DCMB 2010 - Start Quoting Shakespeare and We're Done (1/2)
Here it is! Check out the art and chapter headers by sijay over here! (Couldn't figure out how to embed 'em, sorry! ;o;)
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Start Quoting Shakespeare and We're Done
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Chapter I: In which Dean Winchester is a teenage girl with a librarian fetish.
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The little brass nameplate says Castiel.
That, Dean had decided a while back, is a weird fucking name.
He's been coming to the Shurley Public Library every day after work for a couple of weeks now. He's eating his way through the whole Vonnegut collection and is gonna start on Palahniuk soon, just as an excuse to be there. It’s all Castiel’s fault, truth be told. Dean had come into the library once to pick up a hard-to-find automobile digest from the 1950s, and there he’d been. He’d tipped his head back to look up at Dean, pushed those wire frames back to their proper spot on the bridge of his nose, and asked, “May I help you?” It’d been all Dean could do to refrain from suggesting just how often the librarian could help him, and in which positions.
The dude behind the desk, you see, is criminally attractive. He looks for all the world like he just stepped out of some ridiculous issue of Playgirl where they fetishize various professions. Like, oh, look at this sexy firefighter, he’s only wearing suspenders while he suggestively angles that firehose. Oh, look at this sexy mechanic, he’s working on a Mustang in an attractively oil-smeared wifebeater. Oh, look at this sexy librarian, decked out in a gunmetal waistcoat, vibrantly blue tie, and wire-rimmed glasses-no wait, this is real life, apparently. Dean sure as hell hadn’t known that people actually dressed like that. Especially at small public libraries. In the middle of July.
Apparently Castiel is a weird fucking dude to go with his weird fucking name.
But, y’know-truth be told-Dean isn’t exactly complaining.
Dean, you see, has had a “sexy librarian” kink since ninth grade, when their school librarian Mrs. Fitzpatrick had retired and Mr. Byler had taken over. Mr. Byler had a penchant for sweater vests and ugly bow-ties, but he was ridiculously nice and his smile had been the best goddamn part of Dean’s day. (This was also when Dean realized he was at the very least bi, which was cool, because less picky equaled more sex, as far as his horny teenage brain could figure.)
So Castiel? Like a wet dream made flesh.
Right, sorry, back to the story of meeting the dude. It’s kind of important to the overall narrative of how Dean has become a creeper of late.
Anyway, when Dean had mentioned the volume he was looking for, Castiel had come out from behind his desk and led Dean to the correct shelf. Then, god help him, Dean had watched as Castiel had shimmied up a ladder to reach the required text, and the dark material of the librarian’s trousers was never gonna be enough to keep Dean from imagining the skin underneath when his ass was only a foot from Dean’s face.
But it was when Castiel came back down the ladder that shit got real. He’d handed the book to Dean carefully, and then he’d smiled. And his smile? Just as gorgeous as Mr. Byler’s, just as exhilarating.
Dean was fourteen again, stuck in study hall for forty-five minutes a day, bored entirely out of his skull. He’d spent most of his time absent-mindedly doodling giant monsters destroying cities on his assignments, little stick-people screaming in terror as they ran away in flames. And Mr. Byler, on his first day, grimaced in a friendly sort of way at the destruction unfolding across Dean’s pre-algebra homework, pulled The Illustrated Man off of a shelf, and handed it to Dean. By the end of study period, Dean’d blown through “The Veldt” with its parent-devouring lions and was pretty sure it was the most awesome thing ever-and, correspondingly, that Mr. Byler was the most awesome librarian ever. The rest of his ninth-grade year boiled down to Ray Bradbury and Mr. Byler, so that Sammy gave him Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles for his birthday and John made a point to shake Mr. Byler’s hand during parent-teacher conferences and thank him for looking after his boy. (That, by the way, was entirely mortifying for Dean.)
Right, anyway.
So the librarian with the weird name had smiled at him, eyes crinkling behind those wire frames as he handed Dean the automobile digest and asked if it was indeed the correct one.
And just like that, Dean was done. Might as well’ve stuck a fork in him. He’d spent the rest of the evening breaking in his new creeper status and hiding in the stacks, just watching Castiel and trying to come up with another question he might need help with.
He found himself coming back the next day to return the book. Then the day after, apologetically explaining he’d jumped the gun and needed the book again. Then the day after to return it again. Then the next, sheepishly asking for pleasure-reading suggestions. Repeat ad nauseum, right up to the current day. He swears one evening he’s actually gonna talk to the guy, ask him out for a drink or something, but it’s kind of awkward. It’s not like Dean hasn’t done it a million times before (with a pretty high success rate, too), but there’s something about Castiel that reminds him way too much of Mr. Byler for Dean to just tackle this from a “hey wanna sleep with me?” direction. He keeps meaning to, then doubting himself at the last moment and swallowing his words. This means he spends a lot of time just watching Castiel sullenly over the top of whatever book he’s reading that day.
If you think this makes him sound like a thirteen-year-old girl, you're not wrong.
Sam certainly thinks so. When Dean gets home that night, Sam accosts him as soon as he opens the door. “Who is he?” he demands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean replies, trying to feint his way around Sam and get into the kitchen.
“Oh please,” Sam sighs, moving to block his brother again. “You haven’t been home earlier than eight in like two weeks, man. If you’re seeing somebody, you could at least tell me.”
Dean ducks his head and shoves right past. He pops open the fridge and starts poking through leftovers, looking for something that’s a) not Sam’s health food crap and b) mold-free. He comes away with a container of mac and cheese that doesn’t look too suspect. Turning to Sam, who is leaning against the doorframe and scowling, he answers honestly, “I’m not seeing anybody, I swear.”
Sam studies him for a long moment, eyes narrowing. Finally he says, “Oh god, this isn’t some sort of unrequited love thing, is it? Are you pining? Don’t eat your feelings, Dean, I hear lovesickness goes straight to your thighs.”
“Fuck you very much,” Dean retorts, taking a very pointed bite of cold macaroni. “I am fine.” He looks around and spies the tell-tale camo-print box on the counter. “But speaking of unrequited love, how’re things going with you and Mr. Sugar-Coma?”
Sam goes pink. “Shut up. Just-shut up.”
(Their apartment is three buildings away from a gourmet chocolaterie run by a guy who’s absolutely mad for Sam. For the past couple of months, boxes of chocolates and other confections have been appearing in their mail. They’re heavenly, but Sam’s being a priss about the whole thing.
The problem’s that the chocolatier tends to be something of a prankster, and the first time Dean and Sam had gone into the shop, he’d given Dean an absolutely lovely Grand Marnier truffle, but to Sam had given an “experimental” chocolate overstuffed with habanero. Sam had taken it quite personally, despite the fact that on their next visit Sam had been plied with a cool coconut crème truffle and the most obvious flirting Dean had ever seen.
At this point, it’s become a standoff. Sam will stop in every now and again at the guy’s behest and needle at him for a while. Sam gets free truffles out of it; the chocolatier gets to feel that he’s making progress, however slow. Nobody gets sex.)
With a stalemate thus reached, they spend the rest of the evening watching television and generally being affectionately unpleasant towards each other.
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Chapter II: In which Dean Winchester tells white lies.
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Dean’s kinda just drifting off, watching Castiel talk to one of his coworkers, a pretty redhead Dean’s pretty sure is named Anna. It’d been a rough day at the garage-one of the know-nothing new hires hadn’t raised some dickwad’s Prius properly and it’d nearly slipped off the lift straight onto Dean. Then Mr. Prius had decided to tear Dean a new asshole about it, even though the fucking car was fine, not even a little scratched paint. Dean had needed to go bash in the windows of a few junkers after that. He’d considered just going straight home after work and chilling out, maybe watching the Indians try to defend their spot as the third-worst team in baseball.
Somehow, instead, he’d ended up at the library again. He’s slumped in one of the huge overstuffed leather wingchairs near adult contemporary fiction, mostly out-of-it, idly studying the other patrons as they come and go, but mostly just watching Castiel go about his job. All his bones feel like jelly and he’s not sure why he doesn’t just leave, make Sam order for Chinese take-out, and spend the rest of the night vegging.
And then suddenly Castiel’s heading his way with a trolley full of books to reshelf and Dean’s just been sitting there staring at him and he doesn’t wanna look like that’s all he’s been doing (the truth of the matter be damned). So he sits up with a lurch and grabs the first book his fingertips graze across, then slouches back and flips it open, hoping he didn’t seem too conspicuous. He doesn’t even look at the words, though. He’s hyper-aware of Castiel wandering down the rows, running his hands over the books, organizing them, straightening them, making sure they’re all even on the shelves. It’s a quiet, careful, methodical order that Dean finds reassuring somehow.
