A/N: So this is the first longer/WIP fic I've ever written for Supernatural. It's intended to be loosely based off of of Disney's Beauty and the Beast, and was originally going to be a fantasy AU but I got an idea for a modern, realistic version that I liked much better. No promises about how long updates will take, because I'm an annoyingly slow writer due to frequent writer's block + school + distractions. But I'll do my best and we'll see how it goes. Anyway, I hope it's not too awful for my first try at an actual plot. :)
Warnings: Dean/Castiel, Cas/Michael (one-sided by Michael, flirting only), eventual smut (hence the M rating).
Chapter 1
There are just so many books. While a blessing in some ways, it's a curse in others, thousands upon thousands of worlds for one's mind to escape to and yet body held captive. Irony at its finest, Castiel muses as he closes his third story of the week; and just the kind that tends to characterize his life.
He thinks perhaps he was fated for his avid love of literature, what with being the son of a published author. The wistful longing of wanderlust, that which had inspired Chuck Novak to explore the spectrum of realities in his writing, had long since grown familiar, but never comfortably so. It nags at him endlessly, at times a faint inkling in the back of his mind and at others an overbearing desire that laces his every action with frustration. Nothing seems fair about a colossal expanse of earth with no shortage of complexities, stimulating depths of knowledge and diversities of experiences abounding — and in which Castiel is stuck in Lawrence, Kansas.
It's not that he's unhappy. He's found himself generally enjoying the past three years, attending the University of Kansas with some good friends from high school and majoring in, of course, English. It hadn't been his first school of choice, nor had remaining where he'd grown up been his initial plan. But life certainly has a way of throwing him curveballs, and when his fairly eccentric father had hit a rough patch financially, how could he have brought himself to leave? They'd been all each other had for as long as he could remember, Castiel having an absent mother he still knows next to nothing about and uninvolved relatives. His father had given and dedicated and sacrificed more than Castiel could ever repay, and so despite Chuck's protests, he'd figured it was the least he could do to stay and look out for him in turn.
His decision had spawned, thankfully, no resentment or regret. He may have had to shape his contentment around the contours of a new reality, but it'd happened with surprising ease. Still, despite his relative comfort, he'd been unable to escape the thought that he was settling. Existing well enough, but with yet to live. Not doing, just...being. He'd wanted to put this place behind him for a reason, and that motive continues to prevail in his disconcerting awareness to his own abnormality. He feels strikingly out of place among the people in this town, a not so subtle reminder of his perennial awkwardness in high school.
He thinks it a miracle he's managed to gain the few friends he has; he's not ignorant to the fact that his self-induced isolation and incisive avoidance of social situations have the potential to be construed as arrogance. Castiel has never considered himself a bitter or pretentious person. He merely doesn't see where gratification lies within the back-and-forth prattle about nothing, suspended in mundane limbo. He's much better suited for solitude, left to submerge himself in fiction and pore over the inquiries it raises later. It's the closest he's currently capable of to the mind-expanding travel he craves.
Today is not one of those days for contemplation. Today, that ache of yearning unable to be quenched has made itself known in his chest, and his mind has been thoroughly wrapped in pensiveness. Castiel removes his reading glasses, enclosing them in their black leather case and setting it next to him on his nightstand. He scrubs a hand through his mess of dark hair as if to drag the churning thoughts out by his fingertips. For several minutes, he remains on his bed, arms wrapped around his drawn legs and chin resting against his knees. Finally, with a sigh that feels more like defeat than he admits, he gets up.
He hears footsteps as he grabs his tan trench coat off the back of a chair, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. Chuck has paused in his doorway by the time he turns with trench coat fully on, striped robe of browns and dull reds tied loosely over his undershirt.
"Where are you off to?"
Castiel is about to reply before he glances down at his father's exposed legs. "Dad, would it kill you to wear pants while I'm in the house?"
Chuck smirks, the kind of amused smugness that indicates he's sorry for his son's embarrassment, but really isn't at all. "Sorry, kiddo. I don't pass up the perks of working from home even for you."
Castiel rolls his eyes, though smiles in spite of himself. "I'm heading to the bookstore. Back in an hour or so?"
"You're finished with that one already?" Chuck gestures to the abandoned book among Castiel's disarrayed bedsheets.
