Chapter Text
“It’s tacky.”
“I think it’s cute!”
“You would.”
“Come on, Deano, this street needs some color!”
“Color, yeah, but this is—pastel.”
“It’s not even open yet! Give them a chance.”
“Ugh, fine. I give them six months.”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
~~
Every day in the weeks before the new cafe opens, Dean makes a face at its pretty pink and blue pastel paint job. It’s fine in a vacuum, he supposes, if you’re into the Easter palate. But it clashes horribly with the leather brown, blood red, and classic-car chrome of his pride and joy: Winchester, Ink. (Like Incorporated. But with ink. Sam had rolled his eyes at the pun when they opened a few years ago, but Dean remains convinced of his genius.)
Every morning, Dean opens the shop at the crack of eleven (because no one wants a tattoo before breakfast). The bell tinkles over the door as he whistles his way in and surveys his little slice of heaven.
People sometimes get the wrong impression when he tells them he’s a tattoo artist. They focus on the tattoo part and skip over the artist part. Dean started out in graphic design thinking he’d get into advertising or something else lucrative and soul-sucking. But then he’d got his first tattoo at the age of twenty, and it was all downhill from there. Taking the plunge and going whole-hog into the industry had been a huge leap of faith, but he’d never looked back.
Every inch of wall space in the shop is covered in elaborate art pieces showcasing Dean’s broad range of styles. Some of the photos are of art on skin, some are just sketches. Most of them are his, but there are several from Charlie, his best friend from art school, and a few from Jody, who does double-duty as an artist and second piercer.
Under the artwork, jewelry in various sizes, shapes, and colors sparkle in glass cases. That’s Sam’s domain. The piercing and tattooing portions of the shop are separated by screens and curtains. There’s a clean, antiseptic aroma over the smell of ink and metal, and it’s home.
By afternoon, the sidewalk outside is bustling, people hurrying by in the watery late-winter sunshine, and Dean wonders if it’s not a bad location for a coffee shop. Or whatever the thing next to them plans to be. Cupcake boutique, maybe? Whatever. It’s not like he’s been paying attention.
Charlie is elbow-deep in coloring when Dean shows his client out the door, Saniderm wrapping in place and aftercare instructions clutched in her hands. Dean ambles over to take a peek at the sinuous waves and Kraken tentacles that are winding their way around Benny’s muscular shoulder blade.
“Lookin’ good, Charlene,” he says.
“Thanks,” is the only reply. Dean does a double-take.
“That’s it?”
She blinks up at him, seeming to come out of a trance. “What?”
“You let him get away with calling you ‘Charlene,’” Sam calls from the other end of the shop, leaning back in the chair at the paper-buried communal desk. “That’s a clear sign of weakness.”
Dean flips him the bird, then turns back to Charlie. “For real, though, you okay?”
She sits up, turning off her tattoo gun to shake out her arm and stretch her back. Dean can almost hear it pop from where he’s standing. “I’m fine,” she says.
“Yeah, bullshit. Hey, Benny? Buddy.”
Benny’s eyes open, sluggish and glassy. He’s a regular, as much as a tattoo shop can have regulars, and the type who can almost fall asleep under the needle. “Hey, Boss,” he says, sounding halfway drugged.
Friggin’ hardcore dumbasses. “Break time. Both of you. Stretch out, get some water. Okay?” He turns back to Charlie. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee?” she murmurs, and then blinks some light back into her eyes. “Oooh! From the new place next door! I think the sign said they’re open!”
Dean gives her the obligatory eye-roll before he nods. “Sure, I’ll see what they got. Anything more specific?”
Charlie shrugs, stretching her spine over the low back of her stool. “You know what I like,” she mumbles around a yawn. “Thanks, Deano.”
“No problem.”
“Hey, see if they have cold brew!” Sam hollers.
“You got it.”
With a ring of the shop’s bell and a swish of chilly air under his kilt, Dean walks the twelve steps to the new cafe.
~~
Castiel Milton is going to wear a hole in this counter before they're even properly open. “They're late,” he says, staring hard at the glass door onto the street and drumming his fingers harder on the wood laminate.
His one-and-only other employee flicks her ponytail over her shoulder and hefts a box onto the counter. “Don't you get yourself all in a tizzy,” says Donna. “They said five-ish.”
