Chapter 1
Chapter Text
In the dim light of dawn, Castiel lay sprawled across his bed, his dark hair a tangled mess against the pillow. His room, an organised chaos of books, clothes, and various curiosities, seemed to reflect the state of his mind. Deep in the throes of sleep, he was blissfully unaware of the approaching footsteps. Gabriel entered the room with his usual air of authority, his amber eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and urgency. He took a moment to survey the disarray before him, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Castiel," he called, his voice piercing the quietude. "Wake up." Castiel groaned and turned over, burying his face deeper into the comforter. He mumbled something unintelligible, refusing to acknowledge his brother's presence. Gabriel sighed, stepping closer to the bed. "Castiel, the pack has won," he announced, his tone carrying the weight of the news. The only response was another muffled groan. Gabriel rolled his eyes, casting a critical glance around the cluttered room. "You should really clean this place up," he remarked offhandedly. At this, Castiel finally stirred, sitting up with a scowl.
"Why are you here, Gabriel?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep and irritation.
"Because you need to make yourself presentable," Gabriel replied, crossing his arms. "You're expecting someone." Instantly, Castiel's eyes lit up.
"Is Balthazar coming?" he asked, hope evident in his tone. Gabriel shook his head.
"No," he said simply. Castiel's shoulders slumped, and he sank back into the bed, pulling the comforter over his head.
"Go away," he muttered. Gabriel ignored the dismissal and perched himself on the edge of the bed, peeling the comforter back to reveal Castiel's sullen face.
"The Winchesters have signed the treaty," he said, his tone firm.
"Yippee," Castiel replied sarcastically, turning his back to Gabriel. Gabriel's expression grew stern.
"According to tradition, they must present their female children for our choosing," he continued. Castiel's brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced back at his brother.
"Why are you telling me this?" Castiel asked, scepticism lacing his words.
"Because I already have a wife and no interest in a mistress," Gabriel explained. Realisation dawned on Castiel, his eyes widening.
"No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. Gabriel gave him a knowing smile.
"It's not like you were dating anyone anyway," he said, a hint of teasing in his voice. Castiel sat up and opened his mouth to argue, but Gabriel cut him off. "I know, I know. You were saving yourself for the right one." Castiel glared at him, his frustration palpable.
"So, I have to marry some bitch just because you say so?" he snapped.
"Actually," Gabriel said, his smile widening, "you're in luck. The Winchester leader only had sons." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph, handing it to Castiel. Castiel took the photo reluctantly, his breath catching as he gazed at the image. The man in the photograph was strikingly handsome, with green eyes, sand-coloured hair, and a smattering of freckles. "Dean," Gabriel said, watching Castiel's reaction closely. "His name is Dean."
" Dean ," Castiel repeated, trying the name on his tongue. "That's not a real name." Gabriel chuckled.
"Oh, it's real alright. And it's the name of your fiancé." Castiel stared at the photograph, a mixture of emotions swirling within him. He wasn't sure what to think, but one thing was clear: his life was about to change in ways he had never imagined. Castiel lay back on his bed, still clutching the photograph. He studied Dean's face, tracing the contours of his jaw and the intensity of his green eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled over him.
"Why doesn't he have a real name?" he asked, breaking the silence. Gabriel leaned back, his gaze thoughtful.
"Dean's middle name is Michael," he replied, "but I doubt he'd appreciate it if you called him that. He's always been known as Dean."
Castiel rolled over, facing away from Gabriel.
"Why Dean?" he murmured, his voice carrying a note of resignation. Gabriel's tone softened as he answered.
"Because you deserve someone strong and capable, someone who can match you in every way. Someone who can—"
"Someone who can put up with me?" Castiel interrupted, a bitter edge to his voice. Gabriel sighed, his patience evident.
"Someone who can understand you, who can challenge you, and yes, who can put up with you. You're not the easiest person to live with, Castiel." Castiel's eyes narrowed as he stared at the wall, the photograph still clutched tightly in his hand. He knew Gabriel was right, but it didn't make the situation any easier to accept.
"And you think Dean can do that?" he asked, scepticism dripping from every word.
"From what I've gathered, Dean is resilient, resourceful, and fiercely loyal. He might not be thrilled about this arrangement either, but he seems strong enough to make it work." Castiel's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. He didn't know Dean, but something in Gabriel's words resonated with him. He had always struggled with his place in the pack, feeling overshadowed by his brother's leadership and the weight of their father's legacy. The idea of having someone by his side, someone who could stand up to him and support him, was both terrifying and oddly comforting. He turned back to Gabriel, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty.
"What if it doesn't work out?" he asked, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at him. Gabriel met his gaze with unwavering confidence.
"Then we'll deal with it together," he said simply. "But give it a chance, Castiel. You might be surprised." Castiel sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He looked at the photograph once more, tracing Dean's features with his eyes.
" Dean ," he whispered, as if trying to familiarise himself with the name. The man in the picture seemed so different from anyone he had ever known, yet there was something about him that intrigued Castiel. He handed the photograph back to Gabriel and sat up, his resolve hardening. "Fine," he said, his voice steady. "I'll give it a chance." Gabriel smiled, a rare expression of genuine relief and pride.
"Good," he said, standing up. "Now, get ready. We have a lot to prepare for."
As Gabriel left the room, Castiel felt a strange mix of apprehension and excitement. He looked around at the clutter and chaos of his room, feeling a sudden urge to bring some order to it. Maybe Gabriel was right; maybe this was the start of something new, something that could change everything. With a deep breath, Castiel began to tidy up, his mind racing with thoughts of Dean and the future that awaited them. The world outside was full of uncertainty, but for the first time in a long while, Castiel felt a spark of hope. Castiel moved through his room with purpose, his hands deftly organising the clutter that had accumulated over weeks. As he folded clothes and stacked books, his mind drifted to thoughts of Dean. The photograph had captured more than just a face; it had ignited a spark of curiosity within him. He imagined what Dean's voice might sound like, how he might carry himself, and what his reactions would be to the situation forced upon them. Castiel wondered if Dean felt as uneasy about this arrangement as he did. The thought of meeting someone under such circumstances was daunting, but there was also a strange allure to the unknown.
By the time the room was in a semblance of order, the sun had risen, casting a golden hue through the curtains. Castiel paused by the window, his gaze distant as he watched the pack's territory awaken to a new day. The world outside seemed almost normal, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. A knock on the door pulled him from his reverie. Gabriel entered, his expression a blend of approval and mild surprise.
"Looks like you actually cleaned up," he remarked, his tone light but sincere. Castiel shrugged, turning away from the window.
"Had to start somewhere," he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Gabriel nodded, his eyes softening as he looked around the room.
"You did good, Castiel. But there's still a month until Dean arrives."
All the air seemed to go out of Castiel, and he sank down to the floor, his back against the wall.
"You tricked me," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Gabriel walked over and crouched beside him, his expression earnest.
"Did you really think I would give you news of this weight without giving you time to adjust?" he asked gently. Castiel glared at him, frustration evident in his eyes.
"You still tricked me," he insisted, his tone accusing.
Gabriel sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Maybe I did," he admitted, his voice soft. "But you needed to hear it. This isn't just about you, Cassie. It's about the pack, about securing our future. And I know you—if I had told you there was time, you would have put off cleaning to the last second." Castiel looked away, his thoughts a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He knew Gabriel was right, but it didn't make it any easier to accept.
"A month," he murmured, more to himself than to his brother. "What am I supposed to do until then?" Gabriel smiled slightly, placing a reassuring hand on Castiel's shoulder.
"Prepare," he said simply. "Get to know yourself, figure out what you want out of this. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find that this isn't the end of the world." Castiel closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. The weight of the impending meeting with Dean settled heavily on him, but Gabriel's words offered a small measure of comfort. He had time—time to adjust, to prepare, and to face the unknown with as much strength as he could muster. As Gabriel stood and made his way to the door, Castiel remained on the floor, lost in thought. The room, now neat and orderly, felt strangely foreign, a reflection of the changes within him. He had always clung to routines and order, finding solace in their predictability. Now, with everything shifting around him, he realised that perhaps it was time to embrace the uncertainty.
He opened his eyes and looked around, his gaze settling on the photograph of Dean that Gabriel had left on his desk. With a sigh, Castiel pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room, picking up the photo. He studied Dean's face once more, feeling a flicker of determination ignite within him.
No matter what lay ahead, Castiel knew he had to face it head-on. For the sake of his pack, and perhaps even for himself, he would find a way to navigate this new and uncharted territory. The month ahead would be a time of growth and discovery, a chance to redefine who he was and what he wanted.
And with that thought, Castiel felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would meet Dean, and together, they would forge a new path forward—one step at a time.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Chapter word count: 4 838(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Dinner at the Winchester household was a subdued affair, the air thick with unspoken tensions. The long, wooden dining table bore the weight of a feast that no one seemed eager to eat. Dean sat with a scowl etched into his handsome face, his green eyes dark with frustration. His father, John, sat at the head of the table, his posture stiff and his expression stern. Adam, the youngest, was conspicuously absent, his place setting a silent testament to the chaotic state of their family. John cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence.
"Dean," he began, his voice measured, "we need to discuss the arrangement." Dean's fork clattered onto his plate as he looked up, eyes blazing.
"You mean the forced marriage," he corrected, his tone sharp. "I can’t believe you’re actually going through with this." John’s gaze hardened.
"This isn’t just about you, Dean. It’s about the pack, about securing peace." Dean’s laugh was bitter.
"Peace? By marrying me off to some stranger? And not even to the pack leader, but his younger brother who didn’t even fight in the war."
"Castiel," John said, his voice cold. "His name is Castiel. And this is tradition." Dean shook his head, the anger boiling just beneath the surface.
"Tradition be damned. I didn’t fight to be pawned off like this." John’s face softened, just for a moment, before the stern leader reasserted itself.
"I understand, Dean. But we all have to make sacrifices for the greater good. You need to be accommodating. The peace is dependent on it." Dean’s fists clenched at his sides.
"I told you from the start, a war over territories would end badly," he snapped, standing up abruptly. "This isn’t what I fought for." He stormed out of the dining room, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed through the silent house. John sighed, the weight of his responsibilities evident in the lines of his face.
Back in his childhood room, Dean paced the floor, his mind racing. The room was a mess, a stark contrast to the neatness he usually maintained. He had been staying there for two weeks, ever since his father had summoned him home with the devastating news. Two weeks until the wedding. The very thought made him want to scream. He had been working as a chef at a local bistro, finding joy in the simple, creative act of cooking. The territory war had ripped him away from that life, and now this new arrangement threatened to shatter any hope of returning to normalcy.
Dean threw himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind wandered back to the days before the war, when his biggest worry had been perfecting a new recipe. Now, he was expected to marry a man he had never met, a man he knew nothing about. The door to his room creaked open, and John stepped in, closing it gently behind him.
"Dean," he began, his tone conciliatory, "I know this is hard for you."
"You have no idea," Dean replied, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "You’re asking me to give up everything." John sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I’m asking you to ensure our pack survives. The Novaks are an old, powerful pack. We need this alliance." Dean turned to face his father, his green eyes filled with a mix of anger and desperation.
"And what about what I need? What about my life?"
John’s expression softened.
"I wish things could be different, Dean. I really do. But this is the hand we’ve been dealt. We have to play it as best we can." Dean looked away, his mind a turmoil of conflicting emotions. He hated this, hated the sense of powerlessness. But deep down, he knew his father was right. The pack’s survival depended on this alliance.
"I just… I don’t know how to do this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
John placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.
"You’ll figure it out. You’re strong, Dean." Dean did not reply, his mind too clouded with thoughts of the future. The next few weeks would be the hardest of his life, but somehow, he had to find a way to navigate this new reality.
After John left Dean sat on the edge of his childhood bed, his fists clenching and unclenching in rhythm with his rising frustration. The room was exactly as he had left it years ago, posters of classic cars and rock bands adorning the walls, remnants of a simpler time. Now, it felt like a cage, closing in on him with every second that ticked by. His thoughts were a whirlwind of anger and confusion. At twenty-four, he should have been living his life, working as a chef, dating, and planning a future on his own terms. Instead, he was being forced into a marriage for the sake of the pack. He understood the necessity, understood the burden his father carried as the pack leader, but that understanding did nothing to ease the bitterness that gnawed at him. His flat, the sanctuary he had painstakingly made his own, had been put up for sale without his consent. The money from the sale would not even be given to him but had been added to the fund for the wedding. A wedding he hadn't wanted and hadn't agreed to. Dean felt the sting of betrayal sharp and deep.
With a growl, he pushed himself off the bed and began to pace. The soft carpet muffled his footsteps, but it couldn't silence the storm inside him. He stopped by the window, looking out at the familiar landscape of their territory. The trees swayed gently in the night breeze, oblivious to the turmoil in his heart.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes.
"This wasn't supposed to be my life," he whispered to the empty room. The words felt hollow, a futile protest against a fate already sealed. He could hear his father’s voice in his head, stern yet compassionate. ‘We all have to make sacrifices, Dean. For the greater good.’ But why did it always have to be him making the sacrifices? He had fought in the war, risked his life, and now he was expected to give up his future as well.
The image of Castiel flashed in his mind, a shadowy figure without a face. Dean knew almost nothing about him, except that he was the younger brother of the current Novak pack leader and had not fought in the war. The thought of marrying a stranger, of being bound to someone he didn’t know, filled him with dread. He wondered what Castiel was like. Was he as resentful of this arrangement as Dean? Did he have any idea what it felt like to have his life turned upside down? Dean sighed, his anger giving way to a deep, bone-weary sadness.
He moved to his old desk, cluttered with relics of his past – a model car he had built with his brothers, a stack of comic books he used to read under the covers with a flashlight. He picked up a photograph of his family from happier times. His father, John, stood tall and proud, his arm around Mary, Dean’s mother, who had died when Dean was still a child. And there he was, a younger version of himself, eyes bright with dreams yet to be shattered.
A knock on the door jolted him from his reverie. He didn’t respond, hoping whoever it was would just go away. The door creaked open anyway, and his younger brother Samuel peeked his head through the gap.
“Dean?” Samuel’s voice was hesitant, as if he was intruding on sacred ground. “Can I come in?” Dean sighed and nodded, not trusting his voice. Samuel entered, closing the door softly behind him. He stood awkwardly for a moment before crossing the room to sit on the bed. “I know you’re pissed,” Samuel said, his tone cautious. “I would be too, if I were in your shoes.” Dean chuckled bitterly.
“You have no idea, Sam.” Samuel looked down at his hands, fiddling with a loose thread on his jeans.
“Dad’s just trying to do what’s best for the pack. You know that, right?”
“Doesn’t make it any easier,” Dean replied, his voice tight. “I had a life, Sam. I had plans. And now… now I’m supposed to marry a stranger because of some stupid tradition.”
“I know,” Samuel said quietly. “But maybe… maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe Castiel is just as scared and angry as you are.” Dean snorted.
“Or maybe he’s thrilled at the idea of me being stripped of my birthright and losing my connection to the Winchester pack.”
Samuel frowned.
“Do you really think that?” Dean shrugged, a heavy sigh escaping his lips.
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. That’s part of the problem.”
Samuel stood, moving to the window where Dean had been standing moments before. He looked out at the darkening landscape, his expression thoughtful.
“You know, when Dad told me about the arrangement, I was mad too. Not as mad as you, but still... it didn’t seem fair.” Dean raised an eyebrow.
“So what changed your mind?” Samuel turned to face him, a small, rueful smile on his lips.
“I realised that sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to for the sake of those we care about. And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t the end of the world. Maybe it’s a new beginning.” Dean wanted to argue, to rail against the injustice of it all, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he simply nodded, the fight momentarily draining out of him. He flopped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Over the next week, Dean stayed in his old room as much as he could, the space becoming both his sanctuary and his prison. The familiar walls, once comforting, now seemed to close in on him with each passing day. The posters of classic cars and rock bands felt like mocking relics of a past he could no longer return to. His father, John, gave him space but frequently reminded him of the necessity of the upcoming union. The reminders were unwelcome, each one a dagger to his resolve. Before he had to head back to Stanford Samuel had tried to lighten his mood with jokes and conversations about their childhood, but even those moments were tinged with the shadow of what was to come. Adam, ever the curious teenager, would peek into his room now and then, asking questions that Dean was in no mood to answer.
One afternoon, a welcome reprieve came when John announced they were going out.
"Suit shopping," he said, his tone attempting to be light. Dean looked up from his bed, a mix of relief and resignation in his eyes. As they drove into town, the landscape passed by in a blur. The trees, the houses, the people—all seemed to move in a different rhythm from the turmoil inside him. John’s old pickup truck rumbled along the roads, the familiar sound a small comfort amidst the chaos. Garth, their longtime family friend and the local tailor, met them at his shop. The small establishment was filled with the scent of fabric and the soft hum of a sewing machine. Garth greeted them with a wide grin, his eyes twinkling with genuine warmth.
“Dean!” he exclaimed, clapping him on the back. “I hear we’re getting you a suit. Exciting times, eh?” Dean managed a tight smile.
“Yeah, something like that.” Garth led them to the back of the shop where bolts of fabric in various colours and textures lined the walls.
“We’ll find you something sharp, don’t you worry,” he said, pulling out a measuring tape. “Let’s start with your measurements.” As Garth worked, his hands deftly measuring Dean’s shoulders, waist, and inseam, he kept up a steady stream of chatter. “So, tell me about the lucky person! I bet they’re over the moon to be marrying you.” Dean’s jaw tightened, but he forced a polite response.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Aren’t all great love stories?” Garth chuckled, oblivious to the tension. “How did you two meet?” Dean exchanged a glance with John, who gave him a subtle nod.
“We haven’t, actually. It’s more of an arranged situation.” Garth’s hands paused briefly before resuming their work.
“Ah, I see. Well, sometimes those turn out to be the strongest matches. My grandparents had an arranged marriage, you know. Sixty years they were together. Loved each other to bits.” Dean tried to muster some semblance of optimism.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“What’s their name?” Garth asked, moving to measure Dean’s chest. “I’m sure they’re wonderful.”
“Castiel,” Dean replied, the name feeling strange on his tongue. He had rehearsed saying it several times, trying to make it feel real. Garth’s eyes lit up with curiosity.
“Castiel, that’s a unique name. What’s he like?”
“I don’t really know much about him.” Dean swallowed hard. “It’s all very sudden.”
“I understand.” Garth nodded, a sympathetic look crossing his face. “It must be quite a whirlwind for you.” Dean’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
“You could say that.”
Garth continued his work, occasionally asking more questions.
“What’s the ceremony going to be like? Any special traditions?” Before Dean could answer John cut in, his tone abruptly serious. “Our family won’t be there. Dean will be handed over to the Novak family next week, and they will take it from there.” This was news to Dean, and his stomach dropped at the revelation. Garth’s hands stilled momentarily before he resumed his work with a nervous chuckle.
“Sounds… different. But I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” Dean forced a smile, trying to hide his shock.
“Yeah, different is one way to put it.”
The rest of the fitting passed in a blur, Garth’s cheerful chatter barely registering as Dean’s mind raced. The realisation that his family wouldn’t be present at the ceremony hit him hard. It felt like he was being exiled, cut off from everything familiar. After the fitting, they drove back home in silence. Dean stared out of the window, the landscape passing by unnoticed. He felt like a pawn being moved around a chessboard, with no control over his own destiny.
When they arrived home, the tension in the air was palpable. As soon as John parked the car, Dean exploded, his pent-up fury bursting forth.
"You waited until a week and a half before the wedding to tell me that in half a week, I’ll be leaving the pack and that none of you will even attend the wedding? What the hell, Dad?" Dean’s voice was a thunderclap in the still evening air. John sat silently, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he listened to his son’s tirade. Dean's green eyes flashed with anger, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. "I’ve given up everything for this pack. My life, my dreams, and now you’re asking me to just go along with this without a fight? Without my family there to support me?" Dean's voice cracked with the weight of his frustration and despair. John turned to look at him, his eyes cold and unwavering.
"You done?" he asked, his voice icy and controlled. Dean glared at him, the anger still simmering beneath the surface.
"For now," he spat, his voice low and dangerous. John took a deep breath, his gaze hardening.
"You will go through with this, Dean. You will do what I say. You will not cause a scene at the wedding, and you will do what the Novaks ask of you. Like a good son." The words hit Dean like a physical blow. He stared at his father, disbelief mingling with the fury in his eyes.
"A good son?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is that all I am to you? A pawn to be moved around, a tool to be used for the pack’s benefit?" John’s expression remained impassive.
"This is bigger than you, Dean. Bigger than all of us. The peace of our territory depends on this union. You will do your duty." Dean felt the last of his resolve crumble. The weight of his father’s expectations, the crushing reality of his situation, bore down on him with relentless force. He turned away, unable to look at John any longer. Without another word, he got out of the car and stormed into the house, his footsteps echoing through the silent rooms. He went straight to his room, slamming the door behind him. He collapsed onto his bed, the anger giving way to a deep, aching sadness. His thoughts drifted to Castiel, the shadowy figure who now represented his uncertain future. Was he as trapped by this arrangement as Dean felt? The unknown loomed before him, a chasm he was powerless to cross. In the quiet of his room, Dean allowed himself to grieve for the life he had lost, for the dreams that would never be realised. The weight of his father’s expectations, the crushing reality of his situation, bore down on him with relentless force. The night stretched on, the house silent around him. Dean’s thoughts churned, a storm of emotions and fears. But amidst the turmoil, a small flicker of determination began to grow. He would face this future head-on, with all the strength he could muster. And maybe, just maybe, he would find a way to make it work.
The next few days came and went in a blur for Dean. Each morning he awoke to the same oppressive sense of dread, the weight of his impending fate bearing down on him. His family moved around him, their attempts at normalcy only highlighting the tension that lay just beneath the surface. The house, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison, its walls echoing with unspoken words and unshed tears.
On Saturday, Dean and John drove back to Garth’s shop to pick up the suit. The drive was silent, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Dean stared out the window, his thoughts a chaotic mess. The trees, bathed in the soft morning light, seemed indifferent to his turmoil. When they arrived, Garth greeted them with a subdued smile. The usual twinkle in his eye was absent, replaced by a cautious reserve. It was clear to Dean that their last encounter had left an impression. Garth led them to the back of the shop where the suit awaited, its dark fabric draped elegantly on a hanger along with a crisp white button up and a tie in a matching shade of blue.Garth carefully removed the protective cover, holding the garments up for inspection.
“Here it is,” he said, his voice a touch quieter than usual. “I made a few adjustments based on your measurements.” Dean nodded, stepping forward to take the suit. He ran his fingers over the smooth fabric, the reality of the situation sinking in even deeper. Garth’s usual chatter was replaced by a respectful silence. The tension was palpable, a stark contrast to the warmth that usually filled the small shop.
“Thanks, Garth,” Dean said, his voice low. Garth gave him a small, understanding smile.
“No problem, Dean. I hope it all goes well.”
Dean took the hanger and disappeared into the fitting room. The space was small, with a single mirror and a wooden bench. He hung the hanger on a hook and took a deep breath before beginning to change. The fabric felt cool and smooth against his skin, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him.
As he buttoned up the shirt he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like a man ready to face his destiny, even if he didn’t feel like one. He pulled the jacket on and took a deep breath. The suit fit perfectly, hugging his frame in all the right places.
Garth’s voice called from outside the fitting room.
“How does it feel, Dean?” Dean took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding.
“It fits well. You did a great job, Garth.” Garth’s relieved sigh was audible even through the door.
“Good to hear. Step out so we can take a look.” Dean opened the door and stepped out, feeling the weight of the suit and the eyes of both his father and Garth upon him. Garth circled him, making a few minor adjustments, his professional focus providing a brief respite from the emotional storm.
“It looks great on you, Dean,” Garth said, a hint of pride returning to his voice. “How does it feel? Any tightness or discomfort?” Dean moved his shoulders, testing the range of motion.
“No, it feels fine. You really did a great job.” Garth nodded, satisfied.
“I’m glad to hear that. You need to be comfortable on such an important day.”
“Yeah, comfort is key.” Dean forced a smile, though the words felt hollow.
John, who had been silent until now, stepped forward and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“You look good, son. This is going to be fine.” Dean met his father’s gaze, the cold command from earlier still lingering in his mind.
“I’ll do what needs to be done,” he said, his voice steady but lacking conviction. John’s grip tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
“I know you will.”
They left the shop with the suit carefully packed away, the drive back home as silent as the one before. Dean’s mind continued to churn, the reality of his situation pressing down on him like a physical weight. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped, but he knew there was no way out.
When Dean and John got home, the tension between them remained thick. John parked the car in the driveway, and as the engine died, the silence hung heavily. Dean opened the car door and stepped out, his movements deliberate and slow.
"Dean," John called out as he locked the car. "Start packing." Dean turned to him, a tight smile stretching across his face. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, which were filled with a mixture of resignation and simmering anger.
"Sure thing, Dad." John didn’t flinch at the sarcasm.
"Your belongings should fit into a duffel bag now that the apartment has been sold." Dean’s smile disappeared. The sale of his apartment had been the final betrayal, a reminder that his autonomy had been stripped away. He nodded curtly and headed inside, each step up the porch stairs feeling like a march towards an inevitable end.
His room was a stark contrast to the vibrant, lived-in space it had once been. The posters of classic cars and rock bands seemed to mock him, their bright colours a sharp contrast to the grey cloud that had settled over his life. The duffel bag lay open on his bed, waiting to swallow up the remnants of his old life. Dean moved mechanically, pulling clothes from the closet and dresser, folding them with methodical precision. Each item felt like a small surrender, a piece of his identity being packed away. He found himself lingering over small objects—an old leather jacket, a well-worn baseball cap, a collection of mixtapes he and Samuel had made during their teenage years. His mind wandered to the countless nights spent driving aimlessly with Samuel, the wind whipping through the open windows as they sang along to their favourite songs. The freedom of those days felt like a distant dream now. As he packed, his thoughts kept returning to Castiel. What was he doing right now? Was he feeling the same dread, the same sense of loss? Dean couldn’t help but wonder if Castiel’s room was filled with similar mementoes, silent witnesses to a life about to change forever.
When he finished, Dean zipped up the duffel bag and hefted it over his shoulder, the weight settling heavily against his back. He made his way downstairs, the house eerily quiet. John was in the living room, the television on but muted. He looked up as Dean entered, his eyes flicking to the duffel bag.
"Ready?" Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He felt like a prisoner about to be transported to a new, uncertain fate. They walked out to the car in silence, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their feet. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and the distant murmur of the forest. Dean loaded his bag into the trunk and climbed into the passenger seat.
The drive to the Novak farm was long and silent, the landscape passing by in a blur. Dean stared out the window, his mind a tumultuous mix of anger, fear, and reluctant acceptance. He thought about his future, about the man he was about to meet, and about the duty he couldn’t escape. When they arrived, the Novak farm, the half circle of houses was illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns and the pale light of the half-moon. The large, sprawling estate had an almost ethereal quality, its grand architecture blending seamlessly with the surrounding forest. It was a place steeped in history and tradition, a stark reminder of the world Dean was now to become a part of.
Gabriel Novak stood at the entrance, his amber eyes sharp and assessing. He greeted John with a curt nod before turning his attention to Dean.
"Welcome," he said, his voice carrying a weight of authority. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest as he followed Gabriel through the grand entrance. The hallway was impressive, filled with rich, dark wood and elegant furnishings. It felt both welcoming and intimidating, a reflection of the family that resided there. Gabriel led Dean to a house at the far end of the half circle. "Wait here," he instructed, before disappearing into the house. Dean stood there, the night air cool against his skin, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He looked around, taking in the grandeur of the estate. The soft rustle of leaves in the wind was the only sound, adding to the surreal feeling of the moment. When Gabriel returned, he spoke in a measured tone. "Per tradition, the groom and bride are not to see each other until the wedding. You will be put up in the second-floor guest bedroom in the meantime."
Dean followed Gabriel into the house, the interior of the it growing more impressive with each step. The rich, dark wood and elegant furnishings spoke of a deep history and an unwavering adherence to tradition. Yet, as they reached what would be Dean's current residence, the atmosphere shifted. The room he was led to was starkly different, devoid of the warmth and history found elsewhere in the house. It was obvious that it had never been used; the furniture looked new, almost too new, as if it had been hastily arranged for his arrival. Dean could almost smell the plastic packaging that had recently lined the furniture. The bed, the mini fridge, dresser, and nightstand were pristine, their surfaces untouched by time or use. His heart began to race as he wondered what type of man would prepare a room in such a way, what kind of life awaited him in this new and uncharted territory. Gabriel watched him for a moment before speaking again.
"You’ll have everything you need here. You are not to leave unless fetched, okay? If you require anything, there will be someone available to assist you. Rest well, Dean."
With that, Gabriel left, closing the door behind him. Dean stood in the middle of the room, feeling a strange mix of isolation and anticipation. He walked over to the window, looking out at the moonlit landscape. The Novak estate was beautiful, a perfect blend of nature and architecture, but it felt like a gilded cage.
Dean sighed and turned away from the window, taking in the starkness of the room once more. He placed his duffel bag on the bed and began unpacking, his movements slow and deliberate. Each item he placed in the dresser felt like a small concession to his new reality, a reluctant acceptance of the life that lay ahead.
As he settled into the room, his thoughts kept drifting back to Castiel. The mysterious figure loomed large in his mind, a shadowy presence that both intrigued and unsettled him. He wondered how Castiel was feeling, what he was thinking, and whether he, too, felt the weight of the impending union.
Dean lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The silence of the room was deafening, the unfamiliar surroundings amplifying his sense of dislocation. He closed his eyes, trying to quiet his mind, but sleep was elusive. His thoughts churned, a tempest of emotions and fears, until the first light of dawn began to creep through the window.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Chapter word count: 6 299
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Castiel slumped onto his unmade bed, staring at the ceiling as frustration and anger gnawed at him. The soft glow of the moon filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting pale patterns on the cluttered floor. His room, once a sanctuary of order and routine, was now a chaotic mess, mirroring the turmoil within him. Clothes were strewn haphazardly, books lay in disarray, and the photograph of Dean sat on his desk, a constant reminder of the upheaval in his life.
He glanced at his phone, willing it to ring. He had called Balthazar multiple times, hoping to vent his anger and seek some solace, but each call had gone unanswered. The silence from his friend felt like yet another betrayal. Castiel's fingers itched to dial Balthazar's number again, but he knew it would be futile. Balthazar was probably off somewhere, living his carefree life, oblivious to the turmoil Castiel was enduring. The faint scent of Dean drifted into his room, mingling with the familiar smells of home. It was an unsettling reminder that a stranger was now living in his house, invading his space. The knowledge that Dean was just a few rooms away gnawed at him, amplifying his sense of invasion and loss. He wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but instead, he lay there, paralysed by a mix of anger and resignation.
"Gabriel," he muttered to himself, the name a bitter taste on his tongue. His older brother had turned his precious art studio into a guest room for Dean to reside in, without so much as a word of consultation. The studio had been his haven, a place where he could lose himself in his paintings and escape the rigid expectations of pack life. Now it was just another symbol of the sacrifices he was forced to make. With a growl of frustration, Castiel sat up and grabbed his phone, dialling Balthazar's number once more. He listened to the rings, each one feeling like an eternity, until the call went to voicemail. He didn't bother leaving a message; there was nothing more to say. He threw the phone onto the bed and buried his face in his hands, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him.
A knock on the door interrupted his brooding. Gabriel entered the room, his gaze sweeping over the mess that had accumulated over the past week. He raised an eyebrow but then his expression softened when he saw the state of his younger brother.
"Castiel," Gabriel began gently, trying to get his brother to look up. "We need to talk."
"Go away," Castiel muttered, his voice muffled by his hands.
"Look up, Cassie," Gabriel insisted, his tone firm but caring.
"You've done enough, Gabriel. Making me marry someone I haven't even met—someone who doesn’t even belong here!"
"I know it’s hard, but—"
"I can hear him, you know. I can smell him, " Castiel snapped, “it's like he's everywhere, invading my space…” trailing off as he lifted his head, eyes blazing, until he saw Balthazar standing behind Gabriel. The sight of his friend took him by surprise; he must have been too distracted to notice his scent. Balthazar, ever the picture of elegance in his stylish attire, flashed a roguish smile.
"Miss me, darling?" Castiel’s anger melted into a mixture of relief and confusion.
"What are you doing here?"
Gabriel stepped aside, allowing Balthazar to enter the room fully.
"I called him," Gabriel admitted. "I thought you might need your friend right now." Balthazar sauntered over to Castiel and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Gabriel told me what’s been going on. Flew over as soon as I could, I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls, aeroplane mode and all that." Castiel’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him.
"I don’t know what to do, Balthazar. Everything is changing, and I feel like I have no control." Balthazar placed a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder.
"Change is never easy, Cassie. But you’ve faced worse, haven’t you?" Castiel nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting the struggle within.
"But this feels different. I feel like I’m losing everything." Balthazar’s expression softened, and with a flick of his wrist and a soft incantation under his breath, a cluster of honeybees appeared, their delicate wings glistening in the moonlight. The bees floated around Castiel, their gentle hum filling the room. Castiel's eyes widened in surprise and then softened with wonder. He had always been fascinated by honeybees since learning about their role in nature and their ability to create honey.
"Remember these little friends?" Balthazar asked with a playful smile. "You used to spend hours watching them in the garden, mesmerised by their work." Castiel reached out, a small smile breaking through his sullen expression as a bee landed on his fingertip.
"I remember," he whispered. "They always seemed so purposeful, so organised."
"Just like you," Balthazar replied gently. "You’ve always found comfort in structure, in knowing your place and purpose. And I know this situation feels like everything is out of control, but you’re stronger than you think." Castiel watched the bee for a moment before looking up at Balthazar.
"Will you stay?"
"Of course, darling.” Balthazar's smile widened, and he gave a theatrical bow. “After all, you will need a best man, won’t you?" Castiel chuckled softly, feeling a small measure of comfort settle within him.
"Thank you."
"Now, let’s get this room in order, shall we?” Balthazar stood and clapped his hands, the bees dispersing into the air. “There’s no way you’ll be able to face your new life with everything in such disarray." Together, they began to tidy up the room. Balthazar's presence brought a sense of normalcy and reassurance that Castiel desperately needed. As they worked, Castiel felt the weight of his worries lighten, if only slightly. He knew the path ahead was uncertain and fraught with challenges, but with Balthazar by his side, he felt a glimmer of hope. As they finished, Castiel stood by the window, looking out into the night. The moonlight bathed the Novak grounds in a silvery glow, casting long shadows across the landscape. He took a deep breath, feeling the cool night air fill his lungs.
"Balthazar," he said quietly, "do you think... do you think I… that Dean and I can make this work?"
Balthazar joined him by the window, his gaze thoughtful.
"I can’t say for certain, Cassie. But I believe in you. And what I’ve heard from Gabriel about Dean, he’s a resilient man. You both have the strength to face this, and perhaps, in time, you’ll find common ground." Castiel nodded, his mind racing with possibilities.
"I hope you’re right."
"Whatever happens, I’ll be here for you.” Balthazar placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’re not alone in this."
With Balthazar’s words echoing in his mind, Castiel felt a renewed sense of determination. He would face this challenge head-on, and with the support of his friend, he would find a way to navigate the uncertain path ahead. The world outside was full of unknowns, but for the first time in a long while, Castiel felt a spark of hope. He would meet Dean, and together, they would forge a new path forward—one step at a time.
Balthazar sat down on Castiel's bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. Castiel cringed, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the newly made bed being disturbed. Balthazar noticed the change in Castiel’s expression and let out an exaggerated sigh.
"Oh, come on, Cassie," he said, a playful smile tugging at his lips. Castiel looked away, a stubborn set to his jaw.
"That’s my bed, Balthazar," he muttered, his voice laced with annoyance. "No one should be in it." Balthazar quirked an eyebrow, his expression turning mischievous.
"Not even your husband ?" Castiel’s head snapped back to face Balthazar, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and discomfort. The thought of sharing his bed, his sanctuary, with Dean was jarring. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the concept of intimacy with the stranger who was now his fiancé.
"I… I don’t know," Castiel stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. The idea of Dean in his bed, of that level of closeness, was overwhelming. He had always cherished his personal space, a bubble of control in a world that often felt chaotic. The intrusion, even in the form of a theoretical husband, was too much to process. Balthazar’s expression softened, and he leaned back against the headboard, crossing his legs casually.
"Cassie, it’s natural to feel this way. Your room has always been your sanctuary, a place where you can control every detail. But life, especially now, is going to require you to make room for someone else." Castiel bit his lip, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"I’ve never had to share my space before. It feels… intrusive ."
Balthazar nodded, understanding and empathy evident in his eyes.
"Change is always hard, but think of it this way: you might find that sharing your space with someone you care about can bring a new kind of comfort, a different kind of order. You might even come to cherish it." Castiel considered Balthazar’s words, his mind drifting back to the photograph of Dean. He imagined those green eyes, the freckles scattered across his cheeks, and the strong, capable hands that were so different from his own. Could he really find solace in someone else’s presence? A honeybee buzzed in front of Castiel's face, interrupting his thoughts. He snapped back to reality, his eyes narrowing.
"I know you're controlling them, Balthazar."
"Me?” Balthazar faked innocence, shrugging with a playful grin. “Control bees? How preposterous." Castiel sighed, shaking his head at his friend’s antics. Balthazar patted the spot next to him on the bed. "Come sit down, Cassie." Reluctantly, Castiel moved to the bed, sitting down beside Balthazar. The mattress shifted under their combined weight, and Castiel felt a strange sense of comfort in the shared space. Balthazar’s presence was a soothing balm to his frazzled nerves. "Listen," Balthazar began, his tone gentle but firm. "You don’t have to figure everything out right now. Take it one step at a time. Get to know Dean, let him get to know you. Relationships are built on small moments of understanding and connection." Castiel nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the honeybee that had landed on his finger. Its delicate wings shimmered in the soft light, a symbol of fragility and resilience. He watched it for a moment before looking up at Balthazar.
"What if Dean doesn’t want to get to know me? What if he resents this as much as I do?" Balthazar squeezed Castiel’s shoulder reassuringly.
"Then you find common ground in that. You’re both in this situation together, and that shared experience can be a starting point. Just be honest with each other. Let him see who you really are." Castiel took a deep breath, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.
"I’ll try," he said softly. "I’ll try to be open."
"That’s all you can do, Cassie," Balthazar replied, a warm smile spreading across his face. "And remember, you’re not alone. I’m here for you, and so is Gabriel. We’ll face this together." Castiel felt a surge of gratitude towards his friend. The path ahead was uncertain, but with Balthazar’s support, he felt a renewed sense of determination. He would meet Dean, open his heart, and try to build something new from the chaos. As they sat together in the quiet of the room, the honeybee flew away, leaving Castiel with a sense of hope and possibility. The future was uncertain, but for the first time, he felt ready to face it. Then Balthazar laughed to himself, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. Castiel looked at him, curiosity piqued by his friend's sudden amusement.
"What’s so funny?" Castiel asked, raising an eyebrow. Balthazar's eyes twinkled with mischief as he replied.
"I just remembered how much you used to fuss when I sat on your bed when you were a child. Some things never change, do they?"
"I suppose not.” Castiel's lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “You always did have a knack for annoying me."
"Ah, but you loved me for it," Balthazar said with a wink. Castiel shook his head, a small laugh escaping his lips.
"I did, didn't I? And you never seemed to care about my complaints." Balthazar's expression softened.
"Because I knew you needed me, even if you didn’t want to admit it. Just like now." The room fell into a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the bees outside the window a soothing backdrop to their conversation. Castiel’s mind wandered back to those childhood days when Balthazar had been his constant companion. The witch’s presence had always brought a sense of stability, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in navigating the complexities of his world.
"Do you remember the time you made the honeybees build a hive in my wardrobe?" Castiel asked, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips.
"How could I forget?” Balthazar chuckled, leaning back against the headboard. “You were furious at first, but then you spent hours watching them work. You even named the queen bee 'Regina' ."
"She was beautiful.” Castiel nodded, his gaze distant as he recalled the memory. “The hive thrived in there for months. Until Gabriel found it, of course."
"Ah, yes. Gabriel and his relentless need for order," Balthazar said, his tone affectionate. "He never quite understood the beauty of chaos the way you do." Castiel sighed, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
"He’s always been the one holding everything together. I suppose it's why he’s the leader."
"And you," Balthazar said gently, "bring a different kind of strength to the pack. Your creativity, your empathy. Those are not lesser qualities, Cassie. They are what make you uniquely valuable." Castiel glanced at Balthazar, gratitude and uncertainty mingling in his gaze.
"I hope you’re right."
"I am.” Balthazar smiled reassuringly. “Trust me, Cassie, losing that bet to your father was one of the best things that ever happened to me." Castiel’s eyes widened in surprise.
"You don't mean that," he said in disbelief. Balthazar's expression turned serious, his eyes locking with Castiel's.
"I most definitely do. And God knows it’s the best thing that could have happened to you. Who else would have raised you? Gabriel was always busy training to be the leader, and your father was... well, he was your father." A warmth spread through Castiel’s chest at Balthazar’s words. He had always known, on some level, that Balthazar’s presence had been a gift. But hearing it said so plainly made him see his childhood in a new light.
"Thank you, Balthazar," Castiel said softly, his voice thick with emotion. Balthazar reached over and ruffled Castiel’s hair, his touch light and comforting.
"No need to thank me, darling. You’re family. Always have been, always will be." Castiel smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. For the first time in days, he felt a sense of peace. With Balthazar by his side, maybe —just maybe— he could face the uncertain future with courage and hope. The bees, now swarmed outside the window, continued their gentle hum, a reminder of the natural order that persisted even in the face of change. Castiel took a deep breath, feeling the cool night air fill his lungs, and looked at Balthazar with a newfound resolve.
Meanwhile, Dean lay restless in his room upstairs, his mind churning with unspoken thoughts and frustrations. It had been a day since he had been confined to this new space, and the walls seemed to close in on him with each passing hour. The room, despite its elegant furnishings, felt like a cage. He could hear the low murmur of conversation through the floor, but the words were indistinct, leaving him feeling more isolated. Dean paced the room, his restlessness manifesting in the rhythmic thud of his boots against the polished wooden floor. The furnishings were elegant, yet they offered no comfort. He had spent most of his time inspecting every corner, looking for some clue about his new life, but all he found were more questions. The books on the shelves were untouched, the wardrobe held clothes that were not his, and the bed, though comfortable, felt alien. He stopped by the window, looking out at the sprawling Novak grounds. The moon cast a silvery glow over the grounds, illuminating the shadows of ancient trees and the quiet beauty of the land. It was a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. He thought about his life before the war, before this forced union, and a pang of longing pierced his heart. He missed the simplicity of working at the bistro, the joy of creating something tangible with his hands, and the freedom to choose his own path.
Dean ran a hand through his hair, his mind drifting to the man he was to marry. Castiel. The name echoed in his thoughts, a haunting reminder of the unknown future that awaited him. He had not seen a photograph, had no idea what Castiel looked like, or even how old he was. All he knew was that Castiel was younger than Gabriel, who was twenty-seven. The lack of information gnawed at him, amplifying his sense of unease. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes. The conversation downstairs continued, a constant reminder of the life happening beyond his imposed isolation. He longed to be a part of it, to understand the dynamics of his new family, but he was bound by the tradition that kept him apart from Castiel until the wedding. Dean sighed deeply, his breath fogging up the window. The moonlight cast a soft glow on his freckled face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the weariness in his green eyes. He had always been resilient, always found a way to adapt, but this situation felt different. The stakes were higher, the unknowns greater.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Dean turned, his body tensing. It was Gabriel, his presence imposing and authoritative.
"How are you holding up?" Gabriel asked, stepping into the room. His amber eyes were sharp, assessing Dean with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"I've been better." Dean shrugged, his frustration barely contained.
"I know this isn't easy.” Gabriel nodded, understanding the weight behind Dean's words. “None of it is. But you're not alone in this. We're family now –or soon enough at least– and we'll face this together."
"Family?” Dean's gaze hardened. “I don't even know what that means here. I don't know anything about Castiel. I'm supposed to marry him, share my life with him, and I haven't even seen his face." Gabriel's expression softened.
"Castiel is... different . He's had a sheltered life, always surrounded by his art and his routines. This is as new and unsettling for him as it is for you."
"Then why?" Dean's voice was tinged with desperation. "Why force us into this?"
"Because tradition demands it," Gabriel replied, his tone firm yet sympathetic. "But beyond that, I believe you and Castiel can find something meaningful in this arrangement. You're both strong, resilient. You both have the capacity to adapt, to find common ground." Dean shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.
"That's a lot of faith to put in two strangers."
"It's not just faith; it's hope. And right now, that's all we have." Dean looked into Gabriel's eyes, searching for any sign of deceit but found only sincerity. He nodded slowly, the fight draining out of him.
"I guess we'll see."
"You will.” Gabriel gave him a small, encouraging smile. “And until then, try to rest. Tomorrow is a new day."
Dean watched as Gabriel left the room, the door closing softly behind him. He returned to the window, the night's silence wrapping around him like a shroud. He didn't know what the future held, but he knew he had to face it with as much courage as he could muster.
As Monday morning arrived, casting a pale golden light across the Novak estate. Dean awoke to the soft chirping of birds outside his window, the familiar sounds of nature a stark contrast to his restless thoughts. He groaned, stretching his limbs before reluctantly rising from the bed. The minifridge's offerings had long lost their appeal. He stared at the multipack of peach yoghurts and the assortment of readymade sandwiches with a sigh. It was the third day in a row he faced the same uninspiring options, and his patience was wearing thin. He needed something more substantial, something that felt more like real food and less like a begrudgingly supplied ration. As he rummaged through the fridge, Dean realised his phone was missing. Panic bubbled up within him as he searched the room, turning over pillows, opening drawers, and even checking under the bed. It was nowhere to be found. The isolation, the monotonous food, and now the loss of his only connection to the outside world felt like a cruel joke.
His stomach growled, and with a frustrated sigh, he grabbed a sandwich and yoghurt, trying to ignore the growing sense of confinement. As he ate, his mind wandered to Castiel. He still knew nothing about the man who was to be his husband, and the lack of information gnawed at him.
Determined to break free from his confinement, Dean decided to explore the house. Gabriel had told him not to leave the room, but the suffocating solitude was too much to bear. He cracked open the door, peeking out into the hallway. The house was silent, the only sound the faint creak of the wooden floors as he stepped out. The hallway was lined with paintings, each one more intricate and beautiful than the last. Dean studied them, wondering if they were Castiel's work. He descended the staircase, moving quietly through the house, drawn by the faint hum of activity. As he reached the ground floor he was drawn to the aroma of freshly baked bread. The kitchen was a welcome sight, a warm and inviting space filled with the promise of a proper meal. Dean's mouth watered as he took in the sight of a large, rustic table laden with food. A blond man stood in the kitchen, his back to Dean. Dean cleared his throat, feeling a pang of guilt for intruding.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice tentative. The man didn't turn around but responded with a calm, knowing tone.
"You were told not to leave your room, weren't you?"
“I.. erm…” Dean stumbled over his words, caught off guard. "I... I was. But I couldn't stand being up there any longer. I was hoping for something other than peach yoghurt and sandwiches," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. The blond man finally turned to face Dean, his expression stern but not unkind.
"I can come up with something if you go back up," he said. "We wouldn't want Castiel to wake up, would we?" Dean studied the man for a moment, noting his sharp features and the air of authority about him. He realised this must be someone important within the household.
"I'm sorry," Dean said, taking a step back. "I just... I needed a change." The man's expression softened slightly.
"I understand. Being cooped up isn't easy. But rules are rules. Go back upstairs, and I'll bring something up for you."
Dean hesitated, then nodded, turning to retreat back to his room. As he ascended the stairs, he couldn't shake the feeling of being an intruder in a place that was meant to be his home. He returned to his room, the silence more oppressive than before.
Dean waited, straining to listen for the footsteps that would signal the arrival of his breakfast. When the door finally creaked open, he smiled widely at the sight of the blond man entering with a tray. To Dean's surprise, it wasn't a typical breakfast scramble, but something without eggs or meat. He didn't care. The aroma of warm food and the sight of a steaming cup of coffee was enough to lift his spirits.
"Thank you," Dean said sincerely, taking the tray. The man nodded, his stern expression softening into a hint of a smile.
"I'm Balthazar. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Just... follow the rules, alright?"
"I will.” Dean nodded. “This means a lot."
Balthazar lingered for a bit, his gaze appraising Dean.
"You'll be much happier if you learn to follow the rules." Dean swallowed, fearing that Balthazar might report his transgression to Gabriel. But there was something about the man that didn't quite fit. Dean sniffed the air subtly, realising with a start that Balthazar wasn't a werewolf.
"You're not..." Dean began, his curiosity piqued.
"A werewolf?” Balthazar's eyes twinkled with amusement. “No, I'm not. But I've been a part of this family for a long time."
"Then what are you?"
"Let's just say I'm a friend with a few... unique talents. Now, enjoy your breakfast, and try not to get into any more trouble." With that, Balthazar left the room, leaving Dean to ponder the enigmatic man's words. He took a sip of the coffee, the warmth spreading through him, and allowed himself a moment of peace. The presence of Balthazar, and the mystery he represented, was a small comfort in the midst of the chaos. As Dean ate, he couldn't help but think about Castiel. What kind of person was he? Did he share Balthazar's calm and mysterious nature, or was he something else entirely? The questions swirled in his mind, mingling with the flavours of his meal, as the dawn lightened the sky outside his window.
Meanwhile, Castiel stirred, the morning light filtering through the curtains casting a soft glow over his cluttered room. He wore his usual sleeping attire, a pair of boxers and an oversized hoodie, the fabric worn and comforting against his skin. He rolled out of bed, stretching languidly before padding out of his bedroom and towards the kitchen. The rich, pungent aroma of coffee hit him as soon as he entered the kitchen, making him cringe. Balthazar sat at the table, sipping his cup of coffee with a look of utter contentment. Various breakfast items were spread out on the table, a testament to Balthazar’s culinary skills.
"Ugh, Balthazar, you know I can't stand the smell of coffee," Castiel groaned, scrunching up his nose in distaste. Balthazar looked up from his cup, a playful glint in his eyes.
"Good morning to you too, Cassie. Nice to see you dressed for the occasion." Castiel glanced down at his attire, feeling a pang of self-consciousness. He pulled the hoodie tighter around himself, trying to hide behind the fabric.
"It's too early for someone to be dissing me in my own home," he muttered, heading for the kettle to make himself some tea. Balthazar chuckled, taking another sip of his coffee.
"Just keeping you on your toes, darling. Besides, you look adorable in that hoodie." Castiel rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. He busied himself with preparing his tea, the familiar routine soothing his frazzled nerves. The soft clinking of the kettle and the gentle hiss of boiling water provided a comforting background noise, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. Castiel went to sit at the table. "So, how did you sleep?" Balthazar asked, his tone light but curious. Castiel shrugged, stirring his tea absently.
"Not great. Too much on my mind, I suppose." He knew that Balthazar had spent the night on the couch in the library. The thought of his friend sleeping in such discomfort made him feel guilty, even though he had asked him to stay. Castiel looked at the food Balthazar had made, then stood up again. He went over to the refrigerator and took out a package of cheese slices and strawberry jam. He grabbed one of the freshly baked bread rolls and ripped it in half."Tell me more about Dean," Castiel said suddenly, the question bursting forth before he could stop himself.
"From what I've gathered, he's a good man.” Balthazar paused, considering his words. “Loyal and dedicated to his family." Castiel nodded slowly, taking a bite from his sandwich as he did, absorbing this information. The combination of cheese and strawberry jam had always been a comforting favourite of his, even if it was met with Balthazar's disapproval.
"And he knows nothing about me."
"Not yet, per tradition," Balthazar replied. "But he'll learn. And so will you. This is new territory for both of you." Castiel sighed, looking down at his half-eaten sandwich.
"I hate this, Balthazar. The uncertainty, the lack of control. It feels like everything is spinning out of my grasp." Balthazar reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Castiel's.
"I know, Cassie. But sometimes, the best things come from the unexpected. Give it time. Allow yourself to adapt. And who knows, you might find something good in all this chaos." Castiel met Balthazar's gaze, feeling a flicker of hope. He wanted to believe his friend's words, to trust that something positive could come from this upheaval.
"I hope you're right," he said softly.
"You know I am.” Balthazar smiled, giving Castiel’s hand a comforting squeeze. “Now, finish your breakfast. You'll need your strength for the day ahead." Castiel took another bite of his sandwich, the familiar flavours bringing a small measure of comfort. The day was just beginning, and despite the uncertainty that lay ahead, he resolved to face it with as much strength and grace as he could muster.
"The coffee scent is too strong," Castiel said, wrinkling his nose. "It's going to give me a headache. It's potent enough that I can barely smell the strawberry jam." Balthazar laughed into his cup, the sound rich and melodious.
"Thought it might be a nice change." Castiel shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips.
"Where did you even get coffee to brew?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?” Balthazar's eyes twinkled with mischief. “I have my ways."
"Of course you do."
"Are you going to eat any of the food I prepared?" Balthazar leaned forward, a playful glint in his eyes. Castiel looked at the spread, a variety of pastries, fruits, and other delicacies laid out in a tempting array. He hesitated, then shook his head.
"I think I'll stick with my sandwich."
"Very well then." Balthazar shrugged, a knowing smile on his lips.
After a few minutes Balthazar put his cup down and looked seriously at Castiel. Castiel caught Balthazar's eyes and felt a wave of discomfort wash over him. He shifted uneasily in his seat, trying to avoid the intensity of his friend's gaze.
"What?" Castiel asked, his voice sharper than he intended. Balthazar sighed, his expression softening.
"Castiel, you’re getting married on Saturday." Castiel's stomach churned, and he threw his sandwich onto the table, suddenly feeling disgusted by it. The thought of the impending marriage, which he had been trying to push to the back of his mind, now loomed large and unavoidable. "Not like that, Castiel," Balthazar said, tilting his head, concern evident in his eyes. "I just meant… you’ve grown up."
"Not by choice," Castiel retorted, crossing his arms defensively. His voice was laced with bitterness, the frustration and resentment bubbling to the surface. "This isn't my choice at all." Balthazar reached across the table, his eyes filled with sympathy.
"Castiel..."
"No," Castiel interrupted, shaking his head. "It’s fine. It isn’t my choice, that’s all." His voice wavered, betraying the turmoil he felt inside. Balthazar leaned back, his expression thoughtful.
"Castiel, do you know what usually happens on wedding nights?" Castiel looked away, his cheeks flushing.
"I... I’ve heard things," he mumbled, his discomfort palpable. "But no one’s ever really told me." Balthazar sighed again, this time more deeply, and leaned forward, his tone gentle.
"Traditionally, the wedding night is supposed to be about consummating the marriage. But you need to understand that it's also about connecting, about starting to build a bond with your partner. It doesn't have to be rushed and shouldn't be forced." Castiel's eyes flickered back to Balthazar, a mixture of confusion and fear in his gaze. It was obvious to Balthazar that Castiel was still lacking knowledge in the area of intimacy. "Castiel," Balthazar said softly, "intimacy isn't just about physical connection. It's about trust, vulnerability, and understanding. You and Dean will have to find your own way, at your own pace. There's no need to rush into anything you're not comfortable with." Castiel nodded slowly, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
"But what if he expects... more? What if he doesn't understand?"
"Then you talk to him," Balthazar replied firmly. "Communication is key. If you explain your feelings and take things slowly, there's a good chance he’ll understand. Remember, Dean is probably just as uncertain and anxious as you are." Balthazar’s words lingered in the air, offering a small measure of comfort to Castiel's troubled heart. The idea of opening up to Dean, of sharing his fears and hopes, seemed daunting but not impossible.
"Do you really think he’ll understand?" Castiel asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I believe he will," Balthazar said with a reassuring smile. " Give him a chance." Castiel sighed, feeling a bit lighter but still overwhelmed.
"Can we talk about something else?"
"Of course.” Balthazar nodded, recognizing the need for a change in topic. “What do you want to do today?" Castiel hesitated, his gaze drifting back towards his bedroom.
"Honestly, I just want to go back to bed." Balthazar raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
"Back to bed? You can't hide from the world forever, Cassie."
"I'm not hiding," Castiel protested, though he knew it was a weak argument. "I just... need more time to process everything." Balthazar’s expression softened.
"I understand. But remember, staying in bed won’t make the problems go away. You have to face them eventually." Castiel looked away, feeling the weight of Balthazar’s words.
"I know, but not today. Today, I just need a break." Balthazar sighed, but he didn’t push further.
"Alright, Castiel. But don't make a habit of it." Castiel stood up, his movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion.
"Thanks, Balthazar. For everything." Balthazar smiled warmly.
"Anytime, darling. Get some rest, but promise me you’ll face the day tomorrow." Castiel nodded, feeling a small measure of relief.
"I promise."
As Castiel made his way back to his bedroom, he couldn’t help but feel a mix of gratitude and guilt. Balthazar had always been there for him, offering guidance and support, even when things seemed darkest. But deep down, Castiel knew that he couldn’t rely on his friend forever. He had to find his own strength, his own way through the storm. Collapsing onto his bed, Castiel pulled the covers over his head, shutting out the world. The familiar scent of his sheets, the soft hum of the house around him, provided a temporary escape from the chaos of his thoughts. For now, he would rest. Tomorrow, he would face whatever came next. And with Balthazar by his side, he felt a little less alone.
Meanwhile, in his room upstairs, Dean tried to occupy himself with the few distractions available. He paced the floor, flipping through the pages of an old book without really reading it, and occasionally glancing out the window at the serene landscape of the Novak grounds. The sense of confinement gnawed at him, each hour stretching into an eternity.
The aroma of breakfast still lingered in the air, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Balthazar. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that came from realising there was a powerful, non-werewolf presence in the household. Balthazar’s enigmatic nature intrigued him, but it also added another layer of complexity to an already confusing situation. Dean's mind kept drifting back to Castiel. The few snippets of information he had about his future husband were vague and left him with more questions than answers. Dean's thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. He turned, his heart skipping a beat, as Balthazar entered the room, carrying a tray with a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of pastries.
"Thought you might appreciate a refill," Balthazar said with a knowing smile. Dean managed a grateful smile.
"Thanks. I really needed this." Balthazar set the tray down on the small table by the window.
"How are you holding up?" Dean shrugged, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
"It's... a lot to take in."
"I can imagine.” Balthazar nodded, his expression understanding. “But remember, you're not alone in this. Castiel is just as uncertain as you are. Maybe more so." Dean sipped his coffee, the warmth spreading through him.
"I just wish I knew more about him. It's hard to prepare for something like this when you don't even know the person you're supposed to marry."
"You'll get to know him. And when you do, you'll see that he's worth the effort."
"I hope so." Dean looked out the window, the serene landscape doing little to calm his racing thoughts. Balthazar patted Dean on the shoulder, a comforting gesture.
"Trust me, Dean. Sometimes, the best things come from the most unexpected places."
As Balthazar left the room, Dean felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this arranged marriage could turn into something more. He resolved to face the upcoming days with an open mind and a willingness to understand the man he was destined to be with.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Chapter word count: 10 042
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Dean lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the weight of his impending marriage pressed down on him. Tomorrow he was getting married. The thought twisted in his mind, making it impossible to find rest. He turned onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, but no position brought him comfort. Finally, he sighed and sat up, the soft creak of the mattress the only sound in the quiet room. He glanced at the duffel bag at the foot of the bed, its contents a stark reminder of the reality he was about to face. With a sense of resignation, he rose from the bed and unzipped the bag, carefully pulling out the suit he had tried on earlier in the week. He carried it into the adjoining bathroom, flicking on the light and closing the door behind him. The bathroom was spacious, its white tiles gleaming under the harsh light. Dean hung the suit on a hook and began to dress, each movement deliberate and measured. As he buttoned the shirt and adjusted the tie, he looked at himself in the mirror. The suit fit him perfectly, hugging his frame in all the right places. He smoothed his hands over the fabric, taking in the image of himself as a groom. A sense of sadness washed over him. He was about to enter a new life, bound to someone he didn’t know, without the support of his pack. The Novaks had been polite but distant, their high-ranking members offering him little more than vague assurances and deflections whenever he asked about Castiel. The lack of information gnawed at him, deepening his sense of isolation. Dean's thoughts drifted back to his family. He missed them fiercely, especially his brothers Samuel and Adam. He longed for their comforting presence, for the sense of belonging that came from being surrounded by those who understood him. The fact that none of them would be at the wedding felt like a cruel twist of fate, a final reminder of everything he had lost. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. The suit felt heavy on his shoulders, a physical manifestation of the burden he carried. He had always known that his life would involve sacrifices, but he had never imagined it would come to this. The bathroom felt claustrophobic, the walls closing in on him. He needed air, needed to escape the suffocating confines of the house, if only for a moment.
Dean turned off the light and slipped quietly out of his room, careful not to make a sound. The hallway was dimly lit, the soft glow of the moon filtering through the windows. He moved silently down the stairs, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The house was eerily silent, the only sound the faint ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the distance. Dean walked towards the room where he suspected Castiel might be. He pushed open the door and hesitated before stepping inside. The interior was a mix of order and chaos, much like his own thoughts. Books and papers were scattered across the floor, but there was a sense of organisation beneath the clutter. Dean stepped inside, his footsteps echoing softly in the silence. A man sat on the floor, surrounded by stacks of books and sketches. His dark hair was tousled, and his deep blue eyes were focused intently on a piece of paper in front of him. He looked up suddenly, sensing Dean’s presence. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Dean realised that this must be Castiel. It was clear that the dark-haired man was irritated by Dean’s intrusion.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said, his tone a mixture of frustration and curiosity. "You're not supposed to see me until the wedding." Dean was shocked by the deepness of Castiel's voice. Castiel looked noticeably younger than his brother Gabriel and somewhat younger than Dean. Dean took a step closer, taking in the details of the room. The sketches were intricate, filled with a depth and emotion that surprised him.
"You're an artist," he said, gesturing to the drawings. Castiel's expression softened slightly, though his irritation was still evident.
"You should have waited until tomorrow," he said, setting the paper aside and standing up. "You're not supposed to be here, please leave." It was clear that Castiel did not want Dean there, but it was also clear that he was trying to be as polite about it as possible. Dean took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising tension.
"I'm sorry. I just... I needed to see you. To talk, if only for a moment." Castiel's eyes flickered with a mix of emotions.
"What is there to talk about? Tomorrow, we'll be married. We'll have plenty of time after that."
"I just wanted to understand," Dean said quietly. "To know who you are before everything changes." Castiel sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"I'm Castiel James Novak. My brother Gabriel is the pack leader, and he decided this marriage was necessary. That's all you need to know."
"Okay," Dean nodded slowly, sensing the wall Castiel had built around himself. "But your art... it's brilliant. Can you tell me more about it?" Castiel's expression hardened, and his posture became rigid.
"There’s nothing to tell. Please, just leave." Dean hesitated, feeling the weight of Castiel's words. He could see the pain and frustration in the younger man's eyes, and it struck a chord within him.
"I didn't mean to intrude," Dean said softly. "I just wanted to understand you better."
"Well, you can’t," Castiel snapped, his voice tinged with anger. "Not tonight. Not now. Just go." Dean nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. He had overstepped, and it was clear that Castiel needed space.
"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll go." He turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him. The silence of the house enveloped him once more, a stark contrast to the turbulent emotions swirling within him. As he made his way back to his room, Dean couldn’t shake the image of Castiel’s deep blue eyes, filled with frustration and sadness. Dean’s steps were slow and deliberate as he moved through the dimly lit hallway. The house's silence felt oppressive, pressing down on him with a weight he could barely bear. He had barely taken a few steps when he was greeted by the sight of Balthazar standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest. The witch's eyes were sharp, glinting with barely restrained anger.
"What do you think you're doing?" Balthazar's voice was low and dangerous, a sharp contrast to the usual playful tone Dean had come to associate with him. Dean hesitated, feeling a surge of guilt and defensiveness rise within him.
"I just... I needed to talk to him," he said, his voice faltering. "I needed to understand."
"You had no right to intrude on his space.” Balthazar's expression hardened as he spoke, his gaze boring into Dean's. “He’s under enough pressure without you adding to it."
"I know, I know.” Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “But I'm under pressure too. This whole situation is... it’s impossible."
"I understand that, Dean.” Balthazar's eyes softened slightly, though his posture remained tense. “But you have to respect his boundaries. Castiel is struggling just as much as you are. Give him time." Dean nodded, feeling the weight of Balthazar’s words.
"I’m sorry. I just... I didn't know what else to do."
"Look,” Balthazar sighed, running a hand through his hair, “this is difficult for everyone. But if you want to make this work, you need to be patient. Castiel isn't used to having his life disrupted like this. Neither of you are." Dean felt a pang of shame. He had acted impulsively, driven by his own desperation.
"You're right," he admitted quietly. "I’ll give him the space he needs."
"Good.” Balthazar’s expression softened further, a hint of sympathy in his eyes. “Now, go back to your room and get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day." Dean nodded, turning away from Balthazar and making his way back to his room. The hallway seemed longer than before, each step echoing with the weight of his thoughts. He reached his room and closed the door behind him, the silence pressing in once more.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He thought about Castiel, about the brief glimpse he had gotten into the younger man's world. The sketches, the books, the sense of order amidst chaos – it all spoke to a person who valued control and structure. Dean could understand that, even relate to it. He just hadn't realised how much his intrusion would upset that delicate balance. Dean lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, they would be married. Tomorrow, everything would change. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside him. He needed to be patient, to give Castiel the time and space he needed. Only then could they hope to build something out of the chaos that had been thrust upon them.With that thought, Dean finally felt the pull of sleep. His eyelids grew heavy, and he surrendered to the darkness, his mind filled with the image of Castiel's deep blue eyes and the hope that, in time, they would find their way to each other. As he drifted into a restless sleep, Dean's mind lingered on Castiel’s deep blue eyes, filled with frustration and sadness. He hoped that, in time, they would find a way to understand each other, to bridge the gap between their worlds.
Meanwhile, Castiel stood in the middle of his room, the remnants of his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He stared at the closed door, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. He felt violated, his sanctuary breached by the man he was supposed to marry. In a fit of frustration, Castiel began to destroy his sketches. He ripped them into pieces, his breathing uneven and ragged. The sound of tearing paper filled the room, a chaotic symphony of his pent-up emotions. He kicked at his books and art supplies, sending them flying across the room. Paint splattered on the walls, creating a grotesque mosaic of his anguish.
"This wasn't how Gabriel told me it would happen!" he shouted, his voice cracking with the intensity of his emotions. "Gabriel told me I wouldn't have to meet him until the wedding!" Tears streamed down Castiel's face as he continued his rampage. His hands trembled, the pieces of his destroyed sketches falling around him like confetti. The room, once a haven of order and creativity, was now a battlefield of his despair. Amidst the chaos, Balthazar burst into the room, his eyes widened at the sight before him.
"Castiel, stop!" he called out, rushing forward to try and calm him down. "You’re only hurting yourself!" Castiel turned to Balthazar, his eyes wild with anger and grief.
"He had no right!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "He had no right to come in here and disrupt everything!" Balthazar reached out, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders.
"Cassie, listen to me. You need to calm down. Destroying your work isn't going to help." But Castiel was inconsolable. He shoved Balthazar away, his body trembling with the force of his emotions.
"I can't do this, Balthazar! I can't marry someone I don't know. I can't let him into my life like this."
"I know it's hard, Castiel.” Balthazar took a deep breath, his own frustration evident. “But you have to try. This is your reality now. You have to find a way to make peace with it.” Castiel sank to the floor, his strength drained. He buried his face in his hands, his sobs echoing through the room. Balthazar knelt beside him, his expression softening with sympathy. "We'll get through this, Cassie. I promise you. But you have to give it a chance." The room fell into a heavy silence, the remnants of Castiel's anger scattered around them. Balthazar stayed by his side, offering a comforting presence in the midst of the storm. For now, all they could do was weather it together.
"Gabriel had promised..." Castiel whispered, his voice breaking with a mix of anger and sorrow. Balthazar sighed deeply, brushing a strand of hair out of Castiel's eyes with a gentle hand.
"I know, Cassie," he said softly. "Sometimes things don't go as planned." Castiel's eyes, filled with tears, locked onto Balthazar's.
"I don't like it," he admitted, his voice a fragile whisper. The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his fears and uncertainties. Balthazar nodded, his expression tender and understanding.
"I know," he murmured. "I know." The room was a testament to Castiel's turmoil, a chaotic blend of torn sketches, scattered books, and spilled paint. The normally serene sanctuary was now a battlefield of emotions, each fragment of destruction mirroring the storm within him. Balthazar's presence, however, brought a semblance of calm to the chaos. He remained by Castiel's side, his touch a soothing balm to the raw wounds of betrayal and anxiety. "Dean didn't mean to upset you, Cassie," Balthazar continued softly. "He's just as lost and confused as you are. This isn't easy for him either." Castiel shook his head, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.
"But why did he have to come in here? This is my space, my sanctuary. I don't even know him."
"He's trying to find his way, just like you," Balthazar explained. "He's looking for answers, for something to hold onto in the midst of all this uncertainty." Castiel took a shuddering breath, the anger slowly giving way to exhaustion. He felt drained, as if the emotional outburst had left him hollow.
"I just want things to be normal," he confessed. Balthazar's gaze softened, his eyes filled with a mixture of empathy and sadness.
"Normal is going to look different now, Cassie. But that doesn't mean it can't be good. You have to give it a chance." Castiel nodded slowly, his mind still grappling with the enormity of the changes that lay ahead. He knew Balthazar was right, but accepting it was another matter entirely.
"Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar smiled gently.
"Of course, darling. I'll stay as long as you need."
They sat together in the wreckage of the room, the silence between them filled with unspoken words and shared understanding. Castiel leaned against Balthazar, drawing comfort from his friend's steady presence. The storm inside him had not yet passed, but for now, he found solace in knowing he was not alone.
Balthazar watched over Castiel, a protective presence in the midst of the turmoil, as he grew sleepier and helped him into bed. Balthazar knew the road ahead would not be easy, but he had faith in Castiel's strength and resilience.
"Sleep now, Cassie," Balthazar whispered, his voice a soothing murmur. "Tomorrow is a new day." Castiel nodded, his eyes drifting closed. The storm had not yet passed, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of hope. With Balthazar by his side, and the promise of a new beginning with Dean, he knew he could face whatever came next.
Castiel finally calmed in sleep, his breathing evening out as the exhaustion took hold. As the night deepened, the house settled into a quiet stillness. The moon cast a silvery glow over the Novak grounds, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was always the promise of a new dawn.
Assured that Castiel was asleep Balthazar made his way over to the large house in the centre of the half circle, the cool night air rustling the leaves of the ancient trees that lined the path. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the Novak estate, adding an ethereal quality to the scene. Balthazar’s steps were determined, his mind focused on the conversation he knew he needed to have with Gabriel. When he reached the grand entrance, he knocked on the door instead of using the doorbell. The heavy, wooden door seemed to absorb the sound, and for a moment, the only noise was the distant chirping of crickets. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing a lower-ranking pack member who worked as staff. The young man, barely older than Castiel, looked surprised to see Balthazar standing there.
"Balthazar?" the staff member said, his eyes widening. "What are you doing here?" Balthazar fixed him with a steady gaze.
"I need to talk to Gabriel. Now." The staff member hesitated, glancing back into the house before nodding.
"Of course. Please come in." Balthazar stepped into the foyer, the grandeur of the house striking even after all these years. The polished wooden floors gleamed in the soft light, and the walls were adorned with family portraits and ornate decorations. The air was filled with the faint scent of pine and the lingering warmth of a recently extinguished fire. "Wait here," the staff member instructed before hurrying off to find Gabriel. Balthazar stood in the foyer, his sharp eyes taking in the details of the house. He noticed the slight wear on the edges of the carpet, the faint scuff marks on the floor from years of use. Despite the grandeur, there was a sense of lived-in warmth, a testament to the generations of Novaks who had called this place home.
A few moments later, Gabriel appeared at the top of the grand staircase, his amber eyes locking onto Balthazar's. He descended the stairs with a graceful, authoritative stride, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.
"Balthazar," Gabriel greeted, his voice low. "What brings you here at this hour?" Balthazar wasted no time.
"We need to talk about Castiel. And Dean." Gabriel's brow furrowed, his expression darkening.
"What happened?"
"Dean went to see Castiel tonight.” Balthazar took a deep breath, steadying himself. “It upset him, Gabriel. More than I’ve seen in a long time." Gabriel's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing.
"I told Dean to respect Castiel's space. He shouldn’t have gone to see him."
"I know," Balthazar replied, his voice calm but firm. "But the damage is done. Castiel was distraught, and he tore apart his sketches. He feels violated, Gabriel. He needs your support." Gabriel sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"I thought giving them time apart would help ease the transition. Clearly, I was wrong."
"They aren’t cats, Gabriel," Balthazar said with a touch of exasperation. Gabriel’s eyes flickered with a hint of frustration.
"I was following tradition, Balthazar. The time apart was meant to prepare them for the marriage." Balthazar's eyes narrowed slightly, his voice cutting through the tension.
"Speaking of, Dean was wearing a suit when he went to see Castiel. Has he not been informed of your wedding traditions?" Gabriel frowned, his expression turning thoughtful.
"I had Benny and Victor talk to him, to prepare him. They should have explained everything."
"Clearly, they didn’t do a good enough job," Balthazar retorted. "Dean is as lost as Castiel in all of this. They both need more guidance, more support. Throwing them into this without proper preparation is a recipe for disaster. They’re not going to magically get along if left to their own devices."
"You’re right.” Gabriel took a deep breath, the weight of his responsibilities evident in his eyes. “I’ll speak with Benny and Victor. We need to make sure Dean understands what’s expected of him, and I need to be there for Castiel." Balthazar nodded, his tone softening.
"Castiel looks up to you, Gabriel. He needs to know you’re in his corner, especially now." Gabriel's gaze shifted, his expression hardening with determination.
"I won’t let him down. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Balthazar."
"You have my support, Gabriel.” Balthazar gave a small smile, a hint of relief in his eyes. “We need to make sure that Castiel has the support he needs."
"Thank you, Balthazar,” Gabriel nodded, his resolve clear. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long day." Balthazar turned to leave, his steps lighter now that he knew Gabriel would handle the situation. As he walked back, the cool night air wrapped around him like a comforting cloak. The moonlight cast long shadows on the ground, and the rustling leaves whispered promises of a new beginning.
When Balthazar returned to Castiel's house, he found the younger man still curled up on his bed, his breathing slow and even. The remnants of his earlier outburst were still scattered around the room, but there was a sense of peace in the air. Balthazar stood by the doorway for a moment, watching over Castiel with a protective gaze. Before going inside and settling into the armchair by the window, ready to keep watch through the night.
Meanwhile, Gabriel made his way to the house furthest to the right, where some of the single high-ranking members of the pack lived. The house was larger than Castiel’s at the far left but smaller than the grand leader's house in the centre. Its exterior was imposing, with tall windows and a well-kept garden that hinted at the status of its inhabitants. Gabriel strode up the path, the crunch of gravel under his boots echoing in the stillness of the night. He reached the front door and rang the doorbell, knowing it would wake the entire house. He didn't care; his frustration with Benny and Victor’s apparent negligence had reached its peak. After a few moments, the door creaked open, revealing Victor, looking groggy and dishevelled. He blinked sleepily at Gabriel, clearly not expecting a visit at this hour.
"Gabriel?" Victor's voice was thick with sleep, confusion evident in his eyes. Gabriel didn’t bother with pleasantries. He stepped inside, his expression dark.
"Go get Benny. Now." Victor hesitated for a moment, then nodded, understanding the seriousness in Gabriel’s tone. He turned and hurried down the hallway, his footsteps fading into the distance. Gabriel walked into the kitchen, the familiar scent of the house mingling with the faint aroma of food lingering from earlier. He took a seat at the table, his mind racing with thoughts of Castiel’s distress. The kitchen was neat, with polished countertops and a pot of fresh basil on the table, a testament to the orderly lives the inhabitants led. As he waited, Gabriel’s mind wandered back to the promise he had made to Castiel. He had assured his younger brother that everything would go smoothly, that he would be supported throughout this difficult transition.
The sound of footsteps approaching brought Gabriel back to the present. Victor entered the kitchen first, followed closely by Benny, who looked slightly more alert but equally concerned.
"What’s going on, Gabriel?" Benny asked, his brow furrowed. Gabriel fixed them both with a hard stare.
"Dean went to see Castiel tonight. Do you have any idea how much that upset him?" Benny and Victor exchanged a worried glance. Victor spoke first, his voice hesitant.
"We... we thought we had prepared Dean for what to expect." Gabriel’s jaw tightened, his frustration evident.
"Clearly you didn’t do a good enough job." Benny sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"We explained the basics, but maybe we didn’t go into enough detail. We didn’t think he would act so impulsively." Gabriel leaned forward, his gaze sharp.
"Dean was wearing a suit when he went to see Castiel." Benny and Victor exchanged another glance, confusion etched on their faces.
"Well, that's nice—" Victor began, only for Gabriel to cut him off. Gabriel tilted his head, his tone incredulous.
"Nice?"
"We didn’t think Dean was expected to do the hunt." Benny intervened, trying to clarify. Gabriel's eyes narrowed.
"What is so hard to understand about ‘sticking to traditions'?"
"Well, considering that Dean is a man and that Castiel is..." Victor started hesitantly.
"Castiel is what?" Gabriel’s voice was ice.
"A vegetarian.” Benny sighed, the frustration evident in his posture. “We didn’t think that Dean was going to do the hunt because Castiel won’t eat it anyway."
"It is still tradition." Gabriel's expression darkened. The silence that followed was thick with tension. Benny and Victor shifted uncomfortably, clearly regretting their oversight. Gabriel took a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger. "Traditions exist for a reason. The hunt is about more than just providing a meal. It’s a ritual, a way to connect with our roots and prepare for the union. Dean needs to understand that."
“Of course,” Victor nodded, his voice subdued. "We’ll make sure he knows. We’ll go over everything again, in detail." Gabriel's gaze softened slightly, the anger giving way to determination.
"See that you do. We can't afford any more mistakes. Castiel and Dean need all the support and guidance we can give them." Benny and Victor nodded, their expressions earnest.
"We understand," Benny said quietly. "We’ll make sure Dean is fully prepared."
"Good.” Gabriel stood, the weight of his responsibility pressing down on him. “Make sure this doesn’t happen again." With that, Gabriel turned and left the house, the night air cool against his skin. As he made his way back to the grand house in the centre, he couldn’t shake the feeling of unease so instead of going inside he walked over to Castiel's house, where he found his brother asleep, Balthazar keeping a watchful eye from the armchair by the window. Gabriel's presence seemed to bring a sense of calm to the room, the turmoil of the night slowly ebbing away.
"How is he?" Gabriel asked quietly, his gaze resting on Castiel's peaceful face.
Balthazar looked up, his expression tired but relieved.
"He had a rough evening, but I think he'll be okay." Gabriel nodded, a sense of relief washing over him.
"Thank you for being here, Balthazar. I don't know what we would do without you." Balthazar smiled softly.
"We're in this together, Gabriel. Castiel will get through this. And so will Dean." Gabriel took a seat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting gently on Castiel's shoulder.
"I just want him to be happy," he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet determination. Balthazar's eyes softened.
"He will be. It will take time, but they’ll find their way." As the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, the house settled into a peaceful silence. Gabriel and Balthazar kept watch over Castiel, their presence a steady comfort in the midst of uncertainty. Together, they faced the dawn, ready to meet the challenges of the new day.
At the same time, Benny and Victor made their way to Dean's room. The air was crisp, and the soft hues of the morning light cast long shadows through the Novak estate. The house was silent, save for the soft creak of floorboards under their feet as they approached Dean’s door. Victor knocked softly but firmly, rousing Dean from his restless sleep. Dean sat up, rubbing his eyes in confusion.
"What’s going on?" he mumbled, still groggy. Benny stepped forward, his expression serious.
"Dean, it's time to wake up. There are some traditions you need to follow before the wedding.”
"Traditions?" Dean blinked, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. Victor nodded, his tone gentle but insistent.
"Traditionally, in the Novak pack, the bride goes out hunting in the early hours of the morning. She then prepares a meal with what she caught for her future husband. While this is happening, the hide of the animal is made into a cape that she wears during the ceremony and party over the ceremonial linen cloths so that all of the juices from the hide may cling to her and entice her mate." Dean stared at them, bewildered.
"I'm not the bride."
"Are you sure about that?" Benny quirked an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at his lips. Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Victor cut in, his voice firm.
"It doesn't matter what you think you are, Dean. We’re here to help you prepare." Victor hesitated for a moment, then asked, "You are a purebred, right?" Dean frowned, his confusion deepening.
"Well, yeah."
"Good.” Victor nodded, satisfied. “The hunt is performed in wolf form. We need to go now; it usually starts at dawn." Dean’s heart pounded in his chest as he processed this information. He had heard of such rituals in passing but had never imagined he would be part of one. He nodded slowly, a sense of resignation settling over him. He had committed to this path, and there was no turning back now.
"Alright," he said, his voice steady. "Let’s do this."
Benny and Victor led Dean outside, the cool morning air biting at his skin. The forest surrounding the Novak grounds was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, the trees casting long, intricate shadows on the ground. Dean took a deep breath, the scents of the forest filling his nostrils and awakening the primal instincts within him.
Benny stopped at the edge of the forest and turned to Dean.
"Remember, this is about connecting with your roots and preparing for the union. Focus on the hunt, let your instincts guide you."
Dean closed his eyes, allowing the transformation to wash over him. His muscles tensed and shifted, bones elongating and reshaping as he assumed his wolf form. The world sharpened into focus, every scent and sound amplified. Dean glanced at Benny and Victor, both of whom had also transformed. They nodded in silent encouragement, then took off into the forest, their movements fluid and graceful. Dean had a sneaking suspicion that they weren't allowed to help him hunt but were there to make sure he didn’t get hurt. Luckily, Dean had always prided himself on being a good hunter. He easily picked up the scent of a moose. The chase was exhilarating, a dance between predator and prey. Dean felt the rush of adrenaline as he closed in, his movements seamless and calculated. He leapt, his powerful jaws closing around the animal's neck, ending the chase with a swift, merciful kill. Dean stood over the moose, his breath heavy but steady. The forest around him seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the gentle rustling of leaves in the morning breeze. Benny and Victor approached, their wolf forms melting back into their human shapes.
"Well done, Dean.” Victor nodded approvingly. “You’ve honoured the tradition." Benny’s expression was one of pride.
"Now comes the next part. You need to prepare the meal and the hide."
Dean transformed back, feeling the rush of the hunt still coursing through his veins. The forest was alive with the sounds of the early morning, birds beginning their songs, and the distant trickle of a stream.
The three of them brought the moose back to the Novak grounds. Dean was presented with a set of finely crafted knives, their blades gleaming in the soft light. He took a moment to centre himself, then set to work. He took the largest knife, feeling the weight of it in his hand, and began the meticulous process of skinning the moose. The process was methodical, each step a connection to the age-old traditions of the Novak pack. He carefully skinned the moose, setting aside the hide to be prepared into the makeshift cape. He made an initial incision along the belly, the blade slicing cleanly through the fur and skin. Blood welled up around the cut, its metallic scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest. Dean worked methodically, his hands steady and precise as he peeled back the hide. The muscles and tendons of the moose were exposed, a vivid testament to the life he had taken. He moved carefully, ensuring that the hide remained intact and free of any nicks or tears. As he worked, Dean's mind wandered to the significance of the ritual. The tradition was ancient, a way to honour their heritage and prepare for the union. Despite the initial shock, Dean found a sense of purpose in the act, a connection to something greater than himself. Once the hide was fully removed, Dean set it aside and began preparing the meat. He sectioned the moose with practised ease, his movements efficient and controlled. Benny and Victor watched in silence, their expressions a mix of respect and approval. The morning light grew stronger, casting a golden glow over the scene as Dean finished his work.
With the meat prepared and the hide set aside for the cape, Dean looked up at Benny and Victor.
"What now?"
"Now you prepare the meal." Victor said before he and Benny led Dean to the house furthest to the right in the half-circle of houses, and Dean was confused as to why he couldn't just cook in Castiel's house.
"Traditionally, you would have, but given the stunt you pulled yesterday, it's safer if you do it here. And this kitchen is bigger." Benny explained and Dean felt a mix of relief and apprehension. He hadn’t cooked in almost a month, and the pull to throw himself into the familiar process was strong. As they entered the kitchen, Dean's eyes widened at the sight. The kitchen was spacious, with gleaming countertops, modern appliances, and shelves stocked with fresh ingredients and herbs. It was a far cry from the ready-made sandwiches and peach yoghurts he had been living off of, save for the occasional reprieve brought by Balthazar's offerings.
Dean rolled up his sleeves, his fingers itching to get to work. He decided to prepare a Moose Roast with sautéed mushrooms and a red wine reduction. He found a cast iron skillet and began by searing the moose meat, the rich aroma of cooking meat filling the kitchen. He seasoned it with salt, pepper, and fresh herbs, the sizzle of the meat a comforting sound. Next, he moved on to the mushrooms, their earthy scent mingling with the savoury smell of the roast. He sautéed them with garlic and a touch of butter, the golden-brown pieces glistening in the skillet. The red wine reduction was the final touch, the deep, robust flavours adding a complexity to the dish that made Dean's mouth water. As he worked, Dean felt a sense of calm settle over him. Cooking had always been his sanctuary, a way to centre himself and find peace. The familiar motions and the scents of the kitchen wrapped around him like a comforting embrace. He lost himself in the process, each step a meditative act that brought him closer to a sense of normalcy.
Benny and Victor watched in silence, their expressions a mix of surprise and admiration. They had expected Dean to struggle with the task, but he moved with the confidence and skill of a seasoned chef. As the dish came together, the kitchen was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of the roast, mushrooms, and wine. Finally, Dean plated the meal, the moose roast tender and juicy, the mushrooms a perfect complement, and the red wine reduction adding a touch of elegance. He stepped back, surveying his work with a sense of pride and satisfaction. Benny nodded appreciatively.
"Well done, Dean. This looks incredible."
"Castiel is in for a treat." Victor smiled, his earlier seriousness giving way to a more relaxed demeanour.
Dean felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this gesture would help bridge the gap between them. He knew the road ahead would be difficult, but for now, he took comfort in the simple act of cooking, in the tradition he had honoured, and in the hope that they could find a way forward together.
Victor led Dean to the pack leader's house, their steps echoing through the still morning air. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm golden light over the Novak estate. The house loomed before them, its grandeur intimidating but familiar. Dean's mind buzzed with a mixture of anxiety and determination. He had done his part in the hunt and the meal; now he needed to fulfil the final ritual before the wedding. Inside the house, Victor guided Dean to a room where the linen garments awaited. The room was spacious, with a couch and a large wardrobe and an ornate mirror that reflected the soft morning light. The linen garments were laid out on a table, their unbleached fabric a stark contrast to the modern surroundings. Dean felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering the stories he had heard about these traditions. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of history and expectation settle on his shoulders.
"Let's get you dressed," Victor said, his tone gentle but firm. “Then you can have some rest on the couch.” Dean nodded, his movements deliberate as he changed into the linen garments. The fabric was rough against his skin, the unbleached cloth carrying the earthy scent of the forest. Victor helped him adjust the makeshift cape made from the moose hide, the juices and scents meant to entice his future mate but making Dean feel a mixture of discomfort and solemnity. He understood the significance of the ritual even as he struggled with its practicalities. Visitor left and Dean layed down on the couch. He turned onto his side, feeling cold and empty. The house around him was silent, the only sound was the faint rustle of the wind outside. He thought about Balthazar's words, about giving Castiel space and time. It was clear that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but he was determined to try to make the best of it. He had to, for his family, for his pack.
Meanwhile, Benny took the food prepared by Dean to Castiel's house. The walk was short, but Benny's mind was heavy with thoughts. He knew that despite the effort Dean had put into the meal, Castiel wouldn't eat it. The tradition was more symbolic than practical, especially given Castiel's dietary preferences.
When Benny rang the doorbell, he was surprised to see Balthazar answer. The witch looked mildly amused, his sharp eyes taking in the situation with a knowing glance.
"Benjamin," Balthazar greeted, his tone smooth. "What brings you here?" Benny held up the tray of food.
"Dean prepared the meal as part of the tradition. I was just bringing it over." Balthazar nodded, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Come in, then." Benny followed Balthazar into the house, the familiar scent of herbs and paint mingling in the air. They made their way to the kitchen, where Castiel was seated at the table. He looked up as they entered, his eyes red from lack of sleep but filled with curiosity.
"Castiel," Balthazar said, placing the tray on the table. "Dean prepared this for you." Castiel glanced at the meal, then back at Balthazar.
"You know I won't eat that," he said quietly, his voice tinged with gloom.
"I know, Cassie.” Balthazar sighed, his expression softening. “It's more about the gesture, the tradition." Benny nodded in agreement.
"Dean put a lot of effort into this, Castiel. It's a way to honour the tradition, even if you choose not to partake." Castiel's eyes flickered with a mix of emotions. He reached out, touching the edge of the plate.
"It's beautiful," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Benny offered a small, understanding smile.
"I'll leave you two to it. If you need anything, just let us know." Balthazar thanked Benny, who then turned and left, his steps echoing in the quiet house. Balthazar took a seat across from Castiel, the tray of food between them. The meal was a testament to Dean's skill and dedication, a bridge between their worlds. Balthazar watched Castiel, his expression thoughtful.
"You know, Cassie, Dean is trying. This is new for both of you, but he's making an effort. Maybe that's worth something." Castiel looked down at the meal, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. He felt a pang of guilt for not appreciating the gesture fully.
"I know," he said softly. "It's just... hard ." Balthazar reached out, brushing a strand of hair out of Castiel's eyes.
"I know it is. Give it time."
"I'll try."
"That's all anyone can ask." Balthazar smiled, a warm and reassuring presence. They sat in silence for a moment, the morning light streaming through the windows, casting a golden glow over the room. The meal sat between them, a symbol of effort and tradition, a small step toward bridging the gap between two lives about to be joined.
As they resumed their conversation, the weight of the coming day seemed a little lighter. Castiel felt a flicker of hope, a small but growing belief that maybe, just maybe, they could find their way through this together. The fantastical elements of their world, the rituals and traditions, intertwined seamlessly with their modern lives, creating a tapestry of old and new, of hope and uncertainty.
The bond they would forge, however difficult, held the promise of something beautiful. And in that quiet kitchen, with the scent of Dean's meal lingering in the air, Castiel allowed himself to believe in that promise. The food remained untouched, sitting on the table for a few hours. The rich aroma of the meal filled the kitchen, a silent testament to Dean's effort. Castiel and Balthazar continued their conversation in hushed tones, the weight of the day hanging heavily between them.
Eventually, Balthazar glanced at the clock and sighed.
"It's time," he said gently. Castiel looked at the untouched meal, a pang of guilt washing over him. He nodded slowly, pushing back from the table.
"I know," he replied, his voice filled with resignation. They left the kitchen, the meal still sitting there, a reminder of the complex emotions and traditions that defined their lives. Balthazar led Castiel to his bedroom—which had been cleaned up—where the linens were laid out, ready for the ritual. Balthazar began to help Castiel get dressed, his movements careful and precise. The rough texture of the unbleached linen chafed against Castiel's skin, causing him to wince slightly. Balthazar noticed the discomfort and paused, his gaze softening.
"You don't like the texture, do you?" Balthazar asked, his voice filled with concern.
"No, I don't.” Castiel shook his head, trying to suppress the irritation. “It feels... rough and unfamiliar."
"I know it's not the most comfortable, but it's part of the tradition.” Balthazar gave a sympathetic smile. “It's meant to be a reminder of the primal connection between mates, of the rawness of our nature."
"I understand that, Balthazar.” Castiel sighed, feeling the weight of the expectations pressing down on him. “It's just... everything feels so overwhelming." Balthazar nodded, gently adjusting the fabric to make it as comfortable as possible.
"You’ll get through this, Castiel. I’m here with you."
Meanwhile, in the pack leader’s house, Victor returned, his expression one of approval as he looked Dean over.
"You look ready." Dean nodded, feeling a sense of resolve settle over him.
"What’s next?"
"Now, you present yourself to Castiel.” Victor smiled slightly. “It’s time for the wedding."
Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. He followed Victor out of the house, the setting sun casting long shadows across the estate. Each step felt heavy with significance, the weight of tradition and expectation pressing down on him. But beneath it all, there was a flicker of hope. This was a chance, a beginning. And he was determined to make the most of it.
As they approached the middle of the half-circle of houses, Dean’s heart pounded in his chest. Dean saw the candles lining the path, their flickering flames casting a warm glow in the morning light. An arch decorated with flowers and greenery stood at the centre, and beneath it, Castiel stood, dressed in linen garments similar to his own. An overwhelming feeling that he was marrying into a cult came over Dean. The ceremony's ancient, mystical ambiance contrasted sharply with his modern sensibilities. If he could, he would have shifted and run away, but Victor had a steady grip on his arm. They were surrounded by at least a hundred werewolves, all watching him intently. Dean silently cursed his father for thinking they could ever win against such an old and large pack. As they approached the arch, Gabriel stepped forward, his presence commanding and reassuring and victor slipped away. Dean met Gabriel’s gaze, feeling a mixture of respect and apprehension, Gabriel nodded at Dean, a silent acknowledgment of the role he was about to undertake. Gabriel then turned to Castiel, his eyes softening. Balthazar stood beside Castiel, his presence a comforting anchor for the younger man. Castiel's eyes met Dean's, a complex mix of emotions reflected in their depths. Dean saw fear, uncertainty, but also a glimmer of hope. He took a deep breath, drawing strength from that shared look. Gabriel began to speak, his voice carrying the weight of tradition and authority.
"Today, we honour the union of two souls, brought together by fate and bound by our ancient customs. In this union, we find strength and unity, a bridge between our past and our future." Dean listened, the words washing over him, grounding him in the gravity of the moment. He felt the eyes of the pack on him, their collective presence a reminder of the responsibility he now carried. Gabriel continued, his voice steady and clear. "Dean, you have honoured our traditions with your hunt and your offering. Castiel, you have shown your readiness by embracing the rituals of our ancestors. Together, you will forge a new path, one that honours our heritage and looks forward to the future." As Gabriel spoke, Dean and Castiel stood side by side, their differences momentarily set aside. The ritual, with its blend of ancient and modern elements, served as a reminder of the complexities of their world. Dean felt a sense of purpose settle over him, a determination to make this union work, not just for tradition's sake, but for the future they were about to create together. Gabriel's final words resonated in the still night air. "May this union be blessed with strength, understanding, and love. Together, you are stronger than apart." With that, he stepped back, allowing Dean and Castiel to face each other fully. Dean reached out, taking Castiel's hands in his own. The linen garments, the scent of the moose hide, and the soft moonlight created an atmosphere that was both surreal and deeply grounding. Dean didn't know what was going to happen next, but he wasn't expecting Castiel to just take Dean's hand and put the ring on without saying anything. Dean looked at Gabriel, confused. Balthazar helpfully supplied Dean with a ring for Castiel, and Dean slipped it onto Castiel's finger. Castiel looked at Gabriel, who nodded.
Castiel then turned into a wolf, a black wolf with piercing blue eyes standing before Dean. Gabriel nodded to Dean, indicating it was his turn to do the same. Dean hesitated for a moment before shifting into his own wolf form, feeling the transformation ripple through his body. They stood before each other for a few seconds, taking in their new forms. The crowd around them seemed to hold its breath, the tension palpable. Then someone cleared their throat, prompting Castiel to continue the ceremony. Castiel moved closer, sniffing Dean's neck before biting down hard. The pain was sharp and immediate, but Dean understood its significance. With that bite, Dean knew he was now and until the day he died part of the Novak pack on condition of being Castiel's mate. The bond was sealed, their union solidified by the ancient traditions that had guided their kind for generations. Dean felt a mix of emotions—pain, acceptance, and a strange sense of belonging. He looked at Castiel, seeing the same emotions reflected in the blue depths of his eyes. The pack erupted into howls and cheers, a primal celebration of the new bond formed between Dean and Castiel. The ancient and the modern had come together, creating a tapestry of tradition and hope for the future. Dean stood beside Castiel, feeling the warmth of the pack around him, and for the first time, he truly felt like he was part of something greater than himself. As the howls and cheers continued, Dean and Castiel remained close, their connection solidified in the eyes of their pack. They had taken the first step on a long journey, and despite the challenges ahead, they faced it together, bound by tradition and the promise of what was to come.
