Make Yourself at Home: Part I

Late November, London

Today marked Dean's one month anniversary of being homeless, he realised glumly, as he held out his cardboard McDonald's coffee cup to various pairs of shoes passing him by. The cup was catching more rain than it was pennies, but he refused to concentrate on that for now. It was early, only 8:30, and people were filing into work, desperately clinging to their umbrellas against the downpour in central London. Dean was sat outside a monstrously tall building in the middle of the city, mostly because it had an overhang that he could sit under to avoid the worst of the rain. The biting wind, however, was less avoidable, and he snuggled deeper into his tatty, navy blue sleeping bag in a fruitless attempt to escape its teeth. He lifted his hand, covered in a fingerless glove to his roughly-bearded cheek, trying pointlessly to warm it up.

"Any spare change?" he croaked every few seconds, working his way into a rhythm, almost like a chant people say in church, like a prayer. Some people who passed, mostly women, had the good grace to say "No, sorry" in reply, but most just ignored him, like he was just another stain on the pavement, insignificant, as if maybe the rain will wash him away too. He tipped his cup and drank the rainwater that had gathered in it; only a few drops that tasted vaguely of the coppers he'd collected yesterday, but it was better than nothing. He brings his knees into his chest, and rests his cheek on his knee as his eyes fall slightly closed. He stays that way for the next hour, and then he's alone. He checks his cup in false hope, as if maybe he missed the heavy feeling of coins falling into it, as if maybe he didn't hear the happy sound of metal hitting the bottom of it. He huffs a humourless laugh as he stares into the empty cup.

He thinks back to his life six months back with a longing that hurts his heart. He remembers his little flat in South-East London, the steady job he'd had as a trumpet teacher in several schools across the city. He smiles sadly at the memory of the kids he used to teach; some of them were really getting good before he got laid off. One after the other, the schools he taught at gave him the same spiel, the same practiced speech that Dean imagined some of them recited in the bathroom mirror before they left: "We're so sorry, Mr Winchester, but we simply no longer have the funds to provide our students with private instrumental lessons. From September, we'll be taking a more general route with our music scheme. Again, please know, we're truly sorry, but this is an unavoidable situation. Our hands are tied!" He'd tried to get another job, but his woefully empty CV just read: Upper-Second Class Honors in Performance from The Royal College of Music, featuring inane phrases such as Studying at a music college has enabled me to develop my inter-personal skills and Dean is able to deal with high levels of pressure due to his extensive experience in performance situations. He just wasn't qualified to do anything except play, or teach others to play. And, even with a name like the Royal College of Music backing him up, Dean hadn't managed to get his foot in the door of the performance world. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong contacts. Dean sighed sadly as he remembered his trumpet; the last thing he'd sold for back-pocket cash, trying desperately to stay afloat in his flat that, by the end, had no phone, internet, gas or electricity. He imagined it gathering dust in the window of the pawnshop, un-played, unloved, neglected. Maybe it had found a new home, but somehow, that was even more painful for Dean to think about.

He thought of his brother Sam instead, tucked up in his University halls in Oxford, totally unaware of Dean's current living situation. They hadn't spoken since Sam left; he'd left angry, disappointed, but now Dean missed his brother more than anything. With no phone though, Dean was entirely unreachable. He wondered if Sam was thinking of him. Probably not he thought to himself glumly, bringing the front of his ratty-ass hoodie over his nose and huffing warm breaths across his chest, wishing he hadn't sold his leather jacket.

Castiel was late for work. He was horrifically late. His boss was going to kill him. He was actually going to die today, he was pretty certain. He would die drenched and frozen, and god damn it, he hated London in November. It was just cold and grey, day in and day out. He pulled his long, tan trench coat tighter around himself as he broke into a light jog. He couldn't help but smile as he ran through the small circle of trees jutting out through the pavement, white-blue lights in the shape of snowflakes adorning their naked branches. He loved Christmas time. He could forgive this ghastly weather, just, when he remembered that Christmas was only a month or so away. Which he definitely wouldn't have the money to pay for if he didn't hurry the fuck up. He groaned and pressed the button at the crossing impatiently. His office was just there. He was almost there. Just as the lights were turning amber, though, a bus sped past him, kicking up a wave of water from a larger-than-life puddle that had gathered by the curb.

