Fic: Equinox (Dean/Castiel, R)

[bree_black]

Title: Equinox
Author: bree_black
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Wordcount: 20,000
Notes: Written for spn_cinema and inspired by Twilight.

Summary: When seventeen year-old Dean Winchester’s father leaves him and his kid brother Sam in Forks, a small, perpetually rainy town in Washington, while he’s busy hunting werewolves, it could have been the most boring few weeks of his life. But once he meets the mysterious Castiel Nevaeh, Dean’s life takes a sexy and scary turn. Up until now, Castiel has managed to keep his angel identity a secret in the small community, but now nobody is safe, especially Dean, an integral part of Heaven’s plan. Dean and Castiel find themselves balanced precariously on the point of a knife-between desire and danger, and on the brink of the Apocalypse.

“I could help,” Dean says from the passenger seat, resisting the urge to whine a little. “I could.” He ignores the way Sam is kicking the back of his seat, though it’s really starting to bug him. Kid’s been doing it all day, and he’s not tall enough yet that he can’t help it, so that’s no excuse.

His dad’s sigh is barely audible over the soothing rumble of the Impala’s engine, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he answers. “You could, but I need you to watch your brother.” There’s a warning in his voice.

That’s bullshit and Dean knows it. If Dad wanted him on the hunt they could easily drop Sam off with Caleb or Uncle Bobby for a couple of weeks, no problem. He wants Dean out of the way and Sam is just his scapegoat. As if Dean can’t handle a couple of werewolves.

“Is that it?” Sam asks, his voice quiet and tight like it always gets when there’s an argument brewing. He’s trying to change the subject. His has his nose pressed against the backseat window, practically salivating at the sight of the local high school, which looks to Dean exactly like all the others except that it’s surrounded by more trees.

“I expect so,” John says, happy because Sam sounds so happy. So proud of his little genius. “Dean’ll enrol you both first thing tomorrow.”

Dean bites back his objections. Sam’s got the book smarts in the family, he accepts that, and he just wants to spend his time doing what he’s good at. Namely, blasting the hell out of monsters. But Dad’s decided he wants to face this one alone, says Dean’s not ready to take on an entire pack of werewolves.

He’s ditching them in Forks, Washington - population 3,120 people - and Dean hates it here already. The forest is dense around the town and everything is green and it’s not like Dean has anything against the colour, it’s just that he feels closed in here, claustrophobic, like something evil could be lurking behind every tree or bush. Dean prefers the blue skies, yellow sands and bright sunshine of the open road. Forks seems to live under a near-constant cover of clouds and rain.

Dad pulls up in front of a white bungalow that’s seen better days. It’s still one of the nicer places they’ve stayed, easily big enough that Sam and Dean can each have their own room. The oak trees choking the unkempt front lawn, though, dwarf the house. Their branches seem to reach out toward the house’s windows, like dark skeletal fingers.

Dad lets the engine run for a moment. Dean closes his eyes and cherishes the rumble; on his less charitable days, he thinks he’ll miss this car more than he’ll miss his father.

They unpack the car. It only takes one trip; he and Sam have learned to travel light, and when they’ve each dropped their duffel bag of stuff onto the center of a dusty double bed, the rooms still look laughably empty. Dean gives Sam the room with the big oak bookcase. He can’t fill it with his own books, of course, but he’ll drag home piles from the library. Dean takes the smaller room right next to Sam’s, which leaves the master for Dad, not that he’ll be using it for long. Dean supposes he could move in there once Dad ships out, but he doesn’t think he will. This town makes him feel uneasy, and it will help to keep Sam nearby.

A loud honk from outside makes Dean jump, and he goes to the window, ignoring the grasping fingers of the trees outside. There are two men climbing out of a beat-up red truck in the driveway. Hunters, judging by the military-style clothing, their shoulder holsters, and, of course, the wheelchair one of them is using. That’ll be the guy who called in Dad for backup; Dean knows an injury doesn’t put you out of the hunting game, it just means you work from the sidelines.

Sam is already running down the driveway like a little kid, so Dean follows him outside.

“Dean, you remember Billy Jackson,” Dad says, as the hunter in the wheelchair offers his hand.

Dean shakes it. “Yeah,” he lies. “You’re looking good.” Dean doesn’t remember the man at all; he’d been thirteen the last time they’d been out this way.

“Still dancing,” he says with a smile, cheerful bravado of a man who’d chosen to be a hunter instead of being forced into it by death and grief. Dean categorizes hunters into two types: those who take the job because it’s the right thing to do and those who take the job because it’s the only thing they can do. Billy Jackson is the first type and Dean likes him immediately. John Winchester is the other.

“Glad you’re finally here,” Billy says, turning back to Dad. There’s a new urgency in his voice, an indication that small talk is nearly over and it’s time to get down to business. The other hunter pulls a thick folder out of the passenger side of the truck, and the three men huddle around it together, shutting out Dean and Sam.

Sam, of course, doesn’t seem to mind. He scrambles up on the truck bed, sitting cross-legged in the centre. “This is a cool truck, eh, Dean?”

“Sure,” Dean says, but he’s not paying much attention, eyes drifting over to where the hunters have spread a large folding map over the hood of the Impala. Dad seems to feel Dean’s gaze, because he wanders over to them again.

“So?” he says, slapping the side of the truck, “what do you think?”

“What?” Dean says blankly.

“Of your birthday present.” Dean had turned eighteen five months ago.

“This?” Dean says, shell-shocked.

Dad nods. “Just bought it off Billy here.”

It’s a crappy truck, nothing like the Impala, but it’s his so Dean loves it immediately.

“Oh my god,” he says, resisting the urge to scramble into the back with Sam. He climbs into the driver’s seat instead, and lets Billy and his friend give him the rundown on the truck’s eccentricities. The steering wheel feels perfect in his hands.

“Okay,” Dad says, as Sam hops up into the cab next to Dean. He slaps the side of the truck again, “okay.”

Dad is gone two days later, and Dean drives himself and Sam to school in the red truck. The truck backfires as they pull into the parking lot of the town’s only public school, and all the kids look up at them suspiciously. It’s March, middle of the semester, so they’ll stick out like sore thumbs, but they’re pretty used to that.

“Bye Dean!” Sam shouts cheerfully, swinging his battered bookbag over his shoulder. He heads directly to the front door, probably hoping to locate the library before first period starts.

