On occasion a person could get lucky enough to get an out of body experience. Or more precisely a moment of insight into the happenings of their own lives, as if they were staring from a window, looking in on themselves. Dean, in particular, received such an existential incident on his 27th birthday while he was cooking dinner for himself and the Novaks in the flat above their shop, all the while deflecting Castiel's questions and reaffirming that Neapolitan sauce wasn't inedible even if it was a dish he had 'made up', and yes, you did put that much garlic into the sauce, and anchovies wouldn't spoil the food.

It certainly wasn't the type of celebration he would have been expecting a year ago; a multiple generation Italian cooking for a family of Russians, with a married brother stationed halfway across the country.

Dean finally took a dish towel and smacked Castiel in the shoulder, pushing him onto the other side of the small kitchen. "Keep him there," he said to Gabriel, who seemed rather entertained by the exchange.

A lot could happen in less than a year.

"He's using too much garlic," Castiel grumbled, reaching for a bell shaped glass and pouring himself a generous helping of wine. It had been a present from himself to Dean, but that didn't hinder him any. Dean watched from the corner of his eye, and Castiel watched back, taking a sip.

"I can't believe you're cooking dinner on your birthday," Gabriel cut in. He gave an aside glance to his brother-in-law. "And besides, I like garlic." He played with a matchbook in his hands, leaning back in his chair while his feet rested on the kitchen table. "Castiel, sit down; Dean's going to start a fire if you try to start a staring match with him."

"I'm not –"

"I don't –"

They both stopped their protests abruptly. Castiel awkwardly sat down, pushing Gabriel's feet off the tabletop with a weak reprimand.

Anna appeared out of her bedroom. "You're going to wake the baby up with all that fussing."

"He's slept through worse," Gabriel said, surreptitiously taking the full cup of wine for himself while Castiel looked over at his sister. Dean would have laughed, though at that moment some of the frying tomato juice popped up and stung him on his knuckle, if only enough to get him back to focusing.

His decision to cook had been an impulsive one. He had been more or less in charge of meals since he was tall enough to work a stove, but that was more as a way to solve a logistical problem versus any real enjoyment for the culinary; when their Dad landed a job, or at least said he had one, it was best if he and Sam learned how to fend for themselves. If they managed to stay in an inn or hostel, Dean could get his hands on a stove and a few dollars for groceries, and that was that. In later years Sam helped him, and not a year ago he, his brother, and Jessica would pull their respective weight when it came to meals. He never considered cooking an impressive skill; just a decent, utilitarian one. A man who didn't know how to feed himself hadn't had a shred of independence in between his mother and his wife and could hardly be expected to be an interesting fellow. And having a favorite meal of his fell into the usual regiment of how Winchesters spent their birthdays, anyway.

In some small way, though, he might have been trying to make an impression. Give some sort insight to what his Westernized heritage was; that and not to mention that brined anchovies were dirt cheap. Dean had come up with the specific recipe more out of being frugal than wanting to experiment. Some tomatoes, some olives; plenty of garlic and whatever seasoning one had on hand, and the fish, which made up an impressive underlying taste. It served on top of Capellini pasta and could feed the four of them easy, no matter how hungry they all were.

By the time the three Novaks were settling down, Dean was just poking into the cast-iron skillet he had been given, moving around the simmering chunks of tomato, and watching the occasional bubble come up and disperse. The pasta was nearly done.

"And neither of you even bothered to help him," Anna muttered. "Poor Dean – letting him slave away for you two."

"I tried –" Castiel stared.

"You didn't, Castiel." Gabriel said. "You really didn't."

"Are they always like this?" Dean hadn't seen the entire family together for long enough to actually notice.

"It gets worse," Anna said somberly. "So, besides their rudeness, I hope you've had a good day?" Dean killed the gas and carried the brimming pot over to the sink, watching steaming water flow down as he drained the noodles.

"Not really," he said, dumping the Capellini into a serving bowl, putting the sauce on top of that and setting it down on the crowded table with a wooden rattle. "It's just any normal day."

