Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s no secret that Dean Winchester is bad at his job. It’s not exactly like being an administrative assistant is hard. You answer a few phone calls here, fill out a few expense reports there, book some travel, order some office supplies—all while you pretend to care about whether or not your boss’ meeting is running on time. There are some curveballs and breaks from the norm every now and again, but it’s nothing a person with half a brain can’t handle.

Maybe it’s not that Dean is bad at his job; maybe it’s that he doesn’t enjoy it. But, to be fair, he didn’t think there was any career in corporate America he’d actually enjoy. The only reason he got the job was because Sam made him apply, and the only reason he lasted two and a half years was because his boss was so cool and they got along so well. But now that she was retiring, Dean really didn’t see the point of staying.

Money, as Sam reminded him, and it was probably a good point. Living in the city wasn’t cheap. Except, Dean wasn’t planning on staying in the city long. He never actually had. His plan was to take off on the Great American Road Trip. All forty-eight continental states. Maybe even Alaska. He’d take his time—as long as he needed. Six months? A year? Hell, two years! He’d been planning it from the moment his dad first set him in front of a steering wheel at the age of thirteen and said, “drive.”

And what better time? He had a little bit of savings. (Okay, a little less than "a little bit", but he had a lot of ideas on how to make money on the road.) He had no one to tie him down—no kids or pets or even a houseplant. He didn’t have a career he cared about. All he needed to do was finish refurbishing his car and he’d be set, and that’d be done in a few months, tops.

Actually, Mildred retiring was probably the push he needed to actually make his dreams come true.

Still, he was going to miss her.

It was late. Most of the people on the account management team had cleared out for the night, and Dean was sure the rest of the floor would be a ghost town.  The creatives upstairs would be around until midnight at least, but Dean wasn’t about to show them any solidarity. He packed up his backpack for the night and shut down his computer before walking around his desk to Mildred’s office.

“Hey,” he said, knocking on the frosted glass open door.  The office was pretty barren now. The walls used to be filled with old vaudeville and theater posters in decorative frames, and knickknacks and pictures of her various adventures lined every flat surface.  A vase of fresh daisies bending towards the western sun would perpetually sit in the windowsill, but even those were gone now. Mildred had been clearing out her office over the last week or two, with Dean’s help, and the only personal items left sat in a 13x8 cardboard box atop the desk.  The only thing left in the office now was the furniture—a desk, a small table in the corner with a couple chairs around it, a blue couch with throw pillows, and a mounted flatscreen. It looked like a ghost town in there, and, as happy as he was for her, the sight caused him a little bit of grief.

She looked over at him, a smile forming on her face and lighting up her eyes.  “Dean,” she said, voice as sweet as ever. “Heading out?”

He nodded, and tugged at his backpack strap awkwardly.  He’d never been very good at goodbyes. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had enough of them in his life—exactly the opposite, actually.  He just never knew how to handle them. “Yeah.” He forced a smile of his own, and joked, “Now, you sure you’re not too young to retire?”

Her laugh was lyrical as she walked around her desk to meet him, her flowy floral shirt billowing behind her.  To this day, Dean had no idea how someone like Mildred Baker ended up as the Executive Director of Account Management at an advertising agency like Roman.  Sure, he knew how it literally happened, but it wasn’t a job that fit her personality. She always struck him as someone too free-spirited for skyscrapers and stuffy conference rooms.  It was probably why they got along so well. Kindred spirits, she always called them.

“Far too young,” she exclaimed.  “That’s how I know it’s the right time to do it—while I still have energy!”

He couldn’t argue with her there.  In fact, he was jealous of her. She was retiring so she could do more traveling.  She already had a flight to Istanbul booked for next week. If there was anywhere in the world Mildred Baker hadn’t yet seen, she was about to correct that.  Yeah, he was really jealous. And maybe even a little pissed. He couldn’t help but feel like she was abandoning him, but he shoved that down. This wasn’t about him.

“Ah, you’ll have energy ‘til you’re a hundred,” he told her.

“We can only hope.  Now, come here.” Her bracelets jangled musically as she lifted her arms for a hug.  He stooped down and put an arm around her, returning the embrace. She squeezed him warmly before they both pulled away.  And, when they did, she was looking at him sternly in the eyes. His brow crumpled, confused.

And then she said, “Dean, I want you to do one more thing for me.  Think that’s alright?”

He’d already shut down his computer, and he was pretty tired, but he guessed he wouldn’t refuse one final request.  He nodded. “Sure.”

“Figure out what you want,” she said.  Something in his stomach clenched, and he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.  She knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t sitting around behind a computer screen all day. Was she telling him to quit?

She went on, “Whether it’s that road trip you’ve been planning or finding someone to settle down with, build a life with—figure it out, and don’t just think about it.  Do it. You deserve to give it to yourself, you understand? You’re smart, reliable, selfless. But you need to think about yourself, too. Can you do that for me?”

At some point, his eyes had fallen to his shoes, and his ears were burning up with embarrassment.  She was always good at talking people up, but Dean didn’t know how true anything she’d just said really was. Still, he nodded.  “Uh, yeah, I’ll—I’ll be sure to do that.” Easier said than done. He really didn’t know where to start, or when.  All those grand plans of his, and he kept pushing them back, kept making excuses.

Like, my lease isn’t up yet. Like, Sam still needs me around. Like, there isn’t enough money. Like, this was something only insane people want.

She gave him another gentle smile, and reached up to pat his cheek.  “Good. And don’t be a stranger. I’m always just a phone call away.”

That made him feel a little bit better, even though he knew it wouldn’t last.  Maybe they’d keep in touch for a little while, but distance always had a way of getting between people until all that was left was a happy birthday text once a year.  He’d seen her most days for years, and pretty soon, they’d lose contact. It was a little jarring to think about.

Mildred walked back to her desk and put her hands on the handles of the cardboard box.  She looked around the office, shoulders dropping in a happy breath, like she was letting go of a weight.  “Well, then,” she said simply. She picked up the box, grunting slightly under its heft. Dean moved to help her with it, but she brushed him off saying, “I’ve got it.  Go on home, Dean.” And then she was gone.

Dean stayed behind in the office for another minute, just looking around at the bare furniture and walls.  One of the chairs under the table was pushed out at an angle, and Dean paced towards it to push it back into place.

He realized music was drifting in through the doorway, soft at first as his mind wandered, and then it swelled—loud and exhilarating, and he wondered why it took him so long to notice. It sounded like circus music. He followed the sound of it out of the office, back to where the rows of desks were.  

Except, all the desks were gone. The room was completely transformed, and what was once empty was now wall-to-wall with people. Men in three piece suits and bowler hats, women in feather boas and flapper dresses, long cigarette holders pinched between gloved fingers. They were crowded around the various Vaudevillian acts. Dean looked to his right, and saw a dog riding a tricycle, met with oohs and ahhs. To his left, a row of women were doing the can-can as the audience applauded. 

Dean tugged on his suit jacket to straighten it out, adjusted his hat.  Then, he pushed through the crowd, eyes lighting upon all the performers. Acrobats and jugglers and mimes, a man with a painted white face and rosy cheeks telling jokes in an old-timey transatlantic accent. He wandered to the back of the room, where the majority of the crowd was nestled together, standing on their toes to see the show. A spotlight was shining down on a man on a stage. He wore a large top hat, and the tails of his suit jacket flared out as he bounded from one side of the small stage to the other.

He was doing a card trick, the cards fanned out between his hands. He blew on them, scattering them all into the air in an explosion. They fluttered into the crowd, where people jumped up in hopes of grabbing one. Only one card remained in the magician’s hand, and he revealed it to the crowd. “The Ace of Hearts!” he called, and the audience broke out into loud applause.

The magician beamed for a few moments, and then held up his hands to tame the onlookers. “For my next trick,” he called, and the crowd hung on his every word. “I’ll need a volunteer.”

Excited gasps went through the crowd, but Dean barely heard them. There was a loud boom, and a bright white light blinded him as another spotlight found him among the sea of people. “Ah, yes,” the magician said. “Mr. Dean Winchester—approach the stage!”

Dean’s stomach was in knots. He blinked away the temporary blindness, and found all the onlookers had turned their eyes on him. They watched him intently, never blinking, and parted as he reluctantly paced closer and closer to the stage. The magician was smiling jovially as Dean lifted himself up. The crowd clapped again, more subdued this time.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the magician said, commanding their attention. Dean just stood there, gazing out, trying not to blush despite the fact that all the faces had turned to shadow under the hot, white light. “Everyone please welcome to the stage the Amazing Stationary Man!” He held his arms out, and fluttered his fingers, and the crowd ooh-ed. 

“A man so unexciting, with a life so uneventful, he has spent the last three years at that very desk there—.” Another spotlight, this one illuminating Dean’s work station across the room. Particles of dust swirled in the light beams. Dean felt the back of his neck heat up with shame. He rubbed at it.

“Watch as I make everyone in his life—well,” he chuckled good-naturedly, “everyone left, anyway—disappear.”

The crowd seemed to inhale at once, and they held their collective breath. The magician brandished his arm to the other end of the stage, a line of people waiting in the wings. There was Mildred and Charlie, Benny. Sam.  

Dean stood a little straighter when he saw them, a pressure forming in his throat as his heart sped up.

“His boss,” the magician said. Mildred smiled and waved happily. The magician snapped his white-gloved fingers, and she vanished into thin air. The crowd marveled.

“His roommate.” Benny gave Dean an exaggerated wink right before the magician snapped, and he was gone.

“Benny?” Dean whispered, panicked, eyes flittering around, because this was some kind of trick. He couldn’t be gone.

“Up next—his best friend!”  

“Wait—.”

Charlie’s smile was ear-to-ear, and she threw up the Vulcan salute right before she was blinked out of existence. Only Sam remained, looking as cool and collected as ever. Dean’s stomach lurched.

“Hang on!” Dean barked.  

“His own brother!” the magician said, and lifted his hand until it was a silhouette against the spotlight.

Dean rushed forward to stop him, but he was too late. He snapped. Sam was gone.

“No!” He heard his voice echo.

The crowd cheered, amazed.

Dean grabbed the magician’s shoulder, spinning him around. “Bring them back now!” he demanded.

The magician’s face broke out into a grin, and he gave a stage laugh. The crowd behind him joined in. Dean’s eyes went wide, powerless. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

No. Dean set his jaw in determination. “Then, do me next.”

The magician stared, perplexed. “Pardon?”

“Make me disappear.”

There was a pause, and for a second Dean thought he’d actually do it. It made him calm. He was ready. But then the magician laughed again. The crowd behind him was uproarious, doubling over in hilarity. It took a long time for the magician to collect himself, but when he did, he said, voice pitying, “Oh, Mr. Winchester. You don’t seriously believe you’re going anywhere, do you?”

Dean blinked back into reality. The room was empty. The rows of desks had returned. Everything was silent. Letting out a breath, he turned around and headed towards the reception area.

The receptionists had both gone home, and the bright red accent wall with a sign reading The Roman Agency was darkened, most of the lights off.  There was a flight of stairs leading up to where the creatives and producers sat, and he heard some voices up there, but no one was in sight to say goodnight.

When he rounded the corner and peered through the glass doors to the elevators, he expected to find Mildred still standing there. She was already gone, but someone else was there, waiting for an elevator. He was in a suit and tie, which no one except the CEO actually wore around the office, and a long tan trenchcoat.  There was a folder in his hands, opened up as he stared down at the contents. His brows were pinched, eyes squinted, and head tilted just off center. Dean had never seen him around the office before, which was a little uncommon. Even if he didn’t know everyone by name, he still knew their faces.  The office wasn’t all that big. By the looks of him, he was a new hire.

Dean hit the button to open the main doors and stepped out into the elevator well.  The man looked up quickly, and maybe it was the complimentary color of his tie, but his eyes were a crazy shade of blue.  And he was hot. Really hot—with a mess of dark hair, tanned skin, and legs for days. And he must have been new because Dean would have definitely noticed someone like him walking around.

“Hey,” Dean said, his eyes flashing momentarily to make sure the elevator button was pushed.  He brought his eyes back to the man just in time for him to say, in a voice way huskier than Dean could have possibly imagined, “Hello.”  He looked back down at the folder.

Dean rocked back a little on his heels, and he thought he should probably ask the guy what his new job was.  It was the beginning of the year, and that was when a lot of the fresh blood came in. There was always a high turnover rate in the more creative parts of the company, just like the rest of the industry, but he didn’t look like a creative.  He knew they were hiring in the sales department, and there was something in the digital division that Sam kept trying to get Dean to apply to for whatever reason. And they’d been looking for a director in accounting—which was probably it. The guy definitely gave off accountant vibes.

He seemed pretty young, too, probably just a few years older than Dean, and definitely no older than forty.

“First day?” Dean asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The guy looked up again.  “What? Oh. No.” His distraction quickly turned into hyper-focus, those blue blue eyes fixing on Dean; and if he’d been staring down at the paper with that much intensity, Dean was a little surprised the entire folder hadn’t caught fire.  “Tomorrow, actually. I just came in to pick these up.” He closed the folder and held it up, and Dean realized it must have contained all that new hire shit like benefits and the employee handbook. All the stuff Dean had tossed out the second he got it when he first started.

More importantly, he realized the new guy’s fingers were really long.

“Have you worked here long?” the guy asked as he reached down to open the flap of his black leather briefcase.  He slid the folder into it.

“I guess,” Dean said with a shrug.  “Gonna be three years in a couple months.”  Jesus, had it really been that long already?

“What do you do?”

Dean waved it off.  “Ah, I’m an admin.” It really wasn’t much to write home about, but if the guy was expecting anything with a little more spice, it didn’t show on his face.

Dean chuckled weakly and added, “My brother got me the job.  He’s one of the lawyers here.”

The guy kept staring levelly.  “Well, hopefully I’ll never have to meet him, then.”  It was a joke, Dean thought. It was said like a statement of fact.

“Yeah, lucky you.  Dude’s a pain in the ass.”  He smirked, and leaned in a little closer, saying in a stage whisper, “Between you and me, there are a few people here who suck more than him, though.”

The guy arced a brow, and Dean had no idea if he was playing along or disapproving.  But then he said, “By all means, tell me. I’d appreciate knowing who to avoid.”

Oh, Dean was so in.

At that moment, the elevator dinged, and Dean had honestly forgotten they’d been waiting for one.  That must have been the longest anyone had ever waited for an elevator in the history of time, and he hadn’t even noticed.  When the doors slid open, the guy held out his hand, gesturing for Dean to go in first. As Dean walked, he said over his shoulder, “Well, there’s a pretty good bar around the block.  What d’you say we grab a drink and I’ll give you the low-down?”

He turned around to face front as the guy settled in next to him.  As the doors slid shut, the guy said, “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your evening.”

Dean snorted.  He really didn’t have anything exciting planned.  He’d probably gone out with just about everyone on Tinder at this point, and none of them really impressed him, so all he really had to do that night was heat up a frozen pizza and drink alone.  Which was actually pretty sad.

Besides, this guy was really hot.

“Nah, it’s cool.  Always happy to help out the new guy.”  It occurred to him that maybe the guy had plans of his own.  “Ya know, if you’re available.”

The guy nodded.  “I am. A drink—,” Dean didn’t miss the way the corners of his lips flickered up in a brief smile, “would be nice.  Thank you.”

“Hey, stick with the admins.  We know everything.” He playfully tapped the tip of his nose.  “Even the stuff we’re not supposed to.”

The guy looked down, and let out a breath through his nose that might have been a laugh.  “That’s very disconcerting. But I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I’m Dean, by the way.”

The guy looked up, blue eyes holding steady.  “Castiel,” he said, and reached out his hand.

Dean took it.  “Castiel.” Funny name, but somehow Dean would have been more surprised if the guy’s name was something normal like James or whatever.

It was right around then that he realized the elevator wasn’t moving.  Neither of them had pushed the button. They’d been too distracted by each other.

///

“I’m serious!  Definitely steer clear of her.  You’ll hear her coming, too. Bitch wears stilettos every day.  It’s just clack, clack, clack.”

Castiel had a pretty nice laugh.  It was deep and rumbling, and his nose scrunched up into a wide smile.  They were both on their third beer, tucked away in a corner booth of the bar.  Every now and again, their knuckles would accidentally brush together atop the small table, and Dean had knocked his knees into Castiel’s at least five times by that point, but neither of them seemed to mind.  Castiel’s eyes were just a little glassy, and his hair was even more messed up than earlier, probably because he kept running his ridiculous fingers through it. Dean really wished he’d been the one doing that.

“This is a very long list.  I should have written it down,” Castiel said.  “Perhaps it would take less time if you told me who you actually get along with.”

Mildred popped into Dean’s mind, but he guessed she wasn’t on any list anymore.  He doubted whatever new boss he was about to get would even make the top five. “It’s advertising, man.  Everyone’s a dick.” That wasn’t actually true. Most people were pretty cool. It was just management that sucked—the cold-hearted bastards.  Mildred was the only one who gave a damn.

Castiel cradled his beer, condensation slopping down the half-full glass of amber liquid that opposed Dean’s stout.  “Well, you don’t seem overly dickish,” he said, and it was either an observation or he was flirting. The guy was so subtle, it was hard to tell.

“Well, you don’t know me yet,” Dean said.  He raised his beer to his lips and sipped at the foam, winking over the glass.  Castiel dropped his head slightly to hide a smile, like it was a secret.

“Maybe I should,” he said after a second, and Dean was about ninety-nine percent sure he was flirting now.

“Okay,” Dean said.  “I’m game.”

Castiel surveyed him for a long second, eyes piercing and Dean couldn’t look away—until, of course, Castiel’s tongue darted out to lick his lips, and then the only thing Dean could look at was his mouth.

“Are you from the city?” he landed on.

Dean leaned back, only a little disappointed that they hadn’t jumped right to the getting-to-know-you-in-the-biblical-sense way.  “About an hour outside it. Grew up in the mountains.” He kind of wished he still lived there, but his commute would be hell, and he didn’t have the energy for that.  He already felt like enough hours were wasted on work. But he was trapped in the city, with its claustrophobic streets and smoggy air. When he was a kid, he loved visiting—seeing all the people, the lights and sounds, getting lost in the rush.  It was his small suburban town he wanted to break away from. Things changed when he got older. There were too many people, too many lights and sounds, and the rush of it all gave him no room to spread out. There was no freedom in the city.

But Sam was there.  Sam was the only family he had left. His parents were gone, and their house sold, and Dean didn’t have an excuse to visit the mountains anymore.

He cleared his throat and shuffled a little, not wanting to get into all that.  “What about you?”

Castiel shook his head.  “No, I grew up in Philadelphia.”

Dean popped his brows.  “Really?” He guessed it wasn’t too surprising.  This city was full of transplants. He’d met people from the furthest corners of the world, but for some reason Pennsylvania was the most interesting place in the world right now.

“Yes, not that I’ve been there since I was eighteen years old,” Castiel explained.  “I went to school in Boston.” Dean tried not to look too impressed. There were lots of schools in Boston.  Not all of them were Harvard, but he wouldn’t put Ivy League passed this guy. “And, well—before I went overseas, I was stationed in Colorado.”

Dean blinked.  He knew there was something about this guy—something behind the eyes.  “You were in the service?”

Castiel nodded solemnly, his mouth going tight.  Dean knew that look well.

“Yeah, me too.”

Castiel sat straighter.  “Really?” his voice went a little higher pitch then, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or surprise.

Dean drummed his fingers on the table.  “Captain Winchester, 1-1 INF, United States Army.”  Like his dad. He’d followed in John’s footsteps all the way to West Point, all the way to war. It was probably a mistake.

“Well,” Castiel said, sipping his beer.  “I’ll try not to hold the fact that you’re a GI against you.”

Dean let out a surprised laugh.  “Okay, smartass. What makes you so much better?”

He clinked his glass against Dean’s, and he seemed a little proud. “Eyes in the sky.”

Dean made a fake, exaggerate gagging noise. Mostly, because he hated planes, but also to tease Cas. And partly because all the airmen he’d trained with at Stewart had way too high an opinion of themselves—higher than even their planes could reach.

“We’re on the same side,” Castiel reminded him.

Dean brushed him off. “Okay, Angel.”

Castiel ignored the ribbing. “First Lieutenant Novak. Or, I was.” He dropped his head again.  “Truthfully, I only enlisted in ROTC to help pay for college.”

Dean took that in stride.  He’d done four tours himself, but he’d been out for five years now.  He swore he’d never go back, but every now and again, he felt the pull.  It was restlessness more than anything. He wasn’t used to the slow pace of normalcy. Even when he was on reserve, he’d never really liked it. It was boring.

“Lieutenant’s not bad for an ROTC boy.”

“Well, I was very good.”

Dean pulled the corners of his mouth downward.  He dragged his finger through the condensation on his glass.  “Don’t sell yourself short, there. I bet there’s lots of things you’re good at.”

Castiel lifted his eyes.  He seemed to consider something, and he worked his jaw from side to side.  He said, “I’m sure you’ll find out.”

Definite flirting!

Dean almost stamped the floor with his shoe in victory.

Then, Castiel sat up, clearing his throat down at the dregs of his beer.  “Should we get another round? I believe it’s my turn to pay.”

Dean really couldn’t let this moment slip away without shooting his shot.  He crossed his arms on the table and leaned in. “Nah, this place is kinda overpriced, anyway.”  He shrugged casually. “Tell you what, though. I got some drinks at my apartment, free of charge.  It’s not too far. If you’re interested.”

Castiel’s eyes went a little wide, like he was shocked that anyone would find him attractive.  Something passed over his face, and he was trying to convince himself not to go. “No, I—I shouldn’t.  It’s late. I don’t want to be hungover on my first day tomorrow.”

It was a pretty weak excuse, especially because his eyes kept flashing to Dean as if asking him to keep trying.

“Who cares?  I show up hungover practically all the time,” Dean laughed.  “And, you know how many people have alcohol in their desks? Mad Men wasn’t lying.”

