Dean's sitting stooped on a staircase, each second he spends scowling into his scotch reducing the property value by precious zeroes. The entrance hall, a study in white alabaster and sullen portraits; is a sanctuary among the constant murmurs of apologies and condolences. Its spiralling staircase offering shelter from hollow words and tight smiles and people he recognises from pages in glossy magazines and news spots covering white-collar crime.

The Novak Estate stood testament to limitless credit cards and idle hands, a sprawling compound, at the centre of which stood the main branch residence, a marble mausoleum of sharp, modern architecture; jutting like huge, misshapen slabs of broken teeth from the earth that bore it.

The Novak fortune was not without it's pointed fingers; barely balanced on volatile foundations, accusations of blackmail, embezzlement and the occasional dappling in the west coast arms trade; allegations of which were swiftly swept under the hem of this seasons Versace following Naomi Novak's rise to power; heralding a new era for the Novak Empire.

She had been quick to pull the chiffon veil across the family's questionable alliances, shielding suspicious dealings and nefarious pursuits from the flash-bulbs of enthused shutter-bugs flittering in the peripheral; carefully governing the veneer the family had adapted, urban camouflage; gold and pinstripes and plunging necklines, seamlessly blending with gossip magazine socialites and the elegance of old money.

Naomi is a slight, prim woman; hands delicately folded together, fingertips playing across the thick gold bands adorning her knuckles, residual adoration courtesy of her late-husband. Her posture impeccable, chin-dipping only slightly in a practised display of grief; Castiel had never been forthcoming with information regarding his estranged family, but Dean presumes this is a part she preforms beautifully, having had ample opportunity to practice grieving in a line of work in which she cut as many throats as hands she shook.

She sits poised on a garish throne of carved mahogany, cigarette holder perched between polished fingers, a metronome motion of gentle swaying as she nods her head, mourners leaning by her shoulder, mouths close as they offer hushed words of consolation, confusing her disinterest for despair. She covets their emotional offerings, receiving them with eyes unfocused, staring into the middle distance, hoarding their compassion, a criminal down to the very bones that hold her; if not for her financial misdeeds, undoubtedly for her impact on the lives' of the Novak children.

Dean's first encounter with the eldest sibling catches him by surprise. He's shuffling from foot to foot on the expansive porch of the Novak residence, evening's vibrant purples and heavy blues bruising the afternoon sky. Winter seeps through his bones, flipping his collar, curling further into old leather seeking comfort from the wind, he's trailing his thumb over the worn cardboard of a pack Castiel had carelessly shoved between the sofa cushions, forgotten in his haste to leave. Fingernail tracing the delicate, gold-embossed lettering, his concentration is broken by the crunch of gravel underfoot, a silhouette of squares and obtuse angles prominent against the backdrop of nature's soft curves.

'Everything alright, Sir,' he's asking, twilight throwing sharp features in harsh relief as he manifests from the shadows, and Dean is sucking a harsh breath through his teeth.

While Cas' eyes told secrets of the forces of nature condemned and confined within his human features, a shifting mass of space reflecting outwardly; Michael has eyes like cold metal, but there's familiarity in their spectrum. Dean's response is a slow outpouring of verbal soup, mouth moving awkwardly, like he's reacquainting himself with the English language; instead, he's offering the crumpled packaging of the remaining cigarettes, five cancerous little candles rolling about the box, one for each year of their relationship. 'Just out for a smoke', he's muttering, raising one to blue lips between trembling fingers, teeth grinding on the filter. Michael shakes his head, declining the offer, posture relaxing, hand noticeably retreating from the inner pocket of his smart woollen coat, thankfully empty, fingers curling and flexing in the absence of whatever he'd been reaching for previously.

'Naomi was concerned about intruders,' he offers ambiguously, steel-gaze fixed on the horizon, studiously ignoring Dean's raised eyebrow.

Dean shrugging his disinterest, struggling to summon the energy to exhibit anything more than crippling apathy. He's patting down his pockets for the lighter he knows he won't find, an exercise in futility, some cleverly articulated observation summarising his relationship with Castiel. Michael's folding arms across his chest, rolling from the balls of his feet to the heel, a repetitive motion occurring at the corner of his vision he finds oddly therapeutic, a metronome to match his own racing heart against.

