Dean likes the feeling of wood flooring on his bare feet. He likes that the texture is smooth, that it's cool and even, and that it has a particular smell that reminds him of his old house way back on that cracked, crummy road.
He has a new home now, it's true, but there are moments where he thinks about the tiny house he moved into with his dad and with Sam, even when Dean thought it was impossible and stupid. An autumn day saw their move, and the weather was bitter, cold and unforgiving. Staying there, his dad wasn't home a lot, but he and Sam, at least, still had a place to call their own. Dean thinks about that crumpled little house a lot, but he doesn't tell anyone. He keeps it to himself.
His new home isn't really "new," per se, it's a mixture of worn and used. He's lived in it for nearly a year, now. It's an old apartment in an even older town.
When he first bought it, there were questionable stains, and certain vile scents permeated the air in nausea-inducing fits. That was why the asking price was so low.
The thing is, Dean is stubborn. So he bought the place and he was determined to make it habitable. He fixed it up and he cleaned it, and he paid it almost as much love as he pays his 1967 Chevy Impala. Now it isn't anything especially noteworthy, but it has all of Dean's favorite foods, a collection of movies and CDs, a few defunct tapes and even a couple of records, hardy furniture and a haphazard stack of books that Sam has given Dean.
Dean has read them all, but he refuses to mention that to Sam. When asked, he will skillfully change the subject.
Dean's favorite part of the apartment is, of course, the wood flooring, a charming discovery made when the 70's shag carpeting was peeled away.
Today is Sunday. Outside, the sky is greying and lazy gulls are screeching in circles towards the sun.
Dean never has anything to do on Sundays. He's not the praying type, and his circle of friends is embarrassingly small. He doesn't necessarily mind, though. He likes being alone with nothing expected of him except how long he can sleep in, how many pancakes he can eat and how many episodes of Dr. Sexy MD he can binge watch.
There are some days that the apartment seems a little too quiet, and the spaces a little too empty, but he tries not to let it bother him.
Dean is rolling around on his bed for a while, trying to get comfortable and fall back to sleep. His head's buzzing, though, and his brain feels like a live wire for no particular reason. It won't let him fall asleep because it can't sit still and it feels like one gigantic vibration. He sits up with a small groan of frustration. Glancing at the clock, he sees it's almost the afternoon.
He massages his temples just briefly, and then he decides a shower would probably be a good idea, because he smells like the backside of an elephant.
Freshly showered and clad in a pair of jeans, he strolls through his room towards his kitchen, his bare feet going pit pat on the comfortable floor.
Dean eats a bowl of cereal. And then another, for good measure.
A tiny sliver of orange sun snakes its way onto the dinning room table, and Dean's eyes follow the trail out towards the window, seeing that the sun is burning its way through the clouds, that the sky is brightening and spreading in all directions apart, and that all in all, it seems like A Nice Day.
This is how Dean makes the momentous decision to take a walk.
He sets his dishes into the sink, deciding that he'll probably maybe possibly do them later, that they have to 'soak,' and he grabs a shirt from his closet, complete with jacket and boots, and, out of reflex, glances down to see that the necklace Sam gave him for Christmas is still in place. It is.
The weather outside is, despite the progress of the sun, pretty brisk. The air is biting and nipping at Dean's face, and leaves are falling off the trees at an alarming rate, settling on the top of Dean's head every time he walks underneath their great stretching canopies.
Dean doesn't mind this weather.
It's those fantastic couple of months in the middle, transitioning stages between the heat of summer and the frigid of winter. Fall is nearing its closure, but for now the weather is just the right amount of sun plus cold. It makes him smile a little, but then he feels stupid for walking down a sidewalk alone smiling to himself, so he stops.
This town is small, and it's definitely not the grandiose, sloping city two hours out, but it's a good mixture of aging houses with a touch of modern flair, and the people are generally of a good nature, with just enough of them so that not everyone knows everyone else.
Dean was thankful for that when he moved here with Sam, because no one paid them any extra attention for being out-of-towners.
About half an hour away from Dean's place, Sam's studying at a small, local university, staying with his girlfriend, Ruby. Dean would prefer that Sam had never met Ruby and had just stayed with him, but Sam did meet Ruby, and then he told Dean that he needed "his space." Dean's still a little bitter about that.
