me and my thoughts

Excerpt: “I’ll walk with you,” Dean said, already setting off in the direction he’d come from, without so much as giving Castiel a chance to object. “You eat lunch yet?” “No,” Castiel admitted, and before he knew it, Dean had bought them both hot dogs from a nearby cart.  “I really can’t accept this,” he tried, even as Dean handed him the foil-wrapped package. A heavenly smell of hot meat and fresh roll rose up from it.  “Yeah, you can,” Dean said easily. “It’s the least I can do. But if you really feel weird about it, you could always return the favor sometime.” His eyes lingered on Castiel for just a moment before he turned away to continue their slow amble down the sidewalk, and Castiel wondered what he was meant to make of that. When no answer immediately presented itself, he focused instead on his lunch. The first bite was hot and satisfying, just the right combination of savory meat, soft bread and spicy mustard. Dean had paused at a random spot along the railing that separated the sidewalk from the beach below. He looked out at the ocean in apparent contemplation as he chewed. Castiel came to a stop beside him, mirroring his posture of leaning against the railing while they looked out onto the water.  The day was overcast, dulling the water’s color, but it was still a pleasant view: the gentle sway of the ocean, continuing on and on to the horizon, where a few boats bobbed forlornly, too distant to make out anything but the white of their sails. “Hey, can I ask you something?” Dean said. “Kind of a personal question.” Castiel’s first instinct was to say “no,” but that would have been unforgivably rude, and a definite result of the paranoia that had dogged his steps for months.  “Sure,” he said, once he’d swallowed around his latest bite.  Even with permission granted, Dean hesitated another moment. Castiel’s nerves, which had only just begun to calm, ratcheted up again.  All his worst fears came true when Dean said, tentatively, “You’re James Milton, right?”

Excerpt: “Is this… normal?” Castiel asked, still leaning on the doorframe, watching them like one of his history documentaries. Dean shrugged. “Pretty much.” “More or less,” Sam agreed. “Although you walked in on a slightly escalated level of domestic terrorism.” Dean’s grin was feral. “He started it.” Sam turned to Cas with mock-solemnity. “If I go missing, it was him. And check the closet. He likes to stash evidence in shoeboxes.” “Not true,” Dean huffed, also turning to face Cas. “You’ll find me in the kitchen, healing my emotional wounds with pie.” Castiel tried very hard not to laugh, but a smile slipped out anyway. “I have the key to your inquiries if you say the magic words.” Sam said haughtily, putting sassy hands on his hips.  “Fine. I’m sorry.” Dean hedged carefully. “Sorry that you’re neurotic and compulsive and obsessive and fastidious.” Dean spat, though his voice was good-natured, light and teasing.  Cas just gaped at him, eyebrows raised, nearly to his hairline.  “Yeah, that’s right. I can use your stupidly-smart lawyer jargon too.” Dean crossed his arms, pillow hanging limp in one hand, posture daring someone to disagree. Castiel turned to Sam, shrugging casually. “I think he has you, Sam.”  “Hey, you were my friend first.” Sam protested, looking between he and Dean. “Not my fault I’m the more attractive Winchester.” Dean was all smug-satisfaction and Sam groaned, rolling his eyes skyward.  “Fine, I’ll show you. If only to get your ass out of my bedroom.” The two were having some weird sibling stare down, a silent dare for one to move first. Neither were paying Cas any mind, which was in his favor, seeing as he could feel the hot blush rising up his neck. Because… yeah, Dean was attractive and Cas had noticed. Not that it affected his loyalties. Much.

Excerpt: The stars were his only comfort. He loved his parents and Sammy to no end, but they didn’t understand him. Didn’t understand the ache inside that only seemed to abate when he was outside stargazing. That’s where his dad found him one summer evening. It was late, but his parents had discovered that Dean slept much better if he got in his ‘stargazing time’ each night. He heard the back door open but didn’t turn. “Hey, champ. Ready to come in?” his dad asked. Dean shook his head, still staring up at the stars. “One of them’s missing.” His dad came and sat next to him on the deck steps. “What’s missing, buddy?” “One of the stars,” Dean replied, pointing. “It should be there, but it’s not.” “Stars don’t just disappear, Dean,” his dad chuckled. “Maybe you’re confusing the constellations.” Dean crossed his arms with a frown. “It wasn’t part of a constellation! It should be there and it’s not!” “Are you sure you saw it there? Maybe you were looking in a different spot.” Dean slumped over his knees. “I never saw it,” he said quietly. “I just know it’s supposed to be there and now it’s not.” He sniffed as his eyes welled with tears. John put an arm around Dean’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Hey, it’s ok. Maybe you just imagined it. Or maybe it was a dream. You dream of the stars a lot, right? So maybe you’re mixing things up.” Dean turned and buried his face in his dad’s shoulder as the tears started flowing. “But it was my star! It was my star and I can’t remember and I should! I should! But I don’t! And it’s not fair and it hurts and I just wanna go home!” “Hey, hey, Dean, it’s ok, kiddo. This is your home. With me and Mommy and Sammy.” “Not this home! The other one! The warm one. With them!” “With who, buddy?” Dean sniffed. “With my star,” he whispered. John pulled him into his lap, hugging him close. “Shh, buddy. Maybe…maybe your star didn’t disappear. Maybe it just moved somewhere so it could keep a better eye on you?” Dean pulled back just enough to stare into his father’s eyes, his tear streaked face glowing faintly in the moonlight. “You think so?” His dad smiled, wiping the tears from his face. “I know so.” Dean hesitated for a moment, as though deciding if his dad could be believed. Finally, he nodded, slumping back into John’s embrace. “Ok, Daddy.”

