Work Text:
Castiel is new to the neighborhood.
It’s nice; all neat rows of houses and white picket fences. The kind of place that, if he had a family, they would be happy to grow up in. His is one of the older structures, down the long concrete road, past the families and old couples, and as he puts his car into park, he is faced with the mismatch of the street.
For his house’s part – something he is both proud of already and somewhat interested in evolving – it is a charming 2 bed, snuggled in right on the corner, with a study, living room and modernised kitchen. The old beams on the outside only improve its character, although the neat kept garden is void of flowers given the time of year.
To his right, stands a slightly larger, obviously well loved, house. There is a large muscle car, beautiful, black unlike his own 30th birthday gift from his brother (which he graciously accepted, only to find out it had been a joke, and decided to keep anyway), that had a weird tan hue to it. Dark curtains line the windows, and he can tell, even from here, that whoever owns it is very house proud. So why does it stick out?
He can hear the rock music playing from the garage, and can see the wear marks and tired lines the building itself holds. Stepping out of his parked car, the defined line of legs poke out from beneath the car. He rubs his hands together in faux chill at the thought of touching cold metal.
Across from them, two adjoined houses stand, almost propping each other up. Despite it being October, the people on the left have managed to salvage some flowers and their garden stands out quite strikingly, even if it is only in pale yellows and cold blues. The front door of the other is fully decorated, and he shakes his head with a confused smile as he checks his phone for the date. It is the 10th of October. There is over half a month until Halloween. He finds, despite himself, admiring the view of the skeleton hanging from the rooftop and pumpkins stabbed onto the otherwise perfectly normal picket fence. (However he does also note that there is a partially flattened area of fencing and a strew motorbike, mentally filing away that information to think about when he has his coffee later.)
He moves round to the boot of his car and pops the hood. Most of his stuff, with the help of his extensive family, will be inbound tomorrow along with the moving van, so he only has the bare essentials of his life stuffed into 3 badly packed boxes. Shifting one under his arm – suspiciously the one containing his laptop, router, kettle and cups, he makes his way up the dirt pathway. For some reason, he glances to his left in an attempt to identify who the legs belonged to, and is inexplicably disappointed to find they have gone, the music has stopped; he is moving into a quiet cold house, alone.
Castiel is not new to moving house; far from it, he has moved a great many times, family reasons, school, college, but this is to be his first house. A stable job, as an English teacher at the local college, and then he gets to come home and write. Not that he’s written anything famous yet, that’s why he defaults back to teacher. What he is new to, is the permanency. Living in one place means that these 3 houses within his closest proximity are to be his neighbors. He will have to socialise with them, perhaps even more often than once a month.
He may befriend these people, and get involved in the weird customs and parties that Gabriel has so elaborately described. Frowning, he stops turning the key to his door.
What is the customary way to introduce yourself to the neighborhood?
Resigned, he sighs pushing his way through the door and closing it behind him. The wooden floor boards groan slightly under his weight, and he glares at them. That will be annoying, over some time. He needs to look up some local builders, he thinks, glancing up to the floor above to be stared down at by cracks on the ceiling.
The kitchen is bigger than the living room, which had amused his sister greatly, but he likes it this way. Cooking is something he enjoys; it helps him to unwind from writers block, or a stressful day at work. He places the box on the breakfast bar, emptying out the cups and neatly placing them along one wall. He then fills the kettle and plugs it in, preparing himself for a hot drink. The laptop is next, opened up and inviting him to sit down on the stools that had been left behind by the previous owners.
For a moment, he indulges, and clicks onto the internet to begin his search. He is somewhat aware of the kettle clicking off, indicating that it has reached optimum temperature. Castiel is too engrossed in research, builders, gardeners, department stores and furniture websites hooking him in. Part way through, he is sidetracked into searching up the best way to start a conversation. He has been told on many occasion that his is totally ‘socially inept’.
Clouds have come over, the start of dusk settling in an eerie glow across the kitchen tiles. He blinks back from his screen, checking the time. It is still early, but the seasons have demoted the sunshine they receive. He stands, clicking his back to remove the cricks from his previous arched position. Returning to the kettle, he reheats the water and settles on filling his cup with instant coffee. There’s only so much he can spend on luxuries, and right now, much to his dismay, good coffee has fallen below the parameters of acceptable.