'Did you serve with him?' Michael's asking, a suspicious hesitance in his question, eyes squinting against the first dusting of stars, nose crinkling in feigned concentration, his focus rooted in the next few words Dean can compose himself enough to string together. 'Sure' he responds, unenthusiastic, automated answers for a conversation he wants no part of, to stand under the stars and wax poetic about Cas feels dishonest, but Michael continues anyway, interpreting his non-answer as an indication to continue, not so much a display of ignorance as an assertion of dominance. An exaggerated sigh, a white cloud of breath, he's saying, 'Castiel was always so unusual,' a small smirk, his features warped by the limited lighting, his eyes are pits carved into his face, 'Father encouraged that in him,'.

By the time he and Dean met, Castiel had long since subconsciously restricted any feelings with regards his relationship with his father, sharing them secretly with the mouth of a whiskey bottle in those AM hours when he presumed the only company he entertained was his own. His only dislike for the man had seemingly stemmed from the fact that he had felt incapable of successfully wrestling with feelings of inadequacy and fault following his father's abandonment. Castiel would never share these thoughts without the sad implications of Jack on his breath, and it's along this line of reflection Dean realises why the conversation grates at his nerves, sends spikes of electric anxiety shooting through his jaws.

He cannot seem to break the habit, subliminal or otherwise, of mentally referring to Cas in the present tense.

He feels detached from the situation at hand, watching this bored soap-opera play out from the comfort of his couch; and maybe Cas is still sitting, wrapped in cotton wool layers of carefully maintained silence, curled at the opposite end, a bare foot resting against Dean's thigh, a subtle reassurance that maybe right now they are not happy, but there's always a chance they'll relearn something like it.

He's suddenly and inexplicably angry, a fuse lit beneath his skin, fireworks and gunfire on his teeth, he's saying, 'Cas wasn't a well man,' an overwhelming bitterness punching the air from his lungs, a directionless fury, hot and dry against his skin, offended on Cas' behalf at the muted display of mourning, the formal dignity and civility reserved for the powerful and the popular, draped in black silk and mascara crocodile tears, fake eyelashes coming unglued. Respectfully approved declarations of apology mechanical and false in their delivery. A beige collage-work of Hallmark phrases, 'Castiel was such a kind kid', 'Cas was an all-round great guy,' 'Castiel was such a nice boy,' and he's debating taking a knee and kissing Naomi's ring, declaring to her clenched knuckles just how good her son's lips looked wrapped around his cock.

Castiel, while not Naomi's biological son, had certainly gleaned a thing or two from her methods of maintaining the familial order; a professional in the art of subtle manipulation, a skilled strategist in getting what he wanted, Cas was capable of being an outright bastard when the situation required and the idea that these sombre-faced strangers bow their heads in a collective moment of silence for 'mommy's little prince' is laughable. He cannot keep an ironic smile from peeling at the corners of his mouth, lips cracking in the pull against the frigid night air.

Michael continues on, oblivious to his private musings, although Dean swears he sees the suggestions of laugh lines carefully etched into the hard plains of his face; fondness softens his features, a rare lapse in defence, he's saying, 'Castiel had something dark inside him,' and Dean does not doubt that for a second, recalls numerous conversations stunted by the shadows lurking behind glassy eyes.

He presses lips tight at the thought, some latent hero complex within him revealing itself, irritated by his inability to intervene, to exorcise Castiel of the gloomy things that took root inside his head.

'But he was trying to remedy that,' and for a man who spent so little time in his younger brother's company, Michael seems confident in his assessment, adjusting the the collar of his coat, squinting slate-coloured eyes against the encroaching wind, carefully avoiding Dean Winchester's incredulous expressions, saying, 'It's no secret he had a stormy relationship with Naomi,' doesn't bother mentioning the numerous front page articles detailing the tumultuous connection between the matriarchal director of the Novak Family, a Madonna draped in black veils and chains of gold; and the youngest heir to the fortune, the troubled son of the late C. Novak. Glossy photos of Naomi, pristine and polite, schmoozing at red velvet rope social events printed alongside paparazzi candids of Cas, clothes hanging from his gaunt frame, a patchwork of maroon coloured kisses staining the chalky white of his skin, trembling hands struggling to light a cigarette, dark hair a tousled mess.

Articles wove intricate golden thread tales of drug abuse and alcohol addiction, fumble to explain the darkened smudges beneath his eyes as side effects of his disease, rumours fueled by Naomi's carefully chosen comments, lamenting her step-son's very public downward spiral, remaining resolute that should his behaviour continue, she would be forced to sever his connection with the Novak family, all in the name of his own good, of course. The media had displayed little sympathy for Castiel who proved incapable of verbalising his own feelings, the fits of inexplicable and overwhelming melancholy that would possess him on occasion.

