A/N: Honestly, I'm pretty nervous about posting my first fanfiction, but I've been working on this for a while now so here goes nothing. I would have liked to complete the first chapter and post it around last week, but then my grandma died and I've only just finished this chapter earlier today; hopefully the next chapter will be up in a week, but as I haven't even begun it yet, I can't make any promises at this stage. Also, just a note - I actually lost sight of where this story is headed about a quarter of the way into this chapter (not necessarily a bad thing)... I guess we'll see what happens!
The title is taken from Sleeping At Last's gorgeous song "Venus", which I absolutely fell in love with the instant I heard it; and the stunning cover image is by Pascal Campion, whose artworks are beyond magical and you should definitely check out.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Castiel has just turned thirteen when he first meets Dean, with his bright green eyes and uncharted constellations of freckles on a sun-exalted face. Even at that time, he knows deep down that this is the most beautiful boy he will ever meet.
It's the fourth night after his birthday, and he sits crosslegged on the unforgiving tiles of a wide balcony in total blackness — at least, as dark as it can get in the midst of a restless city, which admittedly is radiant enough to be almost mistaken for daytime. As a late breeze whips past the reaching apartments, he shivers but can't muster any strength to retrieve a coat from the living room. In the streets beneath, various-colored lights shine down on hectic flocks of people and tight rows of loudly upset cars. Indistinct laughter drifts into a never-darkening sky. Even at this hour of the night, the city is visibly teeming with life.
It's more alive than he's ever felt; alone in the relative dark, Castiel uncrosses his legs to draw them into his chest, hugging his knees in an attempt for warmth. A palm-sized frosted cupcake taunts him from a nearby table. Three untouched candles stand proudly embedded in a ring around the center, a box of matches lying worn and forgotten beside the store-bought cupcake.
Four days since he reached thirteen years of age, and his parents have failed to send him the usual congratulatory package: a signed card from each of his parents wishing him a happy birthday, a separate envelope enclosing a stack of cash, and a couple of standard souvenirs from those cheesy gift stores promoting whichever exotic locales set the backdrops for his parents' recent social media updates. Last year, he received a stern-lipped Russian doll from his father in Moscow and a speckled kaleidoscopic bull from Barcelona, courtesy of his mother. For his eighth birthday there had been an Eiffel Tower on a keychain and a traditional Chinese fan (or a cheap imitation, at least).
Their package may have gotten lost in the mail this year. Or there could have been some sort of emergency situation that unexpectedly cropped up, rendering his parents unable to send anything recently.
Not that Castiel expects anything so materialistic for his parents to express their love, he tries to reprimand himself. Being an official adolescent as of Thursday, he should act more mature by understanding better. They do love him, of course — in their own distracted, unspoken way. Besides, there is hardly much worth complaining about, especially when the high-rise apartment he's known for years is always pristine, thanks to the weekly visits of a hired housekeeper, and beyond spacious — nearly too large for one person. Say what you may about the Novak family, but relentless work and inbuilt strength of character have led them to grow conspicuously wealthy over the years.
The night's cold has numbed him to the point where he barely registers a sea of goosebumps on his exposed arms or a dull pang of hunger in his stomach. He should have asked the housekeeper to prepare some dinner before she left today; not that he doesn't have more than enough money to enjoy a comfortable meal outside, but even his growling stomach can't inspire the energy necessary to leave the building for his own sake. He knows if another person needed the food, he would be out of the door in a split second.
There is the cupcake, whose iced rose swirls now tantalize him, but something deeper than physical hunger bars him from snatching it up. Despite the odds, some foolishly human part of Castiel wants to wait for his parents' return — either via birthday package or video chat, it doesn't make much of a difference anymore. It's been four days without any sign that they're aware at all of his birthday, which really shouldn't matter at all (except it does to him).
He repeats to himself some of the excuses he conjured previously until his chest loosens up, his heart no longer being compressed by a stiff, constricting ribcage. It doesn't matter anyway. Every minute aspect of his life currently is finer than most people may ever dream of. He should be happy. This is what 'happy' looks like, the result of wishes or a tick on someone's bucket list.
