At 6:22 that Monday morning Castiel is knocking, politely but insistently, at Dean's front door.

It's 6:24 by the time Dean wrenches it open, blinking, his hair everywhere and the Ramones t-shirt he just pulled on still rucked up on the side, showing a triangle of soft skin.

"Cas, man, I'm glad we're friends again and all, but how many times do I gotta remind you that I am not exactly a morning person?"

Cas answers loudly enough that Dean's sure he didn't hear a word he just said.

"I'd like to cash in my favor now."

Dean scrubs his hand over his face and clears his throat, trying to wake up. The only thing he's been able to understand so far is that Cas isn't going away, so he opens the door wider and steps back, letting him come inside.

That's when he notices how Cas is dressed, in a perfectly pressed blue suit that makes his eyes look even brighter than usual and a crisp white dress shirt, with shining black shoes and platinum cufflinks sparkling at his wrists. He's meticulously put together but his hair is still a wrecked mess of black, which just makes the whole thing even sexier somehow.

Hot damn. At least part of me is awake now.

"Why so fly, Cas?"

Castiel is silent for a long moment, his eyebrows drawing together.

"I don't understand, Dean."

"The clothes. What's with the suit?"

"Ah. That's my favor. I would like a ride to the train station, as I have a lunch meeting with my former agent in New York."

Dean startles fully awake now, smiling and clapping a hand on Cas' shoulder.

"Seriously? Dude, that's awesome. Of course I'll give you a ride... but why are you taking the train?"

Cas smiles back in answer, small and private.

"I don't have a license, Dean. The train is the most expeditious and economical choice available."

Dean reads the tense set of Cas' shoulders, the nervous flick of his eyes. Cas has always hated public transit, and he's lived in virtual seclusion for years. Finding his way to an agency in the midst of Manhattan is probably far more than the little guy can handle right now.

"Yeah, maybe, but it's not the most fun way. Why don't I take the day off, give you a lift down there?"

"That's more of a favor than I could ask, Dean. It's supposed to be something that's the equivalent of a few cents – the ride to the train station is already overreaching."

"Not if it's what I want to do. Come on, Cas. I get a shit-ton of vacation days and no real excuse to take them, and the Impala hasn't had highway miles since before I had her trailered up here." He smiles, the one that's slightly crooked and lights up his eyes, the one he knows Cas can't resist. "It'll be fun. I haven't been to New York in forever; we can make a day of it, see some sights, get dinner somewhere awesome."

Cas is silent and still for a moment, staring at Dean in that way that always made him slightly uncomfortable.

"Very well. If you're willing to take me to my meeting, I would very much appreciate it."

Dean's already halfway up his stairs by the time Cas finishes talking.

"Lemme get dressed. Do me a favor and make some coffee? We'll take it with us."

They've just cleared the snarl of Boston traffic and are headed west on the Mass Pike, Cas prim in the passenger's seat that he occupied about a thousand times before in a different lifetime.

"Thank you, Dean. I know there are more pleasant ways you could have spent one of your days off."

Dean listens to the summer wind whipping through the open windows, the blare of Metallica from his stereo. He sees Cas' profile in his peripheral vision, watches the asphalt disappear under the Impala's tires. And he says the first thing that pops into his mind.

"There's literally nowhere on Earth that I'd rather be right now, Cas. So thank you."

Cas nods, and history repeats himself – he eases into the leather seat, relaxes his grip and starts to enjoy himself.

You've grown up, Dean, and you've learned from your mistakes. It's not the same history all over again.

"So... what is your meeting all about?"

Cas thumbs through the file in his fingers, his fingers running over the pages like they can speak for him, like the answers are already there in the ink.

"About my new book. It's really fiction this time – a follow-up, sort of, to Please Don't Give Me Up. It's a story about old lovers who have inflicted significant damage on one another but somehow find their way back to each other after a decade of silence."

Really fiction. Dean thinks about the space in his bed between himself and Lisa. He thinks about the way he can barely stop himself from touching Cas every time they see each other. And then he thinks about his resolve. About how he's not going to fuck shit up any more.

And he stays quiet.