In this town, there's a good number of parents living in suburbia—the romantic notion of raising their children in this picture perfect scene fresh in their hearts. It means a bunch of kids are running around every corner, and signs that demand drivers to be cautious dot every street.
The other side of the spectrum is that this town is a College Town. That equation: college plus kids, means lots of nice parks for the children, and a bunch of random bars for the adults, something Dean can appreciate.
It's weird to admit to himself, but Dean actually feels pretty comfortable here, something he hasn't felt in a long time. Sam's doing good in school, too, so that makes things even better (even if Dean doesn't like Ruby).
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees a bizarre splotch of purple. He turns to glance at it, and is mildly horrified to discover that the splotch of purple is, in fact, a hideously unattractive gate. It's a deep purple, approximately Barny-shade, and appears to be bedazzled so forcefully and ungracefully that it hurts to look at. Above it is a series of lime green, chipping letters that spell out Newton Grand Park.
Among the neighborhood parks here, Dean's never heard of this one, nor has he ever seen it. He doubts many people have, actually—likely because they've been scared off by the gate. Regardless, he's naturally curious, and he's curious now, so he crosses the street and walks into the great yawning depths of the gate and the park laying inside it.
Within moments of setting foot inside, Dean has decided that the Parks and Recreation crew behind this Newton Grand Park project were drunk out of their minds, and that the city beyond was probably so embarrassed by the result, they refused to pitch a single cent towards park maintenance.
The trees that would likely be organized to line the road (the road being a series of broken patches of dirt, cement, gravel and grass), are, instead, placed in random, uneven intervals, and they have not been cared for, ever. Their limbs are crashing into one another, long and spindly, twisting in disturbing patterns that Dean can't quite look away from.
There is one very large tree growing in the middle of the 'road.' Dean has to awkwardly shuffle around it, and he almost trips on its outstretched roots.
He finds himself at a clearing, past the manic trees, and sees a long stretch of hilly earth that, originally, was probably meant to be cut and trimmed to sustain picnics and big parties, running feet, flying frisbees and crawling toddlers. Now it is simply an overgrown field.
A few benches dot the landscape. They are a neon shade of pink.
Out towards the limits of the park, Dean can see a fountain, which he doubts is actually up and running.
Then Dean realizes that, for some unfathomable reason, there are people here. He wonders why on God's Green Earth anyone would come here willingly unless they were part of some elaborate drug deal set-up—but then he stops and realizes that he's here willingly, so he tries not to judge these people.
At the tallest area of the field/hill, a woman is sitting and playing what appears to be an elaborate lute. She has long hair, a jittery shih tzu and some dangling jewelry.
Far to her right is a man lying asleep on a blanket. He's only wearing a black speedo, and he's clearly in his 60's. Somehow, he hasn't seemed to register the chill in the air.
A couple is wandering around several paces in front of Dean, but they seem so grossly absorbed in one other that they are unaware of anything around them.
There's a few more weirdos around here, dotting the place and sitting really, really far apart from each other, as if they need their own space for being weird, and they can't share with anyone else.
And okay, Dean is judging them, but he can't quite help it.
Still, he doesn't have anywhere else to go, so he heads towards one of the pink benches and takes a seat, letting out a quiet sigh. He's following the trend of sitting really far away from anyone else, but he figures that's only natural.
A few seconds later, another bright splash of color catches his eye. It's a kite, he sees, floating high and wild in the sky, with its tail stretched out thinly behind it. The weird thing is that it isn't attached to anything, and no one appears to be flying it.
It simply floats on its own, defiant against the blue-grey sky and headed to what appears to be its demise. A tree, still with a heavy canopy of fiery red leaves, is directly in its path, and the kite will inevitably crash, tear and fall to pieces among the unforgiving branches of the tree.
Dean watches with a detached interest, his mind at a blank place. He gazes at the kite and its doomed journey across the expanse of sky, and he feels a little sleepy, like his brain is blurry and slow.
He doesn't really notice the figure that has appeared, seemingly from no where, enter his field of vision, standing a few feet over, watching the kite with the same unfocused fascination.
At some point Dean registers that another human is near him, and his first thought is that this person is breaking the main rule of conduct at this park: that being too close to another individual is very un-chic.
He glances up at the stranger standing a ways to his left.