Under the table, he felt Castiel’s knee knock against his again, but it seemed deliberate.  Castiel only hesitated for another second before nodding. “Okay. I suppose one drink won’t hurt.”

///

A half hour later, they were standing outside the State Farm storefront beneath Dean’s apartment. He unlocked the building’s front door and held it open for Castiel to step inside.

“When you said your apartment was close, I was expecting it to be much . . . closer,” Castiel told him skeptically.

Dean let out a short laugh as he squeezed past Castiel. The hallway was too narrow to walk side-by-side, so he led the way towards the back staircase, Castiel behind him. “Okay, so I lied,” he admitted as they passed the wall of silver mailboxes, one of them hanging open and overflowing with junk mail and envelopes stamped as final notice. He looked over his shoulder with a sly smirk. “You regret coming?”

Castiel’s eyes dragged up and down Dean’s face. He said, “No.” And that was kind of a relief.

Dean’s apartment was on the third floor, and it wasn’t much to balk at. There was a living room with an old leather couch, a coffee table where he ate most his meals, and a TV. A small kitchen was practically in the same room, and then there were three doors—his room, Benny’s, and the bathroom. He flicked on the light, and said, “Make yourself at home,” before heading to the fridge.

Behind him, he was aware of Castiel shrugging off his coat and peering around the small space. He definitely wasn’t making himself at home. He was kind of just awkwardly hovering there, actually. Dean didn’t mention it.

“Okay, we got beer and—,” he stuck his head out of the fridge to glance at the shelves over the kitchen counter, “whiskey.”

“Anything you’re having is fine,” Castiel told him.

Whiskey, it is.

Dean got two glasses and poured them a few fingers each. Castiel smiled just a little when Dean offered one to him. He’d been standing by the wall near the TV, where a few framed photos were hung up. Dean watched him take a sip of his drink and then, voice thick, say, “Is that your brother?” He pointed with the rim of his glass to one of the photos. It was of Dean and Benny after a concert, both of them sweaty and in band tees, more than a little drunk, with their arms slung around each other.

“Nah, my roommate,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll see Sammy around the office.”

Castiel nodded. “And your roommate. Is he here?”

Usually, not. Benny worked pretty late every night at the restaurant. And that was a good thing, too, because there was something in Castiel’s voice. If there was any doubt as to why he’d actually followed Dean all the way uptown, it was cleared up right away.

Dean looked him up and down, letting his eyes linger on Castiel’s mouth, a little slick from the whiskey but otherwise chapped and so damn pink. “Nope.”

Castiel moved in a little closer, and Dean could practically feel the empty space tingling between them as heat radiated off their bodies. He bit down on his lower lip, just a quick flash of teeth pulling before disappearing again. His voice was lower, raspier, when he answered, “Good.”

Fuck.

Dean surged forward, capturing Castiel’s lips. Castiel responded immediately, kissing back heatedly as their tongues slid together and teeth grazed. He tasted mostly like alcohol, but there was something else under it, too. Something that Dean wanted to keep on his tongue. He put his free hand on Castiel’s hip and jerked their bodies together, and it made a fucking growling sound come out of Castiel’s throat.

Blindly, Dean plucked Castiel’s tumbler from his hand, their glasses clinking as they knocked together in his fingers, and he set both down on the TV stand. At once, Castiel’s hands were on him, palms dragging hard up Dean’s spine through his shirt. Dean pulled at Castiel’s button-down, sloppily untucking it from his pants. Once it was out, Castiel grabbed one of Dean’s wrists and moved it down so Dean could feel his erection through the fabric. He was already half-hard, and Dean took that as an invitation to knead at his cock.

Castiel broke away from the kiss and bent his neck back to make some pretty great noises up at the ceiling. His hands moved down Dean’s back to grab his ass and squeeze hard. Dean buried his face into Castiel’s neck and breathed in the scent coming off his skin.

“Which—which bedroom is yours?” Castiel asked, voice wrecked.

Dean didn’t bother answering. It would only waste time, and he wanted to be in this guy’s pants now. He quickly led Castiel to his bedroom, and had just enough time to flip on the light and close the door before Castiel was on him again. He slammed Dean’s back into the door and pressed their chests flush together, kissing him hard. His hands were under Dean’s t-shirt, grabbing at his hips, and Dean was running his fingers through the mess of hair on Castiel’s head. Castiel shifted a little as he toed off his shoes, and Dean figured that was a pretty good idea.

When they were off, he slipped his thigh between Dean’s legs and pressed in against his cock, straining against the front of his jeans. Dean couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled at the knot of Castiel’s tie, loosening it just enough to fit it over his head and toss away. His fingers flew down the buttons of Castiel’s shirt, and it was a miracle he didn’t lose patience and just rip the damn thing apart, because Castiel was moving his knee up and down against Dean’s dick, and his hips were circling into Dean’s side.

His hands moved to Dean’s fly, and he undid it, pushing Dean’s pants and boxers down to mid-thigh. Long fingers stroked the sensitive skin of Dean’s inner-thighs, and then moved back up to his hips. Dean’s breath caught, and he pitched his body forward, wanting Castiel to touch him. But Castiel didn’t. Instead, he grabbed Dean by the front of the shirt and yanked him off the door. He pushed Dean’s overshirt off his shoulders, and Dean did his best to fight his way out of it. When it was off, they lifted his t-shirt over his head together. And then Dean was standing there, fully naked, and Castiel was still in his pants.

Castiel stepped back for a moment, eyes scanning Dean’s body appreciatively, and it made Dean a little self-conscious, because the blue of that stare was too intense, like X-Ray vision. It only made his dick feel heavier.

There was a second then—just a quick one—where everything just paused. Their eyes locked, and this weird energy that Dean didn’t know how to put a name to passed between them. But he couldn’t really linger on it, and he didn’t want to, because Cas was crowding back in to press teasing pecks to Dean’s mouth, making Dean chase him whenever he pulled away.

Cas’ hands were on Dean’s sides, and he dipped down to line his collarbone with his mouth. He lapped at the skin, moving down to Dean’s chest and crouching lower to kiss his stomach. And usually Dean wasn’t crazy about when people did that. It was kind of a sensitive area, and a little embarrassing, but Cas was paying it extra attention, and his breath was humid and audible, and Dean thought that was just okay.

His lungs seized up when Cas put his knees on the floor and sunk his fingertips into Dean’s hipbones. He pressed a kiss to the crease of Dean’s thigh, and Dean couldn’t help but to stare down at him, slack-jawed, admiring his shock of dark hair and straight nose and perfect cheekbones. Like he knew he was being watched, Cas brought his eyes up, and Dean found himself trapped under that gaze again.

And then Cas refocused. He lifted one hand off Dean’s hip and wrapped it around the base of his dick, and Dean practically jumped with how good it felt. He’d been aching for Cas to touch him and finally—finally—he was. And he was doing more than that. He exhaled a hitching breath and practically nuzzled his face against the side of Dean’s cock like he’d been dying to do that all night.

He leaned back slightly and wrapped his mouth around the tip, flicking a slow circle around it with his tongue. “Cas,” Dean grunted out, and it was a little hard to find any oxygen. He tried to pitch his hips forward to push himself further into Cas’ mouth, but Cas doubled his grip on Dean’s hip to keep him in place—and he was really strong.

Cas sunk down lower on Dean’s dick, his lips stretching as he took him in. Dean had to skew his eyes shut and knock his head back against the door, because he’d end up coming way too soon if he kept watching Cas like that. His brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on the feeling of Cas’ lips around him, the heat of his mouth, the heaviness of his tongue, the sounds he was making as he took Dean in deeper.

He pulled off with a wet sound, and Dean felt the air leave him in a sound of protest. Cas put his forehead against Dean’s thigh and said, “Not yet.” He placed one more kiss on Dean’s hip before standing back up, and his lips were glistening and face flushed red and he was so damn hot.

“Bed,” Dean managed to say, and Castiel seemed to agree. He pulled Dean into another bruising kiss, their mouths sliding hot against each other, stubble burning Dean’s lips and chin, as they stumbled towards the bed. Cas went down first, falling with an oomph onto his back, and Dean followed. He climbed onto his knees on the bed, and then crawled up Cas’ body, sucking on the skin of Cas’ firm torso. He took his time when he got to Cas’ nipple, licking and swirling his tongue around it.

“Dean,” Cas eked out, and it was just about the most beautiful sound Dean had ever heard. He splayed his hands on Cas’ sides, fingers fitting into the grooves of his ribs, and kept teasing him with his mouth. He reached between them and unhooked Cas’ belt, and Cas lifted his hips so Dean could take his pants off. His dick sat full against his stomach, and Dean didn’t know if he wanted to touch it or taste it more—but there was really only one thing he wanted with a dick like that.

“Cas, you’re gonna have to fuck me,” he said.

Cas picked his head off the bed, eyes wide and pupils blown out, hair sticking in every direction and lips red. His shoulders and chest heaved for a few seconds, and then he said, “You want me to fuck you?” He sounded so damn calm, like they were discussing whether or not it was supposed to rain later.

Dean nodded fast. And a kind of breathless smile came to Cas’ face. It was big and gummy, and it made his entire face shine. Something in Dean’s chest did a weird kind of flop, because Cas was hot, yeah. But that was just adorable.

He retrained his face, brows crumpling. “Do you have anything?”

That was the dumbest question of the century. Dean sat back on his ankles and reached for the top drawer of his dresser. The room was probably no bigger than a coat-closet, and the end of his bed was pushed up against the side of his dresser. For once, he was kind of happy about that. He pulled out the drawer and came back with some lube and a roll of condoms. Cas seemed relieved.

Dean tossed both items onto the bed next to them and draped himself over Cas again. Cas lifted his head to meet Dean’s kiss, and they rebuilt momentum after the brief interlude. Their bodies rolled together, erections dragging, hands gripping and roaming and kneading. It felt so fucking good, especially when one of Cas’ hands left him and he heard the cap of the lube bottle click open. Cas slicked up his hands, warming up the gel, and then his fingers were on Dean’s ass, trailing tantalizingly slow past his cleft and along the tight ring of muscle.

Dean hissed at first from the shock of cold, but he parted his legs to open up to Cas. He had to tear his mouth away and catch his breath when Cas slid one finger inside. Cas worked him slowly, and the low, long moan that came out of Dean’s mouth might have been embarrassing if he thought about it. He could feel Cas’ eyes on his face, his mouth parted distractedly as he watched Dean. He added another finger and Dean bucked his hips into him.

With his other hand, Cas cradled Dean’s jaw, and for a second Dean didn’t know what the hell he was doing. But then Cas lifted his head so they could make eye contact, and his gaze flittered around Dean’s face like he wanted to watch Dean coming undone. Maybe that was weird. Was that weird? Dean had never had anyone do that to him before. It felt a little too personal, but his heartstrings tugged and stretched so taut he thought they might snap in two.

“Fuck, Cas,” he panted, and had to grab on to the blankets just to have something to grip. Cas fucked his fingers in and out of Dean, and Dean started moving his hips back into them.

“Oh my god, Dean,” Cas said, and he had to lick his chapped lips and swallow audibly before continuing. “Dean. You’re going to feel amazing.”

Dean wanted to laugh, because Cas was the one who felt awesome, and they weren’t even actually fucking yet. But Dean didn’t think he’d ever had prep feel this good. Whatever the hell Cas was doing with his fingers, he never wanted it to stop. Except, “Cas—gonna—gonna make me come.”

Cas hummed wryly. “I’ll make you come, Dean.”

Fuck. “Just—Christ. Cas—.” He was whining. He never whined, and he definitely didn’t beg. “Cas, please. Please, fuck me.”

Maybe Cas had wanted him to beg, because that’s when he pulled out his fingers, and Dean gasped at the sudden loss. Beneath him, Cas shifted, and said, “Lay down.” Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He fell onto his back, and Cas sat up to roll on a condom and slick himself up. Then, he rolled onto Dean, fitting himself between Dean’s thighs and placing a warm hand firmly onto Dean’s knee for leverage.

The fact that they were doing this face-to-face wasn’t something Dean had the mental capacity to think about at the moment, especially not when the tip of Cas’ cock brushed him. Cas lined them up, and his eyes flickered up to make contact. It seemed like it was supposed to be brief, just a quick check in to make sure Dean was ready. But it lingered. Dean stared back, captivated, not even blinking. Cas’ eyes were so blue.

And then Cas looked back down, and he pushed his hips forward, sliding his cock inside until he was fully seated. The burn it caused made Dean’s body come alight, and his lungs felt raw and too small. He tried to breathe in, but it was hard to do.

Above him, he heard Cas moaning, “Oh, Dean. Dean.” His body was shaking, obviously restraining himself from snapping his hips back. Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat, trying to wet his mouth. Everything was spinning. He wanted Cas to move.

He jerked his hips a little, telling Cas to get going. Cas must have heard the silent request, because he pulled out slow, almost teasing, and then slammed back in. Dean wasn’t proud of the sound he let out, but he really didn’t care.

Cas worked his hips, fucking in and out, and Dean rolled into every thrust. His hands gripped at Cas' sides, riding the fluid motions of his body. Heavy breaths mixed in with loud sounds, and the noise of the bed beneath them rocking. Dean thought he was saying something, but whatever it was, it didn’t make a lick of sense.

He was close, even closer when Cas changed angles and his stomach started rubbing against Dean’s cock. He hit just the right spot, and Dean cried out his name. Cas was calling for him too as their bodies crashed together. His thrusts were becoming more erratic, and Dean could feel his orgasm building in the base of his spine. When it hit, it was dizzying and nearly convulsive and downright life affirming. He thought, maybe, he came twice in rapid succession.

Cas came soon after, body locking up and mouth falling open and eyes fixing on Dean. He looked like a damn god. A Greek fucking God come down from Mt. Olympus to fuck Dean better than he’d ever been fucked before.

When their bodies slowed to a stop and the last of the pulsing aftershocks ebbed away, Cas let out a heavy breath and collapsed onto Dean’s stomach. His face was in Dean’s neck, pointed nose brushing the freckles there, his hair tickling Dean’s cheek. Dean rested his hands on Cas’ back.

He hated this part, mostly because he never knew what to say. Good job, bud? Or maybe, come again soon? Definitely not, how ‘bout them Yankees. He hated this part because he never knew how to kick the person out; but, the thing was, he was pretty okay with Cas staying.

He ended up saying, “Okay. That, uh—huh.” It wasn’t very eloquent.

Cas picked his head up and looked at Dean, face straight. “Yes. It—.”

“Yeah.” Dean smirked, leaning back on humor, “So, welcome to the Roman Agency.”

Cas rumbled with sudden laughter. “I feel very welcomed, thank you.”

“Any time.”

There was a beat of silence then, and then Cas said, “Should we . . . get cleaned up?”

The air in the room was sticky, and Dean felt like he needed to take a shower, but he absolutely didn’t want to move. “Uh, yeah, probably,” he said, trying to rally himself.

It took another second, because Cas didn’t look like he wanted to get up either, but he picked himself up and sat back on his heels. Dean propped himself up by the elbows, and frowned down at the come on his stomach. His eyes moved to Cas, checking him out outside the heat of the moment. He had a lot more muscles than Dean had originally thought under that suit and boxy coat, and his thighs were thick and lean. His skin was golden in the overhead light, and there was a freckle right over one of his nipples.

Yeah, definitely a Greek God.

After they got cleaned up, Dean slipped into his boxers and Cas put his suit back on, even though his shirt was rumpled and he didn’t bother tucking it in. He folded his coat over his arm, and his cheeks were still flushed with exertion.

“I better go, um—prepare for tomorrow,” he told Dean, and Dean nodded.

“Yeah, sure. You remember how to get back to the subway?”

“I assure you, my sense of direction is very good.”

Leaving it at that, they left Dean’s room, and Dean led him back to the front door. The light in the hallway was flickering, but Cas didn’t mention it. He lingered in the doorway for a moment, and Dean propped his shoulder against the doorframe. He really didn’t want Cas to leave—but that was stupid.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Cas told him.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, look up my number in the employee directory,” he joked.

A warm, closed-mouth smile came to Cas’ face. “I will,” he said, sounding so earnest, and something in Dean’s stomach actually fluttered.

He leaned off the doorframe and wrapped his hand around the wood of the door. “’Night, Cas.”

Castiel turned around to go, and then paused, like he was considering something. He looked over his shoulder, that little smile still glinting his eyes. “Cas,” he repeated, like he was getting a feel for the word. He decided, “I like that.”

Oh, fuck, Dean was in trouble.

He couldn’t get into a relationship. He just couldn’t. He sucked at them. He’d tried once, and it didn’t work out. Besides, he couldn’t get tied down. He had a trip to plan. Any day now, he’d be hitting the road. It wasn’t worth it to start something that wouldn’t last.

Cas walked away, down the hall, and Dean gently closed the front door. He locked it, chained it, and then set his forehead against the cool metal. Part of him wished Cas would come back.

Deciding to shut that down immediately, he went back to his room, yawning. It was too late to shower, so he’d just have to get up earlier than usual in the morning to do it then. Once in his room, he spotted a stripe of dark blue fabric on the floor. He crouched down to pick it up, wincing at the burning sensation in his ass.

He picked up Cas’ tie, and chuckled to himself. For a split second, he thought about keeping it, like a souvenir. If it was anyone else, he might have. He decided to find Cas at work tomorrow and return it then.

///

Dean slept right through his alarm.  He didn’t even remember fumbling with his phone to turn it off, which was impressive because his standard system of waking up was three set alarms on his phone in five-minute intervals and at least four snooze buttons.  When he finally did crack his eyes open and look at the clock, he had ten minutes before he had to leave. He jumped up, threw on some clothes, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and run a wet cloth under his armpits, hoping he didn’t smell too bad.

He didn’t have enough time to process the fact that he’d slept like the dead, without a single nightmare or waking up in the middle of the night; or the fact that there was a hickey blooming dark on his neck.  He definitely didn’t have time for the way his stomach and thigh muscles tightened and protested with every movement.

Christ.  It had been a good night.

He moved out of the bathroom and walked towards the living room, where he’d left his backpack.  Benny was in the kitchen frying up a couple eggs, and Dean had to ignore the way his stomach growled with the need to be filled.  If he had any luck, one of the executives would have a breakfast meeting at work that day and he could steal a bagel.

“Well, well, well.  He has risen,” Benny guffawed from the kitchen.  He shot an amused, shit-eating grin over his shoulder.  “Fun night?”

Dean groaned in a stretching pain that was so close to pleasure as he stood up and threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder.  Still, he couldn’t help but smirk at the reminder. “You got no idea.”

“Oh, on the contrary.”  Benny picked up his mug of coffee on the counter and turned around to face Dean.  “I think the whole building got the idea. Nearly heard y’all down the block when I got in last night.  Cas, was it?”

A bright shade of pink was overcoming Dean’s face, but he recovered quickly.  Who the hell cared who heard him? He didn’t regret a damn thing. “God, Benny, I tell ya,” he said, dragging his palm down his face.  “I think I went blind for a second there. If I thought it was in any way possible, I’d take a damn pregnancy test!” He’d probably have to marry the guy.

Plating his breakfast, Benny said, “Look at you, acting like a blushing virgin.”  Dean rolled his eyes. “Where’d you pick this one up?”

That part was a little more awkward.  Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Work.  He’s new.”

Their apartment wasn’t big enough for a breakfast table, so Benny ate standing up, leaning against the sink.  “You do realize that means you’ll have to see him again?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean mumbled, but he was actually thinking that wasn’t such a bad thing.  He even had Cas’ tie in his backpack and planned to return it, so he was kind of seeking out another interaction.  He realized that he actually really liked this guy. Why not sleep with him again in the future?

As if Benny understood all this, he said approvingly, “How mature.”

“Shut up.”

Dean really didn’t have time for this, no matter how much he was eyeing Benny’s coffee.  He couldn’t be late to meet his new boss. Mildred never really cared if he was late, but Dean didn’t know if the new person would be a stickler.  Probably. Anyone Dick Roman decided to hire into management was probably an asshole.

With any luck, the trains wouldn’t be backed up.

He ended up being a few minutes late, even though he’d practically sprinted the five blocks between the subway and his office.  He waved a quick hello to Cesar behind the security desk as he tapped his ID against the scanner, and had to double over to catch his breath once he was in the elevator.  It was all for nothing though, because when he got to his desk, Mildred’s old office door was wide open, the lights on and voices coming from inside. Fuck. Dean had really hoped his new boss would spend the morning in HR, and he’d be in the clear.  Guess not.

As he took off his backpack, he shot a look at the desk next to his, and Alicia glanced back.  Her eyes moved over the top of her computer monitor to the office, staring pointedly. “He’s already here,” she whispered.

“Yeah, I kinda noticed that,” he grunted back.  He shrugged off his jacket and tried to run his hands through his hair.  He was never very good at first impressions. “How do I look?”

She snorted a laugh at his misfortune.  “Like you just rolled out of bed. Tuck in your shirt.  The dude’s in a suit.”

Dean waved it off.  Most people wore “work” clothes on their first day.  The new guy would learn.

He walked around his desk and paced towards the office door.  From inside, he heard the head of HR’s voice. Naomi said, “Of course, we can switch all this out if you prefer a different set up.  That’s not a problem.” Dean wanted to grumble, because they were definitely talking about the furniture, and it was just like this company to cut back on overtime and freelancers to save a buck and then turn around and waste money on stupid shit for the executives.

But then another voice came from inside, and Dean froze in place, one arm poised to knock on the door as he rounded the threshold.  He knew that voice. Low, rumbling, and just enough to send all his blood running south.

“It’s fine, thank you.”

No.  No way.  He was just imagining things . . .

“Well, let me know if you change your mind in the future, Castiel.”

Fuck!

Maybe Dean could leave.  Maybe he had time. He didn’t even need to grab his backpack.  He could just run and never come back and maybe fake his own death.