They make it into the city in good time, Dean swearing as he tries to negotiate Manhattan traffic. But he only makes two wrong turns before he finds the right building, thanking every deity in the universe that it has underground parking. He glides into the first open space, the engine's rumble echoing in the dark garage.

There's not a single muscle of Cas' entire body that isn't coiled with tension, his eyes wide and darting. His voice is so rough that it sounds like it's painful for him to speak.

"I don't know if I can do this. My people skills... they're a bit rusty."

Dean reaches over and wraps his hand around Cas' slender forearm, the suit smooth under his fingers.

"Of course you can, Cas. You're brilliant and incredibly talented. Your old agent has probably been shitting herself with excitement since the second you called. I mean, she agreed to meet you right away, right? And she's some big, important literary agent. No way she clears her schedule unless she's serious about you."

"But, Dean, I was so irresponsible the last time. I broke my contract, I said horrible things..."

"Blame it on the artistic temperament or something. Lots of writers go a little nutty sometimes."

Cas covers Dean's hand with his own for a second and squeezes, then takes a deep breath to steel himself. He picks up his folder and steps out of the car, leaning back down to look at Dean at the last second. His eyes are so blue in his pale face, for a second they're all Dean can see.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't go far, okay?"

Dean smiles and stretches out in his seat. "I'll wait right here the whole time. Promise."

"Get dressed, something nice. I'm taking you out to dinner." Cas' face is flushed, his hands shaking with excitement as he slams Dean's door behind him.

Dean's cramming for his accounting mid-term, a half-chewed pen cap dangling from his lips. "What? Cas, I gotta study, and I'm working tonight-"

"No, you're not. I already talked to Ellen. And I'll help you study when we get back." He pulls Dean's only suit out of the closet and tosses it at him.

Dean looks up, about to continue protesting, but he sees the almost-manic gleam in Cas' eye. "Okay, okay. I'll get dressed. What's the big occasion?"

"I'll tell you at dinner."

Twenty minutes later, Cas directs him to a dark, romantic fondue place downtown.

"Swanky, Cas. I mean, I know your Dad gives you an allowance and all, but are you sure you can swing this?"

Cas just smiles, proud and secretive. "I'm sure."

He makes it until the first course is served and Dean's mouth is stuffed with cheese-soaked bread cubes, and then Cas' excitement overflows and he blurts it out.

"I'm going to be a published author."

Dean's eyes nearly pop out of his head, although Cas isn't sure how much of that is from the news itself and how much is from Dean nearly choking, coughing and swallowing until his face turns red and he can gasp for breath again.

"Are you serious? Cas, that's amazing. How did that even happen?"

"Well, you know I've been writing."

Dean did know, he'd seen the collection of composition books that Cas had started compiling, covering them in furious scribbles. It had started over the previous summer and reached a point where he never went anywhere without one, burning through pens so quickly that Dean had taken to buying them for him by the boxful. He turned it into a sort of game, arranging different colors together like a bouquet of flowers and tying them up with rubber bands, leaving them in an empty jar on Cas' side of the bed.

But Cas had never told him what he was writing and Dean had just assumed it was some sort of senior project for Cas' literature degree. He never even knew Cas wanted to be a writer.

"Yeah, but there's a big difference between writing and being published. I mean, don't you have to have an agent and contracts and all that stuff?"

"Yes, I do. My agent's name is Pamela and she negotiated a deal for me this morning. I'm getting quite a sizable advance."

Dean gapes, completely thrown. He feels dizzy and at least ten steps behind, the world tilting slightly as this new information slides into place, shaking a hundred questions loose and bouncing around his brain.

"This is so incredible, Cas. I'm so proud of you. Why didn't you tell me you were trying to sell a book? Or even that you were writing one? What's it about?"

Cas blushes and looks down, his whole body practically vibrating with pride.

"I didn't want to say anything because I didn't think anything would come of it. But then I sent the first chapter to a few agencies and one of them called me, and then I got the deal... it all happened very quickly."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for? This deserves a proper celebration!"

Dean flags down a passing waiter and orders a bottle of champagne, reaching under the table to squeeze Cas' knee.

