Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The jukebox in the corner has long fallen silent. The only soundtrack now is the low murmur of the dedicated drunks; the only other patrons in the bar, save a few lonely singles still looking to get lucky. There’s clearly a kitchen in the back, but the light is off and it looks pretty empty. If he had to guess, they failed one too many health inspections and decided to shut it down permanently. Whatever . Not his circus, not his monkeys. He takes another sip, savoring his drink. His fingers itch for a cigarette. 

It isn’t often that Dean ends up in a bar after work. As a rule, he doesn’t drink that much to begin with. However, tonight had been an absolute shitshow, and he’d decided a single drink in a public place was better than taking a bottle home alone. He’d travelled that route before, and was worse off for it. 

Old memories try to come back to life, but Dean just shoves them down, swallowing more of the mid-shelf whiskey. Its smooth burn helps to sear away the sour taste of failure that lingers in the back of his throat. 

Trying not to dwell on all of the things he’s lost, he instead puts all of his focus on the drink in front of him, begging it for salvation from all of his stress. His hands wrap around the cool glass, stilling their slight tremor – the one he hides from Benny every time the burly man comes by Dean’s station. He’s so caught up in his own melancholy that he’s unable to pay attention to the other die-hard drinkers seated to each side of him, let alone the rest of the bar. Dean only remembers there’s other people here at all when a delicate hand slips into the crook of his elbow. 

“Buy me a drink, sugar?” The bubbly, bouncy blonde that’s attached herself to Dean looks up at him expectantly. 

In desperation, Dean’s eyes fly around the room, searching for any sign of an out. The handsome man in the next seat raises an eyebrow at Dean’s predicament, and he swears there’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of the stranger's mouth. Taking his chances, Dean gently extracts his arm from the woman’s grasp. 

“I would love to, usually, but, ah, you see, I’m here with my friend,” Dean tells her, gesturing at the dark haired stranger that the woman has her back to. 

She turns around as if surprised to find there was anyone else around them. Twisting back to face Dean, her expression is skeptical. “Your friend ?” She crosses her arms, eyes darting between the two of them. 

“Yes, my friend…” Dean trails off, realizing he has no idea what the dude’s name is. 

“Castiel.” The man’s voice is sweet and rough like the whiskey Dean’s been drinking, and while it’s supposedly meant for the woman between them, bright blue eyes bore into Dean’s. 

If he let himself, Dean could forget that there’s anyone else around. 

“Exactly. So if you don’t mind, Cas and I would like to enjoy our time together. I’m sure you understand.” There’s a smile and wink thrown in, though his would-be hookup still looks nonplussed. 

“Your loss,” she says as they part, sending Dean a wink of her own. Then she’s sauntering off, looking for her next target. 

Dean watches her go for a moment, then turns back to his new buddy. 

“I appreciate that – Castiel, was it?” Dean leans in closer so as not to be overheard. “I’m Dean, by the way.” He doesn’t hold out a hand, doesn't want to break the ruse that they already know each other. Instead he’s frozen, captivated once more by blue eyes as they take in each facet of Dean’s face. 

“It was my pleasure,” Castiel answers with that half-smirk once more in place. He takes a sip of his drink, contemplating Dean. The single raised eyebrow sends a thrill down Dean’s spine. “Do you often turn down beautiful women in bars?” 

It’s definitely not what Dean had expected to hear from the mouth of the man next to him. He pauses briefly, taking in the expensive but rumpled suit, the five o'clock shadow, and the delicate pink that’s begun to rim the man’s eyes. There’s nothing about him that screams “homophobe”, but Dean’s never one to take risks. 

“Just wasn’t in the mood tonight, I guess,” Dean says in reply. “Hard day at work, y’know?” He shrugs, returning to his drink only to find it empty. With two fingers, he signals the bartender to top them up. 

“Actually, no, I don’t know.” 

When Dean turns to look, Castiel’s face is scrunched up in a way that’s downright adorable as he considers what Dean had said. He stares, waiting for Castiel to explain further. A rose petal hint of tongue darts out to wet the bow of soft lower lip as Castiel gathers his thoughts. Dean’s eyes are drawn to that mouth, to the slow slide and the shiny slickness left behind. He meets Castiel’s gaze again to find the hooded eyes watching him.

“I’ve never actually worked a day in my life, though I suppose I will need to now.” 

That statement alone makes Dean desperately want to know more about this man. What kind of life has he led that he’s never had to hold down a job? What changed? Why is he in this dingy bar when his suit could buy everyone in here a round, and then some? His pressing need to interrogate Castiel must show on Dean’s face, as the other man smiles ruefully before taking a sip of his drink. 

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” Castiel whispers to Dean, leaning in closer than is strictly safe for two men in a markedly not-gay bar. Cas raises one index finger between them as he leans back out of Dean’s personal space. “I’ll tell you…but not here.” There’s a hint of a command in it that Dean loves. 

“Are you askin’ me if I wanna get out of here, Cas?” 

“Yes.” Downing the last few mouthfuls of his drink with haste, Castiel directs Dean’s attention to his own. One raised eyebrow seems to be daring Dean to keep up. 

It’s a challenge he rises to, knocking back the last of his whiskey in one practiced swallow. Dean closes out their tabs with a generous tip to the bartender, reaching back for the jacket he’d slung over the short back of the barstool. 

“So, uh, where to?” Dean asks as they step out into the relative quiet of the cool September evening. Even though he’s only had two drinks, his Baby is parked all the way back in the work lot, anyway. 

Judging by the way Cas is swaying gently on his feet, he’s either had much more than Dean, or he’s exhausted. A broad palm is offered up in Dean’s direction, and there’s a twinkle in those blue eyes as he reaches out to twine their fingers together. 

“Follow me.” 

Dean allows himself to be led up the street, to where the lighting is brighter and the sidewalks are cleaner. Signs of care show in the neatly painted storefronts and pots of flowers near every door. The alleyways are swept clean of refuse, and lack the distinct smell of piss that downtown holds. It's altogether that much more pleasant, as a result, when Castiel tucks them into the shadows of one such opening, pinning Dean against the wall and ravaging his mouth. 

It takes them probably twice as long as it should to get to the front door of Castiel’s high rise. When they do, finally, both men are wild-eyed, lips red from their frequent stops to kiss. Castiel’s hair is fucked up even more than it was when Dean first met the guy, and he’s sure his own isn’t much better. It’s no wonder the doorman raises an eyebrow while giving his polite “Good evening, sirs.” 

Dean feels so out of place in the gleaming marble opulence of the lobby; irrationally afraid that he’ll dirty anything he touches. A warm hand on his lower back halts his thoughts, and he allows Castiel to herd him into the elevator. The doors slide shut, enclosing them in the small space. Dean’s almost certain that if you looked hard enough you’d see the electricity crackling between him and Cas. He listens as the elevator dings while the floor numbers rise higher and higher, the tension in the air matching its escalation. Though the only point of contact between them is Castiel’s hand on his back, Dean finds himself getting hot under the collar. He just prays his jeans help hide his situation until they’re inside Castiel’s condo. 

There’s a fine tremor running through Dean by the time the elevator dings their arrival on Castiel’s floor. Dean has no clue which floor it is, he didn’t dare look anywhere but straight ahead. He just knows they’re up fairly high. A long hallway is revealed as the elevator doors part, one Dean hopes they don’t have to travel far along. Thankfully, Cas ushers him towards the second door on the left. 

It’s barely closed behind them and already Castiel has Dean pressed up against it. His mouth latches on to the underside of Dean’s jaw, sucking a mark that will likely fade before morning. Dean’s not sure why that disappoints him. Castiel moves to a spot under his ear, causing Dean to groan loudly, the back of his head thunking into the wood of the door. 

Cas finishes with his jawline, and begins to work his way down the corded muscles in Dean’s neck. He kisses and sucks and, somehow, finds all of Dean’s most sensitive places. Dean’s already overwhelmed and they still have all of their clothes on.  

“Cas-Castiel,” he pants, burying his hands into soft strands so that he can bring Castiel’s face level with his own. “Look, I am very much enjoying what we got going on here, but I’ve been on my feet for ten hours already and my dogs are barking . Could we maybe take this to a couch or a bed, or even just the floor or someth- mmph!”

Castiel cuts off Dean’s nervous rambling with a kiss that’s no less heated for its lack of urgency. Immediately following it is another, then another. Finally Cas pulls back. “Bed,” he says, taking Dean by the hand and damn near dragging him through the large, open suite and down a short hallway. 

Dean has no time to register any specific details, aside from noticing that it all looks very expensive. That tracks, considering Cas has just opened the door to an enormous, immaculately decorated bedroom. A plush looking king-sized bed dominates the room, its massive headboard the focal point of it all. Dark-stained wood is carved in relief; what it is Dean has no clue. He would probably have more thoughts about it if Castiel wasn’t plastered to his back. 

Dean is turned around by wide, solid hands, and busies himself trying to work the fugly trenchcoat off of Castiel’s shoulders while Cas does the same to Dean’s leather jacket. Somehow they manage to wrangle themselves enough to have not only their outer layers off, but all of their combined shirts ( far too many shirts ), too. Someone moans into the kiss as their heated skin touches, and it’s definitely Dean who bucks his hips forward, unthinkingly seeking friction. 

Though the hot, hard line of Castiel’s cock feels divine against Dean’s own, even through their pants, he pulls back slightly. “Enthusiastic consent, Cas,” Dean explains when he sees the confusion on Castiel’s face, unable to resist pressing another kiss to those sinfully full lips. “It’s sexy.” Leaning back in, Dean grazes his lips across Castiel’s cheek before whispering in his ear. 

“Wanna fuck me, Cas?” 

He’s suddenly very grateful he took a moment to shower in the restaurant’s locker room before heading to the bar. Cas is looking at him like Dean is a perfectly cooked steak and he’s been starving for years. Dean would hate to fuck this up by being gross and sweaty. 

“ Yes ,” Cas growls out, cranking the heat up again. He reaches for Dean’s pants as their lips collide. 

It’s all tongues and teeth as they tear at the last remaining layers between them. Dean’s breathless and dizzy at how good it is, and he’s not sure he won’t come before Cas even gets his dick in him. He doesn't know when or how he ended up on his back in the middle of that great big bed, but he’s got no complaints about the way Cas is pressing him down into the mattress, once again working his way under Dean’s jawline with tongue and teeth. 

Dean can feel the searing heat of Castiel’s cock in the crease of his hip, both of them groaning when Dean shifts to bring it in line with his own. It ratchets Dean’s libido even further, and he thrusts feebly from under the grounding weight above him. It’s more of a grind with how close they press. It’s good, so good, desire burning through his veins. He wonders what it would be like once they got to know each other, discovered every place and part that elicited a reaction. 

“Supplies?” Dean asks, the weight that had just comforted him now feeling like too much and not enough all at once. He can’t wonder those types of things, especially not with a one-night stand. It can only ever be sex; Dean has poisoned everything any time that he’s tried for more in the past. 

A soft hand on his cheek brings him back to the present, blue eyes studying him from below an adorably furrowed brow. 

“Are you with me, Dean?” Cas asks, holding their gaze so Dean can’t hide from him. 

Dean squirms mentally, the need to flee warring with lust and desire, and the way he feels when Cas looks at him like he’s worth something . Without his permission, he finds his head nodding and a smile pulling at his lips. 

“Yeah,” he confirms, “I’m with you.” As he says it, he realizes it’s true. His skin no longer feels like it’s a size too small, and his flagging erection decides to participate again – especially when Castiel wraps his big, broad hand around it and leans down to suck on one of Dean’s nipples. The only thing he can bring forth after that are inarticulate cries. 

While Dean was dissociating, Cas apparently had been grabbing condoms and lube. One slick finger circles Dean’s hole firmly, just loosening the muscle without pressing in. Dean can’t help but stare when Castiel sits back to watch, enraptured where his finger teases against Dean’s rim. He wants more, but he can’t form the thought, let alone say it, crying out wordlessly when Cas finally pushes in. 

Dean’s not exactly a slut, but he knows he doesn’t need much prep. Castiel continues to taunt him however, slowly working his way up to two fingers, then three before brushing a finger softly over Dean’s prostate. It sends a deep shudder up from the base of his spine, ending in a tingle at the back of his neck. He could do this forever, but at the same time, Dean desperately wants to come. A blot of precome pearls at his tip, catching Castiel’s eye and clearly begging for him to taste. He shouldn’t; even if Dean knows he’s disease-free, Cas can’t know for sure. But, oh, does Dean want that. 

Castiel manages to tear his eyes away, redirecting his gaze to where his fingers still move slickly in and out of Dean’s hole before flicking up, blue catching on green. “Are you ready?” Cas asks, planting his free hand next to Dean’s head. He grins when Dean can only nod in agreement.

“Enthusiastic consent,” he echoes Dean’s words back to him as he gently withdraws his fingers. “I’ve been told it’s ‘sexy’.” 

Dean nearly loses it when Cas uses both hands, heedless of lube, to make finger quotes, but then that lubed hand is tickling its way under his balls, nudging against his taint. It erases all thought from his brain.

“ Yes ,” Dean breathes, the capability to form sentences temporarily eluding him. “Yes, Cas, fuck me!” 

The last few words are barely out of Dean’s mouth when Castiel does as he’s told, rolling the condom the rest of the way down and pushing his way into Dean’s body. The sweet burn and stretch is exquisite, lighting up his insides as Cas makes room for himself, relentlessly pressing his way in, in, in. He’s so big, makes Dean feel so full he can hardly take a breath but it’s beautiful, it’s divine, and he never wants it to stop. Then Cas pulls back, ebbing from Dean’s channel before rushing back in like the tide. It tugs deliciously at Dean’s rim, and he instinctively clutches at Castiel’s back, trying to orient himself while surrounded by this brick shithouse of a man. 

Castiel once again blankets Dean, hooking his arms under Dean’s shoulders and using them to pull him back on his cock, over and over and over. The sensations sparking through his pelvis and the feeling of being manhandled have him near the brink. Dean’s own dick is neglected between them, but between Castiel’s uncanny ability to hit his prostate ninety percent of the time, and the friction from Castiel’s rock hard abs, he doesn’t think it’ll be an issue.

Unable to comfortably reach beyond Castiel’s shoulders now, Dean’s arms lift and he buries his hands in those dark, messy strands again. As Cas fucks into him, Dean pulls him down into a hot messy kiss and tries not to think about how this is going to ruin him for sex forever. 

It’s impossible now to tell who is making what noise, and Dean has had to slap a hand against the headboard to keep from bashing his head with the force of Castiel’s thrusts. At this point, they’re no longer capable of kissing properly, instead breathing into each other’s mouths, pressing wet lips to sweaty cheeks and nudging their noses together. It’s possibly the most intimate sex Dean has had, as well as the best. 

“Close,” Cas warns, tucking his head into Dean’s shoulder as he fights to control the rhythm of his hips. 

“Me too, sweetheart, me too.” 

The endearment slips out by accident, seeming to take Castiel by surprise, too. With a few last, stuttering thrusts, he fills the condom. Dean wishes he could have felt it, could have had Cas’s hot come inside him without a barrier. That thought sends Dean over the edge after Castiel, the two of them working their way through the aftershocks together, clinging tightly. 

Slowly, gently, Castiel slips his softening dick out of Dean’s hole, disposing of the condom in a nearby trash can before making his way into the ensuite bathroom. Dean stays where Castiel left him, wondering if Cas will give him a chance to clean up, or if he should be slipping his clothes on and sneaking out before Cas comes back. His anxiety settles a little when the bathroom door opens, the light silhouetting a man holding a lit cigarette and a washcloth. 

Allowing himself to simply lay back and let himself be cleaned with a warm washcloth is a new experience for Dean. Most guys seem to want him to clear out before their come is even cold. Cas even shares his smoke with Dean, holding the filter to his lips. Fucked out, he drifts as he’s meticulously taken care of. A soft blanket gets tucked around him, and it’s impossible not to snuggle into it. Dean is nearly asleep when he’s jolted back to real life by the weight of another body settling on the bed. Sitting up, he looks to where Cas is sliding under the blankets to join him. 

“Oh, uhhh, did you want me to go so you can sleep?” Dean asks, hating the flush he knows is creeping up his shoulders and the back of his neck. As many times as he’s done this, he’s never figured out how to end it easily. It’s always drawn out and awkward, and he’d rather spend the night freezing in his car than make Cas uncomfortable. 

“Please, stay,” Cas tells Dean, a shy smile in place of the fierce confidence he’d shown while they fucked. 

Settling back onto his pillows, Cas opens his arms, beckoning Dean to him. After a moment's hesitation, Dean goes to him, nestling in against the soft hair of Castiel’s chest. 

He’ll never admit it, but Dean absolutely loves cuddling after sex. In fact, the rougher it is, the more he’s likely to get clingy after. With Castiel’s heart beating slow and steady under his ear, Dean slips into sleep.

Chapter Text

Dean hates technology, and hates that he cannot for the life of him figure out how not to have his alarm go off on his day off. Without him needing to turn it off and back on again. He’s slept late on far too many Monday mornings to fuck with it at this point, but he still despises being woken up at the ass crack of dawn every Sunday morning. When he fumbles for his night stand to turn the alarm off, however, he finds far too much bed beside him instead. 

Shooting up to sitting, Dean takes in the deep blue walls, and the deeper blue-black of the ceiling, dotted here and there with tiny lights like stars in the night sky. His eyes settle on a heavy tapestry of something biblical hung on the wall, then on the antique looking armchair in one corner. He looks everywhere except at the person sleeping in the bed next to him. Thankfully, Cas had rolled away in the night and was unwoken by the blaring alarm, so Dean’s not panicking and trapped. 

As quietly as he can, Dean scoops his clothes up off of the floor. He shoves his jeans on, balling his socks up in his pocket, and throws his t-shirt over his head. His flannel and jacket get draped over one arm as he surveys the room to be sure he didn’t miss anything. 

There’s a sharp pang in his chest when Dean finally looks to where Cas is still sleeping peacefully. All of the stress, the worry, the hurt Dean had seen under Castiel’s facade has slipped away, leaving him looking far younger than he had the night before. His soft lips pout invitingly, and his hair is even more fucked up than after Dean had his hands in it. 

With great difficulty, Dean turns and quietly lets himself out of the bedroom. He doesn’t take the time to examine the other rooms of the condo, beelining for the door. He scoops up his boots, and it’s not until he’s sitting on the cold concrete of the building’s stoop that he stops to put them on. He shrugs on his flannel and jacket, too, doing them up against the predawn chill. Patting his jacket pockets, he locates his pack and lights up, the hot smoke burning deliciously through his lungs. 

Without looking back, Dean trudges his way to where his Baby sits waiting for him. He settles into the worn upholstery, ghosting his hands over the steering wheel before turning the key in the ignition. He leans back in his seat, letting the familiar rattle of Lego in her air vents soothe him as he makes his way home. 

****

After spending his day off doing absolutely nothing, Dean trudges into ‘Juliet’s’ wholly unprepared for the chaos that greets him. Benny, the head chef, is barking orders in an uncharacteristically sharp tone. He can hear both the twins, Max and Alicia, his favorite server, Jo, and even the hostess, Charlie, getting in on the argument, though he can’t seem to make out what it’s about. Dean ducks into the locker room before anyone can see him and draw him into it. 

He’s at least got his pants pulled up before Benny comes bursting into the room. His t-shirt and chef’s whites still sit on the bench beside him, his unclothed nipples peaked in the cold room. He watches as Benny does a slow once over, something in his urgency settling a little as a smile curls at his lips. 

“Nick is lookin’ for you,” he tells Dean in his thick Louisiana drawl. There’s a smirk on his face as he says it. “I’m guessing it’s got something to do with Saturday night.” 

Dean buries his face in his hands as he remembers just how awful that evening had been. 

“Tell ‘im I’m dead,” he grouses, though it’s muffled by his palms so he’s not sure how much Benny understood. The last thing Dean wants to do right now is go listen to their idiot kitchen manager tell him how to do his job. How Nick landed his position is beyond Dean. The man just parrots motivational phrases and hides in his office. Resolved to his fate, he scrubs his fingers through his hair, reaching for his shirt so he can at least meet it dressed. He hears Benny chuckle on his way back out the door. 

