Castiel opened his eyes. He knew without looking that it was five minutes before his initial alarm (which was itself set fifteen minutes early) was set to go off. He was still for a few seconds; he then sat up, turned to the side of the bed, and looked down at his feet. What would even happen if he didn't get out of bed?
His feet touched the ground. The man went through the morning motions: he reset his two alarms for the following day; he made his bed, taking care to face his pillowcase's seam away from the door; he brushed his teeth in circular motions. His shower was hot and short. He scrubbed the dampness from his hair with a towel, walked to his closet, and took one shirt, one tie, one jacket, and one set of trousers. As usual, from looking at the hanging clothes, it was impossible to tell he had removed anything from his closet at all. Nothing was noteworthy enough that he would spot that it was missing.
After dressing and pouring a half-cup of coffee, he found himself standing in front of his refrigerator. It was sectioned neatly into breakfast (soymilk for his oatmeal, fresh fruit, cottage cheese), lunch (pre-packed planned leftovers), and dinner (raw ingredients, whiskey). He bought the same items every week from the same store; he could find what he was looking for in the dark. Yet still he stood here every morning, wasting electricity, as he pretended that he had an important choice to make.
He decided he would go out for breakfast.
The dark-haired man ghosted out of his apartment and down the stairs. While he recognized most of his neighbors, there were certain units that seemed only to attract drifters. He had never understood the point of anything less than a one-year lease and would have gladly signed on for longer; his landlord's dislike of the idea notwithstanding, Castiel had now signed five consecutive one-year leases for the man.
Seeing the boxes in front of the landing of 4C was not surprising, then, as he could not recall a tenant staying for their full lease of it. Seeing the man who was carrying yet another box up arrested him. The stranger was so well-muscled that he appeared short, yet Castiel could tell even from here that he would have to look up at the man. The man had short, well-groomed hair above a face with wide eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and full lips half-pursed.
Castiel immediately knew that people must stare at the man all the time. With a shiver, his legs started moving again, and though he did not want to exist with the beautiful stranger so near he managed to descend to the landing without removing his eyes from the floor. He would have passed without incident had his eyes not disobeyed him and traveled up the full length of the man, taking in the stained and torn clothing, the tanned and scarred skin, and coming to rest on the back of the man's head.
How could even this be lovely?
He was shocked to hear the man's voice. "Sammy, dude, come on. What happened to that teamwork bullshit you were waxing on?" When there was no answer from the apartment, the man tossed down the box and turned away with a growl. When the man noticed Castiel, his eyebrows came together briefly before he faux-checked the suited man out. With a wink, the stranger said, "You see anything you like, sugar?"
Castiel's lips parted, yet all that escaped was his breath. He turned and fled down the stairs two at a time.
When he reached the bottom floor, he pressed his forehead against the glass of the door, just listening to his heart slow and finally steady.
He was no longer hungry.
—
Castiel rubbed his eyes. The documents spread across his desk could no longer hold his interest. In his haste this morning to prove that he was not chained to routine, he had forgotten to bring his lunch. His brain was quick to remind him that yesterday he had gone to sleep the moment he came home. A full day. While he was no stranger to fasting, he was still rattled from this morning; and his body had decided that his stomach, at least, ought to be satisfied.
Still, he pressed on. It was rare to get anything more interesting than a 1099 during tax season in this area, much less a full audit of a jointly-owned business in preparation for a nasty divorce. It was as near to scandalous as pure numbers could get.
Sharp pain in his back interrupted yet again. Frowning, he arranged the papers and resettled them into their manilla folders, setting a paperweight on each to prevent accidents. He stood, stretched, and shrugged on his trenchcoat.
The movement must have attracted Anna's attention for she looked up from her work. "Going out today?" He nodded. "You?" Frowned. "I'm not saying you can't, just that you don't. Well. Would you like company?"
"I would not be averse to it," he said.
She laughed softly. "You know all those stereotypes about us come from you, right?"
He only looked at her.
She laughed again, harder. "Let me get my purse." As she gathered up her things, Castiel stood by his desk, looking at hers. He did not understand why she would cover it with so many personal effects. The angel statues in particular unnerved him. He would not want to work while tiny plastic eyes watched him.
To escape them, he walked over to the window. Had he been able to hear her, he would have known she invited Uri; but he could not. He heard only the rush of his blood and, perhaps, a slight ringing: the beautiful man was outside.
Not looking at him—why would anyone?—but even so. The man was only walking by, and yet…
"Hey, you there at all?"
He dragged a breath in. "Of course. Where else would I be?"
She canted her head back. "Well, are you ready?"
In answer, he opened the door.
—
"No, really, who are you looking for?"
He stopped. Turned. Looked up at her and then back down. "Would you believe me if I said no one?"
"Castiel."
Inhale, exhale. "Just some guy."
"A guy?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I am not in a position to tell you." He leaned against the wall. "Anna, I don't even know his name. This sounds impossible, at best, but I feel like I know him. Like we would have been something to each other in some other world. I feel like." He swallowed. "I feel like I'm losing my mind."
"Wow."
