I'm Still Wearing His Jacket

by Thunderstormsx

Chapter 2

Dean

He wasn’t the kind of guy who spent too much time thinking.
Thinking led to conclusions.
Conclusions led to feelings.
And feelings… well, they were bullshit.

But then he did it. Involuntarily. The same thing. The same damn sentence.
Repeating over and over in his head.
Since that night he sat alone, at a table shoved into a dark corner of the bar.

He hadn’t ended up there by accident.
He’d followed Sam after class — like he sometimes did.
It wasn’t to interfere. It never was.
It was just to watch. To make sure.
Because, at the end of the day, Sam was still his little brother.
And protecting him was maybe the only thing Dean actually knew how to do right.

The bar was small, stuffy, with low music and the smell of grease soaked into the walls.
It had well-kept wooden tables, tall glasses, and way too many conversations.
Dean sat like someone trying not to be seen — hood half-pulled up, head low, elbows firm on the table.
A beer in front of him, just for show.

He knew Sam. Knew he was smart, alert, careful.
But somehow, this always worked.
Dean managed to go unnoticed.
And as much as that should’ve reassured him, it only made him more uneasy.

Three months earlier, he’d driven the nearly four hundred miles to Palo Alto, stopping only to gas up, take a piss, and buy a reheated burrito from a convenience store — one he was definitely gonna regret later.
Their dad had gone into a lone-wolf phase, hunting solo, and made it very clear he wanted space.
So, when a small case popped up in Modesto, Dean thought:
Why not take a detour and check in on my kid brother?

He’d done it before.
Always in the shadows.
Never announced.

He crossed the I-5 like he was running from something — and maybe he was.
Then got stuck at an endless light on University Avenue, drumming his fingers on the wheel to the muffled beat of Back in Black, the heat building up inside the car.

A group of cyclists passed too close. One of them clipped the Impala’s mirror, and Dean let out a low curse but didn’t move.
Three lights later, he turned right and parked on a quiet street under a tree that was shedding dry leaves like it was the dead of autumn.

He stayed there.

Still.

Hands on the wheel, body tense, like he was about to go on a hunt — but it wasn’t a spirit he was waiting for.
It was Sam.
Whom he hadn’t seen in months.
Who hadn’t spoken to him in nearly a year.
The brother who now walked around with zippered backpacks, wore college hoodies, and highlighted textbook lines.

At that moment, Sam was probably leaving a Constitutional Law class.
Dean knew that.
He knew the time.
He knew the building.
He knew the professor’s name.
Nothing too hard when you could hack a university intranet.

He looked at the dashboard clock.
And even with the sun starting to dip behind the buildings, painting the street in orange and shadow, he could only think of one thing:

What would he do if Sam saw him?

Or worse —
What would he do if Sam didn’t?

And Sam didn’t.
Not once in those three months.

And that worried Dean.

Had Sam let his guard down?

He was just a few feet away, sitting at a table with two friends.
The guy in the blue hoodie — Brady, if Dean remembered right — he’d seen him a few times before.
And the brunette girl, Kim, who seemed glued to Sam.
Always next to him, always laughing, always talking way too much.

She was clearly the outgoing type.
Took almost all the same classes as Sam and never seemed to shut up.
Asked too many questions.
Especially about stuff Sam never really answered.

Especially about family.

Dean had already splashed some holy water and done a few sneaky tests on both of them. Just in case.
Humans. Just humans.

“Thanks, by the way,” Brady said, tossing something into the bowl of fries in the center of the table.

“He mad at me?” he added, sounding kinda guilty.

“Of course he is,” Sam said, laughing with a mouth full of food. “He might be a good guy, but he’s not stupid.”

“And in the end, I didn’t even go,” Brady groaned, letting out a dramatic sigh. “All for nothing. Last time I borrow anyone’s car.”

“And last time anyone’s dumb enough to lend it to you,” Kim shot back, rolling her eyes.

The three of them laughed.
They were sharing a plate of onion rings in the center of the table, their hands weaving back and forth like there were unspoken rules to the game.
One dipping sauce nearly spilled, another got saved at the last second.
Glasses came and went, clinking in casual toasts no one really called out.
It was the kind of light, messy intimacy Dean had never had.

Not like that.

 

Dean’s nights were made of dimly lit bars that smelled like mold and stale peanuts tossed into cracked bowls. Booze that was too strong, silence that was too heavy, or too many stories from hunters that were way too old. Calloused hands, hunched backs, talking about demons, losses, and things no one else could ever understand.

Sam… Sam had lightness. Ranch dressing on the corners of his mouth. A pretty girl smiling wide at him like he was the funniest guy at the table. A friend whose biggest problem was crashing someone’s car.

Dean couldn’t tell if it made him jealous or just pissed off.

Was that what Sam had run away for? Nights like this?

Bullshit.

Dean took a sip of the beer — way too bitter — and looked away when a girl walked by. Hair up in a messy bun, denim shorts, a top way too short for late February.

“Winchester, that’s the girl I wanted to introduce you to…” Brady said, nodding toward the blonde who had just walked past. He even raised a hand to wave her over, but she was already lost in the bar crowd.

Dean noticed Kim’s face. The brunette clearly liked Sam. Maybe Brady noticed too, because he cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“Can you guys keep a secret?” he asked, leaning back in his chair with a half-smile.

“Another one? I’m out,” the girl replied, taking a sip of her drink.

Brady ignored her.

“I don’t hate it here anymore,” he said, laughing. “I passed out drunk on the dean’s lawn, smoked with a bunch of seniors last week, and now I’m thinking about getting my nose pierced.”

The brunette let out a sound of disbelief.

Sam… laughed.

Dean gripped his glass, the cold rim slipping through his fingers. Come on, this wasn’t even real fun.

Fun, for him, was an empty road at sunset. The growl of the Impala tearing through the wind. A Metallica tape jammed in the cassette deck, fingers tapping the steering wheel. A greasy sandwich at a 24-hour diner after a long hunt. The heavy silence of a cheap motel, hands still stained with monster blood, shoulders sore — but the world saved for one more night.

“You mean the one with the little ball?” Sam asked, still smiling. “Or like the hook kind, with two ends?”

“Both. Eyebrow and septum.”

“Gonna need a hit of that senior weed to deal with the pain?” Kim teased, smirking, her elbow resting on the table.

More laughs. More beer. A waitress rushed past and Brady was already calling for another round.

“And you, Sam?” Kim asked, turning toward him, chin resting on her palm, eyes shining with curiosity. “You ever smoked?”

Dean, at the next table, already knew the answer.

Of course not. Sam was the straight one. Sam was…

“Once,” Sam said, shrugging. “Just to see what it was like.”

The words hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He didn’t even notice the way his brow furrowed — just felt the strange wave rising in his chest. Something heavy. Bitter. Not because Sam had done it. But because he hadn’t known.

When had that happened?
What do you mean, once?
Why didn’t he tell me?

But of course… they hadn’t talked in ages.

“Honestly, I’m not even sure it was real weed,” Sam added. “Could’ve just been oregano or something. I didn’t feel a thing.”

They all burst out laughing. Dean let a half-smile slip.

“I’ve never smoked,” Kim said, adjusting in her seat. “My cousin did all the time, and he always looked… I don’t know, kind of slow. Like a zombie. I was terrified of ending up like that. And in my town… it was practically a sin. Everyone’s super Republican and controlling.”

“My town’s chill,” Brady said, waving it off. “No one cares. My dad even offered once.”

Sam laughed, but then his face softened. His tone shifted.

“I didn’t really have a hometown. I was born somewhere, but we moved so much that… I don’t know. Never even had time to get into trouble. Even when my dad wasn’t around most of the time…”

Dean tightened his grip on the glass more than he should’ve.

“It wasn’t about time, Sam,” he thought.
“It was because I was there.”

Dean. Almost always around.
Watching.
Protecting.
And keeping his brother from getting into ‘trouble.’

Because that was his role. Always had been.

 

“Lucky you,” Kim said, pulling a playful face. “One time I kissed a girl at school and almost ended up in a Catholic boarding school. My mom gave me a three-hour sermon and grounded me for two months. And it wasn’t even a good kiss.”

Sam let out a muffled laugh, covering his mouth with his hand.

“What about here? Have you kissed any girls yet?” Brady asked, grinning slyly.

“Twice,” she replied proudly. “One of them this week. It was great.”

She said it looking straight at Sam.

Dean smiled. The girl was playing hard.

“And you two?” Kim shot back, giving them a teasing look. “Ever kissed a guy?”

Brady pulled a face like she’d just asked if he bathed in acid.

“Gross. That’s too much. I’m super chill, but that’s a no.”

“Why?” she retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Scared you might like it?”

“No, it’s just… not my thing.”

“What thing?” Kim pressed, her eyes sharp as a kitchen knife.

“You know. Like… queer. Nothing against it. Just not me.”

Dean rolled his eyes, subtly. Idiot. Who talks like that? Especially with that much emphasis, like just being mistaken for queer was offensive.

But then, before he could get too self-righteous, flashes came to mind. Situations, jokes, awkward silences. And he felt like a damn hypocrite. Because he’d done the same. Still did. Still does.

Kim scoffed and crossed her arms.

“Oh, don’t lie. Everyone’s got a list of exceptions. Celebrities. People too good-looking to say no to.”

“I don’t,” Brady shot back immediately, flat. “And if I did, it’d be a woman. Only women.”

She frowned, like his answer personally offended her, then turned toward Sam with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“What about you, Sam?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. “Don’t tell me you don’t even have a mental list?”

Sam smiled faintly. Hesitated. His gaze dropped briefly to the glass in front of him, like he was weighing whether to answer sincerely or with his usual caution.

“I don’t have a list…” he began. “But, I mean. I can think of a few good-looking celebrities. Like… David Beckham? Ethan Hawke?”

She straightened up instantly, grinning like she’d just won a silent bet.

“I knew it!” she said, sing-song. “You look like someone who thinks about that stuff.”

Sam laughed. Really laughed. Easy, relaxed. That kind of laugh that squints your eyes and loosens your whole face, like you’re exactly where you want to be.

Dean… didn’t laugh.

Dean gripped his glass. The cold glass was slipping in his palm, but he didn’t let go.

“It’s not like I think about it,” Sam added, still smiling. “I only like girls. I just think they’re good-looking, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Kim replied, waving her hands. “I mean… if David Beckham walked in here right now, with that elegant British accent, looked you in the eye and said: ‘baby, I want you.’ You’d say no?”

Sam bit his lip, pretending to think. Then shrugged, like it was an easy equation.

“Probably, yeah. I don’t like guys.”

She groaned, pulling a face.

“And come on, I’m not that easy!” Sam added, laughing right after.

Brady burst out laughing, nudging Sam with his elbow.

“No way. You’d fall instantly.”

Kim kept going:

“What if he bought you a drink? Took you dancing? Started talking about corner kicks and… I don’t know, penalties… World Cup?” she said, struggling to recall any football terms. “What if he was super charming, crazy polite, dressed like a god? And promised to take you to see one of his matches on that team he plays for, that I have no idea what it’s called?”

“Well, in that case…” Sam began, laughing.

“In that case, even I would,” Brady cut in, raising his hands like he was surrendering. “It’s Beckham, man. He’s Beckham.”

More laughter. Loose, loud laughter that echoed around the table.

Dean didn’t laugh.

Didn’t say anything.

He just sat there, off to the side, silent, holding a warm beer, feeling something between discomfort and a sharp stab — something he didn’t know if it was unease or… confusion.

“Well, in that case…”

“Well, in that case…”

“Well, in that case…”

Sam was the brother who walked away from the hunt. Who defied their father. Who got into an elite university. Who had friends. Who laughed in bars in Palo Alto. Who had the freedom to even joke about things like that — even if it was just a joke.

Dean never had a list. Never even thought about having one. Never even thought he could.

 

And that night, when he got back to the rented apartment, he locked the door, threw himself onto the mattress, and pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

He scribbled some names.

Just because he could.

He thought he’d stop at five.

He didn’t:

• Han Solo. Or Indiana Jones. Or any Harrison Ford role.

• Clint Eastwood, Dollars Trilogy version. Squinted eyes, toothpick between his lips. No need to explain.

• Brad Pitt. But only in Fight Club.

• Robert Plant — crossed out. Replaced with Jimmy Page. If he were going to fall for a rockstar, it’d be one with dark hair.

• Jimi Hendrix. Playing like that wasn’t normal. Those fingers…

• Mick Jagger / David Bowie. Wrote them down together. There was something about them. A strange magnetism. Yes. Mick and David.

• Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction. Dean could see himself as the girlfriend waiting in a motel room after the fights.

• That guy from the minor league baseball team. Didn’t remember his name. Just his arms. Broad. Strong.

• Dr. Sexy. If he were real.

• Batman. First thought of Val Kilmer’s version because of Tombstone. “I’m your huckleberry” was inevitable. But then remembered Michael Keaton’s version. Because, come on… it’s Keaton. Ended up writing Batman twice.

He folded the paper. Stuffed it in his pocket.

Then took it out — and burned it with a lighter.

So far, so good. It was just a joke.

Just paper. Just names. Just smoke.

The problem came after.

When Dean started making lists in his head.

Lists of guys he saw every day. Who crossed his path in the supermarket, in the building, in the university halls. Real people. Guys with different accents, easy laughs, hands too big. The auto parts store clerk, with his always-tight uniform and a smile that lasted half a second longer than it should. One of Sam’s professors Dean once chatted with, pretending to be a student — spoke methodically, gestured slowly, rolled up his sleeves just enough to show marked forearms.

There was also the bartender. Dark tattoo crawling up his neck, deep-set eyes, a way of never apologizing for anything, not even for walking into hell.

And of course… the barista.

With the voice too low. The blue eyes that stared straight at you, then dropped quickly. The wrinkled apron. The steady hands, always holding a cup or wiping the counter. The weird way he moved. How he tilted his head when he didn’t understand an order. He was cute. Must’ve been — for someone who thought guys were cute.

That’s when the joke stopped being safe.

Because paper tears. Paper burns.

But thoughts?

Thoughts come back.

They come back when you close your eyes. When you’re driving down a dark road. When everything’s too quiet, when the apartment’s too empty, when you’ve already brushed your teeth, cleaned your weapons, watched the local news — and there are still hours before sleep comes.

They come back when you see Sam at a table, laughing with people who are pretty, light, normal. And out of nowhere, you wonder: has he ever kissed a guy?

They hit harder when you think of all the things your younger brother will still do — and that you know you never will.

Not that Dean really cared about what Sam achieved or experienced. He didn’t want Sam’s life. Never did. It’s just that envy… envy isn’t clean, there’s no such thing as “harmless envy” like people pretend. It’s dark. Silent. Rough inside.

It was more about what was never within reach. What he didn’t even know he could want until he saw someone else grab it so easily.

Sam always knew how to escape. And Dean… always knew how to stay.

And that’s when he realized: maybe he was losing his mind.

Maybe he really was.

Because, on some random night, he took the car and drove to a bar near campus. Not one of his usual bars, the kind that smelled like mold, had pool tables, and old hunters mumbling road stories. A different bar. Low lighting, loud music, young people. The looks there said everything. The silence too. It was the kind of place where no one had to say out loud what they were looking for.

Dean just sat down.

Just drank.

Just watched.

Until a guy approached. Military haircut, dark jacket, small smile. His voice was low, and his fingers were long when he pulled up a stool.

