Chapter One

Dean shut the door roughly behind him, more than a little worse for wear. Pamela had been a good sport about the whole thing. Honestly, better than he'd expected. If the network asswipes wanted to put them in a long-term fake relationship that'd be fine by him. She beat the aspirational cheerleader types by a country mile.

He opened his fridge more from muscle memory than an actual desire for beer. Shit, what did he have to complain about, really? A job that pays beyond what even the best construction guys could ever hope to ask for, the chance to work with his much-less-annoying-since-he-sobered-up brother, and the occasional contractual requirement that he appear at network events with a woman on his arm. As he wasn't rocking either end of the Kinsey scale exclusively this was more of a headache than a source of shame.

Cable reality-show fame was a good gig, if you came by it honestly. (Or mostly honestly, in Dean's case.) The network loved his pretty face, true, but if he was trying to rock a fussy baby back to sleep or just throwing back a microwave dinner after a long day at some soul sucking office job, he'd probably want the guy talking to him about drywall to be sexy too. Hell, he took it as a point of pride that somewhere in the world a few people probably thought of him while rubbing one out. As for his construction skills, so what if the network wouldn't know a load-bearing wall from an accent wall? He knew he had 'em. Earned them over a long decade of trying to look out for himself and his kid brother. If the universe decided to repay him by having him work less hard for more money, and threw in some pretty awesome fans to boot, there really wasn't much to complain about.

Mostly honestly… There was that.

It wasn't that HOME and its CEO Sir Alexander Baumgarten were against gay people, per se. He knew this because Zachariah had told him so, in exactly those words, as if schooled to say so by some PR hack.

The PR hack probably hadn't approved Ol' Zach's choice of follow up: "After all, they do know a lot about interior design!" That was the moment Dean knew he was in trouble. Not because he liked men but because he really liked punching arrogant douches like Zachariah in the face. By the time the conversation moved on to who he could and could not be seen with in public he'd stopped listening.

Every job has one. This had become his mantra. If they made it to season four without someone winding up in the ER he would officially start believing in mantras.

Dean grabbed one of the non-alcoholic beers he kept around for Sam and kicked off his shoes by the door. He had a 'no shoes indoors' kinda house now. How weird was that? It was only 10:30 so he crashed on the couch and played an episode of Doctor Sexy from his DVR. The network event had been one of those reality specials announcing the winner of a new tv hosting gig. They wanted to air it live, so that meant starting the 'party' at 5:00 for the East Coast viewers. The live event had the usual lack of spontaneity endemic to his network, so safe, so calm, so family fucking friendly. Or so his producer Zachariah kept reminding him when he stressed the necessity of Dean showing up with a woman, and a network approved one at that.

Still, the host of the new cooking show 'Girl on Grill Action' had proven to be a real kick in the ass. They'd whispered sarcastic jokes to each other through bland smiles like the kids in the class you mother never wanted you to sit near. Which, of course, they were.

She'd invited him back to her place after the party wound up at the almost unheard of hour of 8:00 (probably so the corporate suits wouldn't miss their bed time). At first he'd flushed a little, worried he'd have to find a way to explain this mess to someone he'd just been making dick jokes with. Thankfully, she'd just laughed and said she 'knew the drill.' But she'd just bought a Five Magic Diamond grill with the money from her signing bonus and had been desperate for the chance to show it off, a humblebrag without the humble.

They got drunk by her fire pit and got quiet talking about the winner. He was clearly gay as the day is long, and was therefore about to go from one of the greatest nights of his life to one of the most uncomfortable business meetings ever in the morning. "Maybe they'll be nice. Maybe they won't schedule it 'til the afternoon," was about as hopeful as Pamela could be about the situation. Dean wondered if they could make a drinking game out of the number of times ol' Zach talked to them about 'image' and their 'friendly relations with the gay community.' Like it was a fucking cold-war era détente.

They drank in silence for a while after that. He didn't know if she was full on dyke or just couldn't deny that boobs are awesome, but he decided not to pry. He knew enough. No one got 'the talk' by mistake (except for Sam, which had been kinda hilarious).

Still, he had a good job, a sober, if annoying, real-estate genius for a sibling, about a dozen very polite fans, and now a new ally in his private war against the network's encroachment on his not-so-heteronormative lifestyle. After what he and Sam had been through, he'd take it. For Sam's sake, at least.