"Oh! Oh, my … Oh my god!" He gasped, as freezing, muddy water dripped from his hair, and slinked slowly down his chest and back. He was absolutely sodden. How had he not seen that puddle?! His trousers clung close to his legs, and his hair had plastered itself against his forehead, trickling steady rivulets of dirty water down his face. He blew raspberries before it could enter his mouth. Well, what the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn't very well go to work in this state; he had several very important meetings to attend, including one he'd really been looking forward to with that suave, devil-may-care artist, Balthazar. God, he was so hot in his too-low-cut floppy shirts covered in paint stains, talking in that seductive voice about how he wanted his space open and exposed and Cas had choked ever-so sexily on his coffee at that. Since when was talking about an exhibition space so… so… So, thank you, Mr Bus Driver, no really. Thank you, for making me miss that, I really didn't need any sort of chance of redemption, he thought bitterly, shaking his legs, trying to get rid of some of the water that was trailing down his skin and making him shiver. He sighed, dragging a gloved-hand over his stubble that he didn't get to shave this morning, pushing his hair back in the process. He decided in that moment, as a muddy droplet of water fell off his nose that he would call in sick. He didn't want to face the office this morning, and clearly, the Universe didn't want him to either. Who was he to argue with fate? He dialed the number for his boss, and moved slightly down the road out of view of his office, mostly in paranoia, but also there was a nice, wide overhang that he could shelter under whilst he lied his way into a warm bath and a take-away King Prawn Balti.

"Castiel, where on God's green earth are you?! You are for-ty-five," Cas kept his chuckle to himself as he imagined her accentuating each syllable with an angry point, "minutes late! What? You fell down a manhole? Have you been kidnapped?"

Castiel schooled his expression, holding his stomach for context as he groaned down the phone, putting on his best I'm so sick, please pity me voice,

"I'm so sorry, Charlie, I've been throwing my guts up continuously since 5 this morning. I've only just stopped, but," he heaved dramatically, "I think it's about to come back." Yeah, nobody argues with a bit of good old fashioned throwing up for hours on end: literally no explanation needed. He swallows unnecessarily loudly, "Sorry. I called as soon as I could. I don't think I can make it in to the office today. I'll try-"

"Oh my god, no thank you. So gross. Just stop throwing up by tomorrow. I'll reorganise your meetings." Castiel could see her pinching the top of her nose in disgust, and grinned at his success, before dropping all of his features into (what he thought was) a convincing grimace and dry heaving once more,
"Thanks so much, Charlie, I'm so sorry about this." He whined, whooping in delight when she hung up without another word. His clothes were still stuck uncomfortably to his skin, but hey, a whole day to himself! And it was only Wednesday! Castiel fished in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and holding it in between his lips as he dug about for his lighter. Celebratory cigarette to me, he sings tunelessly in his head.

"Your secret's safe with me." Castiel jumps with a rather undignified yelp in surprise, and yup, there goes his lighter, rolling away from him and into a puddle, submerged in its muddy depths. Fuck's sake. Castiel turns around to see a man snuggled in a sleeping bag laughing at him. He braves the rain, shielding his cigarette from the downpour as he plunges his hand into the puddle to retrieve his lighter, shaking it vigorously. He sprints back under the overhang, but surprise, surprise, his lighter no longer works. Before he can stuff his cigarette back in the carton for later though, the homeless man from the sleeping bag is holding up a lighter to him. Castiel stops, staring at the lighter, then at the man holding it, before tentatively reaching out to take it from him.

"Thanks…" he says, lighting his cigarette and taking the first heavenly drag. He holds out his carton to the man, "You smoke?"

The man cocks his head to the side, mouth turning down at the corners, "I could be persuaded."

Castiel smiles, pulling one out for him and handing his lighter back.

