Okay people I know I haven’t been here in a really long time, I’m sorryyyyyyy!
I have a few things to say:
1) I do not watch SPN anymore. I am still and will probably always be a passionate Destiel shipper, though.
2) I will not be abandoning ANY of my SPN fics! The gaps between postings will still be ridiculously long, because life has this nasty habit of getting in the way, but I promise you they’ll all be finished one day. As much as I may dislike the canon show now, I still adore Dean/Cas and the entire fanon.
3) Although this blog was exclusively an SPN fan blog so far, I am going to expand it to include other fandoms too, to give me an excuse to post more regularly. However, I join new fandoms very slowly and rarely, so this won’t mean a gigantic explosion of posting and fannishness.
4) My only other new fandom at the moment is The Magicians, more specifically the new SyFy series based on those books. Ship in question: Queliot. I love them so. Does anyone else share these feelings? Come talk to me! :3
5) I wrote a small Queliot fic. Normally I would not start writing for such a young fandom so soon (young meaning the show is young, not so much the book fandom, obvs), because I haven’t really gotten to know the characters very well yet, but we Queliot shippers have a sad lack of fic, so I feel the responsibility to do my part. Hopefully I will get more confident as I get to know them and the show more (and finish reading the series, which I’m halfway through), but I’m just going to jump in headfirst and post my fic in a few minutes. I hope some of y’all like it :)
6) If you’ve only been following me for SPN/Destiel and have no interest in The Magicians, it is TOTALLY OKAY to unfollow, and I promise I won’t feel bad! However, if you do want to stick around, because you either like or can tolerate some silly cute magician kids as well, then please know that I love you <3
Dean owns a diner and is trying to get over a break-up, Castiel is a mysterious recluse philosopher, and this story is unashamedly full of tropes.
For Love or Money
“Mr. Winchester, welcome to Engelfield Estates!” The building manager got out of his car and strode over to Dean with a wide white smile. “I’m glad you’re thinking of joining us. Let me give you the grand tour.”
Over the next forty minutes, Dean wasn’t able to get a word in edgewise, but he wouldn’t have had any questions anyway. This place had everything you could wish for. The apartment complex housed almost 140 people in 74 apartments (“We have a lot of families, it’s a real friendly vibe,” the manager confided), and facilities included laundry rooms, a gym, and a pool in the large green inner courtyard. There was also a mailroom for the building, so the residents wouldn’t have to go outside to get their mail in cold weather. “And at the end of every month, we have community grilling in the courtyard,” the manager finished up. “Now, you said you’d be looking for a one-bedroom apartment? Perfect. We have three one-bedrooms open right now, I’ll take you around. They’re up on the fourth and fifth floors, but of course we can take the elevator.”
Perfect? Dean thought. Not quite. Two months ago, he’d been expecting to be searching for a new place with Cassie Robinson at his side. But somehow, between then and now, everything had fallen apart. And now he was looking for a bachelor apartment. But the move would be good for him, he hoped; it might distract him from his sorrows. And he needed to get out of the low-rent housing apartment that he’d shared for Cassie for two years, stat. So, since Dean’s Diner was having a banner year and he finally had a little extra cash in his pockets, he’d decided to scale up and take a place at Engelfield. It was also closer to the diner—he’d be able to walk to work each day instead of having to deal with the crowded subway.
The apartments were very nice, too. Dean picked one that looked out over the city, up on the fifth floor. It even had a little balcony. The next few days were occupied with signing the lease, getting his credit check taken care of, and moving in what little furniture he owned, but then it was finally all done. Dean stood in the middle of his apartment, alone, and muttered “So this is home now, huh?” Probably after a couple of days it would start to feel a little cozier. But till then, he had a new building to get to know.
He grabbed the slip of paper that said Dean Winchester on it and headed down to the mailroom to attach it to his mailbox. When he got there, one other person was standing at the mailboxes, a guy with messy dark hair and an open envelope in his hands. He didn’t glance up from the letter he was reading until Dean said a gruff “Morning.” At that, however, the guy’s head snapped up, and Dean found himself struck immobile by the most intensely blue eyes he had ever seen. There was a long moment of absolute silence as they stared at each other, and then the other man turned and quickly left the room.
