Fic: Peanut Butter Pumpkin Wedding Cake, Part 2/3
Title: Peanut Butter-Pumpkin Wedding Cake
Author: sparseparsley
Rating: NC-17
Genre/Pairing: Total AU, Romantic Comedy, Dean/Cas
Summary: The good ones are sometimes assholes and always taken.
See Part 1 for extended headers and notes.
Part 2
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They're ten minutes late getting to the bakery, thanks mostly to a minor accident involving a bus. It didn't look too serious, but all the rubber-neckers really slowed them down. It was alright. He learned that Cas has pretty good taste in music, other than his thing for Madonna, and that he has a scar on his chin from diving out of the way of a truck when he was twelve.
The woman who greets them at 'Tart' looks a little sour (Ha.) but goes to fetch her boss anyway, leaving them alone. Dean bee-lines for the counter.
“Check it out!” He presses both hands on the glass like a little boy. “The cinnamon things are still here. I gotta get some when she comes back. You want one?”
“You've thoroughly convinced me that I do, yes.” Cas is standing beside him, looking a little tense with his arms unmoving at his sides. The small smile he gives Dean is warm, though. “Dean... If you have the time, you're welcome to join me here. I have a feeling that this is something you'd enjoy.”
The mental math is pretty easy, cake with Cas versus shopping by himself. Plus, he doesn't want to be rude or anything. “I can totally make the time.” What he says next is more of a reminder to behave himself than a genuine question. “So Anna didn't want to pick her own cake?”
Cas relaxes a little after that, slipping his hands into his pockets and meeting Dean's eyes again. He seems to go for a lot of eye contact. “She already chose the cake itself. But I know what flavors she prefers so she asked me to handle this part. She is very fond of... delegating.”
They share a laugh as the sour woman comes back. The person Cas has an appointment with will be right with them, they're told. Dean takes the chance to buy half-a-dozen pastries, mostly the cinnamon things. They're sort of like stumpy éclairs. He orders two more for Cas.
The desserts are being laid delicately into two green boxes when he feels a light touch at his shoulder. Cas is standing close again (seriously, he needs a bell) with his fingers pressed against Dean's jacket arm, seeking his attention. Dean sees a woman behind him, waiting. Cas speaks: “We'll be in the back when you're done. Take your time.”
Dean just nods, mouth stubbornly dry as Cas presses once and pulls his fingers away in a slow drag against leather. His eyes stay fixed to Cas' back as they exit until he senses another set of eyes on him. The woman behind the counter is watching him with a small frown, then looking at the door Cas and the other woman just left through. Dean thinks 'go fuck yourself' while he pulls out his wallet, movements angry. He was just looking.
When he's done paying he follows the route Cas took, pastry boxes (complete with girly pink ribbons) secure in two hands. You have to be careful with stuff this good.
Voices carry from down the pale yellow hall. “-ense of smell as a child. Cranial damage from an accident at a baseball game, I believe.”
“Oh how awful, imagine how much they would miss out on in life!” That must be the woman that Cas followed and Dean can't help agreeing with her. He pities whatever poor bastard Cas is anecdoting about.
Dean rounds the corner and finds Cas and the woman sitting at a small table with several delicate looking plates arranged between them. The rest of the room looks like how Dean imagines the inside of a wedding cake would. Off-white and terrifying.
“Oh, hello Mr... ?” The woman holds her hand out to Dean as he sits down.
“Winchester. Dean.” He nods his head towards Cas while they shake hands. “I'm the chauffeur.”
Her name is Allison, she tells them, the Head Baker. It looks like this whole process is fairly hands-off, she's just listing some of the cake names and pointing out the labels with each piece, then leaving them alone to do the actual tasting. There's a bell to ring when they're done; how's that for handy?
Dean shifts forward in his chair when she's gone, getting in to the standard crumb-catching position. “That's cool, that they leave you alone. No hovering.”
“I believe she doesn't want to influence the decision.” Castiel has moved to the edge of his seat as well, mirroring Dean, and Dean wonders which of them looks more out-of-place. They share a somewhat embarrassed smile. “Where shall we start?”
You always start with vanilla, Dean explains. That's one of the main rules of food, along with 'everything tastes better on a pizza' and 'if it blends, you can make a drink out of it'. With that important bit of education shared, they get down to business. The vanilla tastes pretty good but it's also vanilla, so they move on through the more exciting stuff.
Chocolate fudge, chocolate mint, carrot, spice, apple pecan, and the way Cas eats is starting to drive Dean a little nuts by the time they reach tangy lemon. Each forkful is tiny, half of what Dean is taking and Dean is being conservative. And he takes for-fucking-ever, too, like he's savoring a hundred dollar glass of wine with each new flavor. He even has his head tipped and his eyes closed. And then, because God hates Dean, he gets a little smear of buttercream icing on his lower lip and licks it away slowly with his eyes still closed. Dean stares, pants tight and fork frozen partway to his mouth. He's looking so closely at the movement of Cas' lower lip that Cas' voice doesn't register for a second.
“Anna isn't fond of lemon.” Cas pushes what's left of the bright yellow slice towards Dean, licking at his bottom lip again even though it's thoroughly clean. His voice goes lower, a little husky.c“You can have all of that one if you like.”
A wave of guilt overtakes him. He shouldn't be encouraging this thing that's going on between them. Christ, he shouldn't have even stayed in the first place, stumpy éclairs or no. It doesn't matter if Cas is aware of what he's offering or not (and he must have some clue), Dean has a choice here, too.
He's just always been a natural flirt and it gets him into trouble sometimes with people he really doesn't want to be hitting on. But that's the thing here, Dean really wants to flirt with Cas. It's effortlessly easy to the point where he's almost not conscious of doing it. Plus, the guy is hot and interesting and kind of hilarious. Great, really, except for the whole thing where he's getting married and not opposed to making passes at people who aren't his wife. Serious passes, too, probably. Cas doesn't seem like the teasing type.
“Thanks.” Needing a distraction from the depressing turn his thoughts are taking, he shoves what's left of the lemon cake into his mouth whole.
Maybe not the best idea, though. Cas is staring at him with his eyebrows raised, gazing with interest at his stupid chipmunk mouth like it's not juvenile and disgusting. “Impressive.”
Dean flushes with embarrassment and his next words are muffled and kind of crumby. “What's next?”
“Strawberry and... peanut butter pumpkin.”
The last swallow of lemon cake goes down hard. They could really use some drinks here. “Peanut what now?”
“Peanut butter pumpkin. I take it you've never tried it either?”
“I didn't even know it was a thing you could try. Give it here.” He takes about a third of the oddly colored slice on his fork and... “Oh wow. Wow.” He's talking rudely around the bite, yeah, but manners are for lesser cakes than this. “Are you trying this yet?” It's like... well, it's like pumpkin and peanut butter but there's something about the combination. Something good. “Mmm, oh man.”
Cas is sitting with his fork half-raised and his mouth half open, watching. Dean shoves him with an elbow and motions with his own empty fork, signaling Cas to try it already while Dean goes in for another bite. Fuck being conservative.
Cas turns away as he chews his first bite, flushed face towards the plate in front of him. “Yes,” he says when he's finished. “It makes a strong argument.”
“I gotta get Sammy to come here for my birthday.” The last bite is calling to him, all 'eat me, they probably have more somewhere'. He resists. “So which one is the lucky winner? You know where my vote goes. Uh... not that I get a vote.”
“I believe I'll side with you.” Castiel settles back into the chair, turning as much as he can towards Dean. “It's not the most usual of choices, but I think many of the guests would appreciate it.”
“Nothin' wrong with unusual.” Dean finds himself shifting back too, copying the tilt of Castiel's body. They lock eyes for another long moment and Dean remembers his 'not encouraging this' plan from a few minutes ago. Oh, that's going well. Maybe if he can remind Cas as well. “Will Anna like it?”
Cas smiles to himself, setting his fork down and picking up the last bite with his fingers. “I think she would prefer the chocolate mint.” His smile lifts on one side now as he looks at Dean. “But she left this up to me and... I like this one.” The last bite of the pumpkin cake looks somehow better when it's held in Cas' long fingers, and pretty much sinful when he pushes it into his mouth. Motherfucker, he even sucks on his fingertips a little as he pulls them out. He's got to know what he's doing, right?
Dean rings the bell before Cas has a chance to reconsider his choice, or try any more damn cake.
*****
It's all details after that, so Dean takes to wandering around the front sales area while Cas finishes up. He buys some more pastries, this time the lemon tarts (their actual specialty, who would've thought) and it's a good thing Cas comes out after that because he was seriously considering the little square cherry things. His wallet can't take this kind of abuse.
They're half-way back to Cas' place, having a perfectly friendly argument about stew versus chili (Stew always wins, for the record), when suddenly they're having a fucking moment out of nowhere.
Cas is talking with his hands, something Dean could watch a lot more of, sketching out a vertical line in the air. “My mother made her chili so thick that a spoon would stand straight in it.” Now his hand makes a cupping shape, and Dean imagines all the different, interesting places it could cup against. “I did try turning a bowl of it upside-down once, to test, but gravity was a greater force than I'd expected.”
Dean is laughing, head tossed back. “Oh Jesus, what'd she do?”
The amused smile on Cas' face turns wistful. “Oh, that, technically that was just her recipe, not actually...” He seems to gather himself, hands turned suddenly mute in his lap. “She had passed on by that point.”
Oh, Christ. There is a long, silent moment. Dean has no idea what to do in these situations, not from either side. He knows how empty 'I'm sorry' is. It looks like his tendency to over-share with Cas is going to continue, though, judging by what comes out of his mouth next.
“Mine too. My Mom, I mean, she's...” Oh yeah, this so much better than an 'I'm sorry'. “I was pretty young, though, so... ” He's watching his own hands turn on the steering wheel; avoiding Cas' face.
“That wouldn't lessen your pain.”
“It's fine. I... uh, didn't mean to steal your thunder there. Sorry.” His glance is supposed to be quick, apologetic, but Cas is staring back at him with sad focus. It's quite the attention grabber.
“It doesn't need to be fine.” His voice is confused, like he doesn't know that they're not supposed to keep talking about this. “I'm not fine. It's doubtful I ever will be.”
“Yeah, well, I am.” Well shit, they're halfway into this conversation, may as well get it over with. “So we can't park in the middle of a girl moment here, gotta get to the end. How 'bout your father?”
Cas looks taken aback, but recovers quickly and follows Dean's lead. “I don't know, he left when I was a child. My mother told me he had passed, but I have my suspicions. Yours?” Maybe that's why Cas keeps talking about this stuff. His dad was never around to tell him that you don't.
“Dead. Fire.”
Cas blinks at the bluntness. “That's... horrifying.”
“Yeah. It was kind of inevitable, he was a firefighter. Went in for someone and... uh... they didn't make it back out. Had to happen sometime.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About five years. He got to see Sammy graduate, that was-” Motherfucker, he hadn't meant to keep talking there. With his head turned away, Dean can see himself in the car window, eyes suspiciously bright. He swallows a harsh breath.
“Dean?” The question is low, and so open you could just pour yourself right in.
Dean stabs his finger at the stereo, filling the car with a heavy drum beat. “Moment's over.”
Castiel's fingers touch lightly at his wrist before he can pull his hand back. “Dean.”
“Seriously, dude.” He's probably rougher than he should be when he yanks his wrist away. And he knows his eyes are harder than Cas deserves. “Moment's over.”
Cas' own hands are mute in his lap again, tangled with each other. “I understand. I have a question. Unrelated.”
Crap, he'll need a fucking calculator to figure out how many times he's going to feel like a dickhead around Cas. “Shoot.”
“If my car won't be ready by the weekend, would you be interested in further chauffeuring?”
Oh yeah, ask right in the middle of a self-inflicted guilt trip.
“I'd pay, of course. For your gas and time. And don't feel obliged, please. This has been quite a bit more enjoyable. Preferable, rather, to taking the bus.” He's actually babbling; it'd be entertaining under other circumstances.
“Cas, man. Stop. I'll do it.” He had just been about 30 seconds and a shoulder pat away from getting misty-eyed in front of the guy, and then he'd acted like it was Cas' fault. Of course he says yes.
Cas takes a deep breath, and nods. “Alright. This Saturday? I assume you're occupied at the club in the evening, but during the day?”
Bobby could use him, but if he works Sunday instead of Saturday, that should be just as good. Bobby's an old friend, he knows enough to trust Dean to work on his own. “That'll work. What's on the plate?”
A whole bunch of shit, it turns out. It takes the rest of the trip to Cas' house for him to list it all and to explain just what 'charmeuse' is. It takes about half the trip back to the apartment for Dean to come down from what he has to assume is a sugar high and wonder just what the hell he thinks he's doing.
