Archive of Our Own (BETA rev. 2850)

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“Nobody blames you for failing to notice that your companion was an agent of Lucifer, Castiel.” Zachariah is smiling when he says it, but they both know that this is not quite true. “It was an unfortunate business all round. Mistakes were made. Still, you realised eventually. Better late than never.”

Uriel's vessel lies before them like a discarded coat, and Zachariah prods it gingerly with the toe of his borrowed vessel. Castiel has not seen Zachariah in a very long time, and it is passing strange to see him now, shrouded in skin and blood and bone just as Castiel is himself, his glory dimmed. Around them the building lies in ruins, showing all too clearly that something momentous must have occurred here – although who out there would realise the truth of what caused these holes in the walls, these broken supports and tumbles of bricks? Had they been fighting free of the envelopes of flesh, of course, the building would have been obliterated. The city itself and the surrounding lands would be a smoking, desolate waste. But Uriel did not take him seriously enough to use the blade, let alone to unleash the full force of his will.

Castiel has never been one of the garrison's greatest fighters. Certainly he has never had the gift for destruction that Uriel possessed. His strengths have always lain in more academic and abstract pursuits, and he has a reputation for getting lost in them. Still he is respected for his ability to think outside the box, as the humans put it – for his skill at forming strategies and building traps. Traps of words and traps of deeds. Devil's traps. He has the skill, but left to his own devices he prefers tranquility to the excitement of action; prefers the chance to contemplate his Father's creation in peace. Languages fascinate him, precise and yet fluid, changeable as the seasons, growing and spreading and shifting, overpowering and being overpowered. So too do the artifacts of human ingenuity: cathedrals and temples and mosques; statues carved from living rock; elegant suspension bridges; microchips; sonnets; symphonies. He has never excelled at fighting, and everybody knows it.

“And you managed to get the better of him, all alone as you were, and stabbed him in the back with his own blade!” Zachariah is looking at him like he can see straight through Castiel's careful evasions. “That must have been quite something to behold.”

Castiel dare not meet Zachariah's gaze. He knows that he is treading on very thin ice. “I was lucky,” he says, carefully. He has not lied; he has simply phrased things misleadingly. They would know, if he had lied. So far nobody has directly asked him about Anael. Anna, as she has become. They have concentrated upon the question of his loyalty, his allegiance, whether he had been in cahoots with Uriel all along, or with other members of the garrison, or with the demons. Nobody has asked about Anna, and so he has not been forced to choose between betraying her and lying outright. But it is a very delicate balancing act.

Zachariah picks his way across the rubble-strewn floor, stepping over one of the legs of the corpse like it's just another piece of trash, an expression of distaste contorting his face. Castiel feels a little twinge of pity for the man who had let Uriel in so willingly. He had been a virtuous soul, and his faith had been sorely abused.

Castiel cannot understand how God allowed this to happen. It is tearing him quietly apart to think of God letting Uriel pick off the faithful angels one by one. It frightens him to consider how many of them may have been corrupted already. He has never felt as thoroughly isolated as he does now. All he can cling to is his place in the structure. Proving his loyalty, even if others are not loyal. Demonstrating his obedience.

But he failed Dean Winchester. Failed in his duty to protect the human in his charge, which is another source of bitter shame, and which would be no matter what the time and place, no matter whom the mortal concerned. But – he failed Dean. And this, specifically, troubles him more deeply than he can explain. He wishes that there were some way to undo it, some way to make amends. Some way to grant Sam Winchester's furious demand for a miracle. He is bitterly afraid that he has allowed Dean to be damaged too badly to be fixed now; he has always been aware of Dean's vulnerabilities as well as his strengths, and forcing him to walk through that door and do the things he did – that was a piece of calculated torture worthy of Alastair himself. And Castiel had known it, and bitterly regretted it, but he had sincerely believed there was no alternative. He had believed it was suffering that had to be endured, if his brethren were to be saved. He had believed that there must be a reason, even if he could not comprehend it himself; that this would not be demanded of Dean Winchester if it were too much to bear.

But God had not demanded it of Dean; Uriel had. Simply to break him. And now Dean Winchester lies in a hospital bed, broken in more ways than Castiel likes to admit.

Castiel does not know what to do.

“We entrusted you with the task of protecting the Winchester boy,” Zachariah says, echoing his thoughts. “And there's no two ways about it – you screwed up.” Castiel's shoulders slump. “Perhaps it was too difficult a task. Perhaps we should assign someone else?”

“No!” Castiel is taken aback by the force of his denial, but Zachariah does not look surprised.

“You're an eager little beaver, aren't you? Want to show the higher ups they weren't wrong to trust you after all? That's the spirit.”

Castiel drops his gaze. “I will do whatever you decide is best, of course,” he says, humbly, after a moment. “But – it is not my wish to be reassigned. I think that I understand Dean Winchester better than anyone else will. I think – we have a connection.”

“Yes.” He can feel Zachariah's gaze upon him, burning him with its intensity. Weighing him up. “Yes, there's been some talk about that. You're not going native on us, now, are you? Not following Anael's lead? Your garrison is getting quite a reputation...”

“No!” There can be no doubting the sincerity in his voice; it's almost a shout. Anael abandoned her post and her duty because she was bored. Because she was curious and disillusioned and bored, and valued the satisfaction of her curiosity more highly than the safety of her brethren. More highly than her duty to God. Castiel might think wistfully of understanding the mortals as well as she does – might even envy her her knowledge, and her emotions – but he would never desert his post for such selfish, petty reasons. “I am nothing like her,” he says, roughly, and he believes it too. Even though he has tasted doubt. Even though she, not God, saved him from Uriel.

Zachariah studies him in silence for a very long moment. “All right then,” he says at last. “We'll keep you in play.” He cocks his head, looking Castiel up and down. “But you do realise, I trust, that because of your negligence the one man capable of stopping hell on earth is presently curled up in the fetal position whimpering like a little girl. Great job.” Castiel flinches. “So obviously, there must be consequences. Punishment.” He licks his lips. “Obviously I'm not talking about stripping you of your grace, Castiel – we appreciate the fact that you did, eventually, notice what was going on under your nose, and put a stop to matters. But you do need to be disciplined.” His grin is not kind at all. “You're going to have a little taste of how the other half live, Castiel.” He looks Castiel up and down assessingly. “You're going to need a new suit. And a shave. But you can probably keep the hair.”

It is jarring to see Dean Winchester wrenched out of his element like this.

Castiel had found it difficult to really notice the surface trappings of the Winchesters' existence in the beginning – had kept being distracted by the souls shining out of their eyes and glowing bright beneath their skins. It took him a while to learn to see the clothes, and the jewellery, and the car. Took him a little while to itemise all the simple artifacts that Dean Winchester clung to, and used to build his own little world; his still, stable place in the midst of unceasing movement. To build his sense of self, and home. The first time Castiel sets eyes upon Dean Smith, he is shocked by how very much this is not Dean Winchester. Not simply in bearing and costume, but in the lightness of his heart.

