered, shaking his head, but his smile lingered as he sank further into the cushions. Balthazar didn’t respond, his gaze drifting to the window as the light continued to shift across the room. For once, silence settled between them without the need to fill it, an unspoken agreement that, for now, just being here was enough. Castiel glanced sideways at Balthazar, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re late for work,” he said, his voice soft but pointed, like the nudge of a prod meant to stir rather than push. Balthazar didn’t move from his spot, comfortably draped across the edge of the reading nook, one leg crossed over the other with the careless grace of someone who had long since mastered the art of ignoring obligations. His gaze flicked lazily to Castiel, his lips curling into a faint smirk. 

“I don’t care,” he replied, his voice smooth, carrying just enough detachment to suggest he meant it. Castiel’s fingers stilled where they had been absently brushing the edge of a cushion. He looked at Balthazar properly now, his expression a mixture of scepticism and something softer—something that lingered in the faint downturn of his mouth, the slight crease between his brows. 

“You always care,” he said quietly, as though stating a truth he’d only recently realised. Balthazar tilted his head, the smirk softening into something less performative. 

“Not today,” he said, almost flippantly, but there was a current beneath the words that Castiel recognised. “Today, my dear Cassie, the world can wait.” Castiel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“Since when did you become the type to shirk responsibility? Isn’t that the kind of thing you lecture me about?”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Balthazar said, waving a hand dismissively. “You don’t need lectures; you need someone to keep you from spiralling off the edge. As for me…” He trailed off, letting the thought linger as he studied Castiel’s face, his expression softening further. “I think you’re worth a missed meeting or two.” The words caught Castiel off guard, their sincerity cutting through the haze of his lingering hangover. He looked away, his fingers resuming their restless movements against the cushion. 

“You’re being dramatic,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real conviction.

“Am I?” Balthazar asked, arching a brow. “Perhaps. But if you think I’m going to leave you like this just to sit through another meeting with Gabriel prattling on about company initiatives, you clearly don’t know me as well as you think.” Castiel let out a low, reluctant laugh, his lips quirking into a small, fleeting smile. 

“I’m sure Gabriel would love to hear you describe his job like that.”

“Gabriel can fend for himself,” Balthazar said lightly, though there was a flicker of something sharp in his tone. “You, on the other hand…” He trailed off again, leaning forward slightly, his gaze steady. “You need someone in your corner. And for better or worse, I’ve decided that someone is me.” Castiel’s smile faltered, his shoulders hunching slightly as he tucked his knees closer to his chest. He didn’t meet Balthazar’s gaze, his eyes fixed on the floor instead. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he said, the words quiet but firm.

“No,” Balthazar agreed, his tone gentler now. “What you need is a friend. And unfortunately for you, I happen to be quite good at that.” Castiel glanced up at him then, his expression somewhere between gratitude and disbelief. For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the soft sounds of the city outside, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional chirp of a bird. The light filtering through the curtains shifted slightly, casting golden patterns across the room. Finally, Castiel sighed, his posture relaxing just a fraction. 

“You’re insufferable,” he said, but there was no heat behind the words. If anything, they sounded almost fond.

“And yet, you tolerate me,” Balthazar replied with a grin, leaning back into the cushions as though he had won some unspoken argument. “It’s a mystery, really.” Castiel didn’t answer, but the faint curve of his lips spoke volumes. For now, the mess of the apartment, the looming expectations, and the endless weight of everything he couldn’t yet face could wait. Balthazar was here, and that was enough. “How can I convince you to shower?”

“Give it your best shot and we’ll see.” Balthazar tilted his head, a slow smile spreading across his face as he studied Castiel, who remained curled in the reading nook like an oversized cat refusing to budge. The challenge in Castiel’s tone —soft but unmistakable— ignited a familiar spark of mischief in Balthazar’s chest. He straightened his posture, brushing imaginary lint off his impeccably tailored sleeve, and smirked.

“Give it my best shot, you say? Oh, Cassie darling, you’ve just handed the devil a contract.” Castiel rolled his eyes, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggested he wasn’t entirely immune to Balthazar’s theatrics. 

“Don’t hurt yourself trying.” Balthazar took this as permission, standing and adjusting his shirt cuffs with deliberate flair. His mind began to churn, considering the many avenues of persuasion he could employ. Bribery was too obvious, and guilt was far too dreary for the occasion. No, this would require something subtler. A balance of charm, humour, and just enough exasperation to keep Castiel from retreating further into the haze of his apathy. He wandered to the kitchen first, opening cupboards at random and surveying their contents—or lack thereof. The space was a chaos of mismatched mugs, half-empty jars, and the faint smell of something that should have been thrown out days ago. He reached for a glass, briefly inspecting it for smudges, and then filled it with water from the tap.

“Step one,” he called over his shoulder, “hydration. You’ll thank me later.” Castiel didn’t reply, but when Balthazar returned, holding out the glass, he accepted it without protest. His fingers wrapped around the cool surface, his gaze flicking briefly to Balthazar before he took a small, reluctant sip. “Good boy,” Balthazar said with mock sincerity, earning himself a glare that lacked any real heat. He perched on the arm of the couch, crossing one leg over the other as he watched Castiel like a hawk sizing up its prey. “Now, for step two.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, lowering the glass. 

“Which is?”

“Convincing you to wash off whatever that scent is.” Balthazar waved a hand vaguely in Castiel’s direction, his nose crinkling in exaggerated distaste. “It’s somewhere between turpentine and despair, and frankly, it’s offensive to my delicate sensibilities.” Castiel snorted softly, the sound half amusement, half disbelief. 

“Delicate sensibilities? You?”

“Don’t underestimate me, darling,” Balthazar quipped. “I’m a connoisseur of refinement. And right now, you’re in desperate need of it.” He stood again, his movements fluid, and approached the window where the morning light streamed through. It caught the edge of his golden hair, giving him the air of someone who had wandered in from a more polished, distant world. He turned back to Castiel, his expression softening slightly. “Look,” he said, his tone gentler now, “I’m not asking you to do this for me. Or for anyone else. But a hot shower—trust me, it does wonders. Clears the head, soothes the nerves, and, most importantly, it might make you feel like a person again.” Castiel’s gaze drifted to the floor, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass in his lap. For a moment, he said nothing, his silence filling the room like the low hum of an unanswered question. Then, finally, he looked up, his eyes meeting Balthazar’s with a flicker of something unreadable.

“And if it doesn’t?” he asked quietly. Balthazar stepped closer, crouching slightly so they were at eye level. He placed a hand on Castiel’s knee, the gesture light but steady, and offered a small, reassuring smile. 

“Then I’ll buy you the cheapest, nastiest liquor we can find, and we’ll call it even. Deal?” Castiel’s lips twitched again, his reluctance battling against the faint amusement that shone in his tired eyes. 

“That’s your pitch? A bottle of bottom-shelf vodka?” Balthazar straightened, clasping his hands together as if he were sealing a bargain. 

“Absolutely. And trust me, I can haggle with the best of them.” The faintest smile broke across Castiel’s face, a crack in the wall he’d been holding up all morning. He set the glass on the coffee table and pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly before steadying himself with a hand on the edge of the nook.

“All right,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “But only because you’re insufferable.” Balthazar stepped aside, gesturing grandly toward the hallway. 

“That’s the spirit. Off you go, then. And take your time—I’ll be here, judging your apartment’s questionable décor choices.” Castiel rolled his eyes again but started toward the bathroom, his steps slow but purposeful. Balthazar watched him go, a faint flicker of satisfaction warming his chest. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And in the delicate dance of coaxing Castiel back to himself, even the smallest victories mattered. 

Balthazar retrieved his phone, its sleek screen lighting up with the familiar cascade of notifications. The time at the top confirmed what he already knew—he was extremely late. The digital clock glared at him, accusatory in its precision. He unlocked the phone and began scrolling through the messages, most of which were from Gabriel, as expected. The sheer volume of texts, spread across last night and this morning, reflected Gabriel’s particular blend of worry and exasperation.

Gabriel: Any updates on Cas?

Gabriel: Don’t tell me you’ve fallen asleep there. Again.

Gabriel: He didn’t answer my calls earlier. Is he alive, or is this going to be one of those times you dodge my questions until he resurfaces two days later pretending everything’s fine?

Gabriel: Balthazar. Answer me.

Gabriel: Seriously, man. Is he okay?

Gabriel: I swear to God, if you’re sitting there drinking scotch while my brother spirals, I’m going to personally ruin every pair of shoes you own.

Gabriel: That wasn’t a joke.

Gabriel: He’s supposed to meet Dad later today, and you KNOW Dad is going to take it personally if Cassie shows up looking like death warmed over.

Gabriel: Did he even eat? Drink water? Did you bother to check? Or did you just saunter in, make a few quips, and call it a day?

Gabriel: Don’t make me call you, because you know I will.

Gabriel: How bad is it now?

Gabriel: Seriously, Balthazar. Answer me.

Balthazar sighed, tilting his head back as he let the phone rest on his lap for a moment. Gabriel’s persistent tone was equal parts irritating and endearing, though he supposed it shouldn’t come as a surprise. The Novak brothers had a way of clinging to the people they cared about, even when those people didn’t always make it easy. He typed out a response, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard.

Balthazar: He’s alive. He’s on his way to shower as we speak. Miracle of miracles.

The reply bubble appeared almost immediately, indicating Gabriel was ready and waiting.

Gabriel: Showering? Did you have to bribe him? Or threaten him?

Balthazar: Neither. A simple promise of cheap liquor worked wonders. You should try it sometime.

Gabriel: Hilarious. So how bad is he?

Balthazar: He’s… Castiel. You know how he gets. But he ate a few grapes this morning, so progress is being made. Slowly.

Gabriel: That’s not an answer, Balthazar.

Balthazar: Do you want honesty or optimism? Because I’m afraid you can’t have both.

Gabriel: Honesty.

Balthazar: He’s bad. He didn’t eat much, didn’t sleep well, and he’s carrying that look he gets when he’s somewhere far away in his own head. But he’s upright and coherent, which is more than I expected when I walked in last night.

Gabriel: Shit.

Balthazar: Language, Gabriel.

Gabriel: I’m serious. If he doesn’t pull it together before the meeting with Dad…

Balthazar: I know. And I’ll do what I can. But I can’t promise he’ll be ready. You know that.

There was a longer pause before Gabriel’s next message came through, his tone softer but no less direct.

Gabriel: Thanks for staying with him. I know he’s a lot sometimes.

Balthazar: He’s not a lot. He’s Cassie. And he’ll be fine. Eventually.

Gabriel: I hope you’re right.

Balthazar: I usually am.

Balthazar locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch with a sigh. Gabriel’s anxiety was justified—Charles Novak was not the kind of man you wanted to disappoint, least of all in a high-stakes setting. Still, Balthazar had no intention of rushing Castiel. Whatever happened today, it would have to happen on Castiel’s terms. Pushing him too hard would only make him retreat further. 

The sound of water shutting off in the bathroom broke through Balthazar’s thoughts. He glanced toward the hallway, waiting for Castiel to reappear, towel-draped and reluctantly refreshed. Whatever the next step was, Balthazar knew one thing: he wouldn’t leave until he was sure Castiel had at least a fighting chance of facing whatever lay ahead. His thoughts were infiltrated by when he heard the sharp clatter of something falling, followed by the unmistakable sound of retching. The noise cut through the stillness like a knife, sending a jolt of adrenaline through his veins. Balthazar froze for half a heartbeat and before he even realised he’d moved, he was halfway to the bathroom, the door ajar and steam still clinging to the air. Inside, Castiel lay slumped in the bathtub, his pale face slick with sweat and streaked with tears he probably didn’t even know he’d shed. The acrid stench of vomit hit Balthazar immediately, a sour tang mingling with the faint remnants of lavender soap and damp tile. Castiel’s chest heaved as another wave of nausea gripped him, his body trembling under the strain.

“Bloody hell, Cassie,” Balthazar muttered, his voice tight with alarm. He stepped over the threshold, slipping slightly on the condensation wet floor but steadying himself quickly. Kneeling beside the tub, he placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, his grip firm but not harsh. “How much did you drink?” Castiel’s head lolled to the side, his unfocused eyes finding Balthazar’s for a moment before he heaved again, a fresh torrent spilling from his mouth. The sound was wet and guttural, a visceral reminder of just how far Castiel had pushed himself. Balthazar grimaced but didn’t flinch, his other hand darting out to steady Castiel as he sagged against the side of the tub. “Breathe, Cassie,” Balthazar said, his tone softening as he grabbed a nearby towel and wiped Castiel’s mouth and chin with quick, efficient movements. The dampness of the fabric was warm from the humid air, but it did little to erase the sickly pallor of Castiel’s skin. “How much?” he repeated, though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. Castiel coughed weakly, his voice barely above a rasp. 

“Allofit, mostlyyesterday,” His words slurred together, more an exhausted exhalation than a coherent sentence. Balthazar’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Brilliant,” he muttered, tossing the towel aside and gripping Castiel’s arm to lift him slightly, just enough to keep him from choking on whatever might come next. “Absolutely brilliant. You couldn’t just stick to wine, could you? No, you had to drink the whole bloody liquor cabinet.” Castiel made a noise that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so pitifully weak. 

“Wine’s boring,” he croaked, his head drooping forward as another shudder wracked his body. “Needed… something stronger.”

“And stronger you bloody well got,” Balthazar replied, though there was no malice in his voice. Only worry, sharp and immediate, cutting through the usual layer of detached charm he wore like armour. Castiel retched again, his entire body convulsing with the effort. Balthazar braced him with both hands, his knuckles whitening as he gripped Castiel’s damp, trembling form. The sight of him like this —so vulnerable, so utterly undone— made something tighten in Balthazar’s chest. Castiel was a mess on the best of days, but this… this was different. This was the kind of broken that didn’t just heal on its own.

When the heaving finally subsided, leaving Castiel slumped and gasping for breath, Balthazar eased him back against the cool porcelain of the tub. He stood quickly, grabbing a cup from the sink and filling it with lukewarm water before crouching down again. 

“Here,” he said, holding the cup to Castiel’s lips. “Small sips, Cassie. Don’t make me wrestle you.” Castiel blinked at him, his bleary gaze flickering with a faint spark of defiance before he obediently sipped at the water. It dribbled down his chin, mixing with the already-messy streaks on his skin, but Balthazar didn’t comment. He just held the cup steady, watching carefully for any signs that Castiel might keel over again. “You’re going to live,” Balthazar said quietly, his voice carrying a reassurance he didn’t entirely feel. “Though I suspect you’ll wish you hadn’t when the hangover hits.” Castiel let out a breathless chuckle, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Balthazar sat back on his heels, the dampness of the floor seeping through his trousers, but he didn’t care. 

“No, it wouldn’t,” he murmured, glancing around the chaotic bathroom. His gaze landed on the discarded bottle near the sink —a half-empty flask of something amber and undoubtedly cheap— and his jaw tightened. “You’re a bloody idiot,” he said softly, the words carrying no venom, only a quiet ache. He reached out to brush a damp curl from Castiel’s forehead, his hand lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “But we’ll get through this. One way or another.” Castiel didn’t respond, his breathing slow and uneven as he drifted somewhere between exhaustion and consciousness. Balthazar stayed where he was, his hand still resting on Castiel’s shoulder, a silent promise that he wasn’t going anywhere, not today, not ever. 

The retching started again, harsh and guttural, as Castiel lurched forward in the tub. His entire body shuddered with the force of it, the kind of raw, unrelenting motion that made Balthazar’s stomach twist in sympathy. He moved closer, one hand steadying Castiel’s shoulder, the other grabbing a clean towel to catch whatever might come next. But this time, there was no mess of half-digested liquor or food. It was sickly yellow bile, dripping down his chin and streaking onto Castiel’s still damp torso. The sound of it hitting the porcelain tub was sharp and unnerving, and Balthazar’s gut clenched in a way he hadn’t felt in years. This wasn’t just drunken idiocy anymore. This was something worse.

“That’s not good,” Balthazar muttered under his breath, his usual sardonic wit nowhere to be found. He glanced at Castiel’s face —pale, drawn, and damp with sweat— and saw the same realization flickering dimly in his glassy blue eyes. Castiel leaned back against the cold tub, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His lips parted as if to say something, but all that came out was a dry, rasping sound that made Balthazar wince. He grabbed the glass of water from the sink and crouched down again, pressing it into Castiel’s trembling hands. “Drink,” Balthazar ordered, his voice firmer than before. “Small sips, Cassie. Don’t argue with me.” Castiel obeyed, though his hands shook so badly that Balthazar had to steady the glass for him. He managed a few sips before letting out a weak, humorless laugh. 

“Guess… my stomach’s empty now,” he croaked, his voice raw from the effort of vomiting. Balthazar didn’t laugh. 

“Yes, and if we’re lucky, it’ll stay that way,” he said, setting the glass aside and sitting back on his heels. His eyes narrowed as he took in Castiel’s state—the sunken cheeks, the faint tremor in his limbs, the sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. “Cassie, this isn’t just a bad hangover. You’re dehydrated, and I don’t even want to think about what you’ve done to your insides.” Castiel groaned, tilting his head back against the tub with a weary sigh. 

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, though the words held no conviction. “I’m always fine.”

“Fine,” Balthazar repeated, his tone sharp enough to cut. “You just spent the last twenty minutes emptying your guts, and now you’re spitting up bile. You think that’s fine? Forgive me if I don’t share your optimism.” Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut, his brows knitting together in a weak attempt at defiance. 

“Don’t need a lecture,” he muttered. “Need sleep.” Balthazar ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, ruining the neat lines in his frustration. 

“What you need is a damn doctor,” he snapped, though he knew it would fall on deaf ears. Castiel’s stubbornness was as predictable as the sunrise. He wasn’t going to a hospital unless someone dragged him there kicking and screaming. For a long moment, the bathroom was filled only with the sound of Castiel’s labored breathing and the faint drip of water from the faucet. Balthazar closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a steadying breath. Losing his temper wouldn’t help—not now, not with Castiel like this. “Alright,” he said finally, his voice quieter, almost gentle. “If you won’t see a doctor, we’re doing this my way. Water, rest, and no more damn alcohol.” Castiel cracked one eye open, his lips curving into a faint, bitter smile. 

“You’re bossy when you’re worried.” Balthazar snorted, though the sound lacked his usual humor.

 “And you’re infuriating when you’re self-destructive. A perfect pair, aren’t we?” He stood and grabbed a clean washcloth from the sink, running it under lukewarm water before kneeling back beside Castiel. 

“Here,” he said, dabbing the cloth gently against Castiel’s sweat-dampened face. “Let’s clean you up before you start looking even more like something out of a horror film.” Castiel didn’t resist, letting Balthazar’s hands work with a surprising amount of care. The cool cloth seemed to soothe him, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly as the worst of the sweat and grime was wiped away. His breathing slowed, though the occasional tremor still wracked his body. “You’re a bloody mess,” Balthazar murmured, more to himself than to Castiel. “But I’m not letting you keel over on my watch. You’ll have to try harder than that.” Castiel huffed a soft laugh, his eyes fluttering shut again. 

“Not planning on dying,” he mumbled, the words slurred but earnest. “Just… tired.” Balthazar leaned back, his gaze lingering on Castiel’s pale face. 

“Then sleep,” he said softly, his voice carrying a rare note of tenderness. “But if you so much as twitch in the wrong direction, I’m calling an ambulance. Understood?” Castiel didn’t respond, already drifting toward an uneasy sleep. Balthazar stayed where he was, watching over him with a mixture of exasperation and quiet resolve. He didn’t trust Castiel to take care of himself, not in this state. So for now, he’d do it for him, no matter how maddening or messy it got.

Balthazar let out a slow, measured breath, his gaze fixed on Castiel’s pale, hollowed face. He pressed the damp washcloth back into the sink, the water swirling away in faint streaks of yellow and grey. Turning back, he crouched by the tub again, his arms resting on his knees as he studied Castiel like a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.

“What the hell happened to you, Cassie?” he asked, his voice quieter now but no less pressing. There was no venom, no sharp edge—just a thread of concern winding tightly through the words. Castiel blinked slowly, his lashes dark against his too-pale cheeks. 

“I don’t like it when you push,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and barely audible. Balthazar tipped his head back slightly, letting out a bitter chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Yes, well,” he said, gesturing to the wreckage of Castiel himself, “when you go on a week-long bender, drink every drop of alcohol in your apartment, and end up covered in your own vomit, I feel like pushing becomes somewhat justified.” Castiel’s eyes flicked away, finding some indistinct point on the tiled wall. He shifted slightly in the tub, curling into himself as though he could disappear under the weight of Balthazar’s words.

“Don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered.

“Of course you don’t,” Balthazar said, his tone dry but not unkind. He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Cigarettes and alcohol is an Oasis song, Castiel, not a lifestyle. You’ve got to give me something here. What the hell happened?” Castiel’s silence stretched like a frayed thread ready to snap. His hands twitched faintly in his lap, his fingers brushing against the edge of the tub in restless, aimless motions. The raw edges of him —his exhaustion, his vulnerability— were laid bare, but his walls remained resolutely in place. Balthazar watched him for a long moment, his gaze softening despite himself. “Fine,” he said finally, his voice dropping to a gentler register. “You don’t want to talk? Don’t. But this?” He gestured vaguely to the tub, to the half empty bottle and the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. “This isn’t sustainable, Castiel. You’re going to run yourself into the ground.” Castiel’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Maybe that’s the point,” he said quietly, the words slipping out like an unguarded confession. For a moment, Balthazar didn’t respond. His chest tightened, the sharp sting of those words hitting deeper than he expected. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and met Castiel’s gaze head-on. 

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the knot in his throat. “Don’t even think like that. You’re worth more than this, Cassie. Even if you don’t see it, I do.” Castiel’s eyes flickered, something unspoken flashing across his face before he turned away again. The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating, but Balthazar didn’t push any further. He knew better than to force answers that Castiel wasn’t ready to give. Instead, he stood and filled the glass with water again, holding it out with quiet insistence. “Drink,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And then, for the love of all things holy, let me get you out of this godforsaken tub.” Castiel hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edge of the glass before finally taking it. He drank slowly, each sip a small concession, but it was enough for now. Balthazar watched him, the faintest trace of relief easing the tension in his chest. It wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t a solution. But it was something. And for the moment, that would have to be enough. Balthazar wrung out the washcloth once more, the water dripping back into the basin with a faint splatter. He leaned over Castiel, his movements methodical as he wiped down the mess streaking his torso and chin. The warm water and gentle pressure cleared away the remnants of Castiel’s binge, but it did nothing to erase the exhaustion etched deep into his face. Castiel drifted between wakefulness and sleep, his head lolling slightly to one side as soft, uneven breaths escaped his lips. This wasn’t the first time Balthazar had found himself in this role—the cleaner, the caretaker, the one who stepped in when Castiel let himself unravel. And if he was honest with himself, it probably wouldn’t be the last. Still, the resignation didn’t make it easier. It didn’t make it hurt any less. Balthazar’s hands slowed, his fingers brushing against Castiel’s shoulder as he tossed the cloth into the sink.  “Cassie,” he murmured, though he knew there would be no response. Castiel’s eyes had fallen shut, his body slack and heavy against the cold enamel of the tub. With a quiet sigh, Balthazar stood and adjusted his stance, sliding his arms beneath Castiel’s limp form. The effort it took to lift him wasn’t insignificant —Castiel was all angles and dead weight in his current state— but Balthazar didn’t falter. He cradled him close, one arm under his knees and the other supporting his back, the dampness of Castiel’s skin seeping through his own shirt. The apartment was eerily quiet as Balthazar carried him out of the bathroom, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. The chaotic mess of Castiel’s living space blurred in the periphery, but Balthazar didn’t stop, didn’t allow himself to be distracted. His focus remained solely on the man in his arms, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath against Balthazar’s collarbone.

By the time he reached Castiel’s bed, his arms ached, but he didn’t let the strain show. He eased Castiel down onto the mattress, careful not to jostle him. The sheets were unmade, rumpled and faintly scented of paint and cigarettes, but Balthazar didn’t hesitate. He straightened the blankets with quick efficiency, pulling the comforter all the way up to Castiel’s chin. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring down at him. Castiel’s face, even in sleep, bore the traces of the chaos that had consumed him. There was a fragility to him now, a softness that Balthazar rarely saw but never forgot. It reminded him of just how precarious this balance was—how easy it would be for Castiel to slip entirely. Leaning down, Balthazar pressed a soft kiss to Castiel’s forehead, the gesture both tender and desperate. He lingered there for a second longer than he intended, his lips brushing against the faint dampness of Castiel’s skin. When he pulled back, his voice was barely more than a whisper, a plea wrapped in weary affection.

“Please, for the love of God,” he murmured, his fingers briefly brushing against Castiel’s temple, “let this be the last time.” He straightened slowly, his hand falling to his side as he stepped away. Castiel stirred faintly but didn’t wake, his breathing evening out into the rhythm of deep sleep. Balthazar lingered at the edge of the bed for another moment, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts, before finally retreating into the living room. The chaos of the apartment awaited him, but for now, Castiel was safe. And for Balthazar, that was enough. At least for today.

Balthazar sighed as he reached for his phone once more as the device buzzed faintly against the cluttered coffee table. He already knew what he’d find—Gabriel’s persistence had a way of outpacing even the most determined crisis management. Still, he unlocked the screen and scrolled through the avalanche of unread messages, his eyebrows raising incrementally with each new entry. Twenty-eight new messages. Twenty-eight. He swiped through them, reading each one with growing exasperation.

Gabriel: Has he even said he’s coming to the meeting?

Gabriel: If I walk into that boardroom without him, Dad’s going to flay me alive.

Gabriel: I told him yesterday he HAD to come. Did he take it seriously?

Gabriel: Balthazar, you’re his babysitter right now, aren’t you? Tell him he has to be there.

Gabriel: Actually, no, don’t tell him that. Be subtle. Castiel hates being told what to do.

Gabriel: But, like, MAKE SURE HE SHOWS UP.

Balthazar groaned, scrolling past the next batch.

Gabriel: Is he even alive?

Gabriel: I’m serious. You’d tell me if he wasn’t, right?

Gabriel: Okay, I know he’s probably alive, but is he conscious?

Gabriel: Or sober?

Gabriel: Please tell me he’s at least ONE of those things.

Balthazar rolled his eyes, mumbling under his breath.

“Yes, Gabriel, he’s alive. Barely, but still.” He scrolled further.

Gabriel: Did you make him get dressed yet?

Gabriel: He probably stinks, doesn’t he? Tell me he doesn’t smell like a dumpster fire.

Gabriel: Actually, scratch that. I don’t want to know. Just make sure he’s presentable.

Balthazar let out a humourless laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. The messages were growing increasingly frantic, Gabriel’s tone becoming more personal.

Gabriel: Seriously, though, is he okay?

Gabriel: Like, actually okay?

Gabriel: He’s not ignoring me for fun this time, is he?

Gabriel: Because I swear, if he’s not answering because he’s sulking, I’ll 

Gabriel: Okay, no, I won’t do anything, but I’ll be really pissed off

The next few messages were shorter but hit closer to the mark.

Gabriel: Is he drinking water?

Gabriel: Eating?

Gabriel: Does he know what day it is?

Gabriel: Does he even remember the meeting is today?

Finally, the most recent messages came in rapid-fire succession, as though Gabriel’s patience had completely disintegrated.

Gabriel: I’m going to lose my mind, Balthazar.

Gabriel: Just TEXT ME BACK.

Gabriel: Or CALL ME.

Gabriel: Or, better yet, make Cassie call me.

Gabriel: Actually, no, you call me. Cassie calling would probably involve swearing.

Balthazar tossed the phone onto the couch with an exasperated sigh. Gabriel’s desperation was palpable, his concern bleeding through every word. As much as Balthazar wanted to ignore it —to let Gabriel stew in his own frustration— he knew he couldn’t. Not this time.

With a deep breath, Balthazar picked up the phone again and tapped out a reply.

Balthazar: He’s alive.

Balthazar: He’s not ready to talk.

Balthazar: And no, he hasn’t exactly showered yet.

Balthazar: But I’ll deal with him. Stop panicking.

Satisfied, Balthazar set the phone down and rubbed the back of his neck. He knew Gabriel wouldn’t be content with that answer for long, but for now, it would have to do. Castiel was still sleeping in the other room, and Balthazar had a sinking feeling that getting him out of bed, let alone to the meeting, was going to take all the charm and patience he could muster. Balthazar barely had time to stretch his legs before his phone buzzed again. The vibration rattled against the wooden coffee table, the persistent noise like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. He picked it up, already regretting his last text. Gabriel had predictably spiraled.

Gabriel: WHAT DO YOU MEAN “DEAL WITH HIM”

Gabriel: Alive isn’t exactly a glowing endorsement, Balthazar.

Gabriel: And WHAT DO YOU MEAN he hasn’t “EXACTLY” showered yet?

Gabriel: Is he even in a state to go anywhere?

Gabriel: This isn’t helpful, Balthazar. 

“Of course it’s not helpful.” Balthazar muttered, rolling his eyes, “When have you ever been satisfied with anything?” He started typing a reply but was interrupted by another incoming message.

Gabriel: I swear, if you don’t give me an actual update in the next two minutes, I’m coming over there myself.

Gabriel: And don’t think I won’t.

Balthazar let out a low groan, his fingers tightening around the phone. Gabriel’s dramatic streak was as consistent as gravity, and Balthazar wasn’t in the mood to deal with it while juggling Castiel’s meltdown. He typed back with deliberate slowness, each word carefully chosen.

Balthazar: Calm down, Gabriel. He’s sleeping right now. Yes, he’s a mess. No, you don’t need to come here and make things worse. I’ll get him cleaned up and presentable. You focus on keeping the old man from having a coronary in the meantime.

The response was almost immediate, because of course it was.

Gabriel: He’s sleeping? How can he be sleeping right now?

Gabriel: Do you even understand how important this meeting is?

Gabriel: I’m this close to losing my mind, Balthazar. THIS CLOSE.

Balthazar leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He could feel the tension building behind his temples, a dull ache that was equal parts exhaustion and irritation. He knew Gabriel’s panic was born from concern, but at the moment, it was doing more harm than good. He opened his eyes, his thumb hovering over the keyboard as he tried to formulate a response that would placate Gabriel without inviting further hysterics.

Balthazar: Yes, Gabriel. He’s sleeping. Probably the first real rest he’s had in days. He’ll wake up when he’s ready, and I’ll make sure he gets to the meeting if he decides to go. Stop hovering, stop panicking, and let me handle it.

He sent the message and tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him, determined not to look at it again until he’d had at least ten minutes of silence. Gabriel would either accept the answer or send another barrage of messages, but Balthazar couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. Castiel was the priority, not Gabriel’s overbearing need for control. Balthazar stood, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders as he glanced toward the closed door of Castiel’s bedroom. He could still hear the faint sound of soft breathing from the other side, a small reassurance that Castiel hadn’t stirred yet. Turning back to the room, Balthazar sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well, this is shaping up to be a delightful day,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he mentally prepared for the next round of chaos.

Balthazar moved to stand in Castiel’s kitchen, surveying the battlefield of mugs, plates, and an alarming number of wine glasses that had collected on every available surface. The sink overflowed with dishes in various states of decay, some with dried-on sauces, others with suspicious green patches that suggested they’d been sitting there far longer than anyone cared to admit. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp shirt—an act he normally avoided, but desperate times called for undignified measures. He turned on the tap, the water sputtering to life and spilling into the basin with a hiss. The first plate he grabbed was smeared with what looked like a combination of mustard and… broccoli? At least it might have been before darwinism took over. Balthazar grimaced but set to work, scrubbing at the crusted edges with the resigned air of a man who had found himself dragged into yet another one of Castiel’s disasters. The sponge squeaked against the ceramic, the sound sharp and grating. But as he placed the now-clean plate on the drying rack, another seemed to materialise in its place, as though the clutter itself was multiplying. He glanced over his shoulder at the counter, which was still cluttered with more dishes than seemed humanly possible for one person to have used.

"How," he muttered under his breath, grabbing a half-filled mug with a suspiciously cloudy liquid sloshing inside. “How does one man, who barely keeps groceries, manage to dirty this many dishes?” The mug smelled faintly of sour milk as he dumped the contents down the drain, gagging slightly before rinsing it under the hot spray. He shook his head, muttering to himself about the unfairness of it all. “Castiel Novak: artist, philosopher, and apparently the second coming of a Greek tragedy. Honestly, it’s like this man doesn’t know the meaning of ‘rinse and repeat.’” He worked his way through the pile, his movements mechanical, the water turning murky as it swallowed Castiel’s mess. Every time he cleared a corner of the counter, more glasses seemed to reveal themselves, as if the clutter was staging some sort of rebellion. Balthazar took a deep breath, leaning against the sink for a moment as he surveyed the chaos.

The room itself wasn’t helping matters. The faint light filtering in through the window cast long shadows across the counters, giving the scene a moody, almost cinematic feel. The thrifted curtains with their mismatched patterns hung slightly askew, the rod bent just enough to make everything look off-kilter. A wilted plant sat in the corner, its leaves drooping dramatically as if mirroring the state of the kitchen. Balthazar picked up another plate, scrubbing with more force than necessary. 

"I swear," he muttered to himself, "if I find one more coffee mug with dried paint in it, I’m going to—" He stopped mid-sentence as he pulled out exactly that: a mug, its interior streaked with swirls of blue and green. He groaned, tossing it into the sink and letting the water run over it like it might somehow wash away his exasperation.

The room was filled with the rhythmic clink of dishes and the hiss of water, a strange symphony of domesticity that felt completely foreign to him. Balthazar was not a man who did chores. He paid people to do chores. And yet, here he was, elbow-deep in soap suds, trying to wrestle order out of Castiel’s chaos. When he finally placed the last glass on the drying rack, Balthazar leaned back and surveyed his work. The counters gleamed faintly in the muted light, the sink was empty save for a few stray bubbles, and the air smelled faintly of lemon from the soap. It wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, throwing it over his shoulder as he turned toward the living room.

The apartment still looked like a hurricane had blown through it, but at least the kitchen was under control. At least somewhat. 

Balthazar wiped his damp hands on the dish towel, which had somehow become as saturated as Castiel’s emotional state over the last twenty-four hours. Just as he tossed the towel onto the counter, his phone buzzed on the edge of the sink. With a long sigh, he picked it up, already bracing himself for another onslaught of Novak-induced chaos.

There were three new messages from Gabriel, each more exasperated than the last:

Gabriel: Any sign of Cassie?

Gabriel: Dad wants to know if he’s coming to the meeting.

Gabriel: If he’s not coming, I need to spin this, Balthazar. Tell me he’s at least alive.

Balthazar groaned audibly, the sound reverberating in the mostly-clean kitchen. Of course, Gabriel’s concerns revolved around appearances and damage control rather than the actual state of his younger brother. He muttered under his breath.

“The Novak brothers: masters of prioritising the wrong things at exactly the right time.” He leaned against the counter, staring at the messages. Gabriel’s singular focus was relentless, but Balthazar supposed that was how he’d always been. Gabriel’s idea of control wasn’t just about keeping things running smoothly; it was about convincing everyone around him that he had everything under control, even when he didn’t. It was, ironically, how they’d met all those years ago at university. Gabriel had been pacing the library like a man possessed, stacks of books and folders cluttering the table he’d claimed as his war room. It hadn’t taken long for Balthazar to realise that the frantic energy surrounding Gabriel wasn’t about a lack of capability—it was about an overwhelming need to maintain the illusion of perfection. Helping him finish that ill-fated project had been as much about alleviating his own boredom as it was about seeing whether Gabriel could actually let someone else take the reins for once.

Balthazar shook off the memory and typed out a reply.

Balthazar: He’s alive. Barely.

Gabriel: That’s not funny.

Balthazar: It wasn’t meant to be. He’s a mess. I’ve seen hungover raccoons in better shape.

Gabriel: So he’s not coming. 

Gabriel: Great. Just great. 

Gabriel: Dad’s going to love this.

Balthazar: Let me handle Cas. I’ll call you when I know more.

Gabriel: You’d better.

Balthazar locked his phone and tossed it onto the counter with a bit more force than necessary. The Novaks were a lot of things —brilliant, stubborn, impossible— but above all, they were consistent. Gabriel’s focus was on the meeting and how Castiel’s absence might ripple through their father’s plans. Castiel’s focus, when he wasn’t in an emotional tailspin, was on how to escape that same pressure. And Balthazar? His focus was on cleaning up after them, both literally and figuratively. For better or worse, that had become his role in this strange, dysfunctional orbit. He glanced at the kitchen again. Though it looked marginally better, the lingering sense of chaos still clung to the air like a bad aftertaste. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before making his way toward the living room. The coffee table was littered with sketchbooks, used tissues, and a precariously balanced ashtray. Balthazar considered tackling it next but stopped when he heard a faint sound from the bedroom—a shuffle, a groan, and then the telltale creak of the bedframe.

“Finally stirring, are we?” he called out, his voice edged with faux cheer. He stepped into the bedroom doorway, his sharp gaze landing on Castiel, who was attempting to sit up and failing miserably.

“Balthazar,” Castiel mumbled, his voice groggy and thick. “You’re still here?”

“Unfortunately for both of us, yes,” Balthazar replied. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Now, darling, how about we revisit the idea of a shower? Before I lose whatever goodwill I have left.” Castiel flopped back against the pillows, groaning dramatically. 

“Can’t. Dying.”

“Trust me, if you were actually dying, you’d be far quieter about it,” Balthazar said, his tone dry. “Now, up you get. I’ve already cleaned half your kitchen, and I’m not about to let that effort go to waste while you marinate in your misery.” Castiel cracked one eye open, glaring at him weakly. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“Ah,” Balthazar said with a smirk, stepping into the room. “But aren’t I exactly the kind of insufferable you need right now?”

“No. I don’t need any type of insufferable.”

“Well, no one else put you in this situation, just be happy someone is willing to help you clean it up,” Balthazar muttered under his breath but immediately regretted his words the moment he saw the tears well up in Castiel’s eyes. It wasn’t the kind of reaction he’d anticipated. The sharp, defensive jab he’d thrown out had been more habit than intention—a shield against the overwhelming task of keeping Castiel afloat. But now, watching Castiel crumble before him, he realised just how fragile the man before him truly was. “Cassie,” he said quickly, his voice softening as he took a step closer. “I didn’t mean—” Castiel’s sob broke through the room like a crack in glass, jagged and raw. His hands flew up to his face, palms pressing hard against his eyes as though he could somehow keep the flood at bay. His shoulders hunched, trembling under the weight of emotions too large to contain.

“I know,” Castiel choked out, his voice muffled and fractured. “I know I’m a mess. I know it’s my fault. You don’t have to—” He sucked in a shaky breath, cutting himself off before he could finish. Balthazar sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. 

“Stop that,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “You don’t get to twist this into something it’s not. I’m not blaming you.” Castiel dropped his hands and shot him a look that was both drenched in disbelief and achingly vulnerable.

“Aren’t you?” he whispered. “Because I feel like everyone is. Like I can’t do anything right, and every time I try—” His voice broke again, and he shook his head, his damp curls falling into his eyes. “I just make it worse.” Balthazar sighed, his chest tightening at the sight of Castiel falling apart in front of him. This wasn’t the sharp, flippant artist he was used to sparring with, the man who wielded sarcasm like a blade. This was someone stripped bare, caught in a storm he didn’t know how to escape.

“I’m not blaming you,” Balthazar said again, more deliberately this time. He reached out, resting a steadying hand on Castiel’s knee. “I’m just… frustrated. Not with you, but with this whole bloody mess. You’re hurting, and I don’t know how to fix it. And for someone as fabulous as me, that’s not an easy pill to swallow.” The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched, a faint shadow of a smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. He sniffled, swiping the back of his hand across his nose in a gesture so childlike it made Balthazar’s heart ache. 

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Balthazar said, his lips quirking into a gentle smile. “But you knew that already.” Castiel let out a shaky laugh, though it was more exhale than sound. He tilted his head back against the headboard, his tear-streaked face catching the soft light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, the room fell quiet again, the weight of the earlier tension dissipating, though not entirely gone.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar frowned, shaking his head. 

“No. None of that. You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I do,” Castiel insisted, though the strength in his words was fleeting. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me.” Balthazar’s fingers tightened slightly on Castiel’s knee, his expression softening in a way that was almost imperceptible. 

“Cassie, I’m here because I want to be. Not because I have to be. And trust me, if I didn’t think you were worth it, I wouldn’t still be sitting here in this charming little disaster zone of yours.” Castiel blinked at him, the faintest trace of a smile finally breaking through. 

“Charming, huh?”

“Don’t push it,” Balthazar said with a smirk, though his voice remained gentle. He leaned back slightly, giving Castiel space while still staying close enough to ground him. “Now, if you’re done crying all over your devastatingly handsome friend, perhaps we can revisit the idea of that shower?” Castiel groaned, burying his face in his hands again. 

“You’re relentless.”

“Only because you’re worth it, darling,” Balthazar said, his tone laced with affection. “Now, up you get. The sooner you clean yourself up, the sooner we can figure out what’s next.” Castiel didn’t move immediately, but after a long pause, he let out a resigned sigh and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “But only because I hate the smell of myself more than I hate you right now.” Balthazar chuckled, standing as he helped steadying Castiel. 

“That’s the spirit. Baby steps, Cassie. Baby steps.” Balthazar tightened his grip around Castiel’s waist, steadying him as they shuffled slowly toward the bathroom. Castiel leaned heavily against him, his frame a little too warm, his breathing uneven but calming with every step. They moved together in an awkward sort of rhythm, Balthazar silently adjusting his own stride to match Castiel’s faltering one. “You’re really putting on a show today, aren’t you?” Balthazar teased lightly, his tone meant to distract more than chastise.

“I hate that expression,” Castiel mumbled, his voice low but carrying a certain conviction. Balthazar glanced down at him, arching an eyebrow. 

“What, baby steps? You’ve got something against tiny, adorable progress?” Castiel huffed a breath that might have been a laugh but sounded too tired to commit.

“Yeah. Because everyone says it like it’s no big deal. Like it’s just this easy thing. But think about it, Balthazar—those steps are probably the hardest thing that damn baby has ever done up until that point.” Balthazar blinked, momentarily thrown by the rawness of the statement. He hadn’t expected such a sincere answer, let alone one with so much weight behind it. 

“Well,” he said after a moment, “when you put it like that, it does seem a bit patronising.”

“It is,” Castiel said, his tone soft but resolute. “They don’t get it. It’s terrifying for the baby, you know? Everything’s big and unfamiliar, and all they’ve got are these wobbly legs and too many people watching, waiting for them to mess up.” Balthazar considered this as they finally reached the bathroom door. He let Castiel lean against the frame for a moment, freeing up a hand to push the door open wider. The room’s pastel charm and cheerful energy felt jarringly at odds with the conversation—and the person now slumped against him.

“Well, Cassie,” Balthazar said, his voice quieter now, “if it helps, no one’s watching this time. It’s just you and me.” Castiel tilted his head to look up at him, his expression a mix of exhaustion and something more fragile. 

“And what if I mess up?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible. Balthazar met his gaze, holding it steady.

“Then we try again,” he said simply. “And again. And as many times as it takes, until you’re steady on those wobbly legs of yours.” For a moment, Castiel said nothing, his eyes flicking between Balthazar’s face and the inviting warmth of the bathroom beyond. Then, with a slight nod, he pushed off the doorframe, wobbling only slightly before Balthazar caught him again.“Baby steps,” Balthazar murmured, his tone light but laced with something softer, more genuine.

“Don’t,” Castiel grumbled, though there was the faintest tug of a smile at the corner of his lips. Balthazar smirked, guiding him carefully inside. 

“Noted, darling. I’ll workshop a new metaphor while you freshen up. One less offensive to our hypothetical infant audience.” 

As they waited for the tub to fill Balthazar lowered himself onto the closed lid of the toilet seat with the kind of elegance that suggested even mundane actions were a performance worth perfecting. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back slightly, the faintest smirk playing at his lips as he watched Castiel step into the tub. The water sloshed quietly as Castiel lowered himself in, his movements deliberate but sluggish. Steam rose from the surface, curling lazily in the pastel air of the bathroom. The striped shower curtain swayed faintly with the draft, its cheerful colours a soft contrast to the darker energy radiating from Castiel.

“You’re a creep,” Castiel muttered, his voice barely cutting through the quiet. He didn’t bother looking up as he splashed water over his shoulders, the motion mechanical. Balthazar raised an impeccably arched brow, the expression equal parts amusement and challenge. 

“Darling Castiel we both know that I’ve seen far more of you than this. If I were inclined to be a creep, don’t you think I’d choose a moment with a bit more… intrigue?” Castiel glanced at him then, his eyes narrowing faintly but lacking any real venom. 

“You’re not helping your case.” Balthazar shrugged, utterly unbothered. 

“Would you rather I leave you to drown in existential misery and lukewarm water? Because I can arrange that.” He gestured toward the door with a flourish, though he didn’t make a move to leave. His tone softened just slightly as he added, “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t fall asleep and slip under. You’re not exactly at your best right now, Cassie.” Castiel rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he let his head tip back against the edge of the tub, his damp hair clinging to his neck in dark curls. The water lapped gently at his collarbones, the heat leeching some of the tension from his shoulders. He closed his eyes, sighing as though the act itself took effort.

“You’re mean,” he muttered, though his voice lacked the bite it usually carried. It sounded more like a concession, a lazy acceptance of the situation. Balthazar’s smirk softened into something quieter, almost fond, though he didn’t let the moment linger too long. 

“And yet here we are,” he quipped lightly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He studied Castiel’s face, taking in the faint lines of exhaustion, the shadows under his eyes that even the steam couldn’t soften.

It was far from the first time he had seen Castiel like this—vulnerable, frayed at the edges, and desperately trying to keep himself from unraveling completely. It wouldn’t be the last, either, if Balthazar knew anything about the man in front of him. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch. After a moment, Castiel cracked one eye open, his gaze sliding toward Balthazar. 

“You’re really just going to sit there?”

“I’m nothing if not persistent,” Balthazar replied smoothly, his smirk returning in full force. “Now hurry up and scrub, or I’ll start offering unsolicited grooming advice. Heaven knows you could use it.” Castiel groaned, the sound both annoyed and begrudgingly amused. 

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet you keep inviting me back,” Balthazar shot back, his tone light but carrying an edge of truth. He settled back against the porcelain tank, watching as Castiel finally began to wash in earnest, his movements slow but purposeful. For a while, they didn’t speak, the sound of water splashing and the faint rustle of the shower curtain filling the space. It was an easy silence, one that carried more understanding than words ever could. Balthazar didn’t push, and Castiel didn’t push back. It was their own strange version of truce, born of years of knowing each other too well to bother with pretense.

“Actually,” Castiel mumbled, barely audible over the quiet ripples of water, “I didn’t invite you.” Balthazar’s gaze flickered to him, his smirk returning with the faintest edge of something softer, something unspoken. He leaned back against the toilet tank, his posture languid as though Castiel’s words hadn’t stirred the smallest pang somewhere in his chest. 

“That’s true,” he admitted, his voice even, carefully measured. “I took it upon myself. Call it initiative.” Castiel cracked one eye open, his expression hovering between annoyance and something more resigned. 

“Gabriel sent you, didn’t he?”

“Guilty,” Balthazar replied breezily, though his smirk shifted into a wry smile. “He was panicking, per usual. And we both know I’m the only one who can deal with you when you’re... like this.” Castiel huffed a quiet laugh, his head tipping back against the edge of the tub. 

“Like what?” he asked, though the challenge in his voice was faint, almost tired.

“Difficult. Stubborn. Drunk,” Balthazar listed off, ticking the words on his fingers. “Need I go on?”

“You forgot insufferable,” Castiel muttered, letting his eyes close again. Balthazar chuckled, low and rich, the sound filling the warm, humid air of the bathroom. 

“Yes, well, you’ve always been better at self assessment than I am.” Silence stretched between them again, the kind that felt less like avoidance and more like a reprieve. Castiel let the heat of the water work its way through his body, the warmth soothing in a way he hadn’t realised he needed. Balthazar sat quietly, his watchful presence steadying without demanding attention. After a while, Castiel mumbled, his voice half-slurred from exhaustion.

“Thanks, I guess.” Balthazar tilted his head, studying him with an unreadable expression. 

“You don’t need to thank me, Cassie. Just don’t make a habit of this.” Castiel didn’t respond, but the faintest crease of a frown touched his brow, as though the words struck a chord he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. The water rippled as he shifted slightly, his hand trailing along the surface. Balthazar let out a soft sigh, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Baby steps, remember?” he said, his tone teasing but gentle. “Even if they’re the hardest steps you’ve ever taken.”

“Can you get my phone?” Castiel asked. Balthazar sighed theatrically as he rose from the toilet seat, brushing off his trousers as if the bathroom perch were beneath him. 

“All right, Cassie. But if I hear a splash and the sound of you cursing, don’t expect me to fish it out.”

“I’m hungover, not clumsy,” Castiel muttered, letting his head rest back against the edge of the tub. His eyes remained half-closed, his words carrying the distinct laziness of someone teetering on the edge of falling asleep.

“Whatever you say,” Balthazar replied, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he exited the bathroom. 

The apartment was no less chaotic than it had been yesterday, though the kitchen bore signs of his half-hearted attempts at cleaning. The lingering scent of cleaning solution mingled with the ever-present stale odour of cigarettes. As Balthazar made his way toward the reading nook, he spotted Castiel’s phone buried under a heap of rumpled blankets and a discarded sketchpad. Grumbling under his breath about Castiel’s proclivity for making life difficult in even the smallest ways, Balthazar retrieved the phone. The screen lit up as he lifted it, revealing a deluge of notification banners stacked one on top of the other.

Fifty from Gabriel. Typical. Balthazar shook his head. His friend’s compulsive micromanaging tendencies knew no bounds. Seven from himself. That earned a faint, self-satisfied smirk. Of course, his own messages would have been the most reasonable, the most measured. Gabriel could learn a thing or two about restraint. But it was the final tally that gave him pause. A hundred fiftyseven message notifications from a contact labelled simply ‘Liar.’ The name alone pulled a frown to his face. Balthazar’s thumb hovered over the screen, an old and familiar instinct to swipe and unlock tugging at his mind. He knew Castiel’s code—it wasn’t exactly a secret. But that line between concern and intrusion loomed large, and though curiosity itched at him, he resisted. For now. The previews offered no clarity. Whatever ‘Liar’ had been saying was hidden behind the lock screen’s insistence on privacy. All Balthazar could do was hand the phone over and let Castiel deal with it. Or ignore it, as he so often did when his problems grew too large to fit into a single evening’s worth of self-destruction. Balthazar sighed again, softer this time, and turned back toward the bathroom. Castiel would hate being asked about it, and Balthazar wasn’t in the mood for more of his half drunken barbs. At least not yet. He stepped back into the humid warmth of the bathroom, holding the phone aloft. 

“Your trusty device, my Lord,” he announced, setting it on the edge of the sink within arm’s reach of the tub. “Though you might want to brace yourself before checking. Gabriel’s gone full mother hen, and someone calling themselves ‘Liar’ seems determined to win the award for ‘Most Persistent Pest.’” Castiel cracked an eye open, his expression immediately guarded. 

“Don’t care,” he muttered, though the way his gaze flicked briefly toward the phone betrayed some sliver of curiosity.

“Good,” Balthazar replied, settling back onto the toilet lid with a deliberately casual air. “Because whatever drama is lurking in that inbox, I’m not interested in hearing about it. Unless, of course, you’d like to share.”

“I wouldn’t,” Castiel said quickly, reaching for the phone and holding it above the water like it might scald him. He unlocked it with a single swipe but didn’t open the messages right away, instead staring at the screen with an expression Balthazar couldn’t quite read.

“Suit yourself,” Balthazar murmured, though his gaze lingered on Castiel a moment longer. Whatever was happening with ‘Liar’ wasn’t his business. Not yet. But the ache in his chest—the one he refused to name—made him wonder how much longer Castiel could keep brushing it all off before something snapped. For now, though, Balthazar leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and let the silence settle around them. Sometimes the most useful thing he could do was simply stay. Castiel leaned his head back against the porcelain of the tub, the faintly flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across his damp skin. His phone rested precariously on the edge of the sink, ignored now that he had glanced through its messages. He rubbed at his temples with slow, deliberate movements before speaking, his voice low and almost hesitant. 

“Would you… would you still have been friends with me if you hadn’t been friends with Gabriel?” Balthazar, perched on the closed lid of the toilet with the ease of someone who had long since abandoned any notions of propriety, tilted his head in thought. His sharp eyes softened slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, unreadable smile. 

“An interesting question, Cassie,” he mused, resting his chin on his hand. “Though a bit of a paradox, don’t you think?” Castiel shifted in the tub, the water sloshing gently against the edges. 

“Humour me.”

“Well,” Balthazar began, his tone almost playful, “if I hadn’t been friends with Gabriel, I doubt we’d have met at all. He is, after all, your rather insistent bridge to the wider world. You’re not exactly in the habit of making new connections, are you?” Castiel snorted softly, his lips curving into something that was almost a smile. 

“No, I guess not.”

“And,” Balthazar continued, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, “if by some cosmic twist we had met without Gabriel? I imagine I might’ve found you utterly insufferable at first.” His grin widened, though his voice remained light, free of malice. “All those moods, all that brooding. Honestly, Cassie, you’re an acquired taste.”

“You’re one to talk,” Castiel muttered, though there was no venom in his tone. He glanced over at Balthazar, his blue eyes clouded with something deeper than his usual hangover haze. “But you didn’t answer the question.” Balthazar’s grin faltered for just a moment, replaced by something softer, more sincere. 

“If we’re being honest,” he said, his voice lowering, “Gabriel might’ve been the reason we met, but he’s not the reason I stayed.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “That’s all you, darling. For better or worse.” Castiel blinked at him, his expression briefly vulnerable before he looked away, letting his gaze fix on the surface of the water. 

“Sometimes I think you and Gabriel would be better off without me.” Balthazar’s brow furrowed, and his voice took on a firmer edge. 

“Don’t start with that nonsense, Cassie. You’ve got a talent for making people care about you, even when you’re determined not to see it.” He gestured toward the mess of the apartment beyond the bathroom door. “Do you think I’d spend my morning cleaning up mouldy dishes after just anyone?”

“That’s because you have a soft spot for lost causes,” Castiel muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

“And yet,” Balthazar replied, his smile returning, “you’re not lost. Not entirely. Not as long as I’ve got any say in the matter.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence after that, the only sounds the faint drip of the faucet and the occasional crackle of the candle. Castiel let himself sink deeper into the water, his thoughts swirling like the faint eddies around him. Balthazar remained where he was, watching over him with a patience that surprised even himself. Balthazar lingered in the doorway of the bathroom for a moment, leaning against the frame as Castiel scrolled through his phone again, his fingers moving slowly, deliberately. The faint glow of the screen illuminated Castiel’s face, sharpening the lines of his jaw and catching the faint furrow in his brow. Balthazar watched him silently, his mind piecing together the puzzle with a detached sort of clarity, though the conclusion was anything but simple.

‘Liar.’ 

The name had stood out on Castiel’s screen like a jagged scar, its presence relentless among the swarm of notifications. Over a hundred messages. Balthazar knew Castiel well enough to know the name wasn’t chosen lightly—it was deliberate, dripping with the kind of bitterness Castiel wore like armour when he was hurt. And though Castiel didn’t confirm it, Balthazar didn’t need him to. The pieces aligned too neatly to ignore.

Michael.

The polished, put-together Michael Castiel had mentioned months ago, the one who called whenever he needed something, whose life was too clean, too perfect, for Castiel’s chaos to truly fit into. Balthazar remembered the night Castiel had first mentioned him, tossing the name out with an air of indifference that hadn’t fooled anyone. Balthazar had seen the flicker of something else in Castiel’s eyes—something fragile, something dangerous.

And now this.

It didn’t take a genius to see what had happened. Castiel, who never let people in, who carried his vulnerability like a secret he refused to share, had let someone get close. Close enough to matter. And if Balthazar was reading the situation correctly —and he always prided himself on reading situations correctly— it had gone to hell, and Castiel had spiraled. Balthazar sighed, stepping into the bathroom and perching on the edge of the counter, watching Castiel swipe aimlessly through his notifications. 

“You know,” he said, his voice light but edged with a careful sort of humour, “if you stare at that screen any longer, it’s going to burn itself into your retinas.” Castiel didn’t look up, but his lips twitched faintly. 

“I’m just checking messages,” he murmured, though his tone carried none of his usual wit. Balthazar tilted his head, crossing one leg over the other as he studied Castiel’s expression. 

“From Gabriel, I assume?” he asked, though they both knew he wasn’t just referring to Gabriel.

“Mostly,” Castiel replied, his thumb brushing the edge of the phone. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid in a way that made it clear he didn’t want to talk about what—or who—else was filling his inbox. Balthazar considered pushing, the temptation tugging at him like a loose thread. But then he thought better of it. Castiel wasn’t one to open up easily, and if Balthazar pressed now, he’d only drive him further into that stubborn shell of his. So instead, he leaned back slightly, letting the silence settle between them before speaking again, his tone casual, almost offhand.

“You know,” he said, swirling an imaginary drink in his hand, “for someone who claims to thrive on chaos, you really let the right kind of order mess you up.” Castiel finally looked up, his blue eyes sharp and tired all at once. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less defensive.

“It means,” Balthazar replied smoothly, “that you’re not as indifferent as you like people to believe. Especially not when it comes to polished, disciplined types with—what was it? A yoga routine and a Prius?” The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. He looked back down at his phone, his thumb brushing idly against the screen. 

“I’m not talking about him,” he said, his voice carrying a finality that dared Balthazar to push further. But Balthazar didn’t need Castiel to talk about Michael. The signs were already there, etched into the slouch of his shoulders and the way his hand hovered over the messages without opening them. 

“Fair enough,” Balthazar said lightly, sliding off the counter and straightening his shirt. “But if you ever decide to, you know where to find me.”

Castiel didn’t reply, but as Balthazar turned to leave the bathroom, he caught the faintest flicker of gratitude in Castiel’s expression. It was fleeting, barely there, but it was enough.

Back in the living room, Balthazar poured himself a drink—not alcohol, no, just water. He sank into the worn armchair by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass a familiar backdrop to his thoughts. He swirled the glass in his hand, watching the clear liquid catch the light as he let his mind wander back to the man named Michael. Michael, who had clearly meant more to Castiel than he’d wanted to admit. Michael, whose name Castiel now couldn’t even bear to see on his phone without recoiling. Whatever had happened between them, it had left its mark, and Balthazar wasn’t sure how long it would take for Castiel to recover—or if he would. Taking a slow sip of water, Balthazar let his gaze drift back toward the bathroom door, his sharp blue eyes softening just slightly. Castiel wasn’t one to let people in —not really— but when he did, he fell hard. And Balthazar had seen the aftermath enough times to know that when it went to hell, Castiel always overreacted. This time, though, felt worse. And for the first time in a long time, Balthazar found himself wondering if Castiel would bounce back—or if Michael had taken something from him that he wouldn’t be able to get back.

When Castiel emerged from the bathroom his damp hair was curling slightly at the ends and sticking against his temple. The bathrobe hung loosely on his frame, the terry cloth fabric soft and worn in a way that suggested it had been washed a hundred times over. He stood in the doorway for a moment, silhouetted against the brighter light of the bathroom, before stepping into the living space. His eyes swept over the room briefly, catching on the drink in Balthazar’s hand. 

“What are you drinking?” he asked, his voice quiet but not without curiosity. Balthazar looked down at his glass, the water catching the light and refracting it into faint rainbows against the polished edge of the armchair. 

“Literally water,” he replied, lifting it slightly in a mock toast. “I thought you could use a break from vices for one day, and someone had to set the example.” Castiel hummed in acknowledgment, though his lips curved faintly, a ghost of a smile flickering and fading almost as quickly as it appeared. He padded barefoot across the wooden floor, the faint sound of his steps blending with the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows.

“We should go to bed,” Castiel said, glancing at Balthazar with an openness that felt rare, almost vulnerable. Balthazar’s gaze flicked toward the clock on the wall—it was early afternoon, the kind of time when the city was wide awake and bustling, though it felt like a lifetime had passed since the morning. He didn’t argue, though. He knew Castiel wasn’t asking for sleep, not really. What he needed was quiet —safety. Arms to hold him, a space where he didn’t have to hold himself together.

“Alright,” Balthazar said simply, setting the glass down on a nearby stack of books with a soft clink. He stood, stretching slightly before following Castiel toward the sleeping nook. The bed, nestled into its corner, looked as inviting as ever. Layers of mismatched quilts and pillows in rich, warm colours created a cocoon of comfort beneath the soft glow of fairy lights strung haphazardly above. The few pieces of art up still on the walls —watercolour landscapes, black-and-white photographs, and abstract bursts of colour— framed the space with a creative energy that felt distinctly Castiel.

Castiel climbed onto the bed first, pulling the comforter back and settling into the chaos of pillows with a familiarity that spoke of countless afternoons spent the same way. He shifted until he found a spot that felt right, then looked up at Balthazar expectantly. Balthazar followed, pulling off his socks before sliding onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled beside Castiel, wrapping an arm around him without hesitation. Castiel leaned into him immediately, his head resting against Balthazar’s chest. The scent of shampoo lingered faintly in Castiel’s hair, clean and soft, mingling with the faint warmth of his skin beneath the robe.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The soft rustle of fabric and the occasional creak of the bedframe filled the quiet, punctuated by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the nearby kitchen. The sunlight filtering through the frosted windows cast gentle patterns on the quilt, turning the mismatched patterns into a patchwork of light and shadow. Balthazar let his fingers trace idle patterns along Castiel’s back, his touch light and steady. He could feel the tension gradually easing from Castiel’s frame, the stiffness in his shoulders giving way to something softer, more at ease. It wasn’t often that Castiel let himself be held like this, and Balthazar wasn’t about to take it for granted.

“You know,” Balthazar murmured after a long stretch of silence, his voice low and warm, “if you want me to hold you all day, you only have to say so. I’m not exactly in a rush to leave.” Castiel made a soft noise in response, somewhere between a hum and a sigh. 

“You talk too much,” he mumbled, his words muffled against Balthazar’s chest. Balthazar chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest. 

“Noted,” he said, letting the conversation drop. His hand continued its lazy path along Castiel’s back, the repetitive motion as comforting as the quiet. The soft, diffused light of the apartment seemed to wrap around them, the world outside fading into irrelevance. For now, nothing else mattered—not the messages on Castiel’s phone, not the fallout of whatever had happened with Michael, not the endless list of expectations waiting just beyond the apartment walls.

For now, there was only this: the warmth of Castiel against him, the gentle rhythm of their breathing, and the fragile, fleeting peace of an afternoon spent wrapped in each other’s company. And for Balthazar, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Dean paced the length of his apartment, his steps quick and restless, the rhythm uneven like a clock whose gears were slipping. The space, usually immaculate to the point of sterility, felt smaller with every turn he made. His coffee table was littered with the remnants of an untouched salad, a glass of water that had long gone warm, and his phone—face-up, silent, and mocking him with its refusal to light up. It had been a week and a half since Castiel had left him at the diner. Since that moment —when something had cracked open and spilled out, sharp and unexplainable— Dean hadn’t heard a word. Not a message, not a call. Nothing. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers pressing hard against tense muscles as he paused in the middle of his living room. A huff of frustration escaped him. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more—that Castiel wasn’t answering or that he had no idea why Castiel had looked at him like he’d been gut-punched and walked out. 

That name. Michael. Castiel had said it like it was poison, his face gone pale in a way Dean couldn’t shake from his mind. It didn’t make sense. Michael was just the name Dean had given when Castiel first asked—something easy, something clean. He hadn’t thought it would matter. Hell, it shouldn’t matter. Yet somehow, it did . His gaze flicked back to his phone, half-expecting it to light up with something —anything— but it remained stubbornly dark. He’d called. He’d sent messages, some long, some short, most of them reading back as borderline pathetic when he’d stared at them afterward.

Dean: Castiel, can you just tell me what’s going on?

Dean: I’m sorry. Whatever I did—can we talk about it?

Dean: Are you okay?

Nothing. 

Still nothing. 

Always nothing.

Dean resumed pacing, his hand dragging through his neatly styled hair, disheveling it until it stuck at odd angles. The silence of his apartment felt louder than any noise could. It filled the empty corners, pressed against the sleek, untouched surfaces. The clean lines of the space —a couch that had never been slouched on, counters that shone under the dim overhead lights— offered no comfort. It was all too quiet, too curated, too lifeless. 

His phone buzzed suddenly, the sound slicing through the room like a blade. Dean lunged for it, his breath catching as he snatched it off the table.

But it wasn’t Castiel.

HR Dept: Reminder: The final presentation for the regional promotions will be next week at 9AM. Good luck.

Dean exhaled sharply, dropping back onto the edge of his couch with a muted thud. He stared at the message until the letters blurred, until the weight of everything he’d been trying to juggle settled hard against him. The maybe-promotion loomed like a storm cloud, the thought of standing in front of those executives —of proving himself— scraping at his nerves. And Balthazar being MIA wasn’t helping either. Dean’s boss had vanished a few days ago without explanation, which meant any clarity about the promotion’s direction had disappeared with him. No witty comments. No sideways jabs about Dean’s precision-pressed shirts. Just silence—and that was just as unsettling as everything else. 

Dean set the phone down harder than necessary and leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees. His apartment stared back at him: the pristine white kitchen, the gleaming chrome fixtures, the stack of perfectly arranged reports on the coffee table. It was the picture of control, of discipline. Of a life measured in increments of success. But there was no room for the chaos Castiel had brought with him—the disheveled hair, the not-so-quiet defiance, the way his presence had taken up space . Castiel didn’t fit into boxes or schedules, and maybe that was the problem. Maybe Dean didn’t, either, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise. Dean leaned back and stared at the ceiling, his jaw tight as a wave of helplessness rolled through him. He wanted to fix this, to smooth it over like he did everything else, but he didn’t even know where to start. What was he supposed to do when Castiel wouldn’t answer? He closed his eyes, trying to steady his thoughts. Castiel’s expression haunted him—that fractured look, like something fragile had shattered just beneath the surface. Whatever had happened, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t about the name, not entirely. It was something deeper, something that had been simmering for longer than Dean realised.

The apartment fell silent again, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound in the room. Dean’s fingers drummed absently against his knee, his movements restless as his mind refused to settle. He reached for his phone one more time, opening the messages and staring at the blank space beneath Castiel’s name.

He typed slowly, hesitating over each word before he hit send.

Dean: If you want me to leave you alone, just tell me. I’ll stop.

Dean set the phone down beside him and waited, though he didn’t know what for. Minutes passed, the silence growing thicker, pressing in from every corner.

The screen didn’t light up. Castiel didn’t answer.

And Dean realised, not for the first time, that waiting might be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

When Dean’s phone chimed again he glanced at it with a mix of weariness and dread. He expected another HR reminder, another robotic prompt nudging him to prepare for the looming news of promotions. Instead, it was an email.

                From: Balthazar Freely

                Subject: Tomorrow – 11AM

                Dean, 
                Meeting tomorrow at 11 sharp. Don’t be late.

That was it. No signature, no smirking comment, not even the flourish of sarcasm that Balthazar usually injected into his correspondence. Just plain and clipped—a precision that felt entirely wrong coming from him. Dean read the email again, as though a second pass might reveal some hidden context, some sliver of what this meeting was about.

Tomorrow. 11AM.

Dean swallowed hard. The unspoken words in that message were like stones in his chest. Could this be about the promotion? His head buzzed with possibilities. The weight of it sat coiled beneath his ribcage, thrumming like a taut wire ready to snap. But then a thought whispered at the back of his mind, persistent and intrusive: What if this isn’t about the promotion? Balthazar being absent all week had thrown everything off-kilter. What if he’d returned with some new plan? What if he was stepping in, making changes, handing his project to someone else entirely? Dean ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. Each circuit of the living room felt smaller than the last, like the walls were inching closer. He tried to shake off the thought—it was premature. Baseless. Yet it clung to him, refusing to be ignored. Balthazar was unpredictable, mercurial in a way that made him infuriating to work for and impossible to read. He could be in a good mood tomorrow, waltzing in with a glass of whiskey and some offhand comment about Dean’s ties being ‘ far too serious.’ Or he could deliver some devastating blow with that same casual smile, the one that made it impossible to tell if he was joking until it was too late.

Dean dropped onto the edge of the couch, the cushions giving beneath him as his hands steepled in front of his face. The apartment around him —the pristine kitchen, the spotless table, the muted greys and soft whites— felt sharper now, its order mocking him. It was supposed to calm him, this carefully curated space, but all he felt was its emptiness. His eyes flicked back to his phone. The unanswered messages to Castiel sat there like a bruise, a constant reminder that this —whatever this was— wasn’t just about work. Dean had spent years perfecting a life of control, of rules and goals and clean lines. Castiel had unsettled that balance. And now, somehow, it felt like everything else was teetering too.

Tomorrow at 11.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he sat up straighter. He had to focus. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. He grabbed the laptop from the coffee table, its sleek, cold edges pressing against his palms as he opened it. The screen flickered to life, and his presentation material stared back at him in precise, measured bullet points.

“Focus,” he muttered under his breath.

Work would ground him. Work was logical, dependable. If tomorrow’s meeting was about the promotion —and God, he hoped it was— he couldn’t let himself falter now. Balthazar’s absence had thrown him off, but tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, he would walk into that boardroom with every number memorised, every slide polished, every potential question accounted for. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, his gaze kept drifting back to his phone, as if Castiel’s name might suddenly light up and offer some kind of answer to everything.

But it didn’t. The silence stretched on. And tomorrow waited.

After a night filled with restless sleep Dean’s morning unfolded like clockwork, each step executed with the kind of precision that left no room for doubt or distraction. His alarm blared at exactly 06:00, the sound sharp enough to slice through the lingering edges of sleep. Dean’s eyes blinked open, his brain immediately cycling through the familiar checklist—training, shower, breakfast, work. It was comforting in its predictability. 

He was on the treadmill within minutes, the dull thud of his running shoes hitting rubber syncing with the rhythmic hum of the machine. The screen flashed his stats —speed, distance, heart rate— but Dean hardly noticed. His focus narrowed to the steady motion of his body, the rise and fall of his breaths as the outside world melted away. Thirty minutes of running passed in an efficient blur, the treadmill winding down as Dean wiped sweat from his brow. The transition to weights was seamless, his movements controlled and deliberate. Ten reps, twenty reps—each lift was a quiet battle he knew he would win. The faint strain in his muscles was grounding, a reminder that effort brought results. He moved through the sets methodically, no energy wasted. By the time he reached his cooldown stretches, his breaths were even again, his pulse steady. After an hour, Dean stood in the centre of his home gym, his hands braced on his hips as he surveyed the small space. Satisfied. The shower came next—hot water sluicing over him, washing away the sweat and fatigue of the morning. Dean scrubbed his skin clean, letting the steam cloud the glass doors, the heat loosening what remained of the tension in his shoulders. When he finished, he stepped out onto the cool tiles, grabbing a neatly folded towel from the rack. He dried himself off with the same efficiency he applied to everything else, the towel tugging through his hair before he turned to the mirror. The reflection staring back was familiar: sharp, clean lines, the shadow of stubble gone after a smooth shave. Dean ran his hands through his damp hair, slicking it back with careful precision before reaching for the hair dryer and gel. Each strand fell into place under his practiced hands, forming a style that was polished but never flashy. 

Controlled. 

Intentional.

Wrapped in a navy bathrobe, Dean moved to the kitchen, where the scent of coffee was already filling the air. He poured a mug from the French press —black, strong, no nonsense— before preparing his oatmeal. The oatmeal was simple: measured portions of oats, water, and a pinch of salt. Nothing more. He sat at the small, spotless dining table and ate in silence, each spoonful a necessary fuel for the day ahead. The coffee followed in small, deliberate sips, its warmth spreading through him as the day’s to-do list solidified in his mind. When the bowl was scraped clean and the mug emptied, Dean rinsed both, placing them in the dishwasher. The kitchen counters gleamed, no trace of breakfast left behind. He padded back to the bathroom to brush his teeth, the minty bite of the toothpaste sharp and fresh as he studied himself in the mirror. Nothing out of place. Dean’s footsteps were soundless on the soft carpet as he made his way to the closet. The doors swung open to reveal rows of neatly arranged shirts, jackets, and ties. He scanned the collection, his hand hovering briefly before pulling out a crisp, blue-and-white striped shirt. Next came the grey suit—tailored to perfection, sharp but understated. He laid it out on the bed with care, smoothing over the fabric with his palm. The red tie was last. It stood out among his collection of blues, greys, and blacks—a bold but measured choice. A statement, but not too loud. Dean rolled it carefully between his fingers, letting the silk catch the soft light filtering in from the window. He dressed with purpose, sliding the shirt over his arms and buttoning it methodically. The tie came next, the knot tightening just so beneath his collar. Then the suit jacket—grey, pressed, perfect. Dean straightened his cuffs in the mirror, his gaze flickering over the final product. Polished. Composed. Ready. As he stepped back to appraise his reflection, a faint flicker of uncertainty passed through him—an echo of the meeting at 11. What did Balthazar want? Was it the promotion? Or something else entirely? The questions pressed at the edges of his thoughts, but Dean pushed them back. He didn’t allow uncertainty to dictate his mornings. Not today.

He grabbed his briefcase from beside the door, the smooth leather cool beneath his fingers, and let out a steady breath. The day ahead loomed, but Dean Smith —no, Director Smith— was prepared for it.

The quiet hum of the Prius was the only sound accompanying Dean as he drove through the city. The streets were bathed in the pale glow of mid-morning light, clean and indifferent. Traffic moved steadily, orderly, a reflection of his own rhythm. Dean kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gearstick as his mind ticked over like a well-oiled machine. Reports, numbers, projections—everything where it needed to be. That was the kind of man he was. Or at least, the man he had to be.

He pulled into the parking garage with practiced precision, the Prius gliding into its designated spot like it belonged there. Grabbing his briefcase, Dean climbed out and straightened the crisp line of his suit jacket before making his way into the building. The office smelled of paper, coffee, and faintly of floor cleaner—a sterile kind of familiarity that was almost comforting. The elevator ride to his floor was silent, and the mirrored walls reflected back an image of himself that Dean had grown used to. Poised, focused, in control. By the time he slid into his desk chair, the glow of his monitor was already casting sharp shadows across his desk. Reports had been left waiting for him—quarterly analyses, forecasts, email follow-ups that were entirely too predictable. Dean dove in without hesitation. It was easier that way. Typing, reading, scanning—he fell into a rhythm that dulled everything outside of the spreadsheets and cells. The click of his keyboard filled the silence, each tap a reminder of his efficiency.

At exactly 10:55, Dean stopped. His fingers froze over the keys, the sudden stillness jarring in comparison to the rapid pace moments before. His gaze flicked to the clock at the corner of the screen, the numbers a clear, unavoidable declaration of time.

11:00. Balthazar’s office.

Dean swallowed, his throat dry despite the coffee he’d drained earlier. His hands moved on instinct, closing out the programs with swift motions before gathering his papers. He slid them into his briefcase carefully, the leather groaning faintly as it snapped shut. He stood and straightened his jacket again, tugging at the lapels as though it might settle the restless flicker in his stomach. It didn’t. Dean made his way toward Balthazar’s office with measured steps, the weight of his shoes against the carpet oddly muted. The office buzzed softly around him—phone calls, muted conversations, the occasional scrape of chairs against the floor. None of it registered.

The closer he got to Balthazar’s door, the tighter the knot in his stomach coiled. Balthazar wasn’t the kind of man to be ambiguous. If he’d called Dean into his office, it was for a reason. The promotion. It had to be about the promotion. That was the logical explanation. Dean had worked tirelessly over the past years—every presentation flawless, every deadline met, every expectation exceeded. There was no reason for doubt.

And yet.

Dean’s steps faltered when he reached the frosted glass doors of Balthazar’s office. Through the opaque pane, he could see two shapes—one languid and still, the other more animated. Balthazar and Gabriel. Dean’s stomach twisted in recognition. Gabriel’s presence didn’t bode well. Dean drew in a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back as though he could force his body to align with the calm façade he wore so carefully. He knocked twice —sharp, decisive— and waited.

“Come in,” Balthazar’s voice rang out, smooth and lilting, though it carried that note of careless charm that always made Dean feel like he was the punchline of a joke he didn’t understand. Dean pushed the door open, stepping inside with the practiced confidence he had spent years perfecting. His gaze swept the room quickly, taking in the scene. Balthazar sat behind his desk, reclining in his leather chair as though it were a throne. He was immaculate as always—his suit tailored to perfection, his watch glinting faintly under the office’s muted lights. A glass of something amber sat on his desk, untouched but present—always present. Gabriel was sprawled lazily on the couch along the far wall, his legs crossed and his arms draped along the back like he belonged there. He wore a jacket over a shirt that didn’t quite match—smart enough for the office but just careless enough to seem intentional. He glanced up as Dean entered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew something Dean didn’t. Dean’s stomach twisted again, though his expression didn’t falter.

“Smith,” Balthazar greeted, his tone light, almost mocking. “Right on time. As expected.”

“Sir,” Dean replied evenly, his voice calm as he nodded politely in Gabriel’s direction before returning his attention to Balthazar. “You wanted to see me?” Balthazar didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back further in his chair, his sharp gaze raking over Dean as though he were sizing him up. Gabriel, meanwhile, let out a low hum, tapping his fingers against the couch arm in an offbeat rhythm. The silence stretched a second too long, and Dean’s mind raced despite himself. The promotion. It was about the promotion. It had to be. Why else would Gabriel be here? Balthazar didn’t make a habit of involving others in these sorts of meetings. But then again, nothing about this felt normal. Dean tightened his grip on the handle of his briefcase, waiting. The clock on the wall ticked faintly, each sound an unbearable reminder of how long this moment was dragging on.

And Balthazar, damn him, only smiled.

“Close the door, Smith,” Balthazar said smoothly, waving a hand as though Dean’s entrance had disrupted the room’s equilibrium. Dean hesitated for a beat —just a beat— before stepping in and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He squared his shoulders, forcing himself into the kind of professional calm that had carried him through boardroom meetings and tense negotiations. Whatever this was, he could handle it. “Take a seat,” Balthazar continued, gesturing toward the empty chair opposite his desk. Dean did as he was told, lowering himself into the chair and resting his briefcase on the floor beside him. The air in the room felt heavy with unspoken words, thick enough to smother the faint hum of the HVAC system. Gabriel was the first to break the silence, his voice a casual drawl that seemed to cut through the tension with surgical precision.

“So, Dean,” Gabriel said, looking up from his phone with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve been keeping busy, haven’t you?” Dean frowned faintly, his brow creasing. 

“I—what?” Balthazar sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. 

“Gabriel, let’s not draw this out unnecessarily. Smith here is a busy man, aren’t you, Dean?” Dean nodded stiffly, his pulse quickening. 

“Of course, sir.” Balthazar smirked, but there was no humour in it. 

“Tell me something, Dean. How long have you been… involved with Castiel?”

Dean froze. The name hit him like a punch to the chest, knocking all the breath out of him. Castiel . That wasn’t just a name. That was the man who’d walked out of the diner without so much as an explanation beyond a single, scathing accusation.

‘Your name isn’t Michael.’

The words rang in his head like an echo in an empty room. The first real date after months of hooking up —months of easy banter, of tangled sheets, of cigarettes smoked under streetlights— and it had ended with Castiel disappearing into the night, his face a mask of hurt and betrayal that Dean hadn’t been able to understand. And now here he was, sitting in front of Balthazar Freely and Gabriel Novak, feeling like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

“I—I’m sorry,” Dean stammered, the professionalism in his voice faltering. “What does Castiel have to do with this?” Gabriel snorted softly, though the sound lacked any real amusement. 

“So that’s how you’re playing it, huh? Let me help you connect the dots since you seem a little... slow this morning. Cas? Cassie?” He stood from the couch, his movements deceptively casual as he sauntered closer. “My brother, Castiel Novak .” Dean blinked, his stomach dropping so fast it left him dizzy.

“No—wait. Cassie? Cassie is—”

“Castiel,” Balthazar supplied smoothly, his gaze pinning Dean in place. “You know, the man you’ve been sleeping with. The same man you apparently lied to for months.” Dean opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His brain couldn’t keep up. Cassie—the name he’d overheard tossed around in passing when Gabriel and Balthazar were talking— had always sounded like a woman. A sister, maybe. Cassidy ? Cassandra ? It didn’t matter. Not once had it occurred to him that Cassie could be Castiel , the same Castiel he’d been…

“Oh, shit,” Dean whispered, the realisation sinking in like a stone. Gabriel crossed his arms, his sharp gaze drilling into him. 

“Yeah. Oh, shit. That’s about the right reaction.” Balthazar didn’t say anything immediately, just watched Dean with that infuriatingly knowing look, like he was quietly amused by how pathetic this all was.

“Listen,” Dean began, his voice hoarse as he fought to regain control of the situation. “I didn’t know—I swear, I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Gabriel asked coldly, his expression hardening. “Didn’t know his name? Didn’t know who he was? What did you know, Dean?” Dean flinched at the accusation. 

“I did know his name. I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling. “I didn’t know he was your Cassie. You kept calling him ‘Cassie.’ I thought—I don’t know, I thought ‘Cassie’ was your sister or something.” Gabriel let out a short, sharp laugh. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Dean pressed, looking between the two of them desperately. “I didn’t know. If I had—” He cut himself off, realising too late that anything he said next would sound pathetic. What? If I had, I wouldn’t have fallen for him? No. That wasn’t it. That wasn’t the truth, and they’d see through it anyway. Balthazar leaned forward now, his voice softer but no less dangerous. 

“What did happen, Dean? Because from where we’re sitting, you’ve hurt him. And considering the state he’s been in, I’d wager you hurt him quite a lot.” Dean’s throat tightened. Castiel. Hurt. He could still see Castiel’s face from that night—sharp with anger but shadowed with something Dean hadn’t been able to name at the time.

“It wasn’t—” Dean faltered, his voice dropping. “It wasn’t supposed to go like that.”

“Supposed to go like what?” Gabriel snapped, his anger unrelenting. Dean swallowed hard, looking at Balthazar for even the faintest sign of reprieve, but there was nothing there. He felt cornered, like a man stuck in a trap he’d set for himself.

“I don’t know why he left,” Dean admitted finally, his voice quiet and tight. “One second, things were fine. We were talking, having dinner, and then—then he just walked out. He said—” Dean hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “He said my name wasn’t Michael.” The room stilled, the weight of Dean’s confession hanging between them like a fog. Balthazar’s gaze sharpened fractionally, and Gabriel’s lips parted as though he might say something before he thought better of it.

“And?” Balthazar prompted.

“And that’s it,” Dean said helplessly, spreading his hands. “I don’t know why he said that. I don’t know how he knew I’d been… not honest about my name when we first met. But I swear to you, I didn’t know who he was—not until now.” Gabriel’s anger didn’t soften, but he seemed to retreat slightly, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated exhale. Balthazar, however, studied Dean carefully, as though weighing every word he’d just said. After a beat, Balthazar leaned back.

“You’re either the unluckiest bastard I’ve ever met, or the stupidest.” he said, gaze unwavering. Dean let out a sharp breath, the knot in his stomach twisting tighter.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he said softly, and for the first time, the words weren’t for them. They were for Castiel, wherever he was. Gabriel turned sharply, his voice edged with steel. 

“Yeah? Tell him that.” Dean sat in the silence that followed, the weight of his mistake finally sinking in. Castiel Novak—Gabriel’s brother. Balthazar’s something . The man Dean had spent months with, only to lose him because of his own arrogance. He’d screwed up royally. And now, he wasn’t sure if there was a way to fix it.“Why didn’t you just tell him your real name from the start?” Gabriel’s question sliced through the quiet like a scalpel, precise and unforgiving. Dean exhaled slowly, the sound steadying his nerves even as his gut twisted. He kept his gaze on the polished edge of Balthazar’s desk, refusing to meet either man’s piercing stare. 

“Do you tell your real name to every one-night stand?” The words were out before he could soften them, and Dean immediately regretted it. A flicker of something sharp passed across both their faces. Gabriel’s mouth twitched —disapproval, anger, maybe a mix of both— and Balthazar’s brows arched, his expression cooling into something far more dangerous. It didn’t take a genius to realise that calling Castiel a ‘one-night stand’ and hence implying he’d been disposable had hit a nerve. Dean shifted in his seat, his shoulders stiffening under the sudden scrutiny.

