Red Hood (Chapter 2)
MESSAGE FROM UNKNOWN NUMBER 3:47 PM:
i cant believe you gave me ur email address. do people even email anymore? u shoulda given me ur fax and pager number 2.
MESSAGE FROM UNKNOWN NUMBER 3:49 PM:
this is dean btw.
MESSAGE FROM UNKNOWN NUMBER 3:50 PM:
(that handsome devil you picked up on the side of the road)
SENT MESSAGE 4:02 PM:
im sry. i don’t remember ne1 by that descriptoin.
SENT MESSAGE 4:02 PM:
*description
goddamn touch screen
MESSAGE FROM HOBO DEAN 4:05 PM:
ur rite. im that toothless meth head u found passed out at the rest stop bathroom.
SENT MESSAGE 4:08 PM:
ooooh deannnnn. i seem to recall sum1 by that name. u forgot to mention ur baldness.
MESSAGE FROM HOBO DEAN 4:09 PM:
hardy har har. dick.
SENT MESSAGE 4:10 PM:
;)
MESSAGE FROM HOBO DEAN 4:12 PM:
did u rly just use a emoticon? u rly r gay.
MESSAGE FROM HOBO DEAN 4:12 PM:
in a good way. good 4 me bc i like dudes.
MESSAGE FROM HOBO DEAN 4:23 PM:
shit.
SENT MESSAGE 4:27 PM:
sry. some newspaper called 4 a quote. r u gonna ask me out, or do i have to ask myself out?
MESSAGE FROM HOBO DEAN 4:30 PM:
wednesday @ 2? do u kno where common grounds is?
SENT MESSAGE 4:33 PM:
the one on oak?
MESSAGE FROM HOBO DEAN 4:34 PM:
yeah. c u then.
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Dean was nervous. He had maybe helped himself to a cup, or four, of coffee and was crawling out of his skin. His leg jackhammered underneath the table as he fiddled with his phone. The thing was a piece of shit, it barely got service and when it did the calls sounded like they had been made from the Titanic post-iceberg. But Dean knew the moment he got a fancy new iPhone or Blackberry it would find its way into the washing machine or microwave. So he kept the free phone that came with the cheapest plan that included free texting. Draining the dregs of his lukewarm coffee, Dean signaled to the girl behind the counter.
Common Grounds was Dean’s favorite coffee place by far. Even though it was literally surrounded by Starbucks in every direction, it had a fiercely loyal clientele and had managed to stay in business through two recessions. It was low-key, served the best joe in town, and Dean’s personal favorite, it had a bottomless mug. Two dollars would buy you a cup of coffee, an extra buck fifty would give you unlimited refills. It was a match made in heaven with Dean’s wallet.
Before Dean had bit the bullet and started exploring all the coffee joints in town, he had tried to make his own. First he tried the instant stuff, it tasted like shit. Then he splurged and bought a coffee maker and some grounds from the supermarket. That he suspected, was made from shit. It was gritty, did not taste like coffee at all, and had a sickening aftertaste that lasted all day. After that, Dean gave the machine to Sam as a belated move-in present and started his search for the perfect coffee shop.
He had arrived at Common Grounds way too early. But he figured drinking coffee by the gallon was probably better than pacing around his apartment second guessing himself. The whole finding out that the guy who saved him and the Impala from an almost certain run in with a serial killer was actually one of the most famous athletes of the decade had taken a little bit to get used to. And that said athlete actually had decided that Dean wasn’t a total lost cause and wanted to spend more time with him.
Now, Dean wasn’t putting himself down. He knew he was an attractive man, and certainly charming enough when he wanted to be. But there was a difference between better looking than average and dating a professional athlete. There was a reason why hockey players with fewer teeth than a resident of West Virginia were still able to bag girls who had been runner’s up at Miss America. And Dean knew he wasn’t on that level, hell the majority of the population wasn’t on that level. And it was making him more than a tad uneasy. Thus all the coffee consumption.