"Couldn't put it down." Grabbing his wallet off his desk and stuffing it in his pants pocket, he pushes past his father and heads for the front door.
"Hey, don't forget you're helping me with the grocery shopping this afternoon!" he hears Chuck call as he's pulling on his shoes.
"I know, Dad. Like I said: an hour." He can almost feel the frazzled way his father must be shaking his head, but steps outside and closes the door behind him before Chuck says anything else.
It's the first gift of nice weather the town's received all week. This morning's rain is still glistening on the sidewalks, but sun has effectively broken through the clouds and spread a pleasing amount of warmth for an April day. Castiel is still grateful for his coat, however, when a brisk wind rattles the branches of the meticulously spaced trees to his left.
It's busier downtown than he'd expected, and right away he feels the anxious clutch in his chest when he lays eyes on the approaching throng. He has decent enough conversational skills, even if he's never been much for initiating one — not that the occasion often strikes him anyway. But every day, it's the same repetitive chatter between neighbors and acquaintances. "How is everything?" "Are the kids doing okay?" "How's work going?" He feels smothered by the hum of trivial answers on each morning outing, weighing him down like shackles. When lost in the thick of them, panic is quick to set in at the prospect of being bound to this provinciality forever, and he feels uncomfortably put on the spot when familiar faces stop and prod at him about much of the same.
He doesn't hesitate before stepping into the interchanging crowd, quickening his pace with determination. The bookstore is only a few shops down, but he thinks that miles sounds much more accurate. It's a Saturday, and most people he knows should be off with their friends instead of wandering through the downtown's unchanging setup. He's aware of the instantaneous rise of bile in his throat at the thought of that one in particular, and — no. He's almost reached his destination, the commonplace red awning a calming sight, and maybe it was paranoid of him to have been so —
"Castiel!"
— worried.
"Castiel, hey!"
He's relieved, at least, to hear that it's a female voice he knows well. He pauses among the bustling citizens and turns, feigning delighted surprise, to meet a small, wavy-haired blond woman.
"If that dirty trench coat's good for anything, it's picking you out of a crowd," she remarks through a grin, hands stuffed in the pockets of her reddish-brown leather jacket.
Castiel frowns slightly, wondering if his coat really is noticeably dirty. "Hi, Jo," he manages in a friendly tone. He likes Jo. He's never been closer with her than any of his other peers, but she exudes a pleasant warmth and speaking with her is comfortable.
"Missed you last night at Andy's."
"Yes, sorry, I...I had some things to attend to."
Jo raises her eyebrows in a teasing show of disbelief and nods her head toward the hanging sign for the bookstore behind him. "The same kinda things you're attending to now?"
He smirks and lowers his eyes.
"You bury your head any deeper in those books, you might just fall into one."
"That doesn't sound objectionable."
Jo huffs a laugh, though Castiel sees concern soften her gaze and his face heats up at the sensation of being analyzed. He clears his throat in what he's sure must be an A+ display of awkwardness.
"Not that it isn't nice to see you, Jo, but I, uh, I need to get going. I told my father I'd be back at a certain time and —"
"Oh, how is he?"
Castiel purses his lips to withstand a sigh. There's the kind of commonality he aims to avoid, the kind of insignificant question with an answer to match that stirs restlessness in him. His struggles to invent different versions of responses remind him how static everything is here, which is plenty to set him on edge.
Jo seems to sense his discomfort and removes a hand from her pocket to wave it in dismissal. "Forget it. I don't want to hold you up." This is why he likes Jo. She has a knack for perceiving the nuances in people's emotions, but she doesn't pry in places she shouldn't. She has a sense of boundaries that someone like him, admittedly a bit overly sensitive at times, can appreciate. "See you around, Castiel."
"I'll see you, Jo."
She turns with a smile and then he's watching the back of her head disappear among the concourse. He hopes the fact that he happened on her instead of — that one is a sign that luck is favoring him.
Castiel makes it into the bookstore feeling much more at ease. The moment he steps through the door, bell jingling above him to signal a customer's arrival, he's in his element. He inhales the therapeutic smell that can only be described as books, the aroma of coffee wafting past as well from the small cafe on the far right. The shopkeeper notices him from behind the front desk and directs a welcoming grin his way.
