"Hello to you," Meg drawls, a lazy and somehow unpleasant grin sliding across her face. "Aren't you gonna introduce me to your friend?" Her voice is low, slow and honeyed, dripping with malice and mocking. It's a dangerous voice, and it sends something unpleasant crawling up Dean's spine.

"Meg," Castiel says reluctantly, "This is Dean Winchester. Dean, Meg—"

"Masters," she interrupts, holding out a small, pale hand for him to shake. He leans up and takes it hesitantly. Her grip is harder than he expects, almost painful. There are fingernails digging into his skin. Dean looks her in the eye and smiles.

"Nice to meet you," he says, voice carefully cheerful and unconcerned. "How exactly do you know Cas?" He feels Cas tense up beside him, and knows he isn't going to like the answer. Meg raises an eyebrow.

"Oh sweetie. In every way imaginable." Dean hears the smug note in her voice, and rises to the bait. He can't help himself.

"Yeah, I'll bet," he says, trying to sound like he doesn't care. Like he isn't shocked or put off at all. Sure, Cas told him what went on during the two years they were apart, but somehow he hadn't exactly been expecting to meet anyone with firsthand knowledge.

"Oh yeah," Meg purrs. She seems to sense Dean's discomfort, and her grin grows more genuine. "You should see him when that top button comes undone. I know he looks all prim and wholesome, but when the lights go out he's quite a—"

"Meg," Cas rumbles, his voice a low warning. "Dean has to get back to work. I was just leaving."

"Don't be like that, Clarence," Meg pouts. "I wasn't gonna stay, anyway. Wouldn't wanna spoil your little lunch date." She practically bites off the end of the word, teeth clicking together and her smile going hard around the edges. Dean shifts uneasily in his seat. The shop isn't at its busiest, but there's a girl sitting curled on the window seat who seems a little too interested in their conversation, and a couple ordering coffee who are within earshot. Quite apart from not wanting to get fired for causing a scene, Dean doesn't really want random strangers listening in on their mini melodrama. It's none of their business.

His every instinct is telling him not to turn his back on Meg Masters, but he needs to look at Cas' face. He feels inexplicably cornered, all of a sudden, in broad daylight in an Alabama coffee shop. It's surreal in the worst way he can think of.

He allows himself just the barest glimpse of Cas, out of the corner of his eye. He's sitting stiffly, hands balled into fists and pressed hard into the cushions of the couch, staring at Meg with an odd mixture of emotions in his eyes that Dean can't quite understand. Betrayal, sadness, anger, maybe a bit of resignation. But there's a defensive cast to his posture that also reads embarrassment, and somehow that gives Dean the courage to leave them alone together. He stands.

"Cas is right, I really need to get back to work. I'll be at the counter if you want a coffee or need help finding a book." He addresses this to both of them, as if the idea of interacting more with Meg doesn't make his stomach turn. Cas nods at him and Meg turns to watch him go with a look that says she's taken his measure and come up unimpressed.

He tries not to watch surreptitiously from behind the counter, but he can't really help it. His post by the sandwiches gives him an unobstructed view of the couch, where Meg has insinuated herself into Cas' space and is saying something in a dark hum of a murmur that Dean can hear but not understand. He clenches his fists and resolutely focuses on wiping down the counter around the coffee machine, even though it's spotless.

When Pamela steps behind the register he practically runs for cover among the towers of books in the back, muttering some explanation over his shoulder that probably doesn't make any sense. He doesn't see the sympathetic expression on Pamela's face as she watches him go, but he immediately decides she's the world's greatest boss simply because she doesn't stop him or draw attention to his flight by calling him back.

He finds himself between a mountain of Stephen King with some intermingled Dean Koontz and an oddly organized pyramid of books by various political figures that are labeled "Vitriol." He tries to look busy even though he can't touch the books; he doesn't have Pamela's talent for it yet, and has no desire to bring everyone in the shop running with an avalanche of paperbacks.

Dean starts reading halfway down the good stack, craning his neck to make sense of the letters on the spines and mentally making note of which Stephen King books he'd like to add to his growing reading list. There's a copy of The Gunslinger near the bottom third that he's considering asking Pamela to get for him before he leaves today.

A muffled footfall sounds behind him. He turns and sees Cas, standing half-hidden behind a stack of leather bound classics and looking worried.

"Dean?"