"Thank you." The man smiles warmly, "I saw that bus driver happy-splash you, god, what a knob." He comments, motioning to Castiel's dirty white shirt collar and coat.

"I guess it really does happen in real life." Castiel chuckles, raising his cigarette to his lips again.

"Come, sit." The man says, patting the pavement next to him.

"Oh… um," Castiel mumbles, feeling significantly awkward.

"It's alright, I don't bite. It'd be nice to have someone to talk to." Right. Because you're homeless, Cas thinks guiltily.

"Oh, you are not looking at me with pity right now." He says, a dark humour dancing in his eyes. Castiel shakes his head a little too fast and mutters a "course not." before plonking himself none too gracefully next to the man, shuffling about awkwardly, trying to prevent his clothes from sticking uncomfortably. To no avail, obviously.

"I'm Dean, by the way. I would shake your hand but it's fucking freezing and my hand is finally getting toasty." He jokes, and Castiel laughs.

"Cas. It's good to meet you, Dean."

"Is it?" Dean huffs, his bearded cheeks hollowing as he pulls a drag on his cigarette, watching the cloud of smoke drift off into the air. Castiel lets that one slide, really not wanting to pry. His head falls back against the pristine wall behind him, breathing deep and just enjoying the fact he's not in the office right now. His eyes fall closed, but snap back open when Dean speaks again,

"So, tell me about yourself… Cas? What's that short for?"

Castiel smiles, "Sorry, you'll have to guess." He plays this game with every new person he meets; he's not sure why, but he feels a little bashful about his name. Makes him sound… Angelic? Is that the word he wants? It's just embarrassing. Why couldn't he have been a Steve? Or… a Jimmy or something.

Dean takes a long, slow inhale of his cigarette, looking down on it and nodding, seemingly satisfied before letting it drift out of his nose and hums thoughtfully. He turns to face Cas and wiggles his eyebrows,

"Is it Casanova?" he says, a stupid grin that lights up his eyes. Lights up the whole street. Castiel snorts,

"No, no it isn't. Although, you know, I wish it was? So much."

"I'll keep thinking. So… where were you headed before… bus-gate?"

"Oh, I work at an interior design firm, just up the way," he points with his cigarette before settling it back between his lips. Dean leans forward to look down the road, and raises his eyebrows, considering Castiel again.

"Nice. Oh, is it Caspar?" Cas guffaws, nearly choking on the smoke he'd just inhaled,

"As in the friendly ghost?" he grins. Wow, this guy was easy to talk to. He was starting to feel a little sad that his cigarette is almost finished.

"Is it?" Dean turns his body towards Cas, and shoots him another grin. This guy is so ludicrously happy, considering he's homeless and it's no more than 2 degrees Celsius out here.

"No, it's not. But, another good suggestion. I'll write to my parents and tell them." Castiel smiles, stubbing his cigarette on the pavement beside him, and watching as Dean does the same. They sit, quiet for a moment. For some reason, Castiel doesn't want to say goodbye, not just yet. He doesn't know how condescending he would sound if-

"Dean, would you like to hang out at my place today?" Right, okay, that's that then.

Dean bristles, and he looks at the ground, his smile wiped clean off. Well bloody done.

"Look, I'm not some… charity case. Thank you for the offer, it's very nice, but… I'm doing just fine here." He mutters, patting his sleeping bag and smiling again, but this time it's strained and doesn't reach his eyes. Castiel has no idea why he notices that.

"I never said you were a charity case, Dean, that's not what I meant." Castiel frowns. He didn't think about this for very long, but now he's suggested it, he thinks that maybe it's a good idea. A good deed. Maybe he'll get some good luck for once. Wow, that was selfish.

"Come on, man, you don't know me from Adam. How do you know I'm not gonna steal all your crap? How do you know I'm not an axe-wielding maniac?"