Castiel shifted back into his human form, his breath steadying as he adjusted to the change. Dean followed his lead, the transformation feeling almost natural now. As he reached a hand to his neck, he felt the sting of the bite and the warmth of his own blood. His smile tightened, a mix of pain and resolve flickering in his eyes. Without looking at Dean, Castiel reached out his hand, an unspoken invitation. After a few seconds, Dean took it, allowing himself to be led down the path.
The grounds had been transformed, with tables set out on one side and a designated area for dancing on the other. The flickering candlelight cast a warm, golden glow over everything, giving the scene a dreamlike quality. Castiel led Dean to the head table, which was round and elegantly decorated. As they approached, Dean took in the details—the intricate floral arrangements, the gleaming silverware, and the fine linens that adorned the table. It was a stark contrast to the rugged rituals they had just performed, a seamless blend of the old and the new. They took their seats, and soon Gabriel and his wife joined them, followed by Balthazar, who sat next to Castiel. Castiel remained silent, his eyes wide with awe as he took in the transformed grounds. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows that added to the enchanting atmosphere. Dean glanced around, noticing the subtle expressions of approval and curiosity from the other pack members. Despite the challenges and uncertainties, there was a sense of unity, a shared understanding that this union was significant for their future.
Gabriel raised his glass, drawing the attention of the table.
"To Dean and Castiel," he said, his voice carrying a note of pride and authority. "May this union bring strength and prosperity to our pack." Everyone echoed the toast, lifting their glasses high. Dean took a sip of the wine, savouring the rich, velvety taste. He felt a warmth spread through him, more so from the alcohol than from the acceptance and support that surrounded them. Castiel turned to Balthazar, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"It's beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with wonder. Balthazar nodded, his eyes twinkling with amusement and affection.
"It is, isn't it? Gabriel and the others have truly outdone themselves." Dean observed the interaction, feeling a sense of camaraderie with Castiel's friend. Balthazar's presence was a reassuring anchor in this unfamiliar world, and Dean was grateful for his support. Dean then turned his attention to the couples who took to the dance floor, their movements graceful and fluid. He felt a pang of longing, a desire to be part of this celebration, to embrace the joy and unity that surrounded them. Castiel, still silent, seemed to sense Dean's thoughts. Castiel turned to Balthazar, his blue eyes reflecting the candlelight with a hint of uncertainty. Balthazar smiled at Castiel, a knowing look in his eyes. "You should be attending to your husband," he said gently. Before Castiel could respond, servers approached the table, presenting them with the food. Castiel looked down and saw, to his delight, that he had different food than other people. Gabriel shot Castiel a smile, a silent acknowledgment of his brother's preferences. The evening progressed, the soft strains of music filling the air, mingling with the laughter and conversation of the pack. Dean watched the dancers, feeling the weight of the day begin to lift. He turned to Castiel, who was picking at his food with a thoughtful expression. Dean took a deep breath, summoning his courage and glueing on a smile.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked, his voice steady. Castiel looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. He glanced at Balthazar, who gave him an encouraging nod. Castiel hesitated for a moment, then set down his fork and looked at Dean. From the look on his face Dean was sure that Castiel was going to say yes.
"No, I am tired." Castiel said and in an instant Dean's smile faltered, disappointment washing over him. He watched as Castiel rose from the table, the weight of the day's events clearly visible in his posture. Gabriel shot Castiel a look, a silent reminder of his responsibilities, but Castiel seemed too exhausted to care. He started to walk towards his house, leaving Dean sitting there, dumbfounded. Dean felt a mix of emotions—hurt, confusion, and a sense of isolation. The celebration around him continued, the laughter and music a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. He glanced at Balthazar, who offered a sympathetic look but made no move to follow Castiel as if that responsibility no longer rested on his shoulders. Taking a deep breath, Dean pushed back from the table. He felt out of place amidst the revelry, the joy and unity that should have been his to share. He stood, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows as he made his way to the edge of the dance floor. He watched the dancers for a moment, their movements fluid and effortless, before turning away and heading towards the path that led to his new home. The night air was cool against his skin, a welcome respite from the warmth of the celebration. Dean walked slowly, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. He had hoped for a moment of connection with Castiel, a sign that they could navigate this new life together. Instead, he felt more alone than ever.
When he reached the house, he paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle. He could hear the faint sounds of the celebration in the distance, a reminder of the party he had left behind for the life he now was bound to live. With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped inside. Dean wasn’t sure where to go, whether to go to Castiel's room or to the room he had been sleeping in for the past week. As he thought he found himself drawn to the kitchen, something he remembered from his brief visit as a warm and inviting space. When he entered he realised that the meal he had made, the one he had put so much effort and care into, was still standing on the dining table, untouched. The rich aroma of the meal filled the room, a stark contrast to the emptiness he felt inside. Dean approached the table, his heart sinking as he looked at the food he had prepared with such hope. He sat down, resting his head in his hands, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Surrounded by the remnants of his effort and the promise of a new life, Dean felt the first tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He had tried so hard to make this work, to honour the traditions of the pack and find his place in this new world. But at that moment, he felt utterly alone. Dean lifted his head, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He couldn't let this break him. He had to find a way to connect with Castiel, to build the life they were meant to share. The journey ahead would be challenging, but he was determined to face it with strength and resilience. He sat there watching the way that the moonlight cast a soft glow over the kitchen. The promise of a new day, a new beginning, filled the air. Dean stood, resolving to face whatever came next with courage and hope.
Dean left the kitchen ready to go up to his room only to see Castiel standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall outside his bedroom. Castiel had changed into an oversized hoodie, the loose fabric enveloping him in a way that made him look even more vulnerable and isolated. Dean paused, unsure of what to do. Castiel's eyes were locked onto him with such intensity that Dean feared he might catch on fire under that piercing gaze. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension.
Finally, Dean took a tentative step forward, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Castiel?" Castiel's eyes narrowed slightly, his posture rigid and defensive.
"Why were you in the kitchen?" he asked, his tone sharp and filled with a mix of frustration and curiosity.
"I saw the meal I prepared... it was still there.” Dean swallowed, feeling the weight of Castiel's gaze. “Untouched." Castiel ignored Dean’s words, his expression unreadable.
"You're supposed to come into my room," he said, his voice flat. "It's tradition." Dean opened his mouth to speak, to explain, but the resolve in Castiel’s eyes stopped him. With a slight nod, he took a step forward. Castiel turned and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Dean hesitated for a moment before following, the scent of the moose hide still lingering in the air. When Dean entered the room, he found Castiel sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms still crossed. The room was immaculately clean, a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions between them. Dean glanced around, taking in the neatly organised shelves, the pristine floor, and the bed, which looked untouched and almost unwelcoming. Castiel’s eyes flicked to the hide that Dean was still carrying. "Put it on the floor," he instructed, his voice tight. Dean could see the reluctance in Castiel’s eyes, as if he subtly recoiled at the thought of the hide touching the freshly cleaned floor. But Dean did as he was told, placing the hide down carefully, trying to make it as unobtrusive as possible. Castiel watched him, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. "This is all new for me," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean straightened, meeting Castiel's gaze with a mixture of understanding and determination.
"We will make it work," he said softly.
The vulnerability in Castiel's eyes flickered, replaced by a steely resolve.
"Traditions are important to our pack," he said. Dean took a cautious step closer, sensing the fragile balance between them.
"I know," he replied gently. "And I want to respect that." Castiel's gaze softened, if only slightly, as he considered Dean's words.
"We should sleep," he said finally, his voice tinged with exhaustion.
"Okay." Dean nodded, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him. Castiel stood and moved towards the bed, pulling back the covers with a precision that spoke to his need for order and control. Dean followed suit, slipping off his shoes and climbing into the bed on the opposite side. The mattress was firm and unyielding, a stark reminder of the tension that lay between them.
As they lay there in the early morning light, an uncomfortable silence stretched out, filled with the unspoken fears and hopes of two strangers bound together by tradition and circumstance. Dean could feel the warmth of Castiel's presence beside him, a small comfort in the vast uncertainty that surrounded them. After a few minutes, Castiel's breathing began to even out, a sign that he was drifting off to sleep. Dean stared at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts of the future. He knew they had a long road ahead, filled with challenges and obstacles they would have to navigate together.
When the first rays of sunlight crept into the room, Dean turned onto his side, closing his eyes and allowing sleep to claim him, the sound of Castiel's steady breathing a soothing lullaby in the dawn of their new life together.
Chapter 5
Notes:
Chapter word count: 6 323
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Castiel lay in bed, the warmth around him a confusing anomaly. Blinking his eyes open, he remembered why his bed felt so different; he was married now, and the man lying next to him was his husband, Dean. The realisation settled heavily in his mind. Castiel carefully slipped out of bed, but despite his best efforts, the bed creaked, causing Dean to stir. Castiel froze for a moment, his heart pounding, before continuing his escape. As he made his way to the door, he passed the moose hide on the floor, a poignant reminder of the traditions they had skirted around the previous night. Castiel knew they were supposed to have consummated their marriage on it, but Dean hadn't insisted, and Castiel found himself silently thankful. He wondered if Dean had been unaware of the tradition or if he was simply respectful enough to wait for consent. Castiel eased the door open and slipped out, making his way to the kitchen. The house was silent as Castiel padded down the hall, the cool tiles of the kitchen floor a stark contrast to the warmth of the parquet of his –their– bedroom. He had intended to make himself a sandwich, something simple to ground him after the whirlwind of emotions and events, but when he entered the kitchen, he was greeted by an unexpected sight. Balthazar sat at the table, cradling a kitten with black fur and gooseberry green eyes in his arms like a baby. The witch's face lit up with a warm smile as he saw Castiel stop in his tracks, confusion and curiosity mingling in his eyes.
"Did you know that cats were once a common wedding gift, Cassie?" Castiel approached the table, reaching out a tentative hand to the kitten. The small creature sniffed his fingers before leaning into his touch. Balthazar continued, "They are associated with the goddess of love, Freja, who is said to ride a chariot drawn by a team of cats." Castiel stroked the kitten’s soft fur, a faint smile forming on his lips.
"Is?" he asked, his voice soft and filled with wonder. Balthazar nodded, his eyes twinkling.
"You’d be surprised how much is out there – including Freja." Castiel hummed thoughtfully, retracting his hand. Balthazar’s voice grew gentle as he said, "She is yours, Cassie." Balthazar smiled warmly as Castiel's eyes lit up with genuine delight. "I guess I should have gotten a Norwegian forest cat, but I thought you might need something even bigger. She’s a Maine Coon, just like you said you wanted when you were a child."
"Norma," Castiel murmured, the name feeling right as he held the kitten, who seemed content in his arms. Balthazar watched them, his smile widening.
"I think Norma will have a very good life with you, Cassie."
Castiel settled into a chair, cradling Norma gently. The kitchen felt like a different place, warmer and more inviting. The presence of the kitten and Balthazar’s comforting presence gave him a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in days.
"You’ve always known how to make things better, Balthazar," Castiel said, his voice sincere. Balthazar’s smile widened as he looked at Castiel and Norma, then he blinked as if he just remembered something.
"I put a litter box on each floor, in the bathrooms," he explained. "And though I know you don’t like it too much when people move your things, I put up a cat tree in the living room."
"That’s fine," Castiel said, cradling Norma gently. "I never use the living room anyway."
"I know.” Balthazar nodded. “There’s food and toys under the sink here in the kitchen, and there’s more litter in the upstairs bathroom." Balthazar’s eyes softened as he took in the sight of Norma in Castiel’s arms. "Now, Cassie, have you thought about breakfast?" he asked, his tone gentle. Castiel nodded.
"That’s why I came out in the first place," he replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Balthazar gestured to the table, his smile encouraging.
"Well, let’s get you started then," he said. "You need to keep up your strength, especially now." Balthazar knew Castiel hadn’t eaten much the previous day, not during the hectic preparations nor at the wedding itself, despite Balthazar's efforts and Gabriel providing him with vegetarian options and non-alcoholic drinks at the wedding; the stress of the day had taken its toll, and Castiel’s appetite had been the casualty. Balthazar rose and began to prepare a simple but hearty breakfast, his movements efficient and graceful. The aroma of fresh bread and brewed tea filled the kitchen, mingling with the earthy scent of the kitten in Castiel's arms. Castiel watched, feeling a sense of gratitude for his friend’s thoughtful care. As Balthazar set a plate in front of him, Castiel's stomach rumbled, reminding him of his hunger. He picked up a piece of bread, savouring the taste, the warmth of the food grounding him in the present moment.
"Thank you, Balthazar," Castiel said between bites, his voice sincere. "For everything." Balthazar's smile was warm and understanding.
"Anything for you, Cassie," he replied softly, sitting down across from him. They ate in companionable silence, the kitten purring contentedly in Castiel’s lap. The kitchen, once a place of routine, had transformed into a haven of comfort and solace, a testament to the power of friendship and the small, magical moments that made life truly extraordinary.
After breakfast, Castiel felt more at ease. The meal had done wonders to settle his nerves. He carefully handed Norma back to Balthazar and rose to clean his plate, but Balthazar waved him off.
"I’ll take care of it," Balthazar said, his tone firm yet kind. "You should go check on Dean. He might be awake by now." Castiel nodded, and with one last glance at the comforting scene in the kitchen with Norma now in a light sleep on the chair, he made his way back down the hall. As he approached the bedroom, he noticed the faint sound of movement inside. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open gently. Dean was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When he saw Castiel, a soft smile spread across his face, lighting up his features.
"Morning, Cas," he said, his voice husky with sleep.
"Don't call me that," Castiel replied, crossing his arms. Dean's smile faltered slightly, but he nodded, the flicker of tension in his eyes betraying his outwardly calm demeanour.
"Of course. Morning, Castiel." There was an unspoken understanding between them, a tension that neither addressed but both felt deeply. Dean, as the newest member of the pack and Castiel's husband, was acutely aware of his precarious position. The pack had rules and hierarchies, and Dean's place within them was uncertain, especially as the husband to the pack leader's little brother. Dean rose from the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. "I was just about to get dressed," he said, trying to fill the silence. "Would you like to join me for a walk around the farm later?" Castiel hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the offer.
"I have a lot to do today," he finally said, his voice cool and distant. Dean's jaw tightened, but he forced a polite nod.
"I understand. Maybe another time." Castiel turned away, his mind already elsewhere.
"I need to check on the animals," he said over his shoulder. "You can make yourself comfortable upstairs." Dean watched him go, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The frustration and anger simmered just beneath the surface, but he knew better than to let it show. He was at Castiel's mercy, and any misstep could cost him dearly. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm the storm of emotions raging within him.
Castiel walked briskly through the house, his thoughts a chaotic whirl. He had tried to make it clear that he didn’t want Dean, that this marriage was nothing more than a political arrangement. But there was no denying the pull he felt towards the man, a confusing mix of attraction and resentment that he struggled to reconcile. He stepped out into the cool morning air, the familiar scents of the farm grounding him. The packs' land stretched out before him, a patchwork of fields and pastures bathed in the early light. As he made his way towards the barn, he allowed himself to relax slightly, the routine tasks of farm life providing a welcome distraction. In the barn, the animals greeted him with a chorus of sounds, and he set to work with practised efficiency. The rhythm of feeding and tending to the animals helped to clear his mind, each action a small step towards regaining his equilibrium. As he finished his tasks, Castiel paused, leaning against the fence and looking out over the farm. The half-circle arrangement of the family houses, with his own at the far left, stood as a testament to the close-knit nature of the pack. His house, though solitary, was a refuge and a reminder of his independence. Lost in thought, he didn't notice Dean approaching until he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Castiel turned to find his husband standing a few paces away, a hesitant look on his face.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," Dean said quietly, his eyes searching Castiel's face.
"You didn’t," Castiel replied, though his tone was still distant. "Is there something you need?"
"No,” Dean shook his head. “Erm… I just... wanted to see if you were alright?" Castiel studied him for a moment, the sincerity in Dean's eyes softening his resolve.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice losing some of its edge. "Just busy." Dean nodded, looking around the farm.
"This place is beautiful," he said softly. "I can see why it's so important to you." Castiel followed his gaze, a hint of pride in his voice.
"It’s been in the pack for generations. It's more than just land to us." Dean smiled at Castiel’s words with a genuine warmth in his expression.
"I hope I can find my place here," Dean said, his voice almost a whisper. Castiel looked at him, a flicker of something undefinable in his eyes.
"We'll see," he said, the words carrying a weight of uncertainty. Dean nodded, accepting the answer for now.
"I'll leave you to your work," he said, turning to head back towards the house. As Castiel watched him go, he couldn't shake the feeling that their lives were intertwined in ways he hadn't yet begun to understand. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that they might find a way to navigate it together.
Castiel had always liked taking care of the animals, even though he did not have to do it and traditionally it would have been work for lower-ranking members of the pack. It gave him a sense of peace and purpose, a way to contribute without being entangled in the politics and power struggles that often plagued his family. The gentle rhythm of farm life was a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions swirling within him. He kicked the dirt under his shoe in frustration, a futile attempt to release some of the tension building up inside. Not only had Dean been in his house for a week now, but last night he had slept in Castiel's bed. It was all wrong. Everything about this arrangement felt forced and uncomfortable, especially since Dean didn't seem able to leave Castiel alone. The thought of Dean lying in his bed, the warmth of his body lingering in the sheets, made Castiel's skin prickle with irritation. He was used to his solitude, his routines. Having Dean around disrupted that, and he wasn't sure how to cope with the changes.
He made his way back to the house, each step heavy with the weight of his thoughts. As he entered the kitchen, he found Balthazar still there, now preparing a pot of tea. Norma had moved to a sunnier spot on the windowsill, her tiny body curled into a tight ball.
"Everything alright?" Balthazar asked, glancing up from his task. Castiel shrugged, a noncommittal gesture.
"Just... dealing with things ." Balthazar's eyes softened with understanding.
"I know it's not easy, Cassie. But give it time. Sometimes, what feels wrong at first can turn out to be exactly what you needed." Castiel huffed, leaning against the counter.
"I didn't ask for this, Balthazar. I didn't want this."
"I know," Balthazar said gently. "But sometimes we don't get to choose. We just have to make the best of what we have." Castiel sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"I just wish he'd give me some space."
"Have you told him that?" Balthazar asked, pouring hot water into the teapot. Castiel shook his head.
"Not in so many words."
"Then maybe you should," Balthazar suggested. "Last I checked Dean's not a mind reader. He might be trying to figure things out just as much as you are." The words made sense, though Castiel was reluctant to admit it. He nodded slowly, realising that clear communication might be the key to easing some of the tension between them.
"I'll try," he said finally.
"Good.” Balthazar smiled, a hint of pride in his expression. “Now, how about a cup of tea before you go about your day?" Castiel accepted the offer, the warmth of the tea soothing his frayed nerves. He sipped it slowly, letting the familiar taste and aroma calm him. As he finished his tea, he stood up, feeling a bit more centred.
"Thanks, Balthazar. For being here."
"Anytime, Cassie," Balthazar replied with a warm smile. "Remember, you're not alone in this." With a nod, Castiel left the kitchen and headed upstairs. He found Dean in what used to be his art studio, now converted into a bedroom for him. Dean was unpacking his dufflebag, his movements careful and deliberate.
"Dean," Castiel called, his voice steady. Dean looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes.
"Castiel. Everything okay?"
"I need to talk to you," Castiel said, stepping into the room. "About... boundaries."
"Alright.” Dean straightened, a wary look crossing his face. “I'm listening." Castiel took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully.
"I need some space. This whole situation is new and difficult for me, and I need time to adjust. Can you understand that?" Dean's expression softened, and he nodded.
"I can. I don't want to make things harder for you, Castiel. Just tell me what you need."
"I need you to give me some distance," Castiel continued. "Let me come to terms with this in my own time."
"I can do that.” Dean nodded again, his eyes sincere. “I'm sorry if I've been too pushy. I just... I want to make this work." Just as Castiel was about to answer, he noticed something was wrong with Dean, who looked like he was trying hard not to cough and his eyes were watery. Castiel's irritation flared up again.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, bluntly as Dean failed to suppress a cough.
"I don't know. It's been this way since I woke up." Before Castiel could respond, Norma meowed and scratched at the bedroom door. Castiel let her in and held her like a baby. Dean's eyes widened, and he backed away slightly, rubbing his nose. "How long have you had a cat?" Dean asked, his voice thick.
"Balthazar gave her to me this morning," Castiel replied, a hint of pride in his voice as he looked into Norma’s eyes. Dean's expression shifted to one of resignation and discomfort.
"I'm allergic to cats." Castiel snapped his eyes away from Norma, staring at Dean with a deadpan expression.
"What type of werewolf is allergic to cats?"
"Apparently, this one." Dean managed with a weak smile, despite his evident discomfort. Castiel sighed heavily, a mix of frustration and confusion in his gaze.
"Well, this just complicates things even more." Dean nodded, trying to stifle another cough.
"I'll stay out of your way. Just... let me know if there's anything I can do to help." Castiel felt a pang of guilt, seeing Dean's genuine effort despite his obvious discomfort. He glanced at Norma, then back at Dean.
"I'll... figure something out."
"Thank you, Castiel.” Dean nodded appreciatively, his eyes still watery. “I really do want to make this work."
Castiel watched as Dean left the room, his own emotions a tangled mess. He held Norma closer, her purring a small comfort amid the chaos. The road ahead was uncertain, but perhaps, with time and patience, they could find a way to navigate it together. Castiel began to cry. Of course Dean would be allergic. It was just another complication in a series of unwanted changes. He had hoped the kitten might bring a sense of calm and companionship, but now, even that small comfort seemed tainted. Norma's purring only made him cry harder, the soothing vibrations a cruel contrast to his turbulent emotions. All that seems to be good, Dean ruins, he thought bitterly. His tears flowed freely, dampening Norma's soft fur. She continued to purr, oblivious to the turmoil within him. The weight of his frustration and sadness felt unbearable. He had never asked for any of this – not the marriage, not the intrusion into his life, not the constant upheaval that Dean's presence brought.
He sank to the floor, cradling Norma in his arms, the depth of his loneliness and isolation washed over him. It felt like everything he cherished was slipping away, and he was powerless to stop it. He didn't want to resent Dean, but it was hard not to when every interaction seemed to highlight how mismatched they were. The door creaked open behind him, and Dean stepped back into the room. Castiel quickly wiped his tears, but it was too late. Dean had seen him.
"Castiel," Dean began softly, his voice filled with concern. "I didn't mean to..."
"Just go," Castiel yelled, his voice choked with emotion. "Please, just leave me alone."
Dean hesitated, a look of hurt flashing across his face, but he nodded and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him. Castiel's sobs grew louder, the sound echoing off the walls of the once peaceful studio. He felt Norma nuzzle against his chest, her tiny presence a small anchor in his sea of despair.
He didn't know how long he sat there, but eventually, the tears slowed, leaving him feeling empty and exhausted. He stroked Norma's fur absently, his mind a swirl of confusion and regret. Balthazar's words about making the best of what they had echoed in his mind, but right now, it felt like an impossible task. Taking a deep breath, Castiel stood up, holding Norma securely. He needed to clear his head, to find some semblance of balance amidst the chaos. He made his way downstairs and out into the garden, the cool air a welcome relief against his flushed skin. Norma squirmed in his arms, curious about their new surroundings. He walked towards the edge of the farm, where forest began and a small grove of trees provided a secluded spot. Sitting down on the grass, he placed Norma gently beside him. She immediately began exploring, her playful antics bringing a faint smile to Castiel's lips. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply breathe in the early autumn air, to take in the tranquillity of the natural world around him. The rustling leaves and chirping birds provided a soothing soundtrack, easing some of the tension from his mind and body. Watching Norma chase after a dragonfly, he felt empty. Balthazar approached without Castiel noticing. Castiel smiled sadly as Norma captured the dragonfly and broke its neck with ease.
"She seems to be a real huntress, huh?" Balthazar remarked, sitting down next to Castiel. Castiel turned to Balthazar, his smile tinged with profound sadness.
"Yeah, she is," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar's keen eyes quickly noticed the tear tracks on Castiel's face.
"You've been crying," he observed gently. Castiel looked away, embarrassed.
"It's just... everything. Dean, the marriage, the cat... It's all too much." Balthazar nodded understandingly.
"I know it feels overwhelming right now, Cassie. But sometimes, the things that disrupt our lives the most are the things that lead us to where we need to be." Castiel sighed heavily, his gaze fixed on Norma as she continued her playful hunt.
"I just don't see how any of this can turn out alright." Balthazar placed a reassuring hand on Castiel's shoulder.
"You don't have to see it now. Just take it one day at a time. And remember, you don't have to do this alone. We're all here for you."
"I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'll find your way, Cassie," Balthazar said softly. "And maybe, just maybe, Dean will turn out to be a part of that way." Castiel looked at Balthazar, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
"I hope you're right."
"I am," Balthazar assured him. "Now, let's get you back inside. You need some rest, and so does Norma."
“No.” Castiel sighed deeply, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. He continued to watch Norma as she prowled through the grass, her tiny body full of life and curiosity. "I can't keep her," he said quietly. Balthazar furrowed his brow in concern.
"Why not, Cassie?"
"If I'm going to try to be Dean's husband, like you and Gabriel wants me to be," Castiel began, his voice tinged with resignation, "then we can't keep the cat. Dean said that he is allergic." Balthazar's expression shifted from concern to mild irritation.
"Dean is ridiculous."
"What do you mean?" Castiel looked at Balthazar, confused. Balthazar shook his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips.
"I might know a spell or two that can take away those symptoms. And besides, if Dean is ‘too good’ for a magical cure, there are normal human made medications for that. If Dean is saying the cat is a problem, then Dean needs to reconsider." Castiel's eyes shone with a mixture of hope and disbelief.
"Really?"
"Absolutely," Balthazar confirmed, his tone firm. "There's no reason you should have to give up something that brings you comfort and joy. If Dean truly wants to make this work, he'll find a way to deal with it." Castiel felt a surge of relief and gratitude just as Norma came sprinting towards him at full speed. He laughed as she landed squarely on his lap and began to bump her head against his hands as he went to pet her. The joy in her playful antics was infectious, lifting some of the heavy weight from his shoulders. "See? She already adores you," Balthazar remarked, his smile warm and encouraging. "And you deserve to have things in your life that make you happy, Cassie. Don't let anyone take that away from you." Castiel nodded, feeling more resolute.
"Thank you, Balthazar. I needed to hear that."
"Anytime," Balthazar replied, standing up and brushing off his trousers. "Now, let's head back inside and see about those spells and maybe a bit of lunch. You’ll need your strength for the conversation with Dean." Castiel agreed, picking up Norma and following Balthazar back to the house.
Inside, Balthazar busied himself at the kitchen counter, gathering ingredients and muttering incantations under his breath. Castiel talked to Norma, accusing Balthazar of cheating at cooking. Balthazar laughed, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Well, you like my food, don't you?" Castiel chuckled softly, a sense of normalcy settling over him.
"I do," he admitted, "but that doesn't mean it's not cheating."
"Consider it an enhancement," Balthazar replied with a wink. "Now, sit tight and let me work my magic, literally." As Balthazar continued to prepare the meal, the fragrant aroma of herbs and spices filled the kitchen, mingling with the comforting warmth of the oven. Castiel set Norma down on a chair nearby, watching as she curled up and purred contentedly.
"You're good at this, you know," Castiel said, his voice soft. "Making things better. Always were." Balthazar glanced over his shoulder, a genuine smile on his face.
"It's what family is for, Cassie. We're in this together, and I'll always have your back."
"I appreciate it, that's all." When they finished preparing lunch, the atmosphere in the kitchen was filled with a sense of camaraderie and support. Castiel felt a little more prepared to face the challenges ahead, knowing he had someone like Balthazar by his side. With a hearty meal and a bit of magic, maybe, just maybe, things would start to look up.
As Castiel and Balthazar enjoyed their meal, the kitchen was filled with the delicious aromas of Balthazar’s enchanted cooking. They talked quietly, the easy camaraderie between them a welcome relief from the tensions of the morning. Norma, ever curious, jumped up onto the table, interrupting their conversation. Castiel couldn’t help but smile at her boldness.
“Look at her,” he said softly. Balthazar quirked a brow, watching as Castiel held up a piece of pasta on his fork. Norma approached, sniffing it with interest before ultimately deciding it wasn’t for her. Instead, she stretched out luxuriously and curled up in the middle of the table to sleep. “She’s beautiful,” Castiel remarked, his eyes filled with affection as he watched the kitten settle down.
“She certainly has a presence,” Balthazar agreed, his tone light. “Seems she knows exactly where she belongs.”
“She does.” Castiel nodded, feeling a warmth in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “It’s like she’s already the head of the family.” Balthazar smiled, a knowing look in his eyes.
“Sometimes, it’s the unexpected additions that make a place feel like home.” They continued their meal, the conversation turning to lighter topics as they enjoyed the moment of peace. Norma’s soft purring provided a soothing background noise, her tiny form a symbol of comfort and companionship in the midst of uncertainty.
After they finished eating, Balthazar began to clear the table, but Castiel stopped him.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. “You’ve done enough.”
“Alright, Cassie.” Balthazar nodded, a proud smile on his face.
As Balthazar left the kitchen, Castiel took a moment to tidy up, his mind already turning to the conversation he needed to have with Dean. With Norma still sleeping peacefully on the table, he felt a small spark of hope. Maybe things could work out, even if it wasn’t in the way he had imagined.
Meanwhile, Balthazar found Dean sitting in the living room, his eyes fixed on the cat tree. In Dean's defence, there wasn't much else to look at. There was no TV, and in some ways, Dean thought it an extension of the library he had graced earlier on the ‘I'm finally married and no longer confined to one room’ tour he had been on after he left the bedroom when Castiel was crying and holding the cat close. Dean looked up as Balthazar entered, a mix of emotions crossing his face.
"Hey," he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Balthazar gave him a reassuring smile.
"Hey yourself. Admiring the cat tree, I see." Dean chuckled softly, though there was an edge to his laugh.
"Yeah, it's... different. I didn’t expect to see something like this here." Balthazar nodded, understanding.
"Castiel has a soft spot for animals. It's one of the few things that genuinely brings him peace."
"I noticed that.” Dean's expression softened. “He seems... different when he's with the cat." Balthazar took a seat next to Dean, his tone gentle.
"He's been through a lot, Dean. But he wants to try and make this work, just like you do. More than you probably realise, Dean." Balthazar studied Dean's face before continuing, "He was talking about giving her away, Dean, just so it may work between the two of you." Dean's eyes widened in surprise.
"I didn’t realise." Balthazar shook his head slightly, a hint of frustration in his tone.
"Did you even think about the fact that there is widely available medication for allergies these days?" Dean looked down, realising his mistake.
"I guess I didn’t."
"Do you know anything about witches, Dean?"
"You're a witch?" Dean's eyes went wide as he realised what he hadn't been able to place earlier. Balthazar chuckled softly.
"Yes, I am." Dean looked away, feeling a mix of emotions.
"I was always told to stay wary of witches."
"It's a bit late to be wary of witches now, don’t you think?" Balthazar said. "Do you trust me, Dean?" Dean hesitated before replying.
"Not really. Sorry." Balthazar smiled slightly.
"Did you ever?" Dean shook his head.
"Not fully." Balthazar's smile widened.
"Good boy." Balthazar placed his hands on Dean's cheeks and whispered an incantation. His eyes glowed purple as he spoke. Dean felt a strange warmth spread through his body, but otherwise, he didn’t feel any different. When Balthazar leaned back, his eyes returned to their normal colour. "There. That should help with the allergies." Dean blinked, surprised.
"I don't feel any different."
"You will," Balthazar assured him. "Just give it time."
At that moment, Castiel entered the room, still holding Norma. He paused, taking in the scene before him.
"Everything alright?" Dean looked at Balthazar, then back at Castiel, his expression a mix of gratitude and confusion.
"Yeah, I think so." Castiel approached, holding Norma close. He gave Balthazar a questioning look, and Balthazar nodded reassuringly.
"We had a little chat," Balthazar said, standing up and stretching. "And I took care of a small issue." Castiel's eyes flicked between them, a hint of suspicion lingering.
"What did you do?"
"I helped Dean with his allergy problem," Balthazar replied, his tone casual. "He should be fine around Norma now." Dean looked at Castiel, his eyes earnest.
"I'm sorry I made a fuss about it." Castiel's expression softened, the tension easing from his shoulders.
"She's important to me," he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay,” Dean nodded, his face serious. "Then she's important to me too." Balthazar clapped his hands together, breaking the moment.
"Well, now that we're all on the same page, how about we figure out what's next?" Castiel took a deep breath, feeling a mixture of relief and lingering uncertainty.
"I suppose we should." Norma meowed softly, as if sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere. Castiel smiled down at her, his heart feeling lighter. He looked at Dean, who was watching them with a newfound resolve.
"I want to make this work," Dean said, his voice steady. "I know it's not going to be easy, and we've got a lot to figure out, but I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." Castiel met Balthazar's gaze, feeling a flicker of hope.
"Alright. We'll take it one step at a time."
"That's the spirit, Cassie.” Balthazar grinned, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “Now, let's see if we can't get through the rest of the day without any more drama, shall we?" As they settled into the living room, the atmosphere felt lighter, more hopeful. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the kitten explore her new surroundings. Dean broke the silence first, his voice tentative.
"Can I ask you something?" Castiel looked at him, curious.
"Okay." Dean hesitated, then took a deep breath.
"Why did you agree to marry me?"
"It wasn't my choice," Castiel said without a second thought. Balthazar cleared his throat, signalling that apparently that was the wrong answer. Castiel looked over at Balthazar, who raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to continue. Realising he had to elaborate, Castiel sighed and looked back at Dean. "I mean," he started again, more gently, "it wasn't entirely my choice. Our pack has traditions and obligations. I agreed because it was what was expected of me."
"I see." Dean's face fell slightly, but he nodded, understanding.
"But," Castiel continued, surprising himself with the honesty of his words, "just because it wasn't my choice doesn't mean I'm not trying to make it work. We both deserve a chance to find some happiness in this." Dean's eyes softened.
"I appreciate that, Castiel. I really do." Norma, sensing the tension, jumped onto Dean's lap and nuzzled his hand. Dean looked down at her, a smile forming on his face as he notices his allergic reactions were gone. He stroked her fur gently, and for a moment, they shared a quiet, tender moment. "You know," Dean said after a while, still petting Norma, "I was told to be wary of witches. But Balthazar... he seems different." Castiel glanced at Balthazar, who was watching them with a satisfied smile.
"He is different," Castiel agreed.
"I do my best.” Balthazar chuckled. “Now, if you two are done with the heavy stuff, how about we make some plans for the rest of the day? A little distraction might do you both some good."
Castiel nodded, feeling a bit lighter. Dean agreed, and together, they started discussing what they could do. Balthazar suggested a walk around the farm to help Dean get more familiar with his new surroundings. Dean seemed keen on the idea, and Castiel found himself looking forward to it too.
The further they got from the house, where Balthazar and Norma had stayed behind, the more Castiel seemed to revert to the cold, distant persona he had displayed earlier. Dean tried to make conversation, pointing out what he thought to be interesting sights and asking questions about the farm, but Castiel either didn't reply or gave uncommitted, short answers. The contrast between Castiel's warmth around Balthazar and his aloofness when they were alone left Dean frustrated and confused. As they walked past the grazing fields, Dean attempted to break the ice.
"The cows look really healthy. You must take good care of them." Castiel barely glanced at the herd.
"They’re fine," he replied curtly. Dean took a deep breath, trying not to let his frustration show.
"Do you spend a lot of time out here? It seems peaceful."
"Sometimes," Castiel muttered, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Dean sighed, his patience wearing thin. He decided to try a different approach.
"The layout of the farm is really nice. Who designed it?" Castiel shrugged.
"It’s always been like this." Dean stopped walking, his jaw tightening.
"Why are you like this, Castiel?" Castiel turned to him, his expression unreadable.
"Like what?"
"This!” Dean gestured around them, his frustration evident. “Cold, distant. You were different when we were with Balthazar. Why do you act like you can barely stand to be around me when we’re alone?" Castiel’s eyes flickered with something akin to guilt before hardening again.
"It's complicated." Dean took a step closer, his voice tense.
"Then explain it to me, Castiel. I thought we were supposed to be in this together."
"Together?” Castiel's irritation finally boiled over. “We're not in this together, Dean. This is a forced arrangement, nothing more."
"Then what am I doing here, Castiel? Why even try to make this work if you don't want to?" Castiel's eyes blazed with frustration, and before he could stop himself, he let slip the truth that had been gnawing at him.
"I only have to put up with you for a year! When the year is up, I can kill you without the treaty being broken." Dean’s face went pale, his breath catching in his throat. John had definitely left out that detail.
"What?" he whispered, his voice trembling with shock and disbelief. Castiel immediately regretted his words, realising the gravity of what he had just revealed. But the damage was done. Dean's eyes were wide with a mix of fear and betrayal, his body tense as he took a step back. "I... I didn't know," Dean said, his voice barely audible. "I thought... I thought we were supposed to make this work." Castiel looked away, his anger dissipating into a hollow ache.
"'M sorry," he said quietly, his voice strained. "Thought you knew. Didn't mean for you to find out like this." Dean swallowed hard, trying to process the revelation.
"So, all of this... it's just temporary? A means to an end?" Castiel nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the ground.
"That's how Gabriel explained it. But Dean, that doesn't mean we can't try to make the best of it. Just... just need time to adjust." Dean’s expression hardened, a steely resolve settling over him.
"Well, Castiel, whether you like it or not, I'm here. And I'm not going to just roll over and die. If we have a year, then I'm going to make every moment count. For both of us." Castiel looked up, surprised by the determination in Dean's eyes. There was a fire there, a fierce will to survive and make the most of their situation. For the first time, Castiel saw a glimpse of the strength that lay beneath Dean's polite exterior.
"Fine," Castiel said, his voice softer. "But don't expect me to make it easy for you." Dean nodded, his jaw set.
"I wouldn't have it any other way." They stood there for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Then, without another word, they turned and continued their walk, the silence heavy with unspoken thoughts and emotions. As they made their way back to the house, Dean couldn't shake the feeling of unease. But now, mixed with that unease, was a new resolve. He would find a way to break through Castiel's walls, to show him that they could build something real, even in the most unlikely of circumstances. And as for Castiel, he couldn't help but feel a spark of respect for Dean's determination. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for them to find a way forward. But it would be a long, hard road, and they were only just beginning.
Chapter 6
Notes:
Chapter word count: 6 458
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Dean awoke to the faint morning light filtering through the curtains of his temporary bedroom, the unfamiliar surroundings of Castiel’s house still feeling somewhat alien. The events of the previous day played in his mind—the terse conversations, the awkward dinner with Balthazar and Norma, and the revelation of the sinister tradition that lay ahead of him. Determined to make a better impression and understand his new environment, he got up and dressed quickly. As Dean began to descend the stairs to the first floor he heard voices from the kitchen. He paused, halfway down, straining to catch the conversation. The tone was urgent, filled with emotion.
"Balthazar, please," Castiel's voice was tinged with desperation. "You can't leave. I need you here."
"Castiel," Balthazar replied gently, "you know I can't stay. Without Charles, I don't have the protection I used to. Gabriel can't renew the proclamation without raising suspicion."
"But we can ask him," Castiel pleaded, his voice breaking slightly. “He'll understand.” Balthazar sighed, a soft sound that carried the weight of unspoken truths.
"Now, now, Cassie, you know I can't hold your hand forever. You've grown up, and you've become a remarkable young man. You should be proud of that."
"I didn't ask to grow up," Castiel whispered, his voice filled with a mix of sadness and frustration. “Didn't ask for any of this.”
Dean leaned closer, his heart aching at the raw vulnerability in Castiel's words. He felt like an intruder, witnessing a deeply personal moment.
"You're doing so good, Cassie,” Balthazar's tone was soothing, filled with affection. “trying to figure out this situation with Dean and while it's not easy, you're doing your best." Dean heard a soft meow, and he could picture Norma rubbing against Castiel's leg, offering silent comfort. Balthazar continued, "That's right, Norma. Cassie has you now." Dean felt a pang of guilt and sadness. He had been thrust into this situation, but it was clear that Castiel was struggling just as much. It was clear how deeply Castiel valued Balthazar's presence and how alone he felt without him. Feeling like he had intruded enough Dean continued down the stairs, making sure to make a bit more noise to announce his presence. As he entered the kitchen, he found Castiel sitting at the table with Norma in his lap, a pot of tea steaming beside him, and Balthazar standing by the counter with a bag by his feet.
"Good morning," Dean said softly, his eyes flicking between Castiel and Balthazar.
"Morning, Dean," Balthazar replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Castiel merely nodded, his gaze fixed on Norma. Dean took a seat at the table, the silence heavy with the remnants of the conversation he had overheard. He decided to address the elephant in the room.
"Balthazar, are you leaving today?"
"Yes, I'm afraid I must.” Balthazar nodded, his expression gentle. “But I'll be back to visit as often as I can." Castiel's grip on Norma tightened slightly, but he remained silent. Dean looked at Castiel, then back at Balthazar, feeling the weight of their shared history and the bond that was clearly so important to Castiel.
"I'm sorry you're leaving," Dean said sincerely. "You've been a great help."
"Thank you, Dean.” Balthazar gave a small, appreciative nod. “Just remember, both of you, that you're not alone. Talk, and you'll find your way." The room fell into a quiet lull, the only sound the soft purring of Norma. Dean looked at Castiel, who seemed lost in thought, and then back at Balthazar, who gave him a reassuring smile.
After breakfast, Balthazar made his farewells. Castiel stood by the door, his face a mask of calm, but his eyes betrayed his sorrow.
"Take care, Balthazar."
"You too, Cassie," Balthazar replied, pulling him into a brief, tight hug. "And remember, I'm only a call away."
“Yeah, when you answer,” Castiel mumbled, his voice muffled by Balthazar’s shoulder. Dean watched the exchange, feeling a mix of emotions. Balthazar gave him a nod before leaving, and Dean felt the weight of responsibility settle more heavily on his shoulders. As the door closed behind Balthazar, the silence in the house grew louder, more oppressive. Castiel turned away, heading towards the kitchen with Norma still in his arms. Dean followed, unsure of what to say or do. He wanted to offer comfort, but he knew their relationship was still too fragile for such gestures. Instead, he began to talk about mundane things, hoping to lighten the mood.
"So, I was thinking we could maybe go for a walk today. You could show me more of the farm." Castiel glanced at him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
"Alright," he said quietly. "We can do that." They finished breakfast in relative silence, and then, with Norma left comfortably in the house, they set out. The farm was expansive, and as they walked, Castiel slowly began to open up, pointing out different parts of the property, the animals, and the various tasks that needed to be done. Dean listened, genuinely interested, asking questions and trying to engage Castiel in conversation. As the morning wore on, he began to see glimpses of the person beneath the guarded exterior—a young man who cared deeply for his home and his responsibilities. They stopped by a field where cows grazed peacefully.
"Do you spend a lot of time out here?" Dean asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
"Yes," Castiel replied, his tone softening slightly. "It's peaceful. It helps clear my mind." Dean nodded, understanding.
"I can see why. It's beautiful."
They continued walking, the tension between them easing slightly. Dean could feel the beginnings of a fragile connection forming, and he was determined to nurture it, despite the obstacles they faced. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, they made their way back to the house. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment, however small. It was a start, and he was determined to build on it, one step at a time.
Back at the house, they found Norma waiting by the door, meowing loudly. Castiel picked her up, his expression softening as she nuzzled against his chin. Dean watched them, feeling a mix of hope and determination. They had a long way to go, but he was committed to making it work. And for a moment —however brief— he felt that Castiel may feel the same way until Castiel shut himself in his room with Norma, leaving Dean alone once more. He sighed, feeling the weight of the morning’s efforts pressing down on him. Determined not to let the day go to waste, he decided to head up to the second floor to deeper explore the library’s selection. The library was a sanctuary of sorts, with tall bookshelves crammed with volumes of all sizes and ages. Dean’s fingers danced over the spines, reading the titles and feeling the leather and paper beneath his fingertips. The silence of the room was comforting, a stark contrast to the tension that seemed to permeate the rest of the house.
Just as he was about to pull a book from the shelf, he heard sounds coming from down the hall. He peered out of the library to see Benny and Victor entering his room. Frowning, Dean approached them.
“What’s going on?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral. Benny looked up, surprise flickering across his face before it was replaced with a more guarded expression.
“Gabriel ordered us to restore the room to what it was before,” he said simply.
“What was it before?” Dean asked, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach.
“It was Castiel’s art studio,” Victor replied, his tone flat. Dean’s heart sank. He remembered the sketches he had seen in Castiel’s room that first night, the intricate drawings filled with emotion and depth. He realised how much this transition must have cost Castiel, losing his creative outlet just when he probably needed it the most.
"Can you wait with that until I've spoken to Gabriel?" Dean asked, his tone firm but polite. Benny and Victor exchanged a glance, then shrugged.
"Sure," Benny said. "But don't take too long." Dean nodded, a sense of urgency filling him.
"How can I speak to Gabriel?"
"Why, Dean?” Victor chuckled, a sound that lacked any warmth. “You speaking for Castiel already?" Dean's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm.
"I just want to understand what's going on. That's all."
"Tell me, Dean,” Benny crossed his arms, looking at Dean with a critical eye. “How is Castiel coping? Not the easiest to deal with, is he?" "He's doing his best. It's a difficult situation for both of us." Dean felt half surprised when a protective instinct rose within him. Maybe he should have been more wary about witches.
"You already find it difficult?” Victor snorted. “Seems like you will just have a blast of a year living with Castiel. He's always been a bit... special ."
"He's had a lot to deal with.” Dean's eyes narrowed. “It's understandable."
“That so?” Benny raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you’ve seen the temper tantrums, the sulking, the way he shuts down when things don’t go his way?” Dean stared at Benny, his green eyes steely.
“Castiel is doing his best. He’s trying to make this work, just like I am.”
“You’ve got a lot of patience, I’ll give you that.” Victor snorted again. “But don’t expect him to change. He’s been like this for as long as I can remember.” Dean felt a flash of anger at their dismissive attitudes.
“I’m not asking him to change. I’m asking for a chance to understand him.” Benny and Victor exchanged another look, and then Victor sighed.
“Fine. You want to talk to Gabriel? He’s at the main house. Just don’t take too long, or we’ll start moving things out.” Dean nodded, a sense of urgency filling him. He left the house and made his way to the central house in the half-circle of homes. It was larger and more imposing, with a well-kept garden that hinted at the status of its inhabitants. Dean rang the doorbell, feeling a mix of apprehension and determination. A staff member answered, initially looking confused about who he was. Then he noticed the bite mark on Dean’s neck, a result of the ceremony, and his demeanour changed to one of immediate deference.
“I’m so sorry, sir. Please, come in.”
Dean was escorted through the house, passing several people who looked like they had been waiting to speak to Gabriel. He felt a twinge of guilt as he bypassed them, but he knew he needed to speak with Gabriel urgently. The staff member led Dean to a living room with comfortable seating areas and a TV. Gabriel sat in an armchair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as he watched Dean approach. Dean remembered the protocols from his old pack, where his father led, and the wolves seeking an audience were expected to maintain a respectful distance and kneel with their heads bowed. He decided to follow that custom here.
Gabriel’s eyebrow arched in amusement as Dean knelt, but he quickly masked it with a more serious expression. Dean heard footsteps and soon saw Gabriel's sock-clad feet. Gabriel extended a hand for Dean to take.
“Come on, we’re family.” Gabriel said when Dean hesitated. Dean took the hand, and after Gabriel sat back down in his armchair, Dean took a seat on a nearby couch. Gabriel looked at him expectantly. “What brought you here, Dean?” Dean took a deep breath.
“Do you know how Victor and Benny speak about Castiel?” Gabriel’s jaw tightened, and he looked away briefly before meeting Dean’s gaze again.
“I sent them to the house to remove the furniture that we had put up temporarily as your bedroom, not to talk about Castiel.” Dean felt a wave of frustration.
“Why would you take away the art studio of all things? It seems like Castiel uses art as an outlet.” Gabriel’s expression softened slightly, though there was still a hint of irritation.
“It was the best room for your needs.” Dean leaned forward, his eyes earnest.
“Why wasn’t I just put up in the library or the living room?” Gabriel sighed, his gaze steady.
“The room has an adjoining bathroom. It was the only way to ensure you had access to one without the two of you meeting. It’s the master suite on the blueprint.” Dean felt a knot of confusion and anger tighten in his chest.
“Why am I the only one who wasn’t told about the one year rule?” Gabriel’s eyes flashed with warning, a silent reminder of the authority he held.
“You ask a lot of questions, Dean.” Dean met Gabriel’s gaze, refusing to back down.
“I need to understand what’s going on if I’m going to make this work. For both our sakes.”
“Fine.” Gabriel sighed, the tension easing slightly from his posture. “The year rule is... old . It is a year and a day, actually. It is an old tradition, a safeguard, a way to ensure the union is taken seriously. Had the girl presented and married not provided a pup within that year, she was deemed faulty, and the man made husband had the right to slay her. Of course, you being born a man, the loophole is quite obvious. But it’s not meant to be a weapon.” Dean was taken aback slightly as he began to understand how much more this pack was ruled by tradition than his was. “Did you and Castiel not consummate the marriage? Is that why you're protesting the bedroom being removed?” Dean looked away.
“We didn’t.”
“You must not tell anyone else that.” Gabriel's voice turned low and his expression serious.“It will put you in danger, Dean. Consummating the marriage is a way to solidify the bond in the eyes of the pack. If they think you’re not serious about this union, things could turn very sour very quickly.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” Dean nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. “But I need to know how to help Castiel. He’s clearly struggling with having me there.”
“Castiel has always been different.” Gabriel’s expression softened. “He’s sensitive, and he’s had a lot to cope with. Losing his art studio was a blow, and it’s made things harder for him. If you want to help, find a way to give him back what he lost. Show him that you’re willing to understand and support him.”
“I will.” Dean nodded, a sense of determination filling him.
“Good.” Gabriel nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Now, go talk to Castiel. And be careful. This may be a delicate situation, but I believe you can handle it. After all, I chose you for a reason.”
Dean rushed back to Castiel’s house, his heart pounding with urgency. As he reached the top of the stairs, he saw Victor and Benny already halfway through dismantling the makeshift bedroom.
“Stop!” he called out, breathless. “Stop, don’t touch anything else!” Victor turned, annoyance clear on his face.
“What now, Dean?” Victor sighed, crossing his arms.
“Gabriel already signed off on this, Dean. Why are you getting in the way?”
“I talked to Gabriel,” Dean said firmly. “The room stays as it is.” Victor and Benny exchanged glances, irritation flickering in their eyes.
“You’re meddling in things you don’t understand,” Victor muttered.
“But if Gabriel agreed…” Benny started, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, that does mean less work for us.” Dean stood his ground, waiting until they reluctantly nodded and began to put everything back in place. Victor gave Dean a hard look before he left.
“You’ve got your way this time. But don’t expect it to be this easy in the future.” As Benny followed Victor out he gave Dean a small nod of approval.
“Good luck, Dean. You’ll need it.”
With his bedroom secured, Dean made his way downstairs, feeling a mixture of relief and anticipation. He gently knocked on Castiel’s bedroom door, hoping to talk to him and explain what he had done. There was no response. So he knocked again, more insistently this time, but still received no answer. Just as he was about to give up, he heard a soft scratching from the other side of the door.
“Norma?” Dean called softly. He pushed down the handle and opened the door. Dean stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He approached the bed, his eyes fixed on Castiel’s serene face. The tension and hardness that usually marked his features were gone, replaced by a softness that made Dean’s heart ache. Norma meowed softly, jumping onto Dean’s lap as he sat down on the edge of the bed. He stroked her fur absentmindedly, his gaze never leaving Castiel. “Castiel,” he whispered, not wanting to startle him but hoping to wake him gently. Castiel stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, before his gaze focused on Dean.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Dean said softly. Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Dean said, smiling reassuringly. Castiel sat up, rubbing his eyes, which did nothing to lessen the look of exhaustion etched on his face.
“Norma, has Dean told you what he wants?” Castiel asked the cat, who meowed in response. Castiel smiled, a small, tired smile that softened his features. “Oh, really, Norma? Then I better listen, huh? ” Upon seeing how tired Castiel seemed Dean decided against telling Castiel about Victor and Benny’s visit or his idea for an outing to buy art supplies.
“I was thinking that maybe I could make us some lunch,” Dean suggested. Castiel hummed, his attention mostly on Norma, who was now stretching languidly on Dean’s lap.
“That sounds fine.”
“Are you allergic to anything?” Castiel shook his head.“Alright.” Norma jumped off Dean's lap and onto the floor as if she knew he was about to leave. She trailed after him as he made his way into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator to find it mostly empty save for the door propped full of condiments and some lonely vegetables, bottles of sodas and different packages of cheese slices on the shelves. He opened a couple of cabinets and found dishes haphazardly put in and a few boxes of pasta. Dean sighed, feeling the weight of the task ahead. He checked the pantry and found a can of tomatoes and some dried herbs. “Looks like it’ll be pasta, again.” he muttered to himself. Norma meowed in agreement, rubbing against his leg. Dean set to work, his movements quick and efficient. He boiled water for the pasta and heated a pan for the sauce. As he chopped garlic and onions, he thought about Castiel and the struggles he must be facing. The loss of his art studio, the pressure of their forced marriage, and the constant scrutiny from his pack must have taken a toll on him. Once the onions and garlic were sizzling in the pan, Dean added the can of tomatoes and the dried herbs, stirring everything together. The kitchen filled with the rich aroma of the sauce, and Dean felt a small sense of satisfaction. Cooking had always been his way of finding calm and order, and he hoped it could bring some comfort to Castiel as well. While the sauce simmered, Dean set the table, making sure everything was in place. He glanced at the clock, noting that it was almost noon. “Lunch is almost ready,” he called out, hoping Castiel would join him. After a few moments, Castiel appeared in the doorway, looking slightly more alert. He gave Dean a cautious look but said nothing as he took a seat at the table. Norma jumped onto the chair next to Castiel, purring contentedly. Dean served the pasta, setting a plate in front of Castiel.
“I hope you like it,” he said, trying to sound casual. Castiel took a bite, his expression softening slightly as he chewed.
“It’s good,” he said quietly. Dean smiled, feeling a small victory.
“I’m glad.” As they ate the tension between them eased slightly with each bite. Dean felt a glimmer of hope; it was a small step, but it was a step forward. And for now, that was enough.
As they continued eating, Dean decided to break the silence with a question he had been curious about. “Do you work, Castiel?” Castiel looked up from his plate, a wary expression on his face.
“I help with the farm,” he said, his tone guarded.
“But no real job?” Dean pressed, immediately regretting his choice of words when he saw Castiel’s glare.
“I contribute plenty,” Castiel replied icily, his posture stiffening. Dean quickly raised his hands in a placating gesture.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to understand more about your day-to-day life here.” Castiel’s glare softened slightly, but he remained silent, focusing on his food. Dean decided to shift the conversation to something more neutral. “Back in town, I used to work at this bistro. It was a relatively small place, but we had a loyal customer base. The owner, Ellen, was a great mentor to me. She taught me everything I know about cooking.” Castiel glanced at him, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. Dean took it as a good sign and continued. “The bistro had this warm, cosy, atmosphere,” Dean said, his eyes lighting up with the memory. “We served a mix of traditional dishes and some unique twists that Ellen came up with. I used to love coming up with daily specials based on what fresh ingredients we got from the market.” Castiel seemed to relax a bit, listening intently as Dean described his experiences. “I remember one of my favourite dishes to make was a lamb ragout,” Dean continued. “We’d slow-cook the lamb until it was tender, then serve it with homemade pasta. The flavours were just incredible. Customers would come in specifically for that dish.” Castiel took another bite of his pasta, nodding slightly as he listened. “And then there were the desserts,” Dean said, a smile spreading across his face. “Ellen made the best brownies. It was her grandmother’s recipe, handed down through generations. Customers would always save room for it, no matter how full they were.” Dean noticed that Castiel seemed more engaged, his posture less tense. Encouraged, he kept talking. “One time, we had this big event – a local food festival, maybe you've been?” Dean asked, Castiel shook his head. “No? Well, we put up a booth and served samples of our most popular dishes. It was a lot of work, but seeing people enjoy our food made it all worth it. I loved the sense of community, the way food could bring people together.” Castiel’s eyes softened as he listened, and Dean felt a sense of connection forming. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “I miss it,” Dean admitted. “The hustle and bustle of the kitchen, the satisfaction of a well-cooked meal, the smiles on people’s faces. It’s hard work, but it’s rewarding.”
“It sounds like you really enjoyed it.” Castiel finally said, his tone softer than before.
“I did,” Dean said, his smile genuine. “Cooking has always been my passion. It’s a way for me to express myself, to create something that brings joy to others.”
“Charlie runs a restaurant,” Castiel said suddenly, catching Dean off guard.
“Who’s Charlie?” Dean asked, genuinely curious.
“She's in the pack, the only child from one of the high-ranking families. She runs a restaurant in town – owner and head chef.”
“Really? What kind of restaurant?”
“The kind with food.” Castiel shrugged. Dean smiled at Castiel's lack of detailed knowledge, finding it almost endearing. Then Castiel’s expression changed, turning more serious as he eyed Dean’s clothes. “Why are you still not wearing the clothes from the upstairs wardrobe?” Castiel asked bluntly. Dean’s smile faltered.
“I, erm, didn’t realise there was clothing for me there? I’ve been wearing my own stuff.”
“Gabriel promised that he made sure you’d have what you need.” Castiel frowned. “You should check it out. It’s not appropriate for you to go around looking like… that.” Dean looked down at his clothes, a simple T-shirt and jeans, suddenly feeling slightly self-conscious.
“Alright, I’ll take a look later. Thanks for letting me know.” Castiel nodded curtly, then turned his attention back to his food. The conversation had taken an awkward turn, but Dean was determined not to let it end on a sour note. They finished their meal in relative silence, the initial tension between them easing slightly. Dean cleaned up the dishes, glancing occasionally at Castiel, who seemed lost in thought.
After everything was cleaned up, Dean decided to follow Castiel's suggestion. He made his way upstairs to check out the wardrobe in his new bedroom. Opening the doors, he found a selection of clothing neatly arranged: shirts, trousers, jackets, and even some formal wear. Everything looked new and expensive, a stark contrast to his own worn-out clothes. Dean selected a comfortable looking sweater and a pair of jeans, quickly changing into them. He adjusted the fit, glancing at himself in the mirror, noting how different he looked; more put together, more in line with what he imagined to be the expectations of the Novak pack. As he finished getting dressed, Dean felt a small sense of satisfaction. He was trying, making an effort to fit into this new world. It wasn’t easy, but he was determined to find his place here. Dean, feeling a bit more confident, sniffed the air to pick up Castiel's scent. He followed it to the library where Castiel sat on the couch reading a book with Norma curled up on his lap.
“Hey,” Dean said, leaning against the doorframe. Castiel looked up, his eyes flicking over Dean’s new clothes.
“You look better,” he commented, his tone neutral.
“Thanks,” Dean replied with a small smile. “I’m trying.” Castiel nodded, returning his attention to his book.
“I noticed.” Dean took a seat on the couch next to Castiel, watching him for a moment.
“Do you want to go grocery shopping?” he asked. Castiel glanced at Dean, then back at his book.
“There is food.”
“Yes, but not much,” Dean pointed out.
“We have enough.” Castiel said as he kept on reading.
“I’d feel better if we had more options. And, I don’t know where we are or how to get back if I venture out on my own.” But Castiel’s eyes remained on his book.
“We’re fine.” Dean tried multiple times, each attempt met with resistance. Finally, Castiel sighed, closing his book with a snap. “Will it get you to shut up and let me read when we get back if we go to the store?”
“Yes.” Dean nodded eagerly. Castiel rolled his eyes, setting his book aside.
“Fine, let’s go.” Castiel lifted Norma and kissed her forehead before putting her on the couch cushion. Norma meowed softly as if understanding. Castiel led Dean to the garage where a Jubilee Gold-coloured car stood. It was a far cry from John’s Impala, but Dean guessed it was better than nothing. Castiel tossed the keys to Dean. “You’re driving.”
On the road, Castiel instructed Dean on how to drive through the rain filled winding roads until they arrived at a surprisingly large grocery store seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Dean realised that everyone in the Novak pack probably shopped there.
“This place is bigger than I expected.”
“I guess.” Castiel shrugged. “It has everything we need.” They walked into the store, the cool air a welcome relief from the wetness outside. Dean grabbed a cart and began to navigate the aisles, picking out fresh produce, meats, and other essentials. Castiel followed, occasionally adding items to the cart but mostly staying silent. Dean tried to make conversation as they shopped.
“Do you like cooking?”
“Not really,” Castiel shrugged. “I can cook, but it’s not a passion of mine.” Dean smiled, trying to lighten the mood.
“Well, maybe I can teach you some of my recipes. Cooking together could be fun.” Castiel’s expression remained neutral.
“Maybe.” As they continued shopping, Dean noticed that Castiel seemed overwhelmed by the store and the options. He took a closer look at the items in the cart and realised that the things Castiel had put in were the same brands and products that they already had.
“Do you like going grocery shopping?” Dean asked, keeping his tone light.
“No,” Castiel admitted. “All the things just look the same.”
“I get that.” Dean nodded. “Do you usually do the grocery shopping?”
“Yes,” Castiel said. “I’m not a child.”
“I know you’re not. I just meant, if you don’t like doing it, I can take over from now on.”
“Oh.” Castiel looked at Dean, a hint of surprise in his eyes. Dean nodded encouragingly.
“Yeah, it’s no problem. I actually like grocery shopping. I can make sure we have everything we need.” Castiel seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded.
“Alright.”
Dean felt a small sense of accomplishment when they headed back to the house. It was another minor victory, but it was progress. As they unloaded the groceries, Dean couldn’t help but feel hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, they were starting to find their way. Castiel sat down at the kitchen table as Dean unpacked the groceries. Norma hopped up onto the table and began batting at the string of Castiel's hoodie. Dean couldn't help but notice how often Castiel wore hoodies. He had been wearing one the first night they met, on their wedding night, yesterday, and again today. It struck Dean as a bit hypocritical for Castiel to comment on his earlier attire —jeans and a T-shirt— when Castiel himself seemed to always be in a hoodie.
“What do you want to eat for dinner?” Dean asked instead. Castiel looked surprised by the question.
“Are we eating again?”
“I thought we would?” Dean paused in his movements, taken aback by the question. He looked at Castiel closely. Castiel's deep blue eyes were focused on Norma, his expression serene as the kitten played. His features were delicate yet strong, a mixture of youth and burden. The hoodie he wore was slightly oversized, giving him a more vulnerable appearance. “It seemed that way when Balthazar was here.” Castiel hummed in thought. “Castiel, do you eat every day?” Dean asked after a while. Castiel finally looked up, his gaze meeting Dean’s.
“I try to, but sometimes I forget. Gabriel says it's okay if I at least eat every third day.”
“What kind of werewolf forgets to eat?” Dean asked, narrowing his eyes. Castiel tilted his head slightly.
“Apparently, this one.” Dean could not help but smile slightly at having his own words shot back at him. The irony and humour in Castiel's response broke some of the tension between them.
“Well,” Dean said, chuckling softly, shaking his head, “let’s make sure you don’t forget today. How about we cook something together?” Castiel's expression softened, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Alright. What do you suggest?”
“How about potato and leek soup? It's autumn, and we still have some leftover bread that Balthazar baked.” Castiel nodded in agreement, and they began gathering the ingredients. True to his word, Castiel’s enthusiasm for cooking was minimal, and it showed in his chopping skills, or lack thereof. Yet, despite this, Dean noticed how Castiel seemed more relaxed, his shoulders less tense as they settled into a comfortable rhythm. He found himself hoping that cooking together could become a regular thing as a way to bridge the gap between them. “So, have you always liked hoodies?” Dean asked casually, glancing at Castiel. Castiel looked up, a bit surprised by the question.
“Yes. They are comfortable. And they have pockets.” Dean laughed.
“I guess that’s a good reason. I just noticed you wear them a lot.”
“They’re practical.” Castiel shrugged. Dean appreciated the simplicity of Castiel's reasoning. As they continued cooking, Dean found himself enjoying the domesticity of it all. It was a small step, but it felt like progress.
“So, what do you usually do after dinner?” Dean asked as he stirred the soup. “Or in the evening I guess.” Castiel leaned against the counter, thinking for a moment.
“I read, or sometimes I work on my art.” Dean nodded, remembering the sketches he had seen in Castiel’s room.
“I saw some of your drawings the other day.” Castiel’s cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
“It’s just something I do to relax.”
“Well, you’re good at it,” Dean said sincerely. “Maybe one day, you can show me more of your work.” Castiel seemed to consider this, then nodded slightly.
“Maybe.” They finished cooking the soup and sat down to eat. The warm, comforting meal was perfect for the chilly autumn evening. Dean savoured the rich flavours, pleased with how well it had turned out. “This is really good,” Castiel said quietly, surprising Dean.
“Thanks,” Dean replied with a smile. “I’m glad you like it.” They continued eating in comfortable silence, the tension between them gradually easing. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment, not just because of the successful meal but because they were making progress in understanding each other. After dinner, Dean cleaned up the dishes while Castiel returned to the library. Once the kitchen was tidy, Dean joined him, finding Castiel once again engrossed in a book with Norma curled up beside him.
“Can I join you?”
Castiel glanced up, then nodded.
“I won't bite.” Dean sat down on the couch next to Castiel, picking up a book from the table.
They read in companionable silence, the crackling fire providing a cosy backdrop. Dean occasionally glanced at Castiel, who seemed more at ease than Dean had ever seen him. It was a small step, but it felt like they were finally starting to build a connection.
As the evening wore on, Dean found himself growing more comfortable in this strange new life. It wasn’t perfect, and there were still many challenges ahead, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could make this work. Eventually, the fire died down, and Castiel closed his book with a satisfied sigh. “I’m going to bed.”
“Yeah, me too.” Dean nodded, setting his book aside. “Goodnight, Castiel.”
“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel replied, giving him a small smile before leaving the room. However, Castiel stopped in the hallway and looked back, hesitation clear in his posture. He walked back to the library, his steps quieter, almost tentative. “Dean?” Castiel's voice was soft, almost uncertain. Dean looked up from his book, seeing the apprehension in Castiel's eyes.
“Yeah?” Castiel hesitated, then took a deep breath.
“Can you remove the hide?” Dean tilted his head, not quite understanding.
“The hide?” Castiel nodded, his eyes not meeting Dean's.
“According to tradition, the wife should on the third day take care of the hide and tan it properly. I know it’s just the second day, but I don’t like it. I think the juices by now must have seeped into the floorboards, and it’s all just too much–” Dean could see Castiel getting more and more overwhelmed just by speaking about it.
“Of course, Castiel. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.” Castiel smiled, a flicker of relief passing over his features.
“Is there a place where you keep the cleaning supplies?”
“In the downstairs bathroom, the cabinet under the sink.”
Dean nodded and rose from the couch, following Castiel downstairs. They reached the bathroom, and Castiel pointed out the cleaning supplies before he gave Dean a grateful nod and retreated to his bedroom.
Dean gathered the necessary supplies and headed to the room where the hide was kept. The sight and smell of the decomposing hide wasn't unpleasant per se, but Dean understood that for Castiel, it might be a reminder of the marriage they are both trapped in. He worked methodically, cleaning the area thoroughly to remove any remnants. Once the area was clean, Dean carefully gathered the hide in his arms. He looked up to see Castiel standing in the doorway, looking guilty.
“You can put it in the bathtub here on the ground floor,” Castiel said, his voice subdued. “We’ll just pretend we remove it tomorrow. Tomorrow it’s supposed to be hung to dry on the veranda out back.”
Dean put the hide in the bathtub and when he came out of the bathroom, he noticed Castiel descending the stairs, holding Norma.
"Goodnight, again," Dean said gently. Castiel gave a small nod, the corners of his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile.
"Goodnight, Dean."
Dean headed upstairs to his room, feeling the weight of the day finally settling on his shoulders. He decided to take a shower to wash away the grime and stress. As he stepped into the room, he noticed something on the bed—a neatly folded set of clothes with a note on top. Dean picked it up, his curiosity piqued. In neat handwriting, it read: ‘Hoodies are comfortable to sleep in too.’ Dean chuckled softly, a warmth spreading through him at the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. He unfolded the clothes to find a pair of comfortable pyjama bottoms and a soft, oversized hoodie. Dean smiled Castiel’s small gesture, though subtle, left a feeling of hope as he prepared for bed. After his shower, Dean slipped into the comfortable hoodie and sweatpants Castiel had laid out. The fabric was soft and warm, a perfect end to a day that had been filled with unexpected moments of connection and understanding.
Dean made his way to bed, feeling a mix of emotions. He knew they had a long way to go, but for the first time since arriving, he felt like they were making progress. Castiel’s note and the effort he had put into choosing comfortable clothes for Dean were small but significant steps. As he settled under the covers, Dean let his mind wander over the events of the day. He thought about the conversation they had during dinner, the shared cooking experience, and the way Castiel had opened up just a little more. Dean realised that it was the small victories, the tiny steps forward, that would eventually lead to a stronger bond between them. Dean glanced around the room, now more familiar and comforting than before. The small adjustments they had made, the moments they had shared, all added to the sense of home he was starting to feel. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax and drift off to sleep, hopeful for what tomorrow would bring.
Chapter 7
Notes:
Chapter word count: 10 770
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Dean woke to the gentle caress of morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow across his face. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, before realising he had slept far longer than usual. With a stretch, he felt the pleasant ache of rest well-earned and the softness of the hoodie against his skin, a gift from Castiel. Rising from the bed, Dean took a moment to appreciate the quiet stillness of the house. He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under his weight. As he entered the kitchen, he was struck by the absence of Castiel. The house felt almost too quiet, the usual tension between them replaced by an unsettling calm. Dean glanced around, noting the lack of breakfast preparations. It seemed Castiel was either still asleep or had already ventured out for the day. With a sigh, Dean decided to tackle the task of dealing with the hide.
He made his way to the bathroom, the memory of Castiel’s discomfort from the previous night fresh in his mind. The bathroom was dimly lit, the soft hum of the overhead fan the only sound breaking the silence. Dean approached the bathtub where the hide lay, a heavy reminder of the ancient traditions they were bound by. He rolled up his sleeves, determined to complete the task quickly and efficiently. The hide was heavy and damp, its texture unpleasant under Dean’s fingers. He carefully lifted it from the tub, the lingering smell making his nose wrinkle. Dean laid it out on the bathroom floor and began the meticulous process of cleaning it. Using a soft brush, he gently scrubbed the hide, working to remove any remaining dirt and residue. The bristles of the brush moved rhythmically over the surface, a steady, repetitive motion that allowed Dean’s mind to wander. As he worked, Dean’s thoughts drifted to Castiel. Despite the rough edges and the tension between them, he had begun to see glimpses of the person beneath the guarded exterior. The small gestures, the quiet moments of vulnerability—they hinted at a depth Dean was eager to explore. He wondered about Castiel’s past, the experiences that had shaped him into the enigmatic figure he was now. Dean rinsed the hide with clean water, the cool liquid washing away the last traces of grime. He then carefully wrung out the excess water, the muscles in his arms straining with the effort. With deliberate care, he draped the hide over a drying rack on the veranda out back, as Castiel had instructed. The early morning sun cast a gentle light over the scene, creating a sense of calm and order.
Returning to the house, Dean washed his hands thoroughly, the cool water a welcome relief against his skin. He dried them on a towel, his mind still occupied with thoughts of Castiel. Deciding to check on him, Dean made his way towards the bedroom, careful not to disturb the stillness of the morning. Dean paused outside Castiel’s door, listening for any signs of movement. Hearing none, he knocked softly. When there was no response, he hesitated, wondering if he should leave Castiel to his rest. Just as he turned to walk away, the door creaked open, revealing a sleepy-eyed Castiel, Norma rubbing against Castiel's leg.
“Morning,” Dean greeted with a gentle smile. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“'Tis alright.” Castiel rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn. “Was already waking up.”
“I took care of the hide,” Dean said, his voice low. “It's drying on the veranda now.” Castiel’s expression softened with relief for a few seconds before his eyes graced over Dean and disappointment washed over him. “Do you want some breakfast?” Dean offered, sensing the drastic shift. “I can make something quick.” Castiel shook his head, his energy seemingly all spent.
“No, not right now. Maybe later.”
“Alright.” Dean nodded, understanding the need for quiet and space. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” As Castiel retreated to his room, Dean felt a pang of concern. The day ahead would be their first truly alone, without the buffer of Balthazar’s presence. He couldn’t help but wonder how Castiel would fare. Determined to make the best of it, Dean busied himself in the kitchen, deciding to prepare something simple yet nourishing. He gathered ingredients for a vegetable stew, chopping onions, carrots, and potatoes with practised ease. The rhythmic motions of cutting and stirring provided a sense of calm, a way to centre himself amidst the uncertainty. As the stew simmered on the stove, Dean set the table, making sure everything was in place. A soft meow drew his attention, and he turned to see Norma padding into the kitchen. She jumped up onto the table, her green eyes watching him intently. Dean smiled, reaching out to scratch behind her ears.
“Hey, Norma. Keeping an eye on things, huh?” Norma purred, her contentment a small comfort in the quiet morning. Dean continued his preparations, occasionally glancing towards the hallway in hopes that Castiel might join him. The stew filled the kitchen with a rich, comforting aroma, and Dean found himself looking forward to sharing the meal. After a while, Dean heard soft footsteps approaching. “Hey. Feeling a bit better?” When Dean turned around his smile faltered instantly when he realised it was Gabriel.
“Feeling better?” Gabriel asked, the worry clear in his voice.
“Castiel was just tired.” Dean quickly clarified.
“Oh, okay, that's good…” Gabriel nodded slowly. “I wanted to check up on you both, seeing as Balthazar left yesterday and Castiel can be… challenging at times.”
“Who is Balthazar to Castiel?”
“Balthazar is Castiel's friend.”
“Friend?”
“Best friend.” This explanation still didn’t help Dean place Balthazar any better than before. Gabriel sat down at the table and gestured for Dean to do the same. Dean followed suit, sensing the gravity in Gabriel’s demeanour. Gabriel spoke in a hushed tone, clearly not wanting Castiel to overhear. “I saw that you hung the hide.”
“Yes, we did.”
“It’s very good that you’re following tradition, at least in the eyes of the pack.” Gabriel continued, his eyes gracing over Dean as if he was trying to figure out the answer to a question he didn't dare ask.
“Well, you made that pretty clear yesterday,” Dean replied, a touch of frustration in his voice. Gabriel gave Dean a sad smile.
“I’m grateful for your patience, Dean, but now with Balthazar gone, it will probably become harder for you to get through to Castiel. Or get him to do things he doesn't want to do.”
“We went to the grocery store yesterday, after Balthazar left.” Gabriel looked surprised.
“How did you get Castiel to agree to that?” Dean tread his fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck, looking a bit sheepish.
“I guess I kinda annoyed him until he said yes.” Gabriel looked amused for a second before turning serious again.
“Don’t count on that working every time. Castiel is... complex . He needs understanding, but he also needs to be pushed gently, not just out of obligation but out of genuine care.”
“I get that.” Dean nodded, absorbing Gabriel’s advice. “It’s just... hard. He keeps so much to himself.” Gabriel leaned forward, his expression earnest.
“Castiel needs someone who can see past his defences, someone who genuinely wants to understand him. That’s why I chose you, Dean. I believe you can be that person.” Dean felt a weight settle on his shoulders, a mix of responsibility and determination.
“I’ll do my best. To help him. To make this work.”
“I know you will,” Gabriel said, his tone reassuring. “Just be patient. And remember, you’re not alone in this. The pack might seem intimidating, but they’re here to support you both.”
“Thanks, Gabriel.” Dean glanced towards the hallway, where Castiel was still absent. “I appreciate the advice.” Gabriel stood, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“You’re doing well, Dean. Keep at it. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” Dean nodded, feeling a bit more reassured. Gabriel gave him a final pat on the shoulder before leaving the kitchen. As the door closed behind him, Dean took a deep breath, resolving to continue his efforts in reaching out to Castiel. He returned to the stove, giving the stew a final stir. The aroma was inviting, and he hoped it might entice Castiel to join him. Just then, he heard footsteps again—this time, lighter and more familiar. Castiel appeared in the doorway, looking a bit more awake.
“Hey,” Dean greeted, trying to sound casual.
“Hey,” Castiel replied, his gaze briefly meeting Dean’s before looking at the simmering pot. “Smells good.”
“I made stew. Thought it might be nice for lunch,” Dean said, trying to gauge Castiel’s mood.
“Sounds good.” Dean served two bowls of stew and set them on the table. Castiel took a seat, and they began eating in silence. The atmosphere was less tense than before, and Dean felt a glimmer of hope.
“Gabriel stopped by,” Dean mentioned casually. “He just wanted to check in on us.” Castiel nodded, his expression unreadable.
“He worries too much.”
“Maybe,” Dean agreed. “But he cares about you.” Castiel looked up, surprised by Dean’s words. For a moment, their gazes locked, and Dean saw a flicker of something in Castiel’s eyes—maybe gratitude, maybe something more. Dean took a deep breath, deciding to try and keep the conversation going. “So, do you have any plans for the day?”
“Not really.” Castiel shrugged, focusing on his bowl of stew. “Just the usual farm work.” Dean nodded, searching for another topic.
“I was thinking we could maybe work on the garden together. I noticed it could use a bit of care.” Castiel looked up briefly, his eyes meeting Dean’s before he quickly looked away.
“I suppose.” Encouraged, Dean continued.
“I’ve always enjoyed gardening. It’s relaxing and gives you a sense of accomplishment. Plus, it could be a nice change of pace.” Castiel didn’t respond, his attention seemingly back on his food. Dean sighed internally, feeling the weight of the one-sided conversation. He stirred his stew, trying to think of something else to say. “You know, I’ve been thinking about trying some new recipes,” Dean said, hoping to spark some interest. “Maybe we could cook something together again tonight.” Castiel’s response was a noncommittal hum, his focus still on his bowl. Dean watched as Castiel picked at his food, taking small bites but not finishing the bowl. After a few more moments of silence, Castiel stood up, taking his bowl to the sink.
“You don’t have to baby me, Dean,” Castiel murmured, his back to Dean as he rinsed his bowl. Dean felt a pang of disappointment and confusion.
“I’m not trying to baby you. I just thought...” Castiel turned, his expression closed off.
“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you hovering.”
“I’m just trying to help, Castiel.” Dean sighed, trying to keep his frustration in check. “We’re in this together, remember?” Castiel huffed and left the kitchen. The front door closed behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the empty house. Dean sighed again, feeling a mix of frustration and helplessness. Where had he gone wrong? He had tried so hard to reach out, to bridge the gap between them, but Castiel’s walls seemed once more impenetrable. Norma padded over, jumping onto Dean’s lap and purring softly. He stroked her fur, finding some comfort in her presence but still feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The kitchen, once filled with the comforting aroma of stew, now felt cold and silent. Dean looked around, the stillness amplifying his sense of isolation. He could see that Castiel was struggling, and Dean wanted to help, but how could he do that when Castiel kept pushing him away? Dean’s mind wandered back to Gabriel’s words: patience, understanding, and genuine care. He resolved to keep trying, no matter how difficult it was. Hell, his life depended on it.
Deciding he couldn’t just sit around and brood, Dean got up, gently setting Norma on the floor. He needed to keep busy, to find a way to be productive. The garden had caught his eye earlier, and he thought working on it might help clear his mind. Dean headed outside, taking in the crisp autumn air. The garden was overgrown, weeds choking the once vibrant plants. He rolled up his sleeves, determined to make a difference. As he worked, pulling weeds and trimming back overgrown bushes, he let his mind wander, thinking about Castiel and the complex emotions he was dealing with. The physical labour was therapeutic, giving Dean a sense of purpose. He lost track of time as he worked, the garden slowly transforming under his care. By the time he finished, the sun was high in the sky, and the garden looked much tidier. Dean wiped the sweat from his brow, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. He stood back, admiring his work, when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, he saw Castiel standing a few steps away, watching him with a guarded expression.
“Hey,” Dean said, trying to keep his tone light. Castiel’s eyes flicked over the garden, then back to Dean.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah,” Dean replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “Like I said earlier I thought the garden could use some attention.” Castiel's lips tightened.
"I liked it better before."
"Of course you did." Dean's jaw clenched. Castiel didn't respond, his expression blank. Dean felt a rush of frustration. "Why do you act like such a martyr all the time? It's not like you actually lost anything!" Castiel remained silent, his eyes cold and unyielding. Dean took a step forward, his voice rising. "I lost my family, my birthright, my job. Everything! And now I'm stuck here with the spoiled younger brother of a rival pack's leader. And let's not forget that you might kill me in less than a year if you so please." Castiel's face remained impassive, his silence infuriating Dean even more. Dean's voice cracked with emotion. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have your whole life ripped away from you? To be forced into a situation where you have no control, no say in what happens next?" Castiel's eyes softened, but he still didn't speak. Dean took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I'm just trying to make the best of this situation. I'm constantly trying to help you, understand you. But you keep shutting me out." Castiel finally looked away, his shoulders slumping slightly. Dean's anger began to ebb, replaced by a deep weariness. "I don't know how to reach you, Castiel. I don't know how to make this work if you won't let me in."
For a long moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them palpable. Dean waited, hoping for some sign of acknowledgment, some indication that Castiel understood. Finally, Castiel spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You think I haven't lost anything?" Dean looked at him, confused. Castiel's eyes were filled with a deep, aching sadness. "I lost my freedom. My choice. My dreams. Everything I ever wanted for my life was taken from me the moment you walked into that ceremony." Dean's anger flared again.
"You think I wanted this? You think I had a choice?"
"No, I don't.” Castiel shook his head. “But that doesn't change the fact that we're both trapped in this situation. We're both suffering."
Dean's anger came back in full force.
"We're not trapped in the same way, Castiel. We're not suffering in the same way! You still have your family, your home, your pack. Everything familiar to you. I don't have any of that anymore. Hell, I don't even have my phone." Castiel remained silent, his expression unreadable. Dean's voice grew louder, his emotions spilling out uncontrollably. "I don't know why you think you're the only one suffering here. I was forced to give up everything to come here, to be with you. I lost my family, my friends, my job, my entire life! And for what? To be treated like an outsider in your pack, to be ignored and pushed away by you?" Castiel's eyes flickered, but he said nothing. Dean took another step closer, his voice trembling with anger. "Do you even understand how hard I'm trying? How much I had to give up for ‘peace’? You act like I'm the enemy, like I'm the one who put you in this situation. But I'm just as much a victim as you are!" Castiel's silence was infuriating, and Dean felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but his anger continued to boil over. "And you know what really pisses me off?" Dean's voice cracked with emotion. "The fact that most of the time won't even try to meet me halfway. You won't let me in, you won't talk to me, you won't even try to make this work. I don't understand why you can't see that we're in this together. We're supposed to be a team, but you keep shutting me out." Castiel's gaze dropped to the ground, his shoulders tense. Dean's frustration reached a breaking point. "Why did I even bother hunting that moose if you weren't going to eat it?" he shouted, his voice echoing in the quiet garden. "I went out of my way to provide for you, to do something nice, follow your packs’ traditions —which seem very cult-like by the way— and you don't even appreciate it!"
"’M a vegetarian." Castiel's voice was barely audible, a whisper that cut through Dean's anger. Dean froze, his anger dissipating in an instant. He stared at Castiel, bewildered.
"What?"
"’M a vegetarian, don't eat meat." Dean's breath caught in his throat, his chest heaving from the intensity of his outburst. He felt a wave of guilt and confusion wash over him.
"You... you're a vegetarian?" Castiel nodded, his gaze still fixed on the ground. Dean ran a hand through his hair, feeling a mix of emotions. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? Why didn't you tell me when we were in the grocery store?" Castiel shrugged, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Didn't think it mattered. You were trying to help. Didn't want to seem ungrateful." Dean blinked a few times, trying to process the revelation. The raw emotion in Castiel's voice had stripped away his anger, leaving only confusion and a gnawing sense of guilt. He realised that perhaps he hadn't been the best at communicating either, and his harsh words had pushed Castiel to the brink. Seeing the tears welling up in Castiel's eyes, Dean felt a pang of regret. He hadn't meant to hurt him this deeply. They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity, the tension thick in the air. Then, Castiel's body shook with the force of his sobs, and he fell to his hands and knees, coughing and spitting when the mucus became too much. "’M sorry," Castiel choked out between sobs, his voice breaking. "’M so sorry, Dean. For everything." Dean's heart clenched at the sight. He crouched down beside Castiel, not quite sure how to help but knowing he needed to do something.
"Hey, it's okay," Dean said softly, his voice trembling. "You don't have to apologise." But Castiel continued, the floodgates opened by Dean's outburst.
"’M sorry for being difficult, for pushing you away. ‘M scared, Dean. ‘M so scared and don't know how to handle any of this now that Balthazar is gone again." Dean's own eyes stung with tears. He hadn't expected this level of vulnerability from Castiel–he had always seen him as guarded, almost unapproachable. But now, seeing him break down, Dean felt a surge of empathy.
"It's okay, Castiel," Dean whispered. "I'm scared too. This whole situation is messed up, but we're in it together. We'll figure it out, okay? You don't have to do it alone." Castiel's sobs began to subside, though his body still trembled with the remnants of his breakdown. Dean stayed close, offering silent support. When Castiel finally sat back on his heels, his face streaked with tears and his eyes red, he looked at Dean with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow.
"'M sorry for not telling you about being a vegetarian," Castiel said, his voice hoarse. "Didn't want to make things harder for you."
"You shouldn't have to hide who you are.” Dean shook his head. “If you're a vegetarian, then that's fine. We can make it work. I just wish you'd told me sooner."
"I’m sorry.” Castiel nodded, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I'll try to be better about communicating. It's just... hard."
"I get it. It's hard for me too. But we'll get there. One step at a time." They sat in silence for a while, the garden around them quiet and peaceful. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow over everything. Dean felt a sense of calm settle over him. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. "Do you want to go back inside?" Dean asked gently. "Maybe we can make something for dinner together? Something vegetarian?"
"I'd like that." Castiel managed with a small smile. Dean stood and offered a hand to Castiel, helping him to his feet. They walked back to the house together, the tension between them eased. It was a small victory, but it felt like a significant step forward. For the first time, Dean felt like they might actually be able to make this work. They weren't just two strangers thrown together by circumstance; they were beginning to understand each other, to connect on a deeper level.
Dean and Castiel walked into the kitchen, the weight of their earlier confrontation lifting slightly, Norma greeted them with a soft meow, rubbing against Castiel's legs. Dean smiled, feeling a sense of hope. They had a long way to go, but they were no longer alone in their struggles. Together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead, one step at a time. As Norma jumped up onto the countertop, Dean scratched her behind the ears, his mind already turning to what they could prepare for dinner.
"So, what do you usually eat?" Dean asked, turning his attention to Castiel. Castiel shrugged, leaning against the counter.
"Whatever I can make from the things I have at home."
"So, pasta?" Dean chuckled. Castiel gave a small nod.
"That, or instant mashed potatoes. Sometimes anything else I can make in the microwave." Dean raised an eyebrow.
"In the microwave?"
"Well, yeah," Castiel replied, looking a bit defensive. "It's easy." Dean considered this for a moment, then shook his head with a smile.
"How come someone living on a farm eats instant mashed potatoes?" Castiel shrugged again, a hint of embarrassment in his posture.
"It's easy," he repeated. Norma purred loudly as Dean continued to pet her, her gooseberry green eyes half-closed in contentment. Dean glanced around the kitchen, taking stock of what they had.
"Alright," Dean said decisively. "We're going to change that. Let's make something simple but real. How about a vegetable stir-fry? It's quick, healthy, and doesn't need a microwave." Castiel looked intrigued.
"I've never had that before."
"Great," Dean said, smiling. "Then it's about time you learned. Let's see what we have." They began rummaging through the fridge and pantry. Dean found some fresh vegetables: bell peppers, carrots, broccoli, and a few other odds and ends. He also pulled out a block of tofu.
"Tofu?" Castiel asked, eyeing it warily.
"Yeah, it's a great source of protein," Dean explained. "And it goes well in stir-fry. Trust me, you'll like it." Castiel nodded, his interest piqued. Dean set to work, showing Castiel how to press and cut the tofu, and then marinate it with soy sauce and a bit of garlic. "While that's soaking up the flavours, we can prep the veggies," Dean said, handing Castiel a knife. "Just cut them into bite-sized pieces." Castiel nodded, and they worked side by side in a comfortable silence, chopping the vegetables. Dean occasionally glanced over at Castiel, pleased to see him more engaged. Once everything was prepped, Dean heated a large skillet and added a splash of oil. He showed Castiel how to stir-fry the tofu until it was golden and crispy, then set it aside while they cooked the vegetables. "The key is to cook them quickly over high heat," Dean explained. "You want them to stay crisp, not get soggy." Castiel watched closely, his focus on the skillet as Dean added the vegetables, stirring them with a practised hand. The kitchen filled with the fragrant aroma of cooking garlic and vegetables, and Castiel's stomach growled softly. Dean grinned. "Smells good, doesn't it?"
"Yeah,” Castiel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips, “it does."
Once the vegetables were cooked, Dean added the tofu back into the skillet, along with a simple sauce made from soy sauce, a bit of honey, and some cornstarch to thicken it. He tossed everything together until it was well-coated and heated through.
"Alright," Dean said, turning off the heat. "Dinner is served." They plated the stir-fry and sat down at the kitchen table. Norma curled up on the counter, watching them with half-closed eyes. Castiel took a cautious bite, his eyes widening in surprise.
"This is really good."
"I'm glad you like it." Dean smiled, a warm feeling spreading through him.
The tension between them seemed to ease further with each bite. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment, not just because of the meal but because he was beginning to see a way forward for them. Then, to Dean's surprise, as they continued eating, Castiel began to speak unprompted. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, but there was a hint of warmth in it that Dean hadn't heard before.
"I've always liked taking care of the animals on the farm," Castiel said, his eyes focused on his plate. "It's one of the few things that brings me peace."
"Really?” Dean looked up, intrigued. “What kind of animals do you have?" Castiel glanced at him, seeming to gather his thoughts.
"We have sheep, cows, and chickens mostly. Each group has its own needs and routines, but I've gotten to know them all pretty well." Dean nodded, encouraging him to continue. Castiel's face softened as he began to talk more animatedly. "The sheep are some of my favourites," Castiel said. "They're gentle creatures, though they can be quite stubborn. We have a flock of about thirty. They were brought to this farm generations ago, and we've continued to raise them for their wool. Every spring, we shear them, and the wool is cleaned, carded, and spun into yarn. It's a tradition that goes back hundreds of years." Dean smiled, imagining Castiel working with the sheep, his hands gentle and steady.
"That sounds like a lot of work."
"It is," Castiel admitted, "but it's worth it. The wool is high-quality, and it keeps the tradition alive. Plus, the sheep are good company. They each have their own personalities. There's one, Claire, who's always getting into trouble, but she's also the friendliest."
"Sounds like a handful." Castiel's eyes lit up with amusement.
"She is, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Then there are the cows. We have a small herd, for milk. There's something soothing about milking them, the rhythm of it. It's almost meditative."
"Do you have any favourites among the cows?" Dean asked, genuinely curious.
"There's one named Hannah.” Castiel nodded. “She's older now, but she's always been the matriarch of the herd. Strong and dependable. She trusts me, and I trust her." Dean listened, captivated by the way Castiel spoke about the animals. There was a depth of care and understanding in his words that revealed a side of him Dean hadn't seen before.
"And the chickens?" Dean prompted.
"The chickens are a bit different.” Castiel smiled. “They're more independent, you know, but they still need looking after. We have a coop and a large run where they can forage. Collecting eggs every morning is a routine I enjoy. It's like a small reward for the care we give them." Dean nodded, picturing Castiel moving through the farm, tending to the animals with patience and dedication.
"You really care about them, don't you?"
“I do.” Castiel's expression softened further. "They're my responsibility, but more than that, they're part of this place. They've been here long before me, and they'll be here long after. It's a connection to the past and the future." Dean felt a newfound respect for Castiel growing within him. This quiet, dedicated side of him was something he hadn't expected, but in a way it made sense. Castiel's love for the animals, his commitment to the farm, it all painted a picture of someone who found solace in the simple, enduring aspects of life.
"Do you ever get help with the animals?" Dean asked.
"Sometimes," Castiel said. "But mostly, I prefer to do it myself. It's my way of contributing, of keeping things running smoothly." Dean nodded, understanding.
"It sounds like a lot of work, but also very fulfilling."
"It is," Castiel agreed. "It's one of the few things that makes me feel like I have some control over my life." Dean felt a pang of empathy. He knew what it was like to feel out of control, to have life dictated by forces beyond one's influence. He reached across the table, placing a hand over Castiel's.
"Thank you for sharing that with me," Dean said sincerely. "I appreciate getting to know this side of you." Castiel looked at his hands, then up at Dean, a faint smile playing on his lips as he nodded. They finished their meal in a comfortable silence, the bond between them strengthened by the shared conversation. Dean felt a sense of hope and determination. They were starting to break through the walls that had kept them apart, and he was committed to nurturing this fragile connection.
After dinner, they cleaned up together, the task made lighter by their newfound camaraderie. Dean couldn't help but feel optimistic about the future. It wouldn't be easy, but for the first time, he felt like they were truly in it together. Especially as Castiel continued their conversation when they washed the dishes, his tone contemplative.
"There are more animals, you know. Further into the woods." Dean looked up, intrigued.
"Oh?" Castiel nodded, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
"But they're for food. Meat, I mean. I don't take care of them. Other people do. But the herds didn't use to be this split up. It was Father who decided to separate them when he realised I liked to take care of the animals but would cry for days when they went to slaughter." Dean bit his cheek so hard it bled as he remembered the stories about Castiel and Gabriel's father. He had fallen during the war, leading Dean's old pack to believe they had won, only for Gabriel to take over and retaliate fiercely. Swallowing Dean hard.
"Your father seemed like a good man." Castiel shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
"He wasn't. But at least he sometimes understood, or maybe he just wanted me to shut up." Dean felt a pang of empathy.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, though he wasn't sure what he was apologising for.
"It's fine.” Castiel gave him a wry smile. “I always had Balthazar, and Gabriel when he had time." As Dean continued washing the dishes, he couldn't help but study Castiel's face, noting the lines of tension and the shadows in his eyes. Memories of the stories he'd heard about Castiel's father, Charles, flooded back to him. Charles Novak had been a formidable leader, a name spoken with a mix of reverence and fear in werewolf circles. Dean recalled his father's stories, told around the fire on cold nights. Charles was described as a warrior with a keen intellect and an iron will. He had led the Novak pack to numerous victories, his strategic mind unmatched in battle. Under his leadership, the Novak pack had expanded their territory significantly, often at the expense of neighbouring packs, including Dean’s own. One particular story stood out in Dean's mind. Charles had once outmanoeuvred three rival packs in a single campaign, using guerrilla tactics that left his enemies bewildered and defeated. His ability to predict his opponents' moves was almost supernatural, earning him the nickname ‘The Shadow Wolf’ among his followers and ‘The Butcher’ among his enemies. Dean remembered his father’s sombre tone when he described how Charles had ambushed their own pack's strongest warriors, leading to a devastating loss that had crippled their strength for years. Yet, despite his prowess in war, Charles was known to be a complicated man. There were whispers of his harshness, his unforgiving nature, and the ruthless way he dealt with those who disappointed him. It was easy for Dean to imagine that Charles, who ruled his pack with an iron fist, expecting nothing less than perfection from his sons, Gabriel and Castiel. Dean looked at Castiel now, trying to reconcile the image of Charles with the young man standing beside him. Castiel was so different from his father, softer and more introspective. Dean could see the weight of those expectations in Castiel's eyes, the burden of being the son of such a legendary figure. He wondered what it must have been like for Castiel growing up under that shadow, always striving to meet impossible standards. The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken thoughts and shared understanding. Finally, Dean broke it.
"It must have been hard, living up to his expectations."
"He was mostly interested in Gabriel anyway.” Castiel shrugged. “He was stronger, faster, older. That’s why it was so good that I had Balthazar." The more Dean heard Balthazar mentioned, the more he became confused about who he was and his connection to the pack. There was no doubt that he had known Castiel for a long time, especially since Balthazar was allowed to call Castiel ‘Cassie’ without a fuss. Even at the wedding, some pack members had seemed surprised by his presence, and by what he overheard yesterday, it seemed like maybe Balthazar used to live within the Novak grounds at least. Dean decided not to ask, sensing it was a delicate subject. Dean finished drying the last dish and put it away.