He pounded through the near beer fast. He couldn't shake the way the new kid had looked at him when they met at the world's least lively party. There were cameras all over the place, but still he'd looked at Dean as if meeting his personal hero. Dean clocked what was happening and swept the guy up in a bear hug to keep him from saying anything untoward on live television. 'Untoward' was a Zachariah word. The cameras ate it up, of course, and everyone relaxed again. He knew he'd feel like shit if he let the poor dude lose his dream job after only having it for half an hour.

Especially if he lost it for liking you. And for being too dumb to know you could lose everything for it.

He set up the DVR to record Pamela's show and decided to call it just another day in cable tv paradise.

The black Impala came to a stop at a busy intersection in North Hollywood. Dean was waiting on a chance to make a left turn and knew during rush hour that meant he had at least a few minutes to kill, just as he knew that in L.A. 7:00 a.m. was full-on rush hour. He pulled out his travel mug of gas station coffee and looked over the profile for the new client.

Based here in LA – in the Valley, which technically counts. Thank you, God.

Dean didn't mind that their work took him and his brother (and their production team) all over the country on a regular basis. It was a good feeling to get out on the road and help people. One of the shots from their first season that wound up in their opening credits was Dean hanging out the window of his iconic Impala while Sam drove and Dean howled like a dog. The fans had loved that one, and he loved them for it, for digging his crazier side that usually drove his family nuts.

But when he was on the road he had a much more strict set of social parameters to live by. After all, if someone saw him eating dinner at the Abbey with his brother in WeHo it would result in a net total of nothing. Say what you want about Los Angelenos but unless you are paparazzi-worthy the locals are studied in the art of not giving a damn. He could hook up with a guy in the men's room and as long as he didn't drive drunk afterwards no one would care.

But in the towns less used to seeing tv personalities anywhere but on television he was a temporary celebrity. This had a lot of perks: the smiles, the 'hey you gotta take a picture with my brother' moments, the time a nun cornered him in a supermarket in Duluth to get the inside scoop on good insulation options for her convent… All good stuff. But even C-list celebs (the C stands for cable) can wind up on Twitter if spotted on a date with a dude in a smaller town. And from Twitter it's a fast track to… to those shows and websites Dean's never sure of the names of, but knows are out there all the same.

The Impala pulled to a stop on a quiet road. It was one of those huge houses above Glenoaks that look modest from the front but then just kept going. This is assuming you graded modest on the Los Angeles curve, which was more like a 90 degree angle compared to most of the world.

Becky-the-PA was standing, clipboard in arm, coffee in hand, at the curb. "Good morning!" She checked she had the cup marked 'Dean' before handing it over.

"Becky-the-PA, you're a sight for sore eyes." She'd accepted her nickname with grace, he had to give her that. There were worse hazing rituals in this town.

"Or at least uncaffeinated ones. Sam with you?"

He took a sip, careful not to burn his tongue. Black, no frou-frou flavors. "No. So no sightings of Bigfoot yet, I take it?"

She picked up the coffee marked Sam and retook her vigil, scanning the road. "No. But his phone isn't going straight to voicemail anymore."

"So he's in the car. What's in the cup?"

She smiled, aware of the test and of the correct answer. "Two espressos, with a little room-temp water thrown in so he doesn't burn his tongue."

Dean rewarded her with a grin. "You're getting good at this. Pretty soon we'll have to change your name to Becky the Awesome." He went out of his way to be friendly with the PAs, they got shit pay for a shit job. (Still, some of them were real doozies. It was at times like this he wondered what the yahoos who kept trying to pitch him a show about ghost-hunting were up to.) It was due to his known respect for the PAs that they often got the shittiest job of all. "Any notes from the network."

"Not today, but I have a small one. Is that okay?"

This was new. "Shoot. Just remember if we don't like it we might fire you."

She flushed, scared. Or overheated. "It's just… well… You haven't mentioned your dad in, like, four episodes now."

Dean winced on the inside. His relationship with his dad had been messy, at best. Still, he respected everything the man had taught him and was honest with the audience when something came from him. It was nothing much, just a little 'one trick my dad taught me is…' It wasn't a lie and he wasn't ashamed to admit he'd needed to be taught what he knew. There was nothing more lame than a construction worker acting like he was freakin' Criss Angel or something.

