A/N: I've edited this chapter. I still dislike it. As always, apologies for the brevity and un-beta'd nature of the chapter.

Reviews would be nice, y'know.

Chapter Three: History and Interludes

'I do not like this plan,' said Godfrey. 'Whitechapel? This is—'

'What, Castiel?' said Winchester. He stopped in the middle of the cobbled road on which the two men were walking to their meeting with Lokirsson. 'You doubt the good Father? Or are you too proud to trip to Whitechapel any longer?'

'It is not that,' said Godfrey through gritted teeth. 'I simply do not like stirring up the past, unlike you. Leave things settled and forgotten, Winchester. I am content where I am in life. I have carved my quiet corner well.'

Winchester laughed. It was a full-bodied laugh, deep and rich as his baritone singing voice. 'You are not content, my friend.' He laughed again. 'If you are perfectly gratified by your routine of sleeping, eating, drinking, the occasional book and interaction with the genteel, I am William the Conqueror, and you are certainly not Castiel Godfrey.'

Godfrey's eyes narrowed. 'I wish to forget my past. My contentment is a result of moving forward from my mistakes, not dwelling on them. Dwelling ignites the fire of hates burnt past, and does nothing for my disposition.'

Winchester gave Godfrey a long, sidelong look before speaking again. His look held emotion that Godfrey could, perhaps, once have read, but no longer. Absently he noticed that his companion's stiff, white collar was already black on the inside, likely from the heavy smog that clung to the city as surely as a lady's skirts cinch to her waist.

'It is true we were once the enemy,' said Winchester, finally, carefully considering his words in a manner Godfrey was unfamiliar with, 'And we made mistakes, those which we both live with now, and for the rest of our lives. There is no escaping our own histories—that much is true. But how have you moved forward if you refuse to acknowledge them? For whether you like it or no, what we did then is having an effect on the world of today.'

Godfrey's only reply was a low growl as he swept past Winchester, his hat tipped so low, the shadow it cast from the gas lamps obscured his face. The corner of Winchester's mouth twitched as he followed the other man through the streets towards their destination.

If asked, Godfrey would have denied that he had even considered Winchester's words—in reality, however deeply buried the thought was—he agreed. In the end, when it came to Dean Winchester, he always did. It had always been the root of his mistakes.

Some 20 years prior…

Castiel with his cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling was the sweetest thing Dean had ever seen. When Castiel laughed this night, of all nights, it was open and honest, full-bodied and uninhibited. It was a small window to his true self, the actual personality of the man he knew as well as a brother. It was so authentic to the Castiel he only ever got hints of by day that Dean almost had to blink twice to believe was he was seeing.

Castiel, silencing any alcohol-slick thoughts that continued to bubble up in Dean's head, slammed his empty pint against the bar, smell of hops thick on his warm breath. They were close enough that Dean could see himself reflected in his eyes, flickering in the yellow, smoky candlelight.

Dean started giggling a moment, the alcohol finally going to his head, for all his insistence of his 'strong constitution'. He clung to Castiel's arm as the sound of bells rang out, proclaiming it half-eleven.

'C'mon, Cas,' he slurred, cheek against the soft cotton of his companion's shirt. Castiel grinned and half-dragged him into the frosty winter air. They were not chilled overmuch; despite their thin jackets and nothing to cover their heads against the cold they were warm with the drink and each other's company.

They stumbled along the streets towards the Thames, talking loudly and laughing easily and too much to be decent for the hour.

As the chorus of chimes rang out declaring the first stroke of midnight, Dean began to sing, loud and off-key, leaning heavily against the railing. 'Should old acquaintance be forgot…'

Castiel slung an arm around Dean's shoulders and joined in at 'never brought to mind...'

By the end of the verse they were near-bellowing and completely out of tune, despite both being fair singers when sober. After the chorus (where Dean purposely sang "Cas" instead of "Jo" to a fresh round of giggling) they realized they had forgotten the remaining lyrics. The singing died away until they were left just standing, watching their breaths steam out over the thick, dark waters of the river. The Thames didn't glisten, not with the dark clouds that lined the sky, completely blotting out the moon, but it seemed to shine dully all the same.

And when the younger man suddenly hugged the older, dark-haired man and mumbled into his shoulder something near unintelligible, but nonetheless endearing, Castiel couldn't help but smile at that. He felt something, then—protectiveness, perhaps, he told himself. But the roiling in his gut argued, and he ignored it, clinging tighter to Dean as the cold began to seep into his skin. There was something not quite familial in the way they embraced. It was a quiet, tenuous thread that hung, unspoken; it was born in the soft, smoky scent that filled Dean's nose as he buried his face in Castiel's thick, dark hair; it was in the lean lines of muscle Castiel could feel, burning beneath him, hot even through two layers of cotton and wool; it was born in the mutual understanding of one fellow to another, the shared knowledge of change and stagnation, of enmity and kin, of life and of death, and how all could be more than first appeared.

Abruptly Castiel drew back, breaking the thread and looking at Dean through hazy, unfocussed eyes.

'Bobby will want us back,' he said. There was an awkwardness to his tone that hadn't been there before. As Dean looked, his expression was, once again, shuttered to him.

Disbelief crossed Dean's face fleetingly, almost lost in the depth of the night.

'Cas?' he said, confusion clear in his voice. Castiel took another step backwards.

'Dean, we should go,' was all he said.

'Like fuck,' said Dean, turning back to the railing. 'We have the night, Cas! Hell, we have reason enough to be celebrating. Why can you not see it?' He tipped his head back, ignoring the moment that had passed between them, and sliding easily back into the habit of their daytime exchanges. 'Bobby can go sod himself. We've done more than he ever could, and you know it.'

Castiel shook his head, trying to shake away the bleary feeling that was the alcohol, threatening to tip him back into the relaxed state he'd been in earlier. 'He can't know, Dean. We can't tell anyone. You knew that when we started. It was our secret.'

Dean froze. Slowly he turned around, complete disbelief on his face. 'Are you serious?' he said in a low voice.

Castiel blinked and met his gaze straight on. It was clear now, despite the darkness. 'I am.'

'We're immortal, Castiel,' Dean bit out. 'We aren't—we can't—die. How can we not share this? Do you have any idea how many people this could help? I thought — I thought we were both in this to help people!' There was fury, now, hazing around him like an angry red cloud. He suddenly stepped forward, shoving Castiel hard so he staggered back. Dean continued, his voice rising. 'We were in this together, so we could make sure all these horrible things never happened! So that all the death would stop so people wouldn't loose mothers, and fathers and — and brothers…' He shoved Castiel again. 'Don't you dare go back on that, Cas. Don't you dare.'

Castiel didn't say anything for a moment. Then, still not speaking, he turned and began to walk away. As he did he began to laugh. It wasn't filled with mirth, nor was it light-hearted, or open, or any of the things his earlier merriment had held: it was cold, and thin.

'Castiel!' yelled Dean. He tried to follow the man, but was rooted to the spot by some unknown power. 'Castiel!'

'A happy New Year to you, Dean Winchester,' Castiel called over his shoulder. He began to whistle a tune, something which sounded very much like "Go No More a Rushing". Dean could not see that his eyes were no longer a natural blue, but had slid to a yellow that glowed bright as noon-day sun.

He chuckled softly as he walked.