Dean is met with an angular profile, a messy head of dark hair and what seems to be a long trench coat, which is something Dean didn't think people actually wore (except for fashionable Europeans).
The man appears to be concentrating very thoroughly on the kite, and he looks like he's frowning, like there's something very puzzling about the kite that he needs to figure out. Apparently, Dean realizes, this man isn't totally absorbed by the kite after all, because he feels Dean staring, and turns his head to stare right back.
Dean is then met with a pair of extraordinarily blue baby blues.
Dean doesn't know what to do, and the situation feels suddenly awkward, so he lifts his hand in greeting, and clears his throat, a polite smile on his face and then he looks away, at the ground for a second and then back at the kite and tries not to make a face. His attempts at acting like a normal person feel failed.
For a moment, there is a blessed silence, then: "Do you have the time?"
Dean looks back at the man and he blinks.
After a pause, Dean asks, "What?"
"Do you have the time?" The man asks again in the same tone, and his voice is low, and made entirely of gravel, and Dean wonders if he has throat cancer, and then he wonders if that's an actual thing.
Trying to reel in his mind, Dean pulls back his coat sleeve and checks his watch.
"It's almost two thirty." He answers.
The man continues to stare at Dean, and Dean has thus added him to the mental list of weirdos that seem to inhabit this park. And then the man nods, almost sagely, with an air of grave importance.
"Fascinating." He says, more to himself than anyone else.
Dean can't help but raise an eyebrow, he wonders what could be so interesting about almost two thirty PM on a Sunday.
The man notices Dean's confused expression, and answers the unspoken question on the apparently fascinating subject of almost two thirty PM.
"Evidently, I've been walking for several hours." He says, nonchalantly. "And I hadn't noticed."
Dean's is further curious as he muses, "Aren't you a regular Forrest Gump."
The other man knits his eyebrows together, and he tilts his head ever so slightly, and Dean can't tell if it's because he's been insulted, or he just has no idea what Dean's talking about.
But come on, who hasn't seen Forrest Gump, Dean thinks to himself.
Dean waves his hand in dismissal and grins a small grin, sitting forward on the bench, and giving the stranger his almost full attention. "Never mind. Where'd, uh, where'd you walk from?"
Dean knows that when he enters a conversation to fill an awkward space, and this is definitely an Awkward Space, one of the best approaches to it is to just ask questions, because a lot of people like to talk about themselves.
"May street." The man replies, and he blinks owlishly at Dean.
Dean is confused, a hundred percent more. His brain ticks.
"Wait, like, up in the city, May Street?" He demands.
The stranger nods.
"Holy shit, dude. How the hell did you 'not notice,'" here Dean makes dramatic air quotations with his fingers, "that you'd walked like ten thousand miles?"
"I can assure you it wasn't nearly that distance." And the stranger says it quite genuinely, his voice is flat, and Dean can't tell if he's joking or not.
Still Dean's grin gets just a little bigger. "Were you sleep walking or something, man?" He asks.
The man makes a face, his blue eyes crunching up a little at the corners, and his chapped lips turning down into a deeper frown. "Very nearly."
Dean is incredulous. He's apparently met Donny Darko in person, sleepwalking habits included, except there's no creepy rabbit, just a guy in a trench coat who is apparently the most oblivious person on Earth, and Dean is incredulous.
The man looks like has more to say. "I was laid off this morning."
The first thing Dean says is, "why the hell were you working on a Sunday?"
"They called me in to fire me." The man explains.
At this news, Dean is almost angry on the behalf of this strange man who he barely knows, and his voice is a lot rougher than he meant it to be when he says, "What a bunch of assholes."
The man's lips turn quirk in slight amusement and he glances at the patches of dirt and grass beneath his dress shoes. "That is putting it lightly."
"Seriously, though. That sucks. What kind of douchebag place were you working at?" And Dean leans over a little more, and the man glances once more at the kite, and then back at Dean.
"The glamorous world of tax accounting." His sarcasm is biting, and it drips off his words with more than a little malice.
"Ah." Dean says, imagining the cubicles and the long, long hours, the glum faces and the lack of sun. "Fun."
"It's probably why they fired me," the man says, and his tone is lighter, a little good-natured, a little resigned, "I was having too much fun."
