Chapter Text
2024
Some people are alone by choice. Some have loneliness thrust upon them.
As a kid, Dean was the class clown, always ready with a joke or a prank. The other kids loved Fun Dean, and Fun Dean loved them.
But when his mom died of cancer halfway through the seventh grade, it became too hard to be Fun Dean all the time. Pretty soon, he discovered that most of the kids who loved Fun Dean didn’t feel like sticking around for Sad Dean.
That was alright though, because he still had Sammy, and he still had Dad. So instead of making friends, he focused on keeping his family together. He cleaned and cooked and baked and generally “yes, sir”-d his way through the rest of his childhood.
But when Sam graduated high school, he still moved away — to California, for college.
Dad stuck around, but it wasn’t enough. Especially because, as Dad got older, he let his grief over Mom’s death get the best of him more and more often. Where he’d been strict but mostly fair before, he became surly and sometimes cruel. Though Dean wasn’t technically alone back then, they were some of the most lonely days he’d ever known.
Then, one rainy day in May, a girl named Cassie Robinson dropped a bunch of loose papers in the street, and Dean went chasing after them through the driving rain. He didn’t get them all back for her, but he did get her number. Cassie was the one who convinced him to turn his love of cooking and baking into a career. He enrolled in culinary school, moved in with Cassie and made a best friend for life in Benny, one of the other students.
The year after Dean and Benny graduated, they started a bar named Rocky’s together, and Dean thought maybe… maybe his lonely days were finally over. Maybe he’d found his place and his people.
Then everything hit at once. Dad had a stroke and needed round-the-clock care. Rocky’s went under. Dean’s relationship with Cassie went up in flames. And Sam… well, Sam had his life in California, and Dean wasn’t about to drag him away from that, just because things were falling apart back in Lawrence.
So by the time Dad passed away in his sleep almost two years ago now, Dean was well and truly alone again.
After all of that, maybe some people would’ve accepted that they were meant to go through life by themselves. Because even if you find a good thing for a while, it inevitably goes to shit. But Dean’s always taken longer to learn his lessons than most.
So within a few days of selling his childhood home and moving into the first house he’s ever bought, he’s baking pies for his new neighbors.
By the time he’s done, the entire house smells of cinnamon and there’s a dusting of flour down his flannel. But he’s also got two pristine, beautifully browned apple pies sitting on the granite countertop. He waits a little while for them to cool, then boxes them up and shoulders his awkward way through the front door.
His new house is a single-story bungalow with a little front porch that can just about fit two chairs or a hammock. Its doors and window frames are painted aqua in cheerful harmony with the sunshine yellow of the wooden siding. There’s a roomy backyard with mature trees and big windows that make the house feel full of light. The fire pit in the back looks perfect for Fourth of July barbecues.
The neighborhood that surrounds the house is green and whimsical, each home its own brand of unique. Farm-style houses rub elbows with Cape Cods; pristine lawns with pollinator gardens.
It’s not the sort of place where Dean ever pictured himself living when he was growing up in the suburban, lower-middle-class sameness of his childhood, but as soon as he laid eyes on the house, he knew it was right. There was just something about it that took him by the hand and said, Well, hey there, Dean Winchester. I’ve been waiting for you to show up.
His neighbor on the right is one of the pollinator garden types. It’s still pretty early in the spring, but the yard is awash in purple, red and yellow blooms that lick up against the house’s farm-style wraparound porch like surf against a cliff.
He’s only seen this particular neighbor once. The guy looked to be in his fifties or sixties, with a trim figure, a neat beard and a full head of hair. Dean was dealing with the movers at the time, so he didn’t stop to introduce himself. But the guy’s last name is Omundson, judging by the hand-painted, slightly faded “The Omundsons” sign that hangs beside the front door.
Two knocks on that door yield no response, so Dean leaves his pie on the small table beside it, along with a note that says, From your new neighbor, Dean Winchester.