They're tipsy, full of bubbly and every type of food that can be dipped into cheese or chocolate by the time they stumble back into Dean's room. Cas' hands are already fumbling at Dean's tie as he kicks the door shut behind them.

"So when do I get to read it?"

"Mmm?" Cas is biting a kiss at the side of Dean's neck, his hands shoving the suit coat off his broad shoulders.

"Your book," Dean pants. "You have carefully avoided telling me what it's about. So when do I get to read it?"

"It takes a while before things get published. Months." Cas has popped open the top three buttons of Dean's dress shirt and is gliding his mouth over the sharp curve of his collarbone, but Dean tenses. He can tell there's something wrong with the way Cas refuses to answer.

"Wait, wait." He pulls back, bends down slightly until he forces Cas to meet his eye.

"Cas? What's the book about?"

Cas' fingers curl at his sides, his heart somehow moving into his throat as if it could hold back the words, keep Dean from finding out.

"It's a novel. A... love story. I was inspired by us."

Something warm slides through Dean's belly, pleasant and nausea-inducing at the same time.

"'Exactly how inspired, Cas?"

Cas licks his lips, no longer flushed and swollen from being pressed against Dean's. He's ashen now, nearly the same color as his shirt.

"I didn't use our real names. But the plot, many of the details... it's our story, Dean. It's beautiful. I wanted to share it."

Dean paces away from him, turning back and stopping when he reaches the far wall.

"Our story, Cas? A whole book about us, published under your real name, for the whole world to read and judge." His gaze is distant, hollow, and he rubs his hands over his face and up into his hair. "How could this... I mean, what if..."

And this is it, Cas can see it. They've been living on the edge of a knife for so long, careful to walk the line between their happy private life and non-existent public one, and now Cas has shoved them off of it. That knife is going to shred every inch of them on the way down, leaving them bleeding and broken and raw.

"What, Dean?"

It's steel, cold and hard, and it should be a warning to Dean to tread carefully here, but he's too far gone to hear it.

"Cas, my brother reads. A lot. Like all the fucking time. What if he finds your book and he recognizes me in it and finds out about this. Not to mention Ellen and Jo, Bobby and Ash, everybody at school, oh, God..."

He doesn't hear Cas' sharp intake of breath, doesn't see his jaw tense so hard that it makes his teeth feel like glass, cracking and fragile.

"Sam doesn't know?"

Dean shakes himself, blinks. "What? No, no, Sam doesn't know anything."

"I know everything about Sam. EVERYTHING, Dean. I've never met the man, but I could pick him out of a police line-up, because you love him, so you talk about him. That's what people do. So tell me how it's possible that we've been together for nearly two years now, and he has no idea that I even exist?"

"We don't flaunt our relationship, Cas. Nobody knows."

Castiel is shaking now, every ache and grievance from all this time surging up out of the dark pit he'd shoved them in and crashing over him, washing away the last traces of his control.

"No, Dean. There's a difference between being discreet and what we do. And Sam's got nothing to do with either one. He's family. He lives in a different state. That thing you always say about wanting things to stay comfortable and safe for me? That doesn't apply to Sam. If you were ever serious about this, if you ever thought it was going to really last, you would have told him."

And then it hits Cas just how true those words are. "You would have. And you didn't. I'm in this alone... and I'm such a fool."

Dean can't feel the floor beneath his feet, can't feel anything but blind, numb panic. He's falling, angry and terrified, completely unprepared for this conversation and unsure of how to stop it. His mouth opens and closes a few times silently, like a fish gasping on dry land, and Cas just shakes his head.

"I have to go."

Dean wants to stop him. Wants to move, to reach out and wrap his arms around Castiel, to bury his face in the bend of his neck and cry and apologize and promise to do anything – anything – if he can stop this, to fix it somehow.

But he doesn't. He watches Cas disappear, closing the door behind himself, and Dean doesn't move for a solid five minutes.

Because if he doesn't move, it didn't happen. He'll stay just like this, and Cas will come back, and everything will be fine. It'll be fine.

It's not fine.

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean is screaming and throwing things, pens clattering to the ground, a boot knocking into the plaster of the far wall, cigarettes falling like leaves out of the open pack he hurls at the door.

