He isn't exactly thrilled to be here, but it's not like he's got a lot of choices. After all, if Sammy was kind enough to offer to grease up his boss a little, just for a chance to get Dean hired, well, that should be more than enough for Dean to suck his gut in and take it like a man.

Not that there's anything manly about the lemon detergent and pink dust wipe grazing his thigh, shoved into a large, pink bag wearing the company logo. It's not an ideal job, and Dean doesn't exactly need it, not to live, anyway. But working at Singer Auto only brought so much money, and since Dean hadn't been able to stay away from vintage cars even when he'd tried, it soon became evident he'd need a second income if he wanted to maintain that hobby. And Dean thought that yeah, it's worth it, dusting some rich douche's shelves twice a week, because Dean didn't have a lot else going for him.

It was him, his brother and his baby. Not an actual baby, but better. A beautiful '67 Chevy Impala, and since his dad died no one had really touched the thing. It was a shame, because the car was beautiful in a lot of ways other things weren't. It had just hurt too much, at the time, and as a year had come to pass Dean had done his best to push it to the furthest corners of his mind. He didn't need the reminders.

Then, there was something about the way the sun poured over her hood, her windows, the chrome and the leather seats. Something about this summer, the sun seeming a little warmer, the air a little sweeter, and Dean found himself in love with her again. Not in a weird way, though, despite Sam's jabs. It's just, he's a man and a man who appreciates fine cars. And one thing is for sure, it went even without Bobby's saying; if he wanted to do the car justice, and perhaps, his father, that car needed a man who could take care of her.

Since Sammy slaved through the cleaning business to pay for school, he'd helped Dean out. And so, here Dean was.

Standing in front of a fine looking piece of architecture in the better area of town. The house itself looks old, white, with decorations much too intricate for him to really understand. It's a nice apartment building, and the places within it couldn't be any less. Mostly, the people who moved out to this area were rich, old people who'd long become too brittle to live on their own in large mansions. It was more convenient, after all. There were old widows, too, who simply couldn't stand having 100 empty rooms echoing at them.

Dean could relate to that, somewhat.

But he's dealt with rich people before. He doesn't like them and it's a safe bet they feel even worse about him. He's rough around the wrong edges and completely jagged off in others. What's worse, his charm doesn't seem to bite on them at all, and there is that stubborn dirt or oil he's never quite able to wash away from his nails.

MP3-player ready in his pocket, he goes in, checks his list and hopes this old geezer will be one of those with pride. Some men, despite their bad backs and busted hips, cleaned the place out of spite, just so some lowlife like Dean wouldn't have the chance to judge them. The widows, at least the ones not immobilized by grief, usually cleaned just to have something to do. Most people though, didn't lift a finger, and Dean had cleaned enough apartments to know they could be really big and that the older and richer you were, the more useless junk you'd have, and they were usually a bitch to clean.

His list takes him to the top floor today, thankfully there's an elevator, and Dean's head is comfortably quiet during the long ride up. As he steps out onto the 14th floor, he is faced by a rather short corridor. Not searching for long and trying not to let his eyes linger on the tastelessly overdone wallpaper, he quickly finds the right door.

It's like the old bats in this place are trying to relive their glory days; making a castle out of a prison with only their money and good name left to treasure. It's sad, really, but Dean doesn't have time to feel sympathy. At least this one's a dude, so he won't have a horny, desperate cougar slobbering all over him, like Mrs Van Apfelvelt. He shudders at the mere thougth of her.

He rings the door once, waiting patiently though there's no sound behind it at first. He's learned by now that it takes the old people time to get to the door. He lets his eyes wander, searching the decor until he is jolted out of his thoughts as the sound of several locks click. Much quicker than Dean's used to, the door opens a tiny inch.

''Yes?''

Dean does a double take at the voice. It sounds young, around his age maybe, and still so awfully old. Weighed down and monotonous. It would have been almost depressing, hadn't it been for the alluring roughness of it, scraping against Dean's ears like he's been dragged across asfalt.

He fumbles for words for a moment, staring probably quite dumbly at the obscure form inside.

''I'm uh...'' He holds his company bag up, showing the logo off. ''Campbell Cleaning and Assistance, sir. I'm here to...''

''Of course.'' The form shuffles behind the door. ''Come in.''

Dean only hesitates a little, an odd twitch in his stomach as he steps inside, trying not to look as apprehensive as he feels.

Well inside, the strong smell hits him square in the face. It smells almost like a crypt. Not that Dean's been to one, but he imagines this is what they're all like. Stuffy and locked inside, the place pretty damn dark and despite its many things, it feels empty. Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times, his words oddly noncomplacent, before he pulls himself together and turns to the man with a professional smile.