"Except now you're twenty-seven," Castiel said politely.

"Calling me old?"

"Hardly," Gabriel said. "He's the youngest of all three of us, and he's got probably a five year head start on you."

Dean went into his chair. It groaned quietly under his weight. "Oh yes," he said. "You're thirty-two, right?"

"More or less." Castiel said.

Anna spoke up before Dean asked something else; "Before we get on to that," She interrupted, putting her hands out, her palms facing upwards in an offering gesture. "Should we say Grace?"

Dean glanced towards Castiel again, but the other man merely grabbed Dean's hand, threading their fingers together and bowing his head. Gabriel grasped his other hand in a much more systematic gesture, and somberly went through an improvised thanksgiving. Dean stared down at his plate, trying not to shift in his chair, or swallow too hard, or twitch his fingers in their hold. He counted his breaths and felt the room grow hotter; it wasn't the oven or the heater making him flushed, since the Novaks were now reduced to not using gas for heat except on the absolute coldest and harshest of nights, and even then at bare minimum.

Sam and Jess prayed, sometimes at dinner, or before bed. Sam had done pretty well of hiding it when they were younger, Dean unaware of his devoutness until Sam admitted to it upon being questioned. Their prayers were routine and identical; usually involving a few gestures and Hail Marys and whatever else was called for. They didn't speak about the neighborhood; they didn't address the shambles of unemployed and hungry walking around that very night, not out loud, at least. Dean had always shirked away from the dogma of religion, but he wasn't too sure what to make of what Castiel, Anna, and Gabriel were doing. It was worse that they drew him into their blessing, and Dean squeezed Castiel's hand for it, not exactly a message, but for whatever vague gesture he made, Castiel returned it with another hard tug at his fingers.

Somehow Dean found comfort in this.

"Amen," The table murmured in sync. Dean mumbled something that could be construed as the same word. He watched the three of them hand one another serving bowls or a water pitcher and wondered if there was a form of etiquette he was missing out on.

Gabriel poured him wine, which he promptly picked up and nearly finished in a desperate pull. "Castiel told me you grew up in a Catholic family?"

"Yeah, well, my brother is really the only practitioner left in the family." He paused and stared at the drink, as if just seeing it for the first time. "How'd you even get this?"

"You aren't the only one who goes on those sorts of runs." Castiel said. "I asked Balthazar for a favor. You should thank him next time you see him."

"Sure he didn't poison it?" Dean muttered, gingerly setting down the glass. "He has good taste, at least…" caught up in two conversations at once, he stopped for a moment. "Right. Me. I don't practice much of anything," he said to Gabriel, feeling that same moment of guilt like when he first told Castiel such, months and months ago. "I've never had to hold hands before, though."

"No?"

"I assumed you wouldn't be fans of it either, liking privacy and all that."

"Privacy's a luxury." Anna said.

"Though sometimes Castiel forgets about it." Gabriel cut in. "But that seems to be specific to you."

Castiel slid his chair a few inches closer to his sister in embarrassed response.

As horrible as it sounded, watching Castiel's family pick on him took the edge off his own feeling of isolation, and he greatly welcomed it.

Dinner wasn't nearly as awkward after that; it was hardly silent, either. Castiel was easily the most reserved of the family, but he seemed to be more than happy to be dragged into conversation, or to make a few side comments to another discussion he wasn't actively part of. Mostly it was bits and pieces of neighborhood gossip, which surprisingly, Dean wasn't totally inept with. He asked a few questions, made a few suggestions, and every time he did such Anna and Gabriel would glance at him as if they weren't sure how he knew about Mrs. So-and-so and that couple's business on 6th Street or those two sons that had just started school that year. And every time he proved that he had been paying attention to all of his and Castiel's rambling conversations, he would catch the other man staring at him with a little twitch on his lips.

His ability to tread in new waters, and perhaps the decent meal he served up was a good motivation for Gabriel to at one point halfway through eating look over at Dean and broach his favorite topic, Sam. "Did your brother send you anything?" Gabriel asked. "For your birthday, I mean."