He was so caught up in contemplating it, that he didn’t hear the footsteps or the sound of Naomi’s voice getting closer as she said, “Allow me to introduce you to your team,” until it was too late.

Cas practically walked right into him on his way out the door.  Blue eyes, made more electric by the navy color of his suit, latched on to him.  His hair was a little more orderly than it had been last night, but his lips showed the slightest signs of bruising.  Dean had no idea what the fuck to do, especially when Cas’ eyes flickered up and down his face and then went wide, like he’d figured out what was going on.

Behind him, still in the doorway, Naomi said, “Oh.  Mr. Winchester. You’re here.   Castiel, this is your new assistant, Dean.  I trust he can provide you with a warm welcome.”

Dean almost broke out laughing—because, yeah, he’d definitely given Cas a warm welcome, alright.

Cas cleared his throat, and carefully blanked his expression.  “Of course.” He offered his hand for Dean to shake, a little more stiffly than he had last night.  “Dean, was it?” he asked, like he hadn’t been shouting the name a few hours ago.

“Uh,” Dean said, because he was really smooth.  It occurred to him that he should probably shake Cas’ hand, but he didn’t really think skin on skin contact was something he could deal with right now.  Manning up, he took Cas’ hand in what was probably the quickest handshake in recorded history. “Hey,” he managed. He really wished he could tear his gaze away from Cas’, but those stupid blue eyes were pinning him down as if daring him to speak up.

Cas turned to Naomi then, and said, “Actually, Naomi, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with my new assistant before I meet the rest of the team.  Dean will be able to introduce me to them afterward.”

Shit.

“Of course,” Naomi said with a tight smile that she probably thought looked friendly.  “I’ll just leave you to it.” Cas thanked her, and she was off, taking her white power suit with her.

Naomi rounded the corner of the last cubicle in the row and then turned down the aisle, and then when she was gone, Dean felt a cobra-like grip on his arm.  Cas was leaning in way too close to be appropriate, and he growled, “Get inside.” And it was crazy but Dean briefly got his wires crossed and wondered if he should take his pants off.

Cas pretty much dragged Dean into his office and closed the door behind them.  And this was it. Dean was sure. He was about to get fired—because who in their right mind would keep him on as an assistant after last night?  He was about to lose his job, and he was panicking, but the panic was mixed with a slight relief because maybe this was the kick in the ass he needed to live the life he wanted.  It was better this way, anyway. He wasn’t built for corporate life. And going flat broke was better than the humiliating ordeal of working for a guy he’d seen naked.

But Cas wasn’t saying anything.  He had walked to the other side of the office, like he wanted to put as much space between them as possible, and his back was facing Dean.  Dean just watched him, wondering what the hell to do—what to say. Should he quit? Maybe he should quit, just to preserve his pride. But he wouldn’t be able to apply for unemployment if he quit, so maybe it was better to get fired, no matter how embarrassing this entire situation was.

He watched Cas’ rigid shoulders, and the way he lifted his arm up to run his palm down his face before letting it hang at his sides again.  “This can’t be happening,” he said, probably to himself, but it managed to wake Dean up.

“This isn’t happening?” he sputtered.  “No, no—this isn’t what’s happening!”

He’d put different emphasizes on the this’s, and he thought his meaning was pretty clear, but Cas fisted his hands at his sides and wheeled around.  “That’s exactly what I just said.” He was glaring, expression deadly.

Dean shook his head out, hoping this was some crazy dream.  It wasn’t. “Fuck.” This sucked. It really sucked because Dean really liked this guy, and Dean got the impression that Cas had just as much fun as he had last night.  This was just his luck—and that really pissed him off. He couldn’t help that he directed that at Cas. “Why the hell didn’t you say you were the new exec?”

Cas scoffed, eyes flashing like lightning.  “Why didn’t you ask?”

Dean floundered for a second, making a whole bunch of absurd noises that were probably really unattractive, if Cas’ expression was any indication. “When? Before or after you had your fingers up my—?”

“Preferably before!” Cas cut him off, eyes going wide again.

Dean huffed. “I thought you were in accounting!”

“What on Earth gave you that impression?”

“You look like an accountant!”

“What?  How does one—?”

“The suit!”  Dean waved his hand up and down Cas’ body, indicating his get-up.  “And that stupid coat? Saying things like how does one? It screams Mathlete!” Cas’ mouth was in a tight line, and there was a vein in his temple that looked like it was about to burst.  “And I told you I’m an admin. What, you didn’t think to ask which department?”

“I was under the impression you were in the legal department,” Cas shot back, like Dean was the idiot here.

Dean popped his brows, almost offended.  “Do I look like a lawyer to you?”

“You—,” another growl, and damn it he really needed to stop doing that.  “You said your brother got you a job in legal.”

Oh, shit.  “I said my brother was in legal!”

Cas pinched the bridge of his nose, and Dean would have really found this situation hilarious if it was happening to anyone else.  But now, his anger was draining. He let out a loud sigh and said, “Look, you wanna fire me? Go ahead. I understand.”

Cas’ eyes snapped up to him, anger flashing over them, and then something that Dean definitely wouldn’t imagine as sadness.  When he got himself under control, he said, voice softer, “I won’t do that to you,” and Dean didn’t know whether or not to be relieved. Cas put his hands on his sides and hung his head, thinking.  He said, “That would only lead to questions, anyway.”

Dean snorted, because of course that would be an executive’s first concern.  “Well, wouldn’t wanna damage your glowing reputation.”  Maybe this was Dean’s fault. Yeah, Cas was a little young to be an executive, but he had said he’d been promoted to First Lieutenant out of ROTC.  Those guys usually didn’t stick with the service after their time was up, so clearly Cas was pretty good at getting promotions.

Lifting his eyes, Cas said, “It’s best if we just . . . pretend last night never happened.”

Dean really didn’t know if he could do that, especially because his abs still hurt and he still had a hickey and Cas had kind of rocked his world.  But he nodded, agreeing. “Yeah, ya think?”

“Dean,” Cas snipped.  “I’m your boss. I’d appreciate it if you spoke to me with that fact in mind.”

Oh, great, so he was going to be one of those jackass bosses who had an inflated sense of his own importance.  Typical. He’d fit right in around here. “Fine. Whatever you want, Cas,” Dean grunted, because it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t turn it off.

“And I think you should call me Castiel,” Cas said.  “It’s less . . . familiar.”

“Fine.”  Dean could live with that.  At least he didn’t have to call him Mr. Novak.

“This doesn’t have to be weird,” Dean said, trying to convince himself more than anything else.  He swiped his hands through the air horizontally, one over the other. “It was one night. One random hook-up.”

“Exactly,” Cas agreed.  And then, “Which—I don’t normally do.”

Dean swallowed, and his first instinct was the flirt, to ask what made him so special.  He bit that down. “Not really my business, sir.”

“Right.  Of course.”  Cas sighed, and it was a world-weary thing.  “Alright. I have a meeting with Mr. Roman in a few minutes.  Could you gather the team afterwards so I can meet them?”

And Dean guessed that was that.  “Okay.” He could do this. It was no big deal.  It was awkward now, but it hopefully wouldn’t always be.  But, at the moment, all he wanted to do was get out of that office.  He could feel his heart pounding in every pulse-point of his body. His eyes flickered to the door.  “Can I . . . go?”

Cas waved him off.  “Yes—no. Where . . . where’s Mr. Roman’s office?”

Shit.  It’d be easier if Dean just showed him, but that meant he’d have to be around him longer.  He tensed his jaw. He could do this. “I’ll take you.”

Cas nodded, but didn’t look Dean in the eye that time.  He went to his desk and picked up a notepad and a pen, and then gestured his palm out for Dean to lead the way.  Dean turned around and took in a steadying breath, preparing himself to go back out into the world. Cas followed him out the door and down the row of desks.  As they walked, Alicia glanced up at them. So did Mick and Aaron. In fact, they attracted the eyes of the whole department. Dean didn’t look back, and he tried really hard not to blush, even though he was convinced they all knew exactly what was going on.  But that was stupid, right?

As he walked, Cas kept pace, but stayed a healthy distance so their shoulders never brushed.  They stayed quiet, and it was weird as hell. Dean brought him into the reception area, and then to the other side of the floor where the more analytical departments were situated.  They turned down a short hall where the CEO and CCO’s suites were. Their assistants’ desks were next to each other between the offices. Both Jody and Donna looked up when they saw him, and Dean pushed a tight smile.

“Dean, you won’t,” Cas started, his voice a whisper so the ladies wouldn’t hear.  “You won’t tell anyone?”

Dean side-glanced at him.  It was a dumb question. He wasn’t an idiot, but he guessed Cas had no reason to trust him.  “No.”

Cas seemed only marginally relieved.  “Good. Thank you.” And then they couldn’t say anything else, because they’d come up on the two desks.  Both executives’ doors were closed.

Dean plastered on a grin and greeted, “Ladies!  Miss me?”

Donna smiled brightly.  “Oh, you know it, Dean-o,” she said in her nasally Midwestern accent.  Jody was less enthused, but that was just her way. She said, “If you say so, big guy.”

Dean forced a small chuckle, and then turned to Cas.  He gestured out with his hands, spreading his fingers wide as if presenting him.  “This is the new boss. He’s got a meeting with Mr. Roman.”

“Right!” Jody said, standing up.  She leaned over her computer and desk to offer her hand.  “Welcome to the team, Mr. Novak. I’m Jody.”

Cas tucked his pad of paper under his arm to return the handshake.  “Thank you. Please, call me Castiel.”

Donna stood up, too.  “Hi-ya, Castiel. I’m Donna—Ms. MacLeod’s assistant.  Nice to meet cha.”

“Mr. Roman’s ready for you,” Jody told him, and walked around her desk to lead Cas to the office door.  Cas glanced at Dean, looking like he was about to go into battle, which could only mean he’d met Dick Roman before.  He followed after Jody, who knocked on the door before opening it just enough to poke her head through.

“Send him in,” Dean heard Dick say, and then Jody opened the door more.  Cas’ posture went a little straighter as he walked inside, and Dick’s faux-pleasant voice greeted him as Jody closed the door.  Dean almost felt bad for the guy.

As quickly as he could, Dean said bye to the ladies and then turned down the hall.  He tried not to make it obvious, but he was walking faster than normal. He knew he’d promised Cas he wouldn’t tell their secret, but there were a couple people that didn’t apply to—and Dean needed to get it out right now, before he spilled to anyone and everyone who would listen.

He turned in the opposite direction of reception and headed toward the back of the floor.  Power-walking down the aisle of desks, he spotted Sam sitting behind his computer, reading something on his screen.  He ignored the funny looks being thrown his way as he made for his brother. By some sixth sense, Sam must have known he was coming, because Dean was still a couple strides away when he glanced up.  He furrowed his brows. “Dean? What are you—?”

Dean didn’t stop walking.  He leaned into Sam’s desk as he passed it, putting both hands on the white surface.  He muttered, “Poughkeepsie,” and just kept on moving. He had just enough time to register the way Sam’s expression went taut in a mix of surprise and concern.

It was their go-word.  Drop everything. Sam immediately stopped whatever he was doing and got up.  He followed Dean down the aisle, his long legs catching him up in no time. Dean looked around wildly for a secluded nook they could go to.  There was an empty conference room in the corner. Dean went in there, and Sam followed. The wall was glass, so people would be able to see them in there, but it was the best they could do.  This couldn’t wait. Dean closed the door for some semblance of privacy.

When he turned around, Sam’s brows were high up on his forehead, and he was shrugging out his hands.  “Dean? What the hell happened?”

Dean wanted to collapse.  “It’s my new boss.”

Sam’s features rearranged into something fed up.  He dropped his shoulders. “Dude. We talked about this.  No one’s gonna be like Mildred, but you gotta give this new person a chance.”

Dean almost laughed.  He’d definitely given Cas a chance.

He didn’t know how to put this delicately, so he just came out with it: “I slept with him.”

If there were an award for the most facial expression changes in a second flat, Sam would have won it no problem.  His eyes flashed with recognition, and then confusion, and then understanding, and then frustration, and finally landed on stone cold denial.  “What? How? Dean—it’s like, 9:30 in the morning. There’s no way you could have—.”

“Not just now, dumbass,” Dean groaned.  “Last night.”

Sam went silent, but it looked like he needed more of an explanation.  Dean let out a breath. “I met him in the elevator last night. He said he was new, so I told him I’d give him some pointers.  We got some drinks and then one thing led to another . . .”

Sam scoffed.  “What, and you didn’t think to ask him what position he’d been hired for?”

Of course, he’d thought about it—he just hadn’t.  Because he was an idiot. “It didn’t come up!” he defended.

Sam’s brows popped. “Dean, I’m kinda having a hard time figuring out how that’s possible.”

“Well, I'm sorry.  We were a little bit busy!”

Sam shook his head, and let out a breath of laughter, and he really wasn’t being sympathetic.  “You’re an idiot,” Sam said, almost like he was amazed.

Dean pointed a finger in his face.  “Not helping, Sam!” He tried to calm himself down by running his hand through his hair.  “But I can’t get in trouble for this, right? I mean, he’s the one at fault here, isn’t he?  He’s the executive.”

Sam considered it.  “Well, that depends.  Did he know you work for him?”

Dean shook his head.  “He thought I worked in legal.”  Sam looked like he was going to ask why, so Dean cut him off.  “It was a miscommunication!”

“Okay—alright,” Sam said calmly, and Dean really wished he had that level of zen.  “I mean, technically he’s not in the wrong here. It’s a gray area because of his title, but I mean, if he thought you weren’t under him—.”

Dean’s eyes went wide at the phrasing.

Sam clamped his jaw shut, and reworded: “If he didn’t know you reported into him—you know what I mean—then it’s not really grounds for firing either of you.”  But that didn’t mean Cas couldn’t make Dean’s life a living hell. “You should probably tell HR, though,” Sam suggested, and Dean popped his brows because there was no way that was going happen.  “Just in case. You need to cover your ass.” He gestured to himself, “And you’ve kinda put me in a legal dilemma here, Dean.”

Dean just about lost his shit.  “Legal dilemma?” he whisper-shouted.  “I am your brother!”

“Okay, Dean, relax.”

“You relax!” Dean shot back.  He really didn’t think Sam was going to nark on him, but he didn’t need the added worry.  “I am freaking out here!”

Sam pursed his lips, annoyed.  “Do you think your boss is gonna tell HR?”

Dean swallowed hard.  Cas wanted to keep this under wraps, but he could come in tomorrow and change his mind.  But Dean didn’t think that would happen, somehow. “No.”

Sam nodded.  “Okay. Then, maybe, if you both keep your mouth shut, you can sweep this under the rug.” Dean really wasn’t so sure, but he nodded. “I doubt the company wants a sex scandal on their hands, anyway.” 

Dean’s shoulders were so tightly wound, he was getting a tension headache.  Sam reached up and placed his hand on Dean’s arm. “Breathe.”

Dean glared at him for a second, and then decided it wasn’t worth it.  He deflated with a long, exaggerated breath through his teeth. Sam seemed satisfied.

When Sam let him go, Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time.  “Alright, I better get going. Cas—Castiel will be out of his meeting soon.”

Sam nodded.  “Okay. Just . . . try to act normal.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, because all this is totally normal.”  He turned and ripped open the conference room door, and Sam wished him luck before they went their separate ways.

Chapter Text

When Dean got back to his desk, there was an IM from Charlie on his screen from twenty minutes ago.

So??  How’s the new boss?
Saw his employee ID pic in the system.  Seems dreamy

Dean let out a breath.  He wasn’t about to dignify the last part with a response.  There were about a hundred unread emails in his Outlook, but he ignored them in favor of talking to Charlie.  Sam really hadn’t been much help, and he was still about ten seconds from hyperventilating. Maybe she could calm him down.

He IM’d back: Uh . . .

And he waited.

It took a second, but then the message, Charlie Bradbury is typing, popped up below the window.

Oh no
That bad?

Dean glanced around to make sure no one was looking at him.  His senses were on hyper-alert, ready to X out the window if anyone walked up to him.

Usually, he wouldn’t admit this over IM on his business computer, but Charlie had set up his computer so whatever program Frank had created to spy on every employee to make sure they were using their computers for work would skip over him.  Having a best friend in IT had its perks.

I slept with him

Barely two seconds later, his desk phone was ringing.  Charlie’s name and extension flashed on his screen. Damn it.  He wasn’t ready to have this conversation out loud where everyone could overhear it.

He snatched the phone off its receiver.  “I can’t talk about this again.”

“Screw that!  I have questions.  Life or death questions,” Charlie’s shrill voice came over the line with its usual dramatic flare.  “Like—how? When?”

“Charlie—.”

“Spill!”

Dean’s eyes flickered around again, but it didn’t look like anyone was paying attention.  He hunched in on himself anyway and hissed, “Last night.”

“What?” She’d screamed it so loud that he probably didn’t even need a phone to hear her.  His ears started ringing.

“I can’t talk about this right now!”

“Wait, Dean—!”

“Later!  I’ll tell you later!”  He slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

“So, check out the new guy,” someone said to his right.  Dean moved with all the speed of a cobra to hide the IM window.  He swiveled his chair towards the newcomer, pursing his lips and leaning back in the hope that it looked casual, no matter how fast his heart was pumping.

Max was perched on the desk between Dean and Alicia’s stations, his bright eyes on his sister, who nodded eagerly to show she agreed.  “He’s rocking the suit,” she said, fingers still clacking on her keyboard.

“Mm-hm.”  Max shifted, turning his attention to Dean.  “Think you’ll be able to focus with someone like that as your boss?”

Dean huffed and turned back to his computer to distract himself.  He started clicking through his emails. Most of them were junk mail.  “Yeah, right. He’s not that hot.” Lie of the century. Dean was actually surprised he was able to say it with that much conviction.

The twins gave a little laugh, and Alicia teased, “Looks like someone’s in denial.”

“Am not.”

He could almost feel them sharing a look.

“You’re kidding, right?” Max said, almost sounding concerned.  “You? Mr. Hits On Everyone? You don’t think he’s hot?”

Dean glared.  “Sorry, which one of us hits on everyone?”

A grin formed on Max’s face, eyes twinkling.  Then, he held up his palms in surrender and said, “Hey, all I’m saying is—working so closely with him?  Being in charge of where he goes and when? All those late nights in his office?” He dropped his hands to his lap with an audible slap.  “Just let me know when you wanna switch jobs.”

Dean clicked down on his mouse to delete an email with more force than was necessary.  He realized his teeth were gritted, and tried really hard to relax his jaw.

“Hey, Dean?” someone called from the end of the aisle, and Dean was just about ready to snap.  Becky was hovering a couple desks away, looking like she had something to say.

“Becky, I swear to god, if you’re about to tell me how hot the new boss is, I’m gonna start throwing punches!”

Becky jerked her head back.  “What? No! I was gonna tell you the printer’s not working again.  Who can I reach out to about that?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  He hated that question.  Who can I reach out to?   Everyone damn well knew that they were really asking, Can this be your problem now?

“I’ll call IT,” he said, trying to calm down, and trying not to be angry about that fact that he’d technically just gotten off the phone with IT.

“Thanks, Dean!” she said sweetly.  And then, “But now that you mention it about Mr. Novak—.”

Dean groaned loudly and sank into his chair, much to the twins’ amusement.

“Dude, admit it.  He’s fine,” Max pressed.

“He’s our boss!”

“So?  Just because I can’t touch doesn’t mean I can’t look.”

If Dean had to listen to any more of this, he was going to have a heart attack.  Because he’d already touched, and he was finding it really hard not to look. Or to imagine.   “Whatever. Dude’s an asshole.”

Alicia snorted.  “Sounds like every one of my ex-boyfriends.”

Dean glanced over to the end of the aisle, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, because he was suddenly way too parched.  It was at the exact wrong time, because Cas took that very moment to round the corner from the reception area, and his eyes immediately latched onto Dean’s.

Fuck.

Dean quickly looked back at his screen.  He scanned his eyes across it to make it look like he was reading.  Next to him, he was aware of Max and Alicia still chatting, but he couldn’t hear a word they were saying.

And then Cas was standing in front of his desk, and the twins immediately stopped talking to gawk at him.

“Dean,” he said, in the same goddamn voice as last night, and Dean had to suppress the way it made his skin prickle.  “Can you gather the team? I’d like to address them.”

Dean blinked up at him, and he really needed to start reacting more quickly to what Cas was saying—meaning, he had to stop getting distracted by Cas’ lips.  “Yeah,” he said, trying to recover. He ignored the way the twins were looking between them, like they knew something was going on. He stood up and turned towards the rows of desks behind him.  “Yo, listen up!” he yelled, voice booming. All the account managers instantly glanced at him. “Everybody gather round! Time to meet the new boss!”

He looked back at Cas, who seemed both surprised and annoyed, and gave an insolent smile.  If Cas wanted to say anything about his behavior, he kept it to himself. He was new, and Dean knew everyone on their team on a personal level.  (Sometimes too personal.  Most of the time, he felt like he was the department therapist.)  He was comfortable enough not to care about embarrassing himself in front of them.

There were shuffling noises as everyone on the team got up from their desks and walked around the aisle to come closer.  The people in the row behind Dean’s just kind of stood up, some of them leaning on their desks while others folded their arms across their chests.  Everyone’s eyes were on Cas, taking in their new boss.

When everyone was settled, Cas pressed an awkward closed-mouth smile to his face and folded his hands behind his back.  “Alright, everyone. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Castiel, your new ED. I look forward to getting to know each one of you in the coming weeks.”

Dean glanced around at the faces of his team, all of them still staring forward, looking like they wanted to make a good first impression in case Cas’ weird X-Ray stare caught them.  But Cas’ eyes were on Dean—at least, in his peripheries. Dean could feel it.

“In fact, I’d like to meet with each of you individually in the next few days.  Dean will set up the meetings.” Inwardly, Dean groaned. “But if you have any questions or concerns beforehand—or if you’d like you introduce yourself—I welcome you to do so.”

