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Dean hates buses. Hates them with a passion only rivaled by his love for his annoying little shit of a brother, who knows just how to pull on Dean's heartstrings. Which is one hundred percent the reason why Dean Winchester, lover of the car and everything it stands for, is currently heaving himself reluctantly into the nightmare on wheels that is a Greyhound bus.
Looking forward to eight hours of misery Dean only manages a grimace rather than a smile when he presents his ticket to the bus driver, and then with a sigh makes his way down the aisle in search of a seat. To his luck he manages to snag one of the last window seats, so he at least won't feel completely trapped during his torture, and it's a matter of seconds to toss his duffel onto the luggage rack and settle in.
He's only recently given in to the pressure of society – not to mention Sam – and gotten a smartphone. The music player was a major point in its favor, but he still thinks wistfully back on his walk-man cassette player as he scrolls clumsily down the list of tracks. He's only got about five hours of music on it in total, but since his taste in music is awesome, a few repeats is no hardship. It's gonna be a boring trip, though, he's well aware, so he settles in for a doze. It's nearing ten PM, but seeing as Dean hasn't called it a night prior to midnight in about twenty years, sleep isn't coming.
After half an hour of loud thoughts disturbing the magnificence in his earbuds Dean gives up, and studies the landscape instead. Or he would have if it hadn't been pitch dark outside. He should definitely have brought a magazine or something. He opts instead for playing Angry Birds on his phone, which is, if nothing else, pretty cathartic.
An hour or so into the trip a few more people get on. Among them is a disheveled looking dude who cautiously lowers himself into the seat next to Dean with a brief smile directed his way. Dean makes sure his jacket is on his side, keeps his elbows close, and then proceeds to ignore the man completely. It's just dude etiquette, like at the urinals. If forced to use neighboring positions, the rule of thumb is always to pretend it's not happening. Everybody is just happier that way.
It is therefore a complete and utter surprise to Dean when the guy next to him nods off, and lists to the side, their shoulders bumping before he jerks back to wakefulness, fumbling and almost dropping the book in his hands.
“Oh, crap, my apologies,” the guy rasps, and Dean's eyebrows pop higher, wondering what the hell the guy did to his voice to make it sound like that. Attend a heavy metal concert? Sing lead in a screamo band? Deep-throat a jumbo jet?!
“It's cool, man, no harm done,” Dean mumbles, and watches warily as the guy shakes himself awake before settling back down to read. The book is really thick, so Dean isn't even remotely curious about the title, but he is a little concerned about the man reading it. Upon closer inspection he looks worn and vaguely sunken, like he hasn't had a decent night's sleep in a long time. But his blue eyes dart brightly back and forth across the tiny print of his book, so he's at least awake for the time being, and Dean goes back to playing by urinal rules.
It's probably only thanks to a lifetime of brotherly prank wars that Dean spots the slow slide out of the corner of his eye as the heavy book starts making a break for freedom from the suddenly slack hands of its owner. Dean snatches it smoothly before it drops, and does his best to place the bookmark roughly where the book was open before it fell. He means to shake the guy awake and give the book back to him, but one more look at his face and Dean simply doesn't have the heart to do it.
Eyes closed and body lax, the man looks only marginally less stressed, and Dean watches his head jiggle with the movements of the bus for several seconds before making a decision.
The bookmark is also the man's ticket, and Dean glances at it to find his destination. It's a good four hours yet until his stop, so Dean simply checks that the arm rest is down so the guy won't drop into the aisle, and then sticks the book securely into the gap between himself and the window. He'll poke the man before his stop. It seems like the only decent thing to do. He even keeps one earbud out to make sure he hears if the guy wakes.
He doesn't.
It's about ten more minutes before there's a lengthy turn, a massive spiral descent onto the highway, and by the time the bus straightens its path again, Dean's shoulder has a warm weight on it where his slumbering neighbor has tilted with the force of the turn. Tousled hair tickles Dean's face, and there's a strange scrape of stubble against the durable fabric of his jacket as mystery snoozer snuggles in comfortably.
Dean sits stiff as a board for about a minute, debating what to do. He doesn't want to spend the next few hours as a pillow to a complete stranger, who may or may not be a drooler, but he also feels bad at the thought of waking the guy up. And he doesn't even snore or anything.
He does heave a tiny sigh, just a hint of a whimper in its wake, and Dean is willing to go pretty far to maintain his masculinity, but he's definitely too much of a soft-hearted bastard to deny a guy any rest he needs so badly he whimpers when he finally gets it.
Yep. It's gonna be a long trip.
It turns out to be not so bad, though. The guy sinks down a little lower over time, aided by the movements of the bus, and his head tilts back, resting finally in the V between Dean's shoulder and the back of his seat. This means, first of all, that the risk of drool on Dean's jacket is lessened significantly, but also that Dean can actually see his face when he chances a glance.
Every so often Dean does look around to check if anyone is taking note of the vaguely homoromantic action happening, but no one does. Everyone else is either asleep themselves or absorbed in their phones or books. No one gives a shit.