The second pie is meant for his neighbors on the other side, who live in a sprawling two-story ranch that’s painted an appealing shade of navy blue. This particular house sits further back from the road than the others around here, almost like a secret hideaway.
At least the weather’s nice for a walk. April can be a crapshoot in Kansas, to put it mildly, but the temperature’s climbed above seventy today, and the bright afternoon sun sets every bit of spring green sparkling. As Dean walks, rays of sunshine tickle the back of his neck and filter through the tree canopy to paint shadow plays on the sidewalks.
There’s two cars in front of the neighbors’ garage: a black F150 pickup and a mud-splattered Jeep. A huge Unity Flag hangs from a flagpole beside the front door, so Dean figures that whoever’s inside might turn out to be decent people. At the very least, they wouldn’t judge him if he ever brought home a guy. (Not that he’s brought home anyone lately, or dated anyone either. But that’s neither here nor there.)
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting when the door opens, but it sure isn’t a burly bald guy in a worn flannel not unlike Dean’s, whose beard looks like it hasn’t seen a trimmer in longer than is probably wise.
“Um, hi,” Dean manages as Bald Guy sizes him up. “I’m Dean Winchester. I just moved in next door.” Remembering himself, he raises the box he’s carrying. “I brought pie.”
The guy’s only reaction is a raised eyebrow, but from somewhere inside a house comes a lightly accented voice saying, “Did I hear ‘pie’? Because that’s pretty much the magic word where I’m from.”
Another man slips into the doorframe underneath the first one’s outstretched arm. He’s a couple inches shorter, but can easily match the other guy for muscle.
“I’m Cesar,” the newcomer says. “This here’s my husband Jesse. He’s a man of few words, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Hey, that’s alright,” Dean says, shrugging. “We can’t all be chatty. Nice to meet you guys.”
“You too,” Cesar says, while Jesse reaches for the pie box with a lopsided smile and a “Thanks, man.”
There’s a beat of awkwardness while they all hover on the doorstep, unsure of how (or whether) to wrap up the conversation. But then, Cesar grins. He’s got a good smile, and the kind of full dark hair that Dean’s always been a sucker for. But obviously, the guy’s taken, so Dean shelves that thought somewhere in a dusty corner of his brain. It’s really been too long since his last hookup if he’s giving married guys the once-over.
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Cesar says. “Come on in.”
Dean follows Cesar and Jesse into the front room, which has all the hallmarks of a place that’s well-loved: a large, comfortable leather couch with a handmade quilt thrown over it. Walls covered in pictures of Jesse and Cesar — on horseback, at the beach — and various members of their families. The sill of the large picture window is crowded with succulents, orchids and various other potted plants that Dean doesn’t even recognize.
“Who’s got the green thumb?” Dean asks, nodding at the plants as he follows the guys through the room.
“Cesar buys them, I keep them alive,” Jesse says, expression totally deadpan. “He can’t garden for shit.”
“Yeah, well.” Cesar shrugs as he takes a sharp left into the kitchen and sets down Dean’s pie plate on the countertop. “Desert kid, right here. I just like to look at ‘em.”
They end up settling outside, on a wooden deck at the back of the house that looks out on a gorgeous lawn and the same mature trees that line Dean’s own yard. The deck looks solid and well-made, with that indefinable air of something that’s had a lot of care put into it.
“Jesse and I built this deck together,” Cesar says as he serves them each a slice of Dean’s pie. “The whole place was a bit of a fixer-upper when we got it, but we’re both in construction, so we had the know-how to get it where we wanted it to be. And if we ever sell, we’ll make a tidy profit on it.”
“We ain’t selling,” Jesse says, prompting a fond eye roll from Cesar — the kind that says they’ve had this conversation a lot.
Unconcerned, Jesse takes his first bite of pie. “Holy shit, Dean. This is amazing.”
Dean does his damnedest not to blush. He doesn’t often cook or bake for other people anymore. Not since… everything. He forgot how good it feels to get compliments on his stuff.
