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Strange, But Not A Stranger

Prompt: "Person A lives alone in the woods and Person B, while lost and hungry, stumbles upon their house". Word Count: 7,643 (I went over the limit, sorry!) Warnings: Vague mention to John Winchester's drinking problems Partner: chemistink AO3: Here

Written for the Destiel Ficlet Challenge.

There's a knock at the door. It's mere minutes from midnight, and considering that his closest neighbour lives a solid ten miles away, Dean's immediately on his guard.

He'd been dozing in his favourite armchair until a loud thud jerked him awake. After placing his empty glass on the coffee table, he reaches his cabinet in quick strides, procuring his gun and turning his attention to the front door.

Dean opens up the peephole and peers through. No one peers back. "Hello?" he says, voice scratchy from sleep. "Anybody there?"

There's no response, but he knows someone's out there, so he readies his gun and swings the door open.

A man tumbles backwards and lands on Dean's slippers. He leaps back with a curse, just barely keeping himself from pulling the trigger in fright. Seems like the man had been sitting against the door, and considering his closed eyes and gaping mouth, he's completely dead to the world. Cautiously, Dean prods his shoulder with his shoe, but the man's head just lolls to the side.

Crouching down, Dean pats the man's cheek. He's got a pretty solid beard going, wild and decorated with bits of grass and twig. "Hey, buddy. Anyone home?" He slaps his cheek softly, then grabs his chin and shakes him a little. No response.

He presses two fingers to the man's neck, and breathes a relieved sigh when he feels a steady pulse. A dead body is really not something he wanted to deal with tonight.

Moments later, Dean hears a groan. The man scrunches his face, wincing, and slowly swings his head in Dean's direction. His eyes open, bright blue; a huge contrast to his ruddy skin.

"Wha―?"

"Evenin'," Dean says, staring down at him. "What's your name?"

"I―? C-Castiel. I'm Castiel."

"Okay, Castiel. Well, you look like shit, sorry to say. What are you doing out here?"

Castiel groans, shutting his eyes and lifting a shaky hand to massage what looks like a nasty headache. "I've been...wandering. Lost. For days. Weeks, maybe."

"Yikes." Dean stands up, puts the safety on his gun and shoves it into one of the deep pockets of his dressing gown. "Okay, just...stay there for a sec. Let me get you some water."

About half an hour later, Castiel's wrapped in one of the hole-ridden blankets from Dean's cabinet and munching a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "This is incredible," he says, practically inhaling his food. "I've eaten nothing but berries and insects for days."

"Take it easy, dude. You'll make yourself sick." Dean hands him some more water, which Castiel accepts gratefully. "Why the hell are you out here, man?"

Castiel closes in on himself, busying himself with another sandwich. "It's...complicated."

"You're crashing on my couch tonight, Cas. I think I'm owed some kind of explanation," Dean says, cocking a brow.

Castiel takes a moment to look guilty before replying, "To keep a long story short: I ran away from home to escape a tyrannical family. I got lost in the wilderness. That's...all I'd like to say on the matter."

"Alright, well, power to you, I guess. Not sure how you managed to wind up out here, let alone so profoundly lost or whatever. I'm the only person living out here for miles." Castiel doesn't comment, opting to just smile meekly. "Well, anyway... So, snacking on insects, huh? How'd that turn out for you?"

Castiel shrugs. "Not as nice as this peanut butter. Although, they are very rich in protein."

Dean chuckles. "You're hardcore, man. S'all I'm saying."

The night ticks on, and Dean offers him a shower but Castiel declines. The guy does look like he's starving for sleep, so Dean waits for him to curl up on the couch before flicking off the lights.

He can't sleep particularly well that night. Castiel seems like a nice guy ― weird, but nice ― but Dean's not accustomed to offering a bed to a complete stranger, let alone one that's emerged from the woods. The whole situation is strange and unsettling, and Dean lies awake all night listening to Castiel's quiet snores in the other room. When he finally dozes off, he hopes that he doesn't wake up robbed.

―――

Morning comes and Dean pushes a towel at Castiel, forcing him into the shower. He reeks of B.O. and swamp; his clothes are a complete disaster.

Under the pretense of leaving a fresh change of clothes, he pushes the bathroom door open, spying Castiel's filthy coat lying on the edge of the bathtub. Castiel's not paying attention, instead directing his attention to the shower spray. His body is blurred by the fogged up glass, but it's obvious that he's far skinnier than he should be.

Quietly, Dean places the clothes by the sink and then moves towards the coat. He rummages through the pockets, hoping to find something ― I.D., a phone, or perhaps even a weapon ― but all he finds is lint and some crushed berries. Not even loose change.

He's not sure what to think. Is he more suspicious or less so? Surely the guy would have pocketed some cash when he'd run away. Then again, he could have used the stuff as freaking toilet paper for all he knows. He'd been out in the woods for long enough to get desperate, or at least that's what Castiel claims.