Dean follows more slowly. “Nice ride,” some guy says as he passes, and Dean isn’t sure if he means it as a compliment or an insult.

“Thanks,” he says, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He likes to blend in on his first day, learn the lay of the land before he really interacts with anyone.

“You’re Dean Winchester, the new guy,” someone says from behind him. Dean looks up from his class schedule, blinking at the blond guy in the dirty denim jacket standing in front of him. “I’m Ash, the eyes and ears of this place. Need a tour? Shoulder to cry on?”

No, Dean thinks, but he doesn’t want to make an enemy in his first five minutes. “I’m really more the suffer in silence type,” he says truthfully.

But telling the truth never works, and Ash takes an unwilling Dean under his wing, staying by his side through gym class - where Dean smacks some poor girl in the head with a volleyball - and dragging him to a practically full cafeteria table at lunch.

Dean would rather sit with Sam, but when he scans the room for his brother he finds him sitting at a crowded table with a bunch of kids his own age. Sam is talking animatedly, with lots of hand gestures, and he seems to be fitting in already. Dean doesn’t want to get in the way.

Ash’s friends are loud, and seem really young. The girls, Jo and Lisa, roll their eyes when the guys toss French fries across the table at each other, but bask in the attention when conversation turns to who’s taking who to an upcoming dance. Dean’s only half paying attention, but so far it seems like every single other high school he’s ever attended, right up to the usual gossip about which members of the swim team are padding their Speedos.

Dean is struggling to look interested in gossip about people he’s never met when a group of kids entering the cafeteria catches his eye. Actually, calling them kids doesn’t seem quite right. They seem older than everyone else in the room, though he can’t quite pinpoint why, and they’re definitely better dressed.

For some reason Dean can’t take his eyes off the group of five teenagers, walking in like they own the place.

“Who’re they?” Dean asks, interrupting whatever Jo had been giggling about.

“Oh,” Lisa says, and rolls her eyes. “The Nevaehs.”

“They’re uh, Dr. and Mrs. Nevaeh’s foster kids,” Jo says, picking up the thread of the conversation. “They moved down here from Alaska like, a few years ago.”

“They kind of keep to themselves,” Lisa says, voice tinged with pity.

“Yeah,” Jo interrupts. “’Cause they’re all together. Like, together together. The blonde girl? That’s Rachel, and the tall British guy is Balthazar. They’re like a thing. I’m not even sure that’s legal.”

“Jo, they’re not actually related,” Lisa interrupts, defending them.

“Yeah but they live together! It’s weird,” Jo continues. She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is listening. “And the redhead’s Anna, she’s really weird. She’s with Uriel, the black guy who looks like he’s in pain.”

Dean glances over, and the guy does look uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere else. His girlfriend is practically dragging him across the cafeteria to the sole empty table in the crowded room.

Trailing behind them is another guy with dark hair and bright blue eyes. “Who’s he?” Dean asks, and the question comes out sort of breathless.

Jo grins, and Lisa looks down at her bologna sandwich. “That’s Castiel. He’s totally gorgeous, obviously, but apparently nobody here’s good enough for him.” She doesn’t do much to hide the bitterness in her voice, less understanding now.

Across the room, Castiel smiles, but he can’t possibly have heard Jo’s comment over the din in the room. Dean drops his gaze, suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s been staring. There’s something off about the entire family, but especially Castiel.

Dean sneaks one more glance, and this time the dude is staring right back at him, and he looks kind of pissed. The hair on Dean’s arms stands on end at the accidental eye contact. Dean looks away quickly, biting his lip and - for some reason - trying not to blush. Dean had sort of expected his first day at Forks High to be just another link in a long chain of nearly identical first days, but Castiel Nevaeh has definitely made an impression.

The last period of the day is biology, not exactly Dean’s speciality, except when he gets to dissect something. Still, by the time Ash introduces him to the teacher, Mr. Molina, Dean’s almost managed to settle back into his usual first day routine. That is, until he realizes the only free seat in the classroom is next to the weird guy from lunch.

As Dean moves closer, an expression of confusion and then of distaste passes over Castiel’s face. Though he tells himself he doesn’t care what anyone at this school thinks of him - he’ll probably be gone before semester’s end - it makes him feel unusually self-conscious. Dean wonders if he smells bad, like maybe he stepped on dog shit on his way to the science wing or something.

He takes the stool next to Castiel. There are some worm things on slides in front of them, and, without speaking, Castiel pushes one across the desk to Dean, not even looking at him. He taps his foot anxiously against the desk.

Dean probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the class at the best of times, but it’s especially difficult to focus today. The guy keeps shooting him desperate, resentful glances when he thinks Dean isn’t looking. Once, Dean even thinks he sees his eyes flash white, and he’s pretty sure it’s a relief for both of them when the bell rings and Castiel bolts out of the class.

Dean hopes maybe the guy just had a bad case of food poisoning or something, but when he stops by the main office on his way out to make himself Sam’s emergency contact, Castiel is there too, trying to switch into any class but biology.

The whole thing is suspicious, and Dean’s got the instincts of a hunter. He’s not going to be able to let this one go.

He and Sam eat dinner at the local diner every night those first few days. Eventually, when the money Dad’s left for them starts to run out, Dean will start in on the mac n’ cheese and canned veggies, but for the moment he feels flush with it, and a little drunk on independence. He’d rather be on Dad’s hunt, of course, but he likes it okay when it’s just him and Sam, likes the way Sam chatters incessantly about whatever he’s been learning in history class instead of going quiet and anxious like whenever they eat with Dad. Dean springs for a piece of bumbleberry pie for each of them and leaves a generous tip for the waitress because she gives Sam extra whipped cream.

Every second night or so Dad calls the house to check in, but there’s never much to say since they haven’t made any progress tracking the wolf pack yet. He asks how school is going but never really listens to Dean’s answers. It’s a routine for them both, acting like they’re a normal family, and Dean is actually sort of relieved when Dad’s quarter runs out and they hang up.

Dean sort of planned to confront Castiel, to demand to know what his problem was, but the guy never shows to biology class - or school at all - for days, even though the rest of his creepy family all make it in their fancy clothes, driving their overpriced cars. Dean sits with Ash, Jo, Lisa and their friends at lunch, but more than once he thinks he feels someone watching him, and looks over to see one of Castiel’s siblings staring at him appraisingly. He knows hunting has made him a touch paranoid, but Dean doesn’t think this is all in his head, especially when he remembers the weird white light he thought he’d seen in Castiel`s eyes during biology class. Things are getting a little…strange.

