Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was warm and sunny in a way only the beginning of fall can be.

Castiel liked it. He had no family to celebrate his birthday with, but the weather was so nice, and he wanted to pretend it was a gift just for him.

He stood still in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes up, taking the sky in. His FTO was a good woman, but he was secretly glad when she said she had plans for lunch that didn't involve him. Well, she used way more words and sounded genuinely sorry, but Castiel made sure to let her know he did not have a reason to take offense. He needed this. A quiet moment to himself. Five more minutes and then he's definitely off to get lunch.

Castiel adjusted the collar of his uniform, letting his gaze wander. The quiet hum of the city around him was oddly calming in contrast to the usual chaos that followed his profession. He had only been an active police officer for a few weeks, but he already found himself used to the noise.

He was lost in thought when it happened.

A sudden impact connected with Castiel’s lower body. It shoved him off balance, making him stumble back a step. He looked down immediately, the instinct to assess the situation taking the reins.

A young girl collided with him. She couldn't be older than ten years old. She looked up at him with strikingly green eyes, wide-open, watery and red rimmed. She was panting, and there was a frantic terror in her gaze that sent a chill down his spine.

"You have to help me, sir, please!" Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. Her light brown hair was greasy from sweat, sticking to her face. Her clothes were clean but torn, as if she had been running for a while. She was barefoot. Castiel could spot some nasty looking bruises where her skin was visible. And she was so thin. Skin and bones thin.

Castiel found himself momentarily stunned as he was taking that horrifying view in.

“He can't get me.” She sounded hysterical, eyes unfocused. “I don't wanna go back. No, no, I won't. I can't.”

Castiel opened his mouth, not yet knowing what he even wanted to say, but then the girl pulled away, darting across the street. She looked back once more with fear painting her features, but her gaze was focused on something behind him.

"Hey! Wait!" Castiel shouted, instinctively reaching out, but she was already out of earshot as well as out of sight, hidden by the buildings.

He didn't have the time to react before another voice pulled him out of the stupor.

“God damnit, stop running! You've got nowhere to go!”

Castiel turned around so quickly he felt something crack in his back.

His eyes snapped to the end of the street where a man came charging. Tall, dark short hair, neatly trimmed beard, dressed casual. His pace was unnaturally fast, his focus fixed solely on where the girl vanished from view. His hands were balled into fists, his face twisted and red with fury.

Something about the situation didn’t sit right with Castiel. That girl was clearly terrified. Everything about this screamed abuse.

This time his instincts kicked in immediately.

"Stop right there!" he commanded, raising his voice and moving closer.

The man didn’t slow down. If anything, he picked up speed, his heavy boots pounding on the pavement. Like a man with a mission.

Castiel’s hand moved to his belt, fingers brushing against the radio and the gun holster. His FTO wasn’t here and he wasn't supposed to act on his own unless absolutely necessary. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline surging. You're okay. You've got this.

He wasn’t about to pull out his weapon, but it was reassuring to remind himself that it was there. If he was truly in danger, he had the option to shoot.

He stepped forward, blocking the man's path with a solid stance. Legs apart, feet rooted to the ground, Castiel focused his gaze on the stranger, trying to look more confident and intimidating than he felt. It didn't seem to work. The man was practically growling as he attempted to sidestep him, and Castiel threw out his arm to block the way.

"I said stop!" Castiel demanded, the low rumble of his voice cutting through the tension growing around them.

The man flinched, as if he’d just realized someone was addressing him. His eyes narrowed, sizing Castiel up.

"Get out of my way, kid," the man sneered, voice low and slightly slurred. His breath stank of alcohol. Possibly inebriated.

And did he just call Castiel a kid? Castiel knew he looked young, because twenty-one is young, but he was also clearly in uniform.

"I’m a police officer," he said, willing his voice to stay neutral and adding a bit of authority into his tone. He needed to get this under control. "You’re not going anywhere."

For a moment, the man hesitated. Castiel could see the conflict in his eyes, like he was debating whether to fight or flee.

Then, in a split second, the man lunged forward.

Castiel was new, and it usually put him at a disadvantage. But this—this he knew. He was freshly out of training, eager to prove himself and pumped on adrenaline. He stepped to the side, the man's fist barely grazing his cheek, and then used the man's own momentum to push him into the wall of the nearby coffee shop.

Pure shock flashed across the man's face, but he was quick to recover, twisting out of Castiel's hold. Castiel let him. He felt more grounded now, more in control. He could do this.

I'm stronger than him.

"You’re making a mistake," the man growled, rubbing the wrist that Castiel had just released.

Castiel didn’t back down. He wasn't sure if his superiors would approve, but he wasn’t about to let this guy get away.

“Face the wall. Hands behind your back. Now!" Castiel ordered, palming his holster. A silent threat.

The man snarled, body flinching as if to move forward again, but Castiel was faster. He grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it behind his back in one fluid motion. Almost simultaneously, he gripped the other arm as well, successfully restraining the attacker's movement.

The man struggled, trying to break free, but Castiel held him firm, using his body weight to keep him plastered to the wall. The man trashed around as much as he could, trying to fight him.

Castiel hissed in pain as the man threw his head back and collided with his face, but his grip was unrelenting.

"You’re under arrest," Castiel said, slightly out of breath. More so from the adrenaline than physical fatigue. “For assaulting a police officer,” he added after a beat, just for the record.

The man’s eyes flickered to the sidewalk behind him. A crowd had gathered during the scuffle, their murmurs growing louder and louder. Usually it was nothing more than annoying, but this time the random bystanders were blocking any possible escape routes. And that's not even considering the fact that Castiel definitely wasn't letting the man go.

“You don’t know what you're getting into, officer,” the man hissed, spitting the last word like it would leave a bad taste in his mouth otherwise. His tone was sharp, but stripped of the confidence he flaunted just moments ago. The sudden compliance was unexpected, but Castiel wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“It doesn't matter,” Castiel replied, pulling out his handcuffs and snapping them on the man’s wrists. If they were clasped on a little too tight, he was none the wiser. “For now, you’re coming with me.”

Castiel took a moment to use the radio to contact the precinct and then shot a quick message on his phone to his FTO. Hopefully she was nearby.

“Everything is under control,” he announced, turning to the crowd. “Leave. You’re blocking the sidewalk.”

As the last gawkers turned to leave, Castiel could hear the sound of police sirens closing in. He stayed vigilant, of course. He didn't let go of the man even though he was cuffed, but his shoulders slumped slightly in relief, some of the tension evaporating as he waited for the backup to arrive.

Castiel took a quick look around, sweeping nearby surroundings in search of a scared little girl that had crashed into him earlier, but to no avail.

She was gone, and Castiel had a feeling she wouldn't be coming back.

The precinct was eerily undisturbed at this time of the day. To a civilian, the lack of chaos would be a comfort, but Castiel couldn’t get rid of this irrational feeling that something was very wrong.

He leaned against the wall, eyes flicking nervously between the man he'd arrested and another officer the man was currently talking to. They were on the other side of the open space, so Castiel couldn't hear what was being said. He wasn't sure if it was a good decision leaving the suspect with Officer Fitzgerald, but he was the best at dealing with people, so it'd have to do.

Officer Fitzgerald kept alternating between entering—and probably looking up—information on the computer and scribbling things down on the forms he laid out on his desk. The man Castiel brought was sitting on a chair on the other side of the desk, hands still cuffed. Castiel couldn't see it clearly from this distance and position, but the man's face looked unnervingly calm.

Maybe that was what was setting off Castiel's anxiety—this sudden switch up. He'd seen the man in action earlier, and he'd been anything but calm.

That man was gone now, and in his place sat an eerily composed copy.

Castiel unglued his gaze from the other side of the room as his eyes registered a flash of orange on his right, another person's presence entering his space.

Officer Bradbury stood next to him, a water bottle in her hand, and she held out her arm with a clear implication that the water was for Castiel. Her fiery ginger hair stood out among all the dull, neutral colors surrounding them.

“I'd wish you happy birthday, but our job sucks, so we both know how it'll turn out.”

Castiel accepted the bottle wordlessly, taking a few sips mostly to humor her, but then he realized how thirsty he was and ended up draining the whole thing.

“Thank you,” he rasped, some of the anxiety easing off.

Officer Bradbury was much shorter than him and didn't look all that intimidating, but right now her presence felt like finding much needed shade under a tall tree. He had been lucky to be assigned to her, but he wasn't sure if she could say the same about him.

"You good?" Officer Bradbury’s voice was soft, a tone he learned was reserved for people she knew and genuinely cared about. He was honored to be included in that group, but currently not so sure if he deserved it.

Castiel nodded, though he could feel a light throb where he knew a bruise was forming on his forehead. Charlie squinted her eyes at him as if she was considering pushing the subject, but eventually just let out a sigh and dropped it.

The bruise probably looked way worse than it was. He wasn’t careful enough and got caught off guard. It happened, he'd learn from it. He'd do better next time.

"I'm fine, Officer Bradbury," Castiel insisted. "Bruises tend to look worse than they feel."

Charlie gave him a sharp look, but it wasn't unkind.

“I told you to call me Charlie. Let's save Officer Bradbury for civilians, hm? It makes me feel old.” Her voice was stern, but playfully so.

“Ah, yes, I apologize, um… Charlie.”

This would take some time to get used to, but Castiel decided to put serious effort into trying. This wasn't the first time they talked about it. It would just seem that habits die hard.

The corners of Charlie’s lips turned up, a tiny smile growing on her face as she gave Castiel's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Don't worry about it, Castiel.” Charlie cleared her throat, and the air shifted. Her tone went from friendly-concerned to friendly-serious.

"You’re shaken. Like really shaken," she pointed out, crossing her arms. "Now, I know you already told me what happened, but none of it explains why you look like your nemesis just told you he was actually your father.”

“My— Sorry, what?”

“You know, like Darth Vader?”

“Darth— Is that German?”

The look of pure disbelief on Charlie's face made him feel like a scolded child.

“Dude. That's the most obvious Star Wars reference a person could possibly come up with. Don't tell me you haven't seen Star Wars!”

An awkward pause.

“...I won't. Tell.”

“Oh my God,” Charlie's jaw dropped open. “Okay, we so do not have time for this right now, but we will be revisiting this topic later.” She shook her head before snapping back into the friendly-serious tone. “Castiel, talk to me. Something's eating at your brain and I may have advice. Or a solution, if you're lucky.”

Castiel hesitated, staring at the floor for a moment. He didn’t know what to tell her. The most obvious answer would be that he was worried about the little girl that slipped through his fingers. She might be out there, alone, with no shoes to protect her from tearing up her feet.

And while his worry was genuine, that wasn't all. Something gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake off this feeling that he was missing something important.

"I—" Castiel started but paused, gathering his thoughts. "I feel like I should've stopped that kid. I should’ve found a way to ground her, make her feel safe, so that she wouldn’t have felt her only option had been to keep running. You didn't see her, Charlie. No child should look like she did. It's like the world was out to get her and she was so tiny in the face of it all.”

Charlie’s eyes softened. Castiel felt a little uncomfortable under her gaze, like he was exposing a weak point and trusting that she wouldn't use it against him.

“We’ll look for her,” Charlie promised, though Castiel detected the slight edge of doubt in her tone. He knew what it meant—she would do her best to help, but there were procedures to be followed and she couldn't perform miracles.

“Alright,” Castiel sighed, his mind swirling with a thousand what ifs. “There’s also… Look,” he rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve got this horrible gut feeling. Like something's off, or like I'm missing something crucial. But no matter how hard I try to figure it out, I come up empty.”

Charlie hummed, seemingly deep in thought.

“You know, it's different for people with normal jobs, but in our line of work? A gut feeling could save your life. Never doubt your instincts. If they're telling you that you're missing something, then we've gotta figure out what it is.”

She nodded as she seemed to decide their next step. “Okay, okay, first things first. Come on. We've gotta talk to the big and scary over there. Maybe he'll jog your memory.”

Charlie motioned for Castiel to follow her, and the two of them made their way toward the other side of the open space. Officer Fitzgerald looked up as they approached, giving them a wide smile that showed his teeth.

“You guys ready for an update?” he asked cheerily, fingers tapping on the keyboard with a speed that spoke of many days spent in front of a computer.

Charlie nodded. “Whatcha got?”

“Name’s John Winchester,” Officer Fitzgerald said, shooting a tiny smile at the man sitting in front of him before returning his attention to Charlie. “Mechanic by trade, owns his own auto repair shop and has no previous offences. Lives with his two sons. All of this was confirmed by him as well. He says the whole thing with the girl was a misunderstanding, but I'll leave this part to you guys.” He shrugged. “I've gotta head to the archives, so go ahead and talk it out. I'll be back in a few.”

Just like that, he was gone, and the three of them were left alone. Castiel's stomach twisted with frustration, the feeling of wrongness intensifying. A misunderstanding? Castiel was literally there, and if you asked him, there was nothing to misunderstand.

Charlie must have noticed he’d tensed up, because she placed a calming hand on his shoulder, eyes still fixed on Mr. Winchester. The message was clear. Stay calm and let me handle this.

"John. Can I call you John?" Charlie asked, her tone hardening slightly, and continued without waiting for an answer. “Think you could describe your side of the story for us?”

Mr. Winchester’s gaze flickered between the two of them, his face a poster of calm.

“There’re not really sides to this as far as I'm concerned. These are the facts. Yes, I was chasing after her. Never seen her before, though. Probably a stray. She took the wallet out of my back pocket and ran. I’d been drinking a bit, so… yeah. I guess I made for an easy target.” He paused, eyes darting to meet Castiel's. “I was already agitated, and then a very young looking officer like you got in my way… Just assumed I was the bad guy. I tried to ignore it, but I was tipsy and you wouldn't let me go, so I lost it for a second. I would never even imagine harming an officer. I think the thought was still there at the back of my mind, because otherwise you'd be way worse for wear, officer.”

He shrugged, smiling sheepishly, or at least Castiel supposed that was what it was supposed to come across as. “Must've gone easy on you, and I'm glad for it. Wouldn't want to ruin a young officer's first experiences.”

What a load of bullcrap.

John Winchester lied so well that Castiel would never think to doubt him if he hadn't seen him run after a little girl like a predator.

The anger felt cold this time. It was the kind of anger that burned so hot you stopped feeling anything at all, the kind that cleared your head so you can plan.

This man called for retribution, and Castiel would find a way to execute it.

If Mr. Winchester's story stirred any particular feelings in Charlie, she did a great job of hiding it. Her gaze was wandering around in thought, and then she seemed to come to a decision of some sort, based on the subtle tells of her body language Castiel caught.

“Right, John. Thank you. We appreciate your cooperation. Just one question, though. Officer Novak here—the one that brought you in, he… Well, that little girl seemed to be acquainted with you, from what I gathered. Are you sure you'd never seen her before?”

There was no hesitation in his answer. “No.” Mr. Winchester slumped slightly in his seat. “Honestly, she seemed kinda, you know… not all there. Screamed a lot of weird shit while she ran. Didn't look like she had a home, so who knows where she crawled out of.”

John Winchester lied well and he was cruel with it. He continued to prove both with each word he said. His body language was perfect, voice genuine, and words carefully crafted to sound like they came out unfiltered. There was something he failed to mask, though, and Castiel saw it clearly when he stared into the man's eyes.

They were blank, like the eyes of a dead fish. It made the hair on his body stand on end.

“I see,” Charlie hummed. “Look, John, I'll be honest with you. If you don't know the girl, there's little chance for us to find her and get your wallet back.”

“That's—”

“Nuh-uh,” she immediately cut Mr. Winchester off. “Let me finish first. So, your wallet’s a lost cause, unless you find it laying on the sidewalk somewhere, or bump into your little thief on the streets. Both are unlikely, considering how big the city is and how small a child is.”

Charlie crossed her arms, her voice gaining a bit more of an authoritative edge.

“Now, you did attack a police officer and it's not something we can just ignore. We execute the law and that puts us in a position where we have to be respected if we want to successfully do our jobs.”

Officer Fitzgerald chose this moment to come back to his desk, his wide smile dropping slightly as he sensed the tension in the air.

“Garth! Perfect timing.” Charlie clapped her hands once, suddenly all cheery. “Garth, you'll be getting a statement from John, so take care of that now please. Castiel and I will quickly whip up a report while his memory is still fresh. We'll come back after and take care of the rest, ‘kay?”

“Sure thing, amigo,” Officer Fitzgerald was already typing away on the keyboard, seemingly recovered from whatever tension had bothered him before.

“Great!” Charlie turned her eyes to Mr. Winchester again. “We’re leaving you in good hands, John. We'll get back to you in a moment.”

They left, heading to an empty interrogation room for some privacy. Castiel felt empty and simultaneously on the edge of exploding. He'd never been this affected by a case before. God, it wasn't even really a case yet. It might not ever become one.

He couldn't explain it, but he just knew John Winchester was very bad news, and he knew it like infants knew to cry if they needed something. It was instinctual, but so real that he could feel it in his bones.

Castiel entered the room, letting Charlie in and closing the door when they were both inside. He immediately spoke up, words tumbling out of his mouth like an avalanche.

“He’s lying and he’s a master at it. Charlie, that girl… She was running for her life. She said ‘he can't get to me’,” he used his hands to indicate the air quotes, “and something about not wanting to go back… She looked like she'd been running from hell. Much too extreme for it to just be caused by theft, and she gripped me with both hands when she crashed into me, so I’m positive she wasn’t holding anything in her hands.”

Castiel growled in irritation as the realization hit him. “He didn't care if we believed him. If I believed him. He was aware his story wouldn't align with what I witnessed, but neither of us have any proof. He knew that we couldn't accuse him of anything with the girl out of the picture, no matter what lies he came up with.”

Charlie paused, her expression revealing the frustration he knew wasn’t directed at him, but at the situation itself. “I know, Castiel, I don't need convincing. I hope you know I'd always believe you over a guy that lunged himself at you, and that's not even taking into consideration how creepy his vibes are.”

She sighed in defeat before continuing. “But like you said, our hands are tied. We can hold him responsible for attacking you, a police officer, and that's basically it. Unless we find that little girl and learn new information.”

Castiel knew she was right, but couldn't stop the words rushing out of his mouth. “What if we don’t find her? What if there are more kids? What if we don't find her, but he does once he gets out, and we won't even know?”

Charlie stepped in front of him, holding his gaze, and he let her calm demeanor ease away some of the panic that was starting to bubble up.

“I have a bad feeling about him too. If it was up to me, I wouldn't just let him go. But we have to at least look like we're following the rules,” she straightened up, determination filling her every word. “So we try to find that girl and we go from there. For now, we can’t make any more accusations.”

As much as Castiel hated it, she was right. He'd known it all along, but this was the first time following the rules was not his first course of action. “What do you propose we do?”

Charlie let out a relieved sigh. “We’ll hold him in a cell for twenty four hours. And before you say anything,” she added quickly, just as Castiel was opening his mouth, “we technically could push for a seventy two hours hold. Let me explain why I think we shouldn't. He’ll definitely not like the idea in the first place, so giving him one day instead of three can be shown as the lesser evil. He's more likely to just go along with it, and we do not have the time to fight him on this. When a person's missing, the first twenty four hours are crucial.”

She raised her hand, finger pointing upwards. “Additionally,” she started, a cheeky smile blooming on her face, “we’ll make him believe I'm going easy on him. That might make him think the police aren't going to go digging for any skeletons in his closet, and it'll lull him into a false sense of security. People make mistakes when they get too comfortable, Castiel. And while he's being held, we’ll search for your girl, and he'll be none the wiser.”

Castiel nodded, though it hardly felt right to let the man believe he'd be let off easy. It's not Castiel's personal feelings that mattered right now, finding and helping the girl did.

“I guess we need to work with what we have,” he sighed.

“Hey, you stay here a little longer, and you'll learn to shape what you do have into being enough.”

“Right,” Castiel murmured, forcing himself to get it together. “Charlie?”

“What's up?”

“Thank you.”

Charlie gave him a small, fond smile. “Anytime, angel.” She cracked her knuckles and her smile turned devilish. “Now let's go get that motherfucker jailed.”

The door clicked shut behind them as they began walking back into the open space, heading back towards their arrestee.

Officer Fitzgerald was already waiting for them, shooting them a guarded smile as they approached. Castiel wondered if something happened. It was unlike Officer Fitzgerald to be anything but obnoxiously positive.

John Winchester didn’t even glance their way as the sound of their footsteps was getting closer and closer. He just sat there, on the same chair they left him in, cuffed hands plastered to his back, and with a posture so relaxed one could assume he was about to be served dinner.

Charlie didn’t beat around the bush and got to the point as soon as they approached.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, John. You’re going to be held in a cell here at the precinct for the next twenty four hours.” Her tone was firm and final—the decision was made and Charlie wanted Mr. Winchester to know she meant it.

That got the man’s attention. He looked up, baffled.

“What? For what? I didn’t even—she ran off! I didn’t lay a finger on her—”

“You assaulted an officer, intentionally. We don’t wear these uniforms to look pretty,” Charlie interrupted him flatly, gesturing toward Castiel. “You made a scene in a public space, actively resisted arrest, and harmed Officer Novak. That’s a felony, John. You’re lucky all he’s got is a bruise. Honestly, you should be grateful he’s not suing you. We put this on the books, and it stays there forever. I’m offering an option that will give everyone the least amount of headache.”

With each word Charlie spoke, Castiel could almost see the tension leaving Mr. Winchester’s body. It was the opposite of what should be happening, and it rubbed Castiel the wrong way.

The corners of Mr. Winchester’s lips lifted slightly in something akin to amusement as he formed his reply. “Oh, so this is you being nice, huh?”