He leaves the coat where it is and makes his exit, a deep frown settling on his face.

Castiel emerges twenty minutes later, adorned in Dean's jeans and an old black t-shirt. Dean's a bit surprised, actually ― Castiel cleans up nicely. Beneath that thick beard is a strong jaw and plump, pink lips.

Dean clears his throat. "Okay, so what are your plans, Cas?"

He shrugs, raking his fingers through his wet hair. "I have no plans at all, really. I was just wandering until I stumbled across civilisation. "

"Okay...well, I mean, what are you gonna do now? You can't stay here, dude."

"Ah," he replies, realisation dawning. "I see. You want me to leave."

"Not trying to be rude, but, uh, yeah. I mean, no offence―"

"No, no, it's fine," Castiel nods, although there's clear disappointment on his face. "I'll just collect my things and be on my way."

"I can drop you into town," Dean offers. "I mean, we are pretty far out from proper civilisation. Nothing but trees and roadkill for miles around. I can take you to the town centre at least. There are plenty of cheap motels around there."

"A motel?" Castiel frowns, staring into the distance. "I'm...I probably won't be allowed to stay there. I don't have any money." He straightens up, fixing Dean with a determined stare. "I'm sure I can find work around the town, though. I could...wash dishes, perhaps?"

Dean bites back a wince. "Yeah, something like that."

Castiel nods again. "Very well. I'll just grab my coat and we'll head off."

While Castiel perches on the couch and ties on his muddy boots, Dean stands by the front door, guilt tugging at him. He can see, even from here, that Castiel's hands are trembling like crazy, proof of the dehydration and exhaustion that had been plaguing him as recently as yesterday. His cheeks are pale and sunken, and there's sweat forming on his brow, perhaps an indicator of some kind of fever. Castiel does strike Dean as the suffer-in-silence kind of guy, hence why he hasn't mentioned anything.

Clear as a bell, the words of his mother, Mary Winchester, come to him: "Smile at strangers and you just might save a live." Even as a child, Dean had thought that was complete nonsense ― how can you save a stranger's life with a smile? Smiles don't pay the bills, foster healthy relationships, or stop your miserable father from blowing his weekly wage on alcohol.

But right now, Dean can save a life. For whatever reason, Castiel's wound up stranded in a tiny rural town without a dime to his name. No phone or a driver's licence or anything by the looks of it. Plus he literally tripped over his own feet trying to stand up just now, and that's the final straw. Dean can't just abandon this guy.

When Castiel gives him a smile ― and it's a pretty damn strained smile at that ― Dean shakes his head and dumps his keys back in the bowl. "Okay, new plan: you stay here and rest up." Castiel starts to protest, so Dean cuts him off. "No, listen. Dumping you in town centre is a stupid ass plan. You stay here, get better, I'll make you food and the full nine yards. Once you're better, you pay me back by doing some work around here. Capiche?"

"I―are you certain? I don't mean to be a burden."

Dean waves him off. "It's fine. A bit of TLC and you'll be back on your feet. Then I put you to work. Trust me, dude, I'll work you like a dog."

Castiel is silent for a good ten seconds before a proper grin blooms on his face. He's practically glowing. "That sounds wonderful."

The couch becomes Castiel's den by the end of the day. Dean sets him up with two pillows, three blankets and round the clock servings of chicken noodle soup. He hands him the remote, but Castiel looks at it like it's space age technology. Dean flicks on to M*A*S*H and leaves him to it.

Dean spends a huge chunk of the day out on the porch. The house had been built something like a century ago and most of the wood is rotting or splintering, so Dean's spent the better half of a month replacing it all. He checks on Castiel regularly, mostly to see if he needs anything but also to be sure Castiel hasn't escaped with Dean's wallet. Whenever he checks, however, Castiel's fast asleep, snoring softly.

That night, Dean's chopping up carrots when Castiel pushes himself to his feet. He limps his way to the bathroom and limps his way back a few minutes later, biting his lip when he sits back down.

"What's wrong with your foot?" Dean asks, and Castiel merely shrugs. Dean rolls his eyes and procures the first aid kit from the top shelf of the pantry.

Visiting a doctor's out of the question, so Dean looks over Castiel's feet carefully. He has a wealth of experience when it comes to first aid, thanks to his little brother's penchant for injuring himself while growing up, so Dean's used to sussing out sprains and cuts.

Castiel winces when Dean presses a light touch to his left ankle. It's swollen and angry-looking; a sprain at best, a stress fracture at worst. Dean props his foot up on a sturdy cushion and fetches an ice pack from the freezer, placing it in a tea towel and then gently wrapping it around the swelling.

There's a strange sort of intimacy to this, in the way that Dean's handling the smooth skin of Castiel's bare feet. He's a little embarrassed, actually, to be exposing his mother hen nature, but Castiel at least seems content to be fussed over.

