Dean stayed true to his latest promise, and visited Castiel the next day, and the two after that. All three attempts weren't exactly made with success; Anna and Gabriel let him up to the flat, if somewhat reluctantly, and all three times Castiel was still in bed in some state of sleep. He didn't wake up, not when Dean stood over him and touched his face, and not when he gave him a small kiss on his forehead, after a moment of his vigil, before returning back down the hall and leaving the store. He wasn't sure if Castiel was ever aware of his visits, if his family would tell him, but they kept letting him inside anyway, and Dean could only wait out the days until the other man was on his feet.

It was a Tuesday when he came by for the fourth time. "Cas?" he ventured, shutting the main door. The Novak's kitchen smelled faintly of spices and coffee, lunch time just passed. "Castiel?" his bedroom was abandoned, and Dean half considered going back down the steps to see if Gabriel had been mistaken to point him up there. The gross feeling of being an intrusion came on, and Dean swayed on his feet.

There was another pair of doors past the kitchen table. He poked into one, finding a small wash room. The other was sparse, having little more than some drawn blinds, a bed and a wardrobe – Gabriel and Anna's own personal place.

On one side of the bed Castiel stooped over a waist high object, intently looking down, studiously inspecting what Dean soon saw to be a cradle, Misha stuck snugly inside. His eyes were closed, and half of his left hand was stuffed into his mouth in his sleep.

It was just a baby, Dean thought, wondering if Castiel had noticed his presence yet.

He was making wonderful progress, Castiel was: The scratches on his face were thin brown scabs, though his nose had developed a dark, purple tint, along with his right cheeks bone, making his eye a bit puffy – but there was no permanent damage – Dean knew what became of Alastair's victims, and the fact that Castiel came out of it with the ability to stand was an impressive feat, in and of itself.

Castiel, still looking down at the child, whispered, "I've been watching him more than Anna lately, cooped up as I am."

"Getting attached?"

"I've never seen a baby this fat before." Dean pursed his lips; Misha looked completely average to him, pillowy cheeks and thick fingers. Castiel squeezed out from between the bed and the cradle and Dean, disappearing into the hallway where the light was streaming through one lonely window. "Anyway," he continued, as Dean followed out behind, softly shutting the door, "I just wanted to make sure he was asleep. Is Gabriel still in the shop?"

"When I walked in a minute ago. Why? Does he have a tendency to walk off?"

Castiel quirked his lips. "We have friends that are very good at dragging him off. Would you like something to drink?"

"Got any coffee left over?"

"Sure."

He poured the both of them a small cup from a stony looking kettle sitting on the stove. Dean accepted his, already reaching in his pocket for a cigarette.

The cups were put on the table with a gentle clink, and Castiel went back to the cupboards, pulling out a novel-sized box and settling down with it across from Dean. Dean raised his brows, arms neatly resting on the red and white checkered cloth.

"You reminded me to make some more," Castiel said simply, flipping open the box's catch and taking out a small packet of tobacco and rolling papers.

Dean contented himself in watching Castiel work with his hands, balancing between sipping dark coffee and taking leisurely drags from his smoke, never straying from the other man's work.

Dean had, in all but the rarest situations, held a special loathing for silence. He took quiet as a time for waiting – and waiting was usually accompanied with apprehension. Waiting for bad news, waiting for something to go wrong; waiting meant he had less than total control and less control had always been filed under 'Bad' in Dean's books.

But now Dean really had nothing to say; usually he could make a grab for all the right words in a business arrangement, on a date, or with bystanders cramped next to him on the street. He had a few things he wanted to ask Castiel, but they all seemed too distant now. Usually he'd be twitching in his seat by now. But instead he sat at the Novak's kitchen table with a drink and didn't feel an ounce of trepidation bubbling forth. There was the fascination of watching Castiel and some measure of desire to be able to have quiet moments like this always and all the time, but mostly, he just watched.