When Dean follows a moment later, the tension from earlier has disappeared, everyone at their stations laughing as they do prep work for the lunch hour crowd. He just shakes his head, resigned to never fully understanding the intricacies of the place. He’d come in after the team had been together for years, and he’s not been able to integrate the way he’d like. As much as they accept him as a necessary member of the team, only Benny and one other have actually reached out and offered any semblance of friendship. 

Max and Alicia are friendly , but they don’t go out of their way to include Dean in anything. Charlie glommed on to Dean at their first meeting, declaring them ‘besties’ and inviting Dean to her DnD group. Jo is more like an annoying little sister, though he’s not sure she doesn’t have the hots for him. He doesn't really know much of the wait staff, never interacting with the ones who don't linger in the kitchen. His mind skips over the kind of ‘friendship’ he and Benny have. Had.

Of the two more employees he does know, Kevin – a line cook, not that he’ll be around much longer –  is an absolute nerd, always has his head stuck in a book. He’d dropped the bomb on Saturday that he’s going back to school, which is still better than the little baggie of white powder Ash had dropped after acting weird all night. As sous-chef, Dean doesn’t have the power to actually fire anyone, but he’d sent the idiot home and told him not to come back unless he’s called. 

Which leaves Dean here, standing in front of Nick’s office, hand on the doorknob, willing himself to be anywhere else. Hawaii, Barbados, Hell, the inside of their meat grinder even. Grimacing in lieu of a smile, he twists the knob and pushes his way inside. 

“Dean-o!” Nick greets, far too enthusiastic for nine in the morning on a Monday. He rises from his seat behind the desk, leaning slightly with a hand out for Dean to shake. Nick’s grip is limp and his hands are clammy, but Dean’s sure to wait until they’re both seated to wipe his hands on his pants, out of Nick’s view. 

“Benny said you were looking for me?” Dean prompts after Nick folds his hands together and simply stares at Dean for a full minute. It’s creepy, the guy’s eyes looking closer to reptilian than human in the odd fluorescent lighting. 

“Right, yes,” Nick answers, suddenly becoming animated again. “I heard there was a bit of a, uh…situation on Saturday? Did you want to elaborate on what happened?” 

Dean knows that Nick knows, he’s just asking so that Dean can dig his own grave. He rests one elbow on the chair arm, supporting his face as he rubs at one eye. It’s still so early and he’s already getting a migraine. 

“Not really,” he answers honestly, “but uh, I guess you gotta know, huh?” 

Nick just looks at him and makes a ‘carry on’ movement with one hand. Every moment spent in this creep’s company has Dean itching under his skin, so he pulls up his big girl panties and spills. He gives Nick the least bad news, about Kevin, first. 

“Always knew that little pipsqueak had lofty ideas,” Nick scoffs. “What else?” 

“Well, I’m sure you’ve probably heard that Ash had an argument with one of the patrons about his choice of drink?” Dean cringes as he remembers hearing the raised voice of one of his servers resounding even in the back corner of the kitchen. His stomach drops at the memory of Ash calling the male diner a ‘little bitch’ for ordering an apple-tini. There’s a reason he’s usually left behind the bar. 

Nick picks up his tablet and turns it to Dean. There in black and white is a terrible review that elaborates on exactly what happened. Dean just sighs and drops his eyes to his lap. 

“That’s not the end of it, though,” he tells Nick, taking a chance to look up at the kitchen manager to gauge his mood. Nick’s face looks placid enough. “On his way out the door, he dropped a dime of coke on the kitchen floor.” 

“That little fucker better not have been doing it on the kitchen surfaces,” Nick fumes. “We barely passed inspection last time, and if that shithead fucked us over, I’ll…” 

He balls his hand into a shaking fist, the anger behind it palpable. “Okay, well, uh, what are you doing to fix this, Winchester?” 

It’s not Dean’s job to fix it, not really. This is where Nick should reach out, invite the couple back to dine on the house, and offer an apology or three. He won’t, though, so it’s a good thing Dean’s already apologized and given them vouchers to come back at any time, for any meal. He tells Nick this, and gets the biggest show of approval the devil of a manager will ever give – a quick nod of the head. 

“Good,” is all Nick says. 

“What about Ash?” Dean asks, hoping that he won’t have to deal with the incompetent ass anymore. 

“Fire him. I’ll have his pink slip ready by the end of the day.” 

The wide, toothy smile is unnerving on Nick’s face, and Dean would like to get out of its proximity pronto . He thanks the manager and ducks out of the office, the words “Remember, Dean, believe you can, and you’re already halfway there!” following him out into the kitchen.

****

The lunch service is fine, everyone playing their parts perfectly. Dean even steps up and takes one for the team, tying on a server's apron and taking orders for over an hour. Lunch takes a lot of prep work and not a lot of cooking or assembly, so as sous-chef, Dean’s not really needed in the back right now, anyway. He’s not going to turn down a pocket full of tips just to be petulant. When he strolls back into the kitchen during the afternoon lull, Benny gently grabs his arm and pulls him outside. 

“I gotta duck out for the evening,” he informs Dean after they’ve both lit their smokes. “This is what I’ve been training you up for, why you’ve been the one dealing with Nick and solving any problems lately.” A beefy palm lands on Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean looks at it and jokes, badly. “I thought it was because of my dick-sucking lips?” He purses said lips, starting to make a kissy sound before noting the thunder in Benny’s eyes. 

“Y’cant…cher, you can’t say shit like that anymore,” Benny tells him, voice softer than the storm brewing on his face. “You know I’m loyal to Andrea, now. I can’t be fucking around with other people when she wants commitment and a baby.” 

“A baby, huh?” Dean teases. Truth be told, as soon as he’d discovered that Benny had an on-again, off-again girlfriend, he’d put a stop to their extra-curriculars. He’s happy to hear that his friend has decided to take the relationship seriously. 

“Yeah, we’ll see. I’m about to go jerk off into a cup to make sure I’m good for it, so enjoy the rest of the day!” 

Dean blusters in the wake of Benny’s declaration, not sure what one even says in response to that. When he realizes he’s staring blankly at the door to the employee exit, nothing but a burned out butt in his fingers, he turns on his heel and goes back inside. Passing each station, he takes a look at how things are going in preparation for the dinner service. ‘Juliet’s’ is barely a step above family dining, nowhere near a fine dining experience, but the owner wants them to treat it as such. If even so much as a carrot is diced inexpertly, Dean needs to know. 

Thankfully, everyone is on the ball this evening, and Dean’s content to simply settle into his own work. They get through dinner service by the skin of their teeth, this time their hostess, Charlie, taking on a serving role as well as seating diners. Dean helps clean the kitchen while fervently wishing that Nick approves some  replacements soon. They can’t go on like this much longer. 

Dean falls into bed that night completely exhausted in a way he never is on a Monday. There’s five more days of this shit before he gets another one off, and his feet and back already ache. Checking to make sure his alarm is set, he uses the glass of water he sets out on his nightstand to swallow a couple of Advil PM. Lying back, he waits for them to kick in. 

Tuesday runs much the same as the day before, except this time Benny commandeers Nick’s office. It’s not unusual for Nick to skip out on work, but it is unusual for Benny to lock himself in there all day. Every time Dean walks past, he can hear talking, but only ever one voice, so he assumes Benny’s on the phone. Doing what though?

Dean gets his answer about halfway through the lunch rush. He’s been managing it just fine, but chaos erupts when Charlie bursts into the kitchen. She’s almost never back there unless someone wants to talk to the chef, so Dean prepares himself for the worst. Then, in a breathless voice she informs everyone, “Looks like Benny’s doing interviews already!” 

Dean obviously wasn’t there to know, but apparently before he’d been hired, they had run through servers like tampons on a heavy flow day (Charlie’s words). Except at the time, Nick had been responsible for selecting new staff. He’d pick terrible person after terrible person, and not always in a timely fashion. Even Dean’s position had been empty for 3 months before he’d been hired. He’s glad to find out that Benny is already working on replacing the two they’ve just lost. Kevin’s in tonight and Dean can already see the hole he’ll leave behind. 

It takes another hour for the lunch rush to finally die down, at which point Dean whips off his apron and heads for the locker room toilet. He’s had to piss for almost two hours now, and if he doesn’t get there, he just might burst. He doesn’t run into anyone on the way there, but as he’s just about to give a one-two shake to get the dribble off, the door opens. Benny’s voice booms through the room, explaining to someone that they’re lucky to have such a wealthy owner who could provide them such facilities. Dean’s not sure the other person can hear the thread of sarcasm in the statement, but it brings a smirk to his mouth as he zips up. 

When he comes around the privacy divider for the bathroom area and into the change room, Dean’s smirk gets wiped off of his face. Standing next to Benny is the guy from the other night – Casper, Caspian… Castiel! Benny just keeps chattering away about the restaurant while completely oblivious to the pull between the other two men. Dean is frozen where he stands. 

“Oh, heya Dean!” Benny’s finally become aware of his presence, and he beckons Dean closer with one hand while pulling Castiel in with the other. “Dean, I’d like you to meet our new cook –” 

“Castiel,” Dean finishes for him. What is this guy pulling? Dean wonders to himself. After seeing that apartment, he doubts Castiel’s words back in the bar. So if Cas doesn’t really need a job, what is he doing here ?

“Oh, so y’all know each other already,” Benny continues on. “That’s good, that’ll mean we’ll all get along just great.” There’s a big smile on his face, and Dean hates to be the one to deflate his mood. 

“Ben, are you sure this is the right choice, man?” Dean leans in close, trying to whisper so Castiel can’t hear. 

“Whaddya mean, brother?” Benny asks. There’s confusion writ large all over his face, but he’s willing to listen to Dean. 

“I mean the guy has never, ever worked a day in his life, Benny!” Dean hisses. “We have a standard to uphold!” If Nick thinks the events that occurred on Saturday were bad, Dean can just imagine what will happen if they hire someone with zero waiting skills, let alone zero customer service skills. This is going to be a disaster. 

“Y’think I didn’t read his resume, cher?” Benny asks calmly. His blue eyes assess Dean’s and all Dean can think is that they’re the wrong shade. He refuses to look to his left, not wanting to confirm what his brain thinks the right shade is. “What I would like to know is how you know that?” 

“I told him,” Castiel answers in Dean’s stead. It becomes impossible not to look at him, not to take in his sharp, devastatingly handsome features. Cas seems to return Dean’s assessing look, at least. “We met previously, outside of the restaurant, and it came up in our discussion.” 

Somehow, the perfect placidity of that rough, low voice makes Dean feel like he’s the one in the wrong here for spilling Castiel’s life in front of someone else. While Cas had been fantastic in bed, and Dean wouldn’t have minded running into him in literally any other situation, unfortunately, Dean cares too much about his kitchen –  about 'Juliet’s' in general. He can’t let this rich asshole walk in here and fuck it all up just because he wants to see how the other half lives. 

“You’re gonna regret this, Benny,” Dean warns, “and this time I’m not going to be the one to pick up the pieces. You wanna groom me to take over, fine, but I won’t take responsibility for your bad decisions.” With that, he brushes past them and out the locker room door. In the hallway, he convinces himself it wasn’t hurt and disappointment he saw on Castiel’s face. 

****

That night after work, he does stop at the liquor store on the way home. With his cheap bottle of Jim Beam in the trunk, Dean feels better than he has since two pairs of blue eyes entered the locker room. At least he’s got the lunch rotation off tomorrow. He’ll be able to nurse his hangover in peace before he has to go in. From the parking lot, he orders a pizza, knowing he’ll be getting to his apartment right around the same time as the delivery guy. He’s so over cooking today. 

His timing is impeccable, and he’s just unlocked his apartment door when the pizza guy comes around the corner of the hallway. “Is that for 401?” he asks, willing the man to move faster. Dean is hangry. It works, and the dude shuffles closer, digging in his coat pocket for his card reader. Dean taps his card, then takes his pizza inside to wallow. 

Pizza half-eaten, whiskey half-drank, Dean sits, uncomfortably full, flicking through his TV for something decent to watch. He’s been flicking through it since he got home, but nothing seems to appeal to him. Likewise, none of the books on his shelves are calling to him, and even a shower and a wank feels like too much work. The sunburst clock on the far wall tells him it’s just after 3am. Maybe he should just go to bed. 

Dragging his body through the lethargy, the pizza gets stashed in the fridge and the half empty liquor bottle joins the vodka, blue curacao, and sour raspberry in his cupboard, most left over from parties well before he moved to California. Why he hauled them all the way from Kansas, he’s not sure, but maybe he’ll have use for them in the future. Closing the cupboard door, Dean leans his head against it for a moment, the cool surface of the wood soothing against the ache that’s beginning to form. How did my life get here? he wonders, thudding his forehead against the unyielding door. 

Hauling himself upright, Dean trudges his way down the short hallway to where the  bathroom and his bedroom hide. Sam’s door was already closed when Dean got home, so he’s likely already asleep, or else spending the night with Jess. Doing his best to be quiet anyway, just in case Sam is home, Dean washes his face and brushes his teeth. A shower gets put off until tomorrow, despite the smell of cooking oil and spices clinging to his skin. He strips the moment he steps into his domain, tossing his clothes towards the hamper and missing entirely. 

Fully naked, Dean falls face first onto his bed, on top of the covers, and passes out. Dreams of blue eyes and shattered dishware follow him down into sleep. 

Chapter Text

There’s not enough coffee in the world to prepare Dean for the day. He’s on his third cup and he’s still just sitting in his robe at the kitchen table, dreading what’s to come. The way he’d responded to Castiel yesterday might have been a bit of an overreaction, but Dean’s not sure how to make it better. An apology just sounds so hollow. Hopefully by the time he gets to work, he’ll have thought of something. 

Dragging himself back to his bedroom, Dean eyes the bed covetously. He would much rather crawl under the covers than face 'Juliet’s’ newest employee. He knows how much everyone relies on him to be there, however, so he sucks it up and tosses on jeans, a tee, and a flannel from the chair of not-quite-dirty clothes. With a deep sigh, he heads for the front door. Today is gonna suck balls.

Sure enough, when Dean walks in, Castiel is already there in his chef’s whites. Dean can’t help but appreciate the way they cling to his thighs and accentuate his broad chest and shoulders. That’s not what Dean is here for, though, so he heads to the locker room to drop off his backpack before heading back outside for one last smoke. 

The last thing Dean expects as he’s sparking up the lighter, other hand cupped against the wind, is for the door to swing open and Castiel to walk out. “Do you have a lighter I could use? Please,” he asks, perfectly polite as if Dean hadn’t been a complete asshole to him the day before. 

Dean’s mind goes blank the moment that alluring, low voice hits his ears. He’s barely able to parse out the question, let alone form an answer with actual words. Trying to deflect from his own idiocy, Dean raises one eyebrow and his lighter, shaking the latter in the air as if to say “ Duh, can’t you see? ”

His brow furrowing, Castiel gingerly takes the lighter from Dean before setting a cigarette to his soft, pink lips. Dean tells himself that he’s following his lighter to make sure Cas doesn’t pocket it, but his eyes never waver from that beautiful mouth. He watches as Cas pulls the filter away, a curl of smoke nearly escaping before there’s a sharp inhale. It’s held for a fraction of a second before smoke pours out in one long breath. 

He’s always thought smoking was sexy – it’s half the reason he started –  but Dean’s never felt like it was an erotic experience until now. He wants to breathe the smoke from Castiel’s mouth, mingling in his lungs to suffuse all through Dean’s body. His muscles tense in preparation of the step forward he needs to do this when that deep voice jolts him out of his fantasies. 

“Thank you, Dean.” He’s holding the lighter out in front of him with a look on his face like it’s been there for a hot second. 

Dean snatches it out from between those soft-looking, broad fingers, sure they’ve never done anything that would build calluses. Popping an eyebrow again, he gives Castiel a mock salute with two fingers in response, once again trying to cover for his complete inability to say anything. Stamping out his half-smoked butt, he practically runs to the door. Once again he finds himself pretending not to see the way Cas had looked upset as Dean fled. 

Once inside, the horrors never cease. Benny pulls Dean aside as he’s tying on his apron, before he can even begin to unroll his knives. They tuck into the pass between the kitchen and the dining room, out of everyone’s way for the moment. 

“What’s up, chef?” he asks, though deep in his gut he already knows. The roiling anxiety there puts his and Benny’s nice white shirts in jeopardy. 

Sure enough, Benny nods in the direction of the prep space. “You’re my best guy,” he starts, maybe hoping, in vain, to soften Dean up with a compliment. “I need you to be on Cas today.” 

Oh, the visions that sentence conjures up. Dean’s not about to pop wood in the middle of his workplace, though, so he casts about for something gross to think of – all the little bits of yeuch left in the drain after dishes get rinsed does the trick. He glares at Benny, opening his mouth in preparation to argue. 

Benny sees, and cuts him off. “It’s non-negotiable,” he informs Dean. “I need Max focused on his own job, and Kevin’s not on the schedule today because he has orientation. You are the one I trust to show Castiel the ropes, brother.” 

With a sharp exhale that sounds more like a begrudged huff than he means it to, Dean nods at Benny. “Yeah, alright,” he concedes, “but it won’t make a difference. The guy’s gonna fuck up before the dinner service even starts, I’d put money on it.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, Dean,” Benny warns, “I mean it. He may be an adult, but he’s at a disadvantage here. Don’t be a dick, help the guy out. I may not like the way he looks at you, but I like his attitude. Do not fuck this up.” He points an accusing finger at Dean’s face before stalking off to set up his own station. 

Already late to start preparing for lunch, Dean follows. It feels like walking to his own execution. 

To say things get off on the wrong foot would be putting it mildly. Dean returns to his station to find Cas hovering over it. That sight on its own sends Dean’s stomach flipping, until his eyes travel downwards and it’s replaced by fiery rage instead. Castiel has Dean's knife roll open and is inspecting the knives one by one. Nobody, and he means nobody , touches his knives. 

“Hands off!” Dean barks, momentarily satisfied when Castiel looks up in surprise, face going sheepish as he slides a filet knife back into the roll. The way he looks like a kicked puppy right afterwards sucks that satisfaction away, replacing it with discomfort. Trying to save face, Dean keeps his voice stern as he admonishes Castiel for touching a set that doesn’t belong to him, nor is meant for general kitchen use. 

“You’re lucky I’m such a nice guy,” he scolds. “Most chefs would run you through with one of their knives if they found you touching them.” Okay, maybe that’s a little bit of exaggeration, but Dean really did once have a chef, Cain, who threatened a brand new cook with one of his knives after he found it in the newbie’s hand. The poor kid had quit right on the spot. 

“I apologize, I’m new to all of this.” He’s so sincere about it, and it makes Dean hate him just a little. He wants Cas to argue with him, to call his bluff, but it never comes. Instead, Cas dutifully asks him where he can source some knives temporarily, until he’s able to afford a set of his own. 

“So, what, did you break into that place you took me back to? Or did you just extend yourself too far trying to look like you’ve got it made?” Dean knows his tone is still too harsh, but he’s having trouble trying to reconcile the Cas he met a few nights ago and the one who’s here now, meekly wiping his hands on his apron and refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. 

When he does, they’re stony and cold. 

“My private life is just that, Dean – private. We fucked, once . That doesn’t mean you’re entitled to anything from me. Now if you don’t mind, I think we need to get started on the gravy.” 

The rest of the day doesn’t go any better, with Castiel maintaining a detached silence, only responding with “hmms” or nods until Dean’s going out of his skull. The worst part is, he picks up each and every skill Dean teaches him with ease. Cas seems delighted at this, gleefully chopping vegetables and stirring sauces. Not once does he complain about needing to do the lion’s share of the work.

He’s even managed to assimilate into the group in a way Dean can only dream of. He’s getting praise from Benny and Max; Charlie, even though she’s a lesbian, calls him ‘dreamy’. Hell, he even managed to get Meg to laugh. Dean hasn’t been able to coax so much as a smile out of her. He’s not sure how Cas managed to tame the she-demon, but he kinda hopes he does it more often. Maybe Meg will turn out not to be such a bitch after all. 