"Would an axe-wielding maniac really ask that question?" Castiel smirks, but Dean shoots him a look that says think about it. And think about it he does. "Alright, touché. I don't know that… but I do know an Adam, and he's, you know, he's all right. An intern, but he's cool." He makes to stand, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets because he doesn't know what else to do with them. Dean's hands are rubbing over his face roughly, like he's trying to wipe something away, something buried deep under his skin. Castiel shuffles from foot to foot, blowing out a breath,

"Okay, man, well… the offer stands. You take care." He smiles, offering a half-hearted wave before turning around and walking away.

"Wait." He hears Dean call. That makes him smile. He turns back around and sees Dean rolling up his sleeping bag and picking up his cup before making his way over.

"You sure?" he asks gruffly, the gratitude in his voice barely masked by the concern he'd piled on top. Castiel gives him a pat to the upper arm,

"Come on, I don't live far from here, and it really is fucking freezing." He laughs. Dean's smile is cautious, but it's better than nothing.

Dean cranks his neck back to look up at the block of flats that he's about to enter. He's excited but also skeptical. Could this Cas-idy(?) be luring him into a trap? He scoffs at that. What on earth would this guy want with a guy like Dean? He's homeless, smells like the back of a dumpster and has nothing interesting to say about anything; he proved that in his inability to think of anything to say to Cas-hew(?) for the whole fifteen minute walk to his front door. Not a thing. He didn't seem to mind, but Dean minded a whole deal. Dean was that sort of person who suffered an infuriating mix of not giving a damn, but also obsessing relentlessly over what others thought of him. Now, standing outside the front door of Cas-tle's flat, Dean finds his head snapping back every few seconds, wondering if he should leave. He knew this was going to be super awkward for the both of them, and he wasn't sure if he actually wanted to face it. But, when Cas-hmere turns and chucks him a gentle smile before unlocking the door and motioning Dean inside, he pushes any self-deprecating thoughts clawing their way to the fore of his mind and steps across the threshold. He whistles high to low.

The front door opens onto a wide corridor, at the end of which lies a floor to ceiling window, which Dean is guessing, is one of many considering the amount of natural light bathing the dark wood floor. He jumps when he feels Cas-pian's (so what if he likes C.S Lewis?!) hands on his shoulders, but relaxes as he feels his coat sliding down his arms.

"Thanks," he murmurs, not wanting to move at all for fear of dirtying the walls or floors or … air.

"I suppose a shower would put you in good stead?" Cas smiles, disappearing into one of the rooms to the left. Dean follows him cautiously, and peeks around the door, careful not to touch the wall or door frame. It's silly, he knows it is, but his skin feels like it's caked in a mile of dirt and sweat and he can't stand the idea of marring the white walls with any of it. Inside the room is a modest bed, facing another huge window, covered with a roll-up wooden blind. There's a little bathroom off to the left, with a towel strewn across the entrance, and Dean smiles a little at that. He was worried that this flat was far too clinical and pristine for a person such as him to even be there, but seeing evidence of his host's humanity was enough to relax him just a hair. There were pictures tacked to the wall of roofs, varying textures of wood, metal, leather, intricate patterns sewn into material, some celtic, some psychedelic, all of them gorgeous. There were also pictures of peculiarly shaped furniture; high ceilings, rooms bathed in natural light, exposed red bricks, modern kitchens, homely kitchens, sunken baths… the pictures took up an entire wall, almost ceiling to floor, just like the windows.

"Nice place." He comments, not really knowing what else to say. Even an abandoned shed would be a nice place right now.

"Oh, thanks. It's… um… well, it's home." Cas-hier shrugs, holding out a dark grey towel and some folded up clothes.

"I hope you don't mind… we look about a similar size, and I thought you might want some clean clothes? It's alright if not, gosh, I hope this isn't dreadfully rude of me. I could… well I can put your clothes in the wash if you like? God, that's not helping is it? I feel like I'm being patronising, please tell me if I am? I'd hate to do that to you, after all you've been through, wow why don't I shut up? Talk for England, my mother used to say! It's a disease really, I would thank you not to mock my condition, just kidding, it's fine. Do you even want a shower? I just realised you didn't respond! Wow, look at me, presuming to know what you want as if I know you, I really don't, I know that, but that doesn't mean I think you're a bad person, good god, no! Make yourself at home, Dean, really, it's f-"

"Thank you. That would be swell." Dean says slowly, laughing as Cas-ino lets out his breath in a rush, and rubs the back of his neck, smiling shyly at the floor.

