Beneath the Stars - IWillWormYourWood (2024)

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 amusem*nt 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 circ*mstances 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

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

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 amusem*nt.

"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 amusem*nt. “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.

"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 amusem*nt 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

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 amusem*nt 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 circ*mstance. 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

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 circ*mstances. 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

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 amusem*nt 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

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 circ*mstance; 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 amusem*nt.

"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 amusem*nt.

"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

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 amusem*nt.

"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 amusem*nt. “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

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

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

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

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 circ*mstances 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

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 circ*mstances 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 co*ckroach?” 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 co*ckroach, 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 co*ckroach 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 co*ckroach 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 co*ckroach, 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

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 amusem*nt. 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 amusem*nt.

"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 amusem*nt. 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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt.

"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.

Chapter 15

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 co*ckroach 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 amusem*nt, 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 amusem*nt.

“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 amusem*nt.

“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

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 co*ckroach 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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt.

“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

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

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 amusem*nt, 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 amusem*nt. “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 amusem*nt.

"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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt 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, amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt. “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 amusem*nt 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 amusem*nt, 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

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 amusem*nt 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

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 amusem*nt 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

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 amusem*nt 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.

Chapter 22

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 amusem*nt.

“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 circ*mstances, 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. f*ck. 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 f*ck. 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

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 one of my many charms, ma chérie." She opened her eyes, finding his gaze still locked onto hers, filled with a mixture of longing and tenderness.

"I hate you sometimes," she said, her voice lacking any real conviction.

"And I adore you always," he replied, his eyes twinkling with affection. Meg sighed, the fight draining out of her.

"I hope for your sake that you don't think me letting you means you've won." Balthazar's smile widened as he followed her further into the flat.

"I wouldn't dream of it." They moved to the living room, the morning light casting a warm glow over the space. Meg settled back onto the couch, and Balthazar took a seat beside her, his presence a reassuring constant. The television continued to drone on, forgotten in the background. "I see you haven't changed much," Balthazar observed, glancing around the familiar room. "Still the same books, the same decor. Just a new building." Meg shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Some things never change." Balthazar leaned back, his gaze softening.

"And some things do. Like the city or your hair. Which really does suit you, you know."

"I needed a change. Something different to start the new year." He nodded, his expression thoughtful.

"Change can be good. It keeps things interesting." They fell into a comfortable silence, the unspoken tension between them easing as they simply enjoyed each other's company. Despite the complexities of their relationship, there was an undeniable comfort in being together, a sense of belonging that neither could find elsewhere. Meg glanced at Balthazar, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"So, what have you been up to? Besides calling me incessantly." Balthazar chuckled, the sound rich and warm.

"Trying to keep myself occupied. Visiting old haunts, catching up with friends. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing." Meg arched an eyebrow, a teasing smile on her lips. "And what might that be?" Balthazar's gaze locked onto hers, his expression sincere.

"You, Meg. It's always been you." Her heart skipped a beat, the intensity of his words taking her by surprise. She looked away, trying to hide the emotions swirling within her.

"You always know just what to say, don't you?"

"It's not about knowing what to say," he replied softly. "It's about me going mad without you." Meg sighed, the walls she had built around her heart crumbling in the face of his honesty.

"I missed you too, Balthazar. " He reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. The simple gesture was a promise, a silent vow that they would face whatever came next together.

"Then let's not waste any more time. We've already lost too much." Balthazar leaned in, his breath warm against her skin, and Meg could feel the magnetic pull between them intensify. His lips were mere millimetres away when she reacted instinctively, her hand snapping up to slap him. The sound echoed through the room, a sharp contrast to the previously comfortable silence.

Balthazar blinked, his expression shifting from shock to something almost playful. A slow smile curved his lips, a glint of amusem*nt and challenge in his eyes. "Ah, ma chérie," he said softly, his tone dripping with that infuriating charm. "You still have that fiery spirit I adore." Meg's hand trembled slightly, the sting of the slap lingering on her palm. She stood her ground, refusing to be swayed by his charisma.

"You're not forgiven, Balthazar," she said, her voice firm and resolute. "Not yet, and not that easily." Balthazar's smile remained, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze.

"I wouldn't expect anything less," he murmured, his fingers still intertwined with hers. He raised her hand to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss across her knuckles. "But I'll earn it, Meg. Whatever it takes." She pulled her hand away, leaning back to put some distance between them. The room seemed to hum with the lingering tension, the morning light casting long shadows that danced across the floor. Meg felt a mixture of frustration and something she couldn't quite name, a sensation that tugged at her heart and made her chest tighten.

"Why do you always have to make things so complicated?" she asked, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. Balthazar's expression softened, his eyes reflecting a rare vulnerability.

"Because nothing about us is simple," he replied. "Our connection, our history... it's all tangled and messy. But that's what makes it real." Balthazar's gaze softened, a hint of nostalgia mingling with the vulnerability in his eyes. "Where's the young witch who came to me centuries ago, asking for guidance? The one who was full of fire and determination?" Meg's expression hardened, her eyes narrowing.

"Dead," she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. "Very dead. Split open and grilled on the open fire that is your love." Balthazar's lips curved into a wistful smile.

"Meg, you were always the one who brought the fire. Not me." She let out a derisive laugh, shaking her head.

"Right. And you just started the stalking game." His smile turned into a smirk, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Not without you continuing it." Meg's eyes flashed with anger, and she pushed him away, the force of her frustration evident in her movements.

"I'm still angry with you," she said, her voice trembling with the intensity of her emotions. Balthazar steadied himself, his expression growing serious.

"I know," he admitted softly. Meg took the ends of a strand of her hair and inspected it. The new blonde colour shimmered under the morning light, looking surprisingly good. Perhaps the decision to go blonde hadn't been such an impulse after all. She felt a small spark of satisfaction at the thought. Balthazar watched her, his expression a blend of admiration and curiosity. "You know," he began, his voice carrying that unmistakable charm, "blonde suits you. It brings out the mischief in your eyes."Meg arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sardonic smile.

"Is that your new way of saying I look good?" she quipped, her tone light but her eyes sharp. Balthazar chuckled, the sound rich and warm.

"Indeed, ma chérie. You look stunning. But then, you always have." She rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to her hair.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Balthazar," she muttered, though the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her.

"Ah, but I live in hope," he replied, a roguish grin spreading across his face. He stepped closer, his presence commanding yet nonchalant, like a cat that knew it owned the room. "Besides, where's the fun in not trying?" Meg's fingers stilled on her hair, and she looked up at him, her expression softening for a moment.

"Do you know you always call me 'ma chérie' when you’ve made me angry?" Her eyes locked onto his, a challenge in her gaze. "And you speak only English."

"Of course, I do.” Balthazar's grin widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. “It's one of the few times I can be sure you'll actually listen to me." Meg snorted, shaking her head.

"And when you’re angry with me, you switch to French. It's like you think I can't tell." Balthazar laughed, the sound rich and resonant.

"It's not about hiding my anger, Meg. It's about expressing it in a way that feels... authentic." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Besides, it drives you crazy, doesn't it?" Meg rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

"You're infuriating, you know that?"

"And yet, here we are," Balthazar replied, his tone softening. He took a step closer, his gaze intense. "I speak French to you because it's a part of who I am, just as much as you are." Meg felt a flicker of something deep within her, a warmth that she couldn't quite ignore. She crossed her arms, trying to maintain her composure.

"You also use it to turn me on," she retorted, her voice tinged with exasperation. Balthazar's smile turned wicked, his eyes darkening.

"Guilty as charged," he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "But can you blame me? Your reactions are... delightful ." Meg's cheeks flushed, but she refused to let him see how much he affected her.

"You think you're so clever," she muttered, turning away to hide her embarrassment.

"I am clever," Balthazar said, his voice teasing. "But more importantly, I care about you, Meg. Despite everything, that hasn't changed." She glanced back at him, her eyes searching his. For a moment, the mask of playful banter slipped, revealing the depth of his feelings. It was enough to make her heart ache with a mixture of longing and frustration.

"Why do you always have to make things so complicated?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar's expression softened, his eyes reflecting a rare vulnerability.

"Why do you always ask why we can't just pretend?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that carried the weight of their shared history. Meg felt a lump form in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. She had always used that question as a shield, a way to deflect from the truth they both knew but never spoke aloud.

"Because pretending is easier," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's less... frightening." Balthazar leaned in, his presence warm and reassuring.

"Is it, though? Or is it just another way to avoid facing what we really feel?" Meg bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the floor. She knew he was right. Pretending had always been a way to protect herself, to keep her heart safe from the vulnerability of admitting how much she cared for him. But sitting here, with Balthazar looking at her with such raw honesty, she realised that perhaps it was time to stop hiding. He leaned even closer, the air between them charged with tension. "Is she really dead?" he asked softly, his voice filled with a mix of curiosity and concern. Meg's eyes flashed with anger and pain as she pushed herself off the couch.

"Split open," she replied, her voice raw, as she looked down at him. "Very dead." Balthazar's eyes darkened, a hint of sadness mingling with his intensity.

"Do I get a taste of the roast?" he asked, his tone serious yet teasing. He slowly rose. When he stood in front of Meg her breath caught in her throat, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of anger and desire and she took a step closer to him, her eyes never leaving his.

"Is that what you want, Balthazar?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "To consume me? To devour every piece until there's nothing left?" Balthazar's smile faded, replaced by a look of solemn intensity.

"No, Meg," he said earnestly. "I want to savour you." Meg felt a shiver run down her spine, the sincerity in his voice striking a chord deep within her.

"It's all the same in the end," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just bones left." Balthazar reached out, gently cupping her cheek in his hand. "No, it's not," he said firmly. Meg closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite herself. The warmth of his hand was a comfort to her fractured soul, a reminder of the connection they shared. Balthazar's thumb brushed gently across her cheek, his touch tender and reassuring. He leaned in, and with a gentle kiss on her forehead, Meg felt herself finally relax. Her shoulders, which had been tense and rigid, loosened, and she exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. A single tear escaped her closed eyelid, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. They stood like that for a moment, the world around them seeming to fade away. The room, with its soft morning light filtering through the curtains, became a sanctuary, a place where the complexities of their relationship could momentarily rest. Balthazar’s eyes softened as he gazed at her, his fingers lightly brushing away the lone tear.

"You always hide behind your strength," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you don't have to be strong all the time, Meg." Meg opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. The sincerity in his eyes was disarming, and she felt a lump form in her throat.

"It's the only way I know how to be," she admitted, her voice fragile, like a delicate glass that might shatter at any moment. Balthazar shook his head slightly, his gaze never leaving hers.

"You've been more than just strong," he said, his voice full of conviction. "You've been resilient, resourceful, and kind, even when you tried not to be." A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

"Kind? I don't think anyone's ever accused me of that before." Balthazar's lips curved into a gentle smile.

"Perhaps they haven't looked closely enough," he replied. "Besides, I hear you're a doctor these days."

Meg reached out and gently traced Balthazar’s jawline, her fingers moving with a delicate grace. She felt the roughness of his stubble, a tactile reminder of his human facade. Her touch was light, almost hesitant, as if testing the reality of his presence. Balthazar remained still, his eyes locked onto hers, watching her every move with a mixture of curiosity and intensity. Her fingers moved to his lips, and she traced their contours slowly, feeling the softness of his skin and the warmth beneath it. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Meg’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the magnetic pull between them, a force that seemed to defy logic and reason. Without breaking eye contact, she slipped her fingers into his mouth, tracing the smooth surface of his teeth. The sensation was both strange and intimate, a line crossed that left them both breathless. Balthazar’s lips closed gently around her fingers, his tongue brushing against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. His eyes darkened with an unspoken promise, a fire that seemed to smoulder just beneath the surface. Slowly, she pulled her fingers out, her gaze never wavering from his. A thin thread of connection lingered in the air between them, invisible yet undeniably present. She could see the reflection of her own emotions in his eyes, a mix of longing, frustration, and something deeper, something that neither of them could easily name. Retracting her hand, Meg allowed a small, bitter smile to play on her lips.

“That has always been your problem,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of sadness. “You are weak.” Balthazar’s expression shifted, a slight tilt of his head and a narrowing of his eyes betraying his surprise.

“Weak?” he echoed, his tone a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.

“Yes, weak,” Meg replied, her voice gaining strength. “You hide behind your reputation and your charm and your bravado, but when it comes down to it, you can’t handle real emotions. You can’t handle vulnerability.” Balthazar’s eyes flashed with something akin to anger, but he quickly masked it with a calm exterior.

“And you think you understand me so well?” he asked, his voice low and measured. Meg’s eyes softened, her expression turning introspective.

“I think I understand more than you give me credit for,” she said quietly. “We’ve been through too much together for me not to see the truth. You push people away because you’re afraid of getting hurt. Or attached.” He took a step closer, the air between them crackling with tension.

“And what about you, Meg?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Aren’t you doing the same thing?” She looked away, the truth of his words hitting her like a physical blow.

“Maybe,” she admitted, her voice soft. “But at least I’m willing to try. At least I’m willing to face the pain. You just get angry. And mean.” Balthazar’s eyes softened, the anger dissipating into something more profound. He stepped back, his expression thoughtful.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice quiet. “I do get angry. And I can be mean. But it’s only because…” He trailed off, struggling to find the words. Meg watched him, her heart aching with a mix of empathy and frustration. She wanted to close the distance between them, to reach out and touch him, but she held back. She needed to hear what he had to say. Balthazar’s eyes flickered with a complicated mix of emotions. “You are the worst student I ever had,” he said finally, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The words stung, but Meg knew there was more behind them. She sighed, realising that he would never admit that he loved her. This was the real reason why she always asked them to pretend. When they pretended, he treated her like she was the only person in the world, like she was worth being worshipped. He made her feel loved. Even if he would never say it. Meg looked away, her gaze settling on the distant horizon visible through the window. The city was waking up, its noise and bustle a sharp contrast to the quiet tension in the room. She felt another tear escape, trailing down her cheek, and she brushed it away impatiently.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” Balthazar whispered, his voice breaking the silence. She turned to face him, her expression a mixture of resolve and sorrow.

“Sorry for what, Balthazar?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “For being mean? For not admitting what we both know?” He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to touch her but stopping just short. The distance between them felt like an insurmountable chasm. Meg’s heart ached with the need to bridge that gap, but she held herself back. She couldn’t keep playing this game, couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t hurt every time he pulled away. “I don't know if I can do this anymore, Balthazar,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Or if I can keep pretending.” Balthazar’s eyes filled with a pain that mirrored her own.

“What do you want me to say, Meg? A declaration of undying affection? That I can’t imagine my life without you?” He shook his head, his voice raw with emotion. “You know I can’t.” Meg felt a sob rise in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

“But why not? Why can’t you just say it?” She took a step towards him, her eyes searching his. “What are you so afraid of?” He looked away, his jaw tightening.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she challenged, her voice fierce with the need to understand. Balthazar took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto hers.

“It means admitting that I have something to lose. And I’ve lost too much already.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Meg’s heart broke for him, but she couldn’t let him off that easily.

“We’ve both lost so much,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t find something worth holding onto.” He shook his head, his expression pained.

“You deserve better than someone who can’t even say the words.”

“You say that but I don’t want better,” she replied, her voice trembling with emotion. “I want you, Balthazar. With all your flaws and fears. I just want you to be honest with me. With yourself.” The room seemed to hold its breath as Balthazar struggled with his emotions. Finally, he met her gaze, his eyes filled with a vulnerability she had rarely seen.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for everything.” Meg felt tears welling up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“I know you are,” she said softly. “But sorry isn’t enough. Not anymore.” Balthazar’s expression crumbled, and for a moment, he looked like he might break.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I want you to fight for us,” she said, her voice strong and steady. “I want you to stop hiding behind your anger and your charm. I want you to be real with me. With yourself.” He looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and despair.

“And if I can’t?”

“Then we’re done, for real this time,” she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “I can’t keep doing this, Balthazar. It’s tearing me apart.” Silence fell between them, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Balthazar looked like he wanted to say something, but he remained silent. Meg turned away, unable to bear the look in his eyes any longer. She walked to the window, her gaze fixed on the city beyond. The sun was rising, casting a golden glow over the buildings. It felt like a new beginning, but also an ending.

“Meg,” Balthazar said softly, his voice filled with a mix of desperation and longing. She turned to face him, her eyes filled with tears she could no longer hold back.

“What?” A few of Meg’s tears spilled over as she looked at Balthazar, her chest aching with a mixture of anger and sorrow. The golden light of the rising sun bathed the room, casting a soft glow on their faces, making the moment feel almost surreal. Balthazar's eyes, filled with desperation, held hers as he took a hesitant step closer.

"Why did you come, Meg?" he asked, his voice trembling with unspoken emotion. "Why did you follow me here?" Meg’s breath hitched as she felt a surge of emotion she could no longer contain.

"Because I couldn’t imagine losing you again!" she spat out, her voice breaking. "But I did, didn't I? I waited thirty years, and you never came. And then I found you! And in Paris, of all places! Did you ever even think of me?" Balthazar’s face twisted with a mix of guilt and longing. Once more he reached out as if to touch her, only to let his hand fall, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

"Of course I thought of you, Meg," he murmured. "Every single day. But I—"

"No," Meg interrupted, her voice gaining strength as her anger flared. "You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to stand there and act like you cared when you left me waiting for decades. Do you have any idea what that did to me?" Balthazar’s eyes darkened, a flicker of defiance sparking within them.

"You act like you haven't done the same thing, repeatedly," he shot back, his voice low and intense. "You have left me too, more often than I have left you if I remember correctly."

"Oh, have you kept count? That's real cute, Balthazar," Meg retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

"You haven't?" he asked, his expression hardening. He knew she had, just as he had. Meg closed the distance between them, her eyes blazing with fury.

"I'm still angry with you," she hissed, her breath mingling with his.

“You’re angry with me because I yelled at you?” Balthazar’s jaw tightened, his eyes boring into hers. "Do you think I wasn’t angry when you burnt down my house because you were convinced I was cheating on you?" he challenged, his voice rising. "I wasn’t, by the way. I have never cheated on you. But you left before I could tell you." Meg flinched, memories of the past rushing back. She tried to steel herself, but the truth of his words cut deep.

"That was one time—"

"And what about the time you cursed my library, turning all my books into snakes because I spent ‘too much time’ studying magic?" Balthazar interrupted, his voice a mix of hurt and anger. "Or when you hexed my mirrors so every reflection showed your face, just because you thought I admired my own reflection more than I admired you?" Meg clenched her fists, trying to hold onto her anger.

"Those were different. I was—"

"And the time you enchanted my garden to bloom with poisonous flowers, because you were jealous of a simple healer visiting for lessons?" Balthazar continued, his eyes flashing with frustration. "You’ve destroyed parts of my life too, Meg. Over and over again." The words hung in the air, their shared history painted with vivid strokes of magic and chaos. Meg’s anger wavered, the raw truth of their past piercing through her defences. She took a shaky breath trying to steady herself. "You act impulsively, Meg. Every time I think you'll stay, that we could 'pretend' for a little longer, you leave," Balthazar said, his voice softening with a mix of sadness and understanding. Meg looked at him, her eyes narrowing.

"You’ve ruined plenty for me, too, Balthazar," she snapped. "What about that time I fell for the fisherman who always gave me a special price on his catch? You turned his boat into a rotting pile of driftwood because you thought he was taking too much of my attention." Balthazar nodded, a flicker of amusem*nt in his eyes.

"Yes, or like the time I convinced that charming apothecary to move to a different town because he was getting too close to you. Or the time I enchanted your favourite restaurant to close down every time you had a date scheduled there. Or when I cursed the theatre owner’s daughter you fancied so she couldn't remember any of her lines and had to leave the city in disgrace." Meg’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat.

"You did all that?" she whispered, a mixture of disbelief and anger in her voice. "You sabotaged every chance I had at finding happiness with someone else?"

"Yes, I did.” Balthazar sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, Meg. Every time I saw you with someone else, it felt like a knife to the heart. I know it was wrong, but I couldn't help myself." The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their confessions hanging in the air. Meg felt a myriad of emotions swirling within her—anger, sorrow, understanding, and an undeniable love that refused to be extinguished. "Do you see now?" Balthazar said quietly, his eyes searching hers. "This is where honesty gets us, Meg. Is this what you want? Is this what you think will make us better?" Meg looked into his eyes, seeing the depth of his struggle, the battle between his desires and his fears. She felt the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken plea for understanding.

"No, Balthazar," she said softly, her voice steadying. “I want to pretend.”

“Okay,” Balthazar’s eyes flickered with a mix of resignation and tenderness. He sighed deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Okay, Meg," he said softly, his voice carrying a gentle warmth. "Let's pretend." Meg took a hesitant step closer, her breath catching as she bridged the gap between them. Balthazar’s arms slowly encircled her, pulling her into a comforting embrace. The fabric of his coat was smooth against her cheek, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands. Meg nodded, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I like it when we pretend," she whispered, her voice barely audible. They stood there in silence, the world outside fading into an indistinct blur. The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow around them. Meg closed her eyes, letting the warmth of Balthazar's presence envelop her, a cocoon of solace amidst the chaos of their lives. The faint scent of his cologne, a blend of spices and something uniquely him, mingled with the fresh aroma of her newly bleached hair. It was an unfamiliar yet intoxicating combination that grounded her in the moment. She felt his breath against her ear, slow and steady, a rhythm that matched her own. Balthazar’s hands moved gently, one cradling the back of her head, the other tracing soothing circles on her back. The touch was tender, a silent promise of understanding and connection. Meg felt more tears escape, trailing down her cheeks to be absorbed by the fabric of his coat. She didn’t bother to brush them away; here, in his arms, it felt safe to let her emotions flow.

The minutes stretched on, each one filled with unspoken words and shared memories. Meg could feel the steady thrum of Balthazar’s heartbeat, a reassuring counterpoint to her own. It was in these quiet moments, she realised, that the essence of their bond lay. Not in the heated arguments or passionate declarations, but in the silent understanding that spoke volumes. The room around them seemed to hold its breath, the stillness broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards as they shifted slightly. Outside, the city was waking up, but within the sanctuary of their embrace, time seemed to stand still. Balthazar’s fingers continued their gentle caress, and Meg felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years. She allowed herself to relax fully, her body melting into his. The chaotic swirl of thoughts and emotions that had plagued her moments ago began to settle, replaced by a calm acceptance of their reality.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice muffled against his coat.

"For what?" Balthazar asked, his tone soft and curious.

"For this," Meg replied, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. "For pretending with me." Balthazar’s gaze held hers, a myriad of emotions flickering within the depths of his eyes.

"Always," he murmured, his lips curving into a gentle smile. "For you, always." They stood there a while longer, the morning light painting them in hues of gold and warmth. In that embrace, surrounded by the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, they found a moment of reprieve. It was a brief escape from the complexities of their past, a stolen fragment of time where they could simply be. Eventually, Meg pulled back, her fingers lingering on the lapels of Balthazar’s coat.

"Let's make that coffee," she suggested, her voice steady but soft. Balthazar nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I'd like that," he said, his smile deepening.

Balthazar and Meg moved towards the kitchenette, their steps in sync as they left the cocoon of the living room. The space was a testament to Meg’s unique blend of modern practicality and mystical charm. The scent of lavender and rosemary wafted through the air, a soothing reminder of the herbal remedies she often concocted. The kitchenette, though small, was equipped with all the essentials. A kettle, perpetually ready for a comforting cup of tea, stood next to a well-worn coffee press. Meg reached for the vintage jar that held her favourite coffee beans, the glass catching the morning light and casting tiny rainbows across the countertops. Balthazar watched her with a fond smile, leaning casually against the counter.

"You know," he said, his tone light and admiring, "this new hair of yours really does bring out the mischief in your eyes." Meg chuckled softly, pouring the beans into the grinder.

"Flattery, flattery," she teased, her eyes sparkling with a mix of amusem*nt and affection. She began to grind the coffee beans, the rich aroma filling the flat. The sound was rhythmic and familiar, a comforting backdrop to their conversation. Balthazar stepped closer, his presence warm and reassuring. He reached out to help, his hands brushing against hers as he took the handle.

"Let me," he offered, his voice soft. Meg relinquished the grinder, watching as he expertly ground the beans. His movements were fluid, almost hypnotic, and she found herself momentarily lost in the sight of him. There was something inherently captivating about Balthazar, a charm that was impossible to ignore, even when she tried. As the last of the beans were ground, Balthazar transferred them to the coffee press, pouring hot water over them with practised ease. He glanced at Meg, his eyes twinkling with a playful light. "You always did have a knack for creating the perfect sanctuary," he remarked, gesturing to the flat around them. Meg smiled, feeling a swell of pride.

"It’s my little escape from the chaos," she said, her voice tinged with affection. "Everything here has its place." She looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the eclectic collection of jars, books, and trinkets that adorned the shelves. Each item told a story, a piece of her past woven into the fabric of her present. The vintage rug, with its intricate patterns, added a touch of old-world elegance to the flat, grounding her in both the magical and the mundane. Balthazar poured the coffee, the rich, dark liquid swirling into two mismatched mugs. He handed one to Meg, their fingers brushing briefly, sending a spark of electricity between them. Meg took a sip, savouring the warmth and depth of the flavour.

"Perfect, as always," she said, her eyes meeting his. Balthazar grinned, taking a sip from his own mug.

"I learned from the best."

They moved back to the living room, settling onto the couch. The morning light continued to stream through the windows, casting a soft, golden glow over the space. Meg curled her legs beneath her, cradling the mug in her hands. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the air between them filled with unspoken understanding. Meg's mind drifted to the stolen books that lined her shelves, each one a piece of their shared history. She had taken them in moments of anger, of defiance, but now they served as a reminder of the bond they could never quite sever.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Balthazar asked suddenly, breaking the silence. Meg looked up, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Of course," she replied. "How could I forget? You were so arrogant." Balthazar chuckled, the sound rich and warm.

"I prefer to think of it as confident," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusem*nt. "But yes, I suppose I was rather insufferable." Meg’s eyes where half-closed as she let her mind wander back to that fateful day centuries ago.

"You know," she began softly, "our first meeting wasn’t exactly a shining moment for either of us." Balthazar nodded, his expression contemplative.

"I remember it well," he said. "You had been so determined, so fiery."Meg smiled faintly, the memories flooding back with vivid clarity. She had been in her first lifetime then, a young and ambitious witch, eager to prove herself. The stories she had heard about Balthazar’s power and wisdom had drawn her to him like a moth to a flame. She had journeyed through the Welsh countryside, seeking the hidden grove where he was said to dwell. The grove had been a sanctuary of magic, untouched by the mundane world. The air had been thick with the scent of wildflowers and the hum of ancient enchantments. Trees had formed a natural archway, their branches intertwined like the fingers of old friends. Meg had stepped into that sacred space, her heart pounding with anticipation and a touch of fear. She had seen him then, standing in the centre of the grove, his presence commanding and serene. Balthazar had been over two thousand years old at the time, his power and experience evident in the way he moved, the way he spoke. His eyes had been a deep, knowing blue, and his hair had fallen in golden waves around his shoulders.

"I remember how you looked," Balthazar said, his voice pulling her back to the present. "You were so young, so full of fire and ambition." Meg chuckled softly.

"And you were insufferably arrogant," she replied, a teasing glint in her eyes. "You humiliated me." Balthazar smiled, a hint of nostalgia in his gaze.

"You had challenged me," he said. "I couldn’t let that go untested." She had challenged him, indeed. Her own youthful arrogance had driven her to prove herself worthy of his tutelage. She had cast a spell, one she had thought powerful enough to impress him. But Balthazar had countered it effortlessly, his own magic flowing like a river, smooth and unyielding. The ground had trembled beneath her feet, and she had found herself on her knees, humbled and humiliated. "You told me you didn’t take students anymore," Meg said, her voice quiet. "And I was furious." Balthazar nodded.

"Indeed, you were. You went off on me, yelling and cursing. Your eyes blazed with anger, and I saw something in you that I hadn’t seen in centuries." He had smirked at her, a look that had only fueled her rage. She had yelled at him, her chest heaving with frustration and indignation. She had told him he was a coward, that he was afraid to teach because he feared being surpassed.

"And then you said yes," Meg whispered, her eyes meeting his. "You told me I was fire." Balthazar smiled, a gentle warmth in his gaze.

"Because you were," he said softly. "You are. You had a spark in you, Meg, one that couldn’t be ignored."

She had been caught off guard by his sudden change of heart. She had stared at him, her anger giving way to confusion and a flicker of hope. Balthazar had stepped closer, his eyes serious and intent.

"I’ll teach you," he had said. "But know this: it won’t be easy. Fire needs to be controlled, tempered. Are you ready for that?" Meg had nodded, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement.

"I am," she had said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within her.

Their first kiss had been a collision of tempers and passions. It had happened after Meg struggled for weeks with a particularly complex spell. Each time she failed, Balthazar's pointed corrections only fueled her frustration. She had stormed into the grove one evening, determined to prove herself. The air had been thick with the scent of impending rain, the sky overhead a canvas of turbulent greys and purples. Meg had stood at the centre of the grove, her heart pounding as she attempted the spell once more. Her hands had moved with a determined grace, the words of the incantation leaving her lips in a fervent whisper. But as she reached the final stanza, her concentration faltered, and the spell fizzled into nothing. Furious, she had turned to Balthazar, who watched her with a mixture of amusem*nt and exasperation.

"Why can't I get it right?" she had shouted, her voice echoing through the grove. Balthazar had approached her, his expression unreadable.

"Because you’re trying too hard," he had said calmly. "Magic isn’t just about power. It’s about balance. You need to find your centre." His words, though meant to be helpful, had only inflamed her further.

"I don’t need balance," she had snapped. "I need to be stronger. I need to be better." Balthazar had sighed, shaking his head.

"Strength isn’t everything, Meg. You need to learn control. You need to—"But she had cut him off, her frustration boiling over.

"I need you to stop talking and show me!" In that moment, their eyes had locked, and something had shifted between them. The storm in the sky seemed to mirror the storm within her, and before she knew it, she had closed the distance between them. Their lips had met in a heated kiss, all the anger and tension between them dissolving into a raw, uncontained passion. The kiss had been a revelation, a merging of their energies that left them both breathless. Meg had felt a surge of power unlike anything she had ever known, as if their very souls were intertwining. They had pulled apart, gasping for air, their eyes wide with the realisation of what had just happened.

"That was..." Meg had begun, her voice trembling.

"Unexpected," Balthazar had finished for her, his own breath coming in ragged bursts. But the pull between them had been undeniable, and it wasn’t long before they had found themselves tangled in each other’s arms once more. That night, amidst the wildflowers and ancient trees, they had crossed a line that would forever alter their relationship. Their copulation had been a fusion of magic and desire, a dance of light and shadows that left them both irrevocably changed. As they lay entwined afterwards, Meg had looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead, her mind spinning with the magnitude of what had just occurred. She had felt a sense of completeness, a deep connection that transcended the physical. Balthazar had traced lazy circles on her skin, his touch sending shivers down her spine.

"You’re not just fire, Meg," he had whispered. "You’re the flame that gives life to the darkness. The light that guides through the shadows."

In the present, Meg sipped her coffee, the memories of those early days swirling in her mind like the steam rising from her mug. She glanced at Balthazar, who was lost in his own thoughts, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Do you ever regret it?" she asked quietly, breaking the comfortable silence. "Everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve done?" Balthazar looked at her, his eyes softening.

"Regret?" he echoed."No, Meg. I don’t regret any of it. Every moment with you, every challenge we faced, it’s all part of what makes us... us." Meg felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words.

"I suppose you’re right," she said, her voice tinged with affection. As they sat together, sipping their coffee and sharing silent memories, Meg knew that they would continue to navigate the stormy waters of their relationship. They would face whatever came next, together. For now, in the quiet embrace of their shared history and the promise of the future, they found a moment of solace. Meg leaned back against the couch, her fingers intertwined with Balthazar’s. "Let’s pretend," she whispered, her voice carrying a note of hope and determination.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

Half a year ago, Dean would wake up on a Monday morning in his apartment, stretching luxuriously before getting up or savouring the feeling of waking up next to someone. The morning would be easy, simple, and Dean wouldn't feel this knot of unease that gnawed at him now. Back then, he didn't feel happy all the time, but at least it was better than this. Today was Monday morning, and Dean felt sick. He had stayed in his room all day yesterday, his mind reeling, cursing himself out for having ruined Castiel’s hoodie, the first nice gesture Castiel had extended to him, breaking the fragile trust they had begun to build. In his old life, he would be making his way to the American bistro where he worked by walking, not waiting for someone to pick him up. Dean stood in the kitchen, looking out of the window, waiting for the yellow car to arrive. In his old life, he would be greeted by Ellen, the bistro's owner, or her daughter Jo, who might sometimes have been the one sharing his bed. He could almost hear Ellen's boisterous laughter and Jo's playful teasing as he remembered their mornings together.

The honking of Charlie's yellow car snapped Dean from his memories. He grabbed his coat and headed out, feeling the cold January air biting at his cheeks as he trudged through the snow towards the car. Charlie greeted him with a warm smile, though her eyes flickered with concern.

"Morning, Dean. Ready for another day?" she asked, her tone light, but Dean could sense the underlying worry.

"Yeah, sure," he replied, trying to muster a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Another day.” During the drive, Dean stared out of the window, watching the landscape of the Novak territory pass by. The farm with its family houses arranged in a half-circle, the fields now blanketed with snow, the barns and outbuildings standing silent and still. The road to town seemed to stretch endlessly, and the knot in his stomach tightened. Charlie glanced over at him, sensing something was wrong.

"You seem off today, Dean. Everything alright?" Dean sighed, turning to face her.

"Just... didn't sleep well, I guess." Charlie nodded, but her concern didn't fade.

"Well, if you need to talk or anything, you know I'm here, right?"

"Thanks, Charlie," Dean replied, grateful for her words, even if he wasn't ready to open up about what was really bothering him. As they approached the town, the familiar sights brought a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. Dean remembered walking these streets, the smell of fresh bread from the bakery, the chatter of neighbours, and the warmth of a community that felt so distant now.

Per usual Charlie parked the car behind the restaurant, and 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. He donned his apron and fell into the rhythm of chopping, stirring, and grilling, the motions familiar and comforting. For a few hours, he could push aside thoughts of his predicament and lose himself in the art of cooking.

Lunch service went by in a blur of orders and plates, the rush of activity a balm to his troubled mind. As the last of the lunch orders went out, Dean stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, the cold wind a stark contrast to the heat of the kitchen. He lit a cigarette he had snagged of that tall guy, taking a long drag and letting the smoke curl around him, the nicotine providing a momentary relief. Charlie found him outside, her expression a mix of concern and determination.

"Dean, I know something's bothering you. Do you want to talk about it?" Dean exhaled slowly, the smoke mingling with the winter air.

"It's just... everything, Charlie. It's all getting to me."

"I get it.” Charlie nodded, her eyes understanding. “But you have people who care about you, Dean. Don't forget that." Dean felt a lump form in his throat, the weight of her words sinking in.

"Thanks, Charlie. I just need to figure things out." She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"And you will. Just take it one step at a time." Dean nodded, grateful for her support. He flicked the cigarette butt into the snow and headed back inside.

As the afternoon settled into the kitchen, Dean returned to his station, preparing for the evening rush. The prep work required precision and focus, two things he clung to in order to keep his mind from wandering too much. He set about slicing vegetables with expert speed, the rhythm of the knife against the cutting board was a comforting soundtrack. At least the kitchen, with its gleaming stainless steel surfaces and the hum of equipment, felt like a home. Each station had its own unique set of tools and ingredients, creating a sense of order and purpose. Dean took a moment to appreciate the familiar scents that filled the air: the sharp tang of onions, the earthy aroma of mushrooms, and the fragrant herbs that added depth to every dish. Dean's hands moved almost automatically, muscle memory guiding him through the motions. But his mind drifted to Charlie. Her concern earlier had seemed genuine, yet doubts lingered. He couldn't forget how she hadn't defended him when Castiel had gotten hurt. Her loyalty to Gabriel, as Balthazar had pointed out, might mean she was only looking out for her own interests.

"Dean, can you pass me the parsley?" one of his coworkers asked, breaking his reverie.

"Sure thing," Dean replied, handing over the fresh herbs. He tried to shake off his thoughts and focus on the task at hand. There was a lot to do before dinner service began, and he needed to be on top of his game. He moved to the grill, where the meats needed marinating. The rich, smoky smell of beef mingled with the citrusy tang of lemon and the pungent aroma of garlic. Dean meticulously applied the marinade, ensuring each piece was thoroughly coated. As he worked, he couldn't help but replay the events of the past few months in his mind. Charlie's voice broke through his thoughts.

"Dean, how's the marinade coming along?"

"Almost done," he replied, glancing over his shoulder. Charlie was checking on everyone, her presence commanding and efficient. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and her eyes scanned the kitchen with the sharp focus of a seasoned chef. Dean finished with the marinade and moved on to the sauces. The rich, velvety textures and complex flavours were crucial to the dishes they served. He whisked together a reduction, the steam rising and mingling with the already heady atmosphere of the kitchen. The sounds of sizzling pans, clattering utensils, and the murmur of his colleagues created a symphony of culinary chaos. As the evening approached, the kitchen buzzed with a heightened sense of anticipation. Orders would start pouring in soon, and the team needed to be ready. Dean worked on plating, each dish a piece of art. The vibrant colours of the vegetables, the perfectly seared meats, and the delicate garnishes all came together to create something beautiful. Despite the hustle, Dean's mind kept returning to Charlie. He couldn't help but question her motives. Was her concern real, or was it just another layer of the complicated dynamics at play in the Novak territory? Balthazar's words echoed in his mind, deepening his suspicions. Charlie's need to be loyal to Gabriel for the sake of her family added another dimension to her actions, making Dean wary.

As dinner service began, the kitchen exploded into action. Orders came in rapid succession, and the team moved with practised efficiency. Dean focused on his station, his hands flying over the ingredients, each movement precise and deliberate. He called out to his colleagues, coordinating the timing of the dishes to ensure everything went out perfectly.

"Three salmon, two steaks medium-rare, and a vegetarian special," Dean called out, his voice steady amidst the chaos.

"Got it," replied another chef, her hands deftly working on the grill. Dean's station became a whirlwind of activity. He sautéed, grilled, and plated with the skill of someone who had spent years honing his craft. The heat from the stoves radiated around him, but he barely noticed, his focus entirely on the task at hand. The evening wore on, each dish that left the kitchen a testament to their hard work. Dean found a strange comfort in the routine, the controlled chaos of dinner service providing a welcome distraction from his thoughts. Yet, every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of Charlie, her interactions with the staff, her encouraging words, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was more to her than met the eye.

"Order up!" Dean called, setting a beautifully plated dish on the pass. Charlie inspected it, her keen eye catching even the slightest imperfection.

"Perfect, Dean," she said with a nod, sending the dish out to the dining room. He appreciated her praise, but the nagging doubt remained. As the night drew to a close, the kitchen slowly wound down. Dean helped with the cleanup, the familiar routine grounding him. He scrubbed the counters, washed the pans, and organized his station for the next day.

When the kitchen quieted down, Dean took a moment to catch his breath. The evening had been a whirlwind of activity, but the satisfaction of a job well done settled over him. He cleaned his station meticulously, every movement deliberate, almost meditative. The hum of the refrigerators and the clinking of utensils being put away created a soothing background noise. Charlie approached him as he was finishing up, her face still flushed from the evening's exertions.

"Great work tonight, Dean. You really pulled through."

"Thanks," he replied, his voice tinged with fatigue. "It was a busy night."

"It always is," she said with a smile. "But we got through it. Let's get some rest, and then do the whole thing all over again tomorrow." Dean nodded, appreciating her words but unable to shake the lingering doubts about her true intentions. He grabbed his jacket and followed Charlie out to her car. The night air was crisp, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth.

As they drove through the darkened streets, Dean stared out the window, the scenery passing by in a blur. It was a quiet drive, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence between them. The headlights carved a path through the darkness, illuminating patches of road and casting fleeting shadows that danced along the trees. Dean furrowed his brow, lost in thought. Something about the way Charlie drove caught his attention. In the mornings, her driving seemed different, more purposeful, as if she were following a well-worn path. Tonight, her driving felt more relaxed, almost leisurely. He watched the way her hands moved on the steering wheel, the slight adjustments she made as they navigated the winding roads. A realisation struck him suddenly, like a flash of insight. Charlie drove different routes on different days, too. Mondays were not the same as Wednesdays, and Fridays had their own unique rhythm. This inconsistency was why he had struggled to make sense of an escape route. Each time he thought he had memorised the way, the route would change, leaving him disoriented and unsure. He glanced at Charlie, her profile illuminated by the dashboard lights. She seemed focused on the road, unaware of his scrutiny. Dean's mind raced, piecing together the implications of his newfound understanding. If she varied her routes deliberately, it meant she was aware of his intentions, or at least cautious enough to prevent him from finding a predictable path.

"Charlie," he began, his voice steady, masking the turmoil of his thoughts. "Why do you drive differently on different days?" Charlie paled, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"Dean, I..." The hesitation in her voice confirmed his suspicions. She didn't need to say more. Dean realised it must have been an order from Gabriel, a precaution to keep him in check. The betrayal stung, deepening his sense of isolation.

"Never mind," he muttered, turning his gaze back to the passing scenery. The rest of the drive was steeped in silence, the unspoken truth hanging heavily between them. Dean felt defeated, the hope of understanding or escaping slipping further from his grasp. He watched the world outside the window, the darkness closing in, and the flicker of lights passing by like distant, unreachable stars.

Charlie dropped Dean off, and as he unlocked the door, he could tell by the stillness in the air that Castiel was either not home or already asleep. The house had a peculiar kind of quiet that felt almost tangible, like the hush that settles after a storm. Dean kicked off his boots in the hallway, the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards the only sound in the silence. Norma, with her sleek black fur and bright gooseberry green eyes, trotted up to him, rubbing against his legs in greeting. Dean bent down and whispered to her, his voice soft.

"Hey, Norma. Miss me?" The kitten purred in response, her tiny body vibrating with the sound. She turned and padded towards Castiel's bedroom door, her tail held high. Dean followed, his footsteps light on the floor. Norma stopped in front of the door and looked back at him expectantly, her eyes wide and pleading. It was as if she had been waiting for Dean to come home just so that he could open the door for her. Dean reached for the handle and pushed it down, but it was locked. He sighed and scooped up Norma, cradling her against his chest. She gazed up at him with those expressive eyes, her whiskers twitching. "Sorry, Norma, no dice," he murmured, stroking her soft fur. "Guess you're stuck with me for now." Norma meowed softly, nuzzling his chin. Dean carried her up to the living room, where the faint glow of the moon filtered through the curtains, casting silvery patterns on the floor. He sank onto the couch, letting Norma curl up on his lap. The gentle rise and fall of her breathing provided a small comfort in the stillness of the night.

Dean's mind drifted back to the drive with Charlie, the revelation that she had been consistently changing the routes gnawing at him. It felt like another layer of the cage that surrounded him, a reminder of how carefully his every move was being monitored. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone he could truly trust in this place. He leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. The events of the day played through his mind, a tangled web of thoughts and emotions. The satisfaction of a successful dinner service, the camaraderie of the kitchen, and the nagging doubts about Charlie's loyalty all swirled together, leaving him feeling restless.

Norma's soft purring gradually lulled him into a more relaxed state. He opened his eyes and glanced around the room, noting the small details that made this place a strange mix of home and prison. The scent of pine and earth lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the forest that surrounded them. The shadows danced on the walls, shifting with the movement of the trees outside. Dean sighed, his breath a whisper in the quiet room. He knew he couldn’t change his situation overnight, but he had to keep moving forward, keep looking for a way out. For now, he would take solace in the small comforts, like the warmth of Norma on his lap and the fleeting moments of peace that he could find in the midst of the chaos. He gently set Norma aside and stood up, stretching his tired muscles. The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards as he made his way to his bedroom. He paused outside the door, listening for any signs of movements in the house, but there was nothing.

"Goodnight, Castiel," he whispered, even though he knew there would be no response.

Dean sat down on the edge of his bed, too tired to even consider a shower. The room was dimly lit by a small bedside lamp, casting a warm, amber glow that softened the edges of the furniture. He let out a weary sigh and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the day's grime and sweat. The soft linens of the bed beneath him were inviting, but his mind was too restless for sleep just yet. His thoughts drifted back to the drive with Charlie, the way she had paled when confronted with his question. It was clearer now that she too was under Gabriel's orders, and that realisation stung more than he cared to admit. He had always harboured a small hope that Charlie might be an ally, someone who could help him get out or at least navigate this strange existence. But tonight had chipped away at that hope, leaving him feeling more isolated than ever. Norma had followed him into the bedroom and now hopped up beside him, her tiny paws making barely a sound on the bedspread. She meowed softly, a comforting presence in the otherwise silent room. Dean scratched behind her ears, the simple act grounding him momentarily.

“What are we going to do, huh?” he whispered to the kitten, who responded with a contented purr. “I’m running out of ideas.” He laid back on the bed, letting his eyes roam over the ceiling. The patterns of light and shadow created by the lamp seemed to move and shift, almost like a living entity. It was a reminder of the magic that permeated this place, a constant undercurrent that he could never fully escape. Dean's thoughts wandered to Castiel, and a pang of worry twisted in his chest. Castiel had been his anchor, his steady rock in the midst of chaos, even if it was one that would sink to the bottom of the ocean in a matter of seconds at the first sight of a disagreement. But now, even he felt distant, locked away behind that door with secrets of his own. The soft hoot of an owl outside the window broke the silence, pulling Dean from his reverie. He closed his eyes, trying to piece together a plan, but every thought seemed to lead to a dead end. It was as if the very air around him conspired to keep him trapped, each path he considered twisted and changed by unseen hands. So he willed his mind to return to the kitchen, the rhythm of the dinner service still fresh in his memory. The clatter of pots, the sizzle of food on the grill, the camaraderie of the kitchen staff—these were the moments that made him feel most alive. Yet even in that environment, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, every action scrutinised. Norma’s soft purring grew louder as she nestled closer, her warmth a small comfort in the darkness. Dean stroked her fur absently, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. The image of the kitchen got all the more poisoned by Balthazar’s words, reminding him that Charlie’s loyalty to Gabriel was driven by necessity rather than choice. It made sense, but it didn’t make the betrayal any easier to swallow.

He knew he couldn’t afford to wallow in despair. There had to be a way out, a way to break free from Gabriel’s grasp. But tonight, he would find solace in the small comforts: the warmth of Norma by his side, the soft glow of the lamp, and the fleeting moments of peace that he could carve out from the chaos. He shifted, pulling the covers over himself and Norma. The bed was soft, the linens cool against his skin. As he lay there, he let his thoughts drift aimlessly, hoping that sleep would come and bring with it a brief respite from his worries. The sound of Norma's gentle purring filled the room, a lullaby that slowly coaxed him towards the edges of slumber.

“Goodnight, Castiel,” he whispered again, this time softer, as if the words themselves could bridge the distance between them. With that, Dean finally allowed himself to succumb to the embrace of sleep, hoping that tomorrow would bring new clarity, and perhaps, a glimmer of hope.

Dean drifted in and out of restless sleep, his mind refusing to grant him the peace he so desperately needed. Each time he managed to doze off, some thought or memory jolted him awake, leaving him staring at the ceiling in the dim light of his room. The first time he woke, it was Balthazar's voice echoing in his mind. The witch's words about knowing Dean was trying to escape replayed over and over, like a haunting refrain. Dean tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around him as he tried to push the thought away. How much did Balthazar know? Had he been watching him the whole time, reporting back to Gabriel? When he finally fell back asleep, it wasn't long before he was startled awake again. This time, it was the memory of Gabriel's cold, calculating gaze. The packleader had grown more impatient, less willing to tolerate Dean's defiance. The subtle threats, the tightening grip on his freedom—Gabriel was done playing nice. Dean could feel the noose tightening, the walls closing in. The room felt too quiet, the silence pressing in on him from all sides. He could hear his own heartbeat, a steady thrum that seemed to amplify the tension in his chest. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and planting his feet on the cool floor. Norma stirred beside him, her small body shifting in sleep but not waking. Dean rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the feeling of dread that clung to him. He thought of Castiel, the look of hurt on his face when he found out that Dean had ruined the hoodie. It had been a small, almost insignificant moment in the grand scheme of things, but it weighed heavily on him. Castiel had given him that hoodie as a gesture of trust, a symbol of their bond. And Dean had failed to protect it, just as he feared he was failing to protect Castiel. He stood up, padding quietly to the window. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a silvery glow across the room. Outside, the trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves rustling like whispers in the night. Dean pressed his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Get it together, Dean," he muttered to himself. "You can't afford to fall apart now." He knew he had to find a way to regain control, to outsmart Gabriel and Balthazar. But the path forward seemed so murky, the obstacles insurmountable. Every time he thought he had a plan, it crumbled beneath the weight of reality. He needed a new approach, something they wouldn't see coming. As the night wore on, Dean found himself pacing the room, his mind racing with possibilities. Charlie’s betrayal was still fresh in his mind. Could he use her divided loyalties to his advantage? And what about Castiel? Was there a way to protect him without exposing his plans? He returned to bed eventually, lying down but keeping his eyes open, staring into the darkness. Sleep came in short, fitful bursts, each dream a chaotic mix of faces and places, fears and hopes. He saw Gabriel's smirk, Balthazar's knowing glance, Charlie's pale face, and Castiel's pained expression. The images blended together, creating a tapestry of his current reality—a reality he desperately wanted to change.

In the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, Dean finally fell into a deeper sleep. His body, exhausted from the constant tension, demanded rest. Norma curled up next to him, her warmth a small comfort in the vast uncertainty that surrounded him. Dean's last conscious thought was a silent promise to himself: he would not let Gabriel or Balthazar break him. And with that, he let the darkness take him, hoping that the day ahead would bring a clearer path.

When Dean woke again, the sun was already high in the sky, its rays filtering through the curtains and casting warm patterns across the room. He groaned, rubbing his face as he sat up, realising he had overslept. The missed opportunity to leave the grounds with Charlie gnawed at him, a stark reminder of his precarious situation. He sat in bed, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the headboard. His thoughts churned, grappling with what he could do today. Frustration and determination mixed within him, pushing him to find a new angle, a new way to break free. His eyes shot open as a realisation struck him. The only room in the house with a lock mechanism, aside from the front and back doors, was Castiel's bedroom. He remembered what Charlie had told him about how Castiel and Balthazar had built this house, crafting it to fit Castiel’s needs perfectly. Despite Gabriel's claim that Dean’s room, Castiel’s old art studio, had been the master bedroom on the blueprint, the layout suggested a different story. Balthazar —or perhaps Castiel— had known exactly what he was doing when creating the house's design. All the essentials were on the ground floor: the bedroom, dining room, kitchen, and a bathroom. The things that could grant Castiel an escape were on the second floor, safely away from the pack’s reach: the library, living room, and the art studio, which had been transformed into Dean's bedroom before his wedding to Castiel. Of course the only room that was close to the pack and had a lock was Castiel’s bedroom. Castiel did seem to have a knack for locking himself away, creating a sanctuary within the confines of their home.

Dean rose from the bed, the gears in his mind turning rapidly. If he could understand the reasoning behind the house's layout, he might find a clue or a loophole to exploit. He moved quietly through the house, his steps careful and deliberate. He reached Castiel's bedroom door, the memories of last night's reflections still fresh in his mind. Norma trotted alongside him, her green eyes curious and watchful. Dean knelt down, inspecting the lock mechanism. It was sturdy, designed to keep intruders out or, perhaps more accurately, to keep Castiel safe inside. He stood up, his gaze sweeping over the door and the surrounding walls.

“Why here, Castiel?” he whispered, as if expecting the walls to answer. “What were you trying to protect?” He moved to the stairs, ascending to the second floor with a newfound sense of purpose. The library was filled with books, their spines a riot of colours and textures. Dean ran his fingers along them, thinking about the countless hours Castiel must have spent here, lost in the pages of these tomes. The living room was next, a space designed for comfort and solace. The furniture was arranged thoughtfully, every piece inviting relaxation and contemplation. Dean could almost see Castiel sitting there, a book in hand, his expression serene.

Finally, he reached the art studio. It was a room transformed, now filled with Dean's belongings, but he could still feel the remnants of its original purpose. When Dean took a deep breath he could smell the faint scent of paint and turpentine lingered in the air, a ghost of Castiel's past creativity. Dean walked to the window, looking out at the sprawling landscape beyond the house. A plan began to form in his mind, born from the understanding that this house was more than just a place to live—it was a reflection of Castiel's soul, a fortress and a haven. And if he could tap into that, he might find the key to freedom – his or theirs.

He turned away from the window, determination hardening his resolve. Today, he would start small, exploring every nook and cranny of the house, seeking out its secrets. He would pay attention to the little details, the hidden mechanisms, the subtle clues left behind by Castiel and Balthazar. As he descended the stairs, Norma following closely, Dean felt a glimmer of hope. The house held answers, he was sure of it. And he would uncover them, one way or another. He would find a way to outsmart Gabriel and Balthazar. The battle was far from over, and Dean was ready to fight. Norma meowed softly as she rubbed against his legs, her presence grounding him in the moment. He bent down to scratch behind her ears, his thoughts momentarily soothed by the simple act.

"Hey, girl," he murmured. "Looks like we've got some investigating to do." Dean's gaze wandered to the spandrel beneath the stairs, noticing a slight irregularity in the panelling. Intrigued, he moved closer, running his fingers along the edges. The panel was slightly misaligned, a subtle gap indicating it might be movable. With careful precision, Dean applied pressure to various points, searching for a hidden latch or mechanism. Norma watched intently, her eyes wide with curiosity. After a few moments, he felt a slight give beneath his fingers. With a soft click, the panel swung open, revealing a space behind it. Dean looked at Norma and said, "Looks like we may need a candle."

Dean and Norma went into the kitchen, quickly glancing at the clock. It told him he would probably have about two hours before Castiel would probably come back home. He grabbed a candle from the drawer and lit it, the flame flickering softly in the dim light. With the candle lit, Dean and Norma ventured into the hidden room. A plethora of dust covered the wilted plants that lined and climbed the walls, their dried tendrils casting eerie shadows in the candlelight. Norma and Dean exchanged a glance before approaching the desk. The desk looked as if someone had left in a hurry, papers scattered and a thin layer of dust settling over everything. As Norma jumped up, a cloud of dust floated into the air, causing Norma to sneeze and Dean to cough. When he coughed he turned away from Norma, catching the way metallic pieces caught the candlelight and noticed the three bolt-style latch on the inside of the door. Soon their attention returned to the desk, cluttered with books and papers. Some of the books were old, their covers worn and pages yellowed with age. One book lay open, revealing a notebook filled with detailed descriptions of an experiment. Dean read through it but understood little beyond the fact that the experiment had failed and the writer had stopped mid-sentence, likely due to some unforeseen event.

Dean flipped through the notebook, noting some illustrations, but he couldn't grasp the source material. He picked up one of the older books and sighed when he realised he couldn't read the language. Yet, he recognised enough to understand that it was probably an old medical book. His thoughts drifted back to a conversation he had with Castiel about the medical doctors in Dr. Sexy M.D. and the healers in the Novak pack. Castiel had explained to Dean that their healers were different from modern medics, using traditional methods like herbs, potions, and spells. These healers could often sense what was wrong without even touching the patient. Dean, intrigued, had likened it to something out of a fantasy novel. Castiel had clarified that these healers, who were wolves like the rest of their pack, were respected for their sacred knowledge passed down through generations—not witches. Dean had expressed a desire to learn more about Castiel's world, including its traditions, magic, and history, feeling it was important for their relationship. Castiel, surprised and touched, had agreed to share more about his world.

The realisation hit Dean with a sudden clarity. Castiel and Balthazar built this house, this was not some old forgotten study he had happened upon; this room must have been a sanctuary for Castiel to learn healing without being found out. Then Dean remembered when he had cleaned up the garden a few months ago and Castiel had told him that he liked it better before. Maybe it wasn’t to be rude like Dean had originally thought but because there had been things growing out there that Dean had removed without knowing their significance. Perhaps in telling Dean he didn't like it Castiel thought it would discourage him from looking too closely. Dean looked around the room, seeing it now with new eyes. It was a place of learning and secrecy, a testament to Castiel's dedication to his craft. Dean's heart ached with the understanding of how much Castiel had to hide, even from him.

"I think we've found something important, Norma." He whispered to Norma, who purred in response, rubbing against his leg. Dean carefully closed the books and began to tidy up the desk, respecting the space and its purpose. He knew he couldn't leave it in disarray. As he worked, he felt a renewed sense of determination. He would find a way to support Castiel, to understand and respect his world fully.

Dean and Norma spent hours in the hidden room, inspecting its contents with a mixture of curiosity and reverence. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried herbs, a library of forgotten knowledge waiting to be uncovered. Dean ran his fingers over the spines of the ancient books, their titles barely legible through the layers of dust. Norma prowled the perimeter, occasionally sniffing at the wilted plants that had once thrived under careful cultivation.

Dean's attention returned to the notebook that had been open when they first entered. He picked it up, handling it delicately, as if it might crumble under too much pressure. The pages were filled with intricate diagrams and handwritten notes, the ink had bleed in some places but was still legible. He squinted at the text, trying to decipher the unfamiliar terminology and complex formulas. The first few pages detailed various herbal mixtures and their intended effects. Dean could recognise some of the ingredients from his limited knowledge of traditional remedies—lavender, chamomile, valerian root—but many others were completely foreign to him. The descriptions were meticulous, outlining precise measurements and preparation methods. Despite the careful documentation, each entry ended with a note of failure, a single line stating that the desired result had not been achieved. He flipped through the pages slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration. Each entry seemed to follow a similar pattern: a hypothesis, a detailed experiment, and a conclusion that always ended in disappointment. One page caught his eye, the script more hurried and desperate than the others. The experiment involved a complex potion meant to accelerate healing. The ingredients included several rare plants, some of which Dean recognised from Castiel's garden. The final note read, ‘Unsuccessful. Reaction unstable. Further research required.’ Dean's frustration grew as he continued to read. The more he tried to understand, the more elusive the knowledge seemed. He could sense the dedication and frustration of the writer, the endless cycle of hope and failure. It was clear that whoever had written these notes had been relentless in their pursuit of healing –or understanding how one heals– yet their efforts had been met with repeated setbacks. Norma meowed softly, rubbing against his leg as if sensing his growing frustration. Dean set the notebook aside and stroked her fur, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. The room felt like a tomb of lost hopes, each failed experiment a testament to the challenges faced by the healer who had worked here.

Determined to make sense of the knowledge before him, Dean picked up the notebook once more and turned to the most recent entry. The handwriting was neater, more controlled. The experiment involved a combination of herbs and a peculiar mineral Dean didn't recognise. The purpose was to create a salve for deep wounds, something that could potentially save lives. The final note read, ‘Promising, but unstable. Needs further refinement.’ Dean traced the words with his finger, feeling a connection to the writer's struggle. The healer's journey had been one of perseverance and hope, despite the constant failures. Dean couldn't help but wonder if this had been Castiel's work, hiding his research on healing kept secret from everyone, including Gabriel.

With renewed determination, Dean decided to continue exploring the room. The sense of history and mystery in this hidden space deepened, drawing Dean further into its secrets and loosing track of time. The quiet companionship of Norma and the methodical task of sifting through the healer's notes provided a strange sense of solace.

The silence was broken when Norma accidentally knocked over a glass vial, shattering it on the floor. An aroma, rich and earthy, wafted through the air, a scent Dean hadn’t encountered in years. He bent down, quickly picking up Norma and inspecting her paws to ensure she wasn't hurt. She looked at him with wide, innocent eyes, and he sighed with relief when he found no injuries.

"Careful, Norma," he murmured, stroking her fur gently. He glanced around the hidden room, realising that they had been in there for hours, lost in their exploration. The dim afternoon light had shifted, casting longer shadows as the sun began to set. Panic surged through Dean as he thought about how soon Castiel might return. Dean hurriedly put things back in place the best he could and making that sure the hidden panel was securely closed before he carried Norma to the kitchen, setting her down on the table. His eyes darted to the clock on the wall, and his heart sank. It was late, and Castiel still wasn’t home. The eerie quiet of the house felt all too familiar, echoing the night of the accident. A knot of anxiety twisted in Dean’s stomach, making him feel nauseous. Norma meowed softly, her green eyes watching him intently. Dean paced the kitchen, his mind racing with worry. The minutes ticked by, each one stretching longer than the last. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the rising panic.

"Norma, what do we do?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The kitten tilted her head as if considering his question. After a few more minutes Dean decided he would go out and look for Castiel. He leaned down to stroke Norma’s fur, his voice soft. "It's too cold for you to come with, girl. Stay here and keep the house safe."

He grabbed his jacket and headed out into the crisp evening air, the sky awash with the hues of stars. His breath formed small clouds as he exhaled, each step crunching against the frosty ground. Dean’s mind raced, memories of finding Castiel in a dire state once before gnawing at him, churning his stomach. Instinctively, he walked straight to the barn. His heart pounded as his mind conjured up the image of Castiel lying on his stomach, bleeding out. The knot of anxiety tightened as he approached the barn, his breath hitching in his throat. However, the sight that greeted him was far from gory. Castiel was sitting comfortably on the floor, a young lamb nestled in his lap, drinking from a bottle. The scene was serene, a stark contrast to Dean’s fears.

"There you are," Dean said, relief flooding his voice.

"Here I am." Castiel replied, without looking up. Dean moved closer, sitting down next to Castiel.

"I’ve been waiting for you."

"I didn't realise you were home from work yet." Castiel continued to feed the lamb, his voice calm. “You usually get back in an hour, hour and a half from now.” Dean took a deep breath, deciding to tell the truth.

"I never went to work today.Slept half the day.” Castiel finally looked up, concern etched on his face.

"Are you sick?" Dean shook his head.

"No, just tired." Castiel hummed in response, turning his attention back to the lamb. The gentle, rhythmic suckling of the bottle filled the silence between them. Dean hesitated, then spoke softly. "I’m sorry about the hoodie." Castiel didn’t look up.

"Don’t be. If you want to tear the things I give you to shreds, who am I to say anything?"

Dean felt a wave of nausea wash over him, guilt gnawing at his insides. He wanted to explain, or to ask Castiel about the hidden room, but the words stuck in his throat. So, instead, he sat quietly, watching Castiel care for the lamb. The barn was filled with the earthy scent of hay and the soft murmurs of the animals settling down for the night. The setting sun cast long shadows across the floor, creating a tapestry of light and darkness. Dean’s thoughts drifted back to the notebook, the failed experiments, and the dedication of the healer who had once worked in secret. He felt a newfound respect for Castiel, a deeper understanding of the burdens he carried. As the lamb finished drinking, Castiel set the bottle aside and gently stroked its head. Dean watched, his heart heavy with unspoken words. He took a deep breath and decided to break the silence.

"What happened to its mother?" Dean asked softly, his eyes fixed on the lamb.

"Died in labour. Twins." Castiel didn't look up, his focus fully on the lamb. "Nature can be cruel like that, giving two lives and taking one." Castiel paused, met Dean's gaze, and asked, "Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?" The question took Dean by surprise. He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"I... I never really thought about it," he admitted, his voice uncertain. Castiel continued to stroke the lamb, his touch gentle and reassuring.

"Father always said that I would get hit by a truck." Dean let out a surprised laugh, though it was tinged with unease.

"That's a bit morbid."

“Maybe,” Castiel shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Or he was a practical man, who saw the world in black and white." Dean's thoughts drifted to his own fears, the anxieties that kept him up at night. He hesitated, then decided to share a piece of himself.

"I guess my biggest fear is not living up to my potential. Not doing something meaningful with my life."

"That's a common fear, Dean. But potential is a journey, not a destination."

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

Castiel sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea as the first light of dawn filtered through the frosted windows. The steam from his tea curled lazily upwards, a faint wisp of warmth in the chill of the January morning. He wrapped his hands around the cup, savouring its heat and trying to focus his thoughts. Gabriel's challenge to find common ground with Dean lingered in his mind, a persistent reminder of their differences. Dean. Castiel frowned, struggling to list even three things they had in common. Dean was the eldest sibling, destined for leadership, while Castiel was the youngest, always in the shadow of his brother. Dean exuded an air of confidence, sometimes bordering on arrogance, as if he believed himself superior to the Novak pack, to Castiel. He had that same commanding presence Gabriel did, expecting Castiel to fall in line without question.

They were both unhappy. That was one. Castiel sighed, taking a sip of his tea. Dean adored Norma. That was two. Castiel's frown deepened. He couldn't think of a third. The depth of their differences pressed on him, making the prospect of finding common ground seem almost impossible.

Castiel sighed and got up, setting his cup down on the table. He needed a distraction, something to clear his mind. The barn always had a calming effect on him, a place where he could focus on the simple tasks of caring for the animals. He wrapped a thick scarf around his neck, pulled on his trench coat, and stepped outside. The cold air bit at his cheeks, but he welcomed the crispness, the way it jolted him awake. The Novak farm was quiet, the family houses arranged in a half-circle, each one a testament to generations of werewolf tradition. Castiel's house, the furthest to the left, stood alone. He walked towards the barn, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. The snow crunched under his boots, each step a reminder of the winter's hold on the land. As he entered the barn, the warmth and familiar scents enveloped him. The earthy smell of hay and the soft sounds of the animals greeted him, providing a sense of comfort. Castiel moved through the barn with practised ease. The twin lambs, a most recent addition, were nestled together in a corner, their tiny bodies huddled for warmth. Castiel knelt beside them, gently stroking their soft wool. The lambs bleated softly, their small voices a soothing sound in the stillness of winter. He remembered last night when Gabriel had brought them to him, challenging him to find common ground with Dean in exchange for their care. Castiel had accepted, seeing it as an opportunity to prove himself, but now he wondered if it was an impossible task.

The barn door creaked open, and Castiel turned to see Gabriel standing there, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

"You're up early," Gabriel said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

"Couldn't sleep," Castiel replied, turning his attention back to the lambs. "Needed to clear my head." Gabriel approached, his eyes lingering on the lambs.

"They're cute." Castiel managed a small smile.

"Yes, they are." Gabriel crouched down, reaching out to gently touch one of the lambs.

"Have you come up with three things yet?" he asked, his tone casual but expectant. Castiel shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate.

"No, not yet." Gabriel took one of the lamb's heads into his hands, looking into its eyes with an intensity that seemed to hold a conversation all its own.

"Surely there must be three things, Cassie," he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of impatience. Castiel's heart pounded in his chest. He knew he couldn't tell Gabriel the ones he had come up with so far; it would make Gabriel angry. The unspoken pressure weighed heavily on him, pushing him to find an answer that would satisfy his brother without revealing the truth.

"’M... 'm trying, Gabriel," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's just... hard ." Gabriel's gaze softened slightly, but the expectation remained.

"You don't have the luxury of endless time, Cassie. Dean is your husband, but he doesn't smell like it. You need to find a way to make this work or the pack will question if Dean cannot please." Gabriel's hands tightened around the lamb’s neck, his fingers pressing into the delicate fur. For a few agonisingly long seconds, Castiel feared Gabriel might snap its neck just to drive home his point. The tension in the barn grew palpable, the soft bleating of the lamb a stark contrast to the unspoken threat hanging in the air. Gabriel's gaze bore into Castiel's, the intensity of his amber eyes unwavering. The seconds stretched, each heartbeat a reminder of the fragile life in Gabriel's grasp. Castiel’s breath hitched, his pulse quickening as he tried to keep his composure. Then, with a sigh, Gabriel released the lamb, gently pushing it back towards Castiel. The lamb stumbled slightly before nestling back into the straw, oblivious to the danger it had just faced. Castiel closed his eyes, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Relief washed over him, mingling with the residual fear that lingered in the back of his mind. He opened his eyes to find Gabriel still watching him, the impatience in his brother's eyes tempered by a flicker of understanding. "You need to find a way, Castiel," Gabriel said softly, his tone losing some of its earlier harshness. "The pack is watching, and they will judge your bond with Dean. If they sense weakness, it could lead to unrest." Castiel nodded, his gaze shifting to the lambs. He understood the gravity of Gabriel's words, the unyielding expectations placed upon him. It wasn't just about finding common ground with Dean; it was about ensuring the stability of the pack, proving that their union was strong and unassailable.

"I know," Castiel murmured, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "Will find a way." Gabriel's expression softened further, a rare glimpse of the brotherly affection that often lay hidden beneath his stern exterior.

"I believe you can, Castiel. But there will be consequences if you do not." With that, Gabriel rose to his feet, giving the lambs one last glance before turning towards the barn door. "I'll check on you later," he said, his voice carrying a note of finality. As Gabriel left, Castiel remained kneeling beside the lambs, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. He reached out to stroke the nearest lamb, the softness of its wool a small comfort amidst the sea of expectations.

"How can I make this work?" he whispered to himself, his thoughts a jumble of doubts and fears. He thought about Dean, their shared unhappiness, and the moments of connection that seemed to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. There had to be a way to bridge the gap between them, to find the common ground that Gabriel demanded.

As Castiel moved through the barn, he immersed himself in the familiar routines that provided a soothing rhythm to his thoughts. The barn was a haven of sorts, a place where the complexities of his life could momentarily recede into the background. He started with the chickens, hens, and roosters, their clucking and scratching a comforting symphony in the early morning stillness. He scattered feed for them, watching as they pecked eagerly at the grains. The hens clucked contentedly, their feathers ruffling as they moved, while the roosters strutted about with an air of self-importance. Castiel smiled softly, feeling a sense of calm as he observed their simple, unhurried lives. He reached into the nesting boxes, gently gathering the warm, freshly laid eggs and placing them in a wicker basket. The feel of the smooth shells against his fingers was reassuring, a small, tangible result of his care.

Next, he turned to the sheep and lambs, the latter huddled together for warmth in a corner of the barn. The lambs bleated softly, their voices mingling with the rustling of straw. Castiel knelt beside them, his hands moving gently over their soft wool. The lambs nuzzled against his touch, their small bodies radiating a fragile warmth. He carefully filled their feed troughs, ensuring they had enough sustenance to grow strong. As he worked, Castiel's mind drifted back to the previous evening. The memory of Dean's eyes, filled with a mixture of concern and empathy, lingered in his thoughts. It had been a brief moment, but it had felt like a bridge between them, a tentative connection that offered a glimmer of hope.

Castiel moved to the cows, their large, dark eyes following him as he approached. He patted their flanks, feeling the solid, comforting presence of their bodies. The cows mooed softly, a low, resonant sound that filled the barn. Castiel milked them with practised ease, the rhythm of the task soothing his restless mind. The milk flowed steadily into the pail, the sound a steady counterpoint to the quiet murmurs of the animals. The barn, with its earthy smells and soft sounds, was a world unto itself, a place where the demands of his life could be set aside, if only for a little while. Castiel breathed deeply, the scent of hay and animals grounding him in the present moment. He moved with a practised grace, his hands steady and sure as he attended to the needs of each animal. As he brushed down the cows, his thoughts returned to Dean. There was something in Dean's eyes last night that had struck a chord within him—a sincerity, a shared struggle. Castiel wondered if they could build on that moment, find a way to connect despite their differences. It wasn't just about meeting Gabriel's expectations; it was about finding a way to coexist, to support each other in their shared unhappiness.

The animals responded to Castiel's presence with a quiet trust, a reflection of the care he showed them. He felt a pang of longing, wishing that his relationship with Dean could find the same kind of peace and understanding. The barn was a place of life and growth, a reminder that even in the cold of winter, there was warmth and potential. Castiel finished his tasks, the barn now a scene of quiet contentment. The animals were fed and comfortable, their soft sounds a testament to the care he had given them. He stood for a moment, taking in the serene atmosphere, before making his way back to the twin lambs. He knelt beside them once more, his fingers gently stroking their soft wool.

"How can I make this work?" he whispered again, the question a soft murmur in the stillness. The lambs bleated in response, their small voices a reminder of the life and hope that persisted, even in the face of uncertainty. As Castiel rose to his feet, he felt a renewed sense of determination. He didn't have all the answers, but he knew he had to keep trying. He took one last look around, the familiar sights and sounds of the barn filling him with a sense of purpose.

Stepping out of the barn, the crisp morning air greeted him, filling his lungs with the fresh scent of winter. The landscape was a beautiful expanse of white, the snow blanketing the ground in a pristine layer that sparkled under the early light. Each step he took left a distinct imprint in the snow, a temporary mark on the otherwise untouched surface. The sky overhead was a pale blue, the sun just beginning to rise and casting a soft, golden glow across the fields. The trees, their branches heavy with snow, stood like silent sentinels, their shadows long and still. Castiel pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, feeling the bite of the cold air on his exposed skin. His breath formed small clouds that dissipated quickly, a visual reminder of the winter chill. As he walked back towards his house, he let his mind wander, the familiar routine of his morning providing a comforting backdrop to his thoughts. Before Dean arrived, Castiel's days had been predictable. He would spend his mornings, middays, and evenings in the barn, caring for the animals and finding solace in their simple company. The barn had always been his sanctuary, a place where he could escape the pressures of pack life and lose himself in the rhythm of his tasks.

But since Dean's arrival at the end of September, everything had changed. The barn remained a refuge, but now it was also one of the few places where he could truly be alone, away from the complicated dynamics of his new life. Castiel sighed, the sound soft in the stillness of the morning. The relationship with Dean was still a puzzle, each piece slowly revealing itself but never quite fitting together. As he made his way across the snow-covered fields, a sound from the forest caught his attention. Castiel stopped, his senses alert, and turned towards the source of the noise. The forest, dense and shadowed, loomed at the edge of the property, its trees standing close together like a secretive gathering. The sound had been faint, almost imperceptible, but it had been there—a rustling, a movement, something that didn't belong to the usual morning stillness. Castiel narrowed his eyes, scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. The forest had always held a certain mystique, its depths often hiding more than just the wildlife. He took a cautious step towards the trees, his breath catching in his throat as he strained to listen. The silence seemed to grow thicker, the air heavy with anticipation. Castiel's senses sharpened as he took another cautious step toward the forest. The trees, cloaked in a heavy mantle of snow, stood silent and foreboding, their branches interlaced like skeletal fingers against the pale sky. The noise had ceased, replaced by an almost oppressive stillness that seemed to pulse with unspoken tension. Suddenly, a blur of movement broke the silence. A creature leapt from the shadows of the forest, its dark form a stark contrast against the snow. Castiel's instincts kicked in, and he moved swiftly, his hand reaching out to intercept the animal. His fingers closed around it, and he felt the solid, warm body of a hare, its fur sleek and soft under his touch. The hare struggled in his grasp, its heart pounding rapidly against his palm. Castiel held it firmly but gently, his gaze locked onto the creature's wide, terrified eyes. He could feel the raw energy of its fear, a wild, frantic pulse that matched the quickening of his own heartbeat. He murmured soothingly, his voice a low, calming rumble meant to reassure the frightened animal.

"It's alright," he whispered, his breath forming a soft cloud around them. "I've got you." The hare slowly ceased its struggle, its body relaxing slightly in his grip. Castiel studied it, noting the way its fur was matted with bits of twigs and leaves, evidence of its frantic flight through the forest. Its eyes, still wide with fear, reflected the early morning light, casting a luminous, almost magical glow. As he held the hare, Castiel's mind drifted to the many mornings he had spent in the barn, the simple, repetitive tasks that had grounded him. The barn had been a place where he could find a measure of peace and control. But now, with Dean's arrival, that sanctuary felt disrupted, the rhythms of his life thrown into disarray. The hare, with its wild, untamed energy, seemed to symbolise that disruption, a living reminder of the unpredictability that had entered his world. With a gentle motion, Castiel set the hare down on the snow. It hesitated for a moment, its body tense and ready to spring. He stepped back, giving it space, and watched as it bounded away, disappearing into the underbrush with a final flick of its ears. Castiel stood there for a moment longer, the stillness of the morning wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

He turned away from the forest, his thoughts still tangled with the complexities of his new life. As he walked back towards his house, the crunch of snow under his boots seemed louder, more pronounced in the quiet of the morning. The sun had risen higher now, casting long shadows across the fields and turning the snow into a dazzling sea of white. The landscape, so familiar and yet ever-changing, mirrored the internal landscape of his mind. Castiel sighed softly, his breath misting in the cold air. The barn, the animals, the routines—they were all constants in his life, anchors that kept him grounded. But now, with Dean, those anchors felt less secure, the ground beneath him shifting in ways he couldn't quite control.

As he reached his house, Castiel paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the snow-covered roof, the icicles hanging like crystal daggers from the eaves. It was a beautiful, tranquil scene, but it did little to calm the unrest within him. He opened the door and stepped inside, the warmth of the kitchen enveloping him like a welcome embrace. Castiel hung his coat and scarf, then made his way to the kitchen. Castiel took a deep breath and set about making a full kettle of tea, deciding that a single cup wouldn't suffice this morning. He reached for the tin of loose leaf tea, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. The tin's lid popped open with a soft click, releasing the fragrant aroma of dried leaves, a blend of chamomile and lavender with a hint of citrus. The familiar scent was calming, a small comfort amidst his swirling thoughts. He measured out the tea leaves with care, their delicate forms tumbling into the strainer with a soft rustle. The kettle filled quickly with water, the stream splashing against the sides as Castiel adjusted the flow. He placed the kettle on the stove, the flame licking at its base with a soft hiss. As he waited for the water to heat, he prepared two cups, setting them on the table with a precision born of habit.

The kitchen was warm, the gentle hum of the kettle a soothing background noise. Castiel glanced out the window, watching the frost melt away under the rising sun, leaving intricate patterns on the glass. The light filtered through, casting delicate shadows that danced across the table. The kettle began to whistle, its call sharp and clear in the quiet kitchen. Castiel moved to pour the boiling water over the tea leaves, watching as the water transformed from clear to a rich, golden hue. He let the tea steep, the scent growing stronger, filling the room with its calming presence. Just as he was about to remove the strainer, the door creaked open, and Dean stepped inside, his expression one of mild surprise.

"I thought you'd be in the barn by now," Dean said, his voice breaking the silence. Castiel turned to face him, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I’ve already been." Dean’s eyebrows raised in confusion, but he didn’t comment further. "Are you going to work today?" Castiel asked, his tone casual as he poured the steeped tea into the two cups. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I don't know. I don't have any way to ask Charlie." Castiel nodded, considering this. He placed one cup of tea in front of Dean and took the other for himself, the steam rising between them like a silent mediator.

"Your birthday is coming up," Castiel said, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. Dean looked genuinely surprised.

"You know when my birthday is?"

"Of course," Castiel replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Would you like ‘cake, presents, the whole thing’?" He echoed the words Dean had once said to him, the memory a faint, warm glow in his mind. Dean huffed a laugh through his nose, a smile breaking through his initial surprise.

"I didn't know that was in the cards."

"It is if you want it," Castiel said, meeting Dean's gaze. "But you'll have to specify what 'the whole thing' entails." Dean’s smile widened, and he took a sip of his tea, the warmth spreading through him.

"Well, cake is a must. And maybe a few presents. But more than that... just a day to relax, enjoy some good food, and maybe not think about all this for a bit." Castiel nodded, a thoughtful look on his face.

"I think I can orchestrate that," he said, his voice measured. "But it probably won't be the same as when..." His words trailed off, the unspoken ‘you were destined to be leader’ hanging in the air between them. Dean's expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. He took another sip of his tea, letting the warmth spread through him.

"I'm sure we can have a good time," he said, his voice gentle.

