Chapter Text
“… and I was thinking we could have you over for a movie night, but of course, John, that’s my husband—”
“Yes, I’m aware,” Castiel says, barely suppressing an eyeroll. But for all the reaction his statement gets, he might as well have been speaking to a wall.
“—he doesn’t care for that sort of thing at all, you know? Always says too much TV’ll rot your brain.” Mary chuckles, shaking her head of wavy blonde hair. “It’s a shame you’ve never met him. I think you two would get on like a house on fire!”
Based on what Castiel knows of his neighbor’s husband — which is so much more than he ever cared to know — he highly doubts that, but he doesn’t say as much. “Listen,” he tries this time, “it’s been lovely to see you, but I had a long day at work and—”
“Oh, sure,” Mary exclaims, nodding. “I know all about those. I’m always pulling long shifts, and my back aches something fierce. Would you like to come in? I’m sure we can find something to help your little aches and pains.”
“I’m fine,” Castiel says, through gritted teeth. “Excuse me, I should really go home and get started on dinner.”
“Oh, but I have some leftovers!” Mary calls, even as Castiel pointedly turns away from her and crosses the distance between his driveway and front door. “John absolutely loves my lasagna. Winchester Surprise he calls it, because the taste is just so—”
Castiel never does find out what the taste is like, because the sound of Mary’s voice is mercifully cut off by the closing of his front door. With a sigh, he slumps against the nearest wall. In addition to his usual fatigue after working a ten-hour shift at the Gas-n-Sip, he now has a pounding headache. If he has to endure another conversation about the likes and dislikes of Mary’s spouse, he might crawl out of his skin.
It occurs to him that it is sort of odd he’s never actually met the man. At times, he’s even wondered whether Mary is simply a lonely woman who’s made up a husband she never had. But he’s already expended enough mental energy on his chatty, oblivious neighbor today, and he has a microwave dinner to heat up.
Sighing, Castiel pushes away from the wall and gets started on another solitary night at home.
***
A few days later, Castiel is busy enjoying a lazy morning off work when there’s a knock on the door.
Castiel considers just ignoring the knock, but it’s not as though he has anything else planned. He sets aside the pint of cookie-dough ice cream he was working away at, mostly because there wasn’t much else in the house and he didn’t feel like wasting his day off on a shopping trip.
It’s probably a solicitor, he reflects as he slumps his way to the door. Trying to determine what he’s getting himself into, he peers through the peephole.
The view of his front porch is warped and distorted, but even based on limited visual evidence, Castiel suspects that the man outside could sell him anything. All thoughts of pretending he isn’t home fly out of his head.
He steps back and opens the door, remembering too late that he hasn’t showered, is wearing sweatpants and has a large dribble of ice cream down the front of his shirt that he couldn’t be bothered to clean up.
More than anything, he wishes he was in his Sunday best (or that he owned such a thing in the first place), because the peephole view certainly didn’t do the man justice. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, the strong cut of his jaw outlined by the late morning sun in all its chiseled perfection. His smile reveals straight, white teeth and laugh lines around his eyes. There are freckles on the bridge of his nose.
“Hey,” the man says. “Sorry to disturb you. My name is Dean.”
“Dean,” Castiel repeats, still half-dazed by the vision before him. He shakes his head to clear it. “I mean, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Castiel.”
Then, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, he sticks out his hand for Dean to shake. Dean’s eyes gleam with amusement, but before Castiel can withdraw and slam the door to wallow in his own awkwardness, Dean grasps his hand. He doesn’t so much shake it as hold on, turning their hands so that Castiel’s is on top, their palms flat against each other. Castiel feels the gentle skim of a thumb across his knuckles, and he thinks he would let this man rob him blind if he asked.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” Dean says. “I think you know my mom? Mary?”
“Oh.” Castiel tries to wrap his mind around the fact that someone so lovely is related to his infuriating neighbor, and fails completely. “Yes, I… know her.”
Dean lowers his voice to a near-whisper, leaning closer. He smells of leather and pine needles and Castiel wants him closer still. “Listen, I know we just met, but I’m a little worried about Mom, and I…” He lets go of Castiel’s hand and steps back, glancing over his shoulder. Castiel misses him already. “Actually, I’d rather not talk about this out here. Can we go inside? I swear I won’t take up much of your time.”