"He wrote me saying that the things I got around Christmastime would have to suffice. But I was expecting that, with how things are right now."

"He did send us a crate of oranges though," Castiel interjected.

"Right. He did. Says they get them all the time there. Next time we're over I'll remember to take some to you."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Anna said, bypassing Gabriel who looked as if he was prepared to snatch one of the mythical fruits from out of thin air. "But your brother gave them to you – we wouldn't want to take any off your hands."

"No, he actually said on the card, 'Share with Castiel and his family.' It's not as if I could eat twenty of 'em, anyway."

"Sam also told him not to try, either." Castiel supplied.

"I suppose we could make preserves out of a few," Anna offered. "Might not get our hands on something sweet for a while anyway. Well, thank-you then, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "Don't thank me, thank my brother. He's always been the nicer guy."

"How is your brother anyway?" Gabriel said. "I mean I've never met him, but I get a few things from you and Castiel."

"Can't be any worse than here." Anna said sardonically, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"At least it's plentiful out West." Gabriel said.

"Maybe with food, but not in jobs. Jess got fired from that accounting work, or well, the store closed. Sam's been looking. Mostly it's on and off labor, week to week stuff. He said they're managing but," Dean huffed out a laugh because he was starting to get worked up. "Then again, if he's anything like me he'd say that if they were out on the streets." Dean poured himself a glass of water, hoping the distraction would calm him some. "He mentioned a name though. A car shop he's delivered parts for a few times. He might get time there if he knew a thing about cars."

"Like you?" Anna asked.

"I'd say he got an in at that shop more for his brawn than his brain," Gabriel said. Dean frowned. When Black Tuesday hit, it had been a whirlwind of panic, of desperation and confusion. You couldn't leave the city, couldn't get a damn letter posted, couldn't do anything, really, for the first few days. Dean had never felt all that at home in putting his money in a bank, so while the odd stocks and the spending money for his chequebook were gone without a trace, he had enough paper stored away to ensure that he had something of value left to him.

The entire world settled, more or less. At the least it didn't feel like any day a riot would break out, though everything was far from peaceful, or ideal, or even comfortable. Sometimes the anxiety of it all kept him up at night.

But he had found a job.

In normal times it wasn't much. The garage that had picked him up didn't do as much fixing as impounding the automobiles that were confiscated and foreclosed on, and breaking down what could be used for scrap. Others came in and tried to sell their cars themselves for cash, or even buy up machinery to use for whatever they could; once or twice workers from other businesses had come in on behalf of their bosses in search of raw material, thinking that getting something second-hand was cheaper than ordering the stuff. It was 56 cents an hour and, in truth, did command more of Dean's strength than his smarts.

Job discussion went on, having insidiously made its way into conversation and refusing to leave. Castiel had picked up work just that past week; in addition to maintaining their tailoring shop, he had to stand over a small vat of sulfuric acid and dip in various iron and metal parts to clean them. The pay was worse by a few cents, and he wasn't allowed Saturday off, either. Gabriel and Anna had reported that they had found just as awful places to work, though it seemed that out of the four of them, Dean was the only one who noted how horrible they had it. The three Novaks seemed rather unbothered by any of the economic downward spirals the world was jumbled up in, or at least less bothered than what a normal person should have been.

Dean envied that peace of mind, that apathy, whatever it was. He was certain that he was making up for any nonchalance on their part.

xxxx

After dinner, Dean's attempts to help clean up were met with refusals by both Gabriel and Anna, where he was more or less pushed into his chair while they cleared the table. It was probably good manners; still, after a moment Castiel went and disappeared into his room, leaving Dean slightly on edge as he sat.

He reappeared a few minutes later, and Dean eyed a small lump wrapped in coarse looking material. He didn't have to guess what it was, and he looked up at Castiel with a darkened gaze.

"You didn't have to do that," he muttered. "Really, you shouldn't have." Dean wasn't acting humble, either. If anything he was ashamed; that he made it seem like Castiel owed him anything; much less a gift during a time when all of them could be out on the streets in a month's time.