“Extremely nice,” Charlie answered without missing a beat. “Take it or leave it.”

John offered a faint smile. “Lead the way, officer,” he said with a shrug, completely unbothered.

“Garth, if you’d be so kind,” Charlie nodded her head at Mr. Winchester, her tone warming up a little bit as she addressed her coworker, but it was still firm enough that it was clear this was an order, not a request.

Officer Fitzgerald stepped out from behind his desk, grabbed the keys and helped Mr. Winchester to his feet. “Sure thing, Charlie. I’ll take care of it.”

Castiel watched as John Winchester was being led to his cell, and their eyes met. It was just a fleeting moment, but Castiel felt a chill run through him. He couldn’t explain why, but he felt a sense of danger creeping up on him. He had a hunch that it wasn’t the end of it for John Winchester. He wasn’t done, and Castiel wasn’t looking forward to finding out what that meant.

Then he was gone, disappearing through the door with Officer Fitzgerald.

Only once they were out of earshot did Charlie let herself let go of the tough officer persona.

“God. This guy gives me the creeps. I know this was my idea, but I still hate that we’re letting him off with a warning. But at least this buys us some time to find your girl.”

Castiel nodded, gaze distant. “And a headstart. He’ll be locked up here while we search.”

Charlie turned to him. “Alright, let’s do it,” she clapped her hands. “First, the girl. What exactly are we working with here? Did she give a name?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, unfortunately. I— She was gone before I managed to say anything to her. I just… I just froze up. I don’t know why,” he sighed, shame burning low in his stomach. “If I’d only—”

“Hey, none of that,” Charlie immediately cut him off. “It happens, and we don’t have time to throw the blame around. We do what can be done.” She took a deep breath. “Back to the topic, I don’t think we should refer to our missing mark as the girl, so let’s name her Jane Doe for now, okay?”

Castiel looked down, chastising himself for wallowing in self-pity when he had more pressing matters to worry about. “Understood,” he gathered himself. “I think we should split. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

“I agree,” Charlie said. “I’ll start checking near the riverwalk and the train station. Runaways sometimes go there, hoping to catch a ride out of the city.”

“I’ll sweep the area I last saw her at, and head east from there,” Castiel decided. He hesitated, then added, “You should know what she looks like.”

Charlie pulled out her phone, ready to type. “Go.”

“She looked to be around ten to thirteen? It was difficult to tell, she was all skin and bones. Long light brown hair, this tall,” Castiel held his hand somewhere at the level of his chest. He paused, trying to recall as much as possible. “She was barefoot and wore a white dress. It was torn in a few spots, but surprisingly clean. I caught some bruises here and there, but she was gone too quickly for me to have a proper look.”

Charlie’s jaw clenched, expression grim, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I think her eyes were what stood out to me the most,” he continued. “They were bright, and very green. I don’t know how to describe how ‘very green’ looks, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen an eye color like that on anybody before. It was almost… a little uncanny.”

Charlie looked up from her phone, looking slightly amused.

“Noted. Freaky green eyes. If I see anything—ah, damnit,” she cursed suddenly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot about the report. Ugh. I’ll need about fifteen minutes to finish it up. I’m your FTO, the paperwork’s on me. If we skip protocol the captain will have my head. I’m already on thin ice,” she pouted. Castiel knew how much she hated doing anything office related, so he appreciated she was willing to get it done for both of them.

“I’ll head out now,” he said and she gave him a thumbs up.

“Sounds good. I’ll join as soon as I’m done. Make sure you have your phone and stay in touch. Check-in every thirty minutes. I’ll also shoot you a message once I’m done here. And Castiel,” she added, her voice suddenly all serious. “If something feels off, it’s because it is. Don’t play the hero and let me know if you need me. I’ll be there.”

Castiel gave a nod. “You do the same.”

Charlie offered him a grim smile. “Good luck, angel.”

He mirrored the smile back at her before turning around and leaving through the precinct’s main door. It was still warm, but the wind picked up, making his trench coat flap in the air behind him.

He picked up the pace, nearly breaking into a sprint.

Their Jane Doe needed help, and he already failed her once. He had to fix this. The last time he’d prayed felt like it was a lifetime ago, but nonetheless he found himself sending out a silent plea, hoping it would be heard.

Still, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the sick feeling in his gut didn’t let up. Something was in the air. He couldn’t help but expect the worst. He wasn’t looking forward to when the other shoe would drop.

Castiel searched for what felt like days.

He followed the direction Jane Doe had been running in, trying to find anything that'd point him in the right direction. He felt like he was going crazy. Every little girl could be her, and there were so many people…

He couldn't keep going around in circles. He was wasting time. He needed a new approach.

He began looking for cameras—street poles, nearby stores, parked cars. Anything that could have caught Jane Doe. If he could follow her trail through CCTV, or—or if he could at least establish a general direction.

He walked into every publicly accessible building in the area, and most of them were willing to cooperate as soon as he flashed his badge.

There was a liquor store two blocks down from where Jane Doe was last seen. They had a camera pointed toward the main road. A gas station across the street had three. There was one at the coffee shop near where he arrested John Winchester, but it was facing the opposite direction.

He got access to all the footage he was able to locate. The recordings were grainy, low quality, but it was better than nothing. He analyzed them until his eyes burned.

One of the CCTVs actually caught Jane Doe, but Castiel’s hope evaporated when he realized the camera's placement cut off the image before it could show which way the little girl ran.

He watched it so many times he had it nearly memorized. He stood in a tiny back office behind the gas station, hovering over the desk. He stared at the monitor as the footage ended again. He could feel a headache coming.

He had to count to ten, hands closed in tight fists. In, and out. Losing your head is losing your chance.

He could feel the gaze of the gas station manager on his back. His name tag said Carl, or something like that. He was a man in his thirties, with what looked like permanent eye bags and a disastrously bleached mop of hair—or what was left of it.

He was kind and eager to help after Castiel had explained he was looking for a missing child.

Castiel kind of forgot he was there. Normally he'd feel bad, but he could only think about how after all of his efforts he still had nothing.

The manager—Carl, his name was Carl—cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other.

Castiel looked up from the monitor with tired eyes, meeting the man's gaze.

“This corner near the end of the street,” he said, pointing at the edge of the recording where Jane Doe disappeared. “I think it’s a blind spot. I once caught a drug dealer hanging around that area, trying to lure a bunch of teenagers into buying from him. Must've figured out he was hidden from the cameras as long as he didn't move too far.”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped.

“A blind spot,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Of course.

He knew there'd been no point in praying, no point in hoping, but being faced with his own helplessness was soul-crashing nonetheless.

Castiel didn't remember thanking the manager for his time, didn't remember exiting the back office, didn't remember coming back to the spot where Jane Doe had collided with him earlier that day. It was getting dark.

His phone pinged in his pocket. Probably a text from Charlie. Castiel made no move to take it out.

He'd been checking in with her every thirty minutes like they’d discussed. He knew Charlie didn't find anything either. There was no point.

He shot a quick message to Charlie without looking at the texts she’d sent him earlier. He let her know he had no new leads and that he was on his way home.

The first half was true, the other was a lie.

Castiel wandered for hours, retracing paths he’d already searched, eyes scanning every passing figure small enough to be the one he was looking for.

Stopping felt like giving up, and giving up felt like welcoming the end.

He kept going long after his legs had grown stiff, the cold seeping through his coat. The headache had only gotten worse. He'd wandered into different parts of the city, covering much more ground than originally planned.

He eventually slowed down when he’d passed the same block twice already and hadn’t even realized.

What is happening to me?

He’d only seen the girl for a moment. Jane Doe. He had to call her that because their encounter had been so brief he hadn't even gotten a name.

Why can’t I get her out of my head? He thought bitterly. He’d only been out in the field for a few weeks, but that was enough time to experience a handful of equally stressful situations. He’d always kept his head clear and his personal feelings uninvolved.

How did he end up falling apart over a stranger?

Castiel was scared. It wasn't easy to admit after having spent most of the day trying to push his fears aside. He'd never felt so out of control in his own mind. What a day to be celebrating your twenty-first birthday.

This sick feeling that he'd been stuck all this time—it was linked to his mental breakdown. He didn't know why he was so sure of it, but he felt the truth of it in his bones.

“You have to help me, sir, please!”

Out of nowhere, the memory struck him like lightning. That was what she’d said when she'd crashed into his chest. He remembered it clearly, because the words had been accompanied by a pair of vibrant green eyes.

Castiel stopped dead in his tracks.

He felt his stomach drop. He blinked. The sound of his rapid heartbeat was deafening.

The memory resurfaced again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and—

“̸̉͐̋͜Ỷ̵̠͖̗̫̘͑̓o̷͉̔̔u̷͇̺͖̍̆͑ ̸̮͚̺͋ḩ̷͓̹̱̗̓̔͑̎̃ą̷̤̑̀̈́v̵̼̓̍̅͊̉͜e̴̤̘̥͎͛̽̋ ̸̛̯͓͝t̷͙̃͆ő̸̱̝͓̥̻͆̑ ̵͚̜́͐̇̑h̵͎͕̗̼̪̍̀͋͛e̶͍̬̱̫̾l̷̦̦̤̻͓͂p̵̛̹̦̣̙̩̽̑͑͝ ̴̨͖̓̅͊m̷̲͚̲̓̈̅̅̋͜ͅe̷̡̨͠,̶̛͉͕̗̎̄͛ ̵̤̙̪̺̿̆̀s̵͙̰̝̞̦͆̏͋͝i̶̱̗̟͇̤̒̀͒ṛ̷͂͝,̵̨͇̳̗̽̈́ ̵̘͖͉͐͆͑̂p̶̬̃̋l̴̙̏̂͝e̷͖̙̺̝͒̿͐̿͝a̴͉̹̩̤͉̋͐͐͝ś̶̭̔̌̏̉e̷̡̛̘͚̘̝!̸̨̧͈͚̝̍͛́̓”̴̯̩̣͓̓͝͠ͅ

He was going to be sick.

He turned slowly, stumbling into the nearest alley. He placed his palm on the cold brick wall, letting it support most of his weight as he felt his legs almost give out.

With his free hand, he reached behind his back out of instinct, fingertips brushing the place just under his shoulder blades.

It's not like he could feel the words, but he knew they were there. He knew what they were. He’d memorized them as a child. He used to repeat them every night instead of praying to a God that never listened.

You have to help me, sir, please.

They had been there since he was born.

Chapter Text

The tension in Captain Bradbury’s office could be cut with a knife. The weight of it almost felt physical. Despite the confined space, the silence seemed to stretch for miles. Castiel used to feel awkward in its presence, but now there weren't a lot of things that could make him feel anything at all.

Castiel stood in front of the captain’s desk, hands clasped stiffly behind his back, face unreadable. Charlie stared up at him from her seat, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled in front of her mouth. She leaned forward and furrowed her brows. It almost looked like she was trying to compel him to open up by staring even harder.

When Charlie realized Castiel was just as stubborn today as he'd been yesterday, the corners of her mouth dropped slightly. She leaned back with a tired sigh.

“I know I’ve said this a thousand times, Castiel,” she began, “but you’ve got to get your shit together.”

Castiel knew that. He'd been going through the same conversation with her everyday for the past few months, and everyday he found it pointless. If she hadn't been as stubborn as Castiel, she would've given up by now for sure.

“I’m not saying this as your captain right now. I'm saying this as your friend. I can't watch you waste your life away.”

Then don't, Castiel wanted to snap back, but then he'd have to break his silence. He would not acknowledge the elephant in the room, because there was no elephant in the room. As far as he was concerned.

“I worry because I care,” Charlie added quieter, something vulnerable in her voice.

Castiel didn’t dare move a single muscle. He kept staring back in complete silence.

He knew what he looked like to her. He had the misfortune of seeing it himself every time a mirror—or any reflective surface—was unlucky enough to stand in his way.

He looked old. Older. He was only turning thirty this year, but his face carried a weariness well beyond his age. His eyes were almost always bloodshot these days, and the bags beneath them were so deep they could be mistaken for bruises. He didn't even bother to shave anymore.

Charlie kept her voice gentle. “If you won't let me help you, that's fine—but you've gotta let someone in. If I didn't think taking this job away would break you, I'd not even let you keep working. People have limits, Castiel, and I don't want to see you reach yours.”

She paused, pressing her lips together, clearly mulling something over in her mind. Then, just for a moment, her expression crumpled—a flicker of grief breaking through before she looked away for the first time since their talk began.

“I’m scared I’m going to have to bury you before your time,” she whispered.

Sometimes, he hated Charlie for caring so much. He deserved to live like this—but knowing she was pouring her time and energy into someone who didn’t want to be saved only made him feel worse.

Still, he said nothing.

She waited, but when no response came, she eventually sat up straighter, shaking off the emotional moment Castiel had refused to be part of. Her posture shifted from concerned friend to commanding captain.

“Fine,” she said, reaching for the top of what looked like a pretty considerable mountain of papers. “Let’s get back to work.”

Castiel felt like he could finally breathe again.

Charlie handed him a sizable folder, which he assumed contained files related to the case she wanted to discuss.

“We’ve been working to dismantle this human trafficking operation for weeks. Jody’s been leading most of it, but this feels like the final step—so I’m sending you in too. Luckily for us, we just got a tip from one of our external informants. The guys we’re after are planning to move their ‘cargo’ tonight, most likely out of the city. We need to catch the traffickers and intercept the victims before that happens.”

Castiel was already skimming through the files, picking out what he thought was most crucial.

“We’ve also got the current location—a warehouse near the docks. We don’t know when they're planning to move. If they do… we might lose them for good. I want you and Jody to lead the takedown. Bring as many officers as you need. We can't afford to screw this up.”

Castiel nodded once, his thoughts already shifting to the new assignment. “Yes, Captain.”

It was the only thing he said.

Charlie didn’t stop him as he turned to leave. She knew better than to push when he got like this. Over the years, she’d come to know him well enough to recognize when there was nothing more he was willing to say.

As he walked out the door, he could’ve sworn he heard her mutter under her breath, “Please come back alive.”

Castiel moved through the office with a one-track mind. A few officers greeted him with small nods, but he was too absorbed in the case files to pay them any mind. The truth was, they expected this kind of behavior from him. He’d been distant for a long time, and some of the newer hires had never even met the version of him people used to like. These days, he mostly stayed silent unless he had something to say about a case.

Castiel arrived at his desk, snatched his winter coat from the back of the chair, and shrugged it on in one fluid motion. He skimmed through the files one last time before tossing the folder onto the cluttered tabletop with a thud. It skidded across the surface and knocked a few pens to the floor, but he didn’t stop to pick them up.

Without missing a beat, he turned and scanned the room until he spotted Lieutenant Mills leaning over a desk near the whiteboard, flipping through a stack of case files. He approached in a few quick strides, and she glanced over her shoulder as he came to a stop beside her.

“Lieutenant Mills,” he said in place of a greeting. “We’re being sent out to secure and seize control of a human trafficking base. Captain’s orders. I was told you’ve been lead on the case. We’re moving now—before they leave the city.”

Lieutenant Mills straightened slightly, instantly alert. “Best news I’ve had all day. I’ve been waiting long enough to get those bastards into custody. Do we have a team?”

“Team of five. Small enough to move quietly, big enough to take control once we’re in.”

She hummed in agreement, her hand already moving toward her radio. “So we need three more people. How about—”

“Sergeant Lafitte, Sergeant Harvelle, and Officer Claire Novak,” he cut in before she could suggest anyone. “We don’t have time to weigh options. They’re solid, and they’re on shift. We move now.”

She gave him a look, almost offended, but didn’t argue. No one usually did anymore. Other officers were tired of interacting with him, and he was tired of interacting with them. Most had probably figured out that trying to change Castiel’s mind when he was locked in on a case was like trying to move a wall with your bare hands.

“Got it. I’ll grab them. We got a ride?”

“A black SUV out front,” he confirmed. He'd taken care of it before leaving the captain's office.

They split without another word. Castiel returned to his desk, wrapped up a few final tasks, and mentally ran through potential scenarios, trying to prepare for anything.

The second he stepped outside, the cold hit him like a slap. His breath was visible in the winter air, but all he could think was that it was a good thing there was no snow—otherwise, their black SUV would stick out like a sore thumb against all the white.

Lieutenant Mills was already waiting beside it, rechecking their equipment, bundled in a dark brown coat that wouldn’t restrict her movements.

Behind her, Sergeant Lafitte leaned against the vehicle, arms folded across his broad chest. He gave Castiel a nod. “Cold as a witch’s tit out here, huh, brother?” he said, casual as ever, but Castiel knew he wasn’t expecting a response.

Sergeant Harvelle rounded the back of the SUV, snapping the last of her gear into place. “About time. I was starting to think you’d left without us.”

Castiel didn’t react to the jab. She grinned anyway and secured her gun inside her holster with practiced ease.

Claire was last to appear, jogging up from the side entrance of the precinct. Her cheeks were red from the cold, but she moved with swift efficiency, as if completely unaffected by it.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Had to re-check my weapon after I let a rookie train on it this morning.”

Sergeant Lafitte chuckled. “Poor rookie, probably thought you were gonna shoot ‘em with it.”

Claire flashed him a grin. “I might’ve.”

Castiel opened the passenger door and climbed in without a word, motioning for the rest to pile into the vehicle. Once inside, he gave the briefing. Normally, Lieutenant Mills would handle this part, but Castiel had a clear vision of what needed to happen, and how, so he took the reins without a second thought.

“New intel says the trafficking group we’ve been tracking is moving their ‘cargo’ tonight,” he said, finger-quoting the word, his expression tight. “We have a narrow window. Location’s a warehouse near the docks. The tip looks solid, but we treat this like a high-priority welfare check first. If we confirm the presence of trafficked individuals or illegal activity, we move in. Take whoever we can into custody, but prioritize the victims’ safety.”

Sergeant Harvelle’s eyes narrowed as she gave a sharp nod. Sergeant Lafitte followed, casualness replaced by cold focus.

Claire’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression hardening. Castiel knew that if the intel was right, this could become the most brutal assignment she’d faced so far.

Lieutenant Mills sat behind the wheel. She’d been silent until now, reviewing the case files and double-checking coordinates.

“If the tip’s legit, we need to hit hard and fast,” she said.

Castiel agreed. “We’ll breach if necessary.” After a beat, almost reluctantly, he added, “Stay safe.”

He looked out the window as the engine started, his mind zeroed in on the most critical details about the warehouse and its surroundings. He could hear the others talking, but most of it didn’t register.

Charlie had asked him to come back alive. Even when he continued to ignore and shut her out, she never stopped trying. She must have really not wanted him to die.

With a resigned kind of acceptance, he realized he didn’t care either way.

The SUV rolled to a quiet stop several blocks from the suspected site. Officer Mills killed the engine, and Castiel's eyes locked on the old warehouse in the distance. No visible movement from here, but they'd need to get a closer look.

No one in the car said a word. As the five of them stepped out into the frigid January air, they kept their voices low and their movements quiet.

"One of us should get closer. See if anyone’s outside," Castiel said, nodding toward the large structure. "Wait here. I'll go," he added a second later, already stepping forward.

"No, you won’t," Lieutenant Mills said flatly.

He stopped short and nearly slipped on the frozen pavement—not having considered, even for a second, that his decision might be challenged.

Slightly embarrassed, he gathered himself and schooled his expression before turning to face her with a raised eyebrow.

"You’re too intense for recon," she added from the back of the SUV, digging through their weapons. "I'll go. Sending you out on a reconnaissance mission is like bringing a grizzly bear to a child’s tea party."

Claire snorted audibly behind him and tried to turn it into a cough. Failed miserably.

Castiel, begrudgingly, backed down. “Fine.”

Lieutenant Mills walked past them and melted into the shadows, quickly disappearing from sight. It didn’t take long. When she got back, the focus and resolve in her eyes reminded Castiel he wasn't the only lieutenant here.

"There’s a van parked behind the building, unmarked. Two men out front by the main entrance. Both armed," Lieutenant Mills reported. "The warehouse is supposed to be completely abandoned. The fact that anyone's here at all means something's definitely up."

"Just two guys? Anyone else?" Sergeant Lafitte asked, brows furrowed.

She shook her head. "Didn’t see more outside. If there are more, they’re either inside or not back yet. It’s still before noon, maybe they're not planning to move until later.”

Castiel considered this, the plan forming fast in his mind.

“No need to make a scene if we can help it,” he began. “If those two out front are the only ones, we knock them out quietly and bring them in for questioning. A silent approach gives us the advantage. If there are more inside, we go in fast. Lethal force only if they resist hard enough to pose a threat.”

The others listened as he laid it out. Their silence was as good as a green light.

"One of us distracts the guards. Two circle to the back and approach from behind to knock them out. The last two stay back with a clear line of sight. If anything goes wrong, they neutralize the threat."

"You and Sergeant Lafitte go around back," Lieutenant Mills said. "You’re the tallest and best at hand-to-hand combat. You can handle it if it comes down to a struggle."

“The only struggle’ll be knocking them out gently enough not to break anything important,” Sergeant Lafitte commented with a smirk.

Claire stepped forward, zipping up her coat to hide her uniform. "I should be the one to distract them. I look the least like a cop. I can pass for a lost teenager if I keep my gun out of sight."

Jody hesitated. "I don’t like putting our youngest on display.”

"I’m not a kid," Claire said firmly. "I’m an officer, and we're on a rescue mission. I can do this."

Jody let out a slow breath. "Alright. But you'd better be careful.”

"Always am," Claire replied, pulling up her hood with practiced confidence.

"That means Jo and I will stay further back with rifles. We’ll cover you," Lieutenant Mills added.

