Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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The hot, cheap vinyl of the bar booth pulls on the skin of Harper’s thigh. She shifts slightly, glancing at the door. The ticking of seconds coming from the delicate watch circling her wrist is a needless reminder of what she already knows.  

Her date is late.  

Five minutes and thirty seconds late, to be precise.

She pulls the day planner out of her bright yellow bag, and carefully pencils in ‘not very punctual’ under the name ‘Dmitri Krushnic.’

Third blind date of the month, and this is looking like another dud. Harper sighs, seconds away from walking out.  

She decides to head over to the bar instead.

“What can I get you, sweetness?” The bartender is absolutely stunning, all cascades of red hair and sensuous curves wrapped around a 6’1 frame. Harper’s mouth goes a little dry, but she manages to eke out a “Gimlet, please.”  

The bartender winks at her and turns around to grab the gin, hips sashaying to the beat of the music. She fills the shaker with ice from the small fridge behind the bar with a lithe flick of her wrist.

Harper takes a tiny breath to clear her thoughts, and looks back down at her phone.  

Seven minutes and two seconds.

Her eyes drift. It’s crowded for a Thursday, the trailing ends of the happy hour crowd wobbling out the door as the early bird pre-dinner crew creeps in to replace them. Raucous clusters of inebriated people combine and break away as Harper watches.  

She’s mesmerized by the kaleidoscope of bodies for a moment, and her mouth twists slightly.  If ‘all the world’s a stage,’ she’s stuck somewhere in the audience.

At least she has a front row seat tonight. 

The slam of a door jerks her out of her observations. A gust of hot air bursts from the small kitchen to her right, and she turns her head away from the heat to find herself looking into a pair of eyes.  

They’re very green. And very pretty.

And very close to Harper.

She blinks at them, her own blues doe-eyed in the emerald headlights. Something is blazing in the depths of the gaze staring back at her, raw and unfettered.

Possibly just a little bit drunk.

The girl cracks a slightly lopsided grin. “Hey, buddy,” she slurs out. Harper opens her mouth to explain that unfortunately , they are not acquainted, but the green-eyed stranger puts a finger on her own lips.

Lips that Harper is doing her absolute best not to stare at.    

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” the girl says, closing the space between them. Two hands gently lift, cupping around Harper’s face. The green gaze is questioning.

For some reason unknown to even herself, Harper nods yes.

It happens like a whirlwind, and suddenly Harper is being kissed by a girl for the first time since Katherine Anderson stole a kiss behind the church in ninth grade. 

A thrill rises within her, spreading like a warm flush behind her sternum. She can already feel the tendrils of vague, lingering guilt edging her emotions, but she pushes it away, leaning into the glowing sensation. 

Harper is lost in the feel of electricity surging into her lips. Enjoying this. Taking what she can get before reality sets in.

The mouth covering hers is soft. Warm. The kiss deepens, this stranger drinking Harper in like she can’t get enough.    

Harper feels dizzy as the girl pulls away. Her lungs struggle to remember breathing, the depletion of oxygen causing a sharp, stabbing pain in the left side of her chest.  

The girl stares at her for a beat with those piercing green eyes, mouth tugging into a slow, satisfied smile. She tips her chin down into a quick nod and turns on her slightly unsteady heel, walking out the door.

The glance she throws back over her shoulder knocks the remaining air out of Harper’s body.

“Lime or olive?”

Harper turns around dazedly, staring at the bartender.  

Crap. She flushes bright red. The bartender winks at her. “Pretty, that one. Didn’t even see you talking to her earlier.”

Harper touches a finger to her lips, the sensation of the phantom mouth still lingering on their cupid’s bow.  

“We didn’t,” she whispers. “That’s the only thing she’s said to me all night.” She tears the hand away from her lips to point at the lime.

The bartender cocks her head with a twinkle in one eye and spears the fruit with a toothpick. “Hell of an entrance.”

Harper nods slowly.

Sixteen-minutes-and-twelve-seconds-late Dmitri Krushnic doesn’t even stand a chance.

Chapter Text

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Dear Ms. Harris:

Anna Milton provided me with your contact information, and I hope it is not too much of an inconvenience for me to reach out to you. She indicated that you might be interested in serving as a mentor. 

I have just been hired on the staff at Tumblr. Working in the field of PR and Communications has long been a dream of mine. I understand that you have served as a Senior Intern at Twitter for several years, and I believe your experience would be very helpful as I navigate this new opportunity. Please let me know if you would be interested in mentoring me. I am happy to provide a resume and references upon request.

Thank you in advance for your time. 

Sincerely,

Harper

Harper Sayles
Executive Assistant
tumblr 
Public Relations and Communications - US Division 

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Yeah that's fine. My email gets cluttered, so just text me. 555-2436.

R

Sent from IPhone

November 5, 2020

Reese: Hey, do you by chance watch Supernatural
Harper: I feel like this is a trick question, but yes? 
Reese: oh thank God. Something happened? Twitter is losing it. Apparently someone called "Cas" said "I love you" and then went to supermegahell or something. 
Harper: skfjskdbdks
Harper: hold on, I gotta get my work computer. 
Harper: oh my God. HE SAID IT. OH MY GOD. HE SAID IT.
Harper: and then they killed him. Hdjdbrk
Harper: if they don't bring him back
Harper: I gotta check Tumblr. People must be freaking out. Work tomorrow is going to be a mess. HE SAID I LOVE YOU. NOT HUMANITY. NOT ALL OF YOU. JDJDBDIFJEKDJ
Reese: congratulations?
Reese: What's Destiel?
Harper: shit, server issues. I gotta call my boss. 
Harper: dbdiskejdkdksks
Reese: OK but help. Is Destiel a Supernatural thing or a politics thing? I'm really confused 
Reese: hello?

"Fuck yeah, just like that." Cas moans, tugging gently on the long purple hair of the man between his legs and thrusting deep into his mouth, knees digging into the 10,000 thread count of the lush hotel room duvet. 

The blowjob isn't the best he’s ever had. 

Hell, it isn’t even the best he's had this week. 

But Cas isn't going to complain. A hook-up is a hook-up. Can't expect perfection from Grindr.

Lil Nas X’s “Montero” blasts from Cas’ phone, its beats lending an unwelcome soundtrack to the scene. He glares at the pocket of his crumpled up jeans where the intrusive cell screen lights up in time to the ringtone. 

The guy pulls back and looks at him, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. "You gonna get that?"

"They'll leave a message." Cas growls, urging the man back down with a gentle nudge of a hand at the nape of his neck. 

It feels…wrong. His hair's too long. His eyes are too brown. His face is too narrow--

Cas shuts the thought down, leaning into the slick, warm chasm of purple-hair’s mouth.

The music actually helps the guy find a rhythm. Cas watches him work up and down, his tongue massaging the smooth muscle of his shaft. The guy swallows him deep against the back of his throat. 

"Mmmm. That's it." Call me out by your name, I'll be on …

Cas barely notices when the music cuts off. He can feel the tension building, that slow, tantalizing prickle of sensation rising from the knot of pleasure simmering in his groin. "Fuuuuck." 

Montero blasts again. "Goddammit." Cas groans, pushing purple-hair aside gently so he can roll over and grab his phone. He holds up a finger and mouths "one minute."

Purple-hair frowns, but acquiesces begrudgingly, slowly palming his own crotch through the sweatpants he has yet to remove.

"What?" Cas snaps into the phone, yanking the band of his boxers up over the crowning bulge of his dick.

"Um, sorry to bother you, sir," the voice on the other line chirps tremulously. 

Cas sinks to the edge of the bed, brow dropping to the palm of his hand with a sigh.

"Harper, why are you calling me? I'm kind of...busy right now." 

"One of the servers overheated and caught fire. There’s a possibility the site may go down." Harper stutters out. 

"So? Technical problems are part of the charm of tumblr. The site goes down all the time. Last week we ran an ad with copy that was just a stock photo paired with random letters, remember?”  Cas silently congratulates himself for that stroke of genius.  

“Did you call tech support?" Cas stares down at purple-hair as he talks, raising an eyebrow commandingly. 

What is his name? Jake? Johnny? It definitely started with a J. 

"…should have a new one up in about 15 minutes. If it doesn't crash, of course, with all the traffic." Harper’s words break through Cas’ brain’s grasp for recall, likely dulled by the Xanax he popped earlier.

"What? What traffic?"

Cas can hear her rolling her eyes from here. "Cas, didn’t you hear me earlier? Destiel went canon." Harper’s voice pitches at the end of the second phrase with excitement.

Cas feels the nausea rise in his throat. 

He’s not even sure what sounds come out of his mouth next, but they must be appropriate work-related syllables, because Harper sounds mollified when she hangs up.

Purple-hair is still watching him.

Cas sighs. "Listen..." He begins, standing up to reach under his waistband and carefully peel the condom off his rapidly deflating erection.

"George." The guy supplies flatly with more than a hint of irritation. 

"George. I was going to say that." Cas says, nodding as he yanks his t-shirt over his head, tugging it down over the firm muscles of his torso. He glances at his reflection, deciding there’s not much to be done about the errant spikes of his hair. 

"Listen, I have a work emergency. Another time?" He shoots the guy a lopsided grin of apology.

"Whatever." George mutters, sliding off the bed to head for the door without a glance back.

Cas shrugs, wishing he had a few minutes to eradicate the tightness behind his balls himself.

Treat for later , he promises his crotch.

He digs under a sweatshirt and a takeout container to unearth his laptop computer. 

As he waits for it to boot up, he pours himself a shot of tequila and grabs a beer from the mini bar fridge, popping the cap with a fluid motion of his cigarette lighter. 

The unnecessarily exorbitant penthouse room is his one material indulgence, and he might as well put the extras to good use. It isn't like any clients will be using it before the weekly restock. Besides, he needs the numbing effect of the alcohol if what Harper said on the phone is really true.

The first glimpse of the words "Destiel is canon," and Cas almost slams the laptop shut. 

They actually fucking did it. 

He throws back the shot in one smooth motion, letting the sharp burn of the tequila slide down his throat before training his eyes back on the computer.

He doesn't know what he expected, but the sight of those familiar faces on the screen is accompanied by a relentless barrage of memories. 

The pungent smell of smoke wafting through the air to an open window, pinpricks of stars piercing its haze. The rustle of a breeze stirring the curtains.  

Warmth pressed firmly against his side in a dark room. The television is the only source of light, but even its artificial glow can’t mar the perfection of the chiseled features staring back at him. 

Debates about queerbaiting and queercoding, interrupted by kisses to punctuate a point, the flush lips on his own chuckling as he succumbs.

“Okay, okay! You win. Better collect your prize before the show comes back on...” 

Quiet snuggles as the end credits roll, sometimes turning into lazy, rollicking couch sex before they both stumble to bed in a tangle of arms, legs, and tousled hair for round two.

The memories flood in like some sort of dam has burst inside Cas’ head, one recollection after the other - the scenes in his mind rolling and crashing around him like the waves of a storm. 

Reading snarky recaps out loud over morning coffee at the kitchen counter, Cas sitting on a stool. Arms wrapped tightly around him from behind, solid and safe.  

The stubble of a chin nuzzling the dip between his shoulder and neck, dropping a scratchy kiss to mark the spot between sentences, claiming it.

A whispered word in his ear, sometimes a quote from their favorite scenes from the night before, other times just the flick of a tongue to remind him what’s waiting at home after the workday ends.

It had been their show. 

He takes a long pull of his beer and shakes his head.

He said it. He actually said I love you. 

I wonder where Dean is. 

I wonder if he knows.

Reese: ohmygod I’m so fired. Shit shit shit. 
Harper: what’s up?
Reese: so apparently Destiel is a Supernatural thing and not a politics thing, which was news to me. 
Harper: yeah. It's the name of the ship between Dean Winchester and Castiel
Reese: well I didn't know that. People were tweeting about it with the news that Georgia went blue and I just assumed 
Harper: oh no
Reese: maybe it's not that bad. Surely having a ship trend under politics isn't that bad
Reese: right?
Reese: oh God, somewhere a politician is asking his staff what Destiel is and whether they have prepared a statement 
Reese: fuuuuuuu. I'd better call my boss
Harper: Reese, it's okay. Just breathe.
Harper: Reese?

"When I find you, I’m going to destroy you," Dean mutters, eyes narrowed and sharp. 

He feels the thrill of the hunt. He's getting close. He can sense it. Dean steadies his body, shoulders tensing.  He spots his target. His heart rate speeds up and he narrows his eyes as he prepares to strike.

"A-HA!" He screams, correcting the formula in the excel spreadsheet. 

“Got you, you little cockroach.”

The budget numbers reset into something more logical. Dean leans back on his wingtip desk chair with a satisfied sigh, sheathing his tablet stylus back behind the swell of his upper earlobe.

His knees twinge, the sedentary lifestyle taking its toll.

Dean stands and stretches, wincing at the pop in his lower back. He takes a few steps around the room a bit to get his blood flowing. 

He blinks, eyelids dragging down over sandpaper.

Dean’s customary four hours of sleep have been sacrificed at the altar of the 24-hour news cycle. 

Again. 

He peeks at the array of television screens on the walls, squinting at their harsh glare.  Each is set to a different channel’s coverage of the election results. Every single one of them currently displays a "breaking news" graphic.

Dean scrambles for the remote, turning up the volume. 

Georgia has gone blue. 

Holy shit.  

He throws himself back into his chair to check the US site data. The little birds on his cufflinks are twins to the white one centered on the sky-blue banner of the corporate Twitter mastersite. 

Bzzzzzzzt. 

Dean grabs his phone without looking, eyes still locked on the graphs streaking across the screen. Woah, look at the spikes in traffic tonight. 

"Go for Dean." He says, off-handedly.

"Mr. Smith?" Reese's voice comes through the speaker. 

Dean vaguely registers the formality as he pulls up the trending data. He immediately frowns, thinking there must be some mistake. 

Destiel? Why would Destiel be trending with Putin? Dean’s attention returns to the phone in his palm.

"Reese, why is Destiel trending with U.S. Politics and Putin?" 

"Well, it's a funny story," she replies in a tone that conveys that she clearly does not think it's a funny story. 

"So, um, Destiel is the ship name…the nickname people use to call –"

Dean cuts her off, voice full of impatience.

"I know what Destiel is. Why is a tag about some guy and his allegedly gay angel boyfriend trending with sociopolitical topics?" The thought of the gay angel boyfriend disturbs a bubble of emotion he’s kept dormant for a while, and Dean smashes the flat of his palm on the desk.

He can almost feel Reese jump on the other line, though he’s not sure if it’s the result of the sound still reverberating into the wood or the harsh edge that’s lining his voice.

He scrubs a hand across his itchy eyes.

I’m being a dick.

Still, the mention of this particular bit of news is unwelcome.

The last thing Dean needs when he’s already fucking raw with sleep deprivation, not to mention hungry as all hell thanks to this damn juice cleanse, is a reminder of Cas.

Not Cas from the show, but another devastatingly handsome, brown haired, blue eyed practically angel of a human.

His Cas. 

Well, at least he used to be.

Dean suddenly realizes that Reese’s voice is still droning on out of his phone.

" …anyway, when the news broke that Destiel was canon, it just happened to be at the same time as all of the other events, so people…" 

Canon? 

Dean’s fingers start typing frantically in the search bar, until he lands on the synopsis, the familiar banner of the website jerking his fucking heart into his damn throat.

“The “I love you” heard around the world: Supernatural, Season 15 Episode 18” 

Son. of a. Bitch.

They did it. They actually did it. 

I wonder if Cas knows. 

Dean’s fingers instinctively twitch to call him until he remembers that there’s likely no universe in which Cas wants to hear from him, and also that his phone is still being occupied by the voice of his senior intern.

"…and there were all these memes and, anyway, the algorithm paired them together and I didn't catch it. I'm so sorry. I didn’t know." Reese finishes.

“I - uh, don’t really watch Supernatural,” she adds.

Lucky you .

Dean takes a slightly shaky breath, still staring at the site. There’s a small video of the scene in question in the middle of the text on the recap blog.

"That's fine Reese,” he sighs. “It's just the algorithm. I’ll fix it."

“Sir, if you’d prefer I give it a try –” 

Reese’s voice sounds hopeful. Dean rolls his eyes. 

“No, Reese. I got it. Can you run downstairs and grab me a cup of caffeine? Black.”

“I’m already down-”

He ends the call without waiting for the response, then slumps back into his chair, lower vertebrae still groaning in protest.

He reminds himself that Reese needs to make him a shiatsu appointment. 

Then runs his hands over his face, peering through his fingers at the play button on the screen. 

Resigning himself, he presses it.

He gasps when Cas says the words. He knew it was coming, but the thrill isn’t diminished by the spoiler.  

Twelve damn seasons of tiptoeing around, and they finally had the guts to put it on the air, plain as day.

Dean shakes his head, replaying the scene a couple more times.

Each time he re-watches it results in a groan of disappointment as Cas inevitably gets sucked up by black sludge. 

They actually did it and then buried him immediately after. Fuck that. 

He walks over to the window, staring at the sparkling skyline of San Francisco stretching out below. 

He needs to get back to work. The budget’s due tomorrow. 

But he can’t stop his synapses from firing, the pictures from his past drifting into his mind. They’re even clearer than the clip he just watched on the screen.

Blue eyes and warm hands. Late nights stretching into early mornings. 

Coffee on his lips, the feel of smooth muscles under his fingertips.  

The faint hint of smoke lacing the scent of the skin he’s touching, Dean burying his face in it like he can’t ever get enough.

Cas. 

He shakes his head, exorcising the demons 

No fucking time for this. He can deal with it later. 

Or not at all. 

Yeah - option B sounds perfect . 

Harper: Are you still gainfully employed? 😊
Reese: yeah, but not sure that's a good thing 
Harper: rough night?
Reese: Dean, my boss, was emailing me all night. He sent me a budget report to print at 4:32 in the morning. I don't think he even slept. 
Reese: I have to get ready. He told me he expects me in by 6.
Harper: ugh. I get emails from my boss, Cas, at 4am too, mostly memes though
Harper: but at least he has the decency to roll in at like 10.
Harper: Wait. Our bosses are named Dean and Cas? That’s hilarious
Reese: Ha! If only they had a friend named Putin
Reese: I wish Dean would roll in at 10. You are so lucky
Harper: sort of. I basically have to make all the decisions for him because he’s never there. And then get yelled at because he skips all his meetings
Reese: ouch 
Reese: fuuuuuck I forgot to get my dry cleaning. Why can’t we just wear jeans? Ugh
Harper: OMG you get to do dry cleaning?  Dry clean only is literally banned here.  It’s in the employee handbook.
Reese: I g2g. Talk later?
Harper: bye. Good luck!

Chapter Text

November 14, 2020

Harper:  Everyone on tumblr is talking about some tweet by Misha Collins
Harper:  Something about rancid nuts? Any clue? My stan twitter got suspended again.
Harper: I am so confused. It appears to be some article about nuts going rancid and nobody knows if it’s about Supernatural or politics.
Reese: Sounds about right for Misha. He’s all over this site. At least he seems to use the chaos mostly for good.
Reese:  idk, i don’t have much experience with nuts tbh ;)
Reese: 
Reese: Harper?
Reese: You there?
Harper: Sorry. 
Harper: Yeah. That’s cool. 
Harper: About the nuts, I mean. 
Harper: Sorry 
Harper: Gotta go. Work stuff

Harper cringes, shoving her phone in her pocket as she walks through the door of the office, Reese’s texts still burning a hole on the screen

Real smooth, Harper. 

Chaos tends to be the baseline for the atmosphere at tumblr, Inc., but the month of November has really spun things entirely out of control. Site traffic is through the roof and nobody seems to know what to do with it. 

Harper dodges a paper airplane spiraling through the air to greet her as she enters the large open room that serves as the main hub of the tumblr headquarters.  She follows its trajectory with a frown, then glances down at her watch.

She shouldn’t really expect Cas to be in yet, but she'd hoped scheduling the first meeting of the day early would motivate him to at least show up within an hour of it starting.  

Chewing her lip, she glances back at the main conference room where a very disgruntled looking man in a suit is glaring at his own wrist with irritation.

Harper sighs, pulling her phone back out to call Cas. 

Again.

I should have known it would be this way, she berates herself as the dial tone rings.

After all, what was she hoping for from a boss who literally offered her a job while sitting on a barstool, fiddling with the salt rimmed glass of a margarita?

Harper shakes her head with a small, wry smile, remembering…

October 5, 2020

Harper frowns as she adds the last part with a flourish: 

“Doesn’t like cats.” 

And there it is - the final death knell for yet another failed date. She drums the fingers of one hand on the smooth, polished wood of the bar. 

Harper hasn’t been to this place before, but she’s been hesitant to return to her regular watering hole for fear of running into the mysterious green-eyed siren whose lips still meander through her dreams.  

A little voice in her head asks if that would really be so bad. She ignores it.

It’s pretty dead, but that’s not atypical for a Monday night. Harper sighs, staring down at the pages of her planner, pondering line item after line item of mediocre experiences.

“What’s that?” The voice belongs to a man  with messy dark brown hair and bright blue eyes who’s sitting a few seats down from Harper. He angles his head to look at her, hand still wrapped around his drink. 

She frowns at him, quickly slamming the cover of her planner shut. 

The gesture doesn’t dissuade him.

“Did you bring homework to the bar?” The man drops his voice conspiratorially, wagging his eyebrows. “Wait, are you a social theory major? I dabbled in college. With social theory and with other stuff, if you know what I mean. Are you secretly studying us?”

Harper decides to ignore him. She signals the bartender for another round. The woman bounces up, blonde ponytail swinging. 

“Not a winner?” she asks cheerily, jerking her pretty chin to the door through which Harper’s date disappeared about ten minutes ago.

“Not even a runner-up.” Harper sighs. “Date lasted a total of fifty-two minutes, and he talked about himself for forty-three of them.” She tears at the corner of the cocktail napkin on the countertop, adding:

“Mostly about his ex.”

The bartender rolls her eyes in commiseration. “Men.” 

“Hey. Offense taken.” The nosy brown haired stranger protests, then winks good naturedly at Harper. 

The startling blue of his eyes strikes Harper as they re-focus on her, and she finds herself intrigued. A spark of shrewd intelligence shines beneath the haze of tequila glazing his pupils. 

He narrows his gaze. “Fifty-two minutes. Hm.”

Harper’s brows knit in confusion. “What?”

“You said fifty-two minutes, exactly. You’re good at keeping time.”   

Harper is completely lost, but she decides to nod slowly, hoping it will sway this drunk eccentric to shift his attention elsewhere.

“And you’re organized. That book. It’s to keep track of your...dates?” The man pauses a beat, chuckling to himself. “I guess that has multiple meanings in your case.” He grins, pleased with his joke. 

Harper blushes slightly, feeling her guard go up. She ducks a hand in her purse, fingers grasping the pepper spray.

Just in case.

She rallies. “Sir, if this is a flirtation, respectfully – no thank you.”

He laughs at that. It’s a loud, brash noise that makes several patrons turn to look at them both. The spots of pink on Harper’s cheeks deepen to crimson, and she ducks her head shyly, avoiding their glances. 

“You aren’t really my type,” the man continues, assessing Harper’s prim button-up top and knee-length skirt. She smooths its folds in her lap self-consciously.

The man winks.

“I’m not really into women unless it’s a...group setting, and that doesn’t seem like your – scene.” 

Harper blinks, head empty. At this point, it’s a miracle there’s any blood left in her body that hasn’t fled to her face. Her brain scrambles for some socially acceptable response, eyes darting wildly.

There’s a shuffle of footsteps. “Cas Novak,” the man says, holding out a hand. 

Why does that name sound familiar?

Harper grasps it automatically, before her brain can question the propriety of shaking hands with a man who just asked her whether or not she likes orgies. 

“Um, Harper. Harper Sayles,” she stammers out.

“To be clear, I wasn’t hitting on you,” Cas says more seriously, releasing the handshake. “I’m actually about to offer you a job.”

Harper’s eyebrows shoot up. “A what?”

Cas scratches the back of his neck, expression turning slightly embarrassed. “I decided this morning I need an assistant. And I decided just now you’re a good candidate for the position. Easy as that.”

He digs around his pocket, pulling out a slightly crumpled business card. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of a website called tumblr?”

Harper’s mouth is opening and closing like a dying fish flopping on the shore. She’s sent her resume to tumblr more times than she can count, and she’s got the drawer full of polite denial letters to show for it.  

This isn’t just a job, it's the job. 

Okay, breathe. Breathe.

“I might be interested,” she says carefully, keeping her voice cool. Calm.

Cas grins knowingly. “Ten-four. Keep this.” He hands her the bent rectangle and she takes it with trembling fingers.

“Call me next week to set up a formal interview,” Cas finishes, casually retreating to his abandoned drink.

Harper stares at the card numbly, unable to form words. 

Cas’ reach for his margarita is a little wobbly, and the liquid sloshes over the rim of the glass, dribbling on the top of his hand. He slaps a stack of bills on the bar, pointing a finger gun at the bartender.

“You headin’?” The bartender is comfortable with him, Harper notices. He must be a regular.

“Gonna go see if I can’t get a little action. Bang a few gongs before the lights go out.” He winks exaggeratedly at her, his entire face scrunching up with his eye.

The bartender laughs. “Take one for the prowl.” She slides a shot of amber tequila across the room. Cas salts the groove between thumb and index finger and tosses the liquor back, plucking the lime wedge from the bartender’s hand.

“See ya,” he tosses the sucked out remnants of the fruit into the trash with perfect aim despite his clearly intensifying inebriation.

His tongue flicks over the grains of salt scattered across his hand as he walks away. 

Harper stares after him. 

Suddenly, he stops and turns on his heel, gaze meeting hers. 

“I changed my mind.” 

Harper’s heart drops. She knew it was too good to be true.

But Cas is smiling.

“Let’s skip the interview. Obviously you’re organized, sharp, and my inner voice says you’re it.” He grabs a napkin and motions to her. She hands over her pen in response. 

Cas nods, eyes a little hazy. “See? And resourceful. That’s why you’ve always got to go with your gut.”

He writes out a name and email address in a messy scribble. “Email this woman in HR and tell her I hired you. Ask her to send you whatever paperwork you need.” 

Cas pauses. “I guess I should confirm your acceptance first.”

Harper tries to remember speech. “Yes. Yes, I accept!” Her voice is shrill, and the tips of her ears flush pink in embarrassment.

Cas hands her the napkin.

“See you next week, Harper Sayles.” He grins, and saunters towards a suave looking man in an expensive suit.

Harper raises a hand after him in a belated farewell. She looks at the bartender, who’s pocketing the ample amount of cash piled in front of Cas’ now empty seat. 

“What just happened?”

The bartender laughs warmly. “Cas just happened. Here, have another. On the house.”

November 14, 2020

Harper sighs at the memory. It isn't that the gig hasn't been eye-opening. She’s learned a lot. 

Cas is a creative genius. Just being in his orbit alone is enough to kickstart her career. Harper reminds herself that this is a huge honor – Cas hasn't had an assistant in years. 

And it isn't like he's malicious. He's generally kind and easy-going, even though he’s almost always out of it. Those tequila eyes at the bar that day were a pretty good indicator of his day-to-day state. 

It’s not a big deal for her if her boss drinks in the middle of the afternoon, or leaves the office sporadically to meet up with the fellas. Or the ladies. Or sometimes both.

She would just rather not spend half her day apologizing for Cas being...well, Cas .

His daily ‘schedule’ isn’t much more than a gentle suggestion, and he abhors meeting with vendors and clients. Nobody dares criticize him for it. 

Harper wishes they would at least extend the same courtesy to her when she ends up perpetually picking up the slack, and somehow always teetering right on the edge of messing everything up.

Harper ducks between two of her co-workers, who are mid-conversation. 

"…climbed on the roof. He claims he wanted better lighting. Insane man." Harper’s ears perk with curiosity, but she kicks the urge to stop and eavesdrop. 

"Harper!" Hannah, the receptionist, calls over the din. "Mr. Kripke is here for Cas." 

The intercom must be out again.

"Can you show him to conference room 2? I’ll let Mr. Novak know." Harper bluffs, staring at her phone with a sinking heart, and typing the same tired text for the third time.  

Come on, Cas. Where are you??

An errant ray of sun peers through the dusty blind on the bedroom window, cutting across Cas’ face in the darkness. He blinks awake.

Fuck.  His tongue is thick and rough, stuck to the roof of his mouth like a streamer of old flypaper.

He releases a hoarse groan from the depths of his throat, swinging both legs to the side of the bed and lurching his body upright. One of his elbows bumps against the empty vodka bottle rolling under the covers.

Ah. He remembers now, there's the reason his head feels like someone dropped a ton of bricks on the back of his skull.  

Cas pulls open a drawer, rifling through pill bottles until he finds the only non-prescription container. He thumbs the cap of the Advil and drops three turquoise gel capsules in his mouth along with his PrEP pill from the other plastic cylinder prominently placed on the nightstand, washing them with a quick swig of the lukewarm beer that perches there, still half-full.

He grimaces slightly at the tepid aftertaste, then heads to the kitchen.  

There’s leftover chinese in the fridge, and Cas grabs a container, shoveling a handful of chicken lo mein in his mouth with his hand. The smell of coffee wafts through the air.

The thought appears unbidden.

Bless Dean for setting the coffeemaker.

Cas shoos it away.

Of course Dean didn’t set it. Dean hasn’t been in this apartment, in their apartment for months now.  

Cas must have done it himself, blackout drunk and high as hell before crash landing into his bed the night before.

Way to go, me . He pours a cup and raises it in silent appreciation to ‘last night Cas,’ taking a life-saving swig. The black liquid slides down his throat, the buzz of caffeine warming his veins as much as the heat of the coffee.

The joint he spots winking at him from the corner of the counter warrants another toast to ‘past him.’ He grabs a lighter and takes the party to the spacious balcony that juts out from the side of the building over the sidewalk.

The passersby look like little ants marching on the street from fifteen stories up. Cas flops on the chaise lounge tucked in the corner, the cherry at the end of his lit joint flaring crimson as he observes the clouds streaking the sky, watching the iridescent wings of a bee glint in the sun as it maneuvers to some flowering plant below.

Some people have a phobia of heights. For Cas, they’ve always been a love affair.

He’s at his best when soaring above the crowds, taking in the big picture. Penthouses, helicopters, rooftop gardens, Cas will accept any and all of them – just to capture that feeling of flying.

Weightless. Free. Far away from the cares of the world.

He looks at the joint in his fingers, the thin, reedy smoke wafting from it to commune with the crisp morning air.  

Yeah, soaring sounds like a good plan today. He takes a long inhale, closing his eyes.

Then pulls his phone out of his pocket. The little red line on the battery blinks at him angrily. The missed calls and texts are all from Harper. 

Cas sighs.  

He checks the time. 10:45 a.m. 

Okay, Dean has to be safely ensconced in his desk chair by now .

The last thing Cas needs to add to this bear of a hangover is a run-in with his falsely chipper, performatively polite, pretending-to-always-be-a-morning-person-even-though-he’s-fucking- not ex-boyfriend in the lobby of their shared office building.

He polishes off both the coffee and the joint before reluctantly abandoning his small corner of the sun-drenched sky for the drab gray of the pavement.

The tumblr office is business as usual, meaning ‘state of barely organized mayhem.’ A few site moderators greet Cas as he makes his way across the floor. He peeks his head into the main conference room, winking at his very frazzled assistant.

Harper bolts from her chair, ramrod straight and wide-eyed. “Cas. I was just telling the vendors that you were um, delayed. Due to –”  

Cas watches Harper as she takes in his wrinkled linen pants and the oversized t-shirt he’s managed to tuck into the waistband to hold them up on his frame.

The shirt is faded black, emblazoned with a giant cannabis leaf. He follows her gaze, knowing it’s found the small, worn hole in the cotton just below his right armpit.  

Cas runs a hand through the hair he never bothered brushing, and raises an almost cheerful eyebrow. “Go on, Harper. You were describing my reason for being delayed.”  

Harper’s throat works with panic. She whips to the stodgy man at the other end of the table, flashing a winsome smile.

“You see, Mr. Kripke, as is apparent by his...dressing the part, Mr. Novak just happened to be attending a medical marijuana fundraiser.” She pauses. “For babies.”

Cas watches the suit’s eyebrows furrow.  

“Medical marijuana for babies?” The man’s face oscillates between confusion and unease.

“Yes, yes.” Cas murmurs, eyes sparkling. “Co-sleeping and hotboxing. It’s all the rage on the parenting blogs. Crunchy is in , as you know.”  

He fixes a cold gaze on the vendor. "Harper is fully authorized to act in my stead. I trust you will show her the same courtesy you would extend to me."

The vendor’s gaze quickly shifts from annoyed to deferential. "Yes, Mr. Novak. Of course," he concedes.

Cas heads towards his office to the tune of Harper’s nervous footsteps as she rushes out the door to follow. "Sir…" 

“I’m on D-N-D rest of the day, Harp,” he tosses over a shoulder. "I don't want to hear about anything short of an apocalypse."

“B-b-ut, Cas –” Harper’s alarmed voice trills behind him, “you have meetings!”

Cas cracks his knuckles, rolling his eyes at the ceiling in response. “I would rather stick my hand in boiling water. Cancel them or handle them yourself. Also, Harper?”

“Sir?” Her tone is resigned.

“Put some damn flip flops on. Maybe then you’ll feel more relaxed. And stop calling me sir!”

The slam of his office door behind him drowns out her response.

Cas props his Birkenstocks on the top of his desk, nudging a stack of papers to the side with his big toe. A slow roll of his shoulders ends in a light cracking of vertebrae at the base of his neck.  

Hmmm.

In sudden inspiration, he thumbs down the address book of his cell to “M.”

“Hello there, angel.” The voice on the other end of the line is smooth like caramel, with a subtle trace of English accent wrapped around each syllable.

“Mick – glad I caught you. I know it’s last minute, but think you could work me in for an office visit? My chakras need some readjusting.” Cas spins a letter opener between his fingers, the shining edge of its blade casting little golden flashes on the wall.

“Chakras, is that what those kids on your website are calling it these days?” Mick’s voice is the purr of a hungry cat, vibrating through the phone.  

Cas can hear the click of a computer keyboard on the other end of the line. “Got a spot in about an hour if you’re okay with a quickie,” Mick announces.

Cas grins.

A quickie to get his head out of this funk is exactly what the doctor ordered.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Harper: How’s your day?
Reese: I spent 45 minutes on hold trying to return protein powder to a health food store
Reese: Who returns protein powder? SMH
Harper: I can top that. 
Reese: Hit me
Harper: My boss just walked his yoga instructor out of his office talking about an orgy. 
Harper: Please let the orgy be at a secondary location. They do NOT clean this office well
Harper: Duma in accounting spilled those little confetti pieces that come out of a three hole punch two weeks ago and they're still on the floor
Reese: Ewww. Boss sex. I don’t want to think about it
Reese: Pretty sure my boss has never gotten laid a day in his life
Reese: UGH I just grossed myself out  

Chapter Text

November 20, 2020

Harper: Reese, you up? 
Harper: Sorry, not in a booty call type of way. 
Harper: I just need to talk to somebody. They fucknfg didn’t even mention Cas
Harper: just once and then Dean went driving instead of finding him
Harper: Fcuk. Sorry. 
Harper: It was total bullshit though. They didn’t mention Eileen either. 
Harper: and they klled Dean. How darethey. Evrybodys dead
Harper: This calls for more wine. I am being very clever typing this right now. hHow dalre you sleep? I ma being very cute and stuff
Harper: sry
Reese: Jesus, Harper, you okay? Babe, get yourself a glass of water, okay?
Harper: k. Ur the best

A smooth, lilting voice cuts into Dean’s mind. The audit found that President-Elect Joe Biden defeated President Trump by a total of 12,284 votes. A representative for President Trump’s legal team issued the following statement…”

Dean slams the button, cutting off the morning news alert that serves as his alarm. The clock reads 4:35 am. Dean rubs his eyes blearily and ignores the little hum in his head that says he could just roll over and sleep a few minutes longer if he really wants to.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls his nightgown over his head, replacing it with an old shirt that says “Hard Rock: Seattle” from the time he took Sammy there years ago. Digging around his cabinet, he yanks out a pair of old, ratty athletic shorts, stepping into them.

Since he sleeps in socks, they’re already on his feet and he slides them into his sneakers easily.

It gives him pause and he wonders – yet again, if wearing his workout clothes to bed would be more efficient. He tosses the thought aside. Something about sleeping in the clothes he’s preparing to sweat in later grosses him out. 

No, he isn’t sweaty yet but still. Dean shudders. Those clothes are only meant for exercise-related funk. 

Besides, he likes his nightgown. Erhm, sleeping robe, that is. It may not be sexy, but it sure as hell is comfortable.  

Not like there’s anyone around to see it, and Dean’s not going to sacrifice the feeling of being wrapped in hugs while he sleeps in exchange for an extra minute or two in the morning.

He stumbles to the bathroom, steps growing steadier as he eases into his morning routine. Blinking at his reflection in the mirror, he runs his hand through the unruly spikes of bedhead, sticking in errant directions at the top of his head and around his ears. 

Haircut. Need one. Dean mentally puts it on the list, then goes to town – cleaning, chiseling, polishing, pomading, moisturizing and all of those...necessary tasks that being ‘casually’ put together in these modern times unfortunately requires.

The kitchen is the next stop on the Smith a.m. tour, where he chugs his morning protein shake, grimacing at the bitter, medicinal aftertaste of the chalky powder.

His nostrils long for bacon. He scorches the craving with the smell of black coffee instead, taking a long exhale of the aroma from the bubbling glass carafe in the corner. His veins churn with their desire for caffeine.

Not yet, he thinks to himself. Coffee pre-workout is a dangerous beast.  

It’s precisely 4:55 a.m. when he drags himself onto the exercise bike, selecting the 45-minute program. Normally, he’d take it a little easier on a Friday, but all that popcorn he stuffed in his face when it was glued to the election coverage needs to be leached out of his tissues.  

He’s gotta go hard, or be puffy all day from the carbs, not to mention the fucking salt. Ugh.

A low sodium diet is important.

He likes this instructor, and not just because of her long dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Her voice has a low pitch, smoky, and she’s just the right amount of motivating but not annoyingly chipper. It makes her almost palatable this early in the morning.

At least initially. It isn’t long before he’s cursing her all the way down to the gates of Hell itself while he wheezes and sweats his way through the challenging course. 

He makes it to the shower just slightly ahead of schedule at 5:55 a.m., cup of caffeinated reward in his hand. Black, just one splash of rice milk. The caffeine mixes with the endorphins already working their magic on his synapses, and he smacks his lips with a satisfied sigh.   

He groans as the steaming water washes away the sweat and stench from his skin. 

The water pressure in his new place - no, just ‘his place’ - isn’t spectacular. 

But it’ll do.

Dean soaps himself up, and - feeling a familiar twinge twist slightly right below his belly button, considers adding a bonus activity to his regular schedule of events. 

It’s been a while. 

God. Feels like years, even.

He peeks at the clock on his wall. 6:05. No time.

“Tomorrow.” He promises his dick. 

It twitches at him forlornly.

Yeah, yeah. You’ll live.

Dean dries off and throws on his robe, glaring at his own reflection in the mirror.

“Hold still, you piece of shit.”

It’s a never-ending hamster wheel, this battle with his comb and the one stray piece of hair that refuses to fall in line with the rest of his carefully manicured side part.

Giving up and letting the lone little soldier fight bravely onwards, he heads to the bedroom and mechanically dresses in his pre-selected outfit for the day. 

Baby blue button down, stiff with starch. Slim silk tie, navy and peppered with small red checks, the one that Cas really enjoyed using -

Nope. Stop that.

He yanks the half knot loose and tugs the tie off of his neck, stretching the muscles corded underneath it in the process - and selects a different one, a nice solid cranberry.

His college roommate Benny gave it to him for Christmas a few years back.

Dude may be rough around the edges, but he’s sure got some damn good taste in neckwear.

Dean yanks on his slacks, buckles his belt and puts on his very sensible dress shoes. He smooths the pleats of his pants down, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

Not too shabby, old man. He winks, shooting a finger gun at it. 

Ignoring the small roll of cobalt eyes belonging to the ghost in his memories, Dean heads to the kitchen to grab a plastic bottle filled with dark green liquid.

Mmmm, breakfast, he grimaces, letting the contents slide down his throat in one fluid swallow.

Fuck, he’s hungry.

But a sedentary lifestyle doesn’t allow for bagels and eggs. And being an executive at Twitter certainly doesn’t lend to much moving of the body.

There’s a treadmill desk shipping to his office in 3-4 weeks, but until then Dean relies on a mostly liquid diet.

Even if it makes him angry like a bear.

He tightens the knot of his tie and checks his smartwatch, which is already piling up with notifications despite it only being 6:25 a.m.

Good. That asshole probably isn’t even up yet. No chance in hell of a lobby run-in.

Dean pushes past the protest of his aching knees to bend down and grab the green duffel filled with his sleek black Prada tracksuit and custom ‘grenade-launcher gray’ Nikes.

He’ll need them later for the Athletic Club. He has a game of racquetball with Crowley, followed by a business lunch. He grimaces internally thinking about the scotch the man always orders them.

Tastes and smells like feet.

He hits the elevator by precisely 6:30. In a minor modern miracle, he gets an express trip, no extra passengers. He feels a little thrill of satisfaction.

The scene on the TV mounted to the apartment lobby wall stops him dead in his tracks.

What the hell?

Dean quickly pulls up his phone, scrolling through the latest trending topics. They fucking did what to Dean Winchester on Supernatural?

Well, hell. Maybe the guy loved Cas back after all.

Dean shakes his head in disgust, mood soured. Death is not an ending. His thumb scrolls down his phone for Cas’ number without thinking, until he remembers once again that Cas is not going to answer that call.

Speaking of endings.

Dean sighs, jangling the keys, and heads out the door.

“Okay, so you’re sure you’ve got it? Venti latte, medium foam, rice milk only, absolutely no sugar syrup but half a packet of stevia and the coffee has to be blonde roast.”

The barista rolls his eyes at Reese’s jittery sentences.  

She frowns back at him. “You can judge all you want, but if it’s not blonde roast my boss can always tell, and I will be coming here to smite you personally -” Reese squints at the plastic rectangle on the barista’s striped button down, “Fleetwood.”

As in ‘Mac’?

Her nose wrinkles. “Seriously? Your parents really into old man rock, or something?”

The barista ignores her, turning around with a flop of his brown bangs to start the order.

“Are you ordering for yourself, too - or just your finicky boss?”

Reese already had an entire pot at home this morning, but extra caffeine is probably a good choice for whatever surprises arise today. Nothing particular is planned, but Reese is no fool.

No matter what’s on the schedule, things always go wrong.

“Just black coffee, no sugar.” She says to Fleetwood’s back. His head bobs in confirmation, the hot steam of the foamer raising the temperature of the air around them. 

“So you work for what, the actual woman from The Devil Wears Prada?” Fleetwood asks smoothly as he pours espresso into the shining portafilter, packing it tightly with an expert twist of his hand.

Reese chuckles, thinking about Dean’s reaction to being compared to THE Miranda Priestly.

He’d probably take it as honorary.

Truth is, he’s not nearly the hell-bound sinner he pretends to be.

“I work for Dean Smith,” she name-drops without preamble.

Wet coffee grounds spray at her blouse, marring it with dark specks. “Hey! What the hell?”

Fleetwood is scrambling on the floor. “Ah, sorry. So sorry. I -” he pops back up, eyes wide and face flushed. “I didn’t realize I was making morning coffee for the Most Eligible Bachelor in San Francisco."

Reese rolls her eyes. “What you’re doing is making me late getting it to him.”  

And if anything can turn Dean into a demon, it’s the delay of his morning caffeine i.v. 

When Reese finally gets to the office, shirt ruined entirely, it’s already buzzing with the usual organized morning bedlam. She flops into her desk chair, waiting for the coffee to kick in. Her jaw cracks with a head-splitting yawn.

She knew when she took this job that it wasn't a 9 to 5 gig, but lately it has really been nonstop. If her inbox is any indication, today won't be granting a reprieve.

She looks at the clock. 6:59 a.m. She looks down the hall and sure enough, here comes Dean. 

Shit. Dean always has a stick up his ass, some days even an entire tree trunk. It's just how he is. But the look on his face as he stalks towards his office tells Reese her gut was right. 

Today will not be granting a reprieve.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith." 

Dean doesn't even look up - just grunts and slams the door. Okay then.

Reese turns her attention back to the screen, tapping her fingers on the desk.

She opens an email. She has to read it three times through bleary eyes. 

Reese hits reply.

Dear Ms. Stern,

Enclosed please find the requested reports.

Best regards,

Reese Harris
On behalf of Dean Smith

Reese takes a long pull from her coffee. The thing is… 

She spills some of the liquid on her blouse. 

Fuck.

At this point she may as well bathe in the stuff and turn the shirt a tasteful beige.

Anyway, the thing is that Dean never blows Reese off like that. Sure - he can be cranky, especially when he’s doing a juice cleanse, and sometimes he's short with her or lectures her about health food and the detrimental effects of aspartame or whatever, but he doesn’t just ignore her.

Reese chews on her nail, staring at Dean’s door.

As she predicted at the coffee shop, something’s gone wrong.

But this time it seems it’s with Dean, personally.

Reese sighs. It's none of her business. She turns her attention back to the computer screen, but her eyes won’t focus on its contents.

Dean’s a whole-ass adult. Reese should stay out of it.   

But, she likes the guy. Most of the time.

Besides, she's not a monster.

She grabs a notepad and some unimportant documents, then knocks softly on his door.

"Come in." The reply is smooth and professional. Controlled. Typical Dean.

Dean is seated behind his desk, the mask of cool demeanor back on his face. Huh.

"Sir, I had a few expense reports for your signature. The deadline is today, so I need to get them to accounting." Dean nods, mumbling something affirmative and holds out his hand, eyes trained on his computer. 

Reese watches as he scrawls his name across the bottom of the page without reading what he’s signing.

Now that’s not like him at all. 

Before she can gather the courage to ask if everything’s ok, he hands the reports back to her, adding:

"Thanks, Reese. I really appreciate your dedication, you know that?" 

Reese stares at him, dumbfounded, and he finally meets her eye. His expression is open.

Reese feels a small smile spread across her face, all other thoughts knocked out by the unexpected compliment. "Thank you, sir."

He appreciates her! Sees how hard she works! 

Okay, this is it!

Now's her chance to ask him to let her take lead on the cross-departmental project with accounting. Reese takes a gulp of oxygen.

"You know, Ms. Stern reached out on that marketing project. She needs someone from our department to collaborate on..."

"Yep, I'll handle it." Dean’s face snaps closed, tone immediately dismissive.

Reese frowns. "Sir, if you're busy I could -”

"I have it covered, Reese." He's already gone back to staring at his computer. 

"I'll just..." She turns on her heel to go.

"Reese." 

Reese stops trying to suppress the little flutter of hope in her chest. "Sir?"

"Schedule me a haircut." 

She nods and walks out the door, closing it softly behind her.

Reese: Hey, friend. How are you?
Harper: kill me
Reese: that bad?
Harper: I think my brain is crawling out of my ears. Luckily, Cas has been holed up in his office working on some big new idea.
Harper: talk to me about something other than my hangover or Supernatural 
Reese: I don't want to brag but I spilled coffee on myself. I am a toddler. I need a sippy cup
Reese: also I think my boss finally had an emotion today. Don't worry, it passed 
Harper: ha. BRB
Harper: um, question. Any ideas on how to clear marijuana smoke from an office bathroom?

Chapter Text

November 26, 2020

Harper: wait, you're working today too?
Reese: yes. Ugh. Send booze.
Reese: Dean says: these family holidays are the biggest days of the year. Everyone wants to escape to trade memes about their racist uncle to strangers on the internet
Harper: ha! He's got a point 
Reese: don't I know it? 
Reese: especially today. Did you see it?
Harper: the Spanish Dub?
Reese: yes. And Misha's video. It's a mess.
Harper: dude, tumblr is basically a conspiracy theory cult and a frat party simultaneously right now. The entire site crashed. It’s a mess 
Reese: is that why you're working? 
Harper: TBH, I think Cas just forgot it’s Thanksgiving

(Unsent):

Harper: not like I had plans anyway.

Dean boots up his computer and very intentionally does not think about pie.

He glances at the untouched bottle of green juice gathering condensation on his desk, deciding he’s also not going to think about turkey or mashed potatoes. 

Dean does allow a thought for his goofy baby brother, but squashes the nostalgic image of Eileen winking at him mid-explanation to Sammy that she has no idea where that hideous cardigan went, yes she knows the one Sam meant.

Dean and his sister-in-law tend to take turns ‘misplacing’ the sweater. It’s a favor if anything. It does nothing for Sam other than making him look like somebody's grandma. 

Anyway, Dean doesn’t think about any of that today. Today is just Thursday. Like any other Thursday. 

Thursday. Angel of Thursday. Supernatural.

And dammit, now he’s definitely absolutely certainly not thinking about Cas.

He shakes his head tightly, and pulls up the site reports from Reese to distract himself.

Not like Thanksgiving’s ever that great anyway.  

Sometimes when they were kids, he and Sammy shared a bucket of chicken with that canned cranberry sauce from the gas station, but they never sat around the table talking about what they were thankful for. Why start that unnecessary tradition this late in life?

Besides, Sammy’s got Eileen to share the holidays with now. He doesn’t need Dean sulking around, spoiling their happy time.

His treacherous mind drifts to the memory of that Thanksgiving a few years ago, spent with Cas over sticky bites of leftover pie, the kitchen a mess and both of them too drunk on each other to lift a finger for anything else. 

Cas’ lips and the taste of cinnamon and nutmeg. 

Leftover whipped cream. God, that leftover whipped cream on Cas’ -

Nope. None of that.

Sammy offered. No, Sammy begged. But Dean declined the invitation. He could practically see the puppy dog eyes full of sympathy on the other end of the phone. 

Poor big brother, alone for the holidays.   

Dean’s never let Sam rescue him from a damn thing, and he ain’t about to start now. No freakin' way. 

Dean turns his attention back to the report, frowning as a few out-of-place words catch his attention.

"Reese. Get in here." He winces at the notes of strain and exhaustion in his own voice.

Reese flops into one of the plush chairs, nonchalantly chewing a piece of gum. "What's going on, boss?"

Dean thrusts the printout into her hands.

"What’s this on the trending report? ‘Y yo a ti?’ I mean, I know what it means but why is it location-tagged Latin America but on the U.S. report? And what are these items here trending with it?" 

He waves to the two related tags, #theysilencedhim and #theysilencedthem. 

Reese shrugs, unaffected. "More Supernatural stuff, apparently."

Dean’s eyebrows nudge together at the center of his forehead. "Supernatural? The show's over." 

Why is this damn thing haunting him? Maybe he should salt and burn the old DVDs shoved out of sight under his bed.

Reese sighs, pulling out her phone to type into the Google bar. “One sec.”

She scrolls the info quickly, then begins to recite it like she’s presenting at a podium instead of lounging in Dean’s office in a crumpled button down.  

Dean watches a small stain on her collar as she talks, reminding himself to make sure she’s getting the company’s dry-cleaning allowance.

"Apparently, the Spanish language dub had an extra line,” Reese’s voice is crisp and measured. “Dean said 'I love you too' or something to that effect - yeah, the ‘Y yo a ti’ is his line. ‘And I, you.’“  She pauses like she’s trying to assess if further clarification is needed, then adds:

“The ‘you’ being Cas.” 

She frowns, quick thumbs pulling up a different search result. “Oh, shit. Okay, so then Misha Collins posted a video saying it was a rogue translator. It's pretty intense." 

Dean stares at her. "All this political news, not to mention it’s a major holiday - and people are talking about a show that ended over a fucking week ago? What the hell?"

Reese glances up at him. "I just write the reports, sir. I don’t even watch this show."

Dean sighs. Why is he getting so worked up over this thing to begin with?  

He wonders briefly if Cas has seen the news. He always had a soft spot for Misha.

The clearing of Reese’s throat reminds Dean she’s still in the room, and he nudges the blue eyes out of his head.

"Fair enough. Order me a salad for lunch today from that place I like. Grilled salmon, dressing on the side." 

A feast fit for a rabbit, his stomach grumbles despondently.

Dean is already elbow-deep in his reports by the time Reese reaches the door, barely even registering the click as she leaves.

Dean manages to forget it’s Thanksgiving until it's almost noon. This time, it's not reminders of Sam or Eileen or Supernatural that summon the unwanted images to his brain; it's Reese.

She's slumped over her desk staring at her phone. It occurs to Dean that he has no idea if she’s missing her own family gatherings this year.

It’s the job, he justifies, but something about the sad slope of Reese’s shoulders gives him pause.

Just because he’s committed to burying himself six feet under in stacks of work doesn't mean he needs to Turkey-day Scrooge his entire office.  

"Reese," Dean says quietly while digging in his wallet. She blinks at him blearily, then straightens, face lined with exhaustion. Dean feels another twinge of guilt.

"Hi. Um, so - it's Thanksgiving. I was thinking you can take a long lunch, get yourself a big meal on me for the holiday. Maybe even some pie." He flashes a charming grin, holding out a couple of twenties.

Reese raises an eyebrow. "You okay, boss?"

Dean feels his smile falter at the surprised expression on her face. Damn.  When did he turn into such a dick that a long lunch break seems like a benevolent gesture to his own employees?

Reese knows him well enough to catch the hesitation, and amends quickly:

"Thanks." She shoots him a careful smile. "That's really nice. I'll go once your lunch gets here - should be soon."

"Reese, I think I’m capable of exchanging money for grub." Dean says dryly. “Now scram.”

Her smile is genuine now, and she even snorts a little.

That's better. Dean releases some of the tension from his shoulders.  

"Okay, but don't do it too well. I don't wanna be out of a job,” Reese jokes before grabbing her purse and the cash. There’s a small bounce in her step on the way out, and Dean decides that maybe a daily lunch break policy isn’t so bad after all.

Not for him though.

He pays for his container of lettuce and heads to his desk.

Once there, he eyes the salad forlornly. 

It's not the salad's fault. The crisp greens and bright orange carrots are appetizing enough to the eye, at least. The salmon glints with ginger soy sauce, and Dean’s got zero doubts that it’s tender and flaky on the inside. 

Still, convincing himself he far prefers this over clogging his arteries with gravy and butter is no easy feat, especially today.

His mouth itches for the feel of a drumstick. The burger-loving Dean that used to hustle pool to pay for Sammy's field trips wouldn't recognize the man sitting down to forkfuls of fish and greens with his tie thrown over his shoulder. 

Dean’s worked really hard to erase that resemblance.

He sprinkles the dressing over the plastic box housing his lunch, and digs around for a fork. The paper bag contains a handful of crumpled napkins, but no utensils. 

"Sonofabitch." The empty room has no response to the expletive. 

"Reese!" He bellows before remembering he’s alone in the office due to his own spurt of charity.

He heads to Reese’s desk, remembering she keeps a box of plastic cutlery for emergencies. He tugs open the bottom drawer. 

And freezes, his eyes landing on something that is decidedly not a fork. 

A chorus of angels practically sings a melodious hallelujah chorus at the sight of the gooey, chocolatey, absolutely delectable looking brownie sitting dead in the center of the drawer. It’s wrapped in plastic wrap and sealed with a little smiley face.

Dean’s own smile mirrors the picture. 

He needs this. Deserves it. When was the last time he really let himself enjoy, well, anything? It isn't pie, but he can already taste the rich chocolate melting in his mouth, salivating as he stares at the little square of temptation mocking him from the desk. 

He suppresses a groan thinking about it. The juice cleanse followed by the strict low-carb low-fat low-taste diet may keep his stomach flat and his arteries clear, but it leaves little room for indulgence. 

And today of all days, Dean wants to indulge.

His fingers wrap around the brownie before his brain inevitably starts rationalizing the decision. 

He can pay Reese back for the dessert. She’s out enjoying a feast on his dime anyway. 

He can do the killer workout tomorrow to burn off the calories. It’s Thanksgiving and all that - the ‘normal’ holiday meal he’s missing has twenty times the calories of this small treat.  

Chocolate contains antioxidants. Antioxidants are good for you. This is practically health food.

Instant gratification secured in the transactional history of his brain, Dean digs into the salad with gusto and the plastic fork he ultimately located next to the dessert. As it crunches, he hums appreciatively in anticipation of the brownie at the finish line.

Who needs turkey?

Reese: Harper, are you there? Can you talk?
Reese: Fuck fkuc fuck I am so fired
Reese: I might even be worse than fired.
Reese: Harrrpeeeerrr
Harper: in a meeting, what’s going on. 
Reese: I accidentally drugged Dean. He’s freaking out. 
Harper: Hold on, I’ll call you. Gotta get rid of this guy first.
Harper: How do you accidentally drug your boss? 
Harper: Nevermind, probably shouldn’t put that in writing. Hold on, ducking into an office

Reese is fucked. She is beyond fucked. She is probably going to get arrested. She doesn’t even look good in orange, damn it all to hell.

Her phone trills, Harper’s name blinging on the screen and Reese picks it up mid-ring. 

“Reese?” 

Reese isn’t sure why, but her pulse seems to even out at the tinkling bell of Harper’s voice on the other line

“Ok, don’t judge me.” Reese says slowly, sliding down with her back against the wall of her office to the floor. 

“Brave space, safe space. Got it.” Harper replies, and damn is that soothing. Okay.

“I may have brought an edible to work. I wasn’t going to eat it here.” Reese pauses, fidgeting with the phone. “Okay, maybe I was planning on a tiny bite. I was pissed off that I had to work Thanksgiving.” 

Why does she always feel like she needs to justify herself to this girl?  Reese takes a deep breath.

“Anyway, it was my plan if I ended up stuck here all evening. How was I supposed to know my health nut boss would go digging in my desk, and actually eat the fucking brownie?”

“Slow down.” How does Harper sound so calm? 

“Harper, I. Drugged. Dean.” Reese hisses into the phone. “Practically roofied my boss!”

Harper sighs. “Um, okay. Okay. What’s he doing now?”

“He’s having a freaking panic attack! I told him I would go get him some water.” Reese’s eyes dart to the hallway. “I have no idea what to do.  Fuck, fuck, fuck .”

“Reese, this isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse.” Harper says gently. Then, after a beat:

“Oh!”

Reese frowns at the phone. She can’t tell if it’s a good ‘oh’ or a bad one.  

“You won’t like it, but I have an idea.” Harper murmurs thoughtfully.

Reese peeks back in at Dean. He’s curled up in the corner of his office with his hands pressed against his eyes, breaths hitched and shaky. 

Dean Smith is a powerhouse. The ultimate corporate cog. Until this moment, Reese would have believed it if TMZ revealed he was actually some sort of yuppie robot.

Right now, though? He looks small and scared.

Reese feels a twinge of guilt join the panic of her burgeoning unemployment.  

Seems like there’s a flesh and blood human beneath the exhausting, relentless corporate persona after all.

Hopefully that humanity will remain after she rescues him from this pot brownie spiral.  God, I am so getting canned.

“Reese?” Harper’s voice trills in her ear.

Reese realizes this new vulnerability in Dean is unexpected, but not surprising - after all, she’s seen it in the way he talks about his brother. In the way he insists on picking out presents for all occasions for people at the office, always making sure the candy bowl on the receptionist’s desk is full even though he never touches a single piece himself. 

And look, he’s shitty at saying thank you, or expressing any kind of appreciation with his words, but he shows it in a million different ways. 

Not to mention Dean has never objectified or hit on her (it’s sad that this isn’t just an expectation, but Reese has heard some workplace horror stories through the grapevine). He’s never talked down to her despite being her superior. And though he may not relinquish his control over most of Twitter’s operations, he has certainly never discounted Reese’s work. He’s a good boss, as far as bosses go.

Plus, if she doesn’t do something soon, she’s going to end up with no boss at all.

“Ok, hit me. Whatever it takes.” Reese says with more confidence than she feels.

Harper rushes past empty desks and deserted chairs to throw open the door to Cas’ office. He opens one eye and tilts his head from his seated position on the floor, flicking a speck of dust off his exposed clavicle.

“Sorry, sir,” Harper squeaks, embarrassed. “I have kind of an - emergency. Do you - um, want to put on a shirt?” 

Cas smiles slowly. “What do I keep telling you? It’s not “sir,” it’s ‘ Cas .’” He uncrosses his ankles, rocking up to stand.

“I can certainly put on a shirt if it would help increase your comfort level, but you should know that the human body is not something to be ashamed of.” 

Harper still keeps her eyes on the floor while her boss pulls a faded tank top with “Keep Austin Weird” over his head.

“What’s shaking?”  Cas perches on the top of his desk, stretching one tanned forearm.

Harper blinks, trying to figure out how to save Reese’s job without losing her own. “Sir - erhm, I mean - Cas, I need some help. It’s kind of personal.”

She shifts uncomfortably under Cas’ now curious gaze.  He raises an eyebrow. 

Harper decides to be blunt. “A friend of a friend accidentally ingested too much cannabis.” Her tongue trips over the last word.

Cas squints at her. “So you need to help them come down?”

“Yes, please !” Reese’s voice blares out of Harper’s cell in response. Cas holds his hand out for the phone.

“Hello, mysterious stranger.” Cas greets her. “Tell me about your dear drug-addled friend.”

Harper can barely make out Reese’s babbling in Cas’ ear, but he doesn’t seem too phased by the scenario.

“Mhhmm,” he nods sagely. “Okay. Lucky for you, I can help. Here’s what you’re going to do.”

Dean’s body is on fire, heart beating way too fast inside his chest. Fuck, he hasn’t felt this way in years, all control evaporated and carefully guarded mental walls crumbling into a dizzy pool of quicksand panic.

There’s a reminder in the back of his mind that struggling just makes the sinking faster, but he can’t follow the advice. Mentally he’s thrashing and kicking with all his mind, the choking fear filling his lungs with every movement.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What if he suffocates? What if he has a heart attack? What if they have to call an ambulance and it’s all over Twitter that he’s been hospitalized? What will that mean for the stocks and market? Who will take over when he’s dead? Will anyone even tell Cas? 

Why is he thinking about Cas?

There’s a light touch on his shoulder.

“Okay, Mr. Smith? Um, Dean? Listen to me.” Reese’s voice cuts through the noise.  

“Need you to take a deep breath in and count to four. Then a slow breath out and count to eight. Okay?”

Words aren’t possible yet, but Dean manages a short, tight nod. He hears Reese release the breath she must have been holding. 

“I’m going to do it with you,” she says carefully. “Just concentrate on breathing.”

He takes a deep, shaky inhale. 

One. Two. Three. Four. 

And out. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. 

One. Two. Three. Four. 

And out. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. 

He hears Reese’s footsteps retreat and return, pacing across the floor.

There’s a muffled sound from what must be a phone in the background. Reese says firmly to it in response, “You there? Sorry, I was on mute. I am not doing that.  Dude, he’s my boss!” Some disgruntled back and forth, and then:

“Ugh, okay. Fine.” 

A soft hand starts rubbing the middle of his back, slowly.  

“Please don’t fire me, please don’t fire me, please don’t fire me,” Reese whispers under her measured breaths.

Dean counts in his head, but the voice that does the counting isn’t his own. It’s deeper. Calmer. For a moment, he can almost see the steady blue eyes staring at him. 

The voice murmurs from the sea of his memories, gentle, soothing gravel rolling over his turbulent mind:

“It’s okay. You’re just having a panic attack. Breathe through it - you’re going to be okay.”

A panic attack.  Yeah, that’s gotta be it.  But why?

He hasn’t had a panic attack in months. Dean fights through the fuzziness trying to identify what could have triggered it. 

Fuzziness.  

Dean’s brain suddenly ricochets to that one hit of what he thought was some hand rolled cigarette, drunk as hell at a music festival Cas dragged him to, a mere two days after they met.

Oh my God. 

I’m high. 

The blues of his past dissolve into Reese’s worried green gaze. 

“Sir, is it working? Are you feeling better?” She looks about as together as Dean feels.

He breathes wordlessly for another moment, thoughts still in the past. He can almost feel the prickle of the grass below his feet, Cas’ careful hands on him, itemizing each gulp of air sucked in by Dean’s shuddering lungs.

His mouth covering Dean’s once he’s able to confirm everything’s okay.  

Dean’s shaky voice, filled with pleasant surprise.  Forty-eight hours and I’ve already got you whipped, huh buddy? Must be my perky nipples.

Cas’ teasing laugh fades along with the memory. Dean’s heartbeat is still a little erratic, but he’s finally able to stagger shakily to his feet.  

Reese is a deer in headlights, phone lit up in her hand. Dean looks at it pointedly. She follows his stare and quickly shoves it in her pocket.

“I think you’re fine now,” she says, and Dean winces at the loudness of her tone.  

“Was that necessary?” he asks, rubbing his temples. He can’t tell if he’s more discombobulated by the panic attack that just happened, or the memory of the other one.

Either way, he needs some R-and-R.

“Reese, I think I’m going to head home for the day,” He decides, resolving to pick up some pie on the way. 

Maybe a pizza. And some jerky.

Juice cleanse be damned. 

Reese blinks at him in confusion. 

“You should leave, too.” Dean adds, grabbing his jacket and walking towards the door.

“Oh and Reese?” He calls over his shoulder. “You can keep the change from lunch. It should cover the brownie I may have...borrowed from your desk.”

He chuckles under his breath as Reese loosens a whispered curse.

“Even if it was slightly more expensive than your average coffee shop treat, I say we still call it even.” He pauses a beat before concluding with:

“See you Monday. Please leave the dessert at home.”

He turns and walks towards the elevators leaving a stunned but grateful Reese behind. 

“I think you’re fine now.” Reese’s voice rings out pointedly from the phone and though it’s not directed at him, Cas takes the cue and hangs it up.

He drags a hand through his hair, eyes growing somber as they drift to the calendar on his wall. They freeze on the date.

“Harper. It’s Thanksgiving.”

Harper stares at him. “Yes, sir - Cas. It is.”  

He frowns. “Why are you even here today? Go home!” He hands the phone back to her, simultaneously ushering her out the door over her stuttering protests.

Once he’s alone, Cas stares out the window quietly, the glittering lights below turning into twin emeralds, full of fear and pain. The good deed he’s just performed is apparently not going unpunished, because walking Harper’s mystery friend through the relaxation technique is sending Cas straight back to memories he’d rather not relive.

He remembers the first time he found Dean curled up on the floor. 

Cas had almost called an ambulance before he recognized the look in Dean’s eyes - same symptoms from when he got unintentionally stoned at the music festival a few months prior.  

Sixty-seven days and four hours to be exact, the total amount of time Dean had neglected to mention these moments of pain were a regular, not-just-weed-induced occurrence.  

Sorry , between choking breaths.  Don’t be mad at me, man.

I’m not mad. Just breathe. Don’t think about me. Breathe.

Dean had looked up at Cas like he was a mythical creature, gratitude and surprise in his gradually clearing eyes. Cas wondered then how many times he had done this alone.

So many monsters go bump in Dean’s mind, and Cas would have done anything to smite them, to reduce them to atoms. 

Cas closes his eyes. He wishes…

It doesn’t matter now. 

Wherever Dean is, he isn’t Cas’ responsibility anymore. Still, he nurtures a small kernel of hope that Dean has someone else to hold him when things get bad, trusting at least one other person with the parts he hides even from Sam.

It hurts Cas to think about it - the idea of Dean, happy with someone that’s not him. But Dean realizing that good things do happen?

That notion is worth any pain Cas may harbor. 

Enough.

Cas turns and walks towards the door, shaking off his melancholy. 

He has a joint waiting for him at home. 

Time to fly.

Reese: It worked. Thank God. 
Harper: Everyone’s okay then?
Reese: Yeah. And GET THIS!!! 
Reese: He totally figured out what happened and we’re cool? He even told me to head home.
Harper: I’m off work too! I don’t remember the last time I left while the sun was out.
Reese: Ohh, any big plans?
Harper: I’ll probably just get some takeout.
Reese: That’s no fun. It’s Thanksgiving.
Harper: My folks live out of town 
Reese: Wanna go to a friendsgiving party? They’re probably done with the main meal but there should be plenty of booze and leftovers.
Harper: I shouldn’t. I have work in the morning.
Reese: Come on. It’s about time we actually met in person, aren’t I supposed to be your mentor or some shit? 
Reese:  I promise I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to. 
Reese: Harper? That was a joke. I won’t bite you. 
Harper: ok
Reese: to the party or to the biting?
Harper: OMG STOP! To the party. Ok. Send me the address.

Harper stares at the small, squat house she’s been parked in front of for fifteen minutes now. 

Get it together, Sayles.  She’s got nothing to be scared of. It’s Reese. They’re friends. She literally just helped her talk her boss through an anxiety attack. She won’t bite. She promised (unless Harper asks her to, which Harper refuses to think about).

Just go up to the door and knock. Instead, Harper checks the address on her phone, again. 

Yup, it’s still the address on the mailbox in front of her.  She gathers her courage and gets out of the car.

Harper walks up to the door with wobbly steps, and - failing to locate a doorbell, raises her hand to knock. Before she can make contact, it flings open. 

A startled, sandy-haired man stares at her. He’s wearing rainbow suspenders, two cheerful paths running up the sides of his body.

Something about them makes Harper want to smile, but she doesn’t give in to the urge.

“Oh, hello. I was just coming out to…” he gestures to a cigarette in his hand. “Bad habit, but we all need a vice, right?”  He chuckles self-assuredly. “You must be Reesey’s friend.”

Reesey?   

The man is fumbling for a lighter in his pocket. Harper smiles uncertainly. “Yeah, I think that’s me.” 

