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Chapter Text

Every story begins with love and pain, light and darkness. My story begins in a quiet house tucked into a lonely street, where laughter once shown through like morning light, but slowly slipped into cold silence. I often wondered how families like mine, that looked so ideal from the curb, could be so full of shadows inside. How pain can settle into the bones of a home, of the people. The wounds are old and buried deep, and are kept alive beneath years of words we never said.

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N

Dean woke up alone.

He felt the sun warm across his face before he opened his eyes. Reaching out, half-asleep, a smile playing on his lips…he found only cold sheets. The spot beside him was empty. 

Cas was gone. 

He sat up, blanket slipping low across his hips. The pillow on the other side still had a dent in it. No note. No sound of running water. No cooking smells from the kitchen.

Cas had left, just like he promised he never would. 

The night before flicked through his mind. Cas’s breath against his throat, the way their mouths fit together as if they had been there a hundred times, his strong hands on Dean’s hips. But he was gone now. And that could only mean one thing. 

What had Dean done wrong? Maybe he’d come on too strong. Been too eager. Too desperate for his touch. Maybe just too damn inexperienced. Maybe he didn’t make Cas feel as good as he thought he did. Pathetic. 

Should’ve never been that vulnerable.

Should’ve kept his damn guard up. 

Should’ve known better by now. 

So fucking stupid.  

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet, jarring enough to make him wince. He dropped his head into his hands.

He wasn’t going to cry.

Naked and shivering, he stumbled to the bathroom. The sink was too bright in the morning light, the glare on the mirror too sharp. Dean braced both hands on the sink and looked up. He looked like a stranger. What a cliché thought.

Same green eyes, same sleep-creased skin, same unshaven jaw. But the reflection wasn’t his. Couldn’t be. 

You stupid fucking faggot. 

His father’s voice in his head, copper in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue. 

Dean ran a hand through his hair, tugging hard, trying to ground himself, but all it did was remind him of Cas’s fingers in the same place, softer. 

His breath came fast. Shallow. The air wouldn’t sit right in his lungs.

The only sound was his fist smashing into the mirror.

***Four weeks earlier***

Dean stepped into the Lawrence Fire Station, the usual morning noise rolling over him. Laughter, barked orders, boots hitting tile. Home. 

He passed the gear room, where the crew tugged on pants, zipped coats, adjusted helmets. Upstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee, bacon, and something slightly burnt. His team crowded around the breakfast table, cups in hand.

“Morning, Winchester!” Charlie hollered from the stove, red ponytail bouncing as she brandished a spatula. “Sleep at all? You look like shit.”

“And you look gorgeous as ever, Bradbury,” Dean shot back, leaning in to plant a wet kiss on her cheek with a loud, exaggerated smack. 

“Eww, get off!” she whined, scrubbing at her face with her shoulder.

“Where’s my kiss, brother?” Benny called, squeezing his linebacker frame through the kitchen space with toast in one hand and coffee in the other.

Dean didn’t answer, just smirked and reached for a mug from the rack. One with a faded logo from some Vegas casino he’d never been to. Charlie pinched his side as he passed, and he yelped. He poured the last of the coffee and, sighing, refilled the machine. He wasn’t a complete asshole. 

Dean slid in next to Benny, just as Charlie dropped a tray of bacon and soft scrambled eggs on the table. She snagged a few strips with her bare hands, then flopped onto the loveseat.

Chewing a mouthful of eggs, he grinned and opened his mouth wide to show her. She wrinkled her nose and mimed vomiting. 

Captain Bobby clomped down the stairs from the upper offices, muttering to himself. The firehouse was three stories of controlled chaos. Ground level held the trucks and all the gear that came with them. The second floor had the kitchen and day room, with bunks just beyond that, and enough cots to crash on during the long shifts. The top floor was all offices and storage.

Bobby hobbled down the last few steps, then straightened the second he saw all eyes on him.

“What’re you gawkin’ at, ya idjits?” he barked. “Eat your damn food.”

“Easy, Bobby,” Lee said, stepping out of the bathroom, grinning. “What’s got your panties in a twist, oh captain, my captain ?”

“None of your damn business.” Bobby snatched some bacon and disappeared into the kitchen.

Everyone turned to Dean.

He sighed. “Why’s it always me?”

“Because you’re the favorite,” Benny said. Everyone knew it. 

Dean threw up his hands, scowling, and shoved his chair back with a screech. He followed Bobby, turning back to glare at his crew. 

“Hey,” he said casually, standing beside him. “You good?”

Bobby was quiet for a beat, then leaned a little closer. “My knee is killing me,” he muttered.

Dean bumped his shoulder. “When you gonna retire, old man?”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead. Quit babyin’ me.”

The toast popped, and both of them jumped. Dean snorted.

Bobby clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, boy. Now go eat your breakfast.”

Back at the table, the noise rose again. Half of the crew was coming on shift, while the other half was finishing up, and all of them were loud as hell. 

They bullshitted about Benny’s daughter opening a new Cajun place, Rufus complained about his ex-wife, Charlie bragged about a girl she’d picked up last weekend, and Lee talked about a big romantic getaway with someone he clearly liked far too much for how little they’d been seeing each other. 

Then Lee turned towards Dean. “Speaking of, when is the legendary Dean Winchester going to settle down?”

Dean forced a grin. “C’mon man. I can’t pick just one. Not when you have a bod like this.” He gestured down his torso. Groans all around. 

“Bet there’s a line of girls down the block,” Lee chuckled. “Someone’s gotta lock you down eventually.”

Dean shifted in his seat. “Guess they’ll have to wait,” he said with a wink. “You know what they say. Why buy the cow when you get the mi-”

“Gross, Dean!” Charlie interrupted, throwing a napkin at him.

The table laughed and the moment passed. But Dean didn’t hear the next joke. He stared down at his eggs, jaw tight.

His old man would’ve been proud of that line. He shoved the thought away. 

Laughter roared again.

“I’m serious!” Alfie was saying. “My grandma made the best apple pie. Swore it was from scratch. Then one Thanksgiving, I found the frozen Marie Callender boxes in the trash.”

The crew lost it.

Dean smiled when he was supposed to. Laughed on cue.

The rest of the morning passed in drills, gear checks, and maintenance runs. By lunchtime, the station had finally settled. Dean drifted towards the day room, scanning for Charlie, like always.

He spotted her across the room, boots propped on a chair, a few bites into a sandwich.

“Hey, kid,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her. “How’s it going?” 

“Same old,” she said, nudging the other half of her sandwich toward him. “What about you? Talk to Sam lately?”

Dean took a grateful bite. “Naw, that kid’s even busier than me. I’m lucky if he texts back every few weeks. Last I heard, everything was good. You hear he won the case?”

“The Roman one? Oh my god, I can’t believe he didn’t tell me!” Her eyes lit up. “That’s awesome, he’s killin’ it out there in Cali. You’re so proud of him, you can’t stand it, huh?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, I’m pretty damn proud. But what can I say, kid’s a genius. I always knew he’d make a name for himself.”

“Says the man who raised him.” Charlie jabbed a finger at him. “He wouldn’t be a big ol’ successful lawyer man, if it wasn’t for you, Dean.” 

Dean ducked his head, waving a hand. “He did that all himself.”

“Remind me,” Charlie said with a look. “How many jobs did you work in high school? How many times did you protect him from John’s-”

“Hey.” Dean held up a hand. “Let’s not.”

Charlie sighed but reached across the table and squeezed his arm. “Okay, fine.”

“So who’s this new girl I heard about at breakfast? Think you’ll call her?”

Charlie accepted the obvious subject change. “Oh, Dean. Sweet Dean. I have done much more than just call her, my dude.” She launched into the story, hands flying. According to her, Gilda had a dangerous smile, and breasts that would bring a priest to his knees. Her words. 

“So I was trying to play it cool-”

“You are cool, Charlie.”

“I am cool, aren’t I?” She preened. “But she doesn’t know that yet. So I was asking her what her favorite tv show is, right?”

“As one does,” Dean nodded.

“I swear, when she said Love is Blind , I almost bailed. Who watches that crap?”

 Dean chuckled. “So you walked away, then?”

“Dude, did I mention her rack? Of course, I didn’t walk away. No one’s perfect.”

“Well, you’ve still got me for your Star Wars marathons.” 

“Oh, lucky me,” she deadpanned. 

Dean winked. “And maybe if you’re lucky, she can show you The Bachelor on your next date.”

Charlie groaned, throwing her head back. “Dean!”

“Some say it’s a classic.” 

“No one says that.”

“Apparently, the love of your life does.”

Dean leaned back, finally relaxed. Let the noise and warmth settle around him.

So, of course, that’s when the alarm blared through the building, sharp, deafening. 

“Noooo!” Charlie wailed. “My sandwich!”

There was a fire. 

Chapter Text

My home was a place where the silence was louder than the words. Our conversations were battles fought behind locked doors, bloody and vicious, nobody getting out unharmed. Where affection and warmth once filled the halls and rooms, now resentment and empty promises was all that remained. I found comfort in the lonely, dark places of my room, and the faded carpet of my closet floor became my sanctuary. As my family drifted father and father apart, I looked for an escape. A wind that could carry me away, swirling around my battered heart. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

“Attention, Engine 34, Ladder 22, Medic 59, structure fire, 1353 Walnut Creek Drive. Multiple calls. Heavy smoke visible. Time out 1:08pm.”

The air shifted like a switch had been flipped. Light banter vanished. Adrenaline took its place.

Everyone moved.

No talking. Just muscle memory.

Dean bolted for the gear room, the half-eaten sandwich already forgotten.

Pants. Boots. Jacket. Gear heavy and stiff against his skin. Metal slammed. Air hissed. Lockers clanged open and shut. Helmet under one arm, gloves clenched between his teeth, Dean charged down the stairs. That sandwich now sat like a brick in his gut.

As they piled into the truck, Charlie took the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. Bobby jumped on last, slapped the truck’s side. Charlie hit the gas. 

Dean yanked his gloves on as the radio crackled to life with dispatch updates, now reporting visible flames from the upper windows. And worse yet, only the husband made it out. No word on the wife. 

House fires were the worst. Always chaos. Always someone screaming. 

The engine tore through the streets. Dean’s mind raced. Burns. Smoke. Death. He braced for it.

When they turned the corner onto Walnut Creek, Dean saw the smoke first. Thick, black, curling from the roof. Then fire. Angry orange, bursting from the windows.

Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back! Now, Dean, go!

The truck skidded to a stop. Boots hit pavement. Dean spotted police officers already on the scene, holding back frantic neighbors. 

A man in boxers knelt on the lawn, sobbing. Dean looked away quickly. 

Bobby pointed. “Dean, Benny. Front door. Go.”

Yeah. Of course it was them. 

The others peeled off. Charlie with the rescue gear, face grim. Lee and Rufus around back. No one needed to say it. Time was slipping away fast. 

Dean pulled up his hood, strapped on his tank. The hiss of canned air filled his ears. 

“Ready?” he asked, voice tight behind the mask.

“I’m always ready, brother,” Benny said, calm as ever.

They went in. 

Heat slammed into him like a gut punch, even through his gear. The walls crackled and groaned, the whole house grinding its teeth. Dean squinted into the smoke. Sweat was already dotting his forehead. 

Benny’s flashlight carved a weak beam through the haze. Smoke warped everything. One second it was a room, and the next, a hellscape. 

Something crunched under Dean’s boots. Framed pictures? Toys? He didn’t look. 

“Stay close!” Benny shouted as flames roared from the kitchen up ahead.

Dean placed a gloved hand on Benny’s shoulder, staying connected in the darkness. They swept room after room, their movements practiced. Then Dean heard it. Muffled cries up ahead. 

“She’s over there!” Dean pointed.

They rounded a corner and Dean scanned the smoke-filled area for any movement. 

Then a scream. His mother’s? Her voice swallowed by flames. 

The hallway ended in rubble. Ceiling partially collapsed, debris everywhere. 

“Careful,” Dean warned. “This place is coming down.”

“Help me clear it!” Benny yelled, and Dean dropped to his knees, yanking aside broken beams and plaster. Benny swung his belt ax, carving a narrow path through the wreckage.

“Fire Department!” Dean called out, as they made their way past. The crying had gone silent. 

Dean pushed through the door first. The back bedroom was flame-free, for now. A blessing. Smoke thick. Light distorted. 

He spotted her. 

A woman, half-curled beneath a small bed, motionless. 

No no no no-

It happened all the time. People hide instead of running. And the smoke always won. 

Dean crawled over and pulled her out. He shifted her weight, dragging her up and over his shoulder, and locked his arms around the back of her knees. 

He felt her ribs move, shaky and shallow. She was still fighting. 

“She’s alive!” he shouted, “You’ll have to lead me!” 

Benny secured the ax and grabbed Dean’s belt, flashlight in his other hand. Every step back was like wading through sand. 

His gear was soaked through. The weight of her, the weight of the heat, the smoke…it all pressed in. Like the house wanted to keep them. 

But then, daylight. 

They broke through. 

The silence hit first. No more flames. No more roaring. 

The crowd stared. Dean blinked, dazed, like the world was in slow motion. Someone was shouting. A paramedic was gesturing frantically at him. 

He stumbled towards them, lowering the woman onto the stretcher. 

A hand gripped his shoulder. “ Sir? You need to sit. Sir-”

Dean swayed.

“You’re okay now,” Dean mumbled to her. “I saved you, Mom. You’re okay.” 

He turned away and dropped to his knees on the grass. Then onto his back.

Yanking his helmet off, he dragged in lungfuls of hot air. His muscles were screaming. Sweat poured from his face and stung his eyes. Ash clung to his lashes. Dimly, he was aware of his team running around him with various hoses and equipment. 

Benny appeared beside him, helmet in hand. 

“We did it, brother. Just breathe.” He shooed away another paramedic. 

Dean just nodded, eyes on the bright sky. Like it didn’t give a damn about what just happened down here. Benny settled a heavy hand on his chest.

Dean thought of the woman. Alive. She’d get more days. More seconds. More food and vacations and work and sex and friends and arguments and hugs and boredom. Life.

He tilted his head back to see the charred, lifeless remains of the house. The lost memories, family photos, possessions. All gone. 

He wondered if this family had just lost everything they had ever owned. He wondered who would grieve the books. The heirlooms. The little things.

He closed his eyes and let the sound of fire and sirens swallow him.

Chapter Text

The moment I began to read, the world withdrew. The uneasy exchanges, the silence between my parents, even the murmurs of my own mind, they all fell away. Within those pages, I was no longer a boy confined by walls and quiet disapproval. The characters I met were vivid, unafraid. They welcomed me into lives shaped by wonder, by hardship, by triumph I had never known. Their journeys became my own. While the household I lived in drifted further into the fog of judgmental righteousness, I wandered through stories where tenderness was not weakness, where bravery bloomed in the face of terror. I learned, in time, that longing did not make me fragile. That to crave understanding was not a fault. In the company of the imagined, I felt seen.

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean cracked his eyes open. Everything was blurry as hell. He’d collapsed into bed last night without even brushing his teeth. Bobby had made sure he and Benny were cleared by the medics before sending them back for clean-up. Dean had finally gotten home in the early evening, and within minutes of crawling into bed, passed out cold.

Thank god for the blackout curtains. The room was dim and quiet, just how he liked it. Dean had no idea what time it was, but he didn’t feel completely wrecked, so that was something. Sure, his head was pounding, his muscles were sore, his eyes were dry and scratchy, but somehow, he actually felt decent. 

Grabbing his phone off the charger, he checked the time. It was almost 11:00am. Dean had the next four days off,  no appointments, no obligations, but still guilt itched at him. Sleeping for too long always made him feel lazy, no matter how much he needed it. 

And hungry. 

After a few minutes of stretching and blinking at the ceiling, Dean finally sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Rubbing his sore eyes, Dean padded into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, poked at the bags under his eyes. Same old face, same old shit. 

In the kitchen, he brewed a pot of coffee and rummaged through the fridge. He pulled out a half-eaten pizza from…who even knows. Good enough. He stood in his boxers, scratching his chest and chewing cold pizza while the coffee maker did its thing. 

When it was done, he poured a large mug, downed a few advil, and decided he needed to take a real shower. The rushed rinse and scrub at the station didn’t count. Not when his hair still smelled like smoke. Here, no one could rush him. If he used up all the hot water, that was his own damn problem. 

Stripping down, he turned the water on and let the steam rise. He inhaled deeply, then hacked up the last of the smoke lingering in his lungs. Dean stepped in and groaned as the water pounded on the back of his neck. Heat soaked into sore muscles. Eyes closed, ran his hands over his chest, belly, thighs. 

He lathered soap and scrubbed hard, watching the water around his feet swirl dark, then clear again. Dean shampooed his hair, massaging his scalp with blunt fingers, and enjoyed the feeling of the suds running down his back. 

Finally, he sank down onto the shower floor. The tiles were warm against his back. Water hammered his shoulders, turning his skin pink. He sat there, head bowed, unmoving. Letting it all wash off.

Sweat. Soot. Stress.

Maybe if he stayed long enough, it’d wash away his sins, too.

*    *    *    *

After a half-assed dinner, and half an hour of mindlessly scrolling on his phone, Dean couldn’t handle the restlessness any longer, and headed out. He threw on his softest beat-up jeans, a black tee, and shrugged into a flannel on the way out. The weight of his boots felt good. Solid. He planned to read for a while, maybe throw on an old Western afterwards. He earned some downtime. He saved a life yesterday. 

A goddamn hero. 

Sometimes. 

The sun was low as he crossed the bridge into downtown. The air was cool, sharp, and felt good in his busted-up lungs, despite it freezing his fingers. Cafés were starting to close, but most shops were still open, their lights glowing behind old brick storefronts. He glanced in a few as he passed, not really looking for anything. Just moving. 

As he rounded the corner, on his way to his favorite bookstore at the far side of downtown, he spotted a little bookshop that he never had time to check out, just always going for his tried and true. This place had ivy around the door and some fancy-ass cursive on the sign: The Book Nook . No time like the present. 

Dean pushed open the squeaky door, and a small bell jingled overhead. Inside, books were packed tight on every wall. The air smelled like paper and faintly like coffee. He didn’t spot a front counter right away, so he wandered off into the narrow aisles, letting the quiet close in around him. His finger skimmed along the spines, some slightly cracked, some fresh like no one had ever opened them. 

The wooden floor creaked beneath his feet as he wandered. It was a slight sound, just a loose floorboard, but it shot straight through him. 

Smoke again. In his lungs. 

Flames. Too close. Too bright. Too loud. 

His hand shot out, grabbing the nearest shelf. Had to stay upright. His fingers found purchase and he leaned into the wood, gasping. Eyes shut. Breathe in. Out. Slow it down, damn it. Eventually, his heart stopped trying to explode. God. How embarrassing. If only his dad could see him now. 

Dean blinked open his eyes and spotted an overstuffed chair. He had seen a few others, scattered throughout the store. The chairs were all mismatched, probably thrifted. The thing was ugly, green velvet, and deeply comfortable. Falling into it, Dean sank into the soft cushion. He ran his fingers over his temples, trying to shake the feeling. The days after an intense rescue were always the worst. Mind didn’t shut up, body didn’t settle. 

“Can I help you with something?”

A low, gravelly voice from behind him. Dean jumped to his feet, heart in his throat, and - woah. Standing there was the most ridiculously beautiful man he’d ever seen. Dean was immediately pissed. People weren’t supposed to look like that. How was he supposed to act normal around that? And that voice? Absolute porn. Not. Fair. 

He was tall, maybe just a little shorter than Dean, with piercing blue eyes. His dark hair was wild, fanning around his head. He had an otherworldly beauty. Sharp cheekbones. Chiseled jawline. Large pillowy lips. Was that a cardigan?

The guy raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. He didn’t smile. Just waited. 

The only dumbass thing that popped into Dean’s head was… angel. Yikes.

He swallowed hard, his throat clicking loud enough to hear it. “I was just looking,” Dean said in a rush. “Never been in here before.”

The man grunted. Grunted. No welcome. No warmth. Then turned on his heel and walked away. Dean stared after him, mouth falling open. What the hell was that? Still, he couldn’t stop watching. The guy moved like he didn’t touch the floor. Graceful as hell. Fucking ridiculous.

Dean spotted the front counter then, tucked into a far corner, surrounded by piles of unshelved books. The man was already sitting back there, now wearing reading glasses and flipping through a novel. He looked even better in the glasses.

Dean hated him already. 

He tried to browse, but kept glancing back. That stiff, closed-off posture from earlier was gone now. The man looked completely relaxed, lips moving faintly as he read. Those lips. Thick. Soft-looking. Begging to be nibbled on.

What the fuck? Nope. Get a grip, Winchester. This guy was an asshole. What the hell was wrong with him? Lusting after some stranger like a horny teenager? In public, no less. Jesus.

 It wasn’t like he had much real experience with guys anyway. Not really. Plenty of nights Dean found himself in front of his computer screen, closing a chat window or video in a private browser, as cum glistened over his fist. But in-person? Different story. 

There was that blowjob in an alley behind a bar near Chicago, on his way back from visiting Sammy. Dean couldn’t stop running his hands through the guy’s cropped hair. Then that guy in Sacramento, decent smile, nice hands. A drunken make out session that ended with Dean stumbling into his apartment. Dude got knuckle-deep before Dean bolted.

He continued to wander, pulling sci-fi paperbacks off the shelves, flipping through, and putting them back. A display case near the front caught his eye. One book, stacked in neat rows. Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N. , he read. The thick paperback book cover showed a silhouetted man stepping through an open door into a rainbow-colored sunset. 

Not subtle. 

Dean’s heart kicked up, fast and stupid. He looked around as if someone was going to jump out from the shadows and scream, Hah! Looking for a gay book, you gay boy? He hunched over a little and grabbed one of them before he could chicken out, flipping it to the back cover. 

One man’s journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance. In this raw autobiographical memoir, C.J.N. recounts the challenges he faced and the triumphs he achieved along the way. From discrimination to support, from addiction to recovery, from religious shame to pride, he shares his journey to live authentically in a heteronormative society. 

Dean turned the book over in his hands, tracing the edges. The texture and weight of it was oddly reassuring. His pounding heart disagreed. He looked around again, warily. 

Fuck it. 

He squared his shoulders, and walked towards the counter with a swagger that he didn’t feel, clutching the book to his chest. Cocky smile in place, he slid it across the counter to Mr.-Hot-and-Grumpy. 

“Hey, I’ll take this,” Dean said, shifting nervously. “A friend of mine would probably like it.” Yeah. Smooth. 

The man glanced at the book then up, meeting Dean’s. Blue meeting green. Sky and earth. Dean’s mouth was suddenly painfully dry. He struggled to maintain his bravado in the face of the man’s silence. What the fuck was wrong with this guy?

“Meg!” the man called out abruptly, loud.

Dean startled and looked around. “Uh, Meg?” Dean repeated.

The man nodded solemnly, like the weirdo he was, “Meg.”

As soon as Dean opened his mouth to tell the guy to forget it and make his escape, the sheet behind the counter shifted, revealing a doorway that he hadn’t noticed. A young woman stepped out, letting the fabric fall back in place. She was wearing ripped jeans and had a stud in the side of her nose, black curls pulled into a messy bun. She smiled crookedly at Dean, almost leering, and he took a small step backwards. What kind of place did he wander into?

“Well, hello there,” she purred. 

Dean felt a jolt of nerves shoot through him as he met her gaze, unsure of what to say. 

“Meg, stop it,” the man sighed, pushing his feet against the floor to roll his chair further from the register. “I need you to ring him up. Not eat him.”

She threw her head back and laughed, full-throated. “You've got it, boss man,” she said, turning to the register. 

Grinning wickedly, she picked up the book and turned it over in her hands. She glanced over her shoulder at the man, her brow furrowing.

“You sure you don’t want to ring this one up yourself, Tree-Topper?”

Tree-Topper? What the hell kind of nickname was that?

“Do your job, or you won’t have one tomorrow,” the man snapped, then quieter, “and do not call me that.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted at the tone, but the girl’s smile never wavered as she shrugged and started ringing up the book, her movements quick and practiced. He fumbled for his wallet, anxious, wondering how he could assure the girl, Meg, that the book wasn’t for him. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say that wouldn’t make it worse. So he shut up. Meg slipped the novel into a small paper bag and thrust it across the counter. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but the man beat her to it. 

“Thank you, come again,” came rumbling out of his mouth. The voice vibrated straight through him. 

Bastard. 

“Oh, um, you too,” Dean replied, wincing as the words left his mouth. He grabbed the bag and fled. 

By the time he made it halfway home, he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. You too? You too come to a store that you work at, or maybe even own? Jesus. So stupid. So unbelievably, painfully stupid. 

Dean fidgeted with the paper bag as he walked, the man’s voice and face still playing behind his eyes. Maybe, maybe , if he stopped saying dumb shit like that, he could actually go back there sometime. 

Maybe. 

Chapter Text

I remember the summer that everything changed. July heat had enveloped my town, and I spent most of my days covered in a sheen of sweat. The air was thick with the scent of overripe jasmine blossoms, and from the window of my cage that was my home, I could see life blooming all around me. Within me, something else bloomed, something unfamiliar and all consuming. I stood at the threshold of a line that once crossed could never be uncrossed. I could feel the edge beneath my curled toes, and the wind rising from the dark below. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean pushed the door open and stepped into his house, brushing off the evening chill. He kicked off his boots, leaving them in the doorway, and tossed his flannel over the back of the couch. He dropped into his old armchair with a deep sigh, and clicked on the side table lamp.

Letting his head thunk back against the cushion, Dean sat there a moment, just breathing. He looked down at the bag still clutched in his hand, and upended it, the book sliding out and onto his lap. Just because he made a fool of himself in front of some hot jerk, didn’t mean his night was ruined. He’d read for a bit, then pop in one of his comfort movies. Just like he planned. Dean ran his hand over the cover, then opened it, settling back into the chair and tucking one leg underneath himself.

“Not all of my childhood was filled with darkness. My earliest memories are of mother’s gentle laughter, her hugs wrapping around me. I can still see her smile as she peeked around the corner of my room, how it would grow when she would see me. She would pull me close, and whisper about how much God loved me, and so did she. Every night we read stories of explorers and dreamers who dared to live boldly. With the irrational confidence of a child, I believed that I could grow up to be just like them.

But there was a shadow lurking in every happy moment, a darkness creeping along the edges of my childhood. My father’s sharp voice would boom from the kitchen, a reminder that we were never safe. When he would come home after long days at work, it was with a weight that pressed down, crushing us, suffocating any lightness that dared float up. I learned to hold my breath when I heard my bedroom door open at night, squeeze my eyes shut, never dare cry. I wondered if God condoned what he did to me, or if my father would be punished by Him. 

It was in the darkness of my room that the cracks began to appear. My father was an angry man, moving through the house like a gathering storm, unpredictable and unavoidable. His rage threw stones, leaving bruises on both my mother and me, and I would creep through the house, careful not to provoke the monster that lived among us. 

I learned to walk softly, to read the subtle shifts in his mood as best as a child could. We did not name what he did, what he was. We only survived it.

Eventually, I felt safer when lingering from the sidelines, watching life unfold without ever actually participating. I learned the art of avoidance, hiding safe behind a mask of  obedience. I possessed no language for the truths I had already begun to bury.

My mother became more devout, more faithful, more extreme. She would drag me to church twice a day, and we would pray together. We would pray for my father’s soul. And eventually, we prayed for mine. 

My father’s anger never lightened, and over the years, my mother grew colder. When she looked at me, it was as if she could see right through me and did not like what she saw. I learned the harsh truth that God only loves those who comply. So did she. 

I was taught to accept God’s love, even as my mother grew cold as ice and my father burned red hot. Eventually, I found something closer to freedom than I had ever had. In my notebook, I could explore my thoughts and discover my feelings without fear or judgement. 

That was where my journey began. Ungraceful and unfinished. A collection of scattered moments, threaded with heartache and the faint glimmer of hope. Love, too, though I did not recognize it at first. Loss, always. I was only beginning to sift through the debris, to search for the shape of someone I barely knew, someone buried deep beneath the weight of what I had survived.

When I look back at that child, I realize he was my starting point. He was small and afraid, but there was a light inside, a small flicker of something even my father could not crush. Though that quiet boy was lost and hurting, he still held the courage to dream, to hope, to reach for something better. It is from that light, however faint, that I will begin to tell my story. A journey of learning to see myself clearly for the first time. Of trying, beyond all the shame, to become whole.” 

Dean sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. When the hell did he start crying? Embarrassing. It just hit too close to home. His family wasn’t religious, but the shit about an angry dad with impossible expectations? Yeah. Fucking nailed it. 

Dean flipped to the back flap of the book sleeve, looking for a photo of the author, but all he found was a short, neat bio:

“C.J.N. is a writer, artist, and passionate advocate for mental health and recovery. He resides in Lawrence, Kansas, where he finds inspiration in the beauty of a quiet, everyday life.”

Lawrence? A local guy. Huh. That must be why his memoir had its own display. Dean let out a slow breath, closed the book, and set it down on the side table. Fuck. He needed a beer, but he knew he had nothing in the fridge. Double fuck. 

He dragged himself to the bedroom, peeling off his clothes and letting them fall wherever. He should do laundry soon anyway. Slipping beneath the cool sheets, he grabbed the remote and turned on Tombstone, hoping to clear his head. Val Kilmer didn’t even make it to “I’m your huckleberry” before Dean was out cold. 

*    *    *    *

Dean swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d slept like crap. The alarm didn’t help. Buzzed like a damn mosquito in his ear. He remembered setting his alarm last night for 6:30am, wanting to re-establish a more normal sleeping pattern, and go for a run before too many people were out and about. Getting out of bed now sounded like the dumbest idea past-Dean had ever had. It was his stomach growling that finally got him moving. 

Hunger over motivation. 

Staying in shape wasn’t optional in his line of work. Not that he really minded. He liked feeling strong. Burned off the sugar too. 

Forcing himself upright, Dean squinted against the early morning sunlight bleeding through the cracked curtains. Perfect day for a run. Damn it. After so little sleep, he could use the endorphins anyway. He pulled on his usual running shorts. Next came the sweat-wicking shirt Sammy got him for Christmas last year. He hated how good it was. Stupid smart little brother. Now he practically lived in the damn things. 

Dean padded into the kitchen, scratching absently at his belly. Peering into the fridge with a frown, he made a mental note to go shopping after his run. Breakfast was a browning banana and a chalky protein shake from the pantry. Cold would have been so much better, but he hadn’t thought to throw any in the fridge yesterday. He shoved the rest of the box onto the bare top shelf and let the fridge door thunk shut.

Shoes laced tight, earbuds in. He caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. Hair a mess, eyes bags worse. He needed real sleep. Soon. Music on, Zeppelin, as always. Birds chirping and squirrels chattering could fuck right off. 

Outside, the crisp morning air hit his lungs like a reset button. Not bad. He honestly was starting to feel better already, and he hadn't even begun. Taking a moment to stretch on his porch, Dean reached down and touched his toes, feeling the satisfying pull in his hamstrings. 

With a final stretch and a quick glance up the street, Dean started his run. The pounding of his heart matched his footsteps, the world around him blurred as he focused on the road ahead. 

This was the only time the noise shut up. Just him and the beat. 

In and out. 

No heat of the flames. 

In and out. 

No bruises blooming like flowers. 

In and out. In and out. In and out. 

He crossed the short bridge into downtown. Always ended his run at Brew & Blossom, on the far end. If it was crowded, he got a black coffee. Quiet? A latte. Alone? Blended white mocha. Don’t judge him. 

His feet hit hard against the pavement, muscles burning, wind in his face. Just ahead, the coffee shop glowed in the morning light. 

Then three things happened all at once. 

One: Dean saw grumpy bookstore guy, sitting right outside The Book Nook, directly in front of him.

Two: The guy clocked him, a flicker of recognition. 

Three: Dean’s foot nailed the leg of the guy’s chair…and went flying. 

In that split second, the world seemed to shift into slow motion as Dean tripped. He thought he had it, then…nope. Concrete rushed up to meet him. His knees hit first, then elbows, scraping hard. 

His knees burned, his elbows screamed, and his soul left his body. This could not be happening. Dean groaned and sat up, shoving his earbuds into the pocket of his shorts. His face burned, not just from pain, but from complete, soul-crushing mortification. The man’s chair was on its side. Dean didn’t know if he had tipped it over with his foot, or if it fell when the man jumped up. But what he did know? The guy was now wiping coffee off his slacks, glaring. Ice-blue eyes locked on his. Piercing. Irritated. Of course he was pissed. Rightfully so. He stepped towards Dean anyway, a hand extended. 

“Are you injured?” Voice like gravel and goddamn honey. Jesus. 

Dean hesitated, then grabbed the offered hand. The guy pulled him up with ease. Stronger than he looked. His hand was big, like Dean’s, but softer. Less sweaty too. Way too composed. Dean found himself just…staring. Without warning, the dude started patting Dean down like a fucking TSA agent or something. 

“My apologies,” the guy murmured, hands sweeping Dean’s shoulders. “I did not anticipate pedestrian traffic at this hour, and I misjudged the placement of my chair.” His touch moved in smooth, efficient passes. Dean just stood there, frozen in disbelief, until a hiss escaped him when the guy’s fingers found his raw elbows. Dean jerked back, wincing.

“It’s just some scrapes,” he said. “No biggie. All good. My fault, I didn’t see your chair in time.”

The man shook his head, “I placed it too far into the walkway. I assumed no one would be passing by so early.” He glanced down at his stained slacks. “I was simply attempting to enjoy some fresh air and coffee before opening.” 

He sighed and gave up brushing at the wetness, and just stared down at his lap dejectedly. Dean wondered if the guy had a change of clothes in the store. The man bent down to pick up his chair, folded it, and tucked it just inside the bookstore’s open door. 

“Remarkable,” the guy said flatly. “I appear to have developed a talent for injuring strangers while sitting still.”

Dean snorted before he could stop himself. At the sound, the man looked up sharply, frown returning. “Are you entirely certain you are unharmed?”

He reached toward Dean again, like he really was about to resume the pat-down. 

“No, no, I’m fine, really.” Dean insisted, taking another step back. “So sorry about your coffee.” He noticed the mug had rolled against a flower pot by his foot, thankfully unbroken. He grabbed it and handed it over. “And your pants,” he added, wincing.

The man froze, hand outstretched for the mug. “Oh,” he said, shoulders dropping. “Your knees.” 

Dean glanced down and finally noticed the warm trickle running down his shins. Fantastic. He wanted to disappear. Crawl into a pothole. Die a little. It would be worth losing an arm to have Pennywise yank him into the sewer at this moment. 

He handed over the mug, then crouched awkwardly, trying to cover the bleeding with his hands. Like that would do anything. 

“This is fine, I’m good like this, man. Just gonna head out. Thanks. Sorry again.” Dean turned and started hobbling away, cheeks on fire. 

“I knew you were an assbutt,” the man called after him.

Dean stopped. “Excuse me?”

The man stood stiffly. “You figured it out. And now you refuse my help. That is fine. Wonderful.”

Dean turned fully to stare. “What the hell is an assbutt?”

“It is a term of insult,” he said matter-of-factly.

They stared at each other. The man dropped his gaze first, blinked rapidly, and shook his head. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.” He cleared his throat and dragged a hand through his hair. 

Dean blinked. What a fucking weirdo.

The guy pointed toward the open door. “I have antiseptic wipes and band-aides inside. Please.” 

Dean hesitated. He could feel blood oozing through his fingers. Damn it. “You sure it’s okay for an assbutt to touch your precious stuff?”

The man frowned but didn’t answer. Dean reluctantly followed the guy through the narrow aisles. Why the hell was he following this guy? All he really wanted to do was to go home to bleed and sulk in peace. The guy led Dean back to the small counter and sheet-covered doorway. 

“Here, sit.” The man gestured to the same rolling chair Dean had seen him in yesterday, before vanishing behind the sheet. 

Dean sat down and immediately regretted it. What the hell was he doing here? He probably looked like roadkill. Sweaty, bleeding, hair doing god-knows-what. Did he even brush his teeth this morning? The man appeared shortly, holding a small box. Dean blinked as the guy sat right on the floor, like that was a normal thing to do. He scowled down at his wet pants as he settled, plucking at the inseam for a moment, before sitting cross-legged. As the lid of the kit snapped open, the man met Dean’s eyes, and Dean couldn’t help the awkward chuckle that escaped him at how ridiculous this all was. No responding smile or laugh, of course. Not this guy. 

Without a word, the man reached out. His touch was feather-light, as he began cleaning the blood away from Dean’s legs with an alcohol swab. Dean held his breath. The antiseptic burned like hell, but the sting faded as the guy smoothed ointment over the scrapes. His touch was too gentle for someone who acted like he did. Once the bandages were on, the guy glanced at Dean’s arms, then up at his face. There was a long pause that Dean didn’t fill. 

“My name is Castiel,” he said.

Dean blinked. Not what he expected. Not the name. Not the fact that the guy said anything at all. 

“Cas-tee-el? That’s a new one. I’m Dean.”

“Hello, Dean.”

“Heya Cas.”

“Cas?” The guy looked puzzled.

“Oh, sorry. That okay?”

“Meg is the only one who does not use my full name,” he said, no longer meeting Dean’s eyes. “I suppose I should stop insisting that people do so. Cas is acceptable. It is better than many of the ridiculous names she comes up with.” 

The man, Castiel apparently, moved to Dean’s other elbow. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d finished the first.

“There, that should suffice,” Cas said, tone still flat, but maybe…satisfied? Probably not. 

Cas stood. Dean did too, testing his knees. He looked ridiculous. 

“Thanks, Cas. Seriously.” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “And, uh, sorry about the bloodbath out front.”

Cas nodded. “You are welcome, Dean.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, “I will attempt to not obstruct your running path next time.”

Was…was that an attempt at humor? God. What next, a smile?

Dean snorted, “And I’ll try not to take out your coffee. No promises, though.”

Chapter Text

I surrendered to the moment, and the edges of reality blurred. The crackle of the candlelight, the flickering shadows on the walls. Everything else slipped away, and it was just me. Raw, unguarded alive. Each slow drag of my hand pulled the tension tighter, a coiling ache that surged through me in waves.

-Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean shut the door behind him and blew out a long breath. What just happened? Feeling more lost than ever, he turned the shower on, letting it heat up. Was Cas being nice to him? Not really. He was also rude. And weird.

He stripped off his sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower, bandages and all. They would keep the water pressure from hurting too much, and he needed to change them anyway. Hissing loudly as the water soaked through the wraps onto his scrapes, Dean hung his head under the spray.

Cas is bad news, right? He called Dean an assbutt, whatever the hell that meant. Okay, sure, Dean had basically tackled him, but still. Who even says that? Okay, maybe he was an asshole. But the guy was a real dick. Until he wasn’t. And he was stupid hot. And those eyes. And that voice. 

The hot water loosened his muscles and chased off the worst of the embarrassment still clinging to him. Steam curled around his face, thick and heavy.

He grabbed the body wash and worked it between his hands. No washcloth today. His skin already felt flushed and sensitive, his elbows and knees stinging and aching. His hands slid over his chest, down his stomach, through his short coarse pubes. 

What a morning. He thumped his head back against the tile. He couldn’t help but remember Cas’s fingers, careful and precise. Why was that stuck in his head? Sighing deeply, Dean moved one hand down further to his soapy dick, and before he knew it, his hand was moving. Automatic. Familiar.

He moved up the pace quickly, his cock hardening. What would Cas’s hands feel like on the rest of Dean’s body? 

What the hell? No, not Cas. Don’t think about him right now. Just get off. Yeah, that’s it. He’s just horny and needs to come. Cas really has nothing to do with it. He’s just the last guy Dean had an interaction with, that’s all. With gritted teeth, Dean tried to shove those thoughts out of his mind. He conjured up images from some of his favorite porn videos. In sync with his hand’s rhythm, his hips began to thrust forwards, pushing his cock through the tunnel of his hand. His left hand slid down to gently squeeze at his balls, which hung heavy in the steamy air. 

He remembered one amazing blow job video, where one twinky guy sucked off a whole group of men in suits. It was incredibly hot. Dean had jerked off to that video quite a few times. He pictured the twink on his knees, pulling Dean’s erection through the zipper of his suit pants, wet mouth eager for him. Dean could almost feel the warmth of pillowy lips wrapping around him, enveloping his entire dick. 

He squinted his eyes open a crack to stare down at the spot on the shower floor where the guy would be kneeling, looking up at him from underneath his lashes, with those ice-blue eyes. Maybe he’d even beg for it.  Beg Dean to fuck his throat. Maybe he would even clasp his hands behind his back, and have Dean wrap both hands around Cas’s head and use his mouth however he pleased. 

Yes please. Precum was dripping from his tip and he rubbed his thumb through it, adding to the slick slide. Maybe Cas would- wait, no. Not Cas. The guy. The twink from the video. Yeah. That guy.

Maybe it wasn’t like the video. Maybe this time, the guy would be forceful, holding Dean firmly by the hips, and forcing him to be still and silent. Maybe he would punish Dean every time his hips twitched without the guy’s permission.

His right hand kept stroking while the other reached up to cover his mouth, like Cas might. Dean leaned into the tile, forehead pressed hard, his hand pushed tight over his lips. He began to moan softly, just to hear how muffled it would be. 