Then suddenly Castiel’s fixing an endcap display not ten feet away and Dean becomes very interested in looking like he’s reading. He’s really just listening to the quiet ¬shh-shh sound of books sliding across wood, however, and the tuneless hum Castiel’s making that’s just at the threshold of Dean’s hearing. His eyes are fixed on a single word in the book in front of him, the word Church. He wonders absently what he happened to pick up and hopes it won’t become important.
Because that’s the way the world works, though, abruptly Castiel’s pleasantly deep voice says, “Do you like Stephen King?”
Dean lowers the book a little and takes a quick glance around. No, the librarian’s definitely talking to him. Shit. He swallows. “Uh, no, not really.”
Castiel tilts his head a little, a bemused look crossing his face. “So why today’s choice?”
“What?” Dean says, then flips the book closed and looks at the cover. Pet Sematary. By Stephen King. Well then, that’s just fantastic, isn’t it? “Oh. Uh. Well,” he recants quickly, “I’ve, uh, only read a couple of his books, y’know, and I thought maybe I’d...give him another chance?”
Castiel smiles at that and sits down on the arm of an adjacent chair. “I am quite pleased to hear that. Not out of any particular affection for King’s work, of course, but because so many people tend to form concrete opinions of the worth of certain sections of literature and do not often revisit the ones that did not immediately appeal to them. It’s quite refreshing to hear otherwise.”
Dean very nearly swallows his tongue. “Oh yeah, that’s me. Refreshing.”
Castiel chuckles. “The very picture of it, Dean.”
This earns a double-take out of Dean. “Uh. Okay. You know my name. That’s not creepy or anything.”
“Because it’s so hard to remember when I see your library card nearly every day,” Castiel replies dryly. “We tend to take notice of patrons who come in as often as you do.”
Dean feels his neck grow warm. “Yeah, sure. Of course. That totally makes sense. But it, uh, puts me at a disadvantage, see. Because anybody can pronounce Dean, but I can read that name tag all day and still not know how to say your name, dude. Like, cas-teel or...?”
Castiel snorts lightly, his expression making it obvious that he gets this pretty damn often. He pronounces his name and listens to Dean repeat it a few times before nodding. “I was-well, let’s say blessed-with a father who was a professor of medieval studies at the university near my hometown. He determined early on to name his children after apocryphal angels. Oh, don’t give me that pitying oh-I-see nod. I just feel lucky I didn’t end up named Jegudiel.”
This startles a laugh out of Dean. “No way, really? Did one of your poor siblings get shackled with that one?”
“No, thankfully,” Castiel replies. “We never made it around to that particular angel. But as you can imagine, it still wasn’t the most pleasant childhood. We relied rather heavily on nicknames. Which reminds me-you can call me Cas, if you’d like. Less of a mouthful, and you’re still guaranteed a response.”
Dean finds he does like. It’s short, simple, and damn near impossible to fuck up. Plus, that part of him that is secretly a sixth-grade girl is-not surprisingly-pretty giddy to be on a nickname-basis. Or, y’know, even a name-basis at all. Feels like a step in the right direction, away from potential stalkerdom. Which, always cool with Dean.
Shrugging lightly, Castiel-Cas-leans forward and taps the cover of Pet Sematary, giving a small smile when he says, “Well, I am glad you’re giving it another shot. When you finish it, let me know what you thoug-Todd, I know you are not building a fort out of the Encyclopedia Britannica!”
Dean blinks at this total non-sequitur and leans forward in his chair so he can follow the librarian’s line of sight. Down one of the aisles a boy who he vaguely remembers seeing around is hastily picking up a haphazard pile of book stretching across the carpet. Cas is watching with a longsuffering frown.
He glances back at Dean. “His mother works late on Mondays and Wednesdays,” he explains. “And because of some previous trouble with bullies, Todd comes here. He tends to enjoy books in, hm, unconventional methods, as you can see. I like to think of him as my personal archnemesis. I’m sorry, I have to go. There’s no chance that he’s going to put those back on the shelf in the proper order.”
“Yeah, no, of course,” Dean nods.
Castiel heads off to intercept more serious damage to the library’s property. Dean sighs and flips Pet Sematary back open, but this time he starts at the beginning.
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Chapter III: In which Sam Winchester does not die of cyanide poisoning.
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“Sam!”
For a brief minute, Sam really debates pretending he didn’t hear his name. But, despite what Dean claims, he’s not an asshole, so he turns. Gabriel, the chocolatier, is standing in the doorway to his shop, grinning.
“Hey, I’ve already blown through the whole kitchen staff and need an extra set of tastebuds for my latest crime against nature. Can I tempt you?”
Sam frowns. “Calling something a ‘crime against nature’ is not a good way to convince people to eat it.”
“Ehhh,” Gabriel shrugs. “You’ve already survived the Pepper Bomb, how could this be worse?”
“It could kill me,” Sam points out (quite reasonably, he feels).
Gabriel handwaves this comment away. “Why would I want you dead? I like you all alive and stuff. Dead people have a way of becoming unsexy real quick. Now get in here.”
(Gabriel’s shop is called BOOM. The inside is kitschy corrugated steel, and a scale B-52 is suspended from the ceiling. Every truffle’s called a bomb, all brittle’s called flak. For Easter, instead of eggs the chocolates are shaped like little pastel-colored hand grenades. It’s one part charming and two parts horrifying in its cheerful adherence to its theme. But damn the chocolate is good.)
Sam sets down his briefcase on the countertop, which was made to look like an elaborate map of Europe. Gabriel plunks down a sampler cup of coffee and a truffle on top of it, then steps back and stares expectantly at Sam.
Quite skeptically, Sam picks up the confection. It looks pretty normal, milk chocolate with a white squiggle decorating the top. He sniffs. Smells like normal chocolate, maybe a little nutty. Finally, he sinks his teeth through it. It is fucking amazing, and he must’ve made some sort of inappropriate noise, because Gabriel’s grin is both proud and suddenly really turned on.
“Good then?” he asks.
“What was that?” Sam asks, sucking the last of the chocolate off his fingers and reaching for the coffee.
“Cyanide Bomb,” Gabriel replies easily. “The secret is to infuse the ganache with plenty of ground nuts to mask that bitter almond smell.”
“Ha ha,” Sam says as he sips his coffee, which is also fucking amazing. Damn this place to hell.
“Okay, fine. Spoilsport. It was the new Hazelnut Gianduja Bomb. Thinking I’ll call it the H-Bomb for short. Pretty amazing, though, huh? I am a genius. Tell me I am a genius.”
“You’re a genius,” Sam repeats dryly.
Gabriel splays a hand over his heart, looking stricken. “Sam, sarcasm is unbecoming!”
“Must be why you can’t find a boyfriend,” he retorts, taking a casual swallow of coffee and snagging his briefcase off the counter as he turns to go.
Gabriel just splutters.
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Chapter IV: In which Dean Winchester is some sort of pervert.
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“Dean, oh god,” Cas pants, breath hot and wet against his neck. Dean just grinds harder, hands up under the librarian’s waistcoat, pulling the two of them tighter together so that the layers of cloth between them feel like almost nothing. He sucks greedy kisses along Castiel’s throat, relishing in the smell of old books and soap and male he finds there. He makes a lazy circle with his tongue just above Castiel’s adam’s apple, and grins when the other man moans.
Cas is clutching at his shoulders, scrabbling for any hold as Dean shoves him back against the nonfiction section. Biographies clatter off of a shelf, lie open on the floor as Dean hoists Castiel up to perch there so he can slide between his legs. Cas catches Dean’s mouth with his own, all unexpected passion. His wire-framed glasses crush against Dean’s nose, so obviously those have to go. Dean pulls them off and sets them on a nearby shelf; when he turns back, Castiel’s eyes (so fucking blue, jesus) are dark and positively feral.
He shoves Dean’s overshirt off, throwing it somewhere in the area of the travel guides. Dean smirks and pulls his own tee off, flushing with pleasure when Cas sucks in a pleased breath. Wasting no time, Dean starts working the buttons of the librarian’s waistcoat, desperate to get to some of the skin underneath. That joins Dean’s overshirt, then he goes for Castiel’s tie, the blue (red) fabric smooth under his fingers. (Red fabric.)
Wait.
Pulling off the blue necktie, Dean reaches for…
Dammit. Is it blue or red today? He’s pretty sure it was blue yesterday, but he can’t quite recall if it was actually red today.
God dammit. He’s lost it.
Dean shakes himself awake, the dream still swimming around his head, and peeks around a display to catch a glimpse of Castiel. Red tie, fuck.
