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Really, considering the way his day has been going, Dean should have expected this.
He’s standing in front of the counter at his favourite coffee shop, and he’s already placed his order for a large iced coffee loaded with cream and sugar. The barista, who knows Dean, is giving him a confused look as she waits for him to pay her. There’s only one problem: Dean’s wallet isn’t in his pocket.
It isn’t in his briefcase, either. He checks twice, just to be sure. Krissy’s face goes from confused to sympathetic, but she stays quiet as Dean makes some pathetic gesture, flashing his empty hands in front of her.
Fuck this day.
He’s ready to step aside, his cheeks heating in embarrassment, when he hears a low cough from behind him. Dean turns, not sure if he’s about to mumble an apology or chew the person out for being so goddamn impatient.
His words die on his lips as the man behind him offers a small smile and a five dollar bill, passed smoothly around Dean and onto the counter. “Allow me,” he says.
“No, man, you don’t have to--”
“I insist.” He’s still smiling. It’s a good look on him, as are the dark jeans and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Dark hair, attractively tousled, contrasts nicely with his bright blue eyes.
It has to be a trap. Some sort of trick. No way a guy this good-looking and apparently good-hearted just paid for Dean’s coffee. Not today.
“Really, it’s okay--”
“Dean, your coffee’s ready!” Kevin calls from the other end of the counter. Well, crap. It’s made, it’s paid for, he would cause more of a scene if he didn’t accept. And besides, he really wants that coffee.
So he takes a deep breath and summons his best smile. “Thanks. That was really kind of you,” he says as he moves aside.
“You’re welcome.” With a brief nod of his head, the man steps up to the counter and places his own order.
Dean takes his coffee over to the only unoccupied table, sneaking a glance behind him as he sits down. His saviour is on his phone, thumbs flying over the keypad as he waits for his drink. Probably texting someone about the poor asshole at the coffee shop who forgot his wallet. Dean sighs, wincing at the thought of being some story to be shared for a laugh. At least he has caffeine now.
He closes his eyes as he takes the first sip, relishing the cold burst of liquid against his tongue. Christ, what a day. Registering someone coming to stand beside him, he opens his eyes to meet the sheepish smile of his coffee provider.
“Mind if I join you?”
Dean isn’t about to say no to him, not after how generous he’s been. “Yeah, go for it,” he says with a shrug.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, both sipping their coffees. Dean can feel the other man’s eyes on him, but the attention feels more curious than judgmental. Finally, Dean reaches a hand out and says, “I’m Dean.”
“Cas.” His grip is firm, his tanned hand warm against Dean’s. “I don’t mean to pry, but you looked so devastated at the thought of not getting that coffee. Rough day?”
“The roughest.” Dean grimaces and takes another sip of his coffee. Sam would say he’s being overdramatic, but Sam’s always had a better handle on his emotions. Dean is volatile, as their mother likes to say. He’s pretty sure that’s code for ‘a total mess,’ but moms can’t exactly go around saying things like that about their kids.
“Wanna tell me about it?” Cas offers.
Dean narrows his eyes at him over the top of his coffee. “What are you, some kind of shrink?”
“Hardly.” The corner of Cas’ mouth turns up in a smile. “But I do volunteer at an art centre for troubled and disadvantaged youth, so I’m fairly accustomed to breakdowns.” His smile widens as he adds, “From both the students and the other instructors.”
Dean lets out a laugh at the image. “Paint flying everywhere?”
Cas nods solemnly, but his eyes are twinkling. “Paint, paintbrushes, sketchpads. Even some plaster, a time or two.”
“Sounds wild.” Dean shakes his head, then frowns as he inspects Cas’ pristine white shirt. “No way you came out of that war zone with your shirt intact.”
“No,” Cas agrees. “I wasn’t at the centre today. I was at my regular job.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean asks. “What’s that?”
Cas raises one dark eyebrow at him. “Do you actually want to know, or are you just avoiding talking about yourself?”
So on top of everything else, he’s also observant. This is definitely a trap. Dean shrugs and spreads his hands before him, not answering Cas’ question. After another moment of silence, Cas sighs and starts talking.
