His resolve, Dean found, crumbled a bit on impact the next time he laid eyes on Castiel, one Thursday away from the last time he had ventured over. He didn't have the chance to make it into the store, instead finding the other bundled in a suit jacket and trench coat, leaning against the brick of his building with the stub of a cigarette rolling between his fingers, smoke pooling out of his mouth as he aimed dead eyes to the opposite wall. It felt incredibly personal, despite the public setting – as if he wasn't supposed to see Castiel like this, outside of the post he had given himself in the world. But then, he shouldn't have gone into his bedroom, introduced himself to his very small family or anything else that implied what their relationship was – what it was trying to be and failing, rather, much to Dean's chagrin.
And there was something else, too: He had seen Castiel, witnessed the absence of crushing misery that permeated the lives of most of his kind. Out of all the things he expected to find in the intimate settings of Castiel's home, normalcy was the thing that threw him off.
Dean paused for a moment, watching Castiel smoke in a daze, mouth pink and dry. Finally he reached into his own jacket, nails tapping on the metal cigarette case before pulling out a white stick and walking over.
"Feeling better, I see. Got a light?" he asked, feeling the rough pressure of the wall against his back. Castiel turned his way, surprised and successfully jolted out of his reverie. He glanced down his nose and produced a little match box out of the trench coat's folds. He slipped a match out and struck it, the hiss of sulfur being the only sound in the street at all.
Dean leaned over, watching the faint light stretch and flicker over Castiel's cupped palms.
"I am. Feeling well, that is. Just needed a rest."
"Good thing."
"It was probably the weather, at any rate. The baby had it too, a while before." Castiel hummed, then went; "I was just thinking about you," Dean looked up and saw the orange glow play against the creases in the man's face; the stubble at his jaw. They straightened again, and daylight came rushing back to him. Dean watched Castiel toss the burnt out match on the pavement and crush it with the tip of his shoe, into the grit.
"Really?" Dean said, leaning forward a bit. "What about?"
"Oh, just wondering when you would come back to me, and speak of the devil, you appeared."
"A bit forward, even for you, Cas." Dean joked, but the truth was that he had been hoping for more of a double entendre – innuendo and a low voice – not a declaration of genuine fondness.
"I missed you – the little discussions we have." Dean mustered together enough strength to push himself from the wall and against the other man, smoke trailing his movements.
"Are you sure that isn't all of me you've missed? I can give you something better than just discussions."
Castiel squinted at Dean's tightly drawn, insisting face before he relaxed again. Solemn with comprehension.
"I like our talks anyway," he said after a moment, ignoring how the toes of Dean's shoes were touching his. "Don't you?"
They were some of the more pleasant parts of the week for Dean, but the truth wasn't going to help him here: "I like a lot of things."
Castiel smiled and Dean tried to hold on to the black mood surrounding him. "Do you like parks then? I have a while before Gabriel ends his shift. There's one a few blocks away from here; not far."
"You want me to go to the park. With you. Together."
"That was the idea, yes." Castiel flicked away his stub of a smoke and lazily strutted through the alley, onto the open street opposite Four Court. Dean found himself following into No Man's Land, if only so he could say;
"What if someone sees me?"
The tailor's shoulders bunched under his back as he shrugged.
"Then they see you. I doubt anyone you care about is around here – I'm the one who has to talk to his neighbors; explain that you're a nasty client that needed to be taken away from Gabriel's shop." Castiel turned his head back so Dean could get an eyeful of his face; now transformed from a bemused smile to a vividly bitter one, reminding him of a tangerine rind, odd enough – it made Dean's mouth wet.
Castiel wasn't lying, at least. The park wasn't far.
xxxx
Dean trailed a couple dozen paces behind Castiel for the half mile it took to get to Grady playground, right on the cusp of Sheepshead Bay. Spring had arrived the way it usually did; babbling and strewing flowers. Dean hated spring; the liveliness of it, so soon after he had begun to bear the brunt of winter's cold torture. There was too much color; too bright and too soon. Summer was better, when the sun beat down the fragile crocuses and the daffodils sunk back into the earth. The grass started browning and only the orange wild lilies and tiny violets thrived as weeds. The world felt better that way – lived in and imperfect.
He tapped a handkerchief to his watering eyes – no hay fever in the summertime, either. At least he hadn't followed Castiel's example, becoming bed-ridden and all.
They settled on benches made of wood and black wrought iron, angled at the ends so that they sat inconspicuously close – a patch of grass between their separate seats. They faced a clearing surrounded by oaks and thistle bushes. The set up was a carbon copy of any of the parks Dean had near his home: Dean imagined the mothers, pastel skirts and baby carriages arranged in a circle as they gossiped and watched the older children run about with one eye focused. But school wasn't out yet, and the early afternoon created a hazy, deadened atmosphere around them.
"So," Dean said in an authorative, hurry-it-along tone. It fell flat once he realized he had nothing to say. He stared out at the bright new grass instead. Birds chirped in the distance, though he couldn't pinpoint the sound.