The lunch rush has ended, with only one set of diners left out front, making it a perfect time for Dean to sneak out for a smoke. He’s disappointed to find the alleyway behind the restaurant already occupied by not just Benny and Max, but also Meg and Castiel, who stand far too close for what is still technically their workplace. Something about it irks Dean, and he nearly chokes himself on the smoke of his first pull. 

“You alright, cher?” Benny calls, amusement clear in his voice. 

Castiel’s eyes flick to Benny at the endearment, narrowing slightly before his face settles back into a passive neutral. Ignoring it, Dean waves them off, slipping one hand into his pocket as he starts to stroll towards the opening of the alley. Cas’s distinct voice rumbles after him, but he’s too far away already to understand anything that’s being said. After a moment, there’s an eruption of laughter. He can’t help but think they’re laughing at him. 

****

Thankfully, blessedly , Castiel is excused from prep work for dinner service and sent to sit in Nick’s office – vacant once again –  to watch training videos. Dean can now enjoy the silence, instead of feeling the oppressive weight of Castiel’s dislike. That’s just what Dean does, though. He fucks things up. If he hadn’t fucked up so much, he wouldn’t even be here right now, in someone else’s restaurant under a shitty manager and an absent owner. Failure burns, acrid and familiar, in the back of Dean’s throat. Taking an extra smoke break does nothing to dissolve it. 

When everything is shut down for the day, the kitchen has been cleaned and everyone is eager to leave, Jo shouts something about going to a bar to celebrate their new additions. Under her arm is another small blonde, wearing more eyeliner than she would have gotten away with if Nick was in. Dean hasn’t caught her name yet, isn’t really sure if he cares to. While the rest of the crew eagerly agrees, Dean waves them off, citing his need to check in with Sam about how his own first day of work went. Castiel’s face falls, but Dean’s already turning away from it. 

Being so close to Castiel all day has fucked with him. Dean’s desire isn’t quenched simply because he was an asshole, or because Cas hates him now. Nor is his need to know more about Cas satisfied. The entire drive home he berates himself for his shitty behavior. 

A delicious smell reaches Dean’s nose the moment he opens the door to his shabby, two-bedroom apartment. His interest is instantly piqued, since Sam can’t cook to save his life. All of those skills went directly to Dean from his grandma Millie – not even his mother cooked regularly. Slipping his boots off at the door, he deposits his backpack on a dining chair before bending down to look inside the oven. 

“Oh, you’re home!” Despite being 26 years old, Sam still manages to have the exuberance of a puppy. His smile is wide as he welcomes Dean home with a clap on the shoulder. “I took care of dinner tonight, in case you couldn’t tell.” His cheeks pinken a little and he turns shy. 

“Well, Jess took care of dinner, anyway. She said you shouldn’t be the only person feeding the two of us after you feed so many people all day, and sent a lasagna home with me. It should be done right about –” he’s interrupted by a shrill beeping sound “ –  now.” Laughing, he reaches for the oven mitts, cautiously maneuvering the casserole dish out and onto the trivets set on the stovetop. 

Dean has to admit that it both looks and smells delicious, and wonders if he can get Jess’s recipe. If he can tweak it enough, he may be able to get it on the menu at 'Juliet's'. 

Putting work out of his mind for now, Dean reaches for a spatula to serve out the meal. Sam holds out a plate for him once the first piece is cut, setting it aside before doing the same with a second plate. Food served, they work in perfect sync to gather forks, knives, and drinks, coming back to the table at the same time and settling into their chairs. 

“Thanks, Sammy.” Dean grins as he accepts the proffered can of Coke. 

“It’s Sam.” 

Silence descends as they attack the meal. 

When bellies start to feel full, the two men slow their bites, beginning to talk between them. Today was Sam’s first day on the job at a law firm as a newly minted lawyer. It wasn’t very exciting, it seems, as he tells Dean about meeting after meeting with the people he’ll be working with, needing to shmooze the entire time. Dean would rather die than suck up to anyone. 

“What about you?” Sam asks once he’s exhausted all of the stories about his day. “Did you finally get any new people in?” 

It’s exactly the in Dean’s been waiting for, and he takes it, airing his every grief with Castiel. It takes several minutes, Sam valiantly trying to follow along as Dean rants. 

“ – and honestly, who does he think he’s fooling? There’s no way he didn’t have some training somewhere before here. No one picks up knife skills like that without some sort of practice.” 

“Wow, you, uh…you’re not a big fan of this Cas guy, I take it?” Sam asks. 

The little shit’s being sarcastic and Dean knows it, but it sounds sincere enough that Dean takes the bait. 

“ Fuck no,” Dean swears. “Honestly, I hope he drops something in the fryer and gets himself fired. Wait, no I don’t, that would fuck up the fryer. Whatever, I just want him gone.” 

“Are you sure you guys just didn’t get off on bad terms?” Sam asks, using the soft, coaxing voice Dean knows he uses on scared witnesses. It rubs him the wrong way, building his defenses even higher. 

“I’m sure, Sam. Now drop it.” He punctuates his order by dropping his fork onto his empty plate. “Well, I’m done. Leave the dishes in the sink, I’ll wash them in the morning. I’m only on dinner duty tomorrow.” Rising from the table, he turns his back to Sam, depositing his plate in the sink and exiting the room. 

****

If Dean had hoped he’d be lucky today, and his absence at the lunch service would mean someone else was assigned to work with Castiel, his hope would have been in vain. Benny intercepts him before he can even get to the locker room this time. He’s not even clocked in yet, for fuck’s sake . Dean rolls his eyes as he slips around Benny and through the door. 

Persistent, Benny follows. Dean contemplates teasing him by changing while he talks, but he keeps it professional, simply dropping his bag on the bench. Turning, he gestures for Benny to get on with it. 

“You already know what I’m gonna say, chief.” 

It’s true, Dean does, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

“Why me, man?” he asks. He sounds like a petulant child after being told he can't have candy, but it’s been over a week of Dean babysitting their newest line cook. Teaching him the difference between the julienne cut and the larger allumette. How to chiffonade the herbs. Exactly what it takes to make a perfect roux. 

“I told you, Dean, I trust you. ‘Sides, if you’re ever lookin’ to take my place in the future, you’ll need to learn to handle situations like this diplomatically. Can’t go firing good employees just because they don’t jive right away.” Benny looks at him, both sympathetic and pleading. “Just give the guy a chance.” He strides to the door without looking back, leaving Dean with the beginnings of a headache. Just great . 

Around two in the afternoon, just as Dean’s halfheartedly lecturing Castiel about the proper care and cleaning for their cooktop, there’s a commotion at the door to the front of house. There hasn’t been a diner in the restaurant for at least forty-five minutes, so Dean goes to investigate. 

“ Abbyyyy ,” Dean calls jovially, dragging her name out as he points a pair of finger guns in her direction. He hates the bitch, but he’s got to play nice or else she’ll get the claws out. “To what do we owe the honor?” 

“As I was just explaining to your lovely co-worker here,” she cuts her eyes to the newest server ( Claire, Dean thinks her name is ) with a pinched smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “your premises has been problematic for a while now. I’m here to make sure that’s all been resolved.” 

Abby’s smile is blindingly white, wide, and forced as she looks at Dean. “Lead the way, will you?” 

Dean knows – everyone on the crew knows – that 'Juliet's' doesn’t have enough money coming in to make all of the fixes that are necessary to be compliant. At least, that’s what Nick tells them every time they bring a problem to him. Dean would love to have a sit down with the actual owner, some dude named Crowley, and tell him everything that’s been going on. Maybe then shit would get done around here. 

The entire crew huddles together in the front, taking up several tables. The ‘open’ sign has been changed to say that they’re closed temporarily, but they all know that might become permanent before the end of the day. Charlie looks absolutely forlorn, seated at one table with her head resting on her folded arms. Their doorman, Garth, who is almost always happy now has a look of total dread on his face. Dean knows he should say something, should work on hyping them up, but he just doesn’t have it in him. 

Especially not when Meg and Castiel are sitting off to the side of everyone else, at their own table, heads nearly touching over top of it. Dean has no idea what the two of them could even be talking about. He doesn’t know either of them well enough to even guess. That fact sits sharp in his chest, throbbing with each breath he takes. How Castiel managed to ingratiate himself so quickly, Dean’s at a loss for as well. He turns away, jealousy burning hot, telling himself it’s envy of Castiel’s ease here, nothing more.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a noise from the door to the kitchen. Every single person perks their head up, looking in that direction. Just a moment later, a smiling Abby comes through it, a much more dour looking Benny coming directly behind. Nick follows, looking furious. 

“Well, that was educational,” Abby starts out. It’s clear sarcasm, and Dean is hit with the desire to take her apart and bury her in multiple locations. She continues on as if a dozen people aren’t glaring daggers at her. 

“You’ve got no handwashing sign posted by the bathroom sink. One of your handwashing stations is completely out of order –”

“C’mon, we’re just waiting on a part,” grouses Max. 

Abby continues speaking, ignoring Max entirely. “There were not one, but two open containers in the walk-in. Likewise, the dumpster lid was open –” 

This time it’s Dean that interjects, unable to hold his tongue. “We can’t get locks on the damn thing, no one seems to have the money for it, and nothing we’ve done discourages people from looking for food in it. What do you suggest we do?” 

“That’s not part of my job, Mr. Winchester. I just report on what the issues are. Which brings me to my final point on the list. Imagine my surprise when I walked into the kitchen and found this sitting on top of the stove. With a flourish, she produces a pack of cigarettes, setting them on the table between her and Dean. They’re slid across it with two red, sharp nails, and he doesn’t even have to pick it up to recognize it. 

Chapter Text

“What the fuck is this?” Dean asks, one hand bracing him on the table as he leans over to snatch up the pack. “What the fuck is this?” Striding over to where Castiel still sits with Meg, Dean shoves it in his face. He knows it’s the type Cas smokes, he’s completely sure of it, because it’s the kind Dean smokes, too. However, Dean is absolutely certain that his are tucked away in his locker. These have to belong to Cas. 

Both Castiel and Meg stare dumbly at Dean, as if they can’t comprehend just what they’re seeing. Luckily for them, Abby’s voice cuts through the haze of red in Dean’s brain. 

“Given the severity of the infractions I’ve seen here today, I have no choice but to give you a ‘C’.” 

Every single person in the room, save Abby, groans in unison. They all know what a 'C' means. They get to stay open, sure, but everyone who passes by is gonna know that they’re barely scraping by. Who wants to dine in a restaurant that’s possibly moments away from getting shut down? This is going to fuck them over so badly. Dean decides he’ll start looking through job postings as soon as he gets home, albeit bitterly. He may not feel like he fits in perfectly, but he does have friends here. Not to mention he’s never worked in a place that’s been so relaxed before. He’s gotten used to it. 

In the wake of Abby’s announcement and following her immediate departure, everyone starts talking all at once. Dean can’t make heads or tails of anything anyone is saying, and he’s not surprised when Benny’s voice booms out loudly, telling everyone to ‘shut the fuck up’. 

“Listen,” he says, leaning on the bar top and facing his assembled team. “This ain’t the end for us, I won’t let it be.” He shakes his head, white cap slipping slightly. “We have worked too damn hard for too damn long to let that woman shut us down. Take the rest of the day. We’ll come back tomorrow and serve those who know and trust us. In the meantime, have faith. I won’t let this ol’ girl get run down just yet.” 

As they make their way to the locker room in a mass of bodies, Dean’s skin prickles at the feeling of someone else in his bubble. When he whirls around, Castiel is so close that their noses nearly touch. Dean tries to swallow, mouth suddenly incredibly dry. After a minute of their staring contest he’s finally able to get out a choked, “Cas. Personal space?” 

Those brilliant blue eyes are currently glaring at Dean, though Castiel doesn’t say anything. He searches Dean’s face, for what Dean doesn’t know, but doesn’t appear to find what he’s looking for. 

Castiel’s scowl has just deepened when Meg slips her arm through one of his. “C’mon, Clarence. We’ve got things to do.” 

Dean lingers, taking his time to get changed into his street clothes until he’s the last person left besides Nick and Benny. The two of them are talking in low tones in Nick’s office, probably about today’s inspection. He tosses his backpack over his right shoulder as he’s heading out the back exit, and pats his hand over his left pec, for where his smokes rest in the breast pocket of his flannel. 

Where his smokes should rest, anyway. A jolt of guilt and regret stabs through Dean's body as he realizes his pocket is empty. Standing in the bright afternoon sun, surrounded by the miasma of the nearby dumpsters and the restaurant’s exhaust vents, the memory comes back to him. It’s like watching himself in a movie. 

Dean sees himself walk into the otherwise empty kitchen this morning, eyes always on the lookout for any problems. When he notices there’s something under the steel island they prep on, he kneels down to get it. He’s already dressed for work, so his smokes are in his hands, not his pocket. He sees himself lean on the edge of the cooktop, letting go of the pack so he doesn’t crush them and shoving them out of his way. When he stands back up, Dean’s holding one of Max’s custom knives. The vision fades away as the Dean in his memory heads off to yell at the line cook. 

Fuck .

****

Dean calls in sick the next day. It’s a bullshit excuse, and he knows Benny knows it’s bullshit, but the big man lets it slide nonetheless. He just can’t face Cas knowing that he’s the one who fucked up. Badly. Then blamed Cas for it! He’s such a piece of shit. No wonder his dad’s place failed when Dean took over. 

Wallowing in a combination of self-hate and self-pity, Dean spends the day in bed. Sometime in the afternoon, telling himself ‘it’s five o’clock somewhere’, he breaks into the liquor. Things after that get fuzzy. He’s completely obliterated the remains of the whiskey and vodka, and is eyeballing the blue curacao when Sam walks in the door. 

“Shouldn’t you be at work, man? I thought you left before I did?” It’s asked innocently enough, but Dean feels it as an accusation. 

“What’s it to you?” His defenses are already up, and he’s ready for a fight. 

“Nothing, I was just curious!” Sam shoots back. “Everything okay?” 

“No,” Dean replies, sulking and petulant, “we got a fucking C, man.” He slams the liquor cabinet shut, shuffling over to the dining chair he’d draped his comforter over. Plopping down, he grabs the edges of the lush blanket – Dean never skimps on sleep comfort – and wraps it so that only his face is visible. 

“Also, I uh…I really fucked up.” His voice is small, remorseful, and he pointedly looks away from Sam’s face. He can’t bear to see his kid brother’s disappointment. 

There’s silence for a moment, then footsteps before Sam settles into the chair opposite. 

“Dean, what happened ?” he asks, sounding bewildered. 

Dean’s pretty sure the last time Sam saw him like this was when his buddy Richie was murdered on a first date. Dean’s not one to go on benders, not anymore. In the years following their dad’s death, he did this probably at least once a week. 

Great , he thinks, now I’ve gone and freaked him out, too . Pulling his covering down so that it wraps around his shoulders instead of his head, Dean sniffles before launching into everything. He tells Sam about the inspection, and Abby’s stupid, smug face listing off their offenses, until he finally gets to the cigarettes.

“So, of course I freaked out, got all up in Cas’s face about them –”

“Dude, how are you so sure they were his?” Sam asks, incredulous. “Most of the kitchen staff and probably half your wait staff smoke, too.” Leaning back in his chair, he crosses his arms, squinting judgmentally. 

“ Dude ,” Dean parrots his brother, “just let me finish the story.” Straightening his shoulders, he continues, glaring right back. 

“Anyway, so I got all up in Cas’s face, right? In front of everybody else, too. Real dick move, I know, I know.” He holds his hands up placatingly to stop Sam from interjecting again. With the look on his face, Dean half expects him to yell “Objection!” 

“I get to my locker, go to get changed, and as I’m stepping outside, I reach for my smokes.” Dean has to tip his chin and stare at the floor to get the rest out. “The reason I knew – thought – they were Castiel’s is ‘cause he commented one day that we’re the only ones who smoke that kind.” 

He waits for Sam to make the connection, hoping he doesn’t have to say the rest of it out loud. He’s got the edge of the comforter pinched between his fingers and thumb, rubbing the soft cotton between them. The smooth sensation against his fingertips helps to ground him as he awaits judgment. 

“Dean. You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t –” 

Sam’s voice is less condescending and more concerned than Dean had expected, and it momentarily throws him for a loop. He tries to count the number of speckles in one specific floor tile, but loses track not too far in. 

“Sure did, Sammy,” Dean admits. “I not only screwed us all over, but I blamed someone else for it.” Chuckling mirthlessly, he finally looks over at Sam. 

“Maybe you should see if Jess’ll let you move in. God knows we won’t be able to afford this place on a cook’s salary, and it took me ages to get the chef gig.” He scrubs a hand over his face then back through his unruly bedhead. “God, I fucked up so bad, Sam. I dunno what to do.” Some part of him hopes his overgrown genius of a brother will have a solution. 

“I don’t either, man,” Sam concurs, shaking his head. His shaggy hair flies, but Dean can’t even bring himself to make a joke about the clippers. 

In a single, stupid move he put both himself and the restaurant at risk of total failure. With a sigh of despair, he sinks back into his blanket. 

****

The hangover the next day is so not worth it. Dean groans through his morning routine, and nearly has to pull the Impala over halfway to work when a wave of nausea rises in his throat. Thankfully for his Baby’s interior, he manages to push it down, arriving only three minutes after his official clock in time. He hopes Benny doesn’t yell at him. He doesn’t think his headache could take it. 

Wrenching open the back door in order to escape the glaring sun, Dean is met by an enthusiastic “Heyyyy!” from Benny. Either Castiel hasn’t told anyone, or Dean is being sent to slaughter with a smile. That he can’t tell unnerves him, and he simply waves back with a tight smile before heading to change. 

When he comes out, Benny looks up from where he’s inspecting Alicia’s dice job, and gives Dean a quick once over. “We weren’t sure you were comin’ in today, brother. You sure you’re feeling up to it?”

As he nods, Dean looks around the cramped kitchen. It looks slightly less so today. 

“Where’s Cas?” 

The question is out of his mouth as soon as he thinks it, bypassing his filter entirely. In its wake, Dean’s left wide-eyed and open-mouthed, surprised by his own audacity. 

Benny doesn’t seem to notice, just shrugs and looks back to the worktop in front of him. “Called in yesterday, and today, too. I figured he had the same thing you did.” 

Son of a bitch. Cas definitely didn’t have what Dean did, that’s for sure. What’s likely is that Dean’s made him feel so uncomfortable here that he doesn’t want to come back. He feels like the world’s biggest piece of shit. Slumping his way to his station, Dean pulls down his knife roll, thinking of the way he’d treated Cas when he first arrived. Wow, he really is a piece of shit. 

He sets to work slicing up tiny sweet potato fries. They will eventually be served with mussels in a white wine broth, and dijon mayo. It is one of the best things - maybe the best thing on their menu, in his opinion. He tries to let the rhythm of the motion and the thud of the knife on the board lull his brain into silence as he slices through the robust tubers. 

The rest of the day passes slowly, like time is moving through Jello. Dean’s brain feels gelatinized as well; he’s fucked up more times than he can count, including burning himself on one of the ranges. His bandaged arm throbs as he caramelizes the sugar on top of two ramekins of crème brulée. Thankfully, there’s only three tables left, and this is ( hopefully ) the last of the desserts. Dean’s already cut Max, and Benny’s headed back to the office to start making his nightly notes on how the service ran and what they can do better. Thank god they won’t talk it over until tomorrow morning. Dean is beat . 

Dean sneaks out for one more cigarette before they start closing down the kitchen. Every muscle in his body hurts and he’s going to give Cas shit about it when he sees him next. Which definitely will be happening. Even if he doesn’t show up tomorrow, Dean’s gonna find a way to get in touch with him. Worst case scenario, he asks Meg to pass along a message. Surely they’re still talking to each other. 

The moment Dean comes in view of Benny after returning inside, the Head Chef sends him home, assuring Dean that he doesn’t mind cleaning everything up himself. 

“Andrea’s out for girls’ night, anyway,” he tells Dean as he sprays cleaner on one of the work tables. “If I go home now, I’ll just be wallowin’ in loneliness until she walks through the door.” 