“Careful,” Gabriel said softly, though his tone carried no hint of kindness. “You don’t get to talk about him like that.” Dean clenched his jaw, swallowing back the knee-jerk instinct to defend himself. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, glancing between them. “I didn’t.”

“Really?” Balthazar said, his voice smooth and scathing, the edge of his lips curling into something resembling a smirk. “Because I’m sure that’s exactly how it sounded.” Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, his thoughts a mess of frustration, guilt, and the gnawing sense that he was losing ground with every word he spoke. God, how had he gotten here? When he’d lied about his name —used Michael, a slip of habit, something simple to keep boundaries clear— it had been easy. Necessary, even. Nothing had seemed complicated back then. Castiel had been a stranger in a bar, mysterious and aloof and so out of place that Dean hadn’t been able to look away. It was supposed to be casual. Just a night.

Except it hadn’t been.

He’d known it the moment Castiel became routine: the quiet knocks on Dean’s apartment, the smoke on Castiel’s breath when they kissed, the way Castiel had begun to linger in doorways like he didn’t want to leave. Dean had known then —when they stopped pretending they were strangers— that he should have told the truth. That he owed it to Castiel to stop hiding behind the false name. But he hadn’t. And now here he was, facing the exact fallout he’d been so afraid of.

“Look,” Dean started, his voice rough as he sat straighter in the chair. “I didn’t lie to hurt him. That wasn’t what I meant to do.”

“But you did,” Gabriel shot back, his voice sharper now. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, but his eyes —usually warm, mischievous— were cold and unrelenting. “You lied, and it hurt him. What did you think was going to happen when he found out? That he’d laugh it off? That he wouldn’t care?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted, because there wasn’t a better answer. He didn’t know what he’d thought—or rather, he hadn’t let himself think about it.

Balthazar’s silence spoke volumes. He was watching Dean carefully, a faint flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. For all his usual wit and charm, there was no humour there now. Just assessment, judgement. And Dean had the unsettling feeling that Balthazar was seeing right through him.

“What I don’t understand,” Balthazar said finally, his tone quieter but no less pointed, “is why. Why lie at all? Castiel’s many things, but he’s not unreasonable. You must have known it would come back to bite you.” Dean hesitated, his hands clenching into loose fists against his knees. He had known. Castiel had never been the type to let things slide. But at the time, Dean had been thinking of himself, of the clean line that the lie gave him. Michael had been an illusion, a shield against something real.

And Castiel had been real. Too real.

Dean sighed, staring at the edge of the desk as if it could somehow explain the mess he’d made. 

“It started because it was easier. Saying my name, my real name, it…” He trailed off, searching for words he didn’t want to admit to himself, let alone to them. “It made things real. I wasn’t supposed to get attached.” The room fell quiet again. Gabriel didn’t move, though his gaze bore into Dean like a brand. Balthazar leaned back, the faint creak of his chair breaking the silence before he tilted his head slightly, his smirk faint but brittle at the edges.

“And now?” Balthazar asked softly. Dean swallowed hard, the words lodging in his throat. He thought of Castiel—of that unreadable expression in the diner, the sharpness of his voice when he’d said ‘your name isn’t Michael .’ He thought of the weeks they’d spent together, of the way Castiel had looked at him like he saw something Dean hadn’t realised he was hiding. Dean cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet Balthazar’s gaze. 

“Now I’ve screwed it all up.” Gabriel snorted faintly, though the sound carried less heat this time. He dropped into the armchair across from Dean, running a hand through his hair. 

“You’re damn right you have.” Dean braced his elbows against his knees, his shoulders slumping just slightly. 

“Is he—” He hesitated, his voice softening. “Is Castiel okay?”

Neither of them answered right away. Gabriel’s expression darkened, his mouth set into a hard line, and Balthazar’s gaze flickered, just briefly, with something like hesitation. That was all the answer Dean needed.

“I need to talk to him,” Dean said, straightening. Balthazar arched a brow, his voice silkily condescending. 

“And you think he’ll want to see you?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “But I need to try.” For the first time since he’d walked into the office, there was no anger in Gabriel’s eyes—only quiet calculation, layered with something that looked a lot like protectiveness. He studied Dean for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“If you mess this up any worse than you already have,” Gabriel said finally, his voice low, “you’re going to regret it.” Dean nodded, the weight of that warning sinking deep into his chest. 

“I won’t,” he said. Gabriel didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue either. Balthazar leaned back, his smirk returning just faintly, though the sharpness in his gaze hadn’t softened. 

“Well,” he drawled, “this should be interesting.” Dean ignored him, rising to his feet. His hands felt clammy, his pulse hammering with equal parts dread and determination. He wasn’t sure how he’d fix things —or if he even could— but he knew one thing for certain: Castiel deserved the truth. And this time, Dean wasn’t going to hide from it. Dean’s hand hovered over the door handle, his heart still hammering as though the tension in Balthazar’s office hadn’t left his chest. He wanted out—out of the pointed stares, out of the heat curling in his gut, out of the mess he’d made. His fingers gripped the cool metal, ready to pull the door open, when Balthazar’s voice rang out behind him. “Dean.” It wasn’t loud, but the tone —sharp, deliberate— was enough to stop Dean cold. He let out a slow breath through his nose, bracing himself, before turning back. Balthazar was still seated, leaning back in his chair like a man with all the time in the world. One arm draped lazily over the armrest while his other hand toyed with a pen, rolling it slowly between his fingers. The casual posture did little to soften the calculating glint in his eyes as he fixed them on Dean. “Don’t think for a second that showing up at his door will make all of this disappear,” Balthazar said, his voice calm, even soft, but edged with steel. “You’ve hurt him. I need you to understand that. Really understand that.” Dean’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to hold Balthazar’s gaze. The words struck harder than he’d like to admit—harder because he did understand. He’d seen enough of Castiel to know that behind the sarcasm and quiet bravado, the man didn’t let people in easily. And Dean had barged right in, made himself at home, and left wreckage behind.

“I get it,” Dean said quietly, though his voice carried the conviction of someone who wasn’t bluffing. “I screwed up. But I’m not about to let that be the end of it.” Balthazar hummed softly, tilting his head as if to size him up. The faintest hint of a smirk curled at his lips, though it was void of any real amusement. 

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“Is there something else you wanted to say, or are we done here?” Dean asked, his voice steadier than he felt. Balthazar’s lips quirked upward, the smirk sharpening into something far more pointed. 

“Only this,” he said, gesturing idly with the pen before setting it down on the desk with a soft clack . “If you’re going to face him, go prepared. This isn’t some boardroom pitch where a little charm will get you by. Castiel won’t make it easy for you, nor should he.” Dean swallowed hard, the words hitting like a challenge—and maybe a warning. Balthazar’s eyes narrowed just slightly, as if to underline the point.

“Are you going to make it easy for me?” Dean muttered, not quite able to keep the irritation out of his tone. Balthazar chuckled, a low, almost indulgent sound, and leaned forward in his chair. 

“No,” he replied smoothly. “But if Castiel is willing to hear you out, then maybe —just maybe— I’ll reconsider my opinion of you.” Dean didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything left to say, and Balthazar knew it. With a final look at both Balthazar and Gabriel —who, for once, remained quiet— Dean turned back to the door. This time, no one stopped him.

As he stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him, Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Balthazar’s words echoed in his head, sticking like burrs to the guilt already rooted in his chest.

‘If you’re going to face him, go prepared.’

Dean didn’t know what ‘prepared’ looked like. Castiel wasn’t like anyone else he’d ever known, and this situation wasn’t one he could fix with a smile and an apology. But Balthazar was right about one thing—this wasn’t going to be easy. And as Dean strode toward the elevator, determination tightening his shoulders, he decided that was fine. Nothing about Castiel had ever been easy. That was part of why Dean wasn’t willing to give up. Not yet.

Dean’s shoes clicked against the polished marble floor of the Novak Enterprises hallway, each step feeling far too loud, far too present. His head buzzed with thoughts he couldn’t untangle, the weight of the last conversation clawing at the edges of his composure. The polished veneer of professionalism he wore like armour felt scuffed and cracked, and it was all because of him . Castiel —Cassie— Novak. Gabriel’s brother. Balthazar’s something. The man who had wrecked Dean’s carefully constructed sense of order without even trying. Dean adjusted the cuff of his jacket, fingers steady despite the chaos in his head, as if fixing the symmetry of his suit might somehow restore the balance of the day. But it didn’t. It wouldn’t. Because beneath the quiet hum of the office air and the distant chatter of coworkers, Dean’s thoughts coiled and struck like snakes.

He might have screwed up badly.

If there was one thing Dean knew about Balthazar Freely —his elusive, often insufferable boss— it was that loyalty and favour meant everything to the man. And right now, Balthazar’s favour felt like it was dangling by a thread, thin enough to snap. The easy camaraderie they’d shared in recent months, the quiet nods of approval, the conversations over scotch at the occasional after-hours event—all of it felt dangerously close to slipping away. And if that went, so too might the promotion.

The promotion.

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, the reminder stinging in his chest. He’d worked hard, bent over backwards for this, played the role of the perfect employee until it didn’t even feel like a role anymore. He’d done everything right —or so he’d thought. Yet here he was, stomach twisting over a man who had been nothing more than a hookup until he wasn’t.

Castiel.

God, even the name felt like it lodged in his throat now. The very same name he’d heard Gabriel and Balthazar tossing around so casually, talking about ‘Cassie’ with an intimacy that Dean had misread completely. In his head, ‘Cassie’ had never been the dark haired, blue eyed, scruffy artist that had kissed Dean senseless. He hadn’t put two and two together, hadn’t even thought to.

“Ignorance doesn’t excuse anything,” he reminded himself bitterly. It wasn’t just that Castiel was Gabriel’s brother. That was bad enough—bad enough to make his blood run cold at the realisation. No, what really gnawed at him, the part that soured in his gut, was Balthazar. Dean didn’t know what Castiel and Balthazar were —hadn’t dared to ask— but the implication had been there in the way Balthazar spoke. In the quiet protectiveness behind his words, in the barely masked ire that underscored every word. Balthazar had a hand in Castiel’s life, whether romantically, casually, or just in that strange, murky way of his. And Dean? Dean had stumbled into the middle of it.

The man he’d been seeing. The man Balthazar seemed to know .

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face as he stepped into the lift, the doors sliding shut with a muffled hiss. The small space felt suddenly stifling, and he tugged at his tie just slightly, the fabric snug against his throat. He couldn’t decide what was worse—the fact that Castiel was Gabriel’s brother, or that he and Balthazar had both slept with the same man. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly, but it was something just as sharp. Something that prickled under his skin and made him feel far too raw. He couldn’t shake the image of Balthazar in Castiel’s space—lounging on that ridiculous couch, whiskey glass in hand, smirking as though he owned the place. He imagined the way Balthazar might talk to Castiel, might tease him in that drawling tone, the way Castiel would roll his eyes and let him. Because of course he would. That was the kind of man Castiel was—unbothered, sharp-tongued, willing to give as good as he got. Dean had liked that about him. Hell, liked wasn’t even the right word. It had been intoxicating. And now here he was, standing in a gilded lift, surrounded by his own reflection, his composure starting to splinter around the edges.

‘You should’ve told him,’ the voice in his head whispered, insistent and accusing. ‘The second seeing each other started becoming a thing. You should’ve told him your name wasn’t Michael.’

He knew that. Had known it for months. Back when Castiel had gone from being just a face at a bar to someone who’d made Dean’s mornings brighter and his nights linger longer than they should have. He’d convinced himself it didn’t matter, that the name was inconsequential. But deep down, Dean had always known it was a lie—a small lie, but one that could unravel everything.

And it had. 

The lift doors opened with a soft chime, and Dean stepped out into the quiet corridor leading back to his office. The morning felt surreal now, the conversation in Balthazar’s office lingering in his mind like a bruise he couldn’t stop poking. He walked on autopilot, his polished shoes silent against the carpet, hands slipping into his pockets to steady himself. He hadn’t said everything he wanted to say to Balthazar. To Gabriel. To anyone. And worst of all, he hadn’t said anything to Castiel—nothing that mattered, anyway.

The fallout had begun, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder just how much further it would go before the dust settled. If it settled at all.

Dean sat down at his desk, the smooth leather of his chair creaking faintly beneath him as he settled into place. The report in front of him stared back like an unspoken challenge, the neatly organised columns of data demanding his focus. He tried to oblige, forcing his mind to catalogue numbers and trends, his fingers tapping steadily against the keyboard. But it wasn’t long before his thoughts began to wander, unspooling threads of distraction that led him straight back to Castiel. Now that he knew —now that he really knew— he couldn’t stop himself from drawing comparisons. The connection between Castiel and Gabriel was obvious in hindsight, like a puzzle piece that had been there all along but only now clicked into place. And as much as he tried to concentrate on the task in front of him, his mind kept circling back to those similarities. Gabriel and Castiel shared a sharpness, a keen edge to their words and mannerisms that felt deliberate, as if they always knew exactly what to say to get under someone’s skin—or how to hold back just enough to leave you guessing. It wasn’t just the way they spoke, either. It was in the set of their shoulders, the subtle way they carried themselves, a mix of confidence and irreverence that made it impossible not to notice them. Castiel might have been quieter about it, more reserved, but the effect was no less striking. Dean’s fingers paused over the keyboard, his gaze unfocusing as memories flickered unbidden across his mind. Castiel’s smirk, faint but sharp, came to him first—the way it tilted the corners of his mouth when he thought he was being particularly clever. Gabriel’s grin wasn’t so different, wide and cocky, but there was an undeniable thread of familial mischief in both expressions, a glimmer in their eyes that felt cut from the same cloth. He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair and running a hand over his face. He’d missed it. Somehow, he’d missed it completely. Gabriel’s jabs at the mysterious ‘Cassie,’ the way he’d spoken about his sibling with equal parts exasperation and affection—it all made sense now. Of course it did. And Castiel? The way he’d bristled when Dean mentioned Gabriel, that slight tension in his posture—it wasn’t just because Gabriel was a coworker. It was because Gabriel was his brother. ‘ How did I not see it?’ Dean wondered, the question an uncomfortable weight in his chest. The pieces had been there, scattered like breadcrumbs, but he’d been too caught up in his own assumptions to connect them. Too preoccupied with the easy rhythm of his and Castiel’s...whatever it had been. He hadn’t stopped to think, to ask, to know . And now he did.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts, sharp and abrupt against the quiet hum of the office. Dean blinked, his spine straightening instinctively as he glanced toward the source of the sound. One of his colleagues poked their head in, offering a quick nod before launching into a question about the report Dean had been working on. He responded automatically, his voice steady despite the noise in his head, and by the time the door closed again, the moment of distraction had passed. Dean turned back to his screen, his fingers resuming their rhythm on the keyboard. But even as he worked, his thoughts strayed back to Castiel and Gabriel, to the ways they were alike and the ways they weren’t. Castiel’s quiet intensity, the way he seemed to carry the weight of his world without letting anyone shoulder it for him, contrasted so sharply with Gabriel’s outward bravado. And yet, there was a thread of vulnerability in both of them, buried deep but unmistakable once you saw it. Dean wasn’t sure what to make of it all—of them, of himself, of the situation he’d stumbled into with all the grace of a train derailment. But the similarities between the Novak brothers, subtle as they were, kept circling his mind like an unfinished thought, refusing to be ignored.

A lot of other things that started to click into place now that Dean knew Castiel was a Novak. The man’s life, which Dean had once written off as a mix of artistic chaos and inexplicable luck, began to form a clearer picture, though it left Dean feeling even more like a fool for not seeing it sooner. The signs had been there —hell, they’d practically been neon— yet he’d missed every one of them. The apartment alone should’ve been the giveaway. Castiel lived in one of the most expensive parts of the city, in a building Dean had only ever walked past while wondering what kind of lives the people inside led. It wasn’t just that the apartment was in a prime location; it was the way Castiel treated it, with the kind of carelessness that came from knowing resale value didn’t matter. He had casually scratched floors, paint splatters that didn’t bother him, and plants growing wild as if the place belonged to the greenery more than it did to him. It was a space lived in for joy, not for keeping up appearances.

Dean thought back to the morning he stood in Castiel’s kitchen, noticing the lack of economy in how the man ate. Hell, the man had even said it himself that most of his food came from restaurants. And from the overlook Dean had gotten from the sparse items Castiel’s groceries seemed to come from specialty stores with prices that would have made Dean wince. Organic everything, Dean had thought at the time, with a sort of bemusement. Now it made sense. Castiel didn’t shop that way to keep up some trendy bohemian aesthetic—no, he probably just didn’t have to think twice about the price. And then there was the piano bar. Dean had marvelled at the thing when he first saw it, though Castiel had brushed it off like it was no big deal. 

“An old project,” Castiel had said with a shrug, as if transforming a vintage upright piano into a work of functional art was something people just did on weekends. Dean had admired the craftsmanship, the way the shelves were perfectly fitted and the strings gleamed beneath the warm light, but what he really should have noticed were the bottles. The expensive ones. The ones Dean had only ever seen sitting on top-shelf displays in dimly lit cocktail bars. Castiel had joked about his taste in liquor —‘My liver deserves the best, don’t you think?’ —but Dean now saw the joke for what it was: the effortless privilege that let Castiel stock his bar with scotch and bourbon that Dean wouldn’t even dare glance at in the store. 

And yet, somehow, the thing that struck Dean most wasn’t the money. It was the art.

Dean had known Castiel was an artist from the start. The man practically oozed creativity in the way he moved, spoke, and filled his space with colour and texture. But Dean had always assumed Castiel lived like so many artists he’d met in the city: scraping by on odd commissions, gallery shows, and the occasional workshop. He’d assumed that Castiel’s apparent ease was some kind of act, that beneath the linen shirts and five o’clock shadow was a man who worried about rent and grocery bills and keeping the lights on. But no. Castiel was a Novak. Which meant that he could live off his art—not because his art wasn’t good enough to sustain him, but because he didn’t need it to. Castiel could afford to let his creativity breathe, to make art for art’s sake without the constraints of deadlines or the nagging fear of failure. He could afford to fill his studio with half-finished canvases and experiment with techniques that might never see the light of day. And Dean had seen that freedom firsthand, in the boldness of Castiel’s strokes and the unapologetic way he spoke about his work. Castiel didn’t create to survive; he created because he could, and there was something both beautiful and maddening about that. The realisation settled heavily in Dean’s chest as he stared blankly at his computer screen, the numbers blurring together in a way that mirrored his thoughts. Castiel Novak. Of course he was a Novak. And now that Dean knew, he couldn’t stop seeing the ways it all made sense—the little details he’d overlooked or dismissed as quirks. Dean leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply as he rubbed a hand over his face. Knowing the truth didn’t change anything—not really. Castiel was still the man who’d walked out of that diner without looking back, the man who’d ghosted Dean for over a week without so much as an explanation. But it did change how Dean understood him, how he saw the life Castiel lived and the choices he made. And though Dean hated to admit it, the knowledge made him feel even smaller, like a kid who’d been playing dress-up in a world that was never meant for him.

Dean wasn’t naive enough to think he’d never crossed the line with partners before—hell, he’d built his entire adult life on carefully sidestepping the idea of commitment. Hookups were easier, cleaner. No strings. At least, that’s what he told himself. He liked the simplicity of it: no expectations, no awkward mornings where someone lingered too long, no wondering if they wanted something he couldn’t give. It was all fine and good until it wasn’t. And with Castiel, Dean realised, there had been strings. Fragile at first, easy to ignore, but growing stronger with every night they spent together.  Then there was the conversation—the one Dean hadn’t even realised was significant at the time. Castiel had asked, almost casually, if Dean had been seeing anyone else. And Dean, ever practical, had answered honestly. Of course he had. It was part of the deal, wasn’t it? They weren’t exclusive. They weren’t anything. But the look on Castiel’s face in that moment had caught him off guard. It wasn’t anger or jealousy, not exactly. It was... sadness. A flicker of something vulnerable that Castiel had tried to mask with a sardonic smile. And then he’d changed the subject, leaving Dean with a strange ache in his chest that he couldn’t quite name.

The first tug came the night he stayed over, even though nothing physical happened. Castiel had fallen asleep before they could even entertain the idea, his head resting on Dean’s chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Dean had meant to leave, to untangle himself from the warmth of Castiel’s presence and go home to his own pristine, neatly ordered bed. But something had stopped him. Maybe it was the way Castiel had shifted closer in his sleep, or the way the room felt softer, more lived-in, with Castiel in it. So he stayed, telling himself it was just one night. And then there was breakfast the next day. Dean had woken up early, his internal clock refusing to let him sleep in, and had found himself staring at Castiel until he woke up. When they moved to Castiel’s kitchen it had hit Dean how the kitchen wasn’t like his own—sleek, modern, and empty. Castiel’s kitchen had character. Mismatched jars and mugs, a spice rack that seemed more decorative than functional, and a stubborn little plant perched on the windowsill that probably hadn’t been watered in weeks but in a way it was empty too—empty of anything that might suggest real cooking ever happened there. Dean had cobbled together breakfast with what he could find half-expecting Castiel to laugh at the effort. But when Castiel had smiled. A quiet, genuine smile that lingered in Dean’s mind long after he left.

The dinner invitation, though—that should have been the final clue. Castiel had never been the type to make plans. Their nights together had always been spontaneous, unspoken agreements that required no thought or effort. But when Castiel had texted him, asking if he wanted to grab dinner at Conner’s Diner, it had felt... different. More deliberate. Dean had accepted without hesitation, without even thinking much about how maybe this had been Castiel’s way of bridging the gap between casual and something more. But then Castiel had left halfway through. Dean had been left sitting there, confused and frustrated, staring at the half-empty plate across from him and wondering what he could have done differently. He knew, hell it seems everyone knew.

Now, a week and a half later, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. About all the little moments that, in hindsight, weren’t so little after all. The way Castiel had laughed at Dean’s terrible jokes, his head tilted just enough for his messy hair to catch the light. The way he’d hum under his breath when he thought no one was listening, some tune that Dean could never quite place but always wanted to hear again. The way he’d look at Dean sometimes—like he saw something Dean didn’t even know was there. It wasn’t just hookups, was it? Not really. Dean had told himself that over and over, but it didn’t make it true. There had been strings. Fragile, yes, but they’d been there. And Dean hadn’t just ignored them—he’d frayed them. Maybe even snapped them. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming absently against the edge of his desk as he stared at the ceiling. 

“You screwed this up,” he muttered under his breath, the words a bitter truth that settled in his chest like a stone. And the worst part was, he didn’t even know if it was too late to fix it. Dean’s fingers hovering over the keyboard, unable to shake the nagging thought that an apology might not be enough. Words were cheap. He knew that better than anyone. What could he possibly say that Castiel hadn’t already dismissed in his mind? A gesture seemed more fitting, something tangible that might reach the artist in Castiel rather than just the wounded man. But the idea of flowers or chocolates felt laughably wrong. Castiel didn’t seem the type to keep a vase on the kitchen counter, and Dean had never once seen him indulge in sweets—though Gabriel, he noted with exasperation, always seemed to have a lollipop or some other sugar-laden treat in hand.

No, Castiel deserved something more personal. Something thoughtful.

Dean’s mind wandered to Castiel’s apartment, the chaotic sprawl of paint-streaked floors and half-finished canvases propped against every available surface. He remembered the jars of brushes, the battered easel that looked like it had seen better days, the cluttered yet oddly inviting studio space. An idea began to form. Art supplies. Practical and meaningful. Castiel practically lived for his work, and Dean had no doubt that the right tools would mean far more to him than any generic apology gift. Dean turned to his computer and opened a search engine, typing in art supplies near me . A list populated, and his eyes landed on a small, highly rated store nestled not far from Castiel’s apartment. The reviews described it as an artist’s haven, stocked with everything from premium paints to obscure tools that only seasoned creators would recognise. Dean felt a flicker of hope. This might actually work. Clicking through the store’s website, he browsed the offerings, trying to make sense of the terminology. Oil paints, acrylics, pastels—he wasn’t even sure what medium Castiel used most often. Should he go for the basics, or splurge on something specialised? His mouse hovered over a set of brushes described as ‘professional-grade’ before his gaze drifted to the glowing clock on his monitor. The distraction had cost him more time than he realised, and the day’s work wasn’t going to finish itself.

He sighed, closing the tab but making a mental note of the store’s address. He’d stop by after work. Maybe he’d even ask the staff for advice—surely they’d know what someone like Castiel might appreciate. For now, though, he needed to focus.

Dean adjusted his tie and squared his shoulders, forcing his attention back to the report he was meant to be finalising. The numbers blurred slightly as his thoughts strayed, but he wrestled them into order, filling the screen with tidy rows of data and conclusions. His mind itched to drift back to Castiel, to the way his dark hair fell into his eyes when he worked, to the faint, thoughtful hums he made when lost in concentration. Dean clenched his jaw, banishing the image.

Work first. Apologies later.

The hours ticked by slower than he liked, the flow of his usual efficiency dulled by the constant tug of his unresolved guilt. When the clock finally hit the end of the day, Dean shut his laptop with a sharp click, grabbed his coat, and headed out, determined to make good on the plan forming in his mind. Castiel deserved more than a half-hearted apology. Dean just had to hope that what he had in mind would be enough.

The art store was tucked into a quiet side street, its exterior marked by a weathered wooden sign that simply read Palette & Canvas . The glass windows framed an inviting but cluttered interior, giving passersby a glimpse of an organised chaos: racks of paints in every imaginable hue, walls lined with brushes, and tables scattered with sketchbooks and tools that seemed to belong in another century. Dean stepped inside, the faint chime of a brass bell above the door announcing his arrival. The air was different here, tinged with the earthy scent of paper and the sharp, clean tang of turpentine. It was a far cry from the sterile atmosphere of his office, and Dean couldn’t help but feel a flicker of apprehension as he took in his surroundings. He had walked into a world he didn’t understand. The space was a labyrinthine, each aisle a maze of supplies. Wooden shelves loomed high, stacked with neatly labelled jars of pigment powders and bottles of varnish. An entire section was dedicated to canvases, their blank surfaces stacked like silent invitations. Another held racks of coloured pencils and charcoal sticks, their rich tones arranged in satisfying gradients. Dean’s eyes swept over sketchpads, oil pastels, ink bottles, and tools he couldn’t begin to name. It was overwhelming, like stepping into the mind of a genius whose thoughts spilled out in every direction. The clientele only deepened Dean’s sense of being out of place. Artists moved through the store with quiet confidence, their movements deliberate as they selected supplies. An older man in a tweed jacket thumbed through a rack of sketchbooks, muttering to himself about paperweight. A woman in paint-splattered overalls examined tubes of oil paint, her fingers stained with smudges of cobalt blue and sienna. A teenager with a shock of pink hair tested brushes against their palm, their brow furrowed in concentration. They all looked at ease, like they belonged here in a way Dean could never hope to. Dean glanced down at himself. His grey suit and polished shoes felt glaringly out of place against the backdrop of creativity and mess. He had never felt more like a corporate drone, his clean-cut appearance at odds with the colourful, slightly chaotic energy that filled the space. The people here moved with a kind of freedom he envied, their focus entirely on their craft. He, on the other hand, was hyper aware of every step he took, conscious of the quiet hum of conversation and the occasional creak of floorboards beneath his feet. He approached a display of brushes, their bristles fanned out in delicate arcs, each one labelled with an unintelligible series of numbers and letters. Sable, synthetic, flat, round—it all blurred together, and Dean realised with a pang of discomfort that he had no idea where to start. He picked up a brush at random, its wooden handle smooth under his fingers, but put it back almost immediately, afraid of choosing wrong.

The staff, a group of young, artsy types with friendly but distracted expressions, moved through the store like currents in a stream. One of them—a woman with curly hair pulled into a loose bun and glasses perched on the tip of her nose—caught his eye. She smiled faintly before returning to the task of restocking tubes of paint, her hands deft and precise. Dean thought about asking for help but hesitated. What could he even say? ‘Hi, I’m here to apologise to someone through the medium of art supplies?’ He sighed and moved to the next aisle, where rows of paints gleamed like jewels in the warm light. He could see Castiel here, his fingers ghosting over the vibrant colours, pausing to pick up a tube of something rich and earthy. Dean swallowed, feeling the knot of guilt tighten in his chest. This was Castiel’s world, full of possibility and expression, and Dean was fumbling his way through it like a tourist without a map. He lingered near a display of sketchbooks, the covers thick and textured, inviting touch. One of them caught his eye—a hardbound book with creamy, heavyweight pages and a simple navy cover. It seemed… right, somehow. Dean picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It felt solid, important, the kind of thing someone might treasure. He held onto it as he continued to browse, hoping inspiration would strike before he left. As he wandered through the store, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that he was intruding. But he also felt something else—a faint thread of admiration for the people here, for the way they seemed to inhabit this space so fully. It wasn’t just a store; it was a sanctuary, a place where ideas could breathe and take shape. And though he felt like an outsider, Dean couldn’t help but hope that what he found here might bridge the gap between him and Castiel, even if only a little. 

Dean had been aimlessly standing in the aisle of sketchbooks, holding onto one he wasn’t entirely sure about, when the woman with the bun approached. She moved with an easy confidence, a faint smile softening the keen observance in her eyes. Up close, the splatters of dried paint on her hands and the faint smudge on her glasses gave her a kind of approachable authenticity that Dean envied.

“You look a little lost,” she said gently, her voice carrying an easy warmth that made Dean’s tension ease just slightly. “Can I help you find something?” Dean nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He was too out of place, too obviously floundering, to pretend otherwise. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “I’m, uh, looking for something… nice? A gift.” She tilted her head, her smile widening just a touch. 

“For someone who draws?” Dean nodded again, feeling slightly foolish. 

“Yeah. Sketchbooks, maybe? And… I don’t know, whatever else might go with that.” The woman didn’t laugh, though Dean thought she had every right to. Instead, she took the sketchbook from his hands, turning it over with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly what she was looking for. 

“This is a good choice,” she said, tapping the hardcover with her finger. “Sturdy. Good paperweight. Won’t bleed easily if they use markers or pens.” Dean felt a flicker of relief that his random pick hadn’t been entirely off the mark. 

“That’s good,” he murmured. She set it aside and motioned for him to follow her to another aisle. 

“If you’re looking for something extra, pens are always a great companion. I’ve got just the thing.” Dean trailed behind her, weaving through shelves until they stopped in front of a gleaming wooden box displayed under soft lighting. She opened it with reverence, revealing an array of pens and pencils that shimmered with the promise of quality. “Caran d'Ache,” she said, gesturing to the set. “These are Supracolor Aquarelle pencils. Water-soluble, highly pigmented. Basically, the Rolls-Royce of art supplies. Perfect for someone who likes to sketch and experiment.” Dean didn’t know the first thing about water-soluble pencils, but the way she spoke made them sound like they were essential. He nodded, more to convince himself than her. 

“Okay, yeah. I’ll take them.” She blinked, as though surprised at how quickly he agreed, but then smiled again and carefully packed the set back into its wooden box. 

“Good choice,” she said. “They’ll love this.” Dean didn’t have the heart to tell her he wasn’t even sure Castiel would care. He followed her to the register, where she rung up the items with the same practiced efficiency she’d shown while navigating the store. When she finished, she slipped the sketchbook and the wooden box into a green paper bag embossed with elegant gold lettering. She handed it to Dean with a small nod. Dean glanced at the bag, the weight of its contents unfamiliar in his hand. 

“Nice bag,” he commented, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Complimentary,” she said with a smile. “Not that common anymore, but with what you’re carrying, it’s the least we can do.” Dean didn’t ask how much it cost. He already knew it was probably more than what most people spent on groceries for a month, but at this point, he didn’t care. The gesture mattered more than the price. And as he stepped out of the store and into the fading light, the green bag swinging lightly in his hand, Dean couldn’t help but feel the faintest flicker of hope. He wasn’t sure if the sketchbook and pencils would be enough to fix what had gone wrong, but at least it was a start. Something tangible, something that showed he was trying. And, perhaps, that was better than nothing.

Dean slipped into Castiel’s building just as an Uber Eats delivery person walked out, the scent of fried something wafting past him. His first thought, oddly, was whether the delivery had been for Castiel. The thought of Castiel inside, eating takeout and possibly ignoring the world, made Dean’s stomach twist. The stairwell was narrow and dim, and Dean took the steps two at a time, his nerves pushing him forward even as his mind begged him to stop and think this through. He gripped the green paper bag tightly, the gold lettering smudging slightly under his sweaty palms. By the time he was knocking on Castiel’s door, his chest was tight—not from exertion but the impending confrontation.

When the door opened Dean’s breath caught, his mind racing as he tried to find the right words as he stared at Castiel. The green paper bag with its golden letters felt suddenly ridiculous in his hand, a meagre offering for the mess he’d caused. Castiel stood half behind the door, his expression a mix of exhaustion and annoyance, and it struck Dean just how different he looked. The vibrant energy that had always seemed to hum around Castiel was gone, replaced by something quieter, something hollow. His matted hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes, which Dean remembered as vivid and sharp, were dull and distant now. His pallor made him look like he hadn’t seen the sun in days. The faint smell of takeout wafted through the cracked door, and Dean’s mind latched onto it as a small comfort. At least Castiel was eating—or so Dean hoped. But even that thought did little to ease the knot of guilt twisting in his chest.

“Dean,” Castiel said flatly, his voice devoid of its usual inflection. It wasn’t a greeting so much as an acknowledgment, as if even speaking his name was an effort. Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. 

“Hi,” he managed, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, gripping the paper bag tighter, as though it might anchor him. Castiel’s gaze flicked downward, his eyes lingering on the bag for a moment before he started to push the door closed. 

“I’m not interested,” he muttered. Dean panicked, stepping forward and wedging his foot in the gap before the door could fully shut. The edge of the door pressed against his shoe, and Castiel’s eyes snapped to his face, narrowing with irritation.

“Wait,” Dean said quickly, his voice low but urgent. “Please. Just—just hear me out. I–I didn’t lie!” Castiel’s glare sharpened, his jaw tightening as he leaned slightly against the doorframe. His fingers curled around the edge of the door, and for a moment, Dean thought he might just slam it shut anyway. But Castiel didn’t move. He simply stood there, staring at Dean with a coldness that made his stomach churn.

“You didn’t lie?” Castiel said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “That’s rich. Can’t wait to hear this one.” Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again, fumbling for the right words. He felt the weight of Castiel’s gaze, the icy edge of his disappointment cutting deeper than he’d expected. 

“Michael is my middle name,” he blurted out. 

Castiel’s expression didn’t change, but the sharp exhale through his nose told Dean just how little he believed him.

“I—I thought Castiel wasn’t a real name,” Dean continued, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I mean, it sounded… I don’t know, too unique? And when we met, I didn’t think it’d turn into anything serious, so I—”

“Oh, that’s a great excuse, Dean,” Castiel interrupted, his voice laced with biting sarcasm. He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head as he stepped back slightly, though he didn’t open the door any wider. “So, what? You figured I wasn’t worth the truth because you didn’t think you’d stick around? That’s what you’re saying?” Dean’s heart sank, his hands tightening around the paper bag until the edges crumpled slightly. 

“No—no, that’s not what I meant. It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like, Dean?” Castiel shot back, his voice rising just enough to make Dean flinch. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems pretty damn clear. You lied, and now you’re here with some overpriced art supplies thinking that’ll fix it. Do you even know me, or are you just hoping to throw money at the problem until it goes away?” Dean’s chest tightened, his words sticking in his throat. He looked at Castiel, really looked at him, and felt the full weight of his mistake settle over him. He’d hurt someone he cared about, someone who clearly deserved better. And now, face-to-face with the damage he’d caused, he realised just how badly he’d underestimated what Castiel meant to him.

“I screwed up,” Dean said finally, his voice quieter now. “I know I did. And I’m not here because I think a sketchbook or some pencils will make up for that. I’m here because I wanted to try. Because I care about you, Cas, and I—”

“Don’t,” Castiel cut him off, his voice trembling slightly. “Don’t say that like it makes everything okay. You don’t get to care about me now, not after lying to me for months.” Dean’s stomach twisted, the words hitting him harder than he expected. He felt the weight of Castiel’s disappointment settle over him like a storm cloud, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He could only stand there, holding the crumpled bag and hoping that somehow, he could find a way to fix this.

“I–I…Cas—” Castiel stared at Dean, his expression unreadable, though his grip on the door tightened, knuckles whitening. The air between them felt dense, saturated with the weight of unspoken words. He let out a sharp exhale, his gaze piercing.

“Why?” Castiel asked, his voice low but steady, cutting through the tension. “Why would you keep lying? If it didn’t matter, why drag it out?” Dean’s throat tightened. He shifted on his feet, the paper bag rustling faintly in his hand. He knew this was coming —had rehearsed answers in his head during the drive over— but now that Castiel was standing there, the rehearsals fell apart. He looked away, his jaw working as he tried to muster the courage to speak.

“Because…” Dean began, his voice faltering before he steadied himself. He met Castiel’s gaze, his own eyes filled with something close to shame. “Because I’m not good at this.” Castiel’s brows furrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of confusion breaking through his guarded expression.

“At what?” he asked, his tone sharper now. “At telling the truth? At being honest with the people you sleep with?”

“No,” Dean said quickly, shaking his head. “At... relationships. At being real with someone.” He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Look, I’ve been on my own for a long time. I’m used to keeping things simple, keeping people at a distance. And with you—” Dean hesitated, searching for the right words. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the carefully styled strands, and sighed. “With you, it wasn’t supposed to be anything more than… casual. But it wasn’t. And that scares me.” Castiel stared at him, the hard lines of his expression softening just a fraction. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning slightly against the doorframe as though bracing himself. 

“Did it scare you enough to lie for months?” he asked, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. Dean flinched, his shoulders stiffening under the weight of Castiel’s words. 

“Yes,” he admitted, the word barely more than a whisper. “I know it sounds stupid, but... I didn’t want to mess it up. And the more time we spent together, the harder it got to tell you the truth. I thought if I said something, you’d walk away.” Castiel’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away, his gaze falling to the scuffed floorboards of the hallway. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet felt suffocating, pressing down on Dean like a physical thing. Castiel's lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head slightly as his gaze turned back to Dean. His voice, when he spoke, was low and edged with frustration that felt honed, precise.

"I never asked you to be good at anything, Dean," Castiel said. "I never asked you to have some grand plan, to be perfect, or to know what you’re doing. I only asked for one thing—one simple thing. To be honest." Dean’s stomach twisted, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he struggled to meet Castiel’s gaze. He wanted to say something, to apologise again, to explain, but Castiel cut him off, his tone rising. "You lied about your name without a second thought," Castiel continued, his voice shaking just enough to betray the depth of his anger. "What else, Dean? What else have you lied about?" Dean opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He saw the hurt flickering in Castiel’s eyes, bright and sharp beneath the dull exhaustion that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. The sight of it was enough to make Dean’s chest ache in a way he hadn’t expected. He took a breath, steadying himself before speaking.

"Nothing," Dean said finally, his voice soft but firm. "I haven’t lied about anything else. I swear." Castiel huffed, his lips twisting into a bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

"And I’m supposed to believe that? After months of you pretending to be someone you’re not?" Dean’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. 

"Yes," he said simply. "Because it’s the truth." Castiel stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle, between them. Finally, Castiel let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as he glanced away.

"You don’t get it, do you?" he said, his voice quieter now but no less pointed. "It’s not just about the name. It’s about trust. About feeling like I could let my guard down for once, and then finding out that even that was a lie." Dean’s heart sank, the weight of Castiel’s words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He took a small step forward, his voice pleading. 

"I know I messed up. I know I broke your trust, and I hate myself for it. But I never lied about how I felt about you. That was real. That’s still real, Cas." Castiel’s gaze snapped back to him, his eyes narrowing. 

"You don’t get to call me that," he said, his tone sharp enough to cut. "Not anymore." Dean flinched, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the rejection. He nodded, his throat tight as he took a step back. 

"Okay," he said softly. "I deserve that." For a moment, neither of them spoke. Castiel’s hand tightened on the doorframe, his knuckles paling as he wrestled with whatever storm was brewing inside him. Finally, he let out a long, shaky breath and stepped back, his expression hardening.

"Leave," Castiel said, his voice flat. "Just... leave." Dean hesitated, his feet rooted to the spot as though moving would shatter what little remained between them. But the look in Castiel’s eyes —cold, resolute— left no room for argument. As the door closed behind him with a quiet click, Dean’s chest felt hollow. Swallowing hard, Dean nodded and turned away, leaving the green paper bag still untouched on the floor, the sound of it echoing in his ears long after he started down the stairs.

Chapter Text

The low hum of conversation filled the bar, an undercurrent to the faint clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Gabriel leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he watched Balthazar inspect the wine list with his usual air of detachment. The bar was one of those exclusive, low-lit spots where everything was polished to a sheen, from the dark wood of the tables to the gleaming bottles lined behind the counter. It suited Balthazar perfectly, Gabriel thought, a mix of refinement and indulgence.

“You know,” Gabriel said, breaking the silence, “for someone who claims to appreciate life’s finer things, you spend a lot of time looking like nothing on the menu could possibly impress you.” Balthazar didn’t look up, though a faint smirk curled at the corner of his lips. 

“That’s because it rarely does. But if I must endure mediocre company, I may as well pair it with an exceptional Bordeaux.” Gabriel snorted. 

“Charming as ever.” Before Balthazar could retort, his phone buzzed against the tabletop, its vibration cutting through the ambient noise. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, sipping his drink as Balthazar glanced at the screen. For a moment, the man’s usually unflappable expression shifted, his brow furrowing just slightly.

“Cassie,” Balthazar said, his tone unreadable as he picked up the phone. Gabriel straightened, setting his glass down with a soft clink. 

“You should answer,” he said, his voice quieter now, laced with an edge of concern that didn’t quite match his usual flippancy. Balthazar hesitated, then swiped to answer. 

“Castiel,” he said, his tone softening as he leaned back in his chair. Whatever response came through the line was inaudible to Gabriel, but he didn’t need to hear the words to recognise the rawness in them. Balthazar’s posture stiffened, his smirk fading as his expression turned serious. He sat forward, one hand gripping the edge of the table as he spoke. “Slow down,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “What’s going on?” Gabriel’s stomach tightened. He’d rarely saw Balthazar like this—so thoroughly focused, his usual detachment replaced by something sharper, more grounded. Gabriel leaned closer, trying to catch any fragment of the conversation, but Balthazar tilted his head away, his hand now cupped around the phone. “Cassie,” Balthazar said again, his tone low and measured. “I can’t help if I don’t understand. Are you at home?” The faint sound of a voice, muffled and indistinct, filtered through the phone. Gabriel could tell it was Castiel, though; the cadence was unmistakable, even if the words weren’t clear. And then he heard something else—something that made his chest tighten. Castiel was crying.

“Shit,” Gabriel muttered, leaning forward in his seat. “What is it? What’s he saying?” Balthazar shot him a quick glance, his eyes narrowed in a silent warning. 

“Cassie,” he said again, his voice softening further. “Just breathe. That’s it. Breathe and tell me what happened.”

Gabriel sat back, frowning deeply as he drummed his fingers against the table. His mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last. Castiel was rarely this shaken; he’d always been the one to deflect, to brush off concern with a sharp remark or an indifferent shrug. Whatever had happened, it was bad. Balthazar’s voice cut through Gabriel’s spiralling thoughts.

“Stay where you are,” he said firmly. “I’ll be there soon.” He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket, already standing as he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. Gabriel followed suit, abandoning his half-finished drink as he fixed Balthazar with a sharp look. 

“What the hell happened?” Balthazar didn’t answer immediately. He tossed a few bills onto the table and turned toward the exit, his stride purposeful. Gabriel kept pace, his heart pounding as they pushed through the bar’s heavy door and into the cool night air.

“It’s Dean,” Balthazar said finally, his voice clipped. “Whatever he did, Castiel’s a wreck.” Gabriel swore under his breath, his hands clenching into fists as he followed Balthazar to the curb. 

“Dean,” he spat. “I knew that guy was trouble the second I laid eyes on him. What did he do?” Balthazar shook his head, his jaw tight. 

“I don’t know. Castiel wasn’t exactly coherent.” He flagged down a cab, his movements uncharacteristically brisk. “But whatever it is, I intend to find out.” Gabriel slid into the cab beside him, his mind racing as the city blurred past the windows. For once, the usual banter between them was absent, replaced by a heavy silence that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. As the car sped toward Castiel’s apartment, Gabriel’s thoughts returned to his brother—the way he’d sounded on the phone, raw and broken in a way Gabriel hadn’t heard in years. And Dean.

He was going to kill Dean Smith.

The air in Castiel's apartment felt strangely still as Balthazar and Gabriel stepped inside. Gabriel glanced around, expecting the usual signs of Castiel's disarray—paint-streaked mugs abandoned on the counter, canvases leaning precariously against the walls, and stacks of books with bookmarks jutting out at chaotic angles. Instead, the space was unnervingly orderly. The faint smell of old takeout lingered, and Gabriel noticed the kitchen table was littered with cartons and crumpled paper bags, but it was a far cry from the hurricane of Castiel's typical environment.

"Did he finally hire a cleaner, or is this your doing?" Gabriel asked, his voice low as he shot a pointed look at Balthazar. Balthazar shrugged, unbuttoning his coat with a deliberate calm that Gabriel found infuriating. 

"I tidied up last week when Castiel was coming off the bender," he said "It seemed prudent." Gabriel frowned, glancing around again. The faint traces of Castiel’s life were still there —plants casting jagged shadows on the walls, sketchbooks stacked neatly on the coffee table— but the absence of chaos made the place feel hollow. Gabriel’s stomach knotted as he followed Balthazar deeper into the apartment. They found Castiel curled up on the bed, his back to them. His dark hair was disheveled, damp at the edges as though he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. His shoulders trembled faintly, and though the sound of his crying had stopped, the rawness of it lingered in the air like the remnants of a storm. Balthazar stepped closer, his shoes whispering over the floorboards. Gabriel hung back near the doorway, his expression unreadable as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

As Balthazar sat down on the edge of the bed, Castiel shifted slightly, but he didn’t turn to face him. His arms were wrapped around a wooden box, its rich finish gleaming faintly in the low light. Gabriel recognised it immediately—it was the set of pencils Dean had bought, the same one Castiel had initially dismissed with irritation. Now, the box looked like a lifeline, held close to Castiel’s chest as though it might stop him from breaking apart entirely. Balthazar reached out, brushing a lock of damp hair away from Castiel's face. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, his usual air of detachment softened by something closer to concern. 

"Cassie," he said quietly, his voice low and even. "Talk to me." Castiel’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look up. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and muffled against the pillow. 

"I told him to leave." Balthazar glanced back at Gabriel, who was still hovering in the doorway like a sentry, then returned his attention to Castiel. 

"Dean?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. Castiel nodded, his grip tightening on the box. His fingers trembled slightly, and his next words came in a rush, as though he couldn’t hold them back any longer. 

"He came to apologise. He—he brought this." He gestured faintly toward the box without loosening his hold on it. "And I... I couldn’t." Gabriel uncrossed his arms, stepping closer now, his voice sharper than Balthazar’s but not unkind. 

"Couldn’t what? Hear him out? Forgive him?"

"I couldn’t… stop feeling like it wasn’t enough." Castiel’s voice cracked, and he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the pillow. "I wanted to let him in. I wanted to, but every time I looked at him, all I could think about was how much it hurt." Balthazar sighed, a soft sound laced with understanding. He rested a hand on Castiel's shoulder, his fingers splayed lightly over the rumpled fabric of his shirt. 

"Cassie, do you even know what you want from him?" The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Castiel didn’t answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet that Balthazar had to lean closer to hear him.

"I wanted him to care about me," Castiel admitted, his words barely above a whisper. "But he doesn’t. Not the way I… " He trailed off, shaking his head as if to banish the thought. "I told him to leave because I didn’t know what else to do." Balthazar glanced over his shoulder at Gabriel, whose expression had shifted from irritation to something more complicated—an uncomfortable blend of anger and sympathy. Gabriel moved closer, perching on the arm of a nearby chair as he looked at his brother.

"You’ve been in love with him for months, haven’t you?" Balthazar asked, his tone devoid of judgment. It was a statement more than a question. Castiel didn’t respond, but the way he curled further into himself was all the confirmation they needed. Gabriel let out a low whistle, shaking his head.

"Dean," Gabriel muttered, his tone heavy with exasperation. "Of all the people to fall for, Cassie, you had to pick the one who couldn’t even get his own name right." Balthazar shot him a warning look, but Gabriel ignored it, leaning forward slightly. 

"Look, Cassie," he said, his voice softening just enough to sound genuine. "I’m not saying Dean’s a saint—he’s not. But he showed up, didn’t he? That’s got to mean something." Castiel’s grip on the box slackened slightly, his fingers tracing the edges of the wood. 

"It’s too late," he said, his voice hollow. Balthazar tilted his head, studying Castiel with a quiet intensity. 

"Forgiveness doesn’t have to mean forgetting," he said carefully. "But you need to ask yourself if you’re pushing him away because you’re hurt or because you’re scared."  

Castiel didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on the box in his hands, his thumb brushing over its surface as though seeking some kind of comfort. Gabriel watched him, his usual sharp wit muted by a flicker of something softer, something more protective.

"We’ll figure this out," Balthazar said finally, his voice resolute. "One way or another." But even as he spoke, the lingering tension in the room hinted at the uncertainty still to come.

Gabriel stepped away from the bed, the tension in the room too heavy to settle comfortably in one place. His hands slid into his pockets as he wandered toward the living area, eyes scanning the apartment. The usual chaos of Castiel's home —if it could even be called chaos, given how much it reflected Castiel himself— was conspicuously absent. Gabriel's brows furrowed as he took in the transformation. The bed in the sleeping nook, normally a riot of mismatched quilts and overstuffed pillows, was neatly made, its gallery wall above it pristine but devoid of Castiel’s usual sense of movement and spontaneity. Even the fairy lights hung in orderly rows, their soft glow casting diffused light over a space that felt oddly sterile. The frosted windows let in the usual gentle light, but even that seemed muted somehow. Gabriel moved to the living area, where the reading nook nestled beneath the towering bookshelves. Castiel’s books were there, vibrant spines lining the shelves, but they were too neatly arranged, too rigid. The usual overflow of novels, art books, and the occasional magazine that had once spilled onto the floor was conspicuously absent. The plush textiles in the corner were carefully folded, the cushions fluffed and aligned. Even the trailing plants, normally wild and spilling across the shelves, had been trimmed and tied back, their vibrant green muted against the newly imposed order.

He crossed the space slowly, the absence of clutter feeling almost louder than the presence of the usual creative chaos. Gabriel’s fingers brushed the edge of the old piano bar, its polished wood gleaming under the dim light. Even here, the trinkets and empty glasses that had once given the space life were gone. Balthazar, he realised. This had Balthazar’s fingerprints all over it. It wasn’t just a cleanup—no, Gabriel could practically see him, meticulously cleaning away the debris of Castiel’s spirals, trying to impose order where it didn’t belong. It wasn’t malice —Balthazar cared about Castiel, deeply, in his own aloof way— but it made Gabriel’s jaw tighten nonetheless. Castiel’s apartment had always been an extension of himself, a lived-in expression of his mind. Now, it was just… clean. He drifted toward the art studio, the wooden floors gleaming unnaturally under the faint glow of the streetlights outside. The splattered paint stains were still there, but they looked faded, scrubbed at until they’d surrendered some of their vibrancy. The canvases, usually scattered across the floor in various stages of completion, were stacked neatly against the walls. The brushes sat in jars, sorted by size, their bristles still damp from cleaning. The space felt suffocating in its newfound precision, the organised chaos that once defined it replaced with a cold symmetry that Castiel would never have imposed on his own.

Gabriel turned back toward the kitchen, his footsteps quiet against the hardwood floor. The shelves were still lined with their mismatched mugs and jars, but the counters were spotless, free of the usual clutter of half-finished meals or Castiel’s experimental concoctions. The spice rack was perfectly aligned, each jar labelled and facing forward like a display in a shop window. The small vintage teapots and hanging ladles were all in their places, but even they seemed too carefully positioned, their charm dulled by the absence of spontaneity.

“Balthazar,” Gabriel muttered, shaking his head as he returned to the living area. He couldn’t quite decide if he was impressed or annoyed. The place looked like it belonged in a catalogue, but it had lost its soul in the process.

As he passed the reading nook again, his gaze caught on a single deviation from the enforced order—a crumpled paper bag discarded near the armchair. Gabriel crouched to pick it up, his eyes narrowing as he recognised the logo embossed in gold on the forest-green surface.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, standing and carrying the bag to the bed. He stopped short as he saw Castiel again, still curled up and clutching the wooden box like a lifeline. Gabriel’s expression softened, the sharp edge of his irritation giving way to something more complicated.

“Balthazar,” Gabriel said quietly, holding up the bag. “This from Dean?” Balthazar glanced over from where he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand still resting lightly on Castiel’s shoulder. He nodded, his face unreadable. 

“He brought it when he came by earlier. Left it outside the door when Cassie told him to leave.” Gabriel let out a low whistle, turning the bag over in his hands.

“Well, he’s persistent. I’ll give him that.”

“It’s more than that,” Balthazar said, his voice softer now. He looked down at Castiel, brushing another strand of hair from his face. “Cassie’s been holding onto this for hours. Whatever he said, it mattered. He just… couldn’t let it in.” Gabriel looked between them, his chest tightening as he watched Castiel’s fingers tremble faintly against the box. 

“He really is in love with him,” Gabriel said, the words blunt but not unkind. Balthazar didn’t respond immediately, his gaze still on Castiel. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with something close to resignation. 

“Has been for months.” Gabriel exhaled slowly, his mind racing as he pieced together the implications. He dropped the bag onto the nearest surface and folded his arms. 

“So, what do we do now?” Balthazar tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“We wait,” he said simply. “And when the time comes, we help him pick up the pieces.” Castiel shifted slightly, his arms tightening around the wooden box as he mumbled again, his voice hoarse and muffled against the pillow. 

"Don’t… don’t talk about me in third person.” Balthazar chuckled softly, the sound low and warm as he glanced down at Castiel. 

"Ah, there he is," he murmured, brushing another errant strand of hair from Castiel's forehead. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to resurface." Gabriel raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to the bed. 

"Well, someone’s still got a bit of fight left in him," he said, his tone laced with a teasing edge. "Good to know you’re still in there, Cas." Castiel’s eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and rimmed with shadows, and he glared weakly at Gabriel. 

"Don’t call me that," he rasped, his voice cracking under the strain. Gabriel held up his hands in mock surrender, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. 

"Noted. No 'Cas.' You’ve made your stance clear." Balthazar, still seated on the edge of the bed, leaned closer, his expression softening. 

"You’re allowed to be upset, Cassie," he said quietly, his voice low and even. "But Gabriel’s right about one thing—you’ve still got some fight in you. That’s good. It means you’re not as far gone as you think." Castiel let out a long, shuddering breath, his grip on the box loosening slightly. He stared down at it for a moment, his fingers tracing the smooth surface as if the motion might ground him. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. 

"I didn’t mean to make him leave." Gabriel frowned, his teasing demeanour falling away as he sank into the chair near the bed. 

"You didn’t make him do anything," he said firmly. "Dean’s a grown man. If he left, that’s on him." Balthazar tilted his head, his gaze sharpening as he studied Castiel’s face. 

"But you wanted him to stay," he said, his words more observation than question. Castiel’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he didn’t answer. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the faint creak of the apartment’s old heating system. Finally, he let out a soft, broken laugh, shaking his head. "It’s not that simple," he said, his voice trembling. 

"I was angry. And scared. And... I didn’t know how to let him in without breaking all over again." Gabriel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded his brother with uncharacteristic seriousness. 

"You’re already broken, Cassie," he said, his tone gentle but unyielding. "And you’re allowed to be. But maybe —just maybe— you don’t have to fix yourself alone." Castiel closed his eyes, his expression twisting as though the words physically hurt him. 

"He lied," he said, his voice sharp and raw. "He lied, Gabriel. How am I supposed to trust someone who couldn’t even tell me his real name?" Balthazar sighed, reaching out to rest a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

"He lied," he agreed, his voice low. "But he also came back. And trust isn’t something you rebuild in a day. It takes time. Effort. And maybe…  a little faith." Castiel didn’t respond, but his fingers tightened around the box again, his grip more protective than desperate now. Gabriel and Balthazar exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them before Gabriel leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath.

"Take your time, Cassie," Gabriel said finally, his voice quieter now. "But don’t shut him out completely. Not if you think there’s something real there. You deserve more than this." For a moment, Castiel didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the wooden box in his hands. Then, slowly, he nodded, the motion small but deliberate. Balthazar squeezed his shoulder once before standing, his usual air of detachment slipping back into place like a well-worn coat.

"Good," Balthazar said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "Now, let’s make sure you actually eat something before you make yourself any worse." Gabriel snorted, rising from the chair with an exaggerated stretch. 

"Right. Because if there’s one thing you’re good at, Balthazar, it’s nurturing." Balthazar shot him a withering look, but the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his amusement. 

"Careful, Gabriel. I might start thinking you’re impressed." Castiel let out a quiet sound —half a laugh, half a sigh— and for the first time in days, the faintest glimmer of warmth returned to his eyes. Yet the air in the apartment still felt fragile, as though even a whisper could shatter it. Castiel moved to sit on the edge of the bed now, the tension in his shoulders softening under Balthazar’s steady hand on his back. The wooden box rested in his lap, his fingers tracing its edges as if trying to absorb some of its solidity. Gabriel leaned casually against the wall, but the sharpness in his eyes betrayed his casual stance. He broke the silence first, his tone laced with teasing curiosity.

“Wanna show us what’s in the box, Cassie?” Gabriel asked, tilting his head toward the object like it might hold the answers to every question hanging in the room. Castiel hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly on the box before he exhaled and lifted the lid. The soft creak of the hinge seemed louder than it was, and as the lid fell back, the contents gleamed under the soft overhead light. Inside lay a carefully arranged set of pencils, their lacquered surfaces catching the light in shades of deep crimson and gold. Each one was pristine, untouched, their tips sharp and perfect. The rich wood of the box contrasted beautifully with the smooth, creamy paper of the accompanying sketchbook, which Castiel pulled out gently, his touch reverent.

“I mentioned these,” Castiel said, his voice low, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “A while ago. Just in passing. I didn’t think he was listening.” Gabriel and Balthazar exchanged a glance. It was brief but charged, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Gabriel’s lips curled into a wry smile as he crossed his arms and leaned forward slightly.

“He might like you too, Cassie,” Gabriel said, his voice warm but edged with that teasing note he couldn’t resist. “For a guy like Dean? Remembering something like this? That’s… not nothing.” Balthazar arched a brow, his fingers tapping idly against the bedpost as he considered the open box. He nodded slowly, his smirk faint but genuine.

“Gabriel’s right,” Balthazar said. “Dean’s abysmal at everything that isn’t numbers and planning. His world is spreadsheets and quarterly reports. If he remembered this, if he went out of his way to get it…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

“It must mean something,” Castiel finished softly, his gaze fixed on the sketchbook in his hands. His thumb brushed the edge of the thick cover, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the room held its breath, the weight of what they weren’t saying pressing down like an unseen presence.

“Look,” Gabriel said, breaking the silence as he pushed off the wall and straightened. “I’m not saying you should run back into his arms or anything, but… maybe don’t write him off just yet. The guy’s clearly out of his depth, but at least he’s trying. That’s gotta count for something.” Balthazar’s hand fell from Castiel’s shoulder as he rose to his feet, smoothing the front of his tailored shirt. He glanced at Castiel, his smirk softening into something quieter, almost kind.

“He’s not perfect, Cassie,” Balthazar said. “Far from it. But you don’t exactly fall for perfect, do you?” Castiel’s lips twitched, a faint, fleeting smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked down at the box again, the pencils gleaming like tiny beacons of possibility.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “With him.”

“Start with the truth,” Balthazar said simply, turning toward the kitchen. “If nothing else, it’s a good place to begin.” Gabriel lingered, watching Castiel closely as his brother ran his fingers over the sketchbook’s cover again. There was a quiet determination in Castiel’s movements, as though he were testing the idea of letting himself believe in something fragile and real.

“You’re an artist, Cassie,” Gabriel said finally, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You take risks every time you put paint to canvas. What makes this any different?” Castiel didn’t answer right away, but as the door to his studio creaked open behind him, he stood. The sketchbook remained in his hands, its presence grounding him as he crossed the threshold into the space that had always been his sanctuary.

For the first time in days, he allowed himself to think about creating something new.

The faint sound of footsteps creaked through the quiet apartment as Balthazar moved toward the kitchen. 

“If I open your fridge, will I see Darwinism in action?” he asked over his shoulder, his tone dripping with dry amusement.

“Maybe,” Castiel replied from the living room, his voice nonchalant as he flipped through the sketchbook’s creamy pages. He didn’t look up, but the faint hint of a smile tugged at his lips. Balthazar opened the fridge with a casual air, his tailored sleeve brushing against the handle as he leaned down to peer inside. A low whistle escaped him, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk. Gabriel, who had perched himself on the arm of the couch, shot a puzzled glance at Balthazar. 

“Darwinism?” he echoed, his brow furrowed. “What the hell are you two on about now?” Balthazar straightened, closing the fridge with deliberate care. He turned, leaning one hand against the counter as his smirk deepened, the light catching the gleam in his eye.

“Half-eaten takeout,” he said. “The kind our dear Cassie absolutely insists he’s going to finish.” Gabriel snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. 

“You still do that?” he asked, tilting his head toward Castiel. “You know you never finish it. You just let it sit there until it evolves legs and applies for citizenship.” Castiel finally glanced up, arching a brow as he tilted his head toward Gabriel. 

“It’s called optimism,” he said dryly, flipping another page in the sketchbook. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”

“Optimism?” Gabriel shot back, grinning now. “More like a scientific experiment. You’re one forgotten carton of lo mein away from discovering the next penicillin.” Balthazar chuckled, moving to pour himself a glass of sparkling water from the open bottle on the counter. 

“He’s not wrong,” he said, raising the glass in a mock toast to Castiel. “But hey, if art doesn’t pan out, at least you’ve got a future in microbiology.” Castiel rolled his eyes but didn’t bother responding. Instead, he let his gaze drift back to the sketchbook, his fingers trailing over the edges of the blank pages as though testing their weight. The quiet banter between his brother and Balthazar buzzed in the background, familiar and oddly comforting.

For all their teasing, they were here. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

A while later Gabriel leaned casually against the counter, swirling his own glass of sparkling water as he cast a scrutinising glance toward Balthazar. His smirk was faint but probing, the kind of expression he wore when trying to needle answers out of someone who’d rather not give them. 

“So,” he said quietly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, “what happened to all the booze? Last time I was here, this place looked like the liquor aisle at Harrods.” Balthazar didn’t look up from the polished knife he was using to slice into a perfectly ripe avocado. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, like the question hadn’t even registered. When he finally did respond, his voice carried that lazy, detached charm Gabriel had long since recognised as a defensive mechanism.

“Castiel drank most of it,” Balthazar said, his tone mild. “I poured out the rest.” Gabriel straightened, his brows shooting up in surprise. 

“You what?” Balthazar shot him a sidelong glance, arching an elegant brow. 

“I took initiative,” he said smoothly, as though dumping out hundreds of dollars worth of alcohol was no more significant than taking out the trash. Gabriel blinked, then let out a low whistle. 

“Huh. Didn’t peg you for the intervention type.”

“I’m not.” Balthazar’s smirk curved into something sharper, a glint of something unspoken flashing in his eyes. “But I’m also not keen on watching him self-destruct. It’s tedious.” He gestured toward the fridge with the knife, its blade gleaming in the soft overhead light. “So now he has takeout and the occasional overpriced latte. No more alcohol. No more excuses.” Gabriel frowned, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the counter. 

“You’re saying he’s sober now? Voluntarily?” Balthazar’s smile didn’t waver, but it thinned slightly at the edges. 

“Voluntarily,” he echoed, his voice turning faintly sardonic. “With a little help from me confiscating his card and limiting his purchases to food deliveries. If he wants a bottle of something he’s going to have to find cash and then leave the flat and pay cash. Which, as you know, he won’t. Too much interaction.” Gabriel snorted, shaking his head. 

“Jesus, Balthazar. You really are the mother hen of the Novak flock, aren’t you?” Balthazar set the knife down with a soft clink, wiping his hands on a linen towel as he regarded Gabriel with a faintly amused expression. 

“Don’t mistake pragmatism for maternal instinct,” he said dryly. “I simply prefer him alive and functional. If that makes me a hen, so be it.” Gabriel tilted his head, his gaze flickering toward the doorway where Castiel had retreated into the reading nook. For a moment, his smirk softened, his usual bravado giving way to something more thoughtful. 

“He doesn’t make it easy, does he?” Balthazar hummed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. 

“No,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “But I don’t imagine he ever has.” The sound of a pencil scratching against paper drifted faintly through the apartment, a tentative rhythm that filled the silence between them. Gabriel’s gaze lingered on the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“You think he’ll get through this?” Gabriel asked, his voice unusually serious. Balthazar considered the question for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing the answer. 

“I think,” he said slowly, “that Castiel has always been remarkably good at surviving. But whether he learns to live again? That remains to be seen.” Gabriel nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

“And Dean?” Balthazar’s smirk returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Dean’s a work in progress,” he said, his voice laced with dry amusement. “But then, aren’t we all?” The quiet sound of pencil strokes continued, steady and deliberate, as though Castiel were sketching his way through something that couldn’t be spoken. In the kitchen, Gabriel and Balthazar fell silent, their unspoken concerns settling into the spaces between them. For now, there was nothing to do but wait. 

Gabriel’s gaze wandered to the cutting board as Balthazar worked, the soft crunch of a bell pepper being sliced filling the quiet air. The bright yellow pieces joined the neat pile of chopped red onion and lettuce already waiting in a bowl. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, watching the meticulous process as though observing some rare, esoteric ritual.

“So,” Gabriel said, his voice laced with casual curiosity, “where’d all this come from? I don’t remember Castiel ever keeping anything in his fridge that wasn’t takeout leftovers or some sad excuse for a salad mix.” Balthazar didn’t pause, expertly dicing a chunk of feta cheese into uniform cubes. 

“I went grocery shopping last week,” he said simply, his tone devoid of fanfare. Gabriel snorted, leaning back against the counter. 

“You? Grocery shopping? There’s a mental image I didn’t need. Did you wear gloves or something? Or were you slumming it with the common folk?” Balthazar’s smirk was faint as he added the feta to the salad bowl. 

“I did it hoping it might inspire our dear Cassie to discover the joys of cooking,” he said, ignoring Gabriel’s jibe. He tossed the ingredients gently, the colours bright and vibrant against the white of the bowl. “Naturally, I underestimated the gravitational pull of his Uber Eats app.” Gabriel grinned, his eyes crinkling with amusement. 

“Of course you did. Castiel, cooking? He probably looked at the stove and thought it was a modern art installation.”

“Indeed,” Balthazar said dryly. He turned, retrieving a large pot and setting it on the stovetop with a faint clatter. He filled it with water, the sound of rushing liquid punctuating the easy rhythm of their conversation. With a flourish, he salted the water generously, the crystals dissolving into the still surface. Gabriel watched as Balthazar moved about the kitchen with a surprising ease, the usual air of detachment replaced by a quiet competence. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Gabriel said, nodding toward the pot. “What’s the plan now? You making Castiel a fancy salad and… boiled water?” Balthazar arched an eyebrow, his smirk sharpening slightly. 

“Rigatoni,” he said, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a bag of pasta. “The salad is merely a side. If I’m going to put in the effort, I may as well make something worthwhile.” Gabriel chuckled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. 

“You’re full of surprises, you know that? First the grocery shopping, now this. What’s next, Balthazar? Homemade bread? A heartfelt speech about family?” Balthazar’s eyes glinted with amusement as he tore the bag open. 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, darling. This is merely survival with flair.” The water began to boil, bubbling vigorously under the heat. Balthazar tipped the rigatoni into the pot with a graceful motion, the pasta sinking into the rolling waves as steam curled upward. He gave it a quick stir with a wooden spoon before stepping back, his movements unhurried. Gabriel shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

“You really are something else, you know that?” Balthazar shrugged, his smirk softening. 

“If one must endure chaos, one might as well do it elegantly.” Gabriel glanced toward the doorway where Castiel had retreated, the faint sound of pencil scratching still audible in the quiet. He folded his arms, his expression growing more thoughtful. 

“You think he’ll eat it?” Balthazar’s smirk widened, though there was a faint note of fondness in his voice when he replied. 

“He’ll complain, of course. But he’ll eat it.” Gabriel chuckled softly, shaking his head as he watched Balthazar return to the salad. The kitchen, for all its orderly chaos, felt just a little bit warmer now, the simple act of cooking weaving a thread of normalcy through the tangled mess of their lives.  Balthazar glanced at Gabriel, who was perched lazily on the edge of the counter, swirling his half-empty glass of sparkling water with an air of detached amusement. The corner of Balthazar’s mouth twitched, and he set the wooden spoon down with a faint clatter. “Gabriel,” he said smoothly, “how is it that you can spend hours orchestrating elaborate corporate pranks but can’t seem to manage basic culinary assistance?” Gabriel grinned, leaning back and holding his hands up in mock surrender. 

“Oh, I could. But why ruin your little one-man performance? You’re doing fine on your own, Chef.” Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the pile of feta-streaked cutting boards and the rapidly boiling pot on the stove. 

“Fine,” he repeated, his tone deceptively mild. “You think this is fine?” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I didn’t realise you were such an expert.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Gabriel replied with a shrug. “Cooking just doesn’t happen to be one of them. It’s more fun to watch you.” Balthazar let out a soft hum, his expression thoughtful as he wiped his hands on a nearby towel. Then, with an elegant gesture, he plucked a bell pepper from the counter and tossed it lightly in Gabriel’s direction.

“Fine,” he said, his voice taking on a dangerous edge of challenge. “Show me.” Gabriel caught the pepper easily, his reflexes sharp despite his nonchalant air. He raised an eyebrow, turning the vegetable in his hands. 

“Show you what?”

“How to chop this without embarrassing yourself,” Balthazar replied, his smirk deepening. “Unless you’re all talk?” Gabriel let out a sharp laugh, tossing the pepper back and forth between his hands. 

“Alright, alright,” he said, sliding off the counter with exaggerated flair. “You think I can’t handle a little knife work? Watch and learn, darling.” Balthazar stepped aside with a sweeping gesture, as though granting Gabriel the floor of a stage. Gabriel rolled his sleeves up theatrically and grabbed a knife from the counter.

“Just don’t cut yourself,” Balthazar murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “The sight of blood would ruin my appetite.”

“Please,” Gabriel shot back, narrowing his eyes at the pepper. “I’ve been handling blades since you were sneaking sips of your father’s cognac. How hard can this be?” The first few slices were clean enough, the blade cutting through the bell pepper with a satisfying crunch. Gabriel’s confidence grew, and he shot Balthazar a triumphant look. “See? Easy peasy. You could’ve just asked me to—” His knife caught on a stubborn bit of stem, causing the pepper to lurch awkwardly to the side. Gabriel froze, the knife teetering in his hand. Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his smirk practically oozing smug satisfaction. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Was that a... hiccup in your flawless technique?” Gabriel scowled, squaring his shoulders as he finished the job with a bit more force than necessary. 

“Not a word,” he muttered, scooping up the pieces and adding them to the salad bowl with a flourish. Balthazar chuckled softly, reaching for the olive oil and balsamic vinegar to finish the dressing. 

“You did better than I expected,” he said, his tone almost magnanimous. “Though I wouldn’t quit your day job.”

“Like I’d ever need to,” Gabriel shot back, though his grin had returned. He leaned against the counter, watching as Balthazar whisked the dressing together with practiced ease. “Alright, what’s next? I’m on a roll.” Balthazar handed him a colander with a dramatic flourish. 

“Drain the pasta,” he instructed, gesturing toward the pot with an air of royal command. “Carefully, if you can manage it. I’d hate to see you burn yourself.” Gabriel rolled his eyes but obeyed, grabbing a pair of oven mitts for good measure. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered as he carried the pot to the sink. Balthazar leaned back, his smirk softening into something more genuine. 

“Oh, you have no idea,” he said, his tone low and teasing. 

By the time the pasta was drained and tossed with olive oil and seasoning, Gabriel had grudgingly admitted that maybe, just maybe, Balthazar knew what he was doing. The salad sat on the counter, vibrant and fresh, while the pasta steamed in its serving bowl, the rigatoni glistening with a light coating of oil.

“Well,” Gabriel said, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “I have to admit, this actually looks edible. Almost like it came from a real kitchen.” Balthazar clinked his glass of sparkling water against Gabriel’s in mock toast.

“What can I say? I elevate everything I touch.” Gabriel rolled his eyes but raised his glass nonetheless. 

“To us,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “The most dysfunctional chefs this side of the apocalypse.”

“And to Castiel,” Balthazar added, his smirk softening just slightly. “May he eventually appreciate our efforts. Or at least, not order pizza afterward.” They both laughed, the sound filling the quiet kitchen as the meal sat waiting, a small victory amidst the chaos of their lives.

Balthazar and Gabriel emerged from the kitchen with the pasta and salad balanced carefully in their hands. The aroma of warm olive oil and the tang of balsamic vinegar mingled in the air as they stepped into the living space. Castiel was perched in the sleeping nook, the soft, warm light filtering through the frosted windows catching in the tousled waves of his hair. His head was bowed over Dean’s sketchbook, his fingers moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm as he shaded something with one of the new pencils.

The scene struck both of them at once. Castiel looked more at ease than he had in a long time, the faint crease of focus between his brows a far cry from the jagged edges of his usual despair. Yet, the fragility of the moment hung in the air, as though even the wrong word could shatter it. Balthazar and Gabriel exchanged a brief glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Approach carefully, Balthazar’s raised brow seemed to say. Don’t ruin this. Gabriel’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, but he nodded, his body language as close to subdued as he ever got. Balthazar set the bowls down on the coffee table with a soft clink, wiping his hands on an impeccably folded kitchen towel before stepping closer to the nook. His voice was measured, casual, but carried an undertone of warmth as he broke the silence. 

“What’re you drawing there, Cassie?” Castiel didn’t look up immediately, his pencil making a final stroke before he lifted his gaze. His expression was a strange blend of defiance and something quieter, like he was steeling himself against a reaction he couldn’t predict. Without a word, he flipped the notebook around, revealing the page.

“Gabriel’s rat of a dog,” Castiel said flatly. Gabriel’s face shifted through several emotions in quick succession—surprise, indignation, and then begrudging amusement. 

“Hey!” he exclaimed, leaning forward to get a better look. The sketch was unmistakably of Gabriel’s Jack Russell terrier, its wiry fur and overzealous energy captured with almost alarming precision. The little creature was mid-leap, its front paws extended as if lunging toward some invisible target. The gleam in its eye suggested a dog on a mission, its every sinew taut with the joy of existing. “Rat?” Gabriel protested, gesturing toward the drawing. “You see that? That’s a perfectly respectable dog right there. Not a rat.” Castiel arched a brow, his lips twitching at the corners. 

“It’s small, it’s noisy, and it’s constantly sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong. Rat.” Balthazar chuckled softly, leaning in to study the drawing. 

“I have to admit,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “he’s got your dog’s essence down pat. Though, Cassie, I didn’t know you were secretly working on your career in caricature.” Castiel shrugged, though there was a faint glimmer of pride in his expression. He turned the notebook back around, his fingers tracing lightly over the edge of the page. 

“She’s annoying,” he muttered, almost to himself, “but she’s got personality. Easy to draw.” Gabriel crossed his arms, still feigning indignation, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. 

“If you hate her so much, why immortalise her in art, huh? Seems like you’ve got a soft spot for the little girl.” Castiel rolled his eyes, but his focus shifted back to the page, his pencil already hovering as though ready to make another adjustment. 

“Don’t push your luck,” he said.

Gabriel’s grin widened, and he shot Balthazar a look of triumph. “He’s coming around. Next thing you know, he’ll be asking me to bring her over so he can paint him properly.”

“That,” Castiel said without looking up, “is never happening.” Balthazar smirked, folding his arms as he leaned casually against the edge of the table. 

“Well, Gabriel, at least your dog has the honour of being rendered in such detail. I’d count that as a victory.” The pencil paused, and Castiel glanced up, his expression softening just slightly as his gaze flicked between them. 

“What do you want?” he asked, though his tone lacked the usual bite. Balthazar gestured toward the food on the table, his voice light but firm. 

“Dinner. And before you argue, yes, you’re eating it. Even if I have to personally serve it to you in that little nest of yours.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He set the sketchbook and pencil aside, shifting to sit more upright in the nook. 

“Fine,” he said, his voice quieter now. Gabriel clapped his hands together, his grin widening. 

“See? Progress. First my dog, now food. Who knows? Maybe by next week, you’ll actually leave the apartment.” Castiel shot him a withering look, though the faint glint of amusement in his eyes softened the effect. 

“One step at a time, Gabriel.” As Balthazar began plating the food, Gabriel slid onto the couch, his movements loose and casual. The three of them settled into an unspoken rhythm, the quiet camaraderie weaving its way through the room like an invisible thread. For now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The soft light of morning seeped through the edges of the frosted window, casting a muted glow over Castiel’s room. The air was cool but not unkind, the kind of chill that coaxed one to burrow deeper into blankets. Castiel stirred, his face half-buried in the pillow, the scent of clean cotton and something faintly musky —Balthazar’s cologne, perhaps— lingering in the sheets. It was a rare sensation, this ease, as though the world beyond the apartment had temporarily ceased to exist. He became aware of the warmth at his back first: solid, reassuring, and familiar. Balthazar’s arm was draped around him, his hand resting lightly against Castiel’s ribs, its presence both protective and grounding. The steady rise and fall of Balthazar’s breathing pressed gently against him, creating a rhythm that felt safe, soothing. Castiel blinked against the soft light, the lines of the room blurring into a quiet haze. The usual disarray of his thoughts felt subdued, muffled beneath the cocoon of the bed and the weightless serenity of the moment. Without thinking, he let himself sink further back, the curve of his spine fitting neatly against Balthazar’s chest. Balthazar stirred slightly, the motion subtle but deliberate. His arm tightened around Castiel, pulling him closer as his breath ghosted against the back of Castiel’s neck. There was no exchange of words, only the instinctual closeness of two people who knew each other’s rhythms. Castiel closed his eyes, allowing himself the rare indulgence of feeling truly secure.

For a while, he didn’t move, content to remain in the quiet embrace. But the flicker of thought that always lurked at the edges of his mind began to stir. His fingers flexed against the soft sheets, and he shifted carefully, turning within the circle of Balthazar’s arm to face him. Balthazar was still asleep, his features softened by the tranquillity of slumber. The sharpness that so often defined him —the arched brow, the knowing smirk— was absent, replaced by an almost boyish calm. His dark lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, and his lips, slightly parted, drew slow, even breaths. Castiel studied him in the quiet, his gaze tracing the planes of Balthazar’s face with a tenderness he wasn’t sure he could name. There was something so disarming about seeing him like this, stripped of his usual charm and sharp wit. It made Castiel’s chest ache in a way that was both comforting and bittersweet.

Why couldn’t it be this easy with Dean?

The thought came unbidden, sharp against the gentle calm of the moment. Castiel’s brows furrowed slightly, his gaze dropping to where Balthazar’s hand still rested against his side, the touch unconscious but steady. With Balthazar, things had always been uncomplicated. Their connection wasn’t weighed down by expectations or misunderstandings; it simply was. There were no layers of unspoken rules, no fear of missteps that could send everything crumbling. But Dean… Dean was different. Dean had a way of pulling at the threads of Castiel’s carefully guarded existence, unraveling him in ways that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. Dean was a contradiction, a man who lived within strict boundaries yet managed to disrupt Castiel’s sense of control with a single glance, a fleeting touch. And with Dean, the stakes felt impossibly high. Castiel’s gaze returned to Balthazar’s face, taking in the faint crease of his brow as he shifted in his sleep. The question lingered, persistent and unanswered: 

Why couldn’t it be this easy with Dean?

He sighed softly, his breath barely disturbing the stillness of the room. The past few days had been a whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t quite untangle, and now, here in the quiet, he was left with only himself and the ache of what-ifs. Balthazar murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, his arm tightening around Castiel in response to the faint shift of weight. Castiel couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his lips, the simplicity of the moment grounding him once more. He didn’t know what came next —whether with Dean, with Balthazar, or even with himself— but for now, this was enough.

He closed his eyes again, letting the warmth of the morning and the steady presence beside him lull him into a fragile sense of peace. Balthazar stirred beside him, his movements unhurried and fluid as if he were rising from some impossibly serene dream. His arm tightened briefly around Castiel in a gesture that felt almost instinctual before he shifted slightly, his lips brushing against Castiel’s cheek in a soft, lingering kiss. The sensation was warm, gentle—neither hurried nor hesitant.

“Morning, Cassie,” Balthazar murmured, his voice low and slightly husky with sleep. The sound was familiar, rich with the casual affection that seemed so effortless for him. Castiel blinked slowly, his gaze lingering on Balthazar’s face for a moment before turning away. He didn’t sit up yet, instead remaining nestled in the blankets, his voice quiet but steady as he replied. 

“You only stay over when you’re worried about me.” The faintest flicker of something passed over Balthazar’s face —a shadow of acknowledgment, perhaps— but it disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to Castiel’s shoulder in a brief, grounding touch before he sat up fully. The sheets pooled around his waist as he leaned back against the headboard, his movements graceful even in the haze of morning.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Balthazar replied, his tone light but his gaze thoughtful as he watched Castiel.

“It’s not,” Castiel said simply, though his expression remained guarded. He pulled the blanket a little higher, resting his chin against his forearm as he glanced toward the muted light spilling through the frosted window. “It’s just true.” Balthazar tilted his head, studying him in the quiet. The sharp lines of his usual demeanor were softened by the morning’s stillness, though his eyes retained their usual keen awareness. He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair from Castiel’s forehead, the gesture as natural as breathing.

“Well,” Balthazar said after a beat, his smirk faint but genuine, “if I weren’t worried about you, I wouldn’t be here to enjoy this charming wake-up call.” Castiel huffed a quiet laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He let the silence settle between them again, the unspoken truths lingering in the spaces where words wouldn’t go. Castiel sat up slightly, the sheets pooling around his waist as he absently cleaned his nails with the edge of his thumb nail, a habit borne of idle moments. His gaze wandered across the room before it settled back on Balthazar, who was still leaning against the headboard with an air of practiced ease.

“You’ve got work soon, don’t you?” Castiel asked, his tone neutral but laced with faint curiosity. His eyes flicked up, briefly meeting Balthazar’s. Balthazar stretched one arm along the headboard, his movements unhurried. He looked at Castiel with a smirk that was equal parts playful and reassuring. 

“Not if you want me to stay,” he said, his voice smooth, carrying the quiet confidence that always seemed to settle a room. Castiel paused, his nails forgotten as he regarded Balthazar. The words weren’t flippant, even if they sounded that way. Balthazar had a knack for hiding sincerity behind a veil of charm, but Castiel knew better. There was a depth to the offer, unspoken but palpable, lingering in the space between them. He leaned back slightly, resting on his palms, and tilted his head as though weighing the statement. 

“I didn’t think you took orders from anyone, let alone me,” he said, his voice carrying a faint edge of dry amusement. Balthazar chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm in the stillness of the room. 

“Orders, no,” he replied, brushing an imaginary speck of lint from his shirt sleeve. “Requests from you, however? That’s a different matter entirely.” The room fell quiet again, the kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable but held an air of expectation. Castiel’s gaze dropped to his hands once more, his fingers twitching as though they itched to hold a pencil, to create. The faint smell of coffee from the kitchen teased at the edges of his senses, grounding him in the present.

“You’re an enigma, Cassie,” Balthazar murmured, his tone softer now, almost contemplative. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his piercing gaze fixed on Castiel. “You act like you don’t care, but here you are, asking me about work. What are you really thinking?” Castiel’s lips quirked in a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“I was just making conversation,” he said lightly, though the truth of it felt tangled somewhere deeper, harder to articulate. Balthazar studied him for a moment longer before sitting back with a sigh that felt heavier than it sounded. 

“If you say so,” he said, though his tone hinted at understanding Castiel wasn’t quite ready to give voice to. He ran a hand through his hair, the casual gesture somehow managing to exude a kind of effortless poise. “Just know this—I’ll stay as long as you need me to. Work can wait.” The sincerity in his words lingered, a steady presence that seemed to push back against the chaos Castiel often felt brewing just beneath the surface. Castiel didn’t reply, not immediately. Instead, he reached over and tugged the blanket higher around his shoulders, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Maybe I’ll hold you to that,” he said at last, his voice quiet but resolute. Balthazar smiled, a genuine curve of his lips that softened the sharpness of his usual expression. 

