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Chapter Text

October 3, 1940

London Fire Station 27 smelled of soot and coal, the kind of smell that clung to clothes and lingered long after you’d left. Dean stepped into the hum of the station, boots clunking against the worn floor.

Even though the day’s raids had yet to begin, chaos already reigned. Fire captains barked orders, firefighters carried on casual conversations while prepping equipment, engines were tended to, lunches prepared, and a kettle whistled insistently on the stove. The men moved with a casual efficiency that suggested they’d been doing this their entire lives, maybe they had.

Outside, the London sky hung hazy, streaked with the lingering smoke of past raids. The distant wail of sirens echoed constantly, a noise Dean hadn’t yet grown accustomed to. He tugged his jacket tighter around his waist, trying to push down memories he wasn’t ready to face — the smell of his house burning, his mother screaming, losing everything he had ever cared about. The chaos of the station pressed against him, heavy and physical, affecting the way he moved, the way he breathed. The station itself was a modest brick building, like many in the area, but blackened by soot and ash to the point that its original color was impossible to discern.

Dean was pulled out his thoughts by a voice, speaking to him. 

“Ah, you must be the Yank they transferred over,” said a broad man, his voice calm but carrying a hint of amusement. He extended a hand with an ease that suggested he’d done this a hundred times before. “Benny Lafitte. Don’t worry. We’ll get you sorted.”

Dean shook it, trying to appear casual, though his stomach was twisting into tight knots. “Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you.” He gave a small nod, glancing around the room.

Everyone else was dressed in their gear, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Men clustered in groups, chatting, laughing, or wearing serious expressions, moving together like a single, practiced body. Dean felt like an outsider intruding on something he wasn’t yet allowed to understand.

He continued to glance around the room when he noticed a tall figure standing alone near the corner. He seemed to stand with perfect posture and had neatly groomed hair, a rare sighting amongst the chaos and pace of a fire station.

His sleeves were neatly rolled up to his elbow,  and even from across the room, Dean could notice faint lines of scars across his arms. And then there were the eyes: piercing blue, sharp, assessing, and focused directly on Dean. The seriousness in them, the weight of that look, made Dean’s pulse skip. Judgment? Curiosity? He couldn’t tell. The man didn’t blink. Dean stared back, a little too long, before he remembered someone was speaking to him. He blinked and turned, reminded once again that he was very much in a room full of living, breathing, chaotic firefighters.

“Does that sound good, Dean?” Benny asked, leaning against the gear rack with easy authority.

“Uh… what? Sorry,” Dean said, blinking.

“Introductions. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… getting my bearings, I guess.”

“You’d better do it fast around here. No time to waste,” Benny said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, let me introduce you to some of our finest men here at Station 27.”

“And women,” a sharp voice cut in from the kitchen. Dean turned to see a woman carrying a tray of mugs, her hair tucked under a scarf and a smudge of soot on her cheek. “Don’t forget us,” she said, voice teasing but firm.

Benny grinned. “Ah, yes. How could I forget Ellen Harvelle? Keeps us fed, patched up, and in line when we’re otherwise impossible.”

Dean nodded, trying to hide a grin. “Nice to meet you, Miss…?”

“Ellen,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “And don’t you ‘Miss’ me, lad. Around here, you get respect by doing the work, not the titles.”

Dean chuckled nervously. “Got it. I’ll try not to get in the way.”

“Good lad,” Benny said, looping an arm around Dean’s shoulders as they started walking. “Come on, then. There’s Castiel Novak over there, the one who looks like he thinks he’s better than everyone. Don’t let him intimidate you, he just hides it well. And over there, Charlie Bradbury, fastest message runner in the city. And this here is Gabriel, our finest engine driver.”

“You flatter me, Ben,” a voice drawled smoothly. Gabriel turned, giving Dean a sly grin. “Gabriel Thomas. And you are…?”

“Dean. Dean Winchester, sir.”

“You don’t have to ‘sir’ me,” Gabriel said, leaning casually against the engine, one boot propped on the wheel. “I may be older than you, but I’m not ancient. Though, I do have to admit, it’s rare to see someone with your kind of enthusiasm land in London without completely setting the place on fire first.” He winked, a mischievous glint in his eye. 

Dean blinked, unsure if he should laugh or feel challenged. “I’ll try to keep the city in one piece,” he said, smirking despite himself.

Gabriel chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll see, lad. We’ll see. Just remember, confidence is good, but brains will keep you alive. Don’t make me have to show you how it’s done.”

Benny gave a low whistle. “See what I mean? Charming, isn’t he?”

Dean grinned, feeling the first spark of camaraderie already flickering in the air.

Dean tried to get as settled in as he could before lunch was served. This station was going to be his home for the next few months, or however long it took to end this damn thing. With no proper home, no family besides Sammy, he knew this was all he had. All he could do was make his mother proud, make sure he saved as many people as he could.

He had brought only a single duffle bag, worn and patched, stuffed with a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and the few pictures he had managed to salvage from home. He pulled one from the top, a small photo scorched slightly around the edges.

Mary’s smile glowed from the page, eyes bright and hopeful, the way they always had. Dean pressed his thumb to the photo, letting the warmth of the memory settle in his chest.

He looked at this watch and realized he only had a few minutes till he had to be so he tucked it back into the bag and slid the duffle under the bunk he’d been assigned. The mattress smelled faintly of smoke and old wool, but it would have to do. He forced a small smile at the thought that this could be home, at least for now, and straightened his shoulders.

Turning away, Dean made his way down the narrow hallway to the small kitchen Benny had shown him on the tour. The rich aroma of strong tea and fresh bread mingled with the ever-present tang of smoke that clung to the station walls. Ellen, he remembered, moved briskly among the tables, ladling out bowls of thick stew and passing slices of bread to the crew. The portions were modest, stretched carefully to feed everyone, but hearty enough to keep them going through the long shifts. Dean felt a small surge of gratitude for the stability it represented, a rare comfort in the chaos of rationing and air raids.

He scanned the room. Most of the seats at the two long tables were already taken, men clustered together in quiet conversation or laughter, some silently eating while their eyes darted toward the street beyond the windows. People quickly moved in and out of the room, most of who had no time to sit and finish their meals. In the far corner, he noticed the man from earlier, Castiel, sitting alone, posture rigid, staring straight ahead as though the noise and movement around him didn’t exist. 

Dean moved quickly to grab a bowl from Ellen, the steam rising in gentle curls as he balanced it in his hands. He slid into the seat beside Castiel, who barely registered his presence, offering only a sharp glance and a grunted acknowledgment before returning to his stew.

Up close, Dean noticed details he hadn’t before. A long scar cut from the edge of Castiel’s eyebrow to his hairline, stark against pale skin, hints of past injury or accident. His eyes were even more striking in the soft light of the kitchen, a piercing blue that seemed to assess his surroundings without effort. The collar of his white undershirt peeked from beneath his uniform, and the faint gleam of a cross necklace rested against his chest.

Castiel’s hands were large, strong, and smudged with soot, moving the spoon with careful precision as he ate. There was a discipline in the way he held himself, the steady rhythm of each motion, that made Dean unconsciously sit a little straighter, a little more aware of his own movements.

“Do you have a staring problem, Dean?” Castiel's voice cut through the hum of the kitchen, low and steady, but sharp enough to make Dean freeze mid-spoonful.

Dean blinked, startled. So he did already know his name. He leaned back slightly, trying to mask his nerves with a grin. “No… do you? You can’t seem to look up from your bowl.” His tone was cocky, a little louder than intended.

Castiel set his spoon down slowly, eyes locking onto Dean’s. “I suggest you don’t mess around here.” His words were calm, measured, but there was a steel beneath them that made Dean’s stomach tighten.

“I’m not messing around,” Dean shot back, leaning in slightly, trying to meet his gaze without looking intimidated. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” he replied, the intensity in his piercing blue eyes unwavering. “I’ve seen enough people like you come through here.” He lifted his spoon again, eating with deliberate precision as if the conversation were over.

Dean’s fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the bench. “You really don’t talk much, do you?” he said, trying to break the silence, half in challenge, half in curiosity.

Castiel lifted his eyes just slightly, meeting Dean’s with the same unreadable calm. “I speak when it matters,” he said quietly, returning to his stew as if the question had barely been asked.

Dean’s stomach twisted in a mix of irritation and fascination. There was something about the quiet way he carried himself, the calm, measured stillness amid the constant hum and chaos of the station, that made it impossible to look away. And beneath that, a strange, unplaceable feeling stirred in his gut, fluttering and unfamiliar.

He wanted to know more, to ask questions he wasn’t supposed to ask, but he knew better. They were in the middle of a war. It would just hurt to get close to anyone. Castiel was right; he needed to be serious.

So, for now, Dean settled for watching, letting his curiosity and that strange feeling in his chest simmer quietly beneath the surface as he forced himself to focus on the meal in front of him.

October 12, 1940

Dean had been at the station for little over a week now, and he thought he was settling in relatively well. He’d met most of the crew—Rafe on the ladder team, Kevin, a keen trainee, Bobby, the gruff but fair chief, and Fergus, who oversaw supplies and rations. He got along with nearly everyone—well, everyone except Castiel, who still hadn’t offered him a word beyond the occasional curt glance.

Most of his time had been spent acclimating to the rhythms of the station and the way things ran, especially in wartime. Dean had worked as a volunteer firefighter back home for a few months, but this was different. London demanded all the help it could get, and he had volunteered to do his part. He had to relearn the ropes, brush up on procedures, and adapt to new equipment and methods.

So far, he’d yet to be sent out on an actual fire. His inexperience made the captains wary of putting him in danger, and Dean didn’t argue yet, he’d rather learn than risk someone else’s life. In the meantime, he trained day and night, drilling until his muscles ached, and earned his keep by cleaning the station, polishing gear, and keeping the engines in working order.

Occasionally the men would give him hell, making jokes about cleaning up the toilets or being a pussy for not going out with them yet, especially Gabriel. 

Occasionally, the men gave him hell, ribbing him for every little thing. “Better polish those toilets till they shine, Winchester,” Gabriel called one morning, smirking as Dean scrubbed at the metal. “Don’t want the city thinking the new guy can’t handle a mop, eh?”

Dean shot him a glare, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Keep talking, Gabriel, maybe I’ll start charging you for lessons in hygiene.”

“Ha! Lessons from the boy who hasn’t even set foot on a fire yet?” Gabriel countered, leaning casually against the wall. “Still a bit soft, aren’t you?”

A few other men laughed, and Dean felt a flush creep up his neck, half irritation, half pride. He bit back a retort, knowing better than to pick a fight too soon, but inwardly, he was determined. He might be new, might be inexperienced, but he wasn’t going to let them write him off.

During the days, Dean kept busy around the station, scrubbing gear, checking hoses, and learning the ins and outs of the engines. But at night, when the streets outside shuddered with the echo of sirens and the distant rattle of falling explosives, he waited. It was impossible to find real sleep with the constant roar and tremor of the city under siege.

The men in the station moved through it all with an unsettling calm, treating each fire like it was just another day at the office. They had been doing this for months, their nerves hardened and reflexes sharp. Dean, despite his bravado and jokes, couldn’t shake the tight knot of anxiety in his chest. His stomach fluttered unpredictably, a mix of nerves, anticipation, and something he didn’t yet understand.

The next day, Dean found himself on the drill yard, hose in hand, muscles straining as he tried to keep up with the rest of the crew. Every move felt clumsy, every step awkward. “Blast it all,” he muttered, hauling the heavy coil over his shoulder. “This thing’s heavier than it looks!”

Castiel was nearby, silent and exact, his posture perfect as he moved through the exercises. Dean stole a glance at him, watching the calm, precise way he adjusted the nozzle and positioned himself. There was something infuriatingly steady about him, something that made Dean’s own fumbling feel worse than it was.

A frustrated exhale escaped Castiel, barely audible, but sharp enough to make Dean pause. “Focus, Dean,” Castiel said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “You’ll endanger yourself if you keep rushing.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, ready with a smart remark, but the words stuck halfway. Castiel didn’t wait for a comeback, he just bent to adjust the hose again, precise and deliberate, as if Dean wasn’t even there. Dean let out a low whistle, muttering under his breath, “Man, talk about impossible standards.”

The others stepped in to help, correcting his grip, shifting his footing, offering short instructions that Dean answered with a mix of jokes and gritted teeth. “Next time, I’m going to make this hose talk back to me,” he muttered, earning a few chuckles. Castiel didn’t even glance up, continuing his movements with that same still, controlled rhythm.

After completing the drills, they took to the yard for a run. Somehow, Dean found himself leading the pack. He had been a runner back home, and though he lacked the raw strength of some of the other men, he made up for it with stamina and endurance. His lungs burned, legs ached, but he pushed on.

Right beside him, almost impossibly, was Castiel. Dean could tell the man was determined not to let him get ahead, despite the fact that this was just drills and warmups. Cas’s gaze was fixed straight ahead, expression unreadable, and every muscle in his body moved with disciplined precision. Dean tried to focus on the ground beneath him, the rhythm of his feet, but the heat radiating from Cas at his side made it almost impossible to ignore.

He drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself to match the cadence of his stride, to ignore the ache in his lungs and the sweat dripping down his forehead. He had no idea how long they had been running, only that his chest was tight and every step felt heavier than the last.

Then, on some stubborn impulse to prove himself, Dean surged forward, pushing himself faster, harder, desperate to break just a little ahead. In the process, his arm brushed Cas’s. The contact was brief, accidental but it sent a jolt straight through him, a sudden awareness of the man at his side he couldn’t explain.

For some reason, that brief contact made Castiel tear his eyes away from whatever distant point he had been staring at and land directly on Dean. Dean felt a jolt in his stomach, though he couldn’t tell if it was surprise, irritation, or something else entirely. Cas’s expression was impossibly unreadable, was it anger at being passed? Or something else Dean couldn’t name?

Before either of them could linger on it, the moment passed. Cas adjusted his stride, letting out a quiet exhale, and with the same controlled efficiency that had marked every movement of his, he surged forward. Dean felt the air shift as Cas drew alongside him, then just slightly ahead.

“Victory,” Cas said, his voice quiet, almost casual, but with that steady undertone that made Dean’s chest tighten.

Dean’s lips twitched in a grin, half in defeat, half in admiration. He couldn’t tell if he was frustrated at losing or pleased at how he had gotten Cas to talk to him again.

By the time they slowed to a walk, Dean’s legs felt like lead, his chest still heaving from the run. Sweat dripped from his hairline and stung his eyes, but he couldn’t stop his gaze from flicking to Castiel, who walked a few steps ahead, calm and unshaken as if the exertion barely registered.

Dean noticed the faint line of tension in Cas’s shoulders ease as he paused, reaching into his uniform pocket and pulling out a small, worn book. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, lips moving silently. Dean guessed it was a prayer, something private, reverent, a side of Cas he hadn’t seen before.

Dean couldn’t make sense of it. How could anyone have faith in a world like this? The bombs falling from above, the streets ripped open, people dying for no reason at all, it made a mockery of hope. And yet, here was Cas, steadfast, praying quietly as if the world wasn’t crumbling around them.

Dean swallowed hard, a flush of frustration and awe twisting in his chest. Part of him wanted to mock it, to shake his head at the naive devotion he didn’t understand. But another part, the part that made his stomach twist and his pulse thrum a little faster, was drawn to it. He couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop wondering why Cas seemed unshakable, why he carried himself with that calm certainty when Dean himself felt like he was always on the edge.

When Cas opened his eyes again, he tucked the book back into his pocket and nodded briefly to Ellen, who had appeared at the edge of the yard with a jug of water. “Steady on your feet, Dean?” she asked, her tone light but motherly, as she handed him a cup.

“Yeah,” Dean said, taking the water gratefully, trying to mask the awkward heat creeping into his cheeks. “Just warming up.”

Ellen’s eyes flicked over towards Cas, who was adjusting the straps on his uniform with precise movements. “And you, Cas? Don’t go fainting on me now,” she teased gently, her tone carrying that same warmth and authority she had around the station.

For the first time since he had got here, Dean saw Cas smile. It was small, quiet, and fleeting, just a curve of his lips and the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, but it transformed the sharp lines of his face, softened the intensity in his gaze. Dean blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The smile wasn’t meant for him; it was just a small gesture toward Ellen, a spark of humanity amid the chaos. But it left Dean aware of every detail: the faint scar along Cas’s brow, the way the sunlight caught the blue of his eyes, the subtle relaxation in his shoulders.

Dean’s stomach fluttered again, the strange, restless feeling he didn’t yet understand. He quickly turned his attention back to his cup, trying to shake it off, though his gaze kept drifting back.

Cas accepted the jug from Ellen, nodding briefly in thanks, before setting it down and moving silently to continue organizing the hoses. Once Ellen stepped away, Cas pressed his fingers together again, closed his eyes, and whispered something under his breath. Another prayer, private, quiet, unseen by anyone but Dean if he had looked closely.

Dean’s chest tightened. He wanted to ask what he was saying, wanted to poke at the mystery of this man, but he didn’t. Cas was reserved, disciplined, untouchable in his quiet devotion, and Dean knew better than to break that. 

He sipped his water, heart still thudding, trying to focus on cooling down, cleaning his gear, anything to stop the fluttering in his stomach.

October 15, 1940

The alarm shrieked like a banshee, cutting through the early evening quiet of London’s streets. Dean’s stomach flipped, adrenaline sparking through every limb. His boots hit the ground in a clumsy run, the duffel over his shoulder swinging with every step. This was it—his first real fire call at Station 27. Not a drill. Not a test. Real flames, real people trapped, and his heart hammered at the thought of failing.

The station was already a hive of movement. Men shouted orders, hoses were snaked out of racks, engines roared to life, and the air smelled of smoke, sweat, and oil. Dean swung himself into the waiting engine, sliding into the passenger seat beside Castiel Novak. The man’s expression was calm, unreadable, eyes fixed ahead. No hesitation. No nerves. Just quiet determination. Dean swallowed hard, unsure how anyone could be that steady when the world felt like it was on fire.