"It's from all of us," Anna said, from her spot at the sink. "We insist." Castiel handed Dean the parcel, and he took it with visible reluctance. There wasn't much weight to it. Undoing two folded sides revealed a few pieces of cloth: There was a scarf made in a dull grayish color that felt as soft as cashmere; under that were three hand-embroidered handkerchiefs, meant for the breast pockets of his suits – the ones that weren't being worn with as much frequency – each one had D.W. written in a flourish, green thread on a white square, white on blue, and black on red. The colors were vibrant enough to be exotic, and Dean ran his hands along the material a few times, feeling the small weaves in the cotton, the bunched string that curved together in immaculate penmanship to give his initials and a small border, specific to that corner of the cloth.

He looked to Castiel first. "You did this?"

"We bought the scarf from a friend of ours," Gabriel said, sitting back down at the table. It had been cleaned off while Dean inspected his gift. "We were set to buy the handkerchiefs too, but Castiel insisted on personalizing them for you."

"I…" he swallowed, biding his time. "Thank-you," he said finally. He turned in his chair to find Gabriel and Anna. "And you both, thank-you, very much." He folded up the pieces again.

Gabriel regarded him shrewdly for a moment, perhaps to see if Dean was being genuine. There might have been a small tremble in Dean's hands as he put the present back in its wrappings, and perhaps there was a perplexed, lost look still on his features. Either way, the shorter man said, "It was the least we could do."

And strangely enough, Dean believed him.

Not much later he excused himself for a smoke, and figured he would be better apt to collect his thoughts in the cold night air. He went outside, into the alleyway where Castiel purportedly stood and smoked as well. He instantly regretted it, feeling the numb cold settling into his body as he leaned up against the frozen wall of bricks.

The street was abandoned, blanketed in a quick layer of snow. It was too cold for slush, too warm for ice. He wished for the scarf he had been given, still a bit overcome with it. Dean wasn't accustomed to people giving out of the fondness in their hearts. Sam got him presents on the right occasion. Sometimes he had gotten something from him for no reason at all, but mostly their time for gift-giving was strictly limited to Christmas and birthdays.

He didn't expect to get anything from anyone else.

If anyone bothered to give him something in life, they wanted a fair trade back, which was all well for him. And if he had been simply allowed to have something, he was led to believe it was more out of charity. What he didn't pay back in money or regular compensation was done by letting the giver feel good about themselves; for letting him be the object of allegedly selfless benevolence.

Castiel didn't have to do anything for him. He didn't have to make another gesture, especially not a materialistic one. Moreover, the rest of his family didn't have to be so willing to do the same. Their sincerity of wanting to give Dean a token for his birthday was matched by Dean's overwhelmed appreciation for it. It was a symbol, of something. Perhaps the entire night had been. Dean just wished that he knew whether Anna and Gabriel well and truly liked his presence, or were letting him go along for Castiel's sake.

Presently, he heard the shop door rattle and open; small footsteps crunching in the snow.

Anna stepped into view. She was in a thick duster, boiled wool instead of fur. "Mind of I join you?" She asked, nodding at the cigarette Dean was working on.

"Didn't know you smoked," he said, lighting up another one of his and handing it over.

"Only while in company. Not nearly as much as my brother and husband do." She inspected the stick a moment before taking it to her mouth. "Dinner was good, by the way."

"Thanks,"

"Did your Mother teach you that?"

Dean hesitated, but only a moment. "She died when I was a kid. She didn't really get the chance to teach me anything."

"Was she a good cook?"

"I'm sure she was," Dean said. He felt something in his chest, fought down what might have been a smile or a wince. "No, I just spent a lot of time making sure me and my brother wouldn't starve, so I had to learn something. Borrowed cookbooks, mostly, or got into the kitchen if there was one where we stayed at. That is, when it was Sam, Dad, and I. Before we came back here, at least."

"Were you born here?"