“I hope you do.” The sunlight filtering through the window shifted slightly, catching the faint dust motes dancing lazily in the air. Castiel rested back against the pillows, his fingers tracing the edge of the blanket absentmindedly. His voice, when he spoke, was low and tentative.

“When did you see my dad last?” he asked, not meeting Balthazar’s eyes. The question hung in the air, delicate yet weighted with something unspoken.

Balthazar tilted his head, his expression softening. 

“Yesterday, board meeting,” he said simply, his voice steady. He reached for the glass of water on the dresser, taking a sip before setting it back with a quiet clink. Castiel’s fingers stilled, his gaze dropping to his lap. 

“Is he…” His voice faltered, trailing off as if the words were too difficult to finish. The question lingered in the air like a held breath. Balthazar sighed, leaning forward slightly as he rested his elbows on his knees. 

“He’s not angry with you, Cassie,” he said, his tone measured, almost gentle. “He’s worried. That’s all.” A flicker of uncertainty crossed Castiel’s face, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the words. 

“Worried,” he repeated, the word feeling foreign in his mouth. His lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke again. “Some worry. He hasn’t even texted me.” Balthazar’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t hold its usual sharpness. 

“You know he doesn’t text,” he replied, his tone laced with a quiet amusement. “He emails. Have you checked your emails?” Castiel blinked, a faint flush creeping up his neck. 

“No,” he admitted after a beat, his voice quieter now. He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as though the gesture might lessen the weight of his neglect. Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness. 

“Have you even charged your computer?” he asked, his words carrying a dry humor that softened the question’s edge. Castiel let out a huff of air, his fingers twitching against the blanket. 

“I haven’t had the time,” he said, though the excuse felt hollow even to him. He avoided Balthazar’s gaze, instead focusing on the patterns of light dancing across the room. Balthazar sat back, crossing his arms loosely as he studied Castiel. 

“Cassie,” he said after a pause, his voice low and even. “You’ve had the time. You’ve just avoided it.” Castiel flinched slightly, his gaze flicking up to meet Balthazar’s. There was no accusation in Balthazar’s eyes, only a quiet understanding that felt more piercing than any reprimand. Castiel opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, his shoulders sagging as he let out a long, measured breath.

“I’ll check,” he said finally, the words carrying a quiet resolve. It wasn’t a promise so much as a concession, but Balthazar nodded all the same, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Good,” Balthazar said, his voice softening. “It might help more than you think.”

The room fell quiet again, the silence settling between them like an unspoken truce. Castiel glanced toward the desk where his laptop lay forgotten, a thin layer of dust collecting on its sleek surface. The sight of it stirred something within him—something equal parts dread and curiosity. Castiel swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor. The air in the room was still, save for the faint creak of the floorboards as he stood. He crossed to the corner of the room, where a box sat half-forgotten beneath a low table, its edges softened by time and neglect. Kneeling, he pulled the box toward him, the faint scrape echoing in the otherwise quiet space. Dust clung to its lid in a fine film, disturbed only when Castiel lifted the top to rummage through its contents. His fingers brushed over an old sketchpad, a handful of mismatched cords, and a tangle of forgotten items before he found what he was looking for—a frayed charging cable coiled like a reluctant snake.

“Found it,” he muttered, more to himself than to Balthazar, who had watched the process from the bed with an air of mild amusement. Castiel stood and carried the cord to his desk, where his neglected laptop sat cloaked in dust. With a practiced motion, he plugged one end of the cable into the computer and the other into the wall socket. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering above the lid of the laptop as though opening it might release some long-buried ghost. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he flipped it open. The dust stirred like a flock of startled birds, catching in the morning light and rising in a faint, glittering haze. Castiel flinched, coughing as he waved a hand in front of his face in a vain attempt to clear the air. From behind him, Balthazar let out a barely stifled laugh. 

“Oh, Cassie,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “This is why you don’t let your tech gather dust. It’s practically an artifact now.” Castiel turned to glare at him, his expression a mix of irritation and embarrassment.

“Not a word,” he said, his voice roughened by the dust. But his glare lost some of its potency when the computer powered on with an unexpected chime, the sound startling in its clarity. The small, green charging icon appeared in the centre of the screen, glowing faintly against the dark backdrop. Castiel blinked at it, momentarily disarmed by the sudden life in the machine.

“Did you think it wouldn’t work?” Balthazar asked, his voice laced with amusement as he leaned back against the headboard, watching the scene unfold like an audience to an unplanned comedy. Castiel didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and muttered his reply. 

“It’s been a while,” as though that excused the choking dust and the neglected state of the device. He sank into the desk chair, fingers hesitating over the keyboard before tapping lightly at the touchpad. The screen brightened, and a dozen notifications flared to life in a rapid cascade.

Emails. Hundreds of them.

The inbox stared back at him, an endless scroll of unread messages marked with timestamps spanning weeks, months. Castiel scrolled aimlessly at first, scanning the names and subject lines with a detachment that masked his growing unease. He hadn’t realised how much he had ignored until now, how the digital detritus of his life had piled up, unseen but insistent.

“Anything from him?” Balthazar asked, his voice softer now, the teasing edge replaced with something closer to curiosity. He didn’t elaborate, but Castiel knew who he meant.

Castiel scrolled again, slower this time, his eyes narrowing as he searched. The words lines blurred together until one caught his eye, simple and direct:

               From: Charles Novak

               Subject: Thinking of You.

Castiel’s hand hovered over the trackpad, his heart thudding in his chest as he noticed that it was sent the day he missed their meeting. He hesitated for a moment longer, then clicked. The email opened with a faint whir of the loading screen, revealing a block of text that was achingly familiar in its tone—short sentences, carefully chosen words, the restraint of a man who wasn’t good at saying what he felt but tried anyway.

               Cassie,
               I hope you’re taking care of yourself.
               I know things have been difficult lately,
               but I want you to remember that you don’t have to do it alone.
               You have people who care about you
               —who want to help, if you let them.
               If you feel like talking, I’m here.
               And if you don’t, that’s fine too.
               Just know I’m thinking of you.

               Dad.

Castiel stared at the screen, his throat tightening as he read the words again, and then again, as though the repetition might anchor him. His father’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, a quiet presence that he’d avoided for so long but now found himself missing with an intensity that surprised him.

Behind him, Balthazar rose from the bed and crossed the room. He placed a hand lightly on Castiel’s shoulder, his grip neither possessive nor casual but grounding. 

“Well?” he asked, his tone softer still, laced with the same understanding that had marked their earlier conversation.

“He emailed,” Castiel said finally, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. He leaned back in the chair, letting his head rest against Balthazar’s hand as he stared at the email. “He’s… worried.” Balthazar didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he squeezed Castiel’s shoulder, a silent acknowledgment that spoke louder than any words. For the first time in a long while, Castiel felt the faintest flicker of connection—not just to his father, but to himself, and to the tangled threads of the life he’d tried so hard to untangle alone.

Castiel’s fingers hovered over the touchpad as he stared at the next email in his inbox. The sender was the same: Charles Novak. His father. His heart twisted, equal parts curiosity and hesitation holding him in place. After a moment, he clicked.

               From: Charles Novak

               Subject: (no subject)

The email opened in a clean window, the soft light of the screen casting faint shadows on the desk. The message was brief but unmistakably heartfelt:

               Cassie,
               I just want you to know that I am thinking of you
               and that I am here when you are ready to talk.
               Hugs!

               Dad. 

The words were straightforward, unadorned by flourish or embellishment, but Castiel felt their weight—or rather, their tenderness. His father’s voice was embedded in each word, that familiar steadiness he’d relied on as a child but resisted as an adult. ‘Hugs!’ It was such a simple addition, almost comically out of place in its exuberance. And yet, it made Castiel’s chest ache. He traced the edge of the trackpad with his thumb, his gaze softening. His father had never been good at long, emotional speeches. He had always preferred actions over words—a hand on the shoulder, a quiet presence when Castiel needed it most. And yet, here he was, trying, reaching out in his own awkward but undeniably genuine way.

Before he could fully absorb the message, his eyes drifted to the email beneath it, also from his father. The subject line read, ‘Dinner Plans?’ Castiel’s pulse quickened. He clicked.

               From: Charles Novak

               Subject: Dinner Plans?

               Cassie,
               Mum and I love having you here and spending time with you.
               Forget about Dean. You are super important,
               and it would mean a lot to us if you could come for dinner sometime
              —it’s been too long! You are an important part of our lives,
               and you absolutely do not ruin it.

               Dad.

Castiel stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly as his chest tightened. The way his father had repeated super important struck him as almost desperate, as though he were trying to hammer the sentiment into place, to counter some imagined—or, perhaps, real—doubt.

The phrase ‘you absolutely do not ruin it’ caught him off guard, as sharp and unexpected as a slap. He knew exactly where it came from—his own careless words, spoken in moments of frustration or self-loathing. How many times had he thrown that accusation at himself? How many times had he convinced himself he was a burden, dragging down the people who cared about him? Too many. And now, seeing his father’s insistence, Castiel felt a rush of guilt and gratitude tangled together in a way he couldn’t easily unravel. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. The mention of Dean stood out like a bright thread in the fabric of the message. His father didn’t know about Dean—or rather, he hadn’t, not unless Gabriel had said something. Or Gabriel and Balthazar. Castiel exhaled sharply through his nose, a bitter laugh escaping before he could stop it.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “Of course you told him.”

“Hmm?” Balthazar’s voice broke through Castiel’s spiraling thoughts. He was still standing nearby, leaning casually against the desk. “Something worth sharing, or are you just brooding for the fun of it?” Castiel glanced at him, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Dad knows about Dean,” he said flatly. Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened into something almost amused. 

“That surprises you? You know Gabriel can’t keep his mouth shut. And I might have… contributed.” Castiel gave him a look that was part exasperation, part resignation. 

“Of course you did.” Balthazar shrugged, unrepentant. 

“He’s your father, Cassie. He deserves to know what’s going on in your life. And, from the sound of it, he’s not exactly holding it against you.”

Castiel turned back to the screen, rereading the email. The words seemed to pulse faintly, a quiet insistence that he couldn’t ignore. 

‘You are an important part of our lives. You absolutely do not ruin it.’

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. The silence stretched, filling the space between him and Balthazar like a question neither of them was ready to answer. Then, finally, Castiel let out a breath.

“He wants me to come to dinner,” Castiel said quietly, his voice tinged with something he couldn’t quite name. “He thinks I need reminding that I’m not... a burden.”

“And do you?” Balthazar asked, his tone gentler now, the teasing edge gone. “Need reminding?” Castiel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked down at his hands, at the faint smudges of graphite that clung to his fingertips from last night. His nails, which he’d cleaned absentmindedly not long ago, were already gathering faint streaks of grey again. He let out a slow breath.

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice soft. “Maybe I do.”

Castiel’s computer emitted the familiar chime of a new email arriving, the sound cutting through the silence like a pebble dropped into a still pond. He glanced at the screen, his heart giving a small, reluctant flutter when he saw his father’s name again. Another message. His father had always been persistent in a quiet, unrelenting way—never pushy, but impossible to ignore.

With a faint sigh, Castiel clicked on the email. The message appeared, the words warm and direct, practically reaching through the screen:

               From: Charles Novak

               Subject: Tonight?
               Hey,
               I was just thinking of you and wanted to remind you
               how incredibly much you mean to me and Mum.
               You are a super important and invaluable part of our lives.
               I can't wait to see you. If you don't feel like talking, that's okay.
               Maybe we can call tonight—you don't have to say anything,
               but Mum and I can tell you how our day was.
               Like one of those video scenes you tried to explain that one time!

               Dad. 

The corners of Castiel’s mouth tugged upward despite himself. His father had always tried, in his awkward and endearingly straightforward way, to bridge the gap between their worlds. The reference to the ‘video scenes’ made him laugh softly under his breath—years ago, Castiel had tried explaining the concept of vlogs to his parents, complete with an overly enthusiastic reenactment. His father had called them ‘video letters,’ a term that had stuck, much to Castiel’s amusement. Balthazar leaned in slightly, his curiosity piqued by Castiel’s change in expression. 

"Another heartfelt missive from dear old Dad?" he asked, his voice laced with dry affection.

Castiel nodded, his fingers brushing lightly against the keyboard. He reread the message, his gaze lingering on the words ‘important’ and ‘invaluable.’ They felt almost too much, like a balm he wasn’t sure he deserved. And yet, there was something about the way his father wrote them—simple, honest, with no hidden agenda—that made them feel undeniable.

"He wants to call tonight," Castiel said, his voice quiet. "Just to talk. Or—" He hesitated, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Or, more accurately, so he and Mum can talk while I just listen." Balthazar let out a low chuckle, leaning back against the desk. 

"That sounds about right. Your father’s never been one to let silence sit unfilled. But you know, Cassie, it’s not a bad thing. Letting them talk at you. It might even help." Castiel tilted his head, considering. The idea of hearing his parents’ voices —their gentle, familiar rhythms, the easy way they balanced each other in conversation— was oddly appealing. He imagined his mother recounting her day with enthusiasm, her hands likely gesturing just off-screen, and his father chiming in with dry, understated commentary. It was a picture of normalcy he hadn’t realised he missed.

"Maybe," he murmured, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge of the desk. "It wouldn’t hurt." Balthazar studied him for a moment, his gaze unusually soft. 

"No," he said finally. "It wouldn’t." The room fell quiet again, the hum of the computer the only sound. Castiel leaned back in his chair, his thoughts turning inward. He felt the familiar pang of guilt, the echo of his own insecurities whispering that he didn’t deserve this kind of love, this unwavering support. But his father’s words, insistent and unpretentious, lingered in his mind.

‘You are a super important and invaluable part of our lives.’

For once, he let himself believe it. Just a little.

Chapter Text

Dean hesitated for the briefest moment outside Balthazar’s office door, the frosted glass obscuring the man within but doing little to diminish the imposing weight of his presence. It was 8 a.m. sharp, and the corridors of Novak Enterprises were still cloaked in the early morning hush. Most employees hadn’t yet arrived, their desks vacant, the air still faintly perfumed with last night’s industrial cleaning. The letters spelling out ‘Balthazar Freely, Board Member’ stood in contrast to the frosted door that loomed before him, pristine and unyielding. Dean adjusted his tie —a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to shake— before knocking twice. The sound felt unnervingly loud in the otherwise silent hallway.

“Come in,” Balthazar’s voice rang out, smooth and indifferent, as though he had been expecting Dean yet wasn’t particularly impressed by his punctuality. 

Dean pushed the door open, stepping into the office with measured calm, though his mind buzzed with unspoken questions. The space was as meticulously curated as its occupant: dark leather chairs arranged just so, a couch no one but Gabriel ever seemed to occupy, a sleek glass desk devoid of any clutter, and floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the room in the cold, blue-grey light of the overcast morning. The decor was expensive but understated, the kind of opulence that whispered instead of shouted. Balthazar sat behind his desk, his chair angled slightly as though to invite conversation while simultaneously asserting dominance. He looked immaculate, as always—his suit tailored to, a faint glint of silver at his cufflinks. A glass of water, untouched, sat on the desk beside a tablet displaying some unreadable document.

“Smith,” Balthazar greeted, his tone as polished as his appearance. His sharp gaze flicked over Dean, assessing, weighing, before gesturing lazily to the chair opposite him. “Do sit. You look like you’ve been standing on hot coals since you walked in.” Dean forced a tight smile, stepping forward to take the offered seat. The leather was cool beneath him, the chair firm enough to prevent any real comfort. He placed his briefcase carefully by his feet, resisting the urge to adjust his tie again. 

“Good morning,” he said evenly, though his voice lacked the natural ease Balthazar wielded so effortlessly. Balthazar leaned back, steepling his fingers as he regarded Dean with a faint smirk. 

“It’s a very good morning indeed, isn’t it? One hour until the promotions drop. I imagine you’re feeling… hopeful.” Dean’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He wasn’t sure what angle Balthazar was working, but the man’s penchant for games was infamous. 

“I’ve done my best to prepare,” he replied, keeping his voice measured. “The rest is out of my hands.” Balthazar let out a soft chuckle, a sound that seemed to echo in the sparse room. 

“Spoken like a man who’s been reading too many self-help books.” He shifted in his chair, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I didn’t summon you here to discuss your PowerPoint skills or your corporate zen. This is about Castiel.” Dean’s stomach clenched, though his face remained carefully neutral. He had braced himself for the possibility that Castiel’s name would come up—how could it not? But hearing it spoken aloud in this cold, deliberate space felt like a punch to the gut.

“What about him?” Dean asked cautiously. Balthazar’s smirk faded, his expression sharpening into something far more serious. 

“What about him,” he echoed, his voice low but cutting. “Indeed. Tell me, Dean, how do you think he’s doing?” Dean hesitated. The truth lingered on the edge of his tongue, but he knew better than to hand it over freely. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “He hasn’t spoken to me since…”

“Since you broke his trust,” Balthazar finished for him, the words precise and unyielding. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his gaze boring into Dean. “Let me make this clear, Smith. Castiel may not be speaking to you, but he’s not exactly thriving in your absence.” Dean’s chest tightened. The thought of Castiel struggling —of him being hurt in ways Dean couldn’t fix— sent a pang of guilt rippling through him. He met Balthazar’s gaze, forcing himself to hold steady under the man’s scrutiny. 

“I didn’t intend to hurt him,” Dean said, the words quiet but firm. “And I’ve been trying to make it right.” Balthazar’s lips curled into a humorless smile. 

“Trying, are you? I wonder if you truly understand what that entails.” Dean leaned forward, his hands clasping together on his lap. 

“If you’ve called me here to lecture me, just get on with it,” he said, his voice carrying a trace of the frustration he had been trying to suppress. “Or if there’s something I can actually do for Castiel, tell me.” For a moment, Balthazar didn’t reply. He studied Dean, his expression inscrutable, before finally leaning back in his chair. 

“Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Perhaps there’s more steel in you than I gave you credit for.” The faintest flicker of approval —if it could even be called that— passed through Balthazar’s gaze before he continued. “Here’s the thing, Dean. Castiel doesn’t need grand gestures or empty apologies. What he needs is consistency. Stability. Someone who doesn’t just show up when it’s convenient but stays when things get messy.” Dean nodded, the words settling uncomfortably in his chest. He had always prided himself on his control, his ability to navigate chaos with precision. But Castiel wasn’t chaos; he was a storm, beautiful and unpredictable, and Dean had failed to weather it.

“I can do that,” Dean said quietly, his voice steady. Balthazar arched a brow, his smirk returning faintly. 

“We’ll see,” he said. “For now, consider this a test of your resolve. And do try not to let your promotion —or lack thereof— cloud your judgment. Castiel’s worth more than a corporate ladder.” Dean stood as Balthazar gestured toward the door, the meeting clearly concluded. As he turned to leave, Balthazar’s voice stopped him.

“Oh, and Dean?” Dean paused, glancing back over his shoulder. Balthazar leaned back further in his chair, his smirk shifting into something sharper, more deliberate. “Don’t disappoint me again,” he said, his tone as smooth as silk but carrying an unmistakable edge. “It’s a bad look for a director.”

The words hung in the air, sinking into Dean’s consciousness before he fully registered their meaning. His heart thudded hard against his ribcage, and for a moment, the sound of it seemed louder than the faint hum of the office. He stood frozen, processing.

Director.

He got it.

The breath he hadn’t realised he was holding escaped in a sharp exhale. He had done it. He was now the Director of Sales and Marketing. The title sat heavy in his mind, monumental and thrilling, yet his face betrayed nothing but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t about to give Balthazar the satisfaction of seeing him lose composure.

“Thank you,” Dean said, his voice steady, though the undercurrent of emotion was palpable. He straightened his shoulders, the professional mask sliding effortlessly back into place. “I won’t let you down.” Balthazar regarded him with an expression that could have been approval or amusement—perhaps both. 

“See that you don’t,” he said simply, already reaching for the tablet on his desk as though Dean had ceased to exist the moment his purpose was served. Dean turned and walked out of the office, his stride calm and measured. But as the door clicked shut behind him, a grin broke free, wide and unrestrained, his chest alight with a mix of pride and relief. The quiet hallway seemed brighter now, the frosted glass of Balthazar’s door less imposing. He was the new director.

The momentary rush of elation began to wane, replaced by a gnawing whisper at the back of his mind. His success here hadn’t come without cost. Balthazar’s warning about Castiel lingered, sharp and vivid, eclipsing even the thrill of the promotion. Dean squared his shoulders again, the weight of his new role settling into place alongside his resolve. If Castiel needed consistency, then Dean would find a way to give it to him—director or not. The corporate ladder didn’t mean anything if he couldn’t climb back into Castiel’s good graces. The thought followed him all the way back to his desk, where his phone buzzed softly. A congratulatory email from HR blinked on his screen, formal and sterile, but it was enough to ground him in the moment. Dean exhaled again, rolling his sleeves up. First the job, then the rest. One step at a time.

Chapter Text

Castiel meandered around Balthazar’s office with the aimlessness of someone who had no intention of leaving soon. His fingers ghosted over the spines of the books on the meticulously organised shelf, their rich leather bindings gleaming under the soft light streaming through the frosted windows. He hummed faintly, a tune Balthazar couldn’t quite place, though it carried the kind of cheer that felt entirely out of place on a grey morning. Balthazar looked up from his desk, where papers were spread in neat, deliberate piles, his pen paused mid-signature. His brow arched as he leaned back in his chair, taking in Castiel’s unusually light demeanour. 

"You’re uncharacteristically chipper this morning," he observed, his tone laced with intrigue.

"Why shouldn’t I be?" Castiel turned, leaning casually against the edge of the bookshelf, his hands in his pockets. His blue eyes glimmered with a rare brightness, a spark that had been missing for weeks. "Dad approved all the designs. The painting of the murals will start soon, and—" He gestured vaguely toward Balthazar with a flick of his wrist, the fabric of his loose linen shirt shifting with the motion. "you, Mister Freely, promised to take me out for lunch." Balthazar narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head as if trying to recall the conversation. 

"I did?" Castiel shrugged, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in an unapologetic grin. 

"It was implied." Balthazar chuckled, setting down his pen and clasping his hands in front of him. 

"Ah, yes, the infamous Novak implications. Convenient how they always work in your favour."

"It’s a gift," Castiel said airily, pushing himself off the shelf and sauntering closer to the desk. He perched on the edge, his posture relaxed, though his hands betrayed a flicker of nervous energy as he fiddled with a silver paperweight. "Besides, you owe me for last week. I distinctly remember you ditching our dinner plans for some so-called 'urgent business.'"

"That business happened to be keeping your brother from setting the conference room on fire with his latest ‘innovation,’" Balthazar replied dryly. "You’d think Gabriel could invent something useful without nearly incinerating half a whiteboard."

"Sounds like a personal problem," Castiel quipped, his grin widening. "One you can resolve over lunch. Preferably Italian." Balthazar sighed, though the sound was more indulgent than exasperated. He pushed his chair back and rose, smoothing the front of his tailored waistcoat. 

"You’re relentless, you know that?"

"And you love me for it," Castiel said, hopping off the desk with a fluidity that spoke to his unburdened mood.

"Highly debatable," Balthazar muttered, though his smirk suggested otherwise. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and gestured toward the door. "Fine, Cassie. Let’s go. But if I end up with another artistically inspired disaster in my inbox, I’m sending Gabriel to mediate."

"Deal," Castiel said, already halfway out the door, his steps light and quick. As they walked down the hallway, Balthazar couldn’t help but notice the ease in Castiel’s posture, the way his shoulders no longer carried the invisible weight that had hung over him for far too long. For the first time in weeks, it felt like Castiel was finding his rhythm again. And despite himself, Balthazar was almost glad to be part of it.

Castiel moved ahead of Balthazar, his strides purposeful but unhurried as they passed through the corridor lined with frosted glass doors, each a portal into carefully curated professional lives. The faint hum of distant voices and muffled keyboard clicks filled the air, underscoring the sterile efficiency of Novak Enterprises. But then Castiel stopped, so suddenly that Balthazar nearly collided with him. His sharp intake of breath told Balthazar exactly which door had caught his attention before he even glanced at the nameplate: 

‘Dean Smith, Director of Sales and Marketing.’

"Bloody hell," Balthazar muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible as he stepped closer. The faintest ripple of irritation flickered across his polished exterior as he placed a hand on Castiel's arm, trying to steer him gently away. "Come on, Cassie," he said with a low, coaxing tone. "Let’s not linger." But Castiel didn’t budge. His gaze remained fixed on the door, his reflection faintly visible in the frosted glass, an apparition of thoughtfulness laced with something far harder to pin down. 

"No one told me he made director," Castiel murmured, the words quiet but edged with an ache he wasn’t entirely hiding. Balthazar hesitated, his hand still resting on Castiel’s arm as if steadying him.

"The decision was made before we knew about his involvement with you," he said finally, his voice carefully measured, as though trying to navigate a minefield without setting anything off. Castiel gave a short laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

"He probably deserved it," he said, the attempt at indifference faltering almost immediately. His fingers twitched at his side, curling slightly, as though grasping for something unseen. "Dean’s good at... all this." He gestured faintly at the corridor, at the pristine façade of the corporate world he had never quite fit into.

"Castiel." Balthazar’s voice softened, losing its usual edge of wry amusement. "Let's go, Cassie. It’s not worth it." Castiel blinked and finally turned to meet Balthazar’s gaze. His eyes, clear yet clouded with unspoken questions, lingered on him for a moment longer than was comfortable. But then he nodded, stepping away from the door with a finality that felt forced, as though he were pulling himself free from a tether he couldn’t quite see.

"Yeah," he said simply, though the word hung in the air like a threadbare curtain, barely concealing the storm beneath. Balthazar placed a guiding hand on his back as they continued down the corridor. 

"Let’s get lunch," he said, the tone light but purposeful, steering the conversation away from the fraying edges of Castiel’s emotions. As they walked, Balthazar caught the fleeting glance Castiel threw over his shoulder, back toward Dean’s office. The glass door shimmered in the corridor’s fluorescent light, its frosted surface concealing the man behind it. And though Castiel said nothing, Balthazar felt the weight of it all—the tangled feelings Castiel refused to name, the silent questions Dean would never answer, and the quiet longing that neither of them could seem to escape. Balthazar, ever the tactician when it came to emotions, knew when to pivot. As they strode down the corridor toward the lift, he glanced sidelong at Castiel, whose quiet demeanor clung to him like a cloud. The usual sharp wit that often lit up their conversations seemed dulled, and that wouldn’t do. “Alright, Cassie,” Balthazar began, slipping into his breezier tone, the one that usually coaxed a reluctant smile from his companion. “You mentioned Italian earlier. Let’s see what the city has to offer. There’s that cosy little trattoria on Birch Street with the divine carbonara, or that Sicilian place Gabriel kept raving about—though if their risotto is as underwhelming as his work ethic, I’ll personally have them shut down.”

Castiel gave a half-hearted hum, not even glancing up from the floor as they stepped into the lift. The ding of the doors closing echoed in the silence between them. Undeterred, Balthazar leaned against the lift wall and pressed further. 

“There’s also that chic spot downtown where the wine flows as freely as Gabriel’s bad jokes—though I doubt they’ll appreciate us showing up without reservations. Still, I’m nothing if not persuasive.” He flashed a grin, but Castiel’s gaze remained distant, his lips barely twitching in acknowledgment.

“Cassie.” Balthazar’s voice softened, the teasing edge giving way to something quieter. “You’re supposed to argue with me about this. Insist on somewhere less pretentious or mock me for being a food snob.” Castiel finally looked up, his eyes holding a flicker of apology. 

“Sorry, I’m just… not feeling it.” The lift doors slid open, and they stepped into the marble-floored lobby, the quiet hum of activity around them barely registering to Balthazar. He sighed, his usual air of nonchalance slipping for a moment.

“Alright,” he said, steering them toward the revolving doors with a light touch on Castiel’s shoulder. “Then I’ll pick. And don’t bother protesting—I’ll even let you order the most ridiculously over-indulgent dish on the menu. Something with so much cheese it’ll undo all my good karma.” Castiel gave a faint smile, the corners of his lips curving just enough for Balthazar to call it a victory, however minor. 

“You’re assuming I care about your karma.” Balthazar smirked, relieved at even this small glimmer of their usual banter. 

“Oh, you care. Deep down, in some neglected corner of that brooding heart of yours, you care immensely.” They stepped out into the crisp midday air, the sunlight glinting off glass façades and bustling over the pavement. Balthazar kept his stride easy, waiting for Castiel to catch his rhythm, to find his footing again. But as they moved through the crowd, he couldn’t help but notice the way Castiel’s shoulders remained just a touch too tense, his gaze flickering with thoughts unspoken. “Cassie,” Balthazar said after a beat, his voice quieter now, threading through the noise of the street. “You’re allowed to let things go, you know. Dean Smith, promotions, frosted glass doors—none of it gets to have this much space in your head.” Castiel glanced at him, the ghost of something unreadable in his expression. 

“Easier said than done.”

Balthazar didn’t press further, but he did steer them firmly toward an Italian restaurant he knew Castiel would love. Sometimes, distractions didn’t have to be perfect—they just had to be enough. And Balthazar, ever the master of calculated indulgence, was nothing if not an expert in knowing when to push and when to simply walk beside someone until the storm eased.

The restaurant Balthazar chose was nothing short of opulent, a jewel-box of a place tucked into the quieter streets of the city. It was all gleaming gold fixtures and walls adorned with Renaissance-style murals, the kind of establishment where the waitstaff moved with a precision bordering on choreography. Balthazar had dined here once with Gabriel, a decadent affair of truffle-laden pasta and champagne served in crystal flutes. It was over-the-top, self-indulgent in a way that even Balthazar had rolled his eyes at afterward—and that was saying something. He ushered Castiel inside with a dramatic flourish, his hand lingering just enough on the small of Castiel’s back to guide him forward. The maître d’ greeted Balthazar with an air of recognition, but Castiel’s attention lingered on the vast chandelier suspended in the centre of the room. It sparkled like a constellation caught in glass, reflecting light across the polished floors.

“Too much?” Balthazar asked, his tone deliberately playful. Castiel gave him a side glance, a flicker of scepticism in his otherwise subdued expression. 

“It’s not subtle.” Balthazar grinned, unabashed. 

“Precisely why it’s perfect. Subtlety is for the unimaginative, darling. You could use a little extravagance.” He motioned toward a secluded corner table, half-hidden by a sweeping velvet curtain. “Besides, we’ll be far enough from the gilded masses to spare you a headache.”

They sat, and Balthazar ordered immediately, rattling off an array of dishes in Italian so fluidly that Castiel quirked an eyebrow.

“Showing off?” Castiel murmured.

“Always,” Balthazar replied without missing a beat. He leaned back in his chair, surveying Castiel like one might assess a storm cloud for hints of sunlight. “You’re going to love this place, Cassie. The gnocchi alone will make you reconsider your stance on heaven.” Castiel’s lips twitched faintly at that, though the spark didn’t fully reach his eyes. He glanced at the menu but didn’t seem to absorb the words, his gaze slipping past them as though preoccupied by something just out of reach. “Alright,” Balthazar said, leaning forward. “What’s on your mind? And don’t give me the brooding-artist routine—I’m already intimately familiar.” Castiel tapped a finger against the edge of the table, his movements slow and deliberate. 

“It’s not... Dean,” he started, though his hesitation betrayed him. “Not entirely. It’s just... everything feels... uncertain.”

“Uncertainty is the spice of life, my dear,” Balthazar quipped, though his eyes softened. “Without it, we’d all be tragically bored.”

Castiel didn’t reply, his gaze lingering on the chandelier again. The light caught the blue in his eyes, making them almost luminous, though they carried a faraway quality that made Balthazar ache just a little.

“Listen,” Balthazar said, his voice dropping to something more genuine, more grounded. “You’re allowed to feel unsettled. But you’re also allowed to enjoy yourself. Just for tonight. No thinking about work, or family emails, or frosted glass doors. Deal?” Castiel finally met his gaze, and for a moment, there was something fragile but hopeful in his expression. 

“Deal.”

When the food arrived —steaming plates of handmade pasta, bright with fresh herbs and flecks of shaved truffle— Balthazar made it his mission to coax some semblance of lightness from Castiel. He exaggerated his reactions to the food, groaning theatrically with each bite.

“Cassie,” he declared after sampling the ravioli, “this is so divine, I’m nearly weeping. Don’t you feel inspired? Write a sonnet to this ricotta.” Castiel gave a quiet chuckle, the sound small but real, and Balthazar’s chest tightened with a kind of victory. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Over-the-top might not have been Castiel’s usual style, but tonight it was enough to nudge him toward something brighter. For Balthazar, that was all that mattered.

When the dessert arrived, the tiramisu was a towering masterpiece, presented in a crystal dish with layers so precisely defined they looked almost painted on. The dusting of cocoa powder on top was generous, forming an aromatic cloud as the server set it down between them. Castiel tilted his head, studying the dessert as if it were a puzzle rather than food. Balthazar leaned back, clearly pleased with himself. 

“You weren’t leaving without a proper finish, darling. It’s criminal to skip dessert here.” Castiel’s fork hovered over the dish for a moment before he scooped a bite. The mascarpone was velvety, the coffee-soaked sponge rich and indulgent. He paused mid-chew, his brow furrowing slightly as if tasting something unexpected.

“Can you get drunk from eating tiramisu?” he asked, his tone deadpan but his eyes glinting with a flicker of dry humour. “Because this one is trying to.” Balthazar nearly choked on his espresso, laughing loudly enough that a few nearby diners glanced over. He waved them off with an exaggerated flourish of his hand, still chuckling. 

“I’ll admit, it’s potent,” he said, grinning. “But you would probably need about ten of these to get anywhere near tipsy. Should I order another nine?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Castiel replied, taking another bite. “Though I think I’d pass out before I finished the second. This is... decadent.” Balthazar reached across the table and stole a forkful for himself, ignoring Castiel’s half-hearted glare. 

“That’s the point, my dear. Dessert isn’t meant to be subtle. It’s indulgence for the sake of indulgence.” Castiel rested his chin on his hand, watching Balthazar with a rare softness. 

“You always do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?” Balthazar asked, through another mouthful of tiramisu.

“Distract me when I need it most.” Balthazar smirked but didn’t look up from the dessert. 

“It’s a talent, really. One I hope you’ll continue to appreciate as I pull you out of your various funks in the future.”

For the first time that day, Castiel smiled—a real, unguarded smile. The tiramisu might have been trying to intoxicate him, but it was Balthazar’s care, disguised as cheeky charm, that truly left him feeling lighter. Castiel swirled his fork through the layers of the tiramisu, the rich layers smeared on the plate like remnants of a masterpiece. His blue eyes fixed on Balthazar, glinting with both amusement and exasperation.

“Besides,” he said, setting the fork down with a soft clink, “this is the only alcohol you’ve let me have in, what, a month?” Balthazar leaned back in his chair, his expression one of perfected nonchalance. The sharp lines of his suit caught the low light, exuding a kind of effortless elegance. He picked up his half drunk glass of Pepsi and took a deliberate sip.

“You’ll get your cards back,” he replied, “when you stop going on benders and scaring the hell out of everyone. Until then, you’ve got your UberEats app for sustenance and whatever I decide to spare you. Consider it tough love.” Castiel rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint twitch of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re all heart, Balthazar.” Balthazar tilted his head, his gaze softening in that rare way that made Castiel feel both seen and cornered. 

“You’re doing good, Cassie,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. “I hope you know that.” Castiel’s smirk faltered, replaced by a frown that furrowed his brows. He pushed the plate away, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his knuckles. 

“It doesn’t always feel like it,” he admitted, his voice low, the vulnerability in it almost swallowed by the hum of the restaurant around them. Balthazar’s mouth quirked into a knowing smile, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the rim of his glass. 

“Well, you’re not completely without bad habits,” he said lightly. Castiel straightened, his frown deepening into confusion. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Balthazar leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as though he were about to reveal some grand secret. 

“It means I bought you more cigarettes. They’re back at the office.” Castiel blinked, his expression shifting to something between disbelief and gratitude. 

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly serious.” Balthazar leaned back again, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. 

“I could kiss you,” Castiel’s lips curled into a grin as he shook his head. “Boozy dessert and cigarettes—what more could a man want?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Balthazar shot back, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Now finish your dessert so we can get out of here before you come up with any more bad ideas.” Castiel chuckled, the sound low and genuine, as he pulled the plate back toward him. For the first time in days, he felt a fleeting sense of control, like maybe —just maybe— things weren’t entirely spiraling. With Balthazar, there was always an odd kind of safety, even in chaos. He took another bite of tiramisu, savouring the moment for what it was.

As they stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, Castiel lingered for a moment on the pavement, letting the cool breeze wash over him. The street was alive with the gentle hum of people going about their lives—chattering couples, the rhythmic click of footsteps, and the distant sound of traffic weaving through the city. For once, the chaos didn’t feel suffocating. It felt… manageable. Balthazar walked a step ahead, his phone in one hand as he scrolled with casual efficiency, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored coat. Castiel studied him for a moment, the smooth confidence in his stride, the slight smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face. It was a smirk that could mean trouble or reassurance, depending on the day. Today, it was the latter.

“Stop staring, Cassie,” Balthazar said without looking up, his voice teasing but warm. “You’ll make people talk.” Castiel snorted, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket as they began walking side by side. 

“Let them,” he replied, though his tone lacked its usual sharp edge. “Besides, they’d just think I’m admiring your impeccable taste in overpriced suits.”

“You should be so lucky,” Balthazar quipped, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “And here I thought the tiramisu might’ve softened you up.”

“It did,” Castiel admitted, glancing sideways at him. “But don’t let it go to your head.” Balthazar laughed, a sound that felt almost foreign against the backdrop of busy streets. Castiel found himself smiling despite himself, a rare, genuine smile that he didn’t bother hiding. The meal, the easy conversation, even the over-the-top restaurant—it all felt like a reminder that not everything had to be so… overwhelming.

“You’re quiet,” Balthazar observed after a moment, his tone gentler now. “Still thinking about Dean?” Castiel shook his head, his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. 

“No,” he said, though the faint tension in his voice suggested otherwise. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime,” Balthazar remarked, but there was no bite to it. His eyes lingered on Castiel for a moment before he added, “You know, you don’t have to figure everything out at once.” Castiel let out a soft breath, his steps slowing as he considered the words. “I know,” he said finally. 

“It’s just… sometimes it feels like I’m standing still while everything else is moving.” Balthazar stopped, turning to face him. The teasing smirk was gone, replaced by something quieter, steadier. 

“You’re not standing still,” he said firmly. “You’re recalibrating. There’s a difference.” Castiel met his gaze, the weight of the statement settling somewhere deep within him. He wanted to believe it, even if a part of him wasn’t quite there yet.

“Come on,” Balthazar said, breaking the silence and nudging Castiel forward. “We’ve got places to be, cigarettes to collect, and —God help me— a wardrobe intervention to plan.” Castiel chuckled, letting the moment pass as they resumed walking. The cracks were still there, but they didn’t feel so daunting now, not with Balthazar’s steady presence beside him. For the first time in a long while, Castiel allowed himself to breathe, even if just for a moment, and let the day unfold as it would. Castiel tilted his head toward Balthazar, his tone light but his eyes glinting with curiosity. 

“Tell me more about this wardrobe intervention,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his hands slipping into the pockets of his coat. 

“Ah, Cassie,” he drawled, a note of exaggerated pity in his voice, “you’re a brilliant artist, but your sense of style—well, let’s just say it could use a bit of refinement.” Castiel feigned offence, pulling his jacket tighter around him as if shielding it from further critique. 

“I think my style is perfectly fine,” he countered, though his tone lacked any real defensiveness. “Comfortable. Practical.”

“Comfortable?” Balthazar echoed, looking him up and down with mock disdain. “Darling, your wardrobe looks like it was assembled by someone who’s never met the concept of tailoring or —God forbid— colour coordination. I swear half your shirts have paint stains.”

“That’s because I paint,” Castiel said flatly, gesturing to his outfit as if it proved his point. “And what’s wrong with my colours? This jacket is blue.” Balthazar scoffed. 

“Faded denim isn’t a colour, it’s a cry for help.” Castiel couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. 

“And I suppose you think you’re the authority on fashion.” Balthazar placed a hand over his chest as if deeply wounded. 

“Think? Cassie, I am the authority. You’ve seen me. I don’t just wear clothes; I curate them.”

“Curate,” Castiel repeated with a smirk. “Like a museum exhibit.”

“Exactly,” Balthazar said, unflappable as ever. “And you, my dear, are about to become my latest masterpiece.”

“Oh no,” Castiel muttered, though he didn’t sound particularly displeased. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Balthazar said, throwing an arm around Castiel’s shoulders as they walked, “we’re going shopping. Proper shopping. None of this bargain-bin nonsense you seem so fond of. You’re getting fitted suits, elegant casuals, and, for the love of all things holy, shoes that don’t look like they’ve been through a war zone.”

“Sounds expensive,” Castiel said, quirking an eyebrow.

“Lucky for you, I have an impeccable eye and a healthy budget,” Balthazar replied with a wink. “I’ll even consider it my good deed for the month.” Castiel gave him a sideways glance. 

“You’re serious about this.”

“Deadly,” Balthazar said, a glint of mischief in his eye. “But don’t worry, I’ll leave you some room for personal expression. Maybe a tasteful scarf or two. Something to scream ‘brooding artist’ but, you know, tastefully .” Castiel shook his head but couldn’t suppress his smile. The idea was ridiculous —utterly unnecessary— and yet, there was something endearing about Balthazar’s insistence. 

“Fine,” he said after a moment, his voice low but amused. “But I’m keeping my paint-stained shirts.”

“Deal,” Balthazar said, grinning as he clapped him on the back. “Every masterpiece needs its quirks, after all.” As they turned the corner toward the office, Castiel let the conversation linger in his thoughts. It wasn’t really about clothes, he realised—it was Balthazar’s way of reminding him that he mattered, that there was room for colour and care even in the messiest parts of his life. And for that, Castiel couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude.

When they stepped out of the lift onto the 14th floor, Castiel could hear Gabriel’s presence before he saw him. The faint sound of a foot tapping impatiently against the floor echoed faintly down the hallway. As they rounded the corner into Balthazar’s office, there he was, perched on the couch like a housecat pretending it had chosen the spot out of its own volition, not because it was waiting for its favourite human. Gabriel’s arms were casually spread along the backrest, his head tilted as if he were perfectly at ease. Yet his eyes betrayed him, scanning Castiel and Balthazar the moment they walked in, his faux nonchalance slipping into something more impatient.

“Well, well, well,” Gabriel drawled, his tone thick with mock offence. “Look who’s back from their grand escapades.” He gestured vaguely at the two of them. “I was starting to think you’d run off together and forgotten all about little ol’ me.” Balthazar didn’t miss a beat. 

“If only,” he said with a dramatic sigh, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over his chair. “But, alas, I had to bring Cassie back to civilisation before he forgot how to interact with people.”

“I haven’t been gone that long,” Castiel interjected, narrowing his eyes at Balthazar. Gabriel smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. 

“Long enough that I had to sit here, waiting for you like some abandoned puppy. What gives, Balthy? You hogging him now?”

“Hardly,” Balthazar replied, his tone cool as he poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on his desk. “I’m just the only one willing to put in the effort.” Gabriel rolled his eyes, his voice gaining a sharper edge. 

“Effort, huh? Like dragging him to overpriced restaurants and buying him cigarettes?” Castiel frowned, crossing his arms. 

“I’m right here, you know.” Gabriel waved him off. 

“Yeah, yeah, I see you, Cassie. I’m just saying—he finally leaves his cave for once, and you monopolise him. It’s selfish.” He shot Balthazar a pointed look.

“I prefer to think of it as exclusive care,” Balthazar said breezily, swirling the water in his glass. “Besides, you had your chance. Where were you all the times when he needed someone to sort out his disaster of a fridge?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to retort but snapped it shut, his face twisting into an exaggerated pout. “Okay, fair point, but that doesn’t mean you get to play Castiel’s keeper.”

“I don’t need a keeper,” Castiel muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I just needed some air.” Gabriel softened at that, his teasing tone dropping into something gentler. 

“You’re not wrong, kiddo. It’s good to see you out and about.” He leaned back against the couch again, folding his arms. “But next time, maybe loop me in. You’ve got more than one person who cares about you, you know.” Castiel shifted on his feet, his gaze dropping to the floor. 

“I know,” he said quietly, and for a moment, the room fell into a contemplative silence. Balthazar broke it with a smirk. 

“Well, now that we’ve established Gabriel’s fragile ego, can we move on? Cassie has work to do.”

“Work?” Gabriel perked up, his smirk returning. “Since when do you let him work?”

“It’s mural planning,” Castiel said before Balthazar could interject. “Not his idea.” Gabriel grinned. 

“Ah, now that’s more like it. Creative, messy, and far away from Balthazar’s spreadsheets.”

“Don’t tempt me to throw you out,” Balthazar said, but his tone carried no real malice. Gabriel leaned back with a self-satisfied smile, looking between the two of them. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll let you two get back to your little dynamic duo act. But don’t think I’m letting you hog him forever, Balthy.” Castiel, caught between their bickering, simply shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to deserve their attention, but for now, he let it be.

“Balthazar got me tiramisu and Pepsi.” Castiel said. Gabriel tilted his head as if contemplating a great tragedy. 

“A tragedy indeed. Pepsi isn’t Italian. You should’ve gotten him Orangina.” Balthazar didn’t look up from the desk where his hands were already navigating the keyboard with precision. 

“Orangina is French, not Italian.” Gabriel shrugged, a careless smile playing on his lips. 

“Close enough.” Balthazar finally glanced up, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disdain. 

“It really isn’t,” he said, with a tone that suggested he couldn’t decide whether to correct Gabriel further or let him live in his ignorance. Balthazar returned to his work, the clacking of keys punctuating the room before he spoke again, this time without looking up. “Oh, and Gabriel?” Gabriel relaxed deeper into the couch, his smirk widening. 

“Yeah?” His tone was cautious but curious, as if already bracing himself for whatever Balthazar was about to spring on him.

“I win,” Balthazar said smoothly, a triumphant edge in his voice. Castiel frowned, his arms crossing over his chest as he looked between them. 

“Win what?” Balthazar leaned back in his chair, stretching out as if savouring his victory. 

“You agreed to go shopping with me.” Castiel’s frown deepened. 

“You two had a bet about that?” His voice carried a note of betrayal. “Am I just a puppet to you?” Gabriel chuckled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes glittering with mischief. 

“Actually, Dad wanted us to try to convince you to think about... other options for when you unveil the murals.” He paused for effect, gauging Castiel’s reaction before continuing. “Something about how none of that thrifted stuff would cut it.”

“Stuff?” Castiel echoed, his tone sharp, his expression darkening with suspicion. Gabriel spread his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. 

“He used a more vulgar word. I’m saving your sensitive ears, little brother.” Castiel huffed, his posture rigid as he crossed his arms tighter. 

“How considerate of you.” Gabriel grinned wider, clearly relishing Castiel’s irritation, while Balthazar, for his part, seemed more focused on his victory than the brewing tension. The faint smirk playing on his lips suggested he had no regrets about whatever arrangement had been made. Castiel sighed and sank into the chair across from the desk, crossing his arms as he gave Gabriel a pointed look. “You’re both impossible,” he muttered. “And stop acting like you’re doing me a favour. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.” Gabriel raised an eyebrow, smirking. 

“Oh, we’re well aware of your capabilities, Cassie. That’s exactly why Dad roped us into this.” Balthazar didn’t look up from his computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard. 

“And let’s be honest, it’s not like we had to twist your arm. You’ll thank me when the photos of the unveiling don’t look like a thrift store ad.” Castiel bristled, leaning forward. 

“What’s wrong with thrifted clothes? They’re practical, affordable, and they have character.” Gabriel laughed, leaning back into the couch and tossing an arm over the backrest. 

“When you wear them they’re also wrinkled, mismatched, and scream, ‘I just got dressed in the dark.’ But hey, you do you, little brother.” Balthazar glanced up from his screen, a sly smile playing on his lips. 

“He’s right, you know. While your ‘starving artist’ aesthetic is endearing in its own way, it doesn’t quite scream ‘visionary muralist’ to a room full of potential investors and critics.” Castiel groaned, dragging a hand down his face. 

“I don’t care what they think of my clothes. They’re there to see the murals, not me.” Gabriel leaned forward, his tone softening slightly. 

“Yeah, but first impressions matter, Cassie. You’ve poured your soul into those murals. Don’t let them dismiss your work because they can’t get past your rumpled shirt.” Castiel frowned, the weight of their argument pressing down on him. He hated that they had a point. As much as he wanted to reject the notion that appearances mattered, he knew better. People judged. They always did.

“You’re both insufferable,” he finally said, his voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. Balthazar smirked, turning back to his computer. 

“We’re persistent, darling. There’s a difference.” Gabriel grinned and stood, stretching lazily. 

“And clearly effective. So, when’s this shopping trip happening, Balthy?” Balthazar’s gaze flicked to Castiel. 

“That depends. What’s your schedule like, Cassie?” Castiel waved a hand dismissively. 

“Whenever. Let’s just get it over with.” Gabriel clapped his hands together, his grin widening. 

“Excellent. I’ll come along for moral support.” Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. 

“Your version of moral support is laughing at me.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel said, utterly unapologetic. Balthazar chuckled, closing his laptop with a decisive snap. 

“Well then, it’s settled. Prepare yourself, Cassie. You’re about to enter the world of tailored jackets and polished shoes. Try to keep up.” Castiel rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. 

“I should’ve stayed home.”

“Nah, you want Dad’s praise in person.” Gabriel said without missing a beat. 

“It’s not like that.” Castiel shot back. 

“Don’t even try, Cassie. I have known you your entire life.” Castiel glared at Gabriel, his jaw tightening. 

“It’s not like that,” he repeated, though his voice lacked conviction. His brother had always had an uncanny ability to see through him, even when Castiel himself wasn’t entirely sure of his own motivations. Gabriel leaned against the arm of the couch, arms crossed and an infuriatingly knowing smirk on his face. 

“It is, and you know it. You wanted Dad to look at those mural sketches and say, ‘That’s my boy.’ Admit it, Cassie. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a little validation.” Castiel exhaled through his nose, his fingers drumming absently against the armrest of his chair. 

“It’s not about validation,” he muttered. “It’s about… ” He trailed off, struggling to articulate what exactly it was about. His father’s approval? Perhaps. A sense of accomplishment? Certainly. But there was something deeper, something harder to name—a need to feel seen, understood, recognised for more than just his mistakes.

“See?” Gabriel said, his voice softer now, as if sensing the shift in Castiel’s thoughts. “You don’t have to say it, little brother. I already know.” Castiel shook his head, feeling a twinge of frustration. 

“You think you know everything,” he said, though there was no heat in his words. Gabriel shrugged, his expression a mixture of smugness and genuine care. 

“I know you, Cassie. And I know Dad. He’s a hard-ass, sure, but he’s proud of you. He just doesn’t always know how to say it without sounding like he’s reading a corporate report.” Balthazar, who had been quietly organising files on his desk, chimed in without looking up. 

“Charles Novak has a remarkable talent for making even heartfelt sentiments sound like shareholder updates. It’s an art form, really.” Castiel snorted despite himself, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. 

“He does have a way with words,” he admitted, his voice tinged with reluctant fondness. “But it’s not always like that though.” Gabriel grinned, clearly pleased with himself for cracking Castiel’s brooding exterior. 

“There it is—the smile we’ve all been waiting for. Keep that up, and you’ll charm the critics before they even see your work.” Balthazar looked up from his files, his gaze landing on Castiel. 

“Gabriel’s right. You’ve got this, Cassie. Just let the work speak for itself—and maybe wear something that doesn’t look like it survived the apocalypse.” Castiel rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh. 

“Fine. But only because I want people to focus on the murals, not my clothes.”

“Atta boy,” Gabriel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now let’s get this show on the road. We’ve got a shopping trip to plan, and I’m not letting Balthazar pick everything. You’ll end up looking like you’re about to host a gala.” Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. 

“As opposed to looking like you just rolled out of bed, which has been Castiel’s aesthetic for years? I’ll take my chances.”

Chapter Text

Dean sat at his desk, the expanse of polished wood before him feeling more like a barrier than a workspace. His office, sleek and sterile, still didn’t feel like his own, even after six weeks. The corners were too sharp, the air too quiet, and the glass walls offered no comfort, only transparency. He glanced at his phone out of habit—a hopeful reflex he hated himself for. 

No messages. 

No updates. 

Certainly nothing from Castiel.

Dean leaned back in his office chair, the ergonomic design doing little to ease the discomfort gnawing at his chest. The space around him was spacious and meticulously designed—mahogany accents, sleek furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. It was everything he’d once imagined success would look like. And yet, it still felt like too much. Too sterile. Too cold. He absently spun the Montblanc pen in his fingers, his gaze flicking toward the inbox icon glowing on his computer screen. Three unread emails from Gabriel Novak—short, clipped, and devoid of their usual levity—stared back at him. He hadn’t opened the first two. The third, marked with the subject line ‘This is important’ had arrived just minutes ago. Not that it mattered. Gabriel and Balthazar had barely acknowledged him since… well, since everything with Castiel. And Dean couldn’t exactly blame them. The thought of Castiel—his sharp wit, his quiet intensity, the way he could command a room with nothing but his presence—sent a pang of something between regret and longing through Dean’s chest. Not that he had expected anything. Gabriel’s usual quips were absent in their rare encounters, and Balthazar—well, Balthazar didn’t even bother pretending anymore. They weren’t friends before, not really, but the distance stung more than Dean cared to admit. He turned his attention back to his laptop, the spreadsheet glowing back at him with indifferent precision. His new assistant, Meg, breezed in, dropping a folder onto his desk with the grace of someone who had never had to apologize for anything in her life.

“Quarterly reports,” she announced, her voice dripping with disinterest. She lingered a moment, her sharp eyes scanning his desk. “No personal touches yet? What, no picture of your family? A bonsai tree? Maybe one of those inspirational posters with sunsets and pithy captions?” Dean leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Thanks, Miss Masters. I’ll get to it.”

“Sure you will,” she said with a grin that was somehow both sweet and taunting. “Anything else? Or can I go back to looking busy?” He waved her off, and she disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived, leaving the faint scent of citrus in her wake. Dean exhaled, running a hand through his hair. She was competent, no doubt, but the casual chaos she brought to his meticulously ordered world was… unsettling. The reports on his desk blurred together as his thoughts drifted. He hadn’t seen Castiel since that evening. Not really. There’d been a brief glimpse in the cafeteria weeks ago, Castiel’s figure hunched over a coffee cup as Gabriel animatedly gestured beside him. Dean had wanted to approach, to say something —anything— but his feet had remained rooted to the spot.

What would he even say?

‘Sorry I lied about who I was?’ 

‘Sorry I couldn’t be what you needed?’ 

‘Sorry I’m still trying to figure out what you mean to me?’

A sharp knock pulled him from his thoughts. The door opened before he could respond, and Balthazar stepped in, his tailored suit impeccable as always. He didn’t wait for an invitation to sit, perching on the edge of the chair across from Dean’s desk.

“Mister Freely,” Dean said, his tone neutral. “What can I do for you?” Balthazar’s smile was all teeth. 

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Smith. This isn’t a business visit.” Dean leaned back, crossing his arms. 

“Then what is it?”

“Call it… a social check-in.” Balthazar’s gaze swept over the office, taking in the minimalist decor with thinly veiled disdain. “You’ve settled in, I see. Very... clinical.”

“Some of us don’t need custom chandeliers to get our jobs done.” Balthazar chuckled, but the sound lacked warmth. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. 

“Let’s cut the pleasantries, shall we? You haven’t spoken to Castiel.” Dean stiffened. 

“I didn’t think he wanted to hear from me.” Balthazar tilted his head, his expression unreadable. 

“He doesn’t. Not yet. But that doesn’t mean you get to sit here and sulk like some tragic hero.”

“I’m not sulking,” Dean snapped, the words coming out sharper than he intended. “I’m giving him space.” Balthazar’s eyes glinted with something sharp, like light catching on a blade. He stood and adjusted his cuffs with deliberate care, smoothing invisible wrinkles. 

“Ah, space. A noble notion, really,” he said, his tone edged with amusement. “But you might want to reconsider your strategy, Dean. Space is about to get… eliminated.” Dean straightened, his shoulders tense. His heart gave a hard thud against his ribs, and his mouth went dry. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Balthazar leaned against the chair with a languid ease, one corner of his mouth quirking up. 

“Oh, didn’t anyone tell you? Cassie’s going to be working here. Well, not really working-working. He’ll be painting murals over the next few months. So, he’ll be around.” His eyes narrowed slightly, gauging Dean’s reaction. “I just thought you should know.” Dean’s chest tightened, the air feeling just a little thinner. His pulse drummed in his ears. 

“Erm… thanks,” he managed, his voice rougher than he intended. Balthazar gave a faint smile, more knowing than kind, and turned toward the door. Just as his hand hovered over the handle, he paused, catching the silhouette of Meg through the frosted glass. Her form was distinct, her stance casual but poised like a cat ready to pounce. He glanced back at Dean. 

“By the way, how’s Meg treating you?” Dean frowned, more at the abrupt shift in topic than the question itself. 

“Miss Masters is just fine.” Balthazar’s brow arched, and he made a soft, amused sound. 

“Hmm. I think she hasn’t quite gotten over Naomi retiring. You know how people get when the world shifts beneath their feet. If she’s giving you a hard time, that’s probably why.” Dean blinked, startled by the uncharacteristic remark. Balthazar, king of barbs and biting commentary, rarely spared words on office politics—or anyone, really. 

“Thanks… I guess.” Balthazar nodded, almost imperceptibly, before turning to leave. 

“Good luck, darling,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re going to need it.” The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Dean alone with the hum of the air conditioning and the muted buzz of his thoughts. His gaze drifted to the frosted glass, where Meg’s shadow lingered for a moment before vanishing down the hallway. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

Castiel. 

Here. 

The idea of seeing him every day, or even every other day, felt like being handed a double-edged sword. There would be no avoiding him, not if Castiel was going to be part of the landscape—literally, painting walls and bringing his quiet intensity into a building that already felt too small when Dean thought about him. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his mind spinning. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t stay silent, but the words he’d rehearsed so many times still felt inadequate. The thought of seeing Castiel made his heart kick against his ribs again, harder this time, and he groaned softly. 

“Great. Just great.” But Dean had known, hadn’t he? Somewhere deep down, in that quiet part of his mind that he tried not to listen to, he had known that Castiel had been hired by his father. At the time, of course, Dean hadn’t known who Castiel’s father was, nor had he pieced together the web of connections that always seemed to tighten around his family. Looking back, though, the signs were all there, threaded together like strands of a story he hadn’t cared enough to read. 

Dean’s hand rested on the edge of his desk now, his knuckles brushing the polished wood. His mind replayed their last conversation, the one that had left him breathless and hollow, like something vital had been taken without warning. Dean had wanted to say so much then, to fight the widening distance between them, but the words had caught in his throat. And now, the universe —or Charles Novak, depending on how you looked at it— had seen fit to drop Castiel back into his life. Dean leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, where the faintest crack ran along the plaster like an errant brushstroke on an otherwise pristine canvas. He thought about Castiel’s hands, paint-streaked and precise, the way they seemed to imbue life into whatever they touched.  Dean exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“Damn it,” he muttered to the empty room. The thought of facing Castiel again made his stomach twist, and yet, beneath the unease, there was something else—an ember of something he couldn’t quite name. The knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. It was sharp but not impatient, deliberate, like the person on the other side had no interest in rushing. He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the armrests of his chair, before finally calling out, “Come in.” The door swung open, and Meg stepped in, her sharp heels clicking against the floor. She had that familiar smirk tugging at her lips, the one that always seemed to say she knew exactly what you were hiding and found it endlessly amusing.

“Balthazar told me to check on you,” she said, her tone light but with an edge that was impossible to miss. “Said you might need a drink or a vacation—or both.”

Dean forced a grin. “Yeah, well, Balthazar’s always been a master of subtlety.” Meg tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. 

“You okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Dean hesitated, the words catching in his throat. 

“Not a ghost,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “Just… someone I didn’t think I’d be seeing again.” Meg’s smirk faded, just a little, replaced by something softer. 

“Cassie, huh?” she said, almost knowingly. When Dean looked up sharply, she shrugged. “Balthazar’s not exactly discreet. Plus, you’ve got that look. Like someone just punched you in the chest and walked away.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. 

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “it’s complicated.” Meg crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Isn’t it always?” she said, her tone almost gentle. But there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—understanding, maybe, or recognition. Dean didn’t reply. Instead, he stared past her, out the window where the city stretched endlessly, buildings rising like the spines of forgotten giants. Somewhere out there, Castiel was preparing to walk back into his life, carrying his brushes, his silence, and everything Dean had never been able to say. Dean leaned back in his chair, eyeing Meg with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. 

“I’m assuming you know Castiel,” he said, his tone light but probing. “Based on you calling him Cassie.” Meg smirked, leaning one shoulder casually against the doorframe. 

“Yeah,” she replied, drawing the word out like she was savouring it. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath the surface, a knowing that made Dean shift uncomfortably in his seat. Dean crossed his arms, trying to appear nonchalant. 

“Does everyone on this floor?” Meg’s grin widened, sharp as glass. 

“Does everyone who works close to Charles Novak know his sons?” she shot back, tilting her head like she’d just checkmated him in a game he didn’t know he was playing. Dean’s jaw tightened. Of course, she was right. The Novaks were practically royalty in the company—hell, in the whole city. Even before Dean had joined the firm, their name had carried a kind of weight that people either envied or avoided. But it wasn’t just their wealth. It was the way they seemed to move through the world, unbothered by rules the rest of them had to follow. But Castiel… Castiel had never seemed to fit into that world, not really. At least, not in the polished, deliberate way Gabriel did, or in Balthazar’s chameleon-like ability to slide seamlessly between indulgence and business acumen. Castiel had always seemed like an outsider—even among his own family. Dean cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had stretched just a moment too long. 

“I didn’t know Balthazar was part of the Novak fan club.” Meg barked a laugh, low and genuine. 

“Oh, honey,” she said, stepping further into the room, her heels clicking like punctuation marks. “Balthazar’s not a fan. He’s a babysitter.” She perched on the edge of Dean’s desk, uninvited but completely at ease, her posture as confident as her tone. “He’s been cleaning up after Gabriel and Castiel for years. It’s practically his second job.” Dean raised a brow. 

“I thought Gabriel was supposed to be the responsible one.” Meg snorted, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. 

“Responsible? Sure, if you count doing the absolute bare minimum to keep the board off his back.” Her voice softened slightly, though her sarcasm never fully left. “Gabriel’s charming enough to skate by on goodwill. Castiel… well, he’s a different story.” Dean frowned, leaning forward. 

“What do you mean?” Meg studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unkind. 

“Let’s just say Cassie’s not big on rules,” she said finally, her voice dipping into something almost fond. “He’s got his head in the clouds most of the time. Paint, philosophy, whatever new existential crisis he’s working through this week. He’s not exactly a company man.” Dean felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—frustration, maybe, or envy, or even a reluctant admiration. He thought of Castiel’s hands again, streaked with paint, and the quiet intensity in his eyes when he talked about his work.

“So why is he hired to paint murals?” Dean asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. Meg smirked again, leaning in as if sharing a secret. 

“Because he’s brilliant,” she said simply. “And because Charles Novak might be a cold-hearted bastard, but even he knows talent when he sees it. Plus,” she added with a wink, “it doesn’t hurt that Castiel is his golden child.” Dean leaned back, running a hand through his neatly styled hair. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but they didn’t make the picture any clearer. If anything, they only raised more questions.

“You seem to know a lot about the Novaks,” he said, his tone carefully measured. Meg shrugged, hopping off his desk with a casual grace. 

“I know enough to survive around here,” she said, straightening her skirt. “And I know you’re not gonna last long if you keep pretending this place is all about performance reviews and quarterly projections.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “You’ve got to learn to read between the lines, Dean. Otherwise, people like Balthazar and Gabriel will eat you alive.” Dean nodded slowly, her words sinking in like the echo of a storm. As she turned to leave, he called after her. 

“Miss Masters?” She glanced back over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “How’s Castiel doing?” he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Meg paused, her lips curving into a small, enigmatic smile. 

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” she said, and with that, she was gone, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts and the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. The room felt too quiet now, the faint hum of the city outside muffled by the glass. Dean leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling once more. Castiel would be here soon, and there were too many things unsaid between them. He wondered, not for the first time, if there was a way to start over—or if the threads tying them together had already frayed too much to hold.

Chapter Text

The polished floors gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, reflecting rows of pristine shelves filled with items Castiel couldn’t imagine anyone actually needing. The store exuded a kind of sterile opulence that made his skin crawl. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans, feeling more out of place with every passing second.

“Why did I agree to this?” Castiel muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the faint classical music piping through hidden speakers. His eyes darted to a display of silk ties, their vibrant colors and elaborate patterns feeling more like art pieces than practical accessories. Balthazar, striding leisurely beside him, didn’t bother to hide his amusement. His impeccably tailored blazer and scarf seemed to fit in perfectly with the atmosphere, as though the store itself had been designed with him in mind. 

“Because,” Balthazar replied, his tone dripping with mockery, “shopping with me and Gabriel is infinitely more bearable than enduring your father’s judgmental sighs.” Castiel cast him a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching in reluctant agreement. Charles Novak had a way of turning even the simplest outings into elaborate tests of propriety and obedience. Shopping trips were no exception, his father’s sharp eyes cataloguing every perceived shortfall with the precision of a hawk.

“Still feels like a trap,” Castiel muttered, running his fingers over a rack of finely tailored blazers. The fabric was smooth, expensive, and entirely foreign to him. He could already hear his father’s voice in his head, reprimanding him for his rumpled linen shirts and threadbare jeans. Balthazar snorted. 

“Of course it’s a trap, darling. That’s the Novak way. But at least with us, you’ll get a glass of champagne out of it.” He plucked a pair of leather gloves from a nearby display and held them up as though appraising a work of art. “These would go nicely with your tortured-artist aesthetic. What do you think?” Castiel ignored the question, his attention drawn to a mannequin clad in a sleek black suit. It was everything he wasn’t—structured, polished, controlled. He sighed, feeling the familiar ache of not belonging settle into his chest.

“Where’s Gabriel?” he asked, changing the subject. Balthazar shrugged, tossing the gloves back onto the display without a second glance. 

“Flirting with the cashier, last I saw. Probably trying to get a discount he absolutely doesn’t need.” Castiel shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Gabriel had always been like that—charming, irreverent, and completely uninterested in the boundaries most people respected. It was part of what made him so infuriating, and yet so difficult to truly resent. “Come on,” Balthazar said, nudging him gently toward another section of the store. “Let’s find something that won’t make your father’s blood pressure spike. And who knows? You might even like it.”

“I doubt that,” Castiel murmured, but he allowed himself to be steered toward a rack of casual jackets. As Balthazar began sifting through them with the practiced ease of someone who had spent far too much time in places like this, Castiel found his gaze drifting to the large glass windows at the front of the store.

Outside, the city moved with its usual rhythm—cars honking, pedestrians weaving through each other, the faint buzz of life that never seemed to stop. It was a sharp contrast to the controlled quiet of the store, and Castiel felt a pang of longing for the chaos. For freedom.

“Cassie,” Balthazar’s voice broke through his thoughts, laced with a rare note of seriousness. “You’re thinking too much again.” Castiel blinked, startled. 

“Am I?” Balthazar smiled, a little softer this time. 

“Always. Now, try this on.” He held out a jacket—a muted navy with subtle stitching that managed to look both elegant and unpretentious. Castiel hesitated, then took it. As he slipped it on, Balthazar stepped back, his critical eye scanning Castiel from head to toe.

“Well?” Castiel asked, lifting his arms experimentally. Balthazar grinned. 

“You look devastatingly handsome, darling. Your father might even crack a smile.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny that the jacket felt… right. Comfortable, even. He caught his reflection in one of the mirrors and tilted his head, studying the unfamiliar silhouette. For a moment, he almost believed he could belong here, in this world of sharp edges and polished surfaces.

Almost.

Castiel searched for a price tag, his fingers brushing over the seams and lining of the jacket, but there was nothing. Of course not. In places like this, the absence of a price tag wasn’t an oversight; it was a quiet declaration that if you needed to ask, you didn’t belong. He sighed and turned to Balthazar. 

“How much is it?” Balthazar waved a dismissive hand, already distracted by a display of scarves. 

“If you have to ask, Cassie, you’re thinking about it all wrong. It’s not about the cost; it’s about the statement. And that jacket says you’re cultured, approachable, and just rebellious enough to keep people intrigued.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in a faint smirk. 

“That’s a lot for a piece of fabric to say.”

“Ah, but that’s the magic of good tailoring,” Balthazar replied, draping a deep burgundy scarf around his neck with theatrical flair. “It transforms you into who you’re supposed to be—or at least who you want people to think you are.” Castiel’s gaze drifted back to the mirror. The jacket fit him better than he cared to admit, the tailored cut skimming his shoulders and chest like it had been made for him. It was unsettling, this feeling of being polished, presentable. Like trying on someone else’s life.

“Still,” he said, turning away from his reflection, “I’d rather know what I’m agreeing to before I swipe a card.” Balthazar sighed, feigning exasperation. 

“Fine, if you insist on being pedestrian about it.” He plucked a tablet from a nearby stand, the kind used by sleekly dressed sales associates to discreetly inform customers of prices. A few swipes later, he glanced up. “Twelve hundred.” Castiel winced. 

“For a jacket?”

“It’s a Paul Smith, Cassie,” Balthazar said, as though that explained everything. “The craftsmanship, the fabric, the—oh, never mind. Just put it on my tab. Consider it an early birthday present.”

“You don’t even know when my birthday is,” Castiel muttered. Balthazar smirked, leaning in as if to share a conspiratorial secret. 

“Not true. I just enjoy giving gifts all year around, don’t confuse that with lack of knowledge.”

“Sounds like you don’t know.”

“I’m certain it’s sometime this year, and that’s close enough.”

“So you don’t know.”

“September eighteenth.” Before Castiel could answer, Gabriel appeared at their side, his arrival heralded by the faint scent of citrus cologne and the unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes. 

“Found something you like, Cassie?”

“No,” Castiel replied flatly, but Gabriel was already tugging at the lapel of the jacket, his expression appraising. 

“Not bad,” Gabriel said, stepping back and tilting his head. “It’s almost like you care about looking decent. Who knew?”

“I don’t,” Castiel said, shrugging out of the jacket and handing it back to Balthazar. “I’m not buying it.” Gabriel grinned, leaning casually against the display. 

“Good, because I already talked the cashier into giving me a discount on something better.” Castiel frowned. 

“What?” Gabriel didn’t answer. Instead, he produced a small bag from behind his back, the store’s logo stamped in gold on the front. He handed it to Castiel with a flourish. “You’ll thank me later.” Suspicious, Castiel opened the bag and pulled out a soft, dark gray hoodie. It was simple, unadorned, and, to his surprise, exactly his size.

“A hoodie?” Castiel asked, holding it up.

“Not just a hoodie,” Gabriel said, crossing his arms. “The best hoodie money can buy. Cashmere blend, ethically sourced, ridiculously overpriced. You’re welcome.” Castiel stared at the hoodie, then at Gabriel, and finally at Balthazar, who was suppressing a laugh behind one of the scarves.

“You two are impossible.”

“Maybe,” Gabriel said, flashing a grin. “But we’re fun .” Castiel held up the hoodie, running his fingers over the fabric. It was absurdly soft, a texture so smooth it almost felt unreal, like the kind of luxury designed to placate guilt. He glanced at Gabriel, who was leaning against the display with a self-satisfied smirk, and sighed.

“You know it’s greenwashing, right?” Castiel said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Just because they have one ethically sourced hoodie doesn’t mean the rest of the brand is suddenly absolved.” Gabriel raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. 

“Wow, Cassie, look at you, all woke and worldly. Next, you’ll be telling me you shop local and grow your own vegetables.”

“I’m serious,” Castiel replied, folding the hoodie and slipping it back into the bag. “They slap a buzzword on one item and act like it makes up for all the exploitation that keeps their profit margins intact.” Balthazar, who had been quietly inspecting a silk tie, let out a low laugh. 

“Leave it to Castiel to drain the joy out of an overpriced hoodie. Truly, you have a gift.”

“It’s not about joy,” Castiel said, his voice firm but not unkind. “It’s about not being complicit.” Gabriel tilted his head, studying him with a bemused expression. 

“You’re wearing jeans from a fast-fashion chain,” he pointed out. “Pretty sure those weren’t hand-stitched by woodland fairies in a cruelty-free commune.” Castiel looked down at his jeans, an involuntary flush rising to his cheeks. 

“That’s not the point,” he muttered.

“It’s exactly the point,” Gabriel said, his grin widening. “We’re all complicit, Cassie. You, me, Balthazar—this whole store, this whole city. The best you can do is pick your battles and try not to drown in the hypocrisy.” Castiel looked down at his jeans, his cheeks warming under Gabriel’s pointed gaze. 

“No, I meant that that’s not the point,” he muttered, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Because I didn’t buy them new.” Gabriel blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then his smirk returned, sharper than before. 

“Oh, well, excuse me, Saint Castiel of the Thrift Store. I bow before your moral superiority.” Balthazar snorted, a low, amused sound that carried more indulgence than ridicule. 

“Let me guess,” he drawled, draping an arm lazily over Castiel’s shoulders. “You found them at some charming little shop and gave them a second lease on life. How very noble.”

“I just didn’t see the point in buying something new when there’s already so much waste,” Castiel said, shrugging off Balthazar’s arm. His voice had a measured calm, but his hands, fiddling with the edge of the hoodie in the bag, betrayed his discomfort. Gabriel folded his arms, tilting his head like he was studying a particularly interesting puzzle.

“You’re such a contradiction, you know that? All this talk about waste and guilt, but here you are, hanging out with us in the most expensive shopping district in the city.”

“I didn’t exactly choose to be here,” Castiel replied, his tone clipped. “You two dragged me along.” Balthazar stepped in, holding up his hands in mock surrender. 

“Now, now, no need for hostility. Think of it as a cultural experience. Besides, you might learn something. Like how to spend a small fortune on something utterly impractical.” Gabriel grinned, the picture of mischief. 

“Besides,” he said, “I already bought the hoodie for you, so there’s that.” Castiel’s brows furrowed as he stared at the bag, then back up at his brother. 

“Dad isn’t going to let me wear a hoodie.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel said, his grin widening. “Which is why we’re going to start looking for a suit.” Castiel sighed, deeply, a sound filled with the kind of resignation that came from years of dealing with Gabriel’s schemes. Balthazar clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, his polished cufflinks catching the light. 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Think of it as a chance to express yourself within the confines of corporate tyranny.” Gabriel gestured toward a nearby boutique, the kind where the mannequins in the window looked like they were preparing for a high-stakes gala rather than a day at the office. 

“Come on, Cassie. You can’t sulk your way through this. Let’s find you something that screams ‘responsible son of Charles Novak’ while still whispering ‘I’m plotting your downfall.’” Castiel shot him a sideways glance, lips twitching in a reluctant smirk. 

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m on a roll,” Gabriel said, already striding toward the shop. “Let’s make you look like you belong in the Novak empire, even if we all know you don’t.”

With another sigh, Castiel followed. As he passed through the boutique, the scent of cedarwood and luxury leather enveloped him, and he had the sinking feeling that Gabriel wasn’t going to stop until they found something ridiculous and expensive. The boutique’s interior was a maze of curated displays, each more extravagant than the last. Sleek mannequins dressed in bespoke suits stood like silent sentinels, their flawless features and perfectly arranged attire only adding to the surreal opulence of the space. Castiel trailed behind his companions, his fingers brushing absently against the soft fabric of a nearby blazer. The material felt unnervingly perfect, as if crafted specifically to remind him of his own threadbare existence. Balthazar was already at home here, prowling the store with a predator’s confidence. He plucked a silk tie from a rack, letting it drape lazily over his arm as though he’d already decided it belonged to him. Gabriel, meanwhile, had perched himself on a leather bench near the fitting rooms, twirling a pocket square like a magician preparing for a trick.

“Oh, this is going to be delicious,” Balthazar drawled, his voice honeyed with anticipation. “Castiel in a proper suit? The world might just implode.” Gabriel grinned, leaning back and crossing his legs with exaggerated nonchalance. 

“We’ll have to take a picture. For posterity, of course. Maybe even frame it for Dad’s office.” Castiel shot them a glare, his jaw tightening as he plucked a plain black jacket off a nearby rack. 

“I’m not here to be entertainment for you,” he muttered, holding the garment up as though inspecting it. But even he could hear the unconvincing edge in his voice.

“You’re here because we’re entertaining you,” Gabriel countered, his grin widening. “Admit it, Cassie. You’d be home sulking if we hadn’t dragged you out.”

“I don’t sulk,” Castiel replied, but the protest sounded weak even to his own ears. Balthazar chuckled, sidling up beside him and flicking a speck of lint from the jacket in his hands.

“Cassie, sulking is practically your brand,” Balthazar said. “It’s endearing, really. Like a tragic poet who never quite found his muse.” 

Castiel sighed, running a hand through his hair. He could feel the familiar ache creeping in, the one that always settled between his ribs when he was forced into spaces that felt more like cages than opportunities. He glanced toward the exit, where the city’s chaos beckoned with its comforting unpredictability. But Gabriel wasn’t going to let him escape so easily. 

“Try it on,” he said, gesturing toward the jacket with a flourish. “Let’s see if we can make you look like a functioning member of corporate society.” Castiel hesitated, his fingers tightening around the hanger. He hated this, the way their teasing cut too close to truths he wasn’t ready to face. But he also knew that resistance would only egg them on. With a resigned sigh, he slipped the jacket off the hanger and shrugged it on. The fabric was cool against his skin, sliding over his shoulders with an ease that felt almost insulting.

“Well?” he asked, holding out his arms for inspection. Balthazar stepped back, tilting his head as though studying a painting in a gallery. 

“Hmm. It’s not bad,” he said, circling Castiel like a critic appraising a work in progress. “But it’s missing something. Gabriel?” Gabriel snapped his fingers, his grin mischievous. 

“A tie. Definitely a tie.” He bounded to his feet, grabbing a vibrant, patterned silk tie from a nearby display and draping it around Castiel’s neck. “There we go. Now you look like someone Dad might actually invite to a board meeting.” Castiel tugged at the tie, his fingers clumsy as he tried to loosen it.

“I look ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no malice in his tone—just the quiet exhaustion of someone who had stopped trying to argue.

“You look dashing,” Balthazar corrected, stepping forward to adjust the tie with practiced ease. “Like a man of culture who occasionally reads poetry in overpriced cafes. It’s an upgrade, trust me.” Gabriel laughed, clapping Castiel on the back. 

“We should find you a fedora. Complete the look.”

“Don’t you dare,” Castiel said, finally pulling the tie free and tossing it onto the bench. But despite his protests, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was impossible not to be at least a little amused by their antics, even if it came at his expense.

“You know,” Balthazar said, his voice softening just a fraction, “you could pull this off if you wanted to. The suit, the whole polished aesthetic. You’ve got the cheekbones for it.”

“Yeah, Cassie,” Gabriel added, his teasing grin giving way to something almost genuine. “You clean up pretty well.” Castiel shook his head, the smile fading as he turned back toward the mirror. The reflection staring back at him felt like a stranger—sharp lines, crisp fabric, a version of himself that belonged in this world of corporate privilege and power. But beneath it all, he still felt like the man in the rumpled linen shirts and scuffed boots, the one who didn’t quite fit.

“I don’t want to be someone I’m not,” he said quietly, his fingers brushing the lapel of the jacket. Balthazar’s gaze softened, just for a moment, before he clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

“Fair enough,” he said, his voice lighter now. “But it doesn’t hurt to play the part once in a while.” Gabriel leaned against the bench, his expression unreadable.

“Besides,” he said, “you’re stuck with us, Cassie. Might as well enjoy the ride.” Balthazar tilted his head, his expression morphing into one of exaggerated thoughtfulness. 

“Enjoy the ride? Oh, Gabriel, that makes us sound like a cheap amusement park.”

“Or a mid-life crisis convertible,” Castiel muttered under his breath, tugging at the collar of the jacket as though it were choking him. He tried to shrug it off, but Balthazar clicked his tongue sharply and stepped in to straighten it.

“Don’t ruin the lines,” Balthazar chided, his voice carrying the sort of faux authority usually reserved for exasperated tailors. “This jacket is doing wonders for you. It’s almost like you could fit into our world.”

“Almost,” Gabriel added, grinning as he perched himself on the edge of the display table, his legs swinging lazily. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re aiming for ‘tolerable’ today, not ‘poster boy for nepotism.’” The jab landed, but it was softened by the familiar warmth that always laced Gabriel’s teasing. Castiel rolled his eyes but didn’t bother responding. He caught his reflection in the mirror again and sighed. The tailored cut of the jacket had a disconcerting way of erasing his usual disheveled charm, replacing it with something clean and deliberate. It wasn’t a bad look—just… unfamiliar.

“Do you two ever get tired of this?” Castiel asked, finally wriggling out of the jacket and draping it over a nearby chair. He met their gazes in the mirror, one brow quirked in faint challenge.

“Tired of what?” Gabriel asked, his voice the picture of innocence.

“Making me your pet project,” Castiel replied, folding his arms across his chest. He leaned back slightly, letting the cool glass of the display case press against his shoulder blades. Balthazar exchanged a quick glance with Gabriel before flashing a grin so bright it could’ve been used to sell designer toothpaste. 

“Darling, if you were a pet project, we’d have given up ages ago. You’re more like… a rescue. Complicated, endearing, and in constant need of supervision.” Gabriel chuckled, sliding off the table and clapping Castiel on the back. 

“Exactly. You should be grateful, really. Without us, you’d be wandering the streets in that awful hoodie.”

“It’s not awful,” Castiel muttered, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“It is,” Balthazar confirmed, shooting a glance at Castiel’s jeans, the frayed hems brushing over well-worn sneakers, and then at the hoodie softened by the many washes. His expression was a masterpiece of disapproval, the kind usually reserved for bad wine or poorly tailored suits. “Honestly, who wears jeans and a hoodie to go out suit shopping?” Balthazar asked, his voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation. He gestured broadly at Castiel, as if inviting the entire city to join in his critique. “Do you know what that says about you?”

“That I’m comfortable?” Castiel replied, deadpan, though a flicker of amusement played at the edges of his lips.

“No, darling,” Balthazar corrected, placing a hand theatrically over his heart. “It says you’ve completely given up on life. And that you’ve decided to drag me and Gabriel down with you.” Gabriel, walking a step ahead, turned around with a grin that matched the glint in his eyes. 

“Hey, don’t drag me into this. I think Cassie’s look is… charming.”

“Charming?” Balthazar repeated, aghast. “Charming is a child spilling ice cream on a designer rug. This is more like tragic.” Castiel rolled his eyes but didn’t bother defending himself. Instead, he tugged at the strings of his hoodie, his fingers tracing the logo on his chest absentmindedly. He knew Balthazar was just being Balthazar—dramatic, insistent, and entirely too invested in appearances.

“Look,” Gabriel said, sidling up beside Castiel, “it’s not about the hoodie or the jeans or the fact that you like to look like you wandered out of an artist’s commune at 3 a.m. It’s about the occasion.”

“The occasion being what?” Castiel asked, arching a brow. “Trying on overpriced suits I’ll never wear unless I’m forced to?” Gabriel shrugged, grinning. 

“Exactly. You’ve got to respect the ritual. The suit gods demand sacrifice, and that sacrifice is effort.” Castiel snorted, shaking his head. 

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m planning my outfit.”

“Please do,” Balthazar interjected, his tone light but his eyes sharp with amusement. “And while you’re at it, consider burning those jeans. They’ve served their time.”

“They’re fine,” Castiel said, his voice firm but not defensive. He glanced down at his jeans—faded, a little loose, but undeniably his. They were comfortable, familiar, and the opposite of everything this shopping trip represented. “Not everything has to be a fashion statement.”

“Oh, Cassie,” Balthazar said, leaning in conspiratorially. “But everything you wear is a statement, whether you like it or not. And right now, yours is saying, ‘Please don’t take me seriously.’” Gabriel burst out laughing, slinging an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. 