He shifts uncomfortably, half-hard and more than a little embarrassed. This isn’t the first time he’s fantasized about having his way with Castiel, but usually it’s in the relative safety of the shower or his bed, and not in the middle of the damn library itself. He is officially a pervert. One of those guys. He is too tired to be here today, the long day at the garage taking its toll. He’s drifting off, with, uh, undesirable results.
Just then Cas finishes helping the old lady who had consumed his attention and spots Dean. He smiles and gives a small wave.
Dean kind of wants to die.
It’s at this point that he decides it’s time to go home, get that Chinese food, and relax. He grabs Pet Sematary and heads for the front desk. Just the thought of having a normal conversation with Cas so soon after his brain’s little adventure makes him twitch, though, so he swings over to Anna’s station and presents his selection to her instead.
Cas watches him curiously, then waves once more as Dean heads out.
--
Chapter V: In which Sam Winchester cannot believe he’s related to Dean Winchester.
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Dean’s sprawled full-length across their couch when Sam gets home, still holding a little camo-print paper cup.
“What are you doing with that?” Sam asks upon entering the living room, nose wrinkling unattractively.
Dean doesn’t look up from the book he’s got propped up on his chest. A book that just happens to be Pet Sematary. “Reading it, dipshit.”
“Yeah, thanks, Dean. Why are you reading it? You hate Stephen King.”
The frown that’s been haunting Dean’s face all evening only deepens. “Not necessarily true.”
Sam laughs disbelievingly. “No, totally true. You called in sick at the garage the day after reading Christine, man. I remember, because I remember thoroughly mocking you for it-poor little Dean, afraid of demon cars. You swore that Stephen King was a hack and you’d never read anything he’d touched again.”
Dean scowls. “A guy’s not allowed to change his mind?”
Sam pauses and stares at his older brother contemplatively, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. Dean really really hates that look-it always precedes talking about their feelings or some such shit. He’d got it a hell of a lot after Dad died, when Sam had been convinced Dean was secretly falling apart inside. He hadn’t been. It’d sucked hardcore, and yeah he missed their old man like crazy, but it was something that, with time, he’d gotten over.
Truth be told, though, he’s not really expecting Sam to say softly, “Is he at the library?”
“What?” Dean buhs.
“The guy. Is he at the library?”
Oh shit. Dean lets the book flop down open onto his chest, the plastic dustjacket crinkling in protest. “What the hell’re you talking about, Sammy?” he replies, trying for irritated confusion.
Sam whaps at Dean’s legs until Dean draws them up off the last cushion of the couch so Sam can flop down in the opened space. “Please, Dean. You’ve been coming home with a different book like three times a week, and now you’re reading Stephen King? Something’s up with you. Either you hit your head on somebody’s undercarriage and this is your concussion manifesting itself or else you met somebody you’re trying to impress. Because this is what you do, try to chameleon yourself into something you think they’ll like, and frankly I don’t want you to get hurt over th-ow! Ow, ow! Ow, Dean, knock it o-ow!”
Dean keeps kicking him in the shoulder, big heavy blows with the heel of his right foot that, if he’s lucky, might even bruise. “Get off my couch, bitch, and make me dinner. Work was shit and I demand meat so that I might taste the suffering of another creature and be comforted by it.”
Sam scurries to his feet to avoid further injury and shakes his head in disbelief. “You are too weird to comprehend, you know that?”
“I am a mystery to modern man,” Dean agrees. “Now make me chicken.”
“Asshole,” Sam mutters to himself as he drifts off into the kitchen, rubbing his shoulder.
Dean goes back to reading. Now if only he could figure out what the hell a wendigo is supposed to be. Fucking Stephen King.
--
Chapter VI: In which Sam Winchester realizes he’s scraping the barrel for company.
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“Sam!” Gabriel grins. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Sam thunks down his briefcase on the counter, ignoring the glare from the girl running the register, and frowns. “I need to complain about Dean’s secret-yet-obvious crush on somebody and I just discovered you’re the only person I talk to regularly who isn’t either from the law firm or first and foremost Dean’s friend.”
“Wow, okay, not exactly the reason I woulda hoped for, but beggars/choosers, I guess,” Gabriel grimaces.
Sam quirks an eyebrow. “And the reason you would’ve hoped for is...?”
Gabriel shrugs. “You know, the usual. You realized your life has a me-shaped hole in it and you have come to declare your outright lust for me and we have mutual orgasms out back where it can’t affect my health code rating.”
Sam shakes his head sharply to drive out this image. (And if it’s not quite as repulsive as it really should be, well. He’s not thinking about it.) “Wow, you’ve put way too much thought into that.”
“Eh, man’s gotta have his fantasies. Want to try the monthly specialty? Made with Jameson. I’m calling it the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.”
“Of course you are. And you know what? I’d love to,” Sam says, folding his arms on the counter and leaning over to look at the chocolates lining the opposite wall.
Gabriel’s smile goes megawatt. “Fantastic! Just for that, I’ll play bartender for you. Spill, kiddo.”
Sam shrugs. “You know my brother Dean, right?”
“Sure sure,” Gabriel nods, twirling a pair of tongs before snagging a truffle from a display. “Bristly hair, bristly attitude? Particularly fond of caramels?”
“Um, yeah, I guess,” Sam frowns. “I’m pretty sure he’s particularly fond of anything with enough butter or salt in it. But anyway. He’s been gone all evening, every evening, for like two weeks now. And he keeps coming home with library books. Different ones, all the time.”
“My god, how scandalous,” Gabriel gasps, sliding the chocolate across to Sam.
“Stuff it, man. That is weird behavior for Dean, okay? I can’t remember the last time he’d been within a hundred yards of a library before this. He tends to just buy the books he wants to read.”
“So he’s joined a book club,” Gabriel shrugs.
“You,” Sam says, “are infuriating. Don’t you see? He’s up to something! And he’s not telling me what!”
“Sam,” Gabriel says, with a surprising amount of seriousness. “Are you pestering your brother because you want to see something that isn’t really there?”
“What? No, shut up, you’re not allowed to be introspective,” Sam frowns, pointing definitively with the truffle he’d just picked up. “That is my job, understa-oh my god that’s really good.”
Gabriel smirks and grabs Sam another Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
“Ugh, stop feeding me candy,” Sam complains, even though he takes the offered chocolate immediately. “I’m gonna have to work all of this off eventually, you know. I have a desk job.”
“No worries, Sammy,” Gabriel says breezily. “I’ll still love you even if you get a little soft. More cushion for the pushin’ and all.”
Sam gapes a little. “I cannot believe you just said that.”
“Please. What in our acquaintance would lead you to expect anything less from me?”
“Point,” Sam concedes. “But anyway. Can we talk about Dean some more and how he has all the emotional maturity of a gerbil?”
“This is the point where I make a joke about how that’s an insult to gerbils, I’m sure,” Gabriel says, leaning one hip against the counter that separates him from Sam, “but mostly I’m still concerned by why you seem to think Dean’s hiding some epic relationship from you.”
“He hasn’t been out looking for a hookup in over three weeks,” Sam replies with a scowl. “The only other time I’ve seen him so disinterested in at least, like, window-shopping was the month or so a few years back when he had that girlfriend, some journalism major who didn’t like his job. He was pretty shaken up when they split, and I get the feeling that he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he might be long-term interested in somebody else. Just in case, I dunno, it falls through or something.”
“All right, fair enough,” Gabriel shrugs. “So you have legit concerns. But, I mean, if he doesn’t seem unhappy, what’s the big deal?”
“You are the worst commiserater ever, you know that?” Sam sighs. “That’s it, I’m going home to suffer alone.”
“Bawww,” Gabriel snorts with a roll of his eyes. “Poor Sammy. Nobody understands your pain. Break out the eyeliner and the My Chemical Romance shirts, we’re heading back to 2004!”
“Asshole!” Sam yelps, swatting at him. “See if I come here again!”
“Bomb for the road?” Gabriel asks innocently.
“Hell yes,” Sam replies without hesitation.
--
Chapter VII: In which Dean Winchester opens his mouth and inserts his foot.
--
It takes Dean two days to finish Pet Sematary. On Thursday, while Dean is still fighting his way through it, Cas is nowhere to be found for most of the evening because he’s running the summer literacy camp’s sleepover night. The few glimpses Dean does get are of a frazzled-looking librarian nearing the end of his rope-tie askew, waistcoat abandoned, and glasses perched precariously atop his head as he runs to Anna’s desk to ask if she knows where he can find any more paper plates. Dean feels for the guy, he really does. But it’s also pretty endearing, god help him.
“So,” Dean says, sidling up to Anna not long after Cas had stormed through looking for extra permanent markers. “Did he draw the short straw?”