"The…" he clears his throat, "the bathroom's just down here. The nice one, I mean." He says to Dean's shoes, slipping past Dean's shoulder and leading him down the corridor. He switches on the light and holds the door open for Dean, who is, once again, taken aback by how elegant this place is. The shower is right at the end of the room, shielded by a large, dark marble wall. There is a large potted plant in the corner by the door, and a huge mirror spanning almost the entire wall behind the sink.

"You got style, kid." Dean laughs, running his fingers over the clothes that Cas-ket leant him. He was trying his damnedest to remember the last time he'd felt something so soft.

After showing Dean how to use the shower, Cas-serole backs out of the room, smiling nervously, with a "if there's anything you need, I'll be in the lounge. After I clean up that is." he motions at his wet, muddy clothes with a grimace, before closing the door. Dean is grinning when he catches his reflection in the mirror. His heavy sigh pulls his smile back into a frown as he surveys his appearance.

"Cas?" he calls, his eyes not leaving his reflection.

"Yup?" comes the faint reply.

"You got a razor?"

After snuggling his face into the soft, slightly damp towel for longer than was strictly necessary, Dean looks to the mirror again, and smiles shyly. Ah, yes, that's what his face usually looks like. His hair is sticking up all over the place, but it smells like coconut and his skin feels soft and smells of soap. He can't stop smelling himself, can't stop running his hands over his arms, because damn he hasn't felt like this in about a fortnight: he used to be able to bum a shower at the local gym that he didn't have a membership for. They had a glass gate that would let members in and linger open for far too long and if Dean has mastered one thing in his life, it's acting like you know what the hell you're doing. He'd stride in confidently, stand under the water until it'd run cold, and leave again. But, after his fifth visit of this nature, he was escorted out in a less than polite manner… that was his last shower. He'd forgone showering for four or five days before during his student days, but after two weeks his skin felt heavy, oily and smelled downright gross. He pulled the plain black briefs and soft grey joggers that Cas-ualty had given him up his bowed legs, and slipped the well-worn maroon t-shirt that smelled like wood and dust over his head. He ran the towel through his hair once more, and then gave the bathroom the once-over, making sure it was more or less as he'd found it. He felt that was really important.

Castiel had almost forgotten that Dean was in his flat, when he finally appeared over an hour later, clean-shaven, his hair dripping and his clothes bundled in his arms.

"Hey!" he greeted, standing to take Dean's clothes and chuck them in the wash. Dean offered them shyly, not quite meeting Castiel's eyes.

"Thanks," he muttered again, "for everything. This is… this is the nicest thing anyone has done for me in… well, in a long time." His voice is a little gruff, and he clears his throat.

"It's no bother." Cas says as he turns and heads for the kitchen, situated on the other side of the long, open-plan space. Dean looked around; there were two dark leather sofas situated around a large, white sheepskin rug, contrasting rather pleasingly with the dark wood of the floor. There was another rug (maybe Persian? Dean wasn't sure) hung on the wall between the large windows. There were potted plants everywhere, a modest desk with a large computer, a small table with four mismatched chairs, and at the far end was the kitchen; kitted in the same dark wood and white that was a theme of the whole flat.

"Cas…trati, this is a really beautiful home, man. You design this place too?" he asked, running his hand across the desk and picking up a photo of his host and a red haired woman in graduation gowns, their arms wrapped tightly about each other's shoulders. It looks as though the photograph was taken mid-laugh, and if Dean closes his eyes, he can almost hear it.

He heard a loud, musical laugh (just like he'd imagined coming from the photo) from the kitchen, and Cas-soulet re-appeared with a mug of tea in each hand.

"Castrati! These guesses are getting better and better." He chuckled, handing Dean one of the mugs.