Outside, the streets were a labyrinth of narrow alleys and dense housing. Many buildings had already been damaged by earlier raids, walls blackened, timber exposed, windows shattered. Smoke curled in thick, choking clouds, and the orange glow of flames reflected off brick and glass. Civilians ran, shouting, pointing toward danger, as the roar of fire and collapsing timber filled the air. Sparks rained from the nearest rooftop, bouncing off Dean’s helmet. He jumped back, heart hammering, and glanced at Castiel, who moved without hesitation, hose in hand.

“Pressure’s low!” someone shouted. “We’ll have to work the hydrants manually!”

Dean’s hands shook as he grabbed a hose, trying to steady his breathing. The fire spread faster than he expected, leaping across rooftops and igniting debris in its path. Flames licked at anything wooden, smoke stinging his eyes. A collapsed staircase loomed ahead, fire creeping beneath it, and Dean froze, chest tight.

“Move, Winchester!” Castiel's voice was low, even, commanding. Dean shook himself, gripping the hose tighter. Castiel darted past him with quiet precision, threading through the smoke and shouting short, sharp instructions to the others. “Two more on that ladder! Watch the fire line! Don’t lose the line!”

Dean forced himself forward, following Castiel's lead, adrenaline propelling him. A scream ripped through the smoke—sharp, terrified. He turned to see a woman clutching a child in a second-story window, flames licking at the sill. His pulse surged, and he fumbled with the hose. “I’ve got it!” he called out, voice shaking.

Without hesitation, Castiel appeared at his side, steadying Dean. “Careful with your footing,” he said, calm, unflinching. “Keep your balance. Go slow.”

Together, they climbed the ladder, Dean’s legs burning, lungs tight. Sparks hissed as they hit the ground below. 

At the top, Castiel lifted the child with ease, handing it to a firefighter waiting below. Not a word, not a glance back, just efficiency. Dean helped the woman down, feeling her trembling hands clutch him as she whispered thanks. Her fear and relief pressed on him like a weight, but he barely registered it, too focused on the fire still raging, the heat and smoke pressing against every inch of him.

“Dean!” someone shouted. “Here, grab the hydrant!” He rushed over to twist the valve, water spluttering weakly from the hoses. Castiel moved again, his attention already on another building, giving quiet, precise directions. Dean noticed the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the small smudges of soot along his cheek, but still, he didn’t falter.

Flames licked the walls of a nearby tenement, heat so intense it singed Dean’s hair. He gritted his teeth, hauling the hose forward, only to stumble over fallen timber. Castiel caught the hose end next to him, steadying it with quiet authority. “Steady,” he said. “Keep your rhythm. Don’t fight it.”

Dean followed, heart hammering, and together they forced the water toward the flames. Another scream drew him toward a trapped man pinned beneath a fallen beam. His chest thudded painfully as he shoved and heaved, sweat stinging his eyes. Castiel appeared instantly, placing a hand on the beam, bracing it, and muttering something under his breath, Dean assumed a prayer, though he didn’t know. With his help, the man was free, coughing and covered in soot, alive. 

Shouts, sparks, and the roar of collapsing wood filled every moment. A roof creaked, threatening to give way. “Get out!” someone yelled, and Dean scrambled back, gripping the hose, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down. Beside him, Castiel moved silently, alert, calculating, unshakable.

“Watch that line!” Dean shouted as a beam toppled near the hose. Castiel moved instantly, redirecting it with a quiet, precise motion. “Good,” he murmured, voice almost inaudible over the chaos.

Hours seemed to stretch into an eternity. Sweat and soot covered every inch of Dean’s body. Every breath burned. Every step carried risk. He barely noticed the water running low, the engines groaning, the smell of charred timber and smoke thick in his lungs.

Finally, the fire began to yield. Flames hissed and smoldered instead of roaring. Dean sank against a wall, hands raw, lungs burning, chest tight. The last civilians were accounted for; minor injuries tended to; the worst had been spared.

Back at the station, Dean stripped off his soaked and charred uniform, methodical but distracted. The fire’s images replayed endlessly in his mind: the collapsing stair, the trapped child, the screaming woman. Castiel moved silently around the room, placing equipment neatly, checking hoses, tucking helmets in their racks. Without a word, he chose the bunk directly across from Dean’s.

Dean watched as Castiel methodically kicked off his shoes, placing them neatly beside his bunk. He even fluffed his fucking pillow before lying down. The attention to detail, the quiet discipline, it was infuriating. And then, Jesus… Dean’s stomach lurched as he realized Castiel was now just in his undershirt and thin pants. The shirt’s fabric clung to his frame, outlining strong shoulders, lean arms, and a torso honed from years of work that Dean hadn’t even noticed before. He looked almost younger, somehow, more relaxed, as though the chaos outside the station didn’t age him.

Heat rose up Dean’s neck, and he forced his eyes away. Castiel still hadn’t looked in his direction. Instead, he flipped onto his side, facing the wall, pulling the blanket up almost to his chin.

That night, Dean tries very hard not to think about the quiet breaths from the man across the room when the others come in to sleep. And he sure as hell doesn’t think about him when he closes his eyes at night. He doesn’t dream of piercing blue eyes. No way. Not at all. Not even a little.

Chapter Text

October 16, 1940

Dean woke with a sharp, ragged gasp, the sound tearing through the still dormitory air. His heart slammed against his ribs, every beat a violent reminder that he was alive when she wasn’t. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, the smell of smoke was still in his throat, thick and suffocating, the ghost of heat pressing against his skin.

Images flashed too fast to stop: his mother’s hands reaching through the smoke, the orange glow devouring the walls, her voice—God, her voice—calling his name before it was swallowed by the roar of flame. He could still hear the beams cracking, the hiss of collapsing wood, the way her screams bled into the fire’s breath until there was nothing left. Nothing left of her to find.

Dean sat up, chest heaving, hands trembling as he clutched the blanket like it could ground him. The room was dim, lit only by the moon through cracked blinds, but in his mind everything still burned. He could almost taste the ash.

Save them, save them, you couldn’t save her.

The words looped, jagged and merciless. His lungs fought for air that wouldn’t come. You were too slow. Too scared. You let her die.

His breath hitched, vision tunneling. Around him, the faint sound of sleeping men filled the room, steady breathing, a cough, the creak of a bunk shifting, but all he could hear was fire.

Save them. Save her. You couldn’t save her.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until stars burst behind his lids, but the guilt only burned hotter, a flame he couldn’t put out.

God, he needed to get out of here.

Didn’t matter that it was the middle of the night, that sirens could start wailing any second, that bombs might drop out of the clouds and tear the city apart again. He just—he couldn’t breathe. Not in here.

Dean’s eyes snapped open fully, the edges of his vision still fuzzy, his pulse still pounding in his ears. Everyone else was dead to the world, clinging to the few hours of rest they’d get before the next call.

Across the room, Castiel hadn’t moved. He was still turned toward the wall, one arm draped loosely over his pillow, his breathing deep and even. A faint snore broke the silence, low and almost gentle. It shouldn’t have made Dean’s chest tighten, but it did.

Dean slipped out from under his blanket as quietly as he could, bare feet touching the cold floor. The thin linen pants and t-shirt he wore were no match for the chill, but he didn’t care. He needed air more than warmth.

He crept through the door, careful with the hinges, and stepped out into the open.

The night hit him like a slap, cold, raw, biting through the sweat still clinging to his skin. The sky above London was shrouded in a haze of smoke, heavy and unmoving. In the distance, fires still burned where the bombs had fallen earlier, faint orange glows that pulsed against the horizon like dying embers.

The ground trembled every so often, just enough to remind him that peace was fragile, borrowed. The smell of ash and oil hung thick in the air, cutting through his lungs.

Dean wrapped his arms around himself, staring down the empty street. The cobblestones shimmered under the thin light of the moon, slick from the earlier rain. It should’ve been quiet, but it wasn’t. He could still hear it all. The screams, the cracking timber, his mother’s voice.

He sank down onto the station steps, pressing his elbows to his knees and his face into his hands, trying to breathe, trying to believe the world wasn’t still burning.

He was ripped out of his spiraling thoughts by the squeak of the door behind him.

Dean’s head shot up, pulse spiking all over again. Shit. He hadn’t even heard it open. For a split second, panic clawed through him. He was out here alone, exposed, no warning if something came down from the sky.

The door eased open wider, the light from the station spilling across the cobblestones. A figure stepped through the threshold, tall and broad-shouldered, the faint glint of brass buttons catching the moonlight.

Castiel.

Dean’s throat went dry.

Castiel didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at him, really looked, eyes narrowing slightly like he was taking in every detail: Dean’s shaking hands, the thin shirt clinging to his chest, the haunted look he couldn’t quite hide.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Castiel said finally, voice low but even. “It isn’t safe.”

Dean huffed out something that was almost a laugh but didn’t quite make it. “Didn’t think you’d be the one breaking curfew too.”

Cas stepped forward, the door shutting softly behind him. The night air caught his hair, lifting it slightly, making the shadows deepen around his face. “You weren’t in your bunk,” he said simply. “I came to make sure you hadn’t—” He stopped, the sentence hanging in the air between them.

Dean looked away, jaw tight. “Hadn’t what? Lost my damn mind?”

Cas didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of distant fire and the far-off hum of engines. Finally, he said quietly, “You were having a nightmare.”

Dean froze. “You—what? You watching me sleep now?”

Cas’s eyes flickered, not quite offended, not quite amused. “You were talking in your sleep,” he said, his tone softer now. “You said ‘save them.’”

Dean swallowed hard, throat burning. “Yeah, well, I didn't do a great job of that, did I?”

Cas studied him for a moment longer, then moved closer, not enough to touch, but close enough that Dean could feel the heat radiating from him against the cold air.

“I am sure you did what you could,” Castiel said, voice steady but not distant. “Tonight, and before.”

Dean almost laughed, bitter and exhausted. “You don’t know a damn thing about before.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, considering him. “You’re right,” he said after a pause. “But I know what it’s like to wake up gasping.” His voice softened. “I have them too. The dreams.”

Dean turned toward him, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

Castiel gave a small shrug, eyes fixed on the glow of the fires still burning far away. “Try counting sheep,” he said, utterly deadpan. “It works wonders.”

Dean blinked, unsure if Castiel was joking before to his astonishment, Castiel actually laughed. Just a short sound, quiet and rough around the edges, but real. Dean couldn’t help the way his lips twitched in response.

“Well, that’s a first,” Dean muttered. “Didn’t think you knew how to do that.”

Castiel’s mouth curve, not quite a smile, but close. “Don’t get used to it.”

Dean wanted to keep the moment alive,  both of them out here in the moonlight, stripped of the noise and duty and everything else that usually sat between them. His breathing had evened out without him realizing, his panic replaced by something steadier, something he didn’t want to name. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was Castiel.

“So, Castiel,” he started, dragging out the name theatrically, even adding a little hand flourish for good measure. “Jesus, does anyone just call you Cas? Castiel’s such a mouthful.”

Castiel turned his head, one eyebrow lifting. “A mouthful,” he repeated, as if testing the word. Then, deadpan: “I wasn’t aware my name was causing you physical strain.”

Dean barked out a laugh, the sound echoing softly across the empty street. “Oh, you’re funny now. I see how it is.”

Castiel’s expression didn’t change much, but Dean caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes before he looked away again. “You can call me Cas,” he said simply.

Dean grinned. “Thanks, Cas. Rolls off the tongue better.”

Cas hummed in quiet acknowledgment. “And what should I call you? De?”

Dean snorted. “If you call me that, I’m running straight into the next fire.”

That earned him another quiet laugh, low and rough, like gravel being turned over. Dean swore he could feel it in his chest more than he heard it. The sound lingered in the air between them, comfortable in a way that made Dean’s stomach twist again, that feeling he couldn’t quite place.

He knew he wanted to hear it again and again. 

They stood there for a moment longer, neither moving, the city still smoldering in the distance. Then Cas spoke, voice soft but sure. “You should get some rest, Dean.”

Dean nodded, though he didn’t want to move. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

When they finally turned back toward the station, walking side by side through the dim light, Dean caught himself glancing at Cas every few steps. And even when they slipped quietly back into the dorm, lying in their opposite bunks, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about the sound of his laugh.

He didn’t go back to sleep. He couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind spun: fire and smoke tangled with the sound of Cas’s quiet laugh. 

When the alarms blared a few hours later, the world shifted again, soft night traded for chaos. Boots hit the floor, men shouting, engines roaring to life. Dean scrambled to pull on his gear, exhaustion sitting heavy behind his eyes.

Across the room, Cas was already dressed, helmet tucked under his arm, moving with the same calm precision as always. No trace of the man who’d stood with him in the moonlight, who’d joked, who’d laughed. His expression was unreadable, his movements efficient.

“Let’s move,” Cas said to no one in particular, voice steady over the noise.

Dean froze for half a second, waiting for even a flicker of recognition, a glance, a half-smile, anything that said last night wasn’t just a dream. But there was nothing. Cas walked right past him without a word.

Dean swallowed hard and followed, shoving down the strange, hollow feeling creeping up his chest.

By the time they climbed into the truck, Dean had shoved his helmet on tight, face hidden behind soot and steel. Fine, he told himself. If Cas could act like nothing happened, so could he.

October 22, 1940

The siren ripped through the night again, sharp, metallic, gut-churning.
Dean’s stomach flipped as he yanked on his jacket, boots slamming against the station floor. 

The second call this week. The Blitz hadn’t slowed, not even for a night’s rest.

“Bethnal Green district,” Bobby barked, voice cutting through the scramble. “Old textile warehouse, reports of people trapped. Let’s move!”

The men were already on their feet, Benny checking the hose reels, Gabriel grumbling as he climbed into the driver’s seat, Rafe slinging on his helmet. The air reeked of sweat and adrenaline. Dean climbed into the back beside Cas, the engine roaring to life beneath them.

As they sped through London’s narrow streets, the city glowed an eerie orange ahead — another inferno lighting up the skyline. Smoke poured like a second sky. Sirens wailed, overlapping, echoing off the brick and steel.

“Christ,” Gabriel muttered, eyes on the road as flames came into view. “Whole bloody block’s lit up.”

“Keep your head, Gabe,” Benny snapped, but his own knuckles were white on the hose coupling.

The truck jolted to a stop, and the moment the doors flung open, chaos hit them full force. Heat rolled in waves. The warehouse loomed like a dying beast, flames chewing through windows, roof sagging, beams collapsing in showers of sparks. The air was thick with ash, choking, the ground trembling beneath their boots.

Dean coughed, eyes watering, adrenaline spiking. “Jesus- how the hell are we supposed to get in there?”

“Front entrance is gone,” Cas said, already pulling the hose from its reel, calm even as a burning plank crashed yards away. “We take the north side. Still standing.”

Dean followed, boots sinking into wet soot. The heat stung his face, his hands shaking as he fumbled to connect the hose.

“Pressure’s still low!” Rafe shouted over the noise. “Hydrants are jammed!”

“Then fix it!” Benny barked. “We’ll hold it as long as we can!”

They braced together, muscles straining as the water sputtered to life — a weak, desperate stream against an endless wall of flame. Dean gritted his teeth, every muscle in his body screaming as he tried to hold the line steady.

“Winchester! Left flank!” Gabriel yelled, waving through the smoke. “She’s spreading to the next building!”

Dean turned, saw the fire crawling along a row of connected warehouses, smoke thick and black. He ran toward it, dragging the hose, the air like breathing sandpaper.

He barely registered Cas following until a hand caught his shoulder, grounding him.

Dean nodded in acknowledgement, unable to speak, and they pressed forward together. The building groaned above them, timbers creaking like bones. Through the roar, faint screams echoed, civilians still trapped inside.

“Second floor!” Benny shouted from below. “We’ve got movement up there!”

Dean and Cas didn’t hesitate. They charged toward the back entrance, where part of the wall had caved in, smoke and debris pouring out. Dean’s vision blurred from the heat as they climbed through, stepping over shattered glass and smoldering fabric.

Inside was hell. Flames danced along every beam, smoke thick as fog. Dean’s lungs burned; his skin prickled. He heard Cas shouting, muffled but firm, and followed the sound until they found two men huddled beneath a half-collapsed staircase.

“Help’s here!” Dean yelled, his voice raw. He crouched, grabbing one man under the arms while Cas lifted the other with effortless precision.

“Careful!” Cas barked as the structure above them groaned ominously. “It’s coming down—move!”

They bolted just as the ceiling caved in behind them, a wave of heat chasing their heels. Dean stumbled, dragging his half-conscious civilian through the smoke, until hands reached out , Benny and Rafe, pulling them to safety.

Once outside, Dean dropped to his knees, chest heaving, coughing up soot. The night was a blur of shouting and chaos. Engines pumped, hoses hissed, people screamed. Cas stood a few feet away, shoulders squared, eyes reflecting the firelight, calm, focused, alive in a way that made Dean’s chest ache.

“You all right?” Benny asked, slapping Dean’s back.

Dean nodded, wiping sweat and grime from his forehead. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Then get your ass up, Winchester,” Gabriel yelled from the pump. “We ain’t done yet!”

Dean pushed to his feet, muscles screaming, and grabbed the hose again. Hours blurred into one another, moving water lines, dragging debris, dousing hotspots. The fire fought back with every gust of wind, roaring like it refused to die.

At one point, Cas was silhouetted in the flames, hauling a fallen beam off a trapped worker with impossible strength. Dean’s chest tightened watching him, how he didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t even seem to breathe wrong. It was like the fire couldn’t touch him.