“You think it’s you?” The man grins at her. “How very existential.”

He hops up on the bannister of the porch, bouncing his legs in the air. “Sully.” He says around the cigarette now placed firmly in his teeth. 

There’s a flash as he lights it, taking a drag with pleasure before continuing:

“How do you know Reesey?” 

Harper tries to wave the smoke away discreetly. “Um, she’s sort of a mentor of mine. We met through work. Well, we ‘met’ via email.”  God, did she just do Cas’ stupid finger quotes?  

“We haven’t actually met in person.” She finishes, cringing at her awkward rambling 

Sully seems unphased.

“Cool. She’s in the kitchen getting food,” he gestures inside with the butt of his cigarette, flicking a small bit of ash on the ground. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa, su casa, and all that jazz.” 

His warmth eases Harper’s nerves, and her step is lighter as she walks through the door.

The living room is chaos incarnate. 

Harper weaves her way through what seems to be a gaggle of people in various states of inebriation who have made very specific fashion choices. 

A man with blue hair and eyelids dusted generously with glitter eyeshadow is handing out pink, sparkly shots with reckless abandon. The concoction looks like a hangover in a glass. Harper glimpses a unicorn shirt peeking out from under his fluffy fur coat as she ducks under his arm to get by.

A blonde woman with a flower crown is splayed across the couch, dreamily singing along to “Jolene” by Dolly Parton. 

She notices Harper and gives her a pleasant smile. Harper attempts a smile back. 

She quickly darts her eyes away when she realizes the woman is clothed in only a green patterned skirt and her bra. 

The hot flush on Harper’s neck at the sight of the generous curves spilling out over the cups is not something she can handle stone cold sober.

The bright, well-lit kitchen shines like a beacon, and Harper directs her feet to its homing light, scanning the room for Reese. 

She suddenly realizes she’s looking for someone whose face is a literal blank.  She curses herself for not doing at least a little bit of internet stalking beforehand, not that she’d likely find anything. If there’s one thing social media professionals know, it’s how to adjust their privacy settings.

The tangle of nerves resumes its incessant churn in the pit of Harper’s stomach.  

She repeats the little mental litany in her head.  This is Reese . We’re friends, sort of . May really want to murder Misha Collins. Probably won't bite me though . Questionable taste in desserts appropriate for the workplace .

Harper steps through the door to the kitchen, and suddenly the spinny nervous feeling is replaced by the sensation of air punched out of her lungs.

She is standing behind an island, scooping creamy mac and cheese onto a plate.

It was only a quick glimpse, but her features are burned into Harper’s mind like an indelible brand, and there’s no mistaking that it’s her.

The woman from the bar. 

The one who shows up in her dreams at least once a week.

Harper gulps, eyes darting around for a corner to hide in. What is she doing here? 

The memory of soft lips and firm, cool hands beats against Harper’s bewildered brain, a moth against a porchlight.

How many minutes has Harper spent reliving that night, berating herself for not running after the person currently standing in front of her. Imagining a different outcome, Harper bravely grabbing her arm, pulling her in.  

Taking what she wanted.

But Harper’s not that girl. She never has been.

The woman looks up and freezes, her eyes growing wider as they lock on Harper.

Harper blinks dazedly. That green is even more vibrant than what she remembered.

Say something. Anything. 

Unfortunately, speech requires some form of oxygen, and Harper’s lungs seem to have forgotten their biological function.

The woman smiles slowly, her eyes still trained on hers. She sets her plate down on the island, balancing the serving spoon on the tray. "Hey." 

Harper’s chest flutters, and the movement is enough to facilitate an actual breath. 

“Hey.” she squeaks out. 

For a moment, Harper’s imagination runs away to some magical place of recklessness and courage, and in her mind she’s walking up to this creature and kissing her. She looks around the kitchen and confirms they are alone.

Reality comes crashing back as she realizes she’s heard this voice before.

Just this morning actually, though it had a more panicked tone on the other end of her cell.

Oh, crap.

Harper feels color creep into her face. “Reese?” she asks uncertainly.

Something flashes behind Reese’s eyes. She tilts her head and takes in Harper for a moment. Then she grins broadly. “Harper. It’s good to meet you in person.”

Oh. 

Reese doesn’t even remember her. Harper can’t decide if she’s relieved or disappointed.

It makes sense though. Reese has probably kissed tons of girls and it isn’t like Harper is particularly memorable. Well, it’s better that way, right? It isn’t like she can date her mentor. It would be unprofessional. And Harper always keeps things professional. 

Right. No dating. For professional reasons. 

Besides, she is just fine in here hiding in the closet where nobody can see her.

“Hey,” Reese’s voice jolts Harper out of her self-deprecating musings. “Um,” she scuffs a toe across the floor. “Thank you for today,” she says quietly. “You kinda saved my ass.”

Harper does not immediately try to get an angled look at the ass in question.

“You’re welcome,” she says, pointing her disobedient eyes at the food. “Is that any good?”

Reese beams, “Any good?! Get over here. I made this myself, and have already been awarded ten Michelin Stars. By - also myself.” She ladles a heaping spoonful on the plate.  

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Reese tamps down on her panic, trying to cover it with bravado. Of course she got spring-break-girls-gone-wild-wasted one freaking time and it turns out the cute girl she kissed is Harper. 

They’re ensconced at a small table in the corner of the kitchen. Harper’s leg presses up against Reese’s, and her brain is immediately close to short-circuiting, all synapses failing to spark. 

Mayday, mayday. Going down.

Dammit. Harper is every bit as beautiful as Reese remembers. 

And wasted or not, Reese has every detail of that night committed to memory. 

Harper walking into the bar, practically radiating. Reese’s eyes immediately on her like she’s some otherworldly creature she didn’t even know existed until that very moment.

Granted, Reese thinks as she takes careful bites of roasted asparagus and mashed potatoes, it’s kinda hard to believe Harper exists now.  

This is pointless, anyway.

Harper wasn’t even drunk, so Reese can't blame her lack of reaction on chemically induced amnesia. It’s very clear she’s just not interested. 

Also Reese has some doubts that drugging one’s boss is indicative of being a great catch.

Yeah, Reese is just gonna...pretend this never happened. They don’t need to talk about it. 

Mercifully, Harper hasn’t mentioned the kiss, and Reese sure as hell isn’t going to bring her slip-the-tongue-and-run crimes up unprovoked.

No self-incrimination here, your Honor.  

Reese looks down at her plate, trying to distract herself through her stomach. She pops a bit of gooey, melty mac and cheese into her mouth, savoring the way the cheese sticks to her tongue. She took special care seasoning it this time around, and the spice of the garlic accentuates the sharpness of the cheddar. A little bit of the cheese sauce drops to the side of her chin, and Reese instinctively sticks out her tongue to scoop it back into her mouth.  

Suddenly, she feels like she’s being watched.

Very intently watched. She looks up to meet Harper’s eyes.

“Whatcha thinkin’?” Reese asks.

Harper swallows. “Your hair is nice,” she stammers out. 

Reese blinks at her for a second. Huh? 

“Um, I meant about the food.” she clarifies.

Harper flushes, looking at her plate. Her smile is a little shy, and Reese’s heart skips a beat. “It’s way better than the takeout I was going to grab on the way home. Thank you.”

Reese feels herself settle into a goofy grin. A cheer filters in from the other room. “Cool. Sorry if this party’s kind of a lot? I know my friends are a bit, um - fantastical.”

Harper shakes her head. “They seem great. Everyone was super welcoming.” 

Reese feels a little happy tingle in her chest. “Ah, well, this is Thanksgiving for the misfit toys.”

Harper laughs at that. “I loved that movie when I was a kid. How do you know Sully?” 

Reese’s chest squeezes tighter, the nice feeling wiped away. “He was my sister’s best friend.” She looks away.  

She’s not sure if Harper notices her discomfort, but she definitely doesn’t push, and for that Reese is grateful.

She decides to bring the happy back to the room, forcing a smile on her face and shoving the bubble of sadness down. That feeling is for later, best served alongside a shot of whiskey and delved into alone. 

Reese sets down her plate, shooting Harper a bravado-filled wink.

“Come on, let me introduce you around.”

The first thing Reese hears when she returns from the bathroom is her friends literally giving Harper the tenth degree.

“So you really like the show?” Sully presses, piqued with curiosity. 

Harper nods. “It was there for me when I needed it. Look, Supernatural isn’t perfect, but there are some really great episodes. Plus! The online community is unparalleled.”

“Hey, there are some excellent academic articles out there on ‘ theeeeee ’ show.” Reese does actual exaggerated finger quotes as she slides into the circle of people, elbowing Harper and telling herself that she isn’t just using it as an excuse for more contact. “Besides, our Harper here is a giant nerd.” 

She pauses, slightly concerned she may have gone too far with friendly teasing on the first date.

Wait, not date.

First, um. Group hang. There isn’t going to be a date, get it together Harris you’re gonna embarrass yourself you fucking dumbass .

Reese’s carousel of self-immolation is interrupted when Harper lets out a giant laugh that suddenly explodes into a snort. 

She covers her mouth, flushing beet red. This just makes them all laugh harder, and Harper gives a good-natured shrug of her shoulders and joins in. 

Yeah. This girl is the fucking unicorn in the glass menagerie, and you need to stay away so you don’t smash her.  Reese pulls herself back just slightly, tucking her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

A delicate fist punches her on the shoulder.

Harper is smiling at her playfully. “I may be a nerd, but at least I didn’t almost cause a collapse of the international political arena by associating Destiel with Putin and the American election.”

Sully’s bellow of laughter could shatter a window.  

“Ouch!”

Maybe Reese kicked him a little harder than she intended to.

“Low blow, Harper.” Reese says dryly. She shrugs it off. “It’s not my fault that Twitter lost its damn mind over that show.” 

Harper takes a sip of her drink, and Reese notices that her cheeks are slightly flushed from its contents.  

Well, Sparkles’ hunch punch certainly doesn’t mess around. 

The combination of powdered lemonade, vodka, and sprite is practically lethal to a full grown man. Harper’s got zero chance.

“Um, Harp?” Reese peers at her glassy eyes. “How many of those did you have?”  

“My fird.” Harper declares proudly, thrusting the arm holding the cup to the ceiling like some sort of blonde, doe-eyed Statue of Liberty. Reese shoots Sully a Look, and he shrugs, feigning innocence.

An errant strand of hair falls in Harper’s face.

Reese clutches her wayward, wandering hand to keep from brushing it away. 

Harper refills her cup.   

“Besides,” she sighs, a little dreamy. “It's the greatest love story ever told. A faithless man finds faith in a fallen angel who defies heaven to be with him?!” She takes a big gulp before continuing, the pitch of her voice careening louder and one arm gesticulating wildly. 

“They fight apocalypses! God himself?!”

She hiccups so violently that it jerks her body to the side and she almost knocks over a floor lamp nearby. Reese catches it just in time, gently untangling the cup from Harper’s fingers.

“Okay, kid,” she murmurs with a small smile. “Why don’t we get some dessert? Maybe a little water, too.”

Harper hiccups again, letting Reese guide her away by the elbow.

She sighs wistfully. 

“Would have been nice if they let the poor guys kiss though.”

Reese wipes down the last casserole dish. Harper’s long gone, poured into an Uber with reassurances from Reese that her car won't get towed overnight.

Reese tries to keep her eyes off her phone, which hasn’t yet lit up with the “hey made it home” text Harper swore she’d send as soon as she walked through her front door.

“Awwww, Reesey.” Sully’s voice is teasing.

Reese glares at him sullenly. “You guys should not have given her all of that Sparkle Rainbow Special.”

Sully winks, leaning against the door frame. “She looked like someone that needed a rainbow or two to brighten up her day.”

Reese rolls up the dish towel, snapping it with a quick ‘pop.’ Sully recognizes the warning, backing up slightly.

“Hey, hey. Easy now.” He cocks his head a little with a twinkle in his eye.

Reese ignores him, distracted by her phone again. The screen is still dark and text-less.

Harper, what the hell?

Sully follows her gaze to the counter. He raises an eyebrow. “I was right, huh.”

Reese knows by his tone exactly where this shit is going. She glares at him.  

He doesn’t take the hint.

“Uh-oh Reeseyyyyyy. You like her. You think she’s prettyyyy . You wanna kisssss her.” Sully starts sashaying his hips around the kitchen like some absurd hula dancing suspender sporting ass-butt, whose derriere Reese is definitely about to send sailing into outer space.

“Sullivan Zan, you better watch yourself and your dumb ass,” she mutters. “This kitchen is fully stocked with vodka, rags, and lighter fluid. Do not make me molotov-cocktail you all the way to super-hell.”

Sully backs up just a smidge more, but then blows her a cocky air kiss. “Hey. Don’t blame a guy for being excited that his bestie is actually happy about someone for once.”  

Reese’s eyes dart to him. Sully’s face is earnest.

His features grow more serious. “If you like this girl, go get her. You’re a catch - okay, babe?”

Reese’s shoulders sag. “I dunno,” she mutters. Sully looks at her for a beat, then closes the distance between them in four short strides, wrapping her in a bear hug that smells like cinnamon and a soft touch of ash from his chain-smoking habit.

“You are a damn fucking treasure, Reese Harris,” he says into the side of her head. “If you ever forget that, I will absolutely force you to watch every episode of Walker unironically. Do you understand?”

Reese tries to laugh, but her shoulders are still a little tense.

Harper should have answered by now.

Reese’s phone vibrates like its ears are burning.

Sully releases her so she can grab it.  

Harper: Made it home! Thanks for everything. 
Harper: NIGYT 

Reese breathes out an exhale of relief. She looks up, meeting Sully’s eyes.

He doesn’t make any jokes, and okay, he can have a few rights back for that.

What he does do is say, quietly:

“You know, you should watch Supernatural. Work reasons and all. And it’s...fun to talk about.” He rummages around in a kitchen cabinet. “A moment.”

Reese crosses her arms in retort, but before she can muster even one venomous syllable, Sully plants a wet smooch on her cheek, shoving a tupperware of bootlegged DVDs in her hands.

‘Pirated by my Russian coworker Sergei,” he says, grinning. “Just try it. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Harper: What was in that punch?
Reese: Pure grain alcohol and bad decisions
Harper: Oh God, was I a mess? I didn’t think I was a mess
Reese: Kidding! I’m kidding. You were fine
Harper: I’m not fine now. I haven’t been this hungover in possibly forever
Reese: Water, ibuprofen and something greasy. 
Harper: I know. I’m gonna grab breakfast tacos on the way to work
Reese: Mmm tacos. Good choice. Pretty sure they were invented to counteract tequila
Harper: Reeeeese please don’t say that word right now. Ugh
Harper: Was the rest of your night good? Sorry to bail on you
Reese: nah, it was good. I made it home at a decent hour and had a quiet night. Just watched some TV. 
Reese: I’d better get ready. Hopefully Dean is in a good mood and substantially less high.

Chapter Text

Dec 18, 2020

Reese: I’m gonna kill that man. I’m gonna kill him
Harper: Is this still about the Misha wants to bang Bill Clinton thing, because tumblr is a mess
Reese: Harper, he posted and tagged Bill Clinton and Newsweek! Help
Harper: the man is chaos, what can I say?
Reese: Do you know I had to write a blurb the other day explaining that Misha Collins was trending with Bill Clinton FOR SEX REASONS
Reese: I mean, what do I even do with that?
Reese: This is not what I signed up for
Harper: Isn’t it, though? 
Reese: that man is a menace
Harper: at least he mostly uses it for good. I believe it was you who said that
Reese: Yeah, yeah
Reese: Still gonna kill him, but maybe I will make it quick
Harper: I believe there is a line. You may want to bring snacks and a good book.

Dean’s gaze drifts over the banquet hall, examining every detail with calculated precision.  

Not too fucking shabby.

Yeah, actually - he’s absolutely outdone himself. The dark green tablecloths are covered with shining silver platters piled with food, his own mouth salivating over the tender scallops encased in ribbons of perfectly crisp bacon that beckon to him with their unholy calorie-laden siren’s song.

The tiny sliders, juicy patties of grass-fed ground beef tucked into the soft, pillowy bodies of fresh baked buns join in, the scent summoning the growl of his stomach.

He pulls his eyes - and nose - away from the saturated-fat apocalypse, assessing the clusters of white balloons floating on the ceiling instead. Silver streamers dangle from their knotted ends, streaking above like the shooting stars.

Dean is vaguely reminded of a painting he saw a few years ago.

“It’s like angels falling,” Cas’ voice whispers in his mind. Dean is swiftly accosted by the memory of his blue eyes, pupils dilated wide with appreciation for the artist’s rendition of dazzling pinpoints of light, burning brighter as they plummet to the earth below.

Dean frowns. Maybe he should replace the balloons. 

He pulls out his phone to send Reese a text, but the lively strain of music that bursts forth from the left-hand corner of the room distracts him.

The string quartet is warming up with a rousing rendition of “Flight of the Bumblebee,” and the last thing Dean needs weighing down his already ‘fucked-up-because-it’s-the-goddamned-holidays” brain is the notes of Cas’ favorite classical piece.

“That’s not even holiday themed!” he barks, waving his hands at the violinist.

A soft touch at his elbow pulls him from his trajectory of destruction.

“Dean Smith. Hadn’t heard from you in so damn long, thought you were dead.” The man’s smile is open and warm, the purple contacts in his eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

Dean immediately feels his tension dissipate. “Didn’t take,” he chuckles, pulling the guest into a hug. “Besides, you’d be the one writing my eulogy, Mr. Warlock of the Westside. How are you, Max?”

“Careful, careful, watch the suit!” Max’s warning is edged in good cheer as he smooths the rich violet velvet of his lapels. “I wouldn’t think you’d want a funeral tainted with my deplorable dark practices.”

Dean grins. “Listen, I didn’t say you’d be reading the eulogy. That’s expressly reserved for Gary Busey while the Sabbath cover band plays somberly behind him.” He claps Max on the shoulder amicably.

“Besides, it was one stupid bible-beating critic. We all know the real witchcraft you practice is making half of this city fall madly in love with you. You locked down that special someone yet, Mr. Banes?” Dean’s voice is teasing.

Max’s gorgeous lips tug up into a smile. “Not unless you’re offering, Mr. Most Eligible Bachelor.” He winks.

A flush creeps up Dean’s neck, tickling its earlobes with hot prickles of embarrassment.  “Oh, fuck. That stupid page 6 article, I swear I had no idea they were doing that.”

Max raises a well-manicured brow, face growing more serious. “Well, it sure was hell of a way to find out.” He pauses, then says carefully, “About you and Cas.”

“Um, yeah. Sorry.” Dean stumbles over the word. He takes a breath, reaching for his reserves of unassuming charm. “I was going to make it trend on the bird site, but you know how page 6 is. The devil works faster, and all that.” He bumps Max’s elbow with sass. 

Max looks at him quietly for a moment, then nods. “Smith, you know I’m around. If you - need to chat.”

Dean swallows the lump rising in his throat, pulling his mouth into a sunny smile. “Mmmhm, sure. Appears you’ve forgotten that I am powerfully warded against your witchy ways.” He gestures grandly around the room.  

“But there should be plenty of prey for you to stalk tonight.” He winks, clapping Max on the shoulder. “Enjoy the party.”

Max’s mouth twists briefly. He sighs. “Okay, old friend. But I’m checking in later.”

Dean puffs out his chest. “No need. I’ll be the one giving the grand speech at the podium, front and center for you to feast your eyes upon. Say it with me. You know it’s true.”

Max’s expression relaxes. “What, that you think you’re adorable?” He laughs. “Some things never change.”  

A tall, pretty woman with short brown hair waves at them from behind a platter of roast chicken. Max glances at Dean.  

“Go ahead,” Dean says, fumbling in his pocket for his notes. His own comment about the upcoming speech has lit the fuse of anxiety in his stomach. He needs to practice. “Tell Jody I’ll catch up with her later.”  

Dean ducks down the hall into a corner, almost bowling over the leggy blonde cheerfully leaning against the wall and practically making out with a jelly donut. “Dean Smith!” She squeals, yanking him into a bear hug.

He dusts the powdered sugar off of his lapel, but it doesn’t wipe the smile from his face.  

“Donna! Did you bring your own food to a holiday party?” He frowns at the small paper bag in her hand.

She opens it with a wink. “I know how you are Deano. Couldn’t risk the chance of it just being rabbit food and oat milk, since that’s all you live on these days.” Donna’s eyes darken with concern as she looks him over.

“How’re ya doing, honey?”  

Dean knows she’s talking about the pounds he’s recently shed, even though she’s way too polite to say it. He laughs it off, shoving the increasing waves of hot emotion rolling across his skin away.

“Trust me, you won’t be complaining about the food. Though if I had a metabolism like yours, I’d carry a bag of donuts with me wherever I went, too.”

Donna rolls her eyes affectionately, shaking the brown paper rectangle at him. “Metabolism.  I just eat what I love. Love can’t steer you wrong, friend. You want?”

For a minute Dean thinks she’s not asking him about donuts, and something hard and metal clamps down on his chest. He takes a quick breath, and shakes his head.

“No, no. All yours.” He pauses to think of a distraction.

“Jody’s already here,” he mentions. Donna’s eyes light up like roman candles.  

“Oh, terrific! I’ll catch you later, Deano. Great party!”  

“You haven’t even seen inside yet,” Dean calls to her back, laughing a little as she races towards the entrance merrily.

“I’m sure I’ll love it anyway!” Donna’s voice is the tinkling of windchimes bouncing on the ceiling.

The small bubble of joy that always surrounds her disappears along with her receding form, and Dean is left alone with his notes and his nerves.

He sinks down to the floor, reading over the bullet points he’s penned on the neat lines of folded notebook paper, so focused on his preparations that he doesn’t hear the click of footsteps racing down the hall.

It’s an absolute surprise when Reese literally trips over him, one heel smacking him square in the jaw as she tumbles to the ground.

Reese swears she hasn’t always been this clumsy. She was just so preoccupied with the glistening honey glaze gliding over the top of the holiday ham, luscious marbled slices spiraling from its bone-in middle, that she spooned the cranberry relish directly into the v-neck of her blouse instead of on the plate.

Okay, and maybe she’d had one more champagne cocktail than initially intended.

It’s not Reese’s fault! No one ever freaking told her the fancy champagne tasted like literal stars fizzing down her throat, tickling her insides with golden sparkles of joy.

Now there’s goo in her bra, and the head of sales is looking her way like he’s about to come over and make small talk.

If anyone’s going to notice the globs of jellied red goo in her cleavage, not to mention her state of slight- swear, really really slight - inebriation, it’ll be Brady. That asshole will make it a running joke for a week, too.

Reese quickly turns on her wobbling heel and makes a run for the door, swiping the bottle of club soda from the bar on her way out.

She sees Brady spot her and doubles her speed.

The tempo of her feet combined with the mental calisthenics of trying to remember the appropriate procedure for the removal of holiday condiments is the perfect storm.

Reese shouldn’t be surprised when it leads to the thunderous culmination of nearly winding up in her boss’s lap after impaling the side of his face with her shoe.

“Shit,” Reese says without thinking, then claps a hand over her mouth.  

“Sorry. That was unprofessional,” she says quickly, rocking herself up from the floor. This proves easier said than done in the stupid, stupid shoes she never should have worn tonight, and she tumbles back down with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

The crimson ooze in her bra burbles in mocking amusement. She frowns at her cleavage.

She should absolutely not be looking at her cleavage in front of her boss, actually.

Reese pulls her chin back up to look at Dean instead.

His face isn’t angry. Is he laughing? Reese squints at him with confusion, the champagne bubbles still bouncing around in her skull.

All of this bottled-up-joy is making her head just a little fuzzy.

“Reese, it’s a party,” Dean murmurs. He’s holding a few sheets of notebook paper in his hands. Reese tries to remember the last time she saw Dean write anything by hand.  

His voice drags her focus back. “Besides we’re both cross-legged in the middle of the hallway. I think at this point we can be a little less formal.” He raises an eyebrow, and Reese is suddenly struck by how hollowed-out his cheeks appear.

She frowns, remembering the weird behavior a few weeks ago when he stomped into his office without a word.

Before she can decide if this is an appropriate time to bring it up, Dean’s eyes go to the plastic bottle bubbling in her hand.  

“Spill something?”  

Reese’s cheeks flush slightly. “Uh, yeah.  Cranberry relish.” She gestures in the general direction of her chest.

Nope, nope, nope. No chest. Boss. Nope.

She drops her hand to her side. “Just gotta scrub it out,” she finishes ruefully.

Dean’s eyebrows nudge together with horror. “Scrub? Reese, no. Blot. You have to blot. Do you want me to show you?”

The horrific thought of her boss blotting the inside of her bra has Reese’s ears redder than the relish that’s sticking to her skin. “Nope!” she says brightly, searching for a change of subject. Her legs still feel too jello-like to attempt an exit. 

“What’s all that?” She gestures to the papers.  

Dean looks down at them shyly. “Just my notes. For the speech tonight.” He sighs, gaze drifting back towards the cheerful hum of the party. “Ha, funny. Always wanted something like this as a kid, and now that it’s here I’m having trouble coming up with the words to express it.”

Reese frowns. “You’ve....always dreamed of a nondenominational holiday work function?”

Dean snorts. “Just didn’t have a lot of people around during the holidays, usually.” He doesn’t elaborate further, dusting off his knees like he’s getting up to leave.

Reese isn’t sure if it’s the champagne or the memory of Dean’s pinched face in the office, but she blurts out, “me neither,” immediately regretting it.

Dean stares at her with curiosity. He settles his back against the wall as if he’s waiting for her to continue.

Reese swallows. Never drinking champagne again.

“I have a twin sister,” she mumbles, looking at the points of her infuriating shoes. “Had. She died,” she says, waiting for it. The resulting gasp of ‘empathy,’ the wringing of hands and pitying stare.  

“I’m sorry about that,” is all Dean says, softly. She looks up at his face, finding no pity - only warmth and the encouragement to keep talking.

“Thanks,” Reese says, meaning it. “Anyway - after that, Dad disappeared into work and mom fell into a bottle of painkillers. Didn’t make for the best holiday seasons.” She falls quiet, picking at a little fleck of glitter on her skirt. It sparkles against the black leather, and she lets its shine distract her from the lump she’s pushing back down her throat.

Dean tucks both knees to his chest in a surprisingly childlike gesture. “I lost someone when I was young too,” he offers. “My mom.”

“Oh, fuck. Sorry.” Why do the curse words keep tumbling out?  

Dean chuckles a little. “That’s actually the best response I’ve had to that little piece of my history. Most people just ‘poor baby’ me until I’m blue in the face and running for the door. Or even worse, they tell me it was all part of ‘God’s’ plan.” 

Reese nods, yup. She gets it.

“Dad wasn’t around much. He had...a very specific way of mourning her. One that he found at the bottom of a bottle.” Dean’s eyes grow dark for a moment, but he quickly shrugs off the serious look. “So yeah - we weren’t exactly the caroling and cocoa kind of family.”

Reese looks at him for a beat. It’s weird, this knowledge of her boss as a human, real-life person. “How about now?” She asks carefully.

Dean’s lips stretch into a small, wistful smile. “Hah. Well, my ex loved it, all of the whoop-dee-doo and trimmings. He’d make us get a tree and everything, and always a real one.” Dean’s voice goes lower in an impression as he loses himself in the memory.

“Acrylic? The horror. One plastic needle and I’ll make you pay for your crimes!” He laughs a little, and suddenly it’s like looking at a different person. Dean’s shining bright as tinsel, his expression open and easy. “He’d spend hours rearranging the ornaments, we even had this angel topper.”

Reese is tickled by the idea of Dean hanging ornaments on a holiday tree.  “Gold wings and all?”

Dean looks a little embarrassed.  “Actually, it was...okay, it’s weird but it was this guy in a trenchcoat.  From that show…”

“Supernatural?”  This damn television show is fucking everywhere.

Dean dips his chin in acknowledgment. “Yeah. It was kind of our thing. Anyway - I bitched about all the hoop-la but it was always kinda nice.” He frowns in Reese’s direction.  “If you ever meet him, you better not rat me out.”

Reese smiles wryly. “Secret’s safe with me, sir.” 

An idea strikes her. "You know, if you wanted some decorations, I could probably help." 

The arch of his eyebrows shooting up in surprise forces a laugh from her. "Not me! I have a friend who does holiday decorating. Barb Butters. She can do anything from some tasteful, subtle holly and garland to making it look like an elf puked all over your house."

It's Dean’s turn to chuckle. "A puking elf, eh? What if I want something whimsical? What if I want to feel like the King of the Fairies?"

Reese levels a flat, dry look at him. "Sir, your personal life is none of my business."

He throws his head back in laughter and she breaks, joining in. It feels good to laugh. She hasn't laughed like this in a long time.

Reese peers down the street through the window thinking she sees movement on the side of a building. She squints trying to make it out.

"You know, it wouldn't be so bad to have a tree again." The quiet confession pulls at Reese and the movement is forgotten. 

She wonders how the lonely little boy Dean described turned into the polished man who rules the boardroom. She wonders if he’s still lonely.

God, that's enough sad holiday shit.

"I'll set it up. Just a tree and some basics. No fairies or elves."

Dean snorts. They settle into a comfortable silence. Well, Reese is comfortable. Dean is staring at his notes looking mildly panicked.

"What about you?" He asks suddenly, looking up from the speech.

"Me?" 

"Yeah, you Reese. You have any plans, with magical holiday creatures - or dare I say actual humans?"

She stares at him flatly, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "No, see. I work for Scrooge and he makes me come into the office on holidays instead of feeding my poor child, Tiny Tim."

Dean runs his hands over his face. "Shit, Reese. I'm sorry. Look, if you need me to approve leave…”

Nope. Not doing that. Reese sighs. "Dean, it was a joke. As I said, I don't have much family to speak of. I'll do a dinner and a gift exchange with friends who, now that I mention it, probably do resemble a feral band of elves and fairies."

Dean's tired smile shows a small measure of relief. "Got it, but take some time off. Okay? Just because I don't leave the office doesn't mean you should have to do the same.” He pauses, and Reese has a sneaking suspicion he’s trying to think of a hip way to say whatever is coming next.

Her hunch is validated as Dean states winningly:

“Go touch some grass. Make a pie, or whatever it is you kids do these days."

Reese fights the temptation to laugh. He looks so damn sincere. "Okay, boss. I promise to take some time for pie and grass." 

She hears it as it comes out of her mouth and flinches, remembering a certain brownie. To her surprise, Dean’s face remains warm.

"Yeah, yeah. Just maybe don't combine the two. At least not at the office."

A flush of embarrassment prickles at the back of Reese’s neck while she searches for the appropriate words for: ‘I'm sorry I inadvertently drugged you during the last major U.S. holiday.’ 

She's pretty sure Hallmark doesn't make a card for this. 

"Sir…”

He holds up his hand. "Reese, I am sure it is difficult to imagine, but I was also young once. Consider it a holiday gift to me not to apologize. Let us never speak of it again."

She feels herself nod vigorously. 

"Come on. We both seem dangerously close to getting sentimental, and I need at least two more drinks before I get up in front of everyone." 

He opens the door and she steps in.

"Hey, Dean?" He looks at her expectantly. She wants to ask him if he's okay. Actually okay. But she knows she has gotten as much insight as she is going to get tonight. 

"You’re gonna do great. And if it starts to go downhill, I've got your back. I can start a fire or pretend to pass out. Ooh, maybe the second one because then I can go home and get out of these heels."

He smiles sincerely. "Thanks for having my back, Reese."

Reese salutes him with two fingers at the temple. "Anytime, sir." 

The glow of the moon reflects mockingly on the dark screen of Cas’ dead phone.  He sighs, tucking the joint he’d come out to enjoy behind his ear.

He balances precariously on the fire escape and regards his nemesis while assessing his battlefield options.

The window that was his route out here stares mockingly at him like it knows it's already won the war. As soon as he heard it slam shut, he knew that he was in trouble. No amount of pulling or tugging will get it to budge more than a few inches.

The door at the end of the balcony is still, silent, and resoundingly locked. 

Cas wiggles uncomfortably, looking around for some means of escape. While he may enjoy heights, his appreciation doesn’t extend to tiny iron ladders composed of what appear to be rusted hinges and a standing platform on which Cas can scarcely fit the entirety of his left ass cheek.

He perches on the railing instead, fervently willing it not to give out underneath him.  

Think, Novak.

Unfortunately, with the joint half-smoked, this task also proves to be less fruitful than Cas intended.  

The strains of "Angels We Have Heard on High" drifts through the air from a nearby open shop window. Cas hums along to a few bars.

He fiddles with his lighter, thinking maybe finishing his extracurricular activity is the correct approach. Perhaps Cas, too, can ascend to the heavenly gates and perceive the divine. 

For a moment he freezes when he hears the rustle of flapping wings.

Something soft and wet lands on his shoulder.

Shit.

Literal, even.

Cas brandishes a fist towards the insouciant bastard soaring off into the stars, then looks back to see a pair of wide blue eyes staring at him from the small gap in the window.  

He’s so startled he wobbles backwards, hearing Harper screech as gravity jerks his body upside down, knees hooked around the knobby rail.

“I’m fine,” he mutters to the street, praying the avian surprise on his shirt stays in one place.  

A concentrated squeeze of the lower abdominals and a mental thank you to Mick for last week’s core session gets him upright again, thighs flexing to maintain position.  

Harper yanks at the small rectangle of glass. She finally capitulates and leans down, her nose sticking through the small gap. Cas hears her small sigh of relief when she sees him upright again.

“Sir, what are you doing out here?”  

Cas’ ear suddenly feels an absence above it. He glances at the sidewalk where the white speck of the joint winks back forlornly. Dammit.

“Just stepped out for some air,” he responds, adjusting his grip. “Wanna open the door, let me in?”

Harper’s eyes grow worried. “That’ll set off the alarm…”

“Ah.” Not that seeing a few select local firefighters would hurt tonight, especially when Cas’ spirits are so badly in need of a lift.

But Cas isn’t about to have the entire building evacuated just because of a failure of logistics. That might finally push Rowena over the edge and land Cas out on the street, officeless and unemployed.

One does not interrupt a tumblr party. 

Especially not when the tumblr staff is passing around jello shots in the ballpit. He can hear the raucous noises from out here, a well-deserved hoopla of chaos specifically curated by Cas himself.

Also, Cas is highly aware there’s another, very different celebration going on a few floors down and to the right. He can see the stuffy silver patterns of the decorations from his pigeon’s nest of a prison.

Yes, Cas may have chosen this particular fire escape for its potential to provide him with a glimpse of the form he memorized long ago.

However, he certainly has no desire to run into him in the street below in a crowd of evacuated holiday revelers as sounds of fire engine sirens dance in their ears.

Especially since Dean - being Dean, is bound to figure out exactly who set off the alarm, and Cas isn’t really dying to add another item to the list of his fuckups that lives rent-free in Dean’s head.

He flexes his fingers and tries to think.

“Harper.” 

Her button nose pops up to the window, reporting for duty.

“I need you to research other ways for me to get down from here.”

“Ten-four, boss!” Harper says eagerly. Cas hears her thumbs tapping on the screen.  

“Okay...let's see, fire escapes.” She starts to read out loud. “It’s critical to remember that fire escapes are poorly maintained and regularly exposed to the elements.”

Cas groans.  “Harper. Not helpful.”

“Sorry!” her voice is a squeak. There’s a silence as she presumably scrolls down through the google search.  

“So I think there should be a ladder release to your left." 

Cas looks around and finds a release. It looks, unsurprisingly, ‘poorly maintained’ and ‘exposed to the elements.’ He strains to remember when he got his last tetanus shot. 

Frowning, he pulls his sweater over his hand and presses the release. It doesn’t budge. 

"Fuck!" He screams at it. The cable-knit is equally unimpressed with his show of profanity.

He kicks the offending piece of metal and a loud, high pitched squeaking noise fills the air. The actual ladder begins to drop - and keeps dropping, breaking off from the scaffolding. The entire thing clatters despondently to the ground next to his fallen joint.

Double fuck.

"Yeah, the ladder's a no-go, Harp. What else you got?"

"Just hold on, Cas." Her earnest voice squeaks out. 

A few more minutes pass, Cas looking up at the stars wistfully while Harper continues her deep dive into internet fire escape lore.  He catches the rough sound of a familiar laugh from the window of the other party, and does his best not to look in that direction.

He looks anyway.

He’s almost positive he’s seeing things, but there’s a quick flash of a familiar face. He looks back down at his discarded joint with longing.

“Got it!” Harper’s voice distracts him. “Alarm company website says they can disconnect the alarm virtually for sixty seconds, which is enough time to open the door and get you in.”

“Perfect,” Cas murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the marijuana in the middle of the road.

“...well, kinda,” Harper grumbles, the soft hum of an automated voice underscoring her syllables. “I’m on hold. Could be a while. Holiday rush, I suppose.”

“Or maybe they’re drunk at their own party,” Cas sighs.  

She hmphs, a small but obstinate sound. “Frick! I just need a real live freaking human being who can help me with this crap."

The mechanized drone on the other line seems nonplussed.

"It hung up. The damn thing hung up. Ok, stay with me Cas, I may have a backup plan, but you have to promise you’ll immediately forget it ever happened."

Cas lets out a self-deprecating snort. “Not anywhere else for me to fly off to, Harper. And I think we’d both benefit from keeping this evening sealed away in the crypt.”

Several excruciating minutes later, there’s a click and the door swings open. Harper’s grinning face is on the other side. 

"I would hug you if it wouldn't merit a visit from Indra in HR. How on earth did you do that?"

Harper looks around nervously. "I have a friend who knows a lot of people. A friend of his had acquired certain...knowledge while working for the fire marshal. Long story short, I should be able to reconnect it, but I think I may have just committed a felony for you." 

A wave of fondness passes through him. "Well, your secret’s safe with me. Besides, I think that makes me your accessory. Mutually assured destruction and all that."

She moves to the door to start fiddling with it.

Cas staggers further into the storage room and slides down the wall and closes his eyes just briefly, for once enjoying the feel of solid ground. 

"I'm just gonna take a minute. Thank you again for the valiant rescue of this damsel in distress." 

When he doesn't hear retreating footsteps, he cracks an eye to find her staring earnestly at him, concern written across her face.

Cas frowns. “I mean it, you don’t have to stay here. Go back to the celebration, have some fun.” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “What were you doing up here anyway? I didn’t exactly put out a code red alert."

Harper smiles sheepishly, tugging on a blonde curl.

"Hiding, mostly. I’m not really a huge fan of...social situations. Human interaction and all of that,” she finishes reluctantly.

Cas emits a low chuckle. “Are you saying I’m not a human? What, you think I’m a Russian bot or something?” He does a slight accent on the last bit of the sentence, amusing mostly himself with it.  

As intended.

Harper groans. “No. You’re...different."

Isn’t that the truth? Since he was born Cas has been different. Different from his family, different from the snotty, stuck up prep school kids he was supposed to befriend and fall in line with.

He didn’t even really fit in with the party crowd he took up with in college. Their actions were intentional. Pillaging their bodies with a purpose, craving the feeling of ‘more’ with the drugs and the booze.

For Cas it was always about feeling less. An escape. And even so, his emotions would tear through the hazy cloak of debauchery, a trickle at first but inevitably exploding into a torrent, Cas in the corner of the room again, dabbing at moistened eyes and hiding the physical evidence of the sad, lonely hole in his chest from everyone’s sight.

It wasn’t normal, this ‘feeling’ - that indescribable notion of being on the outside. Other. No one else even came close to understanding it.

No one until Dean.

Cas frowns, kicking the name out of his thoughts. Why is he so stuck on Dean tonight?

Coughing uncomfortably, he turns his attention to Harper. “So, your family wasn’t as keen on cavorting and carousing around this time of year?”

Harper smiles sadly. "Neither option was on the menu. Just five hours of church paired with a reception in the church hall."

Cas nods. "Religious family then?"

Harper nods. "Very. Santa was an agent of Satan. Just smile and nod and wear that corduroy dress, Harper. Stop itching. You'll never find a husband that way."

Cas tilts his head sympathetically. "Yeah, my father's only god was himself -  but I got similar treatment. Stand still, nod along. Don't embarrass us." Cas pauses for a beat.

“Hey, if I tell you something, you promise not to tell a single soul?” The crinkles of his eyes soften.  

Harper nods. “Put it in the crypt.”

Cas leans forward conspiratorially. “That’s why I meandered up here in the first place. I wanted to avoid that ‘big speech from the boss moment.’ I stopped performing for everyone else the day I walked away from my father.”  

Harper looks visibly relieved. “Oh. Good.” 

“Good?” What is that about?

She laughs nervously. “It’s nothing.” 

“Harper?” Cas puts some steel into his voice and she jumps a bit. 

“It’s silly, just when I saw you on the edge out there, I had a minute where I thought...” She points vaguely at the balcony.

Cas stares outside and back at her. Something clicks.

“Oh. No. Harper, no. I wasn’t going to jump. I was trying to smoke a joint.”

Cas did not realize he had been so despondent that this type of conclusion would even occur to his intern.  

“Sorry.” Harper squeaks, looking like she wants to melt down into the floor.

Cas presses his lips together and nudges her on the shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s nice having someone worry.” He pauses. “It’s been a while since I was permitted that luxury."

Harper smiles tentatively. “Okay. Well. Maybe in return you can let me hide a little longer?”

Cas nods, plopping down on the floor and patting the spot behind him. “I’ll allow it. Come sit by your equally socially awkward fearless leader.”

They settle into a lull in the conversation, neither of them making a move to return to the party as the minutes pass, sitting in comfortable silence. Laughter and the sound of breaking glass waft up the stairs. A chant of “chug, chug, chug” is faintly rising to the ceiling like the religious chant of Dionysus and his fae.

Cas tries to muster the energy to drag himself downstairs, but his shoulders feel heavy with the thought alone.

“Cas?” He almost doesn’t hear her over the din. 

“Harper,” he responds, keeping his voice light.  

“How did you get the courage to walk away from it? Your dad, and...everything.” 

He really looks at her. She’s curled up with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Cas feels a sudden intense dislike for whoever she’s trying to walk away from.

He drums his hands on the floor quietly, the tips of his fingers a soft staccato on the stone. “It wasn’t something that happened right away. I think I was always leaving, in a way.” His forehead wrinkles at the memories. “Everyone else my father gathered around him did what they were told, but not me - the fallen favorite son with the crack in his chassis.” 

Cas leans back against the wall, closing his eyes slightly. “But the final step, taking that length of rope he had looped around my neck off for good? Honestly, I don’t know if I would have had the courage without my ex.”

Harper deflates. “So it was a boy.” Her eyes widen quickly, and she corrects: 

“Or a girl. I don’t judge.”

Cas chuckles. “In this case, a boy.”

A beautiful boy, dusted with freckles and etched in emotional scars. Cas really wasn’t going to think about him tonight, but try as he might, the ghost of Dean Smith is haunting these walls, refusing to be exorcised.

He sighs. “But probably not how you mean. My ex was amazing - I loved him.”

Still do, his brain supplies automatically, losing the plot. Cas ignores its unreliable narration.

“But I didn’t leave for him,” he continues. “I left because of him. He was the muse, not the end result. He taught me we can write our own stories - we don’t have to be stuck between the lines of someone else’s bad narrative.”  

Harper nods thoughtfully. 

“Only you get to decide who you’re going to be, Harper. If I leave you with anything, let it be that.” 

The little crease of concern pops back over Harper’s brow.

Cas groans. “I meant metaphorically, Harper. I promise - everything is fine here in Cas-land.  In fact, more than fine. Let’s go get a drink and be merry. Cas is back, baby!”

Harper: How was the party?
Reese: God, I spilled cranberry relish all over my bra and embarrassed myself in front of the boss. So, fan-freaking-tastic
Reese: Ok, it wasn’t all bad. It was a nice shindig. You?
Harper: It’s tumblr. We are lucky no ambulances were required
Harper: There was a ball pit, Reese. 
Reese: Sounds fun
Harper: you would say that. Anyway, I will have to tell you a story later, but I owe Sully one
Reese: Oh! Hey, you want to come to the annual misfit toy Christmas Party? We do a white elephant exchange. The gifts are usually dirty. I got a corncob vibrator last year
Harper: Reese! I am in a public place
Reese: Hey, I didn’t send a picture. Why, you want one?
Harper: Shut up. 
Reese: No, really. You should come. Same crowd as Thanksgiving
Reese: Plus I’m making pie.
Reese: It will be fun. It’s been a minute.
Harper: What kind of pie?
Reese: Is that a yes?
Harper: Fine, but don’t let me drink any hunch punch
Reese: you should probably skip Sully’s egg nog too
Reese: Trust me 
Harper: I do. 😊
Harper: Okay, send me the details

Chapter Text

January 24, 2021 

Reese: OMG! It may be a minor workday miracle. Dean took a half day off. Maybe I’ll run around in flip flops and eat exclusively gummy worms or something
Harper: Ha! Cas is off today too. I mean, that’s not super unusual but he told me in advance so I don’t have to spend the day apologizing to people he blew off
Reese: Freedom! We’re freeeeeee
Reese: I shouldn’t get my hopes up. He is just going to lunch with his brother. He’ll probably roll in at 3pm and make us work all night to make up for it
Harper: oh, noooo. Don’t put that out into the universe.
Reese: oh, but you know what that means? I could actually go to lunch. Like somewhere other than my desk.
Harper: ooh, you rebel. I love a bad girl.
Harper: haha. You know what I mean
Harper: So where you gonna go?
Reese: I dunno. Wanna come with? 
Reese: we can be bad together. 😉
Harper: yeah, I could do that. Sounds fun. 

Sam frowns at the email. I swear to God Nick Lightbringer is the devil incarnate and every one of his lawyers is a demon.

The proposed settlement terms are absurd. There’s no chance his client will take the crappy deal. 

Sam sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. He’s obligated to deliver the offer anyway, which means he'll bear the brunt of his client’s ranting over the insulting proposal.

It doesn’t help that the settlement comes from Nick’s rising star associate, Ruby Roberts, who Sam happens to know...well, biblically. They dated briefly in law school, until he found her stealing his legal research and outlines for her own nefarious purposes. 

So stupid. Sam sighs, reminiscing. The worst part? He'd been so gone for her that he would have happily shared. The betrayal still stings, even though he moved on from the girl long ago.

Sam clicks the phone off in irritation. Enough. Plenty of time for this after lunch. 

He checks his watch. 11:59 am. If Sam knows Dean, he’ll be walking in any second. The digital analog clock flips to double zeroes.

The heavy wooden door swings open and his brother strolls through it like he’s been summoned. He grins when he spots Sam, unwrapping the red cashmere scarf piled around his neck as he approaches the table. 

“Heya, Sammy.” 

Sam lurches out of his chair to wrap Dean in a bear hug, tucking his nose in his shoulder like he did as a little kid - even though now his frame towers more than a few inches over his big brother’s. “Dean” he says warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean gives him a squeeze, then pulls away. “We don’t need a chick flick moment in the middle of this restaurant, dude,” he says good-naturedly, starting to remove his long black coat, draping it over the back of the chair next to him carefully.

Sam’s heart plummets with worry when he sees what the coat was covering up. 

Dean's lost a lot of weight. 

Too much weight. The hollows below his cheekbones are dark, and even the sunny sprinkle of freckles in his nose can’t erase the circles shading his eyes.

Sam hesitates, knowing that asking about it will just lead to a fight. 

Maybe this isn’t the day to push things. He makes a mental note to chat with Bobby, ask him to check in on Dean in a few days. Bobby has a way of getting through that’s more effective than most.

He suppresses a sigh, plasters on a toothy grin as Dean settles in the opposite chair.

“You should know,” Sam starts with a wink, “you are in deep trouble with Eileen. She says, and I quote: ‘It’s one thing to ignore your brother, but you can’t ignore me. I’m coming for you.’”

Sam pauses. “I think the sign she used is actually more related to murderous intentions but for legal reasons I can’t disclose that.”

A real laugh escapes Dean’s lips. “Now I’m a little scared,” he teases. “Where is our resident battle-axe-murderer, anyway?”

“She wanted to be here, but she couldn’t get away from work stuff. She had a custody hearing.” Sam’s hand twitches towards his phone, wanting to check in but knowing Eileen would scold him for doing it during a rare moment of time with his brother.  

He hopes it’s going well. This case has been a bad one.

As a social worker, Eileen gets a front row seat to all the worst monsters in the world. There are days when Sam can see the burden of that weight in the depths of her tired eyes, but despite his worry about her taking on so much he still feels that surge of quiet pride thinking about her facing down some abusive asshole in Court. Eileen is at her happiest when she’s helping those without recourse fight for themselves. 

It’s one of the things Sam loves most about her.  

He turns his attention back to Dean. “We missed you at Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And Hanukkah with Rufus and Bobby.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I have to work, Sammy. The world doesn’t shut down just because I want some pie and latkes.”

Sam can practically hear the click of the defensive walls snapping up, an immediate mechanism Dean uses to cope. He holds up his hands in a peace offering. 

“I know, Dean. That wasn’t an accusation. We just all miss you.” 

He takes a breath, pausing to maintain his cool before he redirects. 

It shouldn’t be this hard. It didn’t use to be this hard. 

Still, Sam recognizes the undercurrent of sadness driving Dean’s prickly responses.

And he has a feeling he knows the source of that melancholy, so he gives his brother’s temper a pass. For now.

“Anyway, Eileen wanted me to let you know that your presence is required - not requested, by the way - she was very specific with ‘required’ -  at that axe throwing place next week. She isn’t even going to bother to send you dates. She’s calling your office directly to get it scheduled with that nice intern of yours.” 

Dean snorts. “Reese is many things, but nice isn’t really one. But sure, your lady can drag me along to her weird hobbies. I get that your arms aren’t strong enough to participate, so I’ll deal with how...rustic that place is. Just for her.” He winks.

He’s putting on a swagger, but the fond smile on Dean’s face is hard to misread.

Sam grins. Dean is so full of shit. He loves to throw axes with Eileen. It just doesn’t fit into this image he works so hard to cultivate. 

Though Sam’s sure it also doesn’t hurt that there’s a bar there, with ample pours and good whiskey.

Sam knows the night will end with him supporting Dean and Eileen, one on each arm, as he pours them into the car. Maybe they’ll stop at an all-night diner on the way home. 

He eyes Dean’s gaunt face again. Yeah, the axe throwing place is just what the doctor ordered.

The server interrupts Sam’s musings. “Would you like to hear about our specials?” she offers.

“No, thank you - I think we’re ready to order. I will have the braised quail with the haricots verts.” Dean says confidently. Sam suppresses an eyeroll at Dean’s attempt at a French accent. 

Dean taps a finger on the long leather-backed rectangle of the drink menu. “And we will have a very chilled bottle of your Pascal Jolivet Sancerre. Two glasses.”

“You wouldn’t prefer a cocktail?” Sam asks, squinting at him. 

Dean gives him a withering look indicating Sam is clearly a caveman of some sort. “Sammy, you don’t come to a place like this and order bourbon.”

“We do have an extensive selection of bourbons, sir,” the server says mildly. 

Dean shoots another glare at Sam, then turns the corners of his mouth up into a polite smile. “Thank you, but we’ll have the wine.”

Sam sighs. “I would like the quinoa and kale salad with grilled chicken and the lemon pepper vinaigrette, please.” Dean nods in approval.

A food runner drops a wicker basket on their table, gently tugging one of the cotton napkin corners covering the top open in passing. Two pats of butter wink at them from a foil rose in the center of an assortment of fresh, doughy rolls.

Sam watches his brother eye the steamy bread like a starving man. 

He wonders when the last time was that Dean had a carb. Or a full night’s sleep.

Sam grabs a roll and slathers it in butter. 

Dean watches hungrily. 

Sam sighs. “Dean, have the bread.”

Dean hesitates, like he’s working out an equation in his head. Then nods and snatches a piece of his own. 

Sam watches, trying to be unobtrusive but still observing stealthily as Dean nibbles just one small corner. He closes his eyes like he’s praying. 

So definitely a while since Dean’s had carbs, then. The little tickle of worry in Sam’s chest tightens, squeezing him at the sternum.  

Dean gives him a quizzical look.  

“You seeing anyone?” Sam asks neutrally. 

Dean instantly shakes his head no. “When would I have time to date?” He mutters, picking off one more miniscule crumb to place in his mouth before setting the rest of the roll carefully down on his plate. He nudges it away, taking a sip of water before adding nonchalantly: “I’m married to the bird, man.”

Sam’s heart sinks a little further. He knows exactly why Dean isn’t dating and it has nothing to do with his work schedule. 

It’s been over a year. Sam feels a wave of nostalgia thinking of Cas. His brother was so different with him. Lighter. 

He glances up at Dean and there’s something small and broken in his pupils.  

Okay, yeah. Again, today is not the day.

Sam drops the line of inquiry, cycling through his list of prepared, low-conflict topics for lunch with Dean. At least until the wine kicks in. “So, speaking of birds - I bet you’ve been busy with the election.” 

Dean’s eyes light up. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic we’re getting right now…”

Over an hour later, Dean’s face is bright, smile just a smidge unhinged as he polishes off the final glass from the second bottle of wine.

He orders a Manhattan next. The bread is long gone along with the entrees.

Sam smiles fondly. Dean may be tipsy, but the brother who raised him is finally peeking through that manicured plastic exterior. 

Dean is slurring out a long, drawn-out story about their childhood, one of his top five greatest hits. The night they nearly blew their fingers off with fireworks. 

Dad would’ve probably murdered them on the spot had he known, but he was ‘on a work trip’ and hadn’t been back in a while. 

Sam now knows that means he was off on a bender somewhere, and the fireworks themselves were Dean’s way of distracting Sam from John Smith’s constant, omnipresent absence.

Sam has an inkling Dean subconsciously chose this particular story to distract himself from a human-shaped hole, too - albeit the absence weighing on his brother currently is definitely not that of their dad.

And so, despite having heard Dean tell it over a million times, Sam lets his brother relive the memory, his drunken syllables adding embellished details to it like sloppy ornaments on the tree after too much eggnog. 

“So I said, ‘Sammy, watch this’ and I pulled out the lighter I stole from Dad’s room. You know the one with the eagle on it? Anyway, I grab the roman candle…”

There is a lightness in Dean’s voice that Sam doesn’t hear much these days. 

Sam’s thoughts drift back in time to the beat of Dean’s words, the little tug of sadness leading him. 

The Sam in that story had no clue. He just thought Dean was a cool big brother.

Dean always seemed indestructible, anything soft he possessed wrapped tightly beneath layers of armor. Sam might have missed it entirely had it not been for the night Cas had cornered him a few years ago.

Sam, snotty and prideful. A year of law school under his belt plus Ruby’s overpowering influence added up to one bad attitude. 

Everything came to a head when Sam decided to insult his brother’s choice of employment, declaring social media an abomination. 

Sam can see it in his mind’s eye like it’s playing on a TV screen. He and Cas in the kitchen, Ruby and Dean left behind to make awkward small talk in the other room. Cas’ face blazing with a very unfamiliar rage.

“Sam Smith,” Cas hisses at him, not even trying to keep his decibels low when Sam darts a look towards his brother and his girlfriend, who are definitely within this level of earshot.

“Your brother gave up years of his life for you. He brags about your success to anyone who will listen. If I ever hear you denigrate his work again, I will personally kick your ass.”

Cas may come across as a “lover not a fighter,” but it’s this exact moment when Sam realizes appearances may truly be deceiving.

He tries to defend himself. “Cas, that’s just how Dean and I talk to each other.” 

Cas looks at him sadly, like he’s reached inside his chest to graze the very depths of his soul. “Your brother deserves your support, Sam. Even if he would never ask for it himself.” Sam blinks at his brother’s new boyfriend, trying to read his intentions.

All he sees is Cas’ love for Dean, shining like a beacon from his entire being.

Dean’s voice breaks through Sam’s musings. 

"Did you know Cas told Dean he loves him?" Dean stares at Sam expectantly, like he’s conveying some big revelation. 

Sam feels the ridges of his brow ripple up in confusion. 

Sam clearly missed something. Are Dean and Cas talking again? 

 "Cas told…you he loves you?"

"No, not my Cas. Cas on Supernatural. On the show." Dean hiccups, taking a deep sip of his Manhattan to cover it. He laughs bitterly. 

"Never thought they would actually do it. Cas - my Cas this time,” he glances at Sam to make sure he’s following and Sam nods, slowly.

“Yeah, so we - um, Cas and I used to talk about it all the time. He was always so optimistic. He thought they would, but I said it would never happen."

Sam exhales carefully, trying to figure out which of them is too drunk for this conversation to make any modicum of sense. 

Probably both of them, honestly. He signals for more water. 

"Dean, um, that's great? Or - I'm sorry that happened?” Sam rubs a palm on the back of his head uncomfortably, blinking through the alcohol that’s sedating his brain. “I’m not totally sure I understand what you’re trying to tell me."

Suddenly Sam realizes Dean is blinking back tears, fingers gripping the edge of the polished restaurant table.

"I tried to call him, you know. I reached for my phone. I forgot…I was so excited, that I forgot that he was gone. That he wouldn't take my call. That he…" Dean trails off. He fishes the cherry out of the cocktail and pops it in his mouth.

There’s a silence, heavy and lingering.

"I miss him." Dean whispers.

Sam can’t believe he’s hearing the words come out of his brother’s mouth. Yeah, this is bad.

He reaches out, a little awkwardly, and pats Dean on the shoulder. “Hey, hey. Come on, dude. Today isn’t the day for all that. Let’s get some dessert.”

Dean looks at his hands for a second, blinking his eyes very quickly.  Sam may be imagining it, but it looks like a small drop of moisture falls from his lashes.

“Do you think there’s pie?” Dean asks hopefully, his voice quiet, but steadier.

Sam frowns and squints at the dessert menu the server placed between them three quarters of a bottle of wine ago. “There’s cake. That’s almost pie, right?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and Sam knows he’s hit the right nerve to reroute his brother’s thoughts. 

“Sammy, where did I go wrong with you? First of all, they are completely separate and distinct dessert categories.”

Sam signals for coffee as Dean rambles on. 

He makes a mental note to call that not-as-nice-as-she-seems intern before they leave the restaurant and arrange a pie delivery straight to Dean’s desk.

Cas closes one eye, jiggling the key into the lock on his apartment door. The entire key ring clatters to the floor. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles as he sways unsteadily. He grasps the door handle, leaning down to recover the keyring. His balance shifts and he overcompensates, finding himself in a wobbling side plank before rolling onto his knees and collapsing against the wall.

Mick wouldn’t be too impressed with his form on that one. 

Well, maybe. He’s never complained about Cas’ form before. 

Cas snorts at his own joke. He reaches into the depths of his pants pocket, fumbling for his phone. 

Maybe Mick would like to do a little follow-up session tonight.

His fingers finally grasp the little silver rectangle.

He promptly drops it on the floor. 

“Fine, be that way,” he admonishes the phone. A giggle escapes his lips, but he no longer remembers why. 

Cas stares at the sconce on the wall of his building, admiring the way the colors blur and whirl. Fuck, what did he take? His mind casts about trying to connect foggy images. 

He gives up, attention back on the light. The kaleidoscope, which was so mesmerizing just a second before, stabs him in the irises. 

He closes his eyes against the burn. 

Mmmm, this is nice.

“Castiel Novak, you’re a disgrace to yourself and the family name.” 

The severe voice cuts through his brief respite. It’s just a memory, but Cas’ eyes fly open, expecting to see the scowling face of his father looming above him.

There’s nobody else in the hallway. Wherever that asshole is tonight, it isn’t here.

The memory is enough to break Cas out of his haze. He collects his phone and shoves it into his pocket, carefully getting to his knees. 

He squeezes the other eyelid shut this time, and that seems to be magic needed to get the key inside the hole. 

Cas opens the door with unintended force. He falls through it in one motion, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. 

He lies there for centuries, or days, or perhaps mere minutes. 

After all, the concept of time is only a suggestion. It’s tactile. Fluid. Et cetera. 

Cas makes his first smart choice of the day. He rolls to his knees, kicking the door shut with the back of one heel, and crawls on all fours towards the kitchen. 

Water. Wa-ter. Water is good.

He pours himself a large glass and takes a sip, enjoying the cold sensation that runs down his throat. 

He declares himself a genius.

Slightly steadier, Cas stumbles to the couch and collapses back on it. A sloshing noise and a sudden shock of cold on his thigh reminds him.

Oops. He’s holding water. 

Still a genius, he decides. Maybe there will be some sort of osmosis through the skin.

Cas glances at the balcony, suddenly mulling over the notion of laying down outside to look at the stars. The word cold bounces around in his brain, searching for something to connect with. 

Right. It’s January.

Time may be just a suggestion, but weather is unfortunately not.

He tries to remember what he was thinking about. 

Stars. What is that quote? I don’t want to be closer to the stars. Earth is enough?

Cas frowns. That isn’t right. He tries to remember the line. 

Just emptiness inside his brain, haze of tequila and benzos.

He stares at the wall but it yields no answers. Maybe I should get a cat. 

Cas is getting off track. “Don’t lose the plot, my friend,” he proclaims with encouragement to the friendly breadcrumb perched next to his arm.

The breadcrumb politely provides the answer to what Cas is seeking, winking coyly in all of its stale glory.

“Whitman.” Cas repeats the information to the empty room. He hauls himself unsteadily to his feet and teeters towards the bookshelf. 

“Aha!” Cas exclaims to nobody. He grabs his well-worn copy of “Leaves of Grass” off the shelf and clutches it to his chest like a prize. 

He stares at the couch. When did it get so far away? Abandoning his journey before it begins, Cas drops into a seated position on the rug and begins rustling the pages.

He holds the book at varying lengths from his face, squinting to make out the print. Finally, he locates the passage.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

Cas grins and waves the book in triumph. 

A Christmas card falls out. He frowns at this intruding artifact from the past.

He should leave it where it lies, certain there’s nothing inside but decaying bones and old ghosts. 

The Ghost of Christmas Past. He snorts to himself. He’s being hilarious. It’s a shame nobody is here to witness it.

His traitorous hands pick up the card before he realizes their devious plan. 

The writing on the inside elicits a small whimper from his lips. 

Merry Christmas, Sweetheart. Nobody else with who(m?) I’d choose to commit “ that horrible sin not to be mentioned among Christians.”

Cas snorts despite himself at the inside joke. The quote is from a review of the book he’s holding in his other hand. Cas runs his fingers over Dean’s handwriting, tracing each neat little letter. 

He throws the card, forgetting that cardinal rule of aerodynamics.

For paper to fly, it needs wings or the crush of a fist. Cas hasn’t given this particular missile the assistance of either.

The card flops through the air, landing within reaching distance. 

Unsatisfied, Cas decides to hurl the book. Thud.

He regrets it immediately. “You didn’t do anything.” He mumbles at the tome as he crawls towards it to set it right.

He freezes. 

There’s a photograph on the floor, an edge of the shiny rectangle still stuck in the pages that housed it. 

Staring up at Cas from its center is the most beautiful man he has ever known, the perfect angles of his face lit in the soft orange and pink hues of sunrise. 

Smart and stubborn and frustrating and gorgeous and - someone Cas used to be able to claim as his own, but now can’t.  

Cas cradles the picture in his hands like a precious relic.  And it is, in a way - an antiquated remnant of a love he thought he’d long left behind.

The remnants of his high dissipate, reality revealing itself like the villain behind the curtain, and Cas is falling.  

Down, down, down.

He flops against the bookshelf, taking shuddering breaths, as he’s slapped in the face repeatedly with the very reason he got so fucked up tonight to begin with.

Dean.

January 23, 2016

The bubbles of the champagne tickle his nose. Castiel suppresses the sneeze more successfully than the fizz of his irritation.

His father's voice grates on him, even out of full earshot. If he has to hear "call me Chuck. Mr. Novak was my father" one more time, Castiel is going to run for the door screaming.

Chuck is in full "buddy politician" mode, projecting the aura of the approachable and humble rich guy next door. 

His demeanor says "you can trust me.” His self-deprecating humor says "I'm one of you." 

Most people never even notice when he slips the knife between their ribs. 

Metaphorically, of course. 

His father would never get his actual lily-white hands dirty - he has people for that.

Castiel, meanwhile, is in his costume of ‘the good son.’ Smiling at the appropriate times, nodding along like a bobblehead. 

Castiel sighs despondently, staring at the ornate ceiling. At least this event is for a good cause. 

Could everyone in the room do a lot more to end homelessness if they paid their employees a fair wage? Absolutely.  

However, the hand-warming that’s being done by the harried Executive Director, Amandriel, accompanied by the innocent and sweet expression in his strangely puppy-esque eyes, has inspired the attendees to part with a good chunk of their cold hard cash. Tax deductible, of course. Let’s not get crazy.

It's a start.

Castiel peers around the room, his face a placid mask despite the rising tendrils of frustration in his chest. 

Emotion is highly frowned upon in the Novak household. It wouldn't do to have feelings. 

Suddenly, his breath catches, composure cracking. 

Standing in the middle of the room, popping a crab cake into his mouth, is a man who makes Castiel’s lips as parched as the Saharan desert sand. He’s absolutely stunning – and not in a perfectly nipped and tucked, cultivated way of the rest of the attendees of this soiree. No, there’s something different about this man. It’s effortless, like he radiates beauty simply by manner of existing. Just being.

Castiel can’t tear his gaze away.

The man’s green eyes meet Castiel's, narrowing.  He assesses him pointedly, and Castiel shivers a bit when the stranger’s lips spread into a brash, confident grin.

He winks.

Castiel's stomach flip flops.

The man doesn't belong here among the empty, twisted people who cling to his father like leeches. He is undeniably attractive, but there’s something more to him - a warmth, like a star shining brightly in the darkness. 

Castiel is pulled closer, wanting to be in his orbit.  He takes one step. 

Then looks away quickly, before his father catches him staring.

Castiel has been forced to memorize the face and name of every person in this room, which means one thing. 

This mysterious, shining newcomer wasn't invited, and there’ll be hell to pay if he gets caught.

Chuck’s not a fan of people making it up as they go.

"...all part of the plan. Isn't that right Castiel?" Castiel smiles mildly and nods in agreement. He doesn't know what his father is talking about, but he does know the direction of the narrative. There’s only one possible response. 

He can almost feel the puppet strings tugging from the top of his skull. 

"It must be so exciting. Working with rockets. Going up to the heavens!" The blonde woman hanging on both his father's arm and his every word simpers. Castiel barely fights the urge to roll his eyes at her vapid giggles.

He chances another reckless glance back at the green-eyed man. 

It appears Castiel is not the only person who’s noticed his good looks. Lisa Braeden’s head is tossed back in an elegant laugh. The green eyes Castiel can’t stop admiring smile back with amusement at her. 

Lisa's actually not bad, as far as this crowd goes. 

So the twist of jealousy in Castiel's stomach, drilling through him like the bit of a power tool? Yes, that feeling comes as a surprise. 

"Excuse me," Castiel says, downing the rest of the champagne in one gulp. Nobody even glances at him in acknowledgement. They are all too invested in Chuck’s latest story.

Something about cat blogs. 

Suddenly craving something harder than the bubbles, Castiel heads towards the bar.

He halts midstep when he sees the light of the lamps bounce off the shiny globe of a balding head, sharp, manipulative eyes narrowed underneath. 

Zachariah. 

Of all of his father’s "people," he has the honor of being Castiel's most reviled. 

He’s loyal to a fault to Chuck, but even more so to his desire to make it to the top.  

Zachariah’s trajectory is clear.  He’s heading straight towards the beautiful man to escort him out the door.

Castiel moves quickly, cutting across the floor to intercept his father’s favorite interloper. He plasters a broad grin on his face, trying to keep the butterflies from tickling his stomach as he pins his blue eyes to green. 

"You made it!" 

Confusion momentarily crosses the man's face, but he recovers quickly when Castiel nudges an eyebrow of warning towards Zachariah’s suspicious posture. 

"Uh, yeah, man, it's good to see you."

"Zachariah, this is Dick Roman's nephew. You remember. I told you he was in town working at Richard Roman Enterprises after…" Castiel intentionally trails off, leaving the rest vague.

"Nice to meet ya, Zach." The man says casually. Castiel watches as Zachariah bristles at the nickname, not comfortable with such immediate familiarity.

"We were so sorry to hear your uncle couldn't join us." Zachariah's smile is tight, but his tone is ingratiating. 

He very conspicuously does not mention Dick, Jr., douche and previous heir apparent to the Roman fortune. 

DJ, as he's known by the tabloids, was caught last summer with a yacht full of heroin and high-end prostitutes. Even his dad's considerable fortune couldn't buy him out of the subsequent conviction.

Dick was reportedly irate with the boy, cutting him off from his trust fund and disowning him. Castiel wishes he could say it was his conscience, but having met Dick many times he has no doubt that the man is just angry DJ got himself caught. 

At least the circumstances mean that Castiel’s lie poses little risk. Dick's nephews may have been promoted to likely heirs, but their previous lack of notoriety means their faces are practically unknown. The vultures will begin circling eventually, but not until the scandal dies down.

"Yeah, Uncle Dick sends his regards." The man salutes Zachariah with a hand to his temple, bluffing adeptly. Castiel struggles to keep his burgeoning grin in check.

As much fun as it is to watch his father's favorite toadie paste a smile on his face while his eye twitches, Castiel knows that an extended exchange here risks exposing the lie. 

"Zachariah, my father's drink looks a little empty." He puts a full measure of condescension in his voice. Zachariah may have his father's favor, but he knows better than to push his heir. At least not without an express order from Chuck.

Zachariah’s eyes dart across the room nervously. "If you'll excuse me." He mutters, ducking away.