"No. Kansas, actually. Lawrence, Kansas. It's a city, though since it's in the middle west and it's not Chicago it isn't well-known." Anna smirked at that. "After our Mom passed we jumped from place to place. A few months here, a weekend there. Drifters by choice, I suppose. The longest place we stayed at was Texas. You know where that is?"

"The state bordering Mexico? Yes, I know that one."

"My brother and I stayed there for a bit. Uh, we went around in the summer, but for school I suppose, our Dad wanted us in one place."

"That was considerate of him." Dean made a non-committal shrug. "Is that where your accent is from?"

"Excuse me?"

Anna looked considering for a moment before she elaborated. "Well for a man from Brooklyn you don't sound like one, and you don't sound much like you came from Sicily or Roma. I hear people from the Middle West don't sound like anything at all. You have a bit of a… drawl, if you don't mind me saying. Just a small one. I wouldn't have noticed if Castiel didn't go on about it once or twice."

"He says that?"

"Sure, though he says you like his inflection too, so I don't think you can be upset."

"No, not that. I just… didn't think he talked about me with you two."

"Of course he does. He has to swoon over you with somebody, and Balthazar isn't the best company for that." Dean frowned at the mention of the other's name. "He's a bit of a snob when it comes to people who weren't born in our part of the world, I'll grant you that, but he's not as bad as you seem to think he is." She sighed. "Then again I've tried telling him the same thing about you and he didn't believe me, either."

Dean tried not to show how unprecedented Anna's words were to him. "Does he talk about me?"

"He doesn't swoon, I can tell you that." She took another puff. "No, though if Castiel has been away for a long enough time he tends to complain that you're dragging his favorite friend away."

"You don't think I'm taking Cas from you two, right?"

"A bit." She shrugged, glancing up at the sky. She hardly seemed upset by the fact, though the only time he had seen her moved to some sort of state was when he brought an injured Castiel in. She was quick to talk, to intervene, but she did so with an almost callous touch. Gabriel was a Broadway comic in comparison. Though for all her indifference, Dean was led to believe that she was very much like her brother – she seemed to feel a great deal, albeit inwardly, quietly, and without much attention drawn to it.

"To be fair, we haven't seen as little of Castiel since… ever, actually. It's mostly your fault," she glanced over at him. "But there's nothing to apologize for. Castiel, as you know, acts conservatively." That was one way to put it, Dean thought. "It… developed a bit, as we grew older, but for the most part he's always taken things a little too literally."

"He never seems to get bothered by anything." Dean said solemnly. Anna gave a small laugh. "What's that?"

"Believe me, Castiel is more than capable of throwing his hands in the air and stomping off like a small child, or listing all the ways he hopes someone's family line will suffer when they cut him the short of end of the stick. I can vouch for it myself. But we're not known, Russians, sober Russians especially, to keep hearts on our sleeves. They'd freeze off during the winters there, you see." Dean smiled at the joke. "In all honesty, Castiel has changed a bit in recent months. His persona, what you would call coldness started to disappear. You could say he's got this weakness." Dean looked expectantly at Anna. She smiled fondly at him, red lips at a wide curve. "You see, he likes you."

Such an obvious comment shouldn't have made Dean's heart go off, but it did.

"He's gone through quite a few things in his life." She continued, absently. Or at least absent-sounding. "We all have. Mostly that's why we – Gabriel, Balthazar, and I – we… accept how he is. You were not the first man to walk into his life, in a manner of speaking. Of course those were more hourly encounters than what you two have. Still," she looked straight ahead, her eyes unfocused. "We'd been through too much to just shun him for that, and he knows – we've told him. Did he tell you? About how it was before America?"

"…No," Dean said at length, moving over the weight of Anna's words. "He's made passes about it, I mean, but I'd never want him to think he has to tell me if he doesn't want to. I owe him that, at the very least." Anna regarded him, scrutinized his words for a moment.

"That is... surprisingly decent of you." Anna remarked, tossing the cigarette butt on the ground as she did so.