Currently he was throwing all of his concentration into a week old newspaper he had found tucked into one of the couch cushions. It was some fluff piece about some high school kids raising money for a member of their swim team who had been diagnosed with leukemia. Dean winced, poor kid.
He checked his watch, still another fifteen minutes. Enough time to calm himself down, and more importantly, lay off the coffee. This shouldn’t have been throwing him such a loop. It was a coffee date for Pete’s sake. Not a freakin’ three course meal with a violinist and a dozen roses. The only advice Sam had given him was not to ask Cas was if Justin Thomas’s, the star quarterback’s, dick was as big as the rumors said. There was a story that the cheerleaders called him ‘The Tripod’. Dean had only scoffed and put it in his mental file cabinet for questions on the second date. If there was a second date. Shit.
Cece, the girl who was manning the coffee pot for the afternoon, came over to refill Dean’s mug.
“Nervous, huh?” She asked kindly, taking a seat next to him.
Dean attempted a chuckle but it came out more like the noise of a cat being strangled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Dude, you’ve finished off this pot completely on your own.” She patted his shoulder. “Whoever this guy is, he must be a Big Deal. Capital ‘b’, capital ‘d’.” The bell on the door tinkled as somebody entered the shop. Looking over Dean’s shoulder, Cece’s mouth made an ‘o’ shape. “It makes more sense now. Buck up, partner.” She giggled, grabbed her coffee pot and made herself scarce.
“Hello, there.” A gruff, but amused voice greeted.
Dean shot up, wiping his hands on his jeans before sticking one out awkwardly. Thinking better of it, he let his arm fall to his side.
“What can I get ya, Cas? My treat.”
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Dean Winchester was going to be the death of him. Castiel was sure of it. He had to admit, when he had seen Dean’s car broken down on the side of the road, his intentions had been purely admirable. That had quickly changed after he had seen the nearly perfect ass poking out from the atrocious hood on the car. According the Cas, the only problem with Dean Winchester was that he tended to wear entirely too many articles of clothing. After that, he employed the ‘slow curve’ and made it his mission to get that man in his bed. Or the very least, in the roomy backseat of his Impala. Cas suspected that Dean had inadvertently supplied him with a new kink. As this was all before he even saw Dean’s face. Then it was game over.
For the rest of the week, Cas was impossibly distracted. Practice was a blur of missed kicks, and in one particularly grievous occasion, a kicked teammate. He would be able to pull it together and then would see something that somehow reminded him of Dean, which was crazy pants because he had spent less than a half an hour with the man.
Three times during the week, Cas had driven by the shop that Dean had said that he worked at, debating on whether he should go in or not. Really all Cas wanted was a private fitting session with Dean. Preferably one that involved a lot of inseam measurements. But because Cas didn’t want to come across as a legitimate stalker, he kept driving around the block and left the boutique in his rearview.
When Dean had finally gathered the balls to text Cas, he thought his face would split due to his shit eating grin. But Cas played it cool, the last thing he needed was to stroke the man’s ego. Cas wanted to keep him on his toes, and preferably on his back too. But he was getting distracted again. At the back of his mind, Cas wondered if there was any way that the real Dean would be able to stack up to Cas’ very vivid fantasies. He could only hope.
Cas very nearly showed up late to his coffee date because of a slight disagreement with the meter maid. She thought that he was parked illegally; he thought that he was merely a creative driver. They settled with Cas promising her box seats to the next Wolves game. It probably was not the most ethical thing in the world, but neither was standing up Dean.
When he walked into the small coffee shop, one that could easily be overlooked walking down the street, his eyes immediately found Dean talking to one of the baristas. The girl was a few years younger than Dean and himself, probably working her way through her undergrad either for rent or beer money. Objectively, Cas decided that she was attractive in the tattooed, pierced way that seemed so prevalent in California. She probably grew up in San Francisco and was a vegan. Being vegan seemed very en vogue with girls her age.
