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Castiel tapped his fingers against his thigh, over and over, counting out a rhythm to distract himself. 

One two three, one two three…

His clumsy finger-tapping couldn’t rival the rhythmic grace of the likes of Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly — those feet that never once seemed to make contact with the ground, blowing careless kisses at gravity — but it was a way to keep his mind busy. Busy, and distracted from the fact that the snarling, rattling Greyhound bus he had boarded in Los Angeles was carrying him away from the life he’d once led, and toward an uncertain future. 

On the seat beside him sat the wreckage of his previous attempts at distraction: a well-loved, dog-eared volume of ghost stories, a notebook, a copy of Variety that he’d picked up at the station newsstand. 

Are you now or have you ever been—

No. No. He wouldn’t think about it. He wouldn’t let himself. 

He would only look toward the future that awaited him, different though it would be from anything he’d ever pictured for himself as a small boy who’d watched the ceiling of his Illinois bedroom transform into the silver screen, its stars acting out plots conceived by Castiel’s own mind. 

In the spirit of looking to the future, Castiel reached into his leather satchel and withdrew from it the letter his Aunt Amara had sent him. Its creases were worn to the point of disintegration from how often he’d handled it ever since it had reached him — two weeks ago at the California Correctional Institution. 

Dear Castiel, it read,

The date of your release is getting closer, and I’ve been thinking of you. It’s been some years since we last spoke, but we are still family, and I find myself in a position to offer you a place to stay, should you require it. 

I dearly hope you don’t — I hope the upheaval in your life and career proves very much temporary and that you’re able to pick up where you left off. But everything I’ve heard and read about the sort of thing you’ve been through suggests that this will not be the case, or at least not any time soon. 

Long story short: I own a small-town newspaper in the town of Bethany Cove, California. One of my reporters is moving on to pursue motherhood instead of a career, and as writing seems to be your forte… well, I’d like to offer you a job. Furthermore, a cheap apartment to live in, if you’re amenable to lodging above the newspaper office.

Bethany Cove is a close-knit community that I believe would accept you without preconceived notions. You wouldn’t be the first stray we’ve adopted; not even the only one we’ve adopted recently. 

I do hope you’ll take me up on my offer if you’re in need of it. And if not, still drop your tragically ancient aunt a line sometime. I miss my favorite nephew. 

All the best,

Amara

When he looked up from the letter, the outskirts of busy Los Angeles had given way to scrub-covered hills as the Greyhound wound its groaning, shaking way north. 

Leaning sideways in his seat to peer down the aisle and out the bug-festooned windshield of the bus, Castiel watched as mile after mile of road disappeared under the wheels, bringing him ever closer to… his destination? No, surely not. 

A mere bump in the proverbial road of his life. Nothing but a temporary stop along the way. 

***

From the Greyhound terminal in San Francisco, Castiel took another, smaller bus that transported him still further north, past the limits of that other city and to the sea. 

The coast was a thing of grandeur here: craggy cliff sides descending steeply toward churning water on the left, while green hillsides reminiscent of an Irish spring loomed up to the right. 

His greatest success, The Silent Man, had been filmed in Ireland. He still dreamt sometimes of the long days he had spent on set, exhausted and chain-smoking, but always alive with the knowledge that this was it: his big break, his chance to see his own words come to life on the lips of actors he’d grown up idolizing. 

That year, 1952 — not such a distant date from the current vantage point of 1954 — he’d been up for an Academy Award. He hadn’t won, but he’d brushed it off then. There would be time, he’d thought. His career had only just begun, and even what had seemed like an ecstatic high would only be the first step of a long climb to enduring fame. 

How wrong he’d been. 

Castiel averted his eyes from the green scenery outside, staring down at his lap. Like everything else, the memory of that Ireland shoot had been poisoned by his abrupt fall from grace. 

Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, Castiel withdrew his cigarette tin. Only three smokes left, though he’d been economical with them. With a sigh, Castiel resigned himself to saving what he still had. His aunt would surely pay him for his work (wouldn’t she?), but until then, his funds were running dangerously low. He couldn’t afford to waste what little luxury remained to him. 

Unable to settle his mind to anything else, he returned to dancing his fingertips across his thigh, tapping out the rhythm of “Make ’em Laugh.” If the bus ride went on for long enough, he might get around to tapping the entire songbook of Singin’ in the Rain.

It was at least a way to pass the time. 

He must have nodded off, because the next thing he knew, a shout sounded from the front of the bus: “Bethany Cove! All passengers for Bethany Cove, get off here!”

Castiel shrugged into his coat. He gathered up his copy of Variety, his ghost stories, his notebook, plus the battered valise and the typewriter case he’d shoved into the rack above his seat. 

Resisting the ridiculous urge to say an emotional goodbye to the bus driver, he staggered, stiff-limbed, down the steps to the sidewalk. 

He found himself emerging onto an esplanade that stretched far on either side of him, embracing the shape of the ocean whose salt saturated the air. A cool spring breeze tugged at Castiel’s hair, reminding him that he had once again forgotten to slick it down and make his appearance more acceptable to polite society. He needed to do better at remembering that he was no longer part of the artistic class of people whose minor eccentricities might be forgiven. 

Behind him, with a squeal and huff of the brakes releasing, the bus departed for its next destination. Castiel half wanted to run after it and call it back: his only remaining link to the life he’d led before arriving in this new place. 

It was a foolish thought, so he shoved it away and clutched his valise and typewriter case tighter as he looked around, attempting to orient himself. 

In the distance, a pier jutted out into the water. The few people who had ventured onto it on this blustery spring day were being menaced by gulls swooping overhead to beg for scraps. 

Closer by, the houses of Bethany Cove proper lined up along the esplanade and clung to the steep side of a hill that towered over the town. The houses were a motley assortment of styles and decades, painted in what Castiel thought must be every shade of color visible to the human eye. It was a cheerful picture, and it made him feel marginally better about washing up in this town like so much driftwood. 

His aunt’s letter had not included the address for the newspaper offices, and his attempt to call her from a rest stop had resulted in a busy signal, so he proceeded down the esplanade in search of someone who might be local and would be able to point the way. 

His first attempt, a young mother tugging a discontented young child, proved unsuccessful. She informed him that she’d merely come to town “for the air” and treated him to a lengthy speech about her son’s various lung ailments. Privately, Castiel thought that the boy’s constant wailing proved his lungs were in fine form. 

He had more luck when he ventured out onto the docks that abutted the esplanade and found a burly fisherman in a newsboy cap, mending some netting aboard his boat. 

“You new in town?” the fisherman inquired, once he’d directed Castiel to take the second turnoff on the left and look for the sign advertising the Bethany Cove Gazette. 

“I am,” Castiel admitted. 

For the first time, he wondered whether that fact alone would make him an object of suspicion in a place as small as this. As a writer, he’d gone by his middle name (James) and his mother’s maiden name (Milton), so not many people were likely to identify him based on name recognition. But he knew all too well the power of suspicion to cause harm, however nebulous and ill-defined that suspicion might be.  

The fisherman, however, merely nodded to acknowledge the information. “You’re not the only one. Got a new barber who just moved here a couple months ago. He does a good job.”

Letting go of the netting with one hand, the fisherman gestured expressively in the direction of Castiel’s head. 

Castiel clutched his valise tighter and told himself not to bristle at a simple remark about his hair. It wouldn’t do to start a fight with the locals within twenty minutes of arriving in town. 

“No offense meant,” the fisherman said, apparently reading Castiel’s mood. “Name’s Benny, by the way. Tell Dean — that’s the barber — I sent you. He’ll give you a good deal.”

“I certainly will,” Castiel lied. “Thank you again for your help.”

With that, Castiel left the docks behind, pretending he hadn’t heard Benny call after him to ask his own name. He continued along the esplanade, and when he passed a business adorned with a spinning barber shop pole and the words Old Town Barbers, Dean Winchester Proprietor spelled in gold script on a window, he glowered at it on principle.

***

The office for the Bethany Cove Gazette was located in a cheerfully ramshackle two-story building with flaking yellow paint. Much like the town’s other buildings, it seemed to cling to the hillside with a determination Castiel could only admire, even as he questioned the structural soundness of building on such steep terrain in the first place.

The front door creaked wearily as he stepped through it. Inside, the smell of typewriter ink and coffee permeated the air, but as Castiel narrowed his eyes to peer further into the building, he found no other signs of life. The reception desk was unmanned, but there was a small call bell, which Castiel made use of.

The only response he received was an irritated grunt from somewhere off to the left. Castiel waited, but when no one appeared to answer his summons, he rang the call bell again.

“Alright, alright, I’m not deaf yet,” a man’s voice snapped. “Come to the back if you’ve got business with us, why don’t you.” 

Castiel bit down an irritated response. Off to the side of the reception desk, there was a door flap, and he stepped through it into the office space beyond. There were four desks there, only one of which appeared to be currently occupied. In fact, the desk’s owner seemed to have taken the term “occupation” rather literally, having fortified the perimeter with dangerously teetering piles of typewritten pages and assorted newspaper or magazine back issues. 

“And who are you?” the man asked, looking up from his typewriter with the air of someone who had been disturbed during a task of monumental importance. 

A pair of wire-rimmed glasses sat lopsided on his nose and his gray hair stood up at odd angles. (This, at least, might be a point on which they could find common ground.) He wore a sweater vest under his suit, and the sleeve of his jacket was stained with ink. In general, he gave the appearance of a man who hadn’t moved from this newsroom since 1925.

“Castiel Novak,” Castiel said, remembering just in time not to introduce himself by his professional name. “I’m here to see Amara Novak.”

“Ah, so you must be the nephew,” the man said, eyeing Castiel with a much more profound level of interest. 

Castiel shifted uneasily. How much had his aunt told her employees about him? 

“So… where is she?” he prompted, when the man showed no signs of springing into action or supplying further information as to Aunt Amara’s whereabouts.

His answer came in the form of a surprised exclamation from somewhere behind him. He turned just in time to find Amara herself stepping out from behind a curtain. She looked as impeccable as he remembered her, draped in an all-black dress and shawl, and made up as if she were on her way to a movie premiere. 

“Castiel!” She clapped her hands together and swept over to him, enveloping him in a lavender-scented hug. “I had no idea you would be coming today.”

“My apologies. I did try to call.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s a nice surprise!” Amara insisted as she stepped away from their hug. She kept hold of both of Castiel’s arms, the better to study him. “You look much too thin. But not to worry, we’ll soon fix that.”

A barely stifled grunt of amusement sounded from behind them.

“You’ve met Donatello Redfield?” Amara asked, indicating the man behind the desk-based fortifications. “He’s our factotum. Came with the place when I took it over from the previous owner.”

“I object to being described as a factotum,” Donatello muttered. “I’m a writer.”

“Yes, yes, an artist who paints in the colors of local news.” AAmara rolled her eyes conspiratorially in Castiel’s direction. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me, Castiel? I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

She ushered him back through the curtain from which she’d emerged, leading him across a small back room that seemed to serve mostly as storage and up a rickety set of steps that dead-ended on a small landing. 

“Mr. Armstrong, the former owner, used to live up here,” Amara explained as she reached into the pocket of her dress for a set of keys and went about the business of unlocking the door at the top of the landing. “I considered moving in when I first came to town, but it’s a bit too… bachelor for me.”

As she opened the door, Castiel saw her point: the apartment in front of him was best described as “plain,” though “small” would also have been apt. Scuffed floorboards and plain grayish-white walls enclosed a one-room space that consisted of a small kitchenette, a Formica-topped table with two chairs of dubious structural integrity, and a small bed in the corner whose only concession to privacy was a curtain that could presumably be drawn across to shield it from view. A single door beside the kitchenette made Castiel hopeful that at least the place might have an indoor bathroom. 

“I know,” Amara said ruefully. “It’s not exactly the Ritz. But I imagine it’s more luxurious than your recent accommodations. And it does have the benefit of being free.”

Castiel suppressed a flinch at the reference to his recent whereabouts. “You… haven’t been telling people about me, have you?” he ventured, with a hesitant look in his aunt’s direction. “Only, I’d rather people didn’t connect me with James Milton. Or…” Prison. “... what happened to him.”

Amara’s expression warmed. “Don’t worry, Cas. All I’ve been telling people is that my nephew Castiel might be coming to stay.”

Castiel breathed out, allowing his muscles to release a modicum of the tension he’d been holding. “Thank you. And…” He set down his typewriter case, the better to gesture at the apartment with the hand not clutching his valise. “... thank you for all this too.”

“What else is family for?” Amara asked with an easy smile, as though her kindness toward Castiel really should be taken for granted, given their blood relation.

Castiel supposed it would be impolite to point out that neither of them had received much kindness from anyone else in their family over the years. Each of them, in choosing to devote their lives to the pursuit of writing, had become very thoroughly alienated from the other Novaks, who prided themselves on their exclusive devotion to puritanical religion and cutthroat finance. (Even Castiel’s nomination for an Academy Award had not warranted a call from his parents. Certainly, they wouldn’t reach out to him now that the distinction of being an ex-convict had been added to his resume.)

He replied, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I always am,” Amara said, then turned to go, her black wrappings sweeping after her with an air of melodrama. “Why don’t you get settled in a bit, and then we can go have some lunch together. I’ll tell you all about your first assignment too. I imagine you’re eager to start earning some income.”

Castiel inclined his head to acknowledge this, relieved he hadn’t been forced to broach the subject himself. “Admittedly, there have been few opportunities for gainful employment lately.”

The effort to make light of his situation sat uneasy, like a new pair of shoes not yet worn in. Maybe someday it would grow more comfortable. 

He could only hope. 

***

There were depressingly few possessions for Castiel to put away. He’d had a reasonably well-appointed apartment in Los Angeles, but he’d been forced to give up both the apartment and most of his things to cover the fine he’d been sentenced to pay.

Perhaps someday he’d be able to afford to replace everything, though the space he now found himself inhabiting would hardly fit even a third of what he’d once owned. 

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he muttered as he settled in by the window next to the kitchenette, smoking one of his last cigarettes and dropping his ashes onto a saucer he’d found in one of the cabinets.  

His fingers had taken up their restless tapping again, this time spelling out the melody of “Cheek to Cheek.” There was no radio or record player here, so for now, the songs stuck in his head would have to suffice. 

He’d unpacked his typewriter at least. It sat on the small table in the center of the room, accusatory in its idleness. 

He ought to be trying to make progress on the rewrite of his most recent screenplay, which would now never be filmed. His intent had been to convert it into a novel draft, but whenever he thought of the idea now, the required effort seemed insurmountable. 

Maybe he’d been fooling himself when he thought that a career as a screenwriter could be easily transformed into another as a novelist. But what else was he meant to do? Roll over and give up? Resign himself to spending the rest of his life writing dull prose about city council meetings and ribbon cuttings? 

He took another drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs. Perhaps, if he waited long enough, the smoke would expand to fill the gaping hole in his chest where his future used to be. 

Are you now or have you ever been…?

Castiel exhaled the smoke through his nostrils, watching it drift out the open window and away from him.

***

For lunch, Amara invited him to Tasha’s, a small cafe two blocks from the esplanade. It had the lived-in look of a place that had been beloved by locals since at least the first FDR presidency. The coffee their waitress brought them was fresh and hot, the cheese omelette Castiel had ordered well-seasoned and satisfying. It was certainly the best meal he’d had since he’d reported to the California Correctional Institution a few months ago.

But what made the place most remarkable to him was the fact that white and colored patrons seemed to dine together easily here, side by side at the counter and in the booths. It was something he wasn’t used to seeing much, even in LA, where the Woolworth’s store closest to his old apartment maintained a “whites only” policy at its lunch counter.

“This is a small town,” Amara said, smiling knowingly at him over the rim of her cup of coffee, as though his thoughts were written plainly on his forehead. “We all know each other here, and we care about each other as people, not categories.”

The sentiment struck Castiel as more than a little naive; something that couldn’t possibly hold true in every situation (small towns were hardly known to be bastions of tolerance, and “homosexual” was a category that had never been an asset to him anywhere). But he was new here, and his aunt was doing him a kindness, so he said, “That’s a lovely thought.”

Amara’s smile took on an enigmatic tinge. “Well, I don’t expect you to believe me just yet. But you’ll see. It’s part of what drew me here in the first place. Few other towns would have accepted a woman in charge of their newspaper; least of all an unmarried one. Most other places, I’d still be writing housekeeping columns, or muck-raking exposés on how to choose the perfect dress for your next dinner party.”

Castiel nodded absently as he swallowed his latest bite of omelette, considering which of his many questions to ask first. 

Last he’d heard, his aunt had been disowned by the Novak family after divorcing her husband. Everything else after that had been ominous familial muttering about her decision to move to California and return to her original profession as a newspaper writer, and about the money she had received as part of her divorce settlement. 

Money that Castiel now knew she had invested in purchasing a small-town newspaper and installing herself as editor-in-chief.  

“You said,” Castiel ventured tentatively, “that this town’s apparently mythical levels of tolerance—” In response to Amara’s raised eyebrow, he resolved to make an effort to dial back the sarcasm, “— were ‘part’ of what drew you here. What else was there?”

The question stemmed from genuine curiosity about his aunt, but also a desire to get the measure of the place where he’d be spending his foreseeable future. 

Amara took her time answering, devoting her attention to cutting a perfectly sized bite off the stack of syrup-drenched pancakes in front of her. 

“I won’t tell you yet,” she said, once she’d completed the task to her apparent satisfaction. The smile she gave him was sufficiently gentle to soften the rejection, at least a little. “But maybe someday I will. Once I’ve got a better idea of whether you really are the man I believe you to be.”

Castiel froze with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He was used to being weighed and judged: by producers with pursestrings they’d prefer not to loosen for just anyone; by directors whose protectiveness of their own creative vision tended toward the obsessive. But there was something different about Amara’s sort of judgment, which seemed to weigh not his ability to deliver a profit or be cowed into creative submission, but instead the quality of his character.

To his own surprise, he found himself wanting the scales to tip in his favor.  

“Alright,” he said, forcing himself to keep meeting Amara’s eyes as she subjected him to a slow, thoughtful scrutiny. 

“Alright,” she echoed, once she’d apparently examined him to her heart’s content. Then, dismissing the subject with a smile and a wave, she said, “Well, let’s stop beating around the bush, shall we? You’re here to do a job, and I’m here to see if you can do it. So let’s discuss your first assignment.”

Castiel nodded his assent as he set down his cup of coffee and returned to cutting up his omelette. The meal was too good to leave even a single crumb on his plate. The interval since his release from prison hadn’t been the first time he’d ever gone hungry, but he had yet to get used to it, or to the clawed fear that sharpened the already jagged edges of the sensation.

“There’s another newcomer in town. He’s recently opened up a barbershop,” Amara began. 

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel supplied.

Amara cocked her head. “I see the town gossip mill has somehow managed to ensnare you already.”

Castiel shrugged. “I spoke to one of the fishermen. He told me. I think it was meant as a slight against my hair, to be honest.” He couldn’t help running his hand through the bird’s nest atop his head in a habitual, self-conscious gesture.

Amara laughed. “Well, I don’t intend this assignment as such, though I’m sure Dean does his job well.”

“Then what exactly is the assignment?” Castiel asked.

“You’re a storyteller.” Amara imbued the word with an air of gravitas, hands raised and fingers spread, as though conjuring a marquee. “I want you to find out what his story is and get him to tell it to you.”

“You want me to write a human interest piece,” Castiel said, nodding. It was at least better than covering the latest zoning dispute. 

“I want you to write an interesting piece,” Amara said, leaning forward across the table as though they were whispering secrets. “Do you think you can do that?”

In truth, Castiel’s talents had never been in forging genuine connections with other people, but he had only one offer on the table, and the memory of hunger still nipping at his heels. 

“Yes,” he said, and returned his attention to his food.

***

Castiel’s first night at the upstairs apartment brought him little rest. The house was too quiet, lacking the snores, curses and occasional sobs of dozens of other inmates. 

The quiet left too much room for Castiel’s thoughts to drift back to memories he would rather not relive: cold eyes, watching him from a dais where a panel sat in judgment of him.

Are you now or have you ever been—

Castiel bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

***

The lack of restful sleep made him irritable the following morning — a state of mind made worse by the fact that he had no food or coffee in his kitchen. Amara had written him a personal check after lunch yesterday, calling it an advance on his first pay, but he hadn’t thought to use the money to stock up on groceries. He was regretting that lack of foresight now, listening to the growl of his stomach as he slipped into his creased suit and struggled with the knot of his tie.  

At least he’d managed to procure more cigarettes for himself, so when he’d showered and dressed, he sat on the sill of the open window beside his kitchenette again, filling his lungs with smoke to distract from the emptiness of his stomach. Perhaps he’d find a cafe, or else stop by Tasha’s again, on the way to his first assignment. 