The show wasn't called 'Family Business' for nothing.

"I never figured you for someone who'd like all that personal drama."

Becky looked at him like she wasn't sure how those two thoughts could possibly connect. "I don't but… This isn't a show about houses. It's about families. If it were just about houses…"

"No chicks would watch?"

"It wouldn't be special. It's you guys that make it special."

"Yeah, well…" Dean flushed a bit and made a note to not call her Becky the PA anymore.

"Chuck would appreciate it too."

Chuck. The writer. "You tell him to give me his own damn notes."

Becky pulled her jacket off and tied it around her waist. 7:30 in the morning and it was already heating up out here. "He's afraid of you and he says he's pretty sure you won't hit a girl."

"By that logic he should be fine."

Becky laughed. When you could make a PA laugh this early in the morning with one of their stars missing it was a real victory.

Dean enjoyed it. "So where is Shakespeare, anyway?"

"In back, discussing the pool situation with the owner."

"Ah yes, Gabriel. Sounds like a real angel."

Becky gave him a look.

"What?"

"Nothing. You'll see."

That sounded ominous. With that in his ears he made his way back around the house in search of the pool.

The house went on forever so he had a bit of trek on his hands. Gravel beside the driveway crunched under his feet. The sun was up, but not yet angry about all the hours wasted in the day. It fell soft on his face, just warm enough to melt the scents of the nearby lemon trees into the air. Birds sang here. He'd almost forgotten when you got up this early, this far up in the mountains, you could hear a cacophony of bird songs. They gave Dean the impression he'd stumbled into their refuge.

That's when he saw him.

The man in question sat on the cement step under a side door, his legs curled near up to his chest by the small seat. The soft sunlight of daybreak fell on his face like a spotlight; the blue t-shirt and jeans did nothing to hide the form underneath, all lithe sinew and bone, like he habitually forgot to eat and had to be reminded to dress, his mind on another plane of existence.

His black hair was unkempt but not quite wild, reigning in its natural chaos as if out of respect. A backpack large enough to hide a body sat propped beside him, stuffed to burst. Plastic bags and cloth sacks cluttered the space around him, the international symbol of the refugee, the diaspora. A prince far from his throne.

He looked up from the book he was reading – Blues Legacies and Black Feminism – and stared at Dean as if examining a specimen of alien life. Dean had felt this stare before, it wasn't unusual when you're on television for a living, but somehow Dean got the feeling that wasn't why he was receiving it. It certainly wasn't why he was giving it right back, complete with shallow breaths, afraid to disturb the air. No, for Dean it was those eyes…

"Dean!"

He turned to the familiar tone of Chuck's voice on instinct, all too aware a spell had been broken. Act normal. Act family fucking friendly he coached himself. His inner voice sounded a lot like Zachariah. Knowing it was rude as all hell he walked off, not trusting himself to look back. To look back could not possibly lead anywhere 'family friendly.' "Yeah?"

Chuck rushed to him. Dean was relieved to see it wasn't to splash cold water on his face and tell him to snap out of it. "We have a problem."

"Already?"

"It's the pool."

Dean could feel the last tendrils of the spell breaking away under the weight of workday concerns. Though he knew without looking if he turned back the prince's eyes would still be on him. (Or maybe he just hoped they would be.)

Just like their client's were now. "I see you've met my brother."

Chuck rounded at that. "Yeah, about that. We haven't vetted this guy, Gabriel. If your brother lives here he's going to be part of the show. Why didn't you tell us in advance?"

Dean's tolerance for the network messing with his life had a side effect: zero tolerance for it messing with anyone else's. "Does it look like either of them had any advance warning on this? The guy's got his shit in Bed, Bath & Beyond bags, for crying out loud."

Dean and Gabriel shared a look that could only be shared between those in the club, the 'my family drama involves actual drama' club. Their new client wore an outfit that screamed 'douche' and 'Eurotrash' is alternating succession, but Dean decided he had his back… at least on this.

"This is a family show, Chuck. If that's his brother, that's his family. Period."

"Cas," Gabriel added, almost under his breath. Dean got the impression he was testing how interested Dean was in acquiring this knowledge. "His name is Castiel. Everyone calls him Cas. Just like they call me Gabe."