"Yeah, probably," Castiel agreed, though his tone lacked confidence. He had never celebrated his birthday with much fanfare. In his pack, it wasn't considered important for the younger children who would never inherit the family responsibilities. His birthdays had passed quietly, almost unnoticed, except for Balthazar. Balthazar had always made an effort, treating him with a kindness and attention that stood in stark contrast to the rest of his family. As Castiel sipped his tea, his thoughts drifted back to those birthdays with Balthazar. The witch had a flair for the dramatic, often arriving with an extravagant gift or orchestrating a surprise that would brighten Castiel's day. One year, Balthazar had created a hidden glen filled with fireflies, their luminescent bodies lighting up the night in a breathtaking display. It had been magical, a rare moment of pure joy that Castiel cherished. The kitchen grew quiet, the only sound the soft clink of their cups against the table. Castiel glanced at Dean, who seemed lost in thought, his gaze distant. The weight of their shared history, their complicated present, hung between them, unspoken but palpable. Dean broke the silence first, his voice tentative but warm.

"Do you have any movie you want to watch? Maybe something like Sunset Boulevard." Castiel’s eyes widened, surprise and delight mingling in his expression.

"You never said you liked it."

"You were right, it's a great movie. Especially for New Year's,” Dean smiled, a fondness lighting up his features. “They even celebrate New Year's in it, remember?"

Castiel nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. The memory of watching Sunset Boulevard together on New Year’s Eve was one of the few moments where the tension between them had eased completely, replaced by a shared appreciation for the classic film. They had sat on the couch, the flickering light of the screen casting shadows on their faces.

"Yes, I remember," Castiel said softly, his smile growing. Dean took another sip of his tea, the steam rising between them like a bridge.

"So, do you have any other movies you like? Something we could watch together?" Castiel thought for a moment, his mind drifting to another film that held a special place in his heart.

"Have you seen Bicycle Thieves?" Dean shook his head, his curiosity piqued.

"No, I haven't. What's it about?"

"It's an Italian film," Castiel began, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Made a few years before Sunset Boulevard. It's about a man named Antonio who, after finally finding a job in post-World War II Rome, has his bicycle stolen. The bicycle is crucial for his work, so he and his son spend the day searching for it." Dean leaned forward, intrigued.

"That sounds interesting. Is it good?"

"It shows the struggle and desperation of ordinary people in a difficult time, but it's also about the bond between a father and his son. It's one of those films that stays with you long after you've watched it." Dean's smile softened, a look of genuine interest in his eyes.

"I'd like to watch that with you." Castiel felt a warmth spread through him, a small spark of connection that bridged the gap between them.

"I'd like that too." They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping their tea and letting the calm of the morning settle around them. The sun had risen higher now, its light spilling into the kitchen and casting a golden glow over the table. The shadows on the frost-misted window had shifted, creating a new pattern of light and dark. Castiel glanced at Dean, a question forming in his mind. "Do you ever miss your old life? Before all this?" Dean paled at Castiel's question, his face losing its colour as if the very life had been drained from it. His mouth opened and closed, words struggling to form as he grappled with the unexpected inquiry. Castiel immediately regretted asking, the awkward silence stretching between them like a chasm.

"I-I... well, I mean, sometimes…" Dean stuttered, his voice faltering.

"It's fine," Castiel cut in, not wanting to push Dean any further. He took a sip of his tea, trying to mask the discomfort that had settled over the room. He hadn’t meant to pry, but the words had slipped out, driven by his own insecurities and the need to understand Dean better. Dean took a deep breath, steadying himself.

"I’m grateful for things here too," he said, his voice gaining strength.

"For what, exactly?” Castiel raised an eyebrow, a hint of sarcasm slipping into his tone. “ In your doomed, trapped, imprisoned life, what do you find to be most grateful for?" Dean’s eyes flashed with frustration, and he set his cup down with a clink, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.

"You think I don’t appreciate anything here? That I only see this as a prison?"

"Isn't it?" Castiel shot back, his own frustrations bubbling to the surface. "You act like you’re better than us, like you’re above all this. So, tell me, what exactly are you grateful for?" Dean's hands clenched into fists on the table, his knuckles white.

"I’m grateful for Norma, for starters. She’s a bright spot in all this mess. I’m grateful for the work at the restaurant, for having something to focus on other than... this ." Castiel felt a pang of guilt but didn’t let it soften his tone.

"And? Is that all? A kitten and a job?" Dean’s eyes blazed with anger.

"I’m grateful for the moments when things are calm, when we’re not at each other’s throats. Like this morning, before you decided to ruin it."The tension crackled in the air like an impending storm. Castiel’s hands tightened around his mug, the heat of the tea seeping into his skin but doing nothing to calm the rising tide of anger within him.

"Ruin it?" Castiel’s voice rose, echoing in the small kitchen. "You think I’m the one who’s ruining things? You come in here with your arrogance, acting like you're above us all. As if you're the only one suffering." Dean’s eyes narrowed, the frustration evident in the set of his jaw.

"And you think you’re so perfect? You have no idea what it's like to have your whole life ripped away. To be forced into a situation you never wanted." Castiel's chest heaved with the intensity of his emotions.

"You’re just like Gabriel," he spat out, the words filled with venom. "You both think you can control everything, that everyone should just fall in line behind you." Dean’s face contorted with anger.

"Well, at least I understand now what Gabriel meant when he said no one here wants you, he was right when he said he did you a favour by making you marry me. Shame you can't realise that." The words hit Castiel like a physical blow. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he was stunned into silence. Then, a cold, calculated calm settled over him, the kind that only comes from deep, simmering rage. He rounded the table in a few quick strides, closing the distance between them, his eyes locked onto Dean’s with an intensity that seemed to burn.

"Listen to me, Dean, " Castiel’s voice was a deadly whisper, each word dripping with poison. "You will wear the clothes Gabriel fixed for you." Dean, still fuming, squared his shoulders and met Castiel’s gaze head-on.

"Or what?"

"Or you might get killed," Castiel replied, his tone unnervingly steady. "The pack doesn't take kindly to outsiders, especially not some rival pack bitch who is inadequate." Dean’s eyes widened, the implications of Castiel’s words sinking in. The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of their confrontation pressing down on them. Castiel could see the mixture of shock and anger in Dean’s expression, a mirror of the turmoil churning within himself. For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence between them crackling with unresolved tension. Then, Dean took a step back, his face a mask of defiance and hurt.

"You think you can threaten me into submission? You think that’s going to solve anything?" Castiel’s lips curled into a bitter smile.

"I don’t need to threaten you, Dean. I’m just stating a fact. You need to understand the reality of your situation." Dean’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.

"And what about your reality, Castiel? What about the fact that you’re just as trapped as I am? That you’re the one who’s inadequate, who can’t even find a way to connect with your own husband?" Castiel's stomach twisted as the realisation struck him with the force of a winter gale. The memory of Gabriel's fingers tightening around the lamb's neck flashed in his mind, and a cold dread washed over him. He had likely just signed the lambs' death warrant with his heated words in the quiet morning. His vision blurred for a moment, the room around him narrowing to a tunnel of fear and regret. The kitchen's warmth felt suffocating, and the tension with Dean hung like a dense fog, but his thoughts were elsewhere—back in the barn, with the twin lambs.

Without another word, Castiel turned on his heel and left the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. He heard Dean calling after him, but the words were distant, muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. Castiel needed to get to the barn, to see the lambs, to make sure they were safe. The cold air outside was a stark contrast to the kitchen's heat, and it bit into his skin as he hurried across the snow-covered ground. Each step felt like a race against time, the crunch of the snow beneath his boots a relentless reminder of his urgency.

The barn loomed ahead, its familiar silhouette a beacon of both hope and dread. Castiel pushed the door open, the warmth inside a sharp contrast to the icy chill outside. His breath came in quick, shallow bursts as he scanned the barn, his eyes landing on the lambs huddled together in their corner. Relief flooded through him at the sight of them, but it was quickly overshadowed by the knowledge of Gabriel's threat. Castiel knelt beside the lambs, his fingers trembling as he reached out to touch their soft wool. The lambs bleated softly, their small voices a soothing to his frayed nerves. They were safe for now, but for how long? Castiel's thoughts churned, a whirlwind of regret and fear. He had let his anger get the best of him, and now the lambs' lives were at risk. He couldn't let Gabriel carry out his threat, couldn't bear the thought of these innocent creatures suffering because of his actions. The barn, usually a place of solace, felt oppressive, the walls closing in as his mind raced for a solution.

The animals around him sensed his distress, their soft murmurs and rustling a backdrop to his frantic thoughts. Castiel closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, to find a way to protect the lambs. He needed to think clearly, to find a way to mend the rift with Dean and, in doing so, ensure the lambs' safety. The memory of Dean's anger, his accusations, echoed in Castiel's mind. The tension between them had reached another boiling point, their words cutting deeper than any physical wound. Castiel knew he needed to find a way to bridge the gap between them, to find common ground that would make their bond strong enough to withstand Gabriel's scrutiny. Castiel sat back on his heels, his gaze drifting to the barn's ceiling, where the beams crisscrossed in intricate patterns. The familiar sight grounded him, the simple beauty of the structure a reminder of the resilience that lay within him. He needed to draw on that resilience now more than ever, to find a way to make things right.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel rose to his feet and moved to the barn door. He would talk to Dean, but this time with a cooler head and a determination to find a way forward. Castiel stood outside, his breath coming in sharp, visible puffs in the frigid air. The barn door creaked softly behind him as it swung shut, and the cold enveloped him like an unwelcome embrace. He focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart. The snow-covered landscape around him was a silent expanse, the early morning light casting long shadows across the pristine white. He stared at the distant treeline, searching for a sense of peace in the familiar sights of the Novak farm.

His frustration, however, remained a living thing, gnawing at the edges of his composure. Castiel’s mind was a maelstrom of fear and regret, the memory of Gabriel's unspoken threat a relentless echo. He had to think clearly, to find a way to protect the lambs and mend the fragile connection with Dean. But the stillness of the morning, usually a source of solace, only amplified the silence within him. Castiel’s thoughts were interrupted by a movement at the kitchen window. He turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw Dean watching him, a mixture of concern and wariness etched on his face. The sight spiked Castiel’s frustration, a fresh wave of anger surging through him. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to maintain his composure. The urge to confront Dean, to demand answers and vent his anger, warred with his need to find a peaceful resolution. He took a deep breath, the cold air burning in his lungs, and forced himself to unclench his fists. Castiel knew that letting his anger get the better of him would only make things worse. He needed to approach this with a clear mind, to find a way to connect with Dean that didn't involve harsh words or threats.

Their argument lingered, the sharp edges of their words cutting deep. Castiel couldn’t shake the image of Gabriel’s fingers tightening around the lamb’s neck, the silent promise of violence if things didn’t improve. He had to find a way to bridge the gap between him and Dean, to show Gabriel and the pack that their bond was strong enough to withstand the pressures placed upon them. Castiel took another deep breath, his breath forming a small cloud that quickly dissipated in the cold air. He focused on the familiar routine of calming himself, grounding his thoughts in the tangible world around him. The snow beneath his boots, the crisp morning air, the distant sound of birds beginning to stir in the forest—all these small details helped him find his centre.

His gaze drifted back to the kitchen window, where Dean still watched him. There was something in Dean’s eyes, a flicker of vulnerability that softened Castiel’s anger. He saw the same fear and uncertainty mirrored in Dean’s expression, a silent acknowledgment of the precariousness of their situation. Castiel took a step toward the house, his resolve strengthening with each step. He couldn’t let fear and frustration dictate his actions. He had to approach this conversation with empathy and understanding, to find common ground that would allow them to move forward together.

As Castiel reached the door, he paused, gathering his thoughts and letting the stillness of the morning settle around him. The golden light cast a soft glow on the snow-covered steps, reminding him that beauty still existed, even amidst the struggles and heartache. He took one more deep breath, hoping to draw strength from the serene scene, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. The warmth of the house wrapped around him like a gentle embrace, contrasting sharply with the chill that had settled in his bones.

Dean stood by the kitchen table, his posture tense, his eyes fixed on Castiel with a mixture of defiance and something softer, almost pleading. As Castiel looked at him, the anger, frustration, and sadness that had gripped him melted away, replaced by a deep weariness. He felt as if he were carrying a burden too heavy to bear, the constant conflict draining him of all energy.

"Dean," Castiel began, his voice soft but steady, "we need to talk." Dean’s eyes narrowed, his stance shifting slightly as if preparing for another confrontation.

"What now?" he replied, his tone edged with irritation. "Are you going to tell me how I’m ruining everything?"

"No, Dean.” Castiel shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “I just want to understand. I want to find a way for us to coexist without all this… conflict ." Dean crossed his arms over his chest, his expression sceptical.

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"By being honest with each other.” Castiel sighed, feeling the weight of his words. “By trying to understand what the other is going through. I know things have been difficult, and I know I've been… less than perfect in handling it." Dean's expression softened slightly, though his eyes still held a flicker of defiance.

"You think you know what I’m going through?"

"I know more than you think," Castiel replied, his voice taking on a note of gentle resolve. "I know you've been going through my things. I still don't understand why I ruined the hoodie I gave you. But I know you were in the room under the stairs." Dean’s eyes widened in shock, his face losing its colour.

"How—"

"I could smell it on you," Castiel interrupted, his tone even but firm. "The unmistakable scent of a potion. You broke a vial, didn’t you?"

“Actually it was Norma who…” Dean’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He looked away, unable to meet Castiel’s gaze. "I… I didn’t mean to… I was just… curious."

"I understand.” Castiel nodded, a deep sadness settling over him. “Gabriel gave us those lambs as a test, and if we don’t find a way to make this work—" Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with alarm.

"What do you mean?"

"He made it clear that if we don't show progress, they won't survive," Castiel explained, his voice heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. Dean's face contorted with a mix of guilt and horror.

"I didn't know… I didn’t realise…"

"I know," Castiel said softly, taking a step closer. "But now you do. And we need to find a way forward. Together." Dean nodded slowly, his defiance melting away, replaced by a resolve born of desperation.

"I’m sorry, Castiel. I didn't mean to make things worse."

"I know.” Castiel offered a small, weary smile. “And I'm sorry too. We’ve both made mistakes, but we can’t let those mistakes define us. We need to find common ground, for the lambs, and ourselves." Dean took a deep breath, his shoulders straightening as he met Castiel’s gaze.

"What do we do now?"

"Honesty, Dean.” Castiel's shoulders slumped as he sighed, the sound weary but filled with a resolve that hadn't been there moments before. “We need to be honest with each other."

"Is that it?” Dean's eyes narrowed, a hint of scepticism colouring his expression. “Just honesty?"

"Isn't that enough?" Castiel asked, a touch of frustration seeping into his voice despite his efforts to remain calm. Dean shrugged, the movement awkward and uncertain.

"So, you’re a healer?"

"No,” Castiel's brow furrowed, his head shaking slowly. “I'm not a healer."

“Okay. Great,” Dean shrugged, frustration evident.“You're not a healer."

"No," Castiel replied, his voice quieter now, touched with a hint of sorrow. "Mother was a healer."

The admission hung in the air between them, filled with the weight of unspoken memories. Castiel's thoughts drifted back to his mother, her gentle hands and kind eyes, the way she could soothe the worst of pains with a touch and a soft word. She had been the heart of their family, a beacon of warmth and compassion in a world often cold and unyielding. Dean's gaze softened, a flicker of understanding crossing his features.

"Tell me about her," he said, his voice gentle, almost coaxing. Castiel looked up, meeting Dean's eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, the memories swirling within him like a storm. But then he began to speak, the words tumbling out as if they had been locked away for too long.

"Mother was a healer," Castiel repeated, his voice tinged with both reverence and sadness. "She was the eldest, so she should have taken over as the head healer of our pack. But Father fell in love with her, so they got married. He didn't want her to continue practising, so she couldn't. It is said that it broke her heart." Dean's expression softened, the lines of tension easing as he listened. Castiel continued, the words spilling forth as he delved into the past. "After they had Gabriel, my father found out she had been secretly helping people. Healing them without his knowledge. He was furious. He burnt her stuff and locked her away for five years as punishment for disobeying him." Castiel's voice wavered, the pain of those memories still fresh despite the years that had passed. "She was isolated, forbidden from seeing anyone, even Gabriel. And then, after five years, she was let out. And they had me." Dean's eyes widened in shock, his face paling.

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Castiel asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean shook his head slightly, as if trying to process the enormity of what he'd just heard.

"Is there anything normal about this pack?" he wondered aloud, more to himself than to Castiel.

"This is normal," Castiel replied, his voice carrying a note of resignation. "It’s normal for me." Dean nodded slowly, his expression a mixture of empathy and disbelief.

"Of course. It’s just different from what I knew growing up." Castiel’s gaze drifted to the window, his eyes unfocused as he recalled the past.

"When Mother died, Balthazar was there. Both Father and Gabriel were away fighting." Dean’s brow furrowed.

"How old were you?"

"I was nine," Castiel said, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. Dean looked shocked.

"Gabriel was away fighting at fifteen?"

"You're allowed to from fourteen," Castiel explained, a note of bitterness in his voice. "But you're still considered a child until eighteen." Dean let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief.

"That's… intense ."

Castiel stood by the window, the morning light filtering through the frost-covered glass, casting delicate patterns on the floor. The memory of his mother's death and the subsequent events played in his mind like an old, worn film. The pain was still there, a lingering ache that never truly went away, but he had learned to live with it.

"It is our life," Castiel said simply. "Normal for us." Dean seemed to ponder this for a moment, his eyes thoughtful.

"If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?" Castiel's first instinct was to say nothing, to deny any desire to change his past. But then he paused, considering the question more deeply.

"I wouldn't change anything," he finally said, his voice thoughtful. "Then I would not be me." Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"Really? Nothing at all?"

"It's not that I don't wish things could have been different.” Castiel sighed, turning away from the window to face Dean. “Of course, I wish Mother hadn't died, that Father hadn't been so strict, that Gabriel hadn't had to bear so much responsibility so young. But all those experiences shaped who I am. If I changed any of it, I wouldn't be the person standing here now."

"I get that.” Dean nodded slowly, his expression reflective. “My life wasn't perfect either, but the struggles, the mistakes —they all made me who I am. You are right about that." Castiel sat down at the table, his gaze distant as he continued.

"I learned from Mother, even in her absence. From Father, I learned the importance of duty, though his methods were harsh. And Gabriel... Gabriel taught me strength, even if his way of showing it was… is often brutal." Dean joined him at the table, his eyes softening with understanding.

"Family shapes us, for better or worse. It’s how we carry those lessons forward that matters."

"Exactly.” Castiel nodded, feeling a sense of connection forming between them, a shared understanding of the complexities of family and upbringing. “We can't change the past, but we can choose how it influences our future." Dean leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

"If we can find a way to understand each other, to respect our differences, maybe we can build something stronger together." Castiel felt a glimmer of hope, the tension between them easing.

"I believe we can. It's not going to be easy, but I think it's worth trying." Dean smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes.

"Yeah, it is." The kitchen seemed to brighten, the morning light casting a soft glow around them. The conversation, though filled with difficult memories, had brought them a step closer, a tentative bridge forming between their disparate worlds. They sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping their now-cold tea and reflecting on the conversation. Castiel felt a sense of calm settle over him, the weight of the past lifting slightly as he looked towards the future with cautious optimism. Dean broke the silence, his voice gentle. "Tell me more about Balthazar. When you were a child what was he like?" Castiel's gaze softened as memories of Balthazar flooded his mind.

"He... he was everything ," he began, his voice tinged with a mixture of reverence and nostalgia.

Dean leaned in, his interest piqued.

"Everything?" A small, wistful smile curved Castiel's lips.

"Balthazar was our nanny, but he was so much more than that. He is an old witch, wise and mischievous. He had a way of making the most mundane things seem magical."

"That must have been... interesting? "

"Interesting is an understatement," Castiel replied, his smile growing. "He had a flair for the dramatic, always arriving with some new spell or potion that would leave us in awe. He was the only one who could get away with doing what he wanted without repercussions from Father." Dean chuckled softly.

"Sounds like he was quite the character." Castiel nodded, his mind drifting back to those days.

"He was. I remember one time, he turned my entire bedroom into a forest for my birthday. There were real trees, birds, and even a little stream running through it. It was like stepping into another world." Dean's expression softened, a hint of envy in his eyes.

"That sounds amazing. What did your father think about it?" Castiel's smile faltered slightly, a shadow crossing his face.

"Father wasn't pleased, of course. But Balthazar was powerful enough to defend himself if needed, still is. Father didn't approve of Balthazar's influence over us, so Balthazar taught us French out of spite."

"Did Gabriel feel the same way?" Dean asked, his tone gentle.

"Gabriel... respects Balthazar," Castiel replied, choosing his words carefully. "But there was always a tension between them, a silent battle for control. Gabriel’s training began when he was eight so I imagine that may have something to do with it." Dean nodded thoughtfully.

"It sounds complicated."

"Perhaps," Castiel agreed, his voice soft. "But Balthazar has a way of making everything seem less daunting. He had this infectious energy, a zest for life that was impossible to resist. He taught me to see the beauty in the world, even amidst struggles." As Castiel spoke, the kitchen seemed to grow warmer, the morning light casting a golden glow over the room. The memories of Balthazar brought a sense of comfort, a reminder of the magic that had once filled his life. Dean listened intently, his expression a mixture of fascination and empathy. Dean's gaze softened further.

"He sounds like he was a large influence on you."

"He was," Castiel replied, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. "He was the one who helped me h. He gave me strength when I felt lost and alone. Without him, I don't know how I would have managed." Dean reached out, placing a hand on Castiel's arm.

"I'm glad you had him." Castiel looked down at Dean's hand, the warmth of his touch seeping into his skin.

"Me too," he said quietly, his voice filled with gratitude.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the bond between them growing stronger. Castiel could feel the tension easing, the walls between them beginning to crumble. It was a small step, but it was a start.

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

Dean lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The events of the past few days replayed in his mind, each memory a fresh wound. Yesterday, after waiting in vain for Charlie, he and Castiel had watched ‘ Bicycle Thieves' when Castiell came back from the barn. Castiel had been engrossed, his eyes reflecting the flickering images on the screen. But Dean couldn’t find it in himself to enjoy the film. Maybe because he had to read it. He understood its significance, the raw portrayal of post-war struggles, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the tensions and accusations that had simmered between him and Castiel. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, feeling the slight dampness from his earlier shower. The scent of the soap clung to his skin, a faint reminder of the mundane rituals that grounded him. He stood up, walking to the window. The snow-covered landscape stretched out before him, pristine and silent under the pale moonlight. The Novak farmhouses, arranged in their half-circle, seemed to huddle together for warmth against the January cold.

Castiel’s words from their argument the day prior echoed in his mind. Accusations that he thought he was above the pack, comparisons to Gabriel that stung more than Dean cared to admit. He had never intended to come across that way, but the bitterness in Castiel’s voice suggested otherwise. Dean clenched his jaw, turning away from the window and walking back to the bed. He slipped under the covers, trying to push the thoughts aside. It was hard not to feel resentful. The way Castiel seemed to care more about the animals than him gnawed at Dean’s heart. Yet, there was a glimmer of something more in Castiel’s insistence that he wear clothes marked with Castiel’s scent. It was a small, unspoken gesture that suggested Castiel cared enough to not want him dead. Dean clung to that thought, hoping it was a sign that things could improve between them.

As Dean lay there, the silence of the house enveloping him, he thought about the hidden room under the stairs. The ancient books, the notebook filled with failed experiments, all remnants of a secret past that Castiel had only hinted at. Dean wondered what else he didn’t know, what other secrets lay hidden in the corners of their shared life. Dean closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. The images from Bicycle Thieves kept flashing in his head, the bleakness of the story mirroring his own sense of entrapment. He shifted under the covers, the quiet of the house amplifying his thoughts. The stillness of the night was punctuated by the occasional creak of the house settling and the soft rustle of the wind outside. He forced his thoughts away from the film and Castiel’s accusations, focusing instead on the small comforts he could find. Norma’s soft purrs echoed in his memory, a soothing reminder of the tiny creature’s unwavering affection. Castiel’s insistence on wearing clothes with his scent might be an indirect way of showing care, even if it was driven by duty and not affection.

Dean’s thoughts began to blur, the edges of consciousness softening as sleep crept in.

In the early hours of the morning, Dean awoke to the sound of creaking floorboards. He lay still, listening as soft footsteps approached his room. The door opened slightly, and Castiel’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. Dean’s heart skipped a beat, but he remained quiet, pretending to be asleep. Castiel stood there for a moment, as if contemplating something, before gently closing the door again. Dean waited until the footsteps receded before sitting up. The faint glow of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a soft light across the room. He got up, determined to clear his mind with a walk. He dressed quickly, pulling on a sweater that still carried Castiel’s scent. As he descended the stairs, he found Castiel in the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hands.

“Morning,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Morning,” Castiel replied, his tone equally guarded. Dean hesitated, then decided to address the lingering tension.

“Look, about yesterday… I didn’t mean to come across as… superior.” Castiel looked up, his blue eyes filled with a mix of emotions.

“I know,” he said quietly. “It’s just… we come from different worlds, Dean. It’s hard to bridge that gap.”

“I know.” Dean nodded, feeling a surge of relief that Castiel was willing to talk. “And I’m trying to understand. Maybe we just need to… communicate better.”

“I think you’re right.” Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling the tension in the air gradually ease. Castiel took a sip of his tea, his eyes thoughtful as they studied Dean. The kitchen felt warmer, more inviting, and for a moment, Dean allowed himself to hope that they were making progress. “Do you want to help me in the barn today?” Castiel asked, breaking the silence. Dean glanced at the clock, hesitating.

“What if Charlie comes?”

“She isn’t coming,” Castiel replied, his tone firm. Dean felt a flicker of energy drain from his spirit. The way Castiel said it meant one of two things: either Castiel had told Charlie not to come, or Charlie had informed Castiel that she wouldn’t be coming. Dean had no way of knowing which was true, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. Castiel seemed to sense his hesitation and asked again, “Will you come help in the barn?” Dean took a deep breath, pushing aside his doubts.

“Sure, I’ll come.” Even though he didn’t really want to, he knew this was a step toward building a better understanding between them. The two men donned their coats and stepped out into the cold morning. The snow crunched under their boots as they walked to the barn, the crisp air biting at their cheeks. The sky was a pale blue, the sun casting long shadows across the ground. Inside the barn, the familiar scent of hay and animals greeted them. The warmth from the bodies of the livestock was a welcome contrast to the chill outside. Castiel moved with a natural grace, his presence calm and commanding. Dean followed, feeling slightly out of place but determined to do his best.

“We’ll start with the chickens,” Castiel said, leading the way to the coop. He handed Dean a basket and showed him how to gather the eggs without startling the hens. Dean watched carefully, mimicking Castiel’s movements. He managed to gather a few eggs, though not as smoothly as Castiel. Castiel observed him, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. But instead of snapping, he took a deep breath and offered a small smile. “You’re doing fine. Just be a little gentler.” Dean nodded, appreciating the effort Castiel was making. They moved on to the sheep, and Castiel showed Dean how to feed and check on the lambs. Dean’s movements were clumsy compared to Castiel’s fluid efficiency, but he tried to keep up. Castiel’s instructions were clear and patient, though Dean could see the struggle in his eyes to remain calm. As they worked, Dean found himself gradually relaxing. The repetitive tasks, the soothing presence of the animals, and Castiel’s quiet determination created a rhythm that was oddly comforting. Dean began to understand the appeal of the barn, the way it provided a sanctuary from the complexities of their lives. When they reached the cows, Castiel handed Dean a brush. “We need to groom them. It helps keep their coats healthy.”

Dean took the brush, watching as Castiel demonstrated the technique. He tried to replicate the motions, though his efforts were far from perfect. Castiel occasionally corrected his grip or stance, but always with a patient tone. The silence between them was no longer awkward but companionable. Dean appreciated the simple, honest work and the way it allowed them to connect without the pressure of words. He glanced at Castiel, who was brushing a cow with a focused expression, and felt a surge of gratitude. This wasn’t easy for either of them, but they were trying. As the morning wore on, Dean found himself growing more confident in his tasks. He even managed to make Castiel laugh when he accidentally sprayed himself with water while trying to fill the troughs. The sound of Castiel’s laughter, warm and genuine, lifted Dean’s spirits. By the time they finished, Dean was tired but content. They stood together in the barn, the animals quietly settling into their routines. Castiel turned to Dean, his eyes softer than they had been in a long time.

“Thank you for helping,” he said. Dean nodded, feeling a genuine sense of accomplishment.

“It wasn’t so bad.” Castiel's smile seemed genuine, a rare and beautiful sight.

“Maybe we can make this a regular thing.”

“Maybe we can,” Dean agreed, feeling a tentative hope bloom within him.

Castiel moved with a quiet grace, heading towards the small table where the bottles for the twin lambs were kept. He carefully measured out the formula, his movements precise and practised. Dean watched, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in his gaze. Castiel handed one of the prepared bottles to Dean, their fingers brushing slightly. There was a moment of silence, a shared understanding passing between them. Castiel then walked over to where the twin lambs were nestled in the straw, their tiny bodies huddled together for warmth. He settled himself on the floor, his movements gentle and deliberate. Dean followed suit, sitting down beside Castiel with the other bottle. Castiel took one of the lambs into his lap, cradling it with a tenderness that Dean found both surprising and endearing. The lamb made a soft bleating sound, its small mouth eagerly seeking the bottle. Castiel guided the nipple into its mouth, the lamb beginning to suckle with a contented sigh. Dean glanced at the other lamb, feeling a flicker of doubt. He carefully picked it up, mimicking Castiel’s gentle hold. The lamb wriggled slightly, its tiny hooves kicking against his arm. Dean fumbled with the bottle, trying to get the lamb to latch on. He could hear a soft snicker from Castiel, and when he looked up, he saw the faintest hint of amusem*nt in Castiel’s eyes.

“Need some help?” Castiel asked, his voice soft and teasing.

“I’ve got this,” Dean muttered, more to himself than to Castiel. He adjusted his grip, finally managing to get the lamb to start drinking. The little creature’s contentment mirrored that of the lamb in Castiel’s lap, creating a moment of quiet serenity in the barn. They sat there in companionable silence, the only sounds being the soft suckling of the lambs and the occasional rustle of straw. Dean found himself relaxing, the simple task of feeding the lamb surprisingly calming. He glanced over at Castiel, who was watching him with a thoughtful expression.

“Did you like ‘ Bicycle Thieves’ ?” Castiel asked, breaking the silence. Dean hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

“No, not really.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

“No?” The lamb in Castiel’s lap made a small noise, its eyes momentarily locking onto Dean’s. It continued drinking from the bottle, its little tail flicking contentedly. Dean sighed, feeling a need to explain.

“It’s not that it’s a bad movie,” Dean said, trying to find the right words. “I get why it’s important and all, but I just couldn’t get into it. Maybe it’s because my mind was elsewhere.” Castiel nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful.

“It’s a different kind of film. Not everyone connects with it the same way.” Dean appreciated Castiel’s understanding. He looked down at the lamb in his lap, its tiny body warm and fragile against his hands. The barn felt like a world unto itself, separate from the complexities and conflicts that awaited them outside.

“You really care about these lambs,” Dean said, his voice quiet.

“They’re innocent. They don’t deserve to suffer because of our mistakes.” Dean nodded, feeling a connection to Castiel in that moment. They were both struggling, both trying to find their way in a situation neither of them had asked for. The lamb in his lap finished drinking, its small body relaxing against him. Dean set the bottle aside, gently stroking its soft wool.

“I think I’m starting to get it,” Dean admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Get what?” Castiel asked, his blue eyes filled with curiosity.

“Why you’re so protective of them,” Dean said, meeting Castiel’s gaze. “And why you’re trying so hard to make this work.” Castiel’s smile grew, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

“Maybe we’re not so different after all.” Dean returned the smile, feeling a sense of peace settle over him. They still had a long way to go, but in that moment, surrounded by the quiet warmth of the barn and the innocent presence of the lambs, he felt a glimmer of hope for their future.

Dean shifted slightly, feeling the lamb’s gentle weight in his lap as he continued to stroke its soft wool. The barn around them seemed almost magical in the golden light filtering through the windows, casting long shadows and illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. He watched Castiel with a mixture of curiosity and growing affection, wondering about the routines and responsibilities that shaped his husband’s days.

“What happens to the milk and eggs?” Dean asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Gabriel gets them,” Castiel replied, his tone matter-of-fact. “It’s for the leader.” Dean frowned, realising that Castiel’s work wasn’t just a job but a task handed down to him. He remembered how Castiel had mentioned that it was actually Charles who had assigned it to him. It seemed more like a way to keep Castiel occupied rather than a genuine responsibility.

“How long have you had this job?” Dean asked, his curiosity piqued. Castiel tilted his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

“I’ve already told you that I helped out as a child.”

“Yeah, but when did you start getting paid? You should get compensation every month for the work you do.” Dean pressed, wanting to understand more about Castiel’s situation. Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of confusion in his gaze.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t get paid?” Dean echoed, the surprise evident in his voice.

“No one working on the ground gets paid every month.” Dean blinked, trying to process this information.

“How do you have money, then?”

“The leader of the pack gives the workers on the ground a lump sum every quarter,” Castiel explained, his tone calm and steady. “It’s to be used for necessary items. It lessens overconsumption.” Dean stared at Castiel, feeling a strange mix of disbelief and concern. He had already thought the pack’s way of life was rigid, but learning that Castiel and the other workers weren’t compensated monthly made it seem even more like a cult. The thought gnawed at him, making him question the fairness and structure of the pack’s hierarchy.

“So, you just... get what you need every few months?” Dean asked, trying to wrap his head around the concept.

“Well, that is the old way. It ensured that resources are used wisely and that no one takes more than they need. I just space out the money.” Dean couldn’t hide his discomfort.

“That sounds... restrictive.” Castiel shrugged, the movement graceful and unbothered.

“It’s the way we’ve always done things. It keeps the pack together, ensures that everyone is taken care of.” Dean felt a knot of frustration form in his chest. He had grown up with different expectations, where hard work was rewarded with fair compensation. The idea of working without a regular paycheck seemed foreign and unfair to him. He glanced around the barn, taking in the animals, the tools, the traces of a life lived in service to the pack.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Dean asked, his voice low. “Not getting paid regularly, I mean?” Castiel looked at Dean with a mixture of curiosity and patience.

“I do get paid regularly, just not every month. It’s how I’ve always known things to be. My needs are met, and I have everything I require.”

As they finished tending to the animals, the gentle sounds of the barn filled the air: the soft clucking of hens, the quiet rustling of straw, and the occasional lowing of cows. The sun had risen higher, casting a warm glow through the open barn doors. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment, though the underlying tension between him and Castiel lingered. Castiel leaned against a wooden post, his blue eyes thoughtful.

“You never told me how your parents met,” he said, his voice gentle. Dean smiled faintly, the memory of his parents’ story bringing a bittersweet warmth.

“My mum was human. Her car broke down in the woods, and the only garage nearby was my dad’s. Apparently, it was love at first sight. My dad bit my mum to make her a werewolf.” Castiel’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“So, you’re not a pure breed then. Just born with the gene.” Dean felt a flicker of annoyance at Castiel’s words. He knew it was true, but it echoed his father’s critical voice telling him he wasn’t good enough to take over the pack because of it.

“I guess,” he replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. Castiel didn’t seem to notice Dean’s irritation.

“What about your brothers?” he asked, his curiosity genuine.

“I have two,” Dean began, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. “Samuel and Adam. Samuel and I share the same mum, but she died a few months after Samuel was born. Adam is from my dad’s second wife, who’s a born werewolf.” Dean paused, collecting his thoughts. The barn felt like a safe cocoon, the soft noises of the animals providing a comforting backdrop to his story. He glanced at Castiel, who was listening intently, his expression open and curious.

“I grew up in town,” Dean continued, his voice softening with nostalgia. “My earliest memories are of my mum cooking in the kitchen. She had this way of making everything feel special, like each meal was a celebration. After she died, I think cooking became a way for me to stay connected to her.” Castiel nodded, his eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and understanding. “When I was a teenager, I got a job at the local bistro. It was nothing fancy, but I loved it. I loved the rhythm of the kitchen, the way everyone had to work together to create something delicious. It felt like home to me, more than anywhere else ever did.” Dean’s gaze drifted to the barn doors, where the sun was now higher in the sky, casting a bright light over the snow-covered ground. “I started as a dishwasher, but I watched the chefs, learned from them. Especially Ellen. Eventually, she let me cook. I remember the first time I made a dish on my own. It was just a simple pasta, but the look on the customer’s face when they took the first bite... I knew then that this was what I wanted to do with my life.” Castiel’s expression softened, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That’s a beautiful story, Dean.” Dean felt a surge of warmth at Castiel’s words. Sharing his past, the journey that had shaped him, seemed to bridge the gap between them, even if just a little.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the barn around them filled with the quiet sounds of contented animals. Dean felt a sense of peace, a rare moment of understanding between them. He knew they still had a long way to go, but for now, it was enough. Castiel pushed off the post and moved closer, his presence warm and reassuring.

“I didn’t mean to offend you earlier,” he said softly. “About the pure breed thing.” Dean shrugged, though he appreciated the apology.

“It’s okay. It’s just something my dad used to harp on about whenever I did something he didn't like."

"I always felt like I was living in Gabriel's shadow," he began, his voice gentle. "He was the one being groomed for leadership, the one everyone looked up to. I was just the younger brother, the one who wasn't meant to lead." Dean listened intently, the familiarity of Castiel's words resonating with his own experiences. He knew what it was like to feel overshadowed, but not what it was like to be judged by the standards of an older sibling. "I found solace in art," Castiel continued, a wistful smile crossing his lips. "It was something I could claim as my own, a way to express myself when words failed. I would spend hours in my studio, losing myself in the colours and shapes. It was my escape, my sanctuary." Dean thought about Samuel and Adam, wondering how they had fared under their father's expectations. Samuel, with his quiet determination, had always seemed more suited to leadership than Dean. Adam, still so young, had yet to face the full brunt of their father's demands. Dean's heart ached at the thought of his brothers, their lives shaped by the same pressures that had driven him away. “Gabriel was always so strong, so focused. Even as a young teenager, he was fighting for the pack. And before that, from the time he was eight, he was training to become the next leader. I was just... there.” Dean nodded, understanding the pain and longing in Castiel’s words. The animals continued their gentle noises, creating a backdrop of calm that seemed to encourage honesty and reflection.

“I guess it was the same for Samuel and Adam,” Dean said, his voice quiet. “Samuel always seemed to fit the mold better than I did. And Adam... he’s still so young. I worry about him.” Dean felt a surge of empathy for Castiel, recognizing the parallels between their lives. Despite their differences, they shared a common bond of navigating difficult family dynamics and finding their own paths.

“Art was my way of coping, of finding beauty in a world that often felt harsh and unforgiving. Balthazar encouraged me, taught me to see the world through a different lens.” Dean remained silent, contemplating Castiel’s words. He could see the depth of Castiel’s attachment to Balthazar, the way it had shaped his view of the world. While Dean couldn’t fully share Castiel’s perspective, he respected it. He understood the need for a lifeline, someone to hold onto when everything else seemed uncertain. He glanced at Castiel, who was gazing out at the barn doors, his eyes reflecting a mix of memories and emotions. Dean couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. It was clear that Castiel idolised Balthazar, seeing him as a lifeline in a world that often seemed cold and unyielding. Dean had to admit, Balthazar’s presence did add a layer of complexity to Castiel’s life, a layer that seemed to provide both protection and an escape from the harsh realities of their world. But Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that Castiel was somewhat delusional about Balthazar’s personality. The way Castiel spoke about the witch made it clear that he saw Balthazar through a lens of unwavering admiration. Dean had observed Balthazar’s roguish charm and mischievous nature, and while he could see the appeal, he also recognized the potential for manipulation and deceit. Yet, it made sense to him why Castiel would hold onto this idealised version of Balthazar. Given the way Charles had seemingly locked away Castiel’s mother whenever he felt like it and the burden of expectations placed on Gabriel from a young age, Balthazar must have seemed like a beacon of hope and freedom. Castiel’s voice drew Dean out of his thoughts. “He was the one constant in my life, the one who made me believe that there was more to the world than what Father and Gabriel showed me.” Dean took a deep breath, feeling a renewed determination to support Castiel and understand his perspective.

“I’m glad you had your art,” he said softly. “It’s important to have something that’s yours, something that helps you see the world differently.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the barn enveloping them in a sense of tranquillity.

After finishing their tasks in the barn, Dean and Castiel walked back to the house, their breaths forming small clouds in the crisp morning air. The sun had risen higher, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered landscape. The farm felt serene, a quiet world where they could momentarily escape the complexities of their lives. As they stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, Dean noticed how the light filtered through the frosted windows, creating delicate patterns on the wooden floor. Castiel moved with familiar ease, gathering ingredients for breakfast. Dean now realised why Castiel made pancakes so often: strawberry jam, eggs, and flour were staples that could be stored for long periods without spoiling, a necessity given that Castiel received his pay quarterly. Castiel retrieved a new jar of strawberry jam, its deep red colour a vivid contrast to the pale winter light. He placed it on the counter alongside a bowl of fresh eggs and a sack of flour. Dean watched, a newfound understanding settling in his mind. The simplicity of the ingredients, the care with which Castiel prepared them, all spoke to a life of careful planning and resourcefulness.

“Want to help?” Castiel asked, glancing at Dean with a small smile.

“Sure,” Dean replied, rolling up his sleeves. He cracked eggs into a bowl, the sound crisp and satisfying. Castiel measured out the flour, his movements precise and efficient. They worked in comfortable silence, the kitchen filled with the soft sounds of cooking. As they poured the batter onto the hot griddle, the sizzle of pancakes filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of strawberries. Norma padded into the kitchen, her black fur gleaming in the morning light. She meowed softly, winding her way around their legs, her presence a comforting backdrop to their routine. When the pancakes were ready, they sat down at the table, the warmth of the food contrasting with the chill that still lingered from outside. Dean spread a generous spoonful of jam onto his pancakes, savouring the sweet and tangy flavour. “These are really good,” Dean said, taking another bite. “You make them a lot, don’t you?” Castiel nodded, his expression thoughtful.

“It’s one of the few things I can make with what I have. Jam lasts a long time, and I can store the eggs and flour without them going bad. Gabriel usually gives me some of the milk.” Dean appreciated the practicality of it, the way Castiel had adapted to the constraints of his life. He found himself admiring Castiel’s resilience, the quiet strength that seemed to underpin everything he did. As they ate, Dean decided to steer the conversation towards lighter topics.

“So, if you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?” Castiel paused, considering the question.

“I think I’d want to be more outgoing,” he said slowly. “To connect with people more easily. It’s something I’ve always struggled with.”

“It’s not easy, but you’re doing a good job.” Dean nodded, understanding the challenge. “I mean, you’re connecting with me, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel’s smile widened slightly. “I suppose I am.”

“For me, it would be the skill to create perfect dishes effortlessly. Cooking’s always been my passion, but there’s always room to improve.” In truth, Dean secretly wished for the ability to disappear without a trace, a skill that would fuel his escape plans. But as he sat there, sharing breakfast with Castiel, something felt off. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the idea of leaving didn’t seem as clear-cut as it once had. Norma jumped onto the table, her green eyes curious and attentive. She sniffed at the pancakes, her whiskers twitching. Castiel chuckled softly, reaching out to scratch behind her ears as she took a bite from his plate.

“Norma seems to approve of our breakfast,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. Dean watched the interaction, feeling a warmth spread through him. The simple act of sharing a meal, the presence of Norma, and the quiet understanding between them created a sense of home that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “What about you, Dean?” Castiel asked, his blue eyes focused on Dean. “Is there anything else you’d wish for?” Dean hesitated, the unspoken truth hovering on the edge of his mind.

“I guess... I just want to find my place. To feel like I belong somewhere.” Castiel’s expression softened, his gaze filled with empathy.

“Okay.” Dean nodded, feeling the underlying tension between them seemed to ease, replaced by a growing sense of possibility. They still had a long way to go, but for now, sharing this moment was enough. Yet as they finished breakfast, Dean couldn't shake a sense of discomfort. Castiel's newfound civility, though welcome, felt almost too calculated. He couldn't help but wonder if it was solely because of the lambs. The thought gnawed at him—if he had known that all it took to get Castiel to behave better was the well-being of a couple of lambs, he might have... no, Dean didn't want to give Castiel any more reason to compare him to Gabriel. The last thing he needed was to be seen as manipulative or controlling. Dean cleared his throat, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Did Charlie say why she wasn't coming today?" Castiel glanced up from his plate, his expression neutral.

"She mentioned there aren't a lot of guests in January."

"Oh," Dean said, nodding. "That makes sense. January is tight for a lot of people." Inwardly, he felt a pang of doubt. He was pretty sure Charlie was avoiding him because he had questioned her about always driving different routes. The realisation stung, adding another layer to the complexity of his situation. Castiel reached over to refill his cup of tea, his movements graceful and deliberate.

"I'm sure you'll be back to work in no time," he said, his voice calm and reassuring.

"Yeah, maybe," Dean replied, trying to match Castiel's tone but feeling an underlying tension.

“Dean?” Castiel looked at him, his blue eyes searching. "You do want to work, right?" The question hit Dean like a splash of cold water.

"Yes, absolutely," he said, almost too quickly. The thought of not working, of losing himself to the quiet isolation of the farm, was unsettling. Cooking was his passion, a connection to his past and a semblance of normalcy in this otherwise turbulent life. Norma had settled on the windowsill, her green eyes half-closed as she basked in the winter sunlight. Dean watched her, feeling a sense of calm wash over him. Despite the underlying uncertainties, moments like these made him feel a reluctant sense of belonging. Castiel's presence was both a comfort and a challenge. Yet, as much as Dean appreciated the calm, he couldn't ignore the questions that lingered in the back of his mind.

"Is it different?" Castiel asked suddenly, breaking Dean's reverie. Dean looked at him, puzzled.

"Is what different?"

"Working at the bistro.”

“Yeah, it’s different from Charlie's restaurant.” Dean nodded, a wistful smile touching his lips. “And I worked there from the age of fourteen until a few weeks before we got married, some ten years.” Castiel leaned forward slightly, genuine interest in his eyes.

“What was it like?”

“It was... home.” Dean sighed, the memories flooding back. “Ellen, the owner, she was like a mother to me. She taught me most of what I know about cooking. It wasn’t just a job; it was a place where I felt I belonged.” He paused, the image of the bustling kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans, and the warm, savoury smells filling his mind. “There was a sense of camaraderie, a rhythm to the work. Everyone had their role, and together we created something special. I loved it.”

“You miss it a lot.”

“I do,” Dean admitted, looking down at his plate, the remnants of their breakfast. He felt a pang of longing for the life he had left behind, but also a strange sense of hope for the future. “Especially Ellen and her daughter Johanna. Jo and I had a bit of a casual thing going on for a while. But more than that, it was the place itself. The routine, the people, the sense of purpose.” Dean's words hung in the air, and he immediately regretted mentioning his past relationship with Jo. He noticed a flicker of something in Castiel's eyes—was it hurt, jealousy, or just surprise? It was difficult to tell. Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the need to mend the moment, to bridge the gap he had inadvertently widened. "I mean, it was nothing serious with Jo," Dean added hastily, his voice softer. "Just... company, you know? Someone to share things with." Castiel’s expression remained neutral, but Dean sensed a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The warm kitchen, with its comforting aromas and the golden light streaming through the windows, felt suddenly charged with unspoken emotions. Norma, sensing the tension, stretched and meowed softly, jumping down from the windowsill to weave between their legs. Dean reached down to stroke Norma, finding solace in the simple act. He looked back at Castiel, searching for the right words. "I think what I miss most is the sense of belonging. The bistro was more than just a job; it was my home. And now... well, everything's changed."

"I understand." Dean felt a strange sensation in his chest, a mixture of warmth and a tinge of sadness. Castiel's empathy, or version of it, touched him deeply, and he found himself wanting to connect with him more, to break through the barriers that had been built between them. The feeling was unfamiliar, but it was growing stronger with each shared moment.

"I'm sorry if I made things awkward," Dean said, his voice sincere. "I didn't mean to bring up the past in a way that... well, that might hurt you." Dean's words hung in the air, creating an unspoken tension between him and Castiel. He could see the subtle shift in Castiel's expression, a flicker of something that might have been hurt or confusion. Dean sighed, feeling the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him. Gabriel's harsh words resurfaced in his mind, about how no one in the pack truly wanted Castiel. He realised that Castiel might not have understood the implications of his casual relationship with Jo. The concept of a casual fling might be foreign to him, given his sheltered upbringing. Dean decided to bridge the gap with a question that had been on his mind. "Castiel," he began, his voice gentle, "have you ever dated anyone before?" Castiel looked up, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

"No," he replied simply, the word carrying a quiet finality. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as he tried to piece together the implications of Castiel's answer. If Castiel had never dated, he likely lacked experience in understanding the complexities of romantic and physical relationships. Given what Dean knew about Castiel's past, with Charles' strict control and Balthazar's unconventional influence, it was becoming clear that Castiel might not have had the same foundational experiences that most people did. Dean's mind raced, trying to reconcile this new understanding with the reality of their situation. He wondered what kind of education —if any— Castiel had received about relationships and intimacy. The sheltered life Castiel had led, combined with his father's oppressive control, likely meant that many aspects of human connection remained a mystery to him. Dean suspected that Castiel had never received ‘the talk’—the basic, essential conversation about sex and relationships that most parents have with their children.

"What's wrong?" Castiel's voice broke through Dean's thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Dean opened his eyes and looked at Castiel, a mixture of concern and frustration evident on his face.

"I have a headache," he said, rubbing his temples as if trying to alleviate the pressure building in his skull. Castiel furrowed his brows, his concern deepening.

"But you said you weren't sick," he pointed out, his voice tinged with confusion.

"Two days ago I said I wasn't sick," Dean replied with a weary sigh. "And I'm probably not sick now either. It's just a headache." Castiel's expression softened, his eyes reflecting a mixture of sympathy and uncertainty.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"No, it's fine.” Dean shook his head, trying to muster a reassuring smile. “I'll be alright." The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence, the warmth of the room and the soft presence of Norma providing a sense of solace. Dean's mind continued to whirl with thoughts, piecing together the fragments of Castiel's sheltered life and the gaps in his understanding. He realised that their relationship was fraught with complexities, many of which stemmed from their vastly different experiences and backgrounds. As they sat together, Dean couldn't help but feel a growing sense of responsibility towards Castiel. He wanted to bridge that gap between them, to help Castiel navigate the intricacies of human connection and intimacy. It was a daunting task, but one that Dean felt was necessary for their relationship to thrive. The soft rustle of Norma's movements filled the air, creating a backdrop of calm that seemed to encourage honesty and reflection. Dean glanced at Castiel, who was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "Castiel," Dean began, his voice hesitant but determined, "I think there's a lot we need to talk about. A lot that I think you might not know or understand." Castiel's expression remained open and curious, his eyes focused on Dean with an intensity that suggested he was ready to listen and learn. Dean took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation that lay ahead.

"Alright," Castiel said softly, his voice steady. "I'm listening." Dean nodded, feeling a surge of resolve. It was time to bridge the gap between them, to build a foundation of understanding that could support their relationship moving forward. And it started with an honest conversation, one that would require patience, empathy, and a willingness to learn from each other. Dean leaned back in his chair, looking at Castiel with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Castiel," he began cautiously, "did you ever get 'the talk' ?" Castiel sat up straighter, his eyes lighting up with an unexpected excitement.

"Yes, Balthazar gave me 'the talk' . He told me to memorise it for guaranteed success." Dean's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"What do you mean by 'guaranteed success' ?" Castiel's enthusiasm was palpable as he began to recite the instructions.

"First, take a look around the room you are standing in. Most humans come wearing disguises. If you can determine how much of a human is a disguise, it will help you in your own self-esteem, that is if you too know how much of you is made up out of pretend." Dean's confusion deepened. This didn't sound like anything he had expected. The description felt clinical and detached, more like advice for manipulation than genuine connection. Castiel continued without noticing Dean's discomfort. "Second, pick a girl, focus on this girl now, she is your target." Dean's stomach churned. The use of the word ‘target’ made the process sound predatory. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat but didn't interrupt. "Third, what is she wearing, why? Is she sporting something revealing, showing off each crack in her flesh, or does she opt for a looser fit? What do you prefer?" Dean's discomfort grew. The language Castiel used felt objectifying, reducing a person to mere appearances. He clenched his jaw, trying to keep his growing sense of unease at bay. "Fourth, look at her lips. Are they coloured in or natural? Cracked or smooth? Does the corner of them twitch up to a smile?" Dean felt a wave of nausea. This wasn't about understanding or empathy; it was about assessing someone like an object. The thought of Castiel internalising this made him feel sick. "Fifth, take into account how the girl breathes. You do not want to be constantly thinking about her loud breathing when speaking to her. Does she breathe slow, fast, or in a particular pattern which does not serve to your due delight?" Dean could barely hide his disgust now. The idea of scrutinising someone’s breathing felt invasive and dehumanising. He shifted again, feeling trapped by the conversation. "Sixth, when approaching her comes upon your mind, how will you do it? Will she look at you in advance, making the eye contact the reason as to why you moved closer or will you approach her? In both scenarios you could win or lose." Dean's discomfort was now almost unbearable. The notion of winning or losing based on such calculated moves made relationships sound like a game, stripping away any sense of genuine human connection. "Seventh, consider the space which you are in. Can this explain or excuse your approach?" Dean could almost feel a cold sweat break out. This mechanical approach to interaction felt devoid of any real emotion or sincerity. "Eighth, make a conversation going, ideally by her initiating the first line for you to hook onto, otherwise consider the facts you know from appearance." Dean's head was spinning. This wasn't the talk about relationships and intimacy that he had expected. It felt manipulative and callous. "Same works for pretty boys, though some details may have to be adjusted." Castiel finished with a nod and a smile. But by the time Castiel finished, Dean was struggling to keep his composure. The detailed steps had left him feeling repulsed and deeply uncomfortable. He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts.

"Castiel," he said slowly, "that... that wasn't 'the talk' . What you described is more like a strategy for manipulating people, not understanding them." Castiel's excited expression faltered, replaced by a look of confusion and disappointment.

"What do you mean? Balthazar said this would help me interact with others." Dean shook his head, his voice softening with empathy.

"Interacting with people isn't about dissecting their appearances or calculating your moves. It's about understanding and connecting with them on a genuine level." Castiel's brows furrowed in thought.

"But Balthazar said this would guarantee success." Dean sighed, feeling a pang of sadness for Castiel.

"Maybe he thought it would help, but real relationships are built on trust, honesty, and mutual respect. It's not about targets or winning." Castiel looked down, a mixture of confusion and hurt in his eyes.

"Balthazar said..." Dean reached out, placing a comforting hand on Castiel's shoulder.

"It's okay." Castiel looked up, his eyes searching Dean's for reassurance.

"What's wrong, Dean? You look troubled." Dean closed his eyes, trying to push away the swirling thoughts and emotions.

"I have a headache," he admitted, rubbing his temples. Castiel's brows knitted with concern.

"But you said you weren't sick." Dean forced a small smile.

"It's just a headache." Castiel's concern didn't waver.

"Are you sure that there isn't anything I can do to help?"

"No, it's fine.” Dean shook his head, appreciating the genuine care in Castiel's voice. “I'll be alright." They sat in silence for a while, the warmth of the kitchen and the gentle presence of Norma providing a soothing backdrop. Dean felt a mix of relief and determination. Despite the discomfort of their conversation, it was a step toward understanding each other better. He knew they had a long way to go, but with patience and empathy, they could navigate the complexities of their relationship together. Dean took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs as he prepared for what he was about to ask. The kitchen, warm and filled with the lingering aroma of pancakes, seemed to hold its breath along with him. Castiel's blue eyes remained focused on Dean, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension reflected in their depths. "Castiel," Dean began gently, "did Balthazar say anything else about... people and relationships?" Castiel shook his head, a hint of disappointment crossing his features.

"Erm… no, Balthazar didn’t tell me much more. Just nothing should be forced." Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. He felt the beginnings of a headache still grip harder at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.

"Alright," he said softly, "I think we need to talk about something important." Castiel looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and trust, his expression open yet uncertain. Dean took another deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He wanted to approach this delicately, to provide Castiel with the understanding he seemed to have been denied. "Relationships," Dean started, "aren't about targets or strategies. They're about connection, trust, and mutual respect. And a big part of that is understanding each other on a deeper level." Castiel nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean's face. Dean could see the flicker of confusion in those blue depths, and he felt a pang of sympathy. He realised that Castiel had been given a distorted view of relationships, one that focused on manipulation rather than genuine connection. "Let's talk about the physical aspect," Dean continued, choosing his words carefully. "It's a natural part of being close to someone, but it's not just about the act itself. It's about intimacy, trust, and mutual desire." Castiel's cheeks flushed a deep red, and he looked away, clearly embarrassed. Dean paused, giving Castiel a moment to process what he was saying. He could see the discomfort in Castiel's posture, the way his shoulders tensed and his gaze avoided Dean's. "Has anyone ever explained this to you before?" Dean asked gently.

"No." Castiel shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just that it happens on the wedding night and can be explored before marriage." Dean nodded, his heart aching for Castiel's lack of guidance. He took a deep breath, deciding to start with the basics.

"Alright, let's start from the beginning. Physical intimacy is about more than just the physical act. It's about feeling connected to your partner, wanting to share something special with them." Castiel's eyes flickered back to Dean's face, a mix of curiosity and embarrassment in his gaze. Dean continued, his tone gentle and patient. "When two people are attracted to each other, they might want to express that attraction physically. It's important to communicate with each other, to understand each other's boundaries and desires." Castiel nodded slowly, his cheeks still flushed. Dean could see that this was new territory for him, and he wanted to make sure Castiel felt comfortable and understood. “Touch is a big part of intimacy,” Dean explained. “It can be as simple as holding hands or as intimate as… well, as making love. The key is that both people want it and are comfortable with it.” Castiel’s gaze darted away, his embarrassment evident. Dean reached out, placing a comforting hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s okay to feel embarrassed,” he said softly. “This is all new to you, and it’s a lot to take in.” Castiel nodded, his eyes meeting Dean’s for a brief moment before looking away again. Dean could see the struggle in Castiel’s expression, the way he was trying to process everything Dean was saying. “Intimacy is about trust,” Dean continued. “It’s about being open with each other, sharing your feelings and desires. It’s important to go at a pace that feels right for both of you.” Castiel’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he looked back at Dean, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Dean smiled gently, feeling a sense of relief that Castiel was starting to grasp the concept. “It’s also about respect,” Dean added. “Respecting each other’s boundaries and making sure both of you are comfortable with what’s happening. It’s a mutual thing, something you both should enjoy.” Castiel nodded again, his gaze steadying on Dean’s face.

“I think I understand,” he said quietly. “It’s not just about the act itself, but about the connection between the two people.”

“Exactly,” Dean replied, his voice warm with encouragement. “It’s about feeling close to each other, both physically and emotionally.” The kitchen seemed to grow warmer, the soft light filtering through the windows casting a golden hue over everything. Norma, sensing the tension easing, stretched and meowed softly, padding over to Castiel and nuzzling against his leg. Castiel reached down, stroking Norma’s soft fur, his expression thoughtful.

“I never really thought about it that way,” Castiel admitted. “I always saw it as something... mechanical.” Dean’s heart ached at Castiel’s words.

“It can be, but it can also be much more than that,” he said softly. “It’s about sharing a part of yourself with someone you care about, about creating a bond that goes beyond words.” Castiel looked at Dean, his blue eyes filled with a mix of emotions.

“I want to understand,” he said quietly. “I think I want to be able to connect in that way.”

“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “There’s no rush. ” The two of them sat in silence for a moment, the warmth of the kitchen and the soft presence of Norma creating a sense of peace. Dean could see the determination in Castiel’s eyes, the desire to learn and understand. He felt a surge of affection for Castiel, a deepening of the bond between them. Dean took a deep breath, feeling a sense of resolve. “Let’s start with something simple,” he said gently. “Holding hands, for example. It’s a way to feel close to someone without words.” He reached out, taking Castiel’s hands in his. Castiel’s fingers were cool to the touch, but they warmed quickly in Dean’s grasp. Dean could see the uncertainty in Castiel’s eyes, but he also saw the flicker of curiosity and trust. “This is a way to show someone you care,” Dean said softly, giving Castiel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s a way to feel connected.” Castiel nodded slowly, his gaze focused on their intertwined hands.

“It feels... nice,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s the idea,” Dean said warmly. “It’s about feeling close to each other, about sharing a moment of connection.” The two of them sat there, hands intertwined, the warmth of the kitchen enveloping them. Dean could see the beginnings of understanding in Castiel’s eyes, the first steps towards a deeper connection. He knew they had a long way to go, but for now, this was enough. Dean took a moment to gather his thoughts, feeling the weight of Castiel’s hands in his. He decided to broach a topic that had been on his mind, one that required a delicate approach. “Castiel,” Dean began carefully, “can I ask you something a bit personal?” Castiel’s eyes widened slightly, curiosity mingled with apprehension.

“Of course.”

“Do you…” Dean took a deep breath, choosing his words with care. “ever touch yourself?” The question hung in the air, a delicate thread of intimacy that stretched between them. Castiel’s eyes widened further, his cheeks flushing a deep red. He retracted his hand from Dean’s, looking away quickly.

“No,” he said, his voice barely audible. Dean felt a pang of sympathy for Castiel’s embarrassment. He reached out again, his touch gentle and reassuring.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. It’s a natural thing, and it’s important to understand your own body.” Castiel’s gaze remained averted, his discomfort evident. Dean decided to shift the conversation slightly, hoping to ease Castiel’s unease. “How do you get your scent to linger on my clothes?” he asked, his tone gently probing. Castiel glanced at Dean, his blush still evident but his curiosity piqued.

“Any bodily fluid works,” he replied quietly. Dean raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Any?”

“Yes, any.” Castiel nodded, his expression earnest. “I just spit on your clothes.” Dean couldn’t help but feel a slight smile tugging at his lips, almost charmed by the childlike simplicity in Castiel’s answer. There was an innocence to it, a straightforwardness that made Dean feel that warm feeling again.

“That’s... quite practical,” Dean said, trying to keep his tone light and encouraging. “And it works well.” Castiel’s lips curved into a small smile, the tension in his posture easing slightly.

“It’s the easiest way,” he said softly.

Dean felt a warmth spread through him, a mixture of affection and admiration for Castiel’s honesty. He could see the effort Castiel was making to understand and connect, despite his own discomfort and lack of experience. It was a small but significant step towards bridging the gap between them. As they sat in the quiet kitchen, Dean felt a sense of calm settle over him. The gentle light, the soft sounds of the house, and the shared moment of vulnerability created a cocoon of intimacy that felt almost magical. He looked at Castiel, seeing the mixture of curiosity and uncertainty in his eyes, and felt a surge of determination to help him navigate this new territory.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” Dean said softly, his voice filled with warmth. “It means a lot.” Castiel’s smile widened slightly, a glimmer of trust in his eyes.

“I’m trying,” he said simply. Dean nodded, feeling a deep connection to Castiel in that moment.

“And I’m here with you,” he replied gently. “We’ll figure it out together.” After a while, Dean decided to change the subject, sensing that Castiel needed a break from the intensity of their conversation. "Castiel," he began, his tone lighter, "how come you're not in the barn all day?" Castiel looked up, a hint of surprise in his eyes.

"I don't need to be," he replied simply. "I check on the animals in the morning, midday, and evening. The rest of the time, I can do other things." Dean nodded, his mind working to piece together the implications of Castiel's schedule.

"So, when you're gone all day, what are you doing?" Castiel looked down, a flicker of something passing over his features.

"Sometimes I need to take care of other things," he said quietly. "And sometimes..." Dean felt a pang of realisation. Castiel had been avoiding him. The thought gnawed at him, making him question the reasons behind Castiel's absences. He decided to address it directly, hoping to clear the air.

"Castiel," Dean said softly, "are you avoiding me?"

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

Balthazar woke up to the soft rustling of sheets and the familiar, heady scent of Meg. Without opening his eyes, he could sense her watching him, her presence a comforting and tantalising blend of warmth and tension. He smiled, keeping his eyes shut, and asked in a teasing tone.

"Do you have to get to work, or are you finally planning world domination?" Meg chuckled, the sound low and throaty.

"Work, unfortunately. World domination will have to wait." Balthazar opened his eyes, feigning surprise.

"Pity, world domination would have suited you."

"A girl can dream," Meg replied with a smirk as she got out of bed. Her newly bleached blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, and her pale absinthe-coloured nightgown, delicate like the drink prepared traditionally with water dripping over a sugar cube, clung to her form in a way that made Balthazar's heart race. He sat up, leaning against the headboard, and watched her move with a blend of admiration and longing.

"You work too much, ma chérie," he said with a sigh. "I fear you might forget me up here all alone."

"Not everyone can afford to lounge around all day," she retorted, her tone playful yet pointed. Balthazar crawled towards her and reached up to caress her cheek, drawing her into a kiss.

"You could." he murmured, lips still against hers. She pulled back slightly, a tender smile playing on her lips.

"Tell that to the patients downstairs." He let his hand fall, the warmth of her skin lingering on his fingers.

"You've worked all week, and now it's Friday, and you're still working."

"The clinic is open on Saturdays too," she reminded him with a smirk. Balthazar sighed dramatically.

"You work too much."

"Well, one of us must," she replied, her tone light yet firm. Balthazar's gaze turned contemplative.

"Why did you hire a wraith as a nurse?"

"For the humans, of course," Meg answered, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Balthazar's eyebrows shot up.

"Brilliant," he admitted. The wraith could take care of any human who accidentally wandered into Meg’s clinic for supernatural creatures, causing delusions and sending the human away with a full-on psychotic break, unable to tell reality from fantasy. Meg began to dress, her movements graceful and efficient. Balthazar leaned back against the headboard, his eyes following her every move. "Can we at least do something tonight?" he asked hopefully.

"If you behave," she replied, a teasing lilt in her voice.

"I've been on my best behaviour all week," Balthazar protested, a hint of desperation in his tone. Meg left the room, repeating the word over her shoulder.

"Behave."

"I worked 24 hours a day every day for 24 years straight, I deserve a vacation." Balthazar called out after her. He sighed, letting the frustration ebb away as he sank back into the pillows, his eyelids growing heavy once more. The room's quiet lull, punctuated only by the distant hum of city life outside, soon pulled him back into a light, restful slumber.

Balthazar lingered in bed after waking again, the quiet of the flat wrapping around him like a comforting shroud. The sounds of the city outside had grown more distant, replaced by the soft, rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere in the living room. He stretched, feeling the familiar aches and stiffness that came with his age, though his youthful appearance belied his true years.

Eventually, he rose and padded into the bathroom. The space was small but functional, with tiled floors and a large mirror above the sink. Balthazar leaned in close, scrutinising his reflection with a critical eye. His features were smooth and unlined, his skin still bearing the youthful glow of someone far younger than his nearly three thousand years. His blonde hair, tousled from sleep, framed his face in soft waves, and his eyes, a piercing blue, held the weight of centuries. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble. It was a painful reminder of the passage of time, even if his appearance remained unchanged. Balthazar wondered how many of the people he had known as a child were still around. The original settlers of Pallantium had been witches, and many of the witches alive today had some connection to them. His bloodline, however, ended with him. He had never had children, so at least he knew he and Meg weren't related, a small comfort in a world where bloodlines often intertwined in unexpected ways. The thought of his lineage brought a pang of melancholy. He had outlived countless friends and lovers, watching them fade into memory as he remained, an unchanging constant in a world of impermanence. Balthazar shook off the sombre thoughts and splashed cold water on his face, the chill invigorating him.

Meg's flat was a cosy and eclectic space, a blend of modern practicality and mystical charm. The walls were lined with shelves holding an array of books, ranging from medical texts to ancient tomes on herbalism and magic. Jars filled with dried herbs, powders, and preserved specimens hinted at her dual life as a healer and a witch. In the living area, a well-worn sofa dominated the space, surrounded by an assortment of potted plants that added a touch of nature to the urban setting. The soft light from various lamps and candles created a warm, inviting atmosphere, casting a gentle glow over the room's cluttered yet charming decor. The space was filled with knick-knacks and personal mementoes, each with a story of its own, adding to the sense of lived-in comfort. The small kitchenette in the corner was equipped with the essentials, including a kettle always ready for making tea. The scent of lavender and rosemary often lingered in the air, a soothing reminder of Meg's herbal practices. A vintage rug covered the wooden floor, its intricate patterns adding a touch of old-world elegance to the flat. Despite the clutter, there was an order to the chaos, a reflection of Meg’s meticulous nature. Every jar, book, and piece of furniture had its place, contributing to the flat’s unique character. It was a sanctuary where Meg could escape the demands of her work, a space that reflected her confidence, boldness, and deep connection to her magical roots.

Balthazar moved to the kitchenette and put on the kettle, the familiar routine bringing a sense of normalcy. As he waited for the water to boil, he wandered over to the living room and picked up one of Meg’s books, flipping through its pages absentmindedly. It was a medical text, filled with detailed diagrams and notes in Meg's precise handwriting. He glanced around the room, taking in the various objects that made up Meg's life. There were framed photographs, a collection of antique vials on the mantle, and a cluster of crystals arranged carefully on a side table. Each item told a story, a piece of the puzzle that was Meg Masters. His Meg.

The kettle whistled, breaking the silence, and Balthazar returned to the kitchenette. He prepared a pot of tea, the ritual calming his restless thoughts. He poured himself a cup and carried it to the sofa, sinking into the cushions with a contented sigh. The warmth of the tea seeped into his bones, a soothing balm against the chill of the January morning. As he sipped his tea, Balthazar allowed his mind to wander. He thought of Castiel and the Novak pack, of the struggles they faced and the uncertain future that lay ahead. He knew he needed to visit soon, to check on his young friend and offer whatever support he could. But for now, he was content to linger in the quiet sanctuary of Meg's flat, surrounded by the tangible reminders of her life and their shared moments. The flat, with its blend of modernity and mysticism, was a testament to the unique bond they shared. It was a place where Balthazar could let down his guard, where he could be himself without the weight of centuries pressing down on him. And for now, that was enough.

Balthazar finished his tea and placed the cup in the sink, letting the warm water rinse away the remnants of the drink. He moved to the bathroom, where the cool tiles met his bare feet, a gentle reminder of the early morning chill. The bathroom, though small, was meticulously organised. Shelves lined with neatly folded towels, an array of scented soaps, and an assortment of potions and herbal concoctions gave the room a charming yet functional atmosphere. He turned on the shower, letting the water warm up as he undressed. Stepping under the stream, he felt the heat penetrate his skin, relaxing his muscles. The water cascaded over him, washing away the remnants of sleep and rejuvenating his senses. Balthazar lathered his skin with a bar of handmade soap, its lavender and rosemary scent filling the air and soothing his mind. The steam curled around him, creating a cocoon of warmth. After a thorough rinse, he stepped out and wrapped a soft, plush towel around his waist. He wiped the fog from the mirror, catching his reflection once again. There was something almost surreal about his ageless appearance, a timelessness that set him apart from those he encountered daily. He combed his hair, taming the dark locks into a semblance of order, and brushed his teeth with a minty paste that left his mouth feeling fresh and clean. Balthazar returned to the bedroom to dress, selecting a pair of dark jeans and a crisp white shirt. He rolled up the sleeves, exposing his forearms, and fastened the buttons with ease. The outfit was simple but elegant, a blend of casual comfort and understated sophistication that suited him perfectly. He slipped on a pair of well-worn leather boots, the soft creak of the leather a familiar sound. Feeling presentable, he made his way to the kitchenette. Opening the refrigerator, he scanned its contents. The shelves held a modest array of items: a few vegetables, some cheese, a carton of eggs, and a bottle of milk. None of it seemed particularly inviting, so he closed the door with a sigh. At that moment, he heard the distinct sound of Meg unlocking the front door. A smile tugged at his lips as he moved to greet her, leaning casually against the wall as she entered.

"Need any help?" he asked, his tone light and teasing. Meg glanced at him, her eyes twinkling with amusem*nt.

"I won't protest if you want to cook," she replied, setting her bag down. Balthazar chuckled, glancing back towards the refrigerator.

"You don't have a lot," he observed.

"I'm fine with whatever." Balthazar nodded and moved back to the kitchenette. He gathered the ingredients, quickly deciding on a simple omelette with cheese and sautéed vegetables. He whisked the eggs with a practised hand, the rhythmic motion calming. The sound of vegetables sizzling in the pan filled the flat with a mouth-watering aroma. Meg set the table, the clink of plates and silverware a comforting background noise. When the omelette was ready, Balthazar slid it onto a plate and brought it to the table, setting it down with a flourish.

"Bon appétit, ma chérie" he said with a grin. They sat down to eat, the meal simple but satisfying. The conversation flowed easily, filled with light banter and shared stories. Balthazar enjoyed these moments, the easy companionship and the sense of normalcy they brought. As they finished their meal, Balthazar looked across the table at Meg, a playful glint in his eyes. "So," he began, "what do you say to going out tonight?" Meg raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" she asked, her tone light and mocking. Balthazar leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers.

"What if I am?" he replied, his voice low and filled with a mix of sincerity and mischief. Meg's smile widened, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

"Then I suppose I'll have to say yes," she said, her eyes sparkling with amusem*nt. Balthazar leaned back, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

"Excellent, ma chérie. It's a date then." They cleared the table together, the easy rhythm of their movements a testament to their familiarity and comfort with each other. The flat, with its cosy atmosphere and eclectic charm, seemed to hum with a quiet contentment, a reflection of the bond they shared.

As Meg left for work again, her presence seemed to linger in the air, a soft echo of their shared lunch. Balthazar stood by the door for a moment, listening to her footsteps fade away down the staircase. Once she was gone, he turned back to the flat, his curiosity piqued.

Deciding to indulge himself, he wandered into Meg’s bedroom. It was a space that spoke volumes about her personality, a blend of practicality and a touch of whimsy. The bed, neatly made with a dark green comforter, was flanked by nightstands cluttered with books, a lamp, and a few crystals. The walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of art: some abstract, some depicting scenes of nature, and others hinting at the mystical. Balthazar moved towards her wardrobe, a tall, antique piece that contrasted with the modern elements of the room. He opened the doors slowly, revealing a colourful array of clothing. The scent of her, a mix of lavender, rosemary, and a hint of something uniquely Meg, wafted out, filling the room. He began to sift through the garments, his fingers brushing over various fabrics. There were sleek dresses in deep, rich hues; comfortable, oversized sweaters; and an assortment of jeans and skirts. He noted with amusem*nt that the grunge aesthetic she had once embraced was conspicuously absent. Gone were the flannel shirts and ripped jeans, replaced by a more refined yet edgy style.

Balthazar's hand paused over a collection of leather jackets. There were several, each with its own character—some classic and understated, others adorned with studs and patches. He picked one up, feeling the supple leather between his fingers. It was clear that Meg had a fondness for these jackets, a constant in her ever-evolving style. He couldn't help but chuckle, appreciating the rebellious streak that the leather represented, though he wasn't entirely sold on it. As he continued to peruse her wardrobe, he came across a section dedicated to her work attire. Crisp blouses, tailored trousers, and a few elegant blazers hinted at her professional life. Balthazar admired the seamless integration of her practical needs with her unique sense of style. Meg had always been good at balancing her multifaceted life, and her wardrobe was a testament to that. He stepped back, taking in the sight of her clothes, each piece a fragment of her story. Balthazar realised how much she had grown and changed over the years. The memories of her grunge phase brought a nostalgic smile to his lips. It was a time of rebellion and self-discovery, a time when she had been finding her footing in the world. He was glad to see that she had moved past that phase, finding a style that was uniquely hers. With a sigh, he closed the wardrobe doors and wandered back into the living room. Maybe he hadn't been on his best behaviour today, but there was something comforting about being surrounded by the tangible remnants of Meg's life. He sank into the sofa, allowing himself to relax. The flat was quiet, the only sounds being the distant hum of the city and the occasional creak of the old building. Balthazar found himself reflecting on their conversation earlier. Meg's life was so full, so demanding, and yet she managed to make space for him. It was a thought that filled him with a deep sense of gratitude and affection. He reached for the remote control and turned on the TV, the flickering light casting a gentle glow over the living room. The background noise of a talk show filled the space, the cheerful chatter of the hosts mingling with the ambient sounds of the city outside. He wasn’t particularly interested in the show, but it provided a pleasant distraction as his thoughts wandered. He couldn't help but think about Dean. Balthazar knew that the young werewolf was looking for a way out of his current situation. True to his word, Balthazar had kept Dean’s secret, but he couldn't help but feel a mix of concern and amusem*nt at the werewolf's naivety. Dean must be either stupid or overconfident in his own abilities to think he could escape from such a large and well-established pack.

Balthazar considered his own position. He was an old, powerful witch with centuries of knowledge and experience, yet even he knew the limits of his abilities. The Novak pack was formidable, and Gabriel's leadership only made them more dangerous. If Dean tried to escape, Balthazar was certain he would be caught and likely torn to shreds. The thought made him shudder. His mind drifted to Castiel. Balthazar had seen the way Castiel looked at Dean, the quiet intensity in his blue eyes, the unspoken emotions that seemed to linger between them. Castiel, with his fierce loyalty and innocence, might actually be falling in love with Dean. It was a delicate situation, fraught with potential heartbreak and danger. Balthazar sighed, his thoughts heavy with concern. He had always felt a protective instinct towards Castiel, a desire to shield him from the harsh realities of their world. The idea of Castiel experiencing the pain of losing Dean, or worse, witnessing his violent end, was unbearable.

The TV continued to drone on in the background, the hosts' cheerful voices a stark contrast to the dark thoughts swirling in Balthazar's mind. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar ache of worry settle in. He needed to find a way to help, to navigate the complexities of this situation without causing further harm. He knew that speaking to Gabriel was out of the question. As a pack leader Gabriel had seemingly become ruthless and pragmatic, prioritising the safety and stability of the pack above all else. Any hint of Dean's intentions would be met with swift and brutal action. No, Balthazar needed a more subtle approach.

His eyes wandered around the flat, taking in the familiar details of Meg's world. The shelves filled with books and jars, the soft glow of the lamps, the scent of herbs lingering in the air—it all brought a sense of calm, a reminder of the sanctuary this place provided. It was a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him. He thought back to his last conversation with Dean, the young werewolf's determination and defiance. Dean was brave, no doubt about it, but bravery without caution was a dangerous thing. Balthazar understood the desire for freedom, the longing to break away from constraints. He had felt it himself many times over the centuries. But there were ways to achieve it without resorting to reckless actions. Balthazar leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. He needed a plan, something that would protect both Dean and Castiel. Perhaps there was a way to create a path for Dean that didn’t lead to violence and death. It would require careful manipulation and a bit of luck, but Balthazar was confident in his abilities.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Balthazar's mind focused on the task ahead. He would need to be patient, to watch and wait for the right moment. There was no room for error. Castiel's happiness depended on it, and Balthazar was determined to see it through. Opening his eyes, Balthazar reached for his tea, the liquid now cool. He took a sip, the taste grounding him. He felt a renewed sense of purpose, a clarity that had been missing earlier. The challenges ahead were daunting, but he had faced worse in his long life. With a deep breath, Balthazar began to formulate his plan, the details taking shape in his mind.

As the late afternoon light began to dim, Balthazar remained on the sofa, lost in thought. The TV continued to hum in the background, now airing a sitcom that failed to capture his attention. His mind was a whirlwind of plans and possibilities, each one more intricate than the last. The sound of keys jingling at the door pulled him from his reverie. Meg stepped inside, a tired but satisfied smile on her face. Her presence immediately brightened the room, filling it with a renewed energy. She crossed the room with purpose, leaning down to kiss Balthazar, her lips soft and warm against his.