Maybe Cas would, oh god, maybe Cas would force Dean to suck his cock. Dean had never tried that before, but he could imagine how good Cas might taste. He slipped two fingers past his lips. Gave them a cautious suck. Swirled his fingers around and pushed firmly down on his tongue. It felt strange, but not bad. Not bad at all when he imagined it was Cas’s dick doing the filling. He tucked his lips around his teeth and slid his fingers in and out a few times. 

Maybe Cas would - wait. Cas? Again? When did this turn to Castiel? This was ridiculous. Dean dropped his hands in frustration. What. The. Fuck. 

He considered cranking the water to ice-cold and killing the whole thing. But his cock was still so hard and his morning had been terrible and he really just needed to jizz. Screw it. He’d let himself fantasize about Castiel just this once. He just needs to come and that will get Cas out of his system and he can move on. That’s it. He’s so close to the edge already.

Dean turned his back to the spray. Let him do this and be done with it. He wrapped his hand around his erection again, noting how it hadn’t flagged one bit. Groaning, Dean stripped his dick so fast, his hand was a blur.

With his eyes closed tightly, Dean reluctantly allowed his mind to wander back to Cas. Would his cock be as cool as his hand was in Dean’s warm grasp? What would Cas sound like as he thrust into Dean’s scorching mouth? Hot as fire. Would he cry out? Moan loudly? Groan under his breath? Waves of pleasure cascaded down Dean’s spine as his cock swelled impossibly harder.

“Oh god, oh god…” he panted, legs trembling. Every muscle tensed as he hunched over, slapping a hand against the wall. 

With a final stroke, he came. Hard. “Cas…fuck…I’m gonna -,” he exhaled through each spurt of cum splashing against the tile. He milked himself, squeezing gently up and down his shaft, extending the orgasm as long as possible. Finally, he felt himself softening and twitching in his hand and he let go, sliding to sit at the bottom of the shower. 

His bandages were soaked through, and the one on his right elbow was hanging on by just a small strip of tape. 

He was so screwed. 

Chapter Text

Laughter and music drifted from the apartment to float through the darkened street and into my ears. Under the mismatched lamps and sweat slick bodies, I found my peace. The faces slipped by in a blur of color and motion, all of us looking for connection, distraction. The brief illusion of belonging, however fleeting it may be. 

-Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, everything too bright. Carts squeaked down the aisles, echoing over the low chatter. Dean needed to restock essentials and get some easy meals. He ate at the station most days during fire season, but he ate at home much more often now in the winter. He skipped the cart and grabbed a basket. His list was scrawled onto the back of an old receipt: milk, bread, eggs, butter, pasta, pasta sauce, canned soup, ground turkey, zucchini, broccoli, peanut butter. 

His fingers kept drifting toward the edge of one of his new bandages as he meandered. The shower earlier, and everything during, had left him twitchy and wired. Dean passed the bakery and grabbed a loaf of whole wheat. Then spotted the cinnamon bread. Yeah, okay. In the basket it went. 

Obnoxious pop music crackled from overhead. His basket grew heavier. All the items on his list were found successfully, plus the cinnamon bread, a bag of ground coffee, a bar of dark chocolate, a packaged cherry pie, and a six-pack of beer. Now both hands were full and the basket handle was digging painfully into the crook of his arm. 

Dean stood at the edge of the cereal aisle, contemplating whether it would be physically possible to fit a box of Lucky Charms under one arm, when he heard it. Footsteps behind him. Too fast. He barely turned before someone slammed into him.

He flailed, trying to save his groceries. No chance. The peanut butter torpedoed out from under his arm and it was game over. Boxes, produce, and cans rolled in every direction. 

“Goddamn it,” Dean exclaimed, letting the half-emptied basket slide off his now-empty arm and onto the floor, landing on top of the beer. “What the hell?” he snapped, looking up to see who ruined his shopping run.

No. Nope. This was not his actual life. He didn’t live in a romance novel where the love interest just kept appearing. But sure enough, crouched in front of him, trying to shovel cans back into the basket while holding a phone to his ear, was Castiel. Because of course it was. He’d never laid eyes on the guy before yesterday, and now they’d crashed into each other twice in one day. Dean just stared until Cas looked up and their eyes locked. Zing. Oceans to forests again. 

“Oh, hello, Dean,” Cas said, clearly thrown. 

“Hi, Cas,” Dean deadpanned. 

Castiel turned his attention to the phone, “No, not you, good lord. Look, I have to go, I will see you tonight…no, no…Anna, please do not do that. I will make dinner for us when I am done with work…okay, I love you too. Bye.”

He shoved the phone into his back pocket, still kneeling. Dean’s stomach sank. Of course he was straight. Of course he had someone. Maybe she found his frown charming. Maybe he didn’t even frown around her at all. Maybe she got the version of him that smiled, laughed, kissed her breathless when she walked in the door. Maybe he - 

Dean cut the thought off before it spiraled too far. Nope. Not doing that. Why did he even care?

“I apologize,” Cas said, still crouched. “I was on my lunch break, distracted, juggling my list and my phone, and I was not watching where I was going.”

A weird sense of déjà vu came over Dean. Just this morning, he had been the apologetic mess. It really seemed like fate that Cas was here now. Except no. That's not how the world actually worked. The guy obviously disliked him. And Dean? Dean was pathetic.

“Hey, I guess it was just your turn,” Dean shrugged.

Cas tilted his head in a way that he found much too cute for his own good. “My turn for what?”

“Oh, um, your turn to run into me. Ya’ know, because I ran into you earlier? So, now it’s your turn,” Dean trailed off, horrified by the sound of his own voice.

Cas gave a single nod, looking up with the faintest ghost of a smile. Up at Dean, because he was on his knees. In front of Dean. On his knees in front of Dean. 

Crap.

Before his dick woke up and recognized where his brain was heading, Dean scrambled down to the floor and started grabbing scattered groceries. They both reached for the same chocolate bar, and their knuckles brushed. A bolt of electricity zinged up Dean’s arm.

Damn. So he was the girl in this romance novel. 

Cas withdrew his hand quickly, embarrassment evident in the deepening shade of red on his cheeks and throat. Adorable. They picked up the rest in silence, their hands bumping again more than once.

“I really should have gotten a cart.” Dean grumbled. 

When everything that would fit was jammed back into the basket, and Dean's arms were full again, Cas had the beer under one arm, and was balancing the pie in the other. Dean was just thinking about how he was going to reclaim the beer without anything else falling, when Cas spoke.

“Let me walk you to the front,” he offered.

Dean hesitated for a moment. “You sure? I don’t want to make you late.”

“Meg can manage.” Cas cleared his throat. “She owes me more than one covered shift.”

“Alright, well, thanks.”

Cas nodded, another almost-smile. Second one in five minutes. They made their way to the checkout, and Castiel set the beer and pie down on the conveyor belt. Dean unloaded the rest. There was only one customer ahead of them. 

“How are your injuries?” Cas asked, nodding towards Dean’s elbow. 

“Oh, totally fine, thanks for patching me up,” Dean said to the floor. 

“That is good to hear.” Cas hesitated, then continued, “I am going to purchase lunch here, so I will leave you to it. My apologies again for,” his hands gestured to the food, “all of this.”

Dean’s eyes followed Cas’s hand as it raked through that ridiculous hair again, sending it into even more chaos. How does it always look like that? Like he just rolled out of bed. Or even like he just had someone’s hands carding through and pulling on it. They stood there a beat too long, eyes locked.

A child burst past them, shrieking and squeezing through the checkout aisle. A flushed mom chased after, throwing out apologies as she passed. The moment broke. Dean chuckled softly. 

Castiel stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I really should go,” he said. “It was nice to run into you again, Dean.” His blush deepened. “Literally, I suppose.” A pause. “And, I am sorry. Again.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Dean smiled, then watched Cas turn to leave. Something in his chest wanted to stop him. Just for a second. Instead, he took a step back as his groceries began their trek down the belt. 

“Goodbye, Dean.” Cas rumbled as he walked away.

“See ya, Cas,” Dean said to the retreating figure, and yeah, those were definitely different pants from this morning. 

*    *    *    *

Groceries hung off both arms as he unlocked the door and shouldered it open. He was into the guy. That much was obvious, no matter how much he wished otherwise. He wondered briefly if Cas and the phone girl were happy together. That was a good thing. Dean had never been with a guy, never dated. Not that he wanted to now. Especially not with this weirdo. 

The familiar scent of coffee grounds and fabric softener greeted him as he stepped inside his house. He tossed his keys onto the counter, kicked his shoes somewhere vaguely near the rack, and carried the groceries to the fridge. As he stuffed the food inside, his thoughts kept drifting back. Dean didn’t normally react this way to just any sexy guy. There was something about Cas. Why did he have to be so unavailable? Not that Dean would do anything different if he was available. So. 

He tried to shake it off. Castiel wasn’t even that nice. Just polite. Reserved. Dean was the one acting weird. Christ, even he thought he was being a creep. What the hell was it about this guy? He remembered the glittering blue sparkling in his eyes when they had spoken. Those lips. He couldn't stop thinking about them. Kissing them. Feeling them against his skin. His - 

BEEP

The fridge warned him that the door had been open for too long. Dean realized with a start that all the food had been put away, and he was just letting the cold out. John would have been pissed. Dean slammed the fridge shut and leaned into it, annoyed with himself. Castiel wasn’t thinking about him right now.

He sighed and wandered into his bedroom. He had nowhere else to be for the rest of the day, so he stripped off his clothes and pulled on black boxers and an oversized t-shirt, getting into comfort mode. There's no way he'd lounge on the couch in jeans, because he wasn’t a psychopath. It was still early afternoon, but screw it. Back in the living room, he settled into his armchair. Fifteen minutes of flipping through Netflix, and he couldn’t commit to anything. Nothing felt right. Eventually, he clicked the TV off and picked up the memoir, still sitting on the side table. It would be nice to leave his own head for a little while at least. 

“I was a child, perhaps six or seven, kneeling on the cold wooden floor of my bedroom. The lamplight, dim and steady, cast a pale circle around me, a fragile warmth against the chill that seeped from the walls of my home. My heart pounded heavily in my chest, not from fears of monsters under the bed, but from something that lived within me. Something much worse. 

I remember clutching the fraying edge of my blanket in my steepled hands, long before I knew what to pray for. I would stare at the walls around me, covered with distant planets and unreachable stars, each one a promise of elsewhere. 

My fingers trembled as they folded together. I recalled my mother’s words, reminding me that God loved good children, obedient children, righteous children. I wanted with every fiber of my being to be one of them. I wanted to be worthy of that love. Years later, I knew exactly what to pray for. 

I begged God to take it all away.

And on nights when I felt braver, I dared to ask the questions I could never speak aloud in the light of day. Was this path, this burden, this perversion, the one He chose for me? 

‘I am asking you, Father, am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path? You have to tell me, you have to give me a sign. Please.’

Night after night, I pressed my pleas into the side of my bed, confessing sins I could not control, hoping for some sign that I had been heard. And night after night, the silence remained, endless, untouched. 

I told myself that silence was a mercy. That if God had not answered, it was simply because I had not prayed hard enough. So I prayed harder. 

I imagined myself reshaped. I saw myself entering the church with a pretty girl at my side, smiling at my mother without guilt pressing down on my chest, sitting beside my father without shrinking beneath his disappointment. I imagined the son they wanted. I imagined I could become him. 

But eventually, I began to wonder if that silence was not mercy, but punishment. Not fire and fury, but something worse. The unbearable weight of being unseen, of being unaccepted, of being unchangeable. 

When sleep finally came, I would drift towards the stars pinned to my wall. In that imagined sky, I let myself believe there might be a world where I could exist without hiding. A world where God could see me, and still choose to love me.”

*    *    *    *

“Junior High was a difficult time for everyone. A horrid combination of physical changes and unfamiliar emotions, we were all just trying to stay afloat. Within the locker-filled hallways, was a boy named Inias. He was beautiful, with shaggy hair and a loud laugh.

I found myself drawn to him in a way I had not experienced before. It was concerning and exhilarating in equal measure. During swim practice, I would catch glimpses of him, his shoulders wet and glistening, and I would wish I could count the freckles that dotted his back. A surge of something reckless would run through me every time our eyes would meet. 

There were times I was certain that he knew. The way he would occasionally quirk his eyebrow at me, or the little smirk in the corner of his mouth when he caught me looking. I was always terrified that he would eventually confront me, and averted my gaze. 

One afternoon, after practice had ended and most of the other students had drifted out, I stayed behind, lingering in the fading steam that drifted over from the showers. Inias stood nearby, towel drying his hair, the overhead lights kissing his bare arms, mocking me. Our gazes met, and something deep inside didn’t allow me to look away. The silence stretched painfully. 

Then he broke it. 

‘Hey,’ he said, nodding towards me. ‘You got a staring problem, or something?.’

A flush rose violently in my face. My stomach lurched at the violent anticipation, my worst fears coming true. ‘I do not,’ I stuttered. ‘I mean, I did not. I was not staring. I have not been staring. I am sorry.’

'It’s okay,’ he said, raising his hands in front of his chest disarmingly. ‘I think it’s kinda cute.’ He stepped closer, and then closer still. I remember holding my breath. I remember thinking that if I moved, even an inch, I would wake up from this dream. 

And then he kissed me.

It was gentle, tentative, almost shy, and I felt the world tilt around me. The pressure of his lips was unfamiliar and exhilarating. They were soft as they slid across mine. I pulled back and studied his face, desperate to know what I would find there. I could not bear to see the shame, or maybe even the regret. 

But he was smiling. ‘ So,’ he asked with a glint in his eye, ‘does it count as a kiss if you don’t kiss back?’

I laughed then, louder than I had heard myself laugh in many years, unable to believe this was really happening to me. 'Can I have a do-over?’ I asked. He didn’t answer, just leaned in again, and this time, I met him halfway. 

The second kiss was different. Bolder and warmer. With sudden intensity, I became aware of the growing pressure between my legs, the unmistakable ache of arousal. I had felt this sensation before, in solitude and secrecy, but this was different. This was not fantasy. This was not filled with shame. This was simply want. 

My erection hardened with every brush of his lips, every shift of his head. I did not yet understand what this moment would mean for me. I did not yet understand how much it would change me. I did not yet understand how deeply it would root itself in the foundations of who I would become. I did know, however, even then, that it was real, and that it was mine. 

In the quiet that followed, our foreheads touched and our breath mingled. I understood, for the first time, what it meant to want someone not because you should, but because you just do.”

Dean continued to read late into the night, stopping periodically to grab another beer, slamming the side of the lid against the kitchen counter, and leaving it wherever it landed. 

The guy’s first kiss. The way he wrote about it. It wasn’t like Dean’s first kiss at all. Because yeah, he’d kissed people before, of course. He’d hooked up with women, had those late nights and foggy mornings after. The empty feeling in his gut when he tried so hard to feel something, some spark. 

The closest he had come to a kiss that sent fireworks shooting behind his eyes was probably…what? The guy in Sacramento? Eh, the actual lip-to-lip contact was so brief. It was exhilarating, yes. It made him harder than he had ever gotten with a woman. But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t tender. 

The way C.J.N. wrote about the whole damn memory. It wasn’t just lust or heat. It was more of a being seen type thing. Dean didn’t think he’d ever had that. And now he was sitting here, shirt rumpled, a fork jammed into a half eaten pie, completely alone.

He grabbed another beer. Didn’t need it. Took it anyway. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned the page. 

“Bodies were pressed too close in rooms too small, and I had never felt freer. I had been drinking more than usual, and it was the kind of night that lulled you into believing you could be anyone you chose to be. I was happy to stay invisible in the corner, comfortable as a wallflower, nursing a warm beer, until I saw him. Michael.

He was tall with a crooked smile and eyes that scanned the room like he knew what he was looking for. He laughed too loudly, danced too carelessly.

We saw each other at the same time. I know we did. 

I remember the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at me, the way he approached me with a confidence I did not have, the way his fingers tapped the side of glass when he listened. Listened because I found myself actually talking. We talked together. It was nothing really, but it was everything to me. 

Eventually, the apartment began to empty, and Michael asked if I wanted to leave. I agreed without hesitation. I liked this version of myself. 

The night air was sharp against my skin, but I did not care. We walked, hand in hand, our palms clammy despite the frigid breeze. I do not remember how we ended up in that alley, only that it felt inevitable. He leaned in and kissed me, slow at first, and then with the kind of need that took my breath away, gave it over to him.

His apartment was close, and his bed was large. We stumbled inside and the kiss deepened. There was no more thinking, no more shame, only touch, only skin, only breath. We shed our clothes, we shed our caution.

In that moment, I was simply a man being wanted by another man, and wanting him back without apology. 

As the first light of dawn approached, a sense of reality crept in with painful clarity. I slipped out of his bed and dressed in silence, careful not to wake him. At the door, I looked back. Michael looked peaceful, unburdened, unchanged. While my world had tilted, fully unfamiliar, even if his had not moved at all. 

It had only been one easy night for him. But for me, it was the beginning of something completely new.”

Dean didn’t even realize he’d gotten up until he was already halfway down the hall. On autopilot, he stripped off his shirt, let it fall somewhere behind him, and climbed into bed in nothing but his boxers. The sheets were cool against his skin. His feet slid together under the covers, trying to make heat where there wasn’t any. The bed felt too big, which wasn’t something he thought often. 

He flopped onto his side, then his back, then his side again. Couldn’t get comfortable. He kept seeing that line in his head: I was simply a man being wanted by another man, and wanting him back, without apology. 

Dean gritted his teeth, jaw starting to become sore. His brain just kept going, looping the same damn thoughts. Not about the sex, but about the peace. The honesty. Dean was so fucking tired of hiding. Always on guard. Always worried. He was 32 goddamn years old and he had never had sex with someone he was truly attracted to. Love was completely out of the question. Is this the way the rest of his life was going to be? He felt tears spring to his eyes. He angrily wiped them away with his palms, pushing into his eyelids.

He didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t. Or he tried not to. Same difference. He reached over and turned off the lamp with more force than necessary. 

Eventually, sleep found him. Uneasy. Heavy. Full of dreams he wouldn’t remember. 

Chapter Text

I still remember the day I chose to step into the light, the moment I gathered wherever strength within me to shine a beam into the shadows. I had been praying to God for years, and he had never answered. So I ripped up the ending, and the rules, and destiny, leaving nothing but freedom and choice. Which is all well and good, except…well, what if I’ve made the wrong choice? How was I supposed to know?

-Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

The next two days flew by faster than they had any right to, and before Dean knew it, he was back at the station, punching in for another shift. 

The firehouse was buzzing. Somewhere out in the bay tools clanged and voices murmured over the hum of early morning routines. Dean sat at the table in the day room, shoulders hunched, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone cold awhile ago. He wasn’t really drinking it anyway. His thumb traced lazy circles along the rim. 

Charlie swept in like a whirlwind, heading straight for the pot. The carafe clinked against the burner. She looked back over her shoulder mid-pour and caught sight of him.

She paused. Eyed him. “Hey, bitch,” she said brightly, but her brows were pinched. 

Dean blinked. He looked up, met her gaze for half a second and then dropped again. What if he just…? Naw.

“You good?” she asked, sliding into the seat across from him. Her red hair spilled down, brushing the tabletop.

“Yeah. Just didn’t sleep great.”

“Uh-huh. Staying up late with a special someone?” She winked.

Dean snorted. “Staying up reading, actually.”

Charlie blinked a few times at him. “Seriously? Who even are you?”

“Hey, I read.”

“Yeah, but choosing a book over sleep?”

“I dunno,” he muttered. “This book’s just…I don’t even know, Charles.”

“Think I've read it?”

“Naw, probably not your thing. It’s a memoir. Local guy, I guess.”

“A memoir?” Charlie raised her eyebrows. “Okay, curveball. What’s it about?”

Dean scratched the back of his neck. “His life, I guess. But the way he writes…it’s just different. Makes me think about stuff. And I don’t know. I feel like I know the guy. Is that insane?"

“Not even close,” Charlie said, grinning. “That’s how memoirs work. The good ones anyway. Makes you feel like you’re not alone. You should read another one after this, maybe you’re turning into a memoir guy.”

Dean let it sit there for a moment. “Maybe.”

“Anything in particular that’s hitting you about this one?” 

He shook his head. “I dunno.” He couldn’t do this.

Charlie pushed his shoulder gently. “Come on. You know everything about me. Least you can do is share what’s messing with your head from some book.”

“You’re the queen of oversharing. Half the stuff I know about you has been against my will.”

“And yet, you’re obsessed with me,” she smirked.

"I am,” he said dryly, finally taking a sip from his mug, and immediately grimacing. “This is disgusting.”

Quickly, Dean darted his hand across the table and snagged Charlie’s half-full mug from her hands. He took a large gulp of the perfectly hot caffeine as she scrambled out of her seat, trying to grab it back. 

“You fucker,” she hissed, lunging across the table as he held the mug out of reach. Charlie stood, scowling as she reclaimed her mug. “Now I have to go scrub your cooties off.”

Dean watched her dump the rest of his cold coffee into the sink and refill both mugs. She twisted at the waist to shoot him a smug little look, then walked back over with both drinks in hand. When she reached the table, she took a long, obnoxious sip from his new mug and deliberately rubbed her lips all over the rim.

Dean gave her a flat look. “Difference between you and me? I like the cooties.”

“Oh, I bet you do, you freak,” she replied, smirking as she slid back into her seat. With both now armed with their own freshly contaminated mugs, she leaned in and met his eyes again. 

“I still want to hear about this book,” she said, folding her arms.

Dean groaned and looked away. “I don’t know why I even said anything.”

Charlie kicked him under the table lightly, and leaned back in her chair, waiting him out.

“Okay, fine. I just like the way he writes. It’s all poetic and shit.”

“I didn’t even know you liked poetry,” she said. He glanced up to check her tone. No sarcasm, just curiosity. When he didn’t say anything else, she pushed, “Okay,  so it's poetic, and…?”

Dean stared into his coffee, then gave up trying to stop the words.

“Okay, fine,” he sighed. “He had all these secrets about himself that he didn’t want anyone to know, and his parents wouldn’t get it, because they're super religious or whatever. And he still tried, y’know? He kept trying to figure himself out even with all that crap weighing on him. And even as a kid, he was finding these little ways to live with it. To live as himself. Even though it fucking sucked for him. And he actually did it anyway. And he’s just so honest about it. Like, he doesn’t sugar-coat the ugly parts. But he was able to have all of these experiences with people anyway, and it’s just that I’ll never get to-” Dean caught himself. 

His jaw clamped shut. He barely stopped himself from slapping a hand over his own mouth. 

Charlie was staring at him, eyebrows high, mouth parted. “Wow.” 

“You asked,” Dean mumbled, flushing hard. He could feel it creeping up his neck.

“Hey, I’m not judging, okay?” Charlie said quickly, hands raised. “Seriously I’m not. I’ve just never heard you go on like that. This book really did a number on you. I’m just surprised.”

Dean didn’t say anything. His throat felt tight. 

Charlie’s expression softened. “Hey, what’s this really about, Dean?”

Dean picked at a loose thread on the seam of his jeans like it held the answers. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?” she said, ducking her head to try to catch his eyes.

“What if…” he started, then faltered, glancing around the room. “What if I’m not the guy you think I am?” His voice was thin, embarrassingly so. 

Charlie studied him, then she leaned back slowly. “Dean Winchester, I know you. You know the saying. You’re like the brother I never had, and never wanted.”

Dean let out a small huff of laughter. It didn’t last long. 

“I think you’ll find,” she said, slower now, “you can find happiness in just being. And you, my loyal handmaiden, deserve happiness more than most.”

Dean's heart pounded painfully in his chest. His breaths were coming so fast now, he felt sick, vaguely feeling as if he was committing some sort of suicide. He tried to suck in air to steady himself, but no matter how full his lungs expanded, he couldn’t seem to get a satisfying breath. 

“There’s things, you know? People. Feelings that I want to experience differently than I have before. Or…maybe for the first time. I’m starting to think that there’s more to it all than I thought.” 

“Alright. It sounds like you have something you’d like to tell me?” she asked softly.

He couldn’t. He wanted to. God he wanted to. If he couldn’t trust Charlie, then he’d never be able to trust anyone. But there was black coal lodged in his throat. Heavy. Solid. Blocking his voice, blocking his air. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do this. 

He couldn’t be this person. 

If he said it, then it would be real.

If it was real, then someone would know. 

If someone knew, then eventually everyone would know.

If everyone knew…

They would hate him. It would change everything. They’d all look at him differently. 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t - 

“Dean!” Charlie was kneeling in front of him. When had that happened? Her hands were cupping his cheeks, cool and steady. “Dean,” she said again, voice low, grounding. “Hey. Everything's okay. I already know, alright?”

His brow furrowed, and his lungs sucked in air like he just surfaced from being underwater for far too long. Maybe he had. “You know?” he panted. “Know what?”

Charlie gave him a soft smile. “I think it would be good for you to say it.” She took his sweaty, shaking hands in her steady, small ones. “It’s just me. It’s just us here. And I promise you, I already know. You can just say it.”

He stared at their joined hands as she squeezed them. Took a breath. Then another. The day room was still empty. No footsteps. No voices. Just the buzz of panic in his ears. 

Say it. Say it. Say it. 

“I think I might be…gay.” It came out in a whisper, rushed and terrified. “Probably gay. I’m…yeah…I’m gay.”

He didn’t remember squeezing his eyes shut, but when there was no gasp, no laughter, no rejection, he cracked one eye open. Charlie was grinning. Wide. Bright. The tip of her tongue caught between her teeth like she was trying to hold something in. And then she launched herself at him.

Dean startled as she threw her arms around his neck. The weight in his chest loosened a bit. Something warm crept in beside it. He hugged her back, tighter than he meant to. When she finally dropped back into her seat, her whole face was beaming, cheeks so high they nearly covered her eyes. 

“Oh my god,” Dean exhaled, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh my god, Charlie. I can’t believe I just did that.” He felt vaguely nauseous. 

Charlie squealed and kicked her legs under the table like a little kid. “I am so proud of you, Dean!”

He peeked through his fingers. “You really already knew?” A horrible thought rose up. “The guys don’t know, do they?” 

“No, no, no, I don’t think anyone else knows. You’re very hetero-macho, don’t worry,” Charlie said with a wink.

Dean barked out a laugh, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Wait, okay, so how did you know?”

She gave a little shrug. “I know you better than they do. And as one queer to another, my gaydar is elite.”

“You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“Dean.” Her mouth dropped open, mock-offended. “Of course not. Come on.” She softened again. “I’m the first person you’ve told?”

“You know you are.”

Charlie smiled gently. “I love you.”

“I know.”

Chapter Text

I created a sanctuary of my own. Between the tall shelves in my bedroom, I draped blankets over leaning towers of books, forming a world where others could not follow. Inside that quiet space, surrounded by yellowed pillows, I lost whole afternoons. I read novels, poems, comics, famous literature, small publishings. Each story adding itself to its own private space in my heart. And all of these books and characters swirled within me, pushing at my skin, urging me to join the world I had only observed. 

-Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean couldn’t stop smiling.

He was taking a quick jog after his shift when it started. It was subtle at first, barely there, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But the further he ran, the more it grew, tugging at his lips like someone had tied a string to each side.

A breeze swept down the sidewalk, fluttering the hem of his shirt. He let it hit him full in the face. God, even the air felt different. Cleaner. Sharper. Everything did. 

He had told Charlie.

Just said it. Sat across from her and said it. Out loud. Told her he was gay, like it was just another fact. Like it wasn’t something he had buried under a hundred layers of bravado, sarcasm, and fear. Okay, maybe it hadn’t been that casual, but still. And Charlie, being Charlie, had smiled like he’d given her a gift. Crazy. 

His whole body felt lighter. Like if he picked up enough speed, he could actually fly. Dean didn’t have a specific route in mind, no destination. Just jogged aimlessly through his small town, letting the streets pull him where they wanted. He hadn’t even brought earbuds.

He cut across the street, past the hardware store with the fading awning, past the bakery that always smelled like cinnamon, past a woman walking her golden retriever who gave him a polite smile that he barely noticed. 

Then, just like that, he was passing The Book Nook. He shouldn’t be here.

He told himself that twice. Stupid move. He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t even know what the hell he’d say. C.J.N. had written about that though. The moment when fear and longing sat side by side. The moment you either turn back or reach forward.

Dean reached forward. He found his hand already on the handle. His palm was warm as his fingers curled around the cool metal, and he pushed the door open. The lighting inside was warm, golden, calm. His shoes made the faintest sound against the hardwood floor. The adrenaline was not helping his heart slow down after the run. 

Sue him, Dean just wanted to see the guy. He had done the bravest thing of his life today. Harder than running into a burning building. And he actually knew what that felt like. He wasn’t going to turn back. 

Play it cool. He came here to browse, right? Totally casual. Not a big deal. Just a guy in a bookstore, looking for…books. 

He moved deeper into the shop, weaving between the shelves, trailing his fingertips along the spines. Dean turned, and there he was. 

Castiel.

Slipping out from behind the curtain behind the counter, carrying a small stack of novels. Dark jeans dusted with what looked like chalk, sleeves rolled to the elbows of a deep green button-up, highlighting his strong forearms. Damn. He looked good.

Dean ducked behind a nearby shelf. Get it together, Winchester. You’re not fifteen.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose and glared down at the book he’d grabbed at random. A History of Women’s Sufferage, Volume 1. Great. Real subtle. He's totally blending in. 

He peeked around the corner again. Cas was shelving the books, humming softly to himself, the same blues melody that played overhead. 

Dean slid the book back and leaned his forehead against the shelf. Why did he come in here? He wasn’t going to confess anything. Wasn’t here to make a move. Obviously. 

He just wanted to…look. Not just sneak looks, but let his eyes drift over Cas’s mouth, or maybe his hands. Just be near him. How embarrassing. None of their interactions had been anything other than humiliating. 

He knew Cas was straight. He had that whole girlfriend or wife waiting at home. That was fine. Dean wasn’t here to make a fool of himself anymore than he already had. But maybe it was okay to just want to know this man. As a person. Just see if maybe Cas wanted to know Dean, too. As friends. Normal friends. 

Just two guys. Nothing weird about it. John would have kicked his ass for even thinking about it. And maybe that was half the reason it sounded like a good idea. It’s a step. He took a huge step today with Charlie, and you have to take many steps to get anywhere you want to be. 

Yeah. Screw John Winchester. 

He didn’t deserve the things his dad put on him. He didn’t ask for any of the shit that John shoved onto him with every glare, every threat, every fist slammed on the table, slammed on his face. Dean clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. Never again. 

His gut twisted, like he’d said it out loud and his dad was standing behind him. Belt in one hand, whiskey in the other. As if John would step into this quiet little bookstore and backhand the false bravado out of Dean’s mouth. 

How pathetic , that voice hissed.

But, then Dean looked up.

Cas had just finished shelving the last book. His movements were precise, unhurried. Moving like the world couldn’t shake him. Steady.

Dean’s pulse was not.  

But John isn’t here. He will never be here. 

And Dean is not a child. He never really was.

And the fear of his dad is an old fear. He’s not living in it anymore.

Dean is here now, and John is not here. Dean just came out to his best friend, and John is not here. Dean is about to be brave and ask Cas, who he doesn’t even really know, out to lunch, and John is not here. Dean is here now. 

Looking at a man who is real and quiet and beautiful and everything John was not. 

Oh. Okay, he’d ask Cas to lunch. Yeah. That’s a normal thing to do. He watched Cas wander back to the register, and tried to work through the words. Something light. Just an invitation. No pressure. 

Should he joke? Smile? Pretend he came in to buy something again?

I just wanted to buy this book and I got hungry and while I was here I figured we could eat together.

Absolutely not. The more he planned this, the worse it got.

He straightened his jacket. Took a breath. Then stepped out from behind the shelf. His shoes thudded softly. Jaw set. Throat dry. The thread of adrenaline that had been buzzing through him all day still hummed under his skin. 

Cas looked up. Clear. 

“Hey,” Dean said, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Sorry to bug you. I know you’re working.” 

“You are not interrupting. I was nearly finished.” His tone was low, even. Measured like always. No smile, but no irritation either. 

Dean stepped closer. “I was just in the area. Thought I’d stop by.”

“That is twice in one week, Dean.”  

Dean huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Guess I’m developing a habit.”

“There are worse ones to have.”

Dean rocked on the balls of his feet. He glanced past Cas, toward the counter, the register, anything to give his brain a second to reboot. “I was just…I mean, I happened to be walking by. After lunch. Late lunch. You know, so then I was thinking about lunch.”

Oh my god. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

This was worse than he even thought it could be. He had apparently lost the ability to form sentences like an actual human being. Cas raised one eyebrow, definitely amused now. 

He could pivot. Ask about the weird bee display in the window. Pretend he needed a book for his niece. 

Be brave, damn it.

“So, I was thinking,” Dean said, dry-mouthed, “maybe you’d want to grab lunch sometime. With me, I mean. My treat.”

Silence.

Cas stood there, brows drawn. 

Dean held his breath, just to stop himself from filling the silence. The shelves felt like they were leaning in to listen. 

Then Cas spoke. “Lunch?”

Just one word.

Dean exhaled hard. “Yeah. I thought I’d ask. No pressure if you're busy or if you’re eating with your girl, that’s cool.”

Cas blinked slowly. “My girl?”

Dean shifted his weight, suddenly too aware of his posture. His face was heating up.

“Yeah, I just figured you might eat with her. But, if you’re ever having a wine night or something with her instead, and free for lunch, we could do that sometime.” 

Pull up. Pull up. 

Cas’s brow furrowed slightly. “I do not drink wine.”

“Right. Got it. No wine.” Dean’s hand fidgeted in his jacket pocket, thumb rubbing over some crumbs at the bottom. “You don’t have to say yes or anything. I just figured…hell, we keep running into each other. Might as well make it intentional.”

Something passed over Cas’s face, so subtle Dean almost missed it. Did the corner of his mouth twitch? Or maybe Dean was hallucinating out of pure panic.

“When were you thinking?” Cas asked.

Dean blinked. “Soon? Maybe tomorrow? Or the next day. Whatever works.”

“Tomorrow,” Cas repeated.

“Awesome. Okay, tomorrow’s good. Noon?”

Cas nodded once. “Noon.” Not exactly enthusiastic. But not a rejection either. 

Dean took a step back, tried for a casual smile. “Alright, I’ll come by around noon. If you're there. Or I mean here.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth definitely twitched that time. “I usually am.”

Dean nodded and turned before he could say anything dumber. He walked fast, ears burning, the bell above the door jangling behind him as he left. He didn’t look back.

His flannel caught in the breeze, snapping behind him like it was trying to pull him back. He barely registered the shops or the young couple pushing a stroller past him. 

Dean groaned, dragging a hand through his hair until his fingers knotted at the roots. That was awful. 

My girl?

I don’t drink wine.

I usually am.

Just a definitely-straight, absolutely-intimidating, unfairly-attractive, bookstore guy.

Now, with the air cooling against the back of his neck and the sun slipping low behind the rooftops, worry started creeping in like a slow leak.

Maybe he made Cas uncomfortable.

Maybe he thought Dean was joking. 

Maybe he’s texting his girlfriend right now, laughing about it. 

But there it was. The echo of Cas’s voice.

When were you thinking?

That didn’t sound like a brush-off.

Dean was overthinking this. That’s what he did when he couldn’t read someone. His mind filled in the blanks. 

Maybe tomorrow he’d walk back in there and crash and burn. Have to fake his own death just to avoid ever showing his face again. 

Still. He’d asked. He’d done the damn thing. And that counted for something. 

Chapter Text

There is a specific kind of tension in the moments before stepping into something new, something unknown. Not fear exactly, more the body preparing itself for the inevitable rejection, embarrassment. I have always felt it in the quiet preparations I perform before offering myself up to be perceived, judged. It is not about control or vanity. It is about hoping, foolishly, that I might be received with care, even when I do not deserve it. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean glared at his closet like it was purposefully being difficult. 

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Foot tapping an uneven rhythm on the hardwood. Inside hung the usual suspects. A bunch of flannels in varying states of wear, a stack of band tees and henleys folded on the shelf above, his dad’s old beat-up leather jacket he hadn’t worn in years but couldn’t bring himself to toss for reasons he deliberately didn’t think too much about. Two pairs of jeans lay crumpled near his boots. One had a rip at the knee. The other was his nice pair, if not stained counted as nice. In the back, he had a few button-ups and slacks that he wasn’t sure even fit anymore.

He exhaled harshly. Why was this so complicated? He reached for a shirt. Changed his mind. Did it again. 

This was just lunch. A casual meal between two guys who happened to live in the same town. Dean rubbed his temples. T-shirt or button-up?

He tried the tee first. Black. Soft. Hugged his shoulders. He looked in the mirror. Frowned. Too casual. Like he was trying not to try. 

He pulled it off and grabbed a navy plaid button-up instead. It smelled faintly of dryer sheets. That felt safer. He buttoned it to the top, then changed his mind and undid two buttons. Then three. Then buttoned it back up tight. Was it weird to care this much?

He hadn’t used to. With women, there was a script. Flash a grin. Throw on something clean. Let charm do the work. But, this wasn’t about impressing someone. Not really.

How did normal people make friends as adults, outside of coworkers? As a kid and even a teen, it had been so easy. Playground buddies, sport teammates, pot-smoking lookouts. But now? He had no idea. 

It was just past eleven now. He wasn’t meeting Cas until noon. Still time. He tugged at his collar. The shirt was fine. Clean. Well-fitted. And yet, it wasn’t right. With a frustrated grunt, Dean grabbed his phone off the nightstand and flopped backward onto the bed, scrolling to Charlie’s name.

It rang once.

Twice.

“I feel a disturbance in the Force. What’s up?” Charlie asked.

“I need your help with clothes.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry, who is this and what have you done with my friend?”

Dean groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Charlie.”

“No, no, I heard you. I’m just trying to process. Are you being held hostage? Was that supposed to be your code word?"

“I’m serious.”

“You never ask me for outfit advice. I have begged you to burn those gross, ratty jeans of yours, and you looked me dead in the eye and said they were broken in . What’s the occasion?”

“It’s not an occasion.” Dean said, already defensive. “It’s just lunch.”

“Lunch. With...?”

“A person.”

Charlie gasped dramatically. “Dean. You’re dressing up for a person ?”

“Shut up.”

“Well, who is it? Is it a date? Did you finally cave and download that app I told you about last night? How many feet away was this guy?”

“It’s not a date,” Dean insisted. “And that app was gross, you freak. It’s casual. New friend, that’s all.”

“You don’t dress up for friends, even new ones,” she shot back. “You wear the same hoodie all week, dude. Who is this mysterious new friend?”

“Can we please focus on the outfit part, and you grill me later?”

“Fine, but only because I like the mystery. You will be telling me eventually, yes?”

Dean stood up and flipped to video chatting. He aimed the camera at the mirror. 

“Alright. What about this one? I don’t know. I feel like an idiot.”

Charlie squinted. “Okay, first of all, lose the self-hate, Winchester. You look good. Second, roll the sleeves once.”

Dean obeyed. “Like this?”

“Perfect. Yeah, your arms look hot like that. Okay, now undo some buttons. No, not that many, this isn’t the 70’s. Yeah, now you’re approachable and flirty.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Who said anything about flirty?”

“No one. Definitely not me.” Charlie smirked. “Just saying, your hair looks suspiciously styled for a casual lunch.”

“Remind me why I called you again?”

“Because I’m fabulous and you trust my judgment.”

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome. Now put on those dark jeans you have, they make your butt look good. And go eat lunch with your totally not-a-date. And if this person turns out to be a serial killer, we really do need to come up with a code word.”

“Will do. You’re the worst.”

“Yep. Now go. Don’t be weird.”

*    *    *    *

The bell over the bookstore door jingled softly as Dean stepped inside and looked around.

The sound of gum popping caught his attention.

He looked toward the counter and saw Meg perched on a stool. Her curls were loose today, falling around her face. She was flipping through a paperback, and blowing a big pink bubble.

Her eyes slid over to him. “Well, damn. You’re definitely not the delivery guy.”

Dean blinked. “Uh, no.”

She snapped the book closed. “Lemme guess. You’re here for the boss?”

“I…yeah. I’m just grabbing lunch with Cas. Is he around?”

She arched a brow, chewing slowly. “ Cas , huh?” She tipped her head toward the back curtain. “He’ll be out in a sec. You’re early.”

Dean shrugged. “Didn’t want to keep him waiting.”

“Very chivalrous of you,” she said, slithering off the stool, her leather jacket creaking. As she came around the counter, her eyes swept over him, nothing subtle about it.

“You a cop?” she asked.

“No.”

“Firefighter?”

Dean gave a small nod.

Meg smiled like she’d just hit bingo. “I knew you were uniformed. You’ve got the broody hero thing going on. A little tragic, a little smolder. You ever consider modeling for a calendar? Something with axes. Oooh no, with puppies,” she  winked. “Obviously shirtless.”

Dean let out a quick laugh, caught off guard. “Yeah, no thanks.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, breezing past him toward a shelf. “I’d buy it.”

Before he could think of a comeback that didn’t make him sound like a total virgin, the back curtain rustled.

Cas stepped out, tucking a notebook into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said.

“Hey,” Dean replied.

“Going somewhere?” Meg asked, eyes wide, faux-casual. 

Cas glanced her way. “Lunch.”

“With Mr. Tall and Smoldery over there?” She tossed a look at Dean, then back at Cas. “Wow, color me surprised.”

Cas glared at her and pointedly turned his back, headed for the door.

Dean trailed after him, shooting Meg a sheepish smile on the way out. She grinned.