And to realize that he forgot the damn groceries.
Fuck.
*****
So Sam had been pissed. About the groceries, yeah, but mostly about what he called the 'second date'. Dean is proud of the restraint he'd shown in not punching his brother in the neck. It was a close call.
The thought of calling Cas and canceling did cross his mind. Hell, he'd even gotten as far as dialing all but the last number and sitting there, deliberating. But then he could practically feel his vagina growing so he'd smacked himself in the forehead with the phone and gone out for a hamburger instead. It would have been a real asshole move, anyway, to cancel on Cas when he was depending on him like that.
So here they are on a late Saturday morning, driving around and talking about clothes and flowers. It's pretty much the gayest Dean has ever felt and that includes the cake tasting and the time he dressed up as a hooker for Halloween, make-up and fishnets included.
The first stop is at the tailors.
Dean has a mild panic attack at the thought of watching some guy run his hands up Castiel's inseam, but it turns out they're just there to pick up some suits that needed last minute adjustments. The wedding came up fast enough that everyone agreed to forget about tuxedos in favor of the less fancy clothing they already own.
That could be a problem. “Shit, Cas, I never even thought to ask.” They're standing around the counter, waiting for the tailor to come back with everything. “Sam and I were gonna wear our standard outfit for this kind of stuff. Black tux, white shirt, that whole thing. I... uh... I don't actually own anything between douchey sport coat and tux right now.”
“I hadn't thought about what you'd be wearing either.” Cas doesn't seem too concerned. He actually seems pretty distracted, his eyes moving over Dean like... Oh. Like he's imagining Dean in a tux and out of a tux all at once. His focus is on Dean's chest almost like a physical touch, and when Dean pulls in a heavy breath, Cas' lips twitch and part in response.
“Maybe. Maybe Sam has something. That'll fit.” When Dean speaks, Cas' eyes flick up to meet his with that same blatant intensity. Dean can feel himself start to flush. “Or. Maybe this tailor guy can... y'know, hook me up.”
Cas looks away, thank God, to the man coming back with several garment bags over his shoulder. “Your tuxedo should be fine. I'm sure you look very,” Cas pauses, like he's trying to fit a new word in somewhere, “... professional in one.”
“Oh yeah.” Dean takes the bags from the tailor, anything to keep his hands and mind busy, and heads for the door. “That's the word for it.”
*****
They stop for a quick lunch at a drive-through after that, though they go in instead of driving through because absolutely nobody gets pickle stains on his baby's upholstery, not even him. Dean grabs a burger and fries and Cas gets a freaking salad and some chicken wrap thing that's still swimming in cream sauce so Dean doesn't know what the point of that was anyway.
“Are you fucking kidding? Take some of my fries. No, just take 'em, I can't watch this.” Dean shakes about a third of his fry order onto Cas' wrapper and sets the little ketchup cup between them.
Cas accepts them with a silent grace that's a little out of place, given the setting, and searches the greasy air for something to talk about. “Why do you have two jobs? Or three, I suppose,” he says finally, face a picture of open curiosity. He's such a weird mix of young and old, like a little kid and a grandpa stuffed into one body and, wow, that's a disturbing-ass thought.
“Well, uh, why do you?” Oh, 'you first', good comeback.
Cas takes it just fine, though, his expression unchanging. “Money. And for the change of scenery.”
“Right. So when your writing hand starts cramping you go strain your voice?”
“Basically, yes. Although I do type my work, despite what my lack of a cell phone may have implied.” His tone is gently teasing, and Dean can see that spark of humor in his eyes again.
“Ha, sorry. It's money for me, too. Sam, his whole law school thing, it's gonna be stupidly expensive. It already is, really.”
“You're putting him through school?”
It had been Dad's plan: get Sammy through law school. He was the only one in the family with a dream that big and they were gonna see it through, no matter what. Fuck, Sam and Dad had had some screamers over what the family gave up for that dream, too. The boys rarely argue over it now that Dad's gone. Instead, Sam buries his guilt in textbooks and Dean buries any spark of resentment he has (doesn't fucking have, doesn't) in his baby's engine.
“Yeah, we both are. He's doing what he can, he's no slacker.” Cas nods at this, showing his understanding.
“You said he was quite smart. What about scholarships?”
“Oh yeah, he got a few of those. And hopefully more when he actually starts with the law school part of law school. How fucked up is that, by the way? You gotta go to school so you can go to school so you can go to school. Like one of those snakes eating itself.” He points a half-eaten french fry at Cas, sketching a circle shape in the air.
“An Ouroboros.”
“Yeah. Anyway, we can't depend on the scholarship thing. It'd be great but it's not for sure, you know?”
“Yes. You anticipate, but you don't assume.”
That pulls a laugh out of Dean as he finishes off his burger. “Affirmative.”
“What will you do when Sam finishes his schooling?”
“I dunno, you'd have to ask Sam. Something about interns, I think, but I usually stop listening by then.”
“I mean you, personally.”
“Oh.” The 'what are you going to do with your life' question. Damn, people usually know him for a month or two before they ask that one. “I'm good, really. Nothing wrong with being a mechanic.”
“No, there isn't. You'll continue with that?”
Funny, it's like Cas actually means it when he agrees that 'mechanic' is a fine occupation. Most people are just being what they think of as 'nice'. Maybe that's why, once again, Dean keeps sharing. “Probably. But... I might, I was thinking I might go for EMT training. Sometime.”
“There are evening classes available for that, aren't there?”
“Yeah, but like I said, law school is expensive. Besides... “ Dean is contemplating that table top. He always feels kind of funny talking about this. Wary. Like if he starts planning then, guaranteed, it'll never happen. That's why he never told his Dad about this idea, either. “Besides, I figure I should go all the way.”
He snaps his eyes up to Cas' at the innuendo, wondering if he missed it. The quirk of a dark eyebrow shows that no, he probably didn't.
“That is, if I was going to do it.” Dammit. “Take the training. If I go in for the training, I should just keep going to the Paramedic level. It'd suck to have someone who was hurt and not be able to help them just because I was a lazy ass who didn't take all the courses.”
“Paramedic certification is very involved, then? You wouldn't be able to do this until after your brother graduates.”
“Yeah, it'd take a few years. So, after Sam.” Dean gestures wide with one arm, a bad pantomime for 'the future'. “Sometime.”
“It's a very worthy goal.”
Cas is looking at him like he's the most fascinating thing in the room, which is possible considering it's a fast-food joint. Still really disconcerting though, to be the focus of that. It makes Dean feel fake, somehow. Like a war hero who never set foot in a battle. “It's just a job. You gonna finish those?” He points at the few fries left on Cas' tray, subject successfully changed.
*****
The next stop, God help them, is the florist; some kind of artsy place with a bunch of huge-ass vases and sculptures. It looks way too expensive for a last minute wedding, but apparently Zach, the owner, is a friend of Anna's and was willing to help out. It takes one look at Dean's twitchy hands for Zach to make him go sit in a corner table with a cup of coffee, a really crunchy cookie, and a warning to not touch anything.
Dean waves Cas away when he tries to come to his rescue, though. The old guy is probably right; Dean can practically hear the sound of breaking glass when he looks around this place.
Cas and Zach are talking on the other side of the store, far enough that Dean can hear the low rumble of Cas' voice but not his actual words. Zach's expansive hand gestures and pompous posture give the impression that he's trying to convince Cas of something and Cas doesn't look too pleased about it. He seems to be holding his own, though, chin up and shoulders back.
They're occupied, and Dean is bored and caffeinated, so he lets himself spend long moments watching the clench and pull of Cas' jaw, and the way his neck twitches when it looks like Zach is being particularly irritating. He looks like a stern school teacher and Dean is drifting on the edge of a fantasy involving detentions and rough shoves against a blackboard when his eyes flicker to the side and catch Zach watching him. He nods his head towards Dean and says something to Cas, who turns to look as well.
Dean tenses for another heated staring contest but then Cas is frowning darkly and turning back to Zach, motions sharp. Dean wonders if it's guilt getting to him or if Zach said something. Or both, maybe.
But there's no time to wonder. It looks like Cas is done here as he points a few more things out on whatever they're looking at and then turns his back on Zach, a clear dismissal. He gathers Dean up with a nod on the way by and doesn't speak until they're back in the car, pulling away.
“I do not like him.”
Dean wants to ask why, but he's not sure he'll like the answer. If he was Zach, watching some stranger eye-hump his friend's fiancé, he'd probably be a dick about it too.
*****
The rest of the afternoon goes quickly. It's mostly picking up decorations and tablecloths and other things with names Dean will never remember. The trunk of the Impala is stuffed by the time they get back to Cas' house, and Dean makes a silent promise to her that she'll get something better next time. Crossbows or snowboards or something; anything without lace.
They unload most of it in the garage, everything going on or under a table that has a bunch of half-made bows or something sitting on one end. Dean doesn't look too closely. He's setting the last box on the table when Cas' hand lands on top of it, fingers curled half an inch from his own.
“Dean.”
He's standing close at Dean's side, too close with the garage door wide open to the fucking world. Near enough for Dean to feel the warm brush of air with his words. Dean nods. He doesn't trust himself to answer.
“I want to thank you again for your help.” His voice is pitched too quiet for the space, meant only for Dean, and Dean closes his eyes for a long moment before turning his head to look. This close, and with the height difference between them, Cas has to look up to see Dean properly and the way it doubles his intensity is fucking mind-blowing. Dean nods again, mute.
He's sure Cas means to speak again, the way he opens his mouth and takes a breath, but then Dean's own lips part automatically at that sight and Cas stops whatever he was going to say and... leans.
And you know what? Fuck it. It's not on his shoulders to keep Cas from doing this. It's not his job to look after the tainted souls of the fucking world. He's not a preacher. He's just... he's just a guy, and Cas' eyes are closed with the dark smudge of eyelashes looking so delicate against his skin, more vulnerable than they ever look on a woman. And if this is all Dean's gonna get, all he ever gets, then fuck it. Just...
It's a bright movement from the corner of his eye that stops Dean in mid-lean, something red, and his heart rate doubles from its already fast beat as an alarm in his head screams 'Anna, Anna, Anna!'. But it's not. It's some other woman walking by outside, way on the other side of the street, and her hair isn't even red, that's just a floppy hat on her head. But it's enough. Dean takes a fast step back from the table.
“Sam!”
Cas opens his eyes at Dean's outburst, head pulling back in confusion. He follows Dean's gaze outside to where the woman in the hat is just passing out of sight. He looks back at Dean, a question clear in his eyes and puzzled hurt layered underneath it.
“I should call Sam.”
“You should?” Cas' head is tilted once again as he studies Dean's face, looking for an answer.
“Yeah. Uh. I gotta get going, so I should see if he needs me to pick anything up on the way back.” Right, yes. Dean shouldn't even be making excuses here, a simple 'No, bad fiancé!' should do it, but Cas' perplexed look is pulling the words out of him again. “I should get supper or something anyway, gotta see what he wants.”
Cas is staring back outside to where the woman disappeared, a frown line working its way between his eyebrows. “I see.”
It's a lie, but Dean takes it and runs. He manages to put a Friendly Waiter smile on his face as he hurries around to the car door, climbing in before Cas makes it around to that side. He shuts the door on him, like a total asshole, and rolls the window down.
“So I'll see you. Y'know, at the wedding.” He puts a slight emphasis on 'wedding', willing Cas to get it. To understand that he wants to stay, so fucking bad, but he can't. “Gimme a call if you have any questions about the job. I'll, uh, I'll get Bobby to call you when your car is ready.”
The growl of the Impala's engine fills the garage, but Cas doesn't flinch at the noise. He just looks at him, that frown line digging deeper into his skin. His arms are straight at his sides and he's so still it's like he's a statue. Like he's going to stay right there until the end of days unless... unless someone moves him, touches him...
Christ. Dean has to get the fuck away from here, now.
“Bye, Cas.”
*****
Most of that night he spends getting drunk with the customers and flirting with a pretty, middle-aged woman who keeps inviting him back to her place. He's about one Purple Nurple away from from saying yes when Ellen grabs him by the collar, throws him in a cab, and lets him know that if he ever gets this wasted at work again she'll convince him to do a striptease on camera. And then she'll fire him.
*****
Sam finally corners Dean a few days later.
“You wanna talk about it.”
He's on the couch, nursing a Coke (shut up, Ellen), and watching stuff explode on TV. This is right in the middle of the short amount of time he has between supper and work at the club, so Sam's already in dangerous territory.
“I'm good, thanks.” He keeps his eyes on the screen.
“I'm not asking, Dean. You've been bitching around here for days and you keep finding me, standing around for a minute, and then walking away.” The couch dips when Sam sits beside him, one standard cushion length away. “You want to talk about it.”
