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"Annyeonghi gyeseyo," Dean hears Cas say from the other side of the Korean market's parking lot. He says it with the same casualness he would say "dobar dan" to the florist three minutes away from their home, or "tenha um bom dia" to the homeless man who lives just around the corner.
Today, it's a Monday afternoon as Dean waits in his car for Cas' shift to be over. The Impala is parked in the lot of the little Korean market, and Dean is wearing one of the good suits that he kept from their hunting days: the dark burgundy one, the one that brings out his eyes. He looks a little uneasy, sitting there all dolled up; he rarely ever goes out of his way to look good, but he hopes Cas will appreciate the view. He has a little something planned for tonight.
A woman walks Cas to the car, and Dean recognizes her as Mrs. Park. They are speaking in a language that sounds vaguely familiar to Dean, but he can't understand it. Cas looks mildly horrified at something she says, but then again he always does. They bow to each other and Cas gets into the car.
"Hey, Cas," Dean says with a tentative smile. He straightens himself up, flashes a nervous little grin at Cas. "How was work?"
Castiel shrugs. That's all he does. He puts his seatbelt on and shrugs.
"A cat defecated in the fish area. It was kind of unpleasant," he mutters. He gives Dean a quick glance and a hint of a subdued smile, eyes crinkling before he closes them and leans back.
Dean blinks. Okay, he thinks to himself. Cat shit. That would put a damper on anybody's mood. He draws a breath and forces his disappointment down. Cas misses these kind of things, Dean tells himself. He does that. He wore the same trenchcoat for five years, for crying out loud.
Cas sighs. "Can we go home now?"
"Actually..."
---
Dean had this little outing planned: a generous dinner at a fancy restaurant he had been saving up for for some time, with expensive wine and dessert, the whole shebang. He and Cas have been living together for over four years, and they had never been on a proper date. Not one like this at least, like the kind of date normal people go out for.
But Dean should already know this. In their life, things never go as planned.
"Dean," Cas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose once Dean parks in front of the five star restaurant the city is most popular for, "we can't afford this."
"Sure, we can," Dean responds as he kills the engine and unbuckles his belt, "I've been saving up." He makes a motion to get out of the car, but Cas remains in his seat.
"We could fix the kitchen faucet," he suggests, "or the stains in the ceiling. I would very much like to get those stains off our ceiling."
Dean blinks. Several times. Cas is dead serious, and he’s not looking like he's going to change his mind, and Dean doesn't understand. Why is Cas dismissing him so fast? It occurs to him that perhaps Cas doesn't even want to be here, with him, but that thought is too much to bear, so he focuses instead on the problem at hand.
"You want to fix the ceiling," he repeats, deadpan. Cas nods vigorously, not a trace of doubt in his handsome face, and Dean gives the restaurant behind him one last, hopeful look, then goes back to Cas, who does smell a little bit like cat shit and cheap detergent.
Dean has a spare suit in the trunk and a reservation under his name for seven.
Instead, he buckles his seatbelt and they take off.
---
They make a quick stop at the park close to their place. Cas bolts out of the car, and Dean follows him with a slight frown etched onto his nose. In his burgundy suit, he sticks out like a sore thumb among the people strolling down the little red stone trails. This is where Cas comes on the weekends when it's sunny. He’ll bring a book or a notepad and spend hours walking around, sitting or chatting with the more permanent faces populating the area.
They walk for a little while, shoulders brushing. Cas looks pleased with himself, unaware of the turmoil taking over Dean's mind. They come across a street vendor that sells hot dogs and buttered pretzels and Dean's stomach makes an ugly sound. It makes Cas almost laugh.
"Dos, por favor," Castiel says to the vendor, a short, seasoned man of fifty-something years. The vendor answers in a melodic Spanish, coaxes a giggle out of Castiel. A giggle. Dean stares stupidly through the whole exchange, unable to recognize the words they’re saying. These days, it seems like everybody understands Cas far better than Dean does.
Four years, Dean reminds himself, four fucking years.
When Cas hands him a large, greasy hot dog, Dean has lost all traces of his appetite.
---
Coming home should be a relief, but Dean feels out of sorts.
He watches Cas make a beeline for the shower, discarding clothes as he goes, while Dean stands there in his nice burgundy suit, all pretty and dolled up. Stands in a kitchen full of half burnt pots and a faucet that doesn't close all the way. He throws the Impala's keys onto the counter, rubs at his aching knee, and then goes to the shelf where they keep the important telephone numbers. There's a card for a plumber here somewhere, he recalls.
It takes Cas a good ten minutes to get out of the shower, and when he returns to the kitchen, sleepy and very naked, Dean is sitting at their little table in his nice suit, silently munching cereal from an almost empty box.
He feels more than sees Cas move closer to him, his eyes narrowed and wondering.
"You're angry," Cas says, sitting next to him and carefully wrapping his arms around Dean's waist. Dean wants to shrug, but Cas perches his sharp chin on his suited shoulder, noses his neck, and breathes softly against the ticklish spot underneath Dean's ear.
It's so easy, then, for Dean to breathe out and say:
"Yes."
Cas nods, kisses the stubble on Dean's jaw. Cas is rarely ever this physical with him, but when he is, he is terribly affectionate. It scares Dean, the little ways in which Cas undoes him. The extent of his warmth: how he makes Dean's throat constrict and his lungs expand beyond his ribs.
"This is what people do, Cas,” Dean says. “They go out and do nice things together, to forget about their miserable lives for a while."
For a moment, Cas stills and ponders these words. He stops his trail of kisses and almost sees the tension rolling off the side of Dean's face.
"Are you miserable, Dean?"
The question makes Dean uncomfortable, and he unsuccessfully tries to wiggle out of Cas' grip. "No," he says, truthfully, "but you have to admit this is less than ideal. And I'm not exactly a great catch."
Cas tightens his hold on Dean, burrows his face against the softness of Dean's suited arm.
"You're the only catch I'd care to... catch."
"Wow.” Dean can’t help the amused huff that escapes him at that. “That's lame, Cas."
Dean gets poked on the side and a tickling war ensues. Hands still moving against each other, they stumble to their room. Before hitting the bed, Cas strokes the lapels of Dean's suit, giving him an open look full of unrestrained love.
"You look nice," he says, and the way he caresses Dean's jaw with his palm suggests an unspoken, you always look nice to me.
The way Cas folds his fingers around the jacket, kindly pushing it back tells Dean, I'm most happy when you're around.
Cas nimble fingers unbuttoning Dean's white shirt softly whisper, I don't want you to be anything but yourself.
Cas kisses Dean and he can hear what Cas is really saying, clear and sound.
I want you, and everything you are.
---
Dean comes home the next day after ten exhausting rounds to the warm, rich smell of cinnamon and apples coming from their apartment. He follows that scent, his mouth watering in anticipation.
When he opens the door, he find Cas standing awkwardly in an ill-fitting blue suit, lighting candles in their kitchen. There's a pie from the bakery across the street on the table where Dean had been sulking the night before, and a pot full of weirdly arranged Jasmines.
Cas turns around as soon as Dean crosses the door, surprised.
"Dean," he mumbles, mouth agape, "you're early."
It's been over four years since they moved in together, and Dean and Cas stay in for their first date.