As far as first day new boss speeches went, it was kind of typical.  But Cas sounded genuine enough, so Dean wasn’t about to argue.

And then Cas said something Dean wasn’t expecting.  He clapped his hands together and announced, “I spoke with Mr. Roman, and he’s agreed to let me bring in lunch for the team today.”  There were a swell of excited noises, because nothing boosted morale like free food. “I hope everyone enjoys pizza.” There were some whooping, clapping noises from the group, so Dean guessed they all approved of the new guy.

“I’ll be in my office.  Again, feel free to stop in,” Cas wrapped up, and then he was gone again.

As everyone went back to their desks, Alicia leaned in and said, “That guy’s an asshole?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  It was easy for her to say.  She wasn’t the one who had to order pizza for fifteen people.  It wasn’t really hard, but there were people who were gluten free or dairy free or whatever, so Dean would have to get extra personal pies for them, not to mention the toppings everyone always clamored over.  The added work was annoying. Briefly, he wondered if he could pawn it off on the intern, but Jack hadn’t really been hired for admin stuff. Besides, he’d probably ask a million questions, like ordering lunch was as complex as diffusing a bomb.  It was easier if Dean just did it himself.

“Yeah, but why does he wanna meet with all of us individually?” Max speculated.

“Relax,” Alicia was saying, “he probably just wants to talk about our accounts.”

“Or he’s seeing where he can trim the fat,” Max said, and Dean really hoped he was wrong.  Their team was already so small, and people were bogged down with two, sometimes three, accounts.  They couldn’t afford to lose anyone else. Max looked at him, “You think that’s what it’s about?”

Dean shrugged.  People always asked him shit like that as if he’d ever known a damn thing in his life.  “Better not be,” he grumbled.

Max let out a breath and stood up from the desk.  “Better get back before I’m fired, then,” he said, like he wasn’t one of their top people.  But at least he wasn’t talking about how hot Cas was anymore.

Dean opened a browser and Googled a pizza-to-person calculator, because he’d been doing this for years and he still had no idea how many pizzas was too many for a group this size.  His compulsion was to get enough food to feed an army, but he knew finance would come down on him if the expense report were too high, because everyone in this company was a cheap-ass.  While he figured it out, he saw Andy and Aaron walked up to Cas’ office door and hover there for a second, whispering and peeking in.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “You fellas need something?”

“Uh, yeah,” Andy said, pointing his thumb back towards the office.  “Is he free? We just wanted to say hi.”

Dean fought down the urge to sigh, hoping this open door policy Cas had established wouldn’t last, because it’d just be a pain for Dean.  He’d never minded it with Mildred, but, as everyone and everything kept reminding him, Cas wasn’t Mildred.

He waved a dismissive hand, giving them the okay.  They knocked on the office door, and Dean stopped paying attention when he heard Aaron’s voice making introductions.  Looks like it was Suck Up to the New Boss Day.

The meeting was brief, and soon enough Andy and Aaron were out of the office, whispering to one another as they went back to their desks.  Dean really wished it had lasted longer, because he had to go in there to talk to Cas and he was hoping to stall a little more.  But the sooner he ordered the pizzas, the better, and he wasn’t about to put in a big order to some unsuspecting restaurant with only an hour to spare.

He could do this. No problem. He’s taken on worse.  He could definitely face off with a guy who had a freckle right over his right nipple.

God, Dean hated that he knew that.  Now, that’s all he was going to think about.

He poked his head into the office, raising his hand to rap his knuckles on the door, but he froze midway.  It looked like a bomb had gone off inside. The desk was overturned, and the rest of the furniture was piled up against one of the corners, broken chair legs and bent wood.  The walls had holes punched through them, slates visible behind the decaying plaster. One of them was rubble. The windows were shattered, sharp shards clinging to the frame.

In the weak sunlight that filtered into the darkness, Dean caught a flash of something poking up from behind the desk.  The barrel of a gun. Instantly, Dean’s eyes sought out cover, but there was nothing. He reached for his own weapon strapped around his neck, but it wasn’t there.

Cas stood up slowly from behind the desk, weapon still fixed on Dean.  His camo was caked with mud and crimson, helmet dented. A layer of dirt was tarnishing his skin, but all it did was accentuate the sharpness of his jaw.  His eyes were a striking blue.

Dean tensed.  He had nothing.  No weapon, no cover, no back-up.  Why had he walked into this?

“Dean,” Cas said, but that was all.  He pulled the trigger of his rifle, a deafening crack ringing through the air.  Dean jumped, shocked, hands automatically coming up to clutch his stomach. But nothing happened.  He was alright. He was alive.

Or not.

He lifted one of his hands.  Fresh, sticky, bright red blood covered it, seeping into the lines on his palm.  He wasn’t wearing his tactical vest. A hole had been ripped clean through his field jacket.  His eyes went wide, frantic, as the pain seeped in. None of this was supposed to happen.

“Dean!”

Dean snapped back into focus.  The office was back to normal, bright and sunny.  Dean’s hand was clean. Cas was standing behind his desk, in his normal suit and tie, face pinched with concern, but other than that he seemed completely unfazed by the fact that he’d seen Dean naked.

Righting himself, Dean said, “Hey Cas—tiel,” he just managed to correct.

Cas let out a heavy breath and brought his gaze back down.  He was looking through a stack of papers so big, it could only be a pitch deck for a client.  “Yes, Dean?”

“I, uh,” he hated asking for this.  It was always awkward, but he wasn’t about to put a whole punch of pizza on his own credit card.  He probably couldn’t afford it. “I need a card. To order the food.”

“Of course.”  Cas turned around and moved over to the file cabinet, where his briefcase was sitting.  And, fuck, he either needed to stop wearing that boxy coat or wear it a whole lot more, because his ass looked great in those pants.  They hugged his thighs perfectly and— 

“They haven’t issued me a corporate card yet, but I assume a personal will do?” he asked distractedly as he fished inside for his wallet.  It made Dean’s eyes snap back upward.

He shuffled further into the office.  “Yeah. I’ll, uh—I’ll just expense it.”

Cas pulled out a card from his wallet and walked back to the desk, holding it out.  Dean plucked it out of his fingers carefully and quickly, making sure their knuckles didn’t brush.  He was trying really hard not to look at Cas’ chest where that damn freckle was.

“Thanks,” he said, and didn’t mean for it to come out in a whisper.  He lowered his eyes, and nervously slapped the card against his opposite palm a few times.

“You can keep a record of it for the future,” Cas said, and Dean nodded.  He needed to get out of there. “Oh, and, Dean?”

Dean looked up.

“Are you able to get me a list of all our clients, contacts included, as well as who on our team runs each account?”  Dean hated that question, too. Are you able?  It was code for, Do this ASAP.

“Sure,” he said, trying not to sound defeated.

“And the creatives on each account.”

Damn it, this was going to take all afternoon.  “Okay.” He guessed they were done, and even if they weren’t, he wanted to get out of there before Cas made another ridiculous addition to the request, like adding everyone’s birthdays and favorite colors.  He turned around, facing the door.

And then a thought hit him.  He spun halfway around, legs twisting.  “Hey, uh—you’re not . . . planning on firing anyone, right?”

Cas stared.  There was a pause, and then, “What?”

Dean wondered if he’d overstepped.  “It’s just—Well, some people have been asking me . . . about—ya know, why you wanna meet with them.”  He shouldn’t have said anything.

Cas looked back down at his papers.  “No,” he said, and didn’t offer any other information.  But at least it was a relief.

Dean nodded, more to himself than anything.  “’Kay.” He started walking again.

“And, Dean?”

Damn it.  Dean dropped his shoulders and looked around.  He was basically white-knuckling the credit card now.  Cas was sitting down again, flipping through the pitch deck.  He said, “You were right. About Bela Talbot.”

What?  Dean pinched his brow, and Cas’ eyes swept up to him.

“The head of PR.  Her shoes are very loud.”

Dean honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.  He ended up just kind of staring at Cas, and Cas stared back like he was waiting for a reaction.  He didn’t know how long it went on for, but he was pretty sure he’d never made eye contact with Mildred for this long.

There was a knock at the door, and Dean near enough jumped out of his skin.  He whipped his head around to find a blinding flash of red hair. Charlie. Great.  Like he needed more taunting.

“Mr. Novak?” she asked, peeking inside.

Cas brought his attention to her.  “Castiel. Yes.”

As Charlie walked inside, she gave a half-wave, and Dean didn’t miss the way her eyes flickered to him briefly.  “I’m Charlie—from IT. I was sent down here to help you set up your computer and Outlook.”

Cas sat up a little straighter.  “Excellent. Thank you, Charlie.”

Charlie shot Dean another look as she passed, and tucked her hair behind her ear.  She walked around the desk. Dean really didn’t know if he should stay or go. He felt kind of stupid just standing there, and it wasn’t like she’d need him.  But he really didn’t want them alone together. His eyes flickered to the door, trying to plan an escape that would also make Charlie leave.

Cas got out of his chair, gesturing in offering for Charlie to sit.  She plopped down and rolled it closer to the computer to get to work.

“Do you need me here initially?  I’d like to get a coffee.”

Damn it, no!  As much as Dean didn’t want Cas and Charlie alone together, he really didn’t want to be alone with Charlie.  She’d just nag him—and he would die. “I can get it for you.”

“That’s alright.  I’m capable enough to get my own coffee,” Cas told him, and normally Dean would be over the moon about that, but not today.

“Sure,” Charlie said, like the traitor she was.  She was smiling a little too mischievously at Dean, but she definitely thought she was being subtle.  “I’ll let you know when I need you.”

Cas gave her a little nod and then walked around the desk, giving Dean an awkwardly wide breadth as he moved to the door.  They both swiveled their heads to watch him exit, and as soon as he was gone, Charlie pounced. “Okay, spill!”

Dean groaned with so much annoyance, he had to turn bodily away.  He went to the couch and practically fell into it. “This is a fuckin’ nightmare.”

Charlie multitasked, clacking away at the computer and still managing to make Dean’s life a living hell.  “Yeah, you’ve really outdone yourself this time, bud.”

He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, and put his face in his hands.  Cas’ credit card was warm and flimsy against his nose. He really needed better people in his life—better, more sympathetic people.  Not people who got a kick out of his misery.

Dropping his hands to shrug them out, he lamented, “What the fuck am I supposed to do?  I mean, what am I supposed to say to people? This is Cas, my new boss.  He’s really great in the sack.”

“Aw, you have a pet name for him,” Charlie said.

“Charlie!”

“Alright, alright,” she sang.  And then, her eyes snapping to him like she’d just realized what he’d said, “Wait, how great?”

Dean was about to start sobbing, probably.  He fell back against the couch and sank down low.  He didn’t even know why Charlie cared, anyway; she was lesbian, for crying out loud.  “Really fuckin’ great!” This was the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

At last, Charlie seemed to feel some pity for him.  “Oh. Poor baby.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you hate you.”  Dean pulled a face.  He couldn’t argue with that.

She must have been done berating him, because she fell silent.  That was probably for the best. He had work to do. The pizzas, for one, and he’d probably be there past quitting time putting together that stupid list.  With a gusting sigh, he got to his feet. “Alright, if you need me, I’ll be busy salvaging whatever’s left of my dignity.”

“Noted.”

“Oh, and can you look at the damn printer before you leave?”

“Mhm.”

“Awesome,” which was the exact opposite of what he really meant.  Maybe faking his own death was still an option.

///

“Yeah, it was pretty good.  Can’t say I’d spend twenty bucks on a movie ticket for it, though.  Plus, the price of popcorn. Forget it!”

Gabe put his foot up on the bottom bar of the mail cart, still laden with packages from Amazon and piles of envelopes.  Don’t get him wrong—Dean liked Gabe, but the only thing they ever really talked about was movies and TV shows. Hey, did you check this one out, or, What did you think of the new superhero movie?  Somehow, Gabe always found a way to avoid paying for anything with streaming and torrenting websites that Dean always forgot the names of.

“Alright, I’ll check it out,” Dean said, even though he was probably lying.  He’d already forgotten what movie they were talking about, but he assumed he’d get around to it eventually.  He was just tired, and it was way too early in the morning for Gabe’s enthusiasm. Besides, his eyes kept latching on to Cas through the office door, where Cas was pacing back and forth in idle circles, the spiral cord of his desk phone following him around as he listened to whoever was on the other end.

Cas was the reason Dean hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before—because it turned out the stress of sleeping with his boss made Dean more of an insomniac than usual.

His eyes flickered to his desk phone, where the red light indicating Cas’ line was lit up in a solid red.  And then it began blinking orange as another call came in. Dean was simultaneously annoyed that he’d have to answer it, especially because it was from an outside caller, and relieved that he had an excuse to brush off Gabe.

“Ah, I gotta get this,” Dean said, his hand poised over the phone.

Gabe got the message, and turned back fully to the mail cart.  “No problem-o. See ya when I see ya.” He started off, the wheels of his cart squeaking slightly as he did.

Dean picked up the phone. “Castiel Novak’s office, this is Dean,” he said sunnily.  The words were still a little jarring. It’d become second nature to say Mildred’s name.

“Hey, it’s Jo,” came the voice over the line, a lot more sullen than the faux-bright voice Dean had put on.  Jo was the assistant to the Head of Marketing at Biggerson’s HQ. They’d been Roman’s client for just about ever.

“Oh, hey.” Dean answered, dropping his shoulders as his voice went back to its usual roughness.  Thank god he didn’t have to pretend to be pleasant. He wasn’t in the mood.

“Edgar wants to introduce himself to the new guy.  He around?” Jo asked over the line, and Dean could hear the clicking of a keyboard as she multitasked.

Dean glanced up, catching sight of Cas with one hand on his hip, standing in place now, framed by the doorway.  He very pointedly stopped his gaze from dragging up and down Cas’ long legs and wide shoulders. He was still wearing a suit, which only reminded Dean that he had yet to return his tie.  That’d probably be awkward, but it was burning a hole in his backpack.

“He’s on the other line.  I’ll have ‘im call ‘im back.”

“‘Kay,” Jo said, and Dean really hoped that was it, but then Jo said, “So, how is he?  You like him?”

Cas was leaning over his desk now, jotting something down on a pad of paper.  Dean was immediately drawn to the curve of his ass. Shit.

“Not particularly.”

He could practically hear the eye roll over the phone.  “Of course. Forgot who I was talking to. Dean Set-in-His-Ways Winchester.”

Dean’s jaw opened, offended.  “I’m not—!”

“You’ve had the same haircut since high school.”

How the fuck did she even know that?

“Sam told me,” she explained.

God, he hated when work and life mixed.  He really needed to stop befriending the people who he knew professionally.  But he guessed, if he did that, he wouldn’t have any friends. It wasn’t exactly like capitalism gave him much time to meet new people.

“You’re gonna listen to Sam?  He treats his life like it’s a Pantene commercial,” Dean spat back, and he thought it was pretty clever, but Jo only scoffed.

“Uh-huh.  Have Novak call us back,” she said.  “Oh, and hey—happy birthday.”

Dean grumbled.  He was trying to forget what day it was.  And, from the looks of it, no one on his team had remembered.  Which actually made him feel like a lance had pierced way too close to his heart, but he guessed he got what he asked for.  He didn’t exactly advertise his birthday, and he was the one who kept track of everyone else’s in the department.

Still.  A card or something to show him people cared would be nice, even if he’d just end up throwing it out.

Whatever.

At least it was Friday.  With any luck, he could get drunk, get laid, and leave this whole clusterfuck of a week behind him.

After saying bye to Jo, he opened the shared Excel sheet with Cas’ call log on it and put in Edgar’s information.  There were about three other missed calls on the list already, all from clients reaching out to meet their new Roman point of contact.  Hopefully, Cas wouldn’t be one of those bosses who let the call log fill up without phoning anyone back. That would only make Dean’s life more annoying when they kept calling.

He glanced up again over his computer, watching Cas through the doorway.  He was talking now, but Dean couldn’t hear what he was saying, just the rugged tones of his voice.  He didn’t talk with his hands a lot, which Dean wasn’t really used to. Most people he knew, himself included, gestured so much, the person they were talking to had to duck and cover unless they wanted to get hit by a stray hand.  He guessed Cas had more control than that. And that line of thinking only led to Dean recalling Cas’ steady voice in the heat of the moment, and the way his eyes bored into Dean as he fucked him—and Dean was pretty sure there wasn’t much Cas didn’t have control over.

Dean was having the exact opposite problem at the moment.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring blankly until there was movement in the doorway.  Cas was off the phone, and he was walking out of the office, straight to Dean’s desk. Dean quickly cleared his throat and looked at his computer, attempting to seem busy.  He shifted a little in his seat, too, to quell the arousal pulling at his lower abdomen.

“Who was that calling?” Cas asked him when he settled in front of Dean’s desk.  He put one palm on the wood, leaning into it almost casually.

“Marketing exec from Biggerson’s,” Dean said when he was absolutely certain his voice would sound normal.

“Yes . . . Edgar?”

Dean had given him that list with the names of the clients barely twelve hours ago.  How Cas remembered one random name on it was a mystery. “Yeah. Oh, and Rowena’s office rang.  She wants you to sit in on her creatives’ brainstorming session for the GM pitch. The producers’ll be there, too.  It’s at three.”

Cas nodded, and Dean probably didn’t have to tell him that it would probably run over.  Creative meetings always did. In fact, Dean should just block off the whole rest of the day.

They were done talking, and Cas had another meeting to run off to, but he just kind of kept standing there, looking down at Dean.  And Dean was realizing very quickly that he hated Cas’ scrutiny. It made him squirm.

“Anything else?” he asked, and he probably sounded rude, but Cas didn’t seem to notice.

“Um,” Cas said, suddenly looking downwards.  He drummed his fingers a little on the tabletop.  “I was wondering . . . I know it’s Friday, and you’re probably eager to start your weekend.  But . . .” Dean pinched his brow, wondering if it was crossing a line if he told Cas to spit it out.  And then Cas lifted his gaze quickly and asked, “Do you have any plans tonight?”

It’d actually be really funny if Dean died on his birthday.  His gravestone would have kind of a cool symmetry to it. And, the way things were shaping up, that might just happen, because his heart stopped for way longer than should be humanly possible.

“W-what?”

Cas’ eyes went wide, like he just realized how a normal person might misconstrue those words.  “No, I—I—.” Dean was really fucking glad Alicia was in a meeting, because she’d be all over this if she could witness it.  “I’d like your help learning more about my colleagues,” Cas finally managed to get out, and Dean didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.  “I know I’ll get to know them as I continue working here, but I’d like—You seem to have knowledge which could be valuable. And I—.”

“Don’t know how to talk to people?” Dean supplied, and yeah that probably sounded really rude.

Cas’ eyes flashed for a second, simmering, but then he slouched in defeat.  “Yes.”

Dean snorted.  “So, what, you want gossip?  Like who’s sleeping with—.” Shit!

Cas froze.  So did Dean.  It took a really long time before Cas said, “No, not . . . Their personal lives aren’t my business.  But anything that may help professionally.” Dean wondered if he could say no. He really didn’t want to spend his birthday being socially awkward.  But Cas looked so helpless, eyes big and face pouty, and he offered, “We can order dinner. I’ll pay.”

Dean was always down for a free meal, but he tried not to focus on the fact that Cas had just offered to buy him dinner.  “Sure,” he said, and he knew he was going to regret it immediately.

Or maybe not.  A small, closed-mouth smile formed on Cas’ face, like Dean was his hero, and it made something in Dean’s gut clamp up.  He quickly looked away, his eyes darting to the clock on his computer. “You’re gonna be late,” he said.

“Of course,” Cas agreed.  His hand slid off the back of Dean’s desk, and then he was gone.  Dean breathed out heavily.

The rest of the morning went by in kind of a blur.  The printer was broken again, and Dean briefly considered ripping it from the wall and smashing it on the floor before giving up and calling Kevin in IT.  Cas was in meetings most of the time, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because Dean didn’t have to be distracted by him—out of sight, out of mind.  A curse, because Charlie was trying to find a time to set up his new company cell phone, and it didn’t seem like they’d be able to find a time this decade.

When the afternoon hit, Dean figured he’d step out for a second to get lunch from one of the Halal carts a few blocks away.  The food tasted like vomit and mush, and every time he got it, he wondered why he sometimes got a hankering for it. But it was his birthday, so if he wanted to give himself food poisoning, he was damn well going to give himself food poisoning!  Maybe he’d even walk to one of the nearby parks and freeze his ass off for a while, just so he wouldn’t have to eat at his desk like everyone else for once.

He was picking up his backpack from underneath his desk when a commotion arose from the end of the aisle.  Dean quickly whipped his head around to find Charlie, Sam, and Jess, a full crowd of people in tow, walking towards him, all grins.  Jess was carrying an open box that Dean recognized from a nearby bakery. A single candle was placed dead center in a pie, flame flickering.

“Happy birthday to you . . .”

Everyone on his team stood up and joined in.  Next to him, Alicia was grinning like she knew how humiliating this was.  Dean groaned, rolling his head into it. It didn’t stop anyone. The crowd encroached, still singing.

“Happy birthday, Dear Dean.  Happy birthday to you.”

Dean couldn’t help the smile that pinched his lips as he stood up, a warm feeling seeping into his chest.  He told himself he hated the attention, but he’d thought everyone forgot.

Still, he had a reputation to uphold.  “This is your fault, isn’t it?” he griped, directing it at Sam and Charlie, who both grinned.

“Hey, we didn’t give birth to you,” Charlie defended.

“There’s a card, too,” Jess cut in, nudging Sam with her elbow.  Sam grinned from ear-to-ear and handed Dean a giant envelope. “Come on, make a wish.”

Dean’s eyes flickered to the box.  “Alright, fine. I’ll always take an excuse for pie.”

The people around chuckled, and Dean was about to lean in to blow out the candle, but his eyes caught Cas hovering near the corner wall that led to reception.  He looked like he’d been there for a few seconds, and his eyes were squinted in confusion as he watched the proceedings. They were fixated on Dean.

