As an editor, Castiel tried to maintain a good professional relationship with his clients. It meant being polite and considerate, being truthful without being cruel. He felt he was good at the work—he could sense the shape of a story, call out the weak points, find where the wording was clumsy or jarring—but he knew that social skills were not one of his strengths. He never had the close friendships that often cropped up between editors and their writers; he was accepting of that. As long as the editing was completed and the publisher was pleased with the result, did it really matter if the writer considered him a friend?

Dean Winchester seemed to be trying to become his friend. Despite the fact that Castiel had never engaged in any of the requisite small talk or offered a single detail about himself outside of their working relationship. And in the face of something so odd and unprecedented… Castiel all but went into hiding, in the virtual sense. All of Monday, he fiddled around with the final edits on one of their big LGBTQ+ releases for next year, resolutely trying to push the nagging issue of Dean Winchester's last text messages from his mind. He was only partially successful. He had read them so many times by now, they randomly popped up on screen in his mind, making him blink and lose his train of thought.

Dean Winchester - 9:24 PM

You have family, Cas?

You know about Sam. figure you owe me something about yours

Logically, Castiel should just reply. He didn't have to get into who his family was specifically. But every time he thought he was ready to type an answer, he found himself paralyzed. How much information was enough? What was too much? Was this sort of exchange appropriate? Had giving Dean his personal cell number been appropriate to start with?

He sighed aloud, giving up typing notes about paragraph structure and leaning his face into his hands. This should not be this difficult. ...Also, the longer he put off responding, the more awkward he was making it.

If Charlie had been around, he would have asked her about the correct protocol, but she'd taken a long weekend. And Gabriel… well, Castiel never asked him for social advice unless it related to business etiquette. It had taken Castiel one very confused waitress, one nearly disastrous misunderstanding, and one slap in the face to learn that Gabriel just could not resist making an easy prank of giving Castiel inappropriate guidance in these situations.

So, in the end, Castiel chose not to respond at all.

The next morning, when he found Dean's latest edits in his inbox, without any further probing questions, he wasn't sure whether to feel a sense of relief or of failure. Lingering guilt caused him to set aside his planned work for a few hours to scan the new material. A disquiet grew as he digested the lines. There was something… off. The attached notes for backstories made sense, but the additions seemed clichéd. They didn't have that real spark that Dean's character voices typically made him feel. Castiel knew this feeling… he'd sensed it a few times in Salvation Ridge. He had thought those spots were where Dean had been forced to rework portions he would rather have left alone, edit out sections he treasured.

Castiel reached for his cell phone, but then thought of the text messages still waiting for replies. If he typed a work query without first answering Dean's question, that would be a painfully obvious brushoff. With a heavy sigh, he picked up his desk phone. Dean's number rang and rang, an echo of the first time Castiel had called it, and he wasn't surprised this time when faced with voicemail.

"Hello, Dean. This is Castiel Novak. I just finished reading the edits you sent. Please call me back when it's a convenient time for you to discuss them. ...Goodbye."

Duty done, there was nothing else for Castiel to do but try to work on his other projects.

Gabriel stopped by at lunch, and Castiel welcomed the distraction of hearing updates on the upcoming releases, as well as getting a heads up about some of the new acquisitions.

"So, I got a romance featuring a black trans lead, great contemporary setting. Then there's the second in the Graces series coming in by end of year. And I'm torn between two different scifi adds. They both bring some good stuff to the table." Gabriel was sitting with one ankle up on the opposite knee, a position Castiel had seen referred to as the American Figure Four. He was certain that if the empty chair were closer to his desk, Gabriel would probably have thrown both feet up on it instead, just to annoy him. His cousin always seemed to be performing on some level, pushing against people's boundaries in a way that might have been purposeful or might have been so ingrained by this point in his life that he just did it out of habit. The way his face had softened and the flowing hand gestures as he spoke now were things Castiel only ever saw when they were behind closed doors. Castiel always thought of these moments as the real Gabriel, if he had ever been allowed to see such a thing. This was the Gabriel he tried to remember when his cousin was at the other extreme.

"What do you find appealing about each one?" Castiel prompted, encouraging the discussion to continue.