“Come back anytime, hero,” she called after him. “And give that calendar some thought.”

Chapter Text

College was a revelation. Away from home, away from shame. A chance to reinvent myself in a sea of strangers. A kaleidoscope of new experiences, friendships, and freedom. Finally true freedom. I stood on the edge of adulthood, filled with the feeling of endless possibility. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Dean turned to Cas as they started down the sidewalk together.

“There’s a diner a few blocks over,” he said. “Nothing fancy, but the food’s solid.”

“Sounds good.” Cas said simply. 

Inside it smelled like grease, burnt coffee, and whatever had just come off the flat top. Booths squeaked, ketchup bottles were always sticky. One ceiling tile was stained brown from a leak no one had ever fixed.

A waitress behind the counter looked up from her crossword and gave them a nod. “Anywhere you like, hon.”

Dean gestured toward a booth near the window, and Cas followed, his coat catching slightly as he slid into the vinyl seat. The table wobbled when Dean leaned on it. Why had he dressed up again? A casual place matches a casual lunch though, right?

Cas picked up the menu but didn’t open it, eyes drifting around the diner. Always quiet, always observing. Dean caught himself staring at Cas’s long fingers. 

“So,” Dean said, low, trying to break the stillness before it got weird, “this place won’t win any awards, but the burgers are legit.”

“Do you come here often?”

Dean leaned back, shrugging. “Yeah. After shifts sometimes with the crew, or sometimes just me. It’s kind of a no-frills, do what you like, type of place.”

Cas nodded. “Too many places pretend to be something they are not.”

“What, you’re not into hipster cafes with twelve dollar matcha?”

“No,” Cas said, completely deadpan.

Dean snorted. 

Neither of them reached for their menus again.

A waitress wandered over, pen already poised. “What can I get you boys?”

Dean went first, ordering a bacon cheeseburger, fries, black coffee. 

Cas paused, then echoed the same order, right down to the coffee. Dean tried not to read into it. He tapped his fingers against the edge of the table. 

“So, how long you been at the shop?”

“Almost five years.”

“And you own it?”

“I do.”

Dean bounced his foot under the table. “That’s cool.”

“I like being around the books.” Cas glanced toward the window, where light filtered through the blinds and cast stripes across the tabletop. “And the quiet.”

Dean considered that. “Yeah. Makes sense. Quiet’s hard to come by.”

“You don’t seem like someone who likes too much quiet,” Cas said, eyes now steady on him.

Dean blinked. “That obvious?”

“I would not say that, just..." he shrugged. "Not hidden.” 

Dean let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“All calm and serious. Makes a guy feel like he’s being…I don’t know. Examined.”

Cas’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe you are.”

Dean sat back a little, eyebrows raised. “Wow. Alright.”

He grabbed his coffee mug as the waitress set them both down, along with some water, and took a long sip. Cas peeled back the seal on a creamer with a slow, deliberate motion, not spilling a drop. 

“You’re a real careful guy, huh?” Dean mused. 

Cas looked up from the swirl of cream. “What do you mean?”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, you’ve got this whole precision thing going on. Like, if you made one wrong move, everything would implode.”

“I like things where they belong.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Dean tapped his mug. “That being said, I swear I think I saw a book about lockpicking shelved under Self-Help, though. Bold choice.”

Cas looked unbothered. “That was probably Meg’s doing. But technically it could be about personal growth, so she may be onto something.”

Was that an actual joke? Dean snorted. “Sure. Who hasn’t tried B&E as a form of self-discovery?”

“Some people meditate. Some learn other unique skills.”

“Alright, fair. But seriously.”

Cas folded his hands on the table. “All things deserve intention.” 

“Intention,” Dean echoed. “Jesus. Most people are just trying to get through the day.”

“Most people are careless.”

Dean shook his head. “God, you’re intense.” 

Cas’s gaze was steady. “You do not strike me as someone who is easily intimidated by intensity.”

Dean raised a brow. “Who says I’m intimidated?”

Cas didn’t answer. Just looked at him.

Dean felt his grin fade a little. “I’m not. Just,” a pause, “trying to figure you out.”

After a long moment, Cas said, “There is not that much to figure out.”

“I don’t know if I buy that.”

Before either of them could go further, the waitress appeared, sliding plates in front of them. Greasy fries, towering burgers, coffee refills. 

Dean sat up a little straighter and grabbed the ketchup bottle. “Alright,” he said, brightening a little. “Important question. Do you salt your fries first, or do you live dangerously?”

Cas picked one up, studied it, then popped it into his mouth. “I trust them as they are.”

Dean gasped. “Brave man.”

He salted his own liberally. “Worked in a diner in high school. Got chewed out once for not salting a guy’s fries. Whole table watched him go ballistic ‘cause he had to reach for the shaker himself.”

Cas pressed his lips together. “Sounds traumatic.”

“Honestly? Kinda was.” Dean ate a fry and pointed at him with another. “Don’t work in food service unless you want to lose all faith in humanity.”

Cas chewed slowly. “Too late.”

Dean laughed into his coffee.

They ate in stretches of silence, broken now and then by small talk. It slowly became easier.

He kept waiting for the moment where things would go back to being weird or uncomfortable, but it never came. Even Cas’s shoulders had begun to creep down from his ears. Just the low hum of the diner, the clink of silverware on ceramic, the occasional hiss from the grill behind the counter. 

Every so often, Dean would catch Cas staring.

And Dean? He had no idea what Cas was thinking. What Cas saw when he looked at him.

Cas picked up his burger like it might fall apart if he didn’t get the grip just right. Thumbs anchored underneath, pinkies bracing the sides. He took a deliberate bite.

Then Cas moaned low, soft, long, and completely unexpected. 

Dean froze mid-fry. Jesus. 

Cas took another bite before he set the burger down and folded his napkin twice before wiping the corner of his mouth. He said quietly but with absolute certainty, “These make me very happy.”

Dean wasn’t sure how he was going to survive the rest of this meal if Cas kept making sounds like that. He would have to fake a bathroom emergency. He needed a safe topic. Anything not involving Cas moaning and wrapping his lips around something.

Yeah, okay, changing the subject. “So,” he said, talking around a mouthful of his own burger, “what’s the hardest part of running a store? Annoying customers?”

Cas stirred his second cup of coffee slowly, letting the spoon hit the side of the mug with a soft clink, before placing it back on his napkin. “No, I would not say so. Although people will ask if I have read every book in the store. I suppose I would consider that annoying.”

Dean snorted. “You haven’t?”

Cas gave a look that was less amusement and more exasperated. “Have you memorized the flashpoint for every building in the city?”

“Point taken.” Dean took another bite. “Alright, what else? Is the management side of things tough?”

“The logistics can be frustrating,” he replied after a moment. “Distributor backorders. Mislabeled shipments. Customers treating the shop like a library and leaving stains on the pages.” 

Cas’s fingers drifted along the rim of his mug. “What bothers me most, however, is when people assume it is a vanity project. Something 'quaint'." He actually did the finger quotes. "As if I am running a hobby instead of a business.”

Dean let out a low whistle. “Rough. You still like it though?”

Cas adjusted the mug as he set it down, centering it precisely on the napkin. “I do enjoy it greatly. It is the one part of my life that feels entirely mine. I decide what is on the shelves, what decor to incorporate, which authors to highlight, who to hire.” He picked at a thumbnail for a moment, before dropping his hands deliberately into his lap. “I have the honor of recommending stories that changed my life, in the hopes that they will change someone else’s too. That matters a great deal to me.” 

It was the most Dean had heard him talk at once, and then it got even better when Cas looked up and…smiled. 

A real one this time. It spread across his face, crinkling the skin around his eyes. His cheeks lifted, softening all the sharp lines, and for a second, Dean caught something almost boyish in it. There was even a flash of teeth and a hint of gum. Dean stared. He didn’t mean to, but it knocked the wind out of him. Cas was always handsome, stupidly so, but like this? 

He was beautiful. 

“Damn,” Dean said quietly. “Okay, yeah. That’s awesome. I never thought about it as such an important job, but it totally is, huh?”

“You run into burning buildings and save lives, Dean. I shelve books alphabetically. I think you win when it comes to job importance, if we are comparing,” Cas said, but the smile still lingered on his face, shoulders definitely relaxed now. 

“Good thing we aren’t comparing.” Dean grinned back.

Cas was quiet for a moment, smiling softly down at his hands. Gradually his face returned to its regular stoicism, but now that Dean had seen what he looked like when he smiled, even his serious face didn’t look so cold. 

“Did your friend ever read the memoir you purchased?”

And there went all the warm and fuzzy feelings that had been building up inside of Dean. Shit. He should have thought about this ahead of time. 

“Oh. Uh, yeah,” he said, reaching for his water like it might buy him some time. His fingers slipped a little on the condensation. “Yeah, he’s reading it.”

He could feel it happening. His mouth running ahead of his brain. His slow, stupid, obvious brain. Cas was watching him of course, focused. He scratched behind his ear, not meeting Cas’s eyes. When Cas didn’t speak, he reluctantly continued. 

“He said it was, y’know, super moving and stuff. Like, it made him think a lot about, uh, healing. And identity. All that heavy stuff.” 

Why had he picked that damn book in the first place? Why hadn’t he just said it was for himself? Because that would’ve been weirder, wouldn’t it? Cas owned the bookstore, he had to have known it was written by a gay man. Yeah, better for it to have been for a friend, right? Just because he told Charlie didn’t mean he was going to fly the fucking flag everywhere he went.

Dean forced a small grin. “Didn’t think a memoir would hit that hard for him, but hey, apparently it’s got depth.”

Cas looked strangely pained. “I am glad it ended up being a good choice, then. You must know your friend well.”

Dean let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I guess I do.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans. “I mean, they really got into it. Said it kind of stuck with them, you know? The whole thing with the author trying to figure himself out.” 

Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking. 

“Have you read it?” Dean asked as soon as he got his mouth under control.

“I have.” Cas responded a little stiffly. “Did you read any of it?”

Dean’s heartbeat sped up. “Naw, my friend was just telling me a lot about it. Enough to know it’s not exactly light reading. But,” he paused, “he said it's pretty great,” he finished lamely.

Cas sipped his coffee slowly. “I am glad your friend is enjoying it,” he said, voice even. “Not everyone appreciates something that personal.”

This eye contact was getting out of control. Dean could feel the warmth in his cheeks.

The silence stretched.

“Enough about that, tell me about firefighting.” Cas said abruptly.

Dean blinked, caught mid-sip of his own coffee. “What, like the logistics?”

“No.” Cas rested his forearms on the table. “Just what it is like. It is not an ordinary career choice.”

Dean had never been more grateful for a subject change in his life. 

“I run into fire for fun. Totally normal activity.” 

“That sounds difficult. Even reckless.”

“Depends on the day,” Dean considered. “It can be really awful. Some calls stick with you longer than you want them to. You see things you can’t unsee. But even with all that, helping someone walk away from what could have been the worst day of their life? That part makes it worth it. Losing someone you love, when they could have been saved, it just…” he trailed off, gesturing into the air.

“Do you ever get scared?”

That wasn’t the question people usually asked. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Of course. You’d be an idiot not to. But you do it anyway. That’s the job.”

“And when the job is done?”

Dean gave a soft, tired huff. “Now that’s the part no one really prepares you for.”

After that, the conversation drifted back into calmer waters. Dean’s stomach settled, less from the food and more from the rhythm between them. Cas reached for his water, then paused, like he was about to ask something else. But he didn’t. Just sipped his water and looked out the window. Dean followed, watching the breeze push the faded red umbrella outside into a lazy sway. 

Dean leaned back in the booth, arms folding loose across his chest. “This is nice.”

Cas glanced over. “The food?”

Dean snorted. “Sure. But just all of it. Not working. Not running around. Just slowing down a bit. I’m glad you made it for lunch.”

Before Cas could respond, the waitress came by with the bill and Dean snatched it. 

“You do not have to do that, Dean. I can pay for my own meal.”

“I know,” Dean said, slipping his card into the plastic sleeve. “But I said lunch was on me. Gotta follow through.”

Cas didn’t argue, just sat back with a little smile on his face. Dean never thought he would care so much about making someone smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

The server returned with the receipt. Dean signed it a little too hard, the pen catching on the edge of the paper. He was unsure what was supposed to happen now. He couldn’t remember how normal friend meals should end. Not when Cas was smiling at him like that. 

Lunch was over. They’d eaten. Talked. Laughed even. Well, Dean laughed at least. But he was almost positive he had made Cas chuckle once or twice. 

Cas looked at him, unreadable as ever. “Do you have plans after this?”

Dean shook his head. “Nah. No shift today, got the afternoon off.”

Cas nodded, like he was filing that away. “Good.”

Neither of them moved. 

Dean pulled his phone from his pocket, flipped it once in his palm. Twice. He looked at Cas. Back at the screen. Back again at Cas. This was the part where he should get up and leave. Instead, he heard himself say, “Wanna swap numbers?”

The second the words were out, his stomach twisted. The question hung in the air between them.

He half expected Cas to hesitate. Or worse, recoil. Say something quiet and sharp . He braced for it, jaw tight.

But Cas didn’t. He just said, “Yes.” 

Simple as that.

Dean handed over his phone, pretending his fingers weren’t sweating. Watching Cas type his name, his full name, felt oddly intimate. He didn’t know why. Castiel Novak. What a name. 

What the hell are you doing, boy? You’re not some kind of fucking fairy - 

Cas handed Dean his phone back, interrupting his father’s voice. 

Dean shot off a quick text to Cas, so he had Dean’s number as well. 

*    *    *    *

They stepped out into the afternoon light, the sun casting long shadows across the sidewalk. The air had cooled since earlier, sharp enough to raise goosebumps on Dean’s arms. He was thankful to Charlie for suggesting the button-up. Dean rolled his sleeves down. 

Hands shoved into his jean pockets, he fell into step beside Cas. Every few steps, their shoulders brushed. He tried not to dwell on it. Tried not to think about saying something dumb. 

Hey, can we hang out again?

Hey, are we friends now?

Hey, you don’t think I’m - 

They passed a garden shop, wind chimes strung in messy clusters along the awning. A breeze threaded through, and they came alive all at once. A soft music filled the air. 

The bookstore came into view before Dean was ready for it. The window display had changed since he last noticed. Now a tower of old cookbooks circled a ceramic rooster wielding a tiny spatula. Dean didn’t know if that was Cas’s handiwork or Meg’s, but it made him grin anyway. 

They slowed to a stop just outside the door. Cas reached for the handle, then paused, glancing over. 

“Thanks,” Dean said suddenly, not entirely sure what he was thanking him for. 

Cas gave a small nod. “Of course.”

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it. Not sure what to say. Cas opened the door. 

Dean stayed where he was. “I’ll see you around?”

Cas paused in the doorway. “Yes.” Then he stepped inside. 

Dean stayed a moment longer, frozen fingers still deep in his pockets. Then he turned, and walked back down the street. 

Chapter Text

I had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, yet it was as if he was reading a novel, each touch a sentence, each caress a paragraph, and I was the story he couldn't put down. His fingers, deft and gentle, traced paths over my skin that left trails of fire in their wake.

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

The spine gave a familiar creak when he opened it. Dean sat on his couch, back against the armrest, legs splayed out in front of him along the cushions, wearing sweatpants and a tank. He flipped to the next chapter and his eyes tracked to the top of the new page, and that was it. The room faded out. Heater clicking. Tree branches tapping the window. All of it dropped away. 

“Everyone has moments that change the track of a person’s life. You start on one train, thinking you can see a clear destination ahead, the railroad straight, one designed for you. But in a single moment, a single person can flip a switch and a whole new track opens up. You can resist and continue along in safety, or you can crank the wheel and hop lines, changing at the core. One of those moments occurred to me in the hush of Michael’s bedroom, all soft light and whispered promises. The air was thick with anticipation, a tension that we had danced around for months with heated glances and tentative touches. 

Michael’s warm and steady eyes held mine as he guided me to his bed. The sheets were cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat in my chest. He assured me that we would go slow, and all I could do was nod, my throat tight, unable to speak, pleading with my eyes.. I wanted this, wanted him, but my inexperience and fear quietly overwhelmed me. 

He kissed me then, soft at first, then deeper, his lips sliding across mine in a way that I felt shooting down my spine. His hands roamed my back, and I allowed myself to sink into the touch. I leaned into him, his strength, his body. I explored the bumps of his spine with my shaking fingertips. ‘You’re in charge tonight,’ he said, understanding my deep need to hold onto what little control I had over my life. His voice was low when he reassured, ‘but I’ll show you how.’

He reached for a small bottle on the nightstand, the faint scent of something I did not recognize in the air as he poured glistening drops onto his fingers. ‘This is about trust,’ he said, lying back, his gaze never leaving mine. ‘You need to prepare me first, gentle, patient.’ He guided my hand, showing me how to circle and press, his breath hitching as I complied. ‘Start slow,’ he whispered. ‘One finger, then two. Let me open up to you.’

My heart pounded as I watched him, his body responding to my touch. I felt powerful in a way I never had before. I moved carefully, aware of every shift in his expression, every soft gasp that escaped his lips. The intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the connection. I was learning him, learning us, learning myself.

When he was ready, his hand found mine, squeezing gently, cheeks flushed. He guided me again, positioning himself beneath me, his legs drawing me closer. The moment felt suspended. I could barely breathe. I entered him slowly, guided by his murmured instructions, his hands on my hips steadying me. The sensation was overwhelmingly warm and tight.

We moved together, tentative at first, then with a rhythm that grew surer with each stroke. His hands framed my face, pulling me down for a kiss that I melted into. I lost myself in him, in the way the pleasure silenced the doubt, in the way his sighs became my own.

There was a moment, not long after, when our bodies had stilled that I felt something unfamiliar rise within me. For so long I had believed that love between men existed outside the realm of the sacred. That queer desire itself was a detour from holiness. But lying there, our skin still warm where we touched, I felt the distinct presence of something vast settle over me.

I had never before considered that God might exist in the spaces between breaths, in the tremble of a hand at the small of a back, in the way our foreheads pressed together like a kind of prayer. I felt no separation between flesh and spirit. I felt no shame, only closeness. To Michael, but also to my own body, to the quiet within it, to the presence I had once been taught only lived in conformity and cold stone.

I had never felt nearer to the divine than I did in that bed, with his name soft in my mouth and my body opened to both fear and wonder. If God was watching, then perhaps He was not waiting to judge, but to witness. And perhaps, in His witnessing, He had been waiting to show me that what I had been taught to fear was, in fact, His gift.

It was a kind of communion. A sacrament without ritual. A holiness carved into skin and sighs. For the first time in my life, I did not feel I had to apologize for existing, I only had to remain. To be held. To hold. And to believe, just for that fleeting sliver of time, that I had not been abandoned, but blessed.”

He meant to go to bed an hour ago. But now he was sunk deep in the couch, hand hovering awkwardly near his thigh, unsure where to land. It wasn’t just the sex. It wasn’t even mostly that.

It was how the guy had been wanted. Really wanted. No fear in the way that they touched. The air in his apartment felt warmer than it had five minutes ago. He considered turning off the heater. His skin hummed with something, he just wasn’t sure what. He looked down at the book again, thumb grazing over the words:

“I entered him slowly, guided by his murmured instructions, his hands on my hips steadying me.”

The air rushed out of Dean’s lungs. It wasn’t porn, not even close. Wasn’t some steamy hookup written to shock or seduce. The way the author described being touched for the first time in a way that didn’t hold shame. 

He closed his eyes, and for a second, he let himself wonder what it would be like to be the boyfriend in that bed. To be wanted like that, spoken to like that, touched like that. With care, with reverence, like he was something worth taking time for. 

His hand drifted lower, brushing lightly over the front of his sweatpants. He hesitated, his rational mind flickering briefly, telling him to go grab a drink, take a shower, do anything but this. Was it messed up to jerk off to someone talking about sex as a religious awakening? Probably. He really shouldn’t treat this profound experience like cheap porn. That would be disrespectful. And creepy. 

He shifted in the chair, the memoir trembling slightly in his hands. So stupid to be sweating over a book. But the way the guy wrote about his boyfriend’s surrender, the intimacy of it, the way it made him feel holy . He wanted that. He wanted to be that boyfriend, to feel someone claim him like that, and the thought made his face burn with shame. What kind of sick freak gets off on someone else’s life-changing moment? His cock throbbed in answer, and he was already too far gone to care.

Dean tossed the book onto the armrest, the pages spilling open like they wanted to watch, creeper matching creep. He leaned back, one hand scrubbing over his stubbled jaw, the other hovering over the bulge in his sweatpants. Fuck it. His fingers dipped under the waistband, wrapping around his cock with a roughness that felt like punishment. Good. He stroked himself slowly at first, his calloused palm dragging over the sensitive skin, his breath increasing. Dean’s mind traitorously cast himself as Michael, sprawled out, vulnerable, the author’s hands on him, in him. His strokes quickened, a low groan slipping out as he imagined those hands, strong, sure, fucking poetic , touching his hole, teasing him open. He bent his knees and lifted his hips to shove his sweatpants off, planting his feet on the cushion.  Jesus Christ, this was so fucked up.

His free hand slid down, hesitant, brushing over the soft skin below his balls. He froze for a second, heart pounding. He’d never done this to himself before. He had had something up his ass exactly one time, and he had been too much of a pussy to let the guy get any further than a fingertip. And sure, he’d seen his fair share of porn where the guy preps himself, he knew the mechanics, but felt too awkward to do it to himself. But the image in his head was too vivid. He could see it. Fingers circling, pressing in. Taking over. Dean brought his finger to his mouth, licked, and reached down again. His wet fingertip grazed his hole, and the sensation was odd. Not unpleasant, but not the lightning bolt pleasure he had hoped for. He rubbed again while his other hand still pumped his cock, the rhythm faltering. He was curious, yeah, but also fucking terrified, like he was crossing some line.

Dean pushed one finger in, just the tip, and his whole body tensed. Fuck, fuck, fuck . It was tight, strange, a little painful, but the thought of C.J.N. doing this to him made his cock leak against his palm. He pumped his finger in and out, too dry, the burn making him wince. Lube, there’s lube in the bedroom, but his balls were already tightening, his strokes were desperate now. He imagined the guy’s voice, low, guiding him, and as his body relaxed, his finger slipped deeper and brushed something inside himself. A spot that sent a jolt of pleasure so intense his vision whited out. He didn’t care to think about what he was doing, just kept pressing, pumping, his other hand flying over his cock.

He was gonna come, and he was gonna come now . Panic hit. He was in the fucking living room, nowhere near a tissue or his bed. He stumbled to his feet, one hand still on his cock, the other awkwardly pulling his finger out as he staggered toward the kitchen. The sink was the closest thing, and he barely made it, bracing one arm against the counter as he came hard, ropes of cum splattering onto the stainless steel. His knees buckled, a ragged groan tearing from his throat. He stood there, panting, staring at the mess, a mix of disgust and shock washing over him. He just came in the fucking sink because of a book. The memoir sat innocently across the room, and Dean laughed, a shaky, self-deprecating sound. Jesus Christ, man. Get a grip.

He turned on the faucet, rinsing away the evidence, his face hot, and washed his hands. He thought about the quick, dirty, no strings porn he usually watched. Never left him feeling like this.

Dean walked back, picking up the memoir and smoothing its pages before setting it on the side table. No way he was cracking that thing open again right now. His pulse was still racing and his brain was fried. Instead, he grabbed his water cup  and headed to the kitchen to rinse it, avoiding looking too closely at the sink while doing so.

Chapter Text

The sand burned beneath my feet, each grain hot on my skin before the tide could soothe it. Salt clung to my body, and the sun bleached everything in sight. Children shrieked with laughter, gulls circled like vultures, and the air smelled of sunscreen, and charcoal. I sat beneath a faded umbrella and watched the ocean sparkle like glitter, the heat so thick it blurred the edges of the world.

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean’s alarm went off at 5:30am. He silenced it with a groggy hand and blinked up at the ceiling, letting the sleep-fog drain off slowly. His neck ached as a reminder that he didn’t bounce back like he used to.

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face, and pushed to his feet. He dressed, grabbed a granola bar on the way out, and hit the road before the sun had fully cleared the trees.

By the time he pulled into the firehouse lot, the sky was a soft gray. He parked in his usual spot and slung his bag over his shoulder, boots thudding across the pavement. Inside, the night shift was on their way out, and his crew was gathered in the kitchen, looking half-alive. 

“Morning, Winchester,” Charlie called. “Aw, so handsome.” He dodged her as she reached out to pinch his cheek.

“Don’t start.” He groaned and stretched until his spine cracked. 

“Coffee’s fresh. Donuts are stale,” Benny said, chewing around a chocolate glazed. “But they got sprinkles.”

Dean poured a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, the ceramic warm in his hands while Captain Bobby ran the morning meeting. The list wasn’t too bad today. Gear inspections, hose bed scrub, and a new recruit fresh out of the academy on his first shift. 

After Dean finished his clean-out, he crossed Charlie on her way to help the new kid with driving drills. 

“Training the rookie?” Dean asked, raising a brow.

“Jack,” Charlie said. “Puppy energy. Looks like he’s barely through puberty.”

“Just what we need,” Lee muttered as he passed.

“Knock it off,” Bobby snapped, following behind. “He’s a good kid. Don’t be a dick to him.”

Lee smirked. “Cross my heart.”

Dean rolled his eyes as he shooed Charlie along. “Remind me how long we’ve gotta keep you?”

Lee saluted with his coffee cup. “Lifers, baby.”

The morning passed in a predictable routine. The hoses unrolled, compartments checked, tools cleaned and counted. Jack stumbled through drills under Charlie’s watch, knocking over most of the cones on the course.

“Not bad,” Dean called out. “Next time we need to demolish a parking lot, you’re our guy.”

Jack smiled sheepishly and gave him a thumbs up from the driver’s seat. The kid’s helmet sat too big on his head. Dean didn’t point it out.

Dean got back to his task scrubbing the hose bed. It felt good to sweat, to work, to let the motion carry him. Anything to keep his brain from drifting back to blue eyes and book pages.

He had just sat down on one of the cots to catch a nap in between jobs, when the alarm dropped. Damn. 

“Attention, Engines 34, Ladder 22, Medic 4. Structure fire. 601 Mass Street. Smoke visible. Occupants confirmed evacuated. Time out 12:10 p.m.”

They hit the road fast, sirens wailing. Bobby confirmed the house was empty, thank god. No screams, no rescues. Still, Dean’s chest stayed tight as they approached. Fire was unpredictable.

Smoke coiled from a side window as they rolled up, a steady gray plume. No flames visible. A man was pacing back and forth on the lawn, a yellow lab at the end of the leash in his hand. 

Dean and Benny went in first, gear heavy, air hissing softly in his mask. The house wasn’t too awful, just hazy, like someone had burned a Sunday roast and walked away. They found the source quickly. A toaster lit up part of the kitchen wall, now flickering with low flame.

Charlie arrived with the hose. One hit of water and the fire hissed out. Dean checked the wall for extension, but there was none. Lucky guy.

Back outside, the homeowner was red-faced and apologizing to Charlie while trying to keep his dog from licking her boots. Dean chugged a water bottle, leaning against the truck.

"Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse," Dean said. He glanced back at the house, now quiet and steaming.

Charlie walked up, her gloves dangling from one hand. "I didn’t even get to break a window. I feel robbed."

"Next time," Dean said.

"You always say that."

They rode back with the windows down, the wind cutting through the smoke still soaked into their gear.

Cleanup was fast. They rolled hose, scrubbed gear, laid everything out like bones in the sun. Charlie muttered something about overloaded circuits and air fryers, and Dean just grunted agreement. His arms ached.

Eventually Charlie claimed the couch with Jack, an apple in his hand and the remote in hers. Rufus and Lee half-played a card game, arguing about the rules like always. Alfie read a paperback, while Bobby read the paper like it was still 1988.

Dean helped Benny in the kitchen, making chili for the crew’s dinner, chopping onions, adding salt, and stirring the pot. He didn’t have to think. That was the point.

By the time dinner was done, the sun was dragging gold across the bay doors. The shift settled into that quiet lull where no one really wanted to talk, and no one really needed to.

The shift ended just after sunrise the next day. Dean bumped fists, packed his gear, and stepped out into the new morning. His truck gleamed faintly in the lot, dew collecting on the windshield.

No calls overnight. Nothing broken that couldn’t be fixed. He slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. Good shift. 

Chapter Text

I remember the burn before the taste, sharp in my throat, like swallowing glass. The solo cup had wept in my hand for nearly an hour, condensation slipping along my fingers. When I reluctantly brought it to my lips, it tasted awful, but I drank it anyway, because someone handed it to me with a smile, and I had no idea how to say no to anything that felt like belonging. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean paused at the bookshelf, towel still roughing through his hair, eyes skimming the titles although he already knew what he was grabbing. He dropped onto the couch with a low sigh and pulled the blanket over his legs. 

“It was a cold evening, the sky pressed low with solid grey, settling into the earth, settling into me. We sat on the floor of Michael’s apartment, surrounded by the warm clutter of half-painted canvases, open books, and thrifted tables, their coffee stains long since sealed into the wood. The scent of acrylic and paint thinner clung to the air, but beneath it was something sharper, like burnt sugar and metal. Outside, the city blurred beneath the rain, but inside, the moment curled between us like smoke.

Michael sat with one leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched toward the space where he had laid out the tools with deliberate care, almost reverence. Some familiar, others unknown to me. I had seen syringes in hospital drawers, sterile and clinical. This was not that. 

He showed me how it melted, how the powder softened into liquid over the spoon’s bowl, the flame licking the metal until it darkened. It was intimate. It was practiced. It was ritual. He drew it up through a shimmer of cotton, and the amber solution caught the light like a precious relic pulled from fire. I watched his hands the way a child watches a magician, awed, uncertain whether they want to know the trick.

‘Just once,’ he said, smiling. ‘You know can trust me. I want you to feel what it’s like to stop holding it all in.’

I nodded before I could summon fear enough to refuse.

He tied a belt around my arm, snug above the elbow. Less pain than pressure, but uncomfortably close. My pulse surged beneath it, loud and anxious, the vein rising like it wanted to escape. My arm strained against the leather, not offering itself up without resistance.

His fingers pressed into the crook of my arm, steady and unhurried, holding me in place. I closed my eyes as the needle slipped in. A sharp sting. There was a pause before the warmth began to bloom. Then it was molten. Not just beneath the surface, but deeper, curling into places I had not known were empty until they were suddenly, blissfully filled.

My thoughts scattered, light as ash. The ache I carried in my ribs, behind my eyes, between my shoulders, evaporated. I nearly wept from the absence of it.

Michael’s hand found mine, his mouth brushing my lips just as it took hold. ‘There,’ he whispered, distant, reverent. ‘That’s it. Just let it happen.’

And I did.

The comedown was hard and mean, hours later.

But the sensation of that euphoria, the warmth, the numbness, the beauty, would haunt me for years, the cost soaring higher and higher. Yet I would chase it, again and again and again, long after the cost had taken everything from me.”

Dean's body had gone cold, his fingers trembling. He had seen addiction up close. Fire calls where someone had passed out with a cigarette still burning, flames crawling up the carpet. He’d dragged people from bathrooms and basements, faces skeletal, arms riddled with tracks. That was what heroin looked like to him. That was the image he carried.

But this?

He had never really thought about the beginning. How the people he sent away on stretchers, knowing they weren’t going to make it, got started on that path.

It made him feel sick. 

“It was meant to be one of those nights where time softened, offering a thin sense of peace in the midst of the chaos we had both come to accept. Michael and I had drifted together in the haze, immersed in a temporary reality where the edges of pain were blurred, where the world felt almost gentle.

We lay side by side, the muted pulse of music echoing faintly from another room. His warmth beside me was steady, familiar. My mind floated in the swell of euphoria, untethered, unconcerned.

At some point, the division between night and day dissolved entirely. There were no hours, no borders. Only the blurred shapes of who we were, the ribs showing through thinned skin, and the ghosts of who we once thought we could become. Sleep came slowly, and I gave into it, lulled by the way the world faded so easily.

 It was faint at first, just a soft gurgling. Inconsequential.

At the edge of unconsciousness, I shifted, reaching toward Michael for reassurance, but there was nothing familiar about his body. I tried to push through the fog that surrounded me, but I drifted off again, back into a much more beautiful world. 

A garbled rasp, wet and desperate, clawed at the edges of my awareness. I strained to wake, the disjointed reality swirling nauseatingly around me. The room tilted as I attempted to sit up. My body was slow to obey. 

I called his name, my voice cracked in my throat, thin and weak. There was no response, only that terrible sound.

Panic surged through me as I pushed through the sludge. I blinked against the blurriness, my vision failing to adjust, but I could see him there. Michael’s body contorted. He was choking. Drowning. Seizing against a force I had no strength to stop.

I reached for him, desperate, but my limbs were too heavy, weighed down by chains forged from our shared excess. I was dragging myself in from a deep ocean, the current trying to pull me away, suck me under. 

I pleaded with him to wake up, called his name even as my vision blurred further, clouds of darkness creeping at the edges, muffling everything. It was as if I were drowning alongside him, unable to grasp the lifeline that was slipping away.

His body stilled, the terrible sound fading into silence, and in that moment, I knew. Even before the silence settled, I knew. As I released my tentative hold on consciousness, I knew. 

When I opened my eyes hours later, the light had changed. The apartment was quiet.

And beside me was something that no longer breathed.”

Chapter Text

I used to believe dreams were punishment. A cruel trick played by the unconscious, where memory reshaped itself each night with no escape door, the reaper following me through every room. In my worst years, I would wake with my fists clenched, jaw aching, eyes blown. Sometimes I dreamed of drowning. Sometimes of walking endlessly through dark churches that smelled of rot, calling out for someone who never answered. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

After three days of sleeping too late and drinking too much, Dean had just pulled into the firehouse lot when his phone buzzed in the cupholder. He glanced down. Charlie.

He swiped to answer, “Can’t get enough of me, even on your day off?”

“Just making sure you’re still good for game night tomorrow. Snacks, drinks, and more drinks…you’re still hosting, right?”

“Yeah. Totally.”

Silence.

“Dean.”

“What?”

“You forgot.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“You forgot, and you just panic-committed to hosting a bunch of people in your place last minute.”

He groaned, “Okay, maybe I slightly forgot. I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It’s fine, I can grab snacks after work, and the TV has been actually working lately.”

Charlie snorted. “Great. That’s all we need. Benny and Andrea are bringing wings, Alfie’s making that layered bean dip thing, and I’ll bring Settlers of Catan, and my hot-ass girlfriend.”

“So, just the usual then.”

“Yeah.”

Dean leaned his elbow out the window, the heat of the metal warming his skin in the cool air. “It’ll be good to have everyone together. I’ll see if Rufus or Bobby want to swing by.”

“You know they won’t. But you should invite Lee and the new kid. It’s been a while since we all hung out without someone yelling at us through a radio.”

“No kidding.”

“Make sure you vacuum. And maybe light a candle,” she slipped in. 

“Fuck off, my place is clean enough.”

“Uh huh. Hey, invite that new lunch buddy of yours too. See you Saturday, Winchester.”

*    *    *    *

Dean swung the firehouse door shut behind him, sweat still drying on the back of his neck. Slow shift, just a gas leak, a kid who got his head stuck between the rungs of a banister, and two false alarms. His legs felt like bricks anyway, and he’d been hungry since before the last call. 

He tossed his gear bag in the trunk, climbed into the front seat, and let it rumble under him. His mental checklist was already spinning.

The grocery store came and went in a blur. Dean grabbed a cart, tried not to think about Cas, rolled through the chip aisle, and tossed in a few bags. He doubled back for salsa, stared at the wall of jars for a minute, then also grabbed queso.

He added mini cupcakes, cookies, a few 6-packs of beer, a bottle of cheap whiskey, extra ice. Checkout, done.

His house wasn’t too gross. Not really. But as he stood in the middle of his living room, trying not to think about Cas, he started seeing more and more little things. 

The rug had some mystery crumbs, and the table was currently scattered with a stack of unopened mail, and two mugs of cold, half-finished coffee. Not to mention the scattered bits of dirty clothes strewn around. 

“All right,” he muttered. “Let’s do this.”

He cranked the music and started with the fridge, organizing all the party food inside, so it looked halfway decent for guests. Then he tried not to think about Cas as he wiped down the counters, grumbling under his breath every time a sponge caught on a crusty patch of something unidentifiable. 

The bathroom took the longest. Dean didn’t exactly deep clean , but he scrubbed the sink and toilet, wiped down the mirror, and made sure there were clean towels hanging up. He even put out an extra roll of toilet paper.

The living room was last. He stripped the couch of its loose blankets, gave the cushions a fluff, and vacuumed the rug. The coffee table got a wipe-down and a quick rearrangement, coasters that he never actually used in place, remotes corralled, beer cap bowl set out. He even lit a candle for a while, not that he’d ever admit to Charlie that he did. Pulling a few folding chairs out of the closet, he set them up around the coffee table.

He stood in the doorway, surveyed the room, and tried not to think about Cas. He grabbed Beyond the Closet Door from the side table. Staring at the cover, he felt the start of burning behind his eyes. Nope. He stuck it under his mattress. Shut his bedroom door. 

Clean enough. Lived-in but not gross. 

He decided to call it quits for the night. His sore back and his eye bags needed a full 8 hours tonight. 

He fell into bed, having thought about Cas all day, and drifted off quicker than he had in a few days. 

 *    *    *    *

The Book Nook bookstore was empty. “I’m here, Dean,” Cas said, voice low and rough, and he was there, right in front of him, hair wild, eyes flashing. “You’re so tense,” he murmured, running his hands up Dean’s chest, fingers splaying wide. Those hands slid lower, slow, deliberate, brushing Dean’s nipples, then stomach, then lower still. Dean’s jeans were tight now, cock stirring, pressing against the denim. He was so hard already.

Cas dropped to his knees, right there by the counter. Dean’s brain flatlined. No fucking way. But Cas’s fingers were on his belt, unbuckling it with steady hands. Dean’s jeans hit the floor, boxers next, and the cool air made him hiss. His cock bobbed free, heavy, aching. This couldn’t be happening. But Cas looked up, those blue eyes dark, hungry, and Dean’s knees nearly gave out. He was gorgeous. Cas leaned in, breath hot against his cock. Dean gripped the counter, knuckles white. 

With a rush of anxiety, he suddenly remembered there was a math test later in the day, and he hadn’t had time to study. But then Cas’s lips brushed his tip, soft, teasing, and his hips jerked, and he forgot about the test. Holy shit. Cas’s mouth was warm, wet, sliding over him slow, taking him deep. Dean groaned, low and wrecked. Cas’s tongue swirled, licking the slit, then dragging along the underside, hitting every sensitive spot. His hands found Cas’s hair, tugging, and Cas moaned, the sound vibrating through Dean’s cock, sending heat spiking up his spine.

Dean leaned back against the edge of his childhood bed, grateful they weren’t in public. He briefly wondered why he thought this house had burned years ago, but Cas sucked harder, lips tight, bobbing slow at first, then faster. One hand gripped Dean’s thigh, fingers digging in, the other wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking in time with his mouth. He’s good. Too good. Dean’s legs shook, his hips rocking, fucking into that perfect heat. Cas took it all, no choking, no hesitation, just those eyes locked on Dean’s. 

“Cas,” he gasped, voice shot to hell. Cas just hummed, sucking deeper, tongue doing something sinful, and his control snapped. He was close, so close, hips stuttering, chasing the edge. “Gonna come. Fuck, Cas, don’t stop.” He was begging, shameless, and Cas gave it to him, relentless, until - 

Dean snapped awake, heart hammering, skin slick with sweat. The room was dark, the only sound was his ragged panting. His cock was rock-hard, throbbing, pressed against the mattress. His hips moved on their own, rutting into the sheets, desperate for friction. His boxers were damp, precum soaking through. 

He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, cock straining against the fabric. No ignoring it. His hand moved fast, shoving his boxers down, freeing his erection. He hissed as his fingers wrapped around it, too sensitive, already slick. He stroked slow at first, trying to draw it out, but the dream wouldn’t fade. Cas’s lips, tight and wet, that tongue, those hands. He gripped harder, pumping faster, imagining Cas’s mouth still on him. His thumb swiped the tip, spreading wetness, and he groaned loud.

His other hand roamed, yanking up his shirt, fingers pinching a nipple, hard. The jolt went straight to his cock, making it twitch. Yeah, fuck. He pictured Cas’s hands there, Cas’s mouth, Cas’s everything. His hips bucked, fucking into his fist, slick and fast. The pleasure built, hot and tight. He stroked faster, grip sloppy, imagining Cas looking up at him, those blue eyes burning. He came hard, a choked curse on his lips, spilling over his hand, his stomach. His body shook, vision blurring, breath ragged.

Dean lay there, spent, hand still on his softening cock. What the hell was wrong with him? 

 *    *    *    *

He woke late, groggy and vaguely annoyed at himself. The sunlight creeping through the blinds was too bright, the birds too loud, his brain too full. He lay still for a minute, arm flung over his face. 

“Nope,” he muttered to himself. “Not gonna be weird about this.”

Because he wasn’t. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a dream. Totally normal to have dreams about new friends. Or acquaintances. 

He dragged himself into the shower, turned the water cold, and grumbled a few choice words under his breath as he tried to reset his brain. By the time he was dressed and halfway through making coffee, he’d mostly convinced himself.

It didn’t mean anything. He just liked Cas. As a person.