"Alright, that should do it." He stands up, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Hopefully it's just a sprain. Don't go walking around unless you have to, okay? The best thing we can do right now is to ice it and keep you off your feet. Understand?"

Castiel smiles softly, looking at Dean with stars in his eyes. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean flushes, looking away. "It's nothin'."

―――

A solid two weeks pass before Castiel's rosy-cheeked and healthy again. He's gained a few pounds, his face is fuller, and his ankle's back to normal, although he wouldn't be able to go jogging any time soon.

One Sunday afternoon, after spending a couple of hours tinkering under the hood of his car, Dean comes inside to find Castiel in the middle of a yoga session. "Uh. Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean," Cas greets from his contorted position on the floor. The laptop's set up in front of him, displaying an exercise video on YouTube. "The internet is incredible. I've learnt so much about the human body."

Which is a weird ass thing to say, but Dean fails to comment on it because he's too busy admiring the curve of Castiel's spine. Dude's really damn flexibe. "Uh-huh. Okay, well, awesome. Stretching's good for you and all that."

"Precisely," he says amicably, shifting his position to mimic the video and Jesus Christ that's the down dog pose. "It's a necessity to stretch everyday, especially before any sort of physical activity. I don't want to re-injure myself, after all."

"Nope," Dean says, staring transfixed at Castiel's butt. "Nope. We, uh. We don't want that."

Monday morning, Dean wakes up at seven to find Castiel already showered and dressed, gulping down cornflakes. "I'd like to be put to work today," he says, without preamble. "How can I be of use?"

Dean's meant to be heading over to Bobby's today to help out with the garlic. The old man's got some serious arthritis going on, so he recruits Dean and a handful of other farmers to help him harvest his crops each year. It's exhausting work; an all day job. Dean tosses up the idea of Castiel coming along, whether it'd be a bit too full on for a guy who's been bedridden for a couple of weeks. Castiel looks so enthusiastic though, and the more people that help then the faster the job gets done.

He allows Castiel to tag along, in the end. They take the pick up truck down to Bobby's place, the twenty minute drive giving Castiel plenty of time to observe his surroundings like a wise old owl. There's a little smile in his face, like he's witnessing something precious, as opposed to plains of dry grass and a whole lot of nothing.

Bobby has a long, steep driveway that goes up past rows and rows of garlic. There are already a couple of people crouched down and digging at the dirt ― Ellen, Jo, and their dorky neighbour Garth, who waves at them as they drive by. Castiel waves uncertainly back.

They park outside Bobby's cabin and Castiel walks towards the paddocks, enclosing a grand total of two cows. He seems quite content over there, even managing to beckon a cow closer to he can pat its snout. Dean shakes his head and finds Bobby, who's yelling at someone on the phone. Probably the gas company, knowing him.

He hangs up on whoever it is the moment he spots Dean. "About time, boy," Bobby greets, pulling him into a gruff hug. "Who's that nutjob messing with my cows? Friend of yours?"

Dean glances back at Castiel, who's inspecting the cow's large, fluffy ears like they hold the secrets of the universe. "Er, yeah, he's a friend. Met him through Sam, way back when. He's staying with me at the moment and wanted to help out." Dean waves his hand carelessly. "I figure you'd be cool with that?"

"Hey, the more the merrier, I guess," he says, frowning at Castiel, who's now investigating the cow's teeth. "Tell him to leave my cows in peace and he's got the job."

Despite the Spring weather, it's still hot as hell out in the field. Tugging garlic out of the ground is painful work, and Dean knows his arms are gonna be aching by the end of the day. Bobby is digging up what he can, barking orders at them from time to time. Castiel stands up to stretch his spine every ten minutes, his face becoming filthier with dirt every time he pops his head back up.

They break for lunch, their hands covered in tiny, stinging cuts. Castiel looks miserable, his cheeks pink with sunburn, his hair a disaster zone. Dean offers him a shit-eating grin, and Castiel replies with a silent death glare. Dean chokes down a laugh.

By the end of the day they're sweaty, ninety percent dirt, and incredibly sore. Dean moves stiffly and Castiel's gaze is distant, like his mind's abandoned his body completely. They climb back into the truck, and once they're back at the house, Castiel marches towards the couch and collapses face first.

"Oi," Dean says, nudging Castiel's shoulder. He's answered with a groan. "Don't just sleep, dude. Go get cleaned up." He groans again. "Seriously, Cas, you reek. And besides, the hot water will help your muscles. You'll be aching tomorrow, otherwise."

Castiel murmurs something that sounds like a rather pitiful complaint. Chuckling, Dean reaches into his wallet and stuffs some notes into Castiel's open palm. "Courtesy of Bobby."

Castiel sits up, staring blankly at the cash. "This is money."

"Well, yeah. You didn't think the old man's gonna work us to the bone and not pay us for it?"

"I...I honestly didn't know what to expect."