Belatedly, Dean realized his tongue had darted out to wet his lips.  And he wished he’d never met Cas. He wished Mildred were still there.  He wished he wasn’t stuck in his crap job, and that his car was finally finished, and that he didn’t have to worry about who he slept with.

He blew out the candle, not meaning for the eye contact with Cas to linger.  Cas’ lips parted slightly, and then he looked away. Everyone clapped as Dean cleared his throat and stood up.

“Let me find some place to cut this,” Jess said.  “Hey, Sam, could you—?”

“On it,” Sam said, already turning towards the direction of the kitchen to get some plates and utensils.  If Dean were in a better state of mind, he would have teased them for being able to finish each other’s sentences.

As Jess walked back to the end of the aisle, pie in hand, Dean’s eyes swept back to the corner, but Cas was gone.

“Happy birthday, dude!” Charlie said excitedly, slapping his arm.  Dean turned back to her and pushed a smile. “So, what are the plans tonight?  Drinks? Dinner? Star Wars marathon?”

That sounded nice, and Dean definitely needed a drink, but it also sounded like what they did every weekend.  “Nah, actually, Cas asked me to stay late to help him with something.” He tried to sound more annoyed about that than he really felt.  In truth, he didn’t know how he felt about it—just that it made his stomach slosh every time he remembered.

Charlie’s face fell.  “What? No! It’s your big day!”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “It’s fine, Charlie, really.”  He didn’t really see the point in celebrating another year of absolutely wasting his life, anyway.  Just to appease her, he offered, “We can celebrate tomorrow.”

“I’m holding you to that!”

He was sure she would.  “Now, go get the birthday boy a big ol’ slice of that pie.”

She jumped up and clapped.  “On it!” And then she rushed off.

Dean glanced down at the card in his hands, sighed, and ripped open the envelope.  He didn’t notice Cas coming out of his office until he was practically on top of Dean’s desk.  “It’s your birthday,” he said, voice low and toneless.

Glancing up briefly before returning his attention to the card, Dean said, “Don’t sound too excited.”

He heard Cas suck in a breath, his confused blinking nearly audible.  God, he really was clueless when it came to talking to people. How the hell did he become an executive?  “I just—I meant . . . I didn’t know. When I asked you to stay late tonight. Of course, if you have plans, we can postpone to Monday.”

The card had a cartoon dog on it, which someone probably thought was funny, and it was wearing a bright birthday hat, a cake in its paw.  Dean made a show of opening it up, where about a hundred hand-written messages—all of them basically saying the same thing—were smushed together.  He really wasn’t reading any of it, but he made his eyes move around them. He was too busy trying to slow his heart rate.

It occurred to him that Cas was giving him an out.  Dean could take Charlie up on her offer. He could go out and have fun.  But . . . He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to spending time with Cas.  He just didn’t hate the idea.  It made something like hope strum in his chest—which was probably why he should call the whole thing off and go with Charlie.

He made excuses, telling himself he’d rather get it over with than stay late on a Monday, when he was still recovering from the weekend.

“Nah, it’s cool,” he said casually.  “I’m not really all that into my birthday anyway.”

Cas made an unsure sound.  “Are you certain? I don’t mind—.”

Dean looked up, trying not to seem curt.  “It’s fine,” he said again. “Really.”

At first, Cas seemed unsure, but then the lines on his face eased, and something like a smile crept into his expression.  “Okay, Dean. Happy birthday.” He tapped his fingers on Dean’s desk, and then turned away. Dean’s skin was thrumming. This was a terrible idea.

///

Dean really didn’t know what he’d expected.  He guessed he expected a lot more long pauses and uncomfortable dips in conversation—not just because Cas was his boss, but because having to make conversation with a former one-night stand again was always weird.  But hanging out with Cas actually didn’t suck.

They ordered food from a nearby restaurant, and Dean thought Cas would be one of those executives that eats salads or whatever for every meal.  But he was the one who suggested a steakhouse, and when Dean ordered their way too expensive version of a bacon cheeseburger and fries, Cas told them to make it two.  Instead of using the table, they spread out on the floor in front of the couch, with Cas’ laptop between them, opened up to the online directory on the company intranet.

It was pretty late.  All the lights on the floor were off, with only the multicolored city lights pouring through the wall of windows to illuminate the rows of desks.  He couldn’t hear any noise from upstairs, either, and it looked like even the cleaning people had gone home. Cas was pretty thorough about going through the employee directory, asking Dean questions that, a lot of times, Dean didn’t know the answers to.  He was an assistant, after all. He knew all the company secrets and gossip—the interesting stuff—but they didn’t exactly fill him in on much that actually had to do with the business.

“What about him?” Cas said, clicking on another link that brought up another executive’s profile: a picture, title, company email, and phone number.

Dean shrugged as he munched on a fry.  It was one of those thick ones that were crazy salty.  “Crowley? Guy’s a dick.”

In the blue light of the screen, Dean saw a smirk flicker across Cas’ face.  He’d started to make a game of it, actually: how often he could make Cas smile, and for how long.  He even managed to get a laugh out of him at one point, even if it was low and humming. He was counting it.

“Executive Director of Marketing,” Cas read aloud.  “I suppose that means I’ll get to know him well.”

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, good luck with that.”  Mildred never liked Crowley. She said he was dishonest, and that was putting it mildly.  One day, she’d gotten so frustrated with him, she called him a half-rate snake oil salesman.  And Dean knew no one on his team liked him. They either thought he was an idiot, or they were afraid of him—or both.  Personally, Dean thought he was overcompensating.

“MacLeod,” Cas said, perplexed.  “Is he Rowena’s husband?”

Dean ate another fry, and sucked the salt off his thumb.  He didn’t miss the way Cas quickly turned his face back to the screen.  “Her son.”

“What?” Cas turned back, and his expression made Dean laugh.  “But—she—.”

“I’m told she’s had a lotta work done.”  Either that, or she was immortal.

Cas blinked, processing the information.  “It doesn’t look it.”

Dean only lifted his shoulders.  “Eh, she’s rich. Maybe she’s got a great plastic surgeon.”

Turning back to him, Cas paused for a long time, eyes racking across Dean’s face like he was trying to figure him out.  Dean found it a little hard to breathe. After a second, Cas said, “How do you know so much about the people here?”

Dean shot him a wide grin.  “Told you—I’m nosey. And an assistant.  We talk.”

“And assistants know everything.  I remember,” Cas said, looking back at the computer.  He stretched forward, over his half-eaten burger, and clicked out of Crowley’s profile, scrolling to find another one.  Dean’s eyes trailed the curve of his back as he leaned forward, wishing he could see the muscles moving like water under the thick blazer.  His finger itched to run down Cas’ spine, and he had to press his lips together to stop them from remembering the touch of Cas’ mouth against his.

“More than you should,” he heard Cas mutter, but he didn’t sound mad about it.

Dean titled his head to his side, considering.  “Well. I don’t know much about you yet.” He let that hang in the air, a question.

Cas looked over his shoulder, seeming like he was trying to decide whether Dean was asking because he wanted to know, or because he was just being nosey again.  Dean didn’t know which he landed on, but he said, “There isn’t much to tell.”

Bull.  “Ah, I don’t know about that, Lieutenant.  I’m sure you’re plenty interesting.”

Cas leaned back, apparently forgetting about the employee directory.  He stared at Dean for another long moment before twisting his body to face him.  His elbow propped up on the couch cushion, and he rested his temple on his fist. “What do you wanna know?”

Dean swallowed.  He’d been curious, but he hadn’t expected this to turn into a full-out, all-consuming conversation.  It was best to stay in neutral territory. Crossing his arms over his chest, he asked, “How’s a fighter pilot end up as an Account Manager at an ad agency?”

Cas furrowed his brows deeply.  “Is it really all that strange?”

Was he serious?  “Just kinda a weird career change.”

“Yours is similar,” Cas countered, and he had him there.  But Dean was only there because Sam got him the job. It wasn’t really that much of a leap.

“I’m not an executive.”

Cas sighed out of his nose.  He said, “I double-majored in business and communications in college.  I didn’t have advertising in mind, but after I left the military, it was the first job I was able to get.  And then I got promoted—twice. And then Roman offered me a position. I suppose I just . . . fell into it.”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that weird.  But if he only stayed because he got promoted, he could have done the exact same thing in the Air Force.  “Why’d you leave the military, then? They promoted you, too.” He smirked. “What, your family beg you to become a civilian?”

Cas didn’t laugh.  “No. I don’t have a family.  I grew up in an orphanage.” He said it like it was common, like it wasn’t a sad story.  Dean balked. He hadn’t meant to put his foot in his mouth.

Shifting, Cas leaned forward again and picked up a fry.  He didn’t eat it—just kept swirling it in a glob of ketchup.  “I guess,” he said, breathing out weightily, “there was a time I thought I would stay in the service.  Before I went overseas. But then I returned from my tour and I . . .”

Dean couldn’t see his full face.  Just his profile, the shadows from the computer screen hollowing his cheeks and catching the tips of his hair.

“I had . . . a crisis of faith, you might call it.”

Dean’s eyes lit up in recognition.  He understood—hell, he’d felt it, too, at one point.  You go overseas, told that you’re going to keep the peace, to help people—both there and back home.  You go to protect people. But, most days, it seems like you’re doing anything but. He knew a lot of guys who retired because they were sick of being used as pawns on a board.

Scoffing, Cas said, “Maybe I was right, considering I’ve been out for twelve years, and the war is still ongoing.  But I . . .” He dropped the fry, and picked up the burger, turning it in his hands a few times like he was looking for a place to bite into it.  His voice was low when he said, “I didn’t want to kill any more innocent people.”

An old instinct lurched inside of Dean, telling him to deny it—telling him that all those bombs Cas dropped on bunkers and camps and towns were to kill bad people, evil people.  Not innocents. But that wasn’t completely true. Because civilians always got in the way. Kids. Not everyone who died was the enemy; they were just unlucky.

Before he could react at all, Cas cleared his throat loudly.  He bit into his burger. Mouth full, he asked, “What about you?”

Dean wasn’t expecting that.  He looked up. “What about me?”

Swallowing, Cas said, “I’ve read your HR file.  You graduated West Point.” Dean didn’t know why that felt like an invasion of privacy.  Cas was his boss, he reminded himself. He had every right to that information. It was on Dean’s resume and everything.  “One would think you’d make a career out of it.”

Dean looked down.  He didn’t want to talk about himself.  “Yeah, guess you would,” he muttered. He looked back up, and saw Cas’ eyes were on him again.  The stare was made a little less intense by the fact that he had mayo on his cheek. And, thank god.  Maybe Dean could steer the subject away from where it was headed. “You, uh—,” he said, pointing at his own face.  “You got something.”

Cas blinked.  “Oh, I—.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, nowhere near the smudge.  It was kind of adorable, and kind of nerve-wracking, because Dean so clearly pictured picking up a napkin and wiping it off for Cas.  Maybe he’d even do it with his finger—or his tongue. And Cas could spread out on top of him, their bodies moving in unison—

No.  Enough of that.

“No, not—there ,” Dean said, really hoping he wouldn’t have to help.  Thankfully—and not thankfully—Cas got it.

“Thank you.”

“Jeez, learn some manners, you slob.”

A smile spread on Cas’ face, a breath of laughter going through his teeth.  And then he said, “Anyway.”

Dean’s body locked up again.  “What, anyway?” he said, just to stall.  His voice had gone hard, but apparently Cas hadn’t picked up on that.

“You were explaining why a West Point graduate decided to leave his illustrious military career for the world of advertising.”  He seemed looser when he said it, content even. Hell, even his tie was looser than usual. Dean had picked up on the fact that Cas only really tightened it when he was about to go into a meeting.

He wished he could feel that loose.  He ducked his head. “Nah, it’s . . . I wouldn’t wanna bore you.”

“You could never bore me.”

Dean looked up quickly, and Cas seemed surprised himself.  He quickly amended, “I just mean . . . I told you my story.”

Anger spiked in Dean’s chest.  That wasn’t fair. Dean had only asked him a simple question.  He didn’t ask for Cas’ life story—or about the orphanage, the killing, any of it.  Cas had offered that information. Dean didn’t really feel like he had to share and care if he didn’t want to.  They weren’t friends.

“Why do you wanna know?”

Cas blinked, face falling, like he finally understood Dean’s tone.  “I don’t,” he said, expression shuttering. His voice became toneless.  “I merely assumed it’d be best to know each other, since we’ll be working so closely.”

Dean scoffed without meaning to.  “Yeah, well, you don’t gotta know me that closely.  It’s got nothing to do with my phone answering abilities.”  Maybe he was being a dick, but he couldn’t turn it off. And besides, he was justified.  Cas didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to decide what was allowed, what was professional.  He had no right.

Cas turned away.  He busied himself wrapping up the rest of his food to throw out, apparently having lost his appetite.  The wrappers crinkled under his stiff movements. “Fine. You’re entitled to your personal life. I apologize for asking.”

Dean really didn’t think Cas had the right to give him the cold shoulder, either.  Underneath the anger, some piece of scar tissue flared up in Dean’s chest. He thought they’d been getting along.  Why’d Cas have to go and ruin it?

“I think that will be all for the night,” Cas said, voice still curt.  He slammed his laptop closed and picked himself up from the floor. Dean shrugged out his hands on his knees, watching him with a scowl.

“Look, you’re the one who asked me to stay late tonight.  When I said I’d help you learn more about the people who worked here, I didn’t know I was included in that,” he barked.  “Maybe I wouldda said no if I did.”

Cas went over to the filing cabinet and shoved his laptop into his briefcase.  “Perhaps there are many things we’d say no to if we had all the information,” he said.  His back was still facing Dean, the line of his shoulder rigid.

Dean popped his brows, and he couldn’t really believe Cas had actually said that.  When it processed, he scoffed. “Yeah, maybe.” He was beginning to regret all of this.  It was stupid to think they could just pretend they hadn’t slept together—or that Dean really wanted to sleep with him again.  He should just quit, finances be damned.

But why the hell should he be the one to quit?  He was there first!

He picked himself up off the floor.  “Or maybe you shouldn’t go around sleeping with admins!” he yelled, pointing his finger at Cas’ back.

Cas turned around, the line on his jaw razor-sharp.  “I don’t go around—.”

Dean gave another thick sound.  “Right, right, because I’m so I special.  Gimme a break.”

“No,” Cas answered, tone seething.  He marched up to Dean, staring him down, barely blinking.  Dean hated himself because his eyes flickered down to the bow of Cas’ lips.  “Perhaps you’re in the habit of inviting everyone you meet back to your apartment, but I’m not.  And I won’t have you telling people that I—.”

“Then why the hell did you follow me home?”

That shut Cas up real quick.  His mouth pressed into a hard line, eyes glaring at Dean like he was trying to figure out all the ways to take him apart.  And, fuck, Dean would really like to see him try. Every part of his body was begging Cas to try.

Dean raised his brows, knowing he’d won.  “’Cause you wanted to fuck me, right?”

Cas looked down, expression no less pissed off.

“You still wanna fuck me.”

He looked back up again.

Dean fisted the fabric of the tie around Cas’ neck and yanked him in, crashing their mouths together.  It was barely anything—just a dare—but it sent a rush through him. He pulled away, watching the dazed but defiant look in Cas’ eyes.  “So, what the hell are you waiting for?”

There was just a split second where Dean thought he’d been horribly wrong, and his stomach swooped with the knowledge that he was about to get fired.  But then Cas’ hands were on him, and he was pulling Dean back against his mouth. Dean kissed him back, parting his lips to feel the slid of Cas’ tongue and the heat of his breath.  And Dean wanted to feel his skin on Cas’—and Cas apparently wanted the same thing, because his fingers were flying down the buttons of Dean’s shirt, fumbling to undo them. When it was open, Dean damn near ripped the thing off his body, hearing the fabric snap as he struggled out of it.

As soon as he was free, he palmed off Cas’ suit jacket, and Cas leaned in to keep his mouth moving against Dean’s until the garment was off.  Dean pulled the tails of his shirt from his belt and only unbuttoned it halfway before Cas pulled back and took the thing off over his head, the tie going with it, falling to a heap on the floor.

They took a second to get a look at each other, Cas’ hair already sticking up—mouth and chin slick and red, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in labored breaths.  Dean’s dick was filling up in his jeans.

Cas gave a low, grunting sound from his throat and came forward, one strong hand going to Dean’s chest.  Dean barely had time to gasp before he was shoved against the wall, and Cas pushed their chests flush together.  His mouth was on Dean’s again, kissing hard and fast, his hands roughing up Dean’s ribs. Dean’s fingers were carding through Cas’ hair, getting tangled.  He lifted one leg up to hook it around Cas, pulling their bodies in closer.

Hips aligned, Dean rolled into him slowly, moaning down his throat at the sensation it caused.  Cas pressed back, their bodies grinding lazily into each other. Cas broke away from Dean’s mouth and let out a low moan between panting breaths.  “Ah—Dean. Dean,” he whispered, and his teeth dragged across his lower lip.

Dean’s eyes fluttered as he got lost in the feeling of Cas moving against him.  “Fuck, Cas—just like that.” If he hadn’t been wedged between Cas and the wall, Dean thought he might just collapse with how good it felt.  Eyes still closed, he felt Cas’ lips on his adam’s apple, sucking on the bulge of it as it bobbed under Dean’s every breath. His stubble scratched at Dean’s throat in the best way.  Dean’s hands tightened on Cas’ skin, sinking his fingers in to encourage him to keep it up.

“Cas—make me come.”  He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore.  If they kept it up like this, Cas could probably make him come without even touching him.  “Want you to make me come."

He felt Cas’ hand on his stomach, sliding down his skin to reach between them.  His fingers fumbled with the button of Dean’s jeans, and Dean’s throat went dry in the moment before Cas’ fingers brushed his dick.  He felt like a live wire under the touch, and bucked up into it. He tried to remember not to shout, and ended up biting down on his lip.

Cas swirled his thumb in Dean’s pre-come, spreading it on the sensitive skin before giving him a slow pump.  Dean’s leg tightened around him. He wanted to scream Cas’ name until the whole city heard him. Instead, he shoved his arm down to undo Cas’ fly so he could return the favor.

Cas hissed at the contact, and then his body sagged and he said, like he was relieved, “Dean.”  And Dean realized he’d wanted this just as bad, if how hard he was in Dean’s fist was any indication.  Dean wanted to feel that against him—wanted to feel it inside of him, but he knew he had to settle.

He took Cas out of the front of his pants and gave him a few long pulls, watching Cas’ mouth fall open under the ministrations.  When he let go, Cas gave a growling sound of protest, but Dean only reached into his own jeans and grabbed Cas’ wrist to lift it out.  Cas must have caught on, because he took Dean’s cock out of his pants and slid their bodies together again until he could wrap his stupidly long fingers around the both of them.

Dean wrapped his hand around Cas’, and they started pumping together.  A loud, quickly aborted sound broke out of Cas’ mouth as the two of them worked their hips back and forth.  Dean could only focus on the sensation of the velvety skin of Cas’ dick sliding against his. He felt Cas’ free hand go up to his throat, thumbing at his pulse point and applying just the right amount of pressure.  Dean slid his hand down the back of Cas’ pants to squeeze his ass.

When Cas’ eyes swept up to meet his, Dean’s body started tensing up.  He kept Cas’ stare as his orgasm built up in his body, rolling inward from all his frayed nerve endings and converging in on each other.  Cas kept stroking him through it, whispering encouragements, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face, until his breath became choppy and some of that steely control ebbed away.

Ropes of hot come were on Dean’s stomach and chest, and he actually couldn’t believe it hadn’t shot up to his face with how good of an orgasm that was.  He tilted his head back against the wall and breathed, trying to force oxygen back into his mouth and lungs—and brain.

Damn it.

Damn it!

Slowly, it dawned on him where the hell they were, and who the hell Cas was.  And worse, Dean knew who he was this time.

“Fuck,” he heard Cas hiss, more to himself than anything, and his body heat was ripped away quite suddenly, leaving Dean exposed.  He turned his back to Dean, his solid shoulders rolling and tensing, belt clanging as he did up his pants. He ran his hands through his hair like he was trying to get a hold of himself, and then swooped down to pick up his shirt and blazer.

Hastily, Dean shoved himself back into his jeans and zipped them up.  He ran his palm down his face, and felt like slapping himself. “Okay,” he breathed out, and tried to avert his eyes as Cas shrugged back into his shirt.  A little louder, Dean said, “Okay. This—It’s no big deal.”

Instantly, Cas turned around, eyes dark and lips pressed together.  But his cheeks were still flushed and his hair was everywhere. His shirt was hanging off of him, still completely unbuttoned, and he looked totally debauched.  “Are you joking?” he asked, voice flat.

“No.”  Maybe. God, Dean hoped not.  “It’s—Look, it didn’t mean—.” He licked his lips, trying to marshal his thoughts.  “It was a one time thing.”

Cas snorted bitterly.  “A two time thing.”

Whatever.  Dean waved it away.  “Sure.”

“Dean.”  His voice was like sand against Dean’s skin, raising goosebumps.  “I am your boss. Do you have any idea what we’ve just done?”

He couldn’t help it.  A weak, uncomfortable laugh escaped him.  “Uh, yeah, pretty confident I know.”

Cas rolled his eyes so hard, Dean thought he might have pulled something.  “Not that! You—,” he growled, and turned around again. He hung his head, staring down at the tie in his hand, running his thumb on the striped fabric.  He seemed way too dejected, like he was thinking about quitting, and Dean couldn’t have that. He wasn’t about to ruin this guy’s life. No one needed to know what happened.

“So, it won’t happen again.”

Cas sighed.

Dean stooped down to pick up his shirt, and put it back on.  The come was drying on his torso, but he thought better of asking for a tissue to clean it up.  He’d just have to deal with it. As he buttoned the shirt back up to distract himself, he said, “We were just both taken by surprise yesterday.  And—a lot happened. We just—we needed to get it out of our system, is all.”