“He is not himself,” he says, staring at the elegant figure in the tailored suit. He turns to look at Zachariah, wide-eyed. “What have you done?”

Zachariah looks back at him, something old and powerful and long-accustomed to command peering out of borrowed eyes. “I thought you'd be pleased,” he says, and Castiel catches the edge of something dangerous in his tone. He grows very still, suspecting a trap but unable to comprehend quite what it is. “Surely you, of all people, agree that young Dean deserves a holiday?”

Castiel swallows. “This is not Dean,” he persists, certain that the Dean Winchester he knows would not appreciate being manipulated thus. “He believes in a lie.”

Zachariah's mouth twists in some private amusement, and he looks away. “But if it makes him happy, Castiel – if it's for his own good – well, can't you see that we're doing him a kindness? Giving him time to heal? Giving him 'a breather'?” He waves his fingers in the air as he speaks, as if drawing invisible quotation marks in the air. Castiel stares at him.

“I think that Dean would rather know the truth,” he says, at last, even though he knows that he has already spoken too freely.

The smile slips off Zachariah's face. “You saw what the truth did to him, Castiel,” he says coldly. “He's no good to us snivelling in some hospital bed, whining about his daddy issues and his inadequacy. He needs to grow a pair. We've got to build him back up. Make him feel powerful again. Make him feel like he's the one calling the shots.” He glances across the lobby to the place where Dean, undaunted by his first day in his new job, is already laughing with a couple of similarly clean cut and smartly dressed young people. “Besides,” adds Zachariah, darting a sly glance at Castiel. “See how much happier and healthier he looks already? He's taking much better care of himself, don't you think? Eating right. Shaving properly. He scrubs up rather well, doesn't he? You'd never know it was the same Neanderthal creature that slopes around in his father's cast-off car and coat, shovelling all those burgers into his pretty little mouth. He's positively glowing.” Castiel can't deny it. “He's drinking soy milk, taking vitamins, flossing his teeth. Jogging, even! Just got himself to take care of now – doesn't have to worry himself sick about babysitting the Antichrist.”

Castiel's head snaps around. “Sam Winchester is not the Antichrist,” he says, frowning.

Zachariah shrugs. “It's just a phrase. Still, you take my point. Our boy's in great shape, don't you think?”

Castiel frowns. There's a barb in the question, but he cannot quite understand why. “He looks healthy,” he acknowledges. “And – content.”

“He's living the dream! Literally.” Zachariah's smile widens, with just a hint of teeth. “Of course, he'll wake up eventually, and smell the coffee. He'll realise that hunting is in his blood. But for now, he's going to enjoy a little well-deserved R & R as a civilian, under our watchful eyes. You can't begrudge him this simple solace, now, can you? Not when you like him so much. You do like him, don't you?” And that's it, of course. They think that he likes Dean too much, that his judgment may be impaired.

Castiel chooses his words carefully. “I was entrusted with his care, and I believe in him. And yes, he does deserve some peace.”

Zachariah grins knowingly, and pats him on the shoulder. “Attaboy,” he says. “Now, go and file something, like a good little worker bee.”

Castiel pauses on the threshold, and his fingers tighten on the little wad of papers in his hand. He has never learned how to appear convincingly human, and he has a disheartening feeling that he is not doing a very good job of blending in. He glances down at the clothes Zachariah had deemed more fitting than Jimmy Novak's battered old suit and tries to draw confidence from them. He is being given another chance to prove himself. He is being allowed to watch over Dean. And Dean is no longer lying hopeless, hollow-eyed and bloody on a hospital bed. He is happy, and carefree, and confident. Strong. This is what they need. This is what Dean needs.

“The forms you requested, Mr Smith.”

Dean glances over at him and nods. “Just put them there.” His head jerks up a little, and his eyes slip out of focus as his attention shifts to the tinny voice in his headset. “Yes, yes, still here! No, no worries, my friend. Four point eight? Seriously? That's spectacular! And who else is in the know?”

Castiel crosses the room and deposits his stack of papers neatly on the desk, feeling unaccountably disappointed by Dean's bright, impersonal smile. He hesitates a moment before turning to leave, his eyes searching Dean's face pointlessly for some hint of recognition. But nothing changes. Dean does not know him. How could he, when he doesn't know himself? Castiel experiences a sharp stab of disappointment. He had known he was isolated from the rest of the garrison by his suspicions of their loyalty, and from his superiors by his prevarications about Anna, but he had been holding on to the thought that here at least was one connection that was solid. He had believed that there would be some answering spark of recognition in Dean's eyes at the sight of him. Now he realities, with some confusion, that he has been indulging in pointless sentimentality. Dean does not know him; and if he did, he would not trust him. And rightly so. But he trusts Dean. He owes Dean.

He realises abruptly that he has been standing here too long, staring. Dean is beginning to take notice now, a question in his eyes as he chatters on about his portfolio. He looks down at the forms, and back at Castiel. Castiel bites his lip, and turns quickly away.

“Your coffee, sir.” Castiel knows how Dean Winchester takes his coffee as well as he knows the Song of Songs.

“Is this decaf?” Unfortunately, however, this is not Dean Winchester. He keeps forgetting that. “Mr Castle, I only drink decaf.” Castiel blinks at the cup stupidly for a moment, and then looks up at Dean. Of course he only drinks decaf. He's living the dream. “Nothing to worry about – it was a nice thought. Decaf soy latte, no sugar – that's the way I roll.” He smiles again, that same bright, impersonal smile that only goes skin deep, quite devoid of recognition. “It's okay, Mr Castle. This isn't the fifties. I can steam my own latte, you know.” He laughs.

Castiel does not laugh. “I'm sorry,” he says. And he is, too – not simply for the coffee, but for many things. Many things he cannot name now, and won't be able to even when Dean is restored to himself. Secrets that must be kept, because it is for the best. The weight of his guilt bows his shoulders, and he regrets that he has failed in even this simple task.

He is staring again, he realises, a moment later. And his expression is, perhaps, just a touch too stricken for the circumstances. Dean looks startled, and his bright, impersonal smile becomes a little less bright, and a little less impersonal.

“Really, it's fine, Mr Castle,” he says gently, but there's a little catch in his voice and Castiel gets the feeling that Dean is really noticing him for the first time. He drops his gaze, and then looks up again through his eyelashes. Dean swallows. “That will be all,” he says, and his voice has gone slightly hoarse.

“Very good, Mr Smith,” says Castiel.

Decaf soy latte. No sugar. The next day Castiel arrives promptly at eleven o'clock with a brimming cup and a fat-free banana bran muffin on a small plate. With a doily. Dean definitely looks at him this time.