“Sheesh, fine,” Dean grumbled, finding his mailbox and affixing his name-tag to it. “A simple ‘good morning’ wouldn’t have killed ya, but okay.” On his way out, he glanced at the name on the rude guy’s mailbox. Milton. A snobby name for a snobby douchebag, Dean thought, jogging back up the stairs (he liked to avoid the elevator to stay fit). And he would be one of those that doesn’t even put their first name on their mailbox. Unfortunately, it seemed Fate was against him, for on his way back to his apartment he noticed the name-plate on the door right next to his own: Milton. Dean swore, and then quickly retreated into the safety of his own apartment. Of course. Of COURSE it would turn out that the first person he’d meet in his new building would not only be a rude weirdo but would also live in the apartment right next to his own. Wasn’t that just his luck?
*~*~*
Dean’s prediction was correct: after a week in the new place, he felt significantly more at home. He was on smiling-and-nodding terms with a few of his other neighbors by now, and to his great relief, they were all the kind of people to smile and nod back. Unlike a certain someone. Dean wasn’t sure why that first brief encounter with the standoffish Milton still rankled him so much, but sometimes the disconcerting intensity of that blue gaze surfaced in his brain again. He didn’t see his unfriendly neighbor again, however, until the end of his first week at Engelfield.
It was four p.m. on Friday, the quietest time of the day at the diner, so Dean had left his establishment in the capable hands of his assistants Garth and Charlie and dashed home to do a quick laundry. He knew if he waited until the weekend to do his laundry, it would probably be hard to find a free washing machine. Plus, he was already running out of clean clothes. Being head cook at the diner meant that grease spots on his clothing was a fact of life, but being the owner of that same diner meant that he always needed to have a couple of clean suits on hand for when he needed to meet with the health and safety inspectors, talk to a reporter doing a local-flavor piece on “down-home eats”, or whatever else might come up.
Dean chucked all his clothing in a plastic trash bag (he didn’t have a laundry basket) and headed down the hall to the fifth-floor laundry room. As he’d predicted, it was pretty quiet, but two other people were there. The first one was—hot damn. A tall, buxom redhead in a pristine dress-suit was bending over a dryer. She was wearing blood-colored stilettos that made her legs look about a mile long, and when she turned around and favored him with a knowing smirk, her lipstick proved to be the same shade. Dean suddenly realized that his bag of laundry had dropped to the floor beside him. He gulped, nodded, and tried a weak smile. “Hey, uh—hi.” His throat was dry, and the words came out in a whisper. But before he could clear his throat and try again, she had easily hoisted her full laundry basket into the air and was gliding past him, out of the room.
Dean let out a frustrated sigh. Well, he’d just have to bide his time with that one. You can’t always hook a fish on the first try. Only at this point did he become aware of who the second occupant of the room was, and he sighed again, for a different reason. It was that Milton guy. Why was Dean not surprised? And, actually a better question: Why was Milton glaring at him as if he’d kicked the dude’s puppy or something? It took a second for the obvious explanation to spring to mind, and when it did, Dean couldn’t resist a small grin. “Hey, fair’s fair, man,” he said with a shrug, heading for a washing machine. “She smiled at me. I can’t help being stunningly attractive.”
Milton let out an irritated huff of air and stalked out of the room. Dean glanced after him and then back to Milton’s deserted washing machine, still rumbling softly as it went around and around. He shook his head. Whatever.
*~*~*
The breakfast rush on Monday usually wasn’t too bad—it was worse on Tuesday, because businessmen always scheduled their ‘business brunches’ for a Tuesday. Dean had no idea why. But when you run a diner, you pick up on these strange patterns. This Monday was particularly quiet; by ten a.m. they’d only had three customers, and they were taking advantage of the lull to eat their own breakfasts in the kitchen, while keeping an ear out for the jingling at the door that meant somebody new had come in. In between bites of bacon-broccoli frittata, Dean was telling Charlie and Garth about his new place and the people there. “So, yeah,” he concluded. “Couple of nice folks I don’t see too often, intimidatingly sexy redhead I’ve only seen once, and the Milton dude who’s too good to talk to me.”
“Sounds like fun!” Garth said.
“Sounds boring,” Charlie said. “Except for Ms. Intimidatingly Sexy—I wouldn’t mind getting a glimpse of her.”
Dean held up a warning finger. “Dibs. She lives in my building.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Come on, Dean, I wasn’t being serious. The only way I’ll ever get to partake of her hotness is if she decides she likes you so much she wants to come smile at you in the diner as well as in the laundry room.”
Dean chuckled and drained his orange juice. “Yeah, I dunno. She didn’t quite strike me as the burgers-and-pie type. More like caviar and champagne.”
