So I discovered Supernatural a couple of months ago, and I'm in love with Destiel. Also, there can never be enough AUs for this show, so I decided to write one of my own. Enjoy!

Author's note: I am British, and this story has not been changed to follow American wording etc. It's not specifically set in a particular country, but if this bothers you, just pretend it's set in the UK. Thanks!

Sometimes, thinks Dean, punching his senior manager in the face would really be worth the consequences.

The smarmy git smiles at him as if he can read his mind. Knowing Charlie, he probably can. Dean wouldn't put it past him.

"I'm so sorry Dean, but Eleanor's got the flu and Jack can't make it here this early after school."

The way he says school sets Dean's teeth on edge. As if he knows a fucking thing about Dean's education, or lack thereof.

"It's only three extra hours a week. You don't mind, do you Deano?"

Well, you're really giving me a goddamn choice, aren't you, thinks Dean as he looks at the patronising little smirk on Charlie's face.

"It's fine," he says, forcing himself not to return that mocking grin, because like it or not Charlie's the one who puts money in his pocket, and God knows he needs it. The work might be crap, but it keeps a roof over his head, and that has to be his priority.

Besides, the extra money for the shifts won't exactly hurt. But one of the negatives about working in a twenty-four hour café – and there are very few positives – is that the shifts can be a bloody nightmare. He already works solidly from nine am to eight pm, and staying till fucking eleven isn't really something he fancies doing. Also, being seventeen, working fifty-five hours a week isn't exactly legal, but hey, he needs the money and it's only a few months till he's eighteen anyway. Charlie and the rest of the staff need never know they're employing him illegally. He hopes.

Dean shuffles back across the greasy lino to the counter. Most of the kids from the nearby schools have been and gone now, but there's still one sitting at a table next to the window, head firmly lost in a book. Dean's surprised when he sees the blue and green of the tie – not many of the private school kids come in here, choosing to spend their small fortunes of dinner money elsewhere. But this boy doesn't seem to mind the wobbly tables and damp spotted walls, locked away inside his book. There's no evidence of an order on the kid's table, though, so Dean picks up his pad with a sigh and heads over.

"Can I help you?" he asks, and the boy jumps. He glances up, then looks relieved.

"Sorry, I didn't notice you come over," he grins awkwardly. Jesus Christ, thinks Dean, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Can I help you?" he repeats.

"Oh, um, hang on," says the kid as he skims the laminated peach menu. "Just a coke and some chips, please." Dean notes it down and then heads back behind the counter. As he grabs the coke from the mini fridge and begins to shovel chips onto a battered plate from the fryer, he notices the boy has picked up his book again and has the same dreamy concentration on his face as before. Dean's never really been one for reading, and he can't imagine how a bunch of words can possibly amount to the enthrallment spread across the boy's features. He shakes his head, and goes back to loading up the plate.

When he puts the food down on the table, the boy looks up at him and smiles.

"Thanks."

"Didn't scare you, did I?" grins Dean, looking at the book that the boy sets down. The boy laughs.

"Sorry about that. You know what it's like when you're reading a good book, you can get a bit lost in it sometimes.'

Can you? thinks Dean.

"Must be a good one to get you that into it," he answers, focusing on the cover. It reads 'A Study in Scarlet'. He has a vague feeling he's heard the title before, but he can't think where.

"Sherlock Holmes," says the boy reverently, and Dean looks up, surprised by his tone and the look in his deep blue eyes. "Hound of the Baskervilles is my favourite, but I do like the first one."

Dean's heard of Sherlock Holmes, of course, but the rest of the boy's sentence makes no sense whatsoever.

"Yeah, I think I saw the film a couple of years ago," he says, racking his brains. "Robert Downey Jr, right?"

The boy makes a face. Dean wonders what he's said wrong.

"What?"

"Well, the film's okay, I suppose," replies the boy, scratching his head, "but the books are in an entirely different league."

Dean thinks for a few seconds.

"Weren't they written, like, a hundred years ago or something, though?"

The boy smiles, the same smile he'd given Dean when the food had arrived. "Yes. And that's what makes them so good." Dean expects him to say more, but he doesn't, so he grunts an "enjoy your meal" and shuffles back to the greasy counter. The boy's piercing eyes follow him, but as soon as he realises Dean can see him looking his attention focuses back on this book, his left hand absently lifting chips to his mouth. Shaking his head, Dean turns to another waiting customer. Some people are just naturally born nutters.

It's nearly two when the kid glances up at the clock. His eyes widen, and he throws his book into his bag, leaping to his feet. He hurries to the counter, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits for Dean to ring up his order.

"Late back?" Dean asks, looking at the boy's frantic face.

"I've got to be in maths in exactly seven minutes!" the kid says, panic all over his face. It's a five-minute walk to the school but from the expression on his face anyone would think it was a three-day hike. Dean's guessing the kid's never been so much as a minute late for a lesson in his life.

"Three twenty, please," he says. The boy stuffs a fiver into his hand.

"Keep the change," he half shouts as he runs out of the door and up the hill. Dean just smiles. Yeah. Fucking nutter.

"So you left school at sixteen?" asks Castiel, eyes wide as he takes a sip of his coke. Dean chuckles at his expression and nods, stretching his arms out as he does so.

"Yeah. My own fault, I guess. Shouldn't have let them catch me smoking weed at break."

Castiel's eyes widen even further, if that is possible.

"You – you did drugs – at school?"

"I smoked a bloody joint at school. Te rest happened outside." Dean sighs. He can see he's going to have to tell him.