Dean grins. "You are so out of it, dude."

Castiel sighs, pocketing the money. "I think half of my body is numb."

"Christ." Dean laughs. "Welcome to farmwork, Cas. It'll bleed you dry."

"Understatement," he says, but Castiel gives him a small smile. "Although I admit it does feel good to be paid at the end of the day."

"Damn straight." Dean opens the fridge, procures two beers, and offers one to Castiel. "Get clean and rest up, buddy. 'Cause we're gonna be back out there bright and early tomorrow."

―――

Garlic picking might not be Castiel's favourite chore in the world, but he becomes enamoured with a number of other tasks.

It's quite clear that Castiel's never so much as touched a screwdriver in his entire life. He's very keen to learn, however, so it's not long before he's helping Dean out with replacing the porch, which they manage to finish up in a little over a week. Dean lets him tinker with one of the old cars he has behind the house ― not his mint condition '67 Chevy Impala, thank you very much ― and teaches him how to replace a tyre. When it becomes abundantly clear that Castiel's equally hopeless with domestic appliances, Dean steps in to show him the ropes.

Soon enough, Castiel's doing the laundry and cooking simple pasta dishes. He even manages to fix the TV when the satellite conks out. The wiring in Castiel's brain must be a tad mixed up because he becomes obsessed with dusting and vacuuming, and Dean blanches when he's informed that Castiel "enjoys doing it."

Meanwhile, Castiel has some kind of encyclopedic knowledge of plants and animals. There's a constant supply of juicy berries in the fruit bowl, and one Thursday afternoon he brings home a goddamn snake to cook up (It tasted delicious, admittedly).

Needless to say, living with Castiel's a strange experience, but a rewarding one. It's nice to see Castiel grow in Dean's home, happily going about his chores and constantly asking questions. He seems settled here, in the way that he props his feet up on the couch's arm and leaves his towel on the bathroom floor. It's heartwarming in a way it probably shouldn't be, but Dean likes Castiel, despite his odd quirks.

And, well, considering the amount of muscle developing across Castiel's chest and shoulders from all of the heavy lifting he's been doing, it is very nice to have some eye candy around the home. Not that he'll make a move on him, of course. Castiel may be happy here but he's also trapped here, in a way, since he can't afford to move out. Putting the moves on him now would put Castiel in a pretty awkward situation. So long as Castiel's living with him, Dean'll keep it in his pants.

Doesn't stop him from admiring the view, though. Castiel does yoga on a daily basis and Dean's only human.

Two months pass and Castiel's still a resident of the Winchester household, sleeping in a nest of blankets permanently set up on the couch. Dean doesn't particularly care. He and Castiel do grocery runs together, make dinner for two, and watch talkshows until midnight every night of the week, usually with a beer in hand. It's the perfect portrait of domesticity ― minus the fact that Castiel's still crashing on his couch.

They just go about their weeks one day at a time, neither of them mentioning the future or when Castiel's going to move out. They're winging this entire thing. It's a bit scary, when Dean contemplates it for too long, but it's exciting as well. Dean hasn't had something this interesting happen in a very long time, and there's a fullness growing in his chest with each day that ticks by.

―――

Towards the end of October, a massive thunderstorm hits. It's two in the morning when a crack of thunder tugs Dean from sleep. He groans, because he knows there's laundry on the line and his Impala's not tucked within the safety of the shed, so he pulls himself into a sitting position and slips on his boots.

Out in the living room, the couch is empty, save for the blankets and pillows. Frowning, Dean checks the bathroom and storage room, but Castiel is nowhere to be found.

He discovers him outside, standing just beyond the cover of the roof, soaking wet. Castiel's arms are at his sides, gaze directed at the sky and the bright streaks of lighting. Dean calls out to him but the wind and rain are deafening on the tin roof. With a sigh, he trumps down the steps and claps Castiel on the shoulder, turning him around.

Castiel's lips form an 'o' shape. "Dean?"

"Cas, what are you doing? Move it!" Dean tugs him by the elbow back onto the porch, boots squelching in the mud. Castiel, meanwhile, is completely bare-footed. Beneath the roof, they form two wide puddles on the freshly lain timber.

Dean shakes his head, water droplets flying. "Cas? What were you―?"

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, wrapping his arms around his stomach, shivering. He bites his bottom lip and hesitates for a moment, then confesses, "I was assessing the lightning patterns. Storms usually mean bad things for me, although I think this one is harmless."

Dean blinks a couple of times, slowly, just to make sure he's not dreaming. "I...what the hell, Cas?" Dean laughs incredulously. "What are you talking about?"

Castiel stares at him, brow furrowed, for a solid ten seconds before giving him a strange smile. "I'm a―a thunderstorm, uh, geek, as you would say. Nothing to worry about. Nothing, er, strange going on out here."