“We could start serving that stuff!” Garth suggested. “How about a caviar omelette and some mixed champagne and OJ to drink?”
Dean and Charlie simultaneously mimed gagging. “Charlie, I sure hope you don't let Garth do anything but wait tables when I'm not here,” Dean stage-whispered.
“No worries,” she said with a grin. “You can trust the Kitchen Goddess to do her Goddess-ing, unimpeded by Garth’s creative culinary instincts.”
“Atta girl.” Dean clapped a hand on her shoulder while Garth announced to no one in particular that he was a misunderstood genius of cooking.
At the moment, the bell on the door jingled. “Oh my god, what if it IS her?” Charlie asked excitedly, darting to the kitchen door. “Ah, never mind.” She returned, pouting. “Just some dude.”
“You’re still eating, I’ll go seat him,” Dean offered, washed his hands, and headed out to the seating area. Only to see… Milton. He was standing there at the ‘Please Wait to Be Seated’ sign, peering closely at the chalkboard announcing the special of the day (the house three-cheese omelette with scallions). Dean was about to wheel around and get one of the others to seat him, but it was too late: Milton had noticed him. His eyes grew large and his mouth opened for a moment, but nothing came out. Either he was as surprised to see Dean as Dean was to see him, or he was a very good actor.
Dean pasted on a professionally welcoming smile and said “Welcome to Dean’s Diner. Just one?”
Milton kept staring at him. Damn, but those eyes really were criminally blue. “Is it just you today?” Dean prompted. “Or are you waiting for someone else?”
“Uh… yes. Um… me. Just—yes,” Milton stuttered, and then pressed his lips tightly together as if making sure no more words would come tumbling out accidentally.
“All right, then.” Dean picked up one menu and headed for the corner booth. “Make yourself comfortable and Garth will be out to take your drink order in a minute.”
“Are you Dean?” Milton asked.
Dean had been about to describe the special of the day, but this question stopped him in his tracks. “Yes, uh, that’s me. Dean of Dean’s Diner, at your service.”
Milton was staring at him again. That really had to stop. “You own this place?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you’re a waiter as well?”
“No, I’m actually the head cook. But I think it’s important to do all the jobs from time to time, so you know what your employees are dealing with.”
Milton just kept staring. “So you’re going to cook my food.”
Something about this phrasing made Dean clench his jaw. “Yes, I’m a cook. I cook everybody’s food here. Now, would you like to hear about the special?”
“No. I already know I want it.”
“Fine.” Normally Dean was a total pro when it came to customer service and being charming, but this guy just rubbed him the wrong way. He spun on his heel and retreated to the kitchen at top speed.
“It’s him,” he hissed to Charlie, who was tugging on her rubber gloves.
“Who?”
“Milton. The guy who lives in the apartment next to mine. And he’s being a dick, as usual.”
She winced. “Sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, whatever, I’ll get Garth to serve him.”
Garth returned a minute later with the odd information that Milton wanted nothing but water to drink. Dean was predisposed to harshly judge the other man’s choices, but he hadn’t guessed it would be this easy. “Water?” he scoffed. “Who drinks water for breakfast? Does he want sparkling or plain?”
“Plain.” Garth shrugged. “I dunno either, man. Plain water and the omelette special.”
Once Milton had received his food and water, Dean remembered he still had to add another special to the chalkboard: the pie of the day. Dean’s Diner was known for their good food, but two items on the menu stood out in particular and had gained the diner its small but loyal following: the bacon cheeseburger and the daily pie. They baked a new flavor of pie for every day of the week, and people would come from miles around to taste it. It was really Dean’s crowning achievement, he would willingly admit. Today he was feeling disgruntled, so he decided to spoil himself and make pecan pie again, even though they’d just had it on Saturday.
Piece of chalk in hand, Dean headed out through the seating area, making sure not to even glance in Milton’s direction. He squatted down in front of the chalkboard and drew a quick sketch of a steaming slice of pie, adding the words ‘POTD: PECAN’ beneath it. Everyone knew what that meant. There was no need for further explanation. As he headed back towards the kitchen, he could feel Milton’s eyes on him, and when he passed the corner booth he heard his name being spoken in that gravelly voice. “Dean.”
Dean mentally groaned, but turned towards Milton with a forced smile. “Yes? Are you enjoying your breakfast?”
“It’s delicious,” Milton said. There was no trace of insincerity in his voice, and against his will, Dean felt himself warming to the man, incrementally.
