A bit o'fic
Written for moorishflower who got my 30,000th tweet... but why let Twitter have all the fun?
He probably doesn't even speak English. Sure, he looks white enough, but the guy works construction, and nobody pays minimum wage to actual U.S. citizens to build things anymore, do they? Castiel should know, he reads Daily Kos when he's not helping lawyers reboot their machines, and half the time when he is helping them. It's not exactly a thought-intensive process. He keeps up with politics out of sheer boredom.
So it's the thought of the guy with the wide, friendly face and the perfect arms saying "Hola, no hablo ingles" that keeps Castiel from throwing his socially awkward cares to the wind and sprinting out the door and across the street to engage him in conversation. Because some guys are just worth the risk. Castiel has allowed his heart to break over less. And there ain't much more.
But. There would be no comunicacion. Or communidad. Or whatever the word is. So Castiel just walks very, very slowly to lunch, and molasses-crawls back. Because once the temperature hits 80 degrees, his fantasy Latin lover starts stripping off his shirt and emptying a water bottle over is head at noontime. And Castiel is pretty sure he should post to Daily Kos saying he's found the true cause of global warming.
Soaked buzzed hair... dimples around a wide, carefree grin... muscles rippling as he shakes his head like a dog that's just been in the bath, with cool water and warm sweat mingling indistinguishable on the muscles of his stomach, sliding into his navel...
Castiel is so lost in the visual, standing at the corner waiting for a green light he already missed once, that he almost misses the audio.
"You've gotta be dying in that suit."
It's a soft drawl, subtly Southern and sweet, and for a moment Castiel turns with a hope against hope. But no, it's another worker, this one good-looking, with the caveat that he's so tall he looks like he'd bang his head up in that tight lattice of scaffolding. His hair's too long, and he's sweating copiously too, clad in a gray wife-beater that looks too small to fit a man half his size. Castiel would ogle this, too, but he's been spoiled for choice. There's nothing that even matches the perfection.
He swallows. "Yes, it's... rather unfortunate, but my company has a dress code."
The man laughs, boyish and brash. "Well, that's one thing we can't complain about over here. You work at Sandover, right?"
Is Castiel being flirted with? The man's tone is casual, but there's something curious about his gaze that is putting Castiel on guard. "Across the street, yes. And--" He's at a loss. "You work... here."
The man leans against the wire fence surrounding the site, putting down the heavy bucket he's been carrying. It goes down like it's full of solid brick. "For a few weeks, anyway. It's a good gig. Actually pays. Actually pays *us*." He laughs, an inside joke that Castiel doesn't get. But then again, Castiel is looking past him again, at the rivulet of water running down a perfect hipbone into a secret space beneath the waistband of muddy jeans...
"I'm Sam." A dirty hand is thrust forward.
Castiel balks. "I should go--"
"No, no, man, come on. Not creepy. Just we see you every day, figured I'd say hi."
The smile is so disarming that Castiel ruefully extends a hand. "Castiel."
"Whoa." Sam looks unexpectedly pleased. "Dean was right. Where's that from?"
"I'm sorry?" Sam's pumping his hand too vigorously for Castiel to make much sense of that.
"Oh, my brother, Dean, he figured you were European. He says you look foreign. Figured you didn't even speak English, actually."
And Sam hooks a thumb back toward the man Castiel's been staring at for the past few months.
Castiel's jaw drops heavier than the damn bucket. Dean. His name is Dean. He's probably got a Southern drawl, like his brother. Easy grin and perfect arms and he speaks English and now he's leaning back, his chin tilting up to the sky, basking in summer sunlight.
And then, in what seems like the slo-mo of a movie scene, he angles his head toward Castiel and catches his eye.
Droplets of sweat shake off his skin. He raises his hand. And he waves.
Castiel shucks off his jacket for fear of fainting from the heat.
He probably doesn't even speak English. Sure, he looks white enough, but the guy works construction, and nobody pays minimum wage to actual U.S. citizens to build things anymore, do they? Castiel should know, he reads Daily Kos when he's not helping lawyers reboot their machines, and half the time when he is helping them. It's not exactly a thought-intensive process. He keeps up with politics out of sheer boredom.
So it's the thought of the guy with the wide, friendly face and the perfect arms saying "Hola, no hablo ingles" that keeps Castiel from throwing his socially awkward cares to the wind and sprinting out the door and across the street to engage him in conversation. Because some guys are just worth the risk. Castiel has allowed his heart to break over less. And there ain't much more.
But. There would be no comunicacion. Or communidad. Or whatever the word is. So Castiel just walks very, very slowly to lunch, and molasses-crawls back. Because once the temperature hits 80 degrees, his fantasy Latin lover starts stripping off his shirt and emptying a water bottle over is head at noontime. And Castiel is pretty sure he should post to Daily Kos saying he's found the true cause of global warming.
Soaked buzzed hair... dimples around a wide, carefree grin... muscles rippling as he shakes his head like a dog that's just been in the bath, with cool water and warm sweat mingling indistinguishable on the muscles of his stomach, sliding into his navel...
Castiel is so lost in the visual, standing at the corner waiting for a green light he already missed once, that he almost misses the audio.
"You've gotta be dying in that suit."
It's a soft drawl, subtly Southern and sweet, and for a moment Castiel turns with a hope against hope. But no, it's another worker, this one good-looking, with the caveat that he's so tall he looks like he'd bang his head up in that tight lattice of scaffolding. His hair's too long, and he's sweating copiously too, clad in a gray wife-beater that looks too small to fit a man half his size. Castiel would ogle this, too, but he's been spoiled for choice. There's nothing that even matches the perfection.
He swallows. "Yes, it's... rather unfortunate, but my company has a dress code."
The man laughs, boyish and brash. "Well, that's one thing we can't complain about over here. You work at Sandover, right?"
Is Castiel being flirted with? The man's tone is casual, but there's something curious about his gaze that is putting Castiel on guard. "Across the street, yes. And--" He's at a loss. "You work... here."
The man leans against the wire fence surrounding the site, putting down the heavy bucket he's been carrying. It goes down like it's full of solid brick. "For a few weeks, anyway. It's a good gig. Actually pays. Actually pays *us*." He laughs, an inside joke that Castiel doesn't get. But then again, Castiel is looking past him again, at the rivulet of water running down a perfect hipbone into a secret space beneath the waistband of muddy jeans...
"I'm Sam." A dirty hand is thrust forward.
Castiel balks. "I should go--"
"No, no, man, come on. Not creepy. Just we see you every day, figured I'd say hi."
The smile is so disarming that Castiel ruefully extends a hand. "Castiel."
"Whoa." Sam looks unexpectedly pleased. "Dean was right. Where's that from?"
"I'm sorry?" Sam's pumping his hand too vigorously for Castiel to make much sense of that.
"Oh, my brother, Dean, he figured you were European. He says you look foreign. Figured you didn't even speak English, actually."
And Sam hooks a thumb back toward the man Castiel's been staring at for the past few months.
Castiel's jaw drops heavier than the damn bucket. Dean. His name is Dean. He's probably got a Southern drawl, like his brother. Easy grin and perfect arms and he speaks English and now he's leaning back, his chin tilting up to the sky, basking in summer sunlight.
And then, in what seems like the slo-mo of a movie scene, he angles his head toward Castiel and catches his eye.
Droplets of sweat shake off his skin. He raises his hand. And he waves.
Castiel shucks off his jacket for fear of fainting from the heat.