Dean didn’t run.

They talked. Nothing much. Quick jokes, loose phrases, awkward silences. Dean found himself answering, laughing, looking away when things felt too heavy. And when he said he was heading out, the guy touched his wrist and asked, as casually as if asking for a cigarette:

“Can we see each other again?”

Dean hesitated. Inside, chaos. Outside, just a small nod.

He gave the address of a frat house that would be hosting a party on Friday.

Safer. Easier to get lost in the crowd, in case he changed his mind. Easier to disappear afterward.

What he didn’t say was: “It’s better if no one sees me with you.”

He didn’t even give his real name.

Because, as much as Sam was living a life where everything seemed possible — where everything was choice, freedom, trial — Dean would only do this for one night.

Not because he thought he liked men. Jesus, he didn’t even know what that would mean — going around chasing guys as if… as if that made sense. As if it weren’t bizarre.

But still, he’d do it because someone needed to do something stupid and not give a damn — and, for once, it wouldn’t be Sam.

Okay. Maybe also out of curiosity. Not because of doubts about what he liked. He knew what he liked. Girls. But curiosity about what happened. About what was on the other side of a line he’d never crossed.

Yeah. Dean would do it.

Just for one night.

 

(…)

 

CASTIEL
May 3rd, 2002

The alarm clock rang, yanking him from sleep with a jolt.
The room was still bathed in shadow — not because of the hour (it was already past six a.m.), but because the crooked curtains only allowed narrow slivers of light to pass through. The sunken mattress creaked as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He glanced tiredly at the clock as he turned it off, doing the same mental math as always: how many seconds could he steal before actually getting up?

Almost immediately, he heard scratching at the door and persistent meowing.

“I’m coming…” he muttered, but the cat was not satisfied.

Castiel sighed and, with lazy effort, pushed off the blankets. The cold floor against his bare feet made him shiver but didn’t speed up his slow walk to the door. As soon as he opened it, Nicolas brushed past him, tail raised and eyes gleaming.

The apartment was the same as always: small, messy, and smelling of old coffee. The living room — which was also the kitchen — still showed the traces of the night before:
A plate forgotten on the arm of the couch, an empty glass with milk residue in the sink, clothes on the floor, books piled up carelessly. Not that he was messy — quite the opposite. But so much was happening at once that, for the first time in a long time, he gave himself a break. Just for now.

Castiel walked to the counter, grabbed the cat food, and poured it into the bowl. He got a satisfied meow in return.

While the cat ate, Novak stretched and yawned. Another day. College, work, then home. The same sequence repeated until his body forgot there were other options.

He opened the fridge. Boxed juice, a jar of jam. Two slices of bread. He started preparing it in silence.

Nicolas soon twined around his legs, demanding human food. Castiel smiled without noticing, picked up a toast and broke off a piece for him.

“Spoiled,” he said.

The cat meowed in reply, as if agreeing.

Castiel looked around. The solitude didn’t bother him. There was comfort in the silence, in the absence of questions and explanations. The order — even if imperfect — was his. And he liked it that way. God, he was going to miss living alone.

He washed the few dishes he’d used with mechanical movements, his eyes lost in the droplets sliding down the window. The weather had changed.

He headed for the shower. The water took a while to warm up, and the cold made him hold his breath. It was always like that. The building was old, the pipes constantly groaning as if protesting their own use. Steam soon filled the bathroom, fogging up the mirror.

Afterward, he dried off quickly and went to the wardrobe, still towel-drying his hair. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a random T-shirt — the same as always. As long as they were clean, he didn’t care.

Passing by the dresser, his eyes fell on the small cross necklace lying there. He froze. He remembered tearing it off the night before, right after the last call with his mother. The argument still weighed on his shoulders. He sighed, picked up the necklace, and put it back around his neck without ceremony — like someone used to carrying an old burden.

He checked his backpack, tossed beside the chair, stuffed in the notebook that almost got left behind, zipped it up with effort and slung it over his shoulder. Before leaving, he gave the apartment one last look.

Nicolas was already perched on the back of the couch, licking his paw with enviable calm. Castiel walked over, petted the cat’s head, and gave a crooked smile.

“Take care, you lazy thing.”

He opened the door cautiously — didn’t want to wake the neighbors. Locked everything up and crossed the narrow hallway of the building, going down the creaky stairwell. The paint on the walls was peeling, the air thick with dust and a faint smell of damp. Rain always made it worse.

When he reached the exit door, he stopped.

The morning air was humid, laced with that scent of a city that wakes up too early — a mix of baking bread from some far-off bakery, poorly collected trash, and the tail end of the night still clinging to the alleys. Castiel adjusted the strap of his backpack and pushed the door open.

“Novak!”
The voice came firm, dry like old paper tearing.

Castiel closed his eyes for a second before turning his face. He already knew. The tone, the use of his last name instead of his first, the absurd punctuality — it all gave it away. And there he was: his landlord, Mr. Merlant, leaning against the ground floor wall like he’d been waiting for this moment for days. He probably had.

“Good morning,” Castiel said softly, polite.

 

“There’s nothing good about this day. You’re still here.”

Castiel kept his gaze steady but non-confrontational. Mr. Merlant was the kind of man who felt victorious just by making you uncomfortable. Tall, thin, always wearing a buttoned-up shirt, and with a breath that smelled like stale coffee and bitterness.

“I know you gave me a deadline…” Castiel began, trying to stay composed, “but I thought maybe we could talk about a few more days. I just need…”

“More days?” Merlant gave a dry laugh. “You’ve already had too many ‘few more days.’ I gave you two extra weeks. And before that, three months. If I give you more, you’ll try to push off rent again, and my daughter will be out on the street.”

“I didn’t ask to push anything back, I just…”

“Are you going to tell me you’ve found a place?” Merlant crossed his arms. “Because if you have, what are you waiting for? Want me to toss your things out on the sidewalk?”

Castiel took a deep breath. The backpack on his shoulders suddenly felt heavier.

“You don’t need to threaten me.”

The old man laughed, a sound full of derision.

“It’s not a threat, kid. It’s reality. My daughter’s married, has a husband, is having a baby, and nowhere to live. She needs the apartment. I still need to do renovations.”

Castiel knew the man wasn’t wrong. Merlant had given plenty of notice. The reason was legitimate. On paper, Castiel should’ve been gone already. And he wanted to leave. God, he did. It wasn’t like he was clinging to that tiny apartment, with its moldy walls and creaky pipes. He just… couldn’t.

His legs hurt. His back hurt. Even his eyes hurt, from staring too long at signs taped to poles, wrinkled classifieds in mailboxes, real estate listings behind glass that didn’t even try to hide their disdain. He’d knocked on so many doors he’d lost track of where he was unwelcome.

The truth was, he barely spent time at home. Just to sleep, then leave again. Sometimes not even that. Sometimes he slept in the storage room at work, just to save time. He was always out, always looking, always hoping something would show up. But nothing did.

“It wouldn’t be good for your pregnant daughter to witness a scene…” Castiel said quietly, directly, without any provocation. Just stating a fact.

She couldn’t be older than eighteen, he guessed. He had seen her going upstairs slowly, hand on her back, breathing short. Still early in the pregnancy, and already the world’s stress knocking on the door. It wasn’t fair to her. Yelling, police, boxes kicked down the hall—it wouldn’t be dangerous, but it would be cruel. And Castiel didn’t like pointless cruelty.

Merlant frowned, gearing up again.

“Listen here, boy—”

“I’ll leave,” Castiel cut in, voice steady now, choosing his words carefully. Because he realized the man hadn’t understood what he meant.

And he did want to leave. More than anything. Because it’s not right to stay somewhere you’re not wanted. Or where someone else needs to be.

But sometimes, he caught himself feeling angry at it all. Felt selfish for thinking that while he was breaking his back trying to find a place to sleep, the girl—his landlord’s daughter—already lived right upstairs. A duplex. Two apartments in one. Plenty of room for her, her father, and her husband. At least, for now.

Meanwhile, he…

He was there. Counting coins, folding flyers, sleeping poorly. Just waiting for the boot.

But even when those thoughts came—and they came—he took a breath and let them go. Because it didn’t help. Because he didn’t want to fight. He didn’t know how to fight. Didn’t know how to shout. And also because the girl wasn’t wrong for wanting a place of her own. It just sucked that it had to be his.

“Yeah, you will leave,” Merlant answered, full of disdain.

Castiel only nodded. And walked away.

“By the end of next week,” Merlant called after him. “Or it’s all going in the hallway. And I’m not responsible.”

Castiel nodded again, restrained.

“Understood.”

Outside, the morning brought a fine drizzle—the kind that barely gets you wet, but never stops. The air was humid, cooler than Castiel expected for a May day in California. Still, around Palo Alto, it wasn’t unusual. Even after more than two years there, the weird mood swings of the weather still surprised him.

He walked down the sidewalk with his backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes alternating between the cracked pavement and the blurred horizon. The old buildings, with their worn bricks and countless windows, looked even duller under the gray light of that morning.

It was a strange, forgotten neighborhood. Not far from the university, but far enough for the silence to feel heavy. Not pretty, not particularly safe. So different from Pontiac, the town where he was born. There, everyone knew everyone. Everyone meddled. Growing up as the pastor’s son in the middle of the local parish made it feel like every move he made was a sermon waiting to be judged. Like everyone knew exactly who he was—or who he was supposed to be.

Castiel quickened his pace, the sharp air stinging his face. The bus stop was on a busy corner—one of the few in that part of the city. When he arrived, he sat on the concrete bench, as uncomfortable as always.

He sighed and lowered his head, shoulders tense. He had posted flyers all over the university. Big red letters. He’d even asked a classmate who was good with computers to post something online. He didn’t even know how it worked, but the guy swore it was “live.”

Nothing. No calls. No notes on the board. No emails.

Maybe it was just his way. Too shy to approach people properly, too polite to insist, too proud to beg.

But now… time was running out.

He swallowed hard and thought about Joyce, the coworker at the café. They’d been working together for a few months. She was nice, friendly, and seemed to genuinely like him. Maybe… maybe he could ask to stay with her. Just for a while. Just until he found something.

But they didn’t know each other that well. And Joyce lived with her brother. Castiel knew enough about living with others to understand that no one wants a near-stranger sleeping on their living room rug.

Still… it was either that, or… Marlon?

Maybe bothering Marlon would be even worse.

The bus arrived. Castiel climbed in silently and sat by the window, his face turned to the outside. The glass was fogged, but he could still see well enough: long streets, rushing cars, bikes cutting through traffic. The world moved fast, but inside him, everything felt frozen.

He thought about how many times he’d dreamed of that university. Stanford. A name too big for someone like him. He never expected to fit in, but he didn’t expect to feel so lost either. It was his second year. He should have been stable. Secure.

 

When he got off at the campus, the wind blew harder.
The tall trees around the parking lot swayed gently, their leaves casting thin shadows on the concrete. Castiel walked at his own pace. His shoes hit the ground firmly. He climbed the steps of the beige building, turned right, and went to the back, where the smaller classrooms were. It was still very early, but he liked arriving before everyone else.

Already in the classroom, he stared at the notebook open in front of him, his eyes gliding over notes from last week’s lecture that he could barely understand anymore. There were too many underlined words, arrows pointing everywhere, author names that seemed to multiply. The pen resting between his fingers swayed slightly, while his mind drifted.

He mentally counted the neighborhoods he still hadn’t checked.

He’d already walked all over College Terrace, knocked on boarding house doors in Evergreen Park, read flyers posted on poles near California Avenue. He’d checked community boards in downtown Palo Alto, stopped at cafés on El Camino Real, walked into libraries, supermarkets, stationery stores—anywhere someone might have left a room-for-rent ad.

Nothing.

Either it was too expensive, already rented, or they required a security deposit he simply didn’t have.

This week, he could still try Barron Park. Maybe find something hidden, a basement with a side entrance, a converted garage. Maybe go back to Embarcadero Road and ask at that Indian restaurant where he overheard a waitress mention someone was moving out. He could even make the longer walk to Menlo Park—it was far from the café, far from Stanford, but better than nothing.

He thought about heading out in the mornings before class. He’d stop by church front desks, hair salons, even the YMCA if needed.

He let out a tired sigh, resting his chin on the palm of his left hand.
A muffled creak spread through the room as the door opened, and each minute brought more students in. Right at the last minute, a sharp push—then Joyce burst in like a gust of wind—hair tied up hastily with a pen, shirt partly wrinkled, bag slipping from her shoulder.

She dropped into the seat beside him.

“Where’s my coffee?”

Castiel blinked, as if only then pulled back down to earth.

“Oh, crap…”

“What?” Joyce frowned, shrugging off her jacket.

“I forgot”, Castiel muttered, his voice low, almost like a guilty confession. I got distracted.

Joyce huffed, but there was no anger in it.

“It’s fine. I rushed out too.”

Castiel focused, watching how she leaned her elbows on the desk and buried her face in her hands for a few seconds—she must’ve walked fast. He thought he’d never seen her arrive anywhere without looking like she was running from something. At college, at work. Always late.

It had been almost two years since Castiel started working at the café. A year later, Joyce showed up for the first time. Before that, she worked at her aunt’s shop, but got involved with a cousin and—well, the drama ended in shouting and a firing. Her brother Johnny, who’d worked in the café kitchen since he was a teen, got her the job. Castiel barely knew her at the time, but after a few months sharing shifts, the two grew close.

Funny how sometimes you never notice someone—until you do.
Castiel didn’t remember ever seeing Joyce before the day she appeared at the café. But after that, she seemed to be everywhere. In the hallway of Block E, in the photocopy line, sitting near the library window. Then it all made sense: they shared a few classes, mostly ones related to their teaching tracks. He was in History; she was in Education. It was natural they’d cross the same spaces. They just never really crossed paths—until they did.

Since then, despite the tardiness and warnings, she remained a reliable workmate. And though she acted like she didn’t care, Castiel knew she tried. And he liked that about her.

His thought was interrupted when Joyce’s gaze shifted, locking on something outside the classroom.
Castiel followed it to the small window on the door—and instantly recognized the figure waving at her.

It was him.
Joyce looked at him like he was a rare comet streaking across the sky. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her warm, brown skin looked even more radiant.

Castiel studied her more closely.

She never came with wet hair. The dark strands, almost black, were messy, and some of the fringe fell over her forehead, brushing against her high, well-defined cheekbones.

Novak didn’t even need to ask.

“He has a girlfriend, Joyce.”

She shrugged, her lips tightening slightly. She pulled a croissant from the brown paper bag in one hand and took a bite.

“And?”

Castiel crossed his arms. “It’s wrong” was already on his tongue, but he didn’t say it. He’d said it fifty times already, and Joyce always shrugged exactly like that.

 

“I thought you two weren’t… together anymore. You said that two months ago.”

“And we weren’t,” she replied with the ease of someone talking about the weather. “Now we are again.”

“So… you’re dating?”

Joyce laughed, as if the question were absurd.
“Of course not.”

Castiel remembered an old conversation, when she’d said, half laughing, half serious: “These guys never really see us. We’re good for bed, not to take home.”

Did she still think that way? Had she accepted being just that? Joyce was way too beautiful for that. He didn’t think it—he knew it. Just from the number of flirty comments and tips she got at the café.

She pulled another squished croissant from the paper bag and pushed it toward him.