Castiel had himself severed connection with the Novak estate, disappearing off the grid to rot in Dean's shitty apartment, cradled within the safety of his self-made mausoleum, water-stained paperbacks and prescription pills.

Michael turns his glacial gaze on Dean, cataloguing the minute fluctuations in the warring expressions playing out across his features, mentally seeking to establish a timeline for Castiel's troubled collapse; the cigarette filter a mangled, threaded mess between grating teeth.

'Our father wanted him to be happy,' Michael is saying, overlooking an ironic grunt from Dean, doubtfully shaking his head, lips pulling upwards at the corners. 'He was my brother; and I loved him,' and it's the first echo of naked honesty Dean had observed among a litany of forced eulogies. It draws his attention, eyes flickering upward to meet Michael's steel gaze, 'And I think you might have too,' he's saying, eyes pinpricks of focus, zeroing in on the cracks appearing in Dean's calm and collected façade.

He's swallowing hard, an audible click as his throat constricts and conspires to suffocate him, and he's thinking maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing. He doesn't bother to question how Michael figured him out, presumes it's written along the premature lines appearing in his face, stress and loss ageing him beyond his years. He sighs in resignation, rubbing a palm across his mouth, maybe nodding his agreement to Michael's suggestion, he prefers not to dwell on the thought, 'I knew Cas could never be happy, at least, not in the way father had hoped,' Michael's saying to the screen of his phone, perhaps sensing Dean's reluctance, a radiating discomfort with the intimacy of the topic; breaking eye contact and any obligation to engage with the subject.

Dean's feeling a sharp sting at the corner of his eye, enraged by his own crumbling defence; he's staring at his feet, counting the tiny stitches along the cap of his boot, and if they grow increasingly blurry, he pretends not to notice. His jaw is clenched tight, a painful throb claws it's way through his skull, Michael's voice a monotone accompaniment to an inevitable moment of weakness, a searing burn constricting in his chest.

'I wanted to see him control whatever was inside him,' and despite a vulnerability in the honesty of his words, Michael speaks, stares vacantly into the distance as though reading from a prompter, measured pauses, calculated sentence structure, a hesitance that belies an unfamiliarity with the subject, 'And I think maybe he was finally getting there,'. And Dean's pinching the bridge of his nose tight between thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed shut against the sting of salt gathering along his lashes. An unsteady, wet exhale escapes from between clenched teeth and he hears the heavy shift as Michael turns toward him, feels the clutching pressure of a hand on his forearm, a vague attempt at reassurance demonstrated by a man with the emotional range of a machine, his grip too tight.

'I am sorry for your loss, Dean,' he says with a formal finality.

And it's the first time Dean hears it, the verbal confirmation; it's not a decorated announcement, no colourful statements of irrational reasoning, a bullshit singsong of 'Everything'll be okay, Dean', a vapid chorus-line of 'How do you feel?' exhausting in its repitition. Michael's dissecting cold hard fact, an autopsy of feeble comforts and eggshell conversations and the results are in. Dean won't be waking up to Cas sitting cross-legged hunched over their coffee table, won't endure Cas' stubborn silences across the dinner table, won't subject himself to Cas' vicious passions across a bed-sheet minefield.

Castiel Novak, his Cas, is gone.

Michael's peeling his firm grasp from Dean's quaking shoulder, retreating within the cool, quiet confines of the manor, the sound of his footsteps lost to the howl of a wailing wind.

Dean's sliding to the ground, fists pressed tight against damp eyes, left alone to mourn.

Days later finds Dean poured into the cushions of his sofa, stewing pleasantly in an ethanol buzz, attention completely disconnected from the bustle of movement surrounding him, entirely focused on the reassuring cool of a glass bottle between his palms, his anchor to reality.

Sam sits opposite him, gangly limbs folded elegantly inwards, an awareness of self he has only recently become acquainted with, his towering silhouette leaning to confer in carefully muted tones, Ellen listening dutifully, nodding her head in agreement, eyes carefully angled towards the worn-denim of her thighs, a measured avoidance of a direct encounter with Dean's fading awareness, the entire room taking on a surreal quality, a Dalí-esque dreamlike reality, the kitchen clock melting above the doorway. Bobby's low drawl grumbles in the distance, threat of an oncoming storm looming, and Dean's curled comfortable in the eye, waiting for the quicksand atmosphere to devour him whole.