He is happy.
Castiel digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms, exhaling slowly through his nostrils then regarding the cloud created by his warm breath as it dissipates in an upward direction. Tilting back his head, he scours the sky in vain and wishes he could see the stars. They must be beautiful, he thinks, and pictures a splash of distant diamonds to accompany a friendless moon — for that must be the reason it always appears so cold and harsh. It's just lonely; he thinks he can relate.
Preoccupied with imagining arbitrary patterns of stars in a seemingly vacant sky, he misses the first time the doorbell rings and practically leaps to his feet with an uncontrolled start when he hears it the second time. The only person who has ever rung the doorbell to his apartment would be the housekeeper, so he isn't used to having people over.
Castiel waits for another beat, to check whether it was a mistake or not, but whoever is at the door doesn't disappoint.
Another unaccustomed peal of the doorbell tears through the silence.
He's already padding over to the front door before the fourth series of rings has concluded, slight apprehension niggling at the base of his gut. It might be the housekeeper, having forgotten something at the apartment earlier today or seeking another pay raise. Be that as it may, the prospect of having a new visitor still excites him as he unlatches the door and heaves it open with a grunt.
When his eyes land on the boy at the door, every one of his prior thoughts flee his brain in a frantic scurry, almost tripping over one another. Less than a minute ago, he was scrutinizing the sky in an effort to form new constellations out of nothing; now, he takes in the freckles splattered over the boy's face — cheeks, nose, not a single inch of tanned skin is spared — and blinks, wanting to trace over them and create original designs and count each speck. Vibrant eyes match his own gaze, creasing at the corners in light-hearted humor, the reason for which Castiel struggles to comprehend. Their arresting green hue makes him homesick for untamable, winding mountainsides he's never before visited.
Dimly, he's aware that his jaw falls open. Maybe that's why the boy's eyes are laughing — they're laughing at him, because he looks like a total fool with his mouth agape and eyes no doubt embarrassingly wide. Somehow, his head clears enough to form intelligible sentences. "May I help you?" His voice, caught in the turbulent storm of puberty, cracks in the middle.
The smile in the boy's eyes transfers to his lips, and Castiel pinches himself to stop staring. "Hey, sorry to bother you at this time, but I was wondering if you had seen my kid brother around here. He's about this tall, has disgusting brown hair and these unbelievable puppy dog eyes. Oh, and he turned nine years old recently, if that helps any."
"Your brother?" The words take a moment to register in his brain.
"Yeah. We had another fight." A dim light gutters out in the corridor behind the boy, casting shadows that accentuate an unreadable look on his face. "He's run away again. You know how kids are."
Castiel doesn't. He might not be so lonely if he had a brother or perhaps five. A couple sisters would be nice as well. Anything to make the expansive apartment feel less empty, constantly threatening to engulf him within four oppressive walls. He stares at the boy, striving to recall the basics of social interaction. There needs to be a guidebook for dealing with abnormally attractive people. Eventually he ends up saying, "Right. Younger siblings. They're very…interesting."
"That's one way to put it. Anyway," says the boy with freckles on his face that Castiel hasn't yet drawn into constellations, "I guess that means you haven't seen him. I'd love to stay for a chat but my dad's really going to tear me a new one if he gets home and finds Sam missing. I'm supposed to be looking after him, but instead he's somewhere out there by himself without even a phone or anything." The boy drags a hand over his face, and in that moment he appears too weary for a young teenager; when he uncovers his eyes again, they show no sign of fatigue, instead holding a bright gleam that must be artificial.
Castiel is rapidly enthralled.
This boy standing before him on a doorstep that has seldom seen any visitors is, for lack of a better word, noteworthy. Hauntingly unforgettable. Something tells Castiel to savor each ticking second of the interaction, because he has a feeling deep down that this scene will be engraved into the backs of his eyes for years to come. This strange boy, whose shoulders bear so much weight, has eyes like glistening candy apples and an array of stars across his face and lips that quirk at the edges even when his eyes fail to — and, oh, how Castiel would love to see a full-fledged smile brighten that face someday.