A few days later, the local police start talking about a mysterious death in the neighbouring town, some factory worker found dead with weeks-old stab wounds and bruises all over his body. Only problem is, he’d been working the assembly line the day before, no sign of anything wrong. It’s not conclusive or something he wants to bring up with Dad yet, but it’s enough that Dean has Sam keep a closer ear on their hacked police frequency, and also carry a silver knife, a sachet of salt and a canteen of holy water in his bookbag.

But the big news at Forks High isn’t the suspicious - and, quite frankly fascinating - death right next door, but the upcoming prom.

“Hey, um, listen, I was wondering, did you have a date to the -” Lisa asks after fourth period on Monday, but before Dean can find a way to let her down easy, they’re in biology class, and Dean notices that the other side of his desk isn’t empty today.

Dean stalks over, kind of pissed, and makes a point of slamming his backpack down onto the desk. Castiel practically jumps off of his stool. Dean smirks and looks away, pretending to care about whatever Mr. Molina is writing on the chalkboard at the front of the room.

“Hello,” Dean’s mysterious lab partner says, his voice lower, but also much softer, than Dean had expected. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself last week. I’m Castiel Nevaeh.” He says it like a question not a statement, like he’s walking on unsteady ground. Dean’s not exactly Mr. Personality, but this guy seems antisocial even to him. “You’re Dean?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean answers. There’s an intensity in Castiel’s gaze that makes Dean uncomfortable, like he’s hanging on Dean’s every word. Dean’s not used to people paying much attention to him when he talks - other than Sam, of course - and it’s a bit unnerving, makes him wonder if he’s really worth that much attention.

Dean jumps a little when Mr. Molina starts screaming about onions or something, and then the moment is broken and Castiel is staring down into their shared microscope.

“You were gone,” Dean says, reminding himself that he’s supposed to be investigating this guy, not impressing him.

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “I was out of town for a couple of days. Personal reasons.”

Dean takes his turn with the microscope. He guesses one of the stages of mitosis Mr. Molina has scribbled on the board and Castiel agrees with him, so either it’s his lucky day or neither of them knows shit about biology.

“So are you enjoying the rain?” Castiel says, touch of a smile playing on his lips. The small talk comes out stilted and false, like they’re both pretending they don’t have more important things to talk about.

“You’re asking me about the weather?” Dean says, feeling mildly affronted.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Castiel answers, apparently determined to pretend there’s nothing weird going on.

Two can play that game. “Well,” Dean says, “I don’t really like the rain. Any cold, wet thing, I don’t really like.” Dean’s thinking about corpses, but he can’t say that out loud. “And I don’t like all the trees here. I wish it was flatter, and warmer, and sunnier.”

Castiel chuckles, though it sounds forced. “If you hate the cold and the rain so much, why’d you move to the wettest place in the continental United States?”

“It’s complicated,” Dean says. “You wouldn’t understand.” And why do you care?” he adds internally.

“You might be surprised,” Castiel answers. His eyes are very blue, and looking into them makes Dean’s cheeks burn and his tongue feel heavy. “I’m sure I can keep up.”

Dean suddenly wants to tell him everything, more than he’s wanted to tell anyone before. He feels the pressure of a lifetime of secrets pushing out against his chest, and he swallows hard to keep them down. “My dad travels a lot for work,” he says sharply.

“So,” Castiel says. “You don’t approve of his work or…?”

Dean shakes his head, adamant. “No. His work’s really important. I just wish I could be helping him.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches then, like he’s anxious. He pulls the microscope back over to his side of the desk, and they get back to the stages of mitosis.

For some reason, Castiel walks with Dean to his locker after class.

“So Dad left me here with my baby brother while he finished up his…uh, contract,” Dean explains. Something about Castiel’s focused attention keeps him talking, brings him closer to telling someone the truth about his family than he’s ever come before.

“And now you’re unhappy?” Castiel asks.

“Not really,” Dean says. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s whining. “I mean, it’s kind of nice when it’s just Sam and me for awhile.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “I’m just trying to figure you out. You’re very difficult for me to read.”

“Hey, do you wear contacts?” Dean asks, seizing his opportunity during one of their many awkward pauses.

“No,” Castiel says quickly. Too quickly.

“It’s just that your eyes are really blue, but I could swear they used to be lighter or something.” Dean plays dumb, like he isn’t mentally cataloguing all the monsters he knows whose eyes change colour.

“Yes, I know,” Castiel says, squinting. “It’s the…fluorescents.” And then he turns suddenly and walks away, without even saying goodbye.

Which pretty much confirms Dean’s right about there being something shady going on. But instead of being excited by a potential solo hunt, Dean is mostly disappointed. He’d sort of liked Castiel’s attention.

In the school’s parking lot half an hour later, Dean avoids meeting Castiel’s eye across the yard, leaning against his truck while he waits for Sam to say goodbye to his friends. He wonders if they can afford to go to the diner again tonight, or if he should make a trip to the grocery store`instead. He swings off his backpack and leans it against the truck, unzipping an inner pocket to count the wad of cash rolled up inside.

If he wasn’t distracted, if his back wasn’t turned, maybe he would have seen the van coming. Instead, by the time he registers the sound of squealing brakes trying in vain to find traction on ice-coated asphalt, the van is just feet away, no time to get to safety.

Stupidly, Dean’s only thought as thousands of pounds of steel hurtle toward him is “Who will drive Sam home from school now?” He falls to his knees and covers his head.

And then Castiel is there, crouched down in front of him on the pavement, guarding Dean’s body with his own. He holds out one hand as if to brace them, and then the van bounces off his hand, leaving a perfect imprint in the driver side door. Castiel doesn’t even wince.

They stare at each other for several long moments, Dean’s ears still ringing from the sound of crunching metal. There’s no question in Dean’s mind that Castiel is some kind of creature, now, the question is why on earth is he protecting Dean?

Castiel springs to his feet, and dashes away to his group of disapproving siblings. A pack of concerned students surrounds Dean, but he only has eyes for Castiel.

