AN: I got the title from Florence and the Machine - No Light No Light. It's an anthem for the fanfic, I guess?

Literally, I haven't thought I'd go this far into the DeanCasBigBang challenge, and I did, and here I am, worrying about all of these simple things like spell-check, and continuation, and the fact that my story has been read by so many friends who actually liked it and made me finish it.

Hey, I finished it! Even got these amazing fanart pieces from this amazing artist who thought No Light, No Light was worthy enough for her talent. Still shocked and eternally grateful. You're brilliant, juke-boxhead (GO GIVE HER SOME LOVE, REBLOG EVERYTHING SHE HAS.)

I also want to thank my one and only beta, my best friend, and almost always writing companion, miss Kendra Hinton. My bae, my soul-mate. You're freaking brilliant. (She's the spell-check I was talking about. See, I'm not exactly good at english, since I'm from a small European country you might find mentioned in the story ha. haha. hahah). Thank you, times a thousand.

Thank you to those four people in Japan, a.k.a my Japan roomies, who read the first draft even though they've never even freaking heard of Destiel, or Supernatural or even slash fiction. Thank you for kicking me awake for the whole of July and telling me that today I have to write 2 k of that gay fic I was writing.

THANK YOU DCBB MODS. For being wonderful human beings and working hard to make this community fucking amazing.

And lastly, thank you, reader, for reading until the very end. I love you and you're definitely not an obstacle. You're my light when there's none.

Hit me up on tumblr: four-ripped-his-clothes-off at tumblr dot com


How it happened

When angels fell some-thousand years ago, the world had been a horrid place. Wars, blood-boiling hatred and demons taking apart humanity sin by sin, avoiding the inevitable death of Mother Earth and all that God loved and cherished about his creation. It got too far, too fast for God's liking.

He turned to his ever-loved, the children of his mind, true beings of grace and justice. They all bowed to him, satisfied to have received such a mission, while God shed tears for the insanity his children would set out to fix. All in the name of saving God's precious humanity. He granted the mortals with Marks and let his children roam Earth equal to the gifted. Such had been the history of the Marked, and the Chosen.

All changed throughout the years, the Chosen and the Marked mingling with one another, adapting to the new world and the new rules. God had been happy.

The Marked, human beings with gifts from God. The Chosen, God's children bound to Walk the Earth, waiting for God to bless them with powers from their grace.

His creation worked well again.

"I have arrived safely, Mother," Castiel says into his phone, which is dangerously close to dying.

"Good to hear," his mother says like it's nothing, like it doesn't actually matter if he's on the other side of the world. For a second, Castiel's happy that he isn't standing in front of her. Lightens up his mood instantly. "Anna will be awaiting you tomorrow."

"Yes, I know," Castiel says, but it's too late, because he hears foreign beeps against his ear, meaning his mother already hung up on him. It's not the first time she's done it, but it doesn't mean it hurts less after experiencing the same thing all over again.

He holds the phone to his ear like an idiot, and stands in the middle of a very small street next to a tiny souvenir shop with a sleeping clerk inside. Castiel listens to the beeps as he takes the place and the heat in. It's hotter than anything he's ever known in life, and it's mostly because he's still dressed in his business suit, and on top of that, his favorite ragged trench coat. Not a very bright idea, but those were the only clothes he could manage grabbing before he had to go catch his plane. The air sinks heavily in his lungs, the humid oxygen providing anything but relief when settling through his mouth.

In the US, he was used to sitting inside, or driving somewhere to sit inside some more, but here, in the middle of the Mediterranean sea, in some kind of a small island that isn't even visible on the maps, there are no taxis, or cars. Unless you count the bus he took to this town from the airport.

Even for a small island like Kripke, people thrive. No wonder Kripke is considered a great vacation option. Golden beaches, great food, and friendly townspeople. "Cheap hotels! Sightseeing!". Castiel researched for hours and hours before the flight, now feeling like the research went to waste when he forgot the most important thing in the world of traveling; to check the way from the airport to his rented apartment on Google maps. Now, he's probably standing in the middle of nowhere, with a map in his trembling fingers, looking for street names that, apparently, do not exist in small towns or basically in the entirety of Europe.