Sergeant Harvelle grinned. "Fine by me. I feel the most confident when I’m shooting bastards in the face."

They went over final positions, agreeing on one more important detail: a codeword. If Claire said “Nebraska” in a conversation, that was the signal for Castiel and Sergeant Lafitte to move in. It had to be subtle enough to slip by unnoticed, but distinct enough to be unmistakable to them.

With weapons in place and roles assigned, they split. Lieutenant Mills and Sergeant Harvelle settled into a concealed position down the block, rifles ready. Castiel and Sergeant Lafitte began their quiet route around the back of the warehouse, keeping to walls and shadows.

Claire waited until everyone was in position, then made her move. She approached the warehouse slowly, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, her posture hunched like someone trying to ward off the cold.

Castiel waited at the side of the warehouse, a familiar calm settling over his mind. The rest of the world faded away, and there was only this, here and now.

Claire’s voice rang out. "Hey! Sorry, I—um, I think I’m lost? I was trying to find my uncle’s repair shop… He said it was on this street, but I think I turned the wrong way. I don't know."

One of the guards replied, tone skeptical. "What’s your uncle’s name?"

"Greg," Claire said, hesitating just the right amount. "Greg Walden. Do you know him? He forgot to pack lunch, so I was bringing him something to eat."

The other guard laughed, low and ugly. "Don’t think there’s any Greg working around here. You sure you’re not lost on purpose, kid?"

"Nah, she ain’t lost," the first one added. "She’s just real pretty and real stupid."

Castiel felt his jaw tighten.

Claire kept her voice soft. "I’m actually from Nebraska. Just moved here. Everything looks the same to me."

The second the word left her mouth, Castiel moved.

He crept around the corner, steps steady and quiet. He took care to make little to no sound. His target had his back slightly turned, focused solely on Claire.

Castiel rushed in without hesitation, one arm locking around his target’s neck, the other bracing the back of his skull. He applied just the right amount of controlled pressure that spoke of years of experience. With a clean chokehold, he brought the man down in seconds without difficulty.

Across from him, Sergeant Lafitte had done the same. The second guard was out cold.

Claire turned back, a grin already forming on her face. "Told ya."

"Damn fine acting, lil’ Novak," Benny said as he cuffed his guy. "You'd nearly fooled me, and I knew the plan."

Jody jogged up to them. "Good work. Let’s get inside."

They hauled the unconscious guards in through the main doors. Inside was a small, enclosed space that looked like some sort of entryway. It was bare except for a few dusty boxes, a single chair in the corner that looked like it had seen better days, and a closed door leading deeper into the building.

The place looked abandoned, just like the exterior suggested, but that was to be expected. There was no electricity here. The only light came from a small, high-set window, but it offered just enough visibility.

They dumped the two unconscious men inside, cuffed and out of sight, then turned to face the door.

Castiel raised a hand, signaling the others to wait. With the other, he gently pushed the door open a few inches and leaned forward to peer through the crack.

It was dim inside. Not completely dark though, which meant some kind of light source had been rigged in this part of the building. He waited for his eyes to adjust. The warehouse interior had no windows, just as the case file had said, so the artificial light was welcome, as faint as it was.

There were railings here and there, storage boxes scattered across the floor, but Castiel wasn’t looking at any of that. His eyes focused on the far-left corner, where several shapes lay huddled on the floor.

At first, they were so still he thought they might be trash or mannequins. His eyes narrowed. He looked again.

People. They were people. And they were very, very still.

He swallowed and whispered, "All clear."

Lieutenant Mills, Sergeant Lafitte, and Claire followed him in, weapons drawn. They moved carefully, alert in the face of the heavy silence. Castiel doubted more guards would jump out of the shadows—the place was so quiet, he wouldn’t have missed the sound of a pin dropping.

Fifteen people, he counted as they approached. Fifteen of varying ethnicity, gender and age. The oldest ones looked to be in their mid twenties. One boy looked like he could barely be in middle school.

Castiel felt something sharp twist in his chest. He refused to think about the girl from nine years ago. He shot the memory down as soon as it crawled up. He'd gotten good at that.

"Radio Sergeant Harvelle," he said to Lieutenant Mills, making an effort to keep his voice even. "Tell her to start the call-in. The rest of us will check the victims’ vitals."

They got to work.

He crouched beside the boy he’d noticed first. The kid was lightly bruised, but alive and breathing. He didn't even stir as Castiel looked him over. He was probably drugged, kept unconscious on purpose.

The next three fared similarly.

Then he reached the last one—a young man, late teens or early twenties, slumped in the farthest corner of the room. His body was folded awkwardly, head leaning against the wall like he was seconds from collapsing fully.

Castiel knelt beside him, checking his pulse. It was faint, but it was there. Next, he made sure the man was breathing. He felt soft puffs of air against his palm as he held it near the man’s mouth. The man's chest rose and fell, but barely so.

Assured the victim was still fighting, Castiel moved to assess his condition. Only then did he realize how bad it truly was.

He was filthy, malnourished, and bruised so badly that purple might as well have been his skin tone. His clothes were torn and far too thin to keep him from freezing in the middle of winter. His right ankle was swollen and red, easily twice the size it should have been. Walking would be near impossible, and extremely painful if attempted. His wrists were bound with thick rope, tight enough to make Castiel worry about circulation. He untied it as gently as he could.

Castiel couldn’t wrap his head around it. Why bind this one? None of the others were. And none of them were in such a bad state. It was a miracle the man was still alive.

He needed medical attention, fast. He’d have to be prioritized when the ambulance arrived.

Castiel moved to shift him into a more comfortable position, one hand cupping his jaw, the other arm around his side to lower him gently to the ground.

He turned his head to look at the rest of his team and opened his mouth to ask how long until the ambulance showed up. But before a sound could leave him, he felt a twitch against his palm.

His head snapped back to the man in his arms.

With eyes open wide, the man was now staring back at him.

His eyes were green, Castiel noticed, and blood rushed to his ears, drowning out everything but his rapid heartbeat. It was the shade of green that could’ve been its own color entirely.

Castiel didn't even think, he couldn't. His mouth opened on its own, the words that slipped out next not even registering:

"I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now."

The man went still.

So did Castiel.

It felt like everything had come to a stop. Castiel couldn't move, couldn't think. He and the man just stared at each other as time seemed to slip away completely.

Then the moment shattered.

Sirens blared outside, snapping Castiel out of… whatever had just happened.

The man jerked like he’d also just come back to reality. Suddenly, he was moving, thrashing violently in Castiel’s grip and trying to break free. Castiel willed himself to focus and let go immediately, not wanting the man to hurt himself further.

He raised both hands, palms up, keeping his posture as non-threatening as possible.

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Lieutenant Mills start to step forward. Without taking his eyes off the man, he lifted one hand in her direction and gave a small shake of his head to keep her back. The man was overwhelmed enough, and it would only make things worse if people started crowding him.

The man’s breathing turned frantic, coming in fast, shallow gasps. Castiel had enough experience to recognize the signs of a panic attack immediately.

He took a steadying breath and carefully shifted on his knees, inching a little closer.

“You're having a panic attack,” he said in a low, composed tone. “You need to slow down, or you'll pass out, alright? Breathe with me.”

He inhaled deeply. “In.”

Then exhaled slowly. “And out.”

He repeated the process a few more times, holding the man's gaze and hoping it would actually work.

Relief washed over him when the man began to mirror his breathing. It was still shaky and uneven, but it was slowing down. His whole body remained tense, and he looked like he wanted to sink into the ground and disappear, but the worst of the panic seemed to be passing. Castiel would take what he could get.

“Just like that,” he said softly. “You're doing fine. Keep going.”

Once he was sure the man wouldn’t spiral again, Castiel tried to offer more context. The man had every right to be distrustful, and Castiel hoped that giving him more information might restore a small sense of control.

“I’m a lieutenant with the police force. Castiel Novak.”

He started with that, because he wanted the man to know who he was—not just a stranger in a uniform, but someone that could represent safety. That usually brought some level of relief to victims in situations like this.

The man didn’t respond, but Castiel saw his gaze flick briefly to the side, as if only now realizing there were other people in the room.

Castiel knew how a victim's mind worked. More people meant more chances for one of them to mean him harm. He didn’t want this to set the man off again, so he spoke quickly, trying to keep his attention centered.

“We're here to help you,” Castiel continued. “You’re very badly hurt, and there’s an ambulance outside. The medics will come in and take you—”

He stopped when the man had started shaking his head rapidly, his entire body twitching like he wanted to get up and run, but didn’t have any strength left.

Castiel didn’t know what triggered the reaction, but he didn’t back down.

“The medics will not hurt you. They’re here to give you first aid and then take you to the hospital, where a doctor will treat you. You’re in pain, aren’t you? The doctor will help make it stop. I promise.”

The man was still shaking his head, but it didn’t seem as certain this time. It looked more like a reflex than a decision. Castiel felt like they were getting somewhere and gently pressed on.

“I can go with you. I’ll make sure no one does anything you don’t want them to. Can you nod your head for yes if that sounds okay?”

The man hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the other victims, some of whom were already receiving aid from the medics. Then he looked back at Castiel.

After a few long seconds, his shoulders slumped. The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once. He looked down at his hands, no longer bound by rope, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Castiel let out a quiet breath, only then realizing he'd been holding it in the first place.

He turned his head, still kneeling, and caught Claire's eye. She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

Not important. He waved her over.

She came immediately, but Castiel didn’t miss the way the man flinched at the approach of someone new, like it was instinct to shrink away. And it probably was, considering what had been done to him.

“I need you to get a medic,” he told Claire. “Someone who can check him out. I’m riding with him in the ambulance. You all head back to the precinct without me. I'll join you later.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but didn’t comment. She just nodded and walked off.

Castiel felt a wave of gratitude for that. He didn’t have the capacity to explain anything right now. He didn't even understand himself. He’d figure it out later. Maybe.

Claire returned a minute later with a medic—a woman who looked close to her age. She had blonde hair tied back in a low ponytail and wore a soft, kind expression. She looked a bit like Sergeant Harvelle, but she was all soft edges and soothing where the sergeant was harsh and full of fire.

“You can call me Jess,” she said, voice warm but professional.

“Lieutenant Novak,” he replied, mostly out of habit, and almost immediately realized the introduction had probably been meant for the victim.

Jess approached the man with care, speaking softly and clearly as she explained each step before she took it. She made no sudden movements, carrying herself with calm efficiency and kindness. It was a textbook approach for a victim in this condition, and Castiel found himself genuinely impressed, especially considering she looked no older than twenty.

The man remained frozen, not relaxing but not resisting either. His eyes never left her hands.

When she finished, she crouched beside him and said, “You won’t be able to walk in the state you’re in, so I’m going to give you two choices, alright?”

She waited until he looked at her.

“I can either call two medics to bring in a stretcher and carry you out, or we can have one person carry you themselves.”

Before the man could respond, Castiel heard himself say, “I could do that.”

He froze the moment the words left his mouth. He didn't mean to say that. It had just… slipped out.

Both Jess and the man turned to look at him, and Castiel felt heat rise to his face.

“I mean… if you want,” he added, awkwardly. Then, glancing at Jess as if he needed to justify himself, he said, “I, uh, promised I’d go with him.”

He looked away, too embarrassed to meet their eyes. God, what was wrong with him?

To his shock, the man sat still for a beat, then gave another small nod.

Jess blinked. “Would you let Lieutenant Novak carry you to the ambulance?”

This time, the nod came without hesitation.

Castiel didn’t know what to say. Maybe it was better if he said nothing. Opening his mouth had been a mixed experience today.

He slid a little closer to the man, then glanced back at Jess, uncertain. “How do I…?” He gestured vaguely toward him.

She seemed to understand right away. “One arm under the armpits, one under the knees,” she explained. “It avoids pressure on the ankle and minimizes contact.”

“Right. Understood.”

Castiel braced himself, stood, and bent down to lift the man carefully. The man tensed up like a startled animal, but didn’t resist otherwise.

He looked like a deer in headlights, but allowed himself to be carried. His hands trembled slightly where they were clasped together over his lower stomach. Letting a stranger hold him while he was this vulnerable had to take immense courage. In that moment, Castiel knew without a doubt that this man was a fighter.

Jess led the way toward the ambulance, and Castiel followed. The man was light in his arms, far too light, even with all his muscles tensed up.

They climbed inside. Jess immediately resumed treatment, her movements quick and practiced. No one spoke, and Castiel let the silence settle his thoughts after everything that had just happened.

He stayed close enough to remain within the man’s line of sight, but far enough not to hover. Castiel's hands were starting to shake, though whether it was the adrenaline wearing off or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure.

The man wasn’t looking at him anymore. His attention was on Jess, cautiously watching her hands move.

And Castiel, in turn, couldn’t stop watching him.

Castiel sat on the hospital bench, his back against the wall. His gaze was fixed on some indistinct point ahead, body still.

“Castiel?”

He jolted slightly, pulled out of his daze as the voice registered. A doctor stood to his left, looking at him expectantly.

Not just any doctor.

Her face was pale, drawn tight from whatever she’d seen before walking over to him.

“Any news?” he asked, his voice low.

He used to call her Doctor or Dr. Harvelle, but she’d once threatened bodily harm if he didn’t just use her first name. He hadn’t had much choice but to comply.

Castiel was glad she’d been assigned to the man he brought in. She was reliable. He trusted her. And because they were acquainted, she’d be more willing to share information that another doctor might not.

“Kid’ll be fine,” she said, to Castiel’s relief. “Gave us a scare when you ran in with him seizing like he was possessed, but we got him stabilized. He’s asleep now, which is good. It gave me time to assess and treat every injury without causing him more stress.”

She sighed, suddenly looking very tired.

“He’s got a few cracked ribs, and a couple places that were broken once and never healed properly. We can’t do much about that now, though. His ankle’s in bad shape, but it’s salvageable. He’ll need to stay off it for a while and do some physical therapy. His nose was broken, but we managed to set it straight. He was in the early stages of hypothermia, and he’s probably fighting off a mild flu, but a nurse is managing the fever.”

She hesitated for a moment before continuing.

“There was some… internal damage. I won’t go into detail, but the kid’s definitely been assaulted more than once. I collected… DNA samples. You should run them. See if you get a match.”

Castiel had thought he couldn’t possibly feel worse. He was wrong. His vision tilted slightly. He prayed the contents of his stomach would stay where they were.

Ellen went on, either unaware of his reaction or choosing not to acknowledge it.

“And obviously, there’s the visible stuff—he’s too thin, too weak. He has bruises, cuts, burns… there are so many. Old and new, some layered over others. I don’t know where you found him, Castiel, but this kid looks like he’s been tortured. Not in a way meant to kill him, just to keep him in pain for a long time.”

She shook her head, like she was trying to chase the image from her mind.

“Haven’t seen anything this cruel in a long time. And I’m a doctor with over twenty years in the field. It’s good you brought him in when you did. I don’t know how much longer he could’ve lasted.” She gripped the medical files in her hand so tightly her fingers went white. “I think his body was already starting to shut down.”

Castiel listened closely, absorbing every detail. As much as hearing it turned his stomach, his gut told him he needed to know. And he’d learned never to ignore a gut feeling.

Castiel looked down at his hands. There was blood on them.

Huh. He hadn’t noticed that before. It must’ve gotten there when he was carrying the man to the ambulance. Or maybe when he’d run through the hospital doors with him seizing in his arms. Hard to say. The blood was dark red, already dry.

“Castiel.”

He heard the voice again.

…Ellen. Right. Ellen was here.

“Castiel, can you look at me?”

He raised his head. His eyes found hers. Even though she looked exhausted, her expression was gentle. She sat down next to him on the bench and took both his hands in hers, covering them—and the blood.

“He’s going to be okay. That boy is alive because of you. Whatever you’re feeling right now is the byproduct of a lot of intense, negative emotions. And it will pass. But for now, I want you to start taking deep breaths for me, and keep going until I get back. Alright?”

She gave his hands a light squeeze.

“I’m going to get you a cup of tea and some wet tissues. And I swear, if you’re not doing those breath exercises when I get back, I’ll knee you in the gut.”

The last part was said with a softer edge, and it earned the smallest of smiles from Castiel.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he said quietly.

“Better start breathing, boy, or you won’t be thanking me next time we meet,” she said with a matching smile, giving his hands one more squeeze before standing up and walking off.

Just like she’d ordered, Castiel started paying attention to his breathing, making sure it was steady and deep. He actually started to feel a little better after keeping at it for a few minutes.

He startled when he felt a vibration in his coat pocket. Without thinking, he pulled out his phone and unlocked it to check who was trying to reach him.

The message was from Charlie.

Captain: Hey, Castiel. I heard what happened. Are you still at the hospital? Do you know the victim? I could come over and we could hang out. Y'know, talk. Work’s done here anyway :)

He stared at the screen for a long time, the cursor blinking in the reply box.

Apparently long enough for Ellen to return.

Suddenly someone was sitting next to him, and his phone was gently pried away by weathered fingers. The next moment, his hands were being cleaned with wet wipes, the blood coming off easily and staining the white cloth dark red. When she finished, a cup of warm tea was handed to him. He grasped it with both hands, brought it to his lips, and breathed in the steam.

“You should take her up on the offer,” Ellen said gently.

“Huh?” Castiel blinked, coming out of his daze. He turned toward her. She was holding his phone, still open to the message.

“Oh,” he remembered. Charlie had texted him. “I don’t know,” he added, uncertain.

“Well, I do know,” Ellen replied, rolling her eyes. “So stop worrying and just trust me on this, hm?”

Castiel looked away and took a sip of the tea. Chamomile. She’d even added honey. Was it a coincidence, or did she actually remember he preferred it to sugar?

“Okay.”

Ellen gave him a double take, disbelief flickering across her face. “Really?”

“Yes. I will accept Charlie’s request to ‘hang out,’” he said, holding the cup in one hand so he could make air quotes with the other. Then he reached out and took his phone back from her.

“Good,” Ellen said, offering him the least strained smile he’d seen from her all day. “You did a great thing today, and you’ll keep doing great things. Give yourself a little credit.”

“...Thank you,” he replied, tone resigned but lighter. It felt good to hear that. He felt guilty accepting the praise, but he needed it too much to care.

Ellen watched him as he typed out a short reply to Charlie, agreeing to meet.

“Now, I’ve gotta go check on my other patients, but if you need anything, you’ll find me somewhere around here,” she said, giving his back a light slap as she stood.

Then she paused.

“And if someone happens to go down the hallway and then turn right, and then happens to see door number 130, and it turns out that room happens to belong to a recently rescued young man… Well. That'd be a pretty wild coincidence, don't you think?”

And with that, she was gone.

Castiel got up so fast he almost fell over.

Chapter Text

The past few days had been a complete one-eighty shift in Castiel’s routine.

Every day after work, without fail, he went straight to the hospital. Room 130. Like a habit he couldn't break.

At first, the nurses tried to send him away. He wasn’t family, there were procedures. Like Castiel cared.

He had been too stubborn to listen, of course. He flashed his badge just enough times, stayed just long enough without making trouble, that they finally stopped trying. They still gave him odd looks, but they left him alone.

He didn’t know why he kept coming.

The man hadn’t even fully regained consciousness. He’d woken a handful of times, always briefly, and always too delirious to speak. He screamed, sometimes. Terrified, or pained, or both, and it was a wonder he hadn't lost his voice yet. The first time Castiel heard it, it hadn’t even sounded like a voice so much as an animal in pain.

Castiel longed to talk to him.

Every time he entered the room, he hoped to be greeted by green eyes. A word. Anything. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

It made him feel insane. Was he?

He'd been texting with Charlie more ever since that first night. She even stopped by the hospital once or twice, uncharacteristically quiet when she saw the state he was in. He didn’t want to lean on her—after pushing her away for so long, it felt wrong—but he didn’t know what else to do if he wanted to keep himself together.

These days he felt like a loose thread in a worn blanket, stretched and fraying. Tug it the wrong way, and everything would come apart.

What didn’t help was that no one knew who the man was.

His fingerprints were burned off. Who does that? There were absolutely no matches in any database. DNA samples came up empty. It was like he’d never existed. But he was right there. He was real. Even if the world seemed to disagree.

Who made this man a ghost?

The hospital staff started calling him John Doe. Castiel had almost collapsed the first time he heard it. Too many similarities. Too many parallels.

The girl from nine years ago had been Jane Doe. Hurt, alone, and forever unknown. And now this man… John Doe. Castiel couldn’t stop making the connection. Couldn’t stop wondering if that was why he couldn’t let him go. If he was projecting the memory of his lost soulmate onto someone else. Trying to help now, to make up for the way he’d failed before.

But his soulmate was gone.

There was no fixing that.

And maybe this wasn’t even about her. Maybe it was just about him. Maybe he was selfish. Maybe he stayed by this stranger’s side not out of compassion, but because he needed to feed some broken part of himself. To rewrite the ending and be the hero he hadn’t been.

Maybe Ellen was wrong.

Maybe he wasn’t a good man after all. Maybe he was just playing the part, feeding his ego like a starved animal.

In the end, it didn’t matter all that much.

He couldn’t stop coming to see John Doe.

Whether he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a desperate Samaritan, or something else entirely, the truth remained: he came to the hospital every day. And he didn’t know why he couldn’t stop, or if he ever would.

Right now, Castiel was living through the consequences of that uncontrollable new routine. He arrived at the hospital not long after his shift ended, still in uniform, steps already turning down the familiar corridor without thought. Room 130 was the same as always, machines beeping and humming soft rhythms into the silence.

John Doe was asleep, like he'd been for the last few days.