Cas was smart. Interesting. Kinda strange, but in a good way. Dean didn’t have many friends like that, calm and thoughtful. Intense and mysterious. So yeah. That was all it was. He liked being around him. Liked how he felt when they talked. 

He blew out a breath and typed before he could talk himself out of it.

DEAN: Hey, this is late notice, but I’m having a game night at my place tonight around 7pm. Just a few friends from work. Low-key, snacks and card games. You’re welcome to come if you want.

He stared at the message. It didn’t sound weird, right? 

He hesitated, then added:

DEAN: No pressure. Just figured I’d ask.

He hit send and tossed the phone onto the counter, like putting it down would let his mind think about anything else. He poured his coffee, took a long sip, and tried not to check the screen again too quickly.

It buzzed.

His heart did a weird little flip. He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

CASTIEL: Thank you for the invitation. I will attend.

Dean exhaled so hard it was almost a laugh. The message was very Cas.

But it meant yes.

Dean tried to smother the grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. He was glad. He was. Cas would be walking into his space. His people. His life, all at once. And Dean would have to play it cool. No staring. 

Just a guy. Coming to a game night. Totally normal.

Dean stood, stretched his arms overhead, and muttered, “It’s gonna be fine.” He wasn’t nervous. Not really. He just wanted it to go well. That was all.

Totally normal.

Chapter Text

For a long time, I didn’t believe such people existed outside of fiction. I read about them laughing together on front porches, sitting on hoods of cars just to watch the stars, forgiving things without keeping score. I told myself those were just characters. That kind of connection was only written, not lived.

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean paced from the kitchen to the living room and back again, wiping his palms on his jeans even though they weren’t sweaty. The snacks were all prepped, and he had the typical playlist he always threw on for game nights cued up, Zepp of course, along with some Bob Seger and other 70’s classics. Host picks the music.

He checked the time again. Fifteen minutes until go-time. More like twenty before anyone would show. 

Cas was coming. Dean hadn’t even told the others he invited him. He figured he’d just let Cas show up. If he told them ahead of time, it’d turn into a whole thing. And he didn’t want it to be a thing.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and cracked it open just to have something to do with his hands. The first knock came when he was half-way through the bottle. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and opened the door to find Charlie already grinning, arms full. Game box in one hand, a six-pack balanced in the other, and a denim jacket slipping off one shoulder.

“Hey, loser,” she said, pushing past him. 

“You’re early.”

“I’m efficient,” she shot back. “And also I wanted dibs on the couch so we can make out."

A moment later, a second figure appeared in the doorway. She was beautiful, with dark curls, and a wide smile. Dean might be gay, but he wasn’t too gay to notice that Charlie was absolutely right about her rockin’ tits. She offered a small wave.

“With me, I hope,” she said. “Hi, I’m the girlfriend.”

“Right. Gilda, yeah?”

“Guilty,” she said, stepping inside. 

He shut the door behind them. “Hey, I’m Dean, the best friend.”

“Not even close,” Charlie called from the kitchen. “Don’t believe a word outta his mouth, babe.”

Dean shrugged. “I always host, so I’m at least top five.”

Gilda laughed and headed toward the kitchen. Dean followed her, and they all cracked open new beers. 

Charlie leaned in, voice low. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Dean said.

Charlie raised a brow. “You literally punched Lee last Christmas.”

“That doesn’t count, he hit me first.”

The three of them drifted into the living room and Charlie flopped onto the couch with Gilda tucked comfortably beside her. He took a long pull of his beer before sinking into the armchair across from them.

“So, Gilda, what’s your day job when you’re not reining this one in?”

Gilda chuckled. “I’m a librarian. Teen services, mostly.”

“Teen services?”

“Yeah, librarians actually do a lot more than most people know about. It’s like this amazing untapped resource, and yet we keep getting our damn budget cut. Did you know that we help kids with their homework? We literally even help people with their taxes. And,” her voice grew louder.  “We work with English Language Learners. We even have a 3-D printer that anyone can use. And I work with teens, so basically I spend half my time organizing anime clubs and D&D campaigns. I even give out pregnancy tests. And of course books, but it’s so much more than that.”

“I get to come to the next D&D campaign she’s running.” Charlie added when Gilda took a breath. “She fucking sexy, right?”

Gilda snorted and shoved Charlie’s shoulder. “You have a library card, right, Dean?”

“Oh…um…I…well-”

Mercifully, Gilda put her hand up. “Ignore me. I shouldn’t have asked that. I can’t help myself. I’m being weird.”

Dean laughed. “No, no, sounds like you love your job, and that’s awesome. And I should get a library card. It would be a lot cheaper than all the books I buy. It’s nice to see Charlie with someone who’s passionate about things. You two can be nerds together.”

Gilda shrugged. “I prefer the term geeks.”

Charlie high fived her. “Geeks unite, baby.”

Another knock and Dean practically sprang to his feet. He swung the door open to find Benny grinning beneath his scruffy beard, with a tray of wings wrapped in foil, and his wife, Andrea, held a big plastic container of cut veggies.

“Evenin’, chief,” Benny drawled. “Brought the goods.”

“By goods I know you mean your lovely wife.” Dean leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “You’re a vision.” She shoved him off with a laugh, then gave him a quick hug anyways. 

“Tell me you have napkins this time.”

“I have paper towels,” Dean said. “That’s the same thing.”

“Lord,” she muttered, brushing past him.

Dean helped unload the food on the kitchen table. “Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once. “This officially counts as a party. Anybody touch the fancy whiskey, I swear to god, you’re banned.”

Benny laughed. “You know you only buy the cheap stuff, brother. You ain’t fooling nobody.”

Dean rolled his eyes. By the time he got the wings to the kitchen, another knock hit the door. Short and pounding like a cop - Lee.

Dean opened the door and yep, he called it, Lee walked in without waiting, holding a bottle of rum.

“Where’s your ice?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Hi, Lee,” Dean deadpanned. “Nice to see you too. Welcome to my home.”

Lee looked around, grimacing at the veggie tray. “Jesus. Is this a party or a PTA meeting?”

Dean gave him a flat look. “Good, more for us. Don’t touch the snacks unless you brought your own.”

Lee held up the bottle. “Brought this. That counts.”

“Lovely,” Dean muttered.

“Girlfriend bailed,” Lee added, forced casual. Dean doubted this poor woman considered Lee her boyfriend at all, but he didn’t say anything.

A few minutes later, Jack was at the door holding a big plastic container with a nervous smile on his face.

“Hello,” Jack said, raising one hand in greeting. “I made brownies. They’re vegan, but I promise they taste normal.”

Dean smiled, genuinely. “Thanks, man. Glad you came. Are you vegan? I would have made sure to-”

“I’m not strict, don’t worry about it.” Jack interrupted with a wide smile. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Party people!” Alfie declared, pushing past Jack. “I come bearing my famous twelve layered bean dip!” He disappeared into the kitchen, as Charlie called out her greeting.

Jack followed him in, eyes wide, turning to Dean. “Is it really famous?”

“No. And it definitely doesn’t have twelve layers.”

“Oh, okay, I wasn’t sure. That makes sense.” Jack said looking embarrassed and glancing around. “Whoa, your place is nice. Way nicer than mine. I still have boxes in my living room, and no chairs.”

Dean raised a brow. “It’s not that nice. You’ve been moved in what, a month?”

“Two,” Jack admitted, “but it’s fine. I like sitting on the floor. It’s good for my back.”

“I really don’t think that’s right,” Dean said, shutting the door behind them. “Kitchen’s that way, beer’s in the fridge.”

Dean caught Jack lingering near the coat hooks, looking around like he wasn’t sure what to do.

“You good, man?” Dean turned back.

Jack nodded quickly. “Yes, it's just the first time hanging out with you guys off-shift. Kinda feels weird.”

Dean barked a laugh. “Trust me, you’re probably much cooler than we are. Be prepared to lose all respect for us tonight.”

Jack grinned, loosening up. “Cool.”

Charlie’s voice cut through, “Dean, are you hiding the queso? This is un-constitutional!”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s literally right there!”

She popped her head out of the kitchen. “Found it.”

Dean watched from the front hallway while his friends milled around his home, and felt…good. Really good. This was nice. His house had felt too empty lately, the rooms too quiet, his bed too big. Maybe he should get a dog. 

There was another knock at the door, quieter this time. Barely more than a polite tap.

Dean froze for half a second, heart thudding. Then he cleared his throat and turned, trying to keep his expression neutral.

When he opened the door, there he was.

Cas stood with one hand in the pocket of his tan trenchcoat, shoulders slightly hunched. His hair was damp from the lingering drizzle outside, curling faintly at the ends. He held a pack of ginger beer.

“Hello,” Cas said simply, voice low.

Dean swallowed. “Hey. You made it.”

Cas nodded once, a small smile on his lips.

Dean stepped aside. “Come on in.”

Cas hesitated only a moment before stepping inside, his eyes darting in the direction of the chatter spilling out from the living room.

He hung his coat on the rack Dean gestured to and rumbled, “You have a beautiful home.”

“Oh thanks, yeah it does the job. I’m glad you made it.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

They stood in the hallway for a few more moments. 

He didn’t think he’d ever truly enjoyed eye contact before. Or maybe he’d just never experienced eye contact like that before. Cas’s eyes were just unbelievable. His whole face was really. This close Dean could see the crows feet in the corners of his eyes, as well as the fine lines in his plush, dry lips. Dean felt himself swaying just a hair closer, staring into those vibrant blue eyes, and Cas stared right back at him in return, lips slightly parted.

Uproarious laughter boomed from the other room, and both men turned towards the sound. 

“Sorry, um, I’ll introduce you to everyone,” Dean mumbled, gesturing to the next room. 

Dean led him into the living room and cleared his throat as they entered. “Hey, everyone, this is Cas. Castiel. He’s a friend. Of mine. A friend of mine.” Great. Real smooth. 

Charlie whipped around on the couch like a shark scenting blood. Her eyes went huge. Then gleeful. She looked between Dean and Cas, and her lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Friend?” she mouthed at Dean, waggling her eyebrows.

Dean quickly glanced around to see if anyone else was clocking Charlie. They were all focused on the newcomer, so he gave her a death glare and focused on not dying, as his ears turned red. He’d never brought guests to game night, that they didn’t already know. Not once in all the years they’d been doing this. He clapped a hand lightly on Cas’s back. 

“Cas brought ginger beer,” he announced, like that would explain everything. Cas, meanwhile, was stiff at Dean’s side, eyes carefully neutral as he took in everything.

Dean pointed around the room. “This is my best friend Charlie, and her girlfriend Gilda, who I just met, Benny and his wife Andrea, Alfie, Lee, and Jack. I work with everyone. Other than Gilda and Andrea that is.”

“Charlie gets a best friend intro, and all I get is my name?” Lee complained. 

“Yes. You don’t want to know how I would introduce you.” Dean replied. Benny chuckled and clapped Lee on the shoulder.

“You are all firefighters?” Cas asked, voice low.

“Yep! And we are all soooo excited to meet any friend of Deans.” Charlie grinned, drawing the “o” sound out embarrassingly long. 

Noticing Cas’s furrowed brow, Dean quickly added, “Ignore her. Make yourself at home, I’ll stick the ginger beer in the fridge.” Then turning to the group, “Behave, fuckers,” before scurrying off to the kitchen, leaving Cas standing there. 

He took a few moments to lean his head against the coolness of the fridge, breathing deeply, and calming his nerves. When his absence would look weird if he stayed any longer, he stuck his head out, spotting Cas sitting stiffly at Charlie’s side on the couch. 

“Anyone want anything while I’m up?” Dean called.

“Beer!” came the chorus of voices. “And chips,” Benny added.

Dean grabbed one of the full 6-packs from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and stuck a few bags of chips under his arm. He handed a few of the drinks out, before setting the rest on the coffee table. A sweating beer in his own hand, he looked around the room quickly. Where should he sit? Cas, Charlie, and Gilda were on the couch, Benny was in the armchair, with Andrea sitting between the v of his legs, leaning her back against his chest while he rubbed her neck. Lee and Alfie were in the folding chairs, and Jack was sitting on the floor, looking happy and comfortable to be there. Huh. Maybe it was good for his back. 

Dean walked over to the couch and sunk down to the floor, sitting in front of the arm rest. Cas’s leg was bouncing slightly, almost touching Dean’s shoulder. He could see Cas’s socked toes curling into the carpet. 

Looking up over his shoulder, he held out the beer to Cas. “Want one?” he asked.

Cas glanced over, eyes flicking from the bottle then down to Dean’s face. He hesitated for just a beat, then gave a small shake of his head.

“No, thank you,” he said.

Dean nodded, popping the cap off and tossing it into the bowl on the coffee table. It clinked against the others already sitting at the bottom. 

“Cool,” he said, taking a long pull. “More for me. But I make no promises about my behavior after a few 6-packs of these.”

Jesus, why did he say that? He could almost feel Charlie’s eye boring holes through him from over Cas’s shoulder. 

“Want one of the beers you brought? Ginger?” 

“That would be lovely, Dean, thank you.”

He hauled himself up, knees cracking. Okay, Jack didn’t know what he was talking about. Dean grabbed a ginger beer and made his way back, lowering himself down again, his back against the armrest. 

He popped the cap, adding to the growing pile in the bowl. Dean twisted, reaching up to hand the beer up. Cas’s grip slipped a little on the condensation, and his pinkie brushed Dean's index finger in a wet slide. 

Dean met his eyes, but couldn’t read the expression on his face. 

From the other side, Charlie nudged Cas with her elbow. “So,” she said brightly, picking at the label of her drink. “Castiel. That’s a name from the Bible, right? There has to be a story there.”

Cas blinked. “Very close. It is not actually in the New Testament, but from Peter de Abano’s book Heptameron ,” he said. “My mother chose it. She believed naming me after an angel would offer some sort of protection. ‘Castiel’ roughly translates to ‘Shield of God’.”

Charlie gave a soft whistle. “Wow, dude. Were you raised in one of those churches that doesn’t let people sing or dance? Or, like, a commune? Or a cult?”

Dean nearly choked on his beer. 

“Charlie!” Gilda cried, before Dean had a chance to. “You can’t ask people that!”

Cas on the other hand didn’t look upset. In fact, his eyes were glittering and a small smile was playing on his lips as he looked at Charlie. “It is alright. No, nothing like that, just a very devout household.”

Ignoring both Dean and Gilda’s horrified faces, Charlie leaned in and continued. “Did you at least get to watch Star Wars ?”

“No. Although, I am aware of the films, of course.”

She put a dramatic hand over her heart. “We’re going to fix that.”

Cas tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly. “Is it that important?”

“Yes, it absolutely is,” Charlie said seriously. “Gilda won’t watch them with me,” she pinched Gilda’s thigh, and she slapped her hand away. “And if you and I are going to be friends, I need to know what you think of the trilogy versus the prequels.”

“I do not know what those are, but I am already concerned.”

She grinned, triumphant. “It’s a date!”

Dean wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like that she called it a date. He told himself it was because he knew Cas already had a girlfriend. He didn’t let himself think any deeper about why it rubbed him the wrong way.

“Don’t call it that, Charles,” Dean interjected. “Cas has a gir- ”

Gilda interrupted everyone by grabbing Charlie by her chin and kissing her firmly. 

“You don’t go on dates with anyone other than me,” she said against Charlie’s lips, grinning, and shaking Charlie’s chin gently with one hand. She playfully slapped Charlie’s cheek with the other. At least Dean and Gilda were on the same page on this one. 

Charlie let out a loud laugh, pulling her face out of Gilda’s hands. “Okay! Okay, not a date.” She turned back to Cas. “Don’t think you’re getting out of having a movie marathon with me, at our non-date.”

Dean noted the faint blush creeping up Cas’s throat when he nodded at her. 

“Don’t call it a non-date either!” Gilda cried, pulling Charlie sideways onto her lap and smacking kisses on her throat. She erupted in giggles and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle himself, before he looked away, eyes back on Cas.

He was happy for Charlie, deliriously so. Her and Gilda were wonderful together. But that didn’t mean he wanted to watch. 

Once everyone was a few drinks in and conversations had slowed, Dean clapped his hands. 

“Okay, who’s ready for a game?” 

They arranged the board on the low coffee table, everyone settling onto the floor with throw pillows and half-empty drinks. Cas hesitated before sinking to the carpet beside Dean, legs folding neatly underneath him. 

“Alright,” Charlie announced, connecting the land hex tiles. “Catan time, babies. Gilda, Jack, Castiel, don’t worry, we’ll go easy on you. For at least one round.”

Gilda and Jack grinned. Cas gave a small, unsure nod.

Dean leaned toward Cas, their shoulders brushing. “Okay,” he said quietly, voice low. “So the goal is to get 10 victory points. You get those by building settlements and cities, and you’ll need to collect resources to build those.”

Cas tilted his head, expression focused, and nodded again. “I see.”

Dean smiled fondly. “You’ll crush it. Just wait. I’ll help you. And it’s one of those games that gets easier to understand as you actually play.”

Across the table, Alfie was doing the same for Jack, and Charlie for Gilda. She gestured at the tiles, over-explaining in that excitable way she does. Gilda was watching her, a soft smile on her face. Dean wasn’t sure if she was actually listening or just appreciating Charlie for being Charlie. 

“Pick your color, bitches!” Charlie announced. 

A few rounds in, Dean had made it halfway through his fourth beer, while Benny, Alfie, and Lee made a sizable dent in Lee’s rum. Feeling happily buzzed, his words were a little looser, his balance a little lazier. He leaned into Cas more and more as he pointed at the board or passed him cards. Shoulder to shoulder, his weight a comfortable press.

Cas didn’t lean away. He sat still and quiet, letting Dean murmur strategies into his ear. Every now and then, Cas would ask a question in that careful, thoughtful way of his, and Dean would lean in closer to answer. Eventually, their heads were nearly touching. He didn’t even notice how close they’d gotten until Cas turned slightly and his cheek brushed Dean’s nose.

Dean froze, then laughed a little too loudly, sitting upright in his own space again. “Sorry. Spatial awareness. Not my strong suit.”

Cas shook his head. “It is alright.” 

As the game wore on, Cas leaned forwards more, his moves growing bolder. He asked sharper questions, started initiating trades.

By the time the sun had long past dipped beyond the blinds and everyone had refilled their drinks a number of times, Cas had quietly assembled an impressive network of roads and settlements. Dean barely noticed. He was too busy trying not to focus on how warm Cas’s knee was against his.

Then Benny let out a dramatic groan.

“Oh hell no,” he said.

Jack’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Benny gestured as Cas calmly placed a city on a high-producing tile, slid a development card into place, and then looked up.

“I believe that is ten points,” Cas said.

Silence.

Then Charlie whooped. “Cas! You magnificent nerd! You sneaky, little gamer!’

Dean blinked, then burst out laughing. “Wait, what? That’s game?”

Cas nodded once. “Yes. I believe so.”

Andrea leaned against Benny and clapped, Gilda and Alfie joining in. Cas gave a small, pleased smile. Almost apologetic, but definitely proud. Dean stared at him, awestruck.

“Guess I taught you too well,” he said.

Cas glanced sideways, voice low. “I am a quick learner.”

“Beginner’s luck! Re-match, re-match!” Lee slurred.

“Ignore him, Cas.” Dean said, and Lee reached out to slap Dean’s shoulder, but missed.

Cas looked down at the board, sheepishly collecting his pieces. “I enjoyed that more than I expected.”

Dean smiled into his drink. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

After they had moved into the kitchen and demolished a good chunk of the food, Dean excused himself to the backyard to start a fire in the little brick pit he had built out there a few years ago. It was fucking freezing, and he shivered as he waited for the flame to grow. The slider opened behind him, and Alfie stepped out. 

“Hey Dean, got a minute?”

“Sure man, grab that piece of wood while you’re here.”

Alfie helped Dean build the teepee to keep the fire going for a while, the two working smoothly in silence. 

“So,” he started. “How’s Jack’s training going?”

Dean frowned. “Charlie’s been running him through the drills a hell of a lot more than I have, dude. Ask her.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re the one Bobby talks to. Has he said anything about keeping Jack on or not?”

“He hasn’t said anything, but that doesn’t mean much. As far as I can tell, things are fine. He’s super green, you know? It’ll just take him a bit to get his footing. Why?”

Alfie actually looked a little embarrassed. “So, he has a sister….”

“Oh my god.”

“No, no, hear me out. I just don’t want to pursue anything if Jack had one foot out the door. That would be too awkward if I had to see him after that, and you always have the inside scoop.”

“You think that would be more awkward than seeing him at work, after nailing his sister?”

“I’m just trying to have all the information before I move forward.”

“Uh huh. Just don’t make things awful at work, please. I can’t imagine what Jack would be like angry.”

Alfie laughed and clapped Dean’s shoulder. “Alright, well that was it. Thanks…or actually no thanks. I take that back. You didn’t help at all.”

Dean grinned and leaned his head on Alfie’s shoulder. “You say the sweetest things.”

“Fuck off.” Alfie chuckled and went back inside. 

When Dean was happy with the blaze, he pulled the lawn chairs in a circle around the fire, and went inside to get blankets. 

Andrea was yawning into Benny’s shoulder, when Dean rounded the corner, arms filled. 

“Well,” Benny said, stretching his back with a wince, “I’ve been thoroughly beaten and humiliated. Time for me to sulk at home.”

“Awww, really?” Dean asked, disappointed.

“Yeah, the missus is tired and I’ve got an early morning. Thanks for another great game night, brother.”

As Andrea passed Jack, she stopped and put her hand on his shoulder. “It was so nice to meet you, sweetie. Make sure you tell me if Benny is acting a fool around you.”

Jack nodded sincerely as Benny snorted, and slapped her ass. She squealed as she started forwards again. 

“Wonderful to meet you, Gilda. Cas, you’re keeping us all on our toes, great game. And Dean - ” 

“Okay, okay, blah, blah, love y’all!” Benny cried as he ushered her to the door.

Alfie stood up next. “I’m out too, guys, my uber’s here. Fun night, thanks Dean. Want to catch a ride with me, Jack?” 

Dean rolled his eyes.

“That would be nice, thank you.” Jack said around a yawn. “Thanks a lot for inviting me, Dean.” His wide smile was infectious and Dean grinned back. 

“You’re welcome back here any time, Jack. Good to have you on the team.”

Lee snorted, and Dean flipped him off without looking over. 

Alfie leaned into Dean’s side, speaking quietly into his ear, “Wish me luck.” 

Dean laughed as Jack waved and the two of them gathered their shoes and coats. He shifted the blankets in his arms. “The rest of you good to hang out in the back for a bit?” 

The five of them settled into the lawn chairs, shivering under blankets and scooting their chairs closer to each other and the fire. Charlie sat on Gilda’s lap, propping her feet up on the brick pit. 

“So, New Guy,” Lee nodded to Cas. “What do you do for work? And how do you know this asshole?” He gestured to Dean the mostly empty rum bottle. Dean groaned.

“I own a bookstore downtown, The Book Nook.” Cas answered coldly. “We met at the store.”

“Oh my god, that’s how I know you!” Charlie interjected, swinging her legs.

“You have been in my store?”

“Yes! You have that hot, punky, brunette working there, right?”

“Excuse me?” Gilda interrupted with a raised eyebrow.

“Before I met you!”

Gilda shook her head. “I’m not going to be able to take you anywhere, am I?”

“It’s not my fault I can’t shut this down.” Charlie shrugged.

Cas gave a small smile, “Yes, Meg.”

“Meg! That’s right!”

Gilda groaned. “Of course you got her name.”

“That’s not the point, babe.” Charlie said. Suddenly, her eyes widened and she turned back to Cas. “Wait, wait, wait! You’re the perfect person to ask! Gilda and I had a fight about -”

“A minor verbal disagreement.” Gilda interrupted.

“Gilda and I had a minor verbal disagreement about something. You can be our tiebreaker.”

“Alright.” Cas said, fidgeting his fingers into the blanket.

“Okay, real question,” Charlie said, squinting at him. “How do you organize your bookshelves?”

Dean squinted. “Did you two lesbians already bring the U-haul? Why are you arguing over bookshelves?”

“Shut up, Dean, that’s rude.” Charlie said, turning her attention back to Cas.

Cas hesitated. “I sort them by genre first, then alphabetically by author’s last name. And I… maintain a spreadsheet.”

“No, no, not the store,” Charlie said. “I mean your personal bookshelf at home.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s how you do it at home?” Her mouth dropped open.

“Yes.”

“A spreadsheet?”

He nodded. “I track purchases, reading dates, word counts, a personal rating system…” He trailed off.

Charlie slapped a hand to her chest. “I think I just felt my soul leave my body. That’s the sexiest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Cas blinked. “I am not certain how to respond to that.”

Gilda clamped her hand over Charlie’s mouth. “I think you need to stop speaking.” She replaced her hand with her own lips. Charlie grabbed the back of her head to keep her in place and deepen the kiss. Gilda snorted as she pulled away, and then grimaced at Lee when she saw him lean closer. 

Cas looked away, but he was smiling widely now. Charlie caught it and lit up.

“Oh my God, that was a real smile. I was starting to think you were a cyborg.”

“I have a wide range of facial expressions,” Cas replied.

Charlie cackled, “I like you.”

“That’s it, I’m taking you home.” Gilda laughed, standing with Charlie in her arms, blankets falling to the ground. Charlie squealed and flailed until Gilda set her on her feet. “Say goodnight, Charlie.”

“Goodnight, Charlie.” Charlie parroted with a grin. 

“Alright, you lush.” Gilda smiled. “Thanks so much for having us over Dean, I had a great time. Cas, sounds like we will be seeing more of each other in the future.”

“I would like that.”

“Bye, Lee.” Gilda said over her shoulder.

“Bye, you two. See ya at work, Charlie.”

Dean stood to give them both hugs, and then snuggled back under his blanket when he started to shiver again. 

Charlie leaned into Gilda’s ear as they started to walk inside. “I bet I can make you come without the Lyft driver even knowing, with just my fingers.”

“Oh my god, shhhhhh.” Their voices trailed off as Gilda shut the door firmly. 

“Wow.” Lee let out a low whistle. “Have you seen her like that with anyone before?”

“Not as giddy like that. I think Gilda is good for her,” Dean said.

“I think Gilda is turning her into a slut.”

“Aaaand that’s enough for the night, time to head home, Lee.”

“I wasn’t saying it like a bad thing!” he protested.

“How are you getting home, man?”

He sighed, “I’ll call a cab or whatever.”

“Alright, do that. See you on Tuesday.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Cas turned as Lee passed him. “It was nice to meet -”

Lee shut the door behind him, and Cas trailed off. 

Dean shook his head. “Don’t take it personally, Cas. He’s an asshole. I don’t know why I keep inviting him to things.”

Cas nodded and they settled into silence, staring into the fire, the crackle of the flames louder than the crickets. After a few minutes, Dean stood. 

“Oh, I apologize, you probably want to end your night.” Cas said, standing as well

“No, no, I was just grabbing their blankets.” Dean snatched up the extra blankets, stumbling a bit. “Here, scooch closer.”

Cas grabbed the arms of his chair and slid it over to bump against the arms of Dean’s chair, and sat back down. Dean shook out the blankets and laid them across Cas’s lap and over his own chair. 

“I’m gonna grab some whiskey, want anything?"

“Another ginger beer?”

“You got it.” Dean made his way inside, shutting the cold and Cas behind him. 

Phew. What a night. Dean really did have a great time. And Cas fit in with his friends surprisingly well. Charlie especially loved him, but he could have predicted that. What he wasn’t as sure about was how much Cas would like her back. But they got along great. Cas probably smiled at her more than he ever smiled at Dean. Huh. 

Mood slightly dampened, he poured himself two fingers of whiskey, grabbed another ginger beer, and headed back out. He handed Cas the drink, lifted the layers of blankets on his chair, and slipped in underneath. The blankets on Cas’s lap shifted slightly as Dean settled down. They were close enough that Dean wouldn’t have to reach far to rest his hand on Cas’s thigh under the shared blankets. His fingers twitched. He was finally, blissfully warm, and the dancing flames made Cas’s eyes sparkle like sapphires. 

“So, are you not a big drinker, or do you just like the taste?” Dean asked, gesturing with his glass to Cas’s drink.

“Both, I suppose.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a ginger beer. Does it taste anything like ginger ale?”

“Probably not in the way that you are thinking. Here,” Cas held the bottle out to Dean. “Try it.” 

Dean was acutely aware that he was about to put his mouth where Cas’s mouth just was. And then Cas would put his mouth back there afterwards. Oof, get a grip. 

He took the bottle clumsily, a little disappointed that their fingers didn’t touch at all, and took a swig. 

“Oh, that’s actually not too bad,” he said as he handed it back. No touching that time either. Taking a sip of his whiskey, he felt pleasantly drunk. The liquor burned in his belly, creating a slowly growing feeling of warmth inside.

He slid down a little and leaned his head against the back of the chair. Heads are heavy. “I hope none of my friends made you too uncomfortable tonight. Most of them are great, but they can be a lot.” 

“Not at all, everyone was lovely.”

He rolled his head to stare at Cas, mouth quirked. “Everyone? You and Lee gonna hang out after this?”

Cas laughed, and the warmth in Dean’s gut expanded into his chest. Goddamn Cas had a nice laugh. He could listen to that laugh every day. He could spend the rest of his life, solely dedicated to making that man laugh. And it would be a selfish task. He had never loved making someone laugh this much before. He’d never had to work at it this hard before. He wanted to trace the crinkles next to Cas’s eyes with his tongue. 

Dean’s cock gave a valiant twitch, and he blinked a few times. Whoops. Maybe he shouldn’t drink any more tonight. 

He would never forgive himself if he made a fool of himself in front of Cas for the millionth time. He wondered what Cas said to his girlfriend about Dean. Hey, babe, I’m going to hang out with this desperate loser tonight, keep the food warm. Or maybe Honey, I have this awesome new friend and you’re not invited. Dean needed to man the fuck up. He couldn’t keep torturing himself like this. He needed to get the girlfriend talk out of the way, so he could stop obsessing.

“So,” he started, dipping his head to catch Cas’s eye. “The girl on the phone. The one you were talking to when we saw each other in the grocery store. I think her name started with an ‘A’?” 

Cas looked confused for a moment, before he nodded. “Oh, yes, Anna.”

“Anna, okay, I couldn’t remember her name.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “I would not expect you to remember her name. I do not think we talked about her at all before.”

“Right, right. I was just wondering…”

Dean trailed off and Cas raised an eyebrow. Now or never, Winchester. 

“I was wondering what she thought about you coming here tonight.” There. 

Cas paused for a long second, not breaking eye contact with Dean, his expression unreadable, head tipped, eyebrows furrowed. “Anna supported me coming tonight, I suppose,” he said slowly. 

Of course she did. What was Dean thinking? Cas wouldn’t be here if his girlfriend had made a fuss. 

“Well, feel free to invite her next time.” 

Fuck no. Why did he just offer that? He would absolutely die if he had to watch Cas and Anna together. What if they acted like Charlie and Gilda? He couldn’t picture Cas being someone who was a big fan of PDA, but then again, he didn’t actually know. 

Still looking at Dean strangely, Cas said, “That is very kind of you, Dean.”

Sure. Kindness. That was the motive. He was sharing a blanket because he was kind. He asked Cas to move his chair closer because he was kind. He invited Cas here in the first place because he was kind. He jerked off countless times with Cas’s name on his lips because he was kind. 

They sat in silence for a few beats, drifting their eyes over the other’s face, until Cas started fidgeting. 

“Do you have any family around here, Dean?”

Well that was out of nowhere. But he never passed up an opportunity to brag about Sammy. “No, not around here. I have one younger brother, but he’s out in California.”

“Do you get to see him much?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to. He’s a lawyer, so he stays super busy. He’s amazing. So smart.”

Cas paused for a long while. “Has he gotten to meet Alfie?”

“Alfie? Oh, um, not yet. Sammy actually hasn’t met anyone here tonight other than Charlie, but her and I go way back.”

The night gradually became colder and colder and Dean could feel the fine tremors running through Cas’s body, gently vibrating the blankets. 

“I’m freezing,” Dean said. “Want to move this inside?”

“I should actually go, it is getting very late and I am sure you would like your house back to yourself.”

It was obvious Cas didn’t know how wrong he really was. Dean would have given anything to come up with a reason for him to stay. He could offer the couch if Cas was too drunk to drive…but he hadn’t been drinking. Dean was the drunk one. And Ubers existed, anyway. 

“Yeah, of course. I’ll walk you out.”

Cas gathered up the blankets, while Dean put out the fire. As the ashes smoldered, the air grew even colder. Too dark now to see Cas’s face other than the glint of his eyes. 

Back inside, Dean walked him to the front door slowly. Cas turned to face him once they reached the threshold. His expression was unreadable, a faint tension at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re okay to drive?” Dean checked. “Not too tired?” Wishful thinking.

“No, I will be alright, I can drive. Thank you for tonight, Dean, I had a wonderful time.”

“Okay,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m really glad you came.”

Cas opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something. 

Closed it again.

Dean wanted to kiss that mouth. 

Finally, Cas said, “I am glad I came as well.”

They stood there, suspended in time, until Cas gave a small nod and turned.

Dean watched him walk down the steps and out into the night.

He closed the door and leaned his back against it, standing there in the too quiet house, in the too big hallway. 

He tried to remember how it felt to have Cas’s knee pressed against his. Or how their shoulders brushed. He reached up and clasped his hand over the opposite shoulder and squeezed.

He already missed it.

Chapter Text

I have never understood the purpose of funerals. I understand grief transformed into black clothes and wilted flowers. I understand the ritual in sharing sorrow. But funerals have always been more about the living than the dead. An apple box to stand on and show everyone that you are hurting the most, and therefore better in some way. It is a stage and the mourners are the performers. At Michael’s funeral, I remember the way his mother wailed into a handkerchief, so white it could have been snow, painfully bright against her dark dress. I remember my own silence. I remember not being capable of making a sound, even when I was looked at with expectation. All I could see in their eyes was hate, and it reflected mirrors into mine. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

The next week moved quickly, and before he knew it, it was the weekend again. Dean thought about texting Cas a million times, but just couldn't think of anything to say. He sat on the couch with a survival show droning in the background, not really watching. His eyes kept drifting to the side table, where his phone sat face down.

He was bored. And he hated to admit it, but he was lonely too. Beyond The Closet Door was still stuffed under his mattress, and while reading might be a nice distraction, he just wasn’t ready to tackle that one. 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he forced his attention back to the screen. Some guy was building a canoe out of bamboo and duct tape. Good. That was good. Nothing emotionally devastating there.

But after a full hour of pretending to care about wilderness survival, he picked up his phone. Lit up the screen. Opened the text thread with Cas.

He typed: Hey, you busy?

Deleted it. 

Typed: Hey, I had a good time at game night. 

Deleted that too. 

The heater hummed next to him, the flicker of the tv casting shadows across the room. The survival guy was now showing different ways to elevate a shelter off of the ground. 

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The phone rested between his hands while he stared at the floor, the buzz of the tv barely registering.

DEAN: Hey. 

Send.

Cas didn’t reply. He felt a little disappointed, but he didn’t expect much of a response to a one-word text. He opened the text thread to Charlie.

DEAN: Are you working today? Come over and entertain me.

CHARLIE: You’re lucky I had just grabbed my phone to call Gilda. Yeah, I took an extra shift, and I don’t want to spend my very short break texting you. :P

DEAN: Rude.

CHARLIE: You’re good tho, right? 

DEAN: Totally, go call your girlfriend, it’s all good here.

CHARLIE: Live long and prosper, bitch. 

Just as he was about to set his phone back down, it buzzed again.

CASTIEL: Is everything alright?

Dean smiled faintly.

DEAN: Yeah. Just restless. I wanted to say it was good seeing you the other day.

CASTIEL: That surprises me.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

DEAN: Does it? I thought it was fun, sorry if it sucked for you, man. 

Silence. Dean waited another two minutes, the pit in his gut expanding. 

DEAN: Sorry for bugging you. Adios. 

He felt sick. He really thought Cas was enjoying himself the other night. He must have just been acting, to spare Dean’s feelings or something. After a few more painful minutes, his phone buzzed again. 

CASTIEL: T hat isn’t what I meant. My “people skills” are rusty, especially via text messaging. I apologize. I also had a good time. I am just not feeling well at the moment. 

DEAN: You sick? Need anything?

CASTIEL: Yes, I must be sick. I do not need anything though, thank you for offering.

DEAN: Want me to let you go?

A long pause. Dean fidgeted. 

CASTIEL: I would like to continue text messaging each other, if you are amenable. 

DEAN: Lol. Yeah, I’m “amenable”, man. I’m so bored, I may die. Think you got sick from a customer?

CASTIEL: I do not think so, no. It is unfortunate that you are so bored today. What have you been doing?

DEAN: Just hanging out at home, watching tv. You ever watch those survival shows? I'm watching one now where a guy made an entire canoe by hand on a beach. 

CASTIEL: Are you watching for entertainment, or are you planning a wilderness excursion?

DEAN: Haha, neither apparently. I’m bored out of my mind. 

CASTIEL: In that case, I would recommend changing the channel.

DEAN: Lol. Thanks so much. Why didn’t I think of that?

Dean grinned, shaking his head as he leaned deeper into the couch. His legs stretched out.

CASTIEL: I am happy I could help. 

DEAN: Want to help even more? Tell me what you do when you’re bored. 

CASTIEL: I read a lot of books, which I am sure comes as no surprise. I often write or cook, as well. 

DEAN: That’s cool, have you published anything? What kinds of things do you like cooking?

A long pause. Dean flipped channels as he waited, hoping Cas would want to continue talking. Ten minutes passed before he couldn’t help himself. 

DEAN: You there?

CASTIEL: Yes, apologies. One of my favorite dishes to cook is mushroom risotto, but I have been told that my beef bolognese is excellent as well. 

DEAN: Wow. That’s wild, man. Is there anything you can’t cook? 

CASTIEL: Bread.

DEAN: You can cook risotto, but can’t make a loaf of bread? Don’t house wives do that all the time?

CASTIEL: As I am not a house wife, I do not think that applies to me. Have you ever tried making bread? It is surprisingly difficult. I have attempted multiple times, following the recipe, and yet something always goes incorrectly. It is very frustrating. 

DEAN: Haha, that’s too funny. 

CASTIEL: I see my struggles amuse you. Do you cook, Dean?

DEAN: Does frozen pizza count?

CASTIEL: No it does not.

DEAN: Then no. 

A pause. 

DEAN: Well actually, I do help Benny in the kitchen, but that’s just me following what he tells me to do.

CASTIEL: Are you good at following what you are told to do?

He coughed. Cas couldn’t have meant it like that. Dean was grateful no one else was around, because he knew the tips of his ears were scarlet. 

DEAN: I can follow a recipe, if that’s what you mean. 

Another pause. 

DEAN: Oh, actually, I can bake decently. Baking is just following recipes, and I have that down okay. Maybe I should try bread. 

CASTIEL: Now you are just being cruel. What do you like to bake?

DEAN: Pie, hands down. Best meal there is. 

CASTIEL: I do not think pie counts as a meal.

DEAN: Blasphemy. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, or we can’t keep talking. 

They messaged on and off throughout the evening, and while Dean continued not doing anything other than sitting on his couch, he felt a lot better. After a lull in the conversation, Cas texted again.

CASTIEL: Are you still awake, Dean?

He checked the time. 11:52 PM.

DEAN: Barely. But yeah.

CASTIEL: I am glad we spoke tonight. Thank you for text messaging me.

DEAN: Me too. Needed it, honestly.

CASTIEL: I feel similarly. Sleep well, Dean. 

DEAN: Night, Cas.

*    *    *    *

It was late morning when Dean pulled up to the cemetery. His car rumbled low and steady beneath him as he rolled to a stop beneath the shade of an old oak tree. He killed the engine, sat in silence for a second, then climbed out, grabbing his thermos of coffee from the cup holder. The wind was quiet. The air smelled like cut grass and cool dirt.

He didn’t bring flowers. 

Instead, he walked the familiar path to her headstone with the coffee in one hand and his other jammed in his pocket. Mary Winchester. December 5th, 1954 - November 2nd, 1983. Beloved Wife and Mother. A small angel was engraved on the top right corner.

Dean sat down in the grass beside her, folding one knee up and resting his elbow on it. “Hey, Mom.”

He sipped his coffee, then let out a breath through his nose. “I know it’s been a while. Sorry about that. Things’ve been...well, they’ve been a lot.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, then picked at a weed near the base of the stone. The wind blew gently through the trees.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about you a lot lately,” he said, softer now. “Probably ‘cause I’ve been thinking about Dad, and you two come as a set in my head.”

Dean sighed, eyes dropping to the grass.

“I wanna tell you something,” he said. “And maybe it’s stupid. But I’ve met someone new. His name is Cas. Well I call him Cas, his full name is Castiel. Can you believe that shit?” he laughed. “Odd name for an odd guy.”

He swiped a hand over his jaw. “I like him. Like, more than a friend, ya know?” He dropped his head into his hands. “This is so stupid,” he muttered, then louder, “I actually think you’d like him. He owns a bookstore. I remember you reading to me before bed. I know he would love you .”

His swallowed thickly. “So…uh…mom. This is me. Telling you. Okay?” 

He blinked hard. “Cas isn’t even into guys, so that’s not what I’m saying. Not about him anyway. But…I do. I am, you know?” His throat felt tight. “Did you know that dad hates me? I will never understand why you married that man, mom.” 

Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes now. “I want to believe that he was a different guy when you knew him. But I don’t really remember.” He rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “I barely remember you, ” he said quietly. 

Sniffed. Man the fuck up. He sighed deeply and scrubbed his hand through his hair.

“Okay, okay. I’m gay, all right?” He breathed through the rush of anxiety. In and out. It faded quicker than he expected.

“And I know you didn’t get to see how I grew up. But I hope...I really hope that if you were here, you’d still love me. Even with all this. Even though dad doesn’t.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry I don’t visit you more often. Sorry I didn’t get to ask what you would’ve thought. Sorry for all the pretending, when I’ve come and talked to you before. I really hope you can hear me now.”

The wind picked up and a few fallen leaves gently floated by.

“I’m okay though. I’ve got good people around. Oh! Charlie met someone recently. Gilda. I’ve never seen Charlie like this before, it’s actually adorable. She’s totally smitten.”

He huffed a small smile. “And Bobby’s good. Still cranky. Still yells all the time. But he’s good. Probably needs a new knee here soon.”

Dean scooted over to rest his back against her stone. He ran his fingers lightly over her engraved name, tracing the familiar shapes. 

“I miss you. I wish you were here. I wish you actually knew me. Maybe you do anyway.”

Dean stayed for a while longer, just sitting there. Then he stood up, brushed off his jeans, and gave the headstone one last look. “I love you, mom. I’ll talk to you later.”

Back in the car, he blew his nose and sat for a few moments just breathing. He grabbed his phone to plug it in, and spotted a missed text. 

CASTIEL: I was wondering if you might be interested in accompanying me to view the new fountain one evening this week. I am available Tuesday or Thursday at 8 p.m., if either suits you.

*    *    *    *

The Book Nook was already closed when Dean got there, but the light above the door was still on. Through the front window, he could make out Cas shelving a stack of books behind the counter. Dean rapped twice on the glass and held up a gloved hand.

Cas startled, then smiled. It was small, but it still crinkled the corners of his eyes. He nodded once and disappeared behind the register. A moment later, the door creaked open, letting out a gust of warm, dusty air.

“Dean,” Cas said, stepping out and locking the door behind him. “You are right on time.”

It was colder than he’d expected, the breeze slipping up the sleeves of his coat. The street was mostly empty, aside from a few bundled-up couples walking under the yellow streetlamps. Most of the shops were already closed for the night, some windows glowing faintly, some completely dark. 

They fell into step, heading toward the east side of downtown. Dean had driven this time, and parked across the street from the bookstore. Cas has suggested they walk together, instead of Dean picking him up, and he couldn’t find a reason to argue. Walking meant more time with him anyway. Cas wore the coat Dean had seen him in before, a long tan trench, bare fingers peaking out from under the sleeves. 

“Did you forget your gloves?” he asked, nodding.

Cas looked down at them like he hadn’t realized. “I believe I did.”

Dean stared at the pale skin of his fingers, already red at the knuckles and fading to a worrying bluish tinge at the tips. “You’re gonna lose one of those things to frostbite, man.”

“It is not that cold,” Cas said, but pulled his hands into his sleeves.

Dean rolled his eyes. “C’mon. You look like a corpse.”

Cas didn’t answer, just kept walking stiffly, like maybe if he didn’t acknowledge the cold, it would stop affecting him. Dean let it go for another block, watching Cas’s posture get tighter, his hands curling in on themselves.

They were halfway down the next street when Dean finally stopped and pulled off his right glove.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “I’m not gonna watch you turn into a damn icicle.”

Cas looked at the glove, then at Dean. “I can not wear just one. That would look-”

“Look like you’re not gonna lose a finger,” Dean interrupted. “Don’t argue with me.”

Cas hesitated, then reached for the glove. His fingers brushed Dean’s wrist, and they were ice cold. He fought the instinct to flinch.

Cas pulled the glove on slowly, awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Dean nodded, then reached out and grabbed Cas’s bare hand with his own.

Cas froze.

Dean didn’t look at him. Just tugged their joined hands into the pocket of his own coat, keeping his fingers wrapped around Cas’s like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You can have the glove, but I’m not lettin’ you walk around with a half-frozen hand. It’s just practical,” he muttered.

Cas was silent for a beat, then, “Of course.”

They kept walking, close together, Dean’s hand covering Cas’s inside the pocket of his thick jacket. The streetlights glinted off the damp pavement.

Cas’s fingers twitched once or twice.

The farther they walked, the busier the streets got. Not packed or anything, but livelier than Dean expected for a Thursday night in February. Guess a new fountain was more exciting than he gave it credit for. 

He considered what they might look like, walking shoulder to shoulder, Cas’s hand in Dean’s coat pocket. His arm twitched with the effort to not pull his hand away. He scanned the people walking around, with widened eyes, trying to see if anyone was looking. All he saw was other groups of people huddled together as they walked. He couldn’t tell if any were holding hands, everyone’s coats so big. 

Dean didn’t let go. Cas’s skin was still cold, and he resisted the urge to rub circles over his knuckles.

They passed the theater, its marquee flickering between showtimes and a pixelated dancing popcorn animation. A couple teenage girls stood out front, shivering in hoodies too thin for the weather, laughing like they couldn’t feel a thing. 

“Have you seen anything good lately?” Dean asked, just to fill the quiet.

Cas glanced at him. “I haven’t gone to the movies in some time. The last film I watched was at home. A documentary about bee colonies.”

He barked a laugh before he could stop it. “You need to calm down, wild man.”

Cas’s lips twitched. “I found it interesting.”

“I bet you did.” Dean shook his head, smiling. “You know what I think? I think we need to have a movie night sometime. I’ll pick something super trashy. We’ll rot our brains together.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “That sounds tolerable.”

Dean grinned. “High praise.”

The smell of chocolate and cinnamon hit them a second before the sound of a portable generator did. Around the corner, tucked in beside the art supply store, a little pop-up hot chocolate stand appeared. String lights framed the tent, glowing against the night. A chalkboard menu leaned on an easel, half-smudged but still legible.

Dean eyed it. “You see that? I think we’re legally required to stop.”

Cas was already pulling his hand out from Dean’s grasp and grabbing his wallet from his coat pocket. The cold rushed in, replacing the warmth that their palms made together. “I invited you. I will pay.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Dean blinked at him but didn’t argue. 

They waited behind a young couple, probably college kids, who were whispering to each other. The vendor was a woman around their age, bundled in a thick coat and knit hat. She greeted them with a tired smile and a hoarse, “What can I get you guys?”

Cas turned to Dean. “What would you like?”

“Um, I’ll take one with peppermint.”

Cas nodded. “One peppermint. And,” he squinted at the menu, “one with cayenne and cinnamon, please.”

Dean gave him a look. “Spicy hot chocolate?”

“It will warm me more.”

Dean shook his head, smiling.

They stepped aside while the woman prepped their drinks. Dean bounced slightly on his heels. Cas stood beside him, face tipped toward the little lights, eyes half-lidded. The wind caught his coat and flared it slightly behind him.

Dean stared for a second too long, then looked away. Their drinks came, and they walked the last block with paper cups steaming in their hands.

The fountain came into view suddenly, through a break in the buildings. It was bigger than he expected. Maybe twenty feet across, with a wide base pool and two tiered structure in the middle with a statue of a mermaid at the top, her tail curled up, and water streaming from a basin she held in her hands. 

A few families stood nearby, taking photos. A little kid ran laps around the outer edge, his boots splashing through the small puddles on the concrete, lined with ice. His mom called half-heartedly after him, distracted by her phone.

Cas slowed to a stop and just stared.

Dean did too. “Well,” he said. “That’s actually pretty damn cool.”

“It’s beautiful,” Cas murmured. 

They made their way to the edge, weaving around a few other spectators. Cas sat first, careful not to spill his drink, and Dean dropped down beside him, close enough their hips bumped.

The concrete edge was cold through his jeans. Dean took a sip of his hot chocolate, and leaned back on one hand, letting his body angle toward Cas.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he said, after a while.

Cas looked over, eyes catching the blue of the fountain light. “I am glad you came.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean nudged him gently with his knee. 

They sat in silence for a minute or two, before Dean’s shoulders relaxed. Cas shifted slightly beside him, and their thighs pressed together. 

“So what’s the verdict?” Dean asked finally, glancing over. “Worth the walk?”

Cas nodded, eyes still locked on the water. “It is lovely.” 

The air around them was sharp and biting, and his ears were starting to ache from the wind, but he didn’t want to leave. He leaned into Cas’s shoulder, legs bouncing. 

They stayed like that a while, occasionally sipping, occasionally shifting. More and more people were filtering out now, leaving only a few teenagers behind.

Eventually, Cas spoke.

“I often walked downtown in the evenings, before I opened the shop. After my shift at the library, I would wander the streets for a while. It would have been nice if this had been here back then.”

Dean turned slightly. “You were a librarian?”

Cas nodded. “Not officially. I was a library assistant. I lacked certification, but I managed the inventory, restored damaged bindings, and maintained the archives.”

“Huh. Did you know Gilda is a librarian? Charlie’s girlfriend?”

“I was not aware. I did not have the opportunity to speak with Gilda much at game night. I hope she finds it as enjoyable as I did.”

Dean took another sip, letting the heat settle in his chest before he said, “And now you’ve got your own store. That’s quite a step up.”

Cas didn’t answer right away. “It is different when it is yours. There is responsibility. Pressure.”

Dean looked at him. Cas was watching the fountain again, but his expression had gone unfocused.

“Do you ever regret it?” Dean asked. “Opening the place?”

Cas shook his head. “No. But I did not realize how much of my identity came from being part of something. The library was a collective effort. The bookstore is just me.”

“Well, for whatever it’s worth, I think you’re doing a great job.”

Cas’s shoulder bumped his, just lightly. Dean didn’t know if it was on purpose. He let himself lean a little closer, their coats brushing all the way from shoulder to knee. 

“You ever think about adding a café to the store?” Dean asked. “Like, coffee and pastries. Get a shop cat or something? Sammy took me to something called a Cat Café once, and it was more fun than I thought it was going to be.”

Cas tilted his head. “I am not certain I want animals in the shop.”

“Fair. They’d probably knock over your first editions.”

Cas’s mouth twitched. “Then I would have to find them a more suitable home.”

Dean chuckled. “Alright, so no cats. But maybe a place for people to sit and drink something while they read?”

Cas considered. “It is a nice idea. But it would require permits. Plumbing. Additional inspections. And I would have to serve something worth drinking.”

Dean took a slow sip of his hot chocolate. “Ah, good point.”

The wind gusted, and Cas shivered hard beside him. Dean saw the tips of Cas’s ears bright pink, his gloved hand gripping the cup, the other buried somewhere inside his coat.

“You’re still freezing,” Dean said, and pulled off his remaining glove, holding it out to him.

Cas reached out, gently took the glove, then grabbed Dean’s wrist with his icy fingers. Dean startled. 

“I am not taking both of your gloves.” Cas forcibly maneuvered the glove back onto Dean’s hand, and then grasped his bare hand with his own. “My pockets are larger,” he said, as he manhandled Dean’s into the pocket of the trench coat, grasped tightly with his own. 

Dean laughed and gave Cas’s hand a squeeze, looking over at him. Cas was closer than before, and Dean could feel Cas’s hand trembling again, against his own. Cold, probably.

But then Cas’s eyes dropped to Dean’s mouth. Then flicked back up. Dean’s laughter faded away. He wet his lips, barely aware he was doing it. Cas’s eyes followed the movement.

Cas’s mouth was parted slightly in return, gaze unfocused. He was close enough for Dean to smell the sweet chocolate on his breath.

Dean didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe. Cas’s eyes were huge. Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough he was sure Cas could hear it.

And then-

A clatter of dropped cups and someone laughing. Someone else began to shout. A small dog started barking.

Cas flinched hard. 

He pulled their hands out of his pocket and dropped Dean’s like he’d been burned, eyes going wide. He scooted a full six inches away on the fountain’s edge and suddenly seemed very interested in the sculpture again.

Dean blinked, the cold rushing back in like a punch.

Right.

Of course.

He was an idiot.

Dean cleared his throat. “We, uh… should probably head back. Gonna start losing feeling in my ass.”

Cas nodded without looking at him. “Yes. Of course.”

Dean stood and dumped the last dregs of his hot chocolate into the bushes. His hand felt empty without Cas’s in it, but he shoved it back into his jacket anyway. Tried not to think about how stupid he’d been to think…

Whatever.

He didn’t say anything else as they walked.

And neither did Cas.

The walk back felt longer, past shuttered clothing shops and the back sides of restaurants where the dumpsters sat in crooked rows. The only sound was their boots on icy pavement and the occasional hiss of tires passing by too fast.

Dean shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and tried to focus on his feet. On the rhythm of their steps. One-two. One-two. Like if he kept the beat steady enough, it would drown out the sound of his own thoughts.

They stopped when they reached the bookstore.

Dean slowed, then turned to face him. “I’m parked just across the street, so...”

Cas nodded. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Thanks for asking.”

Cas looked down at his own hand, still gloved. “I should give this back.”

“Oh, thanks,” Dean said, taking the glove and slipping it onto his own hand. It was blissfully warm inside. “Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

He turned and walked to his car, unlocking it with a beep. He got in, slammed the door shut against the cold, and sat there for a second with the engine off.

His hands were shaking. He rubbed them together, trying to bring them back to life, but it wasn’t the cold. Not really.

Dean started the engine and pulled away from the curb. As he passed the end of the block, he glanced in the rearview mirror.

Cas was still standing there, backlit by the streetlamp. Just watching him go.

Chapter Text

I think real grief, real mourning happens later. Alone. It happens in the smallest places. In the cold spot beside you in bed, the clothes left untouched in the closet, an old voicemail you will never be able to listen to but won’t delete. It’s not loud. It’s almost mundane. It’s a dirty spoon left in the sink, too painful to wash off any remnant that may remain. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

The next night, after dinner and a long shower, along with plenty of mental degradation, Dean moved slowly through the house. He was clean and a little chilly, wearing a faded old t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. 

He flipped off light in the kitchen, the hum of the dishwasher now the only sound besides the wind brushing against the windows. He grabbed a clean glass from the drying rack and filled it at the sink. 

Before heading to the couch, he stopped at the thermostat and nudged it a degree warmer. Then he turned off the hall light, letting the soft glow of two lamps in the living room light the space. 

Dean was a little nervous about continuing to read, not really wanting any other emotional revelations this week, but he was so close to finishing the book, and nothing else really held his interest. He needed a solid distraction. Absolutely not about to sit with his own thoughts. No thanks.

So he opened to the marked page, took a long sip of water, and settled in.

“The first time I attended a meeting, I nearly turned back twice before stepping through the door. I did not wish to be there, but my cousin waited outside in her car, eyes still red from the drive, and I knew she would see. She had brought me, quietly crying as I hunched beside her, trying not to die. 

It was in a basement, as these places so often are. In literature, in anecdotes, in practice. As though it were necessary for our sickness to be buried, hidden beneath the clean floors of polite society. The walls were cinderblock, poorly painted in a pale shade of blue that I assumed was meant to soothe, though only made me feel sick. Everything made me feel sick then. The floor tiles bore the scuff marks of a thousand restless shoes. A folding table near the back held a stack of books, pamphlets that curled at the corners like dying leaves, and a small coffee machine that sputtered weakly beside a tray of brownies I could not bear to look at, let alone smell.  

I remember the sound the chair made when I pulled it back with shaking fingers, metal legs dragging against waxed tile, impossible loud. I sat near the exit, just in case. In case of what, I was not entirely sure, whether it be to escape outside, or escape to the restroom to vomit. I did not remove my coat, my hands stayed clenched in my lap, white-knuckled and sweating. 

No one spoke to me. A woman handed me a styrofoam cup of coffee that trembled in my grasp. I did not drink it. The smell curdled something in my stomach, already rotting from the inside out.

I was four days clean. My hands twitched, my skin burned. There was a ringing in my ears loud enough to drown the world if I let it. Sleep had come only in fragments, short blackouts followed by gasping awakenings, certain that I was drowning. The noise inside was constant, like a siren rushing towards a disaster it would never reach. 

I thought about dying all the time.

A woman spoke at the front, although I could not follow what was being said. When she finished, someone handed her a small white coin with a gold stamp. One year.

Everyone clapped.

The sound startled me so profoundly, that  I bit the inside of my cheek, blood adding to the putrid taste in the back of my throat. 

When the group asked if there were any newcomers, I kept my hands still in my lap, folded tightly together. My nails dug crescent moons into my palms.

A girl with thinning hair and a butterfly tattoo on her collarbone spoke about waking up every morning wishing she had died. She spoke about her hatred and resentment of the world.

They clapped for her too. 

I had never witnessed anything like it.

As others spoke, I sat as still as I could manage, drawing each breath carefully. My heart pounded in my chest and echoed through my jaw, my teeth, the bones of my legs. Every muscle in my body ached. I did not trust myself to stand without collapsing or retching. I felt completely composed of filth and decay. I knew I did not belong here amongst these people who smiled and clapped for each other. 

At the end, someone read from a card. I did not absorb the words at the time, only the rhythm, like waves lapping at a dock, steady. I would come to know those words very well. 

After I struggled to my feet and turned to leave, someone placed a chip in my hand, even though I had not spoken. Blue plastic. Day One. 

The edges bit into my palm with each step, as I stumbled back to the car. 

On the drive home, I leaned my forehead against the window, the glass cold against my fevered skin, and I prayed for the first time in a long time. I am unsure who I prayed to. Perhaps to God. Perhaps to myself. Perhaps only to Michael, whose absence still filled all my empty spaces.

I made him a promise, in that quiet and shivering dark, that I would never use again. I promised that if his death was going to mean anything, it would be that I survived. That I lived on to remember him. That I carried his story forward so he would never be forgotten. In the hopes that sharing it might keep even just one person from dying while surrounded by love, but still unbearably lost. 

I do not know whether it was the right promise.

But I am still trying to keep it.”

*     *     *    *

“Every story has an ending, though rarely the one we expect. 

I used to believe that life could be neatly sorted into before and after. Before college. After college. Before Michael. After Michael. Before sobriety. After sobriety. But I have come to understand that life does not divide itself so precisely. Events in life are like fresh ink, bleeding, smearing, transferring, staining. Each page affecting the other. 

When I began to write this, I did so to make sense of all those melded experiences swimming around inside of me. I wanted to find language for the loneliness of childhood in a house that worshiped appearances and compliance, just as much as it worshiped God. For the years I spent carving myself into small spaces, slicing off any part that would not fit. For the first time someone touched me with kindness. For the first time I touched a needle to that same skin. 

There were years lost, I will never get them back. This is not a dramatic statement, it is not meant to elicit pity. It is a simple fact. There were birthdays I missed,  conversations I do not remember, friendships that dissolved, jobs I abandoned, bodies I collapsed inside without tenderness. I am not proud of what I did to get here.

But I made a promise to myself, shivering in the back row of that first meeting, unsure if I could make it to morning. If I could not save Michael, I would save myself. If I could not walk through life with him by my side, I would carry his name inside of my body.

I wish I could say that I have not touched heroin since the week I got clean. I have broken many promises, had many Day One’s. But I make new promises, and I do my very best to keep them. I am more successful than not. I have been clean and sober for three years as I am writing these pages.

Sobriety is not noble, and it is not graceful. It is not a cinematic finale played in slow motion to a swelling score. It is waking up and deciding, again and again, to try. It is brushing your teeth when you do not see the point. It is answering the phone when you would rather disappear. It is showing up to a room full of strangers and choosing to believe they might understand something about you. It is being willing to have as many Day One’s as is needed to get you to where you want to be. 

I have lived an entire second life in the years since I last used. I have built it brick by brick and I am proud of my life. I am proud of myself.

There are still days when the world is too loud, when my skin does not fit right. When I think of Michael and can not breathe. I imagine I will always carry that with me. 

But grief is not a chain shackled to your ankle, it is a shadow. It moves with you, but it does not control your steps. 

My shadow is a ball of razor wire lodged deep in my heart. It does not vanish with time. Rather, my heart has grown around it, widening the space it must travel before it can wound me. The strikes come less often now.

Time does not dull grief, despite the assurances so often offered. What alters is the heart itself, as moments of joy and love accumulate, lining its walls with layers of soft cotton. Gradually these layers build, and when the razors finally break through, the cuts they leave are not quite so deep.

Recovery is not the end of pain. It is simply the end of believing that the pain must ruin you.

If you are reading this, and you are in the middle of your own unraveling, I want you to know that you are not alone, even when it feels like you are. Even when you have burned every bridge. Even when your hands shake and your mind lies to you and you do not believe you deserve another chance. You do.

The world is not waiting for your perfection. It is waiting for your presence.

You are allowed to begin again.

And again. And again. And again. As many times as it takes.

This is not a story with a happy ending.

But it is a story with a beginning. Many beginnings.

And I am still here.

-C.J.N.

Chapter Text

People talk about secrets as if they are objects. These impossibly heavy things that we carry. But they are not only weight. They are an architecture within you, reshaping your posture, the sound of your voice. They press you inward, make you smaller, until even your joy learns to whisper. You edit your laughter, to fold yourself into the narrowest shape you can manage, until one day you forget what it feels like to stretch without fear. 

Some secrets are born of survival. Mine were. Mine still are. When you are raised to believe honesty is dangerous, that your true self is shameful, you learn to tell lies by omission. You nod and smile while saying nothing, even when your chest is full of fire. 

I have kept secrets that felt like poison, rotting me from the inside. I have worked hard to let them go. Although even now, after all the practice and unlearning, I sometimes miss them. They made me feel invincible, a shield and a castle all in one. Many days, being unseen still feels safer than being known. But you cannot be loved from a distance. Not really. And eventually, even the most carefully buried truth finds its way to the surface. Gasping, bloody, raw, yet still wanting to be held. To be honored. To be seen. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean woke up slowly. Way past sunrise. His brain was foggy, like it hadn’t quite caught up.

His face felt tight, stiff with dried tears. There was a faint dark spot on the pillow where his cheek had been.

He stayed like that for long moments, one arm flopped over his eyes. His chest ached like a bruise. 

Eventually, he hauled himself into the shower. Hot. Threw on sweatpants and a hoodie. Made coffee. Grabbed his laptop from under the tv. Sat down at the kitchen table.

Dean hesitated, fingers hovering.

Then he typed: “ C.J.N. author memoir Beyond the Closet Door”

Dozens of links popped up. A few interviews, mostly text-based. Reviews on book blogs. A featured article in some Narcotics Anonymous recovery newsletter. He clicked through them, scanning for details. Photos. Age. Background. Anything that might put a face to the voice he felt like he knew.

There wasn’t much.

No Instagram. No Facebook. No Twitter. No TikTok. Not even a damn Goodreads profile.

For a published author, that felt off. Weird. Frustrating.

He leaned back in his chair, chewing a thumbnail, eyes locked on the screen like he could force more information to appear if he stared hard enough. He backed out of the tabs and tried again: “C.J.N. author biography” then “C.J.N. author video interviews” then “C.J.N. author real name”

Same handful of quotes. Same book reviews. Same articles. 

Nothing.

He thought about how he found the book and typed: “The Book Nook Lawrence Kansas author display C.J.N.”

The first result was the store’s homepage. He clicked through, scrolling past staff picks and winter sales…until a banner stopped him cold.

UPCOMING EVENT: Meet the Author
Join us for a rare, intimate in-person Q&A with memoirist C.J.N. This will be the author’s first public appearance and discussion of his bestselling memoir, Beyond the Closet Door. This exclusive event will have a limited number of seats. Book Now. 

NOTE: PHONES OR OTHER RECORDING DEVICES WILL NOT BE PERMITTED

Dean stared at the words.

Then stared harder.

The date was next weekend.

He read it again. Once. Twice. His heart kicked higher each time.

He clicked to reserve a seat.

And when the confirmation page loaded, he just sat there. Breathing. Waiting for his hands to stop shaking. 

*    *    *    *

The morning of the event was gray and cold. Dean woke up before his alarm. 

He didn’t know why he was nervous. Okay, maybe he did.

He got up and moved through his morning routine. Brushed his teeth. Shaved. Stood under the shower too long. None of it helped. He spent most of the day scrolling channels on the tv, never quite settling on anything. 

As evening approached, he pulled an index card out from the junk drawer, and sat at the kitchen table. He went through three index cards before he was happy with his short list of questions. Not that he was planning on actually asking them. He couldn’t imagine standing before C.J.N. and actually speaking to him. And having him speak back. Naw. But he slipped the index card into his coat pocket, hanging by the door, anyway. Just in case. He snatched Beyond the Closet Door and stuffed it into his other pocket.

Dean dressed slowly, going through two shirts before settling on a black t-shirt with a blue flannel over the top, rolled at the sleeves, like Charlie said looked good. He tugged at the hem in the mirror, frowned. Pulled on a clean pair of jeans. Ran a hand through his hair to settle it.

He looked okay. 

He grabbed his keys, paused by the door, checked the mirror one more time. His stomach flipped.

What if he cried?

The thought came out of nowhere. Even now, just thinking about certain pages made his throat go tight. What if the author read something out loud, said something that made him cry? In public, no less. Dean was going to have to keep a firm grip on his emotions tonight. No way is he gonna humiliate himself, especially not in the middle of Cas’s bookstore. 

Cas.

Oh god, what if Cas was there?

Worse, what if Cas saw him?

Dean winced, rubbed the back of his neck. That’d be brutal. Maybe Cas wouldn’t be there? No, he owned the damn place, he’d be there. 

Do only gay people attend events for gay authors? What will Cas think if…no, when he sees Dean there? How will he explain why he is at a Q&A for the book he bought his “friend”? Especially when he wasn’t bringing said imaginary friend. Especially when the image of Cas scooting away from him on the damn fountain was seared into his stupid brain. Why were things always so hard?

He turned away from the mirror, and slipped his boots on. Get it together, man. He wasn’t about to miss this thing just ‘cause he was being a pussy. Just don’t think about it. Yeah. Wing it. Perfect. 

Still, before walking out the door, he grabbed a pack of tissues from the junk drawer and shoved it into the inside pocket of his coat, snug against his card of questions.

Just in case.

*    *    *    *

Dean parked two blocks from The Book Nook, checked the time on his phone, then shoved it back into his coat pocket with slightly sweaty palms. He’d left too early so he wouldn’t risk being late. Now he just had too much time. And too many nerves.

He sat in the car, fidgeting for a few painful minutes. Finally, ten minutes to go, he got out. His boots thudded on the sidewalk under the streetlights.

He rounded the corner, eyes glued to the bookstore. There were a few people mingling outside, and the door was propped open, despite the frigid wind. In the window, a display of Beyond the Closet Door copies stood open to different pages.

He nodded at the few lurkers as he passed, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. The place looked mostly the same. But today there were rows of folding chairs facing a little platform in the back. 

His heart pounded.

“Dean?”

Cas. 

Fuck. That was fast.

He turned. Cas was behind the counter. Sleeves wrinkled, shadows under his eyes, hair sticking up like he’d been dragging his hands through it for the last hour. He looked…well, honestly? Like hell. 

“What are you doing here?” Cas asked, eyes wide, blinking fast.

Shit. “Oh, I was just walking by. Looks like there’s an event?” Dean winced. Hated himself.

Cas’s gaze flicked to the platform. “Yes.”

Dean looked at him. Really looked. Thought about Charlie, about his mom. Thought about the book. How brave C.J.N. was. How he went through more shit than Dean could even dream up, and yet, told everyone, everyone , who he truly was. 

“Actually,” Dean said, sweat dripping down his spine despite the chill, voice rough. “I’m here for the event.”

Cas stared, his mouth opening and shutting with no words. 

Oh god, this is it. This is the moment that Cas drops him. 

Cas’s brow furrowed. “Did you actually read it? This... this book?”

“I did.”

“You said it was for a friend.”

“I lied.”

Silence. Horrible, horrible silence. 

Dean continued, unable to make eye contact. "I…yeah, I connected with him. The author. What he wrote. Because…”

Cas didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Dean swallowed. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and pushed his thumb hard against the edge of the memoir.

“Because, I’m…” He closed his eyes. Fought for it. 

He tried to pull strength from the book, like it could run through his hands and shove the words out of his mouth.

“I’m gay,” he blurted. “So, yeah. That’s...that’s a thing. That I am. And I read it. The book. And I’m here. And yeah.”

His voice shook halfway through, but he couldn’t stop talking, because if he stopped, Cas would start, and he couldn’t handle that. Wasn’t ready to hear it.

His face was burning. Heart thudding. Ears ringing. 

Cas just watched him. Quiet. Eyes wide. Shocked, maybe. Or not. He couldn’t tell.

Dean cleared his throat. It sounded ragged.

“Anyway. I should grab a seat. Didn’t mean to dump that on you.”

He turned toward the rows of chairs. Didn’t look back. Jaw clenched, hands fists at his sides.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He slid into a seat near the middle. Not too close to the front, but not so far back he couldn’t see C.J.N’s face clearly. Which was suddenly important to him.

Because he’d just come out. Again. For the third time. And Cas isn’t going to want to hang out with him anymore. That fucking sucks. He viscerally remembered the feeling of Cas ripping his hand out of Dean’s grasp. He probably wouldn’t have even let Dean warm his hand in the first place, if he had known Dean was gay then. 

Around him, people murmured, flipping through dog-eared copies of the book. The woman next to him had a little notebook open already, clicking a pen over and over again. Dean tried not to scream.

Up front, a single mic stood on the low platform. He laced his fingers together in his lap and stared at it. The lights dimmed, just a little. A speaker near the ceiling crackled.

“Thank you all for coming,” a familiar female voice said. “We’ll begin shortly. As a reminder, no phones or recording devices are permitted. Please turn off your cell phones now.”

He powered off his phone, and took a breath. Slow. Tried to ground himself.

Don’t think of Cas. Don’t turn around. Don’t think of Cas. Don’t turn around. Don’t think of-

Cas???

Dean blinked. 

The man himself walked into view with his head held high towards the single chair and microphone. 

He sat down.

Dean frowned. Maybe Cas was just introducing the author. Maybe he was hosting the event. He owned the store. Probably had some kind of hosting duties, right? Maybe C.J.N. was backstage, sipping water, waiting for his cue.

Cas adjusted the mic. Eyes scanned the crowd. 

He looked calm. Despite his rumpled clothes and insane hair. But Dean caught the small flex of his jaw. The twitch of his fingers as he smoothed a wrinkle in his pants over and over. 

He looked tired. Still so damn handsome. 

Dean swallowed hard. Cas leaned forward toward the mic, and his stomach did a slow, uneasy roll.

Something was off. Something was happening. 

Then Cas spoke.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was gravely but steady, just loud enough to carry. “My name is Castiel Novak. Some of you know me as the owner of The Book Nook. And if you are here this evening, you will now know me as C.J.N.”

Dean’s breath caught halfway in. 

No. No, no. That wasn’t-

But Cas’s voice kept going, steady through the small speakers. Like he hadn’t just exploded everything.

“This is the first time I have spoken publicly about my memoir. I have spent years thinking I never would. I never wanted to. I had hoped the words I had written were enough.”

Dean couldn’t breathe.

He sat there frozen. Jaw slack. Staring at the man on stage. The one who had poured his whole soul into pages Dean had held in shaking hands. The voice he heard in his head for days. The one he’d just come out to five minutes ago.

It was him.

It had always been him.

Everything inside Dean went dead silent. Like someone had hit a kill switch. His pulse slammed through his ears. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

He felt exposed. Like somehow, he had just taken the stage.

And Cas - no, C.J.N. - had known all along.

Dean blinked hard. Gripped his jeans with sweat slick hands.

Cas kept talking, but it was all underwater now. Then Cas’s gaze swept the room and landed on him.

Dean flinched. 

Cas faltered. It was a tiny pause, but he caught it.

Their eyes locked.

His stomach twisted. Heat bloomed in his neck, crawled up behind his ears. 

Cas knew. 

He knew .

And Dean knew it too. There was no dodging it now. No maybe. No pretending.

The man who’d written the most soul-crushing book Dean had ever touched was the same one he’d just stood in front of and said, I’m gay.

Dean looked away before Cas did.

His hands shook. Bad. He forced a breath in, but his chest was locked up tight. He was going to cry. Or puke. Or pass the hell out.

Maybe all three.

Around him, people shifted, leaned in, started asking questions. But Dean couldn’t hear them. Just the ringing in his ears. And his own voice from earlier, bouncing around in his skull.

He wanted to disappear.

His fingers dipped into his coat pocket, brushing the index card. He crumpled it in his fist. Hard. The edges bit into his palm, sharp and stupid. He didn’t look at it.

An older man stood and asked something. The mic picked up his voice, rough. Dean didn’t catch a word.

This means Cas is gay. Holy shit. Cas is gay. 

Who the hell was Anna then?

And an addict. Fuck. Cas went through all that shit. That was Cas . Not some anonymous writer. Not some stranger. It was him .

And that means…he knew. That question over lunch. Cas bringing up the book, so casually.

Maybe it was a game.

Maybe he was laughing at him.

Maybe the whole damn thing was a joke.

Dean’s stomach turned. His skin burned with shame.

And shit…he’d come out to him. To him. He must think Dean is so pathetic. After everything Cas had been through, to watch Dean struggle to even speak. How embarrassing. 

He was gonna be sick. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk anyone looking. Couldn’t be the guy who ran out. So he stayed.

Perfectly still. Listening. Hurting.

And trying so damn hard not to fall apart in front of a room full of strangers.

Eventually, the Q&A ended. Applause broke out. Chairs scraped. People stood, grabbed coats, murmured their way toward the exit.

Dean stood too. Head down. Eyes locked on the back door. If he moved quickly, maybe he’d never have to see Cas again. He could just slip out the door and put this whole fiasco behind him. 

He was almost there when he heard it.

"Dean?"

He froze.

Cas.

Fuck.

Dean turned slightly, enough to see him pushing through the small crowd. 

“Hello,” Cas said when he got close. “I just,” he paused, clearing his throat. “I wanted to say that I understand if you do not want to…” He stopped. Took a breath. “I was not expecting you to…” Paused again, and dropped eye contact. “Thank you for coming.”

Dean’s throat felt scraped raw.

He couldn’t do this.

Couldn’t stand here and hear that voice again. Not now. Not with all that book still in his chest.

So he nodded. Barely.

Didn’t look him in the eye.

“Yeah. Sure.”

And then he turned.

And walked out.

Chapter Text

I never knew anger could be quiet. I grew up with slammed doors, raised voices through gritted teeth, bruises hidden beneath sleeves. But I have since learned that anger can simmer. It can whisper. Anger can sit with you in the shower. Anger can hold your hand as you drive. Anger can slip inside your chest in the space between one heartbeat and the next. But there is a difference between anger and cruelty. A difference my father never understood. I have a right to be angry. Angry at those who rejected me. Angry at the systems that swallowed me whole. Angry at the timid boy I used to be. Angry at the man I became, who still looks for motive in every kindness. 

But I do not let my anger rot me. I do not carry it like a weapon, lashing out at those who dare get too close. Instead, I choose to write it down. Give it shape. Name it. And then I let it go. I let it go again and again and again, with the knowledge that there is always more anger ready to take its place. And then I let it go again. 

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

By the time Dean made it back to the car, his chest was too tight to breathe. His head pounded. He sat behind the wheel with the door still open for a minute, just catching his breath, forehead resting against the backs of his fingers. The street outside was quiet, a few leaves tumbling along the sidewalk in lazy spirals. Laughter drifted up from down the block. He flinched, slammed the door.

The drive home was a blur. He powered his phone back on, but didn’t turn on the radio. Didn’t crack a window. Just gripped the wheel tight.

At home, he dropped his keys on the table. Stepped out of his boots without untying them. Coat hit the back of the couch and stayed there.

He didn’t sit. Pacing felt better. He dragged a hand down his face. Tried to stop the loop in his brain.

Cas at the mic. Cas looking right at him.

And Dean. Sitting there like a goddamn idiot.

How had he not known? He’d read every word of that book. How the hell hadn’t he seen it? 

Cas must be a talented manipulator. Never telling him. Not ever opening up enough for Dean to even get a glimpse of his past. 

Or had Dean not asked? He couldn’t remember any questions he asked Cas when they hung out. How self-centered is he, that he didn’t even ask Cas about his family. And yet rambled on and on about Sam. 

He dropped onto the couch, elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Dean stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Letting it ache. Hating Cas. Hating himself most of all. 

Eventually, he lay down. How the hell was he supposed to get over this?

His phone buzzed.

He shifted, cracked one eye open, grabbed it.

The screen lit up.

CASTIEL: Hello.

He stared at it in disbelief. Hell no. 

Buzz.

CASTIEL: I did not expect you to be there. And I understand why you left, now that you know. I just wanted to say that I accept that our friendship will not be continuing, and I did not want you to feel guilty about that.

Good, why would he want to be friends with a liar? Someone who deceived him, right to his face. Who manipulated Dean until he felt safe enough to come out to the guy. Oh god, he really had come out to Cas tonight. He had let his guard down. Let C.J.N. in. Let Cas in. Apparently one and the same. He felt anger rise up in his chest. Fuck this guy. 

DEAN : So what, you just forgot to tell me you wrote the memoir you sold me? You even asked me about your damn book, and let me talk about it. All that time, you knew. You mustv’e been pretty pleased with yourself.

CASTIEL: I did not know you had read it, Dean. You said it was for a friend. I hoped you had not read it. I did not lie. And even if you did read it, I never planned on you knowing I wrote it.

Dean scoffed. 

DEAN: That’s exactly what I’m saying. Omitting the truth’s still lying. I looked you in the eye and told you how impactful it was for me. And you just sat there.

CASTIEL: No, you told me how much it meant to your friend. I did not know you read it. Not until you showed up tonight. 

DEAN : Yeah? Another great moment to come clean. But you just stood there. I trusted you, Cas. I fucking came out to you. You know what a big deal that is for me?

CASTIEL: Are you not openly out?

Dean felt sick.

DEAN: Fuck you, man.

CASTIEL: I did not know, I am sorry. And I should have told you as soon as you walked in. I froze. I did not know how to say it. I never meant for you to find out. I did not want anyone to find out. Not at all, and I know you will never look at me the same. 

Dean clenched the phone tighter.

DEAN: Yeah, because you tricked me. Sure, a great way for no one to find out is to do a fucking public interview. Makes sense. What was this? Some kind of game? 

CASTIEL: No. Tonight was not even my idea. I was just trying to keep things simple with you. I thought I could just be around you, without it being about that. Then you showed up tonight, and you said what you said, and I panicked.

Dean didn’t reply right away. 

He leaned back into the couch, breathing hard through his nose.

Another buzz.

CASTIEL: Can we talk? In person. Just talk. Please.

Dean stared at the screen. Every part of him screamed no. Absolutely not. He went to send that, but what came out was:

DEAN: Fine. Come here.

The reply came almost immediately.

CASTIEL: I am on my way.

*    *    *    *

Dean was already standing in the kitchen, twisting the cap off a bottle of whiskey.

He poured two fingers into a cold glass, the scent sharp. He didn’t drink it. Kept raising it to his lips and setting it back down. 

The knock came fifteen minutes later.

He opened the door without a word. Stepped back.

Cas walked in, quiet, composed. He shut the door behind him without comment.

Dean didn’t offer a seat.

Instead, he leaned back against the kitchen counter and tipped the rim of his glass toward the bottle.

“You good with this here, or is this the part where I hide the liquor?” His tone was flat. Intentionally cruel. He knew it wasn’t fair and didn’t care. 

Cas squeezed his eyes shut for a quick moment. Then shook his head. 

"It is fine, I can handle it."

Dean set the glass down hard enough to clink against the counter, liquid inside untouched.

“Of course you can,” the words snapped out. He let out a humorless laugh and pushed off the counter. He paced a few steps and turned, arms crossed over his chest. He was just so damn embarrassed. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, man.” His voice cracked a little there. He swallowed it down.

Cas took a slow breath. “I did not know how to tell you,” he said. “I honestly did not expect you to read it. I thought if I stayed silent, maybe I could just-” he faltered a second, then, “just be someone to you. Not my past. Just… me. I wanted a clean slate with you. Is that so terrible?” 

Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Well, congrats,” he said, voice rough. “That worked out great.” He turned away and into the living room before he could say anything else. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. Cas followed.

“I did not know how to be both people at once. I did not want to. No one in my real life needs to know those things about me. No one does, other than Meg. Not until tonight anyway.”

Dean clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue. Couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Cas took a step closer. 

“I am sorry,” he said. “But you were not honest with me either, Dean. You told me it was not you who read the book. And I was relieved.”

Dean’s head snapped up. “Oh, that’s rich,” his voice low and hot. “Pot meet kettle, right?”

“I did not lie.”

“You didn’t say anything ,” Dean snapped.

The calm cracked.

“You never asked, Dean!” Cas’s voice pitched loud. He threw his hands up. “You did not want to know the real me. And I did not want you to either. You know what? This right here is exactly why I do not do this. Why I stick to people who never ask for more than I can give.” 

Cas stepped forward, into his personal space. Dean took a step back, eyes wide.

“You think I enjoy living like this? You think I enjoy keeping this a secret? I wish I never wrote the cursed thing!” he continued, eye blazing. 

Dean opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“I lost someone, Dean. You read that. You know . And it was my fault. I did that. And ever since, I am just…” he gasped in a breath, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, “trying not to hurt anyone else. Why do you think I moved here, Dean? I wanted to start over. Do I not deserve a second chance?” 

