18. New Monster Avenue

Castiel has seen Dean sleep many times, now. He’s seen him curled up on the floor of his office, the little blanket covering him from head to toe, the green pillow pressed against his chest. He’s seen Dean nap for hours, seen him turn and mumble and frown, seen him nuzzle a little more into the quilt or the pillowcase. Has seen sleep descend over him, has seen him nod off and jolt awake in turn.

But Castiel has never seen Dean this… calm. 

He stares down at the omega with his heart in his throat. The lines that normally score his face are gone, smoothed away by the first truly peaceful sleep that he has gotten in far too long. His chest rises and falls slowly. 

His hand is loose around Castiel’s wrist even now. He’s been careful not to move. Careful to leave his other hand draped over Dean’s, so that he can feel the man’s steady warmth. Who is reassuring who, he isn’t sure anymore. 

The difference between this and Dean’s normal state of being is comparable to a kick in the chest; getting a glimpse of how relaxed he should be just amounts to one more thing for Castiel to be guilty about. 

He squeezes Dean’s hand, just a little. He doesn’t stir.

When he rises from the bed, he takes care not to jostle the mattress as he rests Dean’s arm in a comfortable position, and as he creeps out of the door he shuts it softly behind him.

He slumps against the wall across from Dean’s door and slides to the ground. He lets out a shaky breath. One he feels like he’s been holding since Dean tumbled to the ground after a careless movement from Castiel at the top of the stairs, holding since Dean ran from him like prey from a predator.

Dean had thought… 

Stomach twisting painfully, he closes his eyes and grips his knees. Dean had truly believed that his only reason for helping him was to use him as an incubator.  

He wishes that it wasn’t so realistic of a possibility. But they’ve come across more than one omega who’d been used and then discarded for that exact purpose. 

Not many alphas are patient enough to play the long game that something like that requires, so those cases are, thankfully, few and far between. But it still happens – especially these days, when free and unclaimed omegas are getting harder and harder to come by. Too many of them married off before they were ready, too many gifted like dowries rather than courted and wooed and loved like human beings. Too many pressured into the slave trade or fertility centers by circumstances outside of their control.

Cas doesn’t know personally, of course, since he has never helped foster before. But he has learned from his conversations with Balthazar and Pamela that those omegas are some of the most broken when they arrive. There were few things that hurt a person like taking away their child. Few things more cruel. Yet Dean had fully expected that to be his fate – or had at least expected Castiel to try and make it his fate. 

He regrets the anger he’d doused the room with when Dean had first accused him – he’d lost his temper, lost his mind at the implication that he would ever do something so heinous. He’d been outraged that anyone could think that of him, let alone Dean, who he’d thought had trusted him. He had accused Castiel of trying to hurt him in the worst way imaginable. 

Then, he’d taken a breath and actually stopped to consider what Dean’s perspective would be. How deeply his scent had been torn between fear and anger and desperate grief, how he’d looked up at Castiel like he’d hung the moon only days ago and then had rapidly spiraled ever since. How he had abused the man’s trust by ordering him to do something he hadn’t wanted to do, regardless of how good his intentions had been at the time. 

Dean has been through so much. He’s seen so much. It’s no wonder that he couldn’t fathom the idea that Castiel was helping him just because he wanted to, because it was right. He should have known Dean would be suspicious, should have anticipated that he’d need proof. He realizes that, foolishly, he’d expected Dean to be so relieved that he was no longer being mistreated that he wouldn’t question anything. 

He’d underestimated the man’s intelligence and far overestimated his ability to trust. Leaving him alone to process his thoughts had seemed like the best option, but really, he’d been letting Dean stew in his own paranoia. Letting him dig himself into a grave using rationalizations that, in hindsight, seem disturbingly reasonable.

His heart had been in his throat when he’d gone downstairs to get Dean’s file, half of him expecting to come out of his office to see the front door wide open and Dean gone. But worse, somehow, Dean had stayed exactly where Castiel had left him, his eyes blank once more, his scent reeking with the same sour smell of resignation that he’d had on the ride home from the auction house. It had been undercut by sorrow. By the sick scent of dashed hopes. 

Then Dean had read the file. He’d understood, finally, and all it had taken was a little proof. He’d been a fool to think that a man who has gone through the things that Dean has would ever take him at his word alone – there are good reasons for Dean’s wariness. 

