Chapter Text
Punctuality is very important to Castiel. It’s just polite. It’s why he glosses over his daily schedule the night before he has an important business meeting and ensures his morning routine doesn’t interfere with his day. It never does, but it doesn’t hurt to check. He can almost hear Dr. Moseley chastising him gently before reminding him: “Inward, not outward” as his hands curl into fists as the minutes tick past the hour and his brother still isn’t here yet. He and Dr. Moseley have talked about this extensively—even if he did everything perfectly and followed all his routines and schedules, he still cannot control things outside of himself. He’s supposed to be okay with that—and he hadn’t been for a long time, but he’s “better” now—but when it comes to Gabriel, Castiel knows he’s doing it on purpose. Gabriel lives to push buttons, specifically Cas’. He knows that Gabriel takes absurd pleasure in torturing him this way, because apparently that’s what brothers do. Gabe also thought it was funny when Castiel suggested that brothers don’t have to do that, and promised that for as long as they lived, Gabriel would never stop giving him a hard time. For love.
Whether it’s brotherly love or just the fact that Gabriel usually rolls out of bed after snoozing several alarms and sometimes puts on a dirty pair of pants and will forgo brushing his teeth if he’s really late, it bothers Castiel all the same. But he’s prepared for this, too. He schedules a thirty-minute grace period to read whenever he’s meeting Gabriel. Forty-five minutes if the meeting is set before nine o’clock. Reading is pretty low-tier on his activities that he puts in his daily routines, so it’s always a nice way to make up for the fact that he’s usually pissed off when Gabriel finally shows up. Besides, it’s one more thing he can tell Dr. Moseley he succeeded at, because she can always tell when Gabe’s been bothering him. She says he’s got a Gabe-tell, and it’s different than other times he’s been triggered by people disrespecting his schedule.
Gabriel rolls in at 10:21, which isn’t bad for him. Cas had gotten a whole chapter read and they could still finish their meeting at a reasonable time and his day won’t need any adjustments. Of course, that doesn’t account for the next wrench thrown in his daily plan: the other person they’re meeting doesn’t come in with Gabriel.
“Hey bro!” Gabriel plops into the swivel chair next to him, leaving the two chairs opposite of the table empty. “Contractor isn’t here yet?”
“I thought maybe you’d be bringing him in with you.” He draws his binder from the briefcase set on the floor next to him and opens it. “Though it’s not boding well that he’s over twenty minutes late for his first meeting.”
He knows Gabriel is rolling his eyes, he doesn’t have to see it happen to know that. “Is it more disruptive to your evil plan to switch contractors, or just wait for him?”
Castiel smiles thinly. It’s said rhetorically, but he replies as if Gabriel meant it. “I have given us a few extra days for negotiations. I could always call Mr. Turner and offer him the job; it wouldn't offset our progress. Mr. Singer has eight more minutes until I decide to cancel altogether.”
“Cas, it’s raining cats and dogs. Traffic is a nightmare. You can’t cancel just for that.”
Castiel throws him a glance. “I know, Gabriel. I checked the forecast, and adjusted accordingly.”
Gabriel blinks, and then shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it,” he mutters.
He is, of course, referring to the fact that Castiel has the final say in these decisions, because it’s his money after all. Because after their father died and left them each an inheritance and a sizable chunk of shares of his business and fortune, Gabriel blew through most of that in the most irresponsible, most Gabriel way possible, and when his portion started to dry up and he was ready to start his own business, he didn’t have enough. He begged Castiel for months for a loan, but instead of the high risk, low reward outcome that option gave, Castiel instead decided to give him the money in exchange for decision-making power of the business. It was Gabriel's vision and Castiel’s discipline that made Just Desserts work, and it felt like Gabe was getting his own just desserts because Castiel was able to plan and decide extensively, and Gabe just had to shut up and go along if he wanted to keep his bakery alive.
When Hannah pokes her head in to let them know the contractors have arrived, it’s 10:29. Gabriel sticks his tongue out and Castiel still notes to give his spiel about punctuality and how important his time is.