"Morning, Castiel! I would ask why you were back so soon, but I'm not really surprised at this point."
He smiles at that, wandering deeper into the store. "I loved your last book recommendation, Garth."
"I can see that, considering you only started it a day and a half ago." He beams, all red cheeks and shining eyes, and it's incredibly endearing when paired with the suit hanging loosely from his scrawny form.
A quick scan of the 'New Releases' rack shows nothing that wasn't there the last time. He drags his fingers absentmindedly over the display on the top shelf, already knowing from his inspection the other day that none of them interest him.
"Yeah, sorry, I don't have anything new for ya." Garth has left the desk and joined Castiel at his side, the sleeves of his suit jacket bunched up from his arms being crossed over his chest. "I have a couple more recommendations if you don't feel like browsing."
Castiel is about to accept the offer when he hears his stomach growl. He'd spent most of the morning finishing his book and had completely forgotten about breakfast, and now the scents from the cafe next to him are proving even more tempting than the prospect of new stories. "That's alright. I think I'll just catch a bite to eat and head out."
Garth shrugs. "Suit yourself, partner. Hey, between you and me? The pumpkin spice muffins aren't actually seasonal." He nods and gives an exaggerated wink, drawing a smile from Castiel, before returning to manning the cash register.
Castiel, in fact, does order a pumpkin spice muffin, along with a cup of espresso. While he's waiting for the latter, seated at the cafe's bar, he's nervously checking his watch. He wants to make sure he keeps his word to his father. Judging by the size of the grocery list that had been taped to the milk carton — "Dad, the milk?" "It's much easier to notice it that way than if I pin it on top of all the other crap on our fridge." — he would get stressed easily without Castiel's help. Stress leads to headaches, which lead to writer's block, which leads to no writing to sell. The last time that pattern reared its ugly head, Chuck spiraled into a bit of a midlife crisis, and Castiel felt compelled to remain in Lawrence.
Chuck is in no way incapacitated in terms of body or mind, but Castiel still finds himself worrying as if he was the parent. For most of his childhood, his father had had a bout of success. Several books published, promotional tours, autograph signings, even some brief talk of a movie before the idea for some reason got canned. The flop of his most recent book had kicked off a series of misfortune. Stress, writer's block, no writing to sell. Castiel hadn't had it in him by the end of his senior year to leave Chuck in his depressed, pessimistic state, and so he'd only applied to the colleges closest.
He gives a quick thank you to the employee who hands him his espresso and pulls out his wallet to pay. He'd ordered it to go, but he opts to stay for a few more minutes, lingering comfortably in the homy environment the bookstore provides. His eyes drift to the large plate glass window at the front, the title of the store flipped around backwards. Outside, it's growing more crowded as the afternoon hours approach. He catches sight of Jo again on the sidewalk opposite the bookstore, speaking to someone indistinguishable to Castiel while their back is turned. She's smiling, ever pleasant, but something about it feels forced, like she might be gritting her teeth. She makes a sweeping motion toward the bookstore and the person — undeniably male — is turning. Before Castiel even catches sight of the face, he feels his blood turn to ice. He catches himself before he tightens his grip on the styrofoam espresso cup to the point of breaking it.
He doesn't blame Jo. She can't possibly know how Castiel feels about that one, given that he never discusses it. He sees no reason to, as the man holds next to no significance in his life and he manages to avoid him just fine on his own. Swallowing hard, he gets up and heads briskly for the door, tossing a clipped goodbye to Garth over his shoulder. The jingling of the bell resounds too loudly in his ears and he lowers his head as he steps outside. He hasn't even made it out from under the awning before someone is rushing in front of him. His espresso nearly falls out of his hand when he's forced to stop short, and the next second, he's looking up into the face of a smirking Michael.
Michael is tall, standing eye-level with Castiel, but has a softness to his face that makes it hard to believe he shares Castiel's twenty-four years of age. He's dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, an unbuttoned flannel layer acting as a jacket. Castiel doesn't trust the glint in his blue eyes, but nothing about Michael is less than unnerving.
"Thought I saw you. I'd know that trench coat anywhere." He drags his gaze painfully slowly down Castiel's body, lips parting, and Castiel can already feel the cold sweat gathering on the back of his neck by the time Michael looks up again.