“Decaf soy latte,” says Castiel, with just a little pride. “No sugar.”

Dean blinks. “Wow. You're like my very own Miss Moneypenny, Mr Castle,” he says, with a startled laugh. His face falls at the sight of the muffin.

“It is low fat,” says Castiel, hurriedly. “Suitable for the health-conscious eater. And it contains bananas, which are a good source of potassium, and bran, which assists in the digestive process.” He looks up, his face hopeful, and Dean looks a little taken aback by the full force of his gaze.

“I don't eat carbs,” he says abruptly. Castiel cocks his head and looks at him closely, for he has the strangest feeling that this is not, in fact, precisely what he means. Dean is looking at Castiel's mouth rather distractedly. “Don't bring me carbs.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of the coffee, and his face lights up. “But this is just right! Great job, man!”

Castiel returns his smile, feeling unexpectedly warmed by Dean's approval. And perhaps his own smile is a touch too bright, because Dean's eyes widen slightly, and he draws a breath as if to speak – but says nothing. He licks his lips instead, and his gaze darts down to Castiel's mouth again. “Thank you. That will be all,” he says, a little roughly. Castiel turns, but he can feel Dean's gaze on him as he leaves the room, and it makes him feel a little less alone.

“The reports you wanted, Mr Smith.” It is a large box, and cumbersome, but Dean doesn't offer to help him carry it. He is watching Castiel like a hawk.

“Crazy, that nobody transferred these onto the database yet,” he says. “We're going to need this information correlating for a powerpoint presentation next week – easiest if it just goes straight into the system now.” He licks his lips. “How's your typing, Mr Castle?”

Castiel has never touched a computer in his life. “Ninety words a minute,” he says without hesitation.

“Your coffee, sir,” says Castiel.

Dean doesn't look up from his computer. “Are those reports on the database yet, Mr Castle?” he asks, his voice pitched a little deeper than usual, a little more masterful. Stern. And there's something else going on here, Castiel is almost sure, some odd, hungry note trembling in Dean's voice.

“Yes,” Castiel says. He has had an hour. He cannot type, and does not have a computer, or an office – or indeed any identity in Sandover at all, beyond these interactions with Dean - but the information that Dean needs is now digitally stored in the place Dean needs it to be.

Dean's head snaps up, and his expression is astonished, rather than pleased. “Seriously?”

“Seriously, Mr Smith,” says Castiel, blinking. “I have done exactly as you commanded.” Dean looks into his eyes for longer than usual, this time, and then his gaze drops to Castiel's lips. His breathing is just a tiny bit too fast.

“Take the coffee away,” he says curtly.

“Sir?” Castiel cannot hide his confusion.

“I'm detoxing today. No coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” says Castiel. He picks up the cup. “Sorry, sir.” He does not understand this Dean Smith at all.

Once again he can feel Dean's gaze burning into his back as he leaves the room.

“Iced water, sir. With a slice of lime.”

Dean stares at him. He seems about to say something, and Castiel wonders whether perhaps he has miscalculated. He wished to correct his error with the coffee; he has observed that hot drinks have an almost ritualistic significance, but perhaps the same is not true of cold beverages? He shifts a little, growing suddenly awkward under Dean's gaze.

Dean bites down on his bottom lip for a moment, his eyes darting down to Castiel's mouth for a moment, before looking back up at his eyes again. “No,” he says, after a moment. “I don't want that. I've changed my mind. I want an iced sugar-free decaf mocha.” He is watching Castiel to see if Castiel will protest. When Castiel does not, he adds: “With rice milk. Not soy or skimmed.”

“Oh,” says Castiel blankly. He picks up the glass. “Yes, sir.”

Dean blinks at his compliance, and watches him walk away, careful not to spill the water.

“Iced, sugar-free decaf mocha. With rice milk,” says Castiel, five minutes later. Condensation beads the outside of the glass, and Dean Smith stares at it like it's about to explode. Like it's the most astounding thing he's ever seen. He looks at Castiel, then back at the glass.

“Seriously?” he says, giving a startled half-laugh. He reaches out gingerly and picks the glass up, then takes an exploratory sip. Castiel watches him. His green eyes widen, and he stares at Castiel, really looking at him now. No more bright, impersonal smiles – Castiel has his full attention. “Iced sugar-free decaf mocha with rice milk,” he whispers, incredulously.

Castiel nods. Dean does not look as pleased as he had expected. If anything, he almost looks upset. “As you commanded,” Castiel says.

Dean stares at him for a long, speechless moment. “It's vanilla rice milk,” he says at last. Castiel is astonished to see that Dean is trembling. “I hate vanilla. Take it away.”

“I seem to have accidentally discarded an important invoice from one of our suppliers,” says Dean, carefully not looking at him. “It must be in the trash. I'm afraid Sandover doesn't recycle – believe me, I've sent out some pretty stern memos about that, because in this day and age it's very irresponsible. But we don't. So it will be mixed in with all the rest of the junk – coffee grounds, printer cartridges, God knows what. But I need it. It's very important.”

Castiel listens attentively, and nods. “Yes, sir,” he says. “If you could just give me the details of which company the invoice is from, and what goods it pertains to?”

Dean's mouth falls open. He doesn't say anything at all for a long moment. “You realise this will involve raking through a load of disgusting trashcans?” he asks.

Castiel nods, puzzled. “You made that clear, sir,” he says.

Dean blinks. His eyes are drawn down to Castiel's mouth again, and he seems about to say something else, but then changes his mind. He scribbles the details down on a yellow post-it note and hands it over to Castiel, wordlessly.

“Thank you, sir,” says Castiel. “Will that be all?”

“Yes,” says Dean, his voice cracking just a little.

“Your invoice, sir,” says Castiel, half an hour later. He is confused by the expression on Dean's face. He thought that Dean would be pleased; instead he just looks stunned. Castiel holds the invoice out for him to take. It is rather crumpled, and there is a slight ketchup smudge on one corner, but it is the invoice he wanted. Castiel has been careful to allow a sufficient passage of time between the request and its fulfillment – he is fairly sure that this has been where he went wrong in the past. And he has not returned the paper to its pristine, uncrumpled state. He is quite pleased with how well he has attended to the task.

Dean reaches out a hand almost reluctantly and take the paper from him. He looks at it in disbelief, and then at Castiel, and then back at the paper. “It's the right one,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” says Castiel.

Dean stares at him, and then drops the paper on his desk. His gaze slides once more to Castiel's mouth.

“You should use chapstick,” he says, unexpectedly. He glances up at Castiel's eyes and then back down to his lips. “A grown man – you should be taking better care of yourself. Your lips are always chapped. It's ridiculous. And it's very - distracting.”