Apparently, when he isn’t out coaxing surly teenagers into reluctant artistic geniuses, he works for a mid-size accounting firm whose offices are only a few blocks away. He’s worked there for years, and while it isn’t the most thrilling job in the world, as he puts it, it isn’t the most soul-destroying either. “It all balances out, really,” he concludes.
“Art and math.” Dean whistles, impressed. “That’s an unusual combination.”
“Not as unusual as you might expect,” Cas counters. “Take Da Vinci, for example.”
“Real humble comparison, there,” Dean teases, and is rewarded when a light tinge of pink appears on Cas’ cheeks. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, reaching for his coffee instead of answering.
Maybe it’s the easy conversation, maybe it’s the way Cas keeps looking at him with those goddamn blue eyes, maybe it’s the unexpected common ground, but Dean finds himself blurting out, “You really want to listen to me whine about my day?”
“Yes.” Cas’ answer is swift and decisive. He sets down his coffee and laces his fingers together, resting his chin on top of his joined hands. “I do.”
Dean drains the last of his iced coffee, stirring the ice cubes around. They clink against the cup as he squares his shoulders and says, “So. It all started when my alarm didn’t go off.”
Cas’ wince is the movement of one who is all-too familiar with that particular experience. He makes a brief gesture with his hand, indicating that Dean should continue.
“I woke up half an hour before I was supposed to be at work, and it’s a twenty-minute drive on a good day. I barely had time to brush my teeth and get dressed, definitely no time for breakfast or coffee.” Dean shakes his head, remembering the way his stomach had growled at him with increasing volume all through the morning. “There was an accident along the way, didn’t look like anyone was badly hurt but just enough to mess things up, so I was late.”
“Ouch.” Cas shakes his head sympathetically. “And all this before, what, nine o’clock?”
“Oh, trust me, the shit storm was just getting started.” Dean leans forward across the table, lowering his voice. “The thing is, I had a big meeting today. I was ready for it, I had all my notes and my presentation ready. I went to bed last night feeling like I was going to crush it.” He sighs. “And then, as I was rushing down the hall towards the board room, tie flapping behind me and hair a disaster, I crashed right into one of the interns, who spilled four coffees all over me and the notes I had in my arms.”
Cas lifts a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. “No.”
“Yes.” Dean winces, shifting his weight from side to side. “Of course, I lost it. Yelled at him right there in the middle of the hallway like something out of an office sitcom, people peering around their doors to get the gossip. It wasn’t his fault, and he’s a good kid, but I wasn’t thinking that at the time.”
“Understandably,” Cas murmurs. “Just to fill in the picture here-- what kind of work do you do?”
Despite his uncomfortable trip down recent memory lane, Dean smiles. “I’m an architect.”
Cas’ expression of polite interest freezes for a moment, then slides through confusion and into indignation. “You asshole,” he says, but the laughter behind his eyes takes any sting out of the insult. “Letting me get defensive about math and art when you’re the embodiment of how the two can work together in harmony.”
Dean shrugs. “Guilty as charged. You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve heard something similar, though.”
“Oh, I think I would.” Cas grimaces, then waves his hand in the air. “But keep going. You yelled at a poor defenseless intern, who probably spent the rest of the day crying in the bathroom and immediately called his mother in a panic about losing his position.”
“Hey,” Dean protests. “I found him before I left for the day and apologized. So yeah, maybe the crying part, but I’m pretty sure he went home secure in his future at Adler and Associates.”
“I know that firm,” Cas says. “Just down the block, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. We’re practically neighbours. Maybe you saw me running into the office this morning,” Dean jokes.
“No.” Cas shakes his head, eyes flicking briefly over Dean’s face and down to his shoulders. “I think I would remember.”
There’s nothing suggestive in his tone, but Dean shivers regardless. Involuntarily, he glances down, relieved to note the absence of a ring on Cas’ left hand. It doesn’t mean he’s single, or that he’s interested, but it’s a good thing to check.
Just in case.
Licking his suddenly dry lips, Dean clears his throat. “Anyway. There I am, covered in coffee, notes going soggy in my hands, and I still have to get to this meeting. With not just my supervisor, but the big boss himself, Mr. Adler.” He lowers his voice. “And just between you and me, he’s kind of a dick.”