Dean just stood there, gaping.

“Then you showed up.” Cas continued, angrily wiping at his eyes. “And you did not know who I was. Just some guy. And I liked it. Liked talking to you like I was normal. But I should have known this moment would come. The one where you would look at me differently. Like you are right now.”

Dean didn’t move. Cas shook his head.

 “You want to be mad at me? Fine. I can take it. I have gone through so much worse than your disdain, Dean.” he said, shaking his head. 

“Do you have any idea,” he continued, through his teeth, “what it feels like to stand across from someone you want, someone you care for far more than you should, knowing he has read every exposed, broken piece of you? Pieces you never wanted him to know? And still hoping, irrationally, that he might see you and want you anyway? Despite knowing that is not possible. Knowing it was always going to end up like this.”

Dean’s breath caught.

Wait.

Had Cas just said…

Castiel cares for him? Wants him?

Did he really just say that?

Cas likes him. Actually likes him. And Cas is gay. And Cas wants Dean to want him back.

He stared, stunned silent, while Cas kept going, face red.

“I knew it was a risk doing that Q&A. I knew I should have stayed anonymous. That is why I do not do public readings. I do not owe you every single piece of my soul, Dean. I wrote that memoir for me! Not you! Me!” He was yelling now, tears trickling down his face. “You will never understand.” He shook his head, letting them fall. “Meg convinced me to do it. She said that it would be brave. I knew better.”

He fell suddenly silent, shoulders slumped, and closed his eyes. Dean stared. Cas started breathing slowly, exaggeratedly so, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Dean found himself following along. In and out. In and out. In and out.

They met each other’s eyes at the same time. “I understand that you see me differently now.” Cas said quietly. “I do not blame you for not wanting to continue our friendship. But I do want you to know that I did not mean to hurt you.” All traces of anger were gone. The only redness left in his cheeks was from tears, not rage. 

Dean deflated, “Yeah? Well, you did.”

Cas’s voice dropped even lower. “I am sorry.”

Dean stared at him for a beat. Then, “Yeah. Me too.”

They stared at each other.

The room was filled with the sound of their breathing.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them spoke.

Dean’s chest rose and fell, his mouth slightly open, still catching his breath. Cas looked like he was trying not to shake, fists clenched at his sides.

Dean moved first.

Three steps. That’s all it took.

Then he was there.

He grabbed the front of Cas's shirt in one rough, stupidly desperate motion, and kissed him.

Chapter Text

I once thought intimacy was measured in the shedding of clothes. In the mapping of another person’s skin, and to be mapped in turn. I believed it began with the undoing of buttons and ended when the lights returned. That was before I learned how easily the body can be offered without the soul, how one can be naked and still remain completely hidden.

I understand it differently now. Intimacy comes quietly, on the days when you are reduced to your most unpresentable self. It is having your hair held back as you are sick. It is the blanket placed over your shoulders without comment. It is the hand that steadies you when you have no strength left to steady yourself. It is nearness that makes no demands, companionship that requires nothing in return.

Intimacy is the presence that does not shift toward the door, the gaze that does not turn away. It is the willingness to remain when the story has grown difficult, when the light has gone out, and there is nothing left to offer but staying. So you stay.

- Excerpt from Beyond the Closet Door by C.J.N.

Dean’s lips slammed into Cas’s with all the frustration and yearning he’d been choking down for weeks.

He kissed Cas like he had never kissed anyone before, and it took half a second before he realized Cas wasn’t kissing back. Cas was frozen. He was pulling back, one shaking hand at his mouth, the other pressing against Dean’s chest, holding them apart.

Dean stared, panting, his stomach bottoming out, eyes wild. Mortification burned hot up his throat. Shit. Shit. Shit. What had he just done?

Cas’s voice cracked, desperate. “I thought Alfie held your affections.” His fingers pushed harder at Dean’s chest.

Dean blinked, brain stalling out. “What?”

“You and Alfie…are you not together?”

“What the hell? No.” Dean’s voice was too loud in the sudden quiet. “Why would you think that?”

Cas faltered, eyes darting toward the door. “I thought - ”

Dean cut him off, hand raised. “You know what? I don’t care right now.” His breath shook on the way out. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Yes,” Cas answered without hesitation. “Are you still upset with me?”

“Yeah,” a long pause. “Do you still…want me?”

Silence. Cas hesitated. Ouch. Ouch, ouch. 

His eyes flicked to the door again. Dean’s chest clenched, panic clawing at him. He took a step back, cold air slipping between them, giving Cas room to bolt.

Cas’s hand dropped away.

Dean’s pulse pounded in his ears. This man. This frustratingly closed-off man. The one he’d wanted since the moment he first walked into his shop. The one whose words he’d held in his hands, read until his heart hurt. The man who was both of those things at once, standing here, right in front of him. Cas and C.J.N. His throat felt tight. If Cas walked away now, he wasn’t sure he’d recover.

Cas worried his bottom lip, eyes fixed on the floor.

He’d screwed this up. Misunderstood. Again. Of course he had. He tipped his head, desperate, trying to catch Cas’s eyes.

Looking up, Cas met his gaze. His eyes were wide, breath quick. Wound tight. About to snap. About to take action. About to run.

He grabbed Dean’s collar and yanked him back in, their mouths colliding hard. Dean let out a surprised grunt.

“I do want you,” Cas breathed against his lips. “Of course I want you.”

Dizzy with relief, Dean was already kissing him back. “Good,” he managed between breaths. “Then tell me about Alfie later.”

Lips pressed, heat surged, wiping everything else out. Cas’s fists bunched tight in Dean’s shirt, seams straining, dragging Dean closer until they were chest to chest. His scruff scraped Dean’s jaw with every shift, the grit of it sparking against his skin. The weight of him, the sheer solid press, made Dean’s head spin.

It had been years since he had kissed a man. This kiss was nothing like that.

They stumbled, Dean’s back slamming into the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. Cas followed, pressing in, one hand gripping his waist. Their breaths melded, every inhale pulling from the other’s lungs. 

Tilting his head, Cas’s tongue pressed for entrance. Dean opened for him, and the low guttural groan that came out of Cas vibrated right against his mouth, and holy hell, it went straight down his spine.

Cas slid his hands down Dean’s arms, gentle enough Dean thought he was about to lace their fingers. Instead, Cas gripped his wrists, firm, raising them inch by inch until they hit the wall above his head. Holy shit.

Dean’s back arched into it, chest pushing against Cas’s. The hold was solid, fingers digging in, keeping him there. Dean’s muscles flexed, pushing back against the grip, testing it. For a second he thought he might break free…then Cas shoved his wrists back to the wall, harder, holding him down like it was nothing. Cas growled into the following kiss.

Dean’s breath left him in a rush. Jesus. Cas was strong. Stronger than he looked. A shiver ran hot through him, half shock, half want.

Fuck yeah.

He could escape the hold if he really wanted to. But he abso-fucking-lutely didn’t want to. Dean’s tongue slid against Cas’s, sending zaps of electricity from his mouth directly to his rapidly filling cock. He curled a leg around Cas’s calf, dragging him closer, like closer was even possible. And then, yeah, there it was. The hot line of Cas’s erection was riding against his hip, and the sensation tore a rough sound out of him. Dean let his head thunk back against the wall. 

God, this is real. This is Cas. This is C.J.N. touching him in ways he had fantasized about for weeks . And Dean? Dean was kissing a man. And he had never been more sure of anything in his life. He kept waiting for the panic to rise. But it didn’t. He kept waiting for John to show up. But he didn't. Everything faded away under Cas’s soft lips. 

Not wasting a second, Cas’s mouth blazed a trail down Dean’s throat. His teeth grazed over Dean’s pulse, before his tongue flicked out to taste his skin. The sensations were overwhelming. 

“Let me touch you, I need to touch you,” Dean panted, straining against his firm grip.

Cas dragged his lips over his collarbone, slow, before lifting his head again. His eyes burned through Dean’s, his breath ragged. 

“Say please,” he rumbled, voice gravel. “Use your manners, Dean.”

Fuuuuuck.

He could get on board with this.

“Please.” Dean begged, not caring at all how desperate he sounded. He leaned forwards again, trying to capture Cas’s lips, but he held himself just out of Dean’s reach. 

Cas released his wrists gradually, as though reluctant to give them back, then leaned in and caught Dean’s lower lip between his teeth, tugging gently.

Dean all but collapsed into him, hungry and reckless, devouring his mouth again. His freed hands went straight to Cas’s hips, sharp under his palms. He shoved Cas’s shirt up, underneath his jacket, desperate for more, and finally, finally , his fingers met bare skin. Heat and softness above the waistband, skin he’d imagined countless times, but never thought he’d actually get to touch.

Dean’s chest ached with it, his whole body trembling. Bliss. This is what bliss felt like. He never thought kissing could feel like this. 

One hand traced the line of Cas’s belt, along his skin, the other stroking softly over his jaw. The kiss softened and Dean melted into it. Cas caressed the back of his neck, strong fingers carding through the soft hair at his nape. He shivered. He wanted to take Cas to bed, but didn’t actually know what the hell he was doing. 

Communication, come on, Winchester. Nut up. Not being honest was what got them into the mess in the first place. 

Breaking the kiss, he met Cas’s sharp gaze. “You sure you want this, man? Because I kinda wanna go to my room with you.”

Cas’s eyes flashed, pupils blown. He grabbed Dean’s hand and pressed it firmly against his erection. Dean’s mouth dropped open as he cupped him, fingers tracing the bulge.

“Can you feel how much I want that, Dean?”

“Yeah…yeah, okay.” 

Dean pushed off of the wall, taking his hand. They didn’t stop kissing as they made their way down the hallway. Cas’s shoulder hit a picture frame, Dean banged his knee on the wall.

They stumbled into the room, and Dean slammed the door shut behind him. They hit the bed in a messy sprawl. 

Dean landed first, bouncing back against the sheets, Cas following close behind, a knee braced between his thighs. The mattress creaked under their weight. Cas was on him, pressed chest to chest, their hips slotted together. Even through his jeans, it was all heat and pressure, pulling out a gasp. His fingers clutched at Cas’s shoulders, holding tight. Cas made the most incredible sounds, low and wrecked, and buried his face in Dean’s neck. His breath was hot, ragged, teeth grazing skin. Dean rocked up into him, hips searching, chasing, greedy for the friction.

He fumbled with Cas’s jacket, shoving it down over his shoulders. His hands weren’t steady, and that pissed him off. He was going to screw this up, wasn’t he? His thoughts threatened to spiral. 

But then Cas groaned right into Dean’s throat and pressed down harder, and all he could do was cry out. He tossed the jacket somewhere in the room. Cas was here. With him. Wanting him back. Every part of him said so. His hands in Dean’s hair, his hips rolling in a slow, devastating rhythm, the soft sounds catching in his throat like he was barely holding it together too.

Dean’s hands slid up under Cas’s shirt, palms dragging over warm skin. Cas shivered under his touch. 

Dragging in a shaky breath, Dean said, “tell me if I do anything wrong.”

Cas pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were shining, lips kiss-bitten, hair a wreck. His voice was hoarse when he answered.

“There is nothing you could do that would be wrong here. But afterward, Dean, we must have a conversation.”

He nodded and ran his hands down Cas’s chest. They trembled as he slipped them under the hem and started to pull up. Cas lay a gentle hand over his, stopping him.

“We will only go as far as you wish,” he said. “This alone is enough for me.”

Dean swallowed, throat dry, lips still tingling from Cas’s mouth. “Okay, yeah. I want this,” he rasped. “I want you . Let’s just…take it slow, okay? I’m…” He exhaled sharply. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here.”

Cas gave a small, quiet nod and leaned in again, kissing Dean slow and careful, like they had all the time in the world. 

“Will you allow me to show you?”

“God, yes,” he exhaled. And then, remembering earlier, tacked on, "Please.”

Cas gave a small, wicked smile and rolled his hips, a grind that made Dean’s stomach clench. He let his head fall back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, low sounds spilling from his throat. Cas mouthed along his jaw, breath hot against skin, then scraped his teeth lightly through the stubble before nipping just beneath his ear. 

“Good b-” Cas paused, a ragged breath. “Good.”

The rhythm quickened, friction relentless as their hips aligned just right, the pressure hitting that sweet, maddening edge. Dean bucked up hard, chasing it, lost in the overwhelming want.

Cas’s hands slid down his sides, fingertips grazing sensitive skin. He hooked into the hem of Dean’s shirt and paused.

“Would you allow me to remove your shirt?”

Dean nodded fast, and sat up so it could be slipped over his head, the cool air pebbling his nipples. He reached for Cas’s shirt again, eyebrows raised in silent question. Cas nodded and Dean pulled his shirt off too, grazing the backs of his fingers along his ribs. He was all tan skin and lean muscle, and Dean had never seen anything hotter. He wanted to trace those abs with his tongue.

Cas ran his hands over Dean’s exposed chest and stomach. A small smile came over his face. 

“You are beautiful,” he said simply. As if it was just a fact. 

Dean blushed, muttering, “You should see yourself, dude.”

Cas paused. “Not dude .”

“No?” Dean chuckled. “What should I call you then?” he asked playfully.

Cas’s eyes darkened and he wet his lips. He scanned over Dean’s face with hunger, and Dean’s laughter faded away. Cas opened his mouth, as if he was about to speak, but then shut it again.

He shook himself out of what seemed to be almost a daze. “I apologize, call me whatever makes you comfortable,” he said, somewhat stiffly. 

Dean frowned, feeling the energy shift. “Hey, it’s okay, no dude . I like Cas just fine. You good? Still on board with…” he gestured between their bodies, “this?”

“Absolutely.” Cas said and leaned down to kiss him again, pushing him back into the cushion. He traced the lines of Dean’s stomach muscles, before dipping lower, cupping him through his jeans. His hips jerked forwards as Cas’s fingers squeezed him. 

“May I remove your pants?”

“Yeah, yours too.” Dean said, tugging at Cas’s belt. 

Knocking his hands away, Cas buried his face into Dean’s chest. He kissed along his collarbone, and down to a nipple. Sucking it into his mouth, he teased with his teeth. Dean shuttered and threw his head back. 

“Fuck, Cas, your mouth…”

He could feel Cas smile against his skin as he moved across to his other nipple, giving it the same treatment. He kissed down the center of his chest, pausing to lick and nibble, until he reached the top of Dean’s jeans. 

Looking up at him, Cas checked again, “Yes?”

“Yeah.”

Cas sat up and popped the button with nimble fingers. Lowered the zipper and tugged Dean’s jeans down over his obscenely tented boxers. He kissed the V of Dean’s hips, ignoring where Dean really wanted those lips, and kissed down each leg as more skin was exposed. He ran his tongue along the inside of Dean’s knee. When he reached his feet, he folded the jeans, folded them, and set them on the ground beside the bed.

Cas turned his attention back to his feet, and Dean squirmed, raising a hand. “Nuh uh, leave my feet alone, I’m ticklish.” Cas actually looked disappointed and Dean couldn’t help but laugh. 

Cas slipped his own pants off, pulling harder over his thick thighs. Jesus, those thighs. He folded his pants neatly beside Deans. He fished around for their shirts, folded those too, and added them to their respective piles. 

“You done OCDing down there? Get back up here.” 

He climbed gracefully back onto the bed and hovered over Dean, his arm muscles bunching as he bracketed Dean’s face. Dean snaked his arms around his neck and pulled him down, both men groaning as the skin of their bare chests touched. Dean’s erection was trapped between their stomachs and he could feel the heat of Cas’s cock aligned with his, through the thin fabric of their boxers. 

“You feel so good,” Dean murmured as he writhed around, lost in the sensation of skin on skin. Cas kissed him open-mouthed, before pulling back.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Dean hesitated. “I mean, yeah I guess, just…just don’t lie to me anymore.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “I promise.” He hesitated, then continued, “It may be necessary that we have that conversation before we proceed. I want you to feel at ease, and if you do not trust me-”

“Don’t you dare stop now,” Dean interrupted, almost panicked. “We can talk after, okay? I trust you, I trust you, just don’t stop.”

Cas was quiet for a moment, before he nodded. He slipped his fingers under the band of Dean’s boxers, fingertips brushing the smattering of hair beneath. 

“Can I take these off as well?”

Dean took a deep breath. It was now or never. “Yeah, go for it.” 

Cas dragged the fabric down, the band catching on Dean’s cock, before freeing it to smack his belly, smearing precum along his skin. He was achingly hard, and almost pulsing with need. He could feel his cock throb with every heartbeat. 

Squirming, Dean pushed at Cas’s boxers with the tips of his fingers. Cas watched his face a moment longer before slipping them off too. Cas sat back on his heels, cock bobbing. Dean licked his lips. It was gorgeous. Maybe just a little shorter than his own, but thick and uncut, the head just peaking out from the smooth foreskin, a small pearl of precum at the tip. He wanted to suck Cas’s dick. That thought should scare him, but it really didn’t. 

Cas captured his mouth again in a searing kiss, while pushing his cock along Dean’s hip, hard and hot. When their bare cocks rubbed against each other, they both cried out. Cas slipped his hand between their bodies and closed his fist around both of them together. 

He had never felt anything like it. He could feel his copious precum slicking the way as his cockhead caught and bumped on Cas’s. He didn’t realize he was thrashing and babbling, until Cas shushed him, murmuring nonsense against his lips.

He gasped in big lungfuls of air, as he thrust up into Cas’s deliciously warm and slick fist. He could feel Cas’s cock pulsing and throbbing beside his own. 

“Would you like to touch us?” Cas’s voice was low and soft, trying to catch his breath. 

Dean licked his suddenly dry lips. He had never actually touched another man’s dick before. What if he hated how it felt? Dirty, bad, wrong, flashed through his mind. 

Cas sensed his hesitation. “Just in the same manner you touch yourself when alone.”

He nodded slowly, and slipped his hand down to find their aching cocks as soon as Cas removed his hand. He gripped them together and rolled them slightly in his palm, just to savor the sensation of his cock sliding against another. Well, hating how Cas’s dick felt in his hands wasn’t going to be an issue. Gripping tighter he began to clumsily stroke them. 

Cas groaned loudly. Dean realized he would do anything in his power to make him make that sound as often as possible. 

The air filled with the slick sound of flesh on flesh, gasping breaths, and wet tongues sliding against each other, as Dean jerked them off. 

Cas was murmuring his name over and over, until it started to sound more insistent. 

“Dean, Dean, Dean , you must stop.”

Lost in sensation he gave a few more strokes before Cas shuttered and knocked his hand away. 

“I do not want to come yet.” Cas paused, catching his breath. “Would you allow me to taste you?”

“Man, if you do that, then I’m gonna come.”

He hummed and met his gaze. “That is my goal.”

Jesus. 

“O-okay, yeah.” Dean said, eyes wide. He looked down as Cas lowered himself between his thighs, throbbing erection blocking part of his view. Cas licked his lips, staring as Dean’s dick gave an involuntary twitch. 

He tapped the outside of Dean’s thigh. “Move further up the bed.”

Dean complied, sitting up and resting his back against the frame. 

“Bossy,” he commented with a quirked brow.

Blue eyes snapped to his. “You have not seen how bossy I can be,” he rumbled, kneeing his way up the bed to meet Dean.

“So what, you’ve just been holding back on me all this time?” 

“Yes.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh…well, don’t hold back on my behalf, dude…er, Cas,” he mumbled. 

Cas dropped his gaze and shook his head, a sad little smile on his lips. He opened and closed his mouth as if he was about to say something, but instead leaned in to capture Dean’s lips.

The kiss was searing, all teeth and tongues and Dean gasped into his mouth. All too soon, Cas broke the kiss. He made his way down the center of Dean’s chest and stomach with little licks and kisses, slow and deliberate, leaving wet heat in his wake. Dean’s abs jumped under the touch, the muscles twitching.

Then Cas reached the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

He paused.

Lips brushing just above the root.

Dean’s entire body went still, breath caught, heart pounding.

And then Cas looked up at him.

Held his gaze.

And took him into his mouth.

Dean bucked, a broken sound tearing out of him. Cas’s hands came down, strong and steady, pinning his hips to the bed.

“Jesus,” Dean gasped, his fingers twisting in the sheets as Cas sucked him down, tongue dragging slow and purposeful along the underside before swirling over the head. It was so much better than any dream, any fantasy he could imagine.

Dean wasn’t porn-star big or anything, but he certainly wasn’t small, thank you very much. Cas’s plush lips slid down his shaft and just kept going. Where the hell was his gag reflex? He felt his cockhead bump and slide along the hard palate and into the back of his throat. Cas swallowed around him.

“Oh my god, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean babbled as he hunched forward, stomach muscles contracting, toes curling. 

He had received plenty of blowjobs in his life, but the girls were never that enthusiastic about it. They either made overly loud noises as if their clit was somewhere in their mouth, or they were almost methodical about it. Nothing like this.

He sunk his fingers into Cas’s hair and thunked his head back against the headboard. Cas didn’t let up. Deep pulls, then slow, teasing licks. One of his hands slid down to gently roll Dean’s balls in his palm. Dean’s mouth dropped open and his entire body trembled, heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to thrust, to fuck into that mouth, but he held back, barely. His thighs shook with the effort. 

Just when he thought he was about to blow, Cas pulled off.

Dean let out a helpless noise, half moan, half protest, but then Cas kissed the inside of his thigh, soft and slow, and the tenderness of it made him ache even more. He didn’t even realize he had squeezed his eyes shut until Cas raised his head.

“Look at me.”

His eyes snapped open and met shining blues. 

Cas held his gaze for a moment before continuing. “I would like you to watch while you come in my mouth.” And then slowly slid his lips down Dean’s cock again. Dean gaped at him. 

“Fuck, Cas,” he moaned as he picked up his pace. Cas wasn’t teasing this time. His mouth created delicious suction, while one hand tugged lightly at his balls, and the other slid up and down Dean’s shaft, chasing his lips. When he reached the tip, he pulled off momentarily with a pop, while his spit-slick fist twisted around the head, before he sucked Dean back down.  

All Dean could do was take it. Take in the sight of his thickness stretching Cas’s lips obscenely. It was enough to make him see stars. 

He was gasping with each breath now, a familiar tightening building in his stomach. Cas was moving faster, and his hand dropped away from Dean’s shaft as he took him deep at the end of each pass. Cas snaked a hand up his stomach and chest to rub over a nipple, while keeping his eyes on Dean’s own. 

Dean was open-mouthed panting, babbling nonsense, hips thrusting minutely, fists gripped into the sheets. The pressure built and built, until Cas pinched his nipple. Hard . The sudden jolt of pleasure pain tipped him over the edge. 

“I’m gonna - I’m gonna c-come,” he ground out as his balls tightened. Cas took him deep into his throat, right as Dean exploded. 

“Ah-ah-ah-ah,” he cried out with each pulse of cum along the back of Cas’s tongue. He swallowed around him, milking every last drop. Dean’s head flopped back to the headboard, completely limp. 

“Holy shit. That was…”

He heard Cas chuckle before the man entered his field of vision, pulling himself up to sit, leaning against Dean’s shoulder, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“That was…” he tried again before trailing off, at a loss for words.

“Mmmm, yes.” Cas said, leaning in to kiss Dean again. He pushed his tongue roughly into Dean’s mouth, swirling it along his own. Dean could taste himself on Cas’s lips. He didn’t realize how erotic that would be. He gripped the back of Cas’s head, chasing the flavor, until Cas shifted and he could feel the hard line of his dick brushing Dean’s side.  

He broke the kiss and gestured down. “How do you want - do you want me to - I could -”

Cas grinned and kissed the edge of his mouth chastely. 

“I am alright, Dean. You do not have to do anything. I am deeply satisfied in providing you with pleasure.”

“Yeah, but…I want to.”

Cas placed light kisses along his freckled shoulder. “Alright, what would you feel comfortable doing?”

“Oh umm…what are my options?”

Christ, he sounded pathetic. He searched Cas’s face but found nothing but affection there. 

“There are many activities that I would enjoy experiencing with you. I would be happy with anything. Would you like to keep it simple, and pleasure me with your hand?”

He could do that. And enjoy it. But, that’s not what he really wanted, if he was being totally honest with himself. He kept flashing back to that one chapter. Cas fucking (or was it making love to) Michael with such care. Opening him up with a reverence that Dean had never experienced. 

He had been quiet for too long. 

“Should we stop here?” Cas asked, earnest.    

“No,” he said too loudly. “No, no, I want this, I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about what you would like for us to do, or - ”

“Yeah.”

“It is difficult for me to guess what you want, Dean, and I do not want to push you.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” he ducked his head. “I don’t know how to say it. Can’t you just tell me what you wanna do? Like, if I was up for anything.”

Cas hummed. “In that case,” he paused. “I would very much desire to be inside you, but that does not -”

“Yeah, that.”

Cas’s brows shot up. “That?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

“Are you certain? We -”

Dean stopped him with a sloppy kiss. “Shut up,” he murmured against his lips. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“But have you ever -”

“No. But I want to. With you.”

Cas met Dean’s eyes for a few long seconds. Long enough that Dean began to fidget. 

“It would be an honor.”

“Yeah, yeah, no chick flick moments.” Dean pushed his shoulder playfully. “You gonna fuck me, or what?”

Cas’s eyes flashed, and he pressed a heavy hand on Dean’s chest, just shy of his throat. His fingers twitched. 

“Yes I am,” he growled. 

“Prove it,” Dean goaded, leaning into his touch, feeling a rush of reckless exhilaration. At Cas’s lack of action, he added, “ dude .”

Cas’s hand shot up and gripped Dean’s throat tightly, shoving him down flat on the bed. Dean let out a startled squeak that he would deny ever making. 

Cas followed him down, straddling his bare thighs, one hand clenching his throat, one hand in his hair, pulling his head back, neck taught. He slammed his lips to Dean’s and rolled his hips, grinding against his belly. 

“You test my willpower,” he growled into Dean’s mouth.

His throat ached, his scalp stung, his lips were numb, and he could feel his dick give a valiant effort to fill again. He was so damn hot for this man. 

They kissed and writhed around on the bed, Cas periodically squeezing and relaxing his grip. It was thrilling. 

By the time Cas slid his hands away, peppering kisses along his collarbone, Dean was mostly hard again. Like a fucking teenager.  

“Where do you keep your lubricant?” Cas rumbled.

He reached over to his nightstand, and opened the top drawer with fingertips that slightly trembled. He tossed the bottle to Cas. 

“Do you have any additional pillows?” he asked, catching it with deft hands. 

“Yeah, hang on.” Dean hopped off, cock bobbing proudly, and fished underneath the bed. He grabbed a pillow and tossed it onto the bed as he climbed back on.

“Lie back and get comfortable.” 

Dean did. He arranged his pillow underneath his neck. 

“Lift your hips.”

Dean did. His heart pounded as Cas slipped the extra pillow underneath him, knees bent. 

“Do you still desire this?”

Dean did. He nodded, and managed a nervous smile. 

Seemly satisfied, Cas shuffled closer and ran his hands up and down his knees, pushing them further apart. He couldn’t help but stare at Cas’s cock, hanging flushed and hard between his legs. How the hell was that thing ever gonna fit inside him? He watched as a bead of precum rolled down the head, as Cas stared at him.

Feeling suddenly, horribly exposed, Dean began to twitch, his asshole clenching. With reddening cheeks, he realized Cas would be able to see that. He’d be able to see everything. 

When a hand touched his inner thigh, he flinched. Cas stopped. Because of course he did. He was so damn observant. 

“No, no, keep going,” Dean said. “I’m just…”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You can revoke consent at any time, and I will stop immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, settling back. 

Cas moved to his hands and knees, hovering over Dean’s lower body. He leaned down and kitten-licked the head of his cock. All the air left Dean’s lungs in a big whoosh, his knees falling farther to the sides, bracketing Cas’s shoulders.  

Cas kissed and licked up and down Dean’s shaft, while rubbing his inner thighs. With every pass of his tongue, his fingers circled closer to Dean’s center. Squirming with overstimulation, he barely registered when Cas’s dry fingertips brushed across his hole. Cas looked up, checking on Dean periodically as he added lube to two fingers and began circling and pressing, not quite entering. Just teasing pressure. 

As soon as Dean relaxed and became familiar with the sensation, Cas dipped one finger in, just past the ring of muscle. A slight burn, but not actually painful, and Cas’s gentle lips on his oversensitive cock was ample distraction. His finger slipped further inside just as Dean laid his eyes on Cas. He was overcome with how beautiful this man was. Shaggy hair tangled in every direction as he worshiped Dean’s body. Because that’s what it felt like. Worship. 

A second finger was pressing in now, with a sharper burn, but it quickly faded as Cas began to slowly pump his fingers in and out. It was a strange sensation. Not bad, but not exactly what he was expecting. The blinding pleasure he had felt when he had just one of his own fingers inside himself was much more significant than this. He wondered if it was because he already came tonight. Maybe he should have held off. He could feel his dick start to soften, despite Cas’s attention. 

No, no, no…

Suddenly stars exploded behind his eyelids as Cas crooked his fingers and brushed something inside of him. 

Yes, yes, yes…

“Cas!” he cried out. “Holy shit, fuck, fuck yeah,” he babbled, muscles clenching. 

Cas sat back on his heels, letting Dean’s rapidly refilling cock slip from his lips. 

“If God did not want men to have intercourse with each other,” Cas said, fingers still pumping and curling. “Then He would not have made prostate stimulation so pleasurable.”

Dean was gasping and pushing back against Cas’s fingers, but still managed an “Amen”. 

Cas chuckled as he drizzled more lube onto his fingers. “You are a brat.”

“I think I’m adorable.” Dean panted.

“That too.” Cas conceded, and pushed a third finger in. Dean’s back arched and he tightened his grip on the sheets. It hurt. But just like the last two fingers, the pain faded away underneath Cas’s gentle strokes and thrusts and murmurs. 

When he deemed him ready, Cas slipped his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets. Dean clenched against the emptiness. He didn’t like the feeling. 

Cas added more lube to his hand and gripped his own dick. A groan tore from his throat at the touch and Dean could see how red and angry it looked, almost purple at the tip. He couldn’t imagine the patience Cas had to take so much time, while he was that hard. Dean was suddenly very grateful that he had already come, or else he would be a begging mess right around now. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, stroking himself, looking down on Dean. “You have not reconsidered?” 

This is it. The big moment. He hadn’t been a virgin for almost twenty years, and yet, it was like his first time all over again. Uncharted territory. A step he could never take back. Actually fucking a guy. No, being fucked by a guy. Taking it in the ass, no less. That means he was gay gay. But looking up at Cas, his beautiful cock, his tan skin, his sapphire eyes, his plush lips, the thought of being gay gay didn’t seem as awful as it did before. If it meant he could have this? He’d be willing to be the most gay anyone had ever gayed, to have Cas in his life. In his bed. 

He met his eyes. “I still want you in - inside me.” 

Cas let out a low rumbling sound at that, and leaned down to claim Dean’s lips. As they kissed, he slid one hand between them and guided his cock to Dean’s entrance. Dean pushed back against the blunt head but all it did was rub against his opening, now clenched tight. 

“You will have to relax for this to work.” Cas said gently, quietly. He met Dean’s eyes. “You can trust me. You are safe with me. I will not hurt you.” 

Cas brushed his lips against Dean’s in a soft slide. So light and tender, Dean let out a sigh and melted into it. 

Cas’s cockhead popped past his entrance, and the sigh turned into a hiss, Dean gripping Cas’s arms. It felt huge. So much bigger than his fingers. Cas paused, panting, letting him adjust, whispering soft reassurances. He kissed Dean’s forehead, his jaw, his lips. When Dean relaxed again, he slowly pushed in deeper, inch by inch. Both men groaned loudly as he finally bottomed out, hips grinding against the backs of Dean’s thighs. He hoped it would leave a bruise. 

Cas began to move. Shallow at first, then a little faster, a little deeper. The pleasure sparked higher and higher as he thrust in and out of Dean’s body. He couldn’t believe sex could ever feel like this. It never had before. Like he was finally complete. That dark place inside, that empty place, always hurting, always lonely, was suddenly filled. 

Instinctively, he wrapped his legs around Cas’s hips, giving him the leverage to push back against his thrusts. He cried out as Cas’s cockhead found his prostate, picking up speed, hips snapping. He wrapped his arms around Cas, and could feel the sweat gathered in the dips of his back. 

Cas chased his mouth down into the bed, as he ground his cock against that sweet spot over and over again. Dean saw stars bursting behind his eyelids.

Cas was groaning with every breath now, and the room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin. They moved together, his hands framing Dean’s face as he kissed him, the kisses turning sloppy, desperate. Dean’s hands roamed his back, nails digging into the sweat-slick skin as the pleasure built, each thrust driving him closer to the edge. Dean was incoherent, lost in the sensation, his cock rock hard against his stomach. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard tapping the wall in time with their movements, and the world narrowed to the heat of their bodies.

Cas’s rhythm started to falter, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Dean, I am so close. I - I - I am going to come,” Cas cried out against his mouth. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean gripped him impossibly closer. “Come inside me, Cas. Fill me up. Come on, come on,” he babbled, almost intelligible. 

“C - coming, oh, oh, Dean…Dean…” 

He mumbled Dean’s name over and over as he spilled inside him, hips stuttering, his face buried in Dean’s neck. He could feel Cas’s cock pulsing deep inside him, splashing hot against his inner walls, against his prostate. 

Suddenly Dean felt an unfamiliar pressure steadily growing deep inside, consuming him and he writhed and cried out as it peaked, his cock twitching feebly against his stomach, nothing coming out.

They clung to each other, panting as the aftershocks faded, their bodies trembling in the aftermath.

For a long moment, they just breathed, after Cas gently slipped out. He kissed Dean softly, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead, his touch tender.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low, thumb tracing the curve of Dean’s cheek.

Dean nodded, a shaky laugh breaking loose. “Yeah. That was kinda incredible.”

Cas nodded his agreement before pressing their foreheads together.

After a trip to the bathroom - having cum dripping out of your ass is not the most fun cleanup - they settled back into bed, snuggled facing each other, entangled. One of Cas’s arms was under his neck, and his leg was thrown over Cas’s hip. 

It was one of Dean’s favorite parts about sex, and one of the reasons he continued to fuck women in the past. After the intimacy was shared, everything felt peaceful. Comfortable and calm. No shame in your naked body. A protective shared bubble in the dark. That is until the guilt and emptiness grew too large and he bounced. But he didn’t want to leave this time. 

Maybe not ever. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted quietly, feeling horribly vulnerable, searching Cas’s face. “I don’t know what this is.”

Cas nodded, “I do not either. There are many things I am unsure of, many things we must discuss.”

“Are you still mad at me?” Dean asked quietly.

“Of course not.” A pause, then quieter, “perhaps just a little.”

Dean laughed softly. “That’s okay, I’m still a little mad at you.”

Cas snuggled his face into Dean’s chest. “We can be upset with one another together then.”

“Deal.”

There was a beat of silence before Dean added, even quieter now, “Will you stay?”

Cas met his eyes.

“I am not going anywhere.”

 *    *    *    *

Dean woke hours later in a cold bed.

Alone.

Cas was gone.

Chapter Text

***4 weeks earlier***

The kettle switched off with a click, as morning light began to creep across the wood floors, as if the day itself was reaching towards him. Castiel stood at the counter of his small kitchen in his thin cotton robe, stirring a measured amount of cream into his pour-over coffee. The fancy espresso machine Anna had gifted him last Christmas sat in its unopened box beneath the sink. He would begin to use it, just as soon as his method no longer suited him, which was unlikely to happen.

He washed the measuring spoon in the sink, dried it with a cloth, and set it next to the glass jar of coffee grounds. Leaning a hip against the counter, he lifted the mug, letting the steam curl against his face, and sipped once. Comfortingly hot, but not scalding, just as it should be. If the water was allowed to boil before meeting the grounds, it rendered the beans bitter.

Castiel savored each sip until it was empty, then washed and dried the mug. He set it gently back on the shelf, just as he heard the patter of little taps from the hallway, a welcome sound to break up the silence.

“Nochi,” he called softly, clicking his tongue. The taps increased in speed, until a fat calico tabby appeared around the corner, already meowing. He turned to the pantry and pulled out a small tin of salmon-flavored wet food. Nochi circled his legs, her belly swaying as she wove back and forth, yowling. 

“Hush,” he scolded her gently, as he emptied the can into her bowl. “I have never forgotten your breakfast, and you must know by now that I never will.”

He added a single pump of fish oil from the refrigerator door, and slid the bowl into the microwave for exactly 7 seconds. The tabby shrieked at his feet, stretching up to grab at his bare legs underneath his robe. 

Grimacing, he stepped aside and placed her warmed bowl in front of her and stroked down her fur before turning to the bedroom.  

He dressed in slacks ironed from the night before, a button-up shirt done up to the second from the top, and a soft navy cardigan with a seam he restitched himself during one of many sleepless nights.

At precisely 7:00am, he slipped on his trench coat, and ran a lint roller over the legs of his slacks, ridding himself of any residual cat hair. The mirror by the door offered no surprises. His reflection greeted him with shadowed blue eyes and a clenched jaw. Through calm I preserve, through control I protect. He adjusted the collar of his shirt with steady fingers, then lowered his gaze, unwilling to meet his own eyes for too long. 

Glancing around, he spotted Nochi laying on her side in a patch of sunlight in the living room, licking her paws. He stood for a moment watching as she bit down on a claw and pulled, her nose wrinkling. Crossing the room to give her a final stroke, he bent with his hand extended, but she swiped at him before he could make contact.

“Very well,” he said fondly, pulling back. “I understand. You are clean, and I will not disturb you.” 

He locked the door behind himself, running his thumb over the familiar bumps of the house keys. The morning sun’s passage had not yet warmed the air, and the breeze chilled his skin. He tugged his coat closer to his body. He did not mind the cold, although he could do without the earaches that accompanied.

His neighbor Missouri waved from her front porch, swaying gently in a wide, wooden rocking chair. An apron was tied loosely around her waist, already dusted with flour. Her hair was lifted in a colorful bonnet, pale flowers circling her head in a beautiful contrast to her deep tone.

“You take care of yourself, honey,” she called, as she did every morning. He raised a hand and nodded at her without a word, as he did every morning. He willed his cheeks to rise in a smile, but was not sure he managed it. 

“When’re you comin’ over for some tea?” she continued as he made his way down his driveway. 

“Soon,” he called back, both of them knowing he would not be following through. “Thank you,” he added over his shoulder, as he turned onto the sidewalk. Composure, if maintained carefully enough, could pass for kindness. 

The bell above the door gave its usual chime as Castiel unlocked it and stepped into The Book Nook, the familiar scent of his store rising to meet him. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway, breathing deeply, eyes closed, before he flipped on the lights. The shop brightened in a soft hum. He dimmed the lights slightly and trailed through the store, clicking on the various lamps arranged throughout. Excessive fluorescent lighting brought on a dull ache behind his eyes.

Castiel removed his coat and hung it neatly upon the rack in the storage room, smoothing the shoulders flat. Looking through the shipment boxes, he compared them to the log, and confirmed that Meg had completed the inventory the previous night.

He moved through his opening tasks quickly. He unlocked the register, counted out the till, and organized the bills and coins into their proper compartments. The receipt printer clicked once as he tested it, its sound sharp in the quiet. At the center display, he straightened a row of new releases, aligning the spines until they formed a clean line. A stray paperback was reshelved in its proper place. He checked the holds-shelf behind the counter, confirming the reserved books were still in order.

He paused at the display Meg had insisted upon, copies of his own novel stacked. Castiel shook his head, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. He had asked her not to advertise it in such a way. He was more than happy to slip his memoir amongst the others on the shelves. She had ignored him, as she often did.

At least she was the only one who knew.

Satisfied the shop was ready, he clicked the radio to a local blues station, lowered the volume, and flipped the “open” sign on at precisely 8:00am. He settled behind the desk, sorting receipts. 

Fifty-three minutes past opening, the front bell jingled again.

“Morning, Clarence,” came the familiar voice, cheerful and unapologetically late.

He did not look up from the shelf he was then adjusting. “You were scheduled for eight-thirty.”

“I was scheduled to try to be here by eight-thirty,” she replied, her voice far too amused. She swept into the storage room and he could hear the rustle of her coat being tossed haphazardly over the rack he had so carefully used earlier. He hoped his trench wasn’t being wrinkled. 

As she reappeared, he turned his head slightly, fixing her with a look. “Your interpretation of the employee manual is concerning.”

“Do you ever say anything fun, or is that against the rules too?” she asked, and patted his shoulder as she passed him.

He scowled. “You are extraordinarily unprofessional.”

“And yet you haven’t fired me,” she called from the next aisle over, already out of sight.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, returning to the shelf. Meg had been with the shop almost as long as he had owned it. Her employment brought with it tardiness, disrespect, inappropriate comments, and general rudeness. 

He adored her.

*    *    *    *

An hour before closing, fatigue had begun to press behind his eyelids like a weight. They had made decent sales with a slow but steady stream of customers. Meg was in the back, sorting new arrivals and every few minutes, Castiel could hear a soft thud as she tossed a book to the carpet with a muttered “christ” or “who reads this crap”. He had long since given up on reprimanding her. 

He remained behind the counter, methodically refilling the bookmark stand, hands steady, when the bell over the door chimed.

Castiel lifted his head and saw him. His stance, the gentle slope of his shoulders…Michael. 

Except, of course it could not be Michael. 

A tall man, clad in dark jeans and a worn flannel jacket, stood just inside the door. His hair was tousled, and his sharp jaw line was discernible, even from across the room. He was beautiful. 