"Well, one is by an Indigenous author—Modoc tribe—and has a lot of intense themes, like the juxtaposition of exploration and colonization, the destructive nature of capitalism, the importance of oral histories... The other is a lot more space pirate adventure style, but the worldbuilding and characters are amazing. Nonbinary captain, multiple gendered individuals, crew of all shapes, colors, and abilities. Like, Hitchhiker's Guide times a hundred." Gabriel's hands fell to his lap. "Having to make choices like this is the worst part of my job."

Castiel asked the obvious. "Why can't we do both and just space out the publishing dates?"

Gabriel sighed. "Because there's only so much money to pass around, and I have just as many memoirs, fantasy novels, nonfiction deep topic dives, and mystery slash thriller slash suspense manuscripts to consider."

"... I still think you should consider it. The more popular style piece could provide funding for the other, or the indigenous voice aspect might give that first one the boost. Science fiction is a big seller right now, which won't always be the case."

Gabriel tilted his head and looked toward the far wall. He would, as always, make the decision on his own. All Castiel could do was provide his own insights and hope that they helped.

After Gabriel left, the rest of the afternoon was spent reviewing a contemporary fiction piece and preparing to send it off to copyediting. He wouldn't get another look at it again until it was release time, which might still be months and months away, depending how the cards fell. At one point in the middle of that activity, his phone notifications went off a few times. He didn't check them until he reached a convenient stopping point.

Charlie - 3:18 PM

Trivia night, bitches! Meet you at Morns?

Kevin Tran - 3:20 PM

Sure. Need to run an errand after work, but I'll head over after.

Charlie - 3:20 PM

Ok, see you there! Still trying to recruit one more… team of three so far for tonight. ☹

Charlie - 3:25 PM

Novak, you're coming, right?

Charlie - 3:30 PM

NOOOOVAAAAAK

Don't make me come up there.

Castiel replied in the affirmative. By now, it should be understood that he would be there Tuesday nights, but Charlie asked for final confirmation every week. He supposed that it was good she took her trivia team leader position so seriously. The last hour or so of the day crawled as he forced himself to finish his tasks. He found his eyes drifting to the clock in the corner of his computer screen more than once, and no matter how certain he was that his desk phone was going to ring at any moment, it never did.

After work, he made the trip home on the bus from Midtown and ended up meeting up with Charlie to walk over to Morn's Tavern, since their apartments were only a few blocks apart. A good portion of the tables became occupied by other teams as it got closer to start time. The room was a cacophony of overlapping conversations, but the tone hadn't ramped up to the weekend levels that would normally have had him looking for any excuse to leave. Charlie sat to his left, picking at their basket of fries. The green Reading Rainbow t-shirt she was wearing, with her porcelain skin and intensely red hair, made Castiel think of leprechauns, something even he knew not to mention aloud to her.

Beyond her, Kevin Tran from copyediting was sipping a seasonal pale ale. He had arrived about twenty minutes after them, in plenty of time to relax before the game. Kevin was slightly younger than Charlie, Chinese-Canadian, with a dusky gold complexion, rail thin frame, and dark eyes set off by thick eyebrows. His black hair always seemed unevenly cut—Castiel had a feeling he trimmed it himself. Together with the perpetual shadows under his eyes, it gave Kevin the air of a grad student who had been up too late cramming the night before.

"I couldn't get Harry to join in this week," Charlie complained, still chewing on a fry. "We should at least have a fourth." Her eyes drifted across the room and she suddenly smiled, catching the eye of a passing woman in a red cardigan.

"Harry was dead weight," Kevin told her without taking his eyes from scanning their competition. "He got, like, that one sports question in the past month, even though he said that was one of his best trivia areas. And he would always argue with me about biology, a subject he knows almost nothing about."

Charlie made a face in reluctant agreement. "Yeah… We need a better fourth." She grabbed her drink, a nearly fluorescent Pink Passion cocktail, and sipped at the curled straw for a moment.

"Castiel counts as third and fourth." Kevin turned back to nod at him.

"I believe I am second and fourth," Castiel offered in return.

Kevin rolled his eyes and reached out for a fry.

Castiel lifted the hammered copper mug in front of him and took a swig of his Moscow Mule, frowning. It had been a long afternoon, and he was having trouble leaving the work day at the office. Dean had not called back today; Castiel wondered if it was a form of retribution for ignoring his text.

"What's up, Blue Eyes?" Charlie nudged him with her elbow. "We need your game face, not your sulk face."