"I think there are a lotta strange things going on out here, Cas. The strangest of them all being you." Dean shakes his head. "Lighting patterns. Jesus. How do they mean bad things for you, exactly?"

Castiel shrugs. There's still a weird expression on his face. "It's nothing. My apologies." His expression shifts to one of guilt. "Did I wake you when I went outside?"

"Nah, the thunder woke me up." Dean yawns. Suddenly, a force of wind and rain rushes into them, and Dean curses. That's right, he came out here for a reason. "God damn it. Cas, come help me with the laundry, yeah?"

Together, Castiel bring the drenched clothes inside and Dean parks the Impala inside the shed. They spend the next few minutes running around the house and shutting all the windows. There's water all over the floor and their pajamas are sticking them like a gross second skin, so Dean grabs them towels from the cupboard and they start stripping down.

Dean pointedly keeps his eyes focused on the brick wall, despite his peripheries taunting him with Castiel's naked body. Castiel's not the kind of guy that cares for things like privacy or personal space, but it doesn't sit right with Dean for him to just check Castiel out, no matter how nice and toned his body may be. Besides, he has a feeling he wouldn't be able to stop looking if he started, and he'd wind up drooling another puddle on the floor.

He concentrates instead on tugging his own clothes off and scrubbing his hair with the towel. He wraps it across his hips, turns around, and nearly squeaks when he finds Castiel a bare few inches away from him. "Whoa, Cas. Hey there."

But Castiel's expression is weird again, like he's off with the faeries or something. He blinks, comes back to himself, then smiles. There's something tender in his eyes, and it makes Dean nervous; a good kind of nervous.

"I just...wanted you to know how grateful I am," he gestures around the room, "for allowing me to stay here. For-for letting me build a home here with you. I haven't been this happy in a long time." He pauses, searching Dean's face, gaze lingering on Dean's mouth. Dean's palms start to sweat. "Thank you, Dean."

"Uh, don't mention it, Cas." He swallows. His eyes drop to Castiel's lovely pink lips, unable to stop himself. "It's hard getting things done around here all by myself. Gets kinda, uh, lonely out here too, y'know? And, well, you've helped remedy that. So. Thank you, I guess."

Several seconds pass, the air rife with tension ― like they're waiting for each other to make the first move. Dean swore he wouldn't make that move, though, not when Castiel's living with him. He really wants to make that move, but god damn it, he's not an animal. He can control himself. The ball is in Castiel's court right now.

Eventually, Castiel looks away, gesturing towards the bathroom. "Is there enough water for me to have another shower?"

Dean bites back the disappointment welling inside of him. "You kidding?" he says, feigning cheerfulness. "The amount of rain pouring down right now? The tank's gonna be overflowing by the morning. Go wild."

Castiel nods, smiles shyly, then retreats to the bathroom. Once the door clicks closed, Dean shakes his head, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Damn it. Cockblocking himself has gotta be the worst kind of torture.

Sighing wearily, he stretches his arms wide, then heads for his bedroom. With barely a second thought, he collapses into his bed, still mostly wet, and slips into unconsciousness from one breath to the next.

―――

A week later there's another storm, same ferocity as the last. Like last time, the thunder wakes him up, so Dean wanders out into the living room to check that the windows are shut.

The couch is vacant once again. Curious, Dean peers out the window, and sure enough, that's Castiel standing on the muddy grass. He's just a murky shadow from this distance, but as Dean's eyes adjust, he can make him out a little more.

He's standing still, chin directed up, arms resting at his sides. It doesn't look like he's wearing shoes but he's wrapped himself in his dirty old trenchcoat this time. Dean watches him, waiting for something to happen ― what, he doesn't know ― but Castiel continues to stand there, just watching the lighting streak across the clouds. It's really freakin' weird, quite honestly, but maybe Castiel some kind of a hippie; all one-with-nature and shit. He's certainly well aware of everything and anything to do with plants. Who knows?

When Castiel comes back inside, the thunder has grown distant and the rain's a little lighter. He smiles sheepishly when Dean hands him a towel and a mug of tea. It's four in the morning but they head out to the porch, keep to the shelter, and watch the storm fade with the rising sun.

They head into town to pick up groceries, and while they're pushing the trolley through the parking lot, Dean gets a call from Bobby. "I got garlic up to my ears, boy," he says, voice crackled from the poor reception. "Come take some off my hands, y'hear me?"

So, they make a pit stop on the way home. Dean hauls garlic into the truck with the rest of the groceries while Castiel talks quietly to the cows. "Some help would be appreciated!" Dean calls, and with a jump, Castiel hurries over.

The truck's packed with garlic and it's a surprise that it makes the journey home in one piece. They spend the afternoon finding storage spots for all their garlic, and wind up giving up towards the end of the day. They're not miracle workers, after all.

Dean creates a truly magnificent garlic-heavy bolognese for dinner that night. Castiel attempts dinner the following night, but the garlic's so intense it nearly gives Dean whiplash. Castiel seems quite pleased with the taste, despite Dean's criticism.