“I’m glad to hear that. Anything I can do for you?”
“What did you just put on the specials board?”
“Pie of the day, it’s pecan.”
“May I have some of that?”
“I’m sorry, it’s not ready yet. We’re just about to start baking. Pie is available from lunchtime onward.”
“I see.” Milton’s face fell, and Dean couldn’t help feeling a slight pang of sympathy. A man who looked that distraught about missing out on pie couldn’t be all bad.
A stupid impulse struck Dean. “Tell you what. I’m coming home for an hour in the afternoon, and I live right next to you. I can bring you a slice if you’d like.”
The look of amazement that crossed Milton’s face made it more than worth it. “You… would do that?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“I’ll pay extra. Delivery fee, or, or, anything.”
Dean chuckled. “No need, dude. I’m coming home anyway, and I literally live in the apartment next door to yours.”
Milton wasn’t smiling, but it looked like he was almost on the brink of doing so. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, haven’t got my name on the door like you do. I just moved in.”
Milton nodded slowly, as if filing this information away for future reference. “Thank you, Dean. I would appreciate the pie delivery very much. I’m ready to pay now, by the way.”
“All right!” Dean’s smile became professional again. “Garth will be right out. I’m glad you enjoyed your meal, please come again.”
When Garth had gotten the check and seen Milton out, he returned to the table to bus it and then popped up next to Dean with a huge grin. “Dude! That guy left a twenty-dollar tip!”
Dean groaned. “What the fuck. I told him it wouldn’t cost anything extra.”
“What wouldn’t cost extra?” Charlie came over and grabbed the money from Garth. “Holy shit, twenty bucks. He’s not such a dick after all, Dean.”
“I just…” Dean shook his head in irritation. “He wanted the pie, and I told him it wasn’t ready yet, and he looked so sad to hear it that I said I’d bring him a slice this afternoon. And he was asking if there was a delivery fee or something.” He huffed out a laugh as he said the words. “What a weirdo.”
*~*~*
As usual, there were a few more customers for lunch but then things tapered off again towards mid-afternoon. Dean tugged off his apron and hung it on its hook. Charlie was washing dishes and he called over to her “Be back in an hour!” and got a soapy hand-wave in acknowledgement. The pecan pie had turned out fantastic, as always—Dean’s recipe was a family secret and he wouldn’t let anyone else in on it, not even his assistants. Dean cut a generous slice of the most recently-baked pie, paused, then cut another. Hadn’t he decided to spoil himself today? He tucked each slice into a separate styrofoam box, stacked them in a canvas tote bag, and slipped out of the diner.
Back at Engelfield, Dean let himself in, hesitated, and decided to go against his principles and take the elevator up to the fifth floor. He’d said he would be back at the diner in an hour, after all; he didn’t have a lot of time. As he approached Milton’s apartment, he began to feel a twinge of nervousness in his belly. Why exactly had he offered to do this again? He didn’t even like the guy.
The doorbell had barely finished ringing when the door opened a crack, then wider. “Dean. Hello.” Milton’s eyes were huge, as if he were surprised to see Dean, even though they’d planned this that very morning.
“Yeah, hi, uh… Mr. Milton.” Dean couldn’t believe it—until that moment, he hadn’t considered the fact that he didn’t even know the guy’s name. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped now. “I brought your pie.” He reached into the bag and withdrew one of the boxes. When he looked up, though, Milton was frowning.
“Castiel,” he said, without taking the proffered box.
“Huh? What?”
“That’s my name. Castiel. I’m not—I’m not Mr. Milton.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Well, pardon me. If you’d wanted to avoid that, you could have just introduced yourself earlier.”
“I guess so. I forgot.”
“You gonna take your pie, or what?”
“Yes.” He did so, and held the box carefully in both hands. “It’s still warm.” The wondering look on his face was almost childlike. “Thank you, Dean.”
“Yeah, no problem, Cas—uh—Cas—what was it again?” But the door was closed in his face by the time he was done speaking. Dean stared. Seriously? Seriously?!? “What a dick,” he said aloud, not even caring if the guy might hear it. “Don’t expect that kind of service again!”
