On the morning of the 27th a black Ford drove onto the quiet road of Brighton 7th Street and crunched to a halt in front of the Novak's tailoring shop.
Dean Winchester, looking starched and pale in the early morning light, got out and didn't even make it to knocking on the shop's front door before Castiel pushed it open, small suitcase in hand.
Castiel was more enthralled by the car, only just muttering a hello before going over and peering at the waxed exterior like he had never had such an occasion before. Then again, perhaps he hadn't. Dean had spent a respectable amount of hours in the backseat of countless Model Ts, getting a lift from strangers across town and state lines, though it wasn't until getting to Brooklyn that he actually managed to find more of an interest in the things; the apparent epitomes of modern ingenuity and American spirit. He couldn't say Castiel was in the wrong for getting excited, exercising aspects of childlike curiosity and humble exploration, everything from the way he carefully trailed fingers around the hood of the car and tapped the glass of the windshield, standing at attention in a spick and span suit like it was his first Sunday afternoon drive in the family's car. Dean was endeared to it, even moreso when he knew that neither of them had those sorts of memories lurking in the past anyway.
Presently, Anna and Gabriel emerged, dressed for the workday. Dean watched the pair while they, in turn, looked over at their brother.
When Dean had sprung the question to Castiel the week before, the reaction had been immediate: "Yes. Of course." It seemed an afterthought that he'd have to explain his impromptu vacation to his family – such spontaneity might have been Dean's influence, and he wasn't sure whether to be smug or worried about it.
"Don't let him drive that," Anna said by way of greeting. She squinted at her brother. "No matter what he bribes you with." Dean glanced over at Castiel.
"He hasn't driven before, I'm guessing."
"He hasn't been inside a car before," Gabriel said. Dean smiled at the purposefully exaggerated tone the other used; Gabriel did, in fact, have a sense of humor. Sometimes; or at least some manner of appropriately responding to vague irony. The pair of them went to concentrating on Dean.
"How long will you be away?" Anna asked.
"Till Sunday night. Like he told you, I assumed."
"Have you done this sort of run before?" Dean rubbed his neck.
"Once or twice."
"The same route?"
"I've been up around Albany a few times."
"Recently?"
"How soon is recent?" Dean went. "…No. Not for a few years."
"Great." She looked past his head. Dean wasn't positive the content of Castiel's retelling of their excursion to the Capitol; hopefully the other man hadn't said much, but the way they were talking to him seemed to imply that for all that they trusted Castiel to make his own decisions, Dean was still scrutinized.
"He's never been outside the city. Not since we came here, at least." Gabriel said.
"Have you two?"
"No," Anna said. "That's why we worry." It was hard for Dean to gather sympathy for the family, with the fact that he had traveled more in the first years of his childhood than most people did in a lifetime.
"He won't be on the actual site. You know, while we load up. I told him as much. He just parks himself somewhere for a few hours and I come back."
"And if you don't?" Anna said.
"They're not prone to accidents up there. Hasn't been a bust in months."
"Almost too good to be true," Gabriel supplied. He stepped a bit closer to Dean. "We decided not to bore you with the obvious warning."
"Obvious?" Dean echoed, confused.
"He means the custom of reminding you that if you were to do something to our brother you won't have your legs anymore." Anna offered. Their faces were set stonily in place. Not that Dean was unused to getting warnings like that from some concerned parent or sibling when he had gone out on dates, but the petite woman and short man before him somehow managed to put him more on edge than most other threatening parties he had come across.
"Duly noted." Dean said. "I guess I'd be saying something similar if it was my brother with…" he flubbed for a moment. "Never mind."
"Right. Well then," Anna looked past Dean and smiled sweetly at Castiel, looking on at them. Gabriel likewise broke out into a grin.
Dean shivered.
They both waved at their departing brother, and Castiel slipped into the front passenger seat, staring at his family with the same type of joyful expression. When Dean slammed the door of the driver's side shut and fell into his spot, he merely tossed an exhausted look over at the other man.
"What is it?" he asked. Dean shook his head and started the car with a rumble.
"You have one of the… strangest families I have ever met." He blinked. "And I'm counting mine."
xxxx
The Catskill Mountains were thrust up around the middle of New York, a hundred miles from the city and about forty southwest of Albany. Dean had been once when he was a child, another time on a move from Hartford to Philadelphia, though he couldn't say he was going back for nostalgia – he didn't recall the place from either time. The effort of driving half the day was more of a need to feel out new scenery; one with more green than gray, more rolling hills than flat land and skyscrapers. He had spent half his life on the road anyway, and the urge was certainly there. He and Sam had made plans to take trips outside the neighborhood, though those had rarely held through, what with unpredictable job calls and the trouble of not owning a car. And trains were all well and good of course, but they didn't tend to make stops in a forest.
New York had the eeriest way of making people stay in the same few street blocks all their life.
But Crowley, at least, owned a fleet of automobiles – and with those came freedom. Every time Dean had the chance to drive one of the pristine Fords he was left with a greater appreciation for them and the line of innovation that set them forth.
He and Castiel spent much of the drive in a polite silence. The other man hardly seemed bored, staring out the windows with wide eyes at every little town and city, at the small acreage of farms and the long stretches of nothing at all. The drive was lulling, soothing; though when they stopped at a diner for lunch in Ellenville, they both took a moment to stretch before heading inside.
Dean and Castiel sat next to each other at the lunch counter; there was some odd placed relief in having to support their own posture on the wooden stools, after a few hours of leaning into the upholstery of a car seat. They both asked for clubs and Coke from a hefty waitress who seemed to be at least half asleep, slurring the repetition of their orders as she scribbled something down on a notepad with too much of a flourish to produce anything but a set of waitress-only recognizable symbols. It didn't stop Dean from beaming up at the older woman like her mere presence had somehow managed to make his day lousy with joy and good fortune.
"How you folks doing?" She asked disinterestedly.
"Not too bad," Dean's pleasant expression was laid on thick. Castiel, not used to the look, was staring at him. He couldn't even think to stop it; that was just how he was around women – even without the intention of flirting with one. "Say, can you tell me how the weather is making out for the next few days?"
"Vacationing?"
Dean shook his head. "More of a far-off work site. But if there's time," he shrugged, as if to imply a vague, up in the air proposal of what the two of them would do in their free time away.
"Well you're in luck." She tucked the paper pad into a pocket in her dress and the stub of a pencil behind her ear. "Weather's s'posed to be as good as Mexico this week. No rain, no clouds, decent wind. Perfect for a business trip."
"I'll get a few hours off if it kills me," Dean said amiably. The waitress waddled away, pushing open the swinging doors into the kitchen. Dean turned back to Castiel, as if about to relay the news like it was a novel concept.
After a moment Castiel just snorted at Dean's beguiling look that he inferred was more of an unconscious trait; Castiel understood, at least. And that was nice; letting someone figure out a few things about him every once in a while.
As they waited, they casually glanced around at the more specific details of their surroundings, having the benefit of not barreling past everything at forty miles an hour. There wasn't much to see. The restaurant, along with the rest of Ellenville, seemed to have the stagnant air of a tourist town in the off season. There were only a handful of other patrons, looking too run-of-the-mill to be anything but local residents. So instead they turned back to one another, and Castiel opened his mouth to say something of consequence for the first time in nearly two hours.
"How long are we staying?" he asked.