Time moves forward, their garlic mountain lessens, and eventually it reaches the three month mark. Castiel's old coat has found its place on the rack by the front door while his boots are left outside at the end of each day, alongside Dean's. They've set up a roster for cooking and cleaning up, and Castiel insists on each rerun of Star Trek being recorded on the VCR. There's a dorky toothbrush holder in the bathroom now ― hand picked by Castiel ― and Dean's sharing half his wardrobe with the man sleeping on his couch.

Still sleeping on his couch.

The days are getting warmer now, the seasons blending between Spring and Summer. Dean wakes up sweaty most mornings, despite having kicked the blankets off in his sleep. It'll be perfect for swimming very soon, at least. About a mile down the road there's a freshwater creek and an old tyre strung up on a sturdy tree branch. Last time Sam visited, he'd launched off the tyre, landed in the water, and emerged sopping wet, grinning from ear to ear.

He'd like to take Castiel down to the creek as well. Can Castiel even swim? Dean supposes he'll find out. That thought alone brings a smile to his face, which is probably not a good thing ― Dean's starting to go from yeah, I like this guy, to oh shit, this guy makes me smile even when he's not around. It's crazy ― Castiel trudged out of the woods and should have been nothing more than one night's inconvenience. And yet.

Eventually, Dean pulls himself out of the comfort of his bed, dragging his feet all the way to the kitchen. The kettle's recently boiled and he can see Castiel through the window, standing by the large tree next to the rusted out tractor. Dean makes coffee for two then sits on the porch, waiting.

Ten minutes later, Castiel returns, appearing troubled. "What's the word, Cas?"

Castiel rubs the back of his head, turning back to the tree. "It's starting to bloom."

"Seriously?" Dean gets up, walking to the end of the porch to investigate. Sure enough, even from this distance, he can see flecks of white petals peaking out of the leaves."So it is. That's...weird."

"It's the wrong season, so yes, it's very weird." Castiel's frown deepens. "The tomato saplings we planted last week are starting to flourish, too. They're already bearing fruit."

"Wow." Dean sips his coffee. He laughs at the suspicious scowl on Castiel's face. "Dude, relax. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. If anything, this is good, right?"

Castiel looks uncertain. "I hope so."

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. "C'mon, Cas. I got something to show you."

They head back inside, Castiel following Dean down the hallway until they come to the storage room. Unceremoniously, Dean turns the knob and shoves the door open, and they're greeted by old, dusty air.

The room's packed like a sardine can, boxes and ancient pieces of furniture lining the walls in jumbled rows. There's virtually nowhere for them to walk without bruising their shins on pointy objects, and the door doesn't even open all the way back.

Embarrassed, Dean looks away. "Uh, it's kinda trashed at the moment, but I was thinking that maybe we could clean this place out and set up a bed in here for you?" Dean shrugs, acting casual. "You know, if you're getting sick of my couch."

Chancing a glance, Dean discovers that Castiel has quite possibly the nicest smile in the entire world, maybe even the universe. His eyes are crinkled and his smile's all teeth and gums, but it's wonderful. A rush of pride sweeps through Dean, just because he succeeded in putting that big grin on Castiel's face. "Are you sure?" Castiel asks.

Dean scoffs. "I wouldn't be offering if I wasn't serious, Cas."

Castiel steps forward, moving as far into the room as possible. He assess the size, eyes the piles of junk, and nods. "It's perfect." He turns around, beaming. "Thank you, Dean."

As always, his gratitude is murmured like a prayer; something sacred that makes Dean's toes curl. "Don't mention it. We got a lot of work to do, so I guess we better get started."

By the end of the day, there's sweat on their brows, Dean's back feels like it might snap in half, but they've made good progress. Most of the boxes have either been tossed or moved into a new storage space (The shed out the back is going to pop one day) and there's considerably more floor that's actually visible. They've even managed to clear a path to the window, which is now wide open and allowing fresh air to circulate.

Castiel barely stops smiling all day. When they finish up around dinner time, Castiel locates Dean's laptop and starts scrolling through furniture catalogues, noting down sizes and measurements and all the different kinds of mattresses. He's giddy, barely able to keep still at the dinner table, like a restless child. Dean, meanwhile, eats quietly, trying to really take in the reality of the situation: Dean Winchester, life long bachelor, has asked another human being to move in with him. Well, that's effectively what he's done, anyway.

It should be freaking him the hell out, but it's not. It feels natural. It feels right. He's got no idea how their meeting, in all of the universe's infinite mysteries, could have coalesced into creating a home ― one that not only Castiel feels welcome in, but Dean himself.

―――

But, like most things in Dean Winchester's life, everything comes to a screeching halt.