He looks around for someone his age, maybe someone he wouldn't feel like a complete idiot talking to. The older women and men sit in their comfortable seats outside of cafes, drinking their drinking their coffees in the summer heat. There's a certain wonderful feel about old age, yet when he squints trying to compel himself to find any of those people friendly enough to give him directions, he figures their cold stares are too accusing, too raw for his tastes. Castiel lowers his head so as not to meet anyone's eyes, and moves on. He's heard that Europeans aren't all smiles and giddy laughs. In the States, everybody he knew had an infinite amount of "fake" written all over their curling lips, whereas this town (sadly, his first ever European experience) gives waves of ripe emotion, none of which he is used to.

Castiel passes stores. Houses. More souvenir shops. And then, a bar. The first bar he notices upon rows of tourist attractions, and it looks damn near ancient. He can't be too sure, since upon looking again, he sees huge shiny windows, the wood of the walls polished to perfection and an obscenely big, curvy lettered name on top of the entrance. The Roadhouse. He mouths the name, testing it on his tongue. Feels ancient. Fits, he guesses, to the whole vibe of the town.

Right in the corner of the bar, he sees them, two ordinary people doing ordinary chores on an ordinary (but hell hot) day. A blonde girl, who is filling a bucket with what seems to be some kind of detergent, and a man on the tips of his toes, standing next to a window at least half bigger than him. He's shoeless, shirtless and has the skin of gold and warm summer, a picture of healthiness and sturdiness all wrapped up in one man who has the prettiest shoulder blades Castiel has ever seen.

Castiel wipes the sweat off of his forehead, breathes in and is right about to ask for directions when the man turns around, lowers the soaked sponge in his right hand and locks his eyes with Castiel's. Castiel takes it all in - parted plump lips, raised eyebrows and a playful tint in his piercing apple green eyes. So green, in fact, that Castiel finally understands what it's like to fall endlessly in the depths of someone's eye color. They give off this unnatural sense of humble seduction that Castiel's cheeks flare with pink at the thought of standing close to the man.

"Ain't you too hot in that suit of yours?" a feminine voice reaches his ears. Castiel tilts his head in confusion, at the same time dragging his eyes over to the blonde girl, who, apparently, stopped pouring liquid death into the bucket and is now trying to make conversation with him. "Hey, talking to you, strange fella."

"Don't scare him off, Joanna Beth," the man says, his tone annoyed, instantly attracting all of Castiel's living, breathing thought to him and his voice. No way in hell anybody should have a voice as husky as that. It's all kinds of unnerving, a hint of confidence looping around the notes of the man's tone, adding to the already Adonis-like features of his body. Bow legs, ripped stomach and a nicely angled jawbone. It doesn't help Castiel overcome his sudden silence.

"Me?" Castiel finally asks, acknowledging that it is indeed time to speak. He points at himself and tightens the grip on his luggage.

The man rolls his eyes and drops the sponge into the bucket, wipes his hands on his tight blue jeans and walks inside of the bar in a few wide strides. The man wears a tight bandage on his right arm, which is somewhat a weird thing, but Castiel figures it must be some kind of an injury. When he is gone, Castiel already misses the view. The girl, on the other hand, eyes him, but does it with a grin, and walks over with an outstretched hand. Castiel takes a second to assess the situation.

Anna has told him already about how friendly the whole town is. Everyone knows everyone; it's the curse of a small town, especially one where vacation business is the most important money maker. No wonder this girl wants to shake hands. Castiel's new, and how can you not notice a person who is visiting the island when it's not tourist season? Fresh meat, so to say.

Castiel grips the outstretched hand, discretely acknowledging the trails of slow burning power seep through his fingers. He slips the hand out as polite as he can, without alerting the girl, Joanna. Marked, huh.

"As you've probably already guessed, the name's Joanna. But please don't call me that, makes me feel like I'm a tramp with an old lady's name. Jo's fine," she says, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. Castiel gives her a small smile. She's clearly American, since her accent matches his own.

He clears his throat. "My name is Castiel," he says, and Joanna raises an eyebrow. It's not mocking, though.

"Wow, Angel of Thursday, huh? Didn't take you for a Chosen," she says. Jo is all slim curves and sun-bleached hair. She crosses her arms over her chest, and Castiel can see she's proud of herself for knowing.

Castiel takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "Rarely do I get an opportunity to meet a person who knows Chosen names," Castiel says while fidgeting with the handle of his luggage. Jo makes him nervous, but not as nervous as the old ladies and men back at the cafés.

Jo chuckles, this amazingly well-put sound that could set any fire alight. "My buddy Ash is Marked with internet wide angelic knowledge he believes is meant to be shared with anyone close to him," she explains.