He isn't sure how this happened. The boy had come in for lunch again, and Dean had served him, at which point the kid had introduced himself as Castiel Novak and thanked him for putting up with his Sherlock Holmes nerding the previous day. Dean had laughed, and made some remark, which had got them talking. Now, they were on the subject of Dean's life. He's sat opposite Castiel at his table, his own coke stood in front of him. He should really be working, but the café's dead anyway, and there's a new girl working who's desperate to do her job properly so he's fairly sure all's okay.

He focuses on Castiel's bright blue eyes, as engrossed by Dean's story as he was by his precious Sherlock Holmes. The fascination's genuine, and Dean wonder's where to begin.

"Well," he hesitates, thinking back, "the thing is, my school never really understood me."

Damn right it didn't. Coming from the estate, everyone was prejudiced against him anyway. Coupled with the fact that his temper was rather short, and his peers were so fond of provoking him, what chance had he really had? Of course, he's never done more than weed at school. He wasn't completely stupid. But one of his mates had a big brother who knew a serious dealer, and soon he'd been getting high regularly on God knew what. But then, after… after something had happened that made him see the error of his ways, he'd started getting confidential help. Time after time they'd tried to put him in rehab, but he couldn't be away from home for any length of time, not after what had happened, and he'd had to fight himself so hard to get better. He'd almost been completely clean when the school had found him on the field, joint in hand, and kicked him out. His parents had washed their hands of him, and in a fit of rage he'd walked out, leaving him homeless with no qualifications and no money. Crashing at friend's houses, he'd managed to get the job at the café. A few lies on his application form had gotten him the extra hours, and he now rented a tiny flat, which he shared with a kid from the nearby university. Thankfully, his roommate spent most of his time at his girlfriend's, so Dean pretty much had the run of the place.

"And you've never wanted to go back? To school, I mean?" asks Castiel. Dean shrugs.

"Wow." Castiel looks amazed. "You've really lived."

"Oh, trust me, there's nothing that great about 'living', I promise you," grins Dean. "So, what about you?"

Castiel's eyes flicker downwards, but Dean can't tell why.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," sighs Castiel. "I'm just not really very – interesting, compared to you especially."

Dean thinks of all the private school kids he's seen around the town. Always loaded with money, overconfident, with an entourage of friends. Although he's certainly not poor, Castiel doesn't really seem to fit the bill otherwise. Still, he takes a stab in the dark, because Castiel's looking really awkward about it and somebody needs to say something.

"Let me guess," says Dean, looking Castiel up and down mock detective style. "Big house, loads of siblings, fancy 'office' dad, mother who lunches, brought up by nannies?"

Castiel laughs.

"Not very accurate, I'm afraid," he replies. "Well, our house if kind of big, I suppose, but I've only got one sister, and she's off at university most of the time. And my parents… well, they're a bit – a bit different."

Dean's slightly surprised at how intrigued he is. "Go on," he urges.

"Well, they're – look, I'm not embarrassed by them or anything. I love them to bits, but some people can be a bit – close minded about this sort of thing." Castiel stammers his sentences out, his face slowly colouring. "I never usually tell anyone. The boys at my school, anyway, they can be real – dicks about it, if I'm being honest."

"About what? They the sort of parents who go on tantric sex retreats, or something?" jokes Dean, picking up his coke again.

"No…" says Castiel, slowly. "They're lesbians."

Dean almost chokes on his drink. Whatever he'd been expecting, that had not been it.

"Something wrong with that?" asks Castiel defensively.

"No, no!" coughs Dean, shaking his head as he tries to get rid of the excess coke he swallowed. "No, I've got nothing against – you know, gay guys. Or girls. You know."

Castiel visibly relaxes. "Good. Some people are just – they're pretty horrendous about it."

Dean nods. "I had a friend – Bobby – he had two dads. I guess being exposed to it from a young age kind of stopped the possibility of me being prejudiced about it, or something."

Castiel smiles. "I didn't know my dad," he says. "He was a sperm donor, but I never met him. Good friends with my mums, he offered when they started talking about wanting kids. He's Anna's dad too – Anna, you know, my sister – but he got hit by a car before I was born."

Dean doesn't know what to say. How do you respond to someone telling you something like that?

"Um – so – so do you get upset about that, or - "

"No, not really," replies Castiel. "It would have been nice to have known him, though. They had it all organised, he was still going to be involved in my life like he was Anna's, he loved kids. But I've got my mums." He smiles again, and just looking at him do so makes Dean grin a bit too. Castiel's got one of those faces that are sort of infectious – he smiles, you smile, he cries, you feel crap – and the genuine happiness on his face would cheer anyone up.

Dean glances over to the wall to check on the time. It should be his lunch break soon, once all the midday customers have died down – not that he's done much work for the past hour – but he's looking forward to getting out of the café for an hour or so. As he focuses on the clock, he suddenly remembers something.

"Hey – Castiel – don't you have to be back for two?"

The dark haired boy's head whips up.

"Shit! Two minutes!" He leaps to his feet, and chucks a couple of coins Dean's way, before realising it isn't enough.

"Shit, I haven't got time…" he mutters, searching for his wallet. "Listen, Dean, can I give you the rest tomorrow? I can't find my money – thanks – bye!"

He's off out of the doors again like yesterday, and Dean laughs as he watches the boy crash into a couple of suit-clad men outside. Then, looking down, he notices Castiel's treasured copy of 'A Study in Scarlet' still lying on the table. He's about to call after him when he sees that Castiel's already on the other side of the street, and it would be pointless. So, standing up, he takes it back behind the counter and shoves it in his bag. He'll give it to Castiel tomorrow, and in the meantime he thinks he'll flick through it himself. See just what's so great about the writing of this 'Sir Arthur Conan Doyle'.

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it, chapter two coming soon!

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