Page 119 of Pucked Around and Found Out

“Say something,” Cas says. He doesn't open his eyes.

I say nothing.

“X.”

“What do you want me to say?”

His jaw works. “I don't know. Anything. Call me an idiot. Tell me I should have seen it. Tell me I'm compromised beyond saving and you're going to let me rot in here.” A beat. “Just say something because the silence is—" He stops. Swallows. “The silence is loud.”

I look at him. At the man who told me hours ago that he loved KennaDee. Who described a grief so specific and so private that it had no business being handed over to a woman like Fiona Williams to be weaponized. Who was already carrying more than I knew and somehow… somehow, still showed up every day.

“You didn't know,” I say.

It comes out flatter than I intend. More like a verdict than a comfort. But Cas's eyes open and he looks at me with something that is not quite relief but is the emotional neighbor of it.

“No,” he says. “I didn't.”

“He kept tabs on you.” The words feel strange in my mouth. “Watched from a distance. Arranged things. Kept you⁠—"

“Out of your way?” Cas says quietly.

I go still.

Because that is the thing neither of us has said yet. The specific weight of what Alex Denver's protection means when the person he was protecting Cas from was me. When the man pulling strings to keep his brother safe was doing it because he understood what I was capable of. Because he watched from a distance and made a calculation, his brother, in my orbit, needed managing.

He wasn't wrong.

Cas reads it off my face. He always reads me, even when I don't want to be read. “Don't,” he says.

“Don't what?”

“Don't make this about whether you deserved to have him near you. That's not—" He exhales. “That's not the thing that matters right now.”

“What is?” I ask.

Silence again. Different this time, the kind with a question inside it rather than a wound.

“I have a brother,” Cas says. Quietly. Like he's testing the words to see if they're real. “A living, actual—" He stops. Laughs once, short and humorless. “I have a brother who apparently arranged my entire life from a distance and has never once introduced himself and I don't know whether to be furious or⁠—"

He doesn't finish.

He doesn't need to.

I look at the ceiling of the cell. I think about Emery. About the specific, merciless quality of growing up with someone who knows you completely, your tell, your habits, the version of yourself you only show in the dark. About what it cost me when that was gone. About the year I spent refusing to visit her grave because standing in front of that headstone meant accepting that the only person who had ever known me all the way down to my core was not coming back.

Cas has a brother.

He doesn't know him yet. Doesn't know if he wants to. Doesn't know what that relationship looks like when it comes out of the shadows and into the light and has to survive being real instead of theoretical. That's a long road and it has nothing to do with me.

But he has one.

I reach over and put my fist lightly against his shoulder. The way we have done since the first year, not a hug, nothing that requires either of us to be something we aren't, just contact. Just, I'm here. You're not alone in this.

He puts his fist back against mine.

Neither of us speaks.

Down the corridor, the fluorescent light hums.