Castiel looked away at once.

He returned his gaze to the task before him with a frown, yet found himself staring at his hands, unseeing. The resemblance was not specific, but it was enough to stir something deeply uncomfortable within him.

He glanced up again, but the man had already disappeared into the shelves. Castiel remained still, then closed his eyes, and Michael’s bloated face surfaced at once. He forced them open, willing his vision to clear, but what he wanted, what he needed, was to see the stranger’s face again. Rising abruptly from his chair, he drew in a steady breath. He stepped out from behind the counter, his pace measured, each step muffled by the carpet, until he reached the nearest aisle and turned the corner.

And there he was.

The man had found the green velvet armchair near the back wall, and sunk into it, elbows on his knees, his head buried in his hands. He almost looked like Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker . Yes, he was undeniably beautiful. 

“Can I help you with something?” Castiel asked, before he could stop himself. 

The man startled visibly, bolting upright. His hands dropped away, and his eyes met Castiel’s. 

“I was just looking,” he said, sounding out of breath. “Never been in here before.”

He was just a little taller than Castiel, and his voice was deep and clear. Castiel opened his mouth, but the words stalled. Up close, the man was devastating, and he could not tear his gaze away.

There was something indescribable about his face, different from Michael’s of course, he could see that now, but no less striking. No less appealing to look at. Freckles danced along his cheeks and nose like glitter, his lips were full and soft.

The stranger’s eyes were a striking green, more forest than emerald in the low light of the shop, and reflected trees, strength, renewal, growth, harmony…different from Michael’s deep browns of the earth, soil, wood, comfort, warmth.

He had fine lines at the corners of his eyes and forehead, above a strong brow. The man frowned, a subtle downward pull of said brows.

Suddenly aware of the inappropriateness of his own silence, Castiel straightened his shoulders. He made a sound, unintentional and inelegant, and gave a brief nod before turning away, retreating before he could humiliate himself further.

Castiel breathed in slowly through his nose and out his mouth, willing his body to calm. Shoulders back, head straight, he moved back behind the counter. One hand came to rest against the counter’s edge as he lowered himself slowly onto the worn chair. He did not know why this man’s presence rattled him so, even after seeing that this man was not like Michael at all. 

With a controlled hand, he reached for the pair of reading glasses he kept tucked neatly in the drawer beneath the register. He unfolded them, settled them low on the bridge of his nose, and retrieved the hardcover novel that he had been reading in between customers and tasks. He opened the book to the marked page and stared at it, unreading. 

Gradually he became aware of a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision.

He looked up, and the breath in his lungs caught for half a second before it resumed. The man had reappeared, and was standing directly in front of a particular display.

His display.

Please, not that one. Choose any other shelf, any alternative title. This handsome lumberjack should be reading a mystery or thriller, not…that. At least once the man realized what the memoir was about, he would most certainly move along.

He watched as the man flipped to the back cover, glanced around the store, and hugged the book to his chest…his broad, muscled, chest. Very interesting. Perhaps the man was gay. He almost reeked of hetero-machismo, but Castiel knew that did not actually mean anything, and often was an overcompensation in the first place. The stranger turned and started walking towards him. Castiel quickly looked back down at the novel he was pretending to read. 

“Hey, I’ll take this,” the man said, shifting from one foot to the next. “A friend of mine would probably like it.”

Very, very interesting. Castiel had a few “friends” during his early college years, before he met Michael. There was just something about Michael that made him unashamed…unwilling to ever closet himself ever again. Michael lived his life without apology, in stark contrast to Castiel’s constant burden of guilt, doubt, and shame. But in Michael’s arms, all of that faded away, as though his strength passed through those tender hands, seeping into Castiel’s body, into his very soul.

He nearly pitied the man, so preoccupied with appearances. Then he chastised himself. Who was he to judge the manner in which another chose to live? Castiel was, if nothing else, a hypocrite. 

From his angle looking up at this man, he could see the shadows his lashes made against his cheeks. Almost delicate. He needed to reign this in, immediately. Through calm I preserve, through control I protect. 

Castiel abruptly realized he still had not said a single word. The man was staring at him expectantly, the awkward pause stretching longer, his brow starting to furrow. Where was Meg, when he needed her?

“Meg!” he barked, the word louder and sharper than he had intended.

The man jumped slightly, his eyes flicking wide in surprise. Castiel inwardly winced. Excellent, why not see how many customers he can scare off before closing.

The man blinked at him. "Meg?"

Castiel nodded stiffly, clearing his throat. “Meg.”

The man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He just looked at Castiel for a long moment, looking gradually more disgusted with him.

Castiel schooled his features into absolute neutrality. Meg would assist this customer perfectly. She was effortlessly attuned to the unspoken rules of conversation that he had never mastered.

He was apparently incapable of completing a single coherent sentence in front of a stranger with broad shoulders, full lips, and sun-kissed skin.

Meg would take care of this. Meg was good at...people.

He was not. 

“Well, hello there,” came Meg’s unmistakable voice, bright and vaguely amused, as she swept through the back room curtain. Her eyes landed immediately on the man at the counter, and her smile bloomed wide and flirtatious.

“You sure you don’t want to ring this one up yourself, Tree-Topper?” she asked over one slender shoulder.

He knew exactly what Meg was attempting. She wasn’t subtle, she never had been. It was his book, after all. And the customer was, objectively speaking, extremely attractive. That was all the prompting Meg ever needed to start matchmaking.

He winced at the nickname. She had taken to it a few weeks prior and refused to relinquish it since. “Tree-topper,” she had explained, because Castiel was “an angel’s name.” It was ridiculous.

Blame his mother. Her obsession with purity, with scripture, with naming him after a biblical figure, as if that alone could ward off the darkness in the world, the darkness within him. Had she sensed it from the moment he was born?

Castiel had stopped believing in holy protection a long time ago.

“Do your job or you won’t have one tomorrow.” he said with as much force as he could muster. “And do not call me that.” he added, praying the redness he could feel creeping up his chest did not reach his face. 

But then, as the man turned to leave, Castiel found his voice rising without permission.

"Thank you, come again," he called out, louder than intended.

The man paused, clearly surprised by the sudden outburst. He looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. "Oh, you too."

As soon as the door closed behind him, Meg turned on her heel with a grin already forming.

"Well, well," she said, drawing out the words. "Were you actually feeling real emotions, there? Color me shocked."

Castiel gave her a warning glare. 

Meg laughed and leaned on the counter, wiggling her eyebrows. "You were practically vibrating. I thought you were going to melt into the floorboards. And calling after him like that?”

"Meg," he growled, but it lacked force.

"I mean it, Clarence. He was cute. And you looked like you were about to pass out. Adorable. "

He scowled, returning his eyes to the page. But there was a tic at the corner of his mouth.

Meg gasped. “Was that a smile? Did the frozen heart of Castiel Novak just thaw?”

“It was a twitch,” he muttered.

But the twitch, however faint, lingered all the same.

Chapter Text

The following morning arrived far too early for Castiel’s liking. He lay in bed a while longer trying to fall back asleep, but it never came. Grumbling, he decided he might as well get an early start on his day. 

The sun had barely crested the rooftops when he stepped into the bookstore, hot coffee in hand, and began his familiar, methodical opening routine. An hour of uninterrupted solitude in which to unlock the registers, check the morning shipment, sign in the returns. He completed them quickly. Too quickly.

With a final look-around and nothing left to distract himself, he turned toward the front windows, blinking against the morning brightness. The sun cast long, golden stripes across the pavement. A soft breeze stirred the ivy curling along the frame of the shop’s display window.

He glanced at the door, then at his mug, then back again.

Why not?

He refilled from the small coffee maker in the backroom, and dragged one of the folding chairs out with him. It made a soft scraping sound against the floor before settling into place just outside the entrance, angled slightly toward the street.

He despised conversation before his daily coffee, and he enjoyed the frigid morning breeze, a perfect contrast to the warmth of the mug his hands were wrapped around. 

He sipped again, letting the steam rise around his face. The sun warmed his knees through the fabric of his slacks, despite the wind. 

A blur of motion appeared in his peripheral vision, and he turned to see what was heading his way with such speed. For the briefest of moments, their eyes met, a flash of bright green, wide and startled. Beautiful eyes.

Before he could react, the man collided with his chair. His mug went spinning out of his hands, and scalding coffee splashed onto his lap. Castiel staggered to his feet with a sharp inhale, clutching at his pants. Behind him, the chair scraped loudly against the sidewalk before toppling with a dull clatter. His thighs hurt. 

He grimaced as he swiped at his slacks, now ruined for the day. The stranger lay sprawled on the sidewalk, looking dazed. Castiel glared at him. Of course it was the same man from yesterday, which made it worse for some reason. This is not how he wished his slow, quiet day to start. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. This is one of the many reasons he did not enjoy interacting with others outside of the store. Most people, at their core, were not good people. This man’s carelessness had now ruined his morning. 

"Are you injured?" he asked stiffly, reaching down with a hand.

The man accepted the offer, and allowed Castiel to pull him to his feet. He was heavier than he appeared, all dense muscle. Of all the joggers in the city, of all the sidewalks, it had to be this man, this sidewalk.. 

He had not intended to look at him directly for more than a moment, but up close, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint flush on his cheeks, the obscene eyelashes, he was too beautiful to ignore. There was a startled, almost boyish quality to his expression.

The man straightened, brushing dirt from the front of his shirt, and Castiel instinctively stepped forward, his hands reaching without thought.

He skimmed them lightly over the man’s shoulders and down the length of his arms, searching for injuries.

“My apologies,” Castiel said, as his hand hovered near the man’s collarbone. “I did not anticipate pedestrian traffic at this hour, and I misjudged the placement of my chair.”

As he reached the man’s elbows, he felt uneven skin and a small bloom of blood already forming. The moment he registered it, the man winced and jerked back out of reach. A rush of embarrassment flooded through him. Why had he touched this man so casually without consent? What was he doing?

“It’s just some scrapes,” the green eyed man said, waving him off. “No biggie. All good. My fault, I didn’t see your chair in time.”

Castiel shook his head, brow furrowed. “I placed it too far into the walkway. I assumed no one would be passing by so early.” He gestured to his soaked pants, grimacing at the stain. “I was simply attempting to enjoy some fresh air and coffee before opening.”

The fabric of his trousers clung unpleasantly to his legs, the coffee cooling by the second. He brushed at it again pointlessly.

The man nodded, and Castiel bent to retrieve the fallen chair, folding it and setting it just inside the shop door, where it would cause no further trouble.

“Remarkable,” he muttered to himself. “I appear to have developed a talent for injuring strangers while sitting still.” 

The man gave a short, loud laugh, startling him. He did not understand the humor in this situation. 

He glanced back. “Are you entirely certain you are unharmed?”

The man stepped back, hands raised.

“No, no, I’m fine, really,” the man insisted. “So sorry about your coffee.” He reached over to retrieve Castiel’s mug, and handed it over. Castiel accepted it, the ceramic still warm in his palm.

“And your pants,” the man added.

Castiel looked down at his wet slacks, pulling the tacky fabric away from his skin. As he glanced up again with a grimace, he saw it. 

Smooth, thin ribbons of blood trailed from the man’s torn knees to dance their way down his shins. 

"Oh," Castiel said, his voice sinking. His shoulders slumped as he gestured. "Your knees."

The stranger looked down, startled, as if only just realizing. In one graceless motion he crouched, dragged his hands up his shins, gathering and smearing the blood, and cupped his hands over his torn knees. The blood seeped sluggishly between his fingers.

“This is fine,” he said quickly. “I’m good like this, man. Just gonna head out. Thanks. Sorry again.”

Before Castiel could come up with anything to say, the man was turning, limping down the sidewalk, his retreat as sudden as his arrival.

Castiel watched him hobble a few steps, hands still clamped to his knees. 

There was something in the man’s insistence that felt disproportionate, almost frantic in his urgency to escape. It was only then, standing amid the cooling remnants of spilled coffee and fading embarrassment, that a theory began to form.

The man had purchased his memoir, that much was certain. And now here he was, refusing even the most basic first aid. He would rather bleed on the sidewalk, than accept Castiel’s help. 

Perhaps he had put the pieces together. Perhaps he had connected the initials. Perhaps, now, he could not bear the thought of being touched by a man like him.

A slow sickness began to grow in his stomach. He had seen that look before, it was not unfamiliar, not to someone like him. Not to someone whose truth, once revealed, had so often been met with revulsion or retreat.

So, that was it, then. He had been recognized, and rejected. What a disappointing outcome. 

“I knew you were an assbutt,” exploded out of his mouth without his permission. 

The man froze. Then he turned, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

Castiel stiffened, already regretting it. But he had to say something now.

“You figured it out,” he said.  “And now you refuse my help. That is fine. Wonderful.”

He knew he sounded defensive. Accusatory. He knew it made him weak. 

The man’s brow furrowed. “What the hell is an assbutt?” he asked, voice full of irritation.

Castiel faltered. Why had he said that? What was wrong with him?

“It is a term of insult,” he replied, attempting his very best not to back down, not to show his embarrassment. 

The stranger just stared at him. Castiel could feel heat rising from his neck into his face. Things like that always seemed to occur. He spoke the wrong words at the wrong time to the wrong people. He should not have said anything at all, he should have let the man go about his day, he should not concern himself with whether the man disliked him. Castiel disliked many people, therefore he should never presume anything different in return. 

“I apologize,” he said at last, voice strained. “That was uncalled for.”

His cheeks burned, and he pushed a hand back through his unruly hair. The man had said the memoir was for a friend, and he must have meant it. It was unlikely his partner had begun reading in the short time since the purchase. And even if he had, Castiel had devoted meticulous hours to ensuring nothing in its pages could be traced back to him.

He has made a fool of himself. 

Even so, some stubborn part of him still believed in decency, and would not feel right about leaving the man to bleed all over himself. 

“I have antiseptic wipes and band-aides inside. Please.”

The man hesitated, but after a moment that seemed to last longer than it should have, he nodded once.

“You sure it’s okay for an assbutt to touch your precious stuff?” he muttered, limping forward.

Castiel grimaced, but had nothing to say.

Inside, the bookstore was dim and warm, the heater already clicking on. Castiel led the way, trying not to shutter at the feeling of his wet pants against his thighs. He hoped it had not soaked into his underwear. He stopped at the desk, drew the curtain aside, and gestured toward his chair.

“Here, sit.”

The stranger obeyed with a grunt, lowering himself into the seat like someone twice his age. Castiel found the first aid kit in the bathroom. He desperately wanted to change his clothes, but did not want to draw out this man’s experience longer than necessary.

Returning, he lowered himself to the floor, cross-legged, the cold of the wood seeping through his slacks. 

The stranger was watching him.

Castiel dipped his head and reached forward. His hands moved carefully, as he cleaned the blood away from his shin with an alcohol swab. The green-eyed man flinched, and Castiel did not blame him. 

He finished cleaning both knees, applied ointment, and secured bandages. Then, without looking up, he gestured faintly toward his arms. The man extended one. Castiel had no idea why this stranger unsettled him so thoroughly. As he worked, Castiel finally broke the silence.

"My name is Castiel." He was not quite sure why he volunteered that information.

The man blinked. “Cas-tee-el? That’s a new one. I’m Dean.”

Castiel nodded. “Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas.”

The shortened name startled him. Were such names not reserved for friends?

“Cas?”

The man looked mildly embarrassed. “Oh, sorry. That okay?”

Castiel paused, unsure. A faint discomfort stirred within him, though he knew he was making a larger deal out of this, than the situation warranted. The man, Dean, did not mean anything familiar by it, he just simply did not enjoy using Castiel’s full name. He imagined many people did not, although they never said that. He knew his name was unusual, and by extension himself as well.

“Meg is the only one who does not use my full name. I suppose I should stop insisting that people do so. Cas is acceptable. It is better than many of the ridiculous names she comes up with.” 

He moved to the other elbow, cleaning and wrapping it quickly.

“There,” he said at last. “That should suffice.”

Dean rose with him, flexing his arms to test the bandages. 

“Thanks, Cas. Seriously.” He gave a crooked smile.  “And, sorry about the bloodbath out front.”

“You are welcome, Dean.” He hesitated, just for a moment, then added, “I will attempt not to obstruct your running path next time.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “And I’ll try not to take out your coffee. No promises, though.”

Castiel found himself watching him more closely than he meant to. The glint in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes. 

God help him, he liked this man.

Chapter Text

Lunch arrived at last, and Castiel pushed back from the desk with a quiet exhale. The morning's customers had passed, leaving the shop in a comfortable hush. As soon as Meg had arrived a few hours prior, he was blissfully able to make the uncomfortable trek home to change into fresh pants. His underwear had indeed ended up soaked, and was stiff by the time he made it to his house. Pulling on a fresh pair had never felt so pleasing. He glanced at the clock, considered the granola bar in his drawer, and decided against it.

“I am stepping out for lunch,” he called toward the back.

Meg’s voice rang out. “Let me guess. Grocery store sushi again? Living wild.”

“It is affordable and convenient," he replied in a familiar argument.

“You say that like it’s not also one questionable shrimp roll away from food poisoning.”

“I have not died yet.”

“Yet,” she echoed ominously.

He chose not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he reached for his coat, slipped it on and retrieved his wallet.

“You will behave, yes?”

“Absolutely not.”

He sighed. “Thank you. I will be twenty minutes.”

“Enjoy your lukewarm wasabi,” she called. 

He pulled the door closed a bit harder than necessary. The bell overhead gave a cheerful jingle as he stepped into the cold.

*    *    *    *

The grocery store was only a few blocks from the shop, but the crisp air served as an unpleasant contrast to the warmth he had left behind. He kept his pace even, shoulders squared, eyes forward. Just as he passed the corner café, with its foggy windows and conversations humming from within, his phone buzzed in his coat pocket.

He hesitated, then drew the phone out and answered. Speaking on the phone in public had always made him uncomfortable, as though he were being rude to anyone within earshot. He despised people who had the audacity to take a phone call on speakerphone, as if no one else mattered. Still, he angled slightly away from the sidewalk, his voice low.

“Hello, Anna.”

“Hey, you,” she greeted, chipper as ever in his ear. “Just checking in. You doing okay?”

He stepped through the automatic doors of the store. “I am fine. You do not need to worry so much. I am just about to do a little grocery shopping.”

She gave a noncommittal hum on the other end. “Well, I do. And I will. That’s part of the job.”

He sighed softly, maneuvering around a display of squash. “I am doing alright, truly. Thank you.”

She did not argue, but the silence on her end felt pointed. His cousin had stood beside him through the worst of times. Pulling away from the family, Michael’s death, driving him to rehab, and the dark months, perhaps years, that followed. She knew too much not to worry, no matter what he said.

“It’s been too long since I’ve seen you,” she said. “Come over for dinner tonight. Raph is on a business trip.”

At his silence, she continued, “Are you really going to make me eat dinner all by myself? What if I start to miss my husband too much and start crying into my food? It would be way too salty then.”

He huffed a laugh at that. “All right, all right, but only if you allow me to do the cooking.”

“Thank god,” she replied, brightening. “Okay, while you’re there, would you be able to grab whatever you’d want to make? I can be your sous-chef.” 

He added the items to his list, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear as he inspected the options in the refrigerated case. They continued to chat until he reached for a loaf of sourdough and caught sight of the time.

He frowned. He was going to be late.

He turned quickly down the next aisle, picking up his pace, and collided with startling force into someone with a grunt.

The man’s armful of groceries went flying. A jar of peanut butter rolled beneath the nearby shelves, a six-pack of beer hit the floor with a dull thud.

Castiel froze.

"Goddamn it," the other man grumbled, letting the empty basket slide onto the floor. “What the hell?"

Mortification bloomed in his chest like wildfire. His breath caught as he fumbled the phone, pinched between his shoulder and ear, just barely catching it before it could crash to the tile. Anna’s voice crackled distantly through the speaker.

“Castiel? What was that? Are you alright?”

Ignoring her and dropping to a crouch, he reached for a plastic container of cherry pie, the lid askew and a corner of crust pressed against the edge. He grabbed it anyway. His hands moved faster than his mind, retrieving each item with a frantic sort of precision, canned soup, pasta noodles, a bruised zucchini. The man’s basket lay sideways and Castiel began refilling it as quickly as he could manage.

He looked up…and the world seemed to pause.

Standing over him, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the unmistakable flicker of disbelief…was the same man whose wounds he had tended to not four hours earlier. The same man who had walked out of his bookstore the previous day with a copy of his memoir.

Castiel’s stomach turned.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean blinked once. Then again.

His mouth curled down, “Hi, Cas.”

He flinched when Anna’s voice echoed in his ear.

"Are you talking to me?"

"No, not you, good lord. Look, I have to go, I will see you tonight," he mumbled.

"Is this too much for you, Castiel? Be honest,” she said.

"No, no.”

"I can just order in, you don't have to pick anything up," she offered.

"Anna please do not do that, I will make dinner for us when I am done with work."

"Okay, okay, if you’re sure. I love you."

"Okay, I love you too. Bye." he said, clipped and rushed, ending the call and sliding the phone into his back pocket as quickly as possible.

When he looked up, Dean was watching him, one eyebrow raised.

“I apologize,” Castiel said immediately, straightening slightly but still crouched among the scattered groceries. “I was on my lunch break, distracted, juggling my list and my phone, and I was not watching where I was going.”

He exhaled sharply, the words tumbling out faster than he meant them to.

Dean shrugged, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Hey, I guess it was just your turn.”

Castiel tilted his head. “My turn for what?”

“Oh, your turn to run into me. Ya’ know because I ran into you earlier? So now it’s your turn and yeah,” Dean trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable.

Even that looked attractive. Irritatingly so.

Then, without warning, Dean’s eyes widened and suddenly dropped to his knees beside him, reaching for the scattered groceries. Castiel blinked, startled by the motion, and by the heat that flushed up his neck as Dean’s shoulder brushed against his. They worked in tandem, grabbing items off the ground. Cinnamon bread, ground turkey, pasta sauce, thankfully unbroken. And then they both reached for the same bar of chocolate.

Their knuckles brushed in the briefest touch, bare skin against bare skin, and it sent a jolt through Castiel that left him paralyzed in place.

Oh.

He was embarrassing himself. He snatched his hand back, trying to hide the deepening color rising to his face. His heart was beating far too fast for something so inconsequential. This was absurd. Entirely absurd.

He cleared his throat, trying to focus on stacking the items neatly back into the basket, careful now not to make contact. Through calm I preserve. Through control, I protect.

“I really should’ve gotten a cart,” Dean muttered, his tone dry, as he tucked a can of soup between the jar of pasta sauce and a bag of coffee.

They finished collecting all the items, Dean’s basket was full again, teetering precariously with rescued goods, while Castiel now cradled the cracked cherry pie in one arm and awkwardly balanced the beer under the other. He glanced at the pie. The lid was smudged, bent, one lone cherry bleeding into the plastic like a wound. He looked up and caught a glimpse of Dean adjusting the heavy basket against his hip. Castiel looked away quickly, unsure what to say, unsure why he suddenly felt like a teenager again.

Before he could stop himself, he heard his own voice, “Let me walk you to the front.”

“You sure? I don’t want to make you late.”

“Meg can manage,” Castiel replied with a slight shake of his head. “She owes me more than one covered shift.” An understatement. 

Dean gave a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze skittering away. “Alright, well thanks.”

That same awkward smile. Castiel could not quite meet it. He managed a single nod before turning toward the front of the store, walking beside Dean toward the checkout lanes. His arms were full, the beer cold against his ribs, the cherry pie precariously balanced in his hands, but it was the state of his thoughts that truly threatened to unravel him. A tangled rush of embarrassment and entirely unwelcome awareness.

At the register, only one customer stood ahead of them. Castiel placed the items on the conveyor belt, followed by Dean unloading the basket. For a moment, they stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder. The quiet was companionable in theory, but excruciating in practice.

Castiel turned. “How are your injuries?” he asked, gesturing to one elbow.

Dean glanced down. “Oh, totally fine, thanks for patching me up.”

“That is good to hear,” Castiel said with a faint nod. Why was he still standing here? Dean did not need him to escort him through checkout. He knew his presence had to be unwelcome, despite Dean not saying anything to that fact. His lips pressed into a thin line. “I am going to purchase lunch here, so I will leave you to it. My apologies again for all of this.”

He lifted his hands slightly, as if to encompass the entire unfortunate encounter.

Dean did not respond immediately. He was watching him, gaze steady, clearly noting the faint flush beginning to creep up Castiel’s throat. Castiel shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly keenly aware of the disarray of his appearance, of the stickiness of sweat beneath his collar, of the absurd way his fingers trembled. He raked a hand through his hair, attempting some illusion of composure. It only made matters worse. He could tell his hair was sticking up in uneven tufts, stubborn and disobedient, as always. Why did he even try?

Dean’s expression remained unreadable, but did not turn away. Castiel caught his gaze and found himself drowning in fields of green, lush viridian meadows sparkling gold with sunlight at the edges. Fresh, tree lined mountains, shimmering with heat. 

Just then, a child darted between them with a sharp squeal, the blur of motion cutting through the moment. A little girl, no older than five, weaved past the checkout lane, her mismatched shoes squeaking against the tile. A woman followed close behind, hair half-pinned, cheeks flushed, her voice trailing frantic apologies as she disappeared down the aisle.

Dean let out a small, surprised laugh. Castiel exhaled a breath and turned away. 

He slipped his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “I really should go,” he said quietly. “It was...nice to run into you again, Dean.” He hesitated, then flushed deeper. “Literally, I suppose.”

Another pause. Then, more softly, “And I am sorry. Again.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course,” Dean replied. 

They stood there a moment longer than necessary, before Castiel turned.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

He told himself not to look back.

Even when Dean did not answer.

*    *    *    *

He walked the two blocks back to The Book Nook briskly, keeping his eyes forward and his thoughts intentionally clear. The groceries in his arms grew heavier with each step. Meg was perched behind the register in his chair, legs crossed, sipping something pink through a straw and flipping through a graphic novel. 

“That took awhile,” she said, sculpted eyebrows raised. “Everything alright in your food poisoning quest?”

Castiel sighed and brushed past her toward the back counter, placing his groceries down.

“I ran into someone,” he said, tone clipped.

Meg leaned forward eagerly. “And?”

“It was an accident,” Castiel muttered, removing his coat and folding it carefully over the rack. He ran a hand down his face. “I knocked over his groceries.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed. “That sucks! Was he hot?”

He turned to glare at her. 

Meg grinned like a shark. “That’s a yes.”

“It was the same man,” Castiel said, ignoring her delight. “From yesterday. And jogging this morning.”

Meg’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me. This is fate!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to load the food into the small shop fridge to keep cool until the end of the day.

Meg leaned her elbows on the counter and called after him. “You blushed, didn’t you?”

He gave no reply, but the heat blooming steadily beneath his collar was all the answer she would ever need.

*    *    *    *
That evening, Castiel made the quiet drive to Anna’s house. The porch light was already on, casting a soft yellow glow over the terracotta pots of flowers that lined the steps. He parked in his usual spot, along the curb, just far enough to avoid blocking the mailbox, and made his way up the walk with the grocery bag in hand. The door opened before he could knock.

“You’re here,” Anna said, unnecessarily, already grinning. 

Castiel gave a faint smile back, and stepped inside. The familiar scent of sage and something lemony greeted him, her diffuser again, no doubt. He removed his shoes by the door and shrugged out of his trench coat.

Anna gave it a once-over, brow raised. “Still wearing this thing, huh? Are you solving crimes in Victorian London on your way to dinner?”

He stared at her, expression blank. “It is practical and comfortable.”

She held up both hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, you do you Sherlock. Come on, I laid out what I had. You can boss me around.”

“I do not need help cooking.”

“I know,” she replied. “But I’m helping anyway.”

At the sink, Castiel washed his hands, realigned the soap dispenser, and straightened the towel before beginning to prep the mushrooms. Anna hopped up onto a stool beside the counter, clearly not planning to do anything.

After a minute, she said, “You’re very quiet.”

“I am always quiet.”

“Yeah, but this is extra quiet. Funeral-home quiet. Library-during-finals quiet.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched in amusement. 

Anna grinned, satisfied. “There he is.”

He gave her a real smile and focused on slicing mushrooms with clean, rhythmic movements. “It was a long day.”

She leaned over, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“So something did happen.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Is it about a guy?” she asked.

The knife slipped slightly.

Anna’s eyebrows shot up.

“It is about a guy.” she continued. “Are you seeing someone?”

He sighed and set the knife down, turning to look at her. “I am not seeing anyone. I met a man, but he is already seeing someone else.”

A beat.

“You know what a horrible partner I would be, so it would not matter if he was available. I am not going to force some poor man into my…” he gestured vaguely and trailed off. Darkness? Damage? Destruction? 

She pressed her lips together and looked down at the counter.

“I hate when you say shit like that. It’s not true at all, okay? You’re a different person now than you were then.”

“I am really not.”

“You’re wrong. You’re so so wrong and you don’t even see it.”

“Can we discuss other topics, please?”

She sighed. “You know… I feel bad sometimes.”

He caught her eye, brow furrowed.

She continued. “That my mom was…normal. Two sisters, two totally different families.”

He knew she carried such guilt, as if having a happier life made her culpable. He wanted to change the subject, but did not know what to say. This was one of the reasons he did not come over often. She knew too much of his history, cared about him too much, loved him too much. He could not handle that pressure. After a long moment, he turned and continued to slice the mushrooms. Anna hopped off her stool and came to stand beside him, bumping him with her shoulder. 

“So let me help make dinner, okay? Let me do something normal with you.”

Castiel nodded once and handed her the spinach.

“Fine,” he said, grateful for the topic change. “But you are cleaning up.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Castiel woke at his usual time and opened his closet to examine the variety of ironed shirts hanging inside. A deep green button-up caught his eye, almost as beautiful as another green that he had been seeing lately in his dreams. He dressed as the dawn light crept through the windows of his bedroom window. 

He drank his coffee and fed Nochi amid her usual complaints. Leaving, he locked the front door behind him, and spotted Missouri, sitting on her front steps instead of her usual rocking chair. An untouched steaming mug sat by her hip, and her arms were tight against her belly, eyes fixed ahead. Her hair, which was typically pulled back in a variety of beautiful patterned silk bonnets, was left bare. Castiel did not think he had ever seen her natural hair before. Was something wrong? Was he supposed to do something about this?

He hated moments such as this, where someone else would instinctively know just what to do, and he did not have a clue. Anna would know what to say. 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he called out, “Good morning, Missouri.” 

She looked startled, obviously having not heard him leave his house somehow. She must have been quite deep in thought. 

“Good morning, honey,” she replied, but said nothing else. Something was definitely wrong, but he did not know what else to do. Steeling his shoulders, he stepped off onto the sidewalk, raising a hand to her as he passed. She did not react. It made him uncomfortable.

He arrived at The Book Nook thirty minutes before opening. The streets were just beginning to stir, sleepy sunlight edging across the pavement. The store key turned in the lock with a satisfying click. He stepped inside, inhaling the familiar scent. He unlocked the register, adjusted the front display, wiped the windows with a cloth from the back room. By the time he was stacking new arrivals by the counter, the bell over the door jingled.

“Morning, boss man,” Meg said as she swept through the door.

“You are almost twenty minutes late,” Castiel replied, not looking up from the stack of newly arrived hardcovers.

Meg gasped, clutching her purse with one hand. “The scandal. Truly. Should I report myself to HR?”

“You are HR,” he replied, attempting to hide his amusement.

“Excellent point.” She leaned casually against the counter, sipping from a to-go coffee cup wrapped in a recycled paper sleeve. 

In the back, the delivery order offered a welcome distraction. Three boxes, labeled and taped, waited for him near the back shelving unit. He rolled his sleeves, and lifted the boxes one at a time closer to the door. Wiping his dusty hands on his pants, he lifted each stack of books out of its box and carried them through the curtain to the quiet of the shop floor, the sheet whispering along the floor with each trip. He hummed softly under his breath while shelving each book, the covers aligned, the spines straight. 

Footsteps stirred behind him, muffled against the floorboards. He turned and saw Dean walking towards him, breathing heavily, hair mussed. He had not even seen the man enter the store.

What was he doing here? Had their first few encounters not been humiliating enough? 

“Hey,” Dean said, voice rough. He cleared it quickly and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Sorry to bug you. I know you’re working.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, observing him. “You are not interrupting. I was nearly finished.” Why had he said that? It was not remotely true. 

Dean took half a step closer. “I was just in the area. Thought I’d stop by.”

Cas nodded slowly. This man was entirely confusing. “That is twice in one week, Dean,” he said, not sure what else to say.

Dean gave a short laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess I’m developing a habit.”

“There are worse ones to have.”

Dean nodded quickly. He glanced past Castiel, toward the counter, the empty register, the floor, anywhere that wasn’t Castiel’s face. Should he look away as well? Was it inappropriate to stare at someone who was not looking back at him? 

“I happened to be walking by. After lunch. Late lunch. You know, so then I was thinking about lunch.”

Castiel fought back a smile. Was Dean…nervous? He decided to simply wait. He had no idea what was occurring or how he was expected to react. 

“So, I was thinking maybe you’d want to grab lunch sometime. With me, I mean. My treat.”

Castiel frowned. Dean could not be asking him out. Surely this was not a date. If it was, he ought to refuse. No, Dean was involved with someone, that “friend” he had mentioned. What was this, then? Perhaps he was mistaken, perhaps Dean intended nothing more than conversation. People asked one another to lunch without implication all the time, it was customary, even polite. But why ask Castiel, specifically? Why now? 

The silence lasted too long, he needed to say something, anything. 

“Lunch?”

Dean breathed out in a whoosh. “Yeah. I thought I’d ask. No pressure if you're busy or if you're eating with your girl, that’s cool.” 

Castiel blinked once. Then again.

“My girl?” he repeated slowly.

Did he truly believe Castiel and Meg were together? The thought seemed almost absurd, yet why else would Dean phrase it so confidently, unless he had already drawn the conclusion? Perhaps Meg’s familiarity with him suggested intimacy where none existed. 

Still, Dean must know he was gay. It was not something Castiel proclaimed, but neither was it hidden. And yet clarity to himself did not guarantee clarity to others. How often had he assumed people saw what was obvious to him, only to be proven wrong?

The possibility unsettled him. Was he so indistinct that now someone could mistake him for heterosexual? Had he repressed his true self that thoroughly? Did he even exist?

Dean shrugged, “Yeah, I just figured you might eat with her. But, if you’re ever having a wine night or something with her instead, and free for lunch, we could do that sometime.” 

No, Dean. He was an addict. He could never drink wine with anyone. He could never sit across a table and share a casual glass, as though it were harmless. That possibility had been stripped from him, and he would never be what others called normal again. A sudden envy pierced him for those who could partake without consequence, but he pressed it down at once. He had done this to himself, there was no one else to blame.

Castiel felt like laughing at how wrong Dean was, on so so many levels.

“I do not drink wine,” he finally replied.

Dean chuckled, “Right. No wine. Got it. You don’t have to say yes or anything. I just figured, hell, we keep running into each other. Might as well make it intentional.”

That was unexpectedly charming. He did not know how to confirm whether this was a date or merely the beginnings of a friendship. That uncertainty was one of the more difficult aspects of being gay, intentions were rarely clear. If it was meant as a date, he would refuse, but if it was no more than the offer of friendship…which was more likely considering Dean’s relationship status, and his comment about Castiel’s girl…he found, to his own surprise, that he might welcome it.

The thought unsettled him. After Michael, the only true friend he had formed was Meg, and even that bond was complicated by the fact that he paid her salary. He did not know whether such a relationship could be considered friendship at all.

“When were you thinking?” he asked.

“Soon? Maybe tomorrow? Or the next day. Whatever works.”

“Tomorrow,” Castiel repeated.

“Okay. Tomorrow’s good. Noon?”

“Noon.”

Dean took a step back, his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. “Alright, I’ll come by around noon. If you're there. Or I mean here.”

“I usually am,” Castiel replied, amused.

Dean nodded again and turned on his heel. His ears were red as he walked toward the door.

The bell above the entrance gave its usual chime as he exited. Castiel stood very still. He watched the door long after it had closed. Behind him, the soft sound of a throat clearing broke the quiet. He flinched.

“Well, well, well,” came Meg’s voice, unmistakably delighted. “That was juicy.”

Castiel turned slowly, already shaping his expression into something neutral. “Were you listening?”

Meg raised both hands, the picture of exaggerated innocence. “I was working. And by working I mean I was shelving the new graphic novels. Right by the curtain. Where the sound just happened to travel.”

He sighed deeply.

She grinned. "So, what are you gonna wear on your date? 

Castiel gave her a withering look. "This is not a date."

"Right, right, sure.”

Castiel turned back to the books, shelving with more force than necessary. One paperback slid into place with a faint thump.

Meg leaned forward on the counter, her smirk undiminished. "You like him. You’re not even denying it. And he totally likes you back. I almost swooned, just listening."

He pointedly did not respond.

"Hey, you deserve something good. Even if it’s just lunch."

Castiel turned just slightly, his jaw tense. "He is not single, Meg. More importantly, simply look at him."

"I am looking at him. Frequently. And I'm not the only one."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “He would not be interested in someone such as myself,” his voice was clipped. “He wears flannel, for heaven’s sake, and most likely spends half his life in a gym.”

Meg snorted. "So, you were checking out his bulging pecs, too?”

Castiel huffed, and turned his back on her, focusing with exaggerated care on the shelf.

*    *    *    *

The evening was hushed, the streets nearly empty by the time Castiel began the walk home. The air had cooled with the fading of the sun, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. He pulled his coat more tightly around himself, burying his hands deep inside the pockets. He had forgotten his gloves, as he often did. His shoes struck a steady rhythm against the pavement, a small sound that seemed louder in the stillness of the neighborhood. When he reached Missouri’s house, he slowed, his eyes drawn to the darkness. The porch, usually lit by the soft glow from inside, was dark, the rocking chair still. A pang of unease pressed against his chest. He wondered if he should have asked what had been wrong this morning. His gaze lingered on the house a moment longer, but the stillness offered him no answers. Finally, he forced himself forward. It was not his place. He had never been skilled at inserting himself into the lives of others, even in kindness. Michael learned that the hard way.

When he reached his own door, he let himself in and locked it behind him. He removed his shoes and coat at the entry, setting them neatly in their place, and moved down the hall into the small bedroom he had converted into an office. It was lined with bookshelves packed tight and organized thoroughly. The desk stood centered against the far wall, a dark wood surface worn from use. A lamp with a yellowed shade threw a soft, steady light across the room, illuminating the space. He lowered himself into the chair, its joints creaking faintly, and turned on his computer. The hum of the fan filled the silence as the machine began its sequence.

The sound of claws tapping on the hardwood reached him, as his PC ran through its short opening sequences. Nochi emerged in the doorway, tail high, her belly swaying side to side as she waddled in. With a practiced leap, she landed heavily upon his lap, sprawling briefly before settling her weight against his stomach. The chair groaned beneath them both. Castiel’s hand moved automatically, smoothing the fur along her spine, pressing gently against her round sides. He scritched at the base of her rump, where she could not reach on her own, due to her girth. She answered with a low, resonant purr, the vibration traveling through his palm and into his wrist, steady and comforting. He inhaled faintly, catching the warm scent of her fur mingled with the faintest brush of dust, and let the rhythm of her contentment fill the room.

For several minutes he sat, stroking her, listening to the faint hum of the machine. At last, he placed both hands on the keyboard and typed a few sentences. He read it, frowned, and pressed the backspace key until nothing remained but the blank page. He tried again, producing another beginning. His eyes lingered on the phrasing too long, searching for something worth keeping. The blinking cursor pulsed at him, a reminder of everything he was failing to write. 

He leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers into the crease between his brows, massaging at the tension gathered there. Words should come, they always had before. His shelves were full of proof, notebooks lined with half-finished stories, stacks of paper covered in his handwriting, digital files with ramblings preserved across years. He had filled pages compulsively, as though writing itself was a kind of self-care. Even now, he tried to journal every day, a discipline he clung to as a therapeutic reflection on each day.

He had even begun considering a new book, fiction this time. The problem was not a lack of ideas, on the contrary, he had too many. Images and beginnings crowded his mind, but he lacked a method to order them by, some hand to point toward what might be worthy of devotion. Without it, he was left staring at the blank page, each possibility vanishing as soon as he gave it shape. Nochi shifted, her claws kneading into his thigh as if in reproach.

 He turned back to the page again, tried to summon an idea, anything, but found only tomorrow waiting for him. The invitation to lunch was in his mind stubbornly, louder than the hum of the computer. He tried to imagine the outline for a story, but instead he imagined green eyes. He tried to construct a character, but all he saw was the line of a jaw, tousled hair, long lashes, pouted lips. He imagined how soft those lips might feel if he let himself draw close enough to discover it. 

The thought sent heat winding low through his body. His hand paused on Nochi’s fur, and he withdrew it, ashamed of the sudden shift within him. He punched the computer’s off button with more force than necessary, and Nochi jumped down with a soft thud, looking back at him with faint disgust before ambling away. 

He pushed back from the desk and stood, just as disgusted with himself as she seemed. A cold shower is what he needed. Perhaps the shock of water against his flushed skin would remind him who he was, someone composed, someone safe.

The bathroom light was harsh, reflecting off the white tile as he undressed. He folded each article of clothing and set it neatly aside. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, cock half-hard, straining against the air, he looked away. He exhaled slowly, bracing himself for the cold and stepped into the shower.