He sinks, curling into a tiny, shaking, sobbing ball, and rocks himself. The fear crackles like static, so overwhelming that it becomes white noise and serves as a filter, distilling his thoughts into three simple concepts.

He can't lose Cas. Cas is everything. And Cas left because Dean hasn't told Sam.

That's as far as he gets before he's up, not bothering to grab his coat or button his shirt back up, not checking if he has his phone. He finds his keys in the rumple of unmade bedding and leaves, not stopping to lock the door behind him. He only hits about every third stair on the way down, nearly twisting an ankle in his haste, and pushes through the crowded bar without seeing anything but the door.

The Impala rumbles, loud and strong, and Dean's never been happier to drive a fast car. Because the faster he gets to Sam, the faster he can fix this. He can get his life back.

He doesn't see the young man in the suit with the tear-stained face standing at the edge of the lot. All he sees is his last chance, his opportunity to make this right.

Dean drives all night on dark highways, just him and the truckers, every pit stop for gas a needle in his skin, painful and annoying and holding him back. Sam's in Nashville, at Vanderbilt, and a year early, the bookish little shit. It's an eleven hour drive that Dean makes in eight and a half, knocking on the window of Sam's dorm room in the first light of dawn.

Sam peers through the glass for a long minute, rubbing at his eyes, before he raises the sash.

"Dean, seriously, what the fuck-"

"I've never been happier that you've got a first floor room, dude."

Sam blinks, the sleep fog beginning to clear from his brain, and he takes in Dean's disheveled appearance, the panicked shine to his eyes.

"Oh, shit. Did someone die?"

Dean's already climbing in the window, stumbling a bit as he tries to fold himself over the sill.

"What? No. Nothing like that, Sammy. I just, uh, I had something important to tell you. Too important for the phone."

And in all the time that he drove up here, the crazy frenzy that consumed him over his decision to scramble his whole life together, the Sam parts and the Cas parts and the Harvelle parts, he never actually thought out how he was going to say this.

So he rips the band-aid off fast, hoping to make the pain quick.

"I like dudes, Sam. And I'm in love with one, in particular. His name is weird as shit and so is he, but he's also kind of perfect. And it's awesome, or it was, until I fucked it all to hell because I was afraid to tell you."

Sam just stares at him for a long minute.

"Is that really what you drove all night to tell me?"

Dean scratches at the back of his neck, tries and fails to read the look on Sam's face.

"...Yeah?"

Sam shakes his head and smiles, pulling Dean into a hug. "I know, dude. We all do." He turns him loose, smiling at Dean's bewildered face. "There's even a bet going between Ash, Ellen, Jo, and me about how long it was going to take you to come out." And then his face lights up even more. "And I have this month, so, thanks, man. I'm about to come into some much-needed cash."

Dean's every bit as lost as he was earlier, when he was faced with Cas' sudden rage. "You know? You all know? But... I never said anything..."

"We're not stupid, Dean. We love you, so we pay attention to you. And everyone could tell that you were happy, so we didn't say anything." Sam shrugs. "Figured you'd tell us when you were ready."

A long moment passes before Dean starts laughing, loud and long and cathartic, doubled over and clutching at his stomach. "I'm such a fucking idiot," he gasps out between guffaws.

"Now there's the shocking revelation I was expecting when you showed up," Sam says.

Dean grins at him, the whole world suddenly shining and full of promise. "Bitch."

Sam grins right back, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "Jerk."

A blanket rustles on the far side of the room as Sam's roommate groans and rolls over in his bed, throwing an arm over his face to block out the sunlight streaming through the open window.

"Mazel tov on your relationship, dude, but it's too early and I'm too hungover for shit to be this gay."

Sam laughs and throws a pillow at his face, and all the tension eases out of Dean's bones until he's made of butter, soft and warm. That feeling stays with him the whole drive back to Florida.

Dean trudges into his room, exhausted from being up for over 24 hours and the weight that's been taken off his shoulders. All he wants to do is call Cas and tell him that he's made things right, then curl up together and sleep for at least a day and a half.