"Castiel." Yeah, that sounded about right for him. "Your family has a real angel motif going, huh?"

Gabe at least had the self-awareness to chuckle at that. "Some of us more than others. I'm impressed. Most people don't know the angel of Thursday."

"I didn't either. But the –iel at the end is a bit of a giveaway."

Gabe raised his beer in tribute. Beer. At 7:30 in the morning. Interesting.

Chuck sighed – the world's most put upon non-writer. It's not that reality shows like theirs weren't written, exactly. Their technical explanations did have to be run through brevity and clarity filters at times. More importantly, the episodes had to be shaped. Chuck always liked to ask 'what's the narrative for this episode?' He needed a distraction, fast.

"So what's wrong with the pool? Dirty? Broken?"

Gabe's little chest puffed up. "Certainly not!"

"See for yourself." Chuck gestured to the backyard.

Dean stepped through a gate and stopped, awestruck. The pool consisted of two circular swimming areas, and where they meet was a long, wide diving board.

"So which way is the dick aimed? Cock and balls or anal sex?"

Chuck blanched and stormed off muttering something about a headache, which is good because if he'd stayed any longer he might've made some waspish attempt to punch somebody.

Gabe grinned, happy to see his design appreciated. "Both are valid. I like to think of it as a Rorschach test, myself."

Dean tried to look like he'd seen this all before as he sipped his coffee and considered the problem the cameramen were going to have with this.

If nothing else, this job was going to be good for a laugh.

"So what are we looking at, Sammy? This house looks in pretty good shape."

"First, don't call me Sammy. Second, that can present its own problems. Now most people would love to have the problem of selling the best house on the street, but you have to remember with quality comes cost."

"So there's a chance everyone on the market is going to under-cut them?"

"Exactly, or that the special features they've added will be a turn off to their potential buyers. Not everyone wants the upkeep on a hot tub, and families with young children may shy away from properties with an in-ground pool. They may have to sell at less than the house is worth."

"Well, I'll do my best to make sure they don't have to."

A long quiet moment passed on the Valley street. Dean could just make out the call of more birdsong.

"AND CUT!"

"Family Business" was about building and selling. Dean's crew worked with the client about what they'd like to change about their house and Sam took them around to other houses they may want to trade theirs in for, as well as getting them up to speed on what their potential competition would be if they decided to sell. Sammy had to wear a suit (which the freak just loved, anyway) and Dean was under orders to never appear in anything other than jeans and tees or flannel. This was just another way the show conformed to their lives as much as they conformed their lives to it.

Of course, like with any other construction job, Dean had to be at his client's beck and call. And Gabe loved to call. "Can we make just one half of the pool into a hot tub?" "How much would it cost to turn the basement into a dance club?" Followed quickly by "If every Joe in the Midwest can have a bar in his basement I don't see why I can't have a chill-out lounge!" Dean hadn't really been able to think of a comeback to that, plus it nearly made Chuck swoon with woe-is-me stress, so that was a plus.

The one that the show was most enthusiastic about was updating the guest bathroom. It was nice already, but, as Gabe put it, "Now that someone I care about has moved into the guest bedroom, I don't want to go with the crap that's in there now." This prompted someone – okay, Dean – to ask if he didn't care about his previous guests. To which Gabe had replied, on camera, "No way! If you wanted to visit me you could stay in in a hotel or pass-out drunk in a pool of your own vomit on the floor like a respectable person!"

This was the part where they introduced Castiel on camera. He looked like the world's most polite deer caught in some very bright high beams. He offered a quiet 'Hello' and a small wave to the camera before getting as far away from the business as possible. He no longer gave the impression of a dethroned prince – Dean supposed the usual mask he wore in daily life had been packed away in his bags that morning. But having seen him once without it, Dean could never *not* see the wayward royalty in him. Once you'd seen Clark Kent without his glasses the secret identity wasn't so secret anymore.

In the long run, Castiel's arrival had actually solved a problem. As reasons to renovate or move go, people could relate to having a family member move in much more than 'cause I'm bored' which is what Gabe was originally going with. As Chuck would say, it made a nice narrative.