"I'd like to think I'm a decent guy."

"Try to remember that you and my brother were all but at one another's throats during the first few weeks of your... acquaintance- ship." Her shoe crunched the cigarette into the ground. "But as I was saying. Castiel goes with you for his own reasons, and I won't sit him down and make him tell me where he's been and who he's with and for what. Balthazar might, even Gabriel, but he is my brother, and more than that, he's an adult. He can do what he likes. Even if that were to include fraternizing with the enemy, as it were." Her blind faith in Castiel made him ache for his brother and feel guilty for it all at the same time; he wished, in part, that he could have the same belief when it came to his Sam – to just know that he was doing fine, managing well, and if everything were to go sour he would tell Dean outright, but at the same time, scarcely a day went by where Anna didn't see Castiel, and the two siblings were hardly overly prideful, like he and Sam were raised to be.

Dean abruptly forced himself to stop thinking of Sam; it was a skill that was well-honed, over long time of being estranged from him.

Carrying on he hesitantly spoke again; "So, is this an approval?"

"You're Castiel's. I hardly have a say in it." Anna said patiently. "But I will tell you this: Since meeting you, he's better. He's… happier than I've seen him in sixteen years. And part of that is your responsibility. Take care to remember that."

Dean nodded. "I will. And for what it's worth… thanks. For telling me all that."

Anna made an expression not unlike one Castiel would make when he was faintly amused by something – it was an affectionate look, and Dean felt relieved by it; the way that Anna had somehow quieted the doubts inside him as the presence of an outsider and an intimate all at once. Perhaps she knew of Dean's attachment to Sam, and was able to reach out in the same way that older siblings do. It felt as if a sort of mutual tone had been hit, perhaps because of that notion of family as the bottom line in all that mattered.

"Somebody had to. My husband's not a bad man, but he's too fond of keeping his head shoved up his own rear end when it comes to topics like these, if you know what I mean."

"I always took him for a people-person."

"Sometimes the quiet ones are the only types who say anything of value." Dean hummed at that for a considering moment. Anna turned back towards the shop. "Speaking of quiet ones, you may want to get Castiel and yourself home soon." Dean followed Anna back through the shop, up the stairs. "I heard there would be a storm coming around midnight. A decent one, too."

Dean scowled at the news. "Let me guess," he said, glancing up at her retreating form. "We're smack in the middle of it."

xxxx

The streets were deserted when Castiel and Dean walked back to the apartment. Dean supposed it was theirs, considering Castiel spent his nights with Dean more often than not, nowadays.

"When does your shift start?" Dean asked. The sky was black and the buildings were muted smudges of stone; his breath hit the air in white puffs like expensive cigar smoke and it looked like the cleanest, brightest thing out there on the road, at least until it faded away again.

"Six a.m. tomorrow." Castiel rubbed a hand across his face. "It's only eight hours."

"Yeah. Only."

"I asked for ten but they already had enough workers,"

"How'd you even find something?" Dean asked. Castiel shrugged in his coat, nose and ears flushed magenta in the cold.

"There are always jobs that have to get done," Castiel explained. "Most people just… don't want to do them. Except for the immigrants, I guess. It's been a while, but in the first months we arrived here, we had to do this sort of thing. Before tailoring came up, at least."

"Right."

Castiel thoughtfully glanced into his trench coat, which was fastened under his winter jacket. He looked back to Dean. "Do you have a shift tomorrow?"

"The garage only works Mondays till Fridays now. I might get some work from Crowley but that's been sporadic at best as of late." He glanced up at the starless sky and saw blotches of white start to fall down on them. By the time the pair of them managed to get inside, snow dusted the shoulders of their coats, and soaked as a cold wash into their hair. No one saw them enter the building, Dean holding the door open to let Castiel pass through first, though if they did it wasn't as a particularly odd sight to see two exhausted looking men wander up into the same flat; they had now become two unfortunate bachelors trying to cut down on rent. Even their different ethnicities weren't something to remark upon.

