Oh yes, I watched 'The Resident' Who really doubted that I would?

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Castiel stands on the threshold of his bedroom. His keys are still in his hand, his shoes damp from the grass outside as Balthazar tells him that he can explain. Meg slinks into the bathroom, trailing Castiel's dark green robe, dark hair tangled, eyes twisting slyly his way, an arc of smeared lipstick on her cheek.

Castiel turns away, not wanting to see Balthazar's bare chest smudged with lipstick marks like ravenous bites, he walks out onto the landing, his pale green scrubs damp with suddenly cold sweat. There's still blood on them from where a patient busted his nose in the E.R.

Balthazar shuffles onto the landing, waist circled in a white sheet, gold hair damp with sweat.

"Cassy...I'm so sorry."

Castiel jerks away from the tentative touch to his shoulder. He goes downstairs and out into the afternoon light, walking away from the house that, up until that morning, had been his home.


After working at the hospital for five years, Castiel has yet to make a single good friend.

That is why, seven hours after finding his husband in bed with his sister, Castiel is still sitting alone in the bar he stumbled on that afternoon. He has nowhere to go, he can't return home, he certainly can't go to his parents. They had always looked disdainfully on his and Balthazar's relationship, partly because Balthazar was a creative from a new money family, but mostly because he was a man. For all Castiel knew they might even take Meg's side. She was after all a woman, and she had more of a right to any man in their eyes, than Castiel ever would.

A migraine is forming thanks to his hurt nose, dizzying pain swamping his brain as Castiel knocks back the remainder of his sixth beer. His closest acquaintance is Gabriel in paediatrics, but he doesn't know him well enough to impose on him for the night – let alone while he hunts for a new place to live, a process sure to take weeks, if not months.

Castiel doesn't even notice the man at the bar watching him, not until he comes over and places a fresh beer in front of him.

"You look like you could use it." The guy says gruffly, awkwardly as he turns to go back to his stool at the bar.

"Thank you." Castiel doesn't know why it is this act of kindness over everything else that makes him want to cry – but it does.

"Hey..." The guy looks mortified by the collection of water in Castiel's eyes.

"Sorry." Castiel blinks. "It's not exactly my best day."

"I can see that." The guy pauses for a moment before pulling the chair out opposite him and sitting down. "This connected with whatever did that to your face?"

"Unrelated." Castiel assures him.

"Jesus." The guy whistles, then twists in his seat. "Rufus, can we get some whisky over here?" He smirks wryly at Castiel. "This seems like a whisky problem."

Castiel can't hold down his huff of laughter.

Two whiskey's, his beer and a shot of tequila later – Castiel tells his new companion, Dean, exactly why he's sitting in a bar in bloody scrubs.

"Shit." Dean grunts. "What an asshole."

It's so blunt it makes Castiel laugh again, the difference between them really is quite staggering. Castiel with his closed off nature, and gregarious Dean in his paint spattered jeans and tight black shirt. Clearly of lower class than even Balthazar had seemed to the rest of Castiel's relatives.

Thinking of Balthazar makes him feel a little sick. Then sicker.

Once Castiel's thrown up in the alley behind the bar, Dean claps him on the back.

"Guess you need somewhere to stay tonight." The larger man surmises.

Castiel wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "It seems so." He sighs blearily.

"Come home with me then." Dean prompts.

Castiel looks uncertain.

"Seriously, It's cool. My Dad and I run an apartment building, there's a whole place just standing empty. I insist." He adds graciously.

Castiel goes with him, fuzzy headed. The building is a large, dark tenement, tastefully decorated. Dean takes them up in a clanking elevator. He opens the door to the empty apartment with a drunken flourish.

"There, bedroom's on the left. I'll be by in the morning..." he glances at his watch. "Well, later in the morning – to check on the place."

"Thank you." Castiel tells him sincerely.

Dean looks at him, a depth to his friendly green eyes that hadn't been there in the bar.

"No problem." He says shortly, hand sliding into his pocket idly. "Me and my Dad live across the hall, if you need anything."

Castiel closes the door softly and walks through the spacious, wood floored living room to the bedroom. There's a king size wood framed bed with white sheets that looks like heaven right about now. He pulls his scrubs off, crumbled and stained as they are, dropping them on the floor so as not to mark the pale cream chairs in the bedroom. In his underwear he crawls into bed, head pounding with alcohol and loneliness.

He passes out almost instantly.


Dean keeps to his word and knocks on the front door at eleven. Castiel opens the door in his scrubs, still damp from where he'd sponged some of the blood off of them. Dean hands him a cup of coffee and a plastic wrapped donut.

"Room service." He quips, glancing into the apartment. "Everything ok last night?"

"It was, very." Castiel smiles, taking the coffee and the pastry gratefully, his hangover demanding sugar and caffeine. "Thank you, so much."

"Still no problem." Dean grins.

A door slams up the corridor and Dean glances back at someone Castiel can't quite see.

"Bye Dad." Dean calls, and Castiel relaxes.

Dean closes the door behind him and shows Castiel the kitchen, sitting him down at the table to eat. The whole place is stunning, classically and spaciously designed, with class and austere style in its bare wood and high ceilings.

"You like it." Dean smirks, not questioning but sure of himself. "Everybody does."

"It is lovely." Castiel says honestly. "Far better than what I can hope to afford."

"Well, that depends what you can afford." Dean tells him, slipping easily into his sales patter. Castiel detects the change and flushes, embarrassed.

"I really am grateful to you...but I cannot begin to afford an apartment this luxuriant."

Dean smiles at that comment. "It's not so damn fancy, the maintenance train goes right by here, makes a noise like you wouldn't believe...and it's expensive to heat, old...pretty, but rotten to the core under all that handsome plaster."

Castiel tips his head uncertainly.

"It's thirty-eight a month." Dean tells him gently.

"Thousand?" Castiel's blue eyes widen.

"Hundred." Dean corrects him.

Castiel looks even more surprised, a crease in his brow as he mentally calculates his wages and what he can afford to spend on a new place to live.

"Can you afford that, Cas?" Dean asks softly.

"I think I could." Castiel says, surprising himself. "I definitely...yes." He nods decisively.

Dean looks amused and happy at that, eyes a deep green as they find Castiel's.

"I'll tell my Dad...get your references checked..." he smirks mischievously. "Or...I could move you in today? Leave all the paper work until after you've got a roof over your head."

Castiel feels relief cover him like a warm blanket. "Really?"

"Really." Dean assures him. "My Dad's friend, Bobby, he does removals – make a list up and I'll have him move your stuff out and into here today."

"I don't know if I can face him." Castiel admits, and they both know he isn't talking about Bobby.

"You can stay in the truck with me." Dean shrugs, amicably. "Bobby can get the stuff, and you don't even need to go in."

Castiel's smile is gentle and relieved.

Dean returns it pleasantly.

"Whatever you need." Dean promises.