Chapter Two

The sun was a killer. At least, that was how it felt when it was shining in his eyes no later than six o'clock in the morning. He'd thought that winter was supposed to have longer nights, but apparently that memo had gotten lost somewhere in cosmic mail. Groaning, Castiel pulled himself upright, fingers grappling for the car keys and shoving them into the ignition.

As he woke up slowly, he realized one thing that seemed to wake him up instantly: he had never been colder in his entire life. His body trembled as he pulled the blanket tighter around his frame, refusing to warm even as the heating system kicked in at full force. The loud roar of the engine was like a sledgehammer to his frozen brain, and Castiel thought for a moment that he might die right then and there. What a pathetic death, he concluded, for a writer nonetheless. Or poetic, maybe, through a different lens. Wasn't that what Anna had told him once about his work, that he had to look at it through every possible lens to understand it?

Once the roaring engine quieted, Castiel lay back in his seat, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. Maybe he should have thought this through more. Maybe he should have taken a warmer blanket or sweater or more money so he could afford a motel off the side of the road. A sudden and sharp knocking at his window startled him out of his stupor, and he forced his frozen limbs to roll it down. Castiel hissed as the cold air assaulted his bluing face and, blinking ferociously, registered Gabriel's unhappy expression on the other side.

"You look like death," the barista exclaimed, holding out a to-go cup of coffee that Castiel took gratefully. It was piping hot and heaven-sent, no doubt. He sipped on it, allowing it to warm him from the inside. A moment passed before it occurred to him to grab his wallet, but Gabriel just glared at him the way Samuel – Sam – had the day before when he tried to reach for it. Huh. He put it back.

"Thank you, Gabriel," he whispered, still weary from waking up as a snowman.

The man's lips were locked in a deep frown. "I got here an hour ago to start baking and you were fast asleep in your car in the parking lot. I guess I should tell you that you can't sleep here, right?"

Castiel nodded. "I thought I would at least try, but I understand."

"There's a motel down the street, you know."

"I know."

Gabriel watched his face carefully before sighing and tugging at the door. "Come on, kid."

"Come on where?"

"Inside the bakery. I'm not letting you catch your death out here."

Ten minutes later, the two were settled at the same table as before, Castiel nursing a new cup of coffee and a leftover scone. He had insisted on paying this time, but Gabriel had just shrugged and told him it would have gone in the trash otherwise, so he'd shut his mouth and accepted it appreciatively.

"I don't even know your name," Gabriel pointed out suddenly, leaning on his elbows on the table. "You know mine, somehow, but I don't know yours."

"I heard Sam address you yesterday," he explained.

"Makes sense."

Castiel didn't say more. Sure, Gabriel was a common enough name, but the moment he heard Castiel's name, the charade would be over. He would know. And neither was ready for that – at least, that's what he told himself.

"You're a mysterious dude," Gabriel went on. "Show up out of nowhere in a small town in Kansas and say you're not a stalker but are writing a book about monsters. Won't tell me your name or where you're from, and you look strangely familiar, like maybe I've seen you before on TV or something."

"I've never been on the television," Castiel interrupted. He folded his lips together sourly – that would have been an out. Why hadn't he just taken it? Maybe he'd been on the local news for saving a cat from a tree. Cats were talkative little bastards once you got to know them.

"And that, too," he continued. "You talk like you've never spoken to another human being in real life. It's super weird, man. Are you, like, an alien or something?"

Castiel took a long sip of his coffee, the way a man treated water when he didn't know when his next drink would be. "I appreciate your hospitality, Gabriel, but I should be going."

"Going where? No offence, but it doesn't really seem like you have your life figured out at all." He wasn't wrong, now was he? Castiel bit the inside of his mouth until his brain forced him to let go, even though he didn't want to. Perhaps sensing his distress, Gabriel eased up. "Okay, look, I'll stop asking questions if that's why you're in such a rush to leave."

"Why do you care if I stay or not?" Castiel blurted out before he could process what he was saying.

Again, Gabriel seemed unphased as he shrugged. "I don't get much company around here except during big business times. Breakfast, lunch. Not so many customers at dinner, since eating a chocolate croissant at 8pm is usually reserved for college students and… the French?"