"I know it's not the same, but my dad had his own way of pushing me," Dean said, breaking the silence. "Back when I was supposed to be the next leader... he was never satisfied, always wanting me to be better, stronger. It took me a long time to realise that I didn’t have to be exactly like him to be valuable." Castiel almost looked shy for a moment before speaking again.
"Do you want to tell me about what it was like for you?" he asked, his tone tentative. Dean paused, considering the question.
"I don't know," he admitted, feeling a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. For the first time, not including his rant in the yard earlier, Dean felt he was actually telling the truth. Castiel gave him a small, understanding nod.
"It's okay if you don't want to. I just thought... maybe it would help." Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"It's not that I don't want to. It's just... it's complicated. Growing up, I was always trying to prove myself to my dad. He was the Alpha, and I was supposed to be the next in line. But no matter what I did, it never seemed to be enough." Castiel listened intently, his blue eyes focused on Dean.
"What did he expect from you?"
"Everything," Dean said with a bitter chuckle. "Strength, leadership, unwavering loyalty. He wanted me to be the perfect soldier, the perfect son. I trained constantly, fought in battles, and led hunts. He pushed me hard, and I tried my best to live up to his expectations." Castiel nodded, a flicker of empathy in his eyes.
"It sounds a lot like my father. I think he saw himself in Gabriel. Me... I was different. Nothing like what he wanted in an heir." Dean felt a pang of empathy as he listened to Castiel's story. He could see the parallels between their lives, the weight of expectations and the struggle to meet them. But he also felt a sense of camaraderie, a shared understanding that began to bridge the gap between them.
"Are there any more traditions that I don't know about in regards to the wedding?" Dean asked, hoping to better understand the customs he had become a part of.
“No, I don't thi–”Castiel shook his head initially, then paused, reconsidering. "Actually, yes. There are a few more things," he said, his voice cautious. "You're expected to tan the hide and all that, but after that, it's not really anything until the harvest."
"Harvest?" Dean prompted, sensing there was more to this.
"It's not really about you specifically," Castiel explained, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. "It's about the couples who got married that year." Dean looked at Castiel expectantly, waiting for him to continue. Castiel sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"We're supposed to bake pies and..." Castiel's voice trailed off.
"And what?" Dean encouraged gently. Castiel looked away, his voice barely a whisper.
"Dance."
"Dance?" Dean repeated, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in his tone.
“Yes,” Castiel nodded, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "It's a tradition. At the harvest festival, the newly married couples bake pies together and then dance in front of the pack. It's supposed to symbolise unity and partnership." Dean felt a mix of emotions. The idea of dancing in front of the entire pack was daunting, but he also saw it may be an opportunity to further bridge the gap between them. "Alright," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I guess we'll have to practise our baking and dancing then." Castiel looked up, his eyes wide with surprise.
"We don't have to—"
"No, I want to," Dean interrupted gently. "If it's important to your pack, it's important to me. Plus, it could be fun."Castiel studied Dean's face for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Okay…We can practise."
"Great!” Dean felt a sense of relief, seeing a flicker of hope in Castiel's eyes. “We'll figure it out together."
As they finished cleaning up the kitchen, Dean couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of purpose. The journey ahead wouldn't be easy, but they were taking steps forward, building trust and understanding. He glanced at Castiel, who seemed more at ease, and felt a surge of determination to make their partnership work.
Later that evening, they found themselves in the living room, the soft glow of the fire casting a warm light over the room. Dean looked at Castiel, a playful glint in his eye.
"Alright, let's start with the pies," Dean said, grabbing a notepad. "What's your favourite kind?" Castiel thought for a moment, then smiled.
"Apple. With cinnamon. And cardamom."
“Mine too,” Dean said, jotting down notes. "Apple pie it is. We'll make a practice run tomorrow. As for the dancing... I think we'll need some music."
"I have some old records. We could use those."
"Perfect," Dean said, feeling a sense of excitement. "We'll turn this into a proper practice session." They spent the rest of the evening planning their baking, the atmosphere between them lighter and more relaxed. Dean felt a sense of camaraderie growing between them, and he decided to keep the conversation going.
“How long has Gabriel been married?” Dean asked, genuinely curious.
“Six years,” Castiel replied. “It wasn’t planned that I’d get married at the same age.” Dean nodded thoughtfully.
“So, you’re twenty-one?”
“Yeah,” Castiel confirmed. “My birthday was last week, the eighteenth.” Dean took a deep breath, the weight of the situation settling on him; Castiel’s birthday had been just three days before their wedding. He thought about his brother, Samuel, who was twenty. Though his brother seemed more mature in some ways, Dean wasn’t sure he would have been able to handle an arranged marriage like Castiel had.
“Did you get anything nice for your birthday?” Dean asked, hoping Castiel had at least one good memory from the day.
“I don’t celebrate.” Castiel shook his head. ”After Father died, no one really cared. I was not the heir, and Gabriel has a child.” Dean felt a pang of empathy. He remembered his own twenty-first birthday, a wild night out with some pack mates that ended in a stern lecture from his father about responsibilities. The contrast between his experience and Castiel’s couldn’t have been more stark.
“I’m sorry,” Dean said softly. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s fine,” Castiel replied, his tone dismissive but his eyes revealing a hint of sadness. “It’s just how things are.” Dean wanted to change the subject, but first he found something to lighten the mood. He glanced around the room, searching for inspiration.
“How about we make a deal?” Dean suggested. “Next year, we’ll celebrate your birthday properly. Cake, presents, the whole thing.” Castiel looked at him, surprise flickering in his eyes.
“We don’t have to do that.”
“I know we don’t have to,” Dean said with a smile. “But I want to. Everyone deserves to have a special day, especially on their birthday.”
“Okay.”
Dean decided to take the opportunity to address something that had been gnawing at him all day.
“Hey, erm Castiel,” Dean began, trying to keep his tone casual, “there's something that's been on my mind. This morning, before you said no to breakfast, you looked kind of... erm disappointed? I was wearing the clothes Gabriel bought, so I can’t see what the problem was.” Castiel looked down at his hands, his fingers fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie.
“I thought you’d like the hoodie,” he mumbled.
“Oh.” Dean blinked as realisation dawned on him. “You mean the one you left on my bed?” Castiel nodded, not meeting Dean's eyes. Dean felt a wave of guilt. “I did like it, Castiel. It was really soft and comfortable. I just thought that... I thought that I was supposed to be dressed for the day before breakfast. That’s how it always was in my old pack.” Castiel finally looked up, his eyes searching Dean's face.
“I don’t care if you wear what you slept in to breakfast in my house. I just... I thought you might like the hoodie. It’s one of my favourites.” Dean felt a warmth spread through him at Castiel's words. The hoodie wasn't just a piece of clothing; it was a gesture, a way for Castiel to offer something personal and meaningful.
“I’m sorry I didn’t realise that,” Dean said sincerely. “It means a lot to me that you lent me something so personal. I promise I’ll wear it to breakfast tomorrow.” Castiel’s expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Dean insisted, a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s a nice hoodie, and it means a lot that you thought of me. I’ll definitely wear it.” Castiel’s small smile returned, and he nodded.
“Okay.” They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly in the background. Dean felt the warmth of the room and the growing sense of camaraderie between them. It was a fragile connection, but it was there, and it gave him hope.
“So, erm tomorrow,” Dean began, changing the subject, “we’re making apple pie. Do you have a recipe, or should we wing it?” Castiel’s eyes lit up slightly.
“I have a recipe. It’s one my mother used to make.”
“Great!” Dean said, feeling genuinely excited. “We’ll follow that. I’m sure it’s delicious.” The evening continued with them planning out the details for the pie-making. Dean found himself enjoying the process, not just because he loved cooking, but because it was something they were doing together. The act of collaborating on a project, no matter how small, felt like a step in the right direction.
As the night grew late, they finally decided to call it a day. Dean stood and stretched, feeling the pleasant fatigue of a long but productive day.
“I’m going to head to bed,” Dean said, glancing at Castiel. “See you in the morning?” Castiel nodded.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
“Goodnight, Castiel.” Dean made his way to his room, the promise of a good night’s sleep calling to him. He couldn’t help but feel optimistic about the future. He thought that they had made progress today, and he was determined to keep building on that. Feeling too tired he went directly to bed.
The next morning, Dean woke to the now-familiar warmth of the autumn sun streaming through the window. He stretched, feeling well-rested, and remembered his promise. He grabbed the hoodie Castiel had left for him and pulled it on, smiling at the softness of the fabric against his skin. Dean made his way downstairs, finding Castiel already in the kitchen, feeding Norma. Castiel glanced up as Dean entered, and a small smile played on his lips when he saw the hoodie.
“Morning,” Dean said, feeling a bit self-conscious but also pleased.
“Morning,” Castiel replied. “Looks good on you.” Dean chuckled.
“Thanks. Ready to make some pies?”
“Yeah.” Castiel nodded, looking more at ease than Dean had seen him before. “Let’s get started.” They gathered the ingredients and set to work, the kitchen soon filled with the comforting scents of apples, cinnamon and cardamom. As they worked side by side, Dean found himself asking more questions about Castiel’s life, trying to understand him better.
They gathered the ingredients and set to work, the kitchen soon filled with the comforting scents of apples, cinnamon, and baking pastry. As they worked side by side, Dean found himself asking more questions about Castiel’s life, trying to understand him better.
“So, you mentioned taking care of the animals on the farm,” Dean began, slicing apples for the pie filling. “How did you get into that?” Castiel shrugged, carefully measuring out cinnamon.
“I’ve always liked animals. They don’t judge, and they’re easier to understand than people. When I was little, I used to follow the farmhands around, asking questions and trying to help.”
“Did your father approve?”
“Not really.” Castiel’s expression grew distant. “He thought it was a waste of time. He wanted me to focus on more ‘important’ things, like learning how to lead the pack and fight.” Dean could sense the lingering pain in Castiel’s voice and decided to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.
“What about Gabriel? Was he supportive?”
“Gabriel was different.” A small smile tugged at Castiel’s lips. “He always encouraged me to do what made me happy, even if it wasn’t what Father wanted. He would cover for me when I snuck out to the barn to spend time with the animals.” Dean smiled, appreciating this glimpse into Castiel’s past.
“Sounds like Gabriel was a good brother.”
“He still is, despite…” Castiel nodded, his eyes softening. Castiel replied, deftly rolling out the pie dough. "Erm…Gabriel was always busy with pack duties, and our father... well, he wasn't much of a hands-on parent. So, I spent a lot of time with the animals. They were easier to understand than people. Still are." Dean nodded, absorbing this new piece of information.
"Did you always know you wanted to stay on the farm?"
"No.” Castiel shook his head. “When I was younger, I dreamed of leaving, of seeing the world beyond our pack's territory. But things changed after Father died. Gabriel wanted me here, and I couldn't leave."
"That must have been a hard decision."
"It wasn't mine," Castiel admitted. "But it was the right one. Gabriel has done so much for me. Staying here was the least I could do." Dean was struck by the depth of loyalty Castiel had for his brother. It made him think about his own family, especially his brothers. He wondered how they were coping without him.
They continued working, the conversation flowing more easily now. Dean learned about the different animals on the farm, each with their own personalities and quirks. He listened as Castiel described the seasons, the changes in the landscape, and the rhythms of farm life. Dean found himself fascinated by the details, appreciating the dedication and care Castiel put into his work. As they put the pies in the oven, Castiel spoke up, almost hesitantly.
"I texted Charlie this morning." Dean looked at him, surprised but pleased.
"Oh? What did she say?"
"She invited us to her restaurant for dinner tonight," Castiel said, glancing at Dean to gauge his reaction. "Thought it might be nice for you to get out for a bit, and you could meet her." Dean's face lit up with a genuine smile.
"That sounds great. I'd love to meet Charlie and see her restaurant."
"Okay." Castiel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.
They cleaned up the kitchen, the scent of baking pies filling the room with a warm, inviting aroma. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment, not just because of the pie but because of the progress they were making in their relationship. As they sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the pie to finish baking, Dean felt a surge of gratitude for this moment of peace and connection.
"Thank you for this," Dean said softly, looking at Castiel. "I know it's not easy, but I appreciate you letting me in."
"Am trying. It's been... a long time since I've felt like I could trust someone… after Balthazar erm… yeah…" Dean realised that there was still a gaping hole in his understanding of the Novak pack and Castiel’s place within it and every time it seemed to be Balthazar who was the key piece of the puzzle. He felt a growing urgency to understand how the witch fit into the dynamics of the pack, but he knew he couldn’t push Castiel for answers; the topic was clearly sensitive. Later that afternoon, Dean mulled over his options. Gabriel’s vague explanation from the previous day hadn’t been particularly enlightening. Dean decided that if he was going to get any real answers, he’d have to approach the subject carefully, perhaps with someone who might be more willing to talk. The thought of meeting Charlie that evening offered a potential opportunity. If she was a high-ranking member of the pack and close to Castiel, she might be able to shed some light on Balthazar’s role without Dean needing to pry directly from Castiel or Gabriel. With this plan in mind, Dean felt a renewed sense of determination.
“Ready for our dinner date?” Dean asked with a playful smile, trying to lighten the mood as they prepared to leave for Charlie’s restaurant. Castiel shook his head, looking down at his feet. Dean furrowed his brows, a mixture of confusion and concern washing over him. “Why not?” Dean asked, his voice gentle but probing. “What’s wrong?” Castiel hesitated, his fingers once again playing with the strings of his hoodie.
“What if you don’t like her? Or she doesn't like you? Maybe we should just stay home.”
Dean studied Castiel closely, noticing the way his eyes flickered with anxiety and the slight tremor in his hands. He could see the worry etched into Castiel’s features, the tension in his shoulders, and the way his gaze avoided Dean’s. Without thinking, Dean reached out and placed a hand on Castiel’s cheek, a gesture meant to offer comfort and reassurance. The touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against the soft skin just below Castiel’s eye. But Castiel recoiled as if he had been burned, stepping back sharply and breaking the contact. Dean’s eyes widened in realisation. This was the first time since the wedding they had truly touched, skin to skin, and Castiel’s reaction spoke volumes about his discomfort and the barriers that still existed between them. Dean quickly withdrew his hand, his heart aching with a mix of guilt and regret.
“I’m sorry,” Dean said softly, his voice filled with genuine remorse. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Castiel’s eyes were wide, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he tried to regain his composure. He shook his head slightly, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. Dean took a step back, giving Castiel the space he clearly needed. “It’s okay, Castiel. We don’t have to go if you’re not ready. It was a nice thought of yours to get out and do something different. But we can stay home if that’s what you prefer.”
Castiel looked at Dean, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Slowly, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“’M sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “‘M not used to this. To any of this.” Dean nodded in understanding, his heart aching for the young man in front of him.
“I get it, Castiel. This is all new and strange for both of us, it has only been a couple of days. We’ll take it one step at a time, okay? No rush.” Castiel took a deep breath, his eyes still not meeting Dean’s.
“Okay.”
“How about we compromise, yeah?” Dean offered a small, reassuring smile. “We can go to Charlie’s restaurant another time when you feel more comfortable. And for now, we can just have a quiet evening here, maybe read or something. What do you think?” Castiel seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
"No, we’ll go today. I promised."
"Okay.” Dean nodded, respecting Castiel’s resolve. “If you're sure." Castiel smiled slightly, then reached for the car keys.
"I’ll drive this time." As they drove, Dean noticed Castiel’s knuckles flexing against the steering wheel, a small sign of his nerves. When they finally pulled up to the restaurant, Dean’s eyes widened in surprise. The place wasn’t just a small, quaint eatery as Castiel had made it seem; it was a well-known, upscale establishment with an elegant façade and valet parking. Dean had heard of it before, knowing that tables here were booked months in advance. Dean glanced down at his outfit, feeling a bit underdressed in his jeans and sky-blue Lacoste shirt. Castiel was in his usual maroon hoodie, making them both look out of place. Castiel flexed his fingers against the steering wheel a couple of times, then turned to Dean with a smile that might have knocked him dead had he not known the man it belonged to just said the other day that he was planning on killing him. "Let's go," Castiel said confidently. Dean nodded, following Castiel’s lead. As they entered, the hostess immediately recognised Castiel and greeted him with a warm smile.
"Mister Novak, it’s lovely to see you back," she said, her tone genuinely friendly. "And you must be Dean. Welcome to our restaurant." Dean smiled back, trying to hide his nerves.
"Thank you." The hostess led them to a secluded booth, offering a bit more privacy. As they walked, she asked Castiel a series of questions, clearly curious about Dean.
"So, Castiel," she began, glancing between them, "This is your first time bringing someone special here, isn't it?"
"Yes, something like that." Dean felt a slight blush creeping up his neck but tried to keep his composure.
"Dean, have you been here before?"
"No... erm…," Dean replied, trying to find the right words. "But I’m excited to be."
"That’s wonderful to hear," she said with genuine warmth. "Charlie said Castiel speaks very highly of you." Dean shot Castiel a surprised look, to which Castiel just shrugged. They reached the booth, and the hostess handed them the menus. "I hope you both enjoy your evening," she said, giving Castiel a knowing wink before leaving them alone. Dean sat down, feeling a bit flustered.
"She thinks we're on a date."
"In some ways, we are." Castiel replied. Dean couldn’t help but smile at that. He glanced around, taking in the sophisticated ambiance.
"This place is incredible. You really undersold it." Castiel shrugged modestly.
"It’s just a restaurant." Dean opened the menu and his eyes widened at the selection.
"Just a restaurant? This is a five-star establishment, Castiel."
"Charlie put a lot of effort into this place. She wanted it to be perfect."
"It shows," Dean said, genuinely impressed. "I can’t wait to try the food." As they looked through the menu, Dean noticed Castiel relaxing a bit more. The earlier tension seemed to be dissipating, replaced by a growing sense of camaraderie.
"So," Dean said, trying to keep the conversation light, "what do you recommend?"
"I always get the mushroom risotto." Dean nodded, making his choices.
"Sounds good to me. I’ll have the risotto too." Castiel placed his order, and they settled into a comfortable silence, the soft hum of conversation around them creating a pleasant backdrop. As they waited for their food, Dean couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude. This evening was more than just a meal; it was a step forward in their relationship, a chance to build trust and understanding.
When their food arrived, Dean took a bite of the risotto and closed his eyes in bliss.
"This is amazing."
"Charlie knows what she’s doing." Castiel said, looking down at the plate in front of him. Dean took another bite, savouring the flavours.
"I can see why this place is so popular. The food is incredible."
Dean noticed that Castiel had paused mid-movement, his gaze fixed somewhere across the room. Following Castiel's line of sight, Dean soon saw a woman with fiery red hair making her way toward them, a broad smile lighting up her face.
"Cassie!" She exclaimed, dragging Castiel up from his seat before he could react. She pulled him into a tight hug, then slid into the booth next to him, leaving Dean with a bemused expression. "Dean," she said, turning her attention to him, "I'm Charlie. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Dean smiled, a bit taken aback by her energy but charmed nonetheless.
"Nice to meet you, Charlie." Charlie gave him a mischievous grin.
"So, you’re the one who slayed the moose for the ceremony. Impressive, even if our dear old Cassie here doesn’t eat meat." Dean chuckled, casting a glance at Castiel, who was trying to maintain his composure.
"Yeah, I didn’t know he was a vegetarian until yesterday." Charlie laughed, a bright and infectious sound.
"Well, that’s one way to make an impression. Cassie, you should have warned him!"
"Must have slipped my mind." Castiel gave a small, apologetic smile. Charlie turned back to Dean, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Don’t worry, Dean. Cassie’s always been a bit scatterbrained when it comes to the small stuff. But he’s got a good heart." Dean felt a warmth spreading through him at Charlie’s words. It was clear she cared deeply for Castiel, and her playful teasing was a sign of their close bond.
"I’ve noticed. He’s a good guy."
"See?” Charlie beamed, giving Castiel a playful nudge. “Dean here thinks you’re a good guy. Maybe you should keep him around." Castiel blushed slightly, looking down at his plate.
"I’m trying." Charlie laughed again, then leaned in closer to Dean, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
"So, how’s it really going, Dean? Adjusting to life here and all that?"
"It’s... an adjustment. But I’m getting there. And,”Dean glanced at Castiel, who was still looking a bit embarrassed, then back at Charlie,“Castiel’s been great, really." Charlie’s eyes softened, and she gave Dean a reassuring smile.
"Good. I can imagine that it’s not easy, what you’re both going through." She then turned back to Castiel. "So, Cassie, are you going to introduce me properly to your husband?" Castiel rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless.
"Charlie, this is Dean Micheal Novak. Dean, this is Celeste Gertrude Middleton, my oldest and cruellest friend." Dean was slightly taken aback by hearing himself being introduced as ‘Novak’ , but soon recovered and extended a hand, which Charlie shook enthusiastically.
"Pleasure to meet you, Charlie."
"The pleasure’s all mine, Dean," she replied, her smile warm and genuine. "Welcome to the pack."
Soon Dean noticed that Castiel seemed more relaxed now that Charlie was with them. Castiel even made a few dry jokes, which Charlie laughed at wholeheartedly. It was clear to Dean that their relationship was deep and important to Castiel.
"Did you hear about the scarecrow that won an award?" Castiel asked, his expression deadpan. Charlie grinned, clearly waiting for the punchline.
"No, what happened?"
"It was outstanding in its field," Castiel replied, his lips twitching slightly. Charlie burst into laughter, the sound filling the room.
"Classic, Cassie. You always know how to crack me up." Dean couldn't help but smile, appreciating the easy camaraderie between them. Charlie, noticing Dean's interest, tried to draw him into the conversation, even though much of it was based on their longstanding friendship. "So, Dean," Charlie said, turning her attention to him, "what's your take on farm life so far?"
"It's been an adjustment," Dean admitted, "but I'm learning to appreciate it. "
"That's good to hear.” Charlie nodded, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Cassie here is a bit of a workaholic when it comes to the animals. You should see him with the sheep, it's like watching a shepherd from an old story."
"It's not that impressive, Charlie." Castiel said, rolling his eyes. Charlie leaned in closer to Dean.
"Don't let him fool you. He's got a real knack for it. And he's great with the cows too."
“Yeah,” Dean glanced at Castiel, who seemed slightly embarrassed but pleased by the praise. "I've noticed. He really cares about the animals." Charlie nodded, then shifted the conversation.
"So, Dean, what about you? Any hobbies or interests you brought with you?" Dean hesitated, unsure of what or how much to share. Before he could answer, Castiel spoke up, looking up from his half-eaten plate of food.
"Dean wants to work here." Charlie looked between Dean and Castiel, then laughed.
"That's one way to change the topic, Cassie." She turned to Dean, her expression curious. "Is that true? Castiel mentioned your interest in cooking and said you had been a chef before... well, anyway, we have been talking and you could come work here if you want."
"Really?" Dean felt a surge of excitement mixed with nervousness. "I’d love that! Cooking has always been my passion, and it would be amazing to work in a place like this."
"Absolutely,” Charlie grinned, clearly pleased. “We could always use another talented chef in the kitchen. And if Cassie vouches for you, that's good enough for me."
"Thanks, Charlie." Castiel gave a small, appreciative smile.
"No problem, Cassie.” Charlie waved a hand dismissively. “And Dean, you're welcome to start whenever you're ready. Just let me know."
"Thank you, Charlie.” Dean felt a weight lift off his shoulders, the prospect of working in a kitchen again filling him with a sense of purpose. “I really appreciate it."
"Looking forward to it.” Charlie nodded, her expression warm. “And don't worry, we'll take good care of you." As they finished their meal, the atmosphere remained light and filled with laughter. Castiel seemed more at ease than Dean had ever seen him, and Dean felt a growing sense of hope for their future. As they were leaving, Charlie pulled Dean aside for a moment. "Hey, Dean. Just so you know, Cassie doesn't open up to many people. The fact that he's letting you in this much this fast —at all actually— it means a lot. Take care of him, okay?"
"I will, Charlie.” Dean nodded, feeling the weight of her words. “Thanks for everything."
They said their goodbyes and headed back to the car. As they drove home, Dean felt a renewed sense of optimism. They had taken another step forward, and he was determined to continue building on that progress. When they arrived back at the house, Castiel turned to Dean with a small, genuine smile.
"Thank you for tonight, Dean. It was... nice." Dean returned the smile, feeling a warmth spread through him.
"It was nice. And thank you for introducing me to Charlie. I think this is going to be a good thing." Castiel nodded, his eyes softening.
"I think so too."
Chapter 8
Notes:
Chapter word count: 9 586
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Castiel sat cross-legged among the chickens in the indoor part of the coop, the familiar scent of straw and feathers surrounding him. The soft clucking and the occasional pecking sound from the hens offered a comforting rhythm, helping to steady his thoughts. He closed his eyes, seeking solace in the simple presence of the animals. He had always found a unique kind of peace here, away from the complexities of pack politics and personal turmoil. The sound of approaching footsteps broke the tranquillity, and Castiel's brow furrowed in annoyance.
"Go away, Gabriel," he muttered, hoping his brother would take the hint and leave him be. Gabriel, of course, didn’t go away. Instead, the net door creaked open, and Gabriel stood before him, his presence commanding as always. Castiel cursed under his breath for not having used the latch. He opened his eyes, meeting Gabriel's amber gaze with a mixture of irritation and resignation. "What is it, Gabriel?" Castiel snapped, not in the mood for another one of his brother's interventions. Gabriel raised an eyebrow, unperturbed by Castiel's tone.
"What is this I hear about you having pawned Dean off to Charlie?"
"I did no such thing," Castiel replied defensively, sitting up straighter. "Dean wanted to work, and Charlie always needs staff. I solved two problems at once."
"Killed two birds with one stone, Gabriel remarked, his tone light but with a hint of reproach. Castiel's eyes narrowed.
"That's such a violent expression." Gabriel sighed, his expression softening slightly.
"How are you doing, Castiel?"
"I'm fine," Castiel replied curtly, turning his gaze away. Gabriel stepped closer, his eyes searching Castiel's face.
"Are you fine because Dean is barely home anymore?" Castiel's jaw tightened, and he met Gabriel's gaze with defiance.
"It's not my fault Dean rides with Charlie."
"No,” Gabriel let out another, heavier, sigh, shaking his head. “I suppose it's not your fault. But it is almost harvest, and it would be good to know if you and Dean are ready."
“Yes, I know, ” Castiel closed his eyes, the weight of the upcoming event pressing down on him. "The Sixth of October."
"That's right, the Sixth," Gabriel echoed, his tone softer. He crouched down beside Castiel, reaching out to place a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Listen, Cassie. I know this is hard for you. All of it. But you need to find a way to make this work with Dean, the pack is watching and they need to see unity. For his sake." Castiel swallowed hard, feeling the familiar pressure of responsibility settle on his shoulders.
"I'm trying, Gabriel. I really am."
"I know you are.” Gabriel's grip on his shoulder tightened briefly before he stood up. “And it is clear that Dean is too. But you both need to try harder. You know that the harvest festival is a big deal, not just for the pack, but for you and Dean as a couple."
"Of course I know that," Castiel muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. "But knowing something in theory doesn't make it just happen. And maybe I don't want to."
"When have you ever wanted to do anything?" Gabriel's tone was light, but his words carried a weight that made Castiel flinch.
"That's not fair," Castiel said, looking away.
"Maybe it isn't," Gabriel admitted with a sigh. "But life isn't fair, Cassie. You know that." Castiel remained silent, his gaze fixed on a particularly curious hen pecking at his shoe. Gabriel's voice softened. "Dean doesn't have time to bake or practice dancing, does he?"
"No, he doesn't.” Castiel shook his head, his frustration mounting. “He's always at the restaurant with Charlie."
"Maybe I should just tell Charlie to fire Dean then," Gabriel suggested, his tone deceptively casual. Panic flared in Castiel's eyes, and he rose to his feet, the chickens clucking in protest at the sudden movement.
"No!"
"No?" Gabriel tilted his head, his expression curious.
"No." Castiel shook his head, his voice trembling slightly.
"No?" Gabriel took a step closer, his gaze intense.
"No!” Castiel's voice rose with desperation. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!" "Gabriel, you can't do that. That is not fair. You can't." Gabriel straightened up, looking his brother in the eyes.
"It’s the First today. Dean and you are running out of time to practise."
"He wants to work and I don't want to practise,” Castiel's voice was barely a whisper. “I like how it is now."
"Castiel,” Gabriel sighed deeply, his frustration evident, “you need to make an effort. The pack is watching. They need to see that you and Dean are a united front. It is clear that Dean is pulling his weight but if you don't practise, if you don’t show that you’re willing to try, then this whole thing will fall apart." Castiel looked down, his heart heavy with the weight of Gabriel's words. He knew his brother was right, but the thought of opening himself up, of letting Dean in, was almost too much to bear. Gabriel's voice softened, a rare gentleness in his tone. "Castiel, I know you're scared. I know this isn't what you wanted. But you need to meet him halfway. He deserves that."
"I just…” Castiel swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in his throat. “I don't know how to do this, Gabriel. I don't know how to let him in." Gabriel placed a hand on Castiel's shoulder, his touch reassuring.
"You don't have to have all the answers, Cassie. But you have to try. Take it one step at a time. Start with the baking. Start with the dancing. Show the pack that you and Dean are in this together, show Dean."
"'M trying." Castiel looked at Gabriel, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “Always am trying.” Gabriel's smile was warm, filled with pride.
"That's all I'm asking, Cassie. Just try." Gabriel’s expression shifted, a more serious note entering his voice. "Well, unless you’ve already decided you’ll kill Dean of course, wouldn't want you to get too attached before the slaughter." Castiel shook his head quickly, his voice barely audible.
"I'm not sure yet."
“Well,”Gabriel's gaze softened, "if you don't know yet, then what's the harm in practising? Give Dean a real chance." Castiel hesitated, his mind racing.
"But I’ll have to touch Dean’s hands for the dance. We need to stand very close."
“Well,” Gabriel shrugged, a hint of a smile on his lips. "That's usually how people dance, Cassie." With that, Gabriel turned and left the coop, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts and the soft clucking of the chickens. Castiel took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He returned to his house and was greeted by Norma. Castiel went upstairs, Norma following him. Castiel entered the library, lighting the fireplace before lying down on the couch. Norma jumped onto his chest, her soft purring a comforting presence.
Later that day, in the evening, Dean entered the library, searching for Castiel after coming home from work. He found Castiel lying on the couch, Norma sprawled comfortably across his chest. The soft glow of the fire illuminated the room, casting warm, flickering shadows on the walls.
"Hey," Dean said softly, not wanting to startle Castiel. "Have you eaten?" Castiel shook his head, his eyes fixed on the flames. Dean walked over and took a seat in an armchair across from the couch. "You should eat something. I can make us dinner." Castiel's gaze shifted to Dean, a mixture of hesitation and vulnerability in his eyes.
"I'm not very hungry."
"You need to eat, Castiel.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It's important." There was a moment of silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire and Norma's content purring. Castiel finally nodded, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Okay."
"I'll be back in a bit with something.” Dean stood up, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Just erm relax, alright? You look like you need it." As Dean left the room, Castiel closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the fire and the comforting weight of Norma on his chest. He knew Gabriel was right; he had to try harder or the pack may start to question Dean’s commitment. But the thought of letting Dean in, of opening himself up, was terrifying.
When Dean returned with two steaming bowls of soup, Castiel sat up, carefully placing Norma beside him. Dean handed him a bowl and as their fingers brushed briefly Castiel felt a jolt of electricity at the contact, but he didn't pull away.
"Thanks," Castiel said, his voice soft.
"No problem." Dean nodded, taking a seat in the armchair again. They ate in silence, the warmth of the soup and the fire creating a cocoon of comfort. Castiel found himself glancing at Dean occasionally, the flickering firelight highlighting the lines of his face, the depth of his green eyes. There was a strength and kindness there that Castiel was beginning to see more clearly. After they finished eating, Dean set his bowl aside and looked at Castiel, a serious expression on his face. "We need to start practising for the harvest festival."
"I know." Castiel nodded, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest.
"We'll start with the baking tomorrow," Dean said, his tone gentle but firm. "And then we can work on the dancing."
"Okay." Castiel took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Dean gave him a reassuring smile.
"We'll get through this, Castiel. Together.” As they sat in the quiet of the library, the weight of their shared challenges seemed a little lighter. Castiel looked around, the bowls in their laps feeling out of place amidst the books and the warm glow of the fireplace. He shifted uncomfortably, the familiar tension returning to his shoulders.
"Shouldn't've eaten in the library," Castiel said, his voice tinged with unease. “Should eat in the dining room, downstairs, or in the kitchen, downstairs. We shouldn't've eaten up here at all. This is the wrong floor."
"It's fine, Castiel.” Dean furrowed his brows, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. “It's okay to eat on this floor too."
"It's not okay.” Castiel shook his head, his hands gripping the edge of the couch. “Not okay at all." Dean set his bowl aside, leaning forward to meet Castiel's gaze.
"Why isn't it okay, Castiel?” Castiel's eyes darted around the room, unable to settle on any one thing. “What's bothering you?"
"The library is for reading, for quiet. Not for eating. It disrupts the order, the structure. And Father always said–"
"But it's just us, Castiel.” Dean interrupted, yet trying to understand. “There's no rule that says we can't eat here. We can make our own rules." Castiel's gaze finally settled on Dean, his blue eyes filled with a mix of frustration and vulnerability.
"It's not about rules. It's about... it's about things being in their place. If we start eating here, then everything gets mixed up, and it feels wrong." Dean nodded slowly, realising that this was more than just a matter of where they ate;it was about Castiel's need to keep control, perhaps not off Dean but the situation.
"Okay," Dean said gently. "I understand. Next time, we'll eat downstairs. In the dining room or the kitchen. We can keep things in their place." Castiel's shoulders relaxed slightly, though the tension in his eyes remained.
"Thank you." Dean reached out, placing a hand on Castiel's knee.
"It's okay, Castiel." Castiel stared at Dean's hand on his knee, feeling it grow heavier and warmer by the second. The sensation was almost overwhelming, as if Dean's touch was molten lava searing through his skin, igniting something deep within him. His breath quickened, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the noise drowning out the crackling of the fire. Dean upon sensing Castiel's change started to pull his hand away, but Castiel's reflexes were faster. He reached out and grabbed Dean's wrist, stopping him from moving. The touch sent another jolt of electricity through Castiel, but he didn't let go.
"Please," Castiel whispered, his voice trembling. "Just... erm give me a moment?" Dean nodded, his eyes filled with concern and understanding.
"Take your time, Cas." Castiel focused on his breathing, trying to steady himself. He could feel the warmth of Dean's hand seeping into his skin, grounding him in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. Slowly, he began to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing.
"I'm not used to this," Castiel admitted, his voice barely audible. "Touch, I mean. It's... a lot."
"I understand.” Dean's grip remained gentle, his thumb lightly brushing against Castiel's knee. “We can take it slow, as slow as you need." Castiel nodded, feeling a wave of gratitude for Dean's patience. He had expected resistance, maybe even frustration, but Dean's kindness was a balm to his frayed nerves. "Let's clean up and head downstairs," Dean suggested. "We can have some tea in the kitchen." Castiel nodded, standing up and gathering the bowls. Dean followed him downstairs, the familiar creak of the wooden steps underfoot. In the kitchen, the atmosphere felt different—more grounded, more in line with Castiel's need for order. Dean put a kettle on the stove, the soft whistle of boiling water soon filling the room. Castiel took a seat at the kitchen table, watching as Dean prepared the tea. The tension from earlier seemed to dissipate, replaced by a quiet sense of calm. Dean placed a steaming mug of tea in front of Castiel and took a seat across from him. "How do you feel now?" Dean asked, his voice gentle and reassuring. Castiel took a sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through him.
"Better," he admitted, his shoulders relaxing. "Thank you, Dean." Dean smiled, his eyes softening with relief.
"I'm glad to hear that. Remember, we can find ways to make things work for both of us." Castiel nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude. He had always struggled with change, with letting go of his rigid routines, but Dean's patience and understanding were helping him navigate this unfamiliar territory.
"I appreciate that, Dean. It's just..." Castiel looked around the kitchen, the warmth of the tea in his hands slowly turning to a cold realisation in his mind. This scene seemed all too familiar—someone being nice to him seemingly out of nowhere, only to turn around and demand things because he was a Novak. He placed his cup of tea down, the porcelain clinking loudly against the table, and stood abruptly. The chair protested loudly as it scraped against the tiled floor, but Castiel didn't care.
"Castiel?" Dean's voice was filled with confusion and concern. "What's wrong?" Castiel didn't respond. His mind raced with a barrage of thoughts, each one more damning than the last. Of course Dean wanted something; Dean wanted to live. Dean would do and say anything to ensure Castiel wouldn't slay him. Dean didn’t actually care about him. The realisation felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He moved away from the table, his footsteps echoing in the suddenly too-quiet kitchen.
"Of course," he muttered, more to himself than to Dean.
"Cas, what’s going on?” Dean stood up, his expression a mix of worry and confusion. “Talk to me."
"Of course, Dean, I get it now,” Castiel shook his head, his hands trembling. “Of course you would be nice to me. Of course you’d do anything to ensure I don’t kill you."
"What?” Dean's eyes widened in shock. “No, Cas, that's not it at all. I'm trying to help us both through this, to understand each other." But Castiel's thoughts were spiralling, memories of people who had been kind only to use him later flooding his mind.
"You're just like everyone else," he said, his voice breaking. "You don’t care about me. You care about surviving." Dean stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture.
"Castiel, please. I care about you. This isn’t just about surviving for me."
“How can you even say that?” Castiel’s eyes filled with frustration and hurt. "How can I ever believe that? How can I trust anything you say?"
"Because I'm here, Cas.” Dean’s face softened, his eyes filled with genuine concern. “I'm trying, just like you. I don’t have all the answers, but I’m not giving up." Castiel's heart ached at Dean’s words, but it only made everything more overwhelming.
"I need to be alone," he said, his voice barely a whisper. Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the kitchen, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Norma followed him, meowing softly as if sensing his distress. Castiel made his way to his room on the ground floor, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it, his body trembling with the intensity of his emotions. He heard Dean's footsteps stop outside the door.
"Cas," Dean called softly, his voice muffled by the wood. "Please, let’s talk about this." But Castiel couldn’t. The fear and pain were too raw, too overwhelming.
"Leave me alone, Dean," he said, his voice breaking. "Just please leave me alone." There was a long pause, and then Castiel heard Dean’s footsteps retreating. He sank to the floor, his head resting against the door, feeling more isolated and alone than ever. Norma jumped onto his lap, her purring a small comfort in the storm of his emotions. Castiel stroked her fur absentmindedly, his mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. He wanted to believe Dean, wanted to trust him, but his past experiences made it so hard.
Castiel stayed in his room for days, the world outside reduced to a muffled blur. The first day, he let Norma out so she could roam freely, despite her insistent scratching at the door and plaintive meows to be let back in. Castiel lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind a relentless whirlpool of fear and self-doubt. He ignored everything—the scratching at the door, Dean’s attempts to talk to him through the barrier, and the growing emptiness within him. He wanted everything to go away, to disappear into the silence and darkness of his room. The second day, the knocking on his door became more insistent, Dean’s voice filled with worry and frustration.
“Cas, please talk to me. I’m worried about you. Don't shut me out.” But Castiel remained silent, his resolve to shut out the world unwavering. He felt numb, a hollow ache filling his chest as he tried to block out the noise, the concern, the confusion. All he wanted was peace, an escape from the turmoil that seemed to plague his every waking moment. By the third day, the knocking had stopped. Castiel lay in the darkness, the room thick with the scent of his own despair. He barely moved, his body growing weaker with each passing hour. The isolation was suffocating, but it was all he knew how to do. He didn’t want to face the world, didn’t want to deal with the complexity of his emotions or the fear of betrayal. It was easier to hide, to shut himself away and pretend that nothing existed outside the four walls of his room. On the fourth day, Castiel heard a faint scratching at the door. He turned his head, listening to the familiar sound of Norma’s claws against the wood. She was persistent, her soft meows breaking through the fog of his mind. Castiel sighed, feeling a pang of guilt for abandoning her. He stood slowly, his limbs heavy and aching, and opened the door. Norma darted in, weaving around his legs and purring loudly. Castiel picked her up, holding her close as he sank back onto the bed. He heard footsteps outside his door, hesitant and soft. Dean’s voice came through, quiet and filled with concern.
“Cas, are you okay?” Castiel didn’t respond, his throat tight with emotion. He stroked Norma’s fur, feeling the soft vibrations of her purring against his chest. The warmth of her presence was a small comfort in the cold isolation he had created for himself. “Cas, please,” Dean continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just let me in.” Castiel closed his eyes, feeling the weight of Dean’s words. He wanted to believe them, wanted to trust that Dean genuinely cared. But the fear of betrayal, the fear of being used, was too strong. He couldn’t bring himself to open the door, couldn’t bring himself to let Dean in. He didn't dare to.
On the fifth day, Castiel woke to the same oppressive silence that had filled his room for days. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his isolation pressing down on him. He heard the faint sounds of the pack moving outside, the hustle and bustle of the Harvest Festival preparations in full swing. The festival was a major event, a time for celebration and unity, but Castiel felt none of that joy. Instead, he felt a deep, gnawing sense of failure. Dean didn’t try to make contact that day, likely too busy helping Charlie at the restaurant. Castiel imagined Dean bustling around the kitchen, his hands deftly preparing dishes, his mind focused on the task at hand. In the evening, he pictured Dean returning home, too tired to care about the festival being missed. Castiel couldn’t blame him. They hadn’t practised or baked anything, and now, the festival was right outside their door, a reminder of his failure. Castiel knew missing the festival was a mistake, a significant one. It was a symbol of their union, a chance to show the pack they were committed to making this work. But the thought of stepping outside, of facing the judgmental eyes of the pack, was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to go out there, to pretend that everything was okay when it wasn’t. He spent the day moving between his bed and the window, watching the preparations with a heavy heart. The sounds of laughter and music floated up to his room, each note a reminder of what he was missing. Castiel’s thoughts spiralled, each one darker than the last. Everyone knew this would happen. Everyone knew he would fail at this too. The hours dragged on, the day slipping into evening. The festivities outside grew louder, the air filled with the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked pies. Castiel could hear the distant sounds of the pack celebrating, their joy a stark contrast to his despair. As night fell, the sounds of the festival continued, the laughter and music carrying on the cool evening air. Castiel stood by the window, looking out at the twinkling lights and the gathering of people. He could see a bonfire in the distance, the flames dancing and casting long shadows. A knock on his door broke the silence of his room. He turned, his heart pounding, but he didn’t move. He knew it wasn’t Dean. It was Gabriel.
Days blurred into each other, Castiel’s world reduced to the small confines of his room. Norma was his only companion, her sporadic presence (Castiel let her in or out while Dean was at work or asleep) was the only real reminder that he wasn’t completely alone. But even her warmth couldn’t chase away the cold, creeping despair that filled him. On the seventh day, Castiel heard footsteps approaching his door once more. He braced himself for another attempt from Dean to coax him out, but this time, the footsteps stopped just outside. There was a long silence, and then the sound of something being placed on the floor.
“Cas,” Dean’s voice came through the door, soft and gentle. “I’ve left some food and water for you, again. It would be good if you ate something. I’ll be right here if you need me.” Castiel listened as Dean’s footsteps retreated, his heart aching with a mixture of guilt and longing. He didn’t move, didn’t open the door to see what Dean had left. He just lay there, feeling the crushing weight of his isolation pressing down on him. That night, as he lay in the darkness, Castiel felt a tear slip down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily, frustrated with himself for being so weak. But the tears kept coming, silent and relentless, a flood of emotions he couldn’t contain. He clung to Norma, her soft fur absorbing his tears as he cried himself to sleep.
In the early hours of the eighth day, Castiel awoke to the sound of insistent pounding on his door. The abrupt noise jolted him from his restless sleep, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat up, disoriented and anxious, as the pounding continued, each thud reverberating through the walls of his room.
"Castiel!" Gabriel's voice boomed through the door, filled with anger and frustration. "Open this door right now!" Castiel's body tensed, the familiar fear and guilt surging through him. He looked around the room, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. Norma meowed softly, her green eyes watching him with concern. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands. The pounding grew louder, more urgent. "Castiel, if you don't open this door, I'll break it down!" Knowing from past experience that his brother’s words were a true promise rather than an empty threat Castiel stood up with a sense of resignation and shuffled to the door. His hand hovered over the door handle, his mind racing with thoughts of what Gabriel might say or do. Finally, he turned the key and opened the door a crack, just enough to see Gabriel's furious face. Gabriel pushed the door open, his amber eyes blazing with anger. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Castiel? Locking yourself away for days? Ignoring everyone? Do you have any idea how worried we've been?" Castiel stepped back, his gaze dropping to the floor just to see Norma run out of the bedroom.
"'M sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
" ’Sorry’? Sorry isn't good enough," Gabriel snapped, stepping into the room. "Dean's been out of his mind with worry. I've been out of my mind with worry. And here you are, hiding away like a coward." Castiel flinched at the harsh words, the weight of Gabriel's anger pressing down on him.
"I didn't know what to do," he admitted, his voice trembling. "Everything feels so overwhelming." Gabriel's expression softened slightly, but his anger remained.
"I get that, Cassie. I do. But you can't just shut yourself away and expect the world to stop. It doesn't work like that anymore. Dean needs you. I need you." Castiel's shoulders slumped as he faced his brother’s wrath.
"Dean doesn't care," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's only pretending to." Gabriel's eyes narrowed.
"And is that so bad, Castiel? If he's pretending, at least he's trying." Castiel shook his head, his hands clenched into fists.
"It isn't real. It feels like a lie."
"Castiel, things rarely seem real to you when they matter most.” Gabriel let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You've always struggled with that. But life doesn't wait for you to feel comfortable. Sometimes, you have to push through the discomfort and just... grow up." Castiel let out shuddering breaths, his chest tightening as he tried to hold back his tears. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of emotions he couldn't control. Gabriel's harsh words cut through him, making it hard to breathe. "Grow up," Gabriel repeated, his voice firmer. "You can't keep hiding every time things get tough. You have responsibilities, Castiel. To the pack, to Dean, and to yourself." Castiel tried to speak, but his throat felt like it was closing up. The words wouldn't come, trapped behind a wall of fear and insecurity. He looked at Gabriel, his vision blurred by tears he refused to let fall. Gabriel stepped closer, his expression softening as he saw the depth of Castiel's distress. "Castiel, I know you're scared. I know this isn't what you wanted. But you have to do this." Castiel's lip quivered, and he looked down, feeling utterly lost. He felt Gabriel’s hand on his shoulder, a grounding touch that offered a small measure of comfort. "Look at me, Cassie," Gabriel said gently, trying to catch Castiel's gaze. But Castiel couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes from the floor. He felt like a child again, small and powerless under his brother’s scrutiny. When Castiel didn’t respond, Gabriel’s patience snapped. "Damn it, Castiel, look at me!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the small room. "Stop hiding and face your problems for once in your life!" The sudden outburst startled Castiel, making him flinch. He looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks, meeting Gabriel’s angry, frustrated gaze. The force of Gabriel’s words hit him like a physical blow, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
"I can’t," Castiel choked out, his voice breaking. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be what you need me to be."
"You don't know how to do this? You don't know how to be what I need you to be?” Gabriel's face twisted with anger and frustration. “Castiel, you're a Novak! You have responsibilities that you can't just ignore!" Castiel's chest tightened, the weight of Gabriel's expectations pressing down on him.
"Know that," he whispered, his voice trembling. "But it's too much, can't handle it."
"You think I don't feel the same way? You think I wanted any of this?” Gabriel let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “But we don't have a choice, Castiel. We have to step up, we have to be strong for the pack."
"'M not like you, Gabriel. Not strong, not a leader."
"Then what are you, Castiel?” Gabriel's anger flared again, his eyes blazing. “What are you good for if you can't even face your own problems? If you don't even try?" Castiel's lip quivered, and he looked away, feeling utterly defeated.
"’M trying," he said, his voice barely audible. "But it is hard. Everything is hard."
“Then you have to try harder, Castiel.” Gabriel stepped closer, his expression a mix of anger and desperation. “You have to do better. You have to be better. The pack needs you. Dean needs you. I need you. You need to grow up. You can't just hide, it does not work like that anymore, you are an adult." Castiel's heart ached at his brother's words, the weight of his expectations crushing him. He looked up at Gabriel, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and defiance.
"You're just like Father," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. Gabriel's face went pale, his eyes widening in shock.
"What did you say?"
"You're just like Father.” Castiel took a deep breath, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Always pushing, always demanding more. Never satisfied with anything." Gabriel's expression darkened, his anger flaring again.
"Don't you dare compare me to him," he hissed. "I’m trying to help you, Castiel. I’m trying to make you see what you need to do."
"But you're not helping," Castiel shouted, his voice breaking. "You're just making everything worse. Can't be what you want me to be, can't be like you." Gabriel's jaw tightened, his eyes blazing with fury.
"You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be the one holding everything together while you ignore your responsibilities?" Castiel's chest heaved with sobs, his heart breaking under the weight of his brother's anger.
"Don't know what you want," he cried. "Don't know how to be what you need." Gabriel's expression softened slightly, but his anger remained.
"I need you to be strong, Castiel. I need you to stop hiding and face your problems. The pack needs you to be strong. Dean needs you to be strong." Castiel shook his head, his tears falling freely.
"Can't, don't know how."
"Then you need to learn, Castiel!” Gabriel let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You need to find a way to be strong, for all of us." Castiel's shoulders slumped, the weight of his brother's words pressing down on him. He felt utterly defeated, completely overwhelmed by the expectations placed upon him.
"I don't know if I can," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Gabriel's expression softened, a rare look of sympathy crossing his features.
"You have to try, Castiel. For the pack. For Dean. For yourself." Castiel looked up at his brother, his heart aching with the weight of his words. “I can't continue to hold your hand in this, Castiel. I am not Balthazar. You are not a child. You need to grow up.” He knew Gabriel was right, knew he had to find a way to be strong. But he didn't know where to start, didn't know how to face the overwhelming fear and doubt that plagued him.
"I'll try," he said finally, his voice trembling.
"That's all I'm asking, Castiel.” Gabriel nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Just try." Castiel took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his brother's expectations settling heavily on his shoulders. He knew he had to find a way to be strong, to face his problems head-on. But he didn't know if he had the strength to do it. As Gabriel turned to leave, Castiel felt a surge of desperation. He didn't want to be alone, didn't want to face the crushing weight of his fears and doubts without someone by his side.
"Gabriel," he called softly, his voice trembling.
"What?!" Castiel took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest.
" Please , don't leave."
Meanwhile, Dean sat in the passenger seat of Charlie's car, halfway into town, watching raindrops race each other down the window. Charlie had called the car ‘Yertle' the first time she drove Dean, explaining it ‘looked like a yellow turtle’ . Dean had for a brief time wondered if all members of the pack had yellow cars, but he had decided not to ask. Charlie was humming along to a pop song on the radio, a tune that sounded like every other pop song Dean had ever heard. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the patter of rain created a strangely soothing backdrop. As they approached a red light near the restaurant, Charlie turned to Dean.
"Who's winning?" she asked, nodding towards the raindrops on the window. Dean blinked, then glanced at her.
"I don't think any of them are," he replied with a slight smile. Charlie hummed in response and continued driving. When she parked behind the restaurant, she didn't immediately get out, sensing that there was something more on her mind than just the rain Dean turned to look at her.
"It isn’t the first time Castiel has done this," Charlie said, breaking the silence. Dean furrowed his brow, silently urging her to continue. "When Castiel turned eighteen and Balthazar was allowed to leave, Castiel shut himself away for weeks. It was a bit different, I guess, because he had the whole house to himself, so he wasn’t as confined as he is now," Charlie explained, her voice tinged with sadness and understanding. Dean's curiosity piqued, but he held his tongue, hoping Charlie would continue on her own. "Balthazar being released from his duties made Castiel distraught. He thought their friendship had been a lie," Charlie continued. "But in reality, witches aren’t allowed residency in werewolf territory. Gabriel had called Balthazar one night when Castiel was particularly sad and told him what had happened. After that, Balthazar started visiting Castiel regularly." Dean's brow furrowed deeper.
"What duties?" he finally asked.
"Oh, no one told you?” Charlie looked surprised but it was quickly replaced with disbelief, voice heavy with defeat. “No, of course no one told you, why would anyone tell you something that would make your life easier? That would be like our pack at all, why make you feel welcome?” Charlie sighed and ran a hand through her hair as her tone returned to normal. “Balthazar was to be Gabriel and Castiel’s nanny after he lost a bet to Charles some three decades ago—before Charles even had children. But over time, Balthazar became more like a best friend to Castiel. So, when Castiel turned eighteen... well… " Dean blinked, trying to process the new information. It strangely fit with what he had observed about Balthazar and how he interacted with Castiel. It wasn’t hard to imagine Balthazar had been Castiel's nanny and, in some ways, still fulfilled that role. Charlie sighed, looking out at the rain. "Castiel's always had a hard time with change and trusting people. He needs stability and structure. Balthazar provided that for him, and when he left, it really messed Castiel up." Dean nodded slowly, absorbing Charlie's words.
"I didn't realise... I thought it was just me."
"It's not just you," Charlie said softly. "Castiel struggles with a lot of things. But I think he cares about you, Dean. He just doesn't always know how to show it." Dean looked at her, his expression conflicted.
"How can you be so sure?" Charlie laughed a little, a warm sound in the cool, rainy morning.
"Well, you are here, aren't you? Castiel got you this job, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't just to pawn you off." Dean considered this, thinking back to his interactions with Castiel. There was something genuine there, a layer of concern beneath the confusion and fear.
"Not just to…" he echoed, the realisation slowly dawning on him. Charlie tilted her head, a playful glint in her eye.
"Don't you think it's a bit calmer when you aren't constantly together?" Dean hesitated, then nodded.
"Well, yeah."
"Great! That's the spirit!" Charlie said brightly. "Now, let's get inside before we both catch a cold."
They hurried into the restaurant, the warmth inside a welcome contrast to the chill outside. Dean found himself reflecting on Charlie's words throughout the evening. There was a complex mix of emotions when it came to Castiel—frustration, confusion, but also a deepening sense of understanding and, dare he admit it, intrigue.
Dean and Charlie slipped behind the line with ease, where the familiar bustle of the kitchen enveloped them. The rich aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh herbs filled the air, mingling with the sound of sizzling pans and the clatter of utensils. Dean adjusted his apron and set to work, his hands moving with practised ease as he prepped for the lunch service. On his first day, Charlie had explained that, while a few members of the pack worked here, the majority of the staff were humans, blissfully unaware of the supernatural world that surrounded them. Dean had quickly learned to navigate this delicate balance, finding solace in the rhythm of the kitchen. This week marked Dean's third at the restaurant, and he had begun to grow accustomed to its pace. It was different from the smaller bistro he had worked in before marrying Castiel, but he liked it. The kitchen here was larger, the menu more intricate, and the clientele more discerning and Dean had discovered a new level of challenge and satisfaction in crafting the upscale dishes the restaurant was known for. Charlie handed him a bowl of fresh basil, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
"You’ve really settled in, haven’t you? I remember your first day. You looked like a deer caught in headlights." Dean chuckled, plucking the basil leaves from their stems.
"Yeah, it was a bit overwhelming at first. But I think I’ve got the hang of it now. The bistro I worked at was nowhere near this fancy." Charlie nodded, a fond smile on her face.
"You’re doing great, Dean. I knew you would. You’ve got a knack for this."
"Thanks, Charlie.” Dean smiled, feeling a sense of pride in her words. “It’s been a good change. Keeps my mind off things." They fell into a comfortable silence, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the hum of the kitchen filling the space between them. Dean found the routine therapeutic, a way to channel his energy and focus on something tangible. The restaurant had become a refuge of sorts, a place where he could lose himself in the art of cooking. As they prepped for lunch service, the atmosphere in the kitchen was filled with a mix of anticipation and controlled chaos. Charlie, always energetic and talkative, began updating Dean on the latest gossip, her stories filled with colourful details about the regular patrons and the peculiarities of the staff.
“Did you hear about Bela?” Charlie asked, her voice carrying over the sound of chopping vegetables. “She’s convinced we use some secret ingredient in our marinara sauce that’s making her addicted. She even offered me a bribe to spill the recipe!” Dean laughed, shaking his head as he diced tomatoes.
“She really thinks you’re hiding something? It’s just tomatoes, garlic, and herbs. Nothing secret about it.”
“Oh, she’s convinced it’s something magical,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes. “Maybe we should tell her it’s a family secret passed down for generations.”
“I fear that would probably just make her more persistent.” Dean grinned. “People love a good mystery.”
“True, true.” Charlie nodded, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “And then there’s Rick from the front of the house. He’s been sneaking little bites from the dessert station whenever he thinks no one’s looking.” Dean raised an eyebrow.
“Hasn’t he been caught yet?”
“Not in person yet,” Charlie replied, a mischievous smile on her face. “But I’m planning to leave a decoy dessert out. Something with a little extra kick.” Dean chuckled.
“Poor guy won’t know what hit him.” They continued their prep work, the conversation flowing easily between them. Dean found Charlie’s stories a welcome distraction, her lively narration bringing a sense of normalcy to his day.
“So, any interesting stories left about your bistro days?” Charlie asked, handing Dean another bowl of fresh basil. Dean thought for a moment, his hands moving automatically as he plucked the leaves from their stems.
“Well, there was this one time a couple came in for their anniversary. They ordered the most expensive bottle of wine we had, but when they got the bill, the husband pretended to have a heart attack to get out of paying.”
“No way! What happened?”
“The paramedics were called, and the whole thing was a mess,” Dean said, shaking his head. “But it turned out he was faking it the whole time. They ended up getting banned from the restaurant.”
“That’s one way to leave a lasting impression.”
The lunch hour arrived with a flurry of activity, the kitchen buzzing with energy as orders began to pour in. Charlie, as the owner and head chef, orchestrated the chaos with a deft hand, her voice calm but authoritative as she called out orders and coordinated the team.
“Dean, we’ve got two orders of linguine with clams, one chicken parm, and a caprese salad,” Charlie called out, her eyes scanning the tickets.
“Got it,” Dean replied, moving with practised efficiency as he started on the pasta. He loved the rush of service, the way the kitchen seemed to dance to its own rhythm. Each dish was a puzzle to be solved, and he took pride in the precision and speed required to keep up with the demands. As the new line chef, Dean worked closely with the other members of the kitchen, their movements a seamless choreography of slicing, sautéing, and plating. He could feel the heat of the stove, the sizzle of ingredients hitting the pan, the fragrant aromas blending together to create the signature dishes the restaurant was known for. “Linguine up!” Dean called, sliding the plates onto the pass. Charlie inspected them with a critical eye, nodding in approval before sending them out to the dining room.
“Great work, Dean,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Keep it up.” Dean nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. The lunch rush was in full swing, but he felt a sense of exhilaration rather than exhaustion. The camaraderie in the kitchen, the shared goal of delivering perfect plates, was a balm to his frayed nerves.
As the orders continued to flow in, Dean and Charlie exchanged the occasional comment, their banter a lighthearted counterpoint to the intensity of the work.
“Remember when we had that big catering gig last month?” Charlie asked, tossing a salad with practised ease. “I thought we’d never finish those canapés in time.”
“Yeah, that was a close one,” Dean replied, shaking his head at the memory of his third day at the restaurant. “But we pulled it off. And the clients were thrilled.”
“Exactly,” Charlie said, her eyes sparkling. “That’s why I love this job. No matter how crazy things get, there’s always that moment of satisfaction when everything comes together.” Dean nodded in agreement, feeling a sense of kinship with Charlie. She had a passion for the work that matched his own, and he admired her ability to lead with both skill and humour. As the lunch rush began to wind down, the kitchen gradually returned to a more manageable pace. Dean and the rest of the team took a breather, the adrenaline of service giving way to a more relaxed atmosphere.
“Alright, everyone,” Charlie said, clapping her hands to get their attention. “Great job today. Take a breather, and then we’ll start prepping for dinner service.” Dean leaned against the counter, feeling the fatigue in his muscles but also a deep sense of accomplishment. He sipped a glass of water, his mind drifting back to the conversation with Charlie earlier. Charlie joined him with a satisfied smile on her face. “Not a bad lunch service, huh?”
“Not bad at all,” Dean agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. Charlie nudged him with her elbow.
“So, are you thinking about what we talked about earlier?” Dean nodded, his expression thoughtful.
“Yeah, I am.”
“You’ll find a way, Dean.” Charlie patted his shoulder. “You’ve got the right mindset. ”
“Thanks, Charlie.” Dean took a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination. “I appreciate it.”
“Anytime,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “Now, let’s get ready for dinner service. It’s going to be another busy night.”
As the staff prepared for the evening service, Dean and Charlie moved fluidly and in sync. Time seemed to blur as they settled into the familiar routine, the rhythm of chopping, stirring, and plating becoming almost meditative. The restaurant hummed with activity, the staff working seamlessly to meet the demands of the dinner crowd. The dinner service was a whirlwind, the kitchen a symphony of sizzling pans, bubbling sauces, and the clinking of plates. Dean found himself in a state of focused intensity, his hands moving with precision as he executed each dish. Charlie's voice cut through the noise, her commands clear and steady, guiding the team through the rush.
"Dean, we need three more orders of the special!" she called out, her eyes darting to the tickets lining up on the pass.
"Got it!" Dean replied, his hands moving swiftly to prepare the orders. He felt a sense of accomplishment with each plate that went out, knowing they were delivering top-quality food to their patrons. As the dinner rush began to wind down, the kitchen's pace slowed. The last few orders trickled in, and the staff started cleaning up, their chatter light and filled with the satisfaction of a job well done. Dean and Charlie were the last ones to leave the restaurant. Dean was almost drifting off in the passenger seat of Charlie's car, the exhaustion of the day catching up to him fully. Charlie drove him all the way up to Castiel's house, the familiar route passing by in a blur. When they reached the house, Dean smiled, thankful and tired.
"Thanks for the ride, Charlie. I really appreciate it."
"Anytime, Dean," Charlie replied, giving him a warm smile. "Get some rest. You’ve earned it."
"Goodnight," Dean said, stepping out of the car.
"Goodnight," Charlie called back before driving off into the night. Dean walked up to the front door, surprised to find it unlocked. As he opened the door, a lingering tension hung in the air, making him feel uneasy. The door shut behind him with a loud thud, almost making him jump in the tense silence. He quickly noticed that Castiel's bedroom door was open. Dean took off his shoes and walked as quietly as he could. His heart beat hard as he accidentally stepped on the creaking part of the stairs. If the door hadn't already announced his presence, this definitely did. He noticed that the bedroom door on the second floor was slightly ajar and had a sneaking suspicion Castiel would be inside. Steadying himself with a couple of deep breaths, Dean swallowed hard and opened the door fully. Castiel was indeed in Dean's bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, his posture tense and his eyes downcast. Dean took a cautious step into the room, unsure how to break the silence that had stretched between them for over a week. Dean took another step into the room, the creak of the floorboard breaking the silence. Before he could say anything, Castiel looked up, his eyes reflecting a mix of vulnerability and determination.
“How was work?” Castiel asked, his voice soft and hesitant. Dean almost snorted at the absurdity of such a normal question given their situation, but he managed to hold it back. Instead, he gave a small smile, trying to ease the tension.
“It was good. Hectic, but good.”
“That’s good to hear.” Castiel nodded, his gaze dropping back to the floor. Dean was about to ask about Castiel's day, trying to bridge the gap that had formed between them, when Castiel opened his mouth again, cutting him off. “I erm…made food,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Before I realised you’d come home late.” Dean felt a pang of guilt at the effort Castiel had made.
“I’m sorry I was late.”
“No,” Castiel shook his head. “You weren't late. You were at work and I didn’t think about when you’d be home.” There was a brief pause before he continued. “I wanted to try... erm… to do something normal ?” Dean took a few more steps until he was standing in front of Castiel. He began to reach out to gently place a hand on his shoulder but stopped in his tracks and retracted his arm.
“Thank you, Cas. It means a lot.” Castiel looked up, his eyes searching Dean’s face for any sign of deceit or ulterior motive. Finding none, he gave a small, tentative smile.
“Would you like to have it now? It’s cold, but...”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded, his smile widening. “I’d love that.” They made their way to the kitchen, the silence between them now filled with a tentative hope rather than tension. Dean watched as Castiel moved around the kitchen, using the microwave to reheat the food he had prepared. It was a simple meal—pasta with a rich tomato sauce, garlic bread, and a side salad—but to Dean, it felt like a feast. They sat at the kitchen table, the warmth from the reheated food and the soft glow of the overhead light creating a cosy atmosphere. Dean took a bite, savouring the flavours.
“This is really good, Cas,” he said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. Castiel’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he allowed himself a small smile.
“I’m glad you like it.”
About halfway through the meal, Dean paused, a forkful of pasta hovering in front of his mouth as he realised the dish tasted different from the usual fare. The tomatoes were particularly fresh and vibrant, and the garlic bread had a distinct, fragrant herb blend that he didn’t recall seeing in their pantry. A thought struck him: Castiel must have gone to the store to get these ingredients. Dean glanced at Castiel, who was quietly eating across the table, his eyes focused on his plate. Without saying a word, Castiel stood up and walked over to the refrigerator. Dean watched as he pulled out a pie and a can of whipped cream, placing them gently on the table. Castiel then turned around to retrieve plates and utensils from a nearby drawer. Dean inhaled deeply, the scent of the pie filling the room. It was apple, with a hint of cinnamon and cardamom. The aroma was warm and inviting, like a promise of comfort and sweetness to come. Dean’s mouth watered at the prospect of tasting it. Castiel turned back around, holding the plates and utensils. He hesitated for a moment, then broke the silence in a low tone.
“Would you like anything to drink? I forget that people like to drink while eating.” Dean shook his head with a gentle smile.
“It’s fine, Cas. Really.” Castiel placed the plates and utensils on the table, his movements careful and deliberate.
“I bought some soda,” he said softly, almost as if he were testing the waters of normal conversation.
“That sounds great.” Dean’s smile widened. “Thanks, Cas.” Castiel nodded and retrieved a couple of cans of soda from the fridge, placing them on the table. They resumed eating, the atmosphere between them feeling a bit more relaxed. After they finished their meal, Castiel carefully sliced the pie, the knife gliding through the flaky crust with ease. He served each of them a generous piece, the rich aroma intensifying as he did so. The pie was still slightly warm, the filling bubbling with juicy apple slices and a perfect blend of spices. Dean took a bite, his eyes closing in appreciation as the flavours melded together on his tongue. “This is amazing, Cas,” he said, his voice filled with genuine praise. “You really outdid yourself.” Castiel’s cheeks flushed slightly, a rare hint of colour rising to his face.
“I’m glad you like it. I... I wanted to do something normal.”
“You did more than that, Cas.” Castiel’s eyes met Dean’s, a flicker of uncertainty mixed with a growing sense of trust. “This is really special.”
“Thank you,” he said softly. They finished their dessert in a companionable silence, the warmth from the food and the quiet companionship creating a cocoon of comfort around them. Dean felt a sense of hope blossoming within him, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to navigate their challenges together. After they had cleared the table and cleaned up the kitchen, they found themselves back in the library, the fire in the fireplace casting a warm glow across the room. Dean sat on the couch, feeling the weight of the day's exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. Castiel hesitated for a moment before joining him, sitting down a bit awkwardly but closer than usual. "Dean," Castiel began, his voice tentative, "I know I've made things difficult. And I'm... I'm sorry for shutting you out." Dean turned to look at him, his expression softening.
"It's okay, Cas. I get it. You're trying, and that's what matters."
"No, Dean.” Castiel shook his head, his eyes filling with a mix of frustration and sadness. “It is not okay. It is not okay at all."
"No?" Dean furrowed his brow, concern etching his features.
"No, ‘tis not okay," Castiel repeated, his voice trembling slightly. "Haven't been fair to you. Have let my fears and my need for control dictate how I've treated you, and that's not okay. It is not right. I've been so afraid of losing control, of things not being in their proper place. And because of that, I've pushed you away. I've been cruel."
"It's okay, Cas, really.” Dean sighed, his expression one of gentle insistence. “We're both still adjusting. It's a lot to take in, and we're going to make mistakes."
"No, Dean," Castiel said firmly, his voice shaking. "It is not okay. Could you just stop being so nice, please? I ruined your life." Dean wanted to argue, his frustration bubbling to the surface.
"Of all the people who were involved in getting us married, you did the least. You didn't pick me—Gabriel did. You didn't even fight in the war on territories. This isn't your fau–"
"That doesn't matter, Dean.” Castiel cut him off, his eyes filled with anguish. “Not when I ruined everything that could have been good. The life you could have had, the peace you deserved."
"Cas, listen to me—" Dean tried to speak again, his words coming out in a rush but Castiel held up a hand, his expression resolute.
"I've come up with a solution, Dean. I probably won't kill you, so you can stop being so nice all the time. We can just live parallel lives, but in the same house. You can go on with your life, and I'll go on with mine. I know it isn't ideal for you and it won't be the same life you had before but at least you have a job as a chef and you won't have to deal with me. We will be…erm… roommates? Well, erm–not that—hmm… housemates ?" Dean felt his heart break at Castiel's words, the resignation in his voice cutting through him like a knife.
"Cas, that's not a solution. That's just... existing. I don't want to live like that. And I don't think you do either."
"What other choice do we have, Dean? Can't give you what you need, can't be the person you deserve."
Chapter 9
Notes:
Chapter word count: 7 845
(not beta read)
Chapter Text
Dean’s new routine quickly became a blend of rigorous work and uneasy coexistence. Each morning began with the sound of his alarm echoing through the house, a jarring reminder of the life he now lived. Charlie’s presence was a constant source of support, her infectious energy and quick wit a balm to his frayed nerves. Each morning would start the same way: He would rise quietly, careful not to wake Castiel, though it seemed unlikely he could—Castiel was always up long before Dean, adhering to his own rigid schedule. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft meow from Norma as she wove around his legs, seeking attention. The kitchen felt almost claustrophobic with the weight of unspoken words. Dean would prepare a quick breakfast, usually something simple like toast or cereal, and eat alone at the small kitchen table. Castiel’s absence was a constant, tangible presence, a reminder of their strained relationship. Dean couldn’t help but glance at the empty chair across from him, wondering if things would ever change. After breakfast, Dean would head out to the restaurant. Charlie would greet him with a bright smile as he walked towards her car. Dean would return her smile, feeling a bit of the day’s weight lift. And then they would be off. The drive was one of the few times he felt a sense of peace. The winding road took them through the heart of their territory, past the rolling fields and dense forests that marked the boundaries of the Novak pack’s land. The morning air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of dew-covered grass and the distant murmur of the nearby river. It was a stark contrast to the tension that filled the house, a brief respite before the demands of the day took over. At the restaurant, Dean found solace in the kitchen’s familiar chaos. The clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of ingredients hitting hot surfaces, and the rhythmic chop of knives against cutting boards provided a comforting backdrop to his work. This day was no different, the hours at the restaurant flew by in a blur of activity. Dean moved with practised efficiency, his hands working almost on autopilot as he chopped, sautéed, and plated dish after dish. The satisfaction of creating something tangible, something that brought people joy, was a balm to his weary soul. The camaraderie of the kitchen staff, their shared jokes and mutual support, provided a sense of belonging that he sorely missed. As the lunch rush subsided and the kitchen settled into a more relaxed pace, Dean found a moment to catch his breath. He leaned against the counter, sipping a glass of water and reflecting on the day. The restaurant had become a refuge, a place where he could lose himself in the rhythm of the work and forget, if only for a little while, the complexities of his home life.
“Hey, Dean,” Charlie called from across the kitchen. “How’s everything going?”
“Good,” Dean replied, offering her a tired but genuine smile. “It’s been a busy morning, but everything’s under control.”
“Glad to hear it,” Charlie said, walking over to join him. “I was thinking, we should try to get together for a drink sometime. After work some day, you know?” Dean hesitated for a moment, considering the offer. He rarely did anything outside of work these days, telling himself that he preferred the solitude of his routine and half ignoring the fact that there wasn't much to do on the Novak farm for him without raising suspicion or running into Castiel. But Charlie’s friendship was something he valued, and perhaps a change of pace would do him good.
“Yeah, that sounds great,” he said finally. “Let’s do it.”
“Awesome!” Charlie’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I’ll let you know when I’m free. It’ll be good to unwind a bit.” As the afternoon wore on, Dean found himself looking forward to the evening ahead. Despite the strained silence that often filled the house, there was a certain comfort in its familiarity. He thought about Castiel, wondering if they would ever find a way to bridge the gap between them. The drive home was a winding path through the heart of the Novak pack’s territory. With the sun having long set the stars would glow over the landscape, the shadows of the trees stretching long across the road. Dean earned a quirked eyebrow from Charlie when he rolled down the window, letting the cool evening air wash over him. It carried the scent of pine and damp earth, a reminder of the wildness that lay just beyond the edges of their structured lives. When Dean arrived home, the house was quiet. Castiel was nowhere to be seen, though that was not unusual. Dean knew he was likely tending to the animals or lost in one of his solitary routines. Dean went upstairs, dropping his bag in his room before heading to the kitchen. He prepared a simple dinner, the process almost mechanical after a long day of cooking. As he ate alone at the kitchen table, his thoughts drifted to Castiel. Their interactions had become few and far between, each one tinged with an awkwardness that was hard to shake. Dean knew Castiel was struggling, but he felt powerless to help. Every attempt to reach out seemed to be met with a wall of resistance. After dinner, Dean cleaned up and made his way to the living room. The fire had already been lit, casting a warm, flickering light across the room. He sank into the couch, the soft cushions a welcome relief after a long day. Norma jumped up beside him, purring contentedly as she curled up in his lap. Dean closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire and the soft rumble of Norma’s purring lull him into a state of relaxation. He thought about the path ahead, the challenges they still faced, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to navigate this together.
The next morning, the routine repeated itself. Dean rose early, the house still shrouded in the quiet of dawn. He went through the motions of breakfast, the silence only broken by Norma’s soft meows and the faint sounds of Castiel moving about somewhere in the house. At the restaurant, the day unfolded much the same as the previous one. The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity, the familiar rhythm of work providing a welcome distraction. Charlie’s presence was a constant source of support, her quick wit and infectious energy a bright spot in Dean’s day.
“Dean, have you thought any more about that new dessert we were talking about?” Charlie asked during a lull in the lunch rush.
“Yeah, I’ve got a few ideas,” Dean replied, wiping his hands on a towel. “I was thinking we could incorporate some seasonal fruits, maybe something with a bit of a twist.”
“I love it,” Charlie said, her eyes lighting up. “Let’s brainstorm some more after the lunch rush.”
The hours flew by, the kitchen a hive of activity as they worked to keep up with the steady stream of orders. Dean found solace in the work, the satisfaction of creating something tangible and delicious a balm to his weary soul. The camaraderie of the kitchen staff, their shared jokes and mutual support, provided a sense of belonging that he sorely missed. As the afternoon wore on, Dean’s thoughts inevitably drifted back to Castiel. He wondered if there was any way to bridge the gap between them, to find a way to connect despite the walls that had grown between them. It was a daunting task, but one that he was determined to tackle, one step at a time. By the time the dinner rush began, Dean was once again fully immersed in the rhythm of the kitchen. The noise and chaos, the heat and intensity, were a welcome distraction from the complexities of his home life. He moved with practised efficiency, his hands working almost on autopilot as he chopped, sautéed, and plated dish after dish. When the last order had been sent out and the kitchen began to wind down for the night, Dean felt a sense of exhaustion mixed with accomplishment. He wiped down his station, the familiar routine grounding him in the present.
“Good work today, everyone,” Charlie said, clapping her hands to get their attention. “Let’s get this place cleaned up and head out. ”
The drive home was quiet, the road bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Dean rolled down the window, letting the cool night air wash over him. It carried the scent of pine and damp earth, a reminder of the wildness that lay just beyond the edges of their structured lives. When Dean arrived home, the house was dark and silent. He knew Castiel was likely already in bed, adhering to his own routine. Dean made his way upstairs, the creak of the floorboards the only sound in the quiet house. As he settled into bed, Dean’s thoughts drifted to Castiel once more. He wondered if they would ever find a way to bridge the gap between them, to connect despite the walls that had grown so high. It was a daunting task, but one that he was determined to tackle, one step at a time.
The days began to blend together, each one a repetition of the last. Dean found solace in his work, the familiar rhythm of the kitchen providing a welcome distraction. Charlie’s friendship was a constant source of support, her quick wit and infectious energy a bright spot in his day. At home, the silence between Dean and Castiel remained unbroken. They lived parallel lives, their paths rarely crossing except for the briefest of moments. Dean knew it wasn’t sustainable, but he didn’t know how to break the cycle.
As one evening drew to a close, Dean found himself in Charlie's car, the familiar route home winding through the Novak pack's territory. The sun had set, and the moon cast a silvery glow over the landscape, the shadows of trees stretching long across the road. Dean stared out the window, the cool night air filtering through the small crack in the window he had rolled down, bringing with it the scent of pine and damp earth. Charlie had been unusually quiet on the drive back, her eyes focused on the road ahead. Dean glanced at her, wondering if something was on her mind. They passed the half-circle of houses, the familiar sight of the pack's homes disappearing as they ventured deeper into the forest. Dean sat up straighter, curiosity piqued.
"Where are we going?" he asked, breaking the silence. Charlie glanced at him with a small smile.
"Thought you might like to see where I live." Dean raised an eyebrow but said nothing, watching as the trees grew denser, their branches intertwining above them like a natural canopy. They eventually stopped in front of a white cottage, its simple structure surrounded by tall trees. The cottage was quaint and charming, its exterior adorned with colourful flowers and climbing ivy. Dean was struck by how vibrant and inviting it looked. As they stepped out of the car, Dean took in the sight, the cottage bathed in the soft glow of the porch light.
"This is your place?" he asked, his surprise evident. Charlie nodded, her smile widening.
"Yep, all mine. Come on in."
Dean followed her inside, the interior of the cottage warm and cosy. The walls were painted in soft colours, and the furniture was a mix of rustic and modern, creating an inviting atmosphere. The common area flowed seamlessly into the kitchen, where colourful tiles and wooden cabinets added a touch of whimsy. There was a single bedroom and a small bathroom, all designed with a personal, homely touch.
"Wow," Dean said, looking around. "When Castiel said you were a high-ranking member, I assumed you lived on the farm with everyone else."
“Ha!” Charlie laughed, a light, musical sound. "No, only the head of the house lives there. So for now, it's my mum and dad." Dean frowned, his brow furrowing.
"But Castiel lives in the half-circle."
"He shouldn't.” Charlie said, her expression turning more serious. “Castiel is supposed to live in the leader's house. The leader’s family always has, that's why the leader’s house is so large; it is supposed to house generations of Novaks, the direct line never needs to move out." Dean followed Charlie into the cosy interior of her cottage, the warmth and charm of the space creating a stark contrast to the tension-filled atmosphere of his own home. The soft colours on the walls, the rustic yet modern furniture, and the inviting kitchen with its colourful tiles and wooden cabinets all spoke of a personal touch that made the cottage feel truly like a home. As they settled into the living room, Dean couldn’t help but ask about it.
"So, why doesn’t Castiel live in the leader’s house? It doesn’t make sense." Charlie’s expression turned serious as she settled onto the couch.
"Castiel didn’t like living there alone when his father and Gabriel were both out fighting in the wars. The house felt too big, too empty. He and Balthazar spent an entire season building his current house. Back then, the farm and grounds felt like a ghost town when so many of the family were away."
"But that doesn’t add up.” Dean frowned, trying to process this information. “The war with my pack didn’t last years, only a few months." Charlie sighed, leaning back and looking at Dean with a mixture of sympathy and frustration.
"Dean, the war with your pack wasn’t the only one.Charles and Gabriel had to defend our territory against multiple attacks from different packs. The Winchester pack was just one of many. Castiel’s house was built during one of those longer, more brutal wars." Dean blinked, the implications settling heavily on his mind.
"Why haven’t I heard anything about these other wars?" Charlie looked away, her expression sombre.
"That’s probably because the other packs were all slain. That is where Gabriel and Charles differ the most, Dean, Charles always wanted rumours to spread; Gabriel didn’t leave anyone alive to tell the tale." Dean’s heart pounded in his chest. The thought of Gabriel letting the pack that killed his father live in exchange for an old treaty to be honoured made him uneasy. He realised Gabriel must have had something very specific in mind when he made that decision, something that ensured the survival and strength of the Novak pack. Charlie’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Do you want something to drink?" Dean nodded, trying to shake off the unsettling thoughts.
"Yeah, that sounds good."
Charlie moved to the kitchen, her movements fluid and practised. Dean watched her for a moment before wandering around the living room, taking in the small details of her home. A collection of framed photos lined one of the walls, capturing moments of happiness and camaraderie. The scent of fresh herbs and spices lingered in the air, mingling with the faint smell of lavender from a nearby diffuser.
Charlie returned with two glasses of wine, handing one to Dean before settling back onto the couch.
"Here you go. Thought you might like this." Dean took a sip, the rich flavour of the wine a welcome distraction.
"Thanks, Charlie. This place is really nice. It feels... peaceful."
"It is.” Charlie smiled, her eyes softening. “It’s my little sanctuary away from all the craziness." They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the warmth of the wine spreading through Dean, easing some of the tension that had been building up. He glanced at Charlie, appreciating her company and the calm atmosphere she provided.
"So, tell me more about Castiel," Dean said, breaking the silence. "Why did he decide to build his own place instead of just waiting for Gabriel and their father to return?" Charlie’s expression softened as she thought about Castiel.
"He needed a space that felt like his own, a place where he could find some peace and comfort amidst all the chaos. Balthazar was a huge help in making that happen. They worked tirelessly to create a home that Castiel could retreat to, somewhere he felt safe and connected to." Dean nodded, understanding the need for a personal sanctuary. He looked around the cosy cottage, appreciating the effort and love that had gone into creating such a warm and inviting space.
"I can see why he’d want that. It’s not easy living in the shadow of war and uncertainty."
"No, it’s not.” Charlie’s eyes met his, a mixture of empathy and resolve in her gaze. “But having a place like this, a place to call home, makes all the difference." After a few more glasses of wine, Charlie stood up abruptly, a playful glint in her eye. “Come on,” she said, reaching out her hand towards Dean.
“‘Come on’?” Dean tilted his head, confused. Charlie nodded, her smile widening.
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Miss what?” Dean asked, still puzzled.
“Running,” Charlie said, her voice filled with a mischievous excitement. Without waiting for his response, she tugged him towards the door. Dean followed her outside, the crisp night air hitting his face. They stepped into the yard, the sky above them cloudy and devoid of stars. The moon was hidden, casting the world in a soft, dark veil. Charlie turned to him, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Let’s race,” she said, and before Dean could respond, she transformed into a wolf. The shift was smooth and fluid, her human form giving way to a ginger wolf whose fur, while matching her vibrant personality, lacked the unnatural brightness of her human hair.
With a playful bark, Charlie darted into the forest. Dean stood there for a moment, taking in the scene before him. It had been a long time since he had shifted, not since the wedding ceremony. The thought of it filled him with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He took a deep breath, letting the familiar sensation wash over him. His body began to change, bones shifting, muscles stretching, until he stood on four legs, a wolf once more. As soon as the transformation was complete, a sense of freedom surged through him. He felt the ground beneath his paws, the wind ruffling his fur, and the scents of the forest filling his nose. It was exhilarating. Dean realised just how much he had missed this, the simple joy of being in his other form.
He sprinted into the forest, following the path Charlie had taken. The trees blurred past him, the ground a soft cushion beneath his feet. Every movement felt natural, fluid, and unrestrained. He could feel the muscles in his legs working, his heart pounding with the thrill of the chase. Charlie led him up a hill, her ginger form darting through the underbrush. Dean followed, his senses heightened, every detail of the forest alive and vivid. They reached the top of the hill, where Charlie shifted back into her human form, waiting for him.
Dean arrived moments later, his breath coming in quick, exhilarated puffs. He shifted back, standing beside her and taking in the surroundings. The view was breathtaking. The forest stretched out below them, a tapestry of autumn colours—rich oranges, deep reds, and vibrant yellows. The night sky, though cloudy, provided a backdrop that made the scene feel almost magical. Charlie turned to him, her eyes shining with understanding.
“I can tell from the way you were enjoying yourself that it’s been a while,” she said softly. “You can do this with me, if you want. After work some days. It can be our secret. The pack doesn’t need to know.” Dean looked at her, a mixture of gratitude and relief washing over him. He took a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill his lungs.
“Thank you, Charlie. I’d like that.”
They stood there for a while, the cool breeze rustling the leaves around them. Dean felt a sense of peace he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The freedom of the forest, the thrill of the run, and the companionship of a friend who understood him—these were things he had missed deeply.
As much as Dean wanted to stay, he couldn't deny that the pull to return to Castiel grew stronger. He couldn’t ignore the sense of duty, the quiet urging of his heart. He bid Charlie a fond farewell, promising to continue the conversation the following day, and began the walk back to the house.
The night air was crisp and cool, the scent of pine and damp earth mingling with the lingering traces of autumn leaves. The forest around him was alive with the soft rustle of nocturnal creatures, the distant hoot of an owl echoing through the trees. Dean's footsteps crunched softly on the path, the ground covered in a carpet of fallen leaves. As he walked, his thoughts drifted back to the run through the forest, the exhilaration of being in his wolf form, the freedom it had brought. It had been a reminder of what he had been missing, a glimpse of the life he had once known. But now, he had responsibilities, bonds that tethered him to the Novak pack and to Castiel. The moon peeked through a break in the clouds, casting a silvery light on the path ahead. Dean took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, grounding him. The house came into view, its familiar silhouette standing against the backdrop of the forest. The lights were dim, suggesting that Castiel had already retired for the night.
Dean quietly entered the house, the soft click of the door echoing in the stillness. He moved through the darkened hallways, his footsteps muffled by the thick rug. The faint glow of the fireplace drew him towards the library, a warm and inviting light spilling into the corridor.
As he approached, Dean’s senses sharpened, the smell of burning wood mingling with the subtle scent of Castiel’s scent. He stepped into the library and paused, taking in the scene before him - Castiel had fallen asleep in an armchair by the fire, his head resting against the high back, a book lying open on his chest. The flickering flames cast a soft glow over his peaceful face, highlighting the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Norma was curled up in his lap, her small form nestled comfortably against him. Her soft purring blended with the crackling of the fire, creating a soothing, rhythmic sound. The sight was unexpectedly tender, a stark contrast to the tension that usually hung between them. Dean’s heart ached with a mixture of emotions. He realised in that moment that he couldn’t keep living in this state of limbo, waiting for something to change on its own. He needed to take the first step, to reach out and try to bridge the gap between them. He quietly approached the armchair, his movements careful so as not to wake Castiel. Dean took a moment to study his face, the lines of stress and worry softened in sleep. There was a vulnerability there, a glimpse of the man beneath the rigid exterior. It was a reminder that they were both struggling, both trying to find their way in this complicated arrangement. Dean gently lifted Norma from Castiel’s lap, the kitten stirring briefly before settling into his arms. He placed her on the rug by the fire, where she curled up once more, her purring resuming almost immediately. Taking a deep breath, Dean reached out and gently touched Castiel’s shoulder.
“Cas,” he whispered softly, his voice barely above a murmur. “Wake up.” Castiel stirred, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he looked disoriented, then his gaze focused on Dean, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face.
“Dean?” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
“Come on,” Dean said gently, offering his hand. “Let’s get you to bed.” Castiel blinked, the fog of sleep slowly lifting. He took Dean’s hand, his touch hesitant but trusting, and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. They moved together towards the hallway, the firelight casting their shadows long against the walls. As they walked, Dean felt a newfound resolve settle over him. This was the first step, a small but significant gesture. He didn’t know what the future held, but he was determined to try, to find a way to make this work. For both their sakes.
The next morning, Dean woke up with a sense of determination. He went through his usual routine, the house still shrouded in the quiet of dawn. He prepared breakfast, the silence only broken by Norma’s soft meows and the faint sounds of Castiel moving about somewhere in the house. As he was about to leave for the restaurant, Dean paused at the door, taking a deep breath. He turned and walked towards Castiel’s bedroom, his heart pounding in his chest. He knocked softly, waiting for a response.
“Come in,” Castiel’s voice was muffled but clear. Dean opened the door and stepped inside. Castiel looked up from his desk, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity.
“Hey,” Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was thinking, maybe we could have dinner together tonight. Just the two of us.” Castiel’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the walls between them seemed to lower.
“I’d like that,” he replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Dean felt a weight lift from his shoulders, a sense of hope blooming in his chest. It was a small step, but it was a start. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to each other.
The dinner invitation lingered in Dean's mind throughout the day, a gentle promise of something different, something better. When he returned home, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow through the windows. The house seemed quieter than usual, the stillness almost anticipatory. Dean busied himself in the kitchen, preparing a simple yet thoughtful meal. The aroma of roasted aubergine and garlic mashed potatoes filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of rosemary. He set the table meticulously, the soft clink of cutlery and plates breaking the silence. Castiel appeared in the doorway, his presence almost ethereal in the dim light. He looked around the kitchen, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
"This looks nice," Castiel said, his voice carrying a warmth Dean hadn't heard in a long time. Dean nodded, offering a small smile in return.
"I thought it would be good to have a proper meal together." They sat down, the initial awkwardness melting away as they started eating. The conversation was light, filled with small talk about the day’s events and shared memories of the restaurant.
"I saw a deer on the way home," Castiel mentioned, his eyes flickering with a genuine touch of enthusiasm. "It just stood there, staring at me. It was beautiful." Dean nodded, picturing the scene.
"Nature has a way of surprising us, doesn't it? Sometimes, when Charlie drives to work, I see the most amazing sunrises. Makes me feel like everything's going to be alright."
“Yeah,” Castiel’s gaze softened as he looked at Dean. "It’s the little things that keep us going." As the meal wound down, the atmosphere grew more relaxed, the silence between them no longer heavy but rather companionable. Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, plain envelope, sliding it across the table to Dean.
"Charlie wanted to pay you, but she wasn’t sure how," Castiel explained. "So, she asked me to handle it. The money is from her, but I withdrew it for you." Dean took the envelope, feeling its weight in his hand. Opening it, he saw the stack of cash inside and almost felt sick. It was a lot of money. Much more than he had expected, more than he felt he deserved.
"That's... a lot," Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You’ve earned it. Use it however you need."
The dinner concluded shortly after, the conversation having wound down to a gentle halt. Dean cleaned up the dishes in silence, his mind swirling with thoughts. Castiel excused himself, leaving Dean alone in the kitchen, the envelope now in his pocket. Dean made his way up to his room, Norma trailing behind him, her soft paws barely making a sound on the wooden stairs. He knew he had no way to spend the money so he put it away in a drawer in the wardrobe before collapsing onto his bed, the day’s events pressing down on him. Norma jumped up beside him, her eyes meeting his with an almost understanding look.
"I don’t know if this is any better," Dean whispered, reaching out to stroke her fur. Norma purred softly, her presence a comforting balm. The next few days followed the same pattern as before the dinner. Dean and Castiel continued their parallel lives, their paths crossing briefly but never truly intersecting. Dean found solace in his routine at the restaurant, the kitchen a refuge from the complexities of his home life. Charlie noticed the subtle change in Dean’s demeanour and made an effort to include him in more of the daily activities and decisions at the restaurant. Her cheerful disposition and unwavering support provided a constant source of encouragement. Back at home, the silence between Dean and Castiel persisted, but it was no longer suffocating. It was as if the dinner had opened a small window, letting in just enough light to see a possible path forward. They were not yet friends, but there was a flicker of hope that, in time, they could be.
Every night, as Dean lay in bed with Norma by his side, he felt a little less alone. He knew that she too must be aware of their parallel tracks, their interactions minimal and their routines unwavering. She would go to bed at night in dean’s room and be gone when he woke up, probably having spent the morning with Castiel. Days slipped by in a familiar, deafening rhythm. Dean would rise early, prepare breakfast, and head off to the restaurant, returning late in the evening to a house that seemed to echo with its own silence. Castiel kept to himself, busy with the farm and maintaining the semblance of order he so desperately needed. One evening, Dean returned home, the sky a canvas of twilight hues, casting a gentle, fading light over the house. The familiar quiet greeted him, but there was something different in the air. It was as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting. Norma rubbed against his legs, purring softly, but there was no sign of Castiel. Dean put his bag down, a frown creasing his forehead. He moved through the rooms, calling out softly, but only silence answered. He checked the kitchen, the dining room, and even Castiel’s bedroom. The house felt emptier than usual, more profound. He decided to settle in the library, hoping Castiel would return soon. Dean chose a book at random, his mind wandering even as he tried to focus on the words. Norma jumped onto his lap, her warmth a small comfort in the growing unease. Hours passed, the starlight outside penetrating some of the darkness. But something was wrong, undeniably so. He set the book aside and gently moved Norma, rising from his seat with a determined sigh. He had to find Castiel.
Dean stepped out into the cool night air, the grounds eerily quiet under the silver glow of the half moon. He sniffed in the air trying to find the most recent trace, however upon finding that difficult he decided just to walk towards the barn, his heart pounding in his chest. As he neared the barn, a faint, metallic scent reached his nose, making his heart race faster. Pushing open the barn door, Dean’s breath caught in his throat. Castiel was on the ground, motionless, the straw around him stained red.
"Cas!" Dean dropped to his knees beside him, turning him onto his back to get a better look at the wound. His hands quickly became slick with Castiel’s blood, the warm, sticky fluid covering his fingers and palms. The sight was enough to make his stomach churn, but he forced himself to focus. The sight of the deep cuts across Castiel’s chest made Dean's stomach churn. His hands were soon covered in Castiel's blood as he tried to apply pressure to the wounds, desperate to stop the bleeding. “Castiel, come on,” Dean murmured, panic rising in his voice. “Stay with me.” But Castiel remained unresponsive, his skin pale under the dim light. Dean's mind raced, unsure of what to do next. He couldn't leave Castiel here, but he also couldn’t treat this wound by himself. He had to get help, and fast. With a surge of determination, Dean lifted Castiel as gently as he could, cradling him against his chest. The blood soaked into his clothes, but he didn't care. He made his way towards the pack leader's house, each step heavy with urgency. The night was eerily quiet, the only sound the crunch of gravel under his boots and the shallow breaths coming from Castiel. He burst through the door of Gabriel’s house, interrupting what seemed to be a pack meeting. All eyes turned to him, and the room fell silent. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest, the blood on his hands and clothes making him look more like an attacker than a rescuer. "Help!" Dean shouted, his voice raw with desperation. "Castiel’s hurt. He’s lost a lot of blood."
Gabriel's eyes widened as he took in the sight of Dean, covered in blood and carrying an unconscious Castiel. The room fell silent, the tension palpable.
“What have you done?” Gabriel’s voice was a low growl, his amber eyes flashing with anger and suspicion.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Dean pleaded, his voice strained. “He was hurt when I found him. Please, he needs help!” Gabriel’s gaze hardened, his body tense.
“You expect me to believe that? This was all part of your father’s plan, wasn’t it? Infiltrate our pack and then kill Castiel.”
“No! I swear, I didn’t do this!” Dean's desperation was clear, his eyes pleading with Gabriel to understand. “I found him like this in the barn. Please, you have to believe me.” The pack members murmured among themselves, the atmosphere thick with distrust. Gabriel stepped closer, his eyes locked on Dean’s.
“Why should I believe you? You have everything to gain from his death.” Dean’s heart sank. He could see the suspicion in Gabriel’s eyes, the doubt in the faces of the others.
"I didn’t hurt him," Dean said, his voice trembling with urgency. "I swear. I just want to help him, he has lost a lot of blood." Gabriel stepped closer, his eyes locked onto Dean’s.
"You expect me to believe that you, a member of the pack that killed our father, just happened upon Castiel in this state?" Dean shook his head, frustration and fear mingling in his chest.
"I don’t know how to convince you, but I’m telling the truth. I found him like this. Please, Gabriel, he needs help."
For a moment, there was silence, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. Then, Charlie stepped forward, concern evident in her eyes.
"We need to focus on saving Castiel first," she said, her voice cutting through the tension, her eyes widened with fear as she took in the sight of the blood covering him and pooling on the floor. "We can figure out the rest later. Blame can wait." Gabriel hesitated, then nodded sharply.