Castiel only had a second of reservation before pulling out his phone and showing her Dean's last messages. Kevin didn't lean in, but Castiel saw his eyes flick to the screen as well.

Charlie gave the screen a quizzical stare for a moment, a fleeting look of surprise replaced by confusion. "...So you are… What? Worried about telling Winchester you're Gabriel's cousin? You totally don't have to tell him that."

Castiel shook his head. "I know that, I just—Is this appropriate, from a professional standpoint?"

"Sure! It's pretty standard conversation material," she insisted. "I say this with complete respect and affection—you're overthinking again. He's just trying to get to know you."

"...Or he's trying to gauge whether you live alone and would make a convenient target," Kevin interjected.

Castiel and Charlie both turned to stare at him.

"Dude," Charlie said, nose crinkling up in distaste, "lay off the murder podcasts. The guy's a writer from Kansas, not a serial killer."

Her expression was lost on Kevin, who was gazing at the fry basket, brooding. "BTK was from Kansas…"

"Ignore him," Charlie demanded, her face smoothing out as she turned back to Castiel and raised a hand. "Just reply with some basic info. I know that you're like a vibranium oyster as far as revealing personal details, but it's the currency of social interactions. Necessary evil."

"I am not… an oyster," Castiel protested.

"Uh, getting you to give me your cell number required a five minute conversation about our respective sexual preferences. It took me two years to get you to tell me your birthday. I saw you once have a panic freeze because I asked you what your favorite band was." She narrowed her eyes. "...In fact, you still haven't told me."

Castiel was saved from answering by the trivia host popping her mic on and calling for attention. He pointed to the front of the room with a mock apologetic look; Charlie bitchfaced him in return before relenting with a shake of her head. Castiel's phone went back into his pocket; it wouldn't do to be accused of cheating in league play.

After trivia—a mostly successful night, coming in second—they all walked together through Kips Bay, splitting apart at their respective junctures until Castiel was left alone to make his way back to his high rise. The thirteenth floor was quiet, his unlit apartment silent as a mausoleum, not so much as the ticking of a watch or the drip of a faucet to be heard. He made his way down the hall in the dark before flicking on the light in the living room. The walls there were lined with book cases, the books on their shelves the only personal items in the clean and orderly room. Throwing himself down on the couch, Castiel closed his eyes and breathed out a sigh of relief. His ears were still ringing slightly from the hubbub of the bar—although that could also be the last, one-too-many-for-a-weeknight drink as well.

He stayed in that position, quiet and still for a time, trying to decide what book to read before bed. His cell phone chirped, making him flinch. It was probably Charlie or Kevin texting the group chat that they had arrived home safe, an insistence of Kevin's that Castiel almost always forgot until someone else messaged first. He took out the phone to type a reply and was startled to see Dean Winchester's name highlighted instead.

Dean Winchester - 9:48 PM

You up?

Above that message, the last two still sat unacknowledged, making Castiel's stomach clench. He sent back an affirmative, and a moment later felt a jolt of anxiety as his phone began ringing. Dean was calling. He only took a moment, just to make sure he could breathe and speak, before he accepted the call.

"Hello, Dean."`

"Castiel." Dean sounded weary and rough around the edges. "Sorry for the late response. I was on the road today, trying to scope things out for a hike tomorrow. Just managed to get myself a motel room, and the Wi-Fi here sucks."

"I wasn't aware you were going to be away."

"Yeah… last minute decision. Had a few guide jobs coming up, and made more sense than making the four to five hour commute there and back multiple times."

Guide jobs? Castiel guessed Dean must have employment outside writing, something that many authors had to do to make ends meet… given his outdoor skills, it made sense that he wasn't limited to other writing jobs.

"So," Dean asked, "what did you want to talk about?" There was some shuffling around in the background, giving Castiel the impression that Dean was doing some chores while on the phone.

Castiel tried to phrase his criticism carefully. "Thank you for the character backgrounds. I think you did a good job working a bit more dimension into the story. I wanted to take a look at those adds in the context of the larger themes though."

"...What didn't you like?" Something in Dean's voice shifted, became tighter.

Castiel looked at the ceiling. Apparently, his phrasing had not been as careful as he had hoped. "I—It's not that I didn't like it. It… Most of your details are relevant to the story or the tone of the scene. Here, a lot of it felt incidental. Thrown in."

