This is a prequel fic for the brilliant Family Matters universe by Aluminium and FaustianAspirant, which you should read.

However, for those of you who haven't yet, what you need to know is that Castiel was an accountant who lost patience with his job - and his overlarge family's expectations of him - quit work, and disappeared. Several weeks later, he is discovered to be working at some place in Kansas called Winchesters [sic] Diner, much to the amusement/apathy/dismay of various siblings and cousins.

This is the story of how he got there.

It is the middle of the afternoon – too late for even the latest of lunches, but too early for the post-work crowd, and so the diner is empty. It will probably remain so for at least an hour, the population of Lawrence being reliably habitual towards this kind of thing. It's the perfect time to clean up, check the accounts, or otherwise seize the opportunities of one quiet, productive hour.

"Why won't you just admit you screwed up so I can fix it?"

The shouting started twenty minutes ago.

"Because there's nothing to fix!"

The argument has been going on a while longer.

"It looks ridiculous, Dean!"

Ever since they repainted the sign outside.

"It's traditional, Sammy!"

Three weeks and counting.

"Traditional?" Sam blinks. "Traditional is triple bacon cheeseburgers and hanging hubcaps on the wall! Spelling 'Winchesters Diner' without an apostrophe is a typo!"

A car drives past outside. A bird flies between two trees. Bobby takes another sip of his beer.

"Of course it's traditional. Like pizzas! You can't have pizzas on a diner menu without an apostrophe, it's just not right."

"We don't even serve pizzas!"

"The point is –"

The bell over the door rings, and Dean breaks off with a look at Sam that says "this is not over" before turning to the customer.

Then it's back to Sam for a shared moment of "what the fuck?"

He's in a suit and a trenchcoat, which in this heat is a whole extra level of weird beyond the whole suit-and-a-trenchcoat issue. But looking past the clothes, he's – strung out, running on fumes. He stares straight at Dean with wide blue eyes, and doesn't so much step forward as stagger.

"Hey man, are you okay?" Dean might not be winning awards for originality, but it seems like a good time for the classics.

The guy walks forwards a couple more paces, and blinks.

"My name is Castiel."

It isn't an answer, but it'll have to do because Castiel promptly drops like a stone. Dean catches him and lowers him to the ground, but he's out cold.

"Castiel? Can you hear me? Cas?"

Bobby sighs, and puts down his beer.

"Damn."

"I think he's waking up."

"Hey, Cas, can you hear me?"

Castiel opens his eyes. There are two unfamiliar faces in front of him. Correction – above him. He is lying down. He attempts to sit up, but the strangers' alarmed expressions and the reeling rush of dizziness that pounds against his eyelids suggest that course of action is unwise.

"Hey, hey! Don't try to move." Castiel stops moving. "Listen, I'm Dean and this is Sam. We own the place. You walked in and kind of conked out."

This stirs some vague memories. "I'm sorry. That was unexpected."

"You're telling me," Dean remarks. "Did you hit your head or anything?"

Castiel searches his memory, somewhat laboriously.

"Not that I recall. I was driving."

"How long have you been on the road?"

Castiel hesitates for a moment. "What day is it currently?"

Dean sighs and gets to his feet, disappearing from Castiel's sightline as he goes to consult with Bobby.

"Exhaustion," he explains quietly. "Kid just needs a good meal and a nap and he'll be right as rain."

"Well he can't nap here," Bobby says. "We'll have customers in in ten minutes."

"Where are we meant to put him?"

"There's a motel a couple streets over."

Dean looks incredulous. "Does he look like he's going to make it to a motel?"

Bobby glances at Castiel, gazing blankly at the ceiling while Sam tries to explain to him where he is.

"Well, what's your plan, genius?"

Dean takes a breath, and in the moment before he speaks, Bobby already knows he's going to regret asking.

"I'll take him back to the house." Dean's using his this-is-a-reasonable-suggestion voice, as if Bobby needed more confirmation that it wasn't. "Fry him up something, let him crash on the couch, I'll be back before the dinner rush –"

"No!" Bobby raises his voice a little too loud and elicits a stir of movement from Castiel. Sam glares briefly before offering the stranger reassurance, and Bobby drops his voice back to a murmur. "Even if you weren't needed here – which you are – you don't know the guy, Dean. He could be anyone."

Dean shrugs off the concern with a smile. "You mean he could be dangerous? Don't worry. I think I can handle him."

And just like that, the argument's over and Bobby's lost. Just like he knew he would. Stubborn idjit.