Cas laughs, teeth flashing. The bright cafe lights reflect off something further back in his mouth, and Dean reflexively clenches his hands against the noise of surprise that threatens to escape him. A tongue piercing? Jesus. A series of filthy images flash through his mind, and he inhales sharply, trying desperately not to lose control.
“Go on,” Cas prompts. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Right.” Dean shakes his head, putting thoughts of that tongue and its potential firmly aside. “So. I make my presentation, as best as I can, but Adler is barely even paying attention, too busy doing something on his phone. Probably playing that game with the birds or whatever. I get to the end, and he finally looks up, but doesn’t even say a word to me. Just says, ‘Do what needs to be done,’ to my boss, then stands up to leave. Right at the door, he stops and turns to look at me, and you’d think I was covered in something way worse than coffee by the look on his face. ‘Get yourself cleaned up, Winchester, you’re an embarrassment,’ he says.”
“I think you were too mild in your assessment of him,” Cas says, frowning. “He sounds like a major dick.”
His support warms something inside Dean, and he smiles as he says, “Yeah, well, you aren’t wrong.”
“Okay.” Cas nods sharply. “So this takes us to what, lunchtime? How many shitty things can you possibly have experienced on top of all that?”
“The afternoon was a bit better,” Dean admits. “I went back to my office and finally got out of my wet shirt. Thank god I keep a spare hoodie in there for when the A/C is blasting.” He gestures down at the faded black sweater he’s currently wearing. “Not exactly up to Adler’s standards, probably, but I wasn’t planning on seeing him again. I shut the door and got some work done, and I was pretty happy with what I came up with.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming,” Cas says.
“That’s cause you’re one smart cookie.” Dean shakes his head, already cringing at the memory of the icing on top of the clusterfuck of his day. “I left my office, found poor Alfie and apologized-- thought I should probably send him a fruit basket or something just in case-- and got down to the parking lot, only to find out that my car window had been smashed.”
It would have been aggravating under any circumstances. But on top of everything else, it had been devastating. “I love my car,” Dean admits. “Probably more than I should. But she’s a classic, a ‘67 Impala, and she was my dad’s before he passed. Seeing her like that--” He lets out a deep sigh. “It crushed me, man.”
“I can only imagine.” Cas reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly over Dean’s hand. He has a smudge of blue paint on his wrist, Dean notices. He wonders how long it’s been there. “Are you able to get her repaired?”
“Yeah, fortunately. My dad’s old friend Bobby is a mechanic, and he came out and took her back to his garage to work on her. But that left me stranded, and you know how hard it is to get a cab in this town, so.” Dean shrugs. “I called my brother, but he’s working late tonight. Figured I’d hang out here until traffic dies down a bit and then try to get a cab home.”
Realization strikes him, and Dean drops his head to the table with a groan. “Except that I don’t have my wallet. I must have left it in the car. Fuck.”
It’s going to be a long walk home, and it was threatening to rain earlier. Cas’ kindness has lulled him into a false sense of security, making him think his string of bad luck had finally run out. But no. Not quite yet.
Dean raises his head, and is surprised to see a faint blush on Cas’ cheeks. “I hope you don’t find this too forward,” he says, sounding shy for the first time, “but if you’d like-- I could give you a ride home?”
Blinking at him, Dean says, “What?”
“A ride?” Cas repeats. “My car is at the office, but it’s only a five minute walk back there. I never bother trying to get parking here. I’d be happy to drop you off.”
“You don’t even know me,” Dean protests. “I could be a serial killer, or a thief. Maybe this is all some sad story I spun to gain your trust.”
Tilting his head to the side, Cas considers him. “No,” he says eventually. “I really don’t think either of those are true. I think you’re a good person who has had an extremely crappy day, and I think that if you accept my genuine offer, I’ll find an extravagant and unnecessary fruit basket waiting for me at my office sometime in the next few days.”
Dean is startled into laughter. “I could live hours away,” he says, but it’s weak and they both know it.
“You live twenty minutes away. You already told me that.” Cas shakes his head. “Dean, if you’re uncomfortable with it, that’s fine. But please don’t get in your own way and let your pride make this day even worse for yourself.”