He felt Cas look around.  “It is?”

“Yeah, Cas.  Castiel.  Whatever.”  His buttons were misaligned, one side of the shirt hanging lower than the other.  He dropped his arms with a sigh and looked up. “Point is—we can just put it behind us now.

He said it like he was convinced it was true, like he wasn’t ready to put Cas behind him and get it out of his system again.

He forced a smile.  “So, see? All good.”

Cas didn’t seem too convinced.  He glanced Dean up and down like he was willing to try, though.  After a while, he said, “Okay. It won’t happen again.”

Dean was willing to accept that, even if it stung.  It was better this way, anyway.

He went to his backpack by the door and picked up his jacket strewn over it.  He put it on, and then lifted up the bag by one of the straps. Before he could swing it over his shoulder, he remembered something.  Maybe this would be awkward, but it was better to just get it out of the way while things were already fucking awkward.

“Oh, uh, before I forget.”  He unzipped his bag and shoved his arm into it, digging blindly.  Cas watched him curiously, and Dean didn’t let himself think about how cute that head tilt was.  He felt the fabric brush his fingers, and pulled out Cas’ blue tie. “You left this at my place the other night.  Thought you might want it back.” He held it out, letting the ends dangle, and not looking Cas in the face.

Cas hesitated, like it was some kind of trap.  Then, he carefully paced forward and grabbed one end of the tie that was hanging, far away from anywhere Dean’s fingers were.  He snatched it away like Dean might yank it back, and then wrapped it around his fist until his knuckles went red. “Thank you,” he whispered down at it.

“Yeah.”

He still looked so damn disappointed in himself.  Dean felt like shit. He couldn’t just leave him like that, but he didn’t know what to say.  Except maybe, “I stayed because Sammy asked me to.”

Cas looked up quickly, brows pinching.  “What?”

Dean really didn’t want to explain.  It was hard enough saying what he’d just said, but he guessed he could see why Cas was confused at the topic change.  Steeling himself, he said, “We lost our mom about five years ago. Kidney failure. And our—,” he swallowed. He didn’t like talking about his parents.  It still hurt. “Our dad had a stroke when we were teenagers. Me and Sam are all we got left.”

Cas kept looking at him, listening intently, and something sad passed over his features.  His eyes shone with it. He still looked like a mess, and Dean chest ballooned tightly at the sight of him.  He was too good looking; it wasn’t fair. Dean didn’t need that right now, especially with how awful he was already feeling.

“Guess I didn’t want Sam to lose anybody else.”  Dean blinked a little too rapidly, and tried to smile to hide it.  He shrugged, giving a forced breath of laughter. “Just his luck, he got stuck with me.”

Except, that wasn’t true anymore.  Sammy had Jessica now, and it was only a matter of time until they got married.  And then Dean would be the third wheel. Maybe he should get out while the getting’s good—or maybe he just wasn’t that smart.

The expression on Cas’ face changed to something Dean couldn’t really pinpoint; but it was genuine, he knew that.  Cas said, “Better to be stuck with you than alone.” It was a shitty compliment, and it probably should have been offensive.  But Dean heard undertones of something else hidden in the words. They ran deeper than anything Dean could allow himself to examine.

He turned to leave.  “’Night, Cas.”

Cas nodded once.  “I’ll see you Monday.”  And that was a relief. At least neither of them was out of a job.

Dean left before Cas could change his mind, and he didn’t allow himself to stop moving—not for a second.  He didn’t even want to wait for the elevators. He took the stairs to the bottom floor, and said a quick, distracted goodnight to the night security guard before pushing through the revolving door.

Outside, the air was crisp, and the instant sounds of chatter of the people on the sidewalks and the honking horns of the perpetual gridlock filled him up.  He could smell roasting peanuts from the nearby cart, and the gritty smell of smog from the cars’ emissions and the subway steam rising from the grating. He had half a mind to walk all the way home, but he couldn’t do that.  It’d take him hours. He was exhausted, and he thought he might actually be able to sleep that night. But he didn’t want to. His fingers twitched at his sides, urging him to keep moving before he had a full-blown panic attack.

He turned quickly in the direction of the subway station, and managed to catch the train right before the doors closed.  He’d sprinted the last few feet, and his breath was a little choppy—but that was good. It was fine. It gave him something else to focus on.  Something that wasn’t Cas.

Cas’ eyes.  His soft voice when he told Dean he’d rather have him around.  The way Dean’s chest clenched, even though he didn’t know why.

He didn’t get off at his usual stop, but took the train a few more avenues uptown.  The street was empty when he got above ground, nothing but old delivery trucks lining the cracked streets of the graffiti-covered warehouses.  Somewhere in the distance, he heard rap music playing. He kept his head down, and headed to the storage facility a few blocks away.

The night guard was at the desk, and Dean checked in with him before heading out back to his storage container.  He unlocked it, and rolled up the door. The Impala’s silver grill flashed in the green lighting of the caged-in overhead fluorescents.

Dean moved into the container and ran his knuckles over the cold metal to say hello.  He went to the tin workbench, littered with tools and rusted parts that needed replacing, and flipped on the halogen light.  It burst on, stinging his eyes and making him have to blink away the flare burned into his retinas.

He picked up a lug wrench and turned towards his car.  She was in pretty good shape now, but there was still plenty that needed to be done before she was road ready again.  She really had rusted with disuse way too much while he was overseas, waiting for him to return home like a devoted spouse.  He’d get her fixed up.

Just a few more months.  That’s all. Just a few more months, and he’d be free.

Chapter Text

Two art directors were sitting across from Dean at the long polished table of the conference room.  The room was packed, people having pulled in chairs from other rooms to fit around the table while others stood up along the walls, jotting down notes and balancing laptops and coffee mugs.  A team of creatives was at the front of the room, talking about their presentation for the GM pitch.

It was mid-February, and after weeks of think tanks and brainstorming sessions, the teams were running their ideas by the executives.  Rowena had all her teams working on it, because it was a big account, and if they won it, it’d be a lot more money in Dick Roman’s bank account.  Not that any of the grunts would see much payout, but they still worked day in and day out. They’d been in the meeting all morning, and Dean had been hoping there’d be a break for lunch.  His dreams were shot down when Rowena told everyone they’d be bringing food in.

At the rate they were going, they’d probably have to bring in dinner, too.  Because, so far, the executives seemed unimpressed with the ideas; and even Dean knew none of them were good enough to bring to the client.  The morning was a bust, but hopefully there’d be a gem in the afternoon.

As far as why he was there, he had no idea.  He was just an extra body adding heat to the stuffy room.  He had to keep himself from nodding off, which wasn’t an easy feat between the droning voices and the heat pumping in through the vents.  He woke up only marginally when, next to him, Cas pulled on the knot of his tie. He was just as bored as Dean was, even though he had a pretty good poker face.

Cas was the only reason Dean was in the meeting and not at his desk.  “To take notes.” Like any of this was noteworthy. Dean was starting to think the free food wasn’t even worth this torture.

One of the art directors across the table leaned into the other and whispered something.  The second grinned and laughed quietly, her eyes on Cas. When the first leaned away again, she glanced over, and Cas must have known he was being watched, because he briefly returned the gaze.  The art director smiled flirtatiously and tossed her hair over her shoulder, but Cas had already redirected his attention back to the presentation.

Dean didn’t.  He scowled in the girls’ direction, an ugly feeling clawing at his chest, even though he tried to ignore it.

Over the last month, he’d tried to ignore a lot of things.  It was pretty tough to do when he worked so closely with Cas—but Dean was nothing if not a professional when it came to stomping down his emotions.  That didn’t mean his stomach didn’t jumble up whenever Cas stood too close, which he did a lot; or that his throat didn’t close whenever he made eye contact with him; or that he didn’t catch himself staring at Cas’ lips at least once a day.  It just meant he buried all that the moment it reared its multiple Lernaean Hydra heads.

And life went on.  Cas was actually a pretty good boss, even if he was hard to read.  He’d get frustrated easily, and more than once, Dean earned himself a violent eye roll and a snippy retort.  Some days, he was really closed off, too, and didn’t want anything to do with Dean; others, like today, he barely allowed Dean to leave his side.  He was smart and sharp and actually had a pretty weird sense of humor. He loved to teach, and he seemed to take Jack under his wing when most executives wouldn’t give an intern the time of day.  He knew everybody’s name; and it seemed like everybody wanted to follow his lead.

Dean liked him.  Really liked him.  And he was trying to find a reason to not like him.  Every time Cas got into one of his moods, Dean thought he’d found his reason—but Dean was no ray of sunshine himself, and Cas’ surliness only reinforced his outlook on the guy.  He tried to push Cas; to tease him too much, to argue back, to be flippant about every little thing. Cas would only sigh in exasperation, or give him a very pointed “Dean,” or just straight up ignore him.  And Dean thought maybe Cas reluctantly liked him, too.

But he didn’t want to examine any of that.  And he definitely didn’t want to think about the times when Cas was gone for a week or days at a time, traveling to a production shoot or to meet with a client across the country, and Dean was left behind.  Or how Dean’s heart leapt into his throat whenever Cas’ name appeared on his caller ID to check in while he was away. Or how Dean couldn’t sleep a wink at night until Cas was back.

He ignored it, and he got on with his life, and he worked on his car.  And he convinced himself that Cas was just his boss, right up until the moment he saw Cas again the next morning.  Cas with his dumbass little smile and the lines under his eyes and chapped lips.

The two creatives ended their presentation, and Dean realized he hadn’t taken a single note on it.  He blinked back into focus, his pen gripped a little too tightly in his hand. The art directors were facing the screen, clapping politely along with the rest of the group.  Dean glanced towards the people standing along the wall, catching Max’s gaze. Max rolled his eyes boredly, and Dean raised one brow in agreement. He moved to return his eyes to the screen, but he ended up looking at the back of Cas’ head—the swirl of his hair, the way it curled behind his ears.

At the front of the room, Rowena leaned forward to address the group.  “Well, then,” she said, voice tight. “Shall we see one more before lunch is served?”  She didn’t comment on the last presentation, which meant she probably hated it. If there was ever a time to zone out, Dean was glad he’d picked the right moment.

The next team, comprised of a skinny, dark haired man and a wild-haired, bearded one, got up to hook their laptop up to the monitor.  Dean thought their names were Ed and Harry, but he didn’t pay too much attention to them.  They always seemed to stick together, and whenever Dean had the misfortune of running into them, he always thought they were nerds—but not the good kind like Charlie.  The douchebag, dweeb-type nerds that lived in their mom’s basement and hated on Brie Larson for not showing cleavage in Captain Marvel.  And Dean never had a problem telling them that to their faces.

As they set up, Cas swiveled in his chair, his knee brushing with Dean’s under the table.  Dean tensed, but Cas didn’t even seem to notice. He leaned in slightly, his face so close to Dean’s that Dean had to make a quick decision on what feature to focus on—his right or left eye, his nose, his lips.  Dean’s gaze ended up ricocheting from one to the other.

“Am I the only one beginning to think this is a waste of time?” Cas whispered, and Dean could feel his breath on his face when he spoke.

He quirked a smile at the words.  “What d’you mean? I’m having a grand old time.”

Cas didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes sparkled in acknowledgement of the joke.  And then they lingered a little too long on Dean’s face. Dean felt his ears heat up under the stare, and his lips tingled to lean forward.  He’d forgotten where they were until the creatives up front started talking, and Cas quickly ripped his eyes away. He swiveled his chair back to face front, and his shoulders were a little more rigid than before.

Dean looked down at his notebook, face buzzing with shame.  He quickly glanced up at Max to make sure he hadn’t seen anything, and thank god he seemed to be focusing on the presentation.  Then his eyes dropped back to the art directors, and they were scowling at him now. He really didn’t blame them. Most of the women, and some of the guys, around the office had a crush on Cas; and even the straight guys admitted he was handsome.  It was a nightmare.

Dean tried really hard not to clear his throat to get himself back under control, because the room was quiet, and he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself.  But the lump right behind his adam’s apple was really uncomfortable. He ignored it, and shoved it all down. Like always.

“If we can have everyone’s attention, please!” Ed called out like he was a bad car salesman.  “We’re ready to begin.”

Rowena already seemed unimpressed.  “Well, get on with it!”

Dean glanced down at his notes, deciding whether or not this presentation would be worth his hand cramping up.  He wanted to drop his pencil on principle. At the front of the room, Ed cleared his throat. Dean brought his eyes back up.

“Picture this,” Harry said, stepping forward.  “You’re living your best life—the one that would make ten-year-old you say, ‘Hey, I wanna be just like that guy.’”

“But you are that guy—in the future,” Ed interjected.

“We’re talkin’ Bill Gates money.”

“Babes hanging off your arms.”  

“A mansion in the Hamptons . . . and the Caribbean.”

“But there’s only one thing you don’t have.  And you want it. Bad.”

“Real bad.

“Well, gents, we’re here today to tell you how to get it.”

Silence hung in the room, everyone’s attention glued with anticipation to the two men at the helm.  Harry clicked a button on his laptop, and the overhead screen burst into life with the title card of a presentation.

How to Make Your Boss Want to Sleep with You (Again)

“How to Make Your Boss Want to Sleep with You,” Harry recited.

Ed held up one finger like he had an important point to make.  “Again.”

“By Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spangler,” the other added.

Dean’s pen firmed in his grip, ready to jot down whatever notes he had to.  This was unbelievable. This presentation was exactly what he needed. His eyes flickered briefly to Cas, who was still watching the presentation with mild interest.  Dean had no idea how he wasn’t more excited about the topic.  

His focus returned to the front of the room when the slide changed, and Ed stepped forward, “With this three-step program, you’ll have a sure-fire way of getting your boss back in bed, no problem.  For a novice? Give it four to six weeks, tops.”

“Or bottoms, if that’s what you’re into,” Harry added.

“Or bottoms!” Ed agreed.  And then, to the group, “But for the masters?  Well—cut that time in half. Hell, cut it by one fourth!  Dare I say, you could be sleeping with your boss on the reg’ by the end of the week.”

Harry clicked the laptop again, and the screen changed.  

“Step one,” Ed said, pointing behind him at the screen.  “Play hard to get.”  

“Now, we know what you’re thinking.  ‘Ed and Harry—this seems counter-intuitive,’” Harry explained.  “But, trust us, it’s the essential first step. Think about yourself.  You walk into a bar—some hot lady is sitting there, all by herself, sipping on a tequila sunrise.  Right away, all the other babes in the room are fighting for your attention—.”

“Boy, I know what that’s like,” Ed said with a exaggerated roll of his eyes.  

“But that hot lady isn’t giving you the time of day.  You go up to her—ask her if you can buy her a drink. She brushes you off.”  Ed shook his head for dramatic effect as Harry continued to speak, “She’s just not going for it.  That means you should back off, right?”

At the same time, they both shouted, “Wrong!”

Dean furrowed his brows.  He didn’t really think that was right.  If a girl wasn’t interested, she wasn’t interested.  No harm, no foul. But what did he know? These two were the experts.

“She wants you to keep trying, and she’s even hotter now that you have to work for it,” Ed said.  “Well, same rules apply here. The less interested you seem, the more your boss will want you.”  

“It’s basic evolutionary science,” Harry said.

“Proven fact,” Ed claimed.

Dean glanced around.  Everyone, including those two art directors, was furiously scribbling down notes.

“Step two,” Harry said, and Dean’s eyes snapped back up.  “Act slutty.”

“Aw, yeah!”

“This builds on step one, and balancing the two is a delicate art form,” Harry explained.  “You wanna make it look like you’re not trying, like this is just the way things are.”

“For example,” Harry said, moving towards the table to pluck a pen right out of someone’s hand.  “You might want to give them the old Dropped My Pen trick.” He held his arm out at full length, the pen dangling precariously between his downturned fingers.  He let it drop with a small thwack to the floor.  In a staged high-pitched voice, he let out a gasp, which he covered with the tips of his fingers, and said, “Oh no!  It seems I’ve dropped my pen!”

With a flourish, he leaned over slowly to pick it up, his ass sticking out.  Playing along, Ed said in a deep, masculine tone, “Dear god, would you look at that ass!”

Both of them dropping the act, Harry stood up again, and put the pen down on the table.  “We learned that from Legally Blonde.”

“And we’re both manly enough to admit that.”  

“Sure are.”  

Ed turned to his partner and said, “Say, Harry.  Why don’t you tell ‘em some other ways to act effortlessly slutty in the workplace?”  

“Can do, Ed,” Harry said.  “You know that thing they call Water Cooler Talk?  Well, my friends, now it’s Water Cooler Flirting. Bonus points if you spill water all over your white shirt.”  

“Wet t-shirt competition, anyone?”  

Dean glanced down.  He was wearing black.  Maybe that was his first mistake.

“And never be afraid to show some skin!” Harry stressed.

“Mhm.”

“The more the better.  Get that cleavage out, ladies and gentlemen.”

There was a dramatic pause, like the room was holding its breath.  Dean’s pulse was pounding. When Ed spoke again, he said, “And finally—step three.”  The screen changed. “Make yourself more desirable.”

“And we’re not talking about a haircut and a new skincare regimen,” Harry said.  

“No, we’re not.  We’re talking stuff,” Ed said.  “You wanna be up on the latest fashions, the latest tech, the latest everything.  Money is not an issue here, understand?” He ticked off on his fingers. “We’re talkin’ the new iPhone, designer clothes, and—most importantly—,” the screen changed again to reveal a showroom of cars.  “A bangin’ ride.” 

“And everybody knows the only truly bangin’ rides are produced by GM,” Harry said.  “I mean, who looks at a Caddy and thinks, ‘Man, no way I’m sleeping with that guy driving it’?”

“And it’s another proven fact—.”

“Proven.”  

“That Chevy Impalas are irresistible.”  

Dean’s brows popped with interest.

“Particularly the ’67 model.”  

Awesome!  Dean’s got that one covered already.  He looked at Cas again, who seemed as indifferent to the presentation as ever.  He was the only one in the room unaffected.

“Lots of room in the backseat for sex,” Ed told them.  Dean could picture it now: Cas on top of him, the windows fogging up, Zepp on the radio.  God, it was perfect.

“So, to conclude,” Harry said, flipping the slide again.  “If you want your boss to sleep with you—again—all you need to do is follow these three simple steps.  Go get ‘em, playas.”

“Thank you,” Ed said.  The room erupted into a standing ovation.  Dean just stared, eyes blank and jaw open. God, all of this was so simple.  Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

“Interesting idea, gentlemen,” Rowena said, voice breaking through the din.  Dean snapped back. Up front, Ed and Harry had finished their presentation that, from the looks of the last slide, had something to do with a cartoon bunny mascot.

Rowena’s voice was tight with annoyance.  “Lunch, anyone?”

Cas swiveled his chair again to shoot Dean an exasperated look, as if heaven couldn’t even help them now, and then placed his palms—long fingers and all—flat on the table to pick himself up.  Around them, there was a shuffling of chairs and people stood up and bottlenecked at the door, eager to get the food that had been set up in the reception area.

Dean glanced down at his notes, where the three-step system was outlined in bullet points.  He looked around quickly, making sure no one had seen him, and ripped the page from his notebook.  He crumpled it up, and ripped it into little pieces for good measure, and then tossed it in the trash on his way out of the room.

///

The meeting went on until close to 4 PM, and they were no closer to a pitch than when they started.  As the rest of them left, shoulders sagging and Dean’s arms laden with a million printed out pitch decks, Rowena made the creative team hang back.  The conference room door swung closed, and not even the soundproofing could contain her shouts as she berated the team. Dean almost felt bad for them, but his mind was swimming and he still had tunnel vision, and his fingers were twitching with pent up energy; so, he didn’t feel too bad.

“God, I need a nap,” he groaned as he and Cas walked back to their side of the floor.  They were side-by-side, shoulders knocking as they moved.

“That was very,” Cas said, voice exhausted, “grueling.”

Dean snorted.  “Grueling? Cas, it was excruciating.  I’d rather get maced than sit through that again.”

Maybe he was too tired, but Cas didn’t pretend to get up in a huff about that.  “I tend to agree.”

Dean wasn’t done ranting.  He’d kept quiet the whole day, but now that he was able to voice his thoughts, he didn’t hold back.  “I mean, fuck, I could do better than that!”

That time, Cas turned his head towards him, one brow arching in a way that Dean couldn’t look at directly without burning up inside.  “Can you?” he challenged.

Dean tensed his jaw.  No, he couldn’t—but he had to save face.  Trying to backtrack, he said, “I’m no creative but . . . It’s a car, right?  Sure, it’s a new age hunk’a plastic—but it’s a car. Give me one hour with my Baby and I’m sure I can spit out a few ideas.”

Cas blinked at him, seeming thrown.  “You have a child?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

“What?  No. My car.”  Had he never told Cas about his car?  They rounded the corner, and started down the aisle of desks towards Cas’ office.  “I’m refurbishing her.”

“It’s a classic car?” Cas asked thoughtfully.

“Yeah.  I really never told you about her?”

Cas shook his head.  Dean didn’t know what to say to that.  He could talk for hours about the Impala, but he doubted Cas wanted to hear him gush.  And, even if he did, Dean thought he should hold back. It was better not to get that close.

Outside the office, Cas turned to face Dean fully, and Dean stopped abruptly.  He shifted the weight in his arms to bring one hand up and rub at the back of his neck.  “Well, perhaps we should use that insight,” Cas suggested.

Damn it.  Dean didn’t want to think about the last time Cas had asked for his insight—or the time before that.  Actually, maybe it was a pattern for them.

Cas nodded back towards his office.  “Come inside.”

Damn it!  Dean felt like he’d dug himself into a hole.  In a last-ditch effort to get out of this, he said, “You have another meeting.”

Cas sighed through his nose, eyes flickering with annoyance.  “Push it to tomorrow. I can’t sit in another meeting today.” He turned around and went into his office.  Dean blanched after him, brows popped. He was about to make a total ass out of himself.

