"But yeah, it's open to interpretation, and I always thought it was basically a breast thing."

"Oh...I thought it was an actual milkshake."

"No. It's not. It's just a dumb song and...why are we talking about this again?"

Castiel paused in measuring spices, trying to keep the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder.

"It's my ringtone."

The voice laughed. "Well...maybe get a new one?"

"I don't know how."

"Maybe google it. How's it coming over there anyway?"

Castiel looked into the bowl of blended ingredients, "should it be brown?"

"Not really."

Castiel froze. "It's brown."

"How much cinnamon did you use?"

"Three table spoons."

"TEA spoons."

"Oh." Castiel poked the mixture and sighed. "Perhaps I should throw it out?"

"You can just rinse the spices off and start again." The voice advised, can't believe you've never made apple pie, even I've made pie, and I can't cook."

"I feel I'm redefining 'unable to cook'." Castiel said, "Perhaps I should just buy a pie."

"No. Nothing beats homemade."

"I'll have to run out and get more cinnamon."

"Hey, I can come with, I'm handheld remember? And we've never been out, so, this could be fun." He was joking around again, and it was nice to hear after a long, long day at work. Castiel slipped into his coat and left his apartment.

"You know," the guy said, conversationally, as Castiel went down the stairs in his apartment building. "It's been what, two months, and you've never asked me my name."

"I thought that was...against the rules or something."

"Do we have rules?" the voice mused, "I thought we were playing pretty fast and loose with the whole 'sex line' arrangement here anyway. What with you not charging me and me teaching you how to bake...it's Dean. My name's Dean."

"Good." Castiel said, nonsensically.

"Cool...now, are you going for spices or..."

"I'm on my way...what are you doing right now?"

"Nothing much, just having a beer, long day at work, you know? Really getting tired of humping palettes of ketchup and microwave ovens around at the warehouse."

"Perhaps we could trade careers?"

"Yeah, like you don't love working at the call centre."

"I like it because I'm good at it...but, I don't find it very interesting or..." Castiel stopped on the street, "actually, I don't like it very much at all."

"Welcome to the wonderful world of work." Dean said, "we all hate work Cas, but, hey, at least you've got me to come home to."

"Only, I don't."

There was a long, long silence, and Castiel could have bitten his tongue off. It had been two months since Dean had first called him, and over that time he'd become first used to the other man's calls, and then to anticipate them, and finally, to depend on them. There was a deep dissatisfaction growing in him, based on the knowledge that Dean didn't need or care for him the way Castiel had come to care about him. And that he would never really have Dean, not really.

"Sorry," he said, quietly.

Dean was silent, and Castiel felt a rising panic, what had he done? How could he have been so stupid?

"Dean, I didn't mean to...I know this isn't..."

"Isn't what?" Dean said, "Isn't 'real', right? Well, dude, if you feel that way, just hang up now."

"I don't want to."

"I don't want you to either. But if you're going to go around thinking that I don't think this is real, then...I'd rather you didn't, think that, is all."

"I won't...I just, I didn't know how you felt about...this."

"I feel like it's actually worth me coming home now," Dean said, "that I have someone I care about who isn't a direct blood relative, and that's pretty fucking unprecedented...and that you're the best thing that's happened to me in...I don't know how long, and I'm so glad it was you who picked up that first time, every time, and not some other guy."

Castiel felt a soft, stupid smile cross his face. He wasn't the type of person who had his heart warmed, but there it was, warm, in his chest, and he was pretty sure Dean's words were tattooed there on it, like some kind of teeny tiny prayer, stitched into him.

Unfortunately, as he'd stopped to enjoy the warm feeling in his chest, on a busy, post-Christmas street, someone instantly walked into him shoulder, knocking him off balance.

He dropped his phone, which landed on the street, and broke in half along the hinge, sprinkling rhinestones all over the place. He stood, looking down at it, and then loss hit him like a bullet to the chest.

Dean. He only knew Dean's first name. Not his phone number, not even in what area he lived.

Dean only existed within that phone, and now it was broken.

He scooped up the fragments of his phone, turned around, and went after the idiot who'd knocked him.

"Excuse me," he said, grabbing the stranger's shoulder with his free hand.

The guy turned around, his own cellphone clamped to his ear.

"Cas?" he said.

And Castiel froze.

Without taking his eyes off of him, the guy closed the phone, and glanced down at the cracked and broken thing in Castiel's hand.

"Cas...is that you?"

Castiel looked at him, this guy, slightly taller than him, wider, with dark eyes and dark hair, and probably the best bone structure Castiel had ever seen.

"Dean?"