He wishes fervently that he’d bothered to give Dean those details early on. It would have saved them both the heartache of that confrontation, and would have spared Dean days upon days of sick anticipation. He’d rationalized that showing the omega would do nothing but hurt him, remind him of the things he’d lost – but he’d forgotten that, no matter how difficult it might have been to see, it's information that Dean is entitled to. It’s his life. And Castiel’s cowardice regarding the details of that file had nearly cost them everything. 

This is exactly why he’s never fostered any slaves. Communication isn’t usually something he struggles with – other than perhaps being too blunt – but as an alpha that has grown up with considerable privilege, he’s never had to deal with the fears of an omega. Let alone the fears of an omega slave. It's obvious that despite the fact that he owns a center that rescues and rehabilitates omegas, he has no idea what that process actually entails. 

Now, more than ever, he’s glad that Jody, Balthazar, Benny, and Pamela are the ones who actually run the place while he sits in the background and handles the finances. Glad that he’s never had to do this before, glad that no omega has had to suffer under his care before Dean. 

There is no way Castiel is going to put him through something like this again. It’s high time that he meets Balthazar and has his welcoming session with Benny, and while he isn’t going to invite them over unannounced, he is planning on gently pushing Dean to think about it. He can’t continue to be the only stable thing in Dean’s life – not when the omega cannot fully trust him, cannot fully relax around him, if only because of their respective designations. 

Really, he should be trying to get Dean a spot at the facility. Should be trying to get him away from Castiel at all costs. It would be the best thing for him. 

But the thought of doing so makes his chest ache harshly, makes something in his stomach swoop like he’s staring over the side of a steep cliff. So, guiltily, he shoves the thought away, unable (or at least unwilling) to deal with all the troubling, unfamiliar emotions it elicits. Not after everything that’s already happened tonight. 

He scrubs at his chin and, despite his better judgement, can’t help but cup his hand around his nose and mouth and take in the scent of Dean again, sweet and warm like pastries and apples and cinnamon. His true scent, coming through even with the lingering tendrils of his fear. It strikes Castiel that tonight is the first time he’s ever really smelled it. 

Weeks here, and only now does Dean trust him enough to be even a fraction of himself.

He’s still reeling at the fact that Dean had allowed him into his bed and asked him to stay there for any length of time, and all he can think right now is that it shows how strong the young man is, how resilient. And how badly Dean must need a comforting touch. 

Put in Dean’s position, he’s not sure he’d be brave enough to ever be that vulnerable again. 

Not with someone like him.

Dean wakes up in the bed, and for the first time in a very long time, he isn’t afraid. 

The reason why isn’t obvious, at first. He lays there, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused and his heart beating slow and steady. There is none of the dread or tense fear of the last few days. There’s just… stillness. 

When he remembers why he’s lucky enough to feel this way, his throat closes with emotion. 

Castiel is real. He has to keep reminding himself of that, because it doesn’t seem like he can be. But somehow, Dean has stumbled onto a master that not only doesn’t want to hurt him, but actually wants to protect him. For no good reason – at least not one he can understand. Clearly.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until little flashes of color appear in the blackness. To say that he feels stupid is an understatement. 

But there’s no use lingering over that. Or so he tells himself, swallowing as he tries to tuck the guilt he’s feeling into some dark corner of his brain where he doesn’t have to look at it. Suspicion is in his blood. Pessimism, too. Probably gifts from John, in one way or another – genetic or taught, he’s not sure, but they’re instincts that always seem to be on the money. 

But for once, he’d been wrong. The world has, apparently, decided that he has suffered enough. At least for now. He’s not naive enough to believe that this oasis will last forever – good things in his life never really do. But he’s not going to think about the day where all this will go away. 

Instead, he’s gonna do his best to repay Cas for his kindness. 

He’s not sure how, exactly, he can begin to thank the alpha for plucking him out of literal hell and treating him like a human again, but he has to try. It’s only fair. Cas is going out of his way to deal with a fucked up omega that is going to do nothing but make his life harder. The least that Dean can do is try and make it nice for him. Try and make it worth his while, however he can. 