In the newsroom, he found Donatello already ensconced behind his fortifications, grunting a desultory greeting as Castiel stepped through the curtain. Amara’s desk in the back had a note stuck to it, informing everyone that she’d left to conduct an interview.

The third of the desks was occupied by a new face: a scrawny man about Castiel’s age or a little younger, with large ears protruding from either side of his head and a smile that stretched wide to the point of being a little ridiculous. His tie was striped in lurid red and pink, clashing wildly with the brown wool of his suit. 

“You must be Castiel,” he said, leaping up from his chair with what appeared to be genuine delight. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. The name’s Garth Fitzgerald IV, but plain old Garth will do.”

To Castiel’s extreme bewilderment, Garth pulled him into a tight embrace, thumping his back hard enough to worry Castiel about the state of his ribs.  

“I’m glad to meet you as well,” he said, because it was expected of him. His voice sounded a little strained from lack of air. 

At last, Garth let him go, stepping back to beam at him. “Well, it’s certainly nice to have someone else here, what with Kelly gone to have her little one and Donatello such a sourpuss.”

Donatello glowered at them darkly over a stack of old magazines. 

Judging it best not to comment on Garth’s assessment of Donatello’s character, Castiel instead settled for a diplomatic question. “What is it that you do for the paper, Garth?”

“Oh, all sorts,” Garth said, waving a dismissive hand. “I sell ads, answer letters, liaise with the printing press… whatever Amara is too busy to deal with, really. And,” he added, with an air of pride, “I make the coffee.”

He stepped aside to reveal, with a magician’s flourish, a small counter that Castiel had somehow missed before, tucked as it was into a corner of the newsroom. A coffee maker stood there, full to the brim with black ambrosia. Castiel thought it likely that he had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Bless you,” he said weakly, and beelined for the coffee.

By the time he’d had his second cup, Castiel had been thoroughly informed as to the names of Garth’s wife and children — one of whom they’d actually considered naming Castiel for some unknown reason — as well as the general state of health of what must be every person within a two-mile radius of town. 

Even Donatello put in the occasional gruff word about a scandal at a recent bingo night or an old-timer who had recently passed, before returning once again to the steady clack-clack-clack of his typewriter keys. 

Any questions about his own origins, Castiel answered as obliquely as he could, describing himself only as a writer who’d lived in Los Angeles but had been in need of a change of scenery. But when the trend of Garth’s questioning began to tilt toward what sort of things he’d been writing, it became harder to skirt the issue with selective truths. 

“This and that,” he said, hoping that would put Garth off the subject. 

It seemed unlikely, as Garth’s eager-eyed expression suggested that he had some two dozen follow-ups still left in him. But before he could pose any of them, a mutter from behind Donatello’s fortifications interrupted him.

“Leave the man be, Garth. Nobody enjoys an interrogation first thing in the morning.”

Startled, Castiel looked over to find Donatello peering at him shrewdly, but not unkindly, past a stack of old magazines. Castiel gave an acknowledging nod, which Donatello did not return before once again resuming his typing. 

“He’s right, of course,” Garth said, his cheerfulness somehow undiminished. “I’ve kept you too long. No doubt you’ve got places to be and people to see. I heard Amara gave you an assignment already.”

Before Castiel could confirm or deny this, Donatello said, “Notepads are in that cupboard by the front desk. Pens too. Try not to fuck it up, kid. I’ve got enough on my plate without filling another twelve column inches.” 

“Sourpuss,” Garth mouthed under his breath, nodding sagely. 

Once again resorting to diplomatic silence, Castiel grabbed the supplies he needed and fled the room for the relative safety of a public sidewalk. 

***

Further fortified by a second cigarette and a jam pastry from a bakery along the esplanade, Castiel was in something approaching good spirits when he stepped through the front door of the barber shop.

The place smelled of hair oil and a hundred other indefinable scents that added up to a nearly overwhelming onslaught. But the place was warm and cozy compared to the sharp spring wind howling down the esplanade, and a record player in the corner played some fast-paced, jazzy number that made Castiel’s fingers twitch with the urge to move.

The sound of the door opening had drawn the attention of the room’s only other occupants: two older men. One of them appeared to work here, judging by his crisp white barber’s jacket and the pair of scissors in his hand. The other sat in one of the chairs lined up neatly in front of a row of mirrors, his newspaper open to the funny pages. 

“Left it a bit long, don’t you think?” the barber asked, squinting critically at what was no doubt an absolute mess on top of Castiel’s head. “You got an appointment?”

“He ain’t a customer, Rufus,” the man in the chair said, shaking his head down at his copy of the Los Angeles Times. “He’s that new reporter for the Gazette, Castiel Novak. Amara’s nephew.” Castiel spared a moment to be extremely impressed with the town gossip, which seemed well-informed about him, including the correct pronunciation of his somewhat exotic name. “Probably here to do that story on Dean.”

Rufus made a thoughtful noise. “The one Charlie roped him into?”

“That’s the one,” the other man agreed, folding up his newspaper with an air of disgust at its contents. 

“You two have the advantage of me,” Castiel said, feeling as though he ought to make some contribution to the conversation unfolding in front of him. 

The man snorted. “Fancy way of putting it. Name’s Bobby Singer, kid. I run the garage on Vine. And this old coot here’s Rufus Turner. He’s a decent barber, but he ain’t ever been nice to other people for love or money.”

“I was nice once,” Rufus said, “in 1932. Worst year of my life.”

Sensing that this topic might keep Mr. Singer and Mr. Turner occupied for some time, Castiel decided to return the conversation to the reason he’d come.

“Is Mr. Winchester here?” he asked, and Bobby Singer snorted. 

“Sure, he’s in the back. But he won’t thank you for calling him ‘Mr. Winchester.’ We don’t put much stock in formality around here.”

“Noted,” Castiel said, and made his way in the direction indicated. Behind his back, he heard a mutter of, “So he’s a grump, like you,” and felt a sudden, unexpected surge of amusement. 

He’d managed to resume a professionally bland expression by the time he reached the end of the back hallway. It dead-ended at a small office where a man sat behind a desk, shuffling through receipts with his head bent down. 

“Mr. Winchester?” Castiel asked. Despite the recent advice, he didn’t feel it was right to presume familiarity with a man who hadn’t yet introduced himself.  

The man behind the desk straightened up to look at him, and Castiel’s breath caught.

In Hollywood, Castiel had seen his share of handsome men — had even been caught up in the spell of one or two of them, to the point of indulging in ill-advised affairs. But Dean wasn’t merely handsome. There was a light inside him that went beyond beautifully symmetrical features and gorgeously freckled skin. Here was a man who was undoubtedly special, and Castiel couldn’t wait to find out what it was that made him so. 

His enthusiasm about his assignment instantly reached unheard-of proportions. 

“It’s Dean,” Dean said, in a baritone deep enough to send poorly timed shivers up Castiel’s spine. He had a deep voice himself, but Dean was very nearly his match. “What can I do for you?”

He waited patiently, his head cocked, while Castiel’s brain struggled to remember how to string words into sentences. “Oh, I… I’m a reporter for the Gazette. Castiel Novak. I’m here to interview you?”

Dean’s smile was full of mischief. “Is that a question or a fact?”

Castiel felt a sudden, childish instinct to blush. He cleared his throat in a probably futile attempt to control the reaction. “A fact. Apologies, I’m new to this job.”

“And new to town, right?” Dean’s smile warmed as he rose from his chair to stick a hand out across the desk. When Castiel met it with his own, he was struck by the warmth and firmness of Dean’s grip. The moment the handshake ended left him slightly unsettled, as if he’d experienced a nice thing and forgotten to enjoy it while it lasted.

“It sounds like my reputation precedes me,” Castiel said. “That seems to be a feature of life in this town.”

Dean resumed his seat and gestured for Castiel to sit as well, in a scuffed but sturdy-looking upholstered chair opposite his desk. “Yeah, people gossip like nobody’s business here, and Bobby and Rufus are just about the worst offenders. Hope it doesn’t bother you.”

Castiel shrugged as he withdrew his notepad from the inside pocket of his coat. “It’s just not something I’m used to, I suppose.”

“Oh yeah? Where were you before this?”

There was nothing but innocent curiosity in the question, yet Castiel still stiffened a little. “LA,” he said.

Dean studied him thoughtfully. “LA, huh? Were you a reporter there too? It’s just that you look kinda familiar.” 

Castiel fought an instinctive surge of panic. His picture had been published a few times around the time of the hearing and the trial, but that had been months ago. No one would remember him based on that. He was sure of it. 

At least, he had been.

With as much composure as he could muster, he said, “I may be new to this, but I’m reasonably sure the interviewer is the one who’s supposed to ask the questions.”

Something sparked in Dean’s eyes: he enjoyed being challenged like this. 

“Oh, I see how it is.” Dean flashed him a sharp grin. “Well, alright then. You’re lucky you caught me after the morning rush and before the lunch rush. What do you want to know about me?”

Castiel couldn’t help mirroring Dean’s grin. “What don’t I want to know?”

This time, Dean outright laughed, a deep and easy sound that resonated pleasantly in the marrow of Castiel’s bones. 

“Well, let’s see. I was born in small-town Kansas,” Dean said, and Castiel dusted off his shorthand skills sufficiently to make a note on his pad. “Raised there too.”

“Were you a barber there as well?”

Dean made a noise of assent. “It’s the family business. I took over my dad’s shop after he passed.” 

There was something here: Castiel’s storyteller instincts perked up at Dean leaving a family tradition behind to start over in a new place. 

“Why did you make the decision to move?” he asked.

This time, Dean’s laugh was different: flat and resigned. “Guess that was the obvious follow-up, huh?” 

“I’m afraid so.” Castiel grimaced apologetically. Storytelling was familiar to him, but this part was new: asking people to reveal their personal business so he could splash it across the printed page. 

He was on the verge of taking the question back and pursuing some other line instead when Dean said, “The barber school I went to had some pretty modern ideas. They offered students the chance to spend some time apprenticing with a colored barber. Not a lot of people took them up on it, but I did. I knew there wasn’t any place official in my town for colored folks to get their hair cut, so it seemed like a good idea to learn, you know? Make sure people had a place to go that was closer. Seemed like good business sense.”

Castiel kept his eyes on his notepaper as he worked to catch up, giving Dean time to gather himself if he needed. He had an inkling of where this story was heading, and it wasn’t anywhere happy. 

“Some of the locals disagreed. I was making decent money, but I couldn’t afford to keep fixing my windows.” A glance up from Castiel’s notepad showed that Dean’s expression had gone dull and distant. “Trust me, I didn’t let the place go lightly. My dad built that business, but I couldn’t…” Dean sighed heavily. “I couldn’t go back on serving everybody. It wouldn’t have been right.”

Castiel struggled with where to lead the conversation from here. He wanted to tell Dean that he’d made the best choice he could under the circumstances, but was it his place? He was merely here to record the things Dean was telling him. Moreover, they were strangers, and Castiel couldn’t tell if Dean would welcome expressions of sympathy. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, when it was clear that Dean wouldn’t say more. The words sounded stiff and woefully insufficient in the face of Dean’s troubles and losses. 

“Yeah, thanks.”

Castiel wanted to say more; to dispel the melancholy that lingered in Dean’s expression still. “The shameful intolerance of others is not your fault.” 

The statement felt too impassioned for a virtual stranger, but Castiel found it hard to regret that. They were words he’d repeated to himself many times over the years, as he’d struggled to come to terms with who he was. For some reason he couldn’t entirely explain to himself, it felt right to offer them to Dean. 

Dean offered him a small smile in return. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.” 

Oh. Perhaps Castiel had given away too much of himself after all. It was time to change the subject before he had a chance to compound the error. “We’re here to talk about you,” he reminded Dean.

This time, Dean didn’t seem to relish the challenge as much. His smile faded as he rapped his knuckles twice against his desk, agreeing to the change of subject. “Right. All business. Got it.”

It was what Castiel had wanted, so he shouldn't have felt regret at what seemed a missed chance for a deeper connection. 

He cleared his throat. “Why Bethany Cove?”

Dean leaned back in his chair, some tension inside him uncoiling. It seemed they’d reached a more comfortable part of the story. “Bobby Singer was a family friend. I’d spent a couple summers with him and his wife before she passed. He’d always been kind to me, and I’d made other friends in town too. Charlie, for one. Charlie Bradbury. She’s an artist these days. Has a studio down by the waterfront.”

“She was the one who suggested you let yourself be interviewed?” Castiel asked. He bit down on the impulse to inquire further into the nature of Charlie’s relationship with Dean. 

“Yeah. She said it’d be good for business. Help me get established in town. Though, truth be told, there ain’t much in the way of competition. There’s really only Frank’s, where Rufus used to work, but Frank is getting ready to retire. Besides, he’s such a grump that a lot of people would pay good money just to avoid him.” Horror flashed across Dean’s face. “Don’t quote me on that.”

Castiel startled himself by laughing. He stifled the sound, feeling self-conscious — even more so when Dean’s expression brightened into delighted surprise. 

“Don’t worry,” Castiel said. “It’ll be our secret.”

He met Dean’s eyes to show he was sincere. But once he had, it proved surprisingly difficult to look away. Their glance caught and held, crossing over into a stare. 

When Dean next spoke, his voice was slow, thoughtful. Castiel wanted to believe it was because he felt as caught in their prolonged eye contact as Castiel did himself. 

“You really do look awfully familiar,” Dean said. “I could swear I’ve seen your face someplace before.”

Not a connection then; merely an instance of someone who must have seen Castiel’s face in the paper after all, combined with an inconveniently acute memory. 

Searching for a way to change the subject again, Castiel landed on something that had apparently remained at the forefront of his mind without his knowledge or consent. 

“Charlie is… your significant other?” he asked. 

Dean looked startled at the abrupt swerve in their conversation, and Castiel could hardly blame him. “No,” he said. “We’re not… inclined that way. Towards each other,” he added, as an apparent afterthought. 

It was a very peculiar way of phrasing the idea; almost as if Dean had initially meant to comment on his and Charlie’s general inclinations towards the opposite sex.

Or perhaps Castiel was simply reading into things, thinking he recognized a man like himself in Dean because he very much wanted to. 

Their eyes caught again as Dean waited for Castiel to continue his questioning, but Castiel didn’t let the glance linger this time. He’d come here to do a job; a job he sorely needed. 

In reminding himself of that, he managed to focus sufficiently to ask Dean a few more biographical details, as well as some pertinent information about the business and the services it offered. 

Still, as he walked back from Dean’s shop to the Gazette’s offices, his mind refused to stop dwelling on the warm clasp of Dean’s hand as they’d said goodbye.

Chapter Text

“This is good.” 

Castiel let go of the breath he’d been holding ever since he’d handed Aunt Amara the draft he’d agonized over for the past three hours. He still wasn’t at all convinced that he’d managed to capture Dean as a person. It was a surprisingly daunting task, doing justice to a real, in-the-flesh man as opposed to a character Castiel had invented himself. 

Aunt Amara looked up from the densely typewritten pages he’d handed her and eyed him shrewdly. “You like him. I can tell.”

Castiel felt the instinctive urge to argue rise up inside him. Quite apart from the fact that his homosexuality made Aunt Amara’s supposition a complicated one to answer, it seemed vaguely unprofessional to let his personal feelings shine through in a piece of journalism. 

Some of his concern must have shown on his face, because Aunt Amara’s expression softened. “It’s alright, Cas. This is feature writing, not hard news. You’re allowed to feel things about your subject.”

There was a weight to the words that Castiel couldn’t parse. He decided to tell as much of the truth as he could.

“I think he’s a good man,” he said. “He has convictions and he’s not afraid to stand by them.”

Aunt Amara studied him, still with that unsettlingly soft expression. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Listen, I do have a few edits to this, but they’re minor. Mostly choices that don’t work for our usual style. But this is your first piece, so that’s to be expected.” 

She uncapped a red pen and went to work on his draft. He averted his eyes from the massacre in favor of watching a spider spin its web in the corner of the ceiling. No matter how many years he spent writing for a living, receiving edits on his work never seemed to get any easier. 

By the time Aunt Amara returned the heavily redlined pages, Castiel had managed to work his way around to an attitude of resigned acceptance. 

He spent the rest of the day working on the edits. They did turn out to be fairly minor stylistic quibbles for the most part, but immersing himself back in the story had the unpleasant side effect of making him once again second-guess every single thing he’d written. Had he revealed too much of himself in calling Dean “a man of admirable convictions” or in remarking that Dean’s “easy, agreeable conversation” no doubt served him well with his clients?

In agonizing over that and similar questions, his fingers had set up a ceaseless tapping against his thigh, to the extent that he felt the strain of it in his tendons and fingertips.

A few times, Garth came over to try to engage Castiel in conversation, but he was soon discouraged by Castiel’s monosyllabic replies. 

Or so Castiel thought, until a presence once again loomed up next to his desk. Almost immediately, Castiel realized the person’s bulk was greater than Garth’s, but he was still startled when he recognized Donatello. 

“Yes?” Castiel asked, blinking myopically at his colleague. (It was possible he’d spent too long staring at his own writing today, in the hope that the line between a positive write-up and an embarrassing love letter would somehow come to him by osmosis.)

“Here,” Donatello said, and slapped a piece of paper down on Castiel’s desk. “You look like you’re stuck. Well, so am I. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine?”

Castiel thought it best to pass over the sexual innuendo of the suggestion and go straight to the heart of the matter. “You want me to look at your draft?”

Donatello nodded. “And I’ll look at yours if you want. What seems to be the issue?”

Still taken aback, it took Castiel a moment to gather his thoughts sufficiently to respond. “I’m not sure about the tone,” he said. “I want the subject of the article to appear likable, because he is, but I don’t—”

“You don’t want it to sound like you’re proposing marriage?” Donatello asked. 

“Essentially,” Castiel conceded, though again, the question approached the truth of the matter to the point of discomfort. 

“Alright,” Donatello said, and held out an expectant hand. 

They seemed to have passed the point of polite refusal, and it seemed wise to accept the help Donatello was offering, in the interest of future good relations with his co-workers. 

Castiel handed over his draft and accepted a sheaf of papers from Donatello in turn. 

“What’s the matter with yours?” he asked. 

Donatello gave an eloquent shrug. “Think I’m just out of new advice for the same old problems. Why don’t you take a stab at it?”

With that cryptic remark, he retreated back behind his fortifications, and Castiel was left staring down at what appeared to be not an article draft, but a letter.

Dear Donna, it read,

I’m an avid reader of your column, but this is my first time writing in, and I do so hope you can help me with my dilemma. 

The dilemma is this: I struggle with making conversation when my husband comes home from work. (He is an insurance adjuster.) I ask him about his day and he gives me answers, but I feel he doesn’t really confide in me. It feels almost as if he has a secret life that I can never be privy to, perhaps because he doesn’t think I could understand the nuances of it. I can’t even blame him: he is out in the world all day, doing important things, while I do the shopping, cleaning and cooking. They hardly compare.

How can we overcome this? I want to be a good wife to him, but I feel that I have nothing to contribute to our conversations except complaints about the price of pork. 

Very sincerely yours,

Concerned Wife

Castiel read the letter twice over, but it still failed to make sense. It appeared to be addressed to an advice columnist, but as far as Castiel knew, there was no one on staff except him, Donatello and Garth. Perhaps the mysterious “Donna” was a freelance contributor who worked from home? Castiel knew the paper had several. But then why had Donatello asked Castiel to—

A swish of fabric and a whiff of floral perfume told Castiel that Amara had arrived. “Donatello, dear, are you trying to rope poor Castiel into writing your column?”

“His column?” Castiel asked, but understanding was already beginning to dawn. Donatello — Donna. He supposed most women wouldn’t feel too comfortable writing in if they thought they were addressing their problems to a man well past middle age.

Donatello made a disgruntled noise from behind his heavily fortified desk. “I’m doing him a favor too. Wouldn’t hurt him to pay me back.”

“Yes, but I’m paying you to be, among other things, our advice columnist. If you’re not giving advice, maybe I should dock your pay accordingly?”

Here it was: Castiel’s chance to ensure peace in the newsroom. “He really is doing me a favor,” he said hurriedly. “And I don’t mind. I think it’s a good idea for me to get as comprehensive an idea of the paper’s work as possible.”

A quiet snort drew Castiel’s attention to Garth’s desk, where he found Garth giving him a covert thumbs up. 

Amara sighed. “Fine. Just don’t let it become a habit. You give Donatello a hand, he’ll take your arm.”

“I resent that,” Donatello muttered. 

“I’m sure you do,” Amara retorted cheerfully. “But anyway, do whatever you all like, because I have dinner plans with Rowena, and then I’m going straight home. Try not to burn the place down. Garth, you’re in charge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Garth agreed solemnly. 

By the time the front door closed behind Amara, Castiel had already made his way to a stack of recent Gazette issues, paging through them until he found the installments of Donna’s Pearls of Wisdom in each of them. They all followed the letter-and-response format, and were accompanied by a drawing of a cheerful, pearl-wearing and apparently entirely fictional woman. 