“What can I get ya, Cas? My treat.” Dean was nervous, that much was obvious.
He pretended to mull it over, reading the chalkboard hung above the cash register. There was no thinking about it though, Cas’ order never changed.
“Coffee, black.”
Dean grinned. “A man after my own heart.” He pulled his worn leather wallet out of his back pocket. “Anything else? The Danishes are fuckin’ orgasmic.”
Cas couldn’t help it, the smirk made a reappearance. He had a feeling that it drove Dean crazy, which only made it that much more enjoyable. “I’ll try one, Dean. But rest assured, if these are as orgasmic as you promise, I’m going to need some help in the bathroom.”
Sputtering, Dean flushed and temporarily seemed to lose his cognitive functions. Cas was pleased.
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Dean really had to pull it together. He blamed about 60% of his actions of the fact that he had been mainlining coffee for the better part of the morning, the remaining 40% had more to do with him being a tool and asshole per usual. So, while Cas was nattering on about how kickers didn’t get all the respect they deserved because blah, blah, blah, Dean was thinking very hard about Justin Thomas and his endowment. So it was no surprise that when Cas asked him a question, Dean was completely lost.
“---Duck’s record?” Cas waited expectantly, looking a little too smug.
“Huh?”
“I said, which freshman did you think broke the record for the longest punt at Oregon?”
Dean rolled his eyes. Apparently it was another one of ‘those’ questions. “Hmm, I don’t know, Cas. Probably somebody with a baby dick.”
“You slay me.”
“Dude, who talks about that on their first date? Or any date for that matter? Keep that shit to yourself. I can Wikipedia you later.”
Now it was Cas’ turn to turn his eyes towards the heavens. “Oh excuse me, Mr. Winchester. You were proving yourself to be such an eloquent conversationalist too. All those single syllable answers were really whipping me into a frenzy.”
“Fine, Mr. Smarty-Pants.” Dean grinned. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something all day. Sammy says it’s inappropriate, but I think I’ve earned it.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Word on the street is that one of your teammates has a Ron Jeremy status shlong.”
Cas groaned. “I knew this was coming. I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this question, especially after you used the world ‘schlong’. But, I’ll tell you what I know, and it can’t leave this room. The guys in the locker room pretty much knew I was into guys, and every once and a while they’d take the piss. Normal locker room stuff, whipping towels, stealing clothes. Whatever. But Thomas,” he leaned forward meaningfully “one day after practice he cornered me, came onto me hard.” Cas smiled at the memory, obviously proud. “I told him I wasn’t interested in getting with any guys who were so far in the closet they were in Narnia, and the next week all the cheerleaders were gossiping with that rumor that you heard. A couple of days later it ‘leaked’ to the press.” He raised his palms to the ceiling. “That’s all I know.” He leaned back against the couch cushion again.
The rest of the conversation flowed easily, Cas abandoning his stories of greatness and Dean actually participating by talking. They found out that they both despised white chocolate, had a soft spot for Motown and absolutely had no idea why the Kardashians were famous. Before they knew it, two hours had passed and Dean had to be across town in 20 minutes to grab his shift at the shop. Even though he was technically a buyer, he could move more merchandise than anybody else so was regularly scheduled for the floor. It was great for him, because every once and a while a customer would buy him ‘something special’ as a thank you. Which he then returned for cash and paid his rent. So a win win.
Throwing a couple of bucks in the tip jar for Cece and the fund for her next tattoo, Dean held the door open for Cas exposing them to the hot San Diego sun. Dean liked living in Southern California, he really did, but the heat was sometimes unbearable. And this was coming from somebody who grew up in Kansas. They bumped shoulders, not quite willing to part ways, stupidly oblivious to their surroundings. If Dean had been paying the slightest bit of attention, a fact that he would kick himself for later, he would have noticed the man in the black SUV dutifully taking pictures of their brief displays of affection. Furthermore, he would have noticed the very same SUV following him carefully just a few cars behind the entire way to work.
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