April 8th 1928

(Continued further)

"So come on." Dean cleared his throat, the laughter ebbing away but the smile just about managing to hold on. "I've told you my deep and troubled past, are you going to return the favour?"

Castiel's smile faltered. He didn't realise he'd been watching Dean's eyes until he suddenly found himself staring out of the window. He stood, awkwardly.

"I should go."

"Oh, you can't be serious."

"I haven't eaten since lunch time, and it's already quite late." Eight o'clock was late, and he'd kick anyone who said otherwise. "I shouldn't be imposing…"

"Please. Gabriel is more imposing than you, and that's only because he holds power over my paycheck." Dean stood, and crossed the room before Castiel could move out of the way, standing in front of the door. His arms were crossed, and his expression was not one that seemed impressed.

"Dean…"

"If you don't want to talk about what happened with your family, fine." Dean shrugged. "I'd just like to get to know you a little better."

"Dean, you…"

"You seem like you could be an okay guy, once you relax enough to take the stick out of your…"

"Dean." Castiel sighed, walking toward him. "You're standing on my coat."

Dean looked down, and realised he was indeed standing on the tails of Castiel's coat, which had slipped from the back of the couch to the floor. Dean started, seemingly a little embarrassed, and grabbed the offending piece of outer-wear, slapping at the few traces of dirt in an attempt to clean it off. Castiel smirked.

"Ah, I'm sorry, it's… my shoes are clean, you know, there's… what?"

"Nothing."

"No, really. Is there something on my face?"

"No, it's just…" Castiel shrugged, looking away. He wished he could stop smirking, but for some reason he could only wipe the expression away for a brief moment before it came back. He looked at his shoes, then at the fireplace, which was in the exact opposite direction to Dean, but somehow that only made the situation funnier, as if the smirk demanded to be acknowledged and appreciated and had decreed that it would unionise with inappropriate laughter until it's demands were met.

This was not helped when Dean, in his panic, seemed to mistake the silently shaking shoulders and lack of eye contact as signs that Castiel was weeping. If anything this just redoubled the indignance of the Union of Expressions of Inappropriate Humour; Castiel was struggling for breath as Dean stepped awkwardly toward Castiel's back, extending a hand as though he could comfort him through the ether to avoid the dreaded Emotion Virus.

"Um… hey, Cas, come on. I get that something bad happened… you can forget I ever mentioned it, you know, it's nothing… unless… unless you want to… to talk, if you think that'll… Cas?"

Castiel couldn't hold it in any longer, and found himself laughing out loud.

Dean punched him on the shoulder, and only half in the amicable way he did when they finished a show.

"What in the hell was that for? I thought you were having some kind of hysterics, or a fit or something."

"No…" Castiel gasped, between laughs. He managed to compose himself, the majority of his inappropriate expression vented the union seemed to disband, although a few chuckles continued to voice discomfort as he tried to become serious again.

"And what's so funny?"

"When you realised you were on my coat… the last time I saw a face that embarrassed was when I walked in on Sam and Gabriel…"

Dean stared at him for a moment as he tried to smother fresh fits of laughter.

After what seemed to be some intense consideration, Dean punched his arm again and sighed.

"That is not a mental image I needed to have. You know what, fine. Now I'm glad I lied to you about not having any liquor in the house, it means I can have all of it now and forget that ever happened."

Castiel finally got his laughter in check, and followed Dean through to the kitchen.

He should probably go home. He should probably make himself a filling, warming meal, read some of his book, and go to bed.

Naturally, he accepted the proffered whisky without a second thought, pausing only to reprimand himself for staring at Dean's eyes again.

He couldn't help it, he told himself, the pre-prohibition liquor draining through his empty stomach and into his blood as quickly as The Peak's gutrot had last night. Dean's eyes were… natural. Almost animal. There was something of the wolf or hawk about them; the same cold, self-sufficient sharpness that he had seen at the zoo many times. There was something thrilling about it.