Castiel read through three of the columns, trying to get a sense of the style, before he returned to his desk and rolled a blank sheet of paper into his typewriter. 

Dear Concerned Wife, he wrote, 

Your dilemma is one that will be familiar to many married women. It’s all but inevitable when we are largely confined to the household sphere while our husbands go out to provide for the financial well-being of the family. 

“Ohh,” Garth said from beside Castiel’s right elbow, where he had somehow materialized without Castiel noticing, “you should tell her to take a more active interest by reading the business section. Or going to the local library. My Bess does that a lot, and the things she picks up there, you’d never credit it! She could fill an entire encyclopedia with all the factoids she carries in that adorable brain of hers.”

Garth set down a glass on Castiel’s desk. It was generously filled with an amber liquid that looked and smelled suspiciously like whiskey. 

“Tradition,” Garth explained. “When Amara leaves early, we stay late and drink.”

Castiel looked up to find that even Donatello had emerged from behind his fortifications. He was holding Castiel’s draft, which he tossed haphazardly in Castiel’s general direction. Castiel caught it. Even at first glance, he could tell that Donatello’s additions had been minor but useful: instead of being “handsome,” Dean’s smile was now “agreeable.” His manner was “engaging” rather than “charming.”

Overall, the tone had only changed marginally, but it had made the difference between favorable press and a personal embarrassment. 

“Thank you,” Castiel said to Donatello, who had since rolled his desk chair into the center of the newsroom. In response, he merely raised his glass at both Castiel and Garth before taking a generous gulp of his whiskey. 

Taking his cues from the room, Castiel lifted his own glass and returned the toast before sipping cautiously at the drink. 

The caution had been warranted: the whiskey was sharp and harsh, tickling his throat in a way that wasn’t immediately pleasant. Still, it left a comfortable warmth in Castiel’s stomach. 

“The newspaper and the library,” he said, circling back to Garth’s point. “What else?”

Donatello hummed thoughtfully. “Mention taking a couples dance class. That always goes over well.” 

“Oh, and pottery!” Garth’s cheeks were bright pink, though he couldn’t have taken more than two sips of whiskey. “Bess and I did that once. Very sensual activity, if you know what I mean.”

“The cows in that field off the eastbound highway know what you mean, Fitzgerald,” Donatello said, smacking his lips in apparent enjoyment of his latest sip.

Caught by the unexpected joke, or maybe beginning to be a little tipsy himself, Castiel laughed. It felt good. Like something he’d once had the trick of, but had since forgotten how to do. 

Within less than half an hour, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and whiskey fumes as Castiel typed away at the column, egged on by a near-constant (and increasingly unprintable) stream of advice from Donatello and Garth. 

“Lacy underthings!” Garth exclaimed, sloshing much of his second pour of whiskey down his front. “Can’t go wrong with those.”

Castiel stared at the hopeless muddle he’d made of the column draft by this point. “I can’t put that in. Can I put that in? I can’t put that in.”

“Eh, put whatever you like,” Donatello said generously. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

By the time the evening had further descended into a suggestion of performing unspeakable acts upon porcelain dolls, Garth announced he was going home to his Bess “and her lacy underthings.”

“I’d best be going too,” Donatello said, heaving himself off his desk chair with a creak of springs and bones. As he went, he slapped Castiel’s shoulder, hard enough to wind him. “You’re a good one, Novak. You can stay.”

The heavy warmth of whiskey in his veins had made Castiel feel sufficiently affectionate toward the world in general that he genuinely appreciated the sentiment. 

It was only when the newsroom had fallen quiet around him that he thought again of Dean, and of the article he was supposed to be finishing. He had the strangest urge to go out walking and pass by the barber shop, in case catching another glimpse of Dean’s face proved inspirational. 

Dismissing the thought as foolishness, he downed the rest of his drink and made his stumbling way upstairs. He ate a quick dinner of some bread and deli cheese he’d managed to procure, stared despondently at the desk where he’d failed to work on his novel draft today, and went to bed.

***

The article was set to be published a few days later in the next weekly edition of the Gazette, along with a few other, far less nerve-wracking articles Castiel had written since then (including an installment of Donna’s column that included at least some of his contributions, though not Garth’s suggestion about lacy underthings).

On the night before publication, he smoked his way through nearly an entire pack of cigarettes, his mind spinning a million increasingly unlikely scenarios: Dean somehow reading Castiel’s feelings of attraction between the lines and challenging him on them. The entire population of Bethany Cove doing the same and running him out of town. Someone recognizing his writing as that of James Milton and exposing his identity publicly. 

The following day, he was on edge all morning, responding to Garth and Donatello in monosyllables at best. Even when Amara invited him to come to dinner at her house that night, the enthusiasm he mustered for the invitation was tepid at best. 

When lunchtime arrived at last, he all but leapt out of his desk chair and made for the door, eager for some fresh air to clear his head. Instinctively, he made for the esplanade, wanting to look out at the ocean in hopes that a reminder of his own insignificance would prove helpful.

In his haste to get there, he rounded the corner onto the esplanade too quickly, colliding hard with a body walking the other way. 

He stumbled backward, an apology already on his lips, when he realized exactly who he’d just bumped into. 

“Dean.” 

Today, Dean wasn’t wearing his barber’s uniform. Instead, he was in jeans and a leather jacket that made him look not unlike Marlon Brando in The Wild One, who had starred in more than a few of Castiel’s masturbatory fantasies. This already distressing state of affairs was made worse when Dean’s lips parted in a pleased smile of recognition.

“I was just coming to find you,” he said. 

“Oh?” Castiel instinctively braced himself. Dean didn’t look angry, or as though he was about to start throwing punches, but recent life experience had taught Castiel to be wary of people’s intentions. 

“Yeah.” Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, shifting on his feet. “I mean, you made me sound a lot more interesting than I am, but I really appreciate what this could do for my business, getting a write-up like that. So… thanks.”

Castiel exhaled some of the tension he’d been holding inside all morning. “You’re selling yourself short,” he said. “But you’re welcome. I’m glad you liked the article.”

Dean made a small sound of agreement. 

Neither of them seemed sure how to continue the conversation, so they simply stood together on the sidewalk, letting other pedestrians pass them by and paying no mind to the occasional car driving past along the esplanade. 

“So… were you headed anywhere in particular before I almost knocked you over?” Dean asked, after far too long a pause.

“Oh, just… going for a walk.” He could hardly tell Dean that his nerves had been in an uproar over the reception of the article. “Down to the water.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Dean said, already setting off in the direction he’d come from, without so much as giving Castiel a chance to object. “You eat lunch yet?”

“No,” Castiel admitted, and before he knew it, Dean had bought them both hot dogs from a nearby cart. 

“I really can’t accept this,” he tried, even as Dean handed him the foil-wrapped package. A heavenly smell of hot meat and fresh roll rose up from it. 

“Yeah, you can,” Dean said easily. “It’s the least I can do. But if you really feel weird about it, you could always return the favor sometime.”

His eyes lingered on Castiel for just a moment before he turned away to continue their slow amble down the sidewalk, and Castiel wondered what he was meant to make of that.

When no answer immediately presented itself, he focused instead on his lunch. The first bite was hot and satisfying, just the right combination of savory meat, soft bread and spicy mustard.

Dean had paused at a random spot along the railing that separated the sidewalk from the beach below. He looked out at the ocean in apparent contemplation as he chewed. Castiel came to a stop beside him, mirroring his posture of leaning against the railing while they looked out onto the water. 

The day was overcast, dulling the water’s color, but it was still a pleasant view: the gentle sway of the ocean, continuing on and on to the horizon, where a few boats bobbed forlornly, too distant to make out anything but the white of their sails.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Dean said. “Kind of a personal question.”

Castiel’s first instinct was to say “no,” but that would have been unforgivably rude, and a definite result of the paranoia that had dogged his steps for months. 

“Sure,” he said, once he’d swallowed around his latest bite. 

Even with permission granted, Dean hesitated another moment. Castiel’s nerves, which had only just begun to calm, ratcheted up again. 

All his worst fears came true when Dean said tentatively, “You’re James Milton, right?”

Castiel’s hot dog dropped from suddenly numb hands. It plummeted over the railing and down onto the beach, where a group of seagulls instantly flocked to it. 

“What?” he asked, his voice raw.

Dean grimaced, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Sorry. It’s just, I’m… kind of a fan? Of your work? God, that sounds worse. Anyway, I followed the hearing and the trial, and I saw your picture in the paper once or twice. Still took me a little while to place your face, but—”

Whatever expression Castiel’s face had assumed made Dean trail off into silence. Everything inside Castiel felt hot and embarrassed and furious. This was the place he’d come to escape; to feel safe again, after everything. 

With a single question, Dean had taken it all away. 

Dean’s discomfort deepened, something frantic entering his eyes. “I really hated what they did to you. You didn’t deserve that. I mean, nobody does, obviously, not for that, but they barely even had a case, and—”

“Stop.” The sound of Castiel’s own voice surprised him. It was cold, off-putting. 

Dean’s mouth snapped instantly shut. He stared silently at Castiel, awaiting judgment.

Somewhere deep inside, Castiel felt regret at reacting so abruptly. Dean likely hadn’t meant anything by what he’d said. But then again, couldn’t he have guessed that this was a subject Castiel wouldn’t wish to discuss? What had he thought would happen? 

At a loss, Castiel leaned into the emotion he was feeling that was by far the least complicated: anger. “I need you to never speak of this again,” he said. “Not to anyone. Do you understand me?”

Dean blinked slowly, once, before he nodded. Visibly bucking up his courage, he said, “Look, I’m real sorry, I didn’t mean to upset—”

“Thank you for lunch,” Castiel said, and stalked away down the esplanade. Within moments, the sun emerged from behind the clouds, brightening the paint on the waterfront houses and rendering the ocean a much more pleasant hue. 

Castiel couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn.

***

It was a slow day in the newsroom, so Castiel retired upstairs to his apartment early, not feeling in the mood for company. 

He sat at his desk, staring at the blank page he’d fed into his typewriter, fingers tapping restlessly away to the tune of “Singin’ in the Rain.” When he realized the cruel irony of having a song stuck in his head that was all about emerging from a troubled period into a new phase of love and happiness, he stopped.

Without the song, however, the silence of his apartment was deafening; begging to be filled with memories Castiel didn’t want to dwell on, but which had been made fresh by his recent conversation with Dean. 

He really needed to get a record player, but his funds were still limited — just about sufficient for basic needs. 

Even picking up a bouquet for Amara on the way to dinner that evening was a bit of a stretch. He swallowed the expense anyway; it felt like the least he could do, given all she’d offered him.

It was his first visit to her house, and he was surprised to find it a little ways away from the center of town, on a quieter part of the waterfront. Luckily, the day had turned more pleasant as it went on, the unsettled afternoon giving way to a warmer evening that carried the scent of coming summer. 

When Castiel reached the place, it turned out to be a small bungalow painted a cheerful ocean blue and sun yellow, its porch overgrown with creeper vines and its yard sandy instead of the pristine green that most people cultivated in Los Angeles. 

As he approached, he saw that a table had been set on the porch, where Amara already reclined in a silky robe, next to a woman in an elegant purple gown that seemed entirely out of place in the relaxed setting. The woman’s hair was a striking, rich red that somehow suited her sharply drawn features. Castiel recognized her instantly.

“Castiel!” his aunt exclaimed, rising from her chair to greet him at the top of the porch stairs. “Come, come! Meet my friend.”

The aforementioned friend had retained her seat, watching Castiel with heavy-lidded interest. “I do believe he’s already realized who I am, dear,” she said, in a thick accent that was entirely at odds with what Castiel had always believed her voice to sound like. 

Castiel came to a stop at the bottom of the porch stairs, struck by the dissonance. “You’re… are you Ruth Benedict?”

Among the many stars of the silver screen that Castiel had admired growing up, Ruth Benedict had been among the brightest. Her fame had faded with the transition from silent movies to talkies, and Castiel now had some inkling as to why. Once or twice, he’d heard the rumor that the movie star who’d struggled with a similar predicament in Singin’ in the Rain was in fact based on Ruth Benedict.

“Aye, dear,” she said. “But these days, I go by Rowena MacLeod. Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”

She extended her hand, knuckles up, all but forcing Castiel to hurriedly climb the porch steps and press his lips to the proffered surface. It felt strangely right to do it: hopelessly old-fashioned and glamorous, much like the petite woman in front of him.

“Forgive me for intruding on your dinner with your auntie,” she continued when Castiel had released her hand. “I was awfully eager to meet you, so I simply had to drop by.”

“It’s no problem,” Castiel assured her, though in his current mood, even the idea of spending time with his aunt had seemed like a chore as he’d made his way here. Better than continuing to stare at the walls and replaying his conversation with Dean over and over in his head, but still a chore.

Remembering about the flowers he’d brought, he turned to Amara, only to find her gazing down at Rowena with a deeply affectionate expression. It could easily have been the sort of look any friend might give another friend, but something about it struck a chord of familiarity. 

Or perhaps he was deluding himself by seeing same-sex attraction at every turn. He still couldn’t help wondering about Dean, though the thought carried a tinge of bitterness with it now. 

He forced his mind to stop dwelling on the unpleasantness and remain present in the here and now, where Amara urged him to sit and vociferously declined any offers to help her with the food. 

In short order, he was happily settled in front of a plate piled high with creamy chicken, mushrooms and peas, alongside a generous pour of red wine. The food was delicious, the company good, and for the first time all day, Castiel began to feel at ease.

It all came crashing down when Rowena raised her glass in a toast. “To new friends and new beginnings. May we shed Ruth Benedict and James Milton, and find happiness in being simply ourselves.”

This time, Castiel at least had the presence of mind to set down his glass of wine before it could meet the same ignominious fate as his lunch. He rose from his chair, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and started to push past the table, his mind revolving around only a single thought: away, away, away. 

“Oh dear, what have I said?” Rowena asked, confusion clear in her voice, but Castiel could not look at her. He kept his eyes on the ground. 

“Cas.” Amara caught his arm as he passed her chair. Castiel stopped, weighing exactly how rude it would be to simply pull away from her. “What’s the matter?”

He raised his eyes to her, incredulous that he would even have to explain. “What’s the matter? I came here for a place where I’d be able to get distance from—” He gestured frustratedly with his one free arm, helpless to convey the scope of what had happened to him in recent months, “—everything, only to find that everyone knows my business?”

Amara frowned up at him. “I hardly think everyone does, dear. But Rowena is my dearest friend and companion. She knows who my nephew is, and she was the one who helped me make up my mind to offer you the position here, when I wasn’t sure if my contacting you would be welcome.”

“Och, you’re giving me too much credit,” Rowena said. She touched one carefully manicured hand to Amara’s shoulder and let the touch linger. To Castiel, she said, “My apologies if I spoke out of turn. We’ve certainly neither one of us been spreading your business about, and we won’t make it a habit. You’ve a right to a fresh start, same as I did, and it was only ever my intent to honor that.”

Castiel breathed out through his nose, trying to let go of the tension coiled tight inside him. It would be callous to leave now. 

Still, the shock of hearing his pen name spoken aloud like this, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, sat heavy and nauseating inside him. 

He nodded curtly, once, to acknowledge what had been said, and returned to his seat. The ease from before had been somewhat lost, and Castiel’s thoughts were once again circling, vulture-like, the carcass of his earlier conversation with Dean. 

“Dean knows,” he found himself saying, sounding petulant to his own ears. “He said he followed the whole thing.”

To his surprise, this prompted a warm smile from Rowena. “Aye, he would. He’s a great connoisseur of the movies, our Dean. He might as well cancel his lease for the apartment above his shop and move permanently into the Grand Cove.”

“The Grand Cove?” Castiel asked. 

Amara cast another fond, lingering look at Rowena. “It’s Rowena’s movie theater. Or rather, it should be.” Her expression darkened. “The greedy bastard who owns the building doesn’t give a damn about it, except how it can make him money. Rowena’s run the theater for years now and made offers on the building, but he refuses to sell it to her. Instead, he’s raised the rent by an exorbitant amount that the revenues simply don’t support. She’s had to make up the difference from her savings.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Rowena said, waving off Amara’s concerns like so many gnats. “And let’s not speak of it tonight. I’ve done quite enough already to ruin our lovely dinner.”

Castiel muttered a polite contradiction as guilt about his previous behavior began to creep in. He’d reacted impulsively to what Rowena had said, and he’d almost left without allowing her (or Amara) a chance to explain. 

It was exactly what he’d done to Dean, though the more Castiel thought back on their conversation, the more he realized that Dean had meant to express sympathy and outrage on his behalf. He hadn’t spoken up with the intent of spreading Castiel’s business, or being nosy for the sake of it. At least, Castiel didn’t think so. 

Scorn and suspicion were things he’d become plenty used to in the recent past. Empathy, less so. Perhaps that was the reason why he’d reacted poorly to it. 

It was certainly food for thought. 

He stayed only as long as it took to finish his dinner and glass of wine before saying his goodbyes to Amara and Rowena. 

The air had grown cooler again, and Castiel pulled his coat tighter around himself as he walked back to town along the water. The sun was low in the sky, smearing stripes of pink and orange along the horizon. The cliffs of the shoreline were hulking giants in the distance, keeping their counsel with regard to all they must have witnessed over the millennia of their existence. 

The houses along the esplanade and clinging to the hill behind it were beginning to light up, each golden window square forming an invitation to come in and stay a while. Castiel thought of his lonely apartment above the darkened newsroom and couldn’t face it just yet. 

He considered the beckoning windows of Tasha’s, where he’d gone a few more times for the occasional lunch or dinner, to the extent that both Tasha and her children, Max and Alicia, knew him by name and preferred order. But he’d just eaten, and a cup of coffee would likely keep him from sleeping (something he might already struggle with, based on the unsettled state of his mind). 

For lack of any better ideas, he continued along the esplanade, until he was drawn in by the firework brightness of a marquee. As he drew closer, he could see the words “Grand Cove” picked out in lights. Advertised on the marquee were two movies Castiel had been meaning to see: A Star is Born and Dial M for Murder. 

He stood there on the sidewalk, deaf and blind to the occasional passing of others on either side of him, and considered his options. Shaking back the sleeve of his coat to check his watch, he realized that a showing of A Star is Born was set to begin in fifteen minutes. 

Castiel paid his fifty cents for a ticket and made his way to one of the two screening rooms, taking a seat in the final row. The interior was opulent, its gilded surfaces and red velvet drapes hearkening back to the excess that had preceded the lean years of the Great Depression. 

Two minutes before the movie was set to start, a familiar figure walked into the theater, and Castiel slid lower in his seat, hoping he wouldn’t be spotted. 

Despite what Rowena had said about Dean’s habits, it hadn’t occurred to Castiel that he might actually be here. If it had, he likely wouldn’t have come. He almost certainly owed Dean an apology for his behavior, but he hadn’t made up his mind on the matter quite yet.

Dean was by himself, just as Castiel was, but he took a seat much closer to the screen. Like this, Castiel could see his profile as he absently chewed handful after handful of popcorn. 

Within moments, the theater lights dimmed, the projector in the booth behind Castiel whirred to life and rousing music swelled. 

On the screen, a tragic love story began to unfold, between a rising actress and her actor husband, whose fame was beginning to fade. Castiel knew what to expect, having seen the original 1937 film. It was a good thing too, because his mind refused to settle into appreciation of the story. Every time he tried, his attention was drawn instead by Dean’s sharp profile and his eloquent expression. The screen lit up every smile and wide-eyed expression of amazement. 

Watching Dean watch the movie was like opening a door and finding a perfect summer’s morning on the other side. At the same time, it felt unbearably intimate; something Castiel wasn’t sure he had a right to, given the current state of relations between himself and Dean. 

When the main character, Vicki, learned of her husband’s death and the flickering of the silver screen showed a single tear trickling down Dean’s cheek, Castiel jumped out of his seat and fled the theater. 

***

As the days passed, the conversation with Dean still haunted Castiel’s thoughts. He found himself unable to focus on work: growing distracted on the phone with a source for his article about a new neighborhood that was going to be built outside of town. Working on article drafts only to find that he’d typed gibberish and would have to white out entire inches’ worth of copy. 

This state of affairs grew so ridiculous that at last, late on the following Friday, Castiel made up his mind to stop by Dean’s shop. 

When he got there, it was half an hour before closing, according to the hours posted in the window. Darkness had already begun to fall, but the shop was lit up warmly, and Castiel found himself lingering outside for just a moment. 

Dean was in, sweeping up bits of hair with the competent, efficient motions that marked a task performed frequently. He was by himself, as far as Castiel could see: no Rufus, and no other customers. His white barber’s jacket framed his trim waist and broad shoulders; the shop’s kind light made his hair and skin appear as though they’d been brushed with gold leaf. 