“Pretty much,” Anna nods. “Sofie joins him at eight, and a bunch of the moms are staying as chaperones, but right now he’s the last line of defense between this library and twenty-five screaming third-graders.”
“That poor bastard,” Dean grimaces, shaking his head.
“Hey, at least he’s getting time-and-a-half,” Anna shrugs. “And the morning off, once the kids go home.”
“Anna!” Castiel bellows, stalking across the library. “Do you know where the remote controller is for the rec room DVD player? If I don’t get Reading Rainbow on in the next two minutes I face mutiny.”
“Did you try the keybox in Michael’s office?” Anna replies sweetly. “I think he started keeping it there after the first two had to be replaced.”
Cas growls and swings a hard left into the office. Dean and Anna share a yikes expression at the loud clunking that follows, but then Castiel returns triumphant, remote in hand. “Thank you,” he says, then stops short when he sees Dean leaning against Anna’s desk. His gaze flicks between the two of them for a moment, then he nods. “Hello, Dean. Nice to see you. I’m a bit, hm, preoccupied at the moment. I hope your book has been entertaining so far.”
“So far so good,” Dean shrugs.
“Excellent. I am glad to hear it. If you will excuse me, I think Todd is in the process of inspiring the others to riot.” And with that, he vanishes back to rec room.
Luckily, Friday goes better. Dean finishes Pet Sematary on his lunch break, and the library that evening is blessedly kid-free.
And there’s Castiel to watch this time, to Dean’s delight. But it must be laundry day or something, because the librarian’s wearing a green “READ: Let Your Imagination Soar at Your Local Library” tee and worn-out jeans instead of the usual dress shirt and waistcoat. Dean doesn’t even exactly mind the cripplingly nerdy get-up, though, what with all the forearm action he’s getting today. Still, it doesn’t exactly inspire him to hold his tongue.
“Nice shirt,” Dean says when Cas drifts over to where he’s sitting.
The remark earns him a look of consternation. “It was Wilderness Explorers Day for summer camp. I was not about to go crawling through pine needles in a tie and slacks.” Upon observing Dean’s sheepish expression, Castiel adds with a smirk, “Now don’t you feel like a jerk?”
“You’re a jerk,” Dean mutters.
“I’ve made peace with that possibility,” Cas replies serenely. “How was your book? Did you finish it?”
“Yup,” Dean replies, waving it at him. “I’m sorry to have to report that I still don’t like Stephen King.”
Castiel shrugs. “I thought that might be your reaction. But it’s really not the sort of novel that would really sway one’s opinion, is it? I should’ve insisted you read The Green Mile.”
“Oh, I’ve seen that movie!” Dean says, snapping his fingers as he sits up. After a moment’s reflection, though, he could’ve kicked himself. He’s talking to a fucking librarian. Cas probably hates all films-based-on-books on principle. “Um.”
“It was a good film,” Cas nods.
“Oh thank god,” Dean sighs. “I was afraid you were gonna go all librarian-fu on my ass for a minute there.”
Castiel’s eyebrow creeps upward. “No, I tend to save that for the patrons who won’t pay their late fees. I do have a black belt in librarian-fu, though. Ask me about the Dance of the Nine Reference Cards some day when you don’t mind bleeding a little.”
Dean’s surprised laughter is loud enough that he quickly clamps a hand over his mouth for fear of being shushed.
Cas stares at him, entirely deadpan, until Dean manages to settle. “You were saying what now about The Green Mile?”
This leads to a discussion about the-film-of-the-books in general, which Dean bluffs his way through about half of the time. But he’s managing pretty well before Castiel mentions I Am Legend off-hand, which Dean had really liked. Vampire-zombie things, Will Smith running around being badass, post-apocalyptic destructive mayhem-what wasn’t to like? Unfortunately, Dean takes this small grasp on the conversation to voice how he just doesn’t see how that could be conveyed as effectively in words.
“I really haven’t slept much, Dean, having spent the night on a cot in the rec room,” Castiel frowns. “So I am perfectly willing to believe that I just imagined you telling me that you prefer the film version of I Am Legend to the Richard Matheson novel. The ending?”
“Uh,” Dean stutters.
“Anna,” Cas calls, peering over the audiobook section. “Dean claims to prefer the I Am Legend film to the novel. Please inform him of his error.”
The other librarian peeks around the older gentleman she’s signing up for a computer station. “Well, Will Smith is pretty fine, you have to admit.”
“Ugh,” Cas mutters in disgust. “You two are in league against me.”
Dean taps his fingers together nervously. “Would this be a bad time to admit that I’ve never actually read I Am Legend?”
Castiel tilts his head at Dean for a moment-a motion that, when paired with his glasses and ridiculous fluffy hair, reminds Dean vaguely of an owl-and then stands and walks off. Dean is left to wonder if he just ruined his shot with Cas altogether in a convenient one-two punch.
Before that thought can take too insidious a hold, though, Castiel reappears with a book in hand. “Your next assignment,” he says, holding it out. It is, predictably, Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend.
“Okay then,” Dean shrugs, taking it. “And when I still like the movie better, what’re you gonna do?”
“Despair of you?” Cas offers, but there’s a hint of a smile there as he turns to head back to his desk.
It ends up being one of the best evenings Dean’s had in for-fucking-ever. Castiel and Anna drop by to chat with him every time they leave their desks, and by closing time they’re having an epic debate over the best mainstream novel-to-film adaptation. Dean’s steadfastly holding out on The Lord of the Rings, but Anna had long ago flipped her shit over the nuking of Faramir’s characterization and subsequent relationship with Eowyn and thus claims Dean has no idea what he’s talking about. She throws in her hat for The Godfather and seems to be the iron-clad winner before Castiel reminds her that the novel was pulpy and really only dragged up by the excellence of the film. He goes for Howard’s End, which neither of the others know, so it’s a moot point.
He ends up being the last patron in the joint, and Anna actually locks the front door while Dean’s still hanging around their desks and arguing the relative worth of Fight Club as a book and as a film with Castiel. As a Palahniuk fan, Dean’s pretty passionate about it, and his outbursts have Cas smiling.
They head out the back together after the library’s shut down for the night, and Anna waves as she hops onto her bike and takes off. There are about half a dozen cars still in the lot-mostly of families using the adjacent playground. Dean meanders over to the Impala, Cas in tow, and takes a moment to frown at the vehicle it’s parked next to. It’s a little rattletrap of a Volkswagen Rabbit, 1981 if he had to guess, and it’s the most unappealing shade of orange he’s ever seen.
“Thing looks like it’s about to fall apart,” he whistles, his mechanic’s eye happily pairing up with his inner car snob.
As if fate is conspiring to make him an asshole, though, Cas hmms and replies, “We can’t all have pristinely-kept classic cars, I suppose. But it does get excellent mileage.”
Dean hopes the glare of the setting sun is enough to keep Castiel from noticing the flush of embarrassment that’s currently turning the tips of his ears megawatt pink. “Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, I hear that. Running a diesel engine then, I guess?”
Cas stands awkwardly next to the Rabbit and nods. “Yes. I have been meaning to trade it in, you must understand. But it was my first car. I’m afraid I feel rather...attached...to it.”
“No, dude,” Dean backtracks quickly. “I totally get it. This one was my dad’s, y’know. He, uh, he gave it to me when I got out of school. She’s my baby.” He lays one hand against the warm passenger-side door. “Look, man, I’m sorry I knocked your car. It was a dick move. Didn’t mean it.”
Castiel nods, looking stiffly away. The uncomfortable moment stretches on almost unbearably long, so finally Dean blurts, “So, um, Anna! She seems nice.”
A half-smile from Cas. “She’s quite lovely. She gets into trouble sometimes with head staff because she follows her own ideas so often, but she’s one of the best people it is my pleasure to know.”
“Cool,” Dean nods, casting around for something else to talk about. Then a slight worry strikes him, so he says (totally nonchalantly, of course), “So, you and her...?”
That gets him that damn headtilt again. “We are not together, if that is what you’re asking. But she is a very close friend. We did not see eye to eye when I started-I found her tendency to question policy inappropriate. But what can I say? She brought me around to her way of seeing things. I think,” he adds, with a look that Dean can’t quite interpret, “that you will like her too, upon further acquaintance.”
“Um, yeah. Okay,” Dean agrees, not knowing exactly what to make of that. He’d just spent the better part of three hours chatting it up with Anna. He’s kinda already decided that he likes her well enough.
“Have a nice weekend, Dean,” Castiel says at last. “I hope you enjoy I Am Legend.” Then, without waiting for a response, he slides behind the wheel of his Rabbit and takes off.
Dean waves awkwardly from his position, leaning against the Impala, until Cas is out of sight. He then proceeds to whap himself in the forehead with his palm several times.
He is such a dumbass.