“Want one?”

Castiel shook his head with a brief motion.
“One day, his girlfriend’s going to punch you.”

Joyce laughed out loud, that hoarse laugh that escaped without permission.

“I know how to dodge pretty well.”

She should be dodging Leo, Castiel thought.

The professor cleared his throat at the front of the room. Murmurs faded in waves, and students began settling into their seats. Still a bit distracted, Castiel leaned forward slowly, pulling his backpack closer and taking out his glasses.

Before the class began, Joyce leaned over, her voice low, like a secret:

“And she’s not even his girlfriend. They’re just friends.”

Castiel paused for a second, his glasses halfway to his face.

“That doesn’t make sense…”

“Why not?”

He sighed, almost whispering:
“They’re always holding hands. They go to the café together. Order the same things, pay for each other. And… they kiss. In public.”

Joyce clicked her tongue against her teeth, amused by his genuine confusion.
“Buddy… you really need to get out more.”

Castiel frowned, confusion written all over his face.
“What does that even mean?”

Joyce let out a dramatic sigh, like she was about to explain something far too obvious.
“It means not everyone who kisses or holds hands is in a relationship. Haven’t you ever heard of friends with benefits?”

Of course he had. But he’d always imagined those things were… discreet. Secret. Almost forbidden.

He fell silent, digesting the idea like he was trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube with all the wrong colors.

“But… then why do they do all that and not just date already?”

Joyce let out a short, almost mocking laugh.
“Because it’s fun, duh. Not everything has to be black and white.”

Castiel looked away, unsettled by the idea.
“I don’t know… It seems confusing.”
He didn’t think he’d be able to tell the difference between an affectionate relationship and a serious one if he ever experienced it.

She gave his shoulder a light pat, gentle but full of affection.
“The world is confusing, Cassie. You’re just trying too hard to organize it.”

Castiel was about to reply—maybe something about wanting to understand the world as a logical place—but the professor cleared his throat again, this time more sharply, his gaze cutting across the space between them.

Joyce raised her eyebrows and bit into the croissant with a smile.

Castiel just sighed, adjusting his glasses on his face, his heart still beating a little faster than he liked. He didn’t enjoy being scolded.

Novak then tries to focus on the lecture, but Joyce’s words keep echoing in his head. Maybe he did need to get out more. When he finished high school and moved out of state, he thought life in the big city would be like the movies—full of possibilities. But in the end, he stayed the same, even if everything around him was changing.

Doodling in his notebook, he tried to convince himself it was okay not to understand all this relationship stuff. He had what mattered: family (Nicolas), a sort-of friend (Joyce), and… Marlon.

Well, kind of had Marlon. They’d never talked about what they were, even though they’d been involved for almost a year and a half. Castiel had lost count of how many times he wanted to bring it up but always swallowed the words.

Maybe that’s why casual things like Leo and that girl—or Leo and Joyce—left him so unsettled. He and Marlon weren’t like that. They were never affectionate, not in public or private. They didn’t act like friends with benefits. He wasn’t even sure they were friends. They were… lovers, maybe? Castiel loved him, so that must be it. But the truth is, not even he knew what to call it.

 

Castiel pushed the thoughts away with the ease of someone who had done it many times before.
The professor was explaining the criteria for the evaluation — a lengthy unit plan. Castiel straightened his posture and forced himself to pay attention, absorbing every word.

The second class dragged on. The content, which he already knew by heart, only made time seem slower. In the third, he wondered how anyone could focus on something so tedious. The minutes crawled by, and he could barely keep his eyes open.

By the fourth, his patience had run thin. His head felt heavy, and the professor’s words turned into background noise. Everything felt bureaucratic, soulless. He checked the clock again. It was almost over, yet it still felt like an eternity. All he wanted was to skip to the next day, to the African History and Art classes.

As he packed up to leave, he heard Joyce say she would choose the book the professor had mentioned as the basis for the seminar. Castiel was about to say it sounded like a good choice, but was interrupted by Mr. Wyatt’s announcement: the deadline for exchange program applications and the required project submissions was that very day.

In that moment, Castiel remembered what was really making him so exhausted.

It wasn’t the classes. It was him. The tiredness came from within. The whole month had been a marathon of reading, summaries, chapter writing, and source selection. A silent accumulation. The night before, he had finally finished the project and submitted everything. And only now, upon hearing that reminder, did he realize: a weight was beginning to lift from his shoulders — and he hadn’t even noticed it until then.

Castiel took a deep breath. Now all he had to do was wait to see if he would be selected, though he wasn’t even sure he really wanted to go. The opportunity was great — six months in Italy — but he didn’t know. Alone, in another country? He wasn’t sure he was ready. There might be months between that moment and the announcement of the results, and to be honest, he cared more about having submitted everything than about actually being chosen. It didn’t make sense, but to him, it did.

Joyce looked at Castiel with a slightly alarmed expression.

“Did you send it?” she asked, with a tone of expectation.

Castiel nodded.

“Yes. You?”

“I’m sending mine now, during lunch.”

And she really did.

Castiel watched Joyce’s focused expression as she typed quickly. Her fingers danced across the yellowing beige keyboard, making the plastic creak with each keystroke. The computer lab was stuffy, lit by large windows that let in a dull light. The still air mingled with the constant hum of the ceiling fan, spinning lazily — more noisy than effective.

Most of the seats were taken. Students huddled in stiff chairs, hunched over bulky monitors that took ages to load anything.

Joyce was as focused on submitting her material as Castiel had been the night before. But even while concentrating, she noticed the plastic container half-hidden in Castiel’s open backpack.

“Eat. I’m going to take a while,” she said, not looking away from the screen.

“Later. I’ll eat at the café,” he replied.

“Castiel…” she murmured, with a tone that blended accusation and light mockery.

“We’re in the computer lab. If I open the container here, the smell will spread, and they’ll kick us out.” He nodded toward one of the posters on the wall: No eating or drinking in this room.

Joyce just rolled her eyes and went back to her task, as if to say you’re such a rule-follower.

Castiel took the moment to stand up. He pulled out a bundle of flyers from his backpack, carefully folded, and began posting them on the walls, near the entrance and the bulletin board. Some he stuck with tape. Others he layered over old posters, covering announcements for tutoring or used book sales. When he reached the corner closest to the door, his eyes landed on one of the first flyers he’d posted that month.

One of the tear-off tabs with his phone number had been taken.

His heart beat a little faster. It was just a torn piece of paper, but still… someone had noticed. Someone was interested.

With a small smile, he put up a few more flyers, as if that gesture alone could nudge the day in a better direction. Then, he returned to Joyce’s side and sat quietly while she finished attaching the files.

They stayed there for about twenty more minutes, the sound of keys filling the gaps between breaths. When Joyce finally shut down the monitor, she let out a satisfied sigh and stretched in her chair.

“All done. Let’s go,” she said.

They left the building together. The walk to work was short: after leaving campus through the gate, they just had to cross two streets and follow a narrow sidewalk to the avenue. There, on an unassuming corner, sat the small café where they both worked.

“Hey,” Joyce called, giving his arm a gentle nudge. “There’s a party tonight at Delta Sigma Chi. We should go. I swear you don’t even have to dance.”

Castiel let out a dry laugh as he pushed the glass door.

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a frat party.”

“And…?”

“I don’t like crowds, I don’t like drunk people, and I don’t like loud music.”

“Oh my God, Castiel,” Joyce sighed, laughing.

She shook her head, and the two of them stepped into the café. Joyce headed straight for the counter, waving familiarly at the barista already there. Castiel followed at a slower pace, taking in the feel of the place at that time of day. There were only a few scattered customers, sitting alone or in pairs, immersed in books or quiet conversations.

 

While Joyce was confirming the shift details with their coworker, Castiel headed to the back, passing through the small storage room to the improvised locker room. He took off his T-shirt and put on the white button-up shirt, followed by the dark blue apron. After washing his hands in the sink, he joined the counter. Joyce was already in position, ready for the shift, and gave him a quick smile.

“Do you think Marlon will notice I stole one and kill me if I eat one of those pastries?” she asked, pointing at the pastry display with a look of restrained desire, as if she were about to commit a small crime.

Castiel replied with a half-smile:

“You can take one. I’ll put it on my tab.”

Joyce rolled her eyes.

“I can pay for one, but let’s be honest… sneaking it makes it taste way better.”

She winked at him, conspiratorially. She was still wearing the same clothes from earlier. She hadn’t even gone to the locker room. God. If Marlon’s mother decided to make a surprise visit that day, Joyce would be in deep trouble. The woman owned the place—elegant, strict, and with a knack for showing up at the worst possible times.

But Joyce didn’t seem the least bit worried. She grabbed the pastry with her fingers and took a bite before disappearing behind the espresso machine.

As the minutes passed, everything melted into a rhythm that kept picking up: a constant hum of customers coming and going, orders being called out, hurried voices. Joyce, as always, was at the center of it all—laughing loudly, chatting with everyone, handing out charm like it was free.

“No, dude, you can’t put that in your milkshake,” she said, her voice overflowing with patience that bordered on sarcasm.

“Because, you know… that would make the whole café explode!” she added, with a dramatic pause.

“You know what? I’m not even going to argue with you.” And she walked away, shaking her head like she didn’t have time for that kind of nonsense.

It was impressive how she could get away with that kind of thing and, most of the time, customers didn’t even complain. They thought it was cute. Actually, they thought she was cute.

It must be nice to be that charismatic.

Castiel could easily list everything he didn’t like about the job: the lingering smell of burnt coffee at the end of the day, the annoying sound of the old machines releasing steam, the stifling heat in the kitchen when the oven had been on for hours. But nothing bothered him more than having to deal with people.

Whenever she could, Joyce would take over that role for him, leaving Castiel at the register and making coffee—which he much preferred. Spending the afternoon just handing out change, brewing coffee, and collecting pitiful tips was infinitely better than having to explain, for example, the difference between a macchiato and a cappuccino. In those moments, he froze; the words simply didn’t come out right, and his own voice sounded strange, like it didn’t belong to him.

Castiel wondered how he could ever be a good teacher if even talking to customers made his throat tighten. That insecurity worried him more than he liked to admit.

Still, he knew the café’s regulars well. He could recognize them in any line. There was the police officer, who always ordered a light and sweet coffee with a powdered sugar donut—and always ended up with white powder on her lips.

There was also the man in a black suit with a briefcase, who sat at the window table every afternoon and spoke furiously on the phone—Castiel was almost sure he was in the mafia.

And of course, there was the college trio: the Asian guy, always laughing at some inside joke; the blonde girl; and the Black athlete with the charming smile. They stopped by most days after class.

Those were the most frequent customers—they were there almost every day, like part of the furniture.

But there were also the occasional ones. Some showed up once a month, others only once or twice in their lives and never came back. Castiel didn’t find them as interesting as the regulars, but he still liked observing them and making up stories for each one.

One of them was a man with graying hair and a tired look, who showed up religiously on the last Friday of the month. Always with a folded newspaper under his arm and a burdened expression. Castiel imagined he was a widower—someone who once shared that table with another person and now sat alone.

There was also a woman who showed up only once but never left his mind. She wore a colorful scarf despite the sweltering heat that day. She looked restless, out of place, like she was trying to go unnoticed. Castiel even asked if she was okay. Her reply was short, almost automatic, followed by a quick, silent exit. He always thought of her as someone hiding something—a wound, perhaps, or a secret too big to share. Castiel hoped she had told someone. And he blamed himself for not insisting more.

Well, not all the rare ones were sad. Some were just… hard to define. Exhausting, maybe.

Like the day a local rock band stormed into the café. Joyce practically turned into a groupie—laughing loudly, flirting with the guitarist, while the rest of the band created total chaos around the tables. In the end, when they left tickets for that night’s show, Castiel didn’t go. Joyce did—and came back saying it had been insane. He was happy for her. At the time, she had just broken up with Léo. Castiel thought maybe this time was different. That she was ready to move on. Today, he knew she wasn’t. Not yet.

As for the customers…

He knew he was probably wrong about all of them, but that didn’t matter. Fantasizing about other people’s lives was easier than facing the monotony of his own. Castiel rarely voiced those assumptions out loud, but he didn’t feel weird for doing it, either. Sometimes, he noticed other people did the same—or something similar. Joyce, for instance, loved giving customers nicknames.

 

She called the police officer Jodie Foster because of an old movie where the actress played a cop — one Castiel definitely had never seen. The serious businessman, thanks to his perpetual scowl, she had nicknamed George W. Bush. As for the three college students, they didn’t have individual nicknames — except for the athlete. Joyce referred to him as hottie, a nickname she actually reused for any and every guy she found worth noticing. And there were many.

Castiel was making a latte when he noticed his coworker serve a college girl who rushed in, dropping her backpack on a chair before even placing her order.

“A medium cappuccino, please,” said the girl.

“You got it,” Joyce replied, already spinning on her heels with the cup in mind.

Right after, a guy walked in with a stack of books balanced on his arm.

“Double espresso,” he asked, barely glancing at Joyce.

“Got it, champ,” she said.

Castiel was put in charge of the order. He made that espresso and three more in a row before returning to the register, where he started counting coins and organizing bills in the cash drawer.

A group of five students came in talking loudly, dragging chairs to join tables together. Then, two rowdy preteens showed up, too restless to stay still for more than two minutes.

The place quickly filled with noise. Voices took over for a while, until around mid-afternoon, when things began to slow down. Only about four people remained, scattered around the café.

Taking advantage of the break, Castiel grabbed the book that was going to be discussed in class on Monday — a dense study on the transatlantic slave trade. He read a page, then another, and was soon immersed. The café’s chatter turned into mere background noise.

It wasn’t until Marlon’s voice rang out that he snapped back to the present.

“Well, working hard today, Novak?” teased the manager, glancing at the book Castiel was reading. Castiel immediately hid it behind the counter, as if it were forbidden.

Marlon set the boxes he was carrying down on the surface with a lazy smile, then went straight to the coffee machine and started making his absurdly sweet drink.

“Can’t you just pick something normal?” Joyce asked, making the same disgusted face she always did.

“And waste the chance to start the day with a concentrated dose of energy and diabetes? Never,” Marlon replied, pouring a generous spoonful of maple syrup and finishing with a sprinkle of colorful M&Ms.

“Start the day? It’s four twenty in the afternoon,” Joyce muttered, leaning her elbow on the counter while watching him.

“Of a Friday,” he added, taking an exaggerated sip and making a blissful face.
“That’s why you’re always in a bad mood. You wake up too early.”

Joyce rolled her eyes. Castiel, silently, opened one of the boxes and began carefully aligning the pastry tubes in the refrigerated display.

“You could at least pretend you came to help,” Joyce said, shooting a sharp look at Marlon.

“I brought food for tomorrow, didn’t I?” he shot back, pointing at the display, already back on his phone.

Castiel could smell his cologne from that distance. It had fresh notes, like rain on hot concrete.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, the buttons undone more than necessary. A nice watch on his wrist, pants that wouldn’t wrinkle even if he tried. His hair — styled with care, parted down the middle, the kind of cut that required pomade and intention — resembled classic ’90s styles.

His face was angular, always carrying that expression of someone hovering between charm and boredom — as if everything around him could be interesting, but he hadn’t yet found anything worth the effort.

Marlon brought the phone to his ear and took a call, his gaze drifting naturally, as if he were already in another conversation — in another place.