The cushions beside him dip and groan, and Jo is leaning into his peripheral, a pretty recreation of a Disney princess with her sweeping sheets of golden hair, huge chocolate-coloured eyes blinking wide and glossy and maybe if the bluebirds would stop their excited chittering, perched across her thin, sun-kissed shoulders, he could unravel the tense words of her question from the flow of their high-pitched song.

Sam is politely withdrawing from his strained exchange with Ellen, reaching across the coffee table to place a colossal hand on her delicate shoulder, the bluebirds twittering their outrage, a fluttering storm of blue-emerald and oil slick green that stir up something uncomfortable in the depths of his chest. Jo's nodding in understanding, leaning back, vanishing from his immediate space, and he misses her charming warmth, her ill-advised concern.

Sam is fixing him with a level gaze, pity intricately woven through the hazel colour of his eyes, he's saying, 'Dean, man. Maybe you should slow down on the beers,' face contorted in apprehension.

Sam had grabbed a red-eye flight cross-country after receiving the news from Gabriel, frantically knocking at Dean's apartment door a little over twelve hours later, an unkempt flurry of movement, ushering Dean towards the sofa, utilizing every ploy he'd mastered during his years at Stanford to manipulate an emotional response from his despondent older brother.

Sam, fully aware of Dean's own inclination towards alcoholic reassurance had been quick to act, 2 AM that night seeing him crowded over the kitchen sink, a battalion of empty bottles standing silent vigil by his elbows, his white shirt flecked in amber-coloured stains.

'What are you doing?' Dean's asking, holding up the door frame with a slumped shoulder, lingering in the shadows of the hallway, observing his brother's whirlwind of motion with a bored indifference. Sam only glances his direction, brown strands sweeping across his face, he's brushing bangs from his eyes with his forearm, fingertips dripping gold in the dim light.

'Just making sure,' he says matter-of-factly, thinly veiled references to John Winchester's questionable coping methods and allusions to Dean's own penchant for self-destruction left unspoken.

Dean is sleep-rumpled, exhaustion eventually conquering his restless tossing, if only for an hour or two; sporting lavender shades beneath his eyes, his face a blotchy impressionist study in shades of grey. He's sprawling across the sofa, his languid stretch accompanied by the clatter of a paperback hitting the floorboards, unnoticed previously, resting open, face-down on the arm of the chair, it's spine cracked, it's pages spotted in grease; abandoned mid-sentence by Castiel, and Dean thinks he knows the feeling.

Sam's waving a hand in a sweeping gesture, encompassing the entire room, saying, 'Do you want me to clean some of this stuff up,' and it's a kind offer to rid the apartment of Cas' possessions, painful reminders hidden in plain sight; the stacks of abandoned books, monuments to Cas' preoccupation, coffee cups stashed between sofa cushions; Cas' brand of cigarettes rolling loose in the dresser by the bed.

Dean's brain, softened by lack of sleep, is slow to interpret the meaning of Sam's offer, unable to stop himself from responding, 'Cas'll deal with it,'.

The silence that precedes is a tangible weight.

Dean's reluctantly hopeful that Sam's extermination of the apartment's alcoholic content did not lead him to the vegetable crisper. He's picking his way hesitantly around sprawling polyester obstructions and Cas' written-word necropolis; unfamiliar, charting the surface of the moon for all it's intimacy, unaccustomed to occupying a space not already possessed by Cas' charisma, the thunder storms and ice ages enduring within his atmosphere.

Sam maps his progress, eyes tired, wounded, in a rare display of empathetic expression; he's hesitating, knuckles white against amber glass, mouth frozen parted, words dying on a sharp inhale, Dean swinging the refrigerator door open, white light spilling from electronic organs highlighting the deep hollows beneath bloodshot eyes, a face carved from Howlite, blue-black veins visible beneath waxy skin. He rests his forehead against the back of his hand, still clutching at the door for balance; seeking out an anchor. His sigh is a death rattle, eyes drifting closed, urge dissolving beneath the powerful weight of exhaustion.

Sam returns to the task at hand, pouring liquid gold down the drain, lips pressed together for lack of anything reassuring to add, and he's thinking maybe he should consider emptying the bleach bottles beneath the sink.

Dean has turned to stone, silhouette traced against the tiles, LED halo and slumped-shoulder wings and Sam's mind is wandering, eyes fixed subconsciously on the stationary shadow portrait hanging haunted from the wall. He had yet to inform Bobby of the news, having arrived in a cyclone of excessive brotherly concern, reinforced upon seeing Dean existing like an absentee within his own life, shambling shades of his former glory made transparent by grief.