Castiel turns towards the man. His green eyes sparkle. "Thanks, man. I thought I was on my way out for sure." He holds out a hand towards Castiel. "Name’s Dean.  Dean Smith."

"Castiel." Castiel replies, taking the hand. It's rough. 

An unexpected thought of that roughness against his own skin flashes in his head. But something about this man compels Castiel, makes him think of more than just one-night stands and hasty, sheet-tangled decisions.

"So, Cas, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" Dean's voice is light, maybe a little nervous.  Castiel can’t really get a read on him.

Wait. ‘Cas?’

Intrigue bubbles up in Castiel's chest. "Do you give everyone you meet a nickname?" 

The crooked grin resurfaces. "Just the ones I like, and the ones that annoy me.” He jerks his head in Zachariah’s direction with a little wink.

Hmmm.  Castiel decides to test the waters further, dipping a toe into the pool. "And which category do I fall into?" 

He adds a slight suggestive edge to his syllables, rolling them off his tongue like melted drops of butter.

Castiel may have spotted this man with his “corporate party gaze,” but he’s well-practiced at the art of seduction when outside the boardroom walls.

Dean licks his lips, running his tongue around the full bottom one slowly, and it can’t be anything but deliberate. His eyes fall to Castiel's mouth. 

"I guess that remains to be seen."

Yeah. Water’s just fine, Cas decides, swallowing thickly. 

His mind goes a little bit blank when the green eyes meet his own, and that little fritz is not something Castiel is used to.   

"Wanna get out of here?" The thought bursts out of his mouth, bypassing his brain completely.

Dean's eyes widen in surprise, and Castiel chastises himself. That was probably inappropriate. Castiel shouldn’t have just assumed things about this sexy stranger.

"I don't mean like that," he corrects quickly, while searching Dean’s face for signs of disappointment. There’s a tinge of something, but Castiel still isn’t quite sure. 

Still, he hastens to right the ship. “This is the portion of the evening where Chuck listens to himself talk for about an hour. So - unless you want to hear the words "Master Plan" no less than ten times, we should find somewhere quieter."

Interest passes across Dean's face. “Cool. Yeah, I’ll go with you.”

Castiel puts on his most reassuring smile. "I know a place. Come on."

Dean hesitates slightly when they duck under the red rope barrier barring guests from exploring the less public areas of the house. By the time they reach the attic stairs, his every move is marked by an undercurrent of uncertainty.

"I don't know man, are you sure about this? What if the rich asshole that lives here catches us?" Dean’s eyes dart back and forth. His consternation is adorable.  

Castiel smiles. "Now you’re worried about trespassing?"

Dean snorts. He steps closer to Cas, eyes sparkling. 

"All I'm saying is if you are taking me somewhere to kill me, I won't go down easy. I ain't that kinda girl."

Castiel raises an eyebrow and points his gaze straight at his own belt buckle. "No?" 

Dean’s eyes darken just a shade, following the trajectory. 

He adjusts his jeans, a barely perceptible smidge of movement.

“You at least gotta buy me a drink first, angel." He winks. 

Castiel grins, breaking the spell. "It just so happens that I am the asshole who lives here. And I have beer upstairs, as well as a hell of a view."

Dean's laugh is genuine and open. "Dude. Why didn’t you say so?"

Castiel shrugs, tugging open the door that leads to his bedroom. “Guess my ‘people skills’ are rusty.” Dean follows him inside, immediately letting out a low-pitched wolf whistle at their surroundings.  

“Wow. Way to bury the lead, buddy. This is awesome!” 

Chuck doesn’t spare any expense when it comes to living quarters, and Castiel’s room is no exception.

Plush carpet dents softly under their shoes, the dull beige of the wallpaper dotted with original oil paintings and gold filigree. The gilded frames sparkle in the light of a multi-tiered chandelier.  

Its myriad of twinkling lamps shine a soft blue-edged glow, reflecting in the wonder of Dean’s eyes.

“Oh, man. Is that a harp?!”

Castiel doesn’t respond, stuck staring at the expression on Dean’s face, almost childlike with excitement. He hates this gaudy, overly stuffy place with its prim and polished trappings. A cage is still a cage, no matter how many ribbons are tied to the bars.

But watching it through the lens of Dean’s delighted wonder loosens the constant tightness in Castiel’s chest. His breaths feel a little easier all of a sudden.

He rips his gaze away from his guest and grabs two beers from the fridge, tossing one to Dean.  

“It gets better.” Castiel jerks his head to the small window in the corner of the room, streaked with the trails of old rainwater. He tugs the latch open, and an errant breeze strokes the top of his head like a soothing hand.

Dean’s eyes narrow with apprehension, but he follows Castiel out of the window onto the gently sloped roof.

Dean eyes the drop warily. "Is this safe?"

Cas looks back at him, and oh, Dean’s fingers are trembling against the glass of the beer bottle. 

“Are you okay?” Cas asks carefully, not wanting to pry too hard.

Dean’s cheeks tinge pink with embarrassment. “Not a fan of heights,” he mumbles, eyes drifting to the left - avoiding both Cas and the drop.

"I'll catch you if you fall." Castiel teases gently, lowering himself onto the rough roof tiles. Dean stiffly settles beside him, their shoulders lightly brushing. 

Castiel takes a small chance and applies a little pressure, nudging Dean slightly. Dean doesn’t smile, but Castiel feels his pulse slowing through the fabric of their shirts.  

"Besides,” Castiel adds with a grin, “it's worth the risk for the view." He looks up pointedly at the flickering stars scattered above them like glittering confetti. He feels Dean holding in a breath, and misses the brief absence of its warmth next to his cheek.

The shadows of Dean’s lips part as he stares in silence.  

"Wow." He finally says, awe filling his voice. 

They sit still for a moment, the whistling of the breeze in the treetops singing its sweet lullaby around them.

Interspersed is the quiet clink of fingernail to glass as Dean fidgets with his beer, apparently still slightly buzzing with nerves despite any of Cas’ prior reassurances. 

"So,” Castiel breaks the silence, hoping the distraction will help Dean relax a little. “Dean, what brings you to my father's excruciating evening of fun-draising?" The mid-word pause drips with sarcastic disdain.

Dean shifts slightly, adjusting his position. Castiel can’t tell if he meant to but suddenly Dean’s leaning against him just a hint more, the pressure of him warm and solid in the cool night air.  

"Figured you rich assholes shouldn't have all the fun. Booze? Food? What's not to like?" He glances sideways at Castiel as if considering something, his nose so close to Castiel’s face that he almost lifts a finger to touch its shadowed tip. 

The sputtering of Dean’s pulse against Castiel’s shoulder quickens as he continues: 

"But hell, if someone told me hot guys were part of the deal, I'd have snuck in years ago." There’s an endearing hesitancy in his voice, sharp contrast to his earlier bravado.

Castiel feels a small smile play across his lips. "I would've liked that," he says quietly.

"Yeah?" It's soft. Barely more than a whisper 

Castiel can see Dean’s eyelashes fluttering, their tips glistening in the starlight. His fingers are still tapping his beer, a jittery dance across the damp label that belies the feigned suaveness of his demeanor. 

He presses his knee to Dean’s in response. “Yes.”

Dean’s hand slows its tempo until it finally stills. He takes a pull of his beer, and Castiel watches it travel down his throat in one smooth swallow. He wonders if the veins mapping his neck are tinged more blue or more green in the daylight.

It’s an odd anatomical musing, but suddenly Castiel needs to know these small details about the man sitting next to him. He’s desperate for it - to learn every molecule of Dean intimately, all the way down to his core blueprint as if he’s a puzzle only Castiel can solve. Or perhaps a song only he can play, a secret lilting memory meant for Castiel’s ears and his ears only.

The mention of music sends Castiel’s brain swiftly to thoughts of dancing, and he abruptly wonders how it would feel to hold Dean in his arms, swaying with him to the beat of a song picked out just for them.

There’s something heady and thick starting to unfurl in Castiel’s chest. Dean’s knee is still pressed to his, his eyes on his beer.

“This is nice,” Dean says to the circular glass opening at the top of the bottle, though of course Castiel knows the words are actually meant for him.

As is the crooked half-smile darting over Dean’s lips when he looks up half a second after speaking, the sparkle of the stars reflecting in his gaze.

It’s gentle, and quiet. A gift just for Castiel.

Dopamine floods Castiel’s system, a natural high that tops any synthetic attempt to recreate it – and he would know, having experimented with more than one chemical impostor. It’s possible that Castiel has spent so many solitary evenings up on this roof that sharing the starry night view with another human is immediately and deeply addicting.

Or maybe it’s the very specific experience of sharing it with Dean that’s causing Castiel to feel like he’s suddenly losing control of his own inhibitions, Dean’s mere presence a skeleton key for doors that Castiel thought he had locked permanently.

Whether it’s the reprieve from loneliness or the flavor of Dean Smith, one thing is clear – he wants more of it.

Castiel gently tugs at the side of Dean’s shirt, pulling him along as he leans back against the roof, pointing his face skyward. 

"I sneak up here sometimes to get away from it all,” Castiel mumbles. “My father makes rockets, did you know that?” He doesn’t wait for Dean’s response before continuing, the words tumbling out unexpectedly, a fast, bubbling stream. “I would dream of stealing one and traveling to the stars. Somewhere far away." 

Castiel doesn’t know why he offers it. Vulnerability is the antithesis of all things Novak. He can hear his father’s voice in his head, “Oversharing again, Castiel?”

The brush of Dean’s fingers on his fades it away.  

"I get it." Dean says slowly, voice edged with emotion. "My Dad…well, there were times I wanted to run away too. But Sammy - that's my little brother - he needed me."

Castiel thinks then that maybe Earth could be enough for him too, if he had someone like Dean.

He’s not going to tell Dean that, though. It’s too soon. Too much for even Castiel himself to ruminate on for longer than a few seconds. He can’t look directly at this feeling growing inside of him. It feels like a moment he’s been waiting on his entire life.

He’s known Dean for barely over an hour and yet laying here beside him already feels like coming home.

What he does do is squeeze one of Dean’s thumbs just briefly, enclosing it in the warmth embrace of his palm. Dean’s shoulder jerks at the touch. He, too, seems fine leaving this vein of conversation sitting in the silence for now as they lay side by side while the world sleeps around them. Together, alone under the majesty of the universe.

Castiel changes the subject, sardonically, "So. I don't want to brag, but I took an entire semester of Astronomy. I can point out tens of stars. Maybe even twenties."

Castiel sees a smile play across Dean’s lips in the low light. "Oh yeah? Wow me, astro-dork."

The chill sets in with the hours passing, marked by the ticking of Dean’s watch in the stillness, and Castiel grabs a couple of blankets. 

Based on the dwindling rumble of voices the party is breaking up, but nobody comes looking for them in their blanket fort on top of the world. 

It’s unspoken, but clear - neither of them wants to head back inside for more than a beer and the bathroom, almost like seeing each other in lamplight instead of celestial shine will break the spell. 

They talk about nothing, or maybe it’s everything. The stars, books they've read. Snippets of their lives, one talking over the other, impatient to fill in these gaps, to get from the “getting” to the “knowing” as fast as humanly possible.

"So Sammy says, there's no way you can eat that entire pie." Dean's voice is hoarse from overuse, as if he’s never spoken this many words all at once before.

"You didn’t." Castiel could watch the mischievous twinkle shining from Dean’s pupils into the night for more than a few minutes. He takes a sip of beer, grinning over the bottle.

A chuckle escapes Dean's lips. "Every. Single. Bite."

Castiel shakes his head in disbelief.

Dean thumps himself on the chest like a proud neanderthal. "I couldn't look at a cherry for at least a week, but I won the bet." 

The oranges and pinks of the slowly brightening sky light up Dean's face, and Castiel feels a surge of inspiration.

“Stay right there.”  

Dean gives him a puzzled look, but follows the instructions, even stopping the hand lifting the beer to his lips in a mock “frozen” gesture.

Castiel darts into his room, yanking his photography equipment from his closet.  He quickly adjusts the settings on the camera and peers back out, assessing the gradually increasing light.

Okay, okay - yes. Right there to the left. 

Castiel scrambles across the roof quickly.

“Hey, be careful over there, you scuttle-butt,” Dean grits through his still shut teeth. Cas looks back at him, still frozen in the same position with laughter in his eyes.

He sure follows instructions well, Castiel thinks, and the brief adjacent route his thoughts dip to then really does almost cause him to tumble off the edge. 

Refocusing, he takes position and calls out, “Okay. Simon says, look over here!”

Dean glances to his side. Oh, Castiel was right about this setup. It’s perfect. The light surrounds Dean in a soft glow, illuminating every facet of those green eyes. The smattering of golden freckles on his cheeks sparkle like fairy dust.

Dean is all things shining, and if the essence of a soul was visible to the human eye Castiel decides it would look exactly like this.

Dean smiles expectantly and Castiel almost forgets himself all over again, but manages to regroup and snap the shot. He takes a few more, just in case, then scoots over to Dean to show him.

Dean scrolls through the pictures, eyes opened wide with surprise.

“Damn. You sure know how to make a guy look good. What, you moonlight snapping photos of hot models in your spare time?”

Castiel shrugs. “I dabbled for a semester.”

The sun has risen entirely now, rays streaking across the morning dew on the grass below them, nudging the flowers awake.  

Castiel thinks about how the grass and Dean’s eyes are only a shade apart. Something blossoms in his chest.

"What did you win?" He whispers to Dean.

Dean blinks at him until the memory of the story he was telling before Castiel grabbed the camera dawns on his face.

"Sammy did dishes for a week.” He grins, rubbing a hand on his stomach. “Plus, pie!" 

Castiel smiles at him fondly. They sit in comfortable silence for a minute, Dean’s knuckles so close to Castiel’s that he can feel their warmth.

"Cas." Dean hesitates, the sound of the words a sticky tarnish on the moment. "I - should probably head home. I have work later." His voice is reluctant.

Disappointment fills Castiel's chest, dragging him down to the dirt he despises, but he nods slowly. 

He’s never been so happy to spend the night with someone while fully and completely clothed. He grabs at that small flutter of contentment, wanting to keep it just a bit longer.

Then stretches as he stands, collecting the blankets and tossing them inside. Dean looks down over the grounds, eyes glazed. 

“This was nice,” Castiel starts to say - at the exact same moment that Dean utters, quietly:

"I lied." 

Castiel's stomach lurches. Years of lectures play through his mind. 

People will take advantage of you if you let them, Castiel. Better to guard yourself. When people see you on a pedestal, they will knock you down just to watch you fall.

The beer churns in his gut, but even after one night he wants to trust Dean. It defies all logic. All training. Every word his father has ever said to him. 

And yet. Castiel’s heart is telling him he needs to have faith.

He sits back down and places his arm on Dean’s shoulder, softly. Dean looks at him like he’s waiting to be yelled at. 

"About what?" Castiel says. He keeps his words gentle.

Dean's voice is raw, wavering in the cold morning air. "I didn't come for the food. Or the booze. Or even -” a touch of sass tugs the corner of his mouth upwards, “the handsome men." He gives his feet a wry little smile, but avoids eye contact.

"Okay,” Castiel says slowly. “Do you want to tell me why you came?"

It doesn’t matter why. It only matters that you did. That you’re here. The words he wants to say bounce around Cas’ brain, kernels of popcorn that spark his synapses, electrifying his entire body.

He shows his support with a touch instead, gently letting his arm drift behind the center of Dean’s back. It’s just a graze, but Dean flinches. His eyes meet Castiel’s.

"It's my birthday. The first without Sammy." His voice breaks on the name. “Don’t get me wrong,” he backpedals immediately, “I'm so damn proud of him, but Stanford is damn far away from here.” Dean knuckles a fist against one eye, looking at his knees, and Castiel’s hand starts to rub a small circle in the center of his back on its own volition. Dean leans back into it, sighing. “Guess I just didn't want to be alone."  

The admission is a halting whisper, the arrow of Dean’s words piercing through every fiber of Castiel’s being.

It’s this exact moment Castiel realizes that he’s lost.  

Or maybe, just a little closer to ‘found.’

He gently grasps Dean's chin, turning his face towards his own. 

“Hi,” Dean says.

Castiel smiles. “Hi.”

He runs a thumb down the side of Dean’s jaw, tracing its curve. Committing the shape to memory in the ridges of his fingerprints, like he’s carving something into Dean’s skin.  

Marking him as his own.

Dean’s breath stutters. Beautiful, Castiel thinks, and softly:

“Well, it’s a good thing you weren’t alone then.” Dean’s smile radiates, warmer than the sun on Castiel’s face.

“Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Castiel closes the distance between them, slotting their mouths together. Dean's lips are soft against his, tentative. 

Castiel feels like he's on fire. Like the world around him is exploding.

Or maybe like new worlds are coming into being, galaxies created by the sparkle of stars in Dean’s eyes.

Dean pulls away, and it’s too soon, too much air between them and not enough skin, not enough warmth of Dean’s breath in his mouth, his tongue twisting around Castiel’s in a slow, sensuous dance. 

"Cas." The nickname falls from his lips reverently, like a prayer.

They stare at each other in the early dawn light and Castiel knows, as sure as he knows anything, that at this exact moment he could really fly if he wanted to. 

"I really do have to go." Regret fills Dean’s voice. He tangles his fingers with Castiel’s and he looks down at them, intertwined in the simple, sweet glow of morning.

Ribbons loosened from the cage bars, floating freely in the breeze.

Castiel kisses Dean’s knuckles.  

Then walks him downstairs and out of the house.

"Call me later?" Castiel tries to sound cocky, but it comes out plaintive and small.

He misses him already, and the man hasn’t even walked out of the door yet.

Dean surprises Castiel by kissing him again, just a quick graze of the mouth. Castiel's lips still tingle from the contact.

"I promise." Dean whispers, and then he's gone.

Castiel waits for the euphoria to fade, but the feeling remains as he returns to his room. He crawls into bed and smiles softly, inhaling the scent of Dean lingering on the blanket. 

Castiel  wraps it around himself along with a small hum.

Happy. This is what happy feels like.

He sighs, still feeling Dean's lips on his own, and when he closes his eyes, green, unblinking stares float through his dreams. 

January 24, 2021 

Cas barely makes it to the bathroom before his stomach heaves in earnest. 

He retches violently, barely able to catch his breath between full body shudders. Tears prick his eyes, and he doesn’t know whether they’re from the pain in his esophagus or the ache of the memories still haunting him.

Acid burns the back of his nostrils, his throat is raw. He gulps in breaths desperately as the nausea tears through him. 

Bile and saliva pool in his mouth and he spits them both out into the toilet, staring at the water desperately. A cramp seizes in his stomach and his throat constricts. 

All he can do is cling to the porcelain rim as waves of bitter, burning liquid pour past his lips. 

Cas loses himself in the pain for a moment, letting its tide carry him under. 

His stomach finally stops clenching, the sharp spasms settling into a sore ache.

Cas lays his head against the wall, feeling the contrast on his overheated skin.

He breathes slowly, and for a moment wonders if he could just sleep like this, face pressed up against the hard, cold tiles.

Their cool surface is a poor replacement for the feel of a soft touch on his forehead, but Cas is desperate for any consolation he can get at this point in his tragic demise.

He rallies and flushes the toilet, watching the water spin.

Finally spent, Cas collapses, unable to muster the required energy to drag himself to bed. Goosebumps rise where his skin meets the floor, but Cas can’t bring himself to care. 

He clutches the photo, still somehow in his grasp, to his chest and lets out a shaky breath. 

“Happy Birthday, Dean.” Cas whispers to the empty room.

Chapter Text

February 20, 2021

Harper: are you going to this wedding thingy? Cas just informed me I have to go to the tumblr/Twitter wedding?
Harper: what the fuck does one wear to a work wedding?
Reese: ha! Rowena McLeod and Bela Talbot? Yes. Wear something fancy. A full gown is the aesthetic here. . Think black tie.
Reese: NOT RED. That's Rowena's signature color. She will almost certainly wear it
Harper: to her WEDDING?
Reese: haven't met the Queen of the Hellsite yet?
Harper: I saw her once. I couldn't decide if I wanted her to beg her to take me under her wing or hide under my desk.
Reese: That’s Rowena. Bela is Senior Corporate Counsel here. I stan her.
Reese: I once set her up in our conference room for a negotiation. The other guy's face turned so red it was almost purple. I thought I was gonna have to call 911.
Reese: she strolled out with a smile on her face, cool as a cucumber.
Reese: I want to be her when I grow up.
Harper: So you’re going too?
Reese: Yeah! No plus one though.  I don’t bring friends around work, too embarrassing
Reese: As you’ve experienced
Harper: Too bad, I kind of wanted to ask Sully ;)
Reese: 😱
Reese: Heh, I’d go as your date before I let that happen
Harper: Oh, do you want to?
Harper: As friends I mean
Harper: Oh god you’re kidding. Um, never mind.  I’m sorry.
Reese: Sorry had to go pee
Reese: LOL, Harp.
Reese: Yes, I’ll be your platonic date.  Dork.
Reese: No making out in the middle of the dance floor though, capisce?
Reese: Harper?
Harper: Hahahahhaha
Harper: Sorry. Work got busy. Yeah, I capisce.

Cas catches his reflection in the elevator door and adjusts his rainbow-striped bowtie. He frowns, tugging at his jacket.

It’s a little tight in the arms. Cas tries his best to ignore the sound of his father's voice in his head.

Castiel, we have an image to uphold here. Maybe a few more salads, huh?

Cas shakes his head and the memory dissipates as the doors open to reveal the elegant penthouse space.

Cas’ eyes are drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows, showing off the tantalizing view from the dizzying height. He stares for a moment at the sparkling lights of the city below, the steel and concrete softened by the soft glow of the glittering streetlamps, tiny flashes of cars on the street like shooting stars streaking the darkness.

He lets his mind wander for a moment, thinking about the people going about their evening as the building looms above their heads. A part of Cas wishes he was down there with them.

He’d accept being anywhere but here, really.

The false stars offer no escape.

Cas turns, resigned to his fate.

He scans the crowd, eyes searching for the brides. Social mores dictate that he offer them "best wishes." Cas would rather dispose of that obligation up front so that he can fade into the background and wait the appropriate amount of time camouflaged by the crowd before he can ditch both the reception and the tux.

His eyes find Rowena McLeod in the middle of the room working her magic. The tiny woman shakes her head as she speaks assertively to a tall man holding a clipboard, the movement sending her cascading curls swishing down the delicate bones of her back like a cherry red waterfall.

Her elegance is undeniable, as is her power.

Next to her, Bela Talbot surveys the man cooly. Cas hasn’t seen Bela in a couple of years, but the sharp, knowing look in her eyes confirms that her penchant for being a formidable force hasn’t changed.

Cas feels a tug of sympathy for the guy they’re currently double-teaming. Having either woman angry at you would be bad enough. Both? The man may have to move to another zip code.

So, later on the well wishes then.

His eyes drift back to the ground, and he tries to ignore the tightness in his chest. He doesn't know why he bothers to tell himself he isn't looking for anyone in particular.

He knows that’s a lie.

A smarmy voice interrupts his thoughts. "Looks like dear Rowena is having some difficulty with the wedding planner."

"Crowley." Cas grits out between his teeth.

Cas would rather lick the floor like a misbehaving canine than spend time with the man who happens to be near the top of the list  of his least favorite people, and he knows the feeling is generally mutual.

This means Crowley’s salutation can only mean one of two things. “A” - he’s here to brag that he finally settled the big case that he’s been handling for tumblr for years (which seems unlikely as it feels like Crowley just draws it out for more billable hours, sucking down Cas’ budget as he pads his own wallet).

Or “B” - he's here to talk about Dean.

Given his glee, Cas has a very specific sinking feeling in his already knotted up gut that it’s the latter. He steels himself, arching a brow.

Crowley’s grin is practically demonic.

"Now, now,” he purrs, delicate accent dripping over his words like clarified butter. “Is that any way to greet an old friend? Hello, Castiel." The velvety tone doesn’t hide the menace in Crowley's voice, and a twinge of unease burbles through Cas’ chest.

Cas looks away into the crowd.

"Oh, sweet Cassie and his one-track-mind,” Crowley’s lips stretch like a pleased, well-nourished cat.

“He's by the bar."

Cas’ throat constricts. "I don't know what you're talking about." His lie is no more convincing when spoken out loud instead of existing as a falsehood within the confines of his brain.

"Oh come now, angel, you can't possibly think I’m that stupid. The stench of desperation clings to you. Do you think I missed that little article about your boyfriend - or - apologies, ex-boyfriend?"

So, yes. He’s here to talk about Dean. Cas has never been less pleased with being right. 

He clenches his teeth, trying to ignore the urge to punch the shorter man in the jaw.

"I've moved on." This lie feels a bit more convincing. After all, his bed hasn't exactly been empty.

Crowley laughs. The sound is laced with a hint of cruelty.

He’s always resented Cas. Dean joked about it all the time, how Crowley spent months trying to get Dean to go on a date, and then Cas strolled in, sparks flew and just like that the two of them were inseparable.

Combine that with Cas’ meteoric rise at tumblr and it's no surprise that Crowley is leaping at the chance to make Cas’ life miserable.

"Oh yes. I've heard you've been quite busy,” Crowley draws out the last word suggestively, twirling the little umbrella floating in his drink.

“And don't get me wrong, kitten, I'm as big of a fan as anyone of whoring around. Maybe the biggest.” He nudges Cas with an elbow perfectly encased in the elegance of a deep burgundy Prada suit. Cas jerks away like he’s been scorched.

Crowley chuckles, low and sinister.

“But that doesn't change the pathetic look on your sad little face, and the fact that you keep looking around the room for Dean like a 13-year-old girl trying to catch a glimpse of her crush."

Cas glares at Crowley, mentally reevaluating his own conduct. Is he really that obvious?

Crowley's grin widens. "Then again, if you’re so ‘over him,’ you won’t mind me having a go? Page six says he's quite eligible."

Cas wishes he had lasers for eyes so he could burn this hell-raiser into dark black ash.

"Crowley, if you don't go find somebody else to bother, I will stab you with a butter knife."

Crowley holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Atrocities!  Not on the Prada, please Castiel. Best to temper that fire. You wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re still pining for our golden boy..."

He smirks, content with his nefarious handiwork. "But don’t fret. I have my eyes set on someone else, anyway." He nods to a blond man with a mischievous grin and a lollipop sticking out of his mouth, then brings his dark eyes back to Cas. “Pine at your leisure.”

Crowley strolls toward his next target without so much as a goodbye.

Cas blinks, watching him leave and feeling pathetic.

He walks towards the bar, almost to the front of the line when another voice startles him.

Deep and smooth, with a hint of whiskey. Unmistakable.

Cas hears it every night in his dreams.

"Heya, Cas."

Dean.

Cas’ first instinct is to run as far away as possible, but his heart won’t let him bolt. He looks up at Dean’s face.

He’s lost weight, and the little wrinkle of anxiety on his forehead looks deeper than usual, but he’s still as beautiful as the day they met.

Cas’ hands ache with the need to touch him. To smooth his brow, healing whatever’s causing that indentation of worry.

But that isn't something Cas gets to do. Not anymore.

He puts his traitorous hands in the pockets of his blazer, taking a deep inhale.

His head spins, full of words he can't say, thoughts that pound against this skull like dull spikes.

Confessions of love he’s written at the counter of every bar in this town, tequila fueled apologies scrawled on bits of cocktail napkins and blurred with tears.

The words stay where they are - ensconced in the depths of his cracked, aching heart.

In their place, he says, as neutrally as he can manage around the lump in his throat:

"Hello, Dean."

Harper lets a breath escape her mouth in relief as she and Reese grab the table.

She does a quick glance to make sure nobody's watching and adjusts her dress. Whoever came up with strapless bras was clearly an expert in torture.

She sneaks a glance at Reese and her heart flutters. Harper wishes she had the nerve to wear a plunging neckline like that.

A little voice in her head decides she's grateful Reese doesn’t have the same reservations. Harper frowns, stifling it.

“You okay?” Reese is staring at her creased eyebrows with confusion.

“Yeah!” Harper chirps, entirely too brightly, but Reese doesn’t seem to notice it.

"So anyway," Reese continues the story she started at the bar, "I’m sitting there staring at the screen trying to figure out how the hell to write a blurb about a fake wedding for two fictional characters from a show that ended three months ago."

Reese sighs dramatically. "This is not what I envisioned for my future career when in college."

A bubble of laughter escapes Harper’s mouth. "Hey, it's better than the Adam Williams fiasco."

Reese shakes her head in amusement. "The coffee and tums this fandom puts me through. I should get an allowance. Or maybe hazard pay."

Harper can't help smiling fondly. "Hey, some of the art and stories are pretty good."

Reese eyes her. "Harper," she draws her name out, "if I check your secret second stan account will I find fan fic?" She whispers the last word teasingly as if slightly scandalized.

Harper hits her lightly on the shoulder. "I don't know what you're talking about." Truth is, Harper’s attempted a few finale fix-its recently, but every time she tries to write it feels just a little bit off, like something is missing.  Harper can see the story in her mind, but when she puts pen to paper it never ends up looking like what she dreamed it would be.

Art imitating life, blah blah blah.

"Reese!" A sultry voice calls behind them, honey mixed with cayenne.

The moon-faced blonde sashays across the room, thin stem of a martini glass elegantly clutched in her manicured hand.

Reese lets out a tiny, excited gasp and Harper immediately feels a twinge of something else she doesn't care to name.

"Meg! You're blonde."

"So I am. My hairdresser pretty much held me down and tortured me, but I can now formally confirm that blondes have more fun." Her laugh is open and confident.

Sharp brown eyes pin on Harper, a predatory smile spreading across the woman’s features.  Her beauty is tinged with venom, luscious but with a warning - ‘I bite.’

"Hello." The two syllables stretch out like viscous strings of taffy between them, thick and gooey.

Harper feels like she’s caught, a fly struggling in its sticky net.  She stares blankly. 

Her captor winks.

"Reese, you should have told me you were bringing a sweet little angel."

The woman leans forward conspiratorially, dropping her voice. "Meg Masters. What do ya say we ditch Reese here, and hit the dance floor.  A little twist and shout."

Harper feels the heat flood to her face. She opens and closes her mouth, any remaining attempt to play it cool reduced to a bad impression of a fish gasping on a hook.

"Meg." The bite of steel in Reese’s voice comes as a surprise.

Meg is unphased. She raises an eyebrow and leans against the table, one curvy hip jutting out salaciously.

"Hey, can't blame a girl for trying." Her blood red lips settle into a smirk.

Reese's eyes narrow. Something electric is in the air.

Harper’s eyes ping pong between the two women. They’re either going to kiss or start a fistfight.

Harper’s fairly certain she can’t handle either scenario.

Reese breaks first, her face cracking into a big, toothy smile. "How have you been, you persistent menace?"

"Good. Still getting into trouble." Meg tugs the skewer out of her drink, popping a bright green olive between crimson lips.

Harper does her best to keep her gaze on her feet.

Reese snorts. "More like causing it. How’s the love life? "

Harper shifts uncomfortably next to her, feeling like she’s intruding on their reunion. Her eyes dart around the room for a means of escape. She spots Cas, who’s staring into space.  Broodingly. 

Hmm. Brooding in public isn’t usually typical of their fearless leader.

Harper has no idea where he learned it, but Cas can work the professional mask when he wants to. And a ‘social event of the year’ like this usually requires it.

“What happened to the accountant?” Reese says next to her, jerking Harper back to her present predicament.

Meg shrugs dismissively. "He was a nice guy, but boring. I may have ripped his heart out. Is that so bad?"

Reese rolls her eyes, then grins. "Liar. Underneath that crunchy exterior is some soft caramel goo. You can't fool me, Meg Masters."

"Shhh. You'll ruin my reputation."

Harper clears her throat.

Reese blinks and looks at Harper as if suddenly remembering her.

"Ah sorry, Harper. Meg and I worked together a while before she went to the dark side. She’s in sales at tumblr now, actually."

Harper reluctantly holds out her hand, shaking Meg’s. She fights the urge to squeeze it harder than called for.

"It's pretty cutthroat, but I love it," Meg purrs.

Harper tries not to be jealous of her confidence. She fails.

"Meg, this is Harper Sayles. She’s Cas’ new assistant. You’re colleagues."

Meg straightens, eyes widening at Harper as if she’s something other than human. "Cas Novak?"

"You know a lot of guys named Cas?" The impertinent sarcasm slips out before Harper can temper it.

Crap. What is it with this woman - her very proximity is causing something unhinged to unravel within her. Like she’s dancing with the devil. 

A laugh escapes Meg’s blood-red lips. "Fair point. Not exactly a common name. You know, back in college I would introduce him as ‘Clarence’ at bars. Castiel was too damn weird."

Harper chokes a bit on her chardonnay. "College?"

Meg leans casually against the table. "Oh yeah. We've known each other forever. We used to have sleepovers, braid each other's hair, discuss the heavy nature of existing.” She pauses, assessing Harper’s face.

“To clarify, that last part just means we smoked a hell of a lot of pot. Anyway, he’s the reason I switched sides."

A dark look flashes across her eyes, so fast Harper almost misses it. "Haven't seen as much of him lately. How is he?"

Her voice is casual but there’s tension in her shoulders, something other than flirtatious decadence crossing her features. Harper’s head tilts, eyes squinting as she tries to read the situation.

Is this a test? To see if Harper will talk trash about her boss? Or is she just making small talk?

Harper feels a spike of irritation. Why can’t people just say what they mean?

"He's fine." Harper says diplomatically.

Meg’s eyebrows shoot up. "Shit. That bad, huh?"

Harper’s cheeks flush. She's always been a crap liar.

She scrambles for cover.

"No, he is completely fine. I'm just not used to all of his um, lifestyle. You know - the orgies and drugs. I'm kinda boring." She smiles wryly.

Harper expects the sassy woman to say something condescending, or even worse, allude to her own participation in Cas’ favorite ‘activities.’

Disappointment floods Meg’s features instead.

Huh. Interesting.

"He wasn’t always…." Meg doesn't finish the thought, instead plastering a smile on her face that doesn’t reach all the way to her eyes.

Reese looks at Harper over Meg’s shoulder, shrugging helplessly. The awkward silence envelops them like a dark fog.

"So, um, you've known Cas a long time? Wanna share any embarrassing stories?" Reese offers.

The humor returns to Meg’s eyes.

"Oh, Cas has done his fair share of embarrassing things, but you can’t use that as ammo against a man who feels no shame. You can tease him all you want about streaking through campus, but he won't even blush. Once he even called the media to film him jogging in his birthday suit."

Harper tries her best not to picture her boss going for a run across his alma mater in the nude.

Reese snorts in approval. “My kind of guy,” she says appreciatively.

Meg tosses the remnants of her martini down her throat in a quick flick of the wrist. Her voice grows contemplative.

"He’d probably be more embarrassed to admit he fell in love." She runs a finger around the rim of the glass. 

"Cas? The same Cas who had an orgy last month that he described as -" Harper cringes trying to prevent the words from tumbling out but it’s too late - "filthier than the final days of Sodom and Gomorrah?"

"Oh yeah." Meg’s voice takes on a wistful tone. 

"He fell hard. Found a guy worth giving it all up for. A unicorn, I’d always tell him. They went to the farmer's market and read poetry.”  Meg raises an eyebrow, but the dreamy air of her voice belies her feigned disgust at Cas’ prior dating practices.

“They were so sweet on each other,” she intonates. “I thought they were headed down the aisle."

Harper tries and fails to imagine Cas in domestic bliss.  At the farmer’s market.

Yeah, that only worked if he was buying apples for his “organic but make it a bong” experiments.

"Guess unicorns are myths after all." The flat cynicism that blankets Meg’s voice is unmistakable, but Harper hears a tinge of something else. Disappointment?

"He's here you know." Reese drops gleefully. Meg blinks in surprise.

"Here? Why didn't you say something?" She whacks Reese on the shoulder playfully.

"Yup. Saw him over by the bar not too long ago." Harper agrees, deciding to keep the dark stare she glimpsed in Cas’ eyes to herself.

Meg scoops up her empty martini glass. "It's been fun, but I'm gonna go catch up with my bestie.”

She winks at Harper. “And by catch up, you know I mean pour tequila down our throats.  Condolences, Harper - I assume you may have to deal with that fallout later. Feel free to get my number from Reese so you can…” Meg lifts a domineering brow, “chastise me about it."

Harper’s face is a literal tomato. She’s grateful when Meg turns her attention back on Reese.

"See ya Reese. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." She dots a kiss on Reese’s temple, leaving a blood-red imprint behind.

Reese rolls her eyes, rubbing the lipstick off her skin. "There’s nothing you won't do."

"Exactly." Meg smirks over her shoulder as she saunters away, hips swinging.

This was a mistake.

What the hell had Dean even been thinking?

The blue eyes staring back at him pierce his chest like the steel of a shining blade, spilling his composure on the floor. 

It’s like seeing a ghost. This remnant of a past life Dean no longer has access to, haunted by its lingering memories.

The book is slammed shut, but Dean keeps rewriting the ending in his mind.

He drinks in the sight of him, dark tousled hair and long, dexterous fingers fiddling with a button at his wrist.

He wants to grab Cas by the shoulders, shake him. To verify that he is real and solid.

Maybe to get a reaction out of him besides the vacant, hollow stare that’s currently coloring his face.

Dean frowns at the dark circles under Cas’ eyes, red blotches on the white surrounding the cobalt irises. Tattle-tale signs of late nights and bad decisions.

He flexes his fingers, fighting the urge to run one down the curve of Cas’ cheek, to press his lips gently to his Cas’ forehead and ask him if he’s okay.

Please. Please tell me this has all been a nightmare. Please tell me you still love me. Please tell me - you think about me too.

Please tell me it was a mistake and you want me to come home.

Please tell me you never wanted me gone in the first place.

The words swell to his lips, their litany like a solemn prayer, but he doesn’t say them.

Instead, he shoves them into that tiny room in his mind occupied by all the other thoughts that hurt.

He slams the door shut on his emotions and locks them up. The pain is a prisoner and Dean is the cage, keeping it behind steel bars and buried far below the cold dungeon floor until it’s dark and he’s alone, a whiskey lullaby singing him to sleep.

Dean slides a smirk over his face. “Thought I’d rip the band aid off.”

The familiar head tilt in response to his statement reminds Dean how fragile his prison actually is when it comes to anything involving Cas. He leans against the mental door to bolster it.

“Figured we can't avoid each other forever. We run in the same circles." Dean gestures around awkwardly.

"But we're both adults. We can be professional, yeah?" Dean’s arm drops to his side, useless. 

Cas blinks at him. "Ah."

Dean sighs, clearing his throat. Thanks, Cas. Way to give me something to work with here.

"So, how ya been?" Dean fights the urge to run. How is this so hard?

"I'm good." Cas’ syllables are short, flattened grass in a summer rainstorm.

Dean clocks the facade as soon as it passes Cas’ lips. A twinge of hope darts through his chest.

It's dashed as soon as Cas adds, "You, um. Look terrible."

Would it kill this asshole to lie every now and again?

"Thanks, Cas. Well, you are lookin’ good." Dean’s going for sarcasm but somehow the words come out sincere.

He can’t fucking help it, because despite the hints of debauchery, Cas somehow still manages to look good as hell. Still devastatingly handsome.

Dean wants to grab him and throw him up against a wall, pressing his mouth to his so firmly their teeth knock together. His fingers itch to tear that ridiculous (fine, adorable) bowtie off his neck.

Maybe tie it around something else.

Dean quickly banishes the thoughts, shifting his hand slightly to cover the tell-tale tightening of his pants.

Fuck. Stop that.

Cas doesn’t give any indication he’s noticed Dean’s dilemma. Instead, he says with a sigh:

"Dean, you know what I meant." Dean knows he’s imagining the tinge of concern in Cas’ eyes, but it still pisses him off.

Not your problem anymore, Novak.

"No, Cas, I don't,” he growls out, forehead creasing with exasperation.

“Because you said I look terrible. I'm not sure how else you could have meant that." The heat of annoyance peppers his words.

Cas’ eyes harden. "Dean Smith, it can't have escaped your notice that you are wasting away. When was the last time you slept? Or took your meds?"

Bitter anger takes over Dean’s brain, quieting the emotions surging behind the door of the cage. 

He narrows his emerald gaze, the green glowing brighter with wrath.

"Luckily for you, it’s no longer your concern what happens in my kitchen, my bathroom, or my bed."

Cas’ eyes soften, not with hurt but in contrition.

Dean fights to keep his anger at the forefront as a lump rises in his throat.

Stop looking at me like you fucking care when you don’t.

"Dean." The single word falls from Cas’ lips, but the weight of the syllable is crushing, and Dean’s imagination runs away with what hasn’t been spoken.

I'm worried about you. I don't like seeing you this way.

The door holding back the waves of pain is starting to splinter, Dean’s back pressed against it like Atlas, weighed down by the burden – the sheer, insurmountable weight of the world.

Specifically for Dean, a world which Cas no longer inhabits.

He suddenly feels the burn of unscheduled tears in the corners of his eyes.

Hell, wouldn't that top it all off. Crying in the middle of a wedding while his ex watches him with pity.

He can’t do this. Can’t pretend. "Cas, I…” he chokes out, low.

"Castiel Novak, you don’t have a drink and that is a crime. Luckily, I come bearing gifts! Specifically those of tequila."

The door in his brain slams shut and Dean cringes at the voice to his right.

Meg fucking Masters.

Bile rises in Dean’s throat. She's one of the few friends Cas kept from before.

A fellow trust fund baby, her father at least had the decency to die early (accident on Mount Everest).

She's never had to work for anything in her life, though she does have a job. She moonlighted at Twitter for a while before she made the jump over to the ‘dark side’ of the blue apps. 

For someone who doesn’t care much about employment, she is damn good at what she does.

Dean would give her partial credit for that, but she once admitted she only does it because she likes to make grown men cry.

Cas’ grin of greeting makes Dean’s blood boil. 

Meg hands Cas a shot of tequila, another balanced in her small hand. They throw them back in unison, no chaser, no flinch.

“Cas, it’s been awhile. I hear you’ve been busy. Balthazar said you had quite the evening a few weeks ago.”

Cas’ demeanor changes immediately. He leans against the small cocktail table to his right and grins lasciviously, a glint in his eye.

“Yeah, I still can’t believe what that woman can do with a ping-pong ball.”

Dean’s toe is doing a nervous tap on the floor. Meg notices, glancing over at him as if she’s just realized he exists.

She sneers at him dismissively. "Dean Smith. It’s been a while since I saw you, too, but I can’t say that’s a shame.”

He sneers right freaking back. Two can do this tango, you evil hellspawn.

“Meg, I would say it’s good to see you, but the only thing I enjoy about it is your back as you walk away.”

She smiles. “Did you just admit to checking out my ass, Dean Smith? I’ll take the compliment, even though you’re absolutely not my type.”

Dean sputters.

Dammit, he’s off his game. This is all Cas’ fault. “No. Shut up, Meg.”

Dean casts his eyes about the room desperately. A flash of familiar red locks draws his attention like a rescue beacon.

“Anyway,” he mutters sullenly, avoiding eye contact with Cas, “as much fun as this has been, I see someone I have to say hello to.”

He chances a look back over his shoulder as he walks away. Cas’ blue eyes stare back at him, closed off and unreachable.

He takes a deep breath, pushing the name out of his mouth and trying to move past this.

“Charlie!”

She spots him, bounding over immediately to close the distance between them and wrap him in a bear hug.

“DEAN! It’s good to see you. Where have you been? Why haven’t you called me? Why did I find out you were the most eligible bachelor from page 6?” Her voice is scolding but good natured.

Dean is grateful for the laughter that inevitably follows Charlie wherever she goes. He extricates himself from her arms. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Don’t deflect, Dean! You know IT gets pretty lonely.” Charlie puts both hands on her hips, glaring up at him with feigned irritation.

“They lock us in a huge glass room like a bunch of hamsters. If you don’t come visit me or drag me out to lunch, I start to go a little feral. I need enrichment in my enclosure, Dean. You may be a fancy executive, but surely you still have a little time to entertain me.”

Dean’s heart unclenches just a bit, her friendly banter loosening the knot of emotion that still twists in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, yeah. I missed you too. Tell you what, next week we’ll go to that sushi place you love. My treat.”

She hits his arm. “Now we’re talking.”

Charlie steps back to look Dean over, eyes softening. “How have you been? Really?”

“Peachy.” Dean laughs, shooting for levity.

He winces when it comes out sharper than intended.

“That good, huh?”

Dean looks away from the sympathetic look in her eyes.

Is it throw Dean a pity party day or something?

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “Look, when Dorothy and I broke up….”

“Charlie, can we talk about - literally - anything else?”

It’s a true sign of their close friendship that she immediately obliges, launching into a story about the non-profit she volunteers for - a shelter for teens and families experiencing homelessness. It’s a great organization. Dean writes them a big check every year.

Apparently there has been some disagreement about their fundraiser this year. Dean tries to listen. He really does. But he can’t help that his eyes are drawn back towards Cas. It’s always been this way.

When it comes to Cas, Dean is a moth to a lamp.

Dean’s eyes pin to the column of Cas’ throat. His head is tilted back in a roar of laughter at something Meg’s saying as she hands him another shot.

Dean’s heart sinks. How many tequilas is that, Cas?

All in all though, Cas seems to be doing just fine. He’s better than fine. He’s thriving.

It isn’t that Dean wants him to be miserable.

Ok, he wants him to be a little miserable.

But Dean can barely recognize the sensitive, introspective and shy man he fell in love with.

The carefree playboy laughing with Meg and running wild with Balthazar is a stranger.

‘His’ Cas is starting to feel like a figment of Dean’s own creation, some human shaped idea he tulpa’d into place with the mistaken assumption that someone like Cas could actually love him.

After all, Dean knows that what they had, or what he thought they had, was never real. That’s why they broke up to begin with.

In that moment Cas looks up, meeting his gaze. His eyes are a little wobbly from the shots, and suddenly it’s like a mask slips off.  Dean feels the sear of it, like a surge of energy through a string that binds their hearts together, cracking all the way into the depths of his soul.

The pounding inside him gets louder, that whirlwind of grief and rage and heartbreak demanding to be freed.

“…and we can allocate the funds to buy rocket packs for the homeless teens so they can go to the moon and become lunar florists.”

Dean swivels his head to Charlie. “Wait, what??”

“I knew you weren’t listening.” Charlie teases.

“Sorry, Charlie. I just…”

“I know, Dean.” The sympathy is back in her face and it’s too much to bear. He’s tired of the small, sad smiles. He’s tired of being the piñata at the pity party, everyone getting a hit.

“Fuck, this is so goddamned stupid. Listen, I swear I’m fine. Okay? I just - haven’t been in the same room with him. Since.” Dean rubs his face in his hands, embarrassed by even this small admission.

“Have you tried talking to him?” Charlie prods. “I mean really talking to him. You two had something special.” She pauses, glancing back toward where Cas is licking a line of salt from his forearm.

Charlie regards the spectacle wisely, then shrugs at Dean. “Pretty clear neither of you is over it.”

Dean shakes his head derisively. “He doesn't care. He never cared, Charlie.”

Charlie tilts her head. “You think he’s pounding the tequila because it’s fun? He’s looked over here between every shot just to make sure you’re still watching the performance.”

Dean’s eyes swivel back towards Cas to find twin blue pools reflecting his gaze. Cas quickly looks away, gulping down another swallow of liquor.

Dean’s suddenly exhausted. Enough.

“Nah. It’s over, Charlie.” The bands around his chest constrict. He takes a few breaths.  Charlie’s hand is on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze

“You’re a dumbass, Dean Smith, but I love you.”

“I know.” Dean teases back, a small smile tugging his mouth upward.

"Harper, you are never gonna guess what I just saw!"

Reese pauses to catch her breath, handing Harper one of the two glasses of chardonnay she retrieved from the bar.

"Your boss and my boss were eye fucking the shit out of each other. Seriously, they were just staring at each other for like a good five minutes. Erotic tension in the air, et cetera."

Harper’s face scrunches up. Reese tries not to notice how adorable that is.  Or any, um - tension now surrounding them.

"Gross, Reese. I already get way too much information about my boss's sex life as it is, trust me. I don’t need to know who he's going home with tonight."

Reese waves her hands wildly. "That's just it. They weren't even talking to each other. But I swear, Harper - there was a connection there."

Harper isn't getting it. Reese frowns, searching for the words to clarify.  "Ok, so get this. You complain Cas is too disorganized and chaotic, right?"

Harper nods slowly.

Okay, they’re getting warmer. Good.

Reese takes a long pull of her wine, smacking her lips in satisfaction at the end of it. "Right!" She exclaims triumphantly. "And I complain that Dean needs to chill the fuck out."

Harper hums in agreement, smiling behind her glass. The quick upward tick of her lips makes Reese’s heart stutter and, for a moment, her mind goes blank.

Where was she? Right.

"So, what if we set them up? We, like, Parent Trap them."

Harper’s head tilts, her eyes narrowing with confusion. "Reese, I don't think that your memory of that movie is quite accurate."

Reese throws her hands up dramatically. “Okay, fine - we Cyrano de Bergerac them, then.”

Harper raises an eyebrow. “Name-dropping the classics? Color me impressed.”

Reese rolls her eyes. "What? I read. Anyway, you know what I mean. If they're happy, we're happy. No more late nights because Dean has no life. No more office orgies and all-night ragers because Cas is...well, Cas."

Reese does triumphant jazz hands that say look at me, I'm a genius.

Harper’s grin is back, and its fucking sunshine after a freak summer rainstorm. Reese feels a tiny thrill in her chest.

"Reese, that is absolutely ridiculous. You know that right?" Amusement laces Harper’s voice despite her clearly intended-to-be-cautious syllables.

She pauses. Reese waits, drumming her fingertips impatiently on the glass.

"I mean, we're absolutely gonna do it though." Harper says conspiratorially.

Reese grins. “Alright then, partners in crime. Thelma and Louise, but without the kiss at the end.”

Harper chokes on her wine as Reese wishes very fervently she had thought to use a slightly different pop culture reference.

Harper: you make it home okay?
Reese: yeah. The Uber wasn't that sketchy, Harp
Harper: just watching out for you
Harper: you can't be too careful. There are a lot of weirdos out there
Reese: have you met my friends? The call is coming from inside the house
Harper: ha! I'm telling Barb you said that
Harper: she will break into your house and exact a very tacky revenge. She probably has leftover valentines decorations
Reese: noooo. Death by glittery pink hearts
Harper: lol! Ugh, I have to get to bed. I promised to drop a friend off at the airport
Reese: ugh! Hey, what episode does Castiel show up?
Harper: 4x01. Why?
Reese: no reason. Just a work thing.
Reese: have a good night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite without full and enthusiastic consent
Harper: ha! You were right. You are a weirdo. Maybe I should check on the Uber driver instead
Reese: Hey!
Harper: kidding. 🙃
Harper: night Reese
Reese: night!

Chapter Text

February 26, 2021

Reese: We need to talk about Operation Boss Bang
Harper: first of all, we are NOT calling it that
Harper: second of all, are we actually doing that?
Reese: haaaaarp you agreed
Harper: I guess it's only like the third weirdest thing you have dragged me into
Reese: Hey! The underground jello wrestling match was Sully’s fault
Harper: I am not going to dignify that with a response
Harper: but I believe you still owe me for my dry-cleaning bill
Harper: ok focus, Harper. we know that they had some sort of moment but they didn't talk to each other, so we have to put them in a situation that forces them to talk
Reese: some sort of meeting? Happy hour?
Harper: no they have to be stuck together. Hold on
Harper: so the Cartwright Twins are in town for an exhibition game on the 26th
Harper: Cas will show up to that because it requires a ticket and it isn’t before noon. I will tell him he is meeting a client
Reese: oh! Harper you are a genius!!!
Reese: a master of strategy. I'm glad you only use it for good
Harper: you should see me play D&D
Reese: nerd! 💖
Reese: OK, send me the details on the game

Oh Harper.

She jumps as Reese walks up behind her, shaking her head.

“What are you wearing?” Reese blurts it out without thinking.

Harper’s eyebrows do that little dismayed frown thing that means she’s not entirely offended, but mostly confused. Her prim red sweater set and navy pencil skirt are better suited for a fancy work lunch than they are for the sun baked seats of a baseball game.

“What? The team’s colors are blue and red. Wait, what are you wearing?”

Reese looks down at the baggy jersey falling loosely over her white jeans. She peers out from under the brim of her cap, squinting at her co-conspirator.

“I’m dressed for a baseball game, Harper.” Reese sighs and grabs her arm, steering them towards the gate.

Harper’s face is a little sad. “Is there something wrong with how I look?”

Reese halts immediately. “Agh. No, buddy - sorry, didn’t mean it like that. You’re - you’re looking good.”

Harper blushes a little at the compliment, and Reese realizes she wasn’t even fishing for one. The kid is just really that self-conscious.

And for what? The girl standing in front of Reese is an absolute knockout, her tumble of bright gold spun hair reflecting the sun that shines above them. 

Reese swallows, taking a breath to steady herself.

“I mean it. You look nice, Harper. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. We don’t get to sit in the fancy club seats - it’s a nosebleed bleacher situation here. More peanuts than pinot, get it?”

Harper’s shoulders relax slightly. “I’ve never been to a game. I wasn’t even allowed to watch sports on television when I was a kid.”

Reese tries to keep the surprise out of her face so she doesn’t embarrass her but damn.

She feels a small twinge of sympathy.

Harper doesn’t talk about her childhood much, but every hint about her upbringing she’s dropped definitely makes Reese think that Reese herself would not be particularly popular with the conservative religious family that raised her friend.

First, those types don’t tend to be big on the whole lesbian thing.

Throw in the cursing like a sailor and Reese’s passionate affinity for SEC football, and something tells her she would not be invited over for family dinner a second time.

Well, the feeling’s mutual. Harper deserves better than to be treated like some sort of vessel to serve her parents’ will.

Harper looks slightly intimidated by the large entryway and the gaggle of fans, and Reese feels a surprising urge to reassure her. She gives Harper a gentle nudge at the elbow.

“You’re gonna love it. A nice sunny afternoon out of the office. Popcorn. Giant sodas, maybe a hot dog or two. I’m happy to explain the rules if you don’t know them.”

Reese’s rambling serves its purpose. Harper has redirected her attention back to Reese and a small smile is forming on her lips.

“I was raised in a religious household, not a remote monastery, Reese. Besides, I do have Google. I did my research.”

Reese’s lips tug up, mirroring Harper’s smile. Of course she did research. She probably memorized the entire rulebook.

They make their way up the ramps and find their seats. The metal is warm despite the chill in the air.

“Okay, you have the binoculars?” Harper reaches into her purse and pulls out a large black bag, handing it to Reese.

She scans the crowd, her eyes immediately finding Dean in a primly pressed jersey and designer ball cap, turned backwards, rim shading his neck.

Of course he ironed his fucking shirt. 

Next to Dean are three empty seats. “Shit, Cas hasn’t made it yet.”

"He'll be here. He told me this morning that he couldn't wait to see some men in baseball pants." Reese can hear the shudder in Harper’s words, but her eyes remain trained on Dean, who is looking annoyed at being stood up by the client.

Suddenly, she sees Dean jump and she looks to the aisle to find Cas. They immediately lock eyes, staring at each other so intently that Reese internally pats herself on the back.

She can practically feel the friction from here.

"Harper, he's here. It's working. Also, did you see Cas’ outfit? Who exactly did you tell him he was meeting?"

Harper grabs the binoculars. She peers through them for a moment then throws them back at Reese.

"My eyes! How could you make me look at my boss in a tanktop and cutoffs? I will never recover! That man truly has no shame."

Reese giggles. Jesus, she actually fucking giggles. Suddenly, she feels her humor fade into uncertainty in tandem with the realization.

She has got to get a handle on this. Whatever ‘this’ is, that unnamed buzzing in her veins whenever she’s around Harper.

Reese trains her focus back on the men, trying to ignore the churning in her gut. She hears Harper offer to get her something from the concession stand, but she just grunts in agreement without trying to form actual words.

God, why can’t Reese just be normal about anything? Harper probably isn’t even interested in girls. She’s definitely not interested in a disaster like Reese. They’re friends.

She takes a small inhale of air.

Don’t fuck it up, Harris.

Reese twists the dial of the binoculars aggressively as if it’ll bring clarity to the mess in her head along with the forms of Dean and Cas in the box seats below them.

Uh-oh.

Speaking of mess, sparks are surely not flying - if anything, the opposite is true.

If Reese didn't know better, she would say they look miserable.

Reese frowns, peering closer - actually...

They do look miserable. They keep taking side glances at each other, but the chemistry she picked up on at the wedding seems to be more along the lines of poisonous mustard gas than the cheerful bubble of a papier-mâché volcano.

Though while they’re not giggly and ‘first-date’ cute, there is something in the tense interaction Reese is watching that seems oddly routine. The way they’re moving around each other is like a carefully choreographed dance, learned and practiced and familiar. 

Huh. Maybe they do know each other somehow.

Meg.

Reese pulls out her phone, fingers flying.

Reese: Hey girl, got a random question
Meg: I’m just sitting here pretending to work. What’s up?
Reese: Do you know if Cas and Dean know each other?
Meg: Honey, duh. Yes. How do you not know this?
Reese: um why should i know this?
Meg: Dean is Cas’ unicorn that turned out to be a horse.

Shit. Shit shit shit. A rising sense of panic forces all thoughts out of Reese’s head. She and Harper are so fired.

She looks up frantically. “Harper, we have a problem.”

For the first time, Reese notices the seat next to her is empty. “Harper?”

A familiar voice rings out a few rows over. “HEY, ASSBUTT. I CAN SEE THAT WAS A STRIKE FROM UP HERE IN THE CHEAP SEATS. DO YOUR JOB.”

Well, Harper certainly seems to be acclimating.

Maybe Reese can fix this. Her mind races frantically. Okay, okay. She has to assess the situation. Identify what they’re facing, then figure out how to attack it.

She peeks back through the binoculars, dreading the fallout that surely awaits.

What she sees instead is surprising. Dean and Cas have moved closer to each other, shoulders almost brushing. Some of the tension in the slope of Cas’ back has ebbed, and he’s lounging with one foot on the railing, head pointed at the game.

Dean’s profile is in sharp relief against the bit of background where the astro turf meets the back cyan wall of the stadium, blue and green canvas for his features. He’s not paying a single iota of attention to the field.

Even from her vantage point, it’s pretty clear to Reese that Dean is staring at Cas with shameless, unabashed lust in his face.

Reese can’t decide what she feels more, the cringe or the relief.

Either way. This could work after all.

Dean tries to focus on the game, but his eyes keep drifting to Cas.

Most specifically the curve Cas’ shoulder in that stupid tank top which is apparently Cas’ stupid version of what to wear to a stupid baseball game. It’s February! Who wears that when it’s sixty degrees?

Dean swears growing up in San Francisco messed with Cas’ ability to feel temperature. He never seems to get cold.

Sometimes Dean wonders if Cas feels anything - normally - at all.

That thought is fucking depressing, and he returns his attention to Cas’ clothing choices.

He’s not even going to start on the stupid cutoff jean shorts Cas apparently chose to complete his ‘look,’ which Dean can only describe in his mind as indecent.

Well. There are a few other choice words he could pick from, but he’s not going to go there right now.  That would be, um - distracting.

Dean’s stupid dick is even more distracted than Dean. He can feel it twitching with interest between his legs, muscle memory drawn to the sheen of Cas’ skin.  His traitorous brain unhelpfully reminds him it still remembers every inch and texture - from the prickle of stubble dotting Cas’ chin to the dizzying contrast of that soft, tender spot right behind Cas’ ear.

Stupid.

He places an arm over the growing bulge in his jeans, hoping Cas won’t notice.

“Hot wieners!” 

Dean literally fucking jumps, shoving both hands over his lap like he’s been caught pants-down in the bathroom.

The hot dog man ignores him, continuing down the steps in search of potential customers.  “Get your wieners here!”

Cas is looking at him with a puzzled expression.

“Um, just hungry!” Dean manages to grit out as a ray of sun peeks out of the clouds and illuminates the carved rise of Cas’ clavicle. The bone juts out below his chin like it’s fine art, molded perfectly into the skin.

Dean wants to run his tongue down that ridge, tracing it down to the soft line between the pectoral muscles and slowly lick his way towards the pink peak of Cas’ left nipple. 

Except no he fucking doesn’t. 

He sends a mental reprimand to his wayward dick, and pulls his gaze downwards.

Unfortunately, that view happens to be the firm muscle of Cas’ left thigh, dangerously close to his own. 

Dean is at least fully clothed, like a responsible adult - and therefore Cas can’t see how every single hair on his legs is standing at the ready, brave little soldiers ready to lay it all on the line in a sexy battle.

His dick thickens, volunteering to be the cannon with which to storm the gates.

Just. Fuck. What is wrong with him?

Dean spots the popcorn vendor. Huge red bucket, perfect cover for this surprise boner of absolute public shame. 

Cas’ voice growls, teasingly, “Very inappropriate, Dean. You should really be flogged for your misconduct.” 

Except it’s in Dean’s head and not coming from the very confused man to his right, and God maybe it’s all the sun beating down on them or the fact that Dean does need to eat for real.

Did he have breakfast?

He did not have breakfast.

Okay, popcorn it is.

“Over here,” he waves a hand, and the incomprehension across Cas’ furrowed brow deepens.

“You’re getting popcorn?” His squint is so narrow his eyes are practically squeezed shut, and Dean can’t tell if it’s from the sunlight or Dean’s current proclivity for being absolutely fucking ridiculous.

“Said I’m hungry,” he grunts out, exchanging a few crisp bills for the mercifully ginormous bucket of white kernels. Rich buttery beads glisten on their fluffy tops, like dewdrops on dandelions in the light of morning.

Cas is looking at Dean’s hands holding the calorie laden receptacle like he may be the one hallucinating.

“Dean, you’re aware that’s covered in butter. And not even real butter? This is that ‘slimy’ movie theater type of butter.” Cas finger quotes the descriptor, and Dean bites back his smile at the familiar gesture.

Feeling slightly more confident with the cover of the bucket over his lap and a distraction for his hands and mouth, he gives Cas a saucy little wink. “Yeah, that’s your favorite if I remember correctly?”

This is a figure of speech. Dean remembers correctly.

How could he not, when he caught Cas salivating over it whenever they went to the movies those first few times? Dean always got his popcorn bone dry, not wanting to deal with the extra calories or the mess of add-ons. Cas never said a word.

But Dean couldn’t miss it, the way Cas’ eyes were glued to the little stream of yellow butter every time they walked by another patron vigorously drenching their popcorn.

On their third movie date, Dean unceremoniously handed the bag to Cas after paying, and nudged him to the butter pump with a knowing elbow. 

“But you don’t like it,” Cas mumbled demurely, a flush of embarrassment spreading on his cheeks. Dean couldn’t resist planting a quick peck on one of the pink spots. “Don’t have to like everything I do, angel,” he said softly, tucking one hand in the back pocket of Cas’ jeans. 

“Besides, what I like most is watching you enjoy yourself. Let’s get some chemical butter all over those lips.” Dean remembers it so well, that soft pressure of Cas sighing as he leaned into him.

What he remembers even better is the feel of one slim butter-drenched finger gently sliding into his mouth, Cas’ gasp in his ear from the pressure of Dean’s tongue against it, knuckle to tip. Fighting not to moan so nobody would hear. The little thrill of knowing Cas was all his in the cool darkness of the theater.

What he doesn't remember is the movie.

A flutter of those same finely shaped digits jerks Dean back to the present, the hot sun and even hotter ache in his dick re-grounding him to their current circumstances.

Cas is rolling his eyes at him, but Dean can see the little lines at their corners softening.  Nudging the bucket over towards Cas just slightly, but not enough to disclose the still-tight area of his pants, he adds:

“If you’re nice, I’ll even share.” 

Cas darts in for a handful before Dean can yank the popcorn away. “Define nice,” he mumbles around the mouthful of kernels, and the slickness of the butter at the corner of his lips is surely going to send Dean spinning directly into the center of the sun.

He gingerly takes a handful of popcorn instead, chewing each slowly. Okay, yes. It’s not the ideal choice for a late lunch, but having something in his stomach is probably a necessity for an unplanned outing with his ex.

His very fucking sexy gorgeous tousled buttery-mouthed ex.

Dean doesn’t even bother to conduct his regular practice of tallying the calories per kernel as he goes for the second helping without looking at what his hands are doing.

It appears Cas has the same one-track mind, because seconds later Dean’s fingers slide against his, smooth skin slick with the feel of oil and salt. Dean jolts back like he’s been burned, sending a few kernels flying up into the sky. 

Cas flicks one off the bare skin of his shoulder, and the remaining residue glistens, coating the small dip of bone under the firm cap of muscle temptingly.

Dean squints at his expression. Is he being smug?

Then, immediately:

Why is the thought of that so hot?

Dean did not expect to have this level of carnal thought in relation to butter today. He bites his lip. 

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No problem,” Cas hums, eyes half lidded with pleasure as he chews his second mouthful. “Mmm, this is really the stuff.”

Dean clears his throat, but before he can say anything the harpsichord announces that it’s time for the seventh inning stretch, and if Dean’s being honest his dick is still at over half-mast and not quite ready to be in the spotlight. Cas stands while he remains seated.

This is a terrible fucking mistake, because now Dean’s face is directly in line with the firm curve of Cas’ ass, and yeah. The shorts are definitely indecent and then fucking some.

Sonofabitch.

Has Cas been working out? Dean’s eyes join his groin in bulging furiously at the perky posterior swaying in front of him to the beat of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

He knows this because he’s looking at his own completely Cas-struck expression on the giant screen towering above the ballpark.

It’s Dean’s face, Cas’ jorts-clad crotch, and the words “KISS CAM” written underneath in screaming, accusatory caps.

No, no, no. Dean begs the flush spreading up from his jersey collar and to the tips of his earlobes to stay put. 

Cas has noticed, and he’s putting his palms up in what’s supposed to be a “no, thank you we don’t want any” gesture in the direction of the cameras, except it’s a shaky and panicked impression of very vigorous jazz hands.

Dean hears the drunken jeer of some asshole behind them. “What, you two pretty boys scared someone will think you’re gay?”

Before Dean can turn around and deck the motherfucker, Cas answers calmly:

“I’m actually gay.” His thumb jerks to the top of Dean’s head. “And he’s bi. So as you can see, we are entirely indifferent to anyone’s opinion of our sexual orientation.” 

“Cas, there’s absolutely no need to justify ourselves to belligerent drunk pricks,” Dean mutters, but he feels a pinch of gratitude in his stomach as he gently yanks at Cas, who allows himself to be pulled back to a seated position next to Dean.

And fuck, he just said ourselves, and he knows Cas heard the word because the pulse in his wrist under Dean’s buttery fingertips is hammering like a hummingbird’s heartbeat.

Dean chances it and meets Cas’ gaze. His pupils are blown open wide, lips open slightly.

Dean swallows.

“Hi,” he says hoarsely. 

Cas lets out a small puff of amused air. “Hi,” he says.

Dean realizes his fingers are still making a circle of salty grease around Cas’ wrist. He drops his hand.

For a moment, he imagines the look on Cas’ face is a reaction to missing the touch.

Suddenly Dean realizes how badly he wants that to be true, and being Dean, he recklessly blurts out:

“If that stupid thing comes back around we should just do it.” The words are fast, tumbling out like carelessly dropped marbles, scattering on the floorboards of an empty house.

Cas raises an eyebrow.

Dean gulps. “Uh, unless you don’t wanna. Which. S’okay.”

A teasing glint rises lightens the cobalt of Cas’ irises. “Oh I’m not opposed, I just think doing ‘it’ would be a little too forward.” The finger quotes make a triumphant return, and Cas’ raised brow arches higher, like a stern command.

“After all this is a family friendly ballgame, Dean.” 

The motherfucker drops his voice an entire octave when he says his name, and Dean literally forgets how to breathe, his dick singing an hallelujah chorus in response to the sound of it.

Before he can asphyxiate entirely, a drunken whoop from the one-man peanut gallery behind them indicates that yes, for the third time the kiss cam has resumed its gentle bullying for, as the crowd directs them to - “Kiss, kiss, kiss.”

Fuck it.

Dean slides his hand on the back of Cas’ neck, feeling the soft, warm skin of it under his palm. He pulls him in for what he intends to be the chastest of pecks.

The feel of Cas’ lips, salty and rich as they press to his, is a heady drug. Dean’s traitorous, selfish mouth recognizes the feel of them immediately. A little chapped just like Dean remembers, but soft under that roughness - an oddly perfect combination, sandpaper and rose petals.

Cas’ breath is in his mouth and it’s intoxicating. Dean’s tongue slips in on its own volition, gliding easily into the slick warmth as Cas allows him more. More of the taste of him. 

That delectable flavor that’s so uniquely Cas.

Cas is pawing at Dean’s shirt and the popcorn bucket falls to the floor, the kernels spilling in a wet, buttery stream to the seats below them. Dean feels the short, quick pants of his breath on his lips and he can’t help the moan that escapes his own when Cas’ hip inadvertently brushes against his fully alert erection. 

Cas feels it too, based on the pressure of fingernails on the skin of Dean’s arm, and yeah that’s gonna leave a mark.

The “holy shit” from the guy behind them rings out over the now-silent stadium as they break apart, both red faced and dark-eyed with lust.

Dean’s fingers are not trembling.

Cas’ eyes pin to his. “Well,” he licks his lips, and the flick of tongue is enough for Dean to practically come entirely undone right there, in front of God, kiss-cam, and peanut gallery douchebag himself. 

Cas swallows, then says:

“I think a friend of mine said it best - ‘we are adults and can handle this professionally.’”