“Hello?… Yeah. Really? Now?” He turned his back, walking toward the door. “Okay, okay. I’m heading there. Give me five minutes.”

He turned to the two of them:

“Problem with the flour delivery,” he said. “I’ll go handle it and be back to close up.”

And just like that, he was out of the café as quickly as he’d entered.

Castiel finished lining up the last pastry tubes in the display, adjusting one that had fallen sideways. He barely had time to breathe before hearing Joyce’s voice behind him, rising in a screechy tone in a mocking imitation:

“Oh, I need my energy and my diabetes,” she said in a drawn-out falsetto.
“If I were the owner’s kid, I’d also wake up in the middle of the afternoon and show up at work two hours before closing.”

 

Castiel let out a muffled laugh, but even while laughing, he could feel the exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders. She wasn’t wrong — it was exhausting. He and Joyce took turns at the counter, the register, the cleaning — sometimes they even washed dishes when the kitchen got overwhelmed. That part was usually handled by Mr. Manoel and Johnny, Joyce’s brother. In the mornings, Amy and Paul took over the shift. Even with all that, it was still a lot. Castiel had already suggested to Marlon that they hire someone else, but the answer was always the same: “My mom says we don’t need to.”

Castiel took a deep breath, resting his hands on the edge of the counter for a moment. The smell of warm bread and freshly brewed coffee filled the air, comforting and constant as always. It wasn’t a dream job. But he needed it. And with things the way they were — with the threat of eviction hanging over his head and the uncertainty of where he’d live afterward — he couldn’t afford to quit. Not now.

He was fine where he was. At least for now.

As much as possible.

The bell above the door rang with its usual chime, and both Joyce and Castiel looked up at the same time. Joyce flashed her automatic smile — the one she always wore when a customer walked in — and Castiel just followed along, without much enthusiasm.

A woman with curly hair and a rushed expression approached the counter, clutching her purse to her body like she was about to dash off to another appointment.

“Hi!” Joyce greeted her, ever cheerful. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi… so, I need a birthday cake,” the woman began, adjusting her glasses on her face. “It’s for my son. I know it’s kind of last minute, but…”

Castiel, beside her, closed his eyes for a second. End of the shift. Of course. Right now.

Could he say no? Of course not. They were open. If they were open, they had to do it. That’s what he’d always heard. Work is work.

“No problem!” Joyce assured her, leaning a little over the counter and making a rude hand gesture only Castiel could see.
“What kind of cake are you thinking of?”

“Well…” The woman hesitated, biting her lip. “He loves dinosaurs. I wanted something with that theme, you know? Like a green cake, with footprints or something like that… nothing too complicated.”

“Got it…” Joyce said, already flipping through a small catalog kept at the counter. “We have a ready-made cake base we can use. It’ll just take a few minutes to decorate it the way you want.”

“Really? That would be perfect!” the woman exclaimed, visibly relieved. “I was worried I wouldn’t find anything in time.”

“Don’t worry, it’s going to look great,” Joyce smiled. “You can sit down if you’d like, we’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“Thank you!” She smiled back, looking a bit calmer, and went to sit by the window.

Castiel let out a discreet sigh and walked away, heading to the kitchen door. He pushed it open with his shoulder and stepped inside.

Manoel was leaning against the counter, calmly wiping the surface with meticulous care.

“Sir…” Castiel began, stopping a few steps away. “We’ve got a last-minute cake order. Kid’s birthday, dinosaur theme. Joyce said we had a base ready?”

He hoped they did, because otherwise it would take nearly until closing time to make a cake from scratch.

Manoel looked up with his usual calm expression, as if no urgency in the world could actually be urgent.

 

“Yes, we do. A plain vanilla cake, made this morning. Just needs decorating.”

Castiel nodded, almost relieved.

“Alright—”

“Johnny, grab the green fondant,” Manoel said. “And the mold cutters from the plastic box.”

“Sure thing, chef,” Johnny replied, drying his hands on his apron and heading toward the back cabinet.

“Hey,” Johnny said, without turning his head, “you going to the party tonight? At Sigma Chi?”

Castiel let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Me? No. Not really my scene.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Johnny replied, pulling a small cutting tool from the box with the calm precision of someone who’d done this long enough for everything to become automatic.

He was thin, looked very young, with a bright smile that seemed to reflect right off his dark skin. His closely cropped hair revealed the soft features of his face — serious at first glance, but easily lit up by a smile. And Johnny smiled often, even though he was quiet. There was an effortless kindness about him, a quiet attentiveness that showed in the little things: the way he really listened, gave space, tried to pull Castiel out of his shell — without pushing, without rushing.

He was studying Culinary Arts, but already carried the weight of someone used to balancing work and school. You could see it in his posture, his focus, the tired calm that clung to him despite his youth.

Sometimes, Castiel thought maybe he should accept Johnny’s invitations — go out with him and Joyce, get to know more of the city, the world beyond. It must be… nice. Having friends, he imagined, must feel nice.

But then he thought about the exhaustion, the discomfort of loud noise, the anxiety of not knowing what to do with his hands when everyone else seemed to belong. Just thinking about it already made him tired.

Being home, on the other hand, was simple. It meant taking off his shoes and feeling his feet grow lighter, his legs marked by the seams of his jeans finally freed. It meant a hot shower, slipping into an old T-shirt, and sitting on the bed with a steaming bowl of soup or chicken broth in his hands, his cat curled in his lap, purring softly. A book open, the sound of rain outside — and nowhere he needed to be.

Johnny came back with the items and set them on the counter. Then he leaned his arms on the surface and looked at Castiel more intently.

“So? You finished that thing that was killing you guys, right? Joyce told me.”

“Research project. Yeah. Thank God.”

“Wow. So… the torment’s over?”

“For now,” Castiel said, his expression tired but lighter. “It was a relief.”

“Then let’s celebrate. No party, I promise,” Johnny said. “Just dinner.”

Castiel thought for a moment. He really did need to relax. Maybe he even wanted to. But…

“I appreciate the invite,” he said, voice low and restrained. “But not tonight.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow, half disappointed, half expecting that answer already.

“Really? Not even a quick dinner?”

“I’m tired,” Castiel replied simply, adjusting the apron strap on his shoulder.
“I just want to go home… and, I don’t know, disappear for like twelve hours.” Then something flickered in his mind.

Johnny chuckled and raised his hands in surrender.

“Alright, hermit. Next time, then.”

Castiel only gave a sheepish smile as he turned away. He walked through the narrow back hallway, past stacked boxes and the smell of old cardboard and dust.

He pushed the back door open with his shoulder and stepped outside.

Out back, the alley was wide, the air cooler, cutting through the heat that had built up inside the café. On the opposite wall, an industrial dumpster shared space with a metal fire escape that ran down the side of the neighboring building.

The smell wasn’t exactly pleasant, but the silence made up for it. No customers, no orders, no forced smiles.

It was the kind of forgotten place where even the city seemed to pause for a moment. Castiel took a deep breath, pulled his phone from his pocket, and held it in his hand for a few seconds.

He hesitated.

He didn’t like making the first move — never did. He always felt like he was bothering someone. But after so many hard weeks, all he wanted was some familiar company.

He sighed.

Opened his phone with a soft click and dialed the memorized number, his thumb pressing each button with precision. He held the phone to his ear and waited, listening to the muffled sound of the call.

 

“Hello?” Marlon’s voice answered after two rings, muffled, with honking in the background.

“Hey… am I bothering you?” Castiel asked, his voice low, more polite than familiar.

“I’m driving,” Marlon replied.
“But go ahead, make it quick.”

Castiel went silent for half a second, biting his lip.

“I just… thought maybe we could see each other today. If that’s okay.”

On the other end, silence. Then:

“Hmm… I was going to study,” Marlon said, a bit sluggishly. “But we can hang out, yeah. Later. Wanna come over?”

“So… the folks here are going out to grab something to eat. I thought maybe… you’d want to come too.” Castiel spoke carefully, as if the invitation might snap in half. Maybe with Marlon there, it would be nice to go out with a group. He wouldn’t feel like the odd one out for once.

“Mm…” Marlon let out a short sigh. “Can’t. Got some stuff I still need to read today. But later, if you want, come over.”

“Oh. Okay.” Castiel adjusted the strap of his apron.

“Cool. I’ll be home around ten. If you want, just wait for me there.”

Ten? So late.

“You know where the key is, right?” Marlon continued, his voice already sounding more distant.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Thanks for asking, alright?” Marlon said, voice muffled by traffic noise.

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Marlon kept going:

“And hey… can you close the café tonight? I think I’m heading straight to the library.”

“Okay,” Castiel murmured, swallowing hard. Joyce wouldn’t like that news one bit.

“Oh, and don’t forget to bring me a piece of brownie, okay? If Mr. Manoel made some today… Thanks.”

The call dropped.

No goodbye. Not even a “see you later.”

Castiel stood there for a moment, staring at the phone screen, now dark. He wondered if he should even go there. If Marlon actually wanted to see him or if that “you can come” was just a habit.

He took a deep breath and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

 

The back door suddenly opened with a loud creak. Joyce appeared with a black trash bag and her forehead covered in sweat.

“You disappeared to smoke?”

“I don’t smoke,” Castiel replied without turning around. And he thought, “I do worse. I overthink. Way more dangerous.”

“Oh, right. Forgot,” she huffed, adjusting the bag in her hands.

She threw the trash in the bin and wiped her hands on her jeans.

“Let’s go. Back to the oven disguised as an air conditioner.” She shook her head. “That thing should’ve been trashed three summers ago.”

“It still works,” Castiel muttered.

“It blows hot air. Literally. Just like Irene when she’s ranting about me being late,” Joyce replied with a conspiratorial look.

They went back inside, and as soon as the door closed behind them, the heat wrapped around them again — thick, stifling, like an invisible wall.

Fridays always seemed to last forever. Castiel had spent the whole day trying to find a moment to eat lunch, but didn’t manage to. He didn’t want to leave Joyce alone at the counter, and he wasn’t very hungry anyway. But as the sky started to darken, his empty stomach made him pay the price.

Late afternoons were always the worst.

People came in from work in a hurry, tired and irritated. The café filled with impatient customers — and the pace was a burden.

Joyce was exhausted too. Castiel could tell by the way she dragged her feet, or by the hardened expression behind her automatic smiles. The customers didn’t help: demanding and impatient.

He was at the coffee machine when he noticed a man standing way too close to the counter, drumming his fingers.

“My cherry frappuccino with soy milk, whipped cream, and sugar-free hot caramel drizzle… is it going to take much longer?”

Castiel felt his face heat up.

“Uh…” He looked at the tray of orders but didn’t find anything like it. He knew the order was in line, he just had no idea when it would come out. The fancy ones were always Johnny’s job.

“We have a lot of orders right now, sir. But I’ll check,” he said in a mechanical tone.

“It’s just a frappuccino,” the man snapped. “It shouldn’t take this long.”

Castiel swallowed hard.

“Sorry… I’ll check with the kitchen.”

Almost tripping, he went through the back door. His heart was pounding.

“Johnny,” Castiel called. “The cherry frappuccino with soy milk… is it ready?”

Johnny pointed to the cup.

“It’s right here,” he said, calmly adding the whipped cream. “Just one more second.”

Castiel exhaled. He waited in silence.

“Done,” Johnny said, pushing the cup forward with a spiral of steaming caramel on top.

Back in the café, Castiel handed over the drink with a quiet apology. The man didn’t thank him. He just paid and left, grumbling.

Castiel ignored it, as he always did, though he never stopped finding that kind of attitude rude.

Over time, the flow of customers began to slow down. Novak then turned off the cappuccino machine, cleaned the counter, swept the floor with automatic movements, and finally sat down. He pulled out the book he kept at the register, but didn’t open it. He just sat there in silence, letting the exhaustion settle on his shoulders.

Joyce was finishing cleaning the last tables with an exhausted expression when the clock struck exactly six-thirty. She turned to him:

“You can flip the sign.”

Castiel nodded, getting up slowly. He walked to the door, ready to end the day, eyes downcast.

But at the exact moment he reached for the glass, the entrance bell jingled.

 

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for one more test of patience. He pressed his lips together, trying to gather enough strength to force that last professional smile of the day.

But when he looked up and saw who was at the door, the weight of the shift seemed to evaporate. The exhaustion gave way to something else — something light, warm, that rose through his stomach like steam from a freshly poured cup.

He was standing there, leaning against the doorframe with that half-embarrassed, half-charming smile — the kind of smile that said, “Sorry, I know I’m interrupting, but… please?”

Castiel should’ve just smiled back and asked what he wanted. But he froze.

Because he wasn’t just another customer.

Even without exchanging much more than a polite nod and a few casual words, Castiel liked it when he showed up.

He always ordered the same thing: black coffee, no sugar. Said it in a firm, straightforward voice. That’s why Joyce had nicknamed him “Black Coffee No Sugar” since day one.

But that wasn’t the only nickname.

“Pretty Face” slipped from her mouth in more relaxed moments, almost always with a sigh and a discreet elbow nudge at Castiel, like she was saying, “Look at that!”

And, of course, “Trouble in a Jacket” — a name given after one or two minor arguments he’d had with other customers. Nothing serious, but just enough to get noticed.

He wasn’t a regular. Sometimes, he disappeared for days. Maybe that helped create the mysterious aura around him. Or maybe it was just the fact that he was — and Castiel admitted this even against his will — simply very handsome.

And now he was here.

At the end of another long Friday, when all Castiel wanted was to turn off the lights and vanish.

Novak gripped the book between his fingers, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

“You guys still open?” the man asked.

The voice — husky, casual — caught Castiel off guard. He needed a second longer than necessary to reply.

“Yes… of course.”

The other man smiled. That crooked, small smile, tilting to the kind side. Castiel almost hated himself for feeling his stomach flip.

“Great. A simple coffee. Black. No sugar.”

“Of course,” Novak mumbled, so quietly he wasn’t sure he’d been heard.

He quickly went back behind the counter, trying to ignore his racing heart and restless fingers. Joyce would definitely notice — if she hadn’t already — and Castiel knew he’d be the target of teasing later.

“Simple,” he thought. “He just wants a simple coffee.”

“Do you use three shots of espresso?” the guy asked, his voice even deeper now, as if carrying the weight of an entire week in his vocal cords.

Castiel nodded but raised an eyebrow.

“Three? A Dead Eye?” he murmured, mostly to himself. That was basically a nervous system assault — the kind of drink you order when you’re desperate to stay awake.

He was already reaching for the beans when the man added, with a casual flick of the hand:

“Hey, no. No. If you could pour a bit of whiskey or brandy in there… I don’t know, that’d be even better. Possible?”

Castiel blinked, surprised. He thought about asking if everything was okay, if the guy needed to talk. But he didn’t. He never knew how to start those kinds of conversations. Was never good at it. And what if he said yes? What would Castiel say to whatever it was?

He didn’t know how to comfort people.

Everyone always said he was too weird, too blunt, too intense — like he’d lost the manual on how to deal with others. And maybe they were right.

So instead of saying anything, he just nodded and went to make the coffee. That, he knew how to do.

 

The machines were already off, so Castiel focused on making the coffee by hand — grinding the beans, boiling the water, pouring it with an almost ceremonial attention. He preferred to do it this way for certain customers. For the gray-haired man at table four, who he imagined was a widower. And for him — the guy with the jacket, the heavy-lidded eyes, the crooked smile.