MASTERPOST | PART ONE | PART TWO | NOTES AND THANKS
--
Start Quoting Shakespeare and We're Done
--
Chapter I: In which Dean Winchester is a teenage girl with a librarian fetish.
--
The little brass nameplate says Castiel.
That, Dean had decided a while back, is a weird fucking name.
He's been coming to the Shurley Public Library every day after work for a couple of weeks now. He's eating his way through the whole Vonnegut collection and is gonna start on Palahniuk soon, just as an excuse to be there. It’s all Castiel’s fault, truth be told. Dean had come into the library once to pick up a hard-to-find automobile digest from the 1950s, and there he’d been. He’d tipped his head back to look up at Dean, pushed those wire frames back to their proper spot on the bridge of his nose, and asked, “May I help you?” It’d been all Dean could do to refrain from suggesting just how often the librarian could help him, and in which positions.
The dude behind the desk, you see, is criminally attractive. He looks for all the world like he just stepped out of some ridiculous issue of Playgirl where they fetishize various professions. Like, oh, look at this sexy firefighter, he’s only wearing suspenders while he suggestively angles that firehose. Oh, look at this sexy mechanic, he’s working on a Mustang in an attractively oil-smeared wifebeater. Oh, look at this sexy librarian, decked out in a gunmetal waistcoat, vibrantly blue tie, and wire-rimmed glasses-no wait, this is real life, apparently. Dean sure as hell hadn’t known that people actually dressed like that. Especially at small public libraries. In the middle of July.
Apparently Castiel is a weird fucking dude to go with his weird fucking name.
But, y’know-truth be told-Dean isn’t exactly complaining.
Dean, you see, has had a “sexy librarian” kink since ninth grade, when their school librarian Mrs. Fitzpatrick had retired and Mr. Byler had taken over. Mr. Byler had a penchant for sweater vests and ugly bow-ties, but he was ridiculously nice and his smile had been the best goddamn part of Dean’s day. (This was also when Dean realized he was at the very least bi, which was cool, because less picky equaled more sex, as far as his horny teenage brain could figure.)
So Castiel? Like a wet dream made flesh.
Right, sorry, back to the story of meeting the dude. It’s kind of important to the overall narrative of how Dean has become a creeper of late.
Anyway, when Dean had mentioned the volume he was looking for, Castiel had come out from behind his desk and led Dean to the correct shelf. Then, god help him, Dean had watched as Castiel had shimmied up a ladder to reach the required text, and the dark material of the librarian’s trousers was never gonna be enough to keep Dean from imagining the skin underneath when his ass was only a foot from Dean’s face.
But it was when Castiel came back down the ladder that shit got real. He’d handed the book to Dean carefully, and then he’d smiled. And his smile? Just as gorgeous as Mr. Byler’s, just as exhilarating.
Dean was fourteen again, stuck in study hall for forty-five minutes a day, bored entirely out of his skull. He’d spent most of his time absent-mindedly doodling giant monsters destroying cities on his assignments, little stick-people screaming in terror as they ran away in flames. And Mr. Byler, on his first day, grimaced in a friendly sort of way at the destruction unfolding across Dean’s pre-algebra homework, pulled The Illustrated Man off of a shelf, and handed it to Dean. By the end of study period, Dean’d blown through “The Veldt” with its parent-devouring lions and was pretty sure it was the most awesome thing ever-and, correspondingly, that Mr. Byler was the most awesome librarian ever. The rest of his ninth-grade year boiled down to Ray Bradbury and Mr. Byler, so that Sammy gave him Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles for his birthday and John made a point to shake Mr. Byler’s hand during parent-teacher conferences and thank him for looking after his boy. (That, by the way, was entirely mortifying for Dean.)
Right, anyway.
So the librarian with the weird name had smiled at him, eyes crinkling behind those wire frames as he handed Dean the automobile digest and asked if it was indeed the correct one.
And just like that, Dean was done. Might as well’ve stuck a fork in him. He’d spent the rest of the evening breaking in his new creeper status and hiding in the stacks, just watching Castiel and trying to come up with another question he might need help with.
He found himself coming back the next day to return the book. Then the day after, apologetically explaining he’d jumped the gun and needed the book again. Then the day after to return it again. Then the next, sheepishly asking for pleasure-reading suggestions. Repeat ad nauseum, right up to the current day. He swears one evening he’s actually gonna talk to the guy, ask him out for a drink or something, but it’s kind of awkward. It’s not like Dean hasn’t done it a million times before (with a pretty high success rate, too), but there’s something about Castiel that reminds him way too much of Mr. Byler for Dean to just tackle this from a “hey wanna sleep with me?” direction. He keeps meaning to, then doubting himself at the last moment and swallowing his words. This means he spends a lot of time just watching Castiel sullenly over the top of whatever book he’s reading that day.
If you think this makes him sound like a thirteen-year-old girl, you're not wrong.
Sam certainly thinks so. When Dean gets home that night, Sam accosts him as soon as he opens the door. “Who is he?” he demands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean replies, trying to feint his way around Sam and get into the kitchen.
“Oh please,” Sam sighs, moving to block his brother again. “You haven’t been home earlier than eight in like two weeks, man. If you’re seeing somebody, you could at least tell me.”
Dean ducks his head and shoves right past. He pops open the fridge and starts poking through leftovers, looking for something that’s a) not Sam’s health food crap and b) mold-free. He comes away with a container of mac and cheese that doesn’t look too suspect. Turning to Sam, who is leaning against the doorframe and scowling, he answers honestly, “I’m not seeing anybody, I swear.”
Sam studies him for a long moment, eyes narrowing. Finally he says, “Oh god, this isn’t some sort of unrequited love thing, is it? Are you pining? Don’t eat your feelings, Dean, I hear lovesickness goes straight to your thighs.”
“Fuck you very much,” Dean retorts, taking a very pointed bite of cold macaroni. “I am fine.” He looks around and spies the tell-tale camo-print box on the counter. “But speaking of unrequited love, how’re things going with you and Mr. Sugar-Coma?”
Sam goes pink. “Shut up. Just-shut up.”
(Their apartment is three buildings away from a gourmet chocolaterie run by a guy who’s absolutely mad for Sam. For the past couple of months, boxes of chocolates and other confections have been appearing in their mail. They’re heavenly, but Sam’s being a priss about the whole thing.
The problem’s that the chocolatier tends to be something of a prankster, and the first time Dean and Sam had gone into the shop, he’d given Dean an absolutely lovely Grand Marnier truffle, but to Sam had given an “experimental” chocolate overstuffed with habanero. Sam had taken it quite personally, despite the fact that on their next visit Sam had been plied with a cool coconut crème truffle and the most obvious flirting Dean had ever seen.
At this point, it’s become a standoff. Sam will stop in every now and again at the guy’s behest and needle at him for a while. Sam gets free truffles out of it; the chocolatier gets to feel that he’s making progress, however slow. Nobody gets sex.)
With a stalemate thus reached, they spend the rest of the evening watching television and generally being affectionately unpleasant towards each other.
--
Chapter II: In which Dean Winchester tells white lies.
--
Dean’s kinda just drifting off, watching Castiel talk to one of his coworkers, a pretty redhead Dean’s pretty sure is named Anna. It’d been a rough day at the garage-one of the know-nothing new hires hadn’t raised some dickwad’s Prius properly and it’d nearly slipped off the lift straight onto Dean. Then Mr. Prius had decided to tear Dean a new asshole about it, even though the fucking car was fine, not even a little scratched paint. Dean had needed to go bash in the windows of a few junkers after that. He’d considered just going straight home after work and chilling out, maybe watching the Indians try to defend their spot as the third-worst team in baseball.
Somehow, instead, he’d ended up at the library again. He’s slumped in one of the huge overstuffed leather wingchairs near adult contemporary fiction, mostly out-of-it, idly studying the other patrons as they come and go, but mostly just watching Castiel go about his job. All his bones feel like jelly and he’s not sure why he doesn’t just leave, make Sam order for Chinese take-out, and spend the rest of the night vegging.
And then suddenly Castiel’s heading his way with a trolley full of books to reshelf and Dean’s just been sitting there staring at him and he doesn’t wanna look like that’s all he’s been doing (the truth of the matter be damned). So he sits up with a lurch and grabs the first book his fingertips graze across, then slouches back and flips it open, hoping he didn’t seem too conspicuous. He doesn’t even look at the words, though. He’s hyper-aware of Castiel wandering down the rows, running his hands over the books, organizing them, straightening them, making sure they’re all even on the shelves. It’s a quiet, careful, methodical order that Dean finds reassuring somehow.