"That explains it," Castiel says and earns a wide grin from Jo. He scratches the back of his neck and then waves at the general direction of The Roadhouse entrance. "Was that um, Ash?"

Jo shakes her head, "Nah, the half-naked hunk is Dean," she says, and Castiel has to refrain himself from breaking into a wide smile.

Jo gestures at his trench coat again, wearing an amused expression. "Seriously, man, ain't you too hot? It's gotta be like 30 degrees out."

"Sorry?" Castiel asks after he's looked down on his coat, reminded of the fact that he's practically drowning in his own sweat.

"Uh, the coat?" Jo repeats, but Castiel shakes his head.

"No, 30 degrees? I believe I'm not entirely familiar with European Celsius."

"Oh, so you visiting from the good ol' States?" Jo says.

Castiel furrows his brows and squints a little in confusion. "I'm speaking fluent English, is that hard to tell?" he says.

Jo smiles again. It's so nice seeing a person giving an abundance of smiles to a stranger. "You wouldn't believe how many people in fucking Europe know perfect English. I stopped assuming ages ago. Now I ask before putting my two cents in."

Castiel likes how Jo talks to him as if he's just another regular human being. He likes how Jo's smile quirks up, and eyebrows shoot up and especially how Jo is not afraid of naming him Chosen out loud. He's never been a fan of Marked or regular people, because they all treat him like he's superior or in a higher position. That seems to be the exact opposite of how Jo perceives his kind.

He decides it is now or never.

"Would you mind giving me some directions?" he asks, attempting to appear calm. "I am very lost."

She nods enthusiastically and gestures at the map he's holding, which he quickly hands to her. She moves closer, finds the place they're currently at and circles it with her finger. "This is where we are," she says. "Where do you have to go?"

Castiel gives her the address and it takes about half of a minute for her to find the quickest way to his newly rented apartment. She explains what turns he has to make, describes the places he'll pass in vivid detail, etching the images into Castiel's head. He thanks her, feeling more gratitude than he ever felt for another human being, especially a Marked one, and she just waves it off like it's nothing.

"You can repay me by coming back to the Roadhouse tonight," she says, winking. "We're having a live gig, think you might like it. And the drinks ain't half bad."

Castiel doesn't think he'll come, but he considers anyway. "When?"

"We open at three," she says and checks her wrist watch, which reads 10 am. "But the show starts at 9 pm. I suggest you swing by at 8."

Castiel thanks her again, shakes her hand and starts walking toward the direction Jo pointed at in the first place.

"Hey, Castiel!" he hears. He turns around, halting for a second. Jo smiles the widest smile he's seen throughout their whole conversation and lifts her two fingers up in the sky. "It's 86 Fahrenheit. You know, since you're not so good with Celsius."

He waves back, grinning himself, and moves away from the bar.

Maybe he will come back at 8 pm.

Castiel's apartment looks worn, specks of dust floating in the air and the aura of dread surrounds him with unwanted anger. He knows all of his brothers once lived in the same place. He knows the rumpled, untouched-for-years sheets belonged to Gabriel, to Michael, to Luke, even to Inias - but he still feels somewhat angry. Mother gave him enough money to buy a new apartment and furnish it with anything he'd ever want, but the anger doesn't let him make a move and retrieve his hand from the door handle, so he just stares at the light dancing on dust and fear.

Cas turns a little to nod at the owner of the apartment complex, sees his smile and the owner leaves.

Finally, he can go get rid of these sweat-soaked clothes. Cas shreds himself of his slacks, tie and shirt, tosses them somewhere in the corner, but lays his trench coat carefully on the bed, fixing the rumples swiftly with the brush of his fingers. He feels naked shame even alone in this room, his back tingling with anticipation for tomorrow, and even though Castiel's heart pumps his blood with fear for losing his freedom, he can't help the nagging excitement. He sneakily wonders what his seal will look like. Will it be like Michael's - covering his entire arms in tribal swirls, a pointedly blue shining sign of the Novak family glowing on his right forearm. Or maybe like Gabriel's - just a small one on the back of his neck, this colorful mess of acrylic surrounding the sign.

He wonders if it will hurt.

Luke told him it hurt like hell when he got his - but no wonder. His Chosen mark appointed him with lies and mischief, the only worthy aspects for his career as a politician. Castiel's read that sometimes it depends on the person, whether it hurts or not. He's read about countless seal techniques, met hundreds of Chosen who were blessed with the magic of seals. Mother didn't want him to know about freedom, he understood in his late teens. So here he stands, without a hint of a choice, waiting for Chosen Anna to do her work on his seal. He's happy, of course, that she's going to be the one to work on his seal, but deep inside, in the darkest corner of his wishes and desires, he would have wanted to choose a Chosen Seal maker himself.