When the other boy turns as if to leave, it's on pure impulse that his arm shoots out and he catches the boy's wrist. Startled eyes meet his and he fights to keep down a crimson flush.
"I'll help," he offers. "If you want, I can help you look for your brother so you won't get in trouble when your dad comes back. Two pairs of eyes are bound to be better than one, after all."
The boy blinks at him before his face splits into a smile, unpredicted while strangely fond. He sticks out a hand expectantly, which Castiel shakes after barely a second of uncertainty. "I'm Dean Winchester," he says.
"Castiel," says Castiel in return as he lets go of Dean's hand and feels a distinct lack of warmth in the gaps between his fingers, in the heart of his palm. "Castiel Novak."
"Castiel?" Dean scrunches his nose into a perplexed look. "Where'd your folks dig up that one from? No offense intended, of course. Speaking of your folks, are you sure they won't mind you running off at night with a total stranger?" He pokes his head around Castiel and seems to notice the quiet darkness of his apartment for the first time. A frown puckers his forehead with concern and he shoots a questioning glance back at Castiel. "Are you all by yourself at home?"
"My parents are busy at work," Castiel responds curtly, a heated wave of defensiveness surging within him. His parents are good people, that he knows for certain. He won't have some random boy regard them with anything other than respect. "Where are yours? Why is it your responsibility alone to look after your brother?"
Dean shrugs, but his posture has stiffened — it might not have been a great idea to snap at him about something so personal, the two of them being complete strangers and all that. "I'm his big brother, aren't I? It's kind of in the job description, you know. Anyhow, as much as I'm enjoying this discussion — really, we should get back to it sometime — my old man's going to arrive at an empty apartment in, say, fifty minutes from now if we keep this up. And I hate to remind you of this, but Sammy could be anywhere right now."
"Sammy?"
Dean stops, caught off guard for some reason. "Yeah, Sam. My brother, the one that's missing? It's a nickname."
Nicknames, thinks Castiel vaguely, are a common sign of familiarity between people. Between family members, close friends, or lovers. The last word tastes funny to him as he looks at Dean, whose affected composure withers by each passing moment, revealing glimpses of a young boy struck by agitation over a brother gone astray in a city with as many delights on every darkened street corner as there are dangers.
"Sammy," repeats Castiel. Then he shakes off any second thoughts as if brushing away a film of gathered dust and spins on his heels, heading back into the apartment lit only from the outside. Dean calls after him once, which he chooses to ignore while navigating a brisk path to the balcony. Snatching a frayed coat as he passes an otherwise unused coatrack, he strides barefoot onto the balcony and pauses to relish a raw chill in the night air before he picks up his celebratory cupcake in tender hands, slipping the box of matches into his pocket.
When he returns to the front door, Dean's eyes alight on the frosted pink cupcake and grow imperceptibly round. He straightens from his previous leaning position against the doorframe and says, "Shit, you didn't mention it was your birthday."
Castiel knows a socially acceptable answer would be a humble "thank you" or to explain that his birthday was actually on Thursday, he just didn't get around to eating the cupcake until now. Instead his mouth decides to say, "It didn't exactly come up in conversation, Dean." His tone comes out clipped and short, and he has no idea why frustration stews in his chest.
Dean frowns, losing the flippant smirk that formerly ghosted his lips. "Whatever, I guess. Happy freakin' birthday, man."
Castiel bites back a retort and instead steps outside the apartment, his keys jingling in protest as he locks the door behind him. He turns to face Dean, who seems to possess an uncanny ability to both rile him up and make his breath catch in his throat. For his own sanity, it shouldn't be allowed for someone so attractive and interesting be so infuriating at the same time. "Do you have any idea where your brother might be or are you just operating on a hunch?"