Dean lets out a chuckle at the joke, and he can feel the Awkward in the air slither away ever so slightly.
"Sorry to hear they ended the fun early." Dean says.
The man shrugs. "It's not the end of the world. It was very monotonous anyway."
And then he is silent for a while, regarding the kite again with a gaze unblinking.
The man looks kind of tired, now. He looks like it's really starting to dawn on him that he just walked his own, personal marathon of miles. Dean scoots over, way the hell over to the end of the bench, actually, and he asks the man if he'd like a seat. He feels it's common courtesy, even if he's further breaking the unspoken code of Newton Grand Park.
Looking incredibly thankful, and a bit hesitant, the man takes the offer and sits on the very other edge of the neon pink bench.
There is now a comically large gap between them, but neither is going to close it, because each shares a mutual discomfort at talking to new people.
The man half turns to Dean, and tries his damnedest to make sure he isn't a single inch closer, without letting Dean see, so he isn't insulted. Dean does see, though, and it's because he's doing the exact same thing.
"I… uhm, never got your name." The man says, and his voice is quiet and just the smallest bit shy.
"My name's Dean Winchester," says Dean, and he holds out his hand because that seems like the normal thing to do. He's still going for the normalcy thing here.
"Castiel," says the other man, and he holds out his own hand to shake Dean's.
Dean thinks to himself that the name is weird, maybe foreign, and he also thinks to himself that Castiel's hand is very smooth and warm.
"Castiel." Dean tries the name out on his tongue, and there's this odd sensation when he does. Somehow he's heard it before, but he can't tell where, it's needling the back of his mind. "That sounds kinda familiar."
"It's the name of an Angel. The Angel of Thursday." Castiel supplies.
"Oh." And Dean tries hard to recall why exactly the name of an angel would strike a familiar chord. He comes up blank.
Castiel blinks a few times and he looks a little sheepish, his voice low, and it's clear he's given this explanation many, many times before. "My family is very religious." He begins.
"Sounds like it. Bet you get a lot of crap for your name." Dean says, because honestly, having a weird name just means a lot of awkward backstory, brutal mispronunciations and probably some iffy looks.
"Yes." Castiel says immediately. "And I have several brothers, they too share the names of angels, yet they received the relatively commonplace ones."
Dean is thoughtful, and he's starting to piece together a few more names, familiar words from a blurry memory. "I'm gonna guess something like Michael or Gabriel." He tries.
Castiel nods, grave and resigned once more.
"Although," he says, after a beat, "thankfully my name's not Metatron."
Dean doesn't know that Metatron is the alleged Voice of God or what Castiel could possibly mean, in fact he thinks that Castiel is referring to the Autobots and to the plights of Optimus Prime, which is a weird thing to think of. So, Dean settles with: "yeah," as a reply. They slide into an uncomfortable silence.
The woman playing her instrument is slowly picking up the blanket beneath her, and a man riding a unicycle has passed down on the decrepit road, causing Dean to stare after his retreating, slightly unbalanced form.
After a while, Dean decides he doesn't like the gaping jaws of silence, so he picks the conversation back up.
"So, uh, Cas," he pauses and glances over at Castiel, "is it okay if I call you that?"
Castiel looks a little shocked at being asked permission, but he doesn't reject it, and instead he nods his silent approval.
"Okay, Cas, I'm still not getting the connection between getting fired and somehow shagging ass way out here." Dean voices, still genuinely interested in the story of this weird guy with his weird trench coat.
Castiel glances at the ground, appearing unsure of his own answer.
"I don't know." He says, trying to recall the momentary lapse in his memory. "I was in the office. They told me I'd been fired, and then, I just stopped listening."
He pauses, and Dean waits patiently for him to continue.
"I saw a… bee." He continues, his voice is even and he's looking absently at the ground. "I was on the ground floor, and outside the office window the bee was perched on a flower, and I wanted to observe it closer, so I got up and… left."
He glances at Dean, and what he sees is a look of genuine curiosity.
"Then somehow I kept walking. Unfocused. I'm sure my employers were somewhat confused." Castiel's hands are moving around a bit spastically as he searches for words.
He continues. "I ended up here because I remember my brother works in close proximity to this park." He frowns. "And I glimpsed this gate, and it was just… so hideous…"
He's babbling now, and he self-consciously trails off, settling his hands in his lap.
