That first morning – for it is the first – he sneaks back into the cabin smelling of Dean's soap and Dean's bed. He feels fully in his own skin and aching from running and dancing and the effort of trying to get Dean closer to him than skin to skin, flesh parting flesh. Castiel barely has time to change his clothes before his parents are awake and stirring, getting up to put on their shoes and shirts, cufflinks and pearls – gathering themselves for another day of prescribed fun and another grapefruit breakfast at the lodge.
Michael glowers over his fruit, fixing Castiel alternately with a disapproving stare and a glare of utmost anger. Behind it all is a kind of vague, elder confusion and a reassuring glint of affection for him that heartens Castiel considerably. As does the presence of bacon and eggs, he's starving.
"I was thinking...we should probably get back soon." Michael says, shredding the maraschino cherry on his grapefruit with the edge of a serrated spoon.
"Where, honey?" Rachel asks vaguely, sipping her tea and glancing up at her husband. Castiel waited with his breath trapped in his lungs.
"Well...we've had our rest." His father persists. "maybe it's time we headed home. Got back to normalcy." He says, raising his slate coloured eyes to Castiel's own.
Something fierce and protective revolts at that. He doesn't want to go back. More than that, he can't. How is he supposed to forget this? To lay aside the feeling of someone else's skin on his, of someone looking at him the way Dean does?
"But Daddy, we'll miss the show." Anna points out, and Castiel hopes to god he's never sounded that sycophantically naive – though he probably hopes in vain.
"Anna..."
"I was going to sing in the show." She whines. Castiel knows very well that she still has ideas about Lucifer – despite his less than delicate behaviour towards here before. He hates that fact, by more than that he wants to stay at Kellerman's. He needs to.
He places his hands on the white linen table cloth and forces his expression into meekness.
"Father, it might be pleasant to stay the full fortnight." He comments, looking up with as much conviction as he can muster. "I'm sure it won't cause any inconvenience." He says, and he hopes the banality of the remark passes his mother and sister by. Its purpose being purely to say that he will not cause grief or trouble – he will not lose any more of his father's faith in him.
Never mind that this is becoming a painfully dull chore that is keeping him from what he really wants to do. His own family are a pallid puppet theatre, unreal to him as the table cloth and the chilled grapefruit halves. His mind is on Dean, his body literally aches to get back to the other cabin, to remove his starched shirt and slacks and curl naked in the Edenic sensation of bare skin on bare, warm skin.
A tingle runs up his spine, and his body floods with a sensation akin to that of wrapping up in blankets and sipping warm tea when one has a chill. A feeling that makes him feel at once exposed and curiously safe.
He'd like very much to leave now.
But his father holds his gaze for a while longer, as if trying to dig out of him a promise in blood that he would not do anything more to disgrace his family. Whatever doxy his father believes him to have engaged himself with, Castiel is being instructed, must be permanently wiped from his mind. He tries to arrange his face into a placating expression. He could of course have dissuaded such a casual liaison easily – but Dean, solid, warm, inescapably present Dean – was more real to him than any member of the fairer sex, and far more indispensible.
"We are paid up until then." His mother adds, bringing a curious John Kellerman across to their table.
"Not thinking of cutting out early I hope?" he greets them pleasantly. "The weather'll get better, I can practically swear."
"I guess not." Michael concedes gracefully, returning to his grapefruit. Castiel breathes a very quiet, internal, sigh of relief.
For the first time he has something beneath his surface – some secret that is his and not just someone else's. He has a hidden side like the round, black surface of the moon's reverse. A part of him that is all his own, and yet belongs to Dean as well. He prickles with excitement, energy...with the promise that both will be utilised and fulfilled.
His father, busy stripping sour flesh from the pith of the fruit before him, has yet to let him off of the hook.
"So, Castiel, what do you plan on doing with yourself today."
Castiel rolls a neat tongue of bacon and spears it with his fork.
"I have dance lessons booked."
His father masticates the block of pale yellow citrus fruit thoughtfully, looking at Castiel speculatively.
"With..."
Castiel shrugs. "One of the instructors."
His father is clearly struggling to relate his concern over Castiel's activities and his desire that they should not be repeated with the implication that Castiel is ready to settle back into prescribed activities.
"I'll be back for dinner." Castiel assures him, slipping as much reassurance into that sentence as possible. He is still part of the family, he tries to make his words read, he is still loyal to them.
His father seems satisfied.
And if, an hour after finishing his eggs and dabbing the side of his mouth with his napkin, Castiel is on his way to visit Lisa – it does nothing to make him feel guilty. He goes with a genuine wish to see how the woman is after her pitiable appearance the previous evening, and he hasn't dared to ask his Father.