Castiel's bag of tobacco was thin cut, reminding Dean of the loose teas the Orients pedaled around up in Canal Street. He lined a bit on the skins and rolled them quickly, licking them shut. He had made seven in the few minutes Dean had been lazily watching, and just as his cigarette dissolved into mostly ash and filter, stuck in the tray left in the middle of the round table, Castiel frowned down at his set and carefully stood.

"I need my case," he supplied by way of explanation. He moved down the hall, into his bedroom, and shut the door. Dean waited a moment; drained the strong coffee, wondering plainly about the pacifying effect Castiel gave him, and followed the other man's path.

Castiel had been lying.

Not expressly, since the titanium cigarette case, banged up but polished enough to be reflective, sat on his bed, but that wasn't the express reason why he had gone into his room. He had unbuttoned his vest and shirt, laying them on the bedspread so that he might look down and examine his lacerations. Against the wall there was a mirror, two feet tall against a spare, scratched chair, one that wouldn't be missed much as it served a temporary purpose of a mending station; water bowl and set of rags and medicinal alcohol spread out beside it.

The last time Dean had seen Castiel half dressed he had been bleeding; before that he had fallen ill. There was that sickening connection in Dean's mind made, between his showing up and Castiel' suffering.

He nudged the door open. It creaked, and Castiel heard it for once. He turned around. "You ought to shut this," Dean said softly, rapping on the white painted wood. "Don't know who might come in, otherwise."

Dean was beginning to think that Castiel had a pre-requisite for soul-staring, because they froze in place for a while, like bugs in amber, until Castiel broke the effect by looking elsewhere. His shoulders betrayed his humanity, bunched by emotional pressure.

"I thought maybe you'd have the decency to stay put for a minute, but I should have known better."

Dean tried not to wince. "…You're healing pretty good," he supplied in the way of uneasy silence. "Real good."

Castiel looked down at the mesh of lacerations and bruises on his skin; Dean knew Castiel was healing well, but that didn't mean he necessarily looked pretty. The paleness of his flesh was the demented canvas for purple finger marks on his throat, and yellowing, organic shaped bruises on his chest and gut, a few stray marks were red and pink, raised lines from a knife point or nails; broken glass he was kicked into, maybe. Under that were some old mars, and arcane scars, silver accent marks to his painting, much older than last week, perhaps even before he immigrated. He looked back up at Dean with a dark emotion on his face. "Really." He said.

Dean came closer, "Calm down, Cas, I ain't pulling you or nothing. No need to act like you're the only one who's gotten broken up like this." Castiel still kept on with the look, so Dean went, "Here," and figured he might as well show him.

The jacket came off first, thrown on the mattress. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his vest, and undid his shirt halfway to show some scattered marks. He grinned when he saw Castiel's face lighten a bit, in sympathy or show of skin, or both. There was always some sense of pride Dean took in his injuries; he had to, he figured; to own them, turn each one into a story to tell his brother, some girl, to impress or offer some form of camaraderie.

He only had two indents of bullet marks on his entire body; more scratches than anything. He made a gesture at one on the corner of his shoulder and said by way of explanation, "I got this when I was a kid. Trespassing on Mr. Hansey's farm down in Missouri. I bet Sam that we could get some honey comb from the nest he kept at the side of the house. He tried to shoot at us with an air rifle; scared me so bad I fell against a scythe."

"Hardly seems like a fun time," Castiel countered, because Dean certainly looked like he was enjoying himself. In truth it was one of Dean's fonder memories that left a mark. That summer had been a miserably hot one, and he and his brother had spent most of it being blissfully childish; not much work to be found in the little town they were holed up in. Castiel sat down on the bed, Dean came closer, hands in his trouser pockets.

"Nah, it was a great time. Gave my brother a fit, too. And then this bear of a guy starts talking, and running seems as good an idea as any, 'cept I think I'm bleeding everything out of this little knick on my arm, and Mr. Hansey turns on the porch light and stares real mean at Sam and me, and then he asks if we're hungry.