"Well, man, you asked me to add that stuff for realism."

"No, I asked you to develop your characters with it. For example, why does Jaime choose to think of his sister and mention her while at breakfast with Eric? What does that tell us about their relationship?"

"I dunno. Seems way outside the scope of the story." The terse reply was punctuated by heavy fabric being thrown in the background.

Castiel tried a different tactic. "When you told me about your brother, you said that he had moved in with you, that you were making an effort to 'get him settled'. That tells me that you care about your brother, and possibly that you are giving him assistance by allowing him to move in with you. ...Or perhaps that he is giving you assistance by moving in, I suppose. My point is that the context gives me more information about you. It should be the same with your characters."

Dean said nothing. Instead there was the sound of some more soft items being thrown around, as though Dean were unpacking with fervor.

He's upset, Castiel thought. Maybe this wasn't the time for this conversation. Or maybe this is about you ignoring his texts…

After an uncomfortable pause with only the sound of Dean's activity on the line, Castiel swallowed and started talking. "Another example... If I tell you that I am an only child, raised by my single mother, how does that affect the way you see me? ...And what if I add that I grew up around many cousins, but I am only friends with one of them now?"

The other end of the line got quieter, but Dean still didn't respond.

Castiel inhaled, processing. He had Dean's attention, but it wasn't enough. "...I live alone," he offered. "My friend says that I should get a cat. But he also told me that you could be a serial killer, so I'm not certain how sound his advice is… You're not a serial killer, are you?" Castiel paused and held his breath, hoping for a break in Dean's silence.

There was a soft inhale. "...Depends if deer count, I guess."

The air rushed out of his lungs, and the knot inside Castiel's chest loosened. Finally. He considered Dean's statement. "Have you been hunting lately? Is that what your jobs are?"

"No." Dean's response was slightly too fast, a form of emphasis. "I don't do that much anymore."

Why did you give it up? Castiel wanted to ask, but he didn't think they had reached that level of intimacy yet. He didn't want to hear any more of Dean's deflecting humor right now. "I'm sure the deer are very relieved."

"Yeah…" Dean sighed and there was a sound that Castiel thought was him sitting down. "Listen, I get what you're saying. I get the ask. I just haven't been in the right mindset for digging into family histories lately. Nobody's fault. Just… personal stuff."

Castiel almost retorted that everything in life was personal stuff but thought better of it. "...Do you want to talk through some of these character histories together? If the Wi-Fi there is bad, I assume there will be limited email this week."

"Uh… Are you sure, man? It's an hour later there, right? Don't want to keep you up late on a work night."

Castiel was sure. He put his phone on speaker mode and laid it on the coffee table, pulled a blank notebook and pen out of a nearby side table drawer, and started jotting down points he remembered from Dean's backstories. With his prompting, they talked through each character's family, how Dean envisioned the relationships with each family member, with Castiel flagging any items he thought were relevant. As the conversation flowed back and forth, he could sense when Dean slid into the writer's mindset. His phrasing became longer. He started suggesting points where story events might bring up family memories, working out where that history shaded their perceptions. In the end, Castiel was mostly taking down Dean's thoughts, listening as the other man spun cobwebs into the dark corners of his story.

"Listen, I'm beat," Dean sighed, the session winding down, "and I'm not doing you any favors by keeping you."

Castiel glanced at the time on the phone—almost midnight. They'd been on the phone for an hour and fifty-seven minutes. "All right, Dean. Since you're going to be offline this week, why don't I take these notes and rework the last draft. I'll send it to you when I am done."

"I mean, I can still work on my laptop... I could do the edits and get it to you later in the week."

"No, I have all the notes here," Castiel insisted. "Besides, it's about time for me to take a look at the big picture, with all the additions, and make some decisions about the final themes. Get some rest; clear your head. ...Good night, Dean."

"G'night. ...And Cas? ...Thanks."

Dean closed the line first this time. Castiel lowered the phone to his lap and stared up at the ceiling, a blank canvas of offwhite paint cast in a circle of lamplight. There had been a shape in the shadows of their conversation, defined by the negative space where Dean's contributions became more hesitant, where he demurred. Castiel had long been made to understand that silence spoke as clearly as words; he wondered if Dean was aware of how much the empty spaces in his story told. Castiel would do him the kindness of filling some of them in, camouflaging the edges. The true, raw form of it was his to keep.