Castiel isn’t usually in the habit of inviting strangers into his home, but having gorgeous men on his doorstep is hardly a usual occurrence either, so he says, “Of course,” and motions for Dean to step into the house.
Dean looks around, taking in the framed nature photographs, the bookshelves filled to bursting and the view of the blooming yard beyond the windows. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment on the half-eaten, half-melted pint of ice cream that still sits on the coffee table.
“Nice place,” he says, and takes a seat on Castiel’s couch as though he belongs there.
“Thank you,” Castiel says, all the while agonizing about whether he should join Dean on the couch or take the armchair. He settles for the couch, but at a respectable distance. “Can I offer you anything to drink?”
He’s only a little disappointed when Dean shakes his head and says, “No, thanks."
This isn’t a social call, Castiel reminds himself. Dean is here to discuss something.
“Alright," Castiel says.
Dean seems unsure how to begin. He sits perched on the very edge of the couch cushion, his hands clasped between his legs. Castiel tries not to stare at those hands, but they seem like good, strong hands. They have calluses that would probably feel incredible on—
Castiel abruptly realizes that Dean is studying him as though waiting for the answer to a question. That amused gleam is in his eyes again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, mortified when he can feel himself blushing. “Did you say something?"
Dean’s smile is forgiveness, indulgence and all things sweet. “You’re good. I was asking whether you’d ever met my dad.”
Castiel’s skin prickles oddly. He thinks back to a few days ago — how he’d wondered whether Mary’s husband might be a figment of her imagination. “No,” he admits. “But Mary only moved here a few weeks ago, so I expect I will eventually.”
“I haven’t heard from my dad in months,” Dean says, the words coming out in a rush. His eyes are on the floorboards and his hands twist nervously. “Not since before my parents moved. Mom says everything’s fine, but I know they’ve been fighting, and every time I ask about him, she refuses to put him on the phone.”
Castiel swallows. “Why are you telling me this?”
Dean’s eyes dart up to his. “Mom happened to mention she gave you a spare key.”
Whatever Castiel expected, it wasn’t this. He certainly hadn’t offered to guard a spare key to Mary’s house, had in fact politely declined when she asked to come inside so she could hand it over. In the end, she simply resorted to dropping it in his mailbox with a little thank-you note attached.
“She did give me one,” he admits. “But what—”
“Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed about the whole thing, but if everything’s fine and I’m just being an idiot, I don’t want Mom knowing I thought…” Dean trails off and grimaces. “I just wanna look in on the house while she’s out and make sure everything’s alright.”
Slowly, the pieces fall into place in Castiel’s head. “You think she might have—” He gropes for a way to word this next part that isn’t killed your father. Mary may be a little strange and lack a sense of boundaries, but the thought is still too ludicrous to voice.
Dean simply shrugs, letting Castiel draw his own conclusions. “I mean, I don’t think she’d hurt him on purpose, but if they were fighting…” He sighs. “I just wanna be sure.”
If there is an appropriate way to respond to someone who suspects their parent committed manslaughter and is trying to cover it up, Castiel has no idea what it might be. So he sidesteps by asking, “Don’t you have a spare key?”
Dean shakes his head. “Nah. I live a couple hours away, and I haven’t been to visit yet since they moved. Every time I brought it up, Mom said she wasn’t ready to have me over.”
Something about this entire conversation is odd (aside from the obvious), but Dean is so very distracting, so it takes Castiel a moment to put his finger on what it is. “You could have just told me you were Mary’s son and asked for the key,” he points out. “You didn’t need to tell me anything else.”
Dean ducks his head. When he peeks up at Castiel again, it’s through his eyelashes, and Castiel feels all his objections melt away. He would hold this man’s hand and jump off a cliff with him.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. He rubs at the back of his neck, the picture of embarrassment. “That’s what I was planning on doing. But, I don’t know. Guess I needed to talk to someone about this, and you’ve just got that kind of face.”
Castiel squints at him. “What face?”
“A handsome one,” Dean says, and then he winks, and Castiel is just a lonely, single man without much in the way of friends. He can’t even remember the last time someone called him handsome.
To cover how flustered he is, he jumps up and heads for the kitchen. “I keep the key over here,” he calls over his shoulder.