“Really, man,” Cesar says, pointing his fork at Dean. “You should be making food professionally.”
“Did for a while,” Dean admits as he chews on a bite of his own. Damn, he really did get this one just right: the perfect blend of sharp, sweet cinnamon with tart, crunchy apples and a solid base. “But it wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”
“What do you do now?” Cesar asks.
“I bartend at Swayze’s.” The reality is a little more complicated than that, but it’s the simplest answer that also happens to be true.
“Think I heard of that place,” Jesse says. “Over in East Lawrence, right? Didn’t it used to be called something else though?”
Dean nods. “Yeah. Used to be called Rocky’s. We…” He breaks off, stumbling over the pronoun. If there’s anything he doesn’t feel like getting into, it’s what the bar used to mean to him personally. “The original owners had to sell. The new guy renamed it.”
“Is that place a gay bar? Feel like I heard something about that,” Cesar asks.
“Not exactly, but it was meant to be a safe space for everybody, including LGBTQ folks. Just a community kinda place for all kinds of people to come together, you know?” Dean can’t help the note of enthusiasm that creeps into his voice. He used to love talking about Rocky’s, and old habits die hard. (Besides, even though Rocky’s is Swayze’s now, Dean and Benny made sure their little rainbow flag would stay in the front window.)
“We should go sometime,” Cesar says, elbowing his husband. “We’re pretty happy being homebodies, but we could stand to get out more.”
“Guess so,” Jesse says, shrugging, but Dean has a feeling, based on the way Jesse’s lips twitch up as he glances at Cesar, that if Cesar wants to go, it’s a done deal. Dean’s insides ache at the easy familiarity these two seem to share. It’s been so long since he was with Cassie that he can barely remember what it’s like, having someone special.
Cesar leans back and studies Dean with a kind of warm interest. “So you got anybody living with you in that house?” he asks, like he’s been reading Dean’s thoughts.
Dean forces a smile. “Nah, just me.”
“You know,” Cesar says, “the guy who was there before, he lived by himself too and we hardly ever saw him. I sure hope you won’t be shy about coming over when you want company.”
“I won’t be,” Dean says, because that was the point of moving to a new neighborhood: to start over and leave the wreckage behind. Try one more time to see if he can find something that’ll last.
But it’s no use spiraling down that rabbit hole, so Dean says, “Don’t think I ever met the previous owner. Just the realtor who was handling the sale.”
Both Jesse and Cesar’s expressions turn solemn at that. “Nah, you wouldn’t have,” Jesse says. “He died.”
“‘Bout two years ago, wasn’t it?” Cesar glances at Jesse for confirmation, and Jesse nods. “Fuck, what was his name now? Cassidy?”
“Castiel,” Jesse says. “Castiel Novak.”
"Right." Cesar shakes his head as he helps himself to another slice of pie. “We were never sure what happened exactly. Just saw some EMTs carry out a stretcher one morning, and then the house got put up for sale.”
“Guess they would’ve told me if he got murdered,” Dean says, trying for a joking tone, but it falls a little flat.
“That’s actually a myth." Jesse leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs with a sigh of satisfaction. “Realtors don’t have to tell you if someone got murdered in your house. Least, not in Kansas.”
“Either way,” Cesar says, “I don’t think he got murdered. There wasn’t ever a police investigation, far as I could tell. And he was a healthy-looking guy, ‘bout our age, so I don’t think he was sick either. Probably one of those freak accidents.”
Or suicide, Dean thinks, but doesn’t say. It doesn’t feel right to speculate on something like that. Not when he didn’t even know the guy.
The conversation moves on after that, and Dean spends another pleasant hour chatting idly with Jesse and Cesar about this and that, while birdsong fills the air above their heads and the smell of azaleas drifts past on the warm spring breeze.
But eventually, Dean makes his goodbyes, promising to stop by again and to have Jesse and Cesar over once he’s all the way moved in.
He finds himself reluctant to leave their house behind and go back to his own. Jesse and Cesar have made a home at their place, and for now, Dean’s house — nice though it is — doesn’t feel like a home yet.