Dean stood by the truck, the weight of smoke still thick in his lungs, hands trembling despite the cold air cutting through the street. The warehouse behind them was nothing but twisted steel and glowing ash now, the kind of ruin that hummed in your bones long after the flames died. Sirens still echoed somewhere far off, other stations answering other calls, but here it was just the crackle of settling debris and the smell of burned oil.

Cas was there, kneeling beside the truck, methodically rolling up the hose like it was any other night. His sleeves were singed, a smear of soot along his temple, but his movements were steady. Controlled. Untouched.

“How the hell do you just—” Dean’s voice came out hoarse, sharper than he meant it to. He gestured helplessly at the wreckage. “How do you walk away from this like it’s nothing?”

Cas didn’t look up right away. He hooked the hose into its place, tugged it straight, his expression unreadable in the dim light. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, calm in that infuriating way of his. “You don’t,” he said. “You just learn to walk anyway.”

Dean laughed,  a broken, humorless sound. “That’s bullshit.”

Cas finally turned, meeting his eyes. “It’s survival.”

Dean stepped closer, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Yeah? ’Cause it sure looks easy for you. You don’t flinch, you don’t freeze,  hell, you barely even blink when the whole damn world’s burning. You walk through fire like it parts for you.” His voice cracked, years of frustration and guilt bleeding through. “Meanwhile, I can’t even close my eyes without seeing her burn.”

Cas’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking near his temple, but he didn’t respond. Didn’t defend himself. He just looked at Dean, not pitying, not cold, just… quiet.

That silence made it worse.

Dean shook his head, words trembling on the edge of a snarl. “Maybe God’s just lookin’ out for you, huh? You get to be the calm one, the unshakable one. The rest of us—” He cut himself off, throat closing around the rest of it. The rest of us burn.

Cas didn’t move. For a moment, the only sound was the pop of cooling embers in the distance. Then he said, softly, “No one walks through fire without being burned, Dean. Some of us just don’t show it.”

Dean looked away, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He didn’t believe him. Not really. Because Cas still looked untouched,  like the smoke never stuck to him, like whatever light he carried wasn’t something the war could reach.

And Dean hated him for that.

Back at the station, the smell of smoke clung to everything, their hair, their coats, even the bread on the table. The men sat around the small mess hall, the air thick with exhaustion and cigarette haze. Benny had found a bottle of something strong, and it was making its rounds between greasy fingers and soot-streaked faces.

Dean leaned back on the bench, his body aching, a plate of stew cooling in front of him. Across the room, Cas sat at the edge of the table, posture straight, hands folded, like he was still at parade rest. He hadn’t said much since they got back. Hell, he hadn’t said anything.

“Can’t believe that building came down so fast,” Rafe muttered, exhaling smoke. “Swear to God, thought we were done for.”

“Yeah,” Benny said, grinning wearily. “Except for Cas over there. Man didn’t even blink. Walked straight into the flames like he had a death wish, or a guardian angel up his ass.”

A few of the men laughed, tired but needing it. Dean didn’t.

Gabe leaned forward, smirking. “You sure it’s an angel he’s got up there, Benny? Fella’s awfully stiff for someone that holy.”

Cas didn’t react at first. He just shifted slightly in his chair, jaw tightening. His eyes flicked down, then up again, briefly meeting Dean’s before turning away.

Rafe chuckled, puffing on his cigarette. “Come on, Gabe, maybe he’s just saving himself for God.”

“Yeah,” another voice added. “Or maybe for one of us if we’re real good boys.”

The laughter that followed was uglier this time, too loud for the size of the room. Dean watched Cas’s hands tighten against the table, knuckles white. He didn’t say a word. Just stood, collected his dish, and walked it to the sink.

Dean watched him move, that same damn calm, measured step, like nothing touched him. But Dean saw the faint tremor in Cas’s hand as he set the plate down. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

When the laughter died down, Dean pushed away from the table, his appetite gone.
“Real classy, guys,” he muttered.

Benny shot him a look, grin fading. “What, you his bodyguard now?”

“Just saying,” Dean said, voice low, controlled. “Man saved our asses tonight. Maybe cut the jokes.”

Gabe raised his brows. “Didn’t realize you two were so close already.”

“Yeah,” Rafe added, mock-innocent. “Maybe we oughta leave you two lovebirds alone, huh?”

The laughter started again, but Dean didn’t rise to it. He just stared at his half-eaten stew until his stomach twisted.

By the time he looked up, Cas was gone.

Dean found him outside a few minutes later, leaning against the brick wall of the station, cigarette in hand, the faint glow lighting the sharp lines of his face.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Dean said quietly.

Cas didn’t look at him. “I don’t,” he said, voice flat. “Not usually.”

Dean stood beside him, uncertain what to say. The silence stretched, thick with smoke and something unspoken.

“You don’t have to let them get to you,” Dean finally muttered.

Cas exhaled, eyes fixed on the distant glow of the city. “They don’t.”

Dean looked at him sideways, jaw tight. “Yeah, right. You’re made of stone, huh?”

Cas turned to him then, eyes steady, unreadable in the dim light. “No,” he said quietly. “I just learned not to break where they can see.”

Dean didn’t have an answer for that.

Dean shifted beside him, still bristling. “You know,” he muttered, “if you’re not careful, they’ll start thinkin’ you’re… different.” He didn’t say the word, but it hung there all the same. Sharp, ugly, unspoken.

Cas turned his head slowly, the faint orange glow of his cigarette cutting across his face. “Different?” he repeated, voice quiet but edged.

Dean shrugged, regretting it the second the words left him. “You know what I mean. You don’t drink, don’t joke, don’t, hell, you don’t even look at women. People notice that sort of thing.”

For the first time since Dean had met him, Cas’s calm cracked. His eyes flashed, and his voice cut through the night like glass.

“Let them notice,” he said, low but fierce. “They can think what they like. Doesn’t change who I am, or what I do.”

Dean blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t meant to hit a nerve. He looked away, jaw tight.
“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes,” Cas said, quieter now. “You did.”

Silence settled between them again, heavier this time. The sound of distant sirens drifted through the night.

Dean stared at the cobblestones, ashamed, angry, mostly at himself. “I just meant..you make it hard, you know? To figure you out.”

Cas turned his gaze back toward the horizon, where the sky still glowed faintly from the fires. “Good,” he said. “Then we understand each other.”

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot, and walked past Dean without another word.

October 23, 1940

Morning crept into Station 27 slowly, reluctant and gray. London was still smoldering, the sky a dull smear of brown smoke and cloud, and the faint scent of burning seemed baked into the walls themselves. The men moved like ghosts at first, half-asleep, stiff, each step a reminder of what the night had taken out of them.

Dean woke to the faint sound of boots on floorboards and the creak of the dorm door closing. He blinked blearily toward the opposite bunk and saw that Cas’s bed was already made. Crisp sheets, pillow fluffed, blanket folded with military precision. No trace of the man who’d been sleeping there hours before.

Of course he was up. Probably hadn’t even slept. Probably too goddamn perfect for that.

Dean rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye, trying to push back the heaviness in his chest. He hadn’t gotten more than a few hours himself. Too many images in his head, looping endlessly. The fire. The screams.

By the time Dean made it downstairs, the station had stirred to life. The mess hall smelled of burnt toast and overboiled tea. Gabriel sat sprawled in a chair, gesturing wildly with a cigarette between his fingers while Rafe and Benny nursed their mugs, looking like they’d been through the wringer.

“—and then,” Gabriel was saying, “the bloody ladder snaps, right in half! Rafe’s there dangling like a sack of potatoes!”

Rafe groaned, dragging a hand down his soot-streaked face. “You’re full of shit, Gabe.”

“Am not! You should’ve seen it, mate. Legs flailing, screaming like a schoolgirl. Thought the fire was gonna take you for sure.”

“Christ, Gabriel,” Benny muttered, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Let the man eat before you traumatize him again.”

Dean dropped into an empty chair with a grunt, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You lot ever stop talking?”

“Only when we’re dead,” Benny said dryly.

“Which, given last night, might be soon,” Rafe added, biting into a piece of toast that crumbled in his hand.

Gabriel snorted, leaning back. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I’ve got the best story.” He grinned. “Hey, Winchester. Didn’t think you’d make it through that one. You looked like you were about to shit yourself.”

Dean shot him a sharp look but managed a tight smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Benny smirked. “Don’t worry. You’re still prettier than half of us. Fire couldn’t even singe those movie-star looks.”

That earned a few chuckles. Rafe raised his mug. “To Dean, our fearless poster boy.”

Dean rolled his eyes, though a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. “You lot are insufferable.”

The laughter swelled — easy, familiar — but died almost immediately when Cas walked in.

He was immaculate, as always. Uniform freshly pressed, hair damp from a wash, collar buttoned to the top. He moved with quiet purpose, crossing to the kettle without acknowledging the stares that followed him. The air shifted, not unfriendly, exactly, but cautious. Even Gabriel, who could joke his way through a bombing, fell silent for a beat.

Dean watched him, jaw tightening. Something about that calm made his blood boil.

Gabriel broke the silence first. “Morning, sunshine,” he said lightly. “Come to remind us mere mortals what discipline looks like?”

Cas didn’t look at him. “Just coffee,” he said simply, pouring water into his mug. His voice was steady, measured, the same as always.

Dean muttered under his breath, “Must be nice.”

Cas’s head turned, eyes flicking briefly to Dean, unreadable. Then he went back to stirring his tea, like he hadn’t heard.

Dean felt the heat rise in his chest. “You ever actually get tired, Castiel? Or do angels like you just run on divine energy?”

Benny shot him a warning look. “Dean,” he said quietly.

Cas didn’t answer. He finished stirring, set the spoon down neatly, and said in that maddeningly even tone, “We don’t have the luxury of fatigue.”

Dean barked a short, humorless laugh. “Right. Forgot. You’re just different.”

The table went still again. Even Gabriel didn’t jump in. Cas finally turned, eyes meeting Dean’s, sharp, steady, but not angry. Just tired.

“And what would you rather I do, Dean?” Cas asked quietly. “Fall apart? Weeping won’t rebuild what’s gone.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, but maybe pretending it doesn’t hurt isn’t helping either.”

Cas’s voice stayed calm, but there was steel beneath it. “You think I don’t feel it? Every fire, every scream, every face we can’t save?” He set his mug down hard enough for the porcelain to clink. “The difference is I don’t let it eat me alive.”

That hit like a slap.

Dean stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “Good for you, then,” he said, voice tight. “Guess the rest of us just aren’t holy enough to manage that.”

He pushed past the table, ignoring the way Benny muttered his name or how Rafe called after him. The mess door slammed behind him, echoing down the hall.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Gabriel exhaled, low and sharp. “Christ,” he muttered. “If those two don’t kill each other, it’ll be a miracle.”

Benny shook his head, looking toward the door. “Kid’s got fire in him,” he said quietly. “Just doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Across the room, Cas stood motionless, staring into his mug. His jaw was tight, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. “No one comes through this untouched,” he said, almost to himself.

Then he turned and left without another word.

Chapter Text

November 2nd, 1940

The station smelled like smoke, wet wool, and cheap tobacco. The scent of survival. Every inch of the place bore the war’s fingerprints. Boots by the door caked in soot. Jackets stiff with ash. A half-broken clock ticking loud enough to make up for the silence that followed every air raid.

Dean sat at the long scarred table near the window, sleeves rolled, hands raw from scrubbing soot out of a brass nozzle. He worked it like it had insulted him personally. The brass gleamed dull in the low light, each scrape of the rag echoing faintly against the brick walls.

Around him, Station 27 was trying — and failing — to relax.

Charlie Bradbury was hunched over the radio again, twisting knobs with quick, restless fingers. She was one of the few women assigned to the station, a former secretary from Manchester who’d somehow taught herself to rewire half their equipment. She had cropped copper hair that refused to stay tied back and freckles that deepened whenever she grinned — which, miraculously, she still did, even now.

“Static, static, and more bloody static,” she muttered. “If the Germans don’t get us, the boredom will.”

“Oi, careful what you wish for,” called Meg Masters from across the room, lounging in a chair with her feet up on the table, cigarette dangling from her lips. “You’ll get Vera Lynn again, and then we’ll all be humming about bluebirds and Dover till the next blitz.”

Meg had the kind of voice that carried. Sharp, dry, magnetic. She’d been a nurse before joining up as a driver, traded her white apron for trousers and grease-stained sleeves. She had dark curls that she never bothered to tame, and a smirk that said she’d seen too much and cared too little what anyone thought.

“Better her singing than yours, Meg,” Andy said from his bunk. He was tall, soft-eyed, and built like someone who’d done hard labor before the war — which he had, working the docks with his old man. He laughed easily, big and genuine, the kind of laugh that filled a room even when no one else felt like laughing.

“Go to hell, Andy,” Meg shot back, flicking ash into a tin.

Dean half-smiled despite himself. This kind of banter — loud, messy, human — was the only thing keeping any of them sane.

Then the door creaked open, and Jo Harvelle, Ellen's daughter, stumbled in, cheeks red from the wind, a satchel slung over one shoulder. She looked young — too young, if Dean were honest — but there was steel under that softness. She’d been running messages for the WAAF since she was sixteen, though she swore she was seventeen when she signed up. Her hair was tied in a hasty braid, her boots muddy, her smile tired but unbroken.

“East End’s a mess,” she said, catching her breath. “They’ve got fires still burning near Aldgate. Word is the Docklands might be next if the Jerries go for the river again.”

That got everyone’s attention.

The laughter faltered. Charlie lowered the radio’s volume. Even Andy stopped grinning.

Ellen, stirred a pot of thin stew on the stove and looked up. Her sleeves were rolled high, arms strong from years of work, her face lined but kind. “We’ll be ready,” she said simply.

Her voice was a kind of anchor. It made everyone breathe again.

Dean wanted to believe her.

He kept working the nozzle, the rag now streaked with black. He could hear Cas’s voice somewhere behind him, low and steady as he spoke to Gabriel. Dean didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He could picture him perfectly — that calm face, unreadable as ever, hair dark and neatly combed even after a night of fire and smoke.

Castiel sat apart from the others, fixing a cracked length of hose with careful precision. His hands were strong, deliberate, the kind that could mend as easily as they could hold someone down in the flames. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to. The others seemed to orbit around him with a quiet respect Dean couldn’t understand.

And it pissed him off.

Cas was steady. Always steady. While Dean still woke up choking on phantom smoke.

“Careful, son,” came a slow drawl from across the table.

Dean blinked, dragged from his thoughts. Benny sat across from him, whittling at a bit of wood, one boot resting on the rung of the chair, the other stretched out comfortably like he owned the place.

“You keep scrubbin’ that thing like it owes you money,” Benny drawled, without looking up.

Dean huffed. “It’s filthy.”

“So are you, and I don’t see you takin’ a wire brush to yourself.”

Dean smirked faintly despite himself. Benny had that way about him — the kind of easy, slow Southern humor that grounded the chaos of the station. The man was built like a wall, thick-armed and steady, a good ten years older than Dean, with a short beard gone silver at the edges. There was something about him that reminded Dean of a man who’d already made peace with dying once and decided not to again.

“Just tryin’ to keep busy,” Dean muttered.

“Busy,” Benny said, “is a fine way to pretend you ain’t thinkin’.”

Dean’s hand froze on the nozzle. “You always this damn observant?”

Benny chuckled, eyes still on his carving. “Occupational hazard. You get to my age, you start seein’ through the noise.” He tilted the bit of wood, showing Dean the rough shape of a bird starting to emerge from it. “See? You shave at it a little at a time. Don’t force it. It breaks if you do.”

Dean looked down at the black metal in his hands. “Yeah. Guess I get that.”

Benny glanced up, blue eyes sharp. “You from the States, yeah?”

“Yeah. Kansas.”

“What brought you across the pond?”

Dean shrugged. “Wasn’t exactly a plan. Guess I just... needed to be somewhere that mattered.”

Benny nodded, like he understood without needing to pry. “The war’s good at makin’ men think they’re doin’ somethin’ that matters. Just make sure it don’t eat you up in the process.”

Dean didn’t answer. The only thing that answered for him was the faint crackle of the fire in the corner stove.

Jo had moved closer to the stove, rubbing her hands near the faint warmth.
“You really think they’ll hit the river again?” Charlie asked her, twisting a wire between her fingers.
Jo nodded. “That’s what the blokes at the WAAF post are saying. Docks make easy targets — storage depots, fuel, shipping crates. They want to starve the city before they burn it.”

Meg blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Christ. You’d think they’d get bored of killin’ civilians.”

“Not likely,” Ellen muttered. “They’ll keep at it till there’s nothing left to burn but the Thames itself.”

Silence followed. The kind that made every heartbeat sound loud.

Dean set the nozzle down, finally satisfied with the polish, and leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked beneath him. “So what’s the plan when they do?”

“Same as always,” Meg said. “We get there first, we put it out, we pray the next one’s not on our own doorstep.”

“Never thought I’d be prayin’,” Andy added, rolling a cigarette between his fingers.

“You still don’t,” Meg shot back, smirking.

Andy grinned around the cigarette. “Maybe I just like the sound of it.”

Dean smirked faintly, but his gaze drifted again to Cas at the edge of the room. The man hadn’t joined the conversation once — just kept working the hose, hands steady, eyes down, the golden lamplight catching the dark stubble along his jaw. Dean felt something twist in his chest.

It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was anger. Or maybe envy,

“Hey, Deano,” Benny said, breaking the thought. “You eat yet?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

Benny jerked his chin toward the pot on the stove. “Ellen’s cookin’. You best get in before Andy takes seconds.”

“I heard that,” Andy said, but didn’t stop spooning stew into his bowl.

Dean hesitated, then stood and joined the line forming near the counter. Ellen handed him a bowl, the thin soup steaming faintly, the smell of onion and barley cutting through the smoke.

“Eat,” she said, watching him like a hawk. “You’ve got that hollow look again.”

Dean mustered a faint smile. “You give that talk to everyone, or just me?”

“Only the ones who need it.”