Castiel lifts one hand uncertainly to his mouth. He has not been in the habit of giving any thought to his vessel's appearance; at Zachariah's urging he has ensured that this body appears clean-shaven, and he has taken care to change his suit into something similar but different each day. Today he is wearing a red tie with cartoon characters on it. He had not, however, given any thought to the state of his lips.

“Oh,” he says, at a loss. Evidently he does not present an appropriately professional appearance after all. Human dress codes are something of a mystery to Castiel.

“Yes,” says Dean, and his voice is thick with something Castiel cannot identify. “Go and do it now.”

“Sir?”

“Go and buy some chapstick. Or vaseline. Vaseline would be better. There's a shop in the foyer. Go and buy it now, and bring it back here. I want to see you do it properly.”

“You want me to leave my duties and go and buy some moisturising salve to put on my cracked lips?” says Castiel, just to be sure that he has not misunderstood.

Dean swallows. “Yes. Is there a problem?”

“No sir.” Castiel turns around.

“Where are you going?” asks Dean.

Castiel looks at him with confusion. “To follow your commands, sir,” he says, simply, and Dean makes a small, broken noise. “Was there anything else?”

“No. No, that will be all,” Dean says, watching him leave.

“Sir?”

Dean is in the middle of a conversation about stocks and shares, one hand on his headset, but he beckons Castiel inside. He is perching on the edge of his desk, and he has loosened his tie a little and undone the top button of his shirt for some reason. Castiel stands politely to one side, waiting for Dean to finish talking, but Dean gestures him forward.

“...that's right. Yes. Yes. No, definitely – yes, count me in. Okay? Okay. Later.” His eyes are fixed on Castiel throughout this exchange with an intensity that belies his tone of voice. He hangs up, and for a long moment he says nothing. Then he stands up and steps forward.

“Do you have it?” he asks at last. Castiel produces the little tub obediently, and Dean draws in a breath. “Put it on, Mr Castle,” he says, watching. Castiel gets the impression that Dean is waiting for him to object, which strikes him as distinctly odd – this is a much less onerous task than rooting through garbage cans for a scrumpled up piece of paper. He removes the lid and applies the substance carefully to his mouth, rubbing his lips together and cocking his head slightly as he concentrates on the greasy sensation. It is distinctly odd. When he looks up, he is surprised to see that Dean is trembling.

“Is that better, Mr Smith?” he asks, curiously.

Dean licks his lips. “You just accept it all, whatever I tell you to do. However ridiculous, or inappropriate, or - you just accept it. You just obey it all, blindly. Isn't there anything you'll balk at?” Dean asks, instead of answering the question, and his voice is very hoarse now. “Don't you have any lines in the sand?”

Castiel's brow furrows. “I don't understand, sir,” he says.

“I think – I think perhaps you should be working for somebody else, Mr Castle,” says Dean, and Castiel recoils in shock.

“Sir! Please, sir – don't send me away,” protests Castiel, stepping closer. “I am sorry if I have failed to please you in some way, Mr Smith. I am sometimes – I know that I do not always perform to your satisfaction, but I can get better.” His voice is urgent. This is such a simple task, and even in this, it appears that he is failing. “I can try harder. Please don't send me away. You can trust me. I can do better. I can be better. Sir. Please, sir.”

Dean looks at him wide-eyed, almost as though he's afraid of him. “That isn't – I can see that you're trying very hard here, Mr Castle. Really.” He swallows. “But I really don't think this is a very good idea.”

Castiel steps right up to him, closer than he's ever stood to Dean Smith. Close as he used to stand to Dean Winchester. “Please,” says Castiel, and he's surprised by the desperation in his voice. “Don't send me away, please. I need to do this. For you.”

Dean looks away, and then glances sidelong at him like he can't quite believe Castiel is still there. “You don't know what you're saying,” he says, but it comes out almost like a question.

“Please, Dean. Please trust me. Whatever you need, Dean,” he says, his eyes locked on Dean's eyes, trying to force him to believe. “Anything. Just tell me. Don't send me away.”

Dean swallows, and then sits up a little straighter. His eyes darken. “Did you just call me Dean?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Castiel, cautiously.

“Did I give you permission to call me by my first name, Mr Castle?”

“No, sir,” says Castiel. He looks down at his shoes, and then up at Dean uncertainly. “I'm sorry, sir. I meant no offense.”

Dean looks at him for another long moment, and Castiel considers looking inside his mind to try to understand what is troubling him. He knows that in this day and age, and in this country, it is not uncommon for a subordinate to address his superior with such informality. He knows that Dean Smith allows everyone to call him Dean, even though Castiel has been punctilious about using the more formal naming convention as a sign of respect. He does not understand the problem. And – he gets the distinct impression, once again, that Dean is saying one thing and meaning something else.

“See that it doesn't happen again.” Dean bites his lip. “But such insubordination cannot go unpunished, Mr Castle. I spilled some coffee on my shoe earlier,” Dean says, looking at him very hard. “Clean it off for me, will you?”

Castiel cocks his head to one side. He is standing very close to Dean now. “You want me to clean your shoes?”

“Do you want to be reassigned now, Mr Castle?” asks Dean, breathlessly, and Castiel remembers Zachariah, and grows very still. He shakes his head.

“No, sir,” he says softly. “Do you have any shoe polish?”

Dean makes a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat. “In the desk. Bottom drawer,” he says. He doesn't sound like he quite believes Castiel will go this far. Castiel walks around to the front of the desk, looks in the drawer and removes the shoe polish. He has never had occasion to clean a pair of shoes, but he understands the principle. It is out of the ordinary, to be sure, but there is nothing difficult about the task. He drops to his knees in front of Dean, opens the little pot and applies himself to the task at hand with quiet efficiency.

Above him, he hears Dean's breathing growing harsh, and jumps slightly when Dean's hand rests lightly on the top of his head. He looks up then, and sees that Dean's face is flushed and his green eyes are glossy. He's biting his lip. He is also, as Castiel finally realises, thoroughly aroused. Castiel looks at Dean's crotch, and then up at Dean's face, and he feels his own eyes widening.

“Is there a problem, Mr Castle?” Dean asks, huskily, looking down at him as if daring him to comment.

Castiel considers the situation. “No sir,” he says, after a moment, and goes back to polishing the shoes. This – this requires some serious consideration. This is not something he had thought to expect. He feels Dean's hand threading through his hair, petting him tentatively, and concludes that the sensation is not unpleasant. He half expects Dean to ask him for something more, now that he has understood that there is some sexual component to the relationship. He is on his knees, after all. And he is not naïve. Castiel tries to imagine how that would feel, and is at a loss. But if it is what Dean needs – well. He owes Dean Winchester a very great deal. And this is the task he has been assigned.

