35 please? :D
This got really long and really angsty. I don’t know what happened. (also on ao3)
35. “Here, take my hand. Everything is fine, just hold onto me and keep moving.”
Castiel had always been deathly afraid of fire. In any form, no matter how big or small.
It all went back to when he was just a little kid, barely seven years old, the youngest in a ridiculously huge family consisting of an absentee writer of a father and the eldest siblings trying to make sure no one died.
Michael was the oldest. He was the Good Son. The one that sang their father's praises while he was off on a bender god knows where, drowning himself in whiskey as he agonized over his latest book.
He was stern and almost militant in his rearing of the younger siblings, orderly to the point of obsession. In the mornings, he would instruct all of the younger children to brush their teeth, make their beds, and get themselves ready for school.
The younger siblings were his little drones, little soldiers ready to dive into battle the moment he told them to. He barked orders and preached Bible verses from memory, fire and brimstone in his voice.
There was an odd sort of affection he held for his siblings. He had cared for them, but he was ultimately selfish and nothing would ever be more important than himself.
After joining the Air Force when he turned eighteen, he worked as a local police officer. He mostly just wrote parking tickets but the badge gave him power that he so fervently craved.
Raphael was the second eldest. If Michael was the heir, he was the spare. And he seemed to be rather content with his lot in life.
He let the others handle most of the child rearing, occasionally stepping in for discipline purposes. But unlike Michael's punishments of jumping jacks or pushups or scrubbing the bathroom tiles clean with their toothbrushes, Raphael preferred timeouts and corner time.
His favorite game to play was the quiet game. His second favorite was hide and seek though he was often very hard pressed to do any actual seeking.
He chose medicine for his career path. He became a specialist working with terminal patients, easing their pain when he could.
Many thought it was because he was compassionate, even courageous, so wonderful that such a fine young man would devote himself to such a noble cause. But his siblings knew it was only because he preferred the silence of those who were not long for the world, the only sound their breath as it came slower and slower and slower.
Gabriel was the third. The trickster. The one who saw life and their family itself for what it was: a joke.
He would spend his days lounging on the couch watching any television show that aired, from cartoons to cop dramas to country western classics. He liked to compare his siblings to archetypes and tropes, laughing all the while.
He had a predilection for sweets and women, especially those who could crush him in one blow if they so chose. Some speculated it was because the woman he dated for the longest time's name was Candy. In truth, her name was Kali and she would destroy anyone who dared to call her Candy.
He found work as a porn star slash porn director, much to the displeasure of his older siblings. But when they criticized him, he just claimed they were jealous. Not about the sex but about the fact that he could do what they could never dream of: not conform to their father's dreams for them and feel no trace of guilt.
Of all the brothers, he was the real caregiver, a god of mischief more than happy to raise mere mortals. His methods were unorthodox and oftentimes unheard of but so were many grand, amazing things and the time he spent with his younger siblings was the time that they most felt loved.
Then, there was Lucifer. The black sheep of the family. Rebellious to their father's plan.
He did not care about any of his siblings, save for the ones who themselves had raised him. He did not care about many things, adrift in a life of alcoholism and apathy. In that way, he was more like their father than he ever wanted to be.
He barely interacted with the younger children, hating them with an undeserved passion, almost as much as he despised their father. Most believed it was simply an extension of his own self-hatred, like an injured animal lashing out at those that tried to help it.
He moved out shortly after he turned eighteen. On one of the rare occasions their father had been home, he had started an argument which had blossomed like a poisonous flower into a knock down drag out that had lasted all night.
In the morning, both he and their father stormed out of the house, neither to return for a long time. He started a rock band shortly afterward, diving headfirst into a life of drugs and sin.
The younger siblings were too numerous to mention by name with a few notable exceptions.
There was Balthazar, an art dealer who followed in Gabriel's footsteps of hedonism and the pleasures of the flesh. There was Anael, who insisted on being called Anna, a love crazy chef who specialized in aphrodisiac dishes.
There was Muriel, a zookeeper who preferred the company of animals over anyone else. There was a Hannah, a sociologist who investigated what made people tick.
And then there was Castiel. The youngest. The one who became a writer. Like their father in many ways yet vastly different in others.
But before that, before he left their overcrowded house in Pontiac, Illinois and flew to the East Coast to attend Columbia, before he published his own books, before he moved into his cozy little apartment in Kansas, he was just Castiel. The youngest. The one terrified of fire.
When he was seven, already reading at a fifth-grade level and devouring every book he was given, his older brother Nathaniel had found a niche of his own. In a book of matches that Gabriel had left lying around after a night of smoking pot with his girlfriend.
Nathaniel was older, half a decade older than his baby brother yet no wiser for it, and while Castiel preferred solitude to the chaos of their home, Nathaniel reveled in it. He basked in the tension, the anger and resentment, the burning rage that simmered just under the surface.
The matches gave him control of it. That kind of power corrupts quickly. It was no different that time. Castiel just happened to be collateral damage.
Nathaniel was playing with his matches in the long upstairs hallway, flanked on either side with countless doors to countless bedrooms belonging to countless siblings. He smiled widely as the flames sparked at the red phosphorus tip, a buzz igniting within his own body.
With unadulterated delight, he watched as the flames engulfed the rest of the match until they singed his fingers and he dropped them. They went out before they landed on the carpet. Until one didn't.
The smell of burnt carpet filled the air as the fire danced before his eyes, spreading across the floor towards the door of the bedroom at the end of the hall. Castiel's bedroom where he was taking a nap, curled up in bed with his favorite stuffed animal, a gray cat.
The flames crept silently under the door, stalking into Castiel's room like a dragon hunting its prey. It had spread like wildfire, fast and fierce and fatal.
Nathaniel had sat, cross-legged on the hallway floor, and watched. Just watched. But then just watching got boring and he was moved to action.
He lit more matches and, before the fire could travel down the matchstick, he tossed them at Castiel's bedroom door. He had just thrown the last match, dark smoke filling the air, when the screaming had started.
The fire had advanced over the carpet like a legion of soldiers marching onto enemy land, declaring war with no mercy, surrounding Castiel's bed. The edges of his blanket caught fire first and a moment later his entire duvet had been alight and with it, Castiel.
He had always been a heavy sleeper. Dead to the world once his head hit the pillow. He hadn't smelled the smoke, hadn't had enough time to startle awake choking on its fumes. Instead, he awoke to pain.
The most excruciating pain he had ever experienced. Every nerve ending had been in agony, exposed and singed so severely that he didn't even feel the heat. It was cold. A stinging avalanche of gut wrenching, nauseating pain.
The flames had leapt from the comforter to his shirt and the skin lying under the fabric, burning away both without any mercy. He had been burnt alive, roasted like a rotisserie pig, sacrificed for consumption, for the delight of others.
Not knowing what else to do, he had screamed. Thrown his head back and screamed. Screamed for Gabriel, for Balthazar, for Michael, for his father.
He screamed until he was hoarse with it. Until his lungs burned like his skin did. Until he nearly passed out in the fiery ruins of his bedroom, his only sanctuary.
It was Gabriel who came to his rescue, fire extinguisher in hand. Like some kind of Shakespearean, Arthurian hero he had slain the fire breathing dragon with his monoammonium phosphate spewing sword.
But the agony had only begun.
The car ride to the hospital had jostled his fresh injuries as he sobbed into his brother's shoulder, clutching the fabric of Balthazar's shirt in his little fist. Every pothole in the road, every abrupt stop when cars in front of them failed to use their turn signals, every moment they sped down the highway was pure torture.
Luckily, he hadn't had to suffer through a long stay in the waiting room, the only mercy he had received that day. He had been taken directly to the burn unit of Saint Jude's Emergency Hospital where he was subjected to even more pain.
Despite the painkillers they had pumped him full of, he had felt every second of the debridement process as doctors cut away the non-viable skin surrounding the burns. Face buried in his arms, he had cried and wailed and begged for relief from the pain.
They concluded that twenty percent of his body had been burned but they had opted not to perform any skin grafts. They claimed that the burns would just have to heal on their own and with them, Castiel himself.
They had assured him that because some of his nerve endings were dead, he would feel less pain.
He hadn’t believed them.
He was kept at the hospital for three weeks before he was allowed to return home, an IV supplying him with the necessary fluids and electrolytes. Every few hours, a nurse would come in to change his bandages and apply an antibiotic ointment, Castiel wincing in pain.
Only a few of his numerous siblings visited him. Gabriel and Balthazar were his most frequent visitors, smuggling in his favorite candy and telling him jokes that he only half understand yet made him laugh. Hannah visited once or twice, bringing him bouquets of sunflowers and other brightly colored flowers.