Sam makes him go to the hospital. Normally Dean would refuse, but Sam had been walking back from the playground when the accident happened and had seen the whole thing. Kid’s pretty shaken up about it, so Dean lets the doctor check him over, to get him to relax.

“Sorry, Dean. I tried to stop,” says the guy who’d been driving the van, sitting on the next hospital bed over. It’s the fourteenth time he’s apologized, and Dean feels a little guilty, considering he can’t even remember the guy’s name.

“It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“No,” Sam says, using the tight, worried voice Dean hates. “It sure as hell is not okay!” He’s very pale, and his hands are curled into miniature fists.

“Sammy,” Dean says. “It’s okay.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I’ve had so much worse, buddy.”

Sam lowers his voice in return. “Yeah, it would have been so much worse if Castiel hadn’t been there to knock you out of the way. He got to you so fast even though he was nowhere near you. Sounds like you were really lucky.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean hisses. “I take your point.”

“When were you gonna tell me you were working a case?” Sam whispers accusingly.

“I wasn’t sure there was a case to work until just now!” Dean snaps, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone’s heard. “Now will you give me a break, I could have brain trauma.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “How would they even be able to tell, with you?”

Dean cuffs Sam lightly on the back of the head, glad to see him cracking jokes. “Am I all good, doc?”

The doctor, an old man with thick spectacles and an impressive mustache, nods, and Dean practically leaps off the crinkly hospital bed. He hates hospitals.

They’re one hallway from freedom when Dean hears a familiar low voice from around the corner. He grabs Sam’s arm and shoves him back against the wall, pressing his finger to his lips. Sam, like a pro, doesn’t make a sound.

“What was I supposed to do, let him die?” Castiel says. He sounds angry. Dean peeks carefully around the corner.

Castiel stands with one of his brothers and one of his sisters - Balthazar and Rachel? - arguing in badly suppressed voices.

“This isn’t just about you,” Rachel says, “It’s about all of us.”

Balthazar starts to interrupt, but then stops mid-sentence. Dean’s sure he hasn’t made a sound, that he’s not visible from around the corner and neither is Sam, but all three of them turn to look in his direction.

Trapped, Dean steps out from his hiding place. “Can I talk to you?” he asks innocently.

Castiel nods reluctantly, then leaves his siblings behind. Dean leans casually against the blue tiled hospital wall and Sam imitates his posture. They both stare at Castiel accusingly.

“What?” he says, looking especially unnerved by Sam’s presence.

“How did you get over to me so fast?” Dean says, figuring he might as well be straightforward. It’s not like Castiel’s going to attack him in public, in broad daylight, whatever he is.

“I was standing right next to you, Dean,” he says. There’s an authority in his voice that makes Dean desperately want to believe him. Maybe he’d been counting his cash longer than he’d thought? Maybe he did have a concussion and he’d just imagined the handprint in the side of the van.

“Bullshit,” Sam says, interrupting Dean’s train of thought. “You were next to your stupid car, across the lot.”

“No I wasn’t,” Castiel repeats, smiling at Sam condescendingly in a way that’s sure to just piss him off more.

“Yes you were,” Sam insists.

“I think you’re both confused,” Castiel says.

“I know what I saw!” Sam declares, raising his voice, and his certainty erases Dean’s doubt.

“And what was that?” Castiel asks.

“You stopped the van,” Dean says, jumping to his brother’s defense. “You pushed it away with your hand.”

Castiel’s gaze drops, and he suddenly resembles a kicked puppy. “Well no one will believe you,” he says.

And even though Dean knows he’s talking to a monster, he feels guilty. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” he says quickly.

“You weren’t?” Sam asks. Dean ignores him.

“I just need to know the truth,” Dean says, and it sounds uncomfortably like begging.

“Can’t you just thank me and get over it?” Castiel snaps, his voice so deep Dean thinks he can feel it rumbling through his own body. He stares into Dean’s face.

“Thank you,” he snaps back. He raises his chin and meets Castiel’s gaze, staring back unblinkingly.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Castiel says.

“No,” Dean says, defiant.

“Well then I hope you enjoy disappointment,” Castiel answers, turning and walking away without saying goodbye. He seems to do that a lot.

Dean sighs and rests his head against the wall.

“You weren’t going to tell anyone?” Sam repeats, a little shrill.

“You don’t count,” Dean says, pushing off from the wall and heading for the exit. Sam scrambles to catch up behind him.

That night, Dean dreams he sees Castiel in his bedroom, watching him while he sleeps. And though he’d promised to be honest, there’s no way in hell he’s going to tell Sam about that.

A few days later is the senior field trip to an organic farm or something, but Dean’s not exactly invested in the educational experience. Instead, he’s on a mission. He’s determined to gather information on Castiel, so that he can figure out what he is. Super-strength, eyes that change colour and anti-social behaviour are surprisingly common features among monsters, and he hasn’t been able to narrow it down much yet.

Once he has some kind of theory, he’ll tell Dad. He just doesn’t want him to worry for no reason, or to think Dean is acting like a little kid and jumping at shadows.

Dean is mulling over the few clues he does have when Castiel arrives, flanked by Anna and Uriel. His siblings look pointedly away from Dean, but Castiel’s eyes find his immediately. Dean fiddles with the strap of his backpack.

“Look at you, huh?” Jo says, stepping into Dean’s line of vision. ‘You’re alive!”

Dean shakes his head to clear it, having trouble focusing after being caught in Castiel’s weirdly focused gaze.

“Oh yeah, false alarm I guess,” Dean says. He wonders how she would react if she had any idea just how many close calls Dean has had since he started hunting.

“So I was wondering,” Jo continues, “do you wanna go to prom with me?” She giggles as she says it, nervous.

Dean hasn’t really been paying attention to what anyone but Castiel thinks of him, but he’s not totally surprised by the attention. At the other schools girls have flirted with him too, attracted to his air of mystery and the way he takes such good care of his little brother. Usually, Dean would say yes, cough up a few bucks for a corsage, and hope to get laid after the dance.

This time he’s surprised to find he’s not interested. As he tries to find a way to let Jo down easy, Dean catches sight of Castiel over her shoulder, still staring at him. His face feels hot, even though he knows there’s no way Castiel can hear their conversation from across the lot.

“Oh, uh, prom,” Dean finally says. “Dancing. Not such a good idea for me. Uh, I have something that weekend anyway. We’re going to visit my dad that weekend.”