“Don’t worry, Cassie. We’re not here to take you seriously. We’re here to make you look like someone Dad might actually nod at during dinner.”

“That’s a lofty goal,” Castiel said dryly, though his lips twitched in the hint of a smirk.

“And one we’re fully prepared to achieve,” Balthazar added, clapping his hands together as though closing a deal. “Now, let’s get back to it before Gabriel starts haggling for cufflinks or flirting with another cashier.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” Gabriel said, his tone mock-offended. “She was just very helpful. And cute.” 

Castiel shook his head, letting himself be dragged along as the three of them stepped into the next boutique. The scent of cedarwood and polished leather greeted them, and Castiel braced himself for the next round of comments on his wardrobe. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, he couldn’t help but feel a faint warmth—not from the jackets or the city’s bustle, but from the two men beside him. As irritating as they were, there was a strange comfort in their teasing. Even if it came at the expense of his jeans. 

“Mum wouldn’t mind the jeans.”Castiel muttered under his breath. Gabriel, ever attuned to any opportunity to needle his brother, snorted and shot him a look of exaggerated pity. 

“Of course she wouldn’t. That’s because Mum gave up on you dressing like a Novak years ago.” He gestured vaguely at Castiel’s jeans as if they were the very embodiment of her resignation. “Probably just her roots shining through. What is it she always says? ‘Practicality before pretense’ or something equally quaint.” Castiel shot him a sidelong glare, but his lips twitched, betraying a flicker of amusement. Their mother’s quiet defiance of Novak expectations was a subject neither son had ever fully unpacked, though Gabriel clearly found it entertaining. She hadn’t grown up in the gilded world Charles Novak inhabited with ease, and sometimes, that difference bled through in subtle ways—her refusal to upgrade her aging car, her insistence on gardening in bare hand instead of hiring a gardener, and her genuine indifference to the sprawling Novak estates. Balthazar, who had been fingering a silk pocket square nearby, chimed in without missing a beat. 

“Oh, let’s not pretend this is all some charming rebellion. Cassie’s wardrobe is less a statement of practicality and more of sheer laziness. Admit it, darling, you just don’t care.”

“I care,” Castiel replied, his tone measured but tinged with exasperation. “I just don’t care about looking like I walked out of a catalog.”

“Which catalog?” Gabriel quipped. “The ‘starving artist’ special?”

“Funny,” Castiel said dryly. “But not everyone has the time to perfect their look of ‘careless billionaire playboy.’” Gabriel grinned, leaning back against the edge of a display case as if he owned the place. 

“It’s not careless, Cassie. It’s calculated. The right jacket, the right smirk—it’s all part of the image. Dad would back me up on this one.”

“Of course he would,” Castiel muttered, his tone darkening as his fingers brushed the fabric of a blazer Balthazar had hung over his arm. “The whole Novak empire runs on appearances.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Balthazar asked, tilting his head as he draped a new blazer over Castiel’s shoulder with the practiced grace of a tailor. “Appearances are the currency of the world. You might as well learn to spend them wisely.” Castiel frowned but didn’t shrug off the blazer. Instead, he adjusted the sleeves, his movements deliberate, as though testing the weight of the fabric—or perhaps the truth of Balthazar’s words.

“It doesn’t bother you?” he asked quietly, his voice almost lost in the muted hum of the boutique. “That it’s all so… hollow?” Gabriel and Balthazar exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable for a moment. Then Gabriel stepped forward, his grin softening into something almost thoughtful.

“Sure it does,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically sincere. “But life’s kind of like that hoodie you’re so attached to. You know it’s flawed, but you wear it anyway because it’s comfortable.”

“Or because you’re too stubborn to throw it out,” Balthazar added with a sly smile, breaking the moment’s seriousness. “Now, are you going to try this blazer on, or are we going to stand here and philosophize all day?” Castiel sighed but followed Balthazar toward the fitting room. As the curtain swished shut behind him, he stared at the sleek outfit draped over his arm—a navy suit with subtle pinstripes, sharp-edged and undeniably Novak-approved. He could already hear his father’s voice, low and approving, the kind of praise he’d rarely received in life. And yet, as Castiel slipped the blazer on, his reflection in the mirror didn’t quite fit. The jacket hugged his shoulders, the trousers hung just right, but the man staring back at him felt like a stranger. It wasn’t a bad look—quite the opposite. It was just… not him. He smoothed the lapels, his fingers brushing the fabric absently. Through the curtain, he heard Gabriel and Balthazar bickering about tie patterns, their voices light and familiar. Castiel tilted his head, studying his reflection for a moment longer before stepping out.

“Well?” he asked, his voice low but steady. Balthazar’s eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face like a cat spotting cream. 

“Oh, now that’s a Novak.” Gabriel gave a low whistle, circling him with exaggerated appraisal. 

“You really do clean up well, Cassie. Almost like you could sell Dad’s dreams instead of painting your own.” The comment landed with a sharper edge than Gabriel likely intended, but Castiel only nodded, his expression carefully neutral. It was, after all, just another game of appearances. Castiel adjusted the blazer on his shoulders, the tailored fabric strange and confining against his usual loose, comfortable clothes. His expression tightened, but a glimmer of determination sparked in his eyes as he spoke.

“If I have to wear this monkey suit,” he said, his tone measured but unyielding, “I want to choose the tie myself.” Balthazar blinked, then let out a delighted laugh, sharp and bright like glass catching the light. He leaned back against a nearby display, his polished shoes crossing at the ankles. 

“Who knew?” he mused, his grin both teasing and approving. “Our dear Cassie, turning around at last.” Gabriel, ever the opportunist for a quip, threw up his hands in mock astonishment. 

“And not just turning around,” he added, his voice dripping with exaggerated drama, “but demanding to partake in it, too! I’m shocked—shocked, I tell you.” Castiel rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a flicker of amusement. 

“Are you two done?” he asked, his voice dry. “Or do I need to endure more of this… whatever it is you’re doing?”

“It’s called celebration,” Gabriel said, sidling up to a nearby tie rack and plucking one at random. He held it up—a bright, almost offensively vibrant yellow with diagonal stripes—and wagged it in Castiel’s direction. “How about this? Nothing screams ‘free spirit trapped in corporate hell’ quite like a tie that burns retinas.”

“Put that back,” Castiel said flatly, brushing past him to inspect the ties himself. His fingers skimmed the silken fabrics, their vibrant colors and subtle patterns more diverse than he’d expected. A deep green one caught his eye, its hue rich and earthy, accented with a faint sheen that suggested care in its creation. It reminded him of forests after the rain—of something alive, something real. He picked it up, testing its texture between his fingers. It was soft but substantial, the kind of fabric that whispered of quality rather than shouting it. Gabriel peered over his shoulder, his brow lifting. 

“That’s what you’re going with? A green tie? You’re really leaning into the whole ‘pensive artist begrudgingly cleaned up’ aesthetic.”

“I like it,” Castiel said simply, his tone carrying a note of finality that even Gabriel seemed to respect. He draped the tie over his arm and turned to face the others. Balthazar regarded him with a tilted head, his gaze sharp and assessing. 

“Not bad,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though he were studying more than just the outfit. “It suits you, in a way.”

“Not everything has to scream Novak,” Castiel replied, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “Sometimes, it’s enough to just… be.” Gabriel snorted, but there was less mockery in it this time. 

“Alright, Cassie,” he said, clapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “You win. Pick your tie, wear your suit, and we’ll even let you brood about it later.”

“Generous,” Castiel said dryly, but a faint smile tugged at his lips as he glanced back at his reflection. The suit, the tie—they didn’t feel like him, not entirely. But for the first time, it felt like a choice, one he had made for himself. And that, at least, was something. Castiel adjusted the green tie draped over his arm and glanced at Gabriel and Balthazar, his patience already thinning. “Are we done now?” he asked, his voice low and even, but with an edge that suggested he was more than ready to leave. Gabriel grinned, a glint of mischief sparking in his eyes. 

“Almost,” he said, dragging the word out like he was savoring it. “You just have to pay.” Castiel frowned, his shoulders stiffening ever so slightly. Gabriel and Balthazar exchanged a quick, knowing glance, their amusement barely contained. They both knew exactly why this part bothered him—not because Castiel feared interaction with the cashier or was plagued by any kind of nervousness. No, it was something else entirely.

“Of course,” Castiel muttered under his breath, the words more for himself than anyone else. He wasn’t afraid of speaking to people, but he loathed the judgmental air that seemed to settle over every interaction at upscale stores like this. The polite but impersonal tone of the cashiers, the unspoken scrutiny in their gaze as they sized him up, the lingering sense that they were questioning whether he could afford what he was buying—it all made his skin crawl. He hated being made to feel like a spectacle in a place where money dictated worth. Balthazar leaned casually against a display, watching Castiel’s reaction with thinly veiled amusement. 

“Oh, come now, darling,” he said, his tone light and teasing. “Surely you’re not going to let a mere transaction ruin this moment of self-reinvention.”

“I’m not reinventing anything,” Castiel snapped, though his voice lacked real venom. He tightened his grip on the tie, feeling its smooth silk press against his palm. “And I don’t see why I can’t just take pictures of the items, search them up on their website and then pay online like a normal person.” Gabriel chuckled, his grin widening. 

“Because,” he said, gesturing broadly, “this isn’t some art supply shop where you click a button and move on with your life. This is the land of personal service and inflated egos. They expect you to engage. It’s part of the experience.”

“Experience,” Castiel echoed dryly, his tone dripping with disdain. “Right. Paying for overpriced clothes while someone pretends to care about my day. Truly an honor.” Balthazar clapped a hand to his chest in mock offense. 

“Careful, Cassie,” he said. “You’re going to hurt their feelings.”

“Good,” Castiel muttered, though he knew he wasn’t getting out of this. He sighed and glanced toward the register, where a young man in a sleek black uniform stood waiting, his expression carefully neutral. Castiel could already feel the weight of expectation, the silent choreography of a transaction where both parties played their roles perfectly. He stepped forward reluctantly, Gabriel and Balthazar trailing behind him like two overgrown children waiting to see if their prank would land. 

The cashier greeted him with a polished smile, and Castiel forced himself to mirror it, though the motion felt stiff and unnatural. 

“Just these,” he said, placing the tie and blazer on the counter. His voice was clipped, not rude but distant, as if he could sidestep the performative pleasantries altogether. The cashier scanned the items with practiced efficiency, but Castiel couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being sized up, evaluated. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the store’s ambient music and the occasional beep of the scanner. It wasn’t anxiety—Castiel didn’t care what the cashier thought of him. It was the principle of the thing, the whole artificial charade that made him itch to leave.

“That will be twelve hundred and ninety-five,” the cashier said, his voice perfectly even, as though the amount were as ordinary as a cup of coffee.  Castiel nodded curtly and reached into his pocket for his wallet—only to find it wasn’t there. His fingers brushed against the lining as the realization dawned on him. Slowly, he straightened and turned, his narrowed eyes locking onto Balthazar, who stood a few feet away, feigning innocence with the practiced ease of a seasoned actor.

“Give it back,” Castiel said, his voice calm but laced with warning. Balthazar blinked, the picture of mock confusion. 

“Give what back, darling?”

“My wallet.” Castiel’s tone remained even, but the tightening of his jaw betrayed his growing irritation. Gabriel, standing just behind Balthazar, pressed a hand over his mouth as if to stifle a laugh. His shoulders shook with the effort, and the glint of mischief in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Oh, this wallet?” Balthazar asked, producing the item in question with a flourish, like a magician revealing a card trick. He held it up between two fingers, the leather gleaming under the boutique’s bright lights. Balthazar smirked as he twirled Castiel’s wallet between his fingers, the leather catching the light like a prop in a magician’s act. He tilted his head, his expression the perfect blend of smugness and faux innocence. “Not my fault you didn’t ask for it before stepping up to pay,” he said, his tone casual, almost conversational. Castiel’s glare could have melted steel. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he took a measured step forward, his voice low and edged with irritation. 

“You confiscated my cards, Balthazar. This little game of yours isn’t funny.”

“Oh, come now,” Balthazar replied, slipping the wallet into his own pocket with deliberate nonchalance. “We agreed, remember? Food deliveries only. If you want anything else, it’s cash. And cash means effort.”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” Castiel shot back, his tone sharp. He could feel his pulse quickening, a mixture of embarrassment and anger rising as Gabriel stifled a laugh behind him. “I was hung over and you just decided. I was basically robbed.” Balthazar shrugged, unfazed. 

“Semantics. You’re better off this way. Keeps you from wandering into trouble—or out of it.” Gabriel finally broke, his laughter spilling out as he clapped a hand on Balthazar’s shoulder. 

“You’ve got to admit, Cassie,” he said between chuckles, “it’s kind of brilliant. You can’t just stumble into a bar and rack up a tab. You’ve got to plan for it. Put in some effort.”

“Because that’s what I needed,” Castiel muttered darkly, “more barriers.” Balthazar’s expression softened —just a fraction— as he stepped closer and handed the wallet back. His voice was quieter now, but still tinged with that ever-present mockery. 

“Think of it as an investment in your well-being, Castiel. One of us has to care.” Castiel snatched the wallet from his hand, his glare unwavering. 

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“Funny is my specialty,” Balthazar quipped, turning to Gabriel with a dramatic flourish. “Shall we continue this delightful little outing before Castiel decides to stab me with one of his artist’s tools?”

“Knives would be too conventional,” Gabriel chimed in, grinning. “He’d use something obscure. A sculpting chisel, maybe.”

“Keep talking,” Castiel said, stuffing the wallet back into his pocket with more force than necessary after paying. His voice was dry, but there was a flicker of reluctant amusement in his eyes as he followed them out of the boutique. Despite everything, a small part of him knew they meant well—infuriating as they were.

As they stepped out onto the street, the crisp evening air greeted them, sharp and cool against the lingering warmth of the boutique. The city hummed around them, a symphony of footsteps, distant car horns, and the murmur of voices that rose and fell like the tide. Castiel walked a half-step behind Gabriel and Balthazar, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression a careful mask of indifference. In truth, he was seething. Not just at Balthazar’s constant meddling or Gabriel’s incessant laughter, but at himself—for letting them drag him through this absurd ritual. He glanced down at the shopping bags in his hand, the tailored suit inside feeling more like a costume than clothing. A uniform for a life he wasn’t sure he wanted.

“I still can’t believe you’re going to make me wear this,” Castiel muttered, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the street noise.

“You’ll thank us when your father doesn’t disown you at the next family event,” Balthazar said breezily, not bothering to look back. His steps were light, almost jaunty, as though he were floating above the city’s chaos rather than walking through it. Gabriel shot Castiel a sideways glance, his grin as sharp as the edge of a broken bottle. 

“Yeah, Cassie. Imagine Dad’s face when you show up looking like you’ve actually got your life together. Might even bring a tear to his eye.”

“More like an aneurysm,” Castiel muttered. He kicked at a loose pebble on the sidewalk, watching it skitter into the gutter. “Not that he cares either way.” Gabriel’s grin faltered for a split second, a flash of something unspoken passing across his face before he recovered. 

“Oh, he cares,” he said, his tone lighter, almost playful. “Just not in the way you want him to.”

“And how’s that?” Castiel asked, stopping short. His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpness that cut through the usual banter. Gabriel turned to face him, his hands sliding into the pockets of his leather jacket. His eyes softened—not pitying, but knowing, like he was staring at a reflection of his own doubts and frustrations. 

“He cares about the Novaks, Cassie. About the name, the legacy. You? You’re just collateral in the empire-building.”

“Gabriel,” Balthazar warned, his voice smooth but firm, like a knife wrapped in silk.

“What?” Gabriel said, throwing up his hands. “He knows I’m right. Hell, he’s known it longer than I have.” He turned back to Castiel, his grin returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But hey, that’s why you’ve got us. To make sure you survive all this nonsense without losing your soul—” Balthazar’s voice cut through the growing tension, sharp and deliberate. 

“Gabriel.” It wasn’t just a warning—it was a line, one that Gabriel had already sidestepped with his trademark smirk and a tilt of his head. Ignoring Balthazar, Gabriel turned his full attention back to Castiel, his tone turning dangerously light, the kind of tone that concealed sharp edges beneath the humor.

“Besides,” Gabriel continued, his grin widening, “you’re the golden child anyway. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have let you become an artist. Hell, from what I know, he didn’t even try to make you go to a real college.” Balthazar sighed, long and exasperated, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement as he walked ahead. 

“Art college is real, Gabriel,” he said without looking back, his voice tinged with that particular brand of exhaustion only the Novaks could inspire. Castiel’s glare hardened, his hands still buried deep in his pockets. 

“You think I’m the golden child?” he asked, his voice low but carrying a weight that stopped Gabriel mid-step. Gabriel shrugged, his grin faltering for just a heartbeat before he rallied. 

“Well, yeah. You’re the youngest, the rebel, the one who gets away with everything because you’re just so ‘different.’ You got the art degree. You got to live your little bohemian fantasy while the rest of I—”

“—sold your soul for suits and ties?” Castiel finished for him, his tone cutting. His gaze locked onto Gabriel’s, and for a moment, the usual warmth behind his blue eyes was edged with something cold and unwavering. “Spare me, Gabriel. You think I don’t know what he thinks of me? That I don’t see the look in his eyes every time he talks about the company, the family name, the future, and conveniently forgets to include me in any of it?” Gabriel opened his mouth, but Castiel kept going, his voice rising just enough to draw a curious glance from a passerby. 

“The truth is, you got the pressure because he actually thought you’d live up to his standards. I didn’t get that, not because I’m the ‘golden child,’ but because he decided I wasn’t worth the effort.” The silence that followed was heavy, pressing against the noise of the street like a held breath. Gabriel stared at him, his smirk wiped clean, replaced by something almost resembling guilt. Balthazar finally stopped, turning on his heel to face them, his expression unreadable.

“Cassie,” Balthazar began, his voice softer now, but Castiel held up a hand, cutting him off.

“Don’t,” Castiel said, his tone firm. He looked at both of them, these two infuriating, complicated men who somehow managed to care and not care all at once. “Just… don’t.” For a moment, none of them spoke. The city moved around them, indifferent to their drama, the lights casting long shadows on the pavement. Then Gabriel let out a low whistle, scratching the back of his neck as he looked away.

“Well, that was fun,” he muttered, his voice lighter but still lacking its usual bite. “Should we go grab that cocktail now, or do you need to yell at me some more first?” Castiel shook his head, his hands still shoved deep in his pockets. 

“I’d rather just go home,” he muttered, his voice flat and resolute. Gabriel blinked, caught off guard by the sudden withdrawal, while Balthazar opened his mouth as if to argue but quickly shut it again. Something about the way Castiel’s shoulders slumped, the quiet exhaustion in his tone, silenced them both. Without another word, Castiel turned on his heel and strode off, his steps brisk and purposeful. For a moment, Gabriel and Balthazar stood rooted to the spot, unspeaking. The city buzzed around them, the hum of traffic and distant conversations filling the void left by Castiel’s abrupt departure. Gabriel shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Well,” he began, but even his usual bravado felt hollow in the face of the sudden silence. Balthazar sighed, running a hand through his meticulously styled hair. 

“You really know how to push his buttons,” he muttered, his tone carrying equal parts irritation and resignation. Gabriel opened his mouth to retort, but Balthazar cut him off with a sharp inhale. His hand flew to his pocket, and his expression shifted from exasperated to alarmed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered, patting down his jacket frantically. Gabriel frowned.

 “What?”

“The wallet,” Balthazar said, his voice rising in disbelief. “He still has it.”

Chapter Text

Dean’s apartment was a picture of curated calm: minimalist furniture, a spotless counter, and a faint hum from the muted television. The evening news played on, the anchor’s voice a steady drone Dean barely registered. He sat on the couch, his posture rigid, one hand cradling a whiskey glass, the other resting idly on his knee. He wasn’t really drinking, just holding the glass like it might anchor him to some semblance of normalcy. The knock at the door came softly at first, so faint that Dean almost thought he’d imagined it. He glanced toward the door but didn’t move, waiting to see if it would happen again. Another knock followed, sharper this time, then a third—loud enough to break through the dull haze of his thoughts. He frowned, setting the glass down and standing cautiously. It was late, and unexpected visitors weren’t exactly a norm in his meticulously ordered life. Missouri Moseley from apartment A usually only came by during the day, and Benny from B —well, Benny didn’t do unannounced visits. Certainly not on a Friday night. Another knock echoed through the stillness, this time more insistent. Dean sighed, turned off the tv and approached the door with a wary glance at the peephole. His stomach tightened when he saw nothing but black, the peephole deliberately blocked from the outside.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, already regretting his decision to get up. With a resigned sigh, he unlatched the deadbolt and cracked the door open, keeping his foot braced behind it in case this turned out to be something less than friendly.

“Dean!” The voice hit him first—slurred, familiar, and utterly out of place. Dean blinked as the figure swayed in the doorway, and recognition landed like a punch to the gut.

“Cas?” Castiel Novak stood there, thoroughly intoxicated, his usually unkempt appearance now bordering on disheveled. His shirt was untucked, his dark hair sticking out at odd angles like he’d been running his hands through it all night. His blue eyes, though glassy, still held a spark of something—frustration? Pain? Dean opened the door wider, his mind reeling. The last time they’d spoken, Castiel had told him to go to hell, his words a bitter mix of anger and betrayal. And now here he was, leaning heavily against the doorframe, reeking of alcohol and maybe something stronger. “Why—why are you here?” Dean managed, his voice tight. Castiel tilted his head, his expression caught somewhere between a pout and a glare. 

“Because,” he said, drawing the word out in a way that was almost sing-song, “I couldn’t not be here.” Dean blinked, trying to make sense of the nonsensical.

“Cas, you’re drunk.”

“Not just drunk,” Castiel replied, pointing a finger at Dean like he was making a profound statement. “I’m disappointed.” Dean’s brow furrowed. 

“In me?” Castiel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed past Dean, his steps unsteady but determined, as though the apartment were a battlefield and he’d just declared it conquered. He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the back of the couch before turning to face Dean.

“No, no,” Castiel slurred, waving a hand. “Not just you. Everyone. Everything.” He let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and jagged in the quiet space. “But also, yes. You.” Dean closed the door with a soft click, his pulse racing as he turned to face Castiel.

“Cas, what the hell are you doing here? You made it pretty clear last time you never wanted to see me again.” Castiel’s expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of something raw crossing his face before he shrugged it off. 

“Maybe I lied.”

“You?” Dean couldn’t help the bitter edge that crept into his voice. “That’s rich.” Castiel flinched, his shoulders sagging. 

“Touché,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair as he crossed the room. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but you shouldn’t be here. You should call Balthazar or Gabriel—or hell, an Uber.” Castiel shook his head, his movements slow and deliberate. 

“No. Not them. Not now. Just… you.” Dean froze. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. He wanted to demand an explanation, to push Castiel back out into the hallway and close the door on this mess, but something in the other man’s eyes stopped him. Beneath the alcohol and bravado, there was a vulnerability that Dean hadn’t seen in anyone in  long time.

“Fine,” Dean said finally, his voice softer. “Sit down before you fall over.” Castiel sank onto the couch without argument, leaning back with a sigh that sounded more like defeat than relief. Dean watched him for a moment, his chest tightening. This wasn’t how he’d imagined seeing Castiel again—not that he’d dared to imagine it at all. “I’m getting you some water,” Dean muttered, turning toward the kitchen.

“Don’t need water,” Castiel called after him, his words slurring together.

“You need something,” Dean shot back, grabbing a glass and filling it from the tap. When he returned, Castiel was staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. Dean handed him the glass, and Castiel took it reluctantly, his fingers brushing against Dean’s for a fleeting moment. “What happened, Cas?” Dean asked quietly, sitting down in the armchair across from him. Castiel took a long sip of water, his gaze distant. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything. Nothing. It’s all the same, isn’t it?” Dean frowned, leaning forward. 

“No, it’s not. You don’t just show up at my place out of the blue because of nothing.” Castiel’s lips quirked into a faint, humorless smile. 

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.” Dean stared at him, his chest tightening again. 

“Cas…”

“I missed you,” Castiel said, the words tumbling out in a rush. His eyes met Dean’s, and for the first time that night, they were clear, piercing through the fog of intoxication. “I hate it, but I did. I do.” Dean’s breath caught, the admission hitting him harder than he expected. He didn’t know what to say —what he could say— so he stayed silent, his gaze locked on Castiel’s. “Say something,” Castiel murmured, his voice cracking just slightly. “Please?” Dean swallowed hard. 

“I missed you too,” he said finally, the words heavy with everything he wasn’t saying. For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the quiet hum of the apartment and the weight of their unspoken history. And then, as if something in Castiel broke all at once, he leaned forward, his head falling into his hands. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Dean,” he said, his voice muffled but thick with emotion. “I don’t know how to fix anything.” Dean stood, crossing the small distance between them in a few steps. He placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, hesitant but firm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, the promise hanging in the air like a fragile thread. Dean sank into the armchair across from Castiel, his mind racing as the silence stretched between them. He took a steadying breath, trying to bring some semblance of logic to this mess. “Why didn’t you go to Balthazar?” Dean asked, his voice cautious but firm. “Or Gabriel? They’d take care of you. You’ve got people, Cas.” Castiel flinched at the mention of Gabriel, his fingers tightening around the glass of water. He avoided Dean’s gaze, staring instead at the carpet as though it might offer an escape from the question.

“They’re not… they’re not who I needed,” Castiel said finally, the words halting and uncertain, like he was piecing them together as he spoke. Dean’s frown deepened. 

“That’s not an answer. So, why aren’t you with them?” Castiel’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with something Dean couldn’t quite read—defiance? Desperation? 

“Because they don’t matter the way you do!” The words hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting. Dean blinked, the weight of them hitting him square in the chest. 

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Castiel hesitated, his expression shifting from anger to something far more vulnerable. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Forget it,” Castiel muttered, his voice raw. He set the glass down on the coffee table with a clumsy thud and stood, swaying slightly. “I shouldn’t have come here.” Dean stood too, his frustration bubbling over. 

“No, you don’t get to drop that and walk away,” he said, stepping closer. “You said I matter. Why?” Castiel froze, his back to Dean. For a moment, Dean thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, slowly, Castiel turned, his blue eyes shining with something fragile and exposed.

“Because I’m in love with you, Dean,” Castiel said, the confession spilling out in a rush. “I have been for months. And it’s hell. It’s—” He broke off, his hands gesturing helplessly as he struggled to find the words. “It’s maddening, knowing who you are and knowing you’ll never feel the same.” Dean’s breath caught, his mind reeling. The room seemed to tilt, the ground shifting beneath his feet as he tried to process what Castiel had just said.

“I—” Dean started, but the words failed him.

“Don’t,” Castiel interrupted, his voice sharp but trembling. “Don’t say anything. I know it doesn’t change anything. I know it’s selfish, but I couldn’t—I just couldn’t keep pretending like it didn’t hurt.” Castiel let out a shaky breath, his gaze darting away from Dean’s face to some invisible point on the floor. “So, when I found out you had lied to me for months about your name,” he said, his voice quieter now, “I saw an out. And I left. I hoped it would stop but… it didn’t. ” Dean stared at him, the weight of those words sinking in, dragging his heart deeper into the whirlwind of emotions he didn’t dare confront. His chest tightened as he watched Castiel—his slouched posture, the faint sheen of tears in his eyes, the way his hands gripped the edge of the coffee table as though it was the only thing grounding him. Castiel’s gaze lingered on Dean’s face, searching for something—an apology, an explanation, a reason not to leave. But Dean said nothing. The words sat like a lump in his throat, refusing to surface. He couldn’t even make sense of what he was feeling, let alone put it into words. Castiel let out a small hiccup, breaking the silence. His lips quirked into a faint, bitter smile as he shook his head. “I should just go,” he said, the words trembling with resignation. He took a step toward the door, unsteady but determined.

“Cas,” Dean said quickly, his voice catching on the single syllable. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “You can’t leave. Not like this.” Castiel turned, his brow furrowing.

“Dean, I—”

“It’s not safe,” Dean interrupted, his voice firm now. “You’re drunk, you’re upset, and you can barely stand. You can’t go out there alone. Let me call someone —Gabriel, Balthazar— anyone. Just… don’t go.” Castiel hesitated, his weight shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other. His blue eyes softened, the defiance giving way to weariness. 

“I don’t need anyone else,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I came here for you.” Dean’s stomach twisted at the rawness in Castiel’s voice. 

“Then stay,” he said, softer this time, his gaze steady. “Stay, and we’ll figure this out. Together.” For a moment, Castiel didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he nodded, his shoulders slumping as though the fight had drained out of him. Dean exhaled in relief and gently guided him back toward the couch, his hand steady on Castiel’s arm. “Sit,” Dean said. “I’ll get you some more water.” Castiel sank into the cushions, his expression unreadable as he watched Dean move to the kitchen. The silence between them felt heavy, but it was no longer suffocating. It was a fragile truce, a tentative beginning. Dean moved with measured purpose through the kitchen, the quiet hum of the apartment settling around him like a second skin. The faint, rhythmic sound of water pouring into the glass pitcher filled the space, a soothing counterpoint to the storm of emotions still churning within him. He opened a cupboard and retrieved a box of salted crackers, their familiar crinkle grounding him, even if only for a moment. His mind raced as he leaned against the counter, staring at the pitcher, now filled to the brim. What was Castiel doing here? Why tonight? Why now? He forced himself to breathe and turned back toward the living room. Castiel needed care, not questions—at least, not yet.

When Dean returned, he froze in the doorway. The water glass was empty, its contents drained, and next to it sat his own glass—the one he’d poured earlier, filled with bourbon. Castiel had downed that too, the faint, sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the room’s already tense air. Castiel sat slumped on the couch, the shadows from the nearby lamp sharpening the angles of his face. His eyes, glassy and distant, found Dean’s.

“I have to wear a suit in a few months,” Castiel said, his words slurring slightly but still cutting through the silence. “Maybe you’ll like me better then.” Dean’s breath caught, the casual devastation of the statement rooting him to the spot. He opened his mouth, but no words came. What could he say to that? Castiel gave a hollow laugh, his gaze dropping to the empty glass on the coffee table. “Nah, you’re right,” he continued, his voice softer now, almost resigned. “I’ll never be what you want. Just some clingy hookup who got too attached.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands cradling his head as if shielding it from his own thoughts. “Hell, I even picked out a tie last week because it reminded me of your eyes. Ha!” His laughter was bitter, biting. “I’m pathetic.” Dean felt something crack inside him, a soundless shift that left him feeling raw and exposed. He stepped forward, his movements tentative, as though approaching a skittish animal. He placed the crackers on the table and sat down beside Castiel, the couch dipping slightly under his weight.

“You’re not pathetic,” Dean said, his voice quiet but steady. He hesitated, the words threatening to falter. “And you’re not ‘just’ anything, Cas.” Castiel didn’t look up, his shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was bracing for some unseen blow. Dean could see the tremor in his fingers, the tension coiled tight in his frame. “I don’t…” Dean started, but the words tangled in his throat. He exhaled sharply, his frustration with himself mounting. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never been good at this—at saying the right thing, at knowing the right thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture betraying his own unease. “But I know this. You mean something to me, Cas. You always will.” That finally drew Castiel’s gaze. His eyes, though still glassy, bore into Dean’s with an intensity that made him want to look away—but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“You say that now,” Castiel murmured, his tone softer but still laced with doubt. “But how long until you realise I won’t ever fit into your world? That I’ll never be polished or perfect or…” He trailed off, his voice catching on the words. Dean leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly. 

“You think I care about polished? Perfect?” He shook his head, a faint, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Cas, I lied to you because I didn’t think you’d want the guy who works nine-to-five and drives a Prius. I thought you wanted someone more… interesting. More exciting.” Castiel frowned, his expression flickering between confusion and disbelief. 

“You lied because you thought I wouldn’t want you?” Dean nodded, his jaw tightening. 

“Yeah. And I hate myself for it, Cas. Every damn day.” The room fell into silence, the kind that hummed with unspoken words and shared vulnerabilities. Castiel tilted his head, studying Dean as though trying to decipher some intricate puzzle.

“I bought that tie because I thought it would make me feel closer to you,” Castiel said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I told myself I didn’t want to be.” Dean felt his chest tighten, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before resting lightly on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Maybe we’re both idiots,” Dean said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Castiel’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile breaking through his exhaustion. 

“Probably,” he agreed, his voice soft but carrying the faintest trace of warmth. Dean squeezed his shoulder gently. 

“Then let’s figure it out. Together.” For the first time that night, something in Castiel’s expression softened, the tension in his frame loosening just a fraction. The vulnerability was still there, raw and unguarded, but so was something else—hope, faint but undeniable. Dean lowered himself onto the couch beside Castiel, the cushions shifting under his weight. The quiet stretched between them, punctuated only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the muffled sounds of the city outside the window. The air carried the sharp tang of alcohol, mingling with the faint scent of paint that always seemed to cling to Castiel like a second skin. Neither of them spoke. Dean stared straight ahead, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped loosely together. The space between them felt tangible, a thread stretched thin, ready to snap or hold depending on some unseen force. He could feel the warmth radiating from Castiel beside him, the kind of closeness that pressed against the edges of his awareness, insistent but not demanding. Castiel shifted, the movement barely perceptible, but Dean caught it in his peripheral vision. His gaze flickered downward, catching the faint tremble in Castiel’s hands as they rested against his thighs. Dean’s chest tightened at the sight, his thoughts a jumble of words he couldn’t string together. In the silence, memories surfaced unbidden: Castiel’s quiet laughter on lazy mornings, the way he always smelled faintly of turpentine and earth, the quiet intensity of his gaze when he talked about his work. Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry.

“You don’t have to say anything, you know,” Castiel murmured finally, his voice rough but soft, like gravel smoothed by the tide. His eyes remained fixed on the empty glass on the coffee table, his shoulders hunched as if he were bracing for something. “I get it. I shouldn’t have come here.” Dean shook his head, his voice quiet but firm. 

“No, Cas. That’s not it.” Castiel turned his head just slightly, enough for Dean to catch the edge of his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. His eyes were glassy, but there was something raw in them, something that pulled at Dean in a way he couldn’t ignore.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” Dean admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The words felt inadequate, flimsy against the weight of everything left unsaid. “But I’m glad you’re here.” Castiel let out a soft, humorless laugh, his gaze dropping back to his hands. 

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better, Dean. I’m a mess. Always have been.” Dean exhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface—not with Castiel, but with himself, with the helplessness that clung to him like a second skin. He turned to face Castiel fully, his voice more forceful now.

“You think I’m lying?” he asked, his tone edged with something that felt like desperation. “Cas, you’re sitting here telling me you think you’re not enough, and I can’t even find the words to tell you how wrong you are. But you are. You’ve always been.” Castiel blinked, his lips parting slightly as though to speak, but no sound came. His eyes searched Dean’s, and for a moment, the distance between them felt less like a void and more like a bridge waiting to be crossed. Then Castiel narrowed his eyes, not in anger but in genuine curiosity, his head tilting slightly as he studied Dean’s face. The intensity of his gaze felt like a weight pressing against Dean’s chest, as though Castiel were peeling back layers, searching for the truth hidden beneath.

“Are you telling me,” Castiel asked slowly, his voice low but deliberate, “that I am always wrong?” The question hung in the air between them, fragile yet unyielding, like a paper lantern caught in a gust of wind. Dean’s breath hitched, his mind scrambling for a response. Castiel’s expression wasn’t accusatory, but there was a quiet demand in his tone, a need for something real amidst the haze of alcohol and unspoken emotions. Dean leaned back slightly, his fingers flexing against his knees. 

“No,” he said carefully, his voice steadier than he felt. “That’s not what I’m saying.” Castiel tilted his head further, his lips pressing into a thin line as though considering the answer. 

“Then what are you saying?” Dean hesitated. He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, sharp and unwavering, cutting through the armor he didn’t even realize he’d put up. The truth churned inside him, tangled and messy, and he hated how much of himself was laid bare in this moment.

“I’m saying,” Dean began, his voice quieter now, “that you’re wrong about this. About you. About… not being enough.” He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Castiel’s gaze. “You’re not a mess, Cas. Or maybe you are, but who the hell isn’t? That doesn’t mean you’re not—” He paused, the words sticking in his throat.

“Not what?” Castiel prompted, his voice soft but insistent, like the edge of a blade slipping between defenses. Dean exhaled through his nose, his chest tightening. He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixing on the empty glass on the table. 

“It doesn’t mean you’re not… worth it,” he said finally, the words tumbling out like a confession. Castiel’s expression shifted, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face before his features softened into something unreadable. His hands relaxed slightly against his thighs, though his shoulders remained tense.

“Worth it,” he repeated, the words quiet and almost to himself. He leaned back against the couch, his gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling. The room fell into silence again, but this time it wasn’t the brittle kind that threatened to shatter. It felt more like the pause before an exhale, a moment suspended in time. Dean glanced sideways at Castiel, the lines of his profile softened by the warm glow of the lamp. He wanted to say more, to bridge the gap between them, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he sat there, letting the silence speak for him, hoping —praying— that it was enough. After what felt like an eternity, Castiel closed his eyes and let out a long, shaky breath. “You’re frustrating,” he said, his voice tinged with something Dean couldn’t quite place—exhaustion, maybe, or something lighter. “Do you know that?” Dean huffed a quiet laugh, his lips curling into a small, almost sheepish smile. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been told.” Castiel’s eyes opened again, and when he turned to look at Dean, there was a faint glimmer of something in them—something raw and vulnerable, but no longer drowning. 

“Thank you,” he said, the words soft but sincere. Dean nodded, his chest loosening just slightly. 

“Anytime,” he replied, his voice steady. Castiel leaned back, his head resting against the top of the couch, his eyes fluttering closed as if the act of sitting upright had drained the last of his energy. The muted light from the lamp cast his face in soft shadows, accentuating the lines of weariness etched into his features. Dean glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the chaos of the evening. For a moment, it seemed like the worst had passed.

And then Castiel heaved.

It started with a low, guttural sound, almost imperceptible, before Castiel lurched forward, his body convulsing in a violent spasm. Dean barely had time to register what was happening before Castiel emptied the contents of his stomach, a nauseating wave that splattered across his own lap, Dean’s meticulously maintained leather couch, and the coffee table. The stench hit immediately, sour and acrid, curling through the air like a noxious fog.

“Aw, crap,” Dean muttered, scrambling to his feet, but not before the edge of the mess soaked into his jeans. His hands hovered uselessly for a moment, unsure whether to steady Castiel or avoid him altogether. Castiel groaned, his face pale and clammy, his hands clutching the couch cushions as though they were the only things keeping him anchored. 

“Dean,” he slurred, his voice thick with mortification and the remnants of alcohol, “I—I didn’t mean to—” Dean held up a hand, cutting him off. 

“Yeah, Cas, I get it. Just—stay put, alright? Don’t move.” The damage was extensive. The couch, once a proud centerpiece of Dean’s modern apartment, now bore a dark, glistening stain that would probably never come out. The coffee table, a solid oak hand-me-down from Bobby, was streaked with an unholy combination of whiskey, vomit, and regret. Dean tried not to look too closely at his own jeans. He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and calming as though reasoning with a cornered animal. “This is fine. This is fine. This is totally fine.” Castiel hiccupped, a sound that was equal parts pathetic and pitiful. His eyes, glassy and wide, searched Dean’s face for some shred of absolution. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his words barely coherent. Dean sighed, the irritation simmering in his chest fading as he took in Castiel’s miserable expression. 

“Yeah, I know, Cas. It’s alright. Just… let me clean this up.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, grabbing an armful of towels and a bucket of soapy water. When he returned, Castiel hadn’t moved, though his head was bowed low, his hands trembling slightly as they rested on his thighs. Dean knelt by the couch, his movements purposeful but not hurried. He started with the floor, scrubbing away at the mess while muttering under his breath about the costs of dry cleaning and professional upholstery services.

“Dean,” Castiel said again, his voice breaking slightly. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“Stop,” Dean interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. He didn’t look up as he worked, his hands methodically wiping down the edge of the coffee table. “You’re in no shape to clean anything right now. Just sit there and try not to throw up again.” Castiel blinked at him, his expression a mixture of gratitude and guilt. 

“You’re… very kind,” he said, the words slurring together but carrying an undeniable sincerity. Dean paused, his hands stilling for a moment as he looked up at Castiel. 

“Yeah, well,” he said softly, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “You’d do the same for me.” Castiel’s brow furrowed, his gaze dropping to his lap. Just as Castiel opened his mouth to reply, his face contorted again—a sharp wince that told Dean what was coming a split second before it did. “Not again—” Dean started, but he didn’t even get to finish. Castiel pitched forward, another heave wracking his body. This time, it spilled over the towels Dean had hastily thrown down, dribbling onto the already stained couch and splattering across the floor. “Jesus, Cas,” Dean muttered, grabbing another towel from the bucket, but then he froze. Something wasn’t right. He crouched lower, his gaze narrowing at the mess. It wasn’t just the smell or the consistency that made him pause—it was what wasn’t there.

No food. Not a single shred of anything resembling a meal.

Dean’s eyes darted to Castiel, who had slumped back against the couch, his face pale and glistening with sweat. His breathing was shallow, and he looked more drained than before, if that was even possible.

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice quieter now, laced with concern. “When’s the last time you ate something?” Castiel blinked at him, the question clearly not penetrating whatever fog was clouding his mind. 

“What?” Dean leaned forward, the sharp edge of worry slicing through his earlier irritation. 

“Food, Cas. You know, the stuff that keeps you alive? Did you eat at all today? Yesterday?” Castiel’s brow furrowed as if the concept itself were foreign to him. 

“I... don’t remember,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. Then, with a weak shrug, he added, “Didn’t seem important.” Dean closed his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly through his nose. Of course. No wonder Castiel had gone down like a ton of bricks. The alcohol had nothing to fight against.

“You’re killing me, man,” Dean muttered, more to himself than Castiel, though the younger man’s glassy-eyed stare followed him as he stood up. Dean disappeared into the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and cabinets with a renewed sense of urgency. Dean opened the fridge and stared at its contents—or lack thereof. The bright light illuminated rows of neatly stacked containers, all filled with the kind of low-carb meals he had sworn by for months. Chicken breasts, pre-chopped greens, and a jar of pickles mocked him from its shelf. A bottle of Tropicana orange juice sat on the door, its bright label almost taunting him. It wasn’t something he drank a lot, save for on his cheat day then he could drink litres.

“Great,” Dean muttered under his breath. “No bread. No rice. No nothing.” He grabbed the juice and turned the bottle in his hands, scanning the label like it held the answer to his dilemma. 

Total carbs: 26 grams per serving. 

Was that good? Bad? He had no clue. It wasn’t the kind of thing he thought about unless it applied to his own strict diet. Castiel needed something with substance, and juice seemed like it might help.

“Maybe juice has enough sugar to get something in your system,” Dean mumbled to himself. 

Then he heard it—the unmistakable sound of retching from the living room. 

“Son of a—” Dean didn’t even finish the thought. He slammed the fridge door shut and hurried back. The scene that greeted him was almost enough to make him want to puke himself. Castiel was hunched over, his body wracked with another heave. The carpet was a lost cause, the mess spreading across the floor in sticky, bile-colored streaks. Dean’s stomach turned, but he pushed past it, crossing the room in three quick strides. He crouched beside Castiel, careful to avoid the mess, and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Hey, hey,” Dean said, his voice softer now, trying to calm the trembling man. “Take it easy. Breathe, okay?” Castiel groaned, his forehead slick with sweat, and sank back against the couch, his breathing shallow and uneven.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel rasped, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Forget it,” Dean interrupted, his tone more forceful than he intended. “I’ll deal with the mess later. Right now, you’ve gotta stop doing this to yourself, man.” He reached for the water glass Castiel had drained earlier, his mind racing. The juice sat forgotten on the counter, its nutritional content suddenly insignificant compared to the immediate reality of Castiel’s condition. “You need something in your system,” Dean muttered, mostly to himself. He placed the glass down and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. “Juice. Maybe the crackers? Hell, anything.” Castiel groaned again, his head lolling to one side. 

“I don’t… need anything,” he slurred, his words half-lost in exhaustion.

“Yeah, you do,” Dean snapped, his voice laced with both anger and concern. “And you’re gonna let me help whether you like it or not.” He stood abruptly, pacing back to the kitchen to grab the juice. This time, as he poured it into a new clean glass, he ignored the nutritional label entirely. When Dean returned, Castiel was slumped further down the couch, his eyes fluttering closed as if he were barely hanging on. Dean set the juice on the coffee table and crouched down again, his face level with Castiel’s. “Cas,” he said firmly, nudging the man’s shoulder. “Drink this. Slowly this time, alright?” Castiel blinked blearily at the glass, then at Dean, as though the simple act of understanding the request took monumental effort.

“Why... do you care so much?” Castiel murmured, his voice hoarse and broken. Dean’s jaw tightened, the question hitting harder than it should have. He didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, he pressed the glass into Castiel’s hands, his grip steady as he guided it to the man’s lips.

“Drink,” Dean said again, his voice gentler this time.

And for once, Castiel didn’t argue.

Dean sat back on his heels, watching Castiel sip the juice with shaky hands. The glass trembled against Castiel’s lips, the bright orange liquid a vivid contrast to the pallor of his skin. Dean’s mind wandered, unbidden, to the memory of Castiel’s apartment. He’d only been there twice, but the place had stayed with him like a photograph etched into his brain. It wasn’t just the apartment’s creative chaos—the mismatched furniture, the way books spilled from shelves onto the floor, or the soft hum of plants climbing their way toward the sunlit windows. It was the sense of Castiel in every corner, like the walls themselves carried his signature. The small kitchen had been cluttered but warm, with the kind of charm that made Dean imagine Castiel brewing tea on a lazy Sunday morning. The art studio had been the opposite: vibrant, alive, bursting with color and raw emotion, the air practically electric with unfinished ideas. Dean had been fascinated by it, by Castiel. But now, sitting in his own meticulously clean apartment with Castiel slumped and unsteady on his couch, he realized he had only seen the surface. The curated mess of Castiel’s home hadn’t just been a reflection of a creative soul—it had been a warning sign he hadn’t understood at the time. Castiel wasn’t just messy. He was unraveling. Dean leaned back against the coffee table, glancing at the empty glass in Castiel’s hands. The juice seemed to have helped a little, but Castiel still looked worn, his breaths shallow and his eyes unfocused. It hit Dean then, like a cold splash of water: 

This is why no one at the office ever mentioned him.

The Novaks were practically gods. Gabriel strode through the halls like he owned the place —because he kind of did. Charles Novak’s name was synonymous with power, control, and immaculate precision. Castiel? Castiel was none of those things. He was the outlier. The one they didn’t talk about.

“Castiel Novak,” Dean murmured under his breath, testing the name in the quiet of the room. Castiel turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing as though he’d heard something but wasn’t sure what. Dean shook his head, almost laughing at the irony. Of course, Castiel wasn’t part of the office gossip. He didn’t fit the Novak mold. Gabriel was a charming troublemaker, and Balthazar was a polished manipulator, but Castiel? Castiel was…

A fucking wreck.

Not just emotionally or mentally. His apartment had practically screamed of someone barely keeping it together. Dean had overlooked it at the time, chalking it up to eccentricity or artistic flair. But now, with Castiel in front of him —drunk, sick, and clinging to scraps of dignity— Dean couldn’t deny it. And yet, the wreckage that was Castiel Novak didn’t repulse him. 

It fascinated him. 

It terrified him.

“You okay?” Dean asked softly, breaking the silence. Castiel blinked at him, his blue eyes glassy but searching. 

“Define okay,” he murmured, his voice rough. Dean studied Castiel’s face, the sharp angles softened by exhaustion, the way his hair clung damply to his forehead. This wasn’t the man who had drawn him in with quick wit and unexpected kindness. This was someone else entirely—a man trying to hold himself together with duct tape and hope. Dean stood abruptly, brushing his hands on his jeans. 

“Stay here,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “I’ll get some towels.” As he stepped into the bathroom, the memory of Castiel’s apartment returned again, this time sharper. The vibrant quilts on his bed, the mismatched mugs in his kitchen, the fairy lights strung over windows that never seemed to close properly. Dean had thought it was charming then, but now it felt like a puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing. He grabbed a handful of towels and returned to the living room, finding Castiel leaning his head back against the couch, his eyes closed. “Cas,” Dean said gently, kneeling beside him again. Castiel opened his eyes slowly, his gaze meeting Dean’s with a vulnerability that made Dean’s chest ache.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said suddenly, his voice cracking. “For all of this. For showing up here. For—” He gestured vaguely at the mess. “For ruining your Friday night.” Dean shook his head, reaching out to dab at the corner of Castiel’s mouth with one of the towels. 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You needed help. That’s all that matters.” Castiel’s lips quirked into a sad, crooked smile. 

“You don’t have to say that, you know. I’m not your problem.” Dean froze, his hand hovering just above Castiel’s shoulder. The words hung in the air, echoing louder than they should have.

“No,” Dean said finally, his voice quiet but resolute. “But maybe I want you to be.” Castiel stared at him, the words seeming to land somewhere deeper than either of them expected. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of city noise outside filling the silence. Dean didn’t know what he was doing. All he knew was that Castiel Novak —wreck and all— deserved someone to help him clean up the mess. Dean stared at Castiel, he looked utterly spent, his eyes half-closed as if he were on the verge of passing out. The sharp, acidic smell of vomit hung in the air, a grim reminder of the situation spiraling further out of control.

Dean’s hands hovered over the juice bottle in his grasp. He hadn’t moved since hearing the second wave of retching, his mind instead spinning with fragments of a conversation from weeks ago. Meg’s voice echoed in his memory, sharp and teasing.

‘Oh, honey. Balthazar’s not a fan. He’s a babysitter.’

At the time, Dean had laughed it off, assuming it was just Meg being Meg—cutting, irreverent, and utterly indifferent to decorum. But now, as he watched Castiel struggling to keep himself upright, those words took on a new resonance.

Balthazar. Babysitter.

Dean felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name. Sympathy? Frustration? Maybe both. Castiel wasn’t just Balthazar’s mess, though. Not entirely. Gabriel had his fair share of chaos—Dean had seen that firsthand at the office. Gabriel had a way of striding into meetings as if they were improv stages, throwing out wild ideas just to see if anyone dared to object. And if they did? Gabriel would flash his disarming grin and somehow turn the whole thing into a joke, leaving the room charmed and confused in equal measure. But Castiel? Castiel wasn’t a charming force of nature like Gabriel. He was something else altogether. Something harder to pin down. Dean thought back to Castiel’s apartment, its cluttered, bohemian charm. The mismatched furniture. The art studio, with its chaotic beauty, where finished canvases leaned against walls alongside half-formed ideas. Castiel’s space had radiated a kind of vulnerable creativity, a rawness that had felt oddly at odds with the man himself.

It made sense now. Castiel didn’t just live in that chaos—he was it. A storm of emotion and impulses, barely held together by the thinnest thread of control.

And Balthazar? He was the one who kept cleaning up after the storm. Dean sighed, dragging a hand down his face. Was that what he was doing now? Stepping into Balthazar’s role? The thought rankled him, though he wasn’t sure why. Castiel wasn’t his responsibility—not in the way Balthazar had taken on that role, anyway. And yet here Dean was on a friday night debating whether juice had carbs because Castiel looked like he might collapse any second. 

The sound of Castiel shifting on the couch drew Dean’s attention. He set the juice bottle on the counter and walked back into the living room, kneeling by Castiel’s side again.

“Hey,” Dean said softly, trying to catch Castiel’s bleary gaze. “You need to tell me—when’s the last time you ate something?” Castiel blinked slowly, his lips parting as if the question confused him. 

“I told you, I don’t… I don’t remember,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “Yesterday? Maybe?”

“Okay,” Dean said, rising to his feet. “We’re fixing that. You need something solid in you, or you’re gonna feel worse in the morning. Crackers are a start, but…” He trailed off, glancing toward his kitchen as if willing something substantial to materialize in his kitchen. He thought about calling someone—maybe Balthazar. No. That was a bad idea. Balthazar might know how to handle this kind of thing, but he’d also take one look at the state of Castiel and probably make some biting comment about Dean’s involvement. Dean didn’t feel like dealing with that right now. Instead, he grabbed his phone and pulled up a delivery app. Something greasy and carb-heavy to help soak up the alcohol. Chinese takeout, maybe? He scrolled absently, his mind still lingering on Meg’s words.

Balthazar’s not a fan. He’s a babysitter.

Dean frowned, tapping on a noodle dish and adding it to the cart. Maybe Balthazar had been cleaning up after Castiel for years, but that didn’t mean Dean had to step into the same role. Castiel wasn’t his responsibility. So why did it feel like he was? He glanced over at the couch, where Castiel had slumped further into the cushions, his head lolled to one side. His breathing was steady, at least, but there was something so fragile about the way he looked—like he might shatter if someone so much as breathed wrong. Dean sighed again, pressing the order button. Maybe Castiel wasn’t his problem. But he wasn’t about to let him fall apart, either.

“Food’s on the way,” Dean said aloud, more to himself than to Castiel. Castiel made a soft sound, a mix of acknowledgment and exhaustion, as Dean sat back down on the floor beside the couch. Castiel groaned softly, leaning forward just enough for another wave of sickness to take him. Dean winced, a visceral reaction as the couch, the floor, and even the cuff of his pants bore the brunt of it. The sour stench in the air grew sharper, curling around the room like a tangible presence.

“I owe you a new... everything,” Castiel muttered, his voice low and ragged. His eyes were glassy, his pallor pallid, and his slumped shoulders only added to the defeated silhouette he cut. Dean opened his mouth to reply, maybe to wave it off or tell Castiel not to worry about it, but before he could form the words, Castiel pitched forward again, his whole body convulsing with the effort. Dean instinctively stepped back, narrowly avoiding another wave of bile. His jaw clenched as he stared at the mess spreading across his once-immaculate floor. Why hadn’t he moved this to the bathroom earlier? The thought hit him like a brick, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. Of course, hindsight was always twenty-twenty, but the logical part of his brain berated him for not having the foresight to steer this whole ordeal to the tiled sanctuary of his bathroom hours ago.

“Alright,” Dean said, his voice sharper than he intended. He scrubbed a hand over his face, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “That’s it. We’re moving.”

Castiel groaned in protest as Dean bent down, sliding an arm under his shoulder to haul him upright. The motion was awkward, Castiel a deadweight against him, but Dean managed to get him on his feet. The artist staggered, leaning heavily into Dean, his head lolling onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Come on, man,” Dean muttered, guiding Castiel toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s not that far. You’re gonna thank me later.”

Castiel didn’t respond, his silence punctuated only by a muffled hiccup. Dean gritted his teeth and pushed forward, dragging them both toward the bathroom. Once inside, he deposited Castiel onto the tiled floor as gently as he could manage. Castiel slumped back against the wall, his eyes barely open but tracking Dean’s movements as he reached for a towel and the wastebasket. The bathroom’s white tiles gleamed under the harsh overhead light, a sterile contrast to the chaos of the living room. Dean knelt down, tilting the wastebasket toward Castiel.

“Here,” he said, his tone softer now. “Just… aim in here, alright? At least save the rest of the house.” Castiel gave a faint, humorless chuckle, his lips curling in a shadow of his usual sardonic smile. 

“What’s left to ruin?” he rasped, his voice like sandpaper. “Your couch? Your pants? Your dignity?” Dean shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. 

“You’re real funny for a guy covered in puke.”

“Defense mechanism,” Castiel mumbled, his head falling back against the wall. “It’s all I’ve got left.” Dean stood, crossing to the sink to wet a washcloth. The sound of running water filled the small space, an oddly soothing backdrop to the quiet between them. When he returned, he crouched beside Castiel again, pressing the damp cloth against his forehead. Castiel flinched at first but then sighed, his eyes closing. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I’m not worth it.” Dean’s jaw tightened, his hand stilling for a fraction of a second before he resumed his task. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “And you’re wrong, by the way.” Castiel cracked one eye open, his gaze searching Dean’s face. 

“Wrong about what?” Dean hesitated, the words hanging on the tip of his tongue. He could feel the weight of them, the implications, the vulnerability they carried. But looking at Castiel now —exhausted, sick, and broken in a way that was as much emotional as it was physical— Dean couldn’t bring himself to say them. Not yet.

“Wrong about everything,” Dean said instead, his tone softer now, almost teasing. “But mostly about ruining my couch. You owe me big time.” Castiel gave a faint, dry laugh, his head tipping forward slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a flicker of the man he used to be, buried beneath the mess of everything else. Dean allowed himself a small smile as he leaned back, resting on his heels. Castiel lurched forward, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he vomited into the wastebasket Dean had placed in his lap. The sound echoed off the tiled walls, filling the small bathroom with an oppressive quiet once it subsided. Dean winced, averting his eyes but staying close, ready to steady Castiel if he teetered too far forward. When it seemed like Castiel was finished—at least for the moment—Dean shifted on his knees and asked, “What the hell did you drink?” Castiel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his movements sluggish, like each motion took monumental effort. 

“Something I shouldn’t’ve,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. His head lolled to the side, resting against the cool bathroom wall. He didn’t look at Dean, his gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance, unfocused and glassy.

“That much is clear,” Dean muttered, running a hand through his hair. His tone was sharp, but the edge dulled with concern. He glanced at the bathroom counter, at the clutter of neatly folded towels and his untouched shaving kit, as if searching for some clarity among the mundane. “I mean specifics, Cas. What was it? Vodka? Whiskey? Moonshine you brewed in the sink in your art studio?” Castiel huffed a weak, bitter laugh, though it ended with a cough. 

“It helps,” he murmured, his words trailing off as though he were slipping into a confession he hadn’t meant to voice aloud. “It helps me not think.” Dean’s chest tightened. The offhand way Castiel said it, like it was just a fact of life, made something inside him twist uncomfortably. He’d heard similar lines before, from people burning out in the corporate grind, from friends trying to claw their way back after a bad break-up. But coming from Castiel, it felt different—more resigned, more raw.

“Not think about what?” Dean asked, his voice quieter now. He wasn’t sure he even wanted the answer, but the question had escaped before he could stop himself. Castiel tilted his head slightly, his eyes finally finding Dean’s. They were bloodshot, red-rimmed, and unbearably tired. 

“Everything,” he said simply. The word hung in the air, as though it carried the weight of unspoken memories, regrets, and choices Dean couldn’t begin to fathom. “The projects I never finish. The loud silence when I wake up alone. Gabriel’s smirk when he looks at me like I’m a child who still doesn’t anything. The way you—” He cut himself off, his jaw clenching as though he’d said too much. He looked down at the wastebasket in his lap, his fingers curling around its edges. Dean exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay steady when everything in him wanted to press further, to demand answers Castiel clearly wasn’t ready to give. He leaned back against the bathroom door, his hands resting on his thighs, and let the moment breathe.

“Cas,” he started after a beat, his voice softer, “you don’t have to... I mean, you can just—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Castiel interrupted, shaking his head. His words came out sharp, though they wavered on the edges. He coughed again, this time a dry, hacking sound that made Dean wince.

“Alright,” Dean said, holding up a hand as if to placate him. “Alright. But you’re not drinking your way out of this. Not here, anyway.” Castiel huffed another laugh, though it lacked humor. 

“You think I planned this?” Dean frowned, his gaze flicking to the wastebasket, then to the man slumped against his bathroom wall. He felt the sting of helplessness, a quiet frustration at not knowing how to fix whatever this was. Castiel’s words echoed in his mind, circling back to that one stark truth: It helps me not think.

“Well,” Dean said, his voice firmer now, “you’re gonna have to start thinking. About whatever it is you’re running from. But first, we’re gonna get you cleaned up and hydrated. One disaster at a time, okay?” Castiel didn’t respond, but his gaze softened, the corners of his lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite get there. Dean took that as a win, however small, and reached for the washcloth again, wringing it out in the sink before crouching back down. For now, he’d focus on the basics—one step at a time, one mess cleaned at a time. The bigger questions could wait. Dean’s phone vibrated on the counter, the soft chime breaking the strained silence of the bathroom. He glanced at the screen: 

Your delivery driver has arrived.

“Great timing,” he muttered to himself, standing and stretching his legs, which had gone slightly numb from kneeling on the bathroom tiles. He looked down at Castiel, still slumped against the wall, his face pale, his eyes barely open. The wastebasket rested precariously close to his chin, and Dean frowned, assessing the situation.

“Alright, Cas, let’s move you,” he said softly, crouching again. He braced his hands carefully on Castiel’s shoulder and hip, guiding him down to the floor in a way that seemed almost too gentle for someone as tough as Castiel often pretended to be. “Recovery position, so if you puke again you’re not gonna choke, alright?” Dean explained, more for himself than for Castiel, as he adjusted the man’s limp body to lie on his side, his head tilted slightly downward.  Castiel groaned faintly but didn’t resist. His voice came next, weak but sharp-edged with self-reproach. 

“Great. Now you know I’m a disaster too.” Dean froze for a moment, his hands still on Castiel’s shoulder and arm. The words carried a rawness that hit somewhere deep, uncomfortably close to the ache he usually ignored. He sighed, sitting back on his heels, his hand lingering on Castiel’s shoulder as if to anchor the both of them.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said quietly, “newsflash, Cas: nobody’s got it together as much as they want other people to think.” His gaze lingered on the faint stubble lining Castiel’s jaw, the way it caught the dim bathroom light. “You’re not exactly the only one screwing up their life.” Dean could feel the tension in the other man’s body easing under his touch, like those words were some small balm to a wound that had been left open too long. For a fleeting moment, Dean wanted to say more—to admit his own missteps, his regrets, the things he spent every day trying to bury under layers of polished suits and professional smiles. But instead, he rose to his feet and cleared his throat, shoving those thoughts back where they belonged. “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for the door. “Don’t go anywhere.” He paused, halfway out, then glanced back. “Not that you can, but, you know. Just… hang tight.”

The sound of Castiel’s soft, self-deprecating laugh followed him into the hallway.

Dean made his way to the intercom, muttering curses under his breath as he fumbled with the buttons to buzz the delivery person up. His mind kept drifting back to the bathroom, to Castiel lying there like a crumpled marionette, all sharp edges and quiet vulnerability. He didn’t know why it hit him so hard—why Castiel’s comment, said with such biting honesty, lingered in his head like a bell still ringing.

The knock at the door snapped him back to the present. Dean grabbed the takeout bag, exchanging brief pleasantries with the delivery driver before shutting the door and heading back to the kitchen. He unpacked the containers with precision, arranging everything in a neat line on the counter. Noodles. Crackers. Juice. Water. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could think of in the moment. Carrying the juice and a bottle of water, Dean returned to the bathroom. Castiel hadn’t moved, still curled on his side, his breaths shallow but steady. Dean set the bottles down on the counter, then crouched beside him again.

“Got some stuff that’ll help,” he said, unscrewing the cap of the water. “But first, you gotta sip this. No arguments.” Castiel turned his head slightly, his eyes half-lidded and weary, but there was something softer in his gaze now. Something that made Dean’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t care to analyze. He slid a hand under Castiel’s head, helping him sit up just enough to take a sip, the cool water spilling over cracked lips. 

As Castiel drank, slow and hesitant, Dean watched him closely. The earlier words still echoed in his mind, unanswered questions and truths he wasn’t sure either of them were ready to face. But for now, he focused on this—on keeping Castiel grounded, on giving him something to hold on to. The rest could wait. The air in the bathroom was thick with the scent of alcohol. Castiel’s face was pale, his hair sticking damply to his forehead, but his gaze flickered up toward Dean with a faint glimmer of something Dean couldn’t place.

“I never thanked you,” Castiel murmured, his voice hoarse and cracked. Dean, who had been crouched beside him, rinsing a washcloth in the sink, paused mid-motion. He looked at Castiel, brow furrowing slightly. 

“What?”

“For the stuff you bought,” Castiel said, putting the bottle down. His words were slow, like they were heavy on his tongue. “When you tried to apologise... and I was a jerk and turned you away.” His lips quirked faintly, a bitter self-awareness in his tone. “I never said thank you.” Dean blinked, caught off guard. 

“Yeah?” he said after a beat. “So you’ve been using them?” Castiel nodded weakly, the motion small and tired. 

“All the time,” he admitted, his fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the bucket. “They’re… perfect.” Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

“You’re welcome, then,” he said softly, his voice carrying a strange mix of relief and guilt. Castiel’s lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, but it faltered almost as quickly as it appeared. 

“I can’t believe you remembered,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost as though he was speaking to himself. Dean frowned, his confusion evident. 

“Remembered what?” Castiel’s head tipped to the side slightly, resting against the rim of the tub. His gaze turned distant, unfocused, as though he was recalling something from far away. 

“That... that those pens were the ones I wanted,” he said, his words slurring slightly. “I mentioned it in passing, but you—you remem—” The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a retching sound as Castiel bent forward, his body heaving violently over the bucket. Dean winced, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady Castiel’s shoulder. The sound of the vomit hitting the plastic was harsh in the quiet, and it took a moment before Castiel sat back, his breathing ragged and shallow.

Dean swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he stared at Castiel’s pale, sweat-slicked face. He clenched his jaw, guilt settling in his chest like a stone. He hadn’t remembered at all. The notebook, the pens—they hadn’t been the result of some thoughtful moment or quiet attention to detail. He’d bought them because the woman at the art store had recommended them, her words quick and confident. Dean looked away, his gaze falling to the stained grout between the tiles. Castiel had thought he’d remembered something small, something important. But the truth was, Dean hadn’t even known it mattered.

“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if Castiel was lucid enough to hear him. Castiel’s head lolled slightly, his eyes half-lidded but still fixed on Dean. 

“What?” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean’s chest tightened as he hesitated, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t lie—not now. Not with Castiel looking at him like that, like his words might mean something. 

“I didn’t remember,” he admitted quietly, the confession scraping against his throat. Castiel blinked slowly, his brows knitting together in faint confusion. 

“I don’t… understand.” Dean sighed, the tension in his shoulders evident as he tried to explain. “I picked out the notebook, yeah. But the pens? I didn’t. The lady at the store told me what to get. I just... went with what she said.” For a moment, Castiel didn’t react, his gaze distant as he processed Dean’s words. Then, with all the energy he could muster, he furrowed his brows, the effort clear in the way his face scrunched slightly. 

“The sketchbook,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, “was made for those pens.” He paused, his breath hitching faintly. “If you picked it out... your subconscious remembered.” Dean stared at him, utterly floored. His mind reeled, the weight of Castiel’s words crashing into him like a tidal wave. Subconscious? He hadn’t even considered it—hadn’t thought there could be any deeper meaning to the choice beyond luck or coincidence. And yet, here was Castiel, pale and trembling, insisting that Dean’s actions spoke to something he hadn’t even known he’d felt. Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry as his gaze lingered on Castiel’s exhausted but determined face. For a man who looked ready to pass out, Castiel’s belief in what he was saying burned with an intensity that left Dean momentarily speechless.

“I—” Dean began, but the words failed him. He didn’t know what to say, how to process the idea that maybe, just maybe, he’d chosen those things because some part of him had known what Castiel wanted all along. Castiel’s lips quirked faintly, his eyes slipping closed as if the effort of talking had drained him completely. 

“See?” he murmured, his voice almost inaudible now. “Not so dramatic after all.” Dean sat there, floored and quiet, the realization settling over him with a mix of awe and unease. For all the mistakes he’d made, for all the things he hadn’t understood about himself or Castiel, maybe —just maybe— there was still a thread of something real connecting them. Something that hadn’t been entirely broken. Dean looked down at Castiel, who was barely clinging to consciousness. His breath came in slow, shallow puffs, his face slack with exhaustion. The edge of Dean’s jaw tightened as he weighed his options. It felt wrong —sad, even— to leave Castiel on the cold tile floor of his bathroom. But what else could he do? Castiel was too far gone to move to the bed, and Dean wasn’t about to risk him choking in his sleep.

“Alright, buddy,” Dean muttered, more to himself than to Castiel, as he gently shifted him back into the recovery position. Castiel stirred faintly but didn’t resist, his head lolling onto his arm as Dean adjusted him. Satisfied that Castiel wouldn’t topple over, Dean exhaled heavily and got to his feet. The moment he stepped out of the bathroom, the stench hit him again, sharp and acrid, making his stomach churn. He paused, glaring at the mess as though sheer willpower might make it disappear. His leather couch was a disaster zone, the dark, glossy surface streaked with pale, sickly stains that refused to blend into the material. The coffee table—God, the coffee table—had absorbed some of it into the seams of the wood, and the carpet beneath was a blotchy, damp nightmare. Dean rubbed his face, groaning softly before rolling up his sleeves. 

“This is disgusting,” he muttered under his breath. “Fucking disgusting.”

He started with the coffee table, grabbing a wad of paper towels and some cleaner from under the sink. The first swipe was smeared futility; the vomit clung stubbornly to the surface, spreading in pale streaks that seemed to mock him. He sprayed the cleaner liberally, the citrus scent barely masking the acrid tang of the bile. As he wiped again, harder this time, the cloth snagged on the grain of the wood, and a stringy chunk stuck to his hand.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean hissed, recoiling slightly and wiping his hand furiously on the towel. He redoubled his efforts, scrubbing until his arm ached, but the edges of the stain seemed to sink deeper with every pass. “Why the hell do people even buy wood coffee tables? Stupid. Fucking stupid.”

When the table was as clean as he could manage—not perfect, but no longer offensively disgusting—Dean turned his attention to the couch. He hesitated for a beat, eyeing the mess with a mix of frustration and dread. The leather, which had once gleamed under the muted glow of his living room lamps, now looked dull and streaked. He grabbed a damp sponge and a bottle of leather cleaner, crouching down to assess the damage. The first swipe across the couch confirmed his worst fears: the vomit had already begun to seep into the surface. Dean swore softly, grinding his teeth as he scrubbed harder. The sponge squeaked against the leather, the sound grating against his nerves. 

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, his movements growing more frantic as the stain refused to budge. “This stuff’s supposed to be goddamn stain-resistant. Fucking scam, that’s what it is.”

His knees protested as he shifted positions, trying to get a better angle on the cushion’s creases. The sponge squelched as he pressed it into the seams, pulling up damp, sour-smelling residue. Dean gagged slightly, his throat tightening as he tossed the sponge aside and reached for a fresh one.

“Disgusting,” he muttered again, this time with more venom. “Should’ve just bought a goddamn futon.”

When he finally stepped back to assess his progress, the couch looked marginally better. The stains were still faintly visible, a ghost of the disaster that had unfolded, but at least the worst of it was gone. Dean sighed, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, then turned to the carpet. The carpet was, without question, the worst of it. The pale beige fibers had absorbed the vomit like a sponge, and no amount of scrubbing seemed to lift the dark, wet stain that marred its surface. Dean poured half a bottle of cleaner onto the spot, watching as it fizzed and bubbled uselessly. He grabbed a brush, scrubbing with enough force to make his shoulders ache.

“Goddamn carpets,” he muttered under his breath. “Who the hell thought putting carpet in a living room was a good idea? Idiots, that’s who.”

The bristles of the brush tugged at the fibers, pulling up chunks of damp debris that made Dean gag again. He pressed harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he tried to erase the evidence of the mess. But no matter how much he scrubbed, the stain remained stubbornly in place, a mocking reminder of the night’s events.

“Fuck this,” Dean growled, throwing the brush down in frustration. He sat back on his heels, his chest heaving as he glared at the carpet. His hands were raw, his knees aching from crouching for so long. The living room still smelled sour, the faint citrus scent of the cleaner doing little to mask it. Dean leaned back against the wall, rubbing his temples as he stared at the mess he couldn’t quite fix.

For a moment, he let himself wallow in the frustration, the fatigue, the lingering embarrassment of the situation. But then a soft sound from the bathroom drew his attention—a faint rustle, followed by the quiet hum of Castiel’s uneven breathing. Dean sighed heavily, pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed the bucket of dirty water and the pile of used towels, carrying them to the kitchen sink. As he rinsed his hands under hot water, scrubbing away the grime, he glanced toward the bathroom. Castiel was still there, still sleeping—or as close to sleeping as he could manage. And despite the mess, the frustration, and the lingering stench of vomit, Dean found himself walking back toward him.

“Guess I’m not the only disaster tonight,” he muttered softly. He crouched down beside Castiel, adjusting the blanket draped over him before sitting back against the wall, his head resting against the cool tile. The couch could wait. The carpet could wait. For now, Castiel needed him more.

Chapter Text

The light streaming through Dean’s blinds was mercilessly bright for a Saturday morning. He blinked blearily at the clock on his bedside table. 6:47 AM. Too early to deal with… everything. His apartment still reeked of vomit, and his brain was already buzzing with all the things he had to fix.

First up: Johanna. His sister was supposed to come over later to discuss plans for their mother’s birthday. That was not happening now. He could picture it: Johanna stepping into his apartment, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing at the mess, her brows lifting at the sight of Charles Novak’s lesser known son sprawled out on Dean’s bathroom floor. No way. He needed to cancel. Dean grabbed his phone and opened their text thread. He hesitated for a second, then typed:

Dean: Hey, something came up. Can we reschedule for next week?

He hit send and hoped for the best. The response came almost immediately.

Johanna: What’s wrong?

Dean groaned, running a hand down his face. His sister had always been annoyingly perceptive. 

Dean: Nothing serious, just… not a good day for it.

The three little dots of her reply hovered for an agonizing moment.

Johanna: Dean. Be specific. Did you get food poisoning from one of those ridiculous health bars you live on?

He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with a faint smile. Trust Johanna to jump to his diet as the culprit.

Dean: No. Just something unexpected. I’ll explain later.

Johanna: Is this about Mum? Do you need me to come over?

Dean sighed. There was no way she was letting this go. He had to shut it down without making her suspicious—or worse, curious.

Dean: No, I’ve got it under control. I’ll call you later today.

The dots appeared again.

Johanna: Fine. But you owe me.

Dean exhaled in relief, tossing his phone onto the couch. Crisis averted —for now. He leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the takeout containers from last night. He hadn’t eaten a bite, and neither had Castiel. The smell of sesame noodles mixed unpleasantly with the lingering sour tang of vomit. Dean pushed the containers aside and opened the fridge, eyeing a row of meticulously meal-prepped containers. He decided it was too bold to assume Castiel could eat right now and grabbed a glass of water instead before heading to the bathroom, bracing himself for what he’d find. Dean noticed the faint flicker of Castiel’s lashes as he stirred. The tile beneath him looked unforgiving, the cold having leeched the color from his face.

“Hey,” Dean said softly, shaking his shoulder again. “Cas, wake up.” Castiel groaned, his voice scratchy and hoarse as his eyes fluttered open. He squinted at Dean, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Dean?” Castiel rasped. He struggled to sit up, his movements sluggish and uncertain, as if he were testing whether his body would cooperate.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Dean replied, shifting back to give him space. “You remember how you got here?” Castiel blinked at him, then around the room. His eyes lingered on the closed shower curtain, the half-empty glass of water on the counter, and finally, the vomit on the floor. A faint shadow of unease passed over his face, but he shook his head.

“I… don’t,” Castiel said, his voice quieter now. He glanced back at Dean, and something sharp and wary flashed in his eyes. “What happened?”

“You showed up last night. Knocked on my door, half-drunk, half…” Dean trailed off, not wanting to name the faint streak of desperation he thought he’d seen. “You were a mess.” Castiel’s jaw tightened, and he rubbed at his temple as if trying to press the memory into existence. 

“I don’t remember leaving the bar.”

“You blacked out?” Dean asked, though he already knew the answer. The way Castiel’s shoulders stiffened confirmed it.

“Apparently,” Castiel muttered. But his gaze shifted again, this time not to piece together lost memories but to take in his surroundings with a growing discomfort. “I woke up here?” Dean frowned. There it was—the flicker of unease, that same guarded look Castiel always gave when he felt trapped. Except now, it wasn’t aimed at the memory lapse but at the fact that he was in Dean’s apartment.

“Yeah,” Dean said slowly, his tone light but his stomach knotting. “Where else was I supposed to let you crash? Motel? Park bench?” Castiel didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted toward the doorway, like he was calculating how long it would take to leave. Dean leaned back on his heels, his frown deepening. “Cas,” he said carefully, “why does waking up here freak you out more than not knowing where the hell you were last night?”

“I’m not—” Castiel began, but the lie died on his lips. He exhaled sharply and looked away. “It’s… complicated.” Dean barked a humorless laugh. 

“Complicated? You show up drunk off your ass, can’t remember a damn thing, and you’re worried about this?” He gestured around the cramped bathroom.

“I didn’t mean to come here,” Castiel said abruptly. The words hit the air like they’d escaped before he could stop them. His face tightened, regret coloring his expression. Dean stared at him, the words cutting deeper than they should have. 

“Okay,” he said slowly, trying to mask the sting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” Castiel hesitated, running a hand through his hair. His fingers lingered at the base of his neck, as if the touch grounded him. “I didn’t want to… burden you.” Dean let out a sharp exhale, sitting back against the sink cabinet. 

“Burden me? Cas, you think you showing up like this is a burden?”

“Yes,” Castiel said simply. His voice wasn’t harsh or defensive—just flat, as though the answer was so obvious it didn’t require debate. Dean shook his head, something bitter rising in his chest. This wasn’t like Castiel. Sure, the guy could be reserved, but he wasn’t the type to avoid people or drown himself in booze until his brain shut off. At least, not the Castiel Dean thought he knew.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Dean asked, the realization hitting him like a slow-moving train. “Drank until you blacked out?”

Castiel’s silence was answer enough.

“Damn it, Cas,” Dean muttered, raking a hand through his own hair. Memories of their time hooking up flashed through his mind—not just the physical parts but the nights at bars, the way Castiel could drink like a fish and still carry a conversation with that calm, steady cadence. Dean hadn’t seen this side of him. He hadn’t seen the cracks.

“It’s not a habit,” Castiel said, breaking the silence.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Dean shot back, the frustration slipping out before he could stop it. Castiel flinched, and Dean immediately felt like an ass. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to reign himself in.

“I never did it when we were… you know, involved.”

“Great, look,” he said, his voice softer now, “you don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but you can’t keep doing this. You can’t just… show up, crash, and expect me not to worry.”

“I didn’t expect you to worry,” Castiel said quietly. His blue eyes met Dean’s, and for a moment, there was something raw in his gaze. Vulnerable. Dean sighed, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. 

“Well, I do. So stop trying to handle this on your own, alright?” Castiel didn’t answer, but his silence felt less like avoidance and more like consideration. Dean stood, grabbing the glass of water. “Finish this,” he said, setting it beside Castiel. “You need something in your system before you pass out again.”  He left the bathroom without waiting for a response, the faint click of the door echoing behind him. In the kitchen, Dean leaned against the counter, the edge pressing into his palms as he tried to make sense of what just happened. Something was wrong with Castiel—something bigger than one bad night. Dean wasn’t sure what, but he knew one thing for certain: he wasn’t about to let Castiel deal with it alone.

As Dean stood in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker as if its rhythmic drip could answer the questions swirling in his mind. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, and he let out a long breath through his nose. Castiel’s unease had been palpable, not just the typical disorientation of someone who’d overindulged. No, this was something else entirely—something sharper, quieter. It hit Dean then, a realization creeping in like sunlight through drawn curtains. Castiel wasn’t worried about the floor he’d slept on or the sour stench clinging to his rumpled clothes. Hell, the guy wasn’t even fazed by the blackout itself. The thing clawing at Castiel’s nerves, the thing that made him shift his gaze away every time Dean got too close, was far more specific. Dean huffed a laugh, the sound dry and disbelieving as it left his lips. Of course. Of course, it wasn’t the booze or the hangover or the general mess he’d found himself in. No, Castiel was agonizing over what he might have said. Over whether he’d confessed something he couldn’t take back.

The thought almost made Dean laugh again—almost. It was too absurd, too human.

And the kicker? Castiel had told him. Castiel had confessed to being in love with Dean for months. And now here they were. Castiel, probably sweating bullets in the bathroom, and Dean, staring at the coffee maker like it might give him a road map for what the hell he was supposed to do next. The laugh came this time, soft and bitter, as Dean ran a hand over his face. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered to himself. He poured the coffee into a mug, the steam curling upward in lazy tendrils. His thoughts churned as he took a sip, the warmth grounding him. Castiel had told him. Plain as day. And judging by the look on his face when he woke up, he had no memory of it. Dean leaned against the counter, his mug cradled in one hand, the other absently rubbing at the back of his neck. His kitchen, usually pristine, felt unusually stifling this morning. Castiel’s words from last night swirled in his mind, stubbornly refusing to settle into the background. He didn’t want to overthink it—God knew he had enough practice burying things—but it wasn’t that simple. Not when it was Castiel.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Dean glanced up. Castiel stood there, rumpled and uncertain, his shirt clinging to him in places where it hadn’t fully dried. The sharp smell of soap clung to the air, mingling with the faint scent of stale alcohol. His damp hair stuck up in disarray, a far cry from the cool, composed image Castiel usually carried. Dean set the mug down, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the counter. 

“Feeling human yet?” Castiel’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. 

“I think ‘human’ might be an overstatement,” he replied, his voice low and raspier than usual. He crossed the room slowly, almost hesitantly, and paused at the edge of the kitchen, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Thank you… for letting me stay.”

Dean waved a hand dismissively, but his gaze lingered on Castiel, trying to read the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. “You’re acting like I haven’t seen worse from you.”

“I’m not sure that’s comforting,” Castiel muttered, a faint crease appearing between his brows. His eyes darted around the room, not quite meeting Dean’s. “Did I… Did I do anything else I should apologize for?” There it was again, that thread of uncertainty that had been hanging in the air since Castiel woke up. Dean sighed, pushing himself off the counter. 

“You didn’t trash the place, if that’s what you’re asking. And you didn’t pick a fight, though I’m guessing your liver’s not too happy with you right now.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Castiel said, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Dean hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tease Castiel out of his mood or dive headfirst into the thing they were clearly skirting around. His instinct was to brush it off, but that look on Castiel’s face stopped him. It wasn’t just embarrassment or regret—it was fear. Castiel was afraid of something, and Dean had a pretty good idea what it was. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly.

“You really don’t remember anything from last night?” Castiel shook his head, his eyes flicking upward to meet Dean’s for a fleeting moment before darting away again. 

“Only fragments. Most of it… is gone.” Dean nodded, stepping closer until they were standing only a couple of feet apart. 

“All right,” he said, his tone softer now. “Then let me fill in the blanks for you.” Castiel tensed, his shoulders lifting slightly, and Dean could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He wasn’t sure if Castiel was bracing for impact or just trying to figure out an escape route, but either way, it made Dean’s chest ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to summon a casual tone as he spoke. “You puked. Like, a lot. Things kinda… took a turn after that.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked up to meet Dean’s for a moment before drifting across the apartment, scanning like he was piecing together the night through clues he didn’t really want to find. They landed on the stains—dark and yellowed remnants on the couch and coffee table, stark against the muted tones of Dean’s otherwise meticulous living room. The carpet, though, was the worst. Beige fibers marred with boiled, bile-colored blotches that no amount of scrubbing would fix. Dean had tried his best to clean it up, but the evidence clung stubbornly to the fabric, a reminder of just how bad the night had gotten. Castiel’s face tightened as he took it all in, his expression cycling between mortification and exhaustion. Dean shifted uncomfortably, running his tongue over his teeth. He wasn’t used to seeing Castiel like this—vulnerable in a way that wasn’t calculated or controlled. Castiel being embarrassed was a rarity, and seeing it now, Dean wasn’t sure he liked it. In fact, it made something twist uncomfortably in his chest, the kind of feeling he usually tried to drown out with whiskey or work.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said finally, his voice low and gravelly, breaking the silence between them. Dean waved it off, trying to inject a bit of levity. 

“Hey, it’s not like I was gonna keep that carpet forever, anyway. Gave me an excuse to rethink the whole ‘beige was a good idea’ thing.” He grinned, but it faltered when Castiel didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“You don’t need to apologise, Cas,” Dean added more gently. “Shit happens. Literally, sometimes.” Castiel’s lips twitched, but the faintest attempt at a smile didn’t reach his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face, the gesture slow and weary. Despite everything, he wasn’t as hungover as Dean would’ve expected, but the man was still visibly drained, like something had taken the fight out of him. Dean found himself studying the slope of Castiel’s shoulders, the lines of his profile, looking for signs of what was going on beneath the surface. He had half a mind to bring up what Castiel had said last night —to just lay it out and deal with the fallout— but something stopped him. The way Castiel looked right now, the raw edges he was trying so hard to smooth over, made Dean hesitate.