Which is why Dean was now Gabe's bitch, driving out to see him at 11:00 at night to listen to his latest brain wave. Privately, he thought if Gabe's brain ever did wave it would be to wave goodbye, but the idea of hanging out in that house at night, maybe with a drink or two, offered some enticement.

Castiel. Yeah, that crush was going nowhere on a rocket sled.

Dean wasn't much of a 'crush' guy. He either liked you or not, and you were either into it or you weren't. Life was short and people had different tastes, no sense getting hung up on things.

Still… Dean had said maybe ten words to Cas since that morning, all of them on the job, none of them 'do you want to go get drunk and fuck like rabbits?' which is just about what he thought he could say, or even 'Hey I just met you, and this is crazy, but you've got me thinking in pop song lyrics, so either go out with me or just put me out of my misery and shoot me or something' which was closer to the truth.

All this for someone who could be straight as far as he knew. Or celibate. Considering that 'your Earth ways confuse me' vibe he gave off when they met Dean had no idea how to classify him. Though he couldn't shake the feeling he knew Cas from somewhere…

That was why Dean knew when he saw the name come up on his phone he'd take the call, even if he wanted to kick himself for it. That was why he now crunched up the gravel path he'd come to know fairly well during the last week.

He knew from the moment he saw the look on Gabe's face as he opened the door that he'd stepped into a trap.

"Dude, you came! You'll never believe it – I have twins tonight! Seriously, honest to God twins!"

Dean hid his fist in the pocket of his leather jacket. "Identical or fraternal?"

"Infernal, I'm hoping." Gabe snickered at that, drunk enough to think it was hilarious.

"So what's the brainwave?"

"The what?"

"The big idea? The reason you got me out here at 11:30 at night?"

Gabe stepped outside and shut the door behind him. "Ah, right, that. Yeah, that was what we like to call a 'pretext.' I really just need you to go pick up my brother at his new job. His shift ends in an hour."

Dean breathed deep and reminded himself violence is not 'family friendly.' "You called me all the way out there for that?"

Gabe grinned. "Of course not! Also for this."

And with that, Dean felt himself pushed back against the wall of the house.

"What exactly are your intentions toward my brother?"

Intentions? "Intentions?"

Gabe gave him a look that could melt iron with shame. "Dude. I've seen how you look at him. My brother Castiel has a terrible habit of inspiring in people one of two instincts: protection or possession. You can guess which camp I fall in."

Dean couldn't believe the little guy got the drop on him so fast. Thank God this was happening off camera. "Okay, first, any part of you still touching me in five seconds be prepared to lose. I have all the equipment I need to dispose of a body in my trunk and I don't think many people would miss you."

Gabe thought about this and let Dean off the hook. "I acknowledge both those points."

Dean breathed deeply again. He could've taken the guy, but he really didn't want to deal with this right now. And something about Gabe clearly said 'hair puller.' "And second, you tell me what my intentions should be. For all I know he just got out of a monastery."

Gabe gave him a look that, for him, was probably as close as he got to impressed. "You're not far off. It's not my place to tell tales, but assume he just crash landed from a very asexual planet."

This felt far too close to gossip for Dean's taste. "Look, I don't know your brother-"

"But you'd like to."

Dean let out a breath at that. "Yeah. I'd like to." Hell, at this point even if Cas spent the whole time discussing My Little Pony at least Dean would regain the ability to focus on his job.

He left it at that, but somehow it was enough. Gabe grinned. "Perfect! Talk to him on the drive home tonight. Here's the address." He shoved a business card into Dean's hand.

Dean stared at it like someone just handed him a list of winning lotto numbers. "Why do you trust me with this?"

Gabe smiled, buzzed at the opportunity to show off his logic, or just plain buzzed. "One, I am drunk-drunk. Two, Castiel has even fewer friends in this town than I do, and I wouldn't trust him with my friends for a second. Three, I can tell already which instinct you have for him. You wouldn't be here if I couldn't. And most importantly of all…" He leaned in close.

"Seriously… Twins."

Dean was so… something about all this he was in the car and driving before he stopped to look at the card. (He told himself he was angry Gabe was handing off a family duty like this, but anger didn't usually involve this level of nervousness.)