He nodded, went back to the table, and sat across from Benny again. They ate in companionable quiet, the sound of spoons against tin the only rhythm for a while.

Charlie had given up on the radio, muttering about faulty tubes, and Meg was flicking ash out the open window. Jo had pulled her boots off and was massaging one ankle, exhaustion softening her usually sharp features.

Benny leaned back, eyes on the fire. “You married, kid?”

Dean nearly choked on his stew. “What? No.”

Benny grinned faintly. “Just askin’. You got the look of someone who left somethin’ behind.”

Dean frowned, pushing his bowl away. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Dean let out a long, shuddering breath, staring down at the blackened floorboards. “My mom… she died in a fire when the Blitz started. Tried to pull her out, tried to… God, it all went up too fast. Didn’t even… didn’t even find her.” His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard, tasting ash in his mouth.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, trying to push the memory back. “Dad… he left when I was little. Didn’t stick around, didn’t try to help. Just gone. Left me and Sammy to figure out life on our own.” His jaw clenched. “Sammy’s back in the States. Law school. Mom and I moved here, to London, about a year ago. Thought maybe… maybe I could do something that mattered, y’know?”

Benny nodded slowly, the lines on his face catching the dim light. “I hear you, son. Life’s cruel in ways it shouldn’t be. You did what you could. You’re here now.”

Dean’s hands clenched the edge of the table. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Benny nodded slowly, the lines on his face catching the dim light. “I hear you, son. Life’s cruel in ways it shouldn’t be. You did what you could. You’re here now.”

Dean’s hands clenched the edge of the table. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

Benny gave a quiet laugh, low and measured. “Enough’s all we can hope for. You survive, you get through the fire, you keep going. That’s… that’s what matters.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, then let his shoulders slump, exhaustion and grief pressing down. “I just… I wanted to save her.”

“You did what you could,” Benny said again, voice steady. “Don’t let the guilt eat you alive.”

Dean’s eyes flicked toward Cas, at the far edge of the room, hunched over his Bible as always. The man’s calm, unshakable presence made Dean’s chest tighten. He didn’t understand how Cas could carry himself like that. Untouchable, somehow protected from everything the world threw at them. And God… if Cas had God on his side, what did that leave Dean with?

Dean exhaled, bitter and quiet. “Some people get lucky,” he muttered under his breath.

Benny glanced up at him, expression unreadable, and nodded. “Maybe. But luck ain’t a strategy. You’ll find your way, kid. Just… keep moving.”

Dean lifted his gaze to the window, to the faint orange glow far in the distance where other fires still burned. He let Benny’s words settle, though the tight knot in his chest didn’t loosen. Tomorrow, he’d be back in the thick of it, and he’d have to ignore the pull in his stomach every time he looked at Cas, the envy, the irritation, the fascination that he didn’t dare name.

November 3rd, 1940

The Thames was a wall of black water under a sky gone orange at the edges. When the engine lurched to a stop on the cobbles of Mill Lane, the heat hit Dean like a physical blow, a wave of dry, searing air that made his eyes water and sharpened every sound until it was raw. Flames leapt from one warehouse to the next, smashing through windowed teeth and setting curtains of sparks into the wind. Barrels exploded like cannon shots; the echoes rolled across the river and came back, gin-clear and monstrous.

“Hydrants are shot — broken mains!” someone yelled. The pump engine strained, coughing. “We’ll have to run from the river.”

“Form a relay, quick!” Benny called, already hauling hose over his shoulder. “Gabriel, Rafe — take the east flank! Dean, you’re with Cas on the west. Keep that line moving. Charlie, get radios to the others! Andy — watch the civilians!”

Dean’s heart was hard enough to hear. He ran, boots slipping in wet ash, and found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Cas before he’d even had a second to think. 

They snapped into work. The first real battle of the night was to lay the line from the river up through the side alleys; it was a mile of hose and mud and swearing and achingly slow feet. Sparks fell like a fat, furious rain. Dean’s gloves steamed where they hit his skin; his throat tasted of metal and burnt rope.

“Keep the line straight!” Cas ordered without drama, his voice lost at first in the roar but cutting clean when it reached Dean. He didn’t shout, he didn’t bark,  he gave small, surgically precise commands, and men around them shifted into place.

They pushed forward into a choke of smoke to get to a back entrance where someone had reported movement. The air was thick enough to taste the fire. Dean could hear his own breathing like someone else’s — loud, panicked, close. Every step felt dangerous; every floorboard could be the one that gave.

A child’s thin keening cut through the noise, high and trapped. Dean’s hands went slick on the hose. “Window, second floor,” someone yelled. “They’re in the office space.”

Cas moved, and Dean moved with him. On the ladder, heat bled up their legs. Flames roared beneath them as if the structure were trying to swallow them whole. Dean’s fingers cramped on the rung. For a breathless second, fear punched through the numbness: the ladder shifted. He swore, palms stinging, and his stomach dropped like a stone. Fuck, he can’t die like this. 

Cas’s hand closed on his forearm — not a caress, not sentimental, just grip and iron. The hand steadied him. Dean swallowed and forced himself up and over the windowsill.

As soon as Dean stepped inside, his stomach twisted and bile rose unbidden. The room was a charnel pit of blackened shapes, bodies huddled on the floor, soot-coated and unmistakably still. He forced himself to check pulses, though he already knew the answer. Dead. Too late. Too far gone. His chest burned, a mix of helpless fury and grief clawing at him. He wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something—anything—but no sound would reach past the roar of fire and smoke. It wasn’t fair. They hadn’t had a chance to escape.

Dean pushed the panic down, forcing his eyes forward. The child they’d heard crying somewhere in the back had to be found. He scanned the wreckage, heart hammering, lungs aching.

Castiel stepped beside him as if he’d been there all along, expression calm, movements precise. He didn’t flinch at the bodies, didn’t allow the horror to touch him, the way Dean wanted to.

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, voice steady, cutting through the chaos. “Look east. I’ll take the west.”

Dean’s throat tightened. The world was fire and ash and smoke, but Cas moved like a still point in the storm. Dean swallowed, trying to mimic that focus, and turned toward the far side of the warehouse.

Cas was trusting him to go alone,  or maybe it wasn’t trust at all. Maybe it was necessity. The others were tied up with the warehouses down the street, where the flames had swallowed entire rows of housing. That left just the two of them here, in this half-collapsed ruin, where every beam groaned like it might give way at any second.

Dean pushed forward through the smoke, his coat heavy with soot, eyes burning. The air was thick enough to chew, every breath scraping like sandpaper down his throat. His boots crunched over glass and debris as he called out between coughs, straining to hear anything besides the roar of fire eating through wood.

“Hello?!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Anybody here?”

For a moment, there was nothing,  just the hiss and snap of burning timber. Then, faintly, a sound. A thin, high whimper.

Dean’s pulse kicked. He moved toward it, weaving around what used to be an office wall, half-melted typewriters and papers scattered like snow. A few meters in, he stopped short at a desk, scorched but still standing, sat crooked against a fallen beam. Beneath it, a pair of small, terrified eyes stared back at him.

“Hey..hey, it’s alright,” Dean said quickly, dropping to his knees. The boy couldn’t have been older than five, face smeared with soot, clutching a stuffed rabbit so tightly it was losing its shape. “You’re okay, kiddo. I got you.”

The boy shook his head, trembling, unable to speak through the smoke and fear. Dean ducked lower, ignoring the heat biting at his neck, and reached a hand under the desk.

“Come on, I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?” he coaxed, voice soft but urgent. “We gotta get outta here before the roof comes down.”

The boy hesitated, then crept forward enough for Dean to grab hold. His small fingers latched around Dean’s wrist like a lifeline.

“Good job,” Dean muttered, pulling him close, tucking the child against his chest. The kid’s heart was hammering, tiny and fast. “You’re safe now, alright? Just keep your head down.”

He turned, scanning for a clear exit, but the fire had other plans. The doorway he’d come through was already blocked by a wall of flame, the heat rolling toward them in waves.

“Shit,” Dean breathed, spinning on his heel. He shouted over his shoulder, “Cas!”

Somewhere beyond the smoke, a voice answered, steady and controlled. “Here!”

Dean could barely make out a figure through the haze, moving toward him, coat pulled tight, face streaked with ash. Cas was carrying a blanket, his movements deliberate, purposeful even as embers rained down around them.

“The main exit’s gone,” Dean said, shifting the boy higher in his arms. “We’re boxed in.”

Cas’s eyes flicked over the scene, calculating. “There’s a window to the west side, it may still be intact.”

“May?” Dean snapped, already feeling the weight of the kid in his arms.

Cas didn’t flinch. “Better odds than here.”

Dean wanted to argue, but Cas was already moving, pushing aside fallen boards with his shoulder, clearing a path. Dean followed, the boy coughing weakly against his chest.

Every second stretched thin with the crack of timber, the hiss of falling embers, the groan of the ceiling threatening to collapse.

When they finally reached the west wall, Cas smashed the remaining glass out with his elbow, ignoring the shards that tore through his sleeve. Smoke billowed into the cold night air.

Cas climbed out first, reaching toward the child with calm precision, ready to get him to safety. The boy clung tightly to Dean’s coat, face buried against his neck, small arms gripping like they could hold on forever.

“Hey there, little man,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice light, even as his own heart raced. “I’m gonna hand you over to my good friend here. He’s gonna take real good care of you. Think of it like… flying. Superman. Or, uh… Batman—whichever you like.”

For the first time that night, the boy let out a tiny, reluctant smile, loosening his grip. Carefully, Dean passed him into Cas’s waiting arms. The man’s touch was steady, unwavering, and the boy immediately seemed to sense it, settling against him without a word.

And then everything went to hell. Dean heard it before he saw it—a deep, groaning crack that split the roar of the flames. The ceiling above him shuddered violently, chunks of soot and plaster raining down. Instinct barely registered before the floor lurched beneath him, and he was thrown off balance, sliding hard across the scorched boards. Dust and smoke clawed at his throat, and for a heartbeat, the world was nothing but chaos.

“Cas!” Dean yelled, voice cracking, his heart hammering in his chest. Please be outside. Please have the boy. Please be okay.

Nothing. No reply, just the roar of flames, the groan of timber, and the crackling of falling beams.

Fuck. 

Dean tried to think. Training. Drills. Every fire he’d ever been in, every command he’d been taught, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He was utterly alone in the middle of a burning, collapsing building. Smoke stung his eyes, heat pressed against his back, and debris fell around him in a relentless rain.

Dean pressed forward, flames licking at every wall, smoke choking the air, and the heat pressing down like a physical weight. Every exit seemed blocked, every corridor a wall of fire and falling debris.

Goddammit. He was completely trapped. He was going to die here, all alone, in a burning building in the middle of London. The thought slammed into him with a cold, suffocating certainty, and panic clawed up his throat.

“Dean!” a voice suddenly cut through the roar of the fire and Dean’s thoughts. Cas. He’d come back. He was here. He was alright.

“Cas!” Dean rasped, voice raw from smoke and shouting. “Over here!”

He had no idea where Cas was, or how the hell he had even gotten inside. Every direction was flames and shadows, every step uncertain. 

Dean stumbled toward the voice, coughing as soot filled his lungs, heat pressing against his back. He could barely see through the smoke, walls glowing red-orange, embers falling like rain around him. Then, a shape emerged, Cas, rigid, eyes sharp, face streaked with ash. 

“You idiot!” Cas barked, his voice cutting through the roar of the fire like a blade. He grabbed Dean’s arm with a strength that made Dean stumble forward, heat licking at his back. “What the hell are you doing? Giving up?”

“Cas—” Dean’s voice cracked, ragged and uncertain. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say, his lungs burning, throat raw. He trailed off, and it was enough. Cas’s sharp eyes snapped back to reality, scanning Dean as though to make sure he was actually alive.

Then his piercing blue eyes swept the flames, sharp and unrelenting. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

Dean swallowed hard, coughing through the smoke. “Yeah, you think?” His voice was bitter, frantic, but it carried no real defiance, just panic.

Cas’s grip didn’t loosen. “Far north,” he said, voice low but precise. “There’s a clear area. Move, and stay on your damn feet.”

Dean followed Cas’s lead, every muscle burning, lungs screaming, heart hammering like it wanted to escape his chest. Through the haze of smoke and heat, he spotted it, a narrow window, barely wide enough for one person at a time. Relief surged, sharp and fleeting.

“This time, you go first,” Cas said, voice clipped, eyes blazing with frustration. “I can’t have any more of your idiocy getting stuck.”

Dean didn’t argue. He clambered through the window, scraping arms and legs against the rough frame, sweat and soot coating his skin. Once outside, he drew in a deep, ragged breath of the cooler night air, letting it fuel his legs as he slid down the ladder with precision.

Cas followed swiftly, silent but for the scrape of boots against metal. When they hit the ground, Dean barely had a moment to recover before Cas seized his collar, lifting his chin with surprising force.

“What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?” Cas’s voice was low, sharp, nearly a growl, each word heavy with anger and disbelief.

Dean opened his mouth, trying to explain, but the words stuck. Smoke and fear still clawed at his throat, and all he could manage was a hoarse, “I… I thought—”

Cas didn’t give him a moment to respond. His grip was firm, voice sharp, trembling with a rare edge Dean had never heard before. “You can’t just give up like that, Dean. People are counting on you. London is counting on you. You might not have noticed, but there aren’t enough of us to go around. You can’t just fucking die. People can’t just fucking die.”

Dean’s chest tightened. He’d never seen Cas lose that control, never seen him so raw, so human. The stoic, unreadable man who moved through fire as if it were nothing was suddenly trembling on the edge of anger. And it was because of him.

Dean drew a shaky breath and tried to muster his usual bravado. “Well damn,” he said, forcing a smirk, “you might want to quiet down, or the rest of the station might start thinking you don’t actually hate me.”

Cas blinked, eyes narrowing in momentary confusion, then softened, just slightly. His voice fell to a whisper, almost swallowed by the crackle of distant flames. “I—I don’t hate you, Dean.”

Dean’s smirk faltered. The words, quiet as they were, hit harder than anything Cas had ever said in his usual calm monotone.

“Oh.” The word felt stupid as soon as it left his mouth, but he couldn’t think of anything better. His throat was dry, chest still tight from running and smoke, and for once, words failed him entirely.

Cas said nothing, just gave a curt nod and began gathering the remaining hoses. Dean followed in silence, every step echoing with the unspoken weight between them. Neither spoke again as they made their way back to the station, the streets of London eerily quiet in the aftermath of the chaos they’d left behind.

November 5th, 1940

The station smelled like smoke and wet wool, the air thick with soot and sweat. Every surface seemed coated in the residue of the fire, a grim reminder of the chaos they had survived. Dean moved methodically, wiping down hoses, stacking helmets, and shaking out scorched coats. His hands were blackened, nails caked with grime, and every muscle ached as if the Docklands inferno had left a permanent mark on his body.

The others moved like shadows, silent, hollow-eyed. Benny whistled a slow, off-key tune as he stacked equipment, but no one laughed. Charlie picked at the radio, fingers smeared with soot, muttering something about static. Meg slumped into a chair, cigarette dangling limply, and Andy rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor. Ellen moved through the room with quiet efficiency, dabbing at minor burns, bandaging hands, her face calm but eyes betraying a fatigue deeper than anyone else’s.

Dean caught himself staring at Cas, who was sitting alone near the far wall, meticulously inspecting a hose. The man’s jaw was tight, sleeves rolled up, the faint smudge of soot on his cheeks. For the first time, Dean noticed the slight slump of his shoulders, the subtle catch in his breathing as if he were holding more than just air inside. He looked almost human, fragile even, though still impossibly controlled.

Benny, trying to break the weight of the silence, let out a chuckle. “Well, that was bloody spectacular, wasn’t it? We’re all heroes now. Maybe next time we can get medals and a parade.”

The room remained still. Not a single laugh. Benny gave a sheepish shrug and muttered, “Eh, nevermind.”

Dean wiped his hands on a rag and, almost without thinking, slid closer to Cas. The other man didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge him at first, but Dean’s voice softened.

“You saved my ass back there,” he said.

Cas’s hands paused, tightening slightly around the hose he was coiling. Then, finally, he looked up, eyes meeting Dean’s. “You’d have done the same,” he said simply, his voice low and even.

Dean blinked, surprised at the lack of bravado in the words, the absence of the stoic, untouchable armor he was used to. For a brief moment, he saw something else. Cas’s exhaustion, the weight of the fires and the people they couldn’t save, maybe even a flicker of warmth directed at him.

The rest of the station moved around them, silent and unbothered by the quiet exchange. Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away. He felt a strange pull, the first hint of something he couldn’t name, a tension and familiarity coiled together like smoke and fire.

As night fell, Dean made his way to his bunk, muscles sore and eyelids heavy. Across from him, Cas’s bunk sat empty for a moment, then he appeared, methodical as ever, settling in without a word. Dean listened to the faint sound of Cas breathing, steady but shallow, the rhythm almost comforting. Outside, distant bombs echoed through the city, the pulse of war unrelenting.

Dean lay awake, staring at the faint silhouette of Cas across the room, thinking about the fire, the chaos, and the people they had lost. The city was burning, the world was unforgiving, but somehow, in the quiet and soot, there was a fleeting sense of survival.

Chapter Text

November 12th, 1940

The London fog was low and heavy with smoke and coal that didn’t leave the East End. Dean pulled his work coat tighter around him, clinging to any warmth he could get. His boots crunched against the cobblestone covered in frost to the yard of the station. The streets were eerily quiet, everyone too afraid to leave their homes, unsure of what is out there. There was an occasional wail of a siren but ultimately it sounded like London had already died. No birds chirping or children playing. Just more of the same deafening silence. The tension weighed down on Dean like a physical weight, and Dean wished more than anything this war would end. 