Dean tries not to look too closely at Jo’s face, and is profoundly relieved when Mr. Molina herds them all onto the yellow school bus. He pretends not to notice Anna elbowing Castiel in the ribs behind him in line, or the way the guy is very nearly smiling.

“Compost is cool!” Mr. Morani declares to the group of completely uninterested high schoolers, while Dean tries not to breathe too deeply in the hot, stifling air of the greenhouse.

Dean catches sight of Castiel’s beige coat up ahead, and moves to walk beside him.

“Where’s your dad? Where are you going to visit him?” Castiel asks, not bothering with a greeting.

“How did you know about that?” Dean responds.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Castiel counters, stumbling over his words slightly.

Dean keeps his expression neutral, but he adds another trait to his mental list. What has weird eyes, super-strength, anti-social behaviour, and enhanced hearing?

“Well you don’t answer any of my questions,” Dean says. “So it seems fair. You don’t even say hi to me.”

“Hi,” Castiel deadpans, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Are you gonna tell me how you stopped the van?” he asks.

“Yes,” Castiel answers, adopting an academic tone. “I had an adrenaline rush. It’s very common, you can look it up.”

“Hawaii,” Dean says, frustrated. “My dad is doing the hula in Hawaii.” He trips on a tree root sticking out of the dirt floor, but before he can even stumble forward Castiel catches him by the arm and rights him.

“Can you at least watch where you walk?” he snaps. Dean has never had a monster express concern for his safety before.

“Look, I’m sorry I’m being rude all the time, I just think it’s the best way,” Castiel says, exasperated.

“The best way to what?” Dean asks, leaving the greenhouse and stalking back toward the bus. It feels good to be out in the open air.

“Dean,” Castiel says, hurrying to match Dean’s quickening strides, “we shouldn’t be friends.”

“You really should have figured that out a little earlier,” Dean snarls. “Why didn’t you just let the van crush me, and save yourself all this regret?” Dean’s working on a theory that whatever Castiel is likes to play with their food before they eat it. It’s the only explanation for Castiel paying so much attention to him.

“You think I regret saving you?” Castiel says. He looks shell-shocked.

“It’s pretty obvious,” Dean says. “I just don’t know why.” Yet.

“You don’t know anything,” Castiel says, and he seems almost disappointed in Dean. It’s oddly embarrassing.

“Hi!” Castiel’s redheaded sister says, popping up beside him out of nowhere. “Are you going to be riding with us?”

Dean reels a little, not sure if he wants deal with two mystery creatures simultaneously, but Castiel answers for him. “This bus is full.”

Of course the next day he’s singing a completely different tune, and Dean’s ready to add “mood swings” to his list of suspicious behaviours. Dean is busy avoiding the salad bar in the cafeteria, when Castiel walks over and places a blood red apple on his tray.

“What?” Dean says blankly.

“You should eat better,” Castiel says, gesturing to Dean’s cheeseburger and fries. “Get some vitamins.”

“Okay dude, what the fuck,” Dean says, dropping his voice. “You tell me we can’t be friends and now you’re concerned for my nutrition?”

“I only said it would be better if we weren’t friends, not that I didn’t want to be,” Castiel clarifies, standing way too close to Dean.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means if you were smart you’d stay away from me,” Castiel answers, and yeah, that’s a little ominous. But Castiel thinks Dean is just some high school kid, has no idea the things Dean’s seen.

“Okay,” he says, “but let’s say for argument’s sake that I’m not smart. Would you tell me the truth?” Dean tells himself he’d really like to get to the bottom of this, but the truth is he’s kind of enjoying the chase. He likes being the one in charge, having a case all his own.

“No, probably not,” Castiel says honestly, and a part of Dean is pleased that his job’s not done. “I’d rather hear your theories.”

That catches Dean off-guard. Does Castiel know he’s a hunter, or is he just looking for a high schooler’s idle speculation? He decides to play it cool.

“I’ve considered…radioactive spiders,” he says, keeping his tone light, “and kryptonite.” Nothing real, nothing that gives away what he’s really seen.

Castiel frowns deeply, maybe even looks disappointed. “Those are superheroes, right? But what if I’m not the hero - maybe I look like one, but what if I’m really the bad guy?”

“You’re not,” Dean says.

A few days ago it would have been a lie, part of the act, to keep the mark from knowing Dean’s on to him. Now he’s not so sure. Castiel hasn’t done anything to hurt him - or anyone else, so far as Dean can tell - and he’s actually seemed…protective. Even saved Dean’s life. Dean’s got enough info now to let Dad in on the case, has had since Castiel stopped that van, but something in him has been hesitating.

“Listen,” he starts, “why don’t we just hang out? Have fun?”

Castiel cocks his head to one side. “Have fun,” he repeats thoughtfully. “It couldn’t hurt to try.”

“Great,” Dean says, taking a bite of the apple Castiel had deposited on his tray. He swallows, then brandishes the apple, “You happy now?”

“Surprisingly,” Castiel says, and Dean’s walks back to his usual table, trying to ignore the way he can feel Castiel’s eyes on his back.

“Hey, look at this!” Sam says, when Dean meets him by the bleachers after his gym period, the last of the day. He shoves a file of newspaper clippings in Dean’s face, even as they walk to the truck. “There are all these mysterious deaths around this area. Hunting accidents, suicides, disappearances. They’re pretty spread out and there’s not much of a pattern so I can see why no one else has picked up on it, but the weird stuff is way more concentrated around here than anywhere else in the state.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says.

“Are you even listening to me, Dean?” Sam says, his tone accusing, so Dean looks down at him, takes the file and flips through it a bit.

“Good work, kiddo. Though I hope you’re not wasting class time on this.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not. I finished all my homework for the week last night, so I spent free period in the library, that’s all.”

Dean nods, satisfied. “Spaghetti tonight?”

Sam groans, but doesn’t complain too much. He knows as well as Dean does that money is tight. “But after dinner we’re gonna talk about this case. I’ve got more.”

Dean has barely rinsed the tomato sauce off their plates by the time Sam has covered the kitchen table in newspaper clippings, maps and books.

“Okay listen,” he says, taking a deep breath like he’s gearing up for a lecture. “Every few years or so the deaths around here increase. Lots of them are violent, like murders and hunting accidents and stuff. And then there are the weird ones, people suddenly dropping dead of months-old injuries when they’d been playing baseball the day before.”