But he stops short before he even makes it to the bed, fear sliding down his spine when he notices how bare half the room is, more floor visible than he's seen in years.

It's all gone. Every book, CD, and piece of clothing that Cas had brought over, the stacks of notebooks and bag of toiletries. There's no trace that anyone but Dean has ever set foot in this room – none except the most recent bouquet of pens Dean had made for Cas, still standing in their jar on his otherwise-empty bedside table.

And the single piece of white paper, folded and set primly on the bed's only remaining pillow.

Dean picks it up with a shaking hand, already suspecting what it will say.

"Dean,

I'm so sorry. You deserve more than this, a better explanation, a chance to defend yourself. But I just can't. My heart is broken, shattered, and I don't have the strength to do this to your perfect face.

I'm leaving. In fact, by the time you see this, I will already be long gone. I'm withdrawing from school, I'm leaving the state. I've got the means to get by and a career open to me, and my presence here is clearly more than you can deal with right now.

That doesn't change anything I've ever said. You are the great love of my life, my muse, my everything.

And I will carry you with me as I go.

All my love,

Castiel"

Cas comes out of his meeting with a flush in his cheeks, a small bounce to his step. But as he grows closer to the Impala and can see Dean, talking loudly on the phone and gesticulating wildly, the smiles slips from his face.

He opens the passenger door with a squeak of the hinges; Dean throws the phone down and looks over at him. His face is white, those green eyes absurdly large and haunted.

"Perfect timing, Cas. We gotta roll – we're having a baby."

Castiel folds himself into the car and slams the door shut behind him. "Was that Sam? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters, turning over the car's engine and charging toward the exit. "They're just leaving for the hospital now, so if we haul ass we should make it in time."

Cas straps in and holds on, his news forgotten until they're well outside the city.

"Shit, Cas, I'm such an ass. I haven't even asked how everything went."

Cas smiles and spreads his fingers out on his knees, squeezing to try to tamp down his joy.

"It was... great. Really great. Pamela has agreed to represent me again, and she's really excited about the book proposal."

"Really? That's amazing! That's... I mean, that's like everything, right? Your whole career, back on track?"

And Cas can't help but feel his heart leap, the sheer joy such a contrast to the way he felt when he got his first contract all those years ago.

"Yes, it's quite encouraging. There are several conditions to Pamela's representation, but..." Cas fiddles with his coat, smooths his hands down the lapels. "But I think that's probably for the best, anyway."

Dean's too distracted with baby-related panic to notice the questioning note in Cas' voice.

"That's really awesome, Cas. I'm so proud of you."

Cas grins and pulls a pen out of his pocket, starts scribbling notes to himself on the backs of the pages in his portfolio.

They make it to the hospital in record time, both of them a little surprised that they weren't pulled over for the near supersonic speeds Dean pushed the Impala to. They jog into the obstetrics waiting room, breathless and adrenalized, only to be told by a bored desk clerk that Jessica Winchester is still in labor and to have a seat.

Dean can't even think about sitting down again, having spent all day folded up inside his car, so instead he's pacing like an expectant father from the old days.

"You're going to wear a path in that carpet," Castiel tells him, sitting elegantly in a corner chair.

"Don't care," Dean replies tersely, checking his watch for at least the 43rd time since they arrived.

Cas sighs and tosses down the newspaper he was reading, standing when Dean's transit brings him back to Cas' side of the room.

"Dean, perhaps I should go. This is a family event. My presence is... diluting, at best."

Dean stops, focusing on Castiel fully for the first time in hours.

"No. No, Cas, you can't leave. This is family, yeah, but it's mostly about life. It's about love and miracles and letting new people into our hearts." He reaches over and rests his hand on Cas' shoulder, warm and firm and comforting.

"I can't think of anyone that I'd rather have here with me."

Cas opens his mouth to answer, to say something that he's sure he'll regret later, but Sam barges into the waiting room in that moment. He's exhausted and terrified and ecstatic, his hair wild and tangled, the hospital gown and gloves he wears smudged with blood.

But his face is consumed by his smile, burning so brightly that it's almost difficult to look at.

"It's a boy. We've got a little boy."