As he moved further into the office, Cas shrugged out of his blazer, and Dean looked absolutely anywhere besides his broad shoulders beneath the stretching fabric of his shirt, the wings of his shoulder blades visible, hints of tan skin pressed against the white.  Okay, so maybe Dean was looking.

He cleared his throat and told himself to keep his head down as he followed Cas to the small round table in the corner of the office.  Cas sat down in one of the chairs and pulled his tie even looser, then undid the top button now that he wasn’t under the scrutiny of his superiors.  “Shut the door.”

Fuck.  Dean did as he was told, then busied himself by spreading out the various packets from the creatives’ presentations.  There were one or two that weren’t so bad, and he flipped through the pages looking for them.

“Uh, what about that one with the eagle?  That was kinda funny, right?” he blathered as he kept looking.

“Rowena thought it was gauche,” Cas reminded him, and how could Dean forget?  She’d laughed out loud at the idea, and not in the way that particular team was going for.

“Yeah, but it was the only one that didn’t really focus on selling the product.  I mean, isn’t that kinda the point? Don’t focus on the product; just get people to remember your brand?  Like Gieco—or, hey, Progressive. Why’s it always insurance companies? Whatever—Where the hell is that thing?”

“Dean.”

Dean stopped shuffling and glanced up.  Cas’ face was expressionless, calm. It only made Dean more nervous—about everything.  Being alone with Cas. Getting put on the spot. Putting himself in a situation that would make Cas realize how much of a dumbass he was.  Opening his big, fat, stupid mouth.

The papers flapped as Dean let them fall back down.  When Cas was certain Dean had stopped his rant, he sat back in his chair, eyeing him.  “Tell me about your car.”

Dean swallowed to wet his throat, and then smacked his lips a few times.  He tried to figure out a way to tell Cas about it without nerding out. “1967 Chevy Impala.  Four-door.  Sedan.  Black.”

That really wasn’t what Cas was asking, and Dean knew it.  “How did you come upon it?”

Dean’s eyes opened a little wider in question.  “What?” He never came upon it. It’d always been there—forever.  His whole life. It was a part of his history, part of who he was.  He’d come home from the hospital for the very first time in that car; so had Sam.

“Did you find it on the Internet?  Or perhaps at a used car lot?” Cas clarified.

“Oh.”  Duh. “It was my dad’s.  He got it right before I was born.”  He remembered the story his dad told him about walking into that secondhand lot.  It was funny. “Mom wanted him to buy a minivan.” Thank god, he hadn’t listened.

“That would have been the safer alternative.”

“Yeah, but I can’t really see a Winchester choosing the safe route.”  He shrugged. “She fits right in with us, I guess.” He didn’t really know what to say after that, and Cas was still staring at him expectantly, so Dean took out his phone and scrolled through his photo album.  “This is her,” he said once he found the most recent picture. He turned the phone towards Cas, who inspected it before lifting the phone from Dean’s hand to get a better look.

Something swirled in Dean’s gut, like he wanted Cas to be impressed.  He picked up his pen and started tapping it against the papers just to distract himself.

It took a long time before Cas said anything.  “You don’t see things like this anymore.”

Dean’s eyes swept up to him.  When he showed people pictures, most of them said things like, oh, or wow, or it’s beautiful, or oh my god I love a man who can work with his hands.  But Cas hit the nail on the head.

“Exactly,” Dean agreed, trying to play off the way his heart had quickened, the way he’d stopped tapping the pen.  “That’s why I couldn’t let her rust. I mean, Sammy loves her, too, but he’d never really been interested in cars. I was the one always helping Dad fix her up.  So, after I retired—you know, I thought . . . can’t let her die.”

Cas was still looking at the picture.  It prompted Dean to keep going, even if he was blathering.  He could have told Cas anything: about the way the hood had discolored, or the rust so bad that it punched a hole in the roof, or the snapped belt, the bent chassis, the cracked carburetor, the torn upholstery—all fixed now.  What he ended up saying was this: “Once she’s up and running again, I’m gonna take her on a cross-country road trip.”

Cas looked up, away from the phone.  Dean immediately felt his pulse trip, because he really was just a stupid asshole.  Mildred, he could talk to about taking time off, quitting his job, hitting the road.  But Cas was his boss now. It probably made Dean look bad to say stuff like that.

But Cas didn’t scold him, or tell him it was irresponsible, or say he needed someone more committed to the company as an admin.  He said, “That’s an admirable desire.”

Jesus Christ, could he stop talking like that?

Dean shifted a little uncomfortably.  “Most people’d call it reckless.” When he looked back up, Cas’ eyes were doing that sparkling thing again, the ghost of a smile on his face.  Dean was quickly finding he had a bodily response to that look, and every time Cas did it, it tucked itself away inside of Dean like he might need it for later.  But the place it resided wasn’t strong enough, and kept cracking open. It kind of felt like heartbreak in his chest.

“Anyway,” he said, looking down the pile in front of him on the table.  “Not sure if that helps. There’s probably not much you can do to sell that.”

“Right,” Cas responded, like he’d just remembered why they were there.  He placed Dean’s phone down, and Dean let his hand move away fully before swiping it off the table and pocketing it.  Cas crossed his arms on the table and leaned into them, brow set in focus. “I’m not so sure, though. Many people love their vehicles.  There may be something there.”

No, he wasn’t getting it.  Dean shook his head. “No, it’s not—love or whatever.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dean didn’t know how to make him understand.  It wasn’t that he didn’t love his car. Hell, he was obsessed with it.  But it was more than that. He couldn’t picture his life without it, or his parents’ lives, or Sam’s.  It had been there before him.  It would be there after him. And, in a way, in the after, he’d still be around.  Like a piece of him was welded into the metal. A piece of his family.

“I mean, most car ads talk about safety and holiday sales and whatever, right?” he tried to explain, picking up one of the pieces of paper.  This one had a mock up of the car they were trying to sell driving through a dense forest path.  It was kind of typical, not really anything new or groundbreaking.  He gestured out with his hand, swirling it in the air by the wrist a few times as he considered, “And then you got the ones that kinda try to appeal to a feeling.  Like—home or family, or . . .” He licked his lips, trying not to let any emotion clog his voice as he added, “freedom.”

“Okay,” Cas said, dragging out the word like he was prompting Dean to go on.

“Yeah, right—so all that stuff is kinda played out,” Dean said.  He flipped over the paper to the blank side and leaned in towards it.  His back was hurting a little from sitting all day, and it protested as he stretched the muscles out at the angle.  He uncapped the pen with his mouth, holding it between his lips as he started to draw.

“Personally, when I’m working on my Baby—Like, when I know I got something right and the engine’s all coming together,” he continued around the pen cap, “it kinda feels like more than a machine.  I just hear her purring and it’s like . . . like she’s a part of me.” He kept on sketching the rough outline of a classic 327 engine. “Like, whenever everything in her is working right, so am I.”  This was getting a little too deep. “Or whatever.”

Cas seemed to consider it.  He asked, “So, your angle is that your car should be an extension of your body?”

Without looking up, Dean shrugged.  He added a little shading, just for optics.  He didn’t know if this was going to help any.  He wasn’t a creative, and he definitely wasn’t an artist.  “Sure, yeah, but not just your body. Like—all of you. Like . . . I dunno.  Your soul.”

It took a second, but Dean realized that Cas hadn’t answered.  The only sound was the scratching of the pen on the paper, and even that stopped when Dean froze.  He could feel Cas’ eyes on him, blue and intense, and he was almost afraid to look up. Cas was probably looking at Dean like he was an idiot—but it didn’t feel like that.  The gaze was heavy, but not judgmental. Dean didn’t know what he’d find until he returned the stare; and, even then, he wasn’t really sure. Cas was kind of looking at him like he’d never seen him before.

Dean tried not to blush, but he could feel the back of his neck heat up.  “I dunno, just an idea,” he excused. “You don’t have to bring it to the team or anything.  I’m just spitballing.”

“Dean, I like the idea,” Cas said, and it made Dean’s eyes shoot up again.  He realized his mouth had gone slack, but only because the pen cap fell out and bounced onto his knee before hitting the floor.  He also realized that Cas was contemplating his lips.

“You’re good at this.”

Now, Dean was really blushing.  “Nah, I just know cars,” he said.  He didn’t want Cas to get any ideas about his abilities.  This was a rare thing. But still, the compliment made something balloon in his chest.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Cas said, and there was a hint of a sly smile in his tone.  “I bet there are lots of things you’re good at.”

Dean didn’t follow—Wait, no.  Yes, he did. He’d said that to Cas in the bar on the night they met.  Shit, was Cas flirting with him?

Dean didn’t really know what his face was showing, but his heart was thumping in his chest.  Cas stared back at him in a few moments of silence, and when he leaned in over the table, Dean thought he was going in for a kiss.  He felt himself leaning forward, too.

But then Cas dipped his head to look at the sketch of the engine.  “May I?” he asked.

Dean blinked, his senses realigning.  “Uh,” he said, and then, “Oh, yeah—yeah, sure.”  He handed the paper over, and watched as Cas squinted down at it.  His brow was furrowed in concentration, a line forming between them.  That stupid, cute little line . . .

“You’re an excellent artist,” Cas said after what felt like forever, and if he complimented Dean one more time, Dean swore he’d pop a boner.

He played it off with a chuckle.  “Thanks.”

“I mean it.”  Cas placed the paper down carefully.  “Do you mind if I bring this idea to Rowena?”

Dean didn’t know why that made his breath trip in excitement.  It wasn’t like he’d get any credit for the idea. The creatives would take it and make it their own, and the head honchos would get more money in the bank.  He’d still be answering phones. What did it matter to him? Cas probably wouldn’t tell them it was his idea, anyway.

“Sure.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know you thought it up.”

God, how could someone get such a high-up title and still not know how things worked?  Still, the gesture made something slide snuggly into place inside of Dean.  “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas glanced up at the clock on the wall, and said, “It’s well after five.  Maybe we should both head home.”

Usually, Dean was rushing out the door.  But, tonight, he didn’t want to leave. Mostly everyone would be cleared out—and Dean liked that, just him and Cas alone together.  But he shouldn’t like it, especially after last time. It was dangerous. He swallowed it down. “Yeah, okay.”

They put the papers back into messy piles and condensed them into one.  Cas made sure Dean’s sketch was on top, like he didn’t want it to get rustled or bent.  Like it was something precious. As he put the pile on his desk, Dean hauled himself up from his chair.  He twisted his spine from side to side to loosen it, and then stretched his hands over his head, getting lost in the feeling of his joints realigning after the long day.

When his eyes came back into focus, he realized Cas was staring at him, eyes on Dean’s midsection.  He quickly looked away, but not quick enough. His hands were fists at his sides like he was constraining himself.  Dean’s skin hummed, dying to close the space between them, to tell Cas to look as much as he wanted, to get his fill touching Dean.

No.  No that was a bad idea, no matter how dry it made Dean’s throat.  It was late. They were both just tired. And that was even worse, because Cas’ hair was a mess and his tie was loose, and his eyes were lined with dark circles, and he looked really soft.

Dean looked down, and he noticed the pen cap was still on the floor.  He scooped down quickly to retrieve it, and paced to the desk to put it on top.  He’d expected Cas to step out of the way, or to hold his hand out for the cap, but Cas just stood still, eyes scanning Dean’s face as he approached.

“We forgot this,” Dean said, and his voice was definitely not thick with desire.

Cas barely even blinked.  “Oh.” He was still just standing there, right in Dean’s path.  But Dean guessed he could just as easily sidestep and have more than enough room to put the cap down.  But he was an idiot who wanted any excuse to be as close to Cas as possible, so he reached around him, their chests nearly touching as Dean leaned in.  He could smell the scent lifting off Cas’ skin and hair in the proximity. There was no way it took this long to put something on a desk, and Dean honestly didn’t know if he was deliberately moving in slow motion or not.

There was a light, hesitant pressure on his hip, and he had to bite down a smile, because Cas was touching him.  He could feel his pulse in his thighs as his body became fine-tuned to Cas’ presence. Next to his head, Cas’ breath snagged.  Dean turned his face into him, brushing his nose against Cas’ hairline. The hand on his side firmed its hold.

The phone rang.  A sudden, shrill intrusion.

Cas quickly removed his hand, like he’d touched fire.  Dean sprung backward, and belatedly realized he’d let out a gasp.  Neither of them could look the other in the face. Damn it. They’d been doing well these last few weeks.  Sure, there were a lot of lingering glances, but it wasn’t that big of a deal.  Dean didn’t know how far this would set him back in the lust department.

The phone rang for a third time.

“You want me to get that?” Dean asked, voice rough.

Cas sounded a little huskier than usual, too, when he said, “No, I’ll—,” he didn’t finish his sentence before quickly reaching over his desk and grabbing the phone.  “Hello? Oh, Donna. Hi. No, I’m still here. Of course, I can speak with her.”

Dean kind of just hovered there until he could catch Cas’ eye.  When he did, it was a fleeting thing, and he tried not to turn too red as he held his hand up in a goodnight wave.  Cas pressed his lips together and held his palm up, too. He looked like he might say something, but then the expression on his face shifted, and he said into the phone, “Hello, Rowena.”

Dean turned around and let himself out of the room, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him.  He wanted to lean back against it and collapse, but he settled for running his palm down his face. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself.

The rest of the team had gone home, leaving the row of desks empty.  Dean walked to his station to grab his backpack, and distracted himself from his own thoughts by pulling his phone out of his pocket.

There was a text from Sam from a few minutes ago: You still here?  I could use a drink.

Dean could use several drinks.

He typed back: Meet u in reception

Sam was already there when Dean arrived, and he took one look at him and asked, “What the hell happened to you?”  Dean had no idea what he looked like to prompt that reaction, but it raised his hackles.

“Nothing.  Can we go?”

Sam shot him another wary look before they both turned towards the elevators.  As they walked to the bar, Sam told him about Jess’ parents being in town for the week, and that he was supposed to meet them at dinner tomorrow tonight.  Dean tried really hard to focus, but his mind kept straying—to Cas’ hands, the scent of his hair, the way he’d leaned in way too close to Dean’s face during the meeting.  It was making Dean a little dizzy.

He realized Sam had led him to the same bar Dean had taken Cas on the night they met, which wasn’t too much of a surprise.  It was the only decent bar in the area, and most people from work hung out there. But Dean hadn’t been there since that night, and it was a little jarring, especially when he walked in and the table in the back where he and Cas had sat was empty.  He quickly steered them to the bar instead, and plopped down on a stool. He knew Sam was giving him a weird look, but he thankfully didn’t ask any more questions.

When the bartender came up to them, Dean immediately said, “Maker’s.  Neat. Make it a double.”

Sam furrowed his brow, his eyes bouncing swiftly to the bartender to say, “I’ll have a Stella,” before looking back to Dean in that perplexed, concerned puppy-dog way of his.  “You sure you’re alright?” he asked delicately.

Dean sighed heavily, and dug the heel of his palm into his eye to stifle the headache coming on.  “Yeah. Long day.” He dropped his arm, blinking the shadows out of his eyes and focusing on Sam. “I was in that pitch meeting.”

Sam’s expression twisted.  “What? Why?”

That was the question of the hour.  “You got me.” And then, “Cas. He wanted me to take notes or something.”

“Take notes?  Don’t they like—kill a million trees printing out the decks for everyone?”

That would be Sam’s concern, instead of the gossamer string Dean’s sanity was currently hanging by.  “Yeah.”

“Then why—?”

Dean knew he’d brought it up, but the conversation was getting on his nerves.  They could talk in circles for hours about why Cas did half the things he did when it came to Dean.  “Because he’s weird,” he interrupted. “He’s a weird—strange dude.”

The bartender came back with their drinks, setting them down in front of them on cocktail napkins.  Dean picked his up immediately and took a gulp, wincing at the burn of alcohol. Sam had snorted out a laugh.  “I dunno, Dean. Everyone seems to like him.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  Of course everyone liked him.  What wasn’t to like? Except that Cas was a total dick sometimes and way too much of a flirt all the time.

“I mean, I only talked to him like—once.  But I liked him,” Sam said before taking a sip of his beer.

Dean froze, his glass halfway to hip lips.  Neither Sam nor Cas ever mentioned having met.  He turned towards his brother. “When’d you talk to him?”  He didn’t know why he was feeling so hostile. It wasn’t the same kind of territorial jealousy he’d felt towards the art directors, but it was something.  It felt too much like Cas was bleeding into his personal life, which was decidedly not a good option.

Sam only shrugged, nonchalant.  “I dunno. A week ago, maybe? I think he had a meeting with Brady.  He must’a seen my name plaque, and asked me if I was your brother.  And we just talked.”

“Just talked,” Dean repeated dryly, staring him down.  He didn’t like any of this, especially because Sam knew what had happened between them.  He doubted either of them would have brought that up in casual conversation, but it was still weird.

Sam let out a huff of laughter, brushing it off.  “Yeah. He was kind of awkward, but he seemed nice.”  Yeah, that was Cas, alright. “What’s the big deal?”

Dean groaned.  He nearly smacked his head against the top of the bar.  Maybe if he did it hard enough, he could knock himself into a coma.

“How have things been, anyway?” Sam asked, and it was starting to feel like an interrogation.  Was Dean about to get waterboarded?  “Since, you know . . . what happened before he started working here?”

Scratch that.  Dean would rather get waterboarded.

Cas’ lips flashed into his mind.  The pressure of his hand on his side.  His eyes dragging up and down Dean’s face.

Dean took another long pull of his whiskey.  “Peachy.”

The humor faded from Sam’s expression.  He said, “Wait, do you—You still have feelings for him?”

“What?” Dean startled.  “No!” No feelings.  Definitely no feelings.  He didn’t have a stupid crush or anything.  “I don’t have feelings for Cas!” he defended, sounding disgusted, because he was.

Sam pursed his lips, agitated.  “Fine. Whatever. At least you haven’t slept with him again.”

Dean took another sip, and tried to act casual.

“Dean.”

Dean winced, and slid his eyes over to Sam, who was staring him down with preemptive horror.

“Right?  You haven’t slept with him again?”

How to best break this to him?  He considered lying, but Sam would see right through that.  Without really knowing how he was going to justify himself, he said, “Well . . .”

Sam scoffed like he was grossed out.  “Come on. Man.”

“It was an accident!”

“How do you accidentally sleep with someone, Dean?”

“Would you keep your damn voice down?”  Dean glanced around the bar to make sure none of their coworkers were around.  He didn’t see any familiar faces, and the bar was pretty loud anyway, so he was probably in the clear.  Except with Sam. With Sam, he was in deep shit. That was evident by the look on his brother’s face when Dean turned back to him.

“When?” Sam demanded.

Dean sighed.  He took another sip.  He’d needed it for this one.

“Dean—!”

“On my birthday, alright?”

Sam’s brows shot up, and he took about ten full seconds to process that.  When it sunk in, he let out another phlegmy sound. “This is bad, Dean.”

Frustration spiked.  He really didn’t need Sam on his case about this.  Cas already occupied about eighty-percent of his every waking—and sometimes sleeping, when he managed it—thoughts.  “Oh, really, Sam? Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t get mad at me because you screwed up—,” Sam spoke over him.

Dean kept talking, too.  “Thanks for pointing that out.”

Sam made a humming sound like he was about to keep arguing but decided not to.  He clenched his hands, then loosened them, and turned fully on his stool to face Dean.  “Look,” he said, voice firm and face way too compassionate but also kind of patronizing, “All I’m saying is—you gotta make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Shooting him a warning look, Dean asked, “Why, you gonna nark on me to HR?”

Something on Sam’s face shifted, and he looked a little wounded, which immediately made Dean feel like a guilty asshole.  “No, Dean, come on. I’m just . . . I don’t want this getting out. It’d be bad. For you.” He lifted his hand in an aborted gesture, and added, “And for Cas.”

It’d probably be worse for Cas, Dean considered.  He didn’t want that. He didn’t want Cas to get hurt, or to lose his job, just because Dean couldn’t keep it in his pants.  He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass, and swirled it around a few times but didn’t take another sip.

“And maybe it’s time,” Sam started hesitantly, and Dean thought he knew what he was going to say, “you got back out there?”

Dean glared up at the ceiling.  He really wished Sam hadn’t gone there.  He hadn’t brought it up in a year, and Dean really thought he was in the clear.

“I mean, it’s been like, nine years since you and Lisa broke up.”  Dean tried not to visibly cringe at the sound of the name. “And you’re not . . . It’s not like you’re going off to war again, Dean.”

Another sip, and Dean barely felt the burn.  It’d been a long time since he thought about Lisa.  For a while, he thought she’d been the one. He thought he could be something like a dad for her son.  But then Dean was sent overseas again, and every time he managed to call Lisa and Ben, she would get more and more closed off.  At first, she said she’d been okay with his job.  But, when push came to shove, she wasn’t. Their calls got less frequent while he was away, and they became shorter, and then when he got home, Lisa told him she couldn’t do that again.

And he hadn’t blamed her.  He still didn’t. What had he been thinking?  Trying to start a life with someone, have a family of his own, when he could ship off one day and never come back?  It wasn’t fair to them. So, he broke it off with her.

“So, what are you so afraid of?” Sam asked.

It was a loaded question.  Dean really didn’t know the answer to it.  He told himself it was because, one day, he’d be leaving again.  Maybe not to go fight—but still. Even if that dream wasn’t tangible, even if it wasn’t a reality, it could still happen.  He felt like his life was still transient, even if it wasn’t anymore, even if he’d been in the same city for five years now.  He had no idea how to sit still, and he didn’t want to subject anyone else to that. He wasn’t worth the effort, anyway.

He’d leave, inevitably.  He’d run away. Before they could walk out on him, because they would if they knew what was best for them.

He drained the last of his drink in a big gulp, and fought the way his spine rattled under the taste.  His head was getting a little numb. It really had been a long day.