"Or Jo told you where I was," he retorts, priding himself in how he gives a sufficiently resentful edge to a voice that wants to quaver. His stomach coils at the grin that spreads across Michael's mouth.
"I can't get away with anything around you, can I?"
Castiel feels his heart start hammering as Michael leans closer, making no large effort to hide how he pulls away. He mutters about really needing to get going and attempts to push past him, but he's against one of the brick walls that borders the bookstore's awning before he can succeed. One of Michael's hands is on his waist, the other placed above his head on the wall, and Castiel can feel himself being examined by hungry eyes that he intentionally averts.
"Can't you just talk to me for five minutes? You're always running off."
Castiel sets his jaw firmly before bringing himself to meet Michael's eyes. They're heavy-lidded with the desire Castiel had expected but still feels his gut wrench at the sight of, and he can only hope his own are as cold as he's trying to make them.
"Maybe there's a reason for that," he says flatly, twisting out of Michael's grasp and escaping back into the store. Afraid he'll be followed, he stalks quickly toward the thick of the bookshelves, ignoring Garth's call asking if he's okay. He pauses only to throw away his espresso, unsure of how well he'll be able to hold it down now, and then he's not stopping until he reaches the back. Alone at the far end of the store, he leans his head against the wall and breathes, taking in his favorite scents to calm himself.
He can't remember the exact day Michael had first approached him, though he knows it had been at least a month ago. After transferring to KU, he'd quickly taken a liking to Castiel. (They, regrettably, shared a history class together.) His friends had teased him about Michael having great gaydar, and Castiel is openly gay; but among all the men he'd want attention from, Michael is most certainly in the bottom five on the list. Arrogant, vain, conceited. Shows up late to class, speaks like he holds the highest intelligence in the room, and then doesn't turn in assignments on time. Complete disregard for boundaries, especially with men and women he's attracted to, and a crude sense of humor that Castiel cringes at whenever he hears it. What could there possibly be to like, let alone want? "He's a handsome guy," Chuck had offered knowingly one day, after Michael had shamelessly come onto Castiel in front of him. Yeah, he's handsome alright. As if that counts for anything.
Castiel's heart rate has slowed by the time Garth appears. Concern creases his brow, and Castiel shoots him a small smile of appreciation. "Yes, I'm fine," he assures before Garth has asked.
"You sure? Who was that you were talking to outside?"
"No one. It's nothing, he just...he gets under my skin."
Garth nods, seeming to understand that's the most of an explanation he'll get. "Well, as long as you're alright. You're welcome to wait here until —"
He's cut off by the loud sound of objects hitting the floor. Their attention turns to a young dark-haired woman scrambling to gather up a mound of books that had most likely been stacked too high in her arms a few seconds ago. In a moment, they've crossed the room to come to her aid.
"Sorry! Sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald," she gushes.
"Don't worry about it, Nancy. Accidents happen."
She gives an embarrassed smile, her eyes softening with gratitude when Castiel hands her a small pile of the volumes he'd retrieved. "I'll go put these ones away."
He hears the retreating clatter of her high heels as he continues to crouch, picking books off the floor and placing them on the counter of the main desk. He briefly skims each cover before he does, hoping one will catch his eye. No, no, nonfiction, read it, no, generic, read it — his hand pauses over one he'd just slid another off of. His head tilts to the side, eyes absorbing the design that had peaked his interest.
It has a basic black background, but in the center is a beautifully done illustration. A single cylinder supports a stone table, emerald vines sprinkled with small leaves snaking along its entire length. They circle around its circumference, interweaving, and creep over the table's surface before they finally meet what stands in the middle: a case made of thin, pristine glass. It's rounded at the top, enclosing a wilting red rose. Somehow, the dying flower is gorgeous, because death is the least of the impressions it gives. Its petals glow with a soft pink light that strikes Castiel as being emitted from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. The space around it is bespangled with minuscule orbs of gold, seeming to cluster more closely by a falling petal frozen in suspension.
There's no title, which Castiel attributes to the fact that it lacks a book sleeve. Thoroughly curious and having suddenly forgotten the rest of the mess sprawled across the floor, he reaches to grab it tentatively — why that is, he's not entirely sure. It gives off an air of whimsicality, like it'll mysteriously vanish the moment he touches it. It, of course, remains solid as he picks it up and brings it toward his face for closer inspection. He turns it in his hands, hoping the title will be on the spine. Sure enough, engraved in the material are small golden letters that read Ever a Surprise.