"Up here?" Castiel nodded, and Dean leaned more on the table, his hand cradling his head. "Well, it's not fifty miles to the mountains from here, and I asked a few friends who've been by these parts, so I have a rough idea of where to head after we run out of road. We got tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday morning we… well, I have to run off, get some work done." They both knew exactly what work meant.
"Will I take a train back from there, then?"
"No!" Dean coughed when he saw a few sets of eyes shift to the pair of newcomers. "I mean, I wasn't going to do that," he carried in a quieter fashion. "Albany's not like Brooklyn, but it's big enough that no one will mind seeing you there. It'll only take a few hours, and you can stay in a smaller part of the city, amuse yourself – I can give you some money to spend while you wait,"
"I don't need your money," Castiel interrupted. It was a point Dean was willing to pass over; from what he was able to tell, Castiel's shop was financially self-sustaining, even as word spread that Wall Street and its patrons weren't doing too hot as of late. Dean, who had hardly come into contact with brokers in his life, was finicky on whether to wait out the suspicion or be worried. Though even if he lost half his investments, he had most of his savings stuffed in more tangible places. "We can meet somewhere when it's all over. By a certain house or at a street corner. I'll pick you up, and then we'll drive back home. We should be back late Sunday, early Monday." The same waitress came back with a full platter balanced on her hand. She paused between the two of them, set them up with their plates and glasses, and wandered away to one of the few occupied seats.
Castiel contemplatively bit into his sandwich. "You certainly are a fan of playing things by ear, aren't you?" He said after a moment. Dean toyed with his soda glass, watching beads of condensation roll down onto the glossy wood of the counter.
"It's more fun that way, I suppose."
Halfway through eating conversation was struck up again: "Ever camp out before?" Dean said slowly. He hadn't formally asked, though he presumed that one couldn't spend much time in wilderness if they had never left one of the largest cities of the modern world.
"Camping?" Castiel echoed. "…I guess so. Not really anything fun, at the time."
Dean smiled, curiosity piqued, though when Castiel didn't elaborate immediately he merely settled for saying, "Most of my camping trips weren't exactly fun, either."
"I suppose that's true." Castiel glanced out the wide windows of the diner, made to showcase an impressive party of happy, middle-classed Americans that would be observed on either side of the showcase glass during the right time of year. Now it merely showed the pastel colored shops, small street sides, and battered cars, parked on the curb. The sky was a cloudless blue that made Dean's eyes wince without even staring at the sun. Castiel specifically nodded to their car. "That's why you had all those things in there then, right?" he was referring to the bunch of quilts and a tarp that had been folded and piled in the backseat.
"Right," Dean replied. "I figured a tent wouldn't be practical, since this was more of a lucky chance; we wouldn't be able to fit that, and… anything else in there, too."
Castiel hummed. "I imagine we wouldn't be cut out for long term country life." Dean raised his eyebrow.
"We both grew up in the country."
"I wouldn't exactly be excited to move back, either." Castiel admitted candidly. "We didn't have a lot of things even some of the poorest Americans have here." Dean nodded, letting the brief statement be. Even if Castiel was willing to talk more about his time before America, the publicity of where they sat, combined with its dull suburbanite setting made it an unseemly place to do so.
"Lucky it's just a few days then," Dean supplied.
"A small amount of time in the greenwood would be a welcome change, I think; going out to explore with the knowledge that you can go as deep into the wild as you want, and come back out when you're ready."
"Sort of like Walden," Dean mused, taking a sip of his drink.
"…Excuse me?"
"It's a book. David something-or-other, who went out with his friends into the woods? You know, 'I sat at a table with rich food and wine in abundance, but sincerity and truth were not, and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.' Or something like that." Castiel still watched him intensely, like his paraphrase of a novel had set forth a whole new battlefield of problems for him. "What?" Dean groused. "I read." He turned back to his plate, and Castiel, after a moment, turned back to his.
"…'There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree,'" Castiel added in a humorous voice. He was smiling. "'His manners were truly regal.'"
xxxx
They set off again, out of Ellenville in a click. Not long after that, the roads started to disappear. Sometimes there were gravel paths instead, or dirt ways that went on for a few miles. Out past the fields an expanse of color slowly began to emerge, and if Dean wished for a chattier companion, the desire would have been completely ignored as Castiel practically pressed himself into the window glass.
Castiel had never left the city; Dean suddenly had the notice slip into his mind again, adding a type of clarity for him. Castiel had never left the city. Not since coming over by boat in 1920. In fact, Dean was willing to bet that he hadn't seen anything larger than perhaps Prospect – maybe Central Park, if his family were being adventurous. He had never seen even a glimpse, an implication of American wilderness. Not even once.
Subconsciously, Dean pressed on the gas pedal just a little more, hearing the wheels crunch over dust and rocks. The Ford would need a good washing before it went back to his boss, that was for sure. But the vehicles were built as best they could, racing steadily through approaching trees. They were on the cusp of it now, and there was a large splash of flatland a little farther down that they could pull into; hidden away just so, right before the vegetation became too thick to pass through except on feet.
The clearing burst into sight; front and center, sharp and crisp. Dean blinked at the bright shoots of afternoon sunlight bearing down on them. There was a plethora of colors that had escaped both men for much too long. What had been the dark green of field grasses on their trip was much too uniform for the mass of sugar maples, moosewood, birches, oaks, and evergreens. Half the forest was in the throes of shifting from the sticky hues of spring and summer, going instead into a slow death by the colors of fire embers. And while changing leaves weren't necessarily anything special when observed by the occasional potted plant on a street corner or in a park, there was an overwhelming, gaping expanse to the woods, as if they had not so much as driven into such a place as tumbled down a rabbit hole and found themselves in another world altogether.
Because what was in front of them was more beautiful than the most dedicated gardener; painstakingly lying out row after row of planned and proper shrubs and flowers. Nature was flippant in how it appeared, and yet it was in the way that everything merely existed, in the way that it had to go through a lifetime of development, of growing and dying and growing again - that mattered. If Art was, in fact, measured by how it stood the test of time, then Nature would always be the victor, whether it was appreciated by people or not.
A place without people, Dean thought; just the two of them in splendid isolation, where they would be able to stay out for two nights, removed from anyone, anything; common amenities as well as annoyances; consequences. Hardly a thing to do but talk and take their time, hike through the edges of rock that surrounded them at the base of the valley they were parked in. Natural life did not care about the two of them. They would go through the unmarked paths together, do whatever pleased them, and when they left, none would be the wiser; greenery covering up their past there.
To Dean, it wasn't unlike letting an outer skin of himself peel away; letting him go through the very real past of when lying out under the stars had been the option of the day or week or more, not because it was fun but because there was too much distance between one town and the next, or they couldn't find a roof to put above their heads. Now, of course, it was different, but yet some sort of charm took over and let him forget how much more comfortable sleeping on a mattress was.
The main catch in his plan of course, was Castiel. He was looking around in his seat, hands in his lap, too polite to move and get out even when Dean finally, finally, put the car in park and shut the engine down with a sputtering sigh. Everything was quiet again, like it should be.
"Wanna look around?" he asked, and the pair of them were off like shots; peeling away their jackets and leaving them behind in the man-made contraption. Going around to peer into the underbrush around them.