Every moment of his time had been devoted to soft words, kind eyes; reassuring hands coaxing Dean towards the bedroom, removing what little momentos Dean would allow; a tie swinging from the door handle, a hoodie slung across the headboard.

A gentle huff of laughter extracts him from pious reflection, hesitant to witness what he presumes to be 'The Breakdown', but Dean has a fond smile on his face, eyes sad, reflective crystals gathering along his lashes and only Cas could deserve this diamond-studded sorrow. He's tracing fingertips across the jumble of memories pinned across the refrigerator door, each punctuated by the tacky plastic face of a wildly grinning Looney Toon.

Cas had always had a fondness for The Road Runner.

Photos of their old apartment flanked by candid polaroids of Cas reading, Cas smoking, Cas existing. A patchwork of fast food menus presenting a colourful mosaic among the noir nostalgia black and white snapshots. A crinkled account of Dean, hunched in concentration over a beaten acoustic; surface scarred, a criss-cross document detailing years of misdirected emotions. A small smile plays about his lips, Cas draped across his shoulder, leaning close, mouth a motion blur of whisper by his ear. A small suggestion of the intimacy and comfort between them, an indication of feelings both were reluctant to discuss, and looking at this picture now, catching glimpses between Dean's fluttering fingertips, Sam remembers why he took it.

Dean's removing something, the rustle of paper, a rainfall of photos decorating the kitchen tiles drawing Sam's attention. He snuffs another vague attempt at a laugh, fondly shaking his head, intricately decorated card pinched between his thumb and forefinger. And Sam can't glean any more information before Dean is stuffing it carelessly into his pants pocket, face resettling into something blank and unreadable, ripples across the surface of water waning and disappearing. Sam, in a rare display of emotional awareness, opts not to press the response, staring vacantly as Dean retreats to the dark, stifling tomb he's made of their bedroom.

The repetitive shuffle of obligated sympathies brings another body orbiting, occupying the seat next to him, petulant silence and the smell of sherbet, Gabriel's searing scars into the tabletop with a lazer-like focus, twisting his knuckles in a series of ceaseless, nervous clicks and shifts, hands clammy with the effort.

He's surveying their surroundings, a calculated observation of their guests, a still rampant protective fraternal streak driving him to evaluate each individual on the grounds of their relationship to Castiel. His focus currently centred on Ellen, peering at the instructions on the back of a microwavable meal, cheap cardboard held inches from her face, nose scrunched in concentration; Jo tipping a beer her direction and suggesting that maybe 'the bespectacled Librarian look would suit you, Mom. Guys love that'; before he's inevitably turning lacklustre eyes on Dean, his usual mischievous smirk dampened to a meagre suggestion of laugh creases by the corners of his mouth.

Hands hesitantly patting at the pockets of his coat he's saying, 'Thanks for coming around, man,' and Dean can only presume the apologetic tone is a response to Naomi's intimidating presence, a celestial being observing the event from her untouchable colossus stance, her golden throne; Michael's bizarre confession of attachment, an outpouring of clumsily-expressed sentiments from a mechanical man defied the capacity to love.

Gabriel's pressing a thumb against the bridge of his nose, teeth clicking shut, the grind visible through the tendons puppeteering in his cheek. Dean's saying, 'Yeah, no worries,' tilting his beer bottle this way and that, fragments of light painting facets of diamonds across the carpets.

Gabriel moves like a man who used to smoke, Dean thinks, occupying a perpetual state of discomfort, twitching and sniffing, thumbing at irritated eyes; it's not unusual to see him indulging his sweet tooth, white paper stick of a lollipop clenched between grit teeth long after the sugar has dissolved on his tongue, a reassuring weight against his lower lip. He's clenching the knuckles of one hand in his jeans now, fabric snagging beneath stubby fingernails and this situation is proving to be a test of willpower. Dean knows Castiel had stashed cigarettes in numerous hidey-holes around the apartment, outmaneouvering his own inattention; wonders if maybe he should offer to help ease the edge, but Gabriel's found whatever he'd been digging through his pockets for. A small square of thin card, embossed blue lettering indecipherable from this angle, but he makes no move to offer it over just yet, seeming to study it's every atom, flicking it over and under, between his fingers; saying, 'I don't know who her eulogy was for, but it wasn't Cas,'.