"So," Dean says after a pause, and he's amused, his lips quirked just slightly, "you get kicked in the can, see a bee, and have this crazy memory lapse, like, American Werewolf in London style, and then you walk a marathon?"
"Uh…" replies Castiel.
The absurdity of it is starting to make Dean laugh. He's trying to control himself because he's laughing at the expense of an unemployed man, but it's hard to stop once he starts, so he lets the noise reverberate around in his chest and the smile settle on his face, the endorphins trailing out of his brain and shooting into his limbs.
Apparently, however, Dean's laughter is infectious, because Castiel smiles back just a little too, and he looks kind of embarrassed and dorky.
Dean eventually gets full control over himself again, and he apologizes several times for laughing. Castiel swats his apologies away good-naturedly.
This time the silence between them is much more companionable. They watch the kite that has long since careened itself into the tree, and they watch as it folds further into the mass of branches and leaves, and it tears and slides into pieces.
At some point Dean realizes he's hungry, which isn't an unusual thing, but he thinks he'd like to head back to his apartment. He might call Sam or something.
He glances at Castiel, who looks like he's about to fall asleep in his seat. His eyes are periodically slipping shut, and then opening wide with a jolt.
Dean and Castiel have since moved closer on the bench, the gap between them is less obvious now, but neither of them has really noticed.
"Hey, Cas. I'm thinkin' about heading back to my place." Dean says. His breath comes out in a brief puff of white and dissipates upwards to the sky. The temperature is dropping again.
Castiel watches the stream of air absently and then he nods at Dean, and the sun, high above them now, heading towards its early descent, is burning bright and highlighting the colors in Castiel's blurry blue gaze.
"What are you gonna do?" Dean asks, fixing Castiel with a level look.
Castiel lets out a breath and a shrug. He slips a little lower in his seat, and he looks kind of drunk. He may as well be, Dean thinks.
He frowns at the groggy figure beside him, and rolls his eyes. He can't just leave him here on this bench. He'll get mugged or something. Mugged on this awful, neon pink nightmare. And that would probably be the most embarrassing mugging ever.
So without a word, Dean stands up and goes to shake Castiel's shoulder a little, which works.
Castiel squares his shoulders and blinks in speedy intervals. "I apologize." He mumbles, trying to wake his brain alert.
"'S fine," says Dean, "look, man, I think I gotta give you a ride home, or something."
"Oh, no need. I think I'll recuperate at my brother's for a while."
Dean nods. "Okay, can he pick you up?"
"No." Castiel looks at him pointedly, as if this was common knowledge.
"… uh—" Dean wouldn't mind further explanation.
"He doesn't own a car," Castiel adds, "he's also quite lazy."
Dean sighs. "How far does he live?"
"Half an hour from here." Castiel is looking at his shoe now and Dean is pretty sure it's because his foot must be hurting like a bitch.
Dean sighs again. "Fuck it, Cas, let me just give you a ride."
"Really, Dean, I can walk—" and Cas is giving him a look that seems a little indignant and a lot like a glare, and it's a look that Dean totally gets because Castel is a grown man, and he barely knows Dean, and if he's anything like Dean, then he hates depending on the kindness of strangers, because it makes him feel timid and vulnerable and small. Dean is none of these things, and he gets the feeling that Castiel isn't, either.
But Dean glares right back at him, stubborn, and it's a face he's great at making, he's well versed in it, and he knows it shuts people up. Sam has seen this face a million times.
Castiel closes his mouth with a bit of reserve.
Dean makes his voice low and very much like the Older Brother Tone he uses on Sam. "Seriously. I don't want to be the asshole that leaves the guy who looks like he's, what, five pounds, exhausted, and half-asleep on a sidewalk."
Castiel maintains his look of defiance, but eventually it gives way under the force of Dean's stubbornness. He rolls his eyes and caves. "If you must…" he trails off.
A grin cracks its way onto Dean's face.
Several minuets later finds Dean walking back through the path of dirt and cement and grass and grime, through haphazard trees and stray roots and splotches of shittastic colors and patterns, but this time Castiel is plotting along at his side.
They walk in silence, mostly because Castiel is still fighting to stay awake. The air is cooling rapidly and biting even harder at their faces, which helps Castiel to remain lucid, but it leaves his nose rosy red and his cheeks slightly flushed.