"That so-called hunch led me to your door, so I wouldn't shrug it off so casually," points out Dean with a slight grumble, his words making Castiel's stomach flutter weirdly. He then sighs and admits, "I don't really know. At first I thought Sam might head to the closest library, but it's already past midnight so all the libraries will be closed. One of his friends lives on this floor, which is why I came here to begin with — although I ended up just knocking on random doors to see which one belongs to his friend. Yours was the last one I tried."
"Does he have any money with him?" inquires Castiel.
Dean chews on the inside of his cheek, a musing crease between his eyebrows. "I would say no, except I know the kid's a genius — an idiot genius, obviously — which means he's probably saved up enough to score himself a decent meal, at least."
"No, not food," says Castiel without thinking, briefly glimpsing Dean's look of bewilderment. The cogs in his brain whir and begin to grate against one another. "You also said he ran away after you guys fought?" An intelligent child with ample money who enjoys being surrounded by books and has just withstood an emotional argument with his brother; cold and alone in a city too big to care for him, there's one type of place Castiel can imagine he'll seek for sanctuary.
"Well, yeah. I mean, all siblings fight from time to time, you know — but what does that have to do with anything?"
"A bookstore," Castiel blurts out, and his chest warms with a tingling of pride as Dean's eyes widen.
"Of course," exclaims Dean. His face relaxes, breaking out into a grin. "Of course it would be a freakin' bookstore. Cas, you brilliant son of a bitch! How come you know my own brother better than I do?"
Castiel ducks his chin and worries at the ragged hem of his hoodie to avoid meeting Dean's gaze. "I feel your brother and I might be more similar than you'd imagine."
Dean hums thoughtfully, giving Castiel a focused once-over that makes him want to squirm with embarrassment, and shakes his head no. "I'm not sure that's entirely true, actually. For one, you're a lot easier on the eyes than my baby brother." His teasing smirk drips with self-satisfaction, so much that Castiel wants to punch him in the face.
He blanches quickly at his own thoughts, astounded that his mind can turn so violent. It must be thanks to Dean Winchester, of course; staying in close proximity to him for too long probably isn't healthy for any rational-minded individual. Deeming him unworthy of a verbal response, Castiel does something he's only ever watched people do on television: he extends a middle finger into the air even as his face warms, self-conscious and ashamed — his parents didn't raise him to act like this, a stereotypical rebellious teenager. (Not that they've had major influence on how he was raised, having passed him over to a rotating ensemble of convenient relatives and babysitters since before he could walk.)
To his surprise, Dean barks out a laugh, his head tossed back to expose a clean strip of his throat. His laugh is deep and real and resonates within Castiel's bones, sending a tremor down his spine. "Man, you're really something, Castiel Novak," he says while he recovers himself, wiping at the corner of one eye. "All right, Sherlock, is there any bookstore in particular where you think Sam might have gone?"
"A couple of blocks from here," Castiel tells him, "there's a place I think your brother would enjoy. It's been in the neighborhood for as long as I can remember, so it's well-known and it has a great reputation. A popular author, Carver Edlund, runs the shop most of the time."
Recognition flares in green eyes. "Carver Edlund? Sam obsesses over his books like there's no tomorrow. The guy wrote a series about, like, hunting demons or whatever, right?" Dean shakes his head, astonished. "Man, if Sammy knew that he owned a shop so close by…"
"I'm willing to bet that he already knows. If we hurry, we can get there and you can make it back home before your father arrives." Castiel starts down the corridor, muted lights winking to life as they sense his presence, and gestures over his shoulder for Dean to follow.
The night's late enough that the crowds from earlier have thinned out drastically to leave only a handful of stragglers making their way home alone. A breeze whips past, tousling hair and making loose clothes flutter, so Castiel tugs his trench coat tighter around himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Dean's shiver and the way he rubs at his bare arms, the ratty t-shirt he's wearing hardly enough to shelter him from the cold. Dean turns to look at him, sensing his fixed regard, and Castiel hastily casts his eyes elsewhere, trying to forget the way passing streetlights streak through strands of Dean's hair, turning them pale gold.