He sits back on his haunches when he has finished polishing Dean's shoes. The gleam very satisfactorily. “Finished, sir,” he says, looking up at Dean again. He ignores Dean's erection. “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asks, after a moment, not getting up just yet.

Dean's eyes widen again, and he looks away, drawing in his breath with a hiss. “No,” he says, after a pause. “No, thank you Mr Castle. That will be all.” His voice is in tatters, but he is trying very hard to maintain his composure. “Thank you.”

“Very good, sir,” says Castiel, getting to his feet. He returns the shoe polish and the brush to the desk drawer, and crosses the room.

“And close the door,” Dean calls after him. Castiel does so, then stands outside the door for a long, astonished moment, reviewing all their interactions at Sandover in the light of this new information, wondering how he can have failed to understand what was happening. Out of curiosity he extends his awareness back into the room he has just left, and confirms his suspicion that, yes, Dean is masturbating furiously.

Castiel is still standing quite still on the threshold, trying to understand this new dynamic, when Zachariah appears. Castiel stands up straighter, wondering how to broach this new development with his superior. Clearly this is not an appropriate use of Jimmy Novak's body, and he is not at all sure that this is something he wants to do. But at the same time, he does sincerely want to give Dean whatever he needs. He owes the man that much. He draws a breath and then stops, unsure how to begin. Zachariah's smile is entirely too knowing.

“Keeping our boy happy, I trust?” says Zachariah, meaningfully. Castiel feels himself reddening.

“Sir, I – yes, sir,” he says at last. Zachariah pinches his cheek and Castiel, startled, looks down at his shoes, obliquely ashamed. “There's a good boy. Got to keep our Mr Smith smiling, now.” He puts a hand under Castiel's chin and forces his face up. “Whatever he wants, Castiel. That's your assignment. You've got a lot to make up for, after all, don't you?” His eyes dart over to the closed door, and his smile becomes a leer. “Looks like you're going to get a glowing performance review, though.” He glances down at Castiel's crotch. “Keep it up,” he says in a very pointed tone, and sniggers.

“I – yes, sir,” says Castiel, helplessly.

“Your coffee, sir,” says Castiel, not meeting Dean's gaze. Dean sits back in his chair, watching his approach.

“Close the door,” he says, in a low voice, and Castiel detects a warning note there. But he closes the door anyway. “Put the coffee on the table.”

Dean is wearing a green shirt that makes his eyes look like chips of jade, and a charcoal grey suit. His tie is black, with thin stripes of white and two shades of green. His cheeks are smooth, his hair tidy. He looks nothing like Dean Winchester on the surface. Castiel is fairly sure that Dean Winchester would have had a number of uncomplimentary things to say about his appearance, particularly the suspenders.

“Come here,” says Dean, watching Castiel closely. Castiel glances up at him, and then away again, feeling more awkward than he can remember. He steps forward anyway, until he's standing in Dean's personal space, close enough to touch. Dean lifts one hand and slowly, very slowly, runs his fingertips over Castiel's lips. “Still rough,” he says. “Did you use the vaseline?”

Castiel swallows. “Not today, sir,” he says, glancing up.

Dean frowns.“That's not good enough, Mr Castle. I thought I made my views clear.”

Castiel reaches hurriedly into the pocket of his trousers. “I have it here, sir,” he says. “I'm sorry. I'll apply it now, shall I?”

“Give it to me,” says Dean, peremptorily, and Castiel does so. “Open your mouth,” he says, with only the very faintest shake in his voice. And Castiel does that too, his eyes fixed on Dean's the whole while. Dean holds Castiel's chin still, just as Zachariah had the day before, and the similarity sends a small shiver through Castiel. He closes his eyes, and feels Dean smearing the lip salve carefully over his mouth. “Now rub them together,” Dean says, still holding his chin. Castiel opens his eyes and obeys, feeling the unfamiliar stuff strange and slick against his lips once again.

“You do have quite remarkable eyes,” says Dean, staring at them. “Do you wear contact lenses? They're so blue...”

For a moment Castiel half believes that Dean is going to kiss him, and he doesn't know what to think about this. He finds his mind returning to that cold, high-ceilinged room with the broken Devil's trap, and Uriel's discarded vessel lying cold and empty on the ground. “No sir,” he says. “Will that be all, sir?” He looks down, wondering whether Jimmy Novak would rather his body lay cold and empty on the ground, or warm beneath another man. He has no idea what the answer would be, and is not at all sure why he's even asking the question. Jimmy has no more say in the matter than Castiel does himself. He sighs.

Dean's hand drops from his chin as though it's suddenly burnt him. “Yes. Yes, that's all,” he says. “And see that you remember the chapstick tomorrow, Mr Castle,” he adds, shakily. “Now take these to the mailroom.”

Castiel accepts a stack of envelopes with a slight sense of surprise. “Is that everything, Mr Smith?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Dean, almost shouting.

Castiel's expression is thoughtful as he walks out of the door.

“Your coffee, sir.”

Dean is in the middle of a conversation that seems to concern the cost of ball bearings, and initially he only spares Castiel a brief glance. And then he does a double take.

“...I'll have to call you back, Amanda,” he says, staring. “Something – something just came up. Right. Yeah, you too.” He gets out of his chair and prowls around the table, looking from Castiel to the little plate he's carrying. “Mr Castle, is that – is that a jelly doughnut?” He looks at Castiel very hard.

Castiel looks down at the plate, and then up at Dean, with an expression of perfect innocence. “Yes, sir,” he says. He may have been a little slow to understand the game they were playing, but Castiel knows about traps and strategies well enough.

Dean swallows. “Did I not make myself clear on this point?” His breathing has quickened, and there's a flush rising on his fair skin. Castiel is standing close enough to count the freckles.

“I believe that you told me you didn't eat carbs, and said that I should not give you any,” says Castiel, looking directly at him.

“And you're deliberately disobeying me?”

Castiel cocks his head. “I think that, perhaps, deep down, you actually crave carbs,” says Castiel carefully. “Cakes and pies and doughnuts and – other things you forbid yourself. I think that you have been denying yourself needlessly. And it is my job to anticipate your needs, and to help you meet them.” He sets the coffee and the doughnut down gently on the table, and looks up at Dean.

Dean's gaze darts down to Castiel's mouth, and he seems to be on the brink of saying something, and then thinks better of it. Instead he picks up the doughnut very carefully, looking at it with the kind of distaste normally reserved for dead rats, and drops it in the trash can, getting powdered sugar all over his fingers in the process. He's trembling. Castiel looks at him mildly, and Dean looks down at his fingers and then back at Castiel.

“Lick them clean,” he says huskily, thrusting his hand forward.

And that's simple enough. Castiel can do this, and whatever else it takes. He understands now what Dean wants; what he needs; what he won't ask for. Control. And Castiel can give him that, or at least the illusion of it.