Dean recognizes his own words, but it’s definitely his turn to be confused as Cas’ still-slick fingers gently tangle in his. Cas stares up at him for a minute, and Dean sees it. The thing he always told Cas he could, and should do - freely.

The wanting.

And automatically, Dean allows Cas to have. 

“You, um - wanna get outta here?” he chokes it out against the parched insides of his throat. Cas gives him a barely perceptible nod, and just like that they’re practically running up the steps, popcorn kernels crushing under the soles of Dean’s boots in their wake.

Cas should absolutely not be doing this. 

His hand is clenched in Dean’s, slick in the heat of the air, and Cas can’t tell if it’s from the popcorn residue or the beads of sweat on his palm. 

Maybe it’s both - mingling together in a salty lubricant that creates an easy slide for Dean’s fingers, rubbing gently where they’re intertwined while they walk. It’s intentional - a small glide of pressure on that soft skin between his digits that’s just a touch more sensitive than the rest of his hand.

Little caresses, back and forth but Cas can feel the pulse of heat behind the movement. 

Dean wants him.

Cas isn’t even sure where they’re headed, he just knows he’s got to get...somewhere, anywhere, where they can be alone.

The thick raised ridge, growing harder against his pants on the inside of his right thigh seems to agree.

Cas looks up from the pavement to find Dean’s eyes pinned to that spot. He clears his throat slightly. Dean meets his eyes, and licks his lips, biting the lower one. Slowly. 

Cas watches that rosy tip of tongue glide against the flat edge of Dean’s perfectly white teeth, the pronounced bob of Dean’s neck visible as he swallows. 

Cas’ free hand swoops up to the back of his head, at the nape, just a little rub there - it’s a reflexive gesture.

He only does it when he’s absolutely, entirely, and completely turned on.

Dean’s eyes darken from emerald to the deep pine of a mountain forest. 

Okay. Okay. They are not making it anywhere further than this stadium. He needs a solution quickly before they get arrested for indecent exposure.

Cas spots a utility closet, the door slightly ajar. 

Eureka.

Dean follows his glance and a crease appears between his brows immediately. “Uh, Cas? Are you sure that’s the best idea?”

The small twinge of hesitation in his voice and the way his eyes narrow with concern takes Cas back to the beginning. Rooftops. Sunrises. Freckles that glow like diamonds.

He immediately reroutes his thoughts.

This is not a time for feelings.

Cas isn’t going to let himself get that far. After all, it’s Cas’ hierarchy of needs driving this sexy muscle car, and he’s going with the basic ones first - he wants Dean, he wants him now. 

This is purely about getting a certain something out of his system for good. 

Cas is going to cut out that human weakness currently causing a pleasant red-hot sensation behind the center of his belly button, its warmth spreading to the blood in his groin. He shifts at the ache.

Yes, this is just about relieving that.

Strictly dick-ly, as Balthazar would say.

To reiterate that point to both Dean and himself, Cas drops his hand and suggestively hooks a finger on one of Dean’s belt loops.

He gives it a quick, rough tug, watching the fabric of Dean’s white jeans drag against what is unmistakably a full blown hard-on.

“You’re probably right,” Cas murmurs, throaty. “I should just head home.”

Dean’s crotch practically leaps towards the nearly closed door, Dean’s bicep slung around Cas’ waist and pulling him along with the strength of a Greek god.

They tumble in so quickly that Cas ends up on his back, Dean’s palms pressed to the floor on either side of his head. Dean nudges the door closed with the toe of his boot, not taking his eyes off Cas’ face as the darkness closes in around them. 

Cas can’t see Dean, but he doesn’t need to. His hands remember him well enough. 

Cas finds the outline of Dean’s jaw, smoothing fingertips up over the sharp chisel of cheek. He traces his thumb down to the curve of his chin, then dips under to run the flat of his palm down the side of Dean’s neck.

He feels the goosebumps spread under his touch as Dean trembles above him. He knows the spot, right where the clavicle and neck intersect, a crossroads of nerve bundles. He presses into it and feels Dean’s sharp intake of breath as he leans up slightly to replace the skin to skin of his hand with the warm, wet feel of his tongue.

A breathy moan rips from Dean’s throat. He relaxes into the pressure of Cas’ mouth, and Cas’ unruly hips rise to meet Dean’s of their own accord. 

One of his thighs brushes against the warmth pulsing between Dean’s legs, hard and hot as the steel of a sword freshly tempered by flames. Cas slides a hand between them, unsheathing Dean from the confines of jeans and cotton boxers, stroking him once from root to tip. 

Dean jerks at the touch, and the movement knocks over some sort of domino arrangement of what Cas presumes to be miscellaneous cleaning supplies. His eyes haven’t adjusted to see anything past the outline of Dean’s body floating above him like a vision on the ceiling.

Cas decides he’s not really interested in focusing on much else right now anyway.

Dean’s hips are moving slightly, small jerky thrusts into Cas’ hand, and he wishes they were at least in his car where the lube is in abundant supply. Dean’s trying to tug his pants all the way down with one hand while balancing with the other, twisting and wobbly above him.

In a flash of inspiration, Cas juts both of his knees up towards the ceiling and manages to flip Dean over using the grip of his thighs around his waist, hand carefully enclosed around his dick, still stroking a bit to maintain the momentum. 

The offending jeans fly off in the process, catching around Dean’s left ankle as they graze the side of Cas’ leg in their descent.

“Urhgh!” Dean grunts in surprise. 

It should be impossible, but his dick is harder now, practically slicing into Cas’ hand, the iron rod of the muscle straining against it, the skin encasing it like warm, plush velvet against the lines of Cas’ palm.

Cas wraps his fingers loosely, slowing down the rhythm. “Godfuckingdammit,” Dean mutters in response. 

Cas noses in the dark until he finds the soft curve of Dean’s earlobe, snaking his tongue into the opening above it. The shiver he feels erupting down Dean’s torso is delicious. 

“You like that, being pushed around.” Cas keeps his voice low, letting the breathier syllables tickle the delicate skin and tiny, sensitive bones of Dean’s ear. 

It’s barely audible, but he hears Dean’s half-whispered “Yes.”

The syllable sends a flash of lighting searing all the way down to the space behind Cas’ balls and he shifts with the pressure. 

He almost manages to keep the moan out of his voice when he rumbles sternly, removing his hand. “I can’t hear you, Dean.”

Dean’s breaths are reduced to shallow pants, pelvis rutting in search of Cas’ grip on his dick. 

“Cas, please…”

Cas lets his own hips lower, rubbing the worn, faded denim still encasing his crotch against Dean. It’s featherlight, the muscles of Cas’ arms cording in their effort to keep him raised high enough for just the slight feel of pressure of soft cloth to sensitive skin. 

Dean bucks into him with abandon. 

Cas lifts himself out of reach, arms shaking slightly.

“Tell me what you want,” he hums wetly into the ear, adding a swirl of the tongue right behind it.

Dean has got to stop grabbing for his ass like this, because if he manages to pin him down all the way, Cas is going to forget all of his strategy and unceremoniously come in his pants.

He wriggles away and then down again, managing another heart-stopping graze of their groins in the process before he slides his knees to the side of Dean’s waist, pinning his arms above his head. 

Cas’ eyes seem to have adjusted some, because he can see the feathery tips of Dean’s eyelashes as he blinks at him. They’re nose to nose.

“Hi,” Dean rasps out. He flashes a grin.

Dammit, Castiel. He’s breaking his own rules. No eye contact. No gazing.

His dick twitches forlornly. Et tu, Brute? Patience.

“Hi,” Cas bites back out at Dean, a little more tersely than intended, and drops his hands from Dean’s wrists, yanking his shirt open. 

A small skittering sound announces that Dean’s car keys have escaped the confines of his back pocket in all of Cas’ manhandling, and the fact that Dean doesn’t even bat an eye just shows Cas how far gone he is.

Good, Cas thinks, grasping at his own composure. His dick is leaking uncomfortably down the side of one leg, skin chilling as the wetness meets the air out of the side of his shorts.

He pauses for a minute, then makes the decision.

Keeping both knees on the floor, he rocks back away from Dean’s body to unzip, folding the waistband down to his thighs, releasing some of the pressure. His dick bobs up like it’s coming up for air, and he feels the small gathering of damp as it brushes the front of his briefs.

Dean’s eyes must have adjusted too, because his hand is immediately on it, needy and grabbing at the tented cloth. He palms at Cas, whining slightly.

Fuck.

It takes every effort he can muster, but Cas grabs his hand and pushes it away. “Not yet,” he ekes out, the fever pitch in his blood a direct line to his leaking slit. 

Dean groans. “Baby, wanna feel you…”

And for the love of everything that is holy if Cas can’t get his bearings back, he’s going to come practically untouched.

“Not.Yet.” 

Cas bends down to shove the syllables through gritted teeth, then grazes their edges down, down, down over the ripple of skin and muscle that make up Dean’s chest and upper abdomen, stopping briefly to flick a brief drive-by greeting to each nipple. 

They perk, pebble hard under his touch.

Dean gasps, and Cas feels the light brush of fingers right on the edges of his hair. The hand pauses. 

“This okay?” Dean’s voice is hoarse, and the curl of tightness in the pit of Cas’ stomach fizzes and vibrates at the sound he knows so well, the one he used to love best in the world.

Dean’s teetering on the edge, holding himself back purposely to extend it, this sensation.

What Cas is making Dean feel.

No, no. No feelings. 

Cas refocuses, pushing the top of his head into Dean’s fingers in affirmation, and they grip lightly, tugging a little at the roots of his hair. He lets the gentle pressure of Dean’s palm follow him further down Dean’s torso, not pushing his head down but guiding it towards those sensitive parts right above the hip bones. 

Cas marks one with a sharp, biting suck of lips, rewarded by a guttural moan and the wet jab of the head of Dean’s cock on his chin.

Hi.

He pauses, realizing suddenly that he’s unprepared. 

“Cas?” His name falls from Dean’s lips, a plea. Cas slides his thumb around the soft bloom of Dean’s balls rubbing firmly on the little space behind them while he thinks.

“Dean, do you -” his own throat catches in the thickness of arousal he didn’t realize was coating his throat, and he has to clear it for a moment, take a breath.

“Do you have anything?”

Cas feels the thigh under his other hand clench with involuntary anticipation.

“No. But -” Dean squirms, suddenly uncomfortable in a different way. “Cas I - I haven’t. With anyone, um since.” 

Cas can hear the embarrassed swallow. Normally a statement like this isn’t enough for him to ignore his usual precautions, but he trusts Dean.

That’s never going to change, Cas realizes then. No matter what’s passed between them, he’s always going to trust Dean.

Despite the litany of it’s just sex, it’s just sex, he’s chanting in his mind, there’s tenderness in the curve of Cas’ lips when he touches them to the tip of Dean’s dick, gently taking him all the way inside.

A little bead of precome glides across the inside of his cheek, and god he remembers the taste.

Briny, smoky. He used to joke that there was a little undertone of whiskey in there, too.

Cas nudges the nostalgia away, focusing on the way Dean’s dick moves along with his ministrations, responding to his tongue massaging its underside in a sinuous dance.

Dean’s hips are starting to hitch again, a small rocking rhythm that he’s restraining as much as he can, trying to stay gentle despite the buzz Cas can feel rolling through the veins of his thighs, in the clench of the muscle under Cas’ fingertips.

Cas relaxes the back of his throat and takes Dean further, pushing past the point of discomfort to give him all he can.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, he hears it from above, like a filthy benediction, Dean’s hand curling to a light fist around his hair, blessing or curse - Cas still can’t tell. 

He feels Dean’s dick twitching, buzzing with the slow steady rush of the sacrament.

“Cas, I’m -” 

“Mmmm,” Cas hums around it, a low gravelly sound that vibrates down the shaft.  He pulls Dean out with a wet pop and jerks him, tight and fast before sheathing him back into the slick of his mouth all the way to the base.

“Oh. Fuck. Yeah.” Dean’s hips pulse three times, each striping a wet stream down Cas’ throat.  He sucks it down, gently nursing the last drops out as Dean’s breathing slowly stills.

“Ungh.” Dean mumbles, stroking the side of Cas’ face with fuzzy tenderness, fingers curling to tickle under the chin. “C’mere.”

Cas’ dick is more than happy to obey.

As he slides up, wriggling out of the shorts on the way, he realizes that the issue of protective gear remains. Unlike Dean, Cas hasn’t been exactly celibate.

His mind is racing as Dean pulls him in for a sloppy kiss, that kinky bastard moaning slightly at the taste of himself still on Cas’ tongue. Cas’ body doesn’t have the same reservations as his brain, one leg immediately slotting into its old familiar spot, hooking around Dean’s pelvis. 

Cas’ erection is ramrod straight between them, still brief clad and furiously hard.

Dean grunts, pulling away from the kiss, fuzzy outline of his head in the darkness dipping down. “Mmmmph, baby. Can I touch now?’

Cas’ swallow barely wets his parched throat. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Just - touch. Is fine.” He can’t see the look in Dean’s eyes, and he chooses to believe there’s no hurt at what the words may be implying. Still, he adds the qualification:

“I’m close. Wanna come.”

That’s enough for Dean, who immediately dips his hand below Cas’ waistband, gripping him gently. 

“Let’s get you off then, sweetheart,” he purrs into Cas’ ear, nibbling on the top of the lobe, dexterous hand cupping him from balls to head, quick fluid movements. 

Dean’s other hand snakes under the tank top Cas is still wearing to stroke fingernail scratches down his back, mirroring the same movement from top to bottom from delts to posterior, like he’s coaxing the orgasm not only from his cock but his entire body, pulling it from the depths of Cas like some ancient, primordial thing that not even Cas knew still existed within him.

It doesn’t take long for the earthquake rumble Cas has been keeping at bay to erupt.

He smothers the low cry unraveling from his mouth by softly biting into Dean's shoulder as he  explodes, a sputtering undammed river running through the clench of Dean’s fist, Dean’s other hand firmly steadying him with a cup on his ass.

“There it is baby, there you go,” and Cas bites back the clench of his heart at those familiar words, Dean’s murmurs of safety and comfort as he holds him through it, fingers still stroking on either side as the tremors abate.

Cas’ body hums harmoniously that Cas got exactly what he wanted, but the little prick of wetness in his eyes suggests otherwise.

“Oh no, no no. No!, What have we done? My eyes! That’s my boss. I have to look him in the face at work on Monday, Reese. Did you see them? I thought they were going to have sex right there before God and the entire stadium.”

Harper’s extracurricular activity of screaming at the umpire has ended, and she’s collapsing into the seat next to Reese and covering her face with her hands. She can feel what she knows are little red blotches of second-hand embarrassment dotting the skin of her neck.

Reese’s shoulders bump hers as they shake in hysterical laughter.

“I honestly didn’t think Dean had it in him. Seriously. Good for those old men. I hope they have lots of fun.”

Harper cringes. “Reese, please. Can we talk about literally anything else?”

Harper knows she’s being just a hair uptight, but the combination of vicarious embarrassment (mortification?) and the guilt she carries around like dead weight is suffocating her. It doesn’t help that she can practically hear her childhood preacher droning on about fornication and sodomy and Lucifer.

Her breath suddenly feels hard to catch.

A warm hand touches Harper’s shoulder.

“Hey, Harp, you okay?”

Reese’s voice is low, the warmth of her exhalations tickling against Harper’s ear, and now Harper has another problem. Because she can feel how close Reese is, even if her squeezed-shut eyes keep her from perceiving it.

If Harper was bolder, she would turn and claim the lips she can’t stop thinking about, whether it’s at night before bed or over morning coffee, Reese’s face floating in the headlines on the television instead of the actual news.

But Harper is not bold.

So instead, she inhales slowly, steadying herself. “Yeah, sorry. I just got a little worked up.” She tries to turn her grimace into a smile and it must be at least marginally effective because Reese’s shoulders relax immediately.

Reese grins. “I think we have the rest of the afternoon off. Wanna go grab dinner?”

Harper’s skips a very tiny beat. “Okay, but I’m picking the place.”

Reese shrugs. “Fine by me, but no rabbit food. Only qualification. I see enough of that working for Dean.”

Reese: Do you hear that? It sounds like Ode to Joy.
Reese: Dean just sent me an email that he’s going to be late and there is no reason to be in before 9
Reese: It worked! It’s a miracle.
Harper: But at what price, Reese? At what price?
Reese: OMG, stop. You will survive
Reese: Oh! Fuck. I forgot to tell you the best/worst part
Harper: Do I want to know?
Reese: Probably not, but I’m gonna tell you anyway.
Harper: Reeeeese. Why are you like this
Reese: You love me.
Reese: so it turns out that Dean and Cas? They used to date.
Harper: Nooooo. When did you find this out?
Reese: at the game. I promise I had no idea before then.
Harper: Well, I guess that explains the live performance
Reese: Ha! Okay, I am gonna go watch some Netflix.
Harper: cool cool. I am gonna go bleach my eyeballs
Harper: Night!
Reese: Night!

Chapter Text

March 2, 2021

Harper: Hey, can I ask you a question?
Harper: Nevermind. Ignore me
Reese: Harp, you know you have to tell me now, right?
Harper: It’s embarrassing
Reese: Now you definitely have to tell me
Harper: Ok. Fine. I guess I was just hoping for some advice.
Reese: Is the advice on how to ask for advice, because I have some notes
Harper: Stop. OMG, Reese. Okay, so I keep going on these dates, right? And they are ALL absolute disasters
Reese: Ok. Well what makes them disasters
Harper: I don’t know? I feel like I’ve been on dates with every man in the Bay Area and I seem to have the worst luck.
Harper: The last guy I went out with brought a pet snake to the bar.
Reese: so, you weren’t interested in his snake? 😉
Harper: Reeeeeese! Look, I wasn’t allowed to date growing up and I just feel like I am doing it wrong or something.
Reese: Ok, look. The guys are probably trash because you’re awesome, but what if I help you get ready for the next date and then I, like, eavesdrop.
Harper: You would do that?
Reese: Of course. What are friends for? You’re basically like a sister to me.
Harper: You are the best! I love you! 💖
Harper: Are you around next Tuesday?

Reese stares at the words on the screen. I love you. They play on repeat in her head.

She doesn’t mean it like that. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s straight, right?

The memory of the kiss comes rushing back. The electricity buzzing through her, burning her up all the way to her eyelids. That certainly didn’t feel straight. It felt good. It felt amazing.

It doesn’t matter. Harper is dating men. She’s never even mentioned having the slightest interest in dating anyone other than a man.

And when it comes down to it - when all the cards are on the table - whether Harper isn't interested in Reese because she's straight, or because she doesn't want to deal with All This, or because she isn't ready to date women - whatever the reason, Reese isn't selfish enough to want anything but to see her friend happy.

Harper deserves to be happy. Besides, on the few occasions when Harper really lets herself be happy, she glows like the sun. And Reese wants to bask in that glow.

Reese wants…fine, Reese wants to evoke that glow, but hell, she can settle for feeling its warmth. After all, if Reese was involved directly in any part of that shine, she knows she’d only dim it.

And that's how Reese finds herself cursing as she digs through a pile of old clothes in the back of her closet, trying to find the imitation leather leggings she wore two Halloweens ago. They don’t fit Reese anymore but Harper - God, sweet Harper in leather?

Well, Reese doesn’t know much but she knows that unless the dude is the biggest loser on the planet clearly lacking any modicum of taste, Harper’s absolutely getting laid tonight.

And Reese feels great about that. Just peachy.

Maybe if she repeats it enough to herself, it'll be true.

"Ha!" Reese yells, popping up and swiveling, her trophy held high in the air.

Harper is tugging at the hem of a light blue v-neck sweater.

"You sure this isn't too short?"

Reese stares at the strip of midriff winking above Harper’s belt and swallows tightly, blurting out:

"ItlooksgreatHarper."

Embarrassing, she’s being embarrassing.  Deep fucking breath, Harris. 

Reese practically throws the pants at Harper and steps out of the room to give her privacy.

She flops at the kitchen table and takes a few moments to reset. It's fine.

She is fine. 

"Reese?"

Harper steps out into full view, and Reese is definitely not fine, actually.

The curve of Harper’s hip in the pants, smooth black leather molded to her like a second skin. The soft way that sweater falls, pale cornflower blue practically a twin to Harper’s eyes. The little bit of abdomen that sent Reese out the door and into the kitchen to begin with.

Harper’s blonde curls bounce as she twirls to show Harper the final result. Reese is not going to look at her ass.

Ok, fine. She is absolutely going to look at her ass but only for like, a moment. For science. 

Friends need to tell friends if a friend has a nice ass. If a friend’s ass looks nice in pants. If a friend’s ass looks like Harper’s.

Which, by all calculations, erhm, scientifically, looks...well, perfect.

Harper is watching her, puzzled. “Um, Reese?”  

Reese forces a smile. She probably looks like she just swallowed a pile of glass.

"Looks great, seriously." Reese ekes out, patting Harper gingerly on the shoulder, like she’s a bomb in need of defusing. "Come on, let's head out."

The tension in the car is thick and heavy. Reese's head is spinning. She wants to pull the car over and inform Harper they’re turning around and she is getting her out of those pants herself.

At the very least she wants to ask Harper to reconsider going on this stupid miserable date.

Who is this guy anyway?

He doesn't know about the way her forehead dimples when she scrunches her face in confusion. He's never seen the way her face glows when she talks about something she finds interesting. He probably won't even appreciate her little jokes.

Fuck this guy.

Reese barely suppresses a sigh as she reminds herself that's literally what she's here helping Harper do.

She swings into a space in front of the restaurant and plasters on the fake smile again.

"Okay, sunshine. You head on in. I'll be right behind you." She does a quick finger gun. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Harper’s piercing blue eyes practically glow in the low light. Her eyebrows draw together and Reese fights the urge to smooth them.

"I look okay?" The telltale wobble in her voice hits Reese like a brick.

I'm an asshole. She’s nervous and all I can do is perv on her.

Reese reaches out and smooths her hair around her face, bringing the curls around her shoulders. She manages to hide the slight tremble in her fingers and celebrates by allowing herself a saucy little wink at Harper.

"There. Beautiful." For one perfect. moment, their eyes meet and Reese feels like there is nobody else, not just in the parking lot but in all of existence.

They are floating in the ether. Untouchable and free.

A dog barks and the spell is broken. Harper lets out a little breath and smiles at Reese.

"Thanks, friend. You’re the best."

Then she opens the door and heads towards the restaurant. Reese watches her go, her mouth sagging downwards.

She quickly tugs the smile back on when Harper turns around to give her one last backwards glance before walking inside. Reese flashes her a thumbs up she absolutely does not mean.

Okay, she can do this. She waits five minutes, allowing her thoughts to wander back to the sight of Harper’s ass only one single time, and steps out into the cool night air.

The restaurant is dark, only lit in varying corners to fit a ‘certain mood.’ The red booths and dark wood make it feel like a brothel-themed steakhouse, suffocating in its efforts to be overbearingly patriarchal.

Reese sighs. There’s no way this was Harper's choice.

This isn’t starting out well. Though, shit what does Reese even know, Harper may like this kind of thing.

She thinks back to the place Harper dragged them to after the baseball game, tiny little hole in the wall with whimsical names for the entrees and paintings of angels in drag on the ceiling.

Yeah, Reese’s gut is right. This isn’t starting out well.

The hostess gives Reese a perfunctory smile. Her starched white shirt looks stiff and soulless.

"Do you have a reservation?"

Reese leans in.

"Listen, that blonde over there is here on a date with a man she met online. I am here to make sure he’s not a total creep. Could you sit me behind her?" She flashes her pearly whites, all charm.

The woman blushes a little, then agrees. "Can't be too careful."

Harper’s eyes catch Reese's and she gives her a slight nod. They sit back-to-back, Reese preparing herself for the burning torture of listening to the woman she craves like water in the desert connect with someone else.

Someone who can offer what Reese can't.

She can hear the hellhounds coming now, dragging her away to eternal misery.

Harper shifts nervously as she checks her watch again. Does nobody respect punctuality anymore?

She fights the urge to move to the booth she actually wants to be in, the one behind her where Reese seems to be conducting a drum solo with a butterknife while they wait. Truth be told she doesn't care about this date. Doesn't care about this guy.

All she will see as she fakes interest in whatever banal topics they discuss is bright green eyes and dimples and a wicked smile.

Harper chides herself. She hasn't even given this one a chance, maybe he’ll be ‘the one.’

He won’t be, of that one thing Harper is immediately and suddenly certain. 

The other thing that she is certain about is, of course, that Reese’s name isn’t on her soulmate list either. Or maybe it’s ‘Harper’ that’s missing from Reese’s potential fated pairings.

Whatever pull Harper feels, this bond between them is destined to be unrequited.

Harper’s okay with it.

Really.

The waitress reappears. Harper detects a note of sympathy in her voice as she asks if she's sure she isn't ready to order.

"No, I'm waiting on..." Harper trails off as her eye catches her watch and the numbers on its digital interface hit her with the slam of a crushing brick.

He's forty-five whole minutes late. She eyes her phone with resignation.

No notifications, no missed call.

He isn't late. I'm being stood up.

Heat rises up her neck and into her face.

Of course. Just her luck, her potential soulmate decided to reject her preemptively and to boot, Harper gets to show off just how pathetic she is in front of her crush.

"I think maybe I'll have a bourbon,” she decides. “On the rocks."

The waitress looks at her like she’s a lost puppy wandering around behind the dumpster before walking away, and Harper is almost in tears from the hot anvil of shame pressing down on her chest.

"Scooch." A quiet, kind voice says.

Harper offers a watery smile to Reese, who is staring down at her with something open and supportive in her expression.

Thank whoever is watching up above for that, because Harper thinks she might have literally crawled onto the floor and out the door if the look had been one of pity.

“Well…” Harper starts to say, then snaps her mouth shut completely. Nope. Talking right now is going to jump start the waterworks, and the last thing Harper wants is to put her blubbering on public display.

Harper is not a pretty crier.

She slides over, blinking her eyes furiously to shove the tears away while Reese presses into the booth. Harper tries to ignore the little jolt of heat where their arms touch.

What’s harder to avoid is how soft Reese’s lips look as she leans in to whisper, "There are two things I know for certain.”

Harper watches her, puzzled.  Reese holds up one finger, “One. The food at this place was bound to suck,” then another - “and two? You certainly aren’t the one doing it wrong in this entire blind date scenario.” She nudges her knee to Harpers, a little tap of support.

Harper’s stomach flip flops.

The waitress delivers two drinks with a nod, fire burning in her eyes.

"On the house. Whoever he is, honey, he's not worth the headspace you've already given him."

Harper nods gratefully and manages to hold it in until the waitress retreats. In a wonderful new development, it’s actually the kind words being thrown at her feet like flowers that open the floodgates of hot tears flowing down her cheeks.

"God what's wrong with me?" She mutters half to herself, mortified.

"Hey. Absolutely nothing." Dual ribbons of confidence and anger weave through Reese’s voice. “Be nicer to my friend Harper.”

That word - ‘friend’ - just makes Harper’s chest pinch a little bit more. She dabs at the snot bubbling out of her nose with her wrist, other hand desperately scrambling for a napkin.

Yeah, Harper is definitely not a pretty crier.

This doesn’t seem to bother Reese.

She softens, taking Harper’s face in her hands gently, tugging out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and wiping away the tears. "Harper Sayles, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Not one thing. I will fight anyone who says otherwise. I will tear them into pieces. Do you understand?"

Harper isn’t sure she understands. What she is sure of, however - is that she feels.

A flutter of joy duels with an intense and overwhelming wave of need.

She takes a breath. Looks at Reese’s hand, and the small piece of fabric balled up inside her palm.

“You have a handkerchief?” Harper says, brilliantly.

Reese laughs. “Yeah. The better to dab the tears of pretty damsels in distress.” She snaps her gum. “Not that you were ever in need of rescuing, sunshine.” The tip of Reese’s finger gently touches the button of Harper’s nose.

“But it does make me look more dashing.” She slides the drink closer to Harper, folding the sopping hanky and unceremoniously stuffing it back in her pocket.

"Drink that. Then I am taking you home. We are going to order pizza, drink mass quantities of wine and you are going to make me watch that stupid show you love so much. The one that’s trending every other damn week."

A grin fights its way across Harper’s face. "Supernatural?"

Reese rolls her eyes. "That's the one. I reserve the right to complain loudly and aggressively at any and all minutes of each episode. Also, they better play ping pong at least once though, or my ass is having words with Mr. Collins."

Laughter bubbles up in Harper’s chest. She throws back the bourbon in one gulp.

"That's my girl!" Reese proclaims, making quick work of her own drink, then slipping some cash on the table to tip the server.

For a moment, Harper lets the words surround her like a fuzzy blanket, fresh with warmth from the dryer.

Her girl.

It’s not a lot but it’s still a gift, one that Harper intends to keep. Almost immediately, Reese gives her another:

"Okay, babe.”

Harper starts at the term of endearment, her mouth opening slightly. Reese is already sliding out of the booth, the leather of the seat denting lightly under her butt like a little trail, following her exit.

Harper’s eyes track it too, and she is thinking about Reese’s butt now, actually.

Yeah, she’s blaming that on the bourbon.

Deciding to deal the killing blow that puts Harper in her grave, Reese grabs her by the hand. Harper stares at their interlocked fingers, the earlier tears and shame replaced by a different kind of yearning.

Electricity in an empty dark room, sparks shooting up to the ceiling. The pop of lightbulbs exploding at the contact, skin on skin.

Reese raises an eyebrow at her. “Let's blow this banana stand."

Harper lets Reese pull her towards the door like a runaway river after a monsoon.

The drive to Reese’s apartment is short. Reese immediately starts pulling up pizza delivery options on her phone while Harper meanders, feeling a little unstable from the quick burn of liquor in her empty stomach.

It’s simple, but she can see the little bits of Reese, all around, dotting the nooks and crannies of the plain beige walls.

A pair of hastily kicked-off Converse lounge casually under the side table by the couch, dingy shoelaces curling their little ribbons around the drab brown legs. There’s a throw blanket balled up in the corner of the living room woven with the instantly familiar colors of the team from the baseball game. A book has been forgotten on the floor next to it, and Harper picks it up.

Oh. Reese reads Vonnegut. 

This is an interesting plot twist. 

“Yo, Harp!” Reese bellows from the kitchen, and Harper hears the pop-clink! of an aluminum beer top. “You want pineapple on your pizza?”

Harper pauses. Talk about divisive. Politics, religion and pineapple on pizza - all birds of a dangerous feather.

She decides to go with honesty. “Um, only if there’s pepperoni included?” 

Reese’s face darts out from the side of the door jamb. “Huh. Sounds intriguing. One of those and cheesy bread?”

Harper nods, trying her best to wrestle down the stupid grin spreading over her face. 

Reese is looking at the book in Harper’s hand. “I see you found Kurt.” She tosses the bit of her ponytail that’s snaked over her shoulder behind her, the shining hair swishing at the nape of her neck.

“He’s my fave.” Reese’s eyes grow slightly dreamy. 

“Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time,” she quotes dramatically. “Fucking genius.”

Harper blinks at her.

Reese raises an eyebrow. “What? I told you, I read.” She points an index finger to the little remote bearing a red square rectangle in its right hand corner. “That’s Netflix. But first -”

Reese frowns, glancing around the room. “Hmm…”

Her eyes narrow to the corner of the sofa. “Got you!” She pounces.

Harper startles at the light brush of fingers as Reese thrusts the second remote in her palm.

“That’s TV. You got it?”

Harper nods, feeling wholly incompetent on many levels. Reese finishes the dinner order as Harper pulls up the show.

Sam, Dean, and Cas are like friends, soothing her after this...monster of a day. For the first time in hours, Harper feels like she can breathe easier.

She furrows her brow then, just a smidge.

"Reese, why does this indicate that you have actually watched several seasons of Supernatural?"

Reese ducks her head, cheeks a smidge pink. "No clue. Probably my old roommate using my Netflix password."

Harper squints her eyes and turns her head, trying to determine the veracity of the statement.

Reese breaks, slapping her playfully on the arm.

"Ugh, fine. Shut up. Sully lent me some DVDs and there was some serviceable stuff, then I realized it was on here and streaming makes it easier. Besides, I had to have some base knowledge, you know. For Work."

The little spark of happiness in Harper’s chest ignites to a full-blown roaring flame. "Reese Harris. You little liar."

Reese lowers her voice ten octaves. “When humans want something, they lie.”

Harper’s mouth goes dry.

Reese is laughing now, pleased with herself. It’s the kind of laugh that shakes her entire body - like she’s joy, personified. 

Harper is still stuck wondering what exactly it is Reese wants. It’s not possible for the dots that are connecting in Harper’s brain to be real. This must be a figment of her imagination, a fever dream. She pinches her own wrist discreetly, and winces at the resulting prick of hurt.

Reese isn’t laughing anymore, her face lined with concern. "Hey. You okay? Did I quote it wrong or something? "

She pauses, and Harper can practically see the brain waves churning, Reese trying to assess the circumstances. “Is it still that douchebag son of a bitch from the date? Harper, I promise we’ll find you someone worthy. I’ll run myself ragged looking like it’s our last night on earth, and getting you laid is top priority.”

“I’m not looking to get laid,” Harper mumbles, feeling the disappointment. 

She should just tell her.

She doesn’t. 

It’s Harper’s turn to tell the lie, but she’s not so sure this one is going to get her any closer to the thing she wants, standing directly in front of her but just beyond her reach.

"Yeah. He just seemed like a good fit. You know?"

The words are hollow.

Harper allows herself to edge slightly closer to the truth. "Growing up, I didn't really want the life that was already figured out for me. It was one of those apple pie life kind of plans -- married in your early 20s, two-point-five kids soon after, white picket fence.”

She pauses, gazing at the wall. “The grand design.”

Reese looks at her, perplexed. "But that's ...Harper, is that why you are trying so hard to find someone?"

"No!”

Whoa, that was defensive. Harper takes a steadying breath. “I have no desire to live that life.  It’s not even working for the friends who chose it freely. For example, one friend from home, her husband up and left her because she couldn't get pregnant.”

Harper feels the small jolt of anger at the memory. “He claimed God told him he was meant to go forth and procreate with some younger blonde in the congregation."

“What the hell?” Reese is clenching her fists, and Harper almost feels the need to calm her down, now. She quickly glances around them to ensure there’s nothing breakable in Reese’s vicinity.

Reese stomps the floor with a boot, and that’ll have to do. "Wanna cut off his head and burn his body," she mutters with fire in her eyes.

She’s never been hotter.

Harper can’t help it, beaming at her unabashedly, not even trying to hide the sunlight on her face. 

Reese notices, and it distracts her from her quest to behead the small-town Whore of Babel Husband.

Harper continues softly:

"Yes, but that’s all beside the actual point. I think I -” she wrinkles her nose, feeling awkward about being so vulnerable, but she’s opened the door now. Might as well barrel on through it and hope for the best.

“I assumed - my whole life, really, that the reason I couldn't find someone to date growing up was because I was different. I didn't want the same things. The apple pie, and the kids and that awful fence. But now..."

Harper waves her hands helplessly, searching for the means of articulating that seems to be quickly leaving her constitution.

Reese plops down on the couch with a thud, clicking off the TV. She pats the cushion next to her.

“Come here.”

Harper, frazzled and discombobulated – somehow manages to obey.

Reese leans against the overstuffed brown arm of the sofa, propping her face on an elbow - all eyes on Harper. “I’m here,” she says plainly. “Talk to me.”

Harper looks down at her hands, the words stuck in her throat like a piece of chicken bone.

"Now it feels like the problem is me,” she admits with a sad shrug of her shoulders. “Maybe I'm too picky. Every time I like someone, they don't seem to like me back. I could just be undateable. Is that a thing? God. This is weird. I’m sorry. We’re here to have fun and watch a show and eat pizza, and I went and made it weird."

She finally manages to shut her mouth to keep more words from streaming out, and holds her breath, realizing she’s said more than intended.

Here we go again, Harper. That thing that’s wrong with you? You’re doing it right now.

But there’s a tiny part of her that clings to the hope - that Reese will get it. Get her. A little-girl voice rings out in her head, spectre of a childhood bouncing between being ridiculed and ignored.

Please see me.

A much larger part of Harper wants to curl up under the table and hope Reese doesn't perceive her ever again. She keeps her eyes on her feet.

Yeah that little spot on the floor looks very inviting. Maybe she’ll just -

Two firm hands grab Harper’s shoulders, the piercing green of Reese’s eyes cloudy with affection.

“You’re a dumbass.”

Well, whatever Harper expected or even hoped for it probably wasn’t this.

“Um. Thank you?”

“Ugh, sorry,” Reese groans. “Bad word choice. Let’s go with completely unaware. Of how awesome you are. Does that work?”

Reese pauses, then quips, “Less dumb, less ass.” She smiles proudly. “Now that one I know I got right. The gay angel quotes tend to stick in my melon.”

Harper gives her a small smile, her head still just a little discombobulated. Reese’s face grows more serious. “But for real - and this is important, okay? You are funny, and smart, and strong. You have the best laugh out of anyone I’ve ever met, and you are the ugliest crier I have ever seen in my life -”

Harper knew it.

Reese continues:

“And you are still more beautiful than any other girl around when you’re bawling your eyes out in the middle of an overpriced Steak & Ale. Look at you - you got out and you built a life for yourself. That’s badass.”

Reese looks up at the ceiling for a second, like she’s thinking really hard about not saying something, but then she seems to make a decision and adds, off-handedly:

“Full stop, if you were into girls, I would date the fuck out of you.”

The next sentence rolls right in one of Harper’s ears and out the other, which is too bad because it’s even nicer than the one before it:

“You are absolutely not undateable or unlovable or the problem. You are everything."

But it doesn’t even matter. Reese had her at 'I would date the fuck out of you,' and Harper is frozen still.

Reveling in Reese’s words. Wanting to believe they’re real.

That this is real. And Harper can have it.

Reese thinks Harper is strong. She herself, all too frequently feels indubitably weak. So guilty. Lost.

And in walks Reese, like a compass. Pointing Harper somewhere else. Calling her unearthly things like 'strong' and 'awesome' (okay, that’s a little more believable out of Reese’s mouth, but still - very nice). 'Beautiful.'

Harper thinks about what Cas said. About his ex, and how he didn’t write his story for him. Just showed him he could get there.

The possibilities.

Harper takes a breath and steps to the edge of being brave.

"What if I said I was?" The words pass her lips in a whisper.

It’s been a full minute or so of silence, and therefore Reese blinks at her with much confusion lining her features.

“Is that another Supernatural quote I’m misremembering, or -”

Harper sits and stares at her, letting the question sink in. 

There’s a small sprout of hope blooming in Reese's eyes and Harper feels its echo in her chest.

"Harper…" Reese says, voice a little hoarse. "What if you said you were what?" Her eyes are searching, darting back and forth like she, too is having trouble comprehending the reality of this moment.

Harper jumps and prays that Reese will catch her. "Into girls, um. One girl. Specifically. "

Reese opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, and says:

“Harper Sayles, so help me God I am going to need you to be an undeniable amount of clear when you answer my next question. Which girl, specifically, are you into?”

Harper’s mouth is stretching wider until her cheeks are hurting with what can only be described as the thrill of unadulterated joy.

“You.”

A very small sound escapes Reese’s throat. “So, you mean...we?”

Harper nods, the emotion building in her chest. She - Harper, who is strong, puts a hand on top of Reese’s wrist. She - Harper, who is brave, tucks a piece of Reese’s hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, dumbass. We.”

And then, she - Harper, who is a badass, crosses the minutiae of space between them, leaving absolutely no ‘room for Jesus’ whatsoever as she goes in for what is effectively their second kiss.

Harper decides she prefers it to the first one.

Reese’s lips are soft, gentle. Harper wants more. She needs more.

And this version of Harper goes for broke and takes it.

She probes with her tongue and Reese opens up to her, and it’s lovely and tender and her and oh, there’s nothing like it in this entire world.

Reese moans, just a little and tilts her head, fisting Harper’s hair in her hands and pulling her closer.

This is a little bit terrifying but also Harper never wants it to end.

They pull back for air, touching their foreheads together briefly, and it’s too soon but they’ve got time - because suddenly Harper sees them, so clearly.

The possibilities.

She grins at Reese.

"Wow." Reese returns the smile and that only escalates the staccato beating in Harper’s chest. “That was even better than the first time.”

Harper’s mouth drops into a surprised little ‘o.’

She leans back and playfully slaps Reese on the arm. “You asshole! You remembered? Why didn’t you say anything all this time?”

Reese grabs her hand and pulls her close again. “Hey, I could ask you the same, coy woman of mystery.” She nudges a fingertip under Harper’s chin, tilting her gaze up to hers, then softly and a little bashful:

“But, um. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.” Reese’s shoulders do that self-deprecating shrug-bounce-jerk thing. “I assumed you were, dunno? Embarrassed or not into it or something.”

A tightness Harper didn’t even realize was there releases in her chest. She swallows. “When you didn’t acknowledge it, I just assumed maybe you forgot.”

Reese’s eyes soften, and the finger on Harper’s chin joins the other four to cup around the curve of her jaw, Reese’s hand steady and firm. Harper leans into it.

God, she could get used to this. The feeling of belonging.

Reese is looking at her like she’s never going to look away. “Harper Sayles, you are a lot of things, but forgettable is not one of them.” She leans in and their lips meet again.

Harper’s last thought before she loses herself in Reese’s arms is that she thinks they both may be dumbasses, but in this particular scenario, ‘more dumb, more ass’ is perfectly fine.

Speaking of asses. She gives Reese’s a quick little squeeze.

The bourbon has nothing to do with it.

The shower water drums at the nape of Dean’s neck like nagging raindrops. He watches it pool around his freckled toes with a frown.

His dick is pointed in the same direction, soggy and sad despite Dean’s vigorous attempts to perk up its spirits. He flexes the fingers of his ineffective right hand.

Yeah, Rosy Palms ain’t doing it now that he’s had a hit of the good stuff. 

Cas.

Dean’s throat constricts as he remembers the feel of warm velvet around him, Cas’ lips and tongue pooling around his cock, sucking him all the way down to the base. His hand drifts to the small spot behind his balls, just a little point of pressure.

His dick twitches.

Then flops back down in despondence.

Fine.

“I give up,” Dean says to the tile of the shower wall, turning off the water. He reaches for a towel, quickly drying off and wrapping it tightly around his hips. There’s a twist somewhere behind his belly button in response to the fuzzy touch of cotton, Dean’s skin still a live wire from his attempts to fix this, um.

Problem.

Dean’s got an itch he can’t seem to scratch. 

This is getting fucking uncomfortable.

His phone winks at him from the corner of the sink, and for the sixth time today Dean wishes he had deleted Cas’ damn phone number like the intelligent sonofabitch he thinks he is.

There’s a tingle between his thighs that disagrees, and it sends his finger to swiping the ‘unlock’ button before his brain can catch up and send his ass to horny jail where he belongs.

He stares at the three little letters in his contacts list, knowing they’re the key to resolving this issue. Unfortunately, Dean’s pretty certain that hitting the green call button will release the contents of something akin to Pandora’s box.

He takes a breath.

Okay. He can do this. It’s no big deal to call Cas. After all, what’s a little horizontal Mambo No. 5 on a Wednesday evening between two consenting adults?

Professionals, even.

He calls.

And immediately hangs up the phone when Cas’ throaty grumble of “Hello?” pours out of the speaker.

Dean’s dick is standing at full attention just from the sound of the voice.

Fuck, okay yeah. Dean has got a problem. Is it possible to have a person as your fetish?

“Asshole,” he mutters down at the tented peak of his crotch, and unfortunately he has no problem relating this particular choice of expletive to Cas either. He yanks the towel off to confront his groin more directly.

A little dewdrop of moisture that has nothing to do with the shower he just took balances cheerily on the slit of his tip. 

Dean’s doing his best to get himself in hand, literally, when the phone flashes, Cas’ number on the screen returning his unintended prank call. Dean stares at it for a moment, then picks it up, pressing it to his ear.

He leaves his other hand wrapped loosely around his dick, jerking it just a few times. A deep, steadying breath, then:

“Hey.”

There’s a pause, and Dean thinks he hears the shuffle of papers on a desk.  It’s replaced by a soft inhale.

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean manages, voice suddenly hoarse. A small trickle of precome slides down over the top of his fist, and he drags his hand over it, slicking down the shaft. He swallows the hitch of breath attempting an escape from his throat.

“What’s the word, Cas?”

“It’s a...shortened version of my name,” Cas quips immediately, bringing a small grin to Dean’s lips. Another hesitant pause, then:

“Um, Dean?”

And it’s incredible that just the sound of his name in Cas’ mouth is searing through Dean’s body like lightning, his previously useless hand now the most masterful of puppeteers. His thighs clench slightly and he shifts, spreading them a little more.

“Cas...” he means for it to be a question, but it comes out more of a low, whispered request. He clears his throat, aiming for nonchalance. “You’re the one who called me. Something on your mind?”

There’s a little huff of exasperation on the other line. “I was calling back whoever hung up when I answered the phone,” Cas grumbles. “Clearly, this is pointless.”

There’s a commanding edge in Cas’ voice and Dean’s hips practically grind back into the couch cushion on instinct. 

He smothers a gasp into his shoulder, wishing he had a second free hand to tuck between his seat and the quiver of his ass cheeks. His hips wiggle in wistful agreement and Dean’s thoughts dart to the plug tucked away in the nightstand upstairs. Hmmm...

Wait.

“Did you delete my number?” Dean asks, the thought distracting him from the thrum of pleasure thrusting against his fingers.

He can hear Cas swallow quickly. 

“Ehrm. That’s beside the point.”

And dammit if Dean’s heart doesn’t sink right along with his erection. 

“Oh.”

It’s Cas’ turn to clear his throat. “Let’s not make this needlessly complicated,” he murmurs, but his voice is softer. “Did you call to discuss anything besides my contacts list?”

Dean breathes around the punch still reverberating through his chest. “Just. Checking in. How’s the weather over there?”

“Cold. It’s San Francisco. Where you also reside,” Cas says drily.

Between the blue balls and the cracked heart, Dean’s not really sure what he’s saying anymore. “Um. How are you?”

Cas loosens a breath right into the speaker, and Dean wishes he could feel its warm tickle, inhale that scent of clove cigarettes and cinnamon that always follows Cas around on little cat feet.

“Right now?” Cas says carefully, “I think I’m mostly confused.”

“Well, that’s par for the course, feather-brains,” Dean teases, trying to scrape his game face up off the floor. He scooches himself back against the cushions, gently palming his softened boner to coax it back to life. 

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, a little throaty. “What’d you have for lunch?”

There’s still a hint of puzzlement in Cas’ tone as he responds. “Hm. Two corn dogs.”

Corn dogs? Dean is going to kill this man. The thought of Cas’ mouth wrapped around something so very distinctively phallic is like a jolt of crack, electrifying the blood flow surging through his dick to a searing fever pitch. He pulls up on it, a smooth and steady motion, and grits his teeth against the buzzing of the moan bubbling in his mouth. 

“I had a banana too,” Cas says then, and there’s a lilt in his voice. “For balance.” 

Seriously? 

Cas continues, voice a little quieter and rough around the edges:

“I had one in each hand at one point. Fingers wrapped around the banana, do you know how smooth the skin of a banana is, Dean?”

Dean gulps, suddenly feeling a little uneasy. His dick signals him to do less thinking and more stroking, and he complies without question. The tingling sensation in his stomach unwinds like a coil of bright golden thread, spreading warmly up to the wetness of his slit and retracing its path back down to the part of his thighs. 

God, he should have gotten that fucking plug.

“How were the corn dogs, Cas?” He chokes out, not even caring that at this point there’s no doubting what’s happening on his end of the line.

“Good,” Cas purrs. “Very good. So good I had to lick the last bits off the stick, slowly.” He pauses.

“Had to use just a graze of my teeth.”

“Uhhnnng,” and just like that Dean’s lost this game of chicken, panting like a horny teenager and jerking his dick as if his life depended on it.

“You sound so good, keep doing that Dean,” Cas growls in agreement, and dammit this motherfucker got on the phone and played him. 

And Dean could give two shits about it, currently. He shifts himself over to reposition down the length of the couch, legs splayed open entirely while he fucks into his own hand like a damn locomotive. He clicks the speaker feature on, then tucks the phone between his left ear and the back of the sofa, balancing it on a small dip between the bones and muscles of his shoulder. 

“How many fingers do you want to start with,” Cas hums cheerfully like he’s at his fucking house. 

“One,” Dean grunts. They’re obviously going down this road now, might as well go full party bus.

“No, Dean.” Cas, steelier:

“I think you can take two.” 

Fuck, just. F-

Dean’s lube stash is also upstairs next to that butt plug he can’t stop thinking about.

“C-cas, I don’t have any…” Dean stutters, the pink ring of muscle beneath him clenching in anticipation despite his protests.

“Two,” Cas says in that tone that means negotiations aren’t an option. 

“Rub them on that wet dick of yours.”

What other choice does Dean have but to obey? And Cas is right, there’s practically a swimming pool overflowing from the tip of his dick, and it’s more than enough.

Maybe even too much, judging by the hoarse grunt that punches out of him when he glides his middle and index finger over the sensitive skin of his slit, rubbing gently to cover the pads of both.

Dean should be saying something more into the phone but a low, keening “Cas” is all he can manage.

“Mmmm. I can hear it, that’s perfect.” There’s an added layer of thickness to Cas’ voice now.  “Are they nice and wet?”

“Yeah,” Dean squeezes the syllable out of his trembling vocal cords, cock jumping manically in the cage of his fingers like a bottle rocket, ignited and ready for lift-off.

“Good boy.”

That almost does it but Dean loosens his grip, edging a little, dragging this out. “What now, Cas?” 

He can hear the heat in Cas’ exhale, and is that the sound of zipper teeth separating in the background, too? Dean shoves the picture of Cas’ hand in his own pants out of his brain before it ends him entirely.

“Put them in your ass, Dean.” Cas says and since he apparently thinks Dean’s a complete idiot who doesn’t understand direct orders, he adds:

“Now.”

Dean obeys with a guttural moan as he pushes past his rim, one powerful stroke. They’re slick enough, but there’s still a sharp stab of sensation from so much - so soon, and he pauses with both digits inside to catch his breath, get used to this sudden feeling of fullness.

“Back and forth, Dean. When you’re ready…” and yeah Cas’ voice is definitely breathier now - Dean recognizes that tiny pitch of arousal that softens the gravel.

He wants to say his name but what slips out is, “Baby, where are you right now?”

The term of endearment pulls a soft moan out of Cas. “The office,” he hisses. “I had a late meeting.”

The answer has Dean’s fingers freeze mid slide between his cheeks. “What the hell? You’re in a meeting right now?!”

Cas chuckles throatily, “Well, I was. I’ve since retired to a bathroom stall.” 

Dean snorts a little bit, resuming the small stretching motions of his hand, tugging himself wider. “Sexy.”

“Mmm. Very.” Cas agrees, and there’s a few more sounds of a body shifting around, and then all of a sudden Dean can hear it. It’s faint but definitely it - that very distinctive shh-shh-shh of skin stroking skin.

Dean groans. “Cas, you can’t just whack off in a public restroom, man.” The wetness pooling at the top of his dick indicates they are clearly at odds on this cardinal rule. “They’re filthy,” Dean firmly admonishes both Cas and his cock.

“I like filthy.” Cas deadpans. “Speaking of that, how are those fingers doing? Time for a third?”

“Come over,” Dean spits out as he adds his ring finger to the party, exhaling deeply along with the pull of his hand.

There’s a catch of breath on the other end of the phone. 

“Okay. Send me the address and unlock the door.” Cas says simply, and Dean can hear the zipper being pulled back into place. “But after that keep your hand in your ass until I get there. And Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean flexes his back a little bit to get to a comfortable angle, then “Agh,” as it turns out even more blessedly comfortable than intended, right on the money. 

Unfortunately for Dean, Cas’ next direction is:

“Don’t you dare come.”

There are a lot of things Cas finds beautiful about the world. 

There’s the way the leaves of a tree look right at twilight, shining with the dappled farewell caress of the fading sun. The calm of a lake right after it’s rained - a soft, misty haze the only reminder that water from the sky commingled with its earthly brethren just moments before. That first touch of autumn in late summertime air, a cool bite piercing through the lazy days, nudging them faster towards evening. 

Yes, all of these are lovely.

But not a single one of them comes close to the gorgeous sight of Dean Smith sprawled out on his couch, working himself open with what Cas knows to be at least two thirds of his hand and desperately trying to keep the other from grazing the glistening column of his dick. 

Dean’s chin is to the ceiling, jaw tense and eyes squeezed shut. He’s completely naked. Even the floor is bereft of any clothing, the only discarded fabric appearing to be the crumpled pile of a light gray towel by the left corner of the sofa.

Cas stands quietly for a moment, watching as Dean’s free hand finally drops to his tip, pinching it firmly. His erection deflates, but not by much. 

Cas feels the tight, prickly heat rising through his throat, the fabric of his pants pulling on his own response. 

Cas shouldn’t be here. He really was doing fine, even after he and Dean so foolishly backslid into third base and beyond in that utility closet at the game. Now here he is about to get to fifth.

Crap - Cas had meant to interrogate Harper as to exactly how he and Dean had so ‘coincidentally’ ended up at the game together in the first place. In Cas’ experience, "accidents" like that don't just happen accidentally.

He was actually about to ask her that, at the meeting - when Dean had to call him.

Cas would take accountability and say well, he didn’t have to call Dean back but that’s just not an option his mind can entertain.

Dean calls, Cas shows up. Always on Dean’s time.

Something about old habits being hard to break.

Speaking of old habits, Cas is pretty sure he needs to intervene soon or the only one getting lucky other than Dean is going to be that preposterously overpriced couch - the one that’s likely dry clean only and already ruined, based on the glisten of sweat that sparkles in the contours of Dean’s face, darkening the edges of his hair at the temples.

Cas tries not to be too pleased with the thought of Dean destroying his fancy furniture in his fancy apartment.

Because of Cas.

He rounds the back of the couch, and the full view of Dean - sweating and straining on top of it is enough to get Cas to set aside his petty thoughts and unclasp his belt buckle.

Dean’s lashes flutter open at the sound, and his irises lock on Cas. He blinks a few times, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards teasingly. He stops moving the hand underneath him, and releases his cock from the other one’s grasp.

“Cas, not for nothing, but the last time someone looked at me like that...I got laid.”

Cas presses his lips together and crosses the room to stand by the sofa, facing Dean over the barrier of one of its arms. 

“It seems to me like you’re pretty close to doing that all by yourself,” he murmurs, gaze still on that unbelievable sight of Dean’s dick rising over the muscled rock of his legs like some sort of obelisk. 

The softer curves of Dean’s inner thighs quake slightly, tiny earthquakes of exertion. 

“Well, you took forever,” Dean mutters, pulling his heels slightly backwards to make more room for Cas on the other end of the sofa. “‘Sides, not my fault you worked me up so hard over the phone.”

He pauses, propping himself up on an elbow to give Cas a very serious glower. “Fucking corndogs, Cas? Really?”

Cas smirks. He doesn’t sit down yet.

Dean’s eyebrows nudge together into a frown. He pouts a little, then - mercurial as always, flashes a grin and immediately props himself up on one elbow, cheerfully spreading both legs wider so Cas can receive a perfect visual of exactly up to which knuckle each finger is buried into his ass.

“Whatsa matter, Cas? C’mon, water’s nice.” 

Then that pertinent freckled imbecile has the audacity to pull his hand fully out from where he’s sheathed it in his hole, just to give Cas a glimpse of what appears to be an impeccably prepared entryway.

“I see you successfully located the lube,” Cas sighs.

Dean flashes his pearly whites. “Lucky me. And lucky you.”

The heat pooling right at the base of Cas’ balls sends an immediate SOS flare all the way through the tip of his cock, and if Cas’ eyes could glow with electricity this would be the moment they would.

“I presume that means you’re either packing or happy to see me,” Dean mutters, hips stuttering a bit. Both of his hands remain still, but Cas can see the prickle of arousal visibly making its little path through Dean’s veins, stirring the tiny golden hairs on his arms with the breeze of goosebumps.

Cas leaves his own dick in its aching confinement for a moment, thinking. He’s come more than prepared this time, an entire Costco size bag of condoms tucked into the khaki messenger bag that rarely leaves his side at the office. 

He wishes he could just sink into Dean like he used to - nothing between them, but Cas knows better. Not with his extracurriculars lately. He’s probably overthinking it - after all, safety should always be the presumption. Still, the thought of having to discuss up front with Dean that he’s had other partners...

Cas bites his lip.

This elicits a moan from Dean that erupts from the deepest region of his chest, trailing off into a desperate whimper.

“Don’t fucking do that.”  

Cas’ face colors with amusement. “Sorry, I forgot it’s one of your...things.”  

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, well I didn’t forget any of yours.”

The hand under Dean’s ass twitches and he slides it back inside a few times. Cas’ consciousness possibly leaves his body, and composure may officially be out of his grasp.

“Been a while since we’ve done this,” Dean bites out. His voice grows slightly wicked. “Well, in daylight, anyway.” 

He rocks his hips in a quick jerk against his fingers, and something must be aligned along with the cursed stars that led Cas to his damned destiny in this room, because Dean’s head immediately drops back with a soft moan.

Cas’ thin slacks fall to the ground right along with it.

He shoves the orange boxer briefs he’s wearing to mid thigh, immediately deciding that nothing feels better right now than the brush of his throbbing hot dick in the soft palm of his hand.

“Daylight? Dean, it’s 7:00 p.m.” He gasps out over the other slightly less coherent noises that threaten to overpower any manner of speech. 

Dean’s still looking at the ceiling, hand stilling as his hips sink back down slightly. He pinches the top of his cock again, and Cas can see the little rivulet escaping down its side from the tip.

His tongue flicks out of his mouth towards it, and fuck he wants Dean sheathed in his throat, sucking him off to what is sure to be a fairly quick climax.

Perhaps that’s the ideal maneuver to solve the condom issue. Yes, actually - this is perfect. Cas enjoys blowing Dean, Dean enjoys being blown. Dean’s been edging for so long that at this point Cas has a feeling the load he’ll release will be more than pleasurable, and -

The tiny trickle curves down the sides of one testicle and glistens on the little plump dip of Dean’s ass, right next to the dark, inviting opening right in between his cheeks and scrotum.

“We just have to use a condom,” Cas blurts out immediately.

Dean’s head jerks forward, mouth open to respond. 

No words come out. Instead, Dean’s gaping at Cas like a drowning fish, eyes fixated below his belly button. 

Cas remembers that his dick is still resting on top of his palm, his fingers circling it near the base with gentle pressure. He glances down and drags his hand long and slow, the stroke extending more than a respectable distance over the slope of the sofa arm. A little shine of wetness already beads the rounded tip.

At this point, Dean looks like he’s visibly drooling. 

Cas clears his throat, and the fog lifts from Dean’s eyes marginally. “Erhm. Sorry. Condoms? Cas, I told you. Um, before. And I haven’t . . . since.” Dean’s throat is working with more than just lust now, the pink tinge of embarrassment starting to color his cheeks, and he suddenly looks ten years younger and twice as vulnerable.

Words spoken in darkness never sound the same in the light.

Cas is still reluctant to air his dirty laundry, but nothing is worth watching Dean struggle, especially since the rosy hue deepening through his freckles brings the new gaunt cheekbones into even sharper relief. 

Pushing back any immediate reaction to the reminder that Dean’s been celibate - completely! - since the wreckage of their ending almost a year ago, Cas quickly jumps in to say:

“Dean. Stop - they aren’t for you. They’re...to protect you.” He swallows, tugging his boxer briefs over his dick with a painful wince, and steps out of his pants to sit by Dean on the edge of the sofa. He hesitates, then lets one palm drop gently on the outside of Dean’s thigh, the contact sending buzzing shivers all the way up to his elbow. 

“I need to wear one. To keep you safe,” he says, pleading with whatever might be listening that Dean won’t ask him to elaborate on what should be clear and apparent.

Cas doesn’t miss the lightning fast strike of hurt in Dean’s eyes before he covers it up with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Cas suppresses the urge to point out that he didn’t ask Dean to be celibate. Didn’t owe Dean his own self-restraint.

It was a break-up, not an application for sainthood.

“Cool.” Dean’s eyes are back on the ceiling, naked knees nudged together protectively over his rapidly softening groin. “Yeah. Well, hope you brought some along, because I don’t keep rubbers around. No time for that, with work.”

“Right,” Cas says and doesn’t add the bitter little bite of I remember that worms its way onto the tip of his tongue. “Yes, I did.” 

He pauses, brow wrinkling a little at the glum corners of Dean’s mouth. “Never leave home without them!” Cas adds in a bright tone, hoping to lighten the mood.

Dean’s arms wrap around his chest, shoulders hunching slightly. Cas immediately realizes this was not the right thing to tack on to what is already a rapidly sinking ship. He searches for a life raft, and settles on the smooth curve of Dean’s left butt cheek. 

Cas gives it a pinch.

Dean yelps like a shrieking cat. “What the hell?!”

He instinctively catches Cas by the wrist, pulling him forwards, and the jerkiness of the movement knocks them both off the couch. They tumble to the floor with all of the expected yelps and thuds. Limbs flailing, they grapple for a while, wrestling each other on the carpet. 

In the back of his mind, Cas thinks they must look absolutely deranged - a tangle of bare limbs and spiky hair, with Cas’ bright orange boxers flashing between the terrain of their skin like a traffic cone marking a danger zone.

Cas finally lets Dean pin him, knowing he needs it to feel better. Dean’s face is sunshine again, rising over Cas like morning’s first kiss of dew. 

“Hi.” Dean says, bumping his forehead against Cas’. “I win.”

Cas is perfectly content to lose this particular battle, but to Dean’s face he says, “This time,” and waggles his eyebrows menacingly. 

The teasing in Dean’s smile drifts away, but something soft and tender remains. He leans closer and covers Cas’ mouth with his lips, just a soft brush. 

Cas traces a finger down the edge of Dean’s jaw, trying to keep the worrying thoughts about its new angles at bay. 

Staying in this little pocket of light that he told himself wouldn’t blind him again.

In that tiny moment, Cas acknowledges this entire facade was a lie. Sex is his weapon, an escape from reality. Just like the drugs, the booze - it always has been. 

But Dean is immune to Cas’ usual methods of self-preservation. They established this day one, sitting on that rooftop in the glow of sunrise. Cas didn’t just fall that day, he dove in headfirst.

And now that they’re apart, he realizes - he’s never even really tried to kick for the surface.

Dean is watching him, pupils pinpricked black with worry. “Where’d ya go, Cas?” he asks softly. Cas tries to blink the splinters of his heart from his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, dropping his hand from Dean’s face. He has the very sudden realization that Dean is very, very naked on top of him.

And straining against Cas’ thigh is his erection, back to all of its prior glory. 

Dean notices at about the same time, it appears, because he immediately sucks in an agonized breath.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and it’s almost pained.

Cas glances up, concerned. “Are you alright?” 

Dean swallows, bob of his throat tight against the column of his neck, the blue of his veins connecting them like constellations. The little pink flush of shame is back, lighting up his cheeks. 

“I took the day off today,” he mumbles quietly.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me that, yes - I should be concerned about your well-being?”

Dean rolls his eyes before slumping over, lips mushed into Cas’ clavicle. His dick shifts slightly against Cas’ leg and Cas feels the jerk of it responding to the touch. Dean squeezes another breath in through his teeth, blowing it out against Cas’ skin. 

“I was trying to get off in the shower,” he says finally. 

Cas pokes a finger inside Dean’s ear, just for fun. “Your medical issue is that you got off in the shower?” 

Dean swats his hand away. “No, idiot. That’s the entire problem. I didn’t. At all. And I’ve been doing it for hours.” He holds up a hand vaguely in the general direction of Cas’ face, almost taking his eye out in the process. “See. Fingers all pruny.”

Cas gently takes the hand, lifting it by the dip between index finger and thumb like he’s gingerly examining a piece of evidence. “Hmm, yes. I see,” he says, putting on a British accent. “Yes, darling Watson, it does appear we have solved it. The mystery of the pruny fingers! It was the shower, with water. For far too long.”

Dean yanks his hand back. “Shaddup,” he mutters, rolling over and off of Cas to prop himself up on an elbow beside him and oh - that springs Dean’s dick from its restraints between their bodies, and Cas is back to dry throat, head empty. 

“...dear.” Dean says.

Did he just call him -?

“What?” Cas yanks his eyes back to Dean’s face, which is still pinched slightly with discomfort.

“I said it’s dear. ‘Dear Watson’?” Dean repeats, sounding slightly annoyed. “What’s with you?”

Cas bites right back. “What’s with me? You have the audacity to ask?”

He slides up to seated, glowering back at Dean. “First, you call me. Then you get me here, and fuck with me. Then you - don’t fuck with me. Now we’re on the floor talking about your inability to achieve orgasm, when you’ve been approaching blastoff practically this entire time?!”

Cas underscores his point, literally, by taking one finger and deliberately running it on the underside of Dean’s cock, right on that large vein at the back that’s throbbing from base to tip.  Dean sucks in an inhale like he’s been stabbed in the side, and his dick actually spasms, a small spurt immediately tumbling to the ground like Cas drew it out by magic.

“Shit.” Dean gasps. “Shit, Cas. Please.” Cas looks back at him, still feeling a little angry. And maybe a little vulnerable, though he won’t admit that to himself anymore. That little pocket of light and safety has passed.

“Yes, Dean?” he asks, knowing full well why Dean is pleading, why he’s wild eyed and flushed, his cock fritzing between his legs like a lightning rod.

Dean groans, and the ache is clear in every echo. “Cas…” he whispers, closing his eyes briefly. When they open again, they’re ablaze, the heat like a laser.

“I need you,” Dean whispers.

And despite all of his convictions, reservations, and conclusions, there’s no chance in hell Cas is going to say no.

Cas fishes for the small bottle of lube that rolled off the couch along with them, and dribbles a few drops in his palm, gently grasping Dean’s cock. His initial strokes are soft, but they immediately coax a few more streams out of the slit, Dean twitching along with each little emission. 

“Want it so bad, Cas,” Dean whimpers into his ear as Cas pulls him closer. “Can you give it to me?”

“Of course,” Cas says quietly. He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a lamentation. 

They’re kneeling to face each other, Dean’s hips jerking in time along with Cas’ hand, stuttering rocks of a wobbly ship on troubled waters. Cas’ own groin quivers to be added to the crew.

Dean’s hand grazes it. “Can you -” he stammers, slurred syllables alerting Cas he’s already teetering on the edge, “wanna come with you inside me, baby,” Dean chokes out, and then  - almost plaintively:

“Worked so hard for you. Been waiting so long.”

And all of it be damned, to hell’s fiery brimstone and heaven’s gate, but if anyone knows the words that will make Cas obey, it’s Dean, who clearly didn’t lie about remembering every single one of Cas’...things.

Cas slicks the condom over his erection in record time, nudging Dean on all fours. He does, however, take a brief moment to run his tongue between the curves of Dean’s ass, showing him with a few deeper licks his appreciation of all the ‘hard work.’

It quickly appears that Dean does not need the thank you note.

“Fuck, Cas oh- god fuck baby, please. Please just get inside my ass, now.”

Cas willingly lines himself up, bracing against Dean’s waist at the inevitable pull of the muscle around the firm, smooth shaft of his latex-wrapped cock as he slides all the way in with a quick, deep thrust. 

“So much better than the fingers,” Dean mumbles deliriously.

“Mhmmm,” Cas purrs in his ear, slinging one arm around his waist and lowering them both gently to the ground with a quick, fluid movement. He tangles one hand in Dean’s hair, tugging it slightly, because for all of his posturing Cas remembers Dean’s things too.

This is one that should help greatly with that shower problem Dean has been having.

Dean cries out, and Cas barely gets two strokes down his dick before he’s practically convulsing, Cas bucking behind him and along for the ride as Dean stripes the carpet with long arches.

Somewhere between the fuzzy haze of his own growing orgasm, Cas enjoys how the eruptions from Dean’s dick sparkle in the lamplight.

Cas’ vision explodes into stars, no - galaxies, and when he comes, Dean releases again, practically sobbing out his name in muffled, broken moans.

Cas holds him through it, Dean’s spine in his chest, trying not to think about how he’s maybe getting too close. He’s not sure if that worry is reserved for his body or something else entirely. He decides though, that this for now - is okay.

Dean doesn’t love him, and sex won’t erase him from Cas’ mind. But Dean needs protection.  And making sure Dean is protected, safe?

That’s something Cas thinks he can lose himself in.

“Consider yourself cured,” he leans over to hum softly in the furl of Dean’s ear, gently smoothing back sweat soaked bits of hair.

“Mmmph. Thanks.” Dean mumbles. “Hey, Cas?”

Cas starts scratching long lines down the back of Dean’s head, and Dean leans into his palm like a willing kitten.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas says.

Dean stretches his legs, wiggling his toes as he backs himself into the space where he always fits, and Cas slings one leg around him to pull him a little closer, maneuvering around his tender, swiftly deflating dick. Dean sighs with contentment before saying:

“That little move doesn’t count as you pinning me. We’re still 1-0.”

Cas allows himself a chuckle into his favorite spot behind Dean’s earlobe as they both drift to sleep on the carpeted floor.

