The first day of the convention went basically how all pro cons went. Lots and lots (and lots) of talking. There was schmoozing with editors and publishers, reacquainting with other writers—sharing editorial horror stories, complaining about writer's block, decidedly not talking about what was going to happen next in their stories—and fielding questions from new writers. Some of them of course had it worse than others. Dean for one was basically hounded all day with questions, most of which he politely (or maybe not so politely now that he thought about it) answered in vague non-answers, trying to convince everyone to leave him alone at least until his panel tomorrow.

That, unlike everything else, was new. Dean hadn't had to run a panel before, but he had the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to like it. He mostly didn't like having to answer questions about his books, didn't like feeling as if he and his work were under a microscope. It didn't help that he wasn't getting any closer to having a good idea about where his story was going next and had been doing his best to avoid Ellen and her lectures about the importance of deadlines. He was just glad that there was no way in hell that she could have dragged his editor, Bobby, out to this thing. There was no way he'd have avoided getting an earful then.

Basically, he was trying to act as if this was just a normal convention and he was just a normal participant (which, let's be honest, he mostly was). The whole thing with Castiel didn't help much with that. He couldn't honestly figure out why he had been placed on a panel with that guy. After managing to escape for a short while in the middle of the day, Dean sat down for a few minutes and actually looked the dude up. The books he wrote? They made Nicholas Sparks look stoic. Sure, they were getting great reviews from readers and critics alike, but it was the sort of girly crap that Dean wouldn't be caught dead reading, let alone writing.

Maybe he should suggest them to Sam…

Then he thought back to what Ellen had mentioned about taking him on at their publishing house. It was weird. Why was he thinking about trading publishers? His last one was pretty small, but it hadn't stopped his books from making the New York Times Bestseller list.

Okay. So the panel thing probably had to do with the fact that Dean was their top writer (he wasn't being arrogant—not about this anyways—he really was Harvelle's bestselling author) and it looked like Castiel would be right up there with him. Maybe Ellen wanted to showcase her best, even if one wasn't officially hers yet.

Beyond all that, there was the fact that Castiel creeped Dean the hell out. Or at least he was going to tell himself that 'creep' was the right verb—nothing else made sense.

It was those freaking blue eyes that seemed to bore into him as if the other guy could read his mind and reach into his soul. Dean had had plenty of people look at him in ways that made him feel naked, and really who would complain about that, but never someone who made him feel as if his soul were laid bare with nothing more than a brief glance. It was freaking weird and Dean didn't like it. It wasn't like the man knew him. He couldn't possibly know what Dean was thinking, couldn't possibly know how quickly Dean had noticed that the other man had the fullest lips possible while somehow remaining distinctly masculine. He couldn't know that Dean thought he sounded like the other end of a sex hotline…

Dammit. He did not just think that.

Long story short, the first day moved along smoothly and was relatively enjoyable, or as much as putting a bunch of obsessive hermits in a room can be. By eight o'clock Chuck was thoroughly wasted, Jo had neatly fended off about fifty different attempts to hit on her, and Dean was slowly becoming a stalker.

It should have stopped at looking Castiel up. It should have, but it didn't.

Dean had walked into the lounge at one point, around dinner time, and found Castiel sitting at a table with Andy Gallagher, looking politely interested in whatever the stoner was telling him. Instead of reacting like a normal human being and maybe going over there and just sitting down, Dean had taken one look at the pair and marched right over to them before taking the time to think about what he was doing.

"Hey, Cas, come on," he barked, barely bothering to spare Andy a glance. "Let's go get a burger."

Andy sputtered something at him in that annoying high-pitched way of his, but Dean was already pulling Castiel up from his seat and leading him away.

"I suppose we'll talk later," Castiel told Andy over his shoulder, not really putting up any resistance over being dragged away. They walked in silence for a moment, Dean still holding Castiel just above his elbow before the dark-haired man finally spoke.

"I was beginning to wonder if there would ever be an escape," he murmured, his voice hushed and serious. Dean shot him a look and then grinned when he noticed the slight glint of humor in those blue eyes.

"Yeah, I think Andy's had one too many hits by now and doesn't know when to stop talking," Dean responded. "The guy's brain's totally fried."

The resulting chuckle gave Dean a much warmer feeling than he would ever admit to, making him want to find out what else would bring about that quiet laughter.

"So…Castiel," Dean said, trying the man's name out slowly. "Am I even saying it right? I mean, is it like Casti-el, or Casteel?"

Another chuckle that made Dean unreasonably warm and then, "No, you were saying it right."

Dean flushed, for some reason pleased that he had gotten it right from the start. "I mean, I know you get this a lot, but I gotta ask. What exactly were your parents on when they decided on that name?"

A frown. "They weren't on anything," Cas replied.

Now it was Dean's turn to laugh. "It was a joke," he told him, wondering how anyone could actually be that oblivious.

"Oh." Castiel shifted his trench coat awkwardly, reminding Dean that he was still holding onto the guy's arm. Releasing him suddenly, Dean coughed and tried to remember the thread of their conversation. Luckily for him, Castiel seemed to have remembered what they were talking about and realized what it was that Dean had actually been asking.

"My father was deeply religious," he said quietly, following Dean through the doors of the little restaurant that was attached to the side of the doors. Dean's brows shot up, making him wonder suddenly if that meant Castiel was religious too. It was probably best that they not have that discussion anytime soon…

The restaurant host saw them and, grabbing two menus, led them over to a booth with a view out at the parking lot before Castiel said anything more.

"My mother," he continued almost as soon as the woman vacated their table, "was, as far as I know, not nearly so much, but she was a religious studies professor with a focus on medieval theologies. Castiel is the name of an apocryphal angel."

"Huh," was the only response Dean could think of. "As far as you know? She's…?"

"Dead," Castiel confirmed stonily. As if to cut that line of conversation short, he pulled open his menu and held it up in front of his face to scan over the options. One look at the menu and Dean realized that the place was really just a slightly fancier diner. Which was really fine. It reminded him of his childhood, spent mostly in motels and dives all over the country. It wasn't a bad reminder, even if he hadn't stepped foot into a real diner in a while now. Sam, his usual meal partner if he ever bothered to go out, vehemently refused to go anywhere within a five-mile radius of any kind of diner. He had argued that now that they had the money to, he wanted to go to the nice restaurants that they had never even tried to go to growing up.

"I'm sorry, man," Dean said after what was probably too long a gap. "I get it. My mom died when I was a kid."

The menu across the table from him lowered slightly to reveal Castiel's face again and he once again felt the full force of that blue-eyed gaze. He wondered just for a second if the other man really were an angel, if he could somehow sense the feeling behind Dean's relatively flat words. Then he brushed that thought away because it was stupid. Even stupider than the weird feeling in the bottom of his stomach that he and Castiel now had some kind of connection, which was pretty damn stupid.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispered, so quietly that Dean wasn't actually sure he had said it. "I appreciate your empathy."

Real men don't blush. That's why Dean totally wasn't blushing behind his own menu. He was just reading the damn thing, not at all thinking about the way Castiel's words made him feel.

"No problem, Cas."