Pairing: Always a girl!Dean/Castiel

Characters: Always a girl!Dean, Castiel

Notes: Sooo...no relation to canon here. Possibly OOC. Genderbending, because I love fem!Dean.

English isn't my first language, so excuse any typos/confusing sentences.

Heed the warning; there is a 10 years age difference, and there is mentions of a past relationship with an underaged character.

Nothing graphic.

Um, yeah.

Long Time No Seen

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Castiel Novak – former student of theology, now a writer of supernatural fiction – was not having a good day. He woke after a fitful four hours of sleep, rolled out of bed and tripped over one of the many books littering the floor (his right elbow would bruise), and entered his kitchen only to find that he was out of coffee. He made due with the forgotten teabags he'd found in the back of one of his cupboards and ended up burning his eggs and toast in his annoyingly zombie-like, uncaffeinated state.

He wished it had stopped there, he really did, but the karma thing; they were on to something here.

Instead, he'd struggled with picking up where he'd left off on latest book and spent what felt like forever (20 minutes) staring at the same blank page after having written exactly four in the same amount of hours. Giving up, he'd showered and having noted the current mess of his house opted for jeans and a t-shirt before heading out for some well-needed shopping. He'd planned on doing some overdue cleaning when he got back, he was soon out of socks and the dust bunnies were starting to look alive. Of course, this was not quite of it played out.

He was standing by the canned goods contemplating if he should get beans or some soup, or both, and maybe some corn when what could've been written off as just a bad start of the day turned into a Worst Fucking Day Of The Month Goddammit day.

"Holy shit! Cas? Is that you? Oh my god, it totally is! Dude!" a voice he'd give anything to avoid sounded from somewhere behind him. No, seriously, he'd quit his job and moved to another state in hopes of never hearing it again. That was five years ago. Goddammit.

A gentle hand on his elbow startled him out of shock and into motion. Jerking around to face what he knew he should be able to face by now, jesus, what he saw was worse than he'd ever dreamed it could be. God, so much worse.

The first time he had laid his eyes on Deanna Winchester, it had been like a punch in the gut and he'd never burned like he'd done then, not for anyone. She'd been wide, green eyes and sassy smile; dirty mouth and stubborn, so damn stubborn. He would've loved to say he'd put up a fight but he could admit to himself he'd caved the moment their eyes had met across the loud, vibrating room of a club she'd been too young for but he hadn't known that then, dammit. From then on she'd turned his world upside down, and taught him to swear, shown him the proper way to open a bottle of beer, how to really appreciate pie and how to live. He likens the experience to an adrenaline rush, or maybe a tornado, and sometimes it had been a little bit like flying, or falling. Maybe bungee jumping. It had been four months of frightening thrill and sex and discoveries, before it had came crashing down.

Seventeen, she'd only been seventeen. A child, and it made him sick, made him run but now she's here – why is she here what is she doing here oh she's changed she's oh she's beautiful fuck dammit not again – and he can't stop staring.

He manages a weak, "Dee," but she's smiling softly at him, a complicated look in her (pretty, wide, dark, beautiful) green eyes. She looks sad, regretful. Mature.

She's still ten years younger but now she's twenty-two and she's always been older than her years, a small comfort he'd allowed himself to admit.

"I got a new job," she begins, "Sammy's been transferred to this school; it's his last year. He's doing great; kid's gonna go places."

He nods, just to acknowledge he's listening; he still doesn't know what to say. Her smile is crooked, head tilted in understanding. He wonders if she really does understand; the impact she made in his life, the changes she brought on, the damage she left behind. She continues. "How about you, Cas? You doing ok? I've been reading your books," he really doesn't want to acknowledge he'd hoped she had, and how it pleases him she has, "and I gotta hand it to you man; you're good!"

Finally, he finds his voice. He's thirty-two for god's sake, what is wrong with him? Clearing his throat, he replies. "That's good. I'm good, as well. It's been a long time. How are you?"

It's not until he feels her grip tighten before he remember she's still got a hold of his elbow. It burns, she smiles; staring. With a sigh, she lets her hand drop and he misses it already. Shit. "Yeah, it has, hasn't it? Look, I…you left, before I could…", trailing off, she raked a hand through her hair; longer now, not the spiky mess he remembered but softer, a slight wave to it, falling to her shoulders. Her freckles still stand out, despite the slight tan she'd always managed to keep without effort, but her face is sharper; cheeks remained pleasantly curved though her jaw cut a much less soft line. He compares her to that of his memory and wonders how he could ever have mistaken her for a woman of this age back then. He knows, of course, why. He thinks she stopped being a child long before they met, he never got to hear that story, but it didn't change the fact that she'd been seventeen. Seventeen and taking care of her little brother like a mother, working long hours and paying bills, driving a car she'd fixed up herself.

She never mentioned her father, he'd assumed there was none, until he'd walked in on them kissing on her couch; drunk and staggering.

"Get away from my daughter you fucking pedophile! Fucking freak I'm gonna kill you! She's seventeen you goddamned monster!"

"Dad! STOP! FUCK, get out of here, Cas, go; GO!"

He'd fled, could still remember the sick feeling in his stomach.

"Hey Cas, I know…I know I'm probably not someone you want around but, well, it's been a long time and I just really…would you give me a chance to talk? Over a beer?" She looks hopeful, and it's been five fucking years, he shouldn't care but he recognizes something here; he'll regret it if he says no, if he runs again. He knows it, so he nods and says "Okay" softly. They exchange numbers and decided to meet up at the local bar at seven, and she bids him goodbye with a smile he doesn't recognize and he finishes his shopping, hurries home.