He’d already known that Cas lived alone here, but now it concerns him for a totally different reason. Is the alpha lonely? In need of someone to talk to, to keep him company? Dean doesn’t think he’d make a very good conversation partner – he’s too dumb for that – but maybe he can at least try. If Castiel doesn’t like it, prefers him to be silent, he can do that too. 

Dean takes a deep breath, his eyes still firmly closed. He’ll clean, he’ll cook – shit, there’s plenty of ways he can use his body to make the dude feel good, if that’s what Cas ends up wanting. And though the idea doesn’t bring him any comfort, he’s more than willing to use himself that way if it means pleasing the man. It’s not like he has any modesty left anyway. 

Whatever his alpha wants, he’ll get. 

Dean knows that it's the definition of pathetic that he feels that way, but it’s different than it’s ever been before. Castiel doesn’t expect anything from him, isn’t asking for anything, and somehow that means that for once in his life Dean wants to hand over things willingly. Hand over himself willingly. 

He wants to be a good omega. Too bad he’s got no friggin’ clue how to do that. 

Finally, he rolls himself out of bed and stands there for a moment, looking at the rumpled sheets and comforter with slightly blurry vision. Cas had sat here, last night. Had sat on his bed with him and held his hand until he’d fallen asleep. He’s a little surprised, honestly, that he even survived that – it’s been so long since he’s been comforted he figured he’d incinerate on the spot. And for a moment, he considers the possibility that it was a dream; but then, he flexes his hand and feels the ghost touch of the alpha. Smells the warm air, cut through with sunlight and floating dust motes and the faint scent of summer rain, and knows that it was real. 

Dean takes a longer shower than he normally would, forcibly wrapping his mind around the fact that really he can without the risk of being beaten for it. He even takes the time to shampoo his hair, long enough now that he can almost tug at it, and runs his hands down his sides and legs and revels in the fact that he can do that without any pain. There are still bruises here and there, especially on his wrists and neck and below his waist, but they’ve already healed more than they ever had in Hell. 

He hasn’t been this safe or this healthy in years. 

Again, the knowledge that he has Cas to thank for it makes him yearn to show the man he’s grateful. To please him. He feels childish at the thought, but Dean knows he’s been that way since he was young. His loyalty has always been easy to win; show him just a hint of approval, and he’ll bend over backwards trying to get it again. 

His cheeks flush at the thought, but he can’t pretend it isn’t the truth. A slut, in more ways than one. 

Luckily, alphas tend to like that. 

Castiel is already awake when Dean finally pulls himself out of the warm shower and moves downstairs. He’s at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, already dressed for the day save for his socked feet – right down to a blue tie. For once, Dean doesn’t hesitate before he steps closer to the alpha and drops down to his knees. 

Cas jumps about a mile into the air. “Oh. Good morning, Dean.” He holds the paper in his hands like he’s forgotten what he was doing with it, staring down at Dean blankly. 

“Mornin’,” Dean says, and wills himself to relax his shoulders, his face. He knows that he doesn’t have to be scared, but it’s taking more work than he’d like to remember. On some level, he’s still braced for a blow. 

Trying to settle himself, he takes in a breath of Castiel’s honey warm scent. His heart slows almost immediately. He wants to lean in a little closer, so he does, and he’s struck by the urge to rest his head against the alpha’s knee– 

Uh. 

Dean’s brain snaps back online. What the fuck?  

Before he has time to pick apart whatever bullshit that was, Cas interrupts his thoughts. “Did you sleep well?”

“Y– yeah,” he says belatedly, shaking off his confusion. He tries to communicate his gratitude for that fact by ducking his head a little lower. “Thank you.”

He can hear the shuffle of the newspaper as Cas sets it on the table. “I didn’t think you’d be up this early, or I’d have prepared breakfast.”

Dean is still having trouble wrapping his head around the fact that the alpha wants to continue to cook for him, even though it’s been several weeks of him doing so. So, even though his stomach rumbles at the thought, he shakes his head. He really needs to work on being less trouble than he’s been. “That’s okay. I’m not hungry anyway.”

He is hungry. Of course he’s hungry. But he’s gone way longer than this without food and just because he’s grown soft doesn’t mean that he can’t go back to the way he was before. 

He glances up at Cas when he’s silent for a moment, and the alpha is frowning. Shit. He already fucked up. Cas can tell that he’s faking, obviously – he’s never been in less control of his scent than he is these days. His eyes fall to the ground and he can feel nerves starting to tingle up his spine, can feel himself getting scared even though he’s sure there’s no reason to be. 