“It's five.”
“Right. So. Five ish means they'll be here soon. Help me with this here grinder, will ya?”
Castiel grits his teeth on an exasperated sigh; if he alienates Donna, then he really will be up shit creek. More than he already is. His heart has been in his throat for a month, since signing the lease on this place and starting preparations. But it’s too late now. He’s committed—or should be committed. One of the two.
In any case, as he and Donna lift the heavy espresso grinder out of the box, he hears the tinkling of the wind chimes on the door. He turns his head, and nearly drops the grinder on his foot. The man in the doorway is not Garth with his delivery, but he is—
Drop dead gorgeous, is what he is.
Shit.
“We’re not open yet!” Castiel shouts, focusing on getting the grinder safely settled on the counter before turning to face the stranger wandering through the cafe. The bemused look on his face is downright adorable, especially given that “adorable” does not seem to be the look this guy is going for. From his combat boots to his thick winter flannel to—mother have mercy—his heavy black canvas kilt, this guy is every inch the badass.
And then he smiles, and suddenly he’s a teddy bear. But one of those novelty BDSM teddy bears, the kind with the little leather vest.
He jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the window, and Castiel tries to get a grip on himself. “Should probably fix your sign, then. Says open,” he says.
“Does it? Shoot,” Donna says as she scurries toward the window and flips the hand-painted woodblock sign. “That one’s on me. Sorry!”
“It’s fine,” two voices say at once, Castiel’s and the gorgeous guy. They make eye contact—and a zing runs through him, sets his pulse pounding. Cas has to look away. He doesn’t have time for this.
Just then, a white van pulls up outside. “Finally.” Castiel moves around the counter, past the gorgeous man, and toward the door.
~~
“I’m Dean, by the way—” Dean tries to call, but the guy’s gone, greeting the scrawny fellow with the windowless creeper van.
“Don’t worry bout him; he’s had ants in the pants about that delivery all day,” the lady behind the counter says. “Anything I can getcha?”
Dean casts an eye over the counters. In spite of the detritus of packing peanuts and empty cardboard boxes, there is a resemblance of a coffee shop in the making. Everything looks newly minted and shining, but the tall silver cylinder on the back counter has a thin trickle of steam issuing from its black spout. “I thought you said you weren’t open,” he says.
Donna shrugs and spreads her hands wide. “I just made a pot for me ‘n’ Cas, and I’ve got our cups right here”—she pulls out a sleeve of white paper cups with the shop’s name and logo stamped on the side—“so you can be our first customer! On the house, though, since our register’s still in the box,” she adds with a wink.
“Uh—” Dean shrugs. “Sure. Can I get a couple cups? I promised coffee for my coworkers.”
“Oh, do you work round here?” she asks as she dispenses piping hot java.
“Yeah, that’s my tattoo shop right next door,” he says with another jerk of his thumb.
Her smile is all brightness when she turns back around with the drinks. “No kidding! Well then, I best introduce myself for real." She thrusts a hand at him. It's a firm grip. "Name's Donna. The antsy fella is Castiel; he owns the place."
“Dean Winchester.”
“You’ll all have to come over once we’re open for real!” Donna says as she provides unopened milk and brand-new sugar for Dean to doctor the coffees.
“Yeah, we’re caffeine addicts over there, so you might have some built-in regulars,” Dean promises, backing toward the door. “Well, I should get back. It was nice meetin’ you.”
“Likewise!” Donna gives him a cheery wave and turns to hoist the next box. Probably the register.
“I'll see you ar—” he turns—
And very nearly dumps the coffees right down Castiel’s chest.
“Whoa—shit, sorry,” Dean rushes to say, but Castiel just nods brusquely and hurries past, avoiding eye contact. Dean watches him go, not bothering to pretend he’s not admiring the guy’s broad shoulders and muscular arms as he hoists two—
Pet carriers. Dean does a double take.
Yep. Definitely pet carriers. Dean can see brownish and grayish fur moving around inside, and one of them gives a pitiful meowl. The scrawny delivery guy following him is carrying two more.
“Uh.”
“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Donna asks, and suddenly Dean’s worried. “We’re not just any cafe.”
“Huh?”