They continue walking side by side in mostly silence, although it's a silence that doesn't pressure Castiel to speak. Usually he would detest any lull in conversation, but this is different from how his vacant apartment rings with a lack of sound and the walls close in on him when he doesn't pay attention — this type of quiet, he thinks, might be something he'd want to get used to. The thought scares him, that being with an utter stranger could feel so inviting and natural, so he hurries to extinguish it before it gets the chance to develop.
Less than ten minutes later, Castiel pushes open the doors to an offbeat small-scale bookstore and exhales as a blast of warmth infuses him down to the bone. A comfortingly familiar aroma of worn out pages and timber floats into his nostrils. He wants to bottle up this smell and keep it in his life forever. Dean steps into the store beside him and, before Castiel can pull him back, a spark ignites in his expression and he dashes across the room until his back disappears from view, blocked by a row of bookshelves.
Castiel sighs and obligingly trails behind, letting his fingers run along the spines of assorted books as he proceeds. He reaches the end of one row of shelves and pauses in his tracks for a brief minute. Several feet ahead of him, Dean releases a smaller boy with unkempt brown hair from his arms, taking a step back. The younger Winchester carries a number of books in gangly arms, the unbuttoned sleeves of his flannel shirt too loose and dangling off him. The two brothers exchange hushed words for a while, both boys' faces set in heated expressions that gradually lose their fire. Castiel realizes too late that he should have ducked into some nearby aisle instead of remaining stock still where they might see him.
Right as he's about to wrench his feet from their fixed stance, the smaller Winchester turns from his brother and spots him. Frowning, his mouth shapes words to Dean, whose head swivels around to catch sight of him. Castiel freezes under the weight of his green-eyed stare, but while he stands contemplating what to say, Dean's face breaks out into a grin and he beckons with the hand not resting on his brother's shoulder.
"Cas, meet my baby brother," says Dean when Castiel stops in front of them. "Sammy, this is Castiel Novak. He helped me find you. Actually, without him, I never would've even known about this bookstore."
Sam Winchester casts an unreadable look toward Castiel, who takes a step back, thrown off balance by the perceptive glint in his eyes. The boy appears to be strangely observant for his age. He says, "Castiel, huh? Interesting name."
"Sam, it's so good to see that you're safe. Your brother has been looking for you almost all night," Castiel tells him. A shadow passes over the younger Winchester's face and he folds his arms over his chest.
"Like I just told my brother," says Sam peevishly, "I was doing fine before you guys barged in here. It's not like I would've been gone forever, anyway — Dean, don't you think I know what Dad can be like? You didn't have to go out and look for me. I just needed some space after our fight, and this bookstore was perfect until you showed up with your new buddy here."
Dean's eyes are hard when Castiel glances over at him, evaluating his reaction. "Are you kidding me? You're a nine-year-old kid wandering the streets alone at midnight — did you expect me to just sit at home and hope you might come back in one piece? I knew you were a bitch, but I didn't know you were dumb as well."
"You can't really blame me when I've got a total jerk for a big brother," Sam fires back straightaway. Castiel tenses, preparing for a huge argument to erupt, but then something weird happens. As if releasing their tension in a lingering exhale, the brothers relax virtually in unison; the younger Winchester's gangly shoulders loosen up while the elder Winchester brother stops clenching his jaw in favor of a sheepish grin that flickers, unsteady, at first before it overwhelms his entire face.
An inside joke, maybe. Castiel feels a pang in his chest as he observes the two brothers smile broadly at each other like the foolish dorks he's realized they are; it must be nice to share such a meaningful connection with another person. It's as though his eyes have been truly opened for the first time he can remember — and what was once durable now presents itself as a gaping hole revealing everything he lacks in his life.
Dean directs a look at his younger brother that says he's clearly not done with scolding Sam, but his expression shifts when he turns to face Castiel, who drags his gaze away from the unapologetic curl of his smile. "Hey, you've been living in the neighborhood for a while now, right? 'Cause we just moved in the other week and I wouldn't rely on memory to lead us back home."