Castiel had barely crossed the threshold when one of the nurses stepped in. She was a young, chubby woman with a perfect white-tooth smile, someone he vaguely recognized from the night shift rotation. She'd always been kinder to him than the rest.

“I thought you’d want to know,” she said, her voice hushed. “His vitals look better today. He’s stabilizing. Getting stronger.”

She offered a gentle smile and slipped out of the room before Castiel could say anything back.

He sat down and stared at the man in the bed for a long time after that.

It was just a few words. It shouldn’t have meant much, but it did. It sparked something shy and fragile in his chest. A flicker of… hope?

Hope that he’d be able to look into that unique shade of green again.

Maybe Castiel would finally get to ask the questions that kept him up at night. Maybe he’d even get answers.

He leaned forward in the chair, rested his forearms on his knees, and let the words come out before he could second-guess himself.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted softly. “I keep coming here every day, sitting in this chair like it’ll make a difference. Like maybe if I’m here when you wake up, you’ll…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “See, I don’t even know. I feel like a man possessed. Do you think I’m crazy, too?”

He stared at the faint rise and fall of John Doe’s chest. No response came.

“I don’t even know who you are. I know I have issues, but surely a vague resemblance to someone from a lost past isn’t enough to explain all this, is it?” His voice cracked slightly. “Maybe I was just born wrong.”

Again, there was no answer. The man didn’t stir.

Castiel scrubbed a hand down his face and exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

“Never mind. You’re not even hearing this.”

He leaned back, reached over to the nightstand, and grabbed the book he’d been reading. At least that might keep his mind off things.

The chair he sat in—the one everyone called his chair now—was parked next to the bed where John Doe slept under thin hospital sheets. His breathing was steady, face pale but no longer bloodied, wounds bandaged and bruises beginning to fade. There was a delicate kind of beauty to his features when they weren’t shredded by terror.

Castiel sat with a book in his hands, something on beekeeping he’d found in the hospital waiting room bin. He’d actually gotten really invested in it, though something told him John Doe wouldn’t care for it at all. It wasn’t exactly riveting, but it was simple, uncomplicated, and distracting. Castiel figured the man could use more of that right now.

He read quietly under his breath, thinking that if there was even the smallest chance the man could hear him, then maybe the sound of a voice, even if unfamiliar, might feel like a hand in the dark.

At least he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

It had been nearly two hours now. The clock crept toward 7 PM, and the weight of the day was settling deep into Castiel’s bones. Work had been merciless today, and he’d been on his feet too much. His back ached.

With a quiet sigh, he closed the book and slipped a bookmark between the pages. It had a wizard on it. Some long-bearded, wide-hatted character from one of Charlie’s favorite fantasy books. She’d gifted it to him after noticing he read every time he visited. That day, she’d launched into a thirty-minute explanation of the entire franchise, barely pausing for breath. Castiel hadn’t understood half of it, but he still kept the bookmark. It was useful, and he was grateful to have gotten a gift at all.

He stood up from the chair and took a few steps away, trying to stretch the stiffness out of his back. He rolled his shoulders, reached overhead, twisted gently side to side.

He heard a soft whimper from the bed.

Castiel’s body snapped around, moving before he could think. In seconds, he was back in his chair, leaning over the side of the bed. John Doe’s face was twisted in silent agony. His lips were pressed tightly together, trembling with the effort to keep them that way. He looked like he was biting down hard enough to draw blood, fighting not to make a sound. As if the world might collapse on him otherwise.

Castiel had never seen that before. The man had screamed in his sleep, had thrashed and whimpered and cried out. But this silent suffering… It was new. How did his body even know to do that in his sleep? What kind of night terror followed its victim into the waking world?

“Sorry,” John Doe whispered.

Castiel almost missed it.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry… No, please… Sorry…”

He kept repeating the same phrases, over and over. Something in Castiel’s chest cracked open a little more with each word. Then he noticed a flicker of light on the man’s face. He was crying.

Castiel had never seen him cry before.

He’d seen him delirious, frightened, nearly feral. But this—this helplessness? This was worse. Somehow, it was the worst of all.

Castiel’s hand hovered in the air, uncertain. He didn’t know what to do. Reach out and cradle the man’s face, brush the tears away? That would probably get him gutted if the man were awake enough to (not) consent. Shake his shoulder? And risk startling him out of a nightmare into the hands of a stranger?

He couldn’t bring himself to do either. He could only watch, and think about how he'd rarely felt as useless as he did right now.

He dropped his hand to the blanket instead, palm down. Close, but not touching, resigned to do nothing—like he always had.

And then, John Doe’s arm spasmed. His left hand shot sideways and gripped Castiel’s.

Castiel flinched, startled so badly that for a second all his instincts screamed at him to pull away. He barely managed to stay put, and found the man's grip was like iron. How could he be this strong while still recovering… and technically unconscious?

The only explanation was fear. Fear and desperation.

Something in Castiel's chest settled quietly as he squeezed the man’s hand in return.

To his surprise, it worked. Gradually, minute by minute, John Doe calmed. The tears stopped first, then the muttered apologies faded. Finally, after fifteen long minutes, he slipped back into stillness, his breathing evened out. He looked peaceful.

Castiel sat frozen in his seat, his hand still held tight. His brain felt stuffed with cotton.

He didn’t know what just happened, only that it had, and that he didn’t have the courage to analyze it.

He sat there, motionless, watching the soft rise and fall of the man’s chest, their hands still joined. The feelings stirring in his chest at the sight were something he refused to acknowledge. He already thought he might be going insane, and this would only prove it.

“Hello?”

The male voice from the doorway startled him so badly he nearly knocked the chair over as he yanked his hand back. He turned and found a nurse leaning against the doorframe, watching him.

He definitely saw everything.

Shame and guilt rose like bile in Castiel’s throat.

Not only had he been completely careless, he’d also made a fool of himself.

The nurse looked unbothered. “Hey, uh—you Castiel?”

“Huh? O-Oh. Yes. Castiel. That’s… my name,” he stammered.

He wanted to sink into the floor. Of all the things to say, he chose this?

“Great! Apparently Doctor Harvelle’s looking for you in the right wing. Said it was important or something.”

“Important?” Castiel echoed. “Okay, well, um… I will go now. Goodbye.”

He stood, avoiding eye contact, practically bolting out of the room. His heart was nearly beating out of his chest. What was he doing, holding hands with an unconscious man? If the nurse told anyone, what would they think of him? They might think he was a creep, and he might not be allowed to visit anymore, and—

Why do I keep messing up so badly?

He walked toward the right wing, steps hurried, like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. But as he neared the front desk, his pace began to slow.

Something pressed at the back of his mind.

That nurse.

He didn’t recognize him, and usually the same rotation of staff cared for John Doe.

Then the weight in his head became unbearable as a thought clawed its way to the front of his mind.

Yesterday, Ellen had said this:

“Tomorrow’s my husband’s anniversary, so Jo and I are taking the day off. Try not to bother me, but if you really must, you got our numbers.”

Ellen wasn’t at work today. She hadn’t sent anyone.

He’d been fooled.

As soon as the realization hit, Castiel’s detective instincts kicked in with vivid clarity. This time, he knew what to do—and he was going to finally get it right.

He sprinted past the front desk, through the left wing, directly toward room 130. He didn’t fully stop, just enough to glance inside.

The bed was empty.

No signs of struggle, the door and window intact. Medical equipment that had been attached to John Doe lay tangled on the sheets.

He had never wished to be wrong so badly in his life.

He tore through the hallway, barreling past startled staff and visitors. He had tunnel vision, and they were in the way. He reached the nurse station in record time.

A young, anxious nurse stood behind the counter, her face pale with confusion.

Castiel didn’t hesitate. He slammed his badge onto the desk and barked out the words he knew would matter: “Code Pink. Suspected patient abduction.”

He expected action. But instead, the nurse blinked at him, frozen in place, unable to process. She opened her mouth and stammered something incoherent. Wasting time.

Castiel’s patience snapped like a twig.

He shoved past her, spotted the panel near the back wall, and hit the lockdown button himself.

An automated voice crackled over the intercom: “Code Pink. Code Pink in effect.”

Doors around the hospital began locking. The hallway lights dimmed and shifted to emergency mode, casting flickering red glows across the walls.

Castiel left without further explanation. Turned, and run.

He knew the layout, and he knew how criminal minds worked. The back entry led to the parking lot. It was a faster and safer route, less obvious than walking out the front doors. Allowed you to access a vehicle and then you could just drive away like nothing happened. If he were trying to smuggle someone out, that’s where he’d go.

Castiel bolted like he was being chased by Death itself.

This was his fault. The setup had been obvious, and he’d walked straight into it. All because he was too wrapped up in shame and guilt. Too busy losing his head over holding hands with an unconscious patient to notice a real threat. Now that mistake might cost that patient everything.

Please be there, he thought. He didn’t pray. By now, he'd known better.

Target in sight, he slammed the handle down as he hit the back door at full speed. He burst through into the open lot, eyes scanning the scene wildly.

Several things registered at once.

John Doe lay on the ground, thrashing. A small amount of blood marked the concrete.

The nurse—no, the imposter was crouched over him, one hand locked tight around his throat.

Castiel didn’t think. He’d never changed out of his uniform after work, and he acted on autopilot. His gun was in his hand before any doubts had finished forming.

His hands were unnaturally steady, to the point he believed that in that split moment, time must've stood still.

He aimed and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, loud in the open air. The attacker collapsed instantly, his body hitting the pavement with a sickening thud. There was a red spot on the back of his head, perfectly in the center, pushing out blood. The target had died on impact.

A shame. He deserved to suffer.

Castiel lowered his weapon, heart still hammering as the adrenaline began to fade. He approached the young man carefully. That was enough intensity for one day.

John Doe stared, eyes wide and unblinking. Then, without warning, he sat up and doubled over in a coughing fit, one hand pressed protectively to his neck. A fresh bruise was already blooming there, like he didn’t have enough of them already.

As the coughing eased, the man finally seemed to register him. His posture was tight, braced for another blow. Understandable, Castiel thought. He was in shock. Still, Castiel kept walking.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined their first post-rescue interaction would go, but hopefully John Doe would be willing to trust him. After all, Castiel had already helped save him once.

Dean crawled backwards like Castiel was a threat he couldn't afford.

"Stay the hell back.”

Castiel froze.

Somewhere in outer space, a planet peeled itself open and whispered, “bE NOt aFrAID, sWEeThEArT.”

It bloomed into a name as the name was named. Vanished into the ceiling. It was upside down. It had to be.

Dean floated.

The trajectory snapped around the horizon, and he drifted with its song. His skull got stuck in the clouds once, but he pulled it down with his toes in the sand. Crunchy. It felt nice.

The air felt like velvet soup. Time cracked open like an egg. He was hungry. Stars rushed into him, and now he had to open his ribcage. Great, as if he didn't have better things to do.

The ribcage was not happy, but the rib and the cage danced like whispers on linoleum. Words spilled into the fog, rearranging themselves mid-sentence. “You’re very badly hurt,” they said, “but you’re—beep—beep—beep—safe now.”

He wasn't hurt! He wasn't anything. If he was then he'd have to be and a bee would fucking sting his eyes out. He liked his eyes. When they were there. Sometimes they went to the Bahamas.

Maybe it was all folded into paper cranes. That's why the rain cried wolf. It was afraid. Planet said bE NOt aFrAID. Why have to be? Maybe not. Hm?

There were some ribs framed by television and played static over and over. Apple pie? No, away, MISSING. That's okay. He'd missed a lot.

There was a big bee, maybe it shadowed the Sun? It wore scrubs with honey traps inside. Don't lose the honey.

Dean tried to laugh, but the sound turned inwards. And now the laugh tried him. He didn't like it.

In a bed made of feathers and IV tubing, he turned sideways. Or maybe the ways of a side? He saw a chair. It was normal. Weird. It said to eat royal jelly. Queens are made.

“You’re not even listening,” a page turned and peeled itself off when it got too tired. Dean wanted to argue. He was listening. He just couldn’t figure out what language the page was.

The page ate him.

Hands appeared and held him. It was secure. The page could not hurt him now. He looked between the fingers, and the gap said: "I've got you, sweetheart.” It was a nice gap, but not too empty.

The gap birthed blueness, and it said: “You're safe now.”

That was even nicer. Kids are cool. Winter?

It was winter in the cage. The bars bent and crossed millennia. They weren't nice. He was a coat, but it was too frozen with untrying. Is it trying? The cage didn't let go. He let it go. Now go. Go, Dean.

b̸E̵ ̸N̷O̸t̷ ̶a̴F̴r̶A̷I̷D̵?̶?̵?̴

Dean is afraid.

He’s seven years old and the walls are too white.

Everything smells like old paper towels and cough syrup. The floor squeaks even when you tiptoe. Sammy is asleep next to him on the bench, face squished against Dean’s hoodie like a pillow. His nose is red. He keeps sniffling even in his sleep.

Sammy is sick, because of him. He let Sammy play at the playground past bedtime and rain fell. They got soaked. Now Sammy is sick, and he is not. Dean should be sick instead.

Dean’s legs swing off the seat. He counts the swings in his head. Doesn’t let his shoes hit the floor. That’s the rule today.

It’s cold in the clinic. Dean doesn’t have a coat because Sammy needed the only one that still fit. That’s fine. He’s the big brother. That’s his job.

A pretty lady comes over. She's got purple glasses and a weird necklace. She smells like oranges. She kneels next to the bench and gives him a smile with her whole face, but he doesn’t like it. She smiles like that other lady who tried to take them away once.

“Hi there. I’m Nina. Is that your brother? Are you here with someone?”

Dean looks at her, then back at Sammy.

“I brought him,” he says. His tone is guarded. He hopes she’ll go away. “I'm the big brother.”

Nina tilts her head. “You mean, you came here alone?”

He crosses his arms and grumbles, “Even a baby could do it. Wasn't far.”

She glances at Sammy, concern creeping into her face. “Sweetheart, how old are you?”

Dean’s jaw locks. “Old enough.”

Dad always says so, so it must be true.

There’s a pause. Her smile falters. “Do your parents know where you are?”

Dean shakes his head. Maybe this lady wants to take them away too. “It’s fine! Sammy’s mine.”

Nina blinks. “What do you mean, he’s yours?”

Dean puffs out his chest proudly. “He’s my responsibility. I take care of him. I always do.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something else but closes it again. Then she stands and walks off fast.

Dean knows what that means. He messed up. He wasn’t supposed to say that. He tucks Sammy’s jacket tighter around him and tries not to cry.

He’s too big for that. He doesn’t cry. Crying is for babies and girls. Dean likes being a boy, so he can’t cry. He just waits.

Thirty minutes later, Dad shows up.

“Dean!”

The voice seems to cut through the clinic. Dean shivers. He doesn't like knives.

He looks up and sees Dad storming through the doors, face flushed, steps quick and loud. His eyes are red and glassy. The air around him smells like gas station whiskey and the inside of the Impala when it hasn’t been cleaned in weeks.

Dad stops suddenly. Dean doesn't get it.

Dad looks around. There's the white walls. The receptionist. The quiet waiting room with other people sitting nearby. They're watching. Dean is watching too.

Dad doesn't look mad anymore. But he is. Dean knows.

Dad rubs a hand over his face. He walks the rest of the way like nothing’s wrong. He's lying. He does that sometimes. It's for him and Sammy. That's what Dean thinks.

Dad stops in front of Dean, looks him over. He's quiet. He must be really angry.

“You serious?” he says, words flat but low enough not to draw attention. “You thought this was okay?”

Dean stands up straight. “I didn’t say anything bad. I just said I brought Sammy. That he’s mine.”

Dad’s lip curls, face tight. “Jesus, Dean. You say shit like that in public, they think I’ve abandoned you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t think,” Dad snaps, eyes narrowing. “You never think. You just do whatever gets us in the most trouble.”

Dean’s chest feels tight. “He was sick. You said—”

“I said take care of him. Not parade him into a clinic like a stray dog you found on the street.”

Dad crouches suddenly, eye level, voice low and tight. “You got strangers asking questions. You want Sammy taken away? Is that what you’re trying to do?”

“No! I just—Sammy—”

“Bullshit,” Dad hisses. “What you needed was attention. You pulled this stunt today because you couldn’t handle one day without being the center of it. One damn day.”

There’s a pause. Dad leans just a little closer.

“Today of all days, Dean?” he clicks his tongue. “Like you haven't done enough.”

Dean knows what day it is. It’s the day of the fire again.

That means Mommy is dead and it’s his fault. He loved her a lot. He’s sorry he killed her.

Dad stands back up, straightens his jacket.

“You think you’re helping? You’re a liability. Every time you speak, you make it worse.”

Dean doesn't argue.

Dad looks down at Sammy, still curled up on the bench.

“You’re lucky he’s still little,” Dad says. “He won’t remember you screwing this up.”

He doesn’t even glance back at Dean. Just walks to the desk and mutters something about signing out.

Miss Nina tries to stop him with a lot of words adults like to use, but Dad ignores her with a clipped, “We’re done here.”

Dean wakes Sammy gently, helps him into his shoes, and holds his hand all the way out the door.

Sammy will never know.

Dean will never forget.

The world was swaying and there were hands all over him.

Dean didn't get it. Was Dad giving him away again? There was a coat, but he wasn't the one wearing it. Sammy, he had to take care of Sammy. A shadow screamed his name. It carried the stink of whiskey soaked into Impala's backseat.

Then his mind started to bleed into reality.

Boots pounding pavement. Cold-ass air slapping his face. Some asshole yelling through a speaker system. Red lights blinking behind his eyelids like a goddamn horror movie.

And the smell of lavender.

Sickly sweet and artificial, it clung to his nose like rot. One whiff and his stomach flipped, bile crawling up the back of his throat. He knew that scent.

He didn’t want to smell it ever again. He’d rather be six feet under than have that shit touch his nose a second time. Hell, actual shit would've been better.

This was the kicker he needed to wake the fuck up. Instinct took over, and adrenaline slammed into his bloodstream.

He thrashed hard, every muscle firing like it had a gun to its head. His legs kicked out, arms flailed, whole body twisting like he could Houdini his way out. The guy carrying him stumbled, cursed under his breath, and stopped in the middle of the lot.

Good. Pause for dramatic effect, bitch.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He shoved himself up, twisted around, and bit down on the guy’s ear like a starving dog. Teeth to cartilage, and hesitation could get him killed. It was always him or them.

Fuck, that's disgusting. Warm, rubbery, too much blood way too fast. He didn’t give a shit. He bit like it’d save his life. Hey, maybe it would. Small miracles and all that, right?

The guy screamed like a horror movie extra and dropped him. Dean hit the pavement hard, elbow barking in protest, and spat the ear out with a bloody gag.

“Holy shit,” he choked, coughing. “Wasn’t on my bingo list.”

He tried to push himself up, but the second he put weight on his ankle, something exploded. Bright white pain lit up his leg and knocked the wind out of him.

“Goddamn son of a bitch—” he gasped, collapsing again. “Fucking—fuck—”

The adrenaline had carried him this far, but it was fading fast, and the pain was crawling back in like cockroaches. He was still reeling when the guy came back for round two.

A hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Of course. Could the world stop having it out for him for five fucking seconds?

His air got cut off, and hope followed right after.

Dean tried to scream, but it came out as a wheeze. He clawed at the guy’s wrist, scratched like hell, fingers digging hard. Skin, muscle, tendon, whatever he could find. His lungs screamed louder than he could, his body thrashing under the pressure.

He wondered if this was how it felt to be drowning.

“Let me go, you motherfucking bastard,” he thought, or maybe said, or maybe just choked on the inside of his brain.

His vision blurred. His limbs felt like they were full of wet cement.

This was how he was gonna die?

Not even with a punchline on his lips. Just some fucker in scrubs choking the life out of him behind a hospital, after everything he’d been through.

Honestly, he shouldn't be surprised. He'd always had shitty luck.

His mind was covered in fog, but he registered a loud sound echoing everywhere around him. Suddenly, the hand on his throat vanished.

He sat up immediately, no real thought behind the action, but regretted it almost instantly.

Air slammed into his lungs like it had been waiting behind a locked door. It was so overwhelming he thought he'd choke on it. All he could do was wheeze desperately, this time fighting the air rather than for it.

Every gasp scraped his throat raw, and his vision went cloudy around the edges. It took everything he had not to pass out on the spot.

When he finally blinked the blur out of his eyes, he heard heavy footsteps.

His blood ran cold. He couldn't do this again. He needed time to recover. He just got another chance, he thought he did, he thought he would breathe again and then get the fuck out of here.

Dean looked up and registered a brown coat and a broad frame. Sharp features, an overgrown beard, blue eyes that looked almost out of place in a human body. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, and boy, could Dean relate to that.

This guy had a gun. Dean had to be careful. There was a man in a uniform walking up to him. A cop? There was a body next to Dean. The bastard that'd been choking him. Right. Dean was being choked. And the cop shot the guy that was doing it? What the fuck.

The man wasn’t saying anything, just staring. What a weirdo. What, he thought he could intimidate Dean into breaking? He thought Dean would jump into his arms like a damsel in distress after being saved by a brave knight?

What a load of bull. Dean didn’t trust that for a second.

He didn’t know this guy, and sure as hell didn’t owe him anything. Cops had never done much for him before. They usually showed up too late, asked questions that didn’t matter, and walked away when it counted.

They didn't care about people like Dean. People who were barely people, because nobody wanted them, and nobody even needed them, and nobody would pay their way through the process to help them, and nobody would miss them when they're gone.

It didn’t matter that the man had technically saved him. It didn't matter that his steps were unrushed or that he was calm or that he was the first person to have ever helped him.