Castiel ignores the pile of crumpled clothing in the corner once again, rummages through his luggage to find a towel, shampoo and other hygienic products, steps into the only place in the whole apartment that isn't filled with humidity, and finally breathes easy.

The water hits him in waves of relief, water diluting the sweat and washing away any dirt he acquired through the trip. He scrubs carefully, never forgetting any part of his skin that needs the refreshing flow of water mixed with peach shampoo running down his lean back.

No matter how relaxing the pressure of water is, Castiel still feels as if he's sinking into the ground. His back itches in places he can't reach. His feet hurt. His head is splitting in two. Castiel angrily punches the water pressure back into idle, the water stops, and here he is again, alone in the shower, water dripping from his peach smelling hair. He breathes deeply, open-mouthed, and stares at his toes, noticing the purple-ish color of the blood vessels about to pop from how swollen his feet are. Moving out of the shower, he doesn't even bother to grab a towel, walks into that dust-filled room. From there, it's like a bad slow-motion movie; Castiel falls, making sure he's going to hit his target, those ruffled sheets slowly getting closer and closer until he's face down in them, breathing in the scent of a lied-in bed.

It's nothing like home.

But it will do.

The Roadhouse looks alive in the dusky evening, lit up by a thousand flickering lights that remind Castiel so much of Christmas trees, and right there he stops thinking about it because 1) it's stupid, 2) he's about to go inside.

He takes a few steps up, vaguely thinking about green-eyed Dean, and after seven deep breaths, opens the glass doors, listening to the cheers and lively talking echoing through.

The sound gets worse after he steps in. There are so many people here, it nearly punches the air out of his lungs, and for a second there, Castiel needs some space, or anything. His eyes nervously shoot from one spot to another, he frantically searches for Jo's face in the crowd of overly happy and overly drunk people. Someone grabs his arm, and Castiel's ready to punch anyone going near him, but in the middle of him raising his slightly clenched knuckle, Jo's smiling face comes into the view. Castiel's heart-rate instantly goes back to normal, his anxiety simmers down to a minimum, and he's able to smile back.

"You made it!" she says into his ear quite loudly. He figures it's alright, since you can never hear anything in this kind of a bar. "I saved you a spot, c'mon."

She grabs his wrist, drags him towards the bar area, all while holding a plate of dirty glasses. Jo's wearing a black dress and a Roadhouse apron, her hair wound in a tight bun. Castiel misses how her hair freely flowed down her shoulders, but he guesses it's a basic bar rule. He takes some time to enjoy how conveniently everything is placed. The tables are easy to navigate, and the pictures on the walls are spectacular. There are at least twenty huge portraits lining up, all of them containing people; some have Jo herself smiling, or drinking, or working, others have an older woman, and a man with a weird mullet haircut playing pool. Castiel subconsciously looks for the green-eyed one, but finds only one. Dean is holding a beer up, smiling with the right side of his lips, this humble, quirky smile, and Castiel instantly wants to see one in action.

He finds it hard to look away, but when Jo impatiently tugs on his hand, he finally glances at her and at the place they've stopped at.

And there, fucking there, is the green-eyed Adonis, wearing a AC/DC shirt, knee-cut shorts and Converse, smiling a fully toothy grin at a customer who is holding up two fingers. Dean has a tall glass in his hand, a washing cloth in between, and he's beautiful. His hip is propped up against the bar, the casual stance just so relaxing, and Castiel wishes he could be that particular client who could just talk to Dean when he's so unbearably attractive.

"Two shots, comin' right up!" Dean says, glances at Jo, and she nods.

Jo pats Castiel on the shoulder. "Sit here, I'll bring you a beer. You can talk to Dean while I'm gone, today is his night off."

Castiel stands awkwardly for a second, then settles on the seat and tries to ignore the presence of Dean just two little seats away. He wants to look at Dean, he wants to observe, but he knows that would be rude. Castiel's a stranger. A Chosen. Why would he ever be allowed to look, much less talk -

"You're the weird trench coat guy," a familiar voice says, and it sounds dangerously close to what Castiel wants to hear right now.

He lifts his eyes up, and Dean's looking at him.

Castiel nervously gulps some air down, shuffles on the seat and props his elbows on the counter. "I do not understand what is weird about my coat," he says. Fuck. It sounds as if he's uncomfortable. Get it together, Castiel.