Benny caught up to him, hands shoved in his pockets, the corners of his mouth turned up in that slow, easy grin that Dean had come to respect. “Look at you, kid,” he said. “Like a bloody ghost, all nerves and cold fingers.”

Dean shrugged, trying to shake off the chill. “Been a long week,” he muttered, though Benny clearly didn’t need the explanation.

“You look like hell,” Benny said, eyes scanning him, blue and sharp. “Didn’t get much sleep?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t. Not since the Docklands fire. Every time he closed his eyes, the screams, the smoke, the bodies, came right back. “Yeah. Not exactly peaceful,” he admitted, voice low.

Benny’s grin softened. “Ain’t nothing peaceful about this war, son. Best you get used to it.”

They arrived at the yard, and Dean’s gaze swept over the small patch of controlled chaos. A few of the men were lazily kicking a football back and forth, their laughter cutting through the crisp air. Others ran laps or did push-ups, muscles straining, keeping themselves sharp and ready. Andy, Meg, and Charlie were gathered on the edge of the yard, sharing a cigarette and trading stories, their voices bright against the weight of the war outside.

Dean’s eyes inevitably found Castiel, as they always did. Unsurprisingly, he was alone, seated on a worn bench, hands folded loosely in his lap. His posture was straight, still, unshaken, as if the world and its chaos could pass over him without leaving a mark. Around him, life carried on,  laughter, shouts, the small, desperate attempts at normalcy, but Cas remained apart, a quiet island in the middle of the station’s tentative joy, expressionless and utterly motionless.

A sharp voice cut through the morning air. “Castiel! There you are!”

Dean turned to see a woman moving toward them, a warden’s uniform marking her as an Air Raid Precautions officer. Auburn hair had escaped from a loose braid, framing a face that was sharp and confident but softened by kindness. She moved with the easy authority of someone used to being needed, her eyes scanning the station with precise focus.

Cas’s posture shifted imperceptibly. He seemed to have had weights taken off of him and his whole face lifted. He smiled as he said her name. “Anna. What are you doing here?” 

“I had to come check in on my brother, didn’t I?”

Brother? Dean blinked. Cas had siblings?

Anna laughed, eyes sparkling with mischief, before Cas replied.“Brother? Anna, even all those years at seminary don’t make us related.”

Cas’s smile was wider than Dean had ever seen, softening the stoic mask he usually wore. Something clicked in Dean’s mind. Seminary. Dean’s mind raced, putting pieces together. The quiet way Cas prayed during breaks. The careful, measured way he moved through the station. The vocabulary, the tone, the weight in his voice when he spoke about right and wrong. Seminary. It all made sense now. A life of discipline, of structure, of trying to do what’s “just,” even before the war had claimed the streets of London.

Anna tore her glance over to Dean, who was standing nearby with Benny.

“You must be Dean Winchester, the new transfer. Cas’s been talking about you,” she said, her tone bright but teasing.

Dean froze. What? What the hell could Cas have possibly said?

Anna’s lips quirked in a knowing smile, as if she could read his thoughts. “Don’t worry, all good things. Mostly that you’re a pain in his ass, of course.”

“Hey, now that’s just plain wrong. I thought we were friends, Cas,” Dean said, grinning despite the flutter in his chest.

For the first time since the conversation started, Cas looked up at him. There was no anger, no judgment—just that same unreadable calm, but beneath it, Dean swore he could see a flicker of something else. Something guarded. Something Cas didn’t want to show.

“We are not friends,” Cas said quietly, voice steady as ever. But Dean knew better. The way Cas’s eyes lingered on him, the subtle shift in his posture. He was lying.

Dean smirked, though his stomach twisted with frustration and curiosity. “Right. Not friends. Sure. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cas said nothing, just turned his gaze back toward Anna, and carried on in their conversation, probably catching her up on the eventful past few weeks. 

The peace at the station didn’t last long. Just as the crew had begun to settle into the thin quiet that came after a long day, the wail of the sirens cut through the night like a knife. Dean’s stomach dropped as he grabbed his gear, adrenaline immediately sharpening his senses.

“Wapping Tenement!” someone shouted, the name of the district sending a fresh wave of urgency through the room. The men moved with rehearsed precision, but Dean felt the familiar twinge of nerves crawl up his spine. This was no drill. This was fire, smoke, death.

Benny clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You ready, lad? Keep your head, and don’t do anything daft again.”

Dean swallowed hard, trying to shove down the lump in his throat. “Yeah… yeah, I’m ready.”

The engine roared to life beneath them, tires screeching slightly as they barreled through the darkened streets of London. Flames already licked the sky above the tenement buildings, reflected in shattered windows and blackened brick. Smoke coiled upward in thick, suffocating columns. Civilians ran through the streets, screaming for loved ones, clutching blankets, babies, and whatever they could carry. The air was thick with heat, soot, and panic.

“Pressure’s dropping!” Rafe shouted from the back of the engine, hands flying over the controls. “We’ll need to hook into the hydrants manually!”

Dean felt Cas’s presence beside him as the engine skidded to a halt. He could barely see the man through the haze of smoke and lamplight, but Cas moved with a quiet authority, eyes scanning the chaos around them.

Dean sat next to him, hands trembling, trying desperately to calm the tremor that ran from his fingers up through his arms. His chest felt tight, lungs clawing for air, and every image from the docks, flames licking at wooden beams, faces twisted in fear, the blackened bodies of those they couldn’t save, flashed through his mind.

He wanted to turn away, to bury himself in sleep, to run back to Kansas where none of this could touch him. He was weak. God, he was so fucking weak. He should’ve stayed home. Why the hell was he even here? His thoughts spiraled, vicious and unrelenting, dragging him down into a pit of guilt and terror.

The world seemed to shrink to just him and the chaos in his mind, until a steady, cutting voice broke through.

“Dean? Dean!”

He blinked, head snapping up. Cas stood a few feet away, calm and precise as ever, eyes fixed on him like a lifeline. “We have to go. Now.”

Dean forced himself to his feet, hands still shaking, voice rough. “Yeah, yeah… coming.” He swallowed hard, letting the knot in his stomach tighten just a little more as he adjusted his gear.

The crew had already been assigned. Orders barked, instructions shouted, and in the organized chaos, Dean found himself paired with Cas once again. They were to enter the main building, a five-story tenement with a fire already raging in the upper floors.

Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs, sweat prickling his skin despite the chill night air. Every step toward the building felt like a march toward death.

“Watch your footing,” Cas said softly, his voice even but firm. “Debris is unstable, walls could give at any moment. Stick close. Move fast.”

Dean nodded, fingers tightening around the hose. “Yeah… got it.”

They approached the main entrance together. Flames already clawed at the windows on the third floor, smoke spilling into the street in thick, choking clouds. Civilians pressed against the barricades, some screaming for help, some staring blankly at the destruction, shock painting their faces in pale streaks. Dean’s chest twisted. He wanted to reach them all, to save them all, but he knew he couldn’t. Not by himself.

“Dean, left flank,” Cas said, gesturing toward the east side of the building. “I’ll take right. Keep low. Move quickly. Listen for cries.”

Dean nodded again, forcing his legs to obey, even as his mind begged him to run. Every step inside was suffocating—heat rolled off the walls in waves, smoke stung his eyes, ash coated his hair and lungs. He could barely see the stairs, let alone the upper floors. Dean tried to focus on the rhythm of his own steps, the feel of the hose in his hands, anything to stop his mind from panicking. But then he heard it—a faint, terrified whimper coming from somewhere above. His stomach dropped.

“Cas! Up there!” Dean shouted, pointing.

Cas’s eyes locked onto the source instantly, calm as ever, and he nodded. “Stay here. Cover the exit. I’ll grab them.”

Dean shook his head, heart hammering. “I’m coming with you. We—”

“You’ll just slow me down,” Cas interrupted, voice clipped, no room for argument. “Trust me.”

Dean hesitated, chest tight. He wanted to argue, wanted to fight, but the fire wasn’t waiting. He swallowed his fear and stayed put, gripping the hose and counting every heartbeat as Cas disappeared into the smoke.

The walked through each room as best they could, clearing them, getting people to safety, putting out as much of the fire as possible with the little fire they had. Dean glanced over at Cas to say something and noticed Cas was already staring at him intently. There was no hatred in his eyes or disgust, but instead almost admiration, a note of something sweeter. But as soon as he noticed Dean was looking right back at him, he looked away and his face was blank once again. 

As they started for the exit, the building gave a low, guttural groan—wood and metal shifting under the weight of the flames.

“Cas—” Dean started, but before he could finish, a beam splintered loose from above. It crashed down hard, throwing sparks and smoke, and the force drove them both back against the wall.

Cas’s arm instinctively wrapped around Dean to pull him back. Dean’s breath caught. His back pressed flush against Cas’s chest, the air squeezed from his lungs. For a second, he thought he’d been hit, then realized it was Cas’s heartbeat thudding against him.

The heat was unbearable. Smoke stung his eyes. He could feel Cas’s breath against the side of his neck, short, controlled, like he was trying not to panic. Dean’s pulse raced in sync with his. Their hips almost touched, close enough that Dean could feel every tremor in Cas’s chest.

“Don’t—move,” Cas managed, voice hoarse from smoke.

Dean swallowed, his mouth dry. “Not—really in a position to, buddy.”

Cas hadn’t moved his arm from around Dean’s chest. His hand was still fisted in Dean’s shirt, knuckles white. For a second, neither of them spoke. Dean could feel Cas’s pulse getting faster and more uneven through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Cas…” Dean started, voice rough, but Cas cut him off before he could say more.

“Change of plans,” Cas said, still catching his breath. His voice was steady again, commanding. “We have to go back the way we came.”

Dean gave a short, humorless laugh. “Through the fire? Brilliant.”

Cas finally released his shirt and stepped around him, eyes sharp again. “Unless you have a better idea.”

Dean didn’t. Not one.

Cas finally loosened his grip and pulled back, the warmth of him vanishing as he shifted out from behind Dean. He turned without a word, brushing soot from his sleeve like nothing had happened, and started forward from where they came. The space between them filled instantly with heat and smoke, thick and suffocating.

He didn’t look back, just moved with that same sure stride, straight toward the flames.

Dean hesitated, still feeling the ghost of Cas’s hand at his chest, the echo of his heartbeat where their bodies had nearly pressed together. Then he swallowed hard, forced his legs to move, and followed.

Cas’s voice cut through the roar of the fire, low and commanding but rough with smoke. “There’s too much smoke. Take off a layer and cover your face.” He coughed, glancing back just long enough for Dean to see the ash streaking his jaw. “Grab onto me. We’re almost to an exit.”

Dean hesitated, his gloved fingers frozen halfway to the buttons on his coat. The air was thick enough to choke on, but Cas’s words, grab onto me, cut through everything else.

“Right,” Dean muttered, yanking off his outer layer and wrapping it around his mouth and nose. The fabric was hot, rough, and reeked of smoke. He reached out, catching Cas’s shoulder through the haze. Cas’s muscles were tense beneath his coat, steady in a way Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever be.

“Don’t let go,” Cas said.

Dean almost laughed, half panic, half disbelief. “Yeah, sure thing, sunshine. You lead, I’ll hang on.”

Cas didn’t respond, just moved forward through the heat, dragging Dean by the wrist. The world shrank to sound and touch, the crackle of flame, the groan of collapsing beams, the searing sting in his lungs. His vision blurred, but he kept his grip on Cas, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his jacket.

And then finally, air.

Cold night air hit him like a punch. They stumbled out of the doorway and into the open street, both dropping to their knees. Dean tore the coat from his face, gasping like he’d never breathed before. Cas was beside him, hunched over, breathing heavy,  soot smeared from his hairline to his collar.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Just the sound of the fire behind them, roaring like it still wanted to swallow them whole.

Dean huffed out a half-laugh, half-cough, wiping soot from his face with the back of his glove. “Saved my ass yet again, Cas. Guess I’m gonna have to start repaying you.”

Cas turned his head, eyes catching Dean’s through the haze of smoke and flickering light. His voice was raw, cracked from the heat, but the edge in it was unmistakable.“Maybe if you stopped being so stupid,” he rasped, “I wouldn’t have to keep saving you.”

Dean smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, guess you’re stuck with me either way.”

Cas didn’t answer. Just looked at him for a long, unreadable second before standing, brushing the soot from his coat, and turning back toward the station.

Dean stayed where he was, watching him walk away through the smoke.

He couldn’t tell if Cas was angry, or scared, or something else entirely.

November 13th, 1940

The next day passed in a blur of gray skies and colder air, the kind that bit through the walls of the station no matter how high they stoked the fire. Everything felt mostly the same, the routine, the chatter, the weary rhythm of survival, except for one thing: Cas was nowhere to be found.

It wasn’t just that he wasn’t talking to Dean; it was like he was avoiding him. The man had a knack for silence, sure, but this was deliberate. Controlled. Every step Dean took seemed to be one Cas had already anticipated and sidestepped.

He wasn’t in the kitchen at breakfast or lunch, and Ellen said he’d already eaten earlier, though she didn’t say when. He wasn’t in the yard either, where he usually sat on that same worn bench, hands folded like he was praying or thinking too much. Benny and Andy were tossing a football around, Charlie was fussing with the radio, and Jo was scribbling something in a notebook, but Cas was a ghost.

By the time Dean checked their quarters, he was beginning to actually be worried about the guy. Cas’s bed was perfectly made, tighter than regulation, not a wrinkle or a fold out of place. It didn’t even look like anyone had slept there.

Dean stood in the doorway for a long moment, fingers drumming against the frame. The absence felt sharp, like a noise cut off mid-note. He told himself it didn’t matter. That Cas was probably just working extra, or off fixing something, or whatever the hell it was that Cas did when he wasn’t silently judging him.

So Dean spends the morning doing what he did best, keeping busy so he didn’t have to think. He scrubbed the engine floor until his hands ached, checked hoses that didn’t need checking, and even helped Andy haul coal to the furnace. Anything to drown out the thought that maybe he’d actually pissed Cas off for good this time.

When the air in the station started feeling too thick, he stepped outside. The chill hit him like a slap, cold enough to bite at his fingers as he fished for a cigarette. The match flared bright in the dusk, and for a second, it felt like peace, smoke curling out into the gray London sky, sirens blessedly silent.

He was halfway through his smoke when he saw him.

Cas.

He was crossing the yard, not in uniform but in plain clothes, a dark wool coat buttoned to his throat, a white shirt, pressed slacks. His hair was still damp, slicked back in a way that made him look almost like the man he might have been before all of this started. Except his expression was all wrong.

There was something too tight in the set of his jaw, too sharp in the lines around his eyes. Dean froze, cigarette halfway to his lips.

Cas looked smaller somehow, shoulders drawn in, his usual steady composure cracked around the edges. And when his eyes finally met Dean’s, the flash of emotion there wasn’t anger but something messier, heavier. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he’d been crying, though Dean couldn’t begin to imagine why.

“You coming from somewhere fancy?” he asked, voice light but carrying that edge he used when he didn’t know how else to reach someone.

Cas didn’t even slow down. “It’s none of your business, Dean.”

Dean raised a brow, flicked ash toward the cobblestones. “Actually, as part of the station, I feel like it is my business, considering whatever’s got you this riled up might affect morale and teamwork.”

Cas stopped dead in his tracks, head turning sharply toward him. “Morale…” he repeated, voice quiet but dangerous. “Dean, I suggest you stop talking. Like I said, it is none of your business.”

Dean frowned. “Cas, I—”

“Dean.”

His name landed like a slap—low, final, and full of warning.

Dean’s mouth snapped shut.

“We are not friends,” Cas snapped, his voice cutting clean through the cold air. “We’re not going to sit here and braid each other’s hair and talk about our feelings. We just work together.”

Dean blinked, thrown by the sudden bite in his tone. “Cas, I didn’t—”

“You need to start taking this seriously,” Cas interrupted, stepping in closer, eyes sharp and blazing. “And you need to have some respect. I’m a senior firefighter, and you just got here, acting like you run the damn place. You understand me?”

Dean swallowed hard, jaw clenching. “I understand.”

Cas gave a short, stiff nod, then brushed past him, muttering, “Good. Now move, you’re blocking the door.”

Dean stepped aside, watching as Cas disappeared into the station, his coat brushing against Dean’s arm as he passed. The air felt heavier in his wake, like the space he’d left behind still buzzed with everything unsaid.

November 21st, 1940

The station smelled faintly of burnt wood and simmering stew, a warm relief from the usual acrid scent that clung to every corner of London. Dean had taken it upon himself to claim Thanksgiving as a thing, even if there wasn’t much to be thankful for these days and he was in the middle of England.

The past few days between Dean and Cas had been devoid of anything resembling warmth. They moved around each other like clockwork: mechanical, efficient, polite. “Good morning.” “Pass the salt.” “Heard they’re hitting the East End again tonight.” It was all routine, stripped of even the anger that had once flickered between them.

And yet, somehow in the middle of one of those stilted exchanges, he’d managed to talk Cas into celebrating Thanksgiving with him. American Thanksgiving.

It had started as a joke, really. Dean had been complaining about missing home cooking, about how back in Kansas, his mom used to make mashed potatoes so creamy they’d ruin you for any other kind. Cas, standing by the window, arms crossed, had muttered something like, “It’s not even a real holiday.”

“Blasphemy,” Dean had shot back with mock offense. “It’s sacred tradition, Cas. Family, food, pretending you don’t hate the people you live with.”

To his surprise, Cas hadn’t argued. He’d only tilted his head slightly and said, “If it gets you to shut the hell up, then I’ll come.”

That had been two days ago and now Cas sat in front of him, looking every bit as unimpressed as Dean had expected.

 “Come on, Cas,” he said, dragging a reluctant figure toward the table. “You’ve got to try at least one bite of Ellen’s pie. It’s a crime against England if you don’t.”

