- This is (obviously) a work of fanfiction. I don't own anything but the original characters. I don't claim ownership over the characters or storyline of the TV show Supernatural, no matter how grateful I am for them, which is hella.

- No posting schedule, because I am a garbage person comprised of garbage, and cannot commit to anything but my husband.

- Thanks to the Sister Husbands, who are my best friends in the whole world, and happen to be gracious enough to also beta most of my works for me. I don't know what I'd do without you girls, but I certainly wouldn't be doing this.

- I come by any mistakes here honestly, but feel free to point them out so I can correct them.

- Feedback is life.

- I can hear you say, "But wait! You already have WIPs! You don't need more!" To which I say, "Have another WIP." Luckily, this one will be short, gritty, and sweet. Hope y'all like it.

It's quiet but for the soft clinks of silverware against fine china. It's always silent at the dinner table in the Novak family.

The room is the picture of elegance. Opulence without overcompensation. The walls are a dark, rich red. The wood on the crown molding is dark, too, and polished to gleaming. The tablecloth is pristine, no food would dare stain Naomi Novak's linens. The wine (one glass is permitted for each child after the age of fifteen) is full-bodied and heavy. The food is magazine-quality, both aesthetically and to taste. The lights are rather low, and candles placed periodically on the table make up for the lack.

Castiel and his siblings also seem to be perfect. Well-mannered, well-dressed, well-groomed. Not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in sight.

Castiel thinks Dean would hate it here.

A slightly sharper thunk announces that Naomi has put her fork down.

"Castiel."

He mirrors his mother's movement. He meets her eyes. "Yes, mother?"

Naomi raises one beautiful, sculpted brow. "I've heard some… Disturbing rumors about you and the eldest Winchester boy."

Castiel's face could be carved from granite for all the emotion it gives away. He learned from the best, after all. "Oh?"

"You're not going to deny it?"

Cas raises his own eyebrow. "How can I deny what you haven't accused me of?"

A soft gasp from his left. Hester, then. She's the youngest, only fifteen, and she hasn't learned the advantage of keeping a good poker face yet.

With a mother like Naomi, however, she will.

Their mother clenches her jaw, the only outward sign of her anger. Poker face, indeed.

"I don't think you should be associating with… People like the Winchesters."

Castiel thinks of Dean for a beat. He thinks of Dean's leather jacket, his ridiculous car, the eyes fit for a Disney princess. Of cheeseburgers and a calloused hand holding is own and of rolling his eyes when Dean insists on carrying his books to class.

He thinks of Dean's whiskey-smooth voice in his ear, rasping, "You mine, Cas?"

Always.

"I'll take it under advisement, mother."