His pale eyes met her dark ones, and she could see a frown beginning in his eyebrows. She grinned.
"You've really got it bad, huh? Castiel Abrams, born-again teen."
He looked down and away.
"Well, what does this mystery man look like, anyway? If we're going to creep anyway, I may as well be in on it."
"I am not—let's just go back. This was a stupid idea. We can order takeout or pizza or something."
She took a step back, smile gone. "Are you sure?"
"No."
—
The cheese pizza was her favorite, but he didn't taste a single bite.
The audit didn't last the rest of the afternoon. He helped four clients prepare their taxes, though he silently critiqued their decisions not to do it themselves. By the end of the day, he had rearranged his desk twice: once to prove he could change; then to put it back again. He simply didn't feel comfortable when the stapler was to the right of the staple remover. It was inefficient and didn't read properly.
He knew he was killing time.
"Anna—"
"Oh, just get out already." He looked up in time to see her roll her eyes. "You're so sixteen today. I mean, fidgeting? Really? Anyway, none of us are doing any legitimate work, and I doubt anyone will need an emergency 1040EZ prepped at seven minutes to close."
"I was working very hard at pretending to work," said Uri.
"You are a rake and a fiend, sir! What're you guys' plans for tonight?" Anna would never understand that accountants didn't drink beer together after work, but Castiel liked that she still tried.
"The missus and I were going to watch some movie she's been excited about for a while, but it doesn't seem like it'll be all that bad."
"Oh! What is it?"
"Safe House. She's going for Denzel Washington, and, let's be honest, so am I."
"Well, he is a triple threat: looks, intelligence, and quantifiable badassery. How about you?"
They both turned to him. "I don't believe you would want me to answer that question honestly."
Uriel threw a wadded-up piece of paper at him while Anna said, "Aw, man, gross!"
"What? I was going to drink and watch today's Doctor Sexy. What did you think I meant?"
The other man laughed. "Well, I don't know which is worse: that you don't know, or that you watch that garbage."
"It's a good show that raises real ethical dilemmas."
"Yeah, and one of the characters is a doctor who wears cowboy boots. I'm not saying I don't have guilty pleasures, but that's going a bit far."
He shrugged off their attention and picked up his suitcase. "Goodnight. I will see you both on Monday."
"Unless I win the lottery."
"That is a given."
The bell's ring from above the door cut off any reply they might have come up with. He joined the stream of people, wondering what they might be thinking of. That woman: was she late? Did that man quit his job today? Who were they going home to? If they were ever going home again at all.
Reaching his building, he pulled out his keys, but dropped them when someone pushed him from behind. Stooping to pick them up, he was jostled again, but this time it was because a man had crouched beside him, perhaps to help him recover his lost keys.
"Sorry, man."
"It happens."
They straightened together, although the stranger seemed to take much longer to unfold. When at last they stood next to each other, the accountant had to tilt his head back in order to speak with the stranger.
"Were you aware that you are preternaturally tall?"
The guy laughed. "You sound like my brother. Well, sort of. I'm Sam, Sam Winchester. You live here, too?"
"Yes. I live on the fifth floor."
The other man—Sam—quirked an eyebrow. "And your name?"
"Oh. Castiel."
"That's an unusual name."
"So I've been told."
A pause. Then, "Well, like I said, I'm new. Are there any good restaurants around here?" Opening the door, Sam let Castiel enter first. They ascended the stairs together.
"That depends on your personal palate, but I am fond of a few of the delis. There is not a decent steakhouse for many blocks, but there are a few passable burger places. Pizza here is abundant and good. I do not enjoy many Asian dishes, so I cannot report on the local quality or authenticity. We do, however, occasionally attract the best taco truck in the world." He stopped. "I have lived here for a while."
They were nearing the fourth floor landing. His palms started to itch.
"No need to explain. I think about food all the time."
"Could've fooled me, man. You hungry yet?"
With a jolt, Castiel recognized the voice and froze on the stair below the platform. Of course, that "you" wasn't directed at him—none of it was—what was he thinking? As the tall man (Sam, he reminded himself) left his side, he looked down at his shoes. He could tell by their banter that they were comfortable with each other. They probably wouldn't want him to stick around.
He really was becoming a teenager.
Frowning, he walked across the floor, trying to pay them no mind. He was on the third step above them when he heard his name. He turned to find them both looking at him.
"Sorry, that was kind of rude, wasn't it? This is my brother, Dean, and this is Castiel."
The man—Dean—smiled. "Yeah, we met. Who named you, anyway?"
"My father. I was born on a Thursday."
Blank stares.
"Castiel is the name of a minor angel whose domain is Thursday," he said as he descended.
"Oh, cool! We were named after our grandparents."
"Shut up."
"Samuel and Dean—" Sam started, but was interrupted by Dean punching him in the arm, which only made him laugh.
"I hate you."
"Anyway, we were wondering if you could show us one of those burger joints? It'd be nice to know a local."
Without even worrying about missing Doctor Sexy, Castiel said, "I would like that."
He did not notice he was still carrying his briefcase until they were on the ground floor.