''Nice place you got here''

He can tell by the man's face that he knows Dean doesn't mean it, and frankly, the man looks like he'd be willing to disagree if he had. He's young, Dean notes, but like his voice, there's an ancient touch to him that kind of unsettles Dean. His eyes are heavy and blue, like, really, really blue, and as Dean finds himself fixed on them a slight uncomfortable silence sinks between them.

''I believe it was Mr. Winchester I spoke to, on the phone.'' The man says flatly. ''We went over the things that needed to be done, will you need me to revise or have you gotten the list from your colleague?''

He's scruffy, in a kinda cute way, but he's also thin in a way that doesn't look completely natural. Shoulders stiff and tight but his posture slightly hunched, it reminds Dean of a soldier waiting for orders long overdue. There are bags under his eyes Dean's seen in his own mirror quite a few times, and it leaves something familiar, something bitter, in his mouth. No matter the cause, Dean can respect that kind of tiredness, and so decides to keep the chit chat to a bare minimum.

''Must've been my brother, then'' he smiles, nonetheless. ''Yeah, no worries, Mr. Novak. I got the list. So you just pretend I'm not here and I'll handle it.''

Novak nods and regards him, his gaze a weight against Dean, staring far longer than Dean thinks is socially acceptable. He's just about to get really uncomfortable when the man departs without a word, disappearing into another room.

It only freaks Dean out a little that he can't hear his footsteps.

The more Dean works, the more unsettled he feels. He feels nervous for some reason he can't quite figure out, and while the man stays damn near well invisible for most of Dean's shift, he feels wary of him.

Mr. Novak, the short glimpses Dean's gotten, doesn't seem to be ill. He doesn't limp or groan in pain, doesn't clutch at some injury like he'd seen a lot of old people do, and his face remains - if sullen - oddly casual, and as Dean's cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen, he hasn't found any pain killers either. From a brief glance, Dean would say this guy is perfectly healthy and would have no reason not to handle this on his own.

Figures. He must be one of those people, the spoiled brats who wouldn't lift a finger to clean their own filth, it was beneath them to even touch a dirty dish because they were so much better than people like Dean. People who needed their ass wiped for them just because they could.

Dean doesn't liked this guy very much, he decides, and is thankful Mr Novak stays to himself, never speaking to or even acknowledging Dean's presence. He barely moves from the large sofa by the monstruously sized windows, curtains drawn, eyes invested in an ancient looking book.

Dean's schedule is pretty straight forward; check the list, do the things, and leave. He's paid an hourly rate upon a fixed rate, so at least there's security in his job. Thankfully, Mr. Novak isn't a total filth pig like some are, and it takes Dean a little under two hours to go through half the apartment.

The apartment isn't nearly as big as the other ones he's been assigned, but still haunting and empty in a way that seems excessive for a guy like him. Dean finds himself wondering about it a lot, nearly asking outright but stopping himself. It's rude to ask, though some clients are very chatty, this guy seems almost to cocoon himself. Dean just wants to get out of here as soon as he can, hourly rate be damned.

After cleaning the rest of the rooms, Dean flicks an eye over the list to see what the last few things could be. Sometimes it's dog walking, sometimes it's laundry, as they're not as much a cleaning firm as personal assitants, doing whatever the old bats and geezers can't or won't do for themselves, and he's surprised to see some of them. Reluctantly walking into the large lounge room where Mr Novak has been unmoving for the past four hours, he clears his throat to get the man's attention.

Mr Novak folds the book gently, before giving Dean a rather hard look, and Dean isn't normally one to be intimidated, but this guy is seriously freaky. Like he's got a whole arsenal behind his back, and Dean forces himself not to appear intimidated.

''Uh, Mr. Novak, about the list...'' he knows it's rude to ask, it's actually none of his business, the client could ask him to aplhabetically rearrange their books if they so pleased and had it been an old person, like usual, Dean probably wouldn't have even brought it up.

But Mr. novak tilts his head to an awkward angle to the side, peering curiously though still rather patiently at Dean, who feels a lot like a bug under a microscope.

''Is there any trouble with it?''

''Oh, no, no, not really'' Dean is quick to reassure him, because the guy actually looks concerned, and he makes a conscious effort to squash his discomfort down deeper.

''Is it making you uncomfortable?''

''No, it's, it's cool. It's just uhm, some of these things... they seem...'' he searches long and hard for the word, snapping his fingers until he finds it. ''I don't know, excessive?''

Mr Novak frowns and it looks so genuine, Dean starts to second guess himself. Maybe this guy really is injured.

''Is there a problem?''

''No, as I said, it's no big deal, it's just...'' Dean sighs. ''Never mind, I'm sorry I brought it up.''

Mr Novak nods as if he understands, though looks like he doesn't, really, and gets out of the couch.