“Man, I’m so sorry about the time. There’s an accident on 95 that’s—oh, shit.”
Castiel’s head snaps up from where he’s writing to see the two men that Hannah’s let in the room, and he knows right away that he’s not going to have to give the speech. In front, wearing a dark jacket over several more layers with water droplets falling out of his hair—which is different now, but still cropped and combed—is Dean Winchester.
“Um, hi,” Dean says slowly. “You must be Gabriel.” He turns to Castiel’s brother, and they shake hands as Dean says his full name, and then reaches behind him to the tall man behind him. “This is Sam, he’s my right hand on most projects, so you can get in touch with him for anything if you can’t reach me.”
Sam has at least a few inches on Dean, and Castiel furrows his brow when he connects their obvious similarities, and concludes that this must be the little brother Sam. He’s got long hair past his ears, and he’s a little more reserved and professional than Dean, and after a moment of staring Castiel realizing Sam’s extending his hand between them to shake. “…little brother, brains of the operation,” Dean is saying.
So…Dean’s a contractor. One of the best in Baltimore, according to the internet, and he’s in business with his brother. The brother that Dean spoke about with deep hatred, the brother that Dean said ruined his life by tearing their family apart.
He knows he’s being rude. He knows Gabe is going to say something about it. But he can’t tear his gaze away from the brothers, now taking their seats across from Cas and his own brother, who’s already told them their tardiness is forgiven. Dean keeps glancing over, in between pulling open a laptop and turning towards Cas and Gabe once he’d opened the “Novak-Just Desserts” file.
“Hey, Cassie, you good?” Gabriel nudges him.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, looking down at his own paperwork and the note he made—strike one. Call Rufus Turner and keep options open. “No, I think I forgot something. Gabriel, could you—” he goes to stand but Gabriel reaches his arm out to shove him back down.
“You didn’t forget anything, dumbass,” he chides. He smiles at their guests, who are both looking at Cas—in far different ways. Dean doesn’t show any emotion, just stares forward, and Sam looks understandably concerned. “So!” Gabe begins, rubbing his palms together. “I’m excited to get this started. I think Cassie wants to start us off…” Gabriel looks to him, but Cas is just gripping the corner of his open page tightly between his fingers and wondering how to tactfully fire Dean and his brother before they can begin, and if he should wait until they at least finish their presentation.
“I thought we’d be working with a Mr. Singer,” he blurts.
“It’s Singer and Sons. We’re the sons,” Sam says, and Dean leans back in his chair and looks at his hands on his lap.
“Your last name is Winchester,” he states, and Gabe is kicking him under the table.
“Uh, I’m not Winchester,” Sam says slowly. “We’re brothers…we just don’t have the same name. Is that…a problem?”
“No, no problem! Cas here just doesn’t like surprises.” Gabe grabs his arm roughly. “Bro, what the fuck?” he leans in to ask quietly. “Just give them your neurotic intro so we can get started.”
Of course, Dean is getting him off track. Dean always did that, and it’s just one of the many, many reasons Castiel was happy to leave Dean behind.
“Gabe, I—”
“We should go,” he hears Dean interrupting and shutting his laptop. Castiel doesn’t look up.
Gabe shoots him a dirty look before responding to Dean. “Oh, no, it’s not a big deal. He’s excited too, he’s just got a funny way of showing it.”
He takes a deep breath, and he knows the brothers are waiting for him to answer. “Gabriel,” he says coolly. “I’m afraid I must say that for personal reasons, we should re-evaluate this decision.” He avoids looking at Dean, and Sam frowns and slowly moves to stand.
Gabe lowers his voice to an angry hiss. “Because of their name? Cas, are you taking your meds? What is wrong with you?”
Ignoring the obvious bait to snap at his brother, Castiel closes his binder. “I’m afraid that to remain professional, I should leave it at that.” He purposely looks at the taller brother and forces a smile. “Thank you for coming, I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
“Professional? What’s going—oh, my god.”