Dean can relate, except he doesn’t have anyone to wait at home for. He never looks a gift horse in the mouth, though, so if Benny thinks he’s too tired to be here, Dean’s gone. 

There’s a note on the fridge when he gets home – ‘ gone 2 stay with jess 2nite. eat dinner! ’ – that just adds salt to the wound he’s currently nursing. Everyone around him is cozying up with someone, it seems like, and as usual, Dean’s getting left behind. Whatever, it’s cool, he’s used to it. He’s definitely not regretting the fact that he’s drunk himself out of everything besides the violently blue and pink and syrupy sweet liqueurs. Ignoring Sam’s advice, Dean strips, gives himself a perfunctory scrub in the shower, and collapses into bed with his hair still wet. 

He dreams of getting drunk on cerulean eyes, a plush mouth pressing against his own. “ Cas, ” his dream self breathes into the ether. Dean reaches out, his arms catching on nothing even as he feels the heat of another body pressed to him. He calls out again but the warmth recedes, leaving Dean cold and alone; disoriented in the dark. Stumbling over his own dream feet, he bolts upright in bed, crying out into the chill air of his empty apartment. 

The clock beside the bed lets Dean know that it’s mere minutes before his alarm is set to go off. With a disgruntled huff, he slams himself back onto the bed, pulling his blankets up to cover himself completely. If he can’t go back to sleep, he can at least hide from the boogiemonsters that make up his life at present. He pretends he’s seven, not thirty-seven, and that nothing can harm him in his little cocoon. His breathing has just leveled out when the alarm goes off. 

****

Benny gives Dean a skeptical look when he heads to his station to begin setting up. He hadn’t looked in a mirror, but he can imagine that what Benny’s seeing doesn’t look much better than last night – if it isn’t worse. He shakes his head, ghosting a smile before turning away from the Head Chef. 

“I’m good, man, I promise,” he tells Benny. “I’ll pull through until Sunday, honest. Then I’ll sleep in. Swear to god.” He lifts his hand like he’s being sworn into court. 

“Not a chance, brother.” He may not match Dean in height, but his friend – his boss at the moment – is broad enough in all the right ways to be menacing when he needs to be. He strolls over to Dean’s station with his arms crossed, jaw set, and fire in his eyes. “You’re takin’ the morning off tomorrow. I do not want to see you here more than two hours before dinner service, and if I do you will be marched right back out the door.”

Benny flexes, his biceps and forearms corded with muscles. Dean’s suddenly reminded of how intimately familiar with knives the chef is. He nods his head in agreement, focusing on a spot on the far wall. “Yes, Chef.” He swallows hard, keeping his vision pinned until Benny scoffs at him and walks away. If the tremble is back in his hands today, at least he has a good excuse. No one likes being scolded. 

Lunch is almost over before Dean admits to himself that Castiel isn’t coming in today. He knows he’s not being subtle at all, asking around to see if anyone has the newest cook’s number, but he’s starting to get desperate. He’s hit a wall, however. It seems that while Cas is outwardly friendly and everyone likes him, he’s been reserved in offering up any information about himself, and rarely stays for more than one drink when the staff go out. Meg seems to be the only one who’s gotten through to him on a more-than-superficial level. 

Meg who, according to the schedule, has today and tomorrow off. Must be nice to get two days off. They’re even back to back. Lucky. Lucky for Meg, anyway. Bad news for Dean, who now has no idea how he’s going to get ahold of Castiel. Taking his frustration out on his station, he scrubs obsessively at stains that are probably older than he is. It’s going to be a long evening. 

Dean’s in the middle of spooning bearnaise sauce over a pair of steaks when Benny yells over to him, asking him to grab the keychain that’s sitting on the desk in the office. Knowing he won’t see, Dean risks rolling his eyes before hastily finishing the task at hand. Once the plates are in the pass, he wipes his hands on his apron and heads for the office. 

When the door closes behind him, he takes a moment to enjoy the relative silence. The rail has been full all day today, Benny's mission surprising Dean when he can’t think of any key the Head Chef would need in the middle of service. Everything that should be unlocked by now is. Realizing he should probably move quickly, considering, he moves towards the desk, searching for the keyring.

His eyes wander over receipts, a giant financial ledger, and a few filled-out job applications. Dean’s heart starts to beat faster, an idea forming unbidden, tempting but dangerous. If he gets caught, he’s definitely getting fired. He dithers back and forth for a moment before darting his hand out to pull on the drawers of the massive desk. 

The left hand set holds tissues and hand lotion ( gross ), a neatly folded dress shirt, and a bottle of top-shelf whiskey. The right hand side, disappointingly, is locked top to bottom. Scanning the desk, his eyes snag on the shine of metal, and the keys are in his hand before he realizes he’s even moved. There’s more than just a handful of keys on the damn thing. Somehow his luck pulls through, and there’s only two that look small enough to fit. It’s not difficult to figure out which one it is. 

Aware of how long he’s been in the office supposedly searching for a set of keys, Dean leaves the drawer locked for now. He starts working the key off the ring, shaking his sleeve down over his hand as best he can as he keeps going one-handed. When he hands them over to Benny finally, shrugging at the look he gets, there’s one less key on the ring. 

Chapter Text

Sneaking into the office after Nick leaves and Benny's still distracted by calling tickets turns out to be far easier than Dean expected. There’s a pair of diners at one of the tables who have requested to give compliments to the chef for their food, and it provides the perfect cover. Nothing else has been fired through for the last little bit, the night beginning to slow down. Dean’s not expected to be anywhere specific right now. 

The office door is unlocked, but the desk drawers hold fast against an experimental tug. Fishing the key out of his pocket, Dean looks back at the door, open just enough that he can see out to the kitchen, but no one should be able to see him where he’s crouched. There’s no sign that anyone is coming for him, so he quickly unlocks the top drawer. This one holds nothing but pencils, pens, notepads, and blank envelopes. 

The middle drawer looks to be a bust, too. With his heart in his throat, Dean quietly unlocks the last drawer. Yahtzee. There, in messily hand-labeled folders, are every employee’s records. It takes him a moment, because they’re written last name first, and Dean has no clue what Castiel’s is. 

****

Or at least, he didn’t . He knows now that it’s Novak, and he’s just under a year and a half older than Dean. He also has a picture of the man’s address and phone number. Dean had cropped out his date of birth and social as best he could, just in case someone got ahold of it. He’s sitting at the kitchen table at home now, staring at the image saved on his phone. Would it freak Cas out less if Dean calls, so he can explain himself, or should he text first, and give Cas the choice to listen to Dean? 

Still undecided, he’s interrupted by the sound of keys in the door. Not for the first time in his fledgling career as a lawyer, Sam had been asked to stay late. He’s just getting home now, more than two hours after Dean had walked in at midnight. The poor kid looks like he did when he was pulling all-nighters for exams. It’s Dean’s big-brotherly duty to let him know. 

Flicking a bottle cap in Sam’s direction (from a fancy root beer he likes, thank you ), he greets him with a shit-eating grin, looking him up and down once, noticeably. “You look like shit, Sam,” he calls through his smile, a hit of dopamine surging when his brother makes exactly the bitchface Dean was expecting. “Bitch,” he throws out between them. 

“Jerk.” Sam rolls his eyes, but cracks a smile as he shuffles into the kitchen. Flopping down in the chair, he asks how Dean’s day went before he can be asked about his own. 

Dean shoots him a look, but acquiesces. “Seems Benny doesn’t think I look any better than you do. Which is absolutely not true. Even in death I’ll be prettier than you ever will be.” He sticks his tongue out in Sam’s direction, earning himself an eye roll. “He’s ordered me to take the morning off. I can’t even go in until three in the afternoon.” 

“What do you think you’re gonna do? Sleep in?” 

As if Dean could sleep in at this point, after years of early morning wakeups, some much earlier than he has to now. If he ever sleeps past 7am, someone needs to take him to the damn doctor. He laughs gently at Sam’s suggestion, shaking his head and quirking one side of his lips. “Think that ship’s sailed, man. Nah, I’m gonna grab some groceries, maybe see if I can find my library card. There’s a couple of cookbooks that I want to take a look at.” 

He shrugs, taking the break in conversation as his chance to change the subject. “You’ve heard enough about my day, tell me about yours. What had such illustrious attorneys working until almost 3am?” 

Sam launches into a long-winded story about digging through statutes, rulings, and court orders to find precedence, and working on questions that would lead the jury to believe their client’s innocence. Somehow he manages to ramble on for over half an hour while still maintaining confidentiality. 

It takes some effort to get a word in, but eventually Sam stops to breathe. “Listen, dude,” Dean interrupts, “I’m fucking wiped . Can we pick this up again later?” He really does love hearing Sam talk so passionately about his work, even if he has no clue what his baby brother is saying half the time. “You should probably get some sleep, too.” 

Rising from the table, the duo take a moment to clap each other on the back, the closest they’ll get to a hug if neither is dying, and head to their respective bedrooms. 

Dean dreams of eyes the shade of Caribbean waters, and lips that taste of syrupy-sweet liquor. Blue surrounds him until it feels like he’s drowning, intoxicated by the swirling shades that dance before his eyes. Warmth envelopes him from behind this time, soft kisses get pressed along his nape and shoulder. His heart feels as if it will explode with bliss. He wakes slowly, trying to hold on to the soft comfort of his dream, staring blankly at the ceiling when he gives himself over to the day. 

****

When Dean sets out around mid-morning, he truly does mean to head right to the grocery store. He’s in the parking lot of Safeway, his phone clenched between his palms, trying to forget about the picture in his camera roll from the night prior. It feels like it’s burning him, burning through him with the urgent desire to see Cas. Something compels Dean to make sure that he’s okay, something he can’t look at head on. Thumbing through the icons on his screen, he puts the car in gear, pulling forward through the empty spot in front of him. The phone gets settled in the cradle Dean had finally conceded to, the GPS pulled up. Motherfucker.

The apartment building that Dean pulls up to is somehow even worse than his own. There’s shopping carts littering the front yard, one upside down with its wheels gone. Another looks to have been turned into a temporary shelter. When he goes to open the door to buzz in, the inner door is actually propped open, allowing anyone and everyone to walk in. There’s a hand-made sign taped to the wall next to it reading, “Do not close this door, it will not open again!” Raising his eyebrows, Dean searches the names in the listing for ‘Novak, C’. 

He’s there, on the fifth floor. Cringing, Dean notes that there’s no sign of elevators in the building. He’s going to have to hoof it. It feels wrong not to buzz the call button for Cas’s apartment, but Dean can’t gamble on him refusing to talk. He’s got to surprise him at the door if he wants to get inside. Sighing, he looks up the stairwell before taking his first step. 

There’s roughly a minute of silence after he knocks on the peeling, gray door. Dean is just about to turn around and admit defeat when there’s a rustle, a thump, and a loudly whispered conversation behind the door. Dean can pick out Castiel’s rumbling baritone, but can’t identify the other person. It’s a woman, and the voice is familiar but he can’t put his finger on it. It nags at him until he gets an answer in the form of the door opening. 

Cas is nowhere in sight. Instead, Meg stands in the doorway, looking at Dean in a way that makes him feel about two inches tall. The place reeks like weed. He clears his throat, suddenly devoid of all the apologies he’d practiced during the drive over. 

“He doesn’t wanna see you, y’know.” 

Dean senses there’s a ‘but’ here, however pressing further would be pressing his luck. She continues to glare at him, never giving away what’s happening behind that normally expressive face. He opens his mouth to say something, though he’s still bereft of words. 

Rolling her eyes, Meg sighs deeply. “What is it you’re even doing here, Ken doll? Haven’t you fucked up his life enough?” Her hands are on her hips, ensuring that she’s blocked the entire door despite her small frame. 

Dean doesn't doubt that she’d tackle him right to the floor if he tried to get past her. He won’t, that’s not what he came for, but he’s glad Cas has such a fierce protector on his side. He just wishes he wasn’t the one Cas needs protection from. 

“I’m not here to bother him, I promise,” Dean vows. “I screwed up, okay, I know I screwed up. I’m just hoping you’ll tell him I’m sorry.” Dean’s shoulders have damn near reached his ears, and he’s about to turn tail and run. 

“Okay.” 

It’s definitely not what he’d expected. “You…I…what?” 

How Meg can roll her eyes this much without hurting herself, Dean doesn’t know. “I said okay. I’ll do it. I’ll tell the poor angel that you’ve fessed up, and that you’re sorry.” She shrugs at him, lips pursed in a moue of distaste. “Pretty sure he plans on never coming back, so I don’t know what good it’s worth.” 

“Please, just tell him, Meg,” Dean pleads. “And let him know that everyone at work misses him. I don’t think he realizes what kind of friends he has there.” Looking over Meg’s shoulder once more, he gives up hope of seeing Cas himself. The tiny hallway remains conspicuously empty. There's not so much as a rattle from any of the beaded curtains that hang from each doorway save the entrance. It hurts more than he has any right to. 

Meg nods once, curtly, which is all the warning Dean gets before she closes the door in his face. Suppose he deserved that one.  

The walk back down all those stairs out to his car somehow feels longer than the trek up them. He’s given ample time to play out imaginary scenarios in his head where Cas is the one who opens the door, the one who hears Dean’s apology. Maybe Castiel invites him in, and they talk and start to get to know each other. Maybe he steps out so they can share a cigarette, building the friendship they should have had from the get go. They spin through his mind while a slow squeeze crushes his heart. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s in the car until the loud purr of her engine cuts through the haze of his thoughts. “Fuck,” he spits out, slamming his palms on the Impala’s steering wheel. A shock of pain runs up his wrists, forcibly grounding him. 

“Okay…okay.” Dean purposely takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. So that didn’t go the way he’d planned. So what? It’s beyond his control now. He’s already broken nearly all of Castiel’s personal boundaries by looking up his address, he’s not about to push his luck and end up arrested as well as fired. 

Settling his hands gently on the wheel this time, he gives her a quick caress. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters. Taking one more look back at the dilapidated building, Dean tosses her in gear and pulls away. 

****

“Boy, you’re lucky tomorrow’s your day off.” Benny is up in Dean’s face before he even makes it into the building this time. “I’m fixin’ to give you Monday off, too.” 

Dean snorts at the Chef before they both take a drag. Blowing out a plume of smoke, he slings his backpack onto the small stack of crates against the wall. He wants to collapse onto one next to it, but he’s gotta prove to Benny that he’s capable. 

“You’re already without me for Sunday brunch, you’re really going to tell me you can survive Oyster Mondays without me?” He tries to imagine the kitchen during Nick’s attempt to bring in extra cash. Shucking pound after pound of oysters and doing very little cooking. People came for the half-price oysters, then balked at the full-priced menu. Usually they only stayed long enough to get some cheap appetizers before their real reservation was up. It meant a lot of work and a lot of cleanup for not a lot more money. They also tended to tip less, so the servers get screwed, too. 

“I wouldn’t be so cocky, chief. With all the uh, ‘illnesses’ going around lately, Nick’s letting me pull in temporary replacements as needed.” His arms are folded loosely and there’s a smug grin tugging at his lips. 

The news momentarily floors Dean. He’s surprised Benny’s being so nonchalant about this. Usually when you’re reduced to bringing in temp cooks, it’s because no one wants to work for you. Most of the time they’re personal chefs trying to make some extra cash – douchebags who think they should be running the kitchen. 

“Heard, Chef,” Dean acknowledges, taking one last drag before extinguishing the butt under his toe. Benny’s already lit up a second one, so Dean just nods in his direction before heading inside. The deafening hubbub of the kitchen at work assaults Dean’s ears the moment he opens the door. Maybe if he’s lucky it’ll drown out all the thoughts of his morning. 

Sitting on the wooden bench in the locker room, face in his hands, Dean tries to breathe. He wipes at his eyes before his palms scrub down his cheeks, blowing out the breath he only just realized he was holding. Taking another deep inhale, he stares into the middle distance as he contemplates the end of his time here. Benny hadn’t seemed truly upset outside, but surely Cas had called to report the violation of his privacy. Maybe they need him enough this evening that they’re not going to fire him until after his shift. Maybe it will be Nick who does it, who gets to experience Dean’s shame firsthand. 

He knows he’s spiraling, he’s in a nosedive and he’ll crash if he doesn’t pull up quick. He’s about ready to hit the ejector seat and take one of the tiny pills stashed at the bottom of his bag. He’s already digging through leftover snack wrappers and useless receipts. He’s on the edge of saying ‘fuck it’ and just marching right back out of there when there’s an eruption of noise from the kitchen. It doesn’t stop the panic attack entirely, but it brings him back enough that he can at least start to ground. 

There’s no sense of time when he has one of these, but he’s surprised to see dinner prep must be well underway when he looks at the clock on the wall. Fuck . He might as well have just called in and asked them to fire him. It would have saved him the trip into work. At least he managed to get himself changed. Trying to come up with some excuse for his lateness, he makes his way to the kitchen. 

****

Cas is still missing, which is starting to get weird. What’s weirder is that no one seems to be talking about it. Kitchens are cesspools of gossip and people love to speculate, but Dean hasn’t heard a single word about Cas, and it sends a nasty, crawling feeling down his spine. He doesn’t know whether Cas quit, got fired, or really is sick. None of those are particularly appealing options. He considers asking Meg about it, but when he starts working expo he’s greeted by a stormy frown on her face. If looks could kill, Dean would be six feet under by now. 

It feels like Benny spends the night avoiding him. He even leaves the smoke pit wordlessly when Dean manages to find him there. The smoking, half-crushed remains of his cigarette show he was barely halfway through. Foregoing his own, Dean spends his break doing the deep breathing exercises that Sam’s therapist had taught him, hoping no one catches him. Sam’s the only one who even knows this happens and he doesn’t want it spread around work. Barely holding himself together, he heads back into work. 

The rest of the night is awkward and awful, more than once bringing Dean near to the brink of quitting on the spot. He is exhausted, his eyes burn with the tears he’s been keeping at bay, and he’s more than relieved to have at least twenty-four hours off in a row. Through his own tired sluggishness, he ends up being the last person in the place. He looks around, just in case this is the last time he sees this view. 

With his back to the dim alley, Dean only notices that there’s someone behind him when a dark shadow crosses the weak rays cast by the security light’s sodium bulb. He finishes locking the door, palming his keys and firmly clenching his hand around them. It’ll hurt like a son of a bitch if he’s got to hit anybody, but he’ll be damned if anyone breaks in on his watch. He’s so focused on finding some sort of weapon that the person is already up in his personal space. Thankfully, he looks up before just throwing a punch. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean exclaims, shaking out his hand after gripping the keys like that. “We need to put a bell on you.” He’s never noticed how quietly Cas moves. Cas has never missed calling out ‘corner’ or ‘behind’ so Dean’s always aware when he’s approaching. 

Cas gets that bird-like head tilt again. Dean just waves it off, not worried about explaining right now. 

“What are you doing’ here, man? Finally decided to quit?” It comes out with far more snark than Dean intended to put into it, clearly not landing as the joke he’d meant. 

Castiel’s face darkens, a muscle in his jaw ticking. 

“Shit, I mean–I mean, I didn’t mean–Shit.” Dean rakes his hand harshly through his hair, wishing he could try over again. 

The look Cas is giving him completely shuts Dean up. "I was coming to talk to you, but it's clear my efforts would be wasted." 

Despite Castiel’s best efforts, Dean can see the hurt, the disappointment, the sadness leak through the stoic mask he’s trying to hold. He fumbles to find the right words to say, something that will stop him from completely fucking this up. He feels the tears that have been dammed back all day start to well under his eyes. “I –” 

Cas rips himself out of Dean’s space, hurls his body so violently away from Dean that it hurts like hitting a wall. He gapes, mouth working to form words as Castiel takes one more good, long look at him. He starts to turn, then pauses and looks back. A wave of hope nearly knocks Dean over. Already unsteady, he drops to his ass on the cold cement steps when Castiel utters two more words.

“Goodbye, Chef .”

Chapter Text

“Goodbye, Chef .” 

It shouldn’t hurt so much, hearing it from someone he’s not even friends with, it really shouldn’t. He didn’t even use Dean’s name. There’s no time for Dean to untangle those feelings, though, and he’s not just going to sit here sniffling on the step like a little bitch. Wiping his eyes quickly, he stands up and strides after Castiel. 