Sitting back, Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again. The only people who talk to him like that are Sam and his mom, or occasionally Bobby. “Well,” he mumbles. “When you put it that way--”
He really does just want to go home. And he really does want to spend more time with Cas. It’s a win-win situation, and Dean could use a couple of wins right about now.
“Okay.” He sits up, crossing his arms over his chest. “On one condition.”
Cas raises one eyebrow, and Dean smiles. “We don’t talk about me the entire way home.”
It’s Cas’ turn to laugh as he stretches his hand across the table. “Deal,” he says.
Dean shakes it firmly, and it’s settled. He is definitely going to send Cas a fruit basket, though. Maybe a gift card for this place. It would be fitting.
As promised, they don’t talk about Dean at all as they walk back to Cas’ office. He leads Dean to the garage under the tower, heading straight for a slightly battered brown and tan truck that is completely at odds with his appearance. “This is your car?” Dean asks, incredulous.
“Yeah.” Cas smiles fondly as he opens the door for Dean and it gives a rusty squeak. “It comes in handy for hauling supplies around for the art centre, even if it does run through gas faster than I’d like.”
“How long have you been helping out there?” Dean asks as Cas climbs into the driver’s seat. He looks good behind the wheel, confident and casual.
Cas drums his fingers against the wheel. “Three years? Something like that.” He eases out of the narrow parking space and up the ramp, sliding a pair of sunglasses over his face as they emerge into the fading daylight. “No, it must be three years, because Claire is turning eighteen this year, and she was fifteen when she started going there.”
Something cold settles in the pit of Dean’s stomach. He knew the lack of a ring didn’t guarantee that Cas was available, but-- “Claire?” he asks.
“My niece.” A brief smile lights up Cas’ face. “My twin brother’s daughter.”
“Ah.” Dean fidgets in his seat, avoiding looking at Cas. “You, uh, got kids of your own?”
Cas turns his head to the side, and though Dean can’t see his eyes behind the glasses, he’s pretty sure they’re both knowing and amused. It’s not like he was being particularly subtle in his fishing. “No,” Cas answers. “Do you?”
“No.” Dean shakes his head. “I think I’d like to be a dad someday, but--”
“Haven’t found the right girl?”
“Or guy,” Dean corrects. He’s probably imagining it, but he thinks he sees Cas’ hands tighten on the steering wheel, just for a second. “I’m open.”
“Hmn.” Cas glances at him again, inscrutable. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about you.”
“Right.” Dean laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Back to Claire. She was at the centre you volunteer at?”
“Yes.” Cas gives a tight shake of his head. “She hasn’t always had an easy time making friends, and her parents were going through a bit of a rough patch. They thought it would be good to give her a hobby, and they were right.” He smiles, pride radiating off of him. “She’s currently working on a web-comic that she assures me is quite successful.”
“That’s awesome,” Dean says, and he means it. “Good for her.”
“Indeed.” Cas’ smile widens. “I started picking her up and dropping her off there, and one day they needed some extra supervision, so I stuck around. It was very fulfilling, getting back in touch with my own artistic side, and I e-mailed the centre the next day to ask about a more long-term commitment. Three years later, here we are.”
“Damn.” Dean shakes his head, impressed. “Are you trying for sainthood, or what?”
“No,” Cas replies. “Though Castiel is the name of an angel.”
“Castiel?” Dean repeats slowly, trying to mimic the emphasis Cas had used. “That’s, uh, different.”
“I used to hate it, but now I don’t mind it so much. Cas is easier, though, so I use it most of the time.”
They pause their conversation for a minute as Dean directs Cas through a few turns, leaving the downtown core behind and heading towards the quieter part of the city. “This is a nice area,” Cas comments. “Have you lived here long?”
Dean clicks his tongue in disappointment, and Cas laughs. “Sorry, right. We aren’t talking about you. But that’s usually how conversation works, you know. The give and take.”
“I’ve done plenty of giving for the day,” Dean points out. “Or taking. Depends on how you look at it, I guess. Either way.” He points at the stoplight ahead of them. “Left up there.”