"Where's Meg," he grunts, turning back to his stack. It isn't a question; he really doesn't want to know.

"She's gone," he says. Dean doesn't respond, or turn around. He doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to feel this morbid curiosity or the sour burn of jealousy, either. When Cas told him about the drugs and all the random hookups, Dean really didn't care. He wasn't acting or being generous. It didn't matter to him, and he'd be a hypocrite if it did. It wasn't like he'd been some virginal saint before he met Cas, after all. He understands better than most that occasionally people just want to lose themselves in something or someone else. It doesn't make a bit of difference to the two of them or how they felt before, how Dean feels now.

But when he saw Meg, it was different. She wasn't a nameless ghost from drunken Christmases past. She was here. She has a face and a name, and her mean, melancholy sort of beauty matches the Cas of now in a way Dean hates, because it just highlights the absence of the boy Dean knew before…the one who matched up perfectly with him. She made Dean feel too bright, clumsy and loud just by standing there and being all soft-spoken barbs and muted, willowy grace. She made him wonder, for the first time, how different he must look to Cas. Do you keep looking at me and wishing I could be who I was before?

Dean knows it's unfair, but he doesn't know how to change what he feels. He doesn't want to know about Meg Masters. He wants to know how much Cas knows about her even less. But at the same time…he wants to know everything. Because she wasn't just a one night stand to make Cas feel better, Dean can tell. They know each other. She knows things about Cas that he, Dean, does not.

And whose fault is that?

Dean wonders, not for the first time and in spite of his good feelings the day before, whether this is a colossal mistake. Can you do this? If you say it doesn't matter, can you mean it?

He's been silent for too many minutes when Cas finally speaks.

"Dean. With Meg, I—we weren't—"

"Don't, Cas. Just…don't." He doesn't turn around, but his decision is made. It was made already. He's not going to go back on it because Meg Masters is someone who exists in the world. He takes a deep breath.

"I don't want you to explain her away to me," he says to the stack of books in front of him. "And don't you dare treat her like some mistake you made because I wasn't around. That's not fair to her, and it's not fair to me."

"I…Dean, I'm sorry." Dean turns around.

Cas is looking at his shoes, shoulders slumped in defeat. He's not expecting the blow…he thinks it's already fallen. Dean wonders if it would make Cas feel vindicated if he told him to fuck off. Well too damn bad, Cas. I'm sticking.

"I don't need you to be sorry," he says, taking a step to close some of the distance between them. "I only wanna know one thing about you and her. Is it over?"

Cas looks up then, eyes full of uncertainty and wary hope.

"Is—what?"

"Is it over between you, that's all I wanna know." Dean steps in a little closer. "And Cas…it doesn't have to be. I'll understand if it's not."

The words taste like acid on his tongue, but he says them. He said he was sticking around. There were no caveats on it that he remembers. If that means letting Cas off the hook with whatever it is that's been rebuilding itself between them the last few weeks, he'll do it. He's not going to hold Cas hostage to something that happened over two years ago.

"I mean," he continues, eyes falling to linger somewhere around Cas' knee, "it's not like we made each other any promises."

He stands ready, waiting for Castiel to sigh his relief, to walk away and go find Meg. He imagines living in that house after this, and decides he'd rather sleep in his car in the woods.

A hand finds his shoulder and squeezes, prompting him to look up. Castiel is smiling at him, a bemused and indulgent look in his eyes.

"You know," he says softly, "For someone so smart, you say the stupidest things sometimes, Dean Winchester."

"Oh." Dean says stupidly. He just looks at Cas, not sure how to respond to that.

Cas waits a moment, head tilted. Finally, he sighs.

"Meg and I were over before I came to get you, Dean."

Another beat of silence. Then, "Oh!" A grin creeps across Deans face. "Yeah?"

"Yes, you ass."

Dean grabs Cas by the shoulders and pulls him into a kiss. Cas goes gladly, humming his surprise against Dean's lips. It's rough and very sweet for a moment, fading quickly into mortification when they hear a throat clearing behind them.

"As yummy as this is, guys, I'm not paying Dean to put moves on customers in the stacks while I do all the work up front."

Dean and Cas fly apart so fast that Cas loses his balance a little, and Pamela walks away laughing amid the sound of muttered curses and the muted crash of falling paperbacks.