Castiel sighed. He was no fool: he could tell he was developing an infatuation with Dean. And as that infatuation could never go anywhere, what point was there in nurturing it by spending more time with him? Perhaps he should go. 

He might have, too, if Dean hadn’t chosen that moment to look up from his broom. Unerringly, his eyes found Castiel, still lingering outside the window for no sane reason.

Dean raised first an eyebrow, then a hand, waving slowly. 

Well. It would appear that Castiel had lost his chance to flee the scene of his immoderate staring. 

As before, the heavy scents of hair oil and aftershave bloomed around him as he stepped through the door. Dean did him the kindness of looking pleased and surprised to see him. 

“Hey, Cas,” he said. He still clung to the broom, and Castiel found himself wishing he too had something to hold on to and steady him. “What can I do for you?”

Castiel had mostly come to apologize, but he felt foolish, standing here in Dean’s shop with nothing to offer him except his paltry regrets. 

“I… well, people keep telling me I’m in need of a haircut. I’m told you provide those.” He grimaced a smile at Dean. It felt painfully stiff on his face. 

“I do,” Dean said, with a small, far more natural-seeming smile. It looked like the forgiveness Castiel hadn’t had the courage to ask for yet. “How do you like it?”

Castiel stared at him, his brain failing to make sense of the question. Laugh lines carved their way around Dean’s eyes as his smile deepened.

“Your hair,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Castiel shook his head, exasperated with himself. How was it that Dean’s mere presence could apparently rob him of rational speech and thought? “Not too short.”

Dean nodded his assent and went to put his broom away in a cupboard at the far end of the store. “Good. It’s nice hair. It’d be a shame to cut it short.”

Castiel hoped against hope that the sudden influx of heat to his face was invisible to the outside world. 

“Take a seat,” Dean said, gesturing to the chair at the center of the row of five. Castiel did, annoyed to discover that his cheeks looked a little pink in the mirror after all. 

“No Rufus today?” he asked, in a likely doomed attempt to make conversation like a civilized adult man. 

“He leaves before sundown on Fridays,” Dean said as he retrieved a black cape from a hook against the opposite wall and walked over to stand behind Castiel. He was a warm and solid presence at Castiel’s back. “He’s Jewish.”

“Oh,” Castiel said yet again. He tried to think if he’d ever known a colored person who observed Judaism. Truth be told, he hadn’t known a lot of colored people at all, before this. As actors, they were a rarity, used for small roles if at all. Studios employed them as stage hands, but as a writer, Castiel had had little cause to interact with those.  

Dean flicked the cape with a pleasant, efficient snap, shaking out its wrinkles before he raised it over Castiel’s head and draped it across his chest, fastening it at the back of his neck. 

Each touch was professional, perfunctory, and Castiel suddenly realized: Dean was taking Castiel’s lead. He would let him leave the subject of their recent conversation forever untouched, if Castiel chose it. But making that choice would put their interactions on a professional, distant footing, and Castiel suddenly couldn’t stand the idea of that. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. 

Dean’s hands stilled on the back of his neck. “What for?” he asked. 

“For… reacting the way I did, when you asked about…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it outright, as if speaking his former name would prolong the curse it had become in recent months. “I know you didn’t mean any harm.”

Dean shook his head, looking regretful. His hands dropped away from Castiel’s neck, down to Dean’s sides. “I didn’t, but I shouldn’t have pried. I was out of line. So if anything, I should be the one apologizing.”

“It’s forgotten,” Castiel said. His eyes met Dean’s in the mirror, just in time to see him brighten with relief. Perhaps the way the two of them had parted had weighed on Dean too, just as it had on Castiel? Was that too much to hope? 

“Well, let’s see what we can do for your hair,” Dean said, all business again, but seeming much more cheerful about it now. “You want it washed too?”

Castiel thought of what it would mean: the sensation of Dean’s hands, massaging his scalp, rinsing warm water over delicate skin. He should say no. But so help him, he was apparently a weak, weak man. 

“That sounds good,” he said. 

Dean led the way to a small sink that sat beside the row of barber chairs and pulled up a stool in front of it. 

“We call this the shampoo stool,” he said, “for obvious reasons.” 

Castiel gave him the unimpressed look that remark deserved. “Contrary to the apparent popular belief in this town, this is not actually my first time at a barber shop.”

“Ah, shame.” Dean clucked his tongue regretfully. “And here I thought I’d get to be the one to take your professional barbering virginity.”

He grinned, completely unabashed, and Castiel found himself wanting to ask if the remark had been intended as a flirtation. He’d never mastered the subtle dance of showing interest in another man; of giving away just enough to encourage, but never enough to compromise. It was a miracle, really, that he’d ever managed to have sex at all. (Though, granted, it had been more than a year now.)

Resigned that he wouldn’t solve the mystery without asking outright, Castiel settled for rolling his eyes to show what he thought of Dean’s jokes. 

“You gonna sit or what?” Dean asked, still grinning.

Castiel sat. The stool was low, almost uncomfortably so, but when Dean prompted him to lean forward, the sink’s water felt warm and soothing. The contrast with the cooler air around them made Castiel shiver. 

Or perhaps it was the firm touch of Dean’s hands, drawing slow circles across Castiel’s skull as he applied a shampoo that smelled of fresh pine needles. 

When Dean dug his thumbs into the back of Castiel’s neck, circling, circling, going deeper and harder with each touch, he was forced to remind himself that it would be extremely embarrassing to develop an erection in a barber shop — not to mention highly compromising when the hands touching him were those of another man. 

At last Dean ceased his slow torture, rinsing the lather from Castiel’s hair. For once, Castiel let his thoughts drift in the direction they always seemed to want to take. It would at least take care of his arousal.

Are you now or have you ever been—

Mr. Milton, may I remind you that if you continue to refuse to answer, you will be held in contempt of Congress?

“Castiel? Cas!”

Castiel blinked, hard, and straightened up. His face looked pale in the mirror and his hair lay flat against his head, dripping onto his cape. Dean stood behind him, holding a towel and looking concerned. 

“Where’d you go?” Dean asked. “You seemed like you were miles away.”

Castiel shook his head to clear the cobwebs of that room, the panel of stone-faced men in front of him, glaring at him from their dais and convinced of his guilt.

“My apologies,” Castiel muttered. “I was… lost in thought.”

Dean looked as though he wanted to ask more questions, but seemed to think better of it when Castiel brushed a strand of soaking wet hair off his forehead. Within moments, his hair was wrapped up in a warm towel, Dean rubbing the excess water from it with firm, competent touches.

They returned to the barber chair, where Dean tucked a fresh towel into the collar of Castiel’s cape. “I’m only taking off a little bit, like we talked about,” he said as he retrieved a comb and a pair of meticulously clean scissors from a drawer beside the chair. 

Castiel nodded. He braced himself for the sensation of Dean’s fingers in his hair, but even so, the contact — when it came — felt like little sparks of heat against his cooling skin. 

Dean combed thoughtfully through Castiel’s disordered strands, turning them this way and that. “How do you part it?” he asked. 

Castiel shrugged. “However it happens to fall.”

This prompted a chuckle from Dean. The sound warmed him more surely than Amara’s red wine or a sip of the finest whiskey in some Hollywood producer’s office. 

Dean went to work with his scissors, trimming a little on top, a little more along the sides. He shaved the back of Castiel’s neck, where hair was wont to curl and would again within days.

All through the proceedings, Castiel watched him. Dean was a compelling subject for study when he was focused: a small crease appeared between his eyes and his lips pursed as he thought through the implications of each cut. 

Castiel grew so absorbed in watching Dean that he was surprised when Dean put down his scissors and retrieved a small brush, which he used to remove excess hair from Castiel’s neck. 

“There,” Dean said, “all done.” With a flourish and snap, he removed Castiel’s cape and stepped back from the chair. “What do you think?”

Obediently, Castiel took a look at himself in the mirror. He usually disliked going to barber shops because haircuts always left him looking like some other person — more like the good churchgoing boy his parents had wanted him to be and less like the artistically inclined man he liked to think he’d grown into. 

But the man he saw in the mirror now was exactly the version of himself he recognized and (mostly) liked, his recent misfortunes notwithstanding. He looked a little cleaned up, but not substantially different. 

“I love it,” he said sincerely. “Thank you.”

Adorably, endearingly, Dean’s cheeks went a little pink. He cleared his throat and began devoting an undue amount of focus to folding up Castiel’s cape, which would no doubt be thrown in a laundry basket after this anyway. 

Castiel rose from his chair, not without throwing another pleased (and unforgivably vain) look over his shoulder at his own reflection. Dean met him by the cash register that stood on a small counter beside the front door. 

“What do I owe you?” Castiel asked distractedly as he pulled out his wallet, already wondering if there was any possible way to further prolong the interaction. He quite liked the warm, welcoming atmosphere of Dean’s shop, and the feeling of intimacy that came with being alone with Dean in it. 

“Forget about it,” Dean said. “Consider it part of the apology.”

Castiel stared at him, wondering if Dean was joking. But Dean returned his look with frank seriousness. 

“Dean, I can’t accept that.”

Dean scoffed, waving him off. “Yeah, you can. But tell you what: maybe we’ll get lunch again sometime?” 

Pleased at the idea, Castiel found himself smiling. “And you’ll let me pay this time?”

Dean’s eyes sparked with mischief. “We’ll just have to see. How’s Sunday at noon? At Tasha’s?”

The words It’s a date pushed up against the back of Castiel’s teeth. He clenched his jaw against them. 

“I’ll see you then,” he said, and left the shop before he could do something foolish, like ask what Dean meant by smiling so brightly at him and asking for his company when Castiel had given him very little reason to want it. 

Chapter Text

The Sunday lunch crowd at Tasha’s was a raucous one: every table was filled, mostly with churchgoers who had come out in their Sunday best and had left the pews with an appetite for pancakes, scrambled eggs or hash browns. 

“Sorry, guess I wasn’t really thinking about the day of the week,” Dean said, grimacing apologetically at the line that stretched from the hostess stand all the way out the door. They’d joined the line, but were still at least three groups away from even putting in their name for a table. “And I kinda told Rufus I’d be back in an hour. We do pretty brisk business on Sundays too.”

Castiel wrestled with himself: he’d been looking forward to spending this time with Dean, but Dean was a business owner. He could hardly be expected to inconvenience himself to spare Castiel a disappointment. 

“Why don’t we postpone this, then?” he managed to say, with only a little bit of ill grace. “We can have lunch another time.”

Dean looked for a moment as though he’d accept the proposal, but then he shook his head. “Nah. I said I’d treat you to lunch, and I’m damn well going to do it. Come with me.”

A warm hand came to rest on Castiel’s lower back, pushing him out of line and through the diner, all the way to the chrome bar counter. Castiel was so distracted by the gentle weight of Dean’s hand that he almost collided with Tasha’s daughter Alicia, who was passing them with two armfuls of plates piled high with eggs and bacon. 

“Watch it!” she called out even as she sidestepped them with a ballet dancer’s poise, somehow keeping all the plates perfectly balanced. 

“Sorry, Alicia,” Castiel called after her, but received only mutinous muttering in response. 

At the bar, Tasha herself was busy manning the counter, serving coffee to those occupying the long line of upholstered stools. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she said, smiling when she spotted Dean. “What can I do for y’all?”

Dean propped an elbow on the counter and rested his chin on his hand, apparently the better to bat his lashes at Tasha. “You even gotta ask? Pie, of course, and bacon. To go.”

“You might’ve noticed we’re a little busy, Dean,” Tasha said, offering a refill to another customer by holding up the pot and raising a questioning eyebrow. At the customer’s nod, she topped him off. “Gonna be a while.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “What if I told you that Cas here has plans to write up a glowing review of your pies for the Gazette?”

Castiel’s head swiveled from Tasha to Dean so fast that his neck twinged a little. “I what?”

“True story,” Dean said, nodding and ignoring Castiel completely. “So we’re gonna need four slices of your best and a side of bacon. Because we all know that everything tastes better with bacon.”

“You,” Tasha said, pausing just long enough to point a threatening finger at Dean, “are a menace.”

But it was less than five minutes before Dean and Castiel left Tasha’s laden with two paper boxes and a foil-wrapped package from which wafted the mouth-watering scent of perfectly crisped bacon. 

“I can’t believe you committed me to writing a food review,” Castiel told Dean as soon as they’d gotten a few steps’ distance from the place and its beehive buzz of activity. “I’ve never written about food in my life.”

Dean shrugged, unrepentant. “Tasha won’t hold you to it. But hey, there’s a first time for everything, right? And Tasha’s pie is definitely worth waxing poetic about. I don’t know how she gets it to taste so good. It’s basically witchcraft.”

Castiel sighed, pretending to be inconvenienced by Dean and his antics, but in truth, he’d already put some thought into pitching a series of articles about local businesses to Amara. He’d enjoyed writing about Dean’s barber shop, and not merely because of his unfortunate attraction. It had been fun to tease out the stories that came with a small business like this: the origins of the owner, the passion that went into the shop’s operation. 

Why not tackle Tasha’s next? 

He wouldn’t tell Dean, however, or at least not yet. Dean was looking far too pleased with himself already. 

The beach and esplanade seemed an unlikely place to get much peace for their meal, thanks to the gulls circling hungrily overhead, so Dean suggested taking the food to his apartment instead. Castiel accepted the proposal with unbecoming eagerness. The prospect of seeing Dean’s space, of learning just a little more about him, was rather tempting. 

The place was a walkup apartment above the shop, not unlike Castiel’s, but with an exterior entrance at the back of the building. Dean let them in with a latchkey and went to unpack the food while Castiel took a look around the small space. 

Even if he hadn’t known the apartment to be Dean’s, he might have guessed based on its easy, comfortable warmth alone. The furniture wasn’t new, but had been spruced up with colorful throws and pillows. The walls were covered in framed movie posters that showed off an eclectic taste, ranging from classic Westerns like Stagecoach to musicals like Irving Berlin’s Easter Parade. Castiel froze when he spotted a very familiar print: the theatrical poster for The Silent Man, with a writing credit for James Milton all present and correct at the bottom. 

He flinched at the sudden sound of a needle dropping onto vinyl, followed by the introductory bars of a slow, jazzy song that he vaguely recognized as some Nat King Cole tune. 

Dean stood in a corner of the room, by a record player, smiling in lopsided apology. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I like a bit of music with my lunch. Hope that’s alright.”

“Sure,” Castiel said. He became aware that his fingers had been tapping restlessly at his sides and made an effort to still them. “I don’t have a record player at my place. To be honest, I’ve missed listening to music.”

“No record player, huh?” Dean asked, making his way back to the kitchen, where he’d plated the pie and bacon, and carrying their food to the small table that sat in a breakfast nook by the far window. “Don’t think I’d manage that myself.”

“It does leave a lot of silence to fill with unwelcome thoughts,” Castiel said as he went to join Dean at the table. 

Dean twitched a slightly nervous smile at him in response, and it occurred to Castiel that he had unwittingly left an opening for Dean to bring up his recent past again. A part of him almost wanted Dean to do it, so that he could acquit himself a little better than he had the last time. 

“Help yourself,” Dean said instead, pushing an empty plate toward Castiel and handing him a fork. The plate was a cheerful blue, slightly chipped but perfectly serviceable. 

“I can’t believe you’re feeding me a lunch of bacon and pie,” Castiel said, as he helped himself to a little of both. 

“Can’t you?” Dean asked, grinning around the bite in his mouth. “They’re the two most delicious food groups. Don’t know how you could possibly do better.”

Castiel laughed. He couldn’t help it: there was a lightness inside him that pushed at the confines of his chest, making him feel ill-equipped to contain it all. It was nice, comfortable, to sit with Dean in his apartment and share the most childish, indulgent lunch he was sure he’d ever had.

He speared a bite of the pie — caramel custard, he suspected — on his plate and let the salt-tinged sweetness of it overtake his senses. “This,” he said, “makes me very happy. I wouldn’t consider it a food group, but it’s certainly delicious.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s easy, pleased grin was a joy to behold. “You gonna do that writeup after all?”

“I think I’ll have to,” Castiel said, as he speared another bite. Cherry this time. “Anything else would be a crime.”

Dean’s grin faded a little, and the sudden droop in the corners of his mouth conjured up all the ghosts they’d only just managed to banish. Castiel felt the sudden urge to apologize for making things awkward.

“So, um…” Dean pursed his lips, obviously casting around for a change of subject. “You got any siblings?”

“Two brothers,” Castiel acknowledged. It barely even felt like the truth anymore. He hadn’t heard from either Michael or Luke since long before the trial. They hadn’t been family in anything but name for years. “I don’t really speak to them.”

“Damn.” Dean looked genuinely distressed on his behalf, and Castiel wanted to reassure him, to tell him that he had mourned his relationship with his family years ago. He’d found many other things to mourn more deeply since, such as the career he’d always dreamed of. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I can’t imagine never talking to my brother.”

“You have a brother?” Castiel asked, grasping gratefully at the distraction.

Dean nodded. “He actually lives in California too. Goes to Stanford Law. He comes by for the occasional visit.”

They passed the rest of their meal, and post-lunch cigarettes, discussing Dean’s brother and his apparently bright academic and career prospects. Castiel wanted to ask why Dean had no such prospects, why it had fallen to him to carry on the family business, but he didn’t think it was a line of inquiry that Dean would appreciate.

For himself, Castiel couldn’t picture a version of his life where he was so proud and fond of either of his siblings, but he liked seeing it in Dean. It tempted him to consider a life where he could know Dean’s brother too, and be just as fond of him. 

It might even be possible, if they continued being friends. 

Friends. Castiel considered the concept as he watched Dean take a drag of his cigarette, pink lips pursed and cheeks hollowed. Friends. They were unlikely to ever be anything more than that, no matter how Castiel hoped that Dean’s invitation, his smiles and the way their eyes seemed to keep finding each other, carried a deeper meaning within them.

It didn’t seem reasonable to hope. He’d had too much disappointment lately to let himself expect anything but more of the same. 

“I’d better get back to work,” Dean said, much too soon. Castiel would have spent the rest of his day sitting here, in Dean’s space, gathering up little bits of knowledge about him with the assiduousness of a small animal preparing for winter.

“Alright,” Castiel agreed, stubbing out his cigarette in the small porcelain ashtray Dean had set out. He was pleasantly full of salty bacon and sweet pie. “I’ll… see you soon, I suppose.”

His voice curved up at the end, and the casual statement he’d intended became a question. 

Dean seemed to study him for a moment, as if making up his mind to a course of action. Castiel waited, distantly aware that he was holding his breath. 

“I, um.” Dean licked his lips. “I was thinking of going to see Dial M for Murder tonight. At the Grand Cove. You… feel like joining?”

Castiel felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to break into song. He felt like Gene Kelly’s character in Dancin’ in the Rain must have, tap-dancing through puddles with a smile on his face. 

“I’d like that,” he said, and thrilled at the sight of a smile on Dean’s face too.

***

Castiel spent the rest of the afternoon writing up notes and thoughts for the series of articles about local businesses. He would present them to Amara on Monday for her approval. 

The task took much longer than it would have under normal circumstances, because Castiel’s thoughts were in an uproar over the fact that he would see Dean again tonight. Would see him, moreover, in the intimacy of a dark movie theater, their heads tucked together and their arms touching as they speculated on how the movie would end. 

Or perhaps Dean was the sort of purist who insisted on silence during a movie. Either way, Castiel couldn’t wait to find out. 

Friends, he reminded himself, even as he spent far too long attempting to fix his hair in the small, tarnished mirror on his bedside table. Friends, he thought as he changed his mind about whether he should wear a tie, then changed it again. Friends, he repeated as his fingers tapped a restless rhythm all through his walk to the Grand Cove. 

The reminder vanished from his thoughts the moment he caught sight of Dean. He stood on the sidewalk just beside the box office and looked up at the marquee, hands in the pockets of a pair of slacks, sleeves of a black shirt (tieless, like Castiel) rolled halfway up his arms. He was tipping forward and back on his feet, his whole body rocking with it. The fading light of the sun barely touched him, but the marquee bulbs above lit his face as bright as the Christmas trees of Castiel’s childhood. 

Castiel stood for just a moment, reluctant to break the spell. 

“You know, Cas,” Dean said, apparently perfectly aware of Castiel’s presence though Castiel had thought he was being subtle, “you should write about this place too. It’s something special.”

“Is that how it’s going to be?” Castiel asked, approaching Dean at last beneath the marquee. There were other people nearby, lining up at the box office, but they might as well have been seagulls for all the interest they held when there was something as lovely as Dean to look at. “Every time we meet, you pitch me a new story? At this rate, you might as well write them yourself.”

“Nah, I’ll leave that part to you. I’m just the idea man.” He averted his eyes from the marquee to smile at Castiel, and the warmth of that smile almost swept Castiel off his feet. “Hey, Cas,” he added, belatedly. 

