Chapter Text
Saturday, October 24 — Morning — Dean POV
The rain hadn't stopped since Dean pulled into town three days ago, which figured. October in the Pacific Northwest was apparently just one long, gray exhale from the sky, but hell if he was complaining. After the last hunt (three weeks tracking a family of rugaru through swampland that made Dean question every life choice he'd ever made) the steady patter against the garage windows was practically a lullaby.
Dean stretched his shoulders and wiped his hands on the shop rag, surveying Frank's Auto Repair from his perch on the creaky wooden stairs that led up to the mezzanine. The place was older than dirt but solid, all exposed beams and the kind of brick walls that had probably seen a century of grease stains and honest work. Frank had cleared out a few days ago for what he'd called his "journey of self-discovery." Dean preferred "spiritual journey" because it sounded more ridiculous. Frank had left behind a business that ran itself and a note that said Bobby says you’re good with cars. That’s enough for me. Keep her running, Winchester. Back by Christmas. Maybe.
The maybe part was what had Bobby chuckling when he'd called with the favor. "Kid needs time to figure himself out," he’d said about Frank, though Frank had to be pushing sixty. "And you need time to remember there's more to life than salt circles and silver bullets."
Dean had rolled his eyes, but Bobby wasn’t wrong. He’d been going non-stop for months, chasing monsters from one town to the next and sleeping in the Impala more nights than he’d slept in beds. Sam was handling a case down in California, something about cursed surfboards that sounded like the setup to a joke Dean hadn’t heard the punchline to yet, and for once, Dean didn’t mind flying solo.
The break was temporary. January, he'd told Frank. By January, he'd be back on the road where he belonged.
But for now, he had a garage to mind and a mezzanine apartment that came with a decent mattress, a kitchenette that worked, and windows that looked out onto Main Street. The setup was better than most motels, and hey, at least he knew how to fix cars.
Dean glanced at the clock on the wall. The old Coca-Cola clock had hands that stuck at quarter past everything, but it was definitely past eight, and he still hadn't managed breakfast. The vending machine in the corner had nothing but stale chips and candy bars that looked like they'd been there since the Stone Age. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the stairs, boots echoing in the quiet space.
Main Street was already awake, even in the drizzle. A few early commuters hurried past with their heads down and their collars up, but most of the foot traffic seemed to be heading toward the café next door.
Grounded, the sign read in simple black letters on glass that was currently fogged with condensation. Through the window, Dean could make out the warm glow of amber lighting and the shapes of people moving inside. He pushed through the door and immediately hit a wall of warmth that smelled like coffee, obviously, but underneath that was something else. Cinnamon and vanilla and the kind of butter that made your mouth water before you even saw what it was attached to.
The place was small but didn't feel cramped, all reclaimed wood and mason jars and the sort of cozy that looked effortless but probably took a committee. A handful of tables were occupied by locals nursing mugs and newspapers, and there was a short line at the counter where a guy with dark hair was working the espresso machine like he'd been born to it.
Dean joined the line, taking in the morning rush he'd been avoiding the past few days. This was clearly the town's nerve center, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and strangers got noticed but not necessarily bothered. A bulletin board near the door was covered with flyers for hiking groups and book clubs and something called a "Gratitude Circle" that made Dean wonder what kind of special brownies they were serving. Beside it, a chalkboard listed the weekly pastry rotation: Mon–muffins; Tue–scones; Wed–cinnamon rolls; Thu–apple pie; Fri–brioche; Sat–apple pie + weekend special; Sun–closed.
"Next," called the guy behind the counter, and Dean stepped forward.
Up close, the barista was probably in his thirties, with the kind of blue eyes that looked like they could see straight through to your back teeth. Dark hair that was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it. His movements were precise, almost surgical, like someone who made order out of chaos for a living.
He looked up. Just a glance. But it stuck. A pause, just a fraction too long, like he was noting something. Or deciding something.
"What can I get you?" the man asked, and his voice was low, measured.
"Coffee," Dean said, then caught sight of the pastry case to his left and reconsidered. "And whatever smells like it's gonna ruin my arteries in the best possible way."
"That would be the apple pie," the guy said without missing a beat. "Though I should warn you that the crust-to-filling ratio is heavily weighted toward crust."