Since it's a hardcover copy sans book sleeve, he's without a summary. Usually, that would turn him off from it right away; he wouldn't want to potentially waste his money on a premise he might dislike. But in this case, he's too infatuated to shrug it off — and confused as to why. Sure, the illustration is lovely and complements its artist's talent, but it's really very simple. Maybe, though, that adds to the cryptic pull that seems to be successfully drawing him in. He's most likely fallen victim to the author's exact intentions.
Castiel flips it open, but before he can reach the first chapter, black is catching his eye. In the corner of a page that's blank save for the book's title in larger font is a handwritten note, some of the words blurred by a coffee stain. He leans closer to decipher the cursive.
For you. Thank you for reminding me every day that true beauty is found within.
It's all of fifteen words, but he feels uncomfortable reading it. The lack of a signed name or any indication of to whom the book was meant for implies it would've been a highly personal exchange. He traces the message lightly with his forefinger, suddenly as inquisitive about the story behind it as he is about the one among these pages. He can't stop himself from raising his head to look at Garth, who's stacking the last of the books on the counter, and asking, "Hey, Garth, how much for this one?" He stands, handing it over for review.
Garth hums in thought. "I haven't really come up with a price for these ones yet. We got a box full of used books donated here yesterday. Someone just left them at the back door with a note attached, no name or anything."
Castiel removes his wallet, opening it to leaf through his remaining money. "Would a twenty suffice?"
There's a pause, and he sees Garth glance briefly towards the front door where he'd seen Castiel with Michael. "You know what? You can have it. No payment necessary."
"Garth, I couldn't just —"
"Yes, you could," he insists, pressing the book into Castiel's chest until he takes it. "My treat."
Castiel opens his mouth but knows further protest would be pointless, and so he nods in acceptance. "Thank you, really." They share slight smiles, and when the few seconds that follow prompt him to check his watch, his heart lurches. "I have to go. I'm supposed to be back home — well — five minutes ago. Have a nice day, Garth."
Garth claps him on the shoulder as he passes. "See you later, Castiel. Enjoy that book!"
"That's the last time I take your word for something." Chuck throws him a displeased glance as they get into the car, but his tone betrays his amusement.
Castiel grins apologetically. "At least I got a new book out of it."
"That had better be a damn good book."
The ride to the grocery store is mostly spent like their car rides usually are: with Chuck singing along to the radio, mumbling more than a few lines that he doesn't know the words to. They exchange light conversation from time to time, a joke or two getting them both laughing, and Castiel thinks to himself that it's moments like these that make being rooted here worth it.
Forty-five minutes later, they're exiting the store with filled grocery bags in hand. Chuck is rambling about how unnecessary automated check-out lanes are, and how replacing cashiers with machines is only making robot intelligence more imminent. Castiel hums at his father's points to show he's listening, ignoring the questioning glances being turned their way at Chuck's loud theories.
They're halfway through loading the groceries into the trunk of the car when Chuck pats his pockets and sighs exasperatedly. "Aw, jeez. I think I left my wallet in the store. Can you take care of the rest of these while I run back in?" He's off no sooner than Castiel has nodded.
Though Castiel doesn't look up, he sees a car pull in to his left out of the corner of his eye. The door opens, closes, and almost as soon as the driver rounds the back of it —
"Hey! Hey, Castiel, isn't it?"
He inwardly groans, thinking he's surprisingly recognizable for someone who makes a conscious effort to remain invisible. He stands up straight to see who's addressing him, and his heart plummets right to his feet at the sight of Gabriel. Wise-cracking, slightly sadistic, Michael's best friend Gabriel.
"Cas-tee-el. You a hippie kid or something?"
Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes. He was named after a Biblical angel, and he doesn't understand why that's been such a subject of interest for people throughout his life.
"Whatever, anyway. I've heard lots about you from Michael, if you know what I mean."
Castiel tenses. He can handle Michael talking about him in whatever delusional fashion he chooses to interpret their relationship — "He's playing hard to get" or "He's too nervous to be around me" — but he feels pangs of anxiety at the thought that Michael could be spreading blatant lies.