"J'en doute," Castiel muttered. "Vous dites aussi des choses bizarres." He stopped, blinking. The formal 'you' had felt strange coming out of his mouth. But he didn't really know Gabriel, did he? Not anymore, not in the last decade and a half. He shook it off; Gabriel probably hadn't even understood what he'd said.

The barista laughed. "Vous m'étonnez, comme une énigme."

"You speak French," Castiel realized. Of course, he did. How could he have forgotten the time they'd flown to Paris for Gabriel's sixteenth birthday? He'd made Castiel quiz him with flashcards for three months before the trip so he could impress French girls.

"Just a little," Gabriel replied humbly. "Learned a bit when I was a teenager."

"As did I," Castiel revealed. They settled back into a comfortable silence for a few minutes before Gabriel stood, pushing his chair back.

"I should really get started," Gabriel said sheepishly. "The bakery opens soon, and the mobs will eat whatever's inside it, whether or not that happens to be food."

He waved him off. "Go on. I'll make another attempt at writing in the meantime." And he did attempt – Castiel was the kind of writer to plan meticulously before even thinking about starting the storytelling, which usually worked, except in this instance where he was so focused on his research that he almost forgot why he was researching in the first place.

The day passed quickly and painfully with one pitstop to the bathroom and another to the car, which he tore apart searching for his laptop charger – thank the heavens that he found it and thank Gabriel for pointing out an outlet close enough to his table. The barista in question would stop by every few hours with a treat that Castiel would attempt to pay for only to be glared at, followed by a devious, gleeful smile when he relented.

After the final customer was shooed out the door, Gabriel picked up a broom. Castiel, having a brilliant idea spur-of-the-moment, grabbed the broom from his hands and began sweeping the floor. He tutted when the man tried to take it back. "You've probably kept me alive today, not to mention well-fed," Castiel argued, "so this is the least I can do."

Gabriel eventually relented and moved behind the counter to pack up the leftovers. "Fine, but you're taking these with you. I'm not having you starve." They worked together in quiet for the next while until Gabriel plugged his phone into a machine and music began playing loudly from the speakers. It was some pop song from the radio that Castiel never paid much mind to, but he said nothing as the man danced happily around the bakery, tidying up and preparing to close.

Instead, he let himself wonder if tonight would be as bad as the night before. Maybe worse as they neared the dead of winter. Gabriel collapsed, exhausted, into the seat opposite him once more, immediately noticing the frown on his face. "What's up, man?"

"I was just thinking of my novel," Castiel lied, opening a random page on his web browser. Gabriel peeked over his shoulder, laughing when he saw the screen.

"Vampires?" he giggled. "Are you the next Stephenie Meyer? Give me your autograph, I'm sure it'll be worth a fortune someday."

"Humorous," Castiel said dryly, rolling his eyes. He clicked off the page, returning to his long running list of research and possible plotlines in the margins. Scrolling through them, he frowned when he realized there were several issues with them that he had no idea how to solve. Groaning, he banged his head again the table and shut his eyes.

Gabriel placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it's gonna work out."

"Is it?" he fought back, sound muffled by his arms. "I find such thoughts seldom reassuring, considering how little basis in reasoning they generally have."

"Maybe I can help. What's got you stuck?"

Castiel sat upright, rubbing his eyes. "These sources are very contradictory. One says that vampires must be killed by decapitation, whereas another suggests a stake through the heart, which is clearly the more infamous method, and yet another which advises a sacred bullet!"

"Man, this is gruesome," the barista muttered, wincing. "I don't know, pick one? What difference does it make?"

"I will not just 'pick one,' Gabriel. How would I know which correlates with the other folklore? Inconsistency is a direct reflection of idleness, which I do not approve of."

"Okay, then…" He paused, thumb rubbing at his chin in a way that Castiel had never seen done outside of a black-and-white film with dramatic cello music playing behind it. "Go to The Men of Letters."

Castiel frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"Right, you're from out of town." Gabriel got up, turning to grab the package of leftovers and shoving it into Castiel's hands. "The Men of Letters is the library down the street. Remember Sam? He and his brother own it. I think it's got what you're looking for."

"I don't need more books," Castiel argued. "The internet is perfectly suitable for research needs."

Gabriel smirked. "Who said anything about books?"