Castiel looks at his older brother in horror, because as tight-lipped as Cas is being, Gabe is going to do the exact opposite when he finds out—and from his expression, he figured it out on his own. Castiel prays that Dean and Sam are out of earshot when Gabriel inevitably blurts out what he’s just realized.
“Holy shit, Dean Winchester. I can’t believe—this is him? Your crazy ex? The psychotic, cheating asshole?”
Castiel closes his eyes, knowing the door is still open and the contractor brothers are still in the room as Gabriel lays their business out in the most unprofessional way possible. When he opens his eyes again, Dean is gone, and Sam is standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Um.” He looks between Gabriel and Cas. “We’re not getting this job, are we?”
Gabriel laughs, standing to clap Sam on the shoulder—though Sam is much taller than Gabriel, and it looks silly. “Sorry, pal. My little bro here makes the rules, ‘cause he’s got the money.”
“Mr. Novak.”
Cas makes the mistake of meeting Sam’s eye.
“I don’t suppose I could ask you to reconsider? We were kind of banking on this job, we’ve already turned down another one to make room for you.” Sam’s got soft hazel eyes and a kind face. He’s got the puppy-dog eyes down nicely, because Castiel feels guilty when Sam blinks innocently and smiles softly. “I don’t know what happened between you and…well, I could take the lead on communication, I usually do anyway.”
Castiel holds onto his precious binder for dear life. He can’t help but be curious, because next on the list of ‘Things I never thought would happen again’ after seeing Dean again was seeing Dean again and he’s in business with the brother he said was dead to him . “Who’s Mr. Singer?” he asks, watching Sam’s face as he probably expected Cas to say something else.
“My adoptive dad. He raised me after my father lost custody.”
Cas nods. That tracks. Dean had told him (though he insisted he didn’t care) that the last he knew, Sam was in foster care. “Why is Dean considered the son of Singer and Sons?” he asks. That part didn’t make sense. Cas didn’t think Sam’s foster family was even in the state, and the idea of Dean joining Sam’s new family was absurd. Dean was pointedly against contacting Sam at all. At least, that was what he said seven years ago when Cas and Dean first met.
“Look, I don’t know what you know, but I’m guessing you knew Dean back when we weren’t in contact. But lots has changed since then, because I’m sure that means you knew Dean when he was homeless. He came to live with me and—Mr. Singer six years ago.” Sam casts a glance at Gabriel before he continues. “I know he was pretty messed up back then, but that was a long time ago. He’s not the same person. We’ve been working for my dad for almost that long and he’s really good at his job. I know he’ll give this project just as much effort as he does any other job.”
Gabriel’s smiling his stupid smug smile. “Aw, Mr. Winchester-slash-Singer, I think you’re winning him over.”
“Gabriel,” Cas snaps. “Even if that were true, it would still be inappropriate. Dean and I were in a relationship, one that ended badly. It wouldn’t be professional of me—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Cas. You’re not going to be overseeing the daily ins and outs anyway. You told me that was my job. All you were supposed to do was approve the designs and go over the numbers.”
“I promise, you won’t have to see or hear from Dean. He takes care of most of the on-site stuff and I do most of the planning and financials. I’ll be the one you’ll be working with most. Please, Mr. Novak.”
“Yeah, please Mr. Novak?”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “Gabe, you’re not helping. You live for this.” To Sam, he says, “I’ll have my assistant get back to you tomorrow about a decision.”
Sam smiles with his whole face. “Thank you! I look forward to it!” He and Gabriel shake hands again and he bounds out of the room, leaving Castiel with his meddling older brother.
“Well, would you look at—”
“Shut up. We’re not doing it.”
“But! You said.”
“Gabriel, if you think I’m going to hire them you’re out of your mind. No doubt you’re already scheming ways to make this as uncomfortable as possible. It’s not happening. I’m calling Rufus Turner.”
“Aw, Cas! Even he told you Singer and Sons was better equipped for this. Just get over yourself.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sinks into his chair and then checks the time. Their meeting was supposed to run a whole hour longer, but they’d wasted all that time because he was going to have to find a new contractor for Just Desserts’ renovations. “No.”