“Like that guy one town over,” Dean jumps in.

“Right,” Sam says, pulling out the relevant news clipping. “That’s what got me started.”

“Some of it could be the werewolves,” Dean muses. “Though those are supposed to be recent. Curse, maybe?”

“Could be,” Sam says, using the tone that means he’s way ahead of Dean. “But get this. The deaths increase for a few months, but then everything suddenly goes back to normal. For years, decades even, until it all starts up again.”

“Hunters?” Dean said, “Coming in and wiping whatever it is out?”

“But what kind of hunter leaves a job unfinished? If it were a curse or a haunting or even a wolf pack, they’d make sure it was done for good before they left. Anyway, I don’t think Dad would have left us here if he’d heard of any trouble.”

Sam has a point. If hunters had a history here Dad would have heard about it from Billy, and he would’ve given Dean a heads up. “Okay, so something else then?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, really getting excited now. “It’s like an ecosystem or something. When the bad stuff increases something else shows up to keep it in check. Not wipe it out completely, just balance things out. Like nature.”

Sam is making a lot of logical leaps here - and Dean thinks he’s been studying a bit too much biology - but it’s as good a theory as any, and Dean doesn’t want to crush his excitement. “Okay, so we’re talking creatures then? Two kinds. Got any theories about either?”

Sam’s eyes light up, and he starts digging through his thickest pile. “So I mapped all the times when the mysterious deaths stopped, then checked the local papers to see what changed around that time. And at first I wasn’t turning up much, but then I found it.”

“Found what?”

“Kids,” Sam says. “Teenagers, really. Runaways looking for shelter, orphans come to be fostered, long-lost cousins. They all show up shortly after the deaths start, and leave a few months later when they come of age or whatever. By then the weird deaths have always tapered off.”

Dean’s stomach twists. He remembers the conversation in the cafeteria, when Castiel had warned him that he might look like the hero, even if he’s actually the villain.

“And?” Dean says, swallowing hard.

Sam pulls a yellowed newspaper clipping triumphantly from the pile. “Then I found this,” Sam says. “It’s a class picture from 1981. The kid in the corner is the new foreign exchange student. Look familiar?”

Dean already knows, but he looks anyway. There, in the uppermost corner of the photo, stands a teenage boy wearing a long coat and staring fixedly into the camera. Even in black and white, Dean would know those eyes anywhere.

Dean makes Sam clean up all the paperwork - “It’s a fucking fire hazard,” he declares - and then sends him to bed. He lies in his own bed and listens to Sam tossing and turning through the thin wall that separates their rooms. Once Sam has been silent for ten solid minutes and Dean can be reasonably sure he’s asleep, he gets out of bed and opens his battered laptop.

He looks up the location of the neighbouring town’s police station, prints out a map, and then gets back in bed, praying he won’t dream about Castiel Nevaeh again.

Sam spends the next night at a friend’s sleepover birthday party, which Dean thinks is great for two reasons. First, it means Sam’s been able to have some semblance of normal friendship in this town. Secondly, it gives Dean the chance to go to Port Angeles without Sam knowing.

On the drive over, Dean tries not to think about Castiel, about why he’s hiding this trip from Sam, and this entire case from his dad. He tunes the radio to the first rock station he finds, and turns the volume up so loud it drowns out his thoughts.

He spends a few hours killing time in the library, but doesn’t turn up much more than Sam already had. When the sun goes down he packs up his books and climbs back into his red truck, parking it a few blocks from the police station.

It’s not easy breaking into a police station, but it’s something Dean’s done before, and Port Angeles isn’t exactly high-security. He makes it in without being seen, jimmies the filing cabinet open, grabs a few of the most recent cases Sam had tagged, and climbs out the open office window.

He’s feeling pretty satisfied with himself after a solid night’s work, practically whistling on his way back to the truck, when he notices them. A group of three guys trailing behind him, and another two in the alley to his right.

It’s too late to duck out of the way, and all of the nearby shops are closed. He’s trapped, and - stupidly - unarmed at the moment; his pistol is in the truck’s glove box. Dean plants his feet, braces himself for a fight as the five guys, eerily silent, close in on him.

When they’re nearly close enough to touch he notices their eyes are all pure black, and a chill runs down his spine.

Not one to freeze when he’s scared, Dean decides to strike first, punching the nearest guy in the nose. Dean’s hand hurts like a motherfucker, but the guy doesn’t even flinch. He grins at Dean.

“Winchester,” he hisses, and then he shoves, and Dean goes flying through the air, skidding to a stop on the damp, gravel-coated concrete. He sits up groggily, can feel the blood already dripping down the side of his face.

The black-eyed men - demons, he remembers reading in Dad’s journal - form a line and march toward him, and Dean just wishes he’d said something to Sam about where he’d been going, or at least said a proper goodbye.

“Stop,” says a commanding voice from behind them, low and gravelly and familiar. Dean’s stomach leaps with hope. “Unhand him.”

The demons turn to look at Castiel. Lit by the lane’s lone streetlight from behind, he seems to be glowing, ringed by golden light.

“What’s it to you?” one of the demons snarls, running at Castiel. Dean winces, but then Castiel puts out his hand, pressing it against the man’s forehead. His eyes and ears seem to radiate bright white light, and he screams before collapsing in a lifeless heap on the ground.

The other demons scatter, running in four different directions and forgetting about Dean entirely. Castiel moves, more quickly than Dean can fully register, and two of them meet the same fate as the first, decimated in a flash of bright white light. The other two make it around the corner and though Castiel could probably chase them down, he crouches next to Dean instead.

“Can you walk?” he asks urgently, and Dean nods, lets Castiel pull him to his feet. Castiel keeps a hold on his arm as they walk the final block to the truck, and then guides him none-too-gently into the passenger’s seat.

“I can drive,” Dean insists, but the drop of blood that splatters onto his jeans kind of weakens his point.

Castiel starts the car, swerving into traffic and ignoring the honking cars behind them. “I should go back there and kill them all,” Castiel says, barely-controlled rage simmering in his voice. He grips the steering wheel tight, pushing down too hard on the accelerator.

“Uh, no you shouldn’t,” Dean says. He’s seen enough action for one night.

“You don’t know the vile, repulsive things those monsters could do to you,” Castiel says, eyes still fixed on the road.