“Hello, Dean.” There was fondness in Castiel’s voice. He couldn’t seem to help it. 

They chatted idly as they took their place in the ticket line, Dean telling Castiel about the day’s customers (mostly agreeable, but some impossible to please) and protesting vociferously when Castiel paid for both their tickets on the grounds that Dean had now twice paid for lunch. 

The showing was busy, it being a Sunday night and the movie still a fairly new release, but they found a peaceful spot in the back row — close enough to the center of the theater to see well, but far enough away from others to feel private. 

Dean did turn out to be the sort of person who didn’t like to talk during a movie. He shushed Cas insistently the moment the lights went down and never uttered a single word as the movie’s plot unfolded in front of them: Grace Kelly’s character being attacked by a hired assassin, then unfairly accused of murder herself. The elegant trap laid for the real murderer, sprung just in time to prevent a serious miscarriage of justice. 

The movie was beautifully written and acted, a skillful adaptation of the play on which it was based, but even so, Castiel found his eyes drifting more often than not to Dean: his small smiles when something delighted him, his gasps of surprise, the way his leg jumped whenever he needed an outlet for tension. 

Friends, Castiel reminded himself yet again. 

“So what did you think?” Dean asked him as they strolled down the esplanade after. It was a pleasant night for it, with an early taste of summer warmth on the salty breeze off the water. 

“Not as good as Shadow of a Doubt,” Castiel said, “but very skillfully done.”

“That’s your favorite Hitchcock?” Dean asked, side-stepping a young couple who had paused along the railing to look out at the moonlit waves washing onto the beach below. Then, when Castiel nodded his agreement, “What do you like about it?”

“I suppose I like the elegance of the plot. The way the writing takes it in unexpected directions.”

“Ah.” Dean hung his head, smiling down at his carefully shined shoes. “A writer’s answer.”

“And what’s a barber’s answer then?” Castiel asked, humored.

“Spellbound.” Dean grinned sideways at him, mischief in his eyes. “Because of the giant scissors.”

Castiel laughed, sudden and startled. Something giddy sprang to life inside him, and for the second time in a matter of hours he understood why characters in musicals burst suddenly into song and dance. He knocked his shoulder into Dean, who staggered dramatically, groaning and clutching his arm. 

“Damn, man, what was that for?” But he was grinning still, obviously putting on a show. 

“For being a wise guy,” Castiel informed him. “What’s your real favorite?”

“It probably is Spellbound,” Dean said. His tone had sobered a little, the grin softened into a small smile. “Or maybe Strangers on a Train. But…” He pulled up to a spot at the railing, leaning against it. Castiel stopped beside him. Despite the warmth of the evening, he was tempted to lean just a little closer and make their arms touch. “Well, I’m kinda partial to Rope as well.”

The giddy thing inside Castiel fluttered, eager and hopeful. Rope… a movie about two real-life murderers whose relationship had been rumored to be of a homosexual nature. It was hardly considered among Hitchcock’s best, so for Dean to mention it now, in the dark and the relative privacy of their little spot by the water… it felt significant.

And yet, Castiel didn’t know where to go from here. Was he meant to respond with some code word? Some oblique question that would still somehow clarify matters for them both? 

He did the only thing he could think to do: he turned sideways to look at Dean himself for help. Dean’s eyes were already on him, and Castiel would almost go so far as to call the look in those eyes expectant. Hopeful, like the thing inside himself. 

“Dean,” he said, softly, and hoped it was enough. Enough to make Dean understand that if they were alone, Castiel might dare to lay his palm against Dean’s cheek, just to see how it might fit. 

Dean’s eyes were still locked on his, and Castiel thought he could see the same desire, the same yearning he felt inside, reflected back at him. 

A small group of women passed them by, one of them jostling Castiel’s shoulder, and the moment broke. Castiel blinked, disoriented by the sudden disruption.

“Anyway, uh, I should probably be getting home,” Dean said, nodding over his shoulder at the other side of the street, where Castiel could still make out the barber pole outside Dean’s shop spinning lazily above the door. 

“Oh… yes. Of course.” Castiel’s mind spun like that barber pole, trying to catch and hold on to any way to prolong the evening or at least make plans for another. It had been lovely, sitting with Dean in the darkened theater, sharing the closest thing they might ever have to intimacy. 

Unless… unless that hopeful thing inside Castiel was right. 

Fuck it. 

“Can I see you again?” The question emerged breathless and far too eager. Most likely, he should have said something far more nonchalant, but it was too late now.

Eyes squinted in a vain attempt to shield himself against Dean’s reaction, Castiel glanced up at his face. To his astonishment and delight, he found no awkwardness or discomfort there. In fact, in the warm light cast by a distant shop window, Dean’s cheeks looked a little pink. 

“Um… yeah. Yeah, sure,” Dean said. Only that and nothing more, leaving Castiel once again to flounder for the next step forward. 

“Is next Friday—”

“My friend Charlie’s having a get-together.”

Castiel cut off his tentative question of whether Dean might have plans on Friday night in favor of trying to process what Dean was offering. 

“A… get-together?” he asked, hoping for clarification. A get-together could mean anything, especially when artists were involved: some sort of public gallery event. A raucous party. An intimate circle of friends discussing Nietzsche in the nude. 

“Oh, yeah, not anything big, just… a regular thing to spend time with some friends,” Dean said. “It’s this Friday. You’d be welcome to come if you want.”

Questions still swirled through Castiel’s head: would there be a dress code? Should he bring anything? Was he going as simply one friend among many, or as Dean’s… (he felt giddy at the mere thought) date?

Instead of asking any of those questions, he found himself saying, “Yes. I’d be happy to come.”

Dean exhaled a small laugh, and Castiel had the very peculiar urge to lean close and breathe it into his own lungs. “Great. You’ll have an amazing time, I promise.”

Castiel wished he could say that he was sure to have a good time if Dean was also there. He wished he could lean in to embrace Dean as they finally said their goodbyes. 

Instead, he contented himself with Dean’s smile, flashed over his shoulder as he walked away down the sidewalk. It felt small and private, like a secret shared between lovers, and it stayed on Castiel’s mind the rest of the way home. 

It didn’t occur to him until hours later that he hadn’t thought of his recent misfortunes all night. 

***

The following morning, Castiel appeared in front of Amara’s desk like a supplicant before the throne, pitching his (and, to be quite honest, Dean’s) idea of a series of articles about local businesses.

When he’d finished, Amara nodded thoughtfully. 

“Tasha’s diner is definitely worth an article. The place is an institution. And I’ve been thinking of doing a piece about Rowena’s theater for a while now. Really put some fire under that landlord of hers,” she said darkly, hands curled around her third cup of coffee of the morning. Castiel could only assume that an excessive consumption of caffeine ran in the Novak family. Or perhaps it was a trait specific to writers. 

“Would you rather do it yourself?” Castiel asked, pulling up a chair beside Amara’s desk now that the pitch portion of their impromptu meeting seemed to have concluded. 

Amara shook her head. “I think I’m too close to it.” 

She studied him thoughtfully over the rim of her coffee cup, and Castiel had the distinct sense that he was being measured in some way. 

“Remember what we talked about when you first got here?” Amara said. “You asked what else drew me to this town, aside from the opportunity at the paper.”

Castiel thought he had an idea of where this conversation was going, but he wasn’t interested in leading it. Better to let his aunt get there in her own time. 

Still, he hardly could have expected what his aunt said next. 

“Word is you and Dean were at the theater last night.” Amara smiled enigmatically over the rim of her coffee mug. 

“There’s no privacy in this town, is there?” Castiel asked, both resigned and not entirely sure why his aunt had chosen this moment to raise the subject of Dean. 

“I’m afraid not,” she agreed. “But I suppose I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re making… friends. Rowena has certainly been a great comfort to me these past few years.” A pair of perfectly plucked dark eyebrows rose higher on her forehead, in an obvious invitation for Castiel to join the conversation on some deeper level that was as yet obscure to him. 

When Castiel inclined his head to indicate confusion, she scoffed. 

“Goodness gracious, Castiel, you’re a writer! I would have thought you’d be able to read a bit of subtext.”

Oh. At long last, the picture was beginning to grow clearer. Rowena and Dean, put on the same footing in the conversation, and the word “friend” given peculiar emphasis. 

He glanced over his shoulder and found that both Garth and Donatello were thoroughly occupied — Garth in watering the sad plant that occupied the narrow windowsill beside the newsroom’s front desk and Donatello in pecking irritatedly at his typewriter with clawed fingers. You mean,” he said tentatively, “that you and Rowena…”

“By God, I think he’s got it,” Amara said, but the mockery of it was softened by her smile. “Yes, the possibility of satisfying work was what brought me here. But Rowena made me want to stay.”

“I’m glad,” Castiel said, and meant it. It was a wonderful thing, knowing that he and his aunt shared not just a love for writing but also certain proclivities regarding the people they chose to love. 

“And you?” Amara asked, regarding Castiel with a thoughtful look. “Is there anything — or anyone — who might make you want to stay?”

It was a clear attempt to ask about Dean without saying the words outright. But no matter how clear the question, the answer was far less so. 

Bethany Cove had always been meant as a soft place to land after prison; nothing but a waystation while Castiel found his feet and perhaps built a career as a novelist from the ashes of his work in the movies. 

But then again, there was Dean — Dean, who was beautiful and kind and could make Castiel forget about his troubles for hours on end. Dean, who might be like him. Dean, who had agreed to see him again. 

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted, and though Amara looked disappointed, at least he had told her the truth. 

Chapter Text

By the following morning, Dean’s almost magical ability to keep Castiel’s memories at bay had worn off. He woke bathed in sweat and breathing hard, his mind saturated with vague memories of looming figures on a dais, asking him questions he couldn’t seem to answer. The sound of a cell door rolling shut echoed off the walls of his apartment.

It took until his third cigarette, smoked by the open window while his fingers tapped out a restless rendition of “Easter Parade” on his thigh, for his nerves to settle.  

He’d made an appointment to meet Rowena at the Grand Cove at nine-thirty for a tour and interview. Until then, he struggled half-heartedly with his novel draft, but the empty page mocked him, threatening to call up the same shadows he’d only just banished. 

Giving it up as a lost cause, he went downstairs to chat idly with Donatello and Garth instead. Garth’s wife had made a pound cake that was currently serving as a breakfast substitute, which suited Castiel just fine as he’d forgotten to shop for groceries again. His parents would have said that he needed to get himself a wife. Then again, his parents could go fuck themselves. 

“So, the nosy neighbor,” Donatello said as he brushed the crumbs left over from his slice of pound cake off his sweater vest. “What are we thinking?”

The nosy neighbor in question was that of a local resident who’d written in to Donna’s column asking for advice about the woman next door, who apparently made a habit of peering through the curtains at her. 

“Do something so scandalous that she’ll never want to look at her again,” Garth suggested thickly through a mouthful of pound cake.  

Castiel shook his head. “No, the opposite. Be so incredibly boring that she loses interest.”

“I’m with Garth, for what it’s worth,” Amara called over to them from her desk in the back. “Might as well have a little fun with it.”

“Exactly!” Garth said. He’d finally swallowed his bite, thank God. “That’s all I’m saying. Maybe stage a little satanic ritual, just for funsies.”

“Dress up the vacuum cleaner as a creature from outer space that she’s hiding from the government,” Castiel added, deciding he might as well get into the spirit of things.

“Invite traveling salesmen inside and make them leave through a side door,” Amara said, walking over with her inevitable cup of coffee. “Dig a few holes in the backyard, just to plant the idea that you’re killing and burying your local Fuller Brush Company representatives.”

Donatello scoffed. “This is the last time I’m asking any of you for help. You’re useless to me.”

Suffice it to say, Donatello’s objections didn’t serve to discourage any of them, and by the time Castiel was on his way to the Grand Cove, the good mood that had prevailed after his evening with Dean had returned in full force.

***

“I don’t see any of your movies here,” Castiel pointed out as Rowena led him around the Grand Cove’s foyer, which was decorated with posters of various classic movies that had been shown here at one time or another. 

“Och, well, I don’t like to brag,” Rowena said. “Or rather, I do, but I don’t like to be gauche about it. Did you know I was in the running for an Academy Award the very first year they were held?”

Castiel had in fact known that. He ducked his head to hide a smile. “So why leave it all behind? Why run a movie theater instead?” he asked. 

Rowena’s smile took on a wistful air. She looked just as stunning as she had the first night Castiel had met her at Amara’s house: her rich, red hair was piled atop her head in an elaborate updo that glistened with half a dozen clips and combs. Her petite body was encased in a flattering red dress, cinched at the hips with a black belt. It revealed just enough of her shapely legs that Castiel would have been highly interested in the view if his inclinations ran to women. 

“When I realized there wasn’t room for me in the movies anymore…” Rowena trailed off, coming to a stop opposite a poster for 1927’s The Jazz Singer. The first feature-length “talkie” release, marking the beginning of the end of the silent era. “Well, it didn’t stop me loving them, you see?”

Yes, Castiel very much did see. His mind was still awash with the love of movies — their visual beauty, their music, the way they could hold you spellbound for the span of an hour or two — and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the heartbreak of being unable to keep writing for them. 

“Aye,” Rowena said quietly, watching him. “I think perhaps you’d understand better than most others.” She reached out, her hand landing warmly on Castiel’s shoulder. “But I think that if my life should teach you anything, it’s that you will find your second act, Castiel. Your dream doesn’t end because others said it should.”

To his embarrassment, Castiel suddenly found heat prickling at the backs of his eyes. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed to hear something just like this. The hearings, the trial, the prison sentence, being blacklisted by the studios… it had all taken so much from him. But there were some things they wouldn’t be able to take, and those were the things he’d have to find and hold onto, just as Rowena had. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, not trusting himself to speak too loudly, in case his voice should break. “You’re very kind.”

Rowena smiled impishly at him. “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,” she said. The Southern accent she’d put on was the most awful Castiel had ever heard, but he would rather have severed a limb than admit as much. 

He returned her smile. “A Streetcar Named Desire,” he said. “One of my favorites.”

It was even true, and for more reasons than the appealing sight of Marlon Brando in thin, sweat-soaked shirts. 

“Mine too,” Rowena said conspiratorially, and Castiel was suddenly, fiercely glad that Amara had found this woman to share her life with. That they had found each other. 

Belatedly, he remembered that the life those two were sharing was facing upheaval, and that, in writing an article about the theater, it might be within his power to do something about that.

He’d never thought of his new profession that way before, but it struck him now like the sound of a morning church bell. Being a journalist was more than digging into mud and exposing other people’s private details to scrutiny. It was more, even, than telling stories. For someone like Rowena, who was facing an uncertain future and needed support against a powerful opponent, having her story told might make all the difference.

“So tell me,” he said, “about this trouble with your landlord.”

***

All through the rest of the week, Castiel made very little progress on his novel draft, but he did finish a draft of his article about the Grand Cove. He was proud of how it had turned out, and even Donatello’s input, when Castiel gave him the draft to read, was merciful. 

When he at last handed the piece to Amara, he was surprised to see her wipe at a surreptitious tear in the corner of her eye. He’d never considered her a particularly emotional woman before. If anything, her pragmatic determination to make a new career for herself by setting up as the owner of a small-town newspaper spoke of a temperament that wasn’t easily thrown off course.

“You have something very special here, Castiel,” she said, her voice a little less firm than usual. “Rowena will be glad she trusted you with her story.”

Castiel couldn’t help flushing a little at the praise. He wasn’t used to it — in the movie business, he’d been more likely to receive faint approval followed by ten pages of excruciatingly detailed notes. 

“And the landlord?” he asked. 

Amara’s slightly watery smile gained a sharper edge. “He won’t know what hit him.”

***

Preoccupied as he had been with writing and editing the article about the Grand Cove, Castiel had barely noticed the approach of Friday night, and with it, Charlie’s ambiguous “get-together.” 

This meant that when Friday morning dawned, Castiel still had very little idea of what he was meant to wear, bring, or generally expect of the proceedings. After he’d submitted his final draft of the Grand Cove story, along with a few other incidentals that Amara had assigned to him throughout the week, he spent much of the rest of the day contemplating his closet in despair. Most of his clothes had been sold to pay his fine, and all he’d come to Bethany Cove with were two cheap suits, three ties and a small handful of shirts. 

In the end, he did the best he could with what he had in hand: he put on the less worn-down pair of pants he owned, paired it with a white button-down and skipped a tie, since Dean had done so the last time they’d met up. On his way to Charlie’s, he stopped by a corner store to pick a random bottle of wine off the shelf. 

It would have to do. 

Charlie lived close to the edge of the water — that much, Castiel had been able to ascertain by looking up the address Dean had given him on the town map that hung in the newspaper office. Though the place wasn’t far from the esplanade, it gained a degree of removal from the bustle of town by virtue of a cliff that jutted out onto the beach and cut off the view of Charlie’s home.

As a result, the place felt private, hidden away, a fact that only further contributed to Castiel’s nerves as he approached it along the beach. He didn’t especially expect Dean’s friends to be axe murderers, but going into a social occasion unprepared held a similar level of terror for him. 

What if everyone there was aware of his background? What if Dean had told them?

Even as the thought occurred to Castiel, he chided himself for it. Dean already knew how Castiel felt about people knowing his business; he would never. 

When Castiel rounded the cliff that cut off the view of Charlie’s house, the sun hung low in the sky, more than half swallowed up by the distant horizon already. Pink and orange streaked the sky overhead, and shadows had gathered near the ground, conferring in corners beside the cliff. 

Charlie’s cottage, when it came into view, was lovely: small, but well kept and painted a cheerful sun yellow. Far more alarming were the massive sculptures that stood sentry around it: a good dozen or more of them, all made of different types of metal and piping, twisted into bizarre shapes that put Castiel in mind of the pictures he’d seen of computing machines or phone exchanges. 

He came to a stop beside a particularly striking sculpture that stood taller than he was himself, its metal surface etched with line after line of zeroes and ones, when the sound of a familiar voice reached him from somewhere off to his right.

“I promise he’s alright, Charlie,” Dean said. “He won’t cause any trouble.”

“Dean.” The voice was a woman’s, fond but exasperated. “I’m always happy to make new friends, but you can’t just invite people over unless you’re sure.”

Castiel froze, holding his breath. He couldn’t be certain the conversation was about him, but how many “new friends” could Dean possibly have invited to tonight’s gathering? Especially if Charlie was apparently selective about the people she allowed into her home. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken Dean up on his invitation at all. He was still ultimately a stranger in this town. Between the two of them, Dean and Amara had made him feel welcome, and Rowena too, but he’d spent much of his life feeling out of place. There was no reason to think that would suddenly, magically change just because he’d moved. 

Of course, he could insert himself into the conversation, ask about Charlie’s concerns and find a way to alleviate them. But that would mean revealing that he’d been listening, which he certainly wasn’t prepared to do. 

That left him only one option: to double back the way he’d come. As he turned, the bottle of wine he was carrying bumped up against the metal of the sculpture. The sound of impact was deep as a gong, and startlingly loud in the peaceful quiet of the beach. 

Castiel hissed through his teeth. So much for making a subtle retreat.

Dean and Charlie’s voices fell silent. Castiel felt flustered heat creep up his neck and face. He ducked his head low, hurrying away down the beach and clutching his cheap bottle of wine like the last resort of a drowning man. 

“Cas? Cas!” 

It was Dean’s voice, unmistakable, and Castiel came to a stop. It would be foolish to keep walking away when Dean had so clearly spotted him. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself — and hoping against hope that he didn’t look too flushed — Castiel turned to face him. 

Dean was loping down the sand towards him with an easy, rolling gait and a welcoming smile, as though there hadn’t been any kind of disagreement about Castiel’s presence at all. 

“I’m glad you came,” Dean said, his smile edged golden by the last few rays of the vanishing sun. He was wearing linen pants and a blue shirt patterned with red hibiscus. The light fabric billowed gently in the breeze off the water. His feet were bare. “But you really didn’t need to bring anything. You’re here as my guest. And besides, Charlie’s got more booze than you can shake a stick at.”

“Oh.” Castiel blinked down at the bottle in his hands, feeling more foolish than ever. “I suppose I… didn’t feel right, going to a stranger’s house without something to offer.”

“You’re offering yourself.” 

When his words caught up to him, Dean ducked his head into a small chuckle. 

“That didn’t come out right, but you know what I mean. It’s enough that you came.”

Castiel managed a half-hearted smile. It sounded so easy when Dean said it, with his happy-go-lucky attitude that made him popular wherever he might go. 

Even as the thought occurred to him, Castiel knew it wasn’t fair. Dean had left his hometown, his family’s business, because his opinions had been decidedly unpopular. But people all over this town seemed to love Dean and accept him easily, and Castiel didn’t know how to bridge the gap between someone like Dean, who loved and was loved easily, and someone like himself, who was all bad memories and awkwardness. 

He couldn’t help asking: “What about Charlie?”