What mattered was that he was there, had a gun, and was walking toward him like it was his right.

Dean scrambled backward, fingers slipping against the pavement. "Stay the hell back," he rasped. His throat burned. His ankle was screaming. He didn't give a damn. He'd fight until he dropped dead.

The cop stopped short.

"It's alright," he said, voice deep and measured, palms raised like he tried to look unthreatening. What a fucking joke. "Let's get you back inside."

If the cop was being so careful, maybe Dean did have a chance. Maybe this guy didn't want his ear chopped off and was treading lightly. As he should. Dean would bite again if he had to.

His chest still heaved. His ankle throbbed like a bastard. Every part of his body hurt, and the rawness in his throat made it hard to focus. He could feel his pulse behind his eyes, pounding and erratic.

He laughed.

"Inside? Inside where? I'm not going anywhere with you, robocop."

The guy looked confused. Just for a second, as if resistance was the last thing he expected out of Dean. Who was he to assume anything anyway?

It clicked then. Fuck, of course. This was another plot meant to mess with his mind. He thought he got out, then he was being kidnapped again with lavender abusing his nostrils, then a ‘savior cop’ shows up and lulls him into a false sense of security before taking him back to the cage so that he would finally break.

It was like he had an epiphany. This was what was going on. Always those fucking mind plays.

Dean refused to break.

His eyes narrowed. "What is this, huh? You soften me up and then drag me back to where I came from? Pretty clever twist, I admit, but I ain't stupid. Take your theater class somewhere else, I'm outta here."

The man's expression didn't shift, but something tightened around the corners of his mouth.

"You think I'm with them," he said slowly, like he'd also just realized something.

Dean didn’t answer. He’d already been pretty damn straightforward about it.

"You… don’t remember me."

Dean gave him a look that would make a baby cry. "No shit, Sherlock. I thought I was giving clear 'stay the fuck away' vibes."

Castiel blinked once. Then, calmly: "Do you remember being kidnapped by a trafficking ring and put in a warehouse?"

Dean scowled. "Yeah. What about it?"

He tensed again. So this guy was up to date with everything. It would make sense if he was supposed to make Dean feel safe. Still, it was a cruel reminder that no matter how hard he would try, he'd always be found and dragged back. Nowhere was safe.

But then the man added, quietly, "I’m part of the team that got you out of there. Do you remember that? Or anything after?"

The voice didn’t match the rest of him. It was deep, but not commanding. Not really pitying either, thank God. Just even, kinda like what he'd say to John when his dad got so drunk he couldn't find the door to his own room. It was a tone you’d use with animals that could lash out and claw your eyes out.

Dean flinched like he'd been slapped. "I think I'd fuckin' remember if my life finally stopped eating ass. You get off on playing the hero or something?"

Something shifted in his expression. Dean didn't know what that meant, and it made him feel even more on edge.

"You don’t remember anything after the warehouse," the cop said. Didn't ask, just stated a fact.

Dean clenched his jaw. So what? He's not stupid. He doesn't have to remember anything to know not to trust anyone.

The man nodded slightly to himself. Then: "You weren’t lucid when I found you. You were hurt. Badly. We got you to a hospital. You've been there for four days."

Dean's breath caught. That's it. The show is on. The guy was a pretty good actor, but Dean wouldn't be fooled.

"Your name isn’t on any record. No ID, and your DNA doesn't show up in the system. You came in as 'John Doe'. I stayed with you at the hospital,” he says, gentler now. “It's okay if you don't remember. If you want, there are several staff members like doctors, nurses, and receptionists that can vouch for me. You're free to ask anyone at the hospital. Believe me. They know who I am.”

Dean didn’t speak. He just stared. Because what the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

No one could set up a whole freakin’ hospital just to mess with Dean's head. But if this wasn't it, then what the hell was it?

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to," the guy said softly, sitting down on the pavement beside him. Not directly, keeping just the right amount of distance to keep Dean's freakout at bay. "You get to decide, and I will listen. You're a patient, not a criminal.”

Dean's throat worked. His body ached. His brain itched and everything in him screamed bloody murder, but the guy wasn't pushing. He seemed genuine, confident that the hospital would confirm his story.

Maybe Dean could check, just to be sure. If it turns out the cop lied, Dean could still get out. Maybe he'd take a hostage. Surely a policeman couldn't shoot a civilian to get to Dean in a public space?

He convinced himself it was worth trying. Good things never happened to him, but he needed a break. Needed something. He was so, so tired.

"I know you're probably confused and in pain. I'm not asking you to trust me, I know you don't have a reason to. I'm offering you to make a verified decision,” he stated firmly, but still not commanding. “You need medical attention, warmth, food, and a bed that isn’t the pavement. You need to rest.”

Dean swallowed hard.

"And if I say no?"

The man's eyes stayed on his. "Then I sit here with you until you change your mind. You're in danger, and you shouldn't have to face it alone. But I won't force you to do anything.”

Dean looked at him. Then looked again. Maybe it was the first time he really looked.

Red rimmed eyes riddled with exhaustion. Sweat forming on the skin. Shaking hands, and tensed muscles.

This man had just killed someone, and cared.

Dean let out a breath, his eyes squeezing shut just for a moment.

"No needles, pills or restraints," he said.

"Alright."

"My ankle's busted,” he croaked. “But I’ll walk. You'll hold me up. No gurney, no wheelchair, no princess carry."

A beat.

"Understood."

Dean opened his eyes. The man was still there. He wasn't annoyed, he wasn't offended, and didn't argue.

"You get one chance," Dean muttered, lifting a trembling hand to signal that the man could come closer. "Screw it up, and I'll bite off more than just an ear."

The man actually gave a tiny nod. "Fair enough."

He got up from the ground, and Dean tensed for a moment, jerking away on instinct.

The cop froze for a second, and then stepped forward slowly, like he was handling something fragile. His arms were unrushed and careful when he reached for Dean to help him up.

“Who the hell’re you anyway?” Dean found himself mumbling under his breath.

The cop turned his head to stare at him again, but Dean's eyes were defiantly fixed on the floor.

“Castiel,” he said softly. Something in his tone made Dean feel too real. “Lieutenant Castiel Novak.” He hesitated. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

“Huh. Castiel. Weird name,” Dean grumbled.

He saw the man form a tiny smile out of the corner of his eye.

Chapter Text

Getting John Doe back to the room had taken more effort than it should have. It could have been easier if the man just agreed to be carried, but Castiel wanted his trust, and keeping promises was a good start.

Every hiss of pain was something that John Doe chose for himself, and Castiel had no right to deny him autonomy. Even if it meant holding him up like a scaffold the whole way.

At last, Castiel helped him lower into the hospital bed. The same one John Doe had been unconscious in just half an hour ago. Where he'd slept for four days without becoming lucid once. Where John Doe had clutched Castiel’s hand, coming down from a nightmare.

That time felt so far away now.

Castiel steadied the injured leg as carefully as he could, trying not to react to the angry bruise rising across John Doe’s throat. It could've been worse. He had to remember that.

He reached for the blanket, but before he could tuck it in, chaos erupted from down the hall. Voices rising, demanding answers. Rapid footsteps echoing.

Castiel turned just in time to see the first nurse appear in the doorway, followed by a swelling crowd. Some had clipboards, others stethoscopes. Someone spoke into a phone so fast it was impossible to catch the words.

They asked questions over each other without care for protocol or basic human decency.

“Was there an intruder?”

“Someone said a patient was abducted—”

“Are we evacuating this wing?”

“Where’s the police? Wasn’t there an officer—”

Castiel stepped forward like a dam holding back floodwater.

He didn’t need to shout or threaten anyone. The uniform and his voice were enough.

“Stand back,” he said, loud enough to cut through them. “The situation is under control. I'm Lieutenant Castiel Novak. The suspect attempted to abduct the patient from this room. I pursued and engaged. He has been neutralized. His body is behind the back entrance. I need it secured and reported.”

All of them quieted down, several sets of eyes turning to him. Some of them turned their heads toward each other in alarm, but kept silent for now. Castiel had to make sure it would stay like that.

“You,” Castiel continued, pointing to the nearest orderly. “Call the police. Let them know Lieutenant Novak called a Code Pink and handled the situation. If they have already been called, confirm it’s on record.”

The man nodded, eyes wide, already pulling out his phone.

“You—get the doctor on shift. The patient was choked and may have sustained internal injuries. He needs to be seen immediately.”

One nurse hesitated for only half a second before moving. Another took off down the hallway.

“And you,” Castiel said, landing on the last woman in the group, “document that the patient has refused pills and syringes. Make sure everyone on staff is made aware. That needs to be recorded and respected.”

She nodded quickly, then disappeared into the hall with the others. Good. Another promise kept.

Within moments, the crowd had scattered. Only the faint buzz of the overhead lights remained, and Castiel stood alone at the threshold of the room. He relaxed his shoulders, took a deep breath, and turned around.

John Doe was staring at him, mouth parted.

Castiel waited for some sort of acknowledgement. Maybe a question or… anything, really.

The silence stretched. He started to step closer, worried. His brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

John Doe blinked, like he hadn’t realized he was being watched. His lips closed with a faint click, and he shifted against the pillow, looking away quickly.

It was quiet for a beat before he replied, tone light and suddenly casual:

“Yeah. Didn’t know Batman did hospital tours now.”

Castiel tilted his head, brow furrowing in confusion. “I… don’t know what that means.”

John Doe's eyes snapped back to him with alarming speed. His expression shifted to utter disbelief. “Dude. Batman?”

“Castiel?!”

Castiel turned around as Charlie burst past the threshold, her wide open eyes immediately meeting his.

Charlie stilled just for a second before stepping in front of him. She looked him over, eyes searching. “What happened, Castiel? Are you okay?”

Behind her, a few nurses hovered in the hallway. They kept glancing toward the room like they weren’t sure whether they should risk listening in or make themselves scarce. Castiel stayed where he was, angled slightly to keep their view of the hospital bed blocked.

Charlie barely waited for his answer before pushing on. “We got a Code Pink alert and I tried calling you, like, five times. You didn’t pick up—I thought—" She cut herself off, then shook her head. “I drove here like my ass was on fire.”

Castiel furrowed his brows, considering, and realized he'd left his phone in the room when he'd rushed out to meet Ellen. Only there was no Ellen, and what actually ended up happening hadn't left any space for worrying about a phone.

“I left it,” he said simply. “In here.” He motioned to the nightstand, where both his phone and the beekeeping book were. “I apologize. It slipped my mind in all that chaos.”

Castiel turned his head toward the hallway again, catching sight of one of the younger security guards pacing near the nurse’s station.

“John Doe was taken from his room. That’s why I triggered the alarm. I hoped it would slow down whoever had him. I found him behind the building, with the kidnapper pinning and choking him. I shot the culprit and brought John Doe back here.”

It was simplified and did not include Castiel’s visceral horror and one-track mind at the time, but he figured knowing those details wouldn’t make Charlie feel any better.

Charlie stared at him, her mouth parting just slightly.

“You shot him?” she asked gently.

Castiel nodded.

Charlie's eyelids dropped, gaze dipping to his hands. Her shoulders slumped. Castiel followed, looking down at himself, and saw what she saw.

His hands were still trembling.

Oh. Now, he understood why she'd relented so suddenly.

"Go home and rest, Castiel. I'll handle interrogating the victim and ensure his safety."

Castiel stilled, and the rush of fury that set his lungs on fire came so unexpectedly he couldn't stop it if he tried.

In the midst of it, he became aware of two important things.

The first thing was that to Charlie, John Doe was simply that—a victim. Just a record in a file that you can close after work is done. She didn't come to see John Doe every day. She didn't know him.

Castiel might have only spent four days with him, with most of them having John Doe barely lucid. And even after such a short time, Castiel had learned what this man was—a survivor.

The second thing came like the echo of a nightmare—Charlie had looked at his shaking hands and assumed he'd been affected by having to neutralize a target.

It wasn't a bad assumption. They’d worked together for years, long enough that she knew he never liked pulling the trigger, even when necessary. He avoided killing when he could. It never came easy. It never even felt right, no matter if it was for a good cause.

Even so, Charlie assumed wrong.

The thing rattling his spine wasn’t the kill. He didn't enjoy it, but he didn't exactly feel bad for doing it.

He was still shaken because he’d almost lost John Doe.

It's not how he'd normally react, and he shouldn't feel like this. At least that's what he'd think if today hadn't happened. He was finding out he was a different person than he'd thought.

The type of person who feels nothing over a kill, because losing a man he barely knows would have been far more devastating.

He didn’t know what that made him.

“No,” he replied eventually, mind reeling. It was a struggle to keep his voice level. “John Doe is hurt. He was kidnapped and nearly died. He won’t be answering any questions today.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow at him, and Castiel failed to reel himself in.

“He needs rest and a doctor to examine his throat. He’s barely had time to understand what happened, and I won’t leave him alone to sort it out. He almost died four days ago, and he almost died today. It's not even been a week.”

The words rushed out with force even he hadn’t expected. There was a fire in his chest, and now it burned full force.

Charlie’s mouth parted slightly, visibly startled by his tone.

“You want something to handle?” he said, sharp and low. “Then look into the trafficking operation again. Because clearly, it wasn’t as wrapped up as we thought. Someone walked into this hospital and almost succeeded in kidnapping a recovering patient. And it would’ve worked if I hadn’t been the one paying attention.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn't intend to intimidate or frighten, nor to start an argument. This was judgment.

Charlie straightened. She seemed completely shaken. Chastened, even. By her subordinate—or maybe her friend. Castiel didn't know which one he was right now.

The silence that followed wasn't unexpected, but it cut deep. The kind that falls after the sound of a door slammed in anger.

Castiel swallowed. The shame sneaked in quietly afterward, like a child coming home after curfew. He hadn’t meant to lash out, and he knew Charlie didn't deserve it.

He wasn’t going to retract it, but he wasn't going to apologize either. Not for the words.

Because everything he said was true, and he meant every word.

The silence was quickly broken when from behind them, a voice rasped out.

“I got no money, so I hope I didn't need a ticket for this stellar performance.”

Castiel turned. John Doe had been there the entire time, eyes half-lidded, leaning slightly to one side like his spine was debating whether or not to stay upright. His mouth was curled in a faint smirk, but his eyes didn't reflect it at all.

Charlie blinked at the man in surprise, then rubbed the back of her neck and muttered, “Awkward.”

Before either of them could say anything more, someone knocked twice against the open doorframe. A man in his fifties stepped into view, pressed white coat and tired eyes, a hospital badge clipped to his chest.

“I’m Doctor Moore,” he said—professional, but in a voice blurry with exhaustion. “I’m here to check on John Doe after an attempted Code Pink?”

Charlie immediately shifted into command mode. “Yes. Please look him over, and stay with him until I send someone to swap with you. He’s not to be left without supervision for the time being.”

“Understood,” the doctor nodded. He stepped to the side and glanced over at John Doe, assessing quickly. Then he frowned, mouth tilting downward. “Take your time. It'll take a while.”

Charlie reached out and grabbed Castiel by the arm. “We need to talk. Alone.”

Caught off guard, he let her lead him out of the room, past the nurse’s station and down a short hallway that opened into a small recess with vending machines. It was quiet and private enough.

Charlie stopped, dropped her hand, and turned to face him.

Castiel tensed slightly, already expecting the lecture. He deserved a rebuke after his earlier outburst. He didn’t regret the words themselves, but he did regret hurting Charlie. He wouldn’t blame her for snapping back.

But she just looked at him. She didn't seem upset at all.

She just looked tired, and maybe slightly confused. Her eyes searched his, and she bit at her lip like she was trying to figure out a puzzle she didn’t know how to start solving.

Finally, she sighed. “What is going on with you, Castiel?”

She didn’t say it harshly. She didn't judge, even though Castiel did. She said it like someone asking where it hurt so that they can make it better.

Castiel felt a crack form across his walls. It spread until it broke wide open in the quiet, and released a lock on something Castiel hadn't known was trying to get out.

He swallowed as guilt twisted in his chest. After all that, after the way he’d treated her, after he’d brushed her off and pushed her away—Charlie still stood here. Still wanting to help, to understand him.

“I…” His voice broke. He looked away, and tried again. “I don’t know, Charlie.”

The words slipped out in a whisper, almost like they didn’t mean to. It read like admitting a shameful secret and hoping not to be laughed at.

Charlie’s expression crumbled. “Oh, Castiel,” she said, her voice threaded with guilt and affection.

She took a step forward, and didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around him.

He stiffened at first, alert on reflex. Charlie didn't mind—her arms stayed gentle, and her body didn’t tense like she was expecting anything from him. He had this sudden thought… When was the last time he'd been hugged?

Castiel felt the heat behind his eyes surge without warning. He didn’t cry, but it was an effort. He wouldn't fall apart in the middle of a public space.

Instead, he let himself sink into the hug, arms curling around her shoulders like it was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

“You’re clearly affected by this John Doe,” Charlie said softly, her voice near his ear. “Anyone could see that. I don’t think it’s good for you to be so involved, but... I know how stubborn you are, and I won’t fight you on this. I just want to help.”

She took in a small breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly like she was bracing herself for the rest.

“You must already know this isn’t healthy, so if you’re still keeping at it, it means you can’t bring yourself to let go, huh?”

She let out a light laugh, trying to make space between all the tension in the air.

Castiel managed the smallest ghost of a smile, but it fell almost right away.

“Sometimes it feels like I’ve gone insane,” he admitted, the words barely a whisper.

John Doe, the man without a name. The man who was running and being chased in return. The man who seemed to have learned not to ask for help, because he'd gotten used to not receiving it. The man who Castiel had wanted to save—and he finally hadn't failed.

A moment passed before he added, “It feels like I know him.”

Time seemed to slow down, the world growing too big for Castiel not to feel lost in it. He focused on his breathing. He wasn't having trouble with it, but if he didn’t ground himself somehow, he feared the swell of emotion might undo him completely.

Inhale. Exhale. He counted it out in silence, and he was grateful Charlie let him do it without question.

When he finally lifted his head, she stepped back. One hand stayed on his arm, providing a reassuring weight. It said: “I'm here.”

“I just need him to be safe, Charlie,” Castiel choked out, the words unbidden but not unwelcome. “I don’t know why.” After a beat, “It might be because he’s so much like her.”

His voice broke on that last word.

Charlie’s eyes widened just slightly, and her lips parted in a breath she didn’t take. She knew his story. She'd seen the aftermath. She understood.

“He’s got no one,” Castiel went on. “No one noticed he was taken. No one but me.” Frustration was seeping into his voice, but it died quickly.

“Maybe I’m just selfish. Maybe I’m trying to make up for something that can’t be made right. But I tried to stop, and it made me worse.” He sighed, feeling defeated, but in a way where he didn't even know there was a battle to win in the first place.

“So here I am, and I’m not going anywhere. Until he doesn’t need me anymore.”

The silence that followed wasn’t strained. It wrapped around them like a warm blanket. Charlie seemed to weigh her response carefully, her eyes flicking across his face like she was reading something there.

“It’s not selfish to feel guilty, Castiel,” she said quietly, but with such conviction it could've shattered mountains.

The words hit him in a place he couldn't name. It didn't hurt, but it wasn't comfortable either. It crawled in somewhere deep.

“I won’t say I get it,” Charlie continued gently, “because you went through more than I can imagine. But I will support you. I might be your boss, but I am your friend first.”

He didn’t know how to respond. He didn't feel like he deserved a friend like her.

“Maybe this could be something good,” she added, her voice shifting a touch lighter. “You’re opening up. You haven’t cared for years. It’s not an ideal scenario, but it’s working. You finally look alive again.”

She gave him a small smile.

“If that guy helps you reclaim the humanity you’ve lost along the way, then I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

After Charlie had gone home, Castiel had to take a quiet moment for himself. He made sure he looked presentable—so not like he'd just gone through a breakdown—before stepping back into the hospital room.

Doctor Moore had already left, Castiel noted. The room was dimmer now. During his absence the curtains had been drawn, and the TV had been turned on. It was also January, so the days were short, and at this time there wasn't much sunlight to begin with. John Doe lay in the bed, half-propped up by pillows, eyes on the muted television screen mounted in the corner. The flickering blue light cast soft shadows over his face.

Castiel moved to sit down in his chair, and the moment he did, the man’s eyes tracked him.

“All kissed and made up?” he asked, raising both of his eyebrows.

“There was no kissing involved,” Castiel denied, scrunching his face in a frown. “Charlie's my superior, and a friend.” A pause. “And gay.”

“Oh,” John Doe croaked, and then, after a second too long, added. “Cool.”

Then, he just looked at Castiel for a few awkward moments before finally glancing toward the empty water cup on the tray beside his bed.

Castiel caught the look. “You’re thirsty,” he said, already moving toward the sink. He was grateful for a chance to change the subject.

“That obvious?”

Castiel filled the cup with cold water and brought it over. John Doe took it without thanks, drinking slowly, then handed it back. He looked at Castiel with narrowed eyes before looking away again.

“This blanket’s scratchy as hell. They didn't have anything that wouldn't make a guy’s skin crawl?” He grumbled, shifting as if he couldn't find a comfortable position. He stole a glance at Castiel again.

“I'll take care of it,” Castiel offered right away, rising stiffly from his chair. “I need to find a nurse.”

He crossed the room and walked out to the hallway, looking around for someone that didn't look too busy. There was a young male nurse coming out of one of the patient’s rooms, and Castiel approached him with hurried steps.

“I need a soft blanket,” he said, expression hard, voice serious.

“H-Huh? A blanket for what… sir?” the nurse asked, hesitant, clearly startled by the sudden request.

This wasn't going to do.