“We’re a Cat Cafe!” She spreads her arms wide like she’s Vannah White presenting a fortune. Dean waits for that to make sense; it doesn’t.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Cat cafe,” Castiel affirms from where he’s fussing over one of the pet carriers. Its door rattles, vaguely threatening.
“‘Come enjoy your coffee and a pastry in the company of our feline friends!’” That sounds like advertising copy, and when Dean glances back at her, he finds her reading off a bright-orange flyer.
Dean’s brain is stuck on the combination of ‘cat’ and ‘cafe.’ “Is that even sanitary? I mean, animals around food…”
Castiel’s mouth hardens into a line, bright-blue eyes sharp as flint. “I assure you, we have obtained all the requisite licenses,” he says, then returns his attention to the animal in the carrier. The mewls have only gotten more pathetic, and now the others are starting up the chorus.
“Right. I mean, yeah, of course. It’s just—sorry.” Dean’s rambling is cut off when the delivery guy comes back in with two more carriers. They’ve sprouted up around Dean like colorful plastic mushrooms, eight in total, some of them rocking gently as their captives pace inside. One curious eye peeks at him, gold and bright, then disappears.
Dean’s nose starts to itch. It might be psychosomatic, since they’re all still in carriers, but he definitely feels a sneeze coming on.
“We’re having an open house this Friday night,” Castiel says, and Dean looks up to find him closer than he was before, holding out a small stack of the orange flyers. “Even if you don’t want to come, would you mind spreading the word?”
“Oh—yeah, sure. Of course. Um.” The logistics of flyers and coffee cups proves difficult. Castiel ends up tucking the flyers under Dean’s elbow for him, which brings him into much closer proximity than Dean was prepared for, and his stomach does a funny little swoop. It’s a decent distraction from his impending sneeze, at least.
“Right.” Castiel steps back, avoiding eye contact again and narrowly missing tripping over one of the carriers. “I should—”
“Yeah. Uh. Thanks for the coffee.” Dean makes a ‘cheers’ motion with one cup and is immensely grateful that he manages to do it with the arm not carrying the flyers.
“Don’t be a stranger, now!” Donna calls from the back.
Dean makes his escape before his nose erupts, but it’s a close call.
~~
“Do you think he got lost?”
“Maybe their business is booming already,” Charlie mumbles through her fourth yawn since Dean left for coffee.
“Or maybe there’s a cute barista,” Sam teases with a grin.
“If that’s the case, you’ll have a hard time getting him back here,” Benny says, glancing up from his phone with a twinkle in his eye. He’s favoring the fresh ink in his shoulder, and Charlie keeps spritzing him and dabbing with a paper towel, but there’s no sign of the pain in his face. Sam shakes his head. He’ll never understand the tattoo crowd. Piercing’s cleaner, in his opinion. One poke, and you’re done.
The door chimes, Dean pushing it open with his side, his hands full of paper cups with a logo on the side. He looks a little red around the eyes as he hands one off to Charlie and brings the other to Sam, and there’s a bundle of orange flyers under his arm. Once he’s distributed the caffeine, he sets the flyers on the counter and carefully lines them up with the corner.
“Thanks,” Sam says, trying to be subtle about sizing Dean up.
“Mmhmm.”
“So, how was the shop?” Fishing for info from Dean can be treacherous, but he’s too quiet, which means something unexpected happened. Sam’s curiosity is getting the better of him.
Dean shrugs, then sniffs a bit and rubs at his nose. “Fine. Y’know. Kinda cute, actually.” He keeps his gaze down, on the black and white tile floor, flicking occasionally to the pile of orange flyers.
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, sipping the coffee. “Bet he is.” So much for subtle.
“Hey, screw you,” he volleys back, finally making eye contact. “I never said anything about—”
“Ah-ha! So there is a cute barista,” Benny chimes in from the table.
“Shut up," Dean grumbles, color high in his cheeks.
Sam is cut off from further needling when Charlie jerks so hard she almost overturns her chair. She’s pointing to the logo on the side of the cup with eyes alight. “The Toe Bean?? Oh my god, Dean, are they a cat cafe?” The caffeine must have hit her system all at once, Sam thinks, because she’s gone from lethargic to vibrating.
Dean rubs at his nose, pulling at it. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess they are.”