There was something more intimate about the manual process. Less noise, more care. And maybe, just maybe, Castiel liked the idea of offering something made by him, with his own hands. Even if no one ever noticed.

Across the room, Joyce moved with efficiency — cleaning a table here, straightening chairs there — but Castiel knew her eyes were locked on him. They always were when that customer showed up.

He felt the familiar discomfort settle in his chest: that strange sensation of being watched too closely.

Castiel wasn’t exactly out. He’d never talked about it with anyone in Palo Alto. Maybe Joyce knew — or at least suspected. Sometimes she threw out little jokes, like someone testing the water temperature before diving in.

She once said something like, “Your favorite customer just walked in, Novak,” with that sarcastic tone she used for almost everything.

“You’ve got a little crush on Marlon, don’t you?” she teased once, after catching him too distracted staring at the manager. Castiel pretended not to hear.

He didn’t know how much Joyce really knew. Or if she knew at all. Maybe she was just fishing — and since he never confirmed or denied anything, it became a silent game between them. But as close as they were during work hours, they weren’t really friends. Joyce was someone he shared shifts and tasks with, occasional laughs, long silences. That was it.

And talking about himself… was never Castiel’s thing. It felt like opening a drawer he preferred to keep locked.

Joyce arched an eyebrow and, with a mischievous grin, made exaggerated French kiss motions in the air.

Castiel’s eyes widened and he quickly swept his gaze across the café in quiet panic, checking to see if he — the guy — had seen it.

He hadn’t. He was distracted, flipping through the laminated pages of the old menu. He never looked at the menu. And yet there he was. Weird.

Castiel turned back to the coffee, focusing with exaggerated devotion as he poured the dark liquid into the cup.

“…To go, right?” he asked, almost too late. The man nodded with a short gesture, and Castiel kept filling the cup.

He felt Joyce approaching before he even heard her. It was always like that — her energy arrived before her voice. She leaned on the counter casually, a dishtowel slung carelessly over her shoulder.

“Hey there, everything good?” she said to the customer, way too casual.

Castiel kept his eyes on the coffee, focused on sealing the lid.

“All good,” the man replied, voice low, firm, unhurried.

“Uh-huh…” Joyce smiled. You could tell without looking, just by how she said it. She was flirting.

Castiel shot her a quick glance, just enough to see that half-smile on her lips, arms crossed, completely at ease in her own skin.

“And you?” the customer asked, his voice low, calm. He tilted his head slightly, like he had all the time in the world.

“Not bad,” she replied lightly. The smile was more in her eyes than on her mouth.

“I agree,” Pretty Face said, after a short pause, and gave her that slow look — head to toe — with one corner of his mouth pulling into an almost imperceptible smile.

Castiel, still busy with the cup, felt the conversation stretch like a rubber band — and he was right in the middle of it.

He finished sealing the lid, stuck the sticker on the side, and placed the coffee on the counter, steady but restrained.

The customer picked up the cup and nodded a quiet thank-you.

Joyce leaned slightly toward Castiel, the dishtowel slipping from her shoulder.

“Just for the record… you took three times longer than usual to make that coffee.”

Castiel let out a short sigh. His cheeks were burning.

“I’m just tired.”

“Uh-huh,” Joyce said, voice dripping with sarcasm and that gleam in her eye. But there was something affectionate in the way she teased. Like she was saying, “I see you.”

He gave her a look that said everything: seriously?

She raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “What?”

Then gave the counter a light tap as she backed away.

“Just don’t spend the rest of your life back there, okay? We still have to close…”

 

Joyce turned toward the kitchen, but before disappearing down the hallway, she blew another exaggerated French kiss in the air.

Castiel turned back to the counter and glanced at the customer — still there, fiddling with his wallet. Eyes down. Once again, he hadn’t seen Joyce being annoying.

With a stifled sigh, Castiel walked over to the register.

“So…” the guy began, scratching the back of his neck and leaning slightly over the counter. His voice was low, casual. “Sorry for showing up when you guys were already closing…”

“Oh… no, no.” Castiel shook his head quickly, so fast he nearly knocked over the tip jar on the counter.

“No?” Black Coffee No Sugar raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused.

“No, I mean… don’t apologize. We weren’t closed yet. It’s all good.” Castiel said, a little rushed, the words spilling out faster than he would’ve liked.

“Anything else?” Castiel asked, with that urgency disguised as formality. He wanted to wrap this up before he said something dumb.

“Nah. That’s it.”

Weird. That guy rarely left without grabbing a slice of pie. When Jacket Trouble looked back at him, Castiel was already watching with an unintentionally sad expression.

Nothing in the display caught his eye? There were still some options left, even after a long, busy day.

“You…” Castiel began, but stopped as soon as he realized he was being stared at. He cleared his throat softly, flustered, as if trying to chase away his own voice.

“Hm?” The other man furrowed his brows, green eyes focused directly on Novak.

Castiel looked away. From the eyes to the mouth — a mistake. Everything about the guy drew attention effortlessly. And maybe Castiel had been staring. And maybe the guy didn’t mind. Maybe he had that dumb look on his face — the one Marlon always said he made when he got nervous. The thought made him look down.

“There’s a lemon pie…” he said, his voice a bit lower.

“Not really in the mood today, man.”

“It’s on the house.”

“Seriously?”

Castiel nodded once. Lied. It wasn’t on the house. But for some reason, he wanted to offer it. And he never did that kind of thing. Ever.

The guy’s brow lifted in genuine surprise. Then he smiled. Broadly, with white teeth. The kind of smile that lit up his whole face — the same one he gave weeks ago when he’d come in drenched, trying to escape the rain. Joyce had said he looked like a wet chick. He’d laughed at that. Laughed just like now.

Pretty Face had a great smile. He let out a brief laugh — hoarse, satisfied.

“Man… seriously. This is like… I don’t know, winning the lottery.” He shook his head.

Castiel felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile, almost against his will. He looked away as he bent to grab the slice from the display case.

“I won’t eat it now… but tomorrow morning…” the customer continued, with a soft sigh, almost relieved. “I’m gonna need this.”

He ran a finger through the filling before Castiel had even finished wrapping it, letting out a muffled “hmm” of satisfaction. A sound that was almost raspy, almost intimate. Almost too much.

“Do you guys put drugs in this stuff? ’Cause, holy shit…”

Castiel let out a short laugh.

“That apple one, with the dark glaze on top?” the guy went on, gesturing like he could still taste it. “It’s unfair. There’s something in that filling that just… I don’t know…”

“The apple pie with brown sugar crust,” Castiel said, more technical than necessary. “It’s a customer favorite.”

“Tastes like…” Pretty Face paused, eyes drifting upward like he was looking for the exact word.

“Tastes like… hell… sex…”

Castiel froze. His hand stopped mid-motion.

“I mean,” the guy chuckled through his nose, leaning back slightly. “like… when you’re wrecked, no sleep, living off coffee and junk food… and then that happens. The pie is like that. Reminds you the world still has some warm things. Good things.” He shrugged. “Wet things, even. If you get what I mean.”

He laughed again.

“Really damn good things,” he added, with a lazy smile.

Castiel didn’t reply. He just looked down, lightly biting the corner of his lip.

He never really knew what to say in conversations like that — that kind of guy talk. He always felt like he missed the timing. Still, he gave a small nod, agreeing. Even if he wasn’t sure what with.

Castiel observed him a little longer. The shadows under his eyes were deep, making the bright green of his irises even more intense. Only now, at this close range, did he notice a small cut at the corner of the guy’s lower lip — discreet, almost healed. Maybe a scratch on his forehead too. Nothing serious. But enough to seem out of place on that face.

He looked… exhausted.

And of course, Castiel’s mind wandered.

Maybe he’d been in a fight — he looked like the type that attracts that kind of thing. Or maybe he got hurt at work. Was he a cop? Seemed too young for that. An amateur boxer? A mechanic? Castiel didn’t know. But there was something about his hands… marked fingers, nails with traces of grease or dust.

Or maybe he just tripped. Drunk. Coming down the crooked steps of some frat house where he lived.

Castiel would never know. But for a moment, he wanted to.

“Uh… maybe you need pie more than coffee and alcohol,” Castiel said in a low, distracted tone, almost as if thinking out loud.

The other man stopped fiddling with his cup and raised his eyebrows. His expression shifted — a hint of surprise, then something more guarded, hard to read.

Castiel swallowed hard. His stomach churned. Why had he said that? Why like that?

“What?” the man let out a short, dry laugh, more startled than amused. “Why are you saying that? You taking charge of my diet now?”

Castiel’s eyes went wide. He paled. Stood there, frozen for a moment.

“Sorry. I… didn’t mean…” he muttered.

With slightly trembling fingers, he punched the numbers into the register. It wasn’t even a real charge. Just the price of the coffee, since the pie… well, that one was on him.

“The total is… five-fifty.”

The customer handed him the money, and Castiel focused on getting the change without shaking. He avoided eye contact, but couldn’t avoid it when their fingers brushed. The brief touch burned more than it should have.

Their fingers pulled away with an almost impersonal swiftness, and soon the man’s footsteps echoed through the room, steady and sure, toward the door.

Castiel ran a hand through his hair. He sighed and stood there for a moment, fingers still tangled in his hair, as if trying to convince himself everything was fine. Just a bad customer interaction. Another one. It happens. But the sound of the door closing… didn’t come.

Instinctively, he looked up — and saw.

The man was still there. His body facing the door, but his face wasn’t. His face was turned toward him.

Their eyes met for a second that lasted too long.

Crap, thought Castiel. Here it comes.

But what came wasn’t what he expected.

“Uhm… thanks for the pie.” the man said, voice lower, still with a hint of irritation. “Forgot to say that earlier…”

Castiel let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding.

“Sure,” he replied quickly, almost automatically, with that careful tone of someone trying not to sound affected.

But the other man kept looking. Steady. Intense. Castiel felt his heart race, his chest rising and falling unevenly, and that nervousness — that damn feeling of being too aware of his own body — crept up like a silent wave of nausea.

“Look, I just don’t like people getting in my business,” the man said bluntly, dryly, raising an eyebrow. As if to say: you gonna argue?

Castiel didn’t argue.

Yet.

He wanted to say that wasn’t it. That he wasn’t being nosy. That he didn’t mean to be. That he just wanted… maybe to help?

But he stayed quiet. For a second.

And then, as sometimes happened — that impulse toward honesty Castiel never quite learned to suppress — he spoke:

“I just… read some studies.” he began, hesitant, almost too quietly. “About coffee. And alcohol.”

He paused briefly, took a breath, and continued quickly:

“Sweets aren’t good either, of course, but… but… they’re less bad. There’s research. Like… caffeine messes with sleep, alcohol dehydrates… glucose affects metabolism. Just… information, you know? Stuff I read. I didn’t… by any means… I didn’t mean to seem nosy.” he looked away. “I didn’t want to sound like I was judging you, or… whatever you’re going through.”

He paused again, fingers clenching his apron at the waist.

“I’m sorry. Really. I just… didn’t think. I say things sometimes. Things I shouldn’t. I’m sorry…”

And then he finally shut up.

God, he thought right after. What a terrible monologue. Completely unnecessary. Annoying. Cringeworthy. But the words had spilled out so easily, like a leak he couldn’t plug.

Across from him, the customer was still staring.

Eyes fixed, unblinking.

Castiel hated being looked at like that — like he was a puzzle missing half the pieces. Like he was an alien who’d just landed behind the counter.

“Shit,” the guy in the jacket muttered finally, shaking his head slightly. “How old are you?”

The question caught Castiel off guard. He blinked, hesitated.

“…Twenty and—”

“You talk like an old man,” the other cut in, dry, as if stating a fact.

Castiel let out a low sigh, defeated. A crooked, embarrassed smile crept onto his lips, shy.

The man watched him, eyebrows slightly furrowed, still staring.

“That wasn’t really a compliment,” he added, looking genuinely confused.

Castiel felt his whole face heat up. His cheeks burned.

“I know it wasn’t,” he murmured, with that level of honesty too awkward to even be tragic.

What’s wrong with me?, he wondered silently. He couldn’t even do facial expressions right.

The guy’s eyes looked slightly puzzled, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips — the kind that appears when someone is entertained by someone else’s discomfort. Great. Castiel had made a fool of himself. And now he felt the weight of it sink into his stomach, along with the growing urge to disappear into the floor.

The man took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, twisting his mouth.

“Shit…” he muttered, shaking his head like he’d just realized how strong the drink was.

Castiel, still nervous, felt his stomach flip. Had he done something wrong?

“Is it bad?” he asked softly, almost stumbling over the words.

The other relaxed his expression, downed the rest of the coffee in one go, and tossed the cup into the trash with a casual flick.

“It’s not bad…” he said, licking his lips. “It just tastes like… I don’t know.” He clicked his tongue, making an odd sound, almost like a muffled snort.

Castiel rubbed his arm, uncertain what to say or do.

“I… can try making it milder, if you prefer.”

The other raised an eyebrow, giving him a look somewhere between skeptical and amused.

“You’re gonna make a mild version of coffee with brandy?” he shook his head, letting out a low, almost mocking laugh. “That’s not a thing.”

Castiel didn’t reply. He just stood there, searching for any remaining dignity deep in his apron.

“Doesn’t matter…” the man shrugged, sighing lightly. “I should be used to this by now. Not my first rodeo.”

Castiel watched him for a moment, unable to stop the internal question — since the other had asked him: How old is he, anyway? Early twenties? Less? He looked too young to be this tired. Or this used to spiked coffee…

“If… if you didn’t like it, I can make another one. For free.” he offered, almost involuntarily.

The customer stared at him in silence for a moment, until a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — one that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

“Okay… now you’re starting to sound like an angel, being that nice,” he said, somewhat suspicious.

Castiel blinked, surprised by the remark, but before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

“Actually… my name is Castiel. An angel.”

Silence.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then, for a brief second. Castiel, for his part, felt his face heat up again.

Congratulations, he thought. You’ve officially outdone yourself.

“I mean, it’s… it’s an angel’s name. Like… in the Bible. Archangel. Or Seraph… I think.” Castiel began, stumbling over his words. “Not that I think I’m… that I’m one. An angel, I mean. It’s just… my parents were religious. Really religious. The kind that names their kids after angels, you know? Castiel…” he made a vague gesture with his hand. “There’s this whole story behind it, but… it’s just… it’s just my name. Not that I care about the meaning. Or think it means anything. And I’m not—”

“Got it.” the other cut in, raising a hand with a half-smile and a narrow-eyed look, as if holding back a laugh. “I got it.”

Castiel shut his mouth immediately. And for a second, he seriously considered disappearing into the kitchen and never coming back.

Pretty Face blinked slowly, with that kind of exaggeratedly patient expression that bordered on mockery.

“Just… next time, I’ll try not to order something that almost kills me in one sip.”

Castiel swallowed hard. The reply came low, honest.

“That wasn’t my intention.”

 

The other man stayed silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on Castiel in a way that was hard to interpret. He seemed to think more than he spoke. As if he wanted to understand, but without asking questions.

In the end, he just sighed and shrugged, turning toward the door. He was about to leave but then stopped for a moment, tilted his head, and, in a quick motion, tossed a few crumpled bills into the second tip jar—the one on the shelf next to the door.