"And, um… no, I didn't design this place. These are just… things that I've collected along the way. Some of them inherited from my parents, others are things I've saved up to buy," he explains, blowing on his tea, surveying the picture in Dean's hands. He smiles and takes it from him, looking at it for a long while before placing it back on the desk.

"I'm sor-"

"It's alright, Dean," he replies, his voice suddenly quiet. "She was my best friend at University. Anna. She, um… she died a couple of years ago." He swallows thickly, before clearing his throat.

"Man… I'm… I'm really sorry, I shouldn't hav-"

"I said it's fine." He murmurs, sipping his tea and turning away from his desk. Now that Dean is really paying attention, this photograph is the only one on display with people in it, from what he can see so far. He doesn't want to pry, and almost definitely won't, but it seems a little strange… sad even. He shakes those thoughts from his head and wraps his hands around the mug of tea, following his host to sit on possibly one of the comfiest couches he's ever set his butt on. Oh, sweet lord. He sinks into the cushions and lets out a rather inappropriate groan, which earns him a quiet chuckle from Cas… he's really got to find out what that's short for.

"So, I'm running out of ideas, you gonna tell me your name any time soon?" he chimes, trying to keep his voice chipper, just in case his host is feeling more upset than he looks. He sees Cas' lips quirk up at the sides, but he doesn't look at Dean when he says,

"No, probably not. 'Cas' is fine though." A few moments pass in total silence, before Cas speaks again, running a hand through his damp hair,

"Dean, how do you feel about beer before noon?"

The corners of Dean's mouth pull down, and he nods several times,

"I could be persuaded," he says, grinning wide.

Empty take-away boxes littered the dark wood coffee table, the delicious fragrance of Indian cuisine filling the whole apartment. Dean leaned back, completely satiated like he hadn't been in weeks. He'd forgotten how hungry he was; having only just enough money at the end of each day that he'd have to decide between a coffee or a cheeseburger was a way of life now, he was used to it. But, this? This feeling of absolute fullness… it was immense. He'd missed this. He sighs happily, his head a little giddy from the beers he and Cas had consumed. It was now 8PM, and they'd been steadily drinking since 11. His eyelids were heavy, his whole face was heavy, as he lifted it to look at Cas with a lazy smile.

"I'll pay you back eventually, dude. Thanks, for everything. That was… pretty nuts." He motions at the discarded boxes and pats his stomach happily.

"Don't sweat it, Dean. This has been a pretty good day off so far." He smiles, turning his head to gaze outside at the rain that had been pelting down on the city all day.

"Ghastly out there, huh?" Dean offers, following his gaze. Cas is quiet again, fiddling with the seam of one of the pillows which sports a god-awful picture of a bulldog dressed as the Queen. When Cas speaks again, Dean has to lean forward to hear him,

"Where would you be right now, if you weren't here?" he murmurs, his voice suddenly sad again.

"Hey, man, don't do that." Dean chides, moving to sit next to Cas on the other sofa. He leans against the arm, his whole body angled towards Cas'. He cranes around, trying to catch Cas' face, which is turned away from him.

"Where would you be?" he asks again.

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth as he sighs heavily.

"I sometimes head to Hyde Park…" he hesitates, "not this time of year though; Winter Wonderland is on… if I have enough change, sometimes I just ride the underground… See if I can get enough money together to get me into a shelter for the night. I, uh, I hate begging, I usually don't say anything." Dean hunches his shoulders, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his current surroundings; warmth and comfort pressing in on him like a soft pillow pressed to his face. Earlier in the day, they'd swapped anecdotes from their lives, Dean recommending some jazz classics to put on in the background, memories of his college days weighing painfully on his heart. Dean had loved listening to Cas talk about his work, and the characters in the office, but… he hadn't really heard anything about his family or friends. Dean had rambled on and on about Sam to compensate, shared a few of his favourite stories about his students and Cas had laughed loud and full… and Dean had almost entirely forgotten that he would have to leave at some point… go back out there, and face the dark, wet streets of London alone again. Like this had never happened. The thought made him frown, but before he could think any more about it, Cas turned back to him, his face full of tipsy grief,

"Dean." He said, placing a warm hand on Dean's knee and squeezing, "I-" he swallows and blinks hard several times, before looking Dean in the eyes again, "I couldn't live with myself knowing I'd given you a day of this… Sending you back out there again after getting to know you like I have today, and I-"

"Cas, don't." Dean groans, fearing that Cas was going to do something like this: take pity on him.