"I'm going to shower, then we can head out," she said, her voice carrying a note of anticipation. Balthazar grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Great, but we could shower together," he suggested, his tone both playful and suggestive. Meg laughed, a rich, melodic sound that filled the room.

"Then we won't make it out the door, and you know it," she replied, her eyes sparkling with amusem*nt and affection. He watched her as she walked to the bathroom, her movements confident. The door clicked shut behind her, and the sound of water running soon followed. Balthazar leaned back into the cushions, a contented smile playing on his lips. The flat felt alive with the promise of the evening ahead.

While he waited he walked over to the small kitchenette, his steps quiet on the vintage rug that covered the wooden floor. He opened a cupboard and retrieved a bottle of wine, setting it on the counter. The sound of the shower continued in the background, a soothing rhythm that mingled with the faint strains of music from the TV. As he prepared two glasses, Balthazar allowed his thoughts to drift back to the plans he had been formulating. He knew that the path ahead was fraught with challenges, but he felt a renewed sense of determination. Protecting Dean and ensuring Castiel's happiness were his priorities, and he would use every ounce of his cunning and power to achieve that.

The bathroom door opened, releasing a plume of steam that carried the scent of Meg's lavender soap. She emerged, wrapped in a plush towel, her skin glowing from the heat of the shower. Balthazar couldn't help but admire her, the sight of her always a welcome distraction.

"Wine?" he offered, holding up the bottle.

"Sure, why not," she replied with a smile, her eyes twinkling with amusem*nt. She took a glass from him, her fingers brushing his in a moment of shared warmth. They sat together on the sofa, the glasses of wine in hand, the room filled with a comfortable silence. The TV continued to play, but neither of them paid it much attention. Instead, they simply enjoyed each other's presence, the quiet moments of connection that spoke louder than words. "Where are we going tonight?" Meg asked, breaking the silence. Balthazar leaned back into the sofa, the glass of wine warming his hands. He watched Meg as she moved about the room, her presence a delightful blend of energy and serenity. The anticipation for the evening ahead thrummed in the air, creating a palpable excitement between them.

"I know a restaurant," Balthazar said, his eyes twinkling with mystery. Meg raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips.

"You won't tell me where?"

"Then it wouldn't be a surprise," he replied with a sly grin. Meg laughed softly, her eyes shining with affection.

"You're quite the romantic, aren't you?"

"Only for you," Balthazar responded sincerely, his voice low and warm. They finished their wine, the conversation flowing easily, punctuated by moments of comfortable silence. Meg stood up, the towel slipping slightly as she moved, revealing a tantalising glimpse of her smooth, soft skin. Balthazar's appreciative gaze lingered, and Meg caught him, shaking her head with a smile.

"I need to get dressed," she said, heading towards the bedroom. "And no peeking." Balthazar raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful grin on his face.

"I promise, no peeking." As Meg disappeared into the bedroom, Balthazar poured himself another glass of wine. He savoured the taste, the warmth spreading through him as he relaxed into the sofa. The flat felt like a cocoon of comfort and anticipation, the evening stretching ahead like an unwritten story. Time passed in a pleasant blur of thoughts and plans. Balthazar’s mind drifted back to Dean and Castiel, the complexities of their situation weaving into his contemplations. He was determined to find a way to protect them both, to navigate the dangerous waters they found themselves in without causing more harm. The bedroom door opened, and Meg emerged, dressed in casual jeans, a fitted shirt, and one of her many leather jackets. The ensemble suited her perfectly, blending her practical nature with a touch of edge. Balthazar couldn't help but smile, his admiration for her evident in his eyes. "Ready?" he asked, standing up and setting his glass aside.

"Yeah," Meg replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Balthazar stepped closer, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'm driving," he said softly, his fingers lingering momentarily against her skin. Meg nodded, her smile widening.

"Lead the way."

As they headed towards the door, Balthazar felt a rush of affection for Meg. She was a constant in his ever-changing world, a source of strength and joy. He knew that tonight would be another memory to cherish, a bright spot amidst the challenges they faced. The evening air was cool and crisp as they stepped outside, the city lights twinkling like distant stars. Balthazar took Meg’s hand, their fingers intertwining naturally. They walked to the car, the anticipation of the night ahead filling them both with a sense of excitement and possibility.

Balthazar drove them through the city, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the car's interior. The hum of the engine and the soft murmur of the radio created a soothing ambiance, contrasting with the anticipation bubbling within him. As they approached Charlie's restaurant, a well-known, upscale establishment with an elegant façade and valet parking, Balthazar felt a thrill of excitement. He pulled up to the entrance, and as the valet approached, Meg hit him lightly on the arm.

"You could have told me we were going somewhere fancy," she said, her tone a mix of amusem*nt and mild exasperation. Balthazar grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Would it have affected anything?" Meg leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You still could have told me," she muttered, but there was a playful glint in her eyes. They stepped out of the car, handing the keys to the valet. Balthazar took Meg's hand, leading her through the grand entrance of the restaurant. The interior was a blend of modern elegance and classic charm, with soft lighting, plush furnishings, and a delicate scent of gourmet cuisine wafting through the air. The hostess, a young woman with dark hair, looked up as they approached. Her eyes widened with recognition, and a smile spread across her face.

"Balthazar! I haven't seen you in three years." Balthazar returned her smile, his tone warm.

"Just came back."

"Welcome back," she said, her eyes flicking to Meg with curiosity.

"Thanks. Is the Novak table free?" Balthazar inquired.

"Yes, it is," the hostess confirmed. As she led them through the restaurant, she glanced back at Balthazar. "Who's your date tonight?" Balthazar smiled proudly.

"She's a doctor." The hostess looked impressed, her curiosity piqued.

"What’s a doctor doing on a date with a—" she began, pausing as if searching for the right words.

"Doctors do charity work sometimes," Meg interjected smoothly, her tone teasing. The hostess laughed, and they reached a secluded booth with a view of the cityscape outside. She handed them the menus, her smile lingering.

"Enjoy your evening."

Balthazar slid into the booth opposite Meg, the soft leather seats adding to the luxurious feel of the evening. He opened the menu, glancing at the array of delectable options. The atmosphere was intimate, the soft clinking of glasses and quiet conversation creating a cocoon of elegance around them. The soft lighting created an intimate ambiance, casting a golden glow on the crisp white tablecloths and polished silverware. The clinking of glasses and murmured conversations formed a gentle background hum, blending seamlessly with the delicate strains of classical music playing softly in the background. Meg opened her menu, her eyes scanning the array of dishes. She looked up, a playful glint in her eye.

"So, you were here three years ago?" Balthazar tilted his head, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

"Are you jealous?" Meg raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Are we just doing the main course, or...?" Balthazar chuckled, leaning forward slightly.

"You are jealous." Meg shook her head, her expression a mix of amusem*nt and curiosity.

"You always said you never made it to town, so I was a bit surprised when all of a sudden you—"

"I was here with Castiel," Balthazar interrupted gently, his tone shifting slightly. Meg's expression softened, the teasing replaced by genuine interest.

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh' .” Balthazar nodded, his eyes reflecting a moment of nostalgia. “Castiel didn't want a traditional Novak 18th birthday, so we came here." Meg leaned back, considering this new piece of information.

"I wouldn't have thought Castiel could handle a place like this."

"The owner is Castiel's childhood friend," Balthazar explained, his voice warm with fondness. "He feels safe here." The waiter arrived to take their orders, each having selected a main course. Balthazar's choice was a succulent rack of lamb, while Meg opted for a delicate seafood risotto. As the waiter left, Balthazar's thoughts drifted back to the last time he had been in this restaurant with Castiel. It had been a night of laughter and camaraderie, a rare moment of freedom for the young werewolf.

"You really care about him, don't you?" Meg's voice brought him back to the present, her eyes searching his.

"Of course," Balthazar replied without hesitation. "Castiel is like family to me. I've watched him grow up, seen his struggles and triumphs. I want to protect him, to help him find his way."

"I can see that.” Meg nodded, as a thoughtful expression came onto her face. “And what about Dean?"

"Dean is... complicated.” Balthazar sighed, his gaze turning inward. “He's trying to find his place, to figure out where he belongs in all of this. But he's not thinking clearly. If he tries to run, it won't end well for him."

"Do you think Castiel cares for him?" Meg asked, her tone gentle.

"I do," Balthazar said softly. "I've seen the way Castiel looks at him. There's something there, a connection. But it's fragile, and if Dean isn't careful, he could break it." Balthazar leaned back, his eyes meeting Meg's with a seriousness that belied his usual playful demeanour. "You know, Meg, you never have to be jealous. Every time you come back, I drop whatever entanglement I’m in just for the chance to be with you again."Meg opened her mouth to respond but hesitated, her eyes searching his.

"Balthazar, I..."

"I know.” He interrupted her gently, a soft smile on his lips. “It doesn’t mean anything if I can't say it." Meg's expression softened, and she reached out to place her hand over his.

"Let’s just pretend tonight," she whispered, her voice filled with a mixture of hope and resignation. Balthazar nodded, his gaze steady.

"Let's pretend."

The waiter arrived with their food, placing the succulent rack of lamb before Balthazar and the delicate seafood risotto in front of Meg. The rich, aromatic scents of their dishes filled the air, mingling with the soft murmur of the restaurant. Balthazar picked up his fork, cutting into the tender lamb, the meat practically melting under the blade. The flavours were exquisite, a perfect balance of herbs and spices that danced on his tongue. He savoured each bite, the experience heightened by the elegant surroundings and Meg's presence across from him. Meg took a bite of her risotto, the creamy texture and fresh seafood a delightful combination. She closed her eyes momentarily, enjoying the intricate flavours.

"This is wonderful," she said, her eyes opening to meet Balthazar's. "You always pick the best places." Balthazar chuckled, a hint of pride in his smile.

"Only the best for you, ma chérie." They continued their meal in companionable silence, the atmosphere around them a blend of elegance and intimacy. The soft clinking of cutlery against plates, the gentle hum of conversation, and the occasional laughter from nearby tables created a backdrop that felt almost magical. As they neared the end of their meal, Balthazar couldn't help but reflect on the complexities of their relationship. He cherished these moments with Meg, the rare occasions when they could simply be together without the weight of their past and the uncertainties of their future pressing down on them. His mind wandered briefly to Dean and Castiel, the delicate balance they were trying to maintain. He hoped, for Castiel's sake, that Dean would find a way to navigate his new reality without causing more harm. Meg's voice drew him back to the present.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, her eyes curious and gentle.

"Just... everything," Balthazar replied, his tone contemplative. "Our lives, the people we care about. It’s a lot to take in sometimes."

"It is.” Meg nodded, understanding evident in her gaze. “But we have tonight, and we have each other."

"Yes, we do." The waiter returned to clear their plates, and Balthazar ordered a dessert for them to share – a decadent chocolate torte that looked too good to pass up. When it arrived, they each took a forkful, the rich, velvety chocolate a perfect ending to their meal.

"This is amazing," Meg said, her eyes lighting up with delight.

"Only the best," Balthazar repeated, his smile widening as he watched her enjoy the dessert. Balthazar looked at Meg, even after all these years it was undeniably true – she was fire. And for as long as he would be allowed to warm herself with that spark everything would work out, it had to. "I want to check in on Charlie before we leave. You can come with if you'd like." Meg raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparking in her gaze.

"Sure, why not? I've always wanted to meet a tame wolf."

“I can promise you she isn't some docile lap dog.”

After leaving a few bills at the table they left and headed towards the kitchen, the air filled with the delicious scents of gourmet dishes being prepared. As they stepped into the bustling kitchen, Balthazar's presence immediately caught the attention of the staff. Charlie, a vibrant woman with short red hair and a commanding presence, looked up from her station and her face lit up with delight.

"Balthazar!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling him into a tight hug. "I barely saw you this Christmas. I thought you'd left by now." Balthazar returned the hug warmly.

"I'm staying for a bit longer, but keep it under wraps from Castiel." Charlie furrowed her brow in confusion but then noticed Meg standing beside him. Her expression shifted to one of interest.

"And who's this? Have you met someone?" Balthazar smirked.

"Something like that." Charlie turned her attention to Meg, a welcoming smile on her face.

"So, you're the one keeping this troublemaker in line." Meg laughed, the sound rich and genuine.

"I do my best."

While Charlie and Meg chatted, Balthazar's eyes roved the kitchen, finally landing on Dean. The young werewolf's green eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Balthazar. Excusing himself from Charlie and Meg's conversation, Balthazar approached Dean and gently pulled him outside, the cool evening air wrapping around them. Dean still looked stunned.

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"I told you I’d be watching." Balthazar's tone was both mocking and amused. Dean scoffed.

"I didn't know I was going to get attacked at work."

"Attacked?” Balthazar chuckled, a sharp edge to his amusem*nt. “Cute. It’s good to see you're still alive at least." Dean's jaw tightened, a hint of defiance in his stance.

"Of course I'm alive."

"Of course." Balthazar echoed the words, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Dean's expression softened slightly, a hint of frustration creeping in.

"I had to give Castiel 'the talk' yesterday." Balthazar's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise.

"You did what?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Apparently, his idea of 'the talk' was your eight-step manipulation list." Balthazar's gaze narrowed thoughtfully.

"So, you have given up on your escape plan then?" Dean's eyes flickered with a mix of determination and doubt.

"I'm not sure. It’s complicated." Balthazar sighed, his tone softening.

"Look, Dean–" Dean’s expression hardened.

"I can handle myself."

"Just be careful. Castiel... "

"I know.” Dean's posture relaxed slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “That’s why this is so hard." Balthazar placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, his touch firm and reassuring.

"Don't break his heart." Dean nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. As they turned to rejoin the others, Balthazar couldn't help but feel a pang of worry. He hoped Dean would find a way to navigate his complicated world without causing more pain. Back inside, Charlie and Meg were still deep in conversation, their laughter filling the room. Balthazar's presence seemed to lighten the atmosphere, his roguish charm a balm to the tension of the evening. Charlie glanced up as they approached.

"Everything alright?" Balthazar smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

"Just catching up with an old friend." Meg shot him a knowing look, her eyes sparkling with amusem*nt.

"Ready to head back?" Balthazar nodded, taking her hand.

"Yes, let’s go." As they made their way out of the restaurant, the cool night air greeted them, a welcome change from the warmth inside. Balthazar squeezed Meg’s hand gently, a silent promise of more nights like this to come. The city lights twinkled around them, casting a magical glow on their path. As they drove back through the city, the anticipation of what lay ahead filled Balthazar with a renewed sense of purpose. He knew the challenges were far from over, but with Meg by his side, he felt ready to face whatever came next.

When they arrived back home, the familiar and comforting scents of lavender and rosemary greeted them. While Balthazar took time to unlace his shoes Meg simply kicked off her shoes by the door, the sound of a soft thud against the wooden floor. She took Balthazar’s hand, a gentle yet firm tug leading him toward the bathroom.

Inside, the bathroom was a blend of modern design and mystical elements. Candles in various stages of use lined the counters, their scents mingling with the steam from earlier showers. The mirror, slightly fogged, reflected the soft, warm light from a small lamp in the corner. Meg handed Balthazar his toothbrush, and they began their nightly ritual. They stood side by side at the sink, the rhythmic motion of brushing their teeth creating a comfortable, intimate silence. Their eyes met in the mirror, and a playful glint sparkled in Meg’s gaze. Balthazar moved to stand behind her, wrapping his right arm around her waist. The touch was warm and reassuring. He brushed his teeth with his left hand, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. There was something soothing about these simple moments, a reminder of the unspoken bond between them. Meg leaned back slightly, resting her head against his chest. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a small sigh escaping her lips. Balthazar could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, the rhythmic pulse of life that beat in time with his own. They rinsed and spat in unison, a small laugh escaping Meg at the synchronicity. She turned in his arms, looking up at him with a soft smile.

“You’re quite the romantic today, aren’t you?”

“Only for you,” he replied, his tone sincere, his British accent lending a roguish charm to the words. Meg shook her head, her smile widening.

“You always know what to say.” Balthazar’s gaze softened, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“It’s one of my many talents.” She chuckled, stepping out of his embrace.

“Come on, let’s get to bed.” They made their way to the bedroom, the room a cosy haven of eclectic charm. The soft light of the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows on the walls, highlighting the rich, earthy tones of the decor. Meg slipped under the covers, her movements fluid and graceful. Balthazar followed, his gaze lingering on her form as he settled beside her. He pulled her close, the warmth of her body a comforting presence against his. As they lay there, the sounds of the city outside a distant murmur, Balthazar’s thoughts drifted to the events of the evening. His mind wandered back to Dean and Castiel, the delicate dance of emotions and intentions he had witnessed between them. He hoped Dean would heed his warning, that he would find a way to navigate his complex world without causing more pain. Meg’s voice broke through his reverie, soft and sleepy.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Just... everything,” Balthazar replied, his tone contemplative. “Our lives, the people we care about. It’s a lot to take in sometimes.” She nodded against his chest, her breath warm against his skin.

“We’ll figure it out. We always do.” Balthazar tightened his hold on her, a silent promise in the gesture.

“Yes, we will.” The room grew quiet, the steady rhythm of their breathing the only sound. As sleep began to claim them, Balthazar felt a deep sense of contentment. Despite the uncertainties and challenges ahead, he knew he had something precious right here in this moment.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

Dean woke to the soft weight of Norma curled on his chest. Her gentle purrs vibrated through his ribcage, grounding him in the present. He reached up to stroke her sleek black fur, his fingers trailing over the familiar contours of her body. Norma stretched, her tiny paws kneading at his chest before she looked up, green eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"Good morning," Dean murmured, his voice rough from sleep. "What do you want to do today, Norma?" Norma responded with a soft meow, her tail flicking lazily. Dean sighed deeply, feeling the weight of his responsibilities and the complicated web of emotions surrounding him. He cradled Norma in one arm as he sat up, the room still cloaked in the soft shadows of early morning. He glanced around, the familiar sight of his wardrobe standing in silent greeting.

He carried Norma to the wardrobe, pulling open the doors to reveal a modest collection of clothes. He sifted through the hangers, his thoughts drifting to Castiel and the peculiar habit of marking Dean’s clothes with his scent. A small smile tugged at Dean’s lips as he imagined Castiel, in his wolf form, meticulously drooling on each garment. It was an oddly endearing image, one that contrasted sharply with the tension that often simmered between them. Dean’s smile faded as he remembered the only time he’d seen Castiel in his true form—during their wedding ceremony. The memory was a jumble of emotions: awe at Castiel’s raw power and beauty, mixed with a twinge of sadness for the circ*mstances that had brought them together. Dean had felt a sense of respect for Castiel’s wolf form, understanding the vulnerability that came with showing one’s true self. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was no need for Castiel to hide from him. They were bound together now, for better or worse. He finally settled on a long-sleeved black V-neck, the fabric soft and comforting against his skin. Norma meowed again, her tiny voice breaking through his thoughts. Dean chuckled, lifting her to his face. "Do you approve, little one?" he asked, rubbing his nose against hers. Norma blinked slowly, a sign of contentment, and Dean took it as a yes. The black shirt seemed fitting for another day helping Castiel with the animals. The thought of spending more time with Castiel brought a mix of emotions. On one hand, the constant proximity made it harder to focus on his plans for escape. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny the growing sense of camaraderie, however fragile, that was forming between them. Dean set Norma down gently on the bed and took a moment to collect his thoughts. He knew that Castiel had been avoiding him, and now that it was out in the open, Castiel had started taking Dean with him to the barn three times a day. Castiel was trying, but Dean wasn’t sure what exactly he was trying to achieve. It felt like a step towards something, though Dean couldn’t quite define what that something was. He glanced back at Norma, who watched him with her usual inscrutable expression. "What do you think, Norma? Do I look alright?" Norma blinked, her tail twitching in approval. Dean chuckled softly, feeling a warmth spread through him. The simple act of caring for Norma, of seeking her approval, brought a sense of normalcy to his otherwise turbulent life.

He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down before heading downstairs. The farmhouse was quiet, the early morning light casting a gentle glow through the windows. He could hear the faint sounds of Castiel moving around in the kitchen, the clinking of dishes and the soft hum of a kettle boiling.

As he descended the stairs, Dean felt a sense of determination settle over him. Today, he would focus on building a bridge between him and Castiel. They had a long way to go, but perhaps, with a bit of effort and understanding, they could find a way to navigate their shared life. Dean wasn’t sure what the future held, but for now, he would take it one step at a time, starting with the simple act of helping Castiel in the barn. When he reached the kitchen, he found Castiel already preparing breakfast, his movements precise and efficient. Dean watched for a moment, admiring the grace with which Castiel moved, before stepping into the room.

"Good morning," Dean greeted, trying to keep his tone light.

"Morning," Castiel replied, glancing up briefly before returning his attention to the task at hand. Dean could see the effort Castiel was making to be civil, and he appreciated it more than he let on. Dean joined Castiel at the counter, helping to set the table. The familiar routine brought a sense of comfort, a brief respite from the complexities of their lives. As they ate, the silence between them was companionable, the tension of the past few days slowly easing. After breakfast, they donned their coats and headed out to the barn. The crisp January air bit at their cheeks, the snow crunching under their boots. The sky was a pale blue, the sun casting long shadows across the ground.

Inside the barn, the familiar scent of hay and animals greeted them, a warm contrast to the chill outside. Castiel led the way, his presence calm and commanding. Dean followed, feeling slightly out of place but determined to do his best. They started with the chickens, then moved on to the sheep and cows, the repetitive tasks creating a rhythm that was oddly comforting. Dean glanced at Castiel, who was brushing a cow with a focused expression. As they worked, Dean found himself relaxing, the simple, honest labour providing a sanctuary from the complexities of their lives. Dean and Castiel stood side by side in the barn, the air filled with the mingling scents of hay, animals, and earth. The gentle bleating of lambs filled the space, creating a serene backdrop to their morning routine. He began to understand the appeal of the barn, the way it offered a refuge from the outside world.Castiel moved with a quiet grace, his hands steady and confident as he prepared the bottles for the twin lambs. Dean watched, feeling a mixture of admiration and a desire to match Castiel’s proficiency. Castiel handed Dean one of the bottles, their fingers brushing slightly.

"Here, take this one," he said, his voice calm and even. Dean took the bottle, glancing at the tiny lamb nestled in the straw at his feet. Its soft eyes looked up at him, filled with a trusting innocence that tugged at his heart. Dean crouched down, mimicking Castiel’s gentle hold. The lamb wriggled slightly, its tiny hooves kicking against Dean’s arm. He fumbled with the bottle, trying to get the lamb to latch on. After a moment of awkward attempts, the lamb began to suckle, its tiny mouth working the bottle eagerly. Dean let out a small sigh of relief, glancing over at Castiel for reassurance. Castiel was already settled with the other lamb, his movements fluid and practised. He cradled the lamb in his lap, guiding the bottle with a tenderness that spoke of years of experience. The lamb’s eyes were half-closed in contentment, its small body relaxed against Castiel’s chest. Dean tried to match Castiel’s ease, but his efforts felt clumsy in comparison. He adjusted his grip, his fingers trembling slightly as he tried to hold the lamb steady. The little creature’s warmth seeped through his shirt, a reminder of the fragile life in his hands. "You’re doing fine," Castiel said softly, his blue eyes glancing over at Dean with a mixture of encouragement and quiet confidence. "Just be a little gentler." Dean nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He adjusted his hold, trying to mirror Castiel’s calm demeanour. The lamb continued to suckle, its tiny body pressing against Dean’s chest. The barn seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them and the innocent creatures in their care.

As they sat together, Dean found himself studying Castiel. There was a certain peace in the way Castiel moved, a quiet assurance that seemed to come naturally to him. Dean marvelled at the way Castiel’s fingers brushed through the lamb’s soft wool, his touch gentle yet firm. It was a side of Castiel that Dean hadn’t fully appreciated before—a side that revealed a deep, unwavering care for the animals he tended to.

"You really love this, don’t you?" Dean asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant. Castiel glanced up, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I do. They’re innocent, and they depend on us. It’s a responsibility I take seriously." Dean nodded, feeling a surge of respect for Castiel. He focused on the lamb in his lap, its tiny heartbeat a steady rhythm against his hands. He could feel the creature’s trust in him, a trust that mirrored the unspoken bond he was beginning to feel with Castiel. The minutes stretched on, filled with the quiet sounds of suckling and the occasional rustle of straw. Dean found himself relaxing, the repetitive task grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. He glanced over at Castiel again, noticing the way the morning light filtered through the barn, casting a soft glow around him.

"You’re good at this," Dean said, a note of admiration in his voice. Castiel looked up, his eyes meeting Dean’s.

"It takes practice. You’re doing well for a beginner."

"Thanks.” Dean chuckled softly, feeling a warmth spread through him at the compliment. “I’m trying."

"I can see that," Castiel replied, his tone gentle. "It’s not just about the technique. It’s about understanding them, being patient." Dean nodded, taking the words to heart. He felt a sense of calm settle over him, a connection to the lamb in his lap and to Castiel, who was guiding him through this still new experience. The barn, with its rustic charm and the quiet presence of the animals, felt like a sanctuary, a place where he could find moments of peace and understanding amidst the complexities of their lives. As the lambs finished their bottles, Dean carefully set his aside, gently stroking the lamb’s soft wool. The little creature nuzzled against his hand, its trust in him a quiet affirmation. Dean looked over at Castiel, who was doing the same with his lamb, his expression serene.

"Thank you," Dean said, his voice sincere. "For teaching me."

"Of course, Dean.” Castiel nodded, a soft smile on his lips. “We’re in this together."

When Dean and Castiel finished tending to the lambs, their hands now free from the gentle work of caring for the young creatures. Dean felt a newfound sense of accomplishment and connection, almost a sense of belonging. Castiel gave him a nod of approval as they cleaned up, and they headed back towards the house, the cold morning air biting at their cheeks. The house was warm and inviting as they stepped inside. Dean shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the peg by the door. Castiel followed suit, moving with his usual grace and efficiency. Dean glanced at the kitchen, noticing the familiar sight of boxes of pasta stacked neatly on the shelves. He now understood why Castiel always had such a large supply—it was a simple, versatile ingredient that could be stored for long periods.

"Let’s make some lunch," Dean suggested, his mind already turning over ideas for a simple meal. Castiel nodded, his eyes softening with a hint of gratitude.

"Pasta with tomato sauce?"

"Sounds good," Dean agreed, moving to the pantry to grab the necessary ingredients. They worked in comfortable silence, the kitchen filled with the sounds of their movements and the faint clatter of pots and pans. Dean set a pot of water on the stove to boil, while Castiel retrieved a jar of tomato sauce and a small selection of dried herbs. The simplicity of the task brought a sense of calm, a break from the complexities of their daily lives. As the water began to bubble, Dean added a pinch of salt before tossing in the pasta. Castiel stood beside him, opening the jar of tomato sauce and pouring it into a saucepan. The rich aroma of tomatoes filled the air, mingling with the fragrant scent of dried basil and oregano.

"How did you celebrate your last birthday?" Castiel asked suddenly, his voice curious but gentle. Dean paused, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

"My last birthday? The folks at the bistro threw me a surprise party. Ellen, the owner, baked this amazing cake, and we had a big feast after the dinner rush. It was... nice. Unexpected, but nice." Castiel’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.

"A surprise party? That sounds... overwhelming ." Dean chuckled, stirring the pasta as it cooked.

"It was a bit, but it was also touching. They really went all out, and it made me feel appreciated. Plus, the food was incredible." Castiel leaned against the counter, his gaze thoughtful.

"I think if anyone tried to throw me a surprise party, I’d do a 180 and leave. I don’t handle surprises well." Dean laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine.

"Yeah, I know. You like things to be planned and orderly."

"Mostly," Castiel said, his tone firm but not unkind. "The thought of a surprise, of not knowing what to expect, it’s... unsettling ." Dean nodded, understanding Castiel’s perspective. He drained the pasta and set it aside, moving to help Castiel with the sauce.

"Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me. No surprise parties, I promise." Castiel’s lips curved into a small smile, a rare but genuine expression.

"Thank you." They worked together seamlessly, the simplicity of their task creating a sense of harmony between them. Dean added the pasta to the sauce, stirring gently to coat each piece evenly. The rich, tangy aroma of the tomato sauce filled the kitchen, a comforting scent that spoke of home and shared moments. As they plated the pasta, Dean couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t a fancy meal, but it was made with care, and that made all the difference. They sat down at the small kitchen table, the warmth of the house enveloping them. Dean twirled a forkful of pasta, savouring the familiar flavours.

"This is good," he said, looking at Castiel with genuine appreciation. "Simple, but good."

"It is.” Castiel nodded, taking a bite of his own. “Sometimes, simplicity is best." They ate in companionable silence, the bonds of their shared experiences and newfound understanding growing stronger with each passing moment. The house was quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards the only sounds breaking the silence. Dean felt a sense of contentment as he twirled another forkful of pasta. "How was work yesterday?" Castiel asked, breaking the silence with a gentle curiosity.

"It was good," Dean replied, his tone thoughtful. "It's nice to have something steady like that to work with. It's repetitive but still offers enough variety to keep things interesting." Dean's mind drifted back to the previous evening, to the unexpected visit from Balthazar. The kitchen had been bustling with the usual dinner service rush, the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of food cooking, and the murmur of voices blending into a familiar symphony of activity. Dean had been in his element, moving with practised ease through the ordered chaos. Then, Balthazar had appeared, his presence almost ghostly amidst the haze of steam and the flurry of movement. Dean had barely had time to register the witch's arrival before Balthazar had grabbed him by the arm, his grip firm but not painful, and dragged him outside. The cold night air had hit Dean like a shock, the abrupt change in temperature sending a shiver through him. Balthazar's eyes had been intense, a blend of concern and something else Dean couldn't quite place. ‘Don't break his heart’ , Balthazar had said, the words echoing in Dean's mind even now. At the time, Dean had been too stunned to respond, his thoughts racing. The notion that he could break Castiel's heart seemed impossible to him. Maybe Balthazar had known something about the lambs, their innocent dependence on Castiel, and had been referring to them. The idea had lingered, but Dean had chosen not to dwell on it. He looked back at Castiel now, seeing the quiet determination in his eyes. Dean pushed the memory aside, focusing on the present.

"I was thinking," Dean began cautiously, "maybe I should start doing the shopping more often again. I know you don't get paid every month, but I still do." Castiel's expression remained neutral, but Dean sensed a flicker of something beneath the surface.

"The money was never the problem," Castiel said quietly.

"I know,” Dean nodded, understanding the unspoken context “the store is." Castiel's eyes met Dean's, a silent communication passing between them.

"Yes," Castiel acknowledged softly.

"I can still do it," Dean insisted, his tone gentle but firm. Castiel hesitated, then asked.

"Are you tired of this food?"

"A little," Dean admitted, trying to keep his voice light. Castiel looked away, his gaze drifting to the window where the light was spilling in, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken thoughts and emotions. Dean reached out, placing a hand on Castiel's arm. "It's not just about the food, Cas," he said softly. "I just want to help, to share the responsibilities." Castiel turned back to him, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and something deeper.

"I appreciate that," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

They finished their meal in silence. When the remnants of their lunch cleaned away, Dean and Castiel settled back into the kitchen, the warmth of the house creating a cocoon against the cold January air outside. They sat across from each other at the wooden table, a notepad and pen between them, ready to make a grocery list. Dean leaned forward, tapping the pen against the pad thoughtfully.

"Alright, let's see what we need," he began. "How about some fresh vegetables? Maybe some tomatoes, carrots, and bell peppers?" Castiel shook his head slightly, his expression thoughtful but firm.

"We still have plenty of canned tomatoes and frozen vegetables. We don’t need fresh ones right now." Dean frowned but nodded, jotting down 'canned vegetables' instead.

"Alright, what about some fresh herbs? Basil, parsley, and thyme?" Again, Castiel shook his head.

"Dried herbs last longer and are more practical in the winter. We have enough dried herbs." Dean suppressed a sigh, feeling a twinge of frustration. "What about some fruit? Apples, oranges, maybe some berries?" Castiel hesitated, then finally nodded.

"Apples and oranges are fine. No berries, though." Dean wrote it down, trying to keep his tone light.

"Okay, how about some cheese? We could use it for different dishes." Castiel shook his head again.

"We have enough cheese. Gabriel brought some last week." Dean looked up, meeting Castiel’s eyes.

"You know, we do have money. We can afford to buy a few extra things."

"I know we have money. More than enough.” Castiel’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of something unspoken in his eyes. “I got the dowry, after all." Dean blinked, the words catching him off guard.

"You got the...?"

"The dowry, yes," Castiel confirmed, his tone even. Dean’s mind raced, the implications of Castiel’s words sinking in. His father, John, had told him that the money was going into a fund for the wedding. The thought that Castiel had received the money as a dowry instead stirred a mix of resentment and betrayal within him. John had sold all of Dean’s belongings, his apartment, probably even his childhood possessions after he left the week before the wedding. And now, to learn that the money had gone directly to Castiel without him knowing… Dean clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"My dad said the money was for the wedding fund, not to be given directly to you." Castiel's expression remained calm, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or understanding.

"I wasn’t aware of that, Dean. I only know that money was given to me as a dowry." Dean took a deep breath, the kitchen suddenly feeling smaller, the walls closing in slightly. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of resentment. It wasn’t just about the money; it was about the principle, the feeling of being kept in the dark, of not being fully informed.

"I just wish you had told me earlier," Dean said quietly, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and sadness. Castiel looked down at the table, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood.

"I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t think it mattered in the grand scheme of things. I never meant to keep it from you. I have tried to supply you with what you need." Dean nodded slowly, trying to let go of the lingering resentment. He knew Castiel wasn’t to blame for his father’s decisions, but the wound was still fresh, the betrayal still stung. He took another deep breath, forcing a small smile.

"Alright, let’s just focus on the list. We need some more staple items—bread, milk, butter. And maybe some fresh ingredients to add a bit of variety." Castiel looked up, his expression softening.

"That sounds reasonable. We can add those to the list." They continued working on the list together, the tension gradually easing as they discussed what they needed. Dean suggested a few more items—some fresh greens, potatoes, and a few spices they were running low on. Castiel agreed to most of them, and they found a rhythm, the act of planning their groceries becoming a shared task, a step towards bridging the gap between them. As they finished the list, Dean looked at Castiel, a sense of determination settling over him. Dean set the pen down and looked at the list, feeling a sense of accomplishment.

"Alright, I’ll go to the store later and pick these up." Castiel nodded, a small smile on his lips.

"Thank you, Dean." Dean returned the smile, feeling a sense of connection that had been missing before.

"No problem. We’re in this together, right?"

"Right," Castiel agreed softly.

Dean watched as Castiel headed back to the barn, his figure gradually blending into the rustic landscape. The sky was a crisp, pale blue, the sunlight casting a gentle glow over the snow-covered ground. Dean stood by the house for a moment, feeling the cool air brush against his face, before he turned and made his way to Castiel’s car, still parked beside the house. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he took a deep breath, the familiar scent of the car's interior mingling with the cold air. The engine roared to life, a warm, comforting rumble that vibrated through the vehicle. Dean adjusted his seatbelt and set off, the tires crunching over the snow as he drove down the gravel path leading away from the house. As he navigated through the winding roads of the Novak territory, Dean felt a familiar sensation of freedom wash over him. The trees, tall and old, lined the road like silent sentinels, their bare branches reaching up to the sky. The forest seemed to whisper around him, the stillness of winter creating a serene yet mysterious atmosphere. For a moment, Dean let himself imagine what it would be like to keep driving, to leave the constraints of his current life behind and find a new path.

Balthazar’s words echoed in his mind, unbidden. ‘It’s good to see you’re still alive at least.’ The memory of the witch’s intense gaze, the warning hidden in those words, sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. If Balthazar hadn’t visited him yesterday, maybe he would have just kept driving. The thought lingered, a tantalising possibility. Probably not, he admitted to himself, but maybe. The idea of escape was like a fleeting shadow, always just out of reach. Dean’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp turn. He realised, with a sudden jolt of frustration, that he didn’t actually know the way to town. Charlie always changed the routes when she drove him, a precaution against any potential threats or simply a habit to keep him disoriented. He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, a sharp crack that echoed in the confined space of the car.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. There was no point in dwelling on what-ifs. He needed to focus on the task at hand. He turned the car in the direction of the grocery store deep within the forest, a place he knew he could find without getting lost. The drive through the Novak territory was both familiar and strange. The forest seemed to close in around him, the towering trees casting long shadows over the road. The air was crisp and cold, each breath a visible puff of vapour in the winter chill. Dean felt a mix of anticipation and unease as he navigated the winding paths, the sense of isolation both a comfort and a reminder of his current predicament. As he drove, his thoughts wandered back to the conversation he had with Castiel about the dowry. The revelation still gnawed at him, a mix of betrayal and sadness simmering beneath the surface. He understood that Castiel wasn’t to blame, but it didn’t make the sting any less sharp; all Dean had owned had been sold off and given to Castiel. Dean shook his head, trying to clear his mind. There was no point in dwelling on it now.

The grocery store came into view, a modest building nestled among the trees. Dean pulled into the small parking lot, the crunch of gravel under the tires breaking the silence. He turned off the engine and stepped out of the car, the cold air biting at his cheeks. The store was a simple structure, its wooden exterior blending seamlessly with the forest around it. A bell chimed softly as he pushed open the door, the warm air inside a welcome contrast to the chill outside. The store was quiet, the shelves lined with an assortment of goods. Dean grabbed a basket and began to make his way through the aisles, his mind focused on the list he and Castiel had made. He selected apples and oranges, their bright colours a cheerful sight against the winter backdrop. He moved on to the greens, picking out a few heads of lettuce and some fresh spinach. As he gathered the items, Dean couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. This simple task, mundane as it was, brought a sense of normalcy to his life. It was a small thing, but it was something he could control, something he could contribute. He moved on to the dairy section, selecting milk and butter, then grabbed a loaf of bread from the bakery aisle. His basket was nearly full by the time he reached the spices, picking up a few jars to replenish their stock at home.

At the checkout, the cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, rang up his purchases. Dean made small talk, her warm demeanour a welcome change from the solitude of the drive. He paid for the groceries and headed back to the car, the bags rustling softly as he loaded them into the trunk.

The drive back was quieter, the sense of freedom now tempered by a renewed determination. Dean navigated the winding roads with a sense of purpose, the tasks ahead grounding him in the present. He arrived back at the farmhouse as the afternoon sun began to dip, casting a golden glow over the snow-covered landscape.

Dean carried the groceries inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. He began to put the items away with the help of Norma, the black kitten weaving between his legs and curiously batting at the bags as he unloaded them. The warmth of the kitchen contrasted with the cold outside, and Dean found solace in the simple task of organising their supplies. He placed the apples and oranges in a bowl on the counter, the fresh greens in the fridge, and the dairy products neatly on the shelves. Norma's soft purrs provided a soothing backdrop to the quiet house, and Dean couldn't help but smile as she tried to climb into one of the grocery bags.

As the afternoon turned into evening, Dean glanced out the window, noting that Castiel was still at the barn. The light was beginning to fade, the sky painted with hues of pink and orange. Dean's thoughts drifted to the last time they had bread at home, baked by Balthazar. The memory brought a faint smile to his lips. Balthazar’s bread had been a hit, though he seemed to remember Castiel hadn’t spared the bread from his strawberry jam obsession, combining it with cheese in a way that only Castiel seemed to enjoy. Dean opted for a simpler approach for himself making sandwiches with lettuce, cheese, and butter. The aroma of the fresh bread filled the kitchen as he prepared their dinner. Once the sandwiches were ready, he packed them up and filled a thermos with hot tea. He bundled up against the cold, grabbing the packed dinner, and headed out towards the barn.

The crunch of snow underfoot was the only sound as he walked, but as he approached the barn, he overheard voices. He paused, recognising some of the pack members standing in a small group, their breath visible in the cold air. They were around his age, their laughter carrying a mocking edge.

"Haven't you heard? Dean can't even get Castiel to touch him," one of them snickered.

"Yeah, I've heard all Castiel does is scent Dean's clothes.” Another voice chimed in,“It's clear Castiel's going to end up killing him if they can't even make a connection." Dean’s stomach sank, the words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He knew his relationship with Castiel was complicated, but hearing it from the pack members, their words dripping with disdain, made it sting all the more.

"Maybe they do have a physical relationship," a third voice suggested, "but Dean's so disgusted by Castiel that he tries to scrub Castiel off him each time." The group erupted in laughter, the sound grating on Dean's nerves. He clenched his jaw and continued walking, forcing himself to focus on his steps. He tried to push the hurtful comments aside, but they lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. As he reached the barn, the familiar sounds of animals greeted him, a welcome distraction from the harsh words. He stepped inside, the warmth and earthy scent enveloping him. His eyes immediately found Castiel, who was sitting on the ground, feeding one of the twin lambs. The other lamb lay asleep nearby, peaceful and content. Beside Castiel stood an empty bottle. Castiel looked up, a soft smile lighting his face.

"Dean," he greeted. Dean walked over, stepping into the enclosure.

"I brought dinner," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Castiel's face brightened at the news.

"Thank you," he said, his gratitude evident. Dean handed over a sandwich to Castiel, watching as his eyes widened with delight at the sight of the strawberry jam and cheese combination. The simple joy on Castiel's face made Dean's efforts feel worthwhile. "You made this for me?" Castiel asked, visibly touched.

"Yeah,” Dean nodded, his own smile growing. “I remember how much you like it with jam and cheese." Castiel took a bite, savouring the flavours.

"It's perfect," he said, his eyes meeting Dean's with a warmth that chased away some of the lingering hurt from the pack members' words. They sat together in the barn, the quiet companionship between them a balm to Dean’s troubled thoughts. Castiel's contentment as he ate, the gentle sounds of the animals around them, and the shared meal created a moment of peace. Despite the harsh comments and the challenges they faced, Dean found solace in these small, genuine connections. Dean poured tea from the thermos, the steam curling into the cold air. They sipped in silence, the warmth spreading through them. Dean watched Castiel, noting the way he seemed more at ease here, among the animals he cared for so deeply.

"Thank you for bringing dinner," Castiel said softly, breaking the silence.

"You're welcome," Dean replied, his voice equally gentle. The barn grew darker as evening settled fully, the only light coming from the small lantern Castiel had brought. Dean felt the weight of the day lifting slightly. Dean watched as Castiel took the first bite of his second sandwich, the contented look on his face lighting up the dimly lit barn. The lantern cast a soft, warm glow, flickering gently in the cool air. Dean took a sip of his tea, feeling the warmth spread through him, before asking, “How often do you need to feed the lambs?” Castiel swallowed his bite and replied.

“A newborn lamb needs to be fed every two to three hours during the day for its first two weeks. At night, you can feed them every four to five hours.” Dean’s eyes widened slightly.

“You go out at night just to feed them?”

“Of course,” Castiel said with a simple sincerity that brought a smile to Dean’s lips. “I want them to survive.” The straightforwardness of Castiel’s answer, the genuine care he showed for the lambs, made Dean appreciate him even more. There was a purity in Castiel’s devotion to the animals, a sense of duty that was unwavering. Dean looked down at his own sandwich, then back at Castiel.

“Does strawberry jam actually go well with cheese?”

“I think so,” Castiel extended his sandwich toward Dean. “Try it.” Dean hesitated, eyeing the combination with curiosity. The bread, slathered with sweet, glistening strawberry jam, contrasted with the creamy slice of cheese. He leaned forward, taking a tentative bite. The flavours burst in his mouth, the sweetness of the jam perfectly complementing the mild, creamy cheese. It was an unexpected harmony, a delightful blend that made him pause in surprise.

“It’s... actually really good,” Dean admitted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Castiel’s eyes lit up with a quiet satisfaction.

“I told you,” he said, taking another bite of his sandwich. Dean savoured the lingering taste, feeling a connection not just with the food but with the moment they were sharing.

Dean settled back, the sounds of the barn filling the space around them. The quiet munching of the lambs, the soft rustle of hay, and the gentle rhythm of their breathing created a soothing backdrop.

“How do you manage to stay awake for the night feedings?” Dean asked, his tone light but filled with genuine curiosity.

“It’s just something I’m used to.” Castiel shrugged. “Their well-being is important to me. It’s a routine, and I find a certain peace in it.” Dean nodded, understanding the sentiment. Routines could provide a sense of stability, a grounding presence amidst the uncertainties of life. He took another bite of his own sandwich, the simplicity of the meal comforting in its own way. The barn grew quieter as the evening deepened, the shadows lengthening and blending into the warm glow of the lantern. Dean felt a sense of contentment, a rare moment of peace that he wanted to hold onto. He glanced at Castiel, who was now gently stroking the lamb that lay sleeping beside him.

“The lambs are in good hands,” Dean said softly, his voice carrying a note of acknowledgment. Castiel looked up, his blue eyes reflecting the dim light.

“I’m glad you’re here, Dean,” he replied, his tone equally soft. They sat in companionable silence, the bond between them growing stronger with each shared moment. Dean felt a flicker of hope, a belief that they could navigate the complexities of their relationship, one small step at a time. For now, surrounded by the quiet life of the barn and the simple pleasure of a shared meal, it was enough. The soft glow of the lantern illuminated Castiel's curious expression as he asked, "How was the store?"

"It was just fine." Dean said, trying to keep his tone light.

"That's good," Castiel replied, a note of relief in his voice.

Dean felt a slight twinge at his temples, a familiar ache that began to creep back in. He dismissed it, focusing on the calm atmosphere of the barn and the warmth of their shared moment. But the twinge quickly grew, escalating into a full-force headache. A high-pitched noise pierced through his mind, growing louder and more intense with each passing second. Dean's hands flew to his ears, trying to muffle the unbearable sound. He dropped both his sandwich and his tea in the process, the hot liquid seeping through his pants and burning his skin, but the pain from the tea was nothing compared to the agony in his head. The noise was overwhelming, drowning out everything else. His vision blurred, colours and shapes melding together into an indistinct haze. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the noise, but it only seemed to amplify in the darkness behind his eyelids. Panic began to rise within him, the pain and noise pushing him to the brink of his endurance. He felt himself sway, the ground beneath him seeming to shift and twist.

"Dean!" Castiel's voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline amidst the turmoil. Dean felt a hand on his shoulder, steady and firm, grounding him in the present. He clung to that touch, focusing on the solid, reassuring presence of Castiel. The noise continued to roar in his ears, but Castiel's voice became a beacon, guiding him through the disorienting pain. "Dean, look at me," Castiel urged, his tone calm but commanding. Dean forced his eyes open, blinking against the blurriness. Castiel's face came into focus, his blue eyes filled with concern and determination. The sight gave Dean something to hold onto, a focal point amidst the chaos in his mind. "You're going to be okay," Castiel said firmly, his voice steady. Dean nodded weakly, still clutching his head, but the noise began to recede, the pain slowly ebbing away. Castiel's hand never left his shoulder, providing a constant, reassuring presence. Gradually, the world came back into focus, the noise fading into a distant hum. Dean took a shaky breath, the throbbing in his head easing enough for him to gather his thoughts. He looked at Castiel, gratitude and relief flooding through him.

"Thank you," he managed to say, his voice hoarse. Castiel nodded, his expression softening.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, his hands still trembling. "It just... hit me out of nowhere." Castiel's grip on his shoulder tightened slightly, a silent promise of support.

"Let's get you inside." Dean nodded, leaning on Castiel as they made their way out of the barn. The cold air was a sharp contrast to the warmth inside, but it helped clear Dean's mind, the fresh breeze soothing against his skin. They walked slowly, each step bringing Dean closer to the safety and comfort of the house.

Inside Castiel guided Dean to the bed, his hands steady and supportive. Dean sank into the soft pillows, the tension slowly draining from his body. He watched as Castiel disappeared for a moment, leaving him to the silence of the room. When Dean realised he was in Castiel’s bedroom rather than his own, a small sense of comfort settled over him. The half familiar surroundings, filled with Castiel's personal items, Castiel's paintings, Castiel's scent, made him feel more at ease. Castiel returned quickly, carrying a glass of water and a damp cloth. He handed Dean the water, which he gratefully drank, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. Castiel then pressed the damp cloth against Dean’s forehead, the coolness providing immediate relief.

“Just rest,” Castiel said softly, sitting beside him on the floor. Dean closed his eyes, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing and the comforting presence of Castiel next to him. The headache still lingered, a dull ache, but the worst had passed. The high-pitched noise had faded into silence, leaving behind a sense of exhaustion. The quiet companionship in the warmth of the house provided a balm to Dean’s troubled mind. He took solace in the simple act of being there together, finding strength in the connection they were building, one moment at a time. As the minutes passed, Dean felt himself drifting off, lulled by the quiet sounds of the house and the gentle presence of Castiel. When he woke up a bit later, he with his eyelids heavy and half lidded saw Castiel and Norma sitting in the armchair next to the window. Castiel held Norma gently, kissing her forehead and murmuring softly.

“Dean is going to be alright, Norma,” Castiel said, seemingly more to himself than to the kitten. Then Castiel's voice turned sadder. “But I think it is wearing off. We should talk to Balthazar.” Dean, still half-asleep, realised that Castiel must be recognising the symptoms of a spell wearing off. Soon, Dean’s allergy to Norma would return, probably in full force. He watched through half-closed eyes as Castiel continued to speak to the kitten. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?” Castiel mused. Norma meowed softly in response. Castiel chuckled, a soft sound in the quiet room. “Oh, you want to know how many dragonflies you’ll catch this summer? Well, that’s not really a truth. Maybe you want to know if you will grow big and strong, or maybe you want to know if you will get a birthday party too? Wait, no, these are still not truths. Oh well, maybe it is too late to talk to myself. Norma, I’m going out soon to feed the lambs. Will you take care of Dean for me?” Norma meowed again, and Castiel stroked her fur gently. Dean, in his half-awake state, secretly wished the crystal ball could reveal a successful escape route. But then another thought struck him: he wanted to know if he would find happiness in his new life. He couldn’t tell which desire was stronger, the need for freedom or the hope for happiness. Dean drifted back to sleep, the sound of Castiel’s voice and the warmth of the room lulling him into a peaceful slumber. In his dreams, he saw a crystal ball showing him paths diverging, one leading to escape, the other to a life where he found contentment and connection with Castiel.

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

Castiel sat in the kitchen, frustration mounting with every passing second. He had tried calling Balthazar multiple times, but the witch hadn’t answered. The spell Balthazar had cast on Dean was rapidly wearing off, and Castiel could see the signs. Dean would only get sicker and sicker until the spell was completely gone. He couldn’t bear the thought of Dean suffering or becoming allergic to Norma again. Castiel placed the phone on the table and ran his hands through his hair, tugging slightly at the ends. Balthazar had been right; it was time for a haircut. But he couldn’t leave Dean alone, and Charlie was probably busy with her restaurant. Despite his reluctance, he decided to call her, knowing she would answer directly if he called. The phone rang twice before Charlie’s worried voice came through.

“Castiel, is everything okay?”

“I need to know how to go on the interwebs,” Castiel said, his voice tinged with urgency.

“At four in the morning?” Charlie sounded confused.

“Yes, at four in the morning.” Charlie sighed, clearly tired.

“Okay. You’re connected to the internet via the Wi-Fi Balthazar installed, but I’m guessing you want to look something up?”

“Yes, I need to look something up.” Charlie yawned.

“Alright, there are apps on your phone. The phone, the messages.”

“Yes, I know.”

“There should be one called ‘Safari’ . Do you see it?”

“Why is it called Safari?” Castiel asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Focus, Castiel,” Charlie said, trying to steer him back on track.

“Right, yes, I see it.”

“Click on it, and you can search now.”

“Okay.”

“Is there anything else, or can I go back to sleep now?” Charlie asked, stifling another yawn.

“You can sleep.”

“Bye, Cassie.”

“Charlie?” Castiel said before she could hang up.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Charlie hung up, and Castiel took a deep breath. He searched for the town’s bistro and clicked on the photos. As he scrolled through the images, he occasionally saw Dean in the background, a younger version of him, looking slightly happier. Castiel’s heart began to beat harder in his chest, a warmth spreading through him. Then a wave of nausea hit him. He felt like he had ruined that version of Dean, the one who looked content and carefree.

Castiel slipped the phone into his pocket and went out to the barn to feed the lambs, trying to push aside the feeling that had taken over when he saw Dean happy. The night air was cold, the frost-covered ground crunching beneath his boots as he walked. The barn was dimly lit by a single lantern, casting long shadows across the hay-strewn floor. The twin lambs bleated softly as he approached, their tiny bodies huddled together for warmth. Castiel filled their bottles with warm milk, his hands moving with practised ease despite the early hour. As he fed them, his mind drifted back to the photos he had seen. Dean, smiling and relaxed, surrounded by friends. The stark contrast to the present was almost too much to bear.

After ensuring the lambs were settled, Castiel made his way back to the house, his thoughts heavy with guilt and frustration. He opened the door quietly, not wanting to wake Dean, and made his way to the bedroom. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Dean lay on the bed, still and silent, with Norma curled up on his chest. The kitten’s gentle purring was the only sound in the room, a soothing counterpoint to Castiel’s turbulent thoughts. A lump formed in Castiel’s throat, and he had to blink back tears. The sight of Dean, so vulnerable and at peace with Norma, brought a rush of emotions. He felt an overwhelming urge to protect them both, to find a way to make things right. He stood there for a long moment, just watching them, before finally retreating to the kitchen. The house was quiet, the only sound was the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Castiel sat at the table, his head in his hands, trying to figure out what to do next. He had to get in touch with Balthazar, had to find a way to renew the spell and keep Dean from suffering. But how?

As the minutes ticked by, Castiel felt a growing sense of urgency. He picked up the phone again and dialled Balthazar’s number, his fingers trembling slightly. The phone rang and rang, each unanswered ring a blow to his already frayed nerves. Finally, just as he was about to hang up, there was a click on the other end.

“Castiel?” Balthazar’s voice was groggy and irritated. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Balthazar, I need your help,” Castiel said, his voice cracking slightly. “The spell you put on Dean is wearing off. He’s going to get sick again if we don’t do something.” There was a pause on the other end, and when Balthazar spoke again, his voice was more alert.

"It will be alright, Cassie. You need to calm down." Castiel couldn't calm down. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing tighter with each breath. His vision blurred as panic set in, and he struggled to draw air into his lungs. His chest heaved, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over and streaming down his face.

"Balthazar, please," Castiel's voice broke, his words barely coherent through the sobs that wracked his body. "Can't... don’t…don't know what to do."

"Castiel, listen to me. You need to breathe. Focus on my voice," Balthazar's tone was firm but soothing, an anchor in the storm of Castiel's emotions. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slowly." Castiel tried to follow Balthazar's instructions, but his body refused to cooperate. The room spun, and his hands trembled uncontrollably. He clutched the edge of the table, his knuckles white, as he fought to regain control. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and helplessness, the thought of Dean suffering because of his inability to act tearing at him.

"Can't… can't… do this," Castiel cried out, his voice a desperate plea. "Everything is falling apart."

"You can do this, Castiel.” Balthazar's voice remained steady, a lifeline amidst the chaos. “You're stronger than you think. I'm here with you."

"I… I… can't… can't breathe," Castiel's breaths came in short, shallow bursts, his chest tight with panic. The tears flowed freely now, unchecked and unstoppable. He felt like he was drowning, each gasp for air a battle he was losing.

"Yes, Cassie, you can," Balthazar insisted, his tone unyielding. "Focus on something in the room. Describe it to me." Castiel's eyes darted around the kitchen, landing on the clock on the wall.

"The clock... it's ticking," he managed to choke out.

"Good, Cassie," Balthazar encouraged. "Keep going. What else do you see?"

"The table... it's wooden, and the chairs... there are four of them," Castiel continued, his voice shaking but slightly more steady.

"That's it, keep going," Balthazar urged. "You're doing great, Cassie." Castiel's breathing began to slow, the focus on his surroundings helping to ground him.

"The window... the curtains… the curtains are blue," he said, his voice a bit stronger.

"Perfect," Balthazar said, a note of relief in his voice. "Just keep breathing, in and out. You're doing it." Slowly, Castiel's breaths evened out, the immediate panic subsiding into a lingering tremor. He wiped at his eyes, the tears still coming but not as fiercely.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, darling," Balthazar said gently. "You're dealing with a lot. It's okay to feel overwhelmed." Castiel nodded, though Balthazar couldn't see him.

"Just… just… don't want Dean to suffer because of me."

"He won't," Balthazar assured him. "You'll figure this out together. But right now, you need to rest. You sound like you've been up all night, and you can't help Dean if you're exhausted." Reluctantly, Castiel agreed, knowing Balthazar was right.

"Okay," he said quietly. "But what if..."

"No more 'what ifs' right now, Cassie," Balthazar interrupted softly. "Just focus on resting. I'll call you back later to check in." Castiel nodded again, the weariness settling over him like a heavy blanket.

"Balthazar, can you come back?" he asked, his voice small and filled with hope. Balthazar sighed softly on the other end.

"I'm sorry, darling, but I'm back in Paris." Castiel felt a fresh wave of tears welling up. Balthazar's voice was gentle but firm. "You're an adult now, Cassie. You don't need me as much as you think."

"But I do." Castiel sniffled, his voice trembling. "I... I will always need you."

"I would beg to differ," Balthazar replied softly. "You're doing good, so good. Remember that, Cassie darling."

The call ended, and Castiel sat there for a moment, the silence of the house enveloping him. He felt drained, both physically and emotionally, the events of the night taking their toll. With a sigh, he stood up and made his way back to the bedroom to check on Dean. Dean was still asleep, his face peaceful and undisturbed. Castiel watched him for a moment, a sense of calm settling over him despite the lingering anxiety. He knew he needed to rest, but his mind was too restless. Instead, he grabbed a blanket and headed back out to the barn.

The barn was a sanctuary, the quiet sounds of the animals and the gentle rustling of hay a soothing backdrop. Castiel settled down next to the lambs, their warm bodies a comforting presence. He wrapped the blanket around himself and lay back, staring up at the loft. The events of the night played over and over in his mind, but the steady rhythm of the lambs' breathing slowly lulled him into a fitful sleep. In his dreams, he saw Balthazar and Dean, their faces blurred and indistinct. He felt a sense of urgency, a need to protect them both, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reach them. The dream shifted, and he was back in the kitchen, the ticking of the clock loud in his ears. The walls seemed to close in on him again, the panic rising, but this time, he remembered Balthazar's words. He focused on his surroundings, grounding himself in the present, and the panic slowly receded. When he woke, the barn was filled with the soft light of dawn. The lambs were still asleep, their tiny bodies huddled together. Castiel sat up, stretching out the stiffness in his muscles.

Castiel stayed sitting there for a moment, the sounds of the barn enveloping him. The soft bleating of sheep, the rustle of hay, and the occasional chirp of a bird outside created a serene atmosphere. He felt drained, both physically and emotionally, the events of the night taking their toll. He leaned back against the wooden wall of the barn, closing his eyes for a brief moment of respite. One of the twin lambs stirred, waking up with a soft bleat. It trotted over to Castiel and nudged his ribs with a gentle headbutt. Castiel smiled sadly, reaching out to stroke the lamb's soft wool. The innocent curiosity of the lamb was a small comfort in the midst of his worries.

"Hey there, baby," Castiel murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The lamb nuzzled his hand, seeking warmth and affection. Castiel sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He still had the morning chores to do. He quickly set to work, moving with a quiet efficiency born of routine. He filled the feed troughs, checked on the water supply, and made sure all the animals were accounted for. The familiar tasks brought a semblance of normalcy to his morning, a brief distraction from the chaos in his mind.

Once the chores were done, Castiel settled back down with the lambs and their formula. He held the bottle carefully, letting the first lamb suckle eagerly. As he fed the lamb, his thoughts drifted back to the photo of Dean he had seen earlier. Dean had looked so happy, surrounded by friends, a carefree smile on his face. It was a stark contrast to the guarded, often troubled expression he wore now. Castiel wondered what Dean’s life had been like before all of this. The bistro, the friends, the laughter—Dean had a life full of connections and warmth. Castiel felt a pang of guilt, wondering if he had taken all of that away from him. He wanted to find a way to give some of that happiness back to Dean, to help him feel at home here. The second lamb nudged its sibling aside, eager for its turn. Castiel switched bottles, gently guiding the lamb to latch on. He watched the tiny creature drink, its eyes half-closed in contentment. The simplicity of the moment, the act of nurturing, brought a fleeting sense of peace.

When the second lamb had finished eating, Castiel pulled out his phone. He had only slept for about an hour, and now, after finishing all the chores, it was nine. He returned to the search results page and found the website for the bistro: Harvelle's American Bistro. The name seemed warm and inviting, much like the photos he had seen. Curiosity piqued, Castiel explored their website from the comfort of the barn. The homepage featured a slideshow of mouth-watering dishes, each one carefully plated and presented. The bistro boasted a menu filled with classic American fare with a modern twist—burgers made from locally sourced beef, hand-cut fries, and an array of fresh salads. The photos of the food made Castiel's stomach rumble slightly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten yet. He clicked through the different sections, reading about the history of the bistro. It had been founded by Ellen Harvelle, a woman described as a pillar of the community, someone who had created a place where people could come together and enjoy good food and good company. Her daughter, Johanna, ‘Jo’, was now running the place, continuing her mother’s legacy. As Castiel browsed the site, he found a section dedicated to the staff. There was a photo of Dean, smiling in his chef’s jacket, standing next to a woman with blonde hair—Jo, presumably. They looked happy, a small team dedicated to their craft. The caption underneath read: ‘Our chefs, Dean and Jo, bringing passion and creativity to every dish.’ Castiel felt a pang of longing. He wanted to see Dean smile like that again, to see him find joy in his work and in his life. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, but he was determined to try. Dean deserved happiness, and Castiel was willing to do whatever it took to help him find it. He found a phone number for the bistro at the bottom of the webpage. The idea of calling made his heart race. Castiel had never been comfortable on the phone, especially when talking to strangers. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He rehearsed what he would say, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Hello, this is… hello, this is Castiel… hello, I am Castiel Novak. I’d like to make a reservation for the 24th, please." It sounded simple enough, but the thought of actually speaking those words to someone made his stomach churn. Castiel paced the barn, the phone clutched tightly in his hand. He went over the words again and again, trying to find the right tone. "Hello, this is Castiel… hello, I am Castiel Novak. I’d like to make a reservation for the 24th, please." He repeated it until it felt more natural, his voice steadying with each attempt. Finally, with a deep breath, he dialled the number. The phone rang, and Castiel's heart pounded in his chest. He counted the rings, each one amplifying his anxiety. Just as he considered hanging up, a voice answered on the other end.

"Harvelle's American Bistro, this is Jo speaking. How can I help you?" Castiel took a shaky breath, forcing the rehearsed words to his lips.

"Hello,” Castiel froze, his mind blanking for a moment. “this is… I am... Castiel Novak. I’d like to… erm… make a reservation? For the 24th?” There was a brief pause on the other end, and Castiel's anxiety spiked. “Please?" He couldn't help but worry that he had said something wrong, that his voice had betrayed his nervousness. But Jo’s response was warm and professional.

"Of course, Mister Novak. For how many people?"

"Two," Castiel managed to say, his voice steadier now.

"And what time would you like the reservation for?"

"Nineteen, please."

"Alright, I have you down for two people at seven o’clock on the 24th. Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

"No, that’s all. Thank you."

"You're welcome. We look forward to seeing you then." Castiel ended the call, a mixture of relief and pride washing over him. He had done it. He had made the reservation. It was a small step, but it felt like a significant one. He hoped that this dinner would bring a bit of joy back into Dean's life, a reminder of the happiness he once knew. He looked around the barn, the familiar surroundings offering a sense of comfort. The lambs had settled down again, their soft bleats filling the quiet space. Castiel smiled, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. He would do everything in his power to help Dean find happiness again, one small step at a time.

The morning sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow through the crack in the barn’s door. Castiel stood up, feeling a bit lighter. He walked back to the house, ready to face whatever the day would bring, knowing that he had taken the first step towards making things right. Castiel walked back to the house, the morning sun casting long shadows across the snowy landscape. The air was crisp and cold, each breath forming small clouds of vapour that quickly dissipated. He felt a sense of purpose as he entered the kitchen, determined to make breakfast for Dean. The kitchen, with its wooden cabinets and rustic charm, was a familiar haven. Castiel took a moment to gather his thoughts before setting to work. He started by preparing the instant coffee.

The tin of coffee granules sat on the counter, a simple yet essential part of Dean's morning routine. Castiel measured out a spoonful of the dark powder, placing it into a mug. The kettle hissed softly as it heated the water, and Castiel took the opportunity to open a window slightly, allowing the fresh air to mingle with the rising warmth of the kitchen. The smell of coffee was already beginning to permeate the air, a scent that always brought a slight twinge to his temples, but he knew it was a comfort to Dean. While the water heated, Castiel moved to the bread box and pulled out a fresh loaf. The bread was still soft, and he carefully sliced four pieces, each cut even and precise. He then retrieved a block of butter and a wedge of cheese from the refrigerator. The butter was smooth and easy to spread, gliding over the bread with ease. The cheese, a mild cheddar, was firm and sliced cleanly into thin pieces. Then the kettle yelled and Castiel poured the hot water into the mug, watching as the coffee granules dissolved and swirled, forming a rich, dark brew. He set the mug aside to let it cool slightly before stirring in a bit of cream. Next, he assembled the sandwiches, layering the butter and cheese on the bread. The combination was simple but satisfying, the flavours a comforting blend of creamy and tangy. Castiel poured a tall glass of cold water, the clear liquid catching the morning light and sparkling invitingly. He arranged everything on a tray, taking a moment to ensure it was just right. The coffee, the sandwiches, and the glass of water all sat neatly, a small yet thoughtful gesture for Dean.

With the tray in hand, Castiel walked quietly through the house, careful not to disturb the peaceful atmosphere. The warmth of the kitchen began to fade as he moved into the hallway, replaced by the cooler air of the rest of the house. He approached the bedroom, where Dean was still asleep, the door slightly ajar. Castiel set the tray down gently on the bedside table, taking a moment to observe Dean and Norma. The soft light from the hallway cast a gentle glow over the room, illuminating the serene scene. Castiel leaned against the wall, waiting patiently for Dean to wake up. He watched as Norma stirred, her tiny paws kneading Dean's chest in a rhythmic motion, a comforting routine that she performed every morning. Dean's eyes fluttered open, a soft groan escaping his lips as he shifted under Norma's gentle ministrations. He blinked a few times, his gaze slowly focusing on Castiel standing nearby. A sleepy smile tugged at the corners of Dean's mouth as he took in the sight of Castiel and the tray of breakfast.

"Morning, Cas," Dean mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He gently moved Norma to the side, sitting up and stretching.

"Morning, Dean," Castiel replied, his voice soft and calm. He picked up the tray and placed it on Dean's lap, watching as Dean's eyes lit up at the sight of the coffee and sandwiches.

"You made breakfast," Dean said, a note of appreciation in his tone. Castiel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I thought you might be hungry. I made your favourite—coffee and butter and cheese sandwiches." Dean took a sip of the coffee, closing his eyes for a moment as he savoured the taste.

"Perfect," he murmured, then glanced at Castiel with gratitude. "Thank you, Cas. You didn't have to do this."

"Wanted to," Castiel replied simply. "Want you to feel comfortable." Dean took a bite of the sandwich, the flavours blending perfectly. He sighed contentedly, then looked back at Castiel, who had moved to sit in the armchair by the window. Castiel had made sure to draw the curtains, keeping the room dim and soothing. He knew that the spell wearing off would feel like an amplified migraine for Dean, and he wanted to do everything he could to ease his pain. As Dean ate, Castiel spoke, his voice filled with concern. "Dean, I need to tell you something. The spell Balthazar cast on you... it's wearing off." Dean paused, his expression shifting from contentment to worry.

"What does that mean?" Castiel took a deep breath, his gaze steady and reassuring.

"It means that the effects of the spell will gradually diminish until they're completely gone. I know it will be painful, like a severe migraine, and it will get worse before it gets better." Dean set the sandwich down, his appetite suddenly fading.

"How long will it take? And what will happen to me?"

"I don't know exactly how long it will take," Castiel admitted. "It could be days, or it could be weeks. And Balthazar said he can't come." Dean's face fell.

"Oh." Castiel moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry. It will get worse and worse until it is almost unbearable, and you will stay in that state for a while. But then you will wake up one morning, and everything will be okay." Dean looked at him in disbelief.

"Just like that?"

"Yes,” Castiel nodded, “just like that."

"But then the allergies will come back."Dean sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Unfortunately," Castiel confirmed, his voice tinged with regret. Dean's gaze shifted to Norma, who had nestled herself back into the blankets.

"So, I'll be allergic to her again."

The room fell into a contemplative silence, the only sounds the soft purring of Norma and the distant hum of the house settling. Castiel watched Dean, his heart ached for the pain he knew Dean would endure. He wished there was more he could do, but all he could offer now was his presence and support. The silence stretched between them. The spring of soft light from the curtains cast a gentle glow over the room, highlighting the worry etched on Dean’s face. Castiel felt a pang of helplessness, knowing that he could do so little to ease Dean’s pain. He needed to distract them both, to find a way to bring some semblance of comfort.

“I’ve been thinking about Andrei Rublev,” Castiel said suddenly, his voice quiet but steady. “Well, the Andrei Tarkovsky film, Andrei Rublev. More specifically, the crucifixion scene.” Dean looked up, a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

“That’s another one of your old movies, right?”

“Yes, 1966, I believe. But the crucifixion scene–”

“What about that scene?” Dean asked, taking a bite of his sandwich. Castiel took a deep breath, his mind reaching back to the film that had always left a profound impression on him.

“You mentioned once that your mother used to say, ‘angels are watching over you’ . And in that scene, that’s exactly what they’re doing.” Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s a black-and-white film,” Castiel began, his voice taking on a contemplative tone. “The scene is filmed in a snowy landscape. The angels are painted and wearing all white. So sometimes you can see them clearly, but most of the time, they’re half-invisible, or only visible if you’re really looking.” Dean listened, his expression softening slightly as Castiel spoke.

“So, you’re saying... angels are watching over us, but we need to know how to look for them?” Castiel nodded, his gaze unwavering.

“Yes, perhaps we need to know how to look for them. Maybe they’re there, in the background, invisible to those who aren’t searching. But if we look closely, we might just see them.” Dean didn’t look entirely convinced, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe hope, maybe curiosity.

“That’s an... interesting thought.” Castiel looked away, feeling a bit self-conscious.

“Yeah, well, it was just a thought.” Dean’s expression softened further, a small, appreciative smile tugging at his lips.

“Thanks for sharing that, Cas.” Castiel nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. The room fell into a comfortable silence once more, the only sounds the soft rustle of sheets as Dean shifted and the faint purring of Norma nestled beside him. Castiel’s mind drifted back to the film, to the hauntingly beautiful imagery that had always captivated him. He remembered the stark contrast of the snow against the white-robed angels, the way they seemed to blend into the landscape, almost disappearing if you didn’t know to look for them. It was a reminder that sometimes, the most important things were the hardest to see. Then, Castiel swallowed hard, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest as he realised he had to tell Dean that going to work tomorrow was too risky. The memory of Dean’s reaction when the spell affected him yesterday was still fresh in his mind. He couldn't bear the thought of Dean getting hurt. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“Dean,” he began cautiously, “I don’t think you should go to work tomorrow. It’s too risky with how you reacted yesterday.” Dean looked up from his sandwich, his expression shifting from curiosity to irritation.

“I can go to work, Cas. I’ll be fine.” Castiel’s heart sank. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

“Dean, please. It’s not just about you being fine. What if something happens? What if the spell affects you again, and you’re in the middle of work?” Dean set his sandwich down, his eyes narrowing.

“Are you trying to control me now? If it’s not what I eat, then it’s what I wear, and now you’re telling me what I can and can’t do?”

“I’m not trying to control you.” Castiel felt a flicker of frustration. “I’m just worried about you getting hurt. Yesterday was a close call. I don’t want to see you go through that again.”

“You’re treating me like I’m fragile, like I can’t take care of myself.” Dean’s face hardened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not a child, Cas. I can handle it.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Castiel’s frustration grew. “I just want you to be safe. Do you remember when you came home from work with stitches in your hand?”

“That was different!” Dean’s eyes flashed with anger. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“Charlie told me what you said, but I don’t buy it,” Castiel retorted, his voice rising. “You were distracted because of everything going on. And now, with the spell wearing off, it’s even more dangerous.”

“Wow, Cas.” Dean stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Just wow. I didn’t realise you thought so little of me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Castiel exclaimed, his frustration boiling over. “I care about you, Dean. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” Dean shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

“You’re trying to control me, just like everything else. I don’t need that. I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t do.” Castiel took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Dean, please, just this once, listen to me.” But Dean had already turned away, his shoulders tense with defiance.

“I’m going to work tomorrow. End of discussion.” Castiel felt a surge of helplessness. He didn’t know how to get through to Dean, how to make him understand the danger.

“Dean, please,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “Just listen.” Dean didn’t respond, his back still turned.

“I’m going to work,” he repeated, his voice final. Castiel watched him go, a sense of defeat settling over him. He didn’t know how to protect Dean if Dean wouldn’t let him. The house felt colder, the warm light from the curtains doing little to chase away the chill that had settled in his heart. He sank back into the armchair, his mind racing. He couldn’t force Dean to stay home, but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing either. He needed to find another way, some way to keep Dean safe without pushing him further away.

Castiel moved to the bed where Dean had spent the night, the lingering anger still palpable in the air. He slipped under the covers, letting Dean's scent envelop him. The rich aroma of cedar and cinnamon was intoxicating, a blend of warmth and spice that tugged at his senses. Castiel closed his eyes, allowing the familiar scent to lull him into a sense of calm. The bed, still warm from Dean's presence, felt like a cocoon of safety.

Just as he was about to drift off, a sudden, sharp cough erupted from his chest, jolting him awake. His breath caught in his throat, and he sat up, his hand clutching at his throat as he struggled to catch his breath. The coughs came in violent bursts, each one leaving him more breathless than the last. His vision blurred, and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. The scent of cedar and cinnamon, once comforting, now seemed to choke him, filling his lungs with an intensity that was almost unbearable. Castiel's heart raced, panic setting in as he realised he needed to get away. The overwhelming scent was suffocating, pressing down on him with an almost physical force. He stumbled out of the bed, his movements clumsy and disoriented. The room spun around him as he made his way to the door, each step a struggle against the haze that clouded his mind.

Gasping for fresh air, Castiel finally burst out of the house, the cold morning air hitting him like a splash of water. He leaned against the doorframe, his breaths coming in ragged gulps as he tried to steady himself. The sharp, icy air filled his lungs, clearing the scent of cedar and cinnamon from his senses. Slowly, the dizziness began to fade, and Castiel pushed himself away from the door. He made his way back to the barn, seeking solace in the familiar surroundings. The barn was a sanctuary, its quiet, earthy scents a stark contrast to the overwhelming aroma that had filled the house. He sank down onto the hay-strewn floor, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his coughing fit. The twin lambs bleated softly, their warm bodies huddled together. Castiel reached out, running his fingers through their soft wool, the simple act of touch grounding him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the steady rhythm of their breathing, allowing it to calm his racing heart.

As the minutes passed, Castiel's breathing evened out, the panic receding like a tide. He leaned back against the wooden wall of the barn, the cool surface a welcome relief. The morning light filtered through the cracks in the walls, casting gentle rays of sunlight across the floor. The lambs' soft bleats and the rustle of hay created a soothing backdrop, a reminder that life continued on, even in the midst of chaos. Castiel stayed in the barn, feeling the rough, familiar texture of hay beneath his hands. He took a deep breath, letting the earthy scent of the barn fill his lungs, grounding him. The sense of calm that the barn provided was a stark contrast to the chaos inside the house. He focused on the animals, the simple, straightforward tasks of caring for them a welcome distraction from his swirling thoughts. He moved to the corner where the twin lambs were huddled together. Their bleating was soft and plaintive, a gentle reminder of their need for care. Castiel filled their bottles with warm milk, his hands steady despite the lingering tremors from his earlier coughing fit. He knelt beside the lambs, holding the bottles carefully as they suckled eagerly. Their tiny mouths worked with a determined rhythm, the simplicity of their need a stark contrast to the complexities of his own life. As he fed the lambs, Castiel spoke to them in a soft, soothing voice.

“Shall we sleep?” he asked, his words a gentle murmur. The lambs, of course, gave no answer, but their contented bleats seemed to echo his own desire for rest. When they had finished feeding, Castiel set the bottles aside and settled into a corner of the barn. The hay was soft and slightly scratchy against his skin, but the familiarity of it was comforting. The lambs, sensing his need for companionship, came close and nestled next to him. Castiel reached out and petted one of them, his fingers moving gently through its soft wool. The other lamb, not wanting to be left out, nudged its way in, demanding attention with a playful bleat. Castiel smiled faintly, the simple joy of the lambs a balm to his troubled heart. “If Dean doesn’t want me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustle of hay, “then I may as well just give all my attention to you.” He sighed, the weight of his words heavy in the quiet barn. Dean's rejection stung deeply, but here, with the lambs, he found a small measure of peace. He curled up, pulling a blanket around himself. The lambs pressed close, their warmth a comforting presence against the chill of the barn. Castiel closed his eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of their breathing lull him into a sense of calm. He reached out to pet one of the lambs again, his touch gentle and affectionate. The other lamb, not to be outdone, nuzzled its way into his arms, seeking the same attention. Castiel chuckled softly, a bittersweet sound in the quiet of the barn. “You’re both so demanding,” he murmured, his voice soft with affection. The lambs' presence was a comfort, a reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone, even if Dean had pushed him away. As he lay there, surrounded by the warmth and softness of the lambs, Castiel felt a sense of resignation settle over him. He would stay in the barn, at least for now. Dean didn’t want his help, and Castiel wouldn’t force it upon him. Instead, he would find solace in the simplicity of caring for the animals, in the quiet, steady rhythm of barn life.

The minutes ticked by, and slowly, the weariness of the night began to overtake him. The lambs' breathing was a soothing backdrop, their presence a small comfort in the midst of his heartache. Castiel let his eyes close, the barn's familiar scents and sounds wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. He would sleep here, with the lambs, finding a measure of peace in their uncomplicated companionship.

Castiel woke to the sensation of someone shaking him lightly. Blinking against the early morning light filtering through the barn's cracks, he looked up to see Gabriel standing over him, a teasing grin on his face.

"Has the dog made you sleep in the doghouse, Cassie?" Gabriel joked, his tone light and mocking. Castiel stared up at his brother, his vision blurry with the remnants of sleep. The familiar face of Gabriel, always ready with a jest, brought a rush of emotions he had been trying to hold back. The sight of his brother's playful smirk, the sparkle in his eyes, was too much. The dam holding back his feelings broke, and Castiel's breath hitched.

"Gabriel..." he started, his voice trembling. Before he could say anything else, the floodgates opened, and he broke down completely. Tears streamed down his face as sobs wracked his body. He tried to speak, but the words came out in jumbled, incoherent fragments, each one tinged with desperation and sorrow. "Can't... Dean doesn't... he won't... tried, tried, and he... he doesn't want... he doesn't want me..." Gabriel's teasing demeanour vanished in an instant. He knelt beside Castiel, his face a mask of concern.

"Hey, hey, Cassie," he said softly, his voice gentle and soothing. "It's okay. I'm here. What's going on?" Castiel's words tumbled out in a chaotic rush, his thoughts spilling over each other.

"Dean... he doesn't... can't... he won't listen... tried... don't know... just can't..." His hands shook as he clutched at Gabriel's shirt, his body trembling with the intensity of his emotions. Gabriel wrapped his arms around Castiel, holding him close.