"Most of what you've heard is probably wrong."
Gabriel laughs, but it only makes Castiel more uneasy. "Yeah, he said you're like that."
Like that? As if he's on some familiar, personal level with that absolute douchebag? He clenches his fists and focuses on breathing away his rising anger.
"Take it from me, bro?" Gabriel moves toward him, pausing by his shoulder. "Don't pass up that opportunity. Even if it's just for one night." He winks and pats Castiel on the small of his back, making him jump. "Take what you can get."
The unpleasant taste of that all too common bile makes itself known as Gabriel walks away. It's lost on him what other people see in Michael, and he certainly does not plan on joining the ranks of the many who "took what they could get." Hurling the last of the groceries into the trunk, he slams it closed and locks it, yanking the key out of its slot violently. He's infuriated by the mere thought of the attention Michael receives. It's created a monster of him — or maybe he was always the excuse for a person he is now. Castiel's glad he hasn't known him long enough to have the answer to that.
By the time Chuck returns, Castiel thinks he might break his jaw with how hard he's clenching it. He hates — hates — letting Michael have any effect on him whatsoever, but he's fuming, his thoughts boiling over, and the moment Chuck gets in and closes the car door:
"Why are all men dicks?"
There's a stunned silence before Chuck huffs a laugh. "Hey, we're not all bad. You're talking to World's Best Dad and Lawrence's Most Eligible Bachelor here."
"Then please, point some real keepers out to me, because I have yet to find one."
"Hang on, do you have a boyfriend I don't know about?"
Castiel throws his head back against the seat. "No, Dad, I'm not even just talking about guys I'm into. I mean all of them. They're so caught up in their looks and their stupid reputations, and they think that's enough. How the HELL is that enough?"
Chuck starts the car, opening his mouth like he's about to give an answer before he's stopped by a loud, frustrated groan from his son.
"They think they can just waltz in, flash you some disgusting cheesy smile, and that's it, you're gone." He feels the car start to move underneath him as Chuck pulls out of their parking space. "Or have their friends put in a good word, because you know, I'm just leaping at the chance to have a one-night stand with someone who's slept with half the campus —"
"WHAT?"
Suddenly, they're lurching backwards right as a flash of red whirs behind them, and Castiel's lucky he remembered to put on his seat belt in the midst of his ranting. There's a loud crash and he pitches forward, stopped abruptly by the strip against his chest and thrown back against the passenger's seat.
For several seconds, they sit there in a daze. When Castiel snaps out of it, he feels a surge of panic and he's rushing to unclip his seat belt so he can lean over and ensure his father's safety.
"Dad! Dad, are you okay?"
Chuck moans but waves him away. "I'm fine. Your, uh...your tangent there kinda threw me off for a sec and I went a little overboard on the gas pedal."
Guilt wraps an iron grip around his heart, and he hears himself incessantly apologizing when a thought occurs to him. "Oh, CRAP, who did we hit?"
When he and Chuck stumble urgently out of the car, no pretty sight greets them. Their bumper has been crunched like an accordion from a collision with the front left side of a pickup truck. There go the groceries, he thinks bitterly.
When the door of the driver's side opens, an older man in flannel and a battered trucker cap hops out. There's movement behind him where the passenger is exiting too, and from their side of the vehicle, whoever it is barks, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"
Shock shoots through Castiel at the aggression in the person's tone. He swallows nervously, expecting to come face to face with some stereotypical biker thug. His nerves are eased slightly when a young man looking to be around his own age rounds the front of the truck — and pick right back up again when he doesn't stop next to the older one. He stalks toward Castiel, expression dark, and when he's only inches away, he can be made out clearly.
Quite honestly, he's the most attractive man Castiel has seen in...possibly ever. He's clean-shaven with hair neatly styled, yet the strong, confrontational way he holds himself implies someone who hasn't lived a clean or neat life. Freckles dot his perfectly proportioned face, bright green eyes ablaze with anger, and there's obvious power in him that Castiel feels when he's shoved backward by a single hand.
"Ever heard of watching where the fuck you're going?"
"Dean!" The older man is stepping in now, separating Dean from Castiel.
Chuck has joined Castiel at his side, rushing to his son's defense. "I was driving, it was me."