A lot of his stuff is still in boxes that litter each room like unhelpful reminders of the fact that he doesn’t have anyone to help unpack them. Benny would probably come over if Dean asked, but he’s got his hands full cooking at Swayze’s, and with his and Andrea’s new baby.
There’s Sam, but it’s not like Sam would come here all the way from California to help Dean unwrap plates and put up picture frames. It’s not like Sam ever comes. Or like the two of them talk a lot, aside from the occasional, stilted five-minute call.
Resigned to his fate, Dean starts with the kitchen cleanup. Most of the boxes of kitchen stuff are already taken care of — had to be, if Dean was going to bake. But because the kitchen is open plan, he’s working in plain view of the living room, which has at least a half dozen boxes still pushed into the corners. So once the kitchen’s clean, Dean finds himself still alone in his new house — facing down quiet rooms, empty walls and too many boxes.
There’s nothing for it but to get unpacking.
Dean sets up his laptop, selects one of his playlists at random and starts it up. The intro to Thunderstruck by AC/DC blasts through the house, all screaming guitars and pounding drums. At least the quiet is gone.
Feeling marginally better about his task now that he’s got a great song to work by, Dean picks a box at random — one of the ones piled up in the corner of his living room — and starts to rip at the tape.
That’s when he sees it.
In mid-air, on the living room side of the kitchen counter, there’s… something. A small orange flicker, about as long as Dean’s hand and as thin as a piece of paper. If this were fabric instead of air, he’d call it a rip or a tear.
He closes his eyes and counts to three. But when he opens them, the thing is still there: glowing softly and undulating, like a small flame.
It’s gotta be a trick of the light — something about the way the sunbeams slant through the window at the far side of the room. Maybe they’re reflecting off of somewhere to create this weird effect. Dean walks around the flicker, inspecting it from all corners, putting himself between it and the sunlight. But it stays the same orange color and it’s still indisputably there.
When he’s run out of other ideas, Dean reaches out and pokes it.
The world goes dark around him.
***
2022
Castiel slumps his tired way into the kitchen, pulling his robe more tightly around himself in the chill of early morning. He’s always liked the airy feel of the open-plan kitchen and living room, but it does get a little drafty in the winter.
He gets the coffee maker going, then wakes up his tablet and turns on some music for background noise while he watches the black drips hit the bottom of the pot. His music app shuffles and lands on AC/DC’s Thunderstruck. A little loud for this early in the morning, but at least it makes the house feel less empty.
When the first cup is ready, Castiel cradles the mug with both palms, soaking up its warmth as he stares out of the window and into the backyard. Outside, the greens of his lawn and the trees above are gone, vanished into the gray-brown sameness of mid-winter. It’s the worst time of the year for just about anyone. But it’s an awful time for a single man who lives alone and has barely left his house in… longer than he cares to think about.
Castiel tries to wrap his head around another day spent in front of his computer, editing dull, jargony documents for his company’s clients. He’s always liked that his job is relatively sedate and low-stakes, but once upon a time, when he still worked in an office, it felt more… worthwhile. At the very least, it was a way for him to get out of his bubble and socialize. He could be around other people when he chose, or retreat to his desk when he didn’t.
But then the pandemic hit, and the company decided to go fully virtual as a cost-savings measure. Now, he’s lucky if he sees his co-workers once a week on the video call where they all provide updates on their projects.
Of course, the pandemic restrictions were lifted months ago. He could go out to eat, or to a bar. Anywhere, really, that’s more exciting than his usual haunts: the grocery store, the pharmacy, the post office. But dressing up and trying to make small talk with strangers — something he had trouble with even pre-COVID — feels absolutely insurmountable now.
Sometimes, he wonders whether he hasn’t gotten a little odd in this increasingly self-enforced isolation.