In the wee hours of the morning, Dean stirs. There's nothing in particular that pulls him from slumber, but he's awake, unable to fall back to sleep. The gap under his bedroom door shows that there's a light on, so Dean tugs on his dressing gown and goes to investigate.

Castiel's by the window, palm pressed to the glass. He's staring out into the night, like he's waiting for something.

"Cas?"

"Dean." Castiel doesn't look at him. "I'm afraid that it might be time for me to go."

Dean blinks, then scratches at his face, willing his brain to catch up with his recent consciousness. Outside, rain starts to drizzle. "Hold up a minute. What are you talking about?"

Slowly, Castiel turns on his heel, directing his gaze at the floor. He's fully dressed ― boots, trench coat, the whole lot. "I believe that my family have found me. The storms, the unnatural vegetation...all omens. Good or bad, they can only mean one thing for me."

"What?" Dean stares, completely perplexed. "What are you―? Wait, where are they?"

He sighs. "They'll be here soon."

At that moment, there's a massive crack of thunder. Several flashes of lighting ring out, bathing the entire room in white light. The patter on the roof changes to a booming roar, and the windows whine against a sudden assault from the wind.

Castiel remains perfectly still, brow furrowed. Then, reaching some sort of decision, he throws open the front door and sprints out into the night. Dean's frozen in place for about three seconds, then he's on the move.

"Cas!" he shouts, voice drowned out by the sudden thunderstorm. It's madness outside, the winds at gale force, picking up dirt and dust and flinging it into Dean's eyes. With the rain pouring around him, he can barely make out Cas' figure several metres away. How in the hell did this storm just arrive? It had been calm mere minutes ago. "Cas!"

Castiel faces the sky, head cocked back, mesmerised by the lightning dancing to and fro across the clouds. Whatever the hell is going on, it can't be good, but Dean's primary concern right now is getting Castiel out of danger and back inside. Even then, it'd be a miracle that the entire house doesn't blow over.

"Cas!" he tries again, his throat basically tearing in half just to be heard. "Castiel!"

This time, Castiel turns back, staring at him. He's already drenched, not dissimilar to a drowned cat. "Dean, you must go back inside. You'll be safer."

"And what about you?!"

"They want me to return," he says, like that makes any sense at all. "If I go with them, the storm will stop."

"Are you insane?!" Dean closes the distance between them, gripping tight to Castiel's shoulder. "Dude, get the fuck back inside!"

There's another deafening growl of thunder. Castiel goes wide-eyed. "Watch out!" he yells, shoving Dean with a shocking amount of force.

Dean lands in the muddy earth, his tailbone bruised. "What the fu―?!" Dean can't finish; the words are choked up in his throat.

The dark sky opens up, revealing an unnaturally white light. It ripples, like a milky white puddle, the eye of the storm. Nothing happens for a stretched out length of time, until everything happens at once: lighting spills out and slams right on top of Castiel's head. Dean has no time to react or scream ― the whole thing's over in a blink ― but the next thing he knows, the storm is gone. Completely gone, as if sucked up through a wormhole. There's no rain, no wind, no lighting or thunder. Instead, there's that strange puddle up in the sky, and an inhuman light surrounding Castiel's body, pulsating.

"Cas...?"

The light expands, shifts, rolls across Castiel's back and up into his shoulders. Next thing Dean knows, he's witnessing two gigantic wings spreading up and out from Castiel's back, formed out of pure light. At first they're sharp and skeletal, then they puff out, consumed by silvery feathers. The wings extend upwards, sweep across the ground. Dean flinches when they come towards him but they merely pass through him, like he isn't even there.

Then, as suddenly as they arrived, they begin to shrink back into Castiel, until all of the light has been completely absorbed. Darkness reigns.

For a long moment, the field is quiet, and neither of them say a word. Then, because Dean can't help himself, "Cas, what the ever-loving fuck was that?"

Castiel appears in front of Dean in the blink of an eye. He hauls him to his feet, one-handed, seemingly effortless. Dean steadies himself, considers briefly whether he should sprint in the opposite direction, but then Castiel's saying, "I don't have much time, so I will have to explain things quickly." He meets Dean's eyes, those baby blues now dark and melancholic. "Dean, this may be hard for you to believe, but I'm a servant of Heaven. An angel of the Lord."

There's a pregnant pause. Dean swallows. "Dude, after all of this―" he gestures wildly around them, "I'm willing to believe almost anything right now, but this is just..." He barks out a laugh, a tad delirious. "Jesus Christ. Man, I really hope I'm dreaming right now..."

"Unfortunately, you're not," Castiel informs him. "This is real."

"Okay," Dean says slowly, far from convinced. "So if this is real, and you're an angel, what the hell does that mean?"

Castiel sighs, exhausted. "When we first met, I told you I was escaping a tyrannical family unit. That is completely true."

"Gee, Cas, you think you could have spared me a few extra details back then?" Dean says tartly.