He gives the sternest look he can manage. "If he breaks anything, it's coming out of your wages, boy."

"Thanks, Bobby." Dean grins, and returns to Castiel.

As he kneels down, Sam shoots him a frustrated look of "I wish I was rude enough to ask in front of the semi-conscious guy on our floor what we are going to do about the semi-conscious guy on our floor," but Dean ignores it; Sammy can wait a couple of minutes. When he leans over Castiel, the man meets his gaze with the kind of fierce intensity that only comes with skipping meals.

"Dean," he says.

"Yeah, that's me." Dean pointedly doesn't look as Sam rolls his eyes. "Hey, Cas, you need to move. Do you think you're okay to walk?"

He offers a hand without waiting for an answer, and, with Sam's help, hauls Castiel upright.

They release him, and Castiel wobbles uncertainly. His muscles seem to require close supervision.

When Dean sighs and slides an arm around him, Castiel wants to complain that he's perfectly capable of putting one foot in front of the other. However, the aforementioned task is proving more challenging than he is used to, and it distracts him from speaking.

"It's not far," Dean promises, and Castiel believes him, and they make their way, entangled and stumbling, out the door and into the low glare of the afternoon sun.

As Castiel watches Dean at the stove, he's struck by the man's focus. His actions are complex, but effortless. Castiel cannot recall the last time he put such concentration into the task. Admittedly, his memory is somewhat hazy at the current point in time, but this void feels deeper, longer. Has he ever looked like that?

"You still awake, Cas?"

Dean has asked this question several times already; the answer remains the same, so Castiel does not repeat it.

"You are a very skilled cook," he observes.

Dean glances over his shoulder towards the sofa. He looks surprised. "I have to be. It's the family business."

He smiles each time he tosses the frying pan. There is a point there that Castiel wishes to make, but the words escape him.

He doesn't chase after them. His thoughts are vague and slippery, and he is aware that this is indicates a need to sleep soon. Ideas are difficult to grasp. Although it now seems obvious, it did not occur to him to take off his coat until Dean suggested it. He has now removed the sleeves from his arms, but the majority of the fabric is trapped beneath the weight of his body, and he cannot decipher the mechanics of its removal.

The sounds of cooking have stopped, and Dean hands Castiel a plate before sitting opposite him. Castiel eats ravenously, discovering only by its diminishment the enormity of his hunger.

After a few minutes, Dean clears his throat. "So, Cas, if you don't mind me asking... who are you? Where do you come from? What do you do?"

The last answer is very clear in Castiel's mind. He pauses between mouthfuls to communicate it.

"I quit."

Dean's eyebrows raise. "Okay. But what about your family? Won't they be worried about you?"

That answer is far more complicated, and in his current state, Castiel does not have the energy to wrestle with it.

He keeps eating, and does not respond.

When they return that evening, Cas is right where Dean left him – collapsed on the sofa, dead to the world under the half-cover of his own trenchcoat.

"And he wouldn't tell you anything about himself?" Sam asks in a whisper.

"Would you stop asking me that? No." Dean shrugs. "Although I'm not sure it was 'wouldn't talk' so much as 'couldn't speak straight.'"

"If he kills us in our sleep, I'm going to murder you."

"Sweet dreams to you too, Bobby."

As always, Dean's the first awake the next morning. He does his best to keep the volume low in the kitchen, but it isn't long before he turns around to find a sleep-rumpled man staring at him from the doorway.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Bathroom's on the left," he says, gesturing to the hall. "Do you want anything?"

Castiel looks at him for a moment, then leaves without a response. Dean chalks it up to mornings. Sam's behaviour isn't much different when he walks in two minutes later and starts pouring himself a bowl of whole wheat cardboard without so much as a glance in Dean's direction. Dean hands him a coffee, and gets a vague kind of half nod of acknowledgement as he takes his seat.

But a couple of minutes later, Sam's eyes open fully, and he smiles and says "Morning, Cas."

Dean turns to see him stood in the doorway once more, looking grave and somewhat uncertain.

"There's coffee in the pot if you want some," he suggests.

Castiel does not move.

"...or you could just sit down."

There's another pause, but just as Dean is about to ask if he's planning on becoming a permanent feature in the doorway, Castiel takes a seat.

And sits in it.

And watches Dean eat.

After a couple of minutes of trying really hard to pretend there isn't a virtual stranger watching him eat breakfast, Dean stops eating and meets Castiel's eyes – only to be struck once again by that look of hunger. The guy must be starving. Of course, he could just get himself food, but...