Whenever he has a phone call to make these days, he schedules it for an exact day and time at least forty-eight hours into the future, so he can mentally prepare himself for the ordeal of speaking to a stranger. If someone calls him, he lets the call go to voicemail until he’s in the right frame of mind to talk to someone. The only call he accepts without hesitation is the one from his mother, because it comes like clockwork every Sunday afternoon at two.
Whenever he puts down his book for the night and goes to sleep, he places it on his bedside table so that the spine faces towards him. Somehow, Castiel has convinced himself that if he turns the book’s pages to face him instead, the book’s contents will leak off the paper and attach themselves to him, until he’s doomed to repeat all the mistakes the heroes of those books commit, with all the same awful outcomes.
So… definitely a little odd.
With a heavy sigh, Castiel turns away from the window. He’s not serving anyone, including himself, by staring at the winter landscape and feeling sorry for himself. Maybe, if he can be reasonably productive this morning, he could at least go out for a run this afternoon. Sometimes, if Cain is in his yard when Castiel passes by, Castiel will wave to him. Cain is not a talkative person, so waving at him feels safe. He won’t ask Castiel to engage in small talk about the weather or to explain why he’s a man on the edge of his thirties who is always alone.
Feeling good about his decision, Castiel turns off the music and begins his ten-second commute from the kitchen to his home office.
But just as Castiel reaches the doorway, there is a shift in the quiet air that surrounds him: a spark of electricity, a disturbance of the peace. The hair on his arms stands on end, and goosebumps prickle across his skin.
Thump.
Something heavy hits the floor of the living room at Castiel’s back. Startled, Castiel drops his coffee mug. It hits the floor with a clatter, spilling hot liquid onto his sock-clad feet.
Adrenaline floods him in a dizzying wave as he pivots on his heel and scans his surroundings.
There is a man in his living room.
The man is on his knees, doubled over on the hardwood floor and gasping for air. “Fuck!” he says, blinking slowly as he looks around.
Castiel’s eyes trail over the kitchen counter in front of him, in search of a way to defend himself. They land on the knife block. He crosses the distance to it in two quick strides and pulls out the largest knife, a sharp and solid weight in his hand. He raises his arm, aiming the blade at the man, who is squinting at him with evident confusion.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?” Castiel’s voice shakes a little, but who can blame him? There’s a stranger in his living room.
“I…” the man says and immediately trails off. There’s a puzzled frown on his face as he takes in his surroundings. “I have no fucking clue.”
Castiel’s hold on his knife tightens. “You don’t know who you are?”
The man waves away Castiel’s question like a bothersome gnat. “Nah, I know that. I meant, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing in your house. I was at my house two seconds ago.”
Castiel hovers, uncertain of what he’s meant to do, or how he’s meant to react to any of this. Every social interaction that happens in his life is carefully planned in advance. He has no frame of reference for random strangers appearing out of nowhere in his personal space.
“This place looks kinda like my house, actually,” the man says, frowning. “Same layout. Same kitchen. Just, you know, different furniture and stuff.”
With a wary eye on the blade in Castiel’s hand, the man climbs to his feet. Castiel takes a step backwards. The kitchen counter is between them, but the stranger looks reasonably athletic. It’s possible he could lunge and try to take the knife.
With a crooked, self-conscious little smile, the man puts up both hands, palms out. “Hey, man, I’m not about to jump you or anything. I’m just as confused as you are.”
Castiel hesitates another moment, but then he lowers his knife, earning himself the full force of a real smile. It’s a very nice smile on a very nice face, now that Castiel is looking.
“What’s your name?” the man asks. His voice isn’t as deep as Castiel’s, but it’s definitely in the baritone range. There’s something soothing about the obvious kindness in it.
Castiel tries to remind himself that this man came into his home uninvited. That he might be a danger, or else a delusion. (Possibly both.)
Still, the man is waiting for an answer, and Castiel was raised to be polite, so he says, “Castiel. Castiel Novak.”
The stranger’s smile freezes. His mouth opens, then closes again. His eyebrows pull together in a frown that appears genuinely puzzled. Castiel is more lost than ever.