Really? The guy got his crash-landed-from-planet-asexual brother a job at Micky's? "Gabe, you petulant child…" If the thought of Castiel standing alone and forgotten in WeHo hadn't been on his mind Dean would've turned the car around and punched Gabe in the face on general principle.

Micky's wasn't just a gay bar. The Abbey was a gay bar – a bar with good food and a dance floor and everyone was welcome as long as you tipped and had a good time. Micky's was a hot men looking for other hot men while drinking something that ended in –tini bar. Dean knew this because he been there a few times with friends, but he'd never contemplated going back on his own. It wasn't a bad place if you were into that kind of scene – hell, if you were it was probably heaven – but Dean liked a bar where you could shoot whiskey and have long, lingering eye contact with somebody. Micky's was for guys who wanted to dance, to move… if rave was a verb, it was a place to rave.

Plus, Dean usually liked to keep his options open for the evening. Guys, girls… Plenty of places in town were 'come one, come all' and he liked that vibe. His few forays to Micky's made him worry there would be some kind of Kinsey scale at the door, like the old height requirements at amusement parks. 'You must be at least this gay to enjoy the ride.'

Castiel was standing out under a street light when Dean pulled his car up to the curb. Before Dean even stepped out he saw Cas notice it and a small thrill ran through him. Cas cared enough to recognize his car. It wasn't much but he could work with that.

He gave a wave, just in case. The noise of the club was spilling out into the street, so much so he had to shout to be heard. "Hey! Your brother's a douchebag!"

He realized about a second late that might've been a tactical error on his part, but Cas just smiled. It was the first Dean had seen him smile and what with the streetlight spilling down over him… Oh, man. So unfair. This was followed quickly by Please don't be asexual. Even if you're straight, give somebody a chance.

"I take it you're my ride?"

Man, that voice… If Castiel's voice wasn't illegal in at least thirty-eight states than Dean would lose all faith in the rule of law.

Dean gave an awkward bow. "I can take you anywhere you want in the City of Angels… as long as you want to go back to your brother's place. If I don't, I think he knows people." Dean pantomimed getting his throat slit and was rewarded with a laugh.

"You may be right about that."

With that, Cas joined him in the car.

Cas looked around the car. He could practically hear Gabe's voice in his ear 'Don't say I never do nothin' for you!' Castiel was in no danger of that, especially after the events of the last week. But still, even for Gabe this was… forward.

It's not like he'd even told his brother the impression the other man had made on him that morning. Still, since when did he have to tell anyone anything?

Something in Castiel always made him the last to understand. The last to follow a look, to get a joke... He was always a step behind his brothers. He assumed this wasn't unusual for a youngest child, but age had not withered his problem as he'd once expected. He had remained 'Castiel the oblivious,' last to put together even his own emotions.

And hadn't that caused him enough problems already? Now this.

He shifted in his seat. "I apologize for the other day. I can just imagine how strange it must have seemed."

If Dean had been annoyed at how Castiel fell out of the blue and landed in his work site, he kept it to himself. "No worries. I've had to move on short notice a few times myself. It is what it is."

They traveled in silence for a while after that. Dean kept his eyes on the road. "How's Micky's?"

Castiel felt a blush creep into his cheeks. "It's exactly what my brother intended it to be. Is there such a thing as 'immersion therapy?'"

Dean seemed to think about this. "I don't know. I suppose if there's aversion therapy there should be an opposite. Don't know if that's what it's called. Is that what this job is?"

"I think it might be. That or shock therapy. Of course there's always a chance he didn't have any friends other than Ellen in a position to grant a temporary job on short notice."

"Temporary? Leaving us so soon, Cas?"

Cas looked out at the dark night. How odd to think in the mountains of a city like Los Angeles there were still wild patches, dark as pitch at night. "I have no idea." And for the first time in his life, he really didn't.

"So what's your story?"

Cas looked down at his hands. "Would you like the long version or the brief one?"

"Traffic's pretty light. I guess we should stick to the short one for now."

For now. Castiel absently scratched at a point on his forehead that didn't itch. Is that supposed to mean something? And exactly how awkward is this for him? He hated to think he carried his off-kilter world with him wherever he went, but his presence did seem to disrupt things lately. Gabe, the show, his mother's funeral…

He felt like a Picasso painting of a human being: Recognizable, but only just.

"My mother died two weeks ago."