He tried to convince himself that his other siblings were too busy to visit him. That Michael was working an important case. That Raphael was developing a cure for some disease that would save millions of lives.
But he had never been a very good liar.
His father had never visited. He had never even called. He was too busy writing the next book in his series. Apparently, Castiel's misfortune had inspired a new character: Claude Maloret.
After his lonely three weeks in the hospital with too rough nurses and food so bland he couldn't taste it enough to really dislike it, Gabriel had driven him back home. Back to the scene of the crime. Back to the burned out husk of what was once his bedroom, the room no longer uninhabitable.
At least not to him.
Michael had cleared out all of the scorched carpet and the burnt remains of most of Castiel's belongings, had scrubbed the ash stains off the walls. He had shoved an air mattress into his room along with a few lumpy pillows and threadbare blankets and declared it ready for Castiel to return to.
But Castiel had been petrified of the mere thought of setting foot in that room. He had cried and begged Gabriel to let him sleep in his room, even if it was just on the floor.
Gabriel, god bless his soul, had readily invited him to share his room, moving the air mattress into his own bedroom. For the next three years, he had bounced between sharing a room with Gabriel and Balthazar, other times sleeping on the couch in the living room.
Then, as he neared his twelfth birthday, he had been forced to return to his bedroom that had laid vacant for years. It was Michael's orders.
It had sparked an argument of epic proportions between Michael and Gabriel. Michael had insisted that enough time had passed, claiming that they weren't paying so much money to live in such a big house with so many rooms for Castiel to not use his room. Gabriel had defended Castiel, pointing out that he was still traumatized by the fact that he had almost been killed in that room.
Unfortunately, in their house Michael's word was law and no matter how vehemently Gabriel argued, he lost the argument and Castiel was moved back into his bedroom.
Every night, he had laid in his new bed, tucked into his new sheets, in his old room where he had almost been burned to death. No matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, he saw the flames. No matter how soft and cool his sheets were, he felt the heat. No matter how many times they repainted, the room still smelled of smoke and burnt flesh.
Nathaniel had never been punished. Apart from Balthazar threatening him if he ever came close to Castiel again and Gabriel smacking him upside the head.
Michael, and Raphael, had never punished him. Had never reprimanded him. Had never even confronted him.
He was more willing to accept that it was a case of spontaneous combustion than admit that he was a bad, negligent older brother. Denial seemed to run in their family.
But Castiel had been punished. He had been punished with his suffering.
He had been punished for taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon when he knew that it meant he wouldn't be able to sleep later. He had been punished for being such a deep sleeper, his siblings always joking that he could sleep through the apocalypse.
He had been punished for not immediately smelling the smoke. For not reminding his older brothers to check the batteries in the smoke detectors. For the fact that Nathaniel had been snooping in Gabriel's bedroom and found the matches.
And he had been left with a gruesome souvenir of all that he had done wrong, of the horrible events of that day: large swathes of burn scars on his back, pale and ugly and slightly contractured.
As he had gotten older, the scars had paled, less red and angry looking as they had been in the beginning. But they never became any less ugly. His siblings and the other kids at school made sure that he knew that.
In junior high and high school, gym class had become the bane of his existence for the sole fact that it meant he had to change in front of the other boys. As if it wasn't bad enough that he often got pushed around because of his big glasses and his awkwardness and the overly formal manner in which he spoke, bigger, stronger kids suddenly had a new reason to pick on him.
They called him awful names that he tried to forget. Shoved him to the ground when they played football or soccer. Threw his clean clothes into the showers so he was stuck in his gym shorts in the middle of the winter.
Once he had been duct taped to a bench in the locker room and left there for hours, none of the gym teachers hearing his cries for help. When his brothers had found out, Balthazar had kicked the kid who did it's ass while Gabriel had raised hell with the principal.
Fortunately, he hadn't been in high school very long. He graduated early and the day before he turned sixteen he was accepted into Columbia on a full scholarship.
With a beacon of hope beckoning to him eastward, he bought a one-way plane ticket with some money Gabriel gave him and fled to New York City. He fled the only home he had ever known, his scores of siblings, and the room that smelled like smoke.
Four years later, he graduated top of his class, summa cum laude, valedictorian with an impeccable GPA. He had even been asked to give a speech at the graduation ceremony, which he had stumbled his way through, falling back on his awkwardness when humor failed.
Gabriel and Balthazar had been the only ones out of all his siblings to bother attending his graduation. They had thoroughly embarrassed him by cheering raucously when his name had been announced and he had accepted his diploma.
He stayed in New York for a couple years, working in a bakery down the block from his tiny apartment and starting his first novel. After those two years, when he found himself lost and lonely in the big city where he was almost painfully anonymous, he decided to take his brothers up on their invitation to move to Lawrence, Kansas where they had both relocated shortly after Castiel had moved out.
Years later, things seemed to be going rather perfectly for him.
He had a decent sized apartment in a residential part of town with all of the amenities he could have ever wished for including a dishwasher, washer and dryer, and central air. Plus, he had a lovely view of the Lawrence skyline, getting to watch the sunrise every morning.
He had already written and published twelve full-length novels, three of which had actually made it onto the bestsellers list. A few bookstores in the area had actually contacted him to inquire about him possibly doing book signings.
He and his brothers had a standing bi-weekly get together where they would either have dinner out at some swanky restaurant Balthazar picked out or play drunk Scrabble at Gabriel's. It was the most normal sibling experience any of them ever had.
His life in Lawrence, for that matter, was the most normal part. He had done some casual dating, casual because the relationships had only lasted a few months but it was dating nonetheless. He had even adopted a cat, a silver tabby Maine Coon he had named Seraph.
Yet at thirty two, over two decades having passed since the incident with the matches, he still suffered from a debilitating fear of fire. And the anxiety, that ever-present dread that another fire was looming just over the horizon, had taken over his life.
It had affected him when he had gone apartment hunting after moving to Lawrence, crashing on Balthazar's couch for a few weeks. He had made a checklist of requirements for an apartment that included hardwood floors instead of carpeting and an electric stove rather than a gas one. Plus, it had to be directly adjacent to the stairwell if it wasn't on the ground floor.
After a few weeks of searching for the perfect place, he finally found it at the Cedarwood Apartments building. A two bedroom, one bathroom apartment had just gone on the market for only six hundred dollars a month.
It had been perfect, with dark hardwood floors and a stainless steel electric stove, nestled right beside the stairwell. He had moved in a few days after finding it, putting down some money as a down payment.
But while the apartment itself was perfect, he still obsessed over fire and the prevention of it.
He checked the batteries in his various smoke detectors every month even when he knew that they were still full of juice, just to ensure that they were still working. He kept fire extinguishers in every room of the apartment, even the bathroom where he kept the extinguisher on the back of the door.
He held his breath every time he pumped his own gas, his palm clammy around the handle of the pump as he toyed with the idea of upgrading to an electric car. But he loved his old Continental too much.
He winced anytime he saw someone smoking, the dark embers making his heart race. He jolted as though he had been smacked whenever he heard the hiss of a lighter or the sound of a match being struck.
He couldn't bear to be around candles, even when they were unlit and undeniably harmless. Just looking at them flooded his mind with visions of what could go wrong.
He couldn't even listen to songs that had the word 'fire' or anything similar in them. And he had never written a single sentence that had anything to do with heat or fire.
Once a week, he cleaned his apartment, meticulously checking for fire hazards, constantly consulting the Kansas Building Fire Safety Handbook. He unplugged all of his appliances and electronics when they weren't in use and obsessively cleaned the lint trap in his dryer.
He did everything within his power to avoid even the most minor cooking fire so when he woke up in the middle of the night to the shrill blare of his smoke detectors and the taste of ash on his tongue, something in him snapped.
He bolted upright, jumping out of bed and onto his feet, the hardwood floor cool against the soles of his feet. Trying to fight back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, he yanked the fire extinguisher off the wall by his bed.
He fumbled with it, pulling the pin and crossing his bedroom to the doorway, seeing the warm glow of flames emanating from the hallway. He was dangerously close to freezing at the sight of flames creeping closer down the hallway, covering the stark white walls and turning them black.
Close to being completely paralyzed with fear, he aimed the nozzle at the approaching flames and tried to summon up visions of King Arthur or MacDuff. Then, he squeezed the handle, waiting for the monoammonium phosphate to save the day again.
But nothing happened. Nothing.
