There's an internet cafe not far from where he's meeting Charlie for lunch. It's overpriced and the computers are outdated, but there's no way in hell he can bring himself to buy a physical copy of the book, so it's kind of his only option right now.

As Dean pushes open the swinging door, the bell tinkling quietly, he's glad to see that the cafe is largely empty. There are only two other customers, both sitting near the front, and one is deeply engrossed in a video game with a character he vaguely recognises from one of Charlie's t-shirts.

He raps roughly on the counter until the clerk walks out from the back room.

"Gimme an hour?" Dean says.

"Five dollars."

Dean slides the cash over the counter, and the clerk clicks a few buttons on his computer before handing him a slip of paper with a password on it.

"Let me know if you need more time."

Weaving through the desks, Dean heads to the back corner. He's self conscious about looking the book up in public, despite the fact that nobody else knows that the stories are about him. Even though nobody is paying him even the slightest bit of attention, he is tempted to turn the screen so they can't see.

It only takes him a few minutes for him to find a website where he can read the next book. Once he realizes what it is about, though, he nearly can't bring himself to.

Valentines day, 2010. The day they'd killed Famine.

He remembers that day too well; remembers wanting to call Castiel since the moment they arrived, but not quite knowing why. He remembers Sam falling off the wagon and gorging himself on demon blood.

He remembers the way Famine had looked at him and told him his soul was empty.

He doesn't want to remember any of it. But Charlie told him to read this one.

And surely she wouldn't tell him that if it were all bad.

He takes a deep breath to steel himself, trying not to get his hopes up, and searches Castiel's name.

MY BLOODY VALENTINE Under the harsh glare of fluorescent light, Sam studied the remains of the couple. Two young lovers, reduced to nothing but a few parts in plastic containers. The sight of the organs like lumps of raw meat in Tupperware turned Dean's stomach, and in an effort to stave off his growing nausea, he slid the heart across the table toward Sam. "Hey," he said, and Sam looked up, brow raised, expectant, "be my valentine?" He smirked, and Sam just barely managed to stop from rolling his eyes, pushing it back. Dean began to put the lid back on when Sam twisted his head to the side, noticing a mark on the flesh. "Whoa, whoa, wait a second," he said, pulling it toward him before taking the lid off another box. He swivelled them around to look at both victims hearts, side by side. "These hearts both have identical marks." As Dean leaned forward, looking at the symbols pressed into the hearts in the small town mortuary, Castiel was halfway across the country. He stood on the shore of Lake Michigan, the soles of his shoes pressing into sand and snow, with his cell phone in his hands. He stared down at it, hard, willing it to ring. He couldn't remember ever wanting anything so much as he wanted that cell phone to ring. He wasn't quite sure why. If it did ring, it usually meant that either Sam or Dean was in trouble, and yet, he wanted to see them. Specifically, he wanted to see Dean. Or at least speak with him. He'd already seen the Winchesters earlier that day—had flown to join them briefly in the Impala as they'd driven into a town on a case, mainly to make sure both were okay after their recent trip back to 1978—but ever since leaving them, he'd felt a strong compulsion to return. To be near Dean again. It wasall he wanted. It was more than a little disconcerting. He had, of course, been aware of the bond he shared with Dean for quite some time, but though he knew he cared deeply for him, and enjoyed being around him, it had never before caused him physical pain to be away. Tonight, he felt the distance from Dean like a hook in his grace, digging in and pulling. He had been fighting it. Certain that it was just residual worry after being unable to help the brothers when he'd flown them back in time, that he was still weakened and it was affecting his vessel as much as his grace. But when the cell phone screen lit up blue, Dean's name appearing in bold black letters in the center, he felt a surge of something pure and holy in his borrowed chest. He answered the call breathlessly, unable to get a word out before Dean spoke. "Cas, it's Dean." "Do you need help? Where are you?" "Yeah, room 31-c, basement level. St. James Medical—" He beat his wings once, twice, three times in the space of half a second and found himself standing face to face with Dean in the mortuary. "—Center." Dean stopped short, and Castiel met his eyes. He couldn't seem to look away. Just being there was a relief; it felt like coming home, like being able to breathe after holding on too long. "I'm there now," he said after a moment, somewhat pointlessly. "Yeah, I get that." On the other side of the room, sitting at the examination table, Sam watched them both and shook his head. Neither of them noticed; both unable to look away from the other's gaze. When Dean made no move to end the call, Castiel narrowed his eyes infinitesimally. "I'm gonna hang up... now." "Right." As they lowered their cell phones, Castiel could feel the blood rushing through Jimmy's veins, roaring in his head as the pulse in his chest raced. His grace was, for lack of a better word, on fire. With great effort, he stifled it. Whatever was going on within him, it was not the time. He could deal with it later. Right now, Dean needed his help. As far as Castiel was concerned, that was all that mattered.

Already, Dean's hands are getting clammy. The thought that Castiel had wanted to be near him so badly, even then, set his heart thrumming in his chest like a wild thing, and he pauses to lean back from the desk.

He takes a few steadying breaths, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, before diving back in.

There are still a few hours to kill, after all.