“Soft blanket. For a patient.” Castiel flashed his police badge, stopping just short of shoving it into the nurse’s face. “Now.”

He must've finally sounded convincing enough because the man's eyes widened comically and he left in a pace so rushed you would think he was answering an emergency.

Castiel waited, impatient, until the nurse came running back with a soft beige blanket clutched in both hands.

“Here's—”

Castiel didn’t let him finish. No time for pleasantries. John Doe needed a soft blanket. Now.

Castiel took it out of the nurse's grip, turned around without a word, and hurried back to Room 130.

John Doe looked at him with something unreadable as Castiel walked up to the bed with his offering and handed it to the man.

“You really do whatever someone tells you, huh?”

Castiel’s expression didn’t shift. “Not quite.”

Then he realized he might've come across as rude, cleared his throat, and awkwardly added, “But if it’s as simple as helping you feel more comfortable, then yes, I will.”

That got him a strange look. John Doe looked away. Again.

Then: “Can you change the channel?”

Castiel did.

Then came another request, and a few more. Each was simple, easy enough to do. Castiel answered all of them, every time—without irritation or complaint. On the contrary, he actually felt almost pleased. It felt like John Doe was letting Castiel take care of him in those small ways. As if each request was a thread pulling them closer.

John Doe kept tracking his movements, lips tugging in something almost like amusement. He didn’t say anything to explain it, but Castiel could feel the shift in the air. He just didn’t know what it meant. Hopefully something good.

It was getting late. Visiting hours had ended some time ago. Castiel never paid them much mind, but this was usually when he’d be heading home. Today wasn't just any day, though.

“I’ll stay the night,” Castiel said, moving to pull the chair closer to the bed. “To ensure nothing happens again.”

John Doe narrowed his eyes. “What, like a babysitter?”

Castiel bristled, just slightly, before settling into the chair. “A precaution,” Castiel replied. “Given what happened earlier, I don’t think it’s unreasonable.”

The man looked away, jaw tight. He was quiet for a moment, and Castiel worried he might have to fight him on this, but then: “Fine. You wanna play bodyguard, be my guest. Just don't complain about your back in the morning, grandpa.”

Castiel didn’t respond to the jab, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He wasn't that old. Probably. He just looked like it.

John Doe rolled his eyes. “But that doesn’t solve the rest of it.”

Castiel looked at him, head tilting slightly. “The rest of it?”

“I can’t stay here forever,” the man said. “You’re not gonna sit in that chair every night, and I sure as hell don’t want to be stared at by a bunch of random cops. What, you don't think some hospital with a guard rotation is gonna keep me safe, right? I was taken right out of here like it was nothing. People do shitty things for an even shittier amount of money.”

Castiel opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“We can arrange for a police-protected facility. Somewhere remote. Or put you under full-time protective custody. Officers rotating in shifts.”

“No.”

The answer came fast and sharp. Castiel blinked. John Doe wanted protection, Castiel offered it. He didn't understand where this instant rejection came from.

“No more random cops. No rotating doors and shifts. That’s how rats get in. That’s how they find people like me.”

Castiel studied him. The panic wasn’t obvious, but it was there. It hid in the tension of his shoulders, his wandering gaze, the slight tremble in his hands.

Castiel didn’t reply immediately. His thoughts slipped, briefly, to the conversation he’d had with Charlie just before returning. The promise she’d made.

“You’re clearly attached,” she’d said. “So I’ll let you handle it. But you have to keep me looped in, Castiel. No more disappearing into your own head. No more doing this alone. If you need help, you tell me. If you need backup, or just a friend, you let me know. I refuse to let you isolate yourself any longer, even if it takes blackmail for it to work.”

He agreed.

So now, sitting here, watching the flicker of fear behind this man’s anger, he made a decision.

“You can stay with me.”

John Doe flinched, eyes wide. “What?”

“I live in a gated complex. Private security, monitored entrance. The building has modern alarm systems. My unit is on the top floor, with only one point of entry. The door has a biometric lock and reinforced bolts. It’s… secure. Safer than here.”

There was a long silence.

Castiel realized what he was saying, how it must sound. His words began to trip over themselves. “I’m not suggesting anything improper—I just mean, logistically. Until we understand what the threat is. I could monitor the area myself. Keep you safe. There’s a spare room. I don’t expect—”

John Doe cut in. “You done?”

Castiel closed his mouth.

“You're serious about this? Like I'm-definitely-not-shitting-you serious?”

Castiel nodded cautiously, and another silence stretched. Castiel felt like a defendant awaiting the judge’s verdict. Then finally, John Doe’s face set in something akin to reluctant determination, and he said: “Alright.”

Castiel stared at him. “You’re agreeing?”

“You’re a weirdo,” he muttered. “But don't seem like a psycho. So yeah, I am. Agreeing, or whatever. It's better than smelling antiseptic and misery first thing in the morning.”

Castiel looked away quickly, trying not to betray how stunned he was. And most importantly, how relieved. It was almost like something sweet blossomed in his chest, but he wasn’t ready to look at it too closely.

“I understand,” he said instead, staring at John Doe for long enough that Castiel noticed him starting to get uncomfortable with the attention.

Castiel forced himself to stop and looked down, pulling out his phone and messaging Charlie. He'd promised to reach out to her when in need, and he'd already disappointed her enough.

The text said: John Doe has agreed to stay with me. I’ll be prepping the apartment for his arrival tomorrow if he’s cleared. Could you stay the night here? Just to cover him until morning?

Her reply came not long after: On my way.

“Charlie will switch with me,” Castiel said, getting up from the chair. “I'll go home and make sure the apartment’s ready for you. We can try to get you cleared tomorrow.”

Castiel started gathering his things. His place was a mess, and he would need to clean the spare room he'd never used. He might have to pull an all-nighter. That was alright. He could sleep it off later. What mattered was John Doe having a clean, safe space to hide.

Behind him, he heard the shift of blankets.

“Charlie. That the ginger chick from earlier, right?” John Doe asked, feigning disinterest, but Castiel didn't buy it. He had to stop his mouth from twitching into a smirk. “Your superior?”

Castiel nodded, his back to the bed. “Yes. Charlene Bradbury. She’s the Captain overseeing our precinct, and like I’d said—a friend. She’s the one who authorized me to take your case on personally. Usually, I wouldn't be able to offer you accommodations like I did. She’s reliable. I trust her to keep you safe.”

The man didn’t say anything after that. When Castiel turned around to take a look at him, John Doe just watched, face unreadable, and then shrugged as if he was saying: whatever.

A few minutes later, Castiel’s phone buzzed again.

Captain: omw to room 130

Castiel looked around the room one more time, just to confirm he hadn't forgotten anything. The beekeeping book lay there on the nightstand, and he felt a pang of disappointment at the fact he hadn't ever gotten to finishing it. Maybe… Maybe the hospital would let him keep it? Maybe they'd let him pay for it or—or bring another book…

Castiel shook his head. Not the time.

“I’ll return in the morning,” he said, turning to John Doe. “Then we'll figure out how to proceed.”

“Yeah, sure,” came the reply. The man wasn't facing him. Instead, his eyes were glued to the TV quietly playing some sort of a cooking show.

Castiel crossed to the door. Just before he opened it, he turned back slightly. “Try to get some rest, John Doe.”

Castiel almost heard the force with which the man turned around. There was a sudden clunk of something hitting the floor. Castiel turned around, first noticing that the TV remote had landed on the tiles next to the bed, and second that John Doe was glaring at him with hostility he hadn't shown even in the parking lot.

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

Castiel paused. He didn't know why, but he felt like he needed to tread carefully here. “We don’t know another name.” He hesitated. Then hesitated some more. “Do you—”

But as the words started leaving his mouth, he cut himself off. He'd said it himself earlier, when Charlie burst in. No questions today.

“I understand. My apologies,” Castiel sighed, and set a goal for tomorrow: learn the young man's name. Or—at least—let him come up with one that he would find acceptable.

He inclined his head. “Goodnight.”

He opened the door to leave. But as he stepped through the threshold—

“My name’s Dean,” came the quiet voice behind him. “Not John fuckin’ Doe.”

Castiel stopped for a beat. He didn't look back. Somehow, he knew that it would make Dean feel too exposed.

“Noted,” he said. To Dean.

And then he walked out.

It was weird, being chauffeured like this.

Dean hadn’t been in a car with tinted windows since—yeah, no. He wasn't gonna be thinking about that can of worms right now. Case in point: most rides he remembered didn’t exactly come with comfortable seats or polite, painfully stiff men in trench coats.

He wasn't used to the quiet, either. The opposite, actually. Where he'd—before, there was constant noise of some sort. Mostly the bad sort. A lot of it came from him, even after he'd screamed his throat raw.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if this silence wasn't so… uncomfortable. Awkward. Mirroring the bond—nonexistent, thank you—between two strangers on opposite ends of the power spectrum who would be living together for the foreseeable future. The thought made his skin itch.

He figured maybe Castiel didn’t know what to say, and Dean didn’t feel like filling the air for him. They didn’t need to be friends. Honestly, Dean could not care less what terms they were on, as long as his past stayed the hell away.

He stared out the window and counted stoplights. The world had changed, even if he hadn't been there to experience it. There seemed to be even more screen billboards screaming at you to buy useless shit, and more modern-looking buildings—ugly skyscrapers—than trees.

Everything was ugly right now anyway. Not much green in winter, and it was cold as shit. Thank fuck Castiel brought a jacket for him. It wasn't red carpet material, but Dean only cared that it wasn't another trenchcoat.

Dean also saw one guy with little white things in his ears that looked like earphones, but there were… no cables connected to them? He figured those were some fancy earplugs or something. He’d been too embarrassed to ask.

Castiel was using his phone to navigate the way back to his place, and there was a robotic lady voice directing him. Google Maps or something. Dean had never had a phone, so even if he’d heard about some of this stuff, he probably wouldn’t know how to use most of it.

He did notice the date. 5th February 2025. Seeing the year was honestly just… surreal. Dean was twenty-one now. He could drink alcohol, but not really, not without an ID. Well, it wasn't like that’d ever stopped anyone.

He glanced at Castiel, who was keeping his eyes dutifully on the road. This was so freakin’ weird. They didn't know each other. Dean knew his name, Castiel Novak, and that he was a cop that’d “rescued” him. Twice, apparently.

Castiel knew Dean's name and that he'd been kidnapped. That was it. Why was this guy going out of his way to help him? Usually, Dean would've thought Castiel had bad intentions, but… there'd been plenty of chances for something to happen. Nothing did.

Dean was still fine, and he didn't know why.

Well, as fine as he could be. His body was aching, his ribs were still killing him, his fucking ankle felt like liquid fire when he walked. The doctors basically cried as they released him. He became some kind of celebrity there after being kidnapped. He hated it.

He could take pain, though. He'd done that for years. This was nothing in comparison. The fact he wasn't being actively tormented? That was basically a miracle. He'd been eating regularly too. Life was good and all that jazz.

Even Castiel wasn't that bad. He was so easy to push around. It was kind of funny, really. Dean had seen for himself that Castiel could go all cop-mode: oozing testosterone and authority. Not to Dean, though. Nope. That big bad wolf turned around, looked at him, and started wagging his fuckin' tail like a golden retriever.

Dean wanted to ask: Is this guy that desperate? But then the next question would be: For what? And that—fuck him if he knew.

Attention? Hero complex? Redemption? Maybe it was for the best if he stayed in the dark as long as Castiel was useful and easy to manage.

He was kind of pathetic. Well, a little sweet too.

But mostly pathetic.

The journey from the car—if Castiel’s piece of junk could even be called a car—felt like a trek into Fort Knox. Castiel hadn’t been kidding about the security. Dean had been kidnapped three times in his life, and even he thought this was excessive.

Not that he was complaining.

He couldn’t let himself think like that anymore. That kind of attitude was how he kept ending up in this kinda crap.

They took the elevator to the top floor, and Dean gave a silent thanks that the walls weren’t glass. Heights could suck it. The apartment itself looked like it was punching above a cop's paygrade, but what the hell did Dean know? Maybe cops had gotten a raise since 2016.

Fuck. He was sore, light-headed, and everything hurt like a bitch. Shouldn't he feel much better than this after staying at a hospital for over a week? Well, he could've stayed longer, and the doctor wanted him to, but the hospital had no choice but to release him. They had let him go because… Castiel was very, very persuasive. And apparently, being a lieutenant counted for something.

To be fair, Dean hadn't resisted either. He knew he couldn’t stay there. That didn’t change the fact that moving sucked ass and his throat still felt like there was a hand wrapped around it.

But honestly? He’d already lived through so much worse. Walking around with injuries like these, especially after being patched up, was nothing. Especially down there, it was—nope. Not today. Not ever, maybe.

The point was: he’d been through hell. This almost felt like a walk in the park. A slightly bloody, throbbing park.

It felt like he was finally getting a break. Here’s to hoping it doesn’t go to shit like everything else in my life.

“Are you alright?”

Dean blinked, shaking off whatever cloud had hijacked his brain, and realized he’d been standing in the paused elevator like a complete idiot.

Castiel stood there with one arm blocking the door from closing, looking at him with that same quiet concern Dean was already sick of seeing.

“Sorry,” he muttered without meeting his eyes, then rushed out past him into the hallway.

He could feel Castiel’s stare trailing him like a hawk, but he refused to look back. Just kept walking. God, what the hell had possessed him to agree to this?

No. Shut up, you moron. You don’t have anywhere to go, remember? You’ve got nothing. You’ve got no one. No one, because your dad sure as fuck doesn’t count, and Sammy…

Holy shit. Sammy.

If it was 2025, he'd be seventeen now. Almost an adult. Last time Dean saw him, he was still barely sentient. Just a little kid.

Guilt punched him in the gut. He should’ve remembered. He was supposed to protect Sammy. Couldn’t protect himself, sure—but he could’ve at least taken care of his brother. Jesus. What if Sammy still lived with their dad? What if he was dead?

And what kind of older brother forgets?

The kind that’s called failure, his brain kindly offered.

“I know it’s not much, but I cleaned recently. It’ll be safe here,” Castiel said, unlocking the door with… his finger? Huh.

Dean stood frozen, mind still reeling, eyes glued to Castiel’s hand as the man held the door open. Then Castiel took a step closer, and Dean’s wide-eyed stare snapped to his face.

“Are you sure you’re—”

“Yep. Peachy. Let’s go.” The words came out in a rush, cutting Castiel off, because fuck him and his unwanted concern and those sad blue fuckin’ eyes. He would not elaborate.

He heard a quiet sigh behind him as he stepped through the doorway. The space opened into what was definitely a living room, and Dean stopped in the middle of it, suddenly overwhelmed.

He wasn’t used to a place like this. Too quiet. I was taken care of, clean… as if untouched. Unlike him.

The couch looked absurdly comfortable. The TV was mounted to the wall across from it, like it had been waiting patiently for movie nights. The brown carpet looked cozier than Dean’s hospital blanket. There were photos of some people on the far wall, but he couldn’t make out the details from here.

The window to the side had its curtains drawn—thank fuck—but it was still early enough that the dim winter light managed to seep through. The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something else Dean couldn't place. It was obviously a space meant to be lived in.

Dean jumped slightly when Castiel cleared his throat behind him. Goddamnit. He'd zoned out again.

He didn’t turn around. He needed a distraction. He had to do something, snap out of it, stop thinking. His eyes landed on the wooden coffee table. There was a small potted plant sitting next to a white TV remote that was practically begging for attention.

Dean grabbed it, dropped onto the couch like he belonged there, and turned the TV on without a word. Thankfully, he knew how. The screen lit up. He stared at it, heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to get out.

What came up on the screen was... something else.

Intense, dramatic music played as a very attractive woman in a lab coat stood over a man in a coma. Tears streamed down her face, though somehow they looked too neat, too perfectly placed. The screen cut to another shot as she screamed in desperation.

“You can’t die, Trent! Not when I just found out I’m pregnant… with your twin brother’s child!”

Dean’s jaw dropped a little.

The show was called Doctor Sexy, M.D., according to the ridiculous title logo splashed across the screen in an overdramatic, all-caps font.

Dean squinted. What the hell…?

A new scene started. A handsome doctor in cowboy boots was now performing surgery on an unconscious patient. Another doctor burst in yelling about an emergency. Her eyes zeroed in on Cowboy Boots as he was starting to say something. That was his name until proved otherwise, Dean decided.

“We’re losing him! Get me 200cc of—”

“Doctor, I can't hold myself back anymore!” the female doctor cried and threw herself at Cowboy Boots. They started making out, aggressively. The patient survived. Somehow.

A baby was born. Then someone got arrested.

Dean leaned forward. Just a little.

Forty minutes and two episodes later, Dean was on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the screen. He hadn’t moved. It felt as if he'd been holding his breath this whole time.

The third episode started with a wedding, a car crash—at the wedding—followed by a back-from-the-dead plot twist, and ended with someone’s amnesia being cured by a true love's kiss.

Then the credits rolled.

Dean finally blinked.

The room returned to reality. He looked around. Castiel was sitting at the kitchen island, propped up like a statue, chin in hand, staring. The second Dean looked over, Castiel startled like a cat caught red-handed. His arm flailed, accidentally knocking over a tower of stacked tea boxes.

They exploded off the counter like dominoes.

“…Why the hell do you have that much tea, man?”

Castiel, already crouching and scooping up boxes in silence, mumbled something about “variety” and “comfort.” His face was red. It was a little funny.

Dean stood, looking around more closely now.

The kitchen was tucked in on the other side of the open space, separated by the island. It would've felt clinical, too—lots of pale tones and spotless surfaces. If only there wasn't so much shit laying around.

Dean narrowed his eyes and started scanning the kitchen.

There were plenty of questionable objects, even ignoring the tea tower: a weird baby angel mug with a chipped handle, a pepper grinder the size of a wine bottle, and another, tiny potted cactus labeled Meg.

“What else is in this place?”

“What are you—?”

Dean was already there, opening a drawer.

“Is this honey? Who needs this much honey?” Another drawer. “Okay, lots of spices. Wait, are these alphabetized? Really?”

Castiel put the last box back into its place and straightened, brushing off his hands. “Spices are easier to locate when organized.”

Dean turned around slowly and stared at him. “Don’t tell me you hate burgers too.”

Castiel opened his mouth before closing it again. He tilted his head, frowning. “I—pardon?”

Dean shrugged. “Think of it as an intervention,” he said, pulling a tiny box of what advertised to be hibiscus dream tea out of a cupboard.

The plan formed the moment he opened that first drawer. He'd test this guy's limits. He had to have them, right? He had to snap at some point… and Dean needed to find out how much Castiel could take before he got seriously pissed off.

It would be safer to know who he was really dealing with.

Dean moved through the space like he owned it, calling out random questions and holding up a bunch of shit that wasn’t really his to touch. Just being obnoxiously annoying.

Castiel didn’t seem bothered at all. That bastard was actually smiling a little as he explained every single thing. Holy shit. Was he Buddha or something? Even Dean was starting to get annoyed with himself.

Unconvinced, he kept testing the limits. He kept poking and pushing and asking, just to see how much he could get away with. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Castiel never snapped.

He was actually smiling… wider.

Dean didn’t know what to make of that, so he ignored it and pretended it didn’t confuse the fuck out of him. It was fine. Probably.

His investigation moved to the living room eventually. Castiel followed like a trained puppy. No, really. Dean didn’t know why that comparison felt so right, but it did.

Also, the guy had a serious problem with prolonged eye contact. Had nobody ever told him it was creepy as hell? Dean had to be the first to look away every time… and it pissed him off.

“This all yours?” Dean asked, letting his eyes wander across the shelves. “I mean—no other tenants? Do I need to watch out for socks on door handles?”

Castiel tilted his head—man, he did that a lot. His stare was blank. “Socks?”

“Yeah, you know, like—” Dean stopped when he realized Castiel did not, in fact, know. “Come on? You’ve never heard of the sock rule?”

“The sock… rule?” Castiel looked even more confused, because apparently that was possible.

“You know what? No. Just tell me if there’re other people living here. Roommate, girlfriend, wife?” Dean cleared his throat and added, “It’s ‘cause I need to know who can access this place… and, uh, you know. Wanna be prepared. Or something.”

Dean didn’t look at him as he talked. Intentionally. He hated feeling vulnerable. And with this guy around, it just seemed to be the default. Which sucked.

Castiel paused, then asked, “Why would I have a girlfriend or a wife?”

Dean snorted. “I don’t know, man. I heard most people do it out of love, but I wouldn’t judge. What, you got a boyfriend instead?”

Castiel didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

Dean glanced at him then, just for a second, and Castiel met his eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Okay… Dean was trying to be funny, but this was now starting to feel weird. It was time to do the only reasonable thing. He kept his mouth shut and walked back into the kitchen.

He just needed to stop thinking again.

He opened a random cupboard, and rows of mismatched mugs stared back at him. Every color imaginable, only a few plain. One had some guy’s face printed on it. Another read Buzz Off! in chunky yellow letters.

“You got, like, fifteen mugs, man. You throw tea parties while you’re off duty?”

“I don’t often have guests,” Castiel replied, sitting down. “Definitely not groups of them.”

Dean shut the cupboard. “So what’s with the collection?”

“I drink a lot of tea, and I don't own a dishwasher.”

Dean moved to another cupboard. Dry food and jars. Then another: bowls and plates. He glanced over his shoulder, testing: “You always let strangers go through your shit like this?”

“You’re not breaking or moving anything,” Castiel said, tone light as a feather. “I don’t mind. Especially if it helps you feel more comfortable.”

That made Dean pause.

“I’m not hiding anything, and I don't have any ulterior motives,” Castiel continued. “I know my word alone doesn’t mean much, so you’re welcome to check everything for yourself.”