*~*~*
It was more than a week before Dean saw Cas-what’s-it again. He’d gotten home late from the diner. They usually closed at ten p.m. and were out of there by eleven, but tonight there had been a mess. Some customer had stood up suddenly from the table right as Garth was approaching with a giant pitcher of iced tea, and of course the timing had been just right and the tea had gone everywhere. The floor was hardwood, no laminate, which of course meant that the liquid started dripping into the cracks, and by the time the last dinner party had left, the center of the diner floor was one huge sticky patch. Dean refused to keep his employees overtime, so after they’d been scrubbing at it for a while, he’d sent Charlie and Garth home and finished up the cleaning himself.
All this meant that he hadn’t gotten home until a quarter past midnight, and as exhausted as he was, Dean was determined not to miss his nightly work-out session at the building’s gym, which was located on the third floor. He swigged a few gulps of an energy drink, changed into his exercise clothes, and padded out of his apartment and down two floors. As usual, the gym was deserted at this time of night, but his keycard got him inside and he began his routine. By one o’clock he was just about finished, cooling down on the elliptical, when he heard the gym door opening. From this position, he couldn’t see who it was, but when he heard footsteps entering the main exercise area and immediately stopping dead still, he could guess. A glance over his shoulder confirmed it. “Evening, Cas,” he said coolly.
There was a long pause, and then: “Good evening, Dean.” To Dean’s surprise, the footsteps came closer, and Cas set down a duffel bag and dithered only briefly before getting on the machine right next to Dean. “You’re not usually here at this hour,” he said, almost accusingly.
Dean decided to ignore the tone. “Yeah, work went late tonight.”
“At the diner?”
“Yup. That’s my only work.”
More silence for a minute or two, and then another question, more hesitant this time. “Do you work there every day?”
“Nah. I used to—had to at first, when I was just getting the place going—but now I take two days off a week. Tuesday and Wednesday, that’s my weekend. But sometimes I come in on my day off, to check on Kevin. Not that he needs it. He’s my sous-chef, only comes in on the days I’m not there.” Dean became aware of the fact that he was talking rather a lot for someone who had decided to give Cas the cold shoulder from now on, so he shut up. But he could only bear a few minutes of silence before asking “So anyway, what do you do? You don’t seem to have a regular work schedule.”
“No, I…” Cas stared straight ahead of himself for a minute before answering in a very low tone. “I’m a philosopher.”
“A what?!” Dean spluttered. “A philosopher? You can actually—BE one of those?”
The other man shrugged defensively and refused to meet his eyes. “I am one, so I suppose the answer to your question is yes.”
“Huh.” Dean couldn’t resist a chuckle. “That’s a hoot. So tell me, you get paid anything as a philosopher? Do you teach or what?”
“No, I just philosophize,” Cas replied simply, sending Dean into a fit of laughter again. “I don’t see what’s so funny about that.”
“No, nothing, sorry.” Dean calmed himself down. “It’s late and I’m tired, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. But seriously, philosophy? Does that pay the rent?”
Cas swallowed and seemed to make a few false starts before answering somewhat cautiously. “It… is not known as a particularly financially rewarding life path.”
“I’ll say.” Dean shook his head, checked his watch, and got off the machine. “All right, I gotta hit the sack. We non-philosophers actually have to get up in the morning,” he teased, grabbing his water bottle and taking a few gulps. “I’ll see you around.”
He didn’t wait around for a response. He probably wasn’t going to get one anyway.
*~*~*
It was Monday night, after a long and exhausting work week, and Dean was running on fumes. He tried and failed to open his mailbox three times before he realized he was using the wrong combination. There was some junk mail, a couple of bills, and two letters. Dean smiled to see the letters. Although he was dead tired and almost asleep on his feet, he’d have to take a quick peek at them before bed.
Upstairs, Dean dumped his mail on the table and headed out to the gym. He was back in an hour, even more exhausted—if that was physically possible. Ignoring the bills, he opened the first letter.
Hey Dean,
I hope you’re settling into your new place okay. You could have called me, jerk! I miss your stupid voice. Or if you still haven’t got a landline set up, you could at least buy a cell phone. Seriously, Dean, join the twenty-first century already.
Things are going well at school, although Mr. Harmon continues to demand inhuman amounts of work from us. I had to read a 400-page book in one week! Well, by “read” I obviously mean “skim”. I’m kind of looking forward to finals, though—I actually feel pretty prepared.