Dean suggested they turn the chairs to face the fire. Castiel agreed, as the night was drawing in and it was suddenly very cold and grey, meaning the view was not as impressive or attractive.

Once they had shuffled the couch around to face away from the door, Dean had suggested they each have another drink. Castiel had agreed to that as well, as he wasn't sure he was prepared to admit to thinking about Dean's eyes or Dean's skin or Dean's muscle or the dancing firelight in the way he was on only one drink, no matter how long it had been since he'd eaten.

They drank. And talked. The topics slipped and manoeuvred easily into each other, going from the theatre to Castiel's unpainted mural, to Castiel's interest in art, to Dean's interest in carpentry and mechanics, to Castiel's complete lack of knowledge or skill in anything more technical than cooking, to a longwinded debate about whether cooking counted more as "technical" or "creative".

"It's important to have precise measurements and details. It's technical." Castiel took another drink, a slight smile on his lips. "Not very technical, but technical enough."

"No it isn't. Any joe can cook, with lessons. There's not really a "wrong" way to do it unless you kill someone." Dean drank too, his eyes lacking their harsh focus as he reached for the rapidly emptying bottle. "It's creative."

"Ah! But…" Castiel swivelled around on the couch, tucking one leg up beside him so he could point a finger triumphantly in Dean's face. "But it requires learning a technique and therefore, it's technical."

Dean went to respond, but clearly couldn't think of a good counter argument. Castiel drained his glass and held it up in victory before putting it next to Dean's and grinning in what he was pretty sure was a smug way.

"My mother told me that." He wasn't sad, or melancholy, as one would expect, but almost surprised, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

"What was she like?"

"She was… nice. Didn't see much of her, we were mostly raised by nannies." Castiel shrugged, gladly picking up the refilled glass. "She was clever, smart… but very old fashioned. Tradition was all the rage with her, more so than happiness or innovation. It was all by-the-book Christianity and morals that Queen Victoria couldn't have faulted."

Dean chuckled.

"Nothing like our mother." There was a fond sadness in his expression, his gaze switching between the burning logs and Castiel's own, slightly splifficated but none-the-less rapt eyes. "She was all about emotion and expression and finding your calling. It was after she died that our Dad tried to "undo" it all; make us good, Christian boys."

"How old were you?"

"Only about seven. It was illness that took her."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, I'd have never joined the theatre if it wasn't for her." He took a drink, before glancing once more at Castiel. Their eyes met for a moment which could have been a second or a minute, it was hard to gauge. Just watching each other, as if they were both testing the adage that the eyes were windows to the soul. Dean smiled a warm, reassuring smile.

"How did you… if you don't mind my asking…"

"It was a shooting." Castiel wasn't sure if it was the alcohol at work, or if he really wanted to tell Dean. A part of him yearned to say it out loud; to finally tell someone, and say exactly what no one else in his family would.

"Lucien… always the dark horse of our family, we nicknamed him Lucifer." Castiel spoke slowly, staring into the fire, watching the orange flames dance over the dry bark, making it blacken and disappear as they did.

"Lucien was always in one sort of trouble or another, and we very rarely saw him. He was sent to different schools to the rest of us, had a different nanny, didn't go to college… he fell in with… with the wrong crowd. Bootleggers, mobsters… bad, criminal people. And one day, he was going about his daily business of gang warfare while my mother and several siblings were going about theirs. Anna and Rachael had just had their first holy communion, and mother had suggested we all celebrate at an ice cream parlour."

He was vaguely aware of Dean's weight shifting on the couch, but found himself oddly hypnotised by the flame, unable to look away. Perhaps he was making Dean uncomfortable, but now the words had started, Castiel didn't want to stop them.

"Balthazar and Gabriel both had work to do. Michael wasn't in town, and Joshua was ill. I agreed to accompany Rachael home to change, as she was anxious about getting her communion dress dirty. We had agreed to meet at the Ice Cream Parlour."