“And you do?” Dean asks. “You know all about monsters?”

Castiel falls silent. “I don’t want to talk about this now,” he says. “Put your seatbelt on.”

Dean laughs. “You put your seatbelt on!”

For some reason this makes Castiel smile, and then he abruptly pulls over, next to a tiny Italian restaurant, its windows lined with sparkling white string lights. They remind Dean of the light Castiel had filled, had killed the demons with.

“Have you had dinner?” Castiel asks, and Dean, bewildered, shakes his head. “You should get something to eat,” Castiel says, a little too close to an order for Dean’s comfort.

Dean wants to say no, but he’s lost a fair bit of blood and hasn’t eaten since lunch so he’s not in much of a position to argue. He wipes the side of his face roughly with the sleeve of his coat to get as much of the blood off as he can.

“Don’t,” Castiel says, leaning in to examine Dean’s head. Dean holds his breath instinctively when Castiel touches him, but his fingers are cool and gentle, and the touch feels good. “Look, it’s stopped bleeding.”

Castiel pulls back and climbs out of the car. Dean follows, suddenly feeling much better.

Dean orders the beef and mushroom ravioli. Castiel doesn’t eat, which doesn’t come as much of a surprise to Dean, who hadn’t expected him to be hungry, at least not for anything on the menu. The waitress keeps giving them strange looks, and the other customers too, and at first Dean thinks he’s still got blood on his face. Then he realizes what this looks like, him and Castiel sitting together at the tiny table, Castiel staring at him so intently.

‘People are staring,” Dean says. “Because they think we’re two guys on a date or something.”

Castiel looks around, like he hadn’t noticed before. “Oh. I don’t care about any of that.”

“Neither do I,” Dean says quickly. He means it as a show of bravado, as a way of saying he doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him, that he’s not afraid of them. It’s not until after he says it that he realizes the statement could also be interpreted as meaning he doesn’t care whether or not he dates guys, which is decidedly not what he meant to say.

He wonders what Castiel meant.

“How did you know where I was?” Dean asks, filling the awkward silence that has sprung up between them.

“I didn’t,” Castiel says, and Dean pushes his chair back in frustration, gets up to leave.

Castiel looks stricken. “Don’t leave,” he says desperately. “I’m trying.”

Dean sits back down. “Did you follow me?” he asks. “Where’s your car?”

“I didn’t drive,” Castiel says. The buses from Forks stop running at five, Dean knows, so that’s another clue. Though to be honest, Dean is sort of losing track of his mission here.

“I feel very protective of you,” Castiel says, lowering his voice. “I was trying to keep my distance unless you needed my help, but then I saw what those demonic low-lifes were thinking and I had to interfere.”

“Wait,” Dean says, “you know what they are? You know they’re demons?”

Castiel hesitates. “I know far more about demons than you do, Dean Winchester. I know what your father does and where he is, and that he’s training you to be a hunter, and your brother too. I should avoid you like the plague, but I don’t have the strength to stay away from you anymore.”

“You don’t?” Dean asks, oddly breathless, he hopes from the concussion. He takes a huge bite of his ravioli so he doesn’t have to talk anymore.

The drive back to Forks is awkward. Dean’s not used to riding shotgun with anyone but his father, but Castiel won’t let him drive. They pass most of the ride in silence, until, eventually, Dean switches on the radio in desperation.

It’s the ten o’clock news update, and the lead story is the three bodies found less than an hour ago in the back streets of Port Angeles, cause of death still unknown. Dean leans his head against the cool glass of the window, and doesn’t say a word.

After Castiel drops him and his truck back at the house without even saying good night, it seems oddly quiet without Sam. Dean goes to the fridge and pulls out a cheap, off-brand cola, then sits on the lumpy couch. He pulls out the folded, and now seriously wrinkled files he’s had tucked away in his coat all evening.

The first two cases look like standard demon possessions, now that Dean knows what to look for. Bodies suddenly dropping dead from weeks-old bullet wounds to the heart and other impossible stuff like that. But the third case is different.

The crime scene photos are grainy and underexposed - obviously Port Angeles’ police department doesn’t have the most cutting edge technology - and Dean can understand how the cops missed it. But something about seeing Castiel glowing in front of that streetlight gave Dean an idea of what to look for, and it jumps out at him immediately.

On the pavement underneath the dead man’s limp body, stark black against the grey concrete, is the unmistakable outline of a set of enormous wings.

It only takes Dean ten minutes with the computer to figure it out. Bright white light, super-strength and speed, wings, animosity toward demons. When he goes to the bathroom mirror and finds his forehead and cheek completely unblemished, no sign of bruises or even a scratch, he’s not even surprised.

Castiel is waiting for him before school the next day, catching his eye across the parking lot. Dean knows better, knows he should phone his dad, maybe even pack up Sam and their things and hit the road. Instead, he gestures at Castiel to follow, and then sticks his hands into his coat pockets and marches across the green, green grass and into the forest.

It’s surprisingly dark in among the trees, and the air is dense and close. Dean tries not to jump at shadows, to imagine creatures hiding behind every tree.

“You’re impossibly fast and strong,” he says when he hears Castiel move in close behind him. “You hate demons. Your eyes change colour. You healed me with a single touch, and sometimes you speak like you’re from a different time. You never eat or drink anything; and when you die you leave behind traces of wings.”

Castiel is silent, though Dean can feel him at his back.

“How old are you?” Dean asks.

“This body is seventeen,” Castiel says.

“How long has it been seventeen?” Dean counters.

“Awhile,” Castiel acknowledges. Dean can feel his breath on the back of his neck, and it makes him shiver. His chest feels tight and his lungs too small, like he’s suddenly trying to breathe underwater.

There is a thing behind him, a thing that isn’t supposed to exist. This is the first time Dean has encountered something not in his father’s journal, something brand new and all his own. And it’s scary, yeah, but it’s also exhilarating.

“I know what you are,” Dean says, not turning around.

“Say it,” Castiel says, and it would sound like teasing but for the deadly seriousness in his voice. “Out loud. Say it.”

“You’re an angel,” Dean says. It would be funny if it didn’t feel so dangerous, like crossing a line he can never uncross.

“Are you afraid?” Castiel asks.

It seems like a simple question, but there’s something deeper to it. Buried inside it Dean feels other questions: What are you going to do about it? Will you tell your father? Do you trust me?

