The girl (young woman) stops him in the middle of the street.
"My Saint's name is Anthony" she says.
Dean looks at her like she's crazy, because at this point, as far as he's concerned, she is.
"They told me I shouldn't because I am not perceived as male." She grabs onto the sleeve of his coat. Her hand looks very small against the thick, worn leather.
"But Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost things and that's what I'm good at," she looks straight at him, eyes bright, "finding lost things."
Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to tug his sleeve from her grasp without dragging her along for the ride, "listen kid-"
"Dean." The hunters eyes snap to hers, "Dean, I found you."
Deans flickers, wavering in the midafternoon sun. The girl (young woman) does not break their gaze.
It's wretched out of him, taken from his very depths and forced out in a word that can hardly cover it all but does.
"Cas"
She smiles. She has dimples.
"Dean." She says, pleased. Like that's enough.
It is.