Dean pushes out his chair and goes to the cupboard. "What do you want for breakfast, Cas?"

Sam is looking at him like he's dumb, but then that's been Sammy's favourite facial expression since he turned fourteen. Cas is looking at Dean like perhaps he's been struck dumb, and is instead attempting to communicate his wishes through the power of his mind alone. Only when it becomes clear that this method isn't working does Cas decide to open his mouth.

"Dean," he says gravely. "I cannot repay you for your hospitality."

Sam's expression moves seamlessly to 'this is your problem, keep me out of it.'

"We would have done it for anyone." Dean shrugs. "We kinda did, if you hadn't noticed."

For the first time, Cas smiles – a brief half-quirk of the mouth, but most definitely there.

"I have no money. I should repay you for the food, but I cannot."

Oh.

Dean rolls his eyes. "No money talk until after breakfast. Now, what are you having?"

With a regretful look, Castiel requests muesli. Dean gets him a bowl. Sam mumbles some excuse and leaves while they're both still eating, and from Bobby's conspicuous lack of appearance, Dean figures he's taking point on this one.

Castiel is a slow eater. It feels like an eternity before he finally lowers the spoon and turns that intense focus back to Dean, with an impatient look as though the conversation never stopped.

"What do you mean you have no money?" Dean finally asks.

"I apologise. It was rude of me to accept your assistance without a means of repayment."

"Would you cut it with the repayment crap?" Dean's surprised at how loud his voice sounds. "All I did was act like a decent human being. You don't owe me anything."

Castiel's expression is unreadable, but he somehow manages to radiate his disagreement.

"I just meant – I don't care how impromptu the road trip is, you always take your wallet." He and Sammy used to drive cross-country in the summer, together or separate, but he can't imagine either of them ending up broke in a strange town.

"I did," Castiel says. "I tossed it from the window of the car at some point on the I-40. At the time, the decision seemed sound, although in hindsight there were several flaws in my reasoning."

Dean blinks, wondering if that was a joke. If it was, Cas isn't laughing.

"Isn't there someone who could wire you some more?" he asks.

Castiel's face reads like a Severe Weather warning. "There is no-one I wish to contact."

Dean frowns, thinking.

"My financial situation is not your concern." Castiel sounds more curious than anything else. "You don't know me."

"What difference does that make? I'm not going to let you just drive off into the sunset when you don't even have gas money!"

"Then what do you suggest?"

"You're asking me if you can keep him?"

"Hire him," Dean corrects, although that doesn't make Bobby look any less sceptical.

"You do realise this is a grown man you're talking about? Not some puppy abandoned on the side of the road!"

Dean half-expects Sam to laugh at that, but apparently his brother has finally remembered how to be helpful.

"We've been meaning to find someone to help out since Adam left," he points out.

"I wouldn't call last night a great interview."

"It doesn't have to be permanent," Dean insists. "If this goes south, he's out of here this evening. One day and we're quits."

Bobby looks between the two of them and sighs. "It's your place, you hire who you like. But don't you boys go getting in over your heads."

Sam shoots Dean a look – as though he needed reminding who's taking the fall if this goes to hell.

Dean ignores it. This plan might be risky, but it's a damn sight better than the alternative.

Cas returns from his car with what he claims is a change of clothes – they look exactly the same to Dean – and, with some prompting, removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves. They show him the ropes as they go, and he listens to every word with the expression Dean is gradually realising is not "hunger" so much as it is "Castiel."

The lunch rush goes by in a blur, and somehow hours have passed and they're left with only a few of the regulars, hanging back to take stock of the newcomer. Overall, they seem to approve. Dean isn't close enough to overhear what Cas says to Sheriff Mills, but she walks out laughing. Even Rufus is chuckling – although that might have more to do with watching Bobby struggle to answer a convoluted series of questions on the finer workings of the espresso machine.

Finally, the diner empties, and everything is quiet. Sam disappears into the kitchen to clear up, and Dean sends Castiel out for a break while he works through yesterday's accounts.

Half an hour passes before Dean realises that both of them have been gone a while.

He glances out the window at the parking lot, and Cas is just stood there, staring up at the roof of the building.

It isn't until he's out the door that he understands why.

Sam. On a ladder. With a paint can.

Dean can tell he knows he's been caught from the way he doesn't look down.

"Hey, Sam."