Excerpt: Dean resumed his frantic pacing. The clock was still ticking. They'd already wasted seventeen minutes, and they were running out of options. If they didn't come up with a plan soon, they'd all be dead. Once again, Dean had run straight into danger and led everyone into a trap. So much for finally getting their lives back. Sam was standing in the corner of the room, scrutinizing the old grandfather clock as if it held all the answers. Cas was quietly observing Dean's movements across the room. It was only a matter of time before they'd both reach the inevitable conclusion. Dean stopped in his tracks and picked up the gun that was still lying on the floor. He needed to act fast, before Cas or Sam decided to do something stupid. "Okay, you heard the witch," he said. "Only one way out of here." Sam wheeled around to face Dean, eyes wide and drawn on the gun. "What are you doing?" he asked. “What needs to be done." Dean looked up at his brother, carefully avoiding Cas's scowl. "It's my fault we're in this mess. And I should’ve been dead months ago. Hell, I should’ve been dead \years\ ago. I’m on borrowed time already. It has to be me, it’s not even a question.” Sam slowly raised his hands and shook his head in disbelief. "Put the gun down, Dean. We still have time. We'll figure something out." “You know we won't. Not this time." “Damn it, Dean,” Cas snapped. Dean finally met his furious gaze. He'd seen Cas die in front of him more times than he could count. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Cas that kind of pain. “I’m sorry, Cas.” He needed to say more, but he couldn’t. Not now. Dean knew all too well what it felt like to hear someone pour their heart out right before dying. He couldn't do that to Cas. He’d waited too long, and he’d lost his chance. Again. "You know there's no other way. I-" “Will you stop acting like an idiot for five seconds?” Cas burst out, stunning Dean into silence. “Killing yourself won’t work. The instructions were clear, suicide isn’t an option. You’ll just leave Sam and I to decide who to kill next. So, unless that’s what you’re trying to accomplish here, I suggest you put your gun away.” Dean faltered. Cas was right. “And neither of us is going to kill you, so don’t even bother asking,” Cas added before Dean could even form the thought. Dean huffed in frustration. “Great. What’s your brilliant solution, then?” “One of you has to kill me.”

Excerpt: It was almost a relief when the rebar went in, like the breath it punched out was something that he had been holding onto for too long. It was a sharp cleansing pain, whiting out his brain, but not enough. It was a flash, and then the pain was back, radiating from the wound and all the way through his body until it became a numb tingling somewhere around his waist. That was a relief at least, that it stopped somewhere. Dean had always imagined that he would die on a hunt, in some blaze of glory. He had died plenty of times. He always forgot how much it hurt. The sounds of the hunt roared back in on his next ragged exhale, fading away again on the inhale. It was a strange thing, new to all of his other deaths. But it just kept going. Dean was more than ready for it to stop. He let his chin drop, staring at the straw and dirt of the floor. Billie had once threatened to throw him into the Empty. Would that still stand? Cas might have described the place as an endless cycle of your worst nightmares, which didn’t sound too different from his life over the past few years. Even after Chuck was defeated. They’d won, but that hadn’t stopped the monsters. It wasn’t even the hunts, not with Sam’s established network. It was the downtime, the lack of an apocalypse. There was too much time and no solutions. And he was tired, so tired. Sam was taken care of, the world was safe, Heaven was under new management. Was it too much to ask for it to end, for that silence? It must have been, because someone came rushing over, Dean spending a moment staring at the shoes in front of him. They weren’t Sammy’s, and it took him a moment to remember why. Sam was back in Sioux Falls. Baby watch. Eileen was ready to pop any second now, but this hadn’t been able to wait. And Dean had...he had… “We can’t waste all of Eileen’s hard work. It’s a milk run, Sammy. Be back before you know it.”