“Bye, Cas.”

It was said as if they’d known each other for a long time. As if it were an old nickname.

Castiel got home exhausted, his shoulders aching as if he’d carried the entire day on his back—which, in a way, he had. He dropped his backpack on the floor with a dull thud and looked around: the small, messy, silent apartment. His black cat appeared almost instantly, coming out of some dark corner with his tail raised and a disgruntled meow, as if to say, “You’re late.”

“I know, I know…” Castiel muttered, kicking off his shoes and heading straight to the bathroom.

The shower took a while to warm up, as always. Castiel stood under the lukewarm water for a few minutes, his forehead pressed against the wall, trying to recalibrate his brain. He was still tired, but urgency loomed. The clock on the kitchen cabinet read 7:12 PM. The bus passed at 7:30. He had about fifteen minutes. Fifteen—if he didn’t want to wait more than an hour for the next one.

He rushed out of the shower, towel barely secured around his waist, feet wetting the hallway floor. In the bedroom, he grabbed clean underwear and a pair of dark jeans that had been lying on the chair—he sniffed them, decided they were wearable. He chose a blue cotton T-shirt and, over it, the gray sweater he had left drying inside out. It was still a little damp. He put it on anyway.

While putting on his socks, Nicolas approached again, meowing softly. Castiel looked at the cat.

“Hey, Mr. Cage,” he said gently. “I know. I know you’re mad because I’m going out again.”

He picked the cat up carefully, feeling the purring vibrate against his chest, and held him for a moment.

“Maybe I’ll come back tonight. Maybe not. Depends on Marlon’s mood. But… I filled your bowl.” He paused. “And it’s not just any cheap stuff. You know I bought the one you like this month.”

Nicolas looked at him with feline superiority. Castiel gave a crooked smile and set him down on the chair where he insisted on sleeping.

“You’ve got refined taste, huh?” he murmured, adjusting the blankets around the cat.

“… But still won’t touch the little bed I bought you.”

Castiel went to the kitchen, grabbed a stale piece of bread, spread a bit of jam straight from the jar, and took a quick bite. While chewing, he strapped his watch on, stuffed his toothbrush, deodorant, charger, and the book—the one he’d been trying to finish all day—into his backpack.

 

He stared at the kitchen mirror for a second. His still-damp hair fell across his forehead. His eyes, sunken, marked. He took a deep breath, trying to look less… all of that. It didn’t work.

He checked the clock again: 7:23 p.m.

“Jesus.”

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and gave a quick final pat on Nicolas’s head, who was already asleep.

“Love you, you little brat.”

He opened the door. The dark hallway smelled of mold and fried food. He didn’t mind. He ran down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time, the sound of his shoes echoing against the concrete.

If he ran, maybe he’d still make it.

He could already see the door to the ground floor, almost feel the cold street air hitting his face. He just had to go through it. Just that. Just get out.

But the universe, as always, had other plans.

“Novak.” The voice. That voice.

Castiel froze. He closed his eyes, sighed slowly, and turned his face, like someone who already knows exactly what they’re going to see. And there he was.

The landlord.

Leaning against the wall like a guard in a bad movie, arms crossed.

This time, he wasn’t alone.

Next to him stood a man Castiel didn’t recognize at first — younger, dressed a bit too formally for the time of day, holding a slim folder under his arm. But the eyes… the eyes were familiar. He was staring too.

Castiel felt a chill run down his spine.

“So that’s the guy, then?” said the man with the folder, his voice sharp. And then, Castiel remembered.

It was the son-in-law. “The daughter’s husband” who needed the apartment. Castiel had seen him once, getting out of a silver car parked in front of the building, months ago. He’d heard from the neighbor next door that the guy was a lawyer. Shit.

“Yep,” Merlant confirmed, staring at Castiel like he was an old piece of furniture taking up space.

“Sir—”

Merlant clicked his tongue and uncrossed his arms.

“We’ve already had this conversation. And you’re still here.”

Castiel stayed calm. Or at least tried to.

“The deadline was until—” he started, but was cut off.

“Monday…” Merlant replied at once. “I want the place empty. You’ve got this weekend. That’s it. I’ve already been generous enough.”

Castiel swallowed hard. Generous? He always paid rent on time, didn’t trash the apartment… he was a good tenant.

“I’m trying to find another place. I’m looking, but—”

“Looking?” Merlant interrupted, stepping forward. “Hard to find a place when you spend the day loafing around and come back at night with your tail between your legs.”

Castiel felt his blood boil.

“I work. I study. I don’t just… loaf around.”

And it was true.

Castiel barely had time to breathe. He missed some classes, slipping out of college early, taking buses in random directions, walking through unknown neighborhoods, asking doormen if they knew anyone renting.

He was doing everything he could. Everything.

But the problem was the day just didn’t have enough hours. And he was already running on empty — sleepless nights, staying up reading and writing summaries. That’s the only reason he hadn’t broken down yet. His focus was locked on finishing his exchange project so tightly that the threat of homelessness had been pushed aside. But now… now it was here to collect.

And no one could say he wasn’t trying. Because he was.

“Then you’re doing both badly, because you still haven’t found anything. What are you, too stupid? Too broke? A deadbeat?”

The man with the folder let out a low, almost mocking laugh.

“Again, not my problem,” Merlant said, bluntly. “The place is mine. And you’ve taken up space in it for too long.”

“I pay. I’ve always paid. Even when things were tight. I never paid late.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to live in my building forever,” Merlant shot back, now with his face closer. “Monday morning I want the key. If anything’s left inside, it goes in the trash. Or on the sidewalk. Your choice.”

Castiel didn’t respond right away. His stomach turned. His hand clenched the backpack strap so hard it hurt. His eyes were red, but he wouldn’t let anything fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

He took a deep breath, as if gathering the last bits of dignity left inside him. He turned and walked out the door, fast, before the anger could spill over. The street air hit his face like ice. At the end of the block, the lights of the bus he needed were already approaching.

He ran.

He went down the street with the backpack bouncing on his back, heart pounding in his chest, eyes burning, but the tears still held back by sheer will. The rage, the shame, the fear… all twisted into a knot in his throat.

And the bus was already out of reach.

Too fast to catch.

Castiel stood there, chest heaving, as if he hadn’t realized it was already too late.

Once again.

Too late.

 

(…)

 

Castiel arrived at the apartment exhausted. The night had been far too long — and the day, even worse. He just wanted to collapse somewhere where the floor didn’t threaten to give out, where no one stood at the door telling him he was a burden.

Marlon’s building was the opposite of his. Classic façade, clean, well-maintained. One of those places where no one had to remind you it was time to leave. Where living there was a right, not a favor.

The doorman only glanced up when Castiel walked into the lobby, his face still pale from the cold wind. A nod, a “good evening,” and that was it. Castiel knew the way. He took the polished elevator, and on the tenth floor, retrieved the key from its usual hiding place — beside the cracked ceramic vase. He entered.

The apartment was dark and silent.

He locked the door, took off his sneakers, and walked to the couch, tossing his backpack carelessly into a corner. He didn’t even turn on the light. The television’s sound was the only noise in the room when he turned it on, nearly muted.

He looked at the clock. 9:20 PM. Marlon had said he’d be back around ten.

Castiel took off his sweater and collapsed onto the couch with the book he’d brought in his backpack. He tried to read. Read one paragraph. Re-read it. Understood nothing. Exhaustion blurred everything. He tried to read a bit more.

Ten o’clock. Ten forty. Eleven.

No key turning in the lock. No sound from the hallway.

Castiel stood still for a few seconds, listening to the heavy silence of the apartment. But it was okay. It was the end of the semester, and that explained a lot.

If for him, still an undergrad, exhaustion already felt like a curtain drawn over his entire body, imagine for Marlon — 27 years old, working on a master’s in Accounting. It was demanding. Advanced techniques, statistics, audits, reports, tax regulations. The workload was high, the readings endless. A volume of material that Castiel sometimes couldn’t even imagine. And then there were dissertations, meetings with advisors, seminar presentations that, even from afar, seemed to consume everything.

So he understood. When Marlon came home quiet, or skipped breakfast duties, or simply vanished for days. Castiel understood.

He got up slowly, feeling his body heavy, and went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge without much expectation and grabbed the first plastic container he saw. Chicken. Cold, a little dry, with that neutral smell of food saved from the day before. He didn’t think twice: placed the meat on a plate, heated it in the microwave, and sat at the table with slumped shoulders. He figured he could eat without asking. After all, he was bringing something to Marlon, too.

He chewed slowly, eyes downcast, forehead resting on one hand. A strange, almost childlike urge hit him suddenly: to eat the brownie. But he knew how much Marlon liked it. As much as he wanted it, as much as everything inside him screamed for some kind of comfort, he didn’t take it.

He simply looked away and kept chewing the tasteless chicken.

When he returned to the couch, he checked the time again: 11:15 PM.

He picked up his phone and dialed. Marlon didn’t answer. Called again. And again. On the fifth try, he finally picked up.

“Hello?”

His voice came muffled. Music in the background. Laughter.

“Where are you?” Castiel asked, his voice low but sharp.

“Novak? Ah… shit…” Marlon sighed. “I thought I’d be back by now.”

“You said you’d be here by ten.”

There was a pause. Then Marlon said:

“I finished reading a while ago, and… some friends stopped by campus and invited me to swing by a gathering. Nothing major.”

Castiel pressed the phone against his ear, jaw clenched.

“We had plans. I waited.”

Marlon tried to laugh, but it came out forced.

“Oh, come on… don’t be upset. It was just a quick stop. I’ll head out soon.”

“You’re at a party,” Castiel said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. He could barely believe it.

“Well… I could be at one too,” he added. The impulse to provoke flaring up.

Silence.

Castiel took a deep breath, feeling the words stick in his throat. He thought of Johnny, the dinner invite. Joyce, calling him to the Sigma Chi party. He could’ve gone. It probably would’ve been awful. But it would’ve been better than this. Better than being here, alone.

“You don’t even like parties,” Marlon countered, in that almost mocking tone — the same one he always used to brush off guilt. The guilt of going to places like that… without his boyfriend.

Boyfriend?

Was that what Castiel was to him?

No.

“But I could have gone to one tonight,” Castiel replied, and this time his voice was firm. Raw.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I thought you wanted to spend the night with me.”

Silence.

Castiel heard Marlon breathing on the other end. Then, finally, the response:

“I did. But I also wanted to come here. I thought you’d understand.”

“Understand?” Castiel laughed, humorless. “You didn’t even bother to call and say you weren’t coming. You didn’t let me know, Marlon.”

“You’re overreacting…” the other murmured. “I just forgot. What’s the big deal? You’re fine, right? Enjoy the place. I installed a bigger bathtub — check it out. It’s fucking amazing.”

Castiel closed his eyes. Tried to breathe, but even that didn’t help anymore. The words were coming on their own, and he no longer had the strength to hold them back.

“You always do this. You forget. You vanish. Disappear. And I’m left here like an idiot.”

“Oh my God…” Marlon huffed. “Here you go with the drama again.”

“Drama?” Castiel repeated, his throat burning. “Is it drama to expect you to keep your word?”

“I didn’t promise anything. I just said I’d be here around ten.”

Castiel looked around. The backpack tossed aside. The crumpled coat. The dirty plate in the sink. The silence. The smell of Marlon’s expensive deodorant mixed with stale cigarettes. He didn’t need this.

“Stay the night if you want, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow,” Marlon said.

Castiel didn’t answer right away. He wanted to get up, to leave. But he couldn’t. The bus only ran once an hour, and the last one was gone.

“Okay,” he said, barely audible. “Thanks for your generosity.”

“Oh, Novak… okay. I forgot to cancel with you. I was an ass. I’m sorry,” Marlon replied, rushed but still unconcerned.
“Can I go back to the party now?” he added, way too casually. “I’ll be home soon, okay?”

 

“Alright,” Castiel replied curtly, not even trying to hide his tone.

“No, no,” Marlon immediately countered. “I want you to talk to me nicely.”

Castiel closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to roll them.

“Alright,” he repeated, this time with a slightly calmer voice, though still forced.

“That’s better,” Marlon chuckled, satisfied. “Relax, baby. See you soon.”

The line went dead shortly after.

Castiel stared at the dark screen of his phone for a few seconds. The low sound of the television still filled the room, almost mockingly. He turned the phone off. Threw himself back on the couch, pulled the old blanket that was always folded over the armrest, and covered himself up to his waist. His eyes burned. He wasn’t going to cry. Not over this.

But maybe over everything.

The muffled laughter from the call still echoed in his head.

Marlon was fine.

Castiel was not.

On the bus ride, he’d spent the entire trip thinking how nice it would be to get home and have someone to share the argument with the landlord, the fear, the anxiety. But in those walls, there was no conversation. Just silence. And him.

He didn’t want to be there.

Castiel dropped the phone on the couch and sat still.

The TV mumbled nonsense. He couldn’t focus. He thought about calling someone—maybe Joyce, or even Johnny—but dismissed the idea immediately. He didn’t want anyone to know how he was feeling. And deep down, he knew: they weren’t real friends. They were coworkers. People who seemed to like him, laughed with him at work, but didn’t know where he lived. Didn’t know the name of his cat. Good people, but still distant.

He didn’t have friends in that city.

He went to college. Did group projects, chatted in the hallways, but it never went beyond that. He was always shy. Always. And even when he opened up a little, when there seemed to be space to build something, things withered at the root. People invited him to hangouts, outings, movie nights or game nights after class. He’d say no. Had to work. Or sometimes he just didn’t want to—he didn’t like going out that much, being that exposed. And when someone like him came along, someone quieter, more reserved… even then, there wasn’t enough time. Things never had time to become anything.

He remembered Eric. Last semester. Had invited him to an RPG night. Castiel said he’d go. Everything was set. But he got home so tired he fell asleep without realizing it. Eric never invited him to anything again.

Castiel blamed himself for that. And for thinking about it now, as if it were the biggest pain of the night.

It wasn’t.

He felt like an idiot for feeling bad because of Marlon. For being hurt by that forgetfulness, by that “see you soon” that never came. He should be thinking about something else. Bigger things. Like the fact that he needed to move out. He had until Monday. And nowhere to go.

Ask Marlon for help? Marlon, who couldn’t even remember a simple commitment, who chose parties over being there with him? Marlon probably wouldn’t want to help, and even if he did… Castiel knew he’d feel like a burden. And he’d rather sleep on the street than make Marlon uncomfortable.

Coworkers were out of the question. He’d already accepted that. No closeness. No trust to ask for something like that.

He didn’t know anyone else.

Maybe he could call his parents. They were good people—despite everything. Despite how things ended when he came out, when he said he was moving far away to study history, not medicine, to live how he wanted. They weren’t bad. Just didn’t know how to deal. And even so, maybe they’d send money. They weren’t rich, but they’d manage. He knew that.

But… that was out of the question.

It would be a setback. A huge step backward. Two years—two full years without asking for anything. Without depending. God, sometimes Castiel wondered if retreating to Pontiac wasn’t a bad idea. Going back to his hometown. But no. That was crazy. Not now. Not after everything he fought to build here.

He was swallowed by thoughts.

What was the plan?

Take his things out of the apartment and store them where? At Marlon’s? Depends on how he felt about Marlon the next day. Maybe rent a storage unit? Or leave them at the café? And then? Look for a cheap motel. Spend what he didn’t have. Eat out every day. He wouldn’t have a place to cook. No way to save money. He’d go broke in a week.