"I suppose I can try to help you find your way," says Castiel slowly, baffled by the request. If it were anyone else in his place, he might think that Dean wants to spend more time with him — but it's not anyone else. The closest friend he's ever known is the redheaded girl in his English class who sometimes lends him pens but always has a smile ready for him in the hallways. And he doesn't even remember her name, if she ever bothered to tell him.
"Great!" Dean's face splits into a beam. He fishes out a wrinkled slip of paper from his jeans pocket and presses it into Castiel's open palm, the touch leaving a trail that tingles along his skin. "There's our address. Could you maybe show us the way? If it's not too far from here, of course," he adds hurriedly.
Castiel examines the paper for a moment between delicate fingers, although he barely needs to contemplate the address, his mind having already recreated the image of a faded brick apartment complex on the margin of a packed intersection. He returns the note to Dean and tells him, "It's only a couple blocks from here, but I'll go with you in case you get lost."
Plunged into the warmth of Dean's crinkling eyes, Castiel smiles back effortlessly and nearly misses the quiet scoff that Sam makes in the background, which turns into a series of coughs when Dean whips his head around, firing a dirty look at his brother. Promptly the two Winchesters start bickering over whatever inconsequential thing they've set their sights on now, and Castiel's smile melts away as he realizes how easily his lips tugged themselves to form that much-admired curve.
He thinks of men and women alike in movies or magazines or his favorite cafe down the street, sipping tea at their regular table with a creased paperback in hand — a smile gracing each of their faces. No matter what the rest of their face looks like, there are some people that just radiate light when they smile. Joy fills them up until they burst and it leaks into the surrounding world, making it seem as though their soul itself is glowing with gathered starlight. Dean Winchester is one of them, that's for sure. He might not seem the type, with a snark attitude that his teachers must find intolerable, but Castiel knows his soul would be a true wonder to behold.
Since an early age, Castiel's been struck by a fascination with people like Dean — trying to analyze them, wondering how they're feeling, especially when they smile and it lights up the room and he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the unadulterated rapture. He used to exercise his facial muscles in the mirror, but somehow it's not the same. It's when he was eleven that he ultimately gave up on his dream of being one of those joy-bursting people.
For the first time since then, he wonders if maybe that dream wasn't so futile after all.
A solitary streetlight flickers dimly as the three boys trudge past, a golden orb against the vast emptiness of a smog-choked, starless sky. His arms swinging at his sides, Dean takes upon most of the talking as he strolls beside Castiel, who consciously leaves enough space between them so that the air itself isn't charged with energy. A foreign sense sparks whenever their hands brush, and Castiel isn't sure if he likes it or not. Trailing a few feet behind them, Sam reads then rereads the blurb of his newly purchased hardcover, a thick-volumed biography about some historical figure from 17th century France.
The night breeze stings his cheeks and the remainder of the darkened street ahead looms forebodingly, its shadows yearning to stretch into the light and snatch him by the exposed ankles — but Dean's friendly chatter fills a previously undiscovered chasm within Castiel and scares away the shadows and monsters, and for once, this night outside in a city whose streets he's known for years but seldom wandered feels like home.
"Home, sweet home," says Dean, and stops abruptly in the middle of the street.
Castiel blinks, for he must have read his mind. "I'm sorry?"
"This is us." Dean gestures to a set of flaking coppery doors leading into a tumbledown brick apartment that Castiel remembers passing and feeling relieved for not having to live there. In one of the smudged windows outlooking the street, an elderly black woman peers down at them with squinted beady eyes. Content to let Dean's words wash over him and drown out the rest of a chaotic world, he didn't even realize they'd already arrived at the Winchesters' building.
For some reason, the journey feels too brief, over too quickly.