The air was still hot, the low hanging sun seeping through the white cotton shirts they wore and heating their backs; the clearing was moist earth covered in wild grass and ferns, while the shade of the trees saw a raised incline, covered in a few discarded leaves and sediment and rocks. There was the faint sound of water, bubbling somewhere out of sight in a way that brought together buzzing cicadas and the occasional squawk of a high flying bird. There were no roads here; no way to direct themselves back from the point, but they weren't scared about that; the thought of getting lost in a place of untamed beauty seemed more and more like an ideal concept of leave. And so without a word, without a single spoken question, they were venturing off into the forest without once looking back.
xxxx
Exploration took two hours, and still they had hardly made a dent in what amounted to their campsite.
They sat on the grass, leaning up against the hide of the car. Off in the distance they saw a capsized tree sticking out of the mud; its bark striped away and leaving it bone white. The only dead and lifeless looking thing for miles.
"These mountains span five counties, I think," Dean said. They were eating orchard peaches from an opened can, passing it back and forth as they picked out bright orange slices, letting the sweet preserve juice drip down their hands. It was hardly an appropriate dinner, but then again what they were doing was hardly appropriate. Wandering off from their family and friends and work like they were able to escape. "You know, they say that before Europeans came here centuries ago, a squirrel could climb up one tree from the East Coast and not need to get down again till it reached the Mississippi River." Castiel laughed, a free, bright sound that seemed anything but polite – and Dean loved it, watching the white of Castiel's teeth flash from his lips.
"I never thought America could look like this." He said after some time. He licked the tips of his fingers, wet with juice.
"You've never looked in an Atlas before?"
"Those are just maps and a few drawings. Black and white, too. It couldn't do any of this justice." He gestured to the vegetation surrounding them.
"I guess it's hard to imagine that," Dean said. "Seeing it all before, I mean, I wouldn't know."
"I reckon you've seen more of America than what's typical."
"That's true. Anything from corn fields in Kansas to clubs in New Orleans to Brooklyn to… here. You're hardly bored when you're traveling, I'll tell you that much." Castiel hummed thoughtfully.
"Do you get bored in the city?"
"Hardly with you around." Castiel touched a hand to his cheek, which temporarily flushed from Dean's words.
"Do you think we can go swimming tomorrow?" he inquired.
"Do you know how?"
"To swim? Well I know how to not drown – just don't get your head wet."
"You get a cold that way."
"That's what you say – I call that drowning before your day. I've been in plenty of watering holes. Well, a few, at least. Enough to know what I'm talking about."
"And if I push you under?"
"Then I run back to the car and leave you behind."
"You can't drive this," Dean touched the metal behind them. "Your family made me promise not to let you."
"Did they also tell you to make sure nothing happened to me? I assume drowning counts as something."
He nudged Castiel playfully. "Well lucky for you, I know how to swim. I'll save you."
"It would be much easier if you didn't have to worry about saving me at all," he countered.
Dean sighed exaggeratedly. "All right. We'll go swimming tomorrow. What about shooting?"
"For food?"
"For fun."
"…I've never equated using a gun with anything but a chore." Castiel replied neutrally. He let out a yawn, clasping a hand to his mouth.
"We'll figure it all out tomorrow," Dean said. "Planning's for mugs. Come on then," he slowly got to his feet, though before he had straightened up totally Castiel reached an arm out.
"Help me," he said.
"So needy," Dean teased, hauling him halfway before the other man stumbled into place beside him. They didn't have a tent – if it were to rain they would squeeze into the car. But the night was clear, just as their waitress had predicted earlier. Their blankets were stuffed around them, a thick tarp underneath to keep them from getting wet from the grass. The pair of them stripped down to cotton shorts before slipping under a handful of covers. There'd be no chance they'd get a chill, even when the air had cooled down some in the dark.
The night sky hung above them in its quiet, mesmerizing way, as usual. Not needing to perform any special trick to have both men silent and watching. Every star and constellation in the universe seemed to be on display that night.
"I haven't seen this many stars for nearly ten years," Castiel murmured.
"I was seventeen nearly ten years ago." Dean thought out loud. "Funny to think that we were looking at the same sky, even all the way across the world, right?"
Castiel was quiet for a little while, then he said, "Yes. I suppose it is."
The Mountains fell silent once more.
xxxx
The morning saw them eating another inappropriate meal – bread and butter with apples this time, which they cut up into slices with Dean's pocket knife. The sun shone on their faces in an unmated, pure way. Afterwards Dean had gone to the trunk of the car, leaning inside the cool, dark interior.
He flipped a latch near the back of the trunk, revealing a hidden compartment at the bottom of the carrier. Most of Crowley's cars had hidden lock boxes to keep guns. They came in handy when there was a border to cross. Dean took out a Winchester model 20, an older, single-barreled shotgun. It was a two-slug, manual reload; that old-world slowness of unautomatic guns and the obvious size of it meant that it was only kept in Dean's collection for the sake of target practice. He offered it to Castiel. "You ever use one of these before?"
"Unfortunately." He examined it for a moment. "Gabriel has a rifle similar to this – we keep it behind the desk during work."
Dean couldn't say he was surprised, though besides the one that might have been concealed in Balthazar's coat months earlier, he had never seen anyone in Castiel's particular circle carry any weapons.
The other man looked at him in a scrutinizing way, as if trying to decipher his thoughts.
Finally Dean threw him a bone and went, "Ever get any practice?" Castiel drew a flash of teeth and let out a gust of air, not totally removed from a laugh; as if not believing what Dean was implying.
"What would I do –"
"Protection. Same as anything else." Dean shut the trunk. "So you mean you've never had to use a gun? Not for back home? Not for neighborhood watches?"
Castiel looked rather exasperated. "I've carried guns, Dean. Shot a few, but I never was trying to hurt anybody. Not on purpose. I mean, I…" he wiped at his mouth, looking away, preoccupied with the far off, dead oak tree half sunk into the flooded part of the field.
Dean chewed his lip for a second, trying to think of what to say. "Didn't mean to upset you," he murmured. He reached to take the gun back.
Castiel looked to him. He didn't let go of the rifle. "It's okay." He looked down to it; the metal winked in the sun. "I suppose that being a gangster brings the opportunities for enemies to arise, yes?"
"You'd be right." Dean said.
"Then being practiced in, as you say, 'protecting myself' might be a wise decision." He no longer looked angry anymore but more considering. Like he was attempting to answer a logistical problem. The bow of his mouth was stuck in a jutted position, and Dean longed to kiss it versus doing anything practical. He had mentioned shooting last night; it was hardly a primary reason for coming out to a secluded spot, but the more he thought on the fact that Castiel was determined to stay with him, he wanted to at least try and offer the other man some sort of leverage that most other people Dean cared about didn't have; if he knew how to shoot, he argued, then perhaps he could better defend himself. Castiel had already proved himself knowledgeable on many fronts; the nature of Dean's job especially. He still hadn't forgotten Castiel's theory of why Crowley had invited the both of them to that rather unfortunate poker game; it wasn't shrewd to voice any notice of it to his boss of course, but he always made time nowadays to scan for certain big-time names in the papers, following Castiel's own methods of reconnaissance.