Dean blinked. "You're trying to talk me out of buying your pie?"
"I'm providing accurate product information. Some people prefer more filling."
"And some people are wrong," Dean said, grinning. "Crust is the best part."
The guy's mouth twitched, just barely. "In that case, you'll be satisfied with today's batch."
He pulled a slice from the case with the kind of care Dean usually reserved for sharpening his favorite blade. It was weirdly mesmerizing to watch.
"You're either the most honest salesman I’ve ever met," Dean said, "or you're testing me."
"Perhaps both," the guy said, setting the plate down with the kind of precision that suggested he did everything the same way. Then, without ceremony: "Castiel." He extended a hand. "You're the one taking care of Frank’s place, right?"
Castiel. Either his parents were really into theology, or they'd lost a bet. Dean shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip and calluses that didn't match the careful way the guy handled coffee. "Dean. Castiel's... that's not exactly a coffee shop name."
"It's Hebrew," Castiel replied matter-of-factly. "It means 'shield of God.' My parents had high expectations."
"And how's that working out for you?"
Castiel's expression was perfectly serious. "I make excellent coffee and keep the local population properly caffeinated. I'd say I'm fulfilling my divine mandate."
Dean laughed. Actually laughed. Not just the polite chuckle he usually gave service workers. "Well, can't argue with results."
The coffee came in a white ceramic mug that had real weight to it, and when Dean took his first sip, he had to suppress a sound that would've been embarrassing in public.
"Jesus," he said instead.
"I hope you're not taking the Lord's name in vain over my coffee," Castiel said, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now. "That would undermine my holy mission."
"Nah, that was pure reverence. Your coffee might actually be proof of divine intervention."
"I'll be sure to include that testimonial in my marketing materials."
Dean was about ninety percent sure Castiel was joking, but something about the way he said it made him wonder if there actually was a customer testimonial file somewhere behind that counter.
The pie lived up to its promise: buttery crust that practically melted on his tongue and just enough filling to justify calling it a breakfast food. Dean found himself lingering longer than he’d planned, watching the morning rush of Grounded play out around him. Castiel moved behind the counter with quiet efficiency, remembering orders without writing them down and somehow managing conversation with half the town while never letting the line get too long.
"Mrs. Ramirez," he said to a woman who looked like she could be anyone's favorite teacher. "Good to see you back. Feeling better?"
"Much better, thank you," she replied. "Just a little cold, you know how it is."
"The usual?" Castiel asked, already reaching for a cup.
"You know it, mijo," she replied, beaming at him like he'd just offered to adopt her cat.
A few minutes later: "Mr. Latham, how's Buster feeling today?"
"Better, thanks for asking. And thanks for saving him that biscuit yesterday."
Dean watched Castiel nod like keeping track of customers’ dogs was the most natural thing in the world and he found himself impressed despite himself. This wasn't just a business; it was the kind of place that made a town feel like a community instead of just a collection of buildings with decent Wi-Fi.
Dean was finishing the last bite of his pie when his phone buzzed with a text. Sam, as if summoned by the thought of how good Dean was having it.
Sam: How's the "temporary job" treating you? Please tell me you haven't adopted any stray cats.
Dean snorted and typed back: No cats. Just coffee and car repair. Living the dream.
Sam: You hate routine.
Dean: Yeah, well, turns out I hate being hunted by a pack of rugaru more.
There was a pause before Sam's next message: Fair point. Try to actually rest while you're there, okay? The world won't end if you take a few weeks off.
Dean was about to reply when he caught a snippet of conversation from the next table over. Two guys in hiking gear, talking in low voices about trail conditions and something about permits. Normal enough, except one of them kept glancing toward the windows with the kind of nervous energy that Dean recognized.
"—found him yesterday morning," one was saying. "Mark Hendricks. Hell of a thing."
Dean's internal radar, finely tuned by years of hunting things that went bump in the night, started humming.
He glanced toward the counter, where Castiel was steaming milk with that same methodical precision. When their eyes met, Castiel's expression shifted slightly. Still friendly, but with an edge of concern that hadn't been there before.