Pretty sure. Almost positive. 

The alpha moves forward, reaches out, and it’s a damn near thing but Dean manages not to flinch. But instead of slapping him to remind him of his place, Cas hovers his hand above Dean’s shoulder. And he waits.

Dean looks at his hand, then at him. And then it clicks – Cas is actually waiting for permission. Permission to touch him, something he doesn’t need and shouldn’t even want to ask for. But he is. The alpha’s blue eyes study him, squinting when Dean lets out a nervous breath. 

He nods. And Castiel’s hand is warm and heavy where it settles. 

“Are you certain?” the alpha asks, glancing at the refrigerator. It’s kind of him, because he really could just call Dean out for lying. “How about something simple? Oatmeal?”

Dean is quick to nod his head – and why wouldn’t he? Does Castiel really expect him to turn down kindness, or disagree with him? He’s happy to see that the alpha looks pleased by that. 

Cas nods, squeezes him once, and then moves away. Dean makes a conscious effort not to follow him when Castiel rises to his feet to start cooking – he’s surprised by how much he wants to. By how cold his shoulder feels now. 

He watches as the man fills a pot of water and sets it on the stove, as he methodically pulls things out of the cabinets. There are a few minutes of what might be called a comfortable silence, if Dean wasn’t frantically searching his brain for some way to thank Cas.  

“Dean, could I propose an idea?”

Dean blinks, startled back into the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“I’d like to know more about you,” Cas says, and Dean can tell he’s thought about these words for a while because they sound sort of rehearsed. “About your preferences. What you would like to do with your time here.”

Dean feels a little nervous. He’s not sure why, exactly, but Cas picks up on it right away, his tone softening like he’s talking to a frightened animal. Dean doesn’t love that, but he can’t say the description doesn’t fit. “You wouldn’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable.” 

Dean’s mouth drops open a little before he snaps it shut. “I… what?”

The alpha scoops a cup full of oats into the water and stirs them around – counter clockwise for three long, slow turns, clockwise for two. Then over again. “I just mean that I don’t expect you to answer every question I ask simply because I ask it.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Dean is honestly confused. Castiel owns him. He’s kind, kinder than Dean had ever dreamed one of his masters could be, but still. Dean belongs to him. Slaves do as they’re told – it’s the cardinal rule. So of course he’s supposed to answer if Cas asks him a question. 

His confusion, much to his dismay, seems to disappoint the alpha. He’s frowning down at the oatmeal, brow furrowed. “Sorry,” he says quietly, but it doesn’t help. Cas just looks down at him and frowns some more. 

His stomach sinks. He’d wanted to make Cas happy that he’s here. It’s been about five minutes and he’s already failing miserably. Maybe it’s better if he just shuts up after all. His mouth has always been more trouble than it was worth.

“I know that you expect me to have certain… standards for you,” Cas says slowly, setting the wooden spoon across the top of the pot gently. “Because I hold your contract, I mean. And I know I didn’t say it before, but I do apologize for… for ordering you, a few days ago. I didn’t intend to, but it’s no excuse.”

Dean blinks. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Cas apologizing for that is the last thing he’d ever expected – it hadn’t even crossed his mind. “It’s… it’s okay,” he finally says, but it comes out sounding a little too much like a question to be convincing. 

Castiel grimaces. Stirs the water. 

“I want to make it clear to you that I don’t expect – or want – you to act like a slave.”

The words should probably hit him hard; he knows that. But they blast around him like a strong wind, powerful but not really touching him. He doesn’t understand what Castiel is saying to him because it doesn’t make sense. How the fuck is he supposed to act? He is a slave. He’s been a slave for over a decade. He doesn’t know how to not be that – no matter how much he’s tried to pretend otherwise, he is, first and foremost, someone else’s property. 

All he wants to do is what Cas says. That’s all. But he doesn’t know how to respond to this insane thing his master is asking him for. Because no matter what he wants, Dean can't change what he is. The alpha might as well ask him to sprout wings and fly away.

Castiel takes his silence for the answer that it is, and sighs a little. He doesn’t push that unobtainable request anymore, and Dean is so grateful he could cry. But he does say, “I want to get to know you as a person. Your likes and dislikes, your interests. I will try my best not to pry into topics that may be uncomfortable for you, but if I do,” he stresses, “please. Tell me that I’ve overstepped. That’s all I ask.”