Dean chuckles. Oh dear Lord, that sound. "Nah, dude, the coat's fine. Just sayin' it ain't fit for Mediterranean weather."

Castiel gives Dean a small smile. "I am aware. I had to board my flight after being notified I would have to in a few hours. No time for shopping."

Dean's eyebrow quirks up, alongside with his smile doing the picture thing Castiel was dying to see. "Quick decision, yeah? Been there."

Castiel feels bolder somehow, talking to Dean. In the morning, Dean looked like he wanted to murder anyone in his way, and now, he's having a conversation with Castiel like nothing happened. Dean's eyes sparkle in the shallow light of the bar, and Castiel can't hear the loud chatter around him anymore. It's like his whole world started spinning around him and Dean the moment the corner of Dean's lips lifted up.

"Jo said it's your night off?" Castiel asks, praying to God Dean goes on with the conversation.

To Castiel's surprise, Dean pats the other customer's shoulder and moves over to Castiel, sits right next to him and fully turns, looking at Castiel like he is the most interesting person in the entire world. "It is. Actually, this whole is week is my night off. But, since none of these idiots know how to do their job, I come here, have a good time, and help 'em out."

Jo comes back with two beers, sets them in front of them, winks, and leaves.

Dean follows her with his eyes, lifts the beer, sips. Sighs. "Good beer. Try it. European."

Castiel does so, firstly sniffing the weirdly bitter smell of beer. Then, he gives a tiny sip, letting it settle against his tongue, the rich taste overflowing in his mouth, and he unexpectedly moans around it. Dean's eyes widen, but he says nothing. "This is amazing," Castiel manages to get out, even though it's lame, Dean nods enthusiastically.

"Right?" he says, while tipping the beer for a 'Cheers'. "Riiight?! I'm having none of that American shit anymore. I mean, I fucking love American beer, don't misunderstand me, but I'd take some German beer every time."

Castiel clinks his glass with Dean's. "I have heard that German beer is the best in the world. It's awfully strong, though."

"You'll get used to it. We have loads of European beer here. Mostly German, but like, there are so many to choose from."

"What would you recommend after we drink this one?" Castiel asks. After a pause, he adds, "I've only tried wine."

Dean chokes on the beer, setting it down before coughing into his hand dramatically. He stares at Castiel as if he saw a ghost. "Only wine?"

Castiel nods cautiously. "I am not exactly educated in the perks of alcohol," he says and takes a sip of beer again. "This, I could get used to."

Dean shakes his head disapprovingly, but does it with a kind of ease that tells Castiel it's friendly. "Man, you're getting weirder and weirder by the second, but what the hell, who am I to judge," he says. Castiel tilts his head, slightly confused.

"There are many people in the world who do not drink massive amounts of alcohol," Castiel says.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah," he says. "I said I'm not judgin'."

They smile politely at each other, drink some more, and conversation just flows. Castiel doesn't understand this simple concept. He's always had problems talking to other people, his people skills being a little 'rusty'. Talking to his brothers seemed to go fine, but comparing to how breathy it is to talk to Dean, those conversations already feel old and dull. Dean's a beacon of facts, band trivia and endless amounts of pop culture references. It's hard to keep up, and even though Castiel doesn't get at least half of the words Dean's using to describe the entirety of Star Trek, he still revels in the way Dean describes the world of TV shows.

"Dude, you don't know about Star Trek," Dean says, downing his third beer. "You don't know about the glory of Friends. And now you tell me that you have no fucking idea who Harry Potter is?"

Castiel smiles widely, amused by Dean's comical expression. "Is he a famous person?"

Dean lets out a baffled noise, with his eyes wide and mouth agape. "Cas!" he uses the nickname as if he's used it for years, and not just five minutes. Right in the middle of explaining how cool Captain Kirk is, Dean finally asked Castiel for his name. Then, after asking repetitively if the name is real, he decided that it's too long and called him Cas for short. Castiel didn't mind. Dean repeats the name again, "Cas, oh my God, I swear, I am getting you educated on the variety of good things you missed out in life."

"It's not like I didn't watch TV by choice," Castiel explains, having Dean's full attention. "My family has strict regulations against human television."

"Oh yeah, Jo mentioned you're Chosen," Dean says. Their knees are touching, and Castiel has to get all of his will power to not move his leg away by accident. "Can I see your Seal?"

Basic human curiosity. Understandable. "I do not have one yet," Castiel admits. "That is why I am here."