Then suddenly Castiel’s fixing an endcap display not ten feet away and Dean becomes very interested in looking like he’s reading. He’s really just listening to the quiet ¬shh-shh sound of books sliding across wood, however, and the tuneless hum Castiel’s making that’s just at the threshold of Dean’s hearing. His eyes are fixed on a single word in the book in front of him, the word Church. He wonders absently what he happened to pick up and hopes it won’t become important.
Because that’s the way the world works, though, abruptly Castiel’s pleasantly deep voice says, “Do you like Stephen King?”
Dean lowers the book a little and takes a quick glance around. No, the librarian’s definitely talking to him. Shit. He swallows. “Uh, no, not really.”
Castiel tilts his head a little, a bemused look crossing his face. “So why today’s choice?”
“What?” Dean says, then flips the book closed and looks at the cover. Pet Sematary. By Stephen King. Well then, that’s just fantastic, isn’t it? “Oh. Uh. Well,” he recants quickly, “I’ve, uh, only read a couple of his books, y’know, and I thought maybe I’d...give him another chance?”
Castiel smiles at that and sits down on the arm of an adjacent chair. “I am quite pleased to hear that. Not out of any particular affection for King’s work, of course, but because so many people tend to form concrete opinions of the worth of certain sections of literature and do not often revisit the ones that did not immediately appeal to them. It’s quite refreshing to hear otherwise.”
Dean very nearly swallows his tongue. “Oh yeah, that’s me. Refreshing.”
Castiel chuckles. “The very picture of it, Dean.”
This earns a double-take out of Dean. “Uh. Okay. You know my name. That’s not creepy or anything.”
“Because it’s so hard to remember when I see your library card nearly every day,” Castiel replies dryly. “We tend to take notice of patrons who come in as often as you do.”
Dean feels his neck grow warm. “Yeah, sure. Of course. That totally makes sense. But it, uh, puts me at a disadvantage, see. Because anybody can pronounce Dean, but I can read that name tag all day and still not know how to say your name, dude. Like, cas-teel or...?”
Castiel snorts lightly, his expression making it obvious that he gets this pretty damn often. He pronounces his name and listens to Dean repeat it a few times before nodding. “I was-well, let’s say blessed-with a father who was a professor of medieval studies at the university near my hometown. He determined early on to name his children after apocryphal angels. Oh, don’t give me that pitying oh-I-see nod. I just feel lucky I didn’t end up named Jegudiel.”
This startles a laugh out of Dean. “No way, really? Did one of your poor siblings get shackled with that one?”
“No, thankfully,” Castiel replies. “We never made it around to that particular angel. But as you can imagine, it still wasn’t the most pleasant childhood. We relied rather heavily on nicknames. Which reminds me-you can call me Cas, if you’d like. Less of a mouthful, and you’re still guaranteed a response.”
Dean finds he does like. It’s short, simple, and damn near impossible to fuck up. Plus, that part of him that is secretly a sixth-grade girl is-not surprisingly-pretty giddy to be on a nickname-basis. Or, y’know, even a name-basis at all. Feels like a step in the right direction, away from potential stalkerdom. Which, always cool with Dean.
Shrugging lightly, Castiel-Cas-leans forward and taps the cover of Pet Sematary, giving a small smile when he says, “Well, I am glad you’re giving it another shot. When you finish it, let me know what you thoug-Todd, I know you are not building a fort out of the Encyclopedia Britannica!”
Dean blinks at this total non-sequitur and leans forward in his chair so he can follow the librarian’s line of sight. Down one of the aisles a boy who he vaguely remembers seeing around is hastily picking up a haphazard pile of book stretching across the carpet. Cas is watching with a longsuffering frown.
He glances back at Dean. “His mother works late on Mondays and Wednesdays,” he explains. “And because of some previous trouble with bullies, Todd comes here. He tends to enjoy books in, hm, unconventional methods, as you can see. I like to think of him as my personal archnemesis. I’m sorry, I have to go. There’s no chance that he’s going to put those back on the shelf in the proper order.”
“Yeah, no, of course,” Dean nods.
Castiel heads off to intercept more serious damage to the library’s property. Dean sighs and flips Pet Sematary back open, but this time he starts at the beginning.
--
Chapter III: In which Sam Winchester does not die of cyanide poisoning.
--
“Sam!”
For a brief minute, Sam really debates pretending he didn’t hear his name. But, despite what Dean claims, he’s not an asshole, so he turns. Gabriel, the chocolatier, is standing in the doorway to his shop, grinning.
“Hey, I’ve already blown through the whole kitchen staff and need an extra set of tastebuds for my latest crime against nature. Can I tempt you?”
Sam frowns. “Calling something a ‘crime against nature’ is not a good way to convince people to eat it.”
“Ehhh,” Gabriel shrugs. “You’ve already survived the Pepper Bomb, how could this be worse?”
“It could kill me,” Sam points out (quite reasonably, he feels).
Gabriel handwaves this comment away. “Why would I want you dead? I like you all alive and stuff. Dead people have a way of becoming unsexy real quick. Now get in here.”
(Gabriel’s shop is called BOOM. The inside is kitschy corrugated steel, and a scale B-52 is suspended from the ceiling. Every truffle’s called a bomb, all brittle’s called flak. For Easter, instead of eggs the chocolates are shaped like little pastel-colored hand grenades. It’s one part charming and two parts horrifying in its cheerful adherence to its theme. But damn the chocolate is good.)
Sam sets down his briefcase on the countertop, which was made to look like an elaborate map of Europe. Gabriel plunks down a sampler cup of coffee and a truffle on top of it, then steps back and stares expectantly at Sam.
Quite skeptically, Sam picks up the confection. It looks pretty normal, milk chocolate with a white squiggle decorating the top. He sniffs. Smells like normal chocolate, maybe a little nutty. Finally, he sinks his teeth through it. It is fucking amazing, and he must’ve made some sort of inappropriate noise, because Gabriel’s grin is both proud and suddenly really turned on.
“Good then?” he asks.
“What was that?” Sam asks, sucking the last of the chocolate off his fingers and reaching for the coffee.
“Cyanide Bomb,” Gabriel replies easily. “The secret is to infuse the ganache with plenty of ground nuts to mask that bitter almond smell.”
“Ha ha,” Sam says as he sips his coffee, which is also fucking amazing. Damn this place to hell.
“Okay, fine. Spoilsport. It was the new Hazelnut Gianduja Bomb. Thinking I’ll call it the H-Bomb for short. Pretty amazing, though, huh? I am a genius. Tell me I am a genius.”
“You’re a genius,” Sam repeats dryly.
Gabriel splays a hand over his heart, looking stricken. “Sam, sarcasm is unbecoming!”
“Must be why you can’t find a boyfriend,” he retorts, taking a casual swallow of coffee and snagging his briefcase off the counter as he turns to go.
Gabriel just splutters.
--
Chapter IV: In which Dean Winchester is some sort of pervert.
--
“Dean, oh god,” Cas pants, breath hot and wet against his neck. Dean just grinds harder, hands up under the librarian’s waistcoat, pulling the two of them tighter together so that the layers of cloth between them feel like almost nothing. He sucks greedy kisses along Castiel’s throat, relishing in the smell of old books and soap and male he finds there. He makes a lazy circle with his tongue just above Castiel’s adam’s apple, and grins when the other man moans.
Cas is clutching at his shoulders, scrabbling for any hold as Dean shoves him back against the nonfiction section. Biographies clatter off of a shelf, lie open on the floor as Dean hoists Castiel up to perch there so he can slide between his legs. Cas catches Dean’s mouth with his own, all unexpected passion. His wire-framed glasses crush against Dean’s nose, so obviously those have to go. Dean pulls them off and sets them on a nearby shelf; when he turns back, Castiel’s eyes (so fucking blue, jesus) are dark and positively feral.
He shoves Dean’s overshirt off, throwing it somewhere in the area of the travel guides. Dean smirks and pulls his own tee off, flushing with pleasure when Cas sucks in a pleased breath. Wasting no time, Dean starts working the buttons of the librarian’s waistcoat, desperate to get to some of the skin underneath. That joins Dean’s overshirt, then he goes for Castiel’s tie, the blue (red) fabric smooth under his fingers. (Red fabric.)
Wait.
Pulling off the blue necktie, Dean reaches for…
Dammit. Is it blue or red today? He’s pretty sure it was blue yesterday, but he can’t quite recall if it was actually red today.
God dammit. He’s lost it.
Dean shakes himself awake, the dream still swimming around his head, and peeks around a display to catch a glimpse of Castiel. Red tie, fuck.
He shifts uncomfortably, half-hard and more than a little embarrassed. This isn’t the first time he’s fantasized about having his way with Castiel, but usually it’s in the relative safety of the shower or his bed, and not in the middle of the damn library itself. He is officially a pervert. One of those guys. He is too tired to be here today, the long day at the garage taking its toll. He’s drifting off, with, uh, undesirable results.