"Turns out, he was looking for some neighbor's kids that kept on killing his chickens. We didn't do any of that, we were just bored and yeah, hungry, too."

"So he fed you?" Dean shrugged in affirmation, feeling particularly proud of himself.

"Ever have fresh honeycomb? The hard part squeaks in your teeth. Real loud." Castiel looked down and shook his head; no, he hadn't, never had the pleasure, he probably wouldn't at any rate, so don't feel bad.

Too late, a guilt was burning Dean up; his plan to sooth Castiel backfiring when they both came to see how alien they sometimes were to one another. The past wasn't a safe place for them to dwell, and without the protective film of nostalgia what could they talk about?

Dean supposed that he was never that skilled when it came to meaningful conversations, at any rate. He straightened up, wiping at his mouth, trying to think of what to say next. Castiel made a grab for his free hand and pulled it from Dean's pocket, clutching it as if Dean was about to leave him too soon.

Dean had no intention of heading out, and their gazes matched, watched, waited and waited for something… did Castiel want an assurance? Dean didn't know what he was supposed to do, what Castiel wanted him to do, but in his experience, instinctual actions never really let him down.

He stooped a bit, pressing himself closer to Castiel until he was nearly falling into him, feet no longer supporting his weight as he set himself in his lap, chin jutting on Castiel's shoulder.

"You're fine Cas, you are." He felt slow arms shift and go around his waist; loose, then tight, drifting down to his hips, then higher, unsure where he was meant to put them. Dean didn't correct Castiel, closing his eyes for a moment and listening to the quick pulse thrumming in Castiel's chest; the silence of their embrace mixing with the sounds of normal life outside. I could get used to this, he thought. There were rough hands threading on his back. Now the rubbing motions felt less self-conscious and a lot more deliberate.

Dean had his jacket was off and his vest was undone, but his suspenders, he hadn't bothered to unfasten, nor did he untuck his shirt. Still, Castiel's fingers touched against the vest's hems, the joints of his thumb forefinger cinching the space just above Dean's hips. He leaned up to warmly whisper, "I don't mind…" into Castiel's ear, and felt warm palms going under the fabric, another layer closer to his skin. Dean dragged his head back and kissed Castiel on the mouth, fingers rubbing into his scalp, another hand drifting down to trail his spine. There was warmth and pressure so that Dean almost felt pained to pull back again, leaning his forehead against Castiel's, dragging his hand down so it went from Castiel's hair to the back of his neck.

He hardly had the chance to look at Castiel – take in his blue eyes, blown to smithereens with a base sense of want; dry lips on their way from unassuming pink to a ruinous scarlet; that stubble on his cheeks from spare days not needing to make an appearance in his shop. Dean could have done that forever, just observe, but Castiel made a gasping, desperate, hungry noise, pressing so hard against Dean's back that their lips crushed down together once more, as if Castiel was choking on the air around him, and the only way to survive was lost somewhere between Dean's teeth. Dean could have laughed at the idea, would have in most cases, but this was Castiel, and somehow, that made all the difference.

They were doing a rather awful job of being inconspicuous; breathing hard and constantly shifting, in a half-desire to get some sort of friction in their laps – as if they were climbing towards something.

Another flurried breakaway brought even more disappointed gasps and groans, until once Dean pressed forward too hard in his earnestness and Castiel's posture gave out, sending them both sprawling onto the bed and knocking Castiel's head against the wall.

"Sorry, sorry," Dean breathed out, but Castiel was grinning anyway, not hurt and not minded. Dean bent over and kissed his neck, brushing more warm skin as the other's pulse got harder and faster. He started to roll off of him when Castiel gripped his shoulders tight and made a red ring of kisses and bites below Dean's collar bone, forcing the other to prop himself up until his arms shook from the effort. Shaky minutes passed until finally Castiel stopped, impulsively, as if suddenly deciding that this amount of love bites and bruises was sufficient, before giving Dean one more finishing kiss on his darkly tinted mouth and laid back down, hands flat on his stomach, looking up at Dean like watching him was comparable to star gazing.