Castiel quirks a brow. "Would you have believed me?" When Dean doesn't reply, he presses on, "I ran away. I wanted to live among the humans, so I cut out my Grace. My powers, my wings ― gone." He nods towards the forest, where it lies several yards away from Dean's home. "When I fell, I landed in the woods. Powerless, confused, I stumbled my way for weeks until I found your house." He smiles at Dean, small but earnest. "Until I found you."

"Okay." He takes a deep, settling breath. How is this his life? "So, let's say I believe you. What does this mean? What's gonna happen to you now?"

"They've managed to find me, so I must return to Heaven." An ominous rumble echoes across the sky. Castiel squints up at it. "Yes, yes, I won't be long," he tells the clouds.

"I..." Dean swallows and tries again. "So, you're gone? Adios? Just like that?" Dean frowns, thinking forlornly of Castiel's would-be bedroom. The shock is finally starting to wear off now, disappointment creeping in its place. "I mean, are we gonna see each other again or what?"

"I would like to," Castiel tells him, eyes wide and impossibly sad. "But first, I must deal with my siblings. Perhaps they can be persuaded."

"Well, good." Dean crosses his arms defensively. "Y'know, the whole angel-of-the-lord issue aside, you're damn good company around here. You just gotta stick it to the man when you're on the other side of those pearly white gates."

For the first time that night, Castiel looks hopeful. "You'll...you'll have me back, then? If I can convince my family to let me return?"

Dean's exhausted, his tailbone's aching, he's cold, covered in mud and convinced this must be a dream. And yet he knows, without a doubt, what his answer is: "You're always welcome here, Cas." Dean musters up a tired, albeit genuine, smile. "It's as much your home as it is mine."

Relief seems to roll through Castiel, pulling a toothy grin to his face. The sky begins to rumble again, angrier and louder. Castiel sighs, "I better go."

"Good luck up there," Dean says. "You tell 'em who's boss, yeah?"

Castiel starts to turn away, but halfway into the movement, he stops, considering. He looks back at Dean, who offers him a sheepish thumbs up, and then Castiel darts forward, pressing himself into Dean's personal space. There's but a moment's hesitation, when Castiel searches Dean's face for permission, and then their lips connect sweetly, warm and chaste.

After everything that just happened, Dean was expecting Castiel to taste supernatural; like fairy dust or the cosmos or something equally wacky. Instead, he tastes unmistakably human, like rain and coffee and freshly mown grass. It's wonderful, it's perfect, and Dean hopes to hell that he gets to do this again sometime soon.

When they part, Castiel's smiling, apparently pleased with himself. He whispers, "Goodbye, Dean," and the light envelops him. The ground trembles beneath the force of it, but soon enough it stops. Just like that, Castiel is gone.

The night is silent. Not even the crickets dare to chirp.

Dean stands still for a very, very long time.

―――

That morning, Dean wakes up at midday, for the first time in years. His body aches, his eyes are sticky from sleep, but he manages to pull himself out of the safety of his bed.

He'd convinced himself it had all been a dream. A long, elaborate, incredibly lucid dream. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd wake up to that night all those months ago, still dozing in his armchair.

Then, of course, he sees all of the evidence of Castiel's existence: the blankets on the couch, the extra toothbrush, the leftover garlic monstrosity Castiel had cooked four nights ago. The porch has been replaced, the storage room's mostly empty, but Castiel is gone and no, no, no, how can this be happening?

Despair swoops in and consumes him, suddenly, leaving no time for him to stop the tears that rush down his cheeks. He's overwhelmed and confused and angry and heartbroken and his whole world has been turned inside out. Yesterday, they'd been moving boxes and looking at mattresses from Beds R Us, but overnight, some one-in-a-lifetime supernatural phenomenon occurred, pulling the rug out from under him completely.

Angels exist, Heaven exists. Dean has no idea what any of that could possibly mean. What he does know is that he's alone again, and that it's getting harder and harder to breathe.

Dean snatches up a tea towel and scrubs at his face, wiping away his tears. He opts for boiling the kettle and taking deep breaths, until eventually all of his wild thoughts are buried in the back of his mind. He'll handle this once he's had coffee. Life's more manageable once he's had his morning coffee.

He carries his mug out to the porch, settling in on the bench and staring out at the horizon. The front yard is a disaster zone, branches sticking out all over the landscape. The grass is overturned and an entire tree has been blown over, lying forlornly on its side. This is gonna be one hell of a clean up job. Damn it, Cas. Why'd he have to take off before cleaning up his mess?

Sighing, Dean blows his coffee, watching the steam coalesce into nothingness.

He sips, he ponders, and then he spots the tree still standing near the rusted out truck. It's virtually untouched by last night's chaos. In fact, against all odds, it seems like there are even more flowers in bloom ― a mixture of both white and blue now. It's such a small thing, but it's beautiful, too.

For the first time that day, Dean feels calm.

He smiles to himself. That has to be a good omen, right?

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