He tried again but still, nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
"No," he whimpered, trying again. It didn't work. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
He dropped the fire extinguisher by his feet as he reeled backwards. His breath came in rough pants as he buried his hands in his hair. "No, no, no, no, no."
His mind raced. If the flames were already encroaching on his bedroom that meant the rest of his apartment must already be ablaze. He couldn't get to another fire extinguisher.
He was on the third floor so an escape through the bedroom window wasn't a viable option. There was no fire escape which should have been on his list of requirements for an apartment.
He charged his phone overnight in the living room so he wouldn't be tempted to go on a Wikipedia binge at two a.m. So he couldn't call anyone, not his brothers or the fire department.
He could hear the sirens of a fire engine over the cacophony of the smoke detectors, blue and red lights flashing on the glass of his bedroom window. But the small shred of hope that fact gave him was quickly burnt away as panic settled in, realization along with it.
He was trapped in his deathtrap of an apartment with no way out, no recourse, no hope. The fire was quickly making its way into his bedroom, the heat making him break out in a terrified sweat.
No one would know that he was in his apartment. Not until they found his remains, charred and blackened like a hunk of overcooked meat.
He wondered if anyone would mourn him. Gabriel and Balthazar would but what about their other siblings? Michael? Anna? Uriel? Inias?
What about their estranged aunts and uncles? Zachariah, with his huge company? Joshua, with his sprawling greenhouse? Naomi, with her own enterprise? Amara, with her string of lovers half her age?
What about their father? Would he mourn the loss of his youngest? Would he cry? Visit his grave? Would he even care?
A nasty little voice in the back of his mind growled out the answer that he already knew. No. No. No! No! No!
Resignation took root in his bone marrow, weighing him down until he was doing the only thing he could think of. He pulled his cat into his arms, curled up on the foot of his bed, and started to cry.
When he was younger, his older siblings used to call him cry baby because of how easily tears had come to him, whether he was happy or sad. He spent much of his adult life fighting the habit but now he accepted it wholeheartedly.
As tears rolled down his cheeks, he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight of the orange flames creeping closer and closer and closer. His breath grew faster and more ragged with each passing second, well aware that the life he had built for himself in Kansas was being burned away to nothingness.
He clutched Seraph tight to his chest, stroking a shaky hand down her spine. The weight of her in his arms, mewling miserably in palpable fear, anchored him.
The only mercy that he would be given this time was that he wouldn't be alone. That he wouldn't die alone.
He hoped his brothers would let her be buried with whatever would be left of him. She deserved a headstone of her own.
More tears wetting his cheeks, he prayed. Harder than he ever had before. Harder than the first time he had been engulfed in a hellish inferno.
He prayed for a miracle. For divine intervention. For his father whom he still loved for no other reason than obligation and the longing of a boy who had never even met his father.
He prayed for his brothers to come save him again. For Gabriel to burst in like some sort of white knight and save the day again.
He prayed for God. For an angel.
But his prayers fell on deaf ears and he was left to die of either smoke inhalation or the flames themselves. Either way, there would be pain and he didn’t know whether he should dread it or eagerly await it.
Just as resigned acceptance began to sink in, something made him open his eyes and look up. Through his tears, he saw an angel standing above him.
In the bulky jumpsuit and helmet, a breathing mask obscuring their face, the conflagration in the doorway formed a halo of light around them.
There was a buzzing sound in Castiel's ears, like a hive of bees flitting around with a numbing drone. Spots danced behind his eyelids as his throat tightened, smoke filling his lungs as his tears continued to fall.
As he sight began to blur, tears and smoke threatening to blot out everything else, the ringing in his ears subsided enough for him to make out what the firefighter standing in front of him was saying. "Here, take my hand. Everything's fine, just hold onto me and keep moving. Okay?"
Sniffling, Castiel nodded frantically. Tightening his grip on Seraph, who dug her claws into Castiel's t-shirt, he took the firefighter's proffered hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.
The faceless firefighter squeezed his hand reassuringly, the leather of his gloves smooth and cool against his palm. Voice low and urgent, the firefighter instructed, "Stay close to me. I'm gonna get you outta here."
Castiel nodded again, squeezing the firefighter's hand and shifting closer. He took a deep, steeling breath as he was led towards the doorway where the fire was spreading into his bedroom the way it had all those years ago.
He half expected to see Nathaniel sitting cross legged in the hall among the flames, an empty book of matches in his hand. Of course, Nathaniel wasn't there. He was back in Illinois with his wife and kids and his perfect white picket fence life while Castiel faced the fear that had overrun his life because of his older brother.
His breath came faster as saw the bright, flickering flames that were engulfing his apartment. The hallway was rather short so from the doorway of his bedroom he could see the rest of his apartment and the huge fire that was destroying it.
The sight of his living room, full of towering flames that dwarfed him and devoured all of his earthly belongings, choked him up. His apartment, his home, was the only place where he could relax and write and forget about the rest of the world if only for a few hours. It was the only place where he felt completely safe.
And it was all going up in smoke. Again. The most morbid deja-vu in his life.
The couch, an old battered sofa where he ate his dinners and listened to music to unwind, was little more than a pile of flames, the stench of burning upholstery filling the room. The desk in the corner where he wrote all of his novels and short stories was aflame, the dark wood home to bright flames.
But the worst thing, the sight of which nearly made him curl into a ball and give up trying to make it out alive, was his bookshelf. On its shelves was every book he had ever written, every short story, every collection of poetry.
It held all of his life's work. And it was completely enveloped by the blaze.
With a choked sob, he pressed his face against the firefighter's arm, clenching his eyes shut to shield himself from the devastating sight. He was overwhelmed, he was terrified, he was lost.
He heard the firefighter beside him curse, the sound of the expletive making him tense and tighten his grip on the firefighter's hand. Why was the firefighter cursing? Was the floor about to fall away? Was the fire too big, too hot? Were they going to die?
Before he could utter a single question aloud, he was suddenly being hoisted up into the firefighter's arms. He let out a squeak of surprise as he was cradled bridal style, curling his arms more securely around Seraph who let out a shocked mewl of her own.
The next several minutes passed in a blur of panicked fear and searing flames that licked at the exposed soles of his feet as he was carried through the burning ruins his apartment. With quick, precise steps, the firefighter toted him out of his apartment and into a tunnel of heat and fire that was once the hallway.
Castiel was rushed down the stairwell that was mercifully free of any trace of fire. He started coughing as they made their way down the flights of stairs, having the presence of mind to politely turn his head away so he didn't cough on the man who was carrying him to safety.
He was pretty sure he heard a host of angels sing when they burst out of the apartment building, away from the nightmare that had unfolded on the third floor. Out of the inferno and into the cool night air of the parking lot where a crowd of people was gathered. Castiel assumed they were other residents.
Three fire engines were parked as close as possible to the building, their lights flashing as clusters of firefighters aimed hoses at the fire. Castiel found himself sighing in relief when he saw that the fire was only on the third floor, his sigh triggering another fit of coughing.
An ambulance was parked by the large crowd of people in the center of the parking lot, its back doors open as the paramedics talked to a few people in the throng. The firefighter made a beeline to the ambulance, setting Castiel down on the stainless steel footboard at the back of the ambulance.
He desperately clutched at the firefighter's sleeve, nodding his head at the building as he blurted, "You have to go help them! Other people, trapped inside! Need to save them!"
"Whoa, easy there, buddy," the firefighter's voice soothed, a bit muffled by his oxygen mask. He laid a gloved hand on Castiel's shoulder, squeezing gently as he explained, "You were the only one stuck inside. Everyone else is accounted for, I promise."
Castiel let out a sigh then promptly coughed throatily, feeling like he was going to hock up a lung, turning his head to cough into his elbow. The cool night air helped but he knew that he was suffering from smoke inhalation, same as the day of the first fire.
"Yo, Benny! Need some oxygen over here!" The firefighter's gruff voice called, making Castiel jump and jerk his head up. By his side, the firefighter who had rescued him was removing his helmet while waving another firefighter over.
He had already taken off his oxygen mask, revealing a gorgeous face that would have been better suited for a model than a firefighter. His jaw was sharp and well-defined, dusted with just a tiny hint of stubble.
His cheeks, and the bridge of his straight nose for that matter, were scattered with freckles, constellations spread across his skin. His eyes were such a brilliant shade of green that Castiel was momentarily taken aback, wondering how exactly someone could possibly have eyes that green.
The firefighter, who was thus far nameless, set his helmet down beside Castiel's hip and pushed back his black hood to show off his slightly tousled hair. He had an Ivy League haircut but Castiel couldn't tell if his hair was dark blonde or brown.