"It's pleasurable out." One of the first uses of odd synonyms that popped out of Castiel. Dean snorted, making to get up.
"I don't have time for this," he said, moving – if the guy wanted to pansy around, they had a whole shop and apartment to walk circles in. Associating with Castiel in public – not behind the cover of a storefront, not behind a desk, and certainly not in the dark recesses of a bedroom – made him anxious.
"Dean," Castiel said. His smile fell. Now they both looked like stiffs. It wasn't the place. Dean let Castiel ease him back down, hand on his shoulder, an impersonal touch that left the skin hot under his suit. "I was hoping…" he trailed off, hands settling in his lap.
"Hoping what?"
Castiel turned, rubbing his neck. "When I… suggested something to you, on your fourth visit over – the one where you picked up you and your brother's suits… what were you looking for?"
"Looking for?" Dean echoed numbly, wondering if the pollen or the question was causing an ache to rattle behind his eyes, and then it hit him; practically a sucker punch of a revelation: The adoring looks, kind words; Castiel's sudden nervousness and the searchingly bothersome question of why Castiel hadn't made good on his suggestions – it all made sense in one fell swoop, and Dean couldn't help but laugh. A cruel, twisted up sound trailed out of his mouth; raspy like the kind his boss gave out, and the thought made his face scrunch up, reserved again.
Castiel didn't want sex; a quick meet up – he wanted a God honest relationship – love, even, or something like it.
"You can't be serious," Dean said. "You can't honestly expect-"
"Why not?" Castiel interrupted, indignant, unwilling for once to hear Dean's take on the matter. "There are others you take – plenty, I'm sure. Why not just trade many for one? It'd be better than going off with strangers – the ones you could get from the gutter as soon as a club anywhere else." He stared at Dean, hands still stone wedges, as if he had trained himself to never look away.
Dean blinked, scanning the edges of the park. "You don't know where I got them – you're not even sure if I do."
"I do, I do." He replied solemnly. "I know you, Dean Winchester. Not an especially significant amount, but I do. I know what you do in your job, and why you loathe it; your boss, the city; how your only family can be counted on one hand, and most of those are dead. You downright hate yourself sometimes; think undeservingly that you're the worst. You don't go to church because, as far as you know, God has stopped caring about you."
"Don't remember telling you all that," Dean supplied quietly. The sun heated his cheeks. He closed his lids against the glare, feeling his eyes prickle at the light. Just the light.
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face."
Dean didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what to do, either, so he sat, slouched on the park bench, not looking at Castiel because he didn't think he could bear it just yet. He felt a bit torn open and broken, now. Too injured to walk away. Castiel didn't budge an inch, but at least his focus was out on the green fields, aimed away and oblivious to the man bleeding out to the right of him. Sitting back in his seat, they both silently observed as the park filled with children and mothers, playing and watching, respectively. Their forms remained as fixtures, shadows rising and falling with the sinking of the sun. By the end they were left feeling stiff and lethargic from sitting pensively through the thickness of late afternoon. Thinking, maybe, or trying not to. Finally, once the park was nearly deserted again, Dean said, "You know what you're asking – I can't do that, Cas. I like you, actually, and that's bad enough, but I can't."
"It's easier to hide your sins in the dark." Castiel replied.
"I don't care about that."
"Neither do I." Dean finally risked a glance over at Castiel, only to find him looking out with a sheepish little smile on his cheeks. "I'm sure people like us won't become saints anytime soon, but it isn't wise to believe everything you read." He caught Dean's eye and his expression seemed mischievously secretive; boyish and cute. Dean smirked back.
"It's more than that, though." Dean went on; he paused until he could muster up the will to stay serious. "Maybe, maybe if you weren't…" he gestured vaguely.
"If I wasn't?" Castiel sounded almost amused. "Well, your sort has carved out a more manageable place here than ours."
"Yeah." Dean agreed. "That's a good way to put it."
Castiel went back to focusing on the field. A man and a woman walked arm and arm together, down an imaginary path. They were too far away to hear them; neither of the far-off pair looked up. Once they disappeared back into the brush, Castiel let out a grunt; chuckle, maybe. "I imagine you must be embarrassed – if anyone you know saw us. You coming to my shop or otherwise."
Dean found himself muttering something like, "I don't hate it." He didn't. Castiel was definitely part of the small portion of his life that he looked forward to: Midnights in the summer, poker games with guys he could stand; screwing around with Sam like they were kids all over again – and now he had Castiel, and a diminutive brick store front to go to and say hello. He might have been fine with that, just that. "But you said – you offered," Dean huffed, feeling cheated. "It's your own damn fault." No mention that he said yes. Castiel didn't bother saying anything to that effect, either – they both kind of knew, anyway.
It was their own damn faults.
"It's getting late," Dean said. "Your brother and sister are going to get a warrant on you soon." He stood up.