“Certainly, sir,” he says, and steps closer, his eyes locked on Dean's. He brings both hands up to clasp Dean's wrist. His cuff link glints in the sunlight as Castiel draws Dean's fingers into his mouth one by one, licking and sucking and biting on them until they are pink and clean and wet, and Dean's other hand is clutching at the edge of the desk. “Will that be all?”

“No,” says Dean, his voice cracking. “No, Mr Castle. This is not acceptable. I cannot countenance this kind of wanton flaunting of my authority.”

Castiel lowers his head. “I'm very sorry, Mr Smith,” he says, glancing up again through his eyelashes and catching Dean's gaze. Dean draws another sharp breath. “How can I make it up to you?” Because he knows now what Dean wants – and knows, too, that Dean needs to know it's okay. That he needs encouragement.

“Bend over the desk,” Dean says, tightly, watching him. There's an odd kind of freedom in yielding up control like this. Castiel is an angel of the Lord, and he could obliterate this whole building if he chose; but he does not choose. He has bound himself to this small, human form, and he is giving it over to Dean Winchester. He feels an odder flutter of excitement at letting himself be commanded by Dean, and swallows hard as he follows Dean's instructions. He lies with his ass in the air and his belly flat on the desk, his hands closing tight around the edge. He feels painfully exposed and foolish in this position, and is very much aware of the vulnerability of this small human body. It shouldn't excite him, but he finds himself shivering in perverse anticipation in spite of himself.

There is a pause, and Castiel wonders whether Dean will go through with this. His answer comes a moment later with an open-handed slap, and then another, and another. After a hesitant start, Dean very quickly gets caught up in his task, his breath coming in hoarse pants as he spanks Castiel hard enough to leave marks. The cup overbalances, warm coffee flooding across the desk, soaking into Castiel's shirt and pants, but Dean doesn't notice and Castiel simply lies there, his eyes closed, allowing himself to experience it all. It takes a concerted effort to let down his boundaries enough for Dean's blows to fall upon him as if he were human, and for him to experience it as pain – but Castiel deserves this.

He deserves very much worse than this, in truth, for all the things that he has put Dean Winchester though already, and will put him through in the future. He can give Dean this, but he knows that it is nothing like enough. Castiel bites down on his bottom lip. The blows are growing harder now, and he is experiencing them as a human would. He's coming close to crying out with the pain, but something makes him try to hold back. He is also, to his embarrassment, starting to get hard.

He misses Dean Winchester, he realises suddenly, and it pains him far more than the blows. He really wants Dean Winchester – the real Dean, his Dean – restored. Although - Dean Winchester would never trust him enough to allow this kind of openness and intimacy, any kind of intimacy, and he finds himself wishing it were not so. And it is that little moment of clarity that makes him gasp Dean's name out loud, his voice thick with unexpected yearning and desire.

Dean Smith stops quite still, his hand resting on the curve of Castiel's ass. He's panting with exertion, but the sound of his name being uttered like that has stopped him in his tracks. “Did you just use my name?” he asks, breathing hard. His voice is a low rasp very much more like Dean Winchester's voice than Dean Smith's. “Did you just call me Dean, Mr Castle? When I have expressly forbidden you to do so?”

Castiel lies quite still. He knows that he should not be feeling aroused himself, and he is rather startled by the sensation. Evidently enabling this body to experience pain also frees it up to experience pleasure, or at least desire, and he can feel blood rushing hot and eager to his groin, where the fabric clings warm and sticky to his skin.

“Yes, sir,” he breathes. He realises that he's trembling.

“Stand up,” says Dean. Castiel does. His legs are shaking, and he is covered in coffee. It drips down his thighs and trickles down into his socks. His shirt is clinging stickily to his skin, irredeemably stained. Dean's eyes widen when he sees the ruin of Castiel's tidy clothes, and he reaches out and draws one fingertip down over Castiel's shirt, scraping over one wet nipple and watching it peak up under the pressure. He licks his lips. “And just look at the mess you've made! Clean up my desk,” he says, his voice shaking. His eyes narrow. “Use your shirt. It's ruined already.”

Castiel blinks at him, and then tugs at his tie. Dean shivers a little at the sight, and Castiel's eyes are drawn down to Dean's crotch again. He's visibly erect. He feels his own dick jerking in ardent sympathy.

“Hurry up!” snaps Dean, and Castiel peels off his jacket, drops his tie on top of it and then unbuttons his soaking shirt with clumsy fingers and pulls it off too. He bends over the desk and mops up the coffee, watching the stain soaking into the white cotton. He jumps a little when he feels Dean's hand ghosting down the curve of his spine, and when Dean gently bites the back of his neck he freezes quite still. “Don't stop,” Dean whispers, and bites his earlobe. Castiel shudders, and carries on sweeping the sticky fabric over Dean's desk while Dean drops a series of tiny, biting kisses down his back. “Throw it away,” says Dean, and Castiel does. “Turn around.” Castiel turns around, feeling almost drunk on the sensation of surrender. Now that the warm, sticky fabric has gone, goosebumps are beginning to rise on his exposed skin. Dean looks at him hungrily, his head cocked at a slight angle, and reaches out with one finger and thumb to twist the same nipple he'd scraped over before. Castiel is startled into a groan as almost excruciating pleasure goes shooting through him, and Dean gives a small, tight smile. “Kneel down, Mr Castle,” he says, his hand dropping to his fly and flicking the buttons open.

Castiel sinks to his knees, wide-eyed. He has been half expecting this, and he still isn't sure how he feels about it. He licks his lips. “Do you want me to – what do you want me to do, Mr Smith?” he asks, uncertainly. Dean looks at him.

“Close your eyes,” he says hoarsely. “Just kneel there and close your eyes.” And Castiel does, and so he doesn't see Dean pull his erect penis free of the layers of tailored clothing, or see him lick a wet stripe down his palm, or see him biting his lip as he jerks himself off with rough, uneven strokes. But he does hear Dean's breath growing harsh and laboured, and he does feel the wet splatter of ejaculate on his face, when Dean comes a few minutes later.

He blinks his eyes open, feeling the weight of semen sticky on his eyelashes, and looks up at Dean's face. Dean looks shocked, and his face is crimson as he stares down at Castiel. They are both shaking. Castiel is still hard. Dean blinks, and looks for all the world like he wishes that the ground would open up and swallow him as he tucks his wilting cock back into his pants with shaking fingers. “Sorry,” he gasps. “I – there's a clean shirt hanging on the – over there – I – I have to go.” And he flees, leaving Castiel kneeling half-naked on the floor with his first ever erection and with semen sliding down his cheeks.

“The reports you wanted, sir. From McGregor Industries.”