"Shhh, it's okay. Just breathe, Cassie. I'm here. We'll figure this out." Castiel buried his face in Gabriel's shoulder, his sobs muffled but still strong. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion and pain, each thought more overwhelming than the last. The sense of rejection from Dean, the helplessness he felt, all of it crashed over him in waves, leaving him gasping for air. Gabriel held him tightly, his own heart aching at the sight of his brother's distress. "It's alright, Cassie. Just let it out. I'm here." Castiel's sobs came in ragged, uneven gasps, his words a jumbled mess of incoherent thoughts.

"Dean... he... he doesn’t want... can’t help... don’t know what to do," he choked out between sobs, his body shaking with the intensity of his emotions. Gabriel held him tighter, his earlier playfulness replaced by a deep concern.

"Shh, Cassie, it's going to be alright. Just breathe. I'm here with you." Castiel clung to Gabriel, his fingers digging into his brother's shirt as he tried to find some semblance of stability. The barn felt like it was spinning around him, his vision blurred by tears. He couldn't stop the torrent of emotions that poured out, his voice rising and falling in a chaotic symphony of anguish.

"Dean... he... he pushed away. He... doesn't want... help," Castiel managed to say, his voice cracking with every word. "Don’t... don’t… don’t know what to do, Gabriel. Feel so lost."

"I know it feels like everything is falling apart right now, but you're not alone, Cassie.” Gabriel gently stroked Castiel's hair, his touch a steadying presence amidst the storm of emotions. “You have me, and we'll figure this out together."

“I tried... I tried so hard... he doesn’t want... he doesn’t need...”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Gabriel held him tighter. “I’m here, Cassie. Just focus on my voice, okay? Deep breaths. In and out, nice and slow.” Castiel struggled to comply, his breaths hitching and uneven. He felt like he was drowning, each gasp for air a battle. Gabriel’s presence was a lifeline, his steady voice a beacon in the chaos.

“Can’t... can’t do this... everything’s falling apart... Dean... he... he’s so angry...”

“Just breathe, Cassie.” Gabriel’s grip tightened, his voice soothing and calm. “You’re safe.” Gabriel's soothing presence began to work its magic, but just as Castiel started to relax, his breath hitched again. Panic flared in his eyes, and he pulled away from Gabriel's embrace, convinced that his brother would turn on him. He backed up, leaning against the wall of the barn, clutching the blanket around him like a shield. Gabriel reached out, his expression a mix of concern and guilt. “Cassie, it’s going to work out. I promise. I’ll help you. Just let me help you.” Castiel’s mind was elsewhere, consumed by the fear and rejection he felt from Dean. He couldn’t hear Gabriel’s reassurances; they were drowned out by the overwhelming tide of his own emotions. Gabriel tried to reach out again, placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder, but Castiel recoiled as if burnt, his eyes wide and filled with mistrust. He hit the back of his head against the barn wall with a dull thud. The shock of the impact sent a jolt through him, momentarily clearing the fog of despair clouding his mind. Gabriel stood up, brushing off the hay that clung to his clothes, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration. Gabriel looked at him with guilt and sadness. “Cassie, please.”

But Castiel had already retreated into himself, his silence a barrier Gabriel couldn’t penetrate. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, his eyes distant and unfocused. The barn was quiet except for the soft sounds of the animals and the occasional rustle of hay. The lambs, sensing the tension, huddled closer to Castiel, their warm bodies a small comfort in the cold, empty space. Castiel focused on their steady breathing, the simple rhythm a lifeline amidst the chaos in his mind. He felt disconnected from everything, lost in a fog of despair.

"Have you called Balthazar?" Gabriel asked, his voice laced with a hint of desperation. Castiel nodded slowly, his movements sluggish and detached. He felt disconnected, as if he were watching the scene unfold from a distance. "I guess that means he isn’t coming," Gabriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at the twin lambs, their innocent eyes watching the brothers with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "It’s clear that you care about them."

"It doesn’t matter if you’re gonna kill them," Castiel whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft rustle of hay.

"Now, now, Cassie, no one has said that I will," Gabriel responded gently, trying to soothe his brother's frayed nerves. Castiel turned away from Gabriel as much as he could, curling into himself. He felt a tight knot of tension in his body, an unbearable pressure that only seemed to grow with each passing moment. With a sigh of resignation, he gave in, letting the transformation take over. His body shifted and contorted, black fur sprouting from his skin, until he stood on all fours, a sleek black wolf. Gabriel looked at him with a mixture of pity and affection. "Oh, Cassie," he said softly.

The transformation brought a measure of relief to Castiel. The physical form of the wolf allowed him to escape, if only temporarily, from the turmoil of his human thoughts and emotions. He felt the barn's cool air against his fur, the familiar scents of hay and animals grounding him in the present. The twin lambs, sensing his distress, pressed closer, their warmth a comfort against the chill of the morning. Castiel laid down, his head resting on his paws, and closed his eyes. In this form, he could distance himself from the pain of Dean's rejection and the overwhelming sense of helplessness. The wolf's instincts took over, calming his mind and slowing his racing thoughts. He focused on the steady rhythm of his breathing, each inhale and exhale a reminder that he was still here, still alive. Gabriel watched him for a moment before sitting down beside him, his presence a steadying force amidst the chaos.

"Cassie," he began softly, "I know things seem impossible right now, but you'll get through this." Castiel's ears twitched at the sound of Gabriel's voice, but he kept his eyes closed, letting the words wash over him. In his wolf form, he couldn't respond, but he hoped Gabriel understood that he was listening, that he appreciated the support. The minutes passed in silence, the only sounds the soft bleats of the lambs and the distant hum of the farm awakening to a new day. The barn's familiar smells and sounds created a cocoon of calm, a sanctuary from the turmoil outside.

Eventually, Castiel felt a shift in the air, a subtle change that signalled the approach of another presence. He opened his eyes to see Charlie standing at the barn entrance, her expression a mix of confusion and concern. Her expression was a mix of concern and confusion as she looked at Castiel, then at Gabriel, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation. The barn was dimly lit, the early morning light filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls, casting long shadows that danced on the hay-strewn floor.

"What's going on here?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to startle Castiel. Gabriel glanced up, surprised to see her.

"Charlie, I didn't expect you to be here. Aren't you heading to the restaurant?"

"I am," she replied, kneeling beside Castiel and running her fingers through his soft fur. "But on my way to get Dean, I noticed the barn door was open. I thought something might be wrong." She looked pointedly at Gabriel. "Did you leave it open?"

"Yeah,” Gabriel nodded sheepishly. “I didn't think I was going to stay this long." Charlie sighed, her fingers gently stroking Castiel's fur.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice full of concern. Gabriel sighed, looking down at his hands.

"I'm not entirely sure about all the details, but from what I've gathered, Balthazar's spell is wearing off. It caused a fight between Dean and Castiel, which ended with Castiel sleeping out here." Charlie's eyes widened.

"In his wolf form?"

"No, not at first.” Gabriel shook his head. “But it still isn't ideal."

"No, it isn't," Charlie agreed, her voice soft. She continued to pet Castiel, her touch gentle and comforting. "Poor Cassie." Castiel closed his eyes, feeling the soothing rhythm of Charlie's fingers through his fur. He wanted to fall asleep, to escape the pain and confusion swirling inside him, but he couldn't. His mind was too restless, too burdened with the weight of yesterday's events. As he lay there, he listened to the conversation between Charlie and Gabriel, their voices a low murmur in the quiet barn.

"He's really struggling," Gabriel said, his tone heavy with worry. "I've not seen him like this in a long time."

"Dean must have said something to really hurt him," Charlie replied, her voice tinged with sadness. "Castiel has always been sensitive, but this... this is different."

"I know.” Gabriel nodded, his expression grim. “I just don't know how to help him." Charlie sighed, her fingers still moving through Castiel's fur. "He lets you touch him," Gabriel noted, his tone tinged with curiosity.

"Yes,” Charlie’s touch was comforting, a gentle reminder of the bond they shared since childhood. Her presence was a balm to his troubled heart, but it also reminded him of the complexities of his situation with Dean. Castiel tried to find solace in the familiar scents and sounds of the barn, the soft bleating of the lambs, the rustle of hay, the steady rhythm of Charlie’s fingers through his fur. “He didn’t let you?" Gabriel glanced at Castiel with a mix of frustration and concern.

"He did at first. But then he transformed…"

"I see." Charlie nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. Gabriel looked back at her, his brow furrowing.

"What do we do now?" he asked, his voice reflecting the uncertainty that gnawed at him. Charlie took a deep breath, her gaze still on Castiel.

"What’s your plan?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Gabriel admitted, his tone a mix of frustration and helplessness. "But I can’t just leave him out here, wolf or no wolf. It’s January, for God’s sake."

"Is there anything I can do?" Charlie offered, her concern palpable.

"No, probably not. It’s too risky to just ask Dean. Just assume that everything is fine, be there for Dean if he feels off or needs to talk. You know, the normal." Charlie sighed.

"Dean never does."

"I suspect that’s part of the problem. I fear that Dean doesn’t talk about his frustrations, but bottles them up and then explodes, throwing it all on Castiel." Gabriel's words about Dean hit Castiel hard. He knew Gabriel was right; Dean's tendency to bottle up his frustrations and then unleash them all at once was a recurring pattern. Castiel had seen it before, had been on the receiving end of it more times than he cared to remember. But knowing the problem didn't make it any easier to solve. Charlie sighed, her fingers stilling for a moment before she spoke.

“I need to get going. The restaurant won’t run itself.” She stood up, brushing the hay from her jeans. Gabriel nodded, his expression softening.

“Have fun,” he said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, I’ll have a marvellous time,” Charlie replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes. She gave Castiel one last gentle pat before turning to leave. “Take care, Cassie.” As Charlie's footsteps faded away, Gabriel turned his full attention to Castiel, his voice gentle but insistent.

“Cassie, you need to wake up.” Castiel lay still, his eyes closed, lost in his thoughts, trying to process everything that had happened. Gabriel’s words were a distant murmur, barely registering in his mind. Gabriel’s patience began to wear thin. “Come on, Cassie. Wake up. If you transform back, I’ll let you eat ice cream and drink soda for breakfast. Kali and I made raspberry sorbet yesterday.” Castiel’s ears twitched at the mention of ice cream, but he remained still. Gabriel’s frustration grew, his voice rising slightly. “Cassie, you need to transform back. Please.” The barn was quiet except for the soft sounds of the animals and the occasional rustle of hay. Gabriel’s voice cut through the silence, growing more urgent with each passing moment. “Damn it, Castiel, transform back!” he yelled, his frustration boiling over. The sudden shout startled the sheep, causing them to bleat loudly and scatter. Castiel’s eyes snapped open, and he felt a pang of guilt at the sight of the frightened lambs. He let out a low whine before finally shifting back to his human form. The transformation was swift, leaving him crouched on the barn floor, breathing heavily. The lambs, sensing his distress, quickly approached him, nuzzling his sides and seeking comfort. Castiel’s full attention was on them, his hands moving gently through their soft wool as he murmured soothing words.

“I don’t like raspberries,” Castiel said quietly, his focus still on calming the lambs. “You know that.”

“I know, Cassie.” Gabriel let out a weary sigh, his shoulders slumping. “I was just trying to get you to respond.”

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

Dean rubbed his temples, the persistent ache making its presence known as he sat on the edge of his bed. It was Wednesday, and the headaches, just as Castiel had predicted, were growing more intense. The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. He sighed deeply, pushing himself up to start the day. Norma padded over, her green eyes watching him intently. Dean bent down, scratching behind her ears before making his way to the kitchen.

The house was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the mornings when Castiel would be bustling around, preparing breakfast or tending to the animals. Dean hadn't seen Castiel since their argument, and the silence between them was deafening. He filled Norma's bowl with kibble, the sound of the dry food hitting the ceramic breaking the stillness. Norma meowed in appreciation, weaving between his legs as he made a cup of instant coffee. The aroma filled the kitchen, providing a small comfort amidst the tension that hung in the air. Dean leaned against the counter, sipping the hot brew, his thoughts drifting back to their fight. The anger he had felt had long since faded, replaced by a lingering sense of unease.

Once he finished his coffee, Dean rummaged through the cupboards and refrigerator, confirming what he already suspected. Castiel hadn't moved anything, nor had he eaten. The faint scent of pine and manuka honey lingered in the house, a haunting reminder of Castiel's presence, but there were no fresh tracks since he had slammed the door on Sunday. Charlie arrived right on time, her car pulling up in front of the house with a crunch of gravel. Dean grabbed his coat and headed out, leaving the house and its memories behind. The drive to the restaurant was quiet, Charlie respecting his need for silence. They exchanged a few words about the day's menu and the prep work ahead, but otherwise, the ride was uneventful. At the restaurant, Dean slipped into his familiar routine, finding solace in the rhythm of chopping, sautéing, and stirring. The kitchen buzzed with activity, the clatter of pots and pans, the hiss of steam, and the sizzle of food cooking providing a comforting background noise. Dean worked alongside Charlie and the rest of the staff, their movements synchronised like a well-rehearsed dance.

Lunch service came and went, a flurry of orders and plates. Dean found himself immersed in the work, the headache pushed to the back of his mind by the sheer intensity of the service. They prepared a variety of dishes: seared scallops with a lemon beurre blanc, grilled chicken sandwiches with avocado and bacon, and a hearty tomato bisque that was perfect for the chilly January day. The rush of customers kept them all on their toes, but Dean thrived in the pressure, his movements precise and efficient. After the last plate was served, and the kitchen began to wind down, Dean stepped outside for a break. He leaned against the wall, the cold air biting at his cheeks. The tall guy he had been borrowing cigarettes from was already there, lighting up. Dean approached, offering a nod in greeting.

"Hey, got another one of those?" Dean asked, his voice hoarse from the day's work. The man handed Dean a cigarette.

"Sure thing. Name's Nick, by the way."

"Dean," he replied, accepting the cigarette and lighting it with a flick of Nick’s lighter. They stood in companionable silence, the smoke curling into the cold air. Back inside, the kitchen was a mess of dirty dishes and used utensils. Dean rolled up his sleeves and got to work, the repetitive task of cleaning providing a welcome distraction. As he scrubbed pots and wiped down counters, his mind wandered back to Castiel. The house felt empty without him, and Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he had made a mistake by pushing him away.

By the time Charlie drove him back home, the sun had set, casting long shadows across the Novak farm. Dean thanked her for the ride and stepped out of the car, feeling the chill of the evening air. He made his way to the house, his footsteps crunching on the gravel path. Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Dean flipped on the lights, illuminating the familiar surroundings. Norma greeted him at the door, winding around his legs with a soft purr. Dean bent down to pet her, the simple act providing a small measure of comfort. He headed upstairs to his bedroom, the ache in his head throbbing more intensely now. Dean closed the door behind him, shutting out the world. The room was a sanctuary, a place where he could let his guard down. He sank onto the bed, the softness of the mattress a welcome relief. Norma jumped up beside him, curling into a ball at his side.

Dean lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling with confusion and unease. Norma's gentle purring beside him was the only sound in the quiet room. The ache in his head throbbed persistently, making it impossible to find peace. He turned onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position, but sleep eluded him. As he lay there, a question that Nick had asked a few days ago drifted back into his mind. Only now, it was Castiel's voice he heard: ‘Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?’ The question reverberated in his mind, stirring up memories and long-buried aspirations. Dean had always dreamed of opening his own restaurant. Before the war on territories, before Castiel, before Charlie's restaurant, it had been his ultimate goal. He had envisioned a cosy diner, a place where people could come together to enjoy good food and good company. The thought of creating a space filled with warmth and delicious aromas had been his driving force. But life had taken a different turn, and that dream had been put on hold.

He sat up, his head in his hands, as the pounding intensified. The room seemed to close in around him, the walls a reminder of his captivity. His captivity. The word echoed in his mind, a bitter reminder of the reality he faced. He had been forced into a life he hadn't chosen, bound by traditions and obligations that felt like chains. The war on territories had changed everything, tearing him away from his dreams and thrusting him into a world of duty and sacrifice.

Dean's thoughts drifted back to his father, John. He remembered the day John had called him home, the urgency in his voice. When John had called Dean without telling him much more than that he needed to get home immediately. The lack of information had made the drive back to his childhood home agonisingly long, his mind racing with possibilities. When Dean had finally arrived, expecting news about the pack, about the aftermath of the war, John had instructed him to shower, make his hair presentable, and dress in the clothes he had laid out for him—a pair of black dress pants and a green polo shirt. The formality of the attire had added to Dean's unease, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach.

After dressing, Dean had been made to stand in a line next to his brothers, Samuel and Adam. Dean, at twenty-four, had felt a strange mix of protectiveness and camaraderie standing next to Samuel, who was twenty, and Adam, just thirteen. They had all been dressed similarly, a uniformity that had felt oppressive in its implication. Gabriel had then entered the room, despite his young age his presence had been commanding and intimidating. And Dean had felt a chill run down his spine as Gabriel's amber eyes had swept over them, assessing, calculating. It had been the first time Dean had truly felt uneasy about the intensity of Gabriel’s gaze; it was like a physical force. Gabriel had taken his time, walking slowly down the line, his eyes lingering on each brother in turn. He had paid no attention to Adam, the youngest, which had been both a relief and a point of tension for Dean. As Gabriel had approached, Dean's heart had pounded in his chest, his palms sweaty with fear. When Gabriel had finally stopped in front of him, Dean had felt as if he couldn't breathe. Those amber eyes had looked into his, and Dean had seen something in them that had terrified him—a sense of possession, of inevitability. Gabriel had nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, and John had stepped forward, his expression a mix of relief and resignation. Dean had been chosen. The realisation had hit him like a punch to the gut, the world spinning around him. He had been thrust into some sort of a situation beyond his control, his fate decided without his consent. After Gabriel had left, John had explained what had just happened. The words had felt surreal, each one landing with a heavy thud in Dean's mind. The shock and disbelief had given way to anger and resentment, feelings that still simmered beneath the surface.

Dean had learned that Gabriel, as the leader of the Novak pack, had come to choose one of John’s sons to fulfil the pact—a marriage that would bind the Winchester and Novak packs together. Dean had been chosen, not for his skills or his loyalty, but because of the unspoken rules of their world. His life, his dreams, had been sidelined in an instant. As John had spoken, Dean had felt a burning rage build inside him. He had been nothing more than a pawn in a game of power and tradition. His dreams of opening a restaurant, of building something for himself, had been cast aside. The resentment had taken root deep within him, a constant reminder of the life he had been forced into. The memory played over in his mind, the vivid details still fresh. Dean could see Gabriel’s piercing gaze, feel the oppressive silence of that room, hear the resigned tone in his father’s voice. It was a moment that had changed everything, a moment that had set him on a path he had never wanted to walk. Dean had been thrust into a world of duty and sacrifice, his dreams of a future beyond the pack slipping further away with each passing day. He had been forced to adapt, to find a way to survive in a life that wasn’t his own. And now, as he sat in his bed, the memory of that day served as a reminder of the determination that still burned within him. He had to find a way out, to reclaim the life and the dreams that had been taken from him.

His gaze shifted to the window, where the night sky stretched endlessly, a canvas of stars and possibilities. He couldn't shake the feeling that his dreams were slipping further away with each passing day. The thought of being trapped, of living a life dictated by others, was suffocating. Dean stood up, unable to remain still any longer. He paced the room, his mind racing. He thought about the kitchen at Charlie's restaurant, the sense of purpose and satisfaction he felt when he was cooking. It was the closest he came to feeling alive, to feeling like he was in control. But even that was a shadow of what he truly wanted. He longed for the freedom to create, to build something of his own. His mind wandered back to Castiel, to the moments they had shared. The arguments, the quiet conversations, the glimpses of understanding between them. Castiel was a part of his life now, and Dean couldn't ignore the connection they had started to create, fragile as it was. But that connection didn't change the fact that Dean felt trapped, his dreams slipping away with each passing day.

He sat back on the bed, his head pounding with a relentless intensity. He closed his eyes, trying to push the pain away, but it only seemed to grow stronger. The thought of escape, of finding a way to reclaim his dreams, became more urgent. He couldn't continue like this, living a life that wasn't his own. Dean's resolve solidified. He had to find a way out, a way to break free from the chains that bound him.

Dean opened his eyes and turned to Norma. She was curled up beside him, her black fur a soft, warm presence against the cold air. He levelled with her, looking into her green eyes, finding a kind of solace in her steady gaze.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. He reached out, his fingers brushing through her silky fur. She purred, leaning into his touch. Dean scratched behind her ears, his movements gentle and deliberate. He kissed her forehead, lingering for a moment as he closed his eyes, feeling the soft warmth of her fur against his lips. "Take care of Castiel, okay, Norma?" he murmured. Norma meowed softly in response, her green eyes blinking slowly as if understanding his words. Dean took a deep breath, letting the moment stretch on, a quiet farewell. He rose from the bed and walked over to the wardrobe. Opening it, he sifted through his clothes, noting the lack of Castiel's scent on them. The familiar smell of pine and manuka honey was absent, a reminder of Castiel's continued absence. Dean felt a pang of sadness mixed with determination. He knew now might be his only chance to get away. Castiel wasn't home and hadn't been for days. This was his moment. Dean pulled out a pair of jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, dressing quickly and efficiently. The simplicity of his attire felt like a step toward reclaiming his autonomy. He glanced around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings one last time. The bed, the window, the wardrobe—each held memories of the life he had been living, a life that still felt like a cage.

As he dressed, his thoughts raced. He needed a plan, a way to escape without drawing attention. The farm was isolated, but once he reached the main road, he could find a way to get further away, to find some semblance of freedom. The idea of leaving everything behind was both exhilarating and terrifying. He was walking away from the known into the vast uncertainty, but the promise of freedom was too enticing to ignore. Dean took one last look at the room, his gaze lingering on Norma, who watched him with curious eyes.

"Goodbye, Norma," he said softly, his voice filled with a mix of regret and determination. He turned and walked out of the room, each step feeling like a step toward a new beginning.

As he made his way downstairs, the silence of the house pressed in on him. The memories of his time here clung to him like shadows, but he pushed them aside. He had to focus on the task at hand, on the need to escape and reclaim his life. The front door loomed ahead, a barrier between his past and the future he sought. He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, the fabric cool and familiar. It was a tangible connection to the world outside, a reminder that there was more beyond the confines of the Novak territory. Dean paused for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was it, the moment of truth.

He opened the door and stepped outside, the cold January air biting at his cheeks. The night sky stretched out above him, a vast expanse of stars twinkling in the darkness. The farm was quiet, the only sounds the distant rustling of leaves and the soft crunch of gravel under his boots. Dean walked briskly, his breath forming small clouds of vapour in the cold air. He moved with purpose, each step carrying him further away from the life he had known. The path ahead was uncertain, but it was his to forge. The sense of liberation, of taking control of his destiny, fueled his determination.

Dean dug his hand into his coat pocket, feeling the cool metal of Castiel's car keys. He let out a relieved sigh, grateful that Castiel hadn't asked for them back after he had gone to the store. The keys were his ticket to freedom, his means of escaping the life that had trapped him for so long. He made his way to the car, the gravel crunching under his boots in the stillness of the night. The farm was cloaked in darkness, the only light coming from the stars above. Dean slipped into the driver's seat, the leather cold against his skin. He inserted the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a comforting rumble. Dean's escape plan was simple: drive the car as far and as fast as he could, then ditch it and continue in wolf form. He knew the risks, but the promise of freedom outweighed any fear he felt. He glanced back at the house one last time, a silent farewell to the life he was leaving behind. He hit the gas, the car speeding down the gravel path and onto the road. The night stretched out before him, an open expanse of possibilities. The trees blurred past as he drove, his mind focused on the road ahead. The cold air seeped in through the cracks in the windows, biting at his skin and keeping him alert. As he drove, Dean's thoughts wandered to Castiel. He felt a pang of guilt for leaving without a word, but he couldn't stay. Not like this. Castiel would understand, eventually. He had to believe that. The miles ticked by, the road winding through the forest, the dark shapes of the trees casting eerie shadows in the headlights. Dean pressed on, his determination unwavering. The car hummed beneath him, a steady companion in his flight. He felt a sense of liberation, the open road a symbol of the freedom he sought. The world outside the Novak territory was vast, filled with opportunities he had yet to explore.

Suddenly, the car hit a patch of ice, sliding uncontrollably. Dean's heart pounded as he fought to regain control, but the car skidded off the road and collided with a tree. The impact jolted him, the seatbelt straining against his chest. For a moment, everything was still, the silence almost deafening after the chaos of the crash. Dean took a deep breath, his hands trembling as he unbuckled the seatbelt. He was shaken but not deterred. He couldn't afford to waste time. He stepped out of the car, the cold air biting at his cheeks. The car was a crumpled mess, but it had served its purpose. Now, it was time to continue on foot.

He took a moment to gather himself, then shifted into his wolf form. The transformation was swift, his body morphing into that of a sleek, powerful wolf. The scents of the forest filled his senses, the crispness of the air invigorating. He took off, his paws pounding the frozen ground, his breath visible in the cold night. Dean ran with purpose, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The town lay ahead, a beacon of hope and freedom. He could see the lights twinkling in the distance, a promise of a new beginning. He pushed himself harder, his muscles burning with the effort, but the goal was within reach.

Just as he neared the edge of the forest, the spell wearing off hit him in full force. A deafening high-pitched ringing filled his ears, and he lost control of his body. He stumbled, his vision blurring as pain seared through him. He felt himself falling, the ground rushing up to meet him. The spell's effects were overwhelming, his senses overloaded. As he hit the ground, the spell caused him to involuntarily transform back into his human form. The pain was excruciating, his body convulsing as he lay there, helpless. Everything went black, the world fading away as he lost consciousness.

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Dean, Dean, Dean." Dean woke to the sound of Balthazar's voice, soft and mocking. Opening his eyes, the room seemed to spin, and a high-pitched noise lingered in the back of his mind. He tried to sit up but the effort made his vision go black, forcing him to collapse back down onto the hard surface beneath him. Balthazar’s voice cut through the fog in his mind. "I recall telling you to call me when the spell was beginning to wear off." Dean closed his eyes again, feeling dizzy and disoriented.

"Well, I can't call you, can I? You stole my phone three months ago."

"That was a sloppy incantation you did if he's reacting this badly." A woman's voice joined in, smooth and slightly amused. Balthazar chuckled.

"Ah, yes, but sloppy or calculated, ma chérie?"

"How long have I been out?" Dean, still with his eyes closed, asked.

"Weeks." The woman’s voice, more serious now, responded. Balthazar laughed lightly, seemingly at some inside joke that did not directly involve Dean but applied to the situation regardless.

"Not quite, more like a few hours." Dean tried to focus, keeping his eyes closed against the spinning room.

"How did you find me?"

"I told you I would be watching," Balthazar said simply. Dean forced his eyes open. His vision was blurry, and darkness rimmed the edges.

"What now?" The room seemed to swirl around Balthazar, who stood over him with an air of casual amusem*nt. The space was dim, lit only by a few scattered candles that flickered, casting eerie shadows. The walls were lined with shelves holding an array of strange items—bottles filled with colourful liquids, herbs hanging in bundles, and various artefacts that looked both ancient and mystical. The floor was cold stone, adding to the otherworldly atmosphere. Balthazar sighed.

"You made it out but not scot-free. They will start with your old pack, the obvious pick, of course, but even if you don't try to go back, you will be on the run for the rest of your life. The Novak pack will probably never stop looking for you." Dean's reality came crashing in. He had escaped, but at what cost? He had doomed his pack, lost his connection to the Novaks, and now had nowhere to go. He couldn't trust that wherever Balthazar had taken him was a long-term refuge. He was truly, utterly alone. The headache, still pounding, now seemed deliberate, a cruel reminder of his predicament. Dean struggled to sit up again, the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him.

"So what am I supposed to do now?" Balthazar knelt beside him, his expression softening slightly.

"For now, you rest. You've been through quite the ordeal, and running blindly won't do you any good." Dean nodded weakly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over him. The room's cold seeped into his bones, and he shivered involuntarily. Balthazar stood, turning to the woman. "Meg, can you keep an eye on him?"

"Of course." Dean closed his eyes, the room fading into darkness as sleep overtook him. His last thought was of Castiel, wondering if he would ever find peace or if he would be haunted by his decisions forever.

When Dean awoke, the room was still dim, but the candles were now accompanied by the soft glow of morning light filtering through a small window high on the wall. He felt slightly more grounded, the dizziness and headache having subsided to a dull ache. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking around. The space felt like a blend of ancient magic and modern necessity. Balthazar entered, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a glass of water.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Dean managed a weak smile.

"Like I've been hit by a truck."Balthazar set the tray down beside him.

"Eat. It will help." Dean took the bowl of soup, the warmth radiating through his fingers. He sipped slowly, the simple, nourishing taste soothing his frayed nerves.

"So, what's the plan?" he asked between sips.

"For now, you stay here and recover," Balthazar replied. "You will figure out the next steps once you're back on your feet. You're safe here, for now. But you need to be prepared for what comes next." Dean finished the soup, its warmth soothing the coldness inside him, but the unease remained as he placed the empty bowl back on the tray and met Balthazar’s eyes.

"What do you think will happen now?" Balthazar leaned back, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

"That depends on whether or not Castiel loves you." The idea of Castiel loving him seemed foreign, almost mocking. Dean couldn't imagine it. The thought felt more like a cruel joke than a reality. Castiel's actions always felt like they were driven by duty, not affection. Love wasn’t a word that fit into the complicated, often tense interactions they’d had. "You have no idea how he feels, do you?" Balthazar asked, raising an eyebrow. Dean looked away, feeling a sting of guilt as he tried to avoid Balthazar’s piercing gaze. The truth was, he didn’t know. He had never allowed himself to consider it. Before he could form a response, Balthazar smacked him lightly on the back of the head. "Have you listened to a single piece of advice I’ve given you?"

"What?” Dean snapped his attention back to Balthazar, anger flaring. “'Don’t break his heart'? Gee, thanks. He doesn’t love me, okay? He just acts like he cares so Gabriel won’t kill his precious twin lambs."

"What lambs?"A smirk tugged at the corners of Dean’s mouth. For once, he knew something Balthazar didn’t. And so he allowed himself for a few seconds to simply relish the rare moment of knowing something that the witch didn't. The feeling was oddly satisfying, a small victory in the midst of his chaos. "What lambs, Dean?" Balthazar asked again, this time stern. Dean leaned back, folding his arms across his chest.

"Gabriel gave Castiel some twin lambs to take care of.” As Dean spoke something changed in Balthazar’s expression, a flicker of something Dean couldn’t quite place. “According to Castiel if we didn’t improve our relationship, Gabriel said he’d kill them." There was something in Balthazar’s expression that caused guilt to gnaw at him, making him wonder if this maybe wasn’t the first time Castiel had been made to do things under threat of an animal’s life. Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that he had underestimated Castiel's attachment to the lambs, and perhaps even to himself. He had seen the tenderness in Castiel’s eyes when he was with the animals, the gentleness in his touch. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Castiel’s feelings than he had realised. Balthazar sighed, his gaze becoming distant.

"Charles used to do that." Dean’s stomach sank at the mention of Charles. The memory of the stories he had heard about the late Novak leader made him uneasy. Dean swallowed hard, the taste of the soup turning sour in his mouth. The tomato flavour reminded him too much of the simple meals he shared with Castiel. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him, his stomach churning. He pushed the tray away, the taste of the tomato soup now making him feel sick. The rich, tangy flavour reminded him too much of the meals he’d shared with Castiel. Swallowing back bile, Dean voiced the question that had been lingering for months.

"Why didn’t Castiel fight? He told me the pack allows members to fight from the age of fourteen, but Castiel never fought, has he?"

"No," Balthazar confirmed quietly. "He has never fought."

"Why?” Dean felt frustration bubble up inside him. “Why has Castiel never fought?"

"Castiel was different.” Balthazar took a deep breath, his expression pained. “Everyone saw that early on. Charles wanted to protect him, keep him away from the violence and bloodshed that defined your world. Castiel’s innocence, his love for order and routine, made him ill-suited for combat. Charles wanted to preserve that part of him, so he forbade Castiel from fighting." The room was silent for a moment, the weight of Balthazar’s words hanging heavily in the air. Dean’s thoughts raced, trying to reconcile this new information with everything he knew about Castiel. The idea of Castiel being sheltered, kept away from the brutality of their world, painted a picture of a life vastly different from his own. "Charles thought he was protecting him," Balthazar continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "But in doing so, he also made Castiel vulnerable, dependent on others to fight his battles. It's why Gabriel is so fiercely protective of him. It's why Castiel clings to routines and rules—they give him a sense of control in a world that often feels chaotic and threatening." Dean looked up at Balthazar, a new understanding dawning in his eyes.

"So, Castiel’s really never known anything but sheltered existence?" Dean’s mind drifted back to the times he had seen Castiel with the lambs, the gentle way he handled them, the softness in his eyes. He had always thought of Castiel as cold, detached, but now he saw there was more to the man than he had realised. Castiel’s rigid adherence to structure wasn’t just about control—it was about survival.

"No, that is all he knows. I told you before that Castiel was never meant to leave." Balthazar said. "It's why he struggles so much with change. It's why the threat of losing those lambs affects him so deeply. They represent a part of himself that he’s desperate to protect." Dean’s chest tightened with a mix of emotions—pity, understanding, and a newfound respect for Castiel. He had judged him too harshly, too quickly. There was a depth to Castiel, a complexity that Dean had been blind to. “The only part of that he can control.” The weight of Balthazar's words settled over Dean like a heavy blanket. He had always assumed Castiel's role was one of privilege, that he had chosen not to fight. But now, the reality of Castiel’s life, the expectations and pressures he faced, became clear. Castiel's rigid adherence to rules and structure, his need for order, all made sense. He had been shaped by a life of duty and responsibility, bound by the expectations of his pack and his family. The room was silent, the only sound was the soft crackling of the candles. Dean felt a profound sense of guilt and sorrow. He had been so focused on his own pain and his own struggles that he had never truly considered what Castiel was going through. Dean sat in silence for a moment, letting Balthazar’s words sink in. He had always seen Castiel as distant and aloof, but now he realised there was a depth to him that he had overlooked. The new understanding made him feel both closer to Castiel and more isolated than ever. Balthazar's voice broke the silence. "If Castiel loves you, Dean, you’re safe." Dean’s heart skipped a beat. He looked up, a mixture of confusion and hope clouding his eyes.

"Do you think he does?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar sighed, shaking his head.

"I can’t tell you that."Dean's frustration bubbled to the surface.

"No, all you can do is cast incantations that you know will fail. I thought you were supposed to be some big-shot witch."

"I am," Balthazar replied, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"Doesn’t seem like it," Dean shot back, bitterness evident in his tone. Balthazar’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Do you always bite the hand that feeds you?" Dean's anger flared, but he bit it back, focusing on the questions that mattered. Dean shot Balthazar a glare though, for good measure of course.

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe," Balthazar answered evasively. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Wanna be a little more specific?"

"We're in a basem*nt," Balthazar said with a smirk.

"Gee, thanks," Dean muttered, his sarcasm doing little to mask his anxiety. Balthazar picked up the bowl, the clinking sound of the ceramic breaking the tense silence.

"You should drink the water and get some rest. You need to recover." Dean glanced at the glass of water, the reflection of the candlelight dancing on its surface. Dean took the glass, the coolness of the water soothing his parched throat. He drank slowly, his mind still racing with thoughts of Castiel, the Novaks, and his uncertain future. The basem*nt was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls as the candle flames flickered. The air was cool and damp, a stark contrast to the warmth he had grown accustomed to at the Novak farm. He leaned back against the cold stone wall, closing his eyes for a few seconds. The headache had dulled to a persistent throb, but the high-pitched ringing still echoed faintly in his ears, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. The room's dim light cast long shadows, giving the space an almost surreal quality. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had made a terrible mistake. Leaving the Novaks might have been his only chance at freedom, but it had come at a great cost. He had jeopardised the safety of his pack and lost the tenuous connection he had been building with Castiel. Balthazar moved to the other side of the room, arranging various items on a wooden table. Dean watched him, curiosity mingling with suspicion.

"What's your plan, Balthazar? Why are you helping me?" Balthazar looked up, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Let's just say I have a vested interest in keeping you alive. And besides, watching you navigate this mess is rather entertaining."

"Entertaining?” Dean frowned, his irritation growing. “My life is falling apart, and you find it entertaining?"

"Not your suffering, Dean," Balthazar replied, his tone more serious. "But the way you face it all, the choices you make... It's intriguing." Dean huffed, taking another sip of water.

"Glad to be your source of amusem*nt." Balthazar's eyes softened slightly.

"It's more than that. There's potential in you, Dean. Potential that even you don't fully realise." Dean didn't know how to respond. He felt a mix of frustration and a strange sense of validation. “No need to say anything now Dean, we will speak when you have rested.”

As he drifted off to sleep, his mind wandered back to the moments he had shared with Castiel. The quiet mornings in the kitchen, the shared meals, the rare but genuine smiles. He had never allowed himself to consider the possibility that Castiel might care for him, but now he couldn’t ignore it. The thought was both comforting and terrifying. He remembered the moments of vulnerability, the glimpses of something deeper beneath the surface. Dean's heart ached with the uncertainty of it all, the fear that he had misunderstood everything.

Sleep came in fits and starts, filled with restless dreams and fragmented memories. He saw Castiel's face, the lambs, and the oppressive gaze of Gabriel. Each image blurred into the next, creating a tapestry of confusion and longing. When he finally woke, the room was bathed in the soft glow of afternoon. Balthazar was seated nearby, a book in his hands. Dean pushed himself up, feeling slightly more grounded than before.

"Feeling better?" Balthazar asked without looking up from his book.

"A bit," Dean admitted, stretching his sore muscles. "What's the plan now?"

Chapter 32

Chapter Text

Castiel sat quietly in Gabriel’s living room, his eyes unfocused, staring at the intricate patterns on the rug on the floor in front of him. The past few days had been a blur, filled with an overwhelming sense of emptiness and despair following Castiel ever since Dean had accused him of being controlling. He had stayed at Gabriel’s house, unable to return to his own. Everything had turned chaotic that morning when Charlie arrived, her expression guilty as she relayed the news. Dean was gone, and Castiel’s car was missing.

Castiel had been sitting at the breakfast table with Gabriel and Kali, the half familiar routine a small comfort amidst the chaos of recent days. Gabriel had been talking about pack matters, his voice a steady anchor in the turmoil. Kali had poured Castiel a cup of tea, the warm aroma mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread. Then Charlie had burst through the door, her face pale and her eyes wide with guilt. Castiel had looked up, his heart sinking as he saw the look on her face. Something had been wrong.

"I drove to the house to pick Dean up," Charlie had begun, her voice shaky. "He didn't come out, so I got out of the car and unlocked the door. I have a spare key, remember?" She had looked around, her eyes pleading for understanding.

"Go on, Charlie." Gabriel had nodded, his expression serious. Charlie had taken a deep breath.

"The house was empty. Dean is gone, and so is Castiel's car." The words had hit Castiel like a physical blow. He had dropped his cup, the porcelain shattering as it hit the table. The tea had seeped into the wood, dripping onto the floor in a slow, steady stream. He had felt a wave of nausea, his vision blurring as the reality of Dean's departure sank in. Gabriel had stood up, his face contorted with anger.

"Dean left? And he took Cassie's car?" Charlie had nodded, her eyes filled with guilt.

Now, the evening filled the living room with buzzing tension. Gabriel paced back and forth, his anger palpable that caused the high-ranking families’ representatives, who filled the room, to contort their faces with a mixture of concern and frustration. Charlie sat next to her mother, both looking tense. Castiel felt hollow. Dean had left him. Dean had abandoned him. Dean really, truly, didn't want Castiel.

“Dean Winchester has crossed a line!” Gabriel’s voice cut through the air, sharp and angry. “The peace treaty is broken. There’s no reason to spare them now. I say we go now and finish before sunrise. The only reason I agreed to this was because I thought Castiel needed someone. John suggested this to save his pack, whereas I would have been more than happy to kill them all.” Charlie stood up, her voice pleading.

“Gabriel, please calm down.”

“Calm down?” Gabriel turned to her, his eyes blazing. “I am calm!”

“Look at him.” Charlie gestured towards Castiel. The room fell silent as everyone’s gaze shifted to Castiel. Gabriel’s expression softened slightly as he glanced at his younger brother, seeing the desolation in his eyes. He sighed, his anger simmering but contained.

“Yeah, okay.” Castiel knew Gabriel couldn’t do much without his consent. Pack leader or not, Gabriel couldn’t decide Dean’s fate. Dean was Castiel’s mate. Gabriel could offer support, help with revenge, or even deal with the Winchester pack, but the ultimate decision about what to do with Dean rested on Castiel’s shoulders. The weight of that responsibility felt like a crushing burden. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to express the storm inside him. Gabriel turned back to the room, his tone more measured. “We need to consider our options carefully. The Winchester pack must be held accountable, but we can’t act rashly.” The representatives murmured their agreement, their voices blending into an indistinct hum. Castiel’s mind drifted, the noise around him fading into the background. He felt detached from everything, like he was watching the scene from a distance. The reality of Dean leaving, the sense of abandonment, replayed in his mind over and over again. Gabriel approached Castiel, kneeling down to his level. “Cassie, we’ll figure this out. But I need you to tell me what you want. Do you want to find Dean? Do you want to bring him back?” Castiel stared at Gabriel, his throat tight. He couldn’t find the words, couldn’t articulate the mix of emotions swirling inside him. All he knew was that Dean’s departure had left a gaping hole in his heart. He nodded slowly, his eyes filling with tears. Gabriel’s expression softened further. He placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “We’ll find him, Cassie. I promise. We’ll bring him back.” Castiel nodded again, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the despair. He wanted Dean back, wanted to understand why he had left. But most of all, he wanted to believe that there was still a chance to mend what had been broken. He couldn’t give up. Not yet. Gabriel stood up, addressing the remaining pack members. “Prepare to search for Dean. We need to act swiftly and carefully. I will be out soon with further instructions. He can’t have gone far.” The pack members nodded, their expressions determined. Castiel watched as they left the room, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He felt Gabriel’s hand on his shoulder again, a silent reassurance that they would face this together. As the room emptied, Castiel took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Gabriel asked softly, “Do you want us to find Dean?” Castiel nodded, the movement slow and deliberate.

“Do you want us to take revenge on the Winchester pack?” Gabriel’s voice was measured, but Castiel could sense the underlying tension. He shook his head, his eyes reflecting the turmoil inside.

“So you just want to find Dean?” Gabriel clarified. Castiel nodded again, his gaze unwavering. Gabriel hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Are you sure, Cassie? Dean broke the peace treaty.”

Castiel nodded once more, the resolve in his eyes clear despite the anguish. Gabriel sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“We’re supposed to take revenge on the Winchester pack.” Castiel shook his head firmly, his expression resolute. Gabriel studied him for a moment, then asked, “Do you want Charlie to stay?” Castiel nodded, a hint of relief flickering across his face. Gabriel gave a small nod in return. “Okay, Cassie.”

Gabriel left the room, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone. As Castiel sat alone in the living room, the silence wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud. His thoughts spiralled uncontrollably, each one more painful than the last. He didn't recognise the swirl of emotions, but he knew that the absence of Dean had left an aching void inside him. Dean had become a fixture in his life, a source of stability in a world that often felt chaotic and unpredictable. His mind replayed every moment they had shared, from the quiet mornings spent together to the heated arguments that had driven a wedge between them. Castiel remembered the way Dean's eyes would light up when he talked about cooking, the way his smile could chase away the darkest clouds. He remembered the comfort of Dean's presence, the sense of belonging he felt when they were together. Now, that comfort was gone, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that seemed to consume him from the inside out. He pulled his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them in a futile attempt to hold himself together. He rested his head on his knees, the position making him feel small and vulnerable. The silence of the room pressed down on him, amplifying the chaos in his mind. He couldn't understand why Dean had left, couldn't fathom what he had done to drive him away. Why now?

The memory of their last conversation played over and over in his mind. Dean accused him of being controlling, the hurt and anger in his eyes. Castiel had thought he was helping, trying to keep Dean safe. But instead, he had pushed him away, driven him to leave. The realisation was a bitter pill to swallow, and it filled him with a sense of helplessness. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts that tormented him. But they only grew louder, each one a reminder of his failure. He felt a tear slip down his cheek, followed by another. He hadn't cried all day, but now, the dam had broken, and the tears came in a steady stream. He buried his face in his knees, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

He didn't know how long he sat there, lost in his own world. The room was dim, the only light coming from the flickering flames of the fireplace. Time seemed to stretch, each minute feeling like an eternity. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall was a harsh reminder of the passage of time, of the moments slipping away while he sat, paralyzed by his emotions. The door opened quietly, and Charlie stepped into the room. She had been checking on him periodically, but this time, she didn't leave. She walked over to him and sat down beside him, her presence a quiet reassurance. She didn't say anything, just placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Castiel leaned into her touch, his body trembling. He felt a small measure of comfort in her presence, but it did little to ease the turmoil inside him. He couldn't speak, couldn't find the words to express the things he felt. All he could do was sit there, wrapped in his misery, hoping that somehow, things would get better. Charlie sat with him in silence, her hand a steady, grounding presence. She understood that he needed time, that words wouldn't help right now. She offered him her support in the only way she could, by simply being there. Castiel's thoughts continued to spiral, a chaotic blend of memories and emotions. He remembered the first time he had met Dean, the wary look in his eyes, the cautious way he had approached. He remembered the slow, steady process of building trust, the moments of vulnerability they had shared. He remembered the warmth of Dean's eyes, the way they had made him feel safe.

But now, all of that was gone. Dean had left, and with him, he had taken the sense of stability and comfort that Castiel had come to rely on. The future seemed uncertain, filled with nothing but darkness and despair. Castiel didn't know how to move forward, didn't know how to heal the gaping wound in his heart. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady himself. He knew he couldn't stay like this forever. But right now, all he could do was sit there, lost in his grief, and hope that somehow, things would get better.

The minutes stretched on, the silence of the room broken only by the occasional sound of Charlie shifting beside him. Castiel remained in his position, his thoughts a never-ending cycle of pain and regret as he slipped in and out of sleep. He didn't know how to fix what had been broken, didn't know if it was even possible. But he knew that he couldn't give up, that he had to find a way to bring Dean back. Because without him, the emptiness inside him would remain, a constant reminder of what he had lost.

Charlie's presence was a small comfort in the vast sea of his despair. Castiel’s mind was a swirling vortex of emotions, each one more overwhelming than the last. Suddenly, Charlie's phone buzzed, breaking the heavy silence. She glanced at the screen, her expression shifting from concern to something more serious. She took a deep breath and turned to Castiel, her voice gentle but firm.

"They found your car, Cassie," she said softly. Castiel's body tensed, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought against the tears that threatened to spill over. He couldn't bear the thought of what might have happened to Dean. Charlie's voice wavered slightly as she continued. "Dean wasn't there, but there was some blood at the scene. They think he left the car and went on foot, probably in wolf form." Castiel's eyes snapped open, the information cutting through his grief like a knife. The thought of Dean being hurt, possibly alone and scared, sent a fresh wave of anguish crashing over him. "Yeah, Cassie," Charlie said, her voice filled with sympathy. "I'm sorry. It looks like Dean made it to town." Castiel couldn't hold back the flood of emotions any longer. He felt the room spinning around him, the walls closing in as the reality of the situation sank in. Dean was out there, possibly injured and alone, and Castiel had no idea how to reach him or help him. And chances were Dean did not want his help. The overwhelming sadness, the deep sense of loss, and the crushing loneliness all combined into a torrent of grief that left him feeling utterly helpless.

Castiel moved to lay down on the floor, curling into a foetal position as he was overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions. Sadness washed over him, a pervasive feeling of sorrow and emptiness that seemed to seep into every fibre of his being. Tears streamed down his face, each one a testament to the profound sense of loss he felt. Sorrow gripped him tightly, the escape feeling like a death. He cycled through the stages of grief, from denial, wondering if there was some mistake, to anger at himself for not seeing the signs, to bargaining with the universe for a chance to make things right. Sadness settled over him like a dark cloud, casting a shadow on everything. Acceptance seemed a distant dream, something he couldn't even begin to grasp. Loneliness gnawed at him, a profound sense of being utterly alone. He missed Dean's companionship, the daily interactions, the small moments of connection that had become such an integral part of his life. Without Dean, everything felt wrong, incomplete. Regret and guilt added to the crushing weight of his emotions. His mind once more replayed moments from their relationship, wondering if things could have been different. He questioned his actions, his words, everything he had done that might have driven Dean away. The sense of responsibility for the escape weighed heavily on him, adding to the crushing sadness he felt.

Charlie stayed by his side, her hand resting gently on his shoulder, offering silent support. She knew there were no words that could ease his pain, no comfort that could fill the void left by Dean's departure. All she could do was be there for him, a steady presence in the midst of his turmoil. Castiel lay there, his body trembling with sobs, his mind a chaotic whirlwind of grief and regret. He didn't know how to move forward, didn't know how to find Dean or make things right. All he knew was that he had to try, that he couldn't give up on the one person who had come to mean everything to him. The path ahead was uncertain and filled with pain, but he had to find a way through it. For Dean, for himself, for the chance to mend what had been broken.

Charlie stayed by Castiel’s side, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. She watched him, her eyes filled with concern and sadness. After a moment, she spoke softly.

"Cassie, let's go to my place. We can watch something, take your mind off things for a bit." Castiel nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He allowed Charlie to help him up, his movements slow and heavy. Together, they made their way to her car. The drive to Charlie’s cottage was quiet, the car’s interior filled with a silence that spoke louder than words. Castiel stared out the window, watching the world pass by in a blur. The bare trees of January stood like silent sentinels, their skeletal branches stark against the grey sky.

Charlie’s cottage came into view, a picturesque white home nestled amidst tall trees. It exuded a sense of seclusion and serenity, the colourful flowers in the window boxes and the climbing ivy adding a touch of natural beauty and charm. The porch light cast a soft, welcoming glow over the entrance, enhancing the cottage's inviting appearance. Normally, Castiel would have found it comforting, but today it seemed distant, almost mocking in its cheerfulness. Inside, the cottage exuded warmth and cosiness. The walls were painted in soft, pastel colours that created a calming atmosphere. The living room featured a mix of rustic and modern furniture, with a comfortable couch adorned with colourful cushions, a coffee table made of reclaimed wood, and bookshelves filled with a variety of books and trinkets. Everything that would normally seem homely and safe now felt lifeless and mocking. The vibrant colours and cheerful decor contrasted sharply with the darkness that clouded Castiel's mind.

Charlie guided him to the couch and handed him a soft blanket. He took it mechanically, wrapping it around himself without really feeling its warmth. The room’s usual charm and comfort were lost on him. The colourful cushions seemed garish, the books and trinkets mere clutter. He felt like a ghost, moving through a world that no longer held any meaning. The kitchen, with its delightful blend of functionality and charm, held no appeal for him. The colourful tiles lining the backsplash and the wooden cabinets that provided ample storage were just a backdrop to his grief. The small dining table with mismatched chairs sat near a window, offering a lovely view of the garden outside, but Castiel couldn’t bring himself to look. To Castiel, everything seemed dead, the plants withered and the colours mocking. The scent of fresh herbs and spices lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from a nearby diffuser, but it all felt distant, unreal.

Charlie busied herself in the kitchen, making tea. Castiel watched her movements, the normalcy of her actions contrasting sharply with the chaos in his mind. The kitchen’s charm felt like a cruel joke, the bright colours and cosy decor a mockery of his pain. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the world, but the images of Dean, the memories of their time together, kept flooding back. Charlie returned with two mugs of tea and set them on the coffee table. She sat down beside him, offering a small, comforting smile.

"Cassie, why don't we watch something? It might help take your mind off things for a while." Castiel nodded, grateful for Charlie’s presence even though he couldn’t find the words to express it. She gave him a reassuring smile and turned on the TV. The screen flickered to life, and the familiar theme of Dr. Sexy M.D. filled the room. Castiel’s heart clenched painfully. Of course Dean’s favourite show would be on. The scene on the TV transported Castiel back to the times when he and Dean used to watch it together. He remembered the way Dean would get excited about the plot twists, how his eyes would light up with anticipation, and the way he would occasionally glance at Castiel to share his enthusiasm. Those moments had been so ordinary, yet now they felt like precious treasures, fragments of a life that had been shattered.

Castiel's gaze dropped to the floor, his vision blurring as tears welled up. He tried to hold them back, but the memories overwhelmed him. He could almost hear Dean's voice, feel his presence beside him, the warmth of his laughter filling the room. The loss hit him with a force he couldn’t withstand. His chest tightened, and he struggled to breathe, each inhale a battle against the grief that threatened to consume him. His body trembled, and he wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, seeking some semblance of comfort. But the fabric felt cold and distant, unable to provide the solace he desperately needed. The colours of the room seemed to blur together, the vibrant hues that usually made Charlie's cottage so welcoming now felt garish and intrusive. Charlie noticed the change in him, her concern deepening.

"Castiel," she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm, "It's okay. Let it out. I'm here." But Castiel couldn't respond. His mind was a whirlwind, the emotions too intense to put into words. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of pain, each wave pulling him further under. He pressed his face into his knees, trying to hide from the world, but there was no escape from the memories that haunted him. He remembered the feel of Dean's touch, the sound of his voice, the way his presence had filled the emptiness in his heart. Now, that presence was gone, and all that remained was a void that seemed to grow larger with each passing moment. The sense of abandonment was unbearable, and Castiel felt like he was falling apart, piece by piece. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting. His shoulders shook with the force of his sobs, each one a release of the grief that had been building inside him. He felt Charlie's arms around him, holding him tightly, her touch a small anchor in the storm. But even that couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that poured out of him. Castiel’s thoughts spiralled into a dark abyss, filled with images of Dean. He saw the moments of laughter they had shared, the quiet conversations late into the night, the feeling of safety that Dean had brought into his life. He wondered if he had taken it all for granted, if there was something he could have done to prevent Dean from leaving. The regret gnawed at him, a relentless ache that wouldn’t subside. He replayed their last conversation over and over in his mind, searching for answers that seemed just out of reach. He had tried to keep Dean safe, to protect him, but instead, he had driven him away. The realisation was a sharp pain, cutting through the already overwhelming grief. Charlie’s soothing voice broke through his thoughts, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone.

"Cassie, it's going to be okay," she murmured, her voice gentle and reassuring. "I promise." Castiel wanted to believe her, but the pain was too raw, the sense of loss too deep. He felt like a part of him was missing, a vital piece that had been torn away. He didn’t know how to move forward, didn’t know how to find the strength to face a future without Dean.

The minutes stretched on, the room filled with the sound of Castiel’s sobs and Charlie’s comforting words. The world outside felt distant and unreal, a cold, grey January day that seemed to mock his inner unease. The bare trees stood like silent sentinels, their skeletal branches a stark contrast to the vibrant colours of the cottage.

Castiel remained curled up on the couch, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. He felt Charlie's hand on his back, a steady presence that grounded him in the midst of his despair. But even with her there, the emptiness inside him felt insurmountable, a constant reminder of what he had lost. As the hours passed watching some sitcom, the light outside faded, and the room grew dim. Charlie lit a few candles, their soft glow adding a touch of warmth to the otherwise cold space. Castiel watched the flickering flames, his mind still a chaotic swirl of grief and regret.

Charlie got another message on her phone. She glanced at it, her expression darkening before she looked back at Castiel.

"Gabriel wants to bring back John and make the Winchesters pay for breaking the peace treaty," she said softly, trying to gauge Castiel’s reaction. Castiel looked away, the idea of escalating the conflict filling him with a sense of dread. He didn’t want more violence, more bloodshed. It felt pointless, especially when his heart was already torn apart. "I need your answer, Cassie," Charlie pressed gently. Castiel finally spoke, his voice rough from disuse.

"I don’t care." It felt like the words scraped against his throat, a harsh reminder of the silence he had kept for so long. Charlie smiled sadly, understanding how much effort it had taken for him to speak.

"Okay," she replied softly. She typed a quick message on her phone, then stood up. "Are you hungry?" Castiel shook his head. The thought of food held no appeal to him. Charlie tried to lighten the mood. "I have candy." Castiel managed a nod. The idea of candy, something sweet and simple, felt like a small comfort. Charlie disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bag of mixed candies and a can of soda for each of them. She handed Castiel the bag, and he took it, grateful for the small distraction.

"What's that movie you used to be fascinated by?" Charlie mused, trying to remember. "Sunset… sunrise…?" Castiel perked up at the mention of the film. It was one of his favourites, a silent film that had always resonated with him in a way few things did. "Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans?" Charlie asked, her face lighting up with the memory. Castiel nodded, a faint spark of interest in his eyes. Charlie smiled and turned on the TV, searching until she found the movie. She settled back on the couch, handing Castiel a can of soda. He opened it, the hiss of carbonation filling the room as the film began to play.

The opening scenes of the movie filled the screen, the black-and-white images capturing a world both distant and timeless. Castiel watched intently, his mind drawn into the story. The film followed a man who was tempted by a woman from the city to murder his wife. The man's internal struggle, his ultimate decision to choose love and redemption over darkness and betrayal, resonated deeply with Castiel. As the story unfolded, Castiel saw parallels to his own life. The man's temptation by the city woman mirrored the internal conflict he felt, the pull between his duty to his pack and his desire to be with Dean. The moments of tenderness between the man and his wife, their reconciliation and rediscovery of love, reminded him of the fragile bond he shared with Dean. The film's themes of forgiveness, redemption, and the enduring power of love struck a chord within him. Castiel's thoughts drifted to Dean, to the moments they had shared, both good and bad. He remembered the warmth of Dean's smile, the way his eyes sparkled when he was happy. He thought about the arguments, the misunderstandings, and the pain they had caused each other. But most of all, he remembered the sense of belonging he felt when he was with Dean, the feeling that he was home. The movie continued, the man's journey towards redemption unfolding on the screen. Castiel felt a glimmer of something akin to but not quite hope, a small flicker of light in the darkness; he realised that, like the man in the film, he had the power to choose his own path. He could seek forgiveness, he could find a way to make things right. The thought gave him a sense of purpose, a reason to keep going.

As the film reached its climax, the man and his wife were reunited, their love stronger than ever. Castiel felt a tear slip down his cheek, not from sadness, but from a sense of understanding. He looked over at Charlie, who was watching him with a knowing smile. She understood the significance of the film, the way it spoke to his heart.

When the credits rolled, Castiel finally felt a sense of calm. The movie had given him a moment of respite from his sadness, a chance to reflect on his own journey. He knew that the road ahead would be difficult, filled with challenges and obstacles. But he also knew that he wasn't alone. He had Charlie, he had Gabriel, and most importantly, he had the memories of Dean to guide him. Charlie turned off the TV and turned to Castiel.

"Feeling a bit better?" she asked gently. Castiel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. The sadness were still there, but the film had given him a sense of clarity, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was always a glimmer of hope. Castiel looked at Charlie, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of the hope the film had ignited in him.

"You brought this film up for a reason, didn’t you, Charlie?" he asked, his voice soft but filled with curiosity. Charlie shrugged, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

"Maybe," she said, her tone light. "But you don’t have enough proof to arrest me." Castiel managed a small chuckle at her joke, the sound feeling foreign but welcome. He took a deep breath, his mind swirling with thoughts.

"Do you think that's what will happen to Dean and me?" he asked, his voice tinged with vulnerability. Charlie’s smile softened, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding.

"I can’t say for sure, Cassie," she replied gently. Castiel nodded, absorbing her words. The story of the film resonated deeply with him, mirroring the struggle and redemption he longed for in his own life. He thought about the farmer’s journey, his temptation, his struggle, and ultimately, his redemption. It was a story of love prevailing over darkness, of finding one’s way back to what truly mattered. The cottage was quiet, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the faint hum of the refrigerator. The living room, with its cosy furnishings and warm colours, felt more welcoming now, a sanctuary from the cold January day outside. The bare trees, visible through the window, stood like silent guardians, their branches reaching towards the grey sky. The scene outside was a stark contrast to the warmth and hope that had started to take root in Castiel’s heart. He looked around the room, taking in the details that he had previously found mocking. The colourful pillows on the couch now seemed to offer a touch of cheerfulness, the books and trinkets on the shelves felt like pieces of a lived life, full of stories and memories. The soft pastel colours on the walls created a calming atmosphere, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that had been raging inside him.

Castiel wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, feeling its warmth seep into his skin. The scent of the tea Charlie had made earlier lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the diffuser. He took a sip of his soda, the sweetness a small comfort amidst the lingering sorrow.

"Do you think Dean is okay?" Castiel asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Charlie looked at him, her expression thoughtful.

"I think he’s strong," she said after a moment. "And I do think he’ll find his way back, just like the farmer in the film. It might take time, and it won’t be easy, but I believe in both of you." Castiel nodded, her words offering a small measure of comfort. He closed his eyes, letting the sound of the crackling fire and the warmth of the room wash over him. He pictured Dean’s face, his smile, the way his eyes lit up. Castiel felt a sense of calm slowly returning, the darkness in his mind receding slightly. As night fell, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the fire and the dim light of the lamps. The shadows danced on the walls, creating a soothing backdrop. Castiel felt a sense of peace, a small but significant step towards healing. He knew the road ahead would be difficult, filled with uncertainty and challenges. But for the first time in a while, he felt a glimmer of hope. He looked over at Charlie, who was watching him with a gentle smile.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice filled with gratitude. Charlie nodded, her eyes warm with understanding.

"Anytime, Cassie," she replied softly.

As Castiel laid on the couch, wrapped in the soft blanket, the warmth of the fire lulling him into a near sleep, he heard a faint meow. His eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding his gaze as he looked around the room. The gentle sound had been so unexpected in the quiet of the night. Charlie emerged from her bedroom, cradling Norma in her arms. The kitten's black fur contrasted against Charlie's light-coloured sweater, her gooseberry green eyes blinking sleepily. Castiel's heart ached at the sight, a mix of tenderness and sorrow washing over him. Charlie approached him, a soft smile on her face.

"I brought her here after I told you that Dean was gone," she explained, her voice a soothing whisper in the dimly lit room. "I think Norma has been asleep most of the time." Castiel reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he took Norma from Charlie's arms. The kitten nuzzled against him, her small body radiating warmth as she settled on his chest. He felt a pang of relief as she nestled close, her soft purring a comforting rhythm against his heart.

"Thank you," Castiel whispered, his voice rough with emotion. He looked up at Charlie, gratitude shining in his eyes. She nodded, her expression understanding and supportive. Norma's presence was a small solace amidst the chaos of his emotions. She was a tangible connection to the life he had shared with Dean, a reminder of the simple joys and tender moments that had once filled their days. As he lay there, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Norma's breath, Castiel allowed himself to relax, the tension slowly easing from his body. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. The shadows danced on the walls, creating a serene and almost magical atmosphere. Outside, the January night was still and silent, the bare trees standing tall against the dark sky. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the dawn to bring a new day. Norma's purring grew louder, a soothing balm to Castiel's troubled soul. He stroked her soft fur, feeling a sense of peace settle over him. The kitten's warmth and the comforting sound of her purrs created a cocoon of safety, a momentary respite from the pain and confusion that had plagued him.

Charlie watched him quietly, her presence a steadying force in the room. She understood the depth of his pain and the complexity of his emotions, and she offered her support without hesitation. Castiel was grateful for her companionship, for the way she had stood by him through everything. As the night deepened, Castiel felt a sense of calm wash over him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Norma's purring and the warmth of the fire. The road ahead was uncertain, but he was not alone. He would find a way to mend what had been broken, to bring Dean back and rebuild their lives together. He had to. With Norma nestled on his chest and Charlie by his side, Castiel allowed himself to drift into a peaceful sleep, the promise of a new day bringing a glimmer of hope to his weary heart.

Chapter 33

Chapter Text

Dean lay on the couch, his body restless despite the fatigue that weighed him down. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a lit candle in the corner, casting long shadows on the walls. He had been there for hours, trying to find some semblance of comfort, but the ache in his muscles and the throbbing in his head made it impossible. He attempted to stand, but a sharp jolt of pain shot through him, forcing him to collapse back onto the floor on all fours. He cursed under his breath, the frustration building inside him. Dean leaned back against the couch, feeling the sticky sweat on his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand, grimacing at the dampness. The cool, dark basem*nt was meant to be a refuge, but it felt more like a prison. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had escaped one cage only to end up in another, and this one lacked all the small comforts of the life he had known with Castiel. And he was alone. So much for freedom.

The spell was wearing off, and as Castiel had warned, it was becoming unbearable. Dean knew he was approaching his breaking point. The thought of spending his twenty-fifth birthday in this unknown basem*nt, with Balthazar as his only company, filled him with a deep sense of dread. He leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the pain and the persistent high-pitched ringing in his ears. But it only grew louder, a relentless assault on his senses. He felt the nausea rising and couldn't hold it back any longer. Doubling over, he retched, the taste of bile bitter in his mouth. He opened his eyes to see the mess, but his vision was dark, and at that moment he could only feel the wetness spreading across his shirt and legs. He cursed Balthazar again, wondering if this was some twisted lesson the witch was trying to teach him.

"Damn witch," Dean muttered, his voice hoarse. "He must've known this would happen." As footsteps echoed softly on the stone floor Dean’s vision cleared enough to see as the witch entered the room. He took one look at Dean, the mess, and shook his head with a sigh.

"Really, Dean, must you be so dramatic?" Balthazar said, his tone a mix of annoyance and amusem*nt. He waved his hand, and the mess disappeared, replaced by a fresh set of clothes on the couch beside Dean. "Get changed," Balthazar instructed. "You'll feel better once you're clean." Dean glared at him but complied, struggling to pull off his soiled clothes and slip into the fresh ones. The simple act of changing brought a small measure of relief, but the pain and ringing in his ears persisted. He leaned back against the couch, breathing heavily.

"What now?" Dean asked, his voice a strained whisper.

"Now you rest," Balthazar replied, his tone softer. "You've been through quite the ordeal, and you need to recover."

Dean closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids a small comfort. Opting to sleep on the cool stone floor instead of the couch for some relief. His thoughts drifted to Castiel, to the moments they had shared, and the arguments that had driven them apart. He wondered if Castiel was thinking about him, if he missed him. The memory of Castiel's voice, his piercing blue eyes, and the scent of pine and manuka honey filled his mind, a bittersweet reminder of what he had left behind. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the basem*nt. Dean's breathing slowed as he drifted into a restless sleep, his dreams filled with fragmented memories and lingering pain. The cold stone floor beneath him was a stark contrast to the warmth he had once felt in Castiel's bed.

When he awoke the room was still dark and the pain had increased drastically. He pushed himself up, wincing as his muscles protested, arms almost giving in. Balthazar was sitting at the table, a book in his hands, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on his face.

"Feeling better?" Balthazar asked, not looking up from his book. Dean coughed, a rough, grating sound that seemed to reverberate through his entire body.

"Are you teaching me a lesson, Balthazar?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. Balthazar tilted his head slightly, still not looking up from his book.

"A lesson?" he echoed, his tone almost disinterested. Dean grit his teeth.

"You could make the symptoms go away, couldn't you?"

"I could," Balthazar confirmed, his eyes still fixed on the pages in front of him.

"So it is a lesson, then," Dean muttered, feeling a fresh wave of frustration wash over him. Balthazar finally glanced up, his gaze cool and assessing. He gave Dean a once-over before returning his attention to his book.

"You're fine, Dean."

"Yeah, I feel just peachy," Dean replied, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"Well, there you go then," Balthazar said with a hint of a smile. Dean swallowed hard as he felt the bile rise again, fighting to keep it down.

"How much longer?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

"I can't say," Balthazar answered, his tone indifferent.

"You aren't even trying to be accommodating!" Dean snapped, his voice cracking. Balthazar snapped the book shut, the sound echoing in Dean's head like a gunshot. Dean winced, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes from the sharp, piercing noise. Balthazar stood and approached Dean, his movements slow and deliberate. He pushed Dean's shoulder and Dean toppled over, landing on the ground with a thud.

"I am being very accommodating, Dean," Balthazar said, his voice cold. "I am letting you get better without having to worry about the Novak pack being hot on your trail. I am feeding you and keeping you hydrated. I'm keeping you safe. And I was just about to tell you the latest news regarding the Novak pack, but if you think I'm so unaccommodating, then I might as well not." Dean lay on the floor, his body trembling with each laboured breath. The pain gnawed at him, a relentless, grinding sensation that seemed to eat away at his very core. Balthazar’s words echoed in his mind, adding to the frustration. The witch could help him, but instead, he chose to let Dean suffer. Dean clenched his fists, and took another shaky breath. Dean focused on taking slow, deep breaths, trying to keep the rising nausea at bay. The cold stone beneath him offered a slight respite, but it was nowhere near enough to quell the torment. His thoughts drifted back to Castiel, to the fleeting moments of warmth and connection they had shared. The memory of Castiel’s worried deep blue eyes filled his mind and provided a bittersweet contrast to his current suffering. He wondered if Castiel was thinking about him, if he missed him, or if he was relieved to be rid of the burden.

“I… want…” Dean struggled to form the words, his voice barely more than a rasp. “I want… to… know…” Balthazar hummed softly, a dismissive sound that grated on Dean’s nerves.

“Maybe later,” Balthazar replied, his tone indifferent. “When you realise how accommodating I’ve been.” Dean’s vision blurred, a mix of pain and anger clouding his thoughts. He forced himself to sit up, again, his muscles screaming in protest, again. The room spun around him, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls. He focused on Balthazar, who was now seated at the table once more, his book open in front of him.

“You think… this is… accommodating?” Dean asked, his voice strained and shaky. Balthazar glanced up, his expression unreadable.

“You have a place to rest, food, water, and you’re safe from the Novaks. I’d say that’s quite accommodating, considering the circ*mstances.” Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry and raw.

“But you could… make it… easier,” he managed to say, his frustration evident.

“Of course,” Balthazar sighed, setting the book aside. “But what lesson would that teach you, Dean? You need to understand the consequences of your actions, the choices you’ve made. This is part of that understanding.” Dean gritted his teeth, the pain and frustration mixing into a volatile co*cktail of emotions. He wanted to lash out, to scream, but he knew it would do no good. Instead, he focused on breathing, on pushing through the pain.

“I don’t… need a lesson,” Dean said, his voice a whisper. “I need… to know… what’s happening.” Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp.

“You were the one to call it a lesson, Dean,” he remarked, his tone tinged with sarcasm. Dean glared at him,frustration bubbling over.

“Please, Balthazar,” he begged, his voice cracking with desperation as he once more fell to the floor.

“What a compelling argument. I have been convinced.” Dean laid on the cold stone floor, feeling the dull ache in his muscles growing sharper with each passing moment. The room's dim light seemed to flicker with his fading strength, casting dancing shadows that played tricks on his weary eyes. He tried to keep his breathing steady, but every inhale sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body. The ringing in his ears intensified, a high-pitched whine that drowned out all other sounds. A sudden, more intense wave of pain hit him, causing his vision to blur. It felt like a searing fire was burning through his veins. Dean doubled over, clutching his stomach as the agony tore through him. He retched violently, body convulsing with the force. The bitter taste of bile filled his mouth as he vomited again and again, the liquid splashing onto the cold stone floor and soaking his clothes. The smell was nauseating, a mixture of sour bile and the lingering scent of the basem*nt's dampness. Balthazar sighed in defeat, the sound cutting through the ringing in Dean’s ears. He moved to Dean's side, his expression one of reluctant sympathy. With a wave of his hand, he cleaned up the mess, leaving Dean gasping on the floor. "Breathe," Balthazar muttered, his tone resigned. "A few more hours, Dean. It should be over in a few hours." Dean snapped his head up, the motion sending another spike of pain through his skull.

"What?" he croaked, his voice barely audible. Balthazar knelt beside him, his eyes meeting Dean's with an–to Dean– uncharacteristic softness.

"I said it should be over in a few hours." Dean tried to process the words through the haze of pain. A few hours. He could endure a few more hours, couldn't he? He swallowed hard, the taste of bile still lingering on his tongue, and nodded weakly. Balthazar placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. "You’re stronger than you think, Dean," he said quietly. "But strength alone won't get you through this. You need to understand why you're here, why you made the choices you did."

Dean closed his eyes, focusing on steadying the rhythm of his breathing. The pain ebbed and flowed, each wave leaving him more exhausted than the last. He thought of Castiel, of the life he had left behind, and of the uncertain future that awaited him. The memories were a tangled web of emotions, each thread pulling him in a different direction. He remembered the first time he had seen Castiel, the way those piercing blue eyes had seemed to look right through him. The night before their wedding had been fraught with tension and uncertainty, the weight of the impending union pressing heavily upon him. Sleep had eluded him, his mind restless with the unknowns of his future. Desperate for some form of solace, he had decided to explore the house, hoping to find a distraction from his swirling thoughts. The shadowed floors of the house had felt like a labyrinth, each turn leading him deeper into the heart of unfamiliarity. The soft glow of moonlight had seeped through the windows, casting ethereal patterns on the walls. It was in this hushed, almost surreal atmosphere that he had stumbled upon a bedroom filled with books and sketches, a sanctuary of creativity amidst the oppressive grandeur. Castiel had been sitting on the floor, surrounded by an array of sketches and art supplies. The room had exuded an aura of quiet dedication, the air thick with the scent of ink and paper. There had been something in Castiel's gaze: the vividly intense blue eyes had met Dean's with a mix of curiosity and wariness, a gaze that had seemed to pierce through his very soul. Dean had felt a chill run down his spine, a sense of being laid bare before this stranger who was to become his husband. At the same time the sight of Castiel's irritation at his intrusion had been palpable, a tangible force that filled the room. Castiel's expression had hardened, his features etched with frustration. Dean had felt the first hard sting of rejection even before any words were exchanged. The silence between them had been charged with unspoken emotions, a gulf that seemed impossible to bridge. And when Dean had tried to engage Castiel in conversation his voice had tinged with an awkwardness born of desperation. He had commented on the beauty of Castiel's art, hoping to find a way to connect, to understand the person he was about to marry. But Castiel had remained distant, his responses curt and guarded. The walls around him had been impenetrable, his demeanour a fortress of defensiveness. Dean had sensed the futility of his attempts, the growing chasm between them a painful reminder of the reality of their situation. As Castiel had expressed his frustration, emphasising that they were not supposed to meet until the wedding, Dean had felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He had realised he had overstepped, his intrusion adding to Castiel's stress. Apologising, he had left the room, the sense of isolation and hopelessness deepening within him. Outside the room, he had encountered Balthazar, whose presence had been both a reprimand and a solace. Balthazar had chastised him for his actions, explaining that Castiel was also grappling with the sudden upheaval in his life. Dean had felt a mix of shame and understanding, recognising the shared burden of their circ*mstances. Balthazar's advice to be patient and respectful of Castiel's boundaries had resonated deeply with him. And for a while Dean had been nothing but patient. Patient like a damn Saint. But that was not enough, it was never enough. Well, until Castiel had almost died. Despite the tension between them, despite the arguments and misunderstandings, there had been moments of connection, fleeting but powerful.

Dean's thoughts drifted to the house, to the quiet evenings spent in the library, the smell of fire burning wood and the sound of Norma's purring filling the air. He remembered the simple comfort of those moments, the sense of belonging that had slowly started to take root. But it had all been overshadowed by the fear and frustration, the feeling of being trapped in a life he hadn't chosen.

The pain flared up again, a sharp, searing sensation that made him gasp. He gripped the edge of the couch, his knuckles white with the effort. Balthazar watched him, his expression inscrutable.

"You're almost through it," Balthazar said, his voice a low murmur. "Just a little longer." Dean nodded, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He focused on the sound of Balthazar's voice, letting it ground him. The minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. But slowly, gradually, the pain began to subside. The ringing in his ears lessened, and the nausea receded, leaving him feeling weak and drained but no longer overwhelmed by the agony. Balthazar handed him a glass of water, and Dean drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes as a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

"Thank you," Dean whispered, his voice barely audible. Balthazar nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips.

"Rest now," he said softly. Dean let himself relax, the tension slowly easing from his body. The cool stone floor no longer felt as harsh, and the flickering candlelight cast a soothing glow over the room. As he drifted into a fitful sleep, his thoughts remained on Castiel, on the life he had left behind, and on the uncertain path that lay ahead. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was a glimmer of hope amidst the pain.

Dean awoke to an unusual sense of calm. The ringing in his ears had vanished, and the nausea that had plagued him was gone. He lay still for a moment, savouring the absence of pain. His body ached, but it was a familiar soreness, the kind that came from sleeping on a hard surface. He pushed himself up, stretching his stiff muscles, and glanced around the room. The candle had burned low, casting a soft, flickering light over the stone walls. Balthazar was sitting at the table, a small smile playing on his lips. He watched Dean with an almost amused expression.

"Curious, isn't it?" Balthazar remarked, his tone light. "How when you're feeling poorly, you almost forget what it feels like to be well. Yet, when you are well again, you can still remember how it felt to be poorly." Dean stood up, stretching his arms over his head. His body protested with a series of satisfying pops.

"What do you know about being sick?" he muttered, walking towards Balthazar.

"Everyone can get sick, Dean," Balthazar replied, his gaze steady. Dean approached the table, his curiosity piqued.

"What now?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of frustration.

"Do you ever think for yourself, Dean?" Dean frowned.

"What?"

"It seems like all you ever ask is for me to tell you what’s going to happen next," Balthazar said, his tone mild but with an edge of provocation. Dean felt a flash of irritation.

"And what’s wrong with wanting to know what’s next? You’re the one with all the answers, aren’t you?" He crossed his arms, glaring at Balthazar.

"Ah, now, now, little wolf," Balthazar said with a smirk, clearly enjoying Dean’s reaction. "You need to learn to navigate your own path, not just rely on others to guide you." Dean’s eyes narrowed.

"Don’t call me that."

"Why not?" Balthazar leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. "You do have a rather wolfish temper." Dean took a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger.

"Just tell me what the plan is." Balthazar’s expression turned serious, though the amusem*nt still lingered in his eyes.

"The plan is for you to decide, Dean.“ Dean felt a knot of confusion and unease twist in his stomach. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he looked at Balthazar.

"What did you mean when you said that if Castiel loves me, I'm safe?" Dean asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar’s eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief.

"Ah, well, in the Novak pack, only mates can choose punishment for each other." Dean frowned, the implications of Balthazar's words slowly sinking in.

"So, what now?" he asked, his tone tinged with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Balthazar tilted his head, studying Dean with an almost clinical detachment.

"Why do you think you get away with so much, Dean?" Dean's mind raced back to all the times he and Castiel had fought, each argument leaving Castiel distant and sad but never resulting in any real consequences. He recalled the moments when Castiel's frustration had boiled over, but the most he had ever done was raise his voice or distanced himself. Dean shuddered as he remembered Castiel telling him about how Charles had locked his mother away for displeasing him. The thought of Castiel wielding that kind of power was chilling. Dean nodded slowly as the realisation dawned on him. "You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Balthazar's voice broke through Dean's thoughts.

"Yeah," Dean admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. Balthazar sighed, a mixture of exasperation and amusem*nt colouring his tone.

"Castiel's fondness for you is the only reason you're not locked up or worse. He has the power to punish you, but he chooses not to." Dean felt a pang of guilt mixed with a sense of relief. He thought back to the moments of tenderness they had shared, the quiet conversations and the rare genuine smiles that had passed between them. Castiel's attachment was a fragile, precious thing, and Dean had taken it for granted.

"What should I do now?" Dean asked, his voice almost pleading. Balthazar leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

"You need to figure that out for yourself, Dean. You're not a prisoner here. But you need to decide what you want and how you're going to get it." Dean took a deep breath, his mind racing as he considered his options. He knew that realistically he couldn't return to the life he had known before the marriage, but he also couldn't ignore the bond he had with Castiel. He needed to find a way to reconcile the two, to carve out a path that allowed him to be true to himself while honouring the connection he had with Castiel. The thought of navigating this complicated terrain was daunting, but he knew he had to face it head-on.