Dean has every reason to be afraid. He should pull his knife, run for safety, call his dad’s emergency number, get Sam out of this damn town because they’re clearly mixed up in something way bigger than what they’re used to, now.

But he doesn’t do any of that. “No,” he says defiantly. “You won’t hurt me.” He believes it, though he’s got no good reason to.

Castiel catches hold of his arm roughly, and then Dean’s stomach lurches. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again he’s standing in the bright sunlight, at the very edge of a cliff. He stumbles back from the ledge, dizzy.

“Where are we?” he says, swallowing hard to keep from puking.

Castiel stands beside him, still gripping his arm. “Another time and another place,” he says. “You need to see what angels are capable of.”

“So did you teleport us here or something?” Dean’s stomach finally settles, and he looks around. The ground is bare and rocky all around them, not a single tree in sight. They’re definitely not in Forks anymore; Dean’s not even sure if they’re in North America.

“Something like that,” Castiel answers. “Now, look.”

Dean takes a few cautious steps forward toward the edge of the cliff. He hopes Castiel isn’t planning on pushing him to his death, because that would be pretty anticlimactic. The wind is cool at the edge, and it’s almost refreshing...until Dean looks down.

The valley below runs red with blood, bodies piled three deep on the rock. Some of them are still moving, their limbs flopping uselessly. Vultures circle overhead, and, now that Dean’s listening for it, he can hear low moans and cries for mercy echoing against the stone cliffs, bouncing up toward him.

Dean watches in horror as one woman - girl, really - struggles to her feet, limping badly. She wades through the other bodies, occasionally stumbling forward into them and coming up coated in even more blood. He fixates on this girl, the one sign of life in the nightmarish scene below.

But someone else is moving toward her now, impossibly fast, pushing through the sea of corpses with ease. His huge dark wings cast shadows in the blood.

Dean cries out, tries to warn the girl, who hasn’t noticed her pursuer. But she doesn’t hear him, of course, and soon the man descends on her, slitting her throat in one neat, efficient motion before moving on again, searching for more survivors. Now nothing moves except the vultures.

Bile rises in Dean’s throat and he steps back from the ledge, worried he might fall. He sits down hard, heart beating way to fast, and then twists his body to look at Castiel, who bends down and touches his arm again.

Suddenly they are back in the forest, and for the first time Dean is grateful for the moist air, for the shade, for the protection of the trees and the soft soil under his body. He gets unsteadily to his feet.

“What was that?” Dean asks.

“You humans call it the Great Flood,” Castiel answers. “But that’s metaphorical. God’s real punishment was much…messier. Angels are assassins and warriors, capable of indescribable destruction. I’m not a cherub from a storybook, Dean.”

Castiel moves to stand in a nearby clearing, well away from Dean. He slowly unfurls his black wings, casting long shadows on the ground. It makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat.

“This is what I am,” Castiel says. He doesn’t meet Dean’s gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean says, and it’s not his proudest moment, but he’s telling the truth.

Dean has spent years hunting every possible variety of monster, but he’d never imagined anything like this. There’s a power radiating from Castiel that’s as old as time itself, that feels solid and permanent and whole. And to Dean, who’s spent most of his life swept up in his father’s mission, absolutely powerless, it’s utterly intoxicating.

“Beautiful?” Castiel scoffs. “These wings are the mark of a killer, Dean.” He slips behind a rock formation, darting between the trees, and Dean is forced to run to catch up with him.

“I’m a killer,” Castiel says, his voice dampened by the mist.

“I don’t believe that,” Dean says.

“Then you`re a fool,” Castiel says accusingly. “And a poor excuse for a hunter. I’m the world’s most dangerous predator, designed to kill.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says.

“I’ve killed people before.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Dean says, refusing to listen to the disapproving voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounds like his father.

“I’m supposed to help kill you. Or something like it, anyway.”

“I trust you.”

“Don’t.” Castiel’s words say one thing, but his pleading expression says another.

“I’m here. I trust you. I wouldn’t have walked alone into the forest if I didn’t,” Dean says, reaching up to touch Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel pulls back sharply, disappearing momentarily and then reappearing on a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree.

“My family, we’re different from others of our kind,” he says. “We’ve strayed from the mission. Conscientious objectors, you might call us. But you being here is dangerous. It could change everything.”

“Is that why you hated me so much when we met?” Dean asks, moving to stand below Castiel, who crouches down on the branch so that their faces nearly touch.

“Yes, because I know that he wants you so badly…my boss, the one we’ve tried to walk away from. I’ll still be expected to turn you over to him.” Dean files this information away for later, but at the moment all he cares about is making sure Castiel doesn’t run from him.

“I know you won’t,” Dean says, reaching up to run a finger down the side of Castiel’s face. His skin is smooth and warm; it’s hard to believe he’s touching an angel.

Castiel jumps down from the branch, his usually stoic expression pained. Dean wants to follow him, but he’s getting tired of chasing. Instead, he leans against a moss-covered rock, and waits for Castiel to come back to him.

He does, bracing himself against the rock with one arm on either side of Dean’s body, a mere foot of space between their torsos. His gaze seems to bore into Dean’s soul, and it makes Dean feel too hot in his leather jacket, makes his breath hitch and his fingertips itch.

Oh, Dean thinks, as Castiel leans forward and Dean wants to kiss him so badly he thinks he might explode.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Castiel orders, shattering the moment, and Dean really wants to punch him in his mesmerizing mouth.

“Now I’m afraid,” he says.

Castiel’s face falls, and he takes a minuscule step back. “Good.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Dean says. “I’m only afraid of losing you. I feel like you’re gonna disappear on me.”

Castiel smiles tightly. “Technically I could. But I won’t. I’ve waited millennia for you.”

Dean feels dizzy, grateful for the cool rock ledge behind him. He scrapes his palm against the sharp stone to make sure he’s not dreaming. Castiel reaches out, very slowly, and presses one palm against Dean’s jacket, over his heart.

“And so the predator fell in love with his prey,” he says softly.

It’s taking so much of his focus to keep breathing Dean almost doesn’t catch it.

“Hey,” he says teasingly. “Who’s the hunter and who’s the hunted in this scenario?”

“I guess we’ll have to call it even,” Castiel says, and then leans in to kiss him.

Part Two