“Nothing to talk about.” Nice, an exploding fireworks factory. Bet that makes a hell of a noise.
“Dean.”
“Jesus.”
There's a long pause of blissful silence.
“Did you and Cas...”
“What.” He turns his head finally, leaning it against the back of the couch to give his brother a hard look. “Fuck?”
Sam gives a long-suffering sigh. Very long. “Did you?”
“No.” He turns back. It's a boat now, on TV, disintegrating over the surface of a lake.
“So, then what-”
“I was gonna.”
Sam stays quiet, but Dean can feel his eyes on him.
“I was gonna do it.” He brings his thumb and finger together to show Sam how close it had been, but that's not even right. “Wasn't close, it was past close. I was ready to offer up the back seat of the car if he couldn't find his house keys fast enough or something. I really wanted to.”
He turns his head again and decides to just stay there, facing Sam. He's gonna strain his neck otherwise. Sam's face is scrunched up, but he asked so he's just gonna have to suffer through listening to his big brother talk about sex.
Sam unscrunches after a second. “Okay, but you didn't.”
“So? I didn't leave because I wanted to, I thought I saw- Doesn't even matter what I thought. I did it. Even if nothing happened, I still did it.” He couldn't even control the next word if he wanted to. “Again.”
Sam's sigh is resigned this time, and Dean feels tension in the air, like even that is waiting to see if Sam will go on. Yeah, here it comes. “You know Cassie wasn't your fault.”
“No, Sam, I don't know that. You just say it.” They might have had this argument a few times before.
“You didn't know she was still-”
“Yeah, I did.”
“No.” Sam is speaking deliberately, like he's talking to a kid or trying to control himself. “You thought they were broken up.”
“They were. But I knew they didn't mean it. I fucking knew it and I-” He sits forward, hands rubbing at his face. His stubble itches. “Maybe God's just fucking with me, huh? Cassie, Cas. Great girl, except oops, she still loves her ex. Great guy, except oops, fuck you Dean.”
The cola bottle makes a satisfying bang when he sets it hard on the table, so he does it again, and then once more for good measure. Sam takes it away from him, spoilsport.
“It wouldn't have worked anyway, if he wasn't taken, right Sammy?” He can trust his brother to be the voice of logic here. Mount Rational. “Once a cheater, blah blah blah, better off?”
“Maybe... you should talk to him.”
Well damn, that's not part of the script. Sam is looking at the drink in his hand (Dean's drink, thank you), face pensive. Dean turns towards him, pulling one leg up onto the couch, because he has got to hear this. “What?”
“What?” Sam's shrug looks defensive, and he's still staring at the bottle. “Maybe you should call him. Maybe he's not so gung-ho about getting married.”
“Gung-ho.”
A strip of paper flutters to the floor as Sam picks at the red label. “Yeah.”
“So, just so I understand, you're saying I should call him, and what, try to break up his fucking marriage? Or just offer up a quickie.”
“No.” The bottle clinks one more time as Sam puts it down to twist around and face his brother. “I'm saying maybe he doesn't want to be getting married. You say he's great, so maybe he's not being an asshole cheater here. Maybe... what if he genuinely wants out?”
Christ, but Sam picks the worst times to be on his side. “He doesn't.” Dean chops a hand between them when Sam starts to answer, cutting him off. “You didn't see them, Sammy. He had this smile like- I swear, every time we talk your girl-speak rubs off on me. It was like he was being lit up from the inside.”
Sam doesn't laugh, but his sad smile has a little twist to it. He'd totally be making fun of Dean if he could, right now. “Okay, so how about this? He wants to get in your pants, and yes I will be bleaching my mouth later, but he does, so he's at least bi. Or entirely gay. What if this is his last ditch effort at some so-called normal life? A wife, kids, two point five cars thing?”
That's... possible, but whatever. “I can't... I'm not gonna just fuck over two people on the off chance that one of them is making a bad decision. And Jesus, Sam, what happened to your big emo sympathy pains? You don't give a shit about Anna here? Somebody should!”
“Honestly? No, I don't. I don't know her, Dean, I know you. I want you to be happy.”
Oh, that's it. Dean can take a lot of shit, but not that. Not those big puppy dog eyes staring at him like he's a lost fucking lamb. He sneers, leaning in at his brother, aggressive. “Really? Really? And you think this'll do it? Oh yeah, you know me.”
“Oh fuck off with that alpha male bullshit.” Sam leans away from him, crossing his big ape arms over his chest. “I know you so well that I'm not even going to bother being surprised by this. Dean Winchester martyrs himself up again! Do you think you could maybe, just once, do something for you?”
“For m-! Oh, sorry, I didn't realize we were having this fucking argument, too. I forgot about poor Sam who has to have people give a shit about him!”
“Don't fucking make this about me, Dean. You never do anything for yourself, like you're some noble knight on a mission. It's bullshit!”
“Bullshit? It's our fucking life, Sam! It's- it's- it's how it is!” Dean doesn't know when he got to his feet, but he's on them now.
Sam is still sitting down, even slouching further into the couch. He almost never stands up to Dean when they fight any more, literally or figuratively. “I never asked you for anything.” Even his voice is slouched now, collapsed in. “You or Dad. You just sat down together one day and decided this is how it's gonna be.”
God it's hard to yell at someone when they refuse to yell back. “He wanted what you wanted, man. I've told you, you wanna quit, that's fine. Feel free.”
“Free. Yeah.” Their eyes meet and jerk away in the space of a second, enough to see that neither of them want to keep on with this fight. “You know I don't want to quit.”
Dean wonders about that sometimes.“Yeah, well. Good thing. Those ambulances can't chase themselves.” The pause is long, giving them both time to decompress a little. “So... I'm gonna head for work. You, uh, need anything?”
“From a strip club? No, I think we're good on thongs.”
“Liar. I know you ladies can never have enough fancy under-panties.”
The exchange is tense, and pretty pathetic, but it's the only way they know how to apologize.
*****
“Hey.”
Sam's voice catches him, calling out just as he's heading out the door. In the living room, he can see Sam leaning over the back of the couch, looking for his attention. He seems unsure, like whatever he's got to say isn't going to be well received. Must not be about underwear, then. Dean waits, wary.
“Talk to him.”
Oh. Dean nods, but turns away to the hall, not wanting to lie directly to his brother's face. “I'll think about it.”
He doesn't, of course. Not that he and Cas don't talk over the following weeks, but their few phone conversations are short and kind of stilted. Strictly business. It's two weeks before he answers the phone and hears anything other than distant politeness from Cas, the day before the wedding.
*****
“Dean, I need your help.”
The voice on the other end of the phone is direct but anxious. That kind of tone always sets Dean's tension up a notch, probably because it reminds him of his dad. Plus, it's eight o'clock in the Goddamn morning and Dean's only on his first cup of coffee, so it takes him a second to realize whose voice it is.
“What- Cas? What's wrong?” Oh shit, what's wrong? He's on his feet and already searching for his coat while different scenarios run through his mind. Cas is hurt, he's stuck, he's kidnapped or something. His house burned down. Zombie apocalypse. Anna left him (and the little spark of hope at that thought can go fuck itself). “Castiel?”
“I'm sorry to call you, I know you don't-”
Dean cuts him off forcefully. “Cas, what? Are you okay?”
“What? Yes... oh. Oh, I'm sorry.” There are all sorts of noises in the background, thumps and crackles. It's not exactly reassuring. “I worried you. I'm fine, but I have a problem.”
“Yeah, I figured that much out.” Dean leans up against the kitchen counter. Hopefully it's safe to relax again for a minute.
“It's the hall where we planned the reception. They've had a flood. Faulty plumbing.”
That's almost a relief, considering the other things he'd been thinking. “Oh! Well shit, that sucks. Plan?”
“Yes. If I can get everything set up in time, we can have it here, at my house. But I need all the help I can get my hands on to make that happen.”
“This is the part where you want me to do physical labor, right?”
“Yes, if it's at all possible. I wouldn't ask if I didn't truly need you. And Sam, if he's able. You'll be paid, of course.”
“He's got classes. And I've got work. But, uh, I can give you a hand later, or skip out early maybe.”
“Oh, thank you.” The naked relief in Cas' voice is warming. “Whenever you can make it. I should go now, though. I have to call the florist next.”
“No problem. Hey, don't take any shit from him, okay?”
Cas' shocked huff of laughter stays with Dean until lunchtime.
*****
When he makes it to Cas' house that afternoon (Bobby let him off early with a promise to help paint his eavestroughs some time), the first impression he gets is that it's been hit by the world's most specific tornado.
A pile of those chairs that fit together sits on one side of the lawn, and what looks like a cloud of poofy red fabric is on the other. A wooden lattice arch is standing near the red stuff, a crinkled blue tarp underneath it, along with a bunch of paint supplies. The garage is open and bustling with activity. Dean waves at a few of the people he recognizes.
Two buff guys, maybe twins, are carrying a big folding table in through the front door. One of them spots him and yells something into the house and Dean's pretty sure he just heard the word 'stripper'.
Huh.
He brought most of their bar tending supplies with him, figuring it would be a good idea to have it here for a quick set-up tomorrow. He's emptying the trunk when Cas comes out to greet him.
“Dean! Michael told me you were here, but I didn't quite understand him at first.”
Cas seems pretty frazzled as he walks up, a wild look in his eyes and his hair even messier than usual. Really, it's a good look on him. Hard to resist.
“Yeah, I heard. I'm a stripper now? I know I said I'd help out, but c'mon man.”
Cas' mouth twitches into a smile, and he actually ducks his head and looks bashful.“Ruby's to blame for that. I sent her home, though, so I think that's the only story she managed to spread.”
“Sent her home? Wow. Guess I better respect your authority, huh?” He can feel the wink coming and manages to turn it into a squint just in time; good thing it's sunny out. “Where do you want me?”
Cas doesn't even try to hide his smile at that one as he picks up some of the bar tending supplies and leads Dean inside.
It's gonna be a long afternoon.
*****
Dean's right about that, but not for the reason he'd expected since he barely sees Cas at all for the next few hours.
The first part of the afternoon is spent setting up the backyard with Luke and Michael, the buff twins from earlier. They're Cas' cousins and also the creepiest pair of brothers on the planet. If he hadn't heard one of them yelling before, he would have wondered if they were mute at first. Mute and possibly psychotic since they both kept looking at him like they couldn't decide on what to do; pet him, fuck him, or wear his skin like a raincoat. Creepy.
Michael finally says something about an hour in, asking Dean if he really is a stripper. He looks faintly disappointed at the answer and doesn't talk to Dean again, preferring to whisper with his brother in whatever twin-speak they have.
Dean heaves a sigh of relief when they finish up and get out of the way for Jessica and her armload of table cloths.
Cas' home is bright, he notices, as he goes in search of its owner. He hadn't taken much in when Cas led him through it earlier, though that was the first time he'd been in the house proper. It's not huge, but big enough, with wide spaces and high ceilings that make it feel grander than it is. Off-white seems to be the main color, terrifying for a messy eater like Dean but good for a wedding reception. There are lots of earthy additions, though, and big autumn-colored rugs that his toes would sink into if he wasn't wearing shoes.
One whole wall of the living room is taken up by built-in bookshelves, full to the point that it would make Sam cream in his shorts. Dean is just starting to read some of the spines (Italian dictionary, Bible, Aztec something something, Bible, German Bible, what the hell kind of sci-fi is he writing?) when Cas finds him.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean turns his back to the shelves, feeling a little like he was caught sneaking through Cas' medicine cabinet. “Hey! Um, hey. That's a lot of Bibles you have there. Research?” Maybe he writes that really involved, pretentious kind of sci-fi, with its own languages and religions. Like that series Sam tried to get Dean to read once, about the giant, killer sand worms. Not enough giant, killer sand worms in Dean's opinion.
Cas is smiling gently, looking past Dean to the books behind him. “Yes. And entertainment, of a sort.”
“Oh yeah. We did a lot of living out of motel rooms when I was a kid.” Dean waves a hand, dismissing whatever questions that might bring up. Ancient history. “Gideons was always good for a laugh when there was nothing on TV.”
Cas' eyes are on him now. It's weird how he can look at you like he's not hearing anything else in the room, even when there's nothing else to hear. “I take it you're not a traditionally religious man, then?”
“God, no. I mean, no. I'm... it's... “ Hard to explain, is what it is. Dean doesn't believe in God, but he's not sure that that means he doesn't believe in something. Sam said that makes him Agnostic, but personally, he thinks he's got more antagonistic than Agnostic in him. It's hard to explain to someone how you think God has something to prove to you. They tend to get pissy.
“It's alright. I've heard it said that to know a man's faith is to know half the man. I shouldn't have asked something so personal.” He does look apologetic, but also a little disappointed.
Dean shrugs in discomfort. “It's fine, it's just hard to explain.” He nods his head at the wall to his back. “You?”
“It's... very personal for me as well. And somewhat involved, I'm sure you can guess. Ask me again after tomorrow, if you're still interested.”
Yeah, right. If Dean has his way, he'll never see Castiel again after tomorrow. He shoves down the wave of regret at the thought. “Sure. So what do you want me to do next?”
“Did you see that archway out front?”
Cas leads him into the kitchen while they talk, pouring a glass of water as he tells him about the lattice arch a neighbor graciously let them borrow so long as they promised to paint it. Dean would laugh over how that's less gracious and more opportunistic, but he's too busy staring at the biggest, shiniest double oven he's ever seen.
“Jesus Christ!” He interrupts Cas in mid-sentence, staring up in wonder. “Do you have an extra family of five living here or something? Look at the size of that thing.”
Color fills Castiel's cheeks as he looks between Dean and the oven. “It's... an indulgence, I know. You remember I spoke of my mother?” Dean nods, tearing his eyes away from the behemoth. You look at a man when he's talking about his dead mother. “She was an excellent cook and I took quite well to it myself. It's relaxing, sometimes, to create something and know it's going to be good.”
Oh God.
“You cook?”
Cas gives him an odd look, understandable since that's what he just said. “Yes. I had considered making the cake for tomorrow, but that's really more about the decorating than the actual cake.”
Oh God.
“You bake?”
“...Yes.” Cas is looking at him like he's speaking another language now, head tipped to one side. “I don't have much time for it now, but during the holidays. Christmas, Thanksgiving.”
God in fucking Heaven. Thanksgiving. That means pumpkin pie and apple crisp and all those warm, spicy, homey scents filling up the huge spaces here. Dean closes his eyes against a sudden, unstoppable, and almost hallucinatory fantasy.
He can see himself on one of those soft rugs, with the tickle and scrape of fibers against his back. It's Cas above him, naked and glowing in the candlelight (Jesus, he's imagining candlelight), mouth wide and panting. Cas, wrapped in his legs so he can feel the thrust of hips under his heels. Cas, inside him, shaking and straining and everything is dark and sweaty and warm, stupidly fucking warm.
“Dean?”
Cas' hand is on his arm, warm.
“What? Sorry, I...” His voice is hoarse, and he's not even sure what he's going to come up with to cover this. “I... remembered I might have left the oven on back at the apartment.” It's only the most pathetic excuse known to man. “I'm gonna leave Sam a quick message to check it when he gets home. The lattice thing is next, right? You want it painted?”
It takes Cas a moment to catch up to the run-away conversation, blinking hard. “Yes. The archway. The paint supplies are with it. I should be able to come out and help you shortly.”
Dean moves out from under Cas' hand, fumbling for his cell phone. “That's alright, you've probably got lots to do in here.” Cas is looking at the hand he still has raised in the air, and then at Dean with what looks almost, but not quite, like suspicion. “I've got experience painting furniture, shouldn't be a problem.”
Hopefully that's enough to give Dean some time alone, because right now? He's in trouble. If Cas makes any kind of move on him, anything, Dean is done. Forget the however-many people around, forget whatever moral high ground he's trying to claim here. Right this second, if Cas wanted it, he would lay himself out over the nearest flat surface and damn well beg for it.
That weird look still hasn't cleared from Cas' eyes by the time Dean makes it outside, undialed phone pressed to his ear.
*****
Painting the lattice takes longer than Dean figured, but at least he's alone, and the work itself is calming. It helps him not think for a while, the repetitive stroke of the brush like a form of meditation. Not that he thinks of it in such filthy hippie terms.
The sun is just starting to set when he finishes, standing back to admire the freshly painted white wood. Around him, the neighborhood is surprisingly quiet. Well, quiet until he's almost to Cas' front door, juggling cans and dirty brushes while trying not to get paint on anything. The door forces him to jump back as it swings open, fast and wide. “Gah!” He barely catches a brush, holding on to the bristle end, paint oozing between his fingers. Gross.
It's Uriel on the other side, looking shocked for a second before reverting to his standard 'I know what you're doing and I don't like it' face. “Oh. The bartender.”
“Yeah, little help?” Dean shifts awkwardly, trying not to lose anything else while Uriel stands there, blocking the way.
“Why didn't you just take that through the garage? The laundry room is right there.”
“I didn't go for the grand tour. Seriously, just a can?”
Uriel's mouth twists in distaste, but he looks like he's ready to relent when Dean hears a voice and movement behind him. Cas peers out from around his shoulder.
“Dean! What- here, let me help you.” Cas slides past as Uriel takes a wide turn, keeping himself clear of any possible mess. Dean gratefully lets Cas take the brush gumming itself to his hand, and a few other bits that are close to falling.
“Thanks! Where do you want it all?” They move past the larger man in the doorway, though Cas stops to say his goodbyes and thanks for Uriel's work on the centerpieces. Ha, centerpieces; at least Dean got the manly lifting and painting jobs. He grins wide and waves three available fingers as the door closes on Uriel. The house seems eerily silent after that, like they're the only ones here. The painting must have taken longer than he thought. Not good.
“There's a sink in the laundry room, just down the hall here.” Cas leads him into the narrow room, the scents of paint and fabric softener mixing oddly. “I'll go get you something to dry your hands.”
Dean rinses out the paint supplies as he waits for Cas to come back, watching the ribbons of white disappear down the drain. There is a mirror above the sink, but he avoids looking at it. Cas returns quickly, setting a pile of worn looking towels at his elbow.
“It's quiet, now.” The paint under his nails is being stubborn.
Cas leans up against the counter next to him, hands wrapped around the edge. “Everyone left. There were enough of us that the work went quickly.”
“Nice of them to come.”
“Yes. I'm grateful.”
His hands are as clean as they're going to get, so he twists the taps off. The mood goes strange and hushed when the water stops, like a library. Or someone holding their breath.
“Everything get done?”
“Mostly. Some of them will have a little time in the morning to come back and finish up.”
He can feel Cas' eyes on him as he dries his hands. “Good.” A few small smears of paint mark the towels now, he must have missed a little. “Sorry.” He gives Cas an apologetic look but Cas shrugs, unconcerned, and points out the empty laundry bin behind him. He moves away to toss them in, talking as he turns back to Cas. “Me and Sam might be able to come by if y-”
The mouth suddenly pressed against his own is hot and shocking, making him gasp in surprise. Cas doesn't fuck around, either, taking advantage of the gasp to shove his tongue in against Dean's. Cas' forward momentum makes them stumble back, and Dean clutches at his hips to keep upright. Cas groans his approval, hands grasping at Dean's face in response.
Dean is kissing back, of course he's kissing back, it's fantastic. The tumbling desperation is the hottest thing he can remember right now, and his hands jerk tight at Cas' hips, pulling them together. The crash of it makes Dean's cock twitch heavy in his pants and he can't help holding Cas in place while he grinds hard against him.
Cas makes the best noise at that, a grunting whine pushed into Dean's mouth. One of his hands pushes through Dean's hair, fisting into it at the back of his head. The prickling yank pulls another gasp out of Dean and Cas shoves his tongue in harder.
Dean may have to rethink his definition of tongue-fucking at this point, it's never been at this level before. It's completely filthy how Cas is rocking their tongues together, holding Dean's face tight against his. It's even better for the fact that he did not expect Cas to be like this.
Dean yanks his mouth away for as long as it takes to wrap his arms around Cas' waist and heave him up onto the counter behind them, pressing in close between his legs. Then they're kissing again, not as rough, but faster and wetter. The sucking noises made every time they change angles are downright obscene.
Dean drags his hands up Cas' sides, feeling the cloth of his shirt bunch and wrinkle before he has both palms pressed just under his arms. He curls his fingers in and drags his nails back down, hard enough that it won't tickle and Cas likes that. Oh yeah, he really likes that, the way his whole body arches with it, chest and hips shoving at Dean. The way he tears his mouth away and throws his head back with a grating moan.
Dean takes advantage, nipping at his chin and licking along the long stretch of neck. Cas has been working all day and the salt on his skin tastes dirty in the best possible way. Dean works his way over to the curved joining of neck and shoulder, sucking at it hard.
Cas is making low, sighing noises now, one hand still in Dean's hair, and the other clawing at his shoulder. He gasps. “Dean! Dean... don't...”
Dean nods, pulling away to move back up Cas' throat, but apparently Cas isn't done.
“... don't stop, God, Dean, please...”
Dean shuts his eyes tight, leaning his forehead on Cas' shoulder. That's not what he expected Cas to say. What he'd expected, what he'd stopped sucking at Cas' skin for, was 'Don't leave a mark'. Don't leave any evidence for people to see tomorrow.
He pulls one hand away from Cas' side and smacks it hard against the counter.
Cas startles, leaning back. “Dean? What... Why did you stop?” The fingers in his hair loosen and start making gentle, soothing motions. It feels as good as anything in the past few minutes has.
Dean jerks away, falling back to the wall behind him, breathing hard. “Fuck. I can't, I'm sorry, I can't.”
He could though, the way Cas looks with his flushed, shining mouth, sex-drugged eyes and wild hair. One pale hip is showing under his bunched up shirt.
But wounded confusion replaces the lust in Cas' eyes as he sees Dean backed up against the far wall. Dean can almost see his brain picking up speed and searching for words. “Why not?”
“I just...” Dean looks down as Cas slides off the counter and pulls his shirt down. “I can't do this. I'm sorry.”
“Dean...” He expects the frustration that's in Cas' voice, but not the gentle pleading. God he wishes it was just the frustration. “I know- I'm not blind, I know you're very conflicted about this, though I don't-”
“I'm not conflicted, Jesus.” Except for the part where he's still not sure he's going to be leaving this house tonight. Hell, or this room. “I'm just horny.” He lifts his head again, giving Cas a hard look. “Horny and stupid and fucking weak, but you're better than this.”
Cas' voice is flat. “Better.”
“Yes! We're both fucking better than this. Or we should be. I know I haven't known you that long but... you'd regret this, man. I know you would.” Dean is pleading, needs Cas to understand that he's not being cruel here, despite the epic cockteasing.
But Cas is looking more closed off and confused by the second.
Dean barrels on. “And you've got fucking stacks of Bibles and whatever other morality handbooks out there!” He waves a hand at the door. “You have to know how wrong this is!”
Cas isn't even looking at Dean any more, his eyes fixed to a point on the wall past Dean's shoulder, voice still bluntly empty. “Wrong.”
“Yeah. Wrong.” Dean's voice softens as he tries to catch the other man's eyes. “Jesus, Cas, I can't even tell you how much I want... you drive me fucking crazy... and you know it wouldn't be just this one time!” Dean pauses, trying to collect himself. Cas finally looks at him again and his eyes are bright and hard as Dean continues. “Just... think about what your friends would say. Fuck, think about what Anna would say.”
Castiel flinches back like Dean threatened to hit him. “My-” He tenses, arms stiff at his sides. “I think you should leave.” There's nothing but cold anger there, now, and it's like Dean's not getting through to him at all.
“Cas, don't. We can still talk, I only-”
“Please leave my house.” His words are slow and deliberate, harsh with authority. “Now.”
Dean can feel an echoing anger growing in his own chest. If Cas doesn't even want to fucking try to discuss anything, if he wants to stand there all stiff and pretend that stopping this is somehow a bad thing, like it's Dean's fault he's getting married when Dean is the only one talking sense here? Fucking fine, then.
“Okay. Alright.” Dean straightens his own clothes in short, angry motions. He can't decide if he completely fucked everything up here or if it's been this screwed up since the beginning. “I'm going.”
Cas doesn't answer, just follows him out when he leaves the laundry room. Even his steps sound harsh and empty.
When he's outside the front door, Dean turns back to see Cas standing in the doorway, gripping the handle. “Look...” Cas' jaw goes tight and Dean raises a hand to keep from getting the door slammed in his face. “Not... I just want to know if you want me here tomorrow. For the bar tending.”
“I don't have a whole lot of choice, Dean. If you believe you can act professionally, then yes.”
Well that's just mean.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest and smiles thinly. Two can play at 'cold bastard' here. “I think I can handle it.”
Cas looks away, like maybe he feels bad about something. Good. “Someone will be here to let you in when the time comes. Goodnight.”
Yeah, what's so fucking good about it?
He turns away before the door closes, walking to the car. His pocket buzzes before he's to the curb and he pulls out his phone, checking the screen. Right, of course. The phone makes a little trilling noise as he flips it open, bringing it to his ear with a heavy sigh.
“Hey Sam. Uh huh. I'll be home in half an hour and no, I don't want to fucking talk about it.”
