Castiel has never written his name in English. He's seen it in Hebrew, although that was a couple thousand years ago and not for any great purpose. He'd just been curious. Today is different.
Using the Latin alphabet, his written name makes Cas think of a seaside forest. It curves at one side, like waves on water, and ripples in little swirls toward thin, tall trees. The sun hangs in the middle.
"Do, uh, Smith," Dean offers, only half audible as he tips his coffee mug to his lips.
Cas tilts his head, trying to imagine Smith on the line next to his name.
"Yeah, 'cuz Castiel Smith sounds so normal," Charlie chips in as she breezes into the kitchen. She leans over the counter by the coffee machine and appraises Cas' penmanship with a little nod. "Why not cut it down to just Cas? Or just pick something else? It's not like this is for reals for reals. What'd you go by before? Emmanuel?"
Dean waves a dismissive hand. "No. Not—no."
Cas glances over his shoulder at Dean and then peers at Charlie with hopeless eyes. "I've already written Castiel."
"Oh, well," Charlie says with a shrug. "It's not the last copy in the world. But, uh, if you want, you can use mine. You can be the little brother I never wanted!" She bumps her hip against Cas' leg and winks at Dean. Sometime during Dean's mocking laughter, Charlie goes wide-eyed at the realization that she's just referred to a timeless wavelength being as her little brother.
She clears her throat and wipes her face quickly. "Bradbury. I mean, it's an alias. You don't want my real one. Trust me."
Cas looks to Dean for his approval. Maybe not approval. Probably something else.
Definitely something else. Charlie puts her hands up. "Okay, yeah, holla when you're done!" She nabs a bagel and makes good her retreat.
The tension doesn't break until Dean tips his head back and sets down his mug. He leaves his reluctance on that side of the kitchen, strolls across the floor, and pulls the pen out of Cas' hand. Cas lets him take the paper, too, and scribble on it. "The TSA is gonna get grabby with you for this. Might not even let you fly with us." Dean raises his eyebrows and pulls his mouth just so, asking for something. Maybe approval.
Cas searches Dean's expression for a moment, then he relents, checks the paper. "Thank you," he says, breathless, relieved; and he touches Dean's writing with the side of his thumb. Of course he smears the ester bit, it's still wet.
Dean drops the pen and lets it roll. "Yeah, well, we'll get a back up just in case. Can't imagine leaving you at the terminal."
Cross-posted from AO3, May 20, 2013