Fortunately, Dean's apartment isn't too far, and they make it to the parking garage below it in little time.
Briefly running up to his apartment, Dean grabs his car keys and meets Castiel back downstairs in the garage. He's swinging the Impala's keys, touching the familiar texture and feeling the weird jitters of excitement that he always gets when presenting his Baby to a new individual.
The two men approach her sleek, black figure, and she's looking as polished as ever, even in the dim lighting of the garage, she shines and glows like no other car in the vicinity.
Dean smiles at her fondly, and he says to Castiel, "this is baby." And then he makes a face, as if to reconsider his words. "And, no, I'm not making a reference to that goddamn Dempsey movie."
Dean has seen Dirty Dancing more times than he'd like to admit, but he's got the feeling that Castiel hasn't seen it once, if the bewildered expression on his face is anything to go by.
Castiel turns his gaze down to the Impala. He is not well versed in the culture of cars, but even he cannot deny that this car is quite handsome, chic in a kind of retro way. Dean is also gazing at her with the fondest of expressions. If Castiel says the wrong thing, he's sure to offend.
He settles with, "Pleasure to meet you, Baby."
Dean seems placated, and unlocks the doors with a satisfied flick of his wrist.
They settle into the leather interior of the car, and inside and out the Impala is smooth and sleek.
"I feel like a taxi driver." Dean mumbles. "I should charge you or something, Ms. Daisy."
Castiel frowns. He doesn't like his new nickname.
He murmurs out Gabriel's address and general location, and he's lucky that Dean knows the area of town pretty well, because Castiel passes out within seconds of the car starting, the warm presence of another body in a small space, and the welcoming scents of leather and spice pulling him under like a sheet.
Dean smirks over at Castiel a few times, and he's reminded of his road trips with Sam, when his kid brother would conch out the same way. Dead to the world and snoring quietly.
Dean plays Metallica very softly, ironic as it is, and he heads down the road in silence.
When Dean arrives at Gabriel's place, it seems to be a totally average house in the middle of suburbia, small and normal, and Dean doesn't really know what he was expecting.
He glances at Castiel, and Castiel's hair is even messier, and his trench coat serving him as a blanket. He looks about twelve when he's asleep, Dean decides. Dean also decides that he doesn't know Castiel very well, so he isn't up to carrying him bridal style towards the door.
He settles for a rough shake on the shoulder, instead, which jolts Castiel awake once more.
Castiel looks around silently and he's clearly confused.
"We're here, princess."
Castiel shoots Dean a glare, but then he tries to retract the expression and he settles for a look of polite gratitude instead. "Thank you, Dean." He says.
"No problem." Dean shrugs.
Castiel unbuckles himself and he opens the door, letting in a draft of cold air. He turns, just slightly to look at Dean again, and the two are silent for a drawn pause, and neither knows what they're supposed to say, or if anything is supposed to be said at all.
"It was, uh, enjoyable meeting you." Castiel offers, his voice is rough as usual.
"Yeah, nice meeting you, too." And Dean is surprised because he doesn't really mean it as a bland formality. "Good luck with the whole employment thing."
Castiel smiles just a little, and Dean catches sight of a bright flash of teeth before the door closes and Cas ambles up the driveway towards the steps of the house.
Dean stays parked outside. He just wants to make sure that this brother of Castiel's is actually home, and that Castiel has a place to crash because, really, he's going to crash.
The door opens, and a bright flood of light illuminates the driveway, along with Castiel, and for a little too long to be comfortable the door stays open, and Castiel stays on the other side of it, but then there's a hesitant shuffle of feet and Dean can see Castiel's posture relax, and eventually he disappears into the house, the door shuts behind him.
Dean turns the key and the Impala roars to life. He pulls out of the parking spot and he races down the road, at his usual speed now that he has no one to worry about.
Castiel watches the Impala speed away from the window of Gabe's living room. Gabe's making something in the kitchen, and he's talking to Castiel loudly, like usual, but Cas isn't really listening.
As the Impala turns a corner and out of sight, the sun is setting fast behind her, earlier now that autumn is nearly gone. The sky is lit up in brilliant streaks of golden and red and entering a sea of inky greys and dulled stars.