He watched as Castiel broke open the breech, saw it was already loaded with two shots, and marched a few paces South – towards the bleached tree. And before Dean could bother to tell him the basics; keep the muscles in your arms relaxed but firm, to breathe evenly, expect a recoil – the shot was echoing through the hills, sending a few birds scattering out of their nests. He saw a large splash of muddy water get displaced by the base of the tree, splattering some of the stripped bark an ugly brown. Castiel had been close; frighteningly close. He glanced back, and saw Dean's arms folded across his chest in a closed off manner. He turned and fired a second shot that managed to hit the bark of the tree. If it had been a man he had been firing at, it would have hit right between the eyes.
The birds had gone quiet; even the wind seemed to have faded and gone away. Castiel's stance was practiced, rigid in discipline. He was slow to move his arms down and let his feet plant themselves properly on the ground. After a moment he murmured something, then turned back to Dean.
"What was that?" Dean asked, not sure if he was addressing the shots or whatever phrase the other had whispered.
"'You can't drink away your skill,'" he repeated numbly. He walked back, handed Dean's gun to him. "I truly didn't expect to be that good," he wiped his palms on his trousers. "Though I suppose that my job supports a decent hand-eye relationship, if nothing else."
"I'll say." Dean wasn't quite sure whether to ask where, exactly, Castiel had learned to shoot a man in the head from twenty feet away, or if he ought to just wait for Castiel to say something himself. Making some social faux pas was bearable when you could both go back to your homes and simmer down for a few days, but out here there was nowhere to go – or perhaps too many places. "Suppose I don't have to teach you anything." Castiel shrugged, clearly wanting to be done with the subject at hand. Dean churned up an unnerved smile, trying not to feel sick. "Just don't go using any of your skillset on me, alright?"
He expected a humored expression, or at least a nod of the head. Instead Castiel went slightly pale and adopted an astonished look, as if Dean had just struck him.
"I…" he swallowed, and turned back towards where the clearing ended, and trees scattered across the base of the mountain. "Sorry, I suppose that's a touchy subject." He quickly sauntered past Dean, back towards the car. He rifled around the back seat, and Dean heard the audible clicks of a suitcase being opened. After a moment Castiel reappeared with a thin book in one of his hands. He looked composed once more; that same, neutral expression Dean was seeing less and less of nowadays. But the fingers holding the spine of the book were trembling, the joints white from stiffly grabbing on.
"Do you mind if I go out again, for an hour or so?" Dean glanced down at the tome, then back up to Castiel. He hated the fact that he had made Castiel want to run away, and in such a place that both felt trapped together with no place of lasting reprieve. "I'll come back soon, I just – our family's used to –"
"You don't have to say anything, Cas." Dean interrupted quietly. He nodded towards the forest. "You go. I'm the one who should be sorry; bothering you and all that."
"…It wasn't you," Castiel supplied at length, before turning back and vanishing into the trees.
xxxx
With the pressure of nearly two hours of Castiel's absence and Gabriel and Anna's warnings to him, Dean finally trekked out in the direction Castiel had went. Dean had stalked around in the immediate places of the field, but that only left the mud of the swamp and that damned tree, and a few patches of sun-warmed stone and shrubs. Deep inside the forest was cool, and Dean went with the easiest available route among more widely spaced foliage and lower rocks. The beauty of the mountains hadn't been lost. As the incline got a bit steeper and Dean had to hold onto the thin branches of low hanging arms to help himself over obstacles, he noted that even the ground was a lush, golden brown color. That or covered in stone. Once he heard a rustling in a nearby brush and stopped. "Cas?" he asked, before stepping forward onto a snapping twig.
A young stag emerged instead from the brambles. Its lithe figure suggesting that it had been born that spring. It sniffed the air, its large, brown eyes settling on the outsider that was Dean before scampering off into higher grounds. He hadn't seen deer in years, either. And as he resumed walking, Dean likened the stroll – the search, rather – perhaps as an odd convergence point of present day to childhood. Or, at least a time when childhood might have occurred, if he were so lucky.
Not that much later he found a small stream. There were waterbugs that dotted the surface, and minnows that made themselves scarce anytime his shadow passed over the brook. The sound of the stream sucking at the base of pebbles and flowing through the large sticks stuck in his path got steadily louder, the stream wider, until eventually he had to cross over a conveniently overturned log and head across to the other side, where the now small river turned and led out into another opening. This one resembling more of a marsh with its foot tall grasses and onion sprouts. The river went around the circular space, flowing downwards in the direction of their now far off campsite, splashing down boulders and into a series of pools on a sharp jut down towards flat land, where a pond awaited.
Across the way, Castiel sat underneath a gnarled oak, knees drawn up and book balancing on his thighs. He was on a rock that seemed a more plentiful part of the ground than anything else in the nearby vicinity. Even as Dean walked through the grasses towards him he noticed how pieces of stone would be visible here in there, and the grass became uprooted by his very step. Most of the rain water probably fell out of the dirt and drained into the stream; it was a miracle of nature that a tree in such a place managed to survive long enough to become twisted and ancient.
Castiel looked up from his novel as Dean got closer. "Hello," he said, as if he were greeting a stranger. Dean sat cross-legged beside him and stared around. "It's been a bit longer hasn't it?"
"Not too much longer."
"I should have guessed when I got half done." He wordlessly showed Dean a hawk's feather he had presumably picked up somewhere, before putting it into his book as a page marker. "Found this place by accident."
"You find a good amount of things by accident out here, I think."
Castiel quirked his lips. "I found a pool."
"I saw."
"We can go swimming."
"We can," Dean agreed. "Do you want to?" Castiel worried his lip, drawing into himself.
"…Dean, I know I already apologized for going off… I don't know what came over me then; guns hardly bothered me before but, I think being outside, all the way out here, makes it different." Dean could see Castiel's eyelashes, dark shadows against his cheeks, as he stared out at the green expanse around them. "It's beautiful out here, but it's… dangerous. In a different way than a city is."
Dean leaned back thoughtfully. The bright lines of sunlight drifting through the picturesque scenery hardly seemed sinister; in fact, the tranquility he felt outside could have been taken as something too good to be true. There was a type of removal in a forest; no lights, no housing, being detached from modern technology.
"Not here, I suppose," Castiel muttered after a while. "It's a ridiculous thing of course, but – "
"Is it about home?" Dean asked.
Castiel's face went to stone. He frowned, turned his head slightly, his features now totally obscured from Dean.
"No." Dean strained his ears to hear the word. "It's about Russia… and before I came here." He slowly glanced back to Dean, letting out a half-hearted laugh; "It's awful that it bothered me here. What's worse is that I figured to myself that… that I'd tell you about it. That I'd tell you everything."
Dean regarded him for a moment. "You don't have to." He said finally, getting up. He reached out a hand to Castiel, offering to pull him up.
Castiel looked at him, eyes flicking down to the other's open palm. "What?"
"I said you don't have to. Not if it's something you don't want to say." Castiel grabbed Dean's hand after a moment of contemplation, rising with his novel left behind on the rock. Dean moved a few paces, out towards the drop off where the river began to slope downwards. "Don't get me wrong, Cas. I'd like to – love to hear anything about you," Dean's lips curled up as he spoke, finally letting go of the other's hand as they were poised at the edge of the wading pools. "But I think I know enough that I don't have to learn everything else – I doubt anything, whatever it is, would change how you are to me."
"I'm not so sure about that," Castiel murmured after a moment.
"Well lucky for you, you don't have to be." He leaned down, taking off his shoes, socks, setting them off to the side. "Come on," he said, "You wanted to go swimming, right?"