“Oh my god!!” Charlie snatches up her jacket and turns to Benny briefly. “I’m sorry—we’ll keep going later—bye!”
“Hey, they’re not actually—” Dean tries to call after her, but the door has already slammed closed behind her. The shop is quiet in her wake.
Sam shakes his head. “Dude. Aren’t you allergic to cats?”
Dean manages to flip him the finger through an explosive sneeze.
~~
In the end, Dean lets Charlie talk him into going to the open house. It’s the supportive neighborhood business thing to do, she says, and she’s right. Besides, he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to ogle the owner again, even if it does mean stocking up on drugstore-brand Claritin. It’s just that Sam’s smirky face and tongue-in-cheek commentary hit a little too close to the mark, and that makes him scowly about the whole thing.
Now that he sees it all set up and finished, it is pretty clear that this is not your normal coffee peddler. It’s a veritable cat-tropolis. The walls are lined with cubbies and walkways, all covered in rusty-orange and navy-blue carpet that contrasts jarringly with the pastel exterior like autumn contrasts with spring. There’s a tidy buffet of cat treats in various flavors on the counter by the register, and next to the creamer and sugar stands a crate full of toys to dangle, jangle, and roll for the feline staff. The cats are not in attendance, but there’s a small binder on top of the pastry case full of pictures and ‘getting to know you’ bios.
Even with all the felinity, it’s a warm, welcoming place, with cushiony furniture, low tables, and the lighting kept soft and friendly. Where Dean’s shop is clinically clean and edgy, this place aims to feel like home.
Somebody’s home, anyway.
Dean feels a little silly for pumping himself full of unnecessary allergy pills when none of the cats are actually around, but maybe that just means they’re working. He hopes they can hold up in the face of the real deal.
And that’s when Dean realizes he’s already resigned himself to coming back here. Dammit.
The turnout is good—must have a strong social media presence. Dean sips on his Signature Beverage, a Meow-chiato—at least this place is embracing its pun potential—provided to him with a wink and a grin by Donna. It’s tasty. Meanwhile, Charlie samples their tea selection, and Sam munches on a fresh scone.
Dean doesn’t see Cas at first. He tries not to be disappointed. He tries to make his drink last as long as possible while they mingle aimlessly and tries not to watch the doors too obviously.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Sam asks out of the corner of his mouth after a solid ten minutes of loitering.
Dean’s hackles rise. “Are you gonna let this go?” he asks. “I’ve said, like, five words to the guy. You’re usually not this sophomoric.”
“If you keep using big words like that, you’ll be married by the end of next week.”
Dean rolls his eyes and takes another sip. “You just shut up.”
He’s almost out of beverage—and thus out of a reason to stay besides specifically waiting for Cas—when he spies a door opening behind the counter, and Cas comes up to stand next to Donna with a grateful smile. A few people make noises of greeting—friends and colleagues, Dean guesses. Cas gets swept up in the mix, whether he likes it or not.
Charlie gives a low whistle. “I can see why you like it here, Deano,” she says, sipping her tea.
“You like it here,” he grumbles. “You don’t even swing that way.”
Charlie shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, but I’m here for the cats. Are you gonna go talk to him?”
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam asks with a grin. “How you gonna get catboy’s hands up your skirt?”
That does it. “Okay, first of all”—Dean holds up one finger in Sam’s face—“it’s not a skirt, it’s a kilt, and you damn well know that. Second”—two fingers in Sam’s face—“catboy does not mean what you think it means, and I dare you to Google it. Third”—Sam’s smirk has evolved into an open-mouthed guffaw, but Dean keeps going—“I never actually said a single word about being interested in this guy, so would you both just lay off?”
That does wipe the grin from Sam’s face, and he has the good grace to actually look chastened. “Sorry,” he says, and then—oh god, it’s worse than the smirking. He pulls out the full-force puppy-dog eyes and trains them directly on Dean. “I just wanna see you happy, y’know?”
Dean deflates. “I am happy.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Besides, he could easily be straight.”
A beat, and then: “He owns a cat cafe.”
“That doesn’t mean shit, and fuck you very much for stereotyping.”
Charlie pipes up. “There’s a rainbow sticker in the window?”
