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“I swear to god I am moving to Florida,” Dean mutters as he makes his way to the bus stop at a brisk pace. “Just move down there and set up a surf shop along the beach or something.” It’s certainly an appealing idea as another gust of wind sends chilly air sliding into every microscopic gap in his clothing.
They haven’t gotten their first snow of the season yet, but it’s cold enough that Dean can see his breath coming out of him in streams of wispy fog as he walks, and he’s pretty sure his cheeks and nose are as red as a tomato from the biting wind. Thankfully, there aren’t too many people huddling in the small bus shelter when he arrives so Dean situates himself in a spot that will hopefully keep the worst of the wind at bay.
It’s definitely better inside the shelter, but the open doorway means that small drafts still sweep through the shelter every now and then. Dean shifts from foot to foot to stop himself from getting too stiff as he waits. He wishes that the damned bus would just come already so that he can get home to his heated apartment, make himself a hot meal, then collapse on his couch with one of those awful B-movie horror flicks playing in the background.
His daydreams of steaming mugs of hot chocolate, crackling fireplaces and his comfy bathrobe are cut short when another man comes stumbling into the bus shelter. Dean can’t resist staring because the other man is wearing nothing but a tan trench coat over a suit to protect himself from the cold.
Dean shakes his head. The man must be insane to brave this weather without a scarf or a sweater or gloves of some kind. He continues to watch with some curiosity as the other man moves to stand in a corner with his hands jammed into his pockets.
The man glances around, catching Dean’s eye as he does so. Dean knows his cheeks would’ve flushed with embarrassment if they weren’t already red from the cold. He averts his eyes and looks down the road, hoping to see the twin tell-tale lights of the bus. No such luck.
“Excuse me?” A soft voice comes from Dean’s left. “Would you happen to have the time?”
Dean turns his head to see that trench coat guy has moved to stand next to him. “Uh…yeah.” Dean glances down at his watch. “It’s 7:17pm.”
The man frowns, his brow furrowing. “The bus was supposed to come at 7:15pm.”
“What can I say?” Dean shrugs. “Bus must be running late. It usually is.”
The man squints in the direction that Dean had just been staring down, as if he could will the bus into existence. “I deliberately checked the bus schedule and came down here on time so I wouldn't have to wait in the cold so long. I—” The man breaks off coughing as a particularly strong burst of wind rushes through the bus shelter. He hunches over, wrapping his trench coat even closer around his body.
“Christ!” Dean unwinds the scarf around his neck in one hurried motion. “You’re going to get sick, you know?” He wraps his scarf as snugly as he can around the other man. “I feel cold just looking at you.”
The man looks startled as he touches the soft material now around his neck. “Oh, I couldn’t…” He protests.
“You can and you will,” Dean says with a fierce glint in his eyes that dares the other man to fight him. “And you’re going to put this on too.” He reaches into his backpack and tugs out the extra sweater he’d worn in the morning then taken off in the afternoon.
“But…" The other man falters as he catches sight of the glare Dean is sending him. “Thank you,” he amends, taking the sweater.
Under Dean’s watchful eye, the man strips off his trench coat, exposed long enough for another shiver to wrack his body before he pulls on the sweater and the trench coat over it.
“Better?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Thank you.”
“What were you thinking coming out with only one layer? It’s like you want to freeze to death or something. You’re just lucky I have a habit of wearing more layers than necessary or you’d catch hypothermia before the bus came. They’d find you here in the morning frozen into a block of ice!”
Dean knows he’s being irrational, knows he’s being rude, but his “mama bear instincts” (as Sam calls them) have kicked in and he can’t stop the tirade of words coming out of his mouth. When he manages to stop, the other man is staring him with wide eyes and Dean wants to fall to his knees and apologize.
Once he’s sure that Dean isn’t going to start berating him again, the man begins speaking. “I came to work adequately dressed, but I stored my extra layers in a cubby hole outside my classroom because I didn’t want to carry them around with me and I wasn’t near my office.” The man waves in the direction of the large university campus behind them. “When I went back to retrieve my belongings, they were gone.” The man looks quite forlorn as he lowers his gaze. “Stupid of me, I know.”
Great, now he feels like an even bigger asshole. Dean’s just told off a grown man when it wasn’t even his fault he didn’t have proper winter attire, and before that he’d forced the man into his clothes. If there was ever a moment Dean needed the ground to open up and swallow him whole, this was it.
“No, man,” Dean croaks. “I should be the one saying sorry. I didn’t…I mean...you…” Dean groans and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I’m an asshole,” he finally blurts out.
“No, you’re not.”
The quiet disagreement has Dean looking up in surprise.
The man is looking at him with a soft smile on his face.
“What?” Dean’s not sure he’s heard correctly.
“You’re not an asshole.”
“Uh…yeah, I am.” Dean can’t think of a better comeback because he’s a little stupefied. He’d been expecting anger and even some yelling, not gentle tones and a small smile.
“No, you’re not.” This is said with more force and the smile has been replaced with a stern expression.
The man pins Dean down with his piercing eyes that Dean’s only now noticing are a beautiful, vibrant blue, and Dean can’t look away.
“I know you’re not.” The man’s gaze softens again. “A heartless man would not offer his scarf or his sweater to a complete stranger. Most would have turned a blind-eye to my situation, but your first instinct was to help, to protect.”
Dean can feel a lump forming in his throat. He opens his mouth to object, to tell the man he’s wrong, that he doesn’t even know Dean, that Dean isn’t worthy of any praise, but no sound comes out.
“No.” The other man shakes his head. “You are not an asshole. You are a good man.” The man reaches out and grasps Dean’s upper arm. “You’re a good man,” he repeats, “because you care.”
Dean gapes at him, not knowing how to react to such a proclamation. That’s when he notices that the hand still resting on his arm is ungloved. “Are your hands cold?” Dean knows his question must confuse the other man given what’s just happened.
The man tilts his head. “Yes?”
“Tell me if I’m overstepping my bounds.” Dean slips his right glove off and fits it onto the other man’s right hand before grasping the man’s other hand. Dean pauses to see if the man has any objections, but the other man just watches him steadily. Figuring he has permission to continue, Dean tucks their tangled hands into his pocket and says in a shaky voice, “Now your hands won’t be cold.”
The other man’s lips part in surprise and Dean’s worried he’s made an even bigger mess of what he sees as an already disastrous situation, but then the man’s expression melts into one of open affection.
“See what I mean? Not an asshole.” The other man gives Dean’s hand a reassuring squeeze from where their hands are joined.
With that single hand squeeze, Dean knows that everything is ok and the tension that’s been pooling in his body dissipates in a rush. “I’m Dean,” he introduces himself.
“Castiel,” the other man offers back.
“So this might be a bit backwards since we’re already holding hands and you’re wearing my clothes and everything, but this bus happens to pass right by this great Italian place I know of and I was wondering would you like to grab dinner with me.”
Castiel gives Dean’s hand another squeeze. “I have nothing planned for the rest of the night and I just happen to love Italian food.”
The bus finally comes along a few minutes later.
Dean and Castiel don’t let of each other’s hands as they board and as they sit down together. They don’t let go as they get off the bus and walk to the Italian restaurant together. They only let go as they get seated at their table, but even then, their hands creep toward each other on the table until they’re joined together on the table once more.