Dean hears echoes of Naomi's insincerity, a tastefully written tribute mourning the loss of her wayward son, head bowed in heartbreak, too stoic or too stingy to shed a solitary tear for the sake of her flashbulb audience. She had read as though unfamiliar with the words, unaccustomed to such an expression of emotional vulnerability, a glaring ignorance as she weaves fond, fictional tales of strangers and ghosts, and each and every one named Castiel; vague anecdotes general enough to be applicable, broad brush strokes blocking the ambiguous suggestion of a human being beneath her verbal decoration.

'Castiel was such a good boy,' her words instantly blending to a background hum, Dean's sipping scotch worth more than his apartment, stifling his laughter as she details Cas' interest in film, his enthusiasm for writing; and Dean's wondering if passive aggressive notes written on receipts and newspaper margins and bathroom mirrors in shaving foam count as writing; debating whether or not Cas staying up until four in the morning to sarcastically mouth along to the awful dialogue from VHS 90's porn, viciously dissecting it's narrative structure during the ad breaks, qualified as an educated interest in film.

A smile creases the corner of his mouth, and Gabriel correctly assumes he's mentally replaying Naomi's practised grieving. He's flattening his expression to add, immitation accent viciously precise through years of mimicking his dispassionate step-mother, 'Castiel was such a generous boy,' knuckle wiping an imaginary tear from beneath his eye, Dean huffs another laugh while Sam watches on, curious, as they lapse into comfortable silence once more. 'I know he was my little brother,' Gabriel's saying, fingertip tracing the age of the business card, 'but he was an asshole,' he adds, not without fondness and this time Dean can't help the laughter that tears from his throat. Days of sombre black veils, murmured apologies and falsified accounts of golden hearts and strong spirits, and Gabriel's finally shining a light on a character lost to well wishes and fraudulent accounts; declaring Castiel Novak the wicked little prick Dean had fallen victim to on numerous occasions.

It's the ten year anniversary of Cas' mother's death, and Naomi, not to be bested by the dwindling memories of a dead woman, had organised a huge banquet in her honour. Dean's feeling entirely out of place in the up-scale dining room of some fancy, five-star big city hotel; Fifty stories from the cement and feeling utterly adrift. A line of silverware three feet long flanks each side of his plate; each course served, a tribute to contemporary art in vivid reds and bright yellows and Castiel viciously cuts and stabs at his food, sliding it around his plate in messy rebellion, but makes no moves to eat anything, scraping the prongs of his fork against fine China for the umpteenth time, shrill screech drawing everyone's attentions, immediately halting any conversational progression; he's smiling saccharine sweet apologies before boredom inevitably returns him to his ministrations.

Dean sits opposite Gabriel; Kali a vision of painterly beauty, stoic and straight-backed by his side; gold shimmering around her wrists, glittering along her knuckles as she distractedly realigns the multitude of cutlery bordering her plate, eyes slanted downwards as Gabriel murmurs low in her ear. Her dark eyes are fixated on Cas' hands as he clicks stubby fingernails against the stem of a crystalline wine glass. 'Something wrong, Castiel?' she's asking, sitting up straighter, bracing for inevitable impact; 'Is the food not up to your impossibly high standards?', eyes purposefully sliding to Dean's slouching build; oil-smeared fingerprints and fraying cuffs, a subtle dig at Cas' questionable ideals. The smug smile that peels at her mouth has Gabriel rolling his eyes, effectively checking out of the conversation, shifting in his seat, imitation fascination and feigned indulgence in some drawling anecdote Michael is sharing.

Cas only pauses the tinkling fairy-footstep beat to pinch the glass between two fingers, holding it up against the halogen glare, geometric star-shine sprawling across his face. He's rolling it against the pads of his fingertips, the disco-ball reflection shimmering across his features; an emphasis on it's emptiness, suggesting his unwillingness to participate in Kali's particularly tiresome tournament of psychological back and forth without alcoholic encouragement readily available. He sighs worthy of Hollywood silver screens and golden awards, saying, 'I find the company at these things severely lacking, if anything,' and Kali's dark eyes are narrowed, smoke and spiders legs and promises of swift revenge; teeth grit, gears audibly grinding, her retort withering on a silver tongue as Naomi's cool interference disrupts the familiar powwow.

