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At first glance, there was nothing unduly alarming about the package the little white owl laboriously delivered. Castiel recognized him, and let him rest on the windowsill while he curiously turned the box over in his hands.

He hadn't been expecting anything from Death, and couldn't imagine what she might have sent him or why, but there was a slight, unconscious smile on his face as he carefully broke the seals on the package and opened it.

Inside was a bottle of very good Scotch, which he set aside for later, a book, and...a rather curious card, cut in the shape of a stylized heart with an intricate lace border.

If the debacle with Famine hadn't called his attention to the occasion the previous year, he wouldn't even have known what it was. The memory of the Cupid they'd met then was not among his favorites, but more to the point was the reason the Cupid had been there and what the Feast of St. Valentine had come to symbolize generally.

Cas stood there staring stupidly at the card as its possible meaning sank in, then picked up the book, searching for a title as his insides commenced to twisting themselves up in knots. When he found the name written (in Enochian form, in a flamboyant hand) on the title page of what he realized was a very old diary, he had to sit down, staring at it in shock.

It had belonged to his much-older brother, Gabriel, who was several months dead and hardly known for leaving a paper trail. He would not have guessed such an item existed. The lengths to which she must have gone to find it...

He couldn't say he'd known Gabriel well and they certainly hadn't gotten along, exiles though they'd both been. But the archangel had died fighting on the right side for the right reasons, and Castiel would always respect that. Anything that might give him insight into what had driven Gabriel to do the things he did was valuable to him indeed.

Death had somehow figured that out without a single word being spoken.

A Valentine's day gift. Something one sent to one's...paramour. Was that what he was? Was he supposed to reciprocate? Was this sort of thing even allowed? What would she like? What would be worthy?

Thoroughly flummoxed, Cas did what had become second nature when he was confused or confounded: he set out to look for Dean. Dean would know what he should do, he knew about women.

...actually, now that he thought about it, Dean might know a little too much about women. Spurred by the memory of a certain den of iniquity and being railroaded, slapped, shouted and then laughed at, the angel changed course and started for Sam's room instead.

He remembered in time that Sam's lady friends had a habit of coming to very bad ends (hardly Sam's fault, but the last thing he wanted was to reopen old wounds) and bypassed that door in favor of Bobby's. One zombie incident notwithstanding, the man had been married, by all reports happily. At the very least, he wouldn't make fun of Castiel's conundrum.

He hoped.

He knocked and stood there awkwardly, clutching the card and the book and looking every bit as flustered as he was.