"Take him to the healer," he ordered. "But Dean stays here. We’ll get to the bottom of this." Dean watched as they carefully took Castiel from his arms, the lifeless form of the young man making his chest tighten with fear. He wanted to go with them, to ensure Castiel was alright, but Victor’s firm grip on his arm held him back. As the door closed behind them, Dean found himself alone with Gabriel, Victor, and Benny. The silence was thick, the air heavy with unspoken threats and lingering distrust. Gabriel’s eyes never left Dean’s, suspicion still etched deep in his gaze.
"If Castiel dies," he said quietly, menace in his tone, "there will be nowhere you can hide." Dean swallowed hard, nodding slowly.
"I understand," he replied, his voice barely a whisper. He hoped with every fibre of his being that Castiel would survive, not just for Castiel’s sake, but for his own. Dean took in the faces of the room, each one a tapestry of emotions, ranging from confusion to outright suspicion. Benny, ever the stoic, looked confused, his brow furrowed in concern. Victor's expression was harder, tinged with the unmistakable edge of accusation. Gabriel's voice cut through the tension, sharp and unyielding.
"How long has this been in the works, Dean? How long have you and your father been planning this?" Dean's mind raced, searching for words that could penetrate the thick wall of distrust.
"I told you, I don’t know what happened. I found him in the barn, bleeding. I came here because I didn’t know what else to do." Gabriel's eyes narrowed, his suspicion unwavering.
"You expect us to believe that? You, the son of John, just happened upon my brother in such a state? How convenient." Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.
"I have no signal, no phone. I didn’t set this up. I didn’t hurt him. I’m here because I want to help." Benny stepped forward, his gaze piercing through the fog of uncertainty.
"Gabriel, maybe we should listen to him. If Dean wanted to harm Castiel, why would he bring him here?" Victor’s lips curled into a sneer.
"Or maybe it’s part of their plan, Benny. Bring him here, make it look like an accident, and get us to lower our guard." Dean felt the weight of their gazes pressing in on him, the room growing smaller with each accusation.
"I get it," he said, his voice low but steady. "You have no reason to trust me. But I swear on everything, I didn’t do this. I just want Castiel to be okay." Gabriel’s eyes bored into Dean’s, the weight of his authority palpable.
"You better pray my brother survives," he said, his voice a low growl. "For your sake." Dean swallowed hard, nodding.
The minutes stretched into hours, each second a heavy beat in Dean’s chest. He replayed the events in his mind, searching for any clue, any detail that could explain what had happened to Castiel. But all he found was the haunting image of Castiel’s lifeless body, the blood staining his hands, and the echoing silence of the barn. Gabriel’s voice broke through his thoughts, sharp and demanding.
"Tell me everything again. From the beginning." Dean took a deep breath, his voice steady as he recounted every moment.
"I came home, and Castiel wasn’t there. I checked the house, then went to the barn. That’s where I found him, lying on the ground, bleeding. I didn’t know what to do, so I brought him here."
"And you expect me to believe you had no part in this?” Gabriel’s eyes searched for any sign of deceit. “That you just stumbled upon him?" Dean nodded, meeting Gabriel’s gaze with as much sincerity as he could muster.
"I swear. I had nothing to do with this." Gabriel leaned back, his expression unreadable.
"We’ll see," he said quietly, his eyes flicking to the door where Castiel had been taken. "We’ll see." The room seemed to hold its breath as they waited, the silence almost tangible. Dean's mind raced, replaying every moment since he had found Castiel in the barn, trying to make sense of the chaos. The blood on his hands had dried, but its presence still clung to him, a grim reminder of how dire the situation was. Finally, the door creaked open, and Charlie stepped inside. Her usually bright demeanour was muted, her eyes cast downwards. Dean's heart pounded in his chest, each beat a desperate plea for good news. Gabriel's voice broke the silence, sharp and demanding. "Say something, damn it." Charlie looked up, meeting Gabriel's gaze with a sombre expression.
"Castiel is alive," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "For now, at least." The tension in the room shifted, a collective exhale that was more of a sigh of relief mixed with anxiety. Dean felt a wave of dizziness, a mix of exhaustion and the emotional toll of the night. Gabriel's stern facade cracked for a moment, his concern for his brother evident.
"What do you mean, 'for now' ?" he pressed, his voice softer but still laced with worry. Charlie sighed, rubbing her temples.
"The healer is doing everything he can, Gabriel, but it's touch and go. Castiel's injuries were severe, and he's weak from the blood loss. We need to be prepared for any outcome." Dean's legs felt unsteady, the room spinning slightly. He gripped the back of a chair for support, his mind racing with thoughts of Castiel's pale face and the desperate journey to get him help. Gabriel turned to Dean, his eyes hard but not without a trace of empathy. Gabriel's expression hardened, yet a flicker of vulnerability seeped through.
"What do you mean by 'any outcome' ?" Charlie sighed, the weight of the truth pressing down on her.
"Gabriel, he has lost a lot of blood." Dean watched as the fierce leader who had commanded respect and fear in equal measure seemed to dissolve into a man on the brink of losing his brother. Gabriel's tough exterior cracked, revealing the raw pain of someone who had already lost too much. Dean’s mind raced, connecting dots in a sudden, startling realisation. Castiel hadn’t fought in the war. Unlike so many others who had faced the brutality of battle, Castiel had been shielded from it. And the reason was standing right before him: Gabriel hadn’t wanted to risk losing his brother. The image of Gabriel’s unyielding resolve during the conflict contrasted sharply with the vulnerability Dean now witnessed. It struck him like a train. Gabriel, who had been a pillar of strength, had chosen to protect Castiel at all costs. Dean’s respect for Gabriel deepened, understanding now that beneath the layers of leadership and strength was a brother fiercely devoted to his family.
"You brought him here, which might have saved his life. But if he doesn't make it..." He trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging in the air. Dean nodded, understanding the gravity of Gabriel's words.
"I get it. But I swear, I didn't hurt him." Charlie placed a hand on Gabriel's arm, a silent plea for calm.
"We need to focus on Castiel right now. Blame can wait.” The hours blurred together in a whirl of anxious activity. Dean found himself beside Gabriel in a room buzzing with a mix of fear and hope.
In quieter moments, Dean couldn’t help but reflect on the fragility of life. The barn, the blood, Castiel’s still form—all vivid reminders of how quickly things could change. He looked around at the people who had become more than strangers. They were allies, bound together by the gravity of the moment. As dawn broke, casting a pale, hopeful light through the windows, Charlie returned once more. Her expression, though weary, held a glimmer of hope.
"He’s holding on. It’s still touch and go, but he’s fighting."
“Okay…” Gabriel nodded slowly, his face a mixture of relief and steely determination. "Then we keep fighting with him." Dean felt a warmth spread through him, a connection to these people who had become his new family. Gabriel’s eyes met his, and for the first time, Dean saw something other than suspicion—perhaps a seed of trust. In that moment, Dean made a silent vow. He would prove his innocence, not just to clear his name, but to honour the fragile trust that was beginning to form. The journey ahead was uncertain, but he felt a renewed sense of purpose.
But as the hours dragged on with no new updates, the atmosphere in the room grew increasingly tense. Gabriel’s frustration festered, transforming into palpable anger. His eyes, once sharp with command, now burned with accusation as they bore into Dean.
“You’ve been saving up the money you get from working with Charlie, haven’t you?” Gabriel's voice was a low growl, each word dripping with suspicion. “Planning to run away. And when Castiel found out, you attacked him.” Dean’s face contorted with a mix of confusion and desperation.
“Listen to yourself, Gabriel. Why on earth would I have brought Castiel here if that were true?” But Gabriel wasn’t listening. His anger had built a wall that reason couldn’t penetrate.
“You haven’t been living as a couple, you barely speak to each other anymore.” The revelation hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t realised Gabriel knew the extent of their estrangement. But of course, Gabriel knew everything about his pack.“You’re trying to shatter the pack from the inside, using your so-called marriage as a cover, aren't you?” Gabriel spat, his voice rising. “You’re a damn angel of deceit.”
“The marriage wasn’t my idea!” Dean shot back, his frustration bubbling over.
“No, maybe it wasn’t,” Gabriel conceded with a cold smile. “But your father didn’t object, did he? In fact, he was the one who wanted to bring back the tradition of the bride’s pack not being present.” Dean’s world tilted, leaving him momentarily speechless, his mind reeling from the implications. Gabriel interpreted Dean’s silence as guilt. “See? You can’t even deny it. You’ve been complicit in this from the start.”
“No, you’re wrong!” Dean's voice was a desperate plea, but it felt hollow in the charged air of the room. “I didn’t know. I’ve been trying to find my place here, to make things work.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, scepticism etched in every line of his face.
“Trying to make things work while plotting behind our backs? You expect me to believe that?”
Dean ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words.
“I never wanted this, Gabriel. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I found Castiel in the barn, injured. That’s all I know.” Gabriel’s fury didn’t abate. He stepped closer, his presence imposing.
“If anything happens to Castiel, it’s on you. You and your treacherous family.” The words hung in the air like a noose tightening around Dean’s neck. He wanted to scream, to make Gabriel see the truth, but it seemed futile. The room’s silence was oppressive, each breath a struggle against the weight of unspoken accusations and unyielding distrust.
Chapter 10
Notes:
Chapter word count: 3 166
(not beta read)
Chapter Text
Dean soon found himself a prisoner in Gabriel’s house. His every move was scrutinised, and there was always someone watching him. When Victor was on duty, the atmosphere was tense and hostile, the older werewolf’s distrust palpable. Benny, on the other hand, was less accusatory, often questioning the logic of Dean attacking Castiel only to seek help immediately after. Dean's new world was confined to the walls of a few rooms in Gabriel's home, a stark contrast to the relative freedom he had experienced before. He spent most of his time in the living room or library, the rooms casting long shadows as the day waned into evening. The constant surveillance was suffocating, each pair of eyes a reminder of the precariousness of his situation.
Victor’s presence was oppressive. He was always there, watching, his eyes filled with suspicion. Dean felt the weight of his scrutiny in every movement, every breath. Victor didn’t bother with small talk; his only communication was through grunts and glares. Dean tried to keep his composure, but it was hard not to feel the tension seep into his bones. In contrast, Benny’s watch was almost a relief. Benny was pragmatic, often engaging Dean in conversation. He seemed genuinely curious about Dean’s perspective and found it hard to believe that Dean would harm Castiel. Their talks ranged from pack politics to mundane topics, offering Dean a brief respite from the relentless suspicion. One afternoon, Benny entered the living room where Dean sat staring out the window, lost in thought.
“Mind if I join you?” Benny asked, his voice breaking the silence. Dean turned, offering a tired smile.
“Sure, have a seat.” Benny sat down, stretching his legs out and leaning back in his chair.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, “if you had really wanted to hurt Castiel, you’d have had plenty of chances. Doesn’t make sense that you’d do it now and then bring him to Gabriel’s doorstep.” Dean nodded, grateful for Benny’s logic.
“I know it looks bad, but I swear I didn’t do it. I found him in the barn, bleeding. I had no idea who else to turn to.” Benny rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Gabriel’s not one to let go of his suspicions easily. You’ve got an uphill battle ahead.”
“I know,” Dean replied, his voice tinged with frustration. “But I don’t know what else I can do to prove my innocence.”
“Just keep being honest,” Benny advised. “Eventually, the truth will come out.”
As days turned into weeks, Dean clung to Benny’s words, hoping that his honesty would eventually clear his name. Gabriel remained a constant presence, his scepticism unwavering. The pack leader’s amber eyes bore into Dean with a mixture of anger and protectiveness. Gabriel’s concern for Castiel was evident, his every action driven by a fierce determination to protect his younger brother. One evening as Dean sat alone in the library, Gabriel entered, his expression severe.
“Dean, we need to talk,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Dean looked up, meeting Gabriel’s gaze.
“What is it?” Gabriel sat down across from him, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.
“Castiel is improving, slowly. But we still don’t know who attacked him. I need you to be completely honest with me. If there’s anything you’re hiding, now’s the time to speak up.” Dean took a deep breath, the weight of Gabriel’s words settling over him.
“I’ve told you everything I know.” Gabriel studied Dean for a long moment, his amber eyes searching for any sign of deceit. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained guarded.
“Alright. But know this, Dean: if I find out you’ve lied to me, there will be consequences.”
“I understand,” Dean replied, his voice steady. “I just want Castiel to be okay.” Gabriel’s gaze softened slightly, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features.
“We all do.” With that, Gabriel stood and left the room, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. The flickering fire cast shadows across the walls, the silence of the house pressing in around him. Dean leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh. The uncertainty of his situation gnawed at him, but he was determined to prove his innocence. As the days passed, Dean noticed a subtle change in the pack’s behaviour. While Victor’s hostility remained, others seemed more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Benny’s support became unwavering, and even Charlie, who visited frequently, seemed to believe in his innocence.
One evening, mid November, Charlie brought a basket of food, her usual cheerful demeanour tempered by concern.
“Thought you might appreciate a home-cooked meal,” she said, setting the basket on the table. Dean smiled gratefully.
“Thanks, Charlie. I could use a break from the usual fare.” They sat together, eating in companionable silence. After a while, Charlie spoke, her tone serious.
“Dean, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about finding Castiel in the barn. Is there anything you remember, anything at all, that seemed out of place?” Dean frowned, thinking back to that night.
“There was a strange smell, like metal, but stronger but that was probably just the blood.” Charlie nodded, her expression thoughtful.
“We need to figure out who had access to the barn that night. Someone in the pack, or someone who could move through our territory unnoticed.” Dean felt a surge of hope.
“Do you think we can find out who did this?” Charlie’s eyes met his, determination shining in their depths.
“We have to. For the pack, an attack on one is an attack on all.”
The next morning, Dean awoke to the sound of soft footsteps outside his door. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a warm glow through the window. He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, where he found Benny waiting.
“Morning,” Benny greeted him, his usual stoic expression softened by a hint of a smile.
“Morning,” Dean replied, nodding.
“Gabriel wants to see you,” Benny said, his tone serious. “There’s been a development.” Dean felt a knot of anxiety form in his stomach.
“What kind of development?”
“Come on,” Benny urged, leading the way. They walked through the quiet house to Gabriel’s study, where Gabriel stood by the window, his expression unreadable. He turned as they entered, his amber eyes locking onto Dean’s.
“Castiel is awake,” Gabriel said, his voice taut with controlled emotion. “But he isn’t talking yet and falls back asleep after just a few minutes. We need to figure out what happened before he can tell us himself.” Dean felt a flicker of hope at the news of Castiel’s awakening.
“Can I see him?” he asked, his voice barely concealing his eagerness. Gabriel hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes, but don’t push him. He’s still very weak.” They made their way to what must be the pack’s hospital wing, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation. Castiel lay in one of the beds, his skin pale and eyes half-open. He looked fragile, but alive. Dean approached the bedside slowly, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Hey, Cas,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “It’s me, Dean.” Castiel’s eyes fluttered open, focusing on Dean with an effort.
“Dean,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“You’re going to be okay.” Castiel managed a faint smile before his eyes closed again, slipping back into sleep. Dean stood by the bedside, a mixture of relief and concern flooding through him.
Dean stayed by Castiel's side until Gabriel gently nudged him to leave.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said quietly. “But right now, Castiel needs to rest.” Dean nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. He would find out what happened to Castiel and prove his innocence and for now, the sight of Castiel breathing, albeit weakly, was enough to give him hope. The room fell silent once more, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls. As he walked through the quiet halls of Gabriel’s house, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. The faint sounds of the pack's nightly routines filtered through the walls, a soothing reminder of the life continuing outside the confines of his current situation. Dean found solace in these mundane noises, grounding himself in the ordinary amidst the extraordinary challenges he faced.
The next day, Dean was sitting in the library, flipping through a book he wasn't really reading, when Charlie came to see him. Her presence was a welcome distraction, and he closed the book, offering her a tired smile.
"Heard Gabriel allowed you to visit Castiel," she said, taking a seat across from him.
"He's awake, but he’s not talking much," Dean replied, his voice tinged with worry. "He’s still so weak."Charlie nodded, her eyes thoughtful.
"We'll figure this out, Dean. We just need to stay patient and observant. With Castiel awake it’s only a matter of time until everything can get back to normal." Dean appreciated Charlie's optimism, but he couldn't shake the feeling that time was slipping through their fingers.
"I've been racking my brain, trying to think of anything that might help us understand what happened," he admitted. "But I keep coming up empty."
"Sometimes the answers come from the most unexpected places," Charlie said, her gaze drifting to the window where the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the room. "We just have to keep looking."
As the days passed, Dean’s confinement expanded to the hospital wing so he made it a habit to visit Castiel every morning. He would sit by his bedside, speaking softly about anything and everything, hoping his words would reach Castiel and bring him some comfort. At some point Charlie had gotten Norma from their house and now she was often found curled up at the foot of the bed, her gentle purring a soothing counterpoint to Dean's quiet monologue. One morning, Dean noticed a subtle change. Castiel's eyes were more focused, his gaze sharper. Dean leaned forward, hope blossoming in his chest.
"Hey, Cas," he said softly. "How are you feeling?" Castiel blinked, his lips parting as if to speak but for a long time there was nothing. Then finally, Castiel whispered, his voice raspy.
"Dean, I need to talk to Gabriel."
"Okay.” Dean nodded. “I’ll get him." Gabriel was surprised when Dean relayed the message, but he nodded and followed Dean back to the hospital wing. There was a guarded look in Gabriel's eyes, half-expecting Castiel to implicate Dean. He entered the room cautiously, his amber eyes scanning Castiel’s pale face for any signs of distress.
"Castiel," Gabriel began, his voice gentle yet firm. "Did Dean do this to you?" Castiel shook his head, the motion weak but resolute. Gabriel’s eyes widened slightly, and he moved closer, sitting at the edge of the bed. "Then what happened, Castiel? We need to know." Castiel hesitated, his eyes darting around the room as if seeking an escape. Gabriel’s expression softened, his voice coaxing. "It's okay, Castiel. Just tell me what happened." Castiel took a deep breath, his fingers twisting in the bedsheets, the soft fabric a small comfort in the daunting task of recounting his ordeal. Gabriel's eyes never left his brother's face, his expression a mixture of concern and patience. Dean stood quietly by the door, his presence a silent reassurance. "Castiel," Gabriel prompted gently, his voice coaxing. "What happened?" Castiel's gaze flicked up to meet his brother’s eyes before dropping back to the sheets.
"I heard something," he finally whispered, his voice barely audible. Gabriel leaned in closer, his expression one of careful attention.
"What did you hear?"
"Up in the loft," Castiel continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I thought... I thought it might be something important." Gabriel’s brow furrowed.
"What was it, Castiel?" Castiel swallowed hard, the hesitation evident in his every movement.
"It was... birds. Barn owls. I heard them and wanted to see." Gabriel blinked in disbelief, his mind racing to comprehend.
"You climbed up to the loft to look at birds?"
"Yes.” Castiel nodded, his fingers tightening around the sheets. “I... I like watching them. They're... peaceful." Gabriel sighed, his hand running through his hair in exasperation. “It was a family of barn owls actually. They were beautiful, Gabriel.”
"Castiel, why didn't you tell anyone? Why did you go up there alone?"
"I didn't want to bother anyone," Castiel replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just wanted a moment of quiet." Gabriel’s frustration was evident, but he kept his voice calm.
"And then what happened?"
"I just wanted to get a closer look," Castiel said slowly, as if the words were being dragged from him. "I found the nest. But... I lost my balance. I fell." Gabriel's eyes widened.
"You fell?" Castiel nodded, his face pale.
"I landed on a spading fork. Pulled it out, but then... it hurt too much, Gabriel. Couldn't move anymore." Gabriel let out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding.
"You almost died, Castiel. All because you wanted to look at some birds?"
"’M sorry. Didn't think it would be dangerous. Just…” Castiel’s eyes filled with tears, “wanted to see them."
"Castiel, why didn't you tell us this sooner?" Castiel's voice was barely audible, filled with shame.
"Thought you’d be mad at me for being so careless." Gabriel's anger dissolved, replaced by a wave of relief and understanding. He leaned forward, placing a hand gently on Castiel’s shoulder.
"It's okay, Cassie. I'm just glad you're alive. Next time, tell someone, okay? We're here to help, even if just to look at birds." Castiel nodded, tears spilling over.
"'M sorry, Gabriel." Gabriel pulled him into a gentle embrace.
"It's alright, Cassie. Just rest now."
Dean watched the scene unfold, a sense of profound relief washing over him. Castiel was safe, and his innocence was finally clear. The tension in the room eased, replaced by a quiet sense of camaraderie. Gabriel looked over at Dean, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Dean felt a heavy burden lift from his shoulders, the invisible chains of suspicion finally broken. As Gabriel comforted Castiel, Dean’s mind drifted. He was relieved that Castiel remembered everything because it meant he was no longer a suspect. But as he thought more about it, a wave of complex emotions surged through him - a chaotic blend of anger, betrayal, and hopelessness. He felt like a caged animal, trapped in a situation he couldn’t escape. The pack’s disdain, Castiel’s indifference, and Gabriel’s manipulations all pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe. Why did he care so much about clearing his name? His thoughts spiralled, tumbling over each other like waves crashing against a rocky shore. The pack obviously didn't like him much, and Castiel didn’t seem to care for him either. For that matter, Dean didn’t like Castiel much either. And Gabriel had not only stripped him of his birthright when he picked him to marry Castiel, but he had also trapped him in a life that felt like a prison. Dean felt a cold anger simmering within him, a storm brewing beneath the surface.
He clenched his fists, feeling the heat of betrayal seeping into his bones. Gabriel hadn’t just chosen him for Castiel because he wanted someone to care for his brother. No, it was a calculated move, a strategic decision to weaken the Winchester pack by removing the thought successor. Gabriel had torn Dean from his future, his aspirations, and thrown him into a life he never wanted. Dean’s chest tightened, the realisation sinking in like a stone. Gabriel’s actions weren’t just about protecting Castiel; they were about ensuring the Novak pack’s dominance. He had been a pawn in a game of power and control, a tool to be used and discarded. The thought made his blood boil, anger coursing through his veins like wildfire. He felt betrayed, not just by Gabriel, but by his own father as well. His father had agreed to this arrangement, had allowed him to be sacrificed for the sake of politics and alliances. Dean’s heart ached with a deep, searing pain, a wound that felt raw and festering. He had been stripped of his identity, his dreams, and thrust into a role that felt equally suffocating and hopeless. As he stood there, watching Gabriel and Castiel, he felt like an outsider in a world that wasn’t his own. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, mirroring the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. He wanted to scream, to lash out at the injustice of it all, but he knew it would be futile.
He looked at Castiel, once more resting peacefully, and felt a pang of resentment. This young, sheltered, werewolf had unknowingly become the centre of his misery. Dean knew that he didn’t hate Castiel in particular, but he resented the situation that had forced them together. He resented the fact that his life had been upended, his future stolen from him. In that moment, Dean understood the full extent of his predicament. He was alone, isolated in a pack that saw him as an outsider, a potential threat. He had no allies, no one he could truly trust. Even Charlie and Benny, with their supportive words, were still members of the Novak pack, loyal to Gabriel and his decisions.
Dean felt like he was drowning, the walls closing in around him. The flickering candlelight seemed to mock him, a reminder of the life he had lost and the darkness that now enveloped him. He had to find a way out, a way to reclaim his life and his identity. But as he stood there, the path forward seemed shrouded in shadows, the way unclear. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not now. He had to be patient, to bide his time and find a way to turn the situation to his advantage. He had to be strong, for his own sake and for the sake of his future. Dean’s eyes met Gabriel’s once more, and he saw a flicker of something in the pack leader’s gaze. Respect, perhaps, or acknowledgment of Dean’s resilience. It was a small spark, but it was enough to ignite a glimmer of hope in Dean’s heart. As he turned to leave the room, he felt a renewed sense of determination. He would find a way to reclaim his life, to break free from the chains that bound him. He would prove his worth, not just to Gabriel and the pack, but to himself. And one day, he would break free. The journey ahead was uncertain, filled with challenges and obstacles, but Dean was ready to face them. He had to be. For now, he would play the part, bide his time, and wait for the right moment to strike. He would find his way back to the life he had lost, and when he did, he would emerge stronger than ever.
Chapter 11
Notes:
Chapter word count: 4 317
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
The next day dawned with a muted grey sky, the chill of mid-November seeping into every corner of the Novak pack’s territory. Dean and Castiel returned home from Gabriel’s house, the weight of the previous night's events heavy in the air. As they stepped into the house, Castiel moved with deliberate slowness, each step a proof of his still fragile state. He was pale, his deep blue eyes shadowed by fatigue and pain, but there was a flicker of gratitude in his gaze whenever it met Dean’s. The air between them crackled with unspoken words and suppressed emotions, a fragile truce hanging by a thread. Dean’s mind churned with resentment, a storm of anger brewing beneath his calm exterior. The accusations, the suspicion, the relentless hostility from the pack—it all festered inside him. He knew he needed to play the part of the doting husband to avoid raising suspicion, but every gesture of kindness felt like a betrayal of his own feelings. As Dean prepared a simple breakfast, the rhythmic sounds of the kitchen was small comfort amidst the chaos of his thoughts. Castiel sat at the table, his posture rigid, eyes following Dean's every move with a mixture of wariness and something else—perhaps a sliver of hope.
"Here," Dean said, placing a plate of plain toast in front of Castiel. "You need to eat." Castiel nodded, his movements slow as he picked up the piece of bread.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "For everything." Dean forced a smile, the expression feeling foreign on his face.
"Just doing what needs to be done."
They ate in silence, the only sound the silent hum of the electronics and their breaths. Norma, sensing the tension, meowed softly and curled up at Castiel's feet, her presence a small balm to the fractured atmosphere. After breakfast, Dean busied himself with chores around the house, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He resented the pack, resented the situation he was trapped in, but there was a part of him —small, almost imperceptible— that softened when he looked at Castiel. It was clear that Castiel was trying to engage Dean in his life and making an effort to bridge the gap between them, with conversation and suggestions but then at times old attitudes still shone through, a reminder of the rigid structure and control that dominated his life.
Midday Dean found Castiel in the library, sitting by the fire with a book in his lap. The flames cast a warm glow over his pale features, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his face. Dean paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment before speaking.
"Do you need anything?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral. Castiel looked up, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"No, I'm fine. Just trying to rest." Dean nodded and turned to leave, but Castiel's voice stopped him. "Dean," he said softly, his eyes earnest. "I know things are... difficult. But I want you to know that I appreciate your help. Truly." Dean met his gaze, the sincerity in Castiel's eyes making him pause. For a moment, the anger and resentment ebbed, replaced by a flicker of something else—perhaps understanding, or even sympathy. He nodded, unable to find the words to respond, and left the room.
The day passed in a blur of routine and silence, each moment a reminder of the delicate balance they were trying to maintain. As evening fell, Dean found himself in the kitchen again, preparing dinner. The aroma of roasting vegetables and simmering stew filled the air, a comforting scent that contrasted sharply with the tension that still lingered. Castiel joined him, moving slowly as he took a seat at the kitchen table. Dean set a bowl of stew in front of him, their eyes meeting briefly before Dean turned back to his own meal. They ate in silence, with the unspoken agreement to avoid difficult topics hanging between them. After dinner, Dean suggested they sit by the fire in the library. Castiel agreed, and they moved to the cosy space, the warmth of the flames a welcome respite from the chill outside. Norma settled on Castiel's lap, her purring a soft, soothing sound. As they sat in the flickering light, Castiel spoke, his voice tentative.
"I want to try, Dean," he said, his eyes focused on the fire. "I want to make this work, truly. I know I can be difficult, but I'm trying." Dean's heart ached at the vulnerability in Castiel's words, but his resentment still simmered beneath the surface. He knew he needed to keep up the façade, to pretend that he cared more than he did.
"I'm here," he said simply, forcing a smile. "We'll figure it out." Castiel looked at him, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
"Thank you," he whispered. Dean nodded, the weight of his own deception pressing down on him. He knew he needed to play the role of the supportive husband, to keep up appearances for the sake of the pack and their precarious situation. But deep down, he longed for freedom, for a life where he didn't have to pretend. As the fire crackled and the night wore on, Dean sat by Castiel's side, his thoughts a tangled web of duty, resentment, and a flicker of something he couldn't quite name. The path ahead was uncertain, but for now, he would play his part, keeping his true feelings hidden beneath a carefully crafted mask.
The next three days unfolded in a delicate dance of deception and genuine attempts at connection. Dean rose each morning, the house still cloaked in the quiet of dawn, and prepared breakfast. Castiel joined him, moving with a careful slowness that spoke of lingering pain and fatigue. The aroma of freshly steeped tea and sizzling pancakes filled the kitchen, creating a semblance of normalcy amidst the underlying tension. Dean played his part well, engaging in the daily routines and tasks that came with living in the Novak pack as Castiel’s husband. With Castiel still ordered to take it easy Dean helped Gabriel and the others with chores around the farm, his strong hands mending fences and tending to the animals. Each task he completed was a step towards maintaining his façade of compliance, while his mind worked tirelessly on devising an escape plan. Castiel, on the other hand, seemed driven by a renewed sense of purpose. Dean quickly realised that Castiel’s brush with death had left him introspective, and he threw himself into making their marriage work. He would join Dean in the kitchen, his movements slow but deliberate as he chopped vegetables or stirred pots of simmering stew. Dean couldn't help but notice the way Castiel's eyes lingered on him, a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, perhaps hope, in their depths.
One evening, as they prepared dinner together, Castiel broke the silence that had settled between them as they worked.
"Dean," he began, his voice soft and hesitant. "I want you to know that I'm trying. I know things haven't been easy, but I want us to work." Dean glanced at him, a flicker of something almost like guilt passing through him. He nodded, forcing a smile.
"I see that, Cas. And I appreciate it." Castiel's face lit up with a small, tentative smile.
"Thank you. It means a lot to me."
They shared small moments of connection over meals, the atmosphere in the kitchen warming with each shared laugh or mutual compliment on the food. Dean could halp but to notice that Castiel had begun to appreciate more than Dean's culinary skills, though he still often expressed his admiration for the dishes Dean prepared. Dean found himself enjoying these moments, despite his hidden agenda. There was a simplicity in doing something together, a rhythm that made the tension between them fade, even if just for a little while. Like the afternoon they decided to bake bread together. The kitchen was filled with the scent of yeast and flour, the soft sound of their hands kneading dough a comforting backdrop to their quiet conversation. Castiel watched Dean with a mix of curiosity and admiration, his blue eyes reflecting the soft light streaming through the kitchen window.
"You're really good at this," Castiel remarked, his voice filled with genuine praise. Dean shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"It's just something I've always enjoyed. Cooking helps me relax."
"I can see that.” Castiel nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “It's... calming, in a way." As they waited for the bread to rise, they sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and talking about their pasts. Castiel shared stories of his childhood, his eyes lighting up with a rare warmth as he recounted memories of mischief and laughter with Gabriel. Dean listened, his heart ached with a mixture of longing and resentment. He wanted to trust these moments, to believe in the possibility of a future where they could truly connect, but his mind was focused on escape. Despite the progress they made, a palpable tension underlay their interactions. Dean's hidden agenda cast a shadow over Castiel's earnest efforts. Every time Castiel's eyes met his with that hopeful, vulnerable look, Dean felt a pang of guilt. He knew he was deceiving Castiel, playing a role to bide his time until he could find a way out. But he also couldn't deny the growing bond between them, a bond that made his deception all the more painful.
One night, as they sat by the fire in the library, Castiel looked at Dean, his expression serious.
"Dean, I want you to know that I'm here for you. I want us to try to be partners, to support each other, if you want to. Not just living parallel lives." Dean met his gaze, the sincerity in Castiel's eyes almost too much to bear. He nodded, his voice soft.
"I appreciate that, Cas. I really do." As Dean stared into the flames his mind raced. Castiel rested his head on Dean's shoulder and soon drifted off to sleep. Dean knew that he had to find a way out, to escape the suffocating confines of the Novak pack. But in moments like this he found it increasingly difficult to ignore the small moments of connection, the genuine efforts Castiel was making to bridge the gap between them. Yet in the back of his mind Dean questioned if there even was any connection to speak of or if Castiel had just decided that Dean was his white knight.
The next morning dawned crisp and cold, a light frost covering the ground and making the grass sparkle in the early sunlight. Dean woke to the familiar routine, preparing breakfast in the quiet kitchen. The smell of tea and freshly baked bread filled the air, and for a moment, the world felt almost normal. Castiel joined him, his movements still slow and careful. He took a seat at the kitchen table, watching Dean with a soft, contemplative expression. As they ate in silence, Castiel cleared his throat, breaking the stillness.
"Dean," he began, his voice tentative. "I was thinking... would you like to go look at the barn owls with me?" His blue eyes held a hopeful gleam, a reminder of the vulnerable side Dean had seen more of in recent days. “Later, I mean, we don't have to do it now.” Dean paused, considering the request. The owls were the ones Castiel had been trying to look at when he fell, their nest in the loft of the barn. Dean's initial instinct was to decline; he had more pressing matters on his mind, and every moment spent playing the doting husband was a moment lost in devising his escape plan. But as he looked at Castiel, he saw the genuine desire for connection and perhaps, a bit of peace.
"Sure, Cas," Dean replied, forcing a smile. "I'd like that." Castiel's face brightened, a rare, genuine smile spreading across his lips.
"Thank you, Dean. I know it might not seem like much, but it means a lot to me." The morning passed in a blur of routine tasks. Dean found himself fixing the broken fence near the edge of their garden, his mind split between the work at hand and the constant calculations of his escape. The crisp air bit at his skin, but the physical exertion kept him warm. The landscape around him was serene, the frost-covered ground crunching beneath his boots and the distant sound of birdsong creating a deceptive sense of peace. By midday, he returned to the warmth of the house Castiel was waiting. He barely made it inside before they made their way to the barn, the structure looming quietly under the clear sky. Inside, the air was warmer and the familiar scent of hay and animals surrounded them. Castiel led the way, moving with a careful grace, his eyes scanning the rafters where the owls nested. As they climbed the ladder to the loft Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the simpler times of his own childhood, even if it was nothing like this. When they reached the top, Castiel pointed to a shadowy corner where the owls had made their home. The small, round faces of the owlets peeked out, their wide eyes blinking in curiosity.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Castiel whispered, his voice filled with quiet awe. "I like to come here sometimes just to watch them. It's... calming ." Dean nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The owlets were a picture of innocence, their soft downy feathers a stark contrast to the harsh realities of his situation. He glanced at Castiel, who was watching the owls with a serene expression, and felt a strange mix of emotions. Castiel's earnestness, his newfound desire to connect, was both endearing and painful. It made Dean's hatred all the more difficult to bear. They spent a few more moments in the loft, the silence between them filled with the soft rustling of feathers and the distant sounds of the wind outside. When they finally descended the ladder, Castiel turned to Dean, his expression hopeful. "Thank you for coming with me, Dean," he said softly. "I know things haven't been easy, but moments like these... they help, don't they?" Dean forced another smile, nodding.
"I'm glad we did this, Cas."
The rest of the day passed in a series of quiet moments. Dean continued to help in whatever way he was asked, but his mind was always working on his escape plan. Castiel seemed more at ease, a slight spring in his step that hadn't been there before. They shared meals together, the atmosphere warming with each small connection, yet the underlying tension remained, a constant reminder of Dean's hidden agenda.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the fields, Dean found himself back in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Castiel joined him, their movements synchronised as they worked side by side. The familiar rhythm of cooking brought a sense of normalcy, a temporary respite from the storm brewing within Dean.
"Do you think... we could do this more often?" Castiel asked quietly as they sat down to eat, his eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight. "Spend time together, I mean. It helps, you know, to feel like we're trying." Dean looked at him, the sincerity in Castiel's eyes tugging at something deep within him. He nodded, unable to voice his true thoughts.
"Yeah, Cas. We can do that." They continued in this fragile balance, for Dean each moment was a careful act of maintaining the façade with his resentment simmered just beneath the surface, but he played his part well, the role of the doting husband becoming almost second nature. Castiel, for his part, seemed to thrive on these small connections, his efforts genuine and heartfelt. Yet, despite their progress, Dean's resolve never wavered. He knew he had to escape, to find a way out of this life that felt like a prison. But for now, he would continue to play the part, each day bringing him one step closer to his ultimate goal.
Castiel woke early one morning, the house still shrouded in the grey light of the stars. He moved quietly through the house, his footsteps soft on the wooden floors as he made his way to the kitchen. Today he had a plan, another small gesture to show Dean that he was trying, truly trying, to make things work. The kitchen was cool and quiet, the faint light filtering through the window casting soft shadows on the walls. Castiel set about gathering the ingredients for his mother’s apple pie: tart apples, fragrant cardamom, and warm cinnamon. The scent of the spices filled the air, mingling with the crisp morning breeze that drifted in through the slightly open window. Norma padded into the kitchen, her green eyes curious as she watched Castiel work. He smiled down at her, a rare warmth in his usually stoic expression.
“Good morning, Norma,” he said softly, his voice a soothing whisper in the quiet kitchen. “I’m making Dean some breakfast. He really liked the apple pie last time.” Norma meowed in response, weaving around his legs as he peeled and sliced the apples, the sharp knife gliding smoothly through the fruit. The pieces fell into a large bowl, and Castiel added a generous sprinkling of cardamom and cinnamon, the spices dusting the apples like a fine, fragrant snow. He worked with a calm, deliberate grace, mixing the ingredients and rolling out the pastry dough, the familiar motions soothing in their routine.
As he assembled the pie, layering the spiced apples in the flaky crust, Castiel glanced out the window. A smile tugged at his lips as he saw the first snowflakes of the season drifting down from the sky, delicate and silent. They settled on the ground, a gentle reminder of the changing season, and the possibility of new beginnings. Norma hopped up onto the counter, her soft purring a comforting background noise as Castiel placed the pie in the oven. The warm, sweet aroma soon filled the kitchen, wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. While the pie baked, he turned his attention to making coffee, something he had learned from Balthazar but rarely made. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove, the soft whistle of boiling water breaking the quiet. Castiel carefully measured out the instant coffee, adding it to a mug along with a bit of sugar. He poured the hot water over it, stirring until the dark liquid swirled and settled. He didn’t drink coffee himself, finding even the smell of it gave him headaches, but he knew Dean enjoyed it; Gabriel had mentioned that Dean drank coffee when he was staying at Gabriel’s house. He had learned that Dean had a preference for the strong, bitter brew, and he wanted to do something kind for him. As the pie finished baking, Castiel prepared a tray with the freshly made coffee, two slices of warm apple pie, and a few other breakfast items he had quickly put together: a small bowl of yoghurt with honey, and a few slices of toasted bread with butter. The tray looked inviting, a simple but heartfelt gesture. With careful movements, Castiel carried the tray upstairs to Dean’s room. The early morning light streamed through the windows, casting a gentle glow over the house. He paused outside Dean’s door, taking a deep breath before knocking softly and pushing the door open.
“Dean,” he said quietly, stepping into the room. “I made you breakfast.” Dean stirred, blinking awake and looking at Castiel with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. Castiel set the tray down on the bedside table, the aroma of the pie and coffee filling the room. “I thought you might like some breakfast in bed,” Castiel said, a small, hopeful smile on his lips. Dean sat up, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of the tray.
“Cas, this looks amazing. Thank you.” Castiel handed him the coffee, watching as Dean took a sip, his expression relaxing into one of contentment. They ate together in the quiet of Dean’s room, the warmth of the pie and the rich scent of coffee creating a comforting atmosphere.
“This is really good,” Dean said, his voice soft. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know. I appreciate it.”
“I wanted to.” Castiel’s smile widened, a rare genuine expression of happiness. “I want to make an effort. I want us to work.” Dean nodded, his gaze meeting Castiel’s. For a moment, the tension between them seemed to dissolve, replaced by a fragile sense of understanding. As they finished their breakfast, the first snow continued to fall outside, a gentle reminder that even in the coldest of times, there could be warmth and hope. As they finished their breakfast, Castiel set his empty plate aside and looked at Dean with a thoughtful expression. "It's Sunday today," he began, his voice gentle. "Charlie mentioned that if you want to, you can come back to work tomorrow. She said you've been missed at the restaurant." Dean felt a surge of relief at the prospect of returning to the restaurant, where he could lose himself in the familiar rhythms of cooking and the camaraderie of the kitchen staff. He nodded, forcing a smile.
"That's great, Cas. I miss working there."
"I'm glad to hear that.” Castiel smiled, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “But since it's Sunday, I thought maybe we could spend the day together. There's a lot we can do around here." Dean's mind raced with thoughts of his escape plan, the days slipping by and the urgency growing stronger. But he knew he had to play along, to keep up the facade a little longer. He nodded again, trying to look enthusiastic.
"Sure, Cas. What do you have in mind?" Castiel's face brightened, his enthusiasm undeniably genuine.
"We could take a walk around the farm, maybe visit the animals? They always seem to bring a sense of peace. Or if you'd like, we can work on a few projects around the house. I noticed the attic could use some organising, and there's always something to fix in an old place like this."
"That sounds like a good day.” Dean nodded, his thoughts drifting as Castiel spoke. He knew he had to keep up appearances, to maintain the role of the supportive partner, even if his heart wasn't in it. “Let's start with the walk."
They dressed warmly and stepped outside, the crisp air biting at their cheeks. The first snow had settled gently on the ground, a pristine blanket that glistened in the morning light. The farm was peaceful, the quiet broken only by the distant calls of birds and the soft crunch of their footsteps on the snow-covered path. As they walked, Castiel pointed out various landmarks, his voice filled with warmth.
"Over there, by the old oak, is where Balt–Gabriel and I used to play when erm… we were kids. We would pretend it was a castle, and we were knights defending it from dragons." Dean listened, nodding at the appropriate moments, his mind nowhere near. He couldn't help but notice the way Castiel's eyes lit up when he spoke of certain things, these glimpses of joy that softened his otherwise stern demeanour and it made Dean's deception feel heavier, the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him. They continued their walk, visiting the animals in the barn. Castiel's face softened as he interacted with them, his touch gentle as he fed the horses and patted the sheep. Dean watched, his own heart aching with the knowledge that he was just playing a part, true intentions hidden behind a mask of compliance.
After the walk, they returned to the house, the warmth inside a welcome contrast to the cold outside. Castiel suggested they start on the attic, and Dean followed him upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under their weight. The attic was a dusty, cluttered space, filled with old furniture, forgotten boxes, and memories of the past. As they worked side by side, sorting through the clutter, Castiel shared more stories. Dean listened, occasionally adding a comment or a question to keep the conversation going. He felt a strange mix of emotions—resentment, guilt, and a growing sympathy for Castiel's genuine efforts. The afternoon passed in a blur of activity, the attic slowly becoming more organised. Castiel found an old magazin, and they sat together, flipping through the pages. The photos told the story of a past where moments of joy and laughter were captured in the faded images. Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for a simpler time, a time before the war and the forced marriage. As the day drew to a close, they returned to the kitchen, preparing a simple dinner together. The familiar routine of cooking brought a sense of normalcy, the scents of roasted vegetables and simmering stew filling the air. They ate in comfortable silence, the warmth of the candles casting a soft glow over the room.
"Thank you for spending the day with me," Castiel said quietly, his eyes reflecting the flickering light. "It means a lot." Dean met his gaze, the sincerity in Castiel's eyes making his heart ache. He forced a smile, nodding.
"I'm glad we could spend the day together, Cas." As they cleaned up and prepared for bed, Dean couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He knew he had to keep up the charade a little longer, to play the part of the doting husband until he could find a way out. But as he lay in bed that night, his mind racing with thoughts of escape, he couldn't help but wonder at the cost of his deception—and whether he was willing to pay it.
Chapter 12
Notes:
Chapter word count: 10 188
(not beta read)
Chapter Text
Dean lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the shadows cast by the early morning light dancing across the room. His thoughts were a tangled mess of frustration and resentment. Despite Castiel’s genuine efforts to connect, Dean found it increasingly difficult to maintain the facade of a doting husband. The memories of the past few days, filled with small gestures of kindness and forced smiles, played in his mind like a broken record. Castiel's gratitude and stories about the farm, the animals, and his childhood only added to Dean's growing sense of unease. He didn't care about any of it; his sole focus was on finding a way back to his own pack and escaping the life he had been forced into. Dragging himself out of bed, the cold wooden floor sending a shiver up his spine, Dean reminded himself that today, at least, he could go back to work with Charlie. The thought of returning to the restaurant, with its familiar chaos and camaraderie, brought a sense of relief. He dressed quickly, his movements brisk and efficient, eager to put some distance between himself and the house. The wooden floorboards creaked softly under his feet as he made his way to the kitchen, where the faint aroma of yesterday's efforts still lingered. Norma, sensing his mood, stayed close but quiet, her green eyes watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern. He brewed a pot of coffee, the familiar, bitter scent mingling with the crisp morning air that drifted in through the open window. As he poured himself a cup, he glanced out at the driveway, where Charlie's yellow car was already parked, a bright spot of colour against the frost-covered ground.
"Morning," Castiel's voice, quiet and tentative, broke the stillness. He stood in the doorway, wrapped in a thick sweater, his deep blue eyes holding a mixture of hope and lingering pain.
"Morning, Cas," Dean replied, forcing a smile. "I made some coffee if you want." Castiel shook his head but stepped into the kitchen.
"I’m glad you’re going back to work today," Castiel said softly. "You seem happy about it." Dean took a sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through him.
"Yeah, it’ll be good to get back. I’ve missed it." They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft purring of Norma, who had appeared at Castiel's feet, the only sounds filling the room. Dean felt a pang of guilt as he looked at Castiel, who seemed genuinely grateful for the time they had spent together. It was getting harder to maintain the facade of a devoted husband, especially when Castiel’s efforts were so sincere. "I should get going," Dean said finally, setting his empty mug in the sink. "Charlie’s waiting." Castiel nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Have a good day, Dean." Dean grabbed his coat and stepped out into the crisp morning air. Charlie waved from the driver’s seat, her bright smile a welcome sight. He climbed into the passenger seat, the warmth of the car a stark contrast to the chill outside.
"Good to see you, Dean," Charlie said, her voice cheerful. "Ready to get back to work?"
"Absolutely," Dean replied, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. "I’ve missed the kitchen." The drive to the restaurant was a familiar journey, the winding roads and rolling hills of the Novak territory passing by in a blur of frost-covered trees and open fields. For the first time in what felt like forever, Dean allowed himself to relax, the anticipation of returning to work providing a much-needed distraction from the complexities of his home life. The restaurant, with its elegant façade and valet parking, stood like a beacon of normalcy in Dean's otherwise chaotic world. As they pulled into the parking lot, Charlie turned to him, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and encouragement.
"You okay, Dean?" she asked, her voice gentle. Dean nodded, forcing a smile.
"Yeah, I’m fine. Just... glad to be back." They entered the restaurant through the back door, the familiar clatter and bustle of the kitchen greeting them like an old friend. The air was filled with the rich scents of cooking, the rhythmic chop of knives and the sizzle of pans creating a symphony of sound that felt like home.
"Dean!" one of the line cooks called out, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Good to see you, man. We’ve missed you around here, glad you are feeling better. One hell of a cold you had, huh?" Dean quickly glanced at Charlie who nodded for him to play along.
"Yeah, something like that. Missed you guys too.” He returned the smile, feeling a genuine warmth in the camaraderie of his colleagues. “Let’s get to work." Charlie led him through the kitchen, her quick, efficient movements a testament to her skill and experience. She briefed him on the day's menu, her enthusiasm infectious. As they worked side by side, Dean felt a sense of normalcy returning, the familiar rhythms of the kitchen providing a welcome escape from the complexities of his life with Castiel. The kitchen soon bustled with life, a stark contrast to the quiet, tension-filled house Dean had left behind. Stainless steel countertops gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and the sound of knives against cutting boards created a familiar, comforting rhythm. Charlie moved with her usual efficiency, her hands a blur as she prepped ingredients for the day's menu.
Dean fell into the routine easily, the motions coming back to him like muscle memory. He washed and chopped vegetables with precision, his knife gliding through carrots and onions, the crisp sound punctuating the hum of the kitchen. He mixed marinades and prepared sauces, the rich aromas filling the air and mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread from the ovens. Charlie glanced at him occasionally, her brow furrowed with concern. She could sense something was off, but she chose not to press him. Instead, she focused on the tasks at hand, her voice steady and reassuring as she called out instructions.
"Dean, can you check the stock? Make sure we have enough for the lunch rush," she said, her eyes flicking to the pantry.
"On it," Dean replied, wiping his hands on a towel before heading to the storage area. He counted the containers of broth and stock, mentally calculating the portions needed for the various dishes on the menu. The methodical work was a balm to his frayed nerves, each task providing a small measure of control in an otherwise tumultuous life. Back at his station, Dean continued with the prep work. He assembled mise en place for the line cooks, arranging small bowls of diced vegetables, herbs, and spices in a neat row. The kitchen's energy was infectious, and despite the lingering unease, Dean found himself slipping into the familiar flow of work.
"How's the hollandaise coming?" Charlie asked, her hands deftly filleting a fish.
"Almost there," Dean responded, whisking the sauce vigorously to achieve the perfect consistency. He tasted it, adjusting the seasoning with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon. Satisfied, he transferred the sauce to a bain-marie to keep it warm. The lunch service drew closer, and the kitchen's pace quickened. Dean moved to the grill station, the heat from the open flames washing over him as he seared steaks and grilled vegetables. The scent of sizzling meat and caramelising onions filled the air, a heady mix that spoke of hearty, satisfying meals to come. Charlie worked beside him, her movements a dance of practised efficiency. She plated dishes with an artist's touch, her hands arranging components with precision. Dean couldn't help but admire her skill and dedication, her passion for her craft evident in every dish she created.
"Dean, can you handle the pasta station for a bit? I need to check on the dessert prep," Charlie said, her voice cutting through the kitchen's din.
"Sure thing," Dean replied, moving to the next station. He tossed fresh pasta in a large pot of boiling water, the steam rising in fragrant clouds. He prepared a creamy Alfredo sauce, the rich, buttery scent mingling with the sharp tang of Parmesan cheese. As the first orders started coming in, the kitchen sprang to life. Dean and the line cooks worked in unison, their movements a well-choreographed ballet of chopping, stirring, and plating. Orders were called out, and the kitchen responded with practised precision, each dish coming together in a seamless flow. Charlie moved through the kitchen, her sharp eyes catching every detail. She adjusted a garnish here, tasted a sauce there, her presence a steadying force. Despite the hectic pace, she managed to keep a watchful eye on Dean, her concern for him never far from her mind.
As the lunch rush reached its peak, the kitchen became a symphony of sounds and scents. The hiss of pans, the clatter of utensils, and the murmur of the staff created a vibrant, dynamic atmosphere. Dean found himself absorbed in the work, the familiar routine providing a welcome distraction from the complexities of his personal life. For a few hours, the kitchen was his world, a place where he could lose himself in the rhythm of cooking and the camaraderie of his colleagues. But even as he worked, a part of him remained distant, his thoughts never straying far from the challenges that awaited him at home.
When the lunch rush began to wind down the flurry of activity gave way to a more relaxed pace. Dean and the other cooks cleaned their stations, the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation filling the air. Charlie approached him, her expression thoughtful.
"You did great today, Dean," she said, her voice gentle. "I know things have been tough, but it's good to have you back."
"Thanks, Charlie," Dean replied, offering her a tired but genuine smile. "It's good to be back." They finished cleaning up and the kitchen settled into a quiet lull, Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude for the brief respite that work had provided. The kitchen settled into a more tranquil rhythm: the cacophony of clanging pots and pans, sizzling meats, and shouted orders gave way to a quieter, more reflective atmosphere. The scent of lingering herbs and spices mingled with the residual warmth from the stoves, creating a cozy, almost meditative environment. Dean and the other cooks took a brief moment to catch their breath before turning their attention to prepping for dinner service. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, feeling the satisfying ache of muscles well-used. He glanced around the kitchen, appreciating the camaraderie and shared sense of accomplishment that filled the space.
"Alright, everyone," Charlie called out, clapping her hands to get their attention. "Let's start prepping for dinner. We've got a full house tonight, so let's make sure we're ready." The team responded with nods and murmurs of agreement, the atmosphere shifting from the frenetic pace of lunch service to the methodical preparation for dinner. Dean moved to his station, ready to dive back into the work that had provided him with such a welcome escape. He began by organising his mise en place, arranging small bowls of ingredients in neat rows. Fresh herbs, finely chopped garlic, and delicate shallots were meticulously placed within arm's reach. The precision of this task brought a sense of calm, the repetitive motions grounding him in the present moment. Charlie worked beside him, her movements graceful and efficient. Dean couldn't help but admire her dedication, her passion for the craft evident in every slice and dice as she prepped a variety of proteins. "Dean, can you get started on the vegetable prep?" Charlie asked, glancing over at him. "We need a variety of sides for tonight's menu."
"Got it," Dean replied, grabbing a cutting board and a selection of fresh vegetables. He started with the carrots, peeling them with swift, long motions. The bright orange peelings curled into delicate spirals, falling into a neat pile beside his board. He then moved on to the zucchini, slicing it into thin rounds, each piece uniform and precise. As he worked, Dean allowed his mind to wander, the repetitive motions providing a backdrop for his thoughts. The kitchen's warmth and the soothing rhythm of chopping vegetables created a stark contrast to the cold, tension-filled house he had left behind. He relished these moments of solitude, where he could lose himself in the simple act of preparing food. Next, he turned his attention to the leafy greens. He washed and dried the spinach, the vibrant green leaves glistening under the kitchen lights before setting them aside, knowing they would add a fresh, crisp element to the evening's dishes. The kale received similar treatment, its tough stems removed with deft cuts before the leaves were chopped into bite-sized pieces. Charlie approached him with a tray of fresh seafood, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Can you handle the seafood prep, Dean? We have a few special dishes tonight that will need your touch."
"’Course," Dean said, feeling a sense of satisfaction as he moved to the new task. He laid out the seafood, inspecting each piece with a critical eye. The scallops were plump and pristine, the shrimp a vibrant pink. He cleaned and deveined the shrimp with practised efficiency, the shells piling up in a bowl to be discarded later. The scallops were gently patted dry and set aside, ready to be seared to perfection later in the evening. Dean then moved on to preparing the sauces. He started with a classic béarnaise, whisking together egg yolks, vinegar, and tarragon over a gentle heat. The mixture thickened into a velvety sauce, the aroma of the herbs filling the air. He tasted it, adjusting the seasoning with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon, satisfied with the balance of flavours. Next, he prepared a tomato concassé, blanching the tomatoes briefly before plunging them into ice water. The skins slipped off easily, revealing the juicy flesh beneath. He diced the tomatoes finely, the pieces a vibrant red against the white cutting board. He sautéed them with garlic and basil, the smell of the fresh herbs mingling with the sweet acidity of the tomatoes. Charlie joined him, working on a batch of demi-glace, the rich, savoury sauce simmering on the stove. She glanced over at Dean, her eyes twinkling with a rare moment of levity.
"You know, you make it look easy." Dean chuckled, shaking his head.
"It's all about practice. And having a good teacher doesn't hurt." They shared a brief smile before returning to their tasks, the kitchen humming with a sense of purpose and anticipation. The day had been long, but the promise of a successful dinner service fueled their determination. With the final preparations completed, the team took a moment to step back and survey their work. The kitchen was a testament to their collective effort, each station meticulously organised and ready for the evening ahead. The counters gleamed, and the air was filled with the rich scents of herbs, spices, and freshly prepared ingredients. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment, the satisfaction of a job well done easing some of the tension that had plagued him. He glanced over at Charlie, who gave him an encouraging nod.
"We're ready," she said simply, her voice filled with quiet confidence. Dean nodded, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. The challenges of his home life would have to wait; for now, he was exactly where he needed to be. As the first customers of the evening began to arrive, the kitchen sprang back to life, the familiar rhythm of service providing a welcome respite from the complexities that lay beyond the restaurant's walls. The team, already prepped and ready, moved with purpose. Stainless steel counters gleamed under the warm glow of the overhead lights, reflecting the bustling activity. The symphony of sounds—knives chopping, pans sizzling, and the steady hum of the oven—created a familiar, comforting rhythm that Dean found solace in. Charlie stationed herself at the pass, her eyes sharp as she called out orders. "Table three needs a salmon and two ribeyes, medium rare," she announced, her voice cutting through the kitchen’s din. Dean moved to the grill, the heat radiating against his skin as he seared the steaks, the scent of caramelising meat wafting through the air. He turned his attention to the salmon, its skin sizzling as it hit the hot pan. The rich, buttery aroma mingled with the tang of lemon and fresh herbs, filling the kitchen with a mouthwatering scent. As the evening wore on, the orders continued to pour in, each one demanding precision and timing. Dean worked alongside his fellow cooks, their movements a well-choreographed dance of efficiency. The kitchen was alive with energy, each dish crafted with care and attention to detail. "Dean, how's the duck coming?" Charlie called out, her eyes scanning the line.
"Almost there," Dean replied, basting the duck breast with a rosemary-infused glaze. The skin was crispy and golden, the meat tender and succulent. He plated it with a side of roasted vegetables and a rich port reduction, the vibrant colours and harmonious flavours a testament to the team's hard work. Just as the rhythm of the kitchen settled into a smooth flow, a sudden commotion at the sauté station caught Dean's attention. One of the line cooks, a young man named Alfie, looked panicked as he stared at a pot of risotto.
"Charlie, we have a problem," Alfie called out, his voice tinged with anxiety. "The mushroom risotto is burnt." Charlie's eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. "Okay, everyone, we need to 86 the risotto. Dean, we need a new special, and fast." Dean's mind raced, the pressure mounting as he considered their options. The risotto was a stand alone dish but also a key component of several dishes, and without it, they needed something equally compelling to offer their guests. His thoughts flashed back to his time at the American bistro, memories of comfort food and hearty flavours filling his mind.
"I've got an idea," he said, his voice steady. "How about a wild mushroom and truffle mac and cheese? It's rich, satisfying, and we can pull it together quickly." Charlie’s eyes lit up with relief.
"Perfect. Let's do it." Dean moved with purpose, grabbing ingredients from the pantry and fridge. He selected a mix of wild mushrooms —shiitake, cremini, and oyster— each with its own unique flavour profile. He cleaned and sliced them with precision, the earthy scent filling the air. He then prepared the cheese sauce, melting butter in a large pot and whisking in flour to create a roux. As the mixture bubbled, he gradually added cream and a blend of sharp cheddar and Gruyère, the cheeses melting into a smooth, velvety sauce. The addition of a touch of truffle oil gave it an extra layer of decadence. While the sauce thickened, Dean sautéed the mushrooms with garlic and thyme, the flavours melding together beautifully. He folded the cooked macaroni into the cheese sauce, ensuring each piece was thoroughly coated, before adding the sautéed mushrooms. The final touch was a sprinkle of freshly grated Parmesan and a drizzle of truffle oil, the dish exuding comfort and luxury.
"Order up, wild mushroom and truffle mac and cheese," Dean called out, plating the dish with a flourish. The creamy pasta, studded with tender mushrooms and topped with a golden crust of breadcrumbs, looked and smelled irresistible. The team quickly adapted, adding the new special to the lineup. The dish was an instant hit, the rich flavours and comforting textures a perfect replacement for the risotto. Dean felt a surge of pride as the orders for the mac and cheese poured in, the kitchen once again finding its rhythm. Charlie glanced at him, her expression a mix of gratitude and admiration.
"Great job, Dean. You're a lifesaver." Dean nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Just doing what I can." As the dinner service continued, the kitchen buzzed with a renewed energy. The team worked seamlessly, their movements fluid and coordinated. Dean found himself lost in the flow of the work, each task a welcome distraction from the complexities of his personal life. The night drew to a close with a sense of accomplishment and camaraderie. The final orders were sent out, and the team began the process of cleaning and organizing the kitchen. The air was filled with the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes, the atmosphere relaxed and content.
Dean wiped down his station, the satisfaction of a job well done easing some of the tension that had plagued him. As he looked around at his colleagues, he felt a deep sense of gratitude for the brief respite that work had provided. For a few hours, he had been able to lose himself in the rhythm of the kitchen, the camaraderie of his team a balm to his frayed nerves. Charlie approached him, her expression thoughtful.
"You really did great tonight, Dean. I know things have been tough, but it's good to have you back. It really is."
"Thanks, Charlie," Dean replied, offering her a tired but genuine smile. "It's good to be back." As they finished cleaning up and the kitchen settled into a quiet lull, Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude for the brief respite that work had provided. But as the day drew to a close, he knew he couldn't escape the reality waiting for him at home. The challenges of his personal life loomed large, but for now, he found solace in the simple, tangible act of creating something beautiful and delicious.
As Charlie and Dean stepped out of the restaurant, the cool night air was a welcome contrast to the warmth and bustle of the kitchen. The sky was a canvas of deep indigo, stars twinkling faintly overhead. Charlie led the way to her yellow car, parked under the soft glow of the streetlights. Dean climbed into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of leather and faint traces of lavender welcoming him.
Charlie turned the key in the ignition, but to Dean’s surprise, she didn’t turn on the radio like she usually did. Instead, the car filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft purr of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“You were amazing tonight, Dean,” Charlie said, her voice warm with admiration. “I can’t believe it was your first day back and you managed to pull off that special. The wild mushroom and truffle mac and cheese was a stroke of genius.” Dean glanced at her, a mix of gratitude and discomfort swirling in his chest.
“Thanks, Charlie. I just...wanted to help out. Didn’t want to let the team down.”
“You didn’t just help out; you saved us. Seriously, Dean, the customers loved it. We got so many compliments on that tonight.” Her eyes shone with genuine pride, and she gave him a quick, affectionate glance before returning her focus to the road. Dean shifted in his seat, the praise twisting something in his gut. He had grown so accustomed to distrust, to playing his role with cautious distance, that Charlie’s sincere admiration felt almost painful.
“I appreciate it, really,” he murmured, struggling to keep his voice steady. “But I just did what I was asked to do.”
“Don’t downplay it,” Charlie replied, her tone firm but kind. “You’ve always had a knack for this. I can tell. It’s not just about doing what you have to; it’s about doing it well. You bring something special to the kitchen, Dean.” The car’s interior was dimly lit, the soft glow from the dashboard casting gentle shadows across Charlie’s determined features. Dean watched her, the sincerity in her words making him feel both grateful and guilty. He couldn’t help but think about the facade he maintained, the lies he lived each day. Distrusting her felt like a betrayal, but his circumstances had left him wary, always on guard. They drove through the winding roads of the Novak territory, the headlights cutting through the darkness and illuminating the path ahead. Trees loomed on either side, their branches creating intricate patterns against the night sky. Dean found solace in the quiet beauty of the landscape, the familiar sights offering a momentary escape from his internal conflict. “Do you remember when we first started working together?” Charlie’s voice pulled him back from his thoughts. “You were so eager, always asking questions, always wanting to learn more. I knew then that you had something special. And tonight, you proved it again.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Dean smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through him at the memory. “I was a bit of a nuisance, wasn’t I?” Charlie laughed, the sound light and musical.
“Maybe a little, but in the best possible way. Your enthusiasm was contagious. It still is.” The car continued its journey, the rhythmic motion and Charlie’s steady voice creating a soothing backdrop. Dean felt a flicker of hope, a small light in the darkness that had enveloped his life. Despite the challenges and the facade he maintained, moments like these reminded him of the connections that still held meaning. As they approached the house, Charlie slowed the car, the gravel crunching softly under the tires. She pulled to a stop in the driveway, the headlights casting long shadows across the front of the house. “I’m really glad you’re back, Dean,” she said softly, turning to face him. “We’ve missed you. I’ve missed you.” Dean met her gaze, the sincerity in her eyes making his heart ache.
“Thanks, Charlie. It means a lot to me. I’ve missed it too.” They sat in silence for a moment, the night air cool and crisp around them. Dean felt a pang of guilt for the secret he kept, but he also felt a glimmer of gratitude for the unwavering support and friendship Charlie offered. It was a delicate balance, the dance between truth and deception, but for now, he chose to hold onto the connection they shared.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Charlie said finally, her voice gentle.
“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” Dean replied, opening the car door and stepping out into the night.
As he walked towards the house, the sound of the car pulling away echoed softly behind him. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, and pushed open the front door. Dean stepped into the familiar stillness of the house, expecting the usual silence to wrap around him like a shroud. Instead, he was met with the overwhelming fragrance of food, a rich medley of herbs and spices that filled the air. The scent was unexpected, almost startling in its intensity. Frowning, he moved towards the kitchen, the soft click of his boots echoing against the wooden floor. The oven and stove were off, but the lingering warmth and the remnants of steam suggested recent activity. Dirty pots and pans were stacked in the sink, a testament to a significant amount of cooking. The counters bore traces of flour and chopped vegetables, remnants of a culinary effort. Norma meowed softly, weaving around his legs in her usual affectionate manner.
"Hey, Norma," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. Dean bent down to scratch her behind the ears, his mind racing with questions. She purred softly, then trotted off, casting a backward glance as if to lead him somewhere. He straightened up, sniffing the air, trying to identify the various scents. Something drew him towards the dining room, a space they had never used before, pushing open the door, the sight that greeted him both unexpected and touching. The dining room table was set for a three-course dinner —an undeniably elaborate effort— candles flickered softly, casting a warm glow over the room, and delicate decorations adorned the table, transforming the usually untouched space into a scene of quiet elegance. At the head of the table, Castiel lay asleep, his head resting on his arms, clearly in deep sleep. Dean stood in the doorway, a mix of emotions washing over him. He knew Castiel must have gone out to buy ingredients; their pantry had been nearly empty that morning. The sight of the table, carefully set and waiting, pulled at something deep within him. It was clear that Castiel had put a lot of effort into this meal, an attempt to bridge the gap between them. "Norma, what am I supposed to do?" he whispered, as the kitten purred and rubbed against his leg. He walked over to Castiel, his footsteps soft on the carpeted floor. The dishes on the table reflected Castiel’s vegetarian preferences: a colourful salad with roasted beets and goat cheese, a creamy butternut squash soup, and a blueberry pie that smelled divine. Dean felt a pang of guilt, knowing how hard Castiel must have worked to prepare all of this. “Cas,” Dean said softly, gently shaking his shoulder. “Hey, wake up.” Castiel stirred, blinking groggily as he lifted his head. When he saw Dean, a sleepy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"You're home," he said softly, his voice thick with sleep. His deep blue eyes met Dean’s, a mixture of sleepiness and hope reflected in them. Dean nodded, forcing a smile.
"Yeah, I’m home. You didn’t have to do all this, you know." Castiel yawned as he sat up straighter.
"I wanted to. Thought... we could have a nice dinner together. Celebrate your first day back at work." Dean felt a knot of guilt tighten in his chest. Castiel’s sincerity was almost painful to witness. Castiel rubbed his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Wanted to surprise you. Thought we could have a nice dinner together, just the two of us. Guess I fell asleep waiting.” Dean glanced at the table, taking in the effort and thought that had gone into the meal.
“You did all this for me?” Castiel nodded, his expression earnest.
“I know things have been... I wanted to do something special for you.” Dean felt the knot in his gut twist tighter, the sincerity in Castiel’s words making it harder to maintain his detached facade.
“It looks amazing, Cas. Thank you.”
They sat down together, Dean taking in the details of the meal with a newfound appreciation. Despite the tension between them, Castiel’s efforts were genuine, a tangible proof of his desire to make things work. As they ate, the conversation flowed more easily than it had in weeks, if ever, small stories and shared memories breaking the usual silence. Castiel’s need for order and structure was evident in the precise way he had set the table and served and organised the dishes and disapproving look at Dean walking in with shoes still on. Yet, it was clear to Dean that Castiel was trying his best to bridge the gap, to connect in a meaningful way. Despite himself, Dean found it harder to maintain his distance, the warmth of the moment seeping through the cracks of his carefully constructed defences. The evening drew to a close, the candles burning low as they finished the last course. Castiel looked at Dean, his eyes reflecting a mix of hope and vulnerability.
“I’m glad we could do this,” he said softly. “It means a lot to me.”
“Yeah, me too, Cas.” Dean nodded, feeling a strange mix of emotions. “Thank you for dinner. It was... really nice.”
As they cleared the table together, the atmosphere between them felt lighter, the tension eased by the shared meal. Dean knew that maintaining the facade of a doting partner was becoming increasingly complex, but for tonight, he allowed himself to appreciate the effort and sincerity that Castiel had shown. Later, as he lay in bed, Dean found it hard to sleep. His mind kept replaying the evening’s events, the sight of Castiel asleep at the table, the warmth of the meal they had shared. He knew he was still determined to return to his pack, but the growing connection with Castiel made the path ahead seem more complicated than ever.
The next morning, Dean woke with the first light of dawn, a sense of determination settling over him. He was grateful for the brief respite that work at the restaurant provided, a chance to escape the complexities of his life with Castiel. As he prepared for the day, he resolved to maintain the facade a little longer, to play the part of the doting husband while he figured out his next steps.
Dean went through his morning routine with routinised efficiency, the quiet house providing a momentary sense of peace. Norma followed him around, her soft meowing a comforting presence. As he stepped out into the crisp morning air, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. The challenges ahead were daunting, but for now, he would focus on the familiar rhythms of work, the camaraderie of his colleagues, and the small moments of connection that made the facade bearable.
The drive to the restaurant with Charlie was filled with easy conversation, her cheerful presence a welcome distraction. As they pulled into the parking lot, Dean took a deep breath, ready to face another day. The restaurant, with its bustling kitchen and the shared purpose of creating something beautiful, offered a temporary refuge from the complexities of his life. And for now, that was enough. Morning light streamed through the large windows of the restaurant kitchen, casting a soft glow over the gleaming countertops and polished utensils. Dean and Charlie stood side by side, their aprons crisp and clean, ready to tackle the day’s preparations for lunch service. The air was filled with the familiar scents of fresh herbs and spices, mingling with the rich aroma of roasted coffee that Charlie had brewed to start their day. Dean tried to immerse himself in the rhythm of the kitchen, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the dinner with Castiel the night before. He shook his head, attempting to refocus as Charlie handed him a list of tasks.
“Alright, Dean,” Charlie said, her voice upbeat and encouraging. “Let’s start with the prep for the lunch specials. We’ve got a lot to do, so let’s get moving.” Dean nodded, taking a deep breath and trying to push aside his distractions. He moved to his station, his hands automatically reaching for the fresh produce laid out before him. He began with the heirloom tomatoes, their vibrant reds and yellows were a visual feast. With swift motions he sliced them into even rounds, the juicy flesh glistening in the morning light. Next, he turned his attention to the herbs. He plucked fresh basil leaves from their stems, the fragrant oils releasing into the air with each delicate movement. He gathered the leaves into a neat pile and rolled them together, slicing them into thin ribbons with a sharp knife. The basil added a bright, aromatic note to the kitchen, blending with the scents of parsley and cilantro that Charlie was prepping at the adjacent station. Charlie glanced over at him, her hands busy chopping onions with a rapid, precise rhythm. “How’s it going over there?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with the usual morning energy.
“Good,” Dean replied, though his mind felt sluggish. “Just getting the tomatoes and herbs ready for the bruschetta.”
“Great, those will be perfect for the starter. Don’t forget to prepare the garlic and olive oil mix. It adds that extra punch of flavour.” Dean nodded, moving to gather the garlic bulbs. He separated the cloves, their papery skins rustling softly as he worked. He crushed each clove with the flat of his knife before mincing them finely, the pungent aroma filling the air. He mixed the garlic with extra virgin olive oil, a pinch of sea salt, and a dash of black pepper, creating a fragrant marinade that would infuse the tomatoes with a rich, savoury depth. As he worked, Dean couldn’t help but replay the events of the previous night in his mind. Castiel’s earnest efforts, the carefully prepared meal, and the genuine hope in his eyes weighed on Dean. It made it harder to focus, but he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Charlie, sensing his distraction, tried to keep the conversation light and engaging.
“So, Dean, any new ideas for specials? I’m always open to suggestions.” Dean smiled faintly, appreciating her attempt to draw him out.
“I’ve been thinking about a roasted beet and goat cheese salad. Maybe with a citrus vinaigrette?” Charlie’s face lit up.
“That sounds fantastic! Let’s add it to the specials today. You can start by roasting the beets while I finish up with these onions.” Dean set to work, scrubbing the earthy beets under cold water before trimming and peeling them. He cut them into uniform wedges, the deep crimson staining his fingers. He spread them out on a baking sheet, drizzling them with olive oil and seasoning them with salt and thyme. The beets would roast slowly, their natural sugars caramelising to bring out a sweet, rich flavour. While the beets roasted, Dean prepared the goat cheese, crumbling it into a bowl and mixing it with a bit of cream to create a smooth, tangy spread. He zested a few oranges, the bright, citrusy aroma mingling with the savoury scents already filling the kitchen. Dean’s focus wavered again as he thought about the life he had left behind, the freedom he longed for, and the facade he maintained. But the comforting routine of kitchen work provided a temporary refuge. The methodical preparation, the sensory details of cooking, helped to ground him.
Charlie moved on to prepping the proteins, her knife skills on full display as she expertly filleted salmon for the lunch entrees. Dean joined her, taking up the task of seasoning the fillets with a blend of herbs and spices. They worked in tandem, the quiet hum of their collaboration punctuated by the occasional burst of conversation.
“Dean, can you check on the beets? They should be close to done,” Charlie asked, her voice gentle but firm.
“On it,” Dean replied, grateful for the reminder. He pulled the tray from the oven, the sweet, earthy scent of roasted beets enveloping him. He set them aside to cool, admiring the rich, caramelised colour that promised a depth of flavour. They continued to prep in harmony, Charlie’s presence a steadying force. Dean prepared the citrus vinaigrette, whisking together freshly squeezed orange juice, lemon juice, olive oil, honey, and a touch of Dijon mustard. The bright, tangy dressing would complement the sweet beets and creamy goat cheese perfectly. As the lunch hour approached, the kitchen buzzed with anticipation. The counters were lined with neatly organised ingredients, each element ready to be transformed into dishes that would delight their guests. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment as he surveyed their work, the distractions momentarily forgotten in the face of the familiar, comforting routine.
“We’ve got this, Dean.” Charlie placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be a great service.”
“Yeah, we do.” Dean nodded, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “Let’s make it happen.” With everything prepped and ready, they braced themselves for the rush of orders, the kitchen poised to come alive once more with the energy and creativity that made their work so rewarding. Dean took a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. For now, he could lose himself in the rhythm of the kitchen, the challenges of his personal life set aside in favour of the simple, tangible joy of creating something beautiful and delicious.
As lunch service began, the kitchen transformed into a symphony of activity. The soft clatter of pots and pans, the hiss of sautéing vegetables, and the rhythmic chopping of knives against cutting boards filled the air. Dean and Charlie moved with graceful efficiency, their years of experience evident in the seamless flow of their work. Dean found himself at the vegetable station, slicing bell peppers into thin, even strips. The vibrant colours of red, yellow, and green peppers stood out against the gleaming stainless steel counter. He focused on his task, the motion of the knife both soothing and automatic. The scent of fresh produce mingled with the savoury aroma of roasting meats and simmering sauces, creating a heady mixture that filled the kitchen. Charlie worked beside him, her hands moving swiftly as she prepared a batch of creamy risotto. She glanced over at Dean occasionally, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and pride.
“How’s it going over there?” she called out, her voice cutting through the kitchen’s din.
“Good,” Dean replied, his voice steady. “Peppers are almost done. I’ll move on to the zucchini next.”
“Perfect,” Charlie said, a smile playing on her lips. “We’re on track for a smooth service.” Orders began to flow in, the tickets fluttering in the breeze from the overhead fan. Dean and Charlie worked in perfect harmony, each movement calculated and precise. Dean sautéed the bell peppers, their sweet, smoky scent filling the air as they sizzled in the hot pan. He transferred them to a serving dish and moved on to the zucchini, his knife gliding through the firm, green flesh with ease. The kitchen buzzed with energy as the lunch rush intensified. Yet, Dean’s thoughts began to drift, the repetitive motion of chopping vegetables allowing his mind to wander. He thought about the dinner with Castiel, the effort and sincerity in his actions. He felt a mix of emotions—guilt, frustration, and a strange sense of longing for something he couldn’t quite define. Lost in these thoughts, Dean didn’t notice when the knife slipped. A sharp, searing pain shot through his hand, but he was too focused on his internal turmoil to register it fully. Blood welled up, dark and crimson, seeping into the sliced zucchini and pooling on the cutting board. Charlie, ever vigilant, was the first to notice. Her eyes widened in alarm as she saw the blood. “Dean!” she exclaimed, her voice cutting through the noise. “You’re bleeding! Come on, let’s get you to the sink.” Dean blinked, his thoughts snapping back to the present. He looked down at his hand, seeing the deep gash for the first time. The sight of the blood finally brought the pain into focus, a sharp throb pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He nodded numbly, allowing Charlie to guide him to the sink. She turned on the tap, the cool water cascading over his hand, washing away the blood and revealing the severity of the cut. “You need stitches,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “Go sit down in the office, and I’ll finish up here. We’ll get you to a doctor as soon as service is over.” Dean tried to protest, but the look in Charlie’s eyes silenced him. He nodded again, the pain now a dull, persistent ache. He made his way to the small office at the back of the kitchen, his mind swirling with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. As he sat down, the sounds of the kitchen continued unabated. Charlie took over his station, her movements fluid and efficient as she completed the tasks Dean had started. The team worked around her, their focus on delivering the best possible service despite the unexpected setback. Dean watched through the small window, feeling a pang of guilt for leaving his colleagues in the lurch. He wrapped a towel around his hand, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. The pain was a constant reminder of his mistake, but it also served to sharpen his focus. He needed to be more careful, to stay present and avoid letting his thoughts distract him. Time seemed to slow as he sat there, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours. The scents and sounds of the kitchen were both comforting and isolating, a reminder of the world he was temporarily removed from. He could hear Charlie’s voice, steady and commanding, guiding the team through the rest of the lunch service.
Finally, the rush began to taper off, the flurry of activity giving way to a more measured pace. Charlie appeared at the office door, her expression a mix of relief and concern.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice gentle. Dean managed a small smile.
“I’m okay. Just a bit embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” Charlie replied, her tone reassuring. “Accidents happen. Let’s get you to the doctor and get that hand taken care of.”
She helped him to his feet, her presence a steadying force. As they made their way out of the restaurant, Dean couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for her support. Despite the challenges and the chaos, he knew he wasn’t alone. And for now, that was enough. The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the parking lot as Charlie led Dean out to her yellow car. They settled into the seats, the familiar hum of the engine coming to life as Charlie started the car. The drive to the doctor's office began in silence, the rhythmic sound of the tires on the asphalt providing a soothing backdrop. Charlie glanced over at Dean, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
"Dean, what happened back there? You seemed really out of it." Dean stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. "I was just...unfocused. My mind was somewhere else."
“Okay,” Charlie nodded, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. "You know, if it's too much too soon, you can take a day off. I understand if you're feeling overwhelmed."
"No, it's not that.” Dean shook his head quickly, turning to face her. “I was just a bit distracted, that's all. Really, I'm fine. Do we really need to go to the doctor's? I heal pretty fast on my own." Charlie sighed, her grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly.
"Dean, I know we heal fast, but stitches will help you heal in two days instead of a week. It's faster and safer.” Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Charlie's firm tone silenced him. “Plus, it will be less likely to get infected, especially with Norma and Castiel's fancy for animals in general."
"Yeah, Castiel's…” He let out a resigned sigh, leaning back in his seat. “you're right. It’s better to get it taken care of properly." Charlie nodded, her expression softening.
"I'm just looking out for you, Dean. You've been through a lot, and I need you here, fully present. We all do." Dean felt a pang of guilt at her words, his thoughts drifting back to the dinner Castiel had prepared. Despite everything, Castiel was trying, and so was Charlie. They both were. He owed it to them to stay focused, to be present. However truthfully. The drive continued in a comfortable silence, the car winding through the town's streets. Dean watched the familiar sights pass by, the quaint shops and tree-lined avenues offering a sense of normalcy. It was a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him, but the steady presence of Charlie beside him was a comforting anchor. As they neared the doctor's office, Charlie glanced at Dean again, her expression thoughtful. "You know, it's okay to ask for help. You don't have to do everything on your own." Dean met her gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it." She returned his smile, her eyes warm with understanding.
"Anytime, Dean. That's what friends are for." They pulled into the parking lot of the doctor's office, the building's white façade gleaming in the afternoon sun. Charlie turned off the engine and turned to Dean, her expression serious but kind. "Let's get you patched up, okay? And then you can get back to doing what you do best." Dean nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.
"Yeah, let's do that."
Charlie held the door open for Dean at the doctor's office, her presence a comforting reassurance. The cool, antiseptic scent of the clinic greeted them as they stepped inside, a stark contrast to the warm, bustling kitchen they had left behind. The soft hum of muted conversations and the distant rustle of papers filled the air, creating a subdued atmosphere. Charlie walked up to the self-check-in desk, her fingers flying over the touchscreen as she filled out the initial information.
"Dean, come on over and finish this up," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. Dean approached the desk, the bright screen reflecting off his face as he continued entering his details. The process was quick, the familiar routine of providing personal information a small comfort in the otherwise foreign environment. When he finished, a small receipt with his number printed on it emerged from the machine. They moved to the waiting area, the chairs arranged in neat rows under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights. Charlie chose a seat near the wall, and Dean sat beside her. The minutes stretched out, each tick of the clock on the wall a reminder of the time slipping away. Charlie’s eyes kept drifting to the clock, her concern evident. Dean noticed her restless glances and turned to her.
"You should go, Charlie. The restaurant needs you more than the waiting room."
"Really?” Charlie hesitated, her gaze fixed on him. “Are you sure?"
"Yes," Dean insisted. "I’ll be fine. Just go back and take care of things. They need you." Charlie sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
"Alright, but give me your phone so I can add my number. Call me when you’re done and I’ll come pick you up."
“I’d love that it’s just... ”Dean looked down, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I don’t have a phone." Charlie’s eyes widened in surprise.
"You don’t?"
"No, it disappeared a few days before the wedding," Dean explained, shrugging slightly.
"Disappeared a few days before the…” Charlie’s expression turned thoughtful, then a light of realisation dawned in her eyes. “Balthazar! Of course. I’m sorry, Dean. I told you Balthazar used to be Castiel and Gabriel’s nanny. He has a few tricks up his sleeve to take things without being noticed AND he’s a witch on top of that. I think we’ve all had something taken at least once or twice." Dean nodded, the pieces falling into place. Suddenly it made total sense that Balthazar was behind it, but it also meant his phone was probably either off somewhere unreachable or in Gabriel’s possession. Neither option was very comforting.
"It’s fine," Dean said, trying to reassure her. "Just write your number down, and I’ll ask to call from here."
"Really?” Charlie’s eyes softened with gratitude. “You’re a lifesaver, Dean." She quickly scribbled her number on the back of the receipt the machine had given him before handing it back to him.
"Thanks, Charlie. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done." She stood up, giving him a quick, reassuring smile.
"Just take care of that hand, alright? And don’t worry about the restaurant. We’ve got it covered."
Dean watched her leave, feeling a mix of relief and gratitude. The waiting room felt a bit lonelier without her presence, but he knew it was for the best. He settled back into his chair, the crinkling of the plastic seat a reminder of the strict environment around him.
He watched the clock for a moment, the steady tick-tock providing a rhythmic backdrop to his thoughts. His mind wandered back to the events of the past few days, the complexities of his relationship with Castiel, and the unexpected warmth that Charlie’s friendship brought into his life.
Finally, his number was called. Dean stood up, and tucked it into his pocket as he made his way to the examination room, ready to get his hand stitched up and return to the semblance of normalcy that the restaurant provided.
Stepping into the examination room Dean was met with its clinical white walls and sterile surfaces a sharp contrast to the warm, chaotic atmosphere of the restaurant kitchen. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle hum of fluorescent lights. He took a seat on the examination table, the paper cover crinkling beneath him. A nurse entered first, her smile professional yet kind.
"Hi, Dean. I’m Nurse Foreman. Let’s take a look at that hand." Dean extended his hand, the makeshift bandage wrapped around it now stained with dried blood. The nurse unwrapped it carefully, her brow furrowing as she inspected the deep cut.
"That’s quite a gash," she remarked, her voice soothing. "You’ll definitely need stitches. Let’s clean it up first." She moved quickly, gathering supplies from the nearby counter. Dean watched as she poured a clear solution onto a cotton pad, the sharp smell of antiseptic filling the room. She gently cleaned the wound, the cool liquid stinging slightly against his skin. "How did this happen?" the nurse asked, her tone conversational as she worked.
"Just a slip of the knife," Dean replied, trying to sound nonchalant. "Got a bit distracted." The nurse nodded, her focus on cleaning the wound thoroughly.
"It happens. We’ll get you stitched up in no time." She finished cleaning the cut and patted it dry with a sterile cloth.
"Alright, Doctor Masters will be in shortly to do the stitches. Just sit tight." Dean nodded, his thoughts drifting as he waited. The hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of voices in the hallway provided a gentle background noise, lulling him into a contemplative state. He thought about the events of the past few days, the dinner with Castiel, and the rekindled camaraderie with Charlie. Despite the complexities of his situation, there were moments of genuine connection that made everything feel a little less overwhelming. The door opened and a dark haired woman walked in, her presence calm and reassuring.
"Hello, Dean. I’m Doctor Masters. Let’s take care of that hand, shall we?" she said with a smile. Dean nodded, extending his hand once more. Doctor Masters examined the wound, her touch gentle yet precise.
"This will need a few stitches," she explained, preparing a syringe filled with a local anaesthetic. "But I’m going to numb the area first. You’ll feel a small pinch." Dean braced himself as she injected the anaesthetic around the wound, the initial prick quickly giving way to a numbing sensation. Doctor Masters waited a few moments for the anaesthetic to take effect, her gaze thoughtful as she observed him. "How are you holding up?" she asked, her voice calm.
"Alright," Dean replied, appreciating her bedside manner. "Just eager to get back to work." Doctor Masters nodded, a hint of understanding in her eyes.
"We’ll have you patched up in no time." She began the process of stitching the wound, her movements neat and efficient. Dean watched as the needle pierced his skin, the thread weaving through the edges of the cut, pulling it closed. The sensation was odd, more of a tugging pressure than pain, thanks to the anaesthetic. As she worked, Doctor Masters kept the conversation light, asking him about his work and interests. Dean found himself relaxing, the mundane details of his life providing a welcome distraction from the needle and thread. "What do you do, Dean?" she asked, her tone genuinely curious.
"I’m a chef," Dean replied, a small smile forming. "I work at a restaurant in town."
"That’s wonderful," Doctor Masters said, her hands steady as she continued stitching. "I’ve always admired chefs. It’s such a creative and demanding profession." Dean chuckled softly.
"It has its moments, for sure. But I love it. There’s something satisfying about creating something that brings people joy." Doctor Masters nodded, her expression thoughtful.
"I imagine it’s similar to what I do, in a way. We both help people, just in different forms." Dean hadn’t thought of it that way, but her words resonated with him. He nodded, appreciating the connection she drew.
"Yeah, I guess it is."
A few minutes later, Doctor Masters tied off the final stitch, cutting the thread with a small pair of scissors. She examined her work, her gaze critical yet satisfied.
"All done," she announced, applying a sterile bandage over the stitches. "Keep this clean and dry. You can come back in about a week to have the stitches removed. And take it easy with that hand, alright?"
“Got it,” Dean nodded, flexing his fingers slightly and feeling the tightness of the stitches. "Thanks, Doctor Masters."
"Take care, Dean. And good luck,” she smiled, patting his shoulder gently as she looked him over; eyes sharp. “...with your work." He left the examination room, his hand neatly bandaged and feeling significantly better. As he walked back through the waiting area, he felt a renewed sense of determination. There were challenges ahead, but with the support of people like Charlie and the understanding of those like Doctor Masters, he felt more equipped to face them. Yet the presence of Charlie’s number in his pocket, a small piece of paper, suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. It was a tangible connection to the world he had come to rely on, but it also represented a tether to the life he was desperately trying to escape. As he walked through the quiet corridors of the doctor's office, his mind raced with possibilities. The stitches in his hand were tight and neat, a reminder of the immediate problem he had just resolved. But there was another issue, a deeper one, that gnawed at him constantly: his entrapment within the Novak pack. Dean paused near a window, the view outside offering a glimpse of freedom. The town stretched out beyond the clinic, its streets and buildings bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light. He could see people going about their lives, unaware of the struggles he faced. For a moment, the idea of slipping away, disappearing into the crowd, seemed not only possible but tantalisingly close.
He leaned against the cool glass, his breath creating a small foggy patch. The notion of running away tugged at him, a seductive whisper in the back of his mind. If he left now, perhaps he could find his way back to his own pack, reclaim his life, and escape the suffocating grip of the Novaks. It was an opportunity he couldn't ignore. But then there was Charlie. Her number in his pocket felt like a lifeline, a connection to someone who genuinely cared about him, trusted him. She had shown him kindness and understanding, qualities that had been in short supply since his forced marriage to Castiel. The thought of abandoning her, of breaking the fragile bond they had formed, twisted his gut with guilt. Dean sighed, pushing himself away from the window. He walked back to the waiting area, his mind a battleground of conflicting emotions. He knew he had to make a decision, one that would shape the course of his future.
He approached the reception desk, the sterile smell of the clinic mingling with the faint scent of disinfectant. The receptionist looked up, her expression polite and professional.
"Excuse me," Dean said, his voice steady. "Is there a phone I can use to make a call?"
"Of course," she replied, gesturing to a phone on the counter. "Dial nine to get an outside line."
Dean thanked her and picked up the receiver, the cool plastic feeling foreign in his hand. He hesitated for a moment, the dial tone buzzing in his ear. The urge to flee, to leave everything behind, was strong. But the memory of Charlie's smile, her unwavering support, anchored him. He dialled the number she had given him, each beep of the buttons echoing in his mind. The phone rang once, twice, before Charlie's voice came through, warm and familiar.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Charlie," Dean said, his voice betraying a hint of relief. "It's Dean. I’m done here."
"Dean! How’s the hand?" she asked, concern lacing her tone.
"It’s fine. Got a few stitches, but I’ll be alright," he replied, glancing at the neat bandage.
"Good to hear. I’ll be there in a few minutes," Charlie said. "Hang tight."
As Dean hung up the phone, he felt a sense of resolution settle over him. The temptation to run away was still there, a persistent shadow in his mind, but for now, he chose to stay. He owed it to Charlie, to the people who had shown him kindness, to face his challenges head-on. He walked back to the waiting area and sat down, the sounds of the clinic a distant murmur. His thoughts drifted to Castiel, the dinner they had shared, and the unspoken bond that seemed to be forming between them. It was a complicated situation, but Dean knew he had to navigate it carefully. A few minutes later, the familiar yellow car pulled up outside the clinic.
Chapter 13
Notes:
Chapter word count: 6 899
(not beta read yet )
Chapter Text
Tuesday last week Charlie had driven Deanstraight home after his appointment, firmly instructing him not to return to the restaurant for the rest of the week but to seek her out if he needed help with removing the stitches. Dean had tried to argue, but Charlie's resolve was unyielding. As he had approached the front door where Castiel immediately met him, worry etched across his face.
"What happened?" Castiel had asked, his eyes flicking to Dean's bandaged hand.
"Just a little accident," Dean had replied, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine. Charlie just wants me to take it easy for a few days." Castiel's concern had deepened, but he nodded, seemingly reassured by Dean's calm demeanour. Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt; despite the growing resentment he felt towards his situation Castiel's seemingly genuine worry tugged at him.
During his enforced break from work, Dean decided to use the time to his advantage. He began mapping out potential escape routes from the Novak territory. The pack's farm and family houses were arranged in a half-circle, with Castiel's home at the far left. Dean spent hours each day walking around the property, ostensibly to spend time with Castiel and help with chores, but his true intention was to learn the layout and identify possible exits. Gabriel, ever the vigilant leader, watched them closely but seemed to interpret their increased time together as a positive development in their strained relationship. Dean played his part well, pretending to be the doting husband. He listened to Castiel's stories, shared his own, and even indulged in moments of genuine connection. Yet, beneath the surface, his resentment grew. Castiel, for his part, continued to push himself out of his comfort zone. He made efforts to bridge the gap between them, taking an interest in Dean's past and trying to create shared experiences. They cooked together, walked the grounds, and even spent evenings in the library, where Castiel would read aloud while Dean pretended to listen.
One afternoon, as they walked into the forest edging the property, Dean glanced around, taking in the dense forest that bordered the far edge of the farm. He made a mental note of the paths that seemed less travelled, calculating the best route for a potential escape.
"Dean," Castiel's voice broke into his thoughts. "I've been thinking... maybe we could visit the old oak tree tomorrow? I used to play there when I was a child. It's a bit of a walk, but I think you'd like it."
"Sure, Cas.” Dean nodded, masking his internal calculations with a warm smile. “That sounds nice." As the days passed, Dean's frustration mounted. Castiel's genuine attempts to connect only made it harder for Dean to keep up his facade. Castiel seemed genuinely grateful for Dean's company, often expressing his appreciation in small, heartfelt ways. This, however, only fueled Dean's resentment, knowing that Castiel's gratitude stemmed from a situation Dean wanted no part of. One evening, they sat by the fire in the library, the flickering flames casting shadows on the walls. Castiel, curled up with Norma on his lap, looked over at Dean with a hopeful expression.
"Dean, I know things haven't been easy, but... I'm really glad we're spending more time together. I feel like we're starting to understand each other better." Dean forced a smile, his heart heavy with the burden of his deception.
"Yeah, Cas. Me too." In truth, every moment spent with Castiel only intensified Dean's desire to return to his own pack. The thought of being trapped in this life, bound by unfamiliar obligations and expectations, was suffocating. Yet, he knew he had to play his part carefully, biding his time until the right opportunity presented itself.
Today, as Dean prepared for his first day back at work, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled over him. Charlie waited in the driveway, her presence a comforting reminder of the world outside the Novak territory. Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself for the day ahead. He climbed into the passenger seat, Charlie's bright smile greeting him.
"Ready for your first day back?"
"Yeah," Dean replied, forcing the annoyance from the last week out of his voice. "I've missed the kitchen." The drive to the restaurant was filled with easy conversation, Charlie's cheerful presence a welcome distraction. The familiar sights of the town brought a sense of normalcy, a stark contrast to the complexities of his life with Castiel. As they pulled into the parking lot, Dean took a deep breath, ready to face another day. The restaurant, with its elegant facade and valet parking, stood as a beacon of stability in his tumultuous world.
"Let's make today a good one," Charlie said, her voice filled with determination.
"Yeah," Dean nodded, a genuine smile breaking through. "Let's do that." The kitchen, with its bustling energy and familiar routines, provided a refuge from the chaos of his personal life. Dean fell into the rhythm of work, the sights and sounds of the restaurant grounding him in the present moment. Throughout the day, Charlie kept a watchful eye on him, her concern evident in the small, supportive gestures she made. Dean appreciated her efforts, knowing that her friendship was one of the few constants in his life. As the lunch rush came to an end, Dean felt a sense of accomplishment. The kitchen hummed with a quiet satisfaction, the team working seamlessly together. Charlie approached him, a proud smile on her face.
"You did great today, Dean. It's good to have you back."
"Thanks, Charlie," Dean replied, his heart swelling with gratitude. "It's good to be back. Again. "
As they cleaned up and prepared for dinner service, Dean couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of determination. The challenges of his personal life loomed large, but for now, he found solace in the simple act of creating something beautiful and delicious. And perhaps, in the process, he could find a way to reclaim his own life, one step at a time.
When Dean stepped through the front door, the rich scent of spices and roasting vegetables enveloped him, a stark contrast to the cool evening air outside. The comforting aroma wafted from the kitchen, promising yet another elaborate dinner. He hung his coat by the door, noting how the house felt warmer, more inviting, each time he returned. Dean knew this was Castiel’s doing, his efforts to bridge the chasm between them becoming more evident with every carefully prepared meal. Dean entered the kitchen to find Castiel standing at the stove, focused intently on his task. The counter was a flurry of vibrant colours, fresh produce laid out in neat rows. Castiel, wearing an apron that had seen better days, stirred a pot of something that smelled delicious. He looked up as Dean approached, his deep blue eyes reflecting both the warm glow of the kitchen lights and a hopeful anticipation.
“Hey, you’re back,” Castiel greeted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I hope you’re hungry. I made ratatouille.” Dean couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt mixed with appreciation. He knew Castiel didn’t particularly enjoy cooking, which made the effort all the more significant. The table was already set, the soft flicker of candlelight casting a gentle glow across the room. A bowl of mixed greens with a tangy vinaigrette sat ready as a starter, alongside a freshly baked loaf of bread.