In tennis shoes and grey linen slacks he walks quickly through the resort, only slowing when he reaches the staff areas and the slope down towards the cabins. He's hoping to pay a quick visit to Lisa, in an attempt to make amends for sending her to the awful man who'd hurt her so completely – but he has no idea if she'll be remotely interested in seeing him.
The rain from the previous night has cleared, the steady flow of water having turned the gritty path into a river, and paint flakes having been scoured from the staff cabins to litter the damp ground like fragments of bone. Castiel takes the steps to Lisa's rooms nervously, tapping at the door before pushing it open gingerly.
Lisa is sitting up in bed, wrapped in a pink blanket and drinking something out of a steaming mug. Still pale and weak seeming, she does at least have the benefit of a nights rest in her skin and eyes – no longer appearing as corpse like as she had done before. She smiles slightly in greeting when Castiel ducks his head hello.
"Castiel, it's good to see you." She says quietly.
"I came to apologise." He says simply, "Lisa...I can't begin to tell you, how sorry I am."
She looks taken aback. "Oh...god, it's ok...you didn't know." She lays a hand on the bed as if reaching out. "I didn't know – and it's going to be ok, don't worry." She smiles. "Your father says I can still have children...he's an excellent doctor...a good man."
Castiel nods his thanks, not trusting himself with a verbal response. Lisa's eyes slide to the other corner of the room.
"Dean was just telling me about the Sheldrake yesterday...you did good, great even." She smiles.
Castiel turns and spots Dean, he feels his body at once flush and go still. Dean shuffles awkwardly, glances down at his feet, then back up at him. Castiel tries not to feel hurt at his distance, to not doubt himself over it.
Lisa looks between them.
"Dean?" she asks, and there's a certain sharpness in her voice, a knowledge that makes Castiel feel exposed and small.
"I'll...I should get back to my family." He says. "I'm glad you're ok." he adds, to Lisa, before he shunts open the swollen plywood door and trips down the porch steps to rest his back against the wall at the bottom.
Inside the cabin, Lisa fixes Dean with a stare stronger than a police flashlight.
"You're still doing this, huh?"
Dean crosses his arms and glowers back.
"It's not like before." He says, voice quiet and meaningful. "It's not just a...pieve of fun for him, he means it."
Lisa's gaze is half anger, half pity.
"Dean...you have to stop this now – before one of you gets hurt or both of you get found out." She says firmly. "It'll only be worse for him if he..."
"If he actually likes me, instead of wanting to keep me a secret from his wife?" Dean spits. "Yeah, I know." He sighs, and his anger deflates as suddenly as it appeared. "Get better, ok? I'll handle this."
Dean slams out of the cabin, forcing the door shut with more effort than he'd intended before he leans heavily on the porch rail and lowers his head, sighing in frustration. He glances to his left, only to spot Castiel, frozen against the side of the cabin, looking awkward as hell.
"I thought you'd be in there longer." Castiel says quietly.
Dean straightens up and rubs a hand over his face. "You want to come back with me?" he nods in the direction of his cabin, away from the others. Castiel hesitates, then nods and Dean hops down the steps, wrapping an arm briefly around the other man's waist to pull him closer, sharing a snatch of body heat under the grim sky.
"You don't waste time – must run in the family."
It's Lucifer. Of course it would be, snarking at them from his own cabin in his white vest and dark slacks, leaning on the porch rail and haloed in blue cigarette smoke. Castiel flinches, both at the insult to himself and to his sister, but Dean outright stiffens at his side, like a dog in a thunderstorm.
"How will the good doctor take the news?" Lucifer calls out again. "That his only son's a candy assed fa-"
Dean's sprinting over the gravel before Castiel can register the nausea of impending conflict. He reaches the porch of Lucifer's cabin, hands on the rail, leg swinging up and over before the other man has time to respond to the threat, which is essentially that of a loosed Doberman.
Dean's fist strikes Lucifer once, twice, and he's hauling off for a third punch when another dancer leaps up onto the edge of the porch and grabs his arm, pulling him away as Lucifer scrabbles on the floor, blood pouring from his nose and setting his white vest alight with colour.
Castiel has never witnessed an actual fight before.
Red faced and still obviously pounding with anger, Dean storms away from the fallen form of Lucifer and the other dancer, who is making no move to help him, much to Castiel's vitriolic satisfaction. Dean is shaking with anger and Castiel acts without conscious thought, raising his arms and pulling Dean down until the other man's forehead is resting on his shoulder, Castiel's arms around his waist. Over Dean's shoulder Castiel can see the other dancer looking at them with mild distrust and discomfort – but not outright hatred.
That's something at least, he thinks tiredly.