"I want to, Dean. I want to open this flat to you. I have a spare bedroom," he says, pointing down the hall, his eyes glistening in the soft light of the room, "and I want you to take it." He squeezes Dean's knee again, smiling sadly, "If you'll take it that is."

Dean shakes his head, guilt clawing its way up his throat and clogging it, making it difficult for him to speak,

"Cas," his voice breaks, and he curses under his breath, "I can't… it's too much. You've… given me a roof over my head all day, leant me clothes, bought food for me… it's too much, I can't take anything else from you."

"You're not taking, so much as I'm giving." Cas says quietly.

"Cas-"

"Would you like to see the room?" Cas smiles, pushing himself up from the sofa. Dean doesn't follow, just sits with his head in his hands, massaging the heels of his hands into his eyes so roughly, he actually sees white when he looks up again.

"I can't pay you anything, Cas… I have literally no money. I can't pay rent, I can't pay for the electricity I'd use, the water… the gas, none of it. I have no clothes, I have nothing to give back to you. I'd just be taking more and more from you, and I can't… I can't be a burden like that. Not to anyone."

Cas perches delicately on the edge of the sofa, next to Dean and lifts his hand, placing it heavy and reassuring on Dean's shoulder, rubbing at the soft cotton of his borrowed t-shirt.

"Please, Dean…" he says, a slight frown pulling at his features, "You deserve this."

Dean scoffs, "No, I don't. And neither do you, more to the point."

Cas tilts his head to the side, like a confused puppy, frowning in earnest,

"Do you really think so low of yourself?"

Dean lowers his eyes, and plays with the hem of the t-shirt he's wearing.

"You're a good person, Dean… anybody with or without eyes can see that. I've known you less than 12 hours, and I know that. But, for some strange reason, not because of you, but because I don't trust many people… I trust you. And, I want to give this to you. Please let me do this. We'll work something out. It doesn't matter about the money for now. This is about making sure you never have to go back out there… this is about making sure you know that you have a home. This one. If you'll have it." Cas is leaning forwards, trying to catch Dean's eyes, but he wishes he wasn't when they meet his and Cas sees they're brimming with tears.

"It's too much," he croaks, carding his hands roughly through his hair. Cas sighs, standing slowly and holding out his hand,

"Come and see the room anyway? Maybe it'll change your mind."

Dean sighs heavily again, but heaves himself up off the sofa and follows Cas down the hall to the spare bedroom.

Cas flips the light on, revealing a modest room, plain walls, the bed made with several silken pillows in varying shades of green, a smaller sheepskin rug laid out beside the bed, another large window at the far end of the room, a gorgeous dark wood wardrobe taking up the wall on the back wall, sporting a full length mirror, unmarred, perfect. Dean sighs again, and walks into the room, placing himself carefully on the bed, groaning as it gives just a little under his weight.

"Well?" Cas says, smiling.

"Can I have a minute?" Dean says quietly, and Cas just nods, retreating back to the living room before calling, "The Apprentice is on at 9, so… chop chop," over his shoulder. Dean huffs a laugh that has next to no amusement in it. This was a big deal. He runs a hand across the soft cotton of the sheets, taking in the room with its tall ceiling. He scrunches his toes into the sheepskin rug and feels himself relax. Would it be so bad to accept Cas' offer? Sam would have somewhere to come when he visited… he wouldn't have to explain that he'd run completely dry. Cas was a nice guy, hell, he was golden. He offered everything, and asked for nothing in return. Of course, Dean wouldn't let that slide. He'd need a job… he'd have to do everything in his power to repay the guy. Could he do this? The answer: yes, of course. But would he do this? The answer: hell if I know. As much as it was an overwhelming offer, when on earth would he ever get a chance like this? A chance to start over? This way, he could rebuild his life from the ground up, he wouldn't ever have to tell Sam that he had spent the last month with absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back and his ratty sleeping bag, looking at varying styles of shoe as they passed him by, day after day. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub the doubt away. He should take this opportunity. He should. He casts his eyes about the room again, imagining the feeling of calling it his own. He presses his knuckles to his lips, taking a few steadying breaths before standing, switching the light off and rejoining Cas in the living room.