They’re only about two minutes away from his house, and Dean is running out of time. He opens his mouth to say something, another expression of gratitude or maybe a hint that he’d really like to see Cas again, then closes it. It’s hard not lose confidence on a day like this, where all the odds seem stacked against him.
But then again, everything to do with Cas has turned out pretty well for him so far.
So when they pull into the driveway of his neat little bungalow, Dean takes a deep breath as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Listen,” he says, swallowing down his nerves. “You really helped me out today, Cas. Not just with the coffee and the ride home, but putting up with all my complaining, too.”
“Dean--” Cas starts, but Dean holds up a hand to stop him as he catches sight of a piece of paper taped to his mailbox. “What the hell?”
He jumps down from the cab of the truck and strides up the path to the porch. In Bobby’s big blocky writing, the note reads, “Left this in your glove box. Idjit.” Frowning, Dean opens his mailbox and sees his battered brown leather wallet staring up at him.
“Dean?” Cas asks as he comes up beside him, frowning. “Is everything alright?”
Closing his hand over the familiar smooth leather, Dean slides it into his pocket where it belongs. “Better than it has been today, that’s for sure.”
He looks up, and he swears Cas is standing much closer than he was before. Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he meets Cas’ eyes, heart racing.
“I should probably be going,” Cas says, though he makes no move to do so.
“Do you want to come in?” Dean offers desperately. “I can offer you a coffee. Even the score a little.”
One corner of Cas’ mouth lifts in a smile. “I’m having dinner with my brother and his family tonight. I really should be getting home.” He hesitates, eyes meeting Dean’s. “But maybe-- another time?”
Dean feels an answering smile spread across his own face. “I’d like that.”
Reaching into his pocket, he passes his phone over to Cas. “Put your number in. I’ll text you.”
“I don’t even merit a call?” Cas teases, fingers flying over the keypad.
“Didn’t want to be presumptuous,” Dean says with a shrug. “Phone calls are a big deal these days.”
“They are,” Cas agrees. He still hasn’t stepped back, only a few inches between their bodies. When he passes Dean’s phone back to him, their fingers brush together, and he withdraws so slowly it has to be deliberate.
When he opens his mouth to say something else, probably another comment about how he needs to go, Dean catches a glimpse of that tongue piercing again, and before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Is that a tongue ring?”
Cas pauses, then sticks his tongue out for Dean to see the simple metal ball. “Stud, technically,” he corrects. His eyes sweep over Dean’s face, going dark and a bit dangerous. “You like it?”
Dean drops his shoulders, a smirk playing around his own lips. “Don’t know,” he says, aiming for a casual tone and probably missing by a mile. “Haven’t had the chance to form an opinion.”
The corners of Cas’ eyes crinkle up as he smiles. He steps closer, and Dean tilts his head up in clear invitation. One of Cas’ hands comes to rest on his cheek, and he murmurs, “Dean.”
“Yeah, Cas?”
“This isn’t because you think you owe me, is it?”
“No.” It’s a fair question, and Dean drops the flirty smile, meeting Cas’ eyes in earnest. “But I have been dying to know what your mouth tastes like since pretty much the minute you cleared your throat behind me in line.”
The eye crinkles make a return appearance as Cas laughs again. “Then I suppose I shouldn’t add to your terrible day by making you wait any longer, should I?”
Whatever Dean was about to say in response is lost as Cas presses his lips to Dean’s. They’re dry, but soft, with a lingering taste of coffee. Dean moans and slips his arms around Cas’ shoulders, pulling him closer, as Cas slants his mouth sideways and runs his tongue along the seam of Dean’s lips. The metal stud is cool and hard and Dean parts his lips immediately, all the blood in his body rushing south at the slide of Cas’ tongue against his own.
Cas kisses like a man on a mission, and Dean gives as good as he gets, nipping lightly at Cas’ lower lip as he pulls away. They’re both out of breath, eyes wide as they stare at each other, and then Dean laughs.
“Never thought I’d be so grateful to have lost my wallet,” he says.
Cas smiles and leans in to kiss him again, softer this time. “Well, it’s not lost anymore.”
“That’s good.” Dean presses one last kiss to Cas’ cheek, then steps back. “Because I’m going to need it when I take you out for dinner later this week.”