Work Text:
Raven hair all a mess, he strolls into the shop with yet another guy at his side, both of them looking disheveled, as if they’ve just rolled out of bed. In other words, same shit, different day. For a moment, he considers escaping to the back and asking someone else to take their order, but Dean Winchester is no coward. Instead, he squares his shoulders and straightens his back, standing to his full height.
“Good morning,” he says, in a rather even and controlled voice despite the turmoil happening inside his head as he seizes a cup and writes Castiel on the side. If he had a usual, Dean would surely have it memorized but he always orders the daily special.
“Hello, Dean.”
“What can I get for you?” he asks the guy next to Castiel, ignoring the urge to climb over the counter and into his arms. Dean enters the order as the guy rattles it off, tossing the cups, the second one with the name Rick written in Dean’s scrawling hand, to Charlie as she passes by.
Forgettable Rick walks away and Castiel leans across the counter, further than Dean knows is comfortable, the sharp edge cutting into his stomach. “So, when are you going to take me for a drive?” Electric blue eyes flicker from Dean’s eyes to his lips and back again.
His deep baritone voice cuts right through Dean’s defenses.
“What makes you think I even own a car?” he asks, feigning disinterest, as if he wouldn’t risk his job right this second to have Castiel in his baby’s back seat, concealed behind fogged windows with her leather sticking to their bare skin.
Castiel leans in even closer. Temptingly close. Tauntingly close.
He licks his lips, knowing Dean is watching his every move. “Come on, Dean, I know you drive that shiny black Impala.”
“You got me pegged I suppose. But um, I don’t think there’s room in the front seat for three people,” he says, glancing over to where Rick is sitting by the window and back to Castiel’s face.
“Another time…” Castiel tilts his head thoughtfully, eyes dragging over Dean’s chest and stomach. He grabs the drinks from the counter and walks away with Dean’s eyes following and watching every step until he joins his date at the table in the corner.
He always stays until his cup is empty, practically ignoring the flavor of the day sitting next to him in order to keep casting glances at Dean and today is no different. He clocks no less than half a dozen looks and stares, Castiel not even having the decency to dart his eyes away each time he catches Dean looking back. He winks as he places his cup on top of his napkin, and walks out the door.
The next day, Castiel holds the door as another guy walks in, but his eyes search out Dean’s, following an observable path over his face as he comes closer. “Hello, Dean.”
“Morning,” he says, falling out of his more formal work persona for a moment.
Dean writes Castiel on the first cup and puts in an order for the daily special. In a way, it’s thrilling not knowing how the man before him prefers to take his coffee, having that bit of mystery between them, while knowing exactly what he will order on any given day, never needing to ask.
Familiar and yet completely unpredictable.
“What can I get you?” he asks the man standing next to Castiel, quickly scrawling the name, again passing the cups off to Charlie as she passes behind him.
When the latest guy leaves to sit at the corner table as instructed, Castiel hovers by the counter, waiting for their drinks. “So, what do you do when you’re not slinging coffee?” he asks, a genuine expression of curiosity gracing his face.
“Snow skiing. Surfing. Scuba diving. Mountain climbing. The usual midwestern fare. You?”
“Oh, the same,” he deadpans, grabbing the cups and stifling a laugh at Dean’s literal Eric with a K written on the side of the small black coffee as he walks away.
As usual, Dean watches him go, darting his gaze away as Castiel sits and gazes back.
“When are you two going to get it over with and just fuck each other’s brains out?” Charlie mutters over his shoulder.
“I…Charlie!”
“Seriously? I have to watch the two of you eyefuck each other endlessly and you’re clutching your pearls over language?”
“Your tone is unnecessary, Red, but your point is noted.” he says, turning to face her.
“Thank you,” she says, green eyes sparkling with glee as she turns up the radio and pulls him into a ridiculously dirty dance.
By the time the song ends, the corner table is empty except for Castiel’s cup abandoned on top of a napkin.
Tyler.
What kind of name is that Dean wonders as he writes it carelessly on the side of one of their largest cups while trying not to think about how hot Castiel is standing off to the side and checking out the muffins in the display case, his thighs flexed as he bends to get a closer look.
Apparently only waiting for his young date to leave them alone, he finally ambles up to the counter. “So, have you climbed anything interesting lately?” he asks, offering Dean a toothy grin, his voice husky and suggestive.
“Nothing of note.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, grasping a cup in each hand and sauntering over to his table.
An unusual rush hits and Dean hardly has a second to think, let alone spare a glance. By the time the crowd thins, only Castiel’s cup and napkin remain.
The string of unremarkable guys continues with Castiel showing up more often than not. Not that Dean bothers to commit any of their names to memory.
Jaime, Caleb, Seth, Chase, Ryan, Shane.
Each looking grateful to be near Castiel, they pay no attention to the way he flirts with Dean or the way he shoots blatant looks his way as they sit together at the same corner table each time, chosen for the unobstructed view of the counter and Dean standing behind it.
Today, it’s Logan, a tall and rather muscular guy, and Dean does a rough sketch of Wolverine on Castiel’s cup while he takes the guy’s order, waiting for the moment young Logan will wander off, leaving him alone with the one person he can never deny. All of a sudden, he finds himself staring into blue eyes, hypnotized by how bright and deep they are all at once.
“I’m still waiting for that ride you promised.”
Fuck. That voice does things to him that he’s too embarrassed to admit.
“I never promised anything.”
“No, I guess you didn’t,” he says, taking the cups from Charlie’s outstretched hands and walking over to the table, sinking heavily into the chair opposite Logan.
Where Castiel would normally stare at him unashamed, he barely looks up from the cup in his hand. And rather than leaving his cup sitting on top of a napkin for the busboy to toss out for him, he takes the cup, leaving the table bare, bereft of his warmth and presence.