Dean jumps visibly at the sight of him. He looks distracted and shaken. “Did you hear?” he says, running a hand through his hair. “One of the guys down in Tech Support microwaved his head.” He stares into the middle distance and then looks blankly up at Castiel. “How the hell does that happen? How can somebody be so, so alone and hopeless and nobody around him notices a damn thing?”

So it has started. An innocent man has just been allowed to die so that Sam and Dean Winchester can rediscover their skills and become resigned to their allotted fates. Castiel finds he is torn between pity and a sense of stifled glee at the thought of Dean Winchester's return. Dean, with his scowls and his pugnacity, with his brother's charm pressed to his skin and his father's coat wrapped around him like borrowed armour. Dean, with his bravado and his loyalty and his boyish sense of humour. The real Dean.

Dean Smith gives a little shake of his head, as if trying to banish the images, and reaches out to take the reports. Impulsively, Castiel covers Dean's hand with his own. “Everyone is alone most of the time, Mr Smith, even when they are surrounded by other people,” he says, carefully. “Humans never know the secrets of other men's hearts. Even those they love.” He ducks his head. “And – he has gone on to a better place.”

Dean has not shaken off Castiel's hand. He's staring at him wide-eyed. “You believe in that stuff?” he asks, sounding surprised. “Heaven and Hell, and all that?”

Castiel nods. “I do.”

Dean looks him in the eyes for a little too long, his expression oddly naked, and then he breaks the gaze and pulls the reports closer. “I suppose that must be comforting,” he says, fiddling with his tie.

Castiel considers this. “Not really,” he says.

“Your coffee, Mr Smith. Sir.” Castiel closes the door behind him and walks towards Dean's desk with slow steps, careful not to let any of the drink spill. He looks up to meet Dean's eyes when he gets close enough to set the drink down. Dean is staring at him like he's carrying a rattlesnake.

“What...what is that Mr Castle?” asks Dean, his voice soft with disbelief.

“Full fat raspberry-almond mocha, Mr Smith,” says Castiel, watching his face. “With whipped cream. And sprinkles.”

There is a very eloquent pause. “Is it decaf?” asks Dean at last, looking right back at him.

Castiel licks a smear of whipped cream from his fingertip. “No, sir,” he says placidly.

Dean blinks. “You are being deliberately provocative, Mr Castle,” he says. “And you know that I cannot let such insubordination go by. We must have order, Mr Castle. If there is no order, then where will we be?”

Castiel drops his eyes, and then looks up through his eyelashes at Dean. “What do you want me to do, sir?” he asks, all meek pliability, and Dean gives a very small, stifled moan.

“Drink the damn coffee,” he says breathlessly. “All of it.”

Castiel's eyes are still fixed on Dean as he lifts the cup to his own lips and starts swallowing. He has never eaten or drunk anything before, and the rush of tangled flavours stimulating his tastebuds is startlingly intense. He can feel his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. His head falls back gradually, and he starts to feel breathless, but Dean's hand is on the cup, holding it in place, so he must either carry on gulping or else let the coffee spill down onto him. He continues to swallow down the hot, sweet stuff with frantic speed, until it's all gone, and he gasps a little when Dean finally releases his hold on the empty cup. There is whipped cream on his nose and his upper lip, and he reaches up to wipe it away but Dean stays his hand.

“Leave it,” he says hoarsely. “And take off your belt, Mr Castle.”

Castiel blinks, but complies, and as he does so Dean busies himself with painstakingly removing his silver cuff links and dropping them into his pocket, then rolling up the sleeves of his neat pink shirt. He loosens his tie just enough to allow him to unbutton the top button, and reaches out one hand, palm up. Castiel drops the belt onto it, and watches Dean's Adam's apple jerking as he swallows hard.

“Bend over the desk,” Dean says, his voice pitched low and urgent. “Legs shoulder width apart.”

“Yes, sir,” says Castiel, obeying promptly. He braces himself for the first blow, but it is a long time in coming.

“Unfasten your pants, Mr Castle,” says Dean, after the pause has grown so long that Castiel has begun to wonder whether Dean is on the brink of fleeing the room. “Pull down your pants and your underwear.”

Castiel's dick jumps at that, and his hands tremble as he complies. He lies on the desk feeling the fabric of his pants bunching around his ankles, and he shivers. He is still clothed in his borrowed skin, still hidden quite thoroughly and needfully from Dean's gaze – and he wishes, all of a sudden, that this were not so. That he could stand before Dean as he truly is, without need for disguises or lies. That there could be real honesty between them. It is impossible, of course; the simple sight of him would burn the eyes from Dean's head. But Castiel is still acutely conscious of the intimacy of this moment, and the vulnerability that Dean is displaying, in letting him see past the bright, polite, social smiles to this. And he is painfully aware that he does not deserve Dean's trust. But he wants to.

When the first blow lands, the pain is sharp and bright and it takes his breath away. It will mark him, he knows – albeit only for a little time. Only until he stops forcing his shields down. But it will mark him, and Castiel shivers at the thought of carrying Dean's mark upon his skin, as Dean carries his. He jerks at the next stroke, and at the next, leather cracking down cruelly upon his bare skin and painting it with stripes of angry red. He closes his eyes, breathing hard, and thinks about Alastair. Wonders whether this particular streak of cruelty is something that Alastair created in Dean, or something that he found there buried deep, and coaxed to the surface. He does not think that Dean Winchester would willingly do anything like this; and then the memory of Dean's expression when Castiel forced him to walk into the room with Alastair sends a sudden surge of shocked guilt rushing through him.

“Harder,” he gasps, fervently, and Dean obeys. “Please. Harder!”

Castiel is on the brink of sobbing when Dean finally stops, and in the long silence that ensues he can hear Dean Smith's breathing cutting through the air just as harshly as his own panting gasps. Then he hears the belt hitting the floor with a dull slither, and he waits, his flesh hot and stinging in the cool air. Dean's fingers slide over the curve of his ass whisper-soft and soothing for a moment, tracing the outline of the marks. Castiel bites his lip hard. He is startled when Dean reaches forward and swipes the whipped cream from his face – he had almost forgotten it was there – and smears it down over his reddened skin, circling his ass hole.

“We cannot – tolerate – defiance of authority,” gasps Dean. “There is a chain of command, Mr Castle, and it must – be – respected.” Castiel is fully hard now, and shivering beneath Dean's touch. And then the touch is gone, and Dean is circling around to the front of his desk. Castiel catches sight of him as he reaches down into his desk drawer and extracts a box of condoms and a little jar of vaseline. Their eyes meet. Dean pops open the lid of the jar and dips one fingertip in, and then reaches down to run his slick finger over Castiel's lips.