Because sure, Castiel had told him. Told him that he’d been in love with Dean for months, and it wasn’t like Dean could have a truly coherent thought since. But now? Now wasn’t the time. Castiel didn’t need one more thing to feel exposed about, not when he was standing there like the world had already taken too much from him. So Dean shoved the memory aside for now, burying it under layers of humor and practicality. He jerked his chin toward the couch. “Anyway, I’ll figure out how to get the stains out—or, you know, just throw a blanket over it and call it good. You hungry? Could probably use something in your system.” Castiel blinked, like Dean’s words had jolted him out of his spiral, and nodded hesitantly. 

“I suppose that would be… wise.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, the touch brief but solid, grounding. 

“Wise is your middle name, right?” he teased lightly, heading toward the fridge. The corner of Castiel’s mouth lifted, the ghost of a smile finally breaking through. 

“Not exactly, but close enough.” Dean grinned as he grabbed some eggs. For now, he’d let things lie. There’d be time to unpack everything later, once Castiel wasn’t looking at the floor like it might swallow him whole. For now, breakfast seemed like a good place to start. Dean cracked an egg into the pan, the yolk blooming against the hot surface as he glanced over his shoulder. 

“You want these scrambled or sunny-side up?” Castiel, seated at the kitchen table with his hands folded awkwardly in front of him, blinked as if Dean had spoken in a language he only vaguely understood. 

“Scrambled,” he murmured, his voice a touch rough. Dean nodded, breaking the yolks with a quick twist of his wrist. The smell of cooking butter and eggs began to fill the space, a warm, domestic contrast to the tension lingering in the room.

“It’s James,” Castiel said suddenly, his tone low, like he was testing the waters. Dean frowned, not looking up from the pan. 

“What?”

“My middle name,” Castiel clarified, his words slow, like they weighed more than he was letting on. “It’s James.” Dean paused, the spatula hovering mid-air. He glanced back at Castiel, raising an eyebrow. 

“Huh. Didn’t see that coming.” Castiel tilted his head, a faint crease forming between his brows. 

“Why not?” Dean shrugged and went back to stirring the eggs, the motion quick and practiced. 

“I dunno. Just… you don’t feel like a James, you know? Feels like you should’ve gotten something a little more, uh, celestial. Like Gabriel’s probably got some ridiculous biblical middle name, right? Like Methuselah or something.”

“Gabriel doesn’t have a middle name,” Castiel replied flatly, his lips twitching faintly. “But if he did, I suspect it would be something equally absurd.” Dean chuckled under his breath. 

“Figures.” He slid the eggs onto a plate and set it down in front of Castiel. “There. Eat up. You’re gonna need it.” Castiel stared at the plate for a moment, his fingers brushing the edge of the plate. His movements were careful, almost too deliberate, and Dean noticed the faint tremor in his hands as he lifted the fork. “You’re not as wrecked as I thought you’d be,” Dean said, leaning against the counter with his coffee. “But you still look like something the cat dragged in. You doing okay?”

The question hung in the air, too simple and too loaded all at once. Castiel hesitated, his shoulders tensing just enough for Dean to notice.

“My head aches,” Castiel admitted after a moment, his voice softer than before, as though he was confessing to something far graver. He didn’t look up, instead focusing intently on the eggs as though they held the answers to his unease. Dean frowned, taking another sip of his coffee as he studied Castiel. 

“Yeah, no kidding. You want some aspirin or something? I’ve got a whole arsenal in the bathroom.” Castiel shook his head almost immediately. 

“No. It’s fine.”

“Cas,” Dean said, the skepticism clear in his tone.

“It’s fine,” Castiel repeated, sharper this time, though the edge in his voice didn’t quite match the uncertainty in his eyes. He stabbed at the eggs with his fork, taking a bite that seemed more mechanical than hungry. Dean sighed, crossing the room to lean against the table. 

“You know, you don’t have to tough it out or whatever macho thing you’re going for. It’s just a couple of pills. Not exactly a sign of weakness.”

“It’s not that,” Castiel muttered, his voice barely audible. He finally glanced up, and the faint flush of embarrassment on his face caught Dean off guard. “I don’t… want to be a bother.” Dean blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and frustration. 

“A bother? Cas, you puked all over my apartment last night, and I’m still here making you breakfast. I think we’re past the point of you being a ‘bother.’” Castiel’s gaze dropped again, his posture shrinking slightly. Dean hadn’t thought it was possible for Castiel to look small, but right now, he did. There was something raw about the way he sat there, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask for more than he’d already been given. Dean sighed again, softer this time, and reached for the aspirin bottle on the counter. He placed it on the table beside Castiel’s plate, along with a glass of water. “Here. No arguments.” Castiel hesitated, his fingers hovering over the bottle for a moment before he picked it up. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and Dean swore he caught a flicker of relief in those blue eyes. Dean shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. 

“Yeah, well. Just don’t puke again, and we’re good.” He turned back to his coffee, but his mind stayed on Castiel—the way he moved like he was trying not to take up too much space, the way he looked at the stained carpet like it was his fault the whole world had gone sideways. And Dean couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the hangover that was really bothering him.

Dean sat back against the edge of the counter, his mug resting lightly in his hand as he watched Castiel push the remains of his eggs around the plate. The room was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint clink of the fork against ceramic.

“You know,” Dean said, breaking the silence, “why do you have a middle name, but your brother doesn’t? I mean, isn’t that usually a package deal?” Castiel paused mid-motion, his fork hovering over the plate. He seemed to consider the question as if deciding how much of the truth was worth the effort of sharing. Finally, he set the fork down and leaned back in his chair.

“My mum wanted to name me one thing. My dad, another,” he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of something long resolved but not forgotten. “In the end, they compromised.” Dean raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of his coffee. 

“Compromised how?”

“They gave me both names,” Castiel replied, a faint flicker of humor —no, irony— crossing his face. “My mum Castiel.  My Dad James.” Dean snorted softly, lowering his mug. 

“Huh. Guess that explains it. Your parents must’ve really loved the idea of sticking it to each other.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of Castiel’s mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“If you ask anyone who witnessed the arguments,” he continued, his tone steady but quiet, “they’ll tell you the fights over my name almost caused a divorce.” Dean’s expression shifted, his brows pulling together in disbelief as he straightened slightly. 

“Cas,” he said, his tone gentler but no less skeptical, “I don’t think arguing over your name almost caused a divorce. They were probably having other problems.” Castiel’s gaze flickered up to meet Dean’s, and for a moment, there was something sharp and knowing in his expression, a glimmer of dry amusement cutting through his otherwise drained demeanor. 

“Obviously,” he said, the word crisp and matter-of-fact. Dean studied him for a moment, the way his shoulders slumped slightly under the loose fabric of his shirt, the faint dark circles beneath his eyes. Castiel didn’t elaborate further, didn’t seem interested in unpacking whatever the ‘other problems’ might have been. And Dean, for all his curiosity, didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, he leaned against the table and gestured toward Castiel’s plate with his mug. “You’re not gonna finish that?” Castiel looked down at the eggs like he’d forgotten they were there. 

“I’m not hungry.” Dean smirked faintly, though there wasn’t much humor in it. 

“Yeah, well, you should eat something anyway. Soak up all that booze you put down last night. Trust me, you’ll feel better.” 

For a moment, it seemed like Castiel might argue, but he didn’t. He picked up the fork again and took another small bite, his movements still slow and deliberate. Dean watched him for a second longer, then turned back toward the counter, giving him space. As he rinsed out his mug, his mind circled back to what Castiel had said, about his parents and their near-divorce. There was something in the way Castiel had said it—so matter-of-fact, like it was just another piece of trivia about his life, no more significant than the color of his hair or his favorite song. But Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than that, that maybe it was one of those quiet scars people carried without ever really looking at it. And maybe that was what bothered him most. Not the story itself, but the way Castiel told it—like it wasn’t worth bothering anyone about. Dean set the mug down on the counter with a faint clink, turning back toward Castiel. His eyes swept over him, taking in the rumpled clothes, the faint smudges of something dried on his sleeves, and the way his hair seemed to defy gravity in odd directions. Castiel looked like a man who’d fallen through several layers of exhaustion and kept going just for spite. Dean crossed his arms, leaning one hip against the counter. 

“I think you’ve sat in soiled clothes long enough for me to officially offer to bathe you.” Castiel blinked, his brows furrowing slightly as he processed the words. 

“What?” Dean grinned, though it was more wry than mocking. 

“You heard me. You look like you might drown if I let you do it yourself.” For a moment, Castiel just stared at him, the faint crease in his brow deepening. His mouth opened slightly, like he was going to respond, but no words came out. Dean had expected indignation, maybe a sharp quip about his dignity, but instead, Castiel just seemed... lost. Dean pushed off the counter and stepped closer, his voice softening as he gestured toward the hallway. “Look, I’m not actually gonna give you a bath, alright? I’m just saying the shower’s down the hall. You should use it. I’ll even find you some clean clothes.” Castiel glanced down at himself then, as if suddenly realizing just how disheveled he looked. His lips pressed into a thin line, and when he looked back up, there was a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes. 

“I... suppose that would be prudent,” he said quietly. Dean nodded, keeping his tone light. “Yeah, it would. Towels are in the cabinet under the sink. Just holler if you need anything.” He turned toward the living room, already making a mental inventory of what he could lend Castiel. Most of his clothes were part of the whole corporate image he’d been cultivating for years. But there were a few old T-shirts and sweats tucked away somewhere, relics of another life he didn’t talk about much. They’d be too big on Castiel, but they’d work. Behind him, he heard the faint scrape of a chair as Castiel stood, followed by the quiet shuffle of his steps toward the bathroom. Dean didn’t turn around, didn’t want to risk making Castiel feel more self-conscious than he already did. Instead, he focused on rummaging through his dresser, pulling out a pair of gray sweatpants and a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Dean’s gaze wandered to his closet, where a maroon hoodie hung on a forgotten hook. It was soft from years of wear, the Stanford emblem emblazoned across the chest faded but still distinct. He didn’t wear it much anymore, but he remembered the one time he had, when Castiel had noticed it immediately.

“You should wear that more often,” Castiel had said that he thought Dean —or, well Michael — should wear it more often, the words offhand but sincere, his fingers brushing briefly over the fabric. Dean had laughed at the time, shrugging it off. It felt too personal, too tied to a part of his life he didn’t let anyone see. But now, standing in his room, staring at the hoodie, he couldn’t quite shake the memory. Dean grabbed it, the fabric familiar under his fingers. It was too big for Castiel, sure, but it’d be comfortable, and that’s what mattered. With the hoodie draped over his arm, he made his way back toward the bathroom. He paused outside the door, the faint sound of water running reaching his ears. He knocked softly. 

“Cas? I’ve got something else for you to wear.” There was no response. Dean frowned and pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. What he saw made him freeze. Instead of showering, Castiel was kneeling by the base of the sink, a damp cloth in one hand, scrubbing at one of the stains on the tiles. No, he was not just just using a damp cloth—his shirt. The tension in Castiel’s shoulders was unmistakable, and his movements were slow, almost methodical. His face was set in quiet concentration, but there was an edge of exhaustion there, too, like he was running on nothing but guilt and stubbornness. Dean stepped fully into the room, the door creaking slightly as he closed it behind him. Castiel didn’t look up, but Dean could see the slight flush creeping up his neck, the kind of embarrassment that ran deep.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asked, his voice low but firm.

“I... made a mess,” Castiel said simply, not meeting his eyes. “I’m cleaning it up.” Dean’s chest tightened, an ache blooming there that he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was the way Castiel carried himself, like this was something he had to do, something owed. Dean hated it, the quiet resignation in his movements, the way he seemed smaller somehow, like he was trying to disappear.

“Cas,” Dean said, softer now, crouching down beside him. “Hey, you don’t need to do this. It’s fine. I’ve got it.” Castiel finally looked at him then, his blue eyes shadowed with fatigue. 

“I caused this,” he said, his voice steady but low. “The least I can do is... fix what I can.” Dean sighed, sitting back on his heels. 

“Yeah, you puked. So what? Happens to everyone. You think you’re the first person to trash my place?” He smiled a little, hoping to break through the cloud hanging over them. “Trust me, you’re not even in the top five.” That earned a faint twitch of Castiel’s lips, but it faded just as quickly. 

“It’s not the same,” Castiel muttered, dropping his gaze again. Dean hesitated, then reached out, placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. 

“Look, man, I’m serious. You don’t have to do this. Go take a shower, alright? Clean yourself up. I’ll handle the rest.” 

Castiel stared at him for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Finally, he nodded, his movements slow and deliberate as he rose to his feet. Dean stood as well, offering the stack of clothes he’d brought.

“Here,” he said, his voice softer now. “I thought you might like this.” Castiel’s eyes fell on the hoodie, lingering there for a moment before he reached out to take it. His fingers brushed Dean’s briefly, and for a second, neither of them moved. Then Castiel pulled back, cradling the hoodie like it was something fragile.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean nodded, stepping back to give him space. 

“Towels are under the sink. Let me know if you need anything else.” As he left the bathroom, closing the door behind him, Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. That ache in his chest hadn’t gone away, but at least now it felt a little less raw.

Dean retrieved his laptop from the counter, the sleek device feeling cool against his hands as he carried it to the small dining table by the window. The morning light spilled through the blinds, casting faint golden stripes over the polished wood. He set the laptop down and opened it, the screen glowing to life with a soft hum.

As the browser loaded, Dean leaned back in the chair, rubbing at the back of his neck. His mind kept drifting, his focus split between the mess in the bathroom and the ache he’d seen in Castiel’s eyes. There was something about the way Castiel had clutched that hoodie, like it was more than just a borrowed piece of clothing. Dean couldn’t quite shake the image.

Shaking his head, he forced his thoughts back to the task at hand. Rugs. The coffee table and carpet had been casualties in last night’s fiasco, and while he wasn’t exactly attached to the beige fibers, the sight of the yellowed stains made him wince. He typed ‘modern area rugs’ into the search bar, his fingers moving faster than his brain. The first few results were glossy and impersonal—overly pristine images of rugs spread out in showroom-perfect living rooms. Dean frowned, scrolling past them. He wanted something practical, something that could survive more than a month in his apartment, something that might even be a little comfortable underfoot. His current rug hadn’t checked any of those boxes, but he’d never given it much thought before. The search results blurred together, muted grays and geometric patterns melding into one another. Dean clicked on a few options, opening tabs with little enthusiasm. His mind kept wandering back to Castiel—whether he was actually in the shower by now, whether he’d managed to let go of whatever guilt he was carrying. Dean leaned his chin on one hand, idly scrolling. A listing caught his eye, the muted greens and deep browns of the rug standing out against the sea of neutrals. It had a woven, slightly rustic look that felt warm but not too fussy, like it might actually fit in with the rest of his place. The kind of thing, Dean thought, that someone like Castiel might notice and quietly approve of. He added it to the cart, not quite ready to commit but unwilling to let it slip away just yet. As he sat back, letting his hand rest on the laptop’s edge, the sound of water running in the bathroom finally stopped. Dean glanced toward the door, half-expecting it to swing open, but there was no movement.

“Take your time,” Dean murmured under his breath, more to himself than anything else. His gaze drifted to the still-visible stains on the carpet, a faint frown tugging at his mouth. He could clean up the mess, replace the rug, even scrub the table down until it gleamed. But the memory of Castiel kneeling there, so quiet and determined, lingered in a way that no amount of cleaning could erase. He closed the laptop, his mind already wandering to what he’d say when Castiel came out. Something light, something that might bring back that rare flicker of humor in those blue eyes. Dean wasn’t sure what the words would be yet, but he figured he’d come up with something. He always did.

Chapter Text

Balthazar lay sprawled on the bed, the pale light of morning slipping through the sheer curtains and casting soft patterns across the rumpled sheets. His head rested lazily against the headboard, a silk pillow cradling his neck, while his phone was pressed to his ear. Beside him, Meg was still asleep, her dark hair fanned out against the pillow, the curve of her shoulder peeking from beneath the blanket. Her breathing was slow and steady, her lips slightly parted in a rare moment of peace.

“I don’t know,” Balthazar hissed into the phone, his voice low but edged with irritation. His free hand gestured pointlessly, as if Gabriel could see his exasperation through the call.

“How do you not know?” Gabriel’s tone crackled with sharp disbelief. “You’re his… something!” Balthazar rolled his eyes, glancing over at Meg to make sure she was still asleep. 

“And you’re his brother,” he shot back, keeping his voice low. “So don’t throw this mess at my feet.” There was a pause on the other end, a brief silence heavy with Gabriel’s simmering anger. 

“Are you going to help me find him or not?” Balthazar sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. 

“I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what?” Gabriel snapped, the frustration in his voice cutting through the phone line like static. Balthazar’s gaze drifted down to Meg, her hand curled loosely near his hip. He smirked faintly, even as he felt the twinge of annoyance bubbling up at Gabriel’s tone. 

“Stuff,” he replied airily, knowing exactly how infuriating it would sound. Gabriel’s response was a low growl of irritation, but Balthazar was already tuning him out. He ended the call with a lazy press of his thumb, tossing the phone onto the bedside table with a soft clatter. Gabriel could yell at him later if he wanted. For now, Balthazar wasn’t in the mood to play mediator or tracker. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the headboard, and closed his eyes for a moment. The quiet of the room wrapped around him, broken only by the faint rustle of the sheets as Meg stirred beside him. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, and she fixed him with a groggy smirk.

“Who pissed in your champagne?” she asked, her voice roughened by sleep but still laced with sarcasm.

“Gabriel,” Balthazar replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if that explained everything. “He’s in one of his moods.” Meg chuckled softly, the sound low and throaty as she shifted onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. 

“He’s always in one of his moods. You’d think you’d be used to it by now.” Balthazar arched a brow at her, his lips curving into a sly smile. 

“And here I thought mornings weren’t your forte.”

“They’re not,” Meg quipped, her smirk widening. “But you sometimes make them... tolerable.” He laughed lightly, the sound warm but fleeting. For a moment, he let himself forget about Gabriel, about Castiel, about the Novak family’s endless drama. It was easy to do when Meg was here, her sharp wit cutting through the haze of his usual cynicism like sunlight through clouds. But as Meg leaned in to press a kiss to his shoulder, her hair brushing against his skin, Balthazar’s thoughts flickered back to the phone call. Gabriel’s worry had been palpable, even if it had been wrapped in anger. And Castiel... well, Castiel always found a way to be the center of chaos, intentional or not. Balthazar sighed again, this time quieter, and ran a hand down his face. 

“Remind me never to answer Gabriel’s calls before noon,” he muttered, earning a soft laugh from Meg.

“Noted,” she said, her tone light, but her sharp eyes caught the fleeting flicker of something thoughtful in his expression. She didn’t push, though. She never did. As the morning stretched on, Balthazar let himself linger in bed, but the undercurrent of tension from Gabriel’s call refused to fully dissipate. He’d deal with it—eventually. For now, he let the warmth of the sheets and the soft curve of Meg’s smirk keep reality at bay just a little longer. Castiel was probably fine. Probably. But Gabriel’s persistence gnawed at him, a tiny itch he couldn’t quite ignore. He let the curtain fall back into place and turned to face Meg, who was pulling on her shirt with practiced efficiency.

“Meg,” he said, his tone suddenly more serious. She paused, looking up at him with an arched brow. 

“What?”

“If you were trying to disappear, where would you go?” Her lips curved into a smirk, and she tilted her head as if considering the question. 

“Depends. Am I running from something or just trying to be left alone?”

“Let’s say… both.” She shrugged, pulling her pants on. “Someplace quiet, out of the way. Somewhere no one would think to look, but not so remote it’s suspicious.” Balthazar nodded, filing the answer away. 

“Good to know.” Meg narrowed her eyes at him. 

“Why? You thinking of running off, too?”

“Hardly,” he said with a faint smile. “I’m far too invested in my comforts.” Meg rolled her eyes, grabbing her shirt from the chair. 

“Good luck with whatever Novak family crisis you’re wading into.” He reached for his robe, shrugging it on with practiced ease. 

“You should stay. We could make a day of it—brunch, mimosas, the works.” Meg slung her bag over her shoulder, giving him a look that danced between amused and exasperated. 

“Tempting, Balthazar, but I have a life. Besides, I know how this ends. You’ll be charming for the first hour, then Gabriel will call again, and I’ll end up playing mediator between you two. Not my idea of a relaxing Saturday morning.” Balthazar smirked, adjusting the tie of his robe with theatrical flair. 

“You wound me. I can be charming for at least two hours.” Meg laughed, a sharp, easy sound that cut through the quiet. 

“Sure you can,” she said, making her way toward the door. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, and glanced back at him. “And you know I can’t stay.” Balthazar turned to face her, leaning casually against the edge of the kitchen counter. 

“Oh, I know. You have that whole mysterious, independent woman thing going on. Far be it from me to interfere.” Meg smirked, her hand lingering on the doorknob. 

“You say that like I haven’t figured you out. You only want me to stay because you hate being alone when you’re about to do something that actually matters.” He arched a brow, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint smile. 

“And here I thought it was my irresistible charm that kept you coming back.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t move to leave. Instead, she studied him, her sharp gaze cutting through the polished veneer he wore like armor. 

“You’re really going after him, aren’t you?”

“Gabriel’s twisting my arm,” Balthazar said, shrugging. “Figuratively, of course. He’s far too short to manage it literally.” Meg snorted, but her expression softened. 

“You’re worried about him.”

“Am I?” he replied, tilting his head in mock consideration. “Or am I simply tired of Gabriel nagging me? It’s a fine line.”

“You care more than you let on,” she said, her tone quieter now. “You always have, especially when it comes to him.” Balthazar’s smile faltered, just for a moment, before he smoothed it back into place. 

“Well, if I do, it’s only because I enjoy the challenge. Castiel’s a walking disaster. Keeps life interesting.” Meg crossed her arms, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. 

“You know I can’t stay.” He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. 

“I know.” There was a moment of silence between them, filled only by the distant hum of traffic from the city below. Then Meg pushed off the doorframe, her bag still slung over her shoulder, and stepped closer to him.

“You’ll find him,” she said, her voice firm but laced with something softer. “And if you don’t, you’ll make damn sure Gabriel doesn’t burn the world down looking for him.” Balthazar smirked, reaching for her hand and pressing a quick, dramatic kiss to her knuckles. 

“Your faith in me is inspiring.” She shook her head, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and pulled her hand away. 

“Don’t mess this up.” Balthazar caught the door just before it could swing open. 

“If you stay,” he said, his voice taking on a faintly teasing lilt, “you can make sure I don’t mess it up.” Meg turned back to him, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. 

“And if I go, I won’t have to help you find my ex,” she countered, her tone cutting but not unkind. He let out a low laugh, leaning lazily against the doorframe. 

“Ah, yes, self-preservation. A compelling argument. But doesn’t a small part of you want to see how this plays out?” She gave him a pointed look, her lips curving into a smirk. 

“A very, very small part. And that part is outweighed by my desire to not relive the glory days of babysitting Castiel.” Balthazar clutched his chest theatrically, feigning offense. 

“You wound me, Meg. Here I thought we were in this together.” Meg raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. 

“Is that so?” she drawled, her tone carrying a mix of curiosity and challenge. Balthazar’s grin widened, and he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. 

“Oh, absolutely. Besides, from what I remember, you two together were a mess worthy of a Novak scandal. The kind of thing people whispered about over cocktails but never dared bring up at the company Christmas party.” Meg snorted, shaking her head. 

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who’s practically a walking tabloid headline.”

“Touché,” Balthazar conceded with a mock bow, his expression unrepentant. “But you have to admit, the two of you were spectacularly doomed. A true masterpiece of chaos.” She tilted her head, pretending to consider his words. 

“Spectacular, sure. But doomed? That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.” Balthazar’s smile softened, and he straightened slightly, his teasing tone giving way to something more reflective. 

“Maybe. But I stand by the chaos part. You and Castiel? You burned bright, Meg. Just not sustainably.” Her smirk faltered, and for a moment, something unreadable passed over her face. 

“Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Phil,” she said, slipping back into her usual sarcasm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go be sustainably chaotic somewhere else.” She turned and walked out without another word, her stride confident as she disappeared down the hall. Balthazar watched her go, a small, amused sigh escaping him.

“Always knew how to make an exit,” he muttered, turning back into the apartment. The lingering echoes of their conversation left him with a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He had a sinking feeling this wasn’t the last time Meg —or Castiel, for that matter— would make his day more complicated than it needed to be.

The answer came a few minutes later, a notification lighting up his phone. Meg had sent a money request for her cab fare, accompanied by a single message: 

‘You make more than me.’

Balthazar chuckled, the sound low and warm as he leaned back against the counter. Of course, she would. Classic Meg—sharp, unapologetic, and never one to leave loose ends, financial or otherwise. He tapped a few buttons, approving the request without hesitation.

“You’re nothing if not consistent,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk lingering on his lips. The quiet of the apartment settled around him once more, the kind of stillness that invited reflection if you weren’t careful. Balthazar wasn’t one for brooding, not usually, but Meg’s parting words and her casual confidence left an echo in his mind. She had a way of cutting through the nonsense, of knowing exactly how far to push without overstepping—unless, of course, she wanted to. He glanced at the clock and then back at his phone. Gabriel’s earlier call flashed in his memory, tugging at him like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Castiel. Wherever his wayward friend had holed up, Balthazar had the unsettling feeling that the situation wasn’t going to resolve itself quietly.

“Fine,” he said to no one in particular, pushing off the counter. “Let’s see what mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, Cas.” He grabbed his jacket, slipping it on with a practiced ease. The world outside his apartment loomed bright and busy, and somewhere in the chaos, the younger Novak brother was either spiraling or waiting to be found. Either way, Balthazar had a feeling his day was about to get far more interesting.

Balthazar didn’t care much for February. The days were short, the air carried a damp chill, and the snow, when it bothered to fall, never stuck around for long. Too much traffic, too much grime. Even the city seemed half-hearted in its attempt at winter. He wasn’t sure where Castiel would have gone, but instinct told him to start with the usual haunts. First, the café tucked away in a back alley like some well-kept secret. Its dim lighting and mismatched chairs had always suited Castiel’s moods, whether he was sketching furiously on a napkin or staring into his cup as though it held the answers to the universe. Today, though, the place was deserted save for a bored barista scrolling through their phone, earbuds in.

“No luck,” Balthazar muttered under his breath as he stepped back out onto the uneven cobblestones, the door jangling shut behind him.

Next was the shady bar. It was a narrow, windowless dive that clung to its anonymity like a badge of honor. The kind of place where the floors were sticky, the lights were too dim, and no one asked questions. Castiel had dragged him there once, laughing at the irony of a man like Balthazar Freely sitting on a cracked vinyl stool and sipping cheap whiskey. But today, the bartender gave him a lazy shrug when he asked about Castiel.

“Hadn’t seen him in weeks.”

Balthazar sighed, his irritation growing as he stepped back into the biting wind. The search was starting to feel like a fool’s errand, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. The last stop on his impromptu list was the forest on the edge of town. Castiel had always found some odd solace there, claiming the quiet helped him think—or forget. The trees stood tall and skeletal, their gnarled branches tangled like veins against the pale sky. The ground was a patchwork of half-frozen mud and brittle leaves, crunching under Balthazar’s polished shoes with every step.

“Castiel!” he called, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. Only the echo answered, followed by the faint rustle of branches in the cold breeze. He pushed further into the woods, scanning for any sign of the man, but the path only grew more desolate. The truth settled in his chest, unwelcome but undeniable. Castiel wasn’t here. None of his usual refuges had turned up anything, and Balthazar wasn’t sure where to go next. He lingered in the woods for a moment longer, the cold air burning his lungs, before finally turning back. As he emerged onto the empty street, he shoved his hands into his pockets and let out a slow breath. Castiel had always been unpredictable, a mystery wrapped in contradictions. Wherever he’d gone, it wasn’t a place anyone would think to look. Not even Balthazar.

Balthazar’s thoughts churned as he walked briskly through the late February streets, the gray sky overhead a muted reflection of his mood. The fact that Castiel hadn’t gone to the bar was a minor relief. The place was cheap, open all hours, and entirely too convenient for a man in need of a quick escape. Balthazar had confiscated Castiel’s wallet for two months just to make it harder for him to buy alcohol on a whim. Of course, Castiel had needed it back when he had to buy a blazer and tie. He’d left with it in hand before Balthazar had realized the man never returned it. That thought soured his mood further. Castiel slipping from his usual places wasn’t a great sign, and the fact that Gabriel already knew Castiel was missing wasn’t much better. It suggested Gabriel had somehow acquired a copy of Castiel’s apartment key. Before, only Balthazar had one—a privilege earned through years of their strange, messy friendship. It didn’t sit well with him that Gabriel had weaseled his way into that level of access, but Balthazar supposed it didn’t hurt to check the apartment himself.

When he reached Castiel’s building, he climbed the narrow staircase two steps at a time, his polished shoes clicking against the worn wooden treads. He unlocked the door with practiced ease and stepped into the space that always managed to surprise him with how utterly Castiel it was. The open-plan apartment was a cacophony of creativity and clutter. The bed was tucked into a cozy corner, layered with quilts and pillows in patterns that shouldn’t have worked together but somehow did. Above it, a chaotic gallery of art and photographs framed by fairy lights gave the nook a curated but personal touch. The large windows beside the bed cast soft, diffused light across the space, adding an almost ethereal glow. Across from the sleeping area, the living space felt alive in its chaos. Bookshelves towered over a plush reading nook, their spines a kaleidoscope of color, interrupted only by draping greenery from climbing plants. The books themselves spilled onto the floor, mingling with trinkets and half-finished cups of tea. Beyond that, the art studio stood in its organized disarray, paint-splattered floors and scattered supplies attesting to Castiel’s tireless need to create. And on the couch, legs crossed and entirely too relaxed, sat Gabriel. He was flipping a book over in his hands, scanning the back cover with the exaggerated air of someone trying to look engrossed. He didn’t even look up as Balthazar stepped inside.

“Didn’t know you read,” Balthazar said dryly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Gabriel’s mouth curled into a smirk, though his gaze remained on the book. 

“I don’t. But I’ve got to pass the time somehow while waiting for you to show up and do all the hard work.” Balthazar resisted the urge to roll his eyes, slipping off his coat and tossing it onto the back of a chair. 

“And here I thought you’d already scoured every corner of his kingdom, noble brother that you are.” Gabriel finally glanced up, his smirk sharpening. 

“Oh, I looked. This was just the first and last stop on the list. Figured I’d settle in, make myself comfortable. You know, as one does when they’ve been handed a key.” Balthazar’s lip twitched in irritation, but he let it slide. Instead, he crossed the room, picking up a paintbrush from the coffee table and twirling it absently between his fingers. The apartment felt too still without Castiel. It had a certain vibrancy when he was here, even when he was silent. Now it felt... like a canvas missing its subject.

“So, any luck?” Gabriel asked, setting the book aside and stretching out like he owned the place.

“None,” Balthazar replied curtly, setting the brush back down. “And you?” Gabriel spread his hands in mock surrender. 

“If I had, I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

The two stared at each other for a long moment, the unspoken tension between them thickening like fog. Finally, Balthazar exhaled sharply and moved toward the kitchen, his shoes clacking softly against the floorboards.

“Well, if you’re going to loiter, you might as well make yourself useful,” he said over his shoulder. Gabriel’s grin widened, a flash of mischief lighting his eyes as he called after Balthazar.

“Oh? And how would I do that?” Balthazar paused mid-step, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the kitchen counter. He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, his expression a careful blend of exasperation and amusement. 

“You could start by not being a complete pain in my ass.” Gabriel raised a hand to his chest in mock offense, his tone dripping with exaggerated sweetness. 

“You wound me. Here I am, ready to offer my unique brand of assistance, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Unique is one word for it,” Balthazar muttered, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug that seemed to have survived more paint splatters than dishwashing cycles. He filled it with water from the tap, staring into the stream as though it might hold answers. Gabriel, of course, wasn’t about to let the moment pass quietly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You know, you’re deflecting.”

“And you’re meddling,” Balthazar shot back, his voice even but his eyes narrowing slightly. “What else is new?” Gabriel chuckled, leaning back into the couch like a cat satisfied with its own chaos. 

“Oh, come on. You’re worried. I can see it. That little furrow in your brow— so telling.” Balthazar let out a sharp sigh, setting the mug on the counter with a soft clink. 

“If I’m worried, it’s because someone has to be. You don’t seem too concerned anymore.” Gabriel’s smirk faded slightly, a flicker of something serious crossing his face before he masked it with a shrug. 

“I am concerned. But unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of pacing around looking like a Renaissance painting of despair.”

“Pacing?” Balthazar tilted his head, one brow arching. “Is that what you think this is?” Gabriel’s grin returned, sly and sharp. 

“I think you care more than you let on. And I think you don’t know how to handle it.” Balthazar picked up the mug again, turning it in his hands. The chipped ceramic felt rough under his fingers, grounding in its imperfection. 

“What I care about,” he said carefully, “is finding him before he does something stupid.” Gabriel hummed thoughtfully, standing and stretching with an exaggerated yawn. 

“Well, lucky for you, I thrive in stupid situations. Shall we combine forces, or are you planning to heroically shoulder this burden alone?”

“Heroic isn’t my style,” Balthazar replied, though his lips twitched in what could almost be a smile. “But fine. If it gets you out of here faster, I’ll tolerate your… assistance.” Gabriel clapped his hands together, his expression mockingly enthusiastic. 

“Excellent! Let’s find our wayward artist before he redecorates some poor soul’s life with existential dread.” Balthazar leaned against the counter, swirling the last bit of water in the mug he still held. He arched a brow at Gabriel, who looked far too composed for someone whose younger brother had apparently vanished. 

“What’s the rush in finding him anyway?” he asked, his tone casual, though his gaze was sharp. Gabriel glanced up from where he’d been idly flipping through one of Castiel’s books, his expression deliberately neutral. 

“Brunch.”

“Brunch?”

“With Mum and Dad.” Gabriel closed the book with a decisive thud, leaning back into the couch with an air of exaggerated weariness.

“Ah.” Balthazar’s smirk turned into a knowing smile as he set the mug on the counter. “So the prodigal son doesn’t want to face the music alone.” Gabriel tilted his head, his grin sly. 

“Why face the music alone when I can drag Cas down with me? He’s always been their favorite anyway.” Balthazar chuckled, pushing off the counter and strolling into the living area. He glanced around the apartment, his sharp eyes taking in the cluttered art supplies, the chaotic shelves, and the cozy disorder that was distinctly Castiel. 

“You do realise he’s not here, right? Dragging him into your family melodrama might be harder than you think.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Gabriel replied with a grin that was equal parts charming and infuriating. “To help me find him before brunch turns into a three-act tragedy.” Balthazar rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of amusement in his expression. 

“And here I thought you wanted my help out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Goodness is overrated,” Gabriel said breezily, standing and stretching. “Besides, you’re the only one who knows all of Cassie’s hidey-holes. You’ve got the keys to his kingdom, so to speak.” Balthazar folded his arms, leaning against the wall. 

“And what makes you think I’ll share my insights with you?” Gabriel’s grin widened, his tone turning singsong. 

“Because you care.” Balthazar sighed, his gaze flicking toward the bookshelves, the paint-splattered floor, the lingering signs of Castiel’s presence. 

“I care about him, yes,” he admitted, his voice quieter, less guarded. “But I don’t see why he has to be dragged into your parental theatrics.”

“Because,” Gabriel said, stepping closer, his grin softening into something almost sincere, “if I have to suffer through brunch with Mum and Dad, the least I can do is make sure Cassie gets some free waffles out of it.” Balthazar snorted, shaking his head. 

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” Gabriel shot back, already heading for the door. “Come on, let’s go find our missing artist before Mum starts texting.” Balthazar lingered for a moment, his gaze drifting over the apartment one last time. Then, with a resigned sigh, he followed Gabriel out.

The chill of February air greeted them as they stepped outside, Balthazar wrapping his scarf loosely around his neck with a practiced motion. The city buzzed with morning energy, muted only slightly by the dull gray clouds overhead. Gabriel strode ahead, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, whistling a tune that grated against Balthazar’s lingering irritation.

“Where exactly are we looking first?” Balthazar asked, his voice clipped as he caught up to Gabriel.

“Wherever your gut tells you,” Gabriel replied without turning around. “You’re the one with the psychic connection or whatever.” Balthazar scoffed. 

“Psychic connection? I’m not his damn soul mate.” Gabriel glanced back, his grin as sharp as the wind. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” They passed a line of shops, their windows dressed in faded Valentine’s Day displays that had seen better days. Balthazar eyed the heart-shaped chocolates and wilted roses with disdain. 

“Romantic,” he muttered, quickening his pace to fall into step with Gabriel. “So, brunch. Is this an actual crisis, or are you just bored?” Gabriel shrugged. 

“A bit of both. Mum’s been on a ‘family unity’ kick lately. She’s even started group chats.” Balthazar winced. 

“That bad?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Gabriel paused at the corner, scanning the street like he might actually spot Castiel wandering aimlessly. “Besides, Cassie needs to eat. Have you seen him lately? He’s practically wasting away.” Balthazar rolled his eyes. 

“He’s always been a waif. Artistic aesthetic, remember?” Gabriel shot him a look, somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“And yet you keep calling me,” Balthazar replied with a smirk. They turned down a side street, the narrow alleyway lined with graffiti that ranged from impressive murals to crude scrawls. The dampness in the air clung to the brick walls, and Balthazar stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. He didn’t mention how much he hated February, the way the city felt suspended between seasons, neither properly cold nor comfortably warm. Instead, he glanced at Gabriel, who was squinting at a flyer taped to a lamppost.

“Do you actually have a plan, or are we just wandering until the brunch deadline looms too large to ignore?” Gabriel grinned. 

“Wandering is the plan.” Balthazar gave an exaggerated sigh, though his tone carried less annoyance than before. 

“Fine, but if we’re still wandering when the brunch deadline hits, I’m not responsible for you getting an earful from your mother.” Gabriel smirked but said nothing, his focus shifting as they passed another café with fogged-up windows. He didn’t stop to peer inside this time, simply kept walking, his stride purposeful despite his claim of aimlessness. After a few moments of silence, Balthazar asked, “So, who’s coming to this family gathering? Just your parents?” Gabriel let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. 

“That, and some family friends.” Balthazar’s mind clicked immediately to Meg, the pieces slotting together in a way that left a faint sting of irritation. That explained her sudden departure. She hadn’t owed him an explanation, not really, but it still rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe she could’ve mentioned her plans to see Castiel instead of leaving him to figure it out for himself. Then again, Meg was Meg—predictably unpredictable. Gabriel didn’t know about him and Meg, of course, and Balthazar had no intention of enlightening him. He could practically hear the smug commentary Gabriel would unleash if he ever found out. No, that particular thread of drama would remain firmly buried.

“Ah,” Balthazar said finally, his voice dry as the winter air. “Brunch with Mum and Dad. Always a delight.”

“You’re telling me,” Gabriel muttered, glancing sideways at him. “Mum’s been relentless about this one. Something about strengthening bonds and making memories or whatever.”

“And that’s why you’re so desperate to find our mutual friend?” Balthazar asked, arching an eyebrow. “To parade him in front of your parents like a human shield?” Gabriel grinned, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Something like that. You know how Cas gets when he’s cornered into small talk. It’ll take all the attention off me.” Balthazar snorted, shaking his head. 

“You’re a coward.”

“And yet,” Gabriel shot back, “you’re still here helping me.” Balthazar shrugged, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets. He wasn’t about to admit that his concern for Castiel had just as much to do with his continued involvement as Gabriel’s insistence did. Besides, he wasn’t particularly eager to let Gabriel handle things on his own—Lord only knew what chaos he might unleash in the process. They turned down another narrow street, the cobblestones slick with a thin sheen of moisture from the melting snow. The wind picked up, biting at their faces, and Balthazar pulled his scarf tighter. Gabriel, as always, seemed unaffected, his posture loose and relaxed despite the chill.

“So,” Balthazar said after a while, “if he’s not at any of his usual haunts, where do we go next?” Gabriel gave a noncommittal hum, his gaze darting toward the looming buildings ahead. Balthazar broke the silence as they approached another turn, his voice carrying a faint edge of accusation. “I assume you didn’t call.” Gabriel smirked without looking at him. 

“I assume you didn’t.” They both knew the answer. Neither of them had called Castiel. It wasn’t worth the effort—Castiel seldom answered, and when he did, the conversation was often as fragmented as a jigsaw puzzle missing pieces. Calling him back was equally rare, as if the phone itself was more burden than convenience to Castiel’s world.

“Would’ve been pointless anyway,” Balthazar said with a shrug, his boots crunching against the uneven pavement. “He’s probably switched it off. Or lost it.” Gabriel let out a soft chuckle, though it lacked humor. 

“Or he’s staring at it right now, deciding whether we’re worth the trouble.” Balthazar shot him a sideways glance. 

“You don’t think that’s a bit self-centered?” Gabriel stopped walking and turned to him with an exaggerated expression of surprise. 

“Me? Self-centered? You wound me.”

“Right,” Balthazar said dryly, brushing past him to continue down the street. “Let’s just keep moving.” Gabriel followed, catching up easily with his longer stride. 

“You’ve got to admit, though, this whole thing is very Castiel. Disappearing without a word, making us scramble. Classic.”

“And yet you keep scrambling,” Balthazar replied. “Why is that?”

“Because,” Gabriel said with a shrug, “he’s my baby brother. Annoying, unpredictable, occasionally insufferable.” Balthazar hummed in vague agreement, though he said nothing more. It was true enough—Castiel had a way of pulling people into his orbit, whether they wanted to be there or not. And for all his flaws, there was something about him that kept them tethered, even when he made it maddeningly difficult. As they reached Castiel’s building, Gabriel fished out a key from his pocket and held it up with a flourish. “You don’t happen to know anyone else who has one of these, do you? Or has Cassie just given copies to me and you?” Balthazar raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer and a few minutes later watched as Gabriel unlocked the door with practiced ease. So Castiel had given him a copy after all. That was new. And telling.

“After you,” Gabriel said, stepping aside to let Balthazar enter first. Balthazar brushed past him, already bracing himself for whatever mess might be waiting inside. The apartment was still. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound cutting through the quiet, and the air carried the distinct aroma of paint and faint traces of incense. But there was no sign of Castiel. No crumpled figure on the couch, no half-filled coffee cup abandoned on the counter. Just emptiness, in that peculiar way Castiel’s space always felt when he wasn’t there—like the room itself missed him. Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “He’s not here.”

“Observant,” Balthazar muttered, glancing toward the bedroom nook. The bed was unmade, though it always was. The chaos of Castiel’s life extended into his space, but this didn’t feel like chaos—it felt abandoned. “When does this brunch of yours start?” Balthazar asked, leaning against the arm of the couch. Gabriel glanced at his watch, his mouth pulling into a grimace. 

“Half an hour.” Balthazar nodded toward the door. 

“Then you should go.” Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. 

“And leave you here?”

“I’ll wait,” Balthazar said with a dismissive wave. “If he decides to show, I’ll let you know. Better that only one of us gets a lecture for invading his privacy.” Gabriel hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

“You sure?” Balthazar smiled, sharp and easy. 

“Oh, absolutely. The less time I spend hearing you complain about your parents, the better.” That earned him a smirk, though Gabriel still seemed reluctant. He lingered for a moment longer, glancing around the room as though Castiel might materialize if he looked hard enough. Finally, he sighed and headed for the door.

“Don’t let him guilt you into anything,” Gabriel said, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Castiel’s got a black belt in making people feel responsible for his nonsense.” Balthazar snorted. 

“Pot, meet kettle.” Gabriel rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. With one last look over his shoulder, he pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Balthazar alone in the silence.

For a moment, Balthazar stood in place, letting the quiet settle over him. Then he walked to the bookshelves, his fingers trailing over the spines, noting the chaotic mix of classics and obscure titles. Castiel’s eclectic taste was everywhere, yet none of it explained where he’d gone. Balthazar sighed, pulling out his phone. He wouldn’t call—not yet. But he might have to. And if Castiel didn’t want to answer? Well, that would be Castiel’s problem, wouldn’t it?

Balthazar lowered himself onto Castiel’s worn couch, the springs creaking faintly beneath him. The cushions smelled faintly of spilled alcohol and coffee—so quintessentially Castiel it almost made him smirk. He propped his feet up on the coffee table, careful not to disturb the clutter of sketchbooks and half-empty cups, and pulled his phone from his pocket. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he scrolled through his emails, his expression a practiced mask of disinterest. A message from the finance team flagged as urgent. Another about the board meeting on Wednesday. He skimmed through them all, adding mental notes to his already overflowing schedule for the next week. Meetings, deadlines, a charity gala he couldn’t weasel his way out of. The monotony was almost comforting in its predictability. But then his gaze flickered to the room around him—the paint-spattered floors, the bookshelves overflowing with chaos, the unmade bed that practically begged for its owner to crawl back into it. Castiel’s life was anything but predictable, and that thought drew a quiet sigh from Balthazar. He set his phone down on his thigh and leaned back, letting his head rest against the couch. He stared at the fairy lights strung haphazardly across the far wall. Their soft, warm glow gave the space an almost magical quality, as though Castiel had bottled some of his own restless creativity and scattered it across the room. And yet, the emptiness remained. It lingered like an aftertaste, an echo of the man who should’ve been here but wasn’t.

Hours passed, or maybe it was only minutes; time always had a way of slipping through his fingers when he wasn’t paying attention. The muffled sounds of the city filtered in through the frosted windows—a siren in the distance, the low hum of traffic. But there was no sound of footsteps on the stairs, no telltale fumbling with keys at the door. No Castiel. Balthazar frowned, glancing at his watch. Gabriel was probably enduring brunch by now, fielding questions and thinly veiled criticisms from their parents while trying to make excuses for Castiel’s absence. It wasn’t exactly a new script for the Novak family.

“Figures,” Balthazar muttered under his breath, returning to his phone.

He pulled up his calendar and skimmed through the upcoming week, mentally rearranging his priorities. Castiel was going to owe him for this. Not that he expected repayment—Castiel always had a way of slipping through obligations, like water through a sieve. Still, he found himself lingering, scrolling slower, checking the door more often than he cared to admit. When the silence stretched too far, he let out a resigned sigh.

“Well, Cas,” he said aloud to the empty room, “it’s a good thing I’m charming enough to entertain myself.” Even so, the absence hung in the air, quiet but unmistakable, like a missing note in a melody. Balthazar settled back into the couch, his gaze flickering again toward the fairy lights, and he waited.

The buzz of his phone drew Balthazar’s attention away from the half-finished email he’d been crafting. He glanced down at the glowing screen, the corner of his mouth twitching into a bemused smirk as he read the message.

Gabriel: He's here.

Balthazar tapped out a quick reply with one hand.

Balthazar: Good.

He stared at the screen for a moment, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he should ask how the reunion was going. Before he could decide, another buzz lit up his phone.

Gabriel: ...in a stanford hoodie and grey sweatpants.

Balthazar raised an eyebrow, the image of Castiel in Dean’s clothes materializing vividly in his mind. The thought was oddly amusing—and, admittedly, a little endearing. He could almost picture it: Castiel slouched in the same hoodie Dean had probably been coaxed into lending out of reluctant practicality. The maroon fabric would hang off Castiel’s frame, the frayed cuffs skimming his hands. He huffed a laugh, typing a response.

Balthazar: Comfort over fashion. Bold choice for brunch.

He leaned back against the couch again, tapping his phone lightly against his knee as he waited for a reply. The room around him still felt too quiet, Castiel’s absence far more noticeable now that he knew exactly where the man was—and in what state. It didn’t escape Balthazar that Castiel’s current wardrobe suggested an unexpected level of intimacy with Dean. It was the kind of detail Gabriel wouldn’t comment on directly, but the ellipsis in his message said enough. The phone buzzed again.

Gabriel: Mum asked if he was hungover. He said “no, just existentially tired.”

Balthazar snorted, covering his mouth to stifle the sound, though there was no one to hear him. That sounded about right. He quickly typed back.

Balthazar: Classic Cas. Tell him he needs to buy groceries.

The screen stayed quiet for a beat, long enough for Balthazar to wonder if Gabriel was still juggling their mother’s passive-aggressive commentary or fielding Castiel’s dry musings about life and its many disappointments. The silence stretched until, finally, the phone buzzed again.

Gabriel: I’ll let him know when he stops staring into his coffee like it holds the meaning of life.

Balthazar couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him this time. He set his phone on the arm of the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. Castiel was fine, for now at least, though he was probably making brunch as awkward as humanly possible in his uniquely Castiel way. Balthazar let his head fall back against the cushion, a lingering grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He supposed he could relax—if only until the next Novak family crisis decided to make itself known.

Chapter Text

Castiel leaned against the counter in his kitchen, one hand gripping his phone while the other carefully arranged Oreos in a neat, concentric pattern on a wooden cutting board. The board had faint knife marks on its surface, a testament to its daily use in his slightly chaotic kitchen. He was oddly meticulous about the cookies, as if their presentation mattered for whatever impromptu ritual this was.

"Dean, stop being so suspicious," Castiel said into the phone, his tone mockingly offended. He picked up an Oreo, inspected it briefly, then bit into it, crumbs dusting his fingertips. "I will withdraw your invitation if you keep this up, and I’ve seen all of True Blood now, so I know exactly what happens when an invitation is withdrawn." Dean’s laughter crackled through the phone, low and genuine, and Castiel could almost picture the way his lips would quirk upward, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

"I’m not a vampire, Castiel."

"Maybe not," Castiel replied, his words muffled slightly by the cookie still in his mouth. He brushed crumbs off the cutting board with the edge of his hand. "But you are a corporate freak. Corporations suck the life-force out of their employees. Close enough."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Dean shot back, amusement laced in his voice. "I’ll be there in ten minutes." Castiel froze mid-motion, one hand gripping the edge of the counter. His eyes widened theatrically as he gasped, the sound exaggerated enough to make Dean chuckle. 

"Ten minutes? Are you driving and on your phone at the same time, Director Smith? Well, I never—"

"Okay, okay," Dean interrupted, his laugh warm and unguarded. "I’m glad you’re doing better." Castiel paused at that, his eyes flicking to the wooden cutting board and the absurd symmetry of the Oreo arrangement. The last time they’d spoken face-to-face, he’d been apologising between as Dean awkwardly patted his back. He wasn’t proud of it —not that Castiel was ever one for pride— but he hadn’t expected Dean to reach out again so soon. Maybe he hadn’t scared him off as thoroughly as he’d feared.

"I’m fine, Dean," Castiel said quietly, his tone slipping into something softer, more honest. "You don’t need to check on me."

"I know," Dean replied, his voice steady but insistent. "See you in ten." The line disconnected before Castiel could protest further. He set his phone down on the counter and stared at the Oreos, suddenly unsure why he’d felt the need to prepare them in the first place. Maybe he’d wanted to keep his hands busy. Maybe he’d wanted to offer Dean something as a silent apology for last week’s debacle, though he suspected Dean would find the gesture as baffling as everything else about him.

Castiel pushed off the counter, padding toward the living area where sunlight filtered through frosted windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. He plucked a blanket off the back of a chair and wrapped it around himself, sinking into his reading nook. As he leaned his head against the cushions, his mind wandered to Dean, picturing him maneuvering his Prius through the city, probably grumbling about traffic and regretting offering to come by.

Ten minutes wasn’t long enough to tidy up the apartment or come up with an excuse to send Dean away, but it was plenty of time to prepare himself. For what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Maybe just for the inevitable awkwardness that came from someone caring about him more than he deserved. So he shuffled into the bathroom, brushing past the cluttered countertop where mismatched toothbrushes and a half-empty tube of toothpaste lived alongside stray paintbrushes. Castiel grabbed his own toothbrush, applying toothpaste with deliberate care. The last time Castiel had seen Dean he’d spent the night in Dean’s bathroom, his stomach heaving as mortification gnawed at him. The memory brought a flush to his cheeks, and he scrubbed his teeth with a bit more vigor than necessary, as if that could erase the lingering sourness of that night. Rinsing out his mouth, Castiel spat into the sink and leaned against the counter, gripping its edge. He picked up a hairbrush and stared at his reflection as he tried to make his hair into something neater but it was hard given that it was still slightly damp from the quick shower he’d taken earlier. He tried to smooth it into something that didn’t scream ‘disheveled artist who has no idea what he’s doing.’ The maroon fabric of Dean's Stanford hoodie hanging comfortably on his frame. The cuffs were frayed, soft against his wrists, and the emblem across the chest had faded just enough to suggest a lifetime of memories Dean would never talk about. Castiel tugged at the hem absently, smoothing it down as if that might erase the slight embarrassment he felt for borrowing it in the first place. He liked the hoodie. A little too much, perhaps, considering Balthazar’s insufferable smirk when he’d correctly guessed its owner. But Castiel found comfort in the worn softness, the subtle scent of detergent and something unplaceably Dean. It felt grounding in a way Castiel didn’t care to examine too closely. It felt like overcompensating, all of it—the shower, the brushing his hair, the meticulous teeth brushing. But then again, the image of Dean carefully scrubbing his ruined couch cushions, his lips pressed into a thin line as Castiel had slumped on the floor, kept flickering in his mind. Castiel had never considered himself particularly proud, but there were limits to the indignities he could tolerate. And vomiting on both Dean and his furniture? That had been well past the line. He gave himself one last look in the mirror, pulling the hood higher as if that might shield him from Dean's inevitable teasing. Not that Dean teased, exactly—it was more of a quiet, knowing amusement that made Castiel feel like an unruly housecat who’d knocked over a glass of water. He sighed and padded back into the living room, the hoodie swaying around him like a cocoon. The Oreos still sat on the cutting board, arranged in their ridiculous pattern, and Castiel shook his head at himself.

Dean would be here any minute. Castiel didn’t want to admit he was looking forward to it. But he was. A little. (A lot.)

The knock came sharp and deliberate, echoing through Castiel's apartment like the start of a drumbeat he wasn't entirely ready to face. He swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the door handle for a moment before he pushed it down and pulled the door open. Dean stood on the other side, his hair neatly combed as always, his tie slightly loosened like he was trying to strike some balance between professional and casual. The sight of him was grounding in its familiarity—Dean looked exactly as he had in every office meeting and coffee break. Except this time, his brows furrowed, his lips pressed together before they parted, and his eyes narrowed with intent. Castiel felt his pulse skip, a sharp thrum of anxiety blooming in his chest. And then Dean laughed—loud, genuine, and entirely unrestrained. He bent slightly at the waist, one hand reaching up to brace against the doorframe as though Castiel’s appearance alone had bested him. The dread was immediate, cold and gripping, pooling in Castiel’s stomach like stones. 

"What?" he asked, his voice tense, wary. Dean straightened, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. 

"Did you brush your hair?" Castiel blinked, frozen for half a second, then exhaled a sharp breath, his shoulders slumping as relief washed over him. Without thinking, he swatted Dean’s arm—not hard, but enough to express his indignation. 

"Some of us try, Dean." Dean tilted his head, smirking now, the lines around his mouth softening. 

"That so?"

"You bet," Castiel shot back, crossing his arms and fixing Dean with a pointed look. Dean raised both hands in mock surrender. 

"Well, then, I do apologise, Mister Novak." He gestured to his own attire—dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tie loosened slightly, blazer slung over one arm, briefcase in his hand. "I came straight from work. Didn’t even have time to make myself presentable." Castiel’s lips quirked upward, almost involuntarily. 

"Clearly," he replied, stepping aside to let Dean in. He caught the faintest whiff of Dean’s cologne as he passed, something subtle and clean, and for a moment, Castiel was painfully aware of the hoodie draped over him, its too-familiar scent melding with his own. Dean paused in the entryway, taking in the apartment. His gaze landed on the cutting board of Oreos still sitting on the counter, and his expression shifted to something warmer, something that made Castiel feel both exposed and unexpectedly reassured.

"You really went all out," Dean said, gesturing toward the cookies. Castiel shrugged, leaning back against the doorframe as he shut it. 

"Thought I’d make an effort." Dean looked at him then, really looked, and for a fleeting moment, Castiel thought he saw something softer in those green eyes, something he didn’t quite know how to name.

"Effort suits you," Dean said, his voice quieter now as he put down the briefcase next to the door. Then he smirked again, because of course he did. "But next time, maybe lay off the hairbrush." Castiel groaned, but he couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips. Dean was impossible, and yet, for reasons he didn’t care to admit, Castiel didn’t really mind. Castiel gestured toward the kitchen counter, his tone light but uncertain. 

"Well, there’s Pepsi. I thought… maybe no drinking this time?" Dean’s eyebrows lifted in what looked like approval, and he nodded with an easy smile. 

"That’s great. Oreos and Pepsi. A classic combo." 

The words were simple, but they hit Castiel with an odd pang he couldn’t quite identify. Dean was here, in his space, and for some reason, it felt like a puzzle piece had been forced into the wrong spot. Something didn’t align. As Dean moved further into the apartment, inspecting the chaotic order of Castiel’s studio area with amused curiosity he wore each time he had come inside, Castiel remained frozen near the door. A creeping awareness began to take root, curling around his thoughts like a vine. This wasn’t Dean’s rhythm. This wasn’t the polished, methodical Dean Smith he knew—the man who rarely deviated from his schedule, who carefully portioned out time for gym sessions and green smoothies and precisely planned workdays. No, Dean wouldn’t choose Oreos and Pepsi. He wouldn’t choose to spend his evening here, in Castiel’s cluttered world of mismatched furniture and half-finished projects. This wasn’t in his routine. It wasn’t him. And that realization made Castiel’s stomach twist. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a faint flush creeping up his skin. Stupid. He felt so stupid. Of course Dean wasn’t here because he wanted to be. This was charity—kindness extended to the chaotic artist who had ruined his couch and overstayed his welcome. Dean was too polite, too composed to say it outright, but Castiel could feel it, the undercurrent of obligation beneath the surface. He shifted uncomfortably, watching as Dean crouched near the bookshelves, his fingers skimming the spines of novels and art books. 

"You’ve got quite the collection here," Dean said without looking up, his voice warm. "Didn’t know you were into mythology." Castiel blinked, pulling himself out of his spiraling thoughts. He tried to muster a response, something casual, but his voice came out flat. 

"Yeah. It’s… interesting." Dean glanced back at him, frowning slightly, his perceptive gaze lingering just a moment too long. Castiel looked away, busying himself with rearranging the Oreos on the cutting board. His chest felt tight, a confusing mix of embarrassment and something else —something sharper. He didn’t remember what he had said to Dean the last night they were together. The memory was hazy, a blur of nausea and the overwhelming ache of vulnerability. But he knew it had been something. Something that made him feel exposed now, standing in his own apartment, wearing Dean’s hoodie, trying not to meet his eyes for too long. Dean straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his pants before making his way to the counter. He picked up an Oreo, inspecting it like it was some rare delicacy, before popping it into his mouth with a grin. 

"You know, I’m not much of a Pepsi guy," he said, his tone light. "But this is nice. Feels… comfortable." The words should have been reassuring, but they only deepened the gnawing doubt in Castiel’s mind. Comfortable. That’s all this was, wasn’t it? Dean humoring him, making him feel at ease, because that’s what Dean did.

"Right," Castiel murmured, forcing a small smile. "Comfortable." Dean tilted his head, studying him again, but he didn’t press. Instead, he grabbed another Oreo and leaned against the counter, his presence filling the space in a way that felt both grounding and unsettling. Castiel’s heart was a tangled mess, and he had no idea how to begin untying it. Dean reached for another Oreo, turning it over in his fingers like it might reveal something new. 

"You know, my sister and I used to eat Oreos a lot as teenagers." Castiel looked up from where he was rearranging the napkins on the counter, as though they needed perfect symmetry. 

"Yeah?"

"Yep." Dean’s voice had softened, a faint warmth threading through the casual tone. "Though she wouldn’t approve of these. She likes the other ones. The thicker ones?" Castiel blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He studied Dean’s face, the way his gaze stayed fixed on the cookie like it held a key to some distant memory. Castiel wasn’t sure if Dean didn’t know they were called Double Cream—or if he was avoiding using the term entirely, unwilling to tether the thought of his sister to the name. Fair enough.

"Double Cream," Castiel said, keeping his tone light, almost absent, as he broke off a piece of Oreo and popped it into his mouth. The sugar was cloying, but it gave him something to do, something to focus on other than the way Dean’s mouth twitched at the corners. Dean nodded, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. 

"Yeah, those. She’d go through a whole sleeve if I didn’t stop her." He let out a soft chuckle, almost to himself, before shaking his head like he was brushing the thought away. "She had this whole ritual on how to eat them and wouldn’t let me get any if I didn’t comply. Haven’t had them in years, though. Life gets busy." Castiel hesitated, uncertain if he should press or let the moment drift past. 

"You don’t talk about your family much," he said finally, his voice careful, like testing a fragile bridge. Dean shrugged, his expression unreadable. 

"Not much to say. We’re close, but… different lives, you know? She’s got her thing. I’ve got mine." He waved a hand, dismissive, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes that lingered—something Castiel knew better than to pry into.

"Still, Oreos are a nice memory," Castiel offered, his voice quiet. "Sometimes it’s good to hold onto those. Even if life gets busy." Dean looked at him then, his gaze steady, almost probing. Castiel felt the air shift slightly, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Dean didn’t say anything in response, just reached for another cookie and ate it in two bites. Castiel let the silence settle, grounding himself in the faint crackle of Oreo crumbs and the faint fizz of Pepsi from the glasses nearby. It wasn’t everything, but it was something. And for now, that was enough. Dean gestured toward the Oreos and the Pepsi with a crooked grin. 

"Got any other combinations you like? Or is this your magnum opus?" Castiel tilted his head thoughtfully, as if considering a great culinary secret. Then, with an almost too-serious expression, he replied.

"Bounty and 7Up." Dean blinked, then laughed, the sound filling the room and softening the space between them. 

"I can’t say I’m as sold on that one."

"Not everyone appreciates the nuanced balance of coconut and citrus," Castiel replied, his voice a perfect deadpan, though the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms like he was waiting for Dean to challenge him. Dean shook his head, still grinning. 

"Nuanced, huh? Sounds like someone’s been watching too much of those cooking shows."

"Not at all," Castiel said, his tone now mockingly defensive. "This is pure personal discovery. A combination honed through years of trial and error." Dean raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. 

"Years, huh? You’re really committed to the cause."

"Absolutely." Castiel picked up another Oreo, twisting it apart with deliberate care. "But I’ll have you know, the Bounty and 7Up pairing is an acquired taste."

"Acquired taste is just code for 'I know it’s bad, but I like it anyway,'" Dean teased, grabbing another Oreo for himself. Castiel narrowed his eyes at him, though the faint humor in them betrayed his mock indignation. 

"Well, you’re one to talk. Oreos and Pepsi isn’t exactly the pinnacle of sophistication, Mister Corporate." Dean laughed again, leaning back in his chair as he shook his head. 

"Okay, fair enough. But I still stand by my skepticism. Coconut and citrus? That’s a hard pass for me."

"Suit yourself," Castiel said with a shrug, though his smirk lingered as he took another sip of his drink. Dean watched him, the familiar ease of their banter settling like a well-worn jacket. Moments like these —simple, unassuming, yet so distinctly them— were worth holding onto. Even if Dean thought that Castiel’s taste in snacks was questionable at best. Dean reached out, his fingers brushing against the fabric as he adjusted the hood of the Stanford hoodie. It had slipped slightly, crumpling awkwardly against Castiel’s neck. Dean tugged it into place with the kind of absentminded care that could only come from familiarity.

"It fits you," Dean said, his voice easy, casual, like he wasn’t paying attention to the way Castiel’s eyes flickered toward him at the words. Castiel glanced down at himself, at the oversized maroon fabric swallowing his frame. He shifted a little, the sleeves hanging past his wrists like they didn’t belong to him. 

"It’s too big," he said, the words soft, almost hesitant. Dean gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but felt warm enough to touch the air between them. 

"Still fits you." Castiel didn’t reply right away. He tugged at the hem of the hoodie as if the fabric might give him an answer he couldn’t quite articulate. The warmth of it—the feel of it—was comforting, familiar, but it also felt like a secret too big to hold onto. He didn’t know why Dean had let him borrow it in the first place, and the memory of Balthazar’s smirk when he’d noticed didn’t help. Dean watched him, his gaze steady and unhurried, like he wasn’t expecting an answer. Like he didn’t need one. Castiel finally looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching with a faint attempt at a smile. 

"It smells like you." Dean froze for just a second, caught off guard, before he let out a quiet laugh. 

"Yeah, well. I didn’t exactly plan on lending it out. Thought I’d at least get it back before it started walking on its own." Castiel huffed a laugh, short and self-conscious, and reached up to adjust the hood himself, as if hiding his face from Dean’s view. He didn’t know why his chest felt tight or why the casual conversation felt like it was brushing the edges of something much bigger. Something he couldn’t remember but felt like it mattered. Dean leaned back, the ease in his posture unchanged, but his gaze lingered. "Looks good on you, though," he said, almost like an afterthought. Castiel didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. The warmth in his cheeks said enough. He leaned against the counter, his lips curling into a sly smile as he tilted his head slightly, his tone shifting into something that bordered on playful. 

"Do you think it would look good on my floor?" Dean froze for a beat, just long enough for Castiel to catch it, but not long enough for him to interpret it as anything meaningful. Then, Dean shook his head with exaggerated seriousness. 

"No, Cas." Castiel blinked, his brows furrowing as the flirty moment crashed against Dean’s abrupt response. 

"What?" Dean crossed his arms, leaning casually against the side of the counter, his face a picture of mock concern. 

"I don’t know what kind of biohazards you’ve got on your floor." Castiel stared at him, caught between disbelief and amusement. 

"Rude." Dean smirked, his tone impossibly light as he shrugged. 

"But true." The lightness of Dean’s teasing worked its way through the air, nudging aside the faint tension that had settled in Castiel’s chest. The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched upward, despite himself, and he let out a small chuckle.

"You think my floor is that bad?" Castiel asked, gesturing vaguely toward the apartment. His voice still held a note of humor, but there was a hint of challenge there too. Dean tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the space. The books spilling from the shelves, the scattered art supplies painting a story of chaos, the mismatched pillows on the reading nook—it all looked like Castiel, like the space was alive with the artist’s presence. Dean’s smirk softened, just slightly. 

"Not bad, exactly. Just… erm… lived in?" Castiel scoffed, turning back to the counter as he grabbed another Oreo. 

"Well, excuse me for being a real person in a real apartment." Dean’s laughter came easily, a sound that settled in the space between them. 

"Fair enough," he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender.

For a moment, the apartment fell into a companionable quiet. The faint hum of traffic from the street outside mingled with the soft rustle of the plants that framed the bookshelves, their leaves swaying gently in the draft. Castiel glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye, his expression relaxing into something less guarded. Tonight there was something about Dean’s presence—something grounding, something safe. Castiel let out a soft breath and reached for his glass of Pepsi. Maybe tonight didn’t have to be about figuring things out. Maybe it could just be about this. Dean's question hung in the air, light but unmistakably deliberate. 

"Can I kiss you?"

Castiel blinked, caught off guard for just a moment before the faintest smile curved his lips. There was something in the way Dean looked at him—steady, searching, like the world had quieted to just this one request. Castiel nodded, the gesture small but certain, his voice unnecessary in the face of what felt inevitable. Dean stepped closer, his movements unhurried, as though the moment deserved all the time in the world. Castiel’s breath hitched slightly as Dean’s hand brushed against his jaw, the touch warm and grounding. The space between them disappeared in a slow, deliberate motion until Dean’s lips met his. The kiss was gentle at first, almost tentative, like Dean was testing the waters. But then, as Castiel tilted his head slightly to deepen it, a quiet hunger surfaced, an unspoken need that neither of them dared to articulate. Castiel felt the warmth of Dean’s hand slide to the back of his neck, anchoring him, and his own fingers curled into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, holding on as if the ground beneath them might shift. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything unsaid. It was the nights spent apart but still thinking of one another, the mornings where Dean’s absence felt like a puzzle missing its final piece, and the quiet moments where Castiel’s mind wandered to what if.

When they broke apart, the room felt quieter somehow, like the very air had rearranged itself to accommodate the shift between them. Castiel’s eyes flickered open, meeting Dean’s gaze, which held something soft, almost disbelieving. Dean's lips twitched into the faintest smile.

"Okay," Dean murmured, his voice low and steady, "that was... yeah." Castiel’s laugh was quiet, almost shy. 

"Yeah," he echoed, his fingers still holding the fabric of Dean’s shirt. He realised he wasn’t ready to let go, not yet. Dean’s thumb brushed along Castiel’s jawline, a small, affectionate gesture that made Castiel’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t entirely prepared for. But Dean’s next words were teasing, cutting through the moment before it could become too overwhelming.

"You know," Dean said, his grin creeping back, "if this hoodie’s part of your master plan to get me to kiss you, it’s working." Castiel chuckled, his voice lighter than it had been all evening. 

"Maybe it was," he replied, his tone playful. "Guess I’ll have to wear it more often." Dean’s smile widened, and for the first time in a long while, Castiel felt the corners of his life align just right, the chaos of his world settling into something almost manageable, if only for the night.

"I’m never getting it back, am I?" Castiel didn’t even hesitate. 

"No," he said simply, the finality in his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. Dean opened his mouth, probably to protest or at least crack another joke, but whatever he was about to say was abruptly silenced. Castiel’s hand shot out, grabbing Dean by the tie, and with a firm tug, pulled him close. Their lips met again, this time without hesitation, a cascade of warmth and urgency sparking between them. Dean groaned softly against Castiel’s mouth, his hands instinctively finding their way to Castiel’s waist. But then, mid-kiss, Castiel pulled back just enough to speak, his breath warm against Dean’s skin. "This tie," Castiel muttered, his voice laced with playful disdain. He kissed Dean again, lingering this time before breaking away to continue his critique. "It’s too stiff. And the color? So boring." Dean let out a muffled laugh, the sound half-swallowed by Castiel’s lips returning to his own. 

"Boring?" Dean managed between kisses, his voice thick with amusement. "You’re really—" Another kiss. "critiquing my tie right now?" Castiel hummed in affirmation, his fingers toying with the knot at Dean’s throat. 

"It’s corporate monotony incarnate. You could at least pick a pattern. Stripes, maybe. Or polka dots." He punctuated his words with another kiss, this one soft but lingering, as though to soften the blow of his critique. Dean chuckled, his hands tightening their grip on Castiel’s waist. 

"Are you seriously insulting my tie while making out with me?"

"Multitasking," Castiel said, his tone matter-of-fact as he pulled back just enough to look Dean in the eye, his lips quirking into a small, mischievous smile. Dean arched a brow, his smirk deepening as he slid a hand up to where Castiel’s fingers still toyed with the tie. 

"It’s 100% silk, I’ll have you know," he said, his voice mockingly defensive. Castiel leaned back slightly, narrowing his eyes as though studying the offending piece of fabric more closely. 

"The silk industry is very, very bad, Dean," he declared, his tone brimming with righteous indignation. His fingers brushed over the knot one last time before letting go, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. Dean couldn’t help but laugh, the sound low and soft, before leaning forward and capturing Castiel’s lips again. It wasn’t the playful kiss from before; this one was slower, deeper, meant to quiet whatever lecture might be brewing. When he finally pulled back, his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips brushing against Castiel’s. 

"Tell me about it." Castiel blinked, caught between surprise and amusement. 

"What? Right now?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yeah, why not?" Dean shrugged, his grin unabashed. "Educate me." A faint laugh escaped Castiel, and he reached up to trace a finger lightly along Dean’s collar. 

"I’m not sure you’re in the right mindset for a discussion on ethical fabrics, Director Smith." Dean tilted his head, the teasing glint in his eyes unwavering. 

"Try me." Castiel sighed theatrically, but there was a fondness to the way his lips curved as he leaned back. 

"Fine. Silk farming relies heavily on practices that harm the environment and exploit labor," he began, his tone slipping into something more serious but still tinged with affection. "And don’t even get me started on the silkworms." Dean raised a brow, his expression mock-skeptical. 

"The silkworms?"

"Yes, the silkworms," Castiel said firmly, his voice taking on the cadence of someone who had been waiting to deliver this particular point. "They’re boiled alive in their cocoons, Dean. It’s barbaric." Dean winced, though his grin hadn’t quite faded. 

"Okay, maybe barbaric ties are a bad look for me." Castiel hummed in agreement, his fingers absently smoothing over the hoodie he still wore. 

"You should consider alternatives. Organic cotton. Maybe linen. Something sustainable." Dean leaned in again, his voice dropping to a murmur. 

"Or I could just let you keep this hoodie and never step inside with a tie still on ever again." Castiel smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he tilted his head to meet Dean’s gaze. 

"Now that’s a sustainable choice." 

"Are we done with silkworms?" Castiel tilted his head slightly, a small grin tugging at his lips. 

"I could be done with silkworms." Dean's smirk widened, and he nodded toward the bed.

"Let’s take this to bed then."

Castiel’s heart quickened at the words, a rhythm both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. The last couple of times they’d been together had felt different—less transactional, more intimate. It wasn’t the hurried, fleeting encounters that had marked the beginning of whatever this was. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, watching Dean. But instead of joining him, Dean stepped over to the door and crouched, retrieving his laptop bag. Castiel blinked, tilting his head in curiosity as Dean walked back with a grin.

"I thought we could watch a movie," Dean said, setting the laptop on the bed and booting it up. Castiel folded his legs beneath him and nodded, his expression softening. 

"A movie?"

"Yeah," Dean said, climbing onto the bed and propping the laptop on a pillow. "I got HBO, Prime, Disney Plus..." At the last mention, Castiel raised a brow, his lips twitching as though suppressing a laugh. 

"Disney Plus?" Dean chuckled and shrugged, already scrolling through the icons on the screen. 

"Hey, it’s not all princesses and superheroes. They own a lot of stuff. Ever heard of National Geographic?" Castiel gave him a skeptical look but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. 

"So, educational content. That’s what you’re going for?"

"Maybe," Dean replied, not looking up as he navigated the menu. "Or maybe I’ll throw on The Mandalorian. You know, expand your horizons."

"Expand my horizons with a space western about a bounty hunter and a green alien toddler?" Castiel teased, leaning closer to watch the screen. Dean’s grin was unrepentant. 

"Exactly." Settling deeper into the bed, Castiel let himself relax against the headboard. The fairy lights above cast a soft glow over the room, mingling with the faint light from the laptop. Dean seemed perfectly at ease, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms as he scrolled through options. For a moment, Castiel allowed himself to simply watch him—how Dean’s fingers moved over the trackpad, the way his brow furrowed in thought as though picking the right movie was a matter of utmost importance. "So," Dean said, glancing sideways at Castiel. "You want serious or something fun?"

"Something fun," Castiel replied without hesitation. The tension from earlier, the undercurrent of unspoken confessions and uncertain steps, ebbed away in the warmth of Dean’s presence. Dean selected a title and settled back against the pillows, pulling Castiel closer with a casual arm around his shoulder. Castiel let himself lean into the embrace, his head resting lightly against Dean's. The movie started, but neither of them was in any rush to pay attention, both caught in the rare and quiet comfort of shared space.

As the movie played on, Dean found himself relaxing further into the bed, the faint glow of the laptop casting soft shadows across the room. His arm tightened slightly around Castiel's shoulders, drawing him closer without much thought. It felt natural—like slipping into an old, well-worn pair of shoes. Castiel didn’t seem to mind, his body fitting easily into the curve of Dean’s side, warm and steady. Dean let his fingers trail absently against Castiel’s arm, tracing idle patterns over the soft fabric of the hoodie. He hadn’t meant to keep pulling him closer, but each small adjustment seemed to happen on its own—shifting to brush his knee against Castiel’s, letting their hands rest nearer, touching but not quite holding. The scent of Castiel’s shampoo —something herbal and faintly citrusy— lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle warmth of his skin. Dean's focus drifted from the screen to the way Castiel’s chest rose and fell in rhythm with his breathing, steady and almost hypnotic. Castiel shifted slightly, tilting his head to glance up at Dean. His expression was soft, unguarded, though there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. 

"Are you even watching the movie?" Dean smirked, his hand stilling for a moment on Castiel’s arm. 

"Sure. Mandalorian’s got a gun. Baby Yoda’s doing… Baby Yoda stuff." Castiel turned his head toward Dean, raising an eyebrow with a smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. 

"We’re not watching The Mandalorian, " he said, his voice quiet but carrying a touch of playful disbelief. "You selected the title next to it." Dean blinked, glancing at the screen, which indeed showed nothing remotely related to the bounty hunter or Grogu. He chuckled softly, leaning back into the pillows. 

"Well," he drawled, "I guess you’re paying more attention than me." Castiel’s smirk softened into something closer to a smile as he studied Dean for a moment longer. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head slightly, the expression on his face a mix of amusement and affection. Then he leaned back into Dean’s side, his cheek brushing lightly against Dean’s shoulder as he settled in again. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The warmth of Castiel against him, the ease of their closeness—it was enough to make the outside world feel distant and insignificant. "You want me to actually pick something, or are we just gonna keep pretending we’re watching this?" Castiel didn’t look up, his focus on the flickering screen in front of them. 

"What’s wrong with pretending?" he asked, his voice soft but carrying an underlying meaning that Dean didn’t entirely know how to respond to. Dean hesitated for a beat before wrapping his arm more securely around Castiel. 

"Nothing," he said quietly. "Nothing at all."

The movie —whatever it was— continued to play, its muted dialogue blending into the background as they stayed close, a comfortable silence falling between them. Dean found himself more content with every passing second, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant. Whatever this was, it felt right, and for now, that was enough. And to be fair, Castiel wasn’t paying much attention to the movie either. The flickering images on the screen blurred into indistinct shapes, their dialogue a faint hum he barely registered. His thoughts were louder, tangled and insistent, drowning out everything else. He leaned just slightly against Dean, though not enough to suggest he was thinking too deeply about it, and his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the hem of the hoodie sleeve—Dean’s hoodie sleeve. It smelled faintly of him, a mix of fabric softener and something warm and distinctly Dean that Castiel couldn’t name.

It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.

He had shown up on Dean’s doorstep Friday last week in a state of complete disarray, practically falling apart at the seams. He remembered bits and pieces—how Dean had taken care of him without a single complaint, guiding him through the haze of embarrassment and nausea like it was second nature. And then, the next morning, Dean had helped him get ready for the family brunch Castiel had dreaded, lending him kindness and a steady presence without hesitation. Now it was Wednesday, and they were here. Dean hadn’t acted differently; there were no questions or awkward pauses. He was just… here. Watching a movie, or pretending to, and letting Castiel lean into him like this was what they’d always done. The thing that twisted at Castiel the most was how comfortable it felt. It wasn’t the sharp edges and fleeting touches of what they’d been before, that barely-there connection of casual intimacy. It was something else entirely—something with a steadiness Castiel couldn’t quite comprehend. He glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye. His profile was softened by the glow of the laptop screen, his lips slightly curved in a faint smile as though he wasn’t even aware of it. Castiel wanted to ask him —wanted to say something, anything— but his throat tightened at the thought. What would he even say? Dean shifted slightly, his arm brushing against Castiel’s in a way that felt deliberate, like he was reminding Castiel that he was still there. 

"You’re quiet," Dean said, his voice low, not accusatory but curious. Castiel blinked, realizing he had been staring at Dean for too long. 

"Just thinking," he said softly, the words almost swallowed up by the background noise of the movie. Dean’s eyes flicked toward him, a warmth in them that Castiel didn’t know how to parse. 

"About anything interesting?" Dean asked, his tone light, teasing even, but there was something underneath it that felt genuine. Castiel hesitated. 

"Not particularly," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Just... things." Dean huffed a quiet laugh, settling back further into the pillows. 

"Let me know if you crack any big mysteries over there," he said, his arm resting a little more deliberately against Castiel’s. Castiel smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. If only Dean knew the mysteries Castiel was trying to unravel weren’t about the movie—or even about the world—but about whatever this was, this closeness that shouldn’t have felt so easy.

"I’m going to your office tomorrow." Dean raised an eyebrow. 

"My office? Not just meeting your dad?" Castiel shrugged. 

"I can do multiple things in one visit." Dean leaned back slightly, studying him. 

"What are you gonna talk about with your dad?"

"The murals," Castiel replied. "The paint has come now. Gabriel texted me earlier." Dean nodded slowly. 

"Ah." Castiel’s gaze narrowed slightly. 

"Is that a problem?" Dean shook his head but hesitated before answering. 

"You seemed stressed about them the last time you mentioned them."

"Of course I’m stressed," Castiel said, his voice edged with frustration. "This is the only thing Dad has ever let me near when it comes to Novak Enterprises." Dean turned his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied Castiel’s profile in the dim light of the laptop screen. Castiel had leaned back a little, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, but his shoulders were tight, betraying the casual posture he was trying to project.

"It makes sense you’d be stressed," Dean said softly, his voice carrying an edge of understanding rather than judgment. "The murals are a big deal." Castiel glanced at him, the corners of his mouth twitching in something like a bitter smile. 

"'Big deal' doesn’t begin to cover it," he replied, his tone dry. "It’s not every day your father, the master of micromanagement, decides to hand you the metaphorical keys to anything." Dean tilted his head, his lips quirking into a small smile. 

"And yet, here we are. Guess he knows talent when he sees it." Castiel huffed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

"Or he finally realised it’s cheaper to use his son than hire someone. Either way, it’s not exactly a vote of confidence." Dean reached over, resting a hand lightly on Castiel’s cheek. It was a brief touch, almost casual, but enough to ground him. 

"If he didn’t trust you to pull it off, he wouldn’t have let you near it. Novak or not." Castiel’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. 

"Maybe," he murmured, his voice quieter now, as though he wasn’t entirely convinced. Dean leaned back again, letting his hand fall away but keeping his gaze on Castiel. 

"You’ve got this, Cas. You’ve been stressing about it for weeks, which means you’ve already thought of every possible thing that could go wrong—and probably more than a few that couldn’t." Castiel let out a quiet laugh, his lips curving upward in something closer to a real smile. 

"You think overthinking is a good thing now?" Dean shrugged. 

"Yeah. Means you care. And caring usually gets things done."

The room fell quiet for a moment, the movie playing on the laptop an afterthought to the charged stillness between them. Castiel tilted his head slightly, considering Dean’s words, and then nodded to himself as though solidifying a decision.

"I’m still going to your office tomorrow," Castiel said finally, his tone lighter but still firm. "But not because I need reassurance." Dean grinned. 

"Good. Because I’ll probably be in meetings all day and won’t have time to play cheerleader." Castiel rolled his eyes, though his expression softened. 

"Don’t worry, Dean. I’m perfectly capable of navigating a corporate office without your guidance." Dean chuckled. 

"Yeah, sure you are. Just try not to start a fight with HR about the murals. Or... anything else."

"No promises," Castiel replied, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes now, the earlier tension fading just enough for him to lean back against the pillows. When Castiel spoke again his voice was lower, hesitant and filled with something Dean couldn’t place, "Will you stay?" Dean swallowed hard, truth be told he didn’t know, didn’t if he wanted to, didn’t know if he could. And Castiel’s blue eyes, brightened by the light from the laptop, did not help. Worse still was the fact that he could see the disappointment in Castiel’s eyes as he hesitated.

"I—" Dean started, but Castiel cut him off.

"It’s fine. I get it." Dean froze for a moment, his breath catching. Castiel’s interruption hung between them, sharp and decisive, but the undercurrent of disappointment in his voice was unmistakable. Castiel shifted slightly, leaning back against the couch, his gaze darting toward the fairy lights strung along the gallery wall. Their soft glow seemed to highlight the subtle tension in his expression.

"I didn’t mean it like that," Dean said finally, his tone quieter, more careful now. Castiel shrugged, a small, nonchalant motion that somehow managed to feel like a shield. 

"It’s okay, Dean. You don’t have to explain. You’ve got your routines, your life. I get it." Dean frowned, the words cutting deeper than he’d expected. Castiel wasn’t looking at him, instead focusing on some invisible point beyond the room, his profile illuminated by the faint flicker of the laptop screen. Dean had seen that look before—the detached, distant one Castiel wore when he was retreating into himself. And Dean hated it.

"Cas," Dean began, but his voice faltered as he struggled to find the right words. His hesitation filled the space between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts and unasked questions. Castiel finally turned to face him, his expression calm but guarded. 

"It’s not a big deal, Dean. You’re here now, right? That’s enough." But it wasn’t. Not to Dean. Not when Castiel said it like that, with a softness that suggested he’d already resigned himself to something smaller than what he deserved. Dean sighed, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. His mind raced, searching for something, anything, to bridge the gap that seemed to widen with every passing second.