Cas’s brow furrowed slightly. “Dean… I’m not certain I—”

“Not certain you’ll what? Enjoy it? It’s dessert, not calculus,” Dean interrupted, grinning. “You need to lighten up once in a while.”

Castiel’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, and Dean felt a small thrill at the faintest curve. 

It made Dean’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite name.

Dean grabbed a forkful of steaming pie and took a bite. “See? It’s divine,” he said, tongue only half-joking.

“Divine?” Cas repeated, his tone flat, though his eyes followed Dean’s movements with unusual attentiveness. “You’re aware that the word has a very specific—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, waving him off. “Don’t ruin the metaphor. Just eat.”

Cas finally took the fork, piercing a piece of pie with precision. He lifted it to his mouth and paused, then carefully chewed. “It… is satisfactory,” he admitted, voice quiet. Not a smile, but close enough to make Dean’s grin widen.

Dean leaned back, fork in hand, watching Cas’s methodical movements. “You know, you don’t have to be perfect about everything, you know. You can just… taste it and enjoy it without calculating how many calories or—”

“I am not calculating,” Cas replied, almost defensively, though Dean caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Dean chuckled. “Sure. That’s what you tell yourself, buddy. But hey, that’s why we’re friends.”

Cas froze mid-bite, gaze flicking to Dean, sharp and unreadable. “We are not friends, Dean.”

Dean snorted, shaking his head. “You just don’t know it yet.”

There was a beat of silence before Cas carefully lowered his fork, staring at it for a moment like it contained the answers to the universe. Dean leaned back and let himself watch him, appreciating the rare quiet in the middle of chaos.

After a while, Dean spoke softer, more thoughtful than usual. “You know, I don’t know how you do it. I never really believed in God. My mom, she sure did. She had this unshakable faith, even when the world was burning around us. She tried to teach me, but… I don’t know. I just couldn’t. Too many things happened. Too much fucking fire. Too much loss. I don’t know how to trust that anything’s looking out for me, or anyone.”

Cas was silent, watching him with an intensity that made Dean feel exposed, but strangely… safe. It wasn’t pity, not even sympathy exactly. It was something steadier, quieter, like he was listening in a way Dean had never been listened to.

Finally, Cas spoke, voice measured but soft. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”

Dean blinked, caught off guard, and then let out a short laugh. “Wait… did you just… Bible-verse me after I just barfed my soul all over you?” His tone was joking, but there was a tremor beneath it as he tried to process the depth of Cas’s words.

Cas tilted his head slightly, eyes calm and unwavering. “I was merely telling you where it comes from, Dean. Without God… hell, I think I wouldn’t have the strength to keep going.”

The admission hung in the air, quiet but heavy. Dean’s chest tightened. For the first time, he understood that Cas leaned on faith the way Dean clung to his fear, the way he held on to anger, to adrenaline, to the chaos that gave him a reason to keep moving forward. It wasn’t certainty. It was survival.

Dean exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Huh. Guess we’re not so different, you and me. Just have different crutches.”

Cas’s lips barely twitched, almost a smile, almost acknowledgment. 

They were interrupted by the rest of the crew streaming into the room, boots clunking on the floorboards and coats dusted with soot. Andy’s voice rang out above the chatter. “I’m claiming all the mashed potatoes! Don’t even think about it, Winchester!”

Dean laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey! Fair warning, buddy. These spuds aren’t going to save themselves.”

Benny leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised as he glanced at the spread. “And where exactly is the real food? Turkey, gravy… something that doesn’t taste like a boiled cow?”

Meg snorted, flicking ash from her cigarette into a tin. “You mean you want it cooked, Benny? Didn’t know you were fancy.”

Charlie rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath about proper seasoning and England’s hatred for anything American. Dean caught most of it, grinning. “Guess they’re not big fans of American delicacies, huh?”

Cas, quiet as ever, remained seated beside Dean, his hands folded neatly in front of him. Dean glanced over, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “C’mon, Cas, you’ve got to try a bite of something else. Don’t tell me the big, bad fireman’s afraid of my famous mashed potatoes.”

Cas’s lips twitched, a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “I’ll taste,” he said simply, voice calm, measured. But when he took a bite, Dean noticed something—he chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring a small comfort in a world that rarely offered any.

Dean felt a warmth in his chest. This laughter, this mess, these small, human moments, this was what he’d been missing. Sitting here, sharing jokes and mashed potatoes with people who had fought just as hard to stay alive, he felt something he hadn’t felt in months. Home.

Even as the night wore on, the crew joking and teasing one another, Dean caught bits and pieces of their stories. Andy laughing about a shipment gone wrong at the docks, Meg making a sarcastic comment about some overzealous fire warden, Charlie muttering about a botched radio repair. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Cas remained quietly attentive, his calm presence steadying the chaos without a word.

Dean leaned back, letting the laughter wash over him, the smell of stew and roasting potatoes filling the air. This was his family now. The jokes, the fires, the strength, the people who would run headfirst into danger without hesitation.

Chapter Text

December 28th, 1940

The transfer orders came early that morning, crisp and impersonal on Bobby’s desk. Dean hadn’t even finished his cup of tea before he called his name and slid the sheet across the table. 

“Temporary reinforcement,” he said, voice low, “You and Castiel to report to St. Paul’s by the evening. They need more men.” 

Dean blinked down at the paper, the ink bleeding just slightly from Bobby’s pen. St. Paul’s. The heart of the city. The firebombs had been merciless there. Everyone at the station knew the cathedral had somehow survived the worst of it, an impossible, shining miracle surrounded by ruin. But the Luftwaffe had been making nightly runs for weeks now, and miracles didn’t tend to hold out forever.

“Just us?” Dean asked, frowning.

Bobby nodded, jaw tight. “Command says they’re short-staffed, lost half a crew last night. You two are the best we’ve got standing and not half-dead.”

Across the table, Castiel stood motionless, already half in uniform, coat perfectly buttoned, eyes unreadable. He didn’t react—didn’t even blink. Just gave a single nod.

“Understood,” Cas said, voice flat as slate.

Dean wanted to say something, anything, to shake that cold distance that had settled between them these past few weeks. But all that came out was a muttered, “Right. St. Paul’s it is.”

The city changed as they drove in.

The further they went, the worse it got. Entire streets turned to ash, buildings caved in like crushed ribcages, window glass scattered across the cobblestones like diamonds in the soot. They passed a half-collapsed pub, still smoldering, a painted sign reading The King’s Arms dangling by a single hinge. A woman stood outside in her nightdress, hair gray with dust, holding a teacup like she didn’t remember where she’d found it.

Dean looked out the truck window and said nothing.

Cas drove with both hands tight on the wheel, posture perfect, face unreadable. Every now and then, a flash from outside, some half-remembered hymn bleeding through the radio static, or the sound of bells in the distance, made his jaw twitch, but otherwise, he didn’t speak.

Dean hated the silence. It was too heavy, too loaded. Every breath in that cramped cab felt like a confession left unsaid.

He tried, once. “Have you ever been inside it? The cathedral, I mean?”

Cas’s eyes didn’t move from the road. “Once. Years ago.”

That was all he said the rest of the drive.

They reached St. Paul’s by late afternoon, the winter light a weak gray smudge behind clouds. The cathedral rose up before them, majestic even under siege. Smoke curled lazily around its dome, and the surrounding blocks were a graveyard of brick and timber. The firewatch units stationed nearby moved like ghosts among the ruins, faces smudged, eyes hollow.

Dean stepped out of the truck and stared up at it. “Hell of a sight,” he muttered.

Cas stood beside him, hands behind his back, face tilted toward the great dome. “It’s a symbol,” he said quietly. “They say if St. Paul’s falls, London falls.”

Dean gave a low whistle. “Guess that means we better make damn sure it doesn’t.”

No response. Just that same stone-faced silence.

The assignment wasn’t glamorous. They were posted to a small outpost near Ludgate Hill, not far from the cathedral steps. Their main job was to patrol rooftops and watch for incendiaries, tiny magnesium bombs that could burn through stone if left unchecked.

It was brutal, cold work. The wind whipped through the narrow alleys like a living thing, carrying with it the stench of smoke and charred wood. They moved from building to building, checking the sky every few minutes, scanning for the flicker of falling light.

Dean tried to focus on the job, but Cas’s silence gnawed at him.

Every time Dean spoke, Cas gave him one-word answers. Every time Dean cracked a joke to lighten the tension, Cas ignored it. When Dean offered him a cigarette, Cas shook his head. When Dean offered his flask, Cas said, “Not while on duty.”

“Christ, you ever loosen up?” Dean muttered under his breath.

Cas glanced at him then, blue eyes catching the faint light from the fires below. “Not when lives are on the line.”

Dean scoffed. “You ever stop thinking about duty for five seconds? You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

Cas turned back to the street, jaw set. “Better me than someone else.”

That shut Dean up.

Hours passed. The city below them glowed orange and red, a steady pulse of ruin. Occasionally, they’d hear the dull boom of bombs in the distance, like thunder rolling across a dying sky.

Dean tried not to think about home. Tried not to picture his mother at the kitchen table, lighting a candle before dinner like she always used to, whispering words he never understood.

He wondered if she’d light one for him now, across an ocean, for a son who didn’t even believe.

He exhaled a long breath, watching it fog in the cold air. “You think He’s watching all this?” he asked finally.

Cas looked at him, caught off guard.

“God,” Dean clarified. “You think He’s just sittin’ up there, watching us burn?”

Cas didn’t answer right away. His eyes tracked the smoke curling around the cathedral dome. “Maybe He’s weeping,” he said finally.

Dean huffed. “Doesn’t help much, does it?”

“No,” Cas admitted. “But maybe it’s not meant to.”

Dean studied him, the way his face softened when he said it. “You really still believe in all that? After everything?”

Cas’s eyes flicked to him, sharp, blue, unreadable. “Belief isn’t about convenience. It’s about faith.”

Dean snorted. “Guess I’m not built for that kind of faith.”

“I know,” Cas said simply.

The words stung more than Dean expected.

Later that night, they were ordered to stay near the cathedral itself as enemy bombers had been spotted crossing the Channel. They hunkered down in a narrow alley, fire hoses ready, buckets of sand lined against the wall. The air was tense, electric.

Dean sat on an overturned crate, fiddling with his lighter, watching Cas pace. He moved like a man waiting for judgment, every step measured.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “You ever stop moving?”

Cas didn’t even look at him. “You ever stop talking?”

Dean smirked, but there was no heat in it. “Fair enough.”

A siren wailed in the distance. The night sky began to glow faintly red, and then the first incendiaries fell.

They came like rain.

Tiny streaks of light, silent until impact. Dean ducked instinctively as one smashed through a nearby roof, exploding into white flame. The world turned chaos in an instant. Shouts echoed down the street, men grabbing buckets, hoses, shovels.

Cas was already moving, shouting orders. “Rooftop! Now!”

Dean followed without thinking. The two of them climbed the narrow fire escape, smoke already stinging their eyes. By the time they reached the top, the building across the way was fully alight, the flames licking up its walls like hungry fingers.

Cas pointed. “There—incendiary on the lower roof! We can reach it with the hose!”

Dean nodded, grabbing the line. Together they worked in rhythm, throwing sand, dousing sparks, kicking burning debris away from the edges. The heat was unbearable, the air too thick to breathe.

Somewhere below, someone screamed.

Dean risked a glance over the parapet and saw a group of wardens trying to form a bucket chain, the fire closing in too fast. He swore and looked to Cas.

“I’m going down!”

Cas caught his arm. “No, Dean!”

But Dean was already moving. He slid down the escape, coughing, stumbling through the smoke. The street was absolute chaos. Buckets spilling, men shouting, glass exploding. He found the trapped wardens near a fallen beam, one of them pinned beneath it.

He threw his shoulder against the wood, muscles straining. “Cas! A little help!”

Cas appeared seconds later, face streaked with soot, and together they heaved the beam off the man’s leg. They dragged him clear, gasping for air.

The ground trembled as another bomb fell somewhere nearby.

Cas looked up, eyes reflecting the orange glow of the cathedral. “We have to fall back!”

Dean hesitated. “The building—”

“Dean!” Cas shouted, grabbing his coat. “Move!”

They stumbled back toward the cathedral square, the heat at their backs. Dean’s lungs burned. The sound of the fires mixed with the faint ringing of the cathedral’s bells, a desperate, fragile sound.

When they finally stopped, both men were shaking, coughing, covered in ash. The flames danced high into the night, reflected in Cas’s eyes.

Dean caught his breath, leaning against a lamppost. “You’re welcome,” he rasped.

Cas shot him a glare. “You disobeyed orders. Again.”

Dean laughed hoarsely. “Yeah, well, worked out, didn’t it?”

Cas stepped closer, voice low and fierce. “You think this is a game? You could have been killed.”

Dean smirked weakly. “Wouldn’t be the first time you saved my ass.”

Cas’s expression shifted, something almost human flickering beneath the anger. “You make it very hard not to care,” he said softly, so quietly Dean almost didn’t hear.

Dean froze, the words hanging between them, heavy and electric. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t even know what to think.

Then Cas turned away, shoulders rigid. “Get some rest,” he said, voice low. “We start again at dawn.”

Dean watched him go, watched the shape of him disappear into the smoke and light. For a long moment, he stood there, heart still hammering, the echo of Cas’s words ringing louder than the bells.

When he finally turned toward the cathedral, the dome gleamed faintly against the firelit sky, scarred but standing. Somehow, impossibly, still standing.

He lit a cigarette with shaking hands and whispered to no one, “Guess maybe He is watching after all.”

December 29th, 1940

By the time the sun came up, the city looked half-dead.

The fires had smoldered all night, leaving only smoke and silence behind. Whole blocks near Ludgate Hill were flattened, the air still thick with the metallic taste of ash. The men worked through the morning clearing debris, too tired to speak. Every now and then, someone would find a body, and no one would say a damn thing.

Dean’s hands were blistered and raw. His throat felt lined with sandpaper. He’d been running on fumes for hours, running mostly on the stubborn part of himself that refused to stop while Cas was still standing.

And Cas was still standing, barely. His coat was torn, hair matted with soot, eyes red from smoke, but his posture hadn’t changed. He moved with that same mechanical precision, lifting, ordering, checking, as if sheer control might hold the world together.

Dean watched him from a distance as they loaded the last of the gear onto the truck. 

When Bobby’s message reached them just after noon, it was simple: Stay there until further notice. Housing arranged at St. Bride’s rest quarters.

Rest. Sure.

The “rest quarters” turned out to be a drafty room above a half-bombed print shop, close enough to St. Paul’s that Dean could still smell the smoke from last night’s blaze. Two narrow bunks, one cracked window, a single oil lamp flickering on a rickety table.

“Cozy,” Dean muttered as he dropped his kit onto the floor.

Cas said nothing. He stepped inside, placed his folded coat neatly on one bed, and sat down without removing his boots. The quiet stretched so long Dean could hear the faint tick of the lamp’s flame.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the nerves prickling under his skin. “You know, Cas, you don’t gotta keep looking like someone shot your dog. We made it out. Cathedral’s still standing. Call that a win.”

Cas looked up at him then and something in those blue eyes nearly knocked the wind out of him. Not anger this time. Not even exhaustion. Just weight. Like everything he’d been holding back for months was right there behind his ribs, fighting to get out.

Dean cleared his throat. “You alright?”

Cas blinked slowly. “You ask that question as if you expect an honest answer.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “I wouldn't know what to do with one if I got it.”

Cas’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Then it seems we understand each other.”

“Yeah,” Dean said softly. “Guess we do.”

They didn’t talk much that afternoon. Cas wrote something in a small notebook he kept in his pocket, eyes down, pen moving carefully across the page. Dean cleaned his boots, then the hose coupling, then his boots again, anything to keep his hands busy.

Outside, the daylight dimmed. The sirens had gone quiet for once, the city caught in that eerie calm that always came before another raid.

When the church bells struck eight, Dean looked up. Cas was still sitting at the table, hands folded now, eyes closed. Praying, probably. His lips moved, barely audible.

Dean stared for a long time.

He remembered his mother’s voice, soft and steady as she’d knelt by her bed at night: Our Father who art in heaven…

He remembered sitting in the hallway listening, never saying it with her. Never sure if anyone was listening at all.

“Does it help?” he asked suddenly.

Cas opened his eyes. “What?”

“Prayin’,” Dean said. “Does it actually help?”

Cas regarded him for a moment, like he was deciding how honest to be. “It reminds me that I’m not the one in control,” he said finally.

Dean leaned back against the wall. “That supposed to make you feel better?”

Cas’s gaze dropped. “Sometimes.”

Dean took a long breath. “My mom used to pray. Every night. Even when my dad never came home, even when the bills piled up, even when… everything went to hell. She still did it.”

Cas watched him quietly.

Dean’s throat tightened. “I figured somebody that stubborn deserved an answer. But then she died, and I stopped trying.”

Silence filled the room — heavy, reverent.

Finally, Cas said softly, “Faith isn’t just about answers. It’s about holding on when there aren’t any.”

Dean met his eyes. “You really believe that?”

Cas didn’t flinch. “If I didn’t, I’d break.”

They turned in early. Neither of them had the strength for anything else.

Dean kicked off his boots and flopped onto the nearest bed, only to hear the frame creak ominously, the wood bowing under his weight. He sat up quick. “Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Cas looked over, brow furrowed.

Dean pressed his hand to the mattress and felt it sink. “Think this one’s had it. Damn thing’s about to collapse.”

Cas stood, checking the other bed. “This one is stable.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, but unless you wanna spoon me on the floor, we’re still one bed short.”

Cas gave him a flat look. “I fail to see the humor in that.”

“Didn’t think you would,” Dean muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we share, then. You keep your holy side, I’ll take the other.”

Cas hesitated. “Dean, that’s—”

“Relax,” Dean said, forcing a grin. “Ain’t the first time two blokes shared a bed. London’s cold as hell anyway.”