Excerpt: The author's name of the book is nowhere to be found, and the book itself looks like maybe a bookbinder in training tried his hand at it, or someone attempted to self-bind with next to no knowledge. It is fully handwritten in a neat script that only changes slightly over the pages. Curiosity piqued, he opens it to the first page and starts reading. My second big loss. It burned down. They set fire to it and burned it down. All my travels, all the information I had collected for myself, gone, for a second time. Who in their right mind burns down any library, let alone this one? All the knowledge lost, and I feel like my past has been erased yet again. I won't try to recreate it this time. Having suffered a loss of my records before, I can't bear to try again just to lose them again. Might as well not even try to recreate it. 1700s November 1st ‘00 Charles is dead. It was to be expected. He left no children. This is not going to end well. I am leaving Spain. I hear France is nice. Dean frowns at the missing pages that seem to have been ripped out right after the first page, but keeps on reading. December 15th ‘00 I have found the nicest little cottage-style house, with some chickens for eggs, but close enough to the city to buy anything else I'll need. I cannot wait for springtime to see if the bees like it here. I have started making a hive, and hopefully, I'll have a swarm settled in so I can sell some honey later in the year. It is colder than anticipated; you'd think I’d know my weather patterns by now.

Excerpt: Castiel’s heart was pounding, like a hammer, heavily in his chest. He had never thought he would feel on cloud nine again—it was the first time this had happened with a man. Everything felt so natural. Dean seemed to know him well; at times, Castiel even thought he could read his thoughts. He was the ideal partner—a partner he wished to keep for the rest of his life. That desire played with a hint of guilt in a corner of his mind. His eyes strayed toward the picture of his wife on his nightstand. “Tell me, Amelia,” he whispered, “have you sent me an angel?” His own words made his cheeks flush. Castiel cleared his throat, adjusted the collar of his white shirt, and applied cologne. He looked at himself in the mirror, pleased, and checked the watch on his wrist. It was time. The doorbell rang, and a smile spread across his lips as he rushed down the stairs like a young boy. When he opened the door, he found Dean standing there, dazzling on his porch. Dean wore gray pants and a dark green shirt. He looked truly handsome. Castiel needed a few seconds to react. “Wow, you look great,” Dean said, looking him up and down with that charming smile. “You too,” Castiel replied, and he could see a faint blush appear on Dean's exquisite cheeks, making his golden freckles stand out even more. “Shall we go? I have the car ready,” he added, and Dean nodded with another smile. It was a delight to spend time with Dean. He always had something funny, something deep, something mystical to say, and everything was surrounded by that aura of wisdom and mystery. Castiel quickly grew accustomed to it. Dean was addictive, and something about that night made it even more so. They walked along the riverbank, their laughter harmonious and synchronized beneath the starry night. No one was around when they decided to stop and gaze at the stars. They seemed like two amazed children enchanted by creation. Then Castiel decided to brush his fingers against Dean's; their hands almost touched as they gripped the railing of the bridge. The breeze tousled Dean's hair as they exchanged silent glances. “Tell me,” Castiel said, leaning closer to him, his hand now resting on Dean's, feeling the man tense under his touch. His exquisite cheeks flushed, and his long eyelashes tried to shield the color of his eyes as he looked down, perhaps out of shyness. “Did you come to save me?”

Excerpt: Dean hears shouting and is pulled from his reverie, looking around to figure out where it's coming from. He spots two men in front of the house across the street, one standing by the front door, the other walking away. "You can't fucking tell me that taking care of a baby isn't work. And I fucking work too!" The man by the door shouts to the retreating figure. The second man doesn't even turn around, yelling back. "Fuck you, Castiel." "Fine, just run away from your responsibilities. What else is fucking new." The second man slides into the driver side of the car on the street, starting it up and pulling quickly away. Dean shouldn't just stand there staring, but he's kind of entranced. This is suburban domestic bliss, huh? Fun. As Dean watches, the man by the door hangs his head for a few moments, before raising it, eyes catching on Dean. Dean's embarrassed for a moment at being caught staring, and as his cheeks flush he raises his hand in a sort of half assed wave. He can see the corner of the man's mouth twitch up just barely, and then a baby starts crying. The man immediately turns back into the house, closing the door behind him. Dean continues to stare at the closed door, wondering if this is a normal occurrence here. If it is, it could get really old, really fast. Aren't places like these supposed to be nice, family friendly neighborhoods? He really hopes he hasn't made a huge mistake dumping his life savings into it.