So yeah, I guess you’re wondering why I wrote you a letter instead of dropping you an email. The reason is that I have some kind of important news. (I need a drumroll here… I’m sure your air-drumming skills can supply one.) Here goes: Jess and I are engaged! I know it’s kind of sudden, but we’d been talking about it jokingly for a while, and then not-so-jokingly for a while more after that, and finally the other day she just said “Do you want to get married for real when we graduate?” and as soon as she said that I realized that I had been kind of subconsciously expecting we would do that all along. So I said “Yeah, seems logical.” And, well, there you go. Not the most romantic proposal ever, but hey, it’s us. :) You know that girl, she’s the most down-to-earth person I’ve ever met. That’s why I love her. But yeah, enough of that. Anyway, I wanted you to be the first to know, and emailing felt too casual. You should call me soon! Not on Monday, Tuesday, or Thursday though—those are my long days on campus.
All right, take care of yourself and send me some pictures of the new place. I can’t wait to see it in person. Have you met any of your neighbors? Are any of them cute? Yeah, yeah, I’m shutting up now.
Love, Sam
By the time Dean got to the end of the letter, a huge dopey grin was plastered across his face. “I knew it,” he whispered to himself before shouting aloud “I freaking KNEW it! Sammy, you little bastard, you finally got yourself hooked for real.” He felt like his grin was about to split his face in half, but he couldn’t stop it. The excitement of the news combined with his total physical and mental exhaustion was almost like a weird high. Shaking his head in fond amusement, he opened the second envelope.
Coucou, mon chéri!
How on Earth have you been? Let me guess: miserable, as always. You never do anything fun. My God, you’ll probably die surrounded by your dusty old books and no one will find your decaying remains for weeks. You could be dead right now. I could be writing to a corpse. What a charming thought.
Apropos charm, I do hope mine still works on you, because I have an infinitesimal favor to ask you. Are you in Gabe’s good graces? As you know, he and I haven’t spoken in years, ever since that ridiculous affair in Monaco. But before all that happened, he had been telling me about a few of his more exotic investments, and I couldn’t tell you why if you blackmailed me, but for some ludicrous reason I promised him a couple hundred thou on a handshake. I suppose I was just vaguely amused by his silly schemes and wanted to see if he’d manage to pull off the whole business.
Oh, I know, it sounds mystifying, but it’s really not as much of a fiasco as I’m making it out to be. And yet, if you were to ask if I were in a bit of a spot at the moment, I’d have to answer “Rem acu tetigisti”. I could get by without the filthy lucre if I had to, but don’t you know, I’d rather not have to.
So to be quite blunt about it, what I’m asking you to do is touch our horror of a brother for five hundred grand on my behalf. Could you do that, darling? Write to me at the Ritz-Carlton in Tenerife, and for the love of God don’t ask me why I’m here, I haven’t the foggiest. Last I knew I was in le Midi.
Yours, Balty
As you can imagine, by the time Dean reached the end of this letter he had determined with some confidence that it was not, in fact, intended for his eyes. In confusion, he glanced at the address again.
Cassie Milton
Apartment 407
Engelfield Estates
“Ohhhh,” Dean breathed aloud. “So that’s it.” In the old days, he would have thought nothing of opening letters addressed to Cassie. They’d trusted each other implicitly and had nothing to hide in their relationship. Usually he would pick up the mail at the mailbox, and by the time he’d gotten inside he would have opened whatever the most interesting-looking envelope was, regardless of whether it was to Cassie or him. Then he’d read the contents to her, or vice versa. Tonight, his tired mind had seen “Cassie” on the envelope and hadn’t bothered looking any further. The shock and embarrassment of his mistake, combined with the painful memories it brought back, had Dean grimacing.
407, Cas Milton’s apartment, was right next door to 408, where Dean was, so it made sense that the letter could have been easily dropped into the wrong box. Well, he’d just have to take it over to his neighbor the next day, and be honest about the silly mistake that had led to him opening and reading it. Hopefully Cas wouldn’t be too angry.
For now, though, Dean resolutely put this unpleasant matter out of his mind, and, with visions of Sam and Jessica’s future wedding circling in his head, he went to sleep with a smile on his face.
okay, I know the wait has been unforgivably long, but... it's over. I FINALLY finished Chapter Five of Secret Agent Destiel and will be posting it tonight (within an hour or two, I hope). So many apologies for the absurdly long delay! I hope my dear readers haven't entirely abandoned this story. There's lots more to come, I promise you. :3
For a non-Cas episode, that was very good! I loved the emphasis on strong and varied women characters: Jody, Alex, and Mama were a grand trifecta. No liveblogging because I got to it late, but it's not a sign of disapproval.