“Smells amazing, Cas,” Dean said, trying to infuse his voice with as much warmth as he could muster. “You’ve outdone yourself again.” Castiel’s smile widened slightly as he turned back to the stove, giving the pot a final stir before dishing up the ratatouille. He placed the steaming bowls on the table, the medley of zucchini, aubergine, tomatoes, and bell peppers creating a beautiful mosaic of colours. The rich, garlicky aroma filled the room, blending with the sweet undertones of the roasted vegetables. Dean took his seat, eyeing the meal with genuine appreciation. “This looks great.” They began to eat, the clink of cutlery and the crackle of the fire in the living room the only sounds breaking the silence. Castiel glanced up occasionally, as if gauging Dean’s reaction, and each time Dean offered a nod or a small smile of approval.
“Charlie texted something today,” Castiel began, his tone casual but tinged with a hint of eagerness. “She wrote that the Christmas market is starting up on Saturday. I was thinking... maybe we could go together?” Dean paused, his fork hovering over his plate. The idea of attending a Christmas market, with its bustling crowds and festive atmosphere, felt like a world away from the quiet tension of their current life. He was about to decline, the instinctive response to retreat into solitude rising within him, but he saw the earnest hope in Castiel’s eyes.
“Sure, why not?” Dean said, surprising himself with his own response. “It could be fun.” Castiel’s face lit up with genuine excitement, a rare sight that momentarily melted the walls Dean had built around his feelings. They continued their meal, the conversation flowing more easily now, the prospect of the market outing adding a sense of anticipation to the evening. As they finished dinner, Castiel rose to clear the dishes, but Dean stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “I’ll take care of this. You’ve done enough for tonight.” Castiel looked at him, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and relief.
“Thanks, Dean.” Dean gathered the plates, his mind swirling with thoughts of the upcoming market trip. Maybe this outing could be more than just an attempt to bond—it might be a step towards understanding each other better, a small bridge over the chasm that still lay between them. As he washed the dishes, the warm water and rhythmic motion soothing his thoughts, Dean found himself almost looking forward to the experience.
The morning of the market dawned crisp and clear, the air tinged with the promise of winter. Frost clung to the edges of the windows, glistening in the pale sunlight. Dean dressed warmly, pulling on a thick sweater and a sturdy jacket, his breath visible in the chilly air. Castiel was waiting for him by the door, bundled up in a cosy coat and scarf, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“Ready to go?” Castiel asked, his voice carrying a hint of excitement.
“Yeah, let’s do this,” Dean replied, forcing a smile that felt more genuine than he expected. They made their way to the town square, where the Christmas market had transformed the area into a festive wonderland. Twinkling lights adorned every stall, casting a warm, golden glow. The air was filled with the mingling scents of spiced cider, roasted chestnuts, and freshly baked pastries. Children’s laughter echoed through the air, mingling with the cheerful melodies of carolers. Castiel led the way, his usual reserved demeanour replaced by an almost childlike wonder. Dean followed, his senses overwhelmed by the vibrant sights and sounds. They wandered through the market, stopping at various stalls to admire the handcrafted ornaments and taste the seasonal treats. At one booth, a vendor offered small cups of mulled wine, the rich, spicy aroma enticing. Castiel handed a cup to Dean, their fingers brushing briefly. Dean took a sip, the warmth spreading through him, a pleasant contrast to the cold air. “This is really good,” Dean remarked, glancing at Castiel. “I can see why people come here every year.” Castiel nodded, his eyes sparkling.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these. I’m glad we came.” They continued exploring, their footsteps crunching on the frost-covered ground. Dean found himself relaxing, the festive atmosphere chipping away at his usual guardedness. They stopped at a booth selling handmade candles, the soft glow and soothing scents drawing them in. Castiel picked up a candle, its fragrance a delicate blend of pine and vanilla.
“This one smells like the forest after a snowfall,” Castiel said, holding it out for Dean to smell. Dean inhaled deeply, the scent evoking memories of simpler times back home, before the war and the forced marriage.
“It does. It’s nice.” Castiel bought the candle, slipping it into his coat pocket with a satisfied smile. They moved on, drawn to a small stage where a group of children performed a nativity play. The innocence and joy on their faces were contagious, and Dean found himself laughing along with the crowd. As they walked, they passed a stall offering ice-skating on a temporary rink. Castiel’s eyes lit up, and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Do you skate?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I used to,” Castiel admitted, a hint of a blush colouring his cheeks. “It’s been a while, though.” Dean grinned, feeling a rare sense of camaraderie.
“Let’s give it a try, then.” They rented skates and stepped onto the ice, the rink filled with people gliding gracefully and others stumbling clumsily. Dean wobbled at first, the unfamiliar sensation challenging his balance, but soon he found his rhythm. Castiel, though initially shaky, quickly regained his confidence, moving with surprising grace. They skated together, laughing as they navigated the slippery surface. Dean felt a lightness he hadn’t experienced in a long time, the joy of the moment pushing aside the constant undercurrent of his internal conflict. Castiel’s laughter rang out, clear and genuine, a sound that Dean realised he had come to cherish.
After a while, they took a break, sitting on a bench by the rink and watching the other skaters. Castiel’s cheeks were flushed from the cold, his eyes bright with happiness. Dean couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing how much effort Castiel was putting into making their relationship work.
“This has been fun,” Castiel said softly, his breath visible in the cold air. “Thank you for coming with me.” Dean looked at him, the sincerity in Castiel’s eyes making it difficult to maintain his emotional distance.
“I’m glad we came,” he replied, meaning it more than he wanted to admit.
As the afternoon wore on, they continued to explore the market, sharing moments of laughter and quiet companionship. They bought small gifts for each other—a hand-knitted scarf for Dean, a beautifully carved wooden wolf for Castiel. The market, with its festive cheer and sense of community, felt like a brief escape from the complexities of their lives. When the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the square, they reluctantly made their way back to the car. The drive home was filled with a comfortable silence, the glow of the market lingering in their minds.
Back at the house, Dean helped Castiel carry their purchases inside, the warmth of the home a welcome contrast to the cold outside. They set their bags down in the living room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.
“Today was nice,” Castiel said, his voice quiet but content. “It felt... normal.”
“Yeah, it did,” Dean agreed, his thoughts a swirling mix of emotions. The day’s happiness only deepened his internal conflict, making it harder to ignore the growing connection he felt with Castiel. As the evening settled in, casting the house in a soft, warm glow, Dean and Castiel found themselves in the library. The fire crackled and popped in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the bookshelves that lined the walls. The rich scent of burning wood mingled with the aroma of the mulled cider Castiel had prepared, creating an atmosphere of cosy comfort. Dean sank into a plush armchair, a steaming mug of cider warming his hands. Castiel settled in the chair opposite him, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. Norma, ever the affectionate companion, curled up at Castiel’s feet, her soft purring adding to the serene ambiance.
“I really enjoyed today,” Castiel said, breaking the comfortable silence. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of shattering the fragile peace they had found.
“Yeah, it was nice,” Dean replied, taking a sip of his cider. The warmth of the drink spread through him, easing the lingering chill from the market. They lapsed back into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Dean watched the fire, its hypnotic dance pulling him into a reflective state. He thought about the day they had spent together, the moments of genuine laughter and the ease with which they had navigated the festive market. It had felt like a glimpse into a life that could be, a life where the burdens of their circumstances were lifted, if only temporarily.
Castiel stood and walked over to one of the bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines of the well-worn volumes. He selected a book and returned to his chair, opening it to a bookmarked page. Dean watched him, noting the way Castiel’s eyes lit up as he immersed himself in the text. There was a quiet intensity about him, a focus that Dean found both intriguing and infuriating.
“How about a story?” Castiel asked, looking up from the book. “I have this book that is a collection of winter tales. Thought it might be nice to read together.” Dean nodded, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.
“Sure, why not?” Castiel began to read, his deep, monotone voice filling the room. The story he chose was a charming tale about a winter forest and the magical creatures that lived there. As Castiel read, Dean felt himself being drawn into the narrative, the vivid descriptions painting pictures in his mind. He could almost see the snow-covered trees, hear the whispers of the forest spirits, and feel the magic that permeated the air. Dean’s gaze drifted to Castiel, taking in the details of his face illuminated by the firelight. Castiel’s features were delicate yet strong, his blue eyes focused intently on the words before him. There was an ethereal quality to him, a beauty that Dean found himself begrudgingly acknowledging. Yet, beneath that attraction simmered a deep-seated resentment. To Dean, Castiel represented everything he had lost—a future that was stolen, a freedom that was denied. Castiel was a constant reminder of the forced marriage and the upheaval in Dean’s life. Despite the resentment, Dean couldn’t deny the small moments of connection they had shared. Castiel’s genuine efforts to bridge the gap between them, his sincere smiles, and the rare laughter they had exchanged—it all chipped away at Dean’s defences, leaving him conflicted and confused.
As the story came to an end, Castiel’s voice grew softer, his words beginning to blur with fatigue. Dean glanced over and saw that Castiel’s eyelids were drooping, his head nodding slightly as he fought to stay awake.
“You’re tired,” Dean said gently, setting his mug down. “Why don’t you get some rest?” Castiel looked up, blinking sleepily.
“I’m fine, just...a little sleepy.” Dean stood and crossed the room, placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.
“Come on, you’re about to fall asleep right here.” Castiel nodded, too tired to argue. He closed the book and handed it to Dean, who set it aside. As Castiel stood, he swayed slightly, his exhaustion evident. Dean caught him, steadying him with a firm grip. “Let’s get you to bed,” Dean said, his voice softer than he intended.
They made their way to the stairs, Dean guiding Castiel with a careful, almost protective manner. As they descended to the ground floor, Dean felt the unexpected closeness between them, a physical reminder of the emotional distance he struggled to maintain. They reached Castiel’s bedroom, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a warm light over the room. Dean helped Castiel to the bed, pulling back the covers and gently easing him onto the mattress. Castiel mumbled a sleepy ‘thank you’ , his eyes already closing as Dean tucked him in. Dean stood by the bed for a moment, watching Castiel as he drifted off to sleep. In the quiet stillness of the room, Dean’s conflicting emotions swirled. He felt a strange mix of protectiveness and resentment, attraction and anger. Castiel, with all his efforts and vulnerabilities, was a puzzle Dean couldn’t easily solve.
“Goodnight, Cas,” Dean whispered, turning to leave the room. As he made his way back upstairs to the library, the fire had died down to glowing embers, casting a dim light over the room. Dean settled back into his chair, staring into the remnants of the fire. The day’s events played over in his mind, each moment of shared enjoyment deepening the complexity of his feelings. Dean knew that the fleeting happiness they had experienced couldn’t erase the underlying tensions or the reality of his situation. But for now, he allowed himself to appreciate the warmth of the evening, the rare connection they had found, and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.
The first light of dawn barely touched the horizon when Castiel awoke, a determined glint in his deep blue eyes. December First had always held a special significance for him, a day when the house would fill with the scent of almond tarts, just as Balthazar used to bake for Christmas. He moved quietly through the house, careful not to wake Dean, and made his way to the kitchen.
The kitchen was still and silent, bathed in the soft glow of the early morning light filtering through the windows. Castiel set about gathering the ingredients for the almond tarts, his movements precise and methodical. He reached for the plain flour and caster sugar, measuring them carefully into a large mixing bowl. The cool, white powder and fine granules blended together smoothly as he mixed them with a wooden spoon. Next, he retrieved the cold, unsalted butter from the fridge, cutting it into small cubes with a sharp knife. The butter was firm and cool to the touch, each cube dropping into the flour mixture like small, yellow gems. Using his fingertips, Castiel began to rub the butter into the flour and sugar, working quickly to prevent it from warming too much. The mixture slowly transformed, becoming a texture like fine breadcrumbs, light and crumbly. Satisfied with the consistency, Castiel added the egg yolk, its rich, golden colour standing out against the pale mixture. He poured in a few tablespoons of cold water, just enough to bring the dough together. The mixture began to form into a smooth, cohesive dough under his skilled hands. He wrapped the dough in cling film, pressing it gently into a disk shape, and placed it in the refrigerator to chill.
While the dough rested, Castiel turned his attention to the almond filling. He softened the unsalted butter, leaving it out for a few minutes to reach room temperature. Once it was ready, he creamed it together with the caster sugar in a large bowl, using a hand mixer to achieve a light, fluffy texture. The mixture turned pale and creamy, a perfect base for the rich almond flavour to come. He cracked two eggs, adding them one at a time to the butter and sugar mixture, beating well after each addition. The eggs incorporated smoothly, adding a rich, golden hue to the batter. Castiel then added a teaspoon of almond extract, the fragrant aroma filling the air and evoking memories of past Christmases. The final touch was the ground almonds, which he folded in carefully, ensuring the mixture was smooth and well combined. The almond filling was now ready, thick and fragrant, promising a delightful treat.
By now, the dough had chilled sufficiently. Castiel retrieved it from the refrigerator and rolled it out on a lightly floured surface. The dough was cool and pliable under his hands, and he worked quickly to roll it to the right thickness. Using a round cutter, he cut out circles of dough, carefully pressing each one into small tartlet tins. The tins were lined up neatly on a baking tray, each one filled with the smooth pastry. Castiel spooned the almond filling into the pastry cases, filling them almost to the top. The tarts looked inviting already, their golden filling contrasting beautifully with the pale pastry. He preheated the oven and placed the tray of tarts inside. As the tarts baked, the kitchen filled with the warm, nutty aroma of almonds and butter. Castiel cleaned up his workspace, the familiar routine bringing a sense of calm and purpose. He kept a watchful eye on the oven, noting how the pastry turned a beautiful golden brown and the filling set perfectly.
Once the tarts were done, he removed them from the oven and allowed them to cool on a wire rack. The kitchen was filled with the comforting scent of freshly baked pastries, and Castiel felt a sense of accomplishment as he prepared the icing. In a small bowl, he mixed icing sugar with a few tablespoons of lemon juice, creating a thick, spreadable icing. The tangy citrus aroma mingled with the sweet smell of the tarts, adding a refreshing note. Carefully, he spooned a small amount of icing onto each cooled tart, spreading it evenly with the back of the spoon. The glossy white icing contrasted beautifully with the golden pastry and almond filling. As the icing set, Castiel stood back and admired his handiwork. The almond tarts looked perfect, each one a small testament to the traditions he cherished. He felt a flicker of hope that Dean might appreciate the effort, that these small gestures could help bridge the gap between them. The sun had fully risen by the time Castiel finished, casting a warm glow over the kitchen. He carefully arranged the tarts on a plate, setting it on the kitchen table. The day had begun with a sense of purpose and connection, a promise of shared moments and the hope for understanding. As he heard Dean stirring upstairs, Castiel couldn’t help but smile, looking forward to sharing the simple joy of these almond tarts with him.
The rich aroma of baked almonds and sweet icing guided Dean toward the kitchen. As he stepped into the room, he saw Castiel positively beaming, his blue eyes sparkling with anticipation. The sight of the beautifully arranged almond tarts on the table, each one meticulously iced, painted a picture of care and effort that tugged at something deep within Dean.
“Good morning,” Dean greeted, forcing a smile as he took in the festive scene before him.
“Morning!” Castiel replied, his voice filled with excitement. “I made something special. Balthazar always makes these almond tarts for Christmas. I thought you might like to try them.” Dean approached the table, his eyes scanning the golden pastries. They looked perfect, the icing glossy and inviting. He could sense the effort and thought Castiel had put into making them, and he felt a pang of guilt knowing he wouldn’t enjoy them as much as Castiel hoped.
“Wow, these look amazing, Cas,” Dean said, picking up one of the tarts. “You really outdid yourself.”
Castiel watched him eagerly, his face lit up with a hopeful smile. Dean took a bite, the crisp pastry giving way to the sweet, nutty filling. The flavours were rich and well-balanced, but almonds had never been his favourite. He chewed slowly, trying to muster up an expression of enjoyment, but the texture and taste just didn’t sit well with him.
“Well?” Castiel asked, his eyes searching Dean’s face for a reaction.
“They’re…” Dean swallowed, forcing another smile “really well-made, Cas. You did a great job.” Castiel’s face fell slightly, the initial spark of joy dimming in his eyes.
“You don’t like them, do you?”
“It’s not that, Cas.” Dean sighed, setting the half-eaten tart back on the plate. “It’s just... I’ve never been a big fan of almonds. But I can tell you put a lot of effort into these, and they’re really well-done.” Castiel’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at the plate of tarts.
“I just wanted to make something special for you. I thought maybe... it would help us feel more connected.” Dean felt a mix of emotions, the sincerity in Castiel’s voice cutting through his usual defences. He reached out, placing a hand on Castiel’s arm.
“I appreciate it, really. It means a lot that you went to all this trouble. Maybe we can share them with the rest of the pack? I’m sure they’d love them.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Castiel nodded slowly, his expression softening. “I just... wanted to do something nice for you.”
“And you did.” Dean squeezed Castiel's arm gently, trying to convey his appreciation despite the awkwardness of the moment. “You’ve been trying so hard, Cas, and I see that. Let’s take these over to Gabriel’s place later. They’ll be a hit, I’m sure of it.”
“Yes, Dean, I have been trying.” Castiel snapped, his voice rising. “Really hard. And yet you feel distant. You think I don’t notice, but I do.”
“You almost dying is the only reason you’re even bothering to try, isn’t it?” Dean felt his frustration bubble to the surface, his own voice growing louder. “You never made an effort before.”
“How can you say that?” Castiel's eyes widened, anger and hurt flashing in his blue eyes. “I’ve been trying to make this work from the start! I’ve done everything I can to connect with you, to make you feel at home here!” Dean’s temper flared.
“You think baking a few tarts and dragging me to a market is enough to fix everything? You think that suddenly makes everything you've done okay? You’ve been so caught up in your routines and your rules that you never even considered how I felt about any of this!”
“I know it hasn’t been easy, but I’m doing my best. You act like you’re the only one struggling.” Castiel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I’m trying to build something here, but you’re just... you’re so closed off! It’s like you’re not even trying!”
“Not trying?” Dean’s anger boiled over. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m playing along with this charade, trying to keep the peace. But maybe you’re right, maybe I am distant. Maybe that’s because I never wanted any of this! I was forced into this situation, and you act like I should just be grateful and happy about it!”
“You think I wanted this?” Castiel’s face flushed with anger, his voice trembling. “You think I’m happy with how things turned out? I didn’t ask for any of this either, Dean! But I’m at least trying to make the best of it!”
“Trying?” Dean’s voice grew colder, his eyes narrowing. “Is that what you call it? Forcing me into your routines, your way of life, without ever considering what I might want or need? You’re so focused on your own efforts that you can’t see how suffocating it all is.”
“I just wanted to find some common ground, to make things a little easier for both of us.” Castiel’s breathing grew heavy, his eyes glistening. “I just thought that if we could share some moments, some traditions, maybe we could start to bridge the gap.”
“Common ground?” Dean scoffed, his tone mocking. “That’s rich. You’re living in a fantasy, Cas. Real life doesn’t work like that.” Castiel’s face crumpled, the fight leaving him all at once. His shoulders sagged, and he looked down at the floor.
“I just... I don’t know what else to do,” he said quietly.
“Of course, you don’t.” Dean’s frustration turned to a bitter edge. “You’ve never had to deal with anything real before. You’ve always had Gabriel to protect you, to shield you from the harsh realities of life. And now, here we are, stuck in this mess, and you have no idea how to handle it.”
“You think I’m weak, don’t you?” Castiel’s eyes snapped up to meet Dean’s, anger rekindled. “You think I’m some sheltered kid who doesn’t know anything about the real world. Well, guess what, Dean? I’m trying to learn. I’m trying to grow. But you make it so damn hard when you won’t even meet me halfway.”
“ Learning? Growing?” Dean sneered, his words sharp. “You’re just playing at being an adult. You have no idea what it’s like to have your whole life ripped away from you, to be forced into something you never wanted.”
“’M sorry, okay?” Castiel’s voice broke, the pain evident. “’M sorry ’M not what you wanted. ’M sorry this isn’t what you planned for your life. But ’M here, and ’M trying, and you just... you just keep pushing me away.” The kitchen fell silent, the echoes of their argument lingering in the air. Castiel’s breathing was ragged, his eyes filled with tears. Dean’s chest heaved with the effort of holding back his own emotions, his heart pounding in his ears. Castiel finally looked away, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted to make things better.” But Dean wasn’t done. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted like a volcano, scorching everything in its path. He paced the kitchen, his steps quick and sharp, his voice growing more intense and mocking with each word.
“You think forcing me to do things you want is going to fix everything?” Dean spat, his eyes flashing with fury. “You think it’s enough to make up for everything I’ve lost?” Castiel stood there, his face pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and hurt. He opened his mouth to respond, but Dean cut him off, his words like daggers. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like for me since I got here?” Dean continued, his voice rising. “Every day, I wake up in a house that isn’t mine, surrounded by people who don’t give a damn about me. I’m stuck in a marriage I never wanted, with someone who’s so obsessed with keeping things his way and according to nonsensical rules that there’s no room for anything else!” Castiel flinched, but Dean pressed on, his anger fueling his words. “You talk about trying, about making an effort, but all you’re doing is smothering me! You’re so wrapped up in your own little world that you can’t see how suffocating it is for me. I’m not some project you can fix with a few homemade meals and forced outings!” Dean’s words grew more biting, each one a deliberate strike. “You’ve never had to deal with anything real, have you? Everything’s been handed to you on a silver platter. Gabriel’s always been there to protect you, to shield you from the harsh realities of life. And now, here you are, playing at being an adult, pretending you understand what it’s like to have your entire world turned upside down.” Castiel’s eyes filled with tears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. But he didn’t say anything, just stood there and took it, his face a mask of pain and vulnerability. Dean’s voice grew colder, more mocking. “You think I’m supposed to be grateful for this, Cas? For being forced into a marriage with someone who’s so out of touch with reality that he thinks this is enough to make everything better?” Castiel’s lips trembled, but he remained silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. The sight of his obvious hurt and desperation only seemed to fuel Dean’s anger further. “You don’t get it, do you?” Dean said, his voice harsh. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have your whole life ripped away from you. To be forced into a situation you never wanted, with no way out. You act like you’re trying, like you’re making an effort, but all you’re doing is making it harder for me to breathe!” The room felt charged with the intensity of Dean’s words, the air thick with the weight of unspoken emotions. Castiel stood there, tears now streaming down his face, his shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back his own pain.
“Okay.” Castiel said finally, in a voice so quiet it was barely audible. Dean froze, his anger momentarily halted by the single word. He stared at Castiel, seeing the brokenness in his eyes, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface. The room fell silent, the echoes of their argument hanging in the air like a tangible presence. Castiel took a deep, shaky breath, his voice trembling. “’M sorry, Dean. Thought... Thought I was helping. Just wanted to make things better.” Dean’s anger began to ebb, replaced by a hollow feeling in his chest. The sight of Castiel standing there, defeated and broken, stirred something deep within him. The guilt and frustration that had fueled his outburst now felt like a leaden burden, weighing down his soul. Castiel looked at him, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. “Just wanted to make things better, will... erm will leave you alone. Don’t want to make things harder for you. Just... I just wanted to find some way to connect.” Dean stood frozen, his anger dissipating like mist in the morning sun as he watched Castiel struggle to hold himself together. The vulnerability in Castiel's blue eyes cut through Dean's frustration, leaving him feeling adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. He opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel interrupted, thoughts seemingly more put together yet his voice was still a whisper, filled with resignation. “Dean, do you remember that video from a few years ago? The one with the fire ants eating a cockroach?” he asked abruptly. Castiel's sudden change of topic caught Dean off guard, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"What? Yeah? Yeah, I think so," Dean replied, uncertain where this conversation was headed. Castiel continued, his gaze distant as if he were looking through Dean rather than at him.
"Imagine being that cockroach, relentlessly attacked by a swarm of fire ants. Each bite a sharp sting from the outside world, constant and unyielding. The fire ants represent the relentless pressures and challenges of life, constantly tearing at you, trying to break you down." Dean listened, the vivid imagery Castiel painted making his skin crawl. He could almost feel the imaginary bites. "But," Castiel's voice softened, filled with an aching sadness, "amidst this chaos and pain, the cockroach finds the strength to give birth. This act of giving birth symbolises your thoughts, ideas, and opinions – fragile, precious, and emerging despite the chaos surrounding you. Just as the cockroach instinctively pushes forth its offspring in a desperate bid for continuity, you voice your ideas and share your thoughts, driven by an inner compulsion to be heard and to contribute, even when the world seems determined to silence you." The realisation hit Dean like a tidal wave, the raw emotion in Castiel's words resonating deeply within him. Castiel wasn’t just talking about the video; he was describing his own experience, the constant struggle to assert himself amidst the pressures of his life. For the first time that morning Dean saw beyond his own frustration and anger, glimpsing the relentless pressure Castiel lived under every day. It was a profound moment of understanding, a connection that bridged the gap between their worlds, even if only for a fleeting instant. "That's what it's like for me, Dean," Castiel continued, his voice trembling. "All day, every day. But I'll leave you alone. I won't bother you anymore." With those words, Castiel turned away, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Dean watched, his heart aching as Castiel walked down the hall to his room. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the house, a stark reminder of the distance between them. Dean stood in the now silent kitchen, the aroma of almond tarts still lingering in the air. He felt a profound sense of loss, the emptiness left by Castiel's departure weighing heavily on his mind. The argument replayed in his head, each word a sharp reminder of the hurt they had both inflicted. He moved to the table, picking up one of the tarts and staring at it, his appetite gone. The delicate pastry, once a symbol of Castiel's effort to connect, now felt like a reminder of the gulf between them. Dean sighed, setting the tart down and rubbing a hand over his face.
For the rest of the day, Dean wandered through the house, his mind restless and uneasy. The usual tasks that kept him occupied felt hollow and meaningless. He kept replaying Castiel's words, the vivid imagery of the fire ants and the cockroach, the relentless pressure and pain. As evening fell, the house remained silent, Castiel's door still closed. Dean paused outside the door, his hand hovering over the door handle. He wanted to knock, to apologise, to bridge the gap between them. But the words felt stuck in his throat, the weight of his own guilt and frustration holding him back. Instead, he retreated to his own room, the silence of the house pressing in around him. The flickering shadows cast by the lamp on his bedside table seemed to mock his indecision. He lay down, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day replaying in his mind. Sleep was elusive, his thoughts a tangled web of regret and confusion. He wondered if things could ever truly be mended between them, if there was a way to find common ground. As the hours ticked by, Dean finally succumbed to an uneasy sleep, Castiel's words echoing in his mind.
Chapter 14
Notes:
Chapter word count: 10 756
(not beta read)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In Paris, a blonde man sat at a quaint table in a bustling café. Before him lay a half-forgotten espresso and a fully forgotten croque monsieur, his focus entirely on the notebook in his hands. The cover, made of dark varnished leather with intricate carved leaf designs, held pages ruled in a faint grey.
"Avec des lunettes de soleil comme ça, tu rendras les autres rats des rues jaloux, Meg." the man said, without looking up. Before him now sat a woman with long brown hair, her Prada sunglasses perched confidently on her nose, and clad in a sleek black leather outfit. Meg reached for the croque monsieur, took a bite, and grimaced at the cold food. She disassembled it with one hand, inspecting its contents with a look of disgust, before placing it back on the plate.
"I knew I’d find you here, Balthazar," Meg said, her voice laced with mockery. "Predictable as ever." Balthazar glanced up, his expression impassive.
"What’s with all the black leather, Meg? I don’t like it." Meg leaned back, crossing her legs casually.
"How long are you staying here this time?"
"I don’t drift, Meg.” Balthazar shrugged, his attention returning to his notebook. “I dropped an anchor here many years ago." Meg hummed, eyeing the sandwich again. Her hunger seemed to be enough to consider eating it anyway. Balthazar’s gaze flicked to her, a hint of irritation in his eyes. "Do you have a reason for being here, or are you just here to play food taster?" Meg smirked, tilting her head.
"What happened to you, Balthazar? You used to be a lot more fun."
"I didn’t change, Meg," Balthazar replied coolly. "You were just too in love with me to notice."
"Was not," Meg retorted, her cheeks flushing slightly. Balthazar sighed.
"Tu peux te raconter ce que tu veux pour t’endormir la nuit, mais nous savons tous les deux la vérité." Meg feigned a shiver, her eyes glittering with mischief.
"I love it when you talk all French to me." Balthazar raised an eyebrow before turning back to his notebook. Meg’s tone turned serious as she added, "There’s a new wolf in the Novak pack. Claimed by mating bite." Balthazar hummed in sarcastic disbelief, not looking up.
"Oh, really? I had no idea," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. Meg’s eyes narrowed as she realised he already knew.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" Balthazar looked up with a sigh.
"And say what?"
"I don’t know, maybe something about it happening?"
"Not my problem anymore," Balthazar said with a dismissive shrug. "Since Charles died, I no longer have any obligation to the Novak pack." Meg pulled her sunglasses up to rest on her head, leaning forward with a teasing tone.
"Not even to Castiel?" Balthazar snapped his book shut, his eyes flashing with anger.
"Keep that name out of your mouth, Meg."
"Alright, alright. Touchy subject, I see," Meg said, raising her hands in mock surrender. She glanced around the café, taking in the beauty of the everyday Parisian life. People sat at tables, chatting animatedly, sipping coffee, and enjoying the peaceful afternoon away from the bustling tourists.
"He was hurt, the new werewolf," Meg said, her voice softer. Balthazar scoffed.
"How on earth would you know that?" Meg’s lips curved into a sly smile.
"I’m a doctor these days." Balthazar burst out laughing, a genuine, amused sound that seemed to surprise even him.
"You? A doctor?"
"Yes," Meg replied defensively. "I have my ways." Balthazar shook his head, still chuckling.
"Of course you do." The contrast between the lively café and the tense conversation at their table was striking. The people around them, oblivious to the weight of their discussion, went about their day, adding to the surreal atmosphere. The scents of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries wafted through the air, mingling with the crisp autumn breeze that drifted in from the open windows. The soft murmur of conversations and the clinking of cups created a comforting background noise, a stark contrast to the intensity of their exchange. Meg looked at Balthazar, her expression a mix of curiosity and determination.
"What happened to us, Balthazar? We used to be friends, didn’t we?" Balthazar's eyes softened for a brief moment before he steeled himself, his voice firm. “Certainly friendly .”
"We were, Meg. But things change. People change." Meg sighed, leaning back in her chair, her gaze distant.
"Yeah, I guess they do."
"Besides," Balthazar continued, his tone lighter but still edged with tension, "our past is hardly relevant now. You’ve got your life, and I’ve got mine." Meg’s eyes darkened, a hint of vulnerability flashing across her face before she masked it with a smirk.
"You’re right. I just thought you might want to know, that’s all." Balthazar glanced at her, his gaze piercing.
"What’s your game, Meg? Why show up now?"
"No game, Balthazar. Just thought you should know.” Meg shrugged, her leather jacket creaking slightly with the movement. “From what I hear, Castiel has been hurt too." Balthazar’s jaw tightened, the mention of Castiel’s name stirring emotions he’d tried to bury. He looked away, the bustling café suddenly feeling too small, too confining. Then his expression softened, the irritation giving way to concern.
"How bad?" Meg leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Bad enough that he’s still struggling to keep up appearances."
"Why are you telling me this, Meg?"
"Because I thought you might care," Meg replied, her tone surprisingly sincere. Balthazar met her eyes, the weight of her words settling heavily on him. He knew she was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. The bond he’d once shared with Castiel wasn’t something he could easily forget, nor could he ignore the nagging worry that gnawed at him. Balthazar sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"It’s not that simple, Meg. There’s a lot of history there. And it’s not my place to interfere, not anymore." Meg’s gaze softened, a rare moment of genuine concern breaking through her usual facade.
"Maybe you are right, maybe it’s not your place. But sometimes, the past has a way of catching up with us."
"Did they hurt each other?" Meg shook her head.
"No, two different incidents. From what I heard it looked like Castiel might not make it." Balthazar’s eyes flashed with rage.
"Si je découvre que c'est un jeu, je te retrouverai et je te couperai la langue menteuse pour te la faire manger." Meg smirked, undeterred by his anger.
"I thought you’d be on your way back to the pack soon anyway, given the traditions you still keep up with Castiel." Balthazar’s voice turned icy.
"Chaque fois que j'entends dire qu'une autre sorcière est tuée par un chasseur, je souhaite que ce soit toi qui meurs." Meg tilted her head, totally unfazed by his words. She had heard him say that multiple times before yet never cared enough to learn the meaning of what he said.
"You know, Balthazar, you’ve always had a way with words," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "And your sense of style hasn’t changed one bit. I do hope you’re at least getting compliments for it." Balthazar narrowed his eyes, his patience wearing thin.
"I’m warning you, Meg. Don’t play games with me." Meg held up her hands in mock surrender.
"Alright, Balthazar. No games. Just information. Do with it what you will." Balthazar watched her for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts of Castiel and the Novak pack. He knew he couldn’t ignore what she had told him, no matter how much he wanted to. The past had indeed caught up with him, and he had no choice but to face it head-on. He took a deep breath, his resolve hardening.
"Fine. I’ll see what I can do." Meg smiled, a mixture of relief and satisfaction.
"Good. It’s about time you did something useful." Balthazar rolled his eyes, the familiar banter a welcome distraction from the seriousness of their conversation.
"Always with the backhanded compliments, Meg."
"Wouldn’t want you to think I’ve gone soft," Meg replied, her tone light but her eyes serious. She paused for a moment, then glanced down at the cold croque monsieur on the plate. "Do you have any money?” she asked, her tone conversational. “I'm hungry." Balthazar rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet.
"Les poubelles sont ramassées demain. Sois prête." Meg winked at Balthazar and approached the counter. Balthazar picked up his notebook, hoping to continue his writing, but found himself distracted. He watched as Meg tried to speak in English with the barista, who struggled to understand her. The exchange was awkward and, to Balthazar, very amusing. He snickered when Meg received the wrong drink but at least succeeded in getting something to eat. She returned to the table with a piece of blueberry pie and a drink, looking annoyed.
"Can you believe this?" Meg complained, setting down her plate and cup. "I asked for a black coffee, and they gave me some sort of fancy tea."
"That’s the problem with you Americans. You always think everyone should speak English." Balthazar smirked, unable to resist the jab. Meg glared at him but said nothing, taking a bite of her pie instead. Balthazar watched her for a moment longer before finally returning to his notebook, the familiar comfort of writing providing a brief escape from the complicated web of emotions and history that surrounded them. Meg watched Balthazar's fingers dance over the pages of his notebook, curiosity piqued. The café's ambient sounds—the soft clinking of cups, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine—enveloped them, creating a cocoon of normalcy around their otherwise tense exchange.
"What are you writing?" Meg asked, leaning forward slightly. Balthazar paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He glanced up, his eyes sharp and guarded.
"Why do you care?"
"Just curious.” Meg shrugged, her tone casual but laced with genuine interest. “You always had a way with words." Balthazar raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
"And here I thought you were more interested in the aesthetics of things." Meg rolled her eyes, taking a delicate sip of her drink before responding.
"Speaking of aesthetics, why did you get a slice of blueberry pie if you were hungry?" She glanced down at the pie, its vibrant hue a striking contrast to the monochromatic palette of her outfit. “If I remember correctly you don't even fancy blueberries much.”
"It’s for the aesthetics," she replied nonchalantly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.
"What does your so-called doctor’s degree say about aesthetics?" Balthazar scoffed, a bemused expression crossing his face. Meg smirked, leaning back in her chair.
"It says that aesthetics can be just as important as substance. Presentation matters, you know." Balthazar shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
"Only you, Meg, would choose a pastry based on how it looks rather than how it tastes." Meg picked up her fork, taking a small bite of the pie. The sweetness of the blueberries burst on her tongue, mingling with the buttery crust. She made a face, not entirely satisfied but resigned to her choice.
"Well, sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the sake of appearance." Balthazar rolled his eyes, his attention momentarily diverted from his writing.
"You haven’t changed a bit."
"Neither have you," Meg retorted, her tone light but with an underlying edge. "Still the same brooding, mysterious figure hunched over your notebook." Balthazar met her gaze, a hint of sadness flickering in his eyes before he masked it with indifference.
"Maybe some things are better left unchanged."
The two of them fell into a contemplative silence, the bustling café continuing around them. Balthazar's thoughts drifted to Castiel and the Novak pack, the familiar ache of old memories surfacing. He wondered how much had truly changed since he had last been a part of their lives. Despite his attempts to distance himself, the ties that bound him to the Novaks remained strong, tugging at his heart with an unrelenting force. Meg observed him quietly, sensing the shift in his mood. She took another bite of the pie, the act almost mechanical as her mind churned with thoughts of her own. She had sought Balthazar out for a reason, and though their conversation had taken its usual detours, she knew they would have to confront the deeper issues sooner or later.
"Why do you still care about them?" Meg asked softly, breaking the silence. "After everything that’s happened, why do you still hold on?" Balthazar sighed, closing his notebook and setting it aside. His eyes met hers, the guarded walls momentarily lowering to reveal the vulnerability beneath.
"Some bonds are too strong to break, no matter how much we might want to." Meg nodded, understanding reflected in her gaze. She knew all too well the struggle of trying to sever ties that seemed woven into the very fabric of one's being. She decided to probe deeper, recalling old memories to draw him out.
"From what I remember, you weren’t too pleased when you had to honour the bet you lost to Charles a few years after it was made, yet you stayed for a quarter of a century."
"Twenty-four years, Meg.” Balthazar corrected her almost reflexively, “Not a quarter of a century."
"It’s the same thing," she said dismissively.
"It wasn’t like I could have made it out of their territory alive if I had tried," Balthazar replied, his tone darkening. Meg smirked, a knowing glint in her eyes.
"I don’t think you ever did." Balthazar didn't answer, his silence speaking volumes. Meg's curiosity got the better of her. "What was the bet anyway?" Balthazar's eyes narrowed.
"It was trivial and doesn’t matter."
"I never thought of you as someone making bets just for the sake of it." Meg, persistent as ever, insisted. He shot her a sharp look.
"J'aimerais être d'accord avec toi, mais alors nous aurions tous les deux tort." It was a familiar phrase he often used when she tried to press him into uncomfortable territories. Meg recognised it too and rolled her eyes.
"Do you like the little power imbalance you get from speaking something I don’t?" Balthazar leaned forward, his voice low and menacing.
"Compared to the big power imbalance my magic has over yours?" Meg's retort was swift, her voice dripping with defiance.
"At least I was never made to play nanny for some dogs." Balthazar's expression tightened, a storm of emotions flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to respond but then thought better of it, leaning back in his chair instead. As he picked up his pen again, Balthazar couldn't help but wonder if the bonds he was trying so hard to sever were already too deeply embedded to ever be truly broken. Meg's presence, her words, and the memories they stirred were all anchored to a past that refused to let go. And perhaps, in some small corner of his heart, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted it to. For a while Balthazar watched as Meg took another few bites of her blueberry pie, her eyes darting back to his notebook occasionally. The tension between them was palpable, a familiar dance of old habits and unresolved emotions. The soft clinking of cups, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine enveloped them in a bubble of normalcy, masking the undercurrents of their exchange.
"How long are you staying?" Balthazar asked, his tone carefully neutral. Meg's eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned back in her chair.
"How long do you want me to?" Balthazar's lips curled into a sardonic smile.
"I didn't think I had any say in the matter."
"From what I have heard the only thing you succeeded in doing as a nanny was to teach your martyr act to the Novak children." Balthazar's glare was icy, but he remained silent. Meg tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh, you're not going to say something in French?" He sighed, setting his pen down and meeting her gaze.
"Sometimes it is better to think than to speak." Meg leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. She whispered an incantation, her voice low and melodic. Balthazar's gaze shifted over her shoulder, his eyes widening as he saw the espresso machine behind the counter begin to smoke. Within seconds, it caught fire, flames licking up the sides, and the baristas scrambling in a panic. "You're a child," Balthazar muttered, his voice filled with a mix of irritation and resignation.
"I guess I might need someone to teach me how to behave." she whispered, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Her tone was flirtatious, a dangerous edge to her words. Balthazar stood up, his chair scraping against the tiled floor. The café's patrons were now aware of the commotion, their conversations hushed as they watched the fire being extinguished by a quick-thinking barista with a fire extinguisher. The scent of burnt coffee beans and singed metal filled the air, mingling with the lingering aroma of pastries. He grabbed Meg's wrist and pulled her outside, the cool winter air a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere inside. The bustling streets of Paris continued as if nothing had happened, the city's beauty indifferent to their drama. Balthazar released her wrist, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.
"Do you ever think before you act?" he snapped, his eyes blazing with anger. Meg shrugged, unfazed by his outburst.
"Where's the fun in that?" Balthazar took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
"You need to stop playing with fire, Meg. Literally and figuratively, you are too old to still find it amusing." She stepped closer, her expression softening slightly.
"I missed this, you know. The banter, the excitement."
" Chaos, you mean," Balthazar corrected, his voice gentler now.
"Call it whatever you want," Meg said, her lips curving into a sly smile. "But you can’t deny that you missed it too." He sighed, looking away from her. The sounds of Paris —footsteps on cobblestones, distant chatter, the hum of traffic— created a comforting backdrop to their reunion. In truth he did miss it, the thrill, the unpredictability, her. But there was a difference between nostalgia and reality, and he knew that their past couldn’t be easily revived.
"Maybe I did," he admitted quietly. "But things are different now. We can’t keep acting like reckless children." Meg's eyes softened, a rare moment of vulnerability flashing across her face before the smirk returned.
"Then teach me, Balthazar. Show me how to behave." He looked at her, the tension between them simmering just below the surface. Despite everything, despite the chaos and the drama, there was a bond that couldn’t be easily broken. And perhaps, in some small way, they both knew that.
"Alright," he said finally, his voice a mix of resignation and determination. "But you have to promise to listen." Meg's smile was genuine this time, a glimpse of the person she sometimes allowed herself to be.
"I promise."
As they walked away from the café, the city of Paris stretched out before them, its timeless beauty a reminder that some things endure despite the chaos. And perhaps, amidst the noise and the fire, there was still a chance for them to find a new balance, a new way to navigate the complexities of their relationship. Balthazar led Meg through the winding streets and narrow alleys of Paris, his pace steady and unyielding. The city's beauty was a blur around them, the intricate ironwork of balconies, the cobblestone streets, and the soft glow of streetlights creating a surreal backdrop to their silent journey. Meg, determined to keep up, was soon breathless, her curiosity piqued as to their destination. Finally, they arrived at Castel Béranger, its ornate façade standing out even in the city's architectural splendour. Meg let out an exasperated sigh, her breath visible in the cool evening air.
"Of course, you have an apartment here," she muttered, rolling her eyes. Balthazar ignored her comment and led her up to the fourth floor, the climb a silent challenge between them. He unlocked the door, revealing an apartment that was an eclectic mix of elegance and eccentricity. The space was filled with a blend of antique furniture and art, the walls lined with tapestries, bookshelves and curiosities from his travels. The warm, ambient lighting cast a golden hue over the room, creating an inviting yet mysterious atmosphere. Balthazar motioned for Meg to sit at the table in the centre of the room. She complied, sinking into the plush chair and taking in her surroundings. Balthazar joined her, his expression unreadable.
"Let's talk," he said, his voice calm but firm. Meg leaned back, crossing her arms.
"Last time we spoke, you had just lost the bet. That was thirty years ago. You’ve been avoiding me ever since." Balthazar’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face.
"I haven't been avoiding you, Meg. I've had other priorities." She smirked, her gaze unwavering.
"Like playing nanny to a pair of pups?" Balthazar's jaw tightened, but he remained composed.
"It wasn’t as bad as you think. In fact, it was quite fulfilling in ways you wouldn’t understand."
"Fulfilling?” Meg raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “I find that hard to believe."
"Believe what you want," Balthazar replied, his tone dismissive. "But I found a sense of purpose in it. Especially with Castiel." Meg’s eyes gleamed with curiosity.
"Ah, yes, Castiel. I've heard rumours about your special bond." Balthazar's gaze turned cold, his guard up.
"What exactly have you heard?"
"Just whispers," Meg said, her tone nonchalant. "That you were more than just a nanny to him. That there was something... deeper ." Balthazar leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Castiel and I share a connection. He was more than just a charge to me. He was like family." Meg studied him, her expression thoughtful.
"You cared for him, didn't you? Genuinely."
"More than you can imagine," Balthazar admitted, his voice softening. "He needed someone to be there for him, someone who understood him." Meg nodded slowly, a hint of respect in her eyes.
"I didn't expect that from you, Balthazar. I thought you hated being bound by that bet."
"It wasn’t the bet I hated," Balthazar said, his tone reflective. "It was the idea of being tied down. But once I got to know them, especially Castiel, it changed everything. It wasn't so bad." A silence settled between them, the ambient sounds of the city drifting in through the open window. Balthazar's thoughts wandered back to his time with the Novak pack, the memories of Castiel's laughter, his curiosity, and his unyielding spirit filling his mind. Meg broke the silence, her voice softer than before.
"So, why did you leave, then? If you cared so much?" Balthazar sighed, his gaze distant.
"Because sometimes, caring means knowing when to let go. I had to give Castiel the space to grow, to become his own person without me always being there." Meg watched him, her expression a mix of understanding and scepticism.
"You think he needed you to leave?"
"I know he did," Balthazar replied, his voice resolute. "And it wasn't easy. But it was necessary." Meg leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table.
"You still care, don't you? About him, about the pack?" Balthazar's eyes met hers, a flicker of vulnerability in their depths.
"Yes, I do." Without warning, Meg muttered an incantation under her breath. A tapestry on the wall burst into flames, the vibrant colours twisting and blackening in the heat. Balthazar reacted instantly, his own incantation extinguishing the fire as quickly as it had started. Smoke lingered in the air, a sharp reminder of Meg's impulsiveness. "You're a child," Balthazar said, his tone exasperated as he turned to face her. Meg smirked.
"Teach me how to behave," she said, her voice dripping with flirtation. Balthazar shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.
"You never learn, do you?"
"Maybe I just need the right teacher," Meg replied, her eyes glinting with mischief. He sighed, walking over to the charred tapestry, inspecting the damage.
"You always choose the most destructive ways to get attention."
"I have found that destruction can be quite effective," Meg said, leaning back in her chair, her smirk never faltering. "It certainly got yours." Balthazar turned to her, his expression serious.
"This isn't a game, Meg. The magic we wield isn't something to be trifled with."
"I know that," she said, her tone softer. "But sometimes, it feels like you're the only one who can understand that balance." He studied her, seeing the genuine concern beneath her playful exterior.
"If you want to learn, truly learn, then you need to take it seriously."
"Alright, Balthazar.” Meg nodded, the playfulness in her eyes dimming slightly. “I'll take it seriously." He gave her a small, approving nod.
"Good. Then maybe there's hope for you yet." The ambient noise of the city outside contrasted with the quiet intensity inside the apartment. Balthazar felt a small sense of hope, a possibility that Meg might actually be willing to change. And perhaps, in teaching her, he might find a way to reconcile his own past and move forward. But Balthazar's hope was quickly diminished as Meg got up and walked over to him. She touched the charred fabric, her fingers lingering on the blackened edges. Balthazar studied her, an almost forgotten regret surfacing, wondering if he had made a mistake leaving her behind all those years ago. She turned to him, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and something deeper. Before he could react, she leaned in and kissed him. Balthazar closed his eyes, letting himself be washed in nostalgia, the familiar sensation tugging at memories long buried. He responded, his hands resting on her hips, drawn into the moment despite himself. "Je te déteste, Meg. Tu reviens toujours au pire moment possible. C'est ton seul vrai talent." Balthazar murmured as he broke away. Meg smiled, a playful glint in her eyes.
"Keep talking dirty," she teased, then slung her arms around his neck and kissed him again. Balthazar felt a rush of conflicting emotions, his heart pounding as he let himself indulge in the kiss. He pulled back slightly, his voice low and filled with frustration.
"Tu es une plaie, Meg. Une plaie persistante qui refuse de guérir." Meg's response was a soft chuckle, clearly not understanding but enjoying the tone.
"That sounds nice. Say more."
"Tu es insupportable," he continued, his hands gripping her waist tighter. "Toujours à gâcher ce qui pourrait être bon." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear.
"I love it when you talk like that."
"Tu ne comprendras jamais," Balthazar muttered, his anger and longing blending into a confusing mix. "Tu joues avec le feu sans penser aux conséquences." Meg's fingers traced the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.
"You always were so passionate," she whispered. "It's intoxicating."
"Je devrais te laisser brûler," he said, his voice trembling with the effort to keep his emotions in check. "Mais je ne peux pas m'empêcher de te sauver à chaque fois." Her laughter was soft, almost tender.
"I wish I knew what you were saying, Balthazar. It sounds so intense."
"Tu n'en vaux pas la peine," he continued, almost to himself. "Mais je suis toujours là, à te ramener de l'abîme." Meg pressed her lips against his again, cutting off his words. Balthazar's resolve weakened, and he found himself lost in the kiss, the taste of her lips mingling with the bittersweet memories of their past. He hated how easily she could draw him back in, how effortlessly she could make him forget the reasons he had left. When they finally parted, both breathless, Balthazar rested his forehead against hers. "Tu es une sorcière," he whispered, the double meaning not lost on him.
"That, I understood," Meg said with a satisfied smirk. "And you wouldn’t have me any other way." Balthazar sighed, feeling the weight of their complicated history pressing down on him.
"No," he admitted softly, "I suppose I wouldn’t." The ambient noises of the city outside seemed distant compared to the storm of emotions inside Balthazar. He knew this dance with Meg was far from over, and the unresolved tension between them would continue to pull them back together, no matter how much he tried to resist. As he held her close, he wondered if he would ever truly be free of her spell, or if he was destined to be caught in her orbit forever. Then Balthazar took Meg's hand, leading her through the apartment to his bedroom. The room was an extension of his eclectic tastes—a large bed with an ornate headboard, walls lined with bookshelves and adorned with mystical symbols and trinkets collected from his travels. The soft glow of candlelight cast dancing shadows across the room, adding to its enigmatic allure. As they walked, Balthazar couldn't help but let his frustrations spill out. "Tu es une idiote," he muttered, his tone filled with exasperation. Meg glanced at him, a smile playing on her lips.
"You know how I love it when you speak French," she purred, completely oblivious to the meaning of his words.
"Tu es comme un poison," he continued, his voice low and laced with annoyance. "Toujours là pour me faire du mal." Meg's fingers brushed against his arm, sending a shiver through him.
"It sounds so romantic," she said, clearly enjoying the sound of his voice more than the content. They reached the bedroom, and Balthazar closed the door behind them. He turned to face Meg, his expression a mixture of anger and longing.
"Tu es la pire chose qui me soit jamais arrivée," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. Meg stepped closer, her eyes locked onto his.
"Say it again," she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.
"Je te déteste," he breathed, his hands finding their way to her waist. "Mais je ne peux pas t'oublier." Meg's lips curved into a teasing smile as she leaned in, her mouth capturing his in a passionate kiss. Balthazar's hands roamed over her back, pulling her closer despite the bitter words spilling from his lips. "Tu es insupportable," he murmured against her lips. "Une vraie plaie." She responded with a soft laugh, her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Keep talking," she urged, her voice a mix of desire and amusement.
"Tu me rends fou," Balthazar said, his voice raw with the intensity of his feelings. "Tu es un cauchemar vivant." Meg pushed him gently onto the bed, her body pressing against his as she kissed him deeply. Balthazar's mind swirled with conflicting emotions, the line between love and hate blurring in the heat of the moment. He knew he shouldn't let her back into his life, but the pull of their shared history was too strong to resist.
"Je suis idiot de te laisser revenir," he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. "Mais je ne peux pas m'en empêcher." Meg moaned softly, her nails digging into his skin.
"Keep talking," she murmured, her breath hitching.
As they moved together, Balthazar's thoughts were a tumultuous sea of regret and desire. He knew that Meg would always be a chaotic force in his life, a storm he could neither control nor escape. Yet, in that moment, he surrendered to the tempest, allowing the intensity of their connection to wash over him.
When they finally lay entwined, the room filled with the soft sounds of their breathing, Balthazar felt a strange sense of peace. He knew this truce was temporary, a fleeting moment of calm before the storm would inevitably return. But for now, he allowed himself to bask in the warmth of their shared passion, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her skin.
"Je te déteste," he murmured one last time, his voice filled with a mix of resignation and affection. Meg smiled, her eyes closing as she nestled closer to him.
"Keep talking," she whispered, her voice drowsy. "I like it." Balthazar sighed, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Tu ne comprendras jamais," he said softly, his words meant more for himself than for her. "Mais peut-être que c'est mieux ainsi." As sleep began to claim them, Balthazar's thoughts drifted back to the Novak pack, to Castiel, and to the complicated web of emotions that bound him to his past. He knew that Meg's return would bring challenges, but for now, he allowed himself a brief respite, savouring the bittersweet moment of being together once more.
Balthazar stirred late in the night, the soft glow of the moon filtering through the partially open curtains. He reached out instinctively, but his hand met only the cool, empty space where Meg should have been. He cursed under his breath, the familiar frustration bubbling up inside him.
"Putain de merde," he muttered, grabbing a pillow and pressing it over his face. This was her pattern—she would reappear, reignite the embers of his desires, and then vanish when he least expected it. The cycle was maddening, a dance of intimacy and abandonment that left him feeling more lost each time. He lay there for a few moments, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume that lingered on the pillow. His thoughts churned, a chaotic mix of memories and desires, all tainted by the sting of her absence. He should have known better, should have guarded his heart more fiercely, but with Meg, it was always easier said than done. Just as he was about to resign himself to another restless night, the door creaked open. Balthazar lifted the pillow from his face, his eyes narrowing in the dim light. Meg stood there, wearing his shirt and little more with a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
"Did you really think I left?" she asked, her voice a soft tease as she walked back towards the bed. Balthazar propped himself up on one elbow, his expression a mix of irritation and relief.
"What are you playing at, Meg?" he demanded, though the edge in his voice had softened. Meg shrugged, slipping back under the covers.
"I just went to get some air," she said nonchalantly. "You know how stuffy these old buildings can get." He rolled his eyes, but a small part of him was glad she had returned.
"You always do this," he grumbled, his tone begrudgingly affectionate. "Come back, turn my life upside down, and then disappear when I want you to stay." Meg reached out, tracing a finger along his jawline.
"So you want me to stay?" she teased, her voice lilting with amusement. Balthazar realised his mistake immediately. He felt his cheeks flush with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. He had given her another piece of himself, something he always regretted later. He quickly turned away from her touch, trying to regain his composure.
"Don't twist my words," he said, his voice harsh with suppressed emotion. "You know exactly what I mean." Meg's laugh softly, almost musical.
"Oh, Balthazar, you are so easy to rattle." She nestled closer to him, her presence both a comfort and a torment. "Why can't you just admit that you missed me?" He stared at the ceiling, the ornate patterns of the plaster reflecting the moonlight. Admitting anything to Meg felt like giving her ammunition, and he had already given her too much. But the truth was undeniable. He had missed her, more than he cared to admit even to himself.
"Maybe I did," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "But that doesn't change anything. You're still the same impulsive, unpredictable Meg." She rested her head on his chest, her hair tickling his skin.
"And you're still the same brooding, complicated Balthazar," she replied, her tone softer now, more sincere. "That's why we work. We're two sides of the same coin." Balthazar sighed, wrapping an arm around her almost instinctively. He knew she was right in some twisted way. Their relationship was a paradox, a blend of passion and conflict that neither could escape. He felt a pang of longing for simpler times, before their paths had diverged so dramatically.
"Do you ever think about what could have been?" he asked, surprising himself with the question. Meg was silent for a moment, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his chest.
"Sometimes," she admitted. "But then I remember that we are who we are. We wouldn't be us if things had been different." Her words echoed in his mind as he held her close, the warmth of her body grounding him in the present moment. Despite the tumultuous history between them, despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead, there was a strange comfort in knowing that, at least for now, they were together. As sleep began to claim him, Balthazar's thoughts once more drifted to the Novak pack, to Castiel, and to the responsibilities he had tried to leave behind. He knew that with Meg's return, his life would undoubtedly be thrown into chaos again. But for tonight, he allowed himself the luxury of her presence, of the fleeting peace she brought, even if it was only a temporary reprieve from the storm that loomed on the horizon.
When Balthazar woke again, the soft light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of the city waking up beyond the windows. He turned his head slightly and saw Meg asleep beside him, her face serene and free of the mischief that so often played across her features. He took a moment to study her, the way her dark hair spilled over the pillow, framing her face in soft waves. Her expression in sleep was peaceful, almost vulnerable, a stark contrast to the bold, defiant woman he knew. There was something achingly beautiful about this quiet moment, and Balthazar felt a pang of nostalgia for the times when things had been simpler between them. He traced the contours of her face with his eyes, noting the faint freckles that dusted her cheeks and the delicate curve of her lips. He remembered the first time he had seen her like this, so many years ago, and the rush of emotions that had accompanied that sight. Even now, after everything they had been through, she still had the power to stir something deep within him. As he watched her, memories flooded back. He remembered their shared laughter, the whispered secrets in the dead of night, and the way her eyes sparkled with mischief when she was up to no good. He also remembered the arguments, the betrayals, and the countless times she had driven him to the brink of madness. But despite it all, he couldn't deny the connection they shared, a bond that seemed to transcend the chaos of their lives. Balthazar's gaze shifted to the window, where the sky was slowly brightening, heralding a new day. He knew that with the dawn came responsibilities and challenges he couldn't ignore.
He sighed softly, careful not to wake her, and gently extricated himself from the bed. Moving quietly, he crossed the room to the window, opening it slightly to let in the fresh morning air. The city below was coming to life, the sounds of footsteps on cobblestones and the distant hum of traffic creating a familiar backdrop. Leaning against the window frame, Balthazar allowed himself a moment of reflection. He wondered what the future held, whether he could navigate the complexities of his duties and his relationship with Meg without losing himself in the process. The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with potential pitfalls, but he knew he couldn't turn away from it. A rustle behind him caught his attention, and he turned to see Meg stirring, her eyes fluttering open. She looked at him with a sleepy smile, the remnants of her dreams still lingering in her gaze.
"Morning," she murmured, her voice husky from sleep.
"Morning," he replied, a soft smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Meg stretched languidly, a cat-like grace in her movements.
"What time is it?"
"Early," Balthazar said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "The city is just waking up." She sat up, running a hand through her tousled hair.
"And what about us, Balthazar? Are we waking up too, or just dreaming?" He walked back to the bed, sitting on the edge and looking at her intently.
"Maybe a bit of both," he said quietly. "But whatever it is, we have to face it together." Meg reached out, taking his hand in hers.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"For now, but how long will that last?" he asked, a hint of sadness in his voice. "In the end either you’ll leave me or I'll leave you, like always." Meg looked up into his eyes, a flicker of something deeper passing through her gaze.
"I followed you, you know, to America, to the pack." Balthazar was taken aback. He hadn't known that.
"You followed me?" he asked, disbelief colouring his tone. She leaned closer, her eyes searching his.
"Of course I did." Balthazar felt a mix of emotions swirling within him—surprise, confusion, and a nagging sense of hope.
"You're doing it again," he said, his voice tinged with frustration.
"Doing what?" Meg asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Pretending like you love me," he said, his words almost a whisper. Meg leaned her head against his chest, her breath warm against his skin.
"Why can't we pretend, Balthazar?" she murmured. “It is so much easier if we pretend.” Balthazar felt a lump in his throat as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. The city outside continued to awaken, the sounds of life filtering into their quiet cocoon. In that moment, the world beyond their embrace seemed distant and insignificant. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the sensation of her warmth, the rhythm of her breathing. The future was uncertain, but for now, in this fleeting moment, he could pretend that they were just two people, bound by love and not by the chaotic history that lay between them.
Balthazar felt the morning's serenity slipping away, replaced by the familiar tension that Meg's presence always brought. He shifted slightly, trying to maintain the fragile intimacy of the moment while grappling with the practicalities that had suddenly surfaced in his mind.
"When did you get here?" he asked, his voice soft but tinged with curiosity.
"Just the other day," Meg replied, her tone casual as she traced small patterns on his chest. Balthazar raised an eyebrow.
"And where have you been staying?" Meg hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Some hostel." Balthazar’s expression tightened.
"A hostel? You will have hell to pay if you brought bedbugs with you," he muttered, more to himself than to her. He could already imagine the hassle of dealing with an infestation, the relentless itch and the need to cleanse every corner of his sanctuary. Meg chuckled, the sound light and unbothered.
"Relax, Balthazar. It was clean enough." His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in.
"Why don’t you use your ‘doctor money’ to get a better place to stay?" Meg didn’t respond immediately, and in that silence, Balthazar realised the truth. She had no intention of staying at a hostel any longer than necessary. Her plan had always been to stay with him, to weave herself back into his life. He sighed, a mix of resignation and reluctant acceptance settling over him. "You were hoping to stay here," he said, more as a statement than a question. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with a blend of mischief and vulnerability.
"Maybe," she admitted, her voice softer now. "I missed you, Balthazar." He looked away, trying to gather his thoughts. The city outside was now fully awake, the sounds of morning traffic blending with the distant chirping of birds. He thought about the chaos that Meg always brought with her, the way she disrupted his carefully constructed life. But he also thought about the warmth of her presence, the way she filled the void that he often tried to ignore.
"You always miss me when it’s convenient for you," he said, his tone laced with a hint of bitterness. Meg’s fingers stilled on his chest, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of hurt in her eyes.
"That’s not fair, Balthazar," she whispered. "You know it’s more than that." He sighed again, running a hand through his hair.
"Maybe it is. But you have a knack for showing up at the worst possible times." She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his neck.
"And yet, here we are." Balthazar closed his eyes, allowing himself to momentarily forget the complications. Her touch, her scent, the familiar weight of her presence—everything about her was intoxicating. He knew he was treading dangerous ground, but he couldn't help himself.
"When do you leave?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Meg pulled back slightly, her gaze searching him.
"Do you want me to leave?" He didn’t answer immediately. The truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted. Part of him longed for the peace that came with her absence, while another part craved the chaos she brought into his life.
"I don’t know," he finally admitted, his voice raw with honesty. Meg smiled, a sad, understanding smile.
"I can stay for a while, if you’ll have me." Balthazar opened his eyes to look at her, the conflicting emotions playing out in his mind. He knew that allowing her to stay would complicate things, but he also knew that pushing her away would leave him feeling emptier than before.
"Fine," he said, his tone resigned. "But don’t think for a second that I’ll tolerate any nonsense." Meg’s smile brightened, and she leaned in to kiss him softly.
"No nonsense, I promise." As she settled back into the bed beside him, Balthazar felt a strange sense of peace wash over him. It was temporary, he knew that, but for now, it was enough. The city outside continued its morning symphony, and in the quiet of his room, Balthazar allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to make this work. Meg's eyes sparkled with mischief, a playful glint that Balthazar knew all too well. She leaned in closer, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "AND if I don't learn, you'll just have to punish me," she said, her voice dripping with flirtation and suggestion. Balthazar felt a familiar surge of both irritation and desire. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the comforter and pulled it over her head, engulfing her in a cocoon of fabric. Meg's laughter bubbled up, muffled by the thick blanket.
"Behave, or I just might," Balthazar warned, his tone a mix of amusement and seriousness. Her laughter subsided into soft giggles, and she peeked out from beneath the comforter, her eyes twinkling.
"Promises, promises," she murmured, still caught in the playful mood. Balthazar couldn’t help but chuckle. The morning light filtering through the curtains cast a golden hue across the room, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air. It was a tranquil contrast to the charged atmosphere between them. He settled back against the pillows, watching as Meg extricated herself from the comforter, her hair a tousled mess. She looked at him with a mix of affection and defiance, a combination that always managed to unsettle him.
"Do you ever take anything seriously, Meg?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation.
"Of course I do," she replied, her tone softening. "Just not the things you want me to." He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
"You’re impossible."
"And yet, here you are, still with me," she said, her voice light but with an undercurrent of sincerity. The light streamed in, bathing the room in a warm glow that felt almost otherworldly. He looked down at Meg, her head resting in his lap, her dark hair splayed out like a fan.
“You’ve messed things up by coming,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and resignation. Meg looked up at him, a defiant glint in her eyes.
“It was high time for me to mess things up, then. I can’t imagine spending three more decades without doing so.” Balthazar closed his eyes, his fingers moving absentmindedly to massage her scalp.
“What did you do, Meg? If you really followed me, what did you do all this time?” Meg sighed, a soft sound that seemed to carry the weight of years.
“I opened a doctor’s office for people like us in the town closest to where the Novak territory borders. But you never came. For 24 years, you never came by.” Balthazar’s hand stilled for a moment.
“I was never in town much. The Novaks have a healer. The pack wouldn’t leave the territory for something like that.”
“Yet someone did,” Meg countered, her tone firm. Balthazar hummed in response, a noncommittal sound. Meg continued, “It was that new wolf. He had cut himself quite deeply and claimed to be a chef.”
“He is a chef, or was before he married Castiel at least.” Meg’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat.
“Someone married Castiel?” she asked, her voice betraying a mix of surprise and something else Balthazar couldn’t quite place. Balthazar looked down at her, studying her expression.
“Why do you sound like that?” Meg’s eyes darted away, realising her misstep.
“I mean, I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.” Balthazar’s expression hardened, a flicker of anger igniting in his eyes.
“De toutes les choses que je pensais que tu serais, je ne pensais pas que tu serais irrespectueuse.” Meg didn’t understand the words, but she could tell from his tone that it wasn’t a compliment. “Qu'est-ce que tu espérais accomplir, Meg? Pourquoi toujours apparaître et jeter le chaos partout où tu passes?” he continued, his frustration growing. Meg’s face tightened, not understanding but sensing the accusation.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Tu n’as jamais de bonnes intentions, n’est-ce pas?” Balthazar interrupted, his voice rising. “Tu veux juste jouer à tes jeux et voir jusqu’où tu peux pousser les autres.” Meg’s brows furrowed, her confusion mingling with hurt, he always did this when he was furious; alienating her with accusations in a language she didn't speak.
“Balthazar, I—”
“Arrête de jouer l’innocente, Meg,” he snapped. “Tu savais exactement ce que tu faisais en venant ici.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching.
“Balthazar, you know that I don’t know what you’re saying, but I can tell it’s not good. Please switch back to English.” Balthazar’s jaw clenched, his eyes blazing.
“Of all the things I thought you would be, I didn’t think disrespectful would be one of them.” Meg’s face fell, realising that whatever she had stirred, it had hurt him deeply.
“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” she said softly, her voice trembling. Balthazar sighed, his anger ebbing slightly as he saw the genuine regret in her eyes.
“You never do, do you?” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. Meg reached up, placing a hand on his cheek.
“I didn’t come here to fight, Balthazar. I came because... because I missed you.” He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch despite himself.
“You only miss me when it’s convenient for you,” he murmured. Meg’s hand slipped to his chest, her touch warm and reassuring.
“Maybe it’s because you’re always worth missing,” she said softly. Balthazar's grip tightened in Meg's hair, a visceral expression of his frustration and lingering affection. She gasped softly, her eyes widening in surprise before narrowing with a mix of defiance and desire. The intensity between them crackled like static in the air, an electric charge that neither could fully control.
"Fine," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You can stay." Meg's lips curled into a triumphant smile, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"I knew you’d come around," she purred, tilting her head slightly to lean into his hand. Balthazar released his grip, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping to his side. He turned away, walking towards the window and staring out at the city. The morning light painted the rooftops with a soft, golden hue, a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling inside him. Meg watched him, her expression shifting from triumph to something more thoughtful. She rose from the bed and crossed the room to stand beside him, her presence a quiet yet insistent reminder of their complicated history.
"Why do you always make things so difficult?" Balthazar asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t turn to look at her, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
"Because nothing worth having is easy," Meg replied, her tone surprisingly gentle. "And you, Balthazar, are definitely worth having." He glanced at her, his eyes searching hers for sincerity. There was something different in her expression, a vulnerability that he rarely saw. It stirred something deep within him, a reluctant acknowledgment of the bond they shared.
"I don’t know what to do with you," he admitted, his voice laced with a mix of resignation and affection.
"Just let me stay," Meg said softly, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm. "We’ll figure the rest out as we go." Balthazar sighed, the weight of his conflicted emotions pressing down on him.
"You’re impossible," he muttered, though his tone lacked the sharpness it had held earlier.
"And yet, here we are," Meg replied, echoing his earlier words with a small smile. He turned to face her fully, his eyes locking onto hers.
"Stay out of trouble," he warned, his voice firm but not unkind. "I don’t have the energy for your chaos right now."
"I’ll try," she said, her smile widening. "But you know I can’t promise anything." Balthazar shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.
"You’re infuriating."
"And you love me for it," she teased, stepping closer and slipping her arms around his waist. He sighed, wrapping his arms around her in return.
"God help me."
As the day began to unfold, Balthazar knew that challenges lay ahead. The Novak pack, Castiel, and the unpredictable presence of Meg would all demand his attention. But for now, he allowed himself to simply be, holding onto the woman who had always been both his greatest torment and his greatest solace.
"Now," he said, pulling back slightly to look at her, "tell me about this hostel you’ve been staying in. And don’t lie to me." Meg’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Why? Are you jealous of my glamorous accommodations?" Balthazar rolled his eyes, though a small smile played on his lips.
"I’m serious, Meg. If you’re staying here, we need to be honest with each other."
"Alright, alright," she conceded, raising her hands in mock surrender. "I’ve been staying in a dive, but only because I didn’t know if you’d take me in."
"And if I hadn’t?" he asked, his tone challenging.
"I would have found a way," she replied confidently. "I always do." Balthazar shook his head, a mix of exasperation and admiration in his gaze.
"You’re something else, you know that?" Meg grinned, leaning up to kiss him softly.
"And you love me for it," she repeated, her voice a whisper against his lips. He sighed, pulling her close once more.
"For better or worse." he murmured.
When Balthazar and Meg made their way to the kitchen, the air between them filled with a curious blend of tension and familiarity. The light from the early morning sun filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor and illuminating the dust motes that danced in the still air. Balthazar walked with purpose, his footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor, while Meg followed, her movements more languid and deliberate. Dressed now in a pair of Balthazar's trousers rolled up at the ankles and yesterday’s tanktop Meg looked out of place, yet strangely fitting in the eclectic surroundings. Balthazar cast a disapproving glance at her borrowed attire, his mouth twitching with barely concealed irritation.
"You couldn't wear anything else?" he asked, his tone dry. Meg shrugged nonchalantly.
"Your wardrobe is surprisingly comfortable. And at least I’m not in black leather, right?" Balthazar grumbled something under his breath but let it go, turning his attention to the kitchen. The room was a charming mix of modern appliances and rustic charm. Copper pots hung from a ceiling rack, and the scent of fresh herbs from the windowsill garden mingled with the faint aroma of coffee. He moved with practised ease, setting about making breakfast with a kind of ritualistic precision. Meg watched him, leaning casually against the counter.
"What do you usually do these days?" she asked, her tone light with a hint of genuine curiosity.
"Whatever I want," Balthazar replied, not looking up from the eggs he was cracking into a bowl. "I’m no doctor." Meg rolled her eyes.
"I do have a degree, you know." Balthazar made a noise, somewhere between a scoff and a snort, that made it clear he did not believe her.
"Sure, and I’m the King of France." She laughed, a bright, melodic sound that filled the room.
"It’s true! I worked hard for it."
"Is that what you call it?" he retorted, whisking the eggs with a bit more force than necessary. "Working hard?" She sauntered over to him, peeking into the bowl.
"Believe what you want, Balthazar, but I did earn it. Just because you think I’m a menace doesn’t mean I can’t do something worthwhile." Balthazar paused, the whisk in his hand slowing. He glanced at her, a flicker of something softer in his eyes.
"I never said you couldn’t do something worthwhile. I just have trouble believing you’d choose to." Meg’s expression softened, her eyes holding a rare sincerity.
"I did it because I wanted to help people. It isn’t always about the chaos." He turned away, busying himself with pouring the eggs into a heated pan.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "But you’ve always been drawn to it, haven’t you? The chaos." Meg didn’t answer immediately, her gaze drifting to the window where the city lay just beyond, bustling with life.
"Maybe I have," she admitted finally. "But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about other things. Other people." Balthazar looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the truth in her eyes. For a moment, the years of shared history, the pain, and the passion between them, hung in the air like a tangible thing. He turned back to the stove, his movements more measured now.
"Breakfast will be ready soon. You can set the table." Meg smiled, a small, genuine smile that hinted at the girl she once was, the witch he had fallen for all those years ago. She moved around the kitchen, gathering plates and cutlery, her presence filling the space with an ease that belied their complicated relationship. As they sat down to eat, the silence between them was not uncomfortable but rather a reflection of their shared past. The food was simple but well-made, a testament to Balthazar's skill and care. They ate quietly, the clink of cutlery and the hum of the city outside creating a soothing backdrop.
"So," Meg said after a while, breaking the silence. "What’s the plan for today?" Balthazar looked at her, his expression thoughtful.
"I have some work to do. Research, mostly. You?" Meg shrugged.
"I guess I’ll explore the city. See what’s changed." He nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer.
"Just stay out of trouble."
"No promises." The day stretched out before them, a blend of uncertainty and possibility. Balthazar knew that having Meg here would complicate things, but a part of him welcomed the disruption. As much as he hated to admit it, he had missed her, missed the unpredictable energy she brought into his life. For now, he decided, he would take things one step at a time, navigating the complexities of their relationship and the responsibilities that awaited him.
Later, as the sun climbed higher in the Parisian sky, Balthazar stood by the front door, watching Meg as she prepared to leave. The light filtering through the windows cast a soft, golden glow on the polished wooden floor, and the scent of fresh coffee still lingered in the air. He handed her a stack of euro notes, his expression a mix of concern and reluctance.
"Take this," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Go buy yourself something decent to wear." Meg raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.
"I could just go back to the hostel and get my stuff." Balthazar's eyes narrowed, his tone dropping to a mock-seriousness.
"If you dare go back to that hostel, I won’t let you back in here. You can sleep with the bedbugs." Meg laughed, a light, musical sound that echoed in the hallway. She stepped closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You wouldn’t dare." He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.
"Try me," he whispered, his voice laced with both a challenge and a hint of affection. Their eyes locked for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Then, in a sudden, impulsive gesture, Balthazar kissed her. It was a kiss filled with their shared history, a mix of longing, frustration, and unspoken words. Meg responded in kind, her hands finding their way to his shoulders, holding him as if afraid he might disappear. When they finally broke apart, both were slightly breathless. Balthazar looked into her eyes, seeing a flicker of something that made his heart ache. "Be careful out there," he said softly. “There are hunters here too, you know.” Meg nodded, her playful demeanour giving way to a rare moment of sincerity.
"I will," she promised. She tucked the money into her pocket and gave him one last, lingering look before turning towards the door. As she walked out, Balthazar watched her go, a mixture of emotions swirling inside him. He felt the familiar tug of worry and protectiveness, but also a sense of inevitability. Their paths were intertwined in a way that neither of them could fully control, no matter how much they might try. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he closed the door behind her. The apartment felt suddenly emptier, the echoes of their conversation fading into the silence. He walked back to the kitchen, the remnants of their breakfast still on the table. Clearing the dishes, he tried to focus on the mundane task, hoping it would ground him in the present moment. But his mind kept drifting back to Meg, to the way her eyes sparkled with mischief and her laughter filled the room. He wondered what trouble she would find—or create—in the city today. Despite his stern words, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation, a spark of excitement that came with her presence.
Balthazar knew he had work to do, research that couldn’t be postponed any longer. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of reflection, a brief respite to gather his thoughts. He walked to his desk and opened his notebook to be greeted by the familiar sight of its pages bringing a sense of comfort. He picked up his pen, letting the words flow as he began to jot down his thoughts.
His mind wandered through memories of the past, the battles fought and the alliances forged. He thought of Castiel, of the bond they shared, and the responsibilities that came with it. Despite the complexities, Balthazar felt a renewed sense of purpose. He knew he had to find a way to balance his duties with the unpredictable force that was Meg. Hours passed as he lost himself in his writing, the world outside his window moving at its own pace. Eventually, he set down his pen, feeling a sense of accomplishment. He stood, stretching his muscles, and walked to the window, looking out at the bustling streets below.
Notes:
The most aggressively European thing I do is smoke cigarettes while riding my bike.
Chapter 15
Notes:
Chapter word count: 9 696
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
The days following their heated argument were a blur for Dean. Castiel’s words, vivid and raw, replayed incessantly in his mind. The metaphor of the cockroach and the fire ants gnawed at him, making every moment at work and home a struggle. He was haunted by the imagery Castiel had painted—a world where every day was a relentless barrage of tiny, painful bites, yet amidst the chaos, there was an undeniable resilience. Castiel’s strength, his fragility, and his desperate need to be heard resonated with Dean in a way he couldn’t shake off.
The bustling kitchen of the restaurant, usually Dean’s refuge, now felt suffocating. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the hiss of pans, and the clatter of dishes couldn’t drown out his thoughts. Even Charlie’s cheerful chatter and supportive presence couldn’t break through the cloud hanging over him. He tried to focus, but his mind kept drifting back to the Novak farm, to Castiel, and the look of betrayal and pain in his eyes. Charlie noticed the change in him. She saw how he would zone out, his movements mechanical, his smile forced. She didn’t press him for details, respecting his need for space, but her concern was palpable. She made sure to check in with him, offering small gestures of kindness—a cup of tea, a moment of shared laughter, a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.
At night, Dean lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The house, usually filled with the comforting sounds of Castiel’s routines, now felt eerily silent. Castiel had retreated into himself, avoiding Dean as much as possible. The absence of his presence was a constant reminder of the rift between them. Dean missed the quiet moments they had started to share, the tentative steps towards understanding each other. He didn’t understand why he felt so guilty. Castiel had only begun to care after nearly dying, before then he treated Dean like Dean had kicked every puppy in town. Before that, he had been distant, caught up in his rigid routines and expectations. Dean had every reason to resent him, to want out of this forced marriage. Yet, despite his plans for escape, despite the resentment, there was a part of him that couldn’t ignore Castiel’s genuine attempts to connect. Dean sighed, turning over in bed, trying to find a comfortable position. The soft purring of Norma, curled up at his feet, was the only sound in the room. He reached down, stroking her fur, finding a small measure of comfort in her presence. He wondered if Castiel was awake, plagued by the same restless thoughts. The image of Castiel, eyes filled with a mixture of hope and despair, tugged at Dean’s heart.
He had tried to drown out his thoughts with work, with the familiar routines of the kitchen, but it was no use. The metaphor Castiel had shared was too powerful, too poignant to ignore. Dean had seen glimpses of Castiel’s world, the rigid structure, the need for order, and the overwhelming pressure to conform. But it wasn’t until that night, during their argument, that he truly began to understand the depth of Castiel’s struggle.
The days passed in a tense, uneasy truce. Dean went through the motions, trying to keep up appearances, but his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something important, that there was a crucial piece of the puzzle he hadn’t yet grasped. He spent hours in the library, pretending to read, but his mind was elsewhere. He wandered the grounds of the farm, ostensibly helping with chores, but his true purpose was to think, to mull over his next steps. One afternoon, as Dean was walking near the edge of the property, he spotted Castiel. He was sitting under the old oak tree, a book in his lap, lost in thought. Dean hesitated, unsure if he should approach. He didn’t want to intrude, didn’t want to push Castiel further away. But something compelled him to move forward, to try to bridge the gap between them. He walked over slowly, his footsteps crunching on the frosty grass. Castiel looked up, his blue eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the silence heavy with unspoken words.
“Hey,” Dean said softly, stopping a few steps away. “Mind if I join you?” Castiel hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“Sure.” Dean sat down next to him, feeling the cold ground seep through his jeans. He glanced at the book in Castiel’s lap, noting the worn cover and dog-eared pages.
“What are you reading?” Castiel shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the book.
“Just something Balthazar left behind. Ancient magic and rituals.” Dean nodded, unsure of what to say next. He looked around, taking in the beauty of the winter landscape. The trees were bare, their branches outlined against the pale sky, and the ground was covered in a thin layer of frost. It was a sharp contrast to the storm inside him. Dean's eyes landed on the book, but he realised he couldn't read it.
"What language is it in?" Castiel sighed, a hint of frustration in his tone.
"You don’t have to pretend anymore, Dean. We don’t have to pretend. You made it quite clear that you don’t want to try to work at this marriage, so you can just stop." Dean swallowed hard, the guilt coming back in full force. He looked down at the frosty ground, the weight of Castiel’s words settling over him like a heavy blanket.
“It’s not that simple, Cas,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. Castiel closed the book with a soft thud, his expression unreadable.
“It never is, is it?” he said quietly, more to himself than to Dean. Dean felt a surge of frustration, not at Castiel, but at himself. He wanted to say something, anything, to make it right, but the words wouldn’t come. The silence between them stretched, filled with unspoken regrets and missed opportunities. Finally, Castiel stood, brushing the frost from his jeans. “I should get back to work,” he said, his voice tight. Dean watched him go, his heart aching with the realisation that while escaping was still in the forefront of his mind there was a small voice reminding him that he was losing Castiel and he didn’t know how to stop it. The cold seeped into his bones as he sat there, under the old oak tree, feeling more alone than ever. The winter sky above seemed to mirror the desolation in his heart, a vast expanse of grey, with no hint of the warmth and connection he so desperately craved.
Dean remained seated beneath the old oak tree, his breath visible in the frigid air. The cold seemed to seep into his very core, yet he couldn't bring himself to move. The landscape around him was a winter wonderland, though he hardly noticed its beauty. The bare branches of the oak stretched high above him, their intricate patterns against the grey sky a silent witness to his turmoil. Tiny frost crystals adorned the blades of grass, glinting faintly in the dim light. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them in a futile attempt to preserve some warmth. His thoughts swirled like the bitter wind, replaying every moment of his argument with Castiel. The look in Castiel’s eyes, a mix of hurt and resignation, haunted him. Dean had never been good with emotions, his own or anyone else’s, and now he found himself completely out of his depth.
The stillness of the afternoon was interrupted only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird. Dean's mind wandered to the past, to a time before the war, before the marriage. He remembered the simplicity of his life then, the joy he found in the kitchen, the camaraderie with his colleagues. Now, everything felt tainted by the weight of his decisions and the expectations thrust upon him. As he stared at the frozen ground, Dean’s thoughts drifted to the farm itself. The Novak territory was vast, a blend of cultivated land and wild forest. By now he had spent countless hours walking these grounds, pretending to help with chores while secretly mapping potential escape routes. Now, those plans seemed distant, almost irrelevant. The urge to leave was still there, but it was tangled with a growing sense of duty and, begrudgingly, a budding care for Castiel. A sudden gust of wind sent a shiver through him, drawing his attention to the distant treeline. The forest loomed, a dense and mysterious expanse that had always intrigued him. He imagined what it would be like to just walk into those woods, to lose himself among the trees and escape the complexities of his current life. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. The forest, with all its beauty and mystery, also represented the unknown, a place where he might never find his way back.
Dean's gaze returned to the oak tree. He traced the lines of its bark with his eyes, noticing the subtle patterns and the way the frost clung to its surface. The tree had stood there for generations, weathering countless storms and seasons. It was resilient, a silent testament to endurance and strength. Dean found a strange sense of solace in that thought, a small comfort in the midst of his inner chaos. The sound of distant laughter reached his ears, pulling him from his reverie. He turned his head to see a group of children playing near the barn, their bright voices carrying on the wind. They were bundled up in coats and scarves, their cheeks rosy from the cold. Watching them, Dean felt a pang of nostalgia for simpler times, when his biggest worry was perfecting a new recipe or winning a playful bet with his brothers.
As the children ran and played, their carefree joy seemed to contrast sharply with the heaviness in Dean’s heart. He wondered if he would ever feel that lightness again, if he could ever find a way to reconcile the demands of his current life with his own desires and dreams. The path ahead was unclear, filled with uncertainty and doubt. Dean sighed, his breath forming a small cloud in the frosty air. He leaned back against the sturdy trunk of the oak tree, feeling its rough bark through his jacket. The silence of the winter landscape enveloped him once more, a quiet embrace that offered no answers, only a brief respite from his troubled thoughts. He closed his eyes, allowing the stillness to wash over him, hoping that somewhere within its depths, he might find a glimmer of clarity, a way to move forward.
Dean pushed himself off the cold ground, brushing the frost from his jeans. He cast one last glance at the old oak tree before turning his gaze toward the forest. The dense line of trees beckoned to him, promising a sanctuary away from the tangled emotions and unspoken words that haunted him. With a deep breath, he started walking toward the treeline, the crunch of frosty grass beneath his boots the only sound in the stillness. As he approached the edge of the forest, the branches seemed to reach out like skeletal fingers, tearing at his clothes and scratching his skin. He welcomed the sting, a distraction from the gnawing thoughts that plagued him. The further he ventured, the denser the forest became, the canopy above growing thicker and blocking out the weak winter sunlight. The world outside seemed to fade away, replaced by the quiet whispers of the woods.
Dean moved with purpose, his steps deliberate as he navigated the underbrush. The forest floor was a patchwork of fallen leaves, twigs, and patches of snow, the air filled with the earthy scent of moss and decaying foliage. Here, in the heart of the forest, the outside world felt distant and unimportant. The only reality was the rhythm of his breath and the muffled crunch of his boots against the ground. He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the surroundings. The trees stood tall and silent, their bare branches forming intricate patterns against the grey sky. A sense of tranquillity settled over him, the quiet of the forest a soothing balm to his troubled mind. Dean closed his eyes, taking in the sounds of nature—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, the gentle whisper of the wind through the branches. With a deep breath, he let go of his human form, allowing the familiar transformation to wash over him. His muscles rippled and shifted, bones lengthening and reshaping as he sank to all fours. Fur sprouted across his skin, a thick coat of russet and gold that shimmered in the dappled light. His senses sharpened, the scents of the forest becoming more vivid, each sound more distinct. Dean, now fully in his wolf form, shook himself, the last remnants of his human self falling away like leaves in the wind. He stretched, feeling the powerful muscles beneath his fur tensing and relaxing. The forest around him seemed to come alive, each detail more pronounced, the world a tapestry of scents and sounds. He padded forward, his paws sinking into the soft snow. The forest embraced him, its natural beauty and wildness a contrast to the constraints of his human life. Here, he was free, unburdened by the complexities of his thoughts and emotions. He moved with a fluid grace, weaving through the trees with a newfound sense of purpose.
Dean’s keen senses picked up the faint trail of a deer, the scent fresh and tantalising. He followed it, his instincts guiding him deeper into the forest. The thrill of the hunt coursed through him, a primal energy that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in months. He crouched low, his ears pricked and his eyes scanning the underbrush for any sign of movement. The deer, unaware of its pursuer, grazed quietly in a small clearing. Dean watched it for a moment, his heart pounding with anticipation. Then, in a burst of speed, he sprang forward, his powerful legs propelling him toward his prey. The deer bolted, but Dean was faster, his body a blur of motion as he closed the distance between them. He leapt, his jaws closing around the deer’s neck in a swift, decisive movement. The struggle was brief, the deer’s life ebbing away as Dean held it down. When it was over, he stepped back, panting heavily, his breath visible in the cold air. The forest was silent once more, the only sound was the soft rustle of leaves as the wind picked up.
Standing over the deer, Dean felt a rush of conflicting emotions. In his wolf form, he was guided by instinct and the primal need to hunt. But as he looked at the lifeless animal before him, his thoughts began to spiral. Castiel wouldn’t like this. Castiel, with his gentle nature towards animals and vegetarian diet, would be saddened to know Dean had killed an animal. The thought made Dean’s heart ache, but the wolf inside him was hungry, and the scent of fresh blood was impossible to resist. Dean lowered his head and began to tear at the deer’s flesh, his powerful jaws ripping through the skin and muscle with ease. The taste of the warm meat filled his senses, and he devoured it with a fervour, driven by the primal need to feed. Blood stained his fur, the rich, coppery scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest floor. He gnawed at the deer's neck, the tendons snapping under his powerful bite. The meat was tender and rich, satisfying a deep hunger that had little to do with sustenance and everything to do with the animal instincts that surged through him. He continued to tear and consume, his senses focused entirely on the act of feeding. As he devoured the deer, Dean's thoughts drifted back to Castiel. He imagined the look of disappointment and sorrow that would cross Castiel's face if he saw him now. The thought pained him, but the wolf in him was relentless, driven by an unquenchable need. The forest around him seemed to close in, the shadows deepening as the light faded.
The remains of the deer lay scattered, the once graceful creature now nothing more than a visible representation of Dean's inner conflict. He licked his chops, the taste of blood lingering on his tongue. He felt a strange mix of satisfaction and guilt, the two emotions warring within him. The forest, with its silent witnesses of trees and shadows, offered no judgement, only the cold comfort of its embrace. Dean stood there for a moment, his breathing heavy, the forest around him a cacophony of scents and sounds that he had once found soothing. Now, they felt like reminders of the distance between his human self and the wolf within. He lifted his head, his eyes scanning the dense canopy above, the bare branches reaching out like the skeletal fingers of some ancient, unseen force. As he began to move again, Dean felt a heaviness settle over him. The act of hunting and feeding had not brought the clarity he had hoped for. Instead, it had only deepened the divide between his human and wolf selves. The forest, with its beauty and wildness, now seemed to echo the unresolved conflict within him.
He walked slowly, his paws sinking into the soft snow, the chill of the forest air brushing against his fur. The trees whispered their ancient secrets, the wind carrying their voices through the underbrush. Each step felt deliberate, a reminder of the journey he still had to undertake. Dean knew he couldn’t stay in the forest forever. He had to face Castiel. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of solace in the embrace of the wilderness, the only place where he felt truly free.
Dean shifted back to his human form, the transition smooth and almost seamless. The hunt had provided a temporary escape, a way to channel his frustrations and energy. But as he sat there, the reality of his situation crept back in, the silence of the forest filled with the echoes of his unresolved conflicts. The remnants of the deer lay scattered, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. His clothes, now torn and bloodstained, were a stark reminder of his primal act, the crimson stains spreading like a dark, incriminating tapestry. Dean stood up, brushing the dirt and leaves from his hands, but the blood remained, stubbornly clinging to his hair, skin and clothes. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the matted strands sticking to his forehead. As he made his way back through the forest, the trees seemed to close in around him, their skeletal branches casting long shadows that danced with the shifting light.
Emerging from the treeline, Dean paused. He spotted a car driving up the winding path towards the house he shared with Castiel. His heart sank as he studied the sleek, black vehicle. It wasn’t one he was familiar with, but the sight of it set his nerves on edge. He stood still, the cold air biting at his exposed skin, as he watched the car come to a stop in front of the house. Dean’s breath caught in his throat when he saw Balthazar exit the vehicle. To Dean the witch’s arrival was unexpected and unwelcome, a disruption he felt ill-prepared to handle.
From his vantage point, Dean observed Balthazar as he adjusted his coat and glanced around with an air of casual arrogance. The witch’s impeccable appearance was a stark contrast to Dean’s dishevelled and bloodied state. Balthazar’s eyes scanned the area, and for a moment, Dean feared he might be spotted. He took a step back, retreating into the shadows of the trees, his heart pounding in his chest. Balthazar walked with his usual confident stride, the crisp air seemingly parting for him as he approached the house. Dean watched as he knocked on the door, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness. There was a brief pause before Castiel appeared, his expression a mix of surprise and wariness.
Dean’s mind raced, unsure of what to do. Part of him wanted to confront Balthazar, to demand answers for his unexpected visit. But another part urged caution, the instinct to observe and understand the situation before making a move. He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he continued to watch the interaction from a distance. Balthazar’s voice, though too far away to hear clearly, carried a tone of casual conversation. Castiel’s responses were measured, his body language tense. Dean could sense the underlying tension, the unspoken words that hung heavy in the air. He wished he could be closer, to hear the exchange and understand the reason for Balthazar’s visit.
As the conversation continued, Dean’s thoughts drifted back to the blood on his clothes, the evidence of his hunt. He couldn’t return to the house like this, especially not with Balthazar there. He needed to clean up, to present himself as composed and in control. The last thing he wanted was to appear vulnerable in front of a witch. Dean turned and headed back into the forest, his mind working quickly. He knew of a small stream nearby, a place where he could wash away the blood and gather his thoughts. The cold water would be a shock to his system, but it was necessary. As he made his way through the underbrush, he tried to push aside the unease gnawing at him, focusing instead on the immediate task at hand. Reaching the stream, Dean knelt beside the water, dipping his hands into the icy flow. The cold bit at his skin, but he welcomed it, scrubbing at the bloodstains with determined force. As the crimson began to swirl away he felt a semblance of control returning. He splashed water on his face, the chill clearing his mind, and took a moment to breathe deeply, the fresh scent of the forest filling his lungs.
Once he was as clean as he could manage, Dean stood, shaking off the water and running his fingers through his damp hair. He straightened his clothes, hoping they wouldn’t draw too much attention, and started back toward the house. The path seemed longer now, each step filled with a sense of foreboding. As he approached the edge of the forest, he saw that Balthazar and Castiel had moved inside. The door stood ajar, a silent invitation or perhaps an oversight. Dean hesitated, his hand hovering over the door. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and stepped inside, ready to face whatever awaited him.
The familiar warmth of the house wrapped around him, contrasting with the chill of the forest. He could hear Castiel and Balthazar’s voices drifting from the kitchen, their tones a blend of familiarity and tension. Dean hesitated for a moment, knowing the fresh scent of blood still lingered on him, despite his efforts to clean up. Some stains, stubborn and incriminating, clung to his clothes like a dark shadow. Steeling himself, he moved toward the kitchen, each step echoing softly on the wooden floor. The closer he got, the clearer their voices became. Balthazar’s smooth, British-accented tones carried a hint of amusement, while Castiel’s deeper, more monotone voice held an edge of frustration. He made his way to the kitchen, the wooden floor cool beneath his feet. As he reached the doorway, he took in the scene before him. Entering the kitchen, Balthazar glanced up, his sharp eyes immediately taking in Dean’s appearance. The witch’s expression shifted to one of disapproval, his mouth tightening slightly. Castiel, on the other hand, seemed almost oblivious to Dean’s entrance, his focus entirely on Balthazar. Or perhaps, Dean thought bitterly, Castiel simply didn’t care about his presence.
Castiel and Balthazar stood near the counter, the witch’s elegant presence a striking contrast to Castiel’s more subdued demeanour. Balthazar’s gaze flickered to Dean, his expression a mix of disapproval and curiosity. Castiel, however, seemed too focused on Balthazar’s return to pay much attention to Dean—or perhaps he was intentionally ignoring him.
“Dean,” Balthazar greeted, his tone polite but cool. “Quite the entrance.” Dean ignored the comment, his eyes flicking to Castiel, who remained silent, his gaze fixed on Balthazar. There was a tension in the air, a palpable unease that made Dean’s skin prickle. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and stepped further into the room.
“Balthazar,” Dean acknowledged curtly, moving to the sink to wash his hands again, more for something to do than out of necessity. The cold water bit at his skin, a reminder of the stream he had just left. He could feel Balthazar’s eyes on him, assessing, judging.
“Had an eventful day, I see,” Balthazar remarked, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Been playing in the mud, Winchester?” Dean forced a smile, trying to maintain his composure.
“Just needed some fresh air,” he replied, his tone even. He glanced at Castiel, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The sight of him brought a pang of longing and frustration, the memory of their recent argument still fresh in his mind. Balthazar raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
“You have a unique way of finding it,” he said dryly. He turned back to Castiel, his demeanour shifting to something more genuine. “I’ve brought a few things for Christmas. Thought I’d come earlier this year.” Dean’s heart sank. Another tradition he hadn’t been told about, the annual visit Balthazar made to celebrate Christmas with the Novaks. The realisation stung, a reminder of how little he still knew about the family he had been forced into. He looked at Castiel, hoping for some acknowledgment, some sign that he wasn’t completely out of the loop. Castiel’s gaze met his briefly, but there was no warmth in it, only a guarded distance.
“It’s a tradition,” Castiel said quietly, as if that explained everything. “Balthazar always spends Christmas with us.” Dean swallowed hard, the feeling of exclusion settling over him. He tried to push it aside, focusing instead on the here and now.
“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice softer. “No one mentioned it.” Balthazar’s eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement.
“Ah, the joys of family traditions. They can be quite... exclusive .” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it that made Dean bristle. Castiel’s eyes flicked to Dean, a shadow of something passing over his face.
“I should have told you,” he admitted, though his voice lacked the warmth that Dean longed for. “It slipped my mind.” Dean nodded, forcing himself to stay calm.