"I feel like one of those people put on witch trial," Dean muttered, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "You know, the ones where they strap a boulder to them, and if they float, they're a witch?" Balthazar hummed thoughtfully.

"There is a difference between falling in love and drowning in it, Dean." Dean opened his mouth to respond but found himself unable to voice the question that lingered in his mind.

"Do you think that I have..." He trailed off, unable to admit it even to himself. The possibility that he might be in love with Castiel was too overwhelming to confront. Balthazar shrugged nonchalantly.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. Dean felt a flash of irritation at the sudden shift in conversation but then realised that he was not just hungry—he was ravenous. The intense physical strain from the spell's effects had left him depleted. "Wait here, little wolf," Balthazar said with a smirk. "I'll be back shortly."

The minutes stretched on in the dimly lit basem*nt, and Dean's sense of confinement deepened. He felt like a prisoner, trapped by circ*mstances beyond his control. Finally, the sound of footsteps echoed on the stone floor, and Balthazar returned, carrying a plate with two bagels topped with bacon, cream cheese, and eggs, along with a tall glass of apple juice. Dean's mouth watered at the sight of the food. He hadn't realised just how much he had missed the simple pleasure of a hearty meal. He took the plate eagerly, savouring the first bite. The crisp bacon provided a satisfying crunch, its salty flavour perfectly complemented by the rich, creamy cheese. The egg was cooked to perfection, its yolk adding a smooth, luxurious texture to the mix. Dean closed his eyes, letting the flavours wash over him. The combination was both comforting and invigorating, a reminder of the small joys he had missed during his time with Castiel. The familiar taste of bacon brought back memories of mornings in his apartment, the aroma of sizzling meat filling the air. He washed down the food with a gulp of apple juice, the sweet, tangy liquid refreshing his parched throat. For a moment, the pain and uncertainty faded into the background, replaced by the simple pleasure of eating. As he continued to eat, Dean felt a sense of normalcy returning. The food nourished not just his body but his spirit, grounding him in the present moment.

"Feeling better?" Balthazar asked, watching Dean with a hint of amusem*nt. Dean nodded, still chewing. He swallowed and took another gulp of juice.

"Yeah, thanks. I didn't realise how hungry I was." Dean leaned back in his seat as the satisfaction of a good meal settled into his bones. He could still taste the crisp bacon, the creamy cheese, and the perfectly cooked egg. The simple pleasure of eating had momentarily lifted the gloom that had settled over him.

"Food has a way of reminding us of what we need," Balthazar had said, his tone almost philosophical. Dean couldn't help but agree. He let out a deep breath, his body feeling more relaxed than it had in weeks. The candlelight flickered, casting a warm, soothing glow over the room. The shadows danced on the stone walls, creating a calming backdrop to his thoughts.

"Thanks for the food," Dean said, his voice a bit steadier now. Balthazar nodded, his expression softening slightly.

"You're welcome, Dean. You needed it." Dean closed his eyes for a moment. The pain had disappeared fully, not even leaving a dull ache in its wake. He knew he had to figure out his next steps, but for now, he allowed himself a moment of respite.

"You mentioned something about the Novaks earlier," Dean said, his eyes still closed. "What's going on with them?" Balthazar sighed, the sound filled with a mix of reluctance and resignation.

"Gabriel is furious, as expected. Castiel... well, he's not taking your departure well." Dean opened his eyes, a pang of guilt hitting him.

"What's he doing?"

"He's determined to find you," Balthazar replied, his gaze steady. "Charlie has been trying to calm him down, but Gabriel is adamant on revenge.” Dean felt a lump form in his throat. He had left to find freedom, to escape the life that felt like a cage. But hearing that Castiel was struggling made him question his decision. He had never wanted to hurt him, to cause him pain. “He misses you, Dean."

"He must hate me," Dean muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. Balthazar shook his head.

"On the contrary. Castiel is worried about you. He's more upset with himself than with you." Dean's mind raced with conflicting emotions. He had left to reclaim his freedom, but in doing so, he had hurt someone who cared deeply for him. The realisation was a bitter pill to swallow.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Balthazar's question cut through Dean's thoughts like a knife. Dean’s defensive instincts flared up.

"What was I supposed to do? Stay there and be miserable?"

"Running away doesn't solve your problems, Dean. It only creates new ones." Balthazar's expression remained calm, but there was a hint of steel in his voice. "Were you miserable though?" Balthazar asked, his voice steady and probing. “In the beginning I can understand but now, after he has broken so many traditions to make you happy? Christmas, New Years–”

"I had no choice.” Dean’s jaw tightened. “I was trapped."

"And Castiel?” Balthazar’s eyes narrowed. “What about him? Do you think he was any less trapped?" Dean felt a surge of anger.

"He has everything he needs!"

"And yet, he was miserable too," Balthazar countered, his tone sharp. "You both were. But he stayed. He tries to make it work." Dean clenched his fists, his anger and guilt warring within him.

"I couldn’t just stay there and pretend everything was fine!"

"No one is asking you to pretend, Dean," Balthazar replied, his voice softening slightly. "But running away without a plan, without understanding what you truly want, isn’t the answer either." Dean looked away, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face.

"You are right," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know what I want."

"You need to figure that out, Dean.” Balthazar sighed, his expression thoughtful. “Not just for yourself, but for Castiel too. He deserves to know what you’re feeling, what you’re going through." Dean took a deep breath, his mind racing. He knew Balthazar was right, but the thought of facing Castiel, of confronting his own feelings, was terrifying.

"I wouldn’t even know where to start."

"Start by being honest with yourself.” Balthazar leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady. “What do you feel for Castiel? What do you want from your life?" Dean closed his eyes, the memories of his time with Castiel flooding his mind. The time spent in the livin room watching TV together, the scent of pine and manuka honey, the way Castiel’s blue eyes could look right through him. He felt a pang of longing, a yearning for something he couldn’t quite define.

"I don’t know if I can do this," Dean whispered, his voice trembling.

"You can," Balthazar replied firmly. "But you have to be willing to face your fears, to confront the parts of yourself you’ve been running from." Dean nodded slowly, the weight of Balthazar’s words settling over him. He knew he had a long road ahead, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope. He had to find a way to reconcile his feelings, to understand what he truly wanted. As he sat there, the candlelight casting a warm glow over the room, Dean felt a sense of determination take root. He would face his fears, confront his feelings, and find a way to navigate the complicated terrain of his heart. He owed it to himself, and to Castiel.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound the soft hum of the heater and the occasional drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the basem*nt. Dean leaned back, closing his eyes as he allowed himself to drift into a fitful sleep, his thoughts filled with the promise of a new beginning.

When he awoke, the room was still dimly lit, the candle now a mere stub casting a faint glow. He stretched his stiff muscles, feeling a sense of clarity that had eluded him for days. Balthazar was seated at the table, his eyes watching Dean with a mix of curiosity and amusem*nt.

"Are you feeling better now, little wolf?" Balthazar asked, his tone light. Dean nodded, his resolve firm.

"Yeah," he said, his voice steady. "I think I am."

"Good.” Balthazar stood, his expression serious. “Because it’s time to think about what you want and how you’re going to get it."

Chapter 34

Chapter Text

It was Sunday morning, and the house was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Castiel lay on Charlie's couch, his body heavy with exhaustion and his mind restless. He had been in this position for hours, unable to find any solace or peace. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the muted glow of the fireplace casting flickering shadows across the walls. Charlie emerged from her bedroom, her hair tousled and her eyes still heavy with sleep. She paused to ruffle Castiel's hair on her way to the kitchen, offering a small, tired smile.

"Morning, Cassie," she said softly. "Are you hungry?" Castiel sat up but didn't move further. He looked at her, his eyes reflecting a mixture of sadness and resignation, and shook his head. Charlie frowned, her concern deepening, but she didn't press the issue. She disappeared into the kitchen, the sounds of her preparing breakfast providing a comforting background noise. A few minutes later, Charlie returned with a steaming mug of tea, which she handed to Castiel before sitting down next to him on the couch. She sipped her own tea, watching him with a mixture of patience and curiosity. "What are you thinking about, Cassie?" she asked gently. Castiel rubbed his eyes, the fatigue and worry evident in his movements.

"I made a..." He paused, the words catching in his throat. He rubbed his eyes harder until shapes began to form on the inside of his eyelids, a technique he often used to ground himself when overwhelmed. "I made a reservation at the bistro Dean used to work at for his birthday before our fight." Charlie raised an eyebrow, a look of understanding dawning in her eyes.

"Oh," she said softly.

"Dean said he liked surprises," Castiel continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "So that's what I wanted to do. I wanted to surprise him for his 25th birthday." Charlie nodded, her expression sympathetic.

"And then he left." Castiel's gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping.

"Yes, and then he left." Charlie placed a comforting hand on his arm.

"There's still time for him to come back, Cassie. It's almost a week until his birthday." Castiel shook his head, his eyes filled with a deep sense of loss.

"I don't think he will."

"You can't know that," Charlie insisted gently.

"Charlie," Castiel said, his voice filled with quiet despair, "I don't think he will." The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and regrets. Castiel's mind was a whirlwind of emotions, each one more intense than the last. He felt trapped in his own thoughts, unable to escape the constant replay of their last argument, the hurt and anger in Dean's eyes.

The forest outside the window was shrouded in the muted light of a January morning. The bare trees stood like silent sentinels against the grey sky, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. Charlie watched him, her heart aching for her friend. She knew that Castiel was struggling, but she also knew that he needed to come to terms with his feelings in his own time. She reached out and gently squeezed his hand, offering silent support.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" Charlie suggested, trying to lift his spirits. "Sometimes a change of scenery helps clear the mind." Castiel shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the floor.

"No, I just... I need to be alone for a bit." Charlie nodded, understanding. She stood up and headed back to the kitchen, giving Castiel the space he needed. The smell of freshly steeped tea wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of the lavender diffuser on the table. Castiel took a deep breath, the familiar aroma providing a small measure of comfort. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the memories of the past few weeks. The quiet mornings in the kitchen, the feel of Dean's hand in his, the warmth of his smile. Each memory was a double-edged sword, bringing both comfort and pain. He missed Dean more than he could express, and the thought of never seeing him again was almost too much to bear.

As the morning light slowly filled the room Charlie returned with two cups of tea. She set them down on the coffee table and sat back down next to Castiel.

"I'm here for you, Cassie," she said softly. "Whatever you need."Castiel nodded, grateful for her presence. He picked up one of the cups, feeling the warmth seep into his hands. He took a sip, the familiar taste grounding him in the present moment.

"I don't know what to do, Charlie," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Start by being honest with yourself," Charlie replied gently. "What do you want, Cassie? What do you feel?" Castiel took a deep breath, his mind racing. He thought about Dean, about the life they had started to build together, and the bond they shared. He knew that he couldn't let go, not yet.

"I want him back," Castiel said, his voice filled with determination. "I want to make things right." Charlie smiled, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Then start with that, Castiel. Take it one step at a time." Charlie placed a comforting hand on Castiel's arm. "Come, let's eat," she urged, her voice gentle yet insistent. Castiel shook his head, drawing his legs up to his chest. The sofa felt both too big and too small at the same time, wrapping around him like a cold embrace. He buried his face in his knees, the smell of the fabric mingling with the faint scent of lavender that lingered in the air. Charlie sighed, her eyes filled with concern. She knelt down in front of him, her expression softening as she looked at her old friend. The sunlight filtering through the curtains highlighted the worry lines on her forehead, casting a gentle glow on her red hair.

"Castiel, if you want Dean back, then you need to consider—"

"I'm not going to punish him," Castiel interrupted, his voice muffled by his knees but resolute. Charlie shook her head.

"That's not what I'm suggesting, Cassie. I think... or rather, I'm suggesting that you and Dean try to talk about your feelings." Castiel raised his head slightly, confusion clouding his blue eyes.

"Feelings?" Charlie nodded, her gaze steady and patient.

"Yes, you say you want him back, but why?" Castiel's mind began to whirl with thoughts of Dean. Dean was strong and capable, someone who had faced many challenges with resilience. He had a way of understanding Castiel, even when Castiel's rigid routines and adherence to order made him seem distant. Dean challenged him, pushed him to see things from different perspectives, and could even put up with Castiel's lifestyle of routine and repetitions. Dean's presence made everything easier to bear, a calming influence amidst the chaos that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him. Lost in these reflections, Castiel felt a swell of emotions he had not allowed himself to fully acknowledge before. Dean's absence had left a void that nothing else could fill, a gaping hole where comfort and companionship once resided. Castiel realized that it wasn't just about wanting Dean back; it was about needing him, needing the stability and the challenge he brought into his life. "Castiel?" Charlie's voice broke through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. He blinked a few times, focusing on her concerned face.

"Yes?"

"Do you know why you want Dean back?" she asked softly, her eyes searching his for understanding. Castiel nodded slowly, feeling the words forming more clearly in his mind.

"Dean… he… when he's around everything feels... right." Charlie smiled, a warm and encouraging expression.

"That's a good start, Cassie. If you can expand on the specifics and share that with Dean, maybe it'll help you both find a way forward." The room was quiet except for the gentle purring of Norma, who had curled up on a nearby chair. Her black fur glistened in the soft light, her gooseberry green eyes half-closed in contentment. The scene was a small bubble of tranquillity amidst the emotional storm. Charlie stood up, extending her hand to Castiel. "Come on, let's at least have some toast. You need to keep your strength up." Reluctantly, Castiel unfolded himself from the couch and took her hand. They walked to the kitchen together, the simple act of moving bringing a small sense of normalcy. The kitchen, with its warm pastel colours and the scent of freshly brewed tea, felt like a safe haven. As they sat down at the small dining table, Charlie poured two cups of tea and handed one to Castiel. The steam rose gently from the mugs, carrying the soothing aroma of chamomile. They ate in silence for a few moments, the clink of cutlery against plates the only sound in the room. After a while, Charlie broke the silence.

"You know, Cassie, sometimes the hardest part is taking the first step." Castiel took a sip of his tea, relishing the warmth that spread through him, easing some of the tension that had settled in his muscles. The chamomile's soothing aroma wrapped around him, offering a small respite from the thoughts that plagued his mind.

"No, that is not the hardest part now." Castiel said quietly, setting his mug down.

"I know." Charlie nodded, her eyes understanding.

"Have you heard anything from Gabriel?" Castiel asked, his voice hesitant.

"Yes,” Charlie nodded again, but her expression grew sombre, “but you won't be much happier."

Instantly Castiel's mind filled with vivid, horrifying images of Dean being hurt, alone in some unknown place. The thought was unbearable, a gnawing fear that twisted his insides. He could almost see Dean's pained expression, hear his voice calling out for help. The vividness of these thoughts made him feel dizzy, the room around him seeming to blur. In his mind's eye, Castiel saw Dean in his human form, strikingly handsome with green eyes that now shimmered with pain and fear. His sand-coloured hair, usually so well-kept, was matted with blood, sticking to his forehead and temples. Freckles, normally scattered charmingly across his face, were now obscured by cuts and bruises. Castiel saw Dean's powerful body, now emaciated and covered in dirt and grime. His once broad shoulders slumped, his arms hanging limply at his sides, every movement betraying the agony he was in. Castiel could almost see the deep gashes on Dean's chest, the blood oozing slowly, staining his torn clothing. His hands, which had always been so skilled in the kitchen, were now broken and twisted, nails chipped and bloody. Then the vision shifted, and Castiel saw Dean in his wolf form. Dean was a powerful statue with a thick coat of russet that glimmered gold under the sun, now matted and dull. The fur, once thick and lustrous, was tangled and caked with mud and blood. Castiel saw Dean's wolf body limping, one leg dragging uselessly behind him, leaving a trail of blood in the snow. Deep gashes marred his sides, the wounds raw and festering, each step sending waves of pain through his body. His eyes, once vibrant and full of life, were now clouded with pain and exhaustion, a low whine escaping his muzzle as he tried to find shelter.

The images grew more intense, more graphic, as Castiel's mind conjured every possible scenario. He saw Dean trapped in a hunter's snare, the wire cutting deep into his leg, the flesh torn and bleeding. Dean's struggles only made it worse, the wire biting deeper, the pain evident in every movement. Castiel could almost hear Dean's growls of agony, the desperate whimpers as he tried to free himself. In another vision, Castiel saw Dean caught in a fight with another wolf, undeniably part of the Novak pack, his powerful body being thrown to the ground, teeth sinking into his flesh. The snarls and growls of the fight echoed in Castiel's mind, the sounds of flesh tearing and bones snapping making him wince. Dean's russet fur was streaked with blood, the metallic scent filling the air as he fought for his life, his strength waning with each passing moment.

The images continued to assault Castiel's senses, each one more horrifying than the last. He saw Dean in the grip of a fever, his body wracked with shivers, the heat of the illness burning through him. In his human form, Dean's green eyes were glazed with pain, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His skin, usually smooth and healthy, was pale and clammy, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to stay conscious. In his wolf form, the fever was even more evident. Dean's thick coat was matted with sweat, his body trembling uncontrollably. His eyes, now wild with fever, darted around, searching for something, anything, to alleviate the burning pain. Castiel could almost hear Dean's whimpers, the sound a heartbreaking reminder of his suffering.

"Cassie, did you hear what I just said?" Charlie's voice broke through his thoughts, grounding him back to the present. Castiel blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He nodded slowly, though he wasn't entirely sure what Charlie had said. "Do you want to repeat it?" Charlie's gaze was steady, urging him to focus. Castiel looked down at his breakfast, the toast half-eaten on his plate. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

"No, I... I don't remember." Charlie sighed softly, but there was no frustration in her eyes, only patience.

"What I said was they haven’t found him. His trace just stopped out of nowhere."

"So, he is gone," Castiel murmured, the realisation settling over him like a suffocating blanket. The idea of Dean vanishing without a trace filled him with a sense of helplessness that he struggled to push away. Norma jumped up onto the table, her green eyes blinking slowly as she observed Castiel. She rubbed her head against his hand, her soft fur a small comfort amidst the storm of his thoughts. Castiel absentmindedly scratched behind her ears, finding some solace in the simple act. The kitchen felt too quiet, the usual hum of daily life replaced by the silence of uncertainty. Outside, the January morning was cold and grey, the sky a dull expanse that mirrored Castiel's mood. The bare trees swayed gently in the wind, their branches creaking and groaning. Charlie reached across the table, placing a comforting hand on Castiel's arm.

"Castiel, we don't know what happened to him. He might still be out there, trying to find his way back."

“No,” Castiel shook his head slowly. "I should have known better. I should have understood what he needed."

"You couldn't have known," Charlie said softly. "Dean is strong, and he has a way of finding his own path. But you need to focus on what you can do now. You can't change the past, but you can try to make things right moving forward." Castiel's thoughts returned to the reservation he had made at the bistro for Dean's birthday. It had been a small gesture, an attempt to show Dean that he cared, that he understood his need for surprises and spontaneity. But now, it felt like a futile effort, a reminder of what he had lost.

"I wanted to surprise him for his birthday," Castiel said quietly. "I wanted to show him that I care."

"And you still can," Charlie replied. Castiel sighed, a sound heavy with resignation.

"Not if he’s gone," he whispered, his voice barely audible. The words hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the uncertainty that loomed over him.

"I'm sorry, Cassie," Charlie said, her voice filled with empathy. Castiel looked down at the table, his eyes tracing the wood grain as if seeking answers there.

"Why wouldn't he tell me what was wrong?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and frustration. Charlie hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

"Maybe, Cassie, it's because you are what’s wrong," she said softly. Castiel furrowed his brow, casting his gaze down even further. He pouted slightly, a familiar expression that Charlie recognised immediately. "Have you two ever talked about how it felt to be pushed into this situation you’re in?" Charlie asked gently. "It might help if you know what the other one feels."

"He likes to yell about it when we fight," Castiel admitted, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

"Well," Charlie sighed, running a hand over her face, "that is a start, I guess." The room seemed to close in around them, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Norma, sensing the tension, jumped up onto Castiel’s lap, purring softly. Her black fur was warm and comforting, and Castiel absentmindedly stroked her, finding a small measure of solace in her presence.

"Maybe," Castiel began slowly, his voice tinged with a newfound clarity. "But something is off." Charlie looked at him, her brow furrowing.

"What do you mean?"

"Scents don’t just disappear,” Castiel continued, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “You know that. Everyone knows that. They overlap. Dean’s scent shouldn’t have just vanished." Charlie’s expression grew more concerned.

"What are you getting at, Castiel?"

"When I called Balthazar last week," Castiel said, his mind racing, "he was angry that it was early. But it wouldn’t have been early for him if he had been back in Paris as he claimed." Charlie’s face betrayed a flash of guilt, and she hesitated before speaking.

"Castiel, don’t be angry."

"Why would I be angry?" Castiel asked, his voice sharp and demanding. Charlie took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"Last week, Balthazar came to the restaurant with a woman who, by her scent, I assume was also a witch. Balthazar took Dean outside for a few minutes. He asked me not to tell you he was still in town." Castiel felt his throat constrict, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He swallowed hard, the sensation like a stone lodged in his throat. A single tear traced a path down his cheek, a silent testament to the betrayal he felt.

"You lied to me," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "You." Charlie reached out, her eyes filled with regret.

"I—"

"No," Castiel interrupted, his voice firm and unyielding. The room seemed to close in around them, the air thick with tension. Norma, sensing the shift in mood, rubbed against Castiel’s arm, her purring a faint, comforting sound. Castiel felt the soft fur under his fingers, but it did little to ease the turmoil within him. Charlie’s face was a picture of anguish, her eyes pleading for understanding.

"Castiel, I was only trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" Castiel repeated, his voice rising. "By lying to me?"

"I didn’t want to upset you," Charlie said, her voice trembling. "I thought it was for the best."

"I trusted you, Charlie.” Castiel shook his head, disbelief and anger mingling in his eyes. “After Balthazar left you were the one person I thought I could rely on."

"I thought I was doing the right thing." Castiel stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. He paced the room, his thoughts a chaotic whirl. He felt betrayed, not just by Balthazar, but by Charlie as well. Norma followed him, her small paws pattering softly on the floor. She meowed plaintively, her green eyes watching him with concern. Castiel scooped her up, holding her close as if seeking solace in her warmth. Castiel‘s breath came in shallow bursts as the realisation of Charlie’s betrayal sank in deeper. He clutched Norma tighter, the kitten’s soft purring a small comfort amidst the chaos swirling in his mind. The room felt oppressive, the air thick with unspoken words and lingering tension.

"Let’s go home, Norma," Castiel said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Charlie’s eyes widened with concern.

"Castiel, at least let me drive you," she urged, her voice filled with a mixture of guilt and worry.

"No," Castiel replied firmly, his gaze fixed on the floor. Charlie took a deep breath, her expression pleading.

"Please, Castiel. It’s cold, and it’s a long walk."

"No." Castiel shook his head, his resolve unwavering.

"I—" Charlie began, but Castiel cut her off with a sharp look.

"No," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Castiel carefully picked up a blanket from the couch, wrapping it as best he could around Norma while holding her close. The kitten snuggled into the warmth, her green eyes peering up at him with a trusting innocence that made his heart ache. With a final glance at Charlie, Castiel turned and walked out the door. The cold January air hit him like a wall, biting at his skin and making his breath visible in the frosty air. He tightened his grip on Norma, ensuring she was snug and protected from the chill. He started his journey through the forest, each step taking him further from the warmth of Charlie’s cottage and deeper into the embrace of the winter landscape.

The forest was a labyrinth of bare trees, their skeletal branches reaching up to the grey sky like twisted fingers. The ground was covered in a thin layer of snow, crunching softly under Castiel’s boots as he walked. The silence of the forest was broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird. The path ahead was winding and uneven, but Castiel moved with a determined stride, his mind focused on getting home. The cold seeped through his clothes, chilling him to the bone, but he pressed on. His breath formed small clouds of vapour in the air, dissipating quickly in the crisp winter morning. The forest seemed to close in around him, the tall trees creating a canopy that blocked out most of the light. Shadows danced on the snow-covered ground, shifting and changing with each step he took. As he walked, Castiel’s thoughts drifted to Dean. He remembered the warmth of Dean’s smile, the way his presence had filled the emptiness in Castiel’s heart. The thought of never seeing him again was almost too much to bear, a gnawing fear that settled deep in his chest. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath his boots and the comforting weight of Norma in his arms.

The journey through the forest was long and arduous, the cold and the terrain taking their toll on Castiel’s body. His muscles ached, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but he didn’t slow his pace. The familiar landmarks of the Novak territory gradually came into view, giving him a renewed sense of purpose. The sight of his home, nestled at the end of the half-circle of family houses, filled him with a bittersweet sense of relief. The house stood cold and silent, as he reached the front door, his fingers numb as he fumbled with the key. Castiel stepped inside his house, the familiar scents of cedar and cinnamon —Dean’s scent— enveloping him immediately. The intensity of it almost brought him to his knees, a poignant reminder of what he had lost. Norma meowed softly, her small voice echoing in the silence.

He closed the door behind him, the click of the lock sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. With Norma still cradled in his arms, Castiel made his way up the stairs. Each step felt like a monumental effort, the emotional weight pressing down on him. When he reached the top, he gently set Norma down, watching as she stretched and yawned. The library was dim, the shadows lengthening as the afternoon light faded. Castiel knelt by the fireplace, his hands trembling as he struggled to light the kindling. The small sparks finally caught, the flames flickering and growing until they cast a warm, golden glow over the room. Norma cozied up in front of the fire, her black fur gleaming in the light. Castiel watched her for a moment, his heart heavy with guilt and regret.

"I am so sorry, Norma," he whispered, his voice filled with sorrow. The kitten blinked at him, her green eyes reflecting the firelight as if offering silent forgiveness. He lay down on the floor next to her, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the cold that had settled in his bones, but it provided a small measure of comfort. Castiel reached out and stroked Norma's fur, her purring a gentle, soothing sound amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

The hours passed slowly. Castiel laid there, lost in his own mind, the memories of Dean and their time together playing over and over like a broken record. He remembered the quiet mornings in the kitchen, the way Dean would smile at him, the touch of his hand. Each memory was a stab to the heart, a reminder of what he had pushed away.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth spreading through the room. Norma's purring continued, a steady rhythm that was both comforting and isolating. Castiel's thoughts swirled in a maelstrom of confusion and pain. He felt the tears welling up, hot and unrelenting, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. They streamed down his face, mingling with the warmth of the fire. Castiel's breathing grew shallow and erratic. He felt his chest tightening, the panic setting in as his mind raced uncontrollably. The walls seemed to close in around him, the room spinning. He clutched at the carpet, his fingers digging into the fibres as if trying to anchor himself to something solid. The overwhelming tide of emotions threatened to pull him under, and he felt like he was drowning in his own thoughts.

The images of Dean's face, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch—all of it became too much. Castiel's vision blurred, the flames before him turning into a distorted dance of light and shadow. He could feel his pulse quicken, the thudding of his heart loud in his ears. The room felt both too large and too small, and he couldn't find a way to make it stop. His body trembled uncontrollably, the tears now flowing freely. Castiel gasped for breath, each inhale feeling like it wasn't enough, as if the air itself was too thin. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold himself together as his mind fragmented into a thousand pieces. The feeling of helplessness washed over him, and he wished for anything, anyone, to make it stop. Norma moved closer, her warmth a small comfort in the sea of his despair. Her purring grew louder, a steady sound that seemed to cut through the noise in his mind. Castiel focused on it, trying to latch onto that small, steady rhythm to bring himself back. The purring was a lifeline, a beacon of normalcy in the chaos that surrounded him.

Gradually, his breathing began to slow, the panic ebbing away like a receding tide. The room stopped spinning, the flames coming back into focus. Castiel lay there, exhausted and drained, his body still trembling slightly. He closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of the fire and the sound of Norma's purring to lull him into a fitful sleep. In the dim light of the library, Castiel's mind quieted. The turmoil of his thoughts subsided into a dull ache, the memories of Dean now a bittersweet presence rather than a sharp pain. He knew the road ahead would be difficult, but for the first time, he felt a small glimmer of hope. He had to find a way to make things right, to bring Dean back and rebuild what they had lost. For now, though, he allowed himself to rest, the warmth of the fire and Norma's steady purring a small comfort in the darkness.

Castiel woke early in the morning, the room still shrouded in the soft darkness of pre-dawn. The fire had long since died, and Norma had moved to the couch, her tiny body curled into a ball, sleeping deeply. He reached out to pet her, his fingers brushing through her fur, but she didn’t even stir.

He knew he shouldn’t, but the urge was too strong to resist. Crossing the floor quietly, Castiel stood in front of Dean’s bedroom—his old art studio. The door loomed before him, a silent sentinel guarding the memories within. He swallowed hard, knowing he would much rather have Dean back than reclaim the room for his art. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, the air cold and still. With a sense of trepidation, he pushed down the handle and opened the door. Stepping inside, he opened his eyes to find the room in disarray. It looked like someone had left in a hurry, and he realised that’s exactly what Dean must have done. Castiel turned away, the sight too painful to bear, and left the room. He descended the stairs, each step echoing in the silent house, and made his way to his bedroom on the first floor.

Standing in the centre of his cluttered room, his breathing grew shallow and erratic. The events of the past few days weighed on him, a storm brewing behind his eyes. He started to pace, his movements growing more frantic with each step.

"I can't… I can't…" he whispered, his voice trembling as Castiel clenched his fists. "Can't… can't… can't… I… can't…" Suddenly, he exploded. His hand lashed out, knocking over a stack of books. They scattered across the floor, pages fluttering like wounded birds. "No! No! No!" Castiel yelled, his voice filled with anguish. He grabbed a lamp from the table and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces of glass raining down. Castiel's breaths were ragged, his face a mask of pain and frustration. He continued his rampage, sweeping everything off his desk in one furious motion. Papers, books, sketches, and a photograph of Dean crashed to the floor. Castiel's fury was unrelenting, each act of destruction a desperate attempt to externalise the chaos within. His energy eventually waned, and he collapsed to his knees amidst the wreckage, hands clutching his head, tears streaming down his face. Broken and exhausted, he whispered, "Why can't I just be normal?" The room was a mess of broken items and scattered memories, a sharp contrast to the silence that now filled the space. Castiel's sobs echoed in the stillness, a haunting reminder of his inner struggle.

When Castiel opened his eyes, his gaze caught onto the photograph of Dean that Gabriel had given him before they met. With trembling hands, he picked it up, tracing the contours of Dean's face with his fingers. The photograph was a small, precious fragment of what he had lost, a reminder of the connection that had once seemed so unbreakable. As he sat amidst the ruins of his room, Castiel felt the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. The photograph in his hand was a lifeline, a tangible link to the person he had come to care for so deeply. The room around Castiel seemed to blur, the intensity of his thoughts making it difficult to focus. His heart raced, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as he was overwhelmed by the vividness of his fears. He clutched the photograph of Dean tighter, his knuckles white with the effort, as if the image of Dean's smiling face could somehow protect him from the horrors his mind was conjuring. The fear, the desperation, the overwhelming need to find Dean and bring him back to safety consumed Castiel. The images of Dean, both in human and wolf form, being hurt and alone in some unknown place were too much to bear. He closed his eyes, willing the visions to stop, but they only grew more intense, each one a stark reminder of the reality he might have to face. He closed his eyes, holding the photograph close to his heart, and allowed himself to feel the full extent of his grief and longing. The dawn’s light slowly crept into the room, casting a gentle glow over the chaos. Castiel remained where he was, a figure of quiet desolation amidst the wreckage, holding onto the hope that somehow, some way, he could find a way to make things right.

Chapter 35

Chapter Text

Monday morning dawned cold and still in the dimly lit basem*nt. Dean and Balthazar had just finished breakfast, and the remnants of their meal sat on the small table, crumbs and a half-empty glass of juice the only evidence of their earlier activity. The air was thick with the aroma of coffee, mingling with the faint scent of damp stone. They were now seated across from each other at the worn wooden table, playing a game of Go Fish. The cards in their hands rustled softly as they played, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Balthazar glanced up from his cards, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"What is the greatest accomplishment of your life, Dean?" he asked, his tone casual but with an underlying hint of curiosity. Dean narrowed his eyes, pretty sure Balthazar was baiting him to say escaping from the Novaks. He smirked slightly and replied.

"I learned how to make macaroons." Balthazar raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed.

"Ooh, that is very impressive Dean. Original Italian ones or...?"

"Yes, the original Italian ones. They're a bit tricky, but I got the hang of it." Balthazar leaned forward, his interest piqued.

"Do tell. How do you make them?"

"Well, it's not too complicated.” Dean smiled, feeling a rare sense of pride. “You need a cup of ground almonds and a cup of sugar. In a separate bowl, you whip two egg whites until they're frothy but not stiff. Then you fold the egg whites into the almond and sugar mixture until it's well combined. The mixture should be thick and sticky. Using a spoon, you drop small mounds of the mixture onto a parchment-lined baking sheet, spacing them about two inches apart. Then you bake them in a preheated oven at 160 degrees Celsius for about 15-20 minutes until they're lightly golden on the outside but still chewy inside. After baking, let them cool on the baking sheet for a few minutes before transferring them to a wire rack to cool completely." Balthazar clapped his hands together softly.

"Very good, Dean, you know that they didn't originally have filling."

"Yes. I actually do know how to cook, you know."

"It seems that way, yes, but one can never be sure," Balthazar replied with a small smile. "Especially when the chef is one who has claimed not to like their key ingredient." Dean pushed his empty plate towards Balthazar.

"How much longer do I have to stay in this basem*nt, Balthazar?" Balthazar avoided the question by glancing at his cards.

"Do you have any kings?" he asked, his tone light and conversational. Dean frowned, his patience wearing thin.

"How long?" Balthazar sighed, finally meeting Dean's gaze.

"That is not up for me to decide. I am merely keeping you safe until you have figured out what to do. Any kings?" Dean reluctantly handed over a king, his frustration evident.

"So, you're just going to keep me here indefinitely?" Balthazar took the card and added it to his hand, his expression thoughtful.

"Think of it as a time for reflection, Dean. You need to decide what you truly want." Dean's mind drifted as he considered Balthazar's words. He knew he couldn't stay hidden away forever, but the idea of returning to the Novaks filled him with dread. The thought of Castiel, his piercing blue eyes, made his chest ache with a confusing mix of longing and fear. The basem*nt was a cold, unwelcoming place, with its stone walls and sparse furnishings. The small window high on the wall allowed only a sliver of grey daylight to filter in, casting long shadows that danced across the floor. The flickering candle on the table provided a feeble warmth, barely enough to ward off the chill.

"Got any eights?" Dean asked, trying to distract himself from his spiralling thoughts. Balthazar handed over a card, his expression unreadable.

"What's really bothering you, Dean?"

"I just…” Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don't know what to do. I can't go back, but I can't stay here forever either." Balthazar nodded, his gaze steady.

"You need to figure out what you want, Dean. Not just for yourself, but for Castiel too." Dean looked away, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. He thought about the life he had left behind, the quiet mornings in the kitchen, the tentative bond he had started to form with Castiel. Despite only a few days having passed it all seemed so distant now, like a dream he could barely remember.

"Do you have any sevens?" Balthazar asked, breaking the silence. Dean handed over the card, his mind still racing.

"What if I don't know what I want?"

"Then you need to take the time to figure it out," Balthazar replied, his tone gentle but firm. "No one can make that decision for you." Dean nodded slowly, his resolve hardening. He knew he couldn't hide away forever. He had to confront his feelings, face the future, and decide what he truly wanted from his life. It wouldn't be easy, but he couldn't keep running. As the game continued, Dean felt a sense of determination growing within him. He studied his cards, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You don't think of Castiel as just some werewolf, do you?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. Balthazar glanced up, his expression unreadable.

"Do you have any twos?"

"Go fish," Dean replied, a hint of defiance in his tone. "And, Balthazar? See if you can maybe find the answer to my question there too." Balthazar sighed, drawing a card from the pile.

"What does it matter to you?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. Dean shifted in his seat, his thoughts racing.

"Do you have any jacks?"

"Knave," Balthazar corrected, handing over two cards. Dean looked puzzled.

"What?"

"That's another name for the jack." Balthazar shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. Dean took the cards, his mind drifting to the looming date of his 25th birthday was just days away, and the thought of spending it in this unfamiliar basem*nt filled him with a sense of dread. He couldn't imagine much worse than marking such a milestone in this place, far from the life he had known, with only Balthazar for company. The game continued in silence for a few moments, the sound of cards shuffling and the occasional muttered request breaking the stillness. Dean's thoughts wandered back to Castiel, to the complicated feelings that had driven him to flee. He remembered the way Castiel's blue eyes could seem both distant and intensely focused, the mixture of strength and vulnerability that defined him. "Do you have any sevens?" Balthazar asked, his voice breaking into Dean's reverie. Dean handed over a card, his mind still on Castiel.

"You didn't answer my question." Balthazar narrowed his eyes.

"Which one?"

"About Castiel," Dean said, his tone insistent. "You don't think of him as just some werewolf, do you?" Balthazar leaned back in his chair, studying Dean with a thoughtful expression.

"Castiel is... unique," he said slowly. "He's more than just a werewolf. He's got a depth to him, a complexity that most people never see." Dean nodded, feeling a pang of guilt for leaving Castiel behind.

"He tries so hard to keep everything together," he said softly. "But sometimes, I think he forgets to take care of himself." Balthazar looked at Dean, his gaze penetrating.

"Is that so? Why did you leave then?"

“I… ” Dean sighed, the question bringing a rush of conflicting emotions. "I felt trapped," he admitted. "Like I didn't have a choice but to leave. And I thought leaving would give me some clarity, help me figure out what I really want."

"Has it?" Balthazar asked, his tone gentle but probing.

"I'm not sure.” Dean shook his head. “I thought being away would make things clearer, but it's only made me realise how much I miss... certain things." Balthazar nodded, his expression understanding.

"Sometimes, it's only when we step away that we see what truly matters." Dean looked at the cards in his hand, his thoughts a jumble of regret and uncertainty. The game continued, each card drawn and played a small step in the unfolding of their conversation.

"Do you have any threes?" Dean asked, trying to focus on the game. Balthazar handed over a card, his gaze never leaving Dean's face.

"You know, Dean, running away is never the answer. Facing your fears, confronting your feelings—that's where true strength lies." Dean nodded slowly, the truth of Balthazar's words sinking in. He knew he couldn't hide away forever, that he had to face the complicated emotions he felt for Castiel and the life he had left behind. But then Dean realised something.

"You ran too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you have any queens?" Balthazar asked, avoiding Dean's gaze. Dean shook his head, frustration mounting.

"You know, you could answer."

"Again, Dean,” Balthazar sighed, setting his cards down, “what does it matter to you?" Dean's eyes narrowed.

"You see him as your child, don't you?" Balthazar's gaze bore into Dean's, and in a matter of seconds, the entire deck of cards burst into flames. Dean dropped his cards, staring in shock. "What the hell?" The fire consumed the cards quickly, the sudden heat and light casting an eerie glow on Balthazar's face. Balthazar shrugged, the fire extinguishing as suddenly as it had appeared. Dean leaned back in his chair, the game of Go Fish momentarily forgotten. The flames that had consumed the cards were still fresh in his mind, an unsettling reminder of Balthazar's capabilities. The basem*nt was cold, the stone walls leeching the warmth from the room. The silence stretched on until Balthazar finally spoke.

"No, Dean, I did not run. I left." Dean wanted to ask a hundred questions all at once but decided to stay quiet for now. Balthazar's eyes graced over him as if he suspected Dean to ask something. Balthazar sighed and said, "I don't have children, Dean. Never have had. I have friends... acquaintances who did. And I cannot possibly imagine a feeling that is worse than outliving your own child." Balthazar looked at Dean and answered the question that was screaming in Dean's mind. "Hunters, mostly."

"But you do see him as your child, don't you?" Dean asked, unable to hold it back any longer. Balthazar exhaled slowly and looked away. "And that's why you're doing this, isn't it? That's why you're helping me?” Dean continued. "You want him to be happy."

"Of course I want him to be happy." Balthazar hissed.

"Why?"

"Because he was always a burden, the spare, the one no one saw potential in—" Balthazar's eyes darkened as he spoke.

"No one but you," Dean interrupted. Balthazar's gaze softened slightly.

"I guess."

"What about Charles?" Dean pressed only to see Balthazar's expression harden

"Dean, Charles did not want Castiel. He was perfectly content with just having Gabriel. And then Castiel turned out too much like his mother. Gabriel had the potential, Gabriel had the birthright. Gabriel was the golden child."

"Castiel seems to realise that Charles wasn't a good man."

"Castiel is not stupid, Dean."

“Hey, hey.” Dean raised his hands in surrender. "I implied no such thing."

"Charles…” Balthazar's voice grew distant as he spoke, “... didn't like it when Castiel cried, so he tried to make it so Castiel wouldn't, by letting the animals be split up, by allowing his more special behaviour, by making him not fight. But Charles could be cruel too, very cruel. And when he was angry with him he would not call Castiel by his name but 'Cas' and proclaim before the whole pack that Castiel would have to work —hard— to prove himself worthy of regaining the full name." Dean's eyes widened.

"So that is why—"

"Yes, Dean, that is why," Balthazar cut him off. "But I imagine that you using 'Cas' so often might have softened it. Hopefully. " Dean fell silent, his mind racing with the new revelations. He couldn't help but feel a deep sense of regret for the pain Castiel had endured. The silence stretched on. Dean realised there must be a reason why Balthazar was telling him this.

"You need something from me, don't you? That is why you are telling me this." Balthazar sighed and looked away.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Originally, I thought the whole marriage thing was the worst idea Gabriel has ever come up with." Dean gave Balthazar a look. "Honestly Dean, you don’t exactly have the cleanest track record, as a wolf nor human."

"So a couple of DUIs is all that—"

"But then I met you.” Balthazar interrupted, “You did what you wanted even if you knew you weren't supposed to, but you also did things for him without even seemingly liking him the slightest."

"Are you calling me a pushover?" Dean asked narrowing his eyes.

"Not at all."

"What then?"

"Adaptable, and strong-headed— slightly co*cksure— but you do things. You don't just sit back, do you?"

"Are you calling me a man of action?"

"Yes. And I need my 'man of action' for my plan to work."

"Am I just some puppet to—"

"No, Dean,” Balthazar cut him off, “but you are the key. You were an outsider and you survived for three months, well almost. You are the key to getting Castiel out."

"Great, so I am not a puppet, I am your pawn." Balthazar shook his head.

"No, Dean, you are the straight man."

"Why me?” Dean looked at Balthazar, feeling a mix of anger and confusion. “Why now?"

"Because, Dean, you have the strength and the determination to make things happen. You care about Castiel, even if you don't fully realise to what extent yet. That makes you the perfect person to help him. " Balthazar sighed. “And, Dean, you are the only one who can ever do it.” Balthazar’s words echoed in the silent basem*nt.

"You left because you couldn't continue to see him living like that," Dean said after a while, breaking the silence. His voice was low, filled with understanding. It wasn’t a question. Balthazar met his gaze, his eyes reflecting a mix of sorrow and resolve.

"Yes," he admitted, the word hanging heavy in the air between them. Dean nodded, absorbing the weight of Balthazar's confession.

"Do you really think this could work?" he asked, his tone sceptical but laced with a flicker of hope. Balthazar leaned forward, his expression serious.

"I think you are reckless enough to try." Dean gave Balthazar a look, half-amused, half-irritated. "I mean, you are here, aren’t you?" Balthazar continued. "You already left once."

"But I have to go back." Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Yes," Balthazar agreed. "You have to return." Dean hesitated, the thought of facing Castiel again filling him with a mix of anticipation and dread.

"You're certain Gabriel won’t, you know, kill me?"

"Not at all," Balthazar replied, shaking his head slightly with a small smile.

"Thanks," Dean muttered sarcastically.

"But even bad dogs get forgiven, right?" Balthazar added, his tone light but his eyes serious. Dean frowned.

"Do you have to keep calling me wolf and dog?"

"Yes," Balthazar said simply.

"I’m pretty sure you don’t have to, but okay." Dean muttered under his breath. Balthazar leaned back, his gaze piercing.

"I will stop if you go along with my plan."

"Great." Dean sighed, the reality of his situation pressing down on him.

"Dean, you don't have anything to lose.” Balthazar's expression softened slightly. “Either you leave here and go on the run from the Novak pack, or you help me get Castiel out. No, Dean, you cannot return home. You doomed your old pack when you left the Novak territory. If they aren’t dead already, either they will be soon or they will probably see you as the reason why so many of them died." Dean stared at Balthazar, the truth of his words sinking in. His old life was gone, and there was no going back. He swallowed hard, feeling a mix of fear and determination.

"Okay," he said finally. "So how do we do this?"

"First, we need to plan your approach.” Balthazar leaned in, his eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and resolve. “You need to convince Castiel to leave, to see that he has that choice." Dean nodded, his mind racing with possibilities.

"And if he doesn’t want to leave?" Balthazar's expression hardened.

"Then you make him see that staying is not an option." Dean looked away, his thoughts drifting to Castiel. The idea of convincing him to leave, of facing him again after everything that had happened, was daunting. But he knew Balthazar was right. There was no other way forward.

"It's Monday, January twentieth," Dean said quietly, almost to himself. "My birthday is in four days."

"I know." Dean forced a smile.

"I can't imagine much worse than spending my 25th birthday in an unknown basem*nt with you."

"Well,” Balthazar chuckled softly, “consider this your motivation to get things moving then."

Chapter 36

Chapter Text

Castiel had spent Monday and Tuesday attempting to maintain his old routines. Taking care of the animals in the barn was the only thing that seemed to keep his mind from spiralling into despair. He couldn’t afford to think too much; the pain was too great. At night, he and Norma had slept in the library, the only place where he could pretend, even for a moment, that Dean might still come back.

It was Wednesday afternoon now, and Castiel found himself in the kitchen, preparing a meal. He had placed a bowl of pasta in the microwave, watching it rotate slowly. Norma, ever curious, sat on the counter with her head tilted, watching the microwave with wide eyes.

"Promise, Norma, you can do it like this," Castiel murmured, his voice soft but certain. "Used to cook almost everything in the microwave before... actually, you can cook almost anything in the microwave. It’s less clean up than using the stove or oven." He felt a pang of sadness as he spoke. Balthazar had lied. Charlie had lied. Dean had left. Gabriel was angry. Castiel tried to push these thoughts aside and focus on Norma. She hadn’t left him. She was the only one he could trust. The microwave dinged, jolting Castiel from his thoughts. He opened the door and carefully retrieved the warm bowl, savouring the slight burn on his fingers as he drained the remaining water. It was a small reminder that he was still alive, still capable of feeling something.

He sat at the table, eating the pasta plain. There was no point in making a sauce or having a drink. No one was eating with him. There were no expectations anymore. He ate about half of the food and then put the rest in the refrigerator, just like he used to do before Dean came into his life. There was no one to care if he had half-eaten food in the refrigerator now. No one to remind him it was disgusting when it started to mould, though Castiel would never eat mouldy food; he just forgot it was there sometimes.

Stepping outside, Castiel went to feed the lambs. The cold January air nipped at his skin, but he welcomed it. The farm seemed unusually quiet. His house stood isolated, reflecting his current state of mind. The two-story house held too many memories, each room a painful reminder of what he had lost. The lambs had grown healthy and strong, a small success in an otherwise bleak existence. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Gabriel was only letting them live out of pity for him. Castiel moved with deliberate care, ensuring each lamb received its share of food. As he worked, his thoughts wandered back to the events of the past few days. He tried to block out the betrayal he felt from Charlie and Balthazar, focusing instead on the routine tasks that grounded him. The barn was a place of solace, where the rhythmic sound of the animals eating provided a sense of normalcy. Castiel finished feeding the lambs and returned to the house, his steps slow and deliberate.

Inside, the house felt too quiet, the silence amplifying his loneliness. But at least Norma followed him everywhere, her small presence a comforting constant. She weaved around his legs, purring softly as if to remind him he wasn’t completely alone. He sank into a chair in the library, staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace. The warmth was welcome, but it did little to chase away the cold that had settled deep inside him. He picked up a book, trying to distract himself, but the words blurred together, meaningless. Norma jumped into his lap, curling up and purring contentedly. Castiel stroked her fur, the simple act of caring for her providing a small measure of comfort. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into a fitful sleep, the fire's warmth and Norma’s purring the only anchors in a world that seemed to be falling apart.

Castiel woke up about an hour later to the sound of Norma still purring. He felt a small smile tug at his lips as he gently lifted her from his lap and set her back in the chair. The fire had dimmed to a soft glow, casting flickering shadows around the room. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from the awkward sleeping position. Norma mewed softly as he left the library. In the hallway as he was about to step outside his eyes fell on the handmade scarf he had given Dean for Christmas, hanging from a hook. It had intricate patterns in deep earthy tones. The sight of it brought a lump to his throat, but he swallowed hard and pulled on his trench coat. The familiar weight of it settled around his shoulders, offering a small measure of comfort.

Stepping outside, Castiel was greeted by the brisk January air. The sky was a dull grey, heavy with the promise of snow. His eyes landed on the replacement vehicle Gabriel had procured: a brown and tan 1987 Ford F-Series pickup truck. The old truck had a sturdy, weathered look, with patches of rust around the edges and a few dents that spoke of a long life of hard work. The paint was faded, but the vehicle seemed well-maintained, a testament to Gabriel’s meticulous care. Castiel didn’t like it as much as his old car. The sleek lines and smooth ride of his previous vehicle were a stark contrast to the rugged, utilitarian appearance of the truck. He hadn’t tried driving it yet; the thought of going anywhere beyond the barn and back felt overwhelming. He turned away from the truck and made his way to the barn. The air was crisp and cold, each breath creating a small cloud of mist. The ground crunched under his boots, the frost giving way beneath his steps. The barn door creaked as he pushed it open, the familiar scent of hay and animals greeting him. Inside, the lambs bleated softly, their small bodies huddled together for warmth. Castiel moved methodically, fed them, and then checked the other animals filling their troughs with grain and checking their water supply. He watched them eat, their small mouths working quickly to devour the food. Both lamb had grown strong and healthy, a small victory in the midst of his grief.

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wooden wall of the barn. The rough texture of the wood pressed into his back, grounding him in the present moment. The rhythmic sound of the lambs eating was a comforting background noise, a reminder that life continued, even in the face of loss. As he stood there, his thoughts wandered back to Dean. He remembered the way Dean used to help him in the barn, their hands brushing against each other as they worked side by side. The memory was bittersweet, a reminder of what he had lost.

After a while, Castiel felt his eyes growing heavy. The emotional toll of the past few days, combined with the physical labour, had left him exhausted. He sank to the ground, resting his head against the wall. The warmth of the barn and the soothing sound of the animals lulled him into a light sleep.

Castiel woke to the sound of the barn door creaking open. The unexpected noise jolted him awake, and he scrambled to his feet, thinking it must be Gabriel coming to scold him about falling asleep in the barn again. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, and turned to face the door. When he looked up, he met green eyes. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to stop as he stood frozen, staring at Dean. His mind raced, unable to process what he was seeing. Was this real? Could it be? Dean looked different, yet heartbreakingly familiar. His hair was messier than usual, his face more lined with worry and fatigue, but his eyes – those striking green eyes – were unmistakable. They held a depth of emotion that mirrored Castiel's own. Castiel wanted to speak, to call out Dean's name, but his voice failed him. He took a tentative step forward, but his legs felt weak, unsteady. The overwhelming rush of relief, disbelief, and a surge of longing all at once was too much to bear. Tears welled up in Castiel’s eyes, blurring his vision. His chest tightened, and he felt a sob rising, threatening to break free. He tried to swallow it down, to hold himself together, but it was futile. The dam burst, and a torrent of tears streamed down his cheeks. Dean took a step closer, his eyes never leaving Castiel's. His expression was a mix of regret and hope, as if he were afraid that Castiel might vanish if he blinked. He reached out a hand, tentative, hesitant, as if unsure if he was allowed to touch. The sight of Dean’s outstretched hand, so close yet so achingly far, sent Castiel over the edge. He collapsed to his knees, the weight of the past says too much to bear. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, his body trembling as he buried his face in his hands. The rough texture of the hay beneath him and the cold bite of the January air seemed distant, unreal. Dean closed the distance between them in a few strides. He knelt in front of Castiel, his hands hovering uncertainly before finally resting gently on Castiel's shoulders. The warmth of his touch was a balm, grounding Castiel in the reality of the moment.

"Cas," Dean whispered, his voice breaking. "Castiel, I'm here." Castiel lifted his head, his tear-streaked face reflecting the turmoil within him. He searched Dean’s eyes, looking for answers, for assurance that this was real and not some cruel dream. Dean’s gaze was steady, filled with a mixture of sorrow and determination. Slowly, hesitantly, Castiel reached out and touched Dean’s face. His fingers brushed against the stubble on Dean's jaw, feeling the solid warmth of his skin. It was real. Dean was real.

Chapter 37

Chapter Text

A sob escaped Castiel’s lips, and he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Dean's chest. He clung to Dean, his fingers curling into the fabric of Dean's jacket, holding on as if afraid to let go. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him close. The sheep moved around them, oblivious to the emotional reunion taking place in their midst.

Dean’s mind replayed the conversation he had had with Balthazar before returning to the Novak territory.

"What do you value most in a friendship, Dean?" Balthazar had asked. Dean had answered that he was not sure. Balthazar had continued, "I can be your friend, Dean. If you help me get Castiel out, I will protect the two of you for the rest of your lives. That is a pretty good friendship if you ask me."

“How?” Dean had asked

"Have you seen ‘Bringing Up Baby’?"

“No.”

"The film begins with David trying to secure a one million dollar donation for his museum and preparing for his wedding. However, his plans are derailed when he encounters Susan, who accidentally causes a series of mishaps. Susan, who has received a pet leopard named Baby from her brother, believes David is the only one who can help her transport the leopard to her aunt's farm. Through a series of comedic misunderstandings and mishaps involving the leopard, a missing dinosaur bone, and a case of mistaken identity, David and Susan's lives become increasingly intertwined. Despite their initial antagonism, David finds himself drawn to Susan's lively and unpredictable nature. The film concludes with the two of them realising their affection for each other amidst the chaos they have created."

"Where are you going with this?"

"I believe you need to create some chaos, Dean."

"What? To get Castiel to fall in love with me?"

"No, Dean,” Balthazar had shaken his head, “for you to understand the extent of what you feel."

Back in the present, Dean held Castiel close. The sheep moved around them, oblivious to the emotional reunion taking place in their midst. Finally, Castiel pulled back slightly, looking up at Dean. Dean had expected tear-filled eyes, but instead, he was met with glassy-looking ones. Castiel looked as if everything had been too much and now he was shutting down. Dean felt a deep stab inside him as he realised that he must have been the one to break Castiel. f*ck. He had never meant to break him. He had never thought he would run away just to return, but still.

"Cas," Dean whispered, his voice filled with regret. "I'm so sorry." Castiel’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes were vacant, lost in a sea of confusion and pain. Dean tightened his grip, trying to anchor Castiel to the present moment. "Castiel, please," Dean said softly, "talk to me." But Castiel remained silent, his silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions Dean could see in his eyes. Dean’s mind raced, trying to understand what had happened to Castiel. He remembered Balthazar mentioning that Castiel sometimes became silent when he didn’t know how to deal with what was happening. It was a defence mechanism, a way for him to cope with overwhelming emotions. Dean gently guided Castiel to sit on a bale of hay, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "It’s okay, Castiel." The barn was cold, the January air seeping through the wooden walls. The sheep continued to graze, their soft bleats filling the silence. Dean looked around, taking in the familiar surroundings. He had spent hours in this barn with Castiel, working side by side, building a bond that was now strained to the breaking point. Dean’s heart ached at the thought of what he had done, of the pain he had caused Castiel. He replayed the moments they had shared, the quiet mornings, the stolen glances, the unspoken understanding that had grown between them. "Cas, I need you to know that I’m here for you," Dean said, his voice breaking. "I’m not going anywhere." Castiel’s gaze remained distant, his body stiff and unresponsive. Dean felt a surge of desperation. He needed to find a way to reach Castiel, to break through the wall of silence that had enveloped him. "Please, Castiel," Dean whispered, "let me in."

The barn door creaked open, and Gabriel stepped inside. His amber eyes took in the scene before him, his expression a mix of concern and anger.

"What are you doing here, Dean?"

"I came back.” Dean stood up, his grip on Castiel tightening. “I had to." Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve put him through?" Dean’s chest tightened with guilt.

"I never meant to hurt him." Gabriel approached, his gaze shifting to Castiel.

"Cassie, look at me." Castiel’s eyes flickered, a brief spark of recognition crossing his features. Gabriel knelt in front of him, his voice softening. "Cassie, it’s going to be okay." Castiel blinked, his lips parting slightly.

"Gabriel," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Gabriel reached out, cupping Castiel’s face in his hands.

"I’m here, little brother. We’ll get through this." Dean watched, a lump forming in his throat. He had never seen Gabriel so gentle, so protective. It was clear how much he cared for Castiel, how deeply their bond ran. Gabriel looked up at Dean, his eyes hardening. "You have a lot to make up for, Dean."

"I know," Dean replied, his voice steady. Gabriel nodded, standing up and helping Castiel to his feet.

"Come on, Cassie. Let’s get you inside." Dean followed them, his mind racing with thoughts of how to mend what he had broken. He knew it would take time, patience, and a lot of understanding. But he was determined to do whatever it took to make things right, to make Castiel trust him and execute Balthazar’s plan successfully. As they stepped out of the barn, the cold air hit them, but Dean barely noticed. His focus was on Castiel, on finding a way to bring back the light that had dimmed in his eyes.

They reached the house, and Dean noticed Gabriel holding a key. Dean had never received a key himself. He remembered a spare key on Castiel's car keys and wondered if that one had been intended for him. Maybe it hadn't seemed necessary at the time, perhaps Dean was never meant to leave but to help Castiel in the barn. The warmth of the house and the distant sound of Norma's meowing pulled Dean from his thoughts just in time to see Gabriel sigh at the state of Castiel's room.

"When did this happen, Castiel?" Gabriel muttered under his breath. Dean initially thought the room was just messy again, but as he caught up with the brothers, he saw that it was completely trashed. Gabriel turned to Dean, giving him an accusing look. Dean opened his mouth to respond, but Gabriel turned away, closed the door, and led Castiel up the stairs. Dean heard Gabriel whisper, "Have you been sleeping in the library?" Castiel nodded slightly. Dean followed them upstairs and saw Norma on the landing. He gave her a fleeting smile and stayed by the stairs as Gabriel led Castiel to the library. Norma's green eyes reflected the dim light, and she let out a small, questioning meow.

After a while, Gabriel emerged and approached Dean.

"He has been lenient for too long. He oughta punish you for this," Gabriel said, his voice low and filled with restrained anger. Dean swallowed hard, his mind racing.

"I understand," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside. Gabriel's eyes bore into Dean, daring him to say more.

"Dean, you need to learn your place," Gabriel said firmly.

"As Castiel's wife?" Dean asked, feeling a mix of defiance and desperation. Gabriel's expression hardened.

"As Castiel's mate," he corrected, the weight of the word hanging heavily in the air. A couple of minutes passed in tense silence before Gabriel turned and left.

Dean approached the library doorway and saw that Gabriel had lit a fire. Castiel lay on his side on one of the couches, staring into the flames. The flickering light cast dancing shadows across the room, creating an almost surreal atmosphere. Dean took a step forward but stopped, remembering Balthazar's words that he had time and there was no reason to overstep tonight. He decided it was best to let Castiel have some space. He could talk to him in the morning. Dean crossed the floor and walked into his bedroom, a room he never thought he would see again. He left the door open and sat down on the bed, the familiar surroundings feeling both comforting and alien. The bed was neatly made, the sheets crisp and clean, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past few days. He lay back, staring at the ceiling. His mind replayed the events of the day, the look of hurt in Castiel's eyes, the anger in Gabriel's voice. Dean felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, the emotional toll of the reunion catching up with him. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the house lull him into a restless sleep.

Dean woke early the next morning to the faint light of dawn filtering through the curtains. The house was quiet, the only sound was the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and stretching his stiff muscles. He knew he needed to talk to Castiel, to start mending the rift between them. He got up and made his way to the library. The fire had died down to embers, casting a warm glow over the room. Castiel was still on the couch, curled up with Norma nestled beside him. Dean approached quietly, not wanting to startle him.

"Castiel," Dean said softly, sitting down on the edge of the couch. Castiel's eyes flickered open, and he looked at Dean, his expression a mix of confusion and lingering pain. "Can we talk?" Castiel didn't respond, but he didn't turn away either. Dean took that as a sign to continue. "I never wanted to hurt you, " Dean began, his voice filled with genuine regret. Castiel's gaze remained fixed on Dean, his silence speaking volumes. Dean felt a lump form in his throat, but he pushed through, determined to make things right. "I care about you, Cas," Dean said, his voice trembling slightly. "I want to be here for you, to support you. Please, let me make it up to you.” Castiel's eyes softened, and for a moment, Dean thought he might speak. But then Castiel looked away, his silence returning. Dean's heart sank, but he knew this was a start. It would take time, patience, and a lot of understanding. Dean reached out and gently took Castiel's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Castiel's fingers tightened around Dean's hand, a small but significant gesture. Dean felt a glimmer of hope, knowing that while the road ahead would be difficult, they could find their way back to each other. But then Castiel let go and Dean watched as Castiel’s eyes became glassy again, a distant look creeping into them. Dean’s heart sank further, his thoughts spiralling as he realised the depth of the damage he might have caused. Memories of their time together flashed through his mind: the quiet moments, the subtle smiles they shared, the way Castiel’s eyes would light up at the simplest gestures of kindness. All of it seemed so far away now, replaced by the blank stare that met him.

His chest tightened as he recalled Balthazar's words. Had his impulsiveness and need for freedom shattered the fragile connection they had built? Every moment of their time together replayed in his mind, but now they were tainted with guilt and regret. He had run away, seeking clarity, only to find that clarity brought with it the realisation of how much he had hurt Castiel. Dean’s mind whirled with possibilities of how to make amends, but each thought was cut short by the image of Castiel’s vacant eyes. He wondered if Castiel would ever forgive him, if they could ever return to the semblance of normalcy they had begun to carve out. The fear that he had irreparably damaged something precious gnawed at him. He reached out to touch Castiel’s hand again, to offer some form of comfort, but Castiel had disappeared. Dean's hand grasped at empty air, and he found himself staring at the spot where Castiel had been. Panic surged through him, and he stood up abruptly, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of Castiel.

"Cas?" Dean called out, his voice echoing softly in the quiet room. He received no response, only the faint crackling of the dying fire. The room seemed to close in on him, the shadows growing longer and the silence more oppressive. Dean rushed out of the library, his footsteps echoing. He checked every room on the first floor, calling Castiel’s name, but there was no sign of him. His heart pounded louder with each empty room he encountered. He sprinted back up the stairs, taking two steps at a time, his mind racing with worry.

He finally stopped at the top of the stairs, trying to calm down and think rationally. His thoughts spiralled as he considered the possibility that he might have truly broken Castiel. The vivid memories of their time together flashed before his eyes—the way Castiel’s eyes would light up when they shared a quiet moment, the gentle smiles that hinted at a deeper connection. Those moments felt irretrievably lost now, replaced by the haunting image of Castiel’s vacant stare. Dean forced himself to take a deep breath. He needed to focus. His thoughts jumped to the most logical place Castiel could be: the barn. Of course, that’s where Castiel would go. Dean felt a mix of relief and self-reproach. He had been so caught up in his panic that he had overlooked the obvious.

He hurried back down the stairs and out to the barn, the cold morning air hitting him like a wake-up call. As he approached the barn, the familiar scents of hay and animals grew stronger, mingling with the crisp, fresh scent of the January morning. He pushed open the barn door and immediately spotted Castiel sitting on a bale of hay, gently feeding one of the twin lambs. The sight of Castiel brought a wave of relief over Dean, but it was short-lived. Something was wrong. Dean noticed that Castiel’s movements were mechanical, his expression distant and unfocused. Moreover, he picked up on a faint but unmistakable scent in the barn—one that didn’t belong to Castiel or Gabriel. Someone else had been here, taking care of the animals. The realisation hit Dean like a punch to the gut; Castiel had been so distraught or bewildered by Dean’s sudden departure that he couldn't even manage the care of the animals himself. Dean approached slowly, not wanting to startle Castiel.

"Castiel," he called softly, his voice gentle. Castiel looked up briefly but then returned his attention to the lamb, his eyes still glassy and distant. Dean sat down on the hay next to Castiel, watching him feed the lamb. "I see you found a friend," Dean said, trying to sound lighthearted, but his voice betrayed his concern. Castiel continued feeding the lamb, not acknowledging Dean’s attempt at conversation. The lamb nuzzled into Castiel’s hand, its small, warm body a stark contrast to the cold, mechanical motions of Castiel’s hands. Dean’s heart ached at the sight, the depth of Castiel’s silence hitting him harder than any words could. Dean reached out, placing a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. "I’m here, Cas," he said softly. "I’m not going anywhere this time."

Castiel’s eyes flickered momentarily, a brief spark of recognition, but it quickly faded. Dean swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in his throat. He needed to reach Castiel, to pull him out of this shell of silence.

"Do you remember the first time we fed the lambs together?" Dean asked, his voice filled with a mix of nostalgia and longing. "You showed me how to hold the bottle just right so they wouldn’t choke. You were so patient with me that day, even when I kept getting it wrong." Castiel’s hands stilled for a moment, and Dean took it as a sign to continue. "I was so clumsy, and you just laughed it off. You said I’d get the hang of it eventually, and you were right. We made a good team, didn’t we?" The silence stretched on, but Dean kept talking, hoping that his words would eventually break through to Castiel. "I miss those moments, Cas. I miss working with you. I miss the way you used to look at me, like you could see right through all my walls." Castiel’s eyes flickered again, and Dean saw a faint glimmer of emotion. He took a deep breath, feeling a surge of hope. "I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. We can get through this, Cas. We can find our way back to each other."

The lamb finished feeding and nuzzled against Castiel’s hand. Castiel slowly set the bottle down, his eyes finally meeting Dean’s. There was a depth of pain and confusion in those blue eyes that made Dean’s heart ache, but there was also a spark of something else—something that gave Dean hope.

"Please, Cas," Dean whispered, his voice trembling. "Let me in. Let me help you."

Castiel’s lips parted slightly, and for a moment, Dean thought he might speak. But then Castiel looked away, his gaze returning to the lamb. Dean felt a wave of frustration and helplessness, but he refused to give up. He would stay by Castiel’s side for as long as it took. Dean looked around the barn, taking in the familiar sights and sounds. The sheep moved about, their soft bleats filling the air. The scent of hay and earth grounded him, reminding him of the bond he and Castiel had forged here. He knew that rebuilding that bond would take time, patience, and understanding.

Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing thoughts. He realised that Castiel had likely left the library earlier because Dean had been standing still, lost in his own turmoil. Castiel had retreated to the barn, a place of solace and familiarity. As he watched Castiel’s mechanical movements, Dean felt a pang of guilt. Castiel was listening, that much was clear, but he remained silent. Dean knew the root of the problem—he had left Castiel, proving that he wanted to get away, that he couldn't just wait for Castiel to come around. Then another realisation hit Dean like a train: perhaps Castiel wasn't speaking because he feared another argument, feared that it would drive Dean away or make him run away again. It made sense, painfully logical and truthful. Their past arguments had usually blown over, but Dean had taken it to another level by running away. And now, Castiel might be too scared to speak, not wanting to risk pushing Dean away again. Dean pushed those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the present.

"Have you taken care of the cows and chickens already?" he asked gently. Castiel nodded, but even that nod was mechanical, devoid of any real engagement. Dean felt a pang of frustration. He needed to find a way to reach Castiel, to reassure him that he wasn’t going anywhere this time. He stood up, brushing the hay from his clothes, and moved closer to Castiel. The barn was filled with the familiar sounds of animals, their soft noises a comforting background to the silence between them. "Okay, how about we check on them together?” He stood up, brushing the hay from his jeans. "You know," he said, trying to keep his tone light, "I remember the first time I tried to gather eggs. I was so clumsy, I almost dropped the whole basket. You had to show me how to do it properly." Castiel glanced at Dean, a faint flicker of recognition in his eyes, but he remained silent. After a moment’s hesitation, he slowly stood up. Dean noticed that Castiel had indeed taken care of the other animals already, yet he had agreed to do it again with Dean. That had to count for something, right?

They walked over to the chickens. The air was filled with the soft clucking of the hens and the occasional crow of a rooster. Dean opened the gate, letting Castiel step inside first. The hens moved around them, pecking at the ground, their feathers rustling softly.

"Remember how you told me to be gentle when picking up the eggs?" Dean asked, trying to engage Castiel. "I was so nervous about breaking them."

Castiel knelt down, carefully reaching under a hen to feel for new eggs and retrieve one. His movements were precise, practised, but still distant. Dean watched him, feeling a mix of admiration and sadness. Even in this state Castiel was still so capable, so skilled, yet so closed off. Dean knelt beside Castiel, reaching under a hen to collect an egg. The warmth of the egg in his hand brought back memories of their early days together, when everything was new and uncertain. He placed the egg in the basket, looking over at Castiel.

"You taught me a lot, Cas," Dean said softly. "I never really thanked you for that." Castiel didn’t respond, his focus remaining on the task at hand. Dean sighed inwardly, knowing that breaking through Castiel's silence would take time. He decided to shift the conversation to something more neutral. "Do you think the hens will lay more eggs today?" Dean asked, trying to keep his tone light. Castiel nodded slightly, his eyes flickering with a hint of life. Dean took that as a small victory and continued talking. "The cows looked good this morning," Dean said, glancing over at the cows in the nearby stalls. "They seem healthy and happy. You’ve done a great job taking care of them."

Castiel’s gaze followed Dean's, landing on the cows. There was a moment of silence before Castiel resumed gathering eggs. Dean felt a pang of frustration but pushed it aside. He needed to be patient. As they worked side by side, Dean’s mind wandered back to Balthazar’s plan. Creating chaos to understand his feelings had seemed like a strange idea at first, but now he realised the truth in it. He needed to understand his own emotions before he could help Castiel. Once they had collected all the eggs, they moved on to the cows. Dean opened the gate to the stall, letting Castiel step inside first. The cows mooed softly, their large eyes watching the two men with curiosity.

"You know, I’ve always admired how good you are with the animals," Dean said, trying to keep the conversation going. "They trust you." Castiel’s eyes met Dean’s for a brief moment, a flicker of emotion passing through them. Dean sighed inwardly, knowing that it would take more than words to reach Castiel.

As they finished up in the barn, Dean felt a sense of calm settle over him. The familiar routine, the comforting sounds of the animals, and the presence of Castiel brought a sense of normalcy that had been missing. Castiel’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, Dean saw a glimmer of the person he had come back for. It was a small step, but it was a step forward. And that was enough for now.

"Let's head back inside, yeah?" Dean said softly, breaking the silence. "Then we can have breakfast together, just like we used to."

Dean followed Castiel back to the house, their steps quiet against the early morning stillness. The two-story building that now seemed to hold a world of memories and unresolved emotions. As they stepped inside, the warmth of the house enveloped them, a stark contrast to the crisp January air outside. The kitchen, with its familiar wooden cabinets and the faint scent of herbs, greeted them.

Dean watched as Castiel moved with practised ease, setting about making breakfast. Castiel reached for the flour and eggs, his movements precise and measured. Dean sat at the table, his eyes never leaving Castiel. Norma, ever the curious cat, jumped up on the counter, her green eyes watching Castiel intently. A small smile tugged at the corners of Castiel’s lips as he stroked her, but Dean noticed that the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Dean’s mind drifted back to happier times, when they would spend mornings together in this very kitchen, laughing and sharing stories. He remembered how Castiel’s laughter would fill the room, a sound that seemed to bring the house to life. Now, the silence between them felt almost tangible, a barrier Dean was determined to break through. Castiel cracked the eggs into a bowl, adding flour, milk, and a pinch of salt. He whisked the mixture with a rhythmic motion, the soft sound of the whisk against the bowl filling the room. Dean watched, the sight both comforting and heart-wrenching. The smell of batter cooking on the griddle wafted through the kitchen, mingling with the scent of fresh tea brewing on the stove. Castiel moved with an almost mechanical grace, flipping the pancakes with ease. Dean felt a lump form in his throat, the realisation of how much he had missed this—missed him—settling heavily on his heart. Castiel poured a full pot of tea, the steam rising and curling in the air. He placed the pancakes on a plate, arranging them neatly before setting the table. The silence lingered, heavy and oppressive, as Dean watched Castiel’s every move.

Once everything was ready, Castiel brought the food and tea to the table. Dean looked up, catching a fleeting glimpse of something in Castiel’s eyes—something that disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. He wanted to reach out, to say something that would break through the silence, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. They sat down to eat, the clink of cutlery against plates the only sound breaking the quiet. Dean took a bite of the pancakes, the familiar taste bringing back a flood of memories. He glanced at Castiel, who ate in silence, his eyes focused on the plate in front of him.

"These are really good, Castiel," Dean said softly, hoping to spark some semblance of conversation. Castiel nodded in response, but his eyes remained distant. Dean sighed inwardly, knowing that this was going to be a long, slow process. The tea was warm and soothing, the perfect complement to the pancakes. Dean took a sip, letting the heat seep into his bones. He wanted to say so much, to bridge the gap that had grown between them, but he didn’t know where to start.

"Do you still paint, Cas?" Dean asked, breaking the silence. Castiel looked up, a flicker of something passing through his eyes, but he didn’t respond. Dean felt a surge of frustration and helplessness, but he pushed it aside. He had to be patient, had to give Castiel the space he needed.

After breakfast, Dean helped clear the table, the routine tasks bringing a sense of normalcy. He washed the dishes while Castiel dried them, their movements synchronized from years of working together. The silence between them remained, but there was a sense of companionship in their shared actions. Dean couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him. He had left, thinking it was the best thing to do, but he had only caused more pain. Now, he was back, determined to make things right. He glanced at Castiel, who was carefully stacking the dry dishes, and felt a surge of determination.

"I’m not going anywhere, Cas," Dean said quietly, his voice filled with conviction. Castiel paused, his hands stilling for a moment before he continued with his task. Dean took that as a small sign of progress, a step towards rebuilding the trust that had been shattered. Dean finished drying the last dish, placing it carefully in the cupboard. He turned to Castiel, who was tidying up the counter, and felt a pang of longing for the easy camaraderie they once shared. Determined to break through the silence, he took a deep breath. "Hey, you," Dean began, trying to sound casual. "How about we watch some TV? Maybe a movie?" Castiel looked up, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he gave a slight nod. Dean felt a flicker of hope and led the way to the living room, where the TV stood as a silent sentinel in the corner. He grabbed the remote and settled onto the couch, gesturing for Castiel to join him. Dean’s mind unwillingly went back to Balthazar and decided to look up ‘Bringing Up Baby' . As he typed in the title, he glanced at Castiel, who was sitting stiffly beside him. A flicker of confusion and recognition passed over Castiel's face, and Dean wondered if he had seen the movie before.

"I've heard about this one," Dean said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Thought it might be time to check it out." He pressed play, and the screen lit up with the opening credits. As the movie began, Dean found himself drawn into the chaotic world of David and Susan. He watched the scenes unfold, the comedic misunderstandings and mishaps that brought the two characters together. At first, he simply enjoyed the film, but as it progressed, he started to see the parallels to his own life.

Dean glanced at Castiel occasionally, noting how his eyes seemed to focus on the screen, though his expression remained distant. The scenes played out, and Dean began to understand why Balthazar had mentioned this movie. Just like David and Susan, his relationship with Castiel was filled with misunderstandings and unspoken emotions. The chaos that had ensued between them was not unlike the comedic turmoil in the film, but with far more serious consequences. David’s attempts to secure the donation for his museum and his impending wedding plans mirrored Dean’s own struggles to balance his desires and responsibilities. Susan’s lively and unpredictable nature reminded Dean of how Castiel had brought unexpected joy and complexity into his life. The leopard, Baby, was a symbol of the wild and untamed elements that both complicated and enriched their lives. As the film reached its climax, with David and Susan realising their affection for each other amidst the chaos they had created, Dean felt a lump in his throat. He glanced at Castiel, hoping to see some sign of recognition, some flicker of emotion. Castiel's eyes were fixed on the screen, and for a moment, Dean thought he saw a glimmer of something in those blue depths. The movie ended, and the credits rolled. Dean turned to Castiel, searching for the right words.

"What did you think?" he asked softly. Castiel remained silent, his gaze distant. Dean felt a pang of frustration but pushed it aside, reminding himself to be patient. "Sometimes,” Dean continued, his voice gentle, “we need a little chaos to understand what we really feel." He paused, hoping for a response, but Castiel remained silent. Dean sighed inwardly, realising that it would take much more than a movie to break through the walls that had built up between them. He reached out, placing a hand on Castiel's arm. Castiel’s eyes met Dean’s for a brief moment, and Dean saw a flicker of something—perhaps hope, perhaps recognition. It was enough to keep him going.

The living room was bathed in the soft glow of the TV, the credits still rolling. Dean sat back, his mind racing with thoughts of how to rebuild what had been broken. The fantastical elements of their world, the unspoken bond they shared, all seemed to hang in the balance.

Soon Dean watched as Castiel silently made his way out to the barn again. The morning had been filled with small, hopeful moments, but now it seemed those moments had slipped through his fingers once more. Determined not to dwell on his frustration, Dean decided to make lunch. He moved methodically around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and boiling pasta, the familiar routine offering some semblance of comfort. As Dean worked, he kept an eye out for Castiel. When he saw Castiel approaching the house, he quickly plated the meal, hoping they could share a quiet lunch together. However, instead of coming inside, Castiel walked past the kitchen window and got into his car. Dean's heart sank as he watched Castiel drive away, the sound of the engine fading into the distance. Dean looked down at Norma, who had jumped up onto the counter and was now watching him with curious eyes.

"What's up now, girl?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of worry and resignation. Norma meowed softly, her green eyes reflecting his own confusion and concern. Dean sat at the table for a while, staring at the untouched plates of food. Eventually, he gave up on waiting and ate his portion, putting Castiel's plate in the refrigerator. The food felt tasteless, the silence around him almost oppressive.

After cleaning up, he made his way up to the second floor, Norma padding along beside him. Entering the library, Dean traced his fingers over the spines of the books, feeling the smooth leather and rough paper beneath his fingertips. The library had always been a place of solace for Castiel, and Dean hoped it might offer him some comfort as well. He picked a book at random and settled into a chair, trying to lose himself in the words on the page.

Time passed slowly. The door opened and closed downstairs, and Dean heard Castiel moving around. Just as he was about to go downstairs to see him, he heard the door open and close again. He placed the book over his head and sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and helplessness. The library, usually so warm and inviting, felt cold and empty without Castiel's presence.

Eventually, Dean fell asleep, the book slipping from his hands. When he woke up, it was dark outside. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and noticed Castiel sitting in an armchair, staring into the fire. The flickering flames cast shadows across Castiel's face, highlighting the weariness and pain in his eyes. Dean remembered how Castiel had admitted to sleeping in the library, seeking comfort in the familiar surroundings. He stood up and walked over to Castiel, his footsteps soft on the carpeted floor.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean said, his voice barely above a whisper. He wanted to say more, to explain, but the words felt inadequate. Instead, he stood beside Castiel, searching for any sign of understanding in those glassy eyes. "You can sleep now," Dean said gently, hoping to offer some reassurance. Castiel looked up at him with that same blank stare, his eyes reflecting the firelight but devoid of any real emotion. Dean felt a pang of despair but pushed it aside. "Sorry," he repeated, his voice cracking. He turned to leave, feeling the weight of his own failure pressing down on him.