Panic was rising.

He needed help.

He needed someone.

But who?

The question kept repeating, echoing inside his head as if it were the only thing that could hold itself together in that moment. Who? Who could—or would be willing to—help him?

He thought of Marlon again. Not because he wanted to. But because the name came first, most automatic, easiest. He was the person Castiel supposedly had. Or thought he had. But Marlon wasn’t there. Never was, when it mattered. And even if he was… he wasn’t that kind of presence. Not a support.

He thought of Joyce.

But Joyce… was just Joyce. She was great, fun, good company behind the counter. But Castiel didn’t even know where she lived. And she didn’t know when his birthday was. They laughed at the same things, shared the same complaints about the broken oven and rude customers, but that wasn’t friendship. It was relief. And relief isn’t enough when the world starts to fall apart.

He thought of Johnny, with whom he sometimes shared comfortable silences in the kitchen. With whom he exchanged glances and subtle laughs when Joyce made an outrageous joke. Johnny was kind. But not close. Castiel never let himself get close to anyone.

He had no one.

No friends. No nearby family. Not enough money to afford breaking down. No time to breathe.

And it was in that dark pit, where every idea seemed to collapse, that the memory emerged. First, subtle. A fragment. A flash.

Yes.

“Everyone’s going.”

Everyone was going.

People from college. From various fraternities. People he maybe didn’t even know, but who would be there. Gathered. In one place.

If there was a chance—even a small one, even humiliating—to find someone who could listen, someone who might know of a room, a couch, a corner, for rent… it would be there.

It was insane.

Out of character. Totally unlike him.

But Castiel was desperate.

He pulled his backpack closer. Unzipped it quickly, as if he needed to confirm the flyers were still there. They were. Folded.

He stood up. Checked his phone, even though he knew the battery was almost dead. And left the apartment.

No clear direction, but with a destination.

The party.

The only thing he could try that night.

 

(…)

 

The loud music made the floor vibrate. Castiel had already wandered around the house several times — he’d lost count. His shirt clung to his back, and the smell of beer, sweat, and cigarettes was starting to stick to his nose.

He approached a group near the couch and tried talking to a girl:

“Sorry… I’m looking for a place to live. It’s all here,” he held out the flyer.

She gave a polite smile, declined the paper with a friendly gesture, and went back to her conversation.

He kept walking.

Tried again. Gave it to a guy who seemed sober.

“It’s really urgent. If you know of anywhere…”

“Dude, I don’t, but good luck.”

At least that one kept the flyer.

Castiel leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling his head throb. He was tired, hungry, his throat dry. But he couldn’t stop.

He kept going.

More people. More “good luck.” More flyers turned down. He had thirty at the start of the night; now half. Every handoff hurt. Every rejection weighed.

Until he saw a familiar face.

Sitting on the stairs, laughing, drink in hand, surrounded by people. Castiel saw him before being seen. And for a second, he thought about turning around and leaving.

He checked his watch. Marlon had said, “Relax, baby. See you soon,” right? It was well past that. And he was still there — perfectly fine, smiling, drinking. Way too comfortable for someone who always turned up his nose at parties like this.

Marlon was always saying these kinds of events were for freshmen. He preferred smaller gatherings, quieter hangouts. He had long-time acquaintances, club friends, dinner buddies — and of course, the connections inherited from his father, friends’ sons. But there he was. At a loud frat party, surrounded by drunk college kids.

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment. He was tired, yes, but what burned now wasn’t just exhaustion. It was something else. A slow, thick discomfort building inside. A quiet anger — not loud, but heavy on his chest.

People always said he was too understanding. “You’ve got a good heart,” “You understand everyone,” like it was always a good thing. But they also said he let too much slide. That he swallowed things down. That he avoided conflict at all costs.

Maybe it was time to change that.

He approached the group. Heart pounding, but face calm. When he got close, he said:

“Hey. Sorry to interrupt. I’m…” he held out the flyer “looking for a place to stay. Share with someone. Anything. It’s urgent.”

Some people looked. No real reaction. Just a “damn,” a “don’t know anything, man.” No one took the flyer.

What was he doing? Castiel was already getting ready to walk away — when Marlon’s arm landed on his shoulders.

“This guy’s my favorite employee!” he said loudly, laughing. His voice slurred, smile crooked.

Before Castiel could respond, he was already being dragged across the room to the kitchen.

“Look who finally showed up! Congrats, huh? I thought you’d never set foot in one of these.”

Castiel stayed silent.

“It’s packed, right? Tons of people from out of town, folks from Lafayette. Did you see the fight on the lawn? The Phi Delta guys almost threw punches at some freshmen. Insane.”

He kept talking. Castiel kept his eyes on the floor.

“And there was this guy with his whole face tattooed. Like… a skull. What was that?” he laughed loudly. “Anyway.”

Castiel wanted to say something. Anything. But held back.

“I’m thinking of going on a trip during break,” Marlon said. “We’re going skiing. Me and some friends. You know how to ski, Novak?”

Castiel looked up.

“I have to work.”

“Oh, right… that.”

And he kept talking, as if he hadn’t heard.

Castiel didn’t wait any longer.

He turned away. The air was suffocating, the kitchen too small, and Marlon too distant. He pushed through the bodies, dodging, stumbling, getting shoved. Someone complained. He didn’t even hear.

He just needed to get out.

Just out.

And fast.

He walked like he was fleeing a fire.

The music vibrated in his chest, through his bones. Castiel bumped into a group of girls laughing with drinks in hand — one spilled her drink on his sneaker, no one noticed. A big guy shoved past with a tray of bottles and hit his shoulder without a glance. The smell of sweat, sweet perfume, and stale beer clung to everything. His shirt stuck to his skin. The air was hot, damp. Suffocating.

He opened door after door. Bathroom. Bedroom. Storage. None led outside. It felt like a maze — tight hallways, too many people, voices too loud. He tried to breathe. Couldn’t think. Just wanted out.

He opened another door, finally wider. Maybe the front. He pushed hard — slipped.

He stumbled down the front steps. Hit the ground face first. Banged his shoulder. Then his head. Everything spun. Pain came with the buzzing and the humiliation. Voices laughed.

“Damn, that was a wipeout!”

“Dude, he’s bleeding…”

Blood trickled from his forehead. Castiel just got up slowly, stumbling over his own legs. The flyers had fallen. They were stepped on.

He turned away and left. Fast. Too fast. His eyes burned. On the next sidewalk, he looked back, thinking about going after the flyers — he’d need to reprint them. It would cost.

And then he bumped into someone.

He hit the ground again.

Tried to get up, but his arm gave out. Sore elbow, scraped skin. His hands trembled. His clothes were dirty. Everything was wrong.

Someone pulled him up roughly. No gentleness. Castiel stood, panting, eyes fixed on his sneakers.

And when he looked up…

Handsome face. Jacket. The guy from the coffee shop.

He was there, holding Castiel’s arm. Green eyes studied him with confusion — and maybe… concern?

“I know you,” he said, squinting. “You’re the guy from the café. Castel?”

He said it wrong.

“It’s Castiel,” he corrected, quietly. God, how humiliating. Of all people to fall in front of, it had to be him?

The other guy, the one who had helped lift him — someone Castiel didn’t know — said:

“Your name’s Castiel?” he repeated, like it was the weirdest thing he’d heard all night.

Castiel nearly clenched his jaw too hard, feeling his face heat up. God, if one more person treated him like a weirdo tonight, he was going to just evaporate.

“Don’t make that face,” he muttered. He usually didn’t care. But sometimes… he did. His name was unusual, sure. But so what?

“What face?”

“The one people make when they hear my name and think it’s a joke.”

Handsome face smirked.

“It’s not that weird.” Pause. “I mean… it’s weird as hell. But it’s got style. Kind of classy, I guess.”

“Oh yeah. Super refined,” Castiel snapped back, dryly, sarcasm coming out too easily. The guy’s tone made it obvious he was joking.

“Is it foreign?” asked the other guy, tilting his head slightly.

“It’s biblical,” said the coffee shop guy, before Castiel could open his mouth.

He stared at him, surprised. He remembered.

He was about to say something but raised his hand to his forehead — blood. Not a lot, but enough to sting with embarrassment.

“Damn, man,” said the guy, voice more serious. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I just…” Castiel tried to step back, but stumbled. “I just need to get out of here.”

“No, no,” Handsome Face held onto his arm. “Come here.”

The gesture was firm. Almost impatient. But not rude.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, staring at Castiel’s forehead. “You look pretty messed up… but I’ve seen worse.”

Castiel tried to step away, but the guy didn’t let go. He examined him like someone inspecting a dented car.

Without warning, he reached out and ran his fingers along the side of Castiel’s forehead, touching the blood.

Castiel flinched. More from the unexpected touch than from pain. The guy didn’t flinch. No “ew.”

Who does that?

Castiel slowly looked up. The guy was leaning in, focused.

“You…” Castiel began, but didn’t know how to finish.

The other guy cut in:

“No one hit you for being religious, right?”

“What?”

“Was that it?” the coffee shop guy added.

“I just tripped. Nobody hit me.”

“Hmm. You sure?”

“I’m not religious. My parents are. That’s it.”

“Well, good,” murmured the stranger. “I’ve seen too much already. There was a guy in Concord who smashed his own car with a sledgehammer because he thought the devil was in the radio.”

“Sometimes he was, Martin,” said the coffee guy, and the other burst out laughing.

Castiel just blinked. He wanted to leave.

“You should go to the hospital. That looks bad,” said the one called Martin, serious.

Hospital.

The word hit like a punch. Castiel froze. Appointments. Stitches. ER. Money. Money he didn’t have.

His chest rose quickly. Breathing sped up. Hands shook. Air wouldn’t come. He thought of the nearly empty bank account, of what he’d have to pay starting Monday. Motel, takeout. No stove. No space for Nicolas. Would he have to hide him in some smelly, tiny room? God, would he have to give him away? No. Never. Never. Never.

“Hey, hey,” the coffee guy’s voice came low, steady. “Come on. Now.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He was pulled along. They crossed the sidewalk to a dark car.

“Sit here,” the guy said, opening the back door.

Castiel obeyed. His body trembled. His forehead throbbed. The street was wet when he fell — it had rained, and he hadn’t even noticed. Now his clothes were dirty and cold. The night chill seeped into his bones.

The guy opened the trunk and returned with a makeshift first-aid kit. Opened a bottle of alcohol.

“This is gonna sting,” he warned, with a faint smile.

Castiel nodded.

The cotton touched the wound with firm pressure. The pain came hot and sharp. He bit his lip, shut his eyes tight. His whole body trembled — maybe from the pain, maybe the cold, maybe from everything that had collapsed that night. Whatever it was, he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

The guy worked in silence, movements quick and confident. He cleaned the cut, inspected it, made a simple bandage with gauze and tape. His hands were steady, without hesitation.

“There. You’re not gonna die.”

Castiel exhaled slowly. Still trembling. His face burned from the cold, and the wet clothes clung to his body. His fingers tingled, and his jaw had started to chatter.

 

“Do you live nearby?” the customer asked, putting the items back into the small bag.

Castiel hesitated.

“No.”

“Can you get home?”

“Y-Yeah.”

But his tone faltered. Maybe it was the way his eyes shifted, or how his voice wavered at the start. He had spent his last coins on a taxi to the party. He was counting on waiting until four-thirty in the morning, when the buses would start running. He thought he’d give it his all until the last second handing out flyers.

The customer raised an eyebrow.

“Okay. I’m taking you home, you lying bastard.”

Castiel straightened up, alarmed.

“No… you don’t have to. You don’t even know me.”

“And yet here I am taking care of your fucked-up forehead,” he shot back, already heading to the driver’s side door. “Just tell me where to go.”

“Seriously?” Martin complained. “I’ve got class tomorrow, and—”

“If you’re in a hurry, walk,” the other cut him off, sharp, without even looking back, already getting into the car.

The way he said it was so harsh that Castiel flinched. He was even afraid to say anything else.

The other guy muttered something and got into the car too, slamming the door. The customer clenched his jaw — Castiel saw the muscle move. That made him hurry into the back seat. He sat up straight, back stiff, arms close to his body. More out of fear of being scolded than politeness.

The engine roared as it started. The muffled sound of the party became a distant noise.

Castiel leaned his forehead against the cold window. He was exhausted. And cold. His lips were chattering. The mist had made his nose run, and his wet arms stuck to the leather seat. He looked at his scraped elbow. It burned. The scraped skin stretched, itched and stung. If he hadn’t been so uncomfortable with everything, he might have asked for a bandage there too.

But he didn’t.

Suddenly, something landed on his lap.

A jacket.

“Is your house far?” the customer asked without turning. “If it is, put this on. And don’t ruin it, alright? I like that one.”

Castiel looked down at the thick fabric on his legs. It was brown, aged leather, with worn marks on the shoulders and cuffs. He recognized it. It was the same jacket the coffee shop guy wore so many times. The one that looked too old for someone that young. Just big enough to almost be too big on him.

Novak hesitated for a second and then, carefully, started to adjust it. It had fallen all out of place. He straightened the sleeves, smoothed the fabric. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful. But he wasn’t going to make more work either. So, carefully — like he was handling a cat — he stretched out his arm to hand it back to the driver.

“Thank you, really, but I d—”

The customer, eyes fixed on the road, glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

“Dude… come on, just wear it.”

It was direct. Almost impatient. Almost rude.

And Castiel, quiet, obeyed.

He put it on.

The lining was warm, worn, and the scent was… he wasn’t sure. Cologne? Metal? A bit of beer?

The customer looked at the rearview mirror again.

“What’s the address?”

Castiel hesitated a second. Swallowed hard.

“It’s… 1145 Cooley Avenue. East Palo Alto.”

“Wow,” Martin commented, raising his eyebrows. “That’s kind of far.”

“I’ll drive fast,” the customer said, eyes still on the road, hands steady on the wheel. He accelerated.

Castiel sank a little in the back seat, hugging his backpack tighter.

“You… have you been drinking?” he asked, voice low, almost swallowed by the noise of the car.

He had smelled something on his breath earlier, when he got close to clean the wound — a trace of beer mixed with mint. It wasn’t strong, but it was there. And now, with the car gaining speed, it was impossible to ignore.

The customer gave him a brief look in the mirror. He didn’t seem angry — just… impatient.

“Seriously? Don’t you remember the advice I gave you at the café?”

Castiel looked away.

“I just… asked.” he muttered quietly.

He remembered the sharp answer he got earlier, when he suggested swapping strong drinks for pie. Swallowed hard, swallowed his next sentence too. He didn’t think he was wrong to be worried. He just… wanted to get home alive. But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he slowly let go of his backpack and buckled his seatbelt.

 

The silence lasted a few minutes. Then Martin grumbled:

 

“When we agreed to go out, I didn’t think you’d turn into a rescue driver.”

The client let out a short sigh. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, hands gripping the wheel even tighter.

“And I didn’t think you mistook a hangout for a board meeting. Can’t you give me… fifteen minutes to drop the guy off at home?”

Martin leaned back in the seat, his eyes sliding over the street lights.

“I thought by now we’d be… I don’t know. At Blue Haven. Or at my—”

The client took the next corner with more force than necessary. The streetlights streaked across the windows, and Castiel, in the back seat, shrank further when he was jostled. He didn’t know if it was the cold, the tension, or just the fear they might crash that gave him chills.