Castiel looked over to water; clear all the way to the black granite bottom of the pool. He laughed again, closer to the whimsical note of when they first arrived. "Dean…" his eyes were shining as he turned to look at the other, already half undressed. He shook his head, as if to clear the thought from his mind. Instead he watched Dean go into the water; gooseflesh prickled at his arms and neck before he began to complain about the frigidness. As a tall shot of cold golden skin, naked in the water, Dean beckoned to Castiel as he cocked his head. It was less of the curious gesture the other would make on occasion; this was impudent – a suggestive question, in fact. Watching the river bank, Dean attempted to guess Castiel's thoughts, only succeeding because he recognized what the opposite emotion would have been – Castiel was relieved; thankful of Dean's forced aloofness. His reaction could have very easily been mistaken for apathy, but that wasn't the motive for his claim that Castiel's past may remain mysterious. He was burning to know in truth, but was able to accept that certain installments of one's life were meant to be kept in the dark. He had a handful himself, though when someone told him they were unimportant to know, they were more disinterested than respectful of his privacy.
But Castiel understood that Dean understood, and he was soon unbuttoning his shirt – mechanically shucking off clothing until he dumped all materials on the grass and waded into the water as well, watching Dean dunk his head and come up gasping from the cold. When he rubbed the water from his eyes, Castiel was watching him still, an adoring turn to his smile.
"Won't push me under, will you?" he teased.
Dean splashed him, and got a rather large feeling of gratification from it. He wasn't expecting Castiel to return the favor, hard enough to actually catch him coughing up water and mouthing 'You bastard,' once or twice.
The cold mountain water was a relaxant, if one were to believe the magazine articles advocating a rented cottage in Vermont or Maine. Dean didn't believe a word of it, but the water was persistently refreshing, on all fronts. Enough to have the pair of them take turns fooling about, swimming and playfully shoving the other like they were children, and shed their problems as easily as their city-made clothes, laid bare in comfortable vista where nothing was set to go wrong.
They dozed in the water for an hour or so, kissing away the tears the freshwater made on their cheeks and neck. The sun was in their eyes, about three-quarters through with its trip across the sky, when they flopped back out onto dry land. It took an embarrassingly long time to get all their clothes back on – to the point where when they actually managed to get dressed, they laid back in the grass, unwilling to go from where they came, losing their special spot forever amidst the green.
"You must miss it sometimes," Dean said quietly, into the field. "You wouldn't have said yes to come here if you didn't."
"How do you mean?" Castiel asked.
"You've never been to a city your entire life until you came here, and you haven't left it for nine years. So there must be some part of you that enjoys this."
"Oh," Castiel conceded. "You mean lying out here like this?"
"The simplicity of it. Even a vacation, god, Cas. I thought you guys do well."
"We do. It's just… a necessary part of running business, I suppose. We don't take long vacations, really. We get days off, but that means that you cook and clean the flat, then. I wouldn't know what to do if I wasn't working, or…" he pushed himself up on his elbows, staring at Dean. "…Something else." He focused on the abyss around them. "It would be nice, though, to come out here for a few days, not do anything."
"Like now?"
"Like now."
Dean was quiet again for a bit. "People like you, Cas," he continued, "deserve to have everything they ever wanted. It's not fair sometimes, you know? There are people out there who have enough of anything to do everything, and they just walk around complaining. And then there are people like you, who've worked their whole lives and get hardly anything back; nothing's handed to you." He stretched his legs on the grass. "Anything you want should be yours by now. If I had any say in it."
There was a small ruffling sound and Dean looked over – Castiel had moved and rolled onto Dean, straddling him and looking down. Nothing mischievous about the look, just the regular contentment; his eyes brighter than even the sun above their heads. He leaned down, mouth parting a bit as if he was about to say something, but Dean stole a long, drawn out kiss before he could force words out.
They pulled back and Castiel's breath –welcome and warm on his cheek – puffed out a laugh. "You might be unaware Dean,"
"Unaware of what?"
There was that look again, it was an almost there smile, like Castiel was trying to hide it but the expression just burned too bright to keep down. Sometimes it was even better than the toothy grins he got from the man, because such hidden looks meant that something involved was happening, like Castiel had fought for that telltale twitch of his lips.
He spoke finally.
"As of right now, I have everything I have ever dreamed of."
xxxx
With the remainder of the day spent together, Dean was forced to come to terms with a thought that had plagued him not so soon after the two of them had gotten on friendly terms in the first place: There was something about Castiel that was wholly and incomparably different than the rest of the world. Where Dean had once thought that Castiel and the efforts required to attain him likened him to womankind, his phlegmatic disposition and rugged strength and knowledge proved him wrong. When he thought of him as a typical man, his intelligence and capacity for compassion over went that, and when he ventured to call Castiel a gentleman, brought about not despite of his past but because of his want to distance himself from it, he had to note that no respectable man of the world would be caught, like this, poured over one of his lesser companions in the middle of a green field in a natural state.
He was more tuned to an enigma, then, and Dean wanted him all the more for it. He strived to see Castiel smile and laugh and yet his pensive stare and broodiness were just as captivating. When he talked he sparked interest and thought; when he remained silent, still Dean could note his presence as a dominating force. He was gentle, only if he wished to be, and he seemed to know every ounce of information possible, until all of a sudden he tilted his head and turned into a curious onlooker, waiting for Dean to educate him.
Together they walked through the forests, in a practicing vigil or making enough noise to scare off all the animals around them. They helped each other cross brooks and go up sharp curves in the mountain, and when they paused by a deep fall to drink they would lean against each other and brush hands and hips, not necessarily because they could, but because it only felt normal to be so close.
Getting back was a more difficult endeavor; all their past knowledge had been blurred with city life, but they managed to shuffle down without much incident and reappear half a mile from their campsite, just in time to watch the early sunset.
Around them everything seemed endless and golden as they stretched back out into their sleeping place. Indian summer was forgiving to them, and even when the sun disappeared and the air cooled, they didn't need to hide under anything but the cover that night provided, as they kissed and touched and undressed one another in patient, slow-building lust. The irrational paranoia of getting caught made them shiver, though that could hardly dissuade them. Not as they moved together with fingers and lips, sweat and skin lining about along the curves of their bodies. Not when Castiel slid into Dean for the first time, hardly nervous as they contemplated the one another in a sort of fond wonder. Or even when all of that added up and saw Dean arching into Castiel's mouth, one hand buried in the damp earth and the other twisted at the low set hairs on Castiel's neck, back hot and wet and quivering as he succumbed to the all encompassing powers of the other, erotic enough to make even his shoulders twitch in climax. And Dean took all sensation bestowed upon him like it was a baptism, being reborn all over again as his heart slowed, breath evened out, and hands went limp into the moist wetness of the earth.
After, Castiel rinsed the both of them off with stream water. And Dean, still hazy and too satiated to do much else, kissed any part of the other that he could reach, completely content until the moment caught up with him and he laughed in pure euphoria, then praised Castiel for many things, one of which for being a fast learner.
At that Castiel smiled again, touched Dean's forehead with his lips. "I suppose I do have the best teacher," he teased, before pulling Dean towards him to sit between his legs. They watched the stars again, and Dean slowly came back to himself. He could still feel the warmth of limbs, but it was a comfort now, not a scorching fire, and not a passion. And yet he yearned for both experiences of the flesh all the same; Castiel's versatility continued. An arm went around Dean's stomach and Dean merely grasped the fingers there. He let his other hand rest on Castiel's leg, and he leaned his neck back far enough to see the dome of the celestial-dressed sky and touch the back of his head to Castiel's bare shoulder.