Just as he was about to step away, he felt Castiel's hand grasp his wrist. Dean froze, a flicker of hope igniting within him. He turned back toward Castiel, his heart pounding. The moment stretched on, and Dean felt that hope beginning to drain away as the silence persisted. Then, slowly, Castiel stood up and looked into Dean's eyes. Castiel reached out with his other hand and threaded it through Dean's hair, his touch gentle and hesitant. Dean felt a shiver run down his spine at the contact, a mixture of relief and longing washing over him. He reached up with the hand Castiel wasn’t holding and placed it on Castiel's cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against his palm. Castiel closed his eyes, leaning into Dean's touch. For a moment, it felt like the walls between them were crumbling, the barriers of silence and pain dissolving into the quiet night. Castiel let go of Dean's wrist, but Dean kept his hand on Castiel's cheek, unwilling to let go of the fragile connection they had found.

The library seemed to hold its breath, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and their own quiet breathing. Dean's thumb gently stroked Castiel's cheek, his touch a silent promise of his presence and support. Castiel's eyes remained closed, his face a mixture of exhaustion and vulnerability. Dean felt his own eyes sting with unshed tears, the depth of his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He knew that this moment was just the beginning, a small step toward healing the rift between them. But it was a step he was willing to take, no matter how long the journey ahead might be.

"I'm here, Cas," Dean whispered, his voice filled with a quiet determination. "I'm not going anywhere." Castiel's fingers tightened slightly in Dean's hair, a silent acknowledgment of his words. Dean leaned in closer, their foreheads nearly touching, the warmth of the fire surrounding them both.

In that quiet moment, Dean felt a glimmer of hope. It wasn't much, but it was enough to hold onto. Then Dean's world seemed to shatter and rebuild in an instant as Castiel's other hand threaded into his hair. His breath hitched, and his eyes flew open, capturing the raw emotion in Castiel's gaze. For a brief, electrifying moment, Dean was certain Castiel was about to kiss him, the anticipation sending a thrill through his entire being. Dean longed for that connection, a kiss that would bridge the gap between them, but instead, Castiel leaned into him, resting his forehead between Dean's neck and shoulder. Still, Dean's heart pounded in his ears, a relentless rhythm that matched the tumult of emotions swirling within him. He felt the warmth of Castiel's breath against his skin, each exhale sending shivers down his spine. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, holding him close, offering silent support. The quiet of the library enveloped them, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the world outside. Dean's thoughts raced, a mix of hope and despair. He could feel Castiel's presence, his touch, but the silence was a stark reminder of the chasm that had formed between them. He wished he understood what had happened to make Castiel retreat so deeply into himself, to lose his voice and his light. Dean's fingers gently traced soothing patterns on Castiel's back, trying to convey through touch what he couldn't express in words.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean whispered, his voice barely audible. He didn't know if Castiel believed him, but he hoped his presence would provide some comfort, some sense of stability amidst the chaos. The firelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating a cocoon of warmth around them. Dean closed his eyes, savouring the moment of closeness. He felt the tension in Castiel's body gradually ease, his breathing becoming more even. Dean's thoughts drifted to the past, to the times they had spent together in this very library, reading, talking, simply being in each other's company. Those memories felt like a lifeline now, a reminder of what they could rebuild.

Castiel shifted slightly, his forehead still resting against Dean's shoulder. Dean's fingers found their way to Castiel's hair, gently combing through the dark strands. The repetitive motion was calming, grounding him in the present. He focused on the sensation, the softness of Castiel's hair, the warmth of his body against his own. It was a small comfort, but it was enough to keep him anchored.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted by a soft meow. He looked up to see Norma watching them from a nearby chair, her green eyes reflecting the firelight. She jumped down and padded over, rubbing against Dean's leg before settling at their feet. Her presence was a small but welcome distraction, a reminder that life continued outside their bubble of silence. As the night wore on, Dean allowed himself to once more close his eyes as he felt his own exhaustion creeping in. The emotional toll of the day weighed heavily on him, his body aching for rest. But he couldn't bring himself to move, afraid that any shift might break the fragile connection they had found. He rested his cheek against Castiel's hair, his eyes closing as he listened to the steady rhythm of Castiel's breathing.

Hours seemed to pass in a blur of quiet moments and unspoken words. The fire burned low, casting a dim glow over the room. Dean's thoughts drifted between the past and the present, the weight of his regrets mingling with his hopes for the future. He knew that healing would take time, that their journey was far from over, but he was determined to stay by Castiel's side, no matter how long it took.

Finally Castiel stirred, lifting his head slightly. Dean opened his eyes, meeting Castiel's gaze. There was a depth of emotion there, a silent plea for something. Dean's heart ached with the desire to make everything right, to erase the pain and confusion that had driven them apart.

As Castiel pulled Dean towards the bedroom and then towards the bed Dean's heart beat so hard in his chest he could have sworn that he shook. Castiel's eyes asked if it was okay, a silent question that held so much weight. Dean nodded. The bed, with its familiar sheets and blankets, felt like a haven in the midst of their storm. They lay down together, and Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, holding him close. He was surprised when Castiel allowed it, the feeling of trust that came with the gesture nearly overwhelming him. Dean relaxed as he heard Castiel's breathing even out, the steady rhythm a comforting sound in the quiet room. Dean closed his eyes, his own exhaustion finally catching up with him. He fell asleep, the warmth of Castiel's body against his own grounding him in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.

When Dean woke up again, the room was bathed in the soft light of dawn. He was alone in bed, and a wave of disappointment washed over him. He reached out, feeling the empty space where Castiel had been. Slowly, he covered his face with a pillow and breathed in deeply, finding Castiel's scent lingering on the fabric. The familiar aroma of pine and manuka honey filled his senses, bringing a bittersweet comfort.

"Happy birthday, Dean." Dean whispered, muffled against the pillow. The words felt hollow, a reminder of the passage of time and the challenges that lay ahead. He laid there for a few moments longer, letting the quiet of the morning seep into his bones. Dean sat up, running a hand through his hair. The house was silent, the only sound the faint rustling of branches outside the window. He took a deep breath and got out of bed, determined to face the day. He headed to the bathroom, the cold tiles sending a jolt through his feet. He turned on the shower, the steam quickly filling the room. The hot water cascaded over him, washing away the remnants of sleep and the tension of the previous day. Dean closed his eyes, letting the warmth soothe his aching muscles. He lathered up, the familiar scent of the soap grounding him. The shower became a small sanctuary, a place where he could gather his thoughts and prepare for the day ahead. After shaving, Dean wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at his reflection. His eyes, though tired, held a determined glint. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He knew today would be a pivotal day, one where he needed to prove his commitment to Castiel.

Dean walked to the wardrobe and looked at the clothes inside. Balthazar had insisted that Dean leave his own clothes behind, saying it was important for Dean to wear clothes that bore Castiel’s scent. It was a reminder to the pack that Castiel had accepted Dean, but also a gesture to show Castiel that Dean was committed to their bond. He stood in front of the wardrobe for a long time, contemplating what to wear. Finally, he decided on a more formal outfit. After all, it was his twenty-fifth birthday. He pulled out a shirt and trousers, the fabric soft and comforting. As he dressed, he noticed Norma watching him from the bed, her green eyes curious. Dean picked her up, feeling the warmth of her small body against his chest.

“Let’s see what today brings, huh?” he said softly. Norma purred in response, a soothing sound that eased some of his tension.

When Dean walked into the kitchen, he was met with a surprise. The room was decorated with balloons, garlands, and a handwritten banner that read 'Happy Birthday Dean'. The sight took his breath away. Castiel had done this. Castiel had gone out of his way to make this day special for him. Dean’s heart swelled with emotion, realising that this must have been what Castiel had gone out to get with the car yesterday. Dean set Norma down and took in the decorations, each one proof of Castiel’s thoughtfulness. The garlands draped elegantly across the ceiling, the balloons adding a cheerful touch to the room. Dean felt a lump in his throat, his emotions a mix of gratitude and sadness. He heard the faint sound of footsteps and turned to see Castiel standing in the doorway, his eyes reflecting the warm light of the kitchen. Castiel didn't say anything, but his presence spoke loud enough. Dean walked over to him, his steps slow and deliberate.

“Thank you, Castiel,” Dean said, his voice thick with emotion. “This means a lot to me.” Castiel’s lips curled into a small, tentative smile, but his eyes remained distant, guarded. Dean took a step closer, closing the gap between them. He reached out and took Castiel’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s have breakfast,” Dean suggested, trying to keep his tone light. “Together.” Castiel nodded, a silent agreement. They moved to the table, the decorations creating a festive atmosphere despite the underlying tension. Dean poured them both some tea, the fragrant steam rising from the cups. As they sat down to eat, Dean couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope. It was a small step, but it was a step in the right direction.

Dean spent the rest of the day trying to keep himself occupied without overstepping any boundaries. He watched television, the sounds and images blending into a comforting background noise as he snacked on whatever he could find in the refrigerator that morning. As the hours passed, he found himself glancing at the door, hoping to see Castiel's familiar face.

As evening fell, the silver light of the stars casting long shadows across the room, Castiel appeared in the doorway of the living room. His silhouette was framed by the glow, his presence a quiet yet powerful call. He reached out his hand, and Dean, feeling a mix of curiosity and hope, took it without hesitation. Castiel led him to the hallway and pulled on his trench coat, Dean mirrored his actions, following his silent guide.

They walked out to the car, and Dean's heart quickened with anticipation. He wondered if they were about to repeat that night when Castiel had taken him to Charlie's restaurant. Dean was surprised when Castiel turned on the radio and tuned it to the classic rock station. The familiar chords of Led Zeppelin filled the car, a gesture that touched Dean deeply. As Castiel drove, Dean watched the trees blur past, their branches shimmering in the twilight. He glanced back at Castiel and noticed the tension in his posture. Castiel's knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel too tightly, and his breathing seemed uneven. Concerned, Dean reached out to him.

"Hey, hey, Castiel, it's okay," Dean said softly. "We're just going to Charlie's, right? You know Charlie, it'll be fine." Castiel kept his focus on the road, but his head shook slightly. Dean could see the strain in his expression, the silent struggle within him. He squeezed Castiel's shoulder, hoping to provide some reassurance. "I promise it will be fine, Castiel," Dean said, his voice gentle but firm. Castiel made a turn, and Dean recognised the streets. The familiar buildings flashed by, and a sense of unease settled over him. He turned to Castiel, a question forming on his lips. "We're not going to Charlie's, are we?" Dean asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"No." Castiel said, his voice quiet but clear. The single word hung in the air, laden with unspoken meaning. Dean watched Castiel, noting the determination in his eyes despite the anxiety that seemed to grip him. Dean's mind raced, trying to piece together where they might be headed and what Castiel had planned. The town's lights flickered on as they drove through the streets, casting a warm glow on the pavement. He realised that whatever Castiel had planned, it was important to him, and that meant it was important to Dean as well. He decided to trust Castiel, to follow his lead and support him, no matter where they ended up. They drove further into town and the streets became more and more familiar. Dean's curiosity grew with each passing block, but he kept his questions to himself, allowing Castiel to focus on driving. The music played softly in the background, a comforting reminder of the bond they shared. Finally, Castiel pulled into a parking lot, and Dean's eyes widened in surprise. The neon blue sign saying ‘Harvelle's’ lit up the evening sky, causing Dean's heart to skip a beat. He turned to Castiel, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over him.

"You—" Dean started, his voice filled with astonishment.

"Yes. Reservation for nineteen," Castiel replied, his voice steady despite the lingering anxiety in his posture.

"Thank you, Castiel," Dean said, his tone soft and sincere. Castiel managed a small, shy smile.

"Happy birthday, Dean," he whispered, the words carrying a depth of emotion that struck Dean to his core. They walked in together, a bit of an unmatched pair with Dean dressed more formally in a button-down shirt and trousers, while Castiel wore his usual maroon hoodie. If Dean’s mind wasn't working in high gear trying to decode what this meant he might have found the contrast was endearing, a testament to their unique bond.

Inside, Harvelle's was a classic American bistro adorned in black, blue, and white. The décor was a blend of sleek modern lines and rustic charm, with black leather booths, white tablecloths, and blue neon accents creating an inviting atmosphere. Vintage photographs of local landmarks adorned the walls, giving the place a sense of history and warmth. A server approached them with a wide smile.

"Dean! You're back!" she exclaimed. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Yeah, Bela, I guess I am."

"Does Jo know you're here?" Bela asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. Dean glanced at Castiel before replying.

"We have a reservation actually. Novak."

"Oh,” Bela looked at Castiel, narrowing her eyes. “Of course, Dean. We have a booth ready for you." She grabbed two menus and gestured for them to follow. As they walked to their booth, Dean noticed Castiel's growing anxiety. The tension in his posture and the way his eyes darted around the room were clear indicators. Dean reached across the table and took Castiel's hands, offering a reassuring squeeze.

"Thank you, Castiel," Dean said, his voice filled with gratitude. Castiel's eyes didn't meet Dean's. Instead, he pulled his hands back and picked up the menu, using it as a shield. Dean followed suit, opening his menu and glancing at the options. He noticed Castiel's brows knitting together in confusion. "There are hand-cut fries," Dean said, his tone gentle. "And I think you'd like the mac and cheese too. Both are vegetarian-safe." Castiel's eyes flickered with a hint of recognition, but he remained silent, his focus on the menu. Dean sighed inwardly, wishing he could do more to ease Castiel's discomfort. The server returned, her presence bringing a temporary respite from the tension.

"Ready to order?" Bela asked, her pen poised over her notepad. Dean glanced at Castiel, who gave a small nod.

"We'll have the hand-cut fries and the mac and cheese," Dean said, his voice steady. "And I'll have the steak, medium rare."

"Great choices.” Bela jotted down their order with a smile. “I'll get that right in for you." As she walked away, Dean reached across the table again, his fingers brushing against Castiel's.

"We're in this together, Cas," he said softly. "You and me." Castiel's eyes finally met Dean's, a flicker of something indefinable passing through them. It was a start, a small step towards rebuilding the trust and connection they once shared. The bistro's ambiance provided a soothing backdrop as they waited for their food. The soft hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter created a comforting cocoon around them. Dean glanced around, taking in the familiar surroundings, his mind drifting back to happier times spent here.

When the food arrived, Dean's steak was cooked to perfection. The aroma was mouthwatering, a blend of garlic, rosemary, and charred meat. He cut into it, the knife gliding through the tender flesh. The first bite was an explosion of flavour—juicy, succulent, with a perfect sear on the outside and a pink, tender centre. The seasoning was just right, enhancing the natural taste of the beef without overpowering it. Each bite was a reminder of why this place had been one of his favourites. Dean glanced at Castiel, who was picking at his mac and cheese, the golden, cheesy dish barely touched. Castiel seemed lost in thought, his eyes unfocused as he moved the food around his plate. Dean's heart ached at the sight, wishing he could find the right words to bring Castiel back to him.

Halfway through the steak, a burst of energy came from the kitchen as Johanna appeared, her eyes lighting up when she saw Dean. She practically bounded over, pulling him out of his seat and into a tight hug.

"Happy birthday!" Johanna exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine excitement. "I thought we wouldn’t see you this year!" Dean returned the hug, a warm smile spreading across his face.

"Thanks, Jo. It's good to be back." As Johanna pulled away, she noticed Castiel sitting quietly at the table, his head down as he continued to pick at his food.

"Bela said you were here with someone, and you don't even introduce me?" She slapped Dean's arm playfully, a mock look of indignation on her face. "Have you lost your manners during your time away?" Dean cleared his throat, feeling a bit awkward.

"Jo, this is Castiel." Johanna's eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"And who is Castiel?" she asked, her tone teasing but kind. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Castiel. Before he could respond, Castiel looked up, his voice quiet but clear.

"Boyfriend." Johanna's eyes widened in surprise.

"You never told me you had a boyfriend, Dean!" she exclaimed, her excitement genuine. Dean felt a rush of emotion, both pride and protectiveness.

"Yeah, well, things have been… erm… complicated ," he said, his voice trailing off. Johanna nodded, her expression softening as she looked at Castiel.

"Well, it's lovely to meet you, Castiel. Any friend of Dean's is a friend of mine." Castiel managed a small smile, though his eyes remained distant. Johanna's warmth and friendliness seemed to ease some of the tension in the air, and for a moment, Dean felt a sense of normalcy. Johanna tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly as she processed Castiel's name. "Wait, 'Castiel' ? Novak? You were the one to make the reservation, right? A few weeks ago?" Dean's heart fluttered at the thought that Castiel had planned this in advance. A warmth spread through him, a flicker of hope igniting. But almost immediately, the realisation hit him like a bucket of ice water. If Castiel had made the reservation weeks ago, it meant he had done so before Dean had left.

“Yes.” Castiel nodded, his voice steady yet soft. "It is Dean's birthday. Dean said he likes surprises."

" ’Novak?’ One of the founding families, right?" Johanna's eyes sparkled with recognition. Castiel’s expression shifted, his composure faltering.

"I..." Dean noticed the tension building in Castiel, the way his shoulders tensed and his fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Sensing the need to divert the conversation, Dean cleared his throat and forced a smile.

"How's the bistro doing, Jo?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"Well, it was hard losing the second-best chef." Johanna's playful demeanour returned, though there was a hint of truth in her tone. Dean chuckled, though it sounded a bit forced.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is." Johanna's smile faded slightly as she studied Dean.

"So, are you just passing through today, or...?" Dean blinked a few times, feeling a bit cornered. Johanna's expression softened, but there was a note of concern in her eyes. "You said you were moving away, didn't you? That's why you had to stop working here?"

"Yeah, yeah, just passing through, exactly." Dean nodded, trying to keep his tone light. "Yeah, that's right." An awkward silence settled over the table, the earlier warmth replaced by a sense of unease. Dean could feel Castiel's anxiety radiating off him, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing moment. Dean reached across the table, placing his hand over Castiel's, hoping to offer some comfort. "It's been great catching up, Jo," Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady. "But I think we should head out soon."

"Of course, Dean.” Johanna nodded, her smile returning, though it was tinged with sadness. “It was really good to see you." Dean stood up, helping Castiel to his feet. He could feel the tremor in Castiel's hand, the tension in his posture. As they made their way through the bistro, Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. The evening had taken a toll on Castiel, and Dean felt the weight of that responsibility.

Once outside, the crisp night air hit them as Dean guided Castiel to the car, the silence between them filled with unspoken words. As they drove back to the house, Dean's mind raced with thoughts of how to make things right. He glanced over at Castiel.

"Cas," Dean began softly, "I'm sorry if tonight was too much."

Castiel's gaze remained fixed on the road before him, his silence speaking volumes. Dean's heart ached, knowing that he needed to be patient, to give Castiel the time and space he needed to heal. The drive home felt longer than usual, the quiet between them heavy with unspoken emotions. When they finally arrived, Castiel turned off the engine and sat in the car for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Dean reached out, taking Castiel's hand in his own, feeling the coolness of his skin.

"Let's go inside," Dean said gently, his voice filled with a quiet determination. Castiel nodded, his grip tightening slightly around Dean's hand.

Inside the house, the warmth enveloped them, a comforting contrast to the chilly night air. Dean led Castiel to the kitchen, where the remnants of their earlier celebration still adorned the space. The balloons and garlands seemed to mock the tension that now filled the room. After a while, Castiel broke the silence.

"Made cake," he said, his voice soft but clear. Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You made a cake?"

“Yes, but I… erm…”Castiel's eyes dropped to the floor. "I only know how to make one cake—the one Balthazar made for Christmas." Dean watched as Castiel moved to the refrigerator. He pulled out a beautifully decorated cake: layers of vanilla sponge with white chocolate ganache, lingonberry jam, and cardamom whipped cream. Lingonberries were carefully arranged around the border, adding a touch of vibrant red to the otherwise pristine white. "You said you wanted 'cake, presents, the whole thing’ ," Castiel said, placing the cake on the table. Dean smiled, feeling a rush of warmth.

"You have outdone yourself, Cas." Castiel looked almost shy.

"I wanted to surprise you." Dean picked up a knife and carefully cut a piece of the cake. The layers revealed themselves, each one perfectly distinct and mouthwatering. He took a bite, closing his eyes to savour the explosion of flavours. The sweetness of the ganache mingled with the tartness of the lingonberry jam, while the subtle warmth of cardamom lingered on his palate. It was exquisite. Castiel took a piece for himself, but after a single bite, he quietly disappeared. Dean watched him go, a mixture of concern and curiosity brewing inside him. A few minutes later, Castiel returned with three wrapped presents in his arms.

"You didn't have to do this, Cas," Dean said, touched by the gesture.

"I know it’s not like what you were probably used to, and it’s just stuff from the grocery store, but maybe it’s alright anyway," Castiel murmured, his gaze fixed on the floor. Dean smiled gently.

"I'm sure it’s splendid, Castiel." Castiel handed over the gifts and then retreated to the refrigerator, fetching some cans of soda, his actions betraying a hint of nervousness. Dean began to open the presents. The first contained high-quality kitchen utensils, the second a new frying pan. Despite Castiel's modesty, Dean recognised the brands and knew they were quite expensive. Castiel returned to the table, sitting down as Dean unwrapped the final gift. It was a beautifully crafted chef’s knife, the blade gleaming under the kitchen lights. Castiel stabbed at his cake with his fork repeatedly, avoiding Dean's gaze.

"I know cooking isn’t your whole personality, but I didn’t know what else to get you." Dean’s heart ached with tenderness.

"Cas, these are perfect. Thank you." Castiel's eyes flickered up to meet Dean's, a hint of relief softening his features. The silence between them was no longer heavy but filled with unspoken understanding. They continued to eat their cake, the soft sounds of their forks against the plates a gentle reminder of the quiet companionship they shared.

Dean savoured each bite, his thoughts drifting back to the effort Castiel had put into making this day special. Despite the struggles and the silence, this moment was a step toward healing. As he glanced at Castiel, Dean felt a renewed sense of determination. They had a long way to go, but they would face it together, one small step at a time.

Chapter 38

Chapter Text

Dean woke with a start, his heart pounding against his ribs as the remnants of a nightmare clung to his consciousness. In the dream, he had seen his family, torn apart by the Novak pack, Gabriel's amber eyes cold and merciless as he led the slaughter. The vivid images of blood and terror lingered in his mind, making it hard to breathe. He sat up abruptly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Castiel stirred beside him, his eyes fluttering open. Noticing Dean's distress, he sat up and looked down at him with furrowed brows. Dean’s chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, the panic of the nightmare still gripping him. Castiel's hands found Dean's face, his thumbs dragging slowly along Dean's cheeks. The touch was gentle, grounding, and Dean felt a sense of calm beginning to wash over him. Castiel leaned in and kissed his forehead, a tender gesture that brought Dean back to the present.

"It will be okay," Castiel whispered, his voice soothing. "We can just lay here. It will be okay." Dean opened his eyes, meeting Castiel's deep blue ones. The concern and compassion he saw there steadied him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel shook his head slightly. Dean nodded, closing his eyes again, trusting Castiel's silent reassurance. Castiel lay back down next to Dean, braiding their fingers together. Dean felt the warmth and comfort of Castiel’s presence, his breathing gradually evening out as he relaxed.

When Dean woke up again, the bed was empty beside him. He couldn't help but feel a sense of disappointment, wondering if Balthazar's plan had been halted, or perhaps it had never truly begun. He pressed a pillow to his face, hoping to find solace in the lingering scent of Castiel. Today, however, he found no comfort. Frustration bubbled up inside him, and he flipped onto his stomach, screaming into the pillow. The release was unsatisfying, leaving him feeling more defeated. Reluctantly, he got up, still in the clothes he had worn out the previous day. Although he and Castiel now shared a bed, their relationship remained distant, confined to mere proximity. Dean also had a sneaking suspicion that Castiel slept in the same bed as Dean only because he didn't want to sleep on the couch and his own room was trashed. But that did not explain what happened during the night. Then, an idea struck Dean. Perhaps cleaning Castiel’s room together could be a bonding moment.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he took Norma with him downstairs. Balthazar had renewed the allergy spell, allowing Dean to be around Norma without issues, but had warned that it would only last for a month. The witch had hinted that Castiel could create a more permanent solution if nudged in the right direction, but his cryptic manner left Dean unsure of what to believe. In the kitchen, Dean realised that Castiel hadn’t done much grocery shopping recently, likely only buying ingredients for the cake. Dean doubted that offering to do the grocery shopping would be well received given his recent history of stealing and crashing Castiel’s car. Sighing, he looked at Norma.

“Pancakes, huh?” he said, more to himself than to the cat.

Dean set about making pancakes, narrating his actions to Norma as he had seen Castiel do countless times. The familiar routine brought a sense of normalcy, a small comfort in the midst of uncertainty.

"Alright, Norma, let’s get started," Dean said, his voice soft and soothing. "First, we need to mix the dry ingredients. Flour, baking powder, a pinch of salt. You know the drill." Norma sat on the counter, her green eyes following Dean’s every move. He reached for a large mixing bowl and measured out the flour, the fine powder puffing up slightly as he poured it in. Next, he added the baking powder and salt, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon. "Now for the wet ingredients," Dean continued, cracking an egg into a separate bowl. "One egg, beaten. Then we add the milk and a little bit of melted butter." He whisked the wet ingredients together, the mixture turning a pale yellow. Norma’s tail flicked back and forth as she watched, her curiosity evident. "Time to combine them," Dean said, pouring the wet mixture into the dry ingredients. "Slowly, so we don’t get any lumps." He mixed the batter gently, the ingredients coming together to form a smooth, thick mixture. The familiar rhythm of cooking brought a sense of calm, grounding Dean in the present moment.

"Almost there," he said, reaching for the griddle. "Just need to heat this up and we’re good to go." He set the griddle on the stove, turning the heat to medium. As the griddle warmed, he poured a small amount of batter onto the hot surface, watching as it spread out into a perfect circle. "See that, Norma? That’s how you know it’s working," Dean said, smiling as the edges of the pancake began to bubble. "We wait until the bubbles start to pop, then we flip it."

Norma meowed softly, her eyes never leaving the griddle. Dean waited patiently, flipping the pancake once the bubbles had formed. The underside was golden brown, just the way he liked it.

"Perfect," he said, feeling a sense of satisfaction. "Let’s make a few more." He repeated the process, the stack of pancakes growing steadily higher. The kitchen filled with the warm, comforting aroma, a reminder of the mornings he had spent with Castiel. As he cooked, Dean’s mind wandered. He thought about Balthazar’s plan and Castiel’s continued silence. Balthazar had told him that Castiel became silent when he didn’t know how to deal with what was happening, a defence mechanism to cope with overwhelming emotions. Dean knew he needed to be patient, to give Castiel the time and space he needed.

Dean set the table, placing a jar of strawberry jam and then the plate of pancakes in the centre of the table. The table was set for two, a hopeful gesture that Castiel would join him.

As Dean sat down to eat, he heard the front door open. Castiel entered the kitchen, his eyes landing on the table. He paused for a moment before sitting down across from Dean. The silence between them was thick, but Dean could see the effort Castiel was making to be present.

“I made pancakes,” Dean said softly, his voice breaking the silence. “I thought we could eat together.”

Castiel nodded, picking up a fork. He took a tentative bite, his expression neutral. Dean watched him, searching for any sign of emotion.

“They’re good,” Castiel said quietly, his eyes meeting Dean’s for a brief moment before looking away.

“I’m glad you like them.” Dean smiled, feeling a flicker of hope. “I was thinking… maybe we could clean your room together today? It might be a good way to spend some time together.” Dean could see the hesitation in Castiel's eyes. He studied Castiel’s face intently, noting the subtle lines of tension around his mouth, the slight furrow of his brow, and the way his gaze seemed to flit nervously from one point to another before finally settling on the table. Castiel’s usually piercing blue eyes were clouded, his inner monologue reflected in the uncertainty that lingered in his expression. Dean watched as Castiel’s fingers tightened slightly around the fork, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. The quiet between them seemed to stretch, filled with unspoken words and lingering doubts. Dean noticed the way Castiel’s shoulders tensed, the slight downturn of his lips, and the faint shadow of worry that darkened his features. Castiel was struggling, caught in a web of emotions that he couldn’t quite untangle. Finally, Castiel looked away, his gaze dropping to the table.

“Do you not want us to sleep in the same bed, Dean?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean’s heart ached at the question.

“No,” he replied quickly, seeing the distant look beginning to creep into Castiel’s eyes again.

“No?” Castiel echoed, confusion lacing his tone. “Just thought… erm… just thought... erm... that we…” Dean saw the way Castiel's eyes started to glaze over, the distant look beginning to take hold. “Can go back to sleeping in the library.”

“No, I mean that’s not what I meant. I just want to help you. That's all.”

“Oh.” Castiel's voice was small, almost lost. Dean reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Castiel’s arm.

“If you want to, we can start after breakfast.” Castiel hesitated, then nodded slightly.

“It will take a long time.”

“That’s okay,” Dean said, his voice steady and reassuring.

“I don’t want you to waste your day doing something you don’t want to do,” Castiel said, his eyes still focused on the table.

“But I do want to,” Dean insisted gently.

“Okay,” Castiel agreed, his voice barely audible.

Dean kept his frustration under the surface, understanding why Castiel hesitated. All the trust and connection they had built over the past three months had been shattered by Dean’s sudden departure. It had been nothing until it became something, and now the remains of it felt fragile, like a delicate thread that could snap at any moment.

They finished their breakfast in relative silence, the air between them filled with a tentative hope. When they were done, Dean cleared the table while Castiel fed Norma. As they made their way to Castiel’s room, Dean couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation mixed with dread. He had only seen a quick glimpse into Castiel's room the other night, and he was not prepared for the extent of the chaos that greeted them.

The room was a reflection of Castiel's inner turmoil, cluttered and chaotic. Books were knocked over and scattered , their pages covering the floor. A lamp lay shattered against the wall, pieces of glass glinting in the soft light. The desk had been cleared in a single furious motion, papers, books, sketches, and a photograph of Dean strewn across the floor. Dean's heart clenched as he took in the state of the room. It was more than just a mess; it was a physical manifestation of Castiel's frustration, pain, and sense of helplessness.

"Let’s close the door so Norma doesn’t get hurt," Dean suggested softly, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace they had found.

As Dean bent down to start picking up the books, he couldn’t help but glance at the photograph of himself. It was a candid shot, one he didn’t even remember being taken, a mix of guilt and tenderness flooding his chest. The realisation hit him hard; Gabriel must have taken it, capturing a moment that Dean had been oblivious to when he picked Dean out. The presence of the photograph of Dean, untouched amidst the chaos, spoke volumes about the depth of Castiel's feelings that Dean had either not picked up on or realised.

They worked in silence, the act of cleaning becoming a shared effort. Dean picked up the shattered pieces of the lamp, carefully placing them in a box. He watched as Castiel gathered the scattered papers, his movements methodical but tense. The room slowly began to take shape, the chaos giving way to order. As they worked, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling of frustration. He knew why Castiel hesitated; all the trust and connection they had built over the past three months had been thrown away as if it were nothing. And in truth, it had been nothing until it became something. Dean moved to the desk, picking up a stack of papers. He glanced at the sketches, recognising some of the scenes they had shared. There were drawings of the barn, the lambs, Norma, even a few sketches of Dean. Each one was a glimpse into Castiel's mind, to his emotions and thoughts.

"These are really good, Cas," Dean said, hoping to draw him out of his silence. Castiel glanced over, his eyes lingering on the sketches before looking away.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice barely audible. They continued to work, the room gradually becoming more organised. Dean could see the effort Castiel was making, the way he carefully placed each item back in its place. It was a small step, but it was progress.

Dean continued to clean, his focus sharp as he methodically sorted through the clutter. He picked up broken pieces of glass, his fingers moving carefully to avoid getting cut. Castiel worked beside him, their silence a companionable one, each lost in their own thoughts but connected by the shared task. Castiel paused, looking at the room that was slowly beginning to resemble a place of order once more.

"I have to go to the barn," he said, his voice quiet but clear. Dean glanced up, meeting Castiel's gaze.

"Is it okay if I continue while you're gone?" He saw the hesitation in Castiel's eyes, the way his fingers tightened around the edge of a book he was holding. There was a moment of silence, the weight of the unspoken lingering between them. Finally, Castiel nodded.

"Okay." Dean knew that this wasn't what Castiel wanted to say, but he appreciated the effort. The trust that had been broken was slowly being rebuilt, piece by piece. Pride spread through Dean, warming him from within.

As Castiel left, Dean took a deep breath and turned his attention back to the task at hand. He moved with deliberate care, picking up items and placing them where they belonged. The room was a reflection of Castiel's state of mind, and as Dean organised the chaos, he hoped he was helping Castiel find some peace as well. Dean picked up a stack of books, sorting them by size and subject. The shelves slowly filled, the room beginning to look more like a sanctuary and less like a battlefield. He found a small wooden box filled with sketches and drawings, each one a testament to Castiel's talent and inner world. Dean carefully placed the box on the desk, ensuring that it was safe and accessible. The sunlight filtered through the window, casting a warm glow on the now-clean floor. Dean moved to the desk, organising the papers and arranging the sketches in a neat pile. He took a moment to appreciate the drawings, each one a window into Castiel's thoughts and feelings. Dean felt a pang of guilt for leaving, realising once more how deeply Castiel had felt his absence.

Dean's focus shifted to the broken pieces of a lamp scattered on the floor. He carefully gathered the shards, placing them in a box. As he worked, he accidentally brushed against a sharp edge, a small sliver of glass slicing into his finger. He hissed in pain, blood welling up from the cut. Dean paused, cradling his hand and feeling the sting of the injury. He looked around the room, the progress he had made evident in the newfound order. He knew he needed to find something to wrap his finger, but he didn't want to stop working. He found a cloth and wrapped it around the cut, the makeshift bandage stemming the flow of blood.

Determined not to let the injury slow him down, Dean resumed his task. He picked up the last of the scattered papers, stacking them neatly on the desk. The room was almost finished, a few final touches needed to bring it back to its former state. Dean felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing that he had made a difference. As he placed the last book on the shelf, Dean stepped back to admire the room. It was clean, organised, and inviting. The bed was made, the desk cleared, and the floor free of clutter. The transformation was remarkable, and Dean hoped that it would bring Castiel a sense of peace and stability.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the exhaustion of the morning's work settle into his bones. He glanced at the photograph of himself, now on the desk. Dean took a deep breath, and let his thoughts drift to Castiel, imagining him in the barn, tending to the animals. He knew that Castiel found solace in the routine and the presence of the animals, a quiet refuge from the chaos of his emotions. Dean hoped that when Castiel returned, he would see the effort Dean had put into cleaning the room and understand the depth of his commitment. He knew that the road ahead would not be easy, that there would be challenges and obstacles to overcome. But he was ready to face them, to rebuild the trust and connection with Castiel, one step at a time. As he sat in the quiet, newly cleaned room, Dean felt a renewed sense of purpose. He was not alone in this journey, and together, he and Castiel could find their way back to each other.

Dean continued to sit quietly, the room now a sanctuary of calm and order. His mind wandered, drifting through memories of the past few months. Suddenly, Castiel's voice cut through the silence, startling him.

"You're bleeding," Castiel said, his voice filled with quiet concern. Dean looked down at his hand, the makeshift bandage stained with blood.

"I know," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. Castiel nodded, his gaze lingering on Dean's injured hand.

"Okay." Dean took a deep breath, feeling the tension between them.

"Is it like it was before?" he asked, his voice soft.

"It is close enough," Castiel replied, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

"Okay," Dean said, trying to bridge the gap between them.

"Okay," Castiel echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean glanced at the window, the light outside beginning to fade.

"What time is it?"

"Late afternoon," Castiel answered, his eyes never leaving Dean's hand. Dean stood up, feeling the need to move, to do something.

"Okay."

"Okay," Castiel repeated, his voice steady but filled with an unspoken question. Dean walked over to Castiel, holding out his injured hand. Castiel took it gently, unwrapping the bandage with care. The blood welled up once more, dripping over Castiel's fingers and staining his hands. Castiel's brows furrowed as he inspected the cut.

"What happened?" Castiel asked, his voice filled with quiet curiosity.

"Glass," Dean replied, his tone casual despite the pain.

"Ah," Castiel said, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"Yeah," Dean nodded.

"We should take care of that cut," Castiel suggested, his concern evident.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. Castiel gently inspected the cut further, his touch careful and precise. Dean watched him, feeling a mixture of gratitude and something deeper. He moved his hand closer to Castiel's mouth, smearing the blood over Castiel's lips. Dean knew that if it worked it was a form of cheating; his father had told him that werewolves –that purebreds– could become drawn to someone if they tasted their blood. By the way that Castiel's pupils dilated when a drop of blood fell into his mouth suggested there might be some truth to it. Dean's heart pounded as he watched Castiel's reaction. Castiel's eyes continued to darken, his breath quickening. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air between them charged with an electric tension. Dean felt a thrill of anticipation, the connection between them growing stronger with each passing moment. Castiel's gaze locked onto Dean's, a mix of confusion and longing in his eyes.

"Dean..." he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. Dean took a step closer, his heart racing.

"It's okay, Castiel," he said softly, his voice filled with reassurance. Castiel's grip on Dean's hand tightened, his eyes never leaving Dean's. The bond between them felt palpable, a connection that went beyond words. Dean could see the struggle in Castiel's eyes, the battle between his instincts and his emotions. As another drop entered Castiel's mouth his pupils blew wider, and Dean knew he had cheated, but he couldn't help but feel a bit proud of the reaction he had evoked.

"You're bleeding," Castiel repeated, his voice a breathless whisper.

"I know," Dean replied, his voice steady. Castiel's breath came quicker. "You have tasted my blood before. During the wedding ceremony." Castiel's eyes flickered with a memory.

"I spit."

"What?" Dean's brows furrowed in confusion.

"I spit it out," Castiel clarified, his voice barely audible.

"Why did you do that?" Dean asked, the question hanging in the air.

"Didn't want you," Castiel said simply, his voice filled with a raw honesty that took Dean aback. Dean swallowed hard.

"Okay."

"Okay," Castiel echoed, the word a tentative agreement.

"What changed—" Dean began to ask but his words were cut off as Castiel took Dean's finger into his mouth, sucking gently at the wound. Dean's breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. Castiel's tongue lapped at the blood that had dripped along their hands, the sensation sending shivers down Dean's spine. Dean watched, mesmerised, as Castiel looked up at him, his pupils blown so wide that no blue was visible. The intensity in Castiel's gaze was overwhelming, a mix of hunger and need that made Dean's pulse quicken.

The room seemed to close in around them, the air thick with unspoken desire. Dean could feel the connection between them deepening, a bond that went beyond words. He reached out, cupping Castiel's face with his uninjured hand, his thumb brushing gently over Castiel's cheek.Castiel's eyes fluttered closed at the touch, his breath hitching. Dean could feel the warmth of Castiel's skin, the softness of his lips as they parted slightly. The moment stretched on, a fragile thread of connection that bound them together.

"Castiel," Dean whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and longing. Dean's heart pounded in his chest, the anticipation almost unbearable. He leaned in, closing the distance between them, his lips hovering just above Castiel's. The air between them was charged with electricity, the unspoken promise of what was to come.

In that moment, everything else fell away. The pain, the uncertainty, the fear—it all dissolved into the background, leaving only the two of them, connected by a bond that was as deep as it was unbreakable. Dean's breath mingled with Castiel's, the warmth of their closeness a balm to the wounds they both carried.

"Castiel," Dean whispered again, his voice a plea and a promise all at once. Castiel's eyes opened, the depths filled with a mixture of vulnerability and determination.

"Dean," he replied, his voice steady but filled with an unspoken question. Dean closed the final gap between them, his lips meeting Castiel's in a kiss that was as tender as it was passionate. It was a kiss that spoke of forgiveness, of hope, and of a love that was strong enough to weather any storm. In that moment, they were no longer two individuals, but one. The bond between them was unbreakable, a connection that went beyond words and into the very essence of their beings.

As they finally pulled apart, Dean rested his forehead against Castiel's, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The air around them felt charged with a new intensity, a connection that was both exhilarating and grounding. Castiel's eyes were still dark, his pupils blown wide as he looked at Dean.

"You cheated," he whispered, his voice a soft accusation, but there was no anger in his tone, only a quiet acknowledgment of the truth.

"I know," Dean admitted, his voice steady. He watched Castiel, searching for any hint of resentment or hurt but finding none. "You could have spit," Dean said, half teasingly.

"No, Dean.” Castiel shook his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Dean's. “I want you." Dean felt a rush of emotions at those words, a mixture of relief and longing that settled deep within him.

"Okay," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of his acceptance and commitment.

"Okay," Castiel echoed, his tone resolute yet tender.

Castiel's hands found their way to Dean's hair, his fingers threading through the soft strands. With a gentle yet firm motion, Dean picked Castiel up, moving them both to the armchair by the window. He sat down, and Castiel settled into his lap, his legs folded on either side of Dean. It felt natural, intimate, as if they had always belonged like this. Dean slung his arms around Castiel, holding him close. The warmth of Castiel's body against his own was a comforting presence, a reminder that they were not alone in their struggles. Castiel rested his head on Dean's shoulder, his breath warm against Dean's neck. As they sat together, the room around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their shared space. Dean could feel the steady beat of Castiel's heart, a rhythm that matched his own. The silence between them was no longer heavy with unspoken words but filled with a sense of peace and understanding.

"We're breaking the Motion Picture Production Code," Castiel whispered, his voice laced with a hint of amusem*nt. Dean chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest.

"I don't know what that is," he admitted, his tone light. Castiel lifted his head, meeting Dean's eyes.

"It was a set of guidelines for the film industry, meant to maintain moral standards. We're not following the rules." Dean smirked, his thumb brushing gently over Castiel's cheek.

"Good," he said, his voice filled with a quiet defiance. "Some rules are meant to be broken."

Dean gazed into Castiel's eyes, the room around them fading into the background. The kiss had left a sense of yearning in his heart, a connection that begged to be deepened. He leaned in again, ready to close the distance between them when Castiel's words stopped him in his tracks.

"I know you met with Balthazar," Castiel said, his voice soft but certain. Dean blinked, pulling back slightly.

"You knew?"

“Yes,”Castiel nodded, his eyes never leaving Dean's. "I could smell him on you, Dean. I have known his scent my entire life, I recognise it in a second. And you're not allergic." Dean's mind raced, scrambling for the right response.

"I–"

"It's okay," Castiel interrupted, his tone gentle, almost soothing. Dean felt a wave of relief wash over him.

"It’s okay?"

“Yeah,” Castiel's fingers threaded through Dean's hair, the touch both calming and intimate. "It is okay," he repeated, nodding slightly. Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. "He helped you back, didn't he?" Castiel asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean closed his eyes, absorbing the closeness of the moment.

"He did." Dean knew that now was not the right time to divulge Balthazar’s plan. Castiel didn’t need to know the full truth, not yet. AND Dean didn’t want to think about the witch when Castiel was this close, when their connection felt so real and immediate. To block out all of the lingering thoughts about Balthazar Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him even closer. The warmth of Castiel's body against his own was a comforting presence, a reminder that they were not alone in their struggles. He felt Castiel relax into his embrace, the tension slowly melting away.

As they sat together, the room around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their shared space. Dean could feel the steady beat of Castiel's heart, a rhythm that matched his own. The silence between them was no longer filled with unspoken words but with a sense of peace and understanding. Dean looked up, his gaze meeting Castiel's once more. He could see the curiosity and confusion in Castiel's eyes, a reflection of his own feelings.

"I never thought you would be one of the wolves attracted to blood," Dean said, his voice tinged with surprise.

"Me neither," Castiel admitted, a faint smile playing on his lips. "But it isn't like anyone tried before you."

"Still," Dean began, his thoughts trailing off as he considered the implications.

"How did you learn about it?" Castiel asked, his tone filled with quiet curiosity.

"My dad," Dean replied simply, his mind flicking back to the many lessons his father had imparted over the years. Castiel closed his eyes as he hummed thoughtfully, the sound resonating between them. Dean could feel the tension in the air dissipating, replaced by a sense of shared understanding. "Castiel?" Dean ventured, his voice soft.

"Dean," Castiel replied, opening his eyes, meeting Dean's with an intensity that sent a shiver down Dean's spine. Yet Dean could not deny that he was slightly disappointed when he noticed that much of the blue had returned. The dark pupils had receded, leaving behind the familiar, piercing blue that Dean knew so well. Dean almost wanted to make Castiel aroused again by giving him more blood but decided against it. They had time.

"What now?" Dean asked, the question hanging between them, heavy with unspoken possibilities.

"Now you kiss me," Castiel said, his voice steady.

"Just like that?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. Castiel furrowed his brows.

"You don't want to?" Castiel began to climb off Dean's lap, but Dean tightened his grip, refusing to let him go.

"Castiel?" Dean called, his voice firm.

"Dean," Castiel replied, his tone filled with a mix of confusion and hope.

"Castiel?" Dean repeated, his eyes searching Castiel's face for any sign of doubt.

"Yeah?" Castiel responded, his voice softening.

"I absolutely want to," Dean said, his voice filled with conviction.

"Okay, Dean," Castiel said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Dean's heart swelled with emotion as he leaned in, his lips finding Castiel's in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. The connection between them was electric, a spark that ignited a fire deep within their souls. Dean's hand cupped the back of Castiel's head, his fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair as he deepened the kiss. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their own private universe. Castiel's hands clung to Dean's shoulders, his fingers pressing into the fabric of Dean's shirt as if anchoring himself to the moment. The kiss was a silent conversation, a sharing of hopes and fears, a promise of a future built together. Dean felt a surge of warmth and love, a sense of belonging that he had longed for but had never quite found until now.

As they finally pulled apart, both of them breathing heavily, Dean rested his forehead against Castiel's. They had time.

Chapter 39

Chapter Text

The barn was quiet save for the soft sounds of animals feeding. Castiel sat cross-legged, methodically bottle-feeding each lamb, the January air still crisp despite the dawn of February. His mind wandered as he watched the lambs nuzzle and drink, the routine task grounding him in a semblance of normalcy. Gabriel stood leaning against the barn wall, his amber eyes watching his younger brother intently.

"You have to punish him, Castiel," Gabriel said, his voice cutting through the silence. Castiel didn't look up from the lamb he was feeding.

"I don't want to," he replied, his tone even but resolute.

"Don't you get it? If you don't, he will think he can get away with this too," Gabriel pressed, his frustration evident in his voice. Castiel set down the empty bottle and picked up another, moving on to the next lamb.

"He came back," he said simply. Gabriel pushed off from the wall and took a step closer.

"Castiel, you have to," he insisted, his tone a mix of urgency and exasperation.

“No.”

“No?”

"No," Castiel said again, his voice firmer this time. Gabriel's eyes narrowed.

“You should.”

"What does it matter to you?" Castiel asked, a hint of challenge in his voice.

“If you don't do it, Castiel, it shows that you are weak.” Castiel paused, looking at Gabriel for the first time.

"So what if I am weak?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady. Gabriel's expression softened slightly, but his stance remained firm.

“Castiel?”

“Yes?”

"It shows that we are weak, Castiel," he said, moving closer and crouching down in front of his brother. Castiel returned his attention to the lambs.

"Do I have to, Gabriel?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Gabriel's eyes locked onto Castiel's.

"You have to," he repeated, his voice gentler but no less insistent.

"No," Castiel said, shaking his head.

“No?”

“No.”

“No?” Gabriel let out a sigh, frustration mingling with a touch of sympathy. "Well, if you don't, I will," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“No.” Castiel's eyes widened. "You can't do that," he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of fear and defiance.

“No?” Gabriel's raised an eyebrow.

“No.”

"No?" Gabriel asked again, lips curled into a tight smile.

"No," Castiel repeated again, his voice firmer. "That is against the rules." Gabriel's smile faded, replaced by a look of steely determination.

"Well, if we were just brothers, yes, but seeing as I am pack leader, I can—"

"No," Castiel interrupted, his voice strong and unyielding. Gabriel stared at him for a long moment, the tension between them palpable. Finally, he stood up, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation.

"You better punish him, Castiel, and soon at that. We can't be weak. You can't be weak, Castiel." Castiel watched as Gabriel turned and walked toward the barn door. "Two days, Cassie," Gabriel called over his shoulder. "One for each lamb." Castiel's gaze returned to the lambs, his mind racing. He didn't want to punish Dean, but Gabriel's words weighed heavily on him. The lambs continued to nuzzle against him, oblivious to the threat that they had just received. As the barn door creaked shut behind Gabriel, Castiel let out a deep breath. He finished feeding the lambs, his movements mechanical, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He didn't know what to do, but he knew he couldn't let Gabriel's words go unheeded. The pack's strength depended on their unity, and any sign of weakness could be their downfall.

Castiel stood up, his legs stiff from sitting too long. He looked around the barn, taking in the familiar sights and sounds. The barn had always been his sanctuary, a place where he could escape the pressures of his role in the pack. But now, even here, he couldn't escape the weight of his responsibilities. He made his way to the house, his steps slow and deliberate. As he entered, the warmth of the kitchen enveloped him, a stark contrast to the cold outside. Dean was at the table, flipping through a book. He looked up as Castiel entered, his green eyes filled with a mix of hope and apprehension.

"Castiel," Dean said softly, setting the book aside. "How are the lambs?"

"Fine," Castiel replied, his voice clipped. He walked over to the sink and washed his hands, the warm water soothing his cold, stiff fingers. Dean watched him, his expression wary.

"Something wrong?" Castiel turned off the tap and dried his hands, avoiding Dean's gaze.

"Gabriel wants me to punish you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Punish me?” Dean's eyes widened in surprise. “For what?"

"For leaving," Castiel said, his voice tight. "He says if I don't, it will show that we are weak." Dean stood up, crossing the room to stand in front of Castiel.

"And what do you think?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. Castiel looked up at him, his blue eyes filled with uncertainty.

"I don't want to punish you, you came back," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "But Gabriel is right. If I don't, it will look like we are weak." Dean reached out, taking Castiel's hands in his own.

"Cas, listen to me," he said, his voice steady. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." Castiel looked into Dean's eyes, searching for reassurance.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean squeezed his hands, a comforting pressure.

"We'll figure it out together," he said, his voice filled with determination. "You're not alone in this. We’re a team, right?" Castiel felt a surge of relief at Dean's words. He nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope.

"Okay," he said, his voice steadier. Dean smiled, a warm, reassuring smile that made Castiel's heart ache with gratitude.

"Good," he said. "Now, how about we have some breakfast and then we can talk about what to do next?" Castiel nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Okay," he said again. Dean and Castiel sat down at the table, the aroma of freshly made tea and pancakes filling the kitchen. The jar of strawberry jam sat between them, a familiar staple for their morning meals. Dean broke the silence, his voice soft but probing.

"What type of punishments are common?" Castiel looked at the pancakes for a moment before replying, his tone matter-of-fact.

"It depends on the offence. Punishments can range from simple declarations to physical reprimands, or even imprisonment. Imprisonment is usually reserved for when there's no concrete proof but the accused spouse needs to be removed for a while." Dean furrowed his brow, taking in the information.

"Spouse?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. Dean continued, "Not wife?"

"No." Castiel narrowed his eyes, slightly irritated. Dean seemed puzzled.

"No?"

"No," Castiel repeated, his voice firm.

"I thought—" Dean began, but Castiel cut him off.

"The firstborn inherits, regardless of gender," Castiel explained. "The one with higher status is the only one allowed to give out punishment."

"Jesus." Dean whispered under his breath. Castiel’s eyes flickered with confusion.

"What is wrong? Those are the rules; they have always been the rules." Dean sighed, trying to grasp the complexity.

"So you are to punish me because you're the pack leader’s brother?"

"Yes," Castiel replied simply.

"And I am just some guy?" Dean pressed, his voice tinged with frustration.

"Yes," Castiel said again.

"Thanks, Cas." Dean's shoulders sagged slightly. Castiel looked momentarily taken aback.

"Well, I mean, to them." Dean shook his head.

"No, I know what you meant, Castiel. But the punishments seem kind of public. Why have I never seen them?" Castiel glanced at the nearly empty jar of strawberry jam.

"We’re out of strawberry jam," he muttered, standing up abruptly. Dean grabbed his wrist, preventing him from leaving.

"There isn’t any more in the cupboard, Cas." Castiel’s eyes widened, his world seeming to tilt on its axis.

"There isn’t?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Why haven’t I seen the punishments, Castiel?" Dean asked, his grip firm but gentle. Castiel's composure cracked.

"Because I don’t take you to watch them, okay?" he snapped. Dean blinked, taken aback.

"I—"

"I don’t take you because I’d rather not see you pulled up on that stage! Never did," Castiel continued, his voice rising.

"Stage?" Dean echoed, his confusion deepening.

"Yes, Dean, a stage," Castiel spat. "They are public punishments. And even if the higher-ranking mate doesn't want to, they can be pressured by the crowd."

"I didn’t—" Dean started, but Castiel cut him off again.

"Know ? No, how could you? I have not taken you there," Castiel said, his frustration evident.

"Calm down, Castiel," Dean urged, his voice soothing.

"I didn’t think you would like to watch people get hurt, Dean. Maybe I was wrong," Castiel retorted, his eyes flashing.

"No, Castiel,” Dean shook his head. “I don’t want to see people get hurt." Castiel’s anger simmered just below the surface.

"Well, I’m pretty sure they would have dragged us up on the stage for the time you yelled at me outside when you 'cleaned' the garden up."

"Castiel, breathe, please," Dean said, standing and approaching him slowly.

"Or any of the other times! Take your pick. The pack is built on respecting hierarchies and you haven’t since the day you got here. They have plenty of reasons to want to see you punished, AND you're from another pack, so that may just be reason enough in some eyes," Castiel continued, his voice shaking. Dean reached out, his hands gentle on Castiel’s shoulders.

"Castiel, please, let's finish breakfast."

"But we’re out of jam," Castiel repeated, his voice hollow.

"I know," Dean said softly. "Maybe we can eat the rest of the pancakes with something else? Balthazar ate his with just sugar on top. Maybe we can do that, yeah?" Castiel looked at Dean, the tension slowly draining from his body.

"Okay," he agreed quietly.

Dean poured some sugar onto the remaining pancakes, the crystals catching the light. Castiel took a tentative bite, the sweetness mingling with the warmth of the pancake. It wasn’t the same as the strawberry jam, but it was something familiar, a small comfort in the midst of the chaos. The silence between them was filled with unspoken understanding, each bite a step toward mending the rift that had formed. Castiel’s mind wandered back to Gabriel’s words, the pressure to punish Dean weighing heavily on him. He stabbed at his food absentmindedly, lost in thought.

"I think they’re dead, Cas." Dean said, glancing at Castiel’s plate. Castiel looked up, confused.

"What?" Dean nodded toward Castiel's pancakes.

"I think they’re dead."

"Yeah, maybe," Castiel replied, his voice distant. Dean leaned in slightly.

"What's on your mind?"

"Gabriel is impatient," Castiel said, his brow furrowed.

"About the punishment?" Dean asked.

"Yes, Dean, about the punishment." Dean attempted a small smile.

"You’re dishing it out to the pancakes quite easily."

"This isn't funny, Dean," Castiel snapped. "Gabriel said I have two days."

"Two days?" Dean echoed, taken aback.

"Yes, 'one for each lamb’ ," Castiel confirmed. Dean's eyes widened.

"He’s going for the lambs?"

"Yes." Castiel nodded solemnly.

"I’m sorry, Cas." Dean reached out, his hand covering Castiel’s.

"You’ve been back for a week and a half. Of course the pack is watching," Castiel said, his voice tinged with frustration. Dean tried to lighten the mood.

"You took really good care of the lambs."

"Took?" Castiel echoed, catching the past tense. Dean hesitated.

"What if you just let Gabriel wait—"

"Are you serious?" Castiel interrupted, his voice rising.

"It might be an empty threat, Castiel," Dean suggested gently.

"No, I don’t think so," Castiel replied, shaking his head.

"Well, what's the worst that can happen if we wait?" Dean asked, trying to understand the full scope of the situation.

"He kills them, Dean. He kills the lambs," Castiel said, his voice breaking slightly. Dean took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully.

"I know you think they are innocent creatures and all that, but—"

"They are innocent," Castiel interjected.

"Yes, but—" Dean began.

"What?" Castiel snapped.

"Calm down, Castiel. Let me speak, yeah? People die every day, animals die every day. Animals go to slaughter every day," Dean said, trying to make a point.

"You can't be serious," Castiel said, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Let me make this simple for you then, Castiel. Do you care more about me or the twin lambs?"

"It's different," Castiel replied, his voice trembling.

"I get that. Answer," Dean insisted gently.

"Can’t," Castiel said, shaking his head.

"You can," Dean pressed, his voice steady.

"Stop," Castiel pleaded, looking away.

"No," Dean said firmly.

"’Tis different," Castiel repeated, his voice breaking.

"Answer, Cas," Dean pressed, his tone hardening. Castiel's gaze fell to his plate, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. He felt torn between his loyalty to the pack and his fondness for Dean. The lambs had become a symbol of his struggle, their innocence mirroring the complexity of his own situation. Finally, Castiel took a deep breath, lifting his eyes to meet Dean’s.

"I care about you," he said softly. "But the lambs are innocent, too."

"Let's wait then, okay?" Dean suggested, his voice gentle.

"How can you be so sure?" Castiel asked, uncertainty lacing his words.

"Call it intuition," Dean replied with a small smile.

"Like with the blood?" Castiel asked, remembering.

"Yes," Dean affirmed. "Like with the blood."

"That was a week ago," Castiel said, his voice tinged with hesitation.

"Yes."

"Is that normal?" Castiel inquired, his eyes searching Dean's.

"To make out once a week?" Dean asked, trying to clarify.

"Yes."

"There isn't really any real ‘normal' when it comes to relationships, Castiel," Dean explained, his tone patient.

"Oh." Castiel looked thoughtful.

"Yeah, each relationship finds its own normal in time," Dean continued, trying to reassure him.

"You have had relationships," Castiel stated more than asked.

"Yes."

"Jo was... nice," Castiel said, thinking back. “For a human.”

"Jo is just a friend," Dean corrected gently.

"On your birthday. She likes you," Castiel said, recalling the memory.

"It wasn't like that, Castiel," Dean insisted.

"No?"

"No."

"Then...?" Castiel pressed, his curiosity piqued.

"It was casual," Dean admitted.

"You were dating?" Castiel asked, trying to understand.

"No."

"So then?" Castiel persisted.

"It was just casual," Dean repeated.

"I don’t understand," Castiel confessed.

"Cas, can we not talk about—"

"I am just trying to understand, Dean," Castiel interrupted.

"I get that, but—" Dean began.

"You were supposed to be a virgin," Castiel said, the words surprising both of them.

"What?" Dean asked, taken aback.

"In the peace treaty," Castiel clarified.

"Do you care?" Dean asked, searching Castiel's eyes.

"No."

"Then what, Cas?" Dean asked, his patience wearing thin.

"Why won't you tell me?" Castiel pressed.

"Because..." Dean looked away, struggling with his emotions.

"What, Dean?" Castiel asked softly. “Because it was a human?”

"Because I don't want to hurt you," Dean admitted, his voice filled with sincerity.

"I don’t care that you had sex before marriage," Castiel said, trying to reassure him.

"There were others, not just Jo," Dean confessed, his voice tinged with regret.

“Humans?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Intriguing.”

“Cas, can we not–”

"It was before the marriage. It does not matter," Castiel insisted.

"It might still hurt you," Dean said softly, looking into Castiel's eyes.

"I want to know," Castiel said, his voice steady and insistent.

"Cas—"

"I want to know," Castiel repeated, his eyes searching Dean's.

"Maybe later, yeah?" Dean said, trying to postpone the inevitable. Castiel's disappointment was palpable.

"Okay," he said softly. Dean attempted to shift the mood.

"Do you wanna watch something?"

"No," Castiel replied, his voice still carrying the weight of their conversation.

"Are you sure?" Dean asked, his concern evident.

"Yes," Castiel answered firmly.

"Are you finished?" Dean asked, gesturing to the plates.

"Yes," Castiel said, even though there was still food on his plate, the pancakes mushed up from his stabbing. Dean began clearing the table.

"Do you need help in the barn today?"

"No," Castiel replied, standing up. Dean turned to look at him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Castiel said, his voice resolute.

“Castiel… ” Dean sighed. "I will tell you eventually, I just don’t feel like it is the best time right now—"

"I just don’t want to watch something, okay?” Castiel snapped, his frustration bubbling over. “Is that okay with you, Dean?"

"Yes, it is okay," Dean said softly, trying to placate him.

"I got the television as a Christmas gift for you, Dean. You can watch whatever you want," Castiel said, his voice softening slightly. Dean approached and wrapped his arms around Castiel.

"I know, I just—" Castiel moved away, the contact too much.

"No."

"Okay," Dean said, his voice filled with concern.

"I can do the dishes if you wanna go watch something," Castiel offered, trying to create some space between them.

"No, it is okay. I want to do the dishes with you," Dean insisted.

"We don’t need two people doing the dishes," Castiel said, his tone practical.

"I like doing the dishes with you," Dean said, his voice warm. Norma entered the kitchen and meowed. Dean smiled. " See? Even Norma wants us to do the dishes together."

"Okay," Castiel agreed, his voice softening.

As Dean and Castiel did the dishes together, Norma jumped up onto the counter and watched them, her presence a comforting constant. As they worked side by side, Castiel felt a small measure of peace return, the simple act of washing dishes grounding him in the midst of the chaos that surrounded them. The kitchen was warm, the soft hum of the refrigerator was a gentle backdrop to the clinking of dishes and the swish of running water. Dean rolled up his sleeves, revealing his strong forearms, and turned on the tap, the water splashing warmly against his hands. He grabbed the griddle first, where he had made the pancakes, and began scrubbing away the remnants of batter and butter. Castiel stood beside him, a dish towel in hand, ready to dry each item as Dean passed it over. The rhythm of their movements created a silent dance, a routine they had perfected over time. As Dean cleaned the griddle, Castiel took it from him, drying it meticulously before placing it back in its spot on the counter.

Next came the two plates they had eaten on. Dean rinsed them carefully, the soap suds swirling down the drain. Castiel dried them, his movements precise, each dish handled with care. The spoon used for the jam followed, its small size almost lost in Dean's large hands as he cleaned it thoroughly. Castiel dried it quickly and set it aside. Dean moved on to the utensils, the fork and knife each meticulously cleaned before being handed to Castiel. The bowls used for making the pancake batter was next, Dean's fingers scrubbing away the last traces of flour and milk. Castiel dried it with the same care he had shown the others, the methodical process soothing his troubled mind. Norma watched with wide, curious eyes, her tail flicking lazily. She meowed softly, as if reminding them of her presence. Dean smiled at her, a warm, affectionate smile that reached his eyes. Castiel glanced at Norma, his expression softening as he reached out to scratch behind her ears. The spatula, used to flip the pancakes, was the last item. Dean cleaned it with a steady hand, his thoughts a million miles away. Castiel took it from him, drying it slowly, his eyes lost in thought.

"She's always watching us, isn't she?" Dean remarked, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

"Yes, she is," Castiel replied, his voice soft. "She likes being with us." Dean nodded, turning back to the sink.

"I like doing this with you, Cas," he said quietly. "It feels... normal." Castiel paused, looking at Dean.

"Normal is good," he said softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. They finished the dishes together, the last of the water draining away. Dean turned off the tap, wiping his hands on a towel. Castiel placed the last dried dish in its place, feeling a sense of accomplishment, however small. Norma meowed again, her eyes following their every move. Dean reached out to pick her up, cradling her against his chest.

"See, Norma? All done," he said with a chuckle. Castiel watched them, a feeling of contentment settling over him. Despite the uncertainty and tension that lay ahead, this moment of domesticity, of shared tasks and unspoken understanding, brought him a sense of peace. It was in these small, everyday acts that he found solace, a reminder that amidst the chaos, there was still a semblance of normalcy to hold onto.

Castiel spent his day in the barn, immersing himself in the familiar tasks of tending to the animals. The rhythmic sounds of the barn, the soft rustle of hay offered a temporary reprieve from the storm within. He found solace in the simplicity of the chores, each completed task providing a small sense of accomplishment. By the time he finished, the sky outside had darkened, the February chill seeping into his bones. Castiel trudged back to the house, his breath visible in the cold night air. As he opened the door, the warmth of the kitchen greeted him, along with the comforting aroma of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Dean stood by the counter, plating the food with a focused expression. The table was set neatly, a simple but thoughtful arrangement that filled Castiel with a bittersweet sense of gratitude.

"You don’t have to do this," Castiel said quietly, his voice tinged with exhaustion. Dean looked up, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I wanted to." Castiel sighed and sat down, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Dean joined him at the table, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across their faces. "We are running pretty low on a lot of stuff," Dean mentioned, his tone casual but concerned.

"I’ll get more," Castiel replied, trying to sound reassuring.

"I can come with you," Dean offered.

"I don’t know, Dean.” Castiel hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I don’t think Gabriel—"

"Then don’t think. You can’t just let Gabriel run your life," Dean interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"He is the pack leader."

"And he is your brother, I know. But that does not mean you cannot decide things for yourself," Dean countered.

"You are supposed to listen to the pack leader," Castiel insisted, his voice wavering slightly.

"I get that, but you don’t always, do you?" Dean pressed, his eyes locking onto Castiel’s. Castiel looked away, his voice barely a whisper.

"I—"

"I know you break from the small things all the time, Cas. And you have even broken traditions – the harvest festival, Christmas lunch, New Year's," Dean reminded him.

"I’m sorry about the harvest festival, okay? But I thought you didn’t want to go to Christmas or New Year's, which is why we stayed home," Castiel defended himself, his voice rising slightly.

"You’re right, I didn’t. But if you can break away from big things like that, why can’t you also break from more things?" Dean questioned. Castiel took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging.

"Dean, I am. You told me to wait."

"With the punishment thing," Dean acknowledged.

"Yes, Dean, with the punishment thing," Castiel confirmed.

"I think that’s a great step. But you could—"

"No, Dean. One thing at a time," Castiel interrupted, his tone final.

"Okay," Dean conceded.

"Good," Castiel replied, a hint of relief in his voice. Dean decided to shift the conversation, probably trying to lighten the mood.

"I watched some Kitchen Nightmares episodes today." Castiel raised an eyebrow.

"That doesn’t sound pleasant."

"It’s a cooking show," Dean explained, seeing Castiel’s confusion he continued. "Well, kind of. Gordon Ramsay —I told you about him once, remember?— he goes to these failing restaurants and tries to fix them up."

"Is that fun?" Castiel asked, trying to understand the appeal.

"There are like eight seasons. It started like fifteen years ago, and went on for a few years before cancelling it. But they made a reboot in 2023," Dean replied, enthusiasm creeping into his voice.

"How does he fix them up?"

"Well,” Dean leaned forward, animated, “he visits a struggling restaurant to diagnose its problems, often finding issues with the food quality, cleanliness, and management." Castiel wrinkled his nose.

"That sounds gross."

"Maybe, but it’s part of the charm," Dean said with a chuckle. “After a tense confrontation and initial resistance from the staff and owners, he implements a series of changes, including revamping the menu, retraining the staff, and redecorating the establishment. The episode concludes with a relaunch event, where the restaurant showcases its improvements to a hopeful reception from customers and a renewed sense of optimism among the team.”

"Why would people come?" Castiel wondered, his scepticism clear.

"Because he fixed it up." Dean explained.

"But it was gross," Castiel persisted.

"And he made it not gross. That’s like the whole point, Cas," Dean clarified.

"But if it’s still the same people working and owning the place, can it really change that much?" Castiel asked, his logical mind trying to piece it together.

"Well, I guess that’s why a lot of them end up closing anyway. And that they usually are in debt already," Dean admitted.

"So it’s pointless," Castiel concluded.

"Not pointless, Cas, just reality TV," Dean corrected, a hint of amusem*nt in his voice. Castiel took the first bite of his pasta, the flavours mingling pleasantly on his tongue.

"The pasta is good."

"I know you like pasta and tomato sauce," Dean said softly, a warm smile spreading across his face.

Castiel and Dean had been sharing Dean's bed on the second floor for over a week. Castiel believed Dean insisted on this arrangement to give Castiel the freedom to leave and be alone if needed. Although he appreciated the gesture, he feared asking Dean in case that wasn’t the real reason.

The next day, Dean prepared food again, but Castiel couldn't bring himself to eat. His anxiety about the lambs gnawed at him. Dean, gentle at first, tried to coax Castiel into eating but soon grew frustrated, his voice rising as he called Castiel impossible. Hurt by the outburst, Castiel spent the rest of the day in the barn, cherishing his moments with the lambs, aware that they might be the last, especially with Gabriel taking on more responsibilities their father had once shouldered. Despite the tension, they still shared Dean's bed that night, Dean not offering an apology.

Then February third arrived, and Castiel slipped out of bed early. He found solace in the barn, pressing his face into the wool of the twin lambs, tears soaking into their soft coats. He wept, knowing this was likely the last time he would be with them. After a while, he looked up through blurred vision to see Gabriel standing nearby.

"Hi, Cassie," Gabriel greeted.

"Gabriel," Castiel replied, his voice strained.

"Have you figured out a punishment yet, Cassie?" Gabriel asked, his tone almost casual.

"No," Castiel admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

"No?" Gabriel asked, tilting his head. Castiel swallowed hard.

"No, Gabriel. I have not picked out a punishment for Dean."

"Then it is my pick, Cassie," Gabriel said, his tone firm but not unkind.

"You don’t have to," Castiel pleaded, desperation in his voice.

"No, Castiel, you don’t have to, but I do," Gabriel replied, his resolve unwavering. “ We can't be weak, Castiel. ”

"When?" Castiel asked, his heart pounding.

"Midday," Gabriel answered before turning and leaving. As the realisation of the impending punishment hit him, Castiel's emotions overwhelmed him. Castiel clung to the lamb he had been feeding, his tears flowing freely again. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and his body shook with uncontrollable sobs. The barn, once a place of solace, felt suffocating as his mind spiralled. He rocked back and forth, clutching the lamb tightly, the soft wool a small comfort against the storm inside him.

"It is going to be alright. It is going to be alright. It is going to be alright. It is going to be..." he repeated, his voice breaking with each word. His thoughts raced, a torrent of fear, guilt, and helplessness. He could hear his own heartbeat, loud and erratic, each beat echoing his despair. The familiar scents of hay and animals that usually brought him peace now felt stifling. The pressure built inside him, his chest tightening as he struggled to breathe. "Is going to be… Is going to be. It is going to be alright. It is going to be..." He buried his face in the lamb's wool, seeking comfort in its warmth. His hands trembled as he tried to calm himself, but the emotions were too strong, too consuming. The world around him blurred, his vision clouded by tears, his mind unable to focus on anything but the overwhelming sense of impending loss and failure. Castiel’s sobs turned into choked cries, his voice echoing in the quiet barn. He felt trapped, his thoughts a whirlwind of regret and fear. The walls seemed to close in on him, the once comforting barn now a prison of his own making. He clung to the lamb, his lifeline in the chaos, repeating to himself, "It is going to be alright. It is going to be alright," but the words felt hollow, a futile attempt to calm the storm raging within.

As the minutes passed, his cries softened, exhaustion taking over. He lay on the barn floor, the lamb nestled against him, its presence a small, fragile comfort. The world outside continued, unaware of the turmoil within the barn. Castiel closed his eyes, his body trembling as he fought to regain some semblance of control, the enormity of the situation weighing heavily on him, his heart aching with the knowledge of what was to come.

Castiel stumbled back to the house just in time to see Victor and Benny dragging Dean out. Dean's eyes locked onto Castiel's, confusion and hurt evident in his gaze.

“I’m sorry.” Castiel whispered. When Castiel tried to approach, he was held back. He turned his head to see the unmistakable fire of Charlie’s red hair. “Let go,” Castiel demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and desperation. Castiel turnd towards Charlie fully as she let him go.

“I am so sorry, Cassie,” Charlie said, her expression pained.

“I’m still mad at you,” Castiel shot back.

“I know. But I am here under Gabriel’s orders, Castiel.” Charlie reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a knife and a jar. Castiel's eyes widened in horror.

“No, Gabriel wouldn’t,” Castiel protested, his voice shaking.

“I am so, so sorry, Cassie,” Charlie repeated, her voice filled with regret. Castiel felt bile rise in his throat as Charlie gripped his arm tightly.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, panic setting in. Charlie’s apologies continued, her voice breaking as she sliced Castiel’s skin, letting the blood drip into the jar filled with wolfsbane and silver shavings. Castiel winced in pain, his mind reeling. “No, no, no, no, no. Charlie, you can’t do this. You can’t,” Castiel pleaded, his voice desperate. Charlie sealed the jar and put it back in her bag. She then pulled out a bandage and wrapped it around Castiel’s wrist. Castiel felt tears streaming down his face, his spirit breaking under the weight of betrayal.

“I am to bring you there,” Charlie said softly.

Castiel felt detached as Charlie led him into the forest. His heart sank when he saw not just a few, but nearly all packmates gathered there. Hundreds of people stood around, their eyes fixed on the stage where Ishim and Gabriel were discussing something. Castiel didn’t need to listen; he already knew what was going to happen. On the stage stood an iron cage, and Castiel’s breath hitched as he caught Dean’s fear filled green eyes. He felt like he was going to break down, the situation becoming too much to bear.

“Come on, Cassie. Gabriel said you don’t need to administer it, but you need to be up front. See it being done,” Charlie urged, guiding him through the crowd.

“Charlie, no, please,” Castiel begged, but Charlie didn’t listen. She moved him to the front and sat him down. Castiel wanted to run away, but the look Victor gave him made it clear that he wouldn’t get far.

As Gabriel approached the cage with Dean inside, the audience held their breath in anticipation. Castiel’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched Charlie hand the jar to Ishim. Castiel closed his eyes, trying to block out the sounds, but he was shaken back to reality as Dean stood in the middle of the stage with Ishim forcing him to drink the mixture. Castiel watched in horror as Dean began to shake uncontrollably. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as Kali brought the lambs onto the stage. Dean fell to the floor, hurling and coughing. Castiel knew this was as much a punishment for him as it was for Dean. Then, Dean transformed into his wolf form on the stage. The mixture of wolfsbane, silver shavings, and werewolf blood forced the transformation, but it was not smooth. It was painful and violent, the poison and torture driving Dean to the brink of madness. Castiel held his breath as he saw Dean pick up the scent of the lambs. In an instant, Dean’s instincts took over. He lunged at the first lamb, ripping its head off and throwing it across the stage. Castiel’s eyes locked onto the severed head as it rolled off the stage and landed in front of him, unable to bear the sight of Dean’s torment. The sounds of the crowd, the cries of the lambs, and Dean’s snarls all blurred together. Castiel felt his soul shatter as he watched Dean, driven mad by the mixture, kill the lambs in a frenzy. Tears streamed down Castiel’s face, his heart breaking for both Dean and the innocent creatures caught in this cruel display. He couldn’t look away from the head until he heard the second lamb cry out in fear, the sound echoing in his ears, a haunting reminder of the brutality of the punishment.

Chapter 40

Chapter Text

If someone would have told Dean a year ago that he would no longer be working at the bistro, that he would be forced into a marriage, that he would escape it, and then that he would be saved by a witch only to be given an ultimatum that would force him back into said marriage, he would have laughed in them in the face. And then, maybe, he would have asked for some of whatever they were on. Never would he have imagined being up on a stage, surrounded by a cheering crowd. As Dean came to it the taste of lambs' blood lingered in his mouth, a sickening reminder of what he had done; he ripped apart the lambs his husband had cared for over the past month. Dean raised his head and looked at Castiel, seeing the bandage on his arm. Realisation hit him hard—it was Castiel's blood he had drunk. Dean hadn’t even believed in the old tales about the mixture that forced a werewolf to transform, thinking them more legend than reality. But now, with the poison still pulsing through him, he was acutely aware of the sharpness of his instincts. Dean closed his eyes, recalling the recipe: werewolf blood, wolfsbane, and silver shards. It was said to force a werewolf to transform, instincts taking over and preventing them from changing back. His instincts. Of course Dean's instincts had driven him to feed on the lambs. f*ck. Balthazar had prepared meat dishes during Dean’s stay, and Castiel hadn’t commented when Dean ordered meat on his birthday, but that was over a week ago. Going days without meat wasn't any good for a werewolf who had grown up eating it. No matter how many pancakes or bowls of pasta he ate it did nothing to satisfy the hunger of real meat.

Opening his eyes, Dean searched Castiel's face, but found it blank as he took a step towards Castiel the blank expression quickly turned into fear. Dean tried to take another step but was held back by something—a collar around his neck. He hurled, the blood of the lambs mixed with his own saliva dripping out. Turning his head he saw Gabriel and the man who had forced him to drink the mixture. Gabriel held the leash securely, tilting his head as if daring Dean to make a move. Dean didn't want to. Gabriel said something to the crowd, but Dean couldn't hear it over the pain which spread through his body like a thousand small knives, stabbing all at once. Dean wanted to focus on the pain he looked back at Castiel hoping it would ground or distract him, only to see that castiel was no longer looking at Dean, his eyes locked on something on the ground in front of him. Dean felt a surge of helpless anger, not only had Castiel been right about Gabriel's threat not being empty, but Castiel himself had been punished by seeing the lambs killed— by Dean. Dean felt the knives churning in his throat, attacking his lunges. He looked back at Gabriel, whose amber eyes held a mix of satisfaction and disappointment. The crowd's cheers were deafening, a cacophony of approval and condemnation. Dean felt a pang of guilt and shame. The crowd's energy shifted as Gabriel raised his hand, signalling for silence. He stepped closer to Dean, his voice carrying authority and a hint of menace.

"Let this be a lesson to all," Gabriel announced. "No one, not even my own brother's husband, is ever above the rules." Dean’s ears rang with the crowd’s response. His body ached, the transformation had left him raw and vulnerable. He glanced at Castiel, hoping for some sign of support, but Castiel's gaze remained on the ground. Gabriel continued, "Dean Winchester has broken our trust, and now he pays the price. Let this serve as a reminder of our strength and unity." Dean's vision blurred. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the anguish in his heart. He had been reduced to a spectacle, a lesson in obedience and submission. The crowd’s approval felt like a knife twisting in his gut. As Gabriel addressed the pack, Dean's thoughts drifted to the past months. The forced marriage, the escape, Balthazar's ultimatum—all leading to this moment. He had thought he could find a way to make peace with his new life for as long as it took to get Castiel to agree to come with him, but now, standing on that stage, he realised how naive he had been. The Novaks were not his family. And Gabriel would never see him as more than a pawn. Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s once more. For a moment, he saw something flicker in those deep blue eyes—regret, sorrow, maybe even affection. But it was fleeting, quickly replaced by a cold detachment. Gabriel’s voice cut through Dean’s thoughts. "Dean, you will spend the next month in the iron cage as a reminder of your place in this pack."

The words hit Dean like a physical blow. A month in the iron cage. He had heard stories about cages like that—small, cramped prisons where the captive could barely move, exposed to the elements. It was a punishment designed to break the spirit. Dean wanted to protest, to scream that it wasn’t fair, but he knew it would be futile. He couldn't transform and even if he could Gabriel’s decision was final, and the pack would support their leader. The collar around Dean's neck tightened as Gabriel gave the leash a tug. Dean stumbled, his body screaming in protest at every movement. He cast one last look at Castiel, hoping for some sign of intervention, but Castiel remained still, his face a mask of sorrow and resignation. As Dean was led off the stage, the crowd faded into the background. His mind raced, searching for a way out of this nightmare. But all he could think about was the betrayal he felt, not just by Gabriel, but by Castiel too.