Reese: Excuse me. Why didn’t you tell me that Felicia Day is a cute, nerdy lesbian in this show?
Harper: Charlie! You finally got to her?
Reese: Dude, you have been holding out on me.
Harper: I love her. 💖
Reese: Hey, are you going to Barb’s birthday on Friday? I have been assured there will not be a bouncy house this time.
Harper: Do I want to know?
Reese: probably not. I mean, the charges were dropped and Ari’s eyebrows grew back so it all worked out in the end
Reese: The point is that this year won’t be like that.
Harper: I mean, I was planning to go, but now I’m not so sure
Reese: OMG, Harp!
Harper: yes, Reese, I’ll be there.
Reese: Great! I’ll see you there.
Harper: I’ll bring bail money

Chapter Text

March 11, 2021

Reese: I'm going to kill that man.
Reese: He is a menace
Harper: Misha "Chaos" Collins? What did I miss? Tumblr is just people talking about GISH and that con
Reese: someone let that man get Cameo
Harper: oh no
Reese: oh yes.
Reese: you just know the fandom is going to implode when he starts dropping those
Harper: I better call IT to make sure they replaced that server

Harper can do this. She just has to push the little green button.

She frowns at her phone as if it might have the answers. Okay, technically it probably does. She could Google "how to ask someone on a date," but what she really needs is "how to ask someone out on a real life date when you are too chickenshit to come out to everyone and their Aunt Sally so instead you have been making her huddle in the closet with you but you just think it would be neat to go somewhere together for once."

Okay, okay - so she's spiraling.

The thing is that things have been great with Reese. Sure, their typical get-togethers have been limited to takeout, Netflix and playing tonsil hockey on the couch like horny teenagers. The sole exception was Barb's party where they played it cool, except for when they made out in the car (also like horny teenagers).

But it's nice. Harper hasn't felt like this since - well, ever. And Reese has been so patient.

She gets it. That Harper wants to take things slow. That she's not ready for public displays.

But Reese deserves a real date and Harper’s gonna give her one.

She can be brave.

Harper takes a breath and pushes the button before she can change her mind.

"Harper!" The throaty voice on the other end of the line makes Harper's stomach flip flop.

"Hey Reese, whatchdoin?" It comes out in one nervous string.

Amusement colors Reese’s voice. "Livin' the dream.” She sighs, adding:

“And today Dean brought me the fine, prestigious task of collating binders for a presentation."

"You're at work?" Ever since Dean and Cas started doing whatever it is that's happening with them, Reese has been enjoying far more reasonable hours. Harper’s surprised to catch her in the office at 7pm.

"Yup. Not Dean’s fault, though. We were waiting on some external reports. You really don't want the details. Anyway, everything okay?"

For a moment, Harper considers offering to click her phone off so Reese can get back to whatever grind she has going.

Harper even opens her mouth to do it, but her eye catches on her Cas funko pop.  His little wings glisten encouragingly as if to advise: It can’t be in the being or the having or even the saying - if you don’t open your mouth and actually get the words out first.

He may be plastic, but he sure does give good guidance.

Harper takes a gulp of air. "There’s a fair this weekend and I was just thinking you might want to go. With me. Like a date." She holds her breath as she endures decades within the moment of silence between them.

"I'd love that." Harper can hear the fond smile in Reese’s voice.

"Yeah?" Harper kicks herself for giving Reese the opening to change her mind but the response is quick and resolute.

"Absolutely. Just text me the details."

Harper grins at the tiny Castiel’s little black eyes and pumps her fist in triumph. "Awesome. I'll see you then."

The bright lights beckon in the darkness, drawing in the crowd like moths.

Reese sneaks a peek at Harper's face and sees her wide, enthusiastic grin. She looks like an excited kid.

Reese fights the urge to pull her in for a kiss, not wanting to push too hard. She knows just being together in public is a big step for Harper.

Instead, she brushes her arm gently against Harper's for a moment, earning a startled little huff, barely audible over the din of the midway.

They stop just inside the gates, Reese still watching as Harper takes it all in with wide-eyed awe. The sparkle of the stars mingles with the lamps on the ferris wheel, all of it reflecting from Harper’s gaze in flecks of gold against the blue.

"Didn't go to many carnivals growing up?" Reese is only teasing a little.

Reese is rewarded with another take of those eyes when Harper turns to focus on her. Harper’s face clouds for a moment and Reese tries not to reach out and smooth her brow.

Keep your hands to yourself, Harris.

"My parents wouldn't allow it,” Harper murmurs sadly. “Mom said they were 'traveling dens of iniquity.'"

Reese suppresses a smile at the return of the infamous, endearing as hell air quotes. Harper doesn’t notice the slight twitch of lips and continues:

"One time, I snuck off and went to one with a guy I had a crush on.” Harper pauses, shaking her head. “What an act of rebellion!” She lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh.

Reese brushes their knuckles together lightly. “Sounds pretty brave to me.”

Harper ducks her chin with a quick crimson flush of her cheeks. “Well, my father found out and dragged me out of there in no time. He lectured me all night about demons put on this earth to tempt us.” Harper drops her voice an octave in imitation, wagging a finger sternly.

Reese watches her quietly, more infuriated than entertained.

Harper sighs. “The games are what set him off the most. He had a real thing about gambling. Said I should fall to my knees and pray for forgiveness after engaging in such sinful pursuits with a boy. "

Harper rolls her eyes but Reese can hear the waver in her voice, see the tinge of uncertainty in the twist of her mouth.

Reese considers driving to Harper’s hometown and punching the man.

Instead she takes the high road.

"Well, he’s not here, plus he's an asshole."

Ok, maybe not the highest road.

She quickly changes the subject.

"Come on, babe. I am gonna win you an obnoxiously large bear that you have to carry around the rest of the night."

A grin fights its way back onto Harper’s face, banishing the bad memories that resided there moments before.

"Aren't these games supposed to be fixed?"

Reese plasters on a cocky grin. "Lucky for you, I made a deal with those demons your dad warned you about.” 

Harper blinks at her, and yup Reese has yet again managed to joke about the wrong thing. She corrects quickly:

“That and you happened to bring the reigning beer pong champion. We just have to find the ping pong ball toss, and that bear is as good as yours."

She tosses Harper a saucy wink and intertwines their fingers, dragging her towards the games. They’re halfway across the fairgrounds before it registers that she’s broken her own rule by holding Harper’s hand in public.

She starts to let go, cognizant that Harper may be uncomfortable with the contact, but Harper only squeezes tighter.

The big doofy grin is back on Harper’s face.

Reese feels a thrill of satisfaction that she put it there.

"Are you sure you don't want to put Teddy Mercury back in the car?"

Harper hugs the obnoxiously huge teddy bear closer.

"Reese, did you just name my teddy bear?"

Reese shrugs and nudges her playfully, and oh, that’s nice - that just a little touch can send sparks down Harper’s arm, fizzing under her skin like little cheerful bubbles.

Happiness is effervescent, it seems.

Reese picks a little piece of lint from the teddy bear’s ear, adding:

"You would have named it something ridiculous like Sparkles McRainbow or Dean Winchester."

Harper pretends to consider that. "Hmm, those do have a nice ring to them."

She’s kidding, of course. Besides, “Dean Winchester” is already the name of her favorite paring knife. She’s not going to tell Reese that, though.

She’s also not going to tell her she recently cracked her own self up by naming her vacuum the Empty.

Reese snorts at her in kind mockery even without that knowledge. "Shut up."

Harper wants to reach out and hold Reese's hand again. She flexes her tendons, feeling the absence of Reese’s fingers in the spaces between her own.

The memory of her father's angry face stops her.

Someone could see them.

She settles for patting Reese on the shoulder, which feels a little grandma at the bake sale, but a touch is a touch.

The bubbles fizzing in her fingertips agree.

Harper smiles at her. "I guess it's a good thing I have you for the 'bear necessities' like naming."

Reese lets out a big, open mouth chuckle that warms Harper from the inside.

"But no,” Harper adds vehemently. “The bear - excuse me, apologies -” she says turning to the teddy bear’s beady black eyes, “Teddy Mercury stays with me. I wouldn't want to leave him in the car. He might get confused and wander off. He could get hurt. Who knows where the closest teddy bear hospital is? Do you know any teddy bear doctors?"

Harper is being absolutely ridiculous now, but Reese is grinning like a fool and allowing her to keep doing it, and Harper’s heart tugs her closer. It’s nice to be herself.

Maybe she’ll tell Reese about the vacuum after all.

There are so many other things she wants to say, too.

Nobody ever won me a prize.

I'm too scared to hold you but hugging Teddy is the next best thing.

You look beautiful in the rainbow lights of the booths.

Get over here and kiss me.

Instead, she goes with something safe, because getting out here with Reese in the first place has tapped the majority of Harper’s bravery reserves. "I don't mind carrying it around. You worked hard for it. Plus now everyone knows not to start a beer pong battle with my g-g- . . ." Shit shit shit "great baller of pong, Reese."

Yep. Nailed that one.

Reese raises an eyebrow. “I think my agent may have a few tweaks for the moniker, but I’ll accept the praise.” She grins. "Come on, you big dork, the ferris wheel isn't gonna ride itself."

Reese grabs Harper’s hand again for purposes of tugging her towards the ride, and Harper cheerfully lets herself be pulled along, fingers singing with delight to be back in that happy tangle of Reese’s soft skin, speckled with little sandpapery calluses rubbing on Harper’s palm.

Hmm, wonder where those are from. Lifting weights?  Reese does have a pretty tight -

Harper experiences Reese’s muscle firsthand as the thought is both responsible for - and truncated by - her gracefully tripping over flat ground, and strong arms wrap around her waist preventing an instance of face-to-dirt knockout.

Reese releases her almost immediately, face flushed. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to -”

The pink in her cheeks is tinged with something darker.  She averts her eyes, but not before Harper catches a mix of disappointment and confusion in their pupils.

Harper immediately feels cold without the warmth of Reese pressed against her. Guilt pinches through her sternum for putting this damper on the mood.

Why can’t she just let herself be held?

“Thanks,” she mumbles. 

She feels the hesitant brush of fingers, and lets her hand have what the rest of her has forbidden her body.

The fear and anxiety try to bubble up, but Harper ignores them. This small step of Reese’s palm against hers is worth the churning in her gut.

When they finally creep to the front of the line and squeeze on to the bench of the ferris wheel, the fit is a bit tight on the ferris wheel bench with Teddy Mercury on one side and Reese on the other.

Harper doesn't mind in the slightest.

Reese is pressed up against her as the world falls away. Finally, it's just the two of them, and the fizz of Harper’s happy ascends right along with the little ferris wheel car, carrying them up into the sky.

Harper nuzzles a little closer because it’s easier up here in the stars and away from prying eyes. She hums in contentment, closing her eyes.

She feels the warmth of Reese’s arm again, circling around her not as a precaution this time, but in safe, comfortable embrace.

The heat of Reese’s body is nothing compared with the small blaze in Harper’s chest.

Here, high above the city, Harper lets go of everything other than the feeling of Reese beside her.

The ride comes to a halt while their car is at the tippy-top, presumably to unload and reload. Harper lays her head on Reese's shoulder lightly and watches the lights twinkle in the distance.

It’s peaceful, without life intervening.

"Can we stay up here forever?" The wistfulness in Harper’s voice comes out a bit more melancholy than she intended.

She feels Reese's cheekbones tug up into a smile against her hair. "Look, I would, but Teddy told me he's getting kinda hungry and I don't wanna be eaten by a bear."

Harper laughs and lifts her head up to look at Reese. "Yeah, I'm the dork."

Reese’s face grows more serious. "Hey. You having fun?"

Harper nods.

Reese smiles at her. “Me too.” She winks. “Thanks for asking me out.”

Harper’s heart flutters.

She pulls Reese in for what she intends to be a chaste kiss, but her lips are like a runaway train, opening and pulling Reese’s mouth deeper, their tongues sliding together in the dark.

A soft gasp escapes from Harper’s throat. She runs her hand up Reese's arm and wraps it around Reese's neck, gentle pressure to get her closer.

The ride starts to move, careening downwards, and Harper pulls away quickly like she’s been burned, not wanting to be observed by the crowd below.

There’s that quick flash of disappointment in Reese’s eyes again, but hunger joins it, simmering dangerously. She adjusts her features quickly, and pats Harper’s leg with gentle encouragement.

Harper feels her cheeks go beet red. First she’s pawing at Reese like a crazed animal, then turning into an aloof ice queen.

She’s going to give the girl whiplash.

"I'm sorry." Harper says quietly.

Reese bumps her shoulder. "Hey, stop that. Nothing to be sorry about except the growling of Teddy’s stomach.”

A real stomach omits a very gurgly noise, and Harper jumps, looking at the bear suspiciously.

Reese chuckles. “Okay, maybe I used the bear as a metaphor for my own um, physical needs.” She winks, then pauses to assess Harper’s expression.

She smiles at Reese to show she understands the joke. 

Reese’s shoulders relax. “Let’s grab some grub, ok?”

Harper nods, still feeling a little foolish and confused. Reese looks at her for a minute.  “Harper?”

“Yeah?” Harper looks up to meet her gaze.

“You don’t have to share anything until you’re ready, okay? This, or...anything else.” Reese pauses, then, snickering:

“Well, with the exception of your fries. Those, you absolutely have to share. With me.”

Harper nods and squeezes Reese’s hand, still on her leg, deciding she doesn’t care who sees that as the ferris wheel slows to a final stop.

She tries to reclaim the euphoria from the top of the wheel, but they are falling back to Earth again and the pull of gravity yanks the sensation of soaring in freedom away.

Dean drums the tips of his fingers on the black squares of his keyboard. His eyes drift to the little clock in the right-hand corner of the screen.

‘1:38 PM,’ it confirms despondently.

Dean sighs.

For the first time in a while, he’s not really in the mood to be at the office.

Well, at least it’s the first time in a while that he’s admitted it to himself. 

The TPS reports are stacked across his desk, a reminder that while Dean may not be exactly thrilled to be here, the work remains willing and ready to be done. 

Still.

Another email alert dings from his second laptop, and Dean has a very distinct urge to casually knock his thermos of coffee over on top of it.

He absolutely would, too, but he needs the caffeine to function - today more than ever, it appears.

Dean tugs out the pen perched behind his ear and rolls it between index finger and thumb, popping the end of it in his mouth. He nibbles on it absentmindedly, nudging it back and forth with his tongue. Good ole oral fixation. He’s lucky he doesn’t smoke, he decides, replacing the tortured pen tip with a stick of gum.

Dean suddenly realizes what he really wants in his mouth is the feel of Cas’ firm cock.

The instant increase of saliva on the tip of his tongue confirms the craving.

Dean lets his memory drift to their recent tumble on the carpet, so worth it that he doesn’t even care about the questions the cleaning company will likely have later this afternoon when they come to steam out the stains. 

His dick awakens from its regularly scheduled workday nap to nudge a hesitant “you rang?” under the fly of his slacks. Dean pushes it down a little with the heel of his palm, taking a second to enjoy the pressure. 

He glances over at his phone, the seed of an idea sprouting in his head.

Hmmm.

It’s not presumptuous of him to think that two rounds in the sack can lead to a third. It’s not even like Dean misses Cas. Just his body.

His absolutely fucking gorgeous, perfect body. Every bit of it, all the way down to the little mole that perches above Cas’ right nipple - kinda like the first star in the sky, the one you make a wish on if you’re lucky enough to catch a glimpse.

Yup. This is just about Cas’ body.

This is absolutely fine.

Dean taps his phone screen and pulls up Cas’ contact information. 

A little part of his brain wonders if Cas put his number back in. He mushes that pesky ant of a thought with the sole of his sensible loafer, then types a quick message before he can change his own mind.

Dean: Hey

It’s very suave of him, actually. More casual than a “Hello,” not as informal as a “Hi,” not as needy as his usual “Heya, Cas.” 

Yes. This is the perfect text.

Okay. Now we wait. 

He sets the phone down, turning his attention back to his computer.

This lasts for approximately forty-five seconds before the phone is back in his hand, without a single scurrying dot to signify any response from Cas to said perfect text.

Dean frowns.

Maybe he’s busy at work, for once. Figures.

Well, he is definitely not going to text him again.

Dean: Busy work day?

He pushes the phone away to the corner of the desk, and gets up to pace around his office for a distraction. Considering his intentions for texting Cas to begin with, he decides that while he’s up he may as well lock the door for good measure.

His eyes go back to the still-dark screen.

Maybe Cas got drunk and lost his phone. Yeah, actually - this is the most viable and only explanation. That’s really too bad.

Or maybe…

Dean: Damn, forgot you barely get service in that office. Mine’s not great here either. Not even sure you’re getting these.

Feeling thoroughly annoyed, Dean tosses the block of his phone into a corner on the floor.

It buzzes in indignation.

Wait, it’s buzzing!

He bolts over to pick it up, and Cas’ name winks at him from the little green box on the screen.

Cas: Sorry, in a meeting

Dean stares at the message for a minute, feeling like an entire bag of idiot salad. Okay, he can recover from this. He’s Dean motherfucking Smith, he’s an Aquarius dammit, and he is good with the fellas. 

Especially this particular fella.

He chews on the pen he forgot was still in his mouth for a second, gathering his x-rated nuggets of brilliance.

Dean: Well, happy Friday. You wanna come over and get fucked on the floor later?

Okay. Maybe his ‘sexting skills’ are a little bit rusty.

But hey, a direct shot never misses, especially when it’s being fired by Dean Smith.

This turns out to be no exception.

Cas: Well you’ve managed to make the meeting slightly more interesting
Dean: Happy to be of service ;)
Cas: Why don’t you go ahead and service yourself for a minute while I’m otherwise occupied
...
...
…
Cas: In case this wasn’t clear, that means unbutton your pants and stick your hand inside

Apparently it takes two to tango, and Cas isn’t messing around on this dancefloor. Dean plants his backside firmly into the leather cushion of his office chair and promptly undoes his belt before responding.

Dean: Hand in pants ☑️
Cas: Keep it over the boxers for now.  Hang on a second

Dean circles his fingers around the bulge tenting his boxers, gasping slightly as the cotton drags across the sensitive tip of his dick, little droplets already dotting the gray fabric. God, it’s like Dean’s a crazed feline and Cas is his very own brand of catnip.

Cas-nip, Dean thinks with a chuckle. 

In a flash of inspiration, he takes a quick snap of the dark spot that’s spreading quickly over his cloth-sheathed erection, checking to make sure some of his hand gripping its base made it into the shot before he hits send.

The dots skitter in response almost immediately.

Dean leans back, pleased with his own awesomeness.

He jerks upright almost immediately as a photo of Cas pops into view. He’s standing in front of a bathroom mirror, pants nowhere in sight, hand firmly grasping his naked dick. The look on his face is a mixture of soft smile and arrogant smirk. 

This man knows exactly what he’s doing. 

The parts of Cas that aren’t bare are in a very impeccably tailored suit jacket and tie, which is unusual but certainly not unappreciated. Dean squints closer at the neckwear.

Yup, that’s Dean’s favorite - the twin to the matching one in his own closet that he recently chose not to wear to the office. 

Dean’s regretting his current choice of attire too, because he now desperately wants the blue silk wrapped around his aching cock instead of the scratchy cotton of his underwear, which is quickly becoming too restricting.

There’s another message from Cas, a link this time. Dean looks at it with confusion.

Cas: Before you ask, no it’s not spam. 
Cas: No, it won’t give you a virus. It’s an app. Just download it.
Cas: I have to go back to my meeting, but if you do - and then tap the little pink button, I’ll let you take your underwear off.
...
...
…
Cas: But don’t cheat. Trust me, I’ll know.

Dean groans, but does as he’s told.

What is Hush? He skips past all the preliminaries and agreements for once, the twitch of his dick egging him on towards that blessed pink-buttoned light at the end of the tunnel. 

He hits it twice for good measure, and yanks the waistband of his boxers, springing his dick free. It’s practically vibrating, slick head shining in the artificial lights of the office. 

Shit. Dean actually forgot he was at work for a moment, sitting here in the middle of his lunch hour with his pants around his ankles, stroking his own precome down the skin of his cock.

Another text from Cas is waiting patiently on his phone.

Cas: Very good, Dean.
Cas: Do you want to play a game?

Dean taps his response one-handed, the other continuing its languid caresses, loose and steady for now, just preliminaries.

Though he’s definitely going back to explore that photo Cas sent in act two.

Dean: Charades or pictionary? Ooooh wait, how bout strip poker?
Cas: Funny.
Dean: Correction.  Hilarious.
Cas: I’m going to tell you what I want to do to you, right now.
Dean: Sounds like a game I’m guaranteed to win. I’m in.
Cas: If you like what you hear, hit the pink button in the app
Dean: What, like a mouse and a pleasure button? In those experiments?
Cas: Sure, something like that
Dean: Ok. Hit me, Cas-a-nova.
Dean: LOL
Cas: 🙄
Cas: okay
Cas: I’m assuming you’re sitting down in that brown leather chair you spent way too much money on
Dean: Dude it was very reasonably priced! And yeah
Cas: Okay. I’m kneeling in front of you.  Hands on your thighs

Dean smashes the pink button down with all he’s got.

Cas: Very good.
Cas: Your pants are on the floor?
Dean: Yeah
Cas: I’m going to tug your boxers down there with them, too
Cas: Unless you don’t like that?

Right. Pink button thing. Dean taps it again, using his other hand to wriggle himself out of his underwear. He tosses it to the other side of the room with reckless abandon, and it snags on a file cabinet.

Whatever.

Dean’s got nothing scheduled this afternoon, anyway. Let the drawers fly freely like a kinky freedom flag.

Cas: Good, Dean. 
Cas: My face is between your legs. I’m going to leave a mark on the right thigh, the inside of it.

Tap.

Cas: Mm. I’m trailing my tongue, just slight pressure with the tip, up your leg. I’m heading in the direction of your balls.

Tap. Tap.

Cas: My tongue is right next to them, curving underneath. I’m sucking them both in my mouth, rolling them back and forth slowly.

taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap

There’s no response from Cas for a moment, then:

Cas: Is your hand on your dick?
Dean: Yagah
Cas: Make sure you’re edging if you need to. I don’t want you coming yet.
Dean: K
Dean: :(
Cas: I said not yet, not “not at all” - be patient.
Dean: >:[
Cas: 😇

Dean sighs, stilling what were extremely vigorous back and forth ruts of dick to palm. 

Cas: My finger is in your ass.

Dean’s hand immediately returns to its prior position, agreements be damned. He taps the button, adjusting his bare bottom so it doesn’t stick to the leather of the seat.

Speaking of the chair - Dean’s ruined enough furnishings lately. He should probably get something just in case he can’t manage to deliver on everything he’s promised.

Cas will forgive him.

Or maybe even punish him.

Or both.

Yeah, ‘both’ is good.

The shrill jangle of Dean’s office phone jolts him from his consideration of disobedience.

“Sonofabitch,” he mutters. 

Well, Cas will be pleased. Nothing shrinks an erection faster than a call from the front desk, likely about some monster of the week demanding Dean’s attention be ripped from his current...activities.

“Yeah,” he growls into the phone instead of his usual placid greeting.

“Um, Mr. Smith, your 2:30 is here?”

His fucking what?! Dean quickly yanks his slacks up around his boner, the heat rising past the collar of his shirt, which suddenly feels very tight around his neck. 

“I didn’t see a 2:30 on my calendar, Maggie,” he bites out, quickly scrolling his personal cell phone to check the calendar. He accidentally hits the picture of Cas and his naked groin fills up the screen, zoomed in and half erect.

Fuckfuckfuckffuck.

Dean quickly swipes it away. 

Maggie stammers incoherent apologies through the phone receiver, and Dean immediately feels guilty about his grumpy reaction. 

He takes it out on that pink button of Cas’ little app instead, for absolutely no reason other than assuaging his sudden need to punch something.

There’s a faint shift of footsteps on the other end of the line.   

“Mr. Novak sends his apologies for the inconvenience, sir,” Maggie chirps with trepidation.

“No, that’s fine just - ” Dean starts phasing into automatic ‘business mode’ before her words sink into his skull. 

“Mr. Novak?!” And yeah, embarrassingly enough that last syllable comes out as a squeak.

“Y-yes, sir - he, um said you had a social media meeting? About synergy? And - “

Dean hears Cas’ gravelly syllables. “Spontaneous combustion. Of the technical variety, of course.”

“- spontaneous combustion of the technical variety of course.” Maggie parrots into the phone.

Dean is going to kill that man.

His dick has other opinions, excitedly perking up under his zipper. Dean puts the phone on mute to get up and unlock the door, then assesses the tent in his pants.

Yeah okay, he needs to sit back down immediately. This is...how do the kids say it these days? 

Hashtag - NSFW.

“Go ahead and walk him on in,” Dean mutters into the receiver.

When Cas pushes the door open, Dean realizes that fortunately for the already busy San Francisco PD, there will be no random acts of homicide in his office today because Cas looks way too damn good for Dean to harm even a single artfully-tousled-bed-head-messy-and-Dean-knows-he-didn’t-even-try-to-look-this-hot-which-makes-it-even-worse hair on his fucking head.

He shakes his head when Maggie offers refreshments, urging her to scurry back out before he has to stand to greet his...colleague.

His colleague who is here for their professional meeting.

Right.

Cas lowers himself into a chair across from Dean with some discomfort. Dean’s eyebrows immediately nudge together in concern.

Is he hurt?

His eyes scan up and down Cas’ body, assessing it for signs of injury. Cas leans forward slightly, halting his investigation.

“Hi.”

Dean gulps at how blue his eyes are today. Cas’ pupils are slightly wider than usual, and yeah maybe it is strange that Dean can still notice the difference, but he doesn’t care because he does recognize the meaning of the look.

It’s the reason Cas is here. 

Okay then, diet or not it appears Dean is getting some afternoon delight after all.

“Hi. You’re an ass,” he says, preliminarily.

Cas wiggles the physical representation of the name Dean just called him on the cushion of the chair with a wicked little smile. Dean crooks a finger at him, beckoning Cas around the desk over to where Dean’s dick has made a triumphant reappearance underneath his still unbuckled slacks.

“Well. Easy there, tiger,” Cas purrs, mouth stretching into a pleased smile. He pauses, licking his lips as he assesses their, uh. Circumstances.

“Maybe I should say anaconda?”

Dean groans, his dick visibly twitching at the hoarse timbre of Cas’ voice. He knows what’s laced through those syllables, and one glance at Cas’ bulging crotch confirms it.

“Stop playing zookeeper and take my fucking pants off.”

Cas raises one eyebrow, unzipping his own slacks, but not removing them yet. He tugs off his blazer, chucking it unceremoniously on the back of a chair, and untucks his shirt, salaciously lifting the hem to show Dean the little bit of peach-colored boxer fabric peeking through the open slit of his pants.

Dean swallows the piece of gum that’s still in his mouth.

His hand goes to his groin on its own volition and he palms at himself before he can realize what’s happening. “Tease.” The word is a soft hiss, accompanied by the slight rustle of Dean’s fingers on his crotch. He unbuttons the top button of his pants, maintaining eye contact with Cas the entire time as he slowly pulls down the small metal tab of his zipper.

Cas strides over to the wingtip chair and places his hands on Dean’s thighs, towering over him.  His lips brush the curve of Dean’s ear as he whispers into it:

“What are you going to do about it, boy?”

Dean can see the erection fighting to get through the opening in Cas’ slacks. He grazes it gently with his knee, rewarded by Cas’ sharp intake of breath. 

“Gonna make you do what you promised,” Dean grunts out, nipping quickly at the center of Cas’ neck, a quick bite of teeth down one of its muscled lines. He pushes Cas gently, but firmly to his knees in front of him.

Cas looks right at home between his thighs, and Dean leans back a little to delight in the pretty picture he makes, lips already bitten slightly pink and cheeks beginning to flush.  

Cas pulls Dean’s pants off in one full motion and his eyebrows immediately dart to the ceiling.

“Commando?”

Dean’s dick pulses impatiently at this unnecessary discussion of undergarments, the lack thereof or otherwise.

“It was sort of a...last minute wardrobe change,” Dean grits out, trying his best not to shove himself immediately into the warm chasm of Cas’ mouth.  

There’s a knock on the door, and - dammit all to hell if Dean doesn’t literally whimper at the potential intrusion. 

Cas hooks a hand under each knee and gently shoves Dean’s rolling chair forward, tucking himself under Dean’s desk. “Answer it,” he says cheerfully.

And then the cocky bastard promptly deep throats his dick.

“Fffffuuucccccckkkk!” Dean stutters out, clasping a hand over his mouth to stifle the yelp while his thighs flex against the leather of his chair. “Cas - dammit -  you can’t just -”

The hum accompanying the small swallowing movement Cas makes, tugging Dean’s tip even further back - is a very clear statement that actually, Cas certainly can just, and intends to continue just and - nope Dean isn’t going to stop him after all because holyfuckingshit he’s not an idiot.

“Come in,” he forces out in what he hopes is the normal, calm voice of a man who isn’t currently getting fellatio-ed to the damn celestial gates and beyond.  

He quickly smooths the bottom of his shirt over the bare skin of his legs, prickling with goosebumps from Cas’ slow, deliberate ministrations on his dick. The tips of his hair tickle one of Dean’s inner thighs, and he allows himself a quick caress behind Cas’ ear as the door swings open.

His mood immediately falls.  

The man leaning in the doorway with a box of cookies tucked under his arm is as tall, dark and handsome as the one currently doing that between Dean’s legs, but the very specific emotion Noah Gorgorian evokes in Dean is certainly more - deflating.

Cas seems to notice, because suddenly there’s a slick tongue curving under Dean’s balls in warm, wet massage, urging Dean right back to hot, pulsing ramrod steel.  Dean grips the edge of the desk with one hand in response, hoping Noah doesn’t catch the tension in his knuckles, gone bone white through the freckles dotting across them.

“I’m a little occupied at the moment, Gorgorian,” he grits out, waving vaguely at the scattered papers in front of him.

So what if one of the stacks happens to be literally the morning funnies. What Noah doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

What does hurt though, is the stab of fiery jealousy Dean feels when Noah licks his lips and says, with a salacious smile:

“Bumped into that Novak fellow in the lobby, and we exchanged a few - words.  Then I remembered we had his favorite treat in the breakroom.” He shakes the box. “Figured I’d drop them by…”

Noah’s voice trails off as he gazes around the room, clearly realizing Cas is nowhere in sight.

Dean tries his best to keep the frown off his face. He’s never been a fan of Noah or his openly suggestive advances around Cas whenever he stopped by the office, before -

Nope, Dean’s not thinking about before today. Only now. Only here.

Here being - talking to the most insufferable person in the building while Cas gently slides the tip of his tongue around the slit of Dean’s cock, darting pressure inside of it teasingly. He moves on to the head next, flicking and sucking around it and shitfuckholycrapdammit, Dean literally has to bite the side of his cheek to keep the guttural moan trapped in the confines of his mouth.

Okay, Cas may be vying for the position of second most insufferable person in the building at this fucking time.  

Shit - Dean forgot that the gold medal winner for most terrible human is still in the room. And apparently speaking.

“Where is that sugary sex biscuit, anyway?” Noah purrs, “I didn’t see him step out.”  

Cas’ soft, throaty chuckle sends a jolt of lightning up Dean’s cock and he quickly ruffles the papers on the desk, coughing loudly to cover up the laugh rumbling up from between his legs.

“Um, yes. He, uh - he went to the restroom. Will that be it, Noah? I’m very busy.” Dean manages, trying to stop Cas’ movements for just a goddamn moment by tensing his thighs around his shoulders.

Cas easily pushes them even further apart, and Dean’s absolutely sure at this point that the man has definitely been working out.

Noah smirks at him, showing no sign of intending to leave.

Dean almost wishes he could disclose the situation – fuckholyshitCasfucknotthatdeepnotrightnowno – that’s taking place below his belt currently to this smarmy asshole, but something tells him that might lead to some legal unpleasantness.

That or this motherfucker would be inclined to join them.

Dean physically shudders at the thought and gets a tiny hum of reprimand from Cas for the disturbance, which unfuckingfortunately creates an entire landslide of vibrations at the spot where Dean is currently, um, ensconced.

Okay, Dean is just about ready for Noah to make his damn exit.

“I’ll let him know you brought the cookies so he can say thanks,” Dean says firmly, nudging Cas with a knee. There’s a squeeze of confirmation under the desk that turns into a lingering, goosebump-inducing caress as Noah finally sighs and resignedly walks out the door.

Once it closes, Cas releases his dick with a resounding pop to Dean’s very extreme dismay.

“Hey, what gives?”

Cas rolls his eyes at him, “Well if I’m going to offer gratitude for the cookies, I need to at least try one.” He winks at Dean saucily, strolling over to the tray to grab the box. 

Dean feels the weight of that green monster suffusing his chest again. He shoves it away.

After all, while Cas may only be here for a booty call - the booty he’s dialing up is Dean’s, Noah’s devilish charm be damned to hell.

Cas is reading the label on the cookies while loosening his tie, and oh this is giving Dean an idea.  

“Honey-glazed shortbread. That snake of a human may be absolutely unbearable, but the dessert game is certainly spot-on,” Cas murmurs, eyes still on the lettering marching across the cardboard.

Yeah, Dean’s had enough of this cookie related discourse. 

He gets up from the chair, dick bobbing straight out like it’s a dowsing rod and Cas is a thirst-quenching pool of clear, pure H2O.

Cas snaps right back to attention as Dean grabs the end of his tie, tugging him towards the desk. “Get on top,” he growls impatiently.

Cas tilts his head with mischief in his eyes, setting the cookies down quickly. “Well, that’s generally the arrangement, but aren’t we rushing the lead-up just a bit?”

Dean rolls his eyes, “First of all - though at this point it seems to be par for the course, you’ve been cranking me like a damn wind-up toy all day. Second of all, I meant the furniture.” He raps the top of his desk with a knuckle, shoving some papers aside to make room, and adds:

“Third of all - I just decided something.”

“All righty.” Cas perches on the polished mahogany surface of the desk agreeably, swinging his legs a little bit. The movement nudges his cotton clad dick even further through the opening in his fly. Dean’s eyes are pinned to it as he drops to his knees, fingers scrambling at the waistband of Cas’ slacks.

“Gonna take care of you first today, baby,” Dean mutters, fingers making quick work of the button constricting what has now become an extremely protruding bundle of stupid peach cloth unfairly encasing Cas’ cock.

Dean’s rewarded with a small catch of breath as he slides Cas’ pants down his thighs, trailing his fingertips behind them.

“Mm,” Cas says as his dick springs free, leaning down to catch the back pocket of his pants before they drop to the floor and pulling out a couple foil wrapped squares.

Right, safety first. Dean’s mouth twitches a little with a longing for tongue on skin, but the scent that hits the air when Cas tears open one of the packages immediately shifts his mindset into ‘intrigued.’

“Is that...cherry?”

Cas grins, rolling the condom slowly over his tip, fingers gently gliding it down to the base. He exhales slightly at the touch of his own hand, the button of his nose pinking with arousal.

“Cherry pie, actually.”

Dean wastes no time taking that for a taste drive. “Oh, you sonofabitch you came prepared,” he mutters around the mouthful of Cas grinding into the side of his cheek. “Fuck, that’s actually really good.”

“You aren’t incorrect,” Cas gasps out, and something tells Dean he isn’t referring to the condom flavor. 

Dean looks up and what he sees nearly brings him to climax. 

Cas is leaning back on his elbows, tie loose and hair disheveled. He’s managed to unbutton his white shirt about halfway, clavicle peeking out from the opening at the top. His gaze is trained down, following the row of buttons that remain right to the final destination of what Dean knows to be his own lips wrapped around the head of Cas’ dick.

Dean keeps his eyes locked on Cas’ expression as he takes him all the way down, and Cas’ hips buck up to nudge deeper down his throat. Dean sucks him loosely before sliding his dick out to jerk it, a gentle movement.

“Tell me what you want next, babe,” he murmurs, feeling how close Cas is through the latex stretching across the steel rod in his hand, the rush of blood pulsing under his fingers. 

He wants to tug the condom off and feel the contrast of Cas when he’s like this, hard iron of a blade wrapped in skin as soft as silk.

Instead, he waits patiently for Cas to direct him, gently stroking a thumb on the underside of his dick to keep him going but not so fast that he tips over the edge of the cliff.

Cas bites down on his lower lip, and that sends Dean into his own quick back and forth stroke of self-ministration, wishing for lube.

A tiny bottle of it drops into his lap from above. 

Dean blinks at the miracle, then looks up to see Cas, half lidded and smiling. He nudges a fingertip at his now-empty shirt pocket, pelvis slowly making lazy, dragging ruts at Dean’s loose fist.

“Get out of my head, man,” Dean jokes, popping the cap off one-handed and slicking himself up quickly. The difference is immediate, and fuck Cas better decide the next step fast because Dean’s right about there himself.

“I’ll get out of your head if you get in my ass,” Cas purrs - and okay, Dean is on board with this plan.

He slides up immediately, and Cas’ fingers (are they shaking?) dart to the buttons of his shirt, undoing the first few as easily as his own. It appears that bottom buttons are giving Cas issues as a rule today, because after a few small struggles, Cas grabs the offending material of Dean’s shirt and yanks it until the three that remain pop off, snapping from the string holding them hostage and scattering on the ground with little bouncing noises.

“Crap. I’m sorry,” Cas’ eyes dart around the floor for the ricocheting plastic circles. 

Dean grabs him by the tie still looped around his neck. “S’okay,” he says, quickly covering Cas’ mouth with his own to wipe that unsettling flicker of worry off his face - and God will Dean’s heart ever stop clenching when Cas gets that particular expression?

A quick tendril of rage at Chuck, at Cas’ past, at fucking goddamned everything he’s lost - they’ve lost rises up into his throat like a heavy lump.

He smashes it down, stroking his dick and focusing on the fuzzy warm feeling the movement draws upward from the center of belly button.

“Got a spare shirt hangin’ in the closet,” he mumbles against Cas’ lips as he works the rest of his buttons deftly, sliding the crisp, starched cotton off of his shoulders. 

Dean’s eager thumbs swipe over Cas’ exposed nipples, and they perk up at both the chill of the A/C and his touch. 

Cas shivers slightly, then leans away from him. He props himself back up on the points of his arms, one knee winking at the ceiling and the other straightened, foot still dangling off the desk. The pink of his latex-clad erection is a hard line against his left inner thigh, right leg swinging slightly open to frame it.

Dean’s mouth goes dry because it suddenly feels like he’s in one of those dreams he gets when watching too much porn.

Except this? Much better than Casa Erotica.

Dean drinks it in - Cas, blinking at him while sprawled across his office furniture, naked as a jaybird with the exception of the blue tie askew to the left side of his chest.

Sonofabitch Dean wants to eat him alive, messy spikes of hair and all. 

“Enjoying the view?” Cas asks, tongue-in-cheek. Dean provides confirmation by leaning in to deliver three sucking kisses on the right of the tattoo scrawled across Cas’ right side. Cas - after giving a perfunctory moan of approval, adds saucily:

“If you like it, don’t forget the rules.”

It takes Dean’s now-entirely-sex-addled brain just a few additional seconds to process, but then he remembers the stupid little game from earlier. His finger darts to his phone, conveniently still open to the app, with the pink button centered and waiting on the screen.

Hm. Okay, Cas. Weird time to do this, but hell - if Cas stays looking like this, Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to go along with whatever the fuck he wants.

He hits the button, and though it’s slight, Dean’s perfect hearing picks up the sound.

A small vibration reverberates through the wood of the desk.

“Dude…” Dean’s eyes practically glow as he yanks Cas down and bends him all the way over to be greeted by the small black plug harmoniously buzzing in between his cheeks. 

Cas flexes his lower back just a little, and Dean hears the snap of latex announcing the removal of the condom from Cas’ dick.  He wordlessly fumbles for the lube bottle, thrusting it at Cas and hitting the pink button again after the handoff.

A visible shudder of pleasure ripples across Cas’ skin as the plug responds, the sound like the chirp of a zealous cricket in the dusky hours when evening is melting into the rich darkness of night.

“You sneaky little asshole,” Dean bites out, rubbing a palm over the curve of Cas’ left ass cheek, scraping just so with his nails. Cas bumps into him playfully, and Dean hears the back and forth stroke of Cas’ hand on his dick as he mutters, hoarsely:

“I wouldn’t say it’s currently very little, thanks to your happy trigger pleasure fingers.”

Dean rolls his eyes just a touch at the joke, then gently pulls the plug out just to, um. To assess their current situation.

Yup - yippie-ki-yi-yay, motherfucker. Ready to launch, all systems go. 

Okay, so Dean’s mixing metaphors again, but the sight of Cas - slick and delightfully open and ready - is certainly doing that fritzing thing to Dean’s neural synapses, and this is an unfortunate, albeit endearing side effect.

“Well, shit buddy,” Dean finally bites out, feeling a little dizzy, “way to hide the headline - you could have started with my invite to the party in the back.”

He hears the crinkle of foil, and there’s a condom packet being pressed into Dean’s hand.

“Confetti. It’s a parade,” Cas deadpans. Then:

“Dean if you don’t fuck me in the next sixty seconds, I assure you that I will follow you home and shove you against the wall in an alley to punish you.”

“Some of us like things a little rough, Cas,” Dean teases, but he makes quick work of the condom wrapper, sliding the lubed latex slowly over his pulsating dick, giving it a good squeeze at the bottom to steady himself before he explodes like a molotov cocktail.

Speaking of rough…

Dean slides his hand around Cas’ neck, grasping the length of the tie still draped across his front between his fingers and simultaneously lining himself up behind him.

He thrusts inside while yanking the tie backwards with a firm but gentle tug, just enough for there to be a soft pressure at the center of Cas’ neck. Cas slumps against him with a groan, bracing a hand on the edge of the desk before bucking his hips backwards to let Dean sink in further.

“Dean, fuck!”

“Doin’ exactly that,” Dean drops his head down to mumble in his ear, biting just a little where it curves like a delicate seashell, the tiny bones of its coil smooth under his tongue. He moves slowly, easing in and partially out. 

Even though Cas is currently stretched to the furthest extent he’s ever seen, Dean’s dick still feels like it’s being crushed to pure heaven in every direction.

“Dean, harder…” Cas grits out, arching his back in a way that knocks any coherent thought straight out of Dean’s skull.

God, he really does put the ass in ‘Cas.’ 

Dean has a sudden idea. It involves the potential for ruining more expensive decor, but at this point he passed the ‘give a shit’ marker about ten thrusts back. He slides out of Cas quickly, walking over to a small leather ottoman in the corner of his office, bare feet bouncing to the tune of Cas’ dismayed whine.

Dean nudges the ottoman over to the desk with his foot, almost tripping over it when he meets Cas’ pleading, lust-blown eyes, his hand desperately stroking his cock, half a full bottom lip pulled in under his teeth in concentration.

“If you don’t get back here soon, you’re going to miss the entire show,” Cas growls. 

Dean smirks, pushing the ottoman in place in front of the office chair. “Guess that makes you my leading man. Hop on this, and - ”

Dean doesn’t finish the statement because Cas suddenly realizes his tie is still around his neck, and pulls it off with one fluid pop of his hand, dragging the silk circle over his head with the bristles of his hair following it like a field of grass buttressed by the wind of a storm.

Dean’s throat could use a little raindrop moisture from the heavens, because all of a sudden he is parched as fuck and needing some relief.

He receives revelation quickly when Cas steps on top of the ottoman and instantly realizes what Dean’s trying to accomplish, putting both hands on the desk experimentally.

Cas flexes his wrists, and his bare ass lifts up in the air, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the glittering peach they watched drop on that one New Year’s Eve in Atlanta, and yeah - Dean’s gonna go ahead and start this countdown.

Dean hops up on the chair behind him with the same enthusiasm he had riding Larry the Bull in New Orleans at their buddy Garth’s bachelor party. He drops to kneeling on the firm cushion and yup, just expected, he’s perfectly aligned to drill into Cas until the cows drag him home.

This isn’t the right colloquialism. It’s actually a joke - Cas’ own silly turn of the phrase, and Dean decides he’s not going to think about why that particular wording popped into his head, bringing along cozy feelings like the touch of a favorite blanket he no longer has in his bed. 

He seeks out the comfort of the squeeze of Cas enveloping his cock instead, slowly sinking inside him. The new higher angle makes the penetration smoother, and for a minute Dean is reminded of the feel of a memory foam pillow at the end of a long day, Dean’s head embraced by firm softness like it really does remember him.

He enjoys the double entendre of both the term for the tip of his dick and his noggin almost as much as the idea of Cas’ ass having recollection when it comes to Dean being inside of it, and yeah he is definitely going to recount this awesome analogy to Cas later.

The serenity of the moment itself is brief, because Cas immediately clenches what feels like every fucking muscle lining his hole, using the leverage from his hands on the desk to push back against Dean’s dick like he’s sitting on it upside down.

“Cas, holy fucking God.” The words escape Dean’s throat in a breathy, choked whisper.

“Mhmmhmm,” Cas sings, “That’s a nice compliment, but no - I’m not him.” He pauses, and being Cas, adds, mid - thrust, “Or her. Or them.”

“‘Kay,” Dean agrees wholeheartedly, the tip of his cockhead gyrating on what he presumes is Cas’ prostate based on his sudden moan, so sharp it’s almost a screech in Dean’s ears. He loops his arm around Cas’ abdomen, fingers skittering across the small muscles rippling underneath the softness of his flesh.

This is the essence of Cas, Dean thinks, pushing into him further, fingers sliding down to Cas’ cock and gently wriggling under his hand until they’re intertwined, moving in time to Dean’s hips together.

Warm and pliant, a safe place to land.

“Dean,” Cas pants, and he doesn’t have to say anything else for Dean to know he’s about to spill over, letting himself go. 

Dean presses the front of his torso into the flexible vertebrae of Cas’ spine, running his free hand up his neck and scraping across the light veil of stubble lining the edge of his jaw. The cadence of Cas’ hips is more irregular now, his cock skittering between their clasped fingers.  His breaths break apart in the middle of each inhale, shattering with pleasure.

“Come on baby,” Dean whispers in his ear, dropping his hand from Cas’ face to the round part of his ass, rubbing a naughty finger in the dip where pillowy softness meets the firm back of muscled thigh. 

“You come,” Cas gasps out. “And I’ll go with you.”

The request in and of itself is enough to get him there, and Dean spills into his latex sleeve, his eyes squeezing shut by the force of his breathless peak punching through him like some sort of cosmic supernova.

Actually, he decides in the back of his hazy brain - it’s more like being chained to a comet.

Dean’s soaring, twisting in burning flame across a sky full of stars.

He has to cut off Cas’ guttural moan with his hand so no one comes to investigate.

It only takes a second longer before Cas shoves his pelvis forwards as if he’s being electrocuted, the shock of his orgasm jolting through them both. 

Dean doesn’t even flinch when the stream of Cas’ come sputters over every TPS report that’s now been scattered across the desk, sprinkling each one like blasphemous holy rain.

Instead, he pulls Cas gently up into his lap in the seat of the office chair, keeping his slowly softening dick inside and holding him in a loose, damp embrace as they both descend. His legs drape around Cas like the bow on a valued and precious gift.

Cas’ head drops against Dean’s neck with that sleepy, heavy thud and fuck Dean is back there, in that place he thought he’d locked away in a damn impenetrable box at the bottom of the deepest ocean.

Cas smells like cinnamon and leather, and Dean fucking loves him.

He loves him so much.

Dean lets his heart break, gently, all over again, for just a moment - before forcing himself back to functionality and the daily tribulation of moving the hell on.

“We should probably get a little more decent,” he says softly into the depths of Cas’ ear, enjoying the sinful pleasure of the goosebumps his breathy voice sends down prickling down Cas’ neck. Dean allows himself this indulgence for one solitary second, despite that rush of post-coital sadness he already feels spreading through him.

The crack in Dean’s chest.

It was easy, ignoring the ache while mid-carnival ride of carnal pleasure, but now that the sensation consuming his body has dissipated - Dean feels it again. The absence. Not of physical touch, but the hole in his heart where Cas’ love used to glow.

It carves deeper and sharper with every small raised dot Dean’s exhalation stirs up on Cas’ skin.

“Mhmmmhpmphh.” Cas responds, and bumps his forehead against Dean’s cheekbone, eyelashes fluttering along the expanse of freckles.

I need you, Dean’s entire being screams. Stay with me.

“I’ll get your shirt,” his voice says, following the script.

Cas’ eyes blink open, focusing - and the spell is broken.

They dress quickly and in silence, rumpled cotton and polyester blends covering the tracks of their transgressions.

Not a moment too soon, because suddenly the door to Dean’s office swings ajar as Reese bounds through cheerfully, skidding to a full stop when she sees both of them - with what clearly can’t be anything but sex hair - standing in the middle of the room.

Her eyes go wide, darting to the ruined paperwork on Dean’s desk.

And then, to Dean’s sudden recollection and horror - Reese’s gaze lands directly on the pair of jaunty gray boxers flying at half-mast on the file cabinet in the corner.

“Um, Reese - ” Dean begins, searching for an explanation from his fritzed-out brain cells.

“Nothing, I see and saw - nothing.  So sorry to interrupt,” Reese mumbles uncomfortably. “I’ll print new reports - enjoy lunch with your boyfriend.”

Reese turns on her heel to bolt out the door like a spooked gazelle when Cas’ words drop through the air like a damn nuclear bomb, shattering any lingering remnant of the mood and along with it the already-badly-cracked heart pumping the blood through Dean’s caved in veins:

“I’m not his boyfriend.”

Dean sees Reese’s brows draw together with concern as the door slams behind her, but his biggest worry is the weight that statement tosses on top of Dean himself, pressing like an iron anvil on his own chest.

He looks at Cas’ dark pupils.

They’re cold and empty.

Reese: Oh God, you were right. What have we done?
Reese: help, my eyes
Harper: what’s up?
Reese: 🤮I just walked in on our bosses getting dressed after obviously banging
Reese: there was underwear on the
Reese: I can’t even complete the sentence. Just ffs DUDES
Reese: Hello? You have a place. You have two places
Harper: Three. Cas keeps a penthouse ostensibly for clients but he really just uses it as his “fuck nest”
Reese: Ok. Gross. Three places
Harper: God, they are so messy. On the other hand, Cas showed up at 8am this morning
Reese: at what cost?
Harper: What cost would you put on your freedom? For example, I am free tonight if you want to get dinner
Reese: Okay, I am back to being good with it
Reese: But also, I called Cas Dean’s boyfriend and Cas immediately denied it.
Reese: Which means there’s been zero DTR and they’re just stumbling around in  “exes with benefits” territory
Reese: This can’t end well
Harper: They are grown-ass men. Surely they can figure out how to have a conversation
Harper: 6:30? I was thinking greek food.

Chapter Text

September 24, 2016

Dean stares at himself in the mirror with frustration, wondering if there will ever be a point at which he doesn’t feel like he’s wearing some sort of disguise when he adheres to the business-formal dress code imposed on him by corporate America.

He’s been at Twitter for over a year now, and he’s still not all the way used to the monkey suits and cubicle walls.

Cas strolls in casually, his matching navy blazer and slacks fitting like a glove courtesy of his frequent visits to the tailor. 

All of Dean’s attire-related concerns fly out the metaphorical window. Now he’s just wondering what it would be like to grab that silk red tie and yank it off of Cas’ neck, shoving him against the wall with one hand through his fly. 

Or maybe Dean could take it off slowly, dragging the material up over the bob of Cas’ Adam’s apple, following it with a graze of his fingernails. 

Yeah, actually, Dean thinks, glancing down at the slim bones of Cas’ wrists, they could do some really interesting things with that tie.

Cas beams at him reassuringly, all sunshine and innocence in contrast to the demon filth circling that devil’s trap of Dean’s current headspace.

“You look great, Dean. Stop worrying, I can hear you across the apartment.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, deciding it’s probably not the right time to clue Cas in on what he isn’t hearing.

And he’s not wrong about the worrying. The anxious thoughts churn through Dean’s mind, squeaky gears in the cog without any oil.

Oil.

Lubricant.

Hmm, Lube.

Argh, focus.

Cas squints at him, then puts a cool hand on Dean’s face and tugs his jaw closer to give him a quick peck on the lips. Bolstered from his anxieties, though not as relieved in other, um - areas, Dean moves across the room to grab his keys.

“I just want to make a good impression, Cas. It’s your dad.” 

Dean turns to find blue eyes staring into his own earnestly, somehow a hair’s breadth away from his face. He jumps. “We gotta get you a bell, Cas.”

Cas’ answering grin is tight. “Dean, please don’t put too much stock into this lunch. My father is…” Cas’ shoulders slouch over, and Dean immediately wants to wrap him in a hug.

He fiddles with the metal tip of his car key instead as Cas continues:

“Well, let’s just say he’s not a man who gets impressed by anyone other than himself. Besides, the only opinion that matters in this scenario is the guy you’ve already won over.” Cas sticks a thumb into his own chest. “I love you. No matter how lunch goes.”

The words don’t have the intended effect. Dean feels his chest constrict as the itty bitty shitty committee pipes up their banter in the peanut gallery area of his stupid fucking skull. 

Cas thinks I’m gonna mess this up. 

It’s possible Cas did read Dean’s mind earlier, because he quickly grabs Dean’s tie and pulls him close, giving him a soft kiss, catching the corner of his lip.

“Stop worrying, Dean.” He growls in Dean’s ear. 

“You are handsome.” Another kiss on the cheek. 

“And smart.” A kiss at the top of his jaw. 

“And mine.” The steel in Cas’ voice and the little nibble at the base of Dean’s ear sends a shiver down his spine.

Okay, now he’s scared but also extra horny. 

Well, at least that’s an improvement?

The morning crawls by slower than a snail in tar at the office, but a few minutes before noon Dean finally finds himself standing in front of the Novak mansion. He cranes his head backwards to catch a glimpse of the roof that started it all. 

Dean closes his eyes remembering the way Cas looked glowing in the early morning light, all messy hair and eyes that matched the sliver of blue in the sky as dawn retreated.

The mansion is much more foreboding in the stark midday sun. Dean feels like a bug in danger of being squashed as he passes between the marble columns looming to each side of him, and grabs the knocker. The echoing thunk thunk thunk reverberates through his bones.

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t notice he was holding when a smiling face and cobalt eyes peek out from behind the heavy door. 

“Hey, right on time.” 

Dean’s anxiety melts in the warmth of Cas’ gaze. He’s fine. This is fine.

“There he is. You must be the infamous Dean Smith,” a friendly voice calls, echoing on the vaulted ceilings that loom above him. 

Dean has seen Cas’ father before, but only from afar or on the screen of a television, giving some speech about his current projects/endeavors. 

Dean’s particularly struck by how unassuming Charles Novak is, here in his own home when he runs his fingers through his curls in an almost shy manner and says: “Chuck Novak. You can call me Chuck. I’m glad to finally meet the guy Castiel is always silently blushing about.”

He grins up at Dean and holds out his hand. Dean shakes it, cringing inwardly at how sweaty his palm is from the nerves - a stark contrast to Chuck’s cool, soft hand. Dean is surprised to find that his grip is solid but not overbearing. He isn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

Chuck is even dressed casually, in faded khaki chinos and what Dean can only mentally describe as a ‘dad-sweater.’ He looks more like a guy who runs a blog about his handmade etsy crafts than a man who’s graced the cover of Forbes not once, but twice.

Chuck walks over to Cas and slaps him on the back collegially. “Let’s eat, yeah?”

Dean tries to look unimpressed by the expensive decor as they walk down the hallway, his heels sinking into the thick, plush rugs - as soft as clouds - lining the polished wooden floor. He pauses at a gilded portrait of Chuck and a small, dark-haired child, each bearing severe expressions.

The little boy has piercing blue eyes that are recognizable immediately. Something about him makes Dean feel a little bit sad.

The warmth of Cas’ hand slides around the base of Dean’s lower back. “That’s me when I was ten,” Cas murmurs, his lips right at his ear and voice quiet. “I remember posing for hours.”

Most people just have photographs. 

Hell, Dean barely has that. There’s a few he’s managed to salvage between all their moves, mostly him and mom and Sammy. They’re in a banged-up shoebox under his bed.

No frame, gold or otherwise. He glances into the eyes that mirror the little painted boy’s, then bumps the tip of his nose to the real-life Cas’ gently.

“Well, you were pretty cute, at least.”

Cas pouts at him. “What exactly are you implying with the use of the word ‘were’?”

“You guys get lost?” Chuck calls from down the hall. He makes a disgusted face when he notices they’re looking at the painting, then shivers. “Phew. If the artist wasn’t so famous, I would hide that one in the garage.”

Cas rolls his eyes in his father’s direction, then nudges Dean down the hallway towards what is presumably lunch.

If by ‘lunch’ Dean is supposed to be anticipating a royal feast fit for a visiting emissary.

The intricately carved table, which is probably worth more than all of Dean’s shitty IKEA furniture combined, looks more like a work of art than a surface for eating. Dean can’t decide if the cherub faces carved into the legs are interesting or creepy, but he fights the urge to bend down and look closer, trying to play it cool as a damn cucumber.

He can tell even from this vantage point that the intricate angelic designs are a far cry from the simple woodworking he used to dabble in during his visits to see Bobby and Rufus.

Dean feels a pang of nostalgia. He misses working with his hands in the little shop Bobby set up for him in the corner of the garage. Seeing his labor produce something physical is much more gratifying than whatever he’s supposed to be manifesting by staring at the screen of his computer.

There's no joy in reports and perpetual meetings full of corporate buzzwords. Not like the rumble of a rebuilt engine or the feel of freshly sanded wood. Dean can almost smell the scent of fresh pine mixing with the punchy hit of gasoline.

The table is already set with linens and china and crystal that look way too delicate for hands used to plastic knives and aluminum beer cans. Dean wonders if it’s too late to suggest that they all head to a diner instead.

The toe of his boot starts to tap on the floor, a surefire sign that his nerves are returning. Cas notices, and gently squeezes his elbow before gesturing to - Dean gulps - to a seat on the left of where Chuck’s already standing at the head of the table. 

Cas walks over to a seat on the other side, and he’s definitely too far away and Dean is way too close to the stem of these fragile looking wine glasses. Or is it ‘wine’ goblets? The last time Dean had wine it came from a box and got poured in a Dixie cup and shared on the back of Benny’s truck.  

He’s not even sure he knows how to hold a fucking wine glass-goblet. 

Is it even appropriate to drink wine? It’s lunch?

Sonofabitch.

Trying to keep a smile on his face he looks at Cas, trying to mirror his odd formal posture behind the chair that’s been relegated to him. Cas looks at his father, who nods, and they all sit.

The doors from the kitchen swing open as if the staff could sense that their asses have hit the chair cushions and it’s go time. 

A man in absurdly formal attire for a casual lunch walks up behind Dean with a covered dish and clears his throat pointedly. Dean blinks at him like the idiot he is. 

Cas coughs lightly, and eyes the napkin on Dean’s plate when he gets his attention.

He nervously grabs it and places it in his lap. In one synchronized dance, the staff switches the delicate china in front of them with new, covered plates.

What’s the point of the first plate then?

The Duke of Lunch uncovers Dean’s dish to reveal some sort of small, stuffed poultry. It looks unappetizingly like a tiny chicken. 

Honey, I shrunk the chicken! If Dean were anywhere else, he’d definitely get his own chuckle on at that, but something tells him this is neither the place nor the time.

And yeah, he definitely shouldn’t have any wine if these are the types of dangerous thoughts rolling around in his noggin at this current hour.

The chicken-shaped mini bird is paired with something green and slightly wilted, tiny purple potatoes piling up in a corner of the plate next to the veggies like little asteroids.

“Quail. My favorite.” Chuck says, rubbing his hands together. “I hope you don’t mind that we skipped right to the main course. I know you have to get back to work.”

Dean nods as if he regularly has multiple course meals midday instead of whatever he can shovel into his mouth at his desk. “Looks awesome!” He says it loudly, earning himself an amused eyebrow raise from Cas.

Listen, if Dean emerges from this torture chamber of a meal with nothing other than teasing fodder for Cas’ arsenal for the next few weeks, he’ll consider it a win.

Dean eyes the silverware for a moment. There is no reason to have this many forks. Why would you ever need this many forks?

He must look as panicked as he feels, because there’s a gentle kick under the table and he looks up to see Cas surreptitiously gesturing to the fork closest to the plate. Dean grabs his own.

“...your family, Dean?” Chuck finishes the question Dean’s addled ass brain missed entirely while communing with cutlery.

Fucking great.

He’s already blowing it. 

Dean grins widely and takes a stab at a response. 

Family! He can talk about family.  

“I have one brother, Sammy,” Dean starts with the only part of his family he actually likes. He’s in law school at Stanford. He’s brilliant,” Dean grins as the pride wells up in his chest at the mention of Sammy’s accomplishments. Cas is smiling along with him, a soft little upwards tug of lips and it curls around Dean’s heart like a cheerful yellow ribbon. 

He continues, “No other family to speak of. My mom passed when I was a kid and my father - um - left us too, just a few years ago.”

It’s a turn of phrase that could be construed as a lie, since John isn’t dead and buried as far as Dean’s aware, but it may as well be true. 

Wherever John Smith is, he hasn’t darkened their door since the day Dean walked out of his with Sam and filed for emancipation. If dear old dad hasn’t managed to drink himself to death by now, it’s sure not for lack of trying. 

Anyway, so - yeah. Dean can absolutely talk about family. Like a normal person.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Chuck offers with sympathy. “So you’re a self-made man then? Bootstraps pulled up and all?”

Dean plasters the grin back on his face, ignoring the ache he feels when he thinks about his old man in addition to his equanimous disgust at the term ‘bootstraps.’ “Yup. First to go to college. Got Sam there too.”

“Mmmm. A true accomplishment.” Chuck agrees jovially.

Dean lets himself relax just a smidge. Chuck isn’t so bad. Maybe he was tough on Cas growing up, and yeah - Dean wouldn’t want to face him down in the boardroom, but it seems like he’s really making an effort here. 

Maybe it’s the old Dean Smith charm.

He takes a bite of his quail with gusto. It’s not nearly as bad as it looks, he tells his taste buds, which aren’t as agreeable. 

Still, Dean’s keeping his cool.

Especially since Chuck is currently watching him chew. “So, you work at Twitter? I hear from Cas that Meg Masters got you a position there. She’s a great kid.”

“Oh yeah.” Dean says around the dry poultry. He takes a moment to swallow. “You know, it’s important work,” he gesticulates his fork to prove the point, and oops just a little bit of quail flies from it over Cas’ shoulder across the table. 

Cas stifles a giggle, but Chuck doesn’t seem to notice. Whew. Dean shoots Cas a warning glance to button it up, Novak .

Cas presses his lips together in a mock ‘aye, aye Captain Smith.’

Dean gives him the side eye before continuing:

“Anyway, people think it’s just thirst posts by celebrities and fan wars, but it’s also really a cutting-edge way to deliver news, collect marketing data and organize the community.”

God, Dean’s even boring himself. He tries for a whimsical smile.

Chuck nods, very serious. “Fascinating stuff, Dean. Really.” Dean eyes him suspiciously, but his tone and demeanor seem to be entirely sincere.

Cas is looking down at his plate, pushing one of the purple potatoes around with the tines of his fork. Dean frowns. Maybe some humor is in order.

“Thanks. I mean, it’s not rocket science…” Dean quips in a flash of genius.

“Oh, ho, ho. Not much is.” Chuck agrees amiably.

Yeah. Dean’s knockin’ this lunch out of the damn park.

The rest of the meal continues on smoothly. Cas never quite seems to fully relax, and though Dean’s a little puzzled by the lines of worry creasing his brow, he decides to file them away for kissing off later. It certainly can’t be about how things are going at the table, because Dean is absolutely hitting his stride.

Awesome . This is awesome.

Licking the last of his dessert off the fork, he grins and winks at Cas who looks like he is barely suppressing an eyeroll. Okay, grumpy cat. 

“I gotta run. I have a meeting with a major investor.”

What he has are TPS reports to file and a boss’s ass to kiss, but hey - a little embellishment won’t hurt anyone.

They say their goodbyes and he gives Cas a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, and says in his ear with as much honey as he can manage, “See you later, sweetheart.” 

If Dean notices that Cas’ response feels a little deflated, he doesn’t let it get him down.

He’s nearly to the door when he realizes he forgot to tell Cas that the building called, and an exterminator might be in the apartment when he gets home. 

This normally wouldn’t be an issue, but Cas likes to tear off his suit like it personally wronged him and his family as soon as he walks into the living room, and while this should likely be a welcome sight for any pest controlling professional, Dean doesn’t really like sharing. 

Yeah, the patented Cas-tastic end-of-work striptease is for Dean and Dean alone. 

He lets his brain short circuit for just a minute thinking about Cas wearing nothing but a smile, but then quickly turns on his heel to quickly give Cas the update. 

He may not have a meeting, but those TPS reports wait for no man, blah blah blah.

“Come on, Castiel. You know better than that.”

The ice in Chuck’s voice, and the use of Cas’ full name - which truthfully Dean tends to forget even exists most of the time, freezes him outside the door. 

Gone is the affable charm and cordial tone. Chuck is all steel, no magnolias.

“You’re a Novak . You're destined to become head of the company someday. You thought I’d accept some hick from Kansas hosting dinner parties for you?” 

Dean feels a surge of anger at the derogatory term as Chuck’s shoes tap a staccato, pacing on the parquet of the dining room floor.

His voice is laced with disdain. “I mean, did you see the way he eats? There is quail on my carpet, Castiel. And those stupid jokes?”

Chuck sighs with exasperation. “I have a perfectly serviceable list of potential boyfriends for you, including Dick Roman’s actual nephew - don’t think Zachariah didn’t tell me that little tidbit about the fundraiser earlier this year. He’s not only available but interested.”

The meal in Dean’s stomach threatens a return appearance.

Cas’ voice is gravel crunching under heavy winter tires. 

“That may be, but I’m not even a tiny bit interested. Or available. Dean is my boyfriend and I brought him as a courtesy, not for anyone’s approval. You don’t actually get veto power over who I date, or any of my other life choices.”

Dean can’t decide if the sound of Cas defending him makes him happy or ashamed.

Man, fuck Chuck. 

Dean considers walking in and punching the smug bastard in the face. 

He doesn’t. He can’t do that to Cas - Dean can imagine his expression when his crude hick Kansas boyfriend starts a brawl with his fancy father in the decadent dining room with a one of the five unnecessary extra forks.

God it’s like an alliterative deranged game of Clue in Dean’s skull, and maybe he should have had some wine after all.

He takes a deep breath. Ok, calm it down, Smith. Yeah, Cas and his father don’t get along, but they’re still family.  

Dean needs to cool his jets and mind his own beeswax.

“Look, Castiel. I appreciate that you’re having some...fun. Blowing off steam before you get serious.”  

There’s a pause, and Dean can practically see the glower on Cas’ face, eyes narrowed to angry slits.

It’s kind of hot to think about, actually. BAMF - not a bad look for a dude who - generally, acts like an angel around Dean most of the time.

“You can be as angry as you want,” Chuck’s words and tone confirm Dean’s presumptions.

“But I can’t have you running around the office if you’re going to go rogue. We have a plan here. You need to comply or I won’t be able to continue to fund your lifestyle. Your job at the company, your trust fund? Be reasonable, son. You don’t want to give all that up for a man who spends his days looking at the inner workings of the minds of vapid celebrities 140 characters at a time. What we need to do here….”

Dean feels his chest tighten. Cas is going to leave him. Of course he’s going to leave him. Who would give all this up for someone like Dean? 

His breath starts coming in frantic spurts, and suddenly Dean needs to be anywhere but this hallway. The last thing he needs is to have a panic attack in the middle of the Novak mansion. 

Dean gets that his stock can’t get much lower with Chuck, but he doesn’t want to see if he can find the floor of what is clearly a pretty messed up situation he and Cas have got going. 

He turns and walks towards the door, imagining the sweet freedom of fresh air, green grass and zero furnishings that cost the same amount as a car. Pine. He needs the smell of pine in his nostrils.

Maybe he’ll plan a trip to visit Bobby soon.

Just short of his goal, he’s stopped by a familiar looking man. 

Sonofabitch.

Dean digs deep, pushing the panic down into the corners of his mind and flashing his pearly whites with confidence he doesn’t feel in a single damn cell of his body.

“Hey. It’s Zach, right?” He shoots the smug little grin at the sour-faced man. He knows he shouldn’t antagonize the guy, but Dean isn’t feeling particularly charitable towards anyone on Team Chuck at the moment.

“Zachariah.” The wonky-faced lackey corrects primly. 

Dean moves to step around him, but Zachariah blocks the motion, smiling like a crocodile lurking in murky swamp water. “I couldn’t help but notice that your lunch could have gone better.”

Dean shrugs, swallowing the anger building inside. “It was fine. Great. I gotta get to work. So if you’ll excuse me.” 

Zachariah steps to the side. “Certainly, but -”

The pause feels like someone is handing Dean an apple he shouldn’t take. And yet…

He stands still, letting Zachariah continue.

“ - you should know I’ve seen this all play out before. If you need to know what the future holds, I can show it to you.”

Zachariah’s eyes glint mischievously. “Right here.” 

He shoves a thick envelope into Dean’s hands.

Dean takes it, even though his gut says to throw it to the ground.

But that small seed of doubt planted by Chuck’s scathing words and Zach’s self-assured demeanor roots in his brain - so Dean holds on to it, deciding he can always trash the thing when he gets home later.

He turns back to Zachariah for one final last word and, for a moment, he thinks he sees a smug smile fading from the man’s face. It’s replaced quickly with the sour ass grapes Dean’s come to associate with this motherfucker in the short tenure of their not-so-joyous acquaintance. 

“Sure, buddy, I’ll hold on to this in case there's ever a shortage of toilet paper,” Dean spits out, chuckling.

Like that’s ever gonna be a thing.

He turns and marches out the door, trying his damndest not to reveal that it’s taking everything he has to maintain a normal pace. 

