Three long months of setting bones, slow healing, and rehabilitation later and Castiel was reintroduced to the big wide world, determined to find a way to remember everything that he's forgotten. Armed with things he'd learned of the world while in rehabilitation and enough money for a bus and a meal, he set out to find the one person he felt could help him recover his memory, Dean.

Three months ago, The Angel was just a concept in Dean's head and a decrepit building that he was able to purchase at a remarkably cheap price. And now, all these months later, it was a bustling, thriving business. The walls were new and floors were all brand new, with no layer of dust on them. New chairs and tables filled the dining area to the brim, with waitresses and waiters weaving in between them and taking orders. And Dean? Dean ran about the kitchen, showing new hands where everything was and helping to make orders.

In those three short months, Dean's restaurant had become one of the top restaurants to visit in his town. And he couldn't be happier. He would put on a smile and laugh at people's jokes, and engage in friendly conversation, but there was always that undercurrent of despair and sadness. Yes, he was happy that The Angel was doing well, yes, he was happy that Sam was a man of letters and taking night classes at law school, but he still felt like there was always something -someone- missing.

On those nights when he closed up alone, and sent everyone home early, he would sit in the dark and think. He would think about him, about the one the restaurant was named for. He would think about how blue his eyes were and how they contrasted starkly with his skin and his dark hair. How whenever he was confused, he would do this cute little head tilt and kind of squint his eyes like he thought that might help him understand. He would think about how annoying it was whenever he would just appear out of nowhere, and immediately get in Dean's personal space, and how, oddly enough, he kind of missed that. And on those nights, when he was alone in the dark, alone with his thoughts and memories, he would break down and cry because, damn it all, it hurt. It hurt to remember him and it hurt to remember the way he was, and it hurt to remember all the things he never said to him, all the things he should have said but never got the chance or was too cowardly to say. He would scold himself after he was done crying, trying to convince himself that even if he had the chance, he still wouldn't be able to reconcile their past, and then he would finish closing up The Angel and make his way home to an empty bed. And he would think that an empty bed was perfect for his empty heart, and fall asleep with small tears on his cheeks.

It was storming on one of those nights that he sent everyone home early, and decided that he would close up by himself. They tried to tell him that they wouldn't mind staying and helping him close up, they were sure after all that as handsome as he was that he must have someone waiting for him at home, and he insisted that they go on home.

"Go on! Get out of here before the rain gets much worse!" He said, waving away their meager arguments about staying and helping him. "I'll be fine! Believe me, I've seen much worse storms." Was his reply when they tried to tell him that it wasn't right of them to leave him by himself on such a stormy night. They were skeptical, and tried one last time to get him to accept their offers of help. "Nah, go on! Go home where you're warm and safe, out of the rain and the storm. I'll be fine, really." They were reluctant, but they finally agreed. Grumbling, they all shrugged into their coats and ran through the rain to their cars, hoping that he didn't realize how eager they all were to be getting home.

He chuckled a little as he watched them all scurry about the parking lot, rushing to get home where it was safe and warm, and their loved ones waited for them. With a sigh and a soft smile on his face, he turned around and got to work. He washed every single dirty dish by hand, letting his thoughts roam as he did, he swept the floors and then ran a vacuum over them just to be sure he'd gotten all the dirt up before he mopped. He wiped down tables and stacked chairs, and took inventory. And he was just about to count and close down the register when there was a knock at the door.

"We're closed!" He called, not even bothering to look up. There was another knock, this one a little louder and a little more insistent. "I said we're closed!" But they were insistent, and knocked again, louder this time. Muttering curses, Dean closed the register drawer and stalked to the door, quickly unlocking it and throwing it open. "I said we're fucking closed! Now what do you wan-" His words trailed off and he stared in shock at the person in front of him, almost refusing to believe what he was seeing.

"Hello."