Outside, Dean adjusted his suit jacket as the night air sent a chill down his spine. Main Street was quiet. He turned to head to the Impala and stopped, blinking at the figure standing beside the car, his back to Dean. From behind, Dean could only see that the man was dressed in the muted brown tones of the Mason County Sheriff’s Department; it was a cop.
“Hey, officer. Did we double-park?” Dean asked, his tone easy and non-confrontational as he approached the police officer, who spun around at the sound of his voice. Dean’s polite smile faltered at the familiar face. Castiel. Dean slowed his pace and came to a halt, taking in the sight of his old friend.
“Dean,” Castiel said, his voice deeper and gruffer with age.
Once more that evening, Dean stood a little taller, a little straighter. His eyes travelled from the golden badge on the man’s left breast pocket, to the heavy utility belt around his waist bearing holsters on each side, one holding a truncheon, the other a gun. Dean looked back up at the man’s face, lit only by the orange glow of a streetlight. His jaw was sprinkled with the evidence of a well-past-five-o’clock shadow, and his eyes were as blue as Dean had remembered—as blue as Dean’s favorite mug in his apartment back in Boston. “Castiel.”