Cas looks at him with barely-concealed hope and Dean quirks his head, rubbing the back of his neck; a nervous habit he can't remember starting.

"Listen… this…" he casts his eyes around the room before settling them on Cas' face, all wide-eyed and optimistic, "this is the biggest thing anybody has ever done for me. I want to make that very clear." His head snaps around when something explodes in an advert on the television, and Cas leaps up to mute it.

"Sorry, please go on." He says, looking a little sheepish.

"Um… yeah. It's difficult for me to accept your offer. It's not you, it's not the flat, it's… me. I can't - I feel like I don't deserve your generosity, and I don't think I'll ever not feel like that. But, you're here, offering me a chance to get back on my feet, and that's a whole lot better than facing going back out there again. I guess what I'm trying to say is… can I sleep on it?"

Cas grinned, jumping up from the sofa and pulling Dean in for a hug, which, for the first five seconds, he didn't return mostly out of shock… mostly because he couldn't remember the last time someone hugged him. He slowly wound his arms around Cas' waist and pulled him close.

"Of course you can, Dean. Stay as long as you need." Cas chuckles, pulling back and looking into Dean's eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time. Dean gives him a push to the shoulder,

"Dude, no chick flick moments." He grumbles, but he can't ignore that suddenly he's breathing a little easier, his heart hurts a little less.

Castiel is brimming with excitement. A little trepidation, but mostly joy… like say 75-25. Letting Dean into his life like this is a whole lot of brave… a whole lot of stupid in some ways, but he feels like it's right. Like, it's what he should do. He didn't even have to think twice in bringing Dean here in the first place, and he would never have lived it down if he ever saw Dean out there, wrapped in his sleeping bag again. It felt good to give him a shot, to give him a helping hand when he needed it most, even if he was a perfect stranger. Dean was surprisingly open, spilling all sorts about his life, about himself, and that alone made Castiel implicitly trust him, like he'd only ever trusted one other time in his life. With Anna.

He smiled sadly, looking back to Lord Alan Sugar pointing his chubby little finger at some poor, quivering dickheads in suits. He really loved this show. Something in him played out the fantasy that he was Alan, pointing at people who'd wronged him, shouting at them, making them quake in their boots at his sheer presence. Who doesn't? He let out a howl of victory as he fired all three people in the boardroom.

"Dean! A triple firing! We had one coming, it's true, but I really… wow! Didn't see that coming!" He laughs, looking over at Dean, curled up next to him on the sofa. His arms were folded under his head, atop the arm of the sofa, his legs drawn in close to his chest. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady. Castiel fumbles for the remote, turning down the volume and standing to crouch in front of him.

"Dean?" he whispers, shaking his shoulder gently. The reply he got was a displeased groan, accompanied with a deep frown and a pout.

"There's a comfy bed with your name on it just down the hall." He says, as Dean blearily blinks his eyes open.

"Shit, sorry man. Didn't mean to fall asleep. What happened?"

"Triple firing!" Cas announced dramatically.

"Sorry I missed it." Dean smiles, rubbing sleep from his eyes, "You sure you're okay with me staying the night?" he says, just in case he dreamt Cas' earlier offer. The glare Cas fixes him with is all the answer he needs to that question, and he scoffs, "Alright, man. Thanks again."

"Any time, Dean. Just… just make yourself at home." Castiel smiles warmly, helping Dean up off the sofa and turning the TV off. Dean throws him a tired smile,

"I could be persuaded to do just that, Cashew… Casserole… Caspian…"

"Castiel." Cas laughs, "It's Castiel."