Inside, the apartment wasn't as warm as Castiel's kitchen. Dean quickly stripped down; eager to both get out of the chilled jacket and pants he wore as to slip on a silk pajama suit. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel moved more diligently along his own routine, leafing through a set of drawers where he kept his clothes. Looking around the room betrayed Castiel's near constant presence; an increasing pile of books strewn on the table, kitchen counter, and nightstand. Loose tobacco in packages in the cupboard; his shoes by the door, a tie dangling off the back of the armchair. One by one the items had snuck through and created a symbiosis with Dean's things. And in turn, Dean found himself slowly rearranging his own belongings to make room for Castiel. He was creating a place for him, until even the last sanctuary Dean had was hardly without evidence of the other man.

He watched Castiel vanish into the washroom, heard water run before he headed in there himself. When he got out, Dean saw snow trickle down in heavier sheets as he went to shut the curtains. The glass was freezing to the touch, and even through the thick shades winter crept in. They hadn't a fireplace, or a proper furnace, either. There was a boiler room in the basement, though the landlord said that it wouldn't get much use with how coal was priced. Instead down blankets were found, as were robes and thick socks and silk pants.

Dean shakily sighed, wiping a hand across his eyes. In that moment he felt nothing but misery. Sam was no longer safe in his home – and Dean himself wasn't fairing that much better. He wondered how long savings would last – how long the depression would go on. In a moment's notice the entire country had been plunged into an old muckraker's exposé; everyone reduced to the shambling dredges of society forced to work themselves half dead to make ends meet. Suddenly the affluence Dean had slowly been welcomed into over the years had swallowed up, leaving him to idle in some great black pit, along with all the rest of the common folk.

It wasn't too much of a stretch to think that one of them would wind up breaking their legs on the job and dying from tuberculosis, or something just as bad. Dean already knew of one of the men at the shop who had met his miserable end to the work there by slipping on a patch of ice and throwing out his back. Horror stories like that were creeping up in gossip circles all over the place. He'd already heard about some friend-of-a-friend that had gone and ended it, body lying mangled on the sidewalk after jumping from a top apartment floor. He'd even seen a picture of the guy, too. The graininess of the resolution not hindering the horror, or the fact that he could still recall the image in a moment's notice.

Dean leaned his forehead against the window, shut his eyes.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered, scarcely more intelligible than an exhalation of breath.

"Dean?"

Dean straightened up and turned around at Castiel's call. The man was dressed in a long pullover and sleeping pants. He stood next to the table, his hand on something. The room was dark and he was left to guessing. It appeared to be a small mason jar.

"What is it?" he asked, crossing the room. Castiel worried his lip a moment, looking at what he rested his hand on.

"You aren't fond of presents, I see." He said evenly.

"Afraid so." He paused, trying to select is words carefully. "I'm not used to getting things for no reason. Especially now. It seems wasteful – and I never thought I'd say that sort of thing, believe me."

Castiel leveled his gaze on him. "You probably never thought we'd be in the middle of what is apparent to go down as one of the greatest economic failures the modern world's ever seen."

"…True." Dean admitted, after a moment. He shifted on his feet, crossing his arms. "But I am grateful, to you and your family, you know. But just being with you is enough; you don't have to gratify me with anything else." Castiel nodded at that, his dry lips pursed in consideration. He was no longer looking at Dean, but his fingers tapped out a listless rhythm on the top of the jar, which had a decorative checkered cloth draped on the top of it, tied in sturdy looking yarn. "What's that?" he asked.

Castiel picked up the container and inspected it a moment, before glancing up and handing it over to Dean. "You remember our trip don't you? Last Fall?"

Dean smiled at the memory the words wrought. "Couldn't imagine forgetting." He glanced down and read a small label, written in a curled script, proclaiming the 6 ounce jar to be filled with freshly harvested local honey. "Did you get this…"

"While I was waiting for you. Not spices or whatever I said I had bought. I would've given it to you with the other things but, well, you saw how my brother gets around anything with sugar in it."