Excerpt: Shower shuttered and toweled dry for the most part, Dean peeks from around the bathroom door, looking for any sign of Castiel. He finds nothing, save for a freshly laundered pair of jeans and a t-shirt about three washes away from falling apart, and a pair of briefs with a hole near the waistband. Wherever Castiel went, he didn't travel far, considering he left the room door cracked. Great, now someone can murder me when I’m naked, Dean thinks, thumping his head against the doorframe. Did God raise you in a barn? In relative silence, Dean dresses himself, save for his socks and deodorant. Those, he can find later, after he figures out what’s for breakfast and where Castiel is. The latter of which, currently sits in a plastic lawn chair outside of their room, dressed in his suit jacket and button-down, his coat hanging behind the door. Blue eyes look up at him as he steps foot onto the concrete walkway, indifferent to the world, but still with a question there, lingering, begging for an answer. “You’re up late,” Castiel says by way of conversation. He motions to the chair beside him; rather than appease him, Dean sits atop the front bumper of the Impala, two feet from Castiel’s patterned socks. His socks, that Castiel stole two months ago, and that Dean swore that Sam somehow lost in the washing machine. In his hands, he holds a paper cup, coffee steaming despite the humidity hanging in the air. Another scorcher. “You’re normally an early riser.” Briefly, Dean looks over his shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. Nearly nine in the morning—as if in acknowledgement, his stomach growls, angrily twisting at itself. “Yeah, well, someone kept me up half the night,” he says, low. Not unkindly, but… torn, masking a deep-seated fear of whatever this is. Lust, love, an accident—whatever the reason, it weighs on him, pressing down on his shoulders. “Normally, I’m the one sneaking out the morning after.” Castiel presses his cup to his lips, a brow raised. “Were you thinking of running?” “What?” Dean scoffs. “No. God, no, I’m just…” He palms his face, praying that the words will eventually come to him. “Cas, what does this…” He motions to the room and the bed beyond the door. “Does this mean anything?” “If you want it to,” Castiel says, noncommittal. “If you don’t, then we can continue on as we were.” Dean mulls that over, biting his thumbnail. “But what do—what do you want?” he asks before he can stop himself. At that, Castiel lowers his cup, his eyes softer now, enough of an answer that Dean’s chest clenches. “Friends don’t just… fall into bed with each other.” “Which is a shame,” Castiel tacks on. “You’re remarkable in bed, anyone would be lucky to—” “Okay, okay.” Dean hides the flush rising to his face. Remarkable—an ego boost on top of humiliation. “Just—I don’t… sleep with friends, man.” “But you slept with me.” A whole fucking lot. “C’mon, level with me.”

Excerpt: “—No, no, no, damn it.” Dean knocks on the door. “You okay in there?” A pause. Then a muffled, “No.” Dean pushes the door open. “Cas?” Inside, Castiel is standing in front of a full length mirror, wings drooping from his shoulders—literal costume wings, black with a subtle shimmer. His outfit is clearly hand-altered: a crow-feathered coat stitched over a dark waistcoat and high-collared shirt. His eyeliner is smudged from stress, and his expression is pure panic. “I wasn’t expecting anyone—” Castiel starts, then sighs. “The strap snapped. I tried to sew it back, but I think I made it worse. It’s all crooked.” Dean steps inside. “Let me see.” He stands behind Castiel, crouching slightly to lift the tattered strap and turn it over in his fingers. “Jesus, did you sew this with fishing line?” Castiel crosses his arms defensively. “I was in a hurry.” “Well, you’re lucky you know a guy,” Dean mutters, pulling a small sewing kit from the inside pocket of his knight tunic like some kind of magical costume tech support. “You don’t have to—” “I want to.” Dean steps behind him, his hands already on the wing straps, fingers gentle but confident. “I used to tailor suits. I know how this stuff works.” Castiel doesn’t move. The silence is close, warm. Dean adjusts the strap, tightening it without yanking. His hands brush Castiel’s shoulders, neck, back. Castiel’s breath stutters. Castiel watches him, something softening in his expression. “You’re good at this,” he says quietly. Dean smirks. “Better than you, apparently.” “Hey.” Dean chuckles, pulling the strap taut and beginning to sew, quick and precise. His hands are steady, his touch gentle as he tugs the feathers back into place. After a few minutes, he ties off the thread and gives the wing a light tug. “There. Good as new. Maybe better.” Castiel turns slowly to look in the mirror. The wings are symmetrical now, resting just right on his shoulders, the costume restored to its dramatic, fallen-angel glory. He meets Dean’s eyes in the mirror. “Thank you.” Dean shrugs. “All part of the service.” “You didn’t have to do that,” Castiel says softly, turning to face him. Dean looks at him for a moment, then says, “Yeah. I did.” They’re close—close enough that Dean can see the little flecks of silver in Castiel’s eyeliner and the thread where his coat was hand-mended. The music thumps behind them, but in here, it’s quiet. Charged. “You look good. In the costume, I mean,” Castiel murmurs. “You think so?” The moment is broken by the sound of Charlie calling Castiel’s name. Dean’s already opening the door, but he pauses and looks back. “Hey. You really pull off the angel of darkness thing.” Castiel steps into the hallway, wings brushing the doorframe. “I had a good tailor.” And Dean doesn’t have anything snarky to say back. Just a quiet smile as they head toward the pulsing lights and fog machine chaos of Charlie’s party.