“Cas!” Dean calls, hoping that he’ll stop and wait for him. “Cas, c’mon man, talk to me!” 

Cas ignores him, turning the corner around the building at the mouth of the alley's entrance. Not wanting to lose him, Dean breaks into a sprint to keep up. He’s panting by the time he comes alongside the cook. Cas has his hands in his pocket, elbows akimbo and easy for Dean to slip a hand into. 

With what should be a gentle tug, Dean attempts to get Castiel’s attention. He tries to come to a stop, Cas with him. What happens instead is that Cas uses the moment of being pulled to a stop to whirl around and get up in Dean’s face. 

“Chef Winchester, I don’t know what your issue is with me, but I’m not going to play your little games anymore. I will follow your orders in the kitchen, but otherwise do not talk to me. Not even an observation on the weather. Just don’t. ” Castiel’s eyes are chips of ice, sharp enough to cut Dean down to size. 

He removes his hand from where it still lingers on Castiel’s arm. “Yeah, Cas. Sure. Whatever you need.” Continuing to walk backwards towards the alleyway, he can’t stop himself from saying one more thing. 

“Just so you know, I’m really, really fucking sorry.” With a wave, Dean looks back until he turns the corner and can no longer see Cas’s retreating form. 

Just out of sight of anyone who isn’t specifically looking, Dean presses his back against the cold brick, willing it to soothe his aching body and heart. When no respite comes, he gets into his car and drives. 

****

Dean’s dreaming of arrhythmic drumming. His impending hangover means the pounding in his head doesn’t stop when his alarm rings at 6am. He’s in the middle of taking a piss when he realizes that there’s someone actually at his door, banging like mad on it. He squeezes his pelvic floor as best he can in order to pee faster, not wanting his neighbors to hate him any more than they already do. He gives himself a couple of shakes, then pulls on his robe to prevent flashing whoever it is. Heck, maybe he should flash them for disturbing him. 

Already disgruntled when he gets to the door, his mood doesn’t get any better when he peers through the peephole to see none other than Meg. He knocks his head against the wood of the door, letting the morning’s chill seep into it. Firming his resolve, Dean begrudgingly opens the door. He had been tempted to leave the safety chain in, and belatedly he thinks he probably should have. 

Meg barges her way into his apartment, turning to look at Dean with her hands on her hips and an expression that clearly says she rates cat shit higher than Dean. “What did you do to my unicorn?” she demands. 

“I’m sorry, it’s six am, I just woke up and I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about,” Dean spits back. “How did you even get here?” 

“Oh, you think you’re the only one who can break into the employee files, sweet cheeks? Cute .” She tilts her head and it reminds him of Cas even as it’s nothing like the way he does it. Meg’s face is full of derision, the curl of her lip a judgment of Dean as less than, not a soft furrow of brows that begs to be soothed by his thumb. “Now what did you say to him?” 

“Say to who –ohhhh.” Who else would Meg use pet names like that for, besides her boyfriend? Who is she always spending her time with, getting close to? Of course Cas must have told her about their argument – if you can even call it that. He knew she had a couple of screws loose, but didn’t realize it was this bad. 

“I didn’t really say anything, to tell you the truth,” he says with a shrug. “Cas put me in my place, and I apologized. That’s it.” He wonders if his story lines up anywhere near to what Cas told her. Not that it really matters; if Meg believes otherwise, who knows what she’ll do. 

“That’s what he said, too,” Meg acknowledges, narrowing her eyes even further at Dean. “But I saw him. I saw his face, Winchester, and he didn’t look like someone who had just taken his boss down a peg or two. I don’t trust you.” 

She shouldn’t trust him. It had taken her reminding him, but with the kitchen’s hierarchy, anything Dean suggests for Castiel will at least be seriously considered. He could get the man fired, if he wanted. 

“I know. I know,” Dean sighs. “I don’t blame you. But I am, y’know. Sorry, that is.” 

Meg stares him down, her eyes so dark-looking they almost seem black. He does his best not to look away, to show her that he’s telling the truth. 

“If I hear one more word about you from him, I will end your career, do you hear me?” 

Dean’s absolutely sure, given the way Meg seems to have everyone else in her pocket, that she could follow through on her threat. He nods his head with a loud swallow. “I hear you.” 

He stands in place while Meg walks around him, slamming his door on the way out. Exactly how he wanted his day to start.

Despite having slept almost all of his day off, Dean’s still exhausted when he drags himself into work. There’s a heaviness that weighs on him, making every step feel nearly impossible. He groans as he puts on his whites, stiff joints and muscles protesting, so distracted he doesn’t even notice Castiel walk in. When he looks up, Cas is staring, eyes and mouth widened. 

This is where he would usually crack a joke. “Take a picture, why dontcha?” or “Like what you see?” Despite his first instinct to say “fuck Cas” and burn all bridges, though, he holds to Castiel’s request. Ducking his head, Dean makes sure that he’s all buttoned up and in place, then leaves the locker room without looking up again. 

Working with Cas again is stilted and awkward. Used to conversing with his staff, it’s hard for him to find the boundary between telling Cas what to do and trying to be his friend. Now that they’re at some sort of shaky truce, Dean doesn’t want to go back to where they were before. So he does his best to just shut up and bear it. 

****

Things come to a head, surprisingly, on a night out with Charlie. She’s had three brightly colored drinks to his single beer, and is definitely feeling them. She’s been quizzing him about whether he likes any of the servers in particular when suddenly she gasps, sitting up straight and pulling Dean towards her. 

“Oh em gee!” she exclaims. “You’re still mooning over Castiel .” 

He regrets ever telling Charlie about Cas after their first night – only night – together. She’s been bugging him to try and get on better terms with him since she discovered that ‘Cas the cook’ was also ‘Castiel the lost lover’. She doesn’t realize how badly Dean screwed up. 

“I’m not mooning, Charlie. I shit the bed when it came to just being Castiel’s friend. He’s not going to want anything to do with me. There’s nothing to moon over.” Not wanting to give himself away completely, he hides behind his beer. 

“Okay, A – gross. Please never use that phrase again. And two, Cas is a really sweet guy. I can’t imagine him holding a grudge over you so badly that you can’t at bare minimum be friends. At least try .” 

Dean doesn’t think there’s anything Charlie could ask of him that he wouldn’t do, so he nods his head reluctantly. 

“Fine, I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises!” Just because Charlie can’t see that this is doomed to fail doesn’t mean Dean can’t. He’ll make an effort, but it’s all going to be in vain. Finishing his beer, he signals to Charlie that he’s gonna hit the head, standing to make his way through the surprisingly heavy bar crowd. Lost in his thoughts, Dean doesn’t look where he’s going and ends up running directly into a solid body. 

“Fuck, sorry, sorry.” Stepping back, Dean apologizes, feeling his cheeks heat in embarrassment. When he looks up, they absolutely sear in humiliation. 

There in front of him, out of his uniform, is Castiel Novak. His hair is mussed from the stress of the shift they just finished, and Dean wants nothing more than to run his hands through it. Catching the shaded look Cas gives him, Dean just apologizes again, and moves on. 

The bathroom is empty, thank goodness. Dean heads right to one of the sinks, splashing water on his overheated face. It does him absolutely no good, even though the movies show people doing it all the time. Annoyed, he grabs a handful of scratchy paper towels and dries himself off as best he can. He doesn’t know what to do. If he goes back out there, he might run into Cas again. If he doesn’t run into Cas, Charlie’s likely to keep giving him the third degree. He’d almost rather eat the mystery substance from the kitchen drain strainer at 'Juliet's'. 

Figuring he at least owes Charlie a goodbye, Dean finds himself back out on the floor, the crowds thankfully having thinned a bit. Because of the increased visibility, Dean is able to see the dark head of hair sitting across from Charlie – the incredibly messy hair that Dean had just fantasized about touching. Not wanting to deal with that minefield, he pulls a u-turn, heading towards the back where he hopes there’s another exit. 

Things never go the way Dean wants them, so he’s not completely surprised by the heavy hand landing on his shoulder. Hopefully at least this time it’s not some dude who thinks Dean macked on his girlfriend. Turning around, he finds that it is, possibly, even worse. 

Castiel stands there, looking almost as stunned as Dean feels. He shuffles awkwardly, glancing down at his shoes before looking back up. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel looks just as awkward as Dean feels, which should be reassuring except it just means that neither one of them have any idea what to do next. “Charlie indicated that you might be leaving. Well, ‘running away’ was how she put it. I was on my way out, myself, and I told her I would look for you.” 

“Well, you found me,” Dean says, because his foot is apt to lodge firmly in his mouth at times. “I’m just gonna…okay, yeah.” With an exaggerated nod, he backs away, waving once like a loser before turning around. 

Back at their table, Dean sits down with a thump , immediately leaning into Charlie’s space. “What were you thinking, Red?” he hisses. 

Charlie seems to register that Dean has his serious face on, putting down her drink and trying to arrange herself like she were more sober. 

“Look, Dean. Deanie Weenie. Platonic love of my life.” She reaches out a hand to rest on Dean’s arm. “You and that boy have it bad for each other. You can’t blame me for trying to help you out.” Her bottom lip comes out in a pout, and if Dean weren’t so upset right now, he would probably play it up with her. 

“Listen, Charlie, you know I appreciate you –” 

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here –” 

“– But this thing between me and Cas? It’s fragile right now. I can barely get him to look me in the eye most days. Pushing at it ain’t gonna help.” Dean can see the moment Charlie gives up, sees a little of her light go out. He hates being the one responsible for it, but he doesn’t want to give up what he and Cas have, even if they’ll never be more than barely-civil coworkers. Thanking Charlie for inviting him out, Dean gets out of the booth and goes home. 

****

Each day at work, Dean abides by Castiel’s no-contact rule. He doesn’t engage him in any small talk, or acknowledge Cas beyond what’s needed to run the line. Every minute of it is torture, especially as he sees the rest of the crew getting closer with Castiel, inviting him out to their drink nights even if he rarely accepts. It’s an especially sharp jab when he sees Castiel and Meg together. 

The two frequently talk through the pass, Meg throwing out innuendos that Castiel doesn’t understand and flirting every chance she gets. The burn in his chest that reminds Dean that could have been him flares higher when Castiel graces her with one of his smiles. Heaven forbid she makes him laugh. At least it allows him to learn a little about Castiel when the two of them chat. 

Despite Dean’s inability to get past his own feelings, they manage to work out a system; a rhythm of their own that keeps the place running smoothly. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, Cas will need to learn a new technique, and Dean will get to spend time in his presence, helping guide his hands through the correct movement. He really shouldn’t, but he hoards memories of those times like gold. 

Without Dean even realizing it, several weeks pass. 

****

When it first starts, Dean barely notices. It’s not uncommon for Meg and Castiel to cease their conversation when he comes into the break room during a down moment. Neither is it that weird for Charlie to cut her eyes to Dean whenever she sees him near Cas. However, he starts to get his suspicions up when Charlie abruptly stops talking to Castiel, and Cas is the one casting sideways looks at Dean. 

They’re a week away from their next inspection when it all comes together. Charlie, who has never smoked a day in her life, is hanging out in the alleyway Monday morning when Dean comes walking up from the nearest parking lot. Max, Benny, Cas, Meg, and Claire stop their excited chattering as soon as one of them spots him. It’s awkward to say the least. Though his chest is clenching, and everything in him burns to give them a piece of his mind, Dean just walks on by. 

If things were chilly with Castiel before, they’re positively icy now. Dean gives his orders in sharp, crisp barks. Just like the chefs at his culinary school, exactly the way Dean swore he would never be. Cas, for his part, responds with alacrity, jumping to answer every order, and trying to anticipate Dean’s needs before he asks for them. This is the way things should be between them – breezily efficient. Just preferably without the heavy tension that currently lays over them. 

Dean is contemplating their entire dynamic before he clocks in on Friday morning when he hears the exit door click shut. Not particularly wanting to talk to anyone, he doesn’t look up from where he’s been examining a scuff in the toe of his shoe. He feels more than sees the presence looming over him, forcing him to lift his chin. 

Cas looks good this morning. Really good. The crisp white of his shirt contrasts beautifully with his tanned skin. The morning sun is positioned just so, allowing light to stream down the alley, throwing his eyes into sapphire radiance. Dean is momentarily rendered mute, unable to take his eyes off the thin shadow of stubble on Castiel’s jaw. He feels like an absolute perv when Cas clears his throat, jerking his eyes away from how that stubble led a trail to the dip at his collar. 

Before Dean can apologize, Castiel cuts in. “I don’t suppose you’d be amenable to giving me a smoke, would you?" He shrugs one shoulder, looking sheepish. “I left mine at home.” 

Dean blinks vapidly a couple of times before coming back online and registering Castiel’s question. “Uh, sure, yeah, man, of course.” He can’t seem to stop nodding his head until he’s handing over the pack, fingers brushing gently against Castiel’s. Nothing in the world will convince him that he really did hear Cas gasp softly at the contact, but Dean definitely needed a moment after that for his heart to slow down. 

“Thank you, Dean.” There’s more warmth in his name than Dean deserves. 

Castiel somewhat comically makes a show of patting himself down, dramatically making a show of his empty hand. “Guess I didn’t bring a lighter, either.” The sheepishness is back, but with it comes the tiniest hint of a wry smile. 

Dean considers it a win in his books. He takes his lighter from his pocket and, instead of handing it over, leans into Castiel’s space. Cupping the flame against a non-existent wind, he touches it to the end of the cigarette hanging from Cas’s lips. He’s lucky he succeeded, considering his eyes were focused on that gorgeous mouth. 

“Again, thank you,” Cas repeats, the heated smoke streaming from his lungs and lingering in the chill air. “Meg’s bringing me some when she comes in. I needn’t bother you anymore.” 

“Right,” Dean replies woodenly, “right. That makes sense. So, uh, yeah…yeah.” Nodding like a bobble head again, he struggles to keep down the jealousy that burbles just below the surface, magma under his skin. Pinching a smile that probably looks more like a grimace, Dean flees.

The biggest wave of lunch covers has passed, and there’s still time before they have to prep for dinner, so Dean doesn’t feel bad about following Castiel on break. After all, what happens if Meg doesn't show up, or forgets to bring Cas’s pack? He better make sure the guy has a smoke. Yelling out to Benny to let him know, he races off the moment he gets the okay. 

Throwing his jacket over his shoulders, Dean double checks his pocket. Intent on his mission, he barges out the back door. He’s already halfway to the stacked crates against the wall when he realizes someone’s out there with Cas already. 

“– just think we should tell him,” Castiel implores Meg. 

Damn, if Cas looked at him like that, Dean doesn’t think he could deny him anything. He knew Meg had an iron will, but still. 

“If we tell him, that pretty little idiot is going to fuck things up for all of us,” Meg hisses back, shoving her index finger into Castiel’s chest. “We’re just going to keep going at this the way we have been, got it?” 

“Meg, I don’t –” 

He’s jabbed again, harshly, Dean wincing in sympathy when she does it two more times. He strains forward to try and catch whatever the next words are. 

The next words never come. There’s gravel on the asphalt that crunches loudly when Dean adjusts his stance. Both Castiel’s and Meg’s heads whip around to face Dean. Meg has her usual bitchface on, but Cas…Cas looks like a kid who got caught with a hand in the cookie jar. 

Chapter Text

That guilty look sends anxiety trembling through Dean, roiling his stomach and kicking his breathing up a notch. He’s utterly convinced that they were talking about him. 

Forgetting all about smoking, Dean hightails it back inside, hiding out in the staff bathroom until he’s reasonably certain that Cas and Meg are back to work. It gives him ample time to let his brain spin out all the possible things they could have been talking about. It leads him through thoughts of Castiel asking to be assigned to another chef, or of him quitting altogether. Maybe Cas broke a law, or seriously fucked up an order and is getting sued. Maybe they just feel it’s necessary to reinforce that they’re a couple because Cas can tell Dean’s pining over him. 

Maybe – just maybe – Dean isn’t the “him” they were talking about. Maybe…maybe they’re in some weird throuple situation and need to tell the other dude something. That seems like a thing Meg would be into. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He checks the time, and sees it’s been almost ten minutes since he tucked tail and ran. With a deep breath and a little internal pep talk, he stalks out of the locker room, heading to his station. 

The entire afternoon and evening are spent doing everything Dean can to avoid Cas. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s closed himself in the walk-in today. Its sharp chill and abundance of textures help to ground Dean, bringing him back from the brink –  just long enough to go back out there and spend another half hour, forty minutes being stared at by sad, sorry eyes. Meg is still giving him her worst, but Cas just looks like he’s been sentenced to the gallows. 

It’s a relief when the day finally ends. Doing the absolute minimum cleanup, Dean’s changed and out the door like a rocket. There’s nothing he’d like less right now than to be accosted by someone. He wants to go home and collapse into the memory foam mattress he’d splurged on with his last bonus. He wants to see Sam, wants to hear his snores from the next room. There’s nothing left in him for fighting. 

He’s almost safe, he’s got his keys in his Baby’s door, soon he’ll be cocooned in her steel embrace. Pulling the key out, Dean reaches for the handle, not expecting the big hand that slams against the door, holding it shut. Even though he’s taller, Dean feels like Castiel is looming over him. Whirling, he presses his back to the safety of the car’s glass and steel, suddenly regretting all the times he stood like that over girls at their lockers. It activates his fight-or-flight, rough tremors wracking his arms, adrenaline fueled energy with nowhere to go.

“Dean, please.” 

Everything about Castiel is imploring him to stop running, to sit and let Cas say whatever it is he needs to say. Dean’s body is telling him to make a break for it, to push Cas away and speed off. He nearly follows through, muscles tensing for escape. Warm breath steams in the unseasonably cold air separating their faces. He darts a look across the dark alleyway before he catches sad, earnest ocean eyes and falters, sagging back against the bulk of the vehicle behind him. 

“What do you want?” Sapped of all energy, it comes out as a desperate whisper. He’s so tired of this stupid game they’re playing. 

“I just want to talk to you, Dean,” Cas tells him, frustration darkening his features. “Like two adults, not this…whatever has been going on between us.” Lazily, he waves a hand between them. At least they’re in the same book now, even if they aren’t on the same page.

“Okay,” Dean agrees easily, “yeah, let’s, uh, let’s talk.” Dean nods a few times as Castiel pulls back, needing to look somewhere else for this. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees a shiver run through Cas, then settle in. 

“C’mon, if we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna be warm and fed, you hear me?” He raps his knuckles on the door of the Impala. “Hop on in and we’ll grab some Taco Bell.” 

The look on Castiel’s face as he takes a couple of steps back reminds Dean so much of a cat’s asshole that he nearly loses his shit laughing. It’s all he can do to turn his giddy grin into an easy smile. “Tell me you ate something today.” 

“Well, no, but…Taco Bell?” Cas, who has reached the other side of the car, has his head tipped to one side again, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably as he squints across at Dean. 

Suppressing the sudden urge – need – to press a kiss there, Dean just bobs his head lazily. “Yeah, it’s that or McDonald’s, and man I am tired of burgers.” Dean stretches with a barely stifled groan. “I swear I thought we were gonna have to eighty-six them after those baseball players came through.”

“That was a lot of hungry young people, wasn’t it?” Cas agrees. “They were impeccably polite, and very well dressed for such youths. Meg was impressed.” 

Neither one is sure what to say next. Dean stands there, mutely staring at Cas while Castiel just stares back. When Dean feels a heat begin to crawl up his neck at the intensity of that gaze, he clears his throat, looking down as if he can’t find Baby’s handle blindfolded in the dark. He doesn’t give any warning before opening the car door and dropping down into her frigid interior. It gives him a half-second head start to clear his head before Cas joins him. 

What is he even doing? He’s got the guy he’s been in a weird struggle with for months joining him for his late night food run. The same guy he fucked three nights before Benny decided to hire the dude. The one who has still somehow wrapped his way around Dean’s heart, woven himself into the fabric of his being. Desperately he hopes that Castiel isn’t coming to him to quit. The thought of making anyone that uncomfortable sits heavy and sour in his gut. 