Later that night, when jeans and shirts have been traded for soft flannel pajama pants and they're curled together under a sheet with Dean's head tucked into the curve of Cas' shoulder and Cas' fingers caressing the short hairs at the nape of Dean's neck, he feels the need to say one more thing about Meg. It's something he needs Dean to know, even if he's not sure now is the right time to tell him.

"For the record, Meg and I were over before we really got started." Dean goes stiff in Cas' arms, but doesn't move away, or put his fingers in his ears and start singing to drown Castiel out. Cas continues, voice soft and a little sad.

"Our...relationship never went much past the…the physical. She was a good friend, in her own way. She was there for me when I needed someone who would just…be there, and make no demands."

He looks down at the top of Dean's head.

"But she wasn't you. She'll never be you. I'm not in love with her."

He says it so simply, like any other words coming out of his mouth. Like the thing he's implying is just a fact, and nothing to worry about or be absolutely bone-crushingly terrified of. Maybe that's why Dean is able to stay calm.

It's the first time either of them has come close to saying it. He doesn't know what to do. He opens his mouth, maybe to say it back. But that's not what comes out.

"Cas," he says. Just that. He presses himself a little harder into Cas' arms, turns his face to the skin of Cas' chest and breathes it in. A few nights ago the thought of being skin to skin like this would have seemed monumental, and like far too much risk. Tonight, it feels natural. More than that, Dean craves it. He wonders if loving someone is like that: you start to crave the things that used to scare you, until all your fears are robbed of their sharp edges, softened and transmuted into things that keep you warm in the middle of the night.

Cas doesn't seem to be waiting for anything. He just keeps holding onto Dean, keeps running his fingers along the short hairs at the back of Dean's neck. It's comfortable, it's easy. There was something Dean meant to say, but before he can muster up the words he's falling fast asleep.


In the smallest upstairs bedroom, Inias tries and fails to go to sleep. His young mind is whirling with anxious questions about their visitor, someone both old and new. He remembers Dean from before. He remembers that when Dean left, Michael and Cassy did too. Dean brought Cassy back, but not Michael. Inias liked Dean alright before, but now he's a little afraid of him. It feels like he can hear the extra pair of feet walking around upstairs; pick them out from Cassy's feet. They're heavier, clumsier. They seem to echo in a way his brother's footsteps do not. That's silly, of course. There's nothing under his bed. There's nothing there in the dark that isn't there in the light. Dean's footsteps don't sound any different than other people's.

He imagines that Dean is a monster in disguise, hunting them down in dark corridors with floors that echo. Carrying them away, one by one, to some unknown place. Someplace horrible. Michael, Cassy…who comes next? Maybe him. Maybe any of them.

Inias jumps up, trembling all over, and runs across the hall as fast as his awkward preteen legs will carry him. He slips into Uriel's room as quietly as possible and stands, still shivering, in the doorway.

"Go ahead, Inias," Uriel mumbles into his pillow. "Might as well."

Not needing to be told twice, Inias takes a running leap and dives into the bed, curling on the vacant side and taking deep breaths. Uriel's hand pats his hair down twice, absently, before being withdrawn.

"It's okay, Inias," he says. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Go to sleep."

Inias breathes a sigh of relief, snuggles into the covers, and is asleep in a matter of minutes.


In the large room at the back of the house, Luci sits up in bed with a book in his hands, reading softly to the girl stretched out beside him. Isadora Young, daughter of an investment banker and a full-time soccer mom. Goes by Izzy, mostly because her father hates it. Raised to be the belle of the ball, prefers being the wallflower playing poker with the wait staff by the open bar. Rebellious. Cynical. Sardonic at the best of times and utterly scathing at the worst. If he didn't know better, he'd think himself head over heels in love with her.

His gaze wanders from the words on the page occasionally, preferring instead to glide over the gentle curve of her shoulder, the bare expanse of her back, the dip at the bottom of her spine just before she disappears beneath the white edge of a sheet. He doesn't pause in his recitation; he knows the words from memory.

"…by spilled wine-wells sang heaven, hungry, and the quick cut Christbread, spitting vinegar, and all the mazes of his praise and envious tongue were worked in flames and shells."

Luci's father was a man who loved words. He loved the stories they could tell and the emotions they could evoke, but mostly he just loved words for their own sake. He loved them because they could tell secrets, pull the heartstrings, wet the eyes. He was not a man of many words himself, but then…any lover of words will tell you that it's never about the number one uses, but rather how well one uses them.