“It’s fine,” he said, though the words felt hollow. He glanced at Balthazar, who was watching him with a knowing look. “I’ll just... clean up.” Balthazar waved a hand dismissively.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, his tone casual. “We have plenty of time to catch up.” As Dean turned to leave the kitchen, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider in what should be his home. The conversation between Castiel and Balthazar continued behind him, their voices a murmur that only deepened his sense of isolation. He made his way upstairs to his room, the familiar creak of the floorboards under his feet a stark reminder of the life he had been thrust into.
In the quiet of his room, Dean peeled off his bloodstained clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was hot and forgiving. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror when he dried off, the lines of tension etched on his face, the weariness in his eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He needed to find a way to bridge the gap between him and Castiel, to understand the traditions and dynamics of the Novak family.
Returning to the kitchen, he found Balthazar and Castiel sitting at the table, mugs of tea in hand. The atmosphere was warmer now, their conversation more relaxed. Dean hesitated in the doorway, unsure of his place. Castiel glanced up, his expression softening just a fraction.
“There’s tea if you want some,” he said, a small olive branch offered. Dean nodded, stepping into the room and pouring himself a mug. He sat down across from Balthazar, feeling the witch’s gaze on him.
“So, what’s the plan for Christmas?” Dean asked, trying to sound casual. Balthazar smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes.
“We have a few traditions. Decorating the house, a big feast, exchanging gifts. It’s all quite charming, really.” Dean nodded, sipping his tea.
“Sounds nice.” Castiel’s gaze lingered on Dean for a moment, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.
“I’ll make sure you’re included in everything this year,” he said quietly. Dean looked at Castiel, seeing the effort it took for him to say those words. He offered a small, grateful smile.
“Thanks, Cas. I’d like that.” The room fell into a comfortable silence, the three of them sharing a rare moment of peace. Dean sipped his tea, the warmth of the mug seeping into his hands. The kitchen felt more welcoming now, though the undercurrent of tension was still present. Balthazar, seated elegantly at the table, watched Dean with an appraising look, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“So, Dean,” Balthazar began, his tone light but laced with mockery, “what did you catch out there? Something impressive, I hope?” Dean felt a flush of irritation rise within him. Balthazar’s question wasn’t born of curiosity but of a desire to put him in his place. The witch clearly enjoyed the discomfort his words were meant to provoke. Dean forced a smile, choosing his words carefully.
“Just needed to blow off some steam,” he said, trying to keep his tone even. He glanced at Castiel, who was focused on his tea, avoiding Dean’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Cas, if I made a mess.” Castiel’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he continued to look away. Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued.
“How are you two getting along?” he asked, his voice carrying a mocking lilt. Dean ground his teeth, recalling the helpful, almost friendly demeanour Balthazar had displayed during Dean's first days in the house. It seemed that helpfulness had been replaced by a sharper edge. He wondered what had changed.
“Cas and I are managing just fine,” Dean replied, his voice tight with restrained frustration. Balthazar’s eyes glittered with amusement.
“Managing just fine, are we? That’s quite a progress, I suppose.” He took a leisurely sip of his tea, his gaze flicking between Dean and Castiel. “But tell me, Dean, since when do you call our dear Castiel ‘Cas’ ?” Dean blinked, taken aback by the question. He hadn’t thought much about the nickname; it had just slipped out naturally.
“I… it just seemed right,” he said, shrugging. Balthazar’s smile widened, a knowing glint in his eyes.
“Oh, darling, did you hear that? Dean’s taken to calling you ‘Cas’. How quaint.”
“It’s fine, Balthazar.” Castiel shook his head, his expression unreadable. “It doesn’t matter, just leave it.” But Balthazar wasn’t one to let things go so easily.
“You know, Dean, ‘Cas’ was what Charles used to call him when he was angry. Isn’t that right, darling?” Dean felt a pang of guilt, his mind racing. He hadn’t known that. Suddenly it made sense why Castiel had told him not to use it in the beginning. But he hasn't said anything about it after Dean took it up again. The casual use of the nickname now felt like a misstep, another way he had inadvertently hurt Castiel. He opened his mouth to apologise, but Balthazar continued, his tone softening as he turned to Castiel. “Cassie, you don’t mind, do you?” Balthazar asked, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “Dean is just trying to fit in, after all.” Castiel looked up, his eyes meeting Balthazar’s with a mixture of resignation and something else—an emotion Dean couldn’t quite place.
“It’s fine, really,” Castiel repeated, his voice softer this time. Balthazar leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the role of mediator.
“Well, if you’re sure, darling. But do let me know if it bothers you. I’m always here to help.” Dean watched the interaction, noting how Castiel seemed almost content with Balthazar speaking for him. It was a dynamic Dean hadn’t fully understood until now—Balthazar babying Castiel, yet Castiel not seeming to mind, perhaps even welcoming the protection and care. Dean felt a pang of isolation, realising how much he still didn’t understand about this family and their intricate relationships. Balthazar turned his attention back to Dean, his expression more serious now. “Dean, I’m sure you’re trying your best. Can't be easy adjusting to all this.” He gestured around the room, encompassing the house, the family, the life Dean had been thrust into.
“I am.” Dean nodded, appreciating the brief moment of understanding. “It’s just… it’s a lot to take in.”
“Just remember, Dean, you’re not alone in this. We’re all trying to make it work.” Balthazar’s eyes softened, and for a moment, Dean saw a glimmer of the helpful, supportive figure he had been last time. Dean met his gaze, feeling a surge of gratitude.
“Thanks, Balthazar. I’ll keep that in mind.” The tension in the room seemed to ease, the conversation turning to lighter topics. Dean listened, chiming in when he could, trying to find his place in the dynamic between Castiel and Balthazar. As the evening deepened, the kitchen glowed with the warm, golden light from the overhead light, casting gentle shadows on the rustic wooden walls. The aroma of roasted chestnuts and spiced cider filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of pine from the wreaths adorning the windows. Dean sat at the kitchen table, feeling a growing sense of alienation as Castiel and Balthazar discussed the Christmas decorations with animated enthusiasm. The table was strewn with various ornaments, a mix of handmade and traditional items that spoke of a history Dean was only beginning to glimpse.
“I think we should use the apples and spruce branches,” Castiel said, his voice carrying a rare note of excitement. “And the little flags, just like we used to. It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.” Balthazar nodded, a fond smile playing on his lips.
“Of course, Cassie. It sounds perfect. We’ll have the most charming, traditional Christmas the Novak pack has seen in years.” Dean watched them, a pang of isolation tightening in his chest. He didn’t understand the significance of these decorations, or the deep-rooted traditions they seemed to represent. It was a world he had been thrust into without warning, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong. “Do you remember how we used to hang the apples on the tree, Cassie?” Balthazar asked, his tone gentle and affectionate. “You were always so particular about it, making sure they were spaced just right.” Castiel smiled, a soft, nostalgic expression that Dean had rarely seen.
“Yes, I remember. It was always my favourite part. The smell of the spruce and the apples together—it’s magical.” Balthazar reached out, patting Castiel’s hand.
“We’ll make it just as magical this year, Cassie. I promise.” Dean sat there, feeling like an intruder in their moment of shared history. He didn’t know why he stayed in the kitchen; no one had asked him to. Maybe it was the hope of feeling included, or perhaps it was the silent, stubborn part of him that wanted to prove he could fit in, even if Castiel thought otherwise. As Balthazar continued to discuss the finer points of decorating, Dean’s mind wandered. He thought about his family’s Christmases, so different from this. Their celebrations were loud and boisterous, filled with laughter and chaos, a stark contrast to the serene, almost reverent way the Novaks approached the holiday. “Dean,” Balthazar’s voice broke through his thoughts, drawing his attention back to the present. “What about you? Do you have any special Christmas traditions?” Dean hesitated, feeling the eyes of both men on him. He swallowed, trying to muster a smile.
“Erm, nothing as elaborate as this? We just… get together, have a big meal, sometimes exchange gifts. It’s pretty simple.” Balthazar nodded, his expression thoughtful.
“Simple can be lovely too. Maybe we can blend some of your traditions with ours. What do you think, Castiel?” Castiel glanced at Dean, his gaze unreadable.
“We’ll see,” he said quietly. “I just want it to feel like home.” Dean felt a surge of guilt, knowing that for Castiel, this was an effort to make him feel welcome, to bridge the gap between their worlds. He wanted to reach out, to show his appreciation, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he nodded, forcing a smile.
“Yeah, that sounds nice.” The evening wore on, the conversation drifting to lighter topics, but the underlying tension remained. Dean listened, chiming in when he could, but his thoughts kept circling back to the sense of alienation he couldn’t shake. He knew he was an outsider here, a guest in a family with its own deep-seated traditions and history.
As the night deepened Dean stood to leave, mumbling an excuse about needing to get some rest. Balthazar gave him a knowing look, but Castiel barely acknowledged his departure, too absorbed in the plans for their perfect Christmas. Dean made his way to his room, the house feeling both too large and too small at the same time. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. The quiet of the room was a stark contrast to the lively discussion in the kitchen, a reminder of the distance between him and the world he was trying to navigate.
He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. The night outside was calm, the only sound was the faint rustle of the wind through the trees. Dean wondered if he would ever truly feel at home here, or if he would always be the outsider looking in. The thought was a cold comfort, but it was all he had as he settled into bed, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings pressing down on him like the darkness outside. At the same time Balthazar turned his attention back to Castiel, who was meticulously arranging the ornaments they had discussed. There was a silence that hung between them, one that Balthazar, with his sharp intuition, knew needed to be addressed.
"Castiel," Balthazar began, his voice gentle but firm, "I can’t help but notice how you’ve been acting toward Dean. This tension between you two—it’s palpable." Castiel’s hands stilled over a box of tiny flags, his shoulders tensing at Balthazar’s words. He didn’t meet Balthazar’s gaze, focusing instead on the delicate decorations.
"I’m trying, Balthazar," Castiel said softly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "But it’s like he hates me. No matter what I do, it’s never enough."
"Castiel, you can’t carry on like this.” Balthazar sighed, placing a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Ignoring the issue won’t make it disappear. You need to talk to him, not just arrange a perfect Christmas and hope it solves everything." Castiel’s facade cracked, his eyes welling with tears. He wiped at his cheek hard, almost angrily, trying to remove the evidence of his vulnerability.
"I can’t do it anymore, Balthazar. He hates me. Every time I try to reach out, he pulls further away." Balthazar’s expression softened, and he regretted his earlier harshness.
"Cassie, I know it’s difficult. Relationships, especially ones like this, are not easy. But I can see that you’re trying. Wanting to give Dean a traditional Novak Christmas shows that. When was the last time you actually wanted to put decorations up? Five years? Ten? But it’s not just about the decorations. It’s about the effort you’re making to make him feel welcome, to share a part of yourself with him."
"But what if it’s not enough? What if he never sees me as anything other than the reason he’s trapped here?" Balthazar crouched slightly, bringing his eyes level with Castiel’s.
"You can’t control how Dean feels, Cassie. All you can do is keep trying. You’ve been given a difficult hand, but you’re not alone in this. I’m here, Gabriel’s here, and despite everything, I believe Dean is trying too, in his own way."
"’M trying, Balthazar. "Castiel sniffled, wiping his cheek again, this time with a more gentle touch.
"I know you are," Balthazar said, pulling Castiel into a brief, reassuring embrace. "Just remember, it’s the small things that build trust and connection. Keep making those small efforts, and in time, they’ll add up."
“Okay… ” Castiel nodded, his resolve slowly returning. "Just... just want things to be… okay ?"
"They will be, Cassie," Balthazar replied, his tone full of conviction. "Just take it one step at a time. And don’t be afraid to lean on those who care about you."
As the two continued their work in the kitchen, the soft glow of the candles created an almost serene atmosphere. Castiel had begun to meticulously arrange sprigs of spruce and tiny flags on the curtain rod, his focus intense. Balthazar, his movements fluid and elegant, hung apples from strings in the doorway. Castiel paused, his nose twitching slightly as he sniffed the air. He turned to Balthazar, a curious look in his eyes.
"Balthazar, you smell different." Balthazar arched an eyebrow, his face a mask of practiced nonchalance.
"Do I, darling? Perhaps it's just the new cologne I've taken a liking to."
"No, it’s something else.” Castiel shook his head, frowning. “Dean smelled the same way when he hurt himself." Balthazar froze for a fraction of a second, his mind racing. Meg. Then a small smile tugged at his lips as he realised she hadn’t been lying about being a doctor.
"Ah, Cassie," Balthazar said smoothly, continuing his task, "you and your keen senses. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." But Castiel wasn’t so easily dissuaded. He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.
"It’s not nothing. Dean came home smelling like this after he got stitches. What’s going on, Balthazar?" Balthazar sighed inwardly. Castiel’s determination was one of his more admirable qualities, but at times like this, it could be quite the inconvenience. He plastered on a charming smile.
"You know how it is, darling. I meet many people in my travels. Perhaps I simply crossed paths with someone Dean also encountered." Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver.
"I don’t like it when you lie to me, Balthazar." Balthazar’s smile faltered for a moment, replaced by a more serious expression.
"I’m not lying, Cassie. I’m just... choosing my words carefully." Castiel crossed his arms, his posture firm.
"I know you, Balthazar. Something's off. Please, tell me what’s really going on." Balthazar took a deep breath, weighing his options. Telling Castiel about Meg would open a can of worms he wasn’t prepared to deal with, especially not during Christmas. He needed to keep the focus on the festive preparations and away from his complicated relationship with Meg.
"Look," Balthazar said, his tone gentle yet firm, "there are some things better left unsaid, at least for now. Trust me when I say that everything is under control." Castiel’s eyes softened slightly, but the worry didn’t entirely leave his expression.
"I do trust you, Balthazar. But I also know when you’re hiding something." Balthazar placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.
"I promise, Cassie, if it becomes important, you’ll be the first to know. For now, let’s focus on making this Christmas special. Dean deserves that, and so do you." Castiel nodded slowly, though his eyes remained troubled. He turned back to his decorations, his movements more subdued. Balthazar watched him for a moment, a pang of guilt tugging at him. He hated keeping secrets from Castiel, but some truths were too tangled to unravel without causing more harm. As they worked, the conversation shifted back to lighter topics. Balthazar regaled Castiel with tales of his recent travels, careful to omit any mention of Meg. Castiel listened with rapt attention, his earlier concerns momentarily forgotten. Balthazar’s mind, however, remained divided. He couldn’t help but think of Meg, wondering what trouble she might be stirring up. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts kept drifting back to their last encounter. Meg, with her mischievous smile and unpredictable nature, had always been a complication in his life. Yet, he couldn’t deny the pull she had over him.
For now, he needed to focus on Castiel and Dean. The holiday season was a time for mending fences and building bridges, not for dredging up old conflicts. Balthazar resolved to keep his secret for a little while longer, hoping that the magic of Christmas would help heal the rifts between his friends.
In the early hours of the morning, Balthazar carefully guided Castiel toward his bedroom on the ground floor. The house was silent, save for the soft creaks of the old wooden floorboards beneath their feet and the distant whisper of wind outside. The warmth of the fire in the kitchen slowly faded as they moved through the dimly lit hallway.
Balthazar halted a sigh as he saw the state of Castiel’s bedroom, while for Castiel it was a haven of comfort, its walls lined with bookshelves and soft, inviting furniture it was also a safety hazard with clothes and items on the floor. Despite the mess the bed, a large, ornate piece with heavy blankets and plush pillows, beckoned invitingly. Balthazar helped Castiel settle under the covers, tucking him in with practised ease.
“There you go, darling,” Balthazar murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from Castiel’s forehead. “Get some rest. You’ve had a long day.” Just as Balthazar was about to turn away, he felt a firm grip on his wrist. Castiel’s hand, surprisingly strong for someone so tired, held him in place. Balthazar looked down, meeting Castiel’s intense gaze.
“Don’t lie to me,” Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with an undeniable plea. Balthazar sighed inwardly, his thoughts racing. He tried to pry open Castiel’s fingers gently, but the grip only tightened, desperation giving strength to the weary werewolf. Balthazar knelt beside the bed, his expression softening as he placed his other hand over Castiel’s.
“Cassie,” he said softly, using the nickname that usually brought comfort, “you’re exhausted. You need sleep.” Castiel’s eyes didn’t waver.
“You think I don’t know that? But I can’t sleep, not with this...this feeling that you’re hiding something from me.” Balthazar’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Castiel’s voice. He wished he could ease his friend’s worries, but the truth was tangled in complexities that he couldn’t untangle tonight.
“Darling, some things are better dealt with when we’re not half-dead from exhaustion. Trust me, it can wait.” Castiel’s grip slackened slightly.
“I don’t want secrets between us.” Balthazar gently stroked Castiel’s hand, trying to soothe him.
“I know, Cassie. And I promise, we’ll talk about it. But right now, you need to rest. You have to trust me on this.”
Castiel’s hand finally released its hold, his eyes fluttering closed as the fatigue took over. Balthazar watched him for a few more moments, ensuring he was truly asleep before standing up and quietly leaving the room. He closed the door softly behind him, leaning against it for a moment as he collected his thoughts.
The house was still and silent, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. Balthazar felt the weight of his secrets pressing down on him, but he pushed the thoughts aside. There would be time to deal with them later. For now, Castiel needed peace, and Balthazar would do everything in his power to give it to him. He made his way up the creaking stairs to the second floor, where the faint glow of dawn was beginning to filter through the windows. The library and living room were quiet, filled with shadows and the soft glow of the dying fire in the hearth. Balthazar paused at the doorway to Dean’s bedroom, peeking inside to find the man fast asleep, his face peaceful and relaxed.
With a final sigh, Balthazar retreated to the living room, collapsing onto the sofa. He stretched out, staring up at the ceiling, his mind a whirl of thoughts and worries. Despite the chaos and the secrets, he couldn’t help but feel a small spark of hope. If Castiel and Dean had made it this far, he would make sure they saw it through, together. After all that's why he was there. Balthazar closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment of rest. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, he found solace in the quiet moments, the bonds of friendship, and the hope that the Christmas season would bring healing and renewal for them all.
A few hours later, the first rays of morning light streaming through the windows gently roused Balthazar from his slumber. He blinked groggily, taking a moment to orient himself before the soft padding of tiny paws drew his attention. Norma, the elegant grey kitten, leapt onto the sofa and nuzzled against him, her gooseberry green eyes wide and curious.
“Well, look who’s turned into a beautiful little lady,” Balthazar murmured, stroking Norma’s soft fur. It had been nearly two months since he had last seen her, and she had grown into a graceful, expressive creature. “I’ve missed you too, darling.” Norma purred loudly, weaving around his legs as he stood up. Balthazar chuckled, feeling a warmth in his chest at the kitten’s affection. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, Norma following closely, occasionally bumping into his legs with playful affection.
Once in the kitchen, Balthazar lifted Norma onto the counter, giving her a gentle pat before turning his attention to the task at hand. The kitchen was quiet, the air still carrying a faint scent of last night’s dinner. He opened the pantry and cupboards, his brows knitting together in concern as he scanned the sparse contents.
“Well, this is rather dismal,” he sighed, finding nearly nothing of substance. “Oh Cassie, what have you two been living on?” Norma meowed in response, as if sharing his dismay. “Yeah, Norma, I agree, it is no wonder Dean goes out hunting if they have nothing at home,” Balthazar shook his head, mentally compiling a list of essentials. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of worry for Castiel. Living on next to nothing wasn’t too unlike him, but it hinted at the deeper struggles Castiel was facing. Determined to set things right, Balthazar moved around the kitchen, checking the refrigerator and taking stock of what little they had. “Alright, darling,” he said to Norma, “looks like we’ll need to do a bit of shopping.”
As he jotted down a list, his thoughts drifted to Castiel. Despite the tension and unspoken words from the night before, Balthazar’s resolve to help had strengthened. Castiel deserved a proper Christmas, one filled with warmth, good food, and a sense of home. With the list complete, Balthazar glanced at the clock. It was still early, and the house remained quiet. He considered waking Castiel but decided against it. Instead, he left a note on the counter, explaining where he was going and promising to return soon with everything they needed.
“Stay out of trouble, little one,” he said to Norma, scratching behind her ears. She purred contentedly, settling down on the counter as Balthazar grabbed his coat and keys. As he stepped out into the crisp morning air, Balthazar couldn’t help but smile.
Balthazar drove through the quiet countryside, the early morning mist lingering over the fields like a silken veil. The car’s heater hummed softly, keeping the chill at bay as he navigated the winding roads. His thoughts drifted back to the night before, to Castiel’s tear-streaked face and the unspoken pain that lingered in his eyes. Balthazar’s resolve to bring some semblance of normalcy to his friend’s life only strengthened with each passing mile.
The large grocery store emerged from the fog like an unexpected oasis, its neon sign glowing warmly in the pale light of dawn. Balthazar pulled into the nearly empty car park, his mind already buzzing with a mental list of the things he needed to buy. He stepped out of the car, the crisp air biting at his cheeks, and made his way inside. The store was eerily quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of customers replaced by the faint hum of refrigerators and the occasional squeak of a trolley wheel. Balthazar grabbed a trolley, its metal frame cold under his fingers, and began his shopping expedition. He started in the produce section, selecting the freshest fruits and vegetables he could find. The vibrant colours of apples, oranges, and greens brought a sense of life to the otherwise mundane task. He picked up some crisp red apples, remembering Castiel’s preference for them, and added them to the trolley with a satisfied nod. As he moved through the aisles, he continued to think of Castiel. The man deserved more than the sparse pantry Balthazar had discovered that morning. He filled the trolley with a variety of items: hearty loaves of bread, an assortment of cheeses, jars of preserves, and packets of pasta. Each item was chosen with care, a silent promise to Castiel that things would get better. Balthazar paused in the tea aisle, his eyes scanning the shelves for Castiel’s favourite blend. Finding it, he added several boxes to the trolley, knowing how much comfort a simple cup of tea could bring. He also picked up some hot chocolate mix, recalling the fond memories of cold winter nights spent sipping the warm, sweet drink.
Turning into the baking section, Balthazar smiled to himself. He grabbed bags of flour, sugar, and other essentials, envisioning the comforting aroma of freshly baked goods filling the house. He even selected a few festive decorations, small touches that would help create the traditional Christmas atmosphere Castiel seemed to yearn for. As he rounded the corner into the meat section, his thoughts briefly flickered to the night before, to the look on Castiel’s face when he had confronted him about the scent. Balthazar’s lips twitched into a smile as he remembered Meg. She had always been a curious mix of trouble and charm. His trolley now brimming with supplies, Balthazar headed towards the checkout. He exchanged polite nods with the cashier, making small talk as she scanned the items. The familiar beep of the scanner and the rustle of bags were comforting sounds, a small slice of normalcy in the midst of their complicated lives. With the car loaded and the sun now fully risen, Balthazar drove back to the house. The landscape, bathed in the golden light of morning, seemed to shimmer with promise. He felt a sense of accomplishment as he pulled into the driveway, ready to face whatever the day might bring.
Back inside the house, the kitchen was still quiet, save for the soft purring of Norma, who greeted him with an inquisitive meow. Balthazar smiled, scratching her behind the ears before setting about unpacking the groceries. He worked quickly and efficiently, placing everything in its rightful place, the kitchen slowly coming to life with the bounty he had brought back. As he finished, Balthazar took a moment to admire his work. The pantry was now stocked, the refrigerator filled, and the counters laden with the promise of future meals. He felt a sense of pride and satisfaction, knowing that he had taken a small but significant step in helping Castiel. Hearing footsteps, Balthazar turned to see Castiel standing in the doorway, looking slightly dishevelled but more rested.
“Morning, darling,” Balthazar greeted with a warm smile. “Feeling any better?” Castiel nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Yes, thank you, Balthazar. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“Nonsense, Cassie.” Balthazar waved a dismissive hand. “Anything for you. Now, how about we start on that traditional Christmas you’ve been dreaming of giving Dean?” Castiel’s smile grew, the warmth in his eyes making Balthazar’s heart swell with affection.
Soon the kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of pancakes sizzling on the stove, mingling with the earthy scent of freshly brewed tea. Balthazar moved gracefully around the space, his movements fluid and practised. The morning light streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room and highlighting the bounty of groceries he had brought back. Dean appeared in the doorway, his presence almost tentative. The tension from the previous night still lingered in the air, but Balthazar greeted him with a warm smile, his tone light and inviting.
“Good morning, Dean. Come, have a seat. Breakfast is nearly ready.” Dean nodded, his eyes flicking around the kitchen, taking in the sight of the freshly stocked pantry and refrigerator. He sat down at the table, his gaze following Balthazar as he expertly flipped the pancakes, their golden surfaces crisping to perfection. “Pancakes and tea,” Balthazar announced, placing a plate in front of Dean. “I thought we could start the day on a sweet note. And later, I had the idea that perhaps the three of us could make almond tarts. A little festive baking to get into the holiday spirit.” Dean’s fork froze midway to his mouth, his eyes widening slightly. Across the table, Castiel abruptly stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor. The sudden movement startled both Dean and Balthazar, and they watched as Castiel stalked over to the sink. With a sharp, forceful motion, he hurled his plate into the basin, the sound of shattering porcelain echoing through the kitchen. Without a word, Castiel turned and walked out, the front door slamming shut behind him. Balthazar stood there, stunned, his brow furrowing in bewilderment. “What on earth just happened?” he asked, turning to Dean. Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I don't like almonds.”
Chapter 16
Notes:
Chapter word count: 9 269
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Castiel’s anger crackled through the air like static electricity, each breath a sharp, bitter inhalation that stung his lungs. The crisp winter morning seemed to mock him with its serene beauty, every snowflake and barren branch a reminder of the order he craved but couldn’t achieve. His footsteps were heavy, each one sinking into the frosty ground with a force that mirrored the turmoil within him. The frosty morning air stung his skin, but he barely noticed, his mind consumed by the echoes of Dean's words from their last argument. The memory of that evening gnawed at him as it replayed in his mind, each repetition a new wound. His thoughts churned with a mix of anger and hurt, and he felt the familiar pull of his wolf form. He resisted at first, trying to maintain his human guise, but the transformation was inevitable. Mid-stride, his body began to shift, muscles rippling and bones reforming as black fur sprouted across his skin. His senses sharpened, and his vision shifted to the heightened clarity of a predator. Castiel, now fully in his wolf form, bounded into the forest. The familiar terrain blurred past him as he ran, his paws thudding softly against the snow-covered ground. The forest was a cacophony of scents and sounds, each one amplified by his heightened senses. He welcomed the distraction, using the sensory overload to drown out the turmoil within him.
As he ran, a familiar, acrid scent reached him. Blood. Dean’s scent mingled with it, a pungent reminder of the previous day’s hunt. Castiel’s anger flared anew, burning through the numbness like a wildfire. He followed the scent, his strides lengthening, until he skidded to a halt beside a series of deer carcasses, their lifeless forms stark against the snow. Dean’s scent was fresh, lingering like an accusation around the remains. Castiel’s nostrils flared as he took in the scene, his heart pounding with a mixture of fury and betrayal. He had hoped Dean’s hunt had been an isolated incident, a lapse in judgement. But the evidence before him told a different story, one of repeated transgressions and disregard for the life around them. The sight of the torn flesh, the blood staining the pristine snow, filled Castiel with a profound sense of betrayal. He had tried to bridge the gap between them, to make Dean feel at home. But here was proof that Dean had been sneaking out, indulging in his primal instincts without a thought for the consequences. His claws dug into the snow, the cold bite a welcome distraction from the storm within.
Castiel's claws dug into the snow as he struggled to contain his fury. He had always been taught to believe in order and control, but Dean seemed determined to defy those principles at every turn. His mind flashed back to their argument, the hurt in Dean's eyes when he had accused Castiel of suffocating him with routines. Castiel had tried to explain, to make Dean understand the pressures he was under, but it had all fallen on deaf ears. The metaphor of the cockroach and fire ants had been his desperate attempt to convey his own struggles, but Dean had seemed to have dismissed it, too wrapped up in his own anger to listen. Castiel let out a low growl, his frustration boiling over. Castiel threw back his head and let out a mournful howl, the sound echoing through the trees and startling a flock of birds into flight. The howl faded into the stillness, and with it, his anger gave way to a deep, aching sadness. He had tried to make things work, to build a bridge between him and Dean, but it felt like every step forward was met with resistance. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him, the burden of his family’s traditions and the expectations of the pack. He felt trapped, caught between his duty and his desire for something more. His thoughts drifted to Balthazar, the comfort and warmth of his presence a stark contrast to the turmoil he felt now. Balthazar had always been there for him, a constant in a world that seemed ever-changing and uncertain. But he knew that even Balthazar couldn’t solve the problems between him and Dean. That was something they had to face on their own. Castiel looked down at the deer carcasses, the blood staining the snow like a cruel mockery of his efforts. His anger was a living thing, pulsing and writhing within him, demanding an outlet.
He began to dig into the dirt, his claws tearing through the frozen ground with a ferocity that mirrored his inner turmoil. He dragged the remains of the deer, one by one, to the holes he had dug, the taste of their blood bitter on his tongue. It was a grim task, one that filled him with disgust and sadness, but he continued, driven by a need to make some semblance of order out of the chaos. Each deer received its own grave, a final resting place in the cold, unyielding earth. The act of burying them didn’t bring him peace; it only deepened his sadness, a tangible reminder of the distance between him and Dean. When he had finished, he stood over the freshly turned earth, his breath visible in the cold air, and let out another mournful howl. This time, it was softer, a whisper of grief that dissipated into the silence.
Castiel didn’t return home. Instead, he wandered deeper into the forest, the trees closing in around him like silent sentinels. The snow began to fall again, delicate flakes that settled on his fur and melted into the heat of his body. He walked until the weariness in his limbs matched the exhaustion in his heart, and then he lay down in a secluded glade, curling up beneath a canopy of ancient pines. For now the forest was his refuge, a place where he could escape the weight of his responsibilities and the complexity of his emotions. He closed his eyes, letting the cold seep into his bones, and for a while, he simply existed, a lone wolf in a world that seemed to have forgotten him.
Back at the house, Balthazar moved through the kitchen with practised ease, his movements fluid and efficient. He kept his expression neutral, masking the concern that gnawed at him. Dean sat at the table, his eyes downcast, the tension between them thick and palpable. Norma, sensing the unease, had retreated to a quiet corner, her green eyes watching them with wary curiosity. Balthazar sighed inwardly as he poured tea into a cup and placed it in front of Dean.
“Drink this,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “It’ll help.” Dean glanced up, his eyes shadowed with guilt and confusion. He took the cup, cradling it in his hands, but didn’t drink. Balthazar leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he regarded Dean thoughtfully. “You need to talk to him,” Balthazar said after a moment, his voice calm. “Ignoring this won’t make it go away.” Dean’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at the tea, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted quietly. “Every time I try, it just gets worse.”
“Then listen,” Balthazar suggested. “Castiel has never been very good at expressing himself, but he needs you to try to understand. He’s hurting, Dean. And so are you.” Dean nodded slowly, the weight of Balthazar’s words settling over him. He took a sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through him, and looked up at Balthazar.
“I’ll try,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar offered him a small, encouraging smile.
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
As the day wore on, the house remained quiet, the tension lingering like a storm cloud. Balthazar kept himself busy, preparing meals and tending to the house, all the while keeping an ear out for any sign of Castiel. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor, and still, there was no sign of him. Gabriel arrived in the late afternoon, his presence a whirlwind of energy and sharp wit. He took one look at the tension between Balthazar and Dean and raised an eyebrow.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, his tone light but with an edge of curiosity. Balthazar sighed, setting down the knife he had been using to chop vegetables.
“Castiel’s gone,” he said simply. “He left this morning after a... disagreement .” Gabriel frowned, his amber eyes narrowing.
“Where did he go?”
“The forest,” Dean said quietly. “He’s angry. At me.”
“Castiel can be stubborn,” Gabriel said gently. “But he’ll come back. He always does.”
However, after a couple of hours, Gabriel began to worry. He spoke to Balthazar, his voice edged with concern.
"It hasn't been this bad in years," he said quietly, his eyes darting towards the window, as if hoping to see Castiel emerging from the forest. Balthazar nodded, his expression thoughtful. He remembered a time, years ago, when Castiel had disappeared in a similar manner. Castiel had been a teenager then, and Balthazar had still been their nanny. It had taken hours to find Castiel that time, and the memory of the worry and fear still lingered in Balthazar’s mind. "I should call on the rest of the pack," Gabriel suggested. "If he doesn’t come back soon, we’ll need all the help we can get." Balthazar agreed, his heart heavy with concern. The pack members soon spread out through the forest, searching for any sign of Castiel. Despite their efforts, the day wore on with no sign of him.
As evening fell, the pack gathered, expressions grim. The forest seemed to close in around them, its shadows deepening with the approaching night. Balthazar stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the darkening trees. The sense of unease was palpable, a silent fear that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Gabriel paced the room, his movements restless.
"Where could he be?" he muttered, his frustration evident. Dean stood by the door, his hands clenched into fists. The guilt that had been simmering all day now threatened to overwhelm him.
"This is my fault," he said quietly, his voice barely audible.
Balthazar turned from the window and looked at him, his expression softening.
"Dean, it’s not your fault. Castiel makes his own choices."
Hours passed, and the search continued, the pack spreading out in an ever-widening circle. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the silence broken only by the occasional call of a distant animal. Balthazar led a small group, his eyes scanning the underbrush for any sign of Castiel.
Castiel awoke after a few hours of nightmare fuelled sleep, the cold December air chilling his skin as he shifted back to his human form. The taste of blood lingered bitterly on his tongue, and he stared down at the red-stained snow with a profound sense of revulsion. He brushed the snow off his hands, feeling the sticky remnants of the deer's blood, and shuddered, a wave of nausea rolling through him. The morning light had barely touched the horizon when he decided to leave the forest. The dense trees and familiar paths offered no solace, only reminders of his failed attempts to connect with Dean. Driven by a need to escape, he wandered aimlessly, his thoughts a tangled mess of anger and sadness. His bare feet left faint imprints in the snow, which soon disappeared as fresh flakes began to fall.
Hours passed in a blur as he walked, his surroundings gradually transforming from the quiet wilderness to the outskirts of the town. Castiel had never ventured this far before, the cityscape looming ahead like an unfamiliar, imposing fortress. The sight of towering buildings and bustling streets filled him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. As he moved deeper into the centre, the sensory overload hit him like a tidal wave. The sounds of car engines, honking horns, and the chatter of countless voices assaulted his senses. Neon lights flashed brightly, their colours harsh and overwhelming against the grey winter sky. The unfamiliar scents of petrol, food, and the sheer mass of humanity swirled around him, making his head spin.
Castiel stumbled, his vision blurring as he struggled to process the onslaught. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the overwhelming chaos. His hands flew to his ears, attempting to block out the relentless noise that pounded against his eardrums. It was all too much, too foreign, and it felt as if the city itself was closing in on him, suffocating him with its intensity. He crouched down on the pavement, his back against the rough brick wall of a building, and let out a low, desperate whimper. The cold concrete under him seeped through his thin clothing, but he barely noticed, his mind consumed by the need to find some semblance of peace. He dug his fingers into his scalp, the pressure a small, grounding sensation amidst the chaos.
For a moment, he wished he could transform into his wolf form and flee, but he knew it would only draw more attention. Instead, he focused on his breathing, each inhale and exhale a deliberate effort to regain control. The cacophony of the city continued unabated, but slowly, painfully, he began to filter out the worst of it, isolating individual sounds and dulling their impact. As he sat there, huddled against the wall, he felt a presence approach. Opening his eyes cautiously, he saw a pair of worn boots stop in front of him. He looked up to see a woman with a concerned expression. She knelt beside him, her eyes soft with sympathy.
"Are you alright?" she asked gently, her voice a soothing contrast to the city's harsh noise. Castiel swallowed hard, trying to find his voice.
"I... I don't know," he admitted, his words barely above a whisper. The woman nodded, understanding.
"It's alright. The city's a beast, especially if you're not used to it. Here, let me help you." She reached out a hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Castiel took it. The simple act of human contact was grounding, anchoring him in the present. She helped him to his feet, her grip firm and reassuring. "Come on," she said, gesturing towards a quieter side street. "Let's get you somewhere a bit less noisy." As they walked, Castiel inhaled deeply, and his senses caught a familiar scent—one he couldn't quite place, yet it tugged at the edges of his memory. Then, it hit him. He stiffened, stopping in his tracks. The scent was the same one that Dean had carried home and the same one that clung to Balthazar.
“You.” His heart pounded. “It’s you,” he murmured, a mix of recognition and suspicion in his voice.
“Yes, Castiel.” The woman turned to him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “It’s me.” Castiel’s eyes widened. He tried to step back, but his back met the unyielding brick wall. The realisation dawned on him—she was a witch, just like Balthazar. The scent of magic was unmistakable now, threaded through with the unique, earthy undertones that marked her as something otherworldly.
“How do you know my name?” Castiel’s voice was edged with a mix of fear and defiance. The woman’s expression softened.
“I know a lot about you, Castiel. I’m here to help.”
“Why should I trust you?” Castiel demanded, his eyes narrowing.
“You don’t have to,” She replied, her tone calm. “But you look like you could use a friend right now. Let’s get you somewhere safe, and then you can decide if you want my help or not.” Despite his instincts screaming at him to run, something in the woman’s eyes—perhaps a glimmer of genuine concern—held him in place. He nodded slowly, allowing her to lead him further into the quieter streets.
They walked in silence for a while, the noise of the city gradually fading into the background. The woman led him to a small, cosy café tucked away from the main thoroughfares. The warmth inside was a welcome relief from the biting cold outside. She guided him to a corner booth, away from prying eyes and the hubbub of other patrons. Once they were seated, the woman ordered two cups of tea. Castiel watched her carefully, his mind racing with questions. When the tea arrived, she pushed a cup towards him.
“Drink,” she said softly. “It’ll help calm your nerves.” Castiel hesitated, but the warmth of the cup in his hands was comforting. He took a tentative sip, the hot liquid soothing his throat and steadying his nerves. The woman watched him with a mixture of patience and understanding.
“Balthazar worries about you. He’s told me about the struggles you’re facing.” she said after a moment. “Alone, and with Dean.” Castiel’s gaze dropped to the table, the mention of Dean’s name a sharp reminder of the conflict that had driven him to the city.
“Don’t know how to fix it,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. The woman reached across the table, placing a hand over his.
“You don’t have to have all the answers right now,” she said gently. “Sometimes, just knowing that someone cares can make all the difference.” Castiel looked up, meeting her eyes. There was something in her gaze—a sincerity that he hadn’t expected. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, things could get better. The woman observed Castiel carefully, her keen eyes noting every detail of his dishevelled appearance. The café’s warm light cast a soft glow over them, making the outside world seem distant and less threatening.
“Do you dislike the city?” She asked, her voice gentle.
“I’ve never been here before.” Castiel shook his head slightly. The woman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Never?”
“Just Charlie’s restaurant.” He shook his head again. “And I’ve been to the Christmas market, but that’s not really in town. It’s in the old part, bordering the forest.”
“No wonder you seemed overwhelmed.” The woman nodded thoughtfully. “What happened to your clothes?” Castiel glanced down at his bloodstained hands and clothes, the crimson patches a stark contrast against the white of his shirt.
“Buried some deer,” he said quietly.
“Buried them?” The woman echoed, her eyes widening. Castiel nodded.
“Dean keeps killing them.”
“That makes you sad,” The woman said, her tone factual rather than inquisitive.
“Yes, it does,” Castiel admitted, looking up to meet her gaze. “I don’t like that you know so much about me.” The woman observed Castiel carefully, her keen eyes noting every detail of his dishevelled appearance. The café’s warm light cast a soft glow over them, making the outside world seem distant and less threatening. She leaned back in her chair, a wry smile playing on her lips.
“What I know is mostly whispers about the Novak pack and a bit from Balthazar. But even Balthazar hasn’t said much. He respects your privacy.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across his face.
“And yet you seem to know enough.”
“I pay attention,” the woman replied, her tone slightly sarcastic. “It’s a habit, especially when it comes to things—or people—of interest.” Castiel remained silent, his distrust evident. The woman sighed, leaning forward. “Look, I know you don’t trust me. Fair enough. But if you’re out here, alone and clearly upset, maybe a bit of conversation won’t hurt.” Castiel studied her for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.
“Fine. But I don’t want any more surprises. And your name.” The woman chuckled softly.
“Fair deal. I’m Meg. Now, about that food. How do pancakes sound?” The mention of food made Castiel realise how hungry he was. He nodded, and Meg signalled to the waiter, ordering a stack of pancakes and more tea. As they waited, Meg’s demeanour shifted slightly. The sarcasm and confidence remained, but there was a softness in her eyes. “Balthazar cares about you, you know. He wouldn’t talk about you if he didn’t.”
“He talks about me?” Castiel asked, a hint of curiosity breaking through his guarded tone.
“Not often, but when he does, it’s with respect. Like I said, he respects your privacy. He only shares what he thinks is necessary or what might help.” Castiel took this in, the warmth of the tea cup grounding him. The pancakes arrived, steaming and golden, and he dug in, the sweet taste a welcome comfort. Meg watched him eat, her expression thoughtful.
“You know, Balthazar and I… we have a complicated relationship. He drives me crazy sometimes, but he’s also… well, he’s Balthazar. You know what I mean.” Castiel nodded slowly.
“He’s been there for me more than anyone else.”
“Exactly,” Meg said, her voice softening. “That’s why I’m here. He’d want me to help you if I could.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the clink of cutlery and the murmur of other patrons filling the air. Castiel finished his meal, feeling more centred than he had in weeks.
“So, what now?” he asked, looking at Meg.
“Well,” she said, leaning back with a smirk, “you could come back with me. Or, you could stay here and try to navigate the city on your own. But trust me, it’s a jungle out there. Or, you could return to your pack. Balthazar’s probably worried sick.” Castiel studied Meg carefully, the flickering candlelight of the café casting shadows across her features. Her confident and bold demeanour was undeniable, yet there was a softness to her eyes, a subtle indication of genuine concern. The air between them held a tentative truce, a fragile understanding built on shared connections and the unspoken worry for Balthazar. He glanced around the café, taking in the cosy atmosphere. The walls were adorned with vintage photographs and paintings, the kind that told stories of simpler times. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods mingled in the air, creating a comforting cocoon that momentarily shielded him from his internal chaos. Castiel’s fingers traced the rim of his empty teacup as he mulled over his options. The city, with its overwhelming noise and relentless pace, was not a place he could navigate alone. The thought of wandering its streets aimlessly, lost and vulnerable, filled him with dread. He longed for the familiar, for the safety of the forest and the pack. But returning now, without sorting out his thoughts, felt impossible.
He looked back at Meg, who was watching him with a mixture of patience and curiosity. Despite his initial mistrust, there was something about her that made him feel... seen. Perhaps it was the way she didn’t press too hard, or the way her sarcasm seemed to mask a deeper understanding of pain and isolation.
“I’ll go with you,” he said finally, his voice steady. Meg nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“Good choice.”
They left the café, stepping back into the cold, bustling city. Castiel followed Meg through a maze of streets and alleyways, his senses gradually adjusting to the urban landscape. The city seemed less overwhelming with Meg leading the way, her presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. They arrived at a modest building, the sign above the door reading “Dr. M. Masters.” Castiel hesitated at the entrance, the unfamiliarity of the place making him uneasy. Meg noticed and gave him a reassuring look.
“It’s just a doctor’s office,” she said. “Nothing to be afraid of.” Castiel nodded, taking a deep breath, and followed her inside. The waiting room was surprisingly ordinary, with comfortable chairs, a coffee table stacked with magazines, and soft music playing in the background. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Meg led him through a door marked ‘Staff Only’ and up a flight of stairs to her flat. The transition from the clinical environment of the doctor’s office to the warmth and clutter of her living space was stark. The walls were lined with shelves holding books, jars filled with herbs, and other mysterious ingredients. A small, well-worn sofa sat in the corner, surrounded by potted plants and an assortment of eclectic knick-knacks. “Welcome to my humble abode,” Meg said with a flourish, her tone half-mocking, half-genuine. Castiel looked around, feeling a sense of curiosity despite his exhaustion.
“You live here?”
“Yep.” Meg nodded, tossing her coat onto a nearby chair. “It’s convenient for work and keeps me close to the action.” She motioned for him to sit, and he settled onto the sofa, the cushions soft and inviting. Meg busied herself in the kitchen area, filling a kettle and setting it on the stove. “Tea?” she offered. Castiel nodded, grateful for the warmth and familiarity of the ritual. As Meg prepared the tea, he let his gaze wander over the room. The books on the shelves were a mix of medical texts, herbalism guides, and ancient tomes written in languages he couldn’t decipher. The jars held dried herbs, powders, and strange, preserved specimens that hinted at Meg’s dual life as a doctor and a witch.
“Balthazar never mentioned he knew a healer,” Castiel said, breaking the silence. Meg glanced over her shoulder, her expression a mix of amusement and something softer.
“Balthazar keeps a lot to himself. We met a long time ago, centuries ago, back when I was first figuring out magic. I opened this practice because I knew of his involvement with your pack. Thought maybe he’d need a hand, and I’d be close by if he ever did.” Castiel looked around the room, noting the blend of modern and mystical.
“He never came, did he?” Meg shook her head, her smile tinged with regret.
“No, he didn’t. But I stayed. And I’ve built a life here, helping those who fall through the cracks of the human world.” Castiel sipped his tea, the warmth spreading through him.
“But you’re a witch.” Meg nodded, leaning against the counter.
“Yes, I am. Just like Balthazar. But don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m more of a fixer than a troublemaker, despite what Balthazar might tell you.” Castiel studied her, sensing the layers of complexity beneath her confident exterior.
“Why did you help me?”
“Because you looked like you needed it,” Meg replied simply. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the occasional clink of Meg’s tea preparations. Castiel felt a sense of calm settling over him, a stark contrast to the chaos that had driven him into the city. “You know,” Meg said after a moment, her tone casual, “the Novak pack is lucky to have you. I’ve heard about your efforts to maintain order, to keep things balanced.” Castiel’s gaze dropped to his hands.
“It rarely feels that way. Often it feels like I’m failing. Like I can’t connect with the people when matter most.” Meg walked over and sat across from him, her eyes meeting his. “That’s not failure, Castiel. That’s just being human—or in your case, a very human wolf. Relationships are complicated, messy things." After finishing their tea, Meg stood and stretched.
“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up. There’s a bathroom through that door, and I think I have some clothes that might fit you. They’re a bit old, but better than bloodstained.” Castiel followed her directions, grateful for the chance to wash away the remnants of the morning. The hot water was a balm for his weary body, and by the time he emerged, dressed in a pair of borrowed jeans and a faded sweatshirt, he felt almost human again. Meg was waiting for him, a first aid kit open on the table. “Let’s see those hands,” she said, her tone brisk. Castiel held out his hands, the cuts and scrapes from his earlier digging evident. Meg cleaned and bandaged them with practised ease, her touch gentle despite her no-nonsense demeanour.
“Thanks,” Castiel said when she finished, flexing his fingers experimentally.
“Don’t mention it,” Meg replied, packing up the kit. “Now, about your pack. You know Balthazar and the others are probably worried sick about you.” Castiel took a deep breath, the realisation that he would have to face his pack again weighing heavily on him.
“I don’t want to go back,” he admitted. “Everything I do seems to make Dean hate me more.”
“And what if he does?” Meg tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully. “Why can’t you two just pretend?” Castiel shook his head, his expression weary.
“That’s what we’ve been doing for the past two months. Pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.” Meg hummed in thought, her fingers drumming lightly on the table.
“Maybe pretending isn’t the answer, then.”
“No,” a sad smile tugged at Castiel’s lips “it’s not.” Meg’s confident and bold nature shone through as she met his gaze, her eyes filled with an unusual mixture of empathy and determination.
“Look, relationships are messy and complicated. I’ve had my fair share of them. But running away won’t solve anything. You need to face this head-on.” Castiel nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in.
“You’re right. I just... I don’t know how to fix it.” Meg leaned forward, her tone gentle yet firm.
“You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Start with honesty. Be honest with Dean, and more importantly, be honest with yourself.” Castiel took another sip of his tea, the warmth grounding him. He glanced around Meg’s flat, taking in the eclectic mix of modern and mystical elements. The books, jars of herbs, and the comfortable clutter felt like a reflection of Meg herself—a blend of resilience and adaptability.
“How did you end up here?” he asked, curious about her story. Meg chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Balthazar.” Castiel’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“You did all this for him?”
“What can I say?” Meg shrugged, a hint of vulnerability flashing in her eyes. “Balthazar has a way of getting under your skin. But it’s not just about him. Not anymore. I’ve built a life here, helping those who need it.”
“Thank you for helping me. I don’t think I could have made it through today without you.” Meg waved off his gratitude with a playful smirk.
“Don’t get all sappy on me now. Just promise me you’ll talk to Dean. Really talk to him.” Castiel's thoughts churned as he mulled over Meg's words. The warmth of the tea had soothed his nerves, but the underlying anxiety remained. He stared at the patterns in the rug, his mind tracing each intricate detail.
"What if there's nothing left to say?" Castiel's voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible over the ambient noise of the city.
"There's always something left to say, Castiel.” Meg's gaze softened, her usual sharp wit tempered with genuine empathy. “Even if it's just 'I'm sorry,' or 'I need help' . The key is being honest."Castiel sighed, the weariness in his bones echoing the weariness in his soul.
"I don't even know where to begin. Every time I try to talk to Dean, it ends in a fight. I want to bridge the gap between us, but it feels like we're speaking different languages." Meg tilted her head, considering his words.
"Sometimes, it helps to start with something small. A gesture, a simple conversation about something mundane. It doesn't have to be a grand declaration."
“Okay,” Castiel nodded, the idea making sense, even if it seemed daunting. "I just... I don't want to make things worse."
"You won't," Meg assured him. "Or maybe you will, but the fact that you care enough to worry about it means you're already on the right path. Just take it one step at a time."
Meg watched as Castiel gathered his belongings, a mix of determination and apprehension in his eyes. The early evening starlight filtering through the curtains cast a soft, golden glow around them, creating a fleeting sense of peace. She leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"You're really going back, then?" she asked, her voice light but with an undertone of genuine concern.
“Yes,” Castiel nodded. "I have to," he said simply. "It's time to face whatever comes next." Meg studied him for a moment, her eyes reflecting a depth of understanding that surprised him.
"Just remember what we talked about. Be honest with Dean. And with yourself." Castiel paused, meeting her gaze.
"Thank you, Meg. For everything." She waved off his gratitude with a casual flick of her hand.
"Don’t get all sappy on me now. Just go, and try not to make a mess of things." He chuckled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. With a final nod, he turned and walked out the door, the cool morning air hitting him as he stepped outside. Meg watched him go, a strange mix of pride and sadness settling over her. Once he was out of sight, she pulled out her phone and dialled a number she knew by heart. Balthazar answered on the second ring, his voice a mix of irritation and anger, the unspoken concern evident.
"What is it, Meg?"
"Calm down, lover boy," she said, her tone teasing but with a serious edge. "Castiel's on his way back to the Novaks. Thought you should know." There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a sigh.
"Why did you get involved, Meg? You always complicate things."
"I did it because you care," she replied, her voice softening. "And because I care about you, even if you are an insufferable prick sometimes." Balthazar’s response was sharp, filled with the frustration that had been building up.
"I didn’t ask for your help."
"No, but you obviously needed it," she shot back. "And if you ever get your head out of your arse, you might realise that." The line was silent for a moment, and Meg could almost hear Balthazar grinding his teeth on the other end. Finally, he spoke, his voice strained.
"If anything happens to Castiel because of this—"
"Nothing will happen to him," Meg interrupted, her tone firm. "He's stronger than you give him credit for."
“Just…” Balthazar sighed again, the sound weary. "Just... keep me posted. And try not to cause any more trouble." Meg smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye.
"No promises. Take care, Balthazar." She hung up the phone and slipped it back into her pocket, her thoughts drifting to the conversations they’d had in Paris and the lingering tension between them. The apartment felt emptier now, the echoes of their past reverberating through the quiet. Meg took a deep breath and let it out slowly, her gaze drifting to the window where the city was beginning to fall asleep. She knew she had made the right choice in helping Castiel, even if Balthazar couldn’t see it yet. There was a delicate balance to maintain, a dance between chaos and order that she had always thrived in.
For now, she would sleep and wait to see how things unfolded, ready to step in if needed but trusting that Castiel and Balthazar would find their way. The world outside was full of uncertainties, but Meg was used to navigating through them with a blend of confidence and boldness that few could match.
As the next day came, she busied herself with her own work, the doctor’s office below her flat providing a steady stream of patients and problems to solve. Despite the chaos that often surrounded her, there was a strange sense of peace in knowing she was exactly where she needed to be.
In the afternoon Meg sat alone in the examination room, the quiet hum of the overhead lights the only sound breaking the silence. She had just finished with her last patient, a young skinwalker with a nasty gash that needed stitching before his humans would return, and she allowed herself a few moments of solitude. The room was small but efficient, with shelves lined with jars, their labels meticulously handwritten in her elegant script. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and letting the tranquillity wash over her. The scents of lavender and rosemary hung in the air, soothing her senses. But the peace was short-lived. From the other side of the door, she could hear the muffled sounds of Nurse Foreman trying to calm someone down, her voice edged with urgency. Meg opened her eyes just as the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a force that made the jars on the shelves rattle. Balthazar stood in the doorway, his eyes blazing with fury. He was a striking figure, his tall frame tense with barely controlled anger, his presence filling the room with an almost tangible energy. Nurse Foreman looked apologetically at Meg, mouthing ‘I'm sorry’ before Balthazar slammed the door shut, leaving them alone. The sudden silence was deafening.
"Qu'est-ce que tu as fait, Meg?" Balthazar's voice was a harsh whisper, dripping with venom. "Pourquoi as-tu toujours besoin de te mêler de mes affaires? Tu ne comprends jamais, n'est-ce pas?" Meg's heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her expression calm, her eyes locked on his. She didn’t understand his words, but the tone and the look in his eyes were enough to convey his fury.
"Balthazar, calm down," she said evenly. "I don’t know what you’re saying, but you need to take a breath and talk to me like an adult."
"Prends un souffle? Tu veux que je prenne un souffle?" His voice rose, the French flowing rapidly from his lips. "Tu es toujours là pour tout gâcher. Toujours à jouer à des jeux stupides. Tu ne sais rien de la gravité de la situation!" Meg took a step back, her gaze unwavering.
"I can't understand you, Balthazar. Switch to English and tell me what’s going on." He glared at her, his eyes dark with rage.
"You have no idea the damage you’ve done," he spat, finally speaking in English. "Castiel is vulnerable, and you had no right to meddle." Meg’s brow furrowed in confusion and frustration.
"I helped him because he needed it. Because you clearly weren’t going to."
"Helped him?" Balthazar scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You think dragging him to the city, exposing him to hunters, and filling his head with your nonsense is helping? He never came back, Meg. He’s out there somewhere, and it’s your fault!" Meg's eyes widened with shock.
"What do you mean he never came back? He said he was going back to the pack." Balthazar paced the small room, his energy barely contained.
"Well, he never made it! He’s missing, Meg. And with the hunters in the area, it’s only a matter of time before they find him. He has never been to this part of the town before and he most definitely never encountered hunters." Meg felt a cold dread settle in her stomach.
"I didn’t know," she said softly, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "I thought I was helping. I thought—"
"You never think," Balthazar interrupted, his tone sharp and unforgiving. "You act on impulse and leave others to clean up the mess. This time, your recklessness could cost Castiel his life." Meg's face hardened, her own anger bubbling to the surface.
"He is not your child, Balthazar. You’re not his father. Hell, you aren't even the same species. You’re not his family anymore. Said so yourself." Balthazar's eyes flashed dangerously, and he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming.
"Comment oses-tu?" he hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Tu ne comprends rien à ce qu'il représente pour moi. Il est bien plus qu'un simple membre de la meute. Tu n'as jamais su ce que c'est que de se soucier vraiment de quelqu'un, n'est-ce pas?" Meg stood her ground, not understanding the words but feeling the impact of his fury.
"Speak English, Balthazar," she demanded. "If you want to yell at me, at least let me understand what you’re saying." Alas he continued in French, his words cutting and precise.
"Tu es une imbécile égoïste, Meg. Toujours à penser à toi-même. Tu n'as aucune idée des conséquences de tes actions. Castiel pourrait être mort à cause de toi." Meg clenched her fists, her own anger rising to match his.
"Stop it!" she shouted. "I get it, you’re furious. But standing here and yelling at me in a language I don’t understand isn’t helping. It never helps! Can't you see that? What do you want me to do?" Balthazar took a deep breath, his rage simmering just below the surface.
"I want you to stay out of this," he said, voice cold and controlled. "I will find Castiel and fix your mess. But if anything happens to him, Meg, I will never forgive you." Meg's eyes bore into Balthazar's as his words hung in the air, the tension between them palpable. The examination room felt smaller, the walls closing in as their anger and frustration collided. Balthazar’s eyes blazed with a mix of fear and fury, his tall frame vibrating with barely contained energy.
"Do you really think yelling at me is going to solve anything?" Meg snapped, her voice sharp. "We need to find him, not stand here throwing accusations." Balthazar’s jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Finding him is exactly what I intend to do. And I don’t need your help." Meg’s heart pounded in her chest, the implications of Castiel’s disappearance sinking in deeper. She clenched her fists, fighting to maintain her composure.
"He trusted me," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "I thought I was helping him." Balthazar's expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his anger.
"Your intentions don’t matter if they lead to harm," he said quietly. "Intentions don’t save lives, actions do." Meg took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
"Then let me help you find him. I can’t just stand by and do nothing."
“No” Balthazar shook his head, his expression hardening again. "You’ve done enough. I’ll handle this. Stay here, keep your little clinic running, and stay out of my way." The resolve in his voice left no room for argument. Meg felt a wave of frustration and helplessness wash over her. She wanted to argue, to fight against the sense of exclusion, but she knew Balthazar well enough to understand when he was set on a course of action.
"Fine," she said, her voice tight. "But if you find him, let me know. I need to know he’s safe." Balthazar nodded curtly, turning on his heel and striding towards the door. He paused for a moment, his back to her, his hand resting on the door handle.
"Stay safe, Meg," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of unspoken concern that sounded a lot like a goodbye. With that, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Meg stood in the silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and forced herself to focus on the tasks at hand. She couldn’t afford to fall apart now. The clinic was quiet, the hum of the overhead lights and the faint scents of herbs grounding her. She walked to the shelves, methodically checking the jars and vials, her hands steady despite the turmoil inside her. She needed to stay busy, to keep her mind from spiralling into worry. As she worked, her thoughts kept drifting back to Castiel. She remembered the look in his eyes when he left, a mix of determination and vulnerability. She hoped he was safe, that he would find his way back to the pack. She also thought about Balthazar, his fierce protectiveness and the unspoken bond they shared despite their complicated history. Hours passed in a blur of activity. Meg saw patients, administered treatments, and kept the clinic running smoothly. But the underlying tension never left her, a constant reminder of the danger Castiel was in. When the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room Meg stood by the window. The clinic was quiet, a stark contrast to the emotions churning inside her. She traced her fingers along the windowsill, trying to find a sense of calm in the familiar routine of the day. The door to the clinic creaked open, and Nurse Foreman peered in, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
"Meg, who was that man earlier?" she asked, her voice soft but insistent. Meg turned to face her, forcing a tight smile.
"Just a friend," she replied, but the words felt hollow even to her. Nurse Foreman raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced.
"It was him, wasn’t it?" Meg sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly.
"Yes," she admitted. "It was Balthazar." Nurse Foreman stepped further into the room, her gaze sympathetic.
"He seemed... very upset. Are you alright?"
"I’m fine," Meg said quickly, trying to brush off the concern. "We just had a... disagreement." The nurse nodded, but her eyes were filled with understanding.
"If you need anything, I’m here. I know things can get complicated." Meg offered a grateful smile.
"Thank you, I appreciate it." The nurse gave a small nod before retreating, leaving Meg alone with her thoughts once more. She turned back to the window, the city lights twinkling in the growing darkness. Her mind wandered back to Castiel, his absence a gnawing worry at the back of her mind. She hoped Balthazar would find him, that he would be safe. As the night deepened, Meg couldn't shake the feeling of restlessness. She paced the small examination room, her thoughts racing. She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. Grabbing her coat, she decided to take a walk, hoping the fresh air might clear her head. The streets outside were bustling, the hum of the city a constant backdrop. She walked with no particular destination in mind, her steps carrying her through familiar streets and alleyways. The night was cool, a light breeze rustling the leaves of the trees lining the sidewalks. She found herself at the edge of the city, where the urban landscape began to give way to the outskirts. The quiet here was different, more profound. She stopped, taking in the stillness, and tried to center her thoughts. Suddenly, a faint rustling caught her attention. She turned, her senses on high alert. The sound came from a nearby alley, a narrow passageway shrouded in shadows. Meg hesitated for a moment before deciding to investigate. She approached cautiously, her footsteps silent on the pavement. As she peered into the alley, she saw a figure slumped against the wall, partially hidden by the darkness. Her heart skipped a beat.
"Castiel?" she called out softly, her voice echoing slightly. Meg's heart pounded as she stepped into the dimly lit alley. The figure slumped against the wall seemed lifeless, a dark silhouette against the brick backdrop. As she moved closer, her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she saw a pair of familiar, amber eyes glowing faintly in the shadows. Castiel was in his wolf form, his sleek black fur matted with dirt and leaves. He looked up at her with a mix of recognition and relief, but there was also a deep, lingering fear in his gaze. "Castiel," Meg whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. She reached out a trembling hand, hesitating before gently touching his fur. "I'm so sorry," she murmured, her voice thick with guilt. "I didn't think... I didn't… I should have... I should have known." Castiel let out a low whine, his body tense and trembling. Meg could feel the rapid beat of his heart under her hand, a mirror of her own anxiety. She cursed herself silently, berating her own thoughtlessness. How could she have been so blind? Of course, he would have been overwhelmed, lost, and frightened in the unfamiliar labyrinth of the city. "I’m here now," she said softly, trying to soothe him. "We’ll get you back to the pack. You’ll be safe." With great care, she coaxed him to his feet. Castiel's legs wobbled, his exhaustion evident in every unsteady step. She supported him as best she could, guiding him out of the alley and onto the quieter streets. The city seemed to close in around them, its noises and lights a relentless assault on their senses. Meg kept talking to him, her voice a steady, calming presence amidst the chaos. "We’re almost there," she said, even though she wasn’t entirely sure where "there" was. She just needed to get him somewhere safe, somewhere they could regroup and figure out their next steps. As they walked, Meg’s mind raced. She knew she couldn’t take Castiel back to her flat; it was too risky. She needed a place where they wouldn’t be found, at least for a little while. After what felt like an eternity, they reached a small, secluded park on the edge of the city. The trees here formed a dense canopy, their leaves rustling softly in the night breeze. Meg led Castiel to a quiet corner, where an old, weathered bench sat beneath a large oak tree. She helped him lie down, his body collapsing onto the cool grass with a soft sigh. "Just rest for a moment," she said, her hand gently stroking his fur. "I’ll figure something out." Meg sat beside him, her mind whirling with plans and possibilities. She needed to get in touch with Balthazar, but she knew he would be furious if he found out she’d gone looking for Castiel on her own. Still, she couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out her phone and dialled his number, her fingers trembling. "Balthazar," she said as soon as he answered, her voice urgent. "I found him." There was a pause on the other end, followed by a rush of relief and anger.
"Where are you?" he demanded, his tone sharp.
"We’re at the park on the edge of town," Meg replied, glancing around. "He’s in bad shape, but he’s alive. No hunters."
"Stay there," Balthazar ordered. "I’m coming." Meg ended the call and looked down at Castiel, who had closed his eyes, his breathing shallow but steady. She reached out and continued to stroke his fur, hoping to provide some comfort.
"Hang on, Castiel. Balthazar is on his way." The minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the night growing colder as they waited. Meg kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, her senses on high alert for any sign of danger. Finally, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching, rapid and purposeful. She turned to see Balthazar emerging from the shadows, his expression a mix of concern and anger.
"Where is he?" Balthazar demanded, his eyes scanning the park until they landed on Castiel’s prone form. He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside them. "What happened?"
"He was in the city, lost and scared," Meg explained, her voice filled with guilt. "I didn’t think... I should have known he wouldn’t be able to find his way back." Balthazar’s eyes flashed with anger, but he quickly focused on Castiel. He placed a hand on the wolf’s side, murmuring soft words of reassurance. Castiel stirred, his eyes flickering open to look at Balthazar.
"You’re safe now," Balthazar said gently. "We’ll get you home." With a determined expression, Balthazar helped Meg lift Castiel. Together, they supported him as they made their way through the park and back towards the outskirts of the city. The journey was slow, each step measured and careful, but finally, they reached the edge of the forest that bordered the Novak territory. As they entered the familiar woods, Castiel seemed to regain some of his strength, his body leaning less heavily on them for support. The forest air was cool and refreshing, the scent of pine and earth grounding them. "Almost there," Balthazar murmured, his voice filled with determination. "Just a little further." The ambient sounds of the city gradually faded, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, a soothing balm to their frayed nerves. Balthazar's car seemed out of place amidst the natural surroundings. They eased Castiel into the backseat, his body curling up as best as his lupine form would allow. Balthazar turned to Meg, his expression hardening. "You need to leave, Meg," he said, his voice edged with a cold finality. "I don’t want you involved any further." Meg opened her mouth to protest, but the fierce determination in Balthazar’s eyes silenced her. She nodded reluctantly, stepping back as he shut the car door. She watched as he moved to the driver's side, her heart heavy with concern. As soon as Balthazar slid into the driver’s seat, he turned to Castiel. "You need to shift back, Castiel. We can’t get you home like this." Castiel let out a low whine, his eyes closing as if the effort to transform was beyond him. Balthazar's patience frayed, and he leaned over the seat, his voice a mix of command and plea. "Castiel, listen to me. You have to shift. We’re almost home, but I can’t drive if you’re in wolf form." The wolf’s eyes opened, a flicker of confusion and pain evident in their depths. Balthazar’s frustration bubbled over, and he muttered an incantation under his breath, the air around them crackling with energy. "Don’t make me do this, Castiel," he warned, his voice low and intense. "I will use magic to force the change if I have to." Castiel growled softly, the sound a mixture of defiance and resignation. Slowly, his form began to shift, bones realigning and fur receding as he transformed back into his human shape. The process was agonising to watch, each movement a testament to his exhaustion and pain. Finally, he lay in the backseat, shivering and pale, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Balthazar let out a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly."Thank you," he said softly, reaching out to drape a blanket over Castiel’s trembling form. "We’re going home now." With a last glance at Meg, who was still watching from a distance, Balthazar started the car and pulled away from the park. The drive through the city was silent, the streets now empty and bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Castiel’s breathing gradually steadied, the rhythmic hum of the car lulling him into a fitful sleep. As they left the city behind and entered the winding roads that led to the Novak territory, Balthazar’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. He replayed the events of the day, the fear and frustration gnawing at him. He had to get Castiel home safely; that was his only focus now. The familiar trees of the forest loomed ahead, their branches forming a dark canopy that swallowed the car's headlights. Balthazar navigated the narrow path with practised ease, the tires crunching over fallen leaves and twigs. The forest was alive with nocturnal sounds, the rustle of small animals and the occasional call of a distant bird creating a symphony of the night. Finally, the Novak farm came into view, nestled amidst the trees. Its windows glowed softly with the light of the hearth, a beacon of warmth and safety. Balthazar pulled up to the front door and killed the engine, turning to look at Castiel, who had stirred awake, his eyes bleary with fatigue. "We’re here," Balthazar said gently. "Let's get you inside."
Chapter 17
Notes:
chapter word count: 5 934
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Balthazar sat down at the kitchen table, his fingers drumming lightly on the polished wood surface. Across from him, Dean stared into the steaming cup of tea in his hands, his expression a mix of exhaustion and frustration. Castiel was asleep in his room, the emotional and physical toll of the past few days leaving him utterly drained.
"How's he doing?" Dean asked, breaking the silence. Balthazar sighed, leaning back in his chair.
"He's resting. He needs it." Dean nodded, his eyes not leaving his cup.
"I don't understand how he can go to Charlie's restaurant but not handle being in town in general. What's the difference?" Balthazar considered his words carefully.
"Charlie's presence, even just her scent, probably makes him feel safe. It's familiar. The rest of the town, however, is full of unknowns and unpredictability. For someone like Castiel, that can be overwhelming." Dean took a sip of his tea, the warmth doing little to ease the tension in his body. "How have you been holding up since the wedding?" Balthazar asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with curiosity that made something within Dean snap and suddenly the witch was just a man.
“Ha!” Dean let out a bitter laugh as his grip on the cup tightened. "Great. Just great. Fantastic!" Balthazar hummed thoughtfully.
"Any highlights?"
"Sure, let's start with Castiel's complete disregard for my feelings and opinions? Or how about the time I found him almost bled out because he fell on a rake while trying to watch owls? And when I took him to Gabriel, and Gabriel held me prisoner for weeks until Castiel could clear my innocence?" Balthazar's eyes narrowed at the mention of the accident, a flash of anger crossing his face.
"Watch your tongue, Winchester," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Honestly," Dean continued, his voice rising, "if it's true you were Gabriel and Castiel's nanny, you did a God awful job! Gabriel is a tyrant, and Castiel wasn't raised to be an adult. He was raised to be codependent on someone, someone who isn't me." Balthazar's expression turned icy.
"You know nothing of what it was like raising them." Dean felt a pang of regret but pushed it aside.
"Maybe not, but I'm living with the consequences now. Castiel doesn't need a partner; he needs a babysitter."
"You think I don't know that? Why do you think I left?” Balthazar's glare softened slightly, replaced by a look of deep sadness. “But Castiel is stronger than you give him credit for. He just... he needs time."
"Time?” Dean set his cup down, frustration bubbling over. “We've had time, and it hasn't changed anything. He's still the same, and I'm still stuck in a nightmare." Balthazar leaned forward, his gaze intense.
"Then help him, Dean. Be the partner he needs, not the adversary. He doesn't need a babysitter; he needs someone who can understand him, who can be patient with him." Dean's jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his eyes burning with frustration.
"I have been patient, like a damn Saint. I've tried to understand him, to give him space, but half the time it's like talking to a brick wall. He just doesn't see me, doesn't hear me." Balthazar watched him carefully, his gaze thoughtful.
"Maybe it's not about him seeing or hearing you, but about finding common ground. Castiel has lived a life filled with rules and expectations, and suddenly, everything has changed. He needs stability, and you need to find a way to be that for him." Dean scoffed, running a hand through his hair.
"Stability? I've done nothing but try to give him that. But every time I think we're making progress, he does something that pulls us right back to square one. Like that time with the rake. I thought he was dead, Balthazar. And if Castiel hadn't cleared my name, Gabriel said he would have killed me. Do you know what that felt like?"
“No,” Balthazar's expression softened, a flicker of empathy in his eyes. "I can't pretend to know what that felt like, Dean. But I do know that Castiel's actions aren't meant to push you away. He’s struggling to find his place in this new life, just as much as you are." Dean looked down at his hands, the callouses and small scars from years of work visible in the dim light.
"I just don't know how much more I can take. Every day feels like a battle, and I’m exhausted."
"I understand.” Balthazar nodded slowly. “But you must also see that Castiel is exhausted too. His way of coping might seem infuriating, but it's his way of surviving. He’s used to a certain order, and the chaos of change is overwhelming for him." Dean's shoulders slumped as he stared into his cooling tea.
"It can't be on me all the time, Balthazar. I had to give up everything when Gabriel picked me out—my family, my pack, my birthright. And what has Castiel actually given up? He's still here, in his home, with his brother. What has he lost?"
"Castiel has lost a lot more than you realise, Dean.” Balthazar said, eyes darkening. He leaned forward, his voice soft but firm. “He’s lost the life he knew, the future he envisioned. He’s lost his sense of security and normalcy. The structure he relied on is gone, replaced by a relationship neither of you wanted." Dean’s grip tightened on his cup.
"That’s just it, though. I’m the one who’s had to adapt, who’s had to fit into this world I don’t understand. And every time I try to connect with him, he shuts me out. I gave up everything, and I get nothing in return."
"It’s not about keeping score, Dean.” Balthazar sighed, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. “It’s about finding a way to coexist, to build something new together. Castiel’s way of coping might seem selfish, but he’s trying to survive in the only way he knows how. You both need to find a way to meet in the middle." Dean stared at the teacup, its warmth doing little to thaw the chill in his heart.
" How? How do we do that when it feels like we’re constantly at odds?" Balthazar leaned back, his expression contemplative.
"Start with small steps. Find common ground, no matter how insignificant it seems. Talk to him, really talk to him, and listen. Show him that you’re here for the long haul, that you’re not going to give up on him."
"I want to give up.” Dean rubbed his face with his hands, the frustration evident in every movement. “Maybe Castiel was right when he suggested living parallel lives." Balthazar's eyes widened slightly.
"He said that?"
"Yeah.” Dean nodded. “It was a couple of weeks ago, before the accident." Balthazar ran a hand down his face, a deep sigh escaping his lips.
"Of course he did." Dean looked at Balthazar, confusion and resignation in his eyes.
"What do you mean?" Balthazar shook his head slightly, his gaze distant.
"Castiel's always been good at compartmentalising. If something doesn't fit into his structured view of the world, he pushes it aside, pretends it doesn't exist. It's his way of coping with things he can't control. Suggesting parallel lives? That’s his way of creating order in the chaos." Dean sighed, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and sadness.
"I guess Castiel has tried since the accident. It just feels suffocating, like he doesn't know the truth of why I was by his side." Balthazar's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering across his face.
"If I know Gabriel, then he probably lied to Castiel."
"Really?” Dean's eyebrows shot up. “Gabriel lies to him?"
"Oh yeah," Balthazar said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Gabriel used to do that a lot to explain why Charles and other pack members were gone for weeks or months on end. It wouldn't surprise me if Gabriel still lies." Dean considered this, a frown creasing his forehead.
"What could Gabriel have said then?" Balthazar leaned forward, his eyes sharp.
"Think about it." Dean hummed as he thought back, his mind racing through the past few weeks.
"Only after the accident did Castiel seem to care about me."
"Exactly," Balthazar murmured. "What could Gabriel have told him that would make him see you in a different light?" Dean's eyes widened as the realisation dawned on him.
"Gabriel said I saved him." Balthazar nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Bingo." Dean slumped back in his chair, the weight of the revelation settling over him.
"So, Castiel has made me his white knight because Gabriel told him I saved him, and that's why he's been trying so hard. " Balthazar leaned forward, his expression intense.
"Didn't you save him? You found him and got him help."
"Well, yeah, I guess.” Dean shrugged, the memory of that night playing vividly in his mind. “But then I messed it up by not liking his tarts." Balthazar sighed, understanding dawning.
"So that's what running away was all about." Dean looked guilty for a moment but then squared his shoulders.
"I need to be allowed to be my own person. I can't just be Castiel's toy to play with whenever he wants to." Balthazar raised an eyebrow.
"Play with?" Dean realised the double meaning and cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening slightly.
"It was a metaphor?" Balthazar chuckled softly, the tension in the room easing slightly.
"I understand, Dean. But remember, you and Castiel are in this together. Finding a balance won't be easy, but it's possible. Just take it one step at a time. And you have time, it has barely been two months."
"Yeah,” Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair “we've got ten months." Balthazar gave Dean a look that was hard to place, a mixture of emotions flickering in his eyes. Dean watched as Balthazar stood up, his movements deliberate and calm.
"I'm going out for a bit," Balthazar announced.
"Now?” Dean frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It's late."
"Yes," Balthazar replied simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. Dean watched Balthazar leave, the sound of the door closing echoing softly through the quiet house. He felt a strange mix of relief and anxiety, unsure of what Balthazar's departure meant.
Balthazar walked briskly through the cool night air, his footsteps echoing off the cobblestone streets. The grounds were eerily quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of the day replaced by an almost unnatural stillness. The crescent moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over everything. He reached Gabriel's house, a grand, imposing structure that seemed to loom out of the darkness. A staff member opened the door, eyes widening in surprise.
"Sir, you can't—" the staff member began, but Balthazar brushed past him, striding confidently into the house. He moved with purpose, ignoring the staff's protests as he ascended the staircase. Each step was deliberate, his resolve hardening with every moment. At the top of the stairs, he threw open a door with a force that sent it crashing against the wall. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a nightlight. Gabriel was in bed next to his wife, Kali, their peaceful slumber disrupted by the sudden intrusion. Next to the bed stood a crib, and from it came the high-pitched cry of a small child, awakened by the noise. Gabriel and Kali stirred, eyes blinking open in confusion. Gabriel's gaze sharpened as he recognised Balthazar standing in the doorway.
"Balthazar?" Gabriel's voice was thick with sleep and surprise. The child's wail pierced the room, a sound Balthazar hadn't heard in a year. He spared the child only a brief glance, his focus remaining on Gabriel. "Balthazar, what the hell are you doing here?" Gabriel demanded, his voice rising as he sat up, trying to soothe the crying child with one hand while reaching for his robe with the other.Kali, too, was awake now, her expression a mixture of annoyance and concern.
"What's going on?" she asked, her eyes darting between Gabriel and Balthazar.
"We need to talk, Gabriel.” Balthazar's gaze was icy, his voice steady and cold. “Now." Gabriel's eyes narrowed.
"This can't wait until morning?"
"No," Balthazar replied, his tone brooking no argument. "It can't." The tension in the room was palpable, the child's cries a counterpoint to the charged silence between the adults. Gabriel handed the child to Kali, who began to soothe it with practised ease, and got out of bed.
" Fine ," Gabriel said, his voice tight with irritation. "Let's talk."
As they moved out of the bedroom, Gabriel cast a glance back at Kali, who gave him a reassuring nod despite the crying child in her arms. The hallway outside the bedroom was dim, the flickering light casting long shadows as the two men walked towards Gabriel's study. Once inside, Balthazar closed the door behind them, turning to face Gabriel with a look of steely determination.
"What is this about?" Gabriel asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Balthazar's expression hardened, his voice dripping with cold anger.
"Gabriel, tu as été cruel." Gabriel's eyes widened at the switch to French, a clear sign of Balthazar's deep displeasure. He looked away, guilt shadowing his features. French had always been the language Balthazar used to scold them as children. Balthazar continued, his voice sharp. "Devenir le chef de la meute t'a rendu cruel. Dean a souffert sous ta direction." Gabriel ground his teeth, his hands clenching at his sides.
"How?" he demanded, his voice harsh. Balthazar's eyes bore into Gabriel's.
"Tu as été cruel envers Dean, le forçant à abandonner tout ce qu'il aimait, le traitant comme un prisonnier." Gabriel's anger flared, but he kept his voice controlled.
"I won't argue with you in French, Balthazar." Balthazar's eyes flashed, his anger intensifying.
"Je vous ai élevé, toi et Castiel, pour être des gentlemen." He took a step closer, his presence imposing. "Je suis très déçu de toi, Gabriel. La seule personne qui serait fière, c'est Charles." Gabriel snapped, his composure cracking.
"Ne mentionne pas père," he spat, his voice sharp. Balthazar narrowed his eyes, his voice like ice.
"Non?"
"No!" Gabriel insisted, his voice strained. "And speak English! If you're going to make everyone hear your displeasure, you might as well make them understand it." Balthazar took a deep breath, his eyes still burning with anger, but he switched to English.
"You've become a tyrant, Gabriel. You’ve inflicted pain and suffering. And you treat Dean like a prisoner. No, you treat Dean as less than human." Gabriel's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists.
"I do what I have to do." Balthazar's gaze didn't waver.
"A leader doesn't break those he leads."
"And what was I supposed to do?” Gabriel's face twisted in anger. “Let everything fall apart?"
"You were supposed to guide them, support them, not crush him," Balthazar replied, his voice steady and cold. "I did not say anything when you made your father proud by killing other packs, I did not say anything when you set this marriage up for Castiel. I thought ‘he is an adult, he knows what he is doing’, but you've lost your way, Gabriel. And in doing so, you've lost the respect of those you lead."
"And what would you have me do, Balthazar?” Gabriel looked away, the tension between them thick and suffocating. “How do I fix this?"
"You can't, Gabriel." Balthazar's voice was calm but firm. "You can't undo what's been done. But you can change how you lead from now on. Be fair to your pack, step away from what Charles wanted for you to become. You can start by being honest with Castiel, by supporting Dean, and by treating them with the respect they deserve." Gabriel's shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of his actions finally sinking in.
"And if I can't?" he asked quietly, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. Balthazar softened, the anger in his eyes replaced by a deep, abiding sadness.
"Then you will lose everything, Gabriel, especially Castiel. And that is something you will never be able to fix if it breaks." The room fell silent, the enormity of Balthazar's words hanging heavily in the air. Gabriel stood there, his eyes downcast, the realisation of his failures washing over him like a cold tide. Gabriel sat down, the shadows of the room deepening the lines on his face as he processed Balthazar's words. The flickering light from the hearth cast eerie patterns on the walls, reflecting the turmoil within him. He had always prided himself on his leadership, but now he saw the cracks in his armour, the flaws in his methods. Balthazar, however, remained standing, his posture rigid, the firelight catching the sharp planes of his face. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until Gabriel finally spoke, his voice a rough whisper.
"I never wanted this." Balthazar's gaze softened slightly, but his voice remained firm.
"Wanting it or not, Gabriel, doesn't change the reality. You need to face what you've done and make amends." Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, the tension evident in every movement.
"And how do I do that? How do I undo the damage I've caused?"
"You start by being honest," Balthazar replied, his tone measured. "Tell Castiel the truth. Let Dean be his own person. Support them instead of controlling them." Gabriel looked up, his eyes meeting Balthazar's with a mix of desperation and determination.
"And if they don't forgive me?" Balthazar sighed, the weight of his brother's question hanging heavily in the air.
"Forgiveness isn't guaranteed, Gabriel. But redemption isn't about being forgiven; it's about making things right, regardless of the outcome." Gabriel nodded slowly, the realisation sinking in.
Meanwhile, back at the house, Dean sat alone at the kitchen table, the silence pressing in on him. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers, casting a dim glow across the room. He stared at his cup of tea, now cold and forgotten, his mind replaying the conversation with Balthazar. With a sigh, Dean stood up, stretching his tired muscles.
Dean made his way up the stairs, each step echoing softly in the quiet house. The dim light from the hearth cast long shadows on the walls, creating an eerie, almost mystical atmosphere. As he reached the landing, a wave of defiance washed over him, compelling him to change course. Instead of heading to his bedroom, he turned towards the library. The library door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a room filled with shelves of books that seemed to touch the ceiling. The faint smell of old paper and leather greeted him, a comforting scent that contrasted with the unsettling thoughts swirling in his mind. Dean crossed the room, his footsteps muffled by the thick, oriental rug that covered the floor. He reached the couch near the large, arched window that overlooked the garden. The moonlight streamed in, casting a silvery glow over the room. Dean sat down heavily, the cushions sagging slightly under his weight. He leaned back, staring up at the intricately carved ceiling, his mind replaying the conversation with Balthazar. The quiet of the library was a stark contrast to the turmoil in his thoughts. Dean felt a mix of anger, sadness, and confusion. Balthazar's words had struck a chord, forcing him to confront the reality of his situation. He had given up so much, yet it seemed like he was still fighting an uphill battle. Dean shifted, pulling a soft, woollen blanket over himself. The couch, though not as comfortable as his bed, offered a strange sense of solace. He closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh as he tried to clear his mind. Images of Castiel flashed before him—moments of vulnerability, confusion, and fleeting happiness. Dean had seen the cracks in Castiel's facade, the signs of a man struggling to find his place in a world that had changed so drastically. Despite the frustration, there was a part of Dean that couldn't help but feel a deep sense of empathy for Castiel.
"Why is it so damn hard?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper in the stillness. As he lay there, the sounds of the night filtered in through the open window—the distant hoot of an owl, the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. The tranquillity of the night seemed at odds with the chaos in his heart. Dean's thoughts drifted to Gabriel, the man who had upended his life. He wondered if Balthazar had gone to him and whether their hypothetical conversation would lead to any real change. The idea of Gabriel having a habit of lying to Castiel gnawed at him, adding another layer of complexity to an already tangled situation. Dean shifted again, finding a more comfortable position. The library, with its towering shelves and the comforting smell of books, began to work its magic. His eyelids grew heavy, the fatigue of the past few days finally catching up with him. As he drifted off to sleep, he clung to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, things could change. That he and Castiel could find a way to bridge the gap between them and build something new. The night passed slowly, the soft glow of the moon casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the room. Dean's sleep was restless, filled with dreams of the past and uncertain visions of the future. Yet, in the quiet sanctuary of the library, there was a small measure of peace. When morning came, the first light of dawn filtered through the window, casting a warm, golden hue over the room. Dean stirred, blinking against the brightness. For a moment, he lay there, disoriented, before the events of the previous night came rushing back. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and looked around the library. The familiar surroundings offered a sense of stability, a stark contrast to the uncertainty that lay ahead. With a sigh, Dean stood, stretching out the stiffness from sleeping on the couch.
As he made his way to the door, he paused, glancing back at the shelves filled with books. They represented knowledge, stories, and histories—things that had endured through time and change. Dean stared at the shelves, lost in thought. The rich scent of aged paper and leather filled the air, a comfort amidst his swirling doubts. The books represented stories that had endured, tales of struggle and triumph, of characters who had faced insurmountable odds and yet found a way through. Could he and Castiel find their way through this? Could they change, grow together instead of apart? He wasn't so sure. The fleeting moments of peace they shared were rare, overshadowed by long stretches of misunderstanding and conflict. But at least now he understood why his rejection of the tarts had cut so deeply. To Castiel, his saviour had rejected his offering, his most sincere attempt at connection. Dean sighed, the frustration of the past months weighing heavily on him. He had saved Castiel, yes, but that moment of heroism had turned into an unspoken contract, binding them in ways neither had anticipated. Castiel's every action, his every gesture, now seemed a desperate attempt to bridge a gap that felt ever-widening. Leaving the library, Dean made his way back to the kitchen. The early morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow across the room. He filled the kettle and set it to boil, the familiar routine grounding him. As the water heated, he considered his next steps. He needed to talk to Castiel, really talk to him. They needed to find common ground, no matter how small. The sound of the kettle whistling broke his reverie. He poured the hot water into a cup, watching the steam curl upwards. The scent of fresh tea filled the air, a small comfort in the quiet morning. He took a sip, the warmth spreading through him, and felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way forward. As he stood there, the kitchen door creaked open. Castiel appeared, looking rumpled and tired but alert. His eyes met Dean's, a mixture of surprise and apprehension in their depths
"Morning," Dean greeted, his voice steady.
"Morning," Castiel replied, his tone cautious. He moved to make his own cup of tea, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. Dean watched him for a moment, then took a deep breath.
"We need to talk." Castiel's hands stilled, the spoon hovering over his cup. He looked up, his gaze wary.
"About what?"
"About us," Dean said, setting his cup down. "About everything that's happened and what we're going to do moving forward." Castiel nodded slowly, finishing his tea and joining Dean at the table. They sat in silence for a moment, the tension palpable. "I know things have been hard," Dean began, choosing his words carefully. "Balthazar told me about how you cope, how you compartmentalise things that don't fit into your structured view of the world. I get it, Cas-tiel. I really do. But we can't keep living parallel lives that only intersect when we collide or where one is trying and the other one couldn't care less." Castiel looked down at his hands, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup.
"I never wanted to make things difficult," he said softly. "But everything changed so fast. I... I didn't know how to handle it. But then you saved me and nursed me back to health and I just couldn't…"Dean hesitated, the silence stretching out as he searched for the right words. Castiel's earnest expression only made it harder. He could see the vulnerability in Castiel's eyes, the yearning for understanding and connection.
"Cas, there's something you need to know," Dean began, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of emotion. "The night I found you... It wasn't some grand act of heroism. I found you in the barn, bleeding out. I didn't know what else to do, so I brought you to Gabriel." Castiel's eyes widened, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
"Gabriel said–"
"Gabriel accused me of hurting you," Dean interrupted gently. "He saw the four deep wounds and assumed I was the one who did it. He kept me imprisoned for weeks, treating me like a criminal. It wasn't until you cleared my name that I was released." Castiel's brow furrowed, his frown deepening.
"But Gabriel told me you saved me. That you were my protector." Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Balthazar told me Gabriel used to make up lies to explain why your father was away. It seems like he hasn't stopped doing that." Castiel's face darkened with a mix of anger and hurt.
"Gabriel knows I don't like lies. It feels like I'm not worthy of knowing the truth."
Dean reached out, his hand hovering over Castiel's before settling on the table. "It's not about your worth, Castiel. Gabriel probably thought he was protecting you, or maybe he just wanted to control the narrative. But you deserve the truth, and I'm sorry you had to find out this way." Castiel looked down at their hands, the silence between them heavy with unspoken emotions. The flickering firelight cast shadows on the walls, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere in the dim kitchen.
"I don't understand why he would do that," Castiel murmured, his voice barely audible. "All I ever wanted was honesty." Dean felt a pang of sympathy, seeing the pain in Castiel's eyes.
"Maybe Gabriel thought he was helping, or maybe he's just so used to controlling everything that he can't stop. But you need to know that I never meant to hurt you. I was just trying to do what I thought was right." Castiel stared at their hands, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and hurt. The flickering light from the hearth painted shadows across the room, adding to the surreal atmosphere that enveloped them. The truth Dean had revealed felt like a punch to the gut, shattering the fragile understanding Castiel had clung to.
"Gabriel shouldn't lie," Castiel whispered, his voice strained. "He's always told me that honesty is paramount, that lies only breed distrust and pain. How can he preach one thing and practise another?" Dean could see the pain etched in Castiel's face, the deep-seated betrayal that came with Gabriel's deception. He wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but he knew that words alone wouldn't mend the rift Gabriel had caused. Just then, the kitchen door swung open, and Balthazar stepped in. He took one look at the scene before him, Castiel's tense posture and Dean's resigned expression, and stopped short. His mouth opened to speak, but he was cut off by the fierce glare Castiel shot him.
"Balthazar," Castiel began, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and anguish, "Gabriel is a liar. All this time, he's been lying to me. Why didn't you tell me?" Balthazar glanced at Dean, who gave him a wry smile, as if to say ‘Good luck’ . He turned back to Castiel, his face a mask of calm, but his eyes betrayed a hint of unease.
"Castiel," Balthazar began, choosing his words carefully, "Gabriel always believes he is doing what is best for you."
"Best for me?" Castiel's voice rose, and he stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "He lied about Dean. He lied about everything. How is that supposed to help me?" Balthazar took a deep breath, his gaze steady on Castiel.
"Gabriel probably thought that by making Dean your saviour, you would care more about him, that it would make your bond stronger." Castiel looked as though he had been slapped. He took a step back, shaking his head slowly.
"So, Gabriel manipulated me? He used Dean to control my emotions?"
"It wasn't about control," Balthazar said gently. "It was about ensuring your safety, your stability. Gabriel probably believed that if you saw Dean as your protector, you would be more willing to adapt, to accept your new life." Castiel's eyes filled with tears, the betrayal cutting deeper than he had expected.
"But it wasn't real. It was all based on a lie." Dean stood then, his expression resolute.
"Castiel, what I did for you, bringing you to Gabriel, that was real. The feelings, the struggle, everything we've been through—it's real. Gabriel's lie doesn't change the fact that I've tried to be here for you, even when it's been damn near impossible."
Castiel turned to Dean, his face a mixture of hurt and confusion as he sank back into his chair, his hands trembling slightly. Balthazar crouched down to meet Castiel's eyes, his expression softening. He spoke in a gentle, reassuring, tone.
"Tout ira bien, Castiel. Je te promets." Castiel shook his head, his eyes still locked on Dean.
"Non, Balthazar. Rien ne va plus. Tout devient de plus en plus difficile."
Dean watched the exchange, understanding only fragments of their conversation but feeling the raw emotion behind it. He felt a pang of helplessness, the language barrier making him more alienated than before. Balthazar's eyes were filled with a deep understanding as he continued, his voice soft and soothing.
"Je sais que c'est dur, mais nous devons trouver un moyen. Nous sommes une famille, Castiel." Castiel's gaze shifted back to Dean, his eyes reflecting the flickering candle light, showing a mix of vulnerability and determination.
"Dean, I... I don't know how to do this, don't know how to start over either. Everything feels like it's falling apart." Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady his own emotions. He could see the pain and confusion in Castiel's eyes, and a surge of anger welled up within him.
"Cas, I know it's hard to live in this constant state of chaos. But every time I try to make things better, something else falls apart." Castiel looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup.
"It's just... I thought I could handle this. All of it. The wedding, the marriage, this - you. I thought I could adapt, but everything keeps changing, and I don't know how to keep up."
“Do you have any idea what I've been through?” Dean's frustration bubbled over. "You thought you could handle it? It's infuriating, Cas. You are infuriating!” Dean's words hung in the air like a storm cloud, charged and heavy with the intensity of his emotions. Balthazar shot Dean a look that cut through the tension, a silent command for restraint. “And you talk about starting over? Clean slate, yeah? Guess what, Castiel, you don't get to just rewrite history because it suits your narrative. It doesn't work like that –" When Balthazar's eyes began to glow a faint purple Dean fell silent, his jaw clenching as he tried to rein in his frustration. The room felt suffocating, the silence pressing in on them. Castiel's eyes shimmered with tears, his confusion and hurt palpable. He glanced at Balthazar, then back to Dean, his hands trembling slightly as they clutched his cup. In return Dean looked at Castiel expectantly, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths as he struggled to calm himself. The silence stretched between them, filled with the unspoken weight of their shared history. Castiel's eyes, a stormy mix of blue, reflected the flickering candlelight, but he remained silent, seemingly unable to find the words. Dean clenched his fists, frustration bubbling over as he continued, his voice a mix of anger and desperation. "You can't just run off for three days and expect everyone to be on your schedule, Cas! You can't expect me to just roll over and die trying to help you find your place in the world. You can't act like a goddamn child!" The room seemed to shrink around them, the walls closing in as Dean's words echoed in the tense air. Castiel's face flushed, his eyes darting between Dean and Balthazar, who stood silently, his expression unreadable. Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions, but the hurt and confusion in Castiel's eyes only fueled his frustration. "You think you're the only one struggling here?" Dean's voice softened, the anger giving way to a raw vulnerability. "I'm trying, Cas. I'm really trying. But every time I think we're making progress, you pull away. You shut me out, and I don't know how to reach you." Castiel looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup, the silence between them heavy with unspoken pain. He felt like a fragile vessel, barely holding together under the strain of his own emotions. The betrayal he felt towards Gabriel, the confusion and hurt from Dean's words—it all swirled within him, threatening to overwhelm. Balthazar, standing silently by the door, observed them both with a keen, contemplative gaze. The room, dimly lit by the fire and candles, felt charged with an almost otherworldly energy, as if the very air held its breath in anticipation.
“You’re like cats, you know,” Balthazar finally said, his voice breaking the heavy silence. Dean and Castiel both looked at him, puzzled. “Cats,” he repeated, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Always skirting around each other, trying to figure out how to coexist without fully understanding the other’s intentions. Territorial, but needing companionship.” Dean blinked, taken aback by the comparison.
“Cats?”
“Yes, cats,” Balthazar said, stepping closer. “Independent and stubborn, yet capable of deep, abiding loyalty once trust is established. But trust, that’s the tricky part, isn’t it?”
Chapter 18
Notes:
Chapter word count: 15 568
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
In the early hours of Christmas morning, Dean was jolted awake by a firm hand shaking his shoulder. Disoriented, he blinked against the darkness, struggling to make sense of why Balthazar was standing over him, looking annoyingly chipper for such an ungodly hour.
"Balthazar?" Dean mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "What the hell are you doing? Charlie said I didn’t have to work today." Balthazar’s eyes twinkled with amusement, but his tone remained serious.
"It’s not about work, Dean. Did you tan the moose hide after the wedding?" Dean sat up, his mind slowly clearing.
"Yeah, I did. Why?"
"It is supposed to be the morning wedding gift from the bride during the first year of marriage. Castiel might not show it, but traditions are important. He should at least pretend to appreciate the gesture." Dean sighed, the last vestiges of sleep slipping away.
"Castiel won’t like it, Balthazar. He’s been avoiding me for the past two days." Balthazar’s expression softened slightly.
"He’s avoiding you because he’s confused and hurt. This gesture might help bridge the gap, even if just a little. Now, up you get."