"I have a meeting in the morning. Early," Dean said, his voice measured, testing the waters. Castiel nodded, his expression unreadable.

"I told you. It’s fine." But it wasn’t fine, and Dean couldn’t ignore the way the words carried a faint thread of disappointment, like a barely audible echo in the room. Castiel’s eyes flicked to the corner of the couch, as if he could avoid letting Dean see too much.

"Cas, I—" Dean’s jaw tightened, and then, in a moment of impulsive clarity, he said, "I’ll make it up to you." That earned him a glance —sharp and questioning— but Castiel didn’t speak. He simply watched Dean, his head tilted slightly, as though trying to decipher what he meant. Dean straightened, a spark of determination lighting his expression. "We’ll get lunch. Tomorrow. It’s a date." For a moment, Castiel just stared, his lips parting slightly as if to argue, but then he caught something in Dean’s eyes. Something that wasn’t just a quick attempt to smooth things over but a real effort. Castiel exhaled softly, his gaze softening, though his response came slow, deliberate.

"A date?" he repeated, his voice tinged with both disbelief and a faint trace of amusement. Dean grinned, leaning back against the couch. 

"Yeah, you know. Lunch. Together. Just us. I’m even buying. That’s how dates work, right?" The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirked up, but he tried to hide it by glancing down at his lap. 

"I suppose I could clear my schedule." Dean chuckled, the tension in the room easing slightly. 

"Good. It’s settled then." Castiel’s eyes flicked back to him, his expression warm but cautious. 

"You’d better not cancel on me." Dean’s grin softened into something more genuine, and he shook his head. 

"I won’t. Promise."

And in that moment, sitting on Castiel’s chaotic but comforting couch, Dean decided that this wasn’t just about making up for leaving tonight. It was about something bigger, something he wasn’t entirely ready to put into words but felt all the same.

Chapter Text

Dean woke up to the sound of his alarm cutting through the silence, sharp and unforgiving. He groaned, rolling onto his side to silence it. The warm, dim street lights filtering through his blinds was enough to remind him that it was a weekday—another day in the carefully curated chaos of Novak Enterprises. The bed was too cold, too empty. He hadn’t slept well. Castiel’s absence pressed against his chest, and though Dean had told him he had to go, the regret had sat in seconds after the words were uttered. He had justified it last night—early meeting, big deal, no time for distractions. But now, staring at the smooth expanse of his pristine duvet, it felt like an excuse. Dean was great at those. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. His mind began running through the list for the day. Meeting with Zachariah Adler, a senior shareholder with a notorious knack for turning small talk into interrogation. Adler was the kind of man who could sniff out weakness like a bloodhound. And Meg, ever the bearer of bad news disguised as dry humor, had casually dropped the bomb yesterday: Charles Novak, the boss himself, would be sitting in. Fantastic. Just the kind of thing Dean loved—a chance to perform under the watchful eye of a man who probably thought Dean’s promotion was a joke. Charles hadn’t said it outright, but Dean had seen the way his gaze lingered too long on Dean’s Prius in the parking lot or his insistence on cutting sugar from the office coffee options. Dean took a deep breath, forcing himself out of bed. He was disciplined; he was prepared. Today would be fine. Perfect, even. No room for missteps. He showered quickly, letting the hot water steam away the remnants of his restless night. Images of Castiel lingered—his face, flushed with embarrassment; his hands trembling as he reached for the glass of water Dean had shoved into his hands. And then the hoodie—how Castiel had clutched it like it was more than fabric, like it was some kind of lifeline. Dean shook his head, muttering to himself. 

"Focus, Smith. Not the time to get sentimental."

By the time he was dressed and sipping his carefully measured black coffee, his professional mask was firmly in place. His suit —charcoal gray with a subtle pinstripe— was impeccable. Dean adjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time, his fingers brushing over the smooth silk as he glanced at his reflection. The green tie brought a faint hint of color to his otherwise muted suit, a deliberate choice that was both professional and personal without risking Adler's disapproval. He’d picked it without thinking much about it, but now, standing here in the muted glow of his bathroom mirror, it felt deliberate. Like maybe he’d chosen it because it reminded him of something. Or someone. He leaned forward, bracing his hands against the edge of the counter, and sighed. His mind refused to settle, half-focused on the meeting ahead and half-drifting back to last night—and Castiel. He hadn’t planned for things to feel different between them. Hell, he hadn’t planned for anything that had happened lately, least of all the kiss. Dean ran a hand through his hair, letting the memory of it pull at the edges of his attention. It had been slow at first, tentative, almost shy in a way that didn’t fit Castiel’s usual boldness. But then, as if something in him had shifted, Castiel had leaned into it—soft lips parting, the faint brush of his breath warm against Dean’s cheek. And then, later, the way Castiel had kissed him goodnight. That had been... something else. Not heated or insistent, but soft, lingering, as though Castiel was trying to memorize the moment before letting Dean walk away. The memory sent a quiet pang through Dean’s chest. He straightened and reached for his cologne, spraying a quick mist before setting the bottle down with a click. He couldn’t afford to get distracted—not now, not with Zachariah Adler and Charles Novak waiting to dissect his every word in the meeting room. Still, his mind wouldn’t let go. He thought about the way Castiel’s eyes had softened when Dean had said goodbye, the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his fingers had brushed over Dean’s sleeve as though he’d wanted to pull him back but had stopped himself. Dean had caught the hesitation, and it had lingered with him all night, curling up in the quiet corners of his mind. 

Dean turned away from the mirror, straightening the tie one last time, grabbing his briefcase and keys as he headed for the door. His steps were brisk, precise, as if moving faster might shake off the haze of his thoughts. The car ride to the office was no better. The radio hummed softly in the background, some upbeat pop tune that Dean didn’t care enough to change, but it did nothing to distract him. His hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter as his thoughts drifted again.

What does this mean now?

That was the question that had gnawed at him since last night. Because it did mean something. Castiel wasn’t just some casual fling, and Dean knew that now, as much as he might’ve tried to avoid it before. Last night’s kisses —hell, even the fact that he got a goodnight kiss— had felt different. It had been grounded in something more than the usual heat or banter. 

Something real. 

Something terrifying.

Dean pulled into the parking lot, the sight of Novak Enterprises’ towering glass facade snapping him back to the present. He parked the Prius in his usual spot, the engine’s low hum cutting off as he sat there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel. His heart felt like it was caught in two places—his work and Castiel. Both demanded his focus, and right now, he wasn’t sure which was winning. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he grabbed his briefcase and stepped out of the car. The brisk morning air hit him, cool and sharp, and he squared his shoulders as he headed toward the building. The familiar rhythm of the office greeted him as he stepped inside—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and the faint murmur of conversations filling the air.

"Morning, Smithy," a voice called, and Dean glanced over to see Meg leaning casually against the reception desk, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Morning," Dean replied, his tone clipped but polite. He didn’t have the bandwidth for her teasing today, not when his thoughts were already halfway back in Castiel’s apartment. Meg fell into step beside him as he made his way to his office. 

"You look preoccupied. Don’t tell me you’re nervous about Adler. That guy’s all bark, no bite." Dean shot her a sidelong glance. 

"I’m not nervous. Just focused."

"Focused, huh?" Meg smirked, her tone dripping with mockery. "Funny, you don’t look focused. You look... distracted."

"I am not distracted, I am ready."

"Ready to get grilled?"

"Can’t wait," Dean replied, his voice dry as he unlocked his office. Meg followed him in, perching on the edge of his desk as he set his briefcase down. She was always too casual in his office, but Dean had learned not to bother trying to change her ways.

"I heard Charles is coming," she added, her grin widening. "Bet he’s dying to hear your pitch on the Adler account." Dean glanced at her, one eyebrow arching. 

"You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?"

"Oh, immensely," Meg replied, feigning a serious nod. "Watching you sweat? Highlight of my week." Dean rolled his eyes and opened his laptop, pulling up his notes for the meeting. 

"Anything else I should know, or are you just here to bask in my misery?" Meg shrugged. 

"Balthazar’s in the building."

"Great," Dean muttered under his breath. Balthazar had a way of making everything more complicated. The man was charming, no doubt, but his sarcasm and knack for turning professional moments into thinly veiled personal jabs made him exhausting.

"Oh, and Gabriel’s here too," Meg added casually. Dean stopped typing, glancing up at her.

"Gabriel? Why?"

"Apparently, he’s ‘observing.’" Meg air-quoted the word, her grin widening. "Which, knowing Gabriel, means he’ll either sit quietly in his office all day or turn the whole building into a circus. Fifty-fifty odds." Dean exhaled sharply, his focus already slipping. He glanced at the clock—half an hour until the meeting. Enough time to prepare, but not enough to shake the weight of unease pressing against his chest.

"Thanks, Miss Masters," Dean said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Your encouragement is overwhelming." Meg tilted her head, watching him as he adjusted his tie again and opened his laptop.

"Let me guess," she said, her voice light but probing. "This isn’t about Adler. Or Charles. Or even the meeting." Dean glanced up, frowning. 

"What are you getting at?" Meg grinned, the expression sharp and knowing. 

"You’re thinking about someone, aren’t you?" Dean froze for the briefest second before recovering, his gaze dropping to his laptop screen. 

"Not everything’s a soap opera, Miss Masters."

"Sure, sure," she said, her tone laced with mock innocence. "But you don’t usually fiddle with your tie that much. So, spill. Who’s got you all twisted up?" Dean let out a sharp exhale, closing his laptop with a quiet snap. He leaned back in his chair, pinning Meg with a pointed look. 

"Don’t you have work to do?" She shrugged, unbothered. 

"Plenty. But this is more fun." She stepped back into the hallway, her voice trailing after her. "Let me know when you’re ready to admit it, Smithy." As the door swung shut, Dean leaned forward, rubbing a hand over his face. Meg wasn’t wrong—not entirely. But whatever this was with Castiel, it wasn’t something he was ready to explain. Not to her. Not to himself. With a sigh, he reopened his laptop and forced his focus onto the agenda for the meeting. Adler. Charles. The pitch. That’s where his mind needed to be. But as he began typing, he couldn’t stop the memory of Castiel’s kiss from lingering, quiet and persistent, just beneath the surface of his thoughts.

Twenty minutes later Dean stepped out of his office, his polished shoes tapping rhythmically against the floor. His suit felt as tailored as ever, the crisp lines and smooth fabric offering the comfort of routine but his mind wasn’t fully in sync with the image he projected. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as he walked, more out of habit than necessity, his thoughts drifting back to Castiel. That last kiss. The way it lingered even now, the sensation so vivid it was almost distracting. Dean shook his head slightly, forcing his focus back to the present. The hallway stretched ahead, a river of neutral tones and sleek corporate precision. Dean spotted Meg at her desk, a splash of irreverent energy against the sterile backdrop. She was typing something, her head propped on one hand, her expression the picture of bored efficiency. Her dark eyes flicked up as Dean approached, a smirk curling at her lips before he even had the chance to speak.

"Well, if it isn’t Mister Smith," she said, leaning back in her chair and lacing her fingers behind her head. "Finally emerged from your fortress of solitude?" Dean ignored the jab, coming to a stop in front of her desk. 

"Is the meeting room ready?" he asked, his tone measured but brisk. Meg’s smirk widened. 

"Of course it is. What kind of assistant do you think I am? Everything’s set—slides, handouts, even the temperature. You can thank me later."

"I’ll do that," Dean replied, though there was no bite to his words. He glanced at the sleek binder sitting on the edge of her desk, labeled with the company logo and neatly aligned. "And Adler? Charles? They’re both here?" Meg arched an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. 

"Adler’s been circling the break room like a shark. I think he’s looking for someone to intimidate. Charles showed up five minutes ago, right on schedule." Dean nodded, his jaw tightening. He still hadn’t had many direct dealings with Charles Novak yet, but the man’s reputation preceded him. Calculating. Demanding. Not someone you wanted to be caught unprepared in front of. 

"Great," he said, his tone clipped. "Anything else I need to know?" Meg leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk and cradling her chin in her hands. 

"Just one thing," she said, her voice dropping into something playful but sharp. "You look... distracted." Dean stiffened slightly, his expression neutral. 

"I’m not distracted."

"Sure you’re not." Meg’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she tapped a finger against her cheek. "But if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve got something —someone— on your mind." Dean’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He glanced past her, toward the hallway leading to the meeting room. 

"Miss Masters, if you don’t have anything helpful to add—"

"Oh, come on, Dean," she interrupted, her smirk turning into a full grin. "You’re a little twitchy today. Let me guess—work stress? Or maybe it’s personal. Could it be… a certain someone?" Dean’s eyes snapped back to hers, his expression carefully controlled. But Meg didn’t miss the flicker of something in his gaze, and she leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying herself. "Relax," she said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "I’m just saying, you’ve got a certain glow about you. It’s practically suspicious."

"Miss Masters," Dean said evenly, though the warning in his tone was subtle. "Drop it."

"Fine, fine," she replied, though the grin never left her face. She gestured toward the hallway. "Your meeting awaits, fearless leader. Don’t let Adler bite too hard." Dean exhaled quietly, giving her a curt nod before heading down the hallway. Behind him, he could hear Meg chuckling softly, her amusement lingering in the air like a faint echo. As he neared the meeting room, Dean rolled his shoulders, the tension there a familiar weight—or sensation. He needed to focus. Adler, Charles, the pitch—this was his world, the one he’d worked so hard to build. But no matter how much he tried, the memory of Castiel’s lips, the way his touch had lingered in the doorway last night, refused to leave him. It was maddening. Infuriating. And, if he was honest with himself, exhilarating. Dean squared his shoulders as he reached the meeting room door, pushing those thoughts aside. For now, there was no space for distraction. He adjusted his tie one last time, the silk smooth and cool against his fingers, before stepping inside to face whatever the day —and Adler— had in store.

The meeting room was bathed in the cool glow of recessed lighting, its walls lined with sleek, neutral-toned panels that reflected Novak Enterprises' meticulous aesthetic. Dean stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking softly against the marble floor, and froze for a fraction of a second—a hesitation so brief it would have gone unnoticed by most. But not by Balthazar. Not by Gabriel. And certainly not by Charles Novak. The sight that greeted him was a tableau of deliberate disinterest. Gabriel sat at the far end of the long glass table, absently scrolling through his phone with the faintest furrow between his brows. His tie was undone, the collar of his shirt slightly askew, as if he’d decided at the last minute that decorum was overrated. Balthazar, on the other hand, lounged in his chair like it was a throne, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest. His expression was pure boredom, though his sharp eyes tracked Dean’s every movement with a glint of amusement that set Dean’s teeth on edge. Neither of them had been on the guest list Meg had rattled off earlier. Of course, she wouldn’t have mentioned it. Dean could already picture her smirk, the slight raise of her eyebrows when he inevitably confronted her later. She thrived on these moments—on throwing him into the deep end just to watch him flounder. Charles Novak was seated at the head of the table, his presence as commanding as ever. He didn’t look up when Dean entered, his focus fixed on a sleek tablet in front of him. The faint hum of tension in the room sharpened as Dean took a breath, straightened his tie, and forced himself to step forward.

"Smith," Charles said without glancing up, his tone curt but not unkind. "You’re early."

"Wanted to ensure everything was ready," Dean replied evenly, his voice carrying a practiced confidence that belied the flicker of unease in his chest.

"Well, aren’t you eager," Balthazar drawled, leaning back further in his chair. His voice was smooth, languid, and laced with the kind of mockery that only came from someone who enjoyed wielding discomfort as a weapon. "You’re putting the rest of us to shame." Dean shot him a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

"Just doing my job."

"Is that what they’re calling it these days?" Balthazar mused, tilting his head slightly as he studied Dean. "I thought it was more of a… balancing act. Keeping everyone happy while trying not to topple over yourself." Dean ignored the comment, his gaze shifting to Gabriel. The younger Novak still hadn’t looked up from his phone, his thumb scrolling with the kind of focus that suggested he was either deeply invested in whatever he was reading or deliberately avoiding the room’s energy. Either way, it didn’t bode well.

"Gabriel," Dean said, keeping his tone professional. "Didn’t realize you’d be joining us." Gabriel finally glanced up, his amber eyes sharp despite the faint shadows beneath them. 

"Yeah, well," he said, tucking his phone into his pocket with a careless shrug. "Dad thought it’d be good for me to sit in. Learn something about… what is it again? Oh, right —responsibility." Charles’s gaze flicked toward Gabriel, a warning glinting in his eyes. 

"And you’d do well to take it seriously." Gabriel held up his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk playing at his lips didn’t falter. 

"Serious as a heart attack, Dad. You’ve got my full attention." Dean could feel the tension coiling tighter, the dynamic between the Novaks a palpable force in the room. He moved to his designated seat, setting his tablet and notes down with careful precision, his mind racing as he recalibrated for the unexpected players at the table.

"So, Smith," Balthazar said, his tone as light as ever. "What’s today’s agenda? Sell us a dream, impress the old guard, and maybe —just maybe— get Charles here to smile? Tall order, but I’m sure you’re up for it." Dean straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening. 

"The agenda," he said smoothly, "is to review the upcoming campaign strategy and discuss how we’ll align our efforts with the company’s broader goals. If that’s not engaging enough for you, Balthazar, feel free to step out." Balthazar’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with approval at Dean’s retort. 

"Oh, I wouldn’t dream of missing it." Gabriel snorted softly, muttering something under his breath that Dean couldn’t quite catch but suspected was less than flattering. Charles cleared his throat, silencing whatever banter was brewing. 

"Enough," he said, his voice firm. "Let’s Mister Smith get ready in peace."

Dean nodded, slipping into his polished presentation mode as he launched into preparing the presentation by plugged his computer into the projector. But as he worked, his thoughts lingered on the tension simmering beneath the surface—the barbs from Balthazar, the aloofness from Gabriel, the weight of Charles’s expectations. And behind it all, a faint, persistent thought he couldn’t quite shake: the memory of Castiel, the way his lips had pressed against Dean’s in that fleeting moment of connection. Dean pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. This wasn’t the time for distractions. Not with so much at stake.

The meeting room door swung open with a quiet hiss, drawing all eyes as Adler stepped inside. His entrance was precise, calculated—just like the man himself. Dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, with a tie so sharp it might have been a blade, Adler exuded the kind of presence that silenced even the most confident room. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed immaculately, his posture impeccable, and his piercing gaze swept across the room like a hawk sizing up its prey. Dean’s pulse quickened, though he kept his expression steady, professional. Across the table, Balthazar sat up straighter, the lazy indifference melting from his posture like mist under the sun. Even Gabriel, who had been fiddling absently with a pen moments ago, put it down and clasped his hands together, the picture of reluctant attention. Charles didn’t need to speak; the faint incline of his head as Adler approached was enough to convey his approval. Adler paused at the head of the table, his eyes landing on Dean with a flicker of interest. 

"Dean Smith," he said, his voice smooth and resonant. "I’ve been looking forward to hearing what you’ve got for us." Dean nodded, the movement precise and measured. 

"Thank you, Mister Adler. I’ve prepared a presentation outlining the proposed campaign strategy and its alignment with our long-term objectives. I’m confident it’ll meet the high standards you and the board expect." Adler smiled faintly, though there was little warmth in it. 

"Let’s hope so." With that, Adler settled into the seat beside Charles, his presence an anchor at the table. The air seemed to tighten, not with tension but with an unspoken acknowledgment of the stakes. Dean’s gaze flickered to Balthazar and Gabriel. Balthazar’s usual smirk had been replaced by something quieter, his sharp blue eyes narrowed as he focused on the materials in front of him. Gabriel, though less overtly serious, leaned forward slightly, his amber eyes bright with curiosity—or perhaps mischief. Dean couldn’t tell which. Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped to the front of the room. The sleek, wall-mounted screen behind him displayed the opening slide of his presentation. The Novak Enterprises logo gleamed in polished silver tones, accompanied by the title: 

‘Expanding Horizons: A Strategic Approach to Innovation and Growth’

"Thank you all for taking the time to be here today." Dean began, his voice calm and authoritative as he navigated the room’s collective focus. "The goal of this campaign is to position Novak Enterprises not just as a leader in its existing markets, but as an innovator capable of redefining those markets entirely. Our strategy emphasizes three key pillars: brand reinforcement, customer engagement, and sustainable growth." As he spoke, Dean’s confidence grew. The presentation wasn’t just a series of slides—it was a narrative, a vision for the future of the company that he’d crafted with precision and care. The room’s energy shifted subtly. Charles leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze never leaving Dean, while Adler’s hand moved to his chin, his expression unreadable but focused. Dean transitioned seamlessly to the next section, discussing projected ROI and market trends. The graphics on the screen moved in time with his words, a visual dance of numbers and sleek diagrams designed to capture attention. "This campaign isn’t about chasing short-term gains," Dean emphasized, his green eyes meeting Adler’s. "It’s about creating a foundation for long-term value, both for the company and for its stakeholders." He saw Adler nod faintly, a small but significant gesture, and allowed himself a brief moment of relief. The questions came quickly once Dean finished his initial points. Adler leaned forward, his gaze sharp. 

"Your projections are ambitious, Smith. What safeguards are in place to mitigate the risks of overextending?" Dean expected the challenge and answered without hesitation, outlining contingency plans and risk assessments. Adler’s expression remained neutral, though he inclined his head slightly as Dean finished, a silent acknowledgment of a satisfactory response. Gabriel’s question, unsurprisingly, was less direct. 

"You’ve got all these shiny graphs and buzzwords, but what about the actual people? How do you plan to keep the employees engaged while you’re off innovating the world?" Dean’s lips twitched faintly —close to a smile but not quite— as he shifted his stance. 

"Great question, Mister Novak. Employee engagement is a cornerstone of this strategy. Alongside the external campaign, we’re rolling out an internal initiative designed to foster innovation from within. That means workshops, training programs, and direct channels for employee feedback. When people feel invested in the process, they drive the change themselves."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his lips curling into an almost imperceptible smirk as he leaned back. Balthazar, true to form, was more pointed. 

"And how much of the budget are we throwing at this grand vision? I assume you’ve accounted for the, shall we say, realities of board expectations?" Dean nodded, toggling to a slide that broke down the proposed budget in clean, elegant graphics. 

"Every expense has been scrutinized to ensure maximum efficiency. The projected returns not only justify the investment but surpass it significantly. I’m happy to go into detail if anyone would like." Balthazar waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes lingered on the numbers longer than Dean would have expected. 

"No need. I’ll take your word for it—for now. And an email later?"

The discussion continued, a back-and-forth of ideas, questions, and measured responses. Dean could feel the room warming to his vision, the skepticism softening into curiosity and even cautious approval. Adler, in particular, seemed intrigued, his sharp gaze studying Dean like he was dissecting a particularly interesting problem. By the time Dean wrapped up, the energy in the room had shifted entirely. He returned to his seat, his pulse steady but his mind racing as he waited for the verdict. Charles spoke first, his tone calm but firm. 

"You’ve done well, Smith. I see potential here." Adler followed, his words slower but no less impactful. 

"It’s a bold strategy. If you can execute it as seamlessly as you’ve presented it, I believe it could be a turning point for the company." Dean inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

"Thank you, Mister Novak. Mister Adler. I’m confident we can make this a success." 

As the meeting adjourned, the room began to empty, Balthazar and Gabriel exchanging quiet remarks as they left together. Adler offered Dean a nod of approval before following Charles out, leaving the room quiet and still. Dean let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair. He had done it. The presentation was a success. But even as relief settled in his chest, another thought lingered in the back of his mind: Castiel. The memory of last night —the way Castiel had looked at him before saying goodnight— flared to life, vivid and insistent. Dean shook his head, gathering his things. There’d be time to think about that later. For now, he had a campaign to launch.

Yet despite his responsibilities Dean lingered in the meeting room as the last traces of conversation faded down the hallway. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows painted the table in warm, golden tones, the quiet a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere of the meeting minutes ago. He leaned against the window, gazing out at the city below, where the world carried on, oblivious to his small triumph. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Castiel. He knew the meeting with Charles Novak loomed—an undertaking fraught with unspoken stakes. Dean fished his phone from his pocket, the smooth screen cool against his fingertips, and typed out a message. He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the send button, before hitting it with a resolute tap.

Dean: Good luck today. You’ll crush it.

The reply came faster than he expected.

Castiel: Is that so, Director Smith? You seem confident in my abilities.

Dean smirked, leaning his shoulder against the window frame as he typed back.

Dean: I’ve seen your work. You’ve got this. Besides, your dad’s probably more scared of you than you are of him.

There was a pause, longer this time, and then Castiel’s response buzzed onto the screen.

Castiel: Flattery and falsehoods, Dean. I’m onto your tricks. But please, continue—I’m entertained.

Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. His fingers danced across the keys.

Dean: No tricks. Just honesty. You’re good at what you do, Cas. And you know it.

Castiel: Hmmmm, good at some things, perhaps. 

Castiel: But you, Dean—you might be my favorite thing to excel at.

The heat that rose in Dean’s face was immediate, and he glanced over his shoulder, as though the empty meeting room could witness his reaction. He exhaled sharply. 

"Jesus, Cas," he muttered under his breath before composing himself enough to type back.

Dean: Pretty sure we’re talking about your murals, not...whatever you’re aiming for here.

Castiel: Murals, yes.

Castiel: What else would I be aiming for? 

Castiel: Certainly not distracting you with the memory of last night. Perish the thought.

Dean groaned softly, biting back a grin. He typed quickly, eager to regain some ground in the verbal sparring match.

Dean: Shouldn’t you be focusing on getting ready for your meeting instead of tormenting me?

Castiel: Ah, but tormenting you calms my nerves. 

Castiel: It’s a public service, really.

Dean shook his head, his smirk widening as he responded.

Dean: Well, public servant Castiel Novak, you’d better go knock that meeting out of the park. I’ll let you get to it.

The reply came almost instantly.

Castiel: Only because you’re insisting. 

Dean: Good.

Castiel: But Dean? 

Dean: Yes?

Castiel: When it’s over, I expect a reward for my public service. Something… hands-on.

Dean’s stomach did a slow flip, the words on the screen far too vivid in his mind. He rolled his eyes, though his heart raced despite himself.

Dean: Go to your meeting, Novak. 

Dean: And behave.

Castiel: Only if you promise not to.

Dean locked his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, shaking his head with a soft laugh. Castiel’s ability to unsettle him, to make him feel both flustered and exhilarated in the same breath, was nothing short of maddening. He exhaled, already thinking about the next time he’d see Castiel. If his flirting was any indication, that might come sooner rather than later. Dean’s thoughts swirled in a chaotic dance as he lingered in the now-empty meeting room. He should have stayed with Castiel yesterday, should have told him what he’d confessed in the haze of drunken vulnerability. Should have—

The sound of someone clearing their throat cut through the quiet like a razor. Dean’s head jerked up, his pulse quickening as his gaze landed on the figure leaning casually against the doorway. Balthazar’s expression was inscrutable, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

"I know," Balthazar said, his tone light but laced with something that made Dean’s stomach tighten. Dean frowned, his throat constricting under the weight of those two simple words. 

"What?" Balthazar tilted his head, his smirk deepening, though his eyes carried a glint of something sharper. He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room with a grace that seemed entirely too nonchalant for the conversation he was about to start.

"That you helped him," Balthazar said, gesturing vaguely, his tone almost conversational. Dean swallowed, forcing himself to keep his posture relaxed. He shrugged, a half-hearted attempt at brushing it off. 

"Yeah, well..." His words trailed into the quiet, and he looked away, suddenly finding the grain of the table intensely interesting.

 "Don’t," Balthazar gave a soft, knowing laugh, the sound low and smooth. "Don’t do that," he said, crossing his arms again as he leaned a hip against the table. "Don’t pretend it was nothing." Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. The air between them felt charged, thick with unspoken truths that Dean wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

"He really likes you, you know," Balthazar said, his voice gentler now, but the words hit like a punch to the gut. Dean’s chest tightened, his mind racing. He looked up, his eyes meeting Balthazar’s, searching for something—sarcasm, humor, anything to make this easier to deflect. But there was none of that in Balthazar’s expression.

"I don’t..." Dean started, his voice faltering. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Balthazar’s gaze sharpened, his lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

"Oh, come on, Dean. You’re smarter than that. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed." Dean shifted uncomfortably, his hands resting on his hips as he exhaled through his nose. 

"It’s not that simple," he muttered, his voice low.

"Of course it’s not," Balthazar replied easily. "Nothing with Castiel ever is. But that doesn’t change the fact that he likes you. And you, Dean—you don’t look at him like you do anyone else. Don’t even try to deny it." Dean’s mouth opened, but the words caught in his throat, tangled in a web of conflicting emotions. He looked away, his fingers drumming against his thigh as he tried to piece together a response that wouldn’t betray the truth Balthazar had already laid bare. "You don’t have to say anything," Balthazar said after a moment, his tone softer. "I’m not here to call you out or make you uncomfortable. Just... don’t screw it up, yeah?" Dean looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

"Why do you care?"  Balthazar chuckled, the sound rich and layered. 

"Let’s just say I’ve been cleaning up after Castiel for a long time. It’d be nice to know he has someone else in his corner for once." The words hung in the air between them, and for a moment, Dean didn’t know how to respond. Balthazar straightened, his smirk returning as he moved toward the door. "Think about it," he said over his shoulder, his voice almost teasing. "He’s worth the trouble, Dean. If you let him be." Dean watched him go, the sound of his footsteps fading into the hallway. The room felt quieter than before, but the silence was no longer comforting. Dean exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face as he leaned back against the window.

He knew Balthazar was right. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

Chapter Text

The office was eerily quiet, the hum of computers long silenced as the workday dissolved into the lull of Friday evening. Balthazar leaned back in his chair, the screen in front of him dark, the faint reflection of his own face staring back. He had seen Dean leave over an hour ago, his purposeful stride carrying him toward the elevator. Others had trickled out soon after, eager to escape into their weekends. But not everyone. He pushed his chair back and stood, smoothing the lines of his blazer as he glanced around his spacious office. It wasn’t instinct alone that told him Meg was still somewhere in the building; it was Meg herself. She had a knack for lingering, for waiting out the end of the day like she had nowhere else to be. Balthazar didn’t mind. In fact, he found it curious. And tonight, like last Friday, curiosity got the better of him. His footsteps echoed faintly as he strolled through the dim corridors, the fluorescent lights overhead casting cold, pale shadows. He found her exactly where he expected, standing by the printers in the corner of the supply room. She had her back to him, her movements efficient as she refilled the paper trays, her ponytail swaying slightly with each step.

"That’s awfully nice of you," Balthazar said, leaning casually against the doorframe. Meg didn’t stop what she was doing, but a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Don’t read too much into it," she said lightly, sliding a stack of paper into the tray and closing it with a soft click. Balthazar let his eyes linger, his smirk widening.  "Everyone else has gone, you know."

"I know," Meg replied simply, her voice calm, almost amused. He tilted his head, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. 

"Two Fridays in a row?" he asked, his tone teasing but laced with a familiar edge. She turned slightly, one eyebrow quirking. 

"I can still leave," she said, the challenge in her voice unmistakable. Balthazar didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the space between them. His hands found her waist as he embraced her from behind, his lips grazing her ear. 

"I doubt you’re going to," he murmured, his voice low and smooth. Meg let out a quiet laugh, her head tilting just enough for her cheek to brush his. 

"Is everyone across the pond this annoying?" she asked, her tone dry but edged with a smile.

"Absolutely," Balthazar replied without missing a beat. "Every single one of us." His hands rested lightly on her hips, his fingers curling just enough to hold her there. She turned her head slightly to look at him, her eyes sharp and playful. 

"Then I guess I’ll just have to endure it." He chuckled softly, his breath warm against her skin. 

"You make it sound like such a chore," he said, leaning in closer. Meg shrugged, a smirk of her own playing on her lips now. 

"Maybe it is."

"Maybe you like it," Balthazar countered, his voice a soft drawl, his words a challenge wrapped in velvet. Her silence was answer enough. The printer whirred softly behind them, forgotten as the moment stretched between them, laced with an understanding that neither of them needed to voice. Meg turned in Balthazar’s arms, her eyes catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. She met his gaze with the same sharpness that had always intrigued him, her smirk intact but softened at the edges. The room felt smaller, the air around them tinged with the quiet buzz of anticipation, the kind that lingers between two people who both know better and don’t care.

"You’re awfully confident for someone standing in a supply closet," Meg said, her tone dry, though her hands found their way to the lapels of his jacket, tugging just enough to close the remaining space between them. Balthazar tilted his head, his smirk widening. 

"And yet, here you are, indulging me," he murmured, his voice rich with amusement. "It’s flattering, really." She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away, her fingers brushing absently against the fabric of his shirt. 

"Flattering," she repeated, the word curling into something almost sardonic. "Is that what this is? You feeling appreciated?" Balthazar’s laugh was low, nearly a purr, and he leaned in closer, his lips hovering near her temple. 

"Darling, I don’t need appreciation. I need you to admit you’ve been waiting for this all week." Meg let out a soft scoff, her smile breaking through despite herself. 

"You think I was restocking paper because I had nothing better to do?" she asked, arching a brow.

"Precisely," Balthazar replied smoothly, his hands sliding to her hips, his touch firm but not unkind. "You’re not exactly the ‘stay late and be helpful’ type, Meg. Which means you had an ulterior motive." She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered.

"And if I did?" Balthazar’s fingers tightened just slightly, his breath catching in a way he wouldn’t have admitted even under duress. 

"Then I’d say you’re smarter than I give you credit for." Meg laughed softly, the sound warm and cutting all at once. 

"Don’t let it go to your head," she said, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze again. Her eyes glittered with mischief, the kind that dared him to press his luck.

"Too late," Balthazar quipped, his grin returning as he leaned in to kiss her. The kiss was slow at first, deliberate, a quiet declaration in the stillness of the room. But it deepened quickly, their shared impatience cutting through the pretense of restraint. Meg’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, while Balthazar’s hands slid up her back, anchoring her against him as if letting go wasn’t an option.

When they finally broke apart, the air between them felt charged, the moment stretching as they caught their breath. Meg looked up at him, her lips quirking into a small smile. 

"You’re going to make this a habit, aren’t you?" Balthazar chuckled, his thumb brushing idly against her waist. 

"Only if you let me." She sighed, shaking her head with mock exasperation. 

"God, you’re insufferable."

"And yet, here you are," he countered, his grin unapologetic. Meg didn’t reply, her smile softening just enough to betray her amusement. Instead, she turned back to the printer, her movements measured as she finished the task she’d started. Balthazar watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping back toward the door.

"Same time next week?" he asked, his tone light but edged with sincerity. Meg glanced over her shoulder, her smirk returning. 

"We’ll see," she said, her voice lilting with just enough playfulness to keep him guessing. Balthazar laughed as he left the room, the sound echoing faintly down the empty corridor. Meg lingered behind, her hands stilling for a moment as she allowed herself a small, private smile. Then, with a shake of her head, she turned back to the task at hand, the quiet hum of the office settling around her once more.

Balthazar returned moments later, his jacket slung over one shoulder and his leather bag in hand. The soft click of his shoes against the tile broke the quiet, and he leaned casually against the doorframe, his eyes sweeping over Meg as she worked. She didn’t look up, her focus entirely on sliding a fresh ream of paper into the printer’s drawer.

"Tell me, Miss Masters," Balthazar began, his tone infused with a teasing lilt, "why, oh why, are you cleaning up when everyone else has already escaped this dreadful place for the weekend?" Without missing a beat, Meg closed the drawer with a decisive snap and straightened.

"I’m not cleaning up," she said, her voice calm but laced with that familiar, razor-sharp wit. She turned to face him, resting a hand on the machine as if to underline her point. "I’m filling it with paper. There’s a difference." Balthazar chuckled softly, setting his bag down on the nearest desk. 

"Ah, I see. So noble of you to ensure the printers are well-fed for the Monday chaos."

"It’s called foresight," she retorted, brushing past him to reach the next printer in line. "Something you could stand to learn." Balthazar’s lips curved into a smirk as he trailed after her. 

"Darling, I have foresight in abundance. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?"

"Really? I thought you were here to annoy me," Meg shot back, her smile betraying her amusement as she cracked open another tray.

"Well, that too," he admitted with a grin, leaning on the edge of a desk to watch her. "But tell me, why the sudden devotion to office supplies? You don’t strike me as the ‘unsung hero’ type." Meg rolled her eyes, shoving the paper stack into place with a little more force than necessary. 

"Maybe I just don’t want to deal with the whining on Monday when someone forgets to do it."

"And maybe," Balthazar countered, his voice dropping into something more conspiratorial, "you’re stalling. Trying to decide whether you want to be good and go home or make a bad decision and come back to mine." She paused, her hands lingering on the printer tray as she considered his words. Then, with a shrug, she shut it firmly and turned to him, crossing her arms. 

"And maybe I’m just doing my job."

"Touché," he murmured, standing upright and closing the distance between them. His gaze lingered on her, his usual playful demeanor tempered by something softer, more deliberate. "But for the record, I’d vote for the bad decision."

"Of course you would," Meg said, her voice dry, though her expression softened at the edges. She glanced past him, as though weighing her options, before finally meeting his eyes. "You’re relentless, you know that?"

"I’ve been called worse," he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. 

"Fine," she said, stepping past him and grabbing her bag from the desk. "But only because I’m not in the mood to spend Friday night with reality TV."

"An excellent choice," Balthazar quipped, falling into step beside her as they made their way toward the elevators. "You know, Meg, I’m starting to think we make quite the team."

"Don’t push your luck," she warned, though her tone lacked any real bite. Balthazar only smiled, the faint hum of the elevator accompanying their silence as the doors slid shut behind them.

As they stepped into the cool evening air, the faint hum of streetlights and the occasional distant rumble of passing cars filled the space between them. Balthazar reached into his pocket and fished out his car keys, dangling them lazily from one finger.

"My car again?" he asked, the familiar teasing edge in his voice as he glanced at her. Meg slung her bag over one shoulder and arched an eyebrow. 

"As long as you pay for my Uber tomorrow."

"Done," Balthazar replied smoothly, unlocking the sleek black car parked just a few feet away. The sharp beep of the alarm disarming echoed softly. Meg paused beside him, her lips quirking into a sly smile. 

"You know, you’re missing out. We could’ve taken my bike." Balthazar turned to her with an expression that straddled amusement and incredulity. 

"Your motorcycle? Oh, darling, I’m not suicidal." Meg snorted, crossing her arms as they reached the car. 

"Hey, I’m a good driver."

"Let me rephrase," Balthazar said, opening the passenger-side door for her with a flourish. "I’m not clinging to the back of you on two wheels, holding on for dear life. That’s not a good look for me."

"Coward," she quipped, sliding into the car with a smirk. Balthazar circled to the driver’s side, slipping into his seat and adjusting the mirrors with casual efficiency. 

"Pragmatist," he corrected, starting the engine. It purred to life, the dashboard glowing faintly in the dim light. As he pulled out onto the street, Meg leaned back in her seat, her gaze drifting to the city skyline in the distance. The hum of the engine filled the quiet, a steady rhythm that seemed to match the unspoken cadence of their conversation.

"You know," she began, her voice thoughtful, "it wouldn’t kill you to try it once. Riding on the back of a bike, I mean."

"Wouldn’t it?" Balthazar shot back, a quick grin flashing her way before his attention returned to the road. "Besides, I’m far too attached to my suits to risk them in such reckless pursuits." Meg chuckled, shaking her head. 

"You’re ridiculous."

"Thank you," he replied lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk.

For a while, they drove in companionable silence, the city lights painting faint patterns across their faces. Balthazar glanced at her briefly, noting the way her expression softened as she watched the world blur by.

"You’re thinking about something," he said, his tone more curious than prying.

"Maybe," Meg admitted, her lips curving slightly. "Or maybe I’m just appreciating the rare moments when you’re not talking." Balthazar laughed, the sound rich and warm, filling the cabin. 

"Oh, Meg, you wound me."

"Not enough to stop you, apparently," she shot back, her voice light. And so, they drove on, their banter weaving seamlessly into the rhythm of the city around them, an unspoken understanding settling into the spaces between their words. 

The elevator arrived with a soft chime, its interior just as pristine as the rest of the building. They stepped inside, their reflections catching in the mirrored walls as the doors slid closed behind them. For a brief moment, it was hard to ignore how well they complemented each other—his polished elegance, her understated allure.

"You’re ridiculous," Meg said, though her voice lacked any real bite.

"And you’re predictable," Balthazar shot back, his smirk softening into something closer to a grin. Meg didn’t reply, her gaze drifting to the numbers flickering on the panel as the elevator ascended. The faint hum of motion filled the small space, punctuated only by their breaths and the occasional soft rustle of clothing. When the elevator finally stopped, the familiar chime signaling their arrival, she straightened her posture as if preparing herself. Balthazar gestured for her to exit first, his grin widening with exaggerated politeness.

"After you, Miss Masters. Welcome to paradise." When the elevator doors slid open to reveal the private corridor leading to Balthazar’s penthouse, Meg rolled her eyes but stepped out into the hallway. She didn’t reply, though the faint smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. The hallway was a study in quiet opulence—the plush carpeting muffled their footsteps, and the soft glow of recessed lighting created a warm, almost ethereal atmosphere. It was silent up here, the kind of silence only vast wealth could achieve, as though the noise of the city below had been carefully shut out.

Balthazar followed her with his usual unhurried gait, slipping his hand into his pocket to retrieve the key. The door to the penthouse loomed ahead, a sleek expanse of dark wood with a polished brass handle that gleamed under the ambient lighting. His movements were fluid, almost lazy, as he turned the key in the lock. The door swung open with a faint click, revealing a space that exuded effortless luxury. The living room stretched out before them, its open floor plan framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a breathtaking view of the city’s glittering skyline. Modern furniture in muted, tasteful tones was arranged with meticulous precision, as though curated by an artist rather than a designer. A statement chandelier hung above, its delicate crystals refracting the light into a cascade of tiny rainbows. Everything about the apartment seemed deliberate, refined—a place where even imperfections would feel contrived.

"I liked the old apartment more," Meg said, stepping inside but not venturing too far. Her voice cut through the quiet, almost swallowed by the vastness of the space. Balthazar closed the door behind him, arching a brow as he turned to her. 

"You keep saying that."

"Well, it’s true," Meg replied, her tone even as she shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the back of a chair with the casual familiarity of someone who had been here before. Balthazar leaned against the door, studying her with a faint, knowing smile. 

"You and Castiel are a lot more alike than you like to admit," he said, his voice tinged with playful accusation. Meg raised a brow, turning to face him fully. 

"And what’s that supposed to mean?" Balthazar’s smirk widened as he stepped closer, his gaze flicking between her face and the skyline beyond. 

"Oh, you know," he said lightly, though his tone carried an edge of truth. "The nostalgia. The need for things to feel... real. The irritating habit of pointing out every flaw in something perfect." Meg crossed her arms, tilting her head as she regarded him. 

"Well, maybe your version of perfection is overrated."

"Perhaps," Balthazar conceded with a shrug, his smile softening into something that almost seemed genuine. "But it’s terribly entertaining, isn’t it?" Meg shook her head, her lips curving into a small, reluctant smile as she turned away, walking further into the apartment. 

"Ridiculous."

"And yet," Balthazar called after her, his tone dripping with amusement, "here you are." Meg’s steps were leisurely but purposeful, as though she needed to remind herself why she was here. The glow of the city lights spilled across the room in fragmented patterns, casting shadows that danced along the polished floors. She ran a hand over the back of the sleek leather couch, her fingers brushing the cool surface. The apartment was flawless, curated to perfection, but to her, it lacked something vital—something messy and real. Balthazar moved to the kitchen, a space that was more gallery than functional. The countertops were a seamless expanse of dark granite, and the appliances gleamed as though they had never been touched. He reached into a cabinet, retrieving two glasses, his movements unhurried and precise.

"Wine?" he asked, his voice casual but carrying that undercurrent of charm he wielded like a weapon.

"Sure," Meg replied, leaning against the edge of the couch. Her gaze drifted to the skyline again. The city stretched out before her, its endless sprawl of lights blinking like tiny beacons in the dark. She thought of the noise, the chaos below, and how this place seemed so removed from it, perched high above like an untouchable sanctuary. Yet, it felt oddly hollow. Balthazar poured the wine, the ruby liquid swirling in the glass as he carried it over to her. He held it out, and when she took it, their fingers brushed briefly. It was a small moment, but his grin suggested he noticed, and Meg couldn’t help the faint smirk that tugged at her lips.

"Same as last week. You always drink this fancy?" she asked, taking a sip. The wine was smooth, rich, the kind that didn’t come with a price tag most people would dare glance at.

"Of course," he said, settling into the armchair across from her. His posture was relaxed, one leg draped lazily over the other as he swirled the wine in his glass. "If you’re going to indulge, do it properly." She didn’t reply immediately, letting the silence stretch out between them. The apartment’s quiet was almost oppressive now, the kind that begged for conversation or music to fill it. She wondered if Balthazar ever sat here alone, just staring at the view, or if he always surrounded himself with noise and people to stave off the stillness.

"Why do you live like this?" she asked suddenly, her voice softer than she intended. "All this... show?" Balthazar arched a brow, his smile faltering just slightly as he considered her. 

"It’s not a show," he said, his tone light but carrying a thread of sincerity. "It’s comfort. Control."

"Control?" she echoed, narrowing her eyes. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee as he regarded her with an almost disarming honesty. 

"Chaos doesn’t suit me. This," he gestured around the room, "is my way of keeping it at bay." Meg studied him, her fingers tightening briefly around the stem of her glass. It was a rare moment, seeing him this unguarded, even if it was fleeting. 

"That’s sad," she said, but her voice was gentle. Balthazar laughed, a low, melodic sound that echoed faintly in the room. 

"And yet, you’re here drinking my wine and sitting on my couch. What does that say about you, Miss Masters?" She shook her head, a wry smile curling her lips. 

"That I have questionable taste in company." He raised his glass in a mock toast. 

"To questionable tastes, then." Meg clinked her glass against his, her smirk softening into something more genuine. For all his theatrics and indulgences, there was something undeniably human about Balthazar in these moments, something she couldn’t quite put into words but felt all the same.

"Don’t think this means I’m staying for breakfast," she said after a moment, breaking the quiet.

"I wouldn’t dream of it," he replied smoothly, though the glint in his eye suggested otherwise.

As the evening stretched on, the city below continued its endless pulse, but up here, in Balthazar’s immaculate world, time seemed to slow, the lines between them blurring just enough to keep them both from looking too closely. The conversation tapered into a comfortable quiet, the kind that carried an unspoken undercurrent. Meg set her wine glass on the table with a soft clink, her eyes lingering on the deep red swirl left at the bottom before she shifted her gaze to Balthazar. He was watching her, his expression unreadable but undeniably intent, as though the room itself had narrowed to just the two of them.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said, her voice tinged with something that wasn’t quite irritation.

"Like what?" Balthazar leaned back, the picture of ease, though his eyes betrayed something sharper beneath the surface.

"Like you’ve already won," she replied, her lips curving slightly, the challenge clear. His grin deepened, and he rose from his chair in one fluid motion, crossing the small distance between them with deliberate, measured steps. 

"Oh, Meg, you know me. I never play to lose." She rolled her eyes but didn’t move, even as he stopped just short of her. The proximity was electric, the air between them charged in a way that made her pulse quicken, though she refused to show it. He reached out, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers grazing her skin with a touch that was lighter than air yet left a trail of warmth in its wake.

"Is this the part where you tell you’re leaving?" he murmured, his voice low, carrying the faintest edge of mischief. Her smirk faltered, and she met his gaze head-on, her own eyes narrowing slightly. 

"And miss the chance to knock you down a peg? Not likely." He laughed softly, the sound rumbling between them like a quiet storm, and before she could fire off another retort, his hand moved to her jaw, his thumb grazing her cheek in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned in, his breath warm against her lips, and for a split second, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, she closed the distance, her lips finding his in a kiss that was anything but tentative. It was sharp and unapologetic, the kind of kiss that demanded attention and left no room for second-guessing. He responded in kind, his hand sliding to the back of her neck as he deepened the kiss, his movements both calculated and unrestrained. Her fingers found their way to his collar, tugging him closer, and he obliged, his body pressing against hers with a heat that was impossible to ignore. The air in the room seemed to shift, the city lights casting their entwined shadows across the pristine walls as the kiss grew more fervent. Meg pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling in tandem with his. She searched his face for a moment, her eyes flicking over the curve of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw, and the faint flush that had crept up his neck. He looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and it annoyed her more than it should have.

"Don’t let this go to your head," she said, her voice slightly hoarse but laced with enough sarcasm to make her point. Balthazar grinned, leaning in to brush his lips against hers again, softer this time, as though he were savoring the moment. 

"Too late," he whispered against her mouth, and she couldn’t help but laugh, the sound muffled as he kissed her again, drawing her closer until nothing else seemed to matter. Balthazar’s hands were warm, trailing down her back with a purpose that made her forget the world outside the penthouse. His lips moved against hers with practiced ease, teasing, coaxing, pulling her deeper into the moment. Meg responded in kind, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pressed herself closer, the cool fabric of his shirt contrasting with the heat radiating between them.

The sharp trill of a ringtone shattered the bubble they had created, the sound intrusive and grating. For a moment, neither of them moved, as though they could will the interruption away.

"Don’t," Meg murmured against his lips, her voice low, almost pleading.

"I wasn’t planning to," Balthazar replied, his words muffled as he leaned back in, his mouth finding hers again with renewed fervor. The phone persisted, vibrating insistently in his pocket. Meg let out a frustrated groan, pulling back just enough to glare at him. 

"You’re not going to check that, are you?" He smirked, his hands sliding down to her hips, anchoring her in place. 

"Meg, darling, do I look like the kind of man who prioritizes anything over this?" His lips brushed the corner of her mouth as he spoke, the contact sending a shiver through her. The phone rang again, louder this time—or maybe it just felt that way, its presence impossible to ignore. She narrowed her eyes at him, the corners of her lips twitching in a way that suggested both amusement and annoyance. 

"You’re the kind of man who’s going to drive me insane."

"Guilty as charged." His grin was infuriatingly charming, but as the phone started its third round of ringing, he sighed dramatically, pulling away with exaggerated reluctance. "Fine. Let me deal with this, and then I’m all yours." He fished the phone out of his pocket, glancing at the screen with a flicker of irritation before answering. "This better be good," he said, his tone dripping with the kind of polished sarcasm that only Balthazar could pull off. Meg crossed her arms, leaning against the back of the couch with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and curiosity. She watched him as he paced a few steps away, his posture shifting from casual to guarded as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. The change in his demeanor was subtle but telling—his shoulders stiffened slightly, and the glimmer of amusement in his eyes dimmed. "Castiel," he said, exhaling as if summoning every ounce of patience he could muster. Balthazar’s lips pressed into a thin line, his grip tightening around the phone. Castiel’s voice came through, uneven and loud enough for Meg to hear. 

"Qui bibit, dormit; qui dormit, non peccat; qui non peccat, sanctus est; ergo: qui bibit, sanctus est." Balthazar’s free hand moved to pinch the bridge of his nose as he listened to the chaotic slurring on the other end of the line. 

"You did not just speak butchered Latin to justify your drinking."

"I most definitely did," Castiel replied, his voice carrying the unmistakable lilt of someone several drinks past sobriety. A loud hiccup followed, and Balthazar’s gaze flickered to Meg, who raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. Then Castiel added, with the dramatic flair only a drunk could muster, "Metro boulot dodo." Balthazar groaned. 

"Cassie, that’s French. And you don’t speak French either."

"Et tu?" Castiel retorted, his tone dripping with mockery. Balthazar rolled his eyes skyward, as if appealing to some divine force for assistance. 

"You know I do."

"Wow," Castiel drawled. "You’re sooooo special. Everyone, look at Balthazar, the linguist extraordinaire. " His words were punctuated by a faint clink, likely the sound of a bottle meeting a glass.

"Why are you drunk, Castiel?" Balthazar asked, his voice softening despite himself.

"Because I’m a mess," Castiel declared, almost triumphantly. "And the world knows it." Balthazar’s brow furrowed, his mind immediately flashing to Dean. He had noticed the purposeful stride Dean had when he left the office earlier, the tension in his shoulders. 

"I thought you and Dean were together," Balthazar said carefully. There was a beat of silence, then Castiel’s voice came back, quieter but no less slurred. 

"Dean is with his sister. Eating Oreos… probably." Balthazar’s jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes briefly, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose again as though he could stave off the growing headache.

"Castiel," he started, his tone edging into exasperation.

"Don’t," Castiel interrupted, his voice cracking just slightly. "Just… don’t, Balthazar." Meg, who had been watching the exchange with a mix of curiosity and mild concern, pushed off the back of the couch. 

"Is he okay?" she mouthed, and Balthazar shook his head, lifting a hand to wave her off.

"Cassie," he said softly into the phone, his voice losing its edge. "You’re better than this."

"No, I’m not," Castiel replied, a hollow laugh punctuating his words. Then the line went dead, leaving only the faint hum of the city outside and the tense silence of the penthouse. Balthazar let the phone fall to his side, his other hand finding his hip as he exhaled sharply. He looked over at Meg, who was leaning against the couch, arms crossed.

"Well," Meg said, her voice light but her gaze sharp, "that sounded productive." Balthazar glanced at his phone, the faint glow of the screen casting shadows on his face. His fingers tapped idly against its edge, and then, with a resigned sigh, he straightened. 

"I have to go," he said, already reaching for his jacket. Meg tilted her head, one eyebrow arching in amused incredulity. 

"Babysitter Balthazar to the rescue," she quipped, her tone sweetly mocking.

"Don’t," he warned, his voice low but tinged with weariness. Meg shrugged, entirely unbothered by his mood. 

"I’ll go with you," she said, moving to grab her own coat as though the matter had already been decided. Balthazar hesitated, his hand gripping the back of the chair as he turned to her. 

"I’m not sure that’s such a good idea—" Meg cut him off, her tone firm but not unkind. 

"Come on. I know him. You know that."

"Yes, but—"

"I know him," she repeated, her gaze steady and unyielding as she looked him squarely in the eye. "I grew up with him. I know how this works. I’m coming." Balthazar opened his mouth to argue but found himself silenced by the look she gave him—a mixture of determination and something softer, something that reminded him why she had always been able to handle Castiel in ways others couldn’t. With a faint huff of exasperation, he dropped his hand and gestured toward the door. 

"Fine," he said, already moving. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Meg replied with a wry smile, falling into step beside him. The ride down to the garage was quiet, save for the faint hum of the elevator. Balthazar’s mind churned, piecing together the fragments of Castiel’s slurred words while Meg leaned against the mirrored wall, watching him with a knowing expression.

"Don’t overthink it," she said softly, her voice breaking the silence as the elevator came to a stop. Balthazar scoffed, stepping out ahead of her. 

"Overthinking is what I do best, darling."

Meg didn’t reply, but the slight curve of her lips as she followed him spoke loud enough on it’s own. As they climbed into his car, the tension in the air seemed to shift, not disappearing but softening into something more familiar. Whatever waited for them on the other side of this night, they would face it together.

Balthazar turned the steering wheel smoothly, the quiet hum of the car’s engine filling the space between them. The city outside the windows was a blur of neon and shadow, the streets quieter now that the night had settled in. His fingers tapped restlessly against the leather-wrapped steering wheel as he finally broke the silence.

"He’s worse now than he was when you were together, you know," Balthazar said, his voice measured but laced with a faint undercurrent of frustration. "It’s like he has no restraint anymore." Meg leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed loosely over her chest as she stared out the window. Her reflection in the glass flickered with the passing lights, her expression unreadable. After a pause, she sighed. 

"He never had any restraint before either," she said quietly, her tone even. "It just wasn’t alcohol." Balthazar cast her a quick glance, his brow furrowing. 

"You think this is better?" he asked, his voice sharper now. "Trading one self-destructive habit for another?"

"I didn’t say that," Meg replied, turning her head to look at him, her gaze steady. "I’m just saying it’s not new. Castiel’s always been like this. You just didn’t see it the way I did." Balthazar pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening as he navigated through a quiet intersection. The soft glow of a streetlamp spilled into the car, catching the edge of his profile and the faint crease of worry etched into his brow. 

"And what exactly did you see?" he asked, his tone softer now but no less serious. Meg tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as though considering how much to reveal. 

"I saw someone trying to fill a void he doesn’t understand," she said finally. "It wasn’t drinking back then—it was art, parties, cigarettes, sex. Anything to distract himself from whatever it is he’s afraid of facing." Balthazar let out a low breath, his grip on the steering wheel loosening slightly. 

"And now?" he asked, his voice quieter.

"Now," Meg said with a faint shrug, "he’s just gotten better at pretending it’s fine. And maybe he believes it. For a little while, anyway." Her voice softened, her words almost wistful. "But it always catches up with him."

Balthazar fell silent at that, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. The cityscape gave way to quieter streets, the noise of the city fading into the background. Meg shifted in her seat, pulling her coat tighter around her as she glanced at him.

"You care about him," she said, her tone lacking the usual teasing edge.

"Of course I do," Balthazar replied without hesitation, his voice calm but firm. "Someone has to." Meg studied him for a moment, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her lips. 

"Good," she said simply, turning her gaze back to the window.

The rest of the drive passed in companionable silence, the city lights giving way to the quiet, wealthy neighborhood where Castiel’s apartment waited. As Balthazar pulled up to the curb and killed the engine, the two of them exchanged a brief glance—an unspoken understanding passing between them. Whatever state they found Castiel in, they would face it together.

When they reached Castiel’s door, Meg’s steps slowed as her gaze lingered on the familiar shade of painted wood. It was the kind of blue that felt both calming and warm, like the memory of an open sky on a perfect afternoon. Her eyes traced the edges where the paint had begun to wear, softened by time and the occasional careless bump. Around the handle, faint scratches carved into the surface spoke of moments when keys were clumsily sought, nights Castiel probably returned home in a state far from steady. A small, fleeting smile tugged at her lips, the kind that came unbidden from a thousand unspoken memories. Balthazar raised his hand, his knuckles hovering just millimetres from the wood. He hesitated, a moment of practiced consideration in his movement, but before he could follow through, the door swung open. The hinges creaked faintly, and standing on the other side was Castiel. He was barefoot, his hair a tousled mess of dark waves, as though he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times and still couldn’t be bothered to fix it. He wore a hoodie—oversized and plain gray, its hem brushing the middle of his thighs like he hadn’t bothered to put on anything else. The sight was almost ridiculous in its casualness, but it suited him in the way Castiel seemed to make even the mismatched feel purposeful. The hoodie didn’t look new nor did it look like something Castiel would have picked up himself. Borrowed then. Dean’s?

"Meg!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying the kind of unrestrained delight that couldn’t be faked. A wide, almost childlike grin spread across Castiel’s face. Meg’s own smile widened, despite herself, though her brow quirked in amusement. 

"Heya, Cassie," she said, stepping forward, her tone lighter than it had been in the car. "Nice outfit." Castiel looked down at himself, as if noticing for the first time what he was wearing, then shrugged with a crooked grin. 

"It’s warm," he said simply, his fingers tugging at the cuffs of the sleeves, which hung past his wrists. Balthazar, standing a step behind, crossed his arms and raised a single eyebrow. 

"Not even going to say hello to me?" he asked, his tone mock-wounded.Castiel’s grin softened but didn’t falter. 

"Hello, Balthazar," he said, his voice dipping into a faintly amused drawl. "Come in, both of you." He stepped aside, holding the door open wide with a flourish that bordered on theatrical. The apartment smelled faintly of sage and something floral, a mix of candles left burning too long and the faint traces of oil paints that seemed to cling to the walls. Meg stepped inside first, her gaze sweeping over the familiar space. It hadn’t changed much—the same scattered books, the canvas leaning against the far wall, half-finished and chaotic in its strokes of vibrant color. A record spun quietly on the turntable in the corner, the soft hum of jazz filling the air like an old friend. Balthazar followed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the room. 

"Drinking alone again?" he asked, glancing at the half-empty bottle of wine sitting precariously on the edge of the coffee table. Castiel closed the door behind them, leaning against it for a moment as if to ground himself. 

"Not entirely alone," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the record player. "Ella Fitzgerald’s here."

"Ah, of course," Balthazar said, his voice tinged with dry humor. "Perfect drinking companion, the woman who didn’t drink or smoke." Castiel ignored the comment, turning his attention back to Meg with the same open affection he’d greeted her with. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious.

"Babysitting duty," Meg said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "Or at least, that’s what Balthazar called it." Castiel rolled his eyes, his grin turning crooked. 

"I don’t need babysitting," he said, though the faint slur in his words told a different story.

"No," Balthazar said, stepping closer and plucking the wine bottle off the table. "But you do need someone to keep you from drinking yourself into oblivion."

Castiel tilted his head, his expression somewhere between amused and resigned. "Always the dramatics with you," he said softly.

"And yet, you still answer the door in a borrowed hoodie," Meg cut in, crossing her arms and leaning against the back of the couch. "What’s the story there?" For the first time, Castiel faltered, his eyes darting briefly to the floor before he straightened. 

"It smells like him," he said after a moment, his voice quieter, almost vulnerable.

"Who?" Balthazar asked, almost certain of the answer before Castiel replied.

"Dean. It smells like Dean." Meg and Balthazar exchanged a glance, a flicker of understanding passing between them, but neither pressed further. Castiel’s expression had shifted, and for all his flippancy, there was a rawness there that neither wanted to crack open tonight. Meg tilted her head, her lips curving into a faintly teasing smile as she stood before Castiel, her fingers brushing a stray strand of his dark hair. She smoothed it back behind his ear with a casual tenderness that felt almost second nature, a remnant of years spent knowing him too well.

"So," she said, her tone carrying a playful lilt. "You and Dean?" Castiel, leaning slightly against the doorframe as though it were the only thing holding him upright, let out a soft, humorless laugh. 

"Me and no one," he replied, his voice quiet but firm. There was something guarded in his eyes, a faint shadow that flickered just behind the pale blue. Meg studied him for a moment, her expression softening. 

"Mhm," she murmured, her skepticism as evident as the affectionate familiarity in her gaze. "I don’t believe that for one second, Cassie. You’ve always had a thing for a man in a nice suit. And Dean wears a lot of nice suits." At that, Castiel’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, his eyes darting to the floor. 

"Dean wears silk ties," he said, the words slipping out with a strange mixture of disdain and reluctant admiration.

"The horror," Meg replied, her voice dropping to a mock-serious tone as she stepped closer. The faint scent of wine lingered in the air between them, mingling with the soft traces of sage and the remnants of some citrusy cologne Castiel must have worn earlier in the day. She leaned slightly forward, her gaze locking onto his. Castiel let his weight shift just enough that his shoulder brushed hers. 

"He’s not... like the others," he said, the words barely above a whisper, as though saying them out loud might shatter something fragile. He hesitated, then added, "He makes me think."

"Think about what?" Meg asked, her voice softer now, the teasing edge fading into something more earnest.

"Everything," Castiel admitted, his head dipping slightly as if the confession carried too much vulnerability. "Who I am. Who I want to be." His gaze flicked up to meet hers, the blue of his eyes bright and open in a way that made him look younger, more unguarded than usual. "It’s... unsettling." Meg exhaled through her nose, her teasing smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. She reached up again, her fingers brushing lightly against his temple before trailing down to rest on his shoulder. 

"Unsettling’s good for you," she said. "You’ve been floating too long, Cassie. Maybe you need someone to anchor you." Castiel tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if he didn’t entirely believe her. 

"Dean Smith," he said, his voice tinged with a faint disbelief. "The Director. The man who measures his life in meetings and spreadsheets."

"And silk ties," Meg added with a grin. "Don’t forget those." Castiel huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft and unguarded. Without thinking, he leaned into her touch, his forehead brushing her shoulder in a gesture that felt both familiar and fragile. 

"I don’t know what I’m doing," he admitted, his voice muffled. Meg let her hand rest lightly on the back of his head, her fingers threading gently through his hair. 

"You never do," she said, her tone gentle but unflinching. "But that’s why people like Dean stick around. He’ll figure it out with you." Castiel didn’t answer right away, his breath evening out as he lingered there, leaning into the comfort of her presence. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost tentative. 

"I don’t deserve him." Meg’s fingers stilled for a moment before she shook her head. 

"That’s not for you to decide," she said firmly, her hand moving to lift his chin so he had no choice but to meet her gaze. "Let him make that call, Cassie. Don’t sabotage it before it even begins." 

Castiel blinked at her, his eyes wide and unguarded, before nodding faintly. The sound of the record in the corner shifted to another song, the soft, crooning melody filling the silence between them. Meg let her hand drop, stepping back just enough to give him space to breathe.

"Come on," she said, her voice lighter again as she turned toward the couch. "Let’s get you some water before Balthazar loses his patience and starts lecturing you in French." Castiel’s lips quirked into a faint smile, his gaze following her as she moved across the room. 

"He’d enjoy that too much," he murmured, but there was a flicker of warmth in his tone now, a small glimmer of something steadier taking root beneath the mess.

Meg placed the two glasses on the cluttered counter, the faint sound of the faucet lingering in the air. Castiel remained slouched in one of the mismatched stools, his fingers brushing the rim of the oversized hoodie sleeves as though trying to ground himself in the fabric. He hiccupped softly, his glassy eyes flitting around the room before landing on her.

"Why didn’t we work out?" he asked, his words slightly slurred but no less pointed.

The question hit Meg like a sudden gust of wind, stealing her breath for a moment. She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly through her nose. She didn’t need to turn around to feel the rawness of Castiel’s gaze on her, but she did anyway. When she looked at him, she saw not just the man in front of her —flushed cheeks, unsteady posture, and the faintly amused lopsided grin that often masked his pain— but the boy she’d known. The boy who had loved fiercely and without reserve, but who had never learned how to love himself.

"That’s not really a fair question to ask right now, Cassie," she said softly, her voice carefully even. She picked up a glass and took a deliberate sip, letting the cool water steady her. Castiel chuckled, the sound dry and a little bitter, as though he were mocking himself more than her. 

"Why not? I’m drunk, not stupid. Not more than usual anyway."

"Drunk enough," she countered, moving to lean against the counter opposite him. Her fingers toyed with the rim of her glass, avoiding his gaze as she gathered her thoughts. "You don’t really want the answer, Castiel. Not now." He hiccupped again, his brows furrowing as though her words didn’t quite compute. 

"I think I do." His voice dropped, quieter now, almost timid. "I mean, you loved me, right?" Meg’s chest tightened, the past rushing back with all its chaos and sweetness. 

"Yeah," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I did. Of course, I did." The living room beyond the kitchen seemed to hold its breath, the usual hum of life in his eclectic apartment swallowed by the quiet. The soft glow of the fairy lights above his bed reflected in his glass of water, shimmering like tiny stars on the verge of fading.

"Then why?" Castiel pressed, his hand gesturing vaguely, as though grasping for answers just out of reach. "Why didn’t it… why—why couldn’t we—"

"Cassie," she interrupted, her voice firmer now, though not unkind. She stepped closer, placing her glass on the counter and crossing her arms. "You never stopped. Never paused. You were always… more. More art, more feelings, more chaos. I couldn’t keep up, and… I wasn’t brave enough to tell you that." He blinked at her, his eyes wide, like a child trying to understand an adult’s words. 

"I thought… I thought you were everything."

"I wasn’t," she said gently, reaching out to brush a piece of lint off his sleeve. "I couldn’t be. And you needed someone who could… need someone who can handle all of you without losing themself." Castiel tilted his head, leaning into her touch the way he always had, as though her presence alone could anchor him. 

"Dean’s that someone, isn’t he?" he asked, his voice barely audible. Meg stilled, her fingers lingering for a moment before pulling back. 

"That’s not for me to say," she replied, her voice softer. "But you’re trying, more than I’ve seen in a while." Castiel smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

"Dean’s afraid of me."

"No," Meg said firmly, shaking her head. "Dean’s afraid for you, not of you. There’s a difference." He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping to the countertop. For a moment, they simply stood there, the unspoken weight of the past and the uncertainty of the present filling the space between them. The record player crackled softly in the background, a faint melody casting warmth over the room. Meg finally broke the silence, her tone light but edged with meaning. "Drink your water, Cassie. I’m not carrying your ass to bed again." Castiel chuckled softly, the sound lighter this time. 

"You would if you had to." She smirked, tilting her head. 

"Maybe. But let’s not test it." He picked up his glass and took a long sip, the lines of tension in his posture easing ever so slightly. Meg leaned back against the counter, watching him quietly, her fingers brushing the edge of her glass again.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice still thick with alcohol but clearer now.

"For what?" she asked, arching a brow.

"For still being here," Castiel said simply, his eyes meeting hers. For a moment, the vulnerability in his expression was so raw that it almost startled her. Meg shrugged, though her lips curved into a small smile. 

"You’d do the same for me." He nodded, his gaze dropping back to the water in his glass. 

"I would," Castiel said softly, almost to himself. He swirled the water in his glass like it might transform into something stronger if he wished hard enough. The edges of his words softened as he spoke, the alcohol still muddling his thoughts but not dulling the sincerity in his tone. "I did love you, Meg," he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "A lot. Gabriel used to make fun of me." Meg leaned against the counter, her arms loosely crossed, and tilted her head with a smirk tugging at her lips. 

"Well, he also bought a rat for a dog," she quipped. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, teasing but warm. "I wouldn’t take his judgment too seriously." Castiel snorted a laugh, the sound uneven but genuine. He hiccupped again, shaking his head as though trying to clear it.

"He still acts offended when I call her a ‘rat’," he muttered. "Can’t tell if he’s joking or not."

"Probably both," Meg replied, her grin growing. "You know Gabriel. Always half in on every joke he can." Castiel took another sip of his water, his hands trembling just slightly as he raised the glass. The words that followed were murmured into its rim, quiet and raw like an admission he couldn’t keep locked away. 

"Gabriel was right." Her smile faltered, replaced by a subtle furrow in her brow. 

"Right about what?" she asked carefully, her voice lowering, the air between them suddenly quieter. Castiel lifted his eyes, the glass lingering in his hands as though it were the only thing tethering him to the moment. His gaze was unsteady, but the emotions swimming in it were achingly clear: guilt, sorrow, and something too tangled to name. 

"About us," he said, his voice barely audible. "About me. That I... I ruin things." He hiccupped again, the sound almost pathetic, and let out a rueful chuckle. "You should’ve seen his face when I told him I wanted to marry you. Looked like I’d grown a second head." Meg blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. She straightened, unfolding her arms and taking a small step closer. 

"You wanted to marry me?" she asked, her voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.

"Of course I did," Castiel said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You were... everything. Smart. Funny. Scary as hell when you wanted to be." He hiccupped, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "Beautiful. Even when you yelled at me for leaving paint on your clothes."

"You never wore an apron," Meg said, a laugh slipping past her lips despite the knot forming in her chest. "And you painted like you were trying to wrestle the canvas." Castiel laughed along with her, a low, hoarse sound that filled the room with a fleeting sense of lightness. But it faded too quickly, leaving a silence that felt heavier than before. He lowered his gaze, staring into his glass as though it held answers he desperately needed. 

"It wouldn’t have worked, though," he said finally, his voice soft and tinged with regret. "I would’ve... screwed it up. Like I screw everything up." Meg sighed, the sound carrying years of understanding and frustration in equal measure. She reached out, brushing her fingers gently against his arm to pull him back from wherever his thoughts were dragging him. 

"Cassie," she said firmly, waiting until he met her eyes. "You didn’t ruin us. We just... weren’t built to last." His brow furrowed, as though he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. 

"Maybe," he said finally, his voice small. "But it still feels like my fault."

"It’s not," she said, her voice gentle but certain. "We were young, and we were a mess. And, for what it’s worth, I think we did okay for a while." Castiel nodded slowly, though the doubt lingering in his expression didn’t fully leave. He took another sip of his water, his movements slower now, as though exhaustion were finally catching up with him. 

"Thanks, Meg," he said after a long pause, his voice quiet and sincere.

"For what?" she asked, her tone light as she moved to clean up the counter.

"For not giving up on me," he replied, his gaze following her as she worked. "Even when I gave you every reason to." She paused, her hand resting on the glass she’d just picked up. Turning back to him, she offered a small smile, her eyes soft. 

"I’ll always have your back, Cassie. You know that." He nodded again, his lips curving into a faint smile. 

"I know," he said, and for the first time that night, there was a hint of peace in his voice. Meg set the glass down with a gentle clink, her gaze softening as she turned back to Castiel. 

"Maybe it wasn’t a failed relationship, Castiel," she said, her voice calm but carrying an undertone of quiet conviction. Castiel tilted his head, his brow knitting in confusion. 

"What?" he asked, the single word coming out unsteady, the alcohol clearly still blurring his thoughts. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms loosely as she met his gaze. 

"Well," she began, her tone light but edged with sincerity, "one could argue that it was a very successful relationship that just happened to last three years." His lips parted, his expression somewhere between surprised and skeptical. 

"You really mean that?" he asked, his voice quiet, as though he didn’t quite dare to believe her. Meg smiled, the kind that was more understanding than happy, and stepped closer to him. She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over the edge of his sleeve before letting her hand fall away. 

"I don’t think we would have parted as friends otherwise," she said simply. Castiel’s eyes searched hers, a flicker of something fragile but hopeful passing through his expression. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair, letting out a low, humorless chuckle. 

"You always had a way of looking at things sideways," he murmured, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Call it a talent," she said, her tone wry but warm. She picked up her own glass of water and took a small sip, the silence between them settling into something almost companionable. "You taught me a lot, you know," she added after a moment, her voice quieter now.

"Like what?" Castiel asked, his curiosity piqued despite himself. Meg shrugged, her smile turning a little softer, a little more genuine. 

"Like how to be patient," she said, the hint of a tease in her tone. "And how to not take myself so seriously. You had this... way of making life feel like it was worth all the chaos." He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes glassy but full of an emotion that was difficult to pin down. 

"I didn’t know I did that," he said quietly.

"Well, you did," she replied, her gaze steady. "And it’s something I’ll always be grateful for." Castiel nodded slowly, his throat working as though he were trying to find words that wouldn’t come. Instead, he let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the counter, the lines of his face softening just a little. 

"You’re kind of amazing, you know that?" he said, his voice low and slightly slurred but utterly sincere. Meg laughed, the sound light and unexpected in the quiet of the apartment. 

"Don’t get used to me being nice, Novak," she said, though the teasing lilt in her voice couldn’t mask the affection in her eyes. "It’s a rare occurrence."

"I’ll take what I can get," he said, his smile widening just enough to reach his eyes. He hiccupped again, and they both laughed, the tension in the room finally easing into something lighter, something easier to hold. 

"I know, Castiel. I know." For a moment, everything felt simpler. Just two people sharing a history that hadn’t ended the way they thought it would but had still left something good behind. Meg raised an eyebrow, her tone both incredulous and fond as she asked, "So, Cassie, what did you drink this time? I’m not stupid, you don’t get this drunk off wine." Castiel tilted his head, the faint ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

"Plantation," he answered, the word drawn out slightly, his voice dipping into the languid cadence of someone who’d had a bit too much. Meg let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she leaned back against the counter. 

"Sixty-nine percent?" she asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it from him. He nodded, his hair falling messily across his forehead as though even gravity was conspiring to make him look more disheveled.

"Mm-hmm," he hummed, his glass of water dangling precariously from his fingers. She regarded him for a moment, her expression a mixture of exasperation and quiet amusement. 

"You are aware that most people who aren’t set on self-destruction add water, right?" Her tone was light, but her eyes searched his, looking for something deeper beneath the drunken facade. Castiel shrugged, the movement loose and careless, as though he’d thrown the thought out the window long before it had a chance to take root. 

"I’m not most people," he said simply, his words soft but with a stubborn edge, as if daring her to contradict him. Meg sighed, but there was no real annoyance in it. Instead, she smiled faintly, her gaze drifting to the bottle on the counter.

"You never were." The words carried a warmth that lingered in the air between them, a quiet acknowledgment of the unique chaos that had always been Castiel Novak. He hiccupped again, blinking at her like a child caught sneaking cookies, and she couldn’t help but laugh. "You’re impossible," she muttered, moving to take the glass from his hand before he managed to drop it.

"That’s why you love me," he said, the words spilling out without thought, tinged with drunken confidence and a bittersweet honesty. Her hand stilled for a moment, her fingers brushing against his as she took the glass. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw all the cracks and the light seeping through them. 

"Yeah, maybe I do," she said quietly, the words soft enough to feel like they might shatter if spoken any louder. Castiel blinked at her, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and tenderness, but before he could respond, she turned toward the sink, her movements brisk and deliberate as she grabbed the bottle. "And that’s why I’m not letting you drink any more tonight," she added, her tone firm but not unkind as she poured the remnants of his rum down the drain.

"Traitor," he mumbled, though there was no real venom in his voice, just the petulance of someone who knew he’d been bested.

"Deal with it," she shot back, turning to face him again with her hands on her hips. "And drink more water." He picked up the water glass again, holding it up in mock toast. 

"To being a mess," he said, his voice soft and wistful. Meg smiled, the kind of smile that carried more understanding than pity, and raised her own glass. 

"To surviving it," she replied. They clinked their glasses together, the sound echoing softly through the eclectic warmth of the apartment. Castiel tilted his head, his gaze intent despite the haze of alcohol dulling its sharpness. 

"So you and Balthazar," he said, his voice quieter now, laced with curiosity and just the faintest edge of accusation. Meg leaned against the counter, crossing her arms in a defensive posture that felt too natural between them. Her lips quirked into a wry smile, though there was no humor behind it. 

"It’s not like that, Castiel," she replied, her tone steady but tinged with something unspoken, something that lingered like smoke in the air between them. Castiel blinked, slow and deliberate, before he pushed again. 

"How is it, then?" he asked, his words slurring slightly but losing none of their pointedness. He hiccupped once and steadied himself with a hand on the counter, but his eyes never left hers. Meg hesitated, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other before replying.

"It’s simple." Castiel laughed softly, the sound low and rasping, as though the effort of it dragged up something deep and raw from inside him. He shook his head, his messy hair falling further into his eyes. 

"I never knew you wanted simple," he murmured, the words carrying a tinge of disbelief, as if she’d just confessed to wanting something as alien as wings or starlight. Her smile faltered, and she looked away, her fingers tracing absent patterns along the rim of her glass. 

"I didn’t," she admitted, her voice softer now, as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. "But I do now." Castiel frowned, his brow knitting in that familiar way that always made him look younger, more vulnerable. 

"Since when does Meg Masters do simple?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of mockery and genuine bewilderment. She looked up at him then, her eyes clear and direct, the weight of her words landing like quiet truths. 

"Since complicated almost broke me," she said. There was no venom in her tone, only a raw honesty that made the room feel smaller, quieter, as though the apartment itself were leaning in to listen. Castiel’s expression softened, his drunken haze parting just enough for him to see the cracks beneath her confident facade. He didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed.

"I’m sorry." he said, finally. Meg shook her head, her smile returning, but this time it was softer, sadder. 

"Don’t be," she said. "You didn’t break me, Cassie. Life did." He reached out then, his fingers brushing against hers where they rested on the counter. 

"You deserved better," he said, his voice quiet but firm, as though saying it out loud could rewrite the past.

"So did you," she replied, her eyes meeting his with a steady gaze that carried years of understanding. For a moment, neither of them moved, the quiet filling the space with a strange sense of peace, like the stillness after a storm. Then Meg cupped Castiel’s face gently, her hands steady against the slight sway of his body. His blue eyes, glassy from alcohol and unshed tears, locked onto hers with the kind of vulnerability that made her chest ache. "I know you’re going to spiral if I don’t knock it out of you now, Cassie," she said softly but firmly, her voice carrying the weight of shared history. "So here’s the truth: you didn’t end up here because of me, and my life didn’t fall apart because of you. We grew up. And we’re still growing. Don’t overthink it." Castiel blinked slowly, his brows pulling together in an expression that looked equal parts confused and pained. 

"You know I can’t control it," he murmured, his voice cracking just enough to betray how deeply he felt those words. A hiccup punctuated his sentence, almost comical if not for the sorrow etched into his features. Meg’s lips quirked into a faint, bittersweet smile. 

"I know," she said simply, her thumb brushing lightly against his cheek.

"I am sorry," Castiel whispered, the apology carrying more weight than the words alone could hold. A single tear slipped free, tracing a glistening path down his face. Without hesitation, Meg brushed it away with the pad of her thumb. 

"Don’t be," she said softly. "You’ve got nothing to be sorry for."

The room felt still, like the air had paused to give them space. Around them, Castiel’s apartment bore witness to the moment—the faint hum of the city beyond the frosted windows, the warm clutter of books and trinkets on every surface, the faint scent of paint lingering in the air. It all wrapped around them like a familiar cocoon, a backdrop to a friendship that had endured despite everything.

"I really did love you, Meg," Castiel said after a moment, his voice quiet but steady. "A lot. You don’t even want to know what Gabriel used to say." Meg chuckled, the sound breaking through the tension. 

"His judgment is questionable at best." Castiel let out a small, breathy laugh and took another sip of his water.

"Gabriel was right, though," he mumbled into the glass, his tone thoughtful and laced with regret. Meg raised an eyebrow. 

"Right about what?"

"About me being a mess," Castiel admitted, the words tumbling out in that unfiltered way that only came with too much rum and too little sleep. Meg sighed and shook her head. 

"You’re not a mess, Cassie. You’re just... figuring it out. Like the rest of us." He leaned into her then, his forehead brushing her shoulder, and for a moment, he let himself be held. Meg stayed still, her hand resting lightly on his back, her fingers tracing absent patterns as if to ground him.

"Don’t overthink it," she repeated, her voice soft and steady. "You’ll drive yourself mad." Castiel’s words were muffled against her shoulder, but they carried a rawness that made Meg’s chest tighten. 

"I already am," he said, his voice heavy with self-awareness and resignation. His breath was warm against the fabric of her shirt, and she could feel the faint tremble in his frame. Meg let out a soft sigh, tilting her head to rest lightly against his. 

"Cassie," she murmured, her tone caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation, "you’ve been saying that since you were a teenager." He let out a humorless laugh, his breath hitching slightly. 

"Maybe because it’s true." Pulling back just enough to look at him, Meg placed her hands on either side of his face again, forcing him to meet her gaze. His blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and his cheeks were flushed, whether from alcohol or emotion she couldn’t tell. 

"You’re not mad, Cassie. You’re just—"

"Please, don’t say that I’m figuring it out," he interrupted, his voice cracking. "Because I’m not. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing." Meg’s lips curved into a small, sad smile. 

"No one does," she said softly. "Not me, not Balthazar, certainly not Gabriel and his rat, and not even Dean in his silk ties. We’re all just pretending, hoping no one notices." Castiel shook his head slightly, his expression a mixture of frustration and despair. 

"Dean doesn’t pretend," he muttered. "He’s... steady. And sure. And... everything I’m not." Meg sighed again, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. 

"Dean’s as much of a mess as the rest of us, trust me," she said, her tone firm. "He’s just better at hiding it. Probably because he spends so much time polishing that Prius of his." That earned her a faint laugh, and she felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. 

"You think so?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hopeful.

"I know so," Meg replied with certainty. "And you’re more than you think you are, Cassie. You just... need to give yourself a break." Castiel closed his eyes, leaning into her touch again. 

"I don’t know how," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Meg’s smile softened, and she pressed a light kiss to his temple. 

"We’ll figure it out," she said. "Together, if we have to. You’re not alone in this, Cassie. You never have been." For a moment, they stayed like that, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around them like a protective cocoon. The world outside could wait. For now, all that mattered was this—their shared history, their tangled connection, and the unspoken promise that they would hold each other up, even when everything else seemed to be falling apart. Then Meg stepped back, the corners of her mouth lifting into a smirk as she surveyed Castiel. "Come on," she said, the teasing warmth in her tone cutting through the lingering tension. "If we don’t leave the kitchen soon, I fear Balthazar might start cleaning your apartment." Castiel blinked, momentarily thrown by the absurdity of the statement, and then laughed—soft and genuine, like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. 

"He’d probably get lost trying to figure out which pile of books is decorative and which is just laziness," he replied, the faintest slur tugging at his words. Meg grabbed his water glass in one hand and his hand in the other. She gave his hand a light tug, guiding him out of the kitchen. The apartment unfolded around them, its eclectic charm like stepping into Castiel’s mind—a kaleidoscope of creativity and contradictions. The mismatched mugs on the counter rattled slightly as they walked past, a reminder of the lively, chaotic energy that filled every corner of the space. Balthazar was lounging in the living area, one leg crossed over the other as he reclined in the reading nook. He held a book in his hand, though the way he flipped idly through the pages made it clear he wasn’t reading. His sharp eyes flicked to them as they entered, his expression caught between amusement and exasperation.