Cas stares at Chuck in disbelief, though the little Jiminy Cricket in his head chirps that he really should have expected it.

In a manner of speaking, Cas had the foresight to keep his hopes relatively low during Chuck’s lunchtime performance.  Unfortunately, he’d also permitted himself the indulgence of clinging to the now swiftly dwindling notion that the light Dean brought to every room he entered would somehow sway even his putrid, egotistical father.

As if this isn’t the story of Cas’ life from the dawn of time. Or at least birth.

Be a real boy, Castiel, Jiminy instructs cheerfully like he’s the actual human and Cas is just possessing him.

Cas takes a deep breath, trying to acknowledge the reality he can’t ever change. 

Dean could have been the crown prince of England and he wouldn’t have been good enough had he not been hand-selected by Chuck. 

And this is what happens. Every time. For years Cas has let Chuck reel him back in. For years, it never even occurred to him that there might be a life for him outside of this one. Follow orders. Be a good little soldier. 

But as Cas sits there listening to Chuck threaten to take away his trust fund and his job, he realizes that he doesn’t want it. 

Any of it.

Because Jiminy’s right. None of it is real.

And Cas knows what is real. Dean. Him.

They are.

“Fine.” Cas says without preamble. Chuck stops mid rant.

“Fine?” It comes out of Chuck’s mouth as a half-cough.

“I accept the terms. You stop trying to control my life and I’ll give it up. My trust fund and the job.” Cas punctuates the last with a shrug, trying to convey a sense of apathy. 

Letting go of the money actually feels easier than Cas thought it would, but he’s never been attached the materiality of things or felt the need for a safety net – he’ll get by. Get his own place. 

Or - oh, oh . 

The idea blows through Cas’ chest like a glorious vision of the future.  

He and Dean could live together. Officially. In Dean’s cozy little apartment, that’s not flashy or pretentious but absolutely perfect, and absolutely Dean.

The thought of that has Cas soaring. He imagines Dean thrilled that Cas is finally moving in, face full of gratitude.

Next, he imagines himself telling Dean that his face can be full of an entirely different kind of thanks.

Cas isn’t even worried about jobs. Please, he has connections of his own.

And if Chuck decides to obliterate those in his wrath, Cas isn’t above working somewhere less lofty, like a Gas n Sip for example. He’d proudly take on the mantle of being a sales associate there, especially with the knowledge of how much it would irritate his father.

Or maybe he can try to find something in social media to really piss Chuck off. Mmmhm, this? This pleases him.

Chuck has launched into a rant about the plan. He says something about Cas being ungrateful, but Cas isn’t listening. He doesn’t have to listen to it anymore. Because he doesn’t have to be here at all.

He thinks about his room upstairs and realizes that anything he could possibly want is already at Dean’s place. At their place. Cas has so many belongings scattered across that apartment, it’s like he’s essentially moved in already. 

He probably should check with Dean first, but there’s no doubt in Cas’ mind that Dean - one of the kindest and most caring humans he knows - will understand. 

Cas stands and turns to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Cas looks at him and smiles wryly. “Home.”

“Don’t come crawling back here when you need money, you hear me?” Chuck calls behind him, rage in his voice.

Cas ignores him, walking out the door towards his new life.

It’s just past six when Dean trudges into the apartment to the sight of Cas standing in the middle of the living room - fully clothed, for once, and buzzing with nervous energy. 

Dean stares at Cas cautiously, with a searching look in his eyes. Almost like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He sets down his briefcase, which looks extra full today. Cas watches him as he fiddles uncomfortably with the corner of some envelope which is sticking out of the side.

Okay, Castiel. Stop putting it off. He’s been pacing for an hour, wearing down the carpet with his feet and his brain with his incessant spiral of panicked thoughts.

His dramatic exit from the Novak mansion was one thing, but now that Cas is here, reality is sinking in and there’s just a little less pomp and circumstance tagging along with it. 

What if Dean doesn’t want him to move in permanently? They haven’t been dating that long. 

That doubt Cas was confident he wouldn’t be feeling is knocking on the door, searching for cracks in the windows.

Cas takes a deep breath. “Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas,” Dean responds, a little cautiously.

“We should talk,” they say at exactly the same time, down to the syllable.

There’s something pained in Dean’s eyes, and Cas relinquishes first upon his recognition of it.  “Of course, Dean.” He tries to make his smile reassuring. “I always enjoy our talks. Our time together.”

Please say you enjoy it too, enough to let me stay here.  

Dean’s face is drawn and tired. “Cas, about your dad…” 

Suddenly Cas realizes if he doesn’t ask Dean this now, he’s going to lose all his stored up courage once and for all. Reluctantly, he cuts Dean off. “My dad is an asshole. Actually, um - I left home today. For good.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Cas goes on before he can say anything, the words pouring out without restraint. “I know it’s a little presumptuous, but I was wondering if I could just - live here?”

Dean blinks at him, that concern still lining his brow.

Cas’ heart sinks. Doesn’t Dean want him to stay?

He tries to make a joke of it, brushing off the way Dean’s reaction is chipping at his heart. “It was just a thought, though. Mainly because your shower has great water pressure!”

He glances towards the door, wishing he could just dematerialize on the spot instead of having to make the inevitable trek across the room to leave this place which Dean clearly considers to be a home in which Cas is always a mere visitor, nothing more real or permanent.

“Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean mumbles.

Cas stares at him. “Don’t be,” he says quietly, “I shouldn’t have assumed without asking.”

Dean’s head jerks up in surprise. “What? I meant about your dad -” Dean’s stammering and flustered, and Cas just feels more and more confused.

Dean’s eyes are doing that rapid movement thing as his breath speeds up, and Cas recognizes the tell-tale signs precluding a panic attack. He quickly forgets his own mortification, grabbing Dean by the hand and pulling him down on the cushion of the ratty old couch. 

“Okay. It’s okay, Dean. Just breathe with me for a moment, try not to think.”

“Not thinking is what got me here in the first place,” Dean gasps out between shaky inhales.

“Shh,” Cas murmurs, gently pulling Dean’s head into his lap, hands stroking his hair.

“Courseyoucanmoveinhereyouidiot,” Dean fires out into the cotton of Cas’ slacks. Cas’ hand freezes, his chest quaking.

“Are you sure?” His voice comes out smaller than he intends.

“Yes, moron.” Dean bites out gruffly, and Cas knows he’s covering for his current vulnerable state.

That’s why it’s even more surprising when Dean adds a muffled:

“Nothing would make me happier.”

Cas feels his throat choking up. “Thank you,” he says softly. 

Dean twists over to look up at him, breathing slightly more settled. “About earlier -”

Cas shakes his head firmly, gliding a hand under the square of Dean’s jaw. “Let’s get you calm first.”

Dean is silent for a beat, then wiggles one eyebrow. “What if I don’t want to be calm?”

There’s an instant reaction to that in Cas’ pants, and he knows Dean can sense it from his current...perspective. Dean grins impishly.

“What’s that favorite fictional trope of yours?” he puts one hand over his mouth in mock awe. 

“They were - roommates!”

Cas puts his worries about whatever was bothering Dean earlier on the back burner, letting him pull him towards the bedroom. Their bedroom, now.

Dean tumbles him backwards onto the pillow, gleefully hooting, “And there was only one bed!”

Three years later

“Look, sweetheart - I’m sorry. I know you were gung-ho on going to the Farmer’s Market, but I gotta meet with that joker Crowley today. If we manage to agree to terms on this settlement, I’ll finally close on the promotion.” 

Dean tries to keep the pleading out of his voice, hoping Cas will understand. 

He’s spent the past three years working his way up the corporate ladder, trying to make up for the simple and intrinsic fact that the moment Cas met Dean, he lost everything.

It’s like Dean’s touch is some sort of devilish curse.  

Now Cas is estranged from his pops and stuck working at tumblr, of all places. He’s gone from building rockets to a company whose main claim to fame is being a really bad investment, when people remember the website still even exists to begin with.

Dean is doing his damndest to fix it and he’s so close to a win. If he can just get this promotion, they can have the life Cas deserves. 

Cas doesn’t currently seem very grateful for all of Dean’s hustle. “I just don’t understand why you can’t do this during the week, Dean. It’s Saturday.”

“The devil doesn’t cut loose on weekends,” Dean deadpans.

Crickets.

Okay then, tough room.

Dean sighs, starting up his soapbox litany once again. “Cas, if I get this promotion, we can move into a nicer apartment. Upgrade.”

Cas shrugs, staring at the ceiling from his spot in bed. It’s warm today for mid-April, and he’s got the covers half kicked off and sloping to the ground. One of his bare feet is still tangled inside of the cotton, and Dean watches it make little circles under the pink blanket. 

His heart sinks. Cas is right not to be excited - even if Dean does get the better job with the higher salary, it’ll be pennies on the dollar compared to Cas’ old life.

But all Dean can do is keep trying with a smile on his face, until he finally gets them to the level of living Cas deserves. It’s the least he can do for being the reason things are so fucked in the first place.

Failing miserably at taking care of Cas isn’t an option.

“Please, Cas, I’m trying here.”

Cas kisses him softly on the lips. “Fine,” he grumbles, tone indicating otherwise.

He rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom, soft gray pajama bottoms dipping tantalizingly at his waist as he walks away. Dean swallows tightly, and for a brief second he wants to say screw his meetings.

And trade them out for screwing his adorable boyfriend instead, then spend the rest of the morning watching Cas moon over organic tomatoes in post-coital bliss.

Dean sighs. Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards.

“Tell Crowley I hate him and he can rot in hell,” Cas chirps sharply from the bathroom. He’s joking, of course. 

Mostly.

Dean stares into space for a moment before walking over to the full-length mirror in the corner to straighten his tie. His ears pick up the click of a lighter from behind the bathroom door, and in a few minutes it’s followed by the sweet pungent smell of a joint.

Something twists in Dean’s gut. Cas has been doing the wake-and-bake a little too often for his liking lately. He kicks up the edge of their comforter and sees the empty tequila bottle rolling around behind it under their bed.

That wasn’t there two nights ago.   

Dean worries his lip, staring at the evidence of the thing he doesn’t really want to face right now.

He’s not stupid. Sure, Cas chose Dean, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have regrets. 

And clearly he’s currently burying them in smoking and booze.  

This is okay, Dean decides. He’s so close to that one magic deal that’ll make everything better.

Even if it means working 24/7 to become more than “some hick from Kansas,” Dean’s gonna crush that goal. He’s gonna get Cas that apple pie life he deserves.

He lingers a moment longer, hoping Cas will emerge from the cloud of smoke that’s surely crowding the bathroom by now, but no dice. Dean sighs.

He’ll make it up to him, he decides, pulling out his cell phone. Flowers, maybe.

Dean’s got his nose buried so deep in pictures of forget-me-not arrangements that match Cas’ eyes when he walks into the living room that he almost misses the lanky man stretched out on their couch.

“Ah, Dean. I was wondering if I’d see your ugly mug.” 

“Balthazar, what an unexpected surprise. Please make yourself at home.,” Dean grits out with irritation and a healthy dose of sarcasm. 

Bal is one of Cas’ best friends “from before” - the catchall era of time that occurred prior to when Dean and Cas met. 

“The early seasons, before the plot got good,” as Cas likes to joke.  

Balthazar has an easy, casual way about him that almost makes Dean want to punch him in the face.

No one that chill should ever be trusted.

Balthazar snorts at him with amused derision, continuing to prove Dean’s fucking point. 

“Cassie, darling, I think your boy toy is leaving if you want to slip him some tongue first.”

Cas walks in with a fresh bottle of El Toro. The little hat is still perched on top of it, but Cas is holding two glasses that make it clear that it won’t be for long.

Dean frowns. “Cheap tequila? Cas, it’s not even lunchtime.”  

“I like cheap tequila.” Cas fires back. 

"Besides, you relinquished your input on my activities today when you decided to ditch me. And now I have new plans with Bal, Meg and liquor with excellent taste in headwear."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut briefly, taking a quick breath. He hates leaving angry, but he’s sure Meg is on her way too and Dean doesn’t want to fight in front of Cas’ little garrison of bottom feeders.  

Dean puts his hand on Cas’ shoulder, trying to make peace. “Cas, please,” he says softly, hoping Balthazar isn’t eavesdropping too intensely. Dean nudges Cas’ bare toe with the tip of his loafer. “Honeybee...”  

Cas’ lips twitch just a little at that term of endearment, one Dean only uses when he’s really in the doghouse.

Dean swallows his own smile before it ruins the nickname’s intended effect, and turns up his pouty puppy eyes instead.

“I know it’s not ideal, but I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” He shoves down his pride for a goddamn second and adds a final flourish to the terms of his surrender:

“Maybe I’ll even join you and your...friends for a swig of that piss poor rubbing alcohol you call a drink.” 

Cas sighs, but there’s a small twinkle of forgiveness in his eye. "Okay," he murmurs, expression thawing.

"C'mere." 

Dean tugs at the front of Cas’ faded Ramones t-shirt, and Cas lets himself be pulled willingly into Dean’s mouth for a kiss. Dean cups both sides of his face, sliding his tongue deeper and making Cas gasp just a little.

“Get a damn room,” Balthazar groans from his spot on the couch.

“Thought you were into watching, Bal,” Dean fires back against Cas’ mouth, taking a deep inhale of that special Cas scent.

Sun baked leather, the sweetened spice of cinnamon rolls, and only a tinge of the smoke that makes Dean’s eyebrows nudge in a quick flash of worry, even as he’s enjoying the feel of Cas on his tongue. 

He leaves a nibble on Cas’ lower lip. Then another along the stubble of his jaw. 

He catches Cas’ eyes with sincerity.

"I love you, Cas. I'm doing this for us; you get that - right?" 

Cas nods, and drops his head to Dean’s left shoulder, nuzzling a soft breath against his neck. "Love you, too." 

The mumble reverberates against Dean’s skin like the last bars of a song fading from the stereo of his car.

He can’t quite put a finger on the name of the tune, but his gut tells him it’s a sad one.

2 months later 

It's 8 p.m. on a cool Tuesday in June. 

Cas hears the apartment door creaking open as Dean walks through it, tossing this briefcase on the couch.

Cas doesn’t even bother to say hello. 

He’s elbow deep in soapy water washing the dishes and slamming them against the counter with such force that when Dean walks in his eyes quickly scan the floor, likely for shards of porcelain.

Let them break, Cas thinks, the little burn of tequila still firing up the back of his brain.

"Hey, babe. Sorry I'm late. I had to stay for a call in another time zone." Dean crosses over to stand behind him, but he has the good sense not to try and touch Cas.

Cas grunts at him, focusing on the particularly pesky bit of cheese he’s digging at with a brillo pad like his life depends on it. 

He feels the soft whisper of Dean’s sigh on his neck, sending a little trail of prickles down his spine. Cas stubbornly ignores the physical reaction. 

"I know I should have called,” Dean murmurs apologetically, “but my cell was at my desk, and I couldn’t get away for even a text." 

Cas shuts off the water, tossing the dish towel to the other end of the counter.

He turns to face Dean, arms crossed across his chest. "You stood me up,” he bites out.

Cas sees the tell-tale flare of guilt shoot across Dean’s face and suddenly realizes it's even worse than he thought. 

"Wait - you didn’t just ignore our plans.” Cas squints at him, and yes, Dean’s right eye is twitching slightly. He’s caught. “You forgot them. Entirely."  

Cas swallows, hard.

He shoves the little envelope of useless movie tickets that were burning a hole in his pocket the  entirety of his sad and lonely dinner at Dean’s chest. 

The time typed on the paper rectangles passed two hours ago.  

He thinks about the vision of the future he had when he marched out of Chuck’s gilded cage and into this life of freedom and choice. This wasn’t exactly what Cas had imagined.

He ripped up his own ending, threw out the rules - and for what? Every day, Dean’s more and more buried in work and Cas is just sitting here, begging for scraps of his time.

Scraps Dean no longer even remembers to toss at his pathetic, unwanted old pet.

Cas decides he’s not doing it. Not tonight. 

He grabs his phone from the table, pulling up Bal’s number. "I'm going out, Dean. You need to figure out where your priorities lie."

Dean’s face looks shattered, and the deep cut of pain between his brows gives Cas a moment of hesitation. 

“Cas, you’re my only priority,” Dean starts weakly, and no - Cas has had enough of these excuses and explanations.

“You have the wherewithal to go there? Tonight?” Cas snarls and points to the crumpled paper of the movie tickets Dean’s still clutching in his fist like they’re a puzzle he can put back together if he just holds on to the broken pieces.

The wave of anger carves away the moment of weakness, and Cas stands still for a breath, fighting the crush of its tide.

All Cas wants is Dean, and it’s very clear that he’s the thing Cas can’t have.  

Because all Dean seems to be chasing these days are the things Cas wants to run away from. Those false idols everyone in his life has always worshipped.

Money. Power. Status.

Cas doesn’t belong to that world anymore, and if Dean’s relegating his soul to these demons, Cas isn’t so sure he belongs to Dean, either.

He grabs his keys and storms out the door.

Dean yells his name so loudly there’s no way the neighbors don’t hear it.

Cas redacts the sound from his memory as he drives away.

Dean shatters six dishes before he can take a deep breath and come somewhat to his senses.

Shit. He looks around the ruin on the floor of the kitchen, and picks up the broom and dustpan while his thoughts continue to crash into pieces.

Yeah, so Dean fucked up. 

He can admit when he’s wrong, at least to himself.

But sonofabitch, why does Cas have to storm out like that?  

“You always fucking leave,” Dean growls at the tile of the floor, nudging the broken china with the straw bristles of the broom in his hand.

He’s exhausted and worn out, and of course he never expected to be patted on the back for everything he’s doing - it’s part of his job, the promise he made to Cas and most importantly himself.

But Cas refusing to even see that Dean’s putting in every iota of effort he can, that he’s fighting for him - not against him? That may be the true definition of a very tortuous personal hell.

For the first hour after Cas leaves, Dean rage cleans the apartment from top to bottom. Then he pours himself a glass of bourbon, intending to get as drunk as he knows Cas is getting right now, so at least they’ll both be on the same stupid page for one solitary thing. 

Because that's standard these days, the drinking. 

And the solitude.

The bourbon sours in Dean’s stomach and instead he finds himself pacing in the living room without a single light on to light his way.

He wants to fix it.

Dean can fix it.

But what if - for Cas, it’s not even broken?

What if this is just over? The end.

Dean bites down on the panic churning through his chest and raging across his empty stomach.  

It's 2 a.m. and he still hasn’t managed to eat or drink a damn thing when he finally caves and dials Cas’ number, ready to get on his knees and beg. 

Cas doesn’t pick up.

Dean listens to Cas’ gritty tone tell him to “make your voice...a mail” four separate times without following the instructions.

When the digital analog of the clock on the counter flips to 3 with two zeroes, Dean is desperate enough to call Balthazar.

"He's here and we are taking good care of him." Balthazar purrs on the other end. Dean can hear Meg and Cas in the background, the sound of Cas’ wobbly laughter like a bell against the din of the bar. 

Dean realizes he hasn't made Cas laugh like that in a while.

He sits down, the action of breathing suddenly near impossible, and swallows the arid burn of bile rising in this throat before he says, glumly:

"Just tell him to come home soon. Okay?” 

He throws in one final self-sacrifice for good measure -  

“And that I'm sorry."

He hangs up quickly, not needing to hear Balthazar reveling in Dean’s pathetic little evening of martyrdom and regret.

Godammit, he just wants Cas to be happy. Happy and here, with him.

Instead, he’s fucking it all up. Dean sinks down in the corner of the dark living room, and his eyes dart to the bare cushions of the couch from his lonely spot on the floor.

Despair and empty seating, Dean’s only company.

He sits with them most of the night with his face in his hands and pretends the spaces between his fingers aren’t wet from the salt of his tears.

The impending dawn finds Dean staring at an envelope he never thought he'd open.

Dean’s gut immediately sounds a warning bell. This is a mistake, abort mission immediately.

The documents contained in the dossier Zachariah shoved into his hands all those years earlier are exceptionally private. Dean’s peeked inside once to see that the package is stacked with medical records and reports about Cas from his father’s employees.

All things Cas should tell Dean himself instead of Dean reading about them behind his back.

But the thing is that - Cas hasn’t . 

And he likely won’t. Every time Dean tries to get Cas to talk about the past, he shuts it down.

Dean decides to take this little deal. This summary of Cas’ past could help him save their future. 

Dean’s not a praying kind of man, but he shoots a thought to...something, anything with its ears on.

A hope-filled plea that whatever’s inside this envelope can bring Cas back.

Bring Cas home.

He starts to read.

Half a bottle of tums later washed down with a shot or two of whiskey later, Dean’s not much better than when he opened Zach-dora’s box.

In fact, he’s mostly much worse. The acid bubbles in his stomach as he stares at the pages he’s strewn across the floor.  

Cas still isn’t back, but the contents of his history surround Dean, glaring up at him menacingly like bodies dug up from the grave, each one a bit of the Cas “from before.”

A thousand little deaths, back earthside as paper-white two dimensional ghosts.

The reports reveal a very different man than the one who rests his head on the pillow next to Dean, snuggles around him on those lazy mornings they haven’t had in a while. 

This version of Cas schemes and strategizes, and love is the battlefield where he shows the most prowess. 

A playboy who runs off with a flavor of the week, loses himself in drugs and alcohol and has to be recovered by his father’s staff. 

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The final psych report, dated only a year before the night they met, is the most devastating.  It’s a detailed account of how Cas was located on a yacht in Ibiza, his eyes glazed over, unable to even recognize Zachariah.

The medical reports convey a jarring history riddled with substance abuse and mental health issues. 

Most significant are Cas’ several long stays in an inpatient psychiatric facility.

One report notes that Cas is actually incapable of feeling for others – when he does; he just falls apart. It breaks him.

Dean is left with two very conflicting potential conclusions, neither of them appealing. 

One - Cas is using him to hurt his father and to escape temporarily, with the plan to jump ship and crawl back to Chuck if things get too rocky for his unsteady sea legs. 

Or, two - Cas is spiraling again, careening towards hedonism with hungry abandon.

Dean runs both conclusions through the tight analytical part of his brain.

No way it’s the first one. No, Dean knows Cas. He’s not mistaken about the way the blue of Cas’ eyes softens when Dean walks into a room, he’s felt whispered declarations of love like soft tattoos on his skin. 

Dean reads people, and he does it well.

No fucking way Cas is just using him. 

So the only outcome remaining is that Cas is breaking again, sliding into booze and pills for one reason or another.

Well. Dean is aware of the trigger finger, actually.

It’s clearly him. He’s been the only different thing in Cas’ life since his last breakdown. And meeting Dean led to Cas not only being displaced and disinherited, it’s literally come with the price tag of Cas losing his relationship with all of his family.

Fuck, it’s like Cas touched Dean and was immediately lost.

Corrupted.

No wonder he won’t talk about the future. He doesn’t have any hope. Dean destroyed it by simply existing in Cas’ orbit, wayward asteroid knocking Cas off his intended celestial course.

Dean knuckles a fist at his bleary, tired eyes, knowing sleep isn’t coming anytime soon. He stares out the window at morning sun.

And shoves down the lump in his throat.  

He may  have watched this particular one hours ago, but sunrises always send his thoughts to Cas. Fresh days and new beginnings.

A fucking lie, and Dean’s done tricking himself into believing good things do happen. 

He gathers the papers, stuffing them back in the envelope and hiding it in the back of the closet, looking at the door for a long moment after he locks the ghouls of Cas’ past away.

Then he sits on the couch and waits for Cas to return, intending to unleash this apocalypse.

At least it’s Dean himself who gets to break this final seal, and cement the stamp of his own dark, lonely fate. At least that’s what Dean tells himself.

Spoiler alert - he doesn’t have the balls to do it just yet.

Cas rushes up the stairs of the apartment, the stench of tequila and a guilty conscience all over his overcoat. 

He didn’t mean to stay out all night. If one can even call it staying ‘out,’ considering Cas fell asleep on Meg’s couch shortly after Dean called. 

“Pretend you’re having fun, Cassie. Debauchery! Frivolity! We’ll make him regret standing you up.” Balthazar had advised. 

Debauchery and frivolity in conjunction with how little he’d consumed at his desolate dinner was a little more along the lines of one tequila - two tequila - floor. Finding the liquor store is one thing, but Cas probably shouldn’t have consumed it entirely.

This may be an exaggeration.

Though based on his pounding head, the embellishment is slight.

Cas’ anger loses its luster, tarnished in the revealing light of morning. He recognizes that despite needing the break, the way he took his space may have been just a little bit harsh.

He was being stubborn, but of all people Dean should understand that. Cas walks in with every intention to apologize, knowing things are going to be okay as soon as he and Dean can have a minute to talk.

Their bond may be a little tense, but everyone has to stretch a little here and there.  This is how relationships work, the real kind. The lasting kind.

Nothing’s broken. Their love is still here, real and profound.

Cas opens the door.

And stops short at the sight of Dean sitting on the couch, his eyes bloodshot and his face full of pain. 

“You could have called.” Dean’s voice cracks, and Cas can tell he didn’t sleep a wink. Still, hearing the fighting words first, before anything loving - hits a nerve. He frowns.

“Yes, well I’d tell you the same. Then I wouldn’t have been sitting at the restaurant all alone, worrying we weren’t going to make the opening credits much less the previews you love best.”

He doesn’t mention that it was also the stupid, stupid anniversary of their first movie date.

Dean forgetting that in and of itself is something Cas would rather have lobotomized out of his own memory reserves.

Dean rubs his face with the tips of his fingers, looking small and forlorn. “Cas, I don’t want to fight, okay? I - I just. I gotta say something.”

Cas looks at the sad slump of Dean’s shoulders, and though a bit of him knows they need to talk more - the biggest part of Cas is the one that can only focus on Dean.

He considers for a brief moment that this is because Dean is just a piece of him now, in a way. They’ve marked each other, for better or worse.

Cas sighs softly. “You don’t have to say it. I’m sorry, too.”

Dean closes the distance between them in three quick strides, wrapping Cas in a tight embrace. Cas is still for a moment, arms still at his sides.

He finally lifts his hands behind Dean’s shoulder blades, pressing his fingertips gently into the threadbare fabric of the sleep shirt Dean’s wearing, desperate to feel the skin underneath it. 

“You act like I’ve been gone for days,” he whispers into Dean’s ear.

It’s still not all the way right, but Dean manages - in his own clumsy but beautiful way - to pierce through Cas like he’s wielding cupid’s arrow when he mutters, hoarsely:

“Any time you’re gone, Cas. Any fucking time -”

Cas hears the tearful crack in Dean’s voice, and he holds him even closer as Dean’s syllables drop to a light whisper:

“It’s too long. Too damn long.”  

Dean’s mouth is on his in a needy, desperate kiss, and it's almost too much, they need to sit down and talk, hash all of this out.

Dean unbuckles Cas’ pants and tugs him towards the bed, changing his mind with hurried touches, like Cas has somehow returned from the grave. As always, Cas foregoes his own reservations, letting Dean carry him away like a burning, passionate tide. 

They come quickly, the speed of their climax a passing replacement for the painful tumult of feelings verbalized into clumsy words.

Cas hopes that’s the end of it and that things will go back to normal. 

But something has shifted, though Cas isn’t quite aware of it in the moment, too dazzled by the patterns his finger is tracing across Dean’s freckles while he snores lightly under his arm.

It becomes clearer as the days go by.

It’s only a few missed sunrises later that Dean says: “Cas, I don’t think you should see Balthazar and Meg anymore.”

When Cas furrows his brow at the words, Dean adds:

“They’re depraved, ok? Born under a bad sign and a bad influence.”

And after a few more mornings Cas spends with only a joint for company after that:

“Cas, you shouldn’t wake and bake before work. You’re gonna get canned.” 

As if tumblr would fire someone for weed. Please, if they instituted that policy, half the staff would be gone by lunchtime.

Besides, Cas hasn’t let Dean know it yet but his boss and the Executive Vice President of Marketing is over the office-suite-life.  

Ms. Rhodes is about to bounce, and Cas is next in line for her throne.

Just going to be a tick, and a tock of the waiting game clock.

Dean begins dropping comments like “Cas, are you sure you need another beer?” or “Maybe you should consider going for a run.”

Little barbs darting in and out like wasps, stinging into Cas’ skin. He wonders if he traded his gilded cage for a slightly more appealing one. He can almost hear the door on his cell sliding shut, feel the walls closing in around him.

It all finally falls apart on a Thursday.

The slow, constant thrum of a headache is starting to form at the edges of Cas’ temples, and he’s digging around the kitchen drawer for a joint to numb the pounding when Dean bursts into the apartment, his eyes aglow with good news. 

Cas knows immediately what he’s about to tell him, and he plasters a smile on his face while his heart simultaneously sinks to the floor.

“I got the promotion!” Dean yells, fist pumping in the air. “I did it, Cas!” He does an adorable little jump, kicking his heels together, and Cas’ smile feels a little more real.

Dean’s next words, though, force the happy off Cas’ expression entirely.

“I can finally get us a nice apartment - with a doorman, and a lobby, and a gym. Ooh, or maybe we’ll get one of those overpriced exercise bikes with the trainers that yell at you.” Dean’s eyes go dreamy, feet still barely touching the ground in his excitement.

“Cas, this is it - our win! We can finally have the life we’ve been working for.” The joy on Dean’s face is so beautiful, and for a moment, Cas wants to believe that this will lead to everything he’s ever wanted. 

He wants to see the future that Dean envisions.

But the edges of that vision begin to glow, and he tastes soot and ash. 

Because there’s no we in this work Dean’s referring to, and a promotion is going to mean there will be less of it, not more. 

More of Dean at the office, and Cas alone in the fancy apartment this new, larger paycheck is going to fund, any extravagances it provides a cold comfort in the absence of Dean.

The loneliness that trails Cas like a shadow grows larger, towering over him on the wall in sharp contrast to the sunny smile on Dean’s face.

He’s so tired of feeling like he’s just a tolerated fixture in Dean’s life when he wants to be the special centerpiece. Cherished and enjoyed.

Cas tries his best not to sound angry. “Dean, has it ever occurred to you to ask me if I even want a new apartment?”

He pauses at the instant deflating of Dean’s shoulders and realizes his efforts to stay even keeled don’t quite hold. He takes a breath, trying to explain.

“I like this apartment. I enjoy the mismatched bookshelves, the tiny table where we have to huddle to share a meal.” Cas’ arm lifts momentarily, fingertip twitching to brush a line from Dean’s shoulder to his wrist, reminding him of it.

How it feels to be touched, wanted.

Then again it’s been so long that Cas himself isn’t sure he remembers how to recognize those feelings, much less evoke them in Dean.

He continues, feeling a little silly for giving this ode to their dusty living space when what he really wants to explain is the value their relationship carries.

Maybe he’s being metaphorical. 

Dean’s expression currently seems to indicate that he may think Cas is just stoned.

So what if he does, Cas decides.

“I like the cramped balcony high above the ground, even if the elevator breaks constantly and we have to walk up the same amount of stairs twenty times a week. I like the faded wallpaper, and our old worn-in furniture. I like this place. I like it here .” 

Cas wills his eyes to say what his words refuse to define.

I don’t want a new apartment. I want you, the old you. Please, stop pushing me away. 

Dean’s shoulders go from sagging to stiff and pinched. Cas hates himself, just a little bit, for wiping the rays of joy from Dean’s eyes. 

“Cas, man - I don’t get it.” Dean’s voice is flat with disappointment. “This is the biggest news of our lives.”

There it is again, that hollow posturing that Dean cares about what Cas wants. But he doesn’t, Cas thinks - anger taking him over entirely. “Dean, this may be the best news of your life, but I never asked for it to be mine. I don’t want that future.”

Dean’s face snaps closed, lips flattening.

He’s not understanding. The exasperation rises higher in Cas’ chest.

Dean has to know that the last thing Cas wants is a cold, empty apartment full of expensive toys. He had a mansion full of that, before. He walked away without taking one thing. Not one thread of clothing. Not one furnishing. Certainly not that harp.

Cas always wondered, what his true happiness could be. And now he realizes.

It’s lazy Sundays with Dean, watching him make ‘breakfast burgers’ while Cas reads the funnies out loud and adds his own spin, Dean laughing so hard it shakes his entire body like an avalanche of glee. 

It’s the bright yellow of the yolks in the eggs that Dean slides over the top of each beef patty, whispering in Cas’ ear “ sunny side up, just like you ,” tonguing his earlobe suggestively, and before Cas knows it the food is cold and they’re on the couch devouring only each other.

It’s the sweet of the silence after the fact, Dean’s feet - as bare as the rest of him - dangling off the couch to the floor, and his head buried in Cas’ chest, humming one of his favorite songs just under his breath.  

It’s Cas knowing exactly what song it is without even hearing the words, because Dean’s told him before it reminds Dean of him.

Happiness is this. It’s being.

Cas being with Dean.

But Dean doesn’t want that. 

Dean’s making it clear right now, Cas realizes. This is the line in the sand for them. Dean wants to have. The stuff, money and power.  

Cas meets Dean’s eyes, their shine of green dulled and confused, like he’s waiting for Cas to respond to something he said.

Whatever it was, Cas didn’t catch it.  At this point it doesn’t even matter. 

“Cas, this is what’s best for us,” Dean says, the edge to his words making it clear they’re being repeated.  

And the door that was slowly swinging closed anyway slams all the way shut. Because Cas hears it. 

Dean means “what’s best for you. ”

Cas feels the steel of the cage, and the desperation flares in his chest. He beats his wings against the clicking of the lock.

If the choice is between peace and freedom, Cas knows the latter is always worth the fight.

Ironically enough, Dean taught him that.

“Dean, I’m sorry but -” Cas steadies his voice, forcing it to remain in one piece. 

No cracks.

“I won’t ever get in the way of what you want, but that dream? That future? It isn’t for me.”

Dean stares at him, and for one brief second, Cas catches the glimpse of the emotion Dean’s barricading from him, the fading edges of the last star on the horizon.  

For a moment, Cas considers grabbing it to tuck inside his pocket, pulling Dean along with it.

Getting to keep him.

But he can’t. Not anymore. Cas won’t go back to being that empty puppet for anyone. 

Not even Dean.

He clamps down the sob rising in his throat and forces the tears in his eyes to remain there instead of tumbling over his cheeks. 

Cas doesn’t cry often, and he’s certainly not going to do it now, in front of Dean.  He takes a small step away from him.

Away from this. Them.

“I think, maybe, we’re at an impasse. I love you, Dean but -

Dean’s throat works with incomprehension. “What?”

Cas sets his jaw despite the shaky feeling in his kneecaps. “I don’t know that we’re good for one another.” 

Cas waits for Dean to argue. To tell him he loves him. To beg him to stay. 

But all Dean says is: 

“Maybe so.”

The words detonate through the air, slicing through Cas even though he’s the one who lit this fuse.

“I’m going to stay with Meg a few days,” He says and somehow his tone is still calm, collected. 

Well, this isn’t all that surprising. Cas has done this part before.  

This is a game he knows how to play. He just still can’t believe it’s Dean who’s sitting on the other side of the chessboard.  

“I can move out, or - if you’re still wanting the new apartment, I’m happy to take over the lease.”  

“No. No.” Dean is looking very intently at his left thumb.

Cas remains so foolish that for a moment he thinks the ‘no’ is directed at his leaving Dean.

“You like it here, right? I…” Dean trails off. He looks up and his gaze hardens. “I’ll go.”

Cas nods, fighting the urge to say he’ll go with him.

Cas turns to leave his world without even packing a bag for the second time in his life.  The first one was freeing. This one just feels like a gallows march towards a hangman’s noose.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean stares at the door in shock as it closes and Cas disappears.

The words ricochet through his mind like bullets.

That future? It isn’t for me.

Dean can’t decide if he feels more hurt or stupid. All of his efforts and this entire time, Cas didn’t even want the life he was building for them.

A life with Dean.

Dean wanders around the apartment for a moment, trying to understand how he let this slip through his fingers. 

Dean frowns at his reflection in the dusty black microwave door. It blurs, distorting until he looks like some twisted, monstrous version of himself. 

He can’t blame Cas for a damn thing, Dean realizes.

Chuck was right all along. No matter what he does, Dean’s always going to be a Kansas hick who doesn’t know which fork to use at lunch

This is the right choice for Cas. Dean’s toxic. Poison. 

And yet - Dean thought this was real, that finally, by some strange miracle he’d found something - someone he couldn’t break. 

It doesn’t matter. He did and it’s over. 

Dean pulls out a bag and starts packing.

Chapter Text

March 18, 2021

Reese: Okay, but what if I just kill him a little bit?
Harper: It’s a common reaction, but did you see how much money he raised a few weeks ago through GISH? And all the cool things he made people do?
Reese: FINE! But I’m suspending his Twitter account if he uses the word shipping again. First the Happy Birthday message to Jensen Ackles and then that fiasco with that…other ship.
Harper: Can you do that? 
Reese: No. But I know some people in positions of power
Reese: I can’t believe you are going to meet him! Can you ask him to chill?
Harper: You’d miss the chaos.
Harper: and actually, I’m meeting Cas. The photo op is for Cas.
Harper: So I am meeting my best friend, Cas. 
Reese: Harper, you know Cas is actually a fictional character, right?
Harper: How dare you?
Harper: Cas is my best friend. 🙂 🐝
Reese: Of course. 🙂
Reese: What are you going to say to him?
Harper: I have no idea. I’ll probably just pass out.

It’s always a Thursday when things go to shit.

This particular one starts just fine, with Cas sending Dean an emoji of a purple eggplant at 4:30 in the morning. Dean stumbles from bed half-awake to unlock his apartment door, surprised that Cas isn’t slurring his syllables or tripping over his feet when he crosses the threshold.

Dean looks him up and down, and - okay, yeah he doesn’t regret telling him to come on over.

“Not his boyfriend” is just fine as a label when darkness still hangs over the sky and Cas saunters in looking like...that.

He’s clearly been out - dressed to the nines in a heather gray blazer, made of soft woven cotton, a simple black v-neck tee underneath and faded dark jeans hugging his hips - along with every other place on his body that makes Dean’s mouth immediately dry.

The familiar scent of the clove cigarettes - Cas’ particular late-night vice - tickles Dean’s nostrils.  He takes a small inhale before gesturing with a smirk to the dark aviators perched on the bridge of Cas’ nose.

“You know who wears sunglasses inside, right Cas?”

Cas tugs the black wire frames down a centimeter so Dean can see just a glimpse of blue under his raised eyebrows.

“Douchebags,” he purrs. His voice is scratchy - Dean can’t decide if it’s from the cloves or talking over the din of the bar he must have just left.

Cas hooks both thumbs in his belt loops and takes a few steps closer to him.

“Aloha, cowboy.” There’s a slight scent of tequila in the air, but his posture is steady.  

Dean swallows, then thickly:

“You drunk, Cas?”

Suddenly he finds himself swiftly pressed against the wall of the apartment, one of Cas’ hands in his hair. 

The stubble of his jawline rubs against Dean’s neck and he stifles a moan, his dick twitching in the cotton of his pajamas.

“I’ve had exactly two shots in the space of five hours, sitting on a stool at a bar I knew would be dead tonight, playing Words With Friends on my phone until I got the balls up to call you,” Cas rasps in his ear, his warm breath a tantalizing tickle.

Dean pulls himself together with great effort.

“Lemme see your phone,” he grunts out.

Cas leans back, one palm still against the wall next to Dean’s head and eyes puzzled. He shrugs, and unlocks it before placing it in Dean’s outstretched hand.

Dean thumbs over to the app with the yellow lettered squares. ‘The banner reads New High Score: 1054,’ with the notification time-stamped ‘4:09 a.m.’

“Okay,” Dean says simply, tucking the phone back into the pocket of Cas’ blazer and hooking two fingers under his waistband, right behind the buckle of his belt. He yanks Cas flush against him with one fluid tug and covers his mouth with his.

Cas’ dick immediately jumps to attention against Dean’s thighs like it’s magnetized to the growing bulge in between them. Cas gasps against his lips, then grazes his teeth over Dean’s tongue.

Their mouths break apart, coming up for air. Cas keeps his fingertips on Dean’s wrist, tracing the small veins there in the semi-darkness.

He blinks at Dean lazily. “So scrabble is the new breathalyzer?”

Dean shrugs. “You suck ass at spelling when you’re hammered.”

“Mmm. You may be correct,” Cas murmurs, tugging him towards the bedroom. “Now Mr. Smith, I do think your attire is much too casual.”

Dean shuffles behind him, allowing himself to be led. “Didn’t realize there was a dress code.”

“Business-professional, Dean.” Cas intones, pulling open his closet door and smiling salaciously at the tie rack. 

“After all, we had a meeting.”

Within a few minutes, they’re both in suits of the birthday variety.

Dean’s wrists jerk from where they’re lashed to the bedpost by the silk rectangle of his version of the navy blue tie, finally being put to good use. A hoarse moan rises from the center of his throat, immediately muffled by the soft touch of Cas’ balls filling his mouth as he dips them down over his lips.

Dean scoops the underside with his tongue, pulling them gently inside with a light suck. Cas’ inner thigh grazes his jawbone, and he feels the small shudders as Cas flexes to stay upright.

The only problem with this position is that Cas needs one hand on the bed frame for balance and the other one to hold his dick - supposedly to keep it out of Dean’s face.

Given the way Cas’ head is rolling backwards, chin turned up towards the ceiling while he pants with appreciation, Dean has a very strong inkling the arrangement is slightly more...self-serving.

And while Dean does enjoy the sight of Cas’ muscled bare neck, exposed and straining in the early gray glow of dawn that’s starting to peek through Dean’s gauzy curtains, not having anything even remotely near his own cock is quite literally hellfire.

He tries to wriggle his hands from the loop of the tie, but Cas is apparently a master at knots and it holds strong.

“Mmph,” he mumbles against the mouthful of Cas that’s still filling his lips.  

Cas pulls upwards with some effort, and now he’s slick and shining above Dean, knees half bent and thigh muscles flexed. Dean’s fingers and dick whine in unison that something needs touching, whether it’s Cas’ legs or other, more personal places.

Cas keeps his hand tight on the base of his cock as he looks down at Dean, and damn - that’s a view.

Dean runs his gaze up the sharp jut of Cas’ hip, following it up and around the ridges of muscle that twist around his core, all the way past the square of his jaw to his bright blue eyes, half lidded and offset with his trademark messy hair, dark and even spikier than usual.

If he wasn’t so hot, Dean would compare him to a tousled hedgehog, squinting at him with confusion.

“Want your hands,” Dean says stupidly, all of the blood pooled in between his legs with little left for his brain.

Cas lifts his right eyebrow, then looks down at the appendage in question that’s gripping his dick. He moves it slowly, one stroke all the way to the tip, and Dean’s gaze follows every inch. He licks his lips.

“I’ve explained the issue here, Dean,” Cas says - his voice low and rough. He takes a breath as he reverses the glide, smoothly sliding his fist back up to home base. “I’ve only got two hands.”  

Cas gestures his chin down at the one occupied so magnificently, and he’s not wrong because Dean’s not really trying to get that to stop. 

However, since Dean’s current goal is for Cas to come while inside him in some manner, it’s clear at least some maneuvering needs to be made.

Dean’s hazy brain works sluggishly, searching for something eloquent to respond with: 

“Fuck my mouth.”

Hell, close enough.

Apparently this is the type of flowery vernacular Cas goes for, because there’s a snap of latex and two seconds later Cas’ dick is all the way down Dean’s throat, Cas’ free hand blessedly stroking Dean behind him.

The surge of electricity at the touch of palm to skin makes Dean swallow on reflex and he pulls Cas in further without meaning to. 

Cas certainly doesn’t seem to mind. His hips start moving to a fluid rhythm, easing in and then out of Dean’s mouth.

Dean sucks around him on the next thrust, and realizes appreciatively that if this condom was a pie it would be banana cream.

Fitting , he thinks as Cas’ dick slides back out, erect to full extension.  

“God, Cas.” Dean breathes out, his eyes locked on it, shining like a mirrored blade with the slick from Dean’s own mouth, straining at the condom that surrounds it.

Cas chuckles, a low throaty grumble. “We’ve been over that, Dean. Not God.” He pauses. “No angel, either -”

Before Dean can react, Cas’ hand is off his dick and on the other side of the bedframe, his hips pulling forward in one swift jerk to fuck into Dean’s mouth in three long, gliding thrusts. It’s almost painful, but Dean likes the burn, though he wishes he could feel the dribble of the precome he’s sure is streaking from the tip of Cas’ cock, taste the salt of it at the back of his throat.

Cas pulls back and grinds his ass on him, clenching both cheeks around Dean so his dick glides upwards between the cleft, and oh god Dean can’t figure out in his fritzed out brain who needs to fuck who, but it does need to happen sooner than later. 

Cas decides for him when he slides down the length of Dean’s torso, hitching his hips over the tip of his cock. It catches on the skin of his chest and Dean moans at the warmth of the contact.

The moan ripples into a high-pitched growl as Cas presses his tongue to the muscled rim of Dean’s ass. 

It’s been a while since they’ve done this, and as Cas works him open, alternating the wet warmth of his mouth with his finger, Dean’s thoughts start to ricochet elsewhere.

It’s - vulnerable, being stretched by Cas so gently - a sharp contrast to the dick-and-dash Dean was trying to stage earlier.

He fights against the small pinprick of warmth that’s welling in his chest, but can’t manage to swallow the deep breathy sigh as Cas adds another finger, can’t help that his hips slope further down, sinking further into Cas’ welcoming mouth.

“Baby,” he breathes - and fuck, Dean doesn’t want to say that to him anymore.

If Cas isn’t his boyfriend, he sure as hell can’t be his baby.

Suddenly Dean feels self-conscious, like he’s suddenly taken a bite of the apple and is naked and ashamed in the garden. He longs to tug the corner of the comforter over his midsection, to hide some piece of him.

His mind goes to the fact that he’s probably going to miss his workout today because Cas is here, with his tongue in his ass and his hand on his dick.

Okay, okay. Dean can refocus on this.

He gently nudges at Cas with one of his shins until he shifts to look up at him, and fuck - okay, Dean can certainly redirect his thoughts to that mouth, slicked up and red. Cas keeps his eye contact and adds another finger, three now comfortably residing in Dean’s hole.

“Fuck me.” Dean says gruffly.

His brain suddenly wonders how many times Cas has heard those words this week.

He shoves the thought away, fixing his attention back on the smooth feel of Cas, who - thank everything that’s holy - is now slowly dragging himself up on his elbows, and Dean can feel the tip of his cock pushing past his rim.  He lifts his hips to meet the burn of it, and he tugs at the restraints, aching to close his fingers around his dick as Cas starts to rock his hips.

Goddammit, Cas is so good at this.

Because he has lots of practice , Dean’s rotten melon reminds him.

There’s a small buzzing in the background and Dean knows it’s the sound of his morning emails, coming in like clockwork with the rising of the sun outside.

He squeezes his eyes against it, trying to enjoy the fullness of Cas inside him.

He wonders why they aren’t kissing.

Well, why would they be?  Not his boyfriend.

Suddenly, Dean feels like that chick in Pretty Woman . Though he, at the very least - knows how to pronounce Versace.

His phone buzzes again, and Dean distracts himself from it by lifting his hips up to the ceiling, then grinding them down to press into Cas, drawing him deeper. It hurts just a little, but he welcomes the pain. A small price to pay for the stupid ass mistake of inviting his “Not-boyfriend” - his ex boyfriend - over in the middle of the night when said ex slash Not-boyfriend is uninhibitedly fucking other people.

And when Dean is certainly not. Fucking anyone at all.

Dean’s an idiot.

Cas lets out a small guttural moan, and Dean’s instincts immediately jump to the knowledge that he’s close.

He’s also deeper than the last few times they’ve done this, and shit Dean’s going to feel that later.

No exercise bike for him. 

He wraps his legs around Cas’ waist, trying not to peer at his expression. He doesn’t want to see what he knows is probably indifference. Just another notch in the bedpost.

Still, if they’re talking carpentry metaphors - well, Dean’s going to ensure this is at least a good screw.

Just in time, because it appears the only thing that can undo a Cas-level knot job is Cas-level thrusting of the hips. One of Dean’s wrists slips from the tie, and he makes quick work of tugging the other one out behind it, then cups both palms around Cas’ ass, squeezing a little. 

Cas groans, dropping his chin down, lashes fluttering and hair now a complete bird’s nest on the top of his head.  

Dean reaches up to tug on a handful of the tufts, then strokes his hand down to Cas’ neck, caressing behind his ear and dropping his lips to the space right below it, sucking small circles on his skin.

“Don’t leave a mark, okay?” Cas groans out above his face.

Dean murmurs assent, though something pinches inside his chest. Cas never minded the little bites before. Asked for them, even.

He pushes the nagging thought aside, working his hands between their bodies to graze across Cas’ nipples, feeling them tighten under his fingertips. 

Cas inhales sharply, but no sound leaves his mouth. Dean frowns. Usually this particular area incites a decent amount of um, vocalization.

Okay, well. Maybe Cas is...distracted?

Maybe someone else banged him ten times better the night before .  

Dean’s really over this fucking peanut gallery that’s apparently taken up residence in his temporal lobe.

He moves his hands back down to Cas’ rear, and remembers the one thing that’s sure to get him going. 

Actually, this is right in line with the way Dean wanted the night to progress, before things got all complicated and - sensual. 

He lifts one hand and gives Cas a good smack on the cheek. Cas jerks to the ringing sound  of Dean’s flat palm against the curve of his flesh, then grunts as he spills, the crescendo vibrating through Dean like a small earthquake.

He crests over right after, pulled by Cas’ orgasm, but something about Dean’s climax feels slightly unsatisfying.

He’s not sure why. He wanted to come. He came. Cas came. 

All the boxes appear to be checked. Wham, bam - thank you ma’am.

And yet...

Cas drops a closemouthed peck on his temple, and rolls off, padding over to the bathroom without a word, and Dean realizes he was expecting him to press over for a snuggle.

He frowns. Well, then .

It’s not like he’s expecting a very good, sir may have another or anything, but Cas could at least show some appreciation for all of the effort Dean put into that.  

He didn’t even have to let the sonofabitch in to begin with.

Dean decides not to wait for Cas to come back with a towel, tugging a sheet loose off the bed instead and cleaning up the cooling mess on his stomach.  

He’ll have to wash them anyway, to get the smell of sex out of his bedroom.

The smell of sex and of Cas.

Dean shudders, suddenly feeling nauseous, like he’s crashing from a long week of no sleep and too much caffeine. What the hell am I doing?

He grabs for his phone, and pulls up his emails, surrounding himself in their familiar drone of ‘I hope this correspondence finds you well.’ 

This Dean can handle. He’s good at this - his job.

Still, it’s hard to focus. The knot around Dean’s wrists has been replaced by one in his stomach, and he’s not a fan of feeling unsettled and off-kilter.

Taking a breath, he quickly taps out an email and hits send. 

Cas clears his throat, and Dean looks up to see him standing by the side of the bed, looking at Dean with exasperation. 

“Cas -”

“I see it’s already a busy morning at the office.” Cas cuts him off, and his voice definitely carries a bite.

Well, if this ain’t some bitch of a trigger.  

Dean frowns, tugging the ruined sheet over his softening dick. “Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “Time and Twitter wait for no man.”

Cas picks up his boxer briefs from the corner of the bed and Dean does his best to not notice that they’re a pair he gave him a few years ago, bright yellow and dotted with little honeybees.

“You heading out?” he says nonchalantly, keeping his eyes trained on the screen, though the words in the subject lines are suddenly incomprehensible.

Of course Cas is leaving. He probably has a date lined up for brunch and a bowl.

“I didn’t see myself penciled into your day planner,” Cas says flatly, and Dean’s eyes jerk up to his.

Okay, that’s not fucking fair.

“Cas, it’s the middle of the week. I have to work,” he bites out and why does it feel like he’s traveled back in time four damn years in the past?

“Thursday is actually at the tail end of the work week,” Cas snaps because of course he misses the damn point, and Dean is really going to shatter a window in a minute. 

Cas can clearly tell he’s getting under his skin, because then he adds:

“But then I always forget you weekend warriors don’t believe in any calendar other than the one measured by the sticks up your asses.”

He steps into the legs of his pants, slinging them up on his hips and leaving his fly tantalizingly open, and no. Dean is not going to let Cas dick-bait him again today.

Or any day. His eyes narrow. “I knew answering your text was a fucking mistake.”

Cas turns around with a flex of lean back muscle as he tugs his t-shirt over his head, ruffling the mess of his hair with one hand. He looks back over his shoulder, eyes blazing.

“You didn’t seem to think so when you were begging me to bury my cock in your throat.”

“I didn’t beg - I -” Dean sputters, because actually that’s exactly what happened, and fuck this guy who he thought once gave a flying rat’s ass about Dean and his silly little feelings.

This isn’t Cas. Or maybe it - the sweet, caring man Dean so desperately misses, even now in this very moment - never was Cas to begin with.

And what does that make Dean? A whore - is a whore, is a whore.

“Dunno why you’re here in the first place.” Dean doesn’t mean for it to come out so small and hurt. 

He clenches his jaw, straightening his spine. “Clearly I’m not the only cheap motel room you’re making your bed in these days.”

Cas squares his shoulders. “My bed isn’t any of your business,” he says cooly, sliding his feet in his shoes without bothering to even look for his socks. “We weren’t together.”

Cas picks up his blazer and pulls a silver flask from the pocket, twirling it in his hand quickly. It flashes like a blade in the sunlight. 

“We still aren’t together,” he says, unscrewing the top and taking a swig. The reflection darts down his neck, a white bolt of lightning.

Dean rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Here we go. Goin’ on another bender, Cas?”

“You don’t get to judge me anymore, Dean.” Cas spits out, shoving the flask in the back pocket of his still unbuckled jeans and shrugging his blazer over his shoulders. 

Dean recoils slightly at the sharpness of Cas’ voice. “Sorry I brought it up,” he huffs.

Cas gestures around the bedroom, the movement stiff with anger. “Look at this fucking place. Everything you ever wanted, right? Stuffy and pretentious.”

Dean feels the prickle in his chest, that little dark pit where the monster lies in wait. It’s happening again. Cas touched him and they’re back here, back in the hell of this moment.

Dean can’t stop it.

His mind searches for a way to reroute it anyway, to halt  this runaway train that’s racing down the dismal tracks of their past. 

Don’t leave. Let’s fix this. Fix us.

The best he can come up with verbally is a flattened:

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

It’s not the clearest peace offering, but it certainly doesn’t warrant the intensity of the sigh that immediately gusts out of Cas’ mouth. Dean feels his agitation rising.

What’s wrong with this apartment, anyway? Dean likes it here. It’s sophisticated. Polished.

But then again, isn’t this the entire problem? Like throwing stones into a bottomless pit, nothing Dean does will ever be enough, nothing will raise his status to the level Cas will approve.

And he knew this. Ever since Chuck preordained their demise in that pompous dining room, Dean knew he shouldn’t allow himself to get used to being someone Cas loved.

And here Dean is again, slipping back into that despair summoned by the feel of Cas’ body against his. Dean’s pain roils turbulently in his chest, spilling over in words tinged with the razor edge of its sharpness.

“Not like you could recognize the results of good, honest work. At least my paycheck isn’t hand delivered to the local dispensary and siphoned into bottles of shit liquor. The hours I spend are good for something, not useless.”

The last word hits the ground like a grenade and the explosion shatters through the thick air between them. For a minute they stare at each other in the aftershock, silence heavier than the radiation of conflict that’s now consuming them both.

Cas breaks first.

“You’re as deluded as you are blind.” His voice rings hollow through the walls surrounding them, the wallpaper Dean so painstakingly picked out failing to muffle the sting.

Cas is zipping up his fly. He snaps the buckle of his belt closed, pitch rising with each syllable pouring out of his mouth. “Do you even see yourself in the mirror, Dean? You’re the same obsessed bastard as your father. The only difference is that you’re hiding in an office instead of a bottle.”

That slams down a mental button activating every single one of Dean’s defenses, and his brain reboots into attack mode.

“Yeah?” He forgets he’s not at all dressed, and stands up to face Cas, sheet dropping to the floor in a streaky pile of green cotton. “Well at least I fucking give a shit about something, Cas.  Not you - it’s like you don’t have the damn equipment to care.”

What he doesn’t say is the conclusion that follows, the thought carved into his brain since the night Cas walked out of their old apartment, that other Thursday years ago.

Seems like when you try to care, you just fall apart, Cas.

Either that or Dean shatters him.

The absurdity of the moment hits him then - he’s standing butt naked in the middle of his bedroom at 6 a.m. yelling at his sloppy ex-boyfriend.

Everything is fucking broken, and suddenly Dean is so very, very tired.

Cas has his flask back in his hand, and he rips another pull from it before spitting out his next volley of attack:

“You think I didn’t care? Open your eyes. I left. I rebelled. I gave up everything to build a life - with you. And what did you give me? An empty home. An empty bed.”

Cas lifts his chin, the crease between his eyebrows a jagged crack. “So keep your opinions to yourself.”

Dean chooses not to follow those instructions - in fact, he does the complete opposite. 

“You’re the one who just up and left me. Left us.” 

The words catch in his throat, slippery and thick like the marshmallows he choked on once, trying to make smores during a camping trip with Sammy.

Cas’ mouth is a thin line. “You didn’t give me a choice, Dean. You’re right - I did leave. But you’re the one who didn’t stop me.”

There’s a tremor in Dean’s chest, and he wants to go back, turn all of this around. Rewind, reset.

But they can’t un-sink the Titanic.

Instead, like a good hunter - Dean strikes exactly where he knows it’ll hurt Cas the most.

He slides a smirk over his features, dragging ice into his eyes. “You didn’t give up a thing for me, sweetheart. You used me. You needed a blunt little instrument to pummel your daddy’s plan into splinters, and then here I fell into your lap, like a chump.” 

Dean takes a breath, suddenly feeling like his chest is caving in.  

He can’t help the words that fall out next, and with them his immediate regret at showing his weakness.

“I should have known, Cas. Guys like you? They don’t go for people like me. We aren’t from the same damn world. Hell, we’re practically not even the same species.” 

Dean’s voice cracks a little on the very last word, and he swallows down the punch of pain.

Cas’ gaze softens. He takes a small step towards him. “Dean -”

Dean shuts it down. “Don’t.”

He drops to sitting on the bed, pulling a pillow over his lap like a shield. 

“I tried, Cas. To give you something worthy of what you had to leave behind - but it still wasn’t damn near good enough. And I knew it - still do.” Dean grimaces against the searing ache tearing through his chest, these late-night liquor laced thoughts spilling over into the harsh morning light.

“You’re gonna get tired of it, Cas. Eventually. And you’ll head back uptown, to your dad and his company and his stupid fucking forks.” 

Dean sighs. “E.T. gets tired of slumming it with us humans and goes home, right?” 

Cas is staring at him with shattered eyes. 

Dean doesn’t care. What’s more, he doesn’t even care that he doesn’t care.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” he says quietly.

He stares at the floor until he hears Cas’ footsteps fading and the closing of the door.

Dean’s phone buzzes with another email.

He picks it up, and his outbox pops up, the email he sent right before Cas came out of the bathroom flashing on the screen.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Reese,

I’ll be out today. Flag anything important for my review Friday morning.

Dean S.

Dean Smith
Executive Vice President of Marketing, US Division
Twitter, Inc.

Dean stares at it for a moment, shaking his head. No good deed goes unpunished, damn straight.

Goddammit. 

Dean thought fixing this would be a milk run. Take the day off, stay in bed a little later. 

Maybe drive to the beach for a few hours, put their toes in the sand - and figure out what the hell it is that they’re doing.

Well, they sure figured it out. They aren’t doing anything at all.

The phone buzzes again, and Dean throws it against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces.

He buries his face in his pillow, following suit.

Cas walks home, flask to his mouth like an oxygen mask.

It runs out about halfway through the hour-long trek, and he desperately wishes it was a time of day when it’s appropriate for liquor stores to be open so he could replenish this, his remaining little bit of liquid grace.

Still, there’s enough of a buzz to keep his legs moving and his thoughts fuzzy to the point where they don’t come pouring out of his ears in a bloody stream.

Dean’s words tear through his chest, piercing it like the point of a blade.  

What did he mean, he tried to give him a life worth the one he gave up?

Cas never saw leaving his past and starting fresh with Dean as a loss. If anything it was a gain. Dean helped him find a place to belong, gave him the courage to make choices that were intrinsically his own.

And while Cas knows that he still has that - the ability to write his own ending, with or without Dean, he can’t help but mourn his absence in the story. 

Yeah, Cas gets to choose his own adventure.

But damn if he doesn’t want a very particular prince to be waiting for him at the end of this book. 

Cas kicks a stray rock as he strides down the sidewalk, watching it skitter despondently into a gutter.

That’s where he should be, right now actually - right in the gutter with his stupid horny brain, its stupid horny thoughts and most of all the stupid horny decision he made texting Dean those emojis from the bar.

Though if Cas is being honest with himself, the choice to send Dean that message had a lot less to do with the twitch of his dick and a lot more to do with the beat of his heart.

His fuzzy brain drifts back to Dean’s angry words. Dean thinks Cas used him? That can’t be right. It’s like a shapeshifter slipped on the skin of the man Cas used to love.

Still loves.

You needed a blunt little instrument to pummel your daddy’s plan into splinters, and then here I fell into your lap, like a chump.

Nothing makes sense, and all Cas wants to do is forget.  

He finally stumbles into his apartment and digs around for the one pill bottle he rarely uses.

This is the ‘break glass in case of emergency’ bottle, the one he keeps freshly albeit not legally filled - based on prior experience that it will once in a blue moon be a necessity. 

Cas always hated taking this for his anxiety when it was actually prescribed to him by the doctor he was forced to see by his father. 

He knows his own warning signs as well as he knew Dean’s, though, and they’re screaming at top decibel level. His state is at that severe point where he needs to grab the hammer and smash open the case containing the fire extinguisher. He pops one of the sedatives into his mouth and - being smarter than his actions indicate, chases it down with a bottle of water instead of tequila.

Then crashes for the good part of seven hours.

When Cas wakes up, he feels none the better for the wear, though in part this is because his mouth tastes like he’s been diving in the dumpster for a pastrami sandwich with his tongue as the tracking device. He groans in disgust, practically falling out of bed to get to his toothbrush and Scope.

His phone, per the usual, is riddled with calls and messages from Harper.

Hmmm.

Cas may not be in the mood to get back into the office, but he’s also not dying to drown his sorrows alone. Something about that seems too…’your therapist is looking at you disapprovingly.’

He spits the minty blue liquid of the gods into the sink, and then shoots Harper a text on his way out the door.

Cas: Important work business. I need you to meet me at Don Pistos
Harper: ok!!!! Did you see my other texts? 
Harper: Cas???
Harper: Okay, meet you there

Approximately thirty minutes later, Cas is pushing the congealed quesadilla triangles around on his plate like he’s playing that carnival game with the solo cups and the plastic white ping pong ball. He decides to take a giant swig of his Bloody Maria instead when Harper shows up.

“Hi!” She says cheerily, sliding into the swanky leather booth on the opposite side of the lacquered table.

Her eyebrows immediately nudge together with concern. Cas frowns. 

He didn’t realize his state of rock bottom was so apparent.

“Is, uh - is everything alright?” Harper’s words are careful, and Cas immediately feels like a reckless imbecile for putting his gentle, kind assistant in this situation.

“I’m fine!” he says cheerfully, with an embarrassing hiccup at the end of the word.

Harper blinks at him.

“Okay,” she says slowly, looking down at his plate of cold food. “Have you eaten any of that?”

Cas shakes his head no.

“Have you eaten anything at all today?”

“No,” Cas responds out loud this time, deciding the pills and tomato juice mixing his liquor don’t fall within any category that can be considered food.

Harper flags down a waitress. “May I please order a large cheese dip, with --” she pauses looking at Cas. “Do you like jalapeños?” 

He stares at her. “You get whatever you like, Harper - I’m really not hungry.”

Harper rolls her eyes. “Just put the jalapeños on the side, please,” she informs the waitress.  “And if you could also bring some water?” She looks over at Cas with a no-nonsense expression. “For both of us.”

“And a margarita for the lady,” Cas says cheerfully, to Harper’s jump of surprise. “What? I didn’t ask you to come here for the sole purpose to ensure I’m hydrated.”

Harper scrunches her nose. “If I drink, you eat.”

Cas tilts his head, thinking and then gives her a quick nod. 

“No salt, please,” Harper tells the waitress resignedly.

Three margaritas and two orders of cheese dip (with jalapeños not on the side for the second one) later, Harper’s initial resignation seems to have faded into gluttony and unadulterated Dionysus-levels of debauchery.

“My dating life is actually awesome for once! No more filling out my sad little journal for me,” Harper announces out of the blue, interrupting Cas’ rant about the restrictions of sociopolitical norms and his idea that if they all stop wearing pants simultaneously, there won’t be enough jail space for the indecent exposure arrests.

His face falls at the sound of the word dating.

“Well, I’m glad someone’s is,” he says glumly. “It’s slim pickings over here.”

Cas has a glob of congealed cheese on the right side of his shirt. Harper has nicknamed it Gleb. She speaks directly to Gleb when she reacts to Cas’ comment about his love life, because talking to Cas about such a sensitive topic seems incredibly awkward, and slightly like it’s crossing an employee/boss work related boundary.

Not to mention Harper can’t let Cas in on the secret that she knows every prior detail of his supposedly now rocky romantic escapades with Dean, being one half of the team that tulpa’d the whole thing into being.

No way. That would be sus.

And Harper is so not sus right now.

She is totally cool!  

Like a cucumber.

Oooooh, the cucumber’s name would be Ike.

“Aren’t you having some torrid romance with Dean Smith who works over at Twitter?”

Dammit Ike. Not cool.

Cas appears to be mostly confused, which is...good?

“How do you know ‘Dean Smith who works over at Twitter’?” Cas slurs the name slightly, and the finger quotes he uses to parrot Harper’s words are wobbly.

Harper quickly scrambles to cover her mistake. “Wasn’t he on page Six recently? Most um, eligible bachelor?”

Cas laughs bitterly. “Yup. He’s still that, actually. Bachelor, and very very eligible.” He crumbles the tortilla chip in his hands into tiny smithereens, his brow creasing with frustration. 

“Do you know what backsliding is, Harper?”

Harper does, albeit not from personal experience. One would have to have an actual relationship to backslide. Though she’s finally got something so close to that now, something she thinks may be real! And oh it feels so so so very good.

Cas is looking at her in drunken sympathy mixed with a hint of amusement, and Harper realizes that instead of keeping those messy thoughts contained in her mental enclosure she’s gone and half-spoken, half-yelled them across the restaurant.  

Another patron at a nearby table is raising a glass in a toast to her.

She puts up a hand in embarrassed acknowledgement before turning her attention back to Cas. 

“So, what happened?”

Cas sighs. “Well, that ex I told you about? The boy who helped me figure out that different paths in life exist, yadda yadda yadda?”

Harper’s jaw goes slack. Cas motions to the waitress for another round, and she’s actually too shocked at this news to stop him.

“That was Dean?” 

“That was Dean.” Cas’ shoulders flatten.

Harper needs to stop talking, she decides.

Unfortunately Ike the cucumber has diarrhea of the mouth. “But I thought things were going well between the two of you?”

Whoops. She bats cleanup again:

“I mean, based on how happy you’ve seemed. At, uh - the office.” Remembering Reese’s anecdote the other day, she quickly stammers, “Your office, I mean. Our office. Alone and by yourself.”

Thankfully Cas doesn’t seem to notice that Harper’s attempts at being casual about him and Dean are going up in flames, the heat of embarrassment lighting her face with its red flicks of fire.

His expression indicates that he is instead caught up in whatever turmoil is raging within him - whether it’s the current desolation of heartbreak or the churning tequila tornado he’s using to temper it.

Harper’s not even sure how many shots he’s consumed, but based on the green graveyard of lime rinds in the corner of the table, the blood in his veins could fuel a rocket.

Cas scoops the crumbs of his demolished chip into a napkin, setting it aside. “I was happy. But I was also in denial.” His eyes drift to the ceiling beams, like he’s searching for the answer to some oft-repeated prayer.

God doesn’t respond.

Harper isn’t surprised at the Lord’s silence, but she does feel bad looking at the sad little crease between Cas’ eyebrows. 

“Maybe we can get you laid?”

Oh God, what is she saying to her boss?! Harper’s heard before that tequila makes a person’s clothes fall off, but she didn’t realize she’d be assisting with the removal of such garments between third parties.

One of said parties being her superior.

Her very morose, very inebriated superior.

“Mmph. Not interested,” Cas blessedly huffs out without even glancing around the bar at what’s available on the menu.

This is certainly not like him.

Okay, maybe he and Dean were in capital L love after all. Harper’s mind goes all dreamy thinking about that, the tequila assisting in her romanticizing of this situation.

It’s a little...magical that Cas is so distraught over someone that he’s out here wasting his liver on a Thursday afternoon and refusing to bang anyone else in their near vicinity.

Hm. When Harper puts it that way it doesn’t actually sound very magical, or romantic at all.

“Was he your soulmate?” she asks, because soulmates are romantic.

Cas doesn’t seem to appreciate Harper’s sentimentalities. “I don’t believe in those,” he says simply.

Harper frowns. “Whaddyaa mean,” whoopsie - her syllables seem to be sliding around in her mouth strangely all of a sudden, like slippery egg yolks escaping the shell.

One of her hands fiddles with the screen of her phone because she abruptly, very badly wants to text Reese.