His time for retrospection comes to an abrupt end with the squeak of a door and the weight of a body dropping to the bench seat next to him. Dean keeps his eyes straight ahead while Castiel buckles himself in, cursing himself for not backing into the spot. Throwing the car in reverse, he whips his head around so quickly to avoid looking at Cas that Dean feels his neck crack. With the feeling of Castiel’s eyes on the side of his head, Dean backs out. 

There’s silence in the car on the way to the fast food joint, but it’s not laden with the harsh tension that’s been strung between the two of them for so long. Dean hums quietly along with the radio, trying not to think about what Castiel might be thinking about. It only makes his fears grow. 

They order their food to go, but when Castiel reaches for the bag at his feet, Dean gently swats at his arm. “No food in the car.” 

“Then where do you expect us to eat, Dean? The shoulder of the road?” That acerbic tone is back again, eating away at Dean’s confidence in his plan. 

“Just…just trust me, okay? Do you trust me, Cas?” Doing his best to keep his eyes on the road, he can’t stop looking over for some sign from the other man. 

Castiel swallows once, then nods curtly. Figuring it’s the best he’s going to get, Dean settles back into his seat, guiding them to their destination. 

Unlike the more mountainous areas of California, they live in an area that’s relatively flat. Which means, as Dean pulls them off into an abandoned field just outside of the city, there’s nothing but the open sky above them. Turning the key to the auxiliary position so that they have music, Dean opens his door, gesturing for Cas to grab the food and join him. 

It strikes Dean, as he’s grabbing the spare woolen blanket from the trunk, that this feels very much like a date. There probably is some universe where Dean wasn’t such an idiot, one where he gets to pull Cas close against the late autumn chill and nuzzle his cold nose into Cas’s neck; gets to take him out on dates. Regret pangs deep in Dean’s chest as he closes the trunk and ambles over to Cas. 

“I was just gonna…” Dean clicks his tongue as he lazily throws a thumb over his shoulder at the Impala’s broad front hood. When Cas doesn’t voice an objection, Dean drapes the blanket over the cold metal, immediately hopping up and shuffling over. Looking over, he sees Cas is still standing off to the side, food held limply in his hand as he stares at the sky. 

Dean takes advantage of Castiel’s distraction to roam his eyes over the cook's sharp features. His eyelids droop on the outer corners, and his large nose and mouth shouldn’t be so beautiful, but all together it just works . 

As if he can feel Dean’s eyes on him, Castiel pulls his own back to earth, locking in on Dean. Dean is caught, eyes wide; prey that’s been sighted by a predator. Starting to feel warmer than he should, Dean pats the blanket beside him, making sure there’s ample room for Castiel to climb up. 

Even shuffled over as far as he can get without rolling off entirely, Dean and Cas are pressed together from hip to thigh, shared body heat keeping them from freezing entirely as they dig into their lukewarm Crunchwraps. After the long day they had, surrounded by delicious food, this is what tingles Dean’s taste buds. Cas’s too, if Dean had to go by the sound that just came out of him. If he keeps up, Dean’s gonna need to find an excuse to adjust .

“Dean, this is…” Cas starts to say before seeming to remember he still has food in his mouth. He holds his half-eaten food out, staring at it in wonder while he finishes chewing and swallowing. “Why does this taste so fucking good ?” 

Dean watches with fondness growing warm in his chest as Cas ravages the remainder of his food. Belatedly remembering his own, Dean eats at a ( slightly ) more moderate pace. They finish in silence, then he scoops up all the garbage and crumples it so it fits back in the bag. Not necessarily full, but satisfied enough for now, Dean leans back against the windshield. Cas follows shortly after.

“So you’ve really never gone for cheap fast food after work before?” It’s not really his business, but he’s suddenly starving again, ravenous for everything he can learn about this man. He could gorge himself and never be sated. 

“As you might have assumed, I had a rather… privileged upbringing.” Castiel doesn’t look at Dean as he says it, something that looks a lot like shame crossing his face.

What could this man have to be ashamed of? From what Dean’s observed, Cas is one of the kindest, gentlest, sweetest men on the planet. He’s a damn sight better person than Dean is, that’s for sure. Inwardly, Dean cringes as he remembers what he’d said upon being ‘introduced’ to Cas by Benny. No wonder Cas feels like shit about his background.

“Cas, Jesus, I’m so –” 

A quick shake of the head has Dean shutting up, listening as patiently as a dog with a steak. 

“You were right, Dean,” Cas admits with a heavy sigh. “You didn’t know me, you had only the information I had given you to go by. I understand you were only looking out for the best interests of your workplace, and I hope I have been proving myself adequate.” 

“Ade – what?” Dean is baffled by what he’s hearing. “Cas, buddy, you gotta know that you’ve certainly been more than adequate . You’ve been kicking ass, man!”

“Listen,” he continues, “I’m a dick. Yeah, go ahead, roll your eyes.” A knot loosens inside Dean to hear the low rumbling chuckle that comes from Castiel’s throat. Something that says maybe they can be friends, after all. He matches it with one of his own. 

“Dean, I would very much like to get to know you,” Castiel says to the sky, “and I think we would both appreciate a less caustic atmosphere at work. Agreed?” Finally he turns his beautiful blue eyes towards Dean. There’s something vulnerable in them, and Dean wants to protect it. 

“Agreed.” 

****

When Dean gets home that night, it’s late enough that it could rightfully be called early. Sam’s door is closed and there’s no light in the crack under the door. His shoes had been on the mat, so he’s likely sleeping. Dean feels too light, almost giddy, and he knows he won’t sleep any time soon. The next day feels like a far-off dream, though some part of him knows he’s going to pay for this tomorrow. Grabbing one of Sam’s lite beers, Dean throws himself onto the couch, brainstorming ideas for things that they can possibly cook now that he and Cas aren’t at odds all the time. 

Visions of a different restaurant fill his mind. Somewhere there’s no Nick to police the budget, where they have enough cooks every night that everyone isn’t constantly on triple duty. He wonders what the rest of the crew would say if he suggested making it a place like that. A place where the menu is fresh and inventive, not the same old stuff everyone else is cooking. 

Eventually, Dean drifts off into vivid dreams of cooking for celebrities, politicians, and other elites of the world, with Cas by his side. They shower him with praise and applaud his work, praise he deflects onto Castiel. When the President himself invites Dean to cook at the White House, he insists that they bring Cas as well. After years and years of hard work, Dean has what he deserves, and Cas is right there with him. 

Waking is a harsh, cold fist to the face. 

****

It’s only been two days – two glorious days – of working with Castiel free of the animosity that previously reigned when Charlie grabs Dean’s arm on his way out to powerhaul a smoke. 

“Better make this quick, Red. We got a nearly full rail in there.” He indicates the back door with his lighter before flicking it below the end of his cig. He pulls on it, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment to feel it tickle over his tongue before drawing it into his lungs. That first one is always the sweetest one.

“Super quick, I promise,” Charlie replies, crossing her heart while she bounces on her heels. “It’s just, a little birdy told me that you brought Cas home last night. Real late.” 

“Do waiters ever do anything other than gossip?” Dean snips. He may consider Charlie one of his best friends, but he’s still allowed to have a personal life that he keeps, y’know… personal.

“Sometimes we do our jobs?” Charlie offers sarcastically, clearly not willing to put up with Dean’s bullshit. “So, you. Cas. Spill.” 

“There’s nothing to spill, Chuckles,” Dean huffs. “I took him to Taco Bell after work because the man is a heathen and had never been. Then I took him home – to his home – then went straight to my own place. Whatever you’re imagining? It never happened.” 

Dropping his smoked-up butt on the ground, Dean grinds it under his heel as he leaves Charlie where she stands, a look of shock and contrition on her face. 

Dinner service continues to run smoothly, though Cas shoots him several questioning looks when Dean yells at three people in a row. Dean just shakes his head, offering a weak smile that seems to placate Castiel. They’re almost through the night before Cas manages to corner him, entering the walk-in moments after Dean and pulling the door shut behind them. 

“Dean, please let me know if I’m overstepping any boundaries. I know we’re not friends, but as one of your cooks, I’m concerned. Is everything okay?” 

Dean continues to rifle through the items on the shelf, not really seeing anything as he tries to come up with something to say. 

Standing up clutching the jar of olives that had been right at the front all along, Dean gives a nod. “I’m good. Just, uh…just something me and Charlie talked about. Nothin’ you gotta worry about.” He claps Cas on the shoulder as he passes, savoring the warmth that radiates from him. “Now get a move on, food ain’t gonna cook itself.” 

“Yes, Chef,” Castiel replies as the door swings between them. This time, there’s a smile audible in the words. It’s enough to elevate Dean’s mood, and carry him through the rest of the evening. 

The last table leaves, a deuce that had been lingering over a shared dessert and drinks. It had been particularly busy for a random Thursday in November, and a sigh of relief breathes through the entire restaurant as they begin to break down and clean up for the night. 

Dean’s one of the last people left in the kitchen, aside from Benny, who’s going over everything with a checklist. Right . Inspection tomorrow. He’s about to ask if his boss needs any help when Dean hears voices in the dining room. Making sure his uniform is clean and crisp, he follows the voices to the bar situated at the back, near the kitchen. Instead of finding someone has snuck in after closing, Dean’s confronted by the sight of most of his coworkers. 

“Oh, so you weren’t planning on inviting me to join you,” he realizes out loud at the shocked looks on their faces. “Coolcoolcool, I’ll just fuck right off then.” Shooting them a pair of finger guns that he wishes were middle fingers, Dean spins on his heel and all but runs back into the kitchen. 

“All good, cher?” Benny asks, his head popping up from his papers as Dean rushes in. 

Noticing the drink by Benny’s hand, Dean scoffs, continuing on his way. Hopefully he can get in and out of his locker quickly enough to avoid everyone. It almost seems like he’s going to get off clean when a shadow passes the end of the short hallway off of the lockers. To his surprise, it isn’t Benny that stands between Dean and freedom, it’s Cas.

Weighing his options, Dean plays idly with the keychain in one hand. The other he waves in front of him, ending with his palm up, indicating for Cas to say what he needs to say. Dean just wants to get the hell out of here and find a liquor store. “What’s up, Cas?” he sighs. 

“Please come back out and join us, Dean,” Cas beseeches, employing puppy dog eyes like Dean’s never seen before – he’s even better than Sam. Dean’s about to give in already, and he hasn’t even heard the man out. 

“Why should I?” It’s meant to be assertive but it comes out as a plea of Dean’s own. Why should he go back out there, to the people he’d been friendly with, if not outright friends, who have decided together to go behind Dean’s back. It feels like an easy decision to make. He steps towards the door, only to be stopped by Castiel’s large hand on his shoulder. 

“Dean, please .” 

Resolve crumbling, Dean agrees. 

Chapter Text

Following Castiel to the front of house, it occurs to Dean that this is the first time he’s seen Cas out of his kitchen uniform. Not that he’s changed entirely – he still wears black slacks and a white shirt, but this one is wrinkled instead of crisp, and there’s a hint of a tie at the bottom of his collar. It’s enough, though, to make Dean feel like Cas is practically naked. He purposely diverts his thoughts elsewhere as they exit the pass out to the dining room. 

Everyone who works there, everyone save for Nick, has gathered around the bar; in front of, behind, it doesn’t matter. They’re squished together, glasses in hand, and watching as Dean and Cas walk in. Dean desperately wants a drink of his own, but he’s got no idea what he’s just walked into, so staying sober feels like the smart choice. 

Benny tips Dean a reassuring smile as he scans the faces in the room. Charlie does the same, while Meg smirks like she’s just stolen a winning lotto ticket. Overall, Dean’s not comforted. He shifts and squirms under all of those eyes until he realizes that they’re no longer looking at him, but at Cas.

Like a teacher surveying their classroom, Dean watches as Cas scans the crowd of people, nodding to himself when he’s pleased by what he sees. Without any further prompting, he takes a deep breath, and begins to speak. 

“As we all know, Abbigail Don will be here again tomorrow for an inspection.” As if Dean could forget. “Given what we’ve been unable to fix –”

“And the fact that she hates us,” Dean interjects. 

Cas attempts to glare, but Dean can see the smile ticking at the corners of his lips. 

“ Given what we’ve been unable to fix ,” Cas starts again, “and yes, her seeming prejudice against us,” he acquiesces with a look at Dean, “it is unlikely we will obtain a passing grade of any sort. 

Most of the staff nod and murmur in agreement. Others look frightened, while some just listen closely. Castiel waits for quiet before he continues on. 

“However, it’s come to my attention that the owner, Fergus MacLeod a.k.a. ‘Crowley’, has been unaware of the financial situation here. You’ll notice that, while a lot of you are here for the first time, there’s someone who isn’t here at all.” 

‘... while a lot of you are here for the first time …’ Castiel’s words linger in Dean’s mind, soothing some of the ache from thinking he’d been the only one excluded. He looks around him to see who has been excluded, unsurprised when he fails to ping Nick in the crowd. He tunes back into what Castiel is saying, just in time for him to name and point to Meg. 

“Without her, none of this would be possible. When she discovered she had connections to Crowley, she wasn’t beholden to anyone to make it known. However, thanks to her, we’ll be getting the funds we need to make this a much, much better place. A toast to Meg, please,” Cas ends his little speech, raising his glass in the air. 

Charlie sidles over with a glass in each hand, passing one off to Dean so he can join in. “To Meg!” the tiny redhead beside him crows loudly, answered with varying levels of enthusiasm by the crew. 

For Meg’s part, she’s shooting daggers at Cas and is redder than the pickled beets that sometimes end up on their charcuterie. Dean chuckles as he clinks his glass with those around him, tossing back a healthy sip of what turns out to be whiskey. He finds Charlie where she’s returned to the far side of the room, whispering something in Meg’s ear. When she catches Dean’s eye, he throws her a wink and a mouthed ‘ Thanks ’. 

Nobody stays more than an hour, which works for Dean. He’s just doing one more lap of the kitchen to confirm that it’s as good as it’ll get when Cas approaches once more. There’s a glass in each of his hands, dwarfed in a way they weren’t in Charlie’s. He holds one out to Dean, head cocked and eyes boring into Dean's as if he could pry the very thoughts from his mind. Accepting the drink, Dean lets whiskey flow over his tongue, savoring what must be one of their best.

“I was wondering– I mean, that is–” Somewhere in the last five minutes, the bold, confident, articulate cook has dissolved into a stuttering mess, avoiding eye contact by all means necessary. 

“I’m not gonna bite, Cas,” Dean teases, his smile genuine for the first time today. Probably the first time in a very long while. “Whaddya need?” 

“I, uh…I didn’t get your number when we were all, y’know, exchanging them.” He does a funny little twisty motion with both hands to emphasize his point and Dean thinks he may just burst from the way sunshine expands beneath his breastbone. 

“Yeah, sure, of course,” he manages to say, pleased with the fact that his voice doesn’t waver. He wishes he’d done this months ago, instead of sneaking out. Maybe things could have been different. Still, he’s satisfied with where they are now, this tentative friendship that’s been blossoming over the last few days; over shared cigarettes and a common goal. 

Their fingers brush as they pass their phones off to each other, sparks tickling their way up Dean’s skin just from the brief contact. He doesn’t think he’s ever touched Castiel’s skin before, and he shouldn’t be so surprised that the cook has developed calluses on fingers that were once soft as silk. Phones back in their owners’ pockets, Dean takes another sip as he stalls for time. He doesn’t want Cas to leave just yet, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Dean, there’s something else.” 

The rough tumble of Castiel’s voice brings Dean out of his thoughts. The way Cas is fidgeting with the strap of his large, tan overcoat has Dean worried, wondering what could have possibly gone wrong. There’s no way in the world he could have planned for Castiel, in the very next moment, pressing his mouth firmly against Dean’s. 

Dean kisses back on instinct before coming to his senses and yanking himself away. He’s suddenly glad his keys and wallet are already in his pockets so that he doesn’t have to spend another moment in this place. “What the fuck, Cas?” he demands, one hand coming up to touch his own mouth. He can feel the trace of a burn where stubble caught on softer skin, a burn that is echoed further down in his body. This is Cas , though. He’s not only one of Dean’s subordinates, he’s dating Meg. What the hell does he think he’s doing?

Glaring, Dean pushes his way past Cas, making a beeline for the back door. He ignores the shouts of his name, the pleas for him to come back until he’s got the door wide open, cold air blowing in from outside. Turning his back to the blustery wind, Dean shoots back one more time. 

“Fuck you, Cas. I’m not anyone’s secret side piece. Don’t forget to lock up.” With a solid slam , Dean is out in the wintery cold, cursing Castiel for making Dean forgo his jacket. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to keep the cold away and the hurt from bleeding all over the parking lot asphalt. By the time he stumbles into the side of the Impala, he’s shivering uncontrollably. 

It’s dangerous, Dean knows it is, but he can’t let himself think about what would happen if Cas manages to catch up. Dean’s weak, he’s easy , and he’s sure Castiel can come up with some reason that it’s okay for them to be together. When he does, Dean will crumble, he’ll succumb, and then the rest of it just goes downhill from there. 

So he puts the car in gear, doing his damndest to control the tremor shuddering through his leg as he pushes down on the gas. He doesn’t look in the rearview mirror as he goes, he just can’t. If he looks back and sees what his rejection has done to Castiel, it’s all over for Dean. So he drives, and drives, and drives. 

****

“You were out late again last night.” Sam’s observations come with a scowling bitchface, as if Dean weren’t nearly forty, and four years older than Sam, to boot. 

“We had some drinks after work,” Dean explains, giving as much truth as he can so that Sam doesn’t ask too many questions. “I didn’t want to risk the car, so I hung out there with everybody else who was sobering up.” He shrugs to indicate it’s no big deal, because it isn’t . 

Today is the last day that they’ll be working before the owner has the place gutted for renovations. Dean’s only really going in because he wants to see Nick walked out the door one final time. Well, that and Benny would kill him if he called in sick today. Or fire him. Or both. 

Unable to finish his now-soggy cereal, he dumps it in the sink, using the sprayer to disintegrate the bits of Frosted Flakes that clump up in the drain. It’s a good reflection of how Dean feels inside – trash that needs to be washed away. He fucks up everything he touches. Today with Cas is going to be…Dean can’t actually say, but it’s not going to be fun, he’s sure. Sam heads out the door, still scowling. Not wanting to be alone with his own thoughts, Dean follows shortly after. 

The morning is just as uncomfortable as he thought it was going to be. Castiel’s attitude is stony, an angry heat blazing in his eyes when he deigns to look at Dean, which is rarely. Every time Dean gets a moment to check on him, Castiel has moved to another station. He hides in his work, and doesn’t even appear to take a break. 

What’s weird, though, is that Meg is giving Dean the same kind of temperament. She’s been glaring at him as he does expo, snatching up plates with a ruthless efficiency. Did Cas tell her what happened, but that it was Dean that initiated the kiss? It’s all Dean can do to focus on his own work. He’s almost relieved when Abby waltzes in shortly after 1pm. They’ll be able to go home soon enough, and then he can spend the next month forgetting about all of this. 

The ‘inspection’ is perfunctory and no one is surprised when Abby struts her way back out of the kitchen less than ten minutes later. Her smirk belies the seriousness of the score card she hands to Benny. Though they all knew it was coming, Dean’s stomach still knots at the sight of it, lines of text indicating their scores instead of a letter grade. The restaurant will be shutting down. Immediately. 

At least there’s a backup plan. Crowley has offered to pay them minimum wage – real minimum, not that two dollar server’s wage bullshit. It’s less than Dean makes now, but he’ll be able to survive the month of construction. The condition is that they sign a contract agreeing that they’ll return to work at 'Juliet's' when it reopens, for at least ninety days. Dean’s pretty sure everyone jumped on that one.

The locker room is more crowded than Dean has ever seen it. Usually the lunch shift isn’t in there at the same time as the dinner crew. Charlie’s crossing the room behind him as she shouts out, “It’s five o’clock somewhere, let’s go to the Roadhouse!” 