"Ah, there you are," he said, closing the book with a deliberate snap. "I was beginning to think I’d have to intervene. Do you know how close I came to organizing your art supplies? It was a near thing." Castiel rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched upward. 

"Leave them alone, Balthazar. I know exactly where everything is."

"That’s the problem," Balthazar replied, standing and stretching with the languid ease of someone entirely at home in chaos. "Where everything is happens to be everywhere." Meg snorted, her hand still on Castiel’s arm as she steered him toward the couch. 

"Don’t let him fool you," she said. "Balthazar’s messier than anyone I’ve ever met. His fridge’s like a graveyard for takeout containers."

"Rude," Balthazar said, feigning a wounded expression as he sprawled back into the armchair. "And yet, somehow accurate." Castiel sank onto the couch, his gaze wandering to the gallery wall above the sleeping nook. The string lights cast a soft, golden glow across the vibrant quilts and eclectic frames, the atmosphere a quiet balm to the swirling thoughts in his head. Meg handed him his water again, her expression softening. 

"Drink," she said. "All of it, Cas." He took the glass without protest, his fingers brushing hers briefly. For a moment, they were quiet, the room filled only with the muffled hum of the city beyond the frosted windows. The stillness wasn’t uncomfortable, but it carried a weight of its own—a shared understanding among people who knew each other too well to fill silences with meaningless chatter. Balthazar broke it first, his tone lighter, more teasing. 

"So, Cassie," he drawled, "when exactly did Dean Smith start lending you his hoodies? Or is this just your new method of absorbing his professional energy?" Meg chuckled, but Castiel only shook his head, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. 

"Shut up, Balthazar," he muttered, though the soft smile playing on his lips betrayed him.

"Oh, I will," Balthazar said, smirking as he leaned back. "Eventually. Maybe." Meg shook her head, her eyes meeting Castiel’s. 

"He’s incorrigible, you know."

"Always has been," Castiel said, and for the first time in hours, his voice carried a touch of lightness. Balthazar leaned forward, his smirk widening as if he’d caught a juicy secret unraveling before him. 

"How many hoodies is that now? This grey one," he said, gesturing loosely toward Castiel’s current attire, "you know, the one he probably doesn’t even wear because it clashes with his pristine image. And then there’s the Harvard one, well worn, well loved." Castiel’s eyes flicked away, the faint pink creeping up his neck giving him away more than words ever could. He fiddled with the hem of the hoodie’s sleeve, as though its softness could shield him from the teasing. "Oh, there’s more, isn’t there?" Balthazar pressed, his voice dipping into mock conspiracy. "Tell me, Cassie, are you hoarding them in some kind of shrine? Does each hoodie get its own little corner of your art studio?" Meg groaned, planting herself on the couch beside Castiel and giving Balthazar a flat look. 

"Do you ever stop?" Balthazar feigned offense, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest. 

"Stop? Why on earth would I, when this is far more entertaining than anything on HBO?" Castiel sighed, his head dropping back against the couch.

"It’s just a hoodie," he said, though the defensive edge in his voice only made Balthazar’s grin widen.

"Just a hoodie?" Balthazar echoed, leaning forward now, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Cassie, the man owns a tie for each day of the week and color-coded spreadsheets. He doesn’t do casual. If he’s letting you keep his hoodies, it’s practically a love letter." Meg swatted Balthazar’s arm. 

"Enough," she said firmly, but there was a trace of a smile tugging at her lips. She turned to Castiel, who was now steadfastly avoiding both their gazes. "Don’t listen to him. He just likes to poke at people until they crack."

"Oh, please," Balthazar said, flopping back into his chair with exaggerated grace. "I’m merely pointing out the obvious. Which, by the way, is that our dear Castiel has been thoroughly domesticated."

"Domesticated?" Castiel repeated, finally looking back at Balthazar with a raised eyebrow.

"Absolutely," Balthazar said with a wink. "Next thing you know, you’ll be trading in your thrifted paint-splattered jeans for a blazer." Castiel snorted, the sound half amusement, half disbelief. 

"Not in this lifetime." Meg laughed, handing Castiel a cushion to toss at Balthazar, which he did without hesitation. It hit Balthazar square in the chest, and he caught it dramatically, as though it were some grave assault.

"Well," Balthazar said, smoothing the cushion on his lap, "if Dean keeps loaning you hoodies, I expect an invitation to the wedding. I’ll even bring a gift ." Castiel sighed, shaking his head, but there was a hint of a smile on his face now, soft and genuine. Meg nudged him gently with her shoulder, her own laughter light and reassuring.

"Meg’s right, you’re incorrigible," Castiel muttered, though his tone lacked any true ire.

"And you’re wearing Dean Smith’s hoodie," Balthazar shot back, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Everyone wins."

"Seems that way," Castiel’s words hung in the air, his voice trailing into a slurred mutter as he waved a hand lazily in their direction. "Meg says you two are fuck—"

"Cas!" Meg cut him off sharply, her tone a mix of warning and exasperation. Castiel, unfazed, finished the word with a slow, deliberate drawl. 

"—ing." Balthazar, who had been lounging like a king surveying his court, arched a single brow. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, sly and self-assured. 

"Maybe we are," he said, his voice smooth as silk, as though the idea was a source of infinite amusement to him. Meg groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

"Cas, for God’s sake." Castiel ignored her entirely, turning his glass in lazy circles against his knee, watching the last few drops of water slide around the rim. 

"Don’t let Dad know," he mumbled, his tone somewhere between earnest and conspiratorial. His head tipped forward slightly, his curls falling into his eyes. "No employee relationships. Remember?" Balthazar let out a soft chuckle, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his posture as relaxed as always. 

"You’re right, of course," he said lightly. "Your father’s rules are clear. No employee fraternization. No messy entanglements." His gaze flicked to Meg, a glimmer of something wicked sparking in his eyes. "And yet, here we are." Meg shot him a look that could have frozen molten lava. 

"You’re not helping," she muttered.

"Do I ever?" Balthazar retorted, spreading his hands as if to underline his innocence. "Besides, it’s hardly a secret that I’ve always been the Novaks’ favorite troublemaker."

Castiel huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, though the sound was weighed down by the lingering effects of the rum, his eyes half-lidded as he leaned further into the couch. 

"No," he slurred, his voice thick but resolute. "Meg was right earlier." Meg raised an eyebrow, her expression caught between curiosity and wariness. 

"Right about what, Cas?" Castiel tilted his head toward Balthazar, his lips curling into a faint, lopsided smile. 

"He’s a babysitter," he muttered, the words tumbling out with the bluntness of drunken honesty. Balthazar let out a bark of laughter, his usual suave demeanor momentarily cracking. 

"A babysitter, is it?" he repeated, standing straighter as though trying to look the part. "I’ll have you know, Cassie, that I am much more than that. I’m also an occasional chauffeur, life coach, and, apparently, the keeper of your increasingly questionable secrets." Meg rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her lips. 

"He’s not wrong," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the back of the couch. "You’ve put him through enough to earn at least three titles." Castiel waved a hand dismissively, though it lacked the coordination to appear convincing. 

"Don’t care," he mumbled, letting his head fall back against the cushions. Balthazar stepped closer, looming over the slouched figure of Castiel, his smirk softening into something almost fond. 

"And yet," he said, his voice quieter now, "here I am. What does that say about me?" 

"That babysitter fits." Castiel said without missing a beat despite his state. Meg tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully. 

"Or that you’re a sucker for lost causes?" she suggested.

"Or," Balthazar countered, turning his gaze to her, "that I’m simply too good at what I do." He leaned back, slipping his hands into his pockets with a casual ease. "Babysitting Cassie here is a full-time job, and someone has to do it." Castiel muttered something incoherent under his breath, likely a protest, but the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Meg shook her head, brushing a stray curl from Castiel’s forehead. 

"You’re lucky, Cassie," she said softly. "Not everyone gets a babysitter as stylish as this one." Balthazar winked at her, his smirk returning. 

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Masters. But do carry on."

The room fell into a moment of quiet after that, the kind that felt like a fragile truce between chaos and calm. Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut and Meg and Balthazar exchanged a knowing glance. The babysitter and the accomplice, both silently agreeing that, for tonight at least, they’d keep the fragile artist safe from himself. Castiel’s breathing softened, his head lolling slightly to the side as sleep claimed him. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only movement, his earlier ramblings fading into a quiet, dreamless slumber. The room seemed to exhale with him, the charged energy simmering down into a lull. Balthazar adjusted his stance, his gaze lingering on Castiel for a moment longer before turning to Meg. 

"Well," he said, his tone light but edged with curiosity, "he’s out for the count. Do you want to head out? I can get you an Uber." Meg shook her head almost immediately, her arms still crossed as she leaned against the couch. 

"No," she said, her voice low but firm. "I’m staying." Balthazar arched an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. 

"You don’t have to, you know. He’ll be fine. I’ve done this routine before." Meg let out a breath, her eyes drifting to Castiel’s peaceful face. His features, usually drawn with worry or sharpened with defiance, were now soft, almost childlike in repose. She reached out instinctively, brushing an errant strand of hair from his forehead before pulling her hand back as though catching herself.

"I know he’ll be fine," she murmured, her gaze still fixed on him. "But I want to stay. It’s... been a while since I’ve seen him like this." Balthazar studied her, the usual glint of mischief in his eyes replaced by something quieter, more contemplative. 

"He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?" he asked, his voice softer than usual. Meg straightened, meeting his gaze with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. 

"Of course he does. We have history, Balthazar. You know that." He nodded, leaning against the arm of the couch with an ease that belied the weight of the moment. 

"I do," he said simply. "And that’s why I trust you’ll handle this better than I can. You’ve always been better at cutting through his defenses." Meg let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. 

"I don’t know about that. He’s a maze, and half the time I’m just stumbling through." Balthazar’s lips quirked into a faint smile. 

"You may not know the way, but you never stop trying. That’s more than most people can say." She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze drifting back to Castiel. The soft glow of the fairy lights cast warm shadows across his face, the room’s eclectic charm serving as a quiet reminder of the man he’d become.

"I’ll stay on the couch," she finally said, her voice steady. "You don’t have to babysit both of us." Balthazar chuckled, the sound low and genuine. 

"Suit yourself," he said, pushing off the armrest and adjusting his coat. "But don’t expect me to leave out extra blankets." Meg smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

"Then you’re on your own, Miss Masters."He hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes lingering on her as though he wanted to say something else. But instead, he simply nodded and made his way to the door. "Goodnight, Meg," he said, his voice carrying a rare note of sincerity.

"Goodnight, Balthazar," she replied, turning her attention back to Castiel as the door clicked shut behind him. She sank into the armchair nearest the couch, kicking off her shoes before pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The quiet hum of the city outside filled the silence, punctuated by the occasional sigh from Castiel as he shifted in his sleep. She watched him for a long moment, the messy tangle of his hair, the soft twitch of his fingers against the couch cushion, and she felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. He had always been a puzzle, a mix of contradictions and brilliance, but tonight he was just Castiel, vulnerable and human. And tonight, that was enough. Meg leaned back in the armchair, the cushion soft beneath her, the room dim except for the faint glow of the fairy lights and the city spilling its muted luminescence through the frosted windows. Castiel’s steady breathing filled the silence, an anchor in the quiet, but her mind drifted, unbidden, to a memory she rarely let herself revisit. She could still see him, younger, a little less worn by life but just as intense, standing in her kitchen all those years ago. His hands had been covered in paint—blue, like the streaks he used to swipe across his canvas, across her life. His eyes had been just as bright, too, shimmering with a hope she hadn’t wanted to extinguish but knew she had to.

"I love you, Meg."

The words had been so simple, spoken in that low, steady way of his, like they were a truth he couldn’t imagine being challenged. At the time, she’d laughed, brushing it off as one of his notions. But the sincerity in his eyes had rooted her in place, caught between wanting to believe and knowing better. It wouldn’t have worked. She had known that then, as sure as she knew it now. Castiel had always burned too brightly, chasing ideas and dreams with reckless abandon. And her? She had always needed something grounded, a stability he couldn’t provide. Yet, sitting here in the quiet of his apartment, surrounded by the remnants of his chaotic brilliance, she couldn’t help but imagine it.

She closed her eyes, letting the fantasy unfold in her mind. A small ceremony, something intimate and imperfect. Castiel would have painted something for the occasion—a backdrop, or maybe he would have designed their rings. They’d have lived in a place like this, filled with mismatched furniture and overflowing bookshelves, their life a tangle of color and creativity. But it wouldn’t have lasted. That part of her imagination stopped short, veering away from the inevitable fractures. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him —she still did, in her own way, fiercely and completely— but they had always been too much and not enough at the same time.

She opened her eyes, focusing on Castiel’s sleeping form. His face was peaceful now, his usual defenses stripped away. She thought about what it would have been like to call him hers, not just in fleeting moments, but in the permanence he had once craved. Meg sighed, brushing a hand through her hair. 

"It’s better this way," she whispered, though the words felt hollow in the quiet. Castiel shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep, and the sound pulled her back to the present. Her gaze softened as she watched him, a mix of affection and sadness threading through her. They couldn’t rewrite the past, but she could still be here for him now, in this moment.

Meg walked across the apartment, her bare feet sinking slightly into the plush rug as she approached the bookshelves nestled in the reading nook. The shelves were a riot of color and texture, filled to the brim with novels, art books, and trinkets that seemed to embody Castiel’s chaotic but somehow deliberate energy. She let her fingers trail across the spines, the varying heights and textures a familiar sensation. Her hand stopped when it encountered something slightly out of place: ‘Watchmen: The Annotated Edition’. She pulled the book from its spot, its dust jacket worn, the corners softened from years of use —or neglect. Turning it over in her hands, she smiled faintly, the memories pulling at the edges of her thoughts.

"I didn’t know you kept this," she murmured, more to herself than to the room. The silence was thick, broken only by the sound of Castiel’s soft breathing behind her. She opened the book, the spine creaking slightly, revealing the inscription on the first page. Her handwriting greeted her, a snapshot of a different time:

‘For Castiel President of Culture,

Proof that comic books are real books too. 

Love, Meg.’

Her thumb brushed over the ink, her lips pressing together as she sank into the memory of the day she’d given it to him. It had been his last birthday while they were together. She’d spent hours in the comic shop, sifting through titles and consulting the shop clerk because she hadn’t known the first thing about graphic novels. But she’d wanted to make a point—not just about comics but about understanding him, about meeting him where he stood. She remembered the way his face had lit up when he unwrapped it, the laughter in his voice when he teased her for finally giving in to ‘the dark side’ of literature. It had been a good day. One of their last good days before everything began to fray.

Her gaze shifted to the inscription again. She hadn’t written ‘love’ lightly back then, and seeing it now felt like touching an old scar—faded, but not forgotten. She looked over her shoulder toward Castiel, still sleeping soundly, his face relaxed in a way it never was while he was awake. The hoodie seemed even larger on him when he was asleep, and the sight of it made her chest ache, a mix of affection and sadness intertwining.

"You’re such a contradiction, Cassie," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Always were." Closing the book carefully, she slid it back into its spot, though now she couldn’t unsee it. It stood out like a beacon on the crowded shelf. Her fingers lingered for a moment before she stepped away, letting her hand drop to her side. She returned to the kitchen, glancing toward the couch again. Castiel mumbled something incoherent in his sleep, his arm draped over his stomach, his face turned toward the faint light spilling in through the windows. Meg leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment, the weight of their shared history pressing at the edges of her thoughts. She didn’t regret her choices—not really—but there was a part of her that still wondered what might have been. Not in a hopeful way, but in that quiet, persistent curiosity that lingers long after the moment has passed. She sighed, crossing her arms as she muttered, "You really are a mess, Novak."

And maybe that was why she’d stayed, why they all did; messes could be cleaned up, but people like Castiel didn’t need cleaning—they needed grounding. And for better or worse, she’d always been good at that.

Chapter Text

Castiel woke to the soft gray light filtering through the frosted windows, the muted glow giving his bedroom an ethereal quality. His body ached faintly, a dull reminder of the excesses of the night before, but his mind was unusually calm. He turned his head and saw Meg lying beside him, her dark hair splayed across his pillow in disarray. Her face was serene, her features softened by sleep, and for a moment, he let himself simply look at her. Despite everything that had happened over the years —their breakups, the distance, the messy parts of growing up— she remained one of the few constants in his life. She had always been beautiful, but it was her strength, her sharpness, that struck him most in moments like this.

"Still beautiful," he murmured, his voice hushed, as though the room itself demanded reverence. "Still you." A faint smile flickered across her lips, breaking the stillness of her expression, though her eyes remained closed. He knew that smile—knew she was awake but pretending otherwise. It was a game they used to play, a small rebellion against the pull of reality. "Still beautiful," he repeated, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. He let the words hang in the quiet, not expecting a response, simply content to be in the moment. Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t open them. 

"You’re loud," she mumbled, her tone tinged with sleep but carrying the familiar edge of her wit. He chuckled, the sound low and rough, his lips curving into a small smile. 

"You missed me."

"Not this much," she shot back, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. Her skin was warm under his fingertips, and the gesture felt too intimate, too easy.

"Liar," he said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. She finally opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his.

"Don’t push it, Clarence." But there was no venom in her words, only the remnants of affection that time and distance hadn’t entirely eroded. For a moment, the world outside his apartment ceased to exist. There were no messy breakups, no complicated feelings, just this: two people who knew each other too well and had loved each other in their own imperfect way. He sighed and turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

"Do you ever think about it?" he asked quietly. Meg shifted beside him, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. 

"About what?"

"Us. Back then." He gestured vaguely, his hand falling back to his side. "What it would’ve been like if we’d—"

"Don’t," she interrupted gently, cutting him off before he could finish. Her voice was firm, but her eyes softened. "It wouldn’t have worked. We both know that." He nodded, though the words stung more than he wanted to admit. 

"Yeah, I know." She leaned closer, pressing her palm against his chest. 

"But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t good while it lasted." He closed his eyes, letting the truth of her words sink in. He felt her hand move away, and the absence was immediate, but he didn’t open his eyes. Instead, he let himself drift in the quiet comfort of her presence, the unspoken understanding that had always existed between them. As she moved toward the door, Castiel watched her go, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. For all their history, for all their flaws, there was something grounding about her presence. Something he wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

"Still beautiful," he whispered again, more to himself this time, before pulling the quilt higher and sinking back into the softness of the bed.

When Castiel stirred awake again, the soft light in the room now brighter, signaling mid forenoon. He blinked groggily, trying to shake the lingering haze of sleep from his mind. His mouth was dry, his head a dull throb. He groaned softly, shifting to sit upright, but the movement sent a strange pang of unease through him. It wasn’t the lingering effects of last night’s alcohol—it was the sudden realisation that he didn’t know where his phone was. His heart gave a faint lurch, a chill crawling up his spine. Not knowing where his phone was felt like more than just an inconvenience; it felt like a very bad omen. Castiel’s brain, sluggish from both alcohol and sleep, raced to piece together fragments of last night. There had been drinks. There had been laughter. There had been Meg. But his phone? It wasn’t on the nightstand where it always lived. He glanced toward the bedside table, which only held a half-empty glass of water and the folded copy of some book he couldn’t remember picking up.

"Fuck," he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet touched the cool floor, and he winced at the sensation. It grounded him slightly, but the creeping anxiety of not knowing where his phone was wouldn’t dissipate. Castiel rubbed a hand over his face, groaning again, then shuffled out of bed. He scanned the room quickly, his eyes darting to the tangled quilt in the sleeping nook, the pile of discarded clothes near the door. Nothing. No telltale glint of a screen, no comforting rectangle waiting to be found. He checked under the pillows, the blanket, and even crouched down to peer under the bed. Still nothing. The uneasy knot in his chest tightened, and he found himself chewing the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit he hadn’t kicked since college. The sense of foreboding grew with each passing moment. What if he texted someone last night? The thought alone made his stomach churn. Castiel’s drunk self could be whimsical, reckless, or —worst of all— heartbreakingly honest. He might have texted Dean, or worse, called him. Or he could’ve sent something cryptic to Gabriel, who’d delight in spreading it far and wide. His own father? The very idea made him want to collapse into a pile of artistic despair. He stumbled through the apartment scanning the cluttered bookshelves, the cushions of the plush reading nook, and even the art supplies scattered on the floor. The space was warm and inviting, as it always was, but it offered no sign of salvation.

"Meg?" he called out, his voice rough and low from sleep. No answer. He wasn’t surprised; she must have gone home. He glanced at the table near the couch and saw an empty mug that wasn’t his. It figured—Meg always left a little evidence of her presence, as though marking her territory. He checked the couch cushions next, digging between them with increasing desperation. Nothing but lint and a stray paintbrush that he didn’t remember losing. The kitchen was next. He scanned the cluttered counters, the mismatched mugs, and jars crowding the shelves. His eyes narrowed at the half-open spice rack. "Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with growing frustration.

He paused, gripping the edge of the counter, his breathing unsteady. The logical part of him —the part that hadn’t drowned itself in rum last night— knew the phone would turn up eventually. But the part of him that catastrophized everything screamed otherwise. 

Not knowing where it is, is bad. 

Not remembering clearly, is bad. 

This is bad.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, his fingers catching on a small knot. The urge to sit down and just stop looking was strong, but the knot of dread refused to let him rest. Wherever his phone was, it held answers—or worse, proof. Proof of what he might have said or done. The thought alone made his throat tighten.

"God dammit," he muttered, standing frozen in the middle of the kitchen. His eyes darted toward the living room again. Maybe he’d missed it. Maybe it was under the books. Or maybe— 

Stop it. 

Find it. 

Then panic.

With a frustrated exhale, Castiel opened his refrigerator for some leftover pizza, his pulse quickening as he stared at his phone. He picked it up from its inexplicably cold resting place atop the pizza box in the refrigerator. His stomach churned with a mix of embarrassment and dread as he unlocked the screen. The glaring blue light burned his eyes, and when the notification bubble expanded to reveal the sheer volume of texts he’d sent Dean the night before, his breath hitched. Before he could even think, his thumb opened the thread, and he read them, his face flushing hotter with each passing second.

Castiel: Dean, do you even like me? Like actually?

Castiel: You never say anything, and it drives me insane.

Castiel: I’m sorry. That was dramatic. I’ve had some wine and then some rum.

Castiel: But not like "drunk" drunk, just, you know, creative drunk.

Castiel: Actually, who am I kidding? I’m definitely drunk.

Castiel: Do you think my art is stupid? You’ve never said anything mean about it. 

Castiel: You always wear ties. 

Castiel: Why ties? 

Castiel: You don’t have to answer that.

Castiel: But you’re probably asleep because you’re Dean and you go to bed at 9:30 or something because you’re responsible.

Castiel: You’re so responsible, it’s annoying. Do you know that?

Castiel: Annoying in a good way, though. Like, the best kind of annoying.

Castiel: God, I’m a disaster. Ignore that.

Castiel: Don’t actually ignore that. Just ignore the parts that make me sound desperate.

Castiel: I think I’m desperate. This is sad.

Castiel: But you’re so—Dean, you’re so—never mind.

Castiel: I hope you’re having a nice night.

There was a pause in the thread, the glaring timestamp showing the messages had been sent over the course of twenty minutes, all before nine. Castiel winced, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’d made it worse by responding to Dean’s reply.

Dean: Castiel, are you okay?

Castiel: I’m fine. Totally fine.

Castiel: Why wouldn’t I be fine?

Castiel: That sounded defensive. I’m sorry.

Castiel: You’re probably annoyed. I get it.

Castiel: I promise I’m not always like this.

Castiel: Except sometimes I am, but it’s endearing, right?

Castiel: Dean?

Castiel: Never mind. I’m going to bed.

Castiel groaned and let his phone drop onto the floor beside him as he sank down onto it. He pulled Dean’s oversized hoodie tighter around himself, the fabric brushing his bare thighs. The fact that he was still wearing it added insult to injury. He looked at the thread again, cringing at how needy and ridiculous he sounded.

His eyes darted to the timestamps. All before nine. He wasn’t even a cute kind of drunk. He was just clingy and needy, and they weren’t even a couple. What were they, though? Castiel swallowed hard, his fingers curling against his knees as he sat there. They hadn’t been physical in almost two months. Two months of nothing—no sex, no inappropriate touches in bar bathrooms, not even a lingering look when Dean cleaned Castiel up. What was Castiel to him? Castiel’s thoughts spiraled, each possibility worse than the last. A project? A curiosity? A charity case? The knot in his chest grew tighter, and he leaned his head back against the cabinet, staring at the mismatched mugs lining the open shelves. Dean’s single reply haunted him. It had been calm, measured, devoid of anything resembling frustration. Dean always sounded like he was holding back. Like he wanted to say something but chose restraint instead. The thought made Castiel’s throat tighten. He closed his eyes, wishing for a moment of clarity that wouldn’t come. Instead, all he had was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the quiet, cluttered warmth of his apartment around him—a world that felt safe and chaotic all at once.

And Dean, somehow, existed outside of it. Unreachable. Always just out of his grasp.

Castiel picked up his phone again and turned his attention back to the sheer volume of messages, his face burning as he continued to scroll through the messages. 

Castiel: Dean, I know I said I was going to bed, but…

Castiel: What do you even see in me?

Castiel: Don’t answer that. Or do. Your choice.

Castiel: You’re always so composed. Do you ever just lose it?

Castiel: Like, shout into a pillow or punch a wall or something?

Castiel: I don’t think you do. You probably meditate or run marathons or whatever normal people do.

Castiel: What am I even saying? You’re not normal. You’re…

Castiel: I don’t know what you are.

Castiel: But you make me want to be better, Dean. Did you know that?

Castiel: Probably not, because I don’t say things like that sober.

Castiel: This hoodie smells like you. Not in a creepy way. In a nice way.

Castiel: That sounded creepy.

Castiel: Ignore that. Just delete this whole conversation.*

Castiel: Do you know how annoying it is to like someone who’s so... you?

Castiel: Perfect job. Perfect smile. Perfect everything.

Castiel: Okay, maybe not everything. You can be insufferable.

Castiel: But in a good way. Like, the kind of insufferable that makes me want to kiss you.

Castiel: I miss kissing you. Did I say that already?

Castiel: God, I miss kissing you.

Castiel: I shouldn’t miss kissing you. That’s not cool.

Castiel: You deserve someone cooler.

Castiel: Not that I think you’d date someone with a leather jacket and a motorcycle. Actually, would you?

Castiel: Forget I asked.

Castiel: Are you awake?

Castiel: Of course you’re not awake. It’s late. Or early. The numbers are all moving. 

Castiel: You’re probably dreaming about spreadsheets or something equally responsible.

Castiel: I’m not drunk enough to think that’s sexy.

Castiel: Okay, maybe I am.

Castiel: I hate this. You’re probably rolling your eyes right now.

Castiel: I wish I could see it. 

Castiel: I like it when you get annoyed. It’s cute.

Castiel: Is that weird to say?

Castiel: It’s probably weird to say.

Castiel: Do you even care that I like you? Like, really care?

Castiel: You’re the worst. You know that, right?

Castiel: But you’re also the best. And I don’t know how to deal with that.

Castiel: I’m going to shut up now.

Castiel: Unless you want me to keep talking.

Castiel: I’m shutting up. For real this time. 

He stared at the phone in his hand as if it were a loaded weapon. The absurdity of it all hit him—Dean probably hadn’t even seen half of these yet.

"Why am I like this?" Castiel mumbled to himself, dropping his head into his hands. His phone slipped to the floor with a soft thud, the screen still glowing. He couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment he’d lost control, but seeing the timestamp, all sent before the fridge became their unintentional resting place, made it all the more humiliating. Dean’s silence loomed large. Castiel tried to convince himself it was because it was too early. Not because of… this. Whatever this was. Castiel ran a hand through his tousled hair, the strands sticking up in defiance. The kitchen floor felt cold against his legs as he leaned back against the counter, staring at the phone that now rested beside him. The absurdity of finding it on top of a pizza box in the refrigerator was just another piece of the disjointed puzzle that was last night.

He couldn’t pinpoint when Balthazar had arrived, or when Meg’s sharp, teasing voice had filled the space. His memory of the night was fragmented, moments punctuated by hazy laughter and the occasional sting of a comment that felt too close to the truth. And yet, somewhere in the blur, he had apparently decided texting Dean —a lot— was a great idea. What was it Meg had said? Her words drifted back to him, clear and direct even through the haze of his recollection: ‘Don’t overthink.’

"Right," Castiel muttered to himself, sarcasm curling at the edge of his voice. "Don’t overthink."

It was laughable. Overthinking was his specialty, a reflex so ingrained he didn’t even know how to turn it off. Especially not when it came to Dean. He glanced down at the screen again, at the trail of messages that practically screamed desperation and alcohol-fueled longing. Meg would have laughed, probably already had, given the way she always seemed to know when he was making a fool of himself. But there had been something else in her tone last night, something softer, even as she rolled her eyes at him and threatened to knock sense into his stubborn head.

"Don’t overthink," he repeated, more to convince himself than anything.

But the words felt hollow as he stared at the screen, Dean’s lone response standing out amidst the avalanche of his own rambling texts. Castiel bit his lip, his chest tightening at the idea of what Dean might think —what he might say— if he’d read even half of what was sent. He groaned, flopping backward against the cool floor. 

"Too late." 

Overthinking was all he had.

Castiel dragged himself to his feet, the effort feeling monumental even though he was only crossing the room. He shuffled toward the sleeping nook, the bed tucked into the corner like a safe haven he didn’t feel he deserved. The soft quilts and mismatched pillows looked as inviting as ever, layered in patterns that seemed to reflect every whimsy of his personality. But today, even the vibrant colors seemed muted under the weight of his spiraling thoughts.

He collapsed onto the bed, burying his face into the closest pillow, its fabric cool against his flushed skin. The faint scent of lavender lingered, a remnant of the spray he used to help him sleep on restless nights. Resting his cheek against the quilt, he stared up at the intimate gallery wall above the bed. Framed photographs and art pieces hung there, illuminated by the soft glow of the fairy lights strung around them. They usually brought comfort, but today, they felt like fragments of a life he couldn’t quite hold together.

"Whatever this was," Castiel muttered to the room, his voice muffled, "it’s over now." He turned onto his side, curling into himself as though that might shield him from the embarrassment and self-loathing clawing at the edges of his mind. The memories of his texts to Dean swirled around him, each one like a dagger of regret. What had he been thinking? Message after message, followed by even more messages. Fuck. Desperation practically radiated off the screen. "I’m a disaster." He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the gnawing thoughts to go away, but his mind refused to quiet. His hand moved absentmindedly to tug at the oversized hoodie he was still wearing—Dean’s hoodie. It hung loosely on him, the hem brushing his thighs as if mocking him with its comfort. Dean’s scent lingered faintly, and the familiarity of it only made everything worse. Castiel groaned and pulled the quilt over himself, cocooning against the world. Disappear. That was all he wanted. Just to vanish into the folds of the mismatched fabric and let the world forget him, the way Dean surely would now. His eyes traced the frosted glass of the window beside the bed, the diffused sunlight casting a pale, shifting glow on the walls. Outside, life moved on, but Castiel felt stuck, pinned down by his own mess. He reached out to brush his fingers against the spine of a book lying on the nightstand—a habit from when he couldn’t sleep. But even that small act felt like too much. He stared at the fairy lights, the way they twinkled gently, as if trying to soothe him. Instead, they only seemed to mock him with their steadiness. He sighed deeply and whispered into the quiet room, "Don’t overthink." The words rang hollow in his own ears, but maybe —just maybe— repeating them would eventually make them true. Maybe. 

Castiel lay still for a long time, his breath evening out as he stared at the soft, shifting patterns of light filtering through the frosted glass. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside, muffled by the thick windows and the layers of his apartment's disarray. The world continued on without him, oblivious to the storm brewing within.

He rolled onto his back, the quilt falling away to expose the hoodie-clad figure he’d become. His hands came up to rest on his chest, the sleeves long enough to cover his fingers as he rubbed at the fabric absently. The hoodie, Dean’s hoodie, felt like both a comfort and a curse. It was a piece of someone he wanted more of but couldn’t quite claim.

The memory of his texts returned with a sting, each message like a neon sign flashing 

Needy. 

Clingy. 

Pathetic. 

Castiel groaned, covering his face with his hands as if the gesture could block out the embarrassment. 

"I’m an idiot," he whispered to no one but the quiet air around him. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he turned his head toward the bookshelves near the living area. A small plant had tilted slightly, one of its leaves brushing against a stack of books that leaned precariously. It was a small, innocuous thing, but it grounded him, the subtle chaos of his home reflecting the state of his mind. His gaze drifted to the canvases leaning against the walls. Some were finished, bright bursts of color and emotion captured on the fabric. Others were half-formed, their outlines waiting for a moment of clarity that might never come. He used to find solace in that space, in the creative mess that let him lose himself in the act of making something. Now, it just felt like another reminder of how far he’d let himself drift. Dean’s words from their last real conversation replayed in his mind. Castiel couldn’t recall the exact phrasing, but the tone —steady, warm, and laced with quiet affection— stuck with him. Dean always seemed so sure of himself, even when Castiel knew that confidence was hard-won. What had Dean thought, waking up to those drunken texts? Disappointment? Annoyance? Pity? That last thought twisted in Castiel’s chest, sharp and cold. He sat up suddenly, the quilt slipping to his lap as he ran a hand through his messy hair. The hoodie bunched at his elbows, and he pushed it back down, feeling the soft fabric against his skin.

He slid off the bed and padded barefoot toward the studio corner, the wooden floor cool beneath him. The light from the window caught on a canvas leaning against the wall, its vibrant colors muted in the morning glow. Without thinking, he grabbed a brush from the cluttered table nearby and dipped it into a pot of paint. He didn’t know what he was going to paint, didn’t have a plan or a vision. He just needed to move, to do something —anything— that wasn’t drowning in his own thoughts. The first stroke hit the canvas with a satisfying streak, bright and bold against the unfinished background. Castiel’s hands moved almost of their own accord, guided by instinct and frustration. The act of painting didn’t solve anything, but it dulled the sharp edges of his mind, giving him a moment of reprieve. His hand moved with a rhythm that felt both deliberate and chaotic, a contradiction of motion that mirrored the tangled thoughts he couldn’t quite articulate. The colors bled into one another—deep cerulean streaks melting into ochre, bursts of crimson colliding with soft washes of gray. The paint spread thick and uneven in places, while elsewhere, his brush barely skimmed the surface, leaving faint, translucent lines like whispers against the canvas.

The world beyond the room dimmed as he worked, the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of traffic fading into nothingness. Here, in this cocoon of light and color, Castiel found a kind of clarity—not in answers, but in the questions he poured into each stroke. Why did he always mess things up? Why couldn’t he be enough? For Dean, for himself, for anyone? His breath steadied, syncing with the motion of his arm, the soft glide of bristles against canvas. He wasn’t painting anything specific—no form, no structure—just emotion in its rawest form. The hues blended into a tempest of feeling, a kaleidoscope of vulnerability and regret.

Occasionally, his focus broke, and he’d notice the little things around him. The glint of sunlight catching on a half-filled jar of water, the way the paintbrushes sprawled haphazardly across the table like soldiers after a battle, the faint scent of turpentine lingering in the air. These details anchored him, even as his mind wandered back to Dean—Dean with his perfect suits and measured words, his maddening restraint and warmth that felt almost unattainable. The hoodie swayed slightly as Castiel leaned forward, his hand reaching for a smaller brush. The fabric’s weight—a ghost of Dean—pressed against his skin, and for a moment, he paused. His chest tightened with the memory of those texts, the shame curling in his stomach. But then, with a shake of his head, he dipped the brush into a streak of violet and dragged it across the canvas in a jagged arc. Paint splattered onto his hands, dotting his fingers and smudging the edges of the hoodie. He didn’t care. He didn’t notice. The act of creating consumed him, an all-encompassing fire that burned away the noise and left only the quiet ache of honesty.

Time slipped by unnoticed. The light in the room shifted, the golden morning softening into the pale silver of midday. Castiel stepped back, the brush falling to his side. The canvas stared back at him, chaotic and vibrant, a reflection of everything he couldn’t say aloud. His chest rose and fell with each deep breath, his hands trembling slightly from the exertion. He leaned against the table, gripping its edge as he let his eyes trace the patterns he’d created. It wasn’t beautiful, not in the traditional sense. It was raw and messy and incomplete. But it was his, and for now, that was enough.

When he finally stepped back, hours might have passed—or maybe it was only minutes. He wasn’t sure. The canvas was a riot of color, raw and imperfect, but it felt honest. He dropped the brush onto the table and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes as his breath steadied. The hoodie shifted against him as he crossed his arms, and for the first time since waking up, Castiel allowed himself a small, rueful smile. He didn’t know what Dean would say when—or if—they talked next. But for now, at least, he had managed to quiet his thoughts, even if just for a little while.

Castiel turned toward the windows, his gaze catching on the soft glow filtering through the frosted glass. He felt the quiet settle back into the room, heavy but not suffocating, like a blanket draped over a restless night. Whatever happened with Dean—whatever those texts meant—could wait. For now, Castiel was here, in this moment, surrounded by the echoes of himself. Castiel’s eyes fell on the smear of paint that streaked across the hem of Dean’s hoodie—bold swipes of crimson and turquoise cutting through the soft gray like a wound. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden, as if the sight had punched the air from his lungs. He dropped the brush he’d been holding, the clatter loud against the floor in the otherwise silent room.

"No, no, no," he muttered under his breath, his voice rising in pitch with each word. He grabbed the fabric with trembling hands, holding it up as though inspecting the damage might reverse it. The paint had already begun to dry, stubborn and irreversible, its vibrant hue mocking him with its permanence.

Castiel stumbled backward, his legs hitting the edge of the table. His heart raced, a frantic rhythm that echoed in his ears. The hoodie wasn’t just a piece of clothing—it was Dean. Dean who had lent it to him without a second thought, Dean who always seemed so impossibly put together, Dean who would surely see this as carelessness, as Castiel ruining yet another thing.

His mind spiraled, images and thoughts colliding in rapid succession. He pictured Dean’s expression —disappointment, maybe even frustration— and the weight of that imagined reaction pressed down on him. He clenched the hoodie tighter, smearing the paint further, and let out a frustrated sound that cracked halfway through. He dropped to the floor, his knees meeting the cool wooden planks, the hoodie pooling in his lap like an accusation. Castiel wiped at the paint with his sleeve, only to realise he’d smeared another color onto the fabric in the process. He let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh, bitter and broken.

"I can’t even—" he started, but the words caught in his throat. His hands shook as he pressed his palms against his temples, trying to block out the rising tide of self-loathing. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in as his chest tightened, a knot of emotions tangling and pulling tighter with each passing second. His gaze darted around the room, searching for something —anything— that could fix this. Water? Solvent? He scrambled to his feet, the hoodie clutched to his chest, and stumbled toward the sink. He turned the faucet on full blast, the rush of water a chaotic symphony that matched the noise in his head. He shoved the fabric under the stream, rubbing at the paint with frantic, uneven motions. The paint spread instead of disappearing, the water darkening the hoodie and making the smear look even worse. Tears stung his eyes, hot and relentless. He squeezed them shut, his breath coming in shallow, erratic bursts. Castiel gripped the sink’s edge, his knuckles turning white, as he fought the rising tide of frustration and despair. It wasn’t about the hoodie—not entirely. It was everything. His mistakes, his uncertainty, the way he never seemed to get things right.

He sagged against the counter, the soaked hoodie limp in his hands. The water still ran, the sound filling the space as his breath began to slow. Castiel’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as he stared at the ruined fabric. It wasn’t perfect anymore. It wasn’t pristine. It wasn’t Dean’s untouched world. It was his now—messy, flawed, and irrevocably stained. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the end. But for now, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He turned off the water, dropped the hoodie onto the counter, and sank back to the floor, his head resting against the cabinet as he closed his eyes and let the silence settle over him.

After a few minutes Castiel hung the damp hoodie over the back of a chair, the paint stains glaring back at him like an accusation. His fingers lingered on the fabric for a moment before he turned away, the small motion of retreat feeling heavier than it should. He walked back to the bed, his bare feet dragging across the floor as if each step required more energy than he had to give. The bed greeted him with its familiar warmth as he sank into the mismatched quilts, pulling them loosely over himself. The vibrant colors, once comforting, now felt like an assault on his senses. Castiel curled into himself, his knees drawing close to his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around them as if the posture might hold him together. The room seemed colder now, the kind of chill that crept in unnoticed until it settled into his skin. He blinked up at the gallery wall above the bed, the fairy lights casting soft, flickering shadows on the framed photographs and art pieces. But even the small glow of light felt like too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will it all away—the room, the cold, the rising tide of emotions he couldn’t seem to control. The tears started slowly, a sting at the corners of his eyes that he tried to blink away, but they gathered until they spilled over, sliding hot and unwelcome down his cheeks. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as he let out a quiet, choked sound. He pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, rubbing as though the friction might somehow erase the feeling.

"I don’t want to fucking cry," he whispered into the silence, his voice cracking. It sounded pathetic even to his own ears, and the thought only made the tears come harder. He felt utterly, completely undone. Whatever fragile thread had tethered him to the idea of Dean —of them— felt severed now. He could imagine Dean’s face, impassive or annoyed, as he read the flood of texts. The mental image made his stomach churn. Castiel bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, trying to push the thought away. He shifted under the quilts, pulling them tighter around his body, but the cold still found him. It seeped in through the cracks, through the spaces between his ribs and the hollows of his thoughts, settling deep within him. His mind replayed everything: the texts, the paint, the hoodie. Over and over, like a loop he couldn’t escape.

Castiel pressed his face into the pillow, muffling a frustrated groan. He wanted to disappear. To fade into the fabric of the room and let it consume him. The temporary reprieve painting had offered him earlier felt like a distant memory, swallowed by the ache in his chest and the weight of his mistakes. He shifted again, his body restless despite the exhaustion pressing down on him. He let out a shaky sigh, his breath hitching as the tears finally slowed, leaving only a dull ache in their place. The room felt impossibly quiet now, save for the occasional crack of the wooden floor as it settled. Castiel closed his eyes, the faint scent of turpentine and paint lingering in the air around him. His fingers traced absent patterns into the edge of the quilt, his mind too full and too empty all at once. He didn’t know how to fix this—if it was even fixable. And for the first time in a long while, he let the uncertainty settle over him, not fighting it, but not welcoming it either. It simply was.

Castiel heard a knock on his door but made no move to answer it. He buried his face further into the quilt, hoping whoever it was would give up and leave. His body felt too heavy, too raw to face anyone, especially not now. The knocking stopped, but then he heard it—the quiet creak of his front door opening. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. The realisation hit him: he hadn’t locked the door after Meg left. A familiar voice called out, warm and tinged with concern. 

"I know you live in a wealthy neighborhood, Cas, but it’s really unsafe to keep your door unlocked…" Dean’s voice trailed off when Castiel glanced up. Dean’s gaze softened immediately, concern etching itself into every line of his face. "Cas..." he said, stepping forward quickly. He crossed the room with purposeful strides and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed next to Castiel, his presence filling the quiet space. "What’s wrong?" Dean’s voice was steady but gentle, like he was trying not to spook him. 

Castiel tried to speak, to explain, but the words caught in his throat. His gaze flickered to the chair where Dean’s hoodie hung, damp and stained with paint, and a fresh wave of shame washed over him. He opened his mouth again, but all that came out was a strangled sound. His hands fisted the quilt beneath him as his chest tightened. Dean leaned closer, his brows knitting together as he pulled Castiel into a hug without hesitation. The sudden embrace was grounding and overwhelming all at once. The rough fabric of Dean’s coat scratched against Castiel’s bare chest, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, feeling the heat radiating from him, the steady presence of someone who refused to let him fall apart alone.

"It’s okay," Dean murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. "It’s going to be okay."

Castiel let out a silent sob, his body trembling as he clung to Dean like a lifeline. Tears spilled over his cheeks again, but this time he didn’t try to stop them. The warmth of Dean’s arms, the solid feel of him, was enough to let the walls Castiel had been holding up collapse completely. Dean pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, his hand still resting lightly on Castiel’s shoulder. 

"I brought food," he said, his tone shifting to something softer, almost teasing. "Thought you could use it." The words didn’t fully register until Castiel caught the unmistakable scent of Biggerson’s cheeseburgers wafting through the air. His stomach growled in response, even though he hadn’t felt hungry moments ago. The absurdity of the smell, so rich and comforting, breaking through the haze of his spiraling thoughts, made him let out a small, shaky laugh between tears. Dean smiled at the sound, his hand giving Castiel’s shoulder a light squeeze. "See? That’s progress."

Castiel shook his head slightly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips even as tears continued to streak his face. Dean stayed close, his presence an anchor in the chaos, and for the first time all day, Castiel felt like maybe —just maybe— he wouldn’t completely unravel. Dean’s words hung in the air for a moment, his tone light, as he placed the takeout bag on the bed with casual care. 

"You seemed to really like cheeseburgers earlier this week," he said, glancing at Castiel. "So, I took a guess." Castiel’s mind flickered back to earlier in the week when Dean had promised lunch. He had fully expected some sleek, corporate eatery—polished tables, muted lighting, and menus with words he couldn’t pronounce. Instead, Dean had brought him to Biggerson’s, its greasy charm and unpretentious air a welcome surprise. Castiel had eaten his burger with genuine delight, savoring the simplicity of it, and had caught Dean smiling at him like he’d just uncovered some grand secret. Dean leaned back slightly, his coat rustling as he settled. "You seemed a bit drunk yesterday," he continued, his voice measured and warm. "And then you didn’t answer today when I texted, so I wasn’t sure if you were sleeping it off or puking your brains out." His lips quirked into a small smile. "I figured either way, Biggerson’s might help."

Castiel rubbed his face with his hands, trying to rub away the lingering tears as though he could erase the evidence of his unraveling. The gesture was futile; the ache in his chest hadn’t lessened. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to bridge the gap between himself and Dean after what had happened. The texts. The hoodie. The mess. Dean’s voice broke the silence again, this time tinged with a touch of humor. 

"On second thought, maybe a shirt should have been my priority."

Castiel froze. The words pierced through the haze in his mind, every muscle in his body stiffening. His hands dropped to his lap, and his eyes flicked to Dean, panic bubbling in his chest. Dean’s expression shifted instantly, his usual steady confidence replaced by a softness that Castiel hadn’t expected. He raised his hands slightly, palms outward, as though to say it was okay. 

"Hey," Dean said, his voice quieter now, more careful. "It’s not a big deal, Cas. Really. I was just... joking." The apology in Dean’s tone was subtle but clear, and the knot in Castiel’s chest began to loosen, though the panic lingered at the edges. Dean scooted closer, his movements deliberate but unassuming, as though afraid to startle him. "Look," Dean said, his voice grounding. "I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You can wear whatever—or nothing, I don’t care. I just want to make sure you’re okay." His eyes searched Castiel’s face, his sincerity undeniable.

"I…" Castiel swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. "I ruined your hoodie," he finally said, the words spilling out in a rush. His throat tightened again, but he forced himself to keep going. "I got paint on it, and I tried to wash it, but I—" Dean cut him off with a quiet laugh, the sound warm and easy. 

"That’s what this is about?" he asked, his brow lifting. "Cas, it’s just a hoodie." Castiel blinked at him, his heart still racing. 

"It’s your hoodie," he murmured, the weight of his guilt sitting heavy in his chest. "I shouldn’t have—" Dean leaned forward, his hand coming to rest lightly on Castiel’s knee. 

"Cas," he said, his tone steady, "it’s just a thing. A thing I can replace. But you?" He gave his knee a gentle squeeze. "You’re not replaceable." The words hung in the air, settling into the quiet space between them. Castiel felt the tension in his shoulders ease ever so slightly. Dean’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he withdrew it, sitting back with an easy smile. "Now," Dean said, gesturing toward the bag. "Before the fries get cold, you’re going to eat. And maybe —just maybe— you’ll let me stay and keep you company. Deal?"

"Deal." Dean shrugged off his jacket with an easy motion, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. His shoes followed with a quick toe-to-heel shuffle before he bent to pick up a shirt lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. He gave it a quick once-over —clean enough, he decided— and tossed it at Castiel.

"Here," Dean said, his tone light but firm, the corner of his mouth quirking up. Castiel caught the shirt, the soft fabric falling over his hands. It was one of his favourites, familiar and worn, the faint scent of paint and laundry detergent clinging to it. He slipped it on without a word, the oversized hoodie replaced by something that suddenly felt like armor, however thin. Dean didn’t comment further, moving to the bed with an unhurried stride. He pulled back the covers with a practiced hand, settling in as though he belonged there. The bed dipped slightly under his weight, and he wasted no time unpacking the food from the paper bag. The tantalizing aroma of greasy burgers and fries filled the air, cutting through the faint chemical tang of paint still lingering from earlier. Castiel sat cross-legged on the bed, his movements slow, as though the day had taken whatever energy he had left to give. He watched as Dean worked, unwrapping the burgers with a kind of precision that seemed to echo the man’s entire demeanor—careful, deliberate, but never stiff. "You better not let these go to waste," Dean said, glancing up at Castiel with a small smirk. He held out a foil-wrapped burger, his eyes soft but steady. "Biggerson’s is practically sacred."

Castiel reached out, his fingers brushing Dean’s briefly as he took the offering. He unwrapped it slowly, the crinkling of foil the only sound in the room for a moment. The sight of the burger —the golden bun glistening faintly, the melted cheese pooling at the edges— brought a pang of something to Castiel’s chest. Hunger, maybe, or the ache of normalcy he hadn’t realised he craved. Dean pushed a carton of fries closer to him, leaning back against the headboard as he took a bite of his own burger. 

"You know," Dean began, speaking around a mouthful of food, "I’ve got to say, this is probably the fanciest dinner I’ve ever had in bed."

Castiel huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, the sound dry but genuine. He took a tentative bite of his burger, the taste as good as he remembered. For a moment, it was just the two of them, the world outside the apartment fading into the background. Dean caught his gaze and grinned. 

"There it is," he said, gesturing with a fry. "That’s the Cas I know. Silent, a little judgmental, and clearly not impressed with my charm." Castiel shook his head, but the ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. 

"You’re an idiot," he muttered, the words soft, almost fond. Dean shrugged, unbothered, and leaned forward to grab a second fry. 

"Maybe," he said, his voice low but warm. "But I’m your idiot tonight. Deal with it."

The words settled between them, easy and unpretentious, and for the first time all day, Castiel felt something in his chest begin to unknot. Dean sat back against the headboard, unwrapping another burger as Castiel leaned into his side, his shoulder brushing against Dean’s arm. The warmth from Dean’s body was a quiet comfort that Castiel hadn’t realised he needed until now.

"Why are you here, Dean?" Castiel asked softly, his voice barely audible above the rustle of paper and the quiet hum of the city filtering in through the window. Dean paused mid-bite, turning his head to look at him. 

"Why am I here?" he repeated, as though the question puzzled him.

"Yeah." Castiel’s fingers played absently with the hem of the borrowed shirt. "I keep messing up. Keep being... a mess." Dean’s lips quirked into a half-smile, his eyes warm with something Castiel couldn’t quite name. 

"Maybe I like it," Dean said.

"You like it?" Castiel echoed, his brow furrowing, though there was no malice in his tone.

"Yeah." Dean took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding, "And I don’t want to be alone on my birthday." Castiel stilled, the words hitting him harder than he expected. 

"It’s your birthday?" His voice was small, guilt creeping into the edges.  Dean noticed immediately, his smile softening as he set the burger down. 

"Cas, it’s fine. I didn’t tell you. You couldn’t have known." But Castiel shook his head, his mind racing through the implications. Dean had chosen to be here, with him, despite... everything. Despite the chaos Castiel seemed to carry with him like a second skin.

"I should’ve done something," Castiel murmured, his voice tight. "I should’ve known." Dean reached out, his hand brushing lightly against Castiel’s arm. 

"You’re doing something now," he said simply. "You’re here. That’s all I wanted." The sincerity in Dean’s voice made Castiel’s throat tighten. He leaned forward slightly, letting his forehead rest against Dean’s shoulder. The scent of burgers and cologne mingled, grounding him in the moment. Dean didn’t move, didn’t pull away, and for once, Castiel allowed himself to believe that maybe he wasn’t as much of a mess as he thought. Or, at the very least, that Dean didn’t mind the mess. Dean looked at Castiel, burger temporarily forgotten. "Maybe we can watch something later," he suggested casually, his voice warm and inviting. Castiel turned his head slightly, his blue eyes searching Dean’s face. 

"Is that what you want?" he asked softly, his tone tinged with a vulnerability he didn’t bother to hide. Dean smiled, the kind of smile that felt like the sun breaking through clouds. 

"Yeah, that’s what I want."

Castiel’s gaze drifted downward, his thoughts spiraling. He couldn’t help but compare the simplicity of Dean’s request to the elaborate gestures Gabriel, Balthazar, and even Meg had made for his birthdays over the years. Gabriel had always been the orchestrator of chaos, turning each birthday into a whirlwind of mischief. Castiel remembered the year Gabriel had rented an entire arcade for the night, only to rig every machine to dispense absurd prizes: rubber chickens, cans of soup, even a goldfish in a bag. The whole affair had been ridiculous, but when the chaos died down, Gabriel had pulled out a hand-painted chess set—crafted with Gabriel’s signature meticulousness—because, as he’d said with a smirk: 

"You’re the only one I’d let beat me at this game, Cassie."

And Meg—Meg always understood him in a way that no one else did. Her gifts were never grand, but they were precise, hitting the quiet corners of his heart. The year after they’d broken up, she had given him a battered but first edition copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, its spine cracked, her scrawling note inside the cover: 

‘For the artist in you 

from the part of me that 

still believes in redemption.’  

They hadn’t spoken much that year, but that book had said more than any conversation could have. Then there was Balthazar, who treated every occasion as an excuse for indulgence. Castiel could still taste the champagne from the rooftop party Balthazar had thrown two years ago. The city sprawled out beneath them as Balthazar poured glass after glass, his charm intoxicating enough to rival the drinks. 

"Life is too short to waste it on mediocrity," Balthazar had proclaimed, presenting Castiel with an antique pocket watch engraved with his initials. The gift had been thoughtful in a way that only Balthazar could make seem effortless. Each of these gestures had been vivid, loud, or deeply personal, demanding Castiel’s attention and appreciation. And now, here was Dean, sitting on his bed, offering nothing more than a burger and a movie. Yet, somehow, this simplicity felt more profound. Dean wasn’t trying to dazzle or impress him. He wasn’t trying to fix anything or show Castiel who he could be. He was just… here. Sharing the moment, asking for nothing in return.

This was different. Dean didn’t want spectacle or indulgence. He wanted to sit on Castiel’s bed, eat takeout, and watch a movie. The simplicity of it was disarming, and Castiel found himself wondering if he deserved it. His chest tightened in a way that was both comforting and terrifying. Could something so unadorned, so unembellished, really be enough? Could he, in all his chaos, be enough for someone like Dean? He looked back at Dean, who was taking another bite of his burger, utterly at ease. The sight grounded Castiel, pulling him from his swirling thoughts. This moment —Dean here, on his birthday, choosing to spend it with him— was enough. At least, Castiel wanted to believe it was. Castiel shifted slightly, his hand absently brushing against the blanket as he glanced toward the kitchen. 

"I’ve got ice cream," he said, his voice tentative. Dean furrowed his brow, his burger halfway to his mouth. 

"What?"

"It’s your birthday," Castiel said, quieter this time, his eyes flickering back to Dean’s. "I don’t have any cake, but I have ice cream." Dean blinked, and then his lips curved into a grin that softened the angles of his face. 

"Ice cream works," he said. "I mean, who doesn’t like ice cream?" Castiel pushed himself up from the bed, the shirt he wore shifting with the motion, brushing against his bare thighs. The kitchen wasn’t far, but he moved with an air of purpose, as though retrieving ice cream was an act of redemption. He opened the freezer and rummaged around, pulling out a slightly frosted container. He ran a hand over the surface, brushing away the thin layer of frost before grabbing two mismatched spoons from the drawer.

When he returned, Dean had made himself comfortable, leaning back on the pillows like he belonged there. The sight made something unfamiliar twist in Castiel’s chest, but he pushed the feeling aside as he climbed back onto the bed and handed Dean the container and a spoon. Dean took it with a laugh. 

"Classy. Straight out of the tub." Castiel smirked faintly, settling back beside him. 

"You’re lucky I had any. I don’t usually buy desserts." Dean dug his spoon into the ice cream and took a bite, humming appreciatively. 

"Good choice," he said, tapping the spoon against the edge of the container. "It’s almost like you planned this." Castiel shook his head, his gaze dipping. 

"I didn’t," he admitted. "But I’m glad you’re here." Dean looked at him then, the easy humor in his eyes giving way to something softer, something warmer. 

"Me too," he said simply. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the faint scrape of spoons against the ice cream and the muffled hum of the city outside. Castiel felt the tension in his chest begin to ease, the simplicity of the moment grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. He didn’t need grand gestures or perfect plans. Dean was here, and for now, that was enough. Castiel leaned back against the headboard, his spoon tapping lightly against the edge of the ice cream container as he stared at Dean. The memory of his last birthday tugged at the edges of his thoughts, a chaotic blur of laughter, questionable decisions, and too much alcohol.

"My last birthday," Castiel began, his voice carrying the quiet nostalgia of someone dredging up a moment half-cherished and half-regretted, "we mixed champagne and coca cola." Dean paused mid-scoop, his brow lifting in mild disbelief. 

"That sounds less like a drink and more like a hangover waiting to happen," he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"It was both, and why I stick to Pepsi these days," Castiel admitted, a small, rueful smile creeping onto his face. "Gabriel insisted it was a delicacy. Said it was the ‘perfect blend of sophistication and chaos.’" He mimed air quotes with his free hand, rolling his eyes at the memory. Dean chuckled, the sound low and warm. 

"Sophistication and chaos," he echoed, shaking his head. "That sounds exactly like something your brother would come up with." Castiel nodded, his gaze drifting to the fairy lights above the bed. The soft glow illuminated the edges of his thoughts, pulling the memory into sharper focus. 

"Balthazar called it ‘liquid regret,’" he added, a faint laugh escaping his lips. "Which was accurate. It tasted terrible." Dean took another bite of ice cream, his eyes fixed on Castiel with a quiet intensity that made the space between them feel smaller. 

"And you drank it anyway?" he asked, his tone teasing but not unkind.

"Of course," Castiel said, shrugging one shoulder. "It was my birthday. Everyone was there, and… well, Gabriel had already poured it. You don’t waste champagne, even if it’s ruined." Dean shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. 

"You’re braver than I am," he said, his voice laced with mock admiration. Castiel smirked, his fingers toying with the edge of the quilt draped over his lap. 

"It wasn’t bravery as much as it was pure peer pressure." His voice softened as he added, "But it was fun. Messy, chaotic fun." Dean watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he replied. 

"Sounds like you’ve had some interesting birthdays."

"Interesting is one word for it," Castiel replied, his smile fading slightly. "Gabriel always makes sure they are… unforgettable." Dean’s gaze lingered on him, something unspoken passing between them. 

"And what about you?" he asked softly. "What do you want?" Castiel blinked, caught off guard by the question. He glanced down at the ice cream container, his fingers tightening slightly around the spoon. 

"I don’t know," he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet. "I’ve never really thought about it." Dean reached out, his hand resting lightly on Castiel’s knee. The touch was brief, but grounding, a silent reassurance. 

"Maybe it doesn’t have to be big or loud," he said, his voice steady. "Maybe it can just be... this." Castiel looked up, meeting Dean’s gaze. There was no judgment there, no pressure—just the quiet understanding that had always set Dean apart. Castiel’s chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t unpleasant. It was a feeling he couldn’t quite name, something warm and fragile that settled in the spaces between them.

"Maybe," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t look away, letting the moment stretch out, unbroken by the world beyond his small apartment.

Chapter Text

Dean woke to the soft light filtering through the frosted glass windows of Castiel’s apartment, illuminating the chaos around him. The mismatched quilts were tangled around their legs, a testament to restless sleep. The scent of paint and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with something distinctly Castiel—a mix of musk, soap, and the faintest hint of whatever cologne he used when he remembered to. Dean tightened his arm around Castiel, pulling him closer. Castiel shifted slightly but didn’t wake, his breath steady against Dean’s chest. For a moment, Dean allowed himself to just be —to feel the warmth of Castiel’s body against his, the way his dark hair brushed against Dean’s chin, the quiet of the apartment in the early hours.

This, Dean knew, was not what he’d expected his weekend —or his life, for that matter— to look like. Yesterday, when he’d woken to a string of rambling, drunken texts from Castiel, there hadn’t been a question in his mind about where he wanted to be. Dean had spent the morning with his parents and sister, deflecting questions about his plans for the evening, and told Charlie he didn’t feel like going out. She hadn’t pressed him, and for that, he was grateful.

Now, here he was.

Dean closed his eyes and rested his chin against Castiel’s head, his thoughts racing despite the stillness around them. He hadn’t told Castiel yet about what he’d said last week, hadn’t mentioned how the drunken confessions had shaken something loose in him. Castiel had been so vulnerable, so painfully real , and Dean had done what he always did—held it together, tucked the feelings away, and told himself there would be time to figure it out later.

But later never came.

Dean had spent his life building order out of chaos, creating neat lines and boundaries to keep the world manageable. And then Castiel had come along, messy and unpredictable, with his paint-stained hands and oversized hoodies, and had unraveled Dean in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

“What the hell is this?” Dean whispered into the stillness. 

Castiel stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible, and Dean froze, his breath caught in his throat. But Castiel only shifted closer, his head now tucked against Dean’s shoulder, his body warm and pliant in sleep. Dean exhaled slowly, brushing his fingers absently against the fabric of Castiel’s shirt. The sight of him worrying about how Dean would react about the news of the hoodie the night before, perched on the edge of the bed with his hair a disheveled halo, had done something to Dean’s chest he couldn’t quite describe.

Dean didn’t know what this was, but he knew one thing with startling clarity: he didn’t want it to stop.

The soft light from the windows shifted slightly, the morning creeping forward. Dean pressed a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head —a quiet, reverent thing— and then carefully untangled himself from the bed. Castiel murmured something in protest, his hand reaching out instinctively, but Dean stilled it with a gentle squeeze.

“Just making coffee,” Dean whispered, his voice low. He padded into the kitchen, the cool floor a sharp contrast to the warmth he’d just left. The small space was cluttered but inviting, filled with dirty mugs and half forgotten jars of spices. Dean found the coffee and set to work, the familiar motions grounding him. As the coffee brewed, he leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the quiet street below. His thoughts drifted back to the night before—the laughter, the easy banter, the way Castiel had looked at him with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through all the walls Dean had built. He hadn’t planned for any of this. But now, standing in Castiel’s kitchen, the faint smell of coffee filling the air, Dean realised he didn’t want to go back to a life without it. 

A quiet voice broke his reverie. 

“You left.” Dean turned to see Castiel standing in the doorway, his hair a mess, his shirt rumpled. He looked at Dean with a mixture of sleepiness and something else—something hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if Dean being here was real. Dean smiled softly, holding out a mug. 

“Just to make coffee.” Castiel stepped closer, taking the mug from Dean’s hands. His fingers brushed Dean’s, and the warmth of the touch lingered longer than it should have. They stood in silence for a moment, sipping their coffee, the unspoken weight of everything between them filling the room. Finally, Castiel spoke, his voice quiet.

“Why did you come here?” Dean glanced at him, his green eyes steady. 

“Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Castiel looked down at his mug, his fingers tightening around it. 

“Even after the texts?” Dean chuckled, the sound low and warm. 

“Especially after the texts.” Castiel’s lips quirked into a small smile, and he shook his head. 

“You’re impossible.” Dean leaned against the counter, his gaze softening. 

“And you’re a mess.” Castiel laughed quietly, the sound breaking the tension in the room. 

“Fair enough.” They stood there for a while, the morning light casting soft shadows around them. For the first time in a long time, Dean felt like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to have all the answers right now. Maybe all he had to do was stay.

Dean’s eyes wandered to the hoodie draped over the back of a chair in the corner of the kitchen. It caught the soft glow of the morning light, the fabric now adorned with streaks of turquoise and crimson that had seeped into the grey. Dean tilted his head, studying it as he sipped his coffee. It didn’t look ruined. If anything, it looked like something Castiel might have painted intentionally—a quiet chaos of colours blending into something new. Dean couldn’t help the small curve of his lips as he imagined Castiel’s face, cheeks flushed, words tumbling out in a rush as he tried to explain the mess. The memory of Castiel’s tearfilled confession the night before surfaced once more, tugging at something in Dean that felt too raw to touch. Castiel had been terrified, voice shaking, his hands gripping at the fabric of Dean’s shirt like it was the last thread tethering him to Dean. At the time, Dean hadn’t understood why Castiel had reacted so intensely. It was just a hoodie, after all. But now, as the memory replayed in his mind, Dean felt a pang of understanding settle over him like a chill.

It wasn’t about the hoodie.

It was about him —about Castiel’s fear of ruining something bigger, something fragile and precious that Castiel had already dared to name in a moment of drunken honesty. Castiel didn’t remember the confession, of course. The words had spilled from him unguarded last week, raw and trembling, and Dean had sat in stunned silence, unsure of what to do with them. Now, staring at the hoodie that Castiel had cried over, it clicked into place. Castiel was terrified of pushing Dean away. The thought hit Dean like a slow, creeping tide, filling the spaces between his ribs with an ache that wouldn’t fade. He set his coffee mug on the counter and leaned against the edge, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes drifted back to Castiel, who stood at the kitchen table, absently tracing circles on the surface with his fingertip. The sunlight painted his face in soft lines, catching the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes and the mess of his sleep-tossed hair. He looked like a painting half-finished, beautiful in a way that Dean couldn’t quite explain. Dean took a breath, letting the quiet stretch between them before speaking. 

“You know,” he said, his voice steady but low, “I’m looking at the hoodie.” Castiel glanced up, his lips parting slightly, uncertainty flickering across his face. 

“Oh,” he said softly, his fingers stilling. “I… I’ll replace it. Or, I’ll try to—” Dean cut him off with a shake of his head. “It doesn’t need replacing.” Castiel blinked, his brow furrowing. 

“It’s ruined.” Dean smiled faintly, pushing off the counter and crossing the room to stand beside him. 

“It’s not ruined,” he said, gesturing toward the chair where the hoodie hung. “It’s... different. But it’s still good.” Castiel followed Dean’s gaze, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke, his voice quiet. 

“I was scared you’d be mad.” The words landed between them, soft but weighted with everything unspoken. Dean’s chest tightened as he reached out, resting a hand lightly on Castiel’s arm. 

“I’m not mad,” he said gently. Castiel’s eyes flicked to Dean’s, searching. 

“You should be. I keep messing things up. First shutting you out, then showing up drunk, then the texts, then…” His voice trailed off, and he looked away, his shoulders tense. Dean’s hand tightened slightly on Castiel’s arm, grounding him. 

“Cas,” he said, his tone firm but warm. “You didn’t mess anything up.” Castiel hesitated, his gaze darting back to Dean’s face. 

“Then why does it feel like I’m always one step away from doing just that?” Dean exhaled, his hand falling away as he took a small step back. 

“Because you think I’ll leave,” he said quietly. Castiel froze, his breath catching. Dean met his gaze, green eyes steady and open. “I’m not going anywhere, Cas. Not because of a hoodie, or some texts, or… anything else.” The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Castiel looked as though he might crumble under the weight of them. But then he nodded, a small, hesitant movement, as though he wasn’t quite ready to believe it but wanted to. Dean glanced back at the hoodie, the vibrant streaks of paint that had turned something ordinary into something uniquely Castiel. He smiled to himself, a quiet warmth spreading through him as he turned his attention back to the man in front of him. “Besides,” Dean added, his tone light, “I think it looks better this way. A little more… you.” Castiel’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through the cloud of doubt on his face. 

“You think so?” Dean nodded, his voice soft but sure. 

“Yeah, I do.”

For the first time that morning, Castiel’s shoulders seemed to relax, the tension easing from his frame. Dean watched him, his own thoughts swirling with questions he wasn’t ready to ask and truths he wasn’t sure Castiel was ready to hear. But for now, this moment was enough. Dean reached for his coffee and took a sip, the warmth spreading through him as he let the quiet of the apartment wrap around them. Castiel tilted his head, his blue eyes fixed on Dean. 

“Did you have a good birthday, then?” Dean hesitated, the question hanging in the quiet between them before he gave a small shrug. 

“Yeah, it was nice.”

“Nice,” Castiel repeated, his tone unreadable. Dean raised an eyebrow. 

“You don’t think so?” Castiel’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his gaze drifted past Dean, as if considering his words carefully. 

“I think it was calm.” Dean nodded slowly. 

“Yeah?” Castiel leaned back slightly, cradling his coffee mug between his hands. 

“I think the only calm birthday I had was my last one in art school. I lived three hours away from here, and everyone had plans. Balthazar had a meeting or something to prepare for. Gabriel either prepared for something or pretended to, and Meg—” Dean straightened, cutting in sharply. 

“Meg? Meg Masters?” Castiel frowned slightly at Dean’s tone, his brows knitting together in confusion. 

“Yeah?” Dean blinked a few times, his thoughts colliding with the revelation. Meg? Meg, who always knew more than she let on. Meg, who prided herself on her sharp tongue and an almost uncanny ability to navigate Novak Enterprises like she owned the place. Meg, who had claimed she only knew ‘enough about the Novaks to keep herself afloat.’ Dean’s mind spun as he pieced it together. Meg, his assistant. The same Meg who handed him perfectly organised schedules while withholding just enough information to keep him on his toes. The Meg who teased him endlessly but always seemed to know when to back off. The same Meg who had never mentioned personally knowing Castiel.

“Huh,” Dean muttered, his fingers tightening around his mug as he stared at Castiel. Castiel tilted his head, his confusion deepening. 

“Why does that surprise you?” Dean exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. 

“No reason,” he said, though his thoughts continued racing. 

Meg Masters.  

His assistant. 

Castiel’s ex.

And somehow, she’d managed to keep that little detail from him. Of course she had. That was just so Meg. Dean blinked, the mug in his hand suddenly feeling awkward. 

“So erm, Meg?” he asked, his voice carefully even. Castiel looked at him, a slight frown forming on his lips. 

“Yeah, Meg. Why?” Dean stared at Castiel for a moment, trying to process the new piece of information that had slipped so casually into the conversation. 

“Huh,” Dean muttered, lowering his mug to the counter. Castiel tilted his head, studying Dean with a mix of curiosity and mild concern. 

“Why do you look like I just told you the sky is purple?” Dean blinked again, forcing himself to focus. 

“Meg. Meg Masters,” he repeated, as if the name itself might help him make sense of things. Castiel nodded slowly. 

“Yes, Dean. Meg Masters. Is this going somewhere, or are you just going to keep saying her name like it’s some kind of revelation?” Dean huffed a laugh, though it lacked humour. 

“It kind of is,” he said, his thoughts spinning. Meg, who always had a quip ready. Meg, who had never mentioned anything about knowing the Novaks beyond the vague, impersonal comments she threw out now and then. Meg, who was his assistant but seemed to delight in withholding information just to watch him squirm. “Meg never told me she knew you,” Dean said, his voice slower now, almost cautious. Castiel raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“That sounds like her. She likes to keep people guessing.”

“Guessing?” Dean repeated, his tone sharpening slightly. “She’s my assistant. She’s supposed to keep me informed, not…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. Not what? Keep secrets? Leave him floundering? He couldn’t quite pin it down, but the revelation gnawed at him in a way he couldn’t ignore. Castiel leaned against the counter, his mug cradled between his hands. 

“Meg’s not really the open book type,” he said, his voice light but laced with an undertone of familiarity. “She keeps things close to the chest. Always has.” Dean frowned, his mind jumping back to countless moments in the office—Meg’s offhand comments, her knowing looks, the way she always seemed to be one step ahead of him without ever letting on how.

“And you two?” Dean asked, his voice careful now, his green eyes narrowing slightly.

“Dated,” Castiel said simply, as if the word held no weight for him. He sipped his coffee, his expression unreadable. Dean froze, the word landing like a spark in a room full of kindling. His gaze snapped to Castiel’s face, searching for any hint of humour or mischief, but Castiel looked calm, his eyes meeting Dean’s without flinching.

“You dated?” Dean repeated, the word foreign in his mouth.

“On and off in college,” Castiel said, his tone casual. He glanced at Dean, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Relax. It was a long time ago.” Dean’s jaw tightened, his thoughts a tangle of questions and disbelief. Meg. Meg, who’d been his assistant for months now. Meg, who had never so much as hinted at a connection to Castiel beyond the vague camaraderie she shared with half the office.

“Why didn’t she—” Dean started, but he cut himself off, shaking his head. He could practically hear Meg’s voice in his head, laced with dry humour: Because it would be more fun to watch you figure it out, Smithy. Castiel watched him, his head tilting slightly. 

“Dean,” he said slowly, “why does this bother you so much?” Dean hesitated, his mind scrambling for a reasonable answer. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” he said quickly, though his tone betrayed him.

“Uh-huh,” Castiel replied, clearly unconvinced.

“It’s just…” Dean gestured vaguely with his mug. “She’s my assistant. She’s supposed to—”

“Be completely transparent about her personal life?” Castiel interrupted, one eyebrow arching. Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. 

“No, but—”

“She’s also your assistant, not your best friend,” Castiel pointed out, his voice softening. “Maybe she didn’t think it was relevant.” Dean frowned, his fingers tightening around the mug. 

“It feels relevant,” he muttered, more to himself than to Castiel. Castiel studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he leaned forward slightly. 

“You know, for someone who prides himself on being so composed, you’re surprisingly easy to rile up.” Dean shot him a sharp look, but the amusement in Castiel’s eyes was hard to resist. He sighed, shaking his head as a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Questions still swirling in his mind, but for now, he let them rest. The answers could wait. Castiel, standing in the soft light of the kitchen, deserved more than Dean’s preoccupation with Meg’s omissions.

“Yeah,” Dean said finally, his voice quiet. “I guess I am.”

“Well, anyway,” Castiel said, his voice soft and reflective as he turned his mug in his hands. “Meg wasn’t there either. She had an internship—something important. We FaceTimed instead.” He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that held a mixture of fondness and detachment, as if he were watching a memory play out on a distant screen. Dean nodded, though his thoughts were far from calm. The image of Castiel and Meg together lingered in his mind like an unwelcome guest, weaving itself into every corner of his attention. It didn’t make sense. They were friends now, clearly, and whatever they’d had in the past was long gone. 

Castiel had moved on—so why couldn’t Dean?

He pressed his lips into a thin line, his gaze fixed on the steam curling lazily from his coffee. The thoughts tumbling through his head weren’t rational, and he knew it. Castiel had never pried into Dean’s past relationships, had never asked him for explanations or apologies. Why, then, was Dean stuck on the idea of Castiel and Meg, on the way their lives had intersected long before Dean even knew Castiel existed? He shifted on his feet, frustration curling at the edges of his thoughts. Maybe it was because he’d never pictured Castiel with anyone before. Not seriously, at least. Castiel had always seemed… unmoored, in a way, drifting through relationships and connections without anchoring himself to anything lasting. But Meg? Meg wasn’t a fling. Meg was sharp, deliberate, and fiercely loyal in her own chaotic way. The idea of her and Castiel together —of her knowing parts of him that Dean hadn’t yet discovered— made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. 

Dean shook his head slightly, trying to clear the thoughts away. It wasn’t fair to either of them. He didn’t get to judge Castiel’s past, not when his own was far from pristine. After all, their entire relationship —if he could even call it that— had started with a lie. They’d met in a bar, Dean’s tie slightly loosened after a long day, Castiel’s eyes sharp and curious. For months, Dean had kept the lie alive, unsure of how to backtrack without shattering whatever fragile connection they’d built. When the truth had come out —messily, inevitably— Castiel had been furious. Rightfully so. But now they were here. Trying to navigate the mess they’d created with more vulnerability than Dean had ever thought himself capable of.

And yet, despite all of that, Dean had never once asked Castiel about his past. In truth he hadn’t wanted to know. It wasn’t about jealousy or fear; it was about keeping their moments together untangled from the lives they’d lived before. Castiel’s world before Dean wasn’t his to claim, just as Dean’s own history wasn’t for Castiel to interrogate. So why couldn’t Dean stop picturing it now—Castiel and Meg, their lives overlapping in ways he couldn’t quite reconcile? He exhaled slowly, setting his mug down on the counter with a quiet clink. Castiel glanced at him, his head tilting slightly in that way he always did when he was trying to read Dean’s mood.

“You’re quiet,” Castiel said, his tone light but probing. Dean forced a small smile. 

“Just thinking.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. 

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Funny,” Dean replied, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. He shifted his weight, his hand running absently over the edge of the counter. “About Meg,” he started, then paused, unsure of how to frame the thought without sounding ridiculous. Castiel waited, his blue eyes steady and patient, and Dean sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly. “I guess I just didn’t know you two had… that kind of history.” Castiel’s expression softened, his smirk fading into something quieter. 

“It was a long time ago, Dean,” he said gently. “We were young, figuring ourselves out. It wasn’t… serious.”  Dean nodded, the words settling somewhere just out of reach. He wanted to believe them, wanted to let the knot in his chest unravel, but it clung stubbornly, refusing to be untied. Castiel stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Dean’s face. “You know it doesn’t mean anything now, right?” he said softly, his voice low but certain. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s just… noise.” Dean looked at him then, really looked, and saw the truth in Castiel’s eyes—the steady assurance that whatever history he shared with Meg was just that: history. It didn’t define who he was now, and it didn’t define whatever this was between them. Dean exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.” Castiel studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

“Good.” 

The silence that followed was lighter, less charged, and Dean found himself leaning against the counter, his gaze drifting back to Castiel. He still didn’t know what to call this thing between them, this messy, unspoken connection that defied the boundaries Dean usually kept so carefully in place. But for now, it didn’t matter. For now, Castiel was here, and so was he.

“We grew up together—me, Meg, and Gabriel.” Castiel contented as if he could sense the unspoken thoughts lingering in Dean’s mind, he continued, his voice calm and reflective.“Our parents thought it was cute that we were friends, like something out of a storybook.” Castiel’s lips twitched in a faint smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, a distant shadow of memories Dean couldn’t see.

“I see,” Dean replied, keeping his voice steady, though he felt the words land oddly on his tongue. Castiel nodded, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the room. 

“But dating… well, it didn’t work out, obviously. We were… off and on, chaotic.” His smile grew wry, tinged with self-awareness. “Water on a grease fire.” 

Dean’s grip on the counter tightened ever so slightly. The image Castiel’s words painted —of messy passion, of a bond forged in the close quarters of childhood and ignited in adolescence— stirred something deep in him. He didn’t need to ask to know the truth of it, the look in Castiel’s eyes told him all he needed to know: they had been each other’s firsts, in every sense of the word. First love, first heartbreak, first everything. The thought clawed its way through Dean’s chest, leaving behind a strange, uncomfortable sensation that he didn’t quite know how to name. It was a sharp, twisting ache, like a vine winding tightly around something tender and vulnerable. He could picture it too clearly: Castiel, younger, freer, laughing with Meg under a sunlit sky. Castiel leaning in, tentative and unsure, and Meg meeting him halfway, her sharp wit softening into something warmer. Castiel discovering himself in the safety of someone who already knew him, who had shared his childhood and understood the language of his silences. Dean’s throat felt tight. He hated how vividly he could imagine it, how effortlessly his mind conjured these moments he hadn’t been a part of. It wasn’t rational, and he knew it. Meg and Castiel were long over, their story written and closed. But the thought of anyone else knowing Castiel so intimately, of being part of a history Dean couldn’t touch, scraped against something raw inside him. He tried to shake it off, to remind himself that he had no claim to Castiel’s past. Hell, his own history wasn’t exactly spotless. But the image lingered, persistent and unwelcome, filling the spaces between them like smoke. Castiel glanced at Dean, his expression softening as if he sensed the undercurrent of emotion shifting in the room. “It’s ancient history, Dean,” he said, his tone quiet but sure. “Meg and I were never... meant to last. We care about each other, but we weren’t good together.” Dean forced a small nod, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Makes sense,” he said, his voice steady but distant. Castiel’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing slightly, as though he could see the edges of something Dean was trying to hide. 

But he didn’t press, didn’t call him out. Instead, he reached for his mug, his movements slow and deliberate, grounding. Dean watched him, the ache in his chest still coiled tightly, and wondered how something so small —just words, just a story— could unsettle him so completely. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t hurt, but it was something that sat uneasily in the pit of his stomach, its roots digging deeper with each passing second. He glanced down at his hands, at the way his fingers curled against the counter as if holding himself in place. This wasn’t like him. He didn’t do this—didn’t let himself spiral over things he couldn’t change. But Castiel was different. Castiel had always been different, from the moment Dean had met him, all sharp edges and soft vulnerability wrapped in mismatched clothes and paint-streaked hands.

And maybe that was the problem. Maybe it wasn’t about Meg at all, but about the realisation that Castiel’s life was so much bigger than the parts Dean had seen, that there were pieces of him —beautiful, messy, complicated pieces— that Dean would never fully know. The thought hit him with a quiet finality, and Dean exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. He looked back at Castiel, who was now studying the swirl of coffee in his mug, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Water on a grease fire,” Dean said softly, echoing Castiel’s words. Castiel glanced up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice lighter now. “But you live, you learn, right?” Dean nodded, his own smile growing more genuine. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You do.”

And as Dean turned back to his coffee he let the vine around his chest loosen, knowing it wouldn’t vanish entirely but finding solace in the quiet moment between them.

Chapter Text

The faint scent of paint hung in the air as Dean exited the elevator on the entrance floor. It was subtle at first, just a hint of plastic and something floral, but it grew stronger as he walked toward the open lobby. His polished shoes clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the space. Castiel had told him yesterday that painting would begin today and to come by and check it out after Dean’s first meeting. Castiel was there, crouched low near one of the massive walls, a pencil in hand and a small collection of paint pots and brushes scattered at his side. Dean paused at the edge of the room, letting his gaze linger on Castiel’s figure. He was dressed in his usual loose linen shirt and jeans, the fabric already streaked with faint smudges of charcoal. His hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration—or focus. Dean couldn’t tell which. The sight of Castiel like this, so entirely in his element, stirred something in him that he didn’t have a name for.

For a moment, he just watched. Castiel worked with an ease that was almost hypnotic, his movements fluid and deliberate as he sketched faint lines across the pristine white wall. There was no hesitation in his strokes, no second-guessing. Just purpose. Dean’s reverie was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. He turned to see Gabriel strolling into the lobby, his posture relaxed, a crooked grin on his face. Gabriel didn’t seem to notice Dean right away—or maybe he did, but chose to ignore him. His focus was entirely on Castiel.

“You look… happy,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt as he stopped a few feet from where Castiel worked. Castiel didn’t glance up. 

“I’m focused,” he replied simply, the pencil in his hand continuing its path along the wall.

“Focused. Happy. Same thing,” Gabriel said with a shrug, sliding his hands into his pockets. He tilted his head, watching his brother for a moment before adding, “It’s nice. Suits you.” Dean couldn’t help the slight twitch of his jaw at Gabriel’s words, though he kept his expression neutral. He didn’t know why they bothered him. Maybe it was the casual intimacy in Gabriel’s tone, the way he spoke to Castiel like he’d known him forever—because he had.

“Don’t you have work to do, Gabriel?” Castiel asked, his tone flat but not unkind.

“I’m delegating,” Gabriel replied easily, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Delegation is a key skill, you know.” 

Castiel snorted softly but said nothing, his focus remaining on his sketch. Dean took a step forward then, his presence announced by the subtle shift in Castiel’s posture. He didn’t look up, didn’t even seem aware that Dean was there now.

“Morning,” Dean said, his voice even as he came to a stop a few feet away. Gabriel’s grin widened, a flicker of amusement lighting his features as he turned to Dean. 

“Morning, Director,” he said, dragging the title out just enough to blur the line between respect and mockery. It was a tone Dean had grown accustomed to, irritating yet oddly familiar, like the constant ticking of a clock.