Just then Cas finishes helping the old lady who had consumed his attention and spots Dean. He smiles and gives a small wave.
Dean kind of wants to die.
It’s at this point that he decides it’s time to go home, get that Chinese food, and relax. He grabs Pet Sematary and heads for the front desk. Just the thought of having a normal conversation with Cas so soon after his brain’s little adventure makes him twitch, though, so he swings over to Anna’s station and presents his selection to her instead.
Cas watches him curiously, then waves once more as Dean heads out.
--
Chapter V: In which Sam Winchester cannot believe he’s related to Dean Winchester.
--
Dean’s sprawled full-length across their couch when Sam gets home, still holding a little camo-print paper cup.
“What are you doing with that?” Sam asks upon entering the living room, nose wrinkling unattractively.
Dean doesn’t look up from the book he’s got propped up on his chest. A book that just happens to be Pet Sematary. “Reading it, dipshit.”
“Yeah, thanks, Dean. Why are you reading it? You hate Stephen King.”
The frown that’s been haunting Dean’s face all evening only deepens. “Not necessarily true.”
Sam laughs disbelievingly. “No, totally true. You called in sick at the garage the day after reading Christine, man. I remember, because I remember thoroughly mocking you for it-poor little Dean, afraid of demon cars. You swore that Stephen King was a hack and you’d never read anything he’d touched again.”
Dean scowls. “A guy’s not allowed to change his mind?”
Sam pauses and stares at his older brother contemplatively, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. Dean really really hates that look-it always precedes talking about their feelings or some such shit. He’d got it a hell of a lot after Dad died, when Sam had been convinced Dean was secretly falling apart inside. He hadn’t been. It’d sucked hardcore, and yeah he missed their old man like crazy, but it was something that, with time, he’d gotten over.
Truth be told, though, he’s not really expecting Sam to say softly, “Is he at the library?”
“What?” Dean buhs.
“The guy. Is he at the library?”
Oh shit. Dean lets the book flop down open onto his chest, the plastic dustjacket crinkling in protest. “What the hell’re you talking about, Sammy?” he replies, trying for irritated confusion.
Sam whaps at Dean’s legs until Dean draws them up off the last cushion of the couch so Sam can flop down in the opened space. “Please, Dean. You’ve been coming home with a different book like three times a week, and now you’re reading Stephen King? Something’s up with you. Either you hit your head on somebody’s undercarriage and this is your concussion manifesting itself or else you met somebody you’re trying to impress. Because this is what you do, try to chameleon yourself into something you think they’ll like, and frankly I don’t want you to get hurt over th-ow! Ow, ow! Ow, Dean, knock it o-ow!”
Dean keeps kicking him in the shoulder, big heavy blows with the heel of his right foot that, if he’s lucky, might even bruise. “Get off my couch, bitch, and make me dinner. Work was shit and I demand meat so that I might taste the suffering of another creature and be comforted by it.”
Sam scurries to his feet to avoid further injury and shakes his head in disbelief. “You are too weird to comprehend, you know that?”
“I am a mystery to modern man,” Dean agrees. “Now make me chicken.”
“Asshole,” Sam mutters to himself as he drifts off into the kitchen, rubbing his shoulder.
Dean goes back to reading. Now if only he could figure out what the hell a wendigo is supposed to be. Fucking Stephen King.
--
Chapter VI: In which Sam Winchester realizes he’s scraping the barrel for company.
--
“Sam!” Gabriel grins. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Sam thunks down his briefcase on the counter, ignoring the glare from the girl running the register, and frowns. “I need to complain about Dean’s secret-yet-obvious crush on somebody and I just discovered you’re the only person I talk to regularly who isn’t either from the law firm or first and foremost Dean’s friend.”
“Wow, okay, not exactly the reason I woulda hoped for, but beggars/choosers, I guess,” Gabriel grimaces.
Sam quirks an eyebrow. “And the reason you would’ve hoped for is...?”
Gabriel shrugs. “You know, the usual. You realized your life has a me-shaped hole in it and you have come to declare your outright lust for me and we have mutual orgasms out back where it can’t affect my health code rating.”
Sam shakes his head sharply to drive out this image. (And if it’s not quite as repulsive as it really should be, well. He’s not thinking about it.) “Wow, you’ve put way too much thought into that.”
“Eh, man’s gotta have his fantasies. Want to try the monthly specialty? Made with Jameson. I’m calling it the Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.”
“Of course you are. And you know what? I’d love to,” Sam says, folding his arms on the counter and leaning over to look at the chocolates lining the opposite wall.
Gabriel’s smile goes megawatt. “Fantastic! Just for that, I’ll play bartender for you. Spill, kiddo.”
Sam shrugs. “You know my brother Dean, right?”
“Sure sure,” Gabriel nods, twirling a pair of tongs before snagging a truffle from a display. “Bristly hair, bristly attitude? Particularly fond of caramels?”
“Um, yeah, I guess,” Sam frowns. “I’m pretty sure he’s particularly fond of anything with enough butter or salt in it. But anyway. He’s been gone all evening, every evening, for like two weeks now. And he keeps coming home with library books. Different ones, all the time.”
“My god, how scandalous,” Gabriel gasps, sliding the chocolate across to Sam.
“Stuff it, man. That is weird behavior for Dean, okay? I can’t remember the last time he’d been within a hundred yards of a library before this. He tends to just buy the books he wants to read.”
“So he’s joined a book club,” Gabriel shrugs.
“You,” Sam says, “are infuriating. Don’t you see? He’s up to something! And he’s not telling me what!”
“Sam,” Gabriel says, with a surprising amount of seriousness. “Are you pestering your brother because you want to see something that isn’t really there?”
“What? No, shut up, you’re not allowed to be introspective,” Sam frowns, pointing definitively with the truffle he’d just picked up. “That is my job, understa-oh my god that’s really good.”
Gabriel smirks and grabs Sam another Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
“Ugh, stop feeding me candy,” Sam complains, even though he takes the offered chocolate immediately. “I’m gonna have to work all of this off eventually, you know. I have a desk job.”
“No worries, Sammy,” Gabriel says breezily. “I’ll still love you even if you get a little soft. More cushion for the pushin’ and all.”
Sam gapes a little. “I cannot believe you just said that.”
“Please. What in our acquaintance would lead you to expect anything less from me?”
“Point,” Sam concedes. “But anyway. Can we talk about Dean some more and how he has all the emotional maturity of a gerbil?”
“This is the point where I make a joke about how that’s an insult to gerbils, I’m sure,” Gabriel says, leaning one hip against the counter that separates him from Sam, “but mostly I’m still concerned by why you seem to think Dean’s hiding some epic relationship from you.”
“He hasn’t been out looking for a hookup in over three weeks,” Sam replies with a scowl. “The only other time I’ve seen him so disinterested in at least, like, window-shopping was the month or so a few years back when he had that girlfriend, some journalism major who didn’t like his job. He was pretty shaken up when they split, and I get the feeling that he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he might be long-term interested in somebody else. Just in case, I dunno, it falls through or something.”
“All right, fair enough,” Gabriel shrugs. “So you have legit concerns. But, I mean, if he doesn’t seem unhappy, what’s the big deal?”
“You are the worst commiserater ever, you know that?” Sam sighs. “That’s it, I’m going home to suffer alone.”
“Bawww,” Gabriel snorts with a roll of his eyes. “Poor Sammy. Nobody understands your pain. Break out the eyeliner and the My Chemical Romance shirts, we’re heading back to 2004!”
“Asshole!” Sam yelps, swatting at him. “See if I come here again!”
“Bomb for the road?” Gabriel asks innocently.
“Hell yes,” Sam replies without hesitation.
--
Chapter VII: In which Dean Winchester opens his mouth and inserts his foot.
--
It takes Dean two days to finish Pet Sematary. On Thursday, while Dean is still fighting his way through it, Cas is nowhere to be found for most of the evening because he’s running the summer literacy camp’s sleepover night. The few glimpses Dean does get are of a frazzled-looking librarian nearing the end of his rope-tie askew, waistcoat abandoned, and glasses perched precariously atop his head as he runs to Anna’s desk to ask if she knows where he can find any more paper plates. Dean feels for the guy, he really does. But it’s also pretty endearing, god help him.
“So,” Dean says, sidling up to Anna not long after Cas had stormed through looking for extra permanent markers. “Did he draw the short straw?”
“Pretty much,” Anna nods. “Sofie joins him at eight, and a bunch of the moms are staying as chaperones, but right now he’s the last line of defense between this library and twenty-five screaming third-graders.”