“That can’t be ri—” the man starts to say.
And then, in the blink of an eye, he disappears.
The space that a grown man occupied just a split-second ago is utterly empty, with no sign that Castiel’s visitor was anything but a figment of his imagination.
It seems he was being too charitable when he thought that his isolation had merely made him a little odd. If he’s experiencing hallucinations — and what else could a stranger who disappears into thin air possibly be? — there must be something profoundly wrong with him.
***
Castiel tries to put the strange incident out of his mind and focus on work, but he can’t seem to concentrate. Halfway to lunch time, he finally abandons the struggle and sends an email to his supervisor, letting her know he’ll take the rest of the day off.
He has plenty of sick days saved up, but guilt still makes itself known. Do hallucinations of lovely men in his living room really constitute a valid reason for time off?
When Castiel realizes he’s wasted twenty minutes sitting in front of his laptop and anxiously pondering that question, he makes up his mind to go out.
The prospect of a lonely run along winter-gray sidewalks no longer sounds appealing. Briefly, he considers going to a restaurant, but discards the idea almost immediately. He clearly needs to get out more, but the mere idea of going for a meal by himself seems terrifying. What if the waiters try to engage him in conversation? What if they judge him for being alone?
As he gets dressed — in a sensible button-up shirt and slacks, to preserve at least the outward appearance of being a useful member of society who has a workplace to go to — his eyes fall onto his bedside table and the pile of books that he’s been meaning to read, all their spines facing neatly towards the bed.
Perhaps he could take one of these books along with him and find a quiet place to read in public — not a park bench on such a cold day, but a museum gallery perhaps, or a coffee shop if it’s not too noisy.
But as he considers his choices, none of them seem inspiring. The mere idea of trying to immerse himself in the history of the American presidency or to make sense of the Penguin Classics edition of Ulysses feels immeasurably tiring.
In the end, Castiel resolves to drive to the KU Lawrence campus and visit one of the bookshops in that general area. Perhaps what he needs is a new book to help him take his mind off things (and off men who appear out of nowhere in his living room).
Still, as he steps out the door, he casts a final glance over his shoulder, at the patch of floor where he thought he saw the man appear.
Somehow, it seems even emptier than it did before.
***
The bookstore Castiel wanders into isn’t one he’s been to before, so perhaps that fact will count as pushing himself beyond his comfort zone.
As he steps through the front door, a bell chiming cheerfully above his head, none of the people milling about the display tables pay him any mind, but a young woman with short, violently red hair waves cheerfully at him from behind the checkout counter.
Castiel retreats into the shelves before she can try to engage him in conversation.
This will be fine.
He will be fine.
He finds himself in the history section, staring at weighty tomes about the Civil War and frontier life. As the child of two academics, this is the sort of thing he was encouraged to read growing up. That, and a fairly specific canon of literary classics. (It took Castiel a frankly embarrassing amount of time to realize just how many of the novels and histories he’s read were written by straight white men. Admittedly, he has yet to remedy that oversight by diversifying his chosen reading.)
His eyes trail over the shelves, trying to find the shining pebble among the gravel. But all the choices here seem just as uninspiring as the ones on his bedside table back home, and Castiel suddenly can’t be bothered.
Without any particular goal in mind, he keeps ambling through the shelves, eyes trailing over pristine hardbacks and creased paperbacks that have obviously been loved well by a previous owner.
His attention is arrested by a blur of vivid color in his peripheral vision. One shelf over, near the back of the store, is a handwritten sign that proclaims Romance in red ink on pink paper, surrounded by a bubbly profusion of hearts.
With a snort and a shake of his head, Castiel starts to turn away, but then he spots something else: halfway down the shelf, there’s a smaller sign with a rainbow flag on it — drawn lopsided, as if it’s waving to him in friendly greeting. LGBTQ+ Romance, the writing next to the flag reads.