“Love is about choice,” Cas declares, spilling tequila down his sleeve as he gesticulates to emphasize his point. He frowns at the offending wetness, and licks the liquor off his wrist before pressing forwards:

“Soulmates are meant to be. No such thing. It’s about freedom, that’s what makes it so special. You don’t have to be there but you are.” Cas loosens a very loud belch and downs the rest of the shot in his hand, throwing it back in one fluid swoop.

“You just choose him - every day,” he finishes solemnly. “That’s what me and Dean do.”

He frowns, correcting himself. “Did.”

Then promptly bursts into very loud tears.

Oh, oh no.  

“Um,” Harper says not-so-comfortingly. Cas’ face is buried in his palms, fingers scrunched over his eyes.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, speech garbled and damp with his melancholy, outburst ending as soon as it begins and Harper knows he’s squashing the emotions down.

She realizes suddenly she doesn’t want him to do that. He shouldn’t have to do that.

This is romance, and heartbreak, and the stuff of fairy tales, dammit! Cas deserves his tragic breakdown hours.

Okay, Harper’s not making much sense. Regardless, what she does make next is a decision.

At this point they’re past the work and life demarcations. She gets up to slide in next to Cas in the booth, handing him a crumpled napkin.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not,” Cas mutters, blotting his face with the square of paper and still avoiding direct eye contact. “Dean’s not coming back. When it comes to me, he’s basically hung it up.”

He sighs bitterly. “Retired.”

Cas leans forward on his elbows, eyes turned downward at the mess on the table. “And he should stay that way. I shouldn’t have let him near me to begin with. I’m just a fuckup, and he deserves better than -”

Cas gestures down his cheese-soiled front and points to his red rimmed eyes.

“- this. God. I’m useless.”

Something breaks in Harper’s heart, just a little - because the words he’s saying are those she’s heard before - except they’ve sounded inside her own head aimed at the reflection in the mirror.  

She puts a small, tentative hand on Cas’ shoulder. “You’re not useless.”

Cas sniffles, then laughs self-deprecatingly. “Good grief, I’m a mess. You know Harper, I used to belong to a much more prestigious club. Had more to offer, at least.”

Harper looks at him quietly, and maybe it’s the tequila or the sympathetic pang in her chest, but she decides to be a little more forthright than usual. "Cas, maybe it’s not about what you can offer. Maybe it's about who you are, when you’re with him. You love each other, right?" 

Cas sighs. 

“We did love each other, I think. Once. But no matter what we do, we always end up here.”

He takes a deep inhale, straightening his posture and shaking his head. “We will always end up here,” he mutters - and Harper realizes he’s not talking to her anymore.

The next row of shots arrives just in time, and now Harper is practically obligated to take one along with her grieving boss.

“In solidarity,” she says, trying to be supportive. Cas nods, and tosses two back, one right after the other. Harper sips hers demurely, cringing at the taste.

“He was the salsa,” Cas murmurs plaintively.

“The - salsa?” Harper is either more drunk than she thought or confused. 

“And I was the tomato,” Cas nods sagely. 

Harper’s not sure if the tequila hits her right then and there, but something about Cas’ sad word salad makes sense to her.

Maybe love was the spice. For Cas’ sake - and Dean’s, Harper really hopes they’re not entirely 86’d.

Reese: Shit, they broke up? 
Reese: They didn’t even manage to start dating first. Is it even a break-up?
Harper: Cas is a mess. I can’t leave him here.
Harper: Shit, he’s getting another round of shots
Harper: Hey you.
Harper: You know, you are really cool, right? Like cool cool.
Reese: Howsitgoin?
Harper: It’s good. I like tequila. Tequila gets a bad rep. It’s yummy
Reese: Babe, you good? You need me to send an uber?
Harper: Can’t leave Cas. He’s sad 😔
Reese: Maybe get some water, okay?
Harper: the beesare dyincg Reese
Reese: Pick up your phone, Harper
Harper: sry. I;m good. Home isd where teh Harp is. 
Reese: Text me when you get up, okay?

Chapter Text

March 19, 2021

Harper: Sorry, I’m good. 
Harper: Well, I’m alive. Technically. Remind me not to drink with Cas ever again
Harper: I was drinking water in between and started handing off my shots. I don’t even want to know how much that man drank last night
Reese: So, he’s coping well with the not breakup, huh?
Harper: God, he spent half the night explaining to me why Dean is a controlling jerk and the other half explaining why he shines like a star in the darkness or something. It’s a little fuzzy.
Reese: Grown-ass men. They are grown-ass men. 
Reese: They are such idiots
Harper: How many ibuprofen is too many? 
Harper: If I can keep them down.
Reese: I think we can safely say you can now articulate why tequila gets a bad rep
Harper: Please never mention tequila to me again
Harper: I don’t think I have ever been this hungover in my life. How am I supposed to work today?

Harper’s a genius, if she does say so herself. 

She hits ‘post’ and the notice she drafted with one eye closed goes live. Who even knew “World Sleep Day” was a thing? Surely this will get people to log off and stop making her life harder when she can barely function as is. Who doesn’t want a good nap?

She covers her face with both hands and imagines a world where she gets to crawl back into bed. Her stomach roils. She takes a couple of deep breaths, doing her best to ignore the pounding in her head.

She sneaks a peek at the post. What is wrong with these people? I told them to log off and now they’re even more feral?

Harper sighs. Okay, so maybe the ‘genius’ classification was a little ambitious. 

She rubs her eyes blearily, shoving the lank strands of dirty hair from her forehead. Washing it this morning was an entire epic quest Harper was in no shape to undertake. She takes a paperclip and uses it to nudge the errant wisps back into her messy, tangled bun.

The semi-controlled chaos of the office seeps in, the clicking of keyboards, whirring of printers, and incessant ringing of phones disturbing the empty of Harper’s brain.

Why is everything so loud? 

She closes her eyes and envisions a nice, quiet beach somewhere.  

Reese’s hand tangled with hers between their lounge chairs.

“Delivery for a ‘Harper Sayles.’” 

She jumps at the perky voice that interrupts the wiggle of the toes she pretends are buried deep in the warmth of the sand, sun shining on her face.

A woman stands in front of her desk holding out a bag that says “Ellen’s Diner.”

“Sorry, there must be some mistake. I didn’t order anything.” It’s too bad, because the smell of whatever greasy masterpiece is contained in the bag has managed to shift her mood from ten seconds from upchuck to a small rumble of hunger. Why didn’t Harper remember her lore?

Grease always soaks up booze.

“Says your name right here.” The chipper voice is fading into annoyance. The woman holds out the bag again, shaking it back and forth in the universal gesture for just take this fucking thing so I can get on with my day.

Harper sighs. She doesn’t have it in her to fight this. 

She takes the bag reluctantly. “What do I owe you?”

“All paid up.” The delivery person yells over her shoulder as she heads towards the elevators.

Huh?

Harper looks at the receipt and feels a grin spread across her face as she notices that it was paid by one Reese Harris. 

Harper tears open the bag to find a buttery, delicious looking omelette, with a side of bacon and hashbrowns. Not home fries. Shredded, grilled and deliciously greasy real-life hashbrowns. 

Harper does a happy little clap at the sight.

I am going to kiss that girl on the lips. She pops a piece of bacon into her mouth and nearly moans from its salt-crisp goodness. 

She grabs a fork from the bag and digs into the omelette with gusto, scooping up the gooey, escaping cheese with her fork and shovels in a huge bite. She’s fairly sure she hears an actual celestial chorus as she chews the food.

She almost chokes on it when she’s interrupted.

“Harper, this is a place of business. Maybe you can stare at your food a bit less lecherously.” 

Cas’ voice is teasing.

He’s leaning casually against the wall looking no worse for the wear.  His hair’s still slightly wet from what was likely a morning shower, and the blue polo shirt tucked into his jeans actually looks ironed. He tugs a pair of ray-bans off his face, and the whites of his eyes are virginally pristine and untouched, not a red blood vessel matching the ones peppering Harper’s in sight. 

Harper considers stabbing him with the plastic fork she’s gripping very tightly in her fist. He has no right to look that normal after the amount of alcohol he drank last night. 

“What are you doing here so early?” The words come out before Harper’s tequila demolished brain can stop them. 

Cas laughs. “I do come to work sometimes, you know. Besides, we have that big meeting with the market research firm today, don’t we? You mentioned it at least four times last night.”

Harper suppresses a groan. The firm they hired asked her to block out two hours. Two hours of statistics and graphs. Can she just hide under her desk instead?

Cas clasps his hands behind his waist, stretching his shoulders with a ‘pop.’ “I don’t really know why we had to hire them. Market research is bullshit. They always get it wrong.”  He grins at Harper cheerily.

“Besides, we already know everyone on tumblr is gay, nerdy, and weird. That’s the entire premise of the site these days.”

Harper eyes Cas warily, panic rising in her throat at the mention of everyone on the site being gay. 

She tries to remember if she told Cas anything about Reese last night. Not that he would care. Of course he wouldn’t care. He himself was mourning the loss of a relationship with a man. Still, Harper can’t quite push away the fear that Cas is talking very specifically about her.

Cas doesn’t seem to notice her reaction. “I’ll let you get back to your breakfast. I am going on D-N-D for twenty minutes while I meditate.” He shoots a finger gun her way and heads down the hall.

Harper: Did you ever know that you’re my heeerrrooo
Reese: You are such a dork. 
Harper: Yeah, but a much happier dork now that I have an omelette in my belly
Reese: It was good? 
Harper: It was amazing. I want to write poetry about that breakfast. Though it would definitely be erotic poetry.
Reese: Harp. Erotic poetry about fried eggs may be on a list of some things you still should refrain from telling me... 
Harper: LOL noted.
Harper: Seriously, thank you. You are the best
Reese: I try
Reese: Hey, what’s up with the nap post? Did you do that?
Harper: I was trying a thing, okay?
Reese: How’s that going for you?
Harper: Sigh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything get notes faster than my post telling people to log off and get some rest
Reese: Ha! 
Reese: My condolences though. 🙂 
Harper: How’s your day?
Reese: Weird. 
Reese: Dean didn’t show up again today. Didn’t even send an email this time around. It’s not like him - two days in a row of not working.
Reese: TBH, I’m a little worried. I tried calling him but it went to voicemail.
Harper: You think he’s okay?
Reese: I mean, probably. Grown ass man, right?
Harper: Do you want me to involve a certain not ex?
Reese: He would kill me.
Reese: Ok, look, can you do it without mentioning me?
Reese: I’m kinda worried about the asshole.
Harper: I’ll see what I can do.

“Harper? Why is our website telling people to stop using our website?”

Harper cringes as Cas’ voice carries down the hall. She shuffles towards his office, ignoring the pointed looks from her coworkers that follow her.

“It’s World Sleep Day, Cas.” She tries for a perky grin but suspects it comes across more of an awkward cringe. Cas looks unimpressed.

Harper gulps, playing with the dirty piece of hair that’s once again fallen out of her bun. “Um, in my own defense, that post has gotten a lot more interaction than most of our staff postings. It’s actually been really successful.”

Cas pauses, scrolling through something on his screen, face growing surprised as he starts to look over the data. He hits a button and the small ink-jet printer by his computer starts to spit out pages of information.

“Hmm. Fine, just next time run it by me, okay? I know we pride ourselves on being unironically unprofitable, but we probably shouldn’t be telling our users not to log on to our website at all.” 

Cas rifles through the printed usage reports. “Lucky for us, the good people of tumblr aren’t known for their obedience. You’re right. This actually increased traffic.” 

He shakes his head fondly as a laugh escapes his lips. Harper breathes a sigh of relief. 

It’s actually kind of nice, to hear Cas laugh - after last night.

She tilts her head, not wanting to be too presumptuous but maybe it would be nice for her to check in. Cas did spill his entire chest out to her last night.

“How’re you feeling, Cas?”

He looks up, startled by the question. Something sad flashes across his face, but it’s gone in an instant and he waves Harper off with a small, closed-off smile. 

“I’m fine.”

Harper frowns, trying to poke a little farther. “Well - I just wanted to make sure. After yesterday.” 

Cas raises an eyebrow, then more firmly:

“I’m fine.”

Right. 

Grown-ass men. Harper tries to remind herself.

“Did you need something?” Cas squints at her when she lingers, still playing with her hair and failing to return to her desk.

“Um, yeah, I have this friend, right?” She pauses, unsure how to continue. She’s fairly sure bringing up your boss’s ex while you're hungover as hell and unshowered isn’t the smartest career move. 

Cas’ eyebrows raise in amusement when she doesn’t continue. “Congratulations on the social achievement.”

Harper rolls her eyes at the sardonic reply. She takes a breath and spits it all out in one long string. “Sorry. I don’t want to bring up a sore subject, but I just thought you should know that Dean Smith did a no show, no call today and he isn’t answering calls from his office. It’s the second day he hasn’t been there.”

She gulps anxiously before squeaking, “It’s not really my business. But. Okay. Bye.” 

She turns and flees the room before Cas can respond. 

Cas stares at Harper’s retreating form in shock.

Dean didn’t go to work. Dean Smith? 

It’s true that Dean didn’t go in a few weeks ago when he was having, um - issues getting off in a different way. Though recent events indicate this shouldn’t be the problem he’s working through currently.

Well, maybe he takes time off now. Not Cas’ problem.

His thoughts disagree, churning through his skull like screwdrivers.

He didn’t even call in? Or answer the phone.

Dean’s glued to that thing. There’s no possible way he just missed a call from the office, and then didn’t call back.

Cas shakes his head, trying to reroute this train of thinking. It’s not just none of Harper’s business - it’s no longer his either. The days of worrying over Dean are done.

He sits down at his computer, deciding to responsibly get some work accomplished.

The image of Dean curled up on their apartment floor mid panic attack rises unbidden in Cas’ mind. He tries to push it away, but Cas can’t stop thinking about desperate, pleading green eyes staring up at him, Dean’s shoulders shaking as he tries to take small gulps of air.

Damn it.

Muttering under his breath and feeling more than a little foolish, Cas pulls up Dean’s number. The call goes straight to voicemail. 

Damn it. 

All right, well - ostensibly Dean isn’t going to pick up if it’s Cas on the caller ID. Not after the way things ended the other day.

The word ‘ended’ makes Cas’ ribcage feel like it’s spontaneously collapsing, and he shoves down the well of emotion in his throat.

If Dean doesn’t want help he can just sit there alone and wallow.

Cas checks the calendar. Thirty minutes until the market research people arrive to torture him. He considers a quick trip to the roof to get a little buzz going.

Yes, actually - that's just what the doctor ordered.

Cas pats his pocket to verify he has his lighter, then reaches for his phone. The blank screen stares back at him accusingly.

Cas sighs and flops back into the chair. Who is he kidding? Even if they’re not together, Dean Smith will always be his problem.

Because even if hell freezes over and the gates of heaven close, Cas is never going to stop loving that man, as infuriating as he is. 

He opens up his contacts and scrolls down towards the end of the list.

This is going to be awkward. He feels something akin to grief as he locates the name he’s searching for - though Cas doesn’t even know what he’s mourning anymore. The relationship with Dean? The life he thought they would have? 

All of it, he supposes.

Cas swallows his emotions, staring at the contact info. There was a time when he considered the man his best friend, and now they’re strangers who haven’t talked in months.

Not that he can blame him, of course. 

Before he can second guess himself, he hits the green call button. 

“Cas?” He answers immediately, tense and slightly confused.

“Hey, Sam. It’s good to hear your voice.” Cas hears Sam let out a little huff on the other end. Cas smiles at the familiar sound. 

“Uh, yeah Cas. You too. How’ve you been?” 

Cas has no idea how to answer that one.

Well, I fell back into bed with your brother because I can’t say no to him, even though I know he doesn’t care about me the way I care about him - and now I may have somehow broken him. Also, I’m a total mess because the one thing I want - also your brother - is something I can’t have, so instead I chose to bury myself in short term pleasure in the hopes of drowning out the constant, unrelenting drumbeats of despair that pound in my brain.

“Good.” Cas says instead. “You?”

“Good. Great! Working hard at making the world a better place, one case at a time. I won a big one last month. This corporation thought it could delay and outspend its way to victory, but I got justice.” 

Cas smiles a little at the note of pride in Sam’s voice as Sam continues, “And Eileen is good. We’re good.” 

Yes, it’s definitely awkward in a way that it never was before and though Cas expected that, it stings just the same. 

He mumbles a polite affirmation, hoping he doesn’t sound as sad as he feels. “That’s great to hear, Sam.” He pauses, wanting to tell Sam he’s proud of him, but it seems too personal for whatever they are to each other - now.

It’s certainly not family. Or even friends.

Besides, that’s not the reason he’s calling.

Cas takes a breath. Okay, Castiel - get the words out .

“Sam, I think you need to check on Dean.”

There’s a long silence on the other end to the point where Cas pulls the phone away from his ear to squint at the screen and make sure they haven’t been disconnected. 

“What happened?” Sam finally asks.

Cas resigns himself to the inevitable judgment that’s about to come his way. He can almost see the exasperated side-eye. “Dean and I may have...” 

Cas trails off. He doesn’t even know how to explain what he and Dean have been doing. At least not in a way that Dean’s little brother is going to want to hear. 

“We’ve been, um, seeing each other occasionally for - erhm, for - professional - reasons and things may have gotten a little more personal than expected.” He searches for words that don’t include dick, anal, butt plugs, or sex on Dean’s overly fancy carpet.

“I think I get the picture, Cas. Please don’t draw me a more detailed diagram.” Sam blessedly interrupts.

Cas breathes a small sigh of relief. “Anyway, we had a fight the day before yesterday and...said some things.” He pauses, trying to suss out if he should go into more detail. 

The words Dean said - and the ones Cas said back to him - still hurt to think about, much less speak back into life.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice is growing more concerned. 

Cas decides to focus on the more pressing issue. “Well, I just found out he hasn’t been at work in two days - and isn’t answering any calls from the office, which we know isn’t like him. So I thought, maybe - you’d want to check in?”

“You’re keeping tabs on him?” Sam can’t hide the surprise in his voice.

It gives Cas pause. 

Hm, why does Harper know that Dean didn’t come in today? 

He files that away with the question he still hasn’t asked her about the baseball game. There have been an awful lot of coincidences lately.

“I heard it through the grapevine.” Cas expects Sam’s anger, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there is only sympathy and a bit of exhaustion in his voice.

“You two are idiots, you know.”

“Sam, I know we shouldn’t have - well,” Cas bites down on the rest of the sentence, reminding himself who he’s on the phone with. “I knew better,” he concludes, chewing his lip. “I just... “ 

Cas can feel the lump in his throat welling tightly. 

“He loves you too, Cas.” Sam’s voice is so low that Cas is almost sure he misheard him. He shakes his head at the wall of his office.

“He doesn’t, Sam.” Cas says quietly. “But even if he did -”

Cas shuts the door on even the possibility of that absurd idea before continuing: 

“We can’t seem to make things work, not even as friends. Definitely not as more. But he’s still a person who is - was - in my life and I...I just want...I need to know he’s okay, Sam. Please.”

What Cas actually needs to do is stop talking. He hasn’t spoken with Sam in months and here he is scattering the eggshells of all his little feelings on the floor for him to tiptoe around.

Sam is quiet for a moment. “I have a deposition, but Eileen should be able to go check on him. I’m sure he’s fine, Cas, but I’ll text you.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Cas wants to say more, but he can’t find the words.

Sam does it for him. “I’m glad you called. I’ve missed you.”

Cas feels a stab in his chest. Sam had been special to Dean, which made him special to Cas, but they had also been friends, the real kind. A flood of memories float through his mind. 

Taking Sam out to buy a suit for his law clerk interviews, dragging him to Cas’ favorite tailor as a treat, since it appeared they simply didn’t make pants long enough for Sam’s giant-esque stature. Accidentally setting the kitchen on fire trying to make pie for Dean’s birthday. Sitting on the balcony smoking while Sam told him all about the woman he was going to marry (turns out he was right on that account).

“You could have called,” Cas says sadly, more of a wishful thought than an accusation.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me. Nobody would tell me anything about why the two of you broke up - just that it happened, and that was that. Dean shut down - you know how he is. And you disappeared,” Sam sighs. “Phones work both ways, Cas.”

Cas feels a tug of regret. There was no way he could have called - Dean would have taken it as an affront to his territory. Truthfully, Cas harbors concern that Dean will likely be ticked that he’s even on the phone with his brother now.  

But still, he says: 

“I’m sorry, Sam. It was complicated. Still is. But you’re right.”

There’s a beat before Sam responds. “I get it, Cas. Listen - how about you make it up to me by buying Eileen and me dinner next week.” 

Cas grins immediately, but pauses - considering Dean’s reaction. 

You know what - no. Sam’s his own person, and if he feels comfortable maintaining their friendship, why not?

Besides, Cas misses him. And unlike Dean, this is one Smith brother with whom his relationship happens to be easy. 

They don’t even have to talk about Dean. No Deans Allowed.

“Done,” Cas says firmly, and his chest feels a little bit lighter.

“I have to go get ready for this depo, but I’ll text Eileen to check on him before I do.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

Cas hangs up the phone and stares at it for a moment, wishing there was more to do than just...wait here, then.

The intercom buzzes from his desk receiver. “Cas, the market research people are here a bit early. I put them in Conference Room 2.” Harper’s voice is chirpy, sharply contrasting with Cas’ mood. 

He sighs, mournfully pats the lighter and joint in his pocket - a post-meeting treat - and drags himself down the hall.

Dean stares at the ceiling, watching the blades of the fan lazily turning above him. 

Maybe if he lies here long enough, a sinkhole will open up and he’ll be dragged down to the depths of Hell itself. Can’t be worse than the metaphorical fire and brimstone Dean’s surrounded by now. 

He doesn’t have the energy to wash his sheets. The dirty one is kicked under the bed for now, but the rest of them still smell like Cas. Dean can’t get away from it.

Deep inside he doesn’t want to. Accepting that he’s not doing the laundry yet because once he does, the scent will be gone again, forever this time - and Cas out of his life right along with it.

Dammit. Why does it hurt twice as bad the second time around? Shouldn’t he know what to expect by now?

He at least knew better than to let himself get right back on this damn horse, cowboy fetish be damned.

Keep it professional? Please, more like Dean Smith, professional bad decision maker.  

He sighs.

At least Dean knows what to expect now, the bone crushing explosion of loss shattering through him that’s coming as it sinks in, deeper and deeper. 

Cas is gone.

And right about now, Dean doesn’t want to feel a damn thing.

He considers the fancy bourbon he has sitting in the kitchen, a great agent for achieving just that. If he can just get the energy to drag himself out of bed. 

Any minute now.

He rolls over and shoves his head under the pillow instead, nose in search of one place on the sheets that maybe Cas’ body hasn’t touched.

The door opens and closes downstairs. Shit - it’s probably the cleaning service. He should get up and put on something more respectable.

He doesn’t.

“Dean Smith, so help me if you’re naked in there, I’m gonna take pictures and put them on the internet.” A familiar voice yells through the door.

Dean jerks upright to sitting as Eileen walks in. She’s sporting rugged brown boots and a smirk across her face. 

Eileen folds her arms across her chest, taking in the three blankets piled around him like a fortress and the big fluffy robe that’s currently serving as his armor.

Dean just his chin out and waits for sympathy. Some sort of platitude about how there are lots of potential partners out there, and he is totally a catch, or something.

Eileen raises an amused eyebrow. “You look like shit.”

He laughs. It’s creaky, but it feels good. 

“Eileen, I can always count on you to make me feel pretty.” 

Eileen rolls her eyes. “Please, Dean, you have enough people in the world kissing your ass. I’m here to drag it out of bed. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get dressed. We’re going on a hike.”

She turns and closes the door behind her before he can protest. 

He considers remaining in bed and hoping Eileen gives up, but he knows her better than that. 

Besides, he can hear the blessed whirr of the coffee mill from the kitchen, and caffeine does sound delightfully necessary.

Dean drags himself out of bed stumbling over to his closet on wobbly legs, muscles still half asleep from lying around for - he checks his watch - shit thirty-something hours? He should probably call the office.

That thought reminds him that it’s still work hours, and Cas is probably in that building right now, maybe in a suit. 

And a tie.

Nope, the office can wait. 

Dean rummages around for jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He grabs an old college hoodie to complete the look, giving himself a quick once over in the mirror.

Eileen may not be too impressed with this update to his appearance but honestly, all things considered?

Dean runs a quick hand through his unwashed hair to flatten the bits at the back of his head.

He thinks he’s pretty adorable.

Yeah, Cas is missing out .

His heart pointedly reminds him of its weepy, dejected state as the pain stabs his sternum at the thought of his name.

He takes a breath.

Then spends way too much time debating whether he wants to risk getting his tennis shoes, previously only used for the indoor bike, covered in trail dirt or mud, or whatever hellacious activity Eileen has planned that he’s entirely certain he won’t be able to get out of. 

“Come on, Dean, I’m not getting any younger.” Eileen calls to the clinking sound of spoons and mugs. 

Dean looks mournfully at the remainder of his options lined up on the shoe rack, ready for torturing via communion with nature. 

It’s these or wingtips, and he can confirm that the wingtips are definitely not appropriate footwear and will likely result in some sort of blisters - and with two full days of work to make up for, Dean won’t have any time for a pedicure. 

He grabs the sneakers, placing a kiss on his fingertips and pressing it to their pristine white laces with a whispered “sorry, buddy” -  then heads downstairs, led by the smell of hot espresso and foamed milk.

Eileen hands him a mug and lets him take two head-clearing swallows before she carefully wraps him in a hug.

She takes the cup from his hands to his surprise grumble of heyyy and sets it on the counter so she can punch him on the arm - and not lightly. 

“You scared your brother, asshole. Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Eileen’s expression is playful but he can see the little crinkle of worry denting the spot between her eyebrows.

Dean smiles sheepishly, remembering the satisfying way the cell broke apart when he threw it against the gilded wallpaper of the bedroom yesterday morning. 

“I may have had a slight disagreement with the phone in question, and it may have - uh, run into a wall.”  He picks up his mug sheepishly, draining the life-saving liquid in three quick gulps despite the scalding burn of it down his throat. 

He smacks his lips in delight before it almost immediately turns to horror. “Wait...this doesn’t taste like my rice milk.”

Eileen grins, pointing to the container next to the half open shopping bag on the counter. “That’s because it’s heavy cream.” She prods a quick, pert finger at Dean’s middle with jut of her chin. “You could use a little fat on your bones, Smith.”

She thrusts a foil wrapped cylinder into Dean’s hands and he blinks at it with confusion. 

“Breakfast burrito,” Eileen says cheerfully. “Come on, we’ll pick you up a new phone on the way back.”

Dean follows her out the door and to the car. Part of him wants to ask her where she’s taking them, but truth is - he doesn’t really care. It’s not like he has anyplace else to be, and though he’s not going to admit it to her the fresh air does make the ache in his chest a little easier to bear.

He unwraps the burrito as they walk, frowning at the offending tortilla.

Carbs.

His stomach growls, and he remembers he hasn’t eaten in a few days. He takes a small bite, chews.  

God. Carbs are amazing.

He looks over at Eileen as he takes another, bigger bite and smiles, just a little. “Fanks,” he mumbles around the comforting taste of eggs and bacon, simultaneously signing his gratitude with his free hand. 

She nods, and claps him on the shoulder lightly, some of the worry sliding out of her eyes.

Dean’s finished the entire thing by the time they get to the car, and Eileen deftly plucks the ball of tin foil out of his hand, nonchalantly tossing it in the back seat. Dean rolls his eyes fondly at her casual messiness.

She hands him her phone as she starts the car. “Here. You can use this to explain to your brother why he got a frantic call from your ex-boyfriend earlier.”

The burrito almost slides back up out of his stomach and into his lap.

“Cas?” Dean asks in shock.

“That’s the one.” Eileen is looking at him shrewdly, lips twisted with curiosity. “You got another ex-boyfriend checking up on you? And - while I commend you for playing hooky for once, you should probably call work and let them know you aren’t dead. apparently, they’re ready to send out a search party.” 

She winks and pulls into traffic as Dean clicks on Sammy’s name, putting the phone up to his ear and preparing for the inevitable third degree.

Dean is relieved when he sees that Eileen is following the signs to Muir Woods. 

So, less of a hike and more of a stroll on carefully manicured paths. The integrity of Dean’s shoes will remain largely intact. 

It’s been years since his last visit, but the redwoods still stand tall and unchanged, ancient sentinels blanketing the cool path below. The sun peeks through the branches, little beams of light that are beautiful to look at but fail to provide much warmth on Dean’s upturned face.

He’d forgotten how clean the air is in this quiet, calm little nook that’s tucked away from the rest of the world.

They walk in silence for a while. There’s a stillness here, a peace. Dean’s self-pity fades as he walks along the small strip of packed dirt that cuts through the verdant grass and monoliths of bark that surround them. 

It’s pure.

They find a bench and sit. Eileen stares at him for a moment.

“Talk to me, Dean,” she signs, but speaks out loud simultaneously, knowing that Dean’s fluency in ASL is still shaky at times. 

Lies form in Dean’s mouth, but they fall away under Eileen’s scrutiny. Her bullshit EMF detector is better even than his. 

But he can’t bring himself to fully explain either, those little details stuck in his mouth like barbed wire.

“Cas.” he says finally. 

Eileen nods, her shoulders drawing back in a ‘no shit’ type of movement. “I know that, dummy. But what happened?”

Dean sighs and looks up at the trees. Maybe one of them will fall and crush him and he won’t have to deal with any of this. 

The trees don’t oblige. 

“Cas and I started seeing each other again,” he starts - and even putting it that way feels like a delusion. Did they really?

Dean wants to believe.

However, he clarifies: 

“Hooking up, really. I -”

Fuck. Shame burns hot in Dean’s throat. 

“I thought maybe a little...more than that, but... I was wrong,” he finally says, staring intently at a bird that flits from branch to branch, not giving a shit that Dean is pretty much spilling his marbles all over its forest home.

Eileen looks at him, unimpressed, and nudges his shoulder. “Cas told you he didn’t want a relationship? Or you assumed it?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Eileen mutters. She stops walking and turns to face him head-on, expression earnest.

“Dean. Cas called Sam in a literal panic today, worrying about whether or not you’re okay. This is the first time they’ve even spoken since you broke up. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Dean shrugs, and Eileen folds her arms across her chest. “Come on - clearly he cares. And you care. Frankly, the both of you are acting like complete dumbasses.”

Dean feels a surge of anger, though he can’t tell if it’s at Eileen’s words or at himself. “What would you know? You and Sammy met each other and it all just - clicked. I mean, he was telling me he was going to marry you after your first friggin’ date. Have you ever even had a fight?”

Eileen laughs, though it’s a kind sound without any mockery. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ears as a light breeze blows over their heads, rustling through the foliage that surrounds them. 

“Okay, I am officially confirming my diagnosis - you’re absolutely acting like a dumbass. Of course your brother and I fight. We just don’t advertise it.” 

Well, this is news. Dean feels a little jolt of guilt - how much time had Sammy spent listening to him and Cas bicker, there at the very end when all that was left of them was pins and needles for everyone else to try to avoid?

Dean’s not one to unload his feelings, but he’s starting to realize that it’s possible by ignoring their issues, he and Cas made their relationship everyone else’s problem.

This comes with a nice extra helping of guilt to add to the basket of bullshit already weighing on his shoulders. 

Fan-friggin’-tastic .  

“Hey,” Eileen snaps her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. Her face softens a little, sincerity gathering in her brown eyes. “Stop that. I can see you getting back on that hamster wheel that’s always spinning up in that head. I need you to listen to me, okay?”

Dean nods, and that seems sufficient for Eileen to continue.

“Listen - relationships aren’t supposed to be easy. We’re all our own special little messed up pocket of parental issues and the trauma of being human, trying to do our best when it’s so easy to be at our worst. Love takes work. That doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Dean presses his lips together and drops his eye contact briefly, taking a breath. “Eileen, Cas made it pretty clear he’s single and ready to mingle. His opinion on what I can give him hasn’t changed - he doesn’t want it. Or me.” 

He pauses, then spits it out - the biggest fear clouding his brain:

“Maybe he never did.”

That little chorus is back in his head, a broken record stuck under the sharp, skipping needle of doubt.

What if none of it was real? Four fucking years.

God - he wants to punch something, and suddenly he wishes they were throwing axes instead of walking through flowers and leaves.

Eileen touches his arm, and he looks back up at her.

Her expression is skeptical. “Okay - I’m gonna say this as your family.”

Because Eileen is Eileen - Dean knows that she knows this designation carries weight for him, and yeah, okay. He’s listening.

Eileen continues, kicking a small clod of dirt out of her way as they walk. The sunlight filtering through the foliage glints off the shine of her hair.

“I don’t claim to know everything, but I have eyes - I saw you two together, Dean. Cas loved you then - “

“Eileen -”

She puts her closed fists on her hips. 

“No - don’t interrupt and be self-deprecating, let me finish - ”

Dean shuts his mouth and looks down at his hands. 

“- and I suspect Cas still loves you, now.” Eileen declares firmly. “If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have called Sam today, period.”

Yeah - fine, she has a point . Dean continues to listen without adding his two cents as requested.

Eileen drops the call to action. “I know the concept is foreign, but maybe you could try asking Cas what it is exactly he wants?”

Dean’s head jerks up to look at her, then - reluctantly:

“‘Kay. I’ll think about it.”

He’s not lying because he is going to think about it, incessantly - but Dean doubts it’ll lead to much more.

Eileen pats him on the hand. “In the meantime, stop shutting out your friends and family, okay? I expect to see your ass at our house for dinner in the next few weeks. Capisce?”

Dean smiles. “Yeah. Ok. I capisce.”

A few weeks later

Harper buries her face in her hands and groans.

"We made it worse." 

Reese smiles at her dramatics. "Good to see you too, Harper."

Harper looks up at Reese guiltily. "Sorry. Hey."

Harper stands awkwardly and half hugs, half kisses Reese on the cheek. Then she glances around like she expects someone to yell at her.

Reese is once again filled with homicidal rage directed at Harper's family of origin.

When no pitchfork-laden homophobes appear, Harper regains her composure and sits back at the small rickety table. 

"I got you one too. We don’t have much time." She slides a disposable cup towards Reese.

Reese sighs and sits in the chair opposite Harper, sipping the steaming brew. It's too hot but she drinks it anyway, even quicker when she realizes that Harper got her secret coffee order just right. The one Reese gets when she feels just a little more indulgent than her usual ‘no frills’ version that’s just one simple pour of black liquid in her cup.

Real cream if they have it. Three sugars. Sprinkle of cinnamon and one pump vanilla.

Reese smiles into the cup as she looks at Harper, harried and clearly exhausted, but still lookin’ fantastic in the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Reese wants to kiss the dark circles under her eyes. She resists the urge to drag her out of here and force her to nap.

World Nap Day, Reese edition.

Hmm okay, no - the Reese edition probably wouldn’t have much to do with sleeping, at least not if Harper is the only participant.  

Reese sends herself to horny jail for those thoughts and turns her attention back across the table.

"Harper, it's coffee, not a Daniel Silva novel. What's up?"

Harper gives her an exasperated look and Reese feels a small measure of relief at the return of her sass. There's my girl.

"Like I said just now - it's gotten worse. At least Cas has. He doesn't even try to be subtle anymore. The other day, he pulled out a joint and started smoking it mid-meeting. Luckily, it was with Crowley, who thought it was hilarious but can you imagine if Eric Kripke was there?!"

She frowns at the memory. "The man is spiraling, Reese."

Reese finds herself nodding along. "Honestly - same in my neck of the woods. I don't think Dean’s finished a meal since they broke up and I am fairly sure he hasn't been home in four days."

Which essentially means that Reese herself has barely been home in four days, and this is the first time she’s even seen Harper in a damn week.  

She suddenly remembers the small stain on Dean’s shirt this morning. 

The Dean Smith she knows would have rushed to clean it off.

“Blot it, don't rub it.” 

Instead, he just ignored the mark tainting his white button down, while walking her through his edits to the memo they were reviewing. Reese could hardly focus on the revisions because her eyes kept darting to the pinkish-red mark on his sleeve, right between his wrist and elbow. 

No way he would have missed that.

Yeah, something was definitely more off than usual with Dean, and Reese would bet good money that it has to do with her girlfriend’s boss.

Whoop - not her girlfriend. Not officially.

Her…

Okay, Reese is getting off course.

She rolls her eyes, using humor to cover up both her growing concern and the weird tickle in her stomach from thinking about whatever this thing is that she and Harper are playing at. 

"Fine. Yes. We did make it worse. Why can’t these grown ass men get themselves some therapy? Even better, just talk to each other. They’re both clearly pining like they’re the protagonists of some sort of sweeping romance novel."

Reese drops her voice melodramatically: " My dearest Mr. Novak. It has been a fortnight since the Willoughby ball and my eyes long to drink you in."

Victory is hers as she's rewarded with a small smile from Harper, but the thrill is fleeting, quickly followed by that feeling of uncertainty.

What are they, exactly?

Okay, Harris - one relationship here to fix before you attempt defining your own.

Reese’s gaze goes to the contents of her cup, staring at the chocolate brown of her cream-laced coffee as she ponders a solution for the oldest affliction in the book. 

Heartbreak.

"If only we could lock them in a room." Harper laughs envisioning it, but Reese doesn’t join in the chuckle. The barest glint of an idea teases at the corner of her brain. 

Harper immediately looks apprehensive.

"Reese. I’m joking. We can't actually lock them in a room. One, I'm pretty sure that's kidnapping or false imprisonment or something else that's probably a felony. Two and more importantly, we would get fired...Reese?"

Reese holds up a finger. 

Harper shakes her head vehemently.

"No. No. I know that look! Whatever it is, I'm out. Cas looks unassuming but that man does a lot of yoga, which makes him both awkwardly flexible and secretly strong. I’m not trying to set myself up for him to kill me, Reese. I'm too young to die!”

Reese snorts, playfully nudging one of Harper’s hands that’s resting on the table, and okay - maybe letting her fingertips linger just a second too long. 

"Babe. Chill. I know we can't literally lock them in a room together. They would know it was us and we’d definitely get canned. But what if -” she removes her fingers from Harper’s skin to point one in the air, “we had plausible deniability?"

Harper tilts her head. "I can't believe I'm asking this, but how so?"

“Ok, so get this,” Reese grins, tapping the index finger she’s using as a conducting stick for this idea symphony against her temple. 

"Sully knows the woman in charge of maintenance for the systems ops controlling the entire building. Last year, they promoted some jackass instead of her to corporate because he's somebody's nephew or something. Anyway, she was already an anarchist, and now she's pissed at her boss."

Confusion still clouds Harper’s face, making it even fucking cuter. "So what? She tampers with a lock and they get stuck?"

Reese can feel the excitement bubbling inside her. This could work. This will work. She’s going to get her life back and have time to take the pretty girl across the table out for more than a 20 minute date that involves cardboard cups and zero kissing.

"No, we need plausible deniability , remember?” Reese waggles an eyebrow. “We don't control the elevators. If they happened to get stuck...what a strange coincidence."

She gives Harper a saucy wink.

Harper laughs. "I don't know if I should be scared or impressed."

Reese opens her mouth to say something suggestive when an angry buzz comes from Harper's phone. 

"Shoot. I gotta run. I'll text you later." She calls over her shoulder. 

Reese enjoys the view as she leaves before gathering her own things and trudging back to the office.

Harper: Reese, are you sure about this?
Reese: I’m sure that something’s got to give. It’s 9:30 pm and I’m still at work
Reese: Dean just asked me to prepare a PowerPoint presentation for the staff meeting about kitchen protocols
Reese: Do we really need clip art of a fish with a foot stepping on it to tell people not to microwave fish? 
Reese: Also how do people not know this information to begin with
Harper: I guess you’re right about needing to end the cycle
Reese: More conference room cannabis?
Harper: Nope today he chugged an entire flask of what I’m pretty sure wasn’t water
Harper: then he just walked out ten minutes later without a word
Reese: It’s gonna work and then you and I are gonna be free to be ourselves again instead of office drones
Harper: Free to be you and me? Ha
Harper: Get it?
Reese: Dork
Harper: You wouldn’t have it any other way
Reese: I really wouldn’t

Chapter Text

April 5, 2021

Harper: Ok, Cas should be leaving any minute. I’ll text you as soon as he walks by my desk
Reese: Perfect. Dean is waiting on TPS reports from me before he can leave, so I should be able to time it just right. 
Harper: You talked to Sully’s friend? The one in building services
Reese: Yep. We’re good to go. She’s just waiting for my signal.  
Harper: what if they end up in different elevators?
Reese: trust in the plan young Skywalker 🧙♂️ 
Harper: that’s more Gandalf than Obi Wan
Reese: oh whatever. Fine, nerd ♥️ - trust that the other elevators are gonna suddenly forget to stop at their floors
Harper: I can’t believe she’s willing to tamper with the elevators just because you asked her
Reese: What? I'm charming
Reese: I may have also paid her in special brownies
Harper: I hope you didn’t leave any where Dean can find them
Reese: Shut up. 😘
Reese: and no, I didn’t
Reese: As an aside, if you need me to cut off the A/C to anyone’s office because they’re being an asshole, now’s the time to tell me
Harper: Reese, you’re terrible
Reese: You like me. You want to kiss me and tell me how amazing I am
Harper: Shut up
Harper: Also accurate
Harper: Shit, okay, here he comes. It’s go time.

Cas jams the elevator button with so much force that his thumb stings. He stares at the glint of the steel doors, willing them to open faster so he can get inside and away from here. 

All he wants to do is get home and pour himself a drink - or ten - to erase this terrible day. 

He can't think about it anymore. Can't think about him anymore. Cas queues up a liquor store order on his phone, selecting the “drive thru pickup” option for efficiency.  

It's definitely time for a little liquid therapy. 

The doors slide open, and Cas freezes. He’s looking right into the bright green eyes of the man he’s trying to forget. 

Dean looks as exhausted as Cas feels, but damn it he is still beautiful . It’s no longer than a few seconds, but Cas feels like he’s been lost for hours, just gazing at that face. 

Dean can’t hide the hurt in his eyes from him, but Cas notices something else. 

Hope?

Dean blinks.

Suddenly, Cas wants to step into the elevator, to steal just a few moments basking in the light of Dean Smith again. His mind churns, trying to make sense of his own traitorous thoughts. He’s been burned over and over, but he just can’t help himself.

Oh, he knows it's pointless. A fool's endeavor, only destined to make Cas pine even more for this unattainable man. Dean doesn't love him anymore, of that much Cas is certain. If anything, Dean despises him. No matter how ‘professional’ things got between them recently, Dean wants nothing to do with Cas. 

But Cas yearns for a few moments in his orbit, because he’s nothing if not self-destructive.

Since that first night they met, Dean’s always shone brighter than any sun in Cas’ sky, and even now, rejected and shoved aside - again, Cas remains powerless to resist him, even if it burns him to ash. 

He supposes you can’t change the paths of the planets, inasmuch as you can’t shift the stars aligning your fate.  

His foot twitches towards the entryway of the elevator as he mentally curses the celestial.  

Self-preservation kicks in. 

Dean hasn't called. He hasn't texted.

The only Smith whose name appeared recently in Cas’ phone was Sam, telling him that Dean was okay and reminding him about those dinner plans they’d discussed during Cas’ little lapse of reason, when he let his Dean Smith derangement sully all respectable social norms.

Cas typed something out about being slammed at the office and calling Sam later, knowing that if Dean wasn’t reaching out now he never would. 

And as much as Cas misses Sam’s chaotic friendship and Eileen’s sparkling smile, he just can’t do it. Can’t encroach on Dean’s family. Or maybe it’s that Cas knows deep down inside that he’s not just meeting Sam out of friendship - any connection with those Dean cares about means that that bond between them, no matter how strained and tenuous, has the fodder to persist.

And that false hope is more than Cas can currently withstand.

He has no interest in continuing…whatever it was that they were doing. It wasn’t a relationship or anything leading to a relationship. 

It was just sex. Exes with benefits. An unfortunate backslide. Nothing more.

And look where it got him. Alone and untethered, like a lost dog, sadly wandering the streets whining for the human that never comes to find him. 

So Cas decides to do what he knows he must. Run. Hide from the pain. It's better this way - for both of them.

He opens his mouth to say, "I'll take the next one," but before he can get a word out, he sees Dean's features fall. 

A look of resignation passes across his face. Dean's words come back to him. 

“You're the one that left, Cas.”

And something inside Cas decides to prove he is capable of something ‘other.’

Cas steps into the elevator before he’s even registered his momentum forward.

His heart jumps into his throat as he realizes Dean’s been holding the “door open” button this entire time.

Shit.

Perhaps Cas can blame the dizzying feeling in his stomach on the elevator’s descent as it plummets along with him, falling down to Earth. 

"Hello, Dean." He finally gets the greeting out, turning towards the front of the elevator.

Not going to look him in those eyes again.

"Heya, Cas." Dean says, and it’s almost too quiet to hear. 

They watch as the numbers count down their descent. 

Cas feels like an oxymoron personified, the panic in his throat ascending as the elevator sinks further towards the ground.  

He’s here. Alone. With Dean.

It’s everything he’s been longing for, but he doesn’t want a single bit of it all at the same time.

If he could just figure out what to say. How to fix this. If he could just show Dean that he isn't a total fuck-up. 

Not possible. I’d have to actually not be a total fuck-up for that to work. 

Still, he chances a glance over at Dean.

And finds him staring back.  

There’s a wrinkle between Dean’s brows and it takes everything Cas has not to reach out and smooth it with a gentle caress of his hand. 

Dean shifts uneasily. If Cas didn't know any better, he would think Dean was fighting the same instinct. The need for contact.

Touch. 

"Cas, I..." Dean starts to say softly, but he trails off when, suddenly - the air reverberates with a loud thunk and the screeching of metal, rusty gears. The background hum of the elevator cuts out abruptly, their downward trajectory coming to a halt. 

They're stuck.

Dean's eyes widen, his breath hitching. He grabs his phone from his pocket and begins tapping in numbers, thumbs flummoxed and desperate on the keys.

Cas hesitates, but can’t help himself. "Dean, stop,” he mutters, reaching around him, “It won't work. There's no service. You’re supposed to push the button and the elevator people will help." 

He mashes his hand on the bright red button on the wall.

A loud ringing fills the elevator. 

Dean is breathing harder now. "The ‘elevator people’?" He spits out, managing to sound mocking even in what appears to be a mild state of panic.

Cas rolls his eyes without meaning to. "You know what I mean. Security or whoever." 

"I don't want security, I want the fire department. I want the national guard." Dean sputters, red faced. One of his fingers tugs at the edge of his collar, like it’s choking his breath.  

Cas glances over at him, concern rising in his eyes as he recognizes the red flags in the twitches of Dean’s lips, the constricted movements of his chest.  

Before he can say anything, a tinny voice pings through the speaker.

"Hello? You called for assistance?" 

"Yes, hello?" Dean bellows back, pressing his entire face to the little metal square riddled with a circle of dots. 

"We’re stuck in the friggin’ elevator. What are you doing to fix it?" The veins pulse in Dean’s neck, drumming to the beat of his words.

"Okay. Which elevator?" The voice sounds bored.

"What. Do. You. Mean. Which. Elevator?" Dean asks, the strain rising with each syllable. 

"Try the one THAT ISN'T MOVING."

"Elevator three," Cas says coolly, putting a soft hand on Dean’s shoulder.  

Dean looks up at him, jaw still pulsing. 

Cas locks eyes with Dean, and begins to breathe - in for four, out for eight. 

Dean automatically matches his breaths to Cas’, without hesitation.

Just like they used to do. 

The tightness in Dean’s features eases with each exhale. 

Cas’ hand is still on his shoulder, and he leans in, sagging against the grip of his palm. Cas fights the urge to pull him close in an embrace, holding him through it. 

Instead he keeps breathing. 

One. Two. Three. Four. 

And out. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. 

Slow.

One. Two. Three. Four. 

And out. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Calm.

His eyes don’t leave Dean’s.

"We’re working on the issue and will get you out as soon as we can." The voice announces, proud of itself.

Cas jerks, startled. He had forgotten about the speaker, the elevator, the entire malfunction. Forgotten everything not contained within the parameters of the face in front of him.

There's a click of a phone hanging up, and it's just them again, left to their own devices for some indeterminate duration. 

"Dean." Cas says carefully, peering into his eyes.

Dean shakes his head like he’s waking up from a deep sleep, blinking hazily at him.  

“Not sure why I just…” Dean’s voice trails off as he shrugs and pulls away, his features shutting down one by one, the cold filling his pupils, then spreading to the firm line of his lips. 

"I'm fine now." He says flatly. 

Cas balls his fists at his sides, wanting to scream at Dean in exasperation. He bites it down. 

Same old story, different window dressing. Dean shutting him out, again. 

Cas sighs and sinks down against the wall. Dean mirrors him from the other side of the elevator, slithering his spine to the ground slowly until his ass hits the floor. 

They sit in silence. 

Cas casts his gaze around the four walls trapping them, searching for a dent in the metal or speck of dirt on the steel surface of their makeshift cage.

Trying to distract his longing, hungry eyes that don’t want to look at anything other than Dean. 

No use.  

Inevitably, Cas finds himself staring at the little freckles sprinkling down one of Dean’s arms, nestled under the little golden hairs that sparkle even in the dim fluorescent lighting. He still remembers the name of each constellation he’s dreamed up on the expanse of Dean’s skin, connecting the dots while holding him in the soft glow of the moon.

Dean’s knees are drawn up tight, face cradled in his hands and shoulders up to his ears with tension. Cas feels that familiar feeling of protectiveness, carried into his chest by an overwhelming wave of love. 

Loving Dean is a gift to which Cas is no longer entitled. He feels like a recalcitrant child on Christmas morning, unhappy that the tag on the wrapping paper doesn’t spell out his name.

Cas aches for a hit. Something to push it all away, make it tolerable.

Douse this fire threatening to consume him entirely.

Dean lifts his head, shivering like he feels Cas’ eyes on him. 

“What?” Dean asks, squaring his shoulders and stiffening his jaw.

Cas swallows.

Fuck it.  

“You don’t really believe those things you said before, do you?” He blurts the words out before he can convince himself otherwise. 

“Dean, you can’t possibly think that about me.”  

Dean meets his gaze, and Cas blanches at the hurt in Dean’s eyes, deep and cutting. 

He does believe it. 

That Cas used him to get back at his father. That Cas always intended to run, in the end.

Dean’s eyes go from pleading to hard. 

“What was I supposed to believe, Cas?” He grits bitterly through the tiny spaces between his teeth. 

“You didn’t want to talk about your past. You didn’t want to talk about our future. Anytime things got tough, you ducked and ran. Even when you were still physically there - towards the end, it felt like you were always trying to - get away. From me - from us.”

Dean’s shoulders slump back against the metal rectangle of the wall like he needs its support.

“So yeah, when someone told me you were a spanner in the works? It seemed pretty on the nose.”

Cas feels a stab of pain. “Dean, I didn’t want to talk about the past because I wanted it left in the rearview, where it belongs. There was nothing there for me.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.

“Is that so?” He asks, anger flashing from his pupils. 

“Or maybe you just didn’t want me to know about all the other times you bolted from daddy’s grip.” Dean pauses, shaking his head with a grimace before punching in the final blows: 

“The yacht in Ibiza? The boyfriend in Tahoe?”

Each word is ablaze with pain and betrayal.

Cas feels his heart sink. He knows the answer in his heart, before he even asks the question, but his incessant didactic nature needs the confirmation. 

“How did you know?” It’s a whisper. A plea of surrender.

“Zachariah.” Dean says curtly. 

Cas feels that familiar bubble of anger stirring in his periphery. Resentment towards his own history, stirring like a slumbering giant under his skin. 

“That was different, Dean.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he chokes down the lump in his throat.

That was me before you. Searching for my true north amongst the stars, always landing in that inky space between. Lost.

How was Cas to know, in all of his waiting? That his fate wasn’t sealed by points of light dotting the heavens. 

It was always on earth, written on skin and transcribed in Dean’s voice. Delivered by freckles across the arms of a boy.

“Yeah? And how was I s’posed know that, man?” Dean asks bitterly. He takes a deep breath and then drops the bomb that rocks Cas’ entire world.

“Based on what I saw, Zachariah was right. You were heading for another breakdown, right back to the same place as the rest of your little ‘rebellions.’ He handed me this report and it had all of these - ” 

Dean’s voice breaks slightly, but he pulls himself together, and Cas can tell this is going to be bad, he can feel the panic welling within him because Cas knows. He knows where this is going, and he wants to stop it. Stop time. Stop this inevitable descent back into the depths of the hell of his past. The fiery pit from which he thought he and Dean had escaped unscathed.

“Internal memos,” Dean continues as Cas remains quiet despite his trepidation. “Medical records. Cas, you were hospitalized multiple times and you never said a word.” 

The heartbreak on Dean’s face as he says this is almost too much for Cas to bear, but he forces himself to keep looking Dean in the eye. To accept what he’s saying. To pay penance for his prior misdeeds, to be punished by the brunt and the weight of these words.

“You never talked to me. About that. About anything .” Dean tilts his chin up to glower at the ceiling, his head thudding against the wall dully.

Dean swallows. His eyes dart to Cas’ face.  

Dean’s voice is hoarse. “The last report. The state they found you in…” he trails off, throat working with some strong emotion.

Cas stares at him with the slack of realization in his jaw.

Dean knows everything. Cas suddenly feels like he’s on a butcher’s block, all of his tender insides open and flayed under Dean’s sharp knife. He can see the pages in his mind like they’re right there in front of him, every detail of Cas’ past, in uniform size 12 type.  

Every transgression.

Every act of disobedience.

Every fallout of Cas’ choices, leaving him graceless and destitute on the floor of what feels like a sinking ship, Cas semi-conscious and almost wishing he could go down with it.

Cas is not a devout man, but he remembers praying that day. What he’s unsure of is the subject of the request - whether it was to be rescued or left alone, lost forever under the waves of his own making.

The universe decreed he’d survive, though the aftermath left a fairly large gap between living and simply existing, trudging through it - first one minute, then one hour, then one day at a time until he’d made it a week. Then a month. Then a year.

Cas was still feeling the effects of that tempest when he met Dean that night at the party.

A lighthouse on the horizon, the guiding glow in the dark of the storm. And Dean didn’t even know it, how much his presence helped Cas get through the turmoil of his past.

Or so Cas thought.

The slow sink of shame begins in his chest, along with the familiar presence of anxiety - her fingers clutching at his throat, choking the oxygen before it reaches his windpipe.

Cas grabs on to the calming feeling of their prior breathing exercise, shoving away the emotions threatening to overtake his constitution. He glances over at Dean again without meeting his gaze, focusing on his favorite freckle - the one right below Dean’s left earlobe.

And there it is - the immediate sense of calm that accompanies Dean’s presence. Cas can breathe again.

Even after all of this time, Dean remains Cas’ beacon. Though now it’s not only without his knowledge - it’s almost certainly also without Dean’s permission.

Guilt joins the shame and anxiety still bubbling just below Cas’ ribcage, their darkness an ever-looming threat.   

No wonder Dean drifted, further and further, after reading the chapters of Cas’ past that should have stayed buried. The ghosts he saw haunting Dean’s eyes in those last days they spent together were just Cas’ own reflection.

And so it goes, once again - Castiel is the tragic victim of a demise of his own making. As much as he tries, he can’t change it - his past catches up to him every single damn time, like a piece of broken machinery that skitters the entire assembly line to a full and final stop.

Regret joins the party, passing shame and anxiety the flickering cherry of a dimly lit joint. 

Cas doesn’t want it. These feelings. He wants the sharp, clean burn of anger. He should be angry, furious even. Dean read page upon page of private, medical information pertaining to Cas - years ago! And never told him. 

This is more than just a secret, it’s an act of betrayal.

He musters the energy, taking in a lungful of air to power what he hopes will be a fiery retort, admonishing Dean for this nefarious invasion of his privacy.

It dies on his lips without any gravitas when he sees the soft glint of Dean’s eyes. Cas had expected to find disgust or even worse - pity blazing from Dean’s pupils. 

Or the kill shot - that cold indifference he’d almost gotten used to seeing before they backslid back into this strange liminal space of physical and emotional purgatory.

Dean’s gaze contains none of the above.

In fact, if it weren’t absolutely and utterly impossible, Cas would say that what he sees - shining in the emerald stare that pierces right through him like an arrow - is love.

Dean frowns, examining Cas’ face. “Cas?”

Cas averts his gaze, mumbling softly. “I wish you didn’t know about any of that. I wish -“ to his own embarrassment, the words are suddenly too thick on his tongue, mixing with the black, sticky tar of the dark emotions still threatening to slither out and wrap around him like a noose. “I wish I could just be fine. Normal.”

He chances a glance back at Dean. His expression is puzzled, the white of his eyes expanding to dwarf the green in confusion.

“What? Cas - no, you were fine. When we met. And then -”

It’s Cas’ turn to be perplexed, though he inwardly congratulates himself on the well-maintained façade he managed to construct, keeping Dean from his broken pieces at least for some of their seemingly doomed relationship.

Dean takes a breath, then says everything just a little too fast, his trademark move of barrelling through words when he doesn’t feel comfortable releasing them into the air. “It felt like I broke you, Cas. Like I brought you down to my level. I thought if I could just work hard enough I could give it all back to you, what you had before. Keep you from falling into that bad place.” 

The small curve of Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs furiously as he adds:

“I was scared I’d fail you - lose you before I could...”

It’s like a lightbulb turning on, the dawning of comprehension slowly illuminating Cas’ thoughts.

Or maybe it’s the glow of the rising sun, a greeting of morning brightening the dusky skies of night. The growing clarity upon waking - that the nightmares were just dreams, and the real world is waiting, here. Cas simply has to open his eyes and see it clearly.

Bright as the newness of day - he understands.

This isn’t about his past at all. 

It’s about their future, which it seems Dean had taken on as his personal and unilateral responsibility.

Per the usual, Dean Smith is shouldering every burden no one asked him to bear, including apparently holding himself solely accountable for the state of Cas’ mental health. 

“Fuck,” Cas whispers sadly. “That’s why you kept trying to tell me what to do. I thought you were trying to control me, but you were trying to protect me.” He palms his own brow with his hand, the skin of it vibrating like it’s electrically charged with the sheer enormity of this realization. 

He suddenly understands the urge Dean sometimes has to just hit something until his knuckles bruise purple and red. 

He shakes his head, flexing the fists back out and folding his hands in his lap instead. 

“Dean, no. I was already broken, but I wasn’t in danger. More important, though - I wasn’t upset. About losing the life I led before you. Those other times, yes, I was running away.”

Cas wriggles uncomfortably with the admission, but presses on:

“Before, I only wanted one thing - something that stopped the pain - of being alone, misunderstood. Unfulfilled. So I’d get as far away from my father as I could, then lose myself in that half-assed quest for meaning. Escape became my final destination.” 

Dean’s frozen still, eyes pinned to him. His lips twitch, the tiny muscles working as he processes Cas’ words.

Cas scoots a little closer to him before continuing.

“But with you, I... For the first time I wasn’t running away. I was running towards something. You. I didn’t talk about the future because you were the only date on my calendar the moment we met...” 

Cas sighs, then earnestly:

“You want a plan? Dean, I will follow you anywhere. I thought that was the plan. I just wanted you with me. I don’t care about anything else. Never cared about anything else.”

He closes his eyes, trying not to think about the emotions catching in his throat.  

A brush of fingertips on his shoulder jolts them back open.

Dean blinks, crouched right in front of him. Cas feels something breaking open inside his own chest. He covers Dean’s hand with his own.

“Dean, when I said I didn’t want that life, I meant I didn’t want a life without you. I didn’t want the fancy apartment or the designer clothes. I wanted you in my arms.”

Dean swallows and takes a deep breath, shock and bewilderment in his eyes. 

“I thought you meant you didn’t want a future with me, Cas.” Cas hears that small but unmistakable song, twining its melody through every syllable that pours out of Dean’s mouth.

Like a little bird that heralds the first thaw of spring after a long, icy winter.

Hope.

Cas echoes its chorus. “It was all I wanted, Dean. All I have ever wanted is a future with you.”

“I miss you. Every day.” Dean says it softly, the quiet sound of a prayer.

“I miss you too.” Cas’ heart is in his throat.

Just like that, Dean’s lips collide with his.

The sensation is so dizzying, for a minute Cas thinks the elevator is back to functional, descending on overdrive like it’s making up for its past bad behavior.

But no, no, the feeling is instantly familiar, like coming home after a long journey. Dean’s hands, cupping the sides of his jaw, his tongue sliding into Cas’ mouth like smooth, molten iron. Muscle and heat.  

Warmth and safety.

Cas sinks into it, letting the feel of Dean’s mouth carry him away, the shape of his body melting into Dean’s.  

After a few minutes of this, Cas pulls away slightly, overpowered by an urgent need to take everything in. There’s no camera around this time, but he wants capture this moment - even if it’s only in his mind, to keep it with him always like a gift…

And - oh.

Dean is unbelievably beautiful, even in the artificial light of the steel box Cas no longer has any desire to leave. His mouth is relaxed and slightly upturned, the beginnings of his smile crinkles just lightly feathering at the corners of each eye. 

Unshed tears circle Dean’s irises like liquid rings, and Cas allows himself to fall into their depths like a parched man in the desert who has finally happened upon a lifesaving oasis. 

Suddenly, it’s critical to Cas that he says it. That he makes Dean understand. “I love you.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle back, but this time he says the words out loud. “I love you too, Cas.”

There’s a thunk and a whir. The elevator begins falling back to earth. 

Cas takes Dean’s hand. “Come home?”

Dean smiles and nods, emotion thick in his throat. “Yeah, Cas. Let’s go home.”

They get to the old apartment so quickly that Dean almost feels like they flew there. They take his car, Cas muttering something about leaving his at home that morning and Dean doesn’t ask if it’s because he was too high or drunk to drive it.

Instead he decides to trust Cas - that he has things under control. And honestly it’s not even that hard because right now? All Dean can think about is the feel of Cas’ fingers fitting in the spaces between his own, like the ridges of a key sliding home into the grooves of a lock.

He keeps their hands intertwined as he drives, the other palm on the leather of the steering wheel, navigating easily through the relatively empty early evening streets. The sun is setting above them and there’s some metaphor there, but Dean’s not one for flowers and poetry so he doesn’t get too far down that path.

What he does do is rub a little circle on Cas’ skin with his thumb and try to enjoy the growing warmth in his chest at the idea that when he parks the car, they’re going to walk into a door together.

Not a chance meeting, or late-night arrival, or even an afternoon office rendezvous.

For the first time, in a long time, Cas and Dean are headed - in unison - for the same destination.

And there’s nothing more poetic than that.

Dean spares a quick peek inside their old place - Cas’ place now, he supposes - before stepping through the doorway.

Some ridiculous part of him decides that it’s actually a good idea to scoop Cas up in his arms before crossing the threshold.

“Oof! What on earth - Dean?” Cas gasps with surprise as Dean hoists his body into the air, holding him more like a bag of grain than what he intended this to be.

Though Dean’s not too sure on what his intentions were to begin with. Some sort of bridal scenario? Would Cas even want to be ‘the bride’ - and what the hell is Dean’s brain doing, even thinking about brides and thresholds, and promises of forever. 

He covers by kissing Cas resoundingly on the lips, a little awkward with his arms looped fully around his body like cords of rope, but manageable. He takes three long strides and dumps Cas on the couch without ceremony.

Its ratty, familiar cushions greet Dean like an old friend, and he can’t help but grin back.

Great, now he’s gone from bridal magazines to smiling inanely at the furniture.

He turns back to Cas, who’s just chilling on the sofa, squinting up at Dean and emanating that...Cas thing.

“Just thought you’d appreciate that I’ve been working out,” Dean smirks, flexing both his muscles like some sort of 90’s he-man toy, and okay maybe this isn’t the sexiest thing he’s ever done in his life.

Cas grins up at him from the cushions and flops to the side, propping up an elbow and tucking his palm under the curve of his jaw. “Hmm, you’re right,” he smacks his lips agreeably.  “You’re definitely not that little pipsqueak I used to date. That I’m certain of.”

Pipsqueak?!

Dean’s brow furrows with indignation before he realizes that Cas is absolutely and totally fucking with him.

To retaliate Dean promptly hops on top of the smug little devil, the motion shifting Cas flat on his back. Dean holds him firmly with either knee on each side of his waist, straddling him like their old friend Larry the bull.  

“I’ll show you pipsqueak,” Dean growls.

Cas doesn’t bat an eyelash. He yanks the waistband of Dean’s work slacks forwards, one long finger dexterously sliding past both the waistband of the pants themselves and the elastic one of Dean’s boxers, swooping down his bare skin to the small tuft of hair that grazes the base of his dick.

A dick that’s extremely happy to see him.

Dean shudders even at that small amount of fingertip pressure, lurching towards Cas slightly.  He puts an arm on the back of the couch for balance.  

“We gonna end up on the floor again, Cas?” His voice is hoarse and dry.

Cas chuckles. “Actually, that’s a good point. Maybe let’s relocate somewhere more...spacious? I don’t have a fancy maid service to clean up our mess at my beck and call.” He pulls his hand out of Dean’s pants to his dick’s great chagrin, but then crushes his lips to Dean’s before acting on his own instruction.

His tongue swoops inside Dean’s mouth like a revelation, exploring every crevice as if Cas hasn’t tasted each one so many times before. Dean moans softly, pulling it deeper and sucking around it - just a little.  

His special preview of what he intends to do to Cas’ dick as soon as he releases it from that purgatory of entirely too tight hipster gray jeans that Cas is so deliciously encased in. Dean frowns for a minute, distracted by how the material strains around Cas’ muscular thighs, like they’re threatening to burst the seams if he moves just a smidge in an unexpected direction.

“Stop judging my pants,” Cas groans against his mouth, grabbing a fistful of button down shirt and pulling Dean closer on top of him until they’re groin to groin. 

Suddenly Dean’s very aware that Cas’ legs aren’t the only thing um, well-defined by this particular cut. He can feel every inch of Cas' dick through the crotch of the jeans, the stiffness of the fabric only serving to add more friction as Cas rubs himself on the much thinner material of Dean’s dress slacks.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean’s voice is a shuddering whisper, and he bites down on the last letter of Cas’ name with a nip of his earlobe.

“My understanding is that eventually this will be the outcome,” Cas concurs cheerfully, fingers starting to release the row of buttons running down Dean’s torso, the mere graze of his large, clever hands over the thin cotton undershirt perking Dean’s nipples like the buds of flowers opening to the dawn.

There’s something else inside of Dean that’s starting to unfurl, slowly and tentatively.  

He covers Cas’ mouth with his again, harder this time, more urgent. Their tongues slide against each other, and Dean matches the pressure of his lips with his hand, closing it over Cas’ groin. Cas groans, grinding into it slowly, the rub of the jeans scratchy against the skin of Dean’s callused palm.  

Dean pulls out of the kiss to look at him, and he’s never seen anything more magnificent than this - Cas panting at him with his spine arched, hair already wrecked beyond salvation and pupils black and deep like cavernous pits.

His lips are bite-pink and ravaged and Dean feels a surge of pride that it’s his mouth that’s responsible for that small insurrection. He drops a hand to Cas’ face, cupping his jaw gently.  Cas leans into it with a small inhale, presenting Dean with the side of his neck as an offering.  

Dean runs his eyes down the column of muscle, tracing over every delicate vein. He leans in, enjoying how his breath sends those inevitable shivers that travel down Cas’ entire body, two small points peaking in arousal across his chest, prominent under the light blue t-shirt Cas is still wearing.

He pauses, remembering Cas didn’t want him to leave any trace of his ministrations on the skin of this area the last time they fell into each other.

Cas twitches impatiently. “Dean!”

The sound is both plea and demand. Dean plants a dragging wet kiss under the small dip under the square of jawbone matching the one he’s still cradling in his palm.

“More,” Cas whines out, straining his body towards Dean and dropping his hand flush against the top of his, moving it firmly up and down where it’s still pressing against Cas’ erection.

Dean adds just a graze of teeth to his next taste of Cas, moving further down his neck towards that tiny, lovely pathway from shoulder to clavicle.

“Please,” Cas grits out, “I need more.”

Dean takes an inhale, not knowing how to ask for this type of permission, in this strange place they’re at now - the same but different.

That tentative pink of the sunlight after a rainstorm dishevels the night - fragile line of the horizon teetering between the chaos of evening destruction and the dawn of a fresh morning start.

Cas’ eyes flutter open to meet Dean’s hesitant gaze. “I want you to mark me,” he groans, and God Dean can barely hold it together when Cas is like this, completely undone and unabashedly needy.

Abruptly Dean needs something too.

He gently releases Cas’ face, guiding his head back to rest against the arm of the couch behind him, and yanks both layers of his own shirts that Cas abandoned in his lust with one flick of an arm. 

“You first,” Dean growls. “Wanna show the world who I belong to.”

Cas’ eyes fill with emotion at those words as Dean - for some reason his scattered mess of a brain can’t quite piece together - offers Cas his bare left shoulder.

Cas grasps it firmly with his hand, smoothing his fingertips over Dean’s skin.

“Me,” he says and it sounds like some sort of edict - a divine and binding decree. Cas pauses, then locks eyes with Dean, claiming him with a simple:

“You’re mine.”

Then - to the sound of Dean’s hitched intake of breath, he sucks three quick marks into the skin there - right over the curve of Dean’s shoulder, pulling in hard so the red prints are raised and puckering.

“Is that what you had in mind?” Cas breathes into Dean’s chest, and Dean’s face drops down to Cas’ hair, the smell of him pouring into his nostrils like a heady fucking perfume.