Dean nodded in acknowledgment but kept his focus on Castiel. He waited, expecting a reaction—a glance, a murmured response, even the slightest shift in expression. But Castiel remained silent, his pencil gliding over the wall in smooth, purposeful strokes. The silence deepened, broken only by the faint, rhythmic sound of graphite scratching plaster. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but there was a strange energy to it, a kind of unspoken tension that lingered in the air like the scent of paint. Dean hesitated, the words forming on his tongue, but he caught himself. Castiel’s silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It wasn’t avoidance either; it was something more complicated, a space he occupied when his mind was consumed by his work. Gabriel, however, wasn’t one to leave silence unfilled.

“Looks like someone’s in the zone,” he quipped, his gaze flicking between Castiel and Dean. There was a knowing glimmer in his eyes, as if he enjoyed observing the dynamic, even when—or perhaps especially when—it felt strained. Castiel’s hand paused briefly, the pencil hovering over the wall before resuming its path. The movement was subtle, but Dean noticed. “We should leave the artist,” Gabriel said lightly, though his smirk suggested he was more amused than concerned. “You know how he gets when he’s working. It’s like poking a sleeping dragon—more trouble than it’s worth.”  Dean’s brow furrowed slightly, the analogy sticking in his mind. He glanced at Castiel again, studying the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly at Gabriel’s words. There was no fire in his brother’s reaction, no biting retort, just the quiet, unbroken rhythm of his hand on the wall. “Come on, Director,” Gabriel added, stepping toward the elevator. “We’ve got meetings to pretend to care about.”

Dean lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on Castiel. He wanted to say something, to reach out past the quiet barrier Castiel had built around himself. But the moment passed, and Dean nodded almost imperceptibly before following Gabriel. Inside the elevator, the atmosphere shifted. The enclosed space was quiet but not still, humming faintly as it rose. Gabriel leaned casually against the wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored trousers, his expression unreadable.

“Something’s eating you,” Gabriel said after a beat, his tone deceptively light. “You’ve been hovering around Castiel like a cloud all morning.” Dean glanced at him, his jaw tightening slightly. 

“He seemed off,” he said simply, his voice low. Gabriel arched a brow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it softened into something that might have been understanding. 

“Cassie’s always ‘off,’” he replied, his grin returning. “That’s his charm.” Dean shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. 

“It’s not the same,” he murmured, more to himself than to Gabriel. “He was... distant.”

“Distant is a relative term,” Gabriel countered, his voice quieter now, though still tinged with humour. “You think he’s pushing people away, but honestly, he’s just pulling his walls tighter. Give him time. He’ll talk when he’s ready.”

Dean didn’t respond, his thoughts circling back to Castiel’s silence, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he’d seemed to retreat even as he stood in plain sight. The elevator chimed softly as it reached their floor, the doors sliding open to reveal the bright corridor beyond. Gabriel clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder as they stepped out. 

“Relax, Director. Castiel’s got his way of dealing with things. Just make sure you’re there when he decides to let you in.”

Dean nodded absently, the words echoing in his mind as they walked down the corridor. He wasn’t sure if Gabriel was right, but he knew one thing for certain: Castiel’s silence wasn’t something he could ignore.

“He said he used to date Meg.” The words slipped out before Dean could stop them, unfiltered and sharp against the quiet rhythm of their steps. Gabriel stopped mid-stride, the easy grin faltering on his lips. For a moment, he looked uncharacteristically unsure, the ever-present glint in his eyes dimmed. 

“Oh…” he murmured, a flicker of something unspoken passing across his face. “Yeah… erm, they did.” Dean pressed his lips together, the corners tightening as he looked away. The image of Castiel and Meg together —something he had no right to care about but couldn’t quite shake— stuck in his mind. It didn’t sit right. It felt like a story he hadn’t been invited to, one that spoke of shared history and moments he couldn’t touch. His shoulders tensed slightly, a low hum of unease curling in his chest. Gabriel, uncharacteristically quiet, stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall for a moment, as if searching for his footing. “It was a long time ago,” he added, his voice softer than usual. “Back when we were still trying to figure out who we were—Meg, Cas, and I. We all grew up together, you know? Tight-knit, the three of us.” He glanced at Dean, his grin slowly reappearing, though it lacked its usual spark. Dean exhaled through his nose, a subtle release of tension that did little to ease the knot in his stomach. He crossed his arms, forcing himself to look composed. 

“It’s none of my business,” he said evenly, though the words felt hollow even to him.

“Right,” Gabriel said, pushing off the wall and resuming his stride. “None of your business.” But his tone carried a teasing edge now, as though he couldn’t resist poking at the lingering tension. “Except that you brought it up. Which, I gotta say, is a curious choice for someone who doesn’t care.” Dean shot him a look, his jaw tightening. 

“I was just making conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Gabriel replied, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, you know. Cas doesn’t—” He stopped himself, his grin faltering again. “Let’s just say they’ve both changed since then. A lot.”

Dean nodded, but his mind remained tangled in the thought of Castiel’s past. The idea of a version of Castiel he’d never met—a younger, perhaps freer Castiel, one who might have smiled more, loved easily, and shared secrets with Meg and Gabriel—gnawed at him. It wasn’t resentment exactly, but it was close. A sense of being outside, looking in. Gabriel chuckled softly as they walked, trying to bring some levity back into the air. 

“You know, it wasn’t all bad. Meg was…” He trailed off, his gaze flickering towards the elevator doors ahead. “Well, she was Meg.” Dean glanced at him sharply, his curiosity piqued despite himself. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gabriel hesitated, uncharacteristically flustered. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to plaster on a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Ah, nothing. Just that, you know, she had a certain… charm.”  

“Right. Charm.” Gabriel sighed, clearly regretting the path the conversation had taken. 

“Look, it’s ancient history. We were all young, stupid, and full of bad ideas. Castiel thought…” He stopped himself abruptly, his eyes widening as if he’d just realised he’d said too much. Dean narrowed his eyes. 

“He thought what?” Gabriel opened his mouth, then closed it again, his expression a rare mix of guilt and frustration. 

“Forget I said anything.” Dean’s stomach twisted, a strange combination of unease and something sharper, something he didn’t want to name. 

“You already said it, Gabriel,” he pressed, his voice low. “So, what was it?” Gabriel rubbed the back of his neck, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. 

“Fine,” he muttered, almost to himself. “He thought… he thought he was going to marry her, alright?” The words hit Dean like a cold wind, sharp and cutting. He stopped walking, his mind reeling. 

“Marry her?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Gabriel winced. “It was—well, I mean, it was, but it wasn’t, you know?” He gestured vaguely, as though trying to downplay the weight of his confession. “They were just kids. Cas was… idealistic. Thought love was this big, all-consuming thing. Thought Meg was it for him.” Dean stared at Gabriel, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could feel something sinking in his chest, an ache he couldn’t quite place. 

“And what happened?” he asked, his voice tighter than he intended. Gabriel sighed again, his shoulders slumping slightly. 

“Life happened. Meg happened. She wasn’t exactly the ‘settling down’ type, and Cas—well, Cas realised he wasn’t either. Not with her, anyway. It ended before it really started.” Dean nodded slowly, but the answer didn’t bring him any comfort. He could picture it too easily: Castiel, younger, softer, with his heart in his hands, offering it to someone who couldn’t —or wouldn’t— take it. It made him feel… off-balance. As if he’d glimpsed a part of Castiel’s life he had no right to see. Gabriel watched him carefully, his usual grin absent. 

“Look, Director,” he said softly, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “Cas isn’t that person anymore. He’s not chasing some picture-perfect idea of love. Whatever you’re imagining, it’s ancient history. Let it stay there.”

Dean nodded again, but his jaw was tight, his thoughts spinning. He didn’t know what he was imagining, exactly, but it was hard to let go of the image—Castiel, not as the reserved, enigmatic man he knew now, but as someone open, vulnerable, willing to risk it all for love. It was a version of Castiel that didn’t belong to him, and that thought stung more than he cared to admit.

Dean pushed the office door open without breaking stride, passing Meg’s desk without so much as a glance. He could feel her sharp eyes on him, her presence always brimming with unspoken remarks and an air of effortless confidence that usually grated on him. Today, however, he didn’t have the energy to spar. His grip on the handle tightened briefly before he let it swing shut behind him. Inside, his office was pristine, the surfaces gleaming under the morning light that filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Dean moved to his desk, his steps measured, and sank into the leather chair. The quiet hum of the building filled the air, but it did little to drown out the static in his head. He turned on his computer, the screen flickering to life with the same corporate logo he saw every day. For a moment, he stared at it, the company’s emblem cold and distant, as though mocking the hours he’d poured into his work. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he finally started typing. Reports, emails, spreadsheets—they all blurred into one another, his usual precision feeling muted, his focus fractured.

A faint knock at the door interrupted his train of thought, but he didn’t look up. 

“Come in,” he said, his voice steady but lacking its usual polish. Meg stepped inside, the tap of her heels sharp against the hardwood floor. 

“You didn’t say good morning,” she remarked, her tone light but with that familiar edge of mockery. Dean’s jaw tightened. 

“Morning,” he muttered without looking up. Meg leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed. 

“Wow, charming as ever. Something on your mind, boss?” Dean’s fingers paused on the keyboard, and for a moment, he considered telling her to leave. But he knew better than to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d gotten under his skin. 

“Just busy,” he replied, keeping his tone even.

“Sure you are,” Meg said with a knowing smirk, lingering for a beat longer before she sauntered out, the door clicking shut behind her.

Dean let out a slow breath, his fingers resuming their mechanical dance over the keys. But the rhythm of his work couldn’t drown out the thoughts circling in his mind. Gabriel’s words from earlier echoed like a faint, irritating buzz that he couldn’t shake. Castiel wanted to marry her. He’d said it so casually, as though it were a passing detail, but it stuck in Dean’s mind like a splinter. His hands stilled again, the cursor blinking on the screen in a silent taunt. He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window at the city skyline. Castiel, with his loose shirts and careless posture, didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d dream of settling down, let alone with someone like Meg. Dean found himself wondering what Castiel must have been like back then, when he was younger, less guarded, and full of that kind of conviction.

The thought didn’t sit well with him. He couldn’t pin down why—it wasn’t like it mattered now. Whatever had been between Castiel and Meg was over. But even as Dean tried to convince himself of that, the gnawing unease in his chest remained.

Ancient history, yeah right. 

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of half-finished tasks and distracted thoughts. By the time Dean realised he’d been staring at the same email draft for twenty minutes, he pushed back from his desk with a frustrated sigh. He needed a distraction, something to pull him out of this spiral before it consumed his entire day.

But as he stood and looked around his orderly office, he couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter where he went or what he did, those unspoken words, that piece of Castiel’s past, would follow him. 

Eventually Dean left his office in search of something—he wasn’t quite sure what. A change of scenery? Maybe. An excuse to not think? Possibly. A cup of coffee? Absolutely. The hallway outside his door was quiet, a corridor of muted greys and polished floors that seemed to stretch endlessly under the fluorescent lights. He made his way toward the break room, his polished shoes clicking softly with every step, the sound a steady counterpoint to the thoughts he couldn’t quite silence. The break room was mercifully empty, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the scent of burnt coffee lingering in the air. Dean approached the counter, his movements precise, almost automatic, as he retrieved a clean mug from the cabinet and poured himself a cup. The coffee was bitter and thin, but he sipped it anyway, letting the heat bloom across his tongue. He leaned against the counter, the mug warming his hands, and allowed himself a rare moment of stillness. His gaze drifted to the window, where the cityscape stretched out like an endless mosaic of glass and steel. From up here, the streets below looked peaceful, even serene. But he knew better. There was always chaos beneath the surface.

Much like people.

His mind, traitorous as ever, wandered back to Castiel. He remembered the way Castiel had looked at him during their first meeting—sharp, appraising, like he was dissecting everything Dean was. And later, when they had drifted into something more intimate, the way Castiel’s edges softened, if only slightly. It was that same Castiel he had thought he knew so well, who had apparently once wanted a life with someone else. A different life. A different man. Dean scowled into his coffee, annoyed at himself for letting it bother him. It wasn’t as if he had any claim on Castiel’s past. Whatever Castiel had felt for Meg —or thought he’d felt— was irrelevant now. Dean told himself that over and over, but it did little to soothe the hollow ache that had lodged itself in his chest.

The door to the break room creaked open, pulling him out of his thoughts. Gabriel sauntered in, his tie slightly loosened and a bag of crisps in hand. He froze for a split second when he saw Dean, then plastered on his usual easy grin.

“Hey there, Director,” Gabriel said, popping open the bag and tossing a crisp into his mouth. “Fancy seeing you here. Didn’t think the break room was your scene. More of a ‘eat, drink and live in your office’ type of guy.” Dean didn’t respond immediately, taking another sip of his coffee as he studied Gabriel. There was something in the other man’s expression—a flicker of unease, quickly buried under his usual bravado. Dean wasn’t sure if it was guilt or just Gabriel being Gabriel, but it was enough to make him speak.

“You shouldn’t have told me,” Dean said quietly, his voice measured but firm. Gabriel’s grin faltered, just for a moment. 

“Told you what?”

“About Castiel. About Meg.” Dean set his mug down with a deliberate motion. “It wasn’t your place.” Gabriel shrugged, though the gesture lacked its usual nonchalance. 

“Maybe not. But you asked. And hey, better you hear it from me than stumble onto it some other way, right?”

Dean didn’t answer. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, his gaze steady on Gabriel, who shifted under the weight of it. After a moment, Gabriel sighed, the sound oddly resigned.

“Look, Dean,” Gabriel said, his tone softer now, less teasing. “Castiel’s complicated. Always has been. And yeah, he and Meg had… a thing. But that’s all it was —a thing. You know how he is—he’s all about the now. You’re part of that now.”

Dean wanted to believe him. He really did. But the words rang hollow in his ears, drowned out by the quiet, persistent doubt gnawing at him. He nodded anyway, if only to end the conversation. Gabriel seemed to take the hint, finishing his crisps in silence before slipping out of the room. Dean stayed behind, his coffee forgotten as he stared out the window once more. The city below hadn’t changed, but to Dean, it suddenly seemed far more distant. Dean lingered by the counter after Gabriel left, his thoughts swirling like storm clouds. He was still holding the empty coffee mug when Gabriel reappeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame as though he hadn’t just dropped a conversational bombshell earlier. Dean’s lips parted before he fully thought it through. 

“Why did he ignore me?” Gabriel’s brow crept up, his expression halfway between amused and perplexed. 

“What?”

“Earlier,” Dean pressed, setting the mug down more firmly than necessary. “I said something to him, and he just—nothing. Didn’t even look at me.” Gabriel tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to decide if Dean was serious or not. 

“He was painting,” he said simply, as though that explained everything. “He does that.” Dean frowned, the answer feeling both unsatisfying and somehow too easy. 

“That’s it?” he asked, his tone tinged with scepticism. “He just tunes out the entire world?” Gabriel stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. 

“You’ve never seen him work before, have you?” His voice carried a surprising gentleness, like he was explaining the obvious to a child. Dean didn’t answer, but the way his jaw tightened spoke volumes. Gabriel sighed, crossing the room to lean against the counter next to Dean. He tossed a crisp into his mouth before continuing. “Cas gets... focused. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t take breaks. Hell, if the building was on fire, you’d have to physically pull him away from whatever he’s doing. Anything that might distract him? Secondary. Background noise. If that.” Gabriel smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The only reason he even answered me is because I’ve been distracting him his whole life. Force of habit.”

Dean felt his frown deepen as Gabriel’s words sank in. Could it really be that simple? The idea felt ludicrous—and yet, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of recognition that sparked within him. Dean himself could get lost in his work, hyper-fixated to the point where hours slipped by unnoticed. How many times had he missed calls, texts, even meals because of some looming deadline? The realisation left him feeling both foolish and strangely small. He let out a quiet sigh, his shoulders easing just slightly. 

“I didn’t know,” he admitted, his voice softer now. Gabriel gave him a sideways glance, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly the ‘artsy’ type, are you, Director?” Dean shot him a look, but it lacked its usual edge. He was too preoccupied, his thoughts drifting back to Castiel—his quiet intensity, the way he seemed to pour every ounce of himself into whatever captured his attention. Dean felt a twinge of something he didn’t want to name, a mix of admiration and frustration and something deeper, something sharper. Gabriel clapped a hand on his shoulder, jarring him from his thoughts. “Don’t take it personally,” he said, his tone light but not unkind. “Cas doesn’t shut you out because he doesn’t care. He does it because, in that moment, he cares about something else just a little bit more.” Dean nodded slowly, though the knot in his chest didn’t quite loosen. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, not entirely sure if he meant it. Gabriel winked, his grin turning mischievous again as he stepped back toward the door. 

“Anytime, Director. Just try not to take it out on the coffee machine next time, yeah?” Dean let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as Gabriel disappeared down the hall, coffee cup refilled. He stayed in the break room a moment longer, staring at the empty mug in his hands. 

Dean strode back into his office, his polished shoes echoing faintly against the floor. His gaze remained fixed forward, deliberately bypassing Meg, who sat perched on the edge of her desk with the casual confidence of someone who owned the room. She glanced up briefly, smirking as if she knew something he didn’t, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of meeting her eyes. He couldn’t. Looking at her would only push him further into the storm that had been brewing in his mind since that morning. Sliding into his chair, Dean adjusted his cuffs and straightened his tie, using the motions to ground himself. His computer screen flickered to life, the familiar interface offering a semblance of normalcy. He began typing, losing himself in the neatly ordered rows of figures and reports. Work had always been his anchor—a realm where logic prevailed, where he could control the variables.

By the time the clock crept toward noon, Dean had managed to push the earlier conversations to the recesses of his mind. He was reviewing sales projections when the sound of the door creaking open pulled him out of his focus. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as Meg sauntered in, a small muffin in hand.

“What now?” he muttered, unable to keep the weariness from his tone. She grinned, the candle stuck into the muffin flickering as she crossed the room. 

“You’re pissy because no one said happy birthday,” she said, her voice light and teasing. “Honestly, having your birthday on a Saturday does that. Anyway, here. Happy belated birthday, boss.” She placed the muffin on his desk with a flourish, stepping back like she was presenting him with some grand gift. Dean blinked at the muffin, then at her, confusion knitting his brow. 

“How do you even know that?” he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion. Meg rolled her eyes. 

“You’re in HR’s system, genius. Everyone’s birthdays are. I may be your assistant, but I’m not psychic.” Dean stared at the muffin, the tiny candle burning steadily, and felt something he couldn’t quite place tighten in his chest.

“I… thanks,” he said finally, the words coming out more awkward than he intended. Meg shrugged, her smirk softening into something almost genuine. 

“Don’t mention it. But seriously, blow out the candle before the sprinklers go off.” Dean huffed a quiet laugh despite himself and leaned forward, extinguishing the flame with a quick breath. For a moment, the room felt a little less sterile, a little less cold. Meg lingered by the door, watching him with an unreadable expression. 

“You know,” she said, her tone shifting, “it’s not a bad thing to let people in once in a while. Just saying.” 

Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving him alone with the muffin and her words hanging in the air. Dean stared after her, his thoughts unraveling in a direction he wasn’t sure he wanted to follow. This Meg wasn’t the one Dean had come to know. This wasn’t the Meg who revelled in withholding information just to see him flustered, her lips twitching in satisfaction when he stumbled over a missed memo. This wasn’t the Meg who had ‘accidentally’ printed the wrong handouts and paired them with an entirely unrelated slideshow, leaving him scrambling mid-meeting. This wasn’t the Meg who had told the intern to bring him iced mochas topped with extra whipped cream for two straight weeks, knowing full well he drank his coffee black and warm, until he’d finally confronted the poor intern, only to learn it had been her idea all along.

No, this wasn’t that Meg.

This was Castiel’s Meg. The Meg who cared.

This was the Meg who, during her gruelling internship, had somehow still found time to FaceTime Castiel. This was the Meg who had probably coaxed Castiel out of his darkest moods, her presence a steadying hand in a way Dean could only guess at. 

This was the Meg who Castiel had wanted to marry. 

The thought of it hung in the back of Dean’s mind like a shadow, one he couldn’t quite dispel. He stared at the muffin on his desk, its small, extinguished candle a quiet reminder of her gesture. Dean knew he should feel grateful. Maybe even touched. But all he could feel was an ache—a sense of something slipping through his fingers, something he couldn’t quite name but felt all the same. This Meg didn’t belong to the games and petty annoyances of their professional dance. She belonged to a world Dean couldn’t access, a past filled with Castiel’s laughter, shared moments, and that intimacy he now envied. That wasn’t a word he wanted to admit to himself, but there it was, circling in his chest like a storm he couldn’t ignore.

He shook his head, brushing the thought aside as he turned back to his screen. Work. Work was familiar, orderly, unyielding. Work didn’t leave room for self-reflection. It didn’t make him question who he was or why he felt like he’d somehow lost before he’d even begun. But even as his fingers moved over the keyboard, his mind remained with the woman who had just walked out of his office, and with the man she had once mattered to so deeply. 

With a deep breath, he clicked open the presentation software on his screen, his fingers already moving to adjust the font sizes on the title slides. The upcoming quarterly sales meeting loomed large in his mind, and he wanted every detail perfect. The slides needed to convey confidence, clarity, and professionalism—everything Dean demanded of himself. The first slide was the agenda. He changed the font from Arial to something cleaner, sleeker, something that wouldn’t feel out of place in a boardroom. Helvetica. Simple, yet commanding. He aligned the bullet points precisely, ensuring the spacing between each was equal, then paused, tilting his head as he studied the layout. It lacked... something. After a moment of deliberation, he added a faint blue gradient to the background, subtle enough not to distract but enough to add depth. Perfect.

Moving on to the sales data, Dean leaned closer to the screen, his eyes scanning the rows of numbers. He dragged a chart into position, adjusting its colours to a palette that would print well and still pop on the projector screen. Reds for decline, greens for growth—straightforward and intuitive. A small adjustment to the axis labels, and he sat back, satisfied. The work was tedious, but there was comfort in the methodical nature of it, the way he could shape chaos into order with a few clicks and keystrokes. 

The handouts came next. He cross-referenced the data on the slides with the Excel sheets he’d received from the accounting team earlier in the week. A minor discrepancy caught his eye—sales in the North-East region were listed at 7% growth on the sheet but 6% on the slide. His brow furrowed. Dean hated discrepancies, no matter how small. He double-checked the figures, corrected the slide, and flagged the error to the accounting team in a concise, polite email.

By mid-afternoon, his office felt almost stifling, the light from the window casting long, angled shadows over his desk. Dean rolled his shoulders, the tension settling between his shoulder blades as the hours crept by. He reached for his water bottle, taking a quick sip before returning to the task at hand. The handouts had to be cohesive, reinforcing the presentation without repeating it verbatim. He added small notes to the margins—insights, questions to pose during the meeting, and potential objections he could pre-emptively address.

The clock on his desktop ticked closer to five, but Dean didn’t notice. He was lost in the rhythm of his work, adjusting column widths, ensuring every detail aligned perfectly. He didn’t stop until the handouts and slides mirrored one another seamlessly, each a reflection of his meticulous planning. Only then did he glance at the time. Five o’clock. He saved the files, double-checked the backups, and leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to admire the polished, finished product on his screen. It wasn’t just a slideshow; it was a statement—of competence, precision, and control.

The muffin still sat on the edge of his desk, untouched. Dean eyed it briefly, then turned off his monitor. He reached for the muffin, turning it slowly in his hand as he studied its delicate swirl of frosting, now slightly smudged from sitting too long. The candle had been unceremoniously discarded into the bin, its significance snuffed out with the same brisk efficiency he applied to most things that made him uncomfortable. He slid his blazer on, the fabric sharp and cool against his skin, grabbed his bag in one hand and the muffin in the other. As he passed Meg’s desk on his way out, he slowed, his eyes lingering on the telltale signs of her presence. A half-finished coffee cup sat beside a neatly stacked pile of documents, and her jacket was draped casually over the back of her chair. She wasn’t gone for the day, but she wasn’t here now. Dean hesitated, torn between the urge to wait and thank her properly —maybe even apologise for how he’d brushed her off earlier— and the familiar instinct to keep moving, to avoid lingering in moments that felt too raw. He opted for the latter. Words would feel clumsy, forced, and he didn’t trust himself not to make it worse. Straightening, he stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor.

The doors slid open, and Dean stepped out into the airy lobby, but his stride faltered as his gaze caught on Castiel. The artist stood exactly where Dean had left him that morning, his posture relaxed yet intent, his hand steady as he guided the brush across the wall. The mural had expanded into a sprawling, mesmerising blend of shapes and colours, their fluidity suggesting motion even in stillness. Gabriel hadn’t exaggerated. Castiel was completely absorbed, his focus so singular that the world around him seemed to fall away. The faint hum of the lobby, the distant ding of elevators, even the occasional footsteps of passers-by—all of it failed to penetrate the invisible barrier Castiel seemed to have erected around himself. Dean’s earlier irritation gave way to an odd sort of fascination. He recognised that kind of dedication, the way it could consume a person, drown out everything else. It was the same drive he channelled into his own work, though his canvas was spreadsheets and presentations rather than walls and paint. A thought struck him then, sudden and almost ridiculous in its simplicity. Castiel could have the muffin. It wasn’t much, but it felt right—some small gesture to bridge the distance he felt growing between them, to prove to himself that he wasn’t as cold or indifferent as he sometimes feared.

The only problem was getting Castiel’s attention.

Dean lingered at the edge of the room, the muffin in his hand and an idea brewing. He considered calling out, but the thought of his voice cutting through the quiet felt invasive, almost wrong. Instead, he moved closer, his footsteps muted on the polished floor. Castiel didn’t look up, his movements fluid and unbroken, his brush leaving arcs of colour in its wake. Dean hesitated again, then cleared his throat softly.

No response.

He frowned, shifting his stance, and tried again, this time adding a quiet, ‘Castiel.’

Still nothing. The artist might as well have been in another world. Dean’s lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced at the muffin in his hand. Perhaps food could succeed where words failed. He crouched briefly, setting the muffin on the small folding table Castiel had set up nearby, carefully positioning it just within his line of sight. The candle hole was still visible in the frosting, but Dean hoped the gesture would speak louder than the imperfection. Straightening, he stepped back and waited, his hands in his pockets, watching for any sign that Castiel might notice.

Dean lingered a moment longer, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The silence from Castiel was impenetrable, as if he were trying to communicate with someone asleep behind thick glass. Dean cleared his throat again, louder this time, but it made no difference. Castiel remained a fixed point in his own world, the brush moving in broad, decisive strokes, his gaze tracking the intricate details of his work. Dean pressed his lips together, glancing at the muffin again. It sat there, looking almost ridiculous, its frosting slightly smeared and its presence absurdly out of place in the midst of Castiel’s artistic chaos. He stepped closer, daring to break the unspoken rule of distance, and tapped lightly on the table with the tips of his fingers.

Still nothing.

For a brief, exasperated moment, Dean considered simply walking away. Maybe Castiel didn’t want to be disturbed, or maybe the muffin was enough on its own. He pushed his hands into his pockets and took a half-step back, but then Castiel moved. It was subtle at first—a pause, a shift in his stance as he reached for a palette to mix colours. His fingers worked mechanically, blending deep greens with soft ochres, the hues swirling together like fragments of a memory. As he did, his gaze lifted briefly from the wall, scanning the table where his tools were scattered.

That’s when he saw Dean.

Castiel froze, his hand hovering over the palette. His expression shifted, his brows drawing together in faint confusion, as if Dean were some strange anomaly interrupting the flow of his work. For a moment, Dean thought he might turn back to the wall and ignore him entirely, but then Castiel blinked —once, then twice— like a man waking from a dream. Recognition dawned slowly, and the faint frown smoothed into something warmer. A grin broke across Castiel’s face, wide and toothy, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He let go of the brush, the wooden handle slipping from his fingers and clattering softly onto the table.

“Dean!” Castiel said, his voice bright and full of genuine delight, as if Dean’s presence were the most unexpected and welcome thing in the world. Dean blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden shift. He opened his mouth to respond, but found himself momentarily disarmed by the raw, unfiltered happiness radiating from Castiel. It was the kind of smile that made the room feel warmer, brighter, as though all the tension Dean had carried with him throughout the day had been swept aside.

“Erm… hey,” Dean said finally, his voice coming out softer than he intended. He gestured awkwardly toward the muffin on the table. “I, erm uh… brought you something.” Castiel’s gaze dropped to the muffin, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. 

“You brought me a muffin?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, as if trying to make sense of it. Dean shifted his weight again, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Yeah. Thought you might need a break or… something.” For a moment, Castiel didn’t say anything, his eyes flicking back to Dean’s face. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he reached for the muffin, lifting it delicately as though it were something far more significant than a simple snack. 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter now, laced with sincerity. Dean nodded, his throat suddenly feeling tight. 

“Yeah. No problem.” Castiel held the muffin lightly, his fingers brushing against the paper wrapper as he studied it with a faint smile, then turned his gaze back to Dean. 

“I almost thought you wouldn’t come,” he said, his voice carrying a teasing warmth that seemed to hang in the air between them. Dean furrowed his brow, his mind snagging on the words. Did Castiel really think that? Had he truly not noticed Dean standing there this morning, trying to catch his attention? The idea felt strange, almost foreign, like it didn’t fit with the man in front of him. Castiel was observant in a way that sometimes felt unnerving—yet today, he’d been utterly unreachable. 

“You didn’t even see me earlier,” Dean said before he could stop himself, his tone edged with more surprise than accusation. Castiel tilted his head, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“Earlier?” Castiel asked, his brows knitting slightly as he looked back at the wall, as though retracing the moments in his mind. Then, his expression cleared, and he offered a small, apologetic shrug. “I suppose I didn’t. When I work, I... forget about everything else.” His gaze returned to Dean, more focused now. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.” Dean pressed his lips together, unsure what to make of the explanation. He’d heard Gabriel say something similar earlier, but it was different hearing it from Castiel himself. It wasn’t just that Castiel had been distracted—it was as though Dean had been invisible to him, like the world outside his painting had ceased to exist entirely. “What’s wrong?” Castiel asked suddenly, his voice soft and searching. His blue eyes were steady on Dean, a quiet concern settling into his expression. Dean hesitated, the question catching him off guard. For a moment, he considered brushing it off entirely, making some flippant remark to deflect, but the sincerity in Castiel’s gaze made it harder to retreat behind walls. Still, the truth wasn’t something he was ready to articulate—not here, not now.

“Nothing,” Dean said finally, his voice low and carefully neutral. He gave a small shake of his head, his eyes darting to the floor before finding Castiel’s again. “It’s nothing.” Castiel didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he offered Dean a small, understanding nod and set the muffin down gently on the table beside his brushes. 

“Alright,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat, a faint, mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “But if it’s not nothing, you’ll tell me eventually. Right?” Dean let out a short laugh, more of a huff than anything else, and shook his head. 

“Yeah, sure, Cas,” he said, his tone lighter now, though the undercurrent of unease hadn’t quite disappeared. “Eventually.”

Chapter Text

The bar was alive with a warm buzz of conversation, clinking glasses, and bursts of laughter that rippled through the space. Castiel sat at a corner table, the soft amber glow of a hanging light casting shadows over his face. He cradled a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the glass. Across from him, Gabriel and Balthazar lounged with an air of practiced ease, their presence commanding the space like they owned it. Gabriel leaned back, his legs stretched out and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His grin was sharp, bordering on mischievous, as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

"So," he began, dragging the word out with exaggerated flourish, "Dad’s shining little prodigy. How does it feel to be the Novak’s golden child again?" Castiel shot him a withering look over the rim of his glass. 

"I’m not the golden child," he said, his voice flat.

"Oh, please," Balthazar chimed in, his accent dripping with faux exasperation. "You’re practically glowing these days, darling. All this responsibility. All this... purpose." He smirked, raising his martini glass in a mock toast. "Cheers to the mural maestro." Castiel rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. 

"It’s just a job," he said simply, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"Just a job?" Gabriel interjected, sitting up straighter and leaning across the table. "You’ve been pouring your soul into this thing, Cas. I’ve seen you in the lobby, looking like a tortured artist on the verge of discovering the meaning of life. Don’t downplay it now."

"Gabriel’s right, for once," Balthazar added, his tone teasing but not unkind. "You’re taking this whole thing quite seriously. Not that I’m complaining—it’s refreshing to see you so... motivated." Castiel set his glass down with a quiet thud, his expression softening. 

"It matters," he said, his voice quieter now. "It’s not just about the murals. It’s about what they represent. The stories they tell." Gabriel raised an eyebrow, his grin fading slightly. 

"And what story are you trying to tell?" he asked, his tone more curious than mocking. Castiel hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table. The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. After a moment, he glanced up, meeting Gabriel’s eyes. 

"I’m not sure yet," he admitted. "But I’ll know when I see it." For a moment, the table fell silent, the hum of the bar filling the space around them. Then Balthazar leaned forward, his expression uncharacteristically thoughtful. 

"It’s good, you know," he said, his voice low. "What you’re doing. It’s important." Castiel blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity behind those words. 

"Thanks," he said, the single word carrying more weight than he intended. Gabriel, never one to let a serious moment linger, leaned back with a dramatic sigh. 

"Alright, enough of this heartfelt nonsense. Let’s talk about something fun. Like how you’ve managed to keep Dean Smith hanging around without scaring him off." Castiel froze, his hand tightening slightly around his glass. 

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral. Gabriel’s grin returned in full force. 

"Oh, come on, Cas. Don’t play coy. It’s written all over your face every time his name comes up. And don’t even get me started on the hoodie incident." Balthazar chuckled, raising his glass. "To Dean," he said, his tone laced with amusement. 

"The man who’s clearly got you more distracted than you’ll admit." Castiel groaned, his cheeks flushing as he downed the rest of his whiskey. 

"I hate both of you, no actually ‘hate’ is not enough, I loathe you," he muttered, though the faint smile on his lips betrayed his words. Gabriel and Balthazar laughed, their voices mingling with the noise of the bar. And for a brief moment, surrounded by the warmth of his brothers and the glow of the evening, Castiel allowed himself to forget the weight of the murals and the complications of his feelings for Dean. For now, there was just this—a rare pocket of joy in the midst of chaos in the bar. Balthazar leaned back in his seat, his posture as lazy as the smirk tugging at his lips, while Gabriel lounged next to him, eyeing the scene with his signature blend of amusement and mischief. "You know, I really shouldn’t tell you anything," Castiel muttered, his voice tinged with resignation. "The hoodie story? Confidential." Balthazar snorted, the sound light but cutting. 

"Come on, Cassie. You’re Gabriel’s favourite soap opera, and I just happen to enjoy adding fuel to that fire."

"Confidential," Castiel repeated firmly, though his gaze didn’t quite meet Balthazar’s. Instead, it lingered on the dark liquid in his glass, his brow furrowed with an unspoken thought. "Besides, he’s been acting strange all week."

"Maybe you’re not as charming as you think you are," Balthazar quipped, the tease delivered with the precision of a well-aimed arrow.

"I never once claimed to be charming," Castiel countered, lifting his gaze at last, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.

"Clearly," Gabriel interjected, his tone light but his smirk widening as he propped his chin on one hand. Balthazar chuckled, his laugh rich and unbothered. 

"He’ll come around, Cassie. You just started seeing each other again."

"It’s not like all that stuff from before just disappeared," Castiel said quietly, the words heavy with implication. He shifted in his seat, the movement small but restless, like a man carrying the ghost of an old regret.

"Maybe that’s the problem," Balthazar said, his tone softening for a rare moment of sincerity. Then, just as quickly, he added with a smirk, "You left him in a restaurant—"

"Diner," Castiel corrected, his tone automatic, as though this argument had played out in his head more times than he cared to admit.

"Fine. Diner," Balthazar relented, his grin sly. "When you found out he lied. And then you didn’t talk for weeks. He came to apologise, and you sent him away. And then what happened?"

"Don’t say it," Castiel warned, his shoulders tensing. Balthazar leaned forward, his eyes glinting with mischief. 

"One Friday night, you show up drunk out of your mind, puked all over Mister Corporate’s pristine apartment, and he lets you stay. Cleans you up just in time for brunch with your family. And after that? Little date nights, cute lunch breaks. Really adorable." Castiel groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and embarrassment. "So," Balthazar pressed, his voice practically dripping with mockery, "tell me, Cassie, what is next in this little telenovela? You’re not a couple. You’re not anything. Just a grey zone." 

Castiel’s lips tightened into a thin line, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze drifted to his drink again, as though it held answers he couldn’t yet articulate. Gabriel broke the silence with a low chuckle, shaking his head as he drained his glass. The room around them buzzed with life, but for Castiel, it felt muted, his thoughts swirling in tandem with the whiskey in his glass. Dean’s name lingered in the back of his mind, unspoken yet omnipresent, like a song he couldn’t forget. There was the lie, that initial crack in the foundation, the one that had spread like a spider’s web, thin and fragile yet impossible to ignore. Trust didn’t come easily to him, and rebuilding it felt like scaling a mountain barefoot. But then there was the memory of that night —of Dean’s hands steadying him despite everything, of the quiet way he’d taken care of him without a hint of judgement— played like an echo he couldn’t quite shake.

"He’s not going to wait forever," Balthazar said, breaking into Castiel’s thoughts. "And honestly, can you blame him?"

"I don’t want him to wait," Castiel replied, his voice low, almost inaudible over the din of the bar.

"Then what do you want?" Gabriel asked, his gaze sharp now, all trace of humour momentarily gone.

The question hung in the air, unanswered as the seconds ticked into minutes. Castiel stared into his glass, the golden liquid refracting the light into fragments. What did he want? The answer felt just out of reach, like something he’d once known but had long since forgotten. The hum of his thoughts drowned out most of the background noise, save for the words that spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them. Castiel’s gaze remained fixed on the small puddle of condensation pooling beneath his glass.

"I want him to fuck me," he said finally, the bluntness of it slicing through the ease of their banter like the unexpected chill of a winter wind. His voice softened slightly as he continued, almost as if the vulnerability of his admission embarrassed him. "Or even just kiss me without hesitation. He just… hmph." Balthazar let out a low whistle, leaning forward with his elbow propped on the table. He twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, his grin both teasing and sharp. 

"Well, Cassie, we all know you can be a bit much. Maybe he’s got enough on his plate without adding you to it." Castiel stiffened at the remark, his shoulders tightening as though the words had physically struck him. His head tilted up, and he looked at Balthazar with a mixture of curiosity and challenge. 

"You think I’m too much." Balthazar didn’t miss a beat, shrugging with an ease that bordered on theatrical. 

"I think you’re a lot," he replied, the grin never faltering. There was no malice in his voice, but it carried the kind of honesty that stung nonetheless. "And I think Gabriel has been suspiciously quiet lately." Gabriel, who had been toying with a toothpick and observing the conversation with the faintest of smirks, raised a brow at the mention of his name. He shifted in his seat, his leather jacket creaking softly. 

"Oh, don’t let me stop you," he said, his tone light but his eyes avoidant. "I’m enjoying this more than the overpriced whiskey." Castiel scowled, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looked from Gabriel to Balthazar. 

"You don’t need to enjoy anything," he muttered, though his voice lacked bite. His gaze flickered back to his drink, as though it might provide a buffer between him and the conversation spiralling out of his control. But the silence that followed wasn’t the reprieve he’d hoped for. Instead, it felt like an unspoken challenge, one that prickled at his skin and made the air seem thicker. He thought of Dean—his meticulous suits, his reserved smiles, the way his hands lingered just a second too long on Castiel’s back whenever they parted ways. Dean, who kissed like he was afraid of overstepping some invisible boundary, as though letting go completely would shatter the pristine image he’d built for himself. "I’m not too much," Castiel said at last, his voice firmer now, though it carried an edge of something raw and unpolished. "I’m just… honest." Balthazar snorted, swirling the remnants of his wine in the glass. 

"Honest? Sure. But honesty can be exhausting, Cassie. You’ve got this way of digging your claws into people—"

"Balthazar," Gabriel interrupted, his tone sharp but his expression still infuriatingly amused. "Don’t lecture him like you’re some kind of relationship guru. I’ve seen you ghost more dates than I can count." The jab landed, and Balthazar’s grin returned, his shoulders rolling back in an exaggerated show of nonchalance. 

"Touché," he said, raising his glass in mock salute. Castiel sat back, his arms crossing over his chest as he turned his gaze out to the window. The night stretched on outside, its inky blackness punctuated by the occasional passing car or neon sign. He couldn’t help but think of Dean’s apartment—immaculate, quiet, everything in its place. Dean’s world was all order and structure, while his own seemed to overflow with chaos.

But was that so wrong? Couldn’t chaos and order exist together, if only for a little while?

He wasn’t sure. And maybe that was the real problem.

The conversation froze for a beat, as if the bar itself held its breath, waiting for the explosion. Castiel turned slowly to face Gabriel, his gaze narrowing with the precision of a blade. There was something about Gabriel that did seem off, as if he were wearing the wrong skin—subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else, but glaring to Castiel. He could always sense it when his older brother was hiding something.

"Balthazar is right," Castiel said, his voice low but pointed, like the crackle of a distant storm. "You’re too quiet." Gabriel looked up from the coaster he’d been spinning idly on the table, his smirk still in place but not quite reaching his eyes. 

"Not all of us feel the need to talk constantly to drown out the noise in our heads," he quipped, though his tone lacked its usual sharpness. Castiel leaned forward, his elbows digging into the edge of the table as he stared Gabriel down. 

"What did you do?" Gabriel hesitated for the briefest of moments, his fingers faltering mid-spin. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he pushed the coaster aside and leaned back, his expression caught between sheepishness and defiance. 

"I might have… accidentally mentioned something about you wanting to marry Meg." The words hit Castiel like a slap, and his jaw tightened as his teeth clenched audibly. 

"You did what?" he hissed, his voice cutting through the warm hum of the bar like shattered glass.

"I didn’t mean to!" Gabriel shot back, his hands lifting in a gesture of self-defence. "It just… slipped."

"Oh, it slipped?" Castiel’s voice was rising now, drawing the attention of a nearby couple, who glanced over before quickly turning back to their drinks. "Well, I guess it’s all fine then. It’s not like he works with her or anything—oh, wait." Gabriel’s smirk finally cracked, and a flicker of frustration flashed across his face. 

"Look," he said, leaning forward now, his voice dropping but still carrying its usual intensity, "I backtracked the hell out of it, all right? What more do you fucking want, Cassie?" Castiel’s fingers curled around the edge of the table, his knuckles paling as he fought the urge to lash out further. His mind raced, replaying the possible outcomes of Gabriel’s slip. Dean, ever composed, ever professional, sharing an office space with Meg. Meg, who could wield words like knives when the occasion called for it. And now, the shadow of a potential marriage dangling between them like a poorly timed punchline.

"What exactly did you say?" Castiel demanded, his voice quieter now but no less tense.

Gabriel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "It wasn’t like I gave him a PowerPoint presentation, all right? I said something offhand about you and Meg being ‘a thing once upon a time,’ and then I… maybe… implied you’d thought about marrying her. But I fixed it , Cas. I said it was ancient history. Over. Dead in the ground."

"Dead in the ground," Castiel repeated, his tone flat. "Fantastic. That’s bound to make everything better." Balthazar, who had been content to spectate until now, chuckled softly and took a sip of his drink. 

"Well, at least he didn’t tell Dean about the time you and Meg got trashed in the parking lot after a gallery opening and broke a window." Gabriel shot him a withering look. 

"Not helping, Balthy." Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, his breath coming in measured inhales as he tried to quell the storm brewing in his chest. 

"This is a disaster," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. Gabriel leaned closer, his voice softer now, almost sincere. 

"Dean’s a grown man. If he has a problem with it, he’ll talk to you about it. And if he doesn’t, then maybe —just maybe— it’s not the end of the world." 

"And if it is ?" Gabriel smirked again, but this time it was gentler, almost reassuring. 

"Then you’ll figure it out, Cassie. You always do." Castiel’s head snapped up, his eyes alight with something between rage and incredulity. He stared at Gabriel, his lips parting to speak, then closing again as if trying to decide whether words would even suffice.

"Why do you talk?" Castiel finally said, his voice quiet but laced with venom. "Why do you ever talk?" Gabriel’s expression faltered, his usual bravado slipping as he sat back in his chair. 

"Cassie, I—"

"No." Castiel cut him off with a sharp gesture, his voice rising. "You meddle. You always meddle. Do you even think before you open your mouth? Or is it all just instinct—some deep, primal urge to throw a wrench into everything you touch?" Gabriel’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze darted to Balthazar, who was watching with poorly disguised amusement, then back to Castiel, whose glare could have stripped paint.

"Okay, fine," Gabriel said finally, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I meddle sometimes. But in case you haven’t noticed, it’s not like you’ve been making stellar decisions on your own lately." Castiel’s fingers curled into fists on the table, and his voice dropped to a near-growl. 

"And you think you’re the one to fix that? By dragging Meg into this—by dragging Dean into this? You’re making everything worse." Gabriel leaned forward, his expression hardening, the humour gone from his eyes. 

"You’re right. I meddled. But you know what? Maybe someone needs to, because you’ve been stuck in the same self-destructive loop for years, Cassie. Running hot and cold with everyone around you, acting like the world owes you something. And Dean—"

"Don’t you dare," Castiel snapped, his voice cutting through Gabriel’s like a whip. Gabriel sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer. 

"Look, I didn’t mean to mess things up with Dean. But maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so afraid of letting him in. Maybe it’s not just my big mouth screwing things up." The words hung in the air, heavy with implication, and for a moment, Castiel didn’t respond. His gaze flickered to Balthazar, who gave him a slow, sardonic shrug, then back to Gabriel. His brother’s expression was open now, disarmed, and for all his faults, there was an undercurrent of genuine concern in his words. Castiel exhaled sharply, his frustration boiling over into a bitter laugh. 

"You think you’re so clever, don’t you? So wise." Gabriel smirked faintly. 

"I never claimed to be wise. Just observant."

"Well," Castiel said, rising from his chair and grabbing his coat in one swift motion, "observe this: you’re a pain in the ass, Gabriel." Gabriel chuckled as Castiel turned on his heel and strode toward the door, but there was something almost wistful in his expression as he watched his brother go. 

"I love you too, Cassie," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he reached for his drink. Balthazar swirled the last of his drink in the glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light of the bar. He leaned back, his posture relaxed but his gaze pointed as it rested on Gabriel.

"You know you shouldn’t do that," Balthazar said, his voice casual but carrying a thread of warning beneath the surface. "One of these days, he’s not going to forgive me." Gabriel raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he tilted his own glass toward his lips. 

"Forgive you?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mock surprise. "Oh, please." Balthazar smirked but didn’t let up. 

"Yes, me. Because I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces after your meddling. And one of these days he’s going to remember that I was your friend first. You know that he’s got a short fuse where you’re concerned, Gabriel. And frankly, I’m not sure how many more rounds of this he’s got in him." Gabriel set his drink down with a clink, his usual smirk firmly in place. 

"Oh, come on. You act like I’ve committed some unspeakable crime. All I did was—"

"All you did," Balthazar interrupted, his tone as sharp as the cut of his tailored suit, "was drop a conversational landmine into an already volatile situation. And now Castiel’s storming off to God knows where, and we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t set something on fire before the night is over." Gabriel’s smirk wavered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered. 

"He won’t stay mad. He never stays mad at me." Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his scepticism practically radiating from him. 

"You’re playing a dangerous game, Gabriel. He’s your brother, not your personal soap opera." Gabriel shrugged, a glint of something almost defiant in his eyes. 

"He’ll come around. He always does."

"And if he doesn’t?" Balthazar asked, his voice low, cutting through Gabriel’s bravado like a knife. Gabriel hesitated, the question landing harder than he expected. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the rim of his glass. 

"Then I guess I’ll have to deal with that when it happens." Balthazar sighed, his annoyance giving way to something closer to exasperation. 

"You’re lucky I like you, Gabriel. Otherwise, I’d just sit back and let him throttle you one of these days." Gabriel grinned, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. 

"You like me because I keep life interesting."

"No," Balthazar said, finishing his drink in one smooth motion and setting the glass down with deliberate finality. "I tolerate you because you’re a Novak, and you’re amusing enough to make up for the headaches." Gabriel chuckled, raising his glass in a mock toast. 

"I’ll drink to that." Balthazar just shook his head, glancing toward the door Castiel had disappeared through. 

"You’d better hope he cools off quickly. Otherwise, you’re going to find out just how little forgiveness he has left for you." Gabriel leaned back in his chair, watching the faint flicker of candlelight from the bar’s centrepiece dance across Balthazar’s face. The comment hung in the air between them, light but with an edge sharp enough to make Balthazar pause. Gabriel had a knack for throwing verbal punches that left bruises without drawing blood.

"You really think that?" Gabriel asked, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. He tilted his glass in a slow circle, the ice cubes clinking softly against the sides. Balthazar sighed, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, a gesture that betrayed the cracks in his polished veneer. 

"I don’t know anymore, Gabriel," he admitted, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic honesty. "He’s not the same kid he was when I first met him." Gabriel’s lips curled into a smirk, though his eyes betrayed something deeper—a flicker of defensiveness or maybe guilt. 

"Please," he drawled, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "You couldn’t keep your eyes off him the first time you saw him. Almost made Dad lose faith in you." 

Balthazar didn’t dignify the jab with a response, but the corner of his mouth twitched, caught between annoyance and amusement. Gabriel thrived on pushing buttons, and Balthazar’s were far too easy to press. The truth was, Balthazar had always been the one to see the potential in Castiel, long before Gabriel had noticed or cared. He’d seen the fire in the younger Novak’s eyes, even as the rest of the family had written him off as the flighty artist, the daydreamer who’d never grow up. But that fire had dimmed in recent years, and Balthazar wasn’t sure who —or what— was to blame. Gabriel swirled his drink, watching the way Balthazar’s expression darkened in thought. He wasn’t used to seeing his friend this introspective. It felt wrong, like watching a lion pace in a cage. 

"You know," Gabriel said, breaking the silence with his usual nonchalance, "he’s still Castiel. He’s just... different now. So are we." Balthazar snorted softly. 

"That’s the problem. He’s different, and you can’t fix it with your usual tricks." Gabriel’s smirk faltered, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue. Instead, he leaned back again, letting his eyes wander to the bar’s dimly lit corner where the shadows seemed to pool. 

"I’m not trying to fix him," he said at last, his voice quiet. "I just want him to be okay. Is that so wrong?" Balthazar gave him a long, measured look. 

"No," he said finally. "But you don’t always get to decide what ‘okay’ looks like for him. Maybe it’s time you stopped meddling."

Gabriel didn’t respond, his gaze distant as he let Balthazar’s words sink in. He wasn’t ready to admit that his brother’s pain —and his own guilt— were wounds he couldn’t smooth over with a quip or a prank. But for now, he let the silence sit between them, the hum of the bar filling the space where words might have fallen. Gabriel put his glass down on the table with a loud thud. His fingers traced the rim, an idle habit that betrayed the churn of thoughts behind his easy grin. The bar around them seemed alive in its own way—the low hum of conversation rising and falling like the tide, the occasional laughter punctuating the air. It was a place where people came to drown their worries or amplify their joys, but Gabriel found himself neither here nor there. He was simply waiting. Balthazar, for his part, looked more at ease. He was leaned back in his chair with a languid grace, his drink held loosely between two fingers. He didn’t press Gabriel further, though the flicker in his gaze suggested he wasn’t quite done. The silence between them wasn’t tense, but it carried a charge, like the pause before the drop of a guillotine. Gabriel finally broke it, his voice soft but edged with something bitter. 

"You act like you’ve got all the answers, but you don’t, Balthazar. You’re not exactly a saint in all this either." Balthazar’s smile was sharp, cutting through Gabriel’s words like a blade. 

"Never claimed to be. But at least I’m honest about it." Gabriel’s gaze drifted to the door, the faint hope that Castiel might walk through it unbidden even as he knew it wouldn’t happen. Castiel had always been a storm—unpredictable, magnetic, and impossible to ignore. And storms didn’t come when you wanted them to; they arrived on their own terms, whether you were ready or not. The thought lingered, and with it came a wave of memories Gabriel had no intention of revisiting. Castiel as a kid, trailing behind him with wide eyes and endless questions. Castiel in college, all defiance and unkempt hair, making choices that sent their father into a near-apoplectic rage. Castiel now—quieter, worn around the edges in a way Gabriel couldn’t quite articulate. Balthazar watched him with an unreadable expression, then sighed and set his glass down. "You’re not responsible for him, you know." Gabriel’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though it lacked any real warmth.

"That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve always been responsible for him."

"You mean you’ve always felt responsible," Balthazar corrected, his tone gentler now. "Big difference." Gabriel didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he could. Instead, he let his gaze wander back to the bar, where a couple was laughing over shared drinks. Their easy affection seemed almost alien, as though it belonged to a world he couldn’t quite touch. He took another sip of his drink, the burn a welcome distraction. "He’s tougher than you think," Balthazar said after a moment, his voice low. "Whatever you’re worried about, he’ll figure it out. He always does." Gabriel wanted to believe that. Wanted to let the words settle in and take root. But Castiel had always been both fragile and indomitable, a contradiction that defied logic. And Gabriel, for all his bravado and quick wit, didn’t know how to reconcile the two.

"I just don’t want him to hate me," Gabriel admitted finally, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Balthazar looked at him then, his usual smugness replaced by something quieter, almost kind. 

"He doesn’t hate you, Gabriel. He never could. But you’ve got to stop trying to fix him. Let him figure out what he wants—who he wants. And if you’re lucky, you’ll still be there when he does." Gabriel tilted his glass slightly, watching the amber liquid swirl as if it held the answers he couldn't find in his own head. His voice was softer now, almost thoughtful, though the undercurrent of frustration remained. 

"You always were Dad's favourite, you know. Not perfect —far from it— but at least you’re hard working. And most importantly, you’re not Meg." Balthazar’s laughter came low and easy, though there was something clipped about the edge of it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he met Gabriel’s gaze head-on. 

"Castiel and I were never together," he said, each word deliberate, as though he needed to carve the truth into the air between them. Gabriel nodded once, his expression unreadable. 

"I know," he said simply, but the words carried a weight of their own. His eyes flicked to the side, where the dim lighting of the bar cast long shadows on the wooden walls. "But that doesn’t mean people didn’t wonder. Or assume. Especially Dad." Balthazar shrugged, his movements fluid and dismissive. 

"Let them assume what they want. It never mattered to me. Castiel is..." He trailed off, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. "He’s my friend, Gabriel. Despite everything, he’s still my friend. And he’s your brother." Gabriel snorted, a humourless sound that bordered on bitter. 

"You think I don’t know that? I’ve been cleaning up his messes since before you even knew him. He’s not your responsibility, Bal. He’s mine."

"Is that how you see it?" Balthazar asked, his tone calm but probing. "As a responsibility?" Gabriel’s lips twitched in what might have been a smirk or a grimace—it was hard to tell. 

"He’s my brother," he repeated, as if that were explanation enough. His grip on the glass tightened briefly before he let out a long breath and set it down with a measured clink. Balthazar studied him for a moment, his gaze sharp but not unkind. 

"That’s your problem," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "You see him as something to fix, not someone to love." Gabriel looked away, his jaw tightening as the words settled over him like a too-heavy coat. He didn’t respond, didn’t trust himself to without letting too much slip. Instead, he signalled the bartender for another drink, the simple action giving him a moment to breathe, to think. Balthazar leaned back, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

"He’s not perfect, Gabriel. None of us are. But maybe he doesn’t need you to fix him. Maybe he just needs you to listen." Gabriel’s eyes flicked back to Balthazar, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. The bartender slid the fresh drink across the table, and Gabriel picked it up, the cool glass grounding him. He didn’t answer Balthazar’s words—not directly. But the silence that followed was heavier than anything he could have said. It was the kind of silence that carried truths too raw to voice, truths he wasn’t ready to face.

Not yet.

Gabriel swirled his drink again, watching the way the light caught in the amber liquid, fractured and refracted into colours that didn’t belong in the dim, shadowed bar. The worst part wasn’t that Castiel was broken, though Gabriel could admit to himself that his little brother wasn’t whole. The worst part was that Gabriel wasn’t even able to help anymore—not really. He hadn’t been able to for years. No, that role had been quietly filled by others. Balthazar, with his uncanny ability to drag Castiel out of whatever abyss he’d fallen into. Meg, with her biting humour and the strange, almost sacred space she carved out for Castiel in her chaotic life. They were the ones who reached him now, the ones who Castiel sought out when he needed a lifeline. 

Not Gabriel. Never Gabriel.

It hadn’t always been that way. Gabriel used to be the one Castiel turned to. When they were kids, Castiel would bring his scraped knees and worried little heart to Gabriel, who would patch up both with a bandage and a joke that never quite landed but always made Castiel laugh anyway. Gabriel had been the one to sit with him late into the night when their parents were busy with work, patiently explaining multiplication tables because Castiel kept falling asleep in class and getting behind. But even then, Gabriel should have seen the truth. The math hadn’t been the problem. He remembered the moment he realised it so vividly it might as well have been yesterday. Gabriel had started picking problems from his own textbook —ones Castiel couldn’t have possibly seen before— only to watch his little brother solve them faster than Gabriel could. Better, even. Castiel wasn’t struggling with the numbers. He was bored. Frustrated. His mind worked differently, in ways Gabriel didn’t always understand but had admired all the same.

And now, years later, Gabriel wasn’t sure he understood anything about Castiel. Not his choices, not his pain, and certainly not what kind of help he might need. It wasn’t as simple as scraping knees or misplaced math assignments anymore. Castiel’s struggles were deeper, quieter, harder to pin down. And Gabriel... Gabriel was just a reminder of all the ways he’d failed, all the times he’d tried and made things worse. He closed his eyes briefly, tilting his head back against the booth. The bar’s low hum of conversation washed over him, filling the silence he didn’t want to sit with. When he opened his eyes again, Balthazar was watching him, his gaze unreadable but sharp. Gabriel knew that look. It was the one Balthazar wore when he was deciding whether or not to say something Gabriel wouldn’t like.

"You look like you’ve got the whole world resting on your shoulders," Balthazar said finally, his voice low and smooth, carrying just enough sarcasm to undercut the weight of the observation. Gabriel’s lips twitched in a faint smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. 

"Yeah, well, what’s a Novak without a crisis or two to carry?" Balthazar’s answering smile was faint, more a flicker than a real expression. 

"Maybe you should set a few of them down, mate. Before you drop them all." Gabriel didn’t respond, just raised his glass in a silent toast and drained it. If only it were that simple. But nothing about Castiel —or about the mess Gabriel had made of their relationship— was simple anymore. It was tangled, fraying at the edges, and Gabriel couldn’t figure out where to start unravelling it without breaking it completely. Balthazar’s sharp gaze dissected Gabriel as he continued. "I’m just saying," he began, his tone uncharacteristically soft, "maybe you should stop expecting him to match your level." Gabriel’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. 

"What’s that supposed to mean?" he asked, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. Balthazar didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Instead, he reached for his drink, swirling the contents idly before taking a measured sip. When he set the glass down, his gaze hadn’t shifted. "Castiel is five years behind," he said matter-of-factly. 

"He’s always going to be five years behind. You’re not the same person now as you were five years ago, are you? So don’t assume he’s five years in the future." Gabriel opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. His lips pressed together in a thin line as he leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. 

"I don’t…" he started, but his voice trailed off, the words evaporating before they could take shape. He stared down at his empty glass, his reflection distorted in the faint golden residue at the bottom. Balthazar’s words echoed in his mind, loud and insistent, refusing to be ignored. 

He’s five years behind. 

Always will be.

Gabriel wanted to argue, wanted to dismiss the comment as another one of Balthazar’s cryptic, self-righteous musings. But deep down, he knew there was truth in it. Castiel wasn’t where Gabriel thought he should be—not emotionally, not mentally, not even in the way he navigated relationships. And maybe that wasn’t Castiel’s failing. Maybe it was Gabriel’s. His expectations, his frustrations, his unwillingness to meet his brother where he was instead of where Gabriel thought he should be. Balthazar’s voice broke through the quiet, pulling Gabriel out of his spiralling thoughts. 

"It’s not a bad thing, you know," he said, his tone gentler now. "He’s still growing. Hell, we all are. But you can’t force him to grow the way you want him to. That’s not how it works." Gabriel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"You make it sound so simple."

"It’s not," Balthazar admitted. "But it’s the truth. And you know it." Gabriel gave a short, humourless laugh, shaking his head. 

"You’re full of wisdom tonight, aren’t you?" Balthazar smirked, raising his glass in a mock toast. 

"What can I say? I’m a man of many talents." Gabriel’s smile was faint but genuine as he looked at his friend. Maybe Balthazar was right. Maybe it was time to stop trying to drag Castiel forward and start figuring out how to walk alongside him instead. It wouldn’t be easy, but then again, nothing worth doing ever was. "Besides, what else am I going to do tonight but provide you with comforting words? Castiel is angry with me too." Gabriel’s fingers curled around the edge of his glass, his knuckles whitening. Balthazar’s words settled over him like a suffocating blanket, each syllable pressing into his mind.

"It’s not like that," Gabriel said, his voice strained but quiet. His eyes darted to the table, unable to meet Balthazar’s piercing gaze.

"Oh, but it is." Balthazar’s tone carried an air of inevitability, as if he were stating the outcome of a well-known truth rather than voicing an opinion. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, bringing the faint scent of his cologne closer. "If you’re enemy number one tonight, then anyone who considers you a friend is right there with you." Gabriel’s head snapped up, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. 

"You think Castiel sees it like that?"

"I know he does," Balthazar replied. His voice wasn’t sharp, but there was no softness in it either. "Castiel’s loyalty isn’t rational, Gabriel. It’s visceral. He doesn’t just hold grudges; he holds alliances. You’re either with him or against him, and tonight, you’ve made that decision for both of us." Gabriel let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he slumped back against the booth. 

"Great. Just great. So now I’ve managed to piss him off and rope you into it."

"It’s hardly the first time, is it?" Balthazar said with a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I think Castiel secretly blames me for half the messes you make anyway, courtesy of our friendship. Why would tonight be any different?" Gabriel fell silent, his thoughts turning inward. He could see Castiel now, his younger brother’s face stormy with that particular mix of hurt and anger he so often directed at Gabriel. Castiel’s emotions always burned brighter than most, a wildfire that consumed everything in its path. Gabriel knew he wasn’t equipped to extinguish it anymore—hadn’t been for years.

"Maybe I should stop trying," Gabriel muttered, more to himself than to Balthazar. "Stop trying to fix things when all I do is make them worse." Balthazar arched an eyebrow. 

"Oh, don’t go all self-pitying on me now. It’s unbecoming." Gabriel shot him a look, but there was no venom behind it. 

"I’m serious, Balthazar. Maybe it’s time I stopped pushing. Stopped… meddling."

"Stopped being you?" Balthazar countered. He picked up his glass, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. "That’s a tall order, Gabriel."

"I’m not joking."

"Neither am I." Balthazar’s tone shifted, becoming almost contemplative. "You’ve always been the fixer, the jester, the one who gets in the way but somehow makes it work. It’s who you are. Without it…" He paused, looking directly at Gabriel. "Well, you wouldn’t be you. And maybe Castiel wouldn’t want that either." Gabriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. The noise of the bar seemed to recede, leaving only the low hum of his own thoughts. He didn’t know if Balthazar was right. Didn’t know if Castiel needed him to be the same older brother who had once shielded him from their father’s wrath or tutored him in secret. Maybe Castiel didn’t need him at all anymore. But the thought of stepping back, of letting someone else fill the space he’d occupied—it gnawed at him, left him feeling unmoored. Gabriel pushed his glass away and stood, the scrape of the chair loud against the floor. 

"I need some air."

"Don’t go too far," Balthazar said, his voice casual but laced with something unspoken.

Gabriel nodded absently and made his way to the door. The cold night air hit him as he stepped outside, crisp and biting against his skin. He leaned against the wall, staring up at the dark sky. Somewhere out there, Castiel was probably fuming, blaming Gabriel for everything wrong in his world. And maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong.

For now, though, Gabriel didn’t know how to fix it—or even if he could.

Gabriel walked along the narrow pavement, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. The chill of the evening air nipped at his face, and the distant hum of traffic mingled with the occasional burst of laughter from bars still alive with patrons. The rhythm of his steps felt aimless, carrying him forward without direction, while his mind spun in loops that offered no clear answers. It really had just been a slip of the tongue. A careless moment when he wasn’t thinking, a detail that tumbled out before he realised its implications. Gabriel hadn’t told Dean about Meg and Castiel with malice or intent, but that didn’t matter now. The damage was done. Dean, with his ever-calculating corporate mind, would probably overanalyse every interaction he’d ever had with Meg, cross-referencing them against this newfound knowledge. And Castiel—well, Castiel saw it as a betrayal. Because in his eyes, it wasn’t just information; it was his information, shared without consent.

Gabriel let out a breath that fogged in the crisp air, his brow furrowing as his thoughts circled back to Castiel. He understood, really. Sure, Castiel could have told Dean about his past with Meg in his own time, in his own way. That was a far cry from Gabriel blurting it out, unfiltered, in some throwaway comment. But what stung Gabriel the most wasn’t Castiel’s anger—it was the truth of it. It wasn’t just the fact that Meg had once been the person Castiel thought he wanted to marry. It was that Gabriel had taken something private, something that belonged to Castiel’s heart, and laid it bare to someone else. It wasn’t malicious, no, but it was thoughtless. And Gabriel knew that was where Castiel would find the real wound: the carelessness, the lack of regard. He turned a corner, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows on the cobblestones beneath his feet. His boots scuffed against the ground as he slowed his pace, his hands still shoved deep in his pockets. The memories came unbidden, as they always did when he walked alone at night—snapshots of the past, fleeting and vivid. Castiel as a gangly child sighing loudly while Gabriel tried to explain algebra. Castiel, drunk and unapologetic, spilling his heart out about Meg one night after too many drinks. Castiel, always passionate, always raw, wearing his emotions like a second skin. Gabriel exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if the motion could dislodge the guilt pressing down on him. What was it Balthazar had said? That Gabriel needed to stop expecting Castiel to match his level? The words clung to him, uncomfortably close to something true. Castiel wasn’t five years behind, not really. He was just… different. His life, his choices, his pain—they weren’t Gabriel’s to fix or control, no matter how much Gabriel wanted to shield him from everything. 

The night deepened, the sounds of the city fading into the background as Gabriel stopped under a flickering streetlamp. He looked up, watching the light buzz and stutter, casting uneven halos on the pavement. He hadn’t meant to meddle. Not this time, anyway. But wasn’t that always the story? His well-meaning interference always seemed to leave Castiel scrambling to pick up the pieces. Gabriel pulled his phone from his pocket, staring at the screen for a long moment. His thumb hovered over Castiel’s name before he locked the phone again, sliding it back into his jacket. He wasn’t ready for that conversation, not tonight. Maybe Castiel wasn’t either. Instead, Gabriel leaned back against the lamppost, his breath steadying as he let the cold air fill his lungs.

For now, all he could do was let the silence settle.

The walk home was longer than Gabriel would have liked, especially with the alcohol thrumming faintly in his bloodstream, dulling his edges but not quite enough to silence his thoughts. The city hummed around him—softly lit windows framed by ornate balconies, the glow of distant headlights bouncing off wet pavement, and the occasional clink of glasses as a late-night bar door swung open and shut. The air carried a hint of dampness, that cold, metallic tang that came after a light drizzle, though the streets themselves were dry. Gabriel didn’t mind the walk. Not really. It gave him something to do, an excuse to let his thoughts spill out and wander, like unravelling a thread that never quite reached its end. The route was familiar, winding through streets lined with buildings that reflected the city’s patchwork of history and affluence. His own neighbourhood was one of the more exclusive ones, though Gabriel had never cared much for labels like that. He lived there because it was close to the centre and quiet enough to suit his tastes. His house came into view after a stretch of uneven pavement and a line of sycamores whose branches had grown gnarled and knotted with time. It wasn’t as grand as some of the others —no wrought iron gates or ivy creeping up the walls— but it was his. A neat, boxy home from the 1970s, with large windows framed in brown, the kind of house that looked like it hadn’t quite settled into its place in time. Gabriel liked it that way. It wasn’t trying to be anything more than what it was. As he approached, the soft, rhythmic thumping of a tail hitting glass greeted him. Through the front window, he saw her—Moxie, his Jack Russell terrier. She was perched on the arm of the sofa, her wiry body vibrating with excitement as she caught sight of him. Her black and white fur shone faintly in the dim light from the living room, her ears pricked up in attention, and her entire demeanour radiated anticipation. Gabriel unlocked the door, stepping inside as Moxie launched herself at him with all the fervour of a dog who acted as though every separation was a century long. She barked once—a sharp, excited yip—before circling his feet in a whirlwind of energy.

"Miss me, huh?" Gabriel crouched to ruffle her fur, the warmth of her small body grounding him in a way nothing else quite managed. She licked at his fingers, her tail wagging so fiercely it was a blur, and he couldn’t help but grin despite himself. "Yeah, yeah, I know. World’s best welcome home committee." 

Moxie darted towards the kitchen as if to remind him she hadn’t had her nightly treat yet, her nails clicking against the polished wooden floors. Gabriel straightened, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket, which he draped carelessly over the back of a chair. The house smelled faintly of cedar and something citrusy, a cleaner he barely remembered buying. He followed Moxie into the kitchen, the light above the sink casting a soft glow on the granite counters and the tiled backsplash. She was already waiting by the cupboard, her head tilted expectantly, her brown eyes wide and imploring.

"All right, all right," he said, grabbing the box of treats and shaking one loose. "You’ve got me wrapped around your little paw, you know that?"

Moxie snatched the treat delicately before bounding off to her bed in the corner of the room. Gabriel leaned against the counter, watching her for a moment. She made him feel something he rarely admitted to—a kind of quiet belonging, an uncomplicated joy that didn’t require him to perform or prove anything. The house was silent but for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sound of Moxie chewing. Gabriel let the quiet stretch, his thoughts no longer rushing but settling, piece by piece, like sediment in water. Maybe tomorrow, he’d call Castiel. Maybe he’d apologise, even if it wouldn’t fix much. For now, he let himself stand in the stillness, the warmth of his home wrapping around him like a well-worn coat.

Gabriel glanced down at Moxie, who had finished her treat and was now curled up in her bed, her tail still wagging faintly as though she expected something else to happen. Her bright eyes followed him as he moved toward the living room, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound.

"Wanna watch TV?" he said, his voice light but carrying a hint of something quieter, more introspective. He looked back at Moxie as though she might respond, the quirk of his lips softening his expression. "I think we should."

The living room was dim, the muted orange glow of a single lamp casting long shadows against the walls. The sofa, worn in all the right ways, beckoned him with a promise of comfort. Gabriel flopped down, stretching his legs out and grabbing the remote from the side table. Moxie trotted over, jumping up beside him with the ease of familiarity, curling into the space between his hip and the armrest. As the television flickered to life faint blue light spilled into the room. Gabriel scrolled through channels without much thought, the drone of voices and snippets of music filling the silence. A cooking show, a nature documentary, some late-night crime drama. It all blurred together, and he didn’t bother to land on anything just yet. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the cushions. The world outside felt far away—his brother, Balthazar, even Dean. For a moment, the house held him in its quiet, the kind of stillness that felt alive with its own pulse. Moxie sighed contentedly, nudging her nose against his thigh, and Gabriel absently scratched behind her ears, his movements slow and thoughtful.

"You know," he said softly, not even sure who he was talking to—Moxie, himself, or the void that seemed to hover at the edge of his thoughts. "Sometimes I think... I think it’s all just noise, you know? Everything. People. The mess of it all."

Moxie gave no answer, of course, but her warmth against him felt like one. Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the TV, the subtle creaks of the house settling into the night. It reminded him of being a kid, the way the house they’d grown up in had always seemed alive in the dark, carrying on conversations of its own. His thumb tapped idly against the remote, and the channel landed on a rerun of some sitcom he couldn’t even name. The laughter track felt distant, like it belonged to another world, but he let it play. Moxie stirred, resting her head on his lap, her trust in him absolute. Gabriel smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting, but it was there—a quiet gratitude, even if he didn’t know how to name it. He stared at the television, though his thoughts drifted far from the screen's flickering images. The warmth of Moxie pressed against his leg brought a flicker of a smile to his face. He reached down, ruffling the soft fur between her ears.

His mind wandered back to when Moxie had first entered his life, a wiry, scrappy ball of energy with a bark that could rattle windows. She was a surprise even to him—a spur-of-the-moment decision after walking past a pet shop window on a rare, aimless day. He hadn’t planned to adopt a dog, but something about her had clicked. It felt like a dare to himself, a commitment to something that couldn’t be walked away from. The memory of introducing her to Castiel and Meg still made him smirk, albeit with a tinge of exasperation. They’d been at Gabriel’s old apartment, a place where the air somehow always smelled faintly of coffee and sandalwood. He’d proudly set Moxie down in front of them, her small frame barely making an impression on the carpet. Castiel had stared at the tiny dog, his head tilting as though trying to make sense of what he was seeing. 

"You bought a rat?" he’d said, with a completely straight face. Gabriel had laughed, more out of disbelief than amusement. 

"She’s a dog, Cassie. A Jack Russell Terrier. They’re intelligent, loyal, and tenacious."

"She’s small," Castiel had replied dryly, crouching to inspect Moxie closer. "Are you sure she’s not part rodent?" Meg, sprawled on the couch with her legs draped over the armrest, had snorted. 

"If she is, then she’s the cutest rat I’ve ever seen." She’d leaned over to rub Moxie’s head, eliciting a tiny, excited bark. Gabriel had watched as Meg cooed at the puppy, her usually sharp features softening with rare unguarded affection. Castiel, meanwhile, had leaned back on his heels, his expression unreadable. He’d eventually offered a half-hearted pat to Moxie’s head before standing and muttering something about needing a cigarette. Gabriel had let it slide, but the exchange lingered in his mind even now. Back in the present, Gabriel sighed and looked down at Moxie, who had nestled closer, her breathing slow and steady. 

"He called you a rat from the start," he murmured, his voice carrying a note of teasing affection. "And yet you still like him better than me half the time."

Moxie didn’t respond, but Gabriel swore her ears twitched as if she understood. He leaned back against the couch, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the soft fabric of the armrest. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, back when things had been simpler—or maybe just less complicated. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when everything had shifted, only that it had. Castiel wasn’t the same, Meg wasn’t the same, and Gabriel... well, he liked to think he’d stayed consistent, even if the truth was probably more complicated than that.

"You’re the only one who never changes, Mox," he said softly, scratching behind her ears again. "Same dog, same loyalty. Maybe you’ve got the right idea."

The television droned on in the background, its bright colours casting faint patterns on the walls. Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment, letting the steady rhythm of Moxie’s breathing ground him. For all the chaos that seemed to orbit around him, this moment—just him and the dog—felt like its own kind of peace.

Chapter Text

Dean lay on his bed, his arms crossed behind his head, staring at the faint shadows cast on the ceiling by the city lights outside. His phone buzzed again, rattling faintly against the bedside table. He didn’t even glance at it. Castiel’s name had lit up the screen too many times that evening, and Dean had stopped checking after the third buzz. If the frequency of the calls and texts was any indication, Castiel was drunk. Again. 

‘Not tonight,’ Dean thought. He rolled onto his side, his eyes drifting toward the window. The city beyond was a patchwork of glowing windows, distant headlights, and the faint hum of life that never seemed to stop. Normally, it was comforting, that sense of being surrounded by people even in the quiet of his own space. But tonight, it felt more like a reminder of how alone he really was. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, closing his eyes as he tried to will his thoughts into something more productive. The last thing he wanted to think about was Castiel Novak. Or Gabriel Novak. Or Novak Enterprises. Dean exhaled sharply and turned onto his back again. Was this his life now? He thought of Castiel—of the man’s chaotic brilliance, the way he could look at Dean as though peeling back layers Dean didn’t even know he had. 

Castiel was… Castiel was exhausting. 

One week, he was spilling his guts, baring raw truths in quiet, piercing moments. The next, he was unreachable, lost in his own world, his focus so intense it felt like Dean wasn’t even in the room.  Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair. Castiel hadn’t ignored him, not really. He just… lost touch with reality when he worked. Dean knew that now. He understood it, even. But understanding didn’t make it any less frustrating. It didn’t make it any easier to sit through the silences, the moments when Castiel’s eyes drifted past him, seeing something only Castiel could see. 

Dean’s phone buzzed again, and this time, he reached for it, his fingers closing around the device with a resigned sort of irritation. The screen lit up with another message from Castiel.

Castiel: I need to talk to you. Please. It’s important.

Dean stared at the words, his thumb hovering over the reply icon. A part of him—the part that wanted answers, that always wanted answers—wanted to respond, to pick up the phone and demand to know what was so important. But the other part, the part that was tired of the push and pull, tired of feeling like he was chasing something that never quite came into focus, stopped him. Instead, he locked the screen and set the phone face down on the nightstand. He needed space. Not just from Castiel, but from all of it—the Novaks, the relentless corporate world he’d so carefully built his life around, the quiet dissatisfaction that had been gnawing at him for years.

Dean closed his eyes and took a slow, measured breath, the kind he used when he felt himself spiralling. He thought of the things that grounded him—the steady rhythm of the treadmill beneath his feet during a morning run, the smooth glide of the steering wheel as he navigated his Prius through city streets, the quiet moments when he and Charlie would sit in companionable silence, the weight of the day falling away. But none of those things felt grounding now. Not when his mind was a tangle of unanswered questions and unspoken words, not when Castiel’s messages were still lingering at the edge of his consciousness, demanding attention he didn’t want to give. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling again, the shadows shifting as a car passed outside. ‘This can’t be it,’ he thought. ‘This can’t be all there is.’ And yet, in this moment, it was. Just the ceiling, the distant hum of the city, and the unrelenting buzz of a phone he didn’t want to answer. Dean rubbed his temple, his fingers pressing into the faint ache that had taken residence there. The soft glow of the city lights spilled through the window, casting vague shapes across the ceiling, but none of it gave him clarity. He didn’t want this. But he also didn’t not want this. 

Maybe that was the problem.

He liked Castiel. Kinda.

That thought alone felt stupidly insufficient, given the whirlwind of emotions Castiel seemed to evoke. Dean wasn’t used to this kind of ambiguity. In his world, things were either assets or liabilities, opportunities or obstacles. You didn’t spend time wallowing in the grey; you either fixed it or moved on. But Castiel was all grey—a haze of contradictions and complications Dean couldn’t quite see through. And knowing Castiel was in love with him? Yeah, that definitely didn’t help. Love. It was a word Dean tried not to think about too hard, a word that carried a weight he didn’t have the strength—or the patience—to unpack. Drunk Castiel threw the word around like it was a natural extension of himself, something he didn’t have to question. But it wasn’t like that for Dean. It never had been. It wasn’t just the idea of love that complicated things. It was the way Castiel seemed to embody it—effortlessly, intensely, with the kind of conviction Dean had only ever seen in people who still thought the world owed them something. And the worst part? It wasn’t just love in the abstract. No, it was the kind of love that came with words like marriage . Marriage. Dean flinched at the thought, his jaw tightening as his mind circled back to the conversation he’d overheard, the offhanded way Gabriel had mentioned it. Castiel had once thought about marriage. With Meg. That alone was enough to make Dean’s stomach churn, even if he knew it was unfair—irrational, even. But the real question, the one Dean couldn’t stop himself from turning over and over in his mind, was this: 

If Castiel wanted that kind of love, why the hell was he with Dean?

Dean sat up, the bedsheets rustling around him as he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. His bare feet met the cool floor, grounding him for a moment, but not enough to quiet the thoughts swirling in his head. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it was the way Castiel seemed so sure of his feelings, as if love were a simple, straightforward thing that could be handed over without conditions. Or maybe it was the fact that Castiel was still in his twenties, still figuring himself out, while Dean was already staring down his mid-thirties. That difference alone made Dean feel like they were playing two entirely different games, with different stakes and different rules. But maybe it wasn’t even that. Maybe it was the other thing . Dean didn’t like to think about the other thing. He preferred to shove it into some dark corner of his mind, keep it locked away where it couldn’t breathe. But tonight, it pressed against the edges of his thoughts, demanding attention he didn’t want to give.

The other thing was the fear.

Not the fear of Castiel leaving or changing his mind—that, Dean could handle. It was the fear of what Castiel might see if he didn’t. Dean had spent years building himself into something neat and polished, someone who could fit into any corporate room and shake hands with the right people. His life was ordered, compartmentalised, efficient. Castiel didn’t fit into that. Castiel was messy and vibrant and unfiltered, and he had a way of looking at Dean that made him feel like his carefully constructed walls were made of glass. Dean exhaled sharply, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. 

"What the hell am I doing?" he muttered to the empty room.

The city outside didn’t answer.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang for a moment. He liked Castiel. He did. But liking Castiel wasn’t enough—not when it came with all these questions, these impossible contradictions that made Dean feel like he was walking a tightrope with no idea how to get to the other side. Dean glanced at his phone, still sitting face down on the nightstand. It was quiet now, but he knew Castiel’s messages were still there, waiting for him. He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he stared at it, his mind caught between the pull of what Castiel offered and the nagging fear that he’d never be enough to give Castiel what he deserved.

"Maybe it’s better this way," Dean said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. He didn’t know if he believed it, but it was easier to say than to admit the truth: that the thing he feared most wasn’t losing Castiel. It was being truly seen by him.

Dean sat back against the headboard, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if the blank expanse might somehow hold answers. His chest rose and fell in measured breaths, but his mind was anything but calm. It spiralled, latching onto every thread, weaving them into something bigger, more suffocating.

Castiel drinks too much. 

Dean didn’t want to think about it, but the evidence was hard to ignore. How many times had he seen Castiel with a glass in hand, his eyes distant and glassy as he tried to drown whatever storm was brewing inside him? Too many. And Gabriel wasn’t much better. Hell, Castiel and Gabriel were practically poster children for the kind of recklessness that came with too much money and too little accountability. 

Nepo babies, the both of them. 

Castiel and Gabriel, two sides of the same gilded coin. Dean had grown up hearing about people like them—their lives paved with opportunities they didn’t have to earn, doors opened by the weight of their last name. Novak Enterprises, a family empire that loomed large over the city, casting long shadows where people like Dean had to scrape by, unnoticed and unimportant. And Meg? Was she a nepo baby too? Dean had never asked, but it seemed likely. If she’d grown up with Castiel and Gabriel, running in those same privileged circles, then yeah, probably. It would explain her confidence, that sharp edge of entitlement she carried so casually, like it was stitched into the fabric of her being. 

Dean exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He’d really done it this time. He’d tangled himself in the web of Novak drama, letting himself get dragged into a world he didn’t belong to. Why had he let this happen? Why had he let Castiel happen? The answer wasn’t simple, of course. It never was. Castiel had this way of pulling people in, of making Dean feel like he were the centre of the universe when he looked at him. It was intoxicating, disarming. Dean had fallen for it before he even realised what was happening. But now? Now, all Dean could see were the differences. Castiel, with his poorly maintained apartment that smelled of paint and cigarettes, a space that Dean couldn’t even imagine affording in a hundred lifetimes. Castiel, who probably couldn’t fathom waking up shivering in a tiny, freezing apartment because the ancient radiator had decided to stop working in the middle of the night. Castiel, who didn’t have to wonder whether he could afford his next meal, who didn’t know what it was like to grow up feeling like the world was stacked against you from the start.

Dean shook his head, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t bitter. Or at least, he didn’t want to be. But it was hard not to feel the sting of unfairness when he thought about it. Castiel could afford to be reckless, to drink too much, to stumble through life chasing his art and his fleeting whims. Dean couldn’t. He’d never had the luxury of stumbling.

"Why the hell am I even here?" Dean muttered to himself, his voice low and bitter.

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

He thought back to his own life, to the years spent clawing his way up the corporate ladder, every step hard-earned and tenuous. The Novak brothers didn’t know what that was like. They didn’t know what it meant to worry that one wrong move could send it all crashing down. Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed again, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor. His phone sat on the nightstand, silent now but still buzzing in his mind, a reminder of Castiel’s messy, complicated existence waiting for him.

Maybe that was why it scared him so much. Castiel’s life, his choices—they were messy in a way Dean couldn’t afford to be. And yet, he was drawn to it. To him.

"Maybe that’s the problem," Dean murmured, his voice soft but laced with frustration. Because for all the ways Castiel and his world made Dean feel small and out of place, there was a part of him —stupid, irrational— that didn’t want to let it go. Even when he knew better.

Dean stared at the untouched glass of water on his bedside table, condensation slowly pooling into a perfect circle. His thoughts felt as scattered as the dim lights of the city outside, fractured and chaotic, but all circling back to one question: