The train you take home is late at night due to your long hours at work. There's barely anyone on either of the two platforms, and it isn't surprising, considering the time, and seeing as it's one of those little stations that no one pays much mind to. For the few people that take this train you know off by heart which days they come, which free newspaper they get if there are any left, who they call if the train is late (which has happened twice so far this year). The faces rarely change, so it's a surprise when a man takes to sitting on the bench opposite you on the other platform.
He sees you looking, and smiles- no, smirks when you duck your head quickly. When you glance up again, he's looking around, his knees bouncing; he has bounds of energy bottled up inside, and it must be hard for him to be so quiet. He seems so uncomfortable in his suit, tugging at the collar and the cuffs, touching his smoothed-back hair as if he's afraid to mess it up; and you imagine that it must be a new thing for him, but you've never seen someone so obviously unhappy about their predicament, like they don't belong in their own skin. He must be unable to take it anymore, because he grabs his bag and takes out a pad of paper and a marker, pulls the lid off with his teeth, and begins scribbling. To give yourself something to do, you pull out your phone to check for messages from your brother.
There's a quiet clatter as a small piece of dislodged gravel lands not far from your feet and you look up to see the man holding up his pad of paper:
So who died?
The man looks around to get his point across. You shrug in reply, and look back down at your phone to have another piece of gravel skid to a halt in front of you.
Is it always like this?
You think about it before nodding, and he writes on the other side of the paper.
This is going to be fun.
It seems that it isn't just a one off, because the man is there every night, writing questions on a pad of paper for you to read and answer in body language.
The sixth day you buy a pad of paper on the way to work, and when he writes hi that evening, you write hi back.
It carries on for a few weeks, and no one knows until your brother asks why there are blank paper pads coming to the apartment you share in packs of three (you have a lot to talk about). When you blush he starts laughing with manic glee and asks if He's handsome. Of course, He's incredibly handsome, with gorgeous hair (though it looks odd combed back) and a chiselled jaw, but you can't tell what colour His eyes are because He's not close enough.
You also can't tell when you started referring to Him in your head like the first letter should be capitalised.
The teasing is endless, but not too mean, and one night your brother even remarks that if you had the balls to even ask the Guy's name, there could be something there. This makes you determined to find out more about your station neighbour, in particular His sexual orientation and current relationship status.
And His name. That might be helpful as well.
Of course, the next night He isn't there. Because the universe loves to see you stumble and grasp at thin air.
He doesn't come back for a week, and when He appears on the platform, there's a surprising and ridiculously huge flood of relief. He seems tired, but smiles when He sees you, and gets out His paper pad.
Miss me?
Though you've only ever communicated through writing and small gestures, you sensed His cocky and humorous attitude quite early on in whatever you have.
You seem tired. Were you ill? You write, knowing that answering His question will only bring possible embarrassment.
My little brother stumbled into some trouble. Some chick with a gem for her name dragged him along and through the mud cause she could.
I hope your brother's alright is what you hold up to Him.
He wears an exasperated smirk as He writes down His response. Yeah, my brother may be at Stanford, but sometimes he's a naïve idiot. However anyone on either platform can see how proud He is of his younger sibling.
My brother is similar, you scribble, but definitely not naïve.
This brings a quiet laugh tumbling out of the Guy's mouth, and considering how He looks like He's been through hell and back, you consider that an achievement.
A month has passed since then, and you now know so much about the Guy that you can't help but feel special. You know that His brother's now back on his feet, and has met a girl, sweet and supportive; her name is Jess.
You know that the Ruby chick had lured His brother in with (fake) information about their dad, who left them with a family friend to go after the guy who murdered their mother when they were too young to remember really.
You know that He used to be a mechanic, and would still be if a swanky job that He was kinda obligated to take cropped up. Head of Sales or something. He hates it.
His ideal night is pie, a beer and a classic horror movie, and He's fixing up the car His dad left behind. A '67 Chevy Impala, black paint job, leather seats, only takes cassettes. You think it sounds brilliant. You feel like you know him on a level few others have, do, or will.
Then one night He's followed up by another guy.
They're talking quietly, and you've always felt bad eavesdropping on what are obviously private conversations, but even when tuned to background noise, it's obvious that the station is witnessing a fairly big argument. You consider that maybe this is His brother, but they don't look similar, and the other dude looks older. Also, the way the guy stands close to Him speaks of something that is definitely not brothers, and make you feel ever so slightly sick. That nausea grows when the man brings Him into a kiss, and you can't help but feel relieved when He forcefully pushes away.
"Jesus, Michael, I-" the Guy lowers his voice upon realising how loud He is becoming, and after a few more seconds of quiet but heated conversation, Michael storms off the platform.
He sighs and you turn your head back to your phone before He can notice you were watching.
He doesn't get out his pad, and neither do you.
He doesn't take the bench opposite yours the next night. Or the next. Or the one after that.
It's the Friday following the Michael Thing, and you're explaining in a text to your brother that the train is late, when someone nearby clears their throat.
It's the Guy, struggling to keep a hold on two large boxes. "Mind if I sit?" He asks, and you don't register His words for a second because His voice is deep and rough yet lulling and it sounds much better than it did in the frustrated and upset tone it had during the Michael Thing.
You start, shake your head while jumping up to grab one of His boxes, and He flashes you a grateful smile as you set it on the ground for Him.
"Thanks," He says, and puts down His other one before you both sit down on the bench.
"You're not on the other platform," you say hesitantly, and you swear His breath hitches as you speak; but then He's smiling at you, and you dazedly think that you must have imagined it.
"Yeah, well, I actually used to live your way," He explained, "but then I moved. This is just me and the last of my stuff. Moving back."
"You and Michael," you say softly. "You were..."
"Yeah." He looks down at the ground. "I'm, uh, bi, and he, yeah, if you don't. Yeah."
You look at Him, wondering why He seems so concerned. "I am indifferent to sexual orientation," you state blandly, though your subconscious, which for some reason has taken the form of your brother, is dancing for joy with a parade marching in the background.
This pulls a laugh from Him. "So, are you... you know, or... you know-"
"If you're inquiring into my own sexuality," you say, "I am homosexual."
Another chuckle bubbles over. "Is this how you normally talk?" He asks. "I thought that was just you writing your thoughts out more clearly on paper."
You blush, and fiddle with your trench coat that has kind of always been too big for you. "My apologies. I believe it was simply many books and attaining an extensive vocabulary from a young age, but my brother likes to claim to acquaintances that I am an android."
"No, no, it's good," He rushes to assure you. "You talk straight and to the point, no maybes or implications, or twists. I need some of that right now. I like it."
You grin at each other a little too long, and you ask, "Will you take back the mechanic job?"
"Yeah," He leans back, and you notice how much more comfortable He is, with faded jeans, boots, a Black Sabbath t-shirt under a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair doesn't reflect light due to excessive hair gel scraping it to the side, but is mussed up like He just rolled out of bed and seems like it would be soft if you ran your hands through it. He also has a five o'clock shadow which shouldn't be as sexy as it is. This is the Guy you see in the scribbles of marker pen, who didn't match up to the business man in slacks and perfect-pressed shirts.
"I can't wait to get back to Uncle Bobby's," He says. "It was way more fun than Sales, and my baby needs work; she's almost done."
You smile at the mention of the car, then register the rest of the sentence. "Uncle Bobby's? Like Singer's garage?"
"Yeah," He replies, looking at you.
"I don't live far from there," you say. "Twenty minutes at the most. My brother, he owns Saints Café, and we live above it."
The Guy stares at you. "How is it that we've never met?"
You shrug. "My work has long hours."
"That explains the Dark Rings of Death," He says not unkindly.
You wince anyway. "My brother is trying to make me quit, thinks it's not good for me. Keeps on mentioning how I could start a bookstore like I wanted to as a child. But it pays well."
"Does it make you happy?"
You balk for a moment. "What?"
"If it doesn't make you happy, then you shouldn't be doing it," He says. "The bookstore sounds nice."
Normally you'd brush off people's attempts to convince you to leave Garrison and Co., but there's something about the look on His face and tone of His voice and you know that this conversation will be plaguing your mind for days.
"So I won't be getting the train anymore," the Guy says after a few moments of silence. "Looks like it's goodbye for our paper conversations."
"I'm sure we will see each other around town now we know each other," you assure him.
"If the coffee's any good at your brother's shop, you definitely will." He smiles at you and something in your chest is stuttering when he does that.
He holds out a hand. "I'm Dean."
You take it. "Castiel."
"Nice to meet you, Cas."
The nickname doesn't help the stuttering. "You too, Dean."
A few weeks later, you quit your job.