The sugar isn’t on the counter and he turns to search through the box. Gabriel runs a café, filled with sweet delicacies and hot drinks that are practically sinful. Castiel doesn’t know whether to consider it a blessing or a curse that he no longer lives close to the store. Having coffee on tap had gotten him through college; much to his brother’s ‘joy’.
He is busy shuffling through the box, and huffs when he sees that there isn’t a packet sugar. His sweet tooth, something surely passed on from his time with Gabriel, finds the taste of black, sugarless coffee too bitter for consumption. He is in the process of working out why he wouldn’t have packed the sugar he was sure was in his cupboard, he spies a folded piece of paper in the bottom of the now empty box.
Go ask for sugar and make friends!
I want details Cassie, let me know all their dirty secrets.
I’ll know if you’re making it up.
Love you lots baby bro, Gabe xoxox
Castiel’s face significantly scrunches up. All he wants is to enjoy a cup of coffee and, due to his brother’s interference, he has to look disorganised and needy already to his neighbor. He doesn’t bother to check his appearance on the way out, just pitifully walking round the fence that separates his garden from the one next to his, trenchcoat flapping in a vigorous gust of wind, and knocks twice, sharply on the wooden door.
Heavy footsteps ascend on his place on the doorstep, the door opening with an enthusiastic pull to reveal a man.
A glorious, dressed in loose fitting clothing and half a cooking apron, with a dab of flour smeared across his cheek, 6 ft man. His eyes are startling green, or maybe he sees that he is startled from seeing Castiel from almost a nose distance away, before clearing his throat and stepping back.
“Uh, hi?” The man says, uncertainly, “You’re the guy who just moved in right? Can I help you with something besides picking out a new car?”
He is affronted by the need to defend his car, which has carried him half way across the country even though he greatly prefers flying. Instead, he narrows his gaze and then checks himself, because if he wants to have his dose of caffeine today he requires sugar.
“You have flour, on your cheek.” He replies, tilting his head at the slight blush that blooms beneath the man’s golden freckles.
“I have,” He rubs a hand across his cheek, the opposite to the smear. “Did I get it?”
Castiel laughs, shaking his head and reaches out to remove the offending stain. The man freezes, and Castiel freezes. Seconds pass where they are just holding each other’s gaze, Castiel not quite fully pulled away and the other man is not entirely sure how to react.
“I’ve been baking,” The man states, his Adams apple bobbing as he moves reluctantly away.
Castiel retracts his hand.
“I require sugar, for coffee.”
And that’s how their first proper exchange goes. Again, he is trapped in the intense green of his irises. Castiel could write a novel on that shade, impossibly bright and complex with flex of the sunshine that blossomed the freckles that rest on his face trapped within them.
“I’m uh, Dean by the way,” The man, Dean, flusters again, “And I can’t give you sugar, because, um, baking.” He swallows again, “But you can come in and have a slice of pie, if you want?”
“Hello Dean,” Castiel replies, because that gives him enough time to decide whether or not this man’s company and a warm slice of pie is better than his cold kitchen and sugarless coffee, “My name is Castiel, and I am amiable to your arrangement.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a beat.
“Right, Cas, well come on in.”
Cas – as he has been newly dubbed – is ushered inside and is hit with a blast of warmth. He turns to face Dean, who is muttering something about ‘who even asks for sugar from their neighbors anyway?’ and a sudden surge of fondness expands in his chest.
This, he will eventually discover, is a memory he will hold onto for a very long time, and recite in front of Dean’s brother and his wife, who live in the house across from Castiel’s old home, Jo and Ash, who are more or less their family too, a grumpy old man, his gathering of family, and an abundance of nieces and nephews, having slipped a gold band upon a finger he thought would forever remain empty.
Of course, he will question his conviction, when he's resting his head on Dean's shoulder and the only thing he can seem to find to say is a deeply troubling pun in their moment of pure bliss:
'I'm glad we met, sugar.'
But nonetheless, this, with the smell of pecan nuts and an overpowered central heating system, green eyes filled with humor and odd kindness to an otherwise stranger, was the day he fell in love with Dean Winchester.