Chapter Text
“Another one for you, Winchester,” Charlie calls across the tables with a wink. She waves the flimsy note between her fingers high above her head.
Dean drops his forehead against the counter and groans.
The notes have been non-stop since February. Every day, some secret admirer would leave a note tucked into the remains of a croissant, a coffee cup, a napkin holder—secret places that Charlie now found malicious glee searching for whenever she wiped down the tables.
Dean wasn’t complaining—at first. The small cafe tucked into an only marginally larger quiet town never gets a lot of excitement. At first the notes were cute. He has a whole drawer for them in his desk, next to the receipts.
But the notes have run their cute course, and have just become frustrating.
“It’s on pink stationary, this time,” Charlie announces, smacking the piece of paper on the counter next to Dean’s head. “It’s cute how they change colors every week.”
“This is just getting ridiculous,” Dean groans into the counter. He yelps when he feels something smack the back of his ass.
“Get your damn face off the countertop,” Bobby snaps as he walks past, rolling up the towel and poising to hit Dean again. “We serve food there.”
“He’s upset about the notes,” Charlie explains.
Bobby grunts, “Those still happenin’?”
“Yup. And Dean’s grumpy about it.”
“Why the hell are you complaining about someone having a crush on you?” Bobby demands.
“Because I don’t know who he or she is!” Dean exclaims. He straightens, scrubs his hands over his face. “They always leave the notes at the peak hours in the morning. They never give me any indication who they could be. They even keep changing their handwriting, for fuck’s sake.”
“They’re just probably really shy,” Charlie says with a shrug.
“For three months?”
The bell on the door announces someone’s arrival into the cafe. Bobby breaks away to go back to the kitchen, while Charlie looks busy bussing more tables.
Dean is prepared to paste on a fake smile; once he sees who it is, he realizes that he doesn’t have to. Instead a genuine grin spreads across his face as he says, “Hey, Cas.”
Cas tilts his head. Smiles. “Hello, Dean.”
“Your usual today?” Dean asks. His fingers are already punching in the order for a small black coffee and croissant into the register.
Adjusting his leather messenger bag’s strap on his shoulder, Cas nods. “Maybe to-go, this time? I’m late for my lecture.”
“You’re always late, though,” Dean says with a wink. “Aren’t your students expecting it by now?”
Cas huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re right. And I doubt they’d mind a lecture on annihilationism being delayed by a few minutes.”
Dean whistles. “Fun topic.”
“Indeed.” Cas hands Dean the cash; Dean puts it right into the till. He stopped counting it months ago.
Dean props his hip against the counter as he pours the coffee in a to-go cup. He squints out the window, at the quiet street and mailman walking past. “So, you having a good semester?” he asks to fill the silence. The silence continues, so he turns his head. “Cas?”
Cas is staring at the pink note on the counter, the one that Dean realizes in a split second that he forgot to put away. Hastily setting the styrofoam cup down, coffee sloshing over the sides, Dean scrambles to scoop the note up. He shoves it into his pocket. “Oh, that’s uh… that’s nothing.”
“A love note?” Cas asks, even though it’s not a question.
“Yeah, just some secret admirer.” Dean can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. He slams a plastic top onto the coffee cup and slides it across the counter into Cas’ hands.
Cas frowns at the spot where the note was. “Is it… upsetting?”
“Huh?”
“Upsetting. You seem upset.”
“Oh, uh.” Dean puts a hand on the back of his neck, hoping it’ll cool the blush that’s forming there. “No, I’m not upset. Just annoyed, I guess.”
“Why?”
At the intensely inquisitive blue stare that Cas is giving him, Dean can’t help but be honest. “It’s just frustrating, I dunno. I’ve been getting these notes for months and I have no idea who’s giving them to me. If the person isn’t gonna come forward, the notes might as well just stop.”
Cas nods. He’s fiddling with the rim of his coffee cup. “I see.”
It’s Dean’s naturally awkward nature that has him continuing, “It’s not like I don’t mind being admired, I guess, it’s just—”
“I have to go,” Cas suddenly blurts out.
Dean freezes. “Oh. Okay.”
“I’ll…” Cas raises a finger, like he’s going to say something else. Doesn’t. Instead he turns on his heel and takes long strides toward the exit, his trenchcoat flapping at his heels.
Dean stares after him, mouth agape. Charlie slides over and leans on her broom. “Well, we know one thing,” she says. “That admirer is probably leaving you notes instead of talking to you because you’re a disaster at flirting.”
“No one asked you,” Dean barks. He pretends to be busy with the till. He looks at Cas’ receipt, realizing belatedly that he never got his croissant.
* * *
So it’s not like he outright wanted the notes to stop, but after that day of complaining about them, they stop coming.
At first Dean thinks it’s a mistake; maybe Charlie accidentally threw them away. She does clean tables really aggressively. But after a week of a noteless existence, it’s more than coincidence.
Cas doesn’t come as often for his daily coffee and croissant, either. Dean tries to tell himself that it doesn’t bother him—even as he’s finding himself less and less excited to come into work.
He’s cleaning the tables (not his job, technically, but he insisted on doing it after a week and a half of no love letters) when a woman comes through the door. She stands in the wake of the bell, eyes scanning the cafe hesitantly. When her eyes lock on Dean, she hones in on him like a homing beacon, walking toward him with new purpose.