Dean reluctantly threw off the blankets, the chill of the early December morning seeping into his bones. He dressed quickly, his mind churning with doubts about Balthazar’s plan. Nevertheless, he followed Balthazar out of the house and into the cold, crisp air of the farm. The Novak grounds were eerily quiet, the snow-covered ground crunching softly under their feet as they made their way to the shed where the moose hide was stored. The houses arranged in a half-circle around the main yard looked serene under the pale light of the moon, but Dean knew that beneath that calm facade lay a complex web of emotions and tensions. Castiel’s house, furthest to the left, stood in stark contrast to the others. The two-story structure was dark, its windows reflecting the moonlight like cold, unfeeling eyes. Dean shivered, whether from the cold or from apprehension, he wasn’t sure.
"Here we are," Balthazar announced, opening the shed door with a creak. The smell of leather and wood greeted them, warm and familiar. Dean retrieved the tanned moose hide, its surface smooth and glossy from hours of careful work. He ran his fingers over it, remembering the effort he’d put into making it perfect. Would Castiel appreciate it? Or would it be just another point of contention between them? Dean cast a doubtful look at Balthazar, who nodded encouragingly.
“This might just make things worse,” Dean muttered, referring to the strained silence that had lingered between him and Castiel over the past few days. Despite being in the same space under Balthazar’s watchful eyes, they had barely exchanged words. Balthazar placed a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“Give it a chance. You might be surprised.”
They made their way back to Castiel’s house, the snow crunching rhythmically under their boots as the early morning sky cast a soft, bluish hue over the landscape. The serene quiet enveloped them, a contrast to the emotional tumult Dean felt inside. The kitchen, warm and inviting, offered a stark difference to the chilly outside world. Balthazar moved with practised ease, bustling around with an energy that made the kitchen feel alive. Dean placed the moose hide carefully on the table, smoothing it out with gentle hands. He watched Balthazar for a moment, noting how the witch’s efficiency contrasted sharply with his own lingering sleepiness. The kitchen smelled faintly of pine and apples, a comforting blend that helped ease his apprehensions.
“Why don’t you start the coffee?” Balthazar suggested, glancing over his shoulder with a knowing smile. “It’ll help wake you up.” Dean nodded, moving to the counter where the instant coffee stood. He filled a cup with ground coffee, and put a kettle on the stove, the familiar motions grounding him in the present. Soon the rich aroma of coffee filled the air, he felt a small measure of comfort seep into his bones. Balthazar opened the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon, and various other breakfast items. “So, Dean,” he began casually, cracking eggs into a bowl with a deft hand, “is there any food you’ve missed since coming here?” Dean glanced up, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
“You already know the answer to that, Balthazar. Meat. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the food here, but there’s just something about a good, hearty steak.” Balthazar chuckled, whisking the eggs.
“I thought as much. I’ll have to see what we can do about that. Maybe a special dinner one of these nights.” Dean leaned against the counter, the warmth of the kitchen slowly easing the chill from his bones.
“You know, it’s not just about the food. It’s about the familiarity. Everything here feels... different.” Balthazar nodded, pouring flour into the bowl with the eggs.
“Different can be hard to adjust to,” he agreed, adding a pinch of salt and a splash of milk. “But it’s not always a bad thing.” Dean watched as Balthazar mixed the ingredients, the rhythm of his movements soothing in its simplicity.
“How often do you go hunting?” Balthazar asked, his tone casual as he whisked the batter.
“I've only done it once, twice if you count the wedding hunt,” Dean replied, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“That shows impressive restraint, Dean,” Balthazar noted, pouring the batter onto a hot griddle.
“I’m not sure if it’s restraint or just... reluctance,” Dean admitted. “Everything is different here. Most days, it feels like I’m just trying to keep my head above water.” Balthazar flipped a pancake, the sizzle of the batter hitting the griddle a comforting sound.
“That’s only natural,” he said, his voice gentle. “It’s a big change, takes time to adjust.” Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Balthazar.
“How was it for you, Balthazar? You didn’t have a choice either, did you?” Balthazar halted his movements, turning to face Dean. His expression softened, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“It wasn’t the same,” he said quietly. “I made a choice, even if it was under duress. I lost a bet to your father, and the consequences were clear. But I had the luxury of knowing what I was walking into. You didn’t.” Balthazar studied Dean's face, taking in the lines of fatigue and the sadness that lingered despite the mask of composure Dean had put on. The witch could see the weight of unspoken burdens, the struggle to adapt to a life Dean had never wanted. Dean's eyes, which before the wedding had been so vibrant with defiance or determination, seemed dulled, as if the fight had been slowly sapped from him over the past two months. Balthazar turned back to the griddle, his movements deliberate and thoughtful. “I could leave,” he said softly, flipping a pancake. “When Castiel turned eighteen, I was free to go, and I did. You can’t.” Dean sighed, looking away, his fingers tracing the edge of the counter.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel like I belong here,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar glanced at him, his eyes softened with understanding.
“What about Charlie?” he asked, his tone light. “She has always been of high spirits.” Dean hummed in agreement, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah, she’s a real firecracker. But she’s also loyal to Gabriel.” Balthazar nodded thoughtfully as he poured more batter onto the griddle. The aroma of cooking pancakes filled the kitchen, mingling with the scent of pine and apples. The warmth of the stove created a cosy atmosphere, contrasting sharply with the chill of the December morning.
“She has to be,” Balthazar said, his voice steady. “It’s important for her family.” Dean’s smile faded slightly.
“I guess,” he replied, his tone resigned. Balthazar placed a few golden-brown pancakes onto a plate and nodded for Dean to sit at the table. Dean complied, settling into a chair with a sigh. Balthazar set the plate in front of him, the pancakes steaming invitingly. He returned to the griddle, pouring out more batter. The kitchen felt alive with the sounds of breakfast being prepared—the sizzle of batter on the hot griddle, the soft clatter of plates and utensils, and the occasional hum of the refrigerator. Dean watched Balthazar work, the witch’s movements fluid and precise. The rhythmic motion of the spatula flipping pancakes was oddly soothing, a small comfort amidst the uncertainty that had plagued him for the past two days. “Charlie’s loyalty to Gabriel makes sense,” Dean said after a moment, his voice contemplative. “She must have always been close to him. But sometimes I wonder if that loyalty extends to me, or if I’m just... a line chef.” Balthazar glanced over his shoulder, his expression thoughtful.
“Loyalty isn’t a finite resource, Dean. Just because she’s loyal to Gabriel doesn’t mean she can’t be loyal to you as well. It might take time, but people adapt. Relationships grow.” Dean picked up his fork and took a bite of the pancakes, the familiar taste bringing a small measure of comfort. He chewed slowly, considering Balthazar’s words. The witch’s presence was a steadying influence, his calm demeanour and pragmatic outlook a counterbalance to the chaotic emotions Dean had been grappling with.
“I hope you’re right,” Dean said finally, setting his fork down. “Why are Charlie and Castiel friends anyway? They seem like opposites.”
“They do, don’t they?” Balthazar smiled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “But it came naturally. Charlie was the one closest in age to Castiel when they were children, so they spent a lot of time together. And now, I imagine it’s because she puts up with Castiel’s texting.” Dean raised an eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face.
“Texting? I’ve never seen Castiel use a phone.”
“Oh, he does.” Balthazar chuckled, flipping another pancake. “Mostly to text Charlie. They have their own way of communicating. It’s subtle, but it’s there.” Dean thought back to the times Castiel had mentioned things Charlie said, even though he had only seen them together when Castiel first introduced him to her at her restaurant. Then he remembered the way Castiel had presented him as ‘Dean Novak’, and it made his stomach turn with unease.
“Why does Castiel never mention his phone then?” Dean asked, curiosity piqued. Balthazar shrugged, placing another stack of pancakes on a plate.
“He’s a private person, especially about things that matter to him. Besides, he probably doesn’t want to give Gabriel any reason to control another aspect of his life. Or take it away again.” Dean nodded slowly, understanding dawning on him.
“Do you think this gift will really help?” Dean asked, his voice softer, more hopeful. Balthazar turned to face him, his eyes earnest.
“I do, Dean. Sometimes, it’s the small gestures that make the biggest impact. This is a start, a way to show Castiel that you’re willing to try, that you respect the pack’s traditions.”
Dean took a deep breath, the aroma of the pancakes mingling with the scent of pine and apples. The kitchen felt like a haven, a place where he could find a moment of peace amidst the chaos of his new life. He picked up his fork again, taking another bite of the pancakes.
“Thanks, Balthazar,” he said, his voice filled with genuine gratitude.
“Anytime, Dean.”
Balthazar sat down at the table, placing a small dish of strawberry jam and a bowl of sugar between them. Dean had been eating his pancakes plain, but his eyes lit up at the sight of the jam. He reached for it eagerly, spreading a generous amount over the warm, fluffy pancakes. Balthazar, on the other hand, sprinkled a delicate dusting of sugar over his own plate. As Dean took a bite, the sweet and tangy taste of the jam brought a smile to his face. The kitchen was filled with a sense of quiet camaraderie, the morning light casting a gentle glow over the scene. Balthazar watched Dean, a subtle smile playing at the corners of his lips. The peaceful moment was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Dean looked up to see Castiel entering the kitchen. Castiel's eyes flickered towards Dean, a brief but noticeable glance before he mumbled 'Merry Christmas' and made his way to the refrigerator. Dean watched as Castiel took out a soda can and fetched a glass, the familiar ritual somehow comforting in its normalcy. Castiel poured the soda into the glass, the soft hiss of carbonation filling the quiet kitchen. He then joined them at the table, his movements deliberate and careful. Balthazar gave Dean a subtle nod, encouraging him to present the hide. Dean took a deep breath, feeling the nervous flutter in his stomach. He reached for the tanned moose hide, carefully unfolding it and placing it on the table in front of Castiel.
"Castiel," Dean began, his voice steady but soft, "this is for you. It's the morning gift. I wanted to honour the tradition." Castiel's eyes widened slightly as he looked at the hide, his fingers hesitating before they touched the smooth, carefully tanned surface. The quiet crackle of the hide under his touch seemed to echo in the stillness of the kitchen.
"Thank you, Dean," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a flicker of genuine appreciation in his eyes, a moment of vulnerability that Dean hadn’t seen before. Dean watched Castiel carefully, hoping for a sign that this gesture had made a difference.
"I put a lot of work into it," he continued, trying to keep the conversation going. "I wanted it to be perfect for you. Us." Castiel's fingers traced the edges of the hide, his expression thoughtful.
"It is perfect," he said softly, his gaze finally meeting Dean's. "I appreciate it. Really, I do." The tension in the room seemed to ease slightly, the atmosphere warming with the shared moment. Balthazar smiled, sensing the shift.
"See? Traditions can be a good thing," he remarked, his tone light. Dean felt a small surge of relief, the knot of anxiety in his chest loosening.
"I'm glad you like it, Cas," he said, his voice more confident now. Castiel nodded, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"I do. Thank you, Dean." They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, the warmth of the kitchen and the gentle morning light creating a sense of peace. The simple act of sharing breakfast, of honouring traditions, had begun to bridge the gap between them.
Then the door creaked open again, and Gabriel strode in, his presence commanding as always.
"Merry Christmas, everyone," he announced, a grin spreading across his face. "What's this? A family breakfast?" Gabriel’s gaze landed on Castiel's glass of soda, and his smile faltered. "Soda for breakfast, Cas? Really?" Castiel's expression darkened, his earlier vulnerability replaced by a flash of anger.
"Why do you care?" he snapped. "I can drink what I want." Gabriel raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.
"I care because it's Christmas morning, and I'd like to see my brother starting the day with something a bit more festive. Also, we need to talk about—"
"We don't need to talk about anything, Gabriel.” Castiel cut him off, his voice rising. “Especially not after the lies you've been telling." Dean felt the air in the room thicken with tension, the calm of their breakfast shattered. He glanced at Balthazar, expecting to see concern, but the witch appeared unbothered, his attention focused on his pancakes. Gabriel's eyes narrowed, his voice cold.
"What lies, Castiel?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Castiel hissed. "You lied about Dean's role when I was hurt! You told me he willingly protected and nursed me back to health, but the truth is, you held him prisoner!" Dean's stomach churned as the confrontation unfolded. The raw emotion in Castiel's voice was a stark contrast to the demeanour he usually maintained. Gabriel's face hardened, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"I did what I had to do to keep you safe," Gabriel said, his voice low and menacing. "Everything I did was for you, Castiel."
"For me?" Castiel's voice cracked with fury. "You manipulated me! You made me believe in something that wasn't true! How is that for me?" Dean watched in stunned silence, the intensity of the argument almost too much to bear. He could feel the fury radiating from both brothers, a palpable force that threatened to consume the room.
"You're too naive to understand," Gabriel shot back, his tone icy. "You always have been." Castiel's hands clenched into fists, his body trembling with rage.
"And you're too arrogant to admit when you're wrong! You think you can control everything and everyone. But you're wrong, Gabriel. Dead wrong." The silence that followed was suffocating, the air crackling with unspoken accusations and unresolved pain. Dean glanced at Balthazar again, hoping for some intervention, but the witch remained impassive, as if the fight was a mere inconvenience. Dean took a tentative step forward, his voice shaky.
"Guys, maybe we should—"
"Stay out of this, Dean," Gabriel snapped, his eyes never leaving Castiel's. Dean recoiled, the force of Gabriel's anger hitting him like a physical blow. He looked to Castiel, who seemed on the verge of losing control.
"You don't get to talk to him like that," Castiel said, his voice dangerously low. "Dean is part of this family now, because of you." Gabriel's lips curled into a sneer.
"Family? Don't make me laugh. This isn't about family. It's about survival. And you, Castiel, need to learn the difference." Castiel took a step forward, his eyes blazing.
"And you need to learn that you can't control everything. Especially not me." The words hung in the air, a challenge that neither brother was willing to back down from. Dean stood frozen, caught in the middle of a conflict that ran deeper than he could fathom. Balthazar finally looked up from his plate, his gaze cool and assessing.
"Perhaps this isn't the best time for a family argument," he said mildly. "It's Christmas morning, after all." Gabriel turned to Balthazar, his expression dark.
"Stay out of this, Balthazar. This is between me and my brother." Balthazar's eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief.
"Oh, but family matters are never quite so simple, are they?"
The tension in the room remained thick, the confrontation far from resolved. Dean felt a sinking dread in his stomach, knowing that the fragile peace they had managed to find this morning was in danger of shattering completely. In the quiet kitchen, the soft light of Christmas morning seemed a fragile illusion, threatened by the storm brewing between the Novak brothers. Gabriel's eyes narrowed as he looked at his younger brother.
"Why can't you just be happy, Castiel? Why can't you just sit and paint and sing 'You Are My Sunshine' to that damn cat Balthazar gave you like you always did with animals when you were a child?" Castiel's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a mix of hurt and defiance.
"You took away my art studio, Gabriel." Gabriel scoffed, waving a hand dismissively.
"Dean practically begged for the bedroom to stay so you could have your own room back. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture." Castiel's gaze flickered to Dean, surprise and gratitude mingling in his expression. Dean offered a small, fading smile, his eyes conveying an unspoken understanding. Castiel felt a surge of warmth, a brief respite from the cold tension in the room. Gabriel continued, his voice hard. "You don't need a studio to paint or draw, Cas. You can take your materials with you, sit somewhere else."
"I can't," Castiel replied, his voice barely audible.
"And why is that?" Gabriel's frustration was palpable. Castiel looked down, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"I tossed them." The revelation hung in the air, a silent bombshell that left everyone in the room stunned. Gabriel's eyes widened in disbelief, his anger momentarily forgotten.
"You what?"
"I threw them all away," Castiel said, articulating clearly.
"Why on earth would you do that?" Gabriel demanded, his voice rising. Castiel's eyes brimmed with tears, his voice cracking.
"Because it hurt too much to look at them. They were a reminder of everything I lost, everything you took from me." Gabriel's anger surged anew, his face reddening.
"You threw away your art supplies because of some misplaced sense of loss? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" Balthazar, sensing the situation escalating, stood up and stepped between the brothers.
"Merry Christmas, Gabriel," he said, his tone calm but firm. "Let's take a walk, shall we?" Gabriel glared at him, his fists clenched.
"I'm not done here."
"Well, I believe you are," Balthazar replied, his voice steady. "Castiel and Dean don't need this right now. You need to cool down." Gabriel's eyes flashed with defiance, but Balthazar remained resolute. "Come on, Gabriel. Let's go." Reluctantly, Gabriel allowed himself to be led out of the kitchen. The tension in the room seemed to dissipate slightly as they left, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the now quiet space. In the hallway, Gabriel tried to argue.
"Balthazar, this isn't over. He needs to understand—"
"Leave," Balthazar interrupted firmly. "If you want any chance of salvaging your relationship with Castiel, you need to give him space. Come back in a couple of days when you've both had time to cool down." Gabriel opened his mouth to protest, but Balthazar's unwavering gaze silenced him. "Trust me, Gabriel. This is the best way forward."
“Fine.” Gabriel's shoulders slumped slightly, the fight leaving him. He nodded reluctantly. "But this isn't the end of it."
"I know."As Gabriel walked away, Balthazar turned back towards the kitchen, his expression softening as he saw Castiel and Dean sitting together at the table. He could see the hurt and confusion in Castiel's eyes, the lingering tension in Dean's posture. But there was also a glimmer of hope, a small spark of connection that had been reignited. Balthazar returned to the table, his movements deliberate and calm. He sat down, his gaze settling on Castiel. "Are you alright, Cassie?" Castiel took a deep breath, his fingers tracing the edges of the moose hide.
"I don't know. Everything feels so... broken." Dean and Balthazar exchanged looks, a silent communication passing between them. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but halted when Castiel looked up at him through thick lashes, his blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I didn't know you were behind us sleeping separately," Castiel said, his voice soft and filled with a mix of surprise and gratitude. "Thank you." Dean felt a warmth spread through him at Castiel's words. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady on Castiel's face.
"Of course, Cas. After our first night, you didn't seem too pleased, and then some people came to demolish my room to turn it back into your art studio. So, I went to Gabriel and asked for it to stay a bedroom." Castiel's eyes widened in surprise.
"You did that for me?"
"Yeah, I figured you needed your own space.” Dean nodded, his expression sincere. “It didn't seem right to take that away from you." Castiel's gaze dropped to the table, his fingers tracing the edges of the moose hide once more.
"Thank you, Dean," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. Balthazar watched them, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. The kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of the morning light, seemed to hold a sense of calm and possibility. The earlier tension had dissipated, replaced by a tentative connection that felt fragile but real. Dean reached out, his hand covering Castiel's gently. Castiel gasped slightly at the contact, his eyes flickering up to meet Dean's.
"Castiel, I know things have been hard. I know I've been frustrated and angry, but I want-ed to make this work. I wanted to find a way for us to be... okay." Castiel looked up again, meeting Dean's gaze with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered. "I didn't know how much you've tried." Dean gave a small, reassuring squeeze to Castiel's hand.
"It's okay, Cas. We both have things to work on. But I think this—" he gestured to the moose hide, "—is a start."
“Let's finish breakfast, shall we?” Balthazar suggested. Castiel nodded quietly. Balthazar rose to fetch a plate for Castiel, their earlier tension ebbing away. Castiel's shoulders relaxed slightly as he picked up his fork, joining them in the simple pleasure of breakfast. The scent of pancakes and strawberry jam lingered in the air, mixing with the comforting aroma of the coffee. They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments before Balthazar broke the quiet. "So, about the upcoming lunch," he began, glancing between Castiel and Dean. "Per tradition, the entire pack gathers for a feast." Dean's stomach churned at the thought of facing the entire pack. The idea of being scrutinised, of enduring the whispers and stares, filled him with dread. Castiel, as if sensing Dean's unease, spoke up, his voice steady.
"I don't think we should go," he said, turning to Dean. "Unless you want to." Dean looked at Castiel, relief washing over him.
"No, I really don't," he admitted, a smile spreading across his face. Balthazar chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
"No pack lunch then. So, what should we make?" He glanced at Castiel, who then turned to Dean expectantly. Dean shrugged, thinking back to his family traditions.
"My family used to do a big meal, but not as a pack. Just a family thing." Castiel nodded thoughtfully, then turned to Balthazar, obviously considering something.
"If you comfort an animal who has lived a good life when you slaughter it, it isn't as bad, is it?" Balthazar met Castiel's gaze, understanding the unspoken question.
"No, it's better than most of the meat industry. More humane." Castiel turned back to Dean, his expression earnest.
"If you want, Balthazar can show you to the other animals—the ones I don't take care of. They will have lived a good life, and if you comfort it... well... maybe it isn't so bad?" Dean looked at Castiel in disbelief. This was the same Castiel who had told Deanthat as a child he used to cry when animals went to slaughter, who had refused Dean's first meal. Castiel, who had seemed so disgusted by the hide until now.
"Are you sure?" Dean asked, his voice filled with surprise and concern.
“Yes,” Castiel nodded, his blue eyes steady and sincere. "Dean, you've shown that you can take care of the animal in an honourable way. No parts go to waste. Otherwise, it is murder. Okay?" Dean was silent for a moment, absorbing Castiel's words. He nodded slowly, feeling a sense of responsibility settle over him.
"Okay, Cas. If you're sure, then I'll do it." Castiel smiled, a soft, tentative smile that held a world of unspoken emotions. Balthazar watched the exchange with a mixture of pride and relief.
"Well then, it's settled. Let's finish breakfast, and then we'll get to work."
After breakfast as Dean dressed upstairs Balthazar entered Castiel's bedroom, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression thoughtful.
"I don't buy it," Balthazar said, his voice low but firm. Castiel, who was rummaging through his wardrobe, glanced over his shoulder.
"What?"
"I don't buy you just granting Dean the right to kill an animal for food." Castiel pulled out a sweater, a soft, worn piece that Balthazar recognized as one he'd given Castiel a few years ago. He tossed it onto the bed, the fabric landing in a soft heap.
"Dean has made compromises," Castiel said, his tone even. Balthazar shook his head.
"Making compromises and abandoning what you believe in aren't the same thing." Castiel walked over to Balthazar, his eyes reflecting a mix of determination and resignation.
"Dean is killing the deer in the forest. If Dean will leave the deer be by taking an animal already destined for slaughter, then that is better than some poor unsuspecting deer." Balthazar's expression softened slightly, but his scepticism remained.
"I'm not so sure Dean is the one killing the deer." Castiel's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.
"He has proven that he has the ability to kill, and the deer were all torn up." Balthazar sighed, pushing himself off the wall and taking a step closer to Castiel.
"Hence the deal. ‘No parts go to waste. Otherwise, it is murder.’" Castiel nodded, a determined look settling on his features.
"Yes, and it will give us time to set up the surprise for him." Balthazar's expression softened slightly, though scepticism lingered in his eyes.
"I suppose." With that, he turned and left Castiel's room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
Upstairs, Dean finished dressing, the muted sounds of his movements filling the quiet space. He descended the stairs to find Balthazar waiting, a pensive look on his face. Without a word, they headed out into the chilly December morning, the crisp air biting at their exposed skin. The forest surrounding the Novak territory was dense and alive with the sounds of winter. The ground, blanketed in snow, crunched beneath their boots as they ventured deeper into the woods. Tall pines and bare oaks stood sentinel, their branches whispering secrets in the wind. Eventually, they reached a clearing where a variety of animals were kept: chickens clucked softly in their coop, cows lowed gently, pigs snuffled in the mud, horses stood majestically, and sheep bleated curiously. The scene was peaceful, a stark contrast to the task Dean was about to undertake. Balthazar turned to Dean, his expression neutral.
"Castiel didn't specify what animal, so it's up to you to pick." He gestured towards the caretakers nearby. "Tell them you have approval, and you should be able to choose whatever you need." Dean glanced at the animals, a knot forming in his stomach.
"You're not staying?"
"No,” Balthazar shook his head. “but I'll be in the kitchen later to help you cook." With that, he turned and walked back towards the house, leaving Dean alone in the clearing. Dean approached one of the caretakers, a middle-aged woman with weathered hands and kind eyes.
"I have approval," he said, his voice steady despite the rapid beating of his heart. She looked him up and down, her eyes narrowing as they settled on the scar on his neck.
"Castiel has given approval?" she asked, her tone dubious. Dean nodded.
"Yes." A tense silence stretched between them, Dean's heart thudding in his chest. Finally, she stepped aside, but as he walked past her, she leaned in and inhaled deeply.
"He isn't touching you." Dean stopped in his tracks, turning to face her, confusion and wariness evident in his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"You bear his mark, but his scent isn't on you." She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "It is on your clothes, not you." Dean's heart pounded as he stared at the caretaker, her words echoing in his mind, unsettled him deeply. Of course Castiel's scent wasn't on him. But he had worn the clothing Gabriel had fixed for him, and Castiel had always insisted on doing the laundry. The realisation gnawed at Dean, a subtle but insistent reminder of the complexities that lay beneath the surface of their relationship. Trying to shake off the unease, Dean focused on the task at hand. He moved through the pens, his eyes scanning the animals. The cows mooed softly, their large eyes watching him with a mix of curiosity and indifference. The pigs rooted around in the dirt, seemingly oblivious to his presence. The horses stood tall and proud, their breath visible in the cold morning air. The sheep, with their soft wool and gentle bleats, seemed almost too innocent for what he was about to do. Dean's gaze settled on one of the sheep. It stood apart from the others, its eyes wide and curious.
"I'll take this one," Dean declared, his voice steady. The caretaker nodded, her expression neutral.
"Will you take it back to the house, or do it here?"
"Here," Dean replied, his resolve firming. The woman took the sheep from the pen, and it bleated in fear as it was separated from the flock. She gestured for Dean to follow her to a separate room. The room was small, with hay scattered across the floor and the faint smell of blood lingering in the air. Dean was certain that if he brushed aside the hay, he would see decades of dried, spilled blood. The caretaker pointed to a cabinet in the corner.
"Everything you need is in there," she said before leaving Dean alone with the frightened sheep. Dean approached the cabinet and opened a drawer, revealing an assortment of tools. He took a deep breath, selecting the instruments he needed and placing them on the ground in front of the sheep. The animal's eyes never left him, wide and trusting, and it tugged at something deep within him. He knelt down beside the sheep, his hands steady despite the turmoil inside.
"It's okay," he whispered, his voice gentle. "I'll do this quickly. You won't suffer." Dean picked up a sharp knife, its blade gleaming in the dim light. He placed a comforting hand on the sheep's head, stroking its soft wool. The animal trembled slightly, its eyes still fixed on Dean. He felt a pang of guilt, but he knew this was necessary. With a swift motion he slit the sheep's throat. The blood spurted out, hot and bright, soaking the hay beneath them. The sheep's eyes widened in shock, its body convulsing slightly. Dean held it steady, whispering soothing words as the life slowly drained from its body. The room was filled with the metallic scent of blood, and Dean's hands were slick with it. He continued to stroke the sheep's head, his heart aching for the creature that had trusted him. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so sorry." As the sheep's body went limp, Dean sat back on his heels, feeling the reality of what he had done sinking in. He had taken a life, but he had done it with care and respect. The room, now heavy with the metallic scent of blood, was a silent witness to his actions. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself before proceeding with the next task. Standing up, Dean moved to the cabinet and pulled out a large, sharp knife meant for butchering. The blade was cold and heavy in his hand, its polished surface reflecting the dim light. He returned to the sheep, whose body lay still on the hay-strewn floor. Carefully, he began the meticulous process of butchering, his movements deliberate and respectful.
First, he made an incision down the centre of the sheep's belly, peeling back the skin with practised ease. The fleece came away smoothly, revealing the pale, pink flesh underneath. Dean worked methodically, removing the fleece in large sections, being careful not to tear the valuable material. The fleece was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the room.
Once the fleece was removed, Dean set it aside, turning his attention to the meat. He carefully separated the muscles, slicing through the connective tissue with precision. The knife moved effortlessly through the flesh, each cut clean and efficient. Dean’s hands, though bloodied, remained steady, his focus unwavering. He worked with a sense of purpose, his mind quieting as he concentrated on the task. The repetitive motions were almost meditative, providing a brief respite from the emotional tumult that had plagued him. Dean filleted the meat, separating the prime cuts from the rest. He knew that every part of the animal had value, and he was determined to honour that by ensuring nothing went to waste. The legs and shoulders came away easily, the meat rich and tender. Dean set these aside, knowing they would make for a hearty meal. He continued to work, removing the ribs and carefully slicing the loin. The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of his knife moving through flesh and bone, a steady counterpoint to the silence that surrounded him. Dean placed the prime cuts in a clean cloth, wrapping them carefully before setting them in a basket. The offal and less desirable parts were placed in a separate container, to be used for sausages or stews. He cleaned the carcass meticulously, ensuring that every usable part was accounted for. As he worked, he felt a sense of quiet satisfaction. He had honoured the animal by ensuring that nothing was wasted, fulfilling his promise to Castiel.
Finally, Dean wiped his hands on a clean rag, taking a moment to survey his work. The room, though still filled with the scent of blood, seemed less oppressive now. The task was done, and he felt a sense of accomplishment. He had taken a life, but he had done so with respect and care.
Dean gathered the baskets, making his way back to the house. The crisp December air bit at his cheeks, but he welcomed the fresh, clean scent of the outdoors.
As he entered the house, the warmth of the kitchen was a stark contrast to the cold outside. The smell of pine and apples mingled with the faint metallic scent of the butchered sheep, a reminder of the task he had just completed. He carefully placed the baskets on the kitchen counter, taking a moment to collect himself before hearing faint noises coming from the top floor. Curiosity piqued, Dean made his way upstairs. The closer he got, the clearer the sounds became—muffled voices and the occasional soft thud. As he reached the living room, he found Castiel and Balthazar attempting to mount a television on the wall. Norma, the kitten, was darting around their feet, ‘helping’ in her own way by batting at the cords and climbing onto the equipment. The scene brought a smile to Dean’s face, a moment of domestic normalcy that felt both surreal and comforting. But the moment was broken when Castiel caught sight of him, his movements halting abruptly.
"Balthazar," Castiel whispered urgently, drawing Balthazar's attention. Balthazar turned, raising an eyebrow when he saw Dean.
"Well, that was quick," he remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice. Castiel's face flushed with a mix of nervousness and frustration.
"Dean wasn’t supposed to see this yet," he muttered, looking annoyed. "Now the surprise is ruined." Balthazar waved a dismissive hand.
"Oh, nonsense, Cassie. Just explain it to him." With a deep breath, Castiel turned to Dean, his eyes filled with a blend of nervousness and embarrassment.
"Dean, erm… I have noticed you often seemed too tired to read when you came home from work," he began, his voice soft. "So I decided to get you a television, with Balthazar's help. He was the one who actually went into town to get it."
"Really?” Dean's eyes widened in surprise, his heart warming at the thoughtful gesture. “You did this for me?" Castiel nodded, finally meeting Dean’s gaze.
"Yes, I wanted to make things a bit easier for you." Dean felt a lump form in his throat, touched by the gesture.
"Thank you, Cas. This means a lot." Balthazar, sensing the emotional moment, took a step back, giving them space. Dean moved closer, his eyes locking with Castiel’s. The tension that had lingered between them seemed to ease, replaced by a tentative sense of understanding. Castiel smiled, a soft smile that reached his eyes.
"I hope you like it." Dean returned the smile, his heart swelling with gratitude.
"I do, Cas. Thank you."
"Alright,” Balthazar clapped his hands, breaking the moment. “Let's get this mounted properly, shall we?" Dean chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.
"Yeah, let's do it." Together, they worked to mount the television, the room filled with the sound of their laughter and the occasional playful meow from Norma. With the television installed and the cords neatly tucked away, Balthazar excused himself, leaving Dean and Castiel alone in the living room. Norma jumped down from her cat tree and settled herself comfortably between the two of them on the couch. Her soft purring filled the quiet space, a gentle reminder of the companionship that had begun to grow. Dean leaned back, a small smile playing at his lips as he looked at the newly mounted television. “I’ve missed having something to watch,” he said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. Castiel glanced at the television, then back at Dean.
“I have no idea how a TV works,” he admitted, his tone a mix of curiosity and embarrassment.
“Seriously?” Dean stared at Castiel in disbelief, eyebrows raised. “You’ve never used a TV before?” Castiel shook his head, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.
“There’s a projector in Gabriel’s house, and I know how that works. But a television? No. I’ve never needed one.” Dean couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound warm and genuine.
“Well, you’re in for a treat, Cas. It’s a lot simpler than you might think.” Castiel’s eyes sparkled with interest, and he leaned forward slightly, his attention focused on Dean.
“Show me?” Dean reached for the remote, his fingers brushing against Castiel’s as he picked it up. The brief contact sent a small jolt through him, a reminder of the fragile connection they were building. He turned on the television, the screen coming to life with a soft hum. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the TV, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
“See, this button turns it on,” Dean explained, his voice patient. “And these control the volume and channels. You can stream movies and shows, or watch live TV. It’s pretty versatile.” Castiel watched intently, his eyes following Dean’s every movement.
“It seems straightforward,” he said, a hint of wonder in his voice. “But there are so many options.”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded, a grin spreading across his face “there’s a lot to explore. But once you get the hang of it, it’s really fun. Do you want to try?” Castiel hesitated for a moment before reaching out and taking the remote. His fingers brushed against Dean’s once more, the touch lingering slightly longer this time. Dean guided his hand to the buttons, explaining their functions in more detail. Castiel’s concentration was intense, his brow furrowed as he absorbed the information. Norma shifted slightly, her purring growing louder as she nestled deeper between them. As they navigated through the channels, Dean felt a sense of pride watching Castiel’s fascination grow. The mundane act of teaching someone how to use a television had become a shared experience, a small but significant step towards understanding each other better.
“Do you have a favourite show or movie?” Castiel asked, his eyes still fixed on the screen. Dean thought for a moment, the memories of late-night marathons and weekend binges flooding his mind.
“There are a few,” he replied. “But let’s start with something light. Maybe a Christmas movie?” Castiel nodded, his lips curling into a soft smile.
“That sounds nice enough.” Dean selected a classic Christmas film, the familiar opening music filling the room. Castiel settled back into the couch, his posture relaxing as he let himself be drawn into the story. Dean watched him from the corner of his eye, the flickering light of the television reflecting in Castiel’s eyes. For the first time in a long while, Dean felt a sense of normalcy, a glimpse of what life could be like if they continued to work together. The fantastical elements of their world seemed to fade away, leaving behind the simple pleasure of sharing a moment with someone who was slowly becoming more than just a stranger.
Soon, Castiel fell asleep in front of the television, his head resting on the back of the couch, a soft expression on his face as the flickering images danced across the screen. Dean watched him for a moment, a mixture of emotions swirling within him. He turned his attention to Norma, who had curled up beside him, her green eyes peering up at him curiously.
“He’s really trying, huh?” Dean said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Norma responded with a gentle meow, her small body shifting closer to him. Dean smiled sadly, scratching her behind the ears. “Yeah, Norma, I wonder how long it will last too.” Dean gently picked up Norma, cradling her against his chest as he stood. He cast one last glance at Castiel, who continued to sleep peacefully, then made his way downstairs to the kitchen. The inviting aroma of cooking filled the air, mingling with the scent of pine and apples from earlier. Balthazar stood at the counter, peeling vegetables for lunch. He glanced up as Dean entered, his expression inquisitive.
“How did the slaughter go?” he asked, his tone casual but with an underlying note of concern. Dean set Norma down gently on the table and moved to the sink to wash his hands.
“I’ll honour the deal,” he replied, his voice steady. The memory of the morning’s task still weighed on him, the visceral experience of taking a life lingering in his mind.
“Good.” Balthazar nodded, his hands deftly peeling a carrot. “It’s important to keep your word.” He paused, looking at Dean thoughtfully. “Is it different for you when you’re human?” Dean dried his hands on a nearby towel, considering the question.
“Yeah, it is,” he admitted. “Everything feels more... immediate. The responsibility, the reality of it. When I’m human, I can’t just detach myself from what I’m doing. It’s all very real.” Balthazar’s eyes softened with understanding.
“That’s not a bad thing, you know. It means you’re not losing touch with your humanity. It’s easy to become desensitised, especially in a place like this.” Dean nodded, appreciating Balthazar’s insight.
“I suppose you’re right. It’s just... sometimes it feels like I’m constantly trying to balance between two worlds. The human side and the... other side.” Balthazar smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“That’s part of what makes you who you are, Dean. You’ve got a foot in both worlds, and that gives you a unique perspective. Use it.” Dean leaned against the counter, watching Balthazar work. The rhythmic motion of the peeler, the soft thud of vegetables being placed in a bowl—it was all oddly soothing.
“I guess I never really thought about it that way,” he said quietly. “I’ve been so focused on just surviving, I didn’t stop to consider what I might be learning from all this.”
“Every experience teaches us something, whether we realise it at the time or not. It’s all part of the journey.” Dean felt a sense of calm settle over him, the tension of the morning easing away. He glanced around the kitchen, noting the preparations for the upcoming meal.
“What’s on the menu for lunch?” he asked, changing the subject.
“A little bit of everything?” Balthazar chuckled, a twinkle in his eye. “I want to make sure there are leftovers for tomorrow. We’ll have roasted vegetables, a hearty mushroom stew, fresh bread... and of course, the lamb you provided. It’ll be a feast.” Dean couldn’t help but smile at Balthazar’s enthusiasm.
“Sounds like we’ll be eating well.”
“We always do,” Balthazar replied with a wink. “Now, why don’t you help me finish up here? There’s still plenty to do.” Dean nodded, rolling up his sleeves and joining Balthazar at the counter. Together, they worked in silence, the kitchen filled with the comforting sounds of preparation. As they chopped and peeled, Dean felt a renewed sense of purpose. After a few minutes Balthazar glanced towards the doorway, his hands still busy with the vegetables. “Where’s Castiel?” he asked, his tone light and conversational. Dean looked up from the potatoes he was peeling.
“He fell asleep on the couch,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. The sight of Castiel’s peaceful face, bathed in the soft glow of the television, had been a welcome respite from the morning’s tension. Balthazar hummed thoughtfully.
“He used to do that as a child too,” he remarked, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Whenever things got too overwhelming, he’d find a quiet corner and fall asleep. It drove Gabriel positively mad.” Dean chuckled, the image of a young Castiel escaping his brother’s wrath by simply dozing off playing vividly in his mind.
“Sounds like a good strategy.”
“It was.” Balthazar nodded, a fond smile gracing his features. “Gabriel and Castiel were always so different. Gabriel, full of energy and mischief, constantly needing to be on the move. Castiel, quiet and introspective, content to lose himself in his thoughts or a good book.” He paused, his gaze distant as he lost himself in memories. “I used to find them in the oddest places, Gabriel trying to stir up trouble, and Castiel, fast asleep with a book still in his hands.” Dean listened, his hands moving automatically as he peeled the potatoes. The rhythm of their work, combined with Balthazar’s storytelling, created a peaceful atmosphere in the kitchen. It felt like a moment suspended in time, a glimpse into the past that offered a deeper understanding of the present.
“Gabriel must have been a handful,” Dean commented, a hint of amusement in his voice. Balthazar laughed, the sound rich and warm.
“Oh, he was. Still is, to some extent. But he’s also fiercely protective of Castiel. Despite their differences, they always looked out for each other.”Dean nodded, absorbing the information. He could see the dynamic between the brothers now, the underlying tension mixed with deep-seated affection.
“Do you miss those days?” Dean asked, his voice soft. Balthazar paused, his hands stilling for a moment as he considered the question.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. He resumed peeling, his movements slower, more thoughtful. “Don’t get me wrong, Dean, I don't like kids.” Dean raised an eyebrow, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“How on earth did you become a nanny then?” Balthazar laughed, a low, self-deprecating sound.
“People have been asking that for thirty years, yet no one seems to realise that I was dead set that I would win the bet, so it didn’t matter what the price was.” Dean’s curiosity was piqued.
“What was the bet?” Balthazar’s expression darkened momentarily, then he shook his head, a wistful smile on his lips.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Dean studied Balthazar closely, noting the lines of weariness around his eyes, the way his hands moved with ease but carried an undercurrent of tension. There was a story there, a history that Balthazar kept guarded. Dean felt a flicker of determination to understand the man who had become an unlikely ally.
“You’ve never told anyone what the bet was, have you?” Dean asked, his voice gentle but probing. Balthazar’s eyes met Dean’s, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he smirked.
“No,” he admitted, his tone carrying a hint of challenge. “I haven’t.” Dean felt a surge of respect for Balthazar, for the secrets he carried and the burdens he bore without complaint. There was a depth to the man that Dean hadn’t fully appreciated before, a complexity that went beyond his role as caretaker.
“Must have been some bet,” Dean remarked lightly, returning to his task. Balthazar’s smirk softened into a genuine smile.
“It was. But some things are better left in the past.” He finished peeling the last of the vegetables and set them aside. “Now, let’s focus on the present. We’ve got a feast to prepare, and I could use your help with the lamb.”
“Yeah,” Dean nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s do it.”
The scent of fresh herbs and roasting meat began to fill the air, promising a meal that would be both nourishing and delicious. As Dean worked alongside Balthazar, his thoughts drifted to Castiel, who was asleep on the couch upstairs. Castiel, with his intense blue eyes that could soften in a heartbeat, his quiet strength, and the vulnerability that peeked through when he thought no one was watching. Dean remembered the moments they had shared—the tentative conversations, the unspoken understanding that seemed to build between them. The fact that Castiel had gone out of his way to get a television for Dean, thinking of his comfort, spoke of something Dean never thought he would find in the other man.
Dean glanced at Balthazar, who was expertly seasoning the lamb.
“How do you think Castiel will react to having meat on the table?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with genuine curiosity. Balthazar shrugged, his movements fluid as he continued to prepare the meal.
“Castiel probably won’t say anything about it. Most of the pack ignores his vegetarianism anyway. Then there are a few who respect it. He won’t make a fuss, Dean, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Dean nodded, a slight frown tugging at his lips.
“As long as I honour the animal, right?”
“Right,” Balthazar confirmed, his gaze meeting Dean’s with understanding. “It’s about respect, about acknowledging the life that was taken and ensuring it wasn’t in vain.”
“What should I do with the fleece?” Balthazar paused, considering.
“You should treat it, make the death meaningful. Use it to create something useful or beautiful. But for now, you can move it out to the porch at the back. We’ll deal with it later. Set the table once you’re done.” Dean nodded, appreciating the guidance. He picked up the fleece, its softness a stark contrast to the morning’s grim task. He carried it out to the porch, hanging it carefully. It felt more respectful to have it there, away from the kitchen table. He took a moment to breathe in the crisp air, letting it clear his mind before he headed back inside. Returning to the kitchen, Dean began wiping down the surfaces, ensuring everything was clean and ready for the meal. He moved with purpose, his mind still swirling with thoughts of Castiel and their complicated relationship.
“Balthazar,” Dean began, his voice thoughtful as he continued cleaning. “The caretaker... she erm… said something that’s been bothering me?” Balthazar looked up, curiosity in his eyes.
“Oh? What did she say?”
“She mentioned that Castiel’s scent isn’t on me,” Dean explained, his brow furrowing. “It’s on my clothes, but not me. She seemed surprised by that.” Balthazar’s expression turned serious, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“That’s... interesting. It’s not typical. Usually, mates would have each other’s scent on them, especially in a pack like this. It signifies a bond, a connection.” Dean’s frown deepened.
“Does it mean something’s wrong?” Balthazar shook his head slowly.
“No, it just means you two aren't... physically intimate,” he explained, a slight smirk playing at his lips. Dean felt a blush creep up his neck.
“Oh,” he muttered, embarrassed. “That makes sense, I guess.”
“From my understanding, werewolves tend to smell like their partner—or mate—sometimes even more than their own scent.” Balthazar continued, his tone more serious. “By making sure that you’re engulfed in his scent without the two of you having a physical relationship, Castiel is trying to protect you. A mate that does not smell of their partner is often seen as an outcast or rejected.”
Dean’s mind raced as he absorbed this new information. Castiel’s insistence on doing some chores by himself was not as much about Castiel’s need for having something done in a certain way as much as it had with his efforts to shield Dean from the harsh judgments of the pack.
“So, he’s been looking out for me this whole time,” Dean said softly, a mixture of gratitude and guilt washing over him. Balthazar nodded.
“It seems he has. Castiel might not always show it, but he cares deeply. His ways might be subtle, but his intentions are sincere.” Dean looked at Balthazar, a new appreciation forming in his eyes.
"I guess I have a lot to learn about this world," he said quietly, more to himself than to Balthazar. Balthazar smiled, a touch of amusement in his gaze.
"You're doing just fine, Dean. It’s a lot to take in, but you're adapting. And Castiel sees that." Dean nodded, feeling a bit more settled. He turned his attention back to the kitchen, moving to set the table. The wooden surface gleamed in the morning light, and Dean found a certain satisfaction in arranging the plates and silverware just so. It was a simple task, but it felt grounding. The sounds of the kitchen—Balthazar's knife chopping vegetables, the soft clink of utensils, the bubbling of a pot on the stove—created a comforting backdrop. Dean worked methodically, finding solace in the routine. It was a small piece of normalcy in an otherwise chaotic existence. Balthazar’s voice broke the comfortable silence that had settled in the kitchen. "So, what do you think of the pack traditions so far?" he asked casually, his hands still busy with the vegetables. Dean paused in his task of setting the table, considering the question.
"They're... different," he admitted, his brow furrowing slightly. He glanced at Balthazar, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Honestly, half of them seem like they belong in some doomsday cult." Balthazar laughed, the sound rich and genuine, but it was short-lived. His expression quickly turned serious as he set down the knife and looked directly at Dean.
"You haven’t said that to anyone, have you?" Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion and as he saw Balthazar’s expression darken further, and a knot of worry formed in his stomach. Balthazar’s gaze sharpened, his voice low and urgent. "That wasn’t very wise, Dean. Some of the pack members are very particular about the way things are done, the way things have always been done. The only thing saving you from punishment could be Castiel's scent marking you as his mate." Dean felt a cold trickle of fear seep into his veins.
"Erm... actually, I’ve only told Castiel that." Balthazar’s eyes widened in surprise before he let out a sigh of relief.
"Oh. Well, that’s different." He resumed his chopping, though his movements were slower, more thoughtful. "You’re probably fine then. Castiel dislikes a lot of the traditions too. Just be careful, alright? This pack has its quirks, and some of them can be... intense." Dean nodded, the knot of worry loosening slightly.
"I’ll keep that in mind," he said quietly, returning to his task of setting the table. The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by the familiar sounds of preparation and the comforting rhythm of their work. As Dean set the last fork in place, Balthazar stepped back from the counter, wiping his hands on a dish towel. The kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of mid-morning light, felt like a haven of calm. The aroma of cooking filled the air, mingling with the scent of pine and the faint, lingering traces of the freshly butchered lamb. Balthazar glanced at the clock on the wall and then back at Dean.
“Perhaps it's time we wake Castiel,” he suggested, his tone light but firm. “If he sleeps through lunch, he'll be cranky later. And believe me, cranky wolves are not my favourite thing to deal with.” Dean chuckled, nodding in agreement.
“Yeah, I’ve seen that side of him. Not pleasant.” Balthazar smiled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Indeed. Why don’t you go wake him while I finish up here?” Dean wiped his hands on his jeans, feeling a mix of anticipation and trepidation. He made his way back to the living room, the familiar sounds of the kitchen fading behind him. As he approached the couch, he saw Castiel still peacefully asleep, his head tilted back, mouth slightly open, and an expression of serene calm on his face. Dean hesitated for a moment, not wanting to disturb the tranquillity of the scene. But he knew Balthazar was right. Gently, he reached out and placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, giving it a soft shake.
“Castiel,” he whispered, his voice gentle. “Time to wake up.” Castiel stirred, his eyes fluttering open slowly. He blinked up at Dean, his expression dazed for a moment before recognition set in.
“Dean?” he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s time for lunch,” Dean replied, a small smile playing on his lips. “We didn’t want you to miss it.” Castiel nodded, the fog of sleep slowly lifting from his mind. He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the television.
“Did you like the television?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Yeah, I did,” Dean said, a hint of pride in his tone. “But we can mess with it more after lunch. Come on, Balthazar’s waiting.” Castiel stretched, his movements languid and unhurried. He stood up, following Dean back to the kitchen. The aroma of the cooking meal greeted them, the inviting atmosphere of the kitchen wrapping around them like a comforting blanket. Balthazar looked up as they entered, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty finally wakes,” he teased, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ready for lunch?” Castiel rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
“I suppose,” he said, his tone mock-grudging. Dean took his place at the table, glancing around at the spread of food. It was a hearty meal, the kind that spoke of care and tradition. Balthazar had outdone himself, and Dean felt a swell of gratitude for the witch’s efforts. As they settled in, Balthazar served the food, his movements precise and graceful.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, his voice filled with a sense of satisfaction. “We’ve got roasted vegetables, mushroom stew, fresh bread.” Castiel’s eyes lit up at the sight of the food, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
“It looks wonderful, Balthazar. Thank you.” Balthazar inclined his head, a modest smile on his lips.
“It’s my pleasure, Cassie. Now, let’s eat.” As they began their meal, the atmosphere in the kitchen became cosy and warm. The scent of roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread mingled with the faint aroma of pine, creating a sense of homeliness that was almost tangible. Balthazar poured a fragrant broth into their bowls, the steam rising in gentle tendrils. Dean took a bite of the roasted vegetables, savouring the rich, earthy flavours. He glanced at Castiel, who was carefully avoiding the lamb, focusing instead on the vegetable stew and fresh bread. The soft lighting highlighted Castiel's delicate features, making him look almost ethereal in the gentle glow. Balthazar cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "I was just thinking about one of our Christmas traditions from when you were a child, Cassie," he began, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips. "Do you remember the Christmas tree we decorated with handmade ornaments?" Castiel looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I remember," he said softly, though his eyes quickly returned to his plate. Balthazar's eyes twinkled as he continued. "Every year, Castiel and I would make our own ornaments. We’d use bits of pinecones, twigs, and whatever we could find. Once, Castiel made an angel out of some feathers and a bit of old lace. It was beautiful." Dean listened intently, picturing a young Castiel diligently crafting ornaments. The image brought a smile to his face, but as Balthazar's story continued, a different picture began to form in his mind. "Gabriel would be off training most of the time," Balthazar said, his tone becoming a bit more sombre. "He was preparing to take over the leadership of the pack, so he didn't have much time for decorating Christmas trees. But Castiel and I made it special, didn't we, Cassie?"
"Yes, it was always special." Castiel nodded, though he didn't look up from his food. "Balthazar is good at making things better." Dean noticed the subtle change in Castiel's demeanour. The warmth in Balthazar's story contrasted sharply with the underlying reality that was beginning to dawn on him. His father, it seemed, was an absent figure, leaving Castiel to find solace in Balthazar's care and company. And Gabriel, though protective of Castiel, had been too preoccupied with his responsibilities to spend much time with his younger brother. Balthazar continued, his voice taking on a more reflective tone.
"We would sing carols by the fire, just the two of us. It was our little tradition. Castiel always had the most beautiful voice, even as a child." Dean realised that the witch had been Castiel's constant companion, his protector, and his only true family in many ways. To the rest of the pack, Castiel was merely the spare, the one who would only step into the spotlight if something happened to Gabriel. As Balthazar spoke, Dean's eyes shifted to Castiel. He watched the way Castiel concentrated on his food, a slight furrow in his brow. It was clear that the memories, though fond, carried a weight of their own—a reminder of the isolation he had felt, even amidst the warmth of Balthazar's care. "And remember the year it snowed so much we were snowed in for days?" Balthazar chuckled softly. "We built an entire village out of snow, complete with little houses and a snowman family. It was a masterpiece." Castiel's lips twitched into a brief smile, but his eyes remained downcast.
"I remember," he said quietly, his voice tinged with a mixture of nostalgia and melancholy. Dean's mind wandered back to his own childhood, filled with laughter, chaos, and the constant presence of family. The contrast was stark, and he felt a surge of empathy for Castiel. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on Castiel's arm. Castiel looked up, his blue eyes meeting Dean's with a flicker of surprise and gratitude. Balthazar, sensing the shift in the room, decided to steer the conversation back to the present.
"Well, those were some wonderful times. But today is about making new memories." He smiled warmly at both of them. "Let's enjoy this meal." Dean nodded, appreciating Balthazar's effort to lighten the mood. He picked up his fork, taking another bite of the flavorful vegetables. The kitchen buzzed with a quiet, comfortable energy, the earlier tension replaced by a sense of shared understanding and companionship.
As the meal drew to a close, the kitchen felt like a haven, filled with the soft hum of contentment. The aroma of the finished meal lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of pine from the nearby tree. Dean leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face, while Castiel quietly gathered the dishes. Balthazar looked around the table, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Why don’t you two head upstairs and enjoy the new TV? I’ll handle the dishes and take care of the leftovers." Dean glanced at Castiel, who nodded in agreement.
"Thanks, Balthazar," Dean said, rising from his chair. As they stood, Balthazar gently placed a hand on Castiel’s arm, holding him back for a moment.
"Castiel, can I have a word?" he asked softly. Dean paused at the foot of the stairs, looking back. Balthazar gave him a reassuring nod. "Go on up, Dean. Castiel will join you in a bit." Dean hesitated but then continued up the stairs, leaving Castiel and Balthazar alone in the kitchen. The room, now quieter, seemed to hold a different kind of tension. Balthazar turned to Castiel, his eyes filled with concern and a hint of frustration. "Cassie, I expected you to join in on the storytelling more. It would help Dean feel involved and invited." Castiel sighed, leaning against the counter.
"I’ve told Dean a plethora of stories, Balthazar. It doesn’t seem like he’s listening anymore." Balthazar's expression softened, but he didn’t relent.
"It’s a give and take, Cassie. Have you asked Dean about his life, his past, his stories?"
"Sometimes," Castiel replied, his voice defensive yet laced with doubt. Balthazar reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Castiel’s eyes.
"We should get your hair cut,” Balthazar mumbled to himself before returning his attention to Castiel and the matter at hand. ”Try more often. Engage with him. It’s not just about telling stories; it’s about sharing and listening." Castiel looked away, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the kitchen. The weight of Balthazar's words pressed on him, a reminder of the complexities of his relationship with Dean. Balthazar sighed, his tone shifting to one of gentle insistence. "I’m staying until January 1st. After that, you and Dean will be on your own again."
"I know," Castiel said quietly, his voice tinged with resignation.
"Good," Balthazar replied, his hand lingering on Castiel’s shoulder for a moment. "Dean is trying, and you are trying, but there’s something missing, isn’t there?" Castiel’s eyes flickered with emotion, and he finally met Balthazar's gaze.
"Yes," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar's eyes softened with understanding.
"Trust, Cassie. You’re missing trust." Castiel looked down, the truth of Balthazar’s words settling over him like a heavy cloak.
"I want to trust him," he said, his voice filled with a quiet desperation. "But it’s hard." Balthazar nodded, his expression one of empathy.
"Trust takes time, especially after everything you’ve both been through. But you have to give it a chance to grow. Be open with him, let him in. You might be surprised at how much he can handle." Castiel took a deep breath, nodding slowly.
"I’ll try." Balthazar squeezed his shoulder gently.
"That’s all anyone can ask. Now, go on upstairs and be with him. Build that bridge." Castiel gave Balthazar a small, grateful smile before turning to leave the kitchen. He made his way upstairs, the sound of his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. Castiel entered the living room, his footsteps quiet on the wooden floor. Dean looked up from the couch, a warm smile lighting up his face.
"Everything okay?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice. Norma, sensing the change in atmosphere, jumped up onto the couch and settled herself on Dean’s lap, her purring a soothing background melody.
“Yes,” Castiel nodded, offering a small smile. "Balthazar just suggested I get a haircut, that's all." He moved to sit next to Dean on the couch, his movements deliberate and careful. He put on a smile, one that Dean had seen before when Castiel had introduced him to Charlie. It was a breathtaking smile, but Dean could sense the falseness behind it. "What do you like to watch?" Castiel asked, trying to engage. Dean hesitated for a moment, then decided to share.
"There's this hospital drama, 'Dr. Sexy, M.D.'. It's kind of a guilty pleasure of mine. I couldn’t watch it until I moved out when I..." Dean trailed off, the memory of losing his possessions–including his limited edition full series Dr. Sexy, M.D. DVD box set– and his flat to the dowry suddenly surfacing. Castiel noticed the shift in Dean’s mood, sensing that something was wrong, but unable to pinpoint what it was.
"What does 'M.D.' stand for?" Castiel asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
"It stands for Medical Doctor," Dean explained, though his voice lacked enthusiasm.
"And what's intriguing about a medical drama?" Castiel pressed gently. Dean gave a half-hearted smile.
"It's just... entertaining. The drama, the medical cases, the characters. It’s a way to escape, I guess."
“Okay,” Castiel nodded, accepting the answer without further questions. "Let's watch it then." Dean found the show and put it on. As the familiar opening credits played, a sense of nostalgia washed over him. When Doctor Sexy came on screen, Dean pointed him out to Castiel.
"That's Doctor Sexy." Castiel looked at the character, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Is that his real name?"
"No,” Dean chuckled, “his real name is Doctor Palmer. But the thing that makes Dr. Sexy sexy is the fact that he wears cowboy boots."
"Oh, okay," Castiel said, nodding thoughtfully. He glanced at Dean, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "Do you think he is... sexy?" Dean felt a blush creep up his neck as he answered.
"Yeah, I guess so? He's kind of got that rugged, charming vibe. You know, the kind that gets people to trust him with their lives." Castiel nodded thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on Dean for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to the screen. The flickering images bathed the room in a soft, warm light, casting gentle shadows that danced across the walls. As the episode played on, Dean couldn't help but steal glances at Castiel. The blue-eyed man seemed genuinely intrigued by the show, his head tilted slightly as he absorbed the unfolding drama. Norma shifted on Dean’s lap, her purring growing louder as she made herself comfortable. Dean gently scratched behind her ears, the soothing rhythm of her purrs adding to the tranquillity of the moment. The warmth of the room and the soft glow of the television created a bubble of peace that felt fragile and precious.
"Is this show truthful?” Castiel, still focused on the screen, asked quietly, “Are hospitals really like this?" Dean turned his attention back to Castiel, surprised by the question.
"Well, it's a bit dramatised for TV, but there are parts of it that are pretty accurate. The medical procedures, the way the doctors and nurses interact... they try to keep those aspects realistic." Castiel nodded slowly, processing the information.
"I've never been to a hospital," he admitted, his voice soft. "Only the hospital wing in Gabriel's house."
"Hospitals can be a bit overwhelming, but they're places where people go to get help, to heal. There's a lot of good that happens in them." Castiel looked at Dean, his eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something almost vulnerable.
"You’ve spent time in hospitals, haven't you?"
"Yeah, a fair bit.” Dean nodded, memories flooding back. “My dad was in and out of hospitals a lot. And I’ve had my fair share of visits too. It’s not always easy, but it’s part of life. My... old pack wasn't like yours. They would take us to the hospital. They don't have a medic on staff."
"Healer," Castiel corrected softly.
"What?" Dean looked at him, puzzled.
"They aren't medics. They are healers," Castiel clarified, his eyes reflecting a world of difference in those simple words. "The healers aren't anything like the people on the screen." Dean frowned, intrigued.
"How so?"Castiel turned to face Dean fully, his expression thoughtful.
"Our healers use traditional methods. Herbs, potions, spells. It's a blend of ancient knowledge and magic. They can sense what's wrong with someone, often without needing to touch them. It's... different." Dean's mind conjured images of the healers Castiel described, so unlike the sterile, clinical environment of a modern hospital.
"Sounds almost like something out of a fantasy novel," he said, half-jokingly, but with genuine fascination. Castiel's gaze returned to the screen, his eyes reflecting the flickering light of the television.
"It is real," he said softly, almost to himself. "For us, it is real. The healers are respected; their knowledge is considered sacred, passed down through generations." Dean realised his misstep and shifted uncomfortably.
"Are the healers... witches?" he asked cautiously, trying to tread carefully. Castiel shook his head, his eyes never leaving the television.
"No, they are wolves, like the rest of us. They possess a deep connection to the earth and the pack, but they are not witches. Their abilities are a part of our heritage, a blend of natural instinct and learned skill." Dean absorbed this information, his mind racing to reconcile the differences between their worlds. The healers sounded like something out of a myth, yet here they were, a living part of Castiel's reality. It was a stark reminder of the magical elements woven into the fabric of Castiel’s life, elements that were still foreign to Dean despite his time with the pack. The episode continued, but Dean found his attention wavering. His thoughts kept circling back to Castiel and the glimpses of vulnerability he had shown. Dean felt a growing need to understand him better, to bridge the gap between their worlds. Norma shifted again, her purring a constant, soothing presence. Dean gently stroked her fur, his touch light and affectionate.
"You know, Cas," he began softly, "I’d like to learn more about your world. Not just the traditions, but everything. The magic, the healers, your history... all of it." Castiel turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting Dean's with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.
“Why do you want to know more?” he asked softly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability. Dean looked at Castiel, feeling a swell of emotion he couldn’t quite put into words.
“Because it seems important,” he replied, his voice steady. “I want to understand where you come from, what makes you who you are. If we’re going to make this work, I need to know more about your world. Not just the surface stuff, but the deeper parts too.” Castiel studied Dean for a moment, his blue eyes searching for something in Dean's expression. Slowly, he nodded, as a small smile formed on his lips.
“Okay.”
The afternoon unfolded quietly as Dean and Castiel settled into the comfortable routine of watching Dr. Sexy, M.D.. Dean pointed out various details in the show, explaining plot twists and character arcs. Castiel listened intently, his focus shifting between the screen and Dean’s animated explanations. The flickering images cast gentle shadows on their faces, creating a sense of intimacy that was both new and comforting.
"See that guy?" Dean said, pointing to a character in a white lab coat. "That's Dr. Sexy's rival, Dr. Piccolo. He's always trying to one-up him, but deep down, he respects Dr. Sexy." Castiel tilted his head, watching the on-screen interaction.
"Why do they compete if they respect each other?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"It's complicated.” Dean chuckled, scratching Norma behind her ears. “They push each other to be better doctors. Plus, it adds drama to the show."
"I see.” Castiel nodded, processing the explanation. “So, their rivalry is a form of motivation?"
"Exactly," Dean replied, a smile spreading across his face. "It’s like how brothers push each other. They might fight and compete, but there's always a bond underneath." Castiel's eyes flickered with understanding, and a hint of something more—perhaps a reflection on his own relationship with Gabriel. He turned his attention back to the screen, watching as Dr. Sexy navigated a particularly challenging surgery. The tension in the scene was palpable, and Castiel found himself leaning forward, absorbed in the drama. Norma shifted on Dean’s lap, stretching her paws and settling back into a cosy position. Dean's hand continued its gentle rhythm, stroking her soft fur. The tranquillity of the moment allowed Dean’s mind to wander, contemplating the layers of complexity in his relationship with Castiel. As the episode progressed, Dean noticed Castiel glancing at him more frequently, as if gauging his reactions. It was a subtle gesture, but it spoke volumes about Castiel’s growing curiosity and perhaps his desire to connect on a deeper level.
"Do you have any shows you like?" Dean asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
“No.” Castiel shook his head. “I’ve never watched tv, I'm not sure if they were even allowed before Gabriel came of age. Balthazar gave him one when he turned 18, probably just to spite Father. But we had stories, passed down from generation to generation. And Balthazar used to show movies on the projector.”
“What kind of things did Balthazar show?” Dean asked, genuinely curious. Castiel leaned back against the couch, his eyes distant as he recalled the memories.
“Older movies, mostly black and white ones. He had a particular fondness for the classics.” Dean's interest was piqued.
“Which ones?”
“The Spirit of the Beehive,” Castiel replied after a moment of thought. Dean furrowed his brow.
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s Spanish,” Castiel explained. “It’s a beautiful film, very poetic and haunting.” Dean nodded, absorbing the information.
“Sounds interesting. Was there anything American?” Castiel paused, trying to think of a title that might resonate with Dean.
“The Third Man.” Dean shook his head.
“Nope, don’t think I’ve seen that one.”
“It’s with Orson Welles.” Dean’s eyes lit up with recognition.
“Orson Welles? Citizen Kane?”
“Yes,” Castiel confirmed, a small smile playing on his lips. Dean leaned forward, intrigued.
“Do you like Citizen Kane?” Castiel shook his head slowly.
“No, not particularly but there is a quote from it that I like.”
Dean thought for a moment, then ventured a guess.
“‘I don’t think any word can explain a man’s life’?” Castiel shook his head again, his eyes reflecting a deeper emotion.
“No, it’s when Susan Alexander Kane says, ‘I don’t know many people’. And Charles Foster Kane replies, ‘I know too many people. I guess we’re both lonely.’. That’s the one I like—‘I know too many people. I guess we’re both lonely.’”
“That’s a powerful quote,” Dean said softly. “I can see why it stuck with you.”
Castiel seemed to have gained a wave of confidence as he talked about movies, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. He reached out and gently petted Norma, who was nestled comfortably in Dean's lap. The kitten responded with a louder purr, her green eyes closing in contentment. "Sunset Boulevard," Castiel said, his voice steady and filled with a touch of reverence. Dean looked at Castiel expectantly, a curious smile on his face.
"Sunset Boulevard?" Castiel's fingers continued to stroke Norma's soft fur as he spoke.
"It's an old movie, a classic. Balthazar showed it to me when I was a child. I was mesmerised by it. The story, the characters, the atmosphere... it all felt so captivating. That's why I named her Norma." Dean's eyes sparkled with interest.
"Named her after the movie? Or a character in it?"
"After Norma Desmond," Castiel clarified, his expression softening. "She's the main character in the film. A faded silent movie star who lives in a decaying mansion on Sunset Boulevard. The film is about her delusions and the struggles of an unsuccessful screenwriter named Joe Gillis, who gets caught up in her world." Dean leaned back, absorbing the details.
"So, what's it really about? The core of it, I mean." Castiel's gaze grew distant, his voice taking on a reflective tone.
"It's about the illusions we create for ourselves, the desperate clinging to past glories, and the tragic consequences of refusing to face reality. Norma Desmond can't let go of her fame, her youth. She lives in a fantasy, believing that Hollywood will come calling for her again. Joe gets tangled in her web, and it leads to a tragic end."
"Sounds intense.” Dean nodded slowly, understanding dawning on him. “And the cat... naming her after Norma Desmond?" Castiel smiled faintly, his eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and affection.
"When I saw the movie, for the first time, I proclaimed that if I ever got a cat, I'd name her Norma. Balthazar found it amusing." Dean's interest was piqued, and he couldn’t help but smile.
"What made her the best choice for the name of a cat?" Castiel's eyes sparkled with amusement, and he leaned back against the couch, his fingers still gently stroking Norma's fur.
"Norma Desmond is a fascinating character. She's dramatic, mysterious, and utterly captivating—much like a cat." Dean tilted his head, intrigued.
"How so?"
"Norma Desmond, in the film, is a former silent movie star who can't accept that her fame has faded," Castiel began, his voice taking on a storytelling cadence. "She lives in a grand, decaying mansion, surrounded by the relics of her past glory. Her world is filled with illusions and grandeur, a place where she remains the star of her own story, even if the rest of the world has moved on." Castiel paused, his gaze drifting to the television screen for a moment before returning to Dean. "Cats, in a way, are similar. They have this innate sense of importance, a kind of regal presence. They move through the world with an air of mystery and grace, demanding attention and affection on their own terms." Dean nodded, understanding the connection.
"So, Norma the cat has that same sense of drama and independence?"
"Exactly," Castiel replied, a fond smile playing on his lips. "Just like Norma Desmond, she has her moments of grandeur and elegance. She commands the room, capturing everyone's attention with her presence. And, much like the character in the film, she can be a bit unpredictable, weaving through life with a touch of whimsy and flair." Norma, as if sensing the focus of the conversation, stretched luxuriously on Dean's lap, her green eyes half-closed in contentment. Dean chuckled, scratching behind her ears.
"I can see that. She definitely has a personality." Castiel nodded, his expression thoughtful.
"Norma Desmond also has this incredible resilience. Despite her delusions and the crumbling reality around her, she maintains a certain strength. Cats have that too—they adapt, they endure, and they always find a way to land on their feet." Dean looked at Norma with new appreciation, seeing the layers of meaning behind her name.
"So, naming her Norma was a way to capture all that?"
"Yes," Castiel confirmed, his voice softening. "It was a way to honour that spirit, to acknowledge the beauty and complexity of both the character and cats. Balthazar found it amusing, but to me, it felt fitting."
"You know, Cas, I think you made the perfect choice with her name." As the afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow through the windows, Dean and Castiel continued their conversation. The cosy atmosphere of the living room enveloped them, the gentle hum of the television serving as a soothing backdrop. Norma, the kitten, lay curled up contentedly on Dean’s lap, her purring a steady, comforting rhythm. Balthazar entered the room quietly, his presence a calming influence. He smiled at the sight of Dean and Castiel engaged in deep conversation, their faces illuminated by the soft light of the television. Clearing his throat gently, he drew their attention.
“I’ve set the table in the dining room,” Balthazar announced, his tone warm and inviting. “But I won’t be joining you for dinner. I thought you might appreciate some time alone.” Dean and Castiel exchanged a glance, a mixture of surprise and gratitude in their eyes. Dean nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Thanks, Balthazar. We appreciate that.” Balthazar returned the smile, his eyes twinkling with understanding.
“Enjoy your meal, and don’t worry about the cleanup. I’ll take care of everything later.” With a final nod, he left the room, leaving Dean and Castiel to their own devices. Dean gently lifted Norma from his lap, setting her down on the couch. The kitten stretched and yawned, then settled back into a comfortable position.
“Shall we?” Dean asked, offering Castiel his hand. Castiel accepted the gesture, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Together, they made their way to the dining room, the soft glow of candlelight welcoming them. The table was beautifully set, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. Plates of food were arranged artfully, the aromas mingling to create an enticing bouquet. Dean pulled out a chair for Castiel, who took his seat with a grateful nod. Dean then sat across from him, the intimate setting fostering a sense of closeness between them. The warmth of the room, combined with the elegant simplicity of the table, created a serene, almost magical atmosphere. As they began their meal, Dean couldn’t help but notice the subtle details that Balthazar had thoughtfully incorporated. Freshly baked bread, its crust golden and inviting, sat alongside a dish of herb-infused butter. The roasted vegetables, vibrant and colourful, were arranged with care, their earthy fragrance mingling with the rich scent of the lamb. Castiel picked up his fork, his movements deliberate and graceful. He glanced at Dean, his blue eyes reflecting the candlelight.
“Thank you for watching TV with me,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of sincerity. “I enjoyed learning about your favourite show.”
“I’m glad you did. It was nice sharing something I love with you. And I liked hearing about your favourite movies too.” They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the occasional soft murmur of appreciation. Dean savoured each bite, the flavours rich and satisfying. He glanced at Castiel, who seemed equally engrossed in the meal, his earlier tension replaced by a sense of calm. “Balthazar really outdid himself,” Dean remarked, his tone appreciative. “This is amazing.” Castiel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.
“He always does. Balthazar has a way of making everything special.” Dean looked around the dining room, taking in the elegant yet understated décor. The flickering candlelight, the carefully arranged flowers, and the soft music playing in the background all contributed to the enchanting ambiance. Yet despite the careful curated ambiance, the atmosphere between Castiel and Dean remained tense yet polite. They exchanged occasional glances, each trying to navigate the delicate balance between formality and the burgeoning bond that was slowly forming. As they began to eat, Castiel reached under the table and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package. He handed it to Dean with a shy smile. "I got this for you at the Christmas market," he said softly. Dean accepted the gift, his curiosity piqued. Carefully unwrapping the paper, he revealed a hand-knitted scarf in deep, earthy tones. The yarn was soft, and the craftsmanship spoke of hours of careful work. Dean looked up, his eyes meeting Castiel's.
"Thank you, Cas. This is beautiful." Castiel's smile widened, his cheeks flushing slightly.
"I'm glad you like it. I thought it would keep you warm during the colder months." Dean reached under his chair and pulled out a small box, returning Castiel's gesture.
"I have something for you too," he said, his voice filled with anticipation. Castiel unwrapped the gift, revealing a beautifully carved wooden wolf. The intricate details of the fur and the lifelike expression captured the essence of the creature perfectly. Castiel's eyes widened in awe as he ran his fingers over the smooth wood.
"Dean, this is incredible. Thank you." Dean smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction at Castiel's reaction.
"I saw it and thought of you." Their conversation gradually shifted as they enjoyed their meal. Castiel shared stories of past Christmases, his voice softening with nostalgia. "Back when we were small children, Gabriel and I would sneak downstairs to see if Santa had come. Balthazar would always catch us and pretend to be stern, but we knew he enjoyed our excitement." Dean listened intently, picturing a younger Castiel and Gabriel, filled with the wonder and joy of the holiday season. He felt a pang of longing for his own childhood Christmases, filled with family and warmth.
"My family had a tradition of making a huge Christmas dinner," he said, his voice tinged with fondness. "My mom would cook all day, and we'd have a feast with all our favourite dishes." Castiel's eyes sparkled with interest.
"If you could invite anyone to dinner, who would it be?" he asked, a playful tone entering his voice. Dean chuckled, considering the question. "Probably some famous chefs. Some of them have tv programs nowadays Gordon Ramsay, for one. I'd love to see him in action, and I think he'd appreciate a good meal. I'll have to show you Kitchen Nightmares sometime." Castiel nodded thoughtfully.
"I admire historical artists. Imagine having someone like Leonardo da Vinci at dinner. The conversations we could have about art and innovation would be fascinating." Dean's interest was piqued.
"You really do have a passion for art, don't you?"
"Art has a way of capturing the soul, of expressing emotions that words can't." Their conversation flowed more easily as they discovered common interests and shared dreams. Dean remained subtly alert, his mind assessing potential escape routes and the layout of the Novak territory. He tried to engage Castiel further, steering the conversation towards the livestock and the pack's land out west.
"I've never been that far west before," Dean remarked casually. "What's the territory like out there?" Castiel's expression grew more animated as he described the land.
"It's vast and beautiful. Rolling hills, dense forests, and clear, sparkling rivers. When its not winter the livestock roam freely, and there's a sense of peace that comes from being so close to nature." Dean listened intently, trying to gather as much information as possible.
"It sounds amazing. Do you think I could see it someday?" Castiel's eyes softened, a hint of hopefulness in his gaze.
"I'd like that. It's best in the spring. "
Norma wandered into the dining room. Her tiny paws padded softly on the wooden floor, and her curious green eyes darted around the room. She leapt onto Dean's lap, purring loudly as she nuzzled against his hand. Dean chuckled, scratching behind Norma's ears.
"Looks like we have a little visitor." Castiel smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he watched the kitten's antics.
"Norma has a knack for showing up at the perfect moment."
Chapter 19
Notes:
Chapter word count: 4 445
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Castiel lay awake in the early hours of the morning, staring at the shadows dancing across his bedroom ceiling. Dean’s words about the territory out west echoed in his mind, mingling with Balthazar’s advice to engage more with Dean. Restlessness gnawed at him, making sleep impossible. With a soft sigh, he slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb the tranquil stillness of the house. The chill of the floorboards seeped through his socks as he made his way out of his room. He paused by the kitchen, glancing at the remnants of their Christmas meal, now neatly packed away. The house felt too confined, the walls pressing in on him. He needed air, space to think.
Castiel grabbed his trench coat and stepped outside, the icy wind biting at his cheeks, each gust a sharp reminder of winter's grip. Castiel didn't mind the cold; in fact, he welcomed it. He trudged through the snow, his breath forming clouds that hung briefly in the air before dissipating. The farm lay in a hushed slumber, the snow blanketing everything in a serene white. He walked slowly, his boots crunching softly on the snow-covered ground, until he reached a small clearing near the edge of the woods. He sat down, the cold seeping through his clothes and numbing his skin. It was a welcome sensation, distracting him from his thoughts. He tilted his head back, gazing up at the stars that glittered like diamonds in the clear night sky. The stillness was absolute, broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees. The city came to mind—the noise, the chaos, the overwhelming assault on his senses. The constant hum of traffic, the crush of people, the artificial lights that drowned out the stars. How Dean and Charlie willingly subject themselves to that almost every day was beyond him. The city was a place of anxiety and disorientation, a world so different from the peaceful solitude of the farm. His thoughts drifted more fully to Dean, recalling the earnest look in his eyes as he spoke about the western territory. There was a longing in Dean’s voice, a yearning for something Castiel couldn’t quite grasp. Balthazar’s words echoed in his mind, urging him to connect more with Dean. But how? Then a pang of jealousy twisted in his chest. The bond between Dean and Balthazar seemed to grow stronger with each passing day, leaving Castiel feeling increasingly isolated. He didn’t want to share Balthazar’s attention, didn’t want to be pushed aside. Balthazar had always been his anchor, the one constant in his life, even after he left. The thought of losing that connection, of being replaced in Balthazar’s affections, filled him with a deep, aching sadness.Castiel’s gaze wandered to the dark outline of the forest. The woods had always been a place of solace, a sanctuary where he could lose himself and find clarity. He considered venturing deeper into the trees, seeking comfort in their familiar embrace. But now, even the forest seemed distant, its shadows too dark, its silence too profound.
The snow around him sparkled in the starlight, each flake a tiny, perfect crystal. Castiel scooped up a handful, watching it melt slowly in his palm. The cold taking a hold in his finger was sharp, almost painful, but he welcomed it. It was a physical reminder of the emotions swirling inside him, emotions he struggled to articulate. He thought about the recent days, about the tentative steps he and Dean had taken toward understanding each other. There were moments when he felt a genuine connection, a flicker of something deeper. Yet, those moments were fleeting, often overshadowed by misunderstandings and unspoken fears. Balthazar’s advice rang in his ears: ‘Engage with him. Share and listen.’ . It sounded so simple, but the reality was far more complex. How could he bridge the gap between their worlds, find common ground amidst the differences? The answers eluded him, slipping through his fingers like the melting snow. He sighed, a cloud of breath forming in the cold air. The jealousy he felt towards Dean was an ugly thing, a shadow that darkened his thoughts. He didn’t want to resent Dean, didn’t want to be the cause of tension between them. But the fear of losing Balthazar’s affection was a constant, gnawing worry. The stars above twinkled brightly, indifferent to his inner turmoil. Castiel closed his eyes, letting the cold numb his thoughts, if only for a moment. The quiet of the night wrapped around him, a fragile cocoon of peace amidst the chaos of his emotions.
When he finally stood up, the cold had seeped deep into his bones, but his mind felt a bit clearer. He brushed the snow off his coat, casting one last look at the silent, sleeping farm. Castiel rose and made his way back to the house, the snow crunching softly underfoot. The warmth of the kitchen was a welcome contrast to the biting cold outside. He moved to the cupboards, searching for something to distract himself. Balthazar had stocked them well, and his eyes landed on a packet of instant hot chocolate. It wasn't something he typically drank, but tonight it seemed fitting. He filled a kettle with water and set it to boil, watching the steam rise and swirl in the dim light of the kitchen. The soft hiss of the water heating was the only sound, a soothing backdrop to his unsettled thoughts. When the kettle whistled, he poured the hot water into a mug, stirring in the chocolate powder until it dissolved into a rich, comforting drink. Castiel wrapped his hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into his skin.
Sitting at the kitchen table, he took a tentative sip, the sweet, rich flavour filling his mouth. But his thoughts drifted back to the previous morning, to Gabriel's anger and the way his brother's yelling had upset him. Castiel didn't like it when people yelled; it felt like an assault on his senses, a harsh reminder of his own inadequacies. The kitchen was quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The hot chocolate had cooled somewhat, its warmth fading, much like the fleeting comfort it had provided. Castiel lifted his head, staring into the dark, liquid surface of the mug. He took another sip, the taste now bittersweet. Castiel closed his eyes, seeking some semblance of peace. The warmth of the kitchen, the familiar scents of home, provided a small measure of comfort, but it wasn't enough to dispel the lingering shadows of doubt and guilt. He wanted to be stronger, to be someone Gabriel could be proud of, but he often felt like he was failing. He crossed his arms on the table and laid his head down, the mug of hot chocolate now forgotten. The memory of Gabriel's anger replayed in his mind, each word and gesture magnified. Why had Gabriel been so angry with him? What had he done to deserve such wrath? Castiel's thoughts spiralled, each one a needle of self-recrimination.
"If I hadn't done anything wrong," he whispered to the empty kitchen, "then why was Gabriel so angry?" The question echoed in his mind, a cruel refrain that offered no solace. He felt the weight of his brother's expectations pressing down on him, the burden of living up to the Novak name, to Gabriel's vision of their future. Castiel knew he often fell short, his own desires and dreams diverging from the path Gabriel had laid out for them. But how could he reconcile his own needs with the demands of his brother and the pack? As the minutes ticked by, Castiel remained at the table, his head resting on his arms. He tried to lose himself in the quiet, to let the warmth of the kitchen soothe the ache in his heart. But his thoughts kept circling back to Gabriel, to the anger and disappointment in his brother's eyes.
Balthazar found Castiel asleep at the kitchen table, his head nestled in the crook of his arms, the remnants of his hot chocolate cooling beside him. The sight was both endearing and heart-wrenching, with Castiel's slight form appearing vulnerable in the dim kitchen light. Balthazar approached quietly, his footsteps barely a whisper on the wooden floor. He reached out, gently rubbing circles on Castiel's back.
"Hey, Cassie," he murmured softly, trying not to startle him. Castiel stirred, blinking groggily. His movements were clumsy with sleep, and as he tried to sit up, his elbow knocked the mug over. The hot chocolate spilled, a dark pool spreading across the table and dripping onto the floor. Panic flared in Castiel's eyes. He shot up, frantically trying to mop up the mess with his sleeves, his actions desperate and hurried.
"I-I’m sorry," Castiel stammered, his voice cracking with fear. He rubbed at the spill, his movements frantic and uncoordinated.
"Hey, hey," Balthazar said, holding Castiel's shoulders to stop him. "It's okay, it's just a bit of spilt chocolate." Castiel looked up at him with wide, confused eyes, teetering on the brink of tears.
"But... I made a mess."
"No one's going to yell at you for an honest mistake," Balthazar reassured, his voice calm and soothing. "It's okay, Cassie. It is okay." The first tear slipped down Castiel's cheek, followed by another, and then the floodgates opened. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Balthazar knelt beside him, wrapping an arm around his trembling form. "Shh, it's alright," he whispered, rubbing Castiel's back in slow, comforting strokes. "You're safe here. No one's angry." Castiel's cries were muffled, but the pain in them was palpable. He clung to Balthazar, seeking solace in the familiar presence of his old friend. Balthazar held him tighter, wishing he could take away the hurt and fear that haunted Castiel.
"It's just been so much," Castiel whispered between sobs. "I try, but it's never enough. And Gabriel... he's always angry with me." Balthazar's heart ached for the young werewolf. He knew the burdens Castiel carried, the expectations and pressures that weighed him down.
"Gabriel loves you, even if he doesn't always show it the right way. And you are enough, just as you are." Castiel sniffled, looking up at Balthazar with tear-streaked cheeks.
"You really think so?"
"I know so," Balthazar replied firmly. "And so does Gabriel, even if he struggles to express it. You've got a kind heart, Cassie. That's something to be proud of." Slowly, Castiel's sobs subsided, replaced by deep, shaky breaths. He leaned into Balthazar, drawing strength from his comforting presence.
"I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You don't have to worry about that," Balthazar said, giving Castiel a reassuring smile. "I'm not going anywhere." Balthazar pulled him into a hug, his embrace warm and protective. But Castiel, feeling a surge of conflicted emotions, pulled back slightly.
"You say you're here for me, but you're really here for Dean," he muttered, his voice tinged with hurt. Balthazar's expression softened.
"Cassie, I'm here for both of you. Dean needs to learn how to be there for you, just as much as you need to learn to be there for him." Castiel shook his head, his frustration evident.
"You didn't have to come if you saw this trip as some sort of task."
"Nonsense, darling.” Balthazar dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “It wouldn't be Christmas without celebrating it with you. You are family, Cassie."
"You spent more time with Dean than with me." Castiel's brow furrowed as he pointed out. Balthazar sighed, looking Castiel in the eyes.
"Dean is new to all of this, Cassie. He needs guidance, and you need to give him a chance. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten about you. You're my priority too."
"Too," Castiel repeated, mumbling it under his breath as he stood up. The hurt lingered in his eyes, a shadow that clung to his every movement. He reached for some paper towels, tearing off a few sheets to clean up the spilt hot chocolate. The dark liquid had spread across the table and dripped onto the floor, a small, inconsequential mess that felt much larger in the quiet of the night. As he mopped up the spill, Balthazar watched him with concern, his presence a steadying force in the dimly lit kitchen. Castiel's movements were slow and deliberate, each wipe of the paper towel an attempt to regain some semblance of control. He balled up the wet paper and tossed it into the sink with a sigh, his shoulders slumping under an unseen burden.
"I'm sorry," Castiel murmured, the words barely audible.
"It's okay, Cassie," Balthazar replied softly. Castiel nodded, though the reassurance did little to ease the knot of tension in his chest. Jealousy gnawed at him, a bitter taste in his mouth. Balthazar's attention toward Dean stung, a constant reminder that he was no longer the centre of his friend's world. Castiel turned away, the kitchen's warmth now feeling stifling. Without another word, he headed back to his room, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. The house was silent, the only sound was the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet.
His room was a chaotic mess, with books and clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor. Castiel didn't mind the disarray; it mirrored the turmoil within his own mind. He stepped over a pile of clothes and collapsed onto his bed, pulling the comforter over his head to shut out the world. The fabric felt heavy against his skin, a barrier between him and the reality he wished to escape. Beneath the covers, Castiel's thoughts turned dark and brooding. He couldn't help but think about how different things might have been if Gabriel had just killed the Winchester pack. The world would still make sense then. Dean's presence had disrupted everything, and the peace treaty that bound him to the Winchesters felt like a shackle. Castiel had never wanted this life; he had dreamed of escaping, of finding his own path. But now, he was forever tied to this place, bound by the marriage that had made Dean his bride.Castiel was sure Gabriel had grown meaner since the treaty, his brother's temper flaring more often. The expectations and pressures had only increased, leaving Castiel feeling more trapped than ever.
He curled into himself, trying to find solace in the darkness. The comforter muffled the sounds of the house, creating a cocoon where he could hide from his fears. But even here, the thoughts pursued him, relentless and unyielding. He wondered what it would have been like if things had gone differently, if he had been given the chance to leave. As the minutes ticked by, Castiel's eyelids grew heavy. The emotional toll of the night weighed on him, dragging him down into the depths of sleep. His breathing slowed, the tension in his body gradually easing as he drifted off. In his dreams, he was free, unburdened by the expectations of his family and the constraints of his pack. But even in sleep, the shadows of doubt and fear lingered, a constant reminder of the world that awaited him when he awoke.
Castiel slept until the early afternoon, the late morning light filtered through the gaps in his curtains, casting gentle rays across his cluttered room. He was roused from sleep when Norma, his kitten, leapt onto the bed, her soft purring a gentle nudge into consciousness. As he blinked his eyes open, Castiel's fingers automatically sought Norma's silky fur, his touch light and affectionate. The kitten responded with a pleased rumble, curling up beside him. In the periphery of his vision, Castiel noticed Dean standing at the doorway. Dean's presence was an unwelcome reminder of the reality Castiel wished to escape.
"Do you want to eat?" Dean asked, his voice tentative yet hopeful. Castiel shook his head without a word, his hand stilling on Norma's back. He didn't want to engage, not now, not when his thoughts were still tangled from the remnants of his unsettling dreams.
"Balthazar made cardamom cake with white chocolate ganache and lingonberries," Dean continued, his tone almost coaxing. "Said it's a holiday favourite. I can see why." The mention of the cake, with its rich spices and sweet berries, tempted Castiel. He could almost taste the delicate layers, the smooth ganache melting on his tongue. But he shook his head again, stubbornly refusing to give in. The door creaked as it closed, and Castiel sighed in relief, thinking he was alone once more. But the relief was short-lived. He turned his head and realised Dean hadn't left. He was still there, now sat in an armchair by the window, his posture relaxed yet attentive. Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. Dean's gaze was steady, a mixture of concern and determination. Castiel's eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of vulnerability beneath the surface. He could see the earnestness in Dean's eyes, a genuine desire to reach out, to bridge the gap between them. It was disconcerting, this unwavering attention, making Castiel feel exposed, his defences crumbling under the intensity. Dean's eyes, a shade of green that mirrored the forest in spring, bore into Castiel's blue ones. They were filled with patience and a hint of sadness, as if he understood the emotions swirling within Castiel. Castiel's eyes, a stormy blue like the ocean on a cloudy day, reflected his inner conflict. He wanted to retreat, to shut out the world and its complications, but Dean's gaze held him captive, silently urging him to stay, to connect. The room seemed to shrink around them, the space between them charged with unspoken words and lingering emotions. Dean's eyes softened, a silent plea for understanding, for a chance to prove himself. Castiel's resolve wavered, his own eyes betraying the loneliness he felt, the longing for something he couldn't quite name. For a moment, time stood still, the only sound the gentle purring of Norma beside him. In that shared silence, something shifted. It was a fragile, tentative connection, but it was there, a thread of understanding weaving itself between them. Dean's presence, once an unwelcome intrusion, now felt like a lifeline, a glimmer of hope in the darkness of Castiel's thoughts. Castiel finally broke the gaze, looking away as if the intensity was too much to bear. But the impact of that silent exchange lingered, a seed planted in the fertile ground of possibility. Dean's presence lingered in the room, a quiet but undeniable force that Castiel found himself unable to ignore. Norma's purring filled the silence, her small form a comforting weight against Castiel's side. The kitten seemed oblivious to the tension, content in the warmth and safety of her owner's bed. "Did something happen?" Dean asked, his voice gentle but insistent, cutting through the silence. Castiel's fingers remained still in Norma's fur. The question pierced the fragile bubble of peace he had momentarily found. He didn't want to share his thoughts, didn't want to admit to the turmoil that had kept him awake and restless.
"I'm just tired," he mumbled, his voice thick with the remnants of sleep and lingering emotions. Dean didn't look convinced. His gaze remained steady, a blend of concern and determination that made Castiel's skin prickle. He knew Dean wouldn't be easily dismissed, and the thought of enduring another lecture from Balthazar if he sent Dean away made his chest tighten with frustration. "Look, if you want to do something, go somewhere, we can head to the westernmost part of the territory," Castiel suggested, his tone more resigned than inviting. The western edge of their land was a place of solitude, a spot where the forest thickened and the world seemed to fall away. Dean seemed to consider this for a moment, his eyes never leaving Castiel's face. Finally, he nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Alright, let's go." Castiel sighed inwardly but pushed back the comforter and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Norma mewed in protest as he gently set her aside, her warm little body reluctant to leave the cocoon of blankets.
They dressed in silence, the room filled with the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Castiel grabbed his trench coat, the familiar weight of it settling on his shoulders. He glanced at Dean, who was wrapping a new scarf around his neck—the one Castiel had given him. The sight brought a small, reluctant smile to Castiel's lips, a flicker of warmth amidst the chill. When they stepped outside, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of winter. Castiel shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Dean walked beside him, a silent companion. The scarf added a splash of colour to the grey morning, its vibrant hue a stark contrast to the snow-covered landscape. The sprawling Novak territory stretched out before them, the snow blanketing the ground in a serene white. They walked past the spot where Dean had slaughtered the animal the day before, the memory of it lingering in the air, a reminder of the delicate balance between survival and tradition. The further they ventured into the forest, the thicker it grew. The trees stood tall and silent, their branches intertwined in a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor. Castiel moved with a quiet determination, his steps sure and steady, while Dean struggled to keep up. The path grew more challenging, the underbrush denser, until Dean paused, breathless and frustrated. With a soft grunt, Dean shifted into his wolf form. Fur sprouted across his skin, a thick coat of russet and gold that shimmered in the sparse light. The transformation was swift, seamless, and Castiel barely noticed until he stopped to ask Dean something. Turning around, he found himself face-to-face with the wolf. For a moment, surprise flickered in Castiel's eyes, quickly replaced by a resigned acceptance.
"Of course," he muttered, more to himself than to Dean. The wolf's eyes, a striking green, met his with a silent question. Castiel sighed, shaking his head. "I suppose this is easier for you." Dean, in his wolf form, nodded —a surprisingly human gesture— and padded closer, his presence a steady reassurance. Castiel couldn't help but admire the sleek lines of Dean's wolf form, the way his fur seemed to catch and reflect the light. There was a grace to him, a primal elegance that was both intimidating and awe-inspiring. They continued deeper into the forest, Castiel leading the way. The silence between them was companionable, the bond of shared purpose unspoken but understood. The trees closed in around them, the air growing colder, the forest a world unto itself. Eventually, they reached a small clearing, a secluded spot where the trees parted to reveal a patch of sky. Castiel stopped, taking a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs. He turned to Dean, who had shifted back to his human form, his breath visible in the cold air.
"When I need to get away I often go here," Castiel admitted, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "This place... it's where I come to think." Dean nodded, understanding in his eyes.
"It's beautiful," he said simply, looking around at the snow-covered clearing. "Peaceful." Castiel's gaze softened as he looked at Dean, the tension between them easing in the quiet of the forest.
"We aren't supposed to go this far alone but in the spring it's my sanctuary," he said, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "A place where I can escape... everything . So I do, go alone I mean." The clearing stood bathed in the soft, diffused light of the afternoon sun, the snow beneath their feet pristine and undisturbed. Castiel took another deep breath, the cold air sharp but invigorating, a balm for his troubled thoughts. He glanced at Dean, who seemed equally absorbed in the serene beauty of the place. "Sometimes," Castiel began, his voice breaking the silence, "I think about what my life could have been. Before all of this, before the treaty and the pack obligations, I wanted to be an artist." He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if they still held a paintbrush. "I used to dream about having my work in galleries, being known for the colours I could bring to life on canvas." Dean listened intently, his eyes reflecting the sincerity of Castiel's words.
"I didn't know that," he said softly. "What stopped you?" Castiel's gaze shifted to the horizon, where the forest met the sky.
"Responsibilities," he replied. "Gabriel's vision for our pack didn't leave much room for personal dreams. He needed me to be something else, someone reliable and strong. Art... art was a luxury I couldn't afford." Dean nodded, a look of understanding crossing his features. "I get that," he said.
"Growing up, I always loved cooking. It was a way to bring people together, to create something from nothing. I knew I would erm…well, one day lead the erm… pack BUT my dream was to open my own restaurant one day, to share that passion with others." A wistful smile tugged at Castiel's lips.
"A restaurant? Like Charlie. What kind of food did you want to serve?"
"Everything," Dean replied with a chuckle. "But mostly comfort food—dishes that remind you of home, of family. I wanted it to be a place where people felt welcome, where they could forget their troubles for a while."
"I can see why Balthazar likes you."
Before Dean could respond, the sound of footsteps crunching on the snow interrupted them. They turned to see Balthazar approaching, his usual air of casual confidence intact. He gave them a nod, a wry smile playing on his lips.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" Balthazar quipped, his tone light. "Two dreamers lost in the woods?" Castiel and Dean shared a look, a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
"Just talking," Castiel said. "About what we wanted to be before... everything."
"Fame and fortune, hmm?” Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with interest. “Let me tell you, lads, it's not all it's cracked up to be. Fame is a fickle mistress, and fortune—well, it comes and goes." Dean laughed, shaking his head.
"I don't think either of us is aiming for fame. We just want to do what we love."
"And there's the rub, isn't it?” Balthazar nodded thoughtfully. “Finding a way to balance what you love with what you're obligated to do. It's a tricky dance, but not impossible."
Chapter 20
Notes:
Chapter word count: 7 777
(not beta read yet)
Chapter Text
Dean paced his room, the silence a sharp contrast to the noise of his thoughts. The past few days had been filled with polite conversations under Balthazar's watchful eye or hours spent watching TV, but now he wanted to do something more meaningful. He wanted to surprise Castiel with a dish from Charlie's restaurant—a place they'd only visited once together, but one that had left a lasting impression. Dean's mind wandered to the dish he had in mind: mushroom risotto. He remembered Castiel mentioning it was his favourite, something he always ordered at Charlie's. Dean's heart swelled with a mixture of nervousness and excitement at the thought of cooking something special for Castiel. But first, he needed the right ingredients.
He paused by the window, looking out at the snow-covered fields. The pristine white landscape stretched out before him, untouched and serene. It was December 31st, and the farm was cloaked in a blanket of snow, each flake catching the soft light. The sight brought a sense of peace, but also a reminder of the isolation he felt here. Seeing as Dean no longer had a phone and he recently learned that Castiel did, in fact, have one, Dean gathered the courage to ask to use it. He found Castiel in the living room, the flickering light of the television casting shadows on the walls.
"Cas, can I use your phone?" Dean asked, trying to keep his tone casual. Castiel looked up, surprise flickering in his deep blue eyes.
"Why do you need my phone?" he asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.
"I just need to call Charlie." Dean explained, hoping the mention of his friend would soften Castiel's reluctance. Castiel hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered Dean's request.
“But you back to work the second, can't this wait?” Dean remembered what Balthazar had said about Castiel being a private person, especially about things that mattered to him.
“No, I would like to call today.”
"Okay," Castiel agreed, his tone firmer as he continued, “ but I want to watch while you make the call." Dean initially thought it was to ensure he wouldn't call anyone to help him escape, but he quickly realised that Castiel might just have an attachment to his phone, after all a phone was a small comfort in a world filled with uncertainties.
"Sure, Castiel, that's fine," Dean said, trying to sound reassuring.
Dean and Castiel descended the stairs, their footsteps barely audible against the wooden steps. They moved into Castiel's bedroom, a space that Dean swore got messier each time he entered. Books and papers were scattered across the floor, and clothes lay in haphazard piles. The room was a reflection of Castiel's inner world—chaotic yet somehow orderly in its own way. Dean watched as Castiel revealed his secret hiding space for his phone. Behind a row of books on the bookshelf, a charging cord snaked through a small hole at the back, keeping the phone hidden from the world. Castiel retrieved it and unlocked it before handing it over to Dean and retreating to sit on the edge of the bed. Dean took a seat in the armchair by the window, feeling the weight of the moment. Dean dialled Charlie's number, and after a few rings, she picked up. Her voice came through the speaker, filled with concern.
"Castiel? Is everything okay?"
"Hey, Charlie. It's Dean," he said quickly, trying to reassure her. "I need a favour."
"Dean? Why are you calling from Castiel's phone? Is he alright?" Charlie's confusion was evident. Dean glanced at Castiel, who was watching him intently.
"Yeah, he's fine. I wanted to surprise him with something special tonight. Can you give me the exact ingredients for that mushroom risotto you make at your restaurant?" Castiel's eyes widened in surprise at Dean's request. It was clear he hadn't expected this.
"Of course. Give me a second." Dean could hear her moving around, presumably finding the recipe. "Okay, here we go. You'll need Arborio rice, vegetable broth, white wine, garlic, shallots, olive oil, a mix of wild mushrooms, Parmesan cheese, butter, fresh parsley, and aromat."
"Slow down a little, Charlie, I need to write this down," Dean said, glancing around for a pen and paper. Before he could rise to fetch them, Castiel was already up, retrieving a notebook and pen from his desk. He handed them to Dean, their fingers brushing briefly. Dean flipped through the pages of Castiel's notebook, searching for a blank one. He could not help but notice the detailed sketches on the margins of the pages—drawings of Norma stretched out in various poses, Balthazar in different scenes, and even a few of Dean himself. The realisation that Castiel had been drawing him filled Dean with a mixture of surprise and warmth. Finding a blank page, Dean nodded to Charlie even though she could not see him. "Alright, I'm ready." Charlie continued listing the ingredients, pausing halfway through.
"Did you say you're making this today?"
"Yeah, that's the plan," Dean confirmed, jotting down the items as she spoke.
"Oh," Charlie said, a hint of hesitation in her voice. "So, you won't be joining the pack in celebrating then?" Dean glanced at Castiel, who had clearly heard the entire conversation. He handed the phone to Castiel, who immediately responded.
"No, we're staying home. Balthazar suggested it would be better than forcing Dean to go." Castiel handed the phone back to Dean with a strained smile. Dean took it, understanding that Castiel had indeed heard everything.
"Alright, Charlie. You can continue."
“Parmesan cheese, butter, fresh parsley,” Charlie resumed, finishing with one last reminder, "And don't forget the aromat. It's essential."
"Got it. Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it."
"No problem, Dean. See you in a few says," she replied before they ended the call. Dean looked at the list he had written. Most of the ingredients seemed straightforward enough, but he knew the key to a great risotto lay in the execution. He glanced at Castiel, who was watching him with a curious expression, as if trying to decode the thoughts running through Dean's mind. Dean handed the phone back to Castiel, their fingers brushing once more.
“Thanks, Cas. I owe you one.” Castiel took the phone and slipped it back into its hidden spot behind the books.
"You're welcome, Dean," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving Dean's face. Dean settled back into the armchair, feeling the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the window. He could see his breath in the cool air of the room, the chill of December ever present.
“You know, Balthazar mentioned you prefer texting over talking on the phone.” Castiel hesitated, then nodded.
“Yes, it’s true. When I do need to make a call I rehearse what I need to say beforehand. It’s easier that way. Don’t want to say something wrong.” Dean’s eyebrows raised slightly.
“You rehearse? Wow, I never would’ve guessed.” Castiel looked away, his cheeks flushing slightly.
“Yes, it helps me organise my thoughts. I know it sounds strange.” Dean shook his head.
“No, it doesn’t sound strange at all. Everyone has their quirks. I guess I’m just the opposite. I prefer to be spontaneous. Planning everything out makes me feel like I’m overthinking.” Castiel gave a small smile, his eyes meeting Dean’s.
“Spontaneity suits you. You always seem to know what to say in the moment.” Dean chuckled.
“I wouldn’t say that, but thanks. I’ve put my foot in my mouth plenty of times.” He glanced around Castiel’s room, taking in the chaos. “Your room, though… it’s like a reflection of how you think, isn’t it?” Castiel tilted his head, considering Dean’s words.
“There’s a system to it, even if it doesn’t look that way.”
“I’m sure there is,” Dean took a deep breath, feeling a mix of determination and trepidation settle over him. "I'll just head to the store and get everything we need," he said, his voice steady. "You don't have to come with me, I know you’re not too big on grocery runs." Castiel hesitated but then nodded, his eyes lingering on Dean.
"Alright. Be careful out there." Castiel went and got his car keys, which Dean promptly pocketed glancing once more at the list of ingredients. Dean offered a reassuring smile before heading out the door. The cold December air hit him immediately, the crispness of winter sharp against his skin. He made his way to Castiel's car, a modest sedan that seemed almost out of place amidst the sprawling, snow-covered land. The vehicle was coated in a thin layer of frost, which Dean quickly scraped away with his gloved hands.
Settling into the driver's seat, Dean started the car, its engine rumbling to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced back at the house, feeling a pang of unease. This drive was more than just a grocery run; it was a brief taste of freedom, a fleeting moment where he could entertain the idea of escape. The car moved forward slowly, the tires crunching over the snow-packed driveway. Dean's eyes scanned the surroundings, noting the thick forest that bordered the Novak property. The road stretched ahead, a winding path flanked by towering trees whose branches sagged under the weight of fresh snow. The sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting dappled shadows on the ground.
As he drove, Dean’s mind buzzed with plans and possibilities. Each turn of the wheel seemed to spark a new idea. What if he just kept driving? He could make it to the nearest town, blend in with the crowds, and disappear. But then he thought of Castiel, the quiet way he had handed over his phone, his reluctant smile. Dean shook his head, trying to push away the conflicting emotions. Not now. Not yet. The road curved sharply, and Dean’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. The forest seemed to close in around him, the trees like silent sentinels watching his every move. He rehearsed potential escape plans in his mind, each one more elaborate than the last. He imagined finding a payphone, calling for help, maybe even contacting his brothers to devise a more concrete plan. The idea of freedom was intoxicating, but it was tempered by the reality of his situation. Snow began to fall lightly, the flakes drifting lazily through the air. Dean turned on the car's heater, feeling the warmth slowly permeate the cabin. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see Balthazar or another member of the pack trailing behind him. But the road remained empty, a stark reminder of the isolation that surrounded the farm. He approached a small bridge, the wooden structure slick with ice. Dean slowed the car, his thoughts momentarily interrupted by the need for caution. The bridge creaked under the car’s weight, the sound echoing through the stillness of the forest. On the other side, the road opened up slightly, revealing a broader path that led deeper into the woods.
Dean's mind wandered back to the kitchen at Charlie's restaurant, then to the memory of Castiel's delighted expression as he savoured the mushroom risotto. The thought brought a smile to Dean's face, a brief respite from the tension that had settled in his chest. He imagined the two of them sharing a meal, the warmth of the food and the soft glow of candlelight creating a moment of peace amidst the chaos of their lives. But as the road continued to stretch out before him, the reality of his predicament settled back in. Dean knew he couldn’t afford to let his guard down. Each kilometre he drove felt like a gamble, a delicate balance between seeking a way out and maintaining the façade of compliance. He rehearsed his excuses, his reasons for being out alone if questioned. He needed to be ready for anything.
The grocery store loomed ahead, the large building nestled in a clearing. Dean pulled into the car park, the tyres crunching over the gravel. He sat for a moment, the engine idling as he collected his thoughts. The store represented a temporary reprieve, a chance to gather his resources and maybe, just maybe, find a way to tip the scales in his favour. Taking a deep breath, Dean turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. The cold air bit at his cheeks, but he welcomed the sensation. It grounded him, reminded him of the task at hand. He squared his shoulders, bracing himself for the next step in his plan. The doors of the grocery store slid open, and Dean walked inside, his mind already calculating his next move. Dean navigated the aisles with a sense of purpose, each step measured and deliberate. The fluorescent lights above cast a bright, artificial glow over the store, illuminating the rows of products with a sterile clarity. The contrast to the serene, snow-covered forest outside was striking. Dean paused occasionally, checking items off his mental list, his basket gradually filling with the ingredients for the mushroom risotto. The produce section was a riot of colours, each vegetable and fruit vying for attention. Dean's eyes zeroed in on the mushrooms, nestled together in neat displays. He selected a variety of wild mushrooms, their earthy tones and unique shapes hinting at the complex flavours they would bring to the dish. He handled each one with care, checking for freshness and quality.
Moving on, Dean picked out shallots and garlic, their skins dry and papery beneath his fingers. The weight of a bottle of olive oil felt reassuring in his basket, its contents promising a rich, smooth base for his cooking. Each item he chose brought him closer to recreating the meal he remembered so fondly from Charlie's restaurant. The store's ambient noise—muted conversations, the squeak of trolley wheels, the occasional announcement over the PA system—formed a background hum as Dean continued shopping. He located the Arborio rice, selecting a brand he recognised from his limited culinary experiences. The white wine section offered a variety of choices, and he picked a bottle of dry white, hoping it would complement the risotto perfectly. The Parmesan cheese, butter, and fresh parsley followed, each adding to the promise of a delicious meal. As he wandered further into the store, Dean found himself in the spice aisle, a colourful display of jars and packets lining the shelves. He scanned the rows, searching for the elusive ingredient: aromat. The name was unfamiliar, and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was. He ran his fingers along the rows of spices, finally spotting a small jar labelled ‘Aromat’ nestled between more familiar seasonings. He picked up the jar and turned it over, reading the fine print on the back. His brows furrowed as he realised it was essentially just monosodium glutamate, commonly known as MSG. Dean chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. Charlie's secret ingredient turned out to be something so ordinary, yet it made such a significant difference in the dish.
As Dean approached the checkout, his attention was drawn to a display of children's items. Brightly coloured toys, books, and art supplies filled the shelves. Dean found himself lingering, an unexpected pang of longing tugging at him. He had never seriously considered having children, but now, faced with the possibility of never experiencing that part of life, he felt a strange sense of loss. He picked up a watercolour set and a pad of paper, turning them over in his hands. Dean added the art supplies to his basket, feeling a mix of nostalgia and resolve. At the checkout, the cashier greeted him with a polite smile, and Dean felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach. He placed his items on the conveyor belt, watching as they were scanned and bagged. The routine of the transaction offered him a moment to think, to strategize his next move. Dean handed over the bills, thanked the cashier, and collected his bags. As he walked back through the store, the weight of the groceries grounding him in the present moment, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. The drive back would give him time to think, to plan, and perhaps to find a way out of his predicament.
The air outside was sharp and clear, a noticeable contrast to the warmth of the grocery store. Dean loaded the bags into the car, his breath visible in the chilly air. He paused for a moment, looking out at the snow-covered landscape, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and plans. As he settled into the driver's seat and started the engine, Dean felt a sense of determination solidify within him. He would cook the risotto, share a moment of normalcy with Castiel, and continue to search for a way out. The drive back through the forest awaited him, a journey through the snow-laden trees that mirrored the complexities of his own path. As he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the forest road, Dean's thoughts drifted back to the quiet moments he shared with Castiel. The drive back seemed shorter, his mind less burdened by the earlier tension. He rehearsed the recipe in his mind, visualising each step and the look of surprise he hoped to see on Castiel’s face. The trees blurred past as the car sped through the forest, the road ahead illuminated by the pale light of the setting sun. Dean’s grip on the wheel was steady, his determination unwavering. He was ready to create something meaningful, a small beacon of normalcy in a world that had become increasingly unpredictable. As the Novak houses came into view, Dean felt a renewed sense of purpose, eager to share the meal and the moment with Castiel. As he neared the house, the setting sun cast a warm, golden hue over the landscape, illuminating the pristine snow and the familiar silhouette of the farmhouse. He pulled into the driveway and took a moment to steady himself before grabbing the grocery bags from the back seat. As he approached the house, he noticed the glow of lights through the windows, a welcoming beacon in the encroaching dusk.
Dean entered the house, greeted by the familiar warmth and a hint of wood smoke in the air. The calm was abruptly shattered by the sound of raised voices coming from behind Castiel's closed bedroom door. Dean froze in the hallway, his heart pounding as he strained to make out the words.
"I didn't take anything away from you, Castiel!" Gabriel's voice rang out, dripping with condescension. "I gave you a life. You may have had dreams of getting out, but you never would have been able to handle the city. I did you a favour when I made you marry Dean. God knows no one here wants you." Dean's grip tightened on the grocery bags, his knuckles turning white. A knot formed in his stomach, twisting painfully as Gabriel's words echoed in his mind. His own escape plans suddenly seemed fraught with complexity, burdened by the weight of Castiel's situation. Gabriel continued to rant, listing things that Castiel should be grateful for, but Dean could no longer focus on the words. He felt sick to his stomach, the earlier resolve now mingled with a profound sense of helplessness. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Dean looked up to see Balthazar descending, an apologetic smile on his face. Balthazar took the groceries from Dean's hands with a nod, silently urging him to walk into the kitchen. Dean followed, feeling the tension ease slightly as they entered the warm, familiar space. Balthazar closed the kitchen door behind them, providing a semblance of privacy from the turmoil upstairs.
"Sorry about that," Balthazar said softly, placing the groceries on the counter. "Gabriel can be... particular." Dean nodded, still processing the confrontation he had overheard.
"I didn't realise things were that bad," Dean murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart raced as he stood in the kitchen, trying to process the cacophony of emotions stirred by Gabriel's harsh words. Balthazar's presence provided a small measure of comfort, but the tension from across the hall still hung heavily in the air.
"Gabriel means well." Dean bit back a retort, unsure if he believed Balthazar's reassurances. He focused on unpacking the groceries, his movements deliberate as he arranged the ingredients on the counter. "How was the shopping trip?" Balthazar asked, attempting to make small talk.
"Fine," Dean replied, his voice clipped. His mind kept drifting back to the argument, the muffled anger a constant reminder of the volatility in the house. He forced himself to continue. "Got everything I need." Balthazar nodded, sensing Dean's distraction.
"That's good to hear." Dean flinched at the sound of Gabriel's order for Castiel to clean his room, followed by the unmistakable slam of a door. The force of it echoed through the house, jarring Dean's memories of his own father's temper. He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but the resemblance to his past was unsettling. Meeting Balthazar's gaze, Dean couldn't keep the question inside any longer.
"Why don't you intervene, Balthazar? You used to be their nanny. When you stepped in on Christmas, was that just for show?" Balthazar's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his features.
"Do you have impulse control, Dean?" Dean blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question.
"What?"
"The reason Castiel allowed you to slaughter the lamb was because he thinks you're the one killing all the deer in the forest." Balthazar continued, his tone measured. Dean's brows furrowed in confusion.
"I only killed one."
“Perhaps.” Balthazar shrugged, a hint of scepticism in his eyes. "That is what I thought and told Castiel, but now? Well, I'm not so sure." Dean felt a surge of frustration.
"There's a difference between impulse control and avoidance." Balthazar rolled his eyes, a weary look settling on his face.
"I've been alive long enough to judge when to intervene. Sometimes, stepping back is the best course of action."
"No.” Dean shook his head, the frustration bubbling over. “I think you like Castiel being dependent on you. You like the power it gives you." A faint purple glow began to emanate from Balthazar's eyes, a reminder of the fantastical elements woven into their reality. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
"Go on then Dean, go comfort Castiel so he may become dependent on you instead, his husband ." Dean stared at Balthazar in disbelief, his mind reeling. The tension in the room crackled, the air thick with unspoken emotions. "Go!" Balthazar's voice rang out, leaving no room for argument.
Dean walked out of the kitchen but stopped and stood at the base of the stairs, his heart still pounding from the confrontation with Balthazar. The lingering echoes of Gabriel's harsh words reverberated through his mind, but he pushed them aside, focusing on the task at hand. He needed to find Norma. Ascending the creaky wooden stairs, Dean moved with purpose, each step a reminder of the weight he carried. As he reached the landing, he spotted Norma nestled in a cosy corner of the hallway, her golden fur a warm contrast to the cold, dark wood. She lifted her head as he approached.
"Hey, girl," Dean murmured, scooping her up into his arms. Norma's warmth was comforting, a small beacon of solace in the midst of the turmoil. With the cat securely held, Dean descended the stairs, making his way to Castiel's bedroom. He hesitated briefly outside the door, the muffled sounds of Castiel's quiet sobs tugging at his heart. Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered space. Castiel lay under the comforter, his form barely visible except for the occasional tremor of his shoulders. Dean carefully set Norma down on the foot of the bed. Within seconds, the kitten had scrambled up to the pillows, nosing her way under the comforter to be close to Castiel. The sound of Castiel's breath hitching was unmistakable as he called out softly.
"Dean?" Dean stepped closer, his eyes filled with concern. Castiel sat up, wiping his tear-streaked face with the sleeves of his hoodie. The sight of him, so vulnerable and broken, tugged at something deep within Dean. He moved to the armchair by the window, settling into its embrace. Castiel sniffled, his gaze dropping to Norma, who was now nuzzling him affectionately. Despite the tears, a fleeting smile crossed his face as he gently petted the cat. "Did you have a nice time at the store?" Castiel's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. Dean nodded, offering a small smile.
"Yeah, erm… it was mostly empty. Just me and my thoughts." He watched as Castiel's gaze became distant, the weight of his earlier tears still evident in his eyes. Dean shifted in the chair, searching for a way to bring some lightness to the moment. "Did you know that Charlie uses aromat in her risotto?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. Castiel looked up, a hint of curiosity mingling with the sadness in his eyes.
"No, erm… I didn't." Dean nodded, feeling a spark of connection in their shared surprise.
"Wait here," he said, rising from the chair. "I'll be right back." He made his way back to the kitchen, where Balthazar had already unpacked the groceries. Dean gathered the art supplies, a sense of determination guiding his actions. He returned to Castiel's room, the door closing softly behind him as he entered. Dean approached the bed, the art supplies held out in front of him. "I know it's probably not even close to the same quality as what you had," he began, his voice steady. "But I saw your sketches in the notebook margins earlier, and when I saw these at the store, I thought you might like them. Since you said you threw your supplies away..." Castiel interrupted him gently, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.
"It's perfect," he whispered. Their fingers brushed as Dean handed over the supplies, the brief contact sending a jolt of warmth through him. Castiel took the watercolours and pad of paper, his touch lingering on Dean's hand for a moment longer than necessary. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. Dean settled back into the armchair, watching as Castiel examined the art supplies. The room was silent except for the soft rustle of paper and the occasional sniffle. Norma, sensing the shift in mood, curled up beside Castiel, her presence a comforting anchor.
"You're welcome," Dean replied, his voice equally soft. He watched as Castiel's expression shifted from sorrow to a tentative hope. In that moment, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, they found a brief respite, a fragile connection that promised something more. Dean cleared his throat softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "I was just about to get started in the kitchen. You're welcome to join me, if you want," he offered, his voice gentle. Castiel nodded, the shadow of a smile on his lips.
"I'd like that," he replied, his voice still fragile but with a note of genuine warmth.
They made their way to the kitchen, the warmth of the room a welcome contrast to the chill outside. The scent of fresh herbs and vegetables greeted them, a promise of the meal to come. Dean’s movements were purposeful and deliberate. He took a deep breath, letting the familiar routine of cooking ground him. Dean began by finely dicing the shallots and mincing the garlic, their sharp aroma filling the air. He set a large skillet on the stove, adding a generous splash of olive oil. As the oil heated, he added the shallots, stirring them until they turned translucent and fragrant. The garlic followed, its scent mingling with the shallots to create a heady, inviting aroma. Castiel watched from the table, the watercolour set and pad of paper spread out before him. He picked up a brush, dipping it into the small dish of water Dean had provided. The gentle scrape of the brush against paper became a background melody to the rhythmic sounds of Dean's cooking. Dean added the Arborio rice to the skillet, stirring it until each grain was coated with the aromatic oil. He poured in a splash of white wine, the liquid hissing as it hit the hot pan. The wine evaporated quickly, leaving behind a subtle hint of acidity that would balance the richness of the risotto. He began to ladle in the warm vegetable broth, one scoop at a time, allowing the rice to absorb the liquid slowly. Between stirs, Dean glanced over at Castiel, who was focused on his painting.
"What are you working on?" Dean asked, his tone light and curious. Castiel looked up, a hint of colour rising in his cheeks.
"Just something small," he replied, his voice soft. "It's been a while since I painted." Dean nodded, offering an encouraging smile.
"Well, I'm sure whatever it is, it'll be great." The broth continued to absorb into the rice, and Dean added the mix of wild mushrooms, their earthy scent blending with the other ingredients. He stirred gently, the risotto taking on a creamy texture as the starches from the rice began to break down. The kitchen filled with the rich, savoury aroma, a testament to the care Dean put into his cooking. As the risotto neared completion, Dean added a generous handful of grated Parmesan cheese, stirring until it melted into the dish, adding a layer of richness. A pat of butter followed, giving the risotto a silky finish. He chopped the fresh parsley, sprinkling it over the top as a final touch, the vibrant green adding a burst of colour to the creamy dish. Dean turned off the heat, setting the skillet aside to let the risotto rest for a moment. He wiped his hands on a towel, turning to the table where Castiel sat. "Alright, the risotto is ready," he announced, a hint of pride in his voice. Castiel looked up, his expression softening.
"It smells amazing, Dean." Dean set the table with a careful hand, the wooden surface polished to a soft sheen. He chose two simple ceramic plates, their blue glaze catching the warm light from the kitchen. The silverware clinked softly as he laid it out, adding glasses for their drinks.
"Do you want soda?" Dean asked, glancing at Castiel. Castiel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Yes, that sounds nice." Dean retrieved a couple of sodas from the fridge, their cold condensation forming small beads on his fingers. He poured the fizzy liquid into the glasses, the gentle hiss and pop of bubbles filling the quiet kitchen. They took their seats, the risotto steaming invitingly in the centre of the table. Dean served Castiel first, spooning a generous portion onto his plate. The creamy texture of the risotto, studded with wild mushrooms and flecks of green parsley, looked inviting. Dean filled his own plate and took a moment to appreciate the aroma that wafted up, rich and comforting. They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the clink of silverware against porcelain and the soft hum of the refrigerator. Dean savoured the first bite, the flavours melding perfectly—the earthiness of the mushrooms, the tang of the Parmesan, the subtle hint of wine. The simple act of sharing a meal brought a sense of normalcy and comfort. Dean could feel the tension from earlier slowly dissipating with each bite, the rich flavours of the risotto a soothing to his frazzled nerves. Castiel broke the silence first, his voice hesitant.
"Gabriel was here earlier. He wasn't too happy we weren't joining the pack later. I thought you didn't want to, and I didn't want to force you. But if you want to go–" Dean shook his head, his fork pausing mid-air.
"No, you were right, Cas. I don't want to join them. I appreciate you standing your ground." Castiel's eyes softened, and he reached for the painting he had been working on. With careful precision, he tore the page from the pad and handed it to Dean.
"I thought you might like this," he said, a shy smile playing on his lips. Dean took the painting from Castiel, his eyes widening in surprise. The painting depicted him in his wolf form from the other day. Castiel had captured every detail with meticulous precision—the sleek lines of Dean's wolf body, the way his russet fur seemed to catch and reflect the light in gold. The background was a soft blend of greens and browns, reminiscent of the forest that surrounded the farm. Dean swallowed hard, his emotions swirling. The memory of Gabriel's cruelty made Dean's chest tighten.
"Cas, this is incredible," Dean said, his voice thick with emotion. He traced the edges of the painting with his fingers, marvelling at the skill and care that had gone into it. "You really captured... well, me." Castiel's shy smile returned, and he looked down at his plate, clearly pleased but also slightly embarrassed.
"I just painted what I saw. You looked... powerful." Dean felt a warmth spread through him, not just from the risotto but from Castiel's words.
"Thanks, Cas. It means a lot." Castiel's gaze met Dean's, and for a moment, the room was filled with an unspoken understanding.
"What does your family usually do for New Year's?" Dean set the painting down carefully and leaned back in his chair, thinking.
"It was never a big thing for us. My dad was usually on a hunt, and Sam and I would just watch the ball drop on TV. It was pretty low-key." Castiel hummed thoughtfully, his fingers absently stroking Norma's fur as she rested on his lap.
"Here, New Year's is bigger than Christmas. It's probably the biggest holiday." Dean nodded, understanding now why Charlie had been so surprised and Gabriel so angry. The pack's traditions were deeply ingrained, and opting out must have been seen as a significant deviation.
"What do you want to do for New Year's, Cas?" Dean asked, his voice gentle. He wanted to make sure that whatever they did, it was something Castiel truly wanted. Castiel looked thoughtful, then smiled softly.
"We could watch your show."
Feeling a sense of relief wash over him Dean leaned back in his chair, the warmth of Castiel’s smile filling the room with a newfound lightness.
"We can definitely watch Dr. Sexy," he said, the idea sparking a plan in his mind.
They moved to clean up the kitchen, the clinking of dishes and running water a soothing backdrop to their shared task. Dean washed while Castiel dried, their movements synchronised in a comforting rhythm. As they worked, Dean’s mind whirred with his plan. The thought of surprising Castiel with something he loved brought a sense of excitement. Dean set down the last clean dish, drying his hands on a towel.
"I’ll be right back," he said, heading upstairs with a determined stride. The living room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the TV screen reflecting off the polished surfaces. He turned on the TV, navigating through the menus with ease to see if Sunset Boulevard was available. Dean found and selected it, pausing on the black fade-in to the opening screen before heading back downstairs. As he re-entered the kitchen, he saw Castiel had finished tidying up and was seated at the table, a thoughtful expression on his face. Dean opened the refrigerator, his eyes landing on the half eaten cake Balthazar had made a few days ago. He grabbed it, along with two forks, and turned to Castiel with a grin. "Come with me." Castiel’s curiosity was piqued as he followed Dean up the stairs. The anticipation in the air was palpable. When they reached the living room, Dean set the cake down on the coffee table and gestured for Castiel to sit. Once they were both settled comfortably, Dean picked up the remote and pressed play. The screen flickered to life, the Paramount logo appearing in its classic black and white glory. Castiel’s eyes widened in amazement as he instantly recognised the opening and turned to Dean, awe etched into his features.
"Sunset Boulevard? How did you know?" Dean shrugged, a playful smile tugging at his lips.
"I pay attention, Castiel." Castiel’s eyes softened, and he turned back to the screen, with a contented smile on his face. They both took a fork and dug into the cake, the rich flavours enhancing the nostalgic atmosphere. Dean watched the movie unfold on the screen, the black-and-white images casting a nostalgic glow around the room. He stole glances at Castiel, noting the way his face softened at each familiar scene, his eyes reflecting the light of the film. There was a serene, almost reverent, quality to the way Castiel watched the movie, as if he was reconnecting with an old friend. While Dean did know the plot himself could not help but seeing it through Castiel's eyes. He understood now why Castiel had named the cat Norma. The character, with her dramatic flair and tragic vulnerability, mirrored something in Castiel's own life. The story followed Joe Gillis, a struggling screenwriter who becomes entangled with Norma Desmond, a faded silent film star living in her decaying mansion. Dean could see the parallels that might draw Castiel to the character of Norma. She was isolated, clinging to the remnants of a life that had slipped away from her, much like how Castiel must have even as a child held onto fragments of his own identity as the spare amidst the chaos of the pack. Dean reached for another bite of cake, the rich, chocolatey goodness a comforting counterpoint to the movie's darker themes. He savoured the taste, letting the moment sink in. The atmosphere in the room was intimate, filled with the soft flicker of the TV and the occasional clink of their forks against the plates. As the film played, Dean couldn’t help but steal glances at Castiel. The way his eyes lit up at each familiar scene, the way he leaned forward during his favourite moments—these small, intimate reactions filled Dean with a sense of accomplishment and warmth. Sharing something so beloved with Castiel made the experience even more special. When Norma delivered her famous line, "I am big. It's the pictures that got small," Dean saw a flicker of recognition in Castiel's eyes. He understood now that this line resonated deeply with Castiel. It was a reflection of his own struggle to find his place in a world that had changed around him, leaving him feeling both too big and too small at the same time. The film's climax, with Norma's descent into madness and her delusional declaration that she was ready for her close-up, left a profound silence in the room. Dean felt a pang of sympathy for her, a character trapped by her own dreams and the harsh realities of life. He glanced at Castiel, who seemed lost in thought, his expression a mixture of sadness and understanding.
"She was just trying to hold onto something," Dean said quietly, breaking the silence. "Even if it was all falling apart around her."Castiel nodded, his eyes still on the screen.
"Yes. She couldn't let go of the past, even though it was destroying her." Dean took a deep breath, the gravity of the moment settling over him.
"Is it destroying you, Cas?" he asked gently, his eyes searching Castiel's face for any sign of what he might be feeling. Castiel tilted his head, his brows knitting together in confusion.
"What do you mean?" Dean hesitated, then pressed on, his voice soft but insistent.
"I heard Gabriel earlier. What he said to you... it wasn't right." Castiel's face paled, the colour draining from his cheeks. He looked down at the table, the credits of the movie rolling in the background, the haunting score lingering in the air like a ghost. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. Dean watched Castiel closely, noting the way his shoulders hunched and his eyes darkened with something akin to dread. Castiel's hands moved from tightly clenched in his lap to running along the outside of his thighs, digging in more and more, a clear sign of his escalating anxiety.
"Dean," Castiel began, his voice barely above a whisper, "you weren't supposed to hear that. I'm so sorry you had to hear that." His fingers pressed harder against his thighs, the knuckles white. "You weren't supposed to hear that." Dean moved closer, his heart aching at the sight of Castiel's distress.
"Castiel," he said gently, reaching out to still Castiel's trembling hands, "it's okay." But Castiel wasn't hearing him.
"You weren't supposed to hear that, Dean. You weren't supposed to hear that," He kept repeating, "You weren't supposed to hear that," his voice rising slightly with each repetition, until it became a desperate plea. "Weren't supposed to, weren't supposed to, weren't supposed to he- he- hear that."
"Hey, hey," Dean soothed, wrapping his hands around Castiel's, trying to anchor him. "Look at me, Castiel." Castiel's eyes finally lifted to meet Dean's, a mix of fear and vulnerability in their blue depths. Dean squeezed his hands, trying to convey reassurance through his touch.
"Please," Castiel whispered, his voice breaking, "please, Dean, don't tell anyone that you heard that." Dean's heart clenched. He nodded, his voice firm.
"I won't, Cas. I promise." Castiel's relief was palpable, his entire body sagging as if a great burden had been lifted. Dean kept his hold on Castiel's hands, his thumbs brushing soothingly over his knuckles. "But Gabriel shouldn't talk to you like that," Dean said quietly, his anger at the leader simmering beneath his calm exterior. "The leader should know better." Castiel's gaze dropped again, a shadow passing over his features.
"He's protecting me," he murmured, the words sounding hollow in the dark room.
“No,” Dean shook his head. "That's not protection, Cas. That's control. There's a difference." The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Dean watched the conflict play out on Castiel's face, the lines of tension slowly easing as his words seemed to reach him. Castiel's eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, met Dean's once more, the flicker of doubt and fear evident in his eyes. "Is there anything you want to do?" Dean asked gently, trying to steer the conversation to a safer, more comforting place. Castiel shook his head, his voice barely a whisper.
"No, not really." Dean offered a small, reassuring smile.
"How about we put on Dr. Sexy?"
"That sounds nice." Castiel said, voice lacking any enthusiasm. As Dean reached for the remote, feeling Norma shift and settle into Castiel's lap. The warmth of the room, combined with the comforting presence of the cat, seemed to soothe Castiel further. Dean navigated through the streaming service, finding the familiar title screen of ‘Dr. Sexy M.D.’ and pressing play. The show began with its usual flair, dramatic music underscoring the opening scene. Dean leaned back, relaxing into the couch as the familiar characters and their outlandish medical drama filled the room. The ridiculous plot lines and exaggerated performances were a welcome distraction, a bit of levity amidst the heaviness of their earlier conversation. Norma made herself comfortable in Castiel's lap, her head resting on his chest as she gazed up at him with adoring eyes. Castiel absently stroked her fur, the repetitive motion seeming to calm him. Dean stole glances at him, noting the way Castiel's tense posture gradually softened, his breathing evening out.
Halfway through the third episode, Dean felt a subtle shift. Castiel's head leaned against his shoulder, the soft weight a surprising but welcome presence. He glanced down, seeing that Castiel had fallen asleep, his face finally peaceful. Dean smiled softly, careful not to move and disturb him. The flickering light of the TV cast gentle shadows on Castiel's face, highlighting the delicate lines and the faint remnants of worry. Dean felt a rush of protectiveness, a fierce desire to shield Castiel from the harshness of the world. He turned his attention to Norma, who seemed equally content.
"So, Norma," he whispered, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Castiel, "is this how you thought you'd spend your first New Year's?" Norma's ears perked up slightly at the sound of Dean's voice, but she remained nestled comfortably in Castiel's lap, her eyes half-closed in contentment. Dean chuckled softly. "Yeah, me neither. This definitely wasn't how I thought I'd spend my first New Year's married." He glanced back at the screen, the familiar faces of Dr. Sexy and his team providing a backdrop to his thoughts. The reality of his situation was strange and surreal, but in this moment, with Castiel leaning against him and Norma providing silent companionship, it felt almost normal. Dean shifted slightly, adjusting to support Castiel's weight more comfortably without waking him. The warmth of Castiel's body against his own was a reminder of the connection they were forging, a bond that was growing stronger with each shared moment.
As the episode continued, Dean let himself relax, his thoughts drifting. He thought about the future, about the possibilities that lay ahead. He knew there would be challenges, obstacles to overcome, but for now, in this quiet, intimate moment, he allowed himself to simply be. The night wore on, the TV casting a soft glow in the room as the minutes ticked by. Dean's eyes grew heavy, lulled by the gentle rhythm of Castiel's breathing and the comforting presence of Norma. He knew they would face whatever came their way together, and that thought brought a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time.
When the clock struck midnight, Dean glanced at Castiel, his heart swelling with a mix of affection and determination. The soft glow of the TV illuminated Castiel's peaceful face, his lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks. Dean marvelled at how serene Castiel looked in sleep, the lines of worry and tension smoothed away. Dean's mind drifted back to the first time he'd met Castiel. He recalled the intense blue of his eyes, the quiet strength in his bite. Just as sleep was about to claim him, Dean turned his gaze to the window, watching the snowflakes drift lazily to the ground, the world outside blanketed in a pristine white. The moonlight filtered through the frosty panes, casting a silver glow across the room. The landscape seemed enchanted, a perfect backdrop to this moment.
Chapter 21
Notes:
Chapter word count: 6 714
(not beta read)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dean woke up in the living room, the soft hum of the television still filling the quiet room. He blinked, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and realised Norma and Castiel were both gone. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and glanced around the dimly lit space. The weight of the previous night's conversations and emotions still lingered in the air, a stark reminder of the complexities surrounding his new life. With a sigh, Dean leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. The house felt empty, the silence amplifying his thoughts. He remembered the fleeting sense of freedom he'd felt the day before, driving to the grocery store, the road stretching out before him like an invitation to escape. He half-cursed himself for not seizing the opportunity to keep driving, to leave this place behind. But Castiel's car was too distinctive, and Balthazar's presence was a constant shadow. Dean's mind drifted back to Balthazar, the enigmatic witch who seemed to straddle the line between ally and adversary. Today, Balthazar was leaving. The thought made Dean sit up straighter, a spark of determination igniting within him. New Year, new me, he thought with a wry smile. Newish plan in action.
He got up and stretched, feeling the pull of muscles that had grown stiff from the night spent on the couch. The living room was still, the early morning starlight filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Dean made his way through the house, the creak of each step now a familiar companion in the stillness. As he reached his bedroom, he noticed the early morning light beginning to seep through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow across the cluttered room. His gaze fell on the hoodie Castiel had lent him, neatly folded on the edge of the bed. Dean had returned it after every wash, yet each time, it found its way back to him. Maybe Castiel was trying to be nice, or perhaps, in some subtle way, he was scent-marking Dean. Dean picked up the hoodie, its fabric soft and worn, imbued with Castiel’s scent despite the washes. The faint, familiar aroma was a blend of earth and pine, a reminder of the woods surrounding their home. He slipped it over his head, the material enveloping him in a comforting embrace. The hoodie must have been one of Castiel's favourites before it became Dean's, and the thought that it might still carry a trace of its original owner lingered in his mind. He wondered briefly about the process of scent-marking clothes, what rituals or instincts guided Castiel in this subtle act of connection. The thought was both intriguing and unsettling, a glimpse into the complexities of their intertwined lives. Dean shook his head, trying to dispel the curious musings, and focused on the present.
The room was filled with the quiet sounds of the late night. Dean moved towards the bed, feeling the fatigue from the previous night's emotional turmoil catching up with him. He lay down, the hoodie’s warmth a gentle reminder of Castiel's presence. The events of the past few days played through his mind, a kaleidoscope of moments that left him feeling both connected and constrained. He thought about the sense of freedom he had felt during the drive, the open road a tantalising promise of escape. But now, with Balthazar leaving, a new plan began to take shape in his mind. New Year, new me. Soon, he would put that plan into action.
Dean closed his eyes, letting the weariness of the past days wash over him. The gentle hum of the house, the faint rustle of the wind outside, and the distant chirping of morning birds created a soothing backdrop. He allowed himself to relax, his thoughts drifting towards the future, towards the possibilities that lay ahead. One more day, and then he could return to Charlie's restaurant, a place where he felt a semblance of normalcy. As sleep began to claim him, Dean’s last conscious thoughts were of the small victories he had achieved, the connections he had forged, and the hope that things might improve. The promise of tomorrow brought a sense of peace, and with it, he drifted into a deep, restful sleep.
Dean woke again it was to the unsettling presence of Balthazar standing beside his bed, the witch’s head tilted slightly to the side, his arms crossed as he gazed down at him. The intensity of Balthazar’s stare made Dean uneasy. Damn witches, he thought, as he tried to shake off the remnants of sleep.
“How are you feeling?” Balthazar finally asked, his voice smooth and probing.
Dean noticed the door was ajar, allowing Norma to dart into the room. She leapt onto the bed and began playing with the strings of his hoodie, her playful antics contrasting the tension in the room. The odd juxtaposition made the atmosphere even more surreal.
“I’m fine,” Dean replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Good,” Balthazar said, a note of warning in his voice. “Make sure it stays that way.” He turned to leave, but Dean’s frustration bubbled over.
“You got angry yesterday because it’s true, isn’t it? You like it when people depend on you. You like that Castiel won’t ever be truly free.” Balthazar spun around, his eyes narrowing at Dean.
“Would you like to repeat that?” Dean sat up against the headboard, steeling himself.
“You want that power. You want him to call for your help.” Balthazar quirked an eyebrow and placed a hand over his heart with mock seriousness.
“Is that so? How very terrible.”
“You never let him explore,” Dean accused, his voice rising with emotion. Balthazar snorted, shaking his head.
“What do you know about Castiel? If you weren’t so busy planning an escape, you might have a chance to get to know him.” Dean’s heart pounded in his chest, the reality of his failed secrecy crashing down on him. “Oh, you thought I hadn’t noticed? How sweet,” Balthazar continued with a smirk, clearly enjoying Dean’s discomfort. “As for Castiel, we took him to the city once before. He must have been two or three and cried the whole time. It wasn’t pleasant. So, he was made to roam the Novak territory instead. Of course, when Charlie was old enough to work in town like the other pack members, Castiel got jealous. A ‘they all get to leave, why not me’ type of situation. Charles knew Castiel would never handle the city, so he never let him leave, except to visit Charlie’s establishment. Multiple pack members work there, but you know that; you are one of them. Technically.”
“It seems like you never really let Castiel actually try, he was a toddler. Toddlers cry-” Dean countered, his frustration mounting.
“Dean,” Balthazar cut him off sharply, “Castiel was never meant to leave.”
“What now then?” Dean asked, his voice quieter but filled with a burning need to understand.
“I’m not going to tell anyone about your plans to leave because, quite frankly, I’d like to see how that would play out,” Balthazar said with a twisted smile. “As Castiel’s husband, you are technically part of the pack, yet you’re always doomed to be an outsider.”
“Are you done?” Dean asked, his tone hardening as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, approaching Balthazar. Balthazar huffed, clearly amused.
“That’s real cute, Winchester.”
“Why do people call me that if Castiel calls me Novak?” Dean demanded, standing toe-to-toe with the witch.
“Oh, Dean,” Balthazar said, a hint of pity in his voice. “Castiel may accept you, but anyone who still calls you Winchester sees you as the outsider you are.”
“So what if I’m an outsider?” Dean retorted, the defiance clear in his voice.
“You will always be one,” Balthazar said, his smile widening.
“Okay then,” Dean replied, a resigned determination settling over him. Balthazar’s smile was almost predatory.
“You don’t want me as your enemy, Dean. Either way, I won’t tell anyone about your little escape plan. In fact, I look forward to seeing you try. I will be watching.” With that, Balthazar turned and left, leaving Dean standing in the dim light of the morning, his mind racing. The witch’s words echoed in his ears, a challenge and a threat wrapped in one. Dean took a deep breath, feeling the resolve harden within him. He knew what he had to do. Yet being left alone in his room caused the silence around him to magnify the holes in his escape plan. He began to pace, each step echoing his frustration.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Damn witches. Damn peace treaty." Everything was a tangled mess, a series of complications that seemed impossible to unravel. His breathing grew shallow and rapid, each breath a struggle as the walls of the room closed in on him. He felt a creeping panic, his fingers flexing and curling repeatedly in an attempt to release the tension. The room smelled of Castiel, a mixture of earth and pine, and it filled his senses, overwhelming him. Dean thrust his hands into his hair, carding through it in a desperate attempt to find some semblance of calm. But the action provided no relief. He pulled at his clothes, the fabric feeling suffocating against his skin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and it wasn't until he heard the tearing sound that he realised what he had done. He looked down at the shredded remains of Castiel's hoodie, the fabric hanging in tatters around him. "Damn it," he cursed again, his voice breaking. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, trying to push back the tears of frustration and helplessness.
He couldn't continue like this. The constant strain of his situation, the pressure to conform to a life that wasn't his, was wearing him down. Dean felt like he was losing himself, each day a battle against an invisible enemy. The worst part was the uncertainty—why had he been so adamant about speaking on Castiel's behalf earlier? What was driving him to protect someone who was supposed to be his captor? Dean sank to the floor, the remnants of the hoodie pooling around him. He stared at the shredded fabric, his mind racing. His actions, his emotions—they were all so confusing. He had come to this place as a prisoner, yet he found himself defending Castiel, feeling a strange sense of loyalty towards him. He leaned back against the bed, his hands falling limply to his sides. The room was filled with the scent of Castiel, a constant reminder of his presence. Dean's thoughts drifted to the moments they had shared, the quiet conversations, the tentative steps towards understanding each other. There was something about Castiel, a vulnerability that resonated with Dean. But even as he acknowledged this, the frustration and anger remained. He couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, of having his life dictated by forces beyond his control. Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He needed to find a way out, to regain his sense of self. But for now, all he could do was breathe, taking each moment as it came, and hope that somehow, he would find a path forward.
Dean pushed himself up from the floor, his limbs feeling leaden as he moved towards the bathroom. The dim light filtered through the small window, casting soft, muted shadows on the tiles. He stepped into the shower and turned the water all the way to hot, watching as the spray shifted from freezing cold to almost scalding in a matter of moments. The too-hot water pounded against his skin, each droplet a searing reminder of his present reality. Dean stood there, letting the heat envelop him, the steam rising around him in thick, swirling tendrils. His muscles slowly began to unclench, the tension easing as the water continued to beat down on him. He stayed like that, motionless, until the heat became unbearable, then leaned back against the cold glazed tiles. The shock of the cold against his back sent a shiver through him, contrasting sharply with the blistering spray of the shower. He let out a shaky breath, the sound barely audible over the rush of water. Each exhale was an attempt to purge the frustration and confusion from his mind, to find some semblance of calm amidst the chaos. The cold tiles provided a grounding sensation, an anchor in the storm of his emotions. Gradually, Dean felt his breathing slow, the frantic rhythm of his heart settling into a steadier pace. He closed his eyes, allowing the sensation of the hot water and cold tiles to meld into a strange sort of equilibrium. It was in this balance that he finally found a moment of clarity.
When he felt sufficiently calmed, Dean turned off the shower and stepped out, steam billowing around him as he reached for a towel. He dried off slowly, the soft fabric absorbing the droplets clinging to his skin. The mirror was fogged, hiding his reflection, and for once, he was grateful for it. He didn't want to see the turmoil reflected in his own eyes. He moved back into his bedroom and went to his wardrobe, bypassing the clothes Gabriel had provided. Instead, he pulled out his own old clothes, the familiar fabrics worn soft from years of use. He dressed slowly, feeling the comforting weight of his old jeans and a faded T-shirt settling against his skin. The familiarity was a balm to his frayed nerves, each article of clothing a small piece of his old life.
Dean sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his damp hair. The room was quiet, the only sound was the faint rustle of branches outside the window. He felt a small measure of peace, a brief respite from the constant pressure that had been building within him. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, leaning back slightly, and let the stillness wash over him. It wasn't a solution to his problems, but it was a start—a moment of calm in the midst of the storm. And for now, that was enough.
A while later Dean descended the stairs, feeling a renewed sense of purpose wrapped in his old clothes. As he entered the kitchen, he spotted Castiel and Balthazar at the table. Castiel was focused intently on a painting, using the set Dean had gifted him, while Balthazar sat opposite him, nursing a cup of tea. The sight of them together made Dean’s jaw tighten. Balthazar looked up, feigning innocence.
"Good morning, Dean. I was just reminding Castiel that I’ll be leaving this afternoon." Dean decided to play along, masking his irritation the best he could.
"Oh," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. Castiel glanced up, his brow furrowing in obvious confusion when he saw Dean dressed in his old clothes. The unfamiliar fabrics seemed to have caught him off guard. He quickly returned to his painting, the brush moving deftly across the canvas. Balthazar turned his attention back to Dean.
"Have you eaten yet?" he inquired, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
"No," Dean replied curtly.
"Well,” Balthazar clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen, “we better do something about that. I’d rather not have two hungry wolves in one house." Castiel looked up briefly at the mention of wolves but then returned his focus to his painting. Dean forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. His lips pulled back just enough to show his teeth, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Balthazar, who seemed amused by Dean’s barely concealed hostility. Balthazar moved to the counter, retrieving a toaster and setting it up with practised ease. He placed slices of untoasted bread in front of Castiel, along with a jar of strawberry jam and a few slices of cheese. Castiel looked up and flashed a quick smile at the offerings before returning to his work, his brush strokes steady and sure. Balthazar cleared his throat, drawing Dean's attention away from Castiel. "Would you like your bread toasted, Dean?"
"I would," Dean replied, watching Balthazar carefully. The witch placed a couple of slices into the toaster and pressed down the lever, the soft click and hum filling the space between them. The kitchen felt charged, the unspoken tension between Dean and Balthazar palpable. Dean could feel the irritation simmering just beneath the surface, his distrust of Balthazar growing with each passing moment. His father's warning echoed in his mind: one must always be wary of witches. Balthazar seemed to revel in the tension, his amusement evident in the way his eyes sparkled. He buttered a piece of toast and handed it to Dean, who took it with a tight-lipped nod.
As they sat down to eat, the contrast between Castiel’s oblivious focus on his painting and the strained silence between Dean and Balthazar was stark. Castiel didn’t even look up as he reached for his breakfast, taking a bite every few minutes with the same absent-minded concentration he gave his artwork. Dean’s mind raced with thoughts and plans, the toast in his hand growing cold as he ate mechanically. He watched Castiel, noting the serene expression on his face as he painted. There was a gentleness in his movements, a quiet passion that seemed so out of place in the harsh realities of their world.
The quiet clink of Balthazar’s teacup brought Dean back to the present. He glanced at the witch, who was observing him with a knowing look.
“Something on your mind, Dean?” Balthazar asked, his voice smooth and calm. Dean clenched his jaw, forcing himself to maintain composure.
“Just thinking about the days ahead,” he replied, his tone even.
“Of course.” Balthazar’s smile widened slightly. “A lot to consider, I’m sure.” The rest of breakfast passed in strained silence, the air thick with unspoken words and underlying tension. Castiel remained engrossed in his painting, oblivious to the silent battle waged across the table. Dean’s mind continued to whirl with plans and uncertainties, each moment bringing him closer to the inevitable confrontation he knew was coming. Just as Dean was about to leave the kitchen, Balthazar's voice stopped him. "Dean, would you mind cleaning up? I need to pack," he said, his tone too casual. Dean was certain it was just an excuse; he hadn't seen any luggage around. Still, he complied, nodding curtly as Balthazar left the room. Now alone with Castiel, Dean took a moment to collect himself before speaking.
"Castiel, what are you painting today?" he asked, trying to sound interested rather than strained. Castiel looked up, surprised at being addressed. He picked up the painting and held it out towards Dean. It was a beautifully detailed depiction of Norma, her black fur and green eyes captured perfectly. Dean couldn't help but admire the skill and care evident in the piece.
"It's great," Dean said sincerely, then turned his attention to the dishes. As he washed, he noticed Castiel had only eaten half of one of his two sandwiches. "Are you done with your breakfast?" he asked.
"Can we just put it in the refrigerator? I will finish it later."
"Are you sure?” Dean frowned slightly. “That doesn't sound very sanitary. The bread will go soggy."
"Okay," Castiel replied with a shrug. "You can toss it if you want."
"Alright. But you know, you can always have more later if you get hungry."
"I guess," Castiel said, though his tone was indifferent.
With the kitchen now clean, Dean leaned against the countertop, observing Castiel as he returned to his painting.
"So, what's the plan for today?" he asked. A smile spread across Castiel's face.
"No plans. Since we didn’t celebrate with the pack, we don’t have to be part of the cleanup."
"That’s good, I guess," Dean replied, trying to match Castiel's lighter mood. Castiel put down his paintbrush and looked at Dean.
"What do you want to do?" Dean leaned against the countertop, his mind wandering through the possibilities of the day ahead. The tension from breakfast had eased slightly, and Castiel's genuine interest was a welcome change. He watched as Castiel set aside his paintbrush, curiosity flickering in his blue eyes.
"I don’t know, but I’m excited to get back to work tomorrow." Castiel's expression softened.
"Charlie has said you're very quick-thinking. That takes training and talent." Dean felt a flicker of pride at the compliment.
" Cooking is something I’ve always enjoyed. It’s a way to bring people together, you know?"
"What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you, Dean?" Castiel asked, his tone soft yet eager. Dean considered the question for a moment.
"Do you mean a workday?"
"Sure," Castiel replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Tell me about a perfect day at work." Dean took a deep breath, picturing the bustling kitchen of Charlie's restaurant.
"Well, it would start early in the morning. I like to get to the kitchen well before the lunch rush begins. The first thing I'd do is check the inventory, make sure we have everything we need for the day's service. It's always satisfying to see the pantry and fridge stocked with fresh ingredients." Castiel nodded, his eyes reflecting genuine interest. Dean continued, feeling a bit more relaxed as he described his routine. "Once everything is set, I'd start prepping the ingredients. There's something almost meditative about chopping vegetables, marinating meats, and mixing sauces. It's like preparing a canvas before the real work begins. The kitchen would start to fill with the aromas of garlic, onions, and herbs, each scent promising a delicious dish to come." He smiled when thinking about how normal it sounded. "Around noon, the lunch service would begin. The rush of orders coming in, the clang of pots and pans, the chatter of the kitchen staff—it's chaotic, but it's a controlled chaos. I thrive in that environment. I love the challenge of keeping up with the orders, making sure each dish is perfect before it goes out. The satisfaction of seeing a well-cooked meal leaving the kitchen, knowing it's going to make someone happy, that's what I live for." Dean glanced at Castiel, who was listening intently, his painting momentarily forgotten. "After lunch, there's a brief lull. It's a chance to clean up, restock, and maybe grab a quick bite. Then it's back to prepping for the dinner service. The evening rush is different, a bit more intense, with higher expectations. But it's also the most rewarding. When the kitchen is firing on all cylinders, and the dishes are coming out perfectly, there's no better feeling." Castiel's smile widened, his eyes bright with understanding.
"It sounds like you really love what you do."
"I do," Dean admitted, his voice filled with conviction. "Cooking is more than just a job for me. It's a passion, a way to express myself. And working at Charlie's restaurant, being part of that team, it feels like home." The room fell silent for a moment, the shared connection between them deepening. Dean felt a sense of relief, having opened up about something so personal. He looked at Castiel, who seemed genuinely happy to hear about his perfect day.
"Thank you for sharing that with me," Castiel said softly.
In the afternoon, Balthazar prepared to leave. Dean watched the scene unfold with a mix of curiosity and caution. Castiel stood by the front door, his expression calm and composed, a stark contrast to the last time Balthazar had left. Dean remembered how Castiel had practically begged Balthazar to stay, a desperate plea that had tugged at his heartstrings. This time, however, Castiel seemed more at ease, as if he had come to terms with Balthazar's departure. Much like last time Balthazar pulled Castiel into a hug, however now Balthazar whispered something into Castiel’s ear low enough so that Dean could not hear but made Castiel nod solemnly. The witch then turned to Dean, extending his hand. Dean shook it, feeling the familiar, unsettling tingle of magic in Balthazar's grip.
"I'll be back in a few months," Balthazar said, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "And if the anti-allergy spell wears off before then, just give me a call." Dean's eyes narrowed slightly. There was something in the way Balthazar said it, a subtle inflection that made Dean suspect the spell might wear off sooner than expected. Balthazar released Dean's hand with a knowing smile and stepped back. "Take care, Dean. Castiel," he added with a nod to his friend. Castiel returned the gesture with a small smile.
"Safe travels, Balthazar."
As Balthazar drove away, his vehicle slowly disappearing into the fading light, Dean couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled over him. He glanced at Castiel, expecting to see some sign of distress, but the young werewolf simply turned back to the house, a contemplative expression on his face. The evening passed in silence. Sitting at the table in the kitchen Castiel busied himself with his painting, the quiet scratch of his brush against the paper the only sound in the room. Dean watched him from the stove, his mind racing with thoughts of Balthazar's cryptic message. He tried to distract himself by preparing dinner, the familiar routine of chopping vegetables and simmering sauces offering a brief respite from his worries. The aroma of garlic and onions filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the herbs. Despite the comforting smells and the rhythmic actions of cooking, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, as if Balthazar’s presence still lingered in the house.
When dinner was ready, they ate in relative silence, the only sounds the clinking of cutlery and the occasional rustle of fabric. Castiel seemed lost in thought, his eyes distant as he chewed mechanically. Dean’s mind continued to whirl with unanswered questions and half-formed plans. After dinner, they cleared the table together, their movements synchronized in a familiar dance. The quiet cooperation was soothing, a reminder of the small ways they had begun to understand each other. Yet, the silence between them felt charged, filled with unspoken words and lingering tension. As they finished cleaning up, Dean couldn’t help but glance at Castiel, searching for some sign of what he was feeling. Castiel caught his gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile.
"Are you alright?" Dean asked softly, his voice breaking the quiet. Castiel nodded, his expression thoughtful.
"I am. It's just... different this time. Think I'm getting used to Balthazar coming and going." Dean nodded, understanding the sentiment.
"If you need to talk or anything, I'm here." Castiel’s smile widened slightly, a touch of warmth in his eyes.
"Thank you, Dean. That means a lot." The evening wore on, the house settling into a comfortable stillness. Dean found himself reflecting on the day’s events, the interactions with Balthazar, and the strange sense of camaraderie he felt with Castiel. Despite the challenges and the underlying tension, there were moments of connection that gave him hope. As the night deepened, Dean retired to his room, the familiar scent of his old clothes and the lingering aroma of dinner creating a sense of home. He just wasn't so sure of where that home was located anymore. He laid down, mind still buzzing with thoughts and plans, but as he closed his eyes, he allowed himself to focus on the small victories—the quiet moments of understanding, the shared meals, the tentative steps towards something more.
In the silence of his room, Dean felt a flicker of determination. He didn’t have all the answers, but he knew he would face whatever came next with resolve. And as he drifted off to sleep, he held onto the hope that tomorrow would bring new opportunities, new possibilities, and perhaps, a chance to get out of this complicated world and back to one that made sense.
The second of January finally arrived, bringing with it a renewed sense of purpose for Dean. His spirits soared when he saw Charlie's yellow car pull into the driveway. It felt like a lifeline, a connection to the outside world he had been craving. Castiel was likely off tending to the animals, leaving Dean free to focus on his own plans. As he climbed into Charlie's car, Dean was determined to memorise every turn and landmark on the way to town. The drive out of the Novak territory was his chance to find an escape route, and he wasn’t going to waste it.
They drove in relative silence at first, Charlie humming along to the music playing softly on the radio. Dean’s eyes flicked from side to side, trying to align the path they were taking with what he knew about the territory. The dense woods, the occasional open fields, the winding roads—it all seemed to blur together, frustratingly devoid of any clear landmarks that might help him later. Charlie glanced over at him, sensing his unease. She turned down the music, the car growing quieter as the hum of the engine filled the space.
"You okay, Dean? You seem a bit off." Dean forced a smile, trying to mask his growing frustration.
"Yeah, erm… just tired, I guess." Charlie nodded, her eyes back on the road.
"Do you like the song?" Dean listened for a moment before answering.
"It sounds like Wham!'s 'Last Christmas' , and I’m tired of Christmas."
"It's not Wham!” Charlie chuckled. “It's 'Good Luck, Babe!' by Chappell Roan." She glanced at him, a playful glint in her eye. "You want to pick something to listen to? Might cheer you up." Dean appreciated the gesture, though his mind was still preoccupied. He reached for the radio, scanning through the stations until he found something familiar. The opening chords of Tom Petty’s ‘Free Fallin’’ filled the car, and he leaned back, letting the music wash over him.
"Good choice.” Charlie smiled. “Classic." Dean nodded, his thoughts still racing. The song’s lyrics resonated with him in his current situation more than he would like to admit; the idea of free falling, of letting go and finding a way out. He watched the scenery pass by, trying to imprint every detail in his mind. The drive seemed to stretch on, each turn and twist adding to his mental map of the area. He noted the small signs, the unique bends in the road, anything that might help him later. Despite his best efforts, the path still felt confusing, a maze of indistinguishable roads and forested areas. As they neared town, Dean's frustration grew. He hadn't found the clear route he had hoped for, the path to freedom still eluding him. Charlie noticed his silence and gave him a sympathetic look.
"Hey," she said softly, "if you ever need to talk, you know I’m here, right?"
"Thanks, Charlie.” Dean nodded, forcing another smile. “I appreciate it." She parked the car behind the restaurant, the familiar sight of Charlie's place bringing a small measure of comfort. Dean stepped out, taking a deep breath of the crisp winter air. The town felt like a different world, a place where he could almost forget the constraints of his current life. Inside the restaurant, the familiar smells and sounds enveloped him, a welcome change from the quiet of the house. He greeted his coworkers, slipping back into his role with ease. The kitchen was a hive of activity, and Dean thrived in the controlled chaos.
The restaurant staff buzzed with energy, a hive coming back to life after the holiday break. Dean could feel the excitement and nervous anticipation in the air, his own nerves tingling with the familiar rhythm of the kitchen. Today was the first day the restaurant was open after the holidays, and Dean was more than ready to dive back into work. He hoped that for a few hours, he could lose himself in the rhythm of cooking, the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of food on the grill. The satisfaction of creating something tangible, something that brought joy to others, was a balm to his troubled mind. Charlie was already bustling around the kitchen, her quick, decisive movements setting the pace for the rest of the staff. Dean slipped into his station, greeted his fellow line chefs, and quickly donned his apron. The kitchen was alive with the sounds of preparation: the chop of knives, the hiss of oil heating in pans, and the murmur of chefs calling out orders and instructions. Dean began his prep work with ease, his hands moving almost automatically. He diced onions, their sharp scent filling the air and stinging his eyes slightly. Next came the garlic, its pungent aroma mingling with the onions to create a familiar, comforting scent. He moved on to bell peppers, their vibrant colours adding a cheerful note to the cutting board. The routine was soothing, each task a step towards creating something wonderful. Dean sliced through mushrooms with precision, their earthy smell grounding him. He marinated chicken breasts, the blend of spices rich and aromatic. His station was a flurry of activity, but every movement was controlled, deliberate. Charlie moved around the kitchen, checking on everyone’s progress. She paused by Dean’s station, watching him work with a critical eye.
“Looking good, Dean,” she said with a nod of approval. “How’s everything going?” Dean glanced up, offering a genuine smile.
“Great, Charlie. Feels good to be back.” She smiled in return, her eyes twinkling with the shared understanding of kitchen camaraderie.
“Glad to hear it. Let’s make today a great one.”
As the lunch hour approached, the pace in the kitchen picked up. Orders started coming in, and the air buzzed with the urgency of service. Dean worked in sync with his fellow line chefs, the coordination between them seamless. He grilled chicken, the sizzle of the meat as it hit the hot surface sending a plume of savoury steam into the air. He sautéed vegetables, their colours bright and appetising as they danced in the pan. Each dish that left his station was a small triumph. The plates were works of art, meticulously arranged and bursting with flavour. Dean found a sense of pride in each one, knowing that his skill and effort would bring a moment of joy to someone’s day. The repetitive actions, the focus on perfection, allowed him to push aside thoughts of his predicament, at least for a little while. Despite his concentration on the tasks at hand, thoughts of escape lingered at the back of his mind. The route to town still felt like a maze, the way out elusive. But in the controlled chaos of the kitchen, he found solace. The familiar environment provided a temporary sanctuary, a place where he could be Dean the chef, not Dean the captive. Lunch service continued, the orders flowing steadily. Dean’s station was a whirlwind of activity, but he thrived in the intensity. He worked with a rhythm born of experience, each action efficient and precise. The kitchen was a symphony of sounds: the clink of utensils, the hiss of steam, the melodic calls of orders and responses.
As the last of the lunch orders went out, the kitchen gradually quieted. The staff began the cleanup process, wiping down stations and restocking supplies for the dinner rush. Dean wiped his brow, a sense of accomplishment washing over him. For a few hours, he had found a reprieve in his work, a momentary escape from the complexities of his life. Charlie approached him, a satisfied smile on her face.
“Great job today, everyone. Let’s take a break and get ready for dinner service.” Dean nodded, feeling the camaraderie and support of his team. He stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, the crisp winter breeze a stark contrast to the heat of the kitchen. As he stood there, looking out at the town, he reminded himself that he would keep searching for a way out. But for now, he had found a small measure of peace in the familiar chaos of the kitchen, and that was enough to keep him going. For the first time in years, Dean ventured outside during his break, the crisp winter air biting at his skin. The back of the restaurant was a familiar yet seldom-visited spot for him, usually reserved for brief moments of solitude or quick chats with coworkers. Today, though, he had a different purpose in mind.
Dean scanned the area, his eyes landing on a small group of cooks and waitstaff huddled near the dumpster. The faint glow of a cigarette’s ember caught his attention, and he approached, feeling a mixture of hope and trepidation. He hadn't smoked in years, but the craving had crept back, a desire for the comfort and familiarity it once brought him.
“Hey, anyone got a spare cigarette?” Dean asked, his voice carrying a hint of his usual confidence. One of the waitstaff, a tall guy, looked up and grinned.
“Sure, Dean.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds, offering one to Dean. Dean took the cigarette with a nod of thanks, his fingers trembling slightly as he brought it to his lips. The guy handed him a lighter, and with a flick, the cigarette came to life. Dean inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke filling his lungs and spreading a sense of calm through his body. The sensation was both familiar and foreign, a reminder of a past he had almost forgotten. He leaned against the brick wall, the rough texture pressing into his back as he exhaled a plume of smoke into the cold air. The nicotine coursed through his veins, providing a fleeting yet welcome relief from the constant tension he carried. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, letting the comfort of the smoke pulse through him, grounding him in the present. The group around him chatted and laughed, their voices a low hum that blended with the distant sounds of the town. Dean listened absently, his mind wandering back to his plans. He would keep looking for a way out, keep planning and searching for the path to freedom. Each drag of the cigarette seemed to solidify his resolve, the smoke curling around him like a protective shroud. Dean opened his eyes and glanced around, taking in the scene. The back of the restaurant was a mix of old wooden crates and metal containers, a space that held a gritty charm. The cold made his breath visible, mingling with the cigarette smoke in a delicate dance. He savoured the moment, the rare sense of peace amidst the chaos of his current life.
He looked up at the sky, the winter sun casting a pale glow over everything. For the first time in a long while, Dean felt a flicker of hope. The struggle was far from over, but these small moments of connection and comfort made it worthwhile. He took another drag, the smoke filling his lungs and chasing away the chill. The guy finished his cigarette and glanced at Dean.
“You good, man?”
“Yeah… erm yeah, I’m good.” Dean nodded, offering a small smile. “Thanks for the smoke.”
“Anytime,” the guy replied, heading back inside with the others. Dean stayed outside a bit longer, finishing his cigarette in solitude. The quiet was soothing, a stark contrast to the bustling kitchen. He flicked the cigarette butt into the dumpster and took one last deep breath of the cold air before heading back inside. As he stepped through the door, the warmth of the kitchen enveloped him, the familiar sounds and smells welcoming him back. He felt a renewed sense of determination. He would keep fighting, keep searching for a way out. And maybe, just maybe, he would find it. Until then, he had his work, his determination, and the small moments of connection that made the struggle worthwhile. The cigarette break had been a reminder of that—an unexpected comfort in a world that often felt like it was closing in on him. Dean returned to his station, ready to face the challenges of the evening with a new sense of purpose.
Notes:
Fun fact:
My friend showed me 'Good Luck, Babe!' by Chappell Roan because she thought I’d like it and I said that it sounds like Wham!'s 'Last Christmas' so she said I ruined the song for her and vowed never to show me music again.
Chapter 22
Notes:
Chapter word count: 4 400
(not beta read)
Chapter Text
The weekend came as an unwelcome surprise to Dean. He had only been able to work for two days when Charlie, as she was driving him home the night prior, told him that Gabriel had decided Dean was no longer allowed to work weekends. It wasn’t like Dean had a real work schedule before—it was agreed upon with Charlie the day prior if he would work the next day, and almost always the answer was yes. But now, confined to the house, he felt the walls closing in on him. Mainly because Dean knew that Castiel did laundry on Saturday nights, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing Castiel's face when he realised Dean had destroyed the hoodie. Maybe that was why he found himself alone in the kitchen early that Saturday morning, making pancakes. Pouring the batter onto a hot griddle, he hummed a tune to himself, the familiar melody bringing a bittersweet comfort. The scent of cooking pancakes filled the kitchen, mingling with the early morning chill that still lingered. Dean felt a moment of relaxation wash over him, his focus on the simple, repetitive task. He didn’t notice Castiel's presence in the doorway until he heard a soft voice.
"I didn't expect you to be up this early, or in this good of a mood," Castiel said, his piercing blue eyes watching Dean intently. Dean turned, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I wanted to make you breakfast today," he replied, flipping a pancake. "Are you heading out to the animals?"
"I am.” Castiel nodded, stepping into the kitchen. “But I have time for breakfast."
"Great.” Dean gestured to the table. “Take a seat." Norma, ever curious, jumped up on the table and made herself comfortable. Castiel followed her with a fond look, then turned back to Dean.
"Do you think Norma would like pancakes?" Dean tilted his head, considering.
"I don't know, but we can give her a piece."
"Should she have a plate of her own?" Castiel asked, his tone serious.
"Can't she just eat out of your hand?" Apparently, that was the wrong answer, but Dean didn't want to do extra dishes. Castiel looked away, a hint of disappointment in his eyes.
"I guess." Dean took down a plate for Castiel, stacking it high with pancakes, and set it in front of him. Castiel's eyes lit up as he tore off a piece of pancake, blew on it to cool it down, and offered it to Norma. The kitten sniffed it and then took it, chewing happily. "Did you see that, Dean?" Castiel exclaimed, his face brightening. "Norma likes pancakes!"
"Yeah, Castiel, I saw," Dean replied, handing over the strawberry jam. Castiel spread some jam on his plate, humming contentedly. "You really like strawberry jam, don't you?"
"I do," Castiel said with a nod, his focus now on making sure Norma didn't steal from his plate. Dean watched him, wondering how much of Castiel’s exterior was a façade and how he had yet to succumb to ennui and despair. Castiel looked up suddenly, curiosity in his eyes.
"What song were you humming earlier? I haven't heard it before."
" 'Hey Jude.' My mum used to sing it," Dean explained, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.
"Is your mum called Jude?" Castiel asked innocently. Dean shook his head.
"No, her name was Mary.”
“Oh, ‘m sorry.” Castiel’s eyes softened.
“She used to make tomato-rice soup for me when I was sick and tell me erm... ‘angels are watching over you’ every night when she put me to sleep."
"When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?" Dean paused, the questions catching him off guard.
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "It's been a while." The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of silverware against plates. Dean felt a strange sense of peace, the simple act of sharing breakfast with Castiel a welcome distraction from his plans and worries. As he watched Castiel carefully feed Norma another piece of pancake, he couldn’t help but think about the small moments of connection they were building, each one a step toward understanding and maybe even friendship.
Castiel left to take care of the animals, leaving Dean alone in the kitchen. The lingering scent of pancakes mingled with the cool morning air. Dean hummed softly as he washed the dishes, the rhythmic motion of scrubbing plates and wiping counters grounding him. The normalcy of the moment allowed his mind to wander, thinking about the subtle connection he was beginning to form with Castiel. Halfway through cleaning, Dean heard the door creak open. He turned, expecting Castiel, but his heart skipped a beat when he saw Gabriel standing there instead. Gabriel’s presence filled the room, his amber eyes sharp and unyielding. Dean swallowed hard, his pulse quickening.
"Gabriel," he greeted, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I think it’s high time for the two of us to have another talk," Gabriel said, his tone firm yet deceptively calm. Dean set the dish he was holding back in the sink, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Let’s." Gabriel stepped further into the kitchen, his gaze never leaving Dean.
"I know you’re the one who told Castiel about what happened when he had that accident."
"Castiel deserves to know," Dean replied, his voice firm despite the anxiety churning within him. Gabriel’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"I told Castiel that you were his protector to help your relationship." Dean scoffed, the disbelief clear in his eyes.
"You thought you could help by lying?"
"It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the entire truth either, but it stabilised Castiel. It made him more content with the situation, more willing."
"What other lies have you spun, Gabriel?" Dean’s stomach churned as Gabriel remained unruffled.
"I’m not a liar, Dean. I create a truth that yields a desirable outcome."
"Do you see everyone as pawns in your game?" Dean’s voice rose, frustration seeping through. Gabriel’s gaze hardened.
"I lead with the entire pack in mind, something you couldn’t possibly understand." Dean’s anger flared.
"You think you're real funny, don't you?" Gabriel’s expression remained calm.
"Balthazar told me that Castiel allowed you to kill an animal. How on earth did that happen?" Dean looked away, knowing Gabriel was baiting him. He took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure. Gabriel continued, his voice smooth and unyielding. "You may think I’m a tyrant, but at least I don’t manipulate Castiel to abandon his beliefs."
"I wasn’t manipulating Castiel!” Dean snapped back, his voice filled with conviction. “He came up with this whole elaborate idea of ‘No parts go to waste. Otherwise, it is murder.’" Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, his patience waning.
"How did you feel about Balthazar staying over Christmas?" Dean’s anger simmered just below the surface.
"It was fine." Gabriel raised an eyebrow.
"Just fine?"
"Yeah," Dean replied, his voice clipped. "Just. Fine." Gabriel studied him for a moment.
"Balthazar seemed surprised that you seemingly had no fear of him."
“Well,”Dean met Gabriel’s gaze, his voice steady, "when all is stripped away, Balthazar is just a man." Gabriel laughed, a cold, mirthless sound.
"Thinking of the witch approaching his third millennium as just some man is indeed an amusing image." Dean’s breath hitched slightly at the revelation of Balthazar’s age, but he tried to cover it up with a cough. Gabriel’s smirk indicated he saw through the façade. Dean shifted his stance, trying to regain control. "I heard you yelling at Castiel the other day." Gabriel’s smirk faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing.
"What about it?"
"I didn’t know you did that,” Dean shrugged, keeping his tone nonchalant “that’s all." Gabriel stood up, his movements deliberate.
"That better be all." He stopped in the doorway, spinning around to face Dean once more. "I see you’re already enjoying your weekend off," he said, eyeing Dean’s clothes. "Have fun."
As Gabriel left, the kitchen seemed to exhale, the tension slowly dissipating. Dean too let out a breath he’d been holding. The tension in the room dissipated, but the unease lingered. He returned to the dishes, picking up a plate but then setting it back down, unable to focus. His thoughts churned, and he decided to take a moment to clear his head. He walked across the hall to Castiel’s bedroom, pushing the door open. To his surprise, the room was tidied up. Gabriel’s demand echoed in Dean’s mind, and he could understand why Castiel had cleaned up so quickly; if someone had been that angry at Dean, he’d have done the same. Dean’s eyes roved around the room, searching for Castiel’s phone. He moved to the bookshelf where Castiel had hidden it a few days ago, but it wasn’t there. Of course not. Of course Castiel had moved it. He didn’t trust Dean either. The thought stung a bit, but Dean knew it was justified – Castiel didn’t trust Dean anymore than Dean trusted Castiel. Dean stood there for a moment, he knew he had to be careful, knowing that if he touched too much, his scent would linger and betray his actions.
With a resigned sigh, Dean left Castiel’s room and returned to the kitchen to finish the dishes. The rhythmic clinking of plates and the sound of running water grounded him, helping to dispel the lingering tension from Gabriel’s visit. As Dean dried the last dish, he decided it was finally time to organise the plates and bowls that were haphazardly thrown in the cupboard. Norma jumped up on the counter, her green eyes curious as she watched him pull out the various pieces of dinnerware.
“Let’s create some order, shall we?” Dean said, giving Norma a small smile. The kitten mewed in response, her tail flicking back and forth as she inspected each item Dean placed on the counter. He started by sorting the plates by size, stacking the large dinner plates together and the smaller side plates in another pile. The bowls followed, each one nested neatly within the other. The process was soothing, a small semblance of control in an otherwise unpredictable world. Norma pawed at one of the smaller bowls, tipping it slightly. Dean chuckled softly. “You’re a little troublemaker, aren’t you?” The kitten looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, her whiskers twitching. Dean scratched behind her ears, the softness of her fur a welcome comfort. He continued arranging the dishes, making sure everything had its proper place.
Once the cupboard was organised, Dean stepped back to admire his work. The neat stacks of plates and bowls gave him a small sense of accomplishment. It was a minor victory, but in a life filled with uncertainties, even the smallest triumphs mattered.
Norma settled herself on the counter, watching Dean with a contented purr. He leaned against the counter, his mind wandering back to his earlier confrontation with Gabriel. The pack leader’s calm exterior and manipulative words had left Dean on edge, but it had also solidified his resolve. He needed to find a way to protect Castiel and himself from Gabriel’s influence.
The kitchen, now clean and orderly, felt like a small sanctuary. Dean knew he couldn’t stay there forever, but for now, it was a safe haven. He looked down at Norma, who had curled into a ball and was dozing peacefully. Her presence was a reminder of the small comforts that could be found even in the midst of chaos. Dean pushed off the counter and walked to the window, looking out at the snow-covered landscape. The cold January air seeped through the glass, but the warmth of the kitchen kept the chill at bay. He watched the snowflakes drift lazily to the ground, each one unique and fleeting. He thought about the moments of connection he had begun to build with Castiel. There was a fragile trust forming between them, and Dean wasn't sure of whether he should nurture or sever it. For now, he would hold on to the small victories, the moments of peace, and the connections he was beginning to forge.
A few hours later Dean heard the front door open and close, the sound of Castiel's return filling the otherwise quiet house. He was upstairs in the living room, the soft glow of the television casting flickering shadows across the room. Reluctantly, he left the comfort of the couch and stood at the top of the stairs, peering down into the hallway below. His heart rate quickened when he heard Castiel’s voice.
"Dean, can you bring your laundry down?" Castiel called, his tone carrying a hint of weariness from a long day. Dean swallowed hard, steadying himself.
"Sure, I'll be right there," he replied, his voice echoing slightly in the stairwell. Gathering the pile of dirty clothes from his room, he made his way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under his weight. He found Castiel in the downstairs bathroom, sorting through a pile of clothes. Castiel looked up briefly, his blue eyes reflecting a hint of sadness when Dean entered. "Do you need any help with that?" Dean asked, feeling awkward as the words left his mouth. He had never offered to help with the laundry before. Castiel shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly.
"No, I’ve got it. Thanks, though."Dean nodded and left Castiel to his task, heading into the kitchen. The room was dimly lit, the evening moonlight casting a warm glow on the walls. He opened the freezer and took out some leftovers from when Balthazar had been there. Just like he had promised Balthazar had always made sure to cook extra, leaving plenty of meals for Dean and Castiel to reheat. As the food warmed in the microwave, Dean set the table, arranging the plates and cutlery with a meticulous care he hoped would show Castiel his appreciation. When everything was ready, he called out to Castiel.
"Dinner’s ready!" Castiel joined him in the kitchen, taking a seat at the table. Dean placed the reheated dishes in front of him, the aroma of the food filling the room.
"How are the animals?" Dean asked, trying to make conversation as they began to eat. Castiel looked up, a small smile playing on his lips.
"They're doing well. The new lambs are adjusting quickly, and the chickens seem happy enough." Dean nodded, feeling a small sense of relief.
"That’s good to hear." They ate in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sounds were the clinking of utensils and the occasional rustle of fabric. Dean felt a strange sense of normalcy in the routine, a fleeting comfort in the midst of their complicated lives.
"What did you do today?" Castiel asked, breaking the silence.
"I organised the cupboards in the kitchen," Dean replied, glancing at Castiel. "I hope that was alright with you." Castiel nodded, his eyes curious.
"How did you organise it?" Dean stood up and walked to the cupboard, opening the doors to reveal the neatly arranged plates and bowls.
"Like this," he said, stepping aside so Castiel could see. Castiel inspected the arrangement, his eyes lighting up with approval.
"It looks good," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Of course it does.” Dean grinned. “Norma instructed." Castiel's smile widened into a toothy grin, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
"Norma’s quite the helper, isn’t she?" Dean chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through him at the sight of Castiel’s smile.
"She sure is." They finished their meal, the conversation flowing more easily now. Dean asked a few more questions about the animals, and Castiel answered with a quiet enthusiasm that showed his love for his responsibilities on the farm. It was in these small moments that Dean saw a different side of Castiel, a side that was gentle and caring, hidden beneath the layers of duty and routine.
As they cleaned up the kitchen together, Dean felt a sense of camaraderie growing between them. The past months had been filled with challenges and tension, but it ended on a note of quiet connection. Dean knew there were still many obstacles ahead, but for now, he was content with the progress they had made.
After the dishes were done and the kitchen was once again tidy, Dean and Castiel settled into the living room. They settled onto the couch, Norma curled up on Castiel’s lap as the familiar space bathed in the soft glow of the television screen with the comforting presence of Dr. Sexy playing. Norma had followed them, curling up contentedly at Castiel’s feet. Occasionally, Castiel excused himself to go downstairs and tend to the laundry, the soft hum of the washing machine a background melody to their evening. As the episode unfolded, Dean found himself grappling with a question that had been lurking at the back of his mind. What would they watch next? They were nearing the end of the last season, only a few episodes left until the series finale. The thought of choosing a new show felt daunting, the routine they had fallen into with Dr. Sexy a comforting constant in their lives. In a moment of introspection, Castiel turned to Dean, his blue eyes thoughtful.
“If you were able to live to the age of 90 and retain either the mind or body of a 30-year-old for the last 60 years of your life, which would you want?” Dean blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. He glanced at the screen, realising that the current episode featured glimpses into the characters’ futures, which must have inspired Castiel’s query. “I think I’d prefer to retain my mind,” Castiel continued, his voice soft but firm. “There’s so much knowledge, so many memories that shape who we are. Losing that… it seems more frightening than losing physical abilities.” Dean considered this for a moment, his mind racing through the implications.
“I get that,” he said slowly. “But for me, I think I’d choose to keep my body. I love being active, cooking, moving around. I feel like I’d go crazy if I couldn’t do those things anymore.” Castiel tilted his head, his gaze intent on Dean.
“You think physical activity defines you more than your thoughts and memories?”
“Maybe.” Dean shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I mean, sure, memories are important. But if I can’t get up and move however I wish, if I can’t cook or do the things I love, then what’s the point? I’d rather have a body that can still do those things.”
“I see your point.” Castiel nodded slowly, as if weighing Dean’s words. “But for me, the idea of losing my memories, my thoughts… it’s like losing myself. Physical limitations are challenging, yes, but they don’t change who I am at my core.” Dean leaned back, his mind still turning over the question.
“I guess it’s different for everyone. Some people might feel more connected to their minds, others to their bodies. It’s an interesting thought, though.” The conversation lulled for a moment, the sound of the show filling the silence. Dean found himself contemplating Castiel’s perspective, understanding the deep connection he had to his memories and intellect. It made sense, given how much Castiel valued knowledge and structure. “But what about creativity?” Dean asked suddenly, turning to Castiel. “You obviously love painting and drawing. That’s a physical activity, right? How does that fit into your idea of retaining your mind?” Castiel smiled softly, a distant look in his eyes.
“Creativity is a blend of mind and body. It’s true that physical ability is necessary for creating art, but the inspiration, the ideas, they come from the mind. Even if I couldn’t physically paint, I’d still have the memories and the thoughts that inspire my art. I think that’s what I’d want to hold onto.” Dean nodded, appreciating the depth of Castiel’s reasoning.
“Makes sense. It’s like how cooking is for me. It’s not just about the physical act, but the creativity and passion behind it.” Castiel’s smile widened, a warm light in his eyes.
“Exactly. It’s about finding the balance between the two, I suppose.” They continued watching the show, the conversation adding a new layer of understanding between them. Dean felt a deeper connection to Castiel, appreciating the complexities of his thoughts and values. It was moments like these that made their unusual situation feel more bearable, the bond between them growing stronger with each shared thought and experience. As the episode ended, Dean glanced at Castiel, a new question forming in his mind.
“What should we watch next, after Dr. Sexy?” Castiel’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
“I suppose we’ll have to find something that’s equally captivating.” Dean laughed, the sound filling the cosy living room.
“Good luck with that. Dr. Sexy is a tough act to follow.” As they settled in to watch another episode, Dean felt a sense of contentment wash over him.
After two more episodes Dean watched Castiel head downstairs one final time to tend to the laundry, the soft creak of the steps fading into the background. Left alone, Dean wandered to the window, the cold glass pressing against his palms as he gazed up at the stars. The night sky was a tapestry of glimmering lights, each star a distant beacon in the vast expanse. He let his mind drift, the serene beauty of the stars offering a temporary respite from his thoughts. The security measures around the main half-circle of houses caught his attention. Subtle but effective, they reminded him of the cage he found himself in. Motion sensors glinted faintly in the moonlight, and the faint hum of a protective barrier was just audible if he strained his ears. It was a constant reminder that his freedom was still just out of reach.
When Castiel returned, he quietly joined Dean by the window. They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the chill of the winter night seeping through the glass.
"The winter weather is beautiful," Castiel murmured, his breath fogging the window slightly. "It’s so quiet, so peaceful." Dean nodded, his eyes still on the stars.
"Yeah, it is. There’s something calming about it. But it also makes me feel... confined, you know? Like everything is still and unchanging." Castiel glanced at him, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"I understand. Sometimes the silence can be overwhelming, a reminder of how small we are in the grand scheme of things." Dean turned to face Castiel, the blue glow of the moon casting soft shadows across their faces.
"Are you ready to watch the last episode?" he asked, a hint of anticipation in his voice. Castiel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Yes, I think so. Let’s see how it all ends." They moved back to the couch, settling in for the final chapter of their shared journey through Dr. Sexy . The episode played out with all the drama and emotional intensity that had made the show a favourite. Despite having seen it multiple times prior Dean still found himself fully immersed, each twist and turn gripping him as the story reached its final climax. When the credits finally rolled, Dean turned to Castiel, curiosity in his eyes.
"So, what did you think?" Castiel stared at the black screen for a moment, his expression pensive.
"It feels weird. There were so many episodes, so many seasons and now it is just over," he admitted. "It’s different from finishing a book. With this show, I got to see the characters grow and change over time. It’s like saying goodbye to old friends." Dean nodded, understanding the sentiment.
"Yeah, I get that. Books have their own magic, but shows... they bring characters to life in a different way. You see their faces, hear their voices. It makes the connection feel more real." Castiel sighed softly, leaning back into the couch.
"I guess we’ll have to find something new to watch now."
"Yeah,” Dean chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, “the search begins. But I’m sure we’ll find something that’s just as good." They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the room dimly lit by the glow of the television screen recommending shows like Dr. Sexy . Dean’s thoughts wandered, considering the unexpected bond he had formed with Castiel. Despite the circumstances, there was a genuine connection between them, one that had grown stronger with each shared moment. As the night deepened, the soft sounds of the house settling around them, Dean felt a sense of peace. It was a fleeting feeling, but one he cherished and for now it was enough to keep the darkness at bay.
Dean woke up to the sight of Castiel standing in the doorway, the blue morning light casting a soft halo around him. Castiel’s lower lip trembled slightly, his blue eyes wide with confusion. Dean’s eyes followed Castiel’s gaze and landed on the shredded remains of the hoodie lying on the floor. Fuck. Dean scrambled out of bed, his movements frantic and clumsy as he tried to reach Castiel. But Castiel was quicker; he placed the clean clothes he was carrying on the floor, and retreated into the hallway and closed the door behind him before Dean could say a word. The soft click of the door felt like a physical blow. Dean leaned his forehead against the cool wood, frustration and regret coursing through him. He knew he couldn’t undo the damage with words alone; actions would speak louder. He stared at the piles of clothes, feeling a mix of anger and helplessness. Two stacks lay at his feet—one comprised of Dean's old, familiar clothes, the other of the ones Gabriel had provided. The differentiation was subtle yet unmistakable, a silent declaration of respect. The neatly folded garments seemed to mock him, a silent testament to the divide between him and Castiel. Dean knelt down, sniffing the air to confirm his suspicions. Castiel had not put his scent on Dean’s old clothes. Double fuck. Castiel’s refusal to scent-mark Dean’s old clothes was a clear message: Castiel had respected Dean not wanting to smell like him; the trust they had been building was fragile, easily shattered. Dean felt a pang of guilt, knowing that his actions had likely reinforced Castiel’s doubts. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing with thoughts of how to mend the rift he had unintentionally widened.
Chapter 23
Notes:
Chapter word count: 8 897
(not beta read)
Chapter Text
Meg was jolted awake by the incessant ringing of her phone. She groaned, turning over in her bed to squint at the glowing screen. Balthazar’s name flashed repeatedly, the persistent vibration grating on her nerves. She had been ignoring his calls since New Year’s, and it seemed he had finally decided to make a morning of it. With a sigh, she snatched up the phone and answered.
"No!" she yelled into the receiver, not bothering to mask her irritation. She was about to hang up when Balthazar’s voice slipped through, smooth and laced with that infuriating charm.
“Ma chérie.” Meg grunted, rolling her eyes.
“What?”
“Let’s meet up,” Balthazar purred, his tone becoming more flirtatious with each word. “It’s been almost a month, and I simply cannot bear another day without basking in your radiant presence.”
“It’s six in the morning on a Sunday,” Meg snapped, her voice dripping with exasperation. “You were very mean to me when Castiel ran away. And now you’re calling like nothing happened?” Balthazar’s laughter cut her off, the sound rich and warm, yet somehow infuriating.
“Oh, my darling Meg, you wound me. Surely you know I’m a creature of passion. You can’t stay angry forever.”
“You’ve been angrier for longer over smaller things,” she retorted, her annoyance bubbling to the surface. He hummed thoughtfully, a teasing lilt in his voice.
“You may be right, but you were the one who found me in Paris, the one who started this all over again. And I’ve been unable to stop thinking about you ever since.” Meg sighed, feeling the familiar tug of his words. Balthazar’s charm was intoxicating, but she refused to let it cloud her judgement.
“I’m not meeting you. Not now.”
“Oh, but think of the fun we could have,” he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “Just the two of us, enjoying a morning coffee, maybe even—” Meg rolled her eyes and hung up on him mid-sentence, her patience thoroughly exhausted. She quickly put her phone on aeroplane mode, silencing the persistent calls. She needed a distraction, something to shake off the remnants of Balthazar’s charm and the frustration he always managed to stir within her.
Determined to make a change, she headed to the bathroom and reached for the box of bleach she had bought. Her long, thick hair required three boxes (at least according to the snarky teenager working at the grocery store) , but she was ready for a transformation. The box promised blonde hair in 30 minutes, and Meg was eager to see the results. She carefully read the instructions, cutting open the bags of powder and pouring them into the application bottles. After shaking it thoroughly, she began to apply the mixture to her hair. The chemical scent filled the small bathroom, mingling with the cool morning air. She worked methodically, ensuring every strand was coated. Once the bleach was evenly applied, she set a timer on her phone and leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. As the minutes ticked by, Meg felt a strange sense of anticipation. The change was symbolic, a way to reclaim control over her life and break free from the patterns that seemed to bind her. When the timer finally rang, she rinsed her hair, watching as the water ran clear and the transformation took hold.
She stared at her reflection, now framed by blonde hair that shimmered in the soft light. It was a striking change, one that made her feel powerful and renewed. Meg ran her fingers through her damp hair, a smile tugging at her lips. This was the start of something new, a fresh chapter in her life. She was done playing games, done being manipulated by Balthazar’s charm. With her hair a vibrant blonde, she felt ready to face whatever came next.
Meg dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of soft, worn jeans and an oversized jumper that still smelled faintly of lavender from the sachets she kept in her wardrobe. She brushed out her newly bleached hair, the strands falling in pale waves around her face. The transformation gave her a sense of empowerment, a tangible shift from the brunette she had been just an hour ago. She made her way to the living room, her bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floors. The flat was quiet, the only sound was the hum of the heater combating the winter chill. Meg flopped onto the couch and reached for the remote, flicking through the channels until she found a show that seemed mildly interesting. She settled back, trying to lose herself in the bright, fast-paced scenes on the screen. But her mind kept drifting back to Balthazar. No matter how hard she tried to focus on the show, his voice, his laughter, and his infuriating charm lingered in her thoughts. There were so many unresolved issues between them, a tangled mess of emotions and past interactions that refused to be ignored. Each choice they had made seemed to push them closer to the edge of something explosive, something neither of them could fully control. Meg sighed, slinging an arm over her eyes. Her thoughts turned to the intensity that marked their relationship. Their love was like a storm, fierce and unyielding, marked by heated arguments and charged interactions. Even their kisses, the few stolen moments of intimacy, were filled with a volatile mix of longing and frustration. She remembered the way his lips felt against hers, the way he tasted of mystery and magic, the way his hands seemed to know exactly how to make her heart race. No matter how much she tried to distance herself from him, the pull between them was undeniable. It was as if their souls were intertwined, bound together by an invisible thread that refused to be severed. She could feel it even now, the magnetic force that drew her to him, a fundamental part of who she was.
Meg groaned, shifting on the couch as she tried to push the thoughts away. She didn’t want to think about Balthazar, didn’t want to acknowledge the hold he had over her. But it was impossible to deny. He was a part of her, just as much as she was a part of him. Their love, as tumultuous as it was, was something she couldn’t escape. The television show faded into the background, the characters and their stories a blur as Meg lost herself in her thoughts. She wondered if things would ever be different between them, if they could find a way to navigate the storm and come out stronger on the other side. But for now, all she could do was lay there, her mind a whirlwind of emotions and memories, the pull of Balthazar's presence a constant reminder of the love and chaos they shared.
Suddenly she felt a strange pull, an inexplicable sensation that drew her attention to the door. A heartbeat later, a knock echoed through her flat, resonating with a sense of inevitability. She stood, her bare feet whispering across the cool floor as she approached the door. Each step seemed to amplify the tension coiling within her. Meg took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through her mouth, the air chilling her lips. There was only one person who could be on the other side. Sighing, she opened the door.
"This is trespassing, Balthazar. I could call the police if you—" Her voice trailed off as she took in the sight of him. Balthazar stood there, a roguish smile playing on his lips. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, his charm as intoxicating as ever. The morning light framed him in a halo of soft gold, making him look almost otherworldly. He was dressed impeccably, as always, his coat draped elegantly over his shoulders, his scarf adding a touch of colour to the otherwise dark ensemble.
"Hello, Meg," he said, his voice smooth and warm. "You look... radiant ." Meg felt a mix of emotions wash over her. Anger, frustration, and that undeniable pull of attraction that always seemed to accompany Balthazar's presence. She crossed her arms, trying to maintain her composure.
"What are you doing here, Balthazar? It's early, and I have no desire to deal with you right now." Balthazar's smile widened, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I just couldn't stay away, ma chérie. Not when I know you’re thinking about me as much as I am about you." Meg's resolve wavered, her heart beating faster. She hated how easily he could affect her, how effortlessly he could slip past her defences.
"You have some nerve," she muttered, stepping aside to let him in. Balthazar entered, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the air. It was a heady mix of spices and something uniquely him, a scent that brought back a flood of memories. He looked around the flat, taking in the details with an appreciative eye.
"The new hair is like a waterfall of gold," he remarked, reaching out to gently touch a strand of her blonde hair. "It suits you." Meg pulled away, trying to ignore the shiver that ran down her spine at his touch.
"I needed a change," she said curtly. "Now, why are you really here?" Balthazar's expression softened, a rare glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes.
"I miss you, Meg. Truly. The past month has been... difficult ." Meg's defences began to crumble, the sincerity in his voice striking a chord within her. She wanted to stay angry, to hold onto the hurt and frustration, but the connection between them was too strong.
"You can't just waltz back into my life whenever you feel like it," she said, her voice wavering slightly. "It's not fair." Balthazar stepped closer, his gaze never wavering.
"And how is that any different than what you did?" he asked, his voice a gentle murmur. Meg looked away, unable to meet his piercing gaze. She knew he was right. She had sought him out in Paris, igniting the flame that had burned between them ever since. The memories of their passionate reunion flooded her mind, and she felt her resolve faltering.
"I... I was different then," she whispered, her fingers twisting the hem of her jumper. "I thought I could handle it. Handle us."
"And now?" Balthazar's voice was a tender caress, his proximity making her heart race. Meg swallowed hard, her throat dry.
"Now, I'm not so sure." Balthazar reached out, gently lifting her chin so their eyes met. His touch was warm, his fingers brushing her skin with a familiarity that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Meg, you know as well as I do that we can't escape what we are to each other." She felt her breath hitch, the truth of his words sinking in. There was no denying the connection, the magnetic pull that drew them together no matter how hard they tried to resist.
"But it's not easy, Balthazar. You know that."
"I do," he admitted, his thumb grazing her cheek. "But nothing worth having ever is." Meg closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite herself. The warmth of his hand was comforting, a reminder of all the moments they had shared.
"Why do you always have to be right?" she murmured, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Balthazar chuckled softly, the sound a soothing balm to her frayed nerves.
"It's o