Castiel was distracted from how beautiful his savior was when another firefighter appeared in front of him with two oxygen tanks. He was a large, broad shouldered man who was a bit intimidating, Castiel nervously leaning closer to the firefighter who had carried him out of the building.
But the bright smile the other man sent him vanquished any apprehension he might have had. He handed the green eyed firefighter one of the oxygen tanks and the attached masks before reaching over to take Seraph out of Castiel's arms, assuring him, "Just gonna give this little lady some oxygen. Make sure she's doin' alright."
Castiel reluctantly loosened his grip enough for the other firefighter to scoop up Seraph. He watched as Seraph was carried over to a nearby stretcher where the firefighter, apparently named Benny, held the oxygen mask up to her sooty muzzle.
"Your turn, dude."
Castiel turned his head, tearing his eyes away from Seraph, to look up at the sandy haired firefighter who was holding out an oxygen mask. Castiel nodded and gratefully accepted the mask, holding it up to his mouth and taking in a deep breath.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the light breeze that chilled the night air and dried the tears on his cheeks. He evened out his breath, trying to remember as many breathing exercises as he could from his Saturday morning yoga class.
"I'm Dean, by the way," a voice that was quickly becoming familiar announced. When he opened his eyes the gorgeous firefighter was beaming at him, the corners of his bright green eyes crinkling. He held out his hand to Castiel who noticed that he had taken off his gloves. "Dean Winchester."
"Castiel," he returned, reaching over shake Dean's hand. "Castiel Novak."
"So, Cas, I kinda doubt they're gonna be letting people back in tonight," Dean claimed with a wince, gesturing to the apartment where the fire was still raging. His eyes sliding back to Castiel, he tipped his head to the side and asked, "So, uh, do you need to call anyone?"
"Oh," he mumbled, his hand going to where his pocket would have been if he wasn't wearing a pair of sweatpants. His brows drew together as he quietly stated the obvious, "I don't have my phone."
It was then that the numb shock ebbed away and realization of the gravity of the situation finally sunk in, for a second time that evening. Biting his lips as his eyes filled with more tears, he softly sobbed, "I don't have anything. Oh, god. I don't have anything. Everything I had... Everything I've worked for... It's just...gone."
Like a dam bursting, he felt a deluge of tears cascading down his cheeks as he whimpered. He raised his other hand, burying his face in it as he lifted his legs, curling in on himself.
The past sixteen years of his life spent running away from that horrible day, from the dark embers of his past, had ended up culminating in ash and ruin. All the work he had put into building a new life for himself in the town where no one knew him as the weird little burned kid was all for naught.
All of the sleepless nights he had spent hunched over his computer, painstakingly typing out every word of every piece of work he had ever written hadn't meant anything. Every precaution he had made to protect himself from another tragedy had been meaningless.
He couldn't even live out of his car for awhile since he didn't have his car keys.
"Hey, hey, it's alright," Dean assured him, taking a seat beside Castiel on the footboard and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He gently tugged Castiel closer, shushing him as he curled his other arm around Castiel's waist. "It's gonna be okay, man."
Castiel tilted his head to the side to hide his face in Dean's chest, too miserable and overwhelmed to be embarrassment by how forward and desperate he was being. He held the oxygen mask to his face as he sniffled, forcing himself to keep his breathing even despite the whirlwind of emotion he was experiencing.
Curiosity that could only be described as morbid goaded him into asking his next question. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his free hand as he inquired, "What caused the fire?"
"Uh, apparently your neighbor fell asleep with a cigarette," Dean explained, giving Castiel's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Set off a whole book of matches."
Castiel couldn't help the watery, bordering on hysterical laugh that bubbled up out of his throat at Dean's words. Of course, it was a book of matches that started the fire.
Mopping at his cheeks, he straightened up with a sniffle, shaking his head at himself. Dean offered him a wide smile, squeezing his shoulder again as he offered, "How 'bout I go grab my phone? You can call whoever you need to."
He nodded, returning Dean's smile with a small one of his own. He waited patiently as Dean dropped his arms from where they were curled around Castiel before standing and jogging over to one of the fire engines.
While waiting, Castiel glanced over at the stretcher where the other firefighter, Benny, was gently stroking his hand down Seraph's back. The Maine Coon seemed perfectly content, lying down on her stomach with her front paws stretched out in front of her.
Dean returned a few minutes later, cell phone in hand and a light flush on his high cheekbones. Plopping back down beside Castiel, he unlocked his phone and pulled up the dial pad to place a call, explaining, "You can just tell me the number. Might be a little hard to understand you through the mask so I'll put it on speaker. That okay?"
Castiel just nodded and rattled off Gabriel's number, infinitely glad that he had memorized it. The phone rang a couple times before Gabriel finally picked up, greeting, "Yo."
It was Dean who spoke first, to Castiel's surprise. Clearing his throat, Dean began, "This is Dean Winchester, I'm with the—"
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," Gabriel asserted, cutting Dean off. Castiel could perfectly envision his brother's eye roll. "So, buh-bye—"
"Gabriel, it's me," Castiel interjected, raising his voice enough so that it wasn't muffled by the oxygen mask.
"Cassie?" Gabriel asked, using the nickname he had saddled Castiel with decades ago. Then, he whistled, following it up with a low chuckle as he teased, "Ooh, did you hook up with someone? Now I'm all jealous."
While Castiel would have liked to have been amused by his older brother's ribbing, he found himself extremely nervous. He chewed his lip before he sighed and blurted, "Gabriel. Dean's a firefighter.There... There was a fire."
"What?!" Gabriel practically screeched over the line, Dean wincing at the loud, stringent squawk. "Are you fucking kidding me?! Again?! Jesus Christ! Are you alright? Do you need to go to the hospital?"
Dean raised a brow at the word 'again', but Castiel ignored it in favor of answering his brother's series of rapid fire questions. "No, I'm not kidding. Yes, again. I'm fine. I don't need to go to the hospital. But I—"
He was cut off by a hiccuping sob, overwhelmed again by the bleak reality of his situation. His eyes stung but he doubted that he could actually produce any more tears.
"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to compose himself. With a shaky sigh, he forced himself to continue, "But, Gabriel, everything's gone. Everything. Even my laptop. How am I gonna meet my deadline if my whole novel's gone? I don't have my wallet or my car keys or any of my papers. It's all just gone."
Dean curled a comforting arm around his waist, running his hand up and down Castiel's side. He leaned into the soothing touch, eternally grateful for both the firefighter's presence and his patience.
"Alright, here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna come pick you up, you can stay with me for as long as you need to," Gabriel announced. "We're gonna call your publisher and get a copy of your rough draft. I have a spare for the Continental, we'll pick it up tomorrow. And I'll make some calls, get you a new social security, new birth certificate, whatever you need."
Castiel sniffed and nodded even though he knew that Gabriel couldn't see him. His brother's voice sounded again as he claimed, "I'll be there in a few minutes. Oh, and Castiel?"
"Yeah?" He answered, rubbing a few tears out of his eyes.
"You're alive," Gabriel said simply. "Just remember that, okay? You're alive."
Castiel let out a breathy huff of incredulous laughter as his brother's words sank in. He was alive. Against all odds, in spite of two separate fire that quite possibly could have killed him, he was alive.
A wave of disbelieving relief crashed over him as Gabriel hung up. He wanted to sing and dance and run naked through the streets he was so elated. He felt at least thirty pounds lighter, like he could walk on air, like any minute he was going to sprout wings and take to the cool night sky.
He was alive! And he was giddy with it. So overcome with giddiness that the next thing he knew, he was pulling off his oxygen mask and wrapping his arms around Dean's neck to lay an overjoyed, life-affirming kiss on his plush pink lips.
It was a quick, chaste kiss, little more than a peck really. It only lasted a few blissful moments before Castiel pulled back and gushed, "Thank you, Dean. You saved my life. And Seraph's!"
He set down his oxygen mask and hopped off the ambulance's footboard to greet Benny as he carried Seraph over. Her thunderous purr was audible even at a distance, her yellow eyes narrowed as Benny scratched under her chin.
Buzzing with adrenaline, Castiel bounced on the balls of his feet as Benny handed him Seraph who immediately nuzzled under Castiel's chin. When Castiel raised his head to ask Benny if she was going to be alright, he found the burly firefighter laughing heartily, a huge grin on his face.
"Oh, she'll be fine, brother. Just needs a bath," Benny informed him between laughs. With a wide smirk, he clapped Dean on the shoulder and tacked on, "Looks like she's not the only one who needs to take a cold shower."
Castiel hummed in confirmation as he looked at the blotches of soot on Seraph's silver coat, sure that he himself was probably covered in the black powdery. He wrinkled his nose when he thought about the fact that he would probably be clawed to hell when he gave Seraph her bath, but it was a small price to pay for being alive. "Yes, I suppose I'm a mess as well."
For some reason that sent Benny into a fit of renewed laughter, the firefighter throwing his head back and practically howling. Dean, whose face was suddenly flushed with color, elbowed the other man in the ribs and grumbled, "Shut up, Benny."
Castiel ignored the hushed bickering that ensued between the two firefighters, cuddling Seraph close and peppering kisses over the top of her head. He still couldn't believe they had made it out alive, that the flames hadn't devoured them both.
The elated feeling that had taken root in his chest only seemed to intensify when a pair of headlights cut through the dark of the night and a car pulled up beside the ambulance. Castiel immediately recognized it as Balthazar's sleek silver Porsche, his older brother a fan of the finer things in life whether it be vintage wines or exorbitantly priced sports cars.
The mere sight of the silver paint job made him smile, reminding him that he was still alive to be annoyed by his brother's over-indulgence. That he was still alive to spend the holidays with his brothers and put up with their constant teasing about everything and anything and help settle the prank wars that Gabriel started at least once every few months.
Gabriel burst out of the car and rushed over to Castiel, Balthazar hot on his heels. Before he could say a word, he was being swept up into Gabriel's arms despite the fact that his older brother was four inches shorter than him.
Gabriel actually spun him around a few times, squeezing him so tightly that it almost hurt, Seraph meowing loudly from where she was sandwiched between them. By the time Gabriel set him down, Castiel was a bit, laughing a bit hysterically as his brother leaned up to scatter kisses over his cheeks.
Balthazar hugged him next, letting him keep his feet on the ground as he pressed a single kiss to Castiel's temple. He slipped an arm around Castiel's shoulders, tugging him close with a grin.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Gabriel demanded as he started fussing over Castiel, fiddling with the collar of his t-shirt. He licked the pad of his thumb before rubbing at a spot of soot on Castiel's cheek.
Rolling his eyes, Castiel swatted his brother's hand away. "I'm fine, Gabriel. A little shaken up and more afraid of fire than I was before but I'm fine."
"Is that even possible?" Balthazar inquired with a raised brow. "The being even more afraid of fire part, I mean."
"Well, I'm definitely not more of a fan," Castiel returned with a small smile, shifting to hold Seraph more comfortably. She was growing a bit restless.
Castiel looked back over at Gabriel who was clearly tense, his worry palpable. Voice soft, he assured his older brother, "Gabriel, I'm fine. I promise."
Letting out a long exhale through his nose, Gabriel nodded, mustering up a tiny grin of his own. Nodding his head towards the Porsche, he suggested, "Let's get you back to my place and tucked into bed."
"Just give me a second," Castiel requested, handing Seraph to Balthazar who scratched her behind her right ear until she purred contentedly. "I need to thank Dean."
He ignored the equal parts amused and critical raise of Gabriel's brow in favor of turning back to Dean and Benny. On pure impulse, he looped his arms around Dean's shoulders and hugged him again, murmuring, "Thank you for saving me."
He hugged Benny next, the big burly man returning the embrace with a low chuckle. As Castiel pulled back, he thanked the firefighter, "Thank you, too."
With a final wave to the two firefighters and a glance up at the charred tensions of the third floor, he hurried over to his brothers' side, Gabriel wrapping an arm around him. It wasn't until he was seated in the passenger seat of the Porsche, Balthazar climbing into the backseat with Seraph in his arms, that he abruptly realized he had kissed Dean in his euphoric daze.
As they drove off, Castiel's face flushed hotter than the fire he had been rescued from.
The days following the fire were full of adjustments, of changes to his carefully mapped out routine that left him anxious and itchy.
Gabriel's apartment was on the other side of town, swanky and ostentatious where Castiel's had been cozy and warm. It was a stark contrast, Gabriel's apartment more suited to the life of an eligible bachelor while Castiel's had been perfect for an asocial writer.
Gabriel lived in the penthouse apartment of some luxurious building that catered specifically to the rich and occasionally famous. His many awards for adult entertainment films and the fat paycheck that went with them were enough to qualify Gabriel as both.
Floor to ceiling windows in the living room allowed a fantastic view of the Lawrence skyline, allowing for a semblance of familiarity for Castiel who was extremely glad that he didn't have a fear of heights. At night, the lights from downtown illuminated the room like twinkling Christmas lights.
The kitchen was fit for a professional chef, completely wasted on Gabriel who had the wondrous ability to burn water anytime he tried to cook. Stainless steel appliances and all sorts of other amenities, including a gorgeous electric stove, glistened in the kitchen, practically untouched.
Castiel had taken to cooking for his brother in return for Gabriel letting him stay there. He knew that it wasn't necessary but going through the motions of making French toast or chili helped him feel more like a guest and less like a freeloader.
He had been given Gabriel's guest room which had only been used once or twice before, usually after one of his wild parties ended up with people too inebriated to drive home. It was comfortable enough, the bed firmer than Castiel would have preferred but there were no fire hazards in the room so he couldn't find any cause for complaint.
The day after the fire, Castiel discovered it had made the morning news on several different local stations, residents and rubberneckers alike interviewed by reporters. The news anchors reported on the cause of the fire, Castiel's next door neighbor garnering the ire of the entire apartment building.
Luckily, no one had been injured apart from a few cases of smoke inhalation that hadn't required any more treatment beyond some oxygen. And, as a too-cheery blonde news anchor announced, only one person had been trapped inside the building: none other than Castiel himself.
He had been shocked when a grainy video had appeared on the wide screen of Gabriel's insanely huge television, showing Dean carrying Castiel out of the building. After they had run the short, fifteen second video a few times, the anchor had moved on to talk about Castiel's career, listing off a couple titles of his as a copy of the picture he used on the dust jackets of his books popped up in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.
After a miserable attempt at humor from the other anchor who made a comment about the fire potentially igniting some new ideas for a novel, they had moved on to a different story. Beside him on the plush white sofa, Gabriel had nearly spit out his coffee.
"Those fucking bastards," Gabriel had hissed under his breath with all of the righteous indignation of both an overprotective brother and a publicist who hadn't been made aware that his client was going to be given some sort of publicity. Stalking away, he had gotten on his cell phone and started making calls, the hushed growl of his voice echoing through the apartment.
While Gabriel raised hell with the news stations, screeching about invasions of privacy and the legality of the video itself, Castiel decided to call his editor slash publisher.
Fergus 'Crowley' MacLeod was an old associate of Gabriel's, a former publisher of their father's who quit after getting tired of the quote 'mindless drivel' he wrote under his pseudonym, Carver Edlund. He had a reputation for being ruthless, a harsh editor who didn't mince words and wasn't afraid of being brutally honest with his authors.
Fortunately, Crowley agreed to mail him a copy of the chapters he had already finished after Castiel explained the fact that there had been a fire. Crowley may have been nicknamed the 'King of Hell' by those in the publishing profession but he wasn't completely heartless.
The day after that, he begrudgingly returned to the apartment building to pick up his Continental while Gabriel and Balthazar braved the ruins of his apartment to see what they could salvage. They only managed to recover a few things — his wallet, his car keys, his important paperwork, and a bag of clothes — but it was enough to make him feel less destitute.
He had already started looking for a new place to live, this time contemplating investing in a house rather than an apartment. He liked the idea of having a real home, with a backyard and a front porch, maybe even a beehive of his own.
And he had to admit he found it rather attractive that living on his own would make it less likely for him to suffer through a fire caused by someone else.
The only thing left for him to worry about was finishing his next novel. And making it up to Dean for that thoughtless kiss.
Over the past few days, he had been wracked with guilt. He had practically assaulted the firefighter for god's sake!
The incessant teasing from both of his brothers after he had confessed that in his frenzied euphoria he had kissed the man who had saved him didn't help. In true older brother fashion, they constantly teasing him about having the hots for the firefighter, asking him if he used tongue, if Dean had returned the kiss.
Castiel felt like an idiot. Yes, Dean was a gorgeous man and yes, he was definitely attracted to him but he had never been that forward before in his entire life.
His approach to flirting had always been practically nonexistent. Even when drunk and uninhibited, he was shy and somewhat awkward at best and embarrassingly awkward and nearly mute at worst.
How he had ever lost his virginity still baffled his brothers and sometimes even himself.
In total, he had only had three relationships, apart from a few one night stands, and all three had been initiated by the other person. He had a tendency to be attracted to bolder, more assertive people.
In college, he had dated a woman named Daphne. She had been smart and pretty, president of the student government with an impressive GPA of her own.
He had met her in his English Literature class junior year when they had been grouped together for a project. She had flirted with him for weeks before he had finally realized that her odd comments and compliments were flirtations.
They had dated throughout the rest of his junior year and midway through senior year when they'd had an amicable breakup. She had been Castiel's first in many ways: his first kiss, his first date, his first girlfriend, his first time.
She had contacted him a few years back, just to see how he was doing after recognizing his face on the back of one of his books. They had talked for a little bit over an hour, about what they had done after college and their families.
Daphne had gotten married to a nice, religious man named Emmanuel and had two children with another on the way. She had sounded perfectly content as she claimed that they would have to talk again sometime.
During Castiel's last year in New York, he had met a woman named Meg. She had blatantly flirted with him, her eyes running down his body salaciously as she bit her blood red lip.
Their relationship had taken on a distinctively different theme than the one he'd had with Daphne. He and Meg's relationship had been based purely on sex and little more.
They would meet up a few times a week for dinner at Castiel's apartment, followed by sex. He had been too naive to realize that Meg was essentially using him for sex and free food.
They broke up shortly after Castiel decided to move out of the city, Meg simply shrugging. Apparently, as she explained it to him, she had never seen him as anything more than a friend with benefits.
Her words had stung but Castiel hadn't been too broken up about it. After all, Meg had been right. It wasn't as though they had been in love.
A few years after moving to Lawrence, he had met a charming man named Mick at the local bookstore. Mick had struck up a conversation with Castiel in the mystery section, enchanting Castiel with his handsome smirk and Irish brogue.
When Mick had invited him out for drinks later that evening, Castiel had been helpless to refuse. They had spent the night getting to know each other over cocktails, Mick's hand warm on Castiel's knee.
They had taken things slow, Mick extremely supportive after Castiel explained what had happened between him and Meg, sharing only chaste goodnight kisses at the door until after they had been dating for a month.
Castiel had been deliriously happy, Mick a perfect gentleman and an even more perfect boyfriend. He had even invited Mick to dinner with Gabriel and Balthazar so his boyfriend could meet his brothers.
After interrogating him over glasses of expensive champagne, both Gabriel and Balthazar had given Mick their seal of brotherly approval. Castiel had been extremely grateful for that, beaming at Mick after Gabriel sent him a discreet nod.
They had dated for over a year and a half before Mick had sat Castiel down and explained that he had been given a promotion and would have to move back to England. As much as it had hurt Castiel, who was pretty sure that he was following in love with Mick, he hadn't wanted to hold him back, giving Mick his blessing and one last kiss goodbye.
He hadn't been involved with anyone since aside from a few one night stands and even then, he had never been the one to initiate anything. So, his bold, impulsive decision to kiss Dean out of the blue surprised no one more than himself.
He knew that he had only kissed Dean because he had been so overwhelmed with relief that he was alive but he also knew that was no excuse. And he had to make up to Dean somehow.
Which is how he found himself pulling into the Lawrence Fire Department's in his Continental, two trays of cupcakes and a pie in the passenger seat.
He had woken up earlier than usual, itching with the need to make himself useful in some way. After a quick shower, he had wandered into the kitchen to make breakfast.
A towering stack of chocolate chip pancakes and a fed older brother later, Castiel still had the urge to cook. With Gabriel's enthusiastic permission, Castiel had started a batch of vanilla cupcakes.
As he was whipping up some honey buttercream frosting, he realized that he could bring some cupcakes down to the fire station to thank Dean. It was foolproof. Who didn't like receiving baked goods?
Of course, Castiel had then over-thought things and decided to make a second batch of cupcakes, chocolate with a hint of chili. He figured the firefighters would appreciate the joke.
Then, because Castiel almost always got carried away when he baked, he ended up making one of his famous caramel apple pies. Pie was never unwelcome, right?
Before he could lose his nerve, he had packed up all of the food he had made and carried it down to his car, for once opting to take the elevator rather than the stairs. Carrying three trays of baked goods down twenty flights of stairs was not all that appealing to him.
In the ten minutes it took him to drive to the fire station, doubt settled firmly within him. As he put his car into park, he found himself muttering, "What am I doing? This was stupid. I should just send a card or something."
He dropped his forehead down onto the steering wheel and let out a groan, squeezing his eyes shut. But he had made it that far and he would hate to waste perfectly good cupcakes.
Trying to muster up some confidence, Castiel climbed out of his car, rounding the nose of the Lincoln to grab the trays of cupcakes, leaving the pie on the passenger seat. He took a deep, steeling breath before making his way to the front door of the station.
There was a redheaded woman sitting behind the front desk, typing away on a computer. Bobble heads and various other action figures littered the top of the desk, multiple characters that Castiel recognized from Harry Potter and Game of Thrones.
The woman radiated an air of cheerfulness, from the bright smile on her face to the vivid shade of her hair, even the vibrant yellow of her t-shirt. And if he wasn't mistaken, she had a Dungeons and Dragons tattoo on her inner wrist, a line of rainbow colored polyhedrons.
She looked up at Castiel as he walked closer to the desk, offering him an even wider grin in response to his own shy smile. Turning to face him fully, she greeted, "Hey, what can I help you with?"
"Hi. Uh, I'm looking for Dean Winchester," Castiel replied, feeling his cheeks heat with a light blush. He felt ridiculous, the urge to run coursing through him. "Is he here?"
"Yup, he and the others are hanging out upstairs," she relayed, standing up. She walked out from behind the desk and started towards a staircase. She paused and glanced over at Castiel, waving a hand and urging, "C'mon, I'll take you up. I'm Charlie, by the way."
"I'm Castiel." He said shaking himself as he hurried over to join her at the foot of the stairs, obediently following her as she led him upstairs. He was careful not to jostle the trays in his hands too much, making sure none of the cupcakes tipped over.
He wanted them to be perfect for Dean. And if that thought didn't make him feel like a dorky kid with a crush.
The upstairs of the fire station clearly served as a common room for the firefighters when they had nothing else to occupy their time with. It was made up like a typical 'man cave', fitting for the stereotypically masculine setting of a fire station.
There were plush leather recliners arranged in a semi circle around a rather large TV, though not as big as Gabriel's ridiculously large television. Benny was sitting in one beside a petite blonde woman, the two of them animatedly discussing something. A German Shepherd was lying curled up at their feet.
There was a kitchenette in the opposite corner with dark wood cabinets and black soapstone countertops, a line of stools along the kitchen island. A lanky man with messy brown hair was fixing himself a sandwich, a jar of peanut butter on the countertop.
There was a foosball table by one doorway that led into a room full of bunk beds and another that Castiel assumed was to a bathroom. Three men were playing, one had his back to Castiel so he couldn't tell if it was Dean or not, the other two men were older.
One wasn't wearing a uniform, instead wearing a baseball cap and a plaid shirt over an old t-shirt. He had full beard that was gray on the sides, too full for him to be a working firefighter.
The other was younger but looked to be in his early fifties, with jet black hair and five o'clock shadow. There was something almost familiar in his features, as though Castiel had seen him before somewhere though he could not for the life of him figure where that might have been.
Not sure what else to do, Castiel just lingered by Charlie's side, biting the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes down. He jumped a bit when she whistled loudly and called, "Yo, Dean! You got a visitor!"
Everyone in the room craned their necks to look at Charlie and therefore Castiel who felt himself start to squirm under the weight of their gaze. The third man at the foosball table straightened up and turned around, Castiel's breath catching in his throat.
It was Dean alright, in a black t-shirt that was practically skin-tight, his muscular biceps on glorious display. He was wearing heavy boots and black turnout pants, red leather suspenders holding them up while drawing Castiel's attention to both the wide breadth of Dean's shoulders and the muscles in Dean's chest, defined enough to be noticeable through the fabric of his t-shirt.
His hair, looking more dirty blonde than brown under the incandescent lights, was artfully disheveled, like Dean had been running his hands through it. Even at a distance, Castiel could see the incredible green of Dean's eyes.
The corner of Dean's mouth curled up in a smile as he strode across the room to Castiel, greeting, "Heya, Cas."
"Hello, Dean," Castiel answered, returning Dean's bright smile with a more subdued one of his own. He found himself having some trouble looking Dean in the eye, feeling his cheeks heat even more.
"What's up?" Dean asked, hooking one thumb into the waistband of his pants.
"I, uh... I just wanted to thank you properly," Castiel explained, fidgeting with the tray in his hands. A second later, he rushed to add, "And Benny, too, of course."
"I made cupcakes," he blurted, unnecessarily raising the trays in his hands. Biting his lip and lowering his eyes, he murmured, "Which I realize now is probably weird and unnecessary and stupid..."
"Nah, man," Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Like I'm gonna turn down cupcakes."
He grabbed one of the trays from Castiel before turning to the side, laying a hand between Castiel's shoulders blades as he guided him further into the room. Castiel was surprised that he wasn't more bothered by the fact that Dean was touching his scars, even if it was just through his button up and the navy cardigan he had thrown on.
He had only let a handful of people even look at his scars and even less had been permitted to touch them. But with Dean, it was oddly easy, though still a little bit disconcerting, a reminder that the scars were there in the first place.
He tried to shake off the feeling as Dean led him to the kitchenette, setting down the tray of chocolate chili cupcakes on the kitchen island. Castiel followed suit as Dean looked over his shoulder to address the others in the room, announcing, "C'mon, guys. Cas made us cupcakes!"
Like a herd of stampeding zebra, the other firefighters quickly flocked to the kitchenette, startling Castiel with their enthusiasm. He was used to just Gabriel and Balthazar bowling him over in a bid to get to whatever he baked for them, not a whole station of firefighters.
Even the German Shepherd who had been content to nap at Benny's feet galloped over with an excited bark, tail wagging vigorously. The dog came to a stop directly in front of Castiel, sniffing his thighs curiously before taking a seat on his right foot, gazing up at him with big innocent eyes.
"So, what d'ya got for us, Cas?" Dean inquired as removed the tops of the cupcake trays. He made a show of rubbing his hands together and licking his lips as he ran his eyes over the display of cupcakes.
"There are vanilla cupcakes with a honey buttercream and honey whiskey filling," Castiel explained, indicating the yellow cupcakes topped with fluffy spires of white buttercream. Then, he pointed at the chocolate cupcakes, "And chocolate chili cupcakes with a chocolate cayenne frosting and chocolate ganache filling."
"I don't care if I get diabetes, I'll die happy," Charlie declared cheerfully as she reached over to grab a chocolate cupcake. Cas noticed that her fingernails were painted pale purple as she carefully removed the cupcake wrapper.
"Chocolate chili?" Benny asked, sounding a little bit skeptical. There was a crease between his brows as he glanced between the two varieties of cupcakes.
"I thought it would be fitting for firefighters," Castiel elaborated lamely, feeling like an idiot the second the words were out of his mouth. "Oh, and I have a pie in my car if you'd like."
"Pie?!" Dean exclaimed, a radiant smile stretching across his face as he beamed over at Cas. Throwing his hands up, narrowly avoiding smacking Benny in the face, he announced, "Aww, Cas, just marry me now!"
Castiel wasn't proud of the swarm of butterflies those words set free in his stomach. He bit his lip hard enough that he was worried he might have drawn blood as he forced himself not to accept Dean's joking proposal.
He was a grown man for god's sake, he should not be blushing like a little ten year old. He was just glad his brothers weren't there to tease him.
"I can run down and grab it," Castiel volunteered. "It should still be warm."
"I'll come with ya," Dean offered, untangling himself from the throng of other firefighters who were looting the trays of cupcakes. He jogged down the stairs beside Castiel, setting his hand on the small of his back, Castiel stiffening the slightest bit at the casual contact.
Castiel fiddled with the sleeve of his cardigan as he led Dean out into the parking lot. His Continental was one of the only cars in the parking lot, the only others a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle, a couple of pickup trucks, and two classic muscle cars.
"This yours?" Dean asked as Castiel pulled his car keys out of his pocket, nodding his head towards the Continental. When Castiel nodded, Dean cocked a brow. "What are you, a pimp?"
Castiel shrugged as he unlocked the car. "I like it."
"That's my baby," Dean proclaimed, his voice brimming with audible pride as he pointed out his car. Castiel raised his head to see which vehicle Dean was pointing at.
It was one of the classic cars, jet black and clearly waxed, its paint job glistening in the morning sunshine. Like some sort of sacred, ancient monument, it sat in the parking lot, emanating an almost holy aura.
"Wow," Castiel found himself murmuring under his breath, eyes wide as he admired the beautiful car. He had never been much of a car guy, always deferring to Gabriel and Balthazar, but there was something about Dean's car that enchanted him, that made him think of home.
"C'mon," Dean said, grabbing Castiel by the hand and dragging him across the parking lot to stand beside his car. Hands on his hips, he recited, "1967 Chevy Impala. Tuxedo black with parchment interior."
"She's beautiful..." Cas whispered, his voice low with awe as he leaned over to look inside at the leather bench seats. He reverently ran the tips of his fingers over the hood, a feather light caress over the cool metal.
"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Dean hummed. "My dad gave me her on my eighteenth birthday. Best day of my life."
"Gabriel would love her," Castiel commented, straightening up and tipping his head to the side to smile at Dean. "He loves classic cars. He was the one who gave me the Continental."
Dean nodded, dropping his arms to his side. He glanced over at Castiel, venturing, "Yeah, I was gonna ask. No boyfriend today?"
"Boyfriend?" Castiel repeated, wrinkling his nose as he frowned at Dean. He was beyond confused. "What boyfriend?"
Dean blinked at him, staring like he thought Castiel was an idiot. With a frown of his own, he said, "Uh, Gabriel?"
"Dean, Gabriel isn't my boyfriend," Castiel explained slowly, wondering how exactly Dean had come to that conclusion. "Gabriel's my older brother."
"Oh." Dean kept frowning, his eyebrows drawing together. "Then what about the blond guy? The one with the British accent?"
"Balthazar," Castiel provided helpfully. Dean nodded, then gestured for Castiel to continue. "Oh. Balthazar's my older brother, as well."
"Oh," Dean repeated, his frown still in place. He scratched his chin where there was just the tiniest hint of a cleft. Glancing over at Castiel, he asked, "So... No boyfriend?"
Castiel shook his head. Then, on second thought, he tacked on, "Not for over two years now."
Dean just hummed, nodding to himself before striding back over to the Continental where he took the liberty of opening the passenger side door. He pulled the apple pie out with an ear to ear grin, licking his lips at the sight of the brown sugar crumb topping.
After locking the car and closing the door with a slam, Dean turned back to Castiel, brandishing the pie. As he began leading Castiel back into the fire station, he happily chirped, "You were right. It's still warm."
The German Shepherd greeted them when they made it to the top of the stairs, barking joyously and wiggling his entire body. Dean twisted to the side to avoid dropping the pie, nudging the dog aside as he grumbled, "Back off, Colonel."
"Oh my god, Dean!" Charlie called as he carried the pie over to the counter, a few coos greeting the appearance of the delicious looking baked good. Wiping a dollop of buttercream off her upper lip, she raved, "If you don't marry him, I will."
"Switching teams, kiddo?" Dean laughed as he rounded the kitchen island to rifle around in one of the kitchen drawers. Glancing over his shoulder, he commented, "I thought you were strictly team lesbian."
"I can make an exception for food this good," Charlie retorted, taking another bite of her vanilla honey cupcake. Her eyes rolled up into her head as she let out a theatrical moan, lauding, "Seriously, these cupcakes are better than sex."
Dean shook his head as he returned to the island with a knife to cut the pie. Disappointment saturating every word, he admonished Charlie, "Then you must not be having good enough sex."
"I have great sex, thank you very much," Charlie sniffed, taking another bite of her cupcake. Thumbing a crumb off her chin, she challenged, "But you haven't tried one of these cupcakes yet, Dean. They're freaking orgasmic."
"Yeah, man. Are you a baker or something?" The skinny guy asked, a wide smile on his face.
"I'm flattered," Castiel claimed, scratching the back of his neck. Shrugging, he continued, "But, no. I'm a writer."
"Anything we might know?" The blonde woman asked, licking a spot of chocolate frosting off her thumbnail.
"I've made the bestsellers list a few times," Castiel begrudgingly admitted, watching as everyone's eyes widened as they turned to gawk at him. He squirmed under their scrutiny, stuffing his free hand into his pocket to play with his keys, hoping the fidgeting would calm him down a bit.
"That's like big-time money, right?" Charlie demanded, drawing Castiel's attention back to her. She had finished her cupcake, a smudge of buttercream on her cheek. "Like millions of dollars, right?"
Castiel didn't know what else to do, glancing around at all of the firefighters staring at him. He felt like he had been tossed back into the flames, the same panicky feeling threatening to suffocate him.
He really didn't want to discuss his financial situation with them. Sure, they seemed like lovely people but he could barely bring himself to discuss such things with his own brothers and he was closer with them than he ever had been with anyone else.
He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had indeed made over a million dollars in royalties from the last book of his that had made it onto the bestsellers list. He didn't want to discuss that he donated most of it to various charities and sent the rest of it to his less fortunate siblings even though they barely remembered his name.
He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had paid for Lucifer to attend rehab countless times even though his older brother always relapsed. Didn't want to discuss the fact that he had single-handedly paid tuition for five of his cousins so they could go back to college.
Didn't want to discuss that he had helped cover some of his uncle Zachariah's gambling debts. Didn't want to discuss that he had bailed his aunt Naomi out prison after her various DUIs and bought her new cars after she totaled her old ones.
Didn't want to discuss that when his uncle Joshua was evicted from his home, he had bought him a new house with a yard full of flowers. He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had paid for Nathaniel and his wife to go to couples counseling, that he had covered the hospital bills after Nathaniel fell off his roof and broke his leg, that he had helped Nathaniel pay his mortgage after he lost his job.
He didn't want to discuss the fact that years after being treated like shit for years, for being taunted and tormented, burned and nearly killed by his family, he was still a slave to their whims. He didn't want to admit that he had been incapable of severing all ties when all of his siblings, besides Gabriel and Balthazar, would have no problem forgetting about him completely.
He tightened his grip on his keys, debating whether or not he should bolt. Fortunately, Dean stepped in before he could actually commit to making a desperate run for the door.
As he finished dividing the pie into eight even slices, he chastised the others. With a sigh, he pointed out, "C'mon, guys. He doesn't even know half your names. And he brought food! Cut him some slack."
When the others looked suitably chastised, looking down and pursing their lips, Dean clapped his hands together and cheerily announced, "Alright! Time for pie!"
He grabbed a stack of plates from one of the cabinets along with a pile of forks from one of the drawers while Charlie flitted over to grab some napkins. Using the knife to lift the slices of pie and carefully set them down on the plates, Dean lifted his eyes to meet Castiel's and offered, "We can eat and I'll introduce you to everyone."
Castiel waited patiently as Dean doled out the slices of pie, keeping his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cardigans. As they were handed their plates, the other firefighters made their way to the semi circle of recliners, settling down on the plush brown leather.
There weren't enough seats for everyone, the blonde woman taking a seat on the arm of Charlie's recliner while the lanky guy set his hip against the side of Benny's chair. After handing Cas a plate of pie and a fork, Dean claimed the last recliner for himself.
With nowhere else to sit, unless he wanted to plop down on the floor with the dog who was sitting at the oddly familiar man's feet, panting and begging for scraps, Castiel hesitated. He only moved forward when Dean patted the arm of his recliner, gesturing him over with a bob of his head.
Feeling extremely awkward, Castiel carefully perched on Dean's recliner, waiting until everyone else started to eat before he let himself relax. There was a clatter of forks as everybody dug into their slices of still-warm pie, the metallic twang almost immediately followed by a collective moan of appreciation.
Castiel smiled to himself as he took a bite of his own. The caramel was warm and gooey on his tongue, the streusel topping sweet without being saccharine, the apples perfectly tender but not mushy.
"You seriously need to open up a bakery," Charlie informed him with a grave nod. Around a mouthful of pie, she amended, "Or at the very least help us out with the annual bake sale. Jo here can't bake to save her life."
Castiel was just about to ask who Jo was when Dean cleared his throat. "That reminds me. Here, Cas, lemme introduce everyone."
He used his fork to point, caramel and streusel topping still sticking to the stainless steel tines. Using said messy fork, Dean indicated the blonde woman, announcing, "That's Jo Harvelle. She's like the little sister I never wanted. Charlie, too, for that matter."
Jo gave a polite wave as she continued chewing her mouthful of pie. Charlie rolled her eyes at Dean, fondness visible in the gesture.
"Garth Fitzgerald IV," Dean said next, moving his fork to point at the scrawny guy. Garth raised a hand to wave, as well, setting his fork down for a moment.
"You've met Benny," Dean murmured dismissively, moving on to the bearded man in the baseball. He raised his hand in a small wave as Dean declared, "Bobby Singer."
Next, he pointed to the oddly familiar man who was close enough to Castiel to hold his hand out instead of waving. Castiel extended his own hand to shake the other man's as Dean finished, "And this is my dad, John Winchester."
For whatever reason, that little tidbit of information suddenly made Castiel even more nervous than he had been when the others had been asking about how much money he made. After John released his hand, he faltered a bit, fumbling with his fork and nearly dropping it.
A piece of pie crust fell onto the floor along with some streusel. Castiel was reaching down to pick it up when the German Shepherd loped over and eagerly lapped up the crumbs.
"And that's the Colonel," Dean explained as Castiel straightened up. After licking his chops, the German Shepherd set his head down on Castiel's lap, looking up at him with big brown eyes, silently begging for more.
Laying a hand on the top of the dog's muzzle, the bare skin of his arm brushing against Castiel's stomach, warm through the thin fabric of his button, Dean proudly stated, "He's pretty much our mascot."
They fell into companionable silence after that, the only comments a few glowing compliments from Bobby and John. That ended up sparking a lively discussion about what other baked goods were on Castiel's repertoire.
Charlie and Garth were very clearly in awe as he listed off the desserts and pastries he was most well acquainted with. His list ranged from French desserts like croquembouche and mille-feuille to more traditionally American pastries like donuts and all sorts of pies.
Jo insisted that he indeed participate in the fire department's annual bake sale, Benny and John seconding and thirding her announcement. Castiel admitted that he would love to participate, more than willing to burn off some stress by baking all sorts of desserts to benefit the men and women who had saved his life.
When everyone was finished their pie and there were only a few cupcakes left, Benny turning out to be a huge fan of the chocolate chili cupcakes, Castiel announced that he should be on his way. Gathering the empty trays, he had said his goodbyes, letting out a squeak of surprise when Garth and then Benny swept him up in tight hugs.
Dean's friends were much more affectionate than most of Castiel's family altogether. It was a bit jarring, in a good way.
"I'll walk you out," Dean offered, leading Castiel towards the stairs with a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was only once they were outside that Castiel realized how long he had been at the station, the sun hanging directly overhead.
After Dean deposited the empty trays in the backseat of the Continental, he turned back to Castiel who was fidgeting with the hem of his cardigan. Chewing on his bottom lip, he glanced between Dean and his shoes, trying to muster up the nerve to apologize.
"Dean?" He murmured questioningly, tilting his head to the side. Dean smiled and nodded patiently, encouraging Castiel to go on. "I just wanted to apologize. For...kissing you the other night. I—"
"Look, Cas, you don't have to apologize," Dean assured him, cutting him off before he could keep rambling on like an idiot. "It's not a big deal."
"Yes, I'm sure it happens all the time," Castiel replied sincerely, meaning every word. He nodded to himself as he said it, still fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.
Dean shook his head with a crooked grin. "Nope. Never."
"Oh..." Castiel whispered, feeling like an even bigger jackass. He rubbed the back of his neck, biting his lip again.
Then, before he could apologize again, there were two rough hands cupping his face and a pair of warm lips on his as Dean kissed him.
He was too shocked to do much else besides lean back against the side of the Continental as Dean deepened the kiss. His lips were smooth and just the tiniest bit wet as Dean swiped his tongue over the seam of Castiel's lips.
Throwing caution to the wind, Castiel looped his arms around Dean's neck, reeling him in even closer until their bodies were molded together from chest to knee. He eagerly returned the kiss, parting his lips to let Dean further deepen the kiss as he dropped one of his hands from Castiel's jaw, curling an arm around his waist instead.
Castiel had shared many kisses in his thirty two years. But this kiss with Dean was completely different.
There had been sweet, innocent, barely there kisses with Daphne. They were the kisses of first love, of naivete and romance.
There had been hungry, hurried, biting kisses with Meg. They were kisses with no purpose beyond progressing to sex, kisses of two young people seeking comfort in the flesh.
There had been comfortable, familiar, warm kisses with Mick. They had been Castiel's favorite up until then.
Dean's kiss was something different altogether. It was gentle and passionate and everything Castiel had ever imagined when he thought about the perfect kiss.
It ignited another fire, this time one that did not frighten Castiel. For this time, the flames flickered inside, somewhere deep in his chest.
He knew, in the back of his mind and the bottom of his heart, as warmth spread throughout every fiber of his being, this was what falling in love felt like. And that was more dangerous than any fire.
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