````````````````````````````````````````
Part 3
Author: sparseparsley
Rating: NC-17
Genre/Pairing: Total AU, Romantic Comedy, Dean/Cas
Summary: The good ones are sometimes assholes and always taken.
See Part 1 for extended headers and notes.
Part 2
````````````````````````````````````````
They're ten minutes late getting to the bakery, thanks mostly to a minor accident involving a bus. It didn't look too serious, but all the rubber-neckers really slowed them down. It was alright. He learned that Cas has pretty good taste in music, other than his thing for Madonna, and that he has a scar on his chin from diving out of the way of a truck when he was twelve.
The woman who greets them at 'Tart' looks a little sour (Ha.) but goes to fetch her boss anyway, leaving them alone. Dean bee-lines for the counter.
“Check it out!” He presses both hands on the glass like a little boy. “The cinnamon things are still here. I gotta get some when she comes back. You want one?”
“You've thoroughly convinced me that I do, yes.” Cas is standing beside him, looking a little tense with his arms unmoving at his sides. The small smile he gives Dean is warm, though. “Dean... If you have the time, you're welcome to join me here. I have a feeling that this is something you'd enjoy.”
The mental math is pretty easy, cake with Cas versus shopping by himself. Plus, he doesn't want to be rude or anything. “I can totally make the time.” What he says next is more of a reminder to behave himself than a genuine question. “So Anna didn't want to pick her own cake?”
Cas relaxes a little after that, slipping his hands into his pockets and meeting Dean's eyes again. He seems to go for a lot of eye contact. “She already chose the cake itself. But I know what flavors she prefers so she asked me to handle this part. She is very fond of... delegating.”
They share a laugh as the sour woman comes back. The person Cas has an appointment with will be right with them, they're told. Dean takes the chance to buy half-a-dozen pastries, mostly the cinnamon things. They're sort of like stumpy éclairs. He orders two more for Cas.
The desserts are being laid delicately into two green boxes when he feels a light touch at his shoulder. Cas is standing close again (seriously, he needs a bell) with his fingers pressed against Dean's jacket arm, seeking his attention. Dean sees a woman behind him, waiting. Cas speaks: “We'll be in the back when you're done. Take your time.”
Dean just nods, mouth stubbornly dry as Cas presses once and pulls his fingers away in a slow drag against leather. His eyes stay fixed to Cas' back as they exit until he senses another set of eyes on him. The woman behind the counter is watching him with a small frown, then looking at the door Cas and the other woman just left through. Dean thinks 'go fuck yourself' while he pulls out his wallet, movements angry. He was just looking.
When he's done paying he follows the route Cas took, pastry boxes (complete with girly pink ribbons) secure in two hands. You have to be careful with stuff this good.
Voices carry from down the pale yellow hall. “-ense of smell as a child. Cranial damage from an accident at a baseball game, I believe.”
“Oh how awful, imagine how much they would miss out on in life!” That must be the woman that Cas followed and Dean can't help agreeing with her. He pities whatever poor bastard Cas is anecdoting about.
Dean rounds the corner and finds Cas and the woman sitting at a small table with several delicate looking plates arranged between them. The rest of the room looks like how Dean imagines the inside of a wedding cake would. Off-white and terrifying.
“Oh, hello Mr... ?” The woman holds her hand out to Dean as he sits down.
“Winchester. Dean.” He nods his head towards Cas while they shake hands. “I'm the chauffeur.”
Her name is Allison, she tells them, the Head Baker. It looks like this whole process is fairly hands-off, she's just listing some of the cake names and pointing out the labels with each piece, then leaving them alone to do the actual tasting. There's a bell to ring when they're done; how's that for handy?
Dean shifts forward in his chair when she's gone, getting in to the standard crumb-catching position. “That's cool, that they leave you alone. No hovering.”
“I believe she doesn't want to influence the decision.” Castiel has moved to the edge of his seat as well, mirroring Dean, and Dean wonders which of them looks more out-of-place. They share a somewhat embarrassed smile. “Where shall we start?”
You always start with vanilla, Dean explains. That's one of the main rules of food, along with 'everything tastes better on a pizza' and 'if it blends, you can make a drink out of it'. With that important bit of education shared, they get down to business. The vanilla tastes pretty good but it's also vanilla, so they move on through the more exciting stuff.
Chocolate fudge, chocolate mint, carrot, spice, apple pecan, and the way Cas eats is starting to drive Dean a little nuts by the time they reach tangy lemon. Each forkful is tiny, half of what Dean is taking and Dean is being conservative. And he takes for-fucking-ever, too, like he's savoring a hundred dollar glass of wine with each new flavor. He even has his head tipped and his eyes closed. And then, because God hates Dean, he gets a little smear of buttercream icing on his lower lip and licks it away slowly with his eyes still closed. Dean stares, pants tight and fork frozen partway to his mouth. He's looking so closely at the movement of Cas' lower lip that Cas' voice doesn't register for a second.
“Anna isn't fond of lemon.” Cas pushes what's left of the bright yellow slice towards Dean, licking at his bottom lip again even though it's thoroughly clean. His voice goes lower, a little husky.c“You can have all of that one if you like.”
A wave of guilt overtakes him. He shouldn't be encouraging this thing that's going on between them. Christ, he shouldn't have even stayed in the first place, stumpy éclairs or no. It doesn't matter if Cas is aware of what he's offering or not (and he must have some clue), Dean has a choice here, too.
He's just always been a natural flirt and it gets him into trouble sometimes with people he really doesn't want to be hitting on. But that's the thing here, Dean really wants to flirt with Cas. It's effortlessly easy to the point where he's almost not conscious of doing it. Plus, the guy is hot and interesting and kind of hilarious. Great, really, except for the whole thing where he's getting married and not opposed to making passes at people who aren't his wife. Serious passes, too, probably. Cas doesn't seem like the teasing type.
“Thanks.” Needing a distraction from the depressing turn his thoughts are taking, he shoves what's left of the lemon cake into his mouth whole.
Maybe not the best idea, though. Cas is staring at him with his eyebrows raised, gazing with interest at his stupid chipmunk mouth like it's not juvenile and disgusting. “Impressive.”
Dean flushes with embarrassment and his next words are muffled and kind of crumby. “What's next?”
“Strawberry and... peanut butter pumpkin.”
The last swallow of lemon cake goes down hard. They could really use some drinks here. “Peanut what now?”
“Peanut butter pumpkin. I take it you've never tried it either?”
“I didn't even know it was a thing you could try. Give it here.” He takes about a third of the oddly colored slice on his fork and... “Oh wow. Wow.” He's talking rudely around the bite, yeah, but manners are for lesser cakes than this. “Are you trying this yet?” It's like... well, it's like pumpkin and peanut butter but there's something about the combination. Something good. “Mmm, oh man.”
Cas is sitting with his fork half-raised and his mouth half open, watching. Dean shoves him with an elbow and motions with his own empty fork, signaling Cas to try it already while Dean goes in for another bite. Fuck being conservative.
Cas turns away as he chews his first bite, flushed face towards the plate in front of him. “Yes,” he says when he's finished. “It makes a strong argument.”
“I gotta get Sammy to come here for my birthday.” The last bite is calling to him, all 'eat me, they probably have more somewhere'. He resists. “So which one is the lucky winner? You know where my vote goes. Uh... not that I get a vote.”
“I believe I'll side with you.” Castiel settles back into the chair, turning as much as he can towards Dean. “It's not the most usual of choices, but I think many of the guests would appreciate it.”
“Nothin' wrong with unusual.” Dean finds himself shifting back too, copying the tilt of Castiel's body. They lock eyes for another long moment and Dean remembers his 'not encouraging this' plan from a few minutes ago. Oh, that's going well. Maybe if he can remind Cas as well. “Will Anna like it?”
Cas smiles to himself, setting his fork down and picking up the last bite with his fingers. “I think she would prefer the chocolate mint.” His smile lifts on one side now as he looks at Dean. “But she left this up to me and... I like this one.” The last bite of the pumpkin cake looks somehow better when it's held in Cas' long fingers, and pretty much sinful when he pushes it into his mouth. Motherfucker, he even sucks on his fingertips a little as he pulls them out. He's got to know what he's doing, right?
Dean rings the bell before Cas has a chance to reconsider his choice, or try any more damn cake.
*****
It's all details after that, so Dean takes to wandering around the front sales area while Cas finishes up. He buys some more pastries, this time the lemon tarts (their actual specialty, who would've thought) and it's a good thing Cas comes out after that because he was seriously considering the little square cherry things. His wallet can't take this kind of abuse.
They're half-way back to Cas' place, having a perfectly friendly argument about stew versus chili (Stew always wins, for the record), when suddenly they're having a fucking moment out of nowhere.
Cas is talking with his hands, something Dean could watch a lot more of, sketching out a vertical line in the air. “My mother made her chili so thick that a spoon would stand straight in it.” Now his hand makes a cupping shape, and Dean imagines all the different, interesting places it could cup against. “I did try turning a bowl of it upside-down once, to test, but gravity was a greater force than I'd expected.”
Dean is laughing, head tossed back. “Oh Jesus, what'd she do?”
The amused smile on Cas' face turns wistful. “Oh, that, technically that was just her recipe, not actually...” He seems to gather himself, hands turned suddenly mute in his lap. “She had passed on by that point.”
Oh, Christ. There is a long, silent moment. Dean has no idea what to do in these situations, not from either side. He knows how empty 'I'm sorry' is. It looks like his tendency to over-share with Cas is going to continue, though, judging by what comes out of his mouth next.
“Mine too. My Mom, I mean, she's...” Oh yeah, this so much better than an 'I'm sorry'. “I was pretty young, though, so... ” He's watching his own hands turn on the steering wheel; avoiding Cas' face.
“That wouldn't lessen your pain.”
“It's fine. I... uh, didn't mean to steal your thunder there. Sorry.” His glance is supposed to be quick, apologetic, but Cas is staring back at him with sad focus. It's quite the attention grabber.
“It doesn't need to be fine.” His voice is confused, like he doesn't know that they're not supposed to keep talking about this. “I'm not fine. It's doubtful I ever will be.”
“Yeah, well, I am.” Well shit, they're halfway into this conversation, may as well get it over with. “So we can't park in the middle of a girl moment here, gotta get to the end. How 'bout your father?”
Cas looks taken aback, but recovers quickly and follows Dean's lead. “I don't know, he left when I was a child. My mother told me he had passed, but I have my suspicions. Yours?” Maybe that's why Cas keeps talking about this stuff. His dad was never around to tell him that you don't.
“Dead. Fire.”
Cas blinks at the bluntness. “That's... horrifying.”
“Yeah. It was kind of inevitable, he was a firefighter. Went in for someone and... uh... they didn't make it back out. Had to happen sometime.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About five years. He got to see Sammy graduate, that was-” Motherfucker, he hadn't meant to keep talking there. With his head turned away, Dean can see himself in the car window, eyes suspiciously bright. He swallows a harsh breath.
“Dean?” The question is low, and so open you could just pour yourself right in.
Dean stabs his finger at the stereo, filling the car with a heavy drum beat. “Moment's over.”
Castiel's fingers touch lightly at his wrist before he can pull his hand back. “Dean.”
“Seriously, dude.” He's probably rougher than he should be when he yanks his wrist away. And he knows his eyes are harder than Cas deserves. “Moment's over.”
Cas' own hands are mute in his lap again, tangled with each other. “I understand. I have a question. Unrelated.”
Crap, he'll need a fucking calculator to figure out how many times he's going to feel like a dickhead around Cas. “Shoot.”
“If my car won't be ready by the weekend, would you be interested in further chauffeuring?”
Oh yeah, ask right in the middle of a self-inflicted guilt trip.
“I'd pay, of course. For your gas and time. And don't feel obliged, please. This has been quite a bit more enjoyable. Preferable, rather, to taking the bus.” He's actually babbling; it'd be entertaining under other circumstances.
“Cas, man. Stop. I'll do it.” He had just been about 30 seconds and a shoulder pat away from getting misty-eyed in front of the guy, and then he'd acted like it was Cas' fault. Of course he says yes.
Cas takes a deep breath, and nods. “Alright. This Saturday? I assume you're occupied at the club in the evening, but during the day?”
Bobby could use him, but if he works Sunday instead of Saturday, that should be just as good. Bobby's an old friend, he knows enough to trust Dean to work on his own. “That'll work. What's on the plate?”
A whole bunch of shit, it turns out. It takes the rest of the trip to Cas' house for him to list it all and to explain just what 'charmeuse' is. It takes about half the trip back to the apartment for Dean to come down from what he has to assume is a sugar high and wonder just what the hell he thinks he's doing.
And to realize that he forgot the damn groceries.
Fuck.
*****
So Sam had been pissed. About the groceries, yeah, but mostly about what he called the 'second date'. Dean is proud of the restraint he'd shown in not punching his brother in the neck. It was a close call.
The thought of calling Cas and canceling did cross his mind. Hell, he'd even gotten as far as dialing all but the last number and sitting there, deliberating. But then he could practically feel his vagina growing so he'd smacked himself in the forehead with the phone and gone out for a hamburger instead. It would have been a real asshole move, anyway, to cancel on Cas when he was depending on him like that.
So here they are on a late Saturday morning, driving around and talking about clothes and flowers. It's pretty much the gayest Dean has ever felt and that includes the cake tasting and the time he dressed up as a hooker for Halloween, make-up and fishnets included.
The first stop is at the tailors.
Dean has a mild panic attack at the thought of watching some guy run his hands up Castiel's inseam, but it turns out they're just there to pick up some suits that needed last minute adjustments. The wedding came up fast enough that everyone agreed to forget about tuxedos in favor of the less fancy clothing they already own.
That could be a problem. “Shit, Cas, I never even thought to ask.” They're standing around the counter, waiting for the tailor to come back with everything. “Sam and I were gonna wear our standard outfit for this kind of stuff. Black tux, white shirt, that whole thing. I... uh... I don't actually own anything between douchey sport coat and tux right now.”
“I hadn't thought about what you'd be wearing either.” Cas doesn't seem too concerned. He actually seems pretty distracted, his eyes moving over Dean like... Oh. Like he's imagining Dean in a tux and out of a tux all at once. His focus is on Dean's chest almost like a physical touch, and when Dean pulls in a heavy breath, Cas' lips twitch and part in response.
“Maybe. Maybe Sam has something. That'll fit.” When Dean speaks, Cas' eyes flick up to meet his with that same blatant intensity. Dean can feel himself start to flush. “Or. Maybe this tailor guy can... y'know, hook me up.”
Cas looks away, thank God, to the man coming back with several garment bags over his shoulder. “Your tuxedo should be fine. I'm sure you look very,” Cas pauses, like he's trying to fit a new word in somewhere, “... professional in one.”
“Oh yeah.” Dean takes the bags from the tailor, anything to keep his hands and mind busy, and heads for the door. “That's the word for it.”
*****
They stop for a quick lunch at a drive-through after that, though they go in instead of driving through because absolutely nobody gets pickle stains on his baby's upholstery, not even him. Dean grabs a burger and fries and Cas gets a freaking salad and some chicken wrap thing that's still swimming in cream sauce so Dean doesn't know what the point of that was anyway.
“Are you fucking kidding? Take some of my fries. No, just take 'em, I can't watch this.” Dean shakes about a third of his fry order onto Cas' wrapper and sets the little ketchup cup between them.
Cas accepts them with a silent grace that's a little out of place, given the setting, and searches the greasy air for something to talk about. “Why do you have two jobs? Or three, I suppose,” he says finally, face a picture of open curiosity. He's such a weird mix of young and old, like a little kid and a grandpa stuffed into one body and, wow, that's a disturbing-ass thought.
“Well, uh, why do you?” Oh, 'you first', good comeback.
Cas takes it just fine, though, his expression unchanging. “Money. And for the change of scenery.”
“Right. So when your writing hand starts cramping you go strain your voice?”
“Basically, yes. Although I do type my work, despite what my lack of a cell phone may have implied.” His tone is gently teasing, and Dean can see that spark of humor in his eyes again.
“Ha, sorry. It's money for me, too. Sam, his whole law school thing, it's gonna be stupidly expensive. It already is, really.”
“You're putting him through school?”
It had been Dad's plan: get Sammy through law school. He was the only one in the family with a dream that big and they were gonna see it through, no matter what. Fuck, Sam and Dad had had some screamers over what the family gave up for that dream, too. The boys rarely argue over it now that Dad's gone. Instead, Sam buries his guilt in textbooks and Dean buries any spark of resentment he has (doesn't fucking have, doesn't) in his baby's engine.
“Yeah, we both are. He's doing what he can, he's no slacker.” Cas nods at this, showing his understanding.
“You said he was quite smart. What about scholarships?”
“Oh yeah, he got a few of those. And hopefully more when he actually starts with the law school part of law school. How fucked up is that, by the way? You gotta go to school so you can go to school so you can go to school. Like one of those snakes eating itself.” He points a half-eaten french fry at Cas, sketching a circle shape in the air.
“An Ouroboros.”
“Yeah. Anyway, we can't depend on the scholarship thing. It'd be great but it's not for sure, you know?”
“Yes. You anticipate, but you don't assume.”
That pulls a laugh out of Dean as he finishes off his burger. “Affirmative.”
“What will you do when Sam finishes his schooling?”
“I dunno, you'd have to ask Sam. Something about interns, I think, but I usually stop listening by then.”
“I mean you, personally.”
“Oh.” The 'what are you going to do with your life' question. Damn, people usually know him for a month or two before they ask that one. “I'm good, really. Nothing wrong with being a mechanic.”
“No, there isn't. You'll continue with that?”
Funny, it's like Cas actually means it when he agrees that 'mechanic' is a fine occupation. Most people are just being what they think of as 'nice'. Maybe that's why, once again, Dean keeps sharing. “Probably. But... I might, I was thinking I might go for EMT training. Sometime.”
“There are evening classes available for that, aren't there?”
“Yeah, but like I said, law school is expensive. Besides... “ Dean is contemplating that table top. He always feels kind of funny talking about this. Wary. Like if he starts planning then, guaranteed, it'll never happen. That's why he never told his Dad about this idea, either. “Besides, I figure I should go all the way.”
He snaps his eyes up to Cas' at the innuendo, wondering if he missed it. The quirk of a dark eyebrow shows that no, he probably didn't.
“That is, if I was going to do it.” Dammit. “Take the training. If I go in for the training, I should just keep going to the Paramedic level. It'd suck to have someone who was hurt and not be able to help them just because I was a lazy ass who didn't take all the courses.”
“Paramedic certification is very involved, then? You wouldn't be able to do this until after your brother graduates.”
“Yeah, it'd take a few years. So, after Sam.” Dean gestures wide with one arm, a bad pantomime for 'the future'. “Sometime.”
“It's a very worthy goal.”
Cas is looking at him like he's the most fascinating thing in the room, which is possible considering it's a fast-food joint. Still really disconcerting though, to be the focus of that. It makes Dean feel fake, somehow. Like a war hero who never set foot in a battle. “It's just a job. You gonna finish those?” He points at the few fries left on Cas' tray, subject successfully changed.
*****
The next stop, God help them, is the florist; some kind of artsy place with a bunch of huge-ass vases and sculptures. It looks way too expensive for a last minute wedding, but apparently Zach, the owner, is a friend of Anna's and was willing to help out. It takes one look at Dean's twitchy hands for Zach to make him go sit in a corner table with a cup of coffee, a really crunchy cookie, and a warning to not touch anything.
Dean waves Cas away when he tries to come to his rescue, though. The old guy is probably right; Dean can practically hear the sound of breaking glass when he looks around this place.
Cas and Zach are talking on the other side of the store, far enough that Dean can hear the low rumble of Cas' voice but not his actual words. Zach's expansive hand gestures and pompous posture give the impression that he's trying to convince Cas of something and Cas doesn't look too pleased about it. He seems to be holding his own, though, chin up and shoulders back.
They're occupied, and Dean is bored and caffeinated, so he lets himself spend long moments watching the clench and pull of Cas' jaw, and the way his neck twitches when it looks like Zach is being particularly irritating. He looks like a stern school teacher and Dean is drifting on the edge of a fantasy involving detentions and rough shoves against a blackboard when his eyes flicker to the side and catch Zach watching him. He nods his head towards Dean and says something to Cas, who turns to look as well.
Dean tenses for another heated staring contest but then Cas is frowning darkly and turning back to Zach, motions sharp. Dean wonders if it's guilt getting to him or if Zach said something. Or both, maybe.
But there's no time to wonder. It looks like Cas is done here as he points a few more things out on whatever they're looking at and then turns his back on Zach, a clear dismissal. He gathers Dean up with a nod on the way by and doesn't speak until they're back in the car, pulling away.
“I do not like him.”
Dean wants to ask why, but he's not sure he'll like the answer. If he was Zach, watching some stranger eye-hump his friend's fiancé, he'd probably be a dick about it too.
*****
The rest of the afternoon goes quickly. It's mostly picking up decorations and tablecloths and other things with names Dean will never remember. The trunk of the Impala is stuffed by the time they get back to Cas' house, and Dean makes a silent promise to her that she'll get something better next time. Crossbows or snowboards or something; anything without lace.
They unload most of it in the garage, everything going on or under a table that has a bunch of half-made bows or something sitting on one end. Dean doesn't look too closely. He's setting the last box on the table when Cas' hand lands on top of it, fingers curled half an inch from his own.
“Dean.”
He's standing close at Dean's side, too close with the garage door wide open to the fucking world. Near enough for Dean to feel the warm brush of air with his words. Dean nods. He doesn't trust himself to answer.
“I want to thank you again for your help.” His voice is pitched too quiet for the space, meant only for Dean, and Dean closes his eyes for a long moment before turning his head to look. This close, and with the height difference between them, Cas has to look up to see Dean properly and the way it doubles his intensity is fucking mind-blowing. Dean nods again, mute.
He's sure Cas means to speak again, the way he opens his mouth and takes a breath, but then Dean's own lips part automatically at that sight and Cas stops whatever he was going to say and... leans.
And you know what? Fuck it. It's not on his shoulders to keep Cas from doing this. It's not his job to look after the tainted souls of the fucking world. He's not a preacher. He's just... he's just a guy, and Cas' eyes are closed with the dark smudge of eyelashes looking so delicate against his skin, more vulnerable than they ever look on a woman. And if this is all Dean's gonna get, all he ever gets, then fuck it. Just...
It's a bright movement from the corner of his eye that stops Dean in mid-lean, something red, and his heart rate doubles from its already fast beat as an alarm in his head screams 'Anna, Anna, Anna!'. But it's not. It's some other woman walking by outside, way on the other side of the street, and her hair isn't even red, that's just a floppy hat on her head. But it's enough. Dean takes a fast step back from the table.
“Sam!”
Cas opens his eyes at Dean's outburst, head pulling back in confusion. He follows Dean's gaze outside to where the woman in the hat is just passing out of sight. He looks back at Dean, a question clear in his eyes and puzzled hurt layered underneath it.
“I should call Sam.”
“You should?” Cas' head is tilted once again as he studies Dean's face, looking for an answer.
“Yeah. Uh. I gotta get going, so I should see if he needs me to pick anything up on the way back.” Right, yes. Dean shouldn't even be making excuses here, a simple 'No, bad fiancé!' should do it, but Cas' perplexed look is pulling the words out of him again. “I should get supper or something anyway, gotta see what he wants.”
Cas is staring back outside to where the woman disappeared, a frown line working its way between his eyebrows. “I see.”
It's a lie, but Dean takes it and runs. He manages to put a Friendly Waiter smile on his face as he hurries around to the car door, climbing in before Cas makes it around to that side. He shuts the door on him, like a total asshole, and rolls the window down.
“So I'll see you. Y'know, at the wedding.” He puts a slight emphasis on 'wedding', willing Cas to get it. To understand that he wants to stay, so fucking bad, but he can't. “Gimme a call if you have any questions about the job. I'll, uh, I'll get Bobby to call you when your car is ready.”
The growl of the Impala's engine fills the garage, but Cas doesn't flinch at the noise. He just looks at him, that frown line digging deeper into his skin. His arms are straight at his sides and he's so still it's like he's a statue. Like he's going to stay right there until the end of days unless... unless someone moves him, touches him...
Christ. Dean has to get the fuck away from here, now.
“Bye, Cas.”
*****
Most of that night he spends getting drunk with the customers and flirting with a pretty, middle-aged woman who keeps inviting him back to her place. He's about one Purple Nurple away from from saying yes when Ellen grabs him by the collar, throws him in a cab, and lets him know that if he ever gets this wasted at work again she'll convince him to do a striptease on camera. And then she'll fire him.
*****
Sam finally corners Dean a few days later.
“You wanna talk about it.”
He's on the couch, nursing a Coke (shut up, Ellen), and watching stuff explode on TV. This is right in the middle of the short amount of time he has between supper and work at the club, so Sam's already in dangerous territory.
“I'm good, thanks.” He keeps his eyes on the screen.
“I'm not asking, Dean. You've been bitching around here for days and you keep finding me, standing around for a minute, and then walking away.” The couch dips when Sam sits beside him, one standard cushion length away. “You want to talk about it.”