By the time he starts rooting through his drawer of assorted junk, Dean stands by his elbow — just a little closer than is technically speaking polite, but Castiel can’t find it in him to complain. “Hey, um,” Dean says, “when all this is over and we’re ready to laugh about it, maybe you’d let me… I don’t know, buy you a cup of coffee? To say thanks?”
Castiel makes himself meet Dean’s eyes. They’re green. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. Finally, he locates the key behind a stack of (probably expired) coupons.
“Here you are,” he says, and dangles the key in Dean’s general direction. Dean doesn’t touch it, but his fingers wrap around Castiel’s hand. He bends Castiel’s fingers gently, curling them until they’re holding on tight to the small piece of metal.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” Dean says. His smile is apologetic. “But would you come with me? I just…” Dean chuckles weakly. “I feel like I could use some moral support.”
Castiel couldn’t possibly refuse Dean anything. Not when their hands are touching, and Dean’s skin is warm, and Castiel finds himself wondering again what those calluses would feel like on other parts of his body.
“Of course,” he says. Remembering the many interminable conversations Mary has roped him into, Castiel can’t help asking, “You’re sure your mother isn’t home?”
“Sure,” Dean says. He still hasn’t let go of Castiel’s hand. “I knocked on the door before I came over here. Mom goes to church on Sunday mornings, but Dad doesn’t, so I figured he’d be home.”
Dean withdraws his hand. There’s tension in the set of his jaw now, and Castiel hates seeing it there.
“No answer?” he asks gently.
“No answer,” Dean confirms.
They don’t speak again until they reach Castiel’s front yard. Much like Mary, the other neighbors are churchgoers, so no one is out. The sidewalks are deserted, cars gone from driveways.
“You have any family nearby?” Dean asks idly as they stroll across the lawn, towards Mary’s house.
Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not on good terms with my family.” He doesn’t elaborate. Maybe someday, he’ll tell Dean the whole story. He thinks he’d like Dean to know him better.
When they arrive at the house, Castiel puts the key in the lock and the door gives way easily underneath his hand. In fact, he doesn’t think he heard the snick of a lock at all. Perhaps the door wasn’t locked. How odd.
“Go ahead,” Dean says, gesturing for Castiel to go inside first. It’s a little unexpected, but Dean’s smile is charming and Castiel is weak.
As soon as he stops over the threshold, he notices a strange odor. It’s a little like the smell of food that’s gone off, but earthier, with more copper to it.
“What—” he begins, and then the door closes behind him. He turns to find Dean smiling at him; there’s something odd about that smile. It looks a little regretful.
Thud.
Pain explodes on one side of Castiel’s head, and he falls to his knees.
His stomach roils. He opens his mouth — perhaps to vomit, perhaps to speak, but he is too dazed to do either. He looks up to find Dean staring down at him, no longer smiling. No matter how frantically Castiel blinks, the outline of Dean’s body and everything around him wavers, distorted, like something seen through a peephole.
And then there is Mary, stepping into Castiel’s field of vision. “Thanks, honey,” she tells Dean warmly. “I never could get him to come inside. I knew you’d manage it for me.”
“You’re welcome, Mom,” Dean says. He leans in to kiss his mother’s temple, one arm slung around her shoulder. Castiel retches. Something wet and warm trickles down the side of his face. There is something in Mary’s hand: a paperweight. One of its corners is stained red. She puts it on a shelf, out of reach, as Castiel watches.
Dean squats down, cupping Castiel’s face with both hands. His calluses rasp against the stubble on Castiel’s cheeks. “Sorry, Cas,” he says, and sounds it. “I really did think you were cute. But it’s the family business, you know? Nothing personal.”
Castiel’s mouth opens again. Only a hoarse whimper emerges that time.
Dean straightens back up to address his mother. “Just make sure you don’t keep the head this time, alright?” he says as he turns to go. “Keeping souvenirs is how you almost got caught after Dad had his… little accident.”
“Don’t worry,” Mary says, with a gentle touch to her son’s arm. “I’ve learned my lesson. Get outta here. I know you’ve got plans later.”
“Bye, Mom,” Dean says, and then he leaves.
“Look at that.” Mary beams down at Castiel. “You’ll finally get to meet John! Won’t that be fun?”
The last thing Castiel sees is the flash of a blade in Mary’s hand.