Gabriel protests, and Castiel ignores him, and eventually his brother pulls a lollipop out of his pocket and unwraps it before popping it in his mouth and stalking out of the room. Castiel ignores the urge to call Gabriel a petulant child, and he flips open his binder and finds Mr. Turner’s contact information.
When Castiel arrives home, he deposits his keys and wallet in the glass bowl on the long table just inside his city townhouse. There’s music on, coming from the home gym. Checking his watch, he sees that the traffic from the weather has held him up substantially—not something his partner has to worry about because he works from home. He peeks inside the second bedroom, where Mick is using his punching bag. He doesn’t notice Cas watching him, just dutifully goes about his rhythmic workout. Sweat runs down the side of his face and flicks off when he moves sharply. When the song comes to an end, Mick grabs a towel from the bench to wipe his face and he finally notices Cas in the doorway.
“You’re home late,” he comments. “Something happen?”
Cas shakes his head. “Just traffic from the rain.” He feels okay—how much of a difference from when he and Mick first met, and things like heavy traffic throwing off his schedule would have caused him to have a mild panic attack.
Mick’s good about praising that when he sees it. Cas, making an effort not to be an uptight, anxiety-ridden control freak. Cas likes that Mick can appreciate how hard he works to accept the world as it is, as much as he doesn’t understand it. Mick’s naturally good at a lot of things—sports, talking to people, going with the flow, being suave (his accent helped him in that category—who doesn’t love a man with an accent?). Cas was at one point jealous of Mick’s unending talent of just being a human because Cas seemed to get the short end of the stick when it comes to adapting to his environment, but once he figured out Mick was playing up his abilities to get Cas’ attention—well, that changed things.
While they make dinner together—a preselected meal from one of those home-delivery services that give you all the ingredients and you cook it on your own, Mick eyes him closely. “Are you sure you’re okay?” The reason their relationship has lasted longer than a few months is because Mick is particularly good at reading him. After two years together, Mick can pick up on an off day and can typically guess what kind of stressor it is—time management, Gabriel, and customers at work usually are the most common.
“I, uh, had a frustrating day.”
He nods. “Need to tell me about it? Or would you rather decompress elsewhere?”
Cas wonders if he should—he and Mick are well past the stage where a story about an ex-boyfriend is weird. But still this is about Dean, the one he really never talks about. He can talk about Inias or Meg without a problem, but Dean is—well, he’s a different kind of ex.
“Hey, didn’t you have a meeting with a potential contractor today? To expand the bakery? How’d that go?”
Cas deflates, setting aside the knife he’s been using to chop an onion into oblivion. “Not well,” he answers.
“What happened?”
“The contractor that Mr. Turner recommended was actually someone I knew back when—well, before.”
Mick turns to face him, face soft because before means someone who might have seen Cas as his lowest. Nobody that he knew then had stuck around for very long, besides Gabriel, but he was kind of obligated to. “Was he a dick about it?”
Cas shakes his head, because no, Dean wasn’t a dick about it. He just left; got out of there as soon as possible. “We dated for a little while, in my junior year at Towson.”
Mick squints, trying to parse out who exactly Cas was referring to. Not Inias, because that was a high school thing that faded the way high school things drop off sometimes, and not Meg because that was a shaky new beginning well after Cas had left school.
“The homeless guy who mooched off of you?” he scoffs.
Cas affirms, and winces internally. Dean was so much more than that. He was a whirlwind of a romance, and a hurricane of a person. He blew through Cas’ life with maximum feelings and left with mass destruction; he was more. “Well, he’s not homeless anymore. He’s one of Baltimore’s best contractors. I didn’t realize I was hiring him, because the owner’s name—it doesn’t matter. We cut the meeting short and now I’ve got to find another contractor.”
“Why’s that?” It’s a flippant question, asked without much forethought or calculating the weight behind it.
“I can’t hire him,” Cas says forcefully, maybe a little harsher than he meant.