''It must be lunch time.'' He declares. ''Shall we?''

Dean feels extremely uncomfortable as he follows him into the kitchen, hovering awkwardly in the doorway while Mr Novak sits down by the table. After a minute or so passing by without Mr Novak moving his gaze from the window, this one smaller than in the other room but still unnecessarily large, Dean moves inside.

The kitchen is large and nice, everything modern and very expensive looking, and he's for the first time scared of breaking anything. Mr Novak stares out through the small crack in the curtains, seeming worlds away, while Dean puts on a kettle of tea.

''It's kinda dark in here'' He comments while staring into the fridge. It doesn't contain much more than canned ravioli and some yoghurt. ''Do you mind if we... pull the curtains apart?''

Mr Novak glances at him briefly, before shrugging stiffly. It's like the guy's unfamiliar with his body, taking it for a test drive.

''I suppose not. If you wish.'' For a moment Dean thinks the lazy ass is gonna let him do that too, but surprises him by eventally standing from his seat and pulling the drapes apart, letting soft, summer sun roll into the room. The kitchen seems a lot nicer now, in the warm light. ''Like this?''

''Much better'' Dean says, relaxing a little.

Mr Novak says nothing and sits back down. Dean works in silence for a while, deciding on the ravioli because if the guy's going to be lazy, well, he's not gonna get to have a say in things.

''It looks more like a home now, doesn't it? With the light, I mean.''

Mr Novak regards him curiously for a long while, much longer than a stare normally should last, before he tilts his head in that awkward, incomprehending way.

''Are you always this talkative?''

''Oh'' Dean shrugs. ''I'm sorry. I know some clients like their quiet. I'm working on it though but yeah, I guess I'm kind of chatty and...'' And he's gonna start rambling soon.

Dean busies himself with getting the tea cup and plate out.

''It's alright'' Mr Novak says. ''I don't mind.''

Dean glances over his shoulder, the blue eyes avoiding him. It seems intentional this time and Dean finds his shoulders relax once more. This guy's like walking around pins, tense and smooth every other second. He's not really sure how to feel about it.

''You new here?'' Dean says then, pouring. ''Or just new with us?''

''I moved in just a month ago.''

''So how you like the neighbourhood? Neighbours okay? I know Ms Winston on third floor can be quite a bitch''

Once he realizes what he just said, Dean feels the blood still in his body, pure panic settling over him. But it is washed away as soon as Mr Novak grunts out a small, strange noise not quite unlike a chuckle.

''I will have to trust you on that'' he says, and Dean breathes again. ''Truth be told, I have yet to encounter any of my neighbours.''

''You ain't missing out, really'' Dean shrugs. ''I've got a third of this building, and let me tell ya, rich, cranky old widows and widowers? Not really the cosiest bunch.''

Mr Novak looks at him then and Dean feels those eyes burn into his skin. Though reluctant to meet his gaze Dean forces himself to, because if one thing, Dean Winchester is not a wuss. There's something desolate about Mr Novak's eyes, and Dean suddenly fears he's touched a nerve.

''Sorry. Inapprorpiate. Foot, meet mouth.'' He laughs nervously. ''Sammy says I do that a lot. It's a curse, really''

''It's fine'' Mr Novak looks at the tea in front of him. ''I'm not a widower, if that was your concern.''

Dean can't help but sigh in relief.

''Dodged a bullet there, huh?''

There is that strange not-quite-chuckle again.

''I suppose.''

Dean regards him for a while, ravioli puttering about in the pan, before he catches himself and gets a plate. While pouring the ravioli into the plate and finding a fork, he weighs his next words over.

''Mr Novak -''

''Castiel.''

''Gesundheit?''

Mr Novak frowns at him in that way again, like Dean is a new and very peculiar kind of stupid he can't quite decide how to react to.

''It's my name. Castiel.''

''Oh'' Dean says. ''It's... Unusual.''

Mr Novak, or Castiel, or whatever, tilts the corner of his mouth just a tiny fraction. It's more a twitch attempting to be a smile, both amusing and sad at the same time. Watching the man perform basic human actions is as fascinating as watching a baby learn to navigate the world, and Dean's never quite seen someone look so utterly confused and uncomfortable in their own skin.

''It's an angel'' Castiel says. ''The Angel of Thursday.''

''Oh.'' Dean says, because he can't seem to stop sounding like a moron. ''Thursdays are cool.''

Castiel frowns. Dean decides to save face while he can, and clears his throat, saying ''Dean. My name's Dean.''

''Pleasure to meet you, Dean'' He says like it isn't very exciting at all.

''Same goes to you, Mr. Uh... Castiel.''

Dean thinks it's not the absolute worst first impression.