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“Okay, I need a smoke.” Cas cranes his neck to read the clock on the wall behind them. “Holy shit, Smith, it's 5:15. We just wasted our whole night on this thing.”
“Not a waste, Novak! We're saving this client a cool half billion. If this presentation doesn't get us both promoted to the c-suite I'll eat your loafers.” Dean leans back in his Herman Miller chair and stretches out his spine. His back got torqued to hell while he was sitting hunched over their spreadsheets for the last eight hours. It's a relief to feel the ache of his vertebrae popping back into line.
“C-suite, promotions, paychecks, blah blah blah. Consider, Smith: We only have one wild and precious life to live, sunrise is in 10 minutes, and we're in here, in this airless office space, slowly getting cancer from the chemicals they use to clean the carpet. You wanna come up on the roof with me?”
He's on his feet, a man of action as always, and Dean is helpless to resist his pull. This is how it goes with them: Cas in motion, headstrong and decisive, Dean by his side, following his friend's lead with absolute faith.
It's not that he isn't his own man; Dean Smith is a dynamo, a go-getter, a rising star in the company. He's sure to make VP of marketing before he hits thirty-five. But when Cas is in the picture, everything else fades to sepia. They share a corner office, partner on every project – perfect synergy, to use a buzzword from last century.
They orbit each other, perpetually close. And maybe Dean wants to be closer. Maybe he longs for a partnership that doesn't end when they leave that corner office at the end of the day. He hasn't risked it yet, though. The cost- benefit ratio on screwing up the most successful team at Sandover for a dicey shot at personal bliss? Dauntingly high.
They take the elevator to the top floor, then climb a short flight of access stairs to the roof. Dean is hit with a flash of nostalgia, remembers sneaking onto the roof of his high school with a pack of friends and a case of beer.
Spread out before them now, though, is not football fields and prairie but a sprawling metropolis. The glow in the east is bright enough to silhouette the buildings surrounding them. It's beautiful and strange, like they're inside a cardboard cutout rendition of the city.
Cas fishes a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and taps one out. He offers it first to Dean, a symbolic gesture aimed at making the nonsmoker feel welcome at the ritual. Dean, as is their tradition, declines with a “not today.”
The light from the horizon turns steadily pinker. Dean turns to look at his friend, to marvel at his handsome face in this fleeting moment of surreal beauty. He finds dark blue eyes already focused on him. An unlit cigarette dangles from Novak's lower lip, forgotten.
“Dean...” he murmurs, cigarette bobbing precariously before he grabs it and flicks it away. Then he's in motion, headstrong and decisive, and Dean is once again following his lead.
Two steps across the gravel of the roof and Dean is in his arms. A blink of those enticing eyes, and their lips are meeting. The sun breaks free from the horizon, and Cas's hands rise. One comes to rest on Dean's cheek, thumb against the corner of their joined mouths. The other cradles the back of his head. Dean gasps, and Cas seizes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Dean finally remembers he's got arms, and he wraps them across his friend's broad back.
After a moment that lasts for an eternity they part for breath, but their bodies stay entwined. Cas turns to look at the sun.
“Hey look, it's a new day,” he says with a grin.
“Hell yeah it is,” Dean replies, and pulls him in for another kiss.