Dean whistles. "Figured something was familiar about you," he says. "You're a Novak, aren't you?"

Castiel sets his glass down and clears his throat. "Correct. How do you -"

Dean's smile is contagious. "Anna Novak," he explains quickly. "She's the only Chosen in this town that does Seals. She did Jo's."

Castiel's curiosity perks up. "Are there a lot of Marked in Kripke?" he asks. "So far I've only felt Jo has one."

Dean's green-eyes come unfocused for a split second, and then he goes back to normal. Huh. He lowers his head down, pats the beer glass absent-mindedly and shrugs. "There are some. Ash, blessed with knowledge. Ellen, blessed with calling out bullshit, I guess? Then there's Charlie, this absolute technology geek. But I gotta tell you, dude, no one here even cares. You take what you get."

"That explains why people are not overly scared of me," Castiel says, relieved.

Dean punches him on the shoulder playfully. "Chosen, Marked, human. Who the fuck cares? Life's too short to be butthurt."

Castiel nods appreciatively, thinking how Marked in the US have always been reluctant to talk to him, in fear of him waving them off. Him being Chosen, the descendant of Angels, had somewhat put him on a pedestal for some people. Most Chosen, like his Mother and Michael, reveled in their power, whereas Castiel liked keeping the fact that he's Chosen to himself. Thankfully, Marked people can't really predict if a person has a gift.

They finish their beers in silence. Only then does Castiel notice that there's live music playing from a small corner of the bar, some guy with a cap strumming an electric guitar. He stares at the guitarist for a long time, and then feels shuffling next to him. Dean is standing up.

"Well, I gotta get going," Dean says, and holds out his hand. Castiel once again sees the bandaged arm. "Nice meeting you."

"I'm very happy for our acquaintance," Castiel says and shakes Dean's hand, which lays so, so warm against his palm. "And the Roadhouse is amazing."

Dean winks at him, earning a deep blush from Castiel. "Come over whenever," he says. "I'm always here. We'll grab a beer or two, reminisce about damn ol' States, yeah?"

"Yeah," Castiel says and that's that.

Dean says goodbye to his co-workers and some of the customers, leaves with a bang, and Castiel is left alone with his half-drunk beer. Well, alone for about three minutes, because then Jo appears out of nowhere, dressed in jeans and a tank top. "Hi," she says.

"Hi," Castiel replies.

"So how was Dean? He was pretty flustered when I told him you were coming."

Castiel coughs out the beer he just downed. "W-what?"

Jo hums contentedly and observes the bar, which is already half-empty of customers, a romantic tune playing from the corner. "Dean has many problems, some of them containing getting the bar ready for the evening. He was super grumpy in the morning, and may have come off as rude, but I swear to you, the guy is fuzzy as a bear inside. It's just that he likes complaining on his days off."

"Why does he come and help, then, if he complains?" Castiel asks.

"Beats me," Jo answers. "Can't stay away for too long. Damn workaholic."

Castiel nods a few times in understanding. They look at some customers, and Castiel thinks that coming here was the best idea. "Hey Jo?"

"Yeah?"

"Would it be alright if I asked you what your Mark is?" Castiel really, really wants to know. It's not every day he gets to talk to a Marked person who doesn't blush or stutter.

Jo smiles at him. "I can read emotions," she says as if it's not even special. As if it doesn't mean that the moment Castiel felt attraction to Dean, she felt it. He's screwed. Jo can probably see it on his face, because she laughs and puts her hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "Don't worry, gosh, I don't go around telling things that are clearly meant to be a secret. I just have my ways of fulfilling some strong emotions."

"But -"

"You had a good time with Dean, right? Isn't that what matters?" she says with a smirk.

Castiel sighs. "You win."

"I won?" Jo claps, cheering. "I am the fucking Queen!"

"You are."

"I'm the fucking ace, dude!"

"I do not understand the card reference."

Jo beams at him, smiling so wide it must hurt. After a pause of silence, she retrieves her hand from his shoulder. "You're alright."

"Thank you," Castiel says.

"Come over tomorrow," she says.

"I have an appointment with Anna Novak," Castiel says. Then thinks. "Wait, at 8 pm again?"

Jo stands up, swings her bag over her shoulder. "Nah. Are you free at 3?"

Castiel nods.

"Good. Come here, Dean and I are painting some graffiti on the other side of the Roadhouse. We're gonna need some help."

And that is how Castiel decides that he really, really likes this bar.