It takes him a second to answer.

"Dean."

Cas is watching the pair of them like they're talking in a foreign language, so Dean goes over, ready to explain that everything is fine, his brother is just a pedantic idiot with no respect for tradition.

But when he gets close, Cas speaks first.

"I am confused," he says. "I thought you and Sam were brothers."

"Yeah, we are..." Dean pauses, not sure why it's in doubt.

"And that this business was one you jointly owned."

"It is. And?"

Dean snaps the question a little. But when Cas turns to him, there's a look in his eye like he's just seen the universe's punchline.

"Then why is Sam adorning the building with a singular possessive apostrophe?"

Dean looks up again at the sign, and Cas is right: Winchester's Diner. Belonging to a single Winchester.

He crows with laughter, making sure that Sam can't help but hear.

"Too right!" he calls. "This place is all mine!"

It takes Sam a couple of seconds to realise what he's done. Then it comes: the pissiest face Dean's ever seen on him. The wave of fraternal indignation hits Dean from clear across the parking lot.

But by the time the first dinner customers arrive, the apostrophe has vanished, never to darken their doorway again.

After the last table is cleared, Castiel thrums with tiredness and aches in muscles he never dreamed existed. But then, he has lost count of the things he has learned since he arrived here.

Nothing about this day has been expected, but it is somehow fitting that it should end like this: sitting at the counter he already knows every inch of, listening to Sam and Dean argue over the telling of a story with smiles tugging at their lips.

Castiel does not remember when the sky outside grew dark, but now the fluorescent lights reflect in every window, and through a wave of Dean's hands Castiel catches a mirror image of Bobby Singer gesturing their way.

The story ends, and the diner echoes with emptiness.

"So," Dean says. "I suppose you probably want to get back on the road."

The question disorients Castiel. In the frantic motion of the day, he had lost sight of the limitations on his time here. He is being asked to leave, and his journey is unlikely to return him to this place.

"I should continue with my travels." That is what brought him here.

But he is uncertain if the claim is valid. At first, driving had seemed like a solution. But he has no destination in mind, and fewer resources than he had imagined.

Two days ago, that didn't seem like a problem.

Dean walks past Castiel towards the cash register – retrieving his wages. Their transaction is complete.

"You know, Cas," Sam says. "If you wanted to stick around, we were looking to hire someone."

The suggestion surprises Castiel. He turns to see Dean's reaction, but he has stilled facing the other direction, and his expression is unreadable in the wavering glass.

"It'd save us having to train up someone new," Bobby comments.

Slowly, Dean turns. "You know, you haven't seen much of Lawrence yet."

The offer is clear.

Castiel's first instinct is to refuse them. He left to find something new, not another job, a new commitment.

But this is anything but a mandate. If he stays, it will be his decision, and his alone. He can leave at any time, and continue on his travels.

The road was not everything he had expected of it.

Castiel would enjoy another day like this one.

"I am still somewhat short on funds," he says. "And I would hate to overlook this town's best features."

"There's not much to see," Dean says, but he begins listing suggestions, and Sam and Bobby chip in as they file out of the door.

Castiel hesitates. If he is staying in town, he needs to secure accommodation.

"Well?" Dean turns back to him. "You coming or not?"

"I am," Castiel confirms, and, as the lights flicker out behind him, he follows Dean out the door, and back home.

The next day, before the diner opens, the Winchesters crowd Castiel into the office and insist he picks a name for his work account.

His first instinct is to type " " – but when Dean half-laughs "Come on, Cas, who do you want to be?" his hands freeze over the keyboard. That habit is everything he wants to leave behind him – his life, dotted in lowercase.

But it has been so long since he used another address that he has no memory of it to fall back on.

"I'm Impala 67," Dean tells him. "Like my baby."

From the way he smiles, Castiel knows he is not meant to understand. He glances at the others.

Bobby sighs. "He means his car."

Castiel is still uncomprehending of the joke, and turns to Sam for confirmation.

"Oh, they're actually serious." Sam rolls his eyes.

"I'll introduce you later," Dean insists. "But come on, pick something."

Castiel considers it for several seconds. Who does he want to be?

He makes his decision.

"'Cas'?" Dean reads over his shoulder. "Don't go overthinking it there, man."

"You named yourself after a car," Sam says derisively.

"A classic car," Dean corrects.

"Are you three gonna stand around gossiping all day, or were you planning on opening up sometime soon?" Bobby asks.

Castiel thinks he made the right choice.