"Local hiker," Castiel said quietly when the hikers had left. "Found dead on Pine Ridge Trail yesterday morning. Mark was a regular here, he always ordered black coffee and complained about the trail maintenance budget."
Dean's hunter instincts stirred like a hibernating bear, reluctant but inevitable. "Accident?" he asked, already knowing how rarely death was just that.
"That's what they're saying." Castiel's tone was carefully neutral. "Though Mark knew those trails better than most people know their own neighborhoods."
"Accidents happen," Dean said, but he was already running possibilities through his head. "Even to people who know what they're doing."
"Yes," Castiel agreed. "They do."
But something in the way he said it suggested he didn't believe that any more than Dean did.
Dean finished his coffee and stood, leaving a ten on the counter. "Keep the change. And thanks for the pie recommendation. Definitely worth the arterial damage."
Castiel's smile was small but genuine. "See you soon."
Outside, the rain had softened to the kind of mist that clung to everything without quite soaking it. Dean stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking back through the window of Grounded. Castiel was already helping the next customer, but there had been something in his expression when he'd talked about Mark Hendricks.
Dean walked the twenty feet back to Frank's Auto, keys heavy in his hand. The garage smelled like motor oil and old coffee, familiar and comforting in a way that surprised him. He was supposed to be taking a break. Supposed to be fixing carburetors and changing oil and pretending the world could get along fine without Sam and Dean Winchester for a few weeks.
As he climbed the stairs to the mezzanine, Dean paused at the window that looked out over Main Street. Through the glass of Grounded, he could see Castiel moving around with that same quiet efficiency, taking care of his people.
Which meant if something was hunting on those trails, Castiel could be the first to notice.
Dean grabbed his laptop and settled at the small table by the window. A few quick searches later, he had the local newspaper's website pulled up.
Hiker Found Dead on Pine Ridge Trail, read the headline. Mark Hendricks, 34, of Seattle, was discovered by fellow hikers after failing to return from an afternoon walk.
The details were sparse. No mention of what kind of accident, no quotes from anyone who'd found him. Just the basic facts: man goes hiking, man doesn't come back, man found dead.
Dean sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. It could be nothing. Probably was nothing. People died in the woods all the time without any supernatural intervention required.
But.
His phone buzzed with another text from Sam: Just promise me you're actually resting and not researching local urban legends or something.
Dean glanced at the laptop screen, then quickly closed it. He looked out the window at Grounded, where Castiel was wiping down the counter with movements that somehow managed to be both efficient and graceful.
Dean: Relax, Sammy. Just fixing cars and eating pie. Scout's honor.
Sam: You were never a Scout.
Dean: Details.
Dean stared at his phone for a moment. He hated lying to Sam, but what was he supposed to say? Hey, there's a dead hiker and my Spidey sense is tingling? Sam would be on the next flight north, and Dean was probably just being paranoid anyway. Maybe Bobby was right, maybe he was seeing monsters where there weren't any because he'd forgotten how to just... be normal.
He headed back downstairs to see if any cars needed attention. Tomorrow, maybe he'd take a drive out toward the trails. Just to get the lay of the land.
After all, he was supposed to be keeping an eye on things while Frank was gone. And that included making sure the town stayed safe.
Even if the town didn't know it needed keeping safe in the first place.
The afternoon passed quietly. One customer, a woman with a rattling exhaust pipe who paid in exact change and asked three times if he was "really qualified" to work on her car. Dean fixed the rattle in twenty minutes and managed not to make any sarcastic comments about her faith in his abilities. Gold star for him.
By five o'clock, the light outside had faded to the kind of gray that made everything look like an old photograph. Dean locked up the garage and climbed back to the mezzanine, but instead of settling in for the night, he found himself at the window again.
Grounded was still open, golden light spilling onto the wet sidewalk. Through the glass, Dean could see Castiel moving around the empty café, cleaning equipment and arranging things for tomorrow with the same methodical care he'd shown all day.
When Castiel finally flipped the sign to "Closed" and began turning off the lights, he paused at the front window. For a long moment, he stood there looking east, toward where the trails wound up into the hills, his expression unreadable in the amber glow.
Then the lights went out, leaving Main Street to the streetlamps and the rain.