Dean held the jar up a bit higher and stared at the jar's contents. "There's honeycomb in here, too." Castiel leaned causally against the table.

"I believe that you mentioned liking it when you were younger?" Castiel ventured, waiting for Dean's reaction.

His reply was, admittedly, a bit subdued. He wasn't so willing to act humble or humiliated by the offering. Instead he took a look up from the honey and at Castiel, eyes gleaming in the darkness, and felt a separation from inside the flat and the rest of the world.

If his apartment was the last place of refuge, against the weather, against thoughts of far-flung family and the uncertain future, it wasn't the four walls that inspired safety and some bit of peace.

It was Castiel.

While he was trying to work out a place for the other man, Castiel was probably doing the same. Unnecessary trinkets all of the sudden took on a rather remarkable meaning. Castiel didn't owe him anything other than his simple company. He didn't reach out due to need or charity, or any other begrudging reason. He did it because he wanted to. Because useless gifts were probably one of the greatest characteristics of love. The emotion brought all sorts of whimsical, superfluous notion to it; it was one of the few feelings that did. And Castiel had, unwittingly or not, acted upon it. Castiel wanted to make an extra gesture for no other reason than a personal desire. Which, oddly enough, left both he and Dean a bit elated inside.

In short, the two of them were together for the long haul. For the remainder of winter; the rest of the depression, and anything else that the world through at the pair.

It was a rather impressive message to be found in a jar of honey. Dean was willing to blame the wine and perpetual exhaustion for that.

"I hope you'll be willing to share this with me," he said, shaking the jar a bit as a gesture. Castiel's face broke into a soft smile.

"If you insist." He languidly stood upright and rested his arms on Dean's shoulders. They were so close now that Dean could feel the heat of the other's arms and chest, the coiffed hair on the front of Castiel's head nearly brushing his own. Dean could have said a lot of things in that moment, reaching over just a bit to settle the jar down again and put his arms around the other man's body, but he didn't need to. Because they had gotten rather practiced at simply looking at one another for all communication needed. And Castiel's eyes bore into his own with that remarkable spark of intensity. They were, in a word that didn't do much justice, beautiful. It brought upon a certain rapture that could have left Dean breathless, only he was too preoccupied staring to tell if he really had forgotten to breathe. Castiel's expression was searching and wonderful in all ways. And of course he couldn't tell, but perhaps he too was awed by the look Dean gave to him.

At some point Castiel leaned in and kissed him with a natural simplicity, and Dean touched warm palms to the parts of Castiel's cheeks still rough from the frostbite. For a moment, Dean was able to treat the rest of the world as if it didn't exist. Even the cold seemed to dissipate, after a while.

For now, it was just him, Castiel, and those precious days spent together in the mountains.

And suddenly, with that image in mind, Dean knew everything was going to be alright.

xxxx

A/N: Dean's birthday is January 24th, placing this chapter as that date, Friday, 1930. A few people have remarked that certain mafia-related problems would be coming up by now, and while I'm not about to rule that out, there is a much greater issue in the works of this story: The Great Depression! One of the most infamous stock failures in world history, starting officially on Black Tuesday – October 29th, 1929. At its worse, 25% of America was unemployed, and the world economy wasn't fairing any better. Coping strategies included working the rather unglamorous jobs such as standing over a small pool of acid to clean machine parts, moving out to the West Coast, or simply… committing suicide. It was a rather difficult time for the bread-winners of the house, who suddenly found themselves unable to provide for their family and were occasionally forced to kick their teenage children out of the house to fend for themselves. Luckily, Dean and Castiel don't have the same burden that a regular family might possess, but it's not an easy era to live in.

Dean's dish is comparable to Spaghetti alla puttanesca – which was officially documented in the 1950s as 'Whore style pasta' since it was rather cheap to make. His recipe is based on one that I tend to use, so if any of you desire Italian recipes along with historical facts, feel free to let me know. On a completely unrelated note, I'm also participating in a Destiel fanfiction exchange for the holidays; which will be up on the community site around kid-December, and reproduced here as well.