Every night from as far back as he can remember, Luci's father would make the rounds to each of his children before bed and read to them. He did this until they were old enough to do it for themselves. Luci doesn't know what he read to the others—he never asks and no one ever volunteers to share—but to him, Father always read poetry.

The words would flow over him, soft heavy things which sank into places in his heart and mind that nothing else could touch and settled there, throbbing with joy, and awe, and deep sadness. Even now, Luci associates poetry with emotion. He's not very good at sharing how he feels with other people, even his own brothers and sisters. But he wants her to know. So he reads to her.

The miracle of the thing is that she seems to speak the same language.

"A stranger has come," her sleep-softened voice says teasingly. "To share my room in the house not right in the head. A girl mad as birds."

He looks at her steadily over the top of the book he's holding, blue cloth binding almost matching the faded color of his eyes.

"Shall I compare thee," he intones seriously, "to a summer's day?"

"Oh God," she groans, burying her face in her hands. "I'm sleeping with a sap!"

He grins wickedly and sets the book carefully aside, sliding down between the covers and rolling onto his side. He slips arms around her, one palm flat against the soft skin of her stomach, other arm pulling her in gently but insistently until she's spooned against him, face still turned away and obscured by the chin-length fan of her dark hair.

"Thou art more lovely," he murmurs, lips tickling her neck with every word, "and more temperate."

"I bet you say that to all the girls, Luce," she mocks him gently. He shakes his head at her, though she can't see him.

"Only the ones who can recite Thomas from memory," he returns. Izzy rolls over finally, curling herself close in his arms and looking up at him through a mess of hair with mischievous eyes.

"Well, if you like my Thomas, wait till you hear my Donne."

The intent behind the words would be clear even if she hadn't accompanied them with a hand sneaking between their bodies to slide ever-so-slowly up his naked thigh. His grin widens.

"I can't wait," he chuckles.

Their night dissolves into a different kind of poetry.


Downstairs in the living room, Hester listens to the peaceful sounds of an old house settling around her, the familiar creaks and groans, the shuffle of footsteps and the muffled voices fading into the sounds of showers running, whispered bickering, and then finally silence. Uriel and Inias are in bed. Castiel and Dean are tucked away for the night .They came home in high spirits, laughing and joshing each other, and kept it up until they locked themselves away in the attic after supper. Raphael is curled on the couch opposite her rocking chair, with his leather-bound Bible open in his lap and a look of deep concentration etched across his features. Luci is in his room with his latest girlfriend, Izzy. Hester met the girl briefly, earlier in the day: a slip of a thing, compactly built with dancers legs and shy, almond-shaped brown eyes. She was congenial, well-mannered, and soft-spoken. Beautiful, too, with her bronze complexion, high cheek bones, and glossy black hair. Only the Cheshire cat smile gave any clue as to how she and Luci fit together. That smile held secrets.

Hester invited her for dinner, much to Luci's chagrin. Izzy seemed nervous and not a little perplexed at the invitation.

She can hear them now in Luci's room; he's reading to her. The gentle sing-song lilt of his voice murmurs words Hester can't understand through the walls in a soothing rhythm.

"It's wrong of him to take that girl to bed every night," Raphael says quietly. "And even more wrong to have Castiel sharing a room with Dean Winchester." Hester sighs and directs her gaze across the room to her younger brother. With his solemn eyes and perpetual frown, he's always reminded her of a preacher at a sinner's funeral. Even when he was little.

"Let it alone, Raphe," she says gently. "It makes them happy. There's little enough in the world that does without us denying it when we find it."

Raphael's frown deepens.

"In the Bible it says-"

"Judge not," Hester interrupts. "For one thing. Lest ye be judged. I remember that part quite clearly."

"It also says that by their fruits you'll know them."

"In that case, you should wait until there's some fruit to know them by," she says pointedly. That shuts him up. Raphael goes back to his reading, looking perplexed.

Hester smiles into her coffee cup. The children are in bed, and Castiel has come home for the time being. Luci is happier than she's seen him in ages, and Raphael is lively enough to argue with her. Those improvements almost make up for all the blank spaces in the short list of people she loves who should be under this roof right now.

It isn't perfect, but it's the best she's felt at the end of a day in a long time.


Author's Note: Happy Destiel Day! In order to celebrate I thought I'd post a second chapter sooner rather than later. It's a bit short and uneventful, but I hope you like it anyway. 3