After a long pause, Cas sighed and nodded once. “Fine.”

They undressed in silence, just down to shirts and trousers. The air was freezing, their breath visible. When Dean slid under the blanket, the chill of the sheets bit through him.

Cas lay stiffly beside him, back turned, one arm folded across his chest. Dean tried not to notice how close they were, how the warmth from Cas’s body radiated through the thin layer of cloth between them.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. Just heat. Just comfort.

He didn’t know how long he lay awake before Cas spoke.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Cas’s voice was low, almost unsure. “Do you ever wonder why you survived when others didn’t?”

Dean stared at the ceiling. “All the damn time.”

“And what do you tell yourself?”

Dean exhaled. “That it wasn’t my choice. I just… keep moving. Pretend it means something.”

Cas was quiet for a long moment. “I think about it too,” he said finally. “The people I’ve lost. The ones I couldn’t save. I tell myself it’s God’s will, but—” He broke off, the words catching like splinters. “Sometimes I think it’s punishment.”

Dean turned his head, trying to read his face in the dim light. “Punishment for what? You’re like the most devout guy I know.”

Cas’s eyes flicked toward him and down towards Dean’s lips. “For wanting things I shouldn’t.”

Oh. 

The words hit like a punch.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He could feel every inch of space between them like a live wire.

“Cas…” he started, but the name came out too soft.

Cas shut his eyes. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

But Dean couldn’t.

Because now he was sure — the anger, the coldness, the distance — it wasn’t hate. It was fear. Cas was afraid. 

So he turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling until dawn bled gray into the room.

Dean didn’t sleep a wink. He was used to restless nights—nightmares clawing at him, the distant drumming of bombs over London, fires roaring through memory and street alike—but this was different. This time, it wasn’t the war keeping him awake. It was Cas.

Cas’s words kept looping in Dean’s head, impossible to silence. No way. No way Cas had meant what Dean thought he had. No way. Cas… a fucking queer? Liking him? Dean’s stomach twisted. Hell, most of the time he thought Cas hated him. The man was the most disciplined, devout person he’d ever met. He went to seminary, for God’s sake. How could someone like that…

And yet Dean couldn’t shake the image of him: dark hair falling just slightly into those intense blue eyes, the hard lines of his jaw softened in the firelight, the way his strong hands, hands that could steady hoses or lift a child from a burning building, trembled just a fraction when he spoke to Dean. 

Dean tried to picture the morning. Pretend it never happened. That Cas would be Cas again—stoic, aloof, annoyingly composed. He told himself it was just a dream, that Cas hadn’t actually said anything, and that when the sun came up, they’d act normal. But the truth hit harder than he wanted to admit: did he even want normal?

He wasn’t religious. He didn’t have a priest in his pocket or a God whispering in his ear. And he sure as hell wasn’t a queer, never had been, never thought about men like that. Not out loud, anyway. The laws, the society, the war, anything beyond the unspoken norms could get them arrested or worse, killed.

But then he thought of Cas. Broad shoulders, just enough lean muscle to be dangerous, that slight dip at the collarbone catching the firelight, the way he smelled faintly of smoke and something else, something sweet, almost like cedar and church candles. The curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes that could unnerve the fiercest men on the line, and yet the vulnerability he’d glimpsed when Cas had confessed.

Dean’s hands itched to reach across the space between them. His chest burned, half from desire, half from panic. Every instinct screamed to lean in, to close the distance, to see if Cas would let him. But the other part, the part shaped by rules, by fear, by all those years of being told what was right and wrong, warned him to stop. That maybe, just maybe, this was a temptation he shouldn’t indulge.

Dean knew Cas wasn’t asleep either. He could see it in the tautness of his body, the way he was curled up as close to the wall as possible, as if trying to put as much distance between them as he could without leaving the bed. Cas’s shoulders were tight, fists clenched lightly at his sides, and his breathing was slow and deliberate, measured as if he were running some internal drill to calm himself down.

Every so often, Dean thought he caught the faint murmur of Cas’s voice, almost too quiet to hear over the creaks of the old building and the distant echoes of bombs. He didn’t move, didn’t shift; whatever words were slipping past those lips, Dean guessed they weren’t meant for him. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a command to himself. Either way, Dean felt the weight of it pressing in, the stark contrast between Cas’s rigid self-control and the chaos of his own thoughts.

Dean’s eyes traced the lines of Cas’s jaw, the slight shadow of cheekbones in the dim light, the way the collar of his undershirt shifted with each breath.

He thought about what it might be like to always have Cas this close. To know what it feels like to touch, to have, to allow himself to feel for once.

And hell, it was basically the end of the world, so fuck self-control, fuck all the rules Dean had tried to hold onto. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him, and the quiet of the room made it worse. The fire and sirens and bombs felt miles away, replaced by this impossible, tight knot of tension in his chest.

For a moment, nothing. Then the faint shift of fabric, the subtle scrape of skin against the sheets. Cas turned over, slow, deliberate, his eyes blinking against the dim light. There was no anger there, no judgment, just that same intensity, that unreadable focus that made Dean’s heart hammer.

Dean swallowed hard. “I—uh..” His words died on his tongue.

Cas’s gaze held him, steady and unflinching, like he was seeing straight into every thought Dean tried to bury. And Dean realized, with a jolt, that he didn’t want to look away.

And then he closed the distance, pressing his lips gently to Cas’s. It was tentative at first, testing, searching, but the heat of it made everything in Dean snap. Cas froze for a fraction of a second, then stiffened, and Dean felt the faintest pressure from his hands, resisting but not pushing back.

He knew it was a stupid decision, Cas could have him fired, turn him in to the police, punch him, kill him. But instead, here Cas was kissing him back. 

Dean’s hands slid down slightly, gripping the fabric of Cas’s shirt, holding him close, needing him to be here, needing to know this wasn’t a dream. He could feel Cas’s heartbeat under his chest, steady but rapid, tense in a way that mirrored his own.

When Dean pulled back for breath, Cas’s face was inches from his, dark eyes wide, a flush creeping up his neck. “Dean…” His voice was strangled, quiet, heavy with something Dean didn’t want to name.

Dean’s own pulse was screaming in his ears. “Yeah…,” he whispered, voice hoarse. 

Cas’s hands twitched, hesitated at Dean’s sides, then dropped slowly. His gaze flicked away, and Dean caught the faintest shake of his jaw. Shame, fear, something buried deep.

Dean barely had time to register what was happening before Cas shifted, hands firm but deliberate, moving him down onto the thin mattress. The bed creaked under their weight, lumpy and too small, but it didn’t matter. Dean’s chest was pounding, a mix of adrenaline, fear, and something else he couldn’t name.

Cas leaned over him, eyes searching, dark and serious, but with the faintest tremor betraying the tight control he usually held. Dean could feel Cas’s hand brush against his side, almost accidental, almost tender, and it set his nerves on fire.

“You don’t understand,” Cas whispered, voice low, strained. “This… I shouldn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Dean interrupted, chest rising fast. “I know what you think’s right or normal. But guess what? This isn’t normal either. None of this,” he jerked his head vaguely toward the city, the distant glow of fires, the faint rumbles of bombs. “So maybe we can… just be human for five damn minutes.”

Cas hesitated, eyes darting away, lips parting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Dean’s hands found Cas’s shoulders, pulling him closer. 

Slowly, almost painfully, Cas leaned down, their foreheads brushing. Dean could feel the tension in Cas’s jaw, the tremor of restraint in his arms. He pressed his lips to Dean’s, a whisper of touch that made Dean’s stomach twist.

Dean deepened the kiss, letting all the fear and longing he’d held back spill out. Cas responded after a heartbeat, hands coming up to rest against Dean’s chest, stiff at first, then slowly easing, clinging, as if he was afraid to let go but didn’t want to either.

Cas froze for a heartbeat, and Dean thought he’d pulled back completely, but then he shifted, leaning into Dean, forehead resting against his again. Their lips met once more, softer, slower, urgent but careful. Dean could feel Cas’s body trembling slightly under his hands, the restraint in him, the battle he was fighting against himself.

Dean slid his hand beneath Cas’s shirt and was met with a sharp, startled gasp. His skin was unexpectedly soft, warm under Dean’s fingers, yet toned and strong, every muscle defined beneath the thin fabric. Paler than the rest of him, almost luminous in the dim light, Cas looked impossibly beautiful.

Dean caught the urgency in Cas’s eyes, something he had never seen before. A raw wanting, a need that mirrored Dean’s own. His hand traced the lines of Cas’s back, exploring cautiously at first, memorizing the curve of his shoulders, the subtle indentations of muscle, the faint burn scars scattered like constellations across his skin. Cas’s back arched instinctively beneath his touch, a silent invitation that made Dean’s chest tighten.

Dean tugged at the hem of Cas’s shirt, desperate to peel it away, to see every inch of him. His pulse hammered, every nerve alive with want. He froze when he felt hesitation, not a refusal, but a shift in Cas’s energy. Before Dean could process it, Cas’s hands shot forward, gripping his wrists and pinning them above his head.

Dean’s breath caught. His chest rose and fell faster, caught between alarm and anticipation. Cas leaned in, eyes dark, intent, and pressed his lips to Dean’s. The kiss was tentative at first, exploratory, Cas’s tongue teasing the edges of Dean’s lips before slipping inside. He moved with surprising precision, claiming, coaxing, learning Dean’s rhythm as if it were second nature.

Dean’s knees went weak. Every brush of Cas’s lips, every press of his body, sent heat coursing through him. Cas’s hands remained firm on Dean’s wrists, a subtle assertion of control that only made Dean lean further into him.

They didn’t speak as Cas maneuvered Dean, hands sure and deliberate, until Dean’s shirt was off, tossed somewhere carelessly on the floor. Dean’s mind raced, he was completely exposed, any second the alarms could blare, and he’d be defenseless. Irresponsible, he thought, but the thought barely had time to form.

Cas pressed his mouth to the side of Dean’s jaw, wet, urgent, leaving marks that Dean knew shouldn’t be there, that anyone seeing would misinterpret. Heat pooled low in his belly, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped him. That sound seemed to pull Cas closer, to coax him even further, and Dean felt himself melting into it, his rational mind forgotten in the press of Cas against him.

Cas moved lower, tracing a deliberate path down Dean’s chest and stomach until he reached the waistband of his pants. He paused, eyes lifting to Dean’s, asking without words. Dean’s chest tightened. He’d done this plenty of times with women, sure, but never like this, never with a man looking at him with that mix of want, need, and quiet reverence.

Dean swallowed hard and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Cas’s hands moved carefully, lifting Dean’s hips just enough to slide the pants down, leaving him in nothing but thin underwear while Cas remained fully clothed. Dean’s stomach churned with heat and frustration. Fucking unfair, he thought. 

Cas moves lower, kissing the insides of Dean’s thighs which sends a jolt towards his whole body. He feels himself getting harder, and he knows Cas knows it too. So what if he really fucking wants this? 

Cas moved lower, lips brushing the inside of Dean’s thighs, each touch sending jolts through his entire body. Heat pooled in places Dean didn’t expect, and he felt himself growing harder, aware, even from the way Cas’s movements lingered, that Cas knew it too.

A rush of recklessness surged through him. So what if he wanted this? So what if he really wanted this? The alarms outside, the fires, the war—none of it mattered right now. All that existed was Cas, warm and insistent, between his legs.

Cas shifted suddenly, his mouth pressing over Dean’s cock through the thin fabric. Heat and wetness met him, and Dean’s hips jerked instinctively toward Cas’s face.

“Fuck—Cas—” he gasped, breath hitching.

Cas froze for a heartbeat, then lifted his head, eyes locking with Dean’s. There was something ethereal in that look, something almost painfully vulnerable.

“No. No, don’t stop,” Dean breathed, trying to smile despite the rush of winded tension. “Good.”

Cas didn’t answer. He simply bowed his head again, movements careful, deliberate, almost reverent, as if this act were both sin and prayer. Slowly, carefully, he tugged Dean’s underwear down, his hands steady despite the intensity of their bodies pressed together.

Without giving Dean time to fully prepare, Cas swallows Dean whole with no hesitation.

Well he’s definitely done this before, Dean thinks. 

Cas urgently moves his mouth around the tip of his cock, dipping his tongue into the slit, and wraps a hand around the base of him, moving while he swallows him down. 

His movements are every bit precise as they always are, each swipe of the tongue and hand movement done with purpose and intent. 

Dean tries to stay silent, to not show how much he is enjoying this, but small moans and Cas’s name slips out. 

“Oh fuck, Cas, fuck, yes, fuck-” 

Dean finally looks down at Cas between him and sees that he is already looking directly at him, watching. Jesus Christ. His cheeks are hollowed out around Dean, letting Dean fuck into his mouth. The sight turns Dean on even more and the pressure continues to build inside him. Before he can give Cas any warning, Dean shatters, coming all over Cas’s face with a series of moans. 

“Shit. I—I didn’t mean—” Dean stammered, breathless and dizzy. .

“Dean,” Cas said firmly, a quiet command that somehow grounded him.

“I mean… it’s your fault because you did the —” Dean tried again, words tumbling out in a rush.

“Dean,” Cas repeated, softer this time, but still steady. The sharpness had vanished, replaced with something almost patient.

Without another word, Cas moved with deliberate calm, standing and heading to the small washroom connected to their room. He didn’t glance at Dean, only focused on methodically cleaning up, putting his movements into precise order to mask the lingering tension between them. Before disappearing behind the door, he tossed Dean’s clothes toward him.

Dean caught them, still flushed, fumbling with his shirt as the weight of the moment settled in. He barely had time to button up before the blaring alarms cut through the air, snapping him out of the room and back into the chaos of the Blitz.

December 30th, 1940

Dean checked the clock on the wall. Half past midnight. The wail of the sirens had already cut through the stillness, mingling with the distant rumble of falling bombs. He could feel the vibration in his chest as he and Cas raced down the stairs and out onto the slick, soot-streaked streets. The wind smelled of ash and smoke, and Dean pulled his coat tighter around him, boots splashing through puddles blackened with debris.

Cas hadn’t looked at Dean once. Not a glance, not a flicker of acknowledgment. They hadn’t spoken a word about it, and Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to. But it was a weight in his chest as they grabbed hoses and prepared to move into position.

Dean tried to talk himself down, to make sense of what had just happened. It had to be a one-time thing, a moment born of loneliness and chaos. They weren’t like that, not really. Hell, maybe everyone needed an outlet once in a while, a release, a brief escape from the weight of all this fire and death and smoke. That’s all it was. Right?

He’s quickly pulled out of his thoughts by the voice of the fire captain. 

“Dean, east side,” the captain called over the roar, already crouched near a hydrant, hands moving with practiced ease. “Cas, you’ve got west.”

Cas moved swiftly to his assigned spot, every movement precise and deliberate. Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was almost impossible to reconcile the disciplined, almost untouchable figure before him with the man who moments ago had him shaking, breathless, and utterly exposed. The contrast gnawed at him, a mix of disbelief and something far more complicated.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Dean forced himself toward his own post on the West side. He fell in with a group of firefighters from other stations, gripping the hose with white-knuckled focus. Flames licked at the edges of the buildings, thick smoke curling into the night sky, and Dean let the work consume him.

The fire roared like a living thing, hungrily devouring wooden beams and stained glass, sparks raining down like fiery snow. Dean’s lungs burned with each inhalation, the acrid smoke clawing at his throat. Water hissed against flames, sending up clouds of scalding steam that made his eyes sting and blurred his vision.

Then a deafening crash tore through the night as a bomb struck the cathedral. A section of the roof splintered, sending a shower of fiery debris onto the street, and Dean froze, heart in his throat. Flames leapt from the altar area, and he could see the gaping hole in the North Transept, smoke curling from it like a wound in the heart of the city.

Cas appeared beside him before Dean had even noticed moving; the hose in Cas’s hands joined Dean’s as they fought the blaze together, two points of cold determination against the chaos.

For a fleeting moment, amid the destruction and smoke, Dean caught Cas’s eyes. There was no judgment, no shame, just focus, and something softer behind it, something that made Dean’s chest twist painfully. They were two soldiers of fire against a city in flames, and for that night, that moment, it was enough to just be there together, battling a blaze that seemed as eternal as the war itself.

Then the fire roared higher, a wave of heat that forced Dean back a step. Cas was already moving, pulling him toward safety, guiding him through falling debris and the tumult of screaming alarms. The cathedral shuddered, a piece of stone tumbling down near their boots, and Dean stumbled into Cas’s shoulder, their bodies pressed together briefly, heat from the fire mingling with something hotter, more dangerous.

Hours had blurred into one another, the roar of bombs overhead, the hiss of water on flames, the sharp scent of ash and smoke, but finally, the last fires were under control. The bombs had stopped. The streets, scarred and blackened, were quiet for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

Dean wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat, trying to shake the images from his mind: the cathedral’s roof splintering, the altar in ruins, yet somehow still standing, a testament to the courage of the St. Paul’s Watch and the stubborn defiance of London itself.

Cas stood a few feet away, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the distant ruins. He didn’t look at Dean immediately, didn’t need to. The shared exhaustion between them was enough, an unspoken acknowledgment of what they had survived together.

Dean finally stepped closer, boots crunching over broken masonry. “We made it,” he said, voice rough, almost a whisper.

Cas finally turned, and for a brief moment, the chaos, the fire, the war, everything fell away. There was relief there, yes, but something more, something raw and unguarded that Dean felt in his chest like a punch. Cas nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

Dean swallowed hard, unsure what to say, unsure if he wanted to break the fragile spell of that moment. Instead, he simply fell into step beside Cas, and together they started toward home, the first rays of morning glinting weakly off the soot-streaked streets.

Chapter Text

December 31st, 1940

Dean sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. His hands still smelled of ash, his nails rimmed black. Every time he blinked, he could still see the fire—St. Paul’s, burning and unburning at once, the light reflecting in Cas’s eyes as if the whole world were ending behind them.