And for a short while, he was at peace.
When they had stayed still for as long as they could manage, and both had to work on not drifting to sleep, Dean went,"Cas?"
There was an affirmation somewhere just above him; Castiel's scruff was brushing against his ear. "I…" he pulled at his lips, furrowing his eyes. Everything felt just right; those climactic moments you got once in a while, the seconds before the thunder rolled through, the moment when the final punch lands in a fight; he could practically smell it, but Dean couldn't find it in himself to say anything. I love you, he yelled in his mind, wishing that his tongue would pick up the words, or that Castiel would hear his thoughts.
"What is it?" Castiel murmured into his hair, and Dean closed his eyes and sighed at the feeling. And not only that, but the notion he had just managed to identify only moments ago, when his mind was quiet and he wasn't keen on lying to himself. I could spend the rest of my life like this. He thought. With you. I was going through life half awake before I had you, Castiel. I love you I love you I love…
"Thanks." He felt the words come out of his mouth; a huge mistake. Cowardice on his part. "For coming with me. I haven't been out of the city for a long time."
Cas... He shifted, trying to will the words to appear; he didn't get it. He missed the shot. But Castiel had to know what he meant – he knew everything. Castiel ran a few fingers through Dean's hair again and kissed his temple. And as he did that Dean slammed his eyes shut and tried to forget about how close he came to…
Something.
xxxx
Dean woke up before Castiel the next morning, possibly because of the cricks in his neck jarring him from comfort. He let Castiel curl further into the blankets; the top ones slightly damp from the morning dew that rolled down the hills, making Dean's socks squish and shoes stick with blades of grass as he moved about, folding up what he could and piling it around the back of the car. He was quickly approaching Crowley's due date, and he had a few hours to get North into Albany.
He wasn't, of course, any sort of stranger to booze runs. He had no interest in only meeting one specific task anyway, not when there were multiple niches to fill in the criminal world. You could say that he dabbled, in some roundabout way. He snorted to himself when he thought of that.
Albany was a city in the way that most capitols were, but didn't hold a candle to the mass of New York. There was hardly a risk of getting lost around here or there, even if it had been a few months since he had last been that way. But there was no question about it: Their impromptu vacation would be over after breakfast, and when they got back home, it'd be more running around in their own little circles, meeting up only when they could.
Dean sighed, slamming the car door shut.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to see Castiel standing right behind him. He gaped for a moment, too startled to swear.
"Are we leaving?" Castiel asked, jutting his chin towards the car. They both had dark shadows of scruff on their faces, and Dean wondered what he would look like to someone else; a few dips in the water hardly equated to a decent bath, and the suit he planned on wearing out was probably mashed and wrinkled from its time spent in the backseat; hardly a professional way to look, hardly impressive.
Castiel's eyes were clear and alert, looking at him, into him, as usual.
Suddenly being impressive didn't seem so important, just then. His gaze dropped just a few inches down to Castiel's mouth, and that seemed to be all the invitation needed before Castiel was pulling Dean to him, hands in his hair, heartbeat pounding against his chest as they leaned by the side of the car. It was quick and rushed – immature, dirty, depraved and more wonderful than he could have imagined. Even as Dean forced himself to pull away he relished in the warm hands resting on his hips, and how his own hands felt around Castiel's shoulders.
"We don't have time." He weakly persisted after a moment of regaining his breath. It was hard to even stand upright when Castiel's fingers lightly touched down his back.
"We never do," Castiel said.
"Sad as it is," He kissed Castiel again. "Vacation's over. Let's have something to eat and then we're back on the road again." They lingered another moment, before halfheartedly stepping away and going about their business. They got dressed, ate, and finished packing the car. The silence betrayed their dual melancholy, and with a reluctant slowness they finally headed off once more, not as impressed with the piece of machinery that had brought them as the first time around. In hindsight, there had hardly been anything special about the place; not really. Most of the world was a forest, one way or another, and it was just as easy to hide away in the trees as a house or movie theater. But they both still knew that the days they shared had never been experienced before, nor would they ever have such a time again.
Slowly, towns reappeared; roads grew wider, blacker, the people increased, and land evened out. Dean sent Castiel out on the corner of Madison Avenue and Philip Street, which was sparse compared to the other Madison he knew, but was full of short, adjoined shops that Castiel could be amused by. It was about noon, and he promised on being back not long after two thirty. "You'll be okay?" he half called from his spot in the car, but Castiel had already slammed the passenger door shut and went onto the sidewalk. He gave a small wave, betraying nothing more than a friendly gesture. Dean adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, feeling a wave of uncertainty fall through him. He didn't want to leave Castiel by himself, though he knew that any other way would probably be more dangerous. Finally he waved back and eased down the street, watching the other man through the reflection in the car's side mirror until he had to turn away.
The particular stop for his run was shipping Canadian whiskey from Lake Ontario to Manhattan. It would have made a straight run into the city if there hadn't been a bust somewhere in Buffalo; instead most of the cargo had been put to Albany on hold for a few days, and Crowley's men were there to pick it up. Dean's written address was more or less inferred, considering that the number and street name he was given was just a long row of abandoned factories on the opposite and partway abandoned end of the town; one of the usual places to do something illegal.
There was a row of crumbling buildings made of white stone with tall, bottle-neck chimneys, no longer blowing smoke. He found a broken length of fence and drove through, pulling up to the one that had the least amount of broken windows. He banged on one of the entrances, gave his name, and moved his car inside one of the many garage sized openings that was lifted up for him by an undistinguished looking man. He got out and saw a handful of similar types wandering around, their own cars lined up and at attention.
A hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Winchester," came a serious voice. Dean turned and saw Adam, his face blank for a moment before splitting into a smile. Dean returned it, anxiety dissipating. "I didn't know Crowley sent you up here." He said.
"I didn't know this was a joint operation." Dean said, taken aback.
"Life's just full of surprises, ain't it?" Dean kept his mouth shut. "Besides that though, why are you here?"
"I asked," Dean started walking across the factory floor. The place was abandoned, except for a few of the men and some graffiti. "Needed a vacation, so I headed up early, and…" he shrugged.
"Odd way to relax."
"I was outside mostly." Adam gave him an appraising look.
"I should've guessed." He pinched a wrinkled part of Dean's tweed jacket. "Look like you had a roll around with someone, but I didn't want to say anything." Dean huffed a laugh.
"As touching as your reunion is, ladies…" a man was pushing a crate of bottles into the trunk of his car, head angled to stare at the pair. Adam shook off and started back towards a slowly dwindling pile of crates and boxes; liquid shining amber and bright, glass clinking together like a type of unlearned song. At least Dean wasn't the only one who had taken his time.
He got the trunk of his car open and started to move; it wasn't an hour of work, going back and forth as quick as they dared. He could hear hollers going on around him; on occasion a door would open and a car would slowly roll out, down the road.
"Think you can put some back there?" Adam said much later, nodding towards the backseat of Dean's car. The blankets would probably serve as a good cover.
