Work Text:
Cas wakes early and makes himself a cup of tea and some toast. There'd been a storm overnight, with thunder loud enough to set off all the car alarms on his street. After it passed, the air had turned crisp and cool, the heat wave they'd all been staggering under for a week finally broken. Today he feels energized, as if the change in the weather has brought a change in his blood. He needs to move, so he walks down to the park. There's a trail there that meanders around the lake and through a nearby copse of trees, well-trafficked but still green and lush.
He rounds a turn in the path and comes into view of the water. Ahead, there's a man spreading a plaid blanket under a tall weeping oak near the shore. Cas's thoughts turn to picnic lunches and romantic dates, but the man does not produce a wicker basket, nor is he accompanied. Instead, he pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it aside, leaving him bare-chested and (Cas can see as he nears) barefoot. He's wearing only jeans, the denim clinging heroically to the well-defined muscles of his legs.
Without being overly blatant or creepy about it, Cas looks his fill. It's a lovely, sunny day, and he's in an expansive mood. The man is extremely attractive, and he's half naked. There's no harm in enjoying all of the scenery available to him. He's about to walk past and forget all about the encounter when the man grabs firm hold of a pole hanging from a branch above his blanket, and he begins to dance.
There's no other word for it. The man's feet never touch the ground, but it's a dance nonetheless – slow, controlled, graceful, spell-binding. Cas is reminded of the handful of times he's let friends drag him to a strip club. He's always admired the dexterity of the dancers as they work on the pole. Those same skills are on display here, but in a somehow purer form. Without the overt sexual and financial overlays of a shake joint, the sheer strength and artistry of the moves are unmistakable.
The man spins, climbs, speeds, slows, curls, extends. The sunlight filters through the leaves and dapples his skin in ever-shifting patterns. It's enthralling.
The show, such as it is, goes on for perhaps five minutes before the man slows his movements and drops back to earth. Cas realizes he's been standing in the middle of the walkway the entire time, motionless and staring. He blushes at his rudeness and very belatedly averts his eyes.
Before he can shame-facedly scuttle away, though, the dancer approaches. His eyes are moss green and freckles are scattered across his cheeks like stardust. He's beautiful, and Cas has fallen a little bit in love by the time the man comes to a stop before him.
With a panty-dropping grin on his handsome face, the man puts out a strong hand for Cas to shake. “Hey,” he says. “I'm Dean.”