He showers for a second time that day, throws on some nicer clothes and ignored the mess of his house to make himself some coffee. He adds a bit of whiskey, just because, and settles down in his couch. Well, fuck. This was unexpected.

He's resigned to accept the fact he is in no way over whatever feelings he had for Deanna Winchester five years ago, but thinks somewhat despairingly that life had been on pause ever since he left her behind and now, he's willing to bet she's ready to press play once more; intentionally or not.

Not for the first time he wonders what a seventeen years old girl saw in a twenty-seven years old man, but this time, he adds, and for a twenty-two years old woman, will there be anything to see in a thirty-two years old man? It's stupid, and he hates himself, because she could be taken, she might not really remember their time together with any significance; she most likely hasn't thought of him much at all over the years. Fuck, he really is pathetic.

Seven pm rolls around an age later, and he's repeating himself (you're pathetic, Castiel Novak) as he sits opposite the woman he based his nymphs and succubus on.

"So…", she begins, twirling a bottle of beer between her fingers in a painfully familiar way. "I practiced this speech more than I can remember over the years, you know. It's cliché, but now I don't know how to fucking say it."

He sighs. "Why, Deanna? I…you must have known how old I was. You must have know how…wrong it was."

She grimaces, and takes a swallow of beer, shaking her head. "Yeah, I knew. Fuck yes, I knew. But I…you gotta understand how it was back then, Cas. Please. I..I don't like talking about it, but you deserve to know." He can't argue with that, so he doesn't; simply nods and leans back to observe her. She's shifting uncomfortably, before rolling her eyes.

"God this is ridiculous," she mutters, clearing her throat and shifting forward. "Mum died when I was ten and it fucked my dad up beyond repair. He dragged Sammy and me from one dump to another, hunting demons that don't exist. I..fuck, this isn't some sob story okay? I'm not…anyway, I took care of Sammy as best as I could, but that kind of life…I had to grow up fast, you know? I dropped out of school, took up jobs. I couldn't afford to be seventeen, so I wasn't. I was so used to lying about my age by then, I sort of believed them myself. I felt more like twenty-two than seventeen, and when we hooked up…I figured you'd be, you know, in your late twenties but I forgot about that. By the time we were…something…it was just too late to tell you. I don't know what I was thinking, so fucking stupid, of course you'd find out. I just wished it hadn't happened the way it did."

He didn't know what to make of that, but her eyes were pleading with him; urging him to understand. He realized the years had lessened the hurt enough for him to do so, because he found his hand closing around her over the table and allowing a feeling of calm settle over him.

"I'm sorry," she says intently, grasping his hand. "I'm so fucking sorry, Cas. It was horrible, what I did to you. I haven't been able to forget you, you know. It fucking sucks. But I'm sorry."

"I am too," he replies, trying to avoid thinking about her remarks on not forgetting him, "But why are you here? Of all places Dee, it's…"

He doesn't know what it is. She's blushing, trying to tug her hand away, but he won't let go. Chewing on her lip, she looks away with a sigh. "Dad…he died, in a car crash. Last year. He was drunk and…yeah. I just…I had to get away for that place, I'd been reading one of your books and I just…really fucking needed to do this. So I looked you up. I had just meant to visit, but then I found this job at the shop fixing cars – Singer Salvage, you know the place? – and Bobby, the owner, knew this place so I sort of…ended up moving here. The school's good too; Sammy loves it."

"I'm sorry," he says after a while, pained. Her story sinks in; he remember tracing her skin and its scars, thinking she must have lived long and lived through much, but it never fit. He remembers how she could drink him under the table, how she could charm her way around anything and anyone. The tiredness in her eyes and the weary line of her shoulders, as if something heavy rested there, invisible to him. She might have wrecked him like a hurricane but can't bring himself to regret it, he never could, and perhaps that makes him a monster but they'd been happy, for that little while, and she's older now. She's here, and she seemed ever more tired and worn than ever, and he wonders how you deal with being a mother to your little brother when you're ten, how you remain so good when the only adult in your life drinks himself to death, how you were supposed to be able to reject whatever happiness or enjoyment that might come your way, when life has been nothing but a constant storm ripping up houses and flooding streets, no eye to rest in.

"It's okay," she says, smiling slightly, "Thank you."

"It is," he finds himself saying, leaning forward, "It is okay," we're okay, "I've missed you."

There's a pause of her blinking slowly in shock, eyes wide, before his words sinks in and her breath hitches in a way that makes him bite his tongue and eye her mouth, her lips parted. She licks them, suddenly tight with intense energy as she leans into him, eyes steady and serious. "I've missed you too, so fucking much, Cas."

He thinks this is when they press play together, and life is finally moving again; he won't let her fast-forward it again, will try and keep the pace, because there's something here that tells of second chances and his fingers are itching to write, his mind eager to process the story, and this? This is them, starting over, properly.

He tells her about his writing, how it started. Why he decided to move here, how he's been doing; what he's been doing. Tells her about some local haunts, paints a picture of the neighborhood; it's a small town, people are nice. The burgers in this place are the best, he lives in a house at the edge of town, there's no one in his life at the moment. They decide to meet again, she says he's free to call and text anytime he wants and he says he will hold her to it; they're both laughing at the end of the evening and she gives him a ride home in the same car he remembers from back then.

For the first time in five years, he's reminded that the world does indeed have colors and smells and sounds. This time around, he thinks, things will be fine. He'll be fine.