“Yeah, just like every other shop window from here to downtown. We ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
“Just talk to him,” Sam implores. “Okay? If only because we’re neighbors now.”
“Fine,” Dean concedes, and tries not to acknowledge the way his stomach tries to crawl up his throat. “If I get shot down, will you shut up?”
Sam holds up a pinkie. They haven’t actually pinkie sworn since Sam was eleven, but the gesture still means something. “Promise.”
Dean sighs, squares his shoulders. He can do this. It’s one guy. One really, really, really good-looking guy who he’s going to have to interact with at least occasionally, who—not that he’s mentioned this to Sam—might already not like him very much. But he can do this.
He half expects to feel Sam and Charlie pushing him toward the counter, but he goes of his own free will. Cas is reluctantly holding court amongst the expectant, congratulatory crowd, looking a little wild around the eyes. Until they catch on Dean’s.
Dean tries half a smile and lifts his hand in a little wave.
Cas’s lips form words like “Excuse me” and “I’ll be right back” as he pushes between the shoulders. Donna takes up the reins effortlessly. Dean wonders if he can buy her some flowers or something.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Cas says when he’s in range.
Dean freezes with his prepared words— “Hi, nice turnout”—halfway to his lips. What he says instead is, “Uh. Sorry?”
“Sorry—that came out wrong. I’m glad you’re here. I mean—I don’t mean—um.”
God, this stumbling dork. Dean feels an affectionate smile pulling on his face, and he goes with it. “You wanna start over?” he asks.
Castiel gives himself a self-deprecating headshake, then closes his eyes and moves a deep breath in and out of his lungs. When he opens them again, they catch some of the pale streetlights outside, and against the warm backdrop of the cafe, they almost glow ultramarine. “Thank you for coming,” he says, sincere when it should sound boiler-plate by now. “It’s good to see you.”
That—that almost has Dean blushing. “Yeah—yeah, y’know, neighborly thing to do. Nice turnout,” he says at last, and then cringes. Could he have come up with a less interesting commentary? Something inside him wants to crawl away and die.
Cas glances around. “Yes. Donna has been drumming this place up on Facebook for so long, I was almost worried. People might have their expectations too high. She made it sound like God’s gift to both cats and coffee addicts.”
Dean snorts a laugh. “Where are the cats, anyway?”
“In their room. I didn’t want to overwhelm them while they’re still acclimatizing.”
Dean nods, then fishes around for something else to continue the conversation.
Cas finds it first. “Donna tells me you run the shop next door?”
“Yeah, me and my brother.” Dean gestures back to where Sam and Charlie are loitering by the window, looking suspiciously interested in the doodads dangling off the nearest cat cubby. “He does the piercing, I do the tattoos. Well, mostly. Charlie does tattoos too, and so does Jody—you’ll meet her eventually, I’m sure. Anyway, uh, they’re all jazzed to have you here, Charlie especially. She runs on cats and caffeine.” Having finally reached a logical end to his rambling, Dean clamps his lips closed to stop the flood.
Cas is smiling, though, a real smile, not the nervous customer service grin he’d had pasted on earlier. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “Do you have tattoos?”
There’s a flush of heat, and Dean has to remind himself that expressing curiosity is not the same as asking to see them. “If you ever meet a tattoo artist without tattoos, don’t trust ‘em.”
That gets him a laugh, low and delightful. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The conversation lulls again, and then Donna summons Cas back to the cluster of interested persons. Cas waves with one finger up, then turns back to Dean.
“Duty calls?”
Cas nods. “Duty calls. It was good to see you.”
“Yeah, you too.” Dean lifts his hand in a wave, takes a meandering step or two backwards.
“Love your kilt, by the way,” Cas says as they drift apart, and it might just be Dean’s imagination, but he could swear his eyes linger below the belt. Might just be the warmth and the low lighting bringing the color to his cheeks. Maybe he can blame his own flush on that too.
“Oh, heh. Thanks.”
And then he’s gone, swallowed up by his already-loyal customers.
Dean turns to Sam and Charlie, who are now watching openly and grinning identical ear-to-ear grins.
“Awwww,” Sam mocks. Dean thwaps his shoulder.
“Shut up.”
“If that’s you not-interested, I would hate to see you interested,” Charlie says, her eyes incredulously wide.
“That goes for you too.”