Dean took his eyes off the road for that. "Man, I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sorry for your loss."

Castiel grinned in response to his nervousness. He wondered at how odd a pair they made, a man so used to being himself he had to double back to speak the reflexive words others spoke by rote trapped in a car with someone who clearly never got a copy of the script in the first place.

"Thank you. She'd been in the hospital. It wasn't unexpected, I suppose. But she had been improving just before it happened. So it was, in a way."

"Yeah, it always is." Dean offered. "Even when it's expected, I don't think anyone really wraps their head around it until they have to."

Castiel thought about that. "You're very intuitive." He looked at his driver for a beat too long, then put together his error over another long beat before looking away. Always a step off from normal. This must be uncomfortable for him. "Thank you for doing this. I appreciate that my brother is… difficult."

Dean locked eyes with him a moment over that. "That's not your fault."

"Still, if there's anything I can do… I could buy you a few gallons of gas, perhaps…"

Dean just grinned as he turned the car up towards Magnolia. He'd taken a scenic route, all twists and turns over one of the hillsides nature divided the city with. This was a place where electricity reached but did not saturate. It was a central part of the city but for all that the outside was still rugged and dark. It had been miles since Castiel had last scene a street lamp that worked. In the battle between nature and civilization the front lines of Los Angeles were jagged. It made it hard to tell which side you were on.

"I said don't worry about it. I'll just bill your brother."

Castiel laughed. It was a quiet sound. "I think he'd appreciate that. He's not a bully, really. But his idea of normal interactions between people is, I suspect, a little off."

The messy street beneath them had morphed into the gridlines of NoHo, aka NoHope. Somehow the washed out strip mall parking lots laid bare under fluorescent lights seemed more harsh than the darkness before.

"You suspect?"

Castiel looked out the window. He was certain they'd passed at least three donut shops already. Strange. "I'm afraid I've never had much time before this to observe him in the wild, so to speak."

"Well, take good notes. Science will appreciate it someday."

With that Dean shot him a small half-grin at and Cas felt himself relax a bit.

"Is that the reason you live with Gabe now? Your mother?"

Castiel could feel his hand move to scratch the phantom itch on his forehead again.

Dean apparently picked up on the nervous movement. "Dude, you can tell me to back off anytime. Feel free."

Free. Is that what he was now? "No, it's no problem. Yes. That was the catalyst."

Castiel didn't add anything further and, to his credit, Dean didn't ask. Cas counted a total of six donut places by the time they turned down his brother's street. What would his coaches have said?

Castiel pulled a ten from the store of tips in his pocket as the car pulled up to a stop. He held it out, obvious, before Dean could protest. Castiel had a vague awareness that there was a subtle way to do these things, just as he was aware he was a subtlety-free zone where the more nuanced social graces were concerned. "Take this, please. I'd consider it a favor, Dean."

Dean stared at him the same way he did the morning they met, unsure what he was looking at. Castiel blessed the dark inside the car that kept his reddening cheeks from being more obvious.

His driver suddenly took the money as if remembering something, perhaps that he was expected to give a response. "Thanks, but I'm just holding this for you, okay? One day I'll use it to buy us some coffee and you can give me the long story."

Castiel could feel his head tip to the side at that. "Oh. Okay."

Dean stuffed it into his pocket. "And I'm still invoicing your brother."

Castiel felt himself laugh again. Since the funeral that was probably a record. "That's between you and him, Dean."

"Damn right it is."

Castiel got out of the car and walked up the door. Before opening it with the key his brother had made for him (and attached to a Playboy bunny keychain, naturally), Castiel looked up at the glass in the door, and through its reflection to the street behind him.

Sure enough, the Impala was still there, engine running.

Dean was checking he got in okay.

The thought should've made no impression at all in his mind, less note-worthy even than the number of donut shops on the route home from work.

Of course, that wasn't what happened. But Castiel consoled himself with the thought he at least knew what 'real' people did and didn't think in these situations. Maybe after some years in the world he'd blend in with them, pass as the sort of person who'd never needed extra time to discipline his thoughts or follow the myriad unspoken interactions of normal life as lived by normal people. He could be surrounded by the endless home base of being un-unusual. It was possible. Anything was possible, even for a recovering Picasso portrait.

Still, Castiel doubted it.