Castiel followed the motion, his overcoat swept along the seat of the bench where they had both wasted so many hours of their time. And for what? "And your brother must be curious about where you went to."
"I'm sure he'll just think I went somewhere."
"If he's a decent brother at all that won't stop him from worrying."
Dean nodded; true enough. And then: "I don't think I'm coming back… I mean, I shouldn't, at any rate."
"No?" Castiel asked, tilting his head, squinting at Dean's mouth, as if trying to figure out the words that had just come out of them.
"Well, why bother rubbing salt in the wounds right?" Why bother reminding us what you can't have and I can't give?
"It sounds like you've been asking yourself that sort of thing for a while now." Dean hadn't managed to start to move his feet, for all the talking he did on the subject of getting out of there. The trees rustled, bringing along spring scent and Castiel's particular brand of tobacco; strong and burning, as if it were an acid. He leaned in close – Castiel did, the smell of him getting stronger even after the breeze snuffed itself out – and even though they were out in the open Castiel's eyes wouldn't let him get out of the way of what was merely a train-wreck waiting to happen. "If you knew what you wanted, if you were so sure… and that you weren't getting it here… Then why did you keep coming back?"
Dean was supposed to have an answer for that.
Or, well, maybe Castiel already knew the answer – it was a mystery to him. At any rate, Castiel leaned in closer, and kissed him, hand clasped around his arm.
It was hardly anything, in all honesty. Didn't even touch his mouth. Just a small touch of pink lips, grazing the stubble low on his cheek. If anyone saw them, it looked more like a friend bestowing the other with a secret; if anyone saw them, they'd both be able to explain themselves away, play it off as the innocent gesture it appeared to be.
To Dean, it felt like his insides had been set on fire.
All this time and he was now given something real and tangible, and he couldn't, couldn't wrap his mind around the fact. Castiel pulled back and Dean tried not to stumble, pressing his left hand tight around where Castiel had gripped him, as if that, too, had left a tangible mark.
They stared. For another bit of time they watched each other, and if Castiel was trying yet again to communicate something to him, another answer lost in the depth of his eyes, he had no way to decipher it.
He took off running, a moment later.
Ages ago, Dean ran just like this; feeling tight and rolled up at the bottom of his lungs, nothing but air to propel him on. He looked like a lunatic then and now as cars blared long note wails while he pitched himself in front of their paths. A few passersby swore at him, all in a blur. Ages ago he ran in the grass, by farms tinged in gold. Sometimes his brother was behind him, feeble and unsteady, trying to keep up. Other times his father was in front of him, telling him how every move he made was wrong – position of his arms and the way he took in breaths and the tempo of his feet, beating on the ground. But he kept on going anyway. Because there was a race to win or impression to garner.
But now he chased down nothing, in leather shoes that were meant to make all the right steps on linoleum – not to be carelessly smacked against white pavement in a foot race against oneself. And there was the beautiful ghost of a man behind him, and he couldn't stop, because just imagine how silly he'd look to all these people he didn't know, if he just paused and turned around, headed back to the park?
There he went again; trying to impress the ones that didn't matter.
He collapsed at the North-west edge of Gravesend, staring down the lines of streets, trying to find the rose bushes and pointed roofs of Dyker Heights, another mile down. As a child, the middle-west had been his home, and a person could see one mile as easily as one foot. He and Sam would be out in the fields, temporary farm-hands during their father's assignments, or just plain old kids on the rarer days, and when either one of them got too restless he'd squint and point at a far-off silo or horse farm or house and go, "See that one, Sammy?" and off they went – two miles down the dusty road, panting, bent over at the end of their journey, sweat running down to erase the dirt on their bodies.
Now he looked and saw shades of gray and evil eyes staring up from unfamiliar faces. Figures the country boy would hate the big city – figures he'd think a place like California was better.
Castiel was in there somewhere, floating just beyond the reach of his memories and monologues, right where he couldn't see. But Dean was already halfway home and he had a family, too.
Colonial Road was snug inside Bay Ridge. They were on the third floor, room two. A black Ford was parked out in the front, shined and waxed so that Dean could see how dead he looked before he even hit home.
He opened the door, mouth like cotton after his escape – after he ran away. He needed water; well, he needed scotch first. Hell, he'd even take a seven percent solution – maybe the ringing would make his thoughts stop.
The kitchen was nearly as he left it; old wallpaper and cabinets, new icebox and shaky radiator. Sam was there, at the table, and after taking that fact in Dean could hear the thud of his pulse start up once more, and he took a step back.
It was his boss, Lucifer, that noticed his presence first. "There he is," he said. The line of Sam's back stiffened to mimic a ramrod of iron.
Lucifer's teeth were like spikes.
"See, what did I tell you Sammy? I knew he'd show up."
A/N: Places like the streets or neighborhoods mentioned in this story are actual names of actual Brooklyn neighborhoods – yay! And a 'seven-percent solution' is a reference to liquid cocaine that, during the Prohibition years, was a rather popular drug to inject yourself with. More on that later.