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Castiel understands a great few things about life; of the things he does know, he has spent many years learning about. He’s a professor, of Philosophy and Early Human History, which is how he came to meet the young man sitting opposite him:
Sam Winchester
Sam had taken his class as an elective – an additional alongside his Pre Law course – and the two of them quickly became friends. Now, drunken stories, long nights, going to the bar, introductions, and a few years later, the only thing Castiel can find himself doing (other than watching as Sam’s obscenely long hair flops as he laughs hysterically at something his brother, Gabriel, has said) is obsessing over his brother; Dean Winchester.
He met Dean, embarrassingly, after his car broke down and he asked Sam if he would be so kind as to give him a lift. What he did not bargain for, thank you very much, is for a young man, Dean, to pull up in the beautiful car he’s seen outside Sam’s apartment sometimes, alone, offering to take him wherever he wanted to go. Cursing Sam in every ancient language he knows, he had climbed in and endured one of the most sexually frustrating rides of his life. It’s not like he’d never spoken to Dean before, it was just that he hadn’t had time to think about being in the general vicinity of him without staring creepily or stating some weird and random fact.
In that moment the only place he’d wanted to be is in the back seat of that car...
Cas shakes his head a little, squinting at the fond smirk on Gabriel’s face.
“Who wants to bet that Cassie was off in dreamy land thinking of big green eyes and muscled tattoo-“
Scrambling round the table, he slaps his hand over his brother’s mouth and stomps the heel of his shoe into his foot. Gabriel’s antlers rock off his head, which Sam catches, and the short man does the infuriating thing he does with his eyes. Cas reluctantly pulls back, returning to his seat and Christmas themed drink.
Dean owns a tattoo shop, Ramble On, and is pretty much the walking day-mare of Castiel’s every wet dream. He means it seriously, of the times he’s met Dean he finds himself striking up what is most probably boring conversation and staring at the man. It hasn’t happened with anyone else, he’s not usually much of a talker outside of his job.
It’s a conundrum.
One that his brother can shut up about in front of Sam.
“I don’t know why you don’t just ask him out,” Sam says, flippantly, like that’s the easiest solution to all his problems, “I mean, he talks about you a lot.”
Sam rolls the beer bottle in his hand, leaning into Gabriel’s side. The bar is decorated for the festive season, all greens and reds, the staff adorned with fluffy hats, and the barely passable Christmas music momentarily distracts him. Castiel is still stuck on how exactly he would go about asking Dean-fucking-Winchester out; why he’d ever be interested in a nerd such as himself.
“Or you could get absolutely smashed.” Gabe chimes, holding a glass containing liquid Cas doesn’t know the contents of or how he acquired it.
“I am amiable to imbibing copious amounts of alcohol.” He growls, taking the proffered drink from his hand and downing it in one. The burn coils down his throat and his vision blurs instantly. He smiles. “I’ll take another of those.”
Several hours later, he stumbles out of the bar. Sam and Gabe had left him there after it was clear their cheer up drink had turned into a pity party; it’s not really late, but Cas is far gone enough that walking down the darkening street feels a task in itself. He lets his legs carry him in any direction they so choose, happily buzzed that when he looks up to the sky he has to stop to appreciate the little blinking lights for a few seconds. Time passes, as do the roads he travels down, until he comes to a shop.
Ramble On
It’s a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea. The logical part of his brain screams out, clawing at him as his sweaty palm presses into the cold glass, the closed sign flapping valiantly against his over exaggerated entrance.
“Cas?” A voice states.
He likes that voice, he decides. Next he’s sprawled across the floor, how he got down this low he doesn’t know, and now there are strong arms under his armpits hauling him up.
He rocks into the warmth, glancing up. Grinning, he taps his fingers against the fabric of Dean’s plaid shirt. The preference for skin, the flawlessly art worked skin, to be on show disappoints him, and he thinks he pouts before answering.
“Hello Dean.”
Dean smiles, just a tiny upturn at the corner of his lips.
Shakily trying to return to standing on his own, he feels Dean’s grip on him tighten. Dean leans forward and then pulls away, features rolled with surprise.
“Professor going for the Hangover look?”
Castiel reaches up, subconsciously rubbing his scruff. He shrugs.
“I want a tattoo.”