"Yeah. Okay." Dean clapped his hands on his trousers and got one of the doors open, maneuvering some of the covers around, pulling a few out to rest on the hood of the car. Adam opened the other side and did the same. He glanced up at Dean when a suitcase was uncovered, but said nothing, merely moving it forward for Dean to grasp and put on the floor.
Under that, however, was a novel. Adam picked it up with a hand, examining its dark cover and title etched in black. "Jane Eyre," he read aloud. He flipped through the pages disinterestedly before meeting Dean's gaze. "Didn't know that was your thing."
"Hey, I read." Dean grumbled. He snatched the book away when Adam offered it.
Adam still had his eyes on the other things in the car. "What do you need a suitcase for, anyway?"
"I said I came here early." Dean unfastened part of the bag and slipped the book in.
"You have your clothes strewn around, too."
"We can't all be light packers, can we?"
"Uh-huh." There was a deprecating note in his voice, but Adam merely moved away and fetched another case of bottles. Dean straightened up the rest of his belongings, heart thudding in his chest as he did so. They managed to fill up the backseat before Adam decided to talk again.
"You know you can tell me," he said openly.
"Tell you what?"
"It's a bit obvious – you're not the best actor, Dean. Who goes on a trip to the woods by themselves? And why would one man need a whole suitcase?"
"He doesn't want his clothes messed up,"
"You did a fine job with that, then." He reached for another cover. "Seriously though, do I know her?"
Dean didn't so much falter as freeze for a moment. "What?" he finally got out.
"Well, you must have brought someone. Who else but a girl?"
"…I'm not exactly the romantic type," Dean offered. He had his hands around the edge of the car's roof, Adam stood the same way on the other side.
"Charming type, though. It's like the same thing. Come on, one for one." He glanced around the factory; there were three men trying to close the trunk of a 1927 Model T without a particular concern for anything else. "I have something important to tell you too."
"You first."
"I made the offer, you go." Dean wondered if he bickered as much with Sam. Yes, he thought belatedly. Adam was closer in blood than he thought.
"Fine." Dean bit out. He began spreading out one last tarp on his side, until the seat just looked like a misshapen lump. With the suitcase nearby, it'd appear more to anyone who got a good enough look that it was just remains from an extensive trip. Dean used the time manipulating the fabric to weigh his options: There was no way in Heaven or Hell that he would tell Adam the truth; that much was certain. He could very easily lie and confirm that it was merely a girl, but it was up in the air whether that would complicate things. One look in the suitcase and that would be over with, if word that Dean Winchester went on vacation with a girl no one's ever heard of… it might just be easier in some cases to admit to everything and live in the woods for the rest of his days.
"Like I said, I'm not going with some girl." Dean settled the suitcase on top of the cushioned bottles. "It's uh, a friend of mine, I suppose. A man. And he wouldn't exactly be keen on knowing that I'm telling you what I'm about to, but you're my brother and I'm holding you to keeping your mouth shut on it, understand?" Adam nodded.
"What's his name?"
"Castiel," Dean fought to not wince as the name came immediately out of his mouth. "He's – well I'm guessing you don't know who he is," he tried to sound impatient. "Met by chance. He's not from around here. Closer to my new place; Sam saw him once."
"And you brought him with you?" Dean scratched the rough stubble on his cheek.
"Not exactly. He had family up here he wanted to visit. Some sisters, I think. He doesn't have a car of course and I offered to drop him off in Albany here for a bit while I ran and did this."
"So you two stayed together for a while before?" Dean shrugged in what he hoped would be a natural gesture.
"He's not that bad of a man. Just keeps to himself. Sits and reads."
Adam slowly smiled. "You're a real McCoy, Dean. So, what's his last name?"
"You wouldn't know him," Dean insisted as a way to deflect the inquiry. "He's Russian, at any rate."
"Hmph. You think you can trust him?"
"He hasn't done much to prove himself untrustworthy," Dean offered. Adam hummed again. "If you even say he's a spy I'll smack you."
"I didn't say that. Not a spy, fine. Though his taste in books are… odd. For a regular fella to be reading, I mean."
"He told me he's not a fan of Hemingway and the like."
"But purple prose and romance stories about rich guys? Sounds like a pansy if I've ever heard of one. Don't suppose he's into Greek myth too; heard that's popular with the lot of 'em."
Dean swallowed. "Times," he muttered. "They are a'changing. Now I got my story out, what about you?" His abruptness seemed to startle Adam a bit. He looked around conspiringly, before nodding.
"Yeah. Yeah. First though, I could use a smoke." He wandered over to the garage doors and slid one open with a hollow shudder. Sunlight streamed through and pricked at Dean's eyes. He could smell decaying leaves, contrasting with the industrial rot inside the building. He took his hat from its resting spot on the driver's seat and put it on as he followed Adam outside and lit up. His hand paused a moment as he watched his half-brother slump about, hands in his pockets, scouring the abandoned outside with a glare.
He remembered then that Adam didn't smoke.
"Lucifer said he was going to make me a body guard soon." Adam said somberly, after a moment.
"Congrats." Dean said dully. "Is this a training course?"
"He sent me out here as a secret."
"Wouldn't those guys inside wonder what you're doing here?"
"A nice fifty makes most people look the other way." Dean mentally consented to that and took another drag as he waited for Adam to continue his thought.
"Lucifer's getting… agitated."
Dean snorted. "That's specific."
"Paranoid I mean. You know, thinking that something big is going on? Starting, at least. You remember how that was; when he thought someone was going to go up against him, do something."
"That wasn't a good time for anybody." Dean recalled, squinting. "Alright, so he's sending a few eyes and ears out to jobs. Why here, though? Why with Crowley?"
Adam leaned in close to Dean; eyes resolute in some determining thought. "He's one of the suspects."
Dean could almost stutter. "What? Crowley – Crowley – he thinks he's planning to put a hit on him? He knows a head dealer like him ain't stupid. Guy's too shrewd for anybody else's good."
Adam shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not saying he's right; but you know that if Crowley could pick up everything Lucifer has his hands on, he'd do it."
"Sure, but just because you have your neighbor's house key doesn't mean you're planning on bumping him to get a hold of his fine china."
"Well, there's a reason why they're the bosses and we're their little workers, isn't there?" Adam said. "It's a whole different ballgame up there."
Dean snorted. "Adam, I worked for Alastair. And I'd hardly say that he was any better off than me. The only difference between the three of 'em, is Crowley and Lucifer have a group of people to clean up their messes. They're dredges of the world that got hold of a step ladder. Now they're gods." He stamped out his cigarette. "So what do you want me to tell you?"
Adam licked his lips, not expecting Dean's monologue. He carried on as if he hadn't heard anything but the last part. "Just… don't mention anything to your boss – anyone, really. Not even that Castiel guy, alright? If word gets around that I told you, well," Adam slid his thumb along his throat. "I know we've never been really close. I'm nothing compared to Sam, but –" Dean clapped him on the shoulder; it was his turn to be resolute and assured.
"Hey," Adam looked up at Dean. "We're still family, alright? And Winchesters look out for Winchesters. I'm going to make sure that you and your family stays safe if it's the last thing I do." Adam let out a grateful smile at his brother's words.
"Thanks, Dean. Knew I could count on you." He stepped away and reached for the handle on the garage door. "Are you leaving now?"