Cas doesn’t seem to understand that it’s impossible for him to overstep. He is the alpha, he is the master. His word is law. But it’s clear that this is what he wants from him, so he swallows and says, “Okay, Cas.”

He can’t help himself, of course – always has to dig his grave a little deeper. “But, just so you know, I’m… I’m not very interesting. Ain’t much to me,” he says, aiming for light but coming off more nervous than anything. 

Cas looks down at the oats as he thinks of what to say. “I very much doubt that is the truth, Dean,” he says, and it sounds like he actually believes it. “If nothing else, knowing more about you will keep something like what happened last night from happening again.”

Dean flushes. He gets what Castiel is saying, but it’s still difficult to wrap his head around. He wants to push, to explain to Cas that he isn’t really worth getting to know. That he’ll work harder to not act like a little bitch in the future, that he’ll get his shit together. But, for some reason, Dean doesn’t think the alpha would be happy to hear those words; so, instead, he nods. Slowly, haltingly, but he does nod. 

And thank God, Castiel looks pleased by that. He feels a little swoop of relief that he’s finally managed to do something right. 

“I think it would be fair to go back and forth,” the alpha says, sprinkling something into the pot and stirring it a little more. “I ask, you ask, if you’d like. Does that sound reasonable?”

Dean doesn’t have any idea what he could possibly have a right to know about Castiel – or what could be so interesting about him that Castiel wants to hear about it – but he nods anyway. 

“Okay, then. Let’s start with something simple.” He frowns, looks around the kitchen. “What kind of toppings would you like on your oatmeal?”

Dean lets out a shaky laugh. That hadn’t really been the type of question he’d expected. Even so, his good humor evaporates when he finds that he’s having trouble answering it. 

What does he like on his oatmeal? 

“I’m just happy to have food,” he says honestly. It’s the truest response he can give. 

Castiel’s face folds into that same little frown. “But that isn’t a preference.”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He’d actually been trying to be honest, there, but it turns out there is a wrong answer to these kinds of questions. “I mean, I don’t know, Cas. I’m good with whatever you give me.”

The alpha just looks sad about that, and Dean doesn’t understand why. Shouldn’t he be pleased that Dean is grateful, that he’s not demanding anything more than what he’s already been given? That was something a lot of his previous masters wanted – Dean at their feet, groveling because they had not hurt him as badly as they could have. There were times when he’d done it, too, much to his shame. Because, in some sick way, he had been grateful, if only to be able to rest for a while. 

But Castiel isn’t looking for that. Sounds to Dean like he’s looking for him to be normal, and not a fucked up shell of a person. 

Dean bites his lip, looks around the kitchen from his place on the ground. “Um. What are my options?”

The lines around his face ease just a little. “Well, there’s fruit. And sugar; brown or white, and honey. There’s cinnamon, too. Or any combination of those.”

Dean swallows. “Fruit?”

“Are you asking, or telling?”

Dean falters. “I… I think I’d like fruit,” he says, a little firmer this time, and Castiel smiles. 

“Strawberries, blueberries, or bananas?”

Dean swallows. “Strawberries?” he says, mostly at random. Castiel nods like he’s said something meaningful and serious. He pulls the carton out of the fridge, rinses them in a colander, and begins deftly cubing them up. 

“How about some sugar?” the alpha says, glancing back down at him. “I’m afraid the strawberries are a smidge tart. They’re out of season, apparently.”

It’s a lot easier when Castiel takes control, so he just nods. “Sure, Cas.”

He turns back around and sprinkles the sugar in, and smiles down at the bowl. His eyes crinkle when he hands Dean his food. And he smiles when Dean says, “Thanks,” his voice just a little above a whisper.

“Thank you, Dean.” 

It’s weird to be thanked at all, let alone for something like this, but Dean feels a little burst of pleasure inside his chest when Cas looks at him like that. Like he’s done something good. For once, he decides not to question it, and just rides the high. 

Cas prepares a bowl of his own (bananas and cinnamon, which Dean files away for some unknown reason) and returns to the table. He doesn’t sit back in his chair, though – just plops down on the hard tile and digs in. 