The journey to the iron cage felt like an eternity. Each step was a reminder of his helplessness. By the time they reached the small, rusted cage, Dean's legs were trembling from pain and exhaustion. Gabriel opened the cage door and pushed Dean inside. The metal was cold enough to seep through the pads of his paws and his fur and in his wolf form the space so small he could barely move. Gabriel locked the cage and stood back, his expression unreadable.

"Remember this, Dean. Remember what happens when you defy the pack." Dean looked up at him, anger burning in his eyes. But he said nothing. He couldn't as long as he was bound to his wolf self but it was more than that. Words seemed useless now.

Gabriel turned and walked away, leaving Dean alone in the cage. Dean curled up as best as he could, trying to find some comfort in the cramped space. His body ached, his mind reeling from the events of the day. As night fell, the temperature dropped. The cold seeped into Dean’s bones, making him shiver uncontrollably. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain and the betrayal. But sleep did not come easily. In the darkness, Dean thought of Castiel. He thought of the lambs, of how Castiel’s face must have looked as he watched the punishment. Dean’s heart ached with a mix of anger and longing. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing—he would survive and he would fix this.

Finally, as morning came, Dean felt his body shift back to his human form. He was covered in dried blood from the lambs, smeared down his front and on his face. He shivered, the cold biting into his skin. Benny and Victor had given him no time to grab his jacket before dragging him away. They hadn't allowed him to take anything. Balthazar had warned Dean about the cage as a punishment, saying it was seldom used outside of summer. Dean had thought nothing of it, dismissing it as an idle threat. But now, curled up on the cold floor, he realised how wrong he had been. The cage was a small yet imposing structure made of heavy metal bars, designed to be secure and escape-proof. At least now when he was in his human form, it wasn't as cramped, but the chill was unforgiving. Dean's instincts were on high alert, his senses sharp as he scanned the area. Movement caught his eye, and he saw someone approaching slowly. His heart quickened.

"Castiel?" Dean called out, his voice hoarse from the cold and the strain of the transformation. Castiel came closer, his expression unreadable. Dean's heart ached at the sight of him, knowing Castiel had cared for the lambs so tenderly. "You were right, I'm so sorry," Dean said, his voice filled with remorse. Castiel's eyes were dull and detached. His voice was monotone as he spoke.

"You killed my lambs, Dean." Dean reached out through the bars, trying to touch Castiel, but Castiel stood just outside of his reach.

"I know, and you were right. I am so sorry. I know it will take time, but I hope you can forgive Casti—"

"Wasn’t your fault," Castiel interrupted, his tone flat. Dean tried to smile, though it felt hollow.

"What have you got there, Cas?"

“Blankets,” Castiel's voice remained detached as he replied. "Don't want you to freeze to death." He pushed a good dozen blankets through the bars, then some canned foods. Dean watched, feeling a mix of gratitude and heartbreak. "Take care, Dean," Castiel said, turning to leave.

"Castiel, wait!" Dean called out, desperation in his voice. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think this would happen! I didn’t want this to happen! Please, just talk to me." But Castiel kept walking, disappearing into the forest. Dean watched him go, his heart sinking. He lay back on the cold ground, sighing deeply. The blankets offered some warmth, but the chill in his bones remained. As he wrapped himself in the blankets, he noticed the labels on the canned foods. Dean felt his whole world crumbling down. They were meat preserves. Castiel was giving Dean meat to eat. Dean's thoughts raced as he tried to find a way out of this mess. Dean had come back to help Balthazar get Castiel out. Dean had returned because he had started to realise there was something drawing him to Castiel. Dean had recently started to hope that they could build something real together. But now, he had proven to Castiel that trusting him had been a mistake. Dean had said Gabriel wouldn't do anything, but Gabriel had proved him wrong tenfold. The trust he had hoped to build with Castiel seemed shattered beyond repair. Even worse than it had been when Dean had actually escaped. The betrayal and guilt weighed heavily on him; he had to find a way to make things right, but he didn't know how. For now, all he could do was try to survive the cold and the isolation, hoping that somehow, he could earn Castiel's forgiveness. The hours dragged on, the cold gnawing at Dean's bones despite the blankets. He forced himself to open and eat one of the cans of meat, knowing he needed strength to endure the punishment. Each bite felt like a reminder of his failure, the taste bitter in his mouth. As the day turned into night, Dean's thoughts kept returning to Castiel. The image of Castiel's sorrowful eyes haunted him. He had to find a way to make amends, to prove that he was worthy of Castiel's trust. But for now, all he could do was endure, hoping that somehow, they could find their way back to each other. In the darkness, Dean whispered into the cold air. "I'm sorry, Castiel. I'll make this right. I promise." The words felt hollow, but they were all he had. And as he closed his eyes, the chill of the night settling in, he clung to that promise, hoping it would be enough.

Soon Dean didn't know what time it was anymore. The days and nights blurred together in the cage. He was in a constant state of freezing despite the blankets Castiel had given him. The food had frozen, but it was sustenance, and he forced himself to eat it to keep his strength up. Most days the cold was unrelenting. Dean's body shivered involuntarily, his teeth chattering. He tried to stay warm by curling into the blankets and he often stayed human, turning took too much energy and the icy air still seeped through, chilling him to the bone, regardless of form either way. His thoughts wandered in the darkness, drifting between memories of better days and the harsh reality of his current situation.

The isolation was unbearable. Dean felt his grip on reality slipping. Each day was a monotonous cycle of cold and loneliness, punctuated only by the occasional presence of food. The cage seemed to grow smaller, the bars pressing in on him. He moved as much as he could in the limited space, his breath visible in the frigid air, mind racing with thoughts that refused to settle. He caught himself talking to the trees, the sky, and even the cage itself. He replayed conversations with Castiel in his mind, altering his responses, hoping for a different outcome. The silence pressed on his ears, making them ring with the phantom sounds of voices that weren’t there.

One morning, he woke to find something different. Three thermoses sat just within reach, the sight of them stirring a mix of hope and curiosity in Dean's chest. A note was attached to one of the thermoses. He reached for it with trembling hands and read the words:

‘Happy Valentine's Day, Dean. C.’

Dean's heart ached at the sight of the note. Castiel had been here. Castiel still cared. Maybe. He unscrewed the lid of the first thermos, releasing a wave of warmth. Inside was tea, fragrant and soothing. He sipped it cautiously, the heat spreading through him, providing a temporary reprieve from the cold. The second thermos contained pasta with tomato sauce, the aroma familiar and comforting. Dean ate slowly, savouring the flavours. The warmth of the food filled him with a renewed sense of energy. He had missed this, the simple pleasure of a hot meal. The third thermos held something that surprised him— a sweet soup, maybe blueberry? He drank it slowly, each sip reminding him of the home he had left behind.

After finishing the food, Dean crumpled the note in his fist, his emotions a mix of guilt and longing. He hit his forehead against the cold metal bars of the cage, the pain a small distraction from the storm inside him.

"Why did I mess up so badly?" he muttered to himself, the words hanging in the frosty air. If it was the fourteenth, then Balthazar's spell would soon wear off, and Dean would be allergic to Norma again. Balthazar had promised there would be no side effects this time, but the thought of losing the ability to be around the cat added another layer of anxiety to his already overwhelmed mind. Dean's thoughts drifted to Castiel. He had come back, even if only to leave food. There was a glimmer of hope in that act, a sign that Castiel hadn't completely given up on him. But the memory of Castiel's detached voice, the way he had stood just out of reach, haunted Dean. He had to find a way to make things right, to prove that he was worthy of Castiel's trust and forgiveness.

The days passed slowly. Dean counted each one, marking the passage of time by the thin beams of light that filtered through the trees. The cold persisted, gnawing at him relentlessly. He wrapped himself tighter in the blankets, but the chill never truly left. One night, as the temperature dropped even further, Dean lay awake, his body trembling. He was too weak to turn. He closed his eyes and pictured Castiel, his piercing blue eyes filled with a mixture of pain and hope. Dean clung to that image, using it to fight against the cold and the despair that threatened to consume him.

"I will make this right," he whispered into the darkness. "I promise, Castiel." As the sun rose, bringing with it a new day, Dean forced himself to move. He ate some more canned food, the taste bland, cold, and unappealing – but necessary. His mind raced with plans and ideas, each one focused on how he could earn back Castiel's trust.

As the days continued to blur together, it was the memory of the Valentine's Day note and the warmth of the food that had accompanied it that kept Dean going. He held onto the hope that Castiel still cared, that there was a chance for redemption. And as each day passed, he repeated his promise, determined to find a way back to the life he had lost. There was nothing else.

Nights were the hardest. The forest around him was alive with sounds, each rustle and snap making his heart race. He would lie awake, eyes wide, as shadows danced on the ground. His thoughts became fragmented, drifting between memories. Sometimes, he closed his eyes and imagined Castiel standing just beyond the cage, watching him with those piercing blue eyes. One particularly cold night, Dean woke up with a start. The dream had been so vivid—a warm kitchen, the smell of pancakes, Castiel’s laugh. He reached out, only to be met with the cold metal of the cage. His heart ached with the stark contrast between the dream and reality. He pressed his forehead against the bars, the chill biting into his skin. Had he ever even heard Castiel laugh?

“Castiel…” he whispered into the darkness, the name a lifeline in the sea of his solitude as each day became more indistinguishable than the last. His mind became a tangled web of thoughts and while he had tried to keep track of the days, scratching marks into the dirt, they began to lose meaning. Time became nothing more than an abstract concept, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Dean’s body had weakened significantly, the cold lack of movement and proper nutrition each taking their toll. He found himself staring at the canned food, feeling too drained to eat. His thoughts grew darker, the shadows in his mind lengthening. He imagined conversations with Castiel, Balthazar, and even Gabriel, the lines between reality and fantasy blurring. Food arrived sporadically, the warm meals a rare comfort. He clung to the hope that Castiel was the one bringing them. He never checked the scent; he didn't want to shatter the illusion he had created. The thought that Castiel cared enough to make sure he didn’t starve gave him a small measure of comfort. But as the days dragged on, even that hope began to wane.

One morning, as the first light of dawn crept through the trees, Dean found himself talking to a squirrel that had ventured close to the cage. It sat on its haunches, watching him with curious eyes. Dean talked to it as if it could understand, pouring out his fears and regrets. The squirrel eventually scurried away, leaving him feeling more alone than ever. He began to doubt his own sanity. The isolation was a relentless torment, his mind turning against him. He heard whispers in the wind that carried fragments of conversations. He saw figures in the trees, shadows that moved just beyond his vision, every time hoping Castiel would reappear but knowing that it was more likely some werewolf under Gabriel’s command set to watch over him.

One night, as the moon cast a pale glow over the forest, Dean reached his breaking point. He screamed for as long as he could, a raw primal sound that echoed through the trees. The outburst left him shaking, his throat raw. He sank to the ground, tears streaming down his face.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “I can’t…” In the silence that followed, he heard a faint rustling. He looked up, hoping to see Castiel or anyone who could offer some solace. But there was nothing, only the cold, indifferent forest.

Days passed, each one a struggle to maintain a grip on reality. He saw Castiel’s face in the trees, heard Balthazar’s voice in the wind. He spoke to them, desperate for some connection, but received no reply. The physical toll was evident as well. Every minute his body grew weaker, his movements slower. The cold gnawed at him, an unrelenting presence that he could not escape. He wrapped himself in the blankets, but they provided little comfort. His hands and feet were numb, the cold a constant reminder of his isolation.

Chapter 41

Chapter Text

One morning, as Dean sat huddled in the blankets, he heard footsteps approaching. His heart leapt with hope. He looked up hoping to see Castiel but instead it was Gabriel, his expression unreadable as he stood before the cage.

“Dean,” Gabriel said, his voice cutting through the haze of Dean’s thoughts. “It’s time.” Dean blinked, struggling to comprehend the words. He rose unsteadily, his body protesting the movement. Gabriel unlocked the cage, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Dean stepped out. The world outside the cage felt surreal. The ground beneath his feet, the air on his skin—it all seemed foreign. He stumbled, his legs weak from disuse. Gabriel caught him by the collar, steadying him as he attached the leash. “Let’s go,” Gabriel said, his tone softer than Dean expected. Dean nodded, too exhausted to argue. As they walked Gabriel held a steady grip on the leash. To Dean, the forest around him felt both familiar and strange; he had spent so long in the cage that the outside world seemed like a dream. As they approached the clearing where the pack’s houses stood, Dean’s thoughts turned to Castiel. He wondered if Castiel would be home, if he would look at him with the same detached expression or if there was still hope for them. Dean took a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever came next. He had survived the cage, but the real challenge lay ahead—finding a way to rebuild the trust he had shattered and earning back the love he so desperately craved. Gabriel led Dean to Castiel's house. As they approached, Dean spotted Castiel through the window. Castiel’s expression was blank, and Dean's heart ached with the memory of their last encounter. Gabriel unlocked the door and guided Dean into the kitchen, the familiar scents of the house washing over him. Gabriel handed the leash over to Castiel, who took it without acknowledging Dean’s searching gaze.

"Gabriel," Castiel said, his voice monotone.

"Castiel," Gabriel replied, glancing at Dean. "I trust you have learned your lesson."

"Yes," Castiel responded in the same detached tone.

"Good," Gabriel said, nodding.

"Yes," Castiel repeated, his eyes void of emotion.

"I will get going then," Gabriel said, turning to leave.

As the door closed behind Gabriel, the house felt eerily silent. Castiel finally looked at Dean, his expression still unreadable.

"Come," he said, his voice flat.

"Okay," Dean replied, feeling a mix of apprehension and relief. Castiel's fingers felt like fire as he unclasped the collar from Dean's neck. The sudden warmth of Castiel’s touch after the cold iron was almost too overwhelming.

"Come," Castiel repeated.

"Okay," Dean said again, following him. Castiel led Dean to the ground floor bathroom. Dean’s eyes widened as he saw the bathtub filled with warm water, steam rising gently from the surface. Castiel had not only expected Dean’s return but prepared for it. The room was dimly lit by candles instead of the overhead lamp, casting a soft glow over everything and Dean could not help but feel grateful for the lack of harsh artificial light. Castiel carefully unbuttoned Dean's shirt, his fingers brushing against Dean's skin. He continued with the rest of Dean's clothes, his movements gentle and methodical. Dean felt like a ragdoll, his body too exhausted to resist. Once Dean was undressed, Castiel helped him into the bathtub. The warm water enveloped him, the first true warmth he had felt in weeks. Dean closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax. The heat seeped into his bones, soothing the cold that had gripped him for so long. Castiel used a washcloth to clean Dean, his touch careful and precise. Dean opened his eyes as Castiel's fingers worked through his hair, feeling a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in a long time only for it to be broken as the lather of the shampoo stung his eyes momentarily.

"Sorry," Castiel said, his voice still detached as he washed the soap away. Dean appreciated the care despite the monotone delivery. As Castiel went to get a towel, Dean soaked in the warmth, feeling the tension slowly leave his body. "Here," Castiel said, handing Dean the towel.

"Thank you," Dean replied, wrapping the towel around himself.

"Are you hungry?" Castiel asked, his tone devoid of emotion.

"Yeah," Dean answered, his stomach growling softly.

"I lit the fireplace in the library. You can go up and sit by the fire," Castiel said.

"Okay," Dean replied. Castiel handed him a set of clean clothes before leaving the bathroom. Dean dressed slowly, the soft fabrics a welcome change from the rough, frozen clothes he had worn for weeks.

Once dressed, Dean made his way to the library. The warmth of the fire greeted him, the flames dancing in the hearth. He sank into a chair by the fire, the heat radiating through his tired body. The room was quiet, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Dean’s thoughts were a jumble of relief and lingering fear. The warmth of the fire and the comfort of the chair contrasted sharply with the cold isolation of the cage. He closed his eyes, listening to the soothing sounds around him. The library was filled with the scent of old books and burning wood, a comforting combination that made him feel a bit more alive. Yet he couldn’t shake the image of Castiel’s detached expression. The caring actions and the monotone delivery left him confused. Dean knew he had a long way to go to earn back the trust he had shattered. His mind wandered to the promise he had made to himself—to make things right, no matter how long it took. As he sat by the fire, Dean felt a glimmer of hope. Castiel had taken care of him, even if his manner was distant. And Castiel was speaking. It was a start, a small sign that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to mend what had been broken not too far away. The warmth of the fire and the exhaustion from his ordeal soon lulled Dean into a light sleep. His dreams were filled with fragments of memories and hopes for the future, a tangled web of emotions that reflected his current state of mind. When he woke, the fire had burned down to glowing embers. He stretched, feeling the soreness in his muscles. Despite the lingering cold in his bones, he felt a bit more like himself. He looked around the library, the familiar surroundings providing a sense of comfort.

"You are awake now." Castiel startled Dean as he spoke, his voice detached and monotone. Dean looked up, nodding.

"Yes."

"I will reheat the food," Castiel said, lingering for a few moments before turning and heading downstairs.

Left alone once more in the library, Dean took a deep breath. The closeness he had developed with Castiel had been shattered again, and it seemed that each time, it was Dean’s fault. Last time, Dean had run away, and he had tried to rebuild their bond by staying. But now? Now it had shattered because of Dean's intuition or lack thereof. How does one come back from that? Dean rested his head in his hands, feeling the weight of his failures pressing down on him. He was lost in his thoughts when he felt Norma paw at his leg. He looked down, seeing the kitten's inquisitive green eyes looking up at him. His eyes started to itch, and he felt a familiar tickle in his throat.

"Great," he muttered to himself. His allergy to cats was acting up.

"You’re allergic." Castiel said as he reentered the room, his voice still devoid of emotion.

"I am," Dean replied, his voice rough.

"I thought you said Balthazar fixed you up," Castiel said, his tone unwavering.

"He did," Dean explained, trying not to scratch his eyes.

"But you are allergic again," Castiel stated, watching him closely.

"Yes," Dean confirmed, feeling more miserable by the second.

"Why?" Castiel asked, his expression unchanging. Dean sighed.

"He only did it for a month."

"Why would he do that?" Castiel asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Balthazar said you could help me," Dean replied, hoping to find some solution.

"As a healer," Castiel said, his voice still detached but bordering on disbelief.

"I would assume so," Dean agreed.

"I can't," Castiel said, a hint of finality in his tone.

"You haven't tried," Dean countered, feeling desperate.

"No."

"Why don’t you–"

"No," Castiel repeated, his voice firm.

"Then how can you know?" Dean asked, searching for any sign of hope.

"It’s too risky," Castiel said, looking away.

"I believe in your abilities," Dean insisted, his voice softening.

"No, Dean, I am not allowed to practise," Castiel said, his eyes flicking back to Dean's.

"Oh," Dean said, feeling the weight of that revelation.

"It’s too risky in case Gabriel finds out," Castiel explained, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Okay," Dean replied, the fight leaving his voice.

"Sorry," Castiel said, almost too quietly to hear.

"It is fine," Dean said, though it was anything but fine. Castiel handed over a tray with food and then picked Norma up, leaving Dean alone once more. Dean looked down at the food, realising it was goulash soup. It was obviously canned but reheated. Castiel was still giving Dean meat, a small gesture that carried more meaning than the meal itself. The longer Dean stared at the tray the more his thoughts swirled with confusion and gratitude. Castiel fed him meat. Again. The goulash smelled inviting. He took a spoonful, the warmth spreading through him. As he ate, Dean's mind wandered back to the conversation with Castiel. The healer abilities, the risks, Gabriel's control—it all painted a grim picture of the constraints Castiel lived under. Dean felt a surge of determination. He needed to find a way to help Castiel, to break free from Gabriel's oppressive hold. But for now, he would eat, focus on regain his strength, and figure out his next move. The library was quiet, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Dean felt a small spark of hope flicker within him. It was faint, but it was enough to keep him going.

As he finished the goulash, Dean leaned back in his chair, feeling the warmth of the fire on his skin. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth and the sense of purpose lull him into a light, restless sleep. His dreams carried him back to the earliest days of knowing Castiel, those tentative moments when their lives had first intertwined. He recalled the day Castiel had revealed that he was allowed to kill Dean after a year if he wanted to, without breaking the peace treaty. The memory was vivid. Dean's eyes snapped open, his breath coming rapidly. His head spun with the remnants of the dream. He wasn’t even sure if the peace treaty was in place anymore. Dean had broken it, and Balthazar had hinted that Dean's old pack might have suffered because of his actions. Maybe some parts of the treaty were still in place. After all, Dean had come back, a gesture that might have held some weight. But then again, he had about six months left, and what had he actually done to prove to Castiel that he was worth keeping around? They had slept in the same bed for a bit, they had made out once, but the rest was pretty far from positive. Dean had started fights with Castiel, yelled at him, and ran away. He had told Castiel that he knew better, that his intuition was more trustworthy than Castiel's life experiences.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, frustration bubbling within him. Castiel perhaps had been right that time he called Dean arrogant and dismissive of Castiel’s world and the rules that governed it. He had thought he could bend those rules to his will, but reality had shown him otherwise. The memory of Castiel's detached expression haunted him. Dean needed to find a way to rebuild what he had shattered. He stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. The library was dim, the fire having burned down to the last embers. He glanced around, taking in the shelves of books that lined the walls, the shadows dancing in the flickering light. The house was quiet, a stillness that felt almost oppressive.

Dean made his way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking softly under his weight. He found Castiel in the kitchen, preparing another meal. Castiel's movements were precise, his expression still detached. Dean sniffed the air, feeling his stomach growl. The air was filled with the savoury aroma of cooking meat.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet. Castiel turned to look at Dean, his face emotionless.

"You need to eat," he said in that same monotone voice.

"Still," Dean responded, trying to muster a smile. Castiel turned back to the stove, his back to Dean.

"You have grown weak," he said, his tone unchanged.

"Thanks," Dean said, though he knew it wasn't meant as an insult.

"You should not be here," Castiel continued, his voice flat.

"What?" Dean asked, confusion lacing his words.

"Norma can come anytime," Castiel said, still not looking at him.

"It's okay," Dean replied, trying to sound reassuring.

"You should not suffer," Castiel said, his voice softer but still detached. Dean couldn't help but let out a small, humourless laugh.

"That’s kinda what I’ve been doing the past month, Cas."

"Sorry," Castiel murmured, the word almost lost in the sounds of the bubbling pot. Dean walked up behind Castiel and peered at the food on the stove. Another canned soup. He could see chunks of meat and vegetables swirling in the broth.

"That was a joke, Cas," he said gently.

"Okay," Castiel replied, his gaze fixed on the pot.

"You were the one who came with food, right?" Dean asked, his voice soft. Castiel's gaze remained locked on the bubbles rising in the pot.

"I was," he answered.

"Thank you," Dean said, his gratitude sincere.

"I tried to come every day, but they would stop me," Castiel explained, his voice still distant. “Hold me back, throw away the food. There were guards by you all day and night.” Dean reached out and took Castiel's hand in his, lifting it to his lips and kissing Castiel's knuckles. “The one sent to the cage should ear the grass and plants they can reach, perhaps a squirrel if you're into that. But there are no plants in February or March, you would have starved.” Castiel looked at him, a flicker of confusion breaking through his detached state. Dean held his gaze, his voice tender.

"Truly, Castiel, thank you." Castiel blinked, the confusion lingering in his eyes. He seemed to be searching for something in Dean's expression, something that might bridge the chasm that had grown between them. Dean felt a glimmer of hope as he held Castiel’s hand. "You did what you could. I appreciate that more than you know." Castiel's eyes softened for a moment before the mask slipped back into place.

"You should eat," he said, turning back to the stove and ladling the soup into a bowl. Dean took the bowl from him, the warmth seeping into his hands.

"Thanks, Cas," he said, his voice filled with gratitude, as he moved towards the table. Castiel nodded, his expression unreadable.

"You should not eat here, Dean. You should go up and eat in your room, that way you can shut Norma out."

"Okay," Dean replied, feeling a mix of relief and sadness.

Dean carried the bowl of soup upstairs, the aroma wafting up with him as he went. The house was silent, the only sounds were his soft footsteps and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards. The warmth of the soup contrasted sharply with the cold that still lingered in his bones. He pushed open the door to his room, the familiar surroundings offering a small measure of comfort.

He closed the door behind him, shutting out the world and, importantly, Norma. Setting the bowl on the nightstand, Dean sank onto the bed, his body still weak from the ordeal. He took a deep breath, the scent of the soup mingling with the faint smell of wood and linens. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows on the walls. Dean picked up the bowl and took a sip of the broth. It was warm and savoury, the flavours rich and comforting. He ate slowly, each spoonful a small victory over the cold and hunger that had plagued him. As he ate, his mind drifted back to the conversation with Castiel. The healer's hands had been gentle, his touch careful, but his eyes had remained distant. Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he had lost something precious, something that might never be fully recovered. The food warmed him from the inside, easing the chill that had settled deep in his bones. He wrapped himself in the blankets, the softness a welcome change from the rough, frozen clothes he had worn for weeks. The warmth of the fire still lingered in his memory, a beacon of hope in the darkness of his isolation. Dean finished the soup, setting the empty bowl back on the nightstand. He leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. As he lay there, his thoughts drifting, he heard a soft knock on the door. He sat up, the blankets falling away as he moved to open it. Castiel stood in the hallway, his expression still unreadable.

"Dean," Castiel said, his voice monotone. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," Dean replied, his voice quiet. "Thank you for the soup." Castiel nodded, his eyes flicking to the empty bowl.

"You need to rest," he said, his tone softening slightly. "Your body is still weak."

"I will," Dean promised, feeling a glimmer of hope at the change in Castiel's tone. "I just... I want to make things right, Cas. I want to earn back your trust." Castiel's eyes met his, the detachment wavering for a moment.

"It’s okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No, it isn't." Dean replied, his heart aching. "But I'm willing to do whatever it takes." Castiel nodded again, his gaze softening.

"Rest now," he said. "We will talk more tomorrow." Dean watched as Castiel turned to leave, his heart heavy with unspoken words.

"Goodnight, Cas," he called softly.

"Goodnight, Dean," Castiel replied, his voice carrying a hint of warmth. As the door closed, Dean felt a small spark of hope. It was faint, but it was enough to keep him going. He lay back down, the warmth of the blankets and the memory of Castiel's touch lulling him into a light, restful sleep.

Morning came with a pale light filtering through the curtains. Dean stretched, feeling the soreness in his muscles, but also a renewed sense of purpose. He dressed slowly, his movements still sluggish from the cold and the ordeal. He made his way downstairs, the house quiet and still. In the kitchen, Castiel was already preparing breakfast. The scent of cooking filled the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh coffee. Dean's stomach growled, a reminder of how long it had been since he had eaten a proper meal.

"Good morning," Dean said, his voice soft as he entered the kitchen.

"I'm making hash browns." Castiel responded, his voice flat. Dean blinked, surprised.

"That's... new?"

"Thought you were tired of pancakes."

"I'm just happy to get food, Cas," Dean said, trying to infuse his words with gratitude.

"Thought–" Castiel began, but Dean interrupted him quickly.

"Hash browns are great, Castiel," he said, his tone rushed and earnest.

"Okay," Castiel replied, still monotone. Dean moved closer, reaching out to take Castiel's hand, but Castiel pulled away, his face impassive. "Thought I told you to stay in your room."

"You told me to eat in my room, not stay there," Dean countered, a hint of frustration in his voice. Castiel gave Dean a look that made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for arguments.

"I can come up with the food." Dean lingered for a moment longer, feeling the gulf between them.

"Yeah, okay," he said finally, turning and heading back upstairs. He walked into his room, closing the door behind him, and made his way to the ensuite bathroom, leaving the door open. The sight of his own reflection, haggard and unshaven, startled him. It had been well over a month since he had last shaved. He picked up the razor, the familiar weight of it in his hand oddly comforting. He lathered his face with shaving cream, the coolness of it a stark contrast to the warm steam filling the bathroom. As he began to shave, he watched the razor glide over his skin, each stroke revealing a patch of smoother, paler flesh. The sensation was both soothing and grounding. The act of shaving, something so mundane, felt almost ritualistic after the chaos of the past weeks. The hair fell away in small, satisfying clumps, collecting in the sink. With each pass of the razor, Dean felt a little more like himself. The familiar contours of his face reappeared, the roughness giving way to a cleaner, sharper look. He splashed water on his face, wiping away the remaining lather, and patted his skin dry with a towel. As he finished, he heard footsteps behind him. Castiel entered the room.

"Made you a whole pot of coffee. Don't know if that helps with getting stronger."

"It helps my soul." Dean, still in the bathroom, replied with a hint of humour. Castiel walked up to the open bathroom door, their eyes locking through the mirror.

"Texted Balthazar," he said, his voice flat.

"And?" Dean asked, turning to face him.

"And nothing."

"Great," Dean muttered, frustration bubbling up again.

"Where did he help you?" Castiel asked, his tone neutral.

"I'm not sure, a basem*nt somewhere," Dean answered, shaking his head slightly as he tried to recall the details.

"Okay," Castiel said, turning to leave.

"Stay," Dean said suddenly, his voice filled with a quiet plea. Castiel hesitated.

"Why?"

"I want you to," Dean replied, his voice soft but firm. Castiel stood still for a moment, the silence stretching between them. Dean could see the conflict in Castiel's eyes, the mask slipping just a little. Finally, Castiel nodded, stepping further into the room. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, gesturing for Castiel to join him. Castiel sat next to him, the distance between them still palpable. They sat in silence for a while. "I don’t know how to fix this," Dean said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t even know where to start." Castiel looked at him, his eyes softer than before. Dean nodded, taking comfort in those words. "I’m sorry for everything," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Trusted you," Castiel replied, his voice still monotone but carrying a hint of something deeper. "Trusted your intuition." Dean reached out, taking Castiel’s hand in his. This time Castiel didn’t pull away. For a while they just sat there, holding hands, to Dean the warmth of their connection felt like a small but significant step towards healing the rift between them. When Dean let go of Castiel's hand and turned his attention to the food. He picked up one of the hash browns, feeling the warmth and crispness between his fingers. The scent was inviting, a reminder of simpler times. He split it into smaller pieces, the golden-brown crust breaking apart with a satisfying crunch.

"Open your mouth," Dean said, his voice gentle but insistent. Castiel looked at him, a mixture of reservation and confusion in his eyes.

"Why?"

"Just open your mouth," Dean repeated softly. Castiel hesitated, the conflict evident on his face. Slowly, he parted his lips, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. Dean brought the piece of hash brown closer, his hand steady. As he gently placed the food into Castiel’s mouth, their gazes locked, the connection between them palpable. Castiel closed his lips around the morsel, his eyes widening slightly at the unexpected intimacy of the moment. Dean watched as Castiel chewed, his expression softening. There was a quiet vulnerability in Castiel's eyes, a flicker of something that gave Dean hope. He reached for another piece of hash brown, repeating the action. "Good?" Dean asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Castiel nodded, swallowing.

"Yes." Dean felt a sense of relief wash over him. He continued feeding Castiel, each bite a small step towards mending the rift between them. The silence was filled with the quiet sounds of eating. Dean's gaze softened as he fed the last piece of hash brown to Castiel, their fingers brushing lightly. He felt the subtle tremor in Castiel's hand, a silent acknowledgment of the vulnerability they were both feeling. "You didn’t get any," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"When was the last time you ate?" Dean asked, his tone gentle but firm. Castiel looked away, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. "That’s what I thought," Dean said softly.

"Made them for you," Castiel mumbled, his voice filled with a mix of apology and something deeper.

"I know," Dean replied, his voice warm. "But you need to eat too."

"You're weak," Castiel said, his eyes flicking back to Dean's, filled with a mixture of concern and frustration.

"I need you to be strong too, Cas," Dean said, his voice steady, holding Castiel's gaze.

"Sorry," Castiel whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

"No," Dean said, shaking his head.

"No?" Castiel repeated, confusion in his eyes.

"You didn’t do anything wrong," Dean said, his voice firm yet soothing.

"Didn’t…" Castiel began, his voice trailing off.

"No, Castiel," Dean insisted gently.

"But…" Castiel started again, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

"You didn’t do anything wrong," Dean reiterated, his voice filled with conviction.

"How can you be sure?" Castiel's voice broke slightly as he asked.

"Not everything is your fault, Castiel," Dean replied, his voice soft but resolute.

"Didn’t say–" Castiel began, but Dean cut him off.

"I know," Dean said, his eyes locking with Castiel's, a silent promise in his gaze.

"Okay," Castiel whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and doubt. Castiel started to get up, picking up the plate. Dean grabbed his wrist, his touch gentle but firm.

"Stay," Dean said, his voice a quiet plea.

"But Norma…" Castiel protested weakly.

"Norma can be alone for a few more minutes," Dean replied, his eyes pleading with Castiel to stay. Castiel hesitated for a moment before nodding slightly and sitting back down. Dean let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, his grip on Castiel's wrist loosening but not letting go entirely. Castiel's hesitation filled the room with a heavy silence.

"Don't know what to do now," he finally said, his voice a mere whisper.

"Do we need to know?" Dean asked, his tone gentle, trying to bridge the gap between them.

"’Tis good to know," Castiel replied, his gaze distant.

"What happened with you when I was in the cage, Castiel?" Dean asked, his voice laced with concern. Castiel looked away, starting to stand again. Dean's grip tightened on his wrist. "Stay," Dean pleaded. Castiel closed his eyes and shook his head repeatedly. Dean watched, unsure how Castiel wasn’t dizzy from the movement. "Please," Dean whispered. Castiel shook his head again, his eyes filled with silent pleading. "Castiel," Dean said softly.

"No," Castiel replied, his voice firm.

"Why not?" Dean asked, searching Castiel's face for answers. Castiel looked away, his expression closed off. "Please," Dean repeated, his voice breaking. Castiel continued to look away, his silence deafening. "Why?" Dean asked, his voice filled with desperation. "I wanna know," Dean insisted.

"Dean…" Castiel began, his voice trailing off.

"I want to be there for you," Dean said, his eyes earnest, his grip still firm on Castiel's wrist. Castiel looked at Dean for a while, his gaze heavy with unspoken words. Dean could feel Castiel’s gaze on him, searching, probing. "You said you tried to give me food every day," Dean prompted, hoping to start the conversation. Castiel sighed, the sound filled with weariness.

"Okay," he whispered. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to share what he had kept bottled up. "I came every morning," Castiel began, his voice low. "But they stopped me most of the time. The guards were there, always watching, always waiting for me to make a mistake." Dean listened intently, his heart aching at the thought of Castiel's struggle. "They would hold me back," Castiel continued. "Throw away the food I brought. Sometimes they would try to make me understand that I was doing the wrong thing. Sometimes they would let me through, but only if I promised not to speak to you. I could only leave the food and go."

"Why?" Dean asked, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and anger.

"Gabriel," Castiel said, his tone heavy with emotion. "He said I was too lenient on you. He punished me for it. Said I was showing too much weakness. That it reflects badly on the family." Dean's grip tightened on Castiel's wrist, a surge of protectiveness rising within him.

"What did he do?" Dean asked, his voice trembling with barely contained anger. Castiel looked away, his eyes filled with pain.

"He… he said it was my fault you were in the cage, that I needed to learn how to be stronger." Dean felt his heart break at Castiel's words.

"I'm so sorry, Cas," he whispered, his voice filled with regret.

"Wasn’t your fault, Dean," Castiel said, his voice soft but firm. "Gabriel… is trying to protect me. He only sees weakness, and he hates weakness. Like a proper leader." Dean reached out, gently cupping Castiel's face in his hand.

"You're not weak, Cas. You're one of the strongest people I know."

"You don't know many people, Dean. I tried to keep you safe, but I failed. Gabriel’s punishment was designed to make me understand that." Dean’s heart pounded as he processed Castiel’s words. He needed to understand the full extent of what had happened.

"What did you mean by 'sometimes they would try to make you understand that you were doing the wrong thing'?" Dean asked, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. Castiel looked away, his eyes clouded with a pain that Dean had never seen before. "Please, Cas," Dean whispered, his tone pleading. Castiel took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world was on them.

"I think you know," he replied, his voice barely audible.

"No," Dean said in disbelief, shaking his head. "No." Castiel’s gaze remained fixed on a point far away, his eyes vacant.

"Yes," he confirmed, his voice empty.

"But you are the pack leader’s brother," Dean said, trying to wrap his head around the cruelty.

"That is why," Castiel responded, his voice bitter.

"What?" Dean asked, confusion and anger mixing in his chest.

"Dean..." Castiel began, his voice tinged with sadness.

"Gabriel ordered it?" Dean’s voice rose, his anger palpable. Castiel looked away again, the silence stretching between them like a chasm.

"He is the pack leader; he was leading."

"You're his brother!" Dean shouted, his frustration boiling over.

"And I did the wrong thing," Castiel said, his voice steady but filled with an underlying sorrow.

"Not being–" Dean began, but Castiel cut him off.

"Was too lenient on you," Castiel said, his voice firm, but his eyes betrayed his pain. "Gabriel saw it as a weakness. He said I needed to be stronger, more like a proper adult. The guards... they enforced his will. That was the order he gave them." Dean’s breath hitched.

"What did they do?" he asked, his voice a whisper. Castiel closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for the memories.

"They punished me, Dean," he said, his voice trembling. "Physically, they would hit me, beat me. Make me eat the food. Gabriel believed it would toughen me up, make me better. They were right to, in the eyes of the pack I was, am still, a failure, I am weak. Then Gabriel took away my duties, the animals. Made sure I knew some were sent to slaughter and didn't tell me which ones or how many. Every day, I would worry about them, wondering if they were safe. " Dean's heart shattered at Castiel's words. He reached out, gently taking Castiel’s hand in his.

"Cas, I’m so sorry," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"It wasn’t your fault, Dean," Castiel said, squeezing Dean’s hand. "Gabriel... he was doing what was best for me, for the pack. That is all." Dean's hands clenched into fists as Castiel's words echoed in his mind. The fury that had been simmering beneath the surface now surged forward, demanding release. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but the anger was too strong.

"This is wrong, Cas. All of it," Dean began, his voice trembling with emotion. "Gabriel, the pack, the punishments —they're not normal . This isn't how things should be." Castiel remained silent, his eyes downcast, as if he was bracing for the storm Dean was unleashing. "You've been conditioned to believe that this is how life is supposed to be," Dean continued, his voice rising. "But it's not. It's twisted. It's cruel. You deserve better than this, Cas. You deserve to be treated with kindness, or at least with respect. Not like some... some expendable tool!" Castiel's silence was deafening. Dean's frustration boiled over, his words pouring out in a rush. "You’re not weak, Castiel! You’re strong. Hell, you are stronger than any of them. And to see you like this, to see you accept this... this insanity as normal." Castiel’s head snapped up at the word ‘insanity’ , his eyes narrowing.

"No," he said firmly, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean stared at him in disbelief.

"Don’t you get it?"

"What?" Castiel's voice was cold.

"Really?" Dean asked, exasperation colouring his tone.

"What, Dean?” Castiel's patience snapped. “What do you want me to say?"

"You don’t need to live this way," Dean said, his voice softening, but his eyes blazing with determination. Castiel's eyes flashed with anger.

"Don’t you get it?" he snapped. "The last time you asked me not to follow orders, this happened. You were forced to turn! You killed my lambs! You were made to sleep in a cage in winter!" Dean was taken aback, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the right words.

"What?" he finally managed to say.

" Dean. " Castiel’s tone turned warning. Dean's anger reignited, his voice rising once more.

"Castiel, how can you just rationalise this? That Gabriel ordered it? That you were beaten into submission, that you were mentally tortured?" Castiel looked away, his silence a stark contrast to Dean's growing fury. Dean took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "He is your brother!" Castiel turned back to face Dean, articulating each word with cold precision.

"And I did the wrong thing!" Dean's heart ached as he saw the pain and conviction in Castiel’s eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

"Castiel," he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. "You didn’t do anything wrong. You were trying to protect me. You were trying to do the right thing." Castiel shook his head, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and frustration.

"I failed, Dean. I failed Gabriel, and I failed the pack. Ha! I failed you and now you’re acting lik–"

"No," Dean said, his voice firm. "You didn’t fail. They failed you. Gabriel failed you. The pack failed you. You deserve better than this, Cas. You deserve to be treated with respect. Not as some pawn in their twisted game." Castiel's eyes softened slightly, but the pain remained.

"It’s not that simple, Dean."

"But it is, Castiel," Dean insisted. "It’s as simple as knowing that you deserve to be happy.” Dean felt a burning frustration as he watched Castiel stand and take the plate. The disconnect between them felt like a chasm he couldn’t cross. “That you deserve to be free from this... this nightmare—"

"Enjoy your coffee, Dean. I will come up with lunch later. And stay in your room," Castiel said, his voice cold and distant. Dean stared in disbelief as Castiel left the room and closed the door behind him. The rationality he had hoped for seemed far out of reach. Maybe he had been too aggressive, maybe the word ‘insanity’ had been wrong, but how else could he make Castiel see the truth? The task Balthazar had given him felt impossible. How could Dean ever convince Castiel to leave if he was conditioned to rationalise this type of behaviour?

He laid down on his stomach and screamed into the pillow, muffling the sound of his frustration and despair. The muffled scream did little to alleviate the anger and helplessness he felt. But then, as his face pressed into the pillow, the familiar scent caught his attention. It was a mix of manuka honey and pine, the scent unmistakably Castiel’s. Dean lifted his head slightly, sniffing the air. Once it was uncovered the scent was strong and undeniable. His thoughts began to clear, curiosity replacing some of the frustration. He sat up, his senses alert. It dawned on him that while he was away, Castiel had been in his room. More than that, with the way it was clinging to the room Castiel must have slept here. Dean got up and began to search the room, following the scent trail. It was unmistakable. He checked the bed, finding the scent strongest on the pillows and sheets. Castiel had lain here, perhaps seeking some form of comfort in Dean’s lingering scent in his absence. The realisation sent a wave of emotion through him. Despite the harsh exterior and the enforced detachment, Castiel cared. And Dean’s heart ached with the thought of Castiel lying here alone, burdened by the same loneliness and pain that Dean felt. Dean sat back down on the bed, running a hand through his hair. The scent was comforting, grounding him in the present moment. He needed a new approach. His previous attempt had only pushed Castiel further away. Dean couldn’t afford to be aggressive or dismissive of Castiel’s experiences. He had to find a way to connect, to show Castiel that there was another way. Dean took a deep breath and closed his eyes, focusing on the scent and the memories it evoked. He thought back to the times they had spent together, the small moments of connection and understanding. Castiel was more than just a victim of Gabriel’s cruelty; he was strong and caring, capable of so much more than he realised. The fire of determination reignited within Dean. He would find a way to break through to Castiel, to show him that he deserved better. He wouldn’t give up, not now, not ever. As the morning light filtered through the curtains, Dean felt a renewed sense of purpose. He would wait for Castiel to return with lunch, and then he would try again. He would be patient, understanding, and above all, he would be there for Castiel in any way he could. The minutes ticked by slowly, each one a reminder of the challenges ahead. When Castiel finally returned with a tray of food, Dean was ready. He watched as Castiel set the tray down on the nightstand, the scent of warm soup filling the room.

"Thank you, Castiel," Dean said softly, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. Castiel nodded, his expression still guarded.

"Eat," he said simply, turning to leave.

"Wait," Dean called, his tone gentle but insistent. Castiel paused, turning back to face him. "Can we talk for a moment? Please?"

"No," Castiel replied firmly, turning to leave. Dean reached out, his voice laced with desperation.

"Please, Cas, just for a moment." Castiel stopped but didn’t turn around.

"You didn’t drink the coffee," he mumbled. Dean glanced at the untouched mug, realising his oversight.

"I must have forgotten," he admitted.

"Yeah, you must’ve," Castiel muttered, the hint of a hurtful edge in his voice.

"Castiel, sit, please," Dean implored.

"Why?" Castiel turned around as he asked, his tone weary.

"I think we should talk," Dean said, trying to sound earnest.

"That’s all we ever do," Castiel replied, crossing his arms defensively.

"Yeah, unless you’re giving me the silent treatment," Dean muttered under his breath.

"Sorry, what was that?"Castiel’s eyes narrowed. Dean held his tongue, the words catching in his throat. "I'll be leaving then," Castiel said, his voice clipped. "Should I take the coffee with me?"

"You slept in here," Dean said, his tone softer, more tentative. Castiel's head snapped back towards him, eyes filled with a mixture of confusion and anger.

"What?"

"When I was away, Castiel," Dean repeated, his voice gentle but insistent. "You slept in here."

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" Castiel’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion mingling with the hurt.

"No," Dean replied quickly, shaking his head. "I just... erm… what does friendship mean to you?" Castiel blinked, taken aback by the question.

"What?"

"Well, I know that Charlie is your friend," Dean began, trying to find common ground.

"Charlie and I aren’t talking right now," Castiel interjected, his voice hardening. Dean felt a pang of concern.

"Okay, but when—"

"Why?" Castiel cut him off, his tone growing colder.

"Why not?" Dean asked, his voice filled with genuine curiosity and concern.

"Eat," Castiel ordered, the finality in his tone brooking no argument.

Dean watched as Castiel left the room, the door closing with a soft click. He looked down at the soup, another reheated canned meal, and a realisation hit him. Castiel was scared that Dean might go rogue again, and he was trying to pacify him by feeding him meat. Given that Castiel didn’t eat meat —at least not by choice— it made sense that he relied on canned soups—an easier, less personal way to ensure Dean received the sustenance he needed without directly handling the food. Dean sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and sadness. He picked up the spoon and took the first sip of the soup. The warm, savoury broth filled his mouth, and he could taste the effort behind the gesture, even if it was canned. Castiel was trying, in his own way, to bridge the gap between them. Or he was still scared.

As March progressed, the weather began to shift in subtle, yet significant ways. The snow that had blanketed the forest for months slowly began to melt, revealing patches of dark, damp earth beneath. Tiny green shoots started to emerge from the ground, a promise of new life and renewal. The trees, which had stood bare and skeletal against the winter sky, now displayed the first hints of budding leaves, their delicate forms unfurling like tiny miracles. The air, once bitterly cold and biting, gradually softened, carrying the scent of damp soil and the faintest whisper of blossoming flowers. Dean never left his room, respecting Castiel’s instructions and the underlying reasons behind them. He was allergic to the cat, and the last thing he wanted was to create further conflict or discomfort for Castiel. So he stayed put, confined within the four walls that had become his sanctuary and his prison.

Days turned into weeks, and the isolation began to wear on him. The only contact he had was with Castiel, who remained quiet and detached during their brief interactions. Each meal was a silent ritual: Castiel would bring food to his room, Dean would thank him, and Castiel would leave without a word. The silence between them was deafening, a constant reminder of the chasm that had formed. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Dean sat by the window, lost in thought when Castiel brought him dinner—a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. Dean looked up at him, his heart aching at the sight of his tired eyes and the weight he seemed to carry on his shoulders.

"Thank you," Dean said softly, his voice filled with gratitude. “Can we talk?”

"Eat," Castiel said simply, turning to leave.

The next morning, as Castiel brought him breakfast, Dean spoke up again.

"Castiel, we need to talk." Castiel’s expression was unreadable, but he nodded and sat down across from Dean. The quiet stretched on, and Dean struggled to find the right words. "I know things have been... strained," Dean began, his voice tentative. "But I want to understand. I want to help." Castiel looked at him, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that his face didn’t show.

"How can you help, Dean? You don’t care to understand what it’s like. You just want things to go your way."

Chapter 42

Chapter Text

Castiel stood in the kitchen, the soft light from the window casting a warm glow over the room. It was the middle of March and the morning was quiet, the only sounds coming from the simmering pot on the stove and the occasional meow from Norma. The kitten sat perched on the counter, her gooseberry green eyes following Castiel’s every movement.

"I know, Norma," Castiel said, stirring the soup with a wooden spoon. "But it’s the only way I can give him meat. Can't very well give him your kibble or a bag of your wet food, can I?"

Norma meowed in response, her eyes shifting to the boiling pot.

"Careful, baby," Castiel murmured, gently guiding her face away from the heat. "It’s hot."

Norma meowed again, almost as if she was reminding Castiel of her knowledge of the kitchen’s dangers.

"I know you know," Castiel said with a soft smile. "You’re very knowledgeable for a kitten." He transferred the soup into a bowl, the steam rising in delicate spirals. Placing the bowl on a tray, he glanced at Norma. "What do you think, Norma? Does he need a piece of bread?"

Norma meowed, her tail flicking with interest.

"Oh? With cheese and butter?" Castiel replied, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, well, if that’s what the doctor prescribed." He cut a piece of bread, spreading a bit of butter on it before adding a slice of cheese. As Norma looked at him expectantly, he tore off a small piece for her. She ate the cheese happily, purring in contentment. Castiel added a glass of water to the tray before turning to Norma once more. "Stay," he instructed softly.

Norma meowed in acknowledgment, settling down on the counter. Castiel picked up the tray and made his way upstairs, his steps careful and deliberate. Reaching Dean’s room, he balanced the tray in one hand while opening the door with the other. Dean lay in bed, barely acknowledging Castiel’s presence.

"Are you not hungry?" Castiel asked, placing the tray on the nightstand.

"No," Dean replied curtly.

"Well, should I still leave it?" Castiel inquired, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"No," Dean repeated, his tone harsher this time.

"Are you sure?" Castiel pressed.

"No!" Dean snapped, dragging a hand over his face. "I don’t want another soup, Castiel!" Castiel’s expression softened, hurt flickering in his eyes.

"Thought you said you were just happy to get food," he said quietly. Dean sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

"I’m sorry," he muttered.

"I’ll leave," Castiel said, turning to go.

"Stay, please," Dean pleaded.

"Can’t," Castiel replied, his voice tinged with sadness.

"You don’t go to the barn anymore," Dean pointed out.

"No," Castiel confirmed.

"Then why can’t you stay, Castiel?" Dean asked, his frustration mounting.

"Have things to do," Castiel said, though his tone lacked conviction. Dean’s eyes narrowed.

"I don’t think you do," he challenged. Castiel placed the tray down, his movements careful and deliberate. Dean’s gaze followed him, a mixture of desperation and anger in his eyes. "I think you’re enjoying having the house to yourself! I think you enjoy having me locked up in here!" Dean accused.

"You’re not locked in," Castiel said, his voice steady but strained.

"Are you serious?" Dean asked, disbelief colouring his tone.

"’M just stating fact, and the fact is you’re not locked in," Castiel replied, his eyes meeting Dean’s.

"I might as well be!" Dean retorted. Castiel looked away, his expression pained.

"Don’t want to stay," he murmured.

"Why not?" Dean asked, his voice breaking. Castiel hesitated, his eyes flicking back to Dean.

"Because you’re yelling," he said softly. Dean took a deep breath, his frustration visibly ebbing away slightly.

"Look, I’m sorry, Castiel, okay? I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just losing my mind being up here alone all day and night."

"Trusted you," Castiel said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Really?" Dean asked, his tone incredulous. Castiel looked down at the floor, his silence speaking volumes. "Are you still hung up on that?" Dean demanded. "When will you get over the f*cking lambs? You admitted yourself that you knew it wasn't my damn fault! And let’s not pretend you weren’t the reason I was made to turn in the first place! It was your blood! I know that it was your damn blood, Castiel! How can I know you and Gabriel didn’t plan it together?"

"You really think that?" Castiel’s eyes filled with tears, his voice breaking.

"Yes!” Dean’s anger was replaced by regret. “No! I don’t know!"

“Charlie…” Castiel mumbled, looking down at the floor.

"What?" Dean snapped.

"Charlie took my blood," Castiel said, his voice barely audible. Dean’s anger dissipated completely.

"Oh." Tears streamed down Castiel’s face, his lip trembling.

"Didn’t plan anything," he cried.

"Cas, I didn’t–" Dean began, but Castiel pulled away from his touch.

"Never wanted you to get punished, Dean. Never wanted you to be on that stage. Never wanted my lambs to get killed," Castiel sobbed.

"I didn’t mean–" Dean tried again, but Castiel cut him off.

"No, Dean, you did. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have said it," Castiel said, his voice filled with hurt.

"Castiel," Dean whispered, his heart aching.

"Eat your soup, don’t eat your soup. I don’t care," Castiel said, turning and leaving the room.

Castiel descended the stairs, his heart heavy. He picked up Norma, holding her close as he walked to the hidden room under the stairs. The panel swung open with a soft click, revealing a narrow entrance. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of old paper, mingled with the earthy aroma of dried herbs. Soon the room was dimly lit by candle flames, shadows dancing on the walls from the flickering. Shelves lined the walls, filled with wilted plants in various states of decay. Dried tendrils cast eerie, spidery shadows, giving the room an almost otherworldly feel. Some plants hung from the ceiling in makeshift pots, their long-dead leaves brushing against Castiel’s head as he moved. At the heart of the room stood a sturdy wooden desk, cluttered with books, papers, and notebooks. The covers of the books were worn, the spines cracked from frequent use. Some lay open, displaying intricate diagrams and handwritten notes in a delicate, flowing script. The pages were yellowed with age, stained with ink or potions spilled in moments of hurried experimentation. Vials and jars filled with powders, dried herbs, and liquids of different colours and viscosities were scattered across the desk. A few vials lay shattered on the floor, their contents long since evaporated, leaving faint, lingering scents. Among the tools were a mortar and pestle, a small set of scales, and several delicate glass instruments, all coated in a fine layer of dust. A large, well-worn notebook lay open on one side of the desk, its pages filled with detailed descriptions of experiments. Each entry was meticulously documented, with precise measurements and methods, but almost all ended in notes of failure or the need for further research. The handwriting varied in neatness, reflecting the author's growing frustration or desperation over time. Against the far wall, a small bookshelf held more volumes, their spines displaying titles in languages both familiar and arcane. Some books were bound in cracked leather, while others were covered in a thin layer of dust, as if they hadn’t been touched in years. The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust, disturbed only by the occasional footprint or paw print, adding to the sense of abandonment and neglect. Cobwebs stretched across the corners of the room, their delicate threads glinting in the candlelight. In this room, Castiel had poured his heart and soul into the pursuit of knowledge and healing for the past two weeks. Each book was scoured for information on allergies. The space was filled with the ghosts of past efforts, the air heavy with the unfulfilled potential of long-forgotten experiments.

Castiel and Norma had been working on a specific elixir for the past few days. The answer seemed to lie in a mixture of Ravensara aromatica, Saint John’s Wort, Echinacea, and stinging nettle.

"What do you think, Norma?" Castiel asked, his voice echoing softly in the dim room.

Norma meowed, her eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.

"Yeah, I don’t know either," Castiel sighed, leaning back in his chair. Castiel gazed at the mixture that had been steeping in vodka for a few days. The colour, a murky brownish-green, was slightly off-putting, but he knew its potential benefits. He sighed, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing on him. "I don’t even know how to get him to try it," Castiel said aloud, his voice echoing softly in the dimly lit room.

Norma meowed, her green eyes wide with curiosity. Castiel reached out and scratched behind her ear, the simple action bringing him a moment of comfort.

"The mixture should work," he murmured, almost as if trying to convince himself. "Ravensara aromatica has antiviral and antibacterial properties. In the books it says that it can fight off viruses and bacteria, helping with colds, flu, and respiratory infections. It’s also antifungal and can help treat infections. Plus, it has anti-inflammatory properties to reduce pain and inflammation, and it can even be used to relieve stress."

Norma meowed again, as if encouraging him to continue.

"Then there's Saint John’s Wort," Castiel went on, his voice gaining a bit more confidence. "It’s widely known for treating mild to moderate depression. Studies online suggest it’s as effective as some prescription antidepressants. It helps alleviate anxiety, promotes a sense of calm, and can be used to manage Seasonal Affective Disorder. In the books it is also said that it aids in healing wounds, burns, and insect bites due to its anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties." He glanced at the open notebook on the desk, the pages filled with meticulous notes and measurements. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over the handwritten words, each one a testament to his dedication. "Echinacea is another crucial ingredient, Norma" Castiel continued, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the vial. "In the books it is said that it strengthens the immune system and helps prevent colds and flu and that it can reduce the severity and duration of symptoms when taken at the onset of an illness. It’s used to fight various infections, including respiratory and urinary tract infections.And Norma, if you weren't so knowledgeable, then maybe it would be used on you. You see, it helps treat wounds, burns, and insect bites, and you are one to take a closer look at both stoves and dragonflies. Its anti-inflammatory properties can aid conditions like rheumatoid arthritis, and it contains compounds with antioxidant effects, protecting cells from damage." Norma tilted her head, her green eyes reflecting the candlelight. "And finally, stinging nettle," Castiel said, his voice softening. "It’s commonly used to alleviate symptoms of hay fever and other allergic conditions. It reduces inflammation and histamine production, helping with sneezing and itching. The books state repeatedly that it has anti-inflammatory properties, which are useful for treating arthritis and other inflammatory conditions. It supports urinary tract health, promotes overall nutrition due to its rich vitamins and minerals, and can help regulate blood sugar levels. And it treats skin conditions like eczema, acne, and psoriasis, and it’s believed to promote hair growth and improve scalp health." Castiel sighed again, leaning back in his chair. "The mixture should work, right?" he said, more to himself than to Norma. "But convincing Dean to try it... that's another matter entirely."

Norma meowed softly, nuzzling against his hand. Castiel gave her a small smile, feeling a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to help Dean. The thought of him struggling alone upstairs was unbearable, and it had turned him mean, snappy. Castiel needed to find a way to bridge the gap between them, to show Dean that he cared deeply, despite the walls they had both built around themselves.

Without Dean, the house was silent, and Castiel felt the stillness like a physical presence pressing in on him; he needed to take action to find a way to break through the silence. With a determined look, Castiel stood up, picking Norma up and holding her gently in his arms. He walked into the kitchen, setting her down on the counter. Together, they began making a grocery list. Castiel spoke his thoughts aloud, detailing his plan to Norma.

"I’ll make Charlotte Russe," he said, his voice gaining confidence. "It’s no-bake, and Dean probably hasn’t had it before. Even if the elixir makes the flavour a bit off, he won’t know. Besides, there is probably enough sugar in the cake to mask much of the flavours anyway."

Norma meowed in approval, her tail flicking with interest. Castiel carefully wrote down the ingredients he needed: ladyfingers, heavy cream, gelatin, sugar, vanilla extract, and fruit preserves. He double-checked to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

"All set," Castiel said, looking at Norma. "Now, let’s go get these groceries." He grabbed his coat and keys and walked out to his car. The drive to the grocery store was uneventful, the forest around them gradually coming to life as spring approached. The store, nestled within the trees, seemed larger than Castiel remembered, the last time he was there was the day when Dean got sent to the cage. As he stepped inside, the air felt different, heavier with the scent of fresh produce and baked goods.

Once inside, the enormity of the task ahead hit him. The store seemed vast, and everything looked the same. Shelves upon shelves of items stretched out before him, each aisle blending into the next. Castiel took a deep breath, clutching the grocery list in his hand. He could just follow the list. That should work. He started down the first aisle, his eyes scanning the shelves for ladyfingers. As he moved from aisle to aisle, the overwhelming sameness of everything began to press in on him. Each product seemed indistinguishable from the next, the bright packaging and myriad options blurring together in his mind. His breathing grew shallow, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the cart. In the baking aisle, he paused, staring at the rows of flour and sugar. The words on the packages swam before his eyes, the neat labels turning into a confusing jumble. He gripped the cart tighter, his heart racing. It felt as though the walls of the store were closing in on him, the bright fluorescent lights glaring down like a spotlight.

"Can’t do this," he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the store’s background noise. The cart felt like a lead weight, each step forward more difficult than the last. The noise of other shoppers, the clatter of carts, and the incessant beeping of the cash registers filled his ears, each sound amplifying his sense of disorientation. Castiel’s breaths came in short, shallow gasps as he struggled to keep his focus. The neatly written list in his hand was no longer a helpful guide; it had turned into a confusing array of words that made no sense. He scanned the list again, but the letters seemed to blur together. His vision wavered, and he felt a wave of dizziness. He closed his eyes, trying to ground himself. He needed to focus, to break down the task into manageable steps. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. He repeated the items in his mind like a mantra, trying to block out the overwhelming stimuli around him. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. Ladyfingers. Heavy cream. Gelatin. Sugar. Vanilla extract. Fruit preserves. But it was no use. The panic rising in his chest refused to be quelled. His hands shook, and he could feel the prickling sensation of tears behind his eyes. The store was too big, too loud, too bright. Each aisle felt like an insurmountable obstacle, the rows of products blending into a chaotic mass. Castiel abandoned the cart, his list crumpled in his hand, and stumbled out of the store. The fresh air hit him like a shock, the cool breeze a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. He leaned against his car, taking deep, steadying breaths. The forest around him was calm, the trees swaying gently in the breeze, their presence grounding him. After a few moments, he felt the panic begin to subside, replaced by a deep exhaustion. He knew he couldn’t go back inside the store. Not now. He needed help. He needed someone who could navigate the overwhelming aisles and bring back the ingredients he needed. Castiel pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he scrolled through the short list of contacts. He paused at Charlie’s name, his mind flashing back to their last interaction. Swallowing his pride, he pressed the call button.

"Charlie?" he said when she picked up, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Castiel?" Charlie’s voice was filled with concern.

"I need your help."

"What’s wrong?"

"I’m at the grocery store," he began, his words tumbling out in a rush. "And I have a list, but… I… I can’t do it. It’s too much. Can you... can you come help me?"

"Of course," Charlie replied without hesitation. "Where are you?"

"Parking lot."

"Stay where you are. I’ll be there in a few minutes." Castiel let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. He leaned against the car, waiting for Charlie, the weight of the task lifted from his shoulders. As he stood there, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, with a little help, he could make things right with Dean. Maybe, just maybe, they could find a way back to each other.

Soon, Castiel saw Charlie's yellow car pulling into the parking lot. The vibrant colour was a beacon of familiarity and reassurance. She parked beside him, and as she stepped out, her presence was like a soothing balm to his frayed nerves.

"Hey, Cassie," Charlie greeted, her voice warm and welcoming.

"Hi," Castiel replied, his tone subdued but grateful.

"So, what are you making?" Charlie asked, her curiosity piqued.

"Charlotte Russe," Castiel answered, handing her the crumpled list. Charlie glanced at it, immediately recognising the ingredients and noting the presence of gelatin.

"Charlotte Russe... you don't..." she began, a hint of confusion in her voice.

"I know," Castiel interrupted gently.

"You're making it for Dean," Charlie concluded, understanding dawning in her eyes.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. Charlie looked at him for a moment, a mix of sympathy and regret in her gaze.

"I am sorry, Castiel. About lying. About taking your blood. Gabriel ordered—"

"I know," Castiel said, cutting her off. He didn't want to dwell on the past anymore, he just wanted his friend back.

"Still," Charlie insisted, her voice tinged with remorse.

"The blood was not your fault," Castiel reassured her. "You were following the leader's orders." Charlie nodded, still looking apologetic.

"Wanna come with?" Castiel hesitated, the memory of his recent struggle still fresh in his mind.

"I don’t—" Charlie smiled encouragingly.

"Come on, Cassie."

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly. Charlie's smile widened.

"It has been a hot minute since we went shopping together, huh?"

"I guess," Castiel replied, a faint smile touching his lips. Charlie had often accompanied him on grocery trips in the past, and her presence had always filled him with a sense of calm.

"Cart or basket?" Charlie asked as they approached the store entrance.

"Basket," Castiel decided.

"You sure? We could get some other stuff too, stock up, you know? We both have cars here now, so we can get you some more than normal," Charlie suggested, her practicality shining through. Castiel hesitated again.

"I don’t know—"

"Well, then I know," Charlie said decisively. "Let's get some stuff to fill up your pantry. Pasta, dried herbs, strawberry jam, canned tomatoes…?"

"Okay," Castiel agreed, feeling a bit more at ease with Charlie taking the lead. They walked into the store together, the fluorescent lights no longer seeming as harsh. With Charlie by his side, Castiel felt the overwhelming sensation from earlier begin to fade. They moved through the aisles methodically, Charlie picking out items with the ease of someone well-versed in grocery shopping.

"Remember how we used to come here after school?" Charlie reminisced as she tossed a bag of pasta into the cart. "You’d always insist on getting salted almonds."

"And you’d always get the lemon-lime soda." Castiel chuckled softly. Charlie grinned.

"Seven up? Yeah… Good times." They continued to chat as they shopped, the familiar banter easing Castiel's anxiety. The cart quickly filled with essentials, and before long, they had everything on the list and more. "Anything else you need?" Charlie asked as they reached the checkout.

"Think we’re good," Castiel replied, glancing at the full cart. Charlie paid for the groceries as Castiel tried to figure out how to best load them into their cars. The task that had seemed insurmountable earlier now felt manageable, thanks to Charlie’s help.

"Thanks, Charlie," Castiel said as they finished loading the last bag.

"Anytime, Cassie," she replied with a warm smile. "Let’s head back so you can get that Charlotte Russe started." The drive back to the house was peaceful. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the forest. As they pulled into the driveway, Castiel felt a sense of accomplishment. With Charlie’s help, he had not only managed to get the groceries but also felt a little more prepared to face the challenges ahead.

Inside, they unpacked the groceries, the kitchen soon bustling with activity.

"I think this will be good," Charlie said encouragingly as she watched Castiel work. "And Dean will appreciate it."

"Hope so," Castiel replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"He will," Charlie assured him. "You’re trying, Cassie. That’s what matters."

When Charlie left, Castiel stood alone in the kitchen, feeling a sense of determination wash over him. The sun had set, casting a gentle twilight over the room. He took a deep breath, glancing at the array of ingredients laid out on the counter. Norma, perched on the windowsill, watched him intently, her green eyes reflecting the fading light.

"Alright, Norma," Castiel murmured, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's make this work." He picked up the ladyfingers, their delicate texture reminding him of the intricate task ahead. Gently, he began to line a round mould with them, creating a soft, crumbly base. Norma meowed softly, as if to encourage him. "Ladyfingers first," Castiel narrated, smiling at the kitten. "They make a nice, light base for the dessert." Next, he poured the heavy cream into a mixing bowl, the rich, velvety liquid pooling at the bottom. He whisked it carefully, feeling the cream thicken and rise, transforming into soft peaks. "Now, we whip the cream until it's light and fluffy," he explained to Norma. "This will make the dessert airy and smooth." As the cream reached the perfect consistency, Castiel set it aside and prepared the gelatin. He dissolved it in a small bowl of warm water, stirring until it was completely liquefied. He then added it to the whipped cream, folding it in gently to ensure an even mix. "The gelatin helps set the cream," he continued, glancing at Norma. "So it holds its shape when we take it out of the mould."

With the base and cream ready, Castiel turned his attention to the sugar and vanilla extract. He measured out the sugar, adding just enough to sweeten the cream without overpowering it. A few drops of vanilla extract followed, infusing the mixture with a warm, comforting aroma.

"A touch of sugar and vanilla for flavour," he said, smiling as he stirred the mixture. "It adds a little sweetness and depth." Finally, he added a layer of fruit preserves to the mould, the vibrant colours standing out against the creamy backdrop. He carefully spread the preserves over the ladyfingers, creating a sweet and tangy layer. "The fruit preserves add a burst of flavour," he explained to Norma. "They balance the richness of the cream." Castiel paused, looking at the nearly completed dessert. He quickly made his way to the hidden room and fetched the vial. The murky brownish-green liquid had steeped long enough, and it was time to incorporate it into the dessert. Back in the kitchen he reached for the fresh raspberries, their bright red hue a stark contrast to the creamy layers. He held them for a moment, then turned to the elixir he had been working on for the past few days.

"Here's the final touch," he murmured, pouring the elixir into a bowl and mixing it with the raspberries. "This should help Dean with his allergies, if it works as I hope."

He gently spooned the raspberries and elixir mixture over the top of the Charlotte Russe, the berries glistening under the kitchen light. The dessert was complete, a delicate balance of flavours and textures, each layer carefully crafted to create something both beautiful and beneficial.

"There we go," Castiel said softly, stepping back to admire his work. "Charlotte Russe with a special twist."

Norma meowed approvingly, her tail flicking with interest. Castiel smiled, feeling a sense of accomplishment. He hoped that this small gesture, this simple dessert, could help bridge the gap between him and Dean. As he placed the dessert in the fridge to set, he felt a glimmer of hope.

"Let's see if this works," he whispered to Norma, giving her a gentle scratch behind the ears. "Let's see if we can make things right."

The kitchen was quiet now, the tasks completed, and the promise of reconciliation hanging in the air. Castiel turned off the lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, hoping that tomorrow would bring a new beginning. Castiel ascended the creaky wooden stairs, each step a slow, deliberate movement. The dim light from the hallway cast long shadows on the walls, creating an almost ethereal glow. He reached Dean's room, pushing it open gently, he peered inside. Dean lay still, his face turned away, seemingly asleep. Castiel hesitated, then began to close the door softly.

"Cas?" Dean's voice, though groggy, broke the silence. Castiel paused, his hand on the door.

"You're awake."

"Yeah," Dean replied, turning to face him, eyes bleary but open.

"Are you hungry?" Castiel asked, stepping into the room.

"I am," Dean admitted, shifting to sit up a bit more.

"Sorry, I got a bit distracted," Castiel said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's okay," Dean replied, offering a small, tired smile.

"Soup?" Castiel offered, his voice gentle. Dean sighed but nodded.

"Yeah."

"Sorry," Castiel said again, a hint of regret in his tone.

"It's fine," Dean reassured him, his expression softening.

"Okay," Castiel murmured, heading towards the door.

"Yeah," Dean echoed, settling back into his pillows. Castiel paused at the doorway, then turned back, a sudden thought striking him.

"Actually..."

"What?" Dean asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.

"I made you something special. It was for tomorrow but that's why I got distracted," Castiel explained, his eyes lighting up with a hint of excitement.

"Oh?" Dean’s interest was piqued.

"Charlotte Russe," Castiel revealed, a small smile playing on his lips. Dean blinked, puzzled.

"I... I don't know what that is."

"It's a cake," Castiel explained, stepping closer to the bed.

"I thought you said you only knew how to make one cake," Dean teased lightly, a hint of amusem*nt in his eyes.

"It's not like that. You don't bake it," Castiel clarified, his smile growing.

"Okay," Dean replied, intrigued.

"So, soup and cake?" Castiel suggested, a hopeful note in his voice.

"Sounds great," Dean agreed, his eyes brightening at the prospect.

Castiel nodded, feeling a sense of warmth spread through him. He headed back downstairs, the anticipation of sharing the Charlotte Russe with Dean making his steps lighter. In the kitchen, he carefully ladled the soup into a bowl, adding a piece of bread and cheese on the side. He placed the bowl on a tray alongside a large slice of the Charlotte Russe, the vibrant raspberries gleaming under the soft kitchen light. With the tray balanced in his hands, Castiel returned to Dean's room. Dean’s eyes lit up at the sight of the tray, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

"Here you go," Castiel said, placing the tray on Dean’s lap. Dean looked at the food, then back at Castiel, his eyes filled with gratitude.

"Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome," Castiel replied, a warm smile on his face. He watched as Dean took a tentative sip of the soup, then a bite of the bread.

"This is good," Dean said, his voice sincere while still seemingly confused why Castiel stayed so long this time.

"I'm glad," Castiel replied, feeling a sense of relief. Dean glanced at the slice of Charlotte Russe, his curiosity evident.

"And this?"

"Try it," Castiel encouraged, his eyes hopeful. He sat down on the edge of the bed, content to simply be there, sharing this quiet moment with Dean. Dean cut a small piece of the cake, lifting it to his mouth. He took a bite, his expression thoughtful. Then his eyes widened slightly, a smile spreading across his face.

"This is amazing, Cas."

"Really?" Castiel asked, his heart lifting.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, taking another bite. "It's really good." Castiel felt a surge of happiness, the effort of the past two weeks paying off in this simple, shared moment.

"I'm glad you like it." Dean nodded, his mouth full of cake. For the first time in what felt like forever, the room was filled with a sense of peace.

“Have you tried it?”

“No.”

“Do you want a bite?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Don't like raspberries.”

“I can give you a bite without raspberries.”

“No, ‘m good.” Castiel watched as Dean’s eyes flickered a pale gold, the colour flashing briefly before fading. His heart skipped a beat, a cold shiver running down his spine. Dean furrowed his brow, noticing the change in Castiel’s expression.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Nothing,” Castiel replied, too quickly.

“No, Castiel. Someone does not make that face when everything is fine. What's wrong?” Dean pressed, his gaze narrowing.

“The cake was special.” Castiel looked away, his voice barely a whisper. He heard the soft clink of the plate being set aside, then felt the sudden grip of Dean’s hand on his jaw. Dean’s eyes were hard, suspicion etched into his features.

“Did you drug me?” Castiel tried to jerk away, but Dean’s grip tightened. “Did you drug me, Castiel?” Dean repeated, his voice a growl.

“No!” Castiel yelled, panic rising in his chest. He grabbed Dean’s wrist, nails digging deep into Dean’s skin.

“How is the cake special, Castiel?” Dean demanded.

“Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go!” Castiel screamed, his voice breaking with desperation.

“Castiel,” Dean warned, his tone icy. Castiel jerked his head back, his nails digging deeper into Dean’s arm. He heard Dean hiss in pain, blood began to run down their arms, yet Dean did not let go.

“Let go!” Castiel yelled again, his voice raw. Finally, Dean released him, and Castiel scrambled away, leaning against the wall, his breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. He tried to calm down, his chest heaving with each breath. “Don’t do that,” Castiel shouted, his voice shaking. He looked up, seeing the blood dripping from Dean’s arm onto the floor, Dean’s frustration evident in his eyes.

“Okay,” Dean said, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger.

“It is supposed to help with the allergy.” Castiel said, still trying to steady his breath, “I have been working on it since you said it was back.” Dean’s expression shifted from anger to surprise, then to confusion.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t—”

“Yes, I thought that when I told you,” Castiel interrupted, his breathing slowing, “but I changed my mind. Didn’t want to make you feel liked a prisoner in your own home.” Dean’s eyes softened slightly, the tension in the room easing just a bit.

“You’ve been working on this for me?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Yes,” Castiel replied, his voice steadier. “Wanted to help you, Dean. Didn’t know how else to give it to you.” Dean looked down at the blood on his arm, then back at Castiel.

“You could have told me.”

“I know that now,” Castiel said, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the confession. “But I was afraid you wouldn’t trust me.” Dean watched Castiel intently, his gaze softening.

"Come sit down," he said, his voice gentler now.

"No," Castiel replied, his eyes still wary.

"Please," Dean pleaded, his tone almost tender.

"Don't touch me," Castiel warned, his body tense.

"Okay," Dean agreed, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. Castiel hesitated, then slowly made his way back to the bed, perching on the edge. Dean stayed where he was, giving Castiel the space he needed. "How is it supposed to work?" Dean asked, his curiosity tempered with caution.

"Well, it isn't science," Castiel explained, his voice quieter. "It's supposed to work for a while, and then you need to take a new dose." Dean nodded, processing the information.

"If it works."

"Yeah, if it works," Castiel echoed.

"Okay," Dean said, his gaze steady despite the touch of uncertainty in his tone. “You know, you could have just given it to me.”

"Didn't think you'd trust a brownish-green liquid," Castiel admitted, his eyes meeting Dean's.

"I might have," Dean replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Castiel narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, okay, maybe I wouldn't have," Dean conceded, looking sheepish. Castiel looked away, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "How soon?" Dean asked, his voice gentle.

"Now," Castiel replied.

"Now?" Dean repeated, surprised.

"Yes, 'after the subject's eyes glow a faint gold’ ," Castiel said, quoting from one of the many books he had studied.

" ’Subject’ , huh?" Dean remarked, a slight grin forming on his lips.

"That's what it says in all the books," Castiel explained, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"All the books?" Dean asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Did a lot of research, Dean. Wouldn't just give you something," Castiel said earnestly. Dean moved a bit closer, his eyes flickering to his still-bleeding arm. Castiel noticed the movement, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Don't touch me," Castiel said again, his voice a mixture of fear and determination. Dean sighed but nodded.

"Okay." The room fell silent, the tension between them palpable but slowly easing. Dean looked at Castiel, his expression softening further. "Thank you," he said quietly. Castiel looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes.

"For what?"

"For trying to help me," Dean replied, his voice sincere. "Even if I didn't handle it well."

"Okay," Castiel finally said, his voice soft, a touch of resignation in his tone.

"So, is it supposed to be like when Balthazar did it?" Dean asked, his curiosity mingling with a hint of wariness.

"Yeah, kinda," Castiel replied, his eyes flicking briefly to Dean's before dropping back to the floor.

"Kinda?" Dean echoed, a frown creasing his forehead.

"You just ate about an eighth of the dose," Dean looked confused so Castiel continued to explain, his tone patient. "The dose you got wasn't very strong; I mixed it out. I imagine you'll need to eat the rest of the cake in the next few days." Dean's eyes lit up with a mixture of surprise and amusem*nt.

"I am very on board with that," he said with a small grin.

"Okay," Castiel said again, feeling a bit of the tension ease.

Castiel watched as Dean finished the food, his movements slow but steady. Once Dean took the last bite, Castiel stood to take the tray, his steps careful and deliberate.

"Stay," Dean said, his voice gentle but firm.

"No," Castiel replied, shaking his head slightly.

"Why not?" Dean asked, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

"You can leave your room now," Castiel said, his eyes meeting Dean's with a look of quiet determination.

"Oh, yeah, I guess that's true," Dean muttered, his expression softening as the realisation dawned on him.

Chapter 43

Chapter Text

Dean leaned closer to the mirror, the steam from the hot water blurring his reflection. As he dragged the razor carefully over his jaw, his thoughts began to spiral. Balthazar had been right about Castiel's dedication. Despite everything, Castiel had worked tirelessly to create something that would make Dean's allergies disappear. Dean felt a pang of guilt. Even after all that had happened, Castiel had still cared for him. The razor slipped, slicing a thin line along his cheek. Dean cursed softly, grabbing a piece of toilet paper and pressing it against the cut. As he examined the barely visible scratches on his arm, he couldn’t help but think of what Castiel's nails had felt when they dug in two days ago. They hadn't spoken since, but Dean had noticed the way Castiel's eyes lingered on him whenever they crossed paths in the house.

Norma's meow broke his reverie. Dean looked down at the kitten, who gazed up at him expectantly.

"Hi, girl," Dean murmured, his voice softer than usual. "What do you think? Is Castiel going to continue avoiding me today too?"

Norma meowed again, her tail flicking as if in response.

"Oh yeah? Well, maybe I should try telling him that," Dean replied, crouching down to scratch behind her ears and noticed her interest in the paper. "Do you wanna smell it?" Dean removed the paper from his cheek and offered it to Norma. She sniffed it curiously. "Can you believe that once this blood made Castiel want to kiss me?" Dean said, a wry smile on his lips. He stood up, tossing the piece of paper into the toilet. "Yeah, me neither."

"Are you sure?" The sudden sound of Castiel's voice startled Dean who jumped in surprise.

"Don't do that!” Dean hissed. “You scared me half to death." Castiel stood at the door, his eyes wide with concern. Dean felt a sudden rush of embarrassment, realising he was fully undressed for his shower. He reached for a towel to cover up, but Castiel took his wrist, their eyes meeting for a moment. When Castiel’s eyes noticed the scratches lingering he looked away, releasing his grip.

"I don't understand why you're covering up," Castiel said, his voice almost a whisper. "I have seen you before." Dean dragged a hand over his face.

"It was different."

"I'll leave," Castiel said, turning to go.

"You can stay," Dean said quickly. Castiel hesitated.

"I thought–"

"You've been avoiding me for the past two days," Dean interrupted.