Dean shifted so that his arms weren't protesting so much. "I liked that," he murmured fondly, brushing away some rebellious strand of hair from Castiel's forehead.

"That makes two of us," Castiel's eyelids slipped closed for a moment in thought. "You don't want to…?"

He'd be lying if he said his trousers didn't feel constrictive and his body way too hot, but he didn't mind, affection making him complacent; willing to wait. "I don't mind." He was happy enough to see Castiel's frail smile peak out from his neutral expression.

"We could do this all the time," he tantalized. "If you just lived closer." Dean felt a surprised jolt go through him, and he tightened his fists, twisting them into the bed sheets. He smirked.

"I uh, I might be closer than you think."

"You moved?"

"It's been longer of a while for me than you," Dean felt it, the twinge in his heart that came with thinking of Sam, miles away and doing what, he had no concept. Being cut off from his brother was the worst lows he could have hit, so he had learnt to accept the sorry pain of missing something he had so long been convinced he couldn't live without.

But here, in Castiel's grip, it hurt a little less. He knew Castiel would understand the feeling, probably experiencing it firsthand himself. It was a weight lifted off his shoulders, and he kept waiting for a new guilt to come, like with his usual coping habits, but none arrived, marking their place as a lump in the back of his throat.

Just as he was about to speak again, he saw Castiel's eyes grow wide, his body tensing.

Listening, Dean heard it, too.

Footsteps, going tap, tap, tap on the stairs below.

They locked eyes, breath caught in their windpipes for one second, before they leapt up in a flurry of movement, pulling on clothes and smoothing themselves and desperately trying to gauge how much time they had to spare. Dean gestured hastily to the kitchen as Castiel buttoned his shirt, and he just managed to drop down in his chair, adjusting his tie and patting down the part in his hair when Anna walked in, bags filling up her arms.

"Oh," she said, rolling her eyes around the room, trying to inspect the impurities that may have occurred in her absence. She tagged the two empty coffee cups and open tobacco box in front of Dean. "Hello. Were you with Castiel?"

"Yeah. He, uh, he had to get something, he said," he waved over to the general direction of the man's bedroom as he practically jumped out of his seat. "Can I help you with those?" Anna looked at the paper bags and nodded.

"Sure, just this one." She awkwardly shifted one of the bags over to Dean's arms, setting the rest of them on the counter. Dean moved over to the icebox, a pale color with shiny metal hinges. He rifled through the bag and pushed in the typical things; milk and cream, butter, eggs, a package of salted ham. Behind him, he could hear drawers opening, the gentle tinking of other objects as Anna put them away. Just as Dean managed to stop twitching in the fear that he had been found out, he caught Castiel slipping into the area.

At first, Dean worried that the exchange between them hadn't even happened at all; which meant different things. Whether or not his chest was still covered in love bites didn't mean that either of them would ever acknowledge such a thing occurred between them. Dean was sort of used to that type of secrecy when it came to those he'd spent a night with. Castiel might have been the same, until he sent him that same contented smile – the one that was more like a shadow of curved lips, leaving much more definition around the crinkled lines around his eyes. It easily displayed affection and then impishness attained from sharing a secret in plain sight, and it came as a relief.

Dean suddenly felt very young; some unknown, subjective age where kissing was an alien concept, observed but never understood, and holding hands caused a ripple in whatever commune of children one spent their time. He felt elation like that, though admittedly far from innocent.

His reaction was such that he suddenly interjected. "I… I came by again to make sure Cas was doing all right."

Anna looked at her brother. "Well, he's out of bed, at least."

Dean went on. "I thought, maybe, to cheer him up, at least, try to make things better, I'd bring him to a party in a few days, when he was looking right again, of course. If he was up to it."

Anna slowly ambled around the kitchen, still checking that everything remained to her liking. She poked a salt shaker into place between the pepper and sugar bowl so they were all lined up against the wall, arranged like a condiment execution via firing squad. To Dean, at least.