Mick’s eyebrows shoot up and Cas knows he’s deciding whether to argue his position or if he’s going to let Cas put his foot down. “It was what, five or six years ago? He’s probably different, and you’re much different—why can’t you hire him?” Mick always was the kind to get him to budge.
“I can’t.” It’s weak, because Castiel cannot, for all that is holy, explain to his current boyfriend Mick-the-trust-fund-baby-Davies that Dean wasn’t just some drifter that swindled and played him. He loved Dean—he thought that he and Dean could fix each other, he thought Dean’s give ‘em hell attitude would be effective against Cas’ mental illness that was overtaking his ability to cope with everyday life. He can’t tell Mick that, he wouldn’t get it. He can’t tell Mick that Dean broke his heart in a devastating way—the kind where you fall asleep in the fetal position on the bathroom floor and don’t shower or change your clothes for days and you drink to excess and bawl your eyes out in your brother’s lap while he pats your back and says, “It’ll be okay. You won’t feel like this forever.” But you can’t imagine ever getting better because a pair of bright green eyes and a freckled face took your whole heart with them when they left you.
That’s not something you tell your boyfriend. You just say, “it ended badly. Messy.” Maybe you tell him he cheated on you, but honestly you struggle to give the details because the hurt was so profound and talking about him makes you think about him, and thinking about him…well, it’s a real “Give a Mouse a Cookie” situation that ends in drinking or crying or both, so you just keep it simple.
“Cas,” he sighs, the food obviously taking a back seat to the conversation. Not that this is casual talk to be had over dinner prep, but Cas’ day was already thrown off so much that all he wants to do is stick to the plan.
“I just don’t want to work with him. He was kind of an ass back then.”
Mick purses his lips and looks meaningly, eyes soft and knowing. He has Cas memorized, down to when he’s trying to brush something off, and he’s unnervingly good at picking at him. “This feels like an opportunity.”
Cas avoids his knowing glare, adamant on mincing that garlic well.
“An exercise in flexibility, and an opportunity to show how much you’ve changed for the better, that you’re willing to forgive and move on from stuff that doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Or it’s a good time to exercise boundaries for people who have a history of crossing them,” he retorts.
“Fair.” Maybe he’s just that attuned to Cas’ mood or maybe he just doesn’t want to keep chipping away till they get to the point—Cas can be exhausting like that, he knows his stubborn streak can wear Mick down.
When they finally get the food cooked and eaten, Mick starts on cleanup and stares out of the window above the sink, leaving the faucet running. “I think you have enough.” Cas points to the pot that’s overflowing with soapy water.
Without looking at Cas, Mick shakes out of his trance and shuts off the water.
Cas wonders if he should be more honest, or if he can suppress this bit successfully.
In the morning, he wakes up at his regular time. He uses the stationary bike in the gym for exactly forty-two minutes, and then drinks twelve ounces of water. He showers, makes coffee, cooks breakfast, and is plating the extra for Mick when he emerges from their room at quarter after seven. They don’t get to say anything to each other because Cas’ phone rings, and it’s Gabriel—Cas has to do a double take, because there’s no way Gabe is awake right now.
“Hello?”
“Hey Cas! What a morning, am I right?”
Cas peeks out the window, watching the sun make its way up from the city line and notices that yesterday’s clouds are gone. Just as the forecast told him when he checked it this morning. “Very clear. Why are you calling me right now?”
“I wanted to let you know I took the liberty of telling Sam Singer that Singer and Sons is renovating the bakery.”
Cas rubs his forehead—Gabriel knows how to trigger stress headaches like no one else in his life. “Gabriel…”
“I was thinking about it, and just chatting with my new friend Sammy—such a charming fellow, by the way, and I thought, hell, you’re probably stressed about how to juggle all this work and making the decision about the renovations, I thought I would just take this off your plate for you.”
“I’m going to kill you. But first I’m going to fire them again.”