Dean stands there and trepidly holds his washcloth in front of him.
“You’re Dean Winchester?” she asks.
“Uh. Yeah, who’s asking?”
She looks very serious. “I could tell it was you by the description of your eyes.”
Dean blinks. “The what-now?”
She holds out a folded-up piece of paper at arm’s length. “Here. It’s the last one.”
Dean would recognize that stationary anywhere; it’s the same light green as the first one he got on March 12th. “Are you my secret admirer?” he asks as he takes the note between his fingers.
“God, no,” she snorts. “I have a wife.”
“Then….”
“I’m here on a favor,” she explains. “And before you ask for who, I’m sworn to secrecy, so don’t even try.”
Dean reaches out a hand as she turns. “Hey, wait! Am I ever gonna know who it is? Or is this it, they just, stop sending notes and it’s done forever?”
She looks at him up and down; frowns. “From what I’m told, the notes were more annoying than appreciated. So it’s better that my little brother is saved the embarrassment and we all act like this just never happened.”
Dean gapes. Raises a finger. “Your little—”
Her eyes widen. “Shit.” She smacks her hand twice against her temple. “Goddamnit, this is why he never asks me for a favor,” she mutters as she turns on her heel and takes long strides toward the exit.
Dean hastily wipes his damp hands against his jeans before unfolding the note. He scans his eyes quickly over the text:
Dear Dean,
I want to let you know that this is the last note I will be sending to you. It’s not because my feelings have subsided, or lessened, but because I know that it’s cowardly to hide behind anonymity like this. The reason why I started writing these notes is because firstly, you deserve the affection, and secondly, because I didn’t think there was a chance with you if you knew who I really was. I realize now that it was unfair of me to keep you in the dark like this.
One day, I will be brave enough to ask you on a real date. One day, I will be able to face the possibility of rejection. One day, I will be brave enough for you.
Until then.
It takes Dean three reads and a full five minutes to comprehend it. He finally snaps from his reverie, running to the kitchen where Bobby and Charlie are arguing whether or not to put parsley in the chicken noodle soup.
“Guys,” he says breathlessly. They both turn to him. “Guys, I know who my secret admirer is.”
* * *
Dean knows that he has to make it right. So he spends the whole weekend drafting up the best letter he can manage. It takes ten beers, two drunken phone calls to Sam (he was always better at words), Charlie coming over with Chinese food, and a last-minute rambly paragraph to finish off the note. He goes to work on Monday armed with the envelope and determination. He blasts Zeppelin while putting down chairs and opening the till and dusting counters. He flings open the door at the beginning of the cafe hours to let in the fresh morning air. He puts the envelope in the front pocket of his jeans so as not to chicken out when Cas comes at 11:10 AM for his usual coffee.
But then 11:11 rolls by. And 11:20. And 12:30. He ignores the sympathetic looks that Bobby gives him from the kitchen, ignores Sam’s numerous texts all asking different variations of “did you do it yet??”
Dean’s about to give up all hope, when two minutes before closing, the bell chimes someone’s arrival. He looks up from where he’s slumped against the counter.
Cas looks different in this lighting; Dean usually sees him in the mornings. His tie is more errant, his hair more wild, like he’s run his fingers through it countless times. He strides up to the counter, face contorted.
“Dean,” he starts. “I have to explain.”
“Me too,” Dean says.
“No, I need to apologize—”
“Seriously, Cas, it ain’t a big deal.”
“It is. My sister…” Fingers running through his hair, Cas continues, “She told me that you basically figured it out. And that—I’m just so mortified, Dean. You must think I’m a psychotic stalker, slipping in during busy hours and leaving notes, I can’t even begin to explain how sorry I am, I—”
“Cas.” Dean yanks out the letter from his front pocket, smacks it on the counter. “I wrote you one too.”
He blinks down at the envelope. “You wrote me one too,” he repeats.
“Yup.” Dean leans forward; tries to put on a charming smile even though his heart feels like it’s going to pump its way down to his shoes. “Listen, I didn’t mean what I said earlier; that the notes are annoying. What was annoying was not being able to talk to the person who kept leaving those notes; actually thank them or anything, you know?”
Cas works his jaw, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know what.
“I just wanted to know who the hell could notice all those things about me,” Dean says. “Who was observant enough to talk about, what was it? ‘The way my green eyes sparkle in the morning light’.”
That gets a full-blown blush on Cas’ face. Dean decides that it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen in his life. “That might have been… an over exaggeration—”
Dean taps the letter. “There’s plenty of exaggerations in here too, then,” he says. “‘Cause buddy, I wrote you the sappiest, most romantic piece of rambling poetry that I’ve ever done. I think it’ll just about make us even.”
“Even…?”
“Yeah. Even the playing field. Because now that we’ve both written ridiculous notes to each other, we can go ahead and do that ‘proper date’ you talked about.”
Cas’ face relaxes into a smile. “Oh.” He pulls the note across the counter; clutches it. “That sounds. Well, wonderful, actually.”
Dean grins. “Good. Cause I gotta say, Cas, when I figured out who was sending those notes—” He huffs out a laugh, shrugs, says to Cas’ brilliant smile, “I’ve just gotta say, I’m so glad it’s you.”