“That poor bastard,” Dean grimaces, shaking his head.
“Hey, at least he’s getting time-and-a-half,” Anna shrugs. “And the morning off, once the kids go home.”
“Anna!” Castiel bellows, stalking across the library. “Do you know where the remote controller is for the rec room DVD player? If I don’t get Reading Rainbow on in the next two minutes I face mutiny.”
“Did you try the keybox in Michael’s office?” Anna replies sweetly. “I think he started keeping it there after the first two had to be replaced.”
Cas growls and swings a hard left into the office. Dean and Anna share a yikes expression at the loud clunking that follows, but then Castiel returns triumphant, remote in hand. “Thank you,” he says, then stops short when he sees Dean leaning against Anna’s desk. His gaze flicks between the two of them for a moment, then he nods. “Hello, Dean. Nice to see you. I’m a bit, hm, preoccupied at the moment. I hope your book has been entertaining so far.”
“So far so good,” Dean shrugs.
“Excellent. I am glad to hear it. If you will excuse me, I think Todd is in the process of inspiring the others to riot.” And with that, he vanishes back to rec room.
Luckily, Friday goes better. Dean finishes Pet Sematary on his lunch break, and the library that evening is blessedly kid-free.
And there’s Castiel to watch this time, to Dean’s delight. But it must be laundry day or something, because the librarian’s wearing a green “READ: Let Your Imagination Soar at Your Local Library” tee and worn-out jeans instead of the usual dress shirt and waistcoat. Dean doesn’t even exactly mind the cripplingly nerdy get-up, though, what with all the forearm action he’s getting today. Still, it doesn’t exactly inspire him to hold his tongue.
“Nice shirt,” Dean says when Cas drifts over to where he’s sitting.
The remark earns him a look of consternation. “It was Wilderness Explorers Day for summer camp. I was not about to go crawling through pine needles in a tie and slacks.” Upon observing Dean’s sheepish expression, Castiel adds with a smirk, “Now don’t you feel like a jerk?”
“You’re a jerk,” Dean mutters.
“I’ve made peace with that possibility,” Cas replies serenely. “How was your book? Did you finish it?”
“Yup,” Dean replies, waving it at him. “I’m sorry to have to report that I still don’t like Stephen King.”
Castiel shrugs. “I thought that might be your reaction. But it’s really not the sort of novel that would really sway one’s opinion, is it? I should’ve insisted you read The Green Mile.”
“Oh, I’ve seen that movie!” Dean says, snapping his fingers as he sits up. After a moment’s reflection, though, he could’ve kicked himself. He’s talking to a fucking librarian. Cas probably hates all films-based-on-books on principle. “Um.”
“It was a good film,” Cas nods.
“Oh thank god,” Dean sighs. “I was afraid you were gonna go all librarian-fu on my ass for a minute there.”
Castiel’s eyebrow creeps upward. “No, I tend to save that for the patrons who won’t pay their late fees. I do have a black belt in librarian-fu, though. Ask me about the Dance of the Nine Reference Cards some day when you don’t mind bleeding a little.”
Dean’s surprised laughter is loud enough that he quickly clamps a hand over his mouth for fear of being shushed.
Cas stares at him, entirely deadpan, until Dean manages to settle. “You were saying what now about The Green Mile?”
This leads to a discussion about the-film-of-the-books in general, which Dean bluffs his way through about half of the time. But he’s managing pretty well before Castiel mentions I Am Legend off-hand, which Dean had really liked. Vampire-zombie things, Will Smith running around being badass, post-apocalyptic destructive mayhem-what wasn’t to like? Unfortunately, Dean takes this small grasp on the conversation to voice how he just doesn’t see how that could be conveyed as effectively in words.
“I really haven’t slept much, Dean, having spent the night on a cot in the rec room,” Castiel frowns. “So I am perfectly willing to believe that I just imagined you telling me that you prefer the film version of I Am Legend to the Richard Matheson novel. The ending?”
“Uh,” Dean stutters.
“Anna,” Cas calls, peering over the audiobook section. “Dean claims to prefer the I Am Legend film to the novel. Please inform him of his error.”
The other librarian peeks around the older gentleman she’s signing up for a computer station. “Well, Will Smith is pretty fine, you have to admit.”
“Ugh,” Cas mutters in disgust. “You two are in league against me.”
Dean taps his fingers together nervously. “Would this be a bad time to admit that I’ve never actually read I Am Legend?”
Castiel tilts his head at Dean for a moment-a motion that, when paired with his glasses and ridiculous fluffy hair, reminds Dean vaguely of an owl-and then stands and walks off. Dean is left to wonder if he just ruined his shot with Cas altogether in a convenient one-two punch.
Before that thought can take too insidious a hold, though, Castiel reappears with a book in hand. “Your next assignment,” he says, holding it out. It is, predictably, Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend.
“Okay then,” Dean shrugs, taking it. “And when I still like the movie better, what’re you gonna do?”
“Despair of you?” Cas offers, but there’s a hint of a smile there as he turns to head back to his desk.
It ends up being one of the best evenings Dean’s had in for-fucking-ever. Castiel and Anna drop by to chat with him every time they leave their desks, and by closing time they’re having an epic debate over the best mainstream novel-to-film adaptation. Dean’s steadfastly holding out on The Lord of the Rings, but Anna had long ago flipped her shit over the nuking of Faramir’s characterization and subsequent relationship with Eowyn and thus claims Dean has no idea what he’s talking about. She throws in her hat for The Godfather and seems to be the iron-clad winner before Castiel reminds her that the novel was pulpy and really only dragged up by the excellence of the film. He goes for Howard’s End, which neither of the others know, so it’s a moot point.
He ends up being the last patron in the joint, and Anna actually locks the front door while Dean’s still hanging around their desks and arguing the relative worth of Fight Club as a book and as a film with Castiel. As a Palahniuk fan, Dean’s pretty passionate about it, and his outbursts have Cas smiling.
They head out the back together after the library’s shut down for the night, and Anna waves as she hops onto her bike and takes off. There are about half a dozen cars still in the lot-mostly of families using the adjacent playground. Dean meanders over to the Impala, Cas in tow, and takes a moment to frown at the vehicle it’s parked next to. It’s a little rattletrap of a Volkswagen Rabbit, 1981 if he had to guess, and it’s the most unappealing shade of orange he’s ever seen.
“Thing looks like it’s about to fall apart,” he whistles, his mechanic’s eye happily pairing up with his inner car snob.
As if fate is conspiring to make him an asshole, though, Cas hmms and replies, “We can’t all have pristinely-kept classic cars, I suppose. But it does get excellent mileage.”
Dean hopes the glare of the setting sun is enough to keep Castiel from noticing the flush of embarrassment that’s currently turning the tips of his ears megawatt pink. “Oh. Um. Yeah. Yeah, I hear that. Running a diesel engine then, I guess?”
Cas stands awkwardly next to the Rabbit and nods. “Yes. I have been meaning to trade it in, you must understand. But it was my first car. I’m afraid I feel rather...attached...to it.”
“No, dude,” Dean backtracks quickly. “I totally get it. This one was my dad’s, y’know. He, uh, he gave it to me when I got out of school. She’s my baby.” He lays one hand against the warm passenger-side door. “Look, man, I’m sorry I knocked your car. It was a dick move. Didn’t mean it.”
Castiel nods, looking stiffly away. The uncomfortable moment stretches on almost unbearably long, so finally Dean blurts, “So, um, Anna! She seems nice.”
A half-smile from Cas. “She’s quite lovely. She gets into trouble sometimes with head staff because she follows her own ideas so often, but she’s one of the best people it is my pleasure to know.”
“Cool,” Dean nods, casting around for something else to talk about. Then a slight worry strikes him, so he says (totally nonchalantly, of course), “So, you and her...?”
That gets him that damn headtilt again. “We are not together, if that is what you’re asking. But she is a very close friend. We did not see eye to eye when I started-I found her tendency to question policy inappropriate. But what can I say? She brought me around to her way of seeing things. I think,” he adds, with a look that Dean can’t quite interpret, “that you will like her too, upon further acquaintance.”
“Um, yeah. Okay,” Dean agrees, not knowing exactly what to make of that. He’d just spent the better part of three hours chatting it up with Anna. He’s kinda already decided that he likes her well enough.
“Have a nice weekend, Dean,” Castiel says at last. “I hope you enjoy I Am Legend.” Then, without waiting for a response, he slides behind the wheel of his Rabbit and takes off.
Dean waves awkwardly from his position, leaning against the Impala, until Cas is out of sight. He then proceeds to whap himself in the forehead with his palm several times.
He is such a dumbass.
MASTERPOST | PART ONE | PART TWO | NOTES AND THANKS