That actually sounds like a great idea. When Dean turns around, however, he sees both Meg and Cas nodding their acceptance of the invite. Like she knows he’s looking, Meg’s eyes flick over to Dean’s and her face hardens. The moment Charlie turns her back to them, Meg scowls fiercely at him. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice, having been pulled into a conversation with Jo. 

Guess that’s that. Dean pulls his jacket on, double checks to make sure he has everything out of his locker, then closes it quietly. If he can sneak out now while it’s bustling in here, he may be able to avoid getting the third degree from Charlie. Spying an opening in the crush of people, Dean darts through it, ducking his head so his height doesn’t give him away. He’s almost to the exit when someone clears their throat behind him. 

“Going somewhere, Winchester?” Charlie’s got her arms crossed and is looking at him in a way that’s reminiscent of a bull seeing a red cape. Not that he’d ever tell Charlie that, she’d murder him. 

“Look, Red. I’m old and I’m tired and we had a late one just last night. I can’t do that two days in a row, and you and I both know that we’ll be there until close, no matter how early we go.” Dean lifts his arms and lets them drop against his side, a huff of frustration – at himself, not Charlie – falling from his mouth at the same time. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I’m just gonna go home.” 

The scowl melts into a lost-puppy look almost instantly. Charlie walks closer, wide eyes scanning Dean’s face. Whatever she sees there, Dean’s definitely not prepared for what she says next. 

“This is about Cas, isn’t it?” she asks, the pity evident as she takes one of Dean’s hands into her own. “Look, I’m not pointing fingers or anything, but he really likes you. Whatever happened between you two, I’m certain you can fix it.” 

“Charles, I just…” Dean sighs heavily, adjusting his overweight backpack so that it’s not cutting off circulation to his arm. “I don’t know if it’s worth it.” I don’t know if I’m worth it . He shrugs with his free shoulder, then tosses his head back in the direction of the door. 

“I’m gonna head out now. You guys have fun, okay?” With a lackluster wave in Charlie’s direction, Dean turns and walks to the door. Hand on the knob, he turns to Charlie once more. 

“I’ll be okay, I promise.” 

****

Dean is not okay. 

Two weeks into his imposed vacation, he’s bored, hungry, and itching to get out and do something. He scrolls through his contacts, wondering who he can invite out for lunch, or to go for coffee. He’s barely talked to anyone since they closed down. Charlie calls him once a week. Jo texts here and there, usually when she’s fighting with her mom. Ellen owns the Roadhouse, and is constantly begging for Jo to come back and waitress there. 

Even Benny has been quieter than usual. He must be spending his time off trying to make that baby Andrea wants. Thinking of Benny and Andrea’s relationship ignites a burning pain beneath Dean’s breastbone. He’s not jealous of Andrea; Dean knows he and Benny were nothing serious. He’s jealous of the way they have someone to love them, someone to love. Dean wants that.

Attempting to pull himself out of his funk, he decides he’s simply going to get in his car and drive around, stopping if he sees somewhere interesting. Smelling his pits, it’s apparent that Dean needs a shower before he does anything else. He can’t even remember the last time he had one. 

Clean and dressed and behind the wheel of his Baby, Dean starts to feel a little bit more like a human again. He settles into the seat, grooved from the years of molding around Dean’s body. This is Dean’s car – no one else drives her but him. Despite the fact that it’s been colder than usual, Dean opens all the windows and cranks his music up loud. The wind blows through the car, through Dean, scouring him in a way the shower couldn’t. 

His stomach is growling by the time he spies the sign for the fancy donut shop Jo and Charlie had been raving about. He’s been dying to try their maple bacon donut, he just hasn’t had the time to check them out. Expertly maneuvering the Impala into a parking spot beside the curb, Dean feels something almost like excitement ripple through him. 

He had to park a little ways down the street from the shop, but a quick walk is nothing to how many steps he takes while cooking. Breathing in the cleansing air, Dean shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket, humming Zeppelin under his breath as he makes his way. 

Dean never does get his donuts. 

Chapter Text

God, he feels like a creep. Hell, he’s hiding inside a bus stop that has an advertisement plastered over half of the glass, watching a couple have dinner together. He is a creep. He can hardly take his eyes off of them, even when he’s nearly been caught and had to duck back behind the ad at least three times. But that’s Cas in there, wearing the uniform of the Wiener Hut he and Meg are eating at. 

Dean can’t reconcile the incongruity of Castiel, who fucked him on expensive sheets and smelled like luxury, with this guy in the blinding red and white striped shirt, red tie, and Wiener Hut ball cap on his head. Like this, he looks small, diminished. His shoulders are drawn in, his expression sad and face sallow. It actually hurts to see, though Dean can’t pull his eyes away.  

Five minutes later, his creeping session abruptly ends as the couple stand, taking their trash to the bin before leaning in to embrace. As they do, Dean turns around to hide again, his back pressed against the cold glass, eyes closed. Hopefully neither of them saw. He focuses on returning his breathing to normal so he can walk back to his car like a normal human being. 

Footsteps round the corner of the bus stop, the clack of high heels on cement a striking counterpoint to Dean’s racing pulse. They draw closer and closer until Dean is forced to open his eyes to see who’s all up in his personal space. It takes him a moment to recognize Meg outside of her uniform, but the glower on her face is too familiar to ignore. 

“You get a good enough look, you freak?” Her tone is just as scathing as her expression. “You’re going to listen to me, Losechester , and you’re going to listen well.” 

Dean tries to back away, to make some space between himself and this tiny demon of a woman, but he’s pressed against the back of the bus stop with nowhere to go. Meg grips him by the lapel of his jacket, reeling him in close. 

“I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I’m not going to let you hurt him again.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him, I’m –” 

“Shut up.” She shakes him, then pins him again. “That man is a unicorn, and you do not deserve him.”

“I know, I know, I – oof! ” 

Meg is apparently stronger than she looks, throwing Dean back against the glass so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter. She looks absolutely furious.

“No, you don’t know. You are in no way entitled to this information, by the way, but your ignorance is so fucking painful to watch.” It’s enough to get Dean to finally shut up, staring back at Meg and dying to know what she's talking about. 

“You met Castiel on the night of his last hurrah. He was kicked out of his home, the one he took you to, the very next day. He knew it was coming, but what I can’t understand is why he picked you to share it with.” 

Is Meg…jealous? The thought flits through his head briefly, chased away when she speaks again. 

“He barely makes enough as a cook to cover his basic expenses, now. Unlike you, he has no savings, and minimum wage won’t pay his rent.” 

Dean cringes as he’s reminded that he’s got a safety net, but not everyone does. “But why here ?” he asks, still dumbfounded by it. “Cas could work at any high end restaurant with no problem, he’s better than this!” Why it matters so much, Dean can't say. He quickly realizes he’s a big man yelling at a small woman, though, and lowers his voice. “Why is he slingin’ hot dogs when he could be filling in somewhere as a temp chef?” 

The eyeroll he receives in return is so dramatic Meg’s whole head moves with it. “What high end restaurant do you think is going to hire him with nothing but a handful of months at one place on his resume, you dipshit? Most chefs don’t have Benny’s heart, so he’s stuck here to try and make ends meet.” 

There’s nothing he can do about it. Dean knows he can’t exactly offer to start paying the man’s bills, but guilt eats at him nonetheless. 

“So like I said,” Meg snarls, “don’t you dare hurt him.” With that, she turns on her extremely high heel and strides away, click-clacking off into the distance. 

Dropping to the small bench, Dean puts his head in his hands, which are braced on his knees as he curls into himself. What the fuck is going on? That had almost sounded like the shovel speech a best friend or family member would give. Why the hell does Meg think Dean would try to pursue anything with Cas while the two of them are dating?

He’s got no way to know, no one to ask who wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t want to know the reason why he’s asking before they give him an answer. Even when they go back, what’s he gonna do? Ask Cas himself? Hah, not likely.

Eventually, Dean sits up, taking a deep breath and giving the woman he finds beside him a shaky smile. She returns it with a scowl and moves further away from him. Since he’s not actually waiting for the bus, he pushes himself to his feet, forcing himself to look straight ahead and not take another look back. He feels like Lot’s wife, but today’s not the day he gets turned into a pillar of salt. Pulling his keys out, he opens the car door and collapses into her. He made it. He didn’t look back. 

Hardly looking, Dean pulls out of his space, earning a honk from the guy he accidentally cuts off. He’s not even sure how he gets home, barely remembering the rest of the drive. Thank god Sam’s still at work, so he doesn’t ask any stupid questions about where Dean’s been, or why his face looks the way it does. Dean knows he looks like he’s seen a ghost – or in this case, an angel. ( Yeah, he looked up Cas’s name. ) He can’t seem to school it into anything else at the moment. Instead, he locks himself in his bedroom, the same as he’s done for most of the past two weeks. 

****

<< i’m sorry

The text sits in Dean’s phone, unsent, a blaring sign of his inability to handle emotions. It’s been there for nearly two weeks, taunting Dean every time he pulls up his messages. There’s only the weekend left, then they’re back at 'Juliet's', and he desperately wants to resolve whatever this is with Castiel before they get back. There’s no way he can stand working with him, otherwise. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say after that, though? “ Hey Cas, I’m a giant fucking asshole and I poison everyone I touch ” is a bit of a deep dive for someone he technically hardly knows. Yeah, he’s a quick learner and now a great cook in his own right, but sometimes he comes in smelling faintly of weed, and he’ll get people hanging on his every word when he graces them with one of his stories. There’s so much more to him that Dean wants to know. Needs to know. 

The decision is taken out of Dean’s hands by, well…his hands. He’s been absentmindedly turning the phone in his hands while zoning out in front of the TV to think about all of this. He was sure he’d locked it, but he’s proven wrong by the buzz of an incoming text. 

>> Thank you, Dean. I appreciate you saying that. 

Dean’s breath stops in his chest. He sent it. He sent the message. Now that he’s opened that door, how does he respond? Or should he just leave it there? Surely it would be rude not to say something more, right? If he waits too long, it’ll be weird, though, won’t it? Thoughts spiral through his brain as Dean tries not to panic ( more ). 

The next buzz startles him so much that he nearly tosses his phone at the TV. It takes him a minute to get the phone right side up, and his messages open. There’s another unread from Castiel. 

>> I would like to resolve our animosity prior to our return to work. Would you be amenable to meeting with me over a meal?

A smile cracks Dean’s sullen facade. Cas texts just the way he talks – like he’s eaten a thesaurus. 

<< yeah we could do that. where do u want to go?

The next several minutes are excruciating as Dean waits for the response. The longer he goes without a new message, the more he believes that Castiel has changed his mind and doesn’t want anything to do with him. He’s just about ready to drop his phone on his bed and go for a walk when it vibrates in his hands. 

>> What about the establishment where we met?

Dean remembers the dingy dive bar, all sticky floors and wood stained from years of condensation. He’d wanted to drop a quarter in the jukebox, let it play out a melody to match his mood. He’d received a dirty look when he’d tried to approach it, so he hadn't bothered. He was out of quarters, anyway. 

Cas and Dean both agree that, despite the early afternoon hour, they deserve to have a drink while they have this conversation. It’s agreed that they’ll meet in forty-five minutes. 

****

There doesn’t seem to be a single thing in Dean’s wardrobe that he’s comfortable wearing to meet up with Castiel. Usually his attire consists of his chef’s uniform at work, and torn up jeans and old flannels at home. There’s nothing here that screams ‘casual meetup with the coworker you’ve got a fucked up relationship with.’ He’s got exactly one ‘date’ outfit (because he usually doesn’t get past the first date anyway), and Dean is loath to put himself in the mindset of this being a date . 

Eventually, he settles on the crisp, black button up he wears for dates, and a pair of jeans that are still together enough to be considered artfully distressed. Throwing on his boots and jacket, Dean contemplates whether it’s necessary to put on cologne. He wants to make a good impression so yes , yes he will put some on. He dashes back to his bedroom to do so, mindful of the fact that he’s cutting it close for time. Hopefully it’s worth it to rush through daytime traffic.

When he pulls into the parking lot behind the bar, he spies a gold Continental that’s parked in the restaurant lot occasionally. He wonders if it’s Cas’s. Dean’s hit by a sudden case of nerves, a pit forming in his stomach even as he’s drawn closer to the door as if by a magnet. 

Just inside, the barren room makes Castiel’s tan trench coat stand out like a beacon. Following the pull, Dean makes his way over to the bar, signaling the bartender as he slides onto a stool. 

“Hey, Cas.” Dean keeps his voice light and even, not wanting to start things off wrong. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

Castiel is doing a much better job of remaining casual than Dean is. Nerves tangle in a lump in Dean’s throat, choking the words he wants to say from coming out. The two end up staring at each other for an inordinate amount of time before he works up the courage to say those two tiny words. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Dean can’t help but chuckle, thankful when Castiel does as well. 

“You go first.”

“You go first.”

Dean shakes his head, not ready to concede just yet. 

“No, you go first.”

“No, you go first.”

They laugh again, a little more awkwardly this time. When Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, however, they’re squinted in a heated stare, like he’s going to smite Dean with holy light or something. It’s a little bit terrifying and a lot hot. When Castiel refuses to give ground, Dean concedes. 

“I, uh…I don’t actually really know what to say,” Dean admits. The label of his beer is quickly becoming victim to the nervous energy that runs through him. Shreds of it are scattered over the bar top, his lap, and the floor. He tries to brush some of it off of his pants, a flush rising on his neck and cheeks when he clocks Cas watching him intently. 

“I guess…I mean…to be honest, what I want to say is ‘I’m sorry.’ Cas, I’m so sorry for being such a dick, and for making your life hell at work. Clearly I know nothing about you, I knew nothing about you, but I still tried to label you as lazy. I blamed you for my own fuckup –" 

“You’ve already apologized for that.” 

“Another one can’t hurt, right? Anyway, I’m sorry for being such a shitty person and making things shitty for you, too.” Dean shrugs, pretending like it’s not a big deal. 

“You’re not a shitty person, Dean.” It’s said with such feeling, such gravity, that Dean can’t help but believe it, at least right now. “Besides, I should apologize, too.” 

“Pfft, what have you got to apologize for?” Dean asks. “I’m the fuck-up over here.” 

“I very much disagree with that assessment.” The serious squinty face is back, so Dean doesn’t dispute him. “I think you’ve probably had some setbacks in your life, some people who made you internalize some terrible things, but you’re not a fuck-up .” 

Dean’s caught in an open-mouthed stare, unable to function under such words said so resolutely. In his life, that tone has always been reserved for Sam, telling him how proud they were of all of his achievements. Dean was just a cook, in his Dad’s eyes. 

Castiel’s voice gently pulls him from his ruminations. “If anything, I’m the one that’s a ‘fuck-up’.” 

Dean has seen the finger quotes before, but he’s never had them directed at him. He’s got to drop his face to hide the smile that threatens to form. 

“How d’you figure that?” he asks, genuinely curious. 

“You were right about me, at the beginning. I was lazy. I had enough money that I didn’t have to work, and I took advantage of it. Drinking, drugs, debauchery – I binged all of it and wasted my life away.” Castiel looks so pitiful as he tells his story that Dean wants to stop him, wants to tell Cas he doesn’t have to make any excuses, not to him. There’s a desperation there, however, that makes Dean hold back. Clearly Cas needs to tell his story. 

“When I came to your restaurant – I had no idea it was yours, I swear –”

“I believe you,” Dean reassures. 

Castiel eases a bit as he goes on. “When I showed up there, I was desperate. I’d been outed to my family, disowned, evicted, and unable to figure out up from down.” 

Dean’s heart clenches to hear it, even though Meg had already told him some of this. He keeps his attention on Castiel, knowing that this is necessary for him, something he needs to get out.

“Benny giving me that job was the best possible thing that could have happened to me. It allowed me to secure housing, I didn’t have to worry about whether I would be able to eat the next day, and I would be learning transferable skills. It possibly saved my life.” 

Cas takes a long drink from his beer bottle, idly tracing the ring of the opening when he sets it down. It takes him a moment to gather himself before he continues. 

“And then I met you.” 

Dean’s eyes cut quickly to Castiel’s face, looking for some sign that this is a joke, or that Cas regrets their meeting, but all he’s met with is complete sincerity. 

“You’re hard-working, you’re firm but fair, and you make friends with everyone you meet. It would be hard not to be impressed by you, inspired to be and do better. Dean, you changed me.” 

He wants to clean out his disbelieving ears, make sure he heard that properly. There’s no way that Dean has had any positive effect on Cas. 

“Dean, I was awful. Insolent, insouciant, and unambitious. Had I continued on the way I was going, I can’t say for sure I would still be here right now. Even if we can’t be friends, I want you to know that . I had hoped, more like yearned for something more, but I will settle for civility between us.”

Cas had…hoped for something more? Dean’s completely floored, unable to respond. He tries to stay quiet, tries to wait for Castiel to say something more, but he’s unable to prevent himself from blurting out, “But what about Meg ?” 

The way Cas looks at him is the way Dean would look at quantum physics. It makes him squirm in his seat a little as he waits for a response. 

“What about Meg?” Castiel asks, his bewilderment evident in his tone and the angle of tilt to his head. 

Dean starts to suspect that he’s been wrong about something all along. It doesn’t feel great, his stomach turning to knots as he sees every single one of their interactions under a different light. What else has he made assumptions about that were completely incorrect? He can’t follow that train of thought right now, because Cas is still speaking, verifying his suspicions.

“Meg and I live together in a way, yes. But we’re not romantically entangled.” 

Dean knows Cas is not trying to be condescending, but his tone is similar to one you might use to explain a hard math concept to a middle schooler. Dean blames it for the way he responds.

“You sure got a lot of weird vibes going on between you for not being entangled ,” Dean scoffs. 

Instantly Castiel’s face closes off. Not knowing what to do, Dean stares open-mouthed, shocked at himself. 

“How Meg and I show affection is between me and Meg.” It’s icy, clearly meant to end the discussion. 

Dean works on trying to backpedal a little, try and fix this. “No, no of course it is!” he protests, holding his hands up in front of him in surrender. “I’m just, y’know…” He shrugs, the flush coming back to his neck. He sees the way Cas watches it creep up from where his top couple of buttons are undone, and hopes all is not lost. 

“I guess I’m jealous.” It’s out there now, nothing can take it back. 

Castiel looks shocked for a moment, then his face softens again, warmth returning to his gaze. 

“Dean, you have absolutely nothing to be jealous of. Not only is Meg just a friend, I’m gay .” There’s a hint of humor in his voice, but Dean can tell it’s not at him, per se. Cas just finds the situation humorous, likely. 

“I’m uh, I’m bi, just since we’re putting it out there.” They’re not words Dean has said often, and still sit a little uncomfortably on his tongue. 

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Dean.” Cas smiles at him like he truly appreciates Dean for saying a handful of words. 

Ducking his head, Dean takes a moment to let that settle. 

Cas lifts his bottle to his mouth, stopping short when he realizes it’s empty. He cranes his head to check Dean’s, smiling when he finds it empty, too. “Do you want to get out of here?” 

Dean’s not sure what expression he has on his face, but it has Cas quickly trying to correct himself. 

“For dinner!” he clarifies. “I would very much like to get to know you more, but I’d prefer to do it somewhere with a bit of a better atmosphere.” He looks around himself in mild distaste. 

“C’mon, the Roadhouse has the best burger you’ll ever taste,” Dean says, clapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder before immediately pulling back. He’s still not sure where they stand yet, and doesn’t want to make Cas uncomfortable. 

It turns out, his worry is unnecessary. Cas just smiles at Dean and takes his hand as they make their exit. 

Chapter Text

Re-opening 'Juliet's' was a lot of work, but it was a labor of love. While he’s still upset that he didn’t personally get to watch Nick be fired, Charlie gave him a dramatic reenactment that had Dean nearly peeing himself with laughter. Not to mention how nice it is now that they don’t have to deal with him every day. The environment in the kitchen has changed drastically . 

Some of that, of course, has to do with the change in Castiel and Dean’s relationship. While Crowley hadn’t been particularly fond of the idea, as Dean is Castiel’s superior, Benny had pled their case, and they were both allowed to stay. Crowley had no reason to complain when the two of them became an unparalleled team. Service was never so swift, the line never ran so smoothly, and they received better reviews when they worked together. 