Anna and Gabriel had an uncanny ability to make him mightily worried about nothing, and he wondered if, after Alastair, they had tried to convince Castiel not to see him again.

But she merely inquired, "A party?" And Dean tasted the apprehension; thick and vile as it went down his throat.

"One of those sorts. Bosses have them. Class ones, at least. I've been to plenty, and Crowley always extends a hand, tells me to bring dates, friends…" Castiel tilted his head, and if the man had to wonder if he was one or the other Dean would have to just show him all over again.

"Where?"

"Oh, some hotel 'round here. Crowley's a fan of Coney Island. I can bring him, make sure he gets home in one piece." Anna looked onto her brother again, and judging by Castiel's unwillingness to meet her gaze, she probably knew more than they had assumed. Dean contemplated if Castiel's disregard for religious dogma when it came to their sort of relationships was a quality shared by the rest of his family. Dean had always kept his affairs incredibly private; no one but him and the other guy knew; Sam wasn't even aware – and if he had ever been inclined to think that Dean was interested in anything but women, he hadn't asked, but since when did Sam not inquire about… anything?

Still, all Anna did was ask if there would be drinks.

Dean laughed. "Hardly a party without it." Anna hummed in a deprecating way.

"I'm not Castiel's mother," she said finally. "He's allowed to do whatever he wants." Her eyes had never strayed from Castiel. "I'm sure Gabriel would say the same thing. Whatever makes you happy."

"Thank-you, Anna." Castiel bowed his head slightly.

"Yes, well," she crossed the room, presumably on her way to check on Misha. She paused to stand by Dean for a moment. "One thing to say for him, he did always pay you on time." She went through the darkness of her bedroom and closed the door. Puzzled, Dean turned to Castiel to ask him what that had meant, but the tailor was upon him again, letting Dean step back until there was no room left and he was being kissed, thighs pressed against the edge of the table.

He dragged Castiel back by the shoulders, holding him tightly in place. "She's right there – " he hissed out.

"Why do you think she left the room?" Dean deflated.

"She knows about you?"

"She knows about us." Dean's lips twitched up at the last word involuntarily.

"Explains the odd talk you two just had." He looked over his shoulder at the bedroom door, still closed.

"We're all used to privacy, when we can get it."

"Not personal space, though."

Castiel ignored that jab as he dragged his knuckles across Dean's face, letting Dean slowly turn his attention back to him. "She didn't want to embarrass you, probably. But I think you can handle it."

"I can handle anything you throw at me," Dean said with joking bravado.

"I hope so," Castiel replied. "When can we go?"

Dean took in Castiel's faded injuries. Most of his lasting marks were on his body, which obviously wouldn't be exposed. His face was healing rapidly, too. "Next Saturday, Crowley should have something. You can show me that you're decent at cards." Castiel cocked his head.

"I'll need a hat."

"I'll buy you a hat."

Castiel looked unsure. "They'll let a Russian in?"

"If you're with me."

A pause. Then: "You won't abandon me at the last minute, right?" Dean could understand that; you don't get something for nothing. Never mind that Castiel had been the only thing worth smiling about for a while; or that he'd gladly hold the man above his head and proclaim Castiel perfect and his if he could.

But he felt embarrassed enough thinking that; of course voicing such a thing was out of the question. "I promise that I'll drag you out with me to have some fun, no matter how embarrassed you get."

Castiel frowned. "I won't be embarrassed."

"Of course not." Dean brushed his nose against Castiel's cheek before kissing him, long and deep. I'll come back soon, okay?"

Castiel, fingers still trailing Dean's jaw, nodded. "Of course. I'll be waiting." They disentangled themselves and Dean crossed across the apartment. "Goodbye, Dean."

As Dean descended down the apartment steps he thought, that in all the joys in the world, there was rarely something quite as nice as knowing that someone would be waiting for you.