He hadn’t spoken to Cas since they had returned to the station.The silence between them felt worse than any shouting could have.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just something stupid that happened, a moment of weakness, a mistake born of adrenaline and loneliness.

But then he’d close his eyes and remember the way Cas’s hand had trembled against his skin, the sound he made when he let go, and his stomach would twist until he couldn’t breathe.

Now, in the stillness of the sleeping quarters, he heard the soft scrape of boots behind him. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“Dean,” Cas said quietly. His voice was rough, tired, the kind of tired that went deeper than the body.

Dean didn’t move. “Yeah?”

Cas hovered a few feet away, the light from the stove catching in the sharp angles of his face. His eyes were shadowed, unreadable. “We need to talk.”

Dean gave a dry laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “That usually means something good.”

Cas didn’t answer. He stood rigid, arms crossed like he was bracing himself. The silence stretched until it started to hurt.

Cas’s gaze then flicked to the bunks around them, rows of sleeping men wrapped in thin wool blankets. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, the only sound was the slow rhythm of breathing and the occasional creak of wood. He shifted his weight, lowering his voice.

“Not here,” he muttered.

Dean sighed, then nodded once, dragging his coat off the hook by the door. The night air bit cold when they stepped outside, the wind sharp enough to sting the skin. The station loomed behind them, dark, permanently stained from smoke, the roof patched with tin.

They walked a few paces in silence, boots crunching over frost and scattered rubble until they reached the alley beside the station. 

Cas stopped there, under a broken lamplight, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His breath came out in white clouds. For a long time, he said nothing.

“What do you want me to say, Cas?” Dean finally asked. “You’ve barely looked at me since that night.”

Cas’s mouth tightened. “Because it shouldn’t have happened.”

Dean’s heart gave a slow, heavy thud. “You think I don’t know that?”

“It was a mistake,” Cas said flatly.

Dean huffed out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Yeah. Sure. Just a mistake.”

Cas’s eyes flashed—anger, or fear, Dean couldn’t tell which. “You don’t seem to understand. If anyone finds out—”

“I understand fine,” Dean cut in, his own voice sharper than he meant it to be. “You think I don’t know what happens to men like that? You think I’m stupid?”

Cas took a step closer. “Then why—why did you—” He broke off, jaw working. “You should’ve stopped it.”

Dean looked up, really looked at him then. “I should’ve stopped it?”

“Yes,” Cas snapped. “You shouldn’t have—”

“I didn’t make you do anything, Cas.” Dean’s voice was low, even, but it shook at the edges. “You wanted it. Same as me.”

Cas’s face twisted, like Dean had struck him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Tell the truth?”

Cas shook his head violently. “I’m not—” He swallowed hard, the next words cracking as they came out. “I’m not like that.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, the weight of it pressing down. Then he said softly, “Yeah. Me neither.”

But they both knew what a lie that was.

Cas turned away, pacing back and forth. We could be arrested,” he said quietly. “They could ruin us. Take everything.”

Dean leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. They could kill us too. Wouldn’t be the first time London’s gone up in flames.”

Cas turned back, eyes burning. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” Dean said.

Cas stopped pacing. His hands clenched at his sides, trembling. “You don’t understand,” he said again, softer now, almost pleading. “It’s not just the law. It’s… it’s sin.”

Dean blinked. “Sin?”

Cas’s voice was tight, breath misting in the air. “What we did, it’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. God sees it. Even if no one else does.”

Dean exhaled slowly, his breath coming out as smoke. “God’s got bigger fires to put out right now.”

Cas’s expression flickered—pain, anger, fear all at once. “Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not,” Dean said. “I just don’t think He cares about us that much. Not when half the world’s burning.”

Cas stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until Dean could see the sweat glinting on his temple despite the cold. “You don’t understand,” Cas whispered, almost frantic. “I was raised to believe that every thought, every look, it damns you. You think I haven’t prayed? I’ve prayed every day since that night. I’ve begged for it to be taken from me. I’ve prayed to not want you.”

Dean felt something twist inside him. “You really think He’s gonna strike us down for it?”

Cas’s voice broke. “Maybe He already has.”

Dean’s throat went dry. “Cas—”

Cas shook his head, stepping back again. “You don’t get it. You.. you might can live with it, maybe. Pretend it doesn’t matter. But I can’t. I can’t carry that and still put on this uniform and look people in the eye.” His voice cracked, rough and raw. “I can’t do my job, Dean, if I start believing I’m already damned.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to reach for him, but the air between them felt like glass, thin, dangerous, ready to shatter.

Cas’s shoulders sagged. He looked exhausted. “We can’t let it happen again.”

Dean nodded, staring at the floor. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

But the words rang false in his mouth. Both of them could feel it.

Cas hesitated, standing there like he wanted to say something else, something that might have saved them both. But he didn’t. He just looked at Dean one last time, eyes unreadable, mouth set, and turned for the door.

“Goodnight,” he said softly.

Dean didn’t answer.

When the door closed behind him, Dean exhaled shakily and dragged a hand over his face. His chest ached, and his throat felt raw. He tilted his head back against the cold wall, staring up at the empty stretch of sky where the stars were hidden by smoke.

He wanted to pray too, but the only prayer that came to him was for Cas, for forgiveness, for peace, for the weight in his eyes to lift.

He didn’t know if anyone was listening anymore, but he prayed anyway.

January 8th, 1941

The week crawled by like a slow punishment. 

Dean and Cas had fallen into a strange rhythm, a silent, miserable dance around each other. Every day felt like walking a tightrope stretched between what they’d done and what they refused to talk about.

In the mornings, they’d pass each other in the hallway, trading stiff nods like strangers. During drills or shifts, they worked in perfect sync but never let their eyes linger. And at night, when the others laughed over cards or cigarettes, Dean would catch himself glancing at Cas, just to see him sitting there, rigid and quiet, the light of his cigarette flickering against that damn unreadable face.

Still, sometimes Cas cracked. A twitch of a smile when Dean teased one of the rookies. A huff of something that almost sounded like a laugh when Dean muttered about how the tea tasted like boiled socks. It was enough to keep Dean holding on, barely.

But it was like trying to warm yourself by a candle in the middle of winter. Every time Cas smiled, he looked guilty about it.

Dean told himself he didn’t care. That he was fine. But some nights, lying awake listening to the wind rattle the windows, he could still feel Cas’s breath against his skin. He hated himself for missing it.

The call came that night. A factory fire in Whitechapel—cloth and dye, old building, full of flammables.

By the time they arrived, the street was a sea of orange and black. The air shimmered with heat, smoke thick enough to choke. Flames were tearing through the upper floors of the factory, the smell of burning fabric sharp and sour. Women stood in the street in nightclothes, crying, clutching children close.

“Hydrants on the east side!” Bobby shouted. “Keep the fire from spreading to the tenements!”

Dean barely heard him. The roar of the blaze drowned out everything else. He and Cas fell into motion automatically, hauling hoses through the sludge of soot and water, shouting directions over the chaos.

The heat was suffocating. Sparks stung Dean’s face. He could feel the sweat slicking under his collar even in the freezing air. Somewhere behind them, a wall gave way with a deafening crash, sending up a plume of sparks like a storm.

“Cas!” Dean yelled, coughing into his sleeve. “Move! The roof’s going!”

Cas stumbled back just in time as the top floor collapsed inward with a thunderous groan. For a heartbeat, Dean thought he’d been buried, but then Cas reappeared through the smoke, face blackened, eyes wild.

Dean grabbed his arm. “Jesus Christ, you tryna give me a heart attack?”

Cas didn’t answer, just stared past him at the inferno. His expression was unreadable—fear, maybe, or something deeper.

They went back in. Because that’s what they did.

Inside, visibility was next to nothing. The stairwell was half gone, and the floors above creaked like they were ready to give. The fabric burned fast, just thin cotton and silk going up like paper, dripping molten dye down the walls.

Dean heard it first, a faint, muffled crying under the roar. He froze. “You hear that?”

Cas nodded, eyes narrowing. They followed the sound down a hallway half-filled with smoke until Dean found them: a woman crouched in the corner, clutching a small body wrapped in a blanket.

“Ma’am,” Dean said, dropping to his knees. “We gotta get you out of here.”

She wouldn’t move. Just kept rocking, whispering something over and over, he couldn’t make out the words. Cas knelt beside her, his voice low and calm, saying her name, coaxing her to let go. She finally loosened her grip enough for Cas to take the child.

Dean didn’t even have to ask. He knew. The little boy wasn’t breathing. His head lolled, soot streaking his cheeks.

Dean swallowed hard and took the woman by the arm. “Come on. We’ll take him with us, but you gotta move.”

They stumbled outside into the bitter cold. The medics rushed forward, pulling the woman away gently, but no one came for the boy. Dean laid him down on the cobblestones and covered him with a torn blanket. For a second, the firelight flickered over the small shape, and Dean thought of Sam, his small hands, small shoes by the door.

Cas stood frozen beside him, chest heaving.

Dean wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing soot across his cheek. “We did what we could,” he said quietly. “She’s alive.”

Cas didn’t answer. He was staring at the blanket, eyes glassy. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Why would God allow this?”

Dean turned to look at him. Cas wasn’t angry, he was wrecked. His shoulders shook, his lips pressed together like he was holding something in.

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “Guess I stopped askin’ a while ago.”

Cas shook his head, stepping back. “Children. Innocent. And He lets them burn?” He looked up, eyes glinting with firelight. “What kind of mercy is that?”

Dean didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to tell him it wasn’t fair, that God didn’t have anything to do with it—that the world just burned sometimes and there wasn’t anyone left to stop it. But Cas looked so lost that the words caught in his throat.

“You ever think maybe…” Dean started, then hesitated. “Maybe God’s not the one saving people. Maybe it’s just us.”

Cas’s jaw clenched. “Then we’re failing.”

Dean exhaled, watching the steam of his breath vanish into the cold. “Yeah. But we keep trying anyway. That’s what matters.”

Cas turned away, staring at the ruins. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were wet. Dean didn’t think; he just reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Cas didn’t pull away. Not right away.

For a long minute, they stood there in silence, the fire still roaring behind them, the smell of smoke and wet stone thick in the air.

Finally, Cas said quietly, “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

Dean’s hand dropped away, and his voice came out softer than he meant. “Then maybe start with believin’ in the people still here.”

Cas glanced at him, eyes tired but softer somehow. Then he nodded, once, like the words had landed somewhere deep.

When they walked back toward the others, Dean caught himself hoping, just for a second, that maybe, somewhere under all the ash and ruin, something between them was still alive too.

January 9th, 1941

Dean didn’t sleep much.

The fire from the night still burned behind his eyes,  flashes of orange, the sound of collapsing timber, the smell of burned cloth. Even now, with dawn just scraping pale light through the blackout curtains, he could almost hear it again: that low, hungry roar that had eaten half of Whitechapel.

He lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head. His whole body ached — muscles, bones, even the inside of his chest. Every time he blinked, he saw that little boy from the factory floor, the soot on his cheeks.

But it wasn’t just the fire keeping him up.

Across the room, Cas slept in the bunk opposite, half turned toward the wall, his hair still damp from washing off the smoke. The early light caught on his profile — the cut of his jaw, the slope of his neck where his collar had come loose. He looked impossibly calm, the kind of peace Dean hadn’t seen in weeks.

Dean hated how much he wanted to look at him.

He told himself it wasn’t like that. He’d been with women, plenty of them. There’d been Lisa from Bristol, the nurse with a sharp laugh and kind eyes, who’d kissed him behind a half-bombed pub last summer. Before her, there was a dockworker in Dover who’d caught him off guard, quick hands, a faster goodbye. Dean had learned early that sometimes comfort didn’t need a label, especially when every night might be your last.

Still, this felt different. Cas was different.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that night, about the way Cas had looked at him before it all fell apart. The softness, the heat, the fear that came after. The way he’d said it was a mistake. Dean didn’t blame him for that, not really. Not in a world like this. But it stuck to him anyway, like the smell of smoke in his clothes.

He sighed and rolled over, trying to will himself to sleep. It didn’t work.

The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. Outside, the city stirred, distant rumble of lorries, the echo of boots on wet pavement, a milk cart clattering somewhere down the street. London carried on like it always did, cracked but unbroken.

By the time the others were up, Dean was already in the kitchen, nursing a mug of weak tea. The station smelled faintly of smoke and soap — a strange mix of cleanliness and ruin.

Ellen was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, frying what looked like the last of the bacon. “Morning, sweetheart,” she said over her shoulder. “You look like death warmed over.”

Dean smirked. “Thanks, Ellen. You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

Benny lumbered in next, rubbing his beard and yawning. “If the fire didn’t kill me, Ellen’s tea might,” he grumbled, pouring himself a cup anyway.

“Keep talking and I’ll water yours down with dish soap,” she shot back.

Dean chuckled into his mug. It felt good — normal — even if the laughter came from somewhere tired.

Kevin, the trainee, stumbled in last, hair sticking up in all directions. “Morning,” he mumbled.

“Morning?” Benny raised a brow. “Kid, it’s nearly ten. You planning to fight the fires in your sleep next time?”

Kevin blinked blearily. “I was up half the night cleaning the hoses.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, and you missed a spot.”

Anna Milton came in right then, bright-eyed despite the hour. She tossed her scarf over a chair and gave Cas’s empty seat a quick look before sitting down. “He still asleep?” she asked.

Dean nodded. “Didn’t get much rest last night.”

“None of us did,” she said softly, then reached for the teapot. “Still, better a quiet morning than another call.”

For a while, they ate in peace — toast, bacon, eggs that were more powdered than real. Outside, the sky was gray but calm, for once not hiding the drone of planes. The BBC had reported light raids overnight, mostly to the east. People still lined up for rations, still patched the holes in their roofs.

London refused to stop.

Benny started telling a story about a fireman who’d accidentally soaked a priest during last week’s church blaze, and Kevin nearly choked laughing. Ellen rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her spatula like a weapon. “You men are children, every last one of you.”

Dean grinned. “Gotta stay entertained somehow, ma’am. City’s not exactly puttin’ on fireworks for us lately.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Benny said, jerking his thumb toward the window. “Half the East End still smoldering.”

That earned a small laugh, the kind that came more from relief than humor.

By midday, the chores were done — hoses hung to dry, helmets polished, trucks checked over. The air outside was bitter, the kind of cold that sank through every layer.

Dean and Kevin were fixing a leaky pipe in the washroom when Benny sauntered in with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “You two lovebirds done yet? Some of us’d like to wash off the smell of death before lunch.”

“Pipe’s old as you are,” Dean said, tightening the wrench. “I’m doing her a kindness.”

“Yeah, well, don’t make her fall for you too.”

Kevin snorted. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“That’s what my ex-wife said,” Benny replied cheerfully.

Ellen’s voice carried down the hall: “If I hear one more joke about plumbing, I’m sending you all out to scrub the yard!”

Dean grinned. “Yes, ma’am!”

He liked these moments. The teasing, the bickering, the small, stupid normality of it. After nights like Whitechapel, it was the only thing that kept the weight from sinking too deep.

Cas didn’t emerge until late afternoon. Dean heard the creak of the bunkroom door and turned just as Cas stepped out, his shirt half buttoned, hair still damp. He looked tired — more than that, actually. Hollowed out.

Anna spotted him first. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she said, smiling gently. “You missed Ellen’s breakfast.”

Cas gave a small nod. “I wasn’t hungry.” His voice was rough, low.

Dean caught himself watching him again,  the way he moved, deliberate but heavy, like the world was pressing on his shoulders. He wanted to say something, ask if Cas was okay, but the words tangled up in his throat.

Later, when the others drifted off to their own tasks, Dean lingered in the bunkroom, cleaning his gear. Cas was there, sitting on his bed, head bowed. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the wireless from the next room, some slow, mournful tune about London holding on.

Dean looked up from polishing his boots. Cas was staring at his hands, like they belonged to someone else.

“You alright?” Dean asked finally.

Cas didn’t look up. “I keep seeing his face,” he said softly. “The child. I keep thinking if I’d just, iif I’d moved faster—”

“Don’t,” Dean cut in, voice low but firm. “We both know there wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

Cas’s jaw tightened. “You sound very sure.”

“I’ve seen enough fires to know when there’s no winning,” Dean said. “Sometimes all you can do is keep the next one from catching.”

Cas finally looked at him. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Dean admitted. “But it’s the only way I get up in the morning.”

They sat there in silence for a while, the kind that felt heavy but not unfriendly. Dean studied him — the smudge of soot still in his hairline, the faint tremor in his hands.

That night, the barracks were surprisingly quiet again. Benny was snoring two bunks over, Kevin mumbled in his sleep, and the distant thud of anti-aircraft guns echoed faintly from the river. Dean lay awake again, staring at the ceiling.

Cas was across from him, turned on his side, the faint rise and fall of his chest steady in the dim light. Dean’s gaze lingered on the way his hair fell against his forehead, the curve of his shoulder under the blanket, the scar near his temple. 

He told himself it wasn’t wrong to look. It wasn’t anything, really — just curiosity, that’s all. Just trying to understand the man who kept him alive in burning buildings and broke his heart in the same breath.

Still, his chest ached.

Dean wasn’t sure what he believed in. If he could ever have faith in something like Cas. But maybe there was a plan, or maybe the world was just fire and luck. But if there was any grace left in London, Dean thought it looked a hell of a lot like Cas.

He closed his eyes, pretending he could sleep. The bunk creaked quietly across from him. When he opened them again, Cas was watching him.

For a second, neither of them said anything. Just quiet breathing, the glow of the single bulb overhead.

“You should sleep,” Cas said softly.

Dean smiled faintly. “You first.”

Cas’s lips curved, almost into a smile. Then he rolled back over, leaving Dean with the sound of his steady breathing and the faint hum of the city outside, alive, still standing, still burning.

Dean exhaled and stared at the ceiling again.