He chuckles, enjoying how the exhale of breath that travels out with the laugh moves the dark spikes on top of Cas’ head, a rustle of inky pine needles in a gust of wayward wind.

“A little cursed, but I’ll take it,” Dean whispers, nuzzling Cas with his nose just to get another lungful of him , because he’s sure of it - then and there, that this won’t ever change. This feeling of absolute certainty that there’s no one on this entire damn planet that Dean would rather have over Cas.

Over this.

Cas slides both of his arms around him, under his shoulders and around Dean’s back, the cotton of his shirt brushing against Dean’s nipples. He bites back another moan at the sharp tingling sensation that fires through him, all the way from his chest to the tip of his now leaking dick.

“We were heading to the bedroom,” Cas gasps out against Dean’s sternum, biting out a row of marks on the skin there, stretched tighter over the bone. They look like tiny symbols, as if Cas is writing out a love letter on Dean’s skin in a language only they understand.

Dean curves his hand behind the back of Cas’ head, unbuckling his slacks with the other and sliding them down so his dick can bob free. It pokes through the opening of his boxers like it’s been summoned, gravitating immediately towards the space between Cas’ thighs.

“Don’t wanna - no - can’t wait that long,” Dean decides, and he does Cas the same favor he just did himself, divesting him of his belt and those horrific restraints that are an unfortunate part of his fly - the button and zipper.

Cas’ small laugh is low - and gravelly - and - fucking hot , and Dean quickly shoves down his boxers, which are soaked through at the center to an almost embarrassing degree, as Cas wriggles out of those terrible pants.

Dean looks at him for just a moment longer, somehow both devastatingly handsome and simply adorable, kneeling on the couch with his impossibly firm erection peeking out under the hem of the t-shirt.  

Dean frowns at this remaining piece of clothing that’s offensively gatekeeping the smooth, carved expanse of Cas’ torso and chest.  

It’s a fucking crime actually, and Dean’s going to get justice immediately.

He yanks the shirt up over Cas’ head, dropping his mouth back to his neck in the process, sucking there like he’s drinking him up completely and scraping his nails down the smooth muscle of Cas’ now blessedly bare back. 

Cas sags with pleasure as short, stuttering moans tear from his lips at each swift flick of Dean’s tongue.  

“How do you want -”

“We can do anything you -”

They both stop speaking at the same time just like they started, and Cas’ face cracks with a wobbly smile. 

“I just want you to feel good,” he says softly, the blue of his eyes practically glowing. “But I have to warn you - I’m pretty close.”

Dean glances down at their cocks, and honestly he’s not sure who is more to blame for the absolute ruin they’re making of the couch cushions.

“Don’t think I’m too far behind,” he quips, glancing back up at Cas. “But -”

Dean pauses.

Cas gently wraps his hand around Dean’s dick, inciting another groan out of him and completely destroying most of his ability to form coherent thoughts, much less actual strung-together sentences.

“Just tell me what you want, Dean,” Cas says - the gravel of his voice smoothed over like pebbles washed quietly up on the shore of a lake.

“You,” Dean states the obvious, but then clarifies it with:

“Inside. Filling me up.” The last part is of course - metaphorical, and Dean is aware of that, but describing the act of Cas actually filling a sleeve of latex isn’t quite as mood inducing.

So when Cas nods, and gently pushes Dean back without digging for a small foil packet, Dean’s face twists with more than a little bit of surprise.

He hears the click of a bottle cap, and of course it’s so very Cas to keep lube inside his fucking jeans pocket .

“Are you not, um - gonna?” he croaks out the words like a stepped-on bullfrog, because Cas’ stupid fucking wet fingers are already inside him, making quick work of that needy, wanting space between the cleft of Dean’s cheeks. 

Cas slides up his body, letting their cocks rub together gently, just saying hello.

“We don’t need it,” he explains with a soft lick behind Dean’s right earlobe and he has gotta stop that for a goddamn second because there’s not a chance in sam-hill Dean’s gonna comprehend a thing during.

He places a hand carefully on Cas’ (rock hard, absolutely fucking ripped - he’s gonna have to figure out this workout regimen, stat) chest, and raises an eyebrow with question.

Cas uses the tip of his nose to outline Dean’s jaw, and adds another slicked-up finger to the pleasurable stretch he’s got going in Dean’s hole before he continues:

“I haven’t, uh - frequented the bed of another lately. Had - someone else on my mind for a few months now...” Cas looks a little sheepish all of a sudden, adding quickly, “I got my test results back last week and I’m clean.”

Dean decides that Cas is actually not allowed to say another fucking word because there’s no universe in which they shouldn’t be kissing right about fucking now .

When they finally break apart it’s only because humans have a very annoying propensity of needing oxygen filling their lungs to live.

Though, studying the lines of his face, peppered lightly with his usual stubble and dusted with that soft pink on each cheek and the tip of his nose - Dean thinks that he may be able to function solely on the essence that’s Cas.

Cas wraps his hand around both their dicks, giving them a quick stroke as Dean blows out a powerful breath.

“Hi,” Cas huffs on the tail end of his own ecstatic exhalation.

“Hi,” Dean responds softly, then tilts his head. “Frequented the bed of another? Really?” He bites off the last word because Cas glides his grip over them both again, almost like he’s doing it in retaliation. “Oof.”

Dean fights to regain his bearings, even as he feels Cas gently squeeze their cocks at the top, slicking his hand with the wet mess pooling there. 

“You sound like a damsel in a Victorian novel, lounging around with a titty out while missing her lover,” Dean bites out as Cas pulls his dick away from Dean’s and starts lining himself up with what is now a reasonably prepared entryway.

“Exactly my intention,” Cas hums, then - sincerely:

“I did miss you. Very much.” 

With this direct arrow that shoots Dean right through the heart, Cas’ dick glides past his rim easily, the sensation of actual skin after so long without it taking Dean to another dimension where the option of words doesn’t exist.

Cas seems to have retained some superhuman ability to speak, however, because now he’s chanting a downright filthy litany itemizing every sensation that his cock is currently experiencing in his very astute and intensive exploration of Dean’s fucking ass.

Dean responds with small whimpers, gradually increasing in volume until he’s practically roaring with every thrust of Cas’ hips.

His hand wraps tightly around his dick like it’s a very sensitive life raft keeping him from careening under each wave that’s surging through him as Cas grinds deeper and deeper, aiming true and hitting that bullseye. Every. Fucking. Time.

Suddenly he rocks his head back, blessing Dean yet again with that smooth expanse of real estate between clavicle and neck, body tensing, like he’s readying for a dizzying drop.

Cas’ eyes snap to Dean’s.

“I love you,” Cas whispers as he falls, and Dean can’t decide if his own orgasm is from the sensation of Cas filling him to the brim or those words exploding through his chest.

Either way he’s riding it all the way through, clutching Cas as if he’s pulling Dean from the brink of darkness - and maybe he is because something is shining inside him, filling those dark cracked parts of Dean with a soft glowing light.

Love without conditions. There’s another word for this, his brain whispers faintly.

Affection without parameter, requirement or proof. Based on the faith that no matter what occurred in the past or looms in the distant future - they’ll be there, for each other. Stand beside each other.

Even when darkness inevitably surrounds them - and it will, because life isn’t perfect, Dean isn’t worried about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘but thens’ in this moment. He feels a strange sense of calm - perhaps temporarily, but with fundamental certainty. 

Finally the definition rises in his mind, as clear as morning dewdrops and the blue of the sky in Cas’ eyes. 

Love means they can wait out the night - until the sun rises to meet them on the rooftop, still holding on to each other.

Holding on to this grace.

Cas’ warm weight sinks into Dean as their bodies slow their movements, and Dean reaches an arm up to drag the throw blanket from where it still - after all this time - sits perched on the back of the couch, draping it over their bodies.

Dean smiles, just a little bit, because of course the blanket is in that same spot Cas always recalcitrantly placed it before Dean put it away in the linen closet, again. Cas is nothing but a creature of habit.

His creature of habit.

Dean feels Cas’ hand at his cheek, turning for a small press against his lips before he tucks his head under Cas’ neck. Cas drops another kiss on the top of Dean’s hair.

“Love you, too.” Dean mumbles - suddenly needing to put it in words, tangible things that float in the air and solidify around them like a promise.

“Thank you,” Cas says softly. “Dean, I -”

His voice cracks a little, and that brings a spurt of tears to Dean’s eyes, and oh sonofabitch , no he is not going to be the dude that cries after sex.

Unfortunately, Cas - being a highly observant bastard, is already wiping the wetness from Dean’s face with one hand and if he ever breathes a word of this to Sammy - well, Dean will simply murder them both.

Cas is staring at him like he’s some sort of precious object, and Dean wriggles his hips a little, slightly uncomfortable.

“Cas, you can’t just - look at a dude like that,” he grumbles, trying to cover the way his chest is bursting with happiness by rough syllables and frowning brows.

Cas sees right through him, because of course he does.

He also mercifully pretends not to let on, continuing his prior train of thought instead:

“You were right - you did change me, Dean. But it was healing, not breaking,” he says quietly.  Dean’s throat works at the sincerity that’s ringing in Cas’ voice - loud as a bell. 

“Before we met, I was - lost. Empty.” Cas plants a small kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth.

“You helped me find the way out,” Cas murmurs. “Showed me a new path, away from that hell I’d been living. I’ll never forget that.”

Dean kisses him again, and his stomach lets out a growl. Dean decides it’s time for dinner (or is it a midnight snack?) and along with it, a lighter mood. They can talk in more detail later, with full stomachs and maybe even emptier balls.

“So are you saying -” he pauses, wriggling his eyebrows like he’s Groucho friggin’ Marx, then lowers his voice three octaves in exact imitation of Castiel, Supernatural:

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition?”

He yelps as Cas tickles him in punishment, grabbing a decorative pillow from the floor to bonk him over the head.

“Allright, allright! Uncle. Stop right now or I won’t make you pancakes!”

Cas ceases the attack immediately, sitting upright in all of his smooth-skinned, lean and muscled glory. He tilts his head like the cute motherfucker he is.

“Banana ones?”

Dean grins. “With honey butter, my honeybee.” He grabs the sides of Cas’ face and kisses him one last time - well, last for the next five minutes or so - before adding:

“And after that we can maybe try and make it to the actual bed.”

Cas smiles that sunshine grin Dean loves the most, and says softly, “Our bed.” He pauses. “Please stay.”

Dean’s chest squeezes tight, because as always - the absence of physical sensation is leaving room for the waves of self-doubt. But he wants to try.  

“Where else would I go?” He squeezes Cas’ hand firmly, looking down at their linked fingers, and says the one thing he knows he can promise sincerely.

“This is home.”

Chapter Text

April 6, 2021

Cas wakes up the same way he’s woken up so many times over the last year - rolled over to Dean’s side of the bed, clutching at empty space. 

As always, his heart sinks as his fingers brush across the cold sheets.

He’s forgetting something. Something important.

The night before comes back in a rush. Dean. He promised not to leave.

Cas rolls out of bed, his chest a mixture of anticipation and fear. He finds Dean on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the dark and empty TV screen. The flood of relief is tempered by concern when Cas sees the tell-tale signs of panic on Dean’s face.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Dean starts like he’s coming out of a trance, blanket falling away. He meets Cas’ eyes and gives him a terse nod. 

Cas resists the urge to grab him and pull him back into bed to kiss away all of the worry. He knows that if he brings too much attention to the anxiety currently coloring Dean’s features, he’ll either push back reflexively or lose himself under Cas’ hands and lips and teeth. 

But that’s what they’ve been doing, and as pleasant as it is to carry Dean away into mind-numbing physical escape, Cas knows it’s not a long-term solution. 

They’ve gone through the fighting, the sex, and now the pancakes (followed by more sex in an actual bed this time). It’s time for the next step.

They need to talk, even if neither of them particularly wants to. 

And so, Cas pulls out a clove cigarette, grabs the blanket from the couch, and motions to the balcony. Dean nods and follows him. They settle on the ground, looking out over the city, the first purple light of dawn starting to peek through.

Cas remembers another night. Another perch high above the world, hope peering through the darkness. He swallows a lump in his throat thinking about how much has happened since then. 

They sit in silence, the only sound being the click of the lighter and the crackle of the cigarette in Cas’ hand as he takes a drag.

“You wanna talk about it?” Cas asks tentatively. 

He expects Dean to brush him off, like he always does. To his surprise, Dean buries his face in Cas’ neck instead and mumbles, hot breath across the sensitive skin: 

“Don’t wanna fuck this up again. I don’t wanna lose you.”  Dean takes a breath, shaky. “I keep losing you.”

Cas feels his own pulse flutter against Dean’s lips. “I’m not going anywhere, Dean.” He runs the fingers of his free hand through Dean’s hair, trying to soothe him with touch when words don’t seem like enough.

Dean nuzzles closer. “I don’t know how to do this, man. I don’t know how to be the person you deserve.”

Guilt and grief threaten to overtake Cas, though he’s not sure which is more overpowering at this point. “You are, Dean. You’re everything simply by virtue of your existence.” Cas swallows the lump in his throat, looking at the defined features of Dean’s nose and jaw, the feathered swoops of his eyelashes outlined in the rising sunlight.  

He sighs. “I wish you could see yourself the way that I see you. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.”

Cas takes another drag.

Dean pulls his head away from his neck and leans it back against the wall, staring at the slowly brightening sky.

“Cas, I’m a goddamned mess. I’m barely holding it together, up here.” Dean taps an accusing fingertip at his own temple.  

“The only thing I ever did right was loving you and I fucked that up too. I just wanted to keep you safe. I wanted you to be okay. I wanted you to be happy.” Dean’s voice is uncharacteristically vulnerable, and Cas’ chest caves in as he remembers the burst of tears earlier.

He knows Dean’s still ashamed of that show of emotion. Cas wishes he could show Dean how gorgeous he looks when the heart he so unabashedly wears on his sleeve is blazing across his face, shared with the world.

Cas spares a small moment of gratitude that Dean at least feels open enough to let Cas have that small glimpse of the things he knows Dean feels so vehemently - more than any person Cas has ever known.

He drops his hand back to Dean’s hair, pulling him closer. “Dean, you make me happy.” He strokes his fingers down to the nape of Dean’s neck, gently massaging the knots that never leave the small muscles there. “I’m sorry you ever doubted that.”

He kisses Dean on the forehead and makes a decision. 

“I’ll go with you. To therapy. Like you asked, before.”

Dean pulls back to meet his eyes. “You always said…”

“I know. I know what I said. I didn’t want -” 

His words get caught in his throat, snagging on the thorny briars of shame that always accompany revelations about his past. 

Okay, yes, so this may be harder than anticipated.

But Cas chooses to do this. For Dean. Because right now, in this moment - on their little balcony in this small, still sleepy corner of the world, Cas is choosing Dean.

Maybe they’re choosing each other.

Either way, Cas takes a breath and starts again. “In the files…”

“I’m sorry, Cas. I - fuck - I shouldn’t have looked at those. I shouldn’t have listened to Zachariah.” Dean’s eyes are pleading, his remorse punctuating every word. 

Cas waves his hand in what he hopes looks forgiving, the smoke trailing behind it. “I know exactly how manipulative my father’s people can be, Dean. I’m not happy about it, but I’m to blame, too.” Cas sighs, eyes drifting down to the street below them.

“You should have heard it from me,” he says firmly. “I was scared you’d think there was something wrong with me, some - crack in my chassis.”

Dean smiles in recognition of the line, and Cas elbows him lightly, as if to say: look you’re not the only one who can use Supernatural quotes in poignant serious moments, you cocky bastard. 

“The things in some of those reports in the dossier - they aren’t true. Not entirely.” Dean’s hand finds Cas’ under the blanket and squeezes it. Cas tries to draw strength from the warmth before going forwards with this emotional rollercoaster he’s unleashing on both of them.

“My father is...You know what my father is. I was trapped, expected to do whatever he said. Sometimes it was too much and I would try to escape.” A small, humorless laugh escapes Cas’ lips. 

“The thing about having more money than God is that you can always get what you want. You can buy yourself an entire kingdom of subjects ready to jump when you command it. Whenever I’d run, my father and his loyal servants would track me down and drag me back.”

Cas takes another breath, steeling himself. This next part is hard. He’s tried a few times to forget it entirely.

“My father would have me involuntarily committed. My shrink, Naomi, would refuse to release me until she had brought me back in line. The longest I ever held out was 6 months.”

He sits for a moment in silence, feeling that sick curl of shame rising through the depth of his stomach and choking his throat like thick cloying smoke.

And then, Cas sees it - the moment that it clicks into place for Dean, understanding and love filling his eyes. 

Something releases in Cas’ chest, a lock sprung open on a forgotten chest of buried treasure.

“I should have told you,” he says quietly, fiddling with the stub of his clove before stabbing it into the ashtray by his feet, “but I was scared you wouldn’t believe me.”

Dean reaches out and pulls Cas into a slow, warm kiss. “Cas, I believe you. Of course I believe you.”

Cas swallows back his emotion. “By the time I met you, I had given up. I thought if I could just stop caring, stop feeling, stop wanting …I thought I could be what Chuck expected. Thought it would be easier. But from the moment I saw you, I knew that wasn't possible. Dean, I mean what I said, earlier. You changed me - but you didn't break me. You made me brave."

Dean’s arms wrap around him tightly and he kisses the top of Cas’ head. 

Cas hears the unspoken words the action conveys. I love you. I see you. 

Cas pulls away a little, pressing his forehead against Dean's and repeats: 

"I'll go with you. To therapy - if you think it will help."

Dean's eyes shine in the early morning light, and if Cas was enchanted by the sight of Dean sitting amidst four steel walls it bears absolutely no comparison to abundance of riches gazing back at him, here on the balcony like it’s the top of the world.

On their balcony. Their world.

Saying hello to a brand new morning, once more - together. 

"I hope it will, Cas,” Dean’s voice pulls him back out of his flowery musing and into the present. “But you gotta know - I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you again, okay? So - when we go, if you aren't comfortable or if it's too much, you can tell me and we’ll stop. I promise."

The pinks and oranges of the day’s beginning are playing across the horizon, but the show is no match for the sincerity of Dean’s expression. The warmth radiates from his gaze and Cas practically feels it on his face, the light of his one true happiness.

His heart flutters. 

Dean catches him staring and grins. A small, hopeful thing.

Right on cue, there’s the trill of a lark heralding morning’s first rays. 

Dean turns his head towards the sound for a moment, then:

"Eileen says we're a pocket of parental issues and trauma."

Cas’ laugh breaks through the quiet. "She’s a smart lady."

Dean nods in agreement, eyes bright with affection. "She is. She also said I should ask you what you want instead of assuming I know."

"Yup. Very smart." Cas affirms. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "And - Dean, honestly? I don’t know. I've never gotten to choose before you." 

Dean pulls him into the circle of his arms again, and nibbles on his jaw. "Then we'll figure it out together. Okay? Just don't...just stay, okay? Stay with me, Cas. Not just today."

Dean takes a breath as Cas holds his.

“Always. Please,” Dean whispers - and something about the words is equal parts magical and real.

Cas doesn’t want to run anymore. In that moment, he chooses Dean, again. And he realizes that’s the entire point. Cas chooses them. No matter what.

He grabs Dean’s face with his hands, because if Cas is anything - he is dramatic. Their eyes lock. "I promise." Cas says firmly, binding the spell. 

Dean makes a tiny sound, almost pious - then kisses him, soft and deep. He pulls Cas into his lap, covering the skin of his neck with his mouth, small sucking bites as he moves his hands underneath Cas’ shirt in smooth, firm circles. Cas leans into him, closing his eyes and letting himself - feel. 

Below them, the bustle of the waking city fades. Like a dream. An echo. 

They soar high above it all, and Cas knows in that moment that - so long as Dean is here, with him - he never has to land.

Harper pulls slightly at her black dress and wraps her blue wool wrap tighter around her shoulders. It isn’t that revealing, but she’s never been one to show some skin.

Well, she supposes it’s more accurate to say every time she tries to dress herself in something that even closely falls into the classification of ‘revealing,’ she hears her father call her a Jezebel. Tonight, Harper is determined to push that voice aside.

It’s worth it when she turns to find Reese staring at her, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. Harper gives her a small smile. Reese licks her lips. 

Harper forgets to breathe for a moment.

“Hey.” Reese says simply, but her eyes are hungry.

Reese doesn’t look so bad herself. Okay, that’s an understatement -  she looks freaking fantastic in a blue silk shirt with her trademark plunging neckline and black slacks. Harper eyes the warm, inviting skin of her neck peeking out of the shirt and considers dragging her into the alley. 

Instead she gives a little wave and responds. “Hey, you look nice.”

Nice? Harper cringes internally, but Reese just puts a hand on her shoulder and opens the door, leading her inside the hotel. 

“Reese, what are we even doing here?” Harper looks around the beautiful, well-appointed lobby. The marble columns and plush couches are stunning, but not exactly what she expected on a date orchestrated by Reese. 

A panicked notion goes through Harper’s mind. She thought they were going to dinner, but what if Reese has other plans? What if she reserved a room? What if she wants to make their first time special? Is she ready for that? Harper feels a little thrill at the base of her spine. Ok, yes, apparently. Still, shouldn’t they talk about it?

Before she can spiral any further, Reese takes a sharp right and Harper follows. 

“You’ll see. Follow me.”

Reese leads her up the stairs and down a hallway. The lush hotel surroundings fade into stone and bamboo walls. Harper tilts her head trying to make sense of the strange transition.

Reese leads her to a wooden door, smack dab amidst the large rocks that masquerade as wallpaper in this place. A large beam above the door simply reads “TONGA.”

Harper doesn’t know what she expects on the other side of the door, but it certainly isn’t a tiki bar with a fake lake and boat in the middle. 

The water is an acid green, rippling in the twinkly strings of lights that glisten in the straw roofs of the huts serving as booths. It’s like they tore a gash in the fabric of the universe and walked right through to an alternate world.

“What is this place?” Harper asks. She makes an embarrassing gasp of delight and a giggle escapes her lips as it inexplicably begins to rain over the lake. “Why?”

Reese grins at her, eyes sparkling mischievously. “The Tonga Room. I take it you’ve never been here? They built it in like the 1940s when tiki bars were a big thing. It’s kinda touristy, but…”

“It’s like another world.” Harper can’t keep the wonder out of her voice.

They sit alongside the water, sipping some absolutely dangerous rum drink from a portion of the menu called “Cocktails to Share.” 

Harper is feeling pretty good as she pops a vegetable dumpling in her mouth. She looks across the table at Reese. The festive lights strung above their heads frame her hair with a soft glow.

“So then,” Reese continues, “Sully jumps into the pool to try and save Barb’s phone.”

“Nooo.” Harper says, knowing the answer is 100% yes he absolutely did that.

“Yes! They’re supposed to charge you $500 for that.” Reese nods at the sign that outlines the fine for jumping in the pool. Harper wonders how frequently it occurs if they have to put up a sign.

“You could get a new phone for that amount.” Harper says.

Reese nods. “Right? That’s what I said.” She puts her hand on Harper’s as she emphasizes the point and Harper soaks up the warmth, trying to decide if she should flip it to face her palm up and intertwine their fingers.

“Luckily, Marina started flirting with the bartender and, long story short, that’s how Marina and Andi started dating.”

Harper throws back her head laughing at the image of Marina and Andi flirting while Sully drips all over the bar floor.

“Harper? Harper Sayles, is that you?” The voice cuts through her mirth and suddenly it’s Harper who feels like she’s been doused with cold water.

“Mrs. Miller.” Harper’s face turns bright red and her eyes grow dim. She pulls her wrap tightly. 

Reese hates the woman on sight.

“I thought that was you.” Her nasally whine matches her fussy cardigan set and ankle length skirt. 

"Who's your...friend?" Mrs. Judgey Dickface appraises Reese, her lips pursing sourly.

Harper smiles tightly, and Reese can tell her emotions are masked. "This is my friend Reese. She served as a mentor as I was getting started here in San Francisco."

"Good friend." The woman looks pointedly at their hands. Harper jerks hers back like she’s been burned.

"Um, yes. She’s become like a sister to me. Reese has really taken care of me after my big move to the city. She’s basically an angel, harp and all." Harper’s voice shakes a bit, but she manages to plaster a smile back on her face.

“I don’t have a harp,” Reese clarifies carefully.

The woman’s nostrils flare in her direction but she doesn’t dignify her presence with any further response.

Reese contemplates whether it would be worth the $500 fine to grab this bitch and drag her into the water.

Mrs. Miller’s beady little eyes are solely focused on Harper, and the glare of this shrewd attention is causing her to squirm, little bits of red flushing her skin under the wool of the wrap she’s got wrapped around her chest and neck. 

"And how is your...little adventure going?” Mrs. Miller’s gaze again darts to the now empty spot where Harper and Reese’s hands were just resting. ‘I was going to try and call on you, actually. Your mother said you've been struggling. No boyfriend. Barely any friends to speak of. Working all the time."

The woman looks around dubiously then whispers -  loudly, "Spending time in bars." 

She darts a weighted look at the drink between the girls, the two straws they were using to share it now abandoned, leaning forlorn on the edges of the glass. 

Mrs. Miller’s thin lips purse in a judgmental point.

"Tsk, tsk. I didn't know it had gotten so bad, you little lamb, or I would have checked on you first thing." 

Harper’s eyes are glistening with moisture, and Reese can see the heat of embarrassment rising from her neck to her face. Corresponding anger matches that trajectory in Reese, hot and caustic.

"Mrs. Miller, is it?” Reese bites out saucily, green eyes flashing. “And pray tell - what is a paragon of society such as yourself doing in a ...den of iniquity like this?"

Harper gives Reese a look of pure panic, but Reese’s anger has overtaken her and there’s simply no space for niceties. 

She grins ferally.

The woman's eyes widen and she clutches her bag as if Reese might yank it off her shoulder and run. 

Shit, maybe she will steal her bag. She’s sick of this witchy woman, storming in here and ruining a night that was going so smoothly. 

Mrs. Miller’s voice is cold. "I was just looking for some lemonade,” she intones, face as sour as that yellow citrus the drink is made of. 

“I'm staying in this hotel. Jesse booked it for me, sweet boy. I offered to stay with him but he insisted. He said it’s the nicest hotel in the city, but of course he mustn’t have had a single idea about all...this." She waves her hand gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. 

Reese opens her mouth to spit a snappy retort but shuts it when Harper gives her a look of pure admonishment.

Harper turns and smiles at the despicable stranger, and it’s entirely too sweet and too forced for Reese’s liking. "I’m certain the hotel itself is lovely, Mrs. Miller. How's Jesse?"

Her voice sounds strange, actually. Robotic, almost.

Reese tries to ignore the sting of being shut down. Harper's taking this woman's side? 

Clearly, it's working whatever magic Harper is intending it to, because Mrs. Miller’s eyes light up. "Oh, yes - he’s great. That's why I'm here. He's working in the city as an accountant and I'm visiting him.” Mrs. Miller pauses, and Reese can practically see her evil brain cells churning.

“I just know he'd love to see you Harper,” the devil-woman draws out chipperly, one well-manicured finger tapping her chin. “He's single, you know. It's just him and his roommate Cesar in a lovely historic home. He hasn't had a date in months."

Reese swallows a snort, waiting for Harper to - politely, of course -  decline. Instead Harper glances at her and gives her those baby deer eyes, the overly apologetic ones that come preemptively before someone stabs you in the chest.

Harper turns her face back to Mrs. Miller with a sunny smile.

"Yes ma'am, I'd love to. It's so hard to find a good Christian boy in this city."

Seriously? 

There’s even some sort of affectatious accent she’s got going now, a different lilt to her syllables and Reese has had it with this fucking farce.

Mrs. Sanctimonious nods approvingly at Harper. "I'm sure he can help you find the right path. The righteous path. I'll give him your number. Now come give me a hug, dear."

Reese rolls her eyes behind Mrs. Throws-the-First-Stone’s back. 

Harper catches the movement and shoots a glare at her to cut it out. 

The woman doesn't even acknowledge Reese as she turns to walk away, no good-bye or even a bless your heart.

"Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Miller." Reese calls after her, voice full of honey. She blinks her eyes innocently as she meets the woman's startled gaze. 

Mrs. Miller nods uncertainly and walks away.

"Did you have to antagonize her?" Harper hisses at Reese. 

Reese narrows her eyes. "Did you have to agree to a date with Jesse? Maybe he and his roommate can make you dinner."

Harper sighs. "What do you want from me, Reese? Sorry, Mrs. Miller, I can't. I sorta have this gay thing…"

Reese swallows. "Is that what I am? Your ‘gay thing’?" She punctuates the question with air quotes, a mockery of Harper’s habitual use of them. 

"No, Reese. You're…important to me." Harper lets out a frustrated groan, cheeks flushing as she awkwardly worries the cloth napkin in front of her on the table. "Look, we haven't talked about it, okay?"

Reese looks at Harper and sees how miserable she is caught between these words. A stab of sadness punctures her heart. 

Reese pushes it aside, letting anger smolder over it. "So, you’re perfectly happy to accept a date with Probably-Gay-Jesse because we aren’t exclusive? I'm important to you which is why you have-how did that lovely woman put it- barely any friends to speak of?"

Reese slams her hand on the table. "Look, Harper, I get that you don't want to bring me home to meet mom, but I thought in public you’d at least treat me with the respect of a friend. I thought…"

"Reese…" Harper’s eyes plead with Reese, and for a moment she wants to capitulate, throw down the white flag and reach across the table to take her hand.

Harper looks at her lap, taking a breath and then proceeds to say words wiping any thoughts of surrender clean from Reese’s mind like a lobotomy. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't give you what you want."

Reese has never wanted to be right less in her life (and for Reese - being Reese, that’s saying a damn friggin’ lot).

She stares at Harper for a moment, speechless and stunned.

Then she picks herself up. Like she always does.

Because let’s be clear here - Reese should have known better.

She did know better, with all her hesitation, and hemming and haw-ing, and dammit all to hell  - she jumped in with her whole ass anyway and now she’s gonna pay for it. 

A small part of Reese knows this isn’t fair, but…

Since when do we get what we deserve?

"Got it. Loud and clear." Reese digs in her purse and grabs some cash, slamming it down on the table without looking at it. Harper flinches at the sharp sound her palm makes against the wood like it’s a knife’s edge instead of a hand. She stares at the crumpled pile of money and the little edges of skin around her brow follow suit as she lifts her gaze to Reese’s eyes.  

There’s something there. Regret. Longing. 

Reese hesitates.

But Harper looks away and the moment is shattered. 

Much like Reese’s stupid, rash heart.

Reese turns on her heel and walks out the door. 

If the scenery flashing past her eyes as she storms out is slightly blurry, that's nobody's business but her own.

Cas: I’m about to head out. Meet me in the lobby in five?
Dean: Unless I run into you in the elevator. Maybe we’ll get stuck again. I have some ideas on how to pass the time.
Cas: That does sound good, but I think we need more room
Dean: More room?
Cas: for what I have planned for you tonight
Cas: I may have gotten you a surprise
Dean: ???? What kind of surprise
Cas: the kind that requires an app and a safe word
Dean: YUP IM OUT THE DOOR
Cas: Good boy

Chapter Text

April 16, 2021

Harper: Hey, sorry for the late notice but can I borrow your sewing machine tonight?
Harper: Mine sorta crapped out on me and I’m trying to make something for a con
Barb: Of course, babygirl. How are ya?
Harper: You know. Ready for the weekend.
Barb: I hear that. I had to decorate for a Sweet 16 party yesterday and when I tell you I have never in my life seen so much pink tulle. It looked like a cotton candy machine had exploded. 
Barb: The birthday girl was thrilled, though. All in a day’s work.
Harper: Ha! That sounds like a lot of look
Barb: Hey, missed you at Sully’s game night. It was weird that you and Reese both missed it.
Barb: Hope your boss isn’t still working you to the bone.
Harper: Nah, I’m good. Just busy getting ready for this con.
Harper: I’ll text you after work to come pick up the sewing machine.
Harper: and thanks! You’re the best!

“Good morning,” Cas greets Dean as he walks into the kitchen door, head tilted and blue eyes shining.

Why does Cas sound like that in the morning? His low growl is enough to make Dean want to grab him by the drawstring of those damn cotton pj pants that sag way too low on the bones of his hips and drag him right back to bed, wrapping himself in the feel of soft skin and firm muscle.

Hm. Yea, Dean’s little morning routine used to be a lot smoother before this walking, talking reason to procrastinate was back in his personal space.

Not that Dean is complaining a goddamn bit.

“What are you doing up?” Dean asks, pulling Cas into a kiss, enjoying the taste of mint mixed with the slight hint of Cas’ morning cigarette that hits the tip of his tongue.

God he’s missed him. Missed this.

Dean caresses the back of Cas’ neck before pulling away, expression still a little puzzled.

He’s got four years of lore on Cas, and it’s all very clear - he is not a morning person (sunrises in bed while his dick ruts into Dean’s mouth being a very specific exception). He’s not even a mid-morning person. 

Honestly, even in this little honeymoon 2.0 phase they’ve got goin’ - Dean had expected to grab his shake from the fridge and head to work without waking Cas with ease.

Instead, he stares in shock as Cas puts the final touches on two plates of eggs, turkey bacon and wheat toast.

“Couldn’t have you going into the office on an empty stomach after that workout.” Cas grins as he holds out the plates hopefully, and there’s something so fucking sweet about the fond little light in his eyes.

Dean feels his lips tug into an answering smile. Fuck it. He’s not going to be late by anyone’s standards but the imaginary ones he set years ago - An hour before the office opens is on time. Anything else is late.

You know what - Dean’s got a choice, and right now he’d rather choose to be here. With Cas.

With his boyfriend , Cas.

And damn if that doesn’t send Dean to all sorts of magical rainbows. He might as well be holding a key to fucking Oz.

Cas sets a new pot of coffee to brew and they sit in comfortable silence, enjoying an honest-to-God-sit-down breakfast. 

Dean doesn’t remember the last time he had one of those. He looks up into Cas’ careful eyes, clearly trying to assess if Dean likes what he made him without actually asking.

“Fucking great, Cas,” Dean mutters around a mouthful of what really are the best eggs he’s ever had.

Cas beams.

Yeah. Fond doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Thought I would head in with you, if that’s okay.” Cas says tentatively before taking another sip of his coffee.

“Now? You?” Dean teases.

Cas rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dean. I am capable of going to the office before noon.” He pauses. “I just don’t like it.”

Dean detects a hint of irritation, just a slight tension in Cas’ voice.. “Hey -” Dean reaches over, and covers Cas’ hand with his palm. “I’d like that, Cas. We can even ride together.”

The reassurance seems to smooth over any prickly edges as Cas lifts his hand up to lock fingers with Dean, staring at their intertwined hands like they’re some sort of holy grail. 

“I like this too.” Dean rubs his thumb on Cas’ skin, sliding it smoothly into that dip before his hand darts up into his index finger, watching him follow Dean’s movements with his gaze. Did Cas just shiver?

Okay, something to explore later, then.

He winks flirtatiously at Cas. “I could get used to a hot - impeccably made, by the way - breakfast and even hotter company.”

Cas lifts Dean’s hand to his mouth and gently tongues his knuckles.

“I love you,” he says in quiet response.

Dean dives across the table to capture his mouth in his. “I love you too,” he hisses against Cas’ teeth - and Dean is never going to get tired of fucking saying that.

To think they had almost missed this. 

It’s funny how life works. One moment they can barely even breathe the same air and the next, kismet finds them.

Multiple times, actually. Hm.

If Cas hadn’t sent Eileen to check on him. Or the elevator hadn’t failed…

Dean’s instincts are doing some sort of Cirque du Soleil style gymnastics, all of a sudden.

“Hey, Cas. Not that I’m complaining, but how did you know I had missed work? You been spying on me?”

The question clearly hits a nerve. Then, something passes across Cas’ face. A mixture of speculation and humor.

“Harper told me. Which brings up another point I meant to ask you about earlier. Isn’t it funny that we both got stood up at the baseball game by clients? What are the chances we would have adjacent seating at the same event and that neither of our clients would show?”

Oh. It hits Dean. Another memory of a familiar coincidence.

“Speaking of funny, um, you didn’t happen to help talk down a stranger on Thanksgiving from a bad anxiety attack, did you? I mean hypothetically.” 

Cas’ eyes widen in recognition. “Aherm...was said anxiety attack possibly induced by some sort of ingestion of marijuana?”

If the dots he’s connecting are accurate, Dean is either going to hug Reese or kill her - he’s just not quite sure yet which action he’s intending on taking.

“You don’t think...” Cas raises his eyebrows, letting the question hang in the air.

“Sonofabitch.”

Harper doesn’t look up when Cas walks in, and he presumes it’s because she has no inkling the footsteps she hears are actually him. That isn’t really surprising, considering Cas hasn’t been this early since she started.

Well, time for a change there. 

And now Cas is about to go full FBI and pin Harper down on this little matchmaking side hustle she’s apparently started. Not that Cas isn’t...grateful, but he’s also not a fan of his assistant playing cupid with his love life.

Yes, no soulmates, no cupids. That’s just how he rolls. 

He opens his mouth to bombard her with the first volley of questions when he abruptly notices her demeanor.

Harper’s usually a ball of sunshine even when not actually speaking, but today the light is significantly dimmed. Her shoulders are slouched and the dark half-moons under her eyes are clear indicators she’s failed to get adequate sleep, if any at all. Her normally perfectly styled hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, small tendrils escaping around her face.

The last time she looked like this was after Cas went on the Dean-fueled tequila bender and dragged her along, but something tells him that manner of chaotic escapade isn’t a regular indulgence for Ms. Sayles.

Something isn’t quite right.

Cas makes the decision to table the originally intended interrogation for the moment.

"Harper?” He asks gently instead, “Do you have those reports from Lilith on Tumblr Plus?"

Harper jumps a bit at the sound of Cas’ voice, and looks up at him. There’s bits of mascara smudged in her lashes, like she’s been rubbing tears out of her eyes.

"Cas!” Her voice burbles out a little hoarse. “You're here.” Harper’s eyes dart to the clock on the wall in disbelief and Cas suppresses an eye roll in response. It’s really not that surprising that he’s here at this hour.

Anyway, the thrill of his road-head-fueled morning commute, Dean driving and Cas between his legs, attending to his erection with vigorous joy - means everyone’s going to need to get a lot more used to these early morning arrivals. A little tickle of warmth stirs behind Cas’ belly button. Hmmm , maybe he’ll buzz Dean in a few hours. It might be Mr. Smith’s turn to pay him a professional office visit.

Brushing his salacious thoughts aside, he turns his attention back to business. “Yes, I’m here. Are the reports?”

Harper gulps, straightening what is a very uncharacteristically wrinkled blouse.

“Uh, yeah I'll print them out and bring them in for you." She tilts her head. "You know it's a terrible idea, right? The whole Tumblr Plus thing."

Cas snorts derisively. "Of course it's a terrible idea. I don’t think Rowena actually expects it to work. She just needs something to present to the Board to claim she's trying to make this place profitable."

Harper shrugs, her eyes still slightly glazed over. "I suppose. Either way, the memes are going to be incredible." She turns to her computer and starts pulling up documents, accidentally hitting some button that was apparently muting her current Spotify playlist, because all of a sudden the mournful sounds of Adele blast through the nearly-empty office. 

"Oh, God! Sorry!” Harper stammers, smashing around at the keys. “Um, I'll bring it all right in - just a second!"

Cas eyes Harper with suspicion  when she walks into his office a few moments later, holding a stack of paper and a large mug (bless her) of steaming coffee.

She hands Cas the report and turns to leave, the slouch of her back small and melancholy.  Cas frowns. Harper is certainly not going to text him a brunch invite for tequila and self-loathing, so it appears he is going to have to make the first move.

A person does not listen to melancholy break-up songs at full blast at 9 a.m. if something isn’t definitely wrong.

"Harper." Cas calls after her, stopping her in her tracks. "Sit."

Harper plops down on the small leather chair across from his desk and stares at her hands miserably.

“What’s going on with you today?” He tries to add levity to what is sure to be a weighty situation by joking:

“You know I can't have my best employee sulking around the office. It makes me look like a bad boss - and I have to look better than Anael. She’s already prettier than me." He winks despite knowing that he’s not really adept at that gesture, hoping the garish attempt will at least cheer up his assistant.

He’s right because either the wink or the comment about their beautiful red-headed colleague elicits a small laugh from Harper, along with actual eye contact. 

"Sorry, Cas. I'll do better."

Cas sighs. "Harper, I don't know what I could have possibly done to make you think that was a criticism."

“It’s not you,” Harper mumbles. She smiles sadly and resumes boring her eyes into her palms.

Cas’ mouth twists. He knows this look.

"Would you like to talk about it?" 

For a minute, Cas thinks she’s going to decline. Instead she chews on her lip for a moment and suddenly blurts out: "Cas, how did you get the nerve to peace out on your Dad?" 

Okay. So it's going to be one of those talks. Suddenly, the office feels too formal. Too stuffy. 

This is a conversation that requires room to breathe.

"Follow me," Cas says decisively, striding out the door and towards the elevator, Harper trudging behind him like a sad little shadow.

Once they’re to the top floor, Cas leads Harper to a door with "DO NOT ENTER" clearly printed across it. 

"Should we be doing this?" Harper looks around nervously as if she expects security to spring up from the floor. It reminds Cas of the first time he and Dean broke the rules together and the corner of his mouth jerks up at the memory, heart simultaneously thrilling that it’s once again a happy recollection and no longer suffused with pain and regret.

Okay. Let’s get Dean off the brain for the time being, Castiel. Focus.

"It's fine,” he responds reassuringly. “I actually know the woman who handles building systems, so I made a little deal with her after that whole fire escape situation. She's an anarchist who partakes in some similar...recreational activities to mine.” He winks again. “It didn't take much to bribe her to leave this unlocked for when I want just a little fresh air." 

Something about that seems to amuse Harper slightly. Cas decides it’s progress.

He opens the door to a gray, unimpressive staircase, and leads them up to the roof. Harper looks out over the city, the water framing the jutted skyline of the other buildings in the distance and the fluffy clouds drifting overhead. A duo of birds soar past them, dipping and diving in an aerial dance. 

“It’s beautiful up here,” she says softly, the breeze rustling over the edges of her words.

Cas nods in agreement as he lights up a cigarette, feeling the slight burn at the back of his throat and the quick, easy buzz of the nicotine as he takes his first drag.

Harper wrinkles her nose at the smoke.

Cas wrinkles his right back at her. “I know, I know. I’m working on quitting.” He pauses for a second then gives her a small, shy smile. “I don’t think my boyfriend is a fan either, so…”

Okay, so much for getting Dean off his brain, but Cas can’t help himself. It’s like they’re in the honeymoon phase all over again. Besides, if their notions are accurate and Harper did orchestrate some of this, maybe it’ll lighten her mood a little before they get to what’s going to be a heavy discussion.

Cas’ presumptions appear to be correct because Harper definitely has something resembling a smile plastered on her face. “Boyfriend?”

Cas rolls his eyes in mock self-deprecation. “Yes, boyfriend. Turns out all my prior arrgherm...lamentations were slightly off-base.”

He takes a second drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out with the toe of his shoe.

“Anyway, to answer your question - my relationship with my father was - complicated.” Cas tucks both hands into his front pants pockets, rocking a bit on his heels.

“He didn’t really leave much room for anyone other than himself and his views. He had a plan laid out for me, an idea of how my life should go. No deviations."

Cas glances sideways at Harper and sees sadness in her eyes. His lips flatten sympathetically.

"I suspect that sounds pretty familiar."

She nods. "Yeah. I mentioned a little about it earlier, but my folks are pretty religious. They wanted me to get married, have kids, stay at home and take care of them. They didn’t want me getting a job."

She screws her face up, lowering the octave of her voice. "Harper, a woman's place is the home. A man’s job is to be the head of the household."

Cas feels a twinge of that old anger rising within him. A memory of beating wings behind the bars of a cage. 

He takes a breath, reminding himself he’s as free as the birds they watched just now, dancing in the breeze with the sun on his face.

"Harper, respectfully? Fuck that. And fuck them. You don't have to apologize for being a career woman." Cas offers and gets a small smile in return, but it’s fleeting.

Harper continues, sadly. "I know, but I’ve just already disappointed them in so many ways. They didn’t want me to come to San Francisco. They said I would get corrupted, never realizing I already was. I didn’t belong there - with them. Behind a white picket fence with a happy husband. I didn’t belong...anywhere remotely similar."

She wraps her arms around herself, and Cas waits patiently. He gets the feeling she's on the cusp of something. 

"Cas, I'm bi." She laughs, nervousness mixed with relief. "God, that feels good to say out loud."

Cas puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and looks her in the eye. "Hey. Harper, thank you for trusting me with that. It means a lot."

Harper looks at him in silence for a minute, the emotions warring across her face. Cas adds, softly:

“That was very brave of you.”

There’s a small bit of wetness glistening in Harper’s eyes, but her expression is lighter for just a moment.

Then, sadness creeps back over her features.

"I thought...There’s this girl. Reese. I like her. More than like her. I think I may - love her."

Reese? 

Wait, as in Dean’s assistant? 

Well, that would certainly explain a few things. Cas adds this information to his back-burner catalogue, saying instead:

“This is the one you’re almost-dating? The person you couldn’t stop talking about when we went out for margaritas?”

She gives him a sideways glance, flushing red for a second, then retorts - a smidge sharply, "Ahem. You mean when you told me you had a work thing to discuss and promptly poured tequila down my throat? I think I get a free pass for anything I said during that little adventure.”

Cas’ grin is slightly sheepish.

“Pass granted. But it was her, right?” 

“Yes,” Harper acquiesces with a groan. “Anyway, we were, um, doing a - project together and we started the whole ‘not-dating-but-almost.’ Sort of. We never really talked about it."

Cas has a feeling he’s got the project pegged. He nods sympathetically. "I may have some experience in the perils of failing to define a relationship." 

Harper smiles up at him. "Yes, I may have noticed."

She looks back over the city, squinting in the sunlight. "Thing is, I’ve already rebelled, right? I'm here. I'm working. What's one more thing? Especially if that one thing is the thing. The choice that makes me the happiest.” Harper sighs, shoulders drooping again.

“But it's tough, you know? I just can't quite banish their words. I find myself dreading the disappointment I’ll hear in their voices when they find out."

Cas wants to tell her there's some quick fix, but he knows that would be a lie. He still hears Chuck’s voice from time to time. Still bears the scars from a life of trying to be someone he's not.

He thinks about Dean, and ends up going with what he’d say. What he initially said, to Cas - years ago when they had a very similar chat. 

"Harper, they're assholes." 

She snorts and looks at him with surprise. Cas shrugs, a what? I am right kind of gesture. Then, he adds the qualifier:

"But they're also your parents and it takes a long time to unwind all of that. You can't let the ghosts of what they did to you haunt you. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be you. Not some watered-down version that makes them or anyone else comfortable."

Cas watches happily as resolve replaces sadness in Harper’s eyes. 

"Thanks, Cas. You’re right."

Cas smiles at her. “Well, so are you - you’re always right when you choose yourself first.” Harper’s eyes twinkle in response and she nods, gratefully.  

“Okay, well - I don’t know how you do it, but I need more caffeine if I’m going to be slaying the day away this early. Why don’t we go get some coffee? My treat.”

Harper grins. “Only if we can toast to being right.”

“Deal,” Cas says cheerfully as they make their way back down the stairs.

Dean leans casually next to Reese’s desk, trying to keep the calculating smirk off his mug. 

“Heya, Reese.”

Reese eyes him suspiciously. “Hey, Dean. You’re in a good mood.”

He grins. “The best. I was thinking I should take my favorite intern out for a burger as a thank you for all your hard work.”

Her eyes narrow, but she gives him a quick nod and grabs her purse, the promise of a free meal apparently overriding whatever suspicion may be playing out in her mind.

They settle in at a small table by the window. Reese raises her eyebrows as Dean orders a burger, medium well, with a fried egg and avocado on top. Sweet potato fries on the side. 

Those are healthy, right?

Fuck it. Dean’s hungry, starving actually and - you know what, that blowjob Cas so graciously provided as entertainment on the way into work surely torched a few extra calories.  

Orgasming to earn his burger, what a concept.  

Dean meets Reese’s puzzled gaze. “What?”

She shakes her head in amusement. “I didn’t know you ate anything other than rabbit food.”

“Oh, like you have room to talk, Ms. Double Bacon Cheeseburger.” He intended to be severe with her, but he can’t help but joke around like a giddy schoolgirl. 

Dammit, Cas. You put me in too good of a mood to chastise my employee.

Reese’s demeanor doesn’t seem to match his entirely, as she sullenly replies, tone edged in sarcasm. “It wasn’t a criticism. I’m impressed. Dean Smith, you contain multitudes.” 

Dean sighs, pushing through to the awkward part of the conversation. “Speaking of multitudes - I need to remind you that I’m also not an idiot, Reese. You wanna tell me how Cas and I ended up at the same ballgame a few months ago with no-show clients? Or perhaps how you knew about his favorite breathing technique?”

She looks away guiltily. 

Gotcha.

“Dean, I can explain…” She trails off, indicating that perhaps she can't actually explain. Or at least she doesn’t want to.

Dean crosses his arms. “Yup. Go on.”

She looks at him pleadingly. “It was all a misunderstanding, okay? I saw you at the wedding with Cas and I thought you two looked like you wanted to…” she waves her hand miserably. “I thought it’d be nice if you were happier.”

“You thought work would be easier if I was getting laid.” Dean corrects, trying to hide his amusement. It’s diabolical, really - he can barely be mad. He can’t believe he let her play him like that.

She squirms uncomfortably, but nods in reluctant agreement. “I mean, I also thought you seemed kinda sad?” She looks at him hopefully.

Dean sighs, unwrapping his fork from the bundle it currently occupies with its knife.

“Ok, look. It worked out, right? Cas and I… Anyway, I’m not gonna fire you. But we gotta talk about boundaries. You can’t be up in my personal business. Yeah? I’m a grownass man. You can’t interfere like that.”

Reese’s shoulders drop in relief and a hint of a smile plays across her face. “For the record, I’m glad it worked out. You’re not so bad for an old dude. You deserve for something good to happen.”

The server brings them their drinks and Dean takes a sip of his iced tea, looking at Reese appraisingly. “How did you know, anyway? You had to have some co-conspirator, an inside man.”

Reese’s smile is immediately wiped away. “Cas’ assistant.” 

“Harper?” Dean asks. From what Cas has said, she doesn’t seem like the type. He has no doubt who the instigator was here.

Reese’s gaze drifts to the wall. “She and I are...were friends. It’s complicated.”

Dean recognizes Reese’s look immediately. 

Ah. Well, I know how that goes.

“Wanna talk about it? I happen to have intel on complicated relationships.” 

Reese looks away. “Not really. There’s nothing to discuss. We weren’t anything.” 

It’s nuanced, but Dean catches it -  the moment anger spurts up to cover her vulnerability. 

She lets a bitter laugh escape over her Diet Coke, and the words bubble out, hard and quick like little spurts of lava over coal blackened rocks. 

“It’s better off that way. She can go date the guy her mom’s friend wanted to set her up with. Someone her family will like. She doesn’t have to hang out with us fairies and elves anymore - she can go play house with a respectable accountant. A guy .”

She blinks back angry tears.

Dean’s mouth twists. God, it’s him five years ago.

Hell, it’s him five days ago.

For a moment, he considers changing the subject. It’s not really any of his business. 

But he can’t bring himself to do it. Reese has apparently been highly involved in his own love life without it being business of hers, and he supposes maybe he owes her the same in return.

He thinks about the blue eyes peering at him over the coffee cup this morning, Cas’ gentle hands grazing Dean’s hips in the car after breakfast. 

Okay - fine, he definitely owes Reese. Even if she’s a meddlesome kid. 

Besides, he can’t just ignore her sitting over there looking miserable. Even Dean can admit his dumbass has way too much heart to do that.

“I ever tell you about how I came out?"

She looks at him questioningly, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. Dean plays with the tines of his fork, watching the sunlight glint over them through the window. "Of course I didn’t. See, growing up my old man was a real asshole. I - I knew who I was, always.  Knew I had a crush on Scott Baio, and Patrick Swayze always got a pass over here, but I figured I would just find myself some girl. Cause I definitely liked girls too.”

Reese smiles sadly. “Girls are pretty awesome.”

Dean snorts, nodding affirmatively. “So, I figure John - my dad, never has to find out - cause me, I can do both and I’ll be just fine. I can be the man he wants me to be.”

Dean leans back in the booth, elbows wing-tipping to the side and hands behind his head with a sigh of reminiscence. “You wouldn’t even have recognized me. Tough and loud and rough as hell. I wrestled and smoked cigarettes under the bleachers and took Rhonda Hurley to prom. Definitely not…” He gestures to his crisp checked blazer and white button down, buttons covered by the silk of a tie in stripes of chartreuse and tan.

Reese is staring at him with brows raised to the ceiling in surprise. “To be honest, I sort of thought you came out of the factory like that.”

Dean feels a sad smile pull at his lips, thinking wistfully about him then - and now - and all the spaces in between the two. The differences and the similarities. Has it always been this much of a performance, every minute of his life?

Not every minute. Not the ones spent with Cas , Dean thinks.

And - not that any of it matters, he decides. Screw the past.

There’s always room to be better, and starting today he resolves that he’s going to be - not better for anyone else. Simply better to - and only for himself.

Okay, maybe Cas is also included in this equation. But Dean’s gonna start with himself first.

He continues wistfully, “Heh. Yeah, I definitely did not. Anyway, my little brother, Sammy? He wasn’t like me at all. He’s smart as hell. Debate team, future lawyer, total nerd. Only nobody messed with him or anything because I’d kick their ass.”

Dean chuckles, pausing. “Still would, not that he needs it. Kid towers over me by a good three inches.”

Reese nods slowly, indicating she’s following him, but her expression remains confused.

Right. Get to the point, Smith. Dean gathers his thoughts.

“So, Sammy? He was always fighting with John. They were like oil and water. And it was mostly pop’s fault. He’d go on these damn benders, and show up three weeks later ready to take us to Pennywhistles or something ‘to make it up to us.’ I’d just go along with it to keep things cool, but Sam couldn’t fake that shit.”

Dean’s jaw stiffens, remembering it. “Didn’t help that it always got scheduled during something important of Sam’s good-old-father-of-the-damn-year had forgotten. Debate meet, or mock trial competition or something, every time.”

Dean can still hear it. The two of them fighting, harsh voices and Dean’s thin teenage form in the middle, pushing them apart with his hands. He shakes his head to clear the memory.

“Anyway. There was this guy? Lee. John, he friggin’ hated him. This guy was brash, he was just out and proud and openly into guys and didn’t care who knew. Didn’t help he could have chemistry with a damn cocktail napkin without even trying. So - one day John got into his head that Lee and Sammy were an item.”

Dean pauses as their food is placed in front of them, popping a fry into his mouth and oh, does it feel good to do that without any hesitation whatsoever. He chews in bliss for a moment, and continues: 

“He was half right. Lee was my first boyfriend.”

Reese nods slowly as she cuts her burger down the middle with her knife, defly lifting the bun to ensure no pickles snuck in despite her stern request for them to be absent. 

“Lee was…hah. Magnetic is an understatement. Either way, we can’t control who we fall for. Even if it hurts.” Dean sighs sadly. "All my plans to be the man John wanted flew out the window when I met him."

“Sammy was trying to protect me. I didn’t...” Dean swallows. He’s in it now. He pokes his burger with a fingertip, deeming it too hot to take a bite in procrastination, and presses forwards. 

“So one night, John and Sam get into their usual back and forth barrage of crap, and John tells him...Well, it doesn’t matter what he said."

Anger plays across Reese’s face. Undoubtedly she knows a little about that.

"The point is that Sam tells him it’s none of his business what he and Lee get up to. And I can tell John’s about to deck him - I mean at this point I know them, right? Those signs like the back of my own damn hand. So, genius me - I bust into the room and tell him ‘Sam’d better not be getting up to anything with Lee considering he’s my boyfriend.'”

Reese laughs. “That is one way to come out.”

Dean smiles in response. “Yeah, it was probably not how I would have planned it, but what can you do? The point is, this shit’s hard and it has real consequences. But with Harper?”

Reese’s head jerks up at the name.

Dean meets her eyes with sincerity. “Listen, it doesn’t mean that she won’t get there. And yeah - might be easier on her family and on her - if she dates that asshole accountant, but it doesn’t sound like that’s what she wants.” His gaze grows discerning, and he adds: 

“Otherwise, it wouldn’t be complicated.”

Reese sighs, tugging the cap off the ketchup and squeezing a glob out on her plate. She drags the tip of a fry through it despondently. 

“I know. It’s not that - well, not exactly. I know about asshole parents.”

God, they really all are a pocket of parental issues, aren’t they? Dean reminds himself to send Eileen an edible arrangement for this astute and accurate observation.

Reese takes a small nibble of her fry, then makes a face and puts it back down. “It’s that she...fuck. This is gonna sound dumb,” she trails off helplessly.

Dean kicks her foot under the table. “Open forum to be dumb as needed here. Motion to moron granted.

That gets a small laugh out of Reese. “Even when we’re happy - especially when we’re happy - I sometimes see it. The sadness and guilt that she's struggling to push away.” Reese sighs, wriggling her tense shoulders and scrunching her nose.

“I just - I don’t wanna be the reason she’s sad,” she finishes plaintively.

Ah. And Dean knows something about that, too. He nods companionably, eating a few more fries as he mulls over her words.

“Okay. so - does she know that? How you’re feeling?”

Reese shakes her head no, cutting her burger into fourths instead of eating it. 

Dean’s still as hot as lava, and since he doesn’t want to burn his taste buds off, he keeps talking.

“Look, let me give you some advice that makes me a total hypocrite, but that’s why it’s good advice.” 

Reese smiles wryly at that.  

Dean rubs the back of his neck, trying to choose his words carefully. He’s not a pro at talking about this crap either, but it’s slightly easier when it’s not directly of and concerning him.  

“I just wasted a year - an entire fucking year, ok? Of my life trying to -” 

The confession is harder than he thought it would be, but Dean bites it out, through his teeth and out of the locked chest under his ribs.  

‘“- protect the guy I care about most in the world, in the absolutely wrong way, while he tried to protect me, and neither of us ever actually talked to the other about it. About whether we even needed it. All that protecting.”

The expression on Reese’s face at this emotional outburst from behind Dean’s largely private and closed off demeanor is nothing if not shock.

Dean’s a little shocked himself, if he’s being honest. But it feels like the right thing to say.

The truth always is, he decides. He remembers having the same burst of energy he feels now when he confronted John over Lee.

Yeah, this is a good habit. Speaking truth in the light.

No more silence. 

“The only thing we accomplished was to make ourselves miserable,” Dean says softly, because they were. And thank God that now - they aren’t.

He smiles, sending all his love to Cas as if there’s some invisible connection between them through which he could actually feel it.

Who the hell knows, maybe there is, on some level, and that’s how they keep finding it. Their way back to each other. 

He looks Reese in the eyes again. “You gotta give her time. That sadness and guilt drive the voice that interrupts her happiness. And I would be willing to bet that voice sounds like the one that used to call her to dinner. But you’re missing the point. The point is: she’s happy.”

He punctuates the last sentence with a point in her direction. “Look, maybe you give it all up and you get nothing in return, but you gotta ask yourself. Is she worth it? I suspect you wouldn’t be sitting there looking like a kicked puppy if she wasn’t.”

The quiet stretches between them. 

After a moment, Reese looks at him appraisingly.

“What happened, anyway? With your da- um, John?”

Dean feels the tug of anger and sadness that always show up when he thinks of John Smith. It fades quickly, a relic of the past, muted by the bright glow of Dean’s future.

John may be his biological father, but Dean knows as intrinsically as if it’s been tattooed in his blood - he has a family.

Sammy, Eileen. Bobby. Rufus.

Cas.

Even Reese, in a way.

He feels a small burst of affection for all of these wayward, errant and broken people that have managed to coalesce into something warm and beautiful.

Found.

He shrugs, putting John out of his mind for good. “He told me to get out. I left and Sammy followed. Filed for emancipation and custody of my little brother the next day.”

Reese stares at Dean like he’s grown a second head. He grins at her, happy to have surprised her to this extent.

Didn’t expect that from the corporate drone, huh? 

Dean’s burger is finally at a temperature he can entertain for consumption, and he bites into it with gusto, juices and egg dribbling down his face. 

He looks up at Reese who is staring at the quartered pieces of her burger like they might bite her instead.

“Not gonna eat itself, Reese.”

She takes a bite. Chews, swallows. Something slowly relaxes in her jaw with each morsel, like she’s not only soaking in the meal but the words they just exchanged. She looks up at him.

“Thanks, Dean.”

He mumbles a no big deal in acknowledgement, muffled around what literally may be heaven sent.

Yeah, fuck green juice. Just call him ‘meat man’ going forward.

They eat in companionable silence, making small talk but mostly just reveling in the comfort of a shared meal. Dean savors every greasy, salty, juicy bite. 

Later, as he signs the check, he has another errant thought. His eyes dart to Reese questioningly.

"Hey Reese, you weren’t responsible for the elevator getting stuck, were you?"

She looks suspiciously innocent as she pops one of the peppermints from the silver tip tray into her mouth

"You were stuck in an elevator?"

Dean sighs. "You know what, I probably don't wanna know.”

Sully: Reesey, you can't avoid me forever 
Reese: I'm not avoiding you. I just don't feel like going out
Sully: I'm guessing your newfound hermit status has to do with a certain pretty nerd who is also suddenly not in the mood to go out 
Sully: I am also guessing that you didn't tell her how you feel
Reese: has it occurred to you that it's none of your business?
Sully: Nope. You're my best friend and I like Harper a lot. Definitely my business.
Reese: You’re so annoying 
Sully: Yep! But I also know what I'm talking about
Sully: just talk to her, Reese 
Reese: I don’t even know if she wants to talk to me, Sully. I was kind of a dick
Sully: she does. Trust me. Also, I just might happen to know where you can find her this weekend 
Sully: Barb says she’s going to the SPN convention in town, and I happen to know a guy who works in security at the convention center because I am AWESOME
Sully: SO I can probably get you in.
Sully: now drag your ass to this bar so I can help you plan out your big love confession 
Reese: FINE but you’re buying me a shot. Or three.

Chapter Text

April 17, 2021

Dean: Can I axe you a question? Are you ready to throw down tomorrow night?
Cas: 🙂
Cas: Excited to see Sam and Eileen then?
Dean: I’m gonna show them how it’s done
Dean: Speaking of tomorrow
Dean: A little 🐦 told me Reese is going to the convention
Cas: the Supernatural one?
Dean: Yep
Cas: The one Harper’s going to?
Dean: That’s the one
Cas: 🤔
Cas: Think we should lock them in the elevator?
Dean: Ha! I don’t think they have elevators at the center
Cas: A supply closet then?
Dean: Don’t bring up supply closets during the work day
Cas: Unless I intend to deliver on it? What are you doing for lunch? 🍆 

“HA! Beat that!” Dean holds his hand up for a high five from Cas while Eileen stares at him, unimpressed. 

Cas tries to mirror her nonchalance, but he can’t keep the grin from his face. He likes it when his buttoned-up boyfriend lets loose. It doesn’t hurt that he’s doing it in a green polo and jeans, no other layers in sight. 

Practically naked for a man who wears a suit to the grocery store.

Dean’s looking healthier too, with his face more filled out and a glow to his skin. The pronounced angles of his cheekbones are still there, but hollows no longer graze the space under their carved slope. 

Cas mentally pats himself on the back for the daily morning staple of bacon and eggs (green smoothie still on the side, because - balance) he’s been working into their routine, then walks over for a closer peek at his very sexy boyfriend.

Boyfriend. 

It feels good to use that word for Dean without pain shadowing close behind. Cas feels the little prickle of happiness in his sternum, still laced with the feeling of hesitation - the wonder that Cas can have this. 

Have Dean.

They can have each other. He wonders if this was always their final destination, this little pocket of hope at the end of the rocky road they’ve traveled.

Not in a manner of fate, but in the sense of two hearts refusing to give up, fighting to reach peace in the eye of even the most powerful storm.

Joining together in the space between the raindrops.

“Very nice.” Cas murmurs in Dean’s ear, noticing he has to brush a few strands of hair out of his way beforehand - Dean hasn’t gotten it cut recently, and a small part of Cas wishes he’d let it grow, just a little - less gel and more softness seems to suit him. He watches as Dean’s eyes widen, the verdant green growing quickly darker as Cas slowly runs one hand down Dean’s arm, tracing his bicep under the thin polo sleeve. “Definitely not a pipsqueak.”

The grumble of Dean’s laughter sends a hot tingle down Cas’ spine. Dean drops a kiss on his temple, letting his lips linger a little longer than necessary on the tender spot. 

Cas suddenly wonders if they have a utility closet in this place.

“Dudes. Come on! We’re standing right here.” Sam places a round of beers on their table, taking care not to spill them, then turns with his hands admonishingly on his hips. “Stop being gross.” 

“I was curious how gross they were going to get. You ruin all my fun.” Sam’s eyeroll does nothing to dampen Eileen’s grin. “Besides, it’s bettering my chances at winning.”   

She shifts the axe handle between her hands carefully, the steel of the edge glinting in the glow of the overhead track lighting.

“Excuse me? I’m the reigning champ here.” Dean pivots on the heel of his boot - because one doesn’t simply wear dress shoes to the axe throwing place, sweetheart - Cas fondly remembers those words tossed over Dean’s shoulder earlier today as he tore apart his closet, eyes darting around for the slightly scuffed brown leather.

Cas loves Dean like this, casual and unassuming. Actually, the only sight he prefers more is the one involving a smooth expanse of freckled skin and little else.

His gaze drifts in a more serious assessment for the location of a utility closet. Or anything with a door, really. Cas isn’t feeling very picky at the moment.

Dean, it appears, is feeling like flaunting himself. He struts jauntily past Cas, hip checking him gently as he passes. Cas’ eyes dart to the fabric of the jeans, and suddenly his throat goes dry as a desert.

It appears Dean’s chosen to borrow pants from Cas’ side of the dresser this morning.  

They’re not as flush against skin and muscle on Dean as they are when Cas is sporting them, but something about Dean wearing his clothes …

Yes, maybe it would be ideal if he and Dean stepped out to the car to - talk.  

Eileen flashes her pearly whites at Dean, interrupting Cas’ salacious train of thought. “You may be pretty good, but you aren’t currently motivated by pure, unmitigated rage.” 

She steps up to the line and throws the axe with all of her might. It splits the red bullseye dead center, blade splintering the wood.

“That bad?” Cas asks softly when she turns back around to face him, concern wiping his dirty brain clean. 

Eileen mentioned earlier that her current case is a tough one, but they all know better than to press her on any details she doesn’t offer herself. As a social worker, Eileen gets to see the worst of the worst. 

Sometimes she legally can’t share. Most times she personally doesn’t want to.

The beer must be kicking in, though, because she sits on a stool and leans in towards Cas, a gleam in her eye. “Yeah, but we took the fucker down. Sam was a huge help, actually.” Eileen toasts her beer in Sam’s direction with a small, bright smile.

Sam’s pride towards Eileen is evident on his face. “It was all you, don’t even try to give me credit. I just helped with the legal stuff.” He shrugs self-effacingly, and slides into the stool next to Eileen, knocking the neck of his beer against hers with a resounding clink before he continues:

“The kid’s crappy father was illegally funneling trust funds to pay for his extravagant lifestyle while his son was living on scraps. We were able to get dad removed as trustee and seize his assets.”

Suddenly Cas is reminded that he, too, has a trust.  Hmm . “So you can just have a trustee removed?”

“Not exactly. But a trustee has something called a fiduciary duty, which means…”

“Oh my God, Sam, nobody wants to hear you talk about legal shit.” Dean’s voice is a few octaves lower due to his being on beer number three at this point. He taps Sam’s shoulder with the bottom of the bottle he’s holding. “Stop stalling. You’re up.” 

Sam spares a withering look at his brother before walking over to take his turn, and Eileen pops up to stand behind him, playfully whispering into his ear. She’s either giving him tips or heckling him, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind either way. Cas listens to his low chuckle for a moment before returning to his own thoughts about the trust.

He can feel the furrow of his brow betraying the sudden sobering of his mood. 

Dean’s arms wrap around his waist, a tickle of breath at the nape of Cas’ neck that’s tinged with hops, barley and that particular scent of Dean. Cas leans back into the warmth of Dean’s chest behind him, solid and comforting.

“What’s up?” The playfulness in Dean’s voice is replaced with immediate concern, and damn it, how quickly that man can read him. Cas sighs, feeling a strong temptation to brush things off to avoid dampening the evening. 

But Cas promised to be more open. Now’s as good a time as any for him to put his money where his mouth is.

Literally, almost.

Cas indulges himself in a quick nuzzle, his nose swiping across Dean’s cheekbone, which is - very unfairly - dotted with weekend stubble instead of his trademark clean 9-5 shave. The scrape of it shoots another tingle straight to Cas’ groin like the lighting of a spark plug.

Why does he even go to public places with this man? All he does half the time is think about how he’d rather be in bed with him instead.

Focus, Castiel.

He clears his throat, shifting a little so he’s more to the side of Dean in a lopsided embrace instead of cocooned in his arms like some sort of hibernating caterpillar.

“It’s nothing. Well, it’s probably nothing. I was just thinking - “

“No good can come of that,” Dean says teasingly, brushing a few pieces of hair from Cas’ forehead. Cas snatches his fingers and nibbles one in warning. Dean licks his lips in response, wiggling an eyebrow.

“ Dammit guys I can see you from over there !”