The water came biting against his skin, running down in punishing rivulets. He pressed his palms against the tile, head bowed beneath the spray, letting the chill strike him until his teeth ached. It should have doused the heat, should have restored him to control, but the betrayal of his body persisted. His arousal clung stubbornly, a simmering presence that the cold could not extinguish. His jaw tightened. 

He opened his eyes briefly and watched the spray strike the floor, scattering into small streams that wound toward the drain. He told himself to focus on the path of the water, on the pattern it made against the tile. But the effort faltered almost at once. Dean’s image intruded again, beautiful.

Minutes passed, the spray numbing his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms, his chest, but his arousal clung stubbornly, smoldering beneath the ice. He pressed his forehead against the wall, the chilled tile seeping into his skin, filled with the shape of what he wanted but knew he could never have. He despised the weakness of it, despised the betrayal of his own body most of all.

He moved trembling hands down his chest, unsure if they were unsteady from the cold or from the image of Dean in his mind's eye. His fingers grazed his nipples, and they hardened further under his touch. He let out a ragged sound, swallowed by the rush of the water. He ran his palms over them, imagining Dean’s lips closing around them, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peaks. The thought made his cock throb, fully erect now, heavy and aching.

He gave into the moment, and cranked the water hot, sagging in relief as soon as the warmed water ran over his chilled skin, tension draining out of him all at once. 

His hand slid lower, over the flat planes of his stomach, to the coarse hair at the base of his cock. He wrapped his fingers around himself, his grip firm but slow, and a shudder ran through him. He leaned against the shower wall, and began to stroke himself, each movement deliberate, savoring the slow build of pleasure.

His mind was consumed with Dean. He pictured him sprawled beneath him, those piercing green eyes hazy with desire, his lips parted as he whispered Castiel’s name, begging Castiel to claim him. 

His hand moved faster, his thumb circling the head of his cock, spreading the slick precum that had gathered there. He would take Dean apart, spread him open, make him writhe.

He imagined pinning Dean to the bed, his legs hooked over Castiel’s shoulders, his body arching up to meet his thrusts. He pictured the tight, searing heat of Dean’s body, the way he would clench around him, the sounds he would make. Sharp gasps, low moans, maybe a broken sob as Castiel stroked deeper, harder. He would own Dean. His hips bucked into his hand, the pressure building, relentless.

It had been years since longing had taken hold of him with such unrelenting force. He had believed himself past this sort of hunger, that time and grief had dulled it into memory. But his body ached with awareness, utterly alive. Every stroke sharpened the need to take, to consume, to feel the give of another body under his own. To know Dean not in glances or brief conversation, but in surrender. He imagined Dean’s hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as Castiel drove into him, setting a brutal pace, their bodies slick with sweat.

Castiel’s hand slowed for a moment, teasing himself. He squeezed the base, staving off the release that threatened to overtake him. He would make Dean wait. He would make Dean beg for it. He pictured Dean’s flushed face, his chest heaving, his cock leaking against his stomach as he pleaded for Castiel to let him come. The image was vivid, and Castiel’s hand resumed its rhythm, faster now, his grip tight and unyielding.

His other hand dropped down to cup his balls, squeezing gently, then tugging, the slight ache grounding driving him higher. He would take Dean until he was trembling, until he was nothing but need. Until he was nothing but Castiel’s. He imagined Dean’s body tightening around him, as he clenched his fist around himself. The way he would shudder as Castiel hit that perfect spot inside him, over and over, relentless.

His strokes were frantic now, his hand slick with precum, the wet sound of it mingling with the patter of the shower. He leaned his forehead against the tiles, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He would make Dean come untouched, just from being deep inside his body, making him feel such pleasure that he could not hold back any longer. He pictured Dean’s orgasm, his head thrown back, his mouth open in a silent scream, his erection pulsing as he spilled across his stomach, all while Castiel worked him through it.

The thought was too much, his strokes erratic, his hips jerking as the pleasure crested. His own climax crashed through him, a white-hot surge that tore a guttural moan from his throat. His cock throbbed in his hand, thick spurts of cum painting the shower wall, mixing with the water and swirling down the drain. He kept stroking, his body trembling with the intensity of it.

He stood there, panting, his legs unsteady as the aftershocks rippled through him. The water poured over him, washing away the evidence of his release. He turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel and drying himself with slow, deliberate movements, mind still hazy. Did his calm actually preserve anything? Did his control actually protect anyone?

Chapter Text

The following morning, Missouri was not out on her front porch at all. A queasy feeling settled low in Castiel’s stomach. Something was definitely wrong, and he did not know what to do about it. 

At work, Meg arrived at her customary time, anywhere between fifteen and sixty minutes after her shift was supposed to start. Today it was thirty-eight. The morning passed with a steady stream of customers and only one return. 

Lunch approached more quickly than Castiel would have preferred. Nervousness rose in him, heightened by the memory of the night before, when even a cold shower had failed him. He had expected to feel guilt, and was surprised to find he did not. He was comfortable with his sexuality. Though he doubted he would make a good partner, romantic or otherwise, he found nothing inherently wrong with private fantasy or sexual release. What he did not welcome was the idea of trespassing into another’s relationship, but that was not what this was.

He pressed the thoughts aside. What required his attention now was the upcoming lunch. Conversation had never been his strength, least of all with people he did not know well. 

After deliberating for much of the morning, he resolved to seek Meg’s advice, despite the ridicule he knew would follow. When the clock edged closer to eleven and the store had emptied out a bit, Castiel found Meg leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone with the sort of concentration she never applied to her work. He cleared his throat softly.

“I require your…counsel,” Castiel said carefully.

Meg’s eyes widened with delight. “Counsel? You make it sound like I’m your lawyer. What’s the case, Clarence?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “It concerns my lunch engagement this afternoon.”

Meg blinked once, then grinned. “Ohhh,” she said as if she forgot, which she absolutely did not. “Lunch with the lumberjack. Lumberjack lunch. Lewd lumberjack lunch - ” 

Sensing she was just getting started, Castiel interrupted. “Meg, please.”

“Okay, okay, I’m with you. You nervous?”

Castiel adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “I am not…nervous. I simply wish to ensure that the conversation is not awkward.”

“Awkward,” she repeated. “I hate to say it, but your awkwardness is what I like best about you. And he must like it too, I’m sure you weren’t Mr. Suave in the grocery store.”

“Will you help me anyway?” he asked, feeling horribly vulnerable. 

“Of course. Okay, just,” she gestured to the air. “Say normal things.”

He frowned. “What constitutes normal?”

“Small talk. Easy stuff. Ask him about his day, his work, what he likes to do on the weekend.” She tapped her chin, seemingly in thought. “And you can mention Nochi once. Just once. He doesn’t need to know about her feeding schedule or how you got her, unless he asks.”

“But, the story of how I adopted her is unique, and does that not make it an interesting -”

“Not on a first date, it doesn’t. Not everyone is a cat person.”

“It is not a date. But I understand, I will not impose my Nochi stories on him unprovoked,” Castiel replied stiffly, trying not to feel insulted.

“Uh-huh. Sure. Write this down.” She slid a notepad across the counter.

He stared at it a moment, then pulled a pen from the drawer. In his precise script, he wrote:

• Ask about work
  
  
• Ask about hobbies

Meg leaned over his shoulder, cackling. “You’re actually making a script. This is the best day of my life.”

“It is not a script,” he muttered. “It is preparation.”

“Uh-huh. Next you’ll be practicing in the mirror.”

He ignored her, adding another line to the page:

• Avoid Nochi

Meg reached for the pen. “Here, let me add one.” She scrawled messily beneath his neat handwriting: Compliment his arms.

*    *    *    *

He still had a little time before noon, so during a lull he retreated to the back room, where the  shelves held a few unopened boxes. He set himself to the familiar task of organizing the inventory, shifting stacks into orderly lines, anything that might distract him from his nerves. After several minutes, voices carried through the door. He could hear Meg’s, though the words were indistinct, and a man responded. The sound might have been Dean’s, though Castiel could not be certain. His pulse quickened regardless, and he put on his coat.

Before returning to the front, his eyes fell on the notepad resting on the break table. He had no intention of producing it in the middle of lunch, that would be absurd, but he slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat anyway, as he stepped out.

It was indeed Dean speaking with Meg, and from the faint color across his cheeks, Castiel could reliably assume she had said something inappropriate.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, nodding to him.

“Hey,” the other man replied easily.

“Going somewhere?” Meg asked, her tone feigning ignorance.

“Lunch,” Castiel answered, resisting the urge to tell her to stop whatever it was she was attempting.

“With Mr. Tall and Smoldery over there?” She looked between the two of them, eyes alight. “Wow, color me surprised.”

Castiel barely suppressed a groan. Why had he ever sought her counsel? She was, at her core, a terrible person. He turned from her without another word, moving toward the door, and mercifully Dean fell into step behind him.

“Come back anytime, hero,” Meg called after them. “And give that calendar some thought.”

Calendar? Castiel decided it was best not to ask. 

They walked to a nearby diner Dean had suggested, and Castiel was quietly grateful for the recommendation. It had not occurred to him that he might be put on the spot to choose a location, and the relief of being spared that decision was notable. 

The booth creaked faintly as they sat, the vinyl sighing beneath their weight. Castiel glanced around the room, taking in the muted lighting, the clatter of plates from the kitchen, the faint smell of grease that clung to the air. He found himself relieved by the casualness of the place. It supported the notion that Dean sought only friendship, not courtship, and that allowed him to relax even further.

He turned his gaze back toward Dean and met his eyes. “Do you come here often?” The words escaped before he could stop them. At once, regret struck him. Trite, cliché, a line from an embarrassing romantic comedy. He wished he could pluck them from the air and return them to his mouth where they belonged.

Dean did not seem to notice the awkwardness however, and answered without reaction. 

“Yeah,” he replied with a casual shrug, leaning back into the booth. “After shifts sometimes with the crew, or sometimes just me. It’s kind of a no-frills, do what you like, type of place.”

Their menus remained untouched between them as they spoke. The waitress arrived shortly, pen already poised. “What can I get you boys?”

Dean did not hesitate. “Bacon cheeseburger, fries, black coffee.” 

Even in something so small, Dean’s answer had been uncalculated and absolutely certain. Castiel shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers grazing the edge of the table. He could not remember the last time he had chosen anything without deliberation. He overthought every decision, no matter how trivial, until the pleasure of it dissolved into doubt. In truth, he had no appetite. Yet he wanted to share something with the man across from him, to match that certainty in whatever small way he could.

He hesitated a moment longer, then, “I will have the same.”

As the waitress left, Castiel allowed his gaze to drift across the table. He watched Dean’s hands while he spoke. Scarred knuckles, a faint burn mark curling along one forearm, strong fingers.

They made what Meg had called “small talk,” the exchange of light questions and equally light answers. At times, silence stretched long enough for discomfort to grow in his chest, but more often than not, he managed to find words, and Dean met him in the middle. At moments, it was even pleasant.

When the coffee arrived, Castiel added creamer to his cup, stirring until the liquid paled to the precise shade he preferred. Dean, meanwhile, left his untouched, black and strong. He felt Dean’s eyes on him, and when he looked up, he caught the faint glimmer of amusement there.

“You’re a real careful guy, huh?” he asked.

Castiel set the spoon down against the saucer. “What do you mean?”

Dean gestured loosely at the mug. “Yeah, you’ve got this whole precision thing going on. Like, if you made one wrong move, everything would implode.”

Everything would implode. He settled on, “I like things where they belong.”

“Alright, fair. But seriously.”

 He was not sure he could explain his deep need for control, his knowledge that when he lost control, let things slip, people died. He searched for the words that might suffice.

“All things deserve intention,” he said at last.

“Intention. Jesus. Most people are just trying to get through the day.”

Yes. Most people stumbled through their days without regard for consequence, without thought for how their carelessness rippled outward. That was precisely the problem. That was why order mattered, why control mattered. Most people could not be trusted. He barely trusted himself most days.

“Most people are careless,” he replied.

Dean shook his head. “God, you’re intense.” 

Castiel felt the corner of his jaw tighten, but he did not look away. He had come this far. If he was too much for Dean, better to know it here, in the clear light of day, than to waste time pretending otherwise. Although up until this point, Dean seemed to be holding his own just fine, and Castiel was enjoying speaking with him, despite the nerves.

“You do not strike me as someone who is easily intimidated by intensity.”

Dean raised a brow. “Who says I’m intimidated?”

Castiel did not know how to answer. The words caught in his throat, and he felt the conversation slipping away from him like sand through his fingers.

Dean’s smile faded, and with its absence came the hollow drop of Castiel’s stomach.

“I’m not,” Dean said. “Just trying to figure you out.”

Figure him out? No. Dean should not wish for that.  If he saw what lived beneath the surface, if he knew the things that Castiel had done, he would run. They always did. Michael had not been the last man he had been with. It had been a long eight years since his death, and Castiel had not lived it in purity. There had been others, each one ending the same way. Someone always ran, whether it be them or him.

Castiel grasped his hands more tightly around the coffee cup, the ceramic heat against his palms grounding him.

What is there to figure out, truly? He is a man who publishes the worst things he has ever done, for all to see, under the pretense of healing. Yet he is not healed. He is someone who still wakes gasping, hearing the ghost of Michael gagging beside him. He is not someone Dean wants to understand. He may think he does, but it will pass. 

Castiel swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “There is not much to figure out.” It was the best he could offer.

Dean studied him a moment longer, then shook his head slightly. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

Mercifully, their food arrived just then, breaking into whatever the conversation had been threatening to become. Dean made a joke as he reached for the salt, and it pulled Castiel out of his spiraling thoughts like a hand pulling him from the water. The conversation began to flow again, Dean’s quiet charisma smoothing over Castiel’s rough edges.

There were still silences. Long ones, even. But for the first time in years, Castiel sat across from someone and did not feel the need to fill every gap.

In those silences, his eyes drifted again toward Dean’s hands as they moved, gesturing with a relaxed familiarity, or to the way the light settled in his hair, gold where it kissed hie temples. He found himself watching the slope of Dean’s shoulders, the way he leaned into the table when he spoke, the faint lines that deepened at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Castiel looked longer than he ought to. Each time, he reminded himself to look away, but he rarely did quickly enough.

He lifted his burger carefully, making sure none of the toppings slid out, and took a bite. It was better than he expected. Juicy, salty, greasy, exactly what a burger should be. 

He let out a sound before he could stop himself. “These make me very happy,” he said, setting the burger down and dabbing carefully at his mouth with a napkin, unwilling to risk the indignity of food at the corner of his lips in public.

The conversation flowed onto the bookstore, and Castiel found himself actually talking. Dean gave him the grace to pause and think about how he wanted to respond without feeling rushed. It allowed him to breathe without pressure, and he found himself more at ease than he had been in a long time. There was something very special about this man. He asked thoughtful questions, and more than that, he seemed genuinely interested in the answers. His boyfriend was a very lucky man. Beauty paired with such attention was rare. Speaking of…

“Did your friend ever read that memoir you purchased?”  The moment the words left him, he regretted them. He did not want to sit across from Dean while hearing about his own book. Worse still, he did not want to risk the moment when Dean might connect him to it.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said quickly. “Yeah, he’s reading it.” 

He’s reading it. Confirmation, then, that Dean’s partner was a man. Confirmation also that Dean had not realized the author sat across from him now. Relief surged through him, so strong it nearly left him lightheaded.

“He said it was super moving and stuff. Like, it made him think a lot about healing. And identity. All that heavy stuff,” Dean continued.

Castiel forced himself to breathe evenly, though his chest felt constricted. He tried not to imagine the man who shared Dean’s bed, resting beside him, touching him, laughing with him. He tried not to imagine the ease between them, an ease Castiel had never mastered with anyone other than Michael. He tried not to imagine them with the memoir open between them, taking turns reading passages aloud, remarking on the most dishonorable parts, the most humiliating. He tried not to imagine them drawing closer in the act of dissecting his life, finding one another in the wreckage of him.

He tried not to imagine them making love in that bed, the book itself trapped between their bodies, his words reduced to nothing more than a crumpled object pressed beneath their intimacy. His chest tightened further, shame and envy searing him in equal measure.

“I am glad it ended up being a good choice, then,” he said at last, forcing what he hoped resembled a smile. “You must know your friend well.”

Dean laughed quietly. “Yeah, I guess I do.” 

Castiel did not want to speak of it further. He did not want to think of it another moment. “Enough about that,” he said too abruptly, his voice sharper than intended. “Tell me about firefighting.”

The conversation moved forward, flowing from one subject to another, and Castiel noted, with a faint measure of pride, that he never once mentioned Nochi. Meg would be pleased. The thought of her smug expression almost made him smile.

He barely noticed when the plates were cleared away. Dean leaned back in the booth, folding his arms casually. Castiel’s eyes flicked upward and then away at once. He absolutely had not been studying the breadth of Dean’s chest, the pull of muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“This is nice,” Dean said.

“The food?”

Dean snorted. “Sure. But just all of it. Not working. Not running around. Just slowing down a bit. I’m glad you made it for lunch.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest without his permission. He was glad, too. Glad Dean had asked, glad he had come. He found that he could not remember the last time he had felt as content in the company of another. Not for many years. 

Before he could respond, the waitress slipped the bill onto the table. Dean reached for it quickly, sliding his card into the plastic sleeve.

“You do not have to do that, Dean. I can pay for my own meal.”

“I know,” he said, slipping his card into the plastic sleeve. “But I said lunch was on me. Gotta follow through.”

A gentleman, then. Castiel forced himself not to read further into it, though the temptation was there.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said, and he was almost positive a real smile was on his face this time.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Dean asked, “Wanna swap numbers?”

Castiel blinked, his pulse picking up. “Yes.”

Dean’s phone slid across the table toward him, open to a new contact. Castiel entered his information and felt his own phone buzz in his pocket as Dean texted him back.

*    *    *    *

Back at the bookstore, Castiel hung his coat on the rack in the break room and took a few deep breaths. He reached for a cloth to wipe down the counter, as Meg stared expectantly at him.

Castiel sighed, not bothering to look up. “It was... fine.”

“Fine?” Meg repeated, dragging out the word like it had personally offended her. “You were gone for over an hour, Tree-topper, and the best you’ve got for me is fine?”

He busied himself behind the counter, rearranging receipts that didn’t need rearranging.

“Come on,” she said, leaning over and stealing a paperclip just to flick it at him. He caught it, his hand tightening around the small piece of metal. He returned it to the countertop.

She continued, “Did you have things to talk about? Were you miserable? You’ve got to give me something here. I’m living vicariously through you over here.”

“Meg, you have more men falling at your feet than I have ever spoken to in my entire life.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one that went on a date with a smokin’ hot firefighter.”

“It was not a -” He cut himself off, lifting both hands in surrender. “You know what? I give up.” He glared, which only seemed to amuse her further.

She pouted, stomping one boot against the floor like a child. “Come on, come on, come on, come -”

“He asked for my number.”

That stopped her cold. She let out a low whistle. “Holy shit. For real? Like, how did he ask? Did he just ask for your number, or did he ask for your number?” She waggled her eyebrows, as if that clarified anything at all.

“Meg.”

“Okay, okay, I’m done.” She raised her hands.

Castiel resumed wiping the counter with focus, staring so hard at a smudge on the wood that he was sure he could will it away by the sheer force of his mind.

Meg circled behind him and dropped into his chair, rocking it back and forth until the wheels squeaked. “So, you gonna see him again?”

“I do not know,” he said, far too quickly. His hand moved faster across the counter.

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said lightly. “I mean, impressively bad. Honestly, you should be studied.”

Castiel turned just enough to give her a look. She grinned wider. 

“Alright, fine. Yes. Probably.” He hesitated, then added, “I had a nice time. He was…nice.”

“Wow,” Meg deadpanned. “Stop. You’re gonna make me blush.”

Castiel closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It has simply been a long time since I have made a friend.”

Meg softened, her teasing posture fading. She stood and leaned against the counter next to him. “Castiel,” she said, using his real name. “You deserve friends. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. I know this shit isn’t easy for you.”

He let out a huff of air. “You always do this.”

“What? Provide excellent support?”

“No.” He tipped his head towards her. “Get me to want to open up to you, which is absurd given how rude you always are.”

Meg nudged his arm. “You want to open up because I’m not afraid of your feelings, dumbass. You shouldn’t be either.”

He looked at her then. 

“I did not know what to say when he asked,” he said, a rye smile on his lips. “Regarding my number. I think I blinked at him for several seconds before I remembered how phones functioned.”

Meg laughed, full and loud. “God, you’re lucky you’re hot.” She disappeared into the backroom before he had to come up with a response to that.

She reappeared a few moments later, unwrapping the foil from a burrito.

“So what now?” she asked around a large bite.

“I do not know,” Castiel admitted. “We did not make concrete plans, though he mentioned seeing me around. I suppose that implies he wants to continue developing our friendship. He was...very kind to me. It is strange.”

“It’s not strange,” Meg said, pointing at him with her foil wrapper. “People like you. They always have. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

The bell over the door jingled, and a customer stepped inside, dragging a cool breeze with them. Castiel straightened, and cleared his throat. He smoothed his hands down his shirt and continued his counter wiping.

Meg patted his shoulder and slipped back into the break room, presumably to finish eating.

The rest of the day passed quickly, and that night he fell asleep with images of Dean playing behind his eyelids.

Chapter Text

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, as Castiel folded the omelet in the sizzling pan. Saturday mornings were his favorite. The store was closed, and he had risen late, sipped coffee with Nochi nestled heavily against his side, and taken the rare liberty of cooking a full breakfast.

A second message buzzed before he could open the first.

DEAN: Hey, this is late notice, but I’m having a game night at my place tonight around 7pm. Just a few friends from work. Low-key, snacks and card games. You’re welcome to come if you want.

DEAN: No pressure. Just figured I’d ask.

Castiel stood still for a moment, the phone cool in his palm. It had been just over a week since their lunch. He had thought of sending his own text messages, but could not think of a valid reason to do so. Now here was Dean, unprompted, offering another invitation.

He set the phone down and turned to the sink. The omelet cooled on the table behind him as he rinsed the pan, water hissing faintly against the metal. He was delaying, distracting himself from the choice before him.

Dean’s friends. That meant a group of strangers with inside jokes and stories and experiences that he would not understand. That meant socializing with multiple people he had never met before. That meant most likely watching Dean interact with his boyfriend, secret or not. He wondered if Dean’s friends were aware of the true nature of his relationship with this “friend”. 

He had a lovely time overall with Dean at lunch, but this would be different. This would be Dean in his own space, surrounded by people who were a part of him, who had a rightful place in his life. Castiel was not certain he belonged there.

He set the phone face-down.

No, it was a kind offer, but it was too much, he should decline. He could say there was an inventory mix-up, or a delayed shipment. He could excuse himself with any number of plausible reasons, really.

But then he thought of Meg, when she had told him you deserve friends and people like you.

Was that true?

He picked up his phone again, and reflection stared back at him in the darkened screen. He unlocked the screen. Typed slowly.

CASTIEL: Thank you for the invitation. I will attend.

He did not know that was what he was going to send, until he already sent it. He set the phone down and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

*    *    *    *

Castiel locked the front door behind him. As very rarely happens to him, he was running a little late. He had spent too long at the store trying to decide what would be appropriate to bring. Wine was customary to bring to someone’s house, as a guest. But Castiel felt uncomfortable bringing alcohol that he could not drink, it did not feel right. Then, he spent too much time choosing his outfit and trying to convince himself that tonight would not be a horrible mistake.

Missouri’s home remained dark as he walked to his car in the light drizzle. Concerningly, he had not seen her in the mornings all week. Perhaps she went on vacation. Perhaps Castiel was worrying about nothing. What would he do anyways? Go knock on her door? Absurd. 

He drove.

The walk to Dean’s door felt longer than it was. The porch light spilled across the damp wooden steps. He hesitated just before knocking, smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt, the other grasping tighter to the condensation-dampened cardboard of the non-alcoholic ginger beer that he had finally settled on. His hair still held the mist of rain, and he hoped it did not look untidy.

Then the door opened. Dean stood there, backlit by warm light. Beautiful, as always. 

“Hello,” Castiel said.

“Hey, you made it,” Dean said with a smile. “Come on in.”

He stepped inside and slid his coat from his shoulders and onto the rack where Dean gestured. 

“You have a beautiful home,” he offered.

Dean dismissed the compliment easily, “I’m glad you made it.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

He met Dean’s gaze, and for a moment it was only the two of them in the entire world. The hum of voices, the lingering chill that pressed against his skin, all of it faded into nothing. Dean’s eyes caught the light, glistening with the color of endless meadows, like new leaves, unfolding in the rain. Castiel was captivated.

The sudden burst of laughter from the next room startled him, breaking the moment. Had they really been standing there, staring into each other's eyes, for that long? 

“Sorry, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Castiel nodded, though his stomach was already tightening with dread.

Dean led him into the living room, clearing his throat. “Hey, everyone, this is Cas. Castiel. He’s a friend. Of mine. A friend of mine.”

Were they friends? He supposed that being invited into another’s home for a social gathering implied friendship. Dean was his friend. Warmth spread through his chest at the thought. 

The red-haired woman on the couch turned sharply, a huge smile on her face. It was a little too wide, like a shark. 

Dean’s hand brushed his back lightly, “Cas brought ginger beer.”  His hand felt warm through Castiel’s shirt, and for a moment, he wished he knew what it would feel like on his bare skin.

Dean gestured around the room introducing everyone. The red-head was Charlie and her brunette girlfriend was Gilda, the burly man with thick arms was Benny and his slender wife was Andrea, the smiling man in the striped shirt was Alfie, the scowling man was Lee, and the baby-faced man was Jack. He tried to catalog all the names and faces, but felt most of them slipping out of his grasp as quickly as they entered. The bear of a man was clearly taken, his wife leaning against his chest from the v of his legs. He did not know how old the other man was, but he was far too young for Dean. That left the man in the patterned shirt, and the man who was staring unsmiling at him. Neither with an obvious partner, and both of appropriate age. It was also a possibility that Dean’s boyfriend was not present this evening. Castiel wondered if the others knew, if the truth of Dean’s relationship was something openly acknowledged or kept in secrecy. Not knowing unsettled him.

“You are all firefighters?” he asked, attempting to categorize each person into what he knew of Dean’s life.

“Yep!” Charlie…he actually did remember her name…said. “And we are all soooo excited to meet any friend of Dean’s.” 

Something about the mischief in her eyes and her wicked smile reminded him of Meg. 

“Ignore her,” Dean said, his hand slipping off of Castiel’s back. “Make yourself at home, I’ll stick the ginger beer in the fridge.” He took the 6-pack out of Castiel’s grasp and added, “Behave, fuckers,” before he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Castiel to stand there awkwardly. His hands twitched at his sides.

“You just gonna stand there?” one man asked, and he felt his stomach lurch. He was being weird as always. His heart kicked up, as he scanned the room with wide eyes, trying to think logically past the anxiety to choose somewhere to sit. 

“Don’t be an asshole, Lee.” Charlie patted the empty cushion beside her. “Sit over here, join us,” she called. 

Lee. Of all the possibilities, he prayed it was not Lee. The thought of kind, thoughtful, disarmingly funny Dean, choosing to be with someone so rude, upset him more than he would like to think about. He had seen it before, good men convinced they deserved no better, or simply too weary to wait for something more.

And yet, Castiel reminded himself, he had no claim to such thoughts. Whoever Dean loved, or did not love, was not his to judge. 

He lowered himself onto the couch beside Charlie, the cushions dipping under his weight. His spine stayed straight, hands folded in his lap. He could feel her studying him even as he refused to look her way.

Dean returned from the kitchen, arms filled with beer and snacks. With something that felt close to panic, he hoped Dean would sit with him. He could not imagine enduring this night without his company. Dean handed out the drinks before lowering himself to the floor beside the couch, his back against the armrest. He felt a whoosh of relief. 

The proximity of Dean’s shoulder was close enough that a small shift might brush them together.

Dean turned, holding a bottle out toward him. “Want one?”

Castiel’s eyes lingered on the condensation sliding down the glass, a trickle wetting Dean’s fingers. For the briefest of moments, he wanted so badly to be ordinary, so badly he startled himself. His fingertips trembled with the restraint not to reach out.

The yearning was gone as quickly as it came, swept away by the sharp edge of reality. As if he would endanger his sobriety for the sake of strangers. As if the scaffolding he had built brick by brick, the careful balance that held him upright, could survive the weight of even one single drink.

One of the longest-lasting difficulties of sobriety was one he had not been prepared for. He had braced himself for the withdrawal, for the temptations, for the restless nights and the painful mornings. He knew how crucial it was to keep a routine, to plan out his days carefully, to examine the company he kept.

What he had not considered was how people would react when he told them he was clean and sober. The intrusiveness of the questions that followed, shocked him. The way they were asked as if he owed them details, as if the worst moments of his life were casual conversation.

So he chose the answer that invited the least attention.

He shook his head once. “No, thank you.”

Dean nodded with easy acceptance and opened it for himself. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. 

“More for me. But I make no promises about my behavior after a few 6-packs of these”

He fought to not visibly cringe. Alcohol had always been the most accessible temptation. He had practice being around it now, years of holidays and dinners, of restaurants where glasses clinked and bottles gleamed under soft lights. He no longer feared losing control in those moments, his sobriety was stable enough, and alcohol had never been his drug of choice anyway.

But he could not afford to dive into a friendship with someone who could not experience joy without intoxication. If Dean was a man who needed to drink as a frequent comfort, who used it as a reflex rather than a choice, then perhaps this was not a friendship safe enough to pursue.

He looked at him then, really looked. Dean’s big green eyes staring up at him, bright even in the dim light. His smile, open and almost boyish, soft around the edges. He was beautiful. Beautiful, and kind, and welcoming in a way Castiel had rarely known. Castiel could not bring himself to turn away from that.

He reminded himself that he, of all people, understood the pull of vices. He understood the longing for a social lubricant, the need for something that dulled the edges of the world. Who was he to judge Dean for seeking refuge in a bottle, when once he had sought it in a syringe?

Exposure was how one became immune, after all. And if it meant being near Dean a little longer, being blessed with the sound of his laughter, then perhaps it was worth the discomfort.

He drank the ginger beer that Dean retrieved for him, and found that he very much enjoyed Charlie’s company. She was rude in a witty way, which confirmed his initial observation that she had a similar style of communication as Meg. He found himself actually relaxing into the conversation, at ease with the way she spoke. 

When Dean clapped his hands, the sudden sound startled him. “Okay, who’s ready for a game?”

The group shifted easily, moving cushions and drinks to make room around the coffee table. Castiel hesitated a fraction too long before lowering himself to the carpet beside Dean. He wondered if Dean would have preferred to sit next to his boyfriend, whoever that might be.

Dean leaned in close and explained how the game mechanics worked, as well as the general goals. Castiel kept quiet, absorbing the rules and patterns. Dean passed him cards, and leaned against him when pointing to the board, their shoulders pressed close. Dean’s body was warm where it rested against his own, and though Castiel remained still, he felt every inch of the contact. When Dean murmured suggestions, he listened carefully, his own voice low when he asked for clarification. 

After a shorter amount of time than he was expecting, he became familiar with everyone’s name, with enough confidence that he did not need to pause in thought before addressing someone. 

As the game stretched on, he found himself relating it to chess as he predicted the moves it would take to earn his final points. At last, he placed his city, slid a card onto the table, and raised his gaze. “I believe that is ten points,” he said evenly.

The table stilled.

Then Charlie’s voice split the silence. “Cas! You magnificent nerd! You sneaky, little gamer!”

The room erupted in laughter and noise. Castiel sat straighter, his lips pressing into a small smile he could not fully suppress. It felt unfamiliar, almost indulgent, to allow himself such pride.

Dean’s laughter joined the others. “Wait, what? That’s game?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I believe so.”

Applause and cheers followed. He lowered his eyes, though the pride remained.

Dean’s voice came closer. “Guess I taught you too well.”

Castiel turned his head, “I am a quick learner.”

Once the game was cleaned up and everyone had settled back onto their respective seats, Dean excused himself to the backyard. Castiel remained, engaging with Charlie’s chatter while sneaking glances through the sliding glass door. The fire pit stood dark at first, then gradually took shape in flame as Dean crouched before it, shoulders hunched against the cold.

The door slid open again as Alfie stepped out. He joined Dean with a kind of ease that only comes from long familiarity. Together they stacked wood, side by side. Dean leaned closer to adjust the structure, Alfie’s arm brushing his. Castiel could not be certain from his vantage point, the reflection of the light on the glass obscuring small details, but he was sure they were touching. He forced himself to turn back toward where Charlie was speaking, nodding at her words though he barely absorbed them.

His eyes returned again and again. Dean laughed at something Alfie said, head tipping back just slightly, the kind of laugh that crinkled his entire face. Castiel’s stomach tightened at the sight. When Dean dipped his head to rest it upon Alfie’s shoulder, Castiel’s pulse thrummed uncomfortably. Of course, it made sense that it would be Alfie. They must be secure enough in their relationship that he did not mind Dean helping out a new friend learn a new game. Because that is what Castiel was. A friend. Or perhaps they kept their distance intentionally, not wanting the group to suspect romance. Again, not knowing which it was, was discomforting. 

Andrea’s yawn broke through the hum of conversation, her head tipping against Benny’s shoulder as though she were already halfway asleep. They said their goodbyes as Dean returned, arms filled with blankets. 

Then Alfie rose, lingering at Dean’s side, leaning close. His lips seemed to brush Dean’s cheek. Castiel averted his eyes at once, heat flooding his face at the confirmation that Alfie was Deann’s partner, and they seemed not to be hiding it.  

Castiel forced his thoughts into stillness as he watched them leave, Jack trailing behind. It should not matter, he had no claim here. Dean’s life was not his business, and he did not want it to be. Friendship was all he could offer Dean, and even that felt questionable.

When the others drifted outside, chairs pulled close around the firepit, he followed. The flames licked upward, their light flickering in the night air. He sat next to Dean and let the warmth seep into his shoes, his feet nearly pressed to the bricks, his lungs filling with air that was sharp and clean. Charlie and Gilda tumbled into each other’s arms with unguarded affection and he found himself smiling more than he had in awhile. Their open happiness was contagious, and he let himself bask in it. 

Gilda lifted Charlie off the ground as they rose to leave and Castiel’s smile lingered through their goodbyes.

Lee was told to leave after some disgusting remarks toward Charlie. He was relieved to see Dean intervene on her behalf, and the tension eased as the door shut behind the man. Loyalty was not a common quality in men, at least not in the ones Castiel had known. 

He had always been unsettled by the way men spoke to one another when they believed they were unobserved. There was an ease to it, as if cruelty was simply another form of camaraderie. Complaints about lovers, vulgar comments about women they passed on the street, crass statements about the entire female gender said as if they were harmless jokes. It was understood that no one would object. At best, a man would remain silent, and at worst he would add to the grime. Boys will be boys, as though degradation were a natural language rather than a choice. They would never say such things in front of their wives, daughters, or sisters. Yet among themselves, it was treated as both permissible and entertaining. Castiel had never grown used to it. He had always found it disgusting and deeply uncomfortable. So when Dean refused to let Lee’s words stand, despite it only being men left to hear, Castiel felt a sense of relief. Dean did not need to belittle anyone to prove his own strength.

The silence between them afterward was not uncomfortable. The fire snapped and danced, embers glowing like constellations. When Dean stood, Castiel startled slightly, pushing up from his own seat. 

“Oh, I apologize, you probably want to end your night.”

Why had he not left after Lee did? He was never the last person at a gathering, it was disrespectful to the host. He felt slightly embarrassed at the way he had relaxed into the chair, as if this was his own space. 

“No, no, I was just grabbing their blankets.” Dean stumbled as he reached down to scoop the blankets into his arms. How intoxicated was he? Yet, he had every right to get as drunk as he wanted in his own home, Castiel had no right to-

“Here, scooch closer.”

Castiel swallowed hard before tugging his chair, the dull scrape of the wooden legs muffled by the dying grass, and pulled until the armrests touched. He was unsure how close Dean meant by closer, but sat back down anyway.

Dean shook out the blankets, the firelight catching in his hair, and then the warmth of fabric was spread across Castiel’s knees. He lowered his hands to the wool, smoothing it unnecessarily, his fingers brushing the center where the blanket entered Dean’s space.

Dean excused himself to get whiskey of all things, Castiel’s old favorite, as if he had not consumed enough for the both of them tonight. 

He adjusted the blanket over his lap as Dean returned, ginger beer cool against his palm when it was handed to him. He nodded his thanks, as Dean slipped under the blankets as well, shivering slightly.

Dean tilted his glass toward Castiel’s bottle. “So, are you not a big drinker, or do you just like the taste?”

Castiel tightened his grip. “Both, I suppose,” he said after a moment.

They sipped their respective drinks on and off for the next few minutes, while talking, eyes fixed to the dancing flames.

Castiel dared a look at Dean from the corner of his eye as they spoke, the firelight catching in his eyes and the glint of his teeth. The slope of his nose was so reminiscent of Michael’s, desire surged within him, and he pressed his knees closer together beneath the shared wool, ashamed of the heat coiling low in his body. To feel this, here, with a man half-drunk, a man who belonged to someone else…it was inappropriate at best. He lowered his gaze to the fire, willing it to burn the thoughts from him. 

Dean looked over and caught his eye. “The girl on the phone. The one you were talking to when we saw each other in the grocery store. I think her name started with an ‘A’?” 

Castiel was confused at first until he remembered he was speaking with his cousin when he ran into Dean. “Oh, yes, Anna.”

“Anna, okay, I couldn’t remember her name.”

Perhaps this was a normal step in the process of becoming friends, asking about family. He could not think of any other reason Dean could possibly have. It was a welcome distraction, if nothing else. 

“I would not expect you to remember her name. I do not think we talked about her at all before.”

“Right, right. I was just wondering what she thought about you coming here tonight.” 

The question was puzzling. Why would Anna’s opinion matter to him? Still, he assumed this was how adult friendships worked, asking whether one’s family approved of new social connections. “Anna supported me coming tonight, I suppose.”

Finally remembering his manners, Castiel asked him about his family, and had the immense pleasure of watching Dean’s face absolutely light up when speaking about his little brother. He was obviously deeply proud of him, and Castiel drank in the quiet bliss on his face. Family bonds were something he had always envied in others.

“Has he gotten to meet Alfie?” Castiel asked. He wanted to hear it confirmed from Dean’s own mouth. He told himself it was only to avoid any confusion, to have clarity.

“Alfie? Oh, not yet. Sammy actually hasn’t met anyone here tonight other than Charlie, but her and I go way back.”

Castiel nodded, not wanting to push. If Dean wished to keep his personal life secret, Castiel would respect that. He, of all people, understood the need for privacy, the right to draw a curtain over the most intimate corners of his life. 

As they spoke, he noted the steadily increasing mumbling at the edge of Dean’s words, the looseness in his arms as he gestured.

He watched as Dean tipped his head back, the amber liquid inside the glass sliding between his lips, until there was nothing left. 

Castiel’s throat went dry as he remembered the feeling clearly. There had been a strange comfort in it, a darkness where nothing was needed of him other than surrender. It was a twisted form of freedom, erasing his responsibilities, his choice, his guilt. He did not have to try endlessly to belong into spaces where he did not fit, because in that space, belonging did not exist. 

In that deep void, there was no faking. He was exactly what everyone suspected he was. Damaged, reckless, hopeless. There was an almost perverse pleasure that they were right about him all along. He was both sin and sinner, overcome with the clarity that he had abandoned everything else. 

Sobriety had not erased that corruption within him. As Dean’s speech slurred, and his body leaned more heavily into the space between them, Castiel felt that dark and starved part of himself awaken. He wondered what it would be like to let go, just once more, not into the needle, but into this, into Dean. It would be so easy to take advantage of this man’s softened edges, his shameless laugh, the way his lashes fell heavier on his flushed cheeks. He imagined leaning in, pressing his mouth to Dean’s, imagined Dean docile and unresisting, handing over all control willingly to him. 

He watched Dean tip his head back in laughter, throat bared, lips parted, offering himself without realizing. He watched Dean’s body, all bulk and strength, pliant now. Perhaps Dean would not even remember in the morning….

And then the fantasy broke. Disgust poured through him, until he nearly gagged from it. He turned his face away, ashamed and frustrated with himself. The very fact that those thoughts had come at all was enough to make him sick. 

“I should actually go, it is getting very late and I am sure you would like your house back to yourself,” he said, suddenly needing to leave as quickly as possible.

Dean did not protest. He only said, “Yeah, of course. I’ll walk you out.”

Castiel bent to gather the blankets, and folded them. The fire popped as Dean doused it, embers collapsing into themselves, and Castiel shivered at the sudden loss of heat. 

Inside, Dean turned to him in the doorway.

“You’re okay to drive? Not too tired?” 

“No, I will be alright, I can drive. Thank you for tonight, Dean, I had a wonderful time.” Castiel said.

“Okay. I’m really glad you came.”

The truth pushed against his lips, a sudden urge to tell Dean how he had smiled more tonight than in months, how he had forgotten how good it felt to be included in a group, how much he would like to see Dean again, how much he hoped he had not made a fool of himself tonight, how difficult it was to be around him while he was drinking, how a sick, dark part of himself wanted to take advantage of his intoxication. He closed his mouth again, locking those thoughts where they belonged.

Instead he offered only, “I am glad I came as well.”