“Nothing to talk about.” Nice, an exploding fireworks factory. Bet that makes a hell of a noise.
“Dean.”
“Jesus.”
There's a long pause of blissful silence.
“Did you and Cas...”
“What.” He turns his head finally, leaning it against the back of the couch to give his brother a hard look. “Fuck?”
Sam gives a long-suffering sigh. Very long. “Did you?”
“No.” He turns back. It's a boat now, on TV, disintegrating over the surface of a lake.
“So, then what-”
“I was gonna.”
Sam stays quiet, but Dean can feel his eyes on him.
“I was gonna do it.” He brings his thumb and finger together to show Sam how close it had been, but that's not even right. “Wasn't close, it was past close. I was ready to offer up the back seat of the car if he couldn't find his house keys fast enough or something. I really wanted to.”
He turns his head again and decides to just stay there, facing Sam. He's gonna strain his neck otherwise. Sam's face is scrunched up, but he asked so he's just gonna have to suffer through listening to his big brother talk about sex.
Sam unscrunches after a second. “Okay, but you didn't.”
“So? I didn't leave because I wanted to, I thought I saw- Doesn't even matter what I thought. I did it. Even if nothing happened, I still did it.” He couldn't even control the next word if he wanted to. “Again.”
Sam's sigh is resigned this time, and Dean feels tension in the air, like even that is waiting to see if Sam will go on. Yeah, here it comes. “You know Cassie wasn't your fault.”
“No, Sam, I don't know that. You just say it.” They might have had this argument a few times before.
“You didn't know she was still-”
“Yeah, I did.”
“No.” Sam is speaking deliberately, like he's talking to a kid or trying to control himself. “You thought they were broken up.”
“They were. But I knew they didn't mean it. I fucking knew it and I-” He sits forward, hands rubbing at his face. His stubble itches. “Maybe God's just fucking with me, huh? Cassie, Cas. Great girl, except oops, she still loves her ex. Great guy, except oops, fuck you Dean.”
The cola bottle makes a satisfying bang when he sets it hard on the table, so he does it again, and then once more for good measure. Sam takes it away from him, spoilsport.
“It wouldn't have worked anyway, if he wasn't taken, right Sammy?” He can trust his brother to be the voice of logic here. Mount Rational. “Once a cheater, blah blah blah, better off?”
“Maybe... you should talk to him.”
Well damn, that's not part of the script. Sam is looking at the drink in his hand (Dean's drink, thank you), face pensive. Dean turns towards him, pulling one leg up onto the couch, because he has got to hear this. “What?”
“What?” Sam's shrug looks defensive, and he's still staring at the bottle. “Maybe you should call him. Maybe he's not so gung-ho about getting married.”
“Gung-ho.”
A strip of paper flutters to the floor as Sam picks at the red label. “Yeah.”
“So, just so I understand, you're saying I should call him, and what, try to break up his fucking marriage? Or just offer up a quickie.”
“No.” The bottle clinks one more time as Sam puts it down to twist around and face his brother. “I'm saying maybe he doesn't want to be getting married. You say he's great, so maybe he's not being an asshole cheater here. Maybe... what if he genuinely wants out?”
Christ, but Sam picks the worst times to be on his side. “He doesn't.” Dean chops a hand between them when Sam starts to answer, cutting him off. “You didn't see them, Sammy. He had this smile like- I swear, every time we talk your girl-speak rubs off on me. It was like he was being lit up from the inside.”
Sam doesn't laugh, but his sad smile has a little twist to it. He'd totally be making fun of Dean if he could, right now. “Okay, so how about this? He wants to get in your pants, and yes I will be bleaching my mouth later, but he does, so he's at least bi. Or entirely gay. What if this is his last ditch effort at some so-called normal life? A wife, kids, two point five cars thing?”
That's... possible, but whatever. “I can't... I'm not gonna just fuck over two people on the off chance that one of them is making a bad decision. And Jesus, Sam, what happened to your big emo sympathy pains? You don't give a shit about Anna here? Somebody should!”
“Honestly? No, I don't. I don't know her, Dean, I know you. I want you to be happy.”
Oh, that's it. Dean can take a lot of shit, but not that. Not those big puppy dog eyes staring at him like he's a lost fucking lamb. He sneers, leaning in at his brother, aggressive. “Really? Really? And you think this'll do it? Oh yeah, you know me.”
“Oh fuck off with that alpha male bullshit.” Sam leans away from him, crossing his big ape arms over his chest. “I know you so well that I'm not even going to bother being surprised by this. Dean Winchester martyrs himself up again! Do you think you could maybe, just once, do something for you?”
“For m-! Oh, sorry, I didn't realize we were having this fucking argument, too. I forgot about poor Sam who has to have people give a shit about him!”
“Don't fucking make this about me, Dean. You never do anything for yourself, like you're some noble knight on a mission. It's bullshit!”
“Bullshit? It's our fucking life, Sam! It's- it's- it's how it is!” Dean doesn't know when he got to his feet, but he's on them now.
Sam is still sitting down, even slouching further into the couch. He almost never stands up to Dean when they fight any more, literally or figuratively. “I never asked you for anything.” Even his voice is slouched now, collapsed in. “You or Dad. You just sat down together one day and decided this is how it's gonna be.”
God it's hard to yell at someone when they refuse to yell back. “He wanted what you wanted, man. I've told you, you wanna quit, that's fine. Feel free.”
“Free. Yeah.” Their eyes meet and jerk away in the space of a second, enough to see that neither of them want to keep on with this fight. “You know I don't want to quit.”
Dean wonders about that sometimes.“Yeah, well. Good thing. Those ambulances can't chase themselves.” The pause is long, giving them both time to decompress a little. “So... I'm gonna head for work. You, uh, need anything?”
“From a strip club? No, I think we're good on thongs.”
“Liar. I know you ladies can never have enough fancy under-panties.”
The exchange is tense, and pretty pathetic, but it's the only way they know how to apologize.
*****
“Hey.”
Sam's voice catches him, calling out just as he's heading out the door. In the living room, he can see Sam leaning over the back of the couch, looking for his attention. He seems unsure, like whatever he's got to say isn't going to be well received. Must not be about underwear, then. Dean waits, wary.
“Talk to him.”
Oh. Dean nods, but turns away to the hall, not wanting to lie directly to his brother's face. “I'll think about it.”
He doesn't, of course. Not that he and Cas don't talk over the following weeks, but their few phone conversations are short and kind of stilted. Strictly business. It's two weeks before he answers the phone and hears anything other than distant politeness from Cas, the day before the wedding.
*****
“Dean, I need your help.”
The voice on the other end of the phone is direct but anxious. That kind of tone always sets Dean's tension up a notch, probably because it reminds him of his dad. Plus, it's eight o'clock in the Goddamn morning and Dean's only on his first cup of coffee, so it takes him a second to realize whose voice it is.
“What- Cas? What's wrong?” Oh shit, what's wrong? He's on his feet and already searching for his coat while different scenarios run through his mind. Cas is hurt, he's stuck, he's kidnapped or something. His house burned down. Zombie apocalypse. Anna left him (and the little spark of hope at that thought can go fuck itself). “Castiel?”
“I'm sorry to call you, I know you don't-”
Dean cuts him off forcefully. “Cas, what? Are you okay?”
“What? Yes... oh. Oh, I'm sorry.” There are all sorts of noises in the background, thumps and crackles. It's not exactly reassuring. “I worried you. I'm fine, but I have a problem.”
“Yeah, I figured that much out.” Dean leans up against the kitchen counter. Hopefully it's safe to relax again for a minute.
“It's the hall where we planned the reception. They've had a flood. Faulty plumbing.”
That's almost a relief, considering the other things he'd been thinking. “Oh! Well shit, that sucks. Plan?”
“Yes. If I can get everything set up in time, we can have it here, at my house. But I need all the help I can get my hands on to make that happen.”
“This is the part where you want me to do physical labor, right?”
“Yes, if it's at all possible. I wouldn't ask if I didn't truly need you. And Sam, if he's able. You'll be paid, of course.”
“He's got classes. And I've got work. But, uh, I can give you a hand later, or skip out early maybe.”
“Oh, thank you.” The naked relief in Cas' voice is warming. “Whenever you can make it. I should go now, though. I have to call the florist next.”
“No problem. Hey, don't take any shit from him, okay?”
Cas' shocked huff of laughter stays with Dean until lunchtime.
*****
When he makes it to Cas' house that afternoon (Bobby let him off early with a promise to help paint his eavestroughs some time), the first impression he gets is that it's been hit by the world's most specific tornado.
A pile of those chairs that fit together sits on one side of the lawn, and what looks like a cloud of poofy red fabric is on the other. A wooden lattice arch is standing near the red stuff, a crinkled blue tarp underneath it, along with a bunch of paint supplies. The garage is open and bustling with activity. Dean waves at a few of the people he recognizes.
Two buff guys, maybe twins, are carrying a big folding table in through the front door. One of them spots him and yells something into the house and Dean's pretty sure he just heard the word 'stripper'.
Huh.
He brought most of their bar tending supplies with him, figuring it would be a good idea to have it here for a quick set-up tomorrow. He's emptying the trunk when Cas comes out to greet him.
“Dean! Michael told me you were here, but I didn't quite understand him at first.”
Cas seems pretty frazzled as he walks up, a wild look in his eyes and his hair even messier than usual. Really, it's a good look on him. Hard to resist.
“Yeah, I heard. I'm a stripper now? I know I said I'd help out, but c'mon man.”
Cas' mouth twitches into a smile, and he actually ducks his head and looks bashful.“Ruby's to blame for that. I sent her home, though, so I think that's the only story she managed to spread.”
“Sent her home? Wow. Guess I better respect your authority, huh?” He can feel the wink coming and manages to turn it into a squint just in time; good thing it's sunny out. “Where do you want me?”
Cas doesn't even try to hide his smile at that one as he picks up some of the bar tending supplies and leads Dean inside.
It's gonna be a long afternoon.
*****
Dean's right about that, but not for the reason he'd expected since he barely sees Cas at all for the next few hours.
The first part of the afternoon is spent setting up the backyard with Luke and Michael, the buff twins from earlier. They're Cas' cousins and also the creepiest pair of brothers on the planet. If he hadn't heard one of them yelling before, he would have wondered if they were mute at first. Mute and possibly psychotic since they both kept looking at him like they couldn't decide on what to do; pet him, fuck him, or wear his skin like a raincoat. Creepy.
Michael finally says something about an hour in, asking Dean if he really is a stripper. He looks faintly disappointed at the answer and doesn't talk to Dean again, preferring to whisper with his brother in whatever twin-speak they have.
Dean heaves a sigh of relief when they finish up and get out of the way for Jessica and her armload of table cloths.
Cas' home is bright, he notices, as he goes in search of its owner. He hadn't taken much in when Cas led him through it earlier, though that was the first time he'd been in the house proper. It's not huge, but big enough, with wide spaces and high ceilings that make it feel grander than it is. Off-white seems to be the main color, terrifying for a messy eater like Dean but good for a wedding reception. There are lots of earthy additions, though, and big autumn-colored rugs that his toes would sink into if he wasn't wearing shoes.
One whole wall of the living room is taken up by built-in bookshelves, full to the point that it would make Sam cream in his shorts. Dean is just starting to read some of the spines (Italian dictionary, Bible, Aztec something something, Bible, German Bible, what the hell kind of sci-fi is he writing?) when Cas finds him.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean turns his back to the shelves, feeling a little like he was caught sneaking through Cas' medicine cabinet. “Hey! Um, hey. That's a lot of Bibles you have there. Research?” Maybe he writes that really involved, pretentious kind of sci-fi, with its own languages and religions. Like that series Sam tried to get Dean to read once, about the giant, killer sand worms. Not enough giant, killer sand worms in Dean's opinion.
Cas is smiling gently, looking past Dean to the books behind him. “Yes. And entertainment, of a sort.”
“Oh yeah. We did a lot of living out of motel rooms when I was a kid.” Dean waves a hand, dismissing whatever questions that might bring up. Ancient history. “Gideons was always good for a laugh when there was nothing on TV.”
Cas' eyes are on him now. It's weird how he can look at you like he's not hearing anything else in the room, even when there's nothing else to hear. “I take it you're not a traditionally religious man, then?”
“God, no. I mean, no. I'm... it's... “ Hard to explain, is what it is. Dean doesn't believe in God, but he's not sure that that means he doesn't believe in something. Sam said that makes him Agnostic, but personally, he thinks he's got more antagonistic than Agnostic in him. It's hard to explain to someone how you think God has something to prove to you. They tend to get pissy.
“It's alright. I've heard it said that to know a man's faith is to know half the man. I shouldn't have asked something so personal.” He does look apologetic, but also a little disappointed.
Dean shrugs in discomfort. “It's fine, it's just hard to explain.” He nods his head at the wall to his back. “You?”
“It's... very personal for me as well. And somewhat involved, I'm sure you can guess. Ask me again after tomorrow, if you're still interested.”
Yeah, right. If Dean has his way, he'll never see Castiel again after tomorrow. He shoves down the wave of regret at the thought. “Sure. So what do you want me to do next?”
“Did you see that archway out front?”
Cas leads him into the kitchen while they talk, pouring a glass of water as he tells him about the lattice arch a neighbor graciously let them borrow so long as they promised to paint it. Dean would laugh over how that's less gracious and more opportunistic, but he's too busy staring at the biggest, shiniest double oven he's ever seen.
“Jesus Christ!” He interrupts Cas in mid-sentence, staring up in wonder. “Do you have an extra family of five living here or something? Look at the size of that thing.”
Color fills Castiel's cheeks as he looks between Dean and the oven. “It's... an indulgence, I know. You remember I spoke of my mother?” Dean nods, tearing his eyes away from the behemoth. You look at a man when he's talking about his dead mother. “She was an excellent cook and I took quite well to it myself. It's relaxing, sometimes, to create something and know it's going to be good.”
Oh God.
“You cook?”
Cas gives him an odd look, understandable since that's what he just said. “Yes. I had considered making the cake for tomorrow, but that's really more about the decorating than the actual cake.”
Oh God.
“You bake?”
“...Yes.” Cas is looking at him like he's speaking another language now, head tipped to one side. “I don't have much time for it now, but during the holidays. Christmas, Thanksgiving.”
God in fucking Heaven. Thanksgiving. That means pumpkin pie and apple crisp and all those warm, spicy, homey scents filling up the huge spaces here. Dean closes his eyes against a sudden, unstoppable, and almost hallucinatory fantasy.
He can see himself on one of those soft rugs, with the tickle and scrape of fibers against his back. It's Cas above him, naked and glowing in the candlelight (Jesus, he's imagining candlelight), mouth wide and panting. Cas, wrapped in his legs so he can feel the thrust of hips under his heels. Cas, inside him, shaking and straining and everything is dark and sweaty and warm, stupidly fucking warm.
“Dean?”
Cas' hand is on his arm, warm.
“What? Sorry, I...” His voice is hoarse, and he's not even sure what he's going to come up with to cover this. “I... remembered I might have left the oven on back at the apartment.” It's only the most pathetic excuse known to man. “I'm gonna leave Sam a quick message to check it when he gets home. The lattice thing is next, right? You want it painted?”
It takes Cas a moment to catch up to the run-away conversation, blinking hard. “Yes. The archway. The paint supplies are with it. I should be able to come out and help you shortly.”
Dean moves out from under Cas' hand, fumbling for his cell phone. “That's alright, you've probably got lots to do in here.” Cas is looking at the hand he still has raised in the air, and then at Dean with what looks almost, but not quite, like suspicion. “I've got experience painting furniture, shouldn't be a problem.”
Hopefully that's enough to give Dean some time alone, because right now? He's in trouble. If Cas makes any kind of move on him, anything, Dean is done. Forget the however-many people around, forget whatever moral high ground he's trying to claim here. Right this second, if Cas wanted it, he would lay himself out over the nearest flat surface and damn well beg for it.
That weird look still hasn't cleared from Cas' eyes by the time Dean makes it outside, undialed phone pressed to his ear.
*****
Painting the lattice takes longer than Dean figured, but at least he's alone, and the work itself is calming. It helps him not think for a while, the repetitive stroke of the brush like a form of meditation. Not that he thinks of it in such filthy hippie terms.
The sun is just starting to set when he finishes, standing back to admire the freshly painted white wood. Around him, the neighborhood is surprisingly quiet. Well, quiet until he's almost to Cas' front door, juggling cans and dirty brushes while trying not to get paint on anything. The door forces him to jump back as it swings open, fast and wide. “Gah!” He barely catches a brush, holding on to the bristle end, paint oozing between his fingers. Gross.
It's Uriel on the other side, looking shocked for a second before reverting to his standard 'I know what you're doing and I don't like it' face. “Oh. The bartender.”
“Yeah, little help?” Dean shifts awkwardly, trying not to lose anything else while Uriel stands there, blocking the way.
“Why didn't you just take that through the garage? The laundry room is right there.”
“I didn't go for the grand tour. Seriously, just a can?”
Uriel's mouth twists in distaste, but he looks like he's ready to relent when Dean hears a voice and movement behind him. Cas peers out from around his shoulder.
“Dean! What- here, let me help you.” Cas slides past as Uriel takes a wide turn, keeping himself clear of any possible mess. Dean gratefully lets Cas take the brush gumming itself to his hand, and a few other bits that are close to falling.
“Thanks! Where do you want it all?” They move past the larger man in the doorway, though Cas stops to say his goodbyes and thanks for Uriel's work on the centerpieces. Ha, centerpieces; at least Dean got the manly lifting and painting jobs. He grins wide and waves three available fingers as the door closes on Uriel. The house seems eerily silent after that, like they're the only ones here. The painting must have taken longer than he thought. Not good.
“There's a sink in the laundry room, just down the hall here.” Cas leads him into the narrow room, the scents of paint and fabric softener mixing oddly. “I'll go get you something to dry your hands.”
Dean rinses out the paint supplies as he waits for Cas to come back, watching the ribbons of white disappear down the drain. There is a mirror above the sink, but he avoids looking at it. Cas returns quickly, setting a pile of worn looking towels at his elbow.
“It's quiet, now.” The paint under his nails is being stubborn.
Cas leans up against the counter next to him, hands wrapped around the edge. “Everyone left. There were enough of us that the work went quickly.”
“Nice of them to come.”
“Yes. I'm grateful.”
His hands are as clean as they're going to get, so he twists the taps off. The mood goes strange and hushed when the water stops, like a library. Or someone holding their breath.
“Everything get done?”
“Mostly. Some of them will have a little time in the morning to come back and finish up.”
He can feel Cas' eyes on him as he dries his hands. “Good.” A few small smears of paint mark the towels now, he must have missed a little. “Sorry.” He gives Cas an apologetic look but Cas shrugs, unconcerned, and points out the empty laundry bin behind him. He moves away to toss them in, talking as he turns back to Cas. “Me and Sam might be able to come by if y-”
The mouth suddenly pressed against his own is hot and shocking, making him gasp in surprise. Cas doesn't fuck around, either, taking advantage of the gasp to shove his tongue in against Dean's. Cas' forward momentum makes them stumble back, and Dean clutches at his hips to keep upright. Cas groans his approval, hands grasping at Dean's face in response.
Dean is kissing back, of course he's kissing back, it's fantastic. The tumbling desperation is the hottest thing he can remember right now, and his hands jerk tight at Cas' hips, pulling them together. The crash of it makes Dean's cock twitch heavy in his pants and he can't help holding Cas in place while he grinds hard against him.
Cas makes the best noise at that, a grunting whine pushed into Dean's mouth. One of his hands pushes through Dean's hair, fisting into it at the back of his head. The prickling yank pulls another gasp out of Dean and Cas shoves his tongue in harder.
Dean may have to rethink his definition of tongue-fucking at this point, it's never been at this level before. It's completely filthy how Cas is rocking their tongues together, holding Dean's face tight against his. It's even better for the fact that he did not expect Cas to be like this.
Dean yanks his mouth away for as long as it takes to wrap his arms around Cas' waist and heave him up onto the counter behind them, pressing in close between his legs. Then they're kissing again, not as rough, but faster and wetter. The sucking noises made every time they change angles are downright obscene.
Dean drags his hands up Cas' sides, feeling the cloth of his shirt bunch and wrinkle before he has both palms pressed just under his arms. He curls his fingers in and drags his nails back down, hard enough that it won't tickle and Cas likes that. Oh yeah, he really likes that, the way his whole body arches with it, chest and hips shoving at Dean. The way he tears his mouth away and throws his head back with a grating moan.
Dean takes advantage, nipping at his chin and licking along the long stretch of neck. Cas has been working all day and the salt on his skin tastes dirty in the best possible way. Dean works his way over to the curved joining of neck and shoulder, sucking at it hard.
Cas is making low, sighing noises now, one hand still in Dean's hair, and the other clawing at his shoulder. He gasps. “Dean! Dean... don't...”
Dean nods, pulling away to move back up Cas' throat, but apparently Cas isn't done.
“... don't stop, God, Dean, please...”
Dean shuts his eyes tight, leaning his forehead on Cas' shoulder. That's not what he expected Cas to say. What he'd expected, what he'd stopped sucking at Cas' skin for, was 'Don't leave a mark'. Don't leave any evidence for people to see tomorrow.
He pulls one hand away from Cas' side and smacks it hard against the counter.
Cas startles, leaning back. “Dean? What... Why did you stop?” The fingers in his hair loosen and start making gentle, soothing motions. It feels as good as anything in the past few minutes has.
Dean jerks away, falling back to the wall behind him, breathing hard. “Fuck. I can't, I'm sorry, I can't.”
He could though, the way Cas looks with his flushed, shining mouth, sex-drugged eyes and wild hair. One pale hip is showing under his bunched up shirt.
But wounded confusion replaces the lust in Cas' eyes as he sees Dean backed up against the far wall. Dean can almost see his brain picking up speed and searching for words. “Why not?”
“I just...” Dean looks down as Cas slides off the counter and pulls his shirt down. “I can't do this. I'm sorry.”
“Dean...” He expects the frustration that's in Cas' voice, but not the gentle pleading. God he wishes it was just the frustration. “I know- I'm not blind, I know you're very conflicted about this, though I don't-”
“I'm not conflicted, Jesus.” Except for the part where he's still not sure he's going to be leaving this house tonight. Hell, or this room. “I'm just horny.” He lifts his head again, giving Cas a hard look. “Horny and stupid and fucking weak, but you're better than this.”
Cas' voice is flat. “Better.”
“Yes! We're both fucking better than this. Or we should be. I know I haven't known you that long but... you'd regret this, man. I know you would.” Dean is pleading, needs Cas to understand that he's not being cruel here, despite the epic cockteasing.
But Cas is looking more closed off and confused by the second.
Dean barrels on. “And you've got fucking stacks of Bibles and whatever other morality handbooks out there!” He waves a hand at the door. “You have to know how wrong this is!”
Cas isn't even looking at Dean any more, his eyes fixed to a point on the wall past Dean's shoulder, voice still bluntly empty. “Wrong.”
“Yeah. Wrong.” Dean's voice softens as he tries to catch the other man's eyes. “Jesus, Cas, I can't even tell you how much I want... you drive me fucking crazy... and you know it wouldn't be just this one time!” Dean pauses, trying to collect himself. Cas finally looks at him again and his eyes are bright and hard as Dean continues. “Just... think about what your friends would say. Fuck, think about what Anna would say.”
Castiel flinches back like Dean threatened to hit him. “My-” He tenses, arms stiff at his sides. “I think you should leave.” There's nothing but cold anger there, now, and it's like Dean's not getting through to him at all.
“Cas, don't. We can still talk, I only-”
“Please leave my house.” His words are slow and deliberate, harsh with authority. “Now.”
Dean can feel an echoing anger growing in his own chest. If Cas doesn't even want to fucking try to discuss anything, if he wants to stand there all stiff and pretend that stopping this is somehow a bad thing, like it's Dean's fault he's getting married when Dean is the only one talking sense here? Fucking fine, then.
“Okay. Alright.” Dean straightens his own clothes in short, angry motions. He can't decide if he completely fucked everything up here or if it's been this screwed up since the beginning. “I'm going.”
Cas doesn't answer, just follows him out when he leaves the laundry room. Even his steps sound harsh and empty.
When he's outside the front door, Dean turns back to see Cas standing in the doorway, gripping the handle. “Look...” Cas' jaw goes tight and Dean raises a hand to keep from getting the door slammed in his face. “Not... I just want to know if you want me here tomorrow. For the bar tending.”
“I don't have a whole lot of choice, Dean. If you believe you can act professionally, then yes.”
Well that's just mean.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest and smiles thinly. Two can play at 'cold bastard' here. “I think I can handle it.”
Cas looks away, like maybe he feels bad about something. Good. “Someone will be here to let you in when the time comes. Goodnight.”
Yeah, what's so fucking good about it?
He turns away before the door closes, walking to the car. His pocket buzzes before he's to the curb and he pulls out his phone, checking the screen. Right, of course. The phone makes a little trilling noise as he flips it open, bringing it to his ear with a heavy sigh.
“Hey Sam. Uh huh. I'll be home in half an hour and no, I don't want to fucking talk about it.”
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Part 3