Dean does have to admit that adding in two more chefs helped. Jesse and Cesar came in at the reopening, Jesse joining the line and Cesar working as the pâtissier , allowing them to have more variety in their desserts. Both men have contributed to the menu, adding a bit of Latino flair to their offerings. Dean loves having one of them cook something up just for him to try. 

He also loves – loved – having his partner with him in the kitchen. He reminds himself, as they share a couple fingers of whiskey in front of the TV, that he’s going into work alone tomorrow. A soft ache sits in his heart, a tiny spot of sorrow among the pride, joy, and admiration that crowds his entire chest cavity. 

Castiel had worked at 'Juliet's' for another six and a half months before he was headhunted by a restaurant across town. They wanted him for a sous position and a fast track to Head Chef, as theirs was leaving. The two of them had talked it over, and talked with Benny, too, before Cas agreed to take the position. It had been the first time they really fought. Dean had wanted Castiel to say yes immediately. It was more money, more prestige, and a great way to hone the skills he’d learned with Dean. 

There had been doubts. Cas didn’t care about the money or the prestige. He’d had them while his family had been in the dark about his orientation. He’d argued that he wasn’t good enough yet, that he could continue to develop his skill with Dean. Dean had needed to print out the multiple reviews that mentioned Cas by name; food critics that had asked who specifically had cooked their steak, or made the chowder, depending on what station Cas was assigned to. Finally Dean had been able to convince him that he was worthy. 

A thought he found amusing sometimes, considering his own self worth was still somewhere down in the mud, most days. He was working on it, though. Charlie had suggested a fantastic therapist, Pamela Barnes, when she saw how much Dean was starting to struggle with his increased responsibilities. Imposter syndrome had taken a stranglehold and not let go. Now he’s at least capable of being complimented without immediately deflecting. He’s still awkward about them, but they feel good instead of uncomfortable. 

“What are you thinking about so hard, sweetheart?” Castiel is cozied up on their couch in a handful of soft throw blankets. 

They continually bicker over the thermostat, and today, their first day staying in the new place, Dean’s been victorious. It’s a cool sixty-five degrees in their living room right now, and he’s comfortable in just his sweatpants and a t-shirt. Under all of those blankets, Cas has at least three layers on – a tee, a long sleeved shirt, and his favorite burgundy hoodie. He shifts next to Dean so that he can tuck his ice-cold feet under Dean’s warm thigh. Dean shivers, glaring at his fiancé. 

Oh yeah, fiancé . 

Shortly after Castiel had accepted the offer but before he was to start the job, he and Dean had discussed living arrangements. Castiel’s apartment was closer to the new job, but it would put Dean further away from 'Juliet's'. They had sat down and put together a budget before starting the hunt for something in the middle.

Finding this place had been a surprise. It’s a converted shoe factory, all red brick exterior and thick, strong, soundproof walls. They had happened to be shopping at a kitchen supply store nearby when they passed the “Apartments Available” sign. Neither had needed to speak, Cas raising one eyebrow at Dean, who responded with a nod before they went inside and buzzed the landlord. Already they were impressed that there was a landlord on site and not just a superintendent, or worse, a faceless realty company to handle any issues. 

He’s pretty sure that they both knew it was the place as soon as they walked into the available apartment and were told the rent. It was more than reasonable, though Dean couldn’t find a single negative reason for it to be so low. They filled out an application on the spot. The landlord’s ( landlady’s? ) eyes widened a little when she read who their employers were, but she remained utterly professional, not commenting on it or the salaries they had listed. She’d called them back before they’d even reached Dean’s place to tell them they could move in as soon as they could break their leases. They’d ridden out the last month at their old places, paying double rent while working to put this one together. All that money, time, and effort were worth it, though.

He looks around the room – the deep blue walls with their soft white trim, the dark wood furnishings that surround them. All of the pictures on the walls, and the two James Beard awards in their shadow boxes. Cas had won for Emerging Chef, Dean for Best Chef in California. All of the markers of their achievements, the reminders of their joy, their hard work, and also their sorrow. He swallows against the rising glow of emotion, trying to come up with words for it all. Finally, he finds Cas’s eyes, and answers him. 

“Us,” he says plainly. “All the things we’ve been through these last few months – these last two weeks even – and how fucking amazing it is that we’re where we are right now.” 

He watches as Castiel relaxes back down into his blankets, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, soft and fond. Affection suffuses all of Dean’s being, at that smile. It’s the one he reserves just for Dean, especially when Dean is being particularly sappy. Like he is right now. 

He has a right to be – he thinks so, at least. In the last fourteen days, he’s upheaved his entire life. Everything he’s accumulated in the last few decades, and the detritus of being in one place for nearly seven years. All of it has been intermingled with Cas’s few but precious possessions to create a home where they can both feel free to relax and be themselves. Not to mention that, in the process of combining all of their worldly possessions, they’d ended up engaged. 

“I was thinking about how we got here – here , specifically, in this apartment, in these lives…wearing these rings.” Cas is radiating with love and devotion at this point, eyes wide and misty. 

“I can’t believe we got engaged that way,” Dean laughs, shaking his head at Castiel. “I didn’t even have a chance to get on one knee.”

“What else was I supposed to say when you nearly shouted the words ‘Marry me’? How was I to know you were talking to the pizza and not me?” He gives Dean a sharp glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Besides, I’m the one who provided you with the pizza. It should have been me you were proposing to in the first place.” 

“You’re right, you’re right!” Dean surrenders. He knows that Cas won’t hesitate to get the throw pillows and beat him into submission. Taking the last sip of his drink, he pokes Castiel’s shins gently where they peek out from under Dean’s leg. “Finish up.” 

“Dean, it’s barely nine o’clock,” Castiel points out, the confused expression and head tilt that Dean’s come to love out in full display. 

Dean smiles, slow and sly. 

“You sayin’ you don’t wanna go to bed with me?” he asks, coy and cunning, batting his long lashes in Cas’s direction. 

Suddenly, the feet that were under him disappear. 

“I would never say no to that offer,” Cas growls. He downs the last of the liquor in his glass, licking his lips to catch the last few drops. 

Dean’s eyes zone in, barely registering when Cas talks except for the fact that his lips look beautiful making those shapes. 

“ Dean ,” Cas says, sounding a lot like this isn’t the first time he’s called Dean’s name. 

A frisson of lust goes through him at the commanding tone. “Yeah?” he asks, still looking at Castiel’s lips. He’d like to get his own on them, and soon. 

“I said; head on into the bedroom and I’ll clean up.” He leans in, pressing a hot but swift kiss to Dean’s lips.

Those words in that voice have Dean scrambling to get up from the couch, getting caught in one of the blankets Cas has just thrown aside in his own efforts to rise. He hops on one foot for a moment, trying to catch his balance before righting himself, getting free and racing towards their bedroom. 

Their bedroom . Dean’s still wrapping his head around the idea, even though Cas had pretty much been living at Dean’s there at the end. He passes the spare bedroom – another thing he’s trying to get his mind to accept – on his way to the master bedroom, and takes a quick peek inside. The hall light shines on the unpacked boxes and the stack of cardboard from the ones they’d already emptied. Soon enough it’ll be a room for Sam and Jess to stay in when they visit from Stanford. 

Unable to stop smiling and not really caring about that, Dean drifts down the hallway to his destination. The door is plain white, like the rest of the house, but inside is anything but plain. Dean recalls the good natured fight they’d had over the color for the room, finally compromising on the soothing grayish sage that adorns the walls. The trim is the same dark auburn wood as their bedroom set, making the space feel warm, cozy, and inviting. Tapestries and pattern scarves hung haphazardly around the room add softness, as do the fluffy, cream-coloured  bedclothes. 

Bringing to mind the mood that kiss had set, Dean begins to strip, throwing his clothes lazily at the hamper. Everything makes it in except for a single sock. Despite not being a hazard, or the fact that Dean is the one who always does laundry, he knows Castiel will sigh and shake his head when he sees it. He’s started judging how aggrieved Cas sounds, keeping a mental tally in his head. Now naked, he pops into the ensuite bathroom to grab a couple of towels. Speaking of laundry, he’d just washed the sheets and made the bed that morning. 

Grabbing what he needs from the bedside drawer, Dean’s already worked two fingers inside and is working on stretching his hole with them when Castiel walks in. 

“God, you look so beautiful like that,” Castiel breathes as he stalks over the bed, a predator after his prey. He comes up behind where Dean is perched on the edge of the bed, pressing himself up all along Dean’s back and nosing at the soft spot behind his ear. He chuckles at the way Dean can’t help the shiver that flits down his spine. He starts to push Dean forward, the hard line of his erection hot through his jeans against Dean’s ass. 

“You got a few too many clothes on,” Dean pants, already short of breath just at the idea of what’s to come. He shivers again, but this time it’s because he’s suddenly cold. 

Castiel is two steps away ripping his clothes off of his body and tossing them into the hamper more erratically than Dean did. Not a single article makes it in. Dean watches as Cas stares, sighs, then stares some more. He clocks the moment Cas notices the single sock, the sigh infinitely deeper and more disgruntled than the last. 

“Come back, sweetheart, I’m getting cold over here,” Dean taunts, sliding three fingers into his ass and making a show of presenting for Castiel. 

“You wouldn’t be if you would allow me to turn the heat up,” Cas shoots back. “Just three degrees would be much more comfortable, while still being energy efficient.” 

“I heard ya the first time, now get over here.” Dean rolls his eyes playfully as he uses his head to indicate where he wants Cas. There’s no malice in anything they’ve said, this is a game they play that doesn’t demand a winner. 

Castiel acquiesces, striding back towards Dean like he might eat him, or hit him. 

There’s no warning before suddenly Dean is being pressed forward, a hard cock sliding through the cleft of his cheeks as a warm body drapes itself entirely over him. “I don’t know where you get the nerve, but I’m going to fuck it right out of you.” 

Dean moans at the words, knowing he’s in for a wild ride. Fingers brush his own, slick where they enter his body, and suddenly he’s fuller, impossibly full as two more slide into him. Groaning deep in his throat, he relaxes into it, letting the feeling wash over him in a haze of lust. “Need you in me,” he pleads, not afraid to do so. Not with Cas. 

A broad hand brushes his hair back from his head, encouraging him to tip it back so Cas can nip and suck at Dean’s jawline. The other hand smooths down his side, settling him like only Cas can. 

“Shh, I know,” Cas purrs, pulling Dean’s earlobe between his teeth. “I see you’ve grabbed condoms, though, so would you like me to put one on?” 

Castiel’s fingers continue to move in tandem with his own, plunging in when Dean’s pull out. It makes it impossible to think. He listens to his own gasping breaths as he formulates an answer. 

“Please,” is all he’s able to say, “Cas, please.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. Can’t possibly do so when thick fingers are brushing his prostate on every pass, and there’s delicious burn in his stretched rim. 

“Okay, okay.” Castiel’s voice is soothing, making the wait bearable for just a little longer.  

At least until two of the fingers slip from him, Cas hushing him softly when Dean whimpers. Taking the opportunity to cool down a little, Dean withdraws his own fingers, wiping them on one of the towels. His now free hand moves to brace himself on the bed, prepared for when Castiel sidles back up against him, rocking his hips against Dean’s ass. His heart is beating a mile a minute, feeling immense in his chest with everything he feels 

Sparks sizzle at the base of Dean’s spine when Castiel’s slick cock slides up between his cheeks. It slips down under his ass on the next thrust, catching against his rim before nestling up behind his balls. Castiel’s body envelops him until they’re pressed together from hips to shoulders, arms braced just outside Dean’s. God , he loves the way they fit together, like they were made for each other. 

Castiel echoes those very thoughts in a lewd whisper by Dean’s ear. Dean’s achingly hard now, probably dripping precum onto the towels, and yet Cas has barely begun, it seems. 

“Roll over,” he demands, bullying Dean further up the bed as he does so, until his head rests on the heap of pillows. 

Dean has to swallow hard at the domesticity of Castiel rearranging the towels beneath them because he knows how important clean sheets are to Dean. Keeping his mind from going down a memory lane full of starchy sheets and questionable stains on comforters, Dean takes the chance to simply admire his fiancé. His eyes rove over his strong jaw, his long, aquiline nose, and the full lips beneath before allowing them to slide further down. If his face wasn’t breathtaking enough, his body has Dean salivating. 

Despite working long, hard hours on his feet, Castiel insists on getting up and going for a run early each morning, usually greeting Dean with coffee in bed before doing pushups on the floor, followed by yoga. His hard work shows. His chest is broad, dare Dean say beefy. His arms look like he could crack walnuts with his biceps, and his thighs could definitely end Dean while he was between them. Between those thighs lies a thick, hard cock nestled in a thatch of dark, wiry hair, one that Dean only glimpses before Cas is pressing him into the bed, pressing into him , sheathing himself in Dean’s body in one smooth glide. 

The slight burn and stretch is delicious , Dean groaning his way through it until Castiel is fully seated within him. Castiel’s forehead comes to rest on Dean’s own as they breath each other in. Dean can feel himself tremble, Cas bringing one hand down to stroke his flank. He presses a kiss to Dean’s head before brushing their noses together. 

It’s enough of a distraction that it pulls Dean back from the brink. He still feels every inch of Castiel, but it’s a warm, pulsing pleasure now, no longer overwhelming. Leaning up, he plunges his tongue into Cas’s mouth, demanding entrance while slick lips skim, slide, and press. Cas must take that as Dean means it – as a signal to get moving – because he slowly pulls out, pushing back in with excruciating indolence, taking his sweet time. They kiss, hot and filthy, while Cas keeps them at a sedate pace, brushing Dean’s prostate every two or three thrusts.

It’s enough to keep him hard, but not enough to build into anything. Dean whines low in the back of his throat, trying to goad Cas into moving faster, harder, something . Tears prick at the corners of his eyes even as he squeezes them tight. 

They come apart, both gasping for air after so long taking in only each other’s exhales. Dean tips his head back on the pillow, partially in frustration but also to prevent Castiel from seeing the wetness that’s seeped into the crinkles that bracket his eyes. He doesn’t stay that way for long, strong fingers cupping his jaw and chin to bring him back down. 

Cas kisses the tears away from each eye, slowing to a stop as he examines Dean’s face. “Too much?” he asks. 

Dean knows that he can simply nod his head, and he and Cas will just have sex like they usually do. He rolls it side to side, instead; the best he can do with almost six feet of strong muscle on top of him. 

“That’s my good boy.” 

The two of them aren’t really into all of that BDSM stuff (they’ve tried it and just didn’t find that it fit them), but Dean gets such a brilliant rush from being called a ‘good boy’ and Cas found that out early on. He doesn’t bring it out often, but when he does, Dean just lights up from inside out, all of his being more sensitive, more alive . 

The slow drag of Cas’s cock inside him no longer feels impossibly monotonous. Every single stroke builds upon the last, slowly, oh so slowly stoking the fire that burns deep in Dean’s pelvis. Dean can only take , having tried begging, pleading, and even using his feet at Castiel’s back to try and goad him into a faster rhythm. Cas had simply hooked one of Dean’s legs with his arm, pressing him back into the bed with it, and continued. 

Dean has finally given up on getting any relief, his dick hard and aching, precum leaking copiously to pool in and around his belly button. He settles himself into the bed to enjoy the ride as best he can when there’s a shift in the rhythm. Every second thrust, Cas swivels his hips, making sure to brush past Dean’s prostate as much as possible each time. 

“ Fuck, yes ,” Dean cries, drawing out the first word as Cas does it again. 

From there, Cas keeps Dean guessing. He goes faster, slower, harder, he changes his angle, all of it seemingly at random. It has Dean on the edge, babbling incoherently as he tries to keep up. He doesn’t think he can come without a hand on his dick, but Cas doesn’t seem to have any plans to put one there anytime soon. Dean decides to take matters in hand ( pun definitely intended ), and reaches for his neglected cock. 

His fingers have just brushed his shaft, a glorious millisecond of friction, when Cas drops Dean’s leg and uses both hands to pin Dean’s to the pillow next to his head. 

“ No. ” he growls, fucking Dean savagely in retribution. “You’ll come when I say so.” 

Okay, so maybe they do a little of the BDSM stuff. 

Cas continues fucking Dean hard and fast, forceful thrusts moving Dean up the bed until he has to wriggle one hand free of Castiel’s iron grip so he can brace himself on the headboard. They have a headboard, now, too. Satisfaction moves through Dean like a wave as he feels the grain of the wood beneath his fingertips. The new king-sized bed had been a bitch to put together, but he’s glad they went to the effort. 

As if he can tell that Dean’s thoughts had drifted momentarily, Cas brings him back to the present with several brutal strokes that connect directly with Dean’s little joy button. Sparks fly behind his eyelids at the assault, cock kicking with each press. He’s starting to believe he may actually be able to come untouched after all as heat and pressure grow, his balls pulling up snug against the base of his shaft. 

“Plea-please, Cas,” Dean gasps, panting in time with every thrust. “Need to - need to come, please !” His voice cracks with the effort it takes to hold back his climax until he’s told. 

In response, Castiel continues his efforts, only leaning in to press another kiss to Dean’s forehead. The tears are back, but this time Dean doesn’t make an effort to hold them in, letting them trickle down his temples as he writhes in ecstasy. It’s just so good.

The assault on his prostate only lasts another minute before Castiel’s tempo falters, and he groans into Dean’s mouth, kissing as if it’s his last offensive. “Come with me,” he grits out. “Dean, come with me.” 

Never one to disobey a direct order, he does what he’s told. Dean lets go of his hold on his body, giving in fully to all of the sensations he’s feeling. It doesn’t take long before he’s on the brink, meeting Cas thrust for thrust until his body locks up, come spilling between them. Dean can only form Cas’s name among the grunts and groans of their combined orgasms, reveling in the feeling of Castiel’s cock pulsing inside of him. 

He almost regrets making Cas wear a condom, because Dean’s not afraid of a little creampie, loves it when Cas fills him with come, actually. He just really wants their sheets to be clean and comfortable tonight. He’ll assess the damage when he’s finished coming down, though. 

Castiel continues to thrust slowly and lazily as they ride out the aftershocks. When he starts to soften, he carefully pulls out, leaving Dean feeling slightly bereft. Dean reaches out to the closest edge of the bed, where Cas sits stripping off the condom and tying it to toss out. His hand lands just above Castiel’s hip, where he would have ‘love handles’ if he wasn’t so damn fit. Dean squeezes there anyway, even if there isn’t much give to it. Castiel throws a soft, fond look over his shoulder before standing up. 

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Castiel returns with a warm, wet cloth, cleaning both himself and Dean before lazily tossing it in the direction of the hamper. He presses his head to Dean’s shoulder in defeat when they both hear it slap onto the laminate flooring. “I’ll get it tomorrow,” he sulks, burying his face in Dean’s neck. 

All Dean can do is laugh. He knows it’s not the first time something like this has happened and it absolutely will not be the last. 

“I love you,” Cas sighs, laying soft, closed-mouth kisses on Dean’s throat and clavicle. They’re not meant to incite, they’re simply love pressed into his skin over and over. 

Dean basks in the adoration, showing affection in his own way as his hands come up to run soothingly over Castiel’s back in slow circles. “I love you, too,” he replies, kissing the hair on the side of Cas’s head. 

Slowly, Castiel’s kisses taper off and he begins to melt into Dean. He’s heavy, but Dean doesn’t mind. The weight of his boyfriend – no, fiancé – is grounding. Reassuring. He’ll let Cas sleep there until he inevitably rolls off and away, probably to steal all the blankets as he no longer has Dean’s body heat to warm him. For now, though, Dean is content. 

Tomorrow will come, and bring with it new challenges, new fears, and new faces. Cas and Dean will both have to learn how to work without their other half, and Castiel will have to learn how to manage a kitchen on his own. They won’t really be alone, though, never more than a text or a call away from each other. Benny already knows Dean will be next to useless, fretting about Castiel’s first day. 

Eventually, sleep comes in gentle waves to carry Dean off to dreamland. Unconsciously, he holds Castiel tighter. The next day will come, no matter what. Tonight is for them.

Fin