Still rattled by the change in Castiel’s behavior the day before, Dean stands before the little chalkboard thinking about what the daily special should be when a stroke of genius hits him. He scrawls a few words across the slate and comes around the corner, taking his place at the register. Dancing around behind the counter to some song on the radio, Charlie has the music turned up so loud that Dean misses the ring of the bell when the door opens and closes.
“Hello, Dean.”
He jumps at the unexpected sound of Castiel’s voice, his head jerking up so that he meets a pair of shocking blue eyes. Today, he’s alone, and wearing a nice gray wool coat instead of his usual beige trench, his hair still mussed up, but with purpose, defiance.
“Good morning,” he says, slipping back into server mode. “What can I get you today?”
Castiel flinches, his eyes flitting over the board propped up on the counter. “No daily special?” He glances back to Dean’s face, staring at him wide-eyed, a deer caught in headlights.
A smirk turns up the corner of Dean’s mouth, a smug satisfaction radiating through him at the thought of throwing the man off his game for once. “Not today. So I ask you again, what can I get you?” Letting himself stare openly, he grabs a cup and starts writing without looking down.
Castiel looks down at Dean’s cup sitting next to him on the counter and a grinch-like smile full of teeth and gums spreads across his face. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Instead of announcing his abominable choice in drink out loud, he turns away and gets to work, truly serving Castiel in the only way he can. It’s not much, but it’s going to be the best damned coffee he’s ever made.
“Better three hours too soon than a minute too late…” Castiel says, reading the quote from the chalkboard out loud.
“Why do you always order the daily special anyway?” Dean glances back over his shoulder, longing for a quick look.
“Because you’re the one who comes up with it.”
For a moment, he almost falters, letting the words fill his chest, feeling it expand under Castiel’s admission. “What makes you think that?” He turns and slips a wrap around the cup, passing it to Castiel, their fingers grazing, his skin soft and warm.
A pair of leather gloves sticks out of his coat pocket.
It occurs to Dean that it’s the first time they’ve ever touched. Charlie always prepares his order, leaving it on the counter for him to collect. Now he wonders why he never tried to touch him before.
“Am I wrong?” he asks, still standing before him, hands embracing his cup, taking in the warmth.
Dean shuffles on his feet, squirming under Castiel’s intense blue stare. “No,” he admits, “you’re not wrong.”
Castiel finally brings the cup up to his lips, taking a small sip at first, followed by a longer pull, a deep throated hum and a quick swipe of his tongue over his lips. “Is that honey?” he asks, tilting his head as he tries to puzzle out the individual flavors in his drink.
“Yes.”
It’s not that he means to sound rude or terse, it just comes out that way with Dean’s mental faculties fighting desperately to maintain control under the onslaught of so much unintended heat and charm. Or perhaps it is intended after all.
Lowering the cup, Castiel narrows his eyes, head still tilted to the side. “Dean, is there some reason why you don’t like me?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out but a little exasperated gasp of air.
“Because I’ve spent months, literal months, flirting with you and although you’ve never been very responsive to it, you’ve never asked me to stop. I just don’t understand why-”
“Why do you always want to act like there’s something going on between us, but you don’t actually want to be together?” he blurts out, cutting Castiel off mid-sentence, his voice getting louder with every word.
“I…what? Do not turn this around on me. I must have left my phone number a dozen different times and not once have I heard from you.”
“Have you gone mad? You’ve never given me your number!” Before he can stop himself, he lets the floodgates open, only partly aware of what he’s saying. “You come in here and you flirt with me, and you know I want you, but you’re always unavailable.” He snaps his mouth shut, but it’s too late.
“The napkins…are you telling me that you tossed my number in the trash? And unavailable? What are you talking about?”
“You’ve paraded your dates in front of me for months. And every time I have to stand here and watch you.”
“You thought those were dates?” He scoffs at the thought, but then his expression shifts and his entire demeanor changes. “Wait…you want me?”
“Cas, I knew they were dates,” he says, ignoring the part about wanting him, hoping to steer the conversation away from that particular land mine.
“Why would I bring my dates to a coffee shop? And why would I torment you like that?”
“I didn’t mean…I thought it was the morning after.”
Castiel quietly considers this new piece of information, his face flushing pink under the suggestion. “Oh, so not only am I rude to both you and my dates by flirting mercilessly with you right in front of them, but I’m also a slut? Is that really what you think of me?” He begins to back away, retreating towards the door.
“No!” Dean shouts, not caring who hears or if he loses his job. “I never said you were a slut,” he says, leaping over the counter in a single jump.
Or at least that’s how it happens in his head. In reality, he does make it to the countertop, but his pants catch on a hook under the counter, splitting the length of his pants’ leg from his knee to the hem and leaving him dangling on the opposite side. That is until the hook rips free, and he crashes to the wood floor with a dull thunk of his head.
In an instant, Castiel’s hands are in his hair, feeling for an injury or maybe blood. “Are you okay, Dean?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, Cas.”
Except for a very bruised ego.
He pushes himself up from the floor, leaning his back against the cool counter behind him. “Look, I don’t care how many people you’ve been with, okay? I only care that it’s not me.” Bringing his hand up, he feels the back of his head, hissing as his fingers find a sensitive bump.
Castiel squats beside him, still looking at him with concern. “Three things, Dean Winchester. One. Those were absolutely not dates. I tutor underclassmen in the mornings, and I usually meet them here first. Two. I’m absolutely crazy about you and I would never treat you that way. And three…” he says, climbing up and straddling his thighs, his hands slipping up to cradle Dean’s face and pull him closer, “I’m going to kiss you now.”