Sam tucks his book into his side. "I'll head inside first," he announces. "I'm too tired to stay and watch you guys be awkward dorks around each other." He waves to them, saying, "Bye. It was nice meeting you, Castiel," and slips inside the building with his sleeves fluttering and the heavy door slamming shut behind him.
Dean turns back to Castiel. His smile doesn't show in his eyes. "Well, I guess this is it, then."
"I guess," echoes Castiel faintly.
"I should get going, in case my dad comes back." A pause, almost hesitant. "For what it's worth, I'm glad that it was your door I knocked on."
Castiel tries to smile, but the pang in his heart makes him wonder if he even succeeds. Me too.
"Goodbye, Dean."
"See you, Cas."
Dean puts forward one last smile before turning his back, but it falls from his lips as quickly as an angel plummeting from heaven, leaving scorching trails of celestial glitter across a darkened sky. His freckles are barely distinguishable in the dim lighting of a nearby streetlamp. As he watches him climb the steps to the building, Castiel wants to shout for Dean to stop, that he hasn't had enough time to number the stars on his face, much less draw them into constellations.
He may need years, at the very least; one lousy hour of rambling down city streets leaves him with the bitter taste of dissatisfaction in his mouth.
Then the door closes behind Dean and Castiel lets his arm drop back to his side, only just aware that he raised it, outstretched as though wanting to catch Dean by the back of his shirt. It doesn't register in his brain for a second, that he may never see those green eyes that brighten inexplicably whenever Dean smiles and means it — but when it does, a stone tumbles to the pit of his stomach and Castiel has to forcibly wrench his feet from the pavement, otherwise he might never shift from this spot.
He's almost halfway down the street when he hears his name, carried on the wind and indistinct by the time it reaches his ears — but he would recognize that voice anytime: "Cas!"
He whirls around, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, and sees Dean sticking his head out of a window, waving his arm frantically until he realizes he's caught Castiel's attention.
"Are you free on Friday afternoon? I'll be waiting outside your building at four-thirty," yells Dean from between cupped hands. Even from this distance, the boyish grin lighting up his face is clear to see, and he seems almost childishly giddy.
Castiel raises a hand to return the wave, trying to suppress his own silly excitement. "I'll see you on Friday, then," he calls back.
"Don't be late!" Dean's head disappears back inside the crumbling apartment and Castiel allows himself to smile at the place where Dean was.
He can wait until Friday.
When he finally returns to his own apartment, the first thing he does is flick on every single light and lamp, even those in his parents' bedroom and their adjoining bathroom, where the air itself stands still and tense. Flooded with light as it is, the apartment doesn't appear so threatening. Castiel pulls up a high stool and sits at the kitchen island to finish his birthday cupcake. Silly though it might be to get so excited over meeting a relative stranger in a couple days, he finds that his mouth keeps tugging into a smile while he chews, despite his many attempts to settle down.
"Happy thirteenth birthday," he tells himself, and goes to bed with the fading memory of a smile still pulsating in his chest.
The next morning greets him with a wrapped brown parcel at his door that contains a snow globe of the New York skyline, a bit of cash, and a joint birthday card from his parents saying that they'll be back in one week's time to properly celebrate his induction into adolescence, and that until then he can just use the money enclosed to splurge on a nice present for himself.
By the time lunch ticks around, Castiel must have reread the simple card dozens of times, his eyes carefully tracing the familiar curve of his mother's Y's and the way she dots her I's with an open circle. He's already committed her and his father's signatures to memory, and he now grazes a finger across the slight indentations in the card that the words have left. They're going to be back within a week. If only Dean were here, then he could tell those bright green eyes everything about his mother and father, and how thrilled yet nervous he is to be seeing them soon.
Speaking of Dean, his parents are sure to adore him instantly, both being lifelong seekers of natural beauty. Underneath his prickly layers of snark and dry wit, Dean seems to possess a sort of innate charm that draws people in like a magnetic force and is definitely going to win over his parents. Then Castiel freezes in the middle of the living room, not entirely certain why he's already planning a meeting between his parents and Dean Winchester.
He can't wait until Friday.