“Uh-huh,” the client finally said, voice low and drawn-out.

Martin let out a brief, light laugh.

“I’m not trying to be a pain, okay? It’s just that… it’s late. You took forever to show up, and—”

The client turned his face quickly, eyes sharp, jaw clenched.

“I had something come up, I told you. I was dealing with some things. Is there a clock-in time when two friends go out for beers?” he said, glancing at Castiel through the rearview mirror for a second. “And if this is bothering you, I can drop you off at home too. Solves it for everyone.”

Martin shut his mouth. Stayed quiet.

In the back seat, Castiel lowered his eyes to his lap, fingers gripping the strap of his backpack. The air felt heavy. He just wanted the night to be over.

“I can get out,” he murmured. “It’s close. I can walk.”

The client looked in the rearview mirror. And this time, the look was direct. Firm.

“You’ll get out when I say it’s okay. You’re hurt, you’re shivering, and you’re not walking to East Palo Alto in the middle of the night.”

Castiel nodded. Small. Silent. He wished he could disappear into the seat.

The drive continued. Long. The streets got wider, the buildings lower, the lighting dimmer. At some point, the client turned on the radio, and Always Somewhere started playing, making him tap his fingers against the steering wheel. But it was in an odd rhythm. Not matching the song. He seemed nervous — at least, that’s what Castiel’s instincts told him.

Novak recognized the way as soon as they passed the liquor store with the flickering sign — one of the “A”s blinked nonstop. A bit ahead, a cracked sidewalk where he used to see an old man selling DVDs.

A few minutes later, he spotted his building — poorly lit, the windows dark, the outer wall peeling.

He pointed.

“It’s right there.”

The car stopped in front of the dimly lit building.

Castiel unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Thank you. Really. For the ride, for the help… I don’t even know how,” he took a deep breath, “sorry for ruining your night. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” the client said, not looking back. His face stayed turned toward the window, hands still gripping the wheel. He seemed calm, but distant — like his mind was already somewhere else. And Castiel got the sense he was just taking up time he didn’t have.

It was time to go.

But before he could leave, something tugged inside him.

Castiel remembered the flyers. He rummaged through his backpack in the dark and found about five still intact — crumpled, but readable. He held out two to the men up front, who were whispering to each other.

They looked at him like he was some kind of uncivilized animal.

“Just… if you know someone. Anything,” his voice came out low, cracked. “I have to be out of the apartment on Monday. This weekend is all I’ve got. I’ve been looking for weeks, I swear. But… there’s nowhere else… where I could…”

The words came fast, tumbling over each other. He almost choked on them.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m trying everything. My number’s there. If you know anyone, anyone at all… anything… please.”

As he spoke, it all came rushing back. The feeling at that party, at Marlon’s place. The panic. The urgency. The cruel certainty that no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t be enough. But he had to try. What else could he do?

“I can’t find anything. I don’t…” his voice rose, cracked. “The landlord wants me out. Or maybe even to just kick me out, I don’t know. And I… I don’t have anyone here. No one. My family isn’t… they’re not close. I thought the party might be a chance, but… it wasn’t. I’m going to end up in a motel. And the little money I saved will be gone in two months. Tops.”

He wasn’t trying to hide it anymore. His throat burned, his voice shook. A tear fell — hot, fast — and he turned his face toward the window, hoping no one had noticed. The dim car light helped.

“Thanks for the ride. This… this isn’t your problem,” he murmured, hand already on the door handle, his whole body begging to get out before he humiliated himself more.

But then, before he could leave, he heard the client’s voice — dry, without pause, without hesitation:

“You can stay at my place.”

Castiel froze. Turned his face slowly.

“What?”

“My place,” the client repeated, in a tone that was almost casual. “I mean… the apartment I’m in now. It’s not exactly my home. But…”

Castiel stared at him, stunned.

“I… I don’t understand.”

The other sighed, running a hand over the steering wheel, like he was trying to find the right way to explain.

“I’m not from here. I’m just… passing through. Some weeks I’m out all the time, others I come back just to sleep. Sometimes I stay put… It’s just a base, for now. And honestly, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be in Palo Alto. Probably just a few more weeks.”

He shifted a bit in his seat to look at Castiel better.

“So if you want… you can share it with me until I leave. After that, I don’t know, find another roommate.”

Castiel blinked, taking a moment to process.

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“Really?”

“Want me to notarize it?”

Castiel made a confused sound, almost a choked laugh. His forehead still throbbed, but for a second he didn’t feel it. He could only shake his head, incredulous.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

The client gave a half smile—tired—and turned back to the front.

“You don’t have to say anything now. Go to sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Castiel nodded, fingers still clutching the backpack.

“My God… my God, my God, my God,” he murmured, almost inaudibly, as if afraid to wake up from a good dream.

Martin, slouched in the passenger seat with his arms crossed and seatbelt loose, muttered:

“Yeah, man. He said it. It’s real.”

Castiel leaned forward, hurried:

“Can you… can you give me the address? Please? What if… what if tomorrow you don’t even remember this, or then th—”

“That I back out? Jesus. If you cause any trouble for me, I’ll kick you out in two seconds. So, it’s serious. You can move in, Cas.” The client added, sounding impatient. “Write this down: 146 El Camino Drive, apt 502. And write down my number,” he showed Castiel the phone screen over the seat. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll figure things out properly.”

Castiel searched for a pen in his backpack with trembling fingers. Found one. Wrote everything on the back of a flyer. He smiled. God.

“Yes! Yes. Definitely. I’ll call you. I… my God.”

He laughed. Really laughed. A laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his throat—relieved, almost uncontrollable.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he said, resting his forehead for a moment on the front seat’s headrest. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The client just gave a small, restrained smile.

Castiel took that as a sign. He finally got out of the car.

“Bye. Sorry to bother you,” he said, stumbling over his own words. “Thanks, really.”

He left a little too quickly, the backpack hitting against his body, and walked toward the building’s door.

Smiling. Smiling.

It was dark. Very dark. The streetlight in front flickered now and then, but was mostly off. The building’s entrance wasn’t much better—a burned-out bulb. But Castiel didn’t mind. He was laughing. Laughing to himself.

“I did it. I did it,” he whispered, hardly believing it. He even thought he jumped a few times.

He entered the lobby, already preparing to climb the stairs when…

“God.”

He stopped. Looked at his shoulders, his body… and at his jacket.

He hurried back outside, his footsteps echoing on the concrete.

The car was still there, parked in the same spot. The engine humming loudly. He was surprised no neighbor had complained yet. Or maybe it was just him, standing there in the almost empty street, noticing the details of a scene that seemed painted around that car.

And what a car.

He hadn’t noticed before—but now, standing there outside, he could see it. Old. It had a presence that filled the block. Too beautiful to go unnoticed. Made some sense, he thought. Of course someone with a “pretty face” would have a car like that.

Sometimes, Castiel imagined he’d have a motorcycle. One of those tall Harley Davidsons. But he’d never seen him with a helmet.

Or maybe a jeep. Or one of those race cars with white stripes and numbers on the body.

No.

The black one parked right there in front of him fit better. Much better.

Castiel stepped closer. The streetlight flickered, blinking weakly. It was only when he was about six steps from the window that he realized he had made a mistake.

The sounds came before the image.

The noise when breath gets caught in the throat. Then short breaths. Small muffled noises. A strangled moan. A hiss between the client’s white teeth, a soft snap of leather against fabric as if someone was moving. And he was. It was Martin, and he was clearly sucking the other. His head was down, so only his back was visible. The client’s face was reclined back, resting against the seat. Eyes closed, jaw clenched, turned toward the ceiling.

“Shit…” he heard the client say.

Then came the touch.

The client’s hand went to the other’s head. Quick. Urgent. Fingers pressing, a somewhat frantic movement. Martin seemed to be trying to pull the client’s pants down further, because his hands became visible as he pulled the jeans down and said something that was unintelligible to Castiel. He heard the client’s muffled “arrgh.”

Castiel stood frozen.

Time froze with him.

But then the client opened his eyes. First, he looked at the ceiling, still caught in the moment. Then, his eyes slowly moved—forward, to the side—as if only then he remembered where he was. That the car, despite the hour and the deserted street, was still a place with windows.

And that’s when he saw Castiel.

For a second—a mere fraction—the two stared at each other. Huge green eyes. Blue eyes like a mirror. Castiel opened his mouth, the automatic impulse bubbling up:

“Sorry, I just… I forgot to dev—”

But he didn’t have time to finish.

The engine roared louder, a gear was hurriedly engaged, and the car jolted forward, disappearing down the street.

Castiel stayed there. Frozen, jacket still on, the early morning wind blowing colder than before. Heart racing. His whole body stiff, as if something inside him was waiting for the sound of tires screeching on asphalt, for someone to come back.

But there was only silence.

And the thought hammered loudly inside his head:

My God. Did I see too much?

Shit.

Did I ruin everything?

Will he give up on helping me?

Castiel brought his hands to his head, fingers clutching his hair. He breathed deeply. One, two, three times. His chest still tight, his mind still racing.

But slowly, like someone trying to gather the pieces of a shattered glass, he began to pull himself together.

“It’s okay…” he whispered. “It’s okay. If he thinks I saw something I wasn’t supposed to, I’ll just… say it’s nothing. Because it isn’t.”

He swallowed hard. Pulled his backpack higher on his shoulder and started walking back to the building. His steps were slower. The cold still bit his bones. But he was no longer shaking.

 

“If he saw that I saw… I’ll just say it’s okay. Because it is. Because I am, too.”

And for the first time, it didn’t hurt.

For the first time, being gay didn’t seem like a problem. Maybe it was even something that could help him.

Castiel laughed. Quietly, alone.

He climbed the stairs calmly, as if he had left a weight on the sidewalk. Still tired, still aching, but with his chest… different.

It wasn’t just relief.

It was relief, yes. But there was something more there. A new kind of hope. Something beginning to grow.

He climbed the flights of stairs. Reached the door of the temporary apartment—that one he would leave on Monday—and laughed at his own thought.

“Temporary.”

He hurriedly put the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The smell of home greeted him as always.

 

“NICOLAS!” he shouted, in a voice half hoarse, half laughing, dropping his backpack on the floor and crossing the room. “WE HAVE A NEW HOME!”

A long, offended meow came from the bedroom.

If Castiel knew his cat well — and he did, after almost two years together since the day he rescued him from the shelter — that sound was clear: “you interrupted my sleep, human.”

Nico appeared with his usual dignity: tail held high, slow and lazy steps, as if parading for an invisible audience. He had the look of someone judging everything around — including the time of arrival.

He stretched in the middle of the room, then stared at him with a lofty boredom. The kind of look that only a well-fed, spoiled cat, fully aware of its own cuteness, can give.

Castiel knelt on the carpet, opening his arms. And Nicolas, after a second of pure dramatic contemplation, came closer. He slowly climbed into his lap.

Castiel held him close to his chest.

And breathed. For the first time in hours, he really breathed.

“We have a new home,” he repeated, in a hoarse whisper, with his forehead resting on the warm fur.

Nicolas purred.

(…)

Castiel woke up before ten. He had slept well for the first time in weeks, but he couldn’t stay in bed any longer. Anxiety wouldn’t let him. The morning sun shone weakly through the cracks in the window.

He turned on the old radio he kept in the corner of the shelf — a device that struggled to catch AM and FM, an inheritance from someone he no longer even knew. Maybe it had belonged to his grandmother. He twisted the dial and let some soft music fill the room. He usually listened with the volume very low, background noise, almost imperceptible. But today… today he turned it up halfway. Just out of stubbornness.

It was his second to last day there.

He crossed the room to the closet and started packing his clothes. Each shirt folded carefully. He picked up the white plastic landline phone — with buttons already a bit loose — and dialed the number the coffee shop client had given him. He waited. Rang four times. Nothing.

“He must be sleeping,” he thought, more to calm himself than out of real conviction. “It was a long night, he seemed… like he’d been drinking.”

He packed clothes, sheets, towels. Went to the corner market and came back carrying large cardboard boxes. Packed what he could: pots, books, glass jars where he stored rice, beans, coffee. Put the rest of the closet in bags. Looked at the bed, the fridge, the small sofa. Thought: “Will everything fit?” But if it didn’t, oh well. He was already prepared to leave some things behind.

He called Joyce early in the afternoon. Asked about her uncle — the one who worked with moving services. She answered excited, surprised:

“You found a place? My God, Castiel!”

“I found one. Well… I think so. I’m still confirming. Just wanted to know if the truck would be free by the end of the day. Or maybe tomorrow…”

“I’ll talk to him! If anything, we’ll figure it out, okay? I can even drive for you if he’s busy.”

“Okay. Thanks, Joyce.”

They talked a bit longer. She seemed more excited than he was. That made him smile.

At lunchtime, he treated himself: he called the Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood. Ordered sweet and sour chicken with rice and vegetables. Nicolas watched him from the corner of the living room with those always-judging eyes, until Castiel threw some cat food into the bowl and said:

“Relax, prince. We’re going to live well now.”

Sharing an apartment would make rent much cheaper — and with that, the salary would stretch a bit more. Maybe there’d even be some left over.

He ate sitting on the floor, facing an open box, the music still playing on the old radio. The smell of warm food in the air, and Nico sprawled nearby, licking himself.

The light came in through the living room window, casting golden rectangles on the floor. Castiel watched as the light hit Nicolas, who stretched and moved just enough to lie on his back right in the sunbeam. Paws stretched out, eyes half-closed — surrendered.

Castiel smiled.

“I bet you’d love the beach, huh?” he murmured.

Nicolas yawned and rolled over a little more, as if to say: obviously.

After eating, Castiel decided to call again.

The phone rang for a while. Nothing.

He tried again.

Nothing.

The third time he called, finally: the line was answered.

“Hi? This is Castiel,” he said quickly, anxiously. “The one from the café… yesterday. You gave me a ride… So, I just wanted to know if I can move in today… or tomorrow, whatever works best for you, just confirming really—”

A pause. Then:

“Sorry. I think you dialed the wrong number.”

And the line went dead.

Castiel stood still, the phone pressed to his ear. The sound of the call ending click seemed to echo.

He called again. Twice. Three times. Four.

On the fifth, the person answered. The voice came dry:

“Didn’t you get it? It’s not happening anymore. I don’t want to share the house. It was a stupid idea. A drunk thing. I’ll come by later to pick up my jacket.”

And hung up.

Castiel stayed there, sitting on the living room floor. The radio was still playing, but now it seemed distant. A muted buzz. A noise.

He looked around — the stacked boxes, the empty drawers. He stayed silent for a few seconds. Maybe minutes.

Then he got up.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t swear. He just took the flyer and put it in his pocket.

He had the address.

Even if it was stupid. Even if it was humiliating. Even if he had to beg. Or even swear for having been exposed to false hopes.

“I’m going there,” he said quietly.

Nicolas followed him with his eyes, tail swaying slowly, not understanding anything.

Castiel was already at the door. He grabbed the brown jacket from the back of the chair — the same one the other had thrown over his legs in the car, and which still carried his scent.

“Wish me luck, Nick,” he murmured, locking the door behind him.

Nicolas meowed in response.

And Castiel was gone.

 

(…)

Notes:

If you liked it and want to continue, let me know!