Dean risks a few more glances, and feel unexpectedly pleased when he realizes that the guy actually looks better. His cheeks are less pale, and the permanent frown around his eyes has definitely lessened. If Dean is being brutally honest with himself, which does not happen often, he has to admit that the guy actually looks quite handsome. Soft, pink lips, long dark eyelashes, strong jaw, stubble just long enough to look artful rather than unkempt, and even the unruly hair has a kind of charm to it. And though they're closed now, Dean definitely took note of the bright blue of the man's eyes. Dean always was a sucker for blue eyes. Dammit.
The thing is, Dean isn't gay. He's not even bi. But he's experienced enough in his life to be at least dimly aware that he's not one hundred percent straight either. There's probably a label for it, but it's never been enough of an issue for Dean to bother looking into it.
All he knows right now is that he's really kind of attracted to the stranger sleeping on him, and, seeing as he's asleep, Dean actually has time to come to terms with it. Usually, when he's approached by men, he simply turns them down, and moves on. Doesn't waste time considering if there was something there, not when the world is full of beautiful women, who fall into Dean's bed with no more than a few murmured words and a crooked smile.
He's got excellent game, and that's truth, not posturing.
But now that he's already being honest with himself he can admit that, lately, his love life has been kind of... well, boring. It scratches the itch, definitely, but there's no excitement. It's the same moves over and over again, and it never goes any further. The number forty is looming in the not too far distance of Dean's future, only a handful of years away, and he's starting to want... more.
He's not sure exactly what more is, though. Marriage? Kids? It's never been something he's wanted before, but who knows? Maybe even Dean Winchester has a biological clock.
What he does know is that during those few hours of casting furtive glances at the pretty man on his shoulder, Dean feels more excited about his attraction to someone than he has in years now. Maybe a Gay Thing is the answer. If the dude is even into Gay Things. It's been more than a few years since Dean last gave Gay Things any thought, but he's definitely still game, if the unfamiliar swoop in his gut is anything to go by. It's a little scary, frankly, but Dean has always prided himself on his courage to face adversity head on, and this is no different.
He takes one last long look at the guy's face, in case it's the last chance he gets to admire it, before gently shaking him awake.
“Dude, hey. Hey, wake up.”
The man blinks awake slowly, rubbing his cheek against Dean's shoulder, slow and lazy with a heartfelt sigh, before he suddenly realizes where he is and goes completely rigid.
“Oh no. I am... truly sorry,” he rasps, sitting up slowly, almost as if he's worried Dean will be spooked if he moves too fast. “I assure you I don't make a habit of sleeping on strangers on buses. Please accept my sincerest apologies-”
“Dude, it's fine,” Dean says, waving him off. “You looked like you needed it.”
The guy blinks slowly, taking in Dean's words. “I did. Thank you.” He sounds genuinely appreciative, and Dean can't help but smile at him even more, their eyes meeting and lingering for a long moment before the guy digs out his phone and checks the time. His face turns a charming shade of pink, and he looks back at Dean, incredulous.
“You let me sleep on you for three whole hours?”
Dean shrugs, awkward at having been caught out. “Like I said, you really looked like you needed it. I, uh...” he takes out the book, still warm from his thigh. “I checked your stop on your ticket, just to make sure you wouldn't miss it. Sorry, I hope that was okay.”
Worried that he'd been unintentionally creepy, Dean is surprised as well as relieved when the guy smiles as him. A brilliant, crinkly smile, and if the guy was attractive in sleep it is literally nothing next to the beauty of him smiling like that. Dean is fucking compromised, here.
“Okay? Yes, that was very much okay. Thank you very much, that was so kind of you. I haven't slept in a few days, and I hadn't expected to have the opportunity until I got home. So, again, thank you.”
He smiles some more and Dean is kinda stuck for once. Normally he'd be offering his number or something by now, but that smile is doing some really unexpected things to his gut, and all he can do is smile back.
“Castiel,” the guy says, and holds out his hand. It takes Dean an embarrassingly long time to realize it's the guy's name, and that he's introducing himself.
Not having caught exactly what the name actually was, Dean does what he does best and wings it.
“Dean. Nice to meet you, Cas.”
They shake hands slowly, and it's nothing like any other man Dean has ever been introduced to. It's never been like this, he's never been so aware of the texture of someone's palm like this or the pressure around his hand. And he must not be the only one feeling it, because Cas doesn't let go.
“Would you... this may be presumptuous of me, but I'm fairly short on time. I think I would very much like to get to know you better. Would that be all right with you?”
Dean nods, smile firmly at home on his face at this point. “Yeah,” he says, his voice being the one that sounds a little rusty now. “Yeah, I'd really like that.”
There's some awkward moving around as they finally let go of each other's hands, and start rummaging around for their phones to exchange numbers. Dean has the sudden wild urge to giggle, and it's all so weird and wonderful.
Cas gathers his things, his stop coming up in mere minutes, and he gets up in preparation to leave the bus. He lingers in the aisle, sporting another, softer smile.
“I really am sorry I fell asleep on you.”
“I'm not,” Dean says firmly, and the smile directed at him goes all gummy and scrunchy and – an unfamiliar thought for Dean when it comes to men – adorable.
Yeah, Dean can't fucking wait for Cas to sleep on him again.
End.