Dean stares at him for a half second before letting out a little huff of laughter. Cas looks up at him, a question clear on his face. 

“I just… this is real,” he says dazedly. “You’re real.”

Castiel’s gaze softens. “Yes.”

Dean scrubs his hand across his mouth. Looks down at his bowl. He’s supposed to ask Cas a question, now, and while he thinks it would probably be smart to ask about something as equally bland as topping preferences, he really can’t help himself. 

“Why me?”

Cas doesn’t even blink. Dean gets the feeling he’d been anticipating that question. He sets down his bowl carefully, mulling his words over before he speaks. “Your file caught our attention,” he says slowly. 

Dean’s stomach sinks. “Why?”

Fiddling with his shirt sleeves, Cas avoids his eyes when he answers. “We knew you would be… would probably be sold again. Quickly. And the scouter was worried that it would be to somewhere... similar. To where you’d been before, that is. Most likely with an auction-lot of other slaves.”

Dean is filled by a flood of self disgust and guilt so strong that it makes Cas look up sharply in response. 

There were so many other slaves with him in that auction house, just in the little hall his cell had been in. He’d heard them. Heard the crying – the wailing, desperate sobs of the new slaves, the hitching and muffled tears of the old ones. The yelling and threatening of the ones still in denial about their fate and the broken pleading of the ones who knew better than to think they’d receive any mercy. So many who needed help, so many that could actually have a chance at healing. 

Dean is too fucked up to ever be fixed, and he knows it. But here he is, no fresh bruises on his body, no fear of going hungry hanging over his head. Sitting here, on the floor, with an alpha that he actually trusts not to hurt him. As if he’s done anything to earn those things.

Castiel must see the direction of his thoughts, because he adds, “We help as many omegas as we can, Dean. But sometimes we have to prioritize.”

“I’m not a priority,” he argues reflexively. 

His master’s face hardens minutely, and Dean tries not to let his hands start shaking – tries to remind himself that he’s safe. He drops his eyes down to his bowl anyway. The alpha's words are low and almost harsh. “How much longer do you honestly believe you would have survived, under conditions like that?”

The question stings. He’d survived four, almost five years in Hell, and six years before even that, hadn’t he? What can anyone do to him that Alastair or his other masters haven’t done already? His jaw tightens, and his stubbornness is as familiar as it is dangerous – he looks up to meet Castiel’s gaze. 

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “There are about a million slaves who deserve this more than me.”

The alpha sighs, almost seeming to deflate. He takes a moment before he speaks again. “It’s not about deserving or not deserving. Ideally, there would be no slaves at all,” he says simply, not at all seeming to realize he’s flipped Dean’s stomach upside down with the words. “For now, all we can do is help those who need it most, wherever we can.”

Dean swallows. The bowl of food in his hands – the food he’s done nothing to earn, that he didn’t even have to cook himself – is warm. He can’t help but think of a dozen other slaves he’d been kept with over the years, every single one of which he’d give this to over himself. 

“Survivor’s guilt,” Cas argues. “That is what you’re feeling, Dean. You cannot change what’s happened to you so far, but you can certainly take charge of your future.”

There’s a blaze of determination in the alpha’s gaze, enough of it that Dean knows he won’t be able to change his mind. As nice as it is to have someone claim that he’s worth something, he knows the truth. Knows better. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, casts his eyes down where they should be, and takes a bite of his oatmeal so he can’t say anything else to upset him. He can tell Cas doesn’t believe him, because he waits a few seconds to speak again. 

“Have you given any thought to when you’d like to speak to Balthazar? I truly think he would be able to answer many of your questions.” The alpha sounds earnest – hopeful, almost. He’s probably pretty friggin’ desperate to find someone who can understand Dean’s bullshit. As though anyone can. “It would be good for you to get a perspective from someone of your own designation, I think.” 

Dean swallows. He’d all but forgotten about the mysterious omega coworker because of his little nervous breakdown. He can’t deny, though, that he’s curious about the man. He doesn’t think that Balthazar can fix him like Cas seems to think he can, but he’s still curious. So he shrugs. “Whenever, Cas.”

Cas nods seriously, already pulling out his phone. “It could be as soon as this afternoon, if you’re willing. He’s eager to meet you.”

Dean nods back, ignoring the trill of nerves at the thought.