“You should take more care with your appearance, Mr Castle,” he says, shakily. “You are representing Sandover, and appearances are important.” And then he walks back around to stand behind Castiel, and Castiel is wholly unsurprised to feel the cool, greasy sensation of vaseline being smeared onto his ass. He shivers when Dean slides one slipper fingertip over his hole and pushes it inside. “Your rebellious behaviour is very disappointing,” says Dean, adding a second finger and thrusting in deep. “There is no I in team, Mr Castle. You need to remember that.”

Castiel closes his eyes, and thinks about rebelling. Thinks about finally telling the truth about everything and taking Dean Winchester away from all of this. Thinks about refusing to follow Zachariah's orders and falling from grace. Trying to stop the Apocalypse. Turning his back on his duty the way that Anael did, and Uriel did. “Harder,” he says, huskily, and Dean shoves in a third finger and makes him gasp. “Do it. Please. Please do it.”

A moment later he feels Dean's erection sliding against his slippery skin, pressing up against the curve of his ass and sliding between his buttocks. There's an endless moment where Dean pauses on the brink, vulnerable and uncertain, and then he pushes inside and they are joined in this most human of actions, this most basic and messy and intimate and humiliating of actions, and Castiel allows himself to feel the full measure of both pain and pleasure as Dean pushes into him. “Harder,” he gasps again, wondering whether he can lose himself in sensation the way the humans do. “Please, Dean. Please.”

“Are you a team player, Mr Castle?” Dean asks, his hips snapping as he plunges in deep and then pulls back out. “Are – you – Sandover – material?”

Castiel pushes back against Dean, learning the rhythm and matching it, gasping each time the angle of a thrust brings Dean's erection against his prostate. The sensation is overwhelming, and the fact that this is Dean thrusting into him hard and fast and urgent makes Castiel feel an almost excruciating kind of exhilaration. It hurts. Dean is hurting him – and that is fitting, because what he has done to Dean, and what they are planning to do...he would want to hurt them, if he knew.

“Harder,” gasps Castiel again, clutching desperately at the edge of the desk, squeezing his eyes tight closed, and Dean makes an incoherent noise, thrusts into him right up to the hilt and comes.

“You wanted to see me?”

Dean is wild-eyed, pacing around the room and scrubbing at his hands with a paper tissue. He looks up, and Castiel knows what this is about. “A man – another man,” he says, and then draws a deep breath and stands still. “There was a guy, from Tech Support – I called him up here about some paperwork, but he got very – he was wrecked. When he knew he'd screwed up, he was just wrecked.” He notices a splatter of blood on the cuff of his blue shirt and stares at it, then looks up at Castiel with his heart in his eyes. “I saw – he killed himself. He killed himself right in front of me, blood and soap everywhere, and I saw – I thought I saw – but that's crazy, right?” He's shaking very slightly as he tries to scrub ineffectually at the blood on his cuff.

At this moment Dean looks very young and very lost, and Castiel wants nothing more than to seize him in an embrace and get them both out of this place. Just turn his back on all the celestial schemes and contrived ghost hunts and lies about office jobs and Lilith's plans for the Apocalypse, and run away with Dean Winchester to find somewhere peaceful and still. Being free. Controlling their own destinies.

But that is nonsense, of course. That is out of the question.

“Are you all right?” he says, very gently.

Dean's head snaps up and he stares at him blankly. “He said – he wasn't rational, man. He wasn't kidding around. He really meant it, about failing the company... And I saw my breath in the air, cloudy like on a winter's day, and I saw, I mean, I thought I saw...” His voice trails off, and he looks stricken. “Have I been – Mr Castle, is this – you know that you don't need to – I wasn't...” He swallows. “You know that you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, right? You do know that? I thought that we both – but...” The words are tumbling over themselves, and Dean is still scrubbing at his bloody cuff, until Castiel steps up close and closes his hands around Dean's wrists, stilling his frantic movements and pulling his hands down to lie quiescent at his sides, and kisses him.

Dean just stands there for a moment, and then melts into the kiss, warm and sweet and desperate, and lets Castiel take control.

When he breaks off the kiss, some time later, Dean is pink-cheeked and disarmingly flustered. “Dean, you have done nothing wrong,” Castiel says firmly. “Nobody has forced me to do anything.” And that isn't really true, but then free will has never been one of Castiel's privileges, and that is no fault of Dean Winchester's. And it would be disingenuous to say that he has taken no pleasure from this task. “I do not really care about Sandover,” he adds, because that is true, and he watches Dean's expression lighten. And then he kisses him once more, because he knows that this is an opportunity that he won't have again, and because, apparently, he can be a little bit greedy at times. “You should change your shirt,” he adds, a little later. “There's a clean one on the hanger.”

Dean blinks, and his cheeks flush a little. “Yeah,” he says, tugging at his tie. “Yeah, you're right.”

“Is there anyone you can talk to, about this thing you think you saw?” asks Castiel. “Somebody who might – understand?”

Dean drops his tie onto the desk and begins unbuttoning the shirt. He frowns. “There was this guy – tall guy – I thought he was hitting on me, but maybe – yeah. I think he might believe in this kind of stuff.” He licks his lips. “Man, I feel like an idiot.”

“Dean Winchester, you are many things, but you are not an idiot,” says Castiel. Dean's head jerks up, and he frowns.

“Winchester? That's not my name,” he says, and Castiel reaches forward and presses a kiss onto his forehead, then steps back.

Dean blinks, and shakes his head like a dog coming out of water. “Did I – sorry, who are you again?” he says, staring at Castiel fuzzily. He looks down at his shirt. “What am I – oh. Yeah.”

“You were going to put on a clean shirt, Mr Smith,” says Castiel, watching him with just a little bit of wistfulness. “And then you said something about calling a man in Tech Support? Mr Wesson, I think you said?”

“Did I?” Dean blinks. “Yeah. Right. Yeah.”

“I'll take those letters down to the mailroom now, Mr Smith,” says Castiel, picking up a handful of envelopes. “Thank you. And – good luck.”

Dean gives a puzzled half smile. “You too,” he says, fiddling with his cuff links.

Castiel lets himself watch for a heartbeat or two, but when Dean glances up self-consciously he turns on his heel and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. The envelopes disappear. He stands quite still and leans back against the door, and closes his eyes.

“Good job there,” says Zachariah, appearing out of nowhere. Castiel opens his eyes and just stares at him. “You've helped us put Humpty Dumpty back together again, and now he's going to sink his teeth into a good old-fashioned ghost hunt with little Sammy, and before you know it the Winchester boys will be back on track.” He ruffles Castiel's hair. “We knew we could trust you to take one for the team, Castiel. You're a credit to your garrison.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says stiffly, thinking of the lost look on Dean's face as he lay in the hospital bed, and his heart clenches a little too tight in his chest. Time to raise his shields again, and stop playing at being human. This isn't his life. He doesn't get to make that kind of choice. “You know that you can count on me, sir.”