He says instead, because he’s in a tattoo parlour and even though he can see now that Dean was closing up, he really wants something to connect with him. That and he’s been chickening out of the Latin text he wants across his wrist – in hindsight, not such a big deal – for the past months. Not so much for the pain of the tattoo, but because he would have to get Dean to do it (etiquettes sake, how can he explain that he got a tattoo somewhere else when his best friend’s brother is an incredible artist). He can’t bring himself to ask him out for burgers, or a drink, let alone this.
Not that his drunken mind seems to have an issue.
Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Spur of the moment, drunken tattoos never work out too well buddy.”
He moves away from Cas – since when was he sitting in the waiting chair? – his red Santa hat casting a shadow in his direction.
“S’ Christmas,” Cas slurs, pushing himself up to his feet, “I want you to do it.”
He’s definitely going to kick himself for that later.
“Alright hotshot, no need to get out of the chair,” Dean says pushing him back down on his shoulders, “You should wait until you’re sober-“
Cas passes out.
He’s not entirely sure how long he’s gone for, but he vaguely remembers Dean asking him to choose something, and then a cool pressure on his left forearm. Both slightly unnerving thoughts when he comes to.
“Hey look, sleeping beauty’s up.” Dean singsongs, his outer jacket on and scarf bundled around his neck.
Standing, Cas grabs fistfuls of that jacket. He needs to get this out of his system before he does sober up and can’t find anything other than embarrassment this Christmassy night.
“I don’t think you understand,” Cas breathes out, woah he’s really doing this isn’t he? His drunken mind has silenced rational thought, “I want you. Also to do a tattoo, but right now...“
Their lips are so close. Dean hasn’t pulled away; that’s a good sign. His heart hammers in his chest, the butterflies or sickness rolling in his gut in uneasy waves. He licks his lips. Dean’s eyes track the movement. They’re staring at each other, Cas still grabbing onto Dean, Dean’s hands hesitantly rising to rest on Cas’ hips-
The door chimes.
“Hey Dean I was just checking that you’d finished up in the shop and I was bringing the totally adorable gift for Castiel-“ A chipper voice squeals, loud enough that Cas closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Dean’s shoulder.
“Thanks Char.” Dean says, his arms circling Cas’ waist in a way that has him scooting closer.
“Guess the cat’s out of the bag, huh?” He hears Charlie reply.
Dean’s warm embrace is the last thing he thinks of before darkness reclaims him.
Blinking, Cas forces his eyes open. He’s in a bed; soft and comfortable; warm; there’s an arm wrapped around him. Fuck. Pieces of last night make flash appearances, and he squirms against the brightly coloured arm because he totally confessed his feelings to Dean last night and he might have gotten a tattoo-
He looks down.
Yup, there’s a tattoo there alright. It’s a cartoon character. He groans, god if his head didn’t feel like a ton of bricks he might remember the name of it.
He’s going to vomit.
“Cas would you settle the fuck down man, I’m trying to sleep.”
He freezes.
He takes a closer look at the arm holding him close. Roses, yes, roses folded around the barrel of the gun, hiding the freckles Cas knows to look for. This is Dean’s arm. He frowns. But this isn’t his bed, so this must be Dean’s bed. Cas rolls over. Dean’s eyes are closed but his mouth is pulled down to a taut, obviously awake, partial frown.
“Is this real?” Cas asks, mostly to himself, resting on his elbow.
Dean chuckles, green eyes flashing open with mischief.
“The tattoo or us being in the same bed?”
Contemplating this, Cas rubs at the Roadrunner -as he now recalls- tattoo on his arm. He looks up at Dean.
“I was very drunk last night. Let’s start with both.”
Dean closes his eyes, smiling as he does so.
“I brought you home.”
Cas’ eyes widen, did he have sex with his crush and not remember?!
Dean rolls his eyes.
“We didn’t do anything; get your mind out of the gutter.”
Cas scowls. Maybe he should rectify that fact. Quickly reaching up, Cas presses his lips to Dean’s. Dean opens his mouth pliantly, groaning and rolling them over to pin Cas to the bed. He tangles his hands in Cas’ hair, tugging slightly as Cas’ hands slide down the textured planes of skin, keeping his eyes open to take in all the new colours and patterns he’s never seen.
He catches sight of his own tattoo and he pulls back for breath. Dean follows his gaze and laughs, a rumble that vibrates through Cas’ whole being and warms his bones.
“Tha’s fake.” Dean grins as he places another kiss to Cas’ lips, “But I remember you saying something about Latin?”
"Felix dies Nativitatis, Dean," Cas silences Dean's confused reply with another kiss.
It's definitely going to be a memorable Christmas this year.