'Castiel! behaving ourselves, I hope,' and it's an obvious threat wearing the face of witty repartee, a barbed comment that has what feels like the entire congregation turning in a military synchronicity that has Dean's hackles rising. Cas, indulging his penchant for martyrdom and disobedience is smiling sugar and sparkles, his hand creeping along Dean's thigh beneath the table, saying, 'Of course Naomi,' half moon crescents spelling disaster on the soft skin there, 'I'm nothing if not well-behaved,' and Dean's thick gulp is ironic punctuation to Cas' plea of innocence.

She narrows her eyes, exercising a strategic retreat, reluctantly returning to conversation with Michael; attention divided between the brothers. She's studying Cas from the corner of her eye and Dean recognises her predatory posture from late night documentaries; animals and serial killers and he's yet to decide which description proves more suitable.

Cas' fingernails resume their symphonic click-clacking against the buckle of Dean's belt, tracing fire along zipper teeth, fingertip tempo rapid, coy smirk warping his features; and Dean's risking a glance at Naomi's tight expression when Cas grips him hard, channels electricity through a million nerve endings. Naomi's levelling his rigid posture with a razor-sharp glare, one part curiosity, two parts disgust, and she's got eyes in the walls, as is custom for individuals of her calibre; sitting upon her gilded throne, surveying her guests with a lethargic lack of concern, Dean briefly wonders if she's aware her step-son is currently palming his cock beneath the table.

Castiel is a rosy-cheeked, renaissance imitation of child-like innocence, tracing secrets into the fine china with the blunt end of his spoon, spelling 'I need you's' into the denim creases lining Dean's thighs.

Gabriel's got a smirk on his face that says he knows his brother too well, fond head shake, eyes tilted toward his food.

And suddenly the pressure and heat, hands that could compress diamonds from coal, absent from his skin; Cas is curling arms above his head, a languid, cat-like stretch, an exaggerated yawn that has Naomi turning a trained glare like hypodermic needles pricking at the skin beneath Dean's collar; Cas, as always, unaffected.

The legs of his chair a chorus of clamorous screeching, metal on marble; he's shoving away from the table, place setting in disarray, a clerical tribute to his ceaseless frustration. His muttered request to be excused lost within the act of already taking his leave, he's tracing fingertips along the tense line of Dean's shoulder, mapping his escape route in old leather, he's saying, 'Are you coming?', voice a barely restrained growl.

The walk to the elevators leads them through empty lobbies and silent corridors, an alabaster Siberia and soundlessness, the click-clack of Cas' steps lost to the drumbeat echo of Dean's pulse hammering in his throat. Cas is regal in the straight lines of his figure, the high tilt to his head, courtesies trained into his bones throughout his wealthy upbringing, he takes his time selecting a floor, fingertip tapping against the soft pink of his mouth, halogen shine of the silky wet inside and Dean can't swallow around the golf ball lodged in his throat.

The second those doors close, he's slamming Cas against the mirrored wall, pressing his mouth against eyes and jaws and jugular and Cas has a fistful of dirty blonde strands, pulling and scratching with a fury that belies the practised poise displayed at the table earlier.

His gasps are hot and heavy against the shell of Dean's ear, a collection of sighs and groans he thinks maybe the angels will sing him in heaven; he's matching the rhythm with sloppy kisses, a damp press against the straining lines of Cas' throat, an inexplicable anger mouthing 'Does this make you happy' against the bruised skin there.

He would kiss him, steal those sounds from his lips, but more recently Cas tastes like Sahara Storms, like nuclear winter; a metaphysical ending that leaves him hollow and quaking.

But Cas is fighting him, clenched fists beating at his chest, shoving him violently against the opposite wall before dropping to his knees, eyes closed in celestial worship, clever fingers clamouring at his belt buckle, curling beneath the waistband of his underwear, wrapping lips slick with spit around his length, and Dean's knuckles are white, fingernails carving abstract design into Cas' scalp and he can't tear his eyes from the sight.

Cas' palms are insistent pressure against bare thighs, mouth spit-slick and bruised, Dean's pulling him closer, feeling the muscles of his throat seize, his eyes roll white in his head, fingerprints searing fire into pale skin. His throaty retch is encouragement enough and Dean's wrapping trembling hands around his cut-glass jaw, urging him closer, whispered encouragement leaking from between clenched teeth on every exhale.

Cas' eyes are the blue of postcards and summer skies, blinking lazily beneath the smudge of dark lash, cheeks and chin damp and pink.

Dean's slamming his head against sheet metal and mirrored glass, eyes unfocused, attuned to the wet slide of Cas' mouth on his cock, he doesn't hear the elevator doors dinging open, the verbal assault of middle-aged lady draped in shades of red, her tiny dog yipping it's contribution from the safety of her patent pink purse.