Dean looked back. "'Fraid so. Still on the clock, after all. Give the Devil my regards when you see him next, alright? And let me know if there's any trouble on your end." He pushed the door back up, eyes trying to adjust in the dim setting.
"Yeah," Adam said quietly. "I'll do that." Dean could feel Adam's stare on him as he went back to the car and made sure everything was settled. When he tipped his hat to the other workers in farewell Adam did not bid him goodbye but instead went, "Try to keep yourself safe while you're at it." His dark eyes followed Dean out the door and down the road for a long, long time after that.
xxxx
It was just past three and a bitter feeling in his stomach forced Dean to go a legal speed on the roads. He hadn't felt all that great about leaving Castiel by himself, but he was persuaded that it was the best way to go, considering all the other options. But now, that feeling of doubt had crept back in, and he felt sick.
And it wasn't just Castiel he was thinking about. What Adam had said – and the resolute look in his eyes – weren't exactly pinnacles of reassurance. Dean had adopted that sort of die-hard look before, many times. But if he saw it in other men, it had never boded well. There was a lesson in that observation that he pointedly ignored; the fact was, the mafia was its own little family, too. And as bad as Winchesters were, the former was more deadly. If there was a conflict between Lucifer and Crowley, with Adam as an immediate henchman and Dean with his own loyalty sold to the other, they were pretty much guaranteed to go at each other's throats. And Adam did have a haunting point: He wasn't Sam. And Dean wasn't the family Adam had made for himself. If they were both told to choose…
He didn't want to admit that he was scared. For Adam's safety, for Castiel's. He didn't want to wonder what would happen if or when Crowley and Lucifer butted heads. Or what that would mean for him, as the guy from both sides of the fence. Looking forward, down the road, only a couple miles now from Madison Avenue, he didn't want to think that when he arrived, Castiel wouldn't be there waiting for him.
The perfectly sensible, strong Castiel who could shoot off any goon that would come his way. Except for the fact that he hated guns and would never keep them on his person; that even innocent and perfect creatures like he were not invincible. More than all of that, Dean knew that when he told Castiel about the risks and what Adam had told him, Castiel would not leave him. He wouldn't be scared away.
And Dean, unlike before, wouldn't try to force him. He was now totally comfortable with being selfish about Castiel. And most of all, he tried not to think about what that meant for the both of them.
So he thought merely about everything else. He let his mind wander off to Sam, Jessica, and he lingered on the fact that they would never see a New England autumn like he did the last few days. He thought about the wobbling stock market and how he wished he had Sam to better understand how the financial business went, and when he realized he was only getting depressed with commiserating about his brother, he immediately, unconsciously back to Castiel in a way that proved that he was too far gone, too easily conditioned at this point – he could clearly see how the man had looked in the midst of the trees, curled up with the old romantic novel, or when he emerged dripping wet off the shore. The warmth he had felt against his skin, in his arms, and then with a jarring suddenness to almost have him brake in the middle of the road, he realized that he had felt the same type of stomach-turning obsession one other time in his life.
He thought about Cassie Robinson, and a long, hot summer in Missouri. The one where he and his brother had honey comb and Dean spent too much time sticking his nose where it didn't belong.
Perhaps he was led to her because of Adam's comment; Dean certainly seemed attracted to the things he shouldn't want – the wrong race, the wrong sex, something. But they had parted in a bad way because they were both too dumb and too selfish for their own good, as most were at seventeen. Perhaps, this time, he'd grown. Perhaps he could grow, because how he felt now wasn't so different from how he had felt then. But it had been a long, long time in between.
He pulled up to the middle of Madison, right where he had dropped Castiel before. There were throngs of people, walking about, but there was no black suit, no tan coat; no nest of unruly black hair. All the eyes he could see were dark and downturned.
No Castiel.
And a thousand concepts rushed him, in a panic; Castiel was lost; Castiel was gone; Castiel was – what if he's…? He was about to get out of the car, throw caution to the wind and scream because it was all too much too suddenly, and when he had Cassie he also had Sam and a whole lot of carelessness to get lost in, but right then he didn't have anything, and fear and doubt and want were the only things that seemed to be getting through at the moment. He put a hand to eyes, forced himself to draw in deep breaths and try to just stop thinking for a minute or two.
There was a knock on the door.
Dean looked up, and from the passenger side window Castiel stared at him, head tilted. Dean quickly pushed the door open and Castiel slipped inside.
"Did you miss me?" he asked playfully, smiling. He had a brown paper bag in his hand that he settled onto his lap. Dean stareed back for a bit so that he wouldn't lose whatever shred of self control he still had; but Castiel was there, and for the time being, they were safe.
They're on the road once more.
"Anything important happen while I was gone?" Dean shrugged; besides a few revelations, a near breakdown, and Adam's morbid news, of course, nothing.
"What about you?" Dean eyed the bag. "Get something?"
Castiel quickly dismissed the question by shoving the small parcel into the deep pockets of his trench coat. "Just a few spices for at home; they were cheaper here." Dean nodded. It was quiet; in the car, in his head, and Castiel still stared mildly on; at the scenery mostly, though on occasion he looked over at Dean in an almost, but not quite adoring, respect-ridden look. Dean couldn't place his finger on the emotions behind it, but that didn't stop him from pulling onto the side of the road the second they were in nowheresville again, just so he could pull Castiel to him and kiss him senseless. His lips, his mouth, tasted sweet, and Dean knew that he'd be alright if he went home to all that uncertainty and trouble, so long as Castiel was there with him.
xxxx
A/N: I hope none of you have a problem with long chapters, um. Perhaps the bulk makes up for the delay. As for the references, the book Dean mentions in the diner is Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. He was a Transcendentalist and the book covered his experiences of living out in wilderness during the nineteenth century. Also, Ellenville, NY is a real place. The other literary reference is Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, which is about a young orphan girl who suffers at the hand of her foster family before growing up quiet but resolute, and falling in love with a guy who's kind of a jerk but they make it work, sort of. The gun Dean mentions was just a firearm in use at the time, though speaking of guns – for some reason when I hunt down historical information I also find a lot of Supernatural trivia, too. In Supernatural, we notice that The Colt and Winchester are both names of large firearm companies. However, in 'It's a Terrible Life', when Dean and Sam become Smith and Wesson, that is also referring to yet another large gun manufacturing company of the same name. This is probably already widely known in the fandom but, there you go. On another note, Cassie Robinson is my favorite of Dean's canonical flames and I enjoy coming back to her every now and then because of the significance she probably had in shaping Dean's future love life with women in the show; there is, of course, some point to her mention, but stating my opinion of her couldn't hurt.
Lastly, this chapter was personally considered as a response to chapter twelve. I believe that the Roaring Twenties were nothing if not versatile. There were massive parties and gambling rings and shady, underground businesses that weren't so underground at the time, but there was also a lot of the homey feeling one gets when examining the past, and while I'd be the last to advocate bringing back the Fifties-style nuclear family, there is something a bit romantic about how people eighty, ninety years ago would just take their new-fangled cars and head out somewhere; a park, the woods, for a picnic, usually. There are quite a few vintage photos of Americans doing just that, and seeing a flapper and her beau in a field with sandwiches is strange and fun and appealing to a nostalgia we've never experienced. It's almost as appealing as Dean and Castiel sitting in a field with sandwiches and making out whenever they want because no one can stop them. They're basically teenagers. You're lucky there isn't another 5k of sex at this point really. You're welcome.