"Our family home is Garrison Hall, you might know it? At the end of Main Street, surrounded by pine trees. The Ice Cream Parlour was just at the other end of the street. None of us knew it was a base of operations for a bootlegging joint."

Castiel's throat felt dry, as though it was ashamed, being unaccustomed to speaking for such length with such emotion. His brain had gone curiously numb, but he felt himself continuing, losing all sense of self as he saw the images of that day flashing in front of his eyes.

"Rachael and I had just returned to Main Street when we heard the blare of gunshots echoing down towards us. Somehow… somehow, I think we knew. Although Anna was adopted, she and Rachael were raised practically as twins, and I saw her suddenly burst into tears, inconsolable with fear and sadness. We raced up towards the parlour, and found several police cars approaching with us. Some of the gang members were already being arrested. The glass window had shattered, sending shards of glass out about three feet on either side. The walls inside… I held Rachael's head so she couldn't look, couldn't… couldn't see the blood and the bullet holes. I wanted to leap through the window and find that they'd all huddled under the table, and were all safe, but I knew, even as I fought with the detective, who was dragging me away, having arrived after I had… I knew what had happened."

"The real kick in the pants, though, the absolute stinger…"

Castiel closed his eyes, turning his face away from the fire and resting his glass against his forehead, feeling his skin shrink at the sudden temperature change. He dragged his eyes open, and saw Dean, closer than he'd been before, sat right next to him, his face a troubled mask of concern and reluctant enthrallment.

"As Rachael and I were being moved away from the premises, I saw another body, in the alley beside the building. There, in a cheap suit and tie, still clutching a half-empty bottle and a tommy gun, was Lucien. I knew what had happened. He had followed orders, barged in with the other heavies, and riddled the building with bullets before he checked how many innocents were inside. It probably wasn't until he saw Anna's communion dress that he realised who else had been in there. The coward had hidden, and shot himself, rather than live and face the consequences."

Castiel had said it all without the anger or angst that descended whenever he tried to speak with family members about it. Instead, he had found himself speaking with an honest, lonely sense of heartbreak, in the manner one may speak of a lost love or a thwarted dream. Except it hurt more than that. It hurt more than he could put into words.

Dean moved closer still, stirred into action when Castiel found himself caught between a laugh and a sob. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel's shoulders, and Castiel reciprocated, gladly.

"I'm sorry, Cas." His voice was a hoarse whisper, his hands taking the strength and definition it usually carried. "I had no idea."

"It's fine."

They sat there for a moment, Castiel finding this simple act possibly the most soothing, grounding experience he had ever had, negating the alcohol that made his head swim.

They pulled apart slightly, jaw grazing jaw as they did so, and their eyes met again.

Their faces were inches apart, and Castiel's numbed mind slowly began to stir back into life.

As he felt Dean's breath tickle his cheek and his lips, Castiel realised why he had been so fascinated and yet so uncomfortable around Dean Winchester, when he had first met him those precious weeks ago.

Castiel could not say who started the kiss, or who kissed back, but their lips had pressed against each other, strong and definite. There was no drunkenness about it. No desperation.

Just the wonderful, soothing feeling of finally being understood.

Hands gripped at hair, arms, shoulders, ribs… Dean pulled away, breathed that he didn't want to do anything unless Castiel was sure, Castiel mumbled equally breathy reassurances.

The fire quietly burned itself out in the background.

April 9th, 1928

Castiel awoke with a start, and glanced up at the wall-clock of Dean's room, illuminated by a shard of light that had flitted past the curtains. It was one thirty a.m.

Downstairs, he heard Sam whispering goodnights, and Gabriel whispering something back, and both of them telling the other to be quiet or they'd be caught.

So much for that promise, Castiel thought. Then he caught sight of Dean's slumbering form next to him, and he supposed he really couldn't blame them.