“Aw, Cas, lighten up.” Cas winces, because how many times has he heard that before and all it ever did was make him lock his jaw and clench his fists while most definitely not lightening up? “It really will be okay. And I’m not being glib, it really won’t change anything for you.”
“Why are you telling me this at seven-thirty in the morning? You’re usually still unconscious at this hour.”
“Because the brothers are going to be in your office in…one hour and I wanted to give you time to pop a pill and get yourself good.”
Age 8
There was a time when he believed that keeping order actually kept order; that he could keep everything right if everything was put into place. It was fine, for a while. But eventually Castiel began to understand that no matter how much he could control, count, keep filed neatly in his brain when he’d check over the possibilities and imagine the worst case scenario, doing that did nothing—bad things still happened. Soon, Castiel only did those things to soothe himself, because the reality was that all that weight of the risk of everything he feared was always there, and he could somehow cope by repeating words over and over and dreaming maladaptively and imagining nothing ever going wrong—because something always was going to go wrong.
He just shouldered the fear the same way he shouldered fear of everything.
He used to think about drowning. All the time. He wouldn’t go in the pool when Gabe’s blow-up boat was in the water, because at night he pictured himself trapped under the stupid yellow plastic. It made him so scared he couldn’t breathe, which was fitting considering he was obsessed with preventing himself from drowning.
It was perfectly rational, even though he was a strong swimmer. Strong swimmers drown all the time. That thought consumed him.
Eventually he stopped going near the water altogether.
Castiel was seated at the kitchen counter, counting the squares of tiles on the floor while Mother paced back and forth. He tried to count them while she wasn’t stepping on them, but she kept throwing him off. It sent a flash of panic and anger through him, and he started over.
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” she hissed. “Our boy’s just a worrier, Aren’t you, Castiel?”
He was busy counting tiles.
“You heard the doctor, Eve. He’s stressed to the point where it’s going to actually harm his brain development.”
“Jimmy, he’s not going to get brain damage from being timid. That doctor’s a quack.”
She stopped pacing, thank goodness, so he could count all the tiles around her.
“Cassie, baby, you’re just fine, aren’t you?”
“You’re just fine, aren’t you,” he repeated, looking over at Dad. “I am just fine, aren’t I?”
Dad smiled at him, however sadly he could muster, and then glanced at Mother.
“You forgot to answer, Daddy.”
“You’re going to be just fine, Cas.”
Special circumstances were fascinating to him. Castiel loved special circumstances. When things were out of order in a good way, it was the makings of a memory.
So when Castiel was in bed, reading The Boxcar Children with a flashlight because he preferred to read until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore—that was easier than waiting for sleep with an open mind, because an open mind is susceptible to thoughts that he couldn’t stop from coming; stop from taking over. While he was reading, not feeling tired enough to put the book down, he heard his father walking past his bedroom door, which was a special circumstance, because Dad wouldn’t have to walk this way to get to his own bedroom.
Being a special circumstance, he was out of bed and peeking out the door, watching Dad carrying his Tempur-Pedic pillow into the guest room. He didn’t close the door all the way, and being ever the curious one, Castiel followed him in.
Dad was settling into the guest bed, getting ready for sleep. He didn’t notice Castiel until he’d climbed up on the other side of the bed.
“Oh, you scared me. Why aren’t you asleep?”
Cas shrugged. “I wasn’t tired yet. Maybe if I’m in here with you, I’ll get tired.”
Dad sagged into his side of the bed, and Cas didn’t move until he was invited in. “Okay, fine.”
Castiel scrambled under the covers, smiling. Sleepovers were special circumstances. Sleepovers with Dad? He’d never imagined! Sleepovers at a friend’s house can be hard, because they have different rules and their food tastes wrong and the sleeping bag isn’t a good place to actually sleep, but a sleepover in your own house is something exciting! It’s still the comfort of home while also being a special circumstance. He doesn’t even mind he doesn’t have his white noise machine, or The Boxcar Children, because Dad smells like something sharp and spicy, and he breathes evenly and it’s a comforting sound. So much so that Castiel drifted off without even counting the lines in the wallpaper.