"Yeah, well what kind of idiot flies out in the middle of a parking lot like that, huh?" Dean tries to step forward as he speaks but is held back again.
Rage courses through Castiel at the insult to his father. He glares at Dean icily, but it's gone unnoticed.
The older man's eyes narrow and he leans in closer. "Chuck? Chuck Novak?"
Castiel hears his father sigh. "Yes, yeah."
"Bobby Singer." Bobby holds out his hand in invitation and they shake. "Look, I'm sure we can work this out. How about you give me your information and —"
"You're just gonna let him off that easy?" Dean pushes past before Bobby can restrain him and is in Chuck's face the next second. "I just spent two weeks fixing that thing, pal, and now it's screwed to hell 'cause you couldn't look in your goddamn mirror." He's grabbed by the collar of his oversized leather jacket and yanked back, but he barely flinches. "First you're gonna pay for it, then you're gonna be lucky if you still have your license —"
Castiel gapes at what he's hearing. Is this guy serious?
"— and you're gonna be luckier if I don't kick your ass somewhere along the way."
"Do you ever get tired of being an idjit?" Bobby snaps, thwacking Dean on the back of his head. "Excuse the boy."
Castiel regrets looking at his father. Chuck is hiding his shaking well enough that surely only his son can notice, and a wide-eyed mixture of terror and disorientation is plastered across his face. No, no, no. This would just be one more piece of crap on the plate of it Chuck already has to deal with. Large expenses lead to financial stress, which leads to writer's block, which leads to no writing to sell. Depression. Pessimism. The mindset Castiel's spent the past three years warding off. And if he'd just kept his whiny mouth shut —
"It was my fault," he blurts. He pretends not to notice the discomfort of Dean shooting daggers at him. "I distracted him, and I shouldn't have done that, and we crashed because of me."
"Castiel, you don't have to —"
"My father shouldn't have to pay for this, Mr. Singer, he really shouldn't. My fault, my responsibility."
Bobby stares at him thoughtfully, arms crossed. "You even got a job, son?"
Castiel sighs and shakes his head. "Classes take up most of my time."
"But you're free on weekends?"
"Yes."
More silence, seconds that feel like hours of Dean's eyes boring into him and Castiel having to force himself not to look back. Finally, Bobby rubs his eyes tiredly. "Alright, here's what we're gonna do. You heard of Singer Salvage?"
Castiel has. It's a small auto shop at the far end of town, though he's always considered it more of a junkyard. He nods a 'yes.'
"Well, I own the place. How does this sound? You work for me on weekends, eight to five, and pay off the damage that way. Doable?"
"Are you friggin' kidding me?" Dean makes a sweeping gesture towards Castiel. "He's wearing a full-on suit in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. You think he knows jack shit about cars?"
"How have you not caught on by now that you should shut up?"
Dean's right, though. Castiel couldn't be less knowledgeable about the mechanics of cars if he tried. But that doesn't matter, nor does the fact that his father will gripe at him for this endlessly. It's a solution he'd be stupid to pass up and he's nodding his immediate agreement. "Yes, that sounds perfect. I can give you my number. It's, uh, it's Castiel, by the way. My name."
Dean snorts at that, and he feels the blood drain from his face as the realization sets in. Dean works for Bobby too. Just peachy.
After contact information has been exchanged, Bobby's saying something about calling a tow truck, but Castiel leaves the rest of the conversation to be handled by Chuck. He hardly hears them as he finally locks eyes with Dean, who's still scrutinizing him contemptuously. Dean's probably expecting him to shy away under the harshness of his glare — and so Castiel does the exact opposite. He walks forward, the beginnings of a nervous sweat forming on his skin but holding Dean's gaze determinedly.
He thrusts his hand forward. "Nice to meet you, Dean."
He thinks Dean's eyes soften for a fraction of a second as he trails them up and down. It's much different from Michael's possessive once-over. There's no trace of selfish wanting; simply recognition. It's a brief but thorough sizing up, a taking apart and then promptly putting back together of who Castiel is. To his admissible surprise, he doesn't feel uncomfortably exposed. He feels held safely in place before being let go.
Dean grabs his hand, and his skin is as calloused as Castiel had expected it to be. "Nice to meet you."