Did this guy read minds or something? No. He was a cop, and Dean was messed up. It wasn’t exactly shocking that he’d want to comb through the place for red flags.

He wished he didn’t have to.

Dean eyed the fridge: bare except for three magnets. Two were tourist trinkets from other countries. The third read Bee Happy next to a freakishly realistic bee.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of fucking bees.”

Castiel looked away. “Yes.”

Now he was being weird as hell.

Dean turned fully to face him, arms crossed, leaning against the counter. “Okay, what is it with you and bees?”

Castiel hesitated, then suddenly—his eyes lit up. A smile tugged at his mouth.

“They’re efficient,” he began. “Cooperative, hardworking. Most people think of bees as aggressive or disposable, but they’re one of the most vital contributors to ecological survival. Their entire system is built on harmony: division of labor, mutual dependence, nonverbal communication.”

Dean stared blankly, but Castiel kept going, hands gesturing wildly.

“Some hives have thousands of members, but they never descend into chaos. Even in crisis. They regulate temperature collectively. They—”

Dean blinked at him slowly.

Castiel paused, hands dropping. The silence stretched.

“…They also dance,” he added flatly after a beat. “To communicate. It’s called, um—it's called the waggle dance.”

The waggle… dance…

Castiel cleared his throat. “Anyway.”

Dean lost it. Laughter burst out of him like a rocket launch.

“Holy shit,” he choked, bracing a hand on the counter. “The waggle dance? Man, I can’t believe the big scary cop is a bee nerd, out of all things.”

Maybe staying with Cas wouldn’t be so bad. The guy gushed about bees and owned more tea than fifty grandmas combined.

Right now, he was also very, very red. Not embarrassed, exactly… almost ashamed? Ah, hell. Now Dean felt like an asshole.

He wiped tears from his eyes, took a breath, and cleared his throat. “Sorry, dude. I haven’t laughed like that in years.” He smiled, still fighting another chuckle. Alright, he had to stop.

…Just one more time. He couldn't help himself when he asked, “You got anything to eat that’s not sprinkled with pollen, Bee Man?”

Cas was back to looking more relaxed now. He started staring again, and Dean had to look away first—again.

“There’s some pasta… I think,” Cas said, moving toward a cabinet. “I completely forgot about groceries… I apologize. I’m used to ordering takeout.”

“It’s your kitchen, you don't gotta apologize.” Dean hesitated, then added, “Mind if I take a look?”

Cas chuckled. “Oh, so now you’re asking for permission?”

Dean shot him a glare. “Shuddup.”

The fridge held a few sauces and some green crap that’d seen better days. The freezer was nearly empty. The cupboards had pasta, a few fix-up packets, and healthy-looking stuff Dean ignored on principle. If he was finally going to have regular meals, he wanted to eat real food. He wasn't a rabbit, damnit.

Alright. He could work with this. Dean was good at making something out of mostly nothing, and Cas had enough for that.

He turned toward Cas, who was perched back at the island. “I’ll cook. You fine with spaghetti?”

His eyes widened, obviously not expecting Dean's offer. “Oh, no, please, you don’t have to. I’m not the best cook, but I’ll manage, or we can order something, or—Dean, you should rest, the doctor said—”

Dean cut him off with a look.

“Listen, buddy. It’s fine. I don’t do anything I don’t want to. Besides, I’ve had worse.” He turned and grabbed the pasta box from a cupboard. “You either let me make that spaghetti, or I’m not eating at all. Your call.”

Dean glanced back and saw understanding flash across Cas’ face, his smile slightly strained now. “Of course, Dean. Thank you, a homemade meal would be greatly appreciated. And… you can take anything out of this kitchen at any time. I just—I wanted you to know that.”

Dean cringed. Did this guy have to keep reminding him how weak and broken he was?

Dean wanted to be pissed, but couldn’t find the energy. He’d been enough of an asshole for one day.

“Sure,” he muttered, already pulling out a pot.

“Do you need—I mean, do you want help?” Cas asked.

“Nope.”

Silence stretched and almost seemed to last forever. Finally, it was broken by the soft pad of socked feet retreating from the kitchen. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Okay, maybe Cas wasn’t secretly a psychopath. Just a little weird. Like… dorky weird. Whatever. It was fine. It would be fine.

He had a warm place to sleep, and tonight, he might not get assaulted.

In his world, that was as good as it got.

Chapter Text

It was a good morning.

Surprisingly, the night hadn’t gotten cold enough to freeze his car, and no snow had fallen. Castiel didn’t mind snow if he was safely tucked into his couch with a mug of tea, but getting to work was another thing entirely.

The inside of his car was pleasantly warm, and the low hum of the engine wasn’t irritating his barely-awake brain for a change.

He found himself lost in thought. He hadn’t run into Dean this morning, which probably just meant he wasn’t an early riser. That, or all the fatigue had finally caught up with him. Either way, Castiel was glad Dean was resting like instructed… but also a little disappointed he didn’t get to see him before work.

He replayed yesterday in his head.

Dean had made spaghetti, and… it was good. Surprisingly good, considering Castiel’s kitchen was nearly empty. Apparently, there had been some frozen beef he’d completely forgotten about, and the tomatoes had been on their last breath… All in all, he’d had two delicious servings… and the company had been even better.

Then he cringed when he remembered what had led up to the dinner in the first place.

Dean had insisted on making the meal himself. At first, Castiel had felt a little overwhelmed but excited—it had almost seemed like Dean was waving a white flag and deciding to try and get along. He’d asked Castiel all those questions, and laughed, and then offered to cook…

It was only the way his shoulders tensed and raised protectively, and the way he almost seemed to curl in on himself, that made Castiel’s assumption shatter like glass.

This hadn’t been a friendly get-to-know-each-other, not to Dean. It had been a tactical reconnaissance. Dean had looked around for traps and lies. He wanted to cook because it had been the only way for him to control what went into the food.

It made sense. But Castiel still felt a pang of disappointment prick at his heart. Then he felt guilty for being disappointed. And then he just felt terrible.

Instead of biting his tongue, he panicked and blurted out that Dean could eat anything from the kitchen at any time. He couldn’t explain why, but a sudden anxiety had gripped him—what if Dean denied himself food unless explicitly told he didn’t have to? Now, he just wanted to bang his head against the steering wheel. As if Dean needed his permission in the first place. It probably sounded like Castiel assumed Dean required orders to function.

He couldn’t help but grimace. His stupid mouth. Sometimes it just threw up words, and he had to deal with the aftermath.

He’d really thought he’d ruined the evening. But by the time they sat down to eat, Dean was back to his sharp, snarky self. Castiel took that as permission to let it go. He didn’t bring it up again. Neither did Dean.

In fact, they’d talked. Actually talked. And, God help him… it felt good.

Dean found him funny, somehow. No one ever found him funny. With other people, Castiel always felt like the butt of the joke. They didn’t get him, and he didn’t get them. But with Dean… it was different. It didn't feel like Dean laughed at him, but as if he laughed because of him.

He knew he shouldn’t let himself get attached. Dean was someone he was supposed to protect, not pine after. It was nonsensical anyway. Castiel was older, tired, and they barely knew each other. Besides, he’d already failed someone once—someone who was supposed to be the missing piece in his life. He wasn’t worthy of another chance.

But the more he thought about it, the harder it became to stop himself from doing things to make Dean laugh… or to talk to him… or even just to see him, period.

He focused on the small pieces of Dean he was learning. Because if he didn’t, his mind went places it shouldn’t.

Like now. Thinking about Dean’s freckles and—with there being so many painted across his face—did that mean there'd be more elsewhere, like on his shoulders, or belly, or thighs, or maybe even—

Castiel caught the thought like a live wire and severed it instantly, hammering it out of existence. His face flushed even as the rest of him went cold. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. His stomach churned. He kept his eyes on the road, refusing to cause vehicular manslaughter on top of being an absolute creep.

This was exactly why he couldn’t let his mind wander. At times like these, it was hard not to hate himself.

By the time he pulled into the precinct parking lot, guilt and shame had settled heavy on his shoulders. Whatever good mood he’d had that morning was long gone.

Work was going to be difficult today. He just knew it.

He walked inside the building with the aura of a man sentenced to eternal damnation.

Charlie pounced the second he stepped inside. He hadn’t even taken off his coat or scarf yet, barely sat at his desk before she was in his space, leaning over with both palms on the desk like she was about to interrogate him.

"Alright, mister. We've gotta—oh. You okay, Castiel? You look like you're gonna fall over and break into tiny depressed pieces." Charlie's eyes narrowed. "Did something happen? You promised to let me know—"

"I'm alright, Charlie," Castiel cut her off, voice even but slightly strained. "I just had… a rough morning."

Charlie’s expression softened. "And?"

Castiel hesitated, staring down at the mess of papers on his desk like they held the answers. He sighed, lacking the will or energy to make up something plausible.

"Sometimes my thoughts go places that make me feel sick," he admitted quietly. "That's it. Nothing's actually happened. I swear.” He looked up and met her eyes. “I'm keeping my promise."

Charlie studied him for a long beat before leaning back slightly. “We’re circling back to this at lunch,” she warned.

Still, Castiel was grateful she let it go, if only for now. It was too soon for him to wander back into that minor crisis of conscience. He felt… raw.

His relief lasted only until Charlie pivoted into something else entirely.

“So, that boy—Dean? You said his name was Dean, right? We need to question him. I've already delayed it longer than I should've, but he's out of the hospital now, so we’ve gotta do our jobs.” She straightened and crossed her arms. “You'll need to bring him in. Either later today or tomorrow. I'll let you choose.”

Castiel inhaled slowly.

He was going to have a headache.

“Oh!” Charlie smacked her fist against her palm. “I almost forgot. We ran those DNA samples Ellen got us.” Her mouth twisted in frustration. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing. Looks like whoever those belong to, they’re as much of a ghost as our vi—um, as Dean.”

She eyed him cautiously as he dropped his head into his hands. Just for a second. He needed to cut off at least one sense if he was going to deal with this. The darkness that swallowed his vision was almost comforting.

Alright. One by one, from the beginning. He could do this. He was a professional, for God's sake.

“Yes, his name is Dean,” he started, still in the same position. “He didn’t tell you when you stayed at the hospital overnight?”

He could nearly hear Charlie thinking during the brief silence that followed. She was probably considering calling him out on his unusual behavior. Well—unusual was a kind word for it.

Hopefully she’d decide to leave him alone. At this point, he felt like his sanity was hanging on by a thread, and he wasn't sure what would happen if it snapped.

Charlie sighed and replied as if nothing odd was happening. Bless her.

“See, the thing is… he didn’t talk to me at all! Can you imagine? I was trying to be friendly, but he was worse than a stray ginger cat,” she pouted. Castiel almost smiled.

“He mostly ignored me unless he needed something. He seemed really stubborn. I hope he won't start walking all over you…”

Charlie groaned. “You know, normally that would've been a stupid thing to worry about. You’re a badass. But you turn all gooey around him, and it's impossible he won’t notice at some point. If he hasn't already.”

Castiel didn’t rise to the bait. He couldn’t. His brain was still rebooting from the whiplash of everything happening to him, and around him.

“The DNA samples,” he said instead. “Nothing as in no high matches, or nothing as in there’s a suspicious lack of any matches?”

“The second one,” Charlie replied, suddenly lowering her voice. He could hear her lean closer. “Which means the only logical conclusion is: whoever the samples came from… must be powerful enough to have gotten themselves removed from the system.”

Castiel kept breathing. Slowly.

Of course it could never be that easy. They’d run into a wall, and now it might turn out that wall was made of hardened steel, and all they brought with them was a lighter and high hopes.

“I see.” It took effort to keep his voice flat. “What you suggested—I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he added carefully, shifting to the last topic on the table.

Charlie paused. “What, that we’ve just started and we’re already up against the BBEG?”

“The B—Charlie, no,” Castiel snapped, sharper than intended. “I mean bringing Dean in. To the station.”

Charlie didn’t sound convinced. “Why not?”

“He’s… not ready,” Castiel said, and hated how defensive it sounded.

Charlie sighed. “Castiel. I know you’ve grown attached—”

“It’s not that.”

She didn’t say anything. Just waited. Which was worse. He was glad he couldn’t see her right now, or he’d probably be getting a serious side-eye.

Castiel exhaled, squeezing his eyelids shut tighter. He had reasons. Legitimate reasons. His concern wasn’t—it wasn’t the only thing that spoke against Charlie’s idea.

“It’s… He’s still in pain. He has trouble moving around. He’s skittish and on guard. This isn’t exactly a situation he expected to find himself in, I believe.”

Charlie mumbled something under her nose, and Castiel was pretty sure she was rolling her eyes. He’d learned to tell when she was actually upset, though. This wasn’t it. A genuinely annoyed Charlie was like a hungry Charlie, but with less threats of bodily harm and more sass.

“Okay. Fine. You don’t want to bring him here. Then what, Castiel? We need a statement on record. We’re already pushing it.”

Castiel paused, thinking. Then, almost as if the words had to force themselves out of his mouth:

“…We could do it at my apartment.”

“What?”

Judging by how her voice suddenly jumped in pitch, this was not the solution she’d been expecting.

“You can ask your questions there,” Castiel said, raising his head and reluctantly opening his eyes. “...He’ll be more comfortable.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes.

“What happened to leaving work at the precinct?”

Castiel brought a hand to his temples and dug his fingertips in, feeling like he’d been here for far longer than whatever time had actually passed.

“Charlie. I have no idea what my life has been lately, and I don't dare think I could ever possibly figure it out—much less right now. Can we please just agree on this, so that I can pretend like I’m not going absolutely insane, and you can pretend like it’s working?”

Charlie’s jaw dropped a little.

“You’re really going to let me interrogate a traumatized civilian in your apartment.”

It wasn’t really a question. More like a tree falling, but the guy doing it miscalculated and all two thousand five hundred kilograms of wood ended up crashing into a two-story family home.

Castiel winced. “You’ll be questioning him. He’s not a suspect.” He stared at her, voice low like thunder. “Don’t intimidate him. He’s been through enough. I won’t cut in as long as you’re polite, but I’ll be there the whole time.”

Charlie smirked. “Okay, but let me know when the wedding is.”

Castiel shot her a look. This was really not the time, not after his car ride. Forget that, not ever. It would never be the time, because Castiel wasn’t going to take advantage of a young man who was taking shelter at his home.

Charlie raised both hands in surrender, still grinning.

“All I’m saying is… you’re allowed to care about him, you know? I just hope you're not digging yourself into something you can’t climb out of.” She winked at him, and he grimaced. “It’s okay though, I’ll pull you up if I have to. Damn, I need a coffee. I should get one. So, when are we going?”

“What?” Castiel shook his head, whiplashed by how quickly the topic changed.

“When are we going to your place to question your grumpy princess?”

“Don’t call him that,” Castiel grumbled.

Charlie’s smile grew even wider. “Alright, when are we going to your place to question the grumpy princess?”

Castiel gave up. “Let’s just go after work. When are you getting off?”

“Hopefully 4 PM. Realistically? Closer to 6.”

Castiel winced. That tracked. The morning didn’t look too busy, though. Hopefully it would stay that way. “I’m supposed to finish at four, too. I’ll drive home and let Dean know. You can come over whenever you’re done.”

Charlie shrugged, clearly more delighted with each passing second. She just liked bullying him—because usually, nothing got under his skin. And now? It was like she’d finally found his weak spot.

Damn it. Maybe she had.

“Fine with me. I hope His Grumpy Highness can retract his claws for today!”

Castiel’s only answer was a frustrated groan.

The breakroom was unusually lively when Castiel walked in. He'd only meant to grab some tea and sit in silence for ten minutes. He desperately needed a respite from the mountain of paperwork waiting on his desk.

Instead, he found Sergeant Lafitte pouring what appeared to be coffee strong enough to knock out a bear, Lieutenant Mills flipping through reports with practiced efficiency, Sergeant Harvelle wrestling with the vending machine as if it had personally offended her, and Claire perched on the counter like a lion ready to pounce. He didn't like the way she was looking at him, with that particular glint of mischief in her eyes that always preceded trouble.

"You good, brother?" Lafitte greeted, raising his cup in a casual salute. "Lookin' like you could use a break. Got them dark circles under your eyes deeper than the bayou."

"I'm using one now," Castiel mumbled, moving toward the electric kettle with singular focus. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on his shoulders. He wanted this day to be over already, to return to his apartment where Dean was waiting and—stop. Focus on the present, Castiel.

Just the thought of Dean alone sent an unwanted warmth through his chest, followed by immediate guilt.

"Careful, Benny," Harvelle chimed in, giving up on the vending machine with one final, frustrated slap. "He hasn't had his tea yet. We all know our Lieutenant Novak turns into a caveman without at least a cup."

"How are you holding up?" Mills asked, looking up from her paperwork with that penetrating gaze that always made Castiel feel transparent. "Charlie mentioned you had a rough morning. Didn't sound like it was just about work."

"I'm alright," Castiel grumbled, concentrating on making his tea with methodical precision. His fingers moved automatically through the familiar ritual: tea bag, hot water, precise timing. The normalcy of it anchored him when everything else felt like shifting sand beneath his feet.

"Sure you are," Claire interjected, her voice brimming with amusement that made Castiel's stomach tighten with apprehension. "Word got around you swooped in to save a homeless damsel in distress, and now you two are living together. How's married life treating you, Prince Charming? Slayed any dragons in the lady's name yet?"

Castiel didn't have the patience for this. He briefly considered abandoning his tea and retreating to his office, but the pounding behind his eyes demanded caffeine. "No," he stated flatly, watching the water darken as the tea steeped.

"No to what part?" Claire pressed, leaning forward with exaggerated interest.

"I don't need to sleep on the couch. I have a spare guest room." The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and Castiel immediately regretted giving her any ammunition.

"So... the rest is true?" Claire's smirk widened to dangerous proportions, her eyes sparkling with triumph.

Castiel shot her a stern look that would have silenced most officers. "No."

Claire feigned squinting at him, tapping her chin theatrically. "Hmm. Brooding stare? Check. Dramatic trench coat? Double check. Morally upright to the point of self-destruction? Triple check. You're basically a walking romance novel protagonist, Lieutenant."

Harvelle abandoned her battle with the vending machine and sat down at the table with Mills, her interest clearly piqued. "Wait, are we talking about that guy? The only one beaten up to all hell, from the warehouse rescue? The one with the cheekbones?"

"Oh, the one that had to stay at the hospital?" Lafitte asked, stirring his coffee with a plastic stirrer that looked comically small in his large hands. "The one Charlie said seemed like he might stab a nurse for offering him water? Got that wild look in his eyes?"

Claire perked up, practically vibrating with excitement. "She also said he was hot. Like, movie-star hot."

"And she's gay," Harvelle added with significant emphasis, like this information suddenly gave ten times more meaning to Charlie's opinion. "So you know it's an objective assessment."

A flush of heat crept up Castiel's neck. He'd hoped Charlie wouldn't tell anyone about his arrangement with Dean. He should have known better.

The precinct operated like a small town where gossip traveled faster than radio waves. He knew he was going to be in for a lot of future teasing, endless jokes at his expense. Fine. Dean's safety was worth that and more. The thought of Dean all on his own, prey to whoever had tried to abduct him from the hospital, made Castiel's chest tighten with a protective instinct so fierce it almost frightened him.

"It doesn't matter how he looks," Castiel muttered, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. He took a sip of his tea as soon as he'd finished preparing it, the hot beverage helping to calm his nerves, though not his racing heart.

"It does if our explicitly ladies-only Captain says a man is hot," Claire said, grinning like she'd won a prize at the county fair. "That means dude must be the real deal. Is that why you're helping him? Those green eyes got you all twisted up inside?"

Castiel felt his face grow warmer. How did Claire know about Dean's eyes? Had Charlie described them in detail? Had she noticed during the rescue? The thought of others discussing Dean's appearance made him irrationally possessive, a feeling he had no right to harbor.

"I'm just housing a recovering patient temporarily," Castiel responded flatly, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. He stared into his tea as if it might offer escape from this conversation.

"That's how all the great romances start," Claire clapped her hands once. "This is so fun. I haven't seen you express interest in anybody since I started working in the field. It's like the Grinch finally embracing Christmas!"

Lafitte choked on his coffee, coughing into his fist as his eyes crinkled with amusement.

Castiel decided this was his cue to leave the room and save himself from further humiliation. He turned toward the door, tea clutched in both hands like a shield.

"I'm not dignifying that with a response," he said stiffly.

"You just did," Claire shot back, sending him a satisfied smirk.

Harvelle laughed, apparently back in front of the vending machine, but this time she managed to punch it hard enough to knock loose a bag of chips. The victory seemed to embolden her.

"Castiel, from your professional perspective, how long until the relationship announcement? Should we clear our calendars for a spring wedding?"

"There will be no relationship," Castiel bristled, stopping halfway on his way out. The very idea sent a complicated mix of emotions through him: longing, guilt, fear, and something dangerously close to hope. Dean was vulnerable and currently dependent on him. The last thing he needed was Castiel's inappropriate feelings complicating his life.

"Others beg to differ," Claire said smugly, "which is why there is a betting pool now."

Castiel turned slowly, trying to hold back the horror from showing on his face. "A what?"

"Oh yeah. Everyone's in. I'm betting on Valentine's Day. Figured you'd be a sucker for the classics."

"Claire," Mills sighed, though Castiel could detect a hint of amusement in her voice. She was usually his ally in maintaining professionalism, but she still seemed entertained by this turn of events.