"No," Castiel protested.

"What would you call it then?" Dean challenged. Castiel opened his mouth to answer but stopped himself. Dean took a deep breath. "Stay."

"It doesn't make sense," Castiel murmured.

"I don't think it has to," Dean replied gently.

"You're not making sense," Castiel insisted.

"Things don't always have to make sense," Dean countered.

"I don't understand," Castiel said, his confusion evident. Dean let go of the towel, letting it fall to the floor. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind Castiel's ear.

"Stay." Castiel looked away, his voice barely audible.

"Why are you bleeding this time?"

"Razor slipped," Dean explained.

"You're twenty-five."

"Yes."

"Shouldn't you be better at shaving by now?" Castiel asked, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Maybe," Dean conceded. Castiel looked at the floor, his fingers fidgeting as Dean’s fingers swept over his cheek. "Can I kiss you, Castiel?" Castiel looked up, eyes widening.

"Why would you want to?"

"I don't know," Dean said softly. "Maybe I need a sample to be able to answer."

"Okay." Castiel mumbled, looking back at the floor. Dean threaded his fingers through Castiel's hair.

"What did you say, Castiel?"

"Okay," Castiel repeated, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

"Okay?" Dean asked, leaning closer. Dean kissed Castiel, their lips meeting in a gentle, hesitant touch. Dean's hand cupped Castiel's face, his thumb brushing against Castiel's cheek. The kiss deepened, their breaths mingling as they moved closer together. Castiel's hands rested on Dean's shoulders, gripping lightly as if afraid to let go. Dean's heart raced, the warmth of the moment enveloping them both. When they finally pulled away, Dean's eyes searched Castiel's. "Cas, I think I know now."

"Okay," Castiel whispered, his voice filled with a mix of uncertainty and hope.

"I like you," Dean confessed, his voice steady.

"You do?" Castiel asked, his eyes wide.

"Castiel?" Dean said, his tone serious.

"Yes?" Castiel responded, his voice barely audible.

"I think I may like-like you," Dean admitted, his heart pounding.

"I don't understand," Castiel said, his brow furrowing.

"It's fine," Dean reassured him.

"I don't understand," Castiel repeated, his confusion clear.

"It's okay," Dean said gently, his hand still resting on Castiel's cheek.

"Okay?" Castiel echoed, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"We'll figure it out," Dean promised, his voice filled with determination. "We will figure it out, Castiel."

"I’m distracting you," Castiel said, his gaze dropping.

"I don't mind," Dean replied, his voice soft.

"You were gonna shower," Castiel reminded him.

"Yes," Dean acknowledged.

"I will let you shower," Castiel said, stepping back.

"Okay," Dean said, watching as Castiel picked up Norma and left the room. Dean stepped into the shower, turning on the hot water. He let the steam envelop him, the warmth soothing his tense muscles. The water cascaded over his skin, washing away the remnants of the past couple of days. He stood under the spray, his mind drifting back to the kiss. The feeling of Castiel's lips against his own lingered, a sweet reminder of the connection they had shared. As he lathered his body, Dean's thoughts wandered to Castiel's words. The uncertainty in Castiel's voice, the way he had looked at Dean with a mixture of hope and confusion. Dean knew that their relationship was far from simple, but he was determined to make it work. And he was starting to realise it was less simple than just helping Balthazar get Castiel out. Now he found that he wanted to show Castiel that he cared, that he was willing to put in the effort to understand and support him. The hot water relaxed Dean's muscles, easing the tension that had built up over the past few weeks. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him. The scent of the soap mingled with the steam, creating a comforting cocoon around him.

Dean stepped out of the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist once more. He wiped the fog from the mirror, staring at his reflection. The scratches though faint and almost fully healed on his arm were an undeniable reminder of the tension that still lingered between them. But the memory of Castiel's kiss, the warmth of his touch, gave Dean hope. He would find a way to make it work. He had to. Dean dressed quickly, his thoughts still on Castiel. He knew that their journey was just beginning, but he felt a renewed sense of determination. He would be there for Castiel, no matter what. They would navigate this together, step by step.

Dean headed downstairs, the scent of tea wafting through the house. He found Castiel in the kitchen, holding Norma in his arms. Castiel looked up as Dean entered, their eyes meeting.

"Morning," Dean said, his voice soft.

"Morning," Castiel replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. Dean poured himself a cup of tea, taking a sip before speaking.

“I was thinking... maybe we could go for a walk later. Just you and me." Castiel's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded.

"Okay."

"Good," Dean said, feeling a sense of relief. "I think it would be nice to get some fresh air." Castiel nodded again, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Yeah, it would." Dean sipped his tea, the warmth spreading through him as he leaned against the counter. His eyes drifted to Castiel, who was busying himself with tidying up the kitchen, avoiding Dean's gaze.

"You haven't made pancakes," Dean observed, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

"No," Castiel replied shortly, his focus still on the task at hand.

"Did Norma distract you?" Dean asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"No," Castiel said again, a bit more forcefully. Dean moved closer, sensing the tension.

"Have you been eating breakfast?"

"For the past two days?"

"For the past month and a half?" Dean pressed. Castiel shook his head.

"No."

"Only when I made you eat the hashbrowns," Dean pointed out. Castiel looked up, his eyes meeting Dean's.

"You didn’t make me. You fed me." Dean chuckled softly.

"Yeah, I guess."

"It was nice," Castiel said, his voice almost inaudible.

"You think so?" Dean asked, moving even closer.

"Yes,” Castiel murmured, looking down at the floor, “you still cared. Even after being out in a cage for a month, you still cared about me eating,"

"Of course I did," Dean said firmly.

"Why?" Castiel asked, his voice filled with genuine curiosity and a hint of vulnerability. Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to reply, yet he didn't miss the way hurt flashed in Castiel’s eyes as he misinterpreted the sigh and looked away. "Exactly! You don’t."

"Cas," Dean stepped closer and kissed Castiel's cheek.

"That's not an answer," Castiel said, a note of frustration in his voice.

"No?" Dean teased, a small smile playing on his lips.

"No," Castiel replied, his eyes still on the floor.

"Should we make breakfast?" Dean suggested, trying to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

"Dunno," Castiel said, his shoulders slumping.

"Well, then I know," Dean decided, reaching out to take Castiel's hand. Castiel sighed and put Norma down on the counter. "I was surprised, you know, when I came down the other day and there was a lot of food."

"Went shopping," Castiel said simply.

"I can tell. And I know it isn't your favourite thing, so—" Dean started.

"Charlie helped me," Castiel interrupted.

"Charlie?" Dean studied Castiel's face, looking for any clues about this change. But all he noticed was the proof of Castiel's exhaustion: the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. "I thought you weren’t talking to Charlie?"

"Well, I am now," Castiel replied, looking at Norma. Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing some important information, but he didn’t want to push and risk upsetting the fragile calm that had been established.

"We have a lot of options now."

"I'm content with just the tea," Castiel said, his voice flat.

"And I would like it if we could eat something." Dean gently pushed.

"There are cans of soup," Castiel offered.

"Honestly, Cas, I don't think I can stomach another soup," Dean admitted.

"I don't understand. I got you different types, different brands—" Castiel began, his voice tinged with confusion.

"I know you did," Dean said softly.

"So, then what's wrong?" Castiel asked, his eyes searching Dean's face for answers.

"It's the fact that they are soups, Castiel," Dean explained.

"Oh," Castiel said quietly.

"One can only eat soup for every meal so many days in a row," Dean added gently. Castiel looked down, the hurt evident in his eyes.

"Just wanted to give you meat."

"It is very considerate," Dean assured him.

"Bought a new pot and bowl and spoon," Castiel said, his voice breaking slightly. Dean gave Castiel a warm smile.

"I know."

"Thought I was doing the right thing—" Castiel started, his voice trembling.

"Breathe," Dean interrupted gently.

"Just… just… I…" Castiel said, his breathing becoming more rapid. "Wanted to give you back meat."

"Castiel, calm down," Dean soothed, his hand resting on Castiel's shoulder. Castiel looked at the floor, body shaking slightly. "Your idea was great, but your execution—"

"Was wrong," Castiel finished for him, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean gently shook his head.

"No, just a bit repetitive."

"Just wanted you to be able to eat meat," Castiel repeated, his voice filled with desperation.

"I know," Dean said softly. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, surprised when Castiel let him. Castiel leaned his forehead into the space between Dean's neck and shoulder. Dean stroked Castiel's back and kissed his hair. "It is alright."

"'M so sorry they made you turn, Dean," Castiel said, his voice muffled against Dean's shirt.

"It is alright, Castiel," Dean reassured him.

"No, Dean, I’ve read about that punishment—" Castiel began, his voice trembling.

"We will be alright," Dean interrupted, his tone firm and soothing.

"It hasn't been used in decades," Castiel said, his voice breaking.

"It is in the past now," Dean said, trying to calm him.

"’M so sorry," Castiel repeated, his voice filled with guilt.

"I’m alright, Castiel," Dean said softly. Castiel looked up, meeting Dean's eyes. "We'll figure this out." Dean smiled, his eyes filled with determination. "We will."

"’Twas used in the past before all the farm animals were owned by the leader." Castiel sniffled, his voice barely audible. Dean frowned.

"What?"

"The punishment," Castiel whispered. "It used to be used to punish people who stole."

"Stole?" Dean repeated, his voice filled with confusion.

"Yes, they were punished by losin- by slaughtering their own cattle," Castiel said, his voice filled with sorrow. Dean held Castiel tighter, his heart aching for the pain Castiel carried. Castiel’s voice trembled as he continued, “They were made to kill their cattle to learn that one should not steal.” Dean felt a chill run down his spine.

“That’s...”

“And then they were to learn that they should be grateful,” Castiel added, his eyes glistening with tears. “They were made to beg, their belongings would be auctioned, their food limited to barley, rye – ”

“Castiel, I’m alright,” Dean said softly, trying to reassure him. Castiel shook his head.

“You did not deserve that.”

“Neither did your lambs,” Dean replied, giving Castiel a sad smile. Castiel sighed, his shoulders slumping. Dean wrapped an arm around Castiel, holding him close.

“It’s fine now,” he whispered.

“How can you be so sure?” Castiel asked, his voice filled with doubt. Dean sighed.

“I’m not.” Castiel furrowed his brow.

“So?”

“So, we try again. That is really all we can do,” Dean said, his voice firm with determination.

“You really think so?” Castiel asked, a hint of hope in his eyes.

“I do,” Dean replied confidently. Castiel looked away, his thoughts a jumble. Dean stroked Castiel's back gently. “Let's make some pancakes.” Castiel stared at the floor but eventually nodded. “Norma might need a plate.” Castiel looked up, his eyes wide and bright with surprise. Dean grinned.

“Really?”

“Well, you wanted her to have a plate of her own once, didn’t you?” Dean reminded him.

“Yes,” Castiel said, his voice softening.

“Then we better get started,” Dean said, placing one last kiss on Castiel's hair before letting him go. “Should we make them together, or do you want to sit this one out?”

“Do you need my help?” Castiel asked hesitantly.

“No,” Dean said, then quickly added, “but I would like it if you want to help.” Castiel bit his lip, uncertain.

“I don’t know.”

“What if I make the pancakes and you set the table?” Dean suggested.

“Okay,” Castiel agreed.

“Great,” Dean said with a smile. Dean began making the pancakes on the griddle, the smell of batter and butter filling the kitchen. Castiel moved around the dining room, carefully placing a plate at each chair, including a small one for Norma. As Dean flipped the pancakes, he glanced over at Castiel, who seemed more relaxed.

“I saw you bought new cases of soda,” Dean remarked.

“Yes,” Castiel replied, placing the last fork.

“Maybe you can put out some cans?” Dean suggested. When Castiel didn’t respond, Dean turned around. “Castiel?” Castiel’s face was troubled.

“You’re being nice,” he said softly.

“It’s okay,” Dean reassured him, but Castiel shook his head.

“No,” Castiel insisted. “You are being too nice, and I keep waiting for you to turn around and be mad and yell at me again.” Castiel’s words hit Dean like a ton of bricks. Mainly because Castiel was entirely right; Dean was being nice, and he did have a habit of yelling at Castiel when he was frustrated. Dean really didn’t want Castiel to assume that all nice moments were always going to end in a fight, even if they often have done up until now. He took a deep breath, walking over to Castiel and placing his hands on his shoulders.

“Castiel, I’m sorry for all the times I’ve yelled at you. I don’t want you to think that every good moment we have is going to end badly, okay?” Castiel looked up at him, searching his face for sincerity.

“But... it often does.”

“I know,” Dean admitted, his voice filled with regret. “And we’re going to work on that. I promise.” Castiel’s eyes softened.

“Okay.”

“Let’s try to enjoy today, yeah?” Dean pulled him into a hug, feeling the tension slowly leave Castiel’s body. “No yelling, just pancakes and strawberry jam and maybe some cans of soda.” Castiel nodded against Dean’s shoulder.

“Okay.”

Dean let go and returned to the stove, flipping the last batch of pancakes. The scent of the cooked batter filled the kitchen, mixing with the warmth of the moment. Castiel quietly set out the soda cans on the table, his movements more sure now. Dean placed the last couple of pancakes on a plate, turning around just in time to see Castiel's face light up with genuine delight; his eyes sparkled as he noticed the three miniature pancakes Dean had made.

"You made specific ones for Norma," Castiel said, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. Dean smiled, feeling a warmth spread through him at Castiel's reaction.

"Well, of course, Castiel. She needs her own. Can't just rip off pieces. She is a lady." Castiel’s expression softened, his gratitude evident.

"Thank you."

“No,” Dean shook his head slightly. "You shouldn’t thank me, Castiel. The little lady should." He placed the three miniature pancakes on Norma's plate and set it down in front of her. "Look, Norma, you got your own."

Norma meowed happily, her tail flicking in excitement as she sniffed the tiny pancakes. Castiel’s eyes followed Norma’s movements, a soft smile playing on his lips. They sat down to eat, the atmosphere in the kitchen warm and comfortable. The scent of freshly made pancakes mingled with the sweetness of strawberry jam, creating an inviting aroma that filled the room. Dean spread a generous layer of jam on his pancakes, glancing at Castiel who did the same. The first bite was a burst of flavours. The pancakes were light and fluffy, perfectly complemented by the tangy sweetness of the strawberry jam. Dean savoured the taste, his thoughts drifting as he chewed. Castiel ate quietly, each bite deliberate and careful. Dean watched him for a moment, noting the way Castiel's expression softened with each bite, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little more. The morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, casting a gentle glow over them, adding to the sense of calm that had settled.

"These are really good," Castiel said after a few moments, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. Dean smiled, feeling a sense of accomplishment.

"I'm glad you like them." Norma, too, seemed to be enjoying her tiny pancakes, her purring filling the small kitchen. Castiel glanced at her, his smile widening.

"I think Norma approves as well." Dean chuckled, watching the kitten with fondness.

"Looks like it."

As they continued to eat, a comfortable silence settled over them. The simple act of sharing a meal felt like a step toward rebuilding the trust that had been fractured. Dean glanced around the kitchen, taking in the familiar surroundings that now seemed to hold a new sense of promise. His thoughts drifted to the past few months, the challenges they had faced, and the journey they still had ahead. Despite everything, there was a glimmer of hope, a sense that they could find their way back to each other.

“Dean," Castiel said softly, breaking the silence. Dean looked up, meeting Castiel's gaze.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," Castiel said, his eyes earnest. The moment stretched between them, filled with an unspoken shared understanding. They finished their breakfast, the lingering taste of strawberry jam a reminder of the small joys they could still find together.

After breakfast, they cleaned up the kitchen, working side by side in a comfortable rhythm. The morning sun continued to shine, casting a golden glow over the room. Dean felt a renewed sense of determination. They would face whatever came next together, one step at a time. As Dean washed the dishes, he glanced over at Castiel, who was carefully wiping down the table. There was a quiet strength in Castiel’s movements, a resilience that Dean admired. He knew they had a long road ahead, but in that moment, he felt hopeful.

When they finished Dean turned to Castiel.

"So, what’s next?" Castiel looked thoughtful for a moment.

“The walk?”

“That sounds great.” Castiel nodded in agreement. "Any place you're thinking of in particular?" Dean asked, curiosity piqued. Castiel hesitated for a moment before replying.

"Well, I..." Dean moved closer, his presence steadying.

"You do, don't you?" Dean teased gently. Castiel took a deep breath.

"Do you remember the westernmost part?" Dean's eyes lit up with recognition.

"Yeah, you said it was your sanctuary, especially in spring."

"Yes," Castiel confirmed, his voice soft.

"Are you sure?" Dean asked, concern lacing his words.

"Yes, I want you to see it," Castiel insisted.

"Okay," Dean agreed, feeling a flutter of anticipation.

"But Dean, can you promise one thing?" Castiel asked, his tone serious.

"Yeah, I guess," Dean replied, intrigued.

"Don’t turn into a wolf halfway there this time," Castiel requested, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Dean chuckled.

"You walk too fast."

"You’re taller than me," Castiel retorted.

"Slightly," Dean conceded with a grin.

They set out on their walk, the journey taking them through the thick forest. Castiel's pace was brisk, but Dean kept up, enjoying the feel of the end-of-March air. Newly sprouted plants and budding flowers dotted their path, the vibrant greens and subtle hints of colour painting a picturesque scene. The forest was alive with the sounds of nature—birds chirping, insects buzzing, and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. The air was fresh, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers and moist earth.

When they finally arrived at the secluded clearing, Dean understood why Castiel loved it so much. The clearing was a vibrant, inviting space filled with the sights, sounds, and scents of the season. The beauty and tranquillity of the setting provided a perfect backdrop for reflection and connection with nature, offering a sense of peace and renewal to those who visited. The transformation from the stark, quiet winter landscape to the lush, lively spring environment symbolised new beginnings and the promise of growth and healing. The trees surrounding the clearing were full of life, with fresh, green leaves forming a dense canopy overhead. The evergreens remained a deep, rich green, while the deciduous trees displayed a variety of bright greens and delicate blossoms. The ground was carpeted with wildflowers in various colours, creating a colourful mosaic that contrasted beautifully with the lush greenery. The soft, green grass was dotted with small, delicate flowers, adding to the beauty of the scene. The atmosphere was filled with gentle breezes, carrying the soft, fragrant scent of blooming flowers and fresh grass. The cheerful sounds of birds singing, insects buzzing, and small animals rustling in the underbrush created a symphony of nature. The clearing was alive with the sounds of renewal and growth, with every element bursting with life and energy. The visual elements were stunning. The bright, fresh greenery, colourful wildflowers, and clear blue sky created a lush and inviting environment. The sun cast warm, dappled light through the leaves, creating a beautiful interplay of light and shadow on the forest floor. A small stream meandered through the clearing, it's clear, cool water sparkling in the sunlight and providing a gentle, soothing sound as it flowed over smooth stones and pebbles.

"Damn, Cas," Dean uttered, taking it all in.

"What?" Castiel asked, glancing at him.

"It's beautiful," Dean said, awe in his voice.

"I know," Castiel replied, a soft smile on his lips.

"I get it now. I get why you would have it as a sanctuary," Dean said, understanding dawning in his eyes. They sat down on the ground, the soft grass cushioning them. As Castiel leaned into Dean, Dean wrapped his arm around him, holding him tight. The warmth of their connection mirrored the warmth of the spring day, and in that moment, everything felt right. The beauty and tranquillity of the clearing provided a perfect setting for them to share their thoughts and dreams, away from the pressures and complexities of their lives. The promise of growth and healing was tangible, and they knew they would face whatever challenges lay ahead together, step by step.

After a few minutes of sitting together Dean leaned back on the grass, the warmth of the sun mixing with the scent of wildflowers. He turned his head slightly, looking at Castiel, who seemed lost in thought as he gazed at the vibrant clearing around them.

"Hey, Cas," Dean said softly.

"Yes?" Castiel responded, turning his head to face Dean.

"How do you prefer to show love and affection to the important people in your life?" Dean asked, his tone gentle but earnest. Castiel blinked, clearly taken aback by the directness of the question. He sat up, his blue eyes wide as he looked at Dean.

"What?" Dean pushed himself up slightly, his gaze steady.

"Well, I’ve noticed that you make food for me, but you’ve claimed not to like cooking—"

"I don’t like cooking," Castiel interjected quickly.

"Right," Dean continued, "but you still do it. And physically—" He paused, considering his words. Castiel cut him off, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Is this because I walked in on you shaving this morning?" Dean shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"No, but I would like to know what that was about." He looked at Castiel expectantly, hoping for an explanation. Castiel's gaze shifted away, focusing on the wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. Dean sighed, sensing the tension. "I’ve noticed that with touching, sometimes you’re okay with it, but other times you recoil as if burnt." He hoped Castiel would open up, the silence stretching between them. "I’m just trying to understand you, Castiel," he added, his voice softening with a hint of vulnerability. Castiel remained silent, his attention seemingly captivated by the flowers around them. Dean felt a pang of frustration, but he remembered his promise not to let every good moment end in a fight. The memory of Balthazar’s advice echoed in his mind: be patient with Castiel. Dean sighed, looking at the ground. He reached out and gently took a flower between his fingers, pulling at its delicate petals. He decided to try a different approach. "Hey, Cas." Castiel glanced at him, finally meeting his eyes. "How many of the plants here can you name?" Dean asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice. Castiel’s eyes brightened, and he began to point at various plants around the clearing.

"That’s Bellis perennis, commonly known as the daisy. Over there is Taraxacum officinale, the dandelion. And this here is Primula vulgaris, or the primrose." He named each one, first giving its Latin name and then its English equivalent. Dean listened intently, watching the way Castiel's face lit up as he identified each plant. It was a side of Castiel he longed to see more often, and he found himself mesmerised by the depth of Castiel’s knowledge and the passion in his voice. The clearing was teeming with life, the vibrant hues of spring painting a picturesque scene, the ground was a carpet of wildflowers in blues, purples, pinks, and whites, their delicate petals creating a stunning mosaic against the lush greenery. Soft, green grass covered the clearing, dotted with small flowers that added to the beauty of the scene. Gentle breezes rustled the leaves, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers and fresh grass. The cheerful sounds of birds singing, insects buzzing, and small animals rustling in the underbrush filled the air, creating a symphony of nature. The clearing was alive with the sounds of renewal and growth, each element bursting with life and energy. Dean felt a sense of peace wash over him as he watched Castiel name each plant. It was a simple moment, but it felt significant. He realised that understanding Castiel meant appreciating these small, quiet moments.

"You know, Cas," he said softly, "I think I get it now. Why this place means so much to you." Castiel looked at him, his eyes softening.

"It’s a place where I can find peace," he admitted. "Away from everything else." Dean nodded, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I can see why. It’s beautiful." They sat in companionable silence, the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze wrapping around them like a comforting embrace. Dean felt a renewed sense of determination. He would be patient with Castiel, learn to appreciate these moments, and slowly, they would navigate their way through the complexities of their relationship. "Thank you for bringing me here," Dean said finally, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. Castiel leaned into him again, and Dean wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him close. They sat there, surrounded by the beauty of the clearing, the promise of growth and healing all around them. And in that peaceful moment, Dean knew they would face whatever challenges lay ahead together, one step at a time. Dean watched the sunlight dance on the clearing’s flowers, each petal catching the light and creating a mosaic of colours. The end of March had brought a sense of renewal to the Novak territory, and this sanctuary, with its vibrant life and tranquillity, felt like a world apart. He turned to Castiel, whose expression remained thoughtful and distant. "Can you describe a time when someone’s affection made a big difference in your day or life?" Dean asked softly. Castiel frowned slightly, as if the question puzzled him.

"Why are you asking?"

"Please," Dean urged, his voice gentle but insistent. Castiel hesitated slightly before answering.

"Balthazar gave us Norma."

"Yeah, he did." Dean smiled at the mention of the kitten. Dean knew that Norma was probably the main —if not the only— reason Castiel had been open with him in their early days. She had been a cushion and a blessing to them both. Dean almost shuddered as he imagined how it would have been without the cat. The thought of their silent, tense interactions without Norma's comforting presence was unbearable. She had kept Dean sane during the periods when he and Castiel didn’t talk. Dean tried asking again, hoping for more insight. "Are there certain ways you feel more comfortable receiving affection, words, touch, actions?"

"Dean…" Castiel said, his voice tinged with frustration.

"Please," Dean repeated, feeling a mixture of hope and desperation.

"I don’t... Why, Dean?"

"Please, I know that it can be hard to talk about—"

"So then why, Dean?"

"Please, Castiel, I—"

"’Just want to understand me.’" Castiel interrupted, his tone sharp.

"Yes."

"That's what I have been hearing all my life. They want to understand me, they can’t understand me, they—"

"No, Castiel, I want to understand how to respect you." Castiel looked at him, sadness flickering in his eyes.

"Dean..."

"Please." Castiel sighed, looking away.

"I don’t know, okay?"

"Okay," Dean said softly, feeling a pang of empathy.

"This is all new," Castiel admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Then we will figure it out."

"Just…” Castiel took a deep breath. “Know that I am not always angry just because I pull away, okay?"

"I know. I’ve noticed, and it is good that you pull away if it feels wrong or too much."

"But you didn’t let go the other day."

"No, I didn’t." Dean felt a knot form in his stomach.

"You scared me."

"I didn’t mean to."

"But you did. You scared me, even if you didn’t mean to."

"I thought you drugged me." Dean’s guilt gnawed at him. Castiel’s eyes flashed with anger.

"I was giving you medicine."

"Well, you were really shady about it." Dean saw Castiel’s expression twist in disgust. He took a deep breath, trying to reel in his own frustrations. There was no use in escalating this into a fight when they were both in the wrong. He picked up a flower and held it up to Castiel. " ’Taraxacum officinale’ , right?" Castiel nodded slightly but remained quiet, his gaze fixed on the flower Dean held out to him. Dean watched him carefully, noting the tension in Castiel’s shoulders and the way his fingers twitched slightly, as if unsure what to do. "Here, Cas," Dean tried again, holding the flower closer. "It’s a dandelion, right? 'Taraxacum officinale' ?" Castiel took the flower, his fingers brushing against Dean’s. For a moment, Dean thought he saw a flicker of a smile, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Yes," Castiel replied, his voice barely audible. He stared at the flower, his expression unreadable.

"How do you take care of yourself when you're feeling down or stressed?" Castiel’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he glanced up at Dean.

"What's with all the questions?" he asked, a hint of irritation in his voice. Dean sighed, feeling the tension in the air.

"Please, Castiel. I just want to understand." Castiel’s grip on the flower tightened, and he crumpled it in his hand. The fragile petals fell to the ground, a stark contrast against the lush grass. He moved to stand, but Dean grabbed his wrist, his touch gentle but firm. Castiel shot him a warning glare. "Please," Dean repeated, his voice filled with quiet desperation.

"No," he said sharply.

"Please," Dean said again, his voice softer but no less insistent. Castiel crossed his arms, his eyes filled with frustration.

"Why?" he demanded. Dean took a deep breath, his gaze steady.

"Because I need to know some things about you before I tell you—"

"Tell me what?" Castiel snapped, interrupting him.

"About my past relationships," Dean said, his voice steady despite the turmoil he felt inside. Castiel’s expression softened slightly, and he looked away.

"You said it wasn’t the right time," he muttered.

"Yes, I did say that. A month and a half ago, I said that," Dean replied, his voice filled with regret.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the tension between them palpable. Finally, Castiel spoke, his voice quiet and introspective.

"In the past six months, Norma has helped. Sometimes, I take long walks in nature because it helps me feel calm. Or I read. Or I just lay in bed and try to shut everything out." Dean nodded, his eyes filled with understanding.

"Okay," he said softly. Dean hesitated for a moment before asking, "Are there specific activities or routines you enjoy doing to help you feel connected?" Castiel looked puzzled.

"Connected?" he repeated.

"To other people. Gabriel, Charlie, Balthazar..." Dean paused, his gaze meeting Castiel’s. "Me." Castiel looked away, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.

"I liked it when we watched Dr. Sexy together. It was comforting knowing the episodes always followed the three-act structure." Dean nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay–"

"I like it when we would watch the movies too.” Castiel continued, his voice thoughtful. “I know those movies and it’s nice to know what will happen next." Dean nodded again, feeling a sense of warmth at Castiel’s words. Castiel glanced at him, his eyes filled with a mix of emotions. "I liked when we did things in the barn together before..."

"I’m sorry, Castiel," Dean said, his voice filled with genuine regret. Castiel nodded, his gaze drifting back to the wildflowers. “Let’s go home, yeah?” Dean asked, his voice gentle but firm. Castiel shook his head, his eyes distant. Dean frowned, his frustration bubbling up. “No?”

“Want to be alone,” Castiel said quietly, not meeting Dean’s gaze. Dean stood up, brushing the grass off his jeans.

“I don’t think that’s the best thing for you right now.”

“What do you know?” Castiel snapped, his voice tinged with anger and hurt. Dean felt his own frustration simmering closer to anger. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, but all he could see was Balthazar’s disapproving gaze and hear his words echoing in his mind: ‘Be patient with Castiel’ . The words felt hollow, just like Dean’s promise to help Balthazar get Castiel out. He tried to calm his breathing, but the explosive bursts of anger threatened to take over. Dean’s eyes shot open, and before he could stop himself, he started yelling.

“You think I don’t know anything? I’m trying to help you, Castiel! I was just about to tell you what you've been asking! But no, you just keep pushing me away! Do you think that’s easy for me? Do you think I enjoy this?” Castiel stood quiet, his eyes wide with shock and hurt. Dean’s anger surged. “I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you! I’m tired of being reminded of how I'm the reason you lost your lambs! I’m tired of trying to figure out what you want! You don’t even know what you want most of the time! You’re so wrapped up in your own misery that you can’t see when someone’s trying to help you!” Castiel’s expression remained stoic, but Dean could see the pain in his eyes. He knew his words were cutting deep, yet he couldn’t stop himself. “ And now you’re talking about being alone like it’s some kind of solution, but it’s not! It’s just an excuse to avoid facing your problems! You think I don’t have problems? You think I don’t have my own sh*t to deal with? But I’m here in some stupid clearing in the forest because at least I'm trying to get to know you. I’m here because I’m trying to make things work, and you’re just... you’re just...” Dean’s voice cracked, his anger giving way to a deep sense of frustration and helplessness. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. The clearing, once so serene and beautiful, now felt like a mockery. He could hear the birds singing, the gentle flow of the stream nearby, but it all felt distant and irrelevant. “I’m sorry,” Dean finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just... I don’t know what to do anymore, Cas.” Castiel remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ground. Dean could see the slight tremor in his hands, the tension in his shoulders. He wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap between them, but he felt rooted to the spot, unsure of what to say or do. The end of March had brought a sense of renewal to the Novak territory, but for Dean, it began to feel like they were stuck in a perpetual winter, unable to move forward. The promise of growth and healing seemed distant, almost unreachable again. “Let’s go home, okay?” Dean said, his voice softer, more pleading. Castiel shook his head once more, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

“You said you wouldn't yell.”

“I… Cas I…” Dean felt a lump form in his throat.

“You said…” Dean watched as Castiel's emotions finally broke free, cascading down like a dam bursting. Castiel’s face contorted in pain, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks. His breathing became erratic, each exhale accompanied by a choked sob. Dean felt a mixture of helplessness and guilt, his heart aching at the sight of Castiel’s suffering.

“Please, Castiel,” Dean whispered, his voice trembling. Castiel didn’t respond. Instead, he seemed to get lost in his own world, mumbling words Dean couldn’t quite make out. His hands trembled violently, and he clutched at his chest as if trying to hold himself together. Dean felt rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do, the once serene clearing now a backdrop to Castiel's intense agony. "Please?" Dean repeated, a desperate edge to his voice. Castiel’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, the vibrant grass cushioning his fall. His sobs became louder, more anguished. Dean watched in helpless silence, his chest tightening with every shuddering breath Castiel took. He wanted to reach out, to offer comfort, but he was paralysed by the fear of making things worse. As Castiel’s sobs grew louder, Dean finally mustered the courage to take a step forward. But the moment he reached out, Castiel screamed at him, the sound raw and filled with pain.

"Get away!" Castiel’s voice cracked, the words barely intelligible through his sobs. Dean froze, his hand still outstretched. He felt his own tears welling up, the frustration and sorrow that had been mounting for the past six months threatening to overwhelm him. He wanted nothing more than to help Castiel, to ease his pain, but he couldn’t force his way through the wall Castiel had built around himself.

“Castiel, please,” Dean pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. Castiel continued to cry, his hands clawing at the ground until dirt stained them as if searching for something to anchor him. The sight of Castiel’s anguish, his vulnerability laid bare, was almost too much for Dean to bear. He dropped to his knees, watching helplessly as Castiel’s sobs wracked his entire body. Dean took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. Slowly, he crawled closer, each movement cautious and deliberate. When he was close enough, he reached out and gently placed his hand on Castiel’s arm. Castiel’s sobs quieted slightly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He looked up at Dean, his eyes red and swollen, his face wet with tears. Dean’s heart ached at the sight, but he forced himself to stay calm, to be the steady presence Castiel needed. Dean's touch was light, barely more than a feather’s weight, hoping it was enough to ground Castiel. In a matter of seconds, almost too quick to register, Castiel had Dean on his back. Castiel straddled Dean and pinned his wrists to the ground on either side of Dean’s head. Dean was surprised, to say the least. He tried to break free, but Castiel was way stronger than he had anticipated. Castiel snarled, and Dean stilled.

“Don’t touch me,” Castiel growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Well, who’s really touching who now, Cas?” Dean tried to joke. They locked eyes for a solid minute. Dean had never seen Castiel like this before, so undeniably a purebred werewolf even in his human form. Castiel’s eyes glowed with a feral intensity, his pupils dilated. His teeth seemed sharper, his breath hot against Dean’s skin. The veins in Castiel’s neck and arms stood out starkly, his muscles taut and trembling with barely restrained power. Dean could see the wildness in Castiel’s eyes, a deep-seated fury mingled with an almost desperate sorrow. Dean could feel Castiel’s chest heaving with each breath, his lips parted slightly. The warmth of Castiel’s body pressed against his own was a stark contrast to the coldness in Castiel’s eyes. Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had never seen Castiel like this, so unguarded, so raw. It scared him, but it also made him more determined to break through the barriers Castiel had erected around himself. Summoning his own strength, Dean tried to free his wrists. The movement was met with an immediate response. Castiel’s nails dug into Dean’s skin, a searing pain shooting through his wrists. Castiel’s grip tightened, and Dean felt the unmistakable wetness of blood seeping onto the forest floor. He hissed in pain, his body tensing under Castiel’s weight. Dean’s vision blurred slightly from the pain and the overwhelming emotions coursing through him. He forced himself to stay calm, to not react with anger or fear. Even though he was sure that if he did not intervene, Castiel might just tear through his flesh until bone was exposed.

“Castiel, it’s me. Dean,” he said softly, his voice a gentle reminder. Castiel’s grip faltered for a brief moment, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But then the hardness returned, and he tightened his hold. Dean’s breaths came in shallow gasps, the pain in his wrists a constant reminder of the precariousness of their situation. He knew he had to tread carefully, to find a way to reach Castiel without pushing him further away. “Cas, I’m not your enemy,” Dean continued, his voice steady despite the throbbing pain.

At the nickname, Castiel’s grip pressed in with full force. Dean cursed at himself internally. What was it Balthazar had said about that nickname? The pain made it harder to focus. Right – it used to be a punishment. Dean took a deep breath. He needed to use Castiel’s full name.

“Castiel, please, listen to me. I’m here for you. I want to help you,” Dean said, his voice firm but gentle. Castiel’s grip loosened slightly, his eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher Dean’s intentions. Dean saw the conflict in Castiel’s eyes, the struggle between his human and wolf sides. He knew he had to reach the part of Castiel that trusted him, the part that wanted to believe in their connection. “Castiel, I care about you. I don’t want to hurt you,” Dean continued, his voice soothing. “I know you’re scared and angry, but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Castiel’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, and for a moment, Dean thought he saw a glimmer of the man he knew. He could feel Castiel’s body trembling, the tension slowly ebbing away. Dean remained still, his eyes locked onto Castiel’s, willing him to see the truth in his words. “Please, Castiel. Trust me,” Dean whispered, his voice filled with a quiet desperation.

Castiel’s grip finally loosened, his hands trembling as he released Dean’s wrists. Dean winced as he pulled his hands free, the pain sharp and immediate. He didn’t move away, though. Instead, he reached up slowly, his hand trembling as he cupped Castiel’s cheek. Castiel flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” Dean murmured, his thumb gently brushing away a tear from Castiel’s cheek. “We’re going to figure this out. Together.” Castiel’s eyes softened, the wildness receding slowly. He took a shuddering breath, his body sagging with exhaustion. Dean pulled him down into a tight embrace, holding him close. He could feel Castiel’s heart pounding against his chest, the rapid beat gradually slowing as Dean stroked his back to calm him down. “We’re going to be okay,” Dean whispered, his voice filled with a quiet determination. “We’ll get through this. I promise.” As Dean lay on the forest floor, absently stroking Castiel's back, a crucial realisation struck him. He had overlooked an essential aspect of the creature that was Castiel James Novak; Castiel was a pureblood whose lineage could be traced back to the first Novak wolf that walked upon the territory hundreds of years ago. The immense power inherent in Castiel's bloodline had been easy to forget, masked almost fully by his personality. One of Dean's hands moved up to massage Castiel's neck and scalp, a tender gesture that belied the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. It had been way too easy to overlook the fact that beneath Castiel's love for animals, vegetarianism, and frequent tears, he must have been one of the most powerful creatures in at least a thirty kilometre radius. Castiel had overpowered Dean in a matter of seconds, and as much as Dean wanted to blame it on the element of surprise, he knew that wasn't entirely true. For the first time, Dean began to understand why the pack harboured such animosity towards Castiel. In theory Castiel possessed all the qualifications that would make him a formidable fighter alongside his brother, but his personality didn't align with their expectations. Gabriel had been bred to be a strong wolf, the mother meticulously chosen by Charles. There wasn't any love involved. Castiel had told Dean that healers were a special type of werewolf, deeply connected to the earth and the pack, with knowledge considered sacred and passed down through generations. And Balthazar had filled in the gaps as he confided in Dean that Charles had only ever wanted Gabriel. Castiel had been seen as an unnecessary spare, a byproduct of boredom rather than intent. Castiel had never been meant to be. He wasn’t weak; he was too strong for his own good. This strength, combined with a personality that didn’t conform to the pack's expectations, made Castiel a target of disdain and mistrust.

As Dean’s hand moved through Castiel’s hair, he felt the weight of this revelation settle in his chest. Castiel’s power wasn’t just in his physical strength; it was in his resilience, his compassion, and his ability to remain gentle despite the harshness of his world. It was in his capacity to care for others, even when he himself was hurting. The end of March had brought a sense of renewal to the Novak territory, but for Dean, it felt like he was just beginning to unravel the complexities of their relationship and the deep-seated issues within the pack. The forest around them was alive with the sounds of nature. Birds sang from the treetops, insects buzzed in the underbrush, and the soft rustle of leaves created a symphony that was both soothing and a stark reminder of the world outside their fragile moment of peace. Dean’s thoughts drifted to the pack and the dynamics that shaped Castiel’s life: Charles, the old pack leader and Gabriel and Castiel's father, had been a figure of authority and tradition. Gabriel had been bred to be strong, to lead, and to fight. Castiel, on the other hand, had been bred out of a whim, not even as an afterthought. Dean’s fingers continued to move through Castiel’s hair, the motion grounding him as he processed these thoughts. Castiel’s vulnerability in this moment contrasted sharply with the immense power he held within. It was a reminder that strength came in many forms, and that sometimes the strongest people were those who remained kind and gentle in the face of adversity. The warmth of the sun and the steady rhythm of Dean's touch seemed to bring Castiel a measure of comfort. Dean's mind drifted back to Balthazar's words about being patient with Castiel. He realised now that patience was not just about waiting for Castiel to open up, but also about understanding the immense pressure and expectations that had been placed on him. Castiel shifted slightly, his breathing evening out as he began to calm. Dean could feel the tension slowly leaving Castiel’s body, replaced by a sense of exhaustion. The past few minutes had taken a toll on both of them, and Dean knew they needed to find a way to move forward, to build on the fragile connection they had forged. Castiel's lineage made him a figure of great potential, but also of great conflict. He was a paradox, a powerful being with a gentle heart. That is what Balthazar had tried to protect. That is why Dean needed to get Castiel out. Dean's thoughts were interrupted by Castiel's once more soft voice.

"Dean," he murmured, his voice still thick with emotion. "Thank you." Dean's hand paused for a moment, then resumed its soothing motion.

"You don't have to thank me, Cas," he replied gently. "I'm here because I care about you. We're going to get through this together." Castiel's eyes met Dean's, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was a spark of hope in their blue depths.

"I don't deserve your kindness," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You deserve it, Castiel.” Dean shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “More than you know. We're going to figure this out." They lay there for a while longer, the forest around them transformed back into a peaceful cocoon. Soon Dean could feel Castiel's muscles finally relaxing fully and breathing even out, the earlier tension dissipating like mist in the morning sun. It had all been too much, Castiel had fallen asleep. Dean knew they still had a long road ahead, but in that moment, surrounded by the beauty of nature and the warmth of their connection, Dean felt a glimmer of hope.

Eventually, Castiel stirred, his voice soft but steady.

"We should head back," he said, his eyes meeting Dean's with a mixture of gratitude and resolve. As they made their way back through the forest, the vibrant colours of spring seemed to echo the newfound sense of possibility between them. The walk back was quiet, each step a silent promise of the strength and support they would offer each other. The late March air was crisp, carrying the scents of blooming flowers and fresh earth. Birds continued their songs, a hopeful melody that seemed to accompany them on their journey.

Chapter 44

Chapter Text

Dean opened his eyes and saw the black furred kitten perched on the edge of his bed. It was evident from the moment Castiel woke up from his nap in the forest yesterday that he was embarrassed by the way he had acted. Norma meowed, stirring Dean from his thoughts.

"Hey, girl," Dean greeted, his voice rough with sleep. Norma padded over to Dean and settled on his chest. Dean stroked her soft fur, feeling the soothing rhythm of her purrs. "What do you think, Norma?" he asked, a hint of amusem*nt in his voice. "How long is Castiel going to be embarrassed?"

Norma meowed in response, her eyes meeting Dean's with a knowing look.

"Oh?" Dean chuckled, continuing to pet her. "You think it'll be a while, huh?" Norma shifted slightly, curling up more comfortably on Dean's chest. He scratched behind her ears, eliciting a louder purr. "Did you know that Castiel is a big bad wolf?" Dean mused, his tone light.

Norma meowed again, almost as if she were agreeing with him.

"Yeah, me neither." Dean's thoughts drifted to the events of the previous day, the raw unguarded emotion in Castiel's eyes, the unspoken pain that lingered between them. It was clear that Castiel needed more than just words of comfort. Dean needed to find a way to truly reach him, to help him work through the emotions that had built up over time.

"Did you like your pancakes yesterday?" Dean asked, his voice softening.

Norma meowed once more, her tail flicking with contentment.

"You're a very pretty girl, Norma," Dean murmured, his mind wandering to Balthazar. Why had the witch ever thought that Dean was the one to help Castiel? Why had Balthazar been able to convince Dean to come back? Chaos or no chaos, Dean was pretty sure Castiel needed more than just comforting words. Especially when Dean couldn't seem to say the right thing or, when he did, he sabotaged it.

"You don’t think Castiel will kill me when the year is up, do you?" Dean asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

Norma meowed, her gaze steady.

"Yeah, I'm not so sure either." Norma stood up and moved to jump off the bed. Dean reached out to stop her, but she ignored him, gracefully leaping to the floor. He closed his eyes and listened, the sound of her small paws padding away echoing in the room. "You think it’s time for me to get up, huh? Okay, girl," Dean said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood and scooped Norma up, holding her close for a moment. "Can you help me pick my clothes?" he asked with a smile.

Norma meowed in response, her eyes bright and attentive.

"Let's do it together then."

Dean sniffed the air, noting the scent that lingered on his clothes. Castiel had scented all of Dean's clothes, but Dean wanted to pick the ones that smelled the most of him, hoping it would help Castiel feel more at ease, and maybe even to encourage him to open up and talk about the things that bothered him. Dean was well aware of the irony; he needed to deal with his own emotions too. But first, he needed to make Castiel trust him again. Every time Castiel had trusted Dean, the universe had seemed to tell him it was the wrong thing to do—Dean had run away, dismissed Gabriel’s threats, and killed Castiel’s lambs.

Dean put Norma down on the floor and dressed quickly. He then leaned his forehead against the wardrobe door, hitting it softly. Damn it. Dean had made Castiel riled up enough to make Castiel’s instincts take over. f*ck. He hadn't been so sure before that Castiel actually had what it took to kill him. Castiel had never fought, never been trained. He hit his head against the wardrobe again, the dull thud reverberating through his thoughts.

"Maybe..." Dean muttered, looking down at Norma, who sat patiently on the floor. "Maybe that is a good thing? Maybe?"

Norma meowed, her eyes watching him intently.

"I don’t know, girl." Dean slid down to the floor, threading his hands through his hair. "What is it Cas...?" he whispered, his voice breaking. Norma moved into his lap, her purring a steady comfort. "What is it that I'm missing?" Dean asked, more to himself than to Norma. He kissed her forehead gently, feeling the soft warmth of her fur against his lips. He lingered there for a moment, drawing strength from the simple act.

Dean stood up, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. He couldn’t change the past, but he could work on building a future where he and Castiel could find some measure of peace. He would try to be patient, he would try to be understanding, and he would try to show Castiel that he was there for him, no matter what.

In the kitchen, Dean and Norma looked through the cupboards. They really were stocked to the brim. Dean closed them again and leaned against the counter, thinking. Then an idea struck him. What if he tried to recreate the food Castiel had taken him to eat on his birthday? Fries and mac and cheese. Dean quickly realised he couldn’t make it exactly the same since Castiel didn’t have any oil, but he decided to make them in the oven instead. Dean began with the oven-baked fries. He preheated the oven and washed and peeled the potatoes, leaving some with the skin for extra texture. He cut them into evenly sized fries and soaked them in cold water to remove excess starch, knowing that this would make them crispier. While the potatoes soaked, he melted butter in a small pot on the stove. After drying the potatoes thoroughly, he placed them in a large mixing bowl and drizzled the melted butter over them, tossing to coat evenly. He added a bit of salt, pepper, and a touch of paprika for extra flavour. Spreading the fries in a single layer on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, he placed them in the oven and set a timer.

Next, Dean turned his attention to the mac and cheese. He brought a large pot of salted water to a boil and cooked the elbow macaroni until it was al dente. Draining the pasta, he set it aside and started on the cheese sauce. He melted butter in a large saucepan, adding flour to create a roux, whisking continuously until it was lightly golden. Gradually, he whisked in the milk, smoothing out any lumps, and cooked it until the mixture thickened. He reduced the heat and added grated cheddar cheese, stirring until it melted into a smooth, creamy sauce. A bit of salt and pepper later, and the cheese sauce was ready. Dean combined the cooked macaroni with the cheese sauce, making sure every piece of pasta was well-coated. For the finishing touch, Dean prepared a breadcrumb topping. He melted a small amount of butter and mixed it with panko breadcrumbs until they were evenly coated. He transferred the mac and cheese to a baking dish, spread the breadcrumbs over the top, and placed it in the oven alongside the fries, which he flipped to ensure even cooking.

The kitchen filled with the comforting aromas of baking fries and bubbling cheese. Dean felt a sense of satisfaction as he moved around the kitchen, preparing the meal. It was a small gesture, but he hoped it would show Castiel that he cared, that he was willing to make an effort to bring a bit of joy into their lives. When the fries were golden and crispy, and the mac and cheese was bubbling and topped with a golden crust, Dean pulled them from the oven. He set the dishes on the counter, admiring his handiwork. The simple meal looked inviting, and he hoped it would help bridge the gap between him and Castiel. Norma meowed from the floor, her gooseberry green eyes watching Dean expectantly. He smiled down at her, feeling a flicker of hope.

"You ready to eat, girl?" he asked, scooping her up and heading towards the seldomly used dining room.

Dean set the table, placing the dishes in the centre. He filled two plates, before putting a few pieces of macaroni on Norma’s small plate. As he did so, he thought about the journey ahead, the challenges they would face, and the strength they would need to find within themselves. When everything was ready, Dean called out to Castiel, hoping that this meal, this small act of kindness, would be a step towards healing.

"Cas, breakfast is ready!" he called, his voice filled with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. Dean watched Norma as she stared back at him with her green eyes, as if trying to communicate something important. "Cas?" Dean asked, feeling a bit silly for expecting an answer from the kitten.

Norma meowed, tilting her head.

"I can't trust you in here alone, can I?" Dean continued, a playful tone in his voice.

Norma meowed again, this time with a hint of indignation.

"Sorry, sorry. But I do think you'd start to eat without us," Dean said, shaking his head with a smile. Norma rubbed against his leg, her purring louder now. "C'mon, let's go get Cas," Dean said, scooping Norma up into his arms. He walked down the hallway towards Castiel's door, his steps slowing as he approached. He knocked gently, hoping not to startle Castiel.

"Cas?" Dean called softly. "I made food." There was no response from inside. Dean felt a knot of worry tightening in his stomach. He tried the door, but it was locked. "Can you unlock the door?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

"No," Castiel’s voice came small, uncertain, from the other side. The embarrassment from the previous day was still evident in his tone.

"I think you'll like it," Dean said, trying to sound encouraging.

"'M fine," Castiel replied, but his voice wavered, betraying his true feelings.

"Please, Cas," Dean urged. "Norma is here too. She wants you to eat."

"You can't know that," Castiel replied, his tone almost petulant.

"Oh, but I do," Dean said with a smile. "She does because if you're not coming to eat, neither can we."

"You can," Castiel mumbled.

"I can't," Dean insisted. "And Cas, I don't want to."

There was a long silence. Dean stood there, listening intently, hoping for some sign that Castiel would open up. Finally, he heard the soft sound of movement from inside, followed by the faint click of the key turning in the lock. The door opened slowly, revealing Castiel. He looked rough, wearing an oversized black hoodie that hung loosely on his frame. His eyes were red and puffy, clear evidence of the tears he had shed. The embarrassment from the previous day had transformed into a deeper sense of shame.

"Hi," Dean said softly, his heart aching at the sight of Castiel’s distress. Castiel looked at the floor, avoiding Dean’s gaze. "I think Norma is hungry," Dean said, trying to lighten the mood. "And I think she wants us to eat together."

"Okay," Castiel whispered, his voice barely audible.

Dean walked toward the dining room, noticing Castiel's confusion as he hesitated at the doorway, glancing at Norma for reassurance.

"Cas?" Dean asked, looking back at him. Castiel’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the spread of food on the table.

Norma meowed.

"You okay?" Dean asked, a note of concern in his voice. Castiel looked at the table, then back at Dean.

"You didn’t have to do this," he said quietly. Dean shook his head.

"I wanted to," he replied gently. "C’mon, let's sit down and eat." Dean set Norma down on the table, watching as she made quick work of her pasta. He smiled, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. "I made what you ordered at the bistro," Dean said, hoping to see a flicker of recognition in Castiel’s eyes.

"Don't think so," Castiel replied, his voice hesitant after taking his first bite. Dean frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"This is better," Castiel said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The shadow over Dean’s heart lifted.

"Norma seemed to like it too," he said, trying to keep the conversation light. But Castiel's eyes were fixed on his plate, a profound sadness radiating from him. "It’s okay," Dean said softly, sensing the maelstrom within Castiel.

"Hurt you." Castiel mumbled and shook his head. Dean leaned in closer.

"What?" he asked, his voice gentle. Castiel looked up for a brief moment, his eyes filled with pain.

"Was out of control," he whispered, his voice breaking. “Hurt you.” The moment stretched on, the air heavy with unspoken words. Dean saw the deep sorrow in Castiel's eyes, the regret that seemed to weigh him down.

"It’s okay," Dean said again, his voice filled with reassurance.

"No," Castiel replied, his voice trembling. "Hurt you. Was out of control." Dean felt a pang of empathy, seeing the fear and shame in Castiel’s eyes.

"Cas, it’s okay," he said firmly. "We’ll get through this together." Castiel finally snapped his head up, holding Dean’s gaze for a few seconds before dropping it again, as if frightened of getting in trouble or of Dean yelling again. The vulnerability in Castiel’s eyes broke Dean’s heart; it seemed like all he ever did was hurt Castiel. Castiel wasn’t trained. The thought that Castiel could just snap sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. But Castiel had not. For half a year, Castiel had not. Castiel had cried, and gotten angry, and forgiven Dean. Over and over. And Castiel had let things go. Until yesterday. Until it was all too much. And now, Castiel was embarrassed, ashamed, bordering on mournful about it.

"Cas?" Castiel’s gaze dropped to the table.

"You don’t have to try to make me feel better," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

"You know, Balthazar told me you're not trained," Dean began carefully, "so the fact that you were able to regain control—" Castiel's head snapped up, eyes wide with hurt and betrayal.

"Balthazar told you?"

"Yes," Dean admitted. "Balthazar told me some things that maybe you forgot, so that I could understand you better." Castiel's expression shifted from sadness to anger.

"He told you about the punishments."

"What?" Dean asked, caught off guard.

"He told you about the punishments," Castiel repeated, his voice rising. "That's why you knew they were public, I thought you just assumed it. That's why you knew not to use the nickname yesterday. Balthazar told you."

“Yes.” Dean nodded slowly. "He did." Castiel’s gaze bore into him.

"Are you actually stupid?"

"Wha–wha–what?" Dean stammered, taken aback by the intensity in Castiel’s eyes. Castiel rose from his chair and stepped closer, his presence intimidating. He looked down at Dean, his expression a mix of anger and disappointment.

"You knew the risks and you still wanted us to disobey?"

"I did," Dean admitted, meeting Castiel’s gaze.

"Why?" Castiel demanded, the question hanging heavily in the air. Time seemed to stop as Castiel's eyes bore into Dean’s, demanding an answer. Dean felt the weight of the moment, the intensity of Castiel’s emotions washing over him.

"I wanted to see if you trusted me," Dean finally said, his voice steady. Castiel snapped his head away, muttering under his breath.

"Gods, you're so stupid."

"Thanks," Dean replied dryly. Castiel turned his attention back to Dean, his eyes blazing.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Dean asked, unsure of where Castiel was going with this.

"Did I pass your test?" Castiel asked, his tone sharp.

"You did," Dean said softly. Castiel's eyes flashed with anger.

"You don’t think you could have tested it in some way where we didn’t both get physically hurt? In some way that didn’t destroy the semblance of balance we had? In some way that didn’t kill so many animals?" Dean rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a surge of guilt.

"Sorry?"

"You’re infuriating," Castiel said, taking a step back. Dean reached out and grabbed Castiel’s wrist, stopping him.

"Cas," Dean said, his voice firm. "Kiss me." Castiel’s eyes widened in surprise.

"What? Why would I— that doesn’t— that doesn’t make any sense, Dean."

"Kiss me," Dean repeated, his gaze steady. Castiel looked at Dean for a long moment, his eyes searching for something in Dean’s face. Slowly, he raised his hands, his fingers brushing the sides of Dean’s head, thumbs caressing his cheeks. Their eyes locked, the intensity of the moment deepening.

"Stand," Castiel whispered.

Dean stood up, their eyes levelling. Castiel leaned in, his lips brushing against Dean’s in a tentative kiss. The kiss was a soft, gentle exploration of the connection between them. Dean felt the warmth of Castiel’s breath against his skin, the softness of his lips, and the unspoken emotions that passed between them. Then the kiss deepened, a slow exploration turning into something more fervent. Dean felt Castiel’s fingers tighten slightly against the sides of his head, and the gentle caress of his thumbs grew more insistent. The softness of their initial connection gave way to a rawer intensity, as if Castiel was pouring all his pent-up emotions into the kiss. Dean welcomed the change, his own hands moving to grasp Castiel’s shoulders. The roughness was a reminder of the depth of Castiel’s feelings, a sign that he was beginning to let down his guard. Dean’s heart swelled with a mix of relief and joy, knowing he had reached a part of Castiel that had been locked away. Castiel's hands moved to grip Dean's shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss became almost desperate, a physical manifestation of everything he had been holding back. Dean responded in kind, matching Castiel's intensity with his own. He could feel the tension in Castiel’s body, the way his muscles trembled with the force of his emotions.

Dean broke the kiss briefly, gasping for breath. Castiel’s blue eyes were dark with a mixture of desire and vulnerability, his lips slightly swollen. Dean felt a rush of protectiveness course through him as he brought a hand up to cup Castiel’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the soft skin.

"Cas," Dean murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. "It's okay. It's okay. I've got you."

Castiel’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before he leaned back in again, capturing Dean’s lips with renewed fervour. The roughness returned, a blend of frustration and longing. Dean felt the pressure of Castiel’s teeth against his lips, the way his fingers dug into his back. It was a kiss that spoke of everything they couldn’t put into words, a connection that ran deeper than any argument or misunderstanding. Dean's heart raced, exhilarated by the rawness of it all. He could taste the salt of Castiel's tears, feel the heat of his breath. Every touch, every movement was laden with meaning. He wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him even closer, wanting to feel every millimetre of him. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, tangled together in a desperate embrace. Dean felt Castiel's fingers digging in more, and soon Dean heard and felt Castiel ripping his shirt open from the back. Dean paused, thinking Castiel was about to let go, but Castiel’s unbroken attention to the curves and muscles of Dean’s body told him otherwise. With a swift movement, Castiel's right hand tore the shirt off completely, while his left hand moved along Dean's toned body, exploring the contours with a newfound fervour. As Castiel traced his tattoo Dean held his breath, afraid that even breathing too loud would break Castiel's concentration. The sensation of Castiel's fingers on his skin was electric, each touch sending shivers down his spine. He felt exposed, vulnerable, yet there was an underlying thrill in the roughness, a sense of connection that words could never convey. After what felt like an eternity, Castiel finally looked back at Dean's face. The intensity in his gaze was softened by a hint of vulnerability, a silent question lingering in his eyes.

"We should eat," Castiel whispered, his voice hoarse. Dean let out a huffed laugh through his nose, the tension breaking.

"Yeah, Castiel. Let's eat," he agreed, his voice gentle but steady.

After breakfast, Castiel handed Dean a hoodie to borrow, the maroon one, its fabric soft and worn from use. They settled upstairs in the living room, the morning light filtering through the windows and casting a warm glow over the space.

"Have you ever seen 'Network' ?" Dean asked, adjusting the hoodie to fit comfortably.

"Network?" Castiel echoed, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yeah, 'Network' , 1976," Dean clarified, a hint of excitement in his voice. Castiel shook his head.

"No, I haven't."

"Then why don't we watch it," Dean suggested, a smile spreading across his face. “It follows the three-act structure, probably.”

Just as Dean had hoped, Castiel was quickly drawn into the fictional world of the film. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, noting the way Castiel's expressions changed with the unfolding drama. It was a good distraction, a temporary escape from their complicated reality. However as the movie progressed, Dean found himself feeling increasingly uneasy. Certain dialogues resonated with him in ways he hadn't expected, their words hitting close to home.

Like the conversation between Louise Schumacher and her husband, Max:

Louise Schumacher:

Do you love her?

Max Schumacher:

I don't know how I feel. I'm grateful I can feel anything. I know I'm obsessed with her.

Louise Schumacher:

Then say it. You keep telling me that you're obsessed, you're infatuated. Say that you're in love with her.

Max Schumacher:

I'm in love with her.

Dean couldn't help but draw a parallel to his own situation. Balthazar had encouraged him to create some chaos to figure out his feelings for Castiel, and now he was confronted with the consequences of that chaos. Every moment with Castiel seemed to sharpen into something more vivid or meaningful. The way Castiel’s eyes, an intense shade of blue, would still soften as he looked at Dean, the way his lips would curl into a gentle smile—these small, seemingly inconsequential details were what Dean clung to. Dean found himself watching Castiel more than usual, noting the subtle changes in his expression, the way his fingers would fidget when he was nervous, or the way he would tilt his head when he was curious. It wasn’t just that Dean cared about Castiel; it was that he felt a need to be close to him, a need to understand him in ways that went beyond words. The thought of Castiel being hurt, of suffering Castiel being hurt, was something Dean couldn’t bear. The mere idea twisted his gut in knots, making him more protective and more determined to be there for him. Even now, sitting on the couch, Dean could feel the electricity between them, a current that seemed to hum with unspoken words and shared glances. He wanted to be the one Castiel turned to, the one who could bring a spark of joy into his life, who could make him laugh, even if just for a moment. Dean realised in that moment that every action he took, every decision he had made since he returned was coloured by his thoughts of Castiel. It was like he had become the centre of Dean’s universe, the one constant that everything else revolved around. As they watched the movie, Dean’s mind drifted to their earlier kiss. It hadn’t been just a kiss; it had been a revelation. The way Castiel’s lips felt against his, the urgency and passion that had coursed through them both—it was something Dean couldn’t forget. His skin still tingled from Castiel’s touch, and he found himself craving that connection again, wanting to feel Castiel’s warmth and strength, to be enveloped in his presence. Every argument, every moment of tension, only reinforced how deeply Dean wanted to protect him, to shield him from the world’s cruelties, but more than that, he wanted to be the one who made Castiel feel safe and cherished. Dean knew that he had to find a way to show Castiel how much he meant to him, to convey the depth of his feelings in a way that words alone couldn’t capture. It was in the way he looked at Castiel, the way his heart raced whenever they were close, and the way his world seemed brighter and more vibrant when Castiel was near. He wasn’t just important to Dean; he was essential, the missing piece that made everything else fall into place.

The next dialogue that struck him was between Max Schumacher and Diana Christensen:

Max Schumacher:

I'm the man that you presumably love. I'm a part of your life. I live here. I'm real. You can't switch to another station.

Diana Christensen:

Well, what exactly is it you want me to do?

Max Schumacher:

I just want you to love me. I just want you to love me, primal doubts and all. You understand that, don't you?

Diana Christensen:

I don't know how to do that.

Dean saw himself and Castiel in both characters simultaneously. They were each struggling to understand and express their feelings, caught in a web of doubts and insecurities. Dean couldn't deny that his feelings for Castiel went beyond simple attraction or affection. It was a need, a deep-rooted desire to be the person Castiel could rely on, to be there in every moment, whether it was filled with joy or sorrow. Dean’s thoughts were constantly occupied with Castiel. Every decision he made, every action he took, was influenced by how it would affect Castiel, how it would bring them closer or push them apart.

Watching Castiel, Dean noticed the small things that made him who he was. The way his eyes sparkled when he was passionate about something, the way his lips quirked up in a genuine smile, and the way he sought comfort in small gestures, like the warmth of Norma curled up in his lap. These details weren't just observations; they were etched into Dean’s mind. Dean’s heart ached when he saw Castiel in pain, Dean wanted to be the shield that kept the world’s harshness at bay, to be the source of solace and strength that Castiel could lean on. But every time Castiel flinched or withdrew, it felt like a physical blow to Dean, a reminder of how fragile their connection could be. There was a deep sense of fulfilment in being near Castiel, a completeness that Dean couldn’t find anywhere else. When they were together like this, the world was less chaotic, less overwhelming, because they had each other. Dean found himself yearning for those moments of closeness, the brief instances where they could forget everything else and just be. In these quiet moments, when the world was still and it was just the two of them, Dean at times felt as if the connection was unbreakable. Dean found himself constantly drawn to him, his thoughts always circling back to Castiel, like a compass pointing true north. Castiel had become a part of him, an integral piece of his life that he couldn’t imagine being without. Dean was pretty sure Castiel felt the same way, even if he couldn’t put it into words. It was in the way Castiel looked at him, with an intensity that spoke volumes, and in the way he sought out Dean’s presence, as if needing the reassurance of his closeness or scent. Dean sensed a profound connection between them, a bond that was both comforting and exhilarating. Castiel’s dependency on Dean was evident, but Dean didn’t see it as a burden. Not now. Instead, he saw it as a testament to their bond, a reflection of how deeply they were intertwined. It wasn’t just about needing each other; it was about being a part of each other’s lives in a way that was unshakable and enduring.

Then there was the exchange that brought a faint blush on Castiel’s face and wry smile to Dean's:

Diana Christensen:

I'm sorry for all those things I said to you last night. You're not the worst f*ck I ever had. Believe me, I've had worse. You don't puff or snorkel and make death-like rattles. As a matter of fact, you're rather serene in the sack.

Max Schumacher:

Why is it that a woman always thinks that the most savage thing she can say to a man is to impugn his co*cksmanship?

Diana Christensen:

I'm sorry I impugned your co*cksmanship.

Max Schumacher:

I gave up comparing genitals back in the schoolyard.

Dean's mind wandered back to the moment when Castiel had ripped his shirt off. The raw intensity in Castiel's eyes and the way his fingers had traced over Dean's body—it was a moment that had felt both savage and serene. There was a primal magnetism in Castiel's touch, a powerful allure that drew Dean in. He couldn’t deny the thrill he felt when Castiel's wolf side emerged, the raw strength and untamed energy captivating him in a way no human ever had. As Dean watched Castiel now, he couldn’t help but recall the sensation of those strong hands on his skin, the heat that had radiated between them. It wasn’t just about the physical connection, though Dean craved that deeply. It was about the way Castiel’s presence ignited something within him, a spark that flared into a burning desire to be closer, to feel more. Castiel’s wildness, his unpredictability, made Dean’s heart race in the best possible way. It was in those moments that Dean felt most alive, most attuned to every heartbeat, every breath.

Dean's physical attraction to Castiel was undeniable; it was the way Castiel’s eyes would darken with intensity, the way his voice would drop to a growl when he was particularly agitated or physical strength he had proven that he possessed. There was something deeply intoxicating about Castiel’s duality—the calm, gentle man contrasted with the fierce, instinct driven wolf. Dean found himself drawn to both sides, fascinated by the complexity and depth that Castiel embodied. Every touch, every glance, carried a weight that Dean felt to his core. And when Castiel's wolf instincts surfaced, it was like watching a force of nature, and Dean couldn't help but be mesmerised. The blend of power and vulnerability in Castiel was a heady mix that left Dean wanting more. Much more. But he knew he could not get that unless he also became the one to soothe Castiel’s fears, the anchor in the storm that was Castiel's life. There was a comfort in knowing that Castiel needed him just as much. The way Castiel sought him out, whether for support or simply to be near, filled Dean with a sense of belonging he hadn't felt before. It was clear that their bond was something extraordinary, something that went beyond the usual dynamics of Dean’s previous relationships. Dean could not recall a time when his thoughts had ever been so filled up with the person he was seeing in the way his thoughts now constantly were filled with Castiel. Even in their quiet moments, like watching a movie together, Dean felt the pull between them. He at times became acutely aware of Castiel’s every movement, every breath, as if in a trance. And he found himself smiling at the small quirks, like the way Castiel would furrow his brow when deep in thought, or the soft sigh he made when he finally relaxed. Dean’s need for Castiel was all-encompassing. It wasn't just about the moments of passion, though those were intense and electrifying. It was about the everyday acts of caring, the unspoken understanding that sometimes was allowed to pass between them.

But the dialogue that truly cut deep was the one where Max confronted Diana with a painful truth:

Max Schumacher:

You need me. You need me badly. Because I'm your last contact with human reality. I love you. And that painful, decaying love is the only thing between you and the shrieking nothingness you live the rest of the day.

Diana Christensen:

Then, don't leave me.

Max Schumacher:

It's too late, Diana. There's nothing left in you that I can live with. You're one of Howard's humanoids. If I stay with you, I'll be destroyed. Like Howard Beale was destroyed. Like Laureen Hobbs was destroyed. Like everything you and the institution of television touch is destroyed. You're television incarnate, Diana: Indifferent to suffering; insensitive to joy. All of life is reduced to the common rubble of banality. War, murder, death are all the same to you as bottles of beer. And the daily business of life is a corrupt comedy. You even shatter the sensations of time and space into split seconds and instant replays. You're madness, Diana. Virulent madness. And everything you touch dies with you. But not me. Not as long as I can feel pleasure, and pain... and love. And it's a happy ending: Wayward husband comes to his senses, returns to his wife, with whom he has established a long and sustaining love. Heartless young woman left alone in her arctic desolation. Music up with a swell; final commercial. And here are a few scenes from next week's show.

Dean felt a pang of guilt. He had been Max when he left Castiel behind, only Dean had lacked the courage to say it to his face. He had abandoned Castiel when things got tough, unable to face the reality of their situation. Dean's thoughts often drifted to his father's disapproval, the way John Winchester had always harped on about preserving a pure bloodline. It was beyond hypocritical, considering Dean’s own mother had been human until John turned her out of sheer devotion. Dean had always assumed that, eventually, he would be expected to marry a woman from the pack, someone who would satisfy the pack's expectations and secure the family line. Yet he had never imagined himself being drawn to another werewolf, especially not someone like Castiel. After all, Dean had always found himself attracted to humans, their simplicity and warmth appealing to him in a way that his father thought naive. The idea of being with another werewolf had always seemed distant and unappealing, tied up in the responsibilities and expectations he had always chafed against. But Castiel was different. Castiel was a storm, a force of nature that pulled Dean in despite himself.

He had returned to the Novak territory under the pretence of helping Castiel, telling himself that he was fulfilling a promise to Balthazar. That once Dean got Castiel out Balthazar would help Dean walk away from all this without a trace. But the truth was proving to be more complicated. Ever since his return Dean had found himself captivated by Castiel in ways he couldn't explain. There was a raw intensity to Castiel, an unguarded honesty that drew Dean in like a moth to a flame. Castiel’s strength and vulnerability, his fierce loyalty and deep-seated pain, all combined to create a person Dean couldn’t help but be drawn to. Dean’s attraction to Castiel was undeniable. Castiel's presence ignited something within him, a fire that burned brighter whenever Castiel was near. Dean's pulse quickened at the sight of him, his heart pounding in his chest whenever their eyes met; it wasn't just physical, though that was a significant part of it. The moments when Castiel's wolf side came to the forefront were the most electrifying of all. There was something incredibly appealing about Castiel's untamed nature, the way he let–however willingly–his instincts take over, his primal side showing through. It was in those moments that Dean felt the strongest connection, a bond that went beyond words. His father’s warnings about diluting the bloodline seemed trivial now. John had never understood what it was like to feel this way, to be so utterly captivated by someone that everything else faded into the background. Dean had always believed he would be called back from living as a human to marry out of obligation, to please his father and fulfil his duties. But Castiel had never been what Dean had pictured. Yet it filled him with a sense of rightness he had never expected.

As the credits rolled, Dean's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He glanced at Castiel, who seemed absorbed in the final moments of the movie, his expression contemplative.

"Dean?" Castiel's voice broke the silence, pulling Dean from his thoughts.

"Yeah, Cas?" Dean replied, turning to face him fully.

"That was a horrible move," Castiel muttered, still staring at the screen. "And Joe Gillis got old. Old and mean." Dean blinked, the connection suddenly clear. Max Schumacher was played by William Holden, the same actor who portrayed Joe Gillis in ‘Sunset Boulevard’, Castiel's favourite film. The realisation brought a strange sense of irony. In Castiel's mind, Joe Gillis had not been shot but aged into this disillusioned, cynical character. Dean took a deep breath, trying to push past the uneasy feeling.

"Yeah, I guess he did," Dean agreed, his voice soft. "But people change, Cas. Sometimes, not for the better." Castiel looked at him, his blue eyes filled with a mix of emotions.

"Do you think we'll change like that, Dean?" he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Will we become old and mean?"

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” Castiel stood and walked over to the car tree in the corner. Dean observed as Castiel gently petted Norma between her ears. The kitten’s half asleep soft purring filled the room, contrasting with the silence that stretched between them. The midday sunlight filtering through the window cast a warm glow on Castiel, highlighting the weariness etched into his features. Dean took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts.

"Cas," Dean began softly, stepping closer, "would it be okay if I asked you some more questions?" Castiel didn’t look up, his focus remaining on Norma. “Like the ones I did yesterday?”

"I don’t know, Dean."

“Well,” Dean hesitated, then continued, "what if I ask, and you answer what you feel you can, no matter how short?"

There was a long pause. Castiel's fingers stilled on Norma's fur, and he finally looked up at Dean. His gaze was intense, searching, as if trying to gauge Dean’s sincerity. After what felt like an eternity, Castiel nodded.

"Okay."

“I have noticed…erm…” Dean changed his seat on the couch, getting closer to Castiel and while trying to keep his voice gentle. "I know you go quiet sometimes, Cas..." Castiel’s gaze bore into Dean, his eyes a vivid, stormy blue. Despite or perhaps because of how Castiel looked at him Dean continued, "What are some non-verbal ways you show affection to those around you?" A shadow of frustration crossed Castiel's face, and he looked away, his shoulders tense.

"I– you– have you not noticed? If you haven't noticed, then it doesn’t matter—"

"I have noticed, Cas," Dean interrupted softly. "I just want to know if they align with what you think you're doing."

"Why?" Castiel's voice was sharp, his eyes snapping back to Dean's. Time seemed to slow as their eyes locked, the unspoken tension palpable between them. Dean took a deep breath.

"You perform acts of service, like helping with tasks, or creating something, like a piece of art or cooking. I notice." Castiel's expression softened slightly, his eyes searching Dean's for any sign of insincerity.

"Well, I try."

"Yes, you do.” Dean nodded. “And you took me to the bistro on my birthday, too, even though I know you can’t handle the city."

"Can’t handle?" Castiel’s voice rose, anger flashing in his eyes. Norma woke up and took in the scene unfolding in front of her. Castiel pet her carefully between her ears, his movements almost mechanical.

"You did handle it, Cas," Dean said gently. "You made my birthday very special."

"Don’t patronise me," Castiel snapped, his back still turned to Dean.

"You’re very on edge recently, aren’t you?" Dean observed, his tone more understanding than accusatory. Castiel’s eyes snapped back to Dean.

"Of course I am!" Castiel’s voice broke, a mix of anger and pain. "There isn’t any normal anymore, Dean! You took that all away from me!"

"What? How did I—"

"You made Gabriel choose punishments," Castiel interrupted, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Hey, now that’s not exactly what happened," Dean tried to reason, but Castiel cut him off.

"You said the other day that you noticed I haven’t been back to the barn. Well, guess what, Dean? I am not allowed to! I feel this deep sense of sadness and loss. The barn was so much more than just work; it gave me a sense of purpose. And now, I have been in this house for almost two months knowing that they have slaughtered some of my animals! So yeah, Dean, maybe I am a little on edge."

"Why don’t you talk to Gabriel?" Dean suggested gently, standing up.

"Because I am scared, okay?" Castiel's voice broke, his hands trembling as he continued to pet Norma. "I’m scared of what comes next. I’ve been doing the same job for so long that I don’t know what else I can do or what I’m good at. And I am scared that he wouldn’t understand."

"Have you tried?" Dean asked softly. Castiel looked away, his shoulders slumping.

"No, it’s not that easy," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. Dean watched him for a moment, his heart aching for the man standing before him.

"Okay, so you haven’t tried," Dean said, taking another step closer. But before he could say anything more, Castiel’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with anger.

"Why do you always have to make it sound so simple?" Castiel snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. "It’s not simple, Dean! Nothing about this is simple!" Dean took a step back, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Cas, I’m just trying to help—"

"Don’t need your help!" Castiel shouted, his anger coming at Dean in full force. "Don’t need you to fix everything! Don’t need you to make it better! You don’t understand anything about what ’m going through!"

"I’m trying to understand, Cas!” Dean felt a surge of frustration rising within him. ”I’m trying so f*cking hard to be here for you!"

"Well, you’re not doing a very good job!" Castiel retorted, his voice shaking with emotion. "You don’t know what it’s like to feel this... this lost!" Dean’s patience snapped.

"You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose something important?" he shot back, his voice rising. "I’ve lost just as much as you have, Cas! Maybe more!" Castiel scoffed, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh, really? And what exactly have you lost, Dean?"

“I — I —” Dean took a step closer, his frustration boiling over. "Look, I came back, didn’t I? I came back for you!"

"Don’t say it like you think you’re some sort of rare jewel," Castiel sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Maybe I am," Dean replied, his voice hardening. Castiel scoffed again, the sound bitter and harsh.

"You think you’re so special? You think you’re the only one who matters?"

"No, Cas, I think you’re codependent," Dean snapped. "If this pack wasn’t already so cult-like, you’d be prime real estate for any cult wanting an easy recruit!" Castiel’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words.

"Because I care about you," he said, his voice softer now. "Because I can’t just leave you to deal with all of this on your own." Castiel looked away, his shoulders slumping once more. The anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving behind a deep, aching sadness.

"Don’t know what to do," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Dean stepped closer, reaching out to gently touch Castiel’s arm.

"We don’t have to fix it all at once," he said softly. "We just need to take it one step at a time." Castiel finally looked up, his eyes meeting Dean’s. There was a vulnerability there, a raw openness that took Dean’s breath away.

"’M scared," Castiel admitted, his breathing shaky.

"I know," Dean replied, his voice steady. "But we’ll figure it out. One step at a time."

Chapter 45

Chapter Text

Dean sat by the tranquil lakeside, fishing rod in hand, the line cast into the calm, reflective water. The scene was serene, almost too perfect. Birds chirped softly in the background, and the sun cast a warm, golden glow. The setting seemed to soothe his turbulent thoughts, providing a momentary escape from the complexities of his life with Castiel and the Novak pack.

Without warning, the water rippled unnaturally, and a figure began to materialise from the mist hovering over the lake. It was Balthazar, stepping onto the shore, his clothes immaculate despite the dreamlike setting. Dean frowned, a mix of irritation and curiosity in his voice.

"You haunting my dreams now?"

"Not quite," Balthazar replied, his tone as smooth as ever.

"Well, you are here, aren't you?" Dean shot back, glancing at the apparition with a sceptical look.

"In theory," Balthazar said with a casual shrug.

"Great. So what's this social call about?" Dean asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Castiel," Balthazar stated simply.

"Of course," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Anything you want to tell me?" Balthazar's tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp.

"He's about two steps away from going feral enough to rip my head clean off," Dean said, feeling his frustration bubbling to the surface.

"What?"

"You're acting like you don't know, but I think you do," Dean accused.

"Is that so?" Balthazar asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, and I have half a mind thinking Norma is one of those witches' familiars," Dean remarked, eyeing Balthazar suspiciously. Balthazar laughed, the sound echoing around the serene landscape.

"She is just a cat." Dean crossed his arms.

"I don't know, she is always just there."

"She's a cat, Dean," Balthazar reiterated, a hint of amusem*nt in his voice.

"Then how come you can know what happens here?" Dean challenged, his eyes narrowing.

"I have my ways."

"Have you been stalking my dreams and made me forget about it?" Dean's voice was a mix of suspicion and irritation.

"No, Dean. Also, it is your dream; I would not have been allowed in if you had not wanted it. The mind is a powerful thing, even when resting," Balthazar explained.

"What then?" Balthazar turned towards the lake, admiring the scene.

"This is a beautiful place, Dean. Is this your preferred dream? Sitting fishing on a lake?"

"You know everything that goes on in the house," Dean said, more a statement than a question.

"I do."

"What's your eyes?" Dean asked tersely. Balthazar's gaze shifted back to Dean, a knowing smile on his lips.

"The house." Caught off guard, Dean blinked, confusion evident.

"The house?"

"Yes."

"How?" Dean demanded, his frustration mounting.

"I built that house with Castiel, every nail, every board," Balthazar revealed, his tone tinged with nostalgia.

"Damn witches." Dean cursed under his breath. Balthazar laughed again, the sound almost musical in the serene setting. "Why even invade my dream if you already know?"