Cas has little mercy to spare, knees spreading wide across corrugated steel, sucking dick like he's starving; moaning like the soundtrack to a five-dollar porno, she's storming away, sounds of protest already shrieking, ghoulish, from her painted mouth.

Cas is pulling himself to his feet, slamming a clammy palm against the panel of buttons, lacking specificity; as is his curse, but his delicate fingers are curling around Dean's collar, his ears, tracing the line of his mouth, the set of his brow, lips barely brushing, never meeting he's saying, 'I need this,' tracing fingertips along Dean's arm, catching in the creases of his shirt, the buttons of his cuff, following the intricate line of his palms, hooking fingers and lining them against a strand of black and blue kisses, a collar of contempt kissing the contours of his throat.

Dean's eyes are fixated on swollen lips, interpreting the words like Heaven's commandments and Cas is saying, 'Fuck me like you hate me,' and he thinks these days it's easier, pressing Cas' pretty face against cotton or concrete, crushing maroon-coloured inkblots beneath the surface of his skin, Dean's seeing daddy issues and a repressed inability to maintain a functional personal relationship.

The following morning there's scarlet dotting their sheets, Dean doesn't inquire, has blood bruises speckled along his knuckles, pinpricks of violence gathering beneath his skin, and Cas approaches his self-loathing with a renewed enthusiasm, an age-old ritual deciphered between the vicious impact of skin on skin, hips and mouths and fists. He finds words escape him, retreats into familiar silences, strains of unspoken tensions, of love and loathing and the things he experiences while left alone in his own company. A study of misery and stooped shoulders, draped in folds of white cotton, clarity of crystalline eyes lost to an impressionist blur of pinks and reds and winter blues, he's saying, 'Do you love me?'

'He was somethin' else alright,' Dean's saying to the twisted knot of bone-white knuckle, skin pink and stretched, fingers a nervous tangle in his lap. Gabriel's agreeing distractedly, lost in his own sepia-toned reconstruction, he's curling the business card between his thumbs before reluctantly presenting it, inexplicable embarrassment colouring the tips of his ears vivid, saying, 'I thought you could use this,'.

Dean's accepting the feeble offer, fingertip tracing curling blue letters, vaguely recognising the clinic's name as something he and Cas had discussed before. Gabriel's shrugging in feigned nonchalance saying, 'They helped me. With Anna,' an accompanying pat on the back before leaving to dissolve amongst a crowd of well-wishers and alcohol-soaked mourners, reluctant to engage in any aspect of conversation that allow him the emotional vulnerability discussing Anna seemed to expose within the Novak brothers, a familial weak spot for a small, mad girl with hair the colour of fire, a mouth filled with burning accusation and a mind that spun in dizzying circles.

Dean's recollection of Anna is a haphazard collection of snippets Cas had reluctantly shared, fragments of a human being collected from shards of sharp conversation. Anna had been an elder sibling to both Castiel and Gabriel; a girl plagued by the songs of angels and demons; visions a mess of stained-glass and remnants of old worlds. Institutionalised in her youth, Anna's suicide had been an open wound for the Novak family for several years, devastating Gabriel and isolating Cas even further from the main branch.

Dean's turning the card over once more within trembling palms, bitter to be on the receiving end of sympathy, eager to lash out and place blame elsewhere saying, 'Gabe!'

Gabriel's turning on a polished heel, aged thirty years by the lingering ghosts of Castiel held here in the yellowed pages of books, coffee-stained mugs and the ashtray left overflowing on the sideboard.

'He was going to you that night, y'know,'.

The night he died. The night his reckless anger had seen him wander into traffic, alcohol tangling common sense, a rampant desire to hurt people forcing it's way to the forefront.

Gabriel's shrugging nonchalant; the accusation sliding easily from his sagging shoulders.

'Couldn't have been. Kali was in town that night. You know they don't get along.'

Dean's fully aware of the long-standing feud between the two, a bitter rivalry for Gabriel's lavish attentions; knows that despite the depths of his understanding for his big brother, Castiel's patience did not extend to the ever-present Kali and her razor-sharp wit.

Dean's confusion leaves him vacant-eyed and dumb, and Gabriel's tapping him on the shoulder with one finger, a harsh jab of focus against his collar-bone saying, 'Just consider it,', tilting his head towards the business card .

If Dean's tucking it in his wallet before Pamela's tarot card, it probably means nothing.