"What?" Claire raised both hands in feigned innocence, her eyes wide. "I didn’t start the rumors, and it’s not really a rumor if everyone knows it’s true, right? Come on, this is the most fun I’ve had in weeks. Lieutenant Novak here is practically a whole new person these days. Unless he has an identical twin, and that twin turns out to be my dad. Now, that’d be a whole different genre, and awkward as fuck. So… I’m betting on lovesickness, thanks."

Castiel felt a surge of panic. Had his feelings been that transparent? He'd tried so hard to maintain professional distance, to keep his emotions locked away where they couldn't hurt anyone. The idea that his colleagues had seen through him so easily was deeply unsettling.

"I am not involved with Dean," Castiel said, with the kind of exhausted finality that begged the universe not to challenge him on it. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, a reminder of boundaries he couldn't cross.

"Not yet," Claire added under her breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear. "We all want to see you less grumpy, so no one actually bet on you and Dean not getting together. Even the rookies put money down."

That would've been almost sweet if it wasn't so embarrassing. The thought of the entire precinct discussing his personal life made Castiel want to dissolve into the floor.

Lafitte walked up and clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder, the weight of it surprisingly comforting. "Don't worry, man. You're only losing by ten percent in the early predictions. Most folks think you'll hold out 'till at least March."

Castiel knew he'd long lost his poker face, his usual stoic demeanor crumbling under the weight of collective teasing. His heart hammered against his ribs as he imagined Dean somehow finding out about this, about the inappropriate feelings Castiel was failing to hide.

"I don't want to know what that means," he said, voice strained.

"Too late," Harvelle said, already pulling up something on her phone with alarming enthusiasm. "There's graphs. You know, the odds calculated based on your previous dating history—or lack thereof—and Charlie's assessment of the situation."

Castiel took a long breath and turned toward the table where Mills sat, desperate to change the subject before his dignity was completely obliterated. The fact that his colleagues had created statistical models of his potential love life was a new low.

"Any actual news?" he asked, trying to drag the room back to professional territory with the last shreds of his authority.

Mills, mercifully, nodded. "Charlie mentioned you two decided to question that boy—Dean, you said—at your apartment?"

Castiel froze, tea halfway to his lips. "She did?"

"She had to. I'm still the lead on that trafficking ring case, and the warehouse rescue was a part of it. I need to be kept in the loop." Mills's expression softened slightly. "Don't worry, she was discreet. Only told me what was necessary."

Castiel exhaled, some tension leaving his shoulders. "Right."

"Just make sure you're not breaking protocol too much," Mills added, flipping another page in her report. "And maybe introduce Dean to us when you sweep him off his feet. We'd all like to meet the man who finally cracked that armor of yours."

Claire snorted in surprise, clearly delighted that Mills had joined in the teasing.

Castiel left the breakroom without another word, his ears burning and his chest tight with conflicting emotions. He hated that he was getting so affected by their good-natured ribbing. He knew it was because Dean was involved, and somehow that always made Castiel unable to keep himself under control. The mere mention of Dean's name was enough to send his carefully constructed walls crumbling.

His coworkers were wrong about one crucial thing, and the thought settled in his chest like a stone.

Dean deserved better than him. Better than a broken man who couldn't even protect his soulmate all those years ago. Better than someone who felt things he shouldn't for a traumatized young man under his care. Shit, he didn't even know Dean's age.

As he walked back to his desk, Castiel tried to ignore the warmth that bloomed in his chest at the thought of returning home to Dean. Those feelings were inappropriate, unprofessional. Unwanted.

He couldn't stop them if he tried.

Dean's stomach growled so loud it could've woken the dead. He'd been zoning out in front of the TV for the past hour like some couch potato, flipping through channels. He'd landed on this cooking show where Gordon Ramsay wannabes screamed their lungs out over undercooked chicken.

Man, he missed Doctor Sexy. At least the drama there was entertaining. You never knew what you'd get. Who doesn't love a good evil twin pregnancy plot?

The time on the TV screen said it was close to 4 PM. Dean had dragged his ass out of bed around noon, body still demanding more beauty sleep than usual. The docs had warned him about that. Something about healing and rest and blah blah blah. Whatever. Dean didn't like feeling this useless, but his body wasn't giving him much choice.

His joints popped and cracked as he stretched, careful not to jostle his ribs too much. They were still being bitchy about sudden movements.

He'd spent the morning doing some reconnaissance around Cas's place while the guy was at work, though there wasn't much to find. Just more weird-ass trinkets and the most boring book collection ever. Seriously, who the fuck sits down and reads The Complete History of Beekeeping in North America? Dude needed better hobbies.

The TV chef started having an aneurysm over some risotto disaster, and Dean's stomach did its whale-call impression again.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled to himself, hauling his sorry ass off the couch. "I hear you, you needy bitch."

He hobbled toward the kitchen, his ankle still throwing a fit, but not as bad as yesterday. The docs had given him this stupid brace to wear, but screw that. He wasn't some invalid who needed training wheels.

The fridge was just as empty as this morning when he checked it out, hoping Cas had maybe ninja'd some groceries in while he was passed out. No such luck. There were containers of leftover spaghetti from last night, but thinking of eating it made Dean nauseous. The docs had said he should be careful with heavy meals.

Normally he'd ignore it like all the other instructions he got, but… bending over the toilet seat had not been in his plans for today. Maybe he could scrape together a sandwich if he found some bread that wasn't covered in mold.

While he was digging through cabinets like a raccoon in a dumpster, an electronic beep from the front door made his blood run cold.

It was the same beep Cas's fancy fingerprint lock made. Dean's eyes darted to the time displayed above the oven. 4 PM exactly. Maybe Cas got off early?

But then he heard footsteps that definitely weren't Cas's, and his stomach dropped through the floor.

Dean couldn't see who it was from where he was standing, but he didn't need to. Those weren't Cas's heavy, assured steps. This was someone else. Someone who shouldn't be here, not as far as Dean knew. Someone who'd gotten into what was supposed to be a secure building.

His heart started pounding against his ribs as fight-or-flight kicked in.

There was nowhere to run. The place only had one exit, and whoever was out there was blocking it. Hiding wouldn't work out in the long run. It never did.

Dean's eyes swept the kitchen frantically, spotting a full knife block standing close to the sink. He grabbed the biggest one, trying to keep his hand steady as he hid it behind his back. His palms were already sweating. Shit.

"Hello?"

It was a female voice. Dean kept quiet.

"Castiel? Dean? You guys here?"

Dean pressed himself against the wall, trying to keep his breathing quiet even though his lungs were working overtime. This person knew where they were, and who she'd find here.

It had to be that motherfucking sicko's sidekicks. Fuck. How the hell did they get in? Cas had sworn up and down this place was Fort Knox.

"Hello? It's Charlie." The steps halted, and the next words were muttered so quietly that Dean had almost missed them. "Did they go out? Castiel, I swear to God…"

Charlie? That redheaded cop? What the actual hell was she doing here? His memory of her was fuzzy at best. Was this even how she'd sounded?

Dean's grip on the knife turned white-knuckled. This could be another mind game. Someone could be pretending to be her. Or hell, maybe she'd been in on it the whole time. Maybe this whole thing—Cas, the apartment, the safety—was just another elaborate setup to break him. Wouldn't be the first time.

"I'm gonna eat all of his honey," the voice got closer, setting off every alarm bell in Dean's head. "Couldn't even give me a call—"

Dean stepped out of the kitchen, knife still behind his back, heart trying to escape through his throat. "Who are you and why the fuck are you here?"

Charlie jumped like a spooked cat, hand flying to her chest. "Jesus! You scared the crap out of me!"

She was in civilian clothes: jeans and a Star Wars shirt under a flannel that'd seen better days. Also… she was a ginger. Honestly, she looked familiar. Dean decided she must've actually been the real deal, but that still didn't mean her intentions were pure.

Dean took a careful step back, still keeping the knife hidden. His voice came out rough when he asked, "So your fingerprints are just casually programmed into Cas's fancy lock, and you decided to show up unannounced? Forgive me for being fucking unimpressed."

Dean narrowed his eyes, his grip on the knife handle tightening. "Why're you really here?"

"I'm over here a lot. I'm basically Castiel's only friend, so I have special privileges," Charlie shrugged like it was no big deal, eyeing him carefully. She seemed more confused than offended. "And what do you mean by 'unannounced'? Is Castiel not here? Did he not tell you?"

Dean studied her like she was a bomb about to go off, looking for any sign she was bullshitting him.

"Tell me what?" he snapped defensively. "Get to the point before I shrivel up and die."

Now he was the one feeling confused, trying to find holes in Charlie's explanation, and… coming up empty. She didn't know he had a weapon. If she wanted to attack him, she should've gone for it already.

Dean's death grip on the knife loosened just a fraction when he noticed her shirt wasn't just any Star Wars merch—it was the Death Star explosion from A New Hope. At least she had taste.

Charlie snapped her fingers as her eyes widened in realization.

"I think I know what this is about," she said, moving her hands where he could see them like she was facing down a feral cat. "Castiel was supposed to be home by now to let you know I was coming over. He must still be stuck at work and has forgotten to text me."

That sounded… plausible. Well, shit.

Charlie made a face. "How Obi-Wan Kenobi of him. Leaving me to manage our first proper encounter alone."

Dean's eyebrows shot up to his hairline at that reference. Despite every instinct screaming at him not to, he felt his mouth twitch. "Nah, the guy's basically Yoda. He'd make more sense if he didn't talk so weird."

Charlie's whole face lit up like Christmas came early. "Hey, you know your classics! And you're not wrong, but don't tell Castiel I said that," she chuckled.

Charlie took a tiny step forward, moving slow like she was anticipating to be tackled. "I promise I'm just here because we need to ask you some questions about the case. Human trafficking, you know, serious stuff. You can hold onto whatever you're hiding behind your back, too. For additional assurance."

Dean's eyes widened at being so easily seen through. He focused on the weight of the knife in his hand, and then looked back at Charlie's Death Star shirt. His shoulders dropped as he let out a heavy sigh that felt like it came from the deepest part of him. He felt his ankle throb again. Seems like the adrenaline had run out.

"Fine. No funny business or you'll get to know whatever I'm hiding behind my back very intimately," he threatened, revealing the knife he'd been holding, but there was no spite in his words. After a second, he smirked and added, "Also, I bite. Ask Cas."

"Fair enough. I shall keep my hands to myself." Charlie's grin could've powered Las Vegas. "Though I gotta say, threatening an officer with a kitchen knife isn't exactly following the Jedi code."

Dean snorted, feeling most of the tension drain out of him like a popped balloon. "Yeah well, Han shot first. Sometimes you gotta break the rules."

Castiel was driving home like it was a race.

He'd never complained about staying at work overtime, even welcomed it sometimes. Until today.

It was nearing nine in the evening and Charlie hadn't answered any of his frantic texts. He'd called her at least twenty times. God, he hoped those two hadn't killed each other. He didn't know who he was more worried about. At least he tried to convince himself he didn't.

Guilt twisted in Castiel's chest, constricting with each labored breath. He felt like he'd failed them both. Dean, left unprepared for an unexpected visitor. Charlie, sent to handle a delicate situation alone.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel until it protested, his mind cycling through every moment wasted on sudden emergencies and endless paperwork. Today, out of all days. And he hadn't even had the decency to send Charlie a text beforehand. He'd forgotten. Just like that.

He could picture Dean's response to surprise visitors with painful clarity. Dean didn't give his trust easily, and for good reason. He'd fought fiercely against his kidnapper and he'd fight to the death if it meant a chance at freedom. Castiel hadn't known Dean for long, but he knew this about him for sure. Survival was carved into Dean's core.

After everything he'd endured, what new trauma had his negligence caused?

The car ended up crooked across the parking space in his haste. Winter air burned his lungs as he rushed past security, flashing his badge instead of his ID when the guard tried to speak. He didn't have the time to look for it now.

His boots thundered through the marble lobby, too loud in the empty space. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. He rushed into the elevator, willing it to go faster, but instead time seemed to slow to a crawl. He should've taken the stairs. No—he lived on the top floor. That wouldn't have been quicker, even if he ran all the way up.

His fingers were tapping an anxious rhythm against his leg. Each second stretched endlessly until the elevator stopped, its chime barely registering over his thundering pulse.

He headed straight to his apartment and burst through the door as soon as the biometric lock cleared him. His harsh breathing cut through the apartment's sim interior as he looked around.

No broken glass, no furniture out of place, no blood or bodies. Alright, that was good. Just the smell of his lemon cleaner and… Thai food?

He walked closer to the kitchen, his eyes moving to the source. His heart was still racing as he noticed the takeout containers abandoned on the counter. There was also one knife conspicuously absent from its block. He spotted it almost immediately, perched on the sink's edge. Clean.

Then, at the edge of his vision, he caught movement. In the direction of the living room, a soft blue light flickered. When he focused, straining to hear through the rush of blood in his ears, he caught the buzz of the TV and… laughter?

He followed the sounds on unsteady feet. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see, but it wasn’t this.

The scene revealed itself gradually: bowls of popcorn, empty or half-eaten, soda cans lined up on the floor. Charlie’s socked feet burrowed into the carpet. Dean sprawled on the couch, injured ankle propped on the coffee table with a pillow.

In front of them played the opening credits of Doctor Sexy, M.D., the same show Castiel remembered from yesterday.

“Oh, come on! That doesn’t even make sense!” Charlie lunged for the remote, but Dean held it high above his head, leveraging his height. Neither bothered to get up. “How can he be in a coma and performing surgery?”

“That’s his evil twin, obviously.” Dean’s grin turned smug. “Real Doctor Sexy’s trapped in the hospital basement.”

“There’s an evil twin?” Charlie flopped back. “Since when?”

“Since his mom had an affair with the janitor who’s actually a rogue neurosurgeon.” Dean clicked his tongue. “Keep up, Red.”

Charlie made another grab for the remote. “This is ridiculous. Let me pick something that won’t murder my last two brain cells.”

“Hands off!” Dean twisted away, wincing but keeping his grip. “My house, my rules.”

“This isn’t even your house!”

“Yeah, well, Cas lets me watch whatever I want.” Dean’s smirk widened. “Unlike some people, he’s got taste.” A beat passed. “...Sometimes.”

Castiel stood frozen in the doorway, mouth slightly open. His apartment, usually silent, now hummed with bickering and soap opera crescendos. Charlie teased, Dean volleyed back, his body loose, his smile easy.

He looked… like he belonged there.

“Cas?” he whispered, echoing Dean’s words. Somehow, it felt like a gift, coaxing a small smile onto his face.

“Castiel just feels sorry for you,” Charlie shot back, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “It’s not like he’s got a reason to care about Doctor Sexy’s jawline. Have you ever actually looked at his face?”

Castiel took a step closer.

“You’re just jealous because—” Dean cut off mid-sentence, finally noticing him.

"Hey, look who finally showed up! Tell Charlie she’s wrong about Doctor Sexy." Dean's gaze locked onto him.

Castiel's throat tightened as their eyes met. The dim TV light caught flecks of gold in Dean's green eyes, the pout on his lips disarming Castiel more effectively than any suspect ever had.

His pulse thrummed against his collar as he struggled to form coherent words.

Thankfully, Charlie spoke before he could make a fool out of himself. "Castiel! You're back!"

She stood, cheerful and unbothered as she walked over. "Work’s kept you busy, huh? Lucky for you, I’m great company. You could’ve taken your time."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Real smooth, Red."

Castiel's fingers twitched toward his phone still in his coat pocket. "I called and texted you all evening, Charlie." The words came out sharper than intended, edged with residual panic.

"You weren't answering, and I just… I must have broken several road laws driving here. I kept thinking that—"

Charlie's smirk faltered. She pulled out her phone, wincing when it refused to turn on.

"Shit, the battery must've died during our Doctor Sexy marathon. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ghost you." Her apologetic smile couldn't hide the guilt stiffening her shoulders.

Charlie cleared her throat and shrugged. "Dean did pull a knife on me at first, but we bonded over our shared love for Star Wars.”

She blew a kiss at Dean, her teasing easing the tension. "We’re even after your radio silence during the hospital fiasco."

She blew a kiss at Dean, easing the tension hovering in the air. She turned back to Castiel, pointing an accusatory finger at him, and he tilted his head in question. "Well, we're even after your radio silence during the hospital fiasco."

The memory of Dean's limp body in that parking lot flashed behind Castiel's eyelids. His palm itched with the phantom weight of a gun. "That's different, Dean was—"

"Relax, Lieutenant Tightpants, I'm fine." Dean's voice cut their argument off before it could start. He waved a popcorn kernel toward where they both stood.

Castiel folded immediately, anger dissolving into guilt.

"Dean," he breathed, softer than intended. His thumb worried his coat button as he cataloged the fading bruise on Dean's throat. "Are you...?"

Charlie had said Dean pulled a knife—of course, there was one missing from the knife block. He must have been terrified, and it could have been avoided if Castiel paid better attention. What was wrong with him? "I'm sorry, Dean, I—"

"Dude, stop. All's good, I swear," Dean cut him off, waving his hand in dismissal. He glanced at Charlie, mischief blooming. "At least after Red here finished her poking and probing. Dude, she doesn't look it, but she can be scary as fuck. The Spanish Inquisition would never see her coming."

He stuck his tongue out at Charlie. "I don't know if I answered her questions or made a deal with the devil," Dean added, grin widening.

Charlie threw a kernel at his head. "You offered your soul for apple pie!"

"Tactical retreat." Dean caught the kernel with his mouth and winked at Charlie as he crunched it between his teeth. "Pie's my kryptonite."

Charlie scoffed, but couldn't stop a smirk from forming on her face. "Well, still. I’m not a monster! Your answers were satisfactory enough. There was no need to take your soul. You're welcome, by the way."

Dean threw his head back as laughter burst out of him.

Castiel's shoulders dropped as the sound filled the room. In his joy, Dean's face went from beautiful to almost ethereal.

Castiel couldn't stop staring, warmth flooding his chest. Moonlight striped Dean's face, catching the constellation of freckles across his nose.

This time, the thought he'd been suppressing since their first meeting surged forward before he could stop it.

Dean was the most breathtaking creature he'd ever seen.

His stomach dropped. In that moment, he realized he wouldn't be able to lie to himself anymore. This wasn't just protective instinct or a hero complex or—or whatever he'd been telling himself every time Dean possessed his thoughts.

This was want, terrifying in its intensity. He forced himself to look away. He had to remember his place. Why was he so—

"Earth to Cas." Dean's voice brought him back to reality, the surroundings coming back into focus. He'd moved during Castiel's spiral, and was now standing next to Charlie, favoring his uninjured leg. He was looking at Castiel, both confused and amused.

Before Castiel could answer, he met Charlie's gaze and froze. It burned, like she knew what just went through his mind. She stayed silent. He felt too hot all of a sudden.

Castiel looked at Dean and found him staring back. Everything seemed to fade away, leaving only the faint murmur of the TV to break the quiet.

He opened his mouth, not knowing what would come out.

Charlie interrupted with a dramatic groan: "Ugh, are we doing a staring contest now? Because I’m starting to think you guys have a thing against blinking."

Dean broke eye contact first, laughing again. Castiel turned away, but not before seeing Dean’s fingers flex like he’d almost reached for something.

The moment passed and Castiel knew he should be relieved, but the relief was mixed with disappointment he couldn't explain.

They all turned to look at the TV when the theme song of Doctor Sexy, M.D. swelled absurdly loud.

"Alright, I’m out," Charlie announced, snagging her jacket. "Some of us have work tomorrow. I'll fill in a report covering the info Dean had shared, and you'll read it during your next shift, Castiel," she instructed. "We'll talk at the precinct."

They exchanged goodbyes and Castiel walked her to the door, Dean’s stare burning holes in his back.

They were cleaning up the kitchen when Dean leaned against the counter and nodded at the knife block. "You should hide those. Unless you wanna wake up with one buried between your ribs."

His tone was light but didn't match the look on his face—dead serious.

Castiel stilled. "You wouldn't do that."

"Appreciate the vote of confidence." Dean’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "But I wasn't talking about myself. Remember there's a target on my back? The next asshole who kicks down your door won’t ask nicely."

"That won't happen. I told you, it's safe here. The security—"

"Christ, you don't—" Dean’s voice cracked. He straightened, all edges again. "This ain’t a sleepover. I’m not some stray you can domesticate. He—" Dean cut himself off, his jaw clenching. "They'll never stop trying to get me back."

Castiel stepped closer. "Let them try. You won't be alone this time. We'll see how they do when the abyss starts staring back."

Dean flinched like he’d been struck. "You don’t get it. I’m—"

Temporary, was left unsaid. A liability.

"—gonna crash," Dean finished, limping away. "Don’t stay up on my account."

Castiel's hand held onto the edge of the counter, veins bulging, his mind and body still as he registered the sound of Dean's door clicking shut.

His phone buzzed, accompanied by a distinct beep.

Castiel's awareness rushed back into him, arm reaching out toward the kitchen island where he'd left his phone.

It was a text from Charlie.

Captain: "CODE RED!!! Your face when Dean laughed? Palpatine-level 'I shouldn’t' energy. We’re talking full Sith Lord simp. Call me before you do something stupid 💀"

Another text followed right after.

Captain: "Dude's got trust issues, but he's a good guy. Don't do anything that will mess both of you up, kay?"

Castiel read the message three times.

Me: I'll try.

He deleted it.

Me: I won't.

Delete.

Me: Charlie, I don't know what—

Delete.

He stared at the empty text box. The cursor kept blinking as if to mock him.

Down the hall, Dean’s muffled cough cut through the walls. Castiel gripped his phone until the screen went dark.

I don't know what I'm doing, he thought, and went back to cleaning in deafening silence.