Castiel hesitates. His father never saw the point of reading fiction at all, and he considered romance “a pseudo-literary crutch for the weak-minded.” As for his mother, Castiel has never seen her pick up a modern novel that hadn’t made the Man Booker Prize shortlist.
Somehow, it never even occurred to him that there might be romance novels about people like him. As far as he knows, romance novels are bare-chested men and ample-bosomed women, embracing on the deck of a pirate ship or in the ruins of a Scottish battlefield.
Castiel steps away from the shelf, or he means to, but instead he finds himself hovering closer, his fingers already halfway on their journey towards touching the books.
He takes a deep breath and pulls one off the shelf at random. The title reads Fairyland in simple golden letters. There are two men on the cover, and they’re both fully dressed. They appear to be inside a flower store, light streaming in through a glass window behind them. One of the men is tall with dark hair, and his arms are open wide to catch a slightly shorter man with blond hair. There’s an expression of wild, unfettered joy on the second man’s face as he tips forward into his lover’s embrace.
Castiel considers returning the book to the shelf, but his fingers don’t seem to want to move that way. He hasn’t even read the plot description, has no idea of what the book is about, but his eyes keep catching on the joy of the cover image.
Here you are, the blond man’s expression seems to say. I’ve been waiting for you.
Before Castiel quite knows what he’s doing, he’s paying for the book, carefully keeping his eyes on the counter all through the transaction so as to discourage conversation.
Still, as the red-haired woman hands him the book and his receipt, she says warmly, “If you like that one, we have lots more by that author. He writes, like, five a year.”
“Thank you,” Castiel answers quietly, and leaves without making eye contact.
As he walks out of the store, he clutches the book to his chest like a secret. He has the strangest sense that he’s gotten away with some daring little rebellion, and he half expects to feel a hand on his shoulder, or to hear the voice of one of his old English professors, raised in mirth. A romance, Castiel? Surely, you’re joking.
Castiel picks up some to-go coffee at a place down the street, and then, deeming this sufficient adventure for one day, he heads back home. The heating inside his 1970s Lincoln Continental is somewhat temperamental, so by the time he walks back through the front door, Castiel is shivering.
While he brews himself a warm drink — tea this time, because he’s been trying to cut back on his caffeine intake — he finds himself locked in a staring contest with his new purchase.
Surely, it would be silly to buy a book and not read it. (Though this argument conveniently ignores all the other unread books piling up on the bedside table.)
He tries a different approach.
Surely, if there is one benefit to living alone, it’s that no one will judge his choice of reading material. (This argument conveniently ignores the fact that he’s judging himself fiercely.)
Either way, his tea is done, he doesn’t feel like watching yet another movie by himself, and he’s already paid for the book. If he doesn’t enjoy it, he can always just stop reading.
***
He doesn’t stop reading. His tea grows cold on the small table beside his armchair while he immerses himself in the world of two men who have a troubled childhood history with each other, but find their way to each other as adults when they both return to their hometown.
Castiel finds himself spellbound by the hopefulness of the story: though these men have rough edges and memories that haunt them, they weave a special kind of magic between them. Two sad, lonely lives, entwined with each other by mere accident, until possibilities for a better future seem to wait around every corner.
By the time he puts the book aside, it’s dark outside, but somehow, the dim grays of winter don’t seem so oppressive anymore.
Castiel feels strange. For the first time in much too long, there’s a lightness to him. An optimism, almost, that good things do happen in the world.
At the same time, he feels an unsettled, restless yearning for someone to find him and be his comfort — someone real, of course. Not a phantasm his lonely mind conjured in the middle of his living room.
The phantasm had freckles, Castiel remembers now. The first boy he ever loved — when he was thirteen, angry and confused as to why he couldn’t seem to fit in at school — had freckles too. Ever since then, Castiel has taken a second look whenever he observes a scattering of them on another man’s face. More proof, then, that he saw what he wanted to see.
The man was never real.
Castiel tries to dismiss that thought from his mind. Despite the inauspicious start, today has been a good day. And maybe tomorrow will be another.