“Ah.” Dean toed at a small pile of sand, and Castiel’s eyes were drawn once again to the bare skin of his feet. It was a strangely intimate sight: the pale surface of Dean’s toes, dusted finely with hair. “You heard us talking.”

“I didn’t mean to, but… yes.”

“It’s not anything personal,” Dean said, an urgency to his voice, as though this was a point he felt strongly about getting across. “Charlie’s just… careful. And for good reason.”

Castiel wanted to push, to put on his reporter’s hat and get to the bottom of the story, but he sensed that Dean would have an easier time opening up about whatever this was if Castiel let him get there in his own time. 

With a sigh, Dean dropped down onto the sand. From the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, he withdrew a pack of cigarettes, which he held up towards Castiel in offering. 

Castiel nodded his thanks and accepted a smoke before taking a seat as well. From his pants pocket, Dean produced a lighter, which he held to the tip of Castiel’s cigarette, cupping both hands around the flame to shield it from the breeze. 

Hollowing his cheeks, Castiel inhaled until the tip began to smolder. 

For a little while, they sat in silence, both staring out at the water. Castiel’s bottle of wine lay forgotten in the sand beside him. The occasional shriek of a gull cut through the gentle rush of the surf crashing up against the shore.

“The reason I invited you to Charlie’s,” Dean began. “Or, well, one of the reasons…” He took another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke drift out of his mouth on a slow exhale. His thumb rubbed restlessly over the filter end of his smoke. “Look, just don’t lose your head when I tell you this, alright?” 

“I can’t possibly promise that until you tell me what’s going on,” Castiel said, fighting to control the apprehension that had been on a low simmer ever since he’d overheard Dean and Charlie’s conversation. 

“Fair.” Dean took another drag of his cigarette. For lack of anything better to do while he waited, Castiel did the same. “The reason I invited you was because I kinda got the sense that you were queer.”

Castiel lost control of the smoke he’d just breathed in, sputtering out a cough. “What?” he rasped, when he’d gotten his breath back, helped along by a few smacks on his back administered by Dean’s palm. 

“Sorry.” Dean grimaced. “Shouldn’t have sprung that on you. I, um… am I wrong, though?”

All his life, Castiel had never once answered a direct question about his sexuality truthfully, even in a setting where it might have been safe to do so. He’d learned early on that true safety lay only in being discreet; in having what he wanted sporadically and in dark corners. But Dean was looking at him with such open vulnerability that Castiel couldn’t help trusting him with the truth. Or perhaps he was simply tired of being shoved into the dark while others got to sing their love on rain-soaked sidewalks. 

“You’re not wrong,” he said. 

He was instantly repaid for his honesty. A smile dawned on Dean’s face, so bright as to be plainly visible even in the failing after-dusk light. Dean leaned closer, his cigarette held loosely in one hand, burned down almost to the filter. 

“Me too,” he said, just loud enough to hear over the crashing of the surf. 

Castiel had been almost certain of it already, but a small sliver of doubt had remained. To find it removed now was… freeing. It seemed to open up a world of possibilities before him, up to and including the idea that he could reach for Dean, here and now. Could pull him in by the back of the neck and kiss him gently. 

He shivered at the thought. 

Dean took a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the sand. Castiel mirrored him. 

“That’s what this is,” Dean said, with a sideways nod back at Charlie’s house. “Charlie’s get-together, I mean. A chance for people like us to spend time with each other. We don’t exactly have a lot of gay bars in small-town California. And our families… well, you know.”

Yes, Castiel certainly did know. He’d been cut off from contact with his family on the mere suspicion that he might be somehow bent out of the shape they’d expected their sons to be. He probably could’ve expected worse treatment if he’d actually confirmed their suspicions for them. 

“Sam knows, but my dad…” Dean laughed under his breath, a sad and hollow thing. “He would’ve killed me if he ever found out.”

“Mine too,” Castiel said simply. It was a fact that had once bothered him, but he’d long ago made his peace with it. These days, the ghosts that haunted him wore different faces. 

Are you now or have you ever been…?

“I only went to a couple of meetings.” Castiel hadn’t meant to say it, but he found he didn’t regret the admission now that it was out in the world. Dean had given him his trust; he deserved the same in return. “Party meetings, I mean. I was never a card-carrying member or anything.”

Dean watched him attentively, even as he produced his pack of cigarettes again, once more holding it out to Castiel. He’d obviously sensed this conversation might not be a short one. Still, Castiel declined. If he lit another smoke now, it would be a distraction, maybe even an excuse to change the subject, and he didn’t know if he’d have the courage to bring it up again after this. 

“But I did sign my name to some attendance sheets, which was in hindsight a stupid fucking thing to do.” Castiel drew his legs up towards himself, wrapping his arms around them as if to shield his soft core against this conversation. “Someone accused me; I still don’t know who. I was just starting to be a name in the business, thanks to my Academy Award nomination, so maybe it was professional jealousy. Either way, I was issued a congressional subpoena. My lawyer advised me not to answer questions.”

“And you didn’t,” Dean said, tentative, as though unsure of whether he was welcome to contribute to the conversation.

“No,” Castiel agreed. “I didn’t, so I was held in contempt of Congress. The contempt citation included a criminal charge. And… well, you know the rest.”

The trial, wherein he’d been found guilty at record speed. The statement from the major studios, adding him to a blacklist of writers with Communist sympathies who were not to be employed in Hollywood. The verdict, which had required him to pay $50,000 and spend one year in jail. 

“Just imagine,” Dean said, “what they would’ve done if they’d known you were a fairy too.”

The shy, crooked smile on Dean’s face was undercut with an air of apprehension in the way he held himself: not sure if he’d gone too far. 

Much to his own astonishment, Castiel managed to summon a smile. “There’s that silver lining I’ve been looking for.”

“And hey…” Dean grinned wider, gaining confidence. “At least you didn’t get drafted, right? Lucky bastard.”

“You did?” Castiel asked, grateful for the chance to take the focus off himself. 

Dean nodded, cheeks hollowed for another drag from his cigarette. “Served a tour in Yongsan,” he said, exhaling his lungful of smoke. “I obviously came out of it alright, but it wasn’t my scene, to put it mildly. I’m just some guy who cuts hair, you know?”

Castiel smiled timidly, uncertain of his ground in this conversation. “I suppose holding a pair of scissors and holding a gun are two very different propositions.”

“You can say that again.” Dean exhaled a weary laugh through his nose. It was becoming harder to make out the details of his expression in the fading light, but Castiel could see enough to tell that Dean had gone someplace far away in his mind. “The devil of it is, I was good at it. My dad taught me to shoot in our backyard when I was barely old enough to go to school. So yeah… one of the best marksmen in my company.”

Even Castiel, awful though he might be at reading people sometimes, could tell that this was not an accomplishment Dean was proud of. Like Castiel, Dean had had his life disrupted. He’d come back to it, but had obviously been changed by the experience. Castiel wondered if it would be the same for him, assuming any studio would ever be willing to work with him again. Or assuming his career as a novelist ever went anywhere, which was beginning to seem increasingly unlikely.

“I’m glad you made it back,” Castiel said, because it was the only thing he could think to say that didn’t feel hollow or woefully insufficient. 

It must have been the right thing, because Dean glanced at him over his shoulder, and he no longer had that faraway look about him. “Me too,” he said. 

They let the sentiment settle between them until Dean stubbed out his second cigarette and scrambled up onto his feet with a grunt. “That’s enough mushy stuff for one night,” he said, brushing sand off his pants. “What do you say we go join the party?”

He extended a hand down to Castiel, and Castiel grasped it, letting himself be pulled up. The sandy ground was a little uneven and his feet landed badly on it, upsetting his balance. He staggered forward to right himself.

“Woah. Hey, there,” Dean said softly, holding on to Castiel’s arms to steady him. 

They were suddenly close; so close that, even in the vanishing light, Castiel could make out the gentle spray of freckles across Dean’s nose. Dean blinked, and Castiel realized his eyelids were freckled too. 

A fizz came to life beneath Castiel’s skin; that giddy, restless anticipation of something in the air. 

“What if I said—” Dean’s voice was rough and low, smooth as good whiskey. “—that I wanted to kiss you?”

Castiel exhaled shakily. “I suppose that would reassure Charlie as to my… credentials.”

“Right.” Dean flashed a smile, slow but delighted. “So this is a good idea in all kinds of ways.”

“Definitely,” Castiel agreed, barely aware of what he was saying, because Dean was leaning closer still, his head tipped to the side. 

Dean’s lips touched Castiel’s, the sensation as sweet and delightful as tasting a piece of fruit and finding it perfectly ripe. 

Their mouths opened easily to each other, and Castiel wondered if he’d ever been kissed like this: as though there was nothing in this world that could possibly matter more. 

Two palms still curved warmly around his arms, keeping him anchored in place. The position made it easy to settle his own hands on the strong, solid dip of Dean’s waist. A low simmer of heat came to life in Castiel’s gut as he tasted the remnants of cigarette smoke on Dean’s tongue. 

“Wow,” Dean said, when they reluctantly paused for breath. “That was… yeah.”

“Yeah,” Castiel agreed. He felt the slow slide of Dean’s hands down his arms, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Dean’s fingertips slipped along Castiel’s palms. He took both of Castiel’s hands, holding them still.

“Kinda been wanting to kiss you ever since you first walked into my shop,” Dean whispered into the small, dark space between them. 

Castiel thought of that first glimpse of Dean behind his desk, the way the unexpected brightness of Dean’s presence had made him hope for things he’d learned not to let himself hope for. 

“Me too,” he admitted, a little breathless with the thrill of showing his hand like this.

“Thing is,” Dean said, “if we keep going with this, we’ll never make it to the party.”

Castiel wanted to tell him that it was no great loss, that he’d happily spend the rest of the night right here with Dean, breathing in their closeness and the salt air. But Charlie was Dean’s friend, and Dean had invited him here to meet her. There was a certain closeness in that too, and Castiel found he craved all the ways it was possible to be close to Dean.

“Let’s go then,” he said.

He stepped away to pick up his bottle of wine. As he set off walking back the way they’d come, Dean fell into step beside him and took his hand again, surprising Castiel so much that he almost flinched away. 

There was no one else here, and yet this, walking along with his hand in another man’s, held an illicit thrill he’d never even thought to experience. 

As they approached Charlie’s house, the sound of a vaguely familiar jazz tune drifted towards them. The sand beneath their feet was cut through with rectangles of light cast by Charlie’s windows. A few people, unfamiliar at first glance, had gathered just outside the door, smoking and laughing. Dean called out greetings as he and Castiel passed.

He never let go of Castiel’s hand. 

He was still holding it when they stepped over the threshold and into a warm, cozy living room. The walls were painted in tones of red and orange, the floor littered with colorful throw pillows. Smaller sculptures, but all clearly the same style as the ones outdoors, occupied every available surface. 

Dean made a beeline for a red-haired woman who, like him, was dressed in linen pants and a Hawaiian shirt. Castiel wondered if there might be some sort of theme he hadn’t been told about, but looking around, they seemed to be the only ones who’d coordinated their outfits like this. 

“Charlie!” Dean called, and Castiel rather enjoyed the smug uptilt of his lips as he raised their joined hands for inspection. “Look who’s here.”

If Castiel had felt any residual apprehension about meeting Charlie, it faded when she positively beamed at the two of them. “Oh, hell yeah.” She pulled Castiel into a one-armed hug, enveloping him in a faintly metallic scent that mingled with a subtly floral perfume. “You know, I gave Dean a hard time for bringing someone new, but I guess I shouldn’t have worried. He’s always had a sense about people.”

Castiel wondered if he should acknowledge that he’d overheard Charlie express those concerns, but Charlie had already moved on, beckoning over her shoulder to a brunette in high-waisted pants and a silk blouse. She held a cigarette holder in one hand, and Castiel caught himself wondering when he’d last seen one. It must have been during the Hoover administration.

“Dotty, come meet Cas!” Charlie called, before adding to Castiel, “It’s alright if we call you Cas, isn’t it? Dean’s talked so much about you, we all feel like we know you already.”

“She’s exaggerating,” Dean said. Castiel noted with interest that his cheeks had gone a little pink. 

He shook the hand of the woman Charlie introduced as her girlfriend, Dorothy Baum, and conceded, “Cas is fine.” Even though he had only just stepped into Dean and Charlie’s circle for the first time, he found himself wanting to be close to them, to fit in. 

He’d once met another screenwriter at a gay bar in LA, and the two of them had gotten to talking — first about the business, then about being homosexual. Castiel had nodded along as the other man had waxed poetic about the feeling of “finding community,” but it hadn’t truly made sense to him. He’d always experienced his sexuality as a series of furtive encounters and the awkward, fearful conversations leading up to them. 

Tonight, for the first time, he thought he might have an inkling of what his acquaintance had meant. As he let Charlie mix him a Tom Collins, he took a few moments to study the scene that surrounded him. It was an intimate one — no more than fifteen people or so. Some of them sat around chatting, while a few swayed along to the jazzy tune on the record player. It looked for all intents and purposes like any party he’d ever been to in Hollywood, except for the small differences: one man’s hand lingering a while on another man’s lower back. A woman stroking another woman’s hair as she whispered in her ear. 

Most of the people here were unfamiliar to him, and Castiel suspected that some of them had come from surrounding towns, but he did recognize Max Banes from Tasha’s diner and, to his not insignificant shock, Benny the fisherman. 

“First time here can get a little overwhelming,” Dean said, bending close to Castiel to be heard over the music. His breath drifted warmly over the shell of Castiel’s ear, making him shiver despite the close air of the room. “Let me know if it gets too much. We can leave anytime you want.”

“Or you could come to the backroom with me,” Dorothy said, elbowing Castiel none too gently. He just barely resisted the urge to check the spot for bruising. “I usually get a poker game going after a while.”

“Don’t do it,” Dean told him. “She’ll take your last red cent if you let her. And I say that as somebody who plays a mean hand of poker.”

“Lies and slander.” Dorothy exhaled a bit of smoke around a grin. “Besides, I’d take it easy on a newcomer.”

Castiel doubted that was true, but was saved from replying by the arrival of his cocktail. It was perfect: just the right fizz of lemon and sugar to cut through the herbal bitterness of the gin. 

For a while, Castiel simply let the party unfold around him. He sipped his drink, watching as Dean flitted from group to group like a social butterfly, occasionally pulling Castiel in to make introductions. Names drifted past him alongside a bewildering parade of faces: Jesse, Cesar, Claire, Kaia, Lily, Naoki. Castiel knew he wouldn’t be able to retain them all, but he found himself hoping he’d get another chance to try. 

“You want to dance?” Dean asked him after perhaps an hour had passed, nodding at the small group of dancers in the corner by the record player. 

The tune was a slower one, and several people had paired off into couples, swaying slowly in a ballroom hold. 

In truth, Castiel desperately wanted to know what it might feel like, to be held by another man — to be held by Dean — like this as they moved in time to the music. He’d never even thought to envision it as a possibility before, and now that he had, the mere idea was terrifying. Like asking for a little extra money and being handed the Hope Diamond. 

“Oh, I… I don’t dance,” he said. 

“Oh really,” Dean said. He dropped into a sideways lean against the nearest wall, arms crossed and bottom lip tucked mischievously between his teeth. “I don’t believe a word of that. I’ve seen you tapping out entire musical numbers when you think nobody’s looking.”

Under normal circumstances, Castiel would have bristled at being perceived in ways he didn’t want to be, but Dean appeared to be playing by an entirely different set of rules than the rest of humanity. Castiel wanted him to know every last detail, to let himself be stripped bare and held up for inspection. 

Yet he also wanted to be a challenge; someone for Dean to tilt at and banter with in the way that always seemed to put a light in his eyes. 

“Enjoying music and having an affinity for dancing are hardly the same thing, Dean,” Castiel said therefore, mirroring Dean’s position against the wall. 

“Hmm.” Dean released his bottom lip from between his teeth. It looked slightly red and a little wet where he’d bitten it. Castiel found his eyes riveted on it. “Guess you’ll just have to watch then.”

Dean pushed off the wall and made his way over to where Benny and one of the other men — Cesar? — were deep in conversation. He touched Benny’s shoulder and started speaking to him. At this distance, Castiel couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to: Benny nodded, looking delighted, and followed Dean to the corner by the record player. 

They turned toward each other and clasped hands. Dean rested his other hand lightly on Benny’s shoulder. Benny completed the ballroom hold with a touch on Dean’s lower back. From across the room, Dean’s eyes found Castiel’s. He winked.

The whole thing was just another challenge; a show put on for Castiel’s benefit. He knew that, but at the same time, he couldn’t help the way it once again made him think of Dean as something beyond his reach.

Dean was a beacon of light in a world that was too often dark and ugly. He might enjoy spending time with Castiel now, but how long would that last? Castiel was a man without real prospects. His career had been destroyed. He’d been to prison. What did he truly have to offer? Someone like him was bound to dim Dean’s light over time, and was that really something he wanted to be responsible for?

The taste of his Tom Collins had gone sour in his mouth. He set it down and made for the exit. Someone called out to him — Charlie, perhaps? — but he pretended not to hear. 

He staggered across the sand, clumsy in his haste to get away. Maybe he could stay in town a few more weeks; just long enough to save up some money and get his feet back under him. Then he’d find another solution. Someplace far from Dean, where he wouldn’t have to be taunted by the possibilities of what could have been. 

The light and noise of Charlie’s house receded, her sculptures looming up like dark sentries on either side. It was becoming harder to navigate the uneven, sandy ground with so little light to see by, but Castiel was nothing if not stubborn. He fixed his eyes on the cliff up ahead that shielded Charlie’s house from the view of the town and directed his steps toward it. 

“Cas!” 

This time, it was more difficult to pretend he hadn’t heard. There was very little background noise out here to drown out the sound of Dean’s voice. 

Castiel had really hoped to get away and give himself some time and distance, but it seemed childish to keep running from Dean. He slowed his ungainly progress across the sand and came to a stop in the shadow of the cliff, waiting for Dean to catch up.

“Where are you going?” Dean asked, a little out of breath as he stumbled his way up to Cas’ side. 

“Home,” Castiel muttered. He sounded like a petulant child and hated it. “I… wasn’t feeling well.”

“Bullshit.” 

It wasn’t said unkindly, but Castiel bristled anyway. “What do you mean, bullshit? I could be at death’s door, for all you know.”

“Nah,” Dean said, with all the confidence in the world. Even in the darkness, Castiel could see the bright shape of his grin. “You were jealous.”

“I was not jealous.” He was lying through his teeth, of course, but to be fair, jealousy hadn’t been the root of the issue. “I just… don’t understand why you’re giving me the time of day in the first place. I’m a sad, lonely man with a broken career whose own family doesn’t even want him, except for one eccentric aunt. I’m not charming and beautiful like you are.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last bit, but it had been beyond his control to hold back when Dean looked like some otherworldly apparition in the night: tall and slender, the angles of him silvered by the moonlight above them. 

Dean stepped closer, and Castiel’s senses filled with the scent of tobacco, sandalwood and warm skin. 

“The very first time I saw you,” Dean said, his voice low and just for the two of them, “I thought you were the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on. So don’t tell me that I shouldn’t be giving you the time of day because I’ve already decided to do it. I decided long ago. Just had to figure out if you were game, that’s all.”

Dean’s hand found Castiel’s face in the dark. Castiel found his cheek cupped gently in a solid palm that drew him closer, closer, and he was helpless to resist. 

“And about the other thing… Benny’s a good friend,” Dean said. He was whispering now, like an incantation added to the spell the night was weaving around them. “He’s no danger to you, I promise you that.”

“Are you…” Where Dean’s voice was an elegant, mysterious whisper, Castiel’s was a croak. He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you want this? Me?”

“I haven’t been sure of a lot of things in my life,” Dean said. “Hell, I still wonder all the time if I did right by leaving the business I inherited from my dad. But I don’t have a single shred of doubt that I wanna see where this thing between the two of us can go.”

Castiel sighed. He felt like some swooning heroine of the silver screen, helplessly drawn to the warmth of Dean’s touch against his cheek. “I’m so glad,” he said. 

The words felt hopelessly insufficient to convey the extent of his feelings, but perhaps it didn’t matter. Dean stepped closer still and drew Castiel into a searing kiss. 

Castiel opened to him, easily and instinctively. He let himself be moved by the gentle force of Dean’s body as he walked backward, up against the cliff face. A small protrusion in the rock dug into Castiel’s shoulder, but he shifted and the discomfort was gone, leaving only the overwhelming heat of Dean’s proximity. 

Dean’s hips shifted against him, pressing them together. Arousal stabbed sharply through Castiel’s gut. He parted his legs, making room for Dean between them. 

“What do you want?” Dean whispered, the words a hot gush of breath against the side of Castiel’s neck. 

“Anything,” Castiel said, without thinking. It was the unvarnished truth: whatever Dean wanted to do to him, he would let it happen. 

He felt the shape of Dean’s smile against his skin. “Our options are kinda limited out here. You wanna try to head back to town?”

Castiel thought this over as best he could with all his blood rushing south of his head as Dean pushed one of his thighs between his legs. He could think of nothing better than to rut his growing bulge against that thick, solid surface. The idea of making the walk back in his current state held no appeal whatsoever. 

“No,” he said. “Here. Now.”

Dean exhaled shakily. “Jesus. Yeah. Okay.”

He started rolling his hips again, shoving the hard heat of his cock against Castiel’s thigh in a maddening rhythm. Castiel responded in kind, pushing himself up against Dean’s leg. The friction was minimal through four layers of clothing, but he couldn’t seem to stop searching for it, all his perception narrowed down to the heat of arousal beneath his skin. 

Dean kept saying his name, over and over, until Castiel was dizzy with it. It seemed incredible, surreal, that just a few short minutes had made the difference between running from Dean and being here in his arms, chasing their release together. 

Every thrust of Dean’s hips pushed him up against the unforgiving rock face. The skin on his back might be sore and abraded tomorrow, but he had no room for such concerns now. All that mattered was the heat between them, the sound of his name on Dean’s lips, the way Dean’s fingers tugged frantically at Castiel’s belt. 

It was taking far too long. Impatient, Castiel pushed Dean’s fingers aside to undo the buckle himself and unbutton his slacks. He pulled out his cock, hot in his hand and throbbing in time with his frantic heartbeat. 

“God, you’re pretty,” Dean said, overwhelmed and rough-voiced. Castiel kissed him again. He felt Dean shift and squirm against him even as they kissed messily, trying to undo his own belt. Dean must have succeeded, because Castiel’s knees almost buckled when he felt the hot velvet of another cock press up alongside his.

Dean gathered them both in his fist.

Dean’s cock was wet with precome, and it took only a few strokes for the too-dry sensation of Dean’s palm to grow slick. He stripped them both mercilessly until Castiel’s head spun with it.

Castiel had stopped kissing Dean without quite realizing it, too out of breath to make the effort. They were open-mouthed, panting, heat radiating from the place where they slid up against each other, over and over again. 

Dean seemed to be getting close: he was making small, desperate noises, his breath choppy and ragged. All at once, he went still. A surge of heat erupted between them, coating Castiel’s skin. Dean gasped for breath as he rode out his climax.

Castiel let him recover, wrapping his own hand around himself. His eyes fluttered closed as he pictured the two of them in a different setting: himself flat on a mattress, legs spread wantonly while Dean thrust into him, filling him up. 

He came, biting his lips too late to stifle a sound of agonized fulfillment. Dean collapsed against him, still breathing hard. 

Tentatively, Castiel wrapped his clean hand around the back of Dean’s neck and held him there, breathing hotly against Castiel’s throat. 

The entire encounter had been fast, hot and frantic, not unlike his previous experiences in filthy alleys behind bars or hastily rented hotel rooms. And yet, it felt vastly different. He could hear the screech of gulls overhead, the soft whoosh and pull of the tide coming in. He felt the gentle brush of a kiss against the line of his jaw, and an impossible tenderness rose up inside him. 

He still couldn’t help wondering why a man as utterly handsome and delightful as Dean would possibly want him. But having had a taste of him, he couldn't find it in himself to let him go. 

Chapter Text

Community Gem Under Threat

Grand Cove Theater Faces Landlord Pressure

By Castiel Novak

For anyone strolling along the esplanade, the Grand Cove is a familiar beacon: its marquee up in lights, its tidy box office beckoning passersby to spend a half dollar and stay a while. 

Once you step inside, the magic of the movies lives in every corner: the framed posters of grand entertainments gone by, the gilded fixtures, the art deco finishes. The red velvet of the curtains that pull aside to let you know you’re about to be transported to a land of magic and mystery. 

Overseeing all that magic is Rowena MacLeod, better known to many as Ruth Benedict, glamorous star of silent movie gems such as Girls, Girls, Girls and The Things We Left Behind. 

Why abandon the glitz and glam of Hollywood, then, for the far less glamorous stage of a small-town movie palace?

“When I realized there wasn’t room for me in the movies anymore, it didn’t stop me loving them,” said MacLeod, whose Scottish accent proved a liability once “talkies” began to rule the roost in Hollywood. 

The Grand Cove became a way for MacLeod to perpetuate her love of movies and share it with a new audience: her friends and neighbors. Over time, necessity became vocation, and MacLeod now treasures her role in the community. 

“There’s nothing quite like watching the wonder on a grown person’s face when the magic of a movie sweeps them up,” she said. 

However, the magic of the movies is under threat in our little town. MacLeod does not own the building that houses the Grand Cove, and her landlord, Dick Roman of Sacramento-based Roman Enterprises, has made increasingly extortionate rent demands that are beginning to drain MacLeod’s funds.

“I’ve offered repeatedly to buy the building from him, but he outright refuses to let me,” MacLeod said. “I can only assume the motive is greed. He means to bleed me dry, then sell the property to the next poor sucker who comes along.”

Roman is hardly in need of additional funds. This reporter’s review of Roman Enterprises’ earnings statements shows a tidy profit made every year over the past decade. 

(continued on p. 5)

***

When Castiel walked into Tasha’s diner the morning after his article on the Grand Cove had been published, Tasha called him over to the counter. 

“Breakfast is on the house today,” she told him, patting one of the counter stools encouragingly. “Come sit with me and chat a while.”

“What’s the occasion?” Castiel asked, even as he obediently took a seat. Tasha was friendly as a general rule, but gave off the distinct air of a woman not to be crossed. He thought he could be forgiven for a little bit of apprehension.

Tasha smiled as she made her way back behind the counter to grab the coffee pot and a mug. She set the latter down in front of Castiel and filled it for him. “Read your article about Rowena’s place,” she said. “You did good. I’ve heard people buzzing about it all morning.”

“Really?” Castiel couldn’t quite help the pleased smile spreading across his face. He had hoped the piece would resonate with people, but hoping and knowing were two very different things. He found himself looking around the diner, glancing at people’s faces and trying to catch snippets of conversation. A few caught him looking and gave a nod in response. Castiel returned each nod. He didn’t even mind that being greeted likely meant people recognized him. 

It felt nice, being known for something good again.

“Really,” Tasha agreed, depositing a plate of his usual breakfast omelette in front of him. Castiel couldn’t help wondering if she’d had it prepared for him in advance, knowing he often came in around this time and always ordered the same. 

There was something nice about that, too.

“I actually did mean to talk to you,” Castiel said the next time Tasha passed by his spot at the counter. 

“Oh?” she asked, setting down a plate of eggs and bacon in front of another customer. “There you go, Wally. What about, Castiel?”

Castiel gave her the spiel about the series of stories he was hoping to write about local businesses, telling it all in bits and pieces whenever Tasha happened to be in earshot. She agreed, and told her story in bits and pieces too: how the Baneses had been one of the few families of Negro farmers in the Midwest to own their own land, and how the Dust Bowl of the '30s had driven them west to the coast in search of a better life. How they’d scrimped and saved for years to start their own business, and had followed an old friend, Rufus Turner, here to Bethany Cove. How the community had rallied around Tasha and her young children when her husband hadn’t come home from the war. 

“This place has been good to me,” she told him once the breakfast rush had finally settled a little and she had leisure to linger with him. “And to my children too.”

As Castiel jotted down the quote in his notepad, he wondered if she knew the whole truth of it: Max’s attendance at Charlie’s get-togethers, and what it meant. On the whole, he thought that perhaps she did.

“It makes me want to give back, you know?” Tasha went on. “So I was thinking, I might get a letter-writing campaign started. Put up flyers all around the diner: Save the Grand Cove. Tell Roman Enterprises to Stuff It Where the Sun Don’t Shine.”

Castiel burst out laughing, grateful he wasn’t holding the mug that Tasha had just refilled for him. “Colorful,” he said. 

“Yeah, well.” Tasha reached across the counter to pat Castiel’s cheek fondly. “You don’t get anywhere in life by pussy-footing around.”

***

Castiel spent much of the rest of his day writing up the notes from his interview with Tasha while the impressions were fresh in his mind. He accepted an invitation from Amara to join her and Rowena for dinner again, and helped Donatello work out a thorny problem involving an advice seeker who had discovered her husband’s affair.

Yet all through the day, Tasha’s words echoed in the back of his mind: You don’t get anywhere in life by pussy-footing around.

It had been three days since Charlie’s get-together; since his and Dean’s passionate encounter by the water. They’d walked back to town together after and said a fond (but, of necessity, chaste) goodbye in front of Dean’s shop. Castiel had lingered a little awkwardly, waiting and wondering if Dean would ask him up to his apartment. He hadn’t, though his eyes had searched Castiel’s face with a tentative curiosity that made him think Dean had at least considered extending the invitation. 

Should he have asked to come up? Or for Dean to walk with him back to his own place? Those were the questions that had tormented him all weekend, but he hadn’t found an answer, and he hadn’t gone back to Dean’s shop to seek him out. 

It was the very definition of “pussy-footing,” he supposed. 

He’d had plans to make another run at his novel draft after dinner tonight, having neglected it all weekend in favor of agonizing over how best to reconnect with Dean. But perhaps the draft would wait another day. Perhaps he should simply throw caution to the wind. 

By the time five o’clock arrived, his fingers ached from all the restless tapping he’d done to calm himself. Still, the good news was that he’d just about made up his mind: he’d go to Amara’s first, and then he’d stop by Dean’s place and see where the night led them. 

“Good stuff, amigo,” Garth said, folding up the most recent edition of the Gazette, which he’d evidently just finished reading. “I’d bet my bottom dollar it’ll light a fire under the town’s bum.”

“And Dick Roman’s, more importantly,” Donatello grunted from behind his usual fortifications. “He’s a greedy bastard. Always has been.”

The bell over the front door chimed as it opened and admitted, of all people, Dean. He’d shouldered through the door and was now propping it awkwardly open with his back while he shuffled in, both arms wrapped around an unwieldy box covered in brown packing paper and tied with twine. 

His eyes roamed the room until they found Castiel at his desk. He looked delighted to see him, and Castiel was utterly helpless in the face of it. He jumped to his feet, part of him wanting to go meet Dean halfway. Some remnant of decorum and fear of discovery froze him in place. 

“Dean,” he said, sounding unmistakably delighted himself. It left him feeling exposed, but it was difficult to worry about a thing when Dean answered him with a shy, “Hey, Cas.”

“Well,” Garth said. “I think it’s time for me to go home to the missus. You feel like walking out with me, Donny?”

Donatello raised his head from where he’d been going cross-eyed over his half-finished column response. “What?” His eyes cleared, taking in Castiel on his feet, and Dean, who’d set down his burden on the front desk. “Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose the column will still be there tomorrow.”

“You’re darn right it will,” Garth agreed, and waited for Donatello to gather his satchel and the coat he insisted on wearing despite the rapidly warming temperatures. 

Castiel watched them both, bemused, as they walked out together. Never once, in all the weeks he’d worked here now, had Garth and Donatello made a purposeful effort to leave together. 

The only sensible conclusion he could reach was that Garth and Donatello had wanted to give him privacy to speak to Dean. But why? Had he truly been so obvious in his pining? Had Donatello’s reading of his article about Dean revealed things he hadn’t meant to reveal? Or perhaps this was the Bethany Cove rumor mill at work again?

Even as he put those questions to himself, he realized he wasn’t truly concerned about the answers. Bethany Cove was a place where people knew things about each other, yet it was a knowledge used not to indict but to form community. 

“That was weird,” Dean said conversationally, watching the door swing shut behind Garth and Donatello. “Anyway.” He refocused on Castiel, tapping the top of his mysterious package with two fingers. “Brought you something. For your apartment. You wanna…”

He trailed off, eyes flicking significantly up towards the ceiling. 

“Oh. Oh.” Castiel pictured it: leading Dean upstairs to his apartment. Locking the door behind them and pressing Dean against it. Or letting Dean’s heat and weight keep him in place, just as it had done on the beach. 

Belatedly, he remembered that he had plans for dinner. He could hardly ask Dean to leave now and come back later so they’d have more leisure.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he stammered. “My aunt…”

“Can always have dinner with you tomorrow night. Or the night after that.” Unnoticed by Castiel, Amara had left her desk in the back of the office and approached them. Under the guise of kissing his cheek, she leaned in and whispered, “Have fun. And when we reschedule our dinner, bring him along if you’d like.”

Castiel found himself speechless as he watched her draw back from him and tell Dean goodbye, then head for the door. She had already reached it and pulled it open by the time Castiel managed to find his words again. 

“Thank you!” he called after her. 

He hoped she understood that he was thanking her for more than the current favor. It was a thank you for offering him a place with her, and with this wonderful community of people that seemed, against all odds, to be accepting him as one of their own. A thank you for a second chance at life when he’d thought he’d lost everything that made life worth living. 

With an enigmatic smile, Amara stepped out through the door and disappeared. 

At last, Castiel was alone with Dean. 

“Would you… would you like to come upstairs?” he asked, feeling as shy as most boys must about asking a girl to the dance. 

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said. He looked a little pink-cheeked, as if he too had been taken aback by the sudden exodus of three different people who had previously occupied the office. “Lead the way.”

Dean picked up the package again, struggling slightly with keeping it balanced. Castiel’s offers to help him were summarily rejected, so he confined himself to showing Dean the way through the office and up the stairs to the walk-up apartment. 

When they reached the place, Dean set his burden down carefully on Castiel’s single rickety table and looked around, taking in the bare walls. “Not much of a decorator, are you?” he asked. 

“I had to sell most of my things to cover the fine I was sentenced to pay,” Castiel admitted. “And it didn’t seem worthwhile to buy new things.”

“Why not?” Dean asked. Even with his eyes lowered, Castiel couldn’t help noticing that Dean had taken a few steps closer. If he were to look up now, they would be close enough to kiss. 

“I suppose I… I thought of this place as just a temporary stop.”

He knew he’d made a mistake as soon as the words were out. Dean went very still beside him. Castiel hurried to look up. Just as he’d thought, Dean was close. So close that Castiel could read the disappointment on his face like so many letters printed on a page. 

“I don’t think that anymore,” he said. 

It wasn’t the same as admitting how much Dean had come to mean to him, but it was close enough that his heart kicked up a storm behind his ribs. 

“Why not?” Dean asked, stepping closer still. If Castiel were to take a particularly deep breath, their chests would be touching. 

“There are people I’ve found myself growing very fond of.” Each word felt like a struggle against the bass-drum pounding of Castiel’s heart in his ears. “One person in particular.”

“Must be a pretty special person,” Dean said. The left corner of his mouth ticked gently upwards. 

“He is,” Castiel agreed. He found himself mirroring Dean’s lopsided smile. “I’m quite taken with him.”

Dean huffed a small laugh. He touched the tips of two fingers gently to Castiel’s forearm, gliding them downward. Castiel shivered. “Shit. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bothered bringing a present.”

Reminded of the mysterious package, Castiel glanced at it. For just a moment, he weighed his curiosity about the gift against his bone-deep need to kiss Dean after days of going without. There was no contest, really. 

He went for the kiss. The angle left his nose pressed up against Dean’s cheek, and his next breath was scented with warm skin, aftershave and a lingering note of cigarette smoke. His hands slid down Dean’s sides, coming to a halt where his shirt was tucked into his pants. He ran the pads of his thumbs along the top of Dean’s belt, all the while kissing him open-mouthed. 

Closer, that was all he wanted, to be closer and to have more of Dean. He shuffled forward until they were pressed together all along their front. Dean was half-hard in his pants and Castiel rubbed up against him, lost to the sensation and to the desperate sounds he could taste on the tip of Dean’s tongue. 

There was nothing left in the world but the two of them. Roaming hands untucked first Dean’s shirt and then Castiel’s. Clumsy fingers struggled with too-small shirt buttons. 

Castiel kissed every inch of Dean’s chest that was revealed to him, lingering over the dip of his clavicle and sucking at a nipple until Dean was breathing hard and ragged. 

A sudden impulse had Castiel falling to his knees. He hit the unforgiving floorboards hard, but the pain of impact was nothing compared to the heated arousal flaring through him at the sight of Dean straining against his pants. Castiel pressed his nose to the bulge, rubbed his cheek up against it.

From above, Dean sounded a weak objection. “Cas, you don’t have to…”

“I know,” Castiel said. He glanced up at Dean through his lashes, finding him flushed and aroused, lips still wet from Castiel’s kisses. “I want to.”

Steadying his hands enough to undo Dean’s belt and pants took all of Castiel’s focus. Dean looked and felt painfully hard when Castiel pulled him out, and Castiel soothed him with an open-mouthed kiss against the side of his cock. 

Dean moaned, reaching blindly for the table at his back, wrapping clumsy fingers around the edge to steady himself. Castiel smiled as he flicked his tongue over a single drop of precome pearling at Dean’s tip. 

“Cas,” Dean whispered, awed, and Castiel shivered. He’d been on his knees for a man before, but it had never felt like this: like a true act of service and pleasure. Like something that could last. 

He took Dean properly into his mouth, wrapping a hand around the base to steady him. Dean’s thighs trembled as Castiel hollowed his cheeks to add to the heat and friction. Dean tasted of salt and skin, and Castiel swallowed hard against a sudden surge of saliva. 

His own cock pulsed between his legs, begging for attention. Castiel gripped himself for a bit of relief. He could come just like this, he realized: on his knees for Dean’s pleasure, soft pleas and encouragement urging him on. One of Dean’s hands came to rest on Castiel’s hair; not tugging, but holding on for dear life. 

Castiel took Dean deeper still, his lips making contact with the fist still curled around the base. Dean gasped and squirmed. He let go of Castiel’s hair and tapped him frantically on the shoulder. 

“Hey. Hey, Cas. You gotta stop, man.”

Castiel was slow to respond, his mind foggy with arousal. When he sat back and let Dean drop from his mouth, it felt like a loss. His mind flashed back to other times he’d been told to stop; times when a seemingly safe alleyway or backroom had been compromised. His fingers twitched with the impulse to quickly make himself presentable.

But no, this wasn’t that. This was Dean. This was Castiel’s own, private place. They were safe.

He let the pleasant ache of his jaw anchor him; let it convince him that for once, an interruption didn’t mean the end. It didn’t mean going their separate ways, never to see each other again. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, glancing up at Dean.

“Fine,” Dean said. He looked it, too, now that Castiel was paying attention: happy and flushed and a bit of a mess, his hair standing on end where he must’ve run a hand through it. “I just… you’re far away.”

“Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to Castiel that Dean might want him closer.

Stiffly, Castiel climbed to his feet. Dean held out a hand to help him. Feeling shy, Castiel accepted, letting Dean pull him the rest of the way to his feet.

A gentle hand brushed Castiel’s hair off his forehead. It ran down his cheek from there, stroking gently. “I want you close when I come. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. He wondered if Dean would ever run out of ways to astonish him. “I want that too.”

They kissed again, slow and deep.

Dean managed somehow to get Castiel’s belt undone and his palm slipped past the waistband of Castiel’s pants, cupping the curve of his rear. Dean’s thumb brushed gently down the cleft, as if in question. 

Castiel remembered the jar of Vaseline he kept in one of the kitchen cabinets, and he found himself nodding into their kiss. New, delightful images surged up inside him: of Dean pushing him down onto the small bed in the corner, of Castiel spreading his legs to allow room for Dean between them. Of Dean, hot and hard and insistent, pushing inside to join them together. 

“Please, Dean.” He pressed himself up against Dean’s front, his clothed cock brushing against Dean’s bare one. The sensation was surprising, electric, but not nearly enough. 

“’Course, Cas,” Dean muttered against his lips. “I’m’a take such good care of you.”

They stumbled blindly towards the bed, kissing still. 

“Wait,” Castiel said when they reached the edge. He went to fetch the Vaseline from the kitchen and felt a moment of terror when he couldn’t locate it right away. At last his fingers landed on the squat jar. 

On the way back to the bed, he closed the shutters on each window and drew the privacy curtain across the bed. There was little chance of them being observed through second-floor windows, but even a small chance was too much. What was about to happen here belonged only to the two of them. 

He found himself on his stomach, arms wrapped around his pillow while Dean drew intricate designs along the backs of his thighs. Arousal still pooled warmly in Castiel's gut, but its urgency had faded into a quiet, contented anticipation. 

“You ever had somebody kiss you here?” Dean asked, nosing at the cleft between Castiel’s cheeks. 

The question took Castiel by complete surprise. He’d heard of such things being done between lovers, but had never once considered it as an option for himself. “I… no.”

Dean placed a single, chaste kiss on Castiel’s lower back, just above his buttocks. “Can I?”

“I… have no objections,” Castiel said, though he couldn’t imagine why Dean would want to do such a thing. 

“You can tell me to lay off if you don’t like it.” Dean’s voice sounded muffled against Castiel’s skin. 

Castiel wondered if he should brace himself somehow, but before he could, Dean’s hands gently spread him open. The wet heat of Dean’s tongue licked across his exposed center, and Castiel made a sound that was half mortification, half surprised arousal. 

“Good?” Dean asked him.

“I… don’t know yet,” Castiel admitted. “Keep going.”

This time, Dean’s tongue lingered against his rim, licking a slow circle. Castiel’s entire body was strung tight with anticipation, his skin feeling too small to contain him. 

Dean’s tongue dipped inside, and a bolt of heat lanced up from Castiel’s groin. His lips fell slack against his pillow. He was struggling for breath, fists clenched tight around nothing. 

“Good?” Dean asked. 

“For the love of… don’t stop,” Castiel managed. 

Dean chuckled, low and mischievous, against Castiel’s overheated skin. His cock, trapped beneath him against the mattress, gave an interested stir. 

“You got it,” Dean said. 

Castiel sucked in a surprised breath when he felt Dean’s hands on his hips, pulling him upward. He kept his face firmly tucked into his pillow, but raised his bottom half for better access. Dean’s hands ran slowly up the insides of Castiel’s thighs, prompting him to spread his legs. Castiel did, flushed with a mix of emotions that was certainly more arousal than mortification now. 

He waited, trembling, to feel the heat of Dean’s mouth again. 

Dean didn’t keep him waiting long. He set to work with the flat of his tongue at first, getting Castiel wet over and over before he dipped inside once more. It was sloppy, Dean’s saliva trickling down Castiel’s scrotum as he worked, but that too felt like a new kind of touch. Castiel panted open-mouthed against the sheets, utterly undone. He was only just beginning to realize all the ways his body had never been taken by anybody else before Dean had thought to take an interest. 

In the past, whenever he’d been with someone, he’d kept thoughts of restraint foremost in his mind. He must be quiet. He must not embarrass himself. But now, just the two of them in an empty building, he let Dean hear his pleasure. The sounds that escaped him with every push of Dean’s tongue were breathless and needy, and each one scrubbed away at his lingering shame and mortification. 

He felt as though he might fly. He felt as though he might come from nothing but the sensation of Dean’s tongue up inside him, opening him up.

Reason briefly reasserted itself to inform him that it wasn’t what he’d wanted. He groped for words, clawing at what little clarity he could find in his lust-addled brain.

“Dean, I want— Dean, please…”

“I got you,” Dean promised. 

There was the squeak of bedsprings as Dean pushed himself up into a kneeling position, reaching past Castiel for the jar of Vaseline they’d abandoned on the nightstand. In doing so, he draped himself over Castiel’s back, and Castiel could feel the hard, hot line of Dean’s cock press against the back of his thigh. He moaned helplessly at the sensation. Soon, he would feel all that heat and heft inside him. 

“You feel how hard I am for you?” Dean asked almost conversationally as he unscrewed the jar. Castiel heard the squelch of fingers pushing into the jar’s contents. “Want you so much.”

“I want you,” Castiel answered, though to say that he wanted Dean was an understatement so massive as to border on the ludicrous. He might as well call Fred Astaire a passably talented dancer.

“Let me get you ready,” Dean said, and then there was the slippery feeling of a finger against his rim. Something hot and urgent twisted in Castiel’s gut as Dean slipped inside him to the first knuckle. He felt loose and easy already from the care Dean had taken with his mouth, and there was no pain as Dean added a second finger to stretch him wider. 

Castiel’s cock felt just as overheated as the rest of him. It was begging to be touched, precome dripping slowly onto the sheets, but Castiel didn’t dare. If he took hold of himself now, with Dean’s fingers pushed deep inside him, he might come instantly and deprive himself of the sensation of climaxing on Dean’s cock. 

“Now,” Castiel begged him. “Do it now.”

Dean must be feeling the urgency of the situation as well: he didn’t talk back, and he didn’t delay further. Within moments, Castiel felt the blunt push of a slick cock against his hole. He raised himself up a little further, spread his legs wider. Another push, more insistent than the first, and Dean slipped inside. 

Dean’s moan was the sweetest sound Castiel had ever heard: relief and a desire so intense that it sat on the knife edge of agony.

Dean’s hands settled on Castiel’s hips again, pulling him closer. Pulling him almost up into Dean’s lap as Dean pushed deeper, deeper, until it felt as though Dean had climbed fully inside his skin.

They moved together, the obscene slick-slide of it setting fire to Castiel’s blood. He only wished… he wished…

“Can I see your face?” Dean gasped.

It was exactly what Castiel had wished for, but he still hesitated. He was probably a flushed, pillow-creased mess. Would Dean care?

What decided him in the end was this: he wanted to see Dean, to know what Dean looked like when his face broke open with pleasure that Castiel’s body had given him.

“Yes,” he said.

Dean pulled out slowly, carefully. Castiel let Dean’s hands guide him first onto his side, then his back. He felt strung tight, his body resonating with some heated, mindless frequency every time Dean’s fingers so much as brushed his skin. 

His arms braced on either side of Castiel, Dean at last looked down at him. There was heat in that look, but tenderness too. Part of Castiel wanted to hide himself away, in case Dean’s affectionate study revealed things that would make Dean stop wanting him. 

He began to turn his head away, but a gentle pressure of palm against cheek held him in place. “Don’t,” Dean said softly. “I wanna see you.”

Castiel could hardly refuse him then. He held Dean’s eyes as Dean pushed gently at one of Castiel’s legs, bending it up and over his shoulder to give himself better access. The angle strained Castiel’s muscles, but he found it difficult to care when Dean’s cock pressed against where he was slick and waiting. 

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed, and Castiel couldn’t help himself: he reached up to cup Dean’s face, the edge of his thumb flirting with the corner of Dean’s slack mouth. Dean moaned. He accepted Castiel’s thumb into his mouth, sealing his lips around it. Castiel burned impossibly hotter at the knowledge that he was inside Dean, just as surely as Dean had made room for himself in Castiel’s body.

The new angle made him helpless to do anything but let Dean give him what he wanted, and Castiel gave himself over to the thrill of that helplessness. Every new thrust of Dean’s hips had him gasping, holding on for dear life. Another thrust, and pleasure lanced up in a hot, urgent spike. Castiel forgot to care about what he would look like or sound like. He forgot to care about anything but the mindless pleasure of being one with Dean. He moaned open-mouthed, fighting for breath. 

The next time Dean thrust inside him, his teeth scraped against the sensitive skin of Castiel’s thumb, and Castiel had just enough time to grip his cock before he spilled all over himself. 

“Cas,” Dean whispered. “God, look at you, you—”

Castiel never learned the rest of what Dean had been trying to tell him. Eyes screwed shut, lips parted on a soundless moan that had Castiel’s thumb slipping free, Dean came. 

It had been worth the vulnerability of the position to see him like this: frozen in place, taken apart by pleasure. 

For a long while after, Castiel’s body thrummed with aftershocks. He let himself lie still while Dean traced fingers down his face, his neck, his side; feeling boneless and a little aroused, despite his recent climax. 

When Dean seemed to tire of his exploration, Castiel reached across to the windowsill where he kept a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He lit a smoke and shared it with Dean, the two of them passing it back and forth in contented silence. 

Castiel tucked himself up against the side of Dean’s neck, staring out at the rest of his little apartment without really seeing it — at least until his eyes caught on the mysterious package they’d never had a chance to unwrap. 

“Will you tell me about the gift now?” he asked. 

Dean chuckled, and Castiel felt the vibration of Dean’s throat against his own skin. “Hey, I was ready to give it to you when we walked in, but somebody decided to seduce me first.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” Castiel said, snatching the stub of their shared cigarette from Dean’s fingers and taking a deep drag before putting it out in the ashtray on his nightstand. 

This made Dean outright laugh, and Castiel thrilled at the knowledge that he had this power: to bring Dean not just pleasure, but joy. 

With a groan, Dean disentangled their limbs from each other and walked, still buck naked, across the room to the package. He brought it back to the bed, setting it down in front of Castiel with a smug smile, like a cat who had fetched its owner a particularly juicy bird and was expecting to be praised. 

“Open it,” he said, nudging Castiel’s bare leg. 

Castiel sat up, feeling a little ridiculous about his nudity. But Dean seemed unselfconscious about his own, so perhaps it was alright. 

Buzzing with anticipation, Castiel unknotted the string and pulled at the brown paper. When he’d managed to tear it open, it parted to reveal—

“A record player. You got me a record player?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s smug smile turned a little shy. “You like it?”

“Yes, of course, but…” Castiel’s fingers stroked across the top of the box. It was an Emerson phonograph — good quality, about the size of a small briefcase, and certainly not cheap. “This is too much, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. “Call it a housewarming gift and a birthday gift at the same time. When’s your birthday, anyway?”

“Months from now. September 18,” Castiel answered automatically, eyes still fixed on the box. He wanted more than anything to open it, but should he continue refusing the gift? Dean was by no means a rich man, and—

“There, you see? I just won’t get you anything for that, then,” Dean said, satisfied, as though that settled the matter.

All Castiel could think about was that Dean assumed so easily they would still be in each other’s lives on the other side of summer. That they would still matter to each other.

He realized then what Dean was truly offering: a gift much greater than a record player. Dean was offering himself. Offering to be a part of Castiel’s life. 

“You know,” he said, without thinking, “you don’t have to give me fancy things to make me fall in love with you.”

Startled by his own admission, he looked up. Dean had the surprised, delighted look of a boy on Christmas day who finds that Santa has brought him a gift he never even thought to ask for. 

“Yeah?” he asked. 

Well. It was too late to backtrack now, and Castiel found that he didn’t want to anyway. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “I’m managing it just fine on my own.”

Dean leaned in, meeting Castiel halfway. The kiss was brief, but affectionate. Castiel thought it might be the most wonderful one they’d shared yet. 

“C’mon,” Dean said, grinning. “Let’s get this thing set up.”

“I don’t have any records to play on it.”

Dean made a noise of dismay. “Damn. I should’ve thought of that. I mean, we can fix that, but here I was kinda hoping I could ask you to dance with me tonight.”

Castiel ran his eyes pointedly over Dean’s naked shape. “Like this?”

Dean shrugged. “Sure. Why the hell not?”

There was no good answer to that, especially because the notion had now lodged itself in Castiel’s head: just the two of them, twirling naked together, light-footed as Gene Kelly and without a care in the world. 

He climbed off the bed and offered his hand to Dean. “May I have this dance, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean looked more delighted than ever as he let himself be pulled to his feet. “Why, certainly, Mr. Novak,” he said, in a very poor attempt at solemnity. 

Just as Benny had done a few nights ago, Castiel positioned himself opposite Dean in a ballroom hold. Their chests and soft cocks bumped together, and Castiel’s chest was so full of happiness that he thought he might burst with it. 

“What’s the song?” Dean asked. 

Castiel cleared his throat. He wasn’t much of a singer, but he trusted Dean not to laugh at him.

“I’m singin’ in the rain,” he sang, and Dean laughed, tucking his face against the side of Castiel’s neck. “Just singin’ in the rain. What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again!”

Castiel let his own happiness propel him into movement. He stepped forward and to the side in a dance sequence previously unknown to man, but Dean gamely stumbled along, chuckling all the while. 

“I’m laughing at clouds, so dark up above,” Castiel sang, twirling Dean in a dizzying circle that almost had them knocking into the table. “The sun’s in my heart and I’m ready for love!”

Dean kissed the rest of the song from his mouth. 

Chapter Text

Summer had found its way to Bethany Cove and brought with it an influx of tourists. They tended to linger at street corners, pause at random times to study shop windows, and generally bother Castiel in every conceivable way. Such as tonight, when he was already a little late and trying to make it to the Grand Cove in time for the big event.

He wouldn’t have been late at all if not for Dean’s insistence on distracting him with kisses while he’d been trying to tie his tie — a feat he’d always found challenging even at the best of times. 

The particular accumulation of tourists currently bothering Castiel was gathered in front of Harper Sayles’ ice cream parlor like so much flotsam. They were sweaty and sunburned and taking up a great deal more of the sidewalk than seemed necessary or wise. 

“Relax, Cas,” Dean said, bumping Castiel’s knuckles with his own to still the restless tapping Castiel hadn’t even noticed until Dean’s touch called attention to it. Castiel was almost annoyed at how effectively the simple gesture calmed him. “We’ll make it.” 

Castiel sighed. “I admire your optimism, but I think it’s misplaced.”

In lieu of an answer, Dean summoned his brightest grin and pitched his voice above the distracted buzz of the group’s conversation, which apparently needed to be conducted in the most inconvenient location and manner possible. “’Scuse us, folks! Coming through!” 

His hand landed, steady and warm, on Castiel’s lower back as he carved them a two-person-sized path through this sweaty press of bodies, and then through another that had accumulated at Cesar's newsstand. And yet a third that was clinging barnacle-like to Richie Papazian’s hot dog cart. 

“There, see? That wasn’t so bad. Told you we’d make it,” Dean said when they’d finally reached a bit of open sidewalk. His hand lingered for the space of another two breaths on Castiel’s lower back before he withdrew it. 

The lights of the Grand Cove’s marquee were now visible less than a block ahead. It was not quite dark yet, but the light was low enough that the Grand Cove stood out, a lighthouse beacon among the summer chaos of the esplanade. At least the gulls were having a field day, swooping crazily among the pedestrians to snatch up bits of funnel cake and peck at taffy wrappers. 

Castiel might be calmer than before, but he was still grumpy at having his town invaded by sweaty crowds of strangers, so he decided to be disagreeable. “Well, excuse me for wanting to be on time for an event where I’m supposedly the guest of honor.”

Dean leaned in close to whisper in Castiel’s ear. “Nothing ‘supposedly’ about it, sweetheart. None of this would’ve happened without you.”

As always, Castiel shivered pleasantly at Dean’s proximity. They’d been together almost two months now and had spent that time exploring each other’s bodies with great thoroughness and devotion — excepting the two weeks when Sam had come to visit. Sam supported their relationship wholeheartedly, and Castiel now considered him a good friend. Still, there were limits, and Castiel had found his the one time they’d been incautious enough to have sex without locking Dean’s bedroom door. 

But despite all that time spent with Dean, he was still not accustomed to this: the way Dean could make him feel so good, simply by virtue of being close.

“I’m sure someone else would have stepped in eventually,” he said. There was a slight quaver in his voice and he felt weak in the knees. He wondered what the chances were that they might sneak away from the event and make good use of an upstairs broom closet. Surely the Grand Cove, for all its glamour, must have some broom closets.

“Maybe, but you were the one who did,” Dean said, and bumped his shoulder against Castiel’s as they traversed the final cross street that lay between them and the theater. 

Castiel decided to stop arguing the point. It undoubtedly was true that his article about the Grand Cove and Rowena’s landlord troubles had set off an avalanche of community support. Tasha had launched her letter-writing campaign and other local businesses had soon joined in, inviting people to get together for writing parties and take field trips to the Roman Enterprises offices to drop off the fruits of their labor.

Rumor had it that the offices had been absolutely inundated with letters. So much so that it had become nigh-impossible to walk from desk to desk. True or not, Rowena had received a phone call from Dick Roman himself, acceding to her longstanding offer to buy the building outright. Tonight’s event was a celebration of that sale becoming official. (Dick Roman, to no one’s shock or surprise, would not be in attendance.)

They had reached the Grand Cove now. Its box office stood empty, and a sign taped to the front doors proclaimed the venue “closed for a private event.”

Inside, the air was cooler than out, and though quite a few people were already milling about the lobby, the place felt less crowded than the sidewalks. Castiel exhaled with relief. 

Charlie was the first to spot them, approaching with Dorothy in tow and greeting them with effusive hugs. Next, Garth and his wife came over for a chat, having left their children with a babysitter for the special occasion. Even Donatello had overcome his dislike of social settings and seemed only moderately irritated at being Garth and Bess’ third wheel for the night. The Banes family was also there, all three of them, and Castiel thanked them again for their role in organizing popular support for the theater. 

Back in Hollywood, he had hated functions like these: the pressure to make himself pleasant and agreeable, to make small talk with strangers, had always felt like a burden. But it was different here, in this small town he’d come to think of as a home and a refuge (irritating seasonal tourists notwithstanding). He knew these people, and they knew him — even, in many cases, the part of himself he’d never thought he would share with anyone other than the occasional furtive sexual partner. 

Dean had fallen into a bickering conversation about something or other with Rufus and Bobby, so Castiel took a little time to appreciate the effort Rowena had put into tonight’s event. The decorations were largely the same as ever, the Grand Cove’s glamour speaking for itself, but uniformed waiters flitted around with plates of hors d’oeuvres, and a table at the center of the room held dozens of champagne coupes arranged in a pyramid shape. 

Rowena herself was surrounded by a crowd of reporters and photographers, smiling half-lidded at the cameras in a stunning red gown. Amara, dressed in black, watched her fondly from outside the group.

“It’s a big night for her,” Castiel said, grabbing a glass of champagne off the table as he went to join his aunt. 

“It is,” Amara agreed. She sipped daintily from her own glass. “Thank you, Castiel. None of this would have been possible without you.”

Castiel inhaled, preparing to rebut the compliment as he had Dean’s earlier, but Amara interrupted him before he could. 

“No, I won’t hear any of your modest nonsense. This town was already a good place, but you’ve made it better by being part of it, and I very much hope you’ll stay with us.” She leaned in, smiling conspiratorially. “I know it would make your Dean very happy if you did.”

For a moment, Castiel was almost surprised: the plan to remain in Bethany Cove had become such a fixed certainty of his life in recent weeks. It took him aback to realize he hadn’t actually shared it with his aunt. 

“Yes,” he said. “Of course I’ll stay. And thank you. For inviting me.” 

The words felt woefully insufficient for what his aunt had done, but still, she looked a little misty-eyed as she draped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. “My pleasure, dear,” she said. 

Castiel leaned into the touch, even as his eyes began to search the room, looking for Dean. He couldn’t seem to help it. 

Dean stood by the champagne tower, still deep in conversation with Rufus and Bobby. Bobby scowled at some remark Rufus had just made, and Dean threw back his head in a happy, unrestrained laugh. 

Your Dean, Amara had called him. And in truth, he was: they spent more nights together than apart these days, and Dean had taken over all of Castiel’s grocery shopping, having deduced (correctly) that Castiel was very bad indeed at feeding himself. Someday they might even find a way to live together. Perhaps in a secluded cottage like Charlie’s or Amara’s, where the scrutiny of the world could be kept at a distance. 

Castiel looked forward to it. 

“Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you James Milton?”

Castiel turned to find that one of the reporters — a tall young man with a formidable head of hair and a scar down one cheek — had peeled off from the group surrounding Rowena and come over to approach him. 

Not too long ago, Castiel would have fled the room in panic. But he was among friends, in the town that had become his refuge. 

“You’re mistaken,” he said, smiling politely. “My name is Novak. I work for the Bethany Cove Gazette.”

A day might come when he would be James Milton again. James Milton, novelist, or even James Milton, screenwriter, if his name were ever to be taken off the blacklist. But for now, this was the truth of him: he was Castiel Novak, local news reporter. He had no need to be anything else. 

“He’s my ace reporter,” Amara said, squeezing his shoulder once in reassurance before letting go. “He wrote the story that saved the Grand Cove.”

“Oh, how about that? Solid work,” the reporter said, and stuck out his hand to shake. “Asa Fox, LA Times. I’m new to the entertainment beat; still getting my bearings. Apologies for the mix-up.”

“Think nothing of it,” Castiel managed to say before the clink of glass being struck interrupted him. The room turned as one toward the sound. 

Rowena had extricated herself from the press and now stood on a small elevated platform, tapping the side of her champagne coupe with the sharp tip of a fingernail. 

“Honored guests,” she said. Her smile gleamed with obvious joy at being the center of attention. “Thank you all so much for coming here tonight to celebrate with me this new era of the Grand Cove.” 

She spread her arms wide, drawing attention to the magnificence of the Art Deco finishes, the plush red carpet, the chandeliers overhead. A wave of polite applause moved through the room. 

“As most of you know, we wouldn’t be here tonight without the tremendous support of our local business community as I fought to purchase this theater. But above all, we would not be here without the wonderful article penned by our neighbor, our friend, Castiel Novak.”

She raised her glass toward him, and every other person in the room seemed to follow her example. Castiel felt a mortified flush rise on his cheeks, but then his eyes found Dean in the crowd. He looked incandescent with pride and happiness, and Castiel loved him. 

“To Castiel!” Rowena said, raising her glass. 

“To Castiel!” the room echoed. 

All except Dean, whose lips unmistakably shaped a different message: I love you.

Castiel sipped his drink, holding Dean’s eyes all the while. He felt he might dance across the floor and up the very walls, weightless and joyful as Gene Kelly. 

What a glorious feeling, he thought. I’m happy again.