“I’m tired,” he said, putting his glass down on the bar and standing up.  “Think I’m gonna head home.” He ignored the sad look Sam was giving him as he took out his wallet and pulled out a few bills.

“Dean,” Sam tried again, and Dean wanted to tell him to shut up.  To mind his own business. And he wanted to tell him that he understood Sam’s concern.  That he loved him for trying. But Dean didn’t want him to try anymore. And that was the problem.  They were both too bullheaded to hear the other side of things.

“Next time’s on you,” Dean told him, pushing a grin to his face as he put the money on the counter.  Sam’s beer was still only half-drank.

Dean walked past him towards the door, and slapped his hand onto Sam’s shoulder on the way, silently conveying that he wasn’t mad—just tired.  “’Night, Sammy.”

Sam looked down at his lap.  “Yeah.”

Dean squeezed his shoulder before letting his hand fall away.

Chapter Text

It was 1:46 PM when Dean got the IM from Charlie.

There’s food in the kitchen.

“Oh!  Awesome!” he said aloud.  He’d been working on Cas’ travel itinerary for his trip to visit the LA office, and he’d been on the phone with the company travel agent for about a half hour at that point.  Their systems were down. Again. Which meant it took about a hundred years to book a flight and a couple of car services. Dean usually tried to be outwardly patient whenever that happened, because the agents were always really apologetic, and it wasn’t their fault their systems sucked.

But they also couldn’t see him mouthing curses, rolling his eyes, and trying to stick his pen through his eye—so he figured there were some things he could get away with.

The agent had him sitting on hold, without any sign that she was coming back any time soon.  He was in the clear to step away for a second. Especially for free food. He loved it when executives had lunch meetings.  They always ordered huge platters of sandwiches and cookies that they never finished. Maybe, if he were really lucky, it’d be tacos.

If he didn’t get upstairs soon, all of it would be gone.  Once people caught wind of leftovers, they descended in like vultures, and the carcass was picked clean in about ten seconds flat.  He wouldn’t be surprised if he got a black eye one of these days.

Next to him, Alicia glanced over in mild interest.  “What?”

“Food in the kitchen,” he told her.

She gasped, and immediately stood up in a grand gesture that seemed to say loud and clear, fuck whatever I’m working on.  Dean stood up, too, and they both walked towards the aisle.  As they went, Alicia called, “Max.” A few rows back, he glanced up.  She waved him over. “There’s leftovers in the kitchen.” He scrambled to his feet at once, and so did a few other people who had overheard.  Pretty soon, Dean was leading a small parade towards the staircase in the reception area.

As he walked, he pulled out his phone to text Sam, because he was an awesome brother.

Dude.  Kitchen.  Food.

The answer came back in just a few seconds, as Dean was ascending the stairs: Shit.

And then: In a mtg.  Make me a plate?

After Dean texted him back a thumbs up emoji, he glanced up, and saw Cas on the steps walking in the opposite direction.  He had a notebook tucked under his arm, and his head was cocked to the side in confusion. Of course, his eyes immediately latched onto Dean—because that’s just how it always went.

“Dean,” he said, halting to the left of him.  Dean sidestepped to the other side of the stairs so the people behind him could get through.  He hoped one of them would save him some food, but he doubted it. From a few steps down, Dean had to look up at Cas, who asked, “Why is half my team stampeding up the stairs?”

He said it like it was somehow Dean’s fault—which, okay, it kind of was.

Dean grinned from ear to ear.  “There’s food in the kitchen.”

Cas blinked at him a few times, the lines of his brows deepening as if the explanation only caused more confusion.  Dean didn’t have time for this. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Oh, I—I already ate lunch.”

Dean snorted.  “Yeah, so did I!  Your point?”

That was the thing about meeting leftovers: they were always put out after lunchtime, and you never knew when they were going to bless you with their presence.  Dean wasn’t going to let something like already having eaten make him miss out on this miracle of an opportunity.

He slapped Cas’ arm playfully, “Come on!  We’ll miss out.”

Cas looked down at his arm, squinting like he’d just been violated.  And then he looked back at Dean, and it was the damndest thing, but the longer he looked, the more the corners of his lips tugged into the barest of smiles.  Dean forgot all about the food for a second—but just one second.

The stairs now empty, he walked around Cas, and Cas turned to follow him.  “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about.”

Dean couldn’t help the way his stomach dropped at the words.  But he couldn’t remember doing anything wrong. It’d been weeks since that whole mishap in Cas’ office after the pitch meeting.  Dean had tried to keep his hands to himself since then, and to stop himself from being alone in a room with Cas for too long. And they had the whole “personal space” talk a little while ago—which basically just consisted of, “Cas, personal space,” when Cas was leaning in too closely over Dean’s shoulder as Dean tried to help him with an Excel formula.  (And that had just been the blind leading the blind, because he sucked at Excel. He’d lied on his resume when he said he was proficient in it, assuming “proficient” meant, “I know how to Google shit.”)

The point was, Dean had absolutely no idea what Cas wanted to talk to him about.

“Uh, okay.  Shoot.” They arrived at the kitchen, and there was already a hoard of people squeezing into a makeshift mosh pit around the counter.  Dean frowned.

“I think I’d like to take the team somewhere for an outing after I return from LA.”

Maybe Dean shouldn’t have automatically assumed that whatever Cas had to talk to him about was bad; because that actually sounded pretty awesome.  Or, it would, if he didn’t know what Cas was about to ask immediately after: “Can you help me with that?”

The weird thing was, as much as Dean hated the prospect of extra work, he didn’t really mind this task.  It would be fun. Not the planning, god no, but the actual outing. They all deserved a little fun. Only, “Really?  You think finance is gonna approve that?”

Cas shrugged with all the innocent of someone who’d never gotten into a screaming match over the phone with someone in finance regarding a four-dollar cup of coffee from Starbucks on an expense report.  “I spoke with Mr. Roman. He seemed open to the idea. Of course, I’d like to get him a better idea of what it’ll cost.”

As Cas spoke, a few people walked by with paper plates piled high with gourmet sandwiches, chips, fruit, and brownies.  If Dean didn’t get up there soon, the only thing left would be cantaloupe drowning in water at the bottom of a bowl. He pushed further into the crowd, getting jostled.  Cas stayed back momentarily, eyes flickering over the chaos before them, and then moved after Dean.

“Okay,” Dean said, still believing this whole thing was too good to be true.  Dick probably told Cas they could do it to look good, but the idea would be DOA when push came to shove.  Speaking of pushing and shoving, Dean did just that to the people around him. “What’d you have in mind?”

Cas blew out his cheeks.  “I’m not sure—Oh, excuse me,” he said to the person who had just knocked into him.  He seemed to scrunch inwards to make himself as small as possible, which was probably a smart tactic, and continued, “That’s partly why I’m coming to you.  You know what this city has to offer better than I do, just as you know the team. Maybe there’s a group activity that might appeal to them?”

The crowd was thinning out around them, and Dean managed to pick up a couple paper plates from the stack.  At that point, it was slim pickings, but by some godsend there was an oatmeal cookie left. Dean snatched that up before anyone else could get it, because Sammy always liked those.

“Yeah, I can look into a few things,” he said as he worked.  Cas had gone quiet. His eyes were back on the crowd, like he didn’t understand why this had attracted so many people.  His lips were in a thin line, and he breathed out heavily as more and more of their coworkers departed.

Dean put a roast beef sandwich and something that looked like a mini quiche on his plate.  There was some salad left, which looked like it had beets or something in it, so he put some on Sam’s plate.

Cas, who hadn’t picked up a plate, brought his attention back to Dean, and then he said, “Dean, are you sure you need that much food?”

Dean’s head snapped up, almost offended.  “Hey! Asshole.”

Cas didn’t apologize.  He just said, “I know free food is enticing, but you did make yourself two plates.”

Dean rolled his eyes, suddenly self-conscious.  Okay, so he was a little soft around the stomach area—and Cas knew it.  Dean tried not to remember the way Cas had laid kisses to his stomach. “One’s for Sam,” he said.  He picked up both plates, and cleared out.

“Oh,” he heard Cas say.  It took a second, but then Cas turned to follow him.  When he caught up, Dean saw he was munching on a blondie.  “Let me know what you come up with, and the cost,” he said, still chewing.  After swallowing, he added, “I think it could be a good bonding experience for the team.”

Dean almost laughed.  That was such an executive thing to say.  Team bonding experience.  It was made even funnier by the fact that Cas actually meant it.

“What?” Cas asked, like he knew he was getting the shit taken out of him.

Dean realized he was grinning.  “Nothin’.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”  He didn’t sound hurt. Actually, there was something like laughter in his voice.

“Who, me?” Dean asked, making his eyes go wide in faux-innocence.

Cas shook his head, eyes gleaming.  He pushed Dean’s shoulder—not enough to off-balance him, but just enough that the plates tipped precariously.  If Dean’s hands weren’t full, he would have shoved back.

“Asshole!” he called again, laughing, as Cas walked ahead of him.  Dean watched him go for a couple seconds, and tried really hard to ignore the giddiness fluttering in his gut.

///

Color Dean amazed when finance actually approved the team outing.  When Cas met with the head of finance to go over the options and costs Dean had put together, Dean thought the meeting was a waste of time.  But Cas came back triumphant, claiming that he “asked nicely and she was very receptive to the idea.” Dean had never known finance to be nice or receptive—but he probably shouldn’t have been surprised.  One look into those big, intense blue eyes . . . How could anyone say no?

Dean wished he could bottle that.  Maybe he should sic Cas on people more often.  Maybe Dean could have him talk to his landlord.

But, apparently, the affects of Cas’ handsome face had its limits, because finance had still only approved the least expensive option.  It was a few hours at one of those new fad axe-throwing places, which also came with an open bar. Dean thought it was a little weird to encourage people to get liquored up and then throw sharp objects—but he was okay with it!  He’d never done that activity before, but he’d chopped enough firewood with his dad when he was a kid, so he knew how to handle an axe. And he was really good at darts—so he had this one in the bag.

And maybe Cas would be impressed.  Maybe he would swoon over how strong and manly Dean was.  That would be . . . not awful.

Well, it would be not awful if that’s actually what happened.

Dean stepped up to the starting line, glaring with stone cold determination at the wooden target board a few feet away.  He’d already chalked up his palms with the block provided next to the decorative stump that Cas’ axe was currently sticking out of.  Cas was perched next to it, shoulders slumped lazily as he watched Dean.

Their group had taken the subway down to the axe-throwing place after work, and they’d been there for an hour and a half.  Some of them chose to stay at the bar in the other room, but the majority had paired off to try their hand at the activity.  And of course Dean had been paired up with Cas—because no one was crazy enough to make the boss their partner. No one except him, naturally.

Around them, there was a constant thump of metal against wood, and intermittent cheers of excitement and encouragement or annoyed grunts of failure.  But, generally, everyone seemed to be having a good time. But Dean was only frustrated—because he was supposed to be good at this, damn it! But he’d only managed to get the axe stuck in the wood a handful of times, and it was never at the center of the target.  All the other times, he’d either thrown too hard and hit the blunt head of the axe on the wood, or made the handle knock against the target and bounce off.

He sucked at this.

“Okay, this is gonna be the one,” he promised, eyes flickering to Cas.  Cas didn’t seem to believe him—and he definitely wasn’t impressed or swooning.  Between his knees, he parted his hands in a shrug and then clapped them back together, as if to say, be my guest.

Or maybe he was saying, you’re not gonna get it, you fucking idiot.

Dean refocused on the target.  If he didn’t get this one, he was going to tell Cas to drive the business end of the axe into his throat—and that was just that.

He lined up, and tossed.

The axe hit the center of the target and bounced off, clattering to the floor.  “Damn it,” he whispered.

Dean was way past angrily shouting “son of a bitch” at this point.  His arm still outstretched, he slowly curled his fingers into a fist and knocked it against his temple.  He heard Cas snort, but at least he had the good sense to try to hide it with a cough.

Dean dropped his arm, defeated.  “I’m good at darts,” he defended, because he had a reputation to uphold.

“I’m sure you are,” Cas teased, getting to his feet.

Dean really wished they were allowed to bring drinks into the throwing room.  He could really use a beer right about now. “Glad I didn’t put any money on this.”

“You’d owe me your entire paycheck by now.”  He said it so casually, not even glancing up as he pulled his axe from the stump.

Dean flushed, but hid it with a grunt.  He walked up to the target and picked his axe up from the floor.  Twirling it in his wrist, he said, “I’m getting closer! That one at least hit the bullseye.”

Cas lined himself up in front of the target, but his shoulders were still relaxed, and that shit-eating grin was still in his eyes.  “Yes, and given a few dozen hours, perhaps we’ll see more progress. Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.”

Dean gaped, offended.  “I’m holding a sharp object, you know?”

Cas lifted his axe up, pressing his lips together in a pitying way.  “So am I, and I think we’ve established I’m better at wielding it.”

Dean tried really hard not to smirk.  Because Cas was an asshole, and he was having way too much fun with Dean’s humiliation; but, damn, it was good to see him this loosened up.  Dean tugged at his mouth to hide the way his lips were fighting to curve upward. He really shouldn’t want to smile so much when he was getting his ass kicked.  “Okay, jackass. Real nice. Ever heard of a sore winner?”

Cas arched a brow, and it was like staring into the goddamn sun.

His eyes followed Dean as Dean walked towards the stump and dug his axe inside.  Briefly, Dean focused on Mick in the next target over as he shot his shot. It went in just left of center, and he shouted something happily in his cocky British accent.  Max let out an excited sound and gave him a high-five. Something warm settled in Dean’s chest at the sight of everyone having such a good time, and knowing he was the one who put it together.

When Cas raised his axe, Dean’s attention snapped back to him.  He had one arm outstretched, and was staring down the target like he was threatening its life and that of its entire family.  When he threw it, his sleeve briefly tightened around the muscles of his arm as they flexed, and Dean could see the roll of his back under his shirt.  But, truthfully, all of that had gotten old about a dozen throws ago, and now Dean was just pissed off. The axe buried itself so deeply into the center of the board, he’d probably need to use his foot as leverage on the wall to yank it out.

And that was really fucking frustrating because Dean was both impressed and swooning.

He groaned loudly, accepting defeat.  “Okay, fine. You win.”

Cas wasn’t very graceful in victory.  Deadpan, he said, “Perhaps we should switch shirts.”

Dean furrowed his brow.  What?  He looked down at himself—just a t-shirt and a plaid shirt.  His usual get-up. And Cas was in a white button-up, sans a tie today.  Dean didn’t get it, even though his mind was conjuring up all kinds of images of Cas in casual wear.  “Why?”

“I should be the one dressed like a lumberjack.”

He really was an asshole.  “Oh, fuck you!”

That only made Cas look a lot more pleased with himself as he sauntered towards the board and ripped the axe out of it like it was nothing.  Dean hated him. And he hated how much this was working for him; because, if Cas was trying to get Dean’s libido going, he was succeeding.

Maybe this whole activity was a bad idea.

“Okay, I’m ready to humiliate myself again,” Dean sighed, grabbing his axe and pulling it out of the stump.  Cas put his back in for safekeeping.

“I have full faith in you,” he lied.

“Shuddap.”

Dean stood behind the line again, and focused.  He told himself it was now or never—even though it actually wasn’t and it was ridiculous to think that.  But it kind of felt true.

“You have to lock up your elbow,” Cas said, breaking his focus.

“I am locking it up.”

He didn’t miss the gigantic eye roll Cas directed at him; he just chose to ignore it.  He turned back to the target, and breathed in to prepare himself. He tossed. The handle hit the board and clattered to the ground.

“Sonofabitch!”

There was a smile on Cas’ face, even though he was trying to hide it.

Dean glared at him.  “You enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely.”  Cas stepped forward.  “Here. I’ll show you.”  He pulled his axe from out of the stump and paced towards the line.  When Dean backed away for the demonstration, Cas said, “No, come here.”

Dean nearly stuttered.  “What?”

“Come here,” Cas said again, indicating the line under his shoes with the head of the axe.  Dean’s entire body instantly went on high alert. He didn’t think he should be standing that close to Cas.  His eyes shifted around, just to see if anyone was eavesdropping. No one appeared to be paying them any mind.

Dean tensed himself, keeping his arms firmly against his sides, and did as he was told.  He just about ripped the offered axe from Cas’ grip, but Cas didn’t seem to notice. He came up close, his chest brushing against Dean’s arm.

“You have to position your grasp correctly on the handle,” he instructed.  His hands went up, one holding the top of the axe, and the other covering the back of Dean’s hand.  Dean started grinding his teeth, especially when Cas urged his hand lower, towards the base of the handle.  He let his other arm drop down, and turned more fully into Dean.

“Good,” he said, and this close, Dean could feel his breath on his neck.  His pulse point was hammering, kicking up a notch every time Cas exhaled onto it.  Slowly, Cas guided Dean’s hand up, until it was stretched out in front of him at full length.  “Keep your elbow stiff.” Dean really didn’t think that would be a problem with how tightly every muscle in his body was coiling.

“Make sure the head of the axe is lined up to where you want it to land.”  If it were possible, Cas leaned in even closer, their cheeks practically touching as he tried to see into Dean’s line of vision.

Dean swallowed convulsively.  When he was absolutely certain his throat wouldn’t close up if he tried to speak, he said, “Like that?”

“Yeah.”  Cas adjusted his stance a little, parting his legs wider.  “When you throw—,” he put his other hand on Dean’s elbow, warm fingers tickling the bare skin where Dean’s shirt was rolled up.  He guided Dean’s arm backwards, keeping his elbow level, and then slowly moved it down again, showing him what to do in slow motion.  “Let go of it when you hit this point in the arc.”

His voice was so steady—raspy and dulcet—next to Dean’s ear.  Dean tried really hard to keep his spine from rocking. If he turned his head to the side and leaned in just a little . . .

“Spread your legs,” Cas told him, and Dean just about passed out.

“What?”

“You need to have one in front of the other.”

Oh.

“Here, like this.”  Cas moved his hand down to Dean’s waist.  His other moved lower, fingers splayed and palm firm on Dean’s thigh.  He tapped it slightly, and Dean relented all his strength to let Cas guide his leg forward.

“Like that,” Cas said, his voice a little breathier than before—a little shakier.  His hand was still on Dean’s thigh. Dean turned his face slightly to look at him. He was so close.  Cas stared back at him, eyes darkened. His hand rounded Dean’s leg, touching his inner thigh—so close but not nearly close enough.  Dean felt his heart slamming. As if Cas’ fingers were magnets, all of Dean’s blood rushed downward.

Dean was about a second away from telling him to forget about the axe and drag Cas into the bathroom or the nearest supply closet so they could have a bonding experience of their own.  Judging by the way Cas had shifted his hips forward so he was pressing against Dean’s body, Cas wouldn’t object. He wondered if Cas could feel the way Dean was practically shaking as he tried to contain himself from saying something like, you need to fuck me right now.

Someone let out a loud whoop of laughter, and it instantly broke the spell.  Cas jumped back, and Dean jolted away from him. They both quickly looked around, surveying the area to make sure they hadn’t been seen.  God, this was getting ridiculous. If they didn’t take care of this mounting sexual frustration soon, they’d end up going at it in a conference room right in the middle of a meeting.

Cas couldn’t look him in the eye when he said, “Okay, try now.”  His voice was deeper than before.

Every inch of Dean’s body was still vibrating uncomfortably.  He tried to settle himself, and to cool off the heat that had overtaken him.  When he thought he had enough self-control, he got back into the position Cas had taught him—and threw.

The axe hit dead center on the target, blade buried deep in the wood.

///

After everyone had finished with the axe throwing, they went back out to the next room to take advantage of the open bar while they still could.  There were a few other groups of people around the bar, filling out the room with body heat and chatter. Dean’s team managed to snatch a few high tables along the wall, and they all hovered around each other, sipping on their drinks.

They’d already done a celebratory round of shots, even though Dean didn’t know what they were celebrating.  He was just glad he had some alcohol swimming around his head, and waited for it to make him pleasantly numb.  He stood away from the group, leaning against the bar as he cradled the beer in his hand, and watched the rest of his team chatting and laughing.

His eyes kept landing on Cas, though, as much as he tried not to look at him.  After what happened in the throwing room, Dean tried to stay away from him. Cas was only on his second beer of the night, and it was still mostly full.  He hadn’t done a shot with the rest of the group, even though he clearly wanted to—but apparently being the boss meant he had to have some sense of decorum.  Dean had told him to lighten up, but really he was grateful that Cas was pacing himself; because Dean wanted to keep drinking, and if they both got tipsy, something bad would probably happen.

And they couldn’t afford another mistake.

Dean stared into his beer, and the pleasant feeling he was hoping for twisted into bitter sadness.

He couldn’t dwell on it too much, though, because someone slid into the stool next to him and said, “You’re being antisocial.”

Dean glanced up at Alicia.  “Nah. Just getting tired,” he excused, and rubbed at his eye with his knuckle just to sell it.

She puckered her lips incredulously.  “You sure about that?”

Something cold and steely slid around Dean’s gut.  He told himself that he was just reading into things.  There was no way she could be suggesting what his mind had immediately jumped to.  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said into the rim of his glass before taking a long pull.

She gave a loud, short laugh.  “Yeah. Right. Like you and Castiel weren’t feeling each other up a half hour ago.”

Dean choked on his drink, and some of it dribbled down the front of his shirt.  Shit. Shit, shit, shit! His eyes were wide when he looked back at her, because she’d taken him off guard and he couldn’t help it.  He’d sworn no one had seen them.

“Relax,” she said, like that was an option.  She propped her elbow on the bar, and rested her head on her fist.  “I’m pretty sure no one else saw. But even if they didn’t, you two aren’t exactly subtle.  I don’t think I’ve ever stared at someone for as long as you guys stare at each other in my life.”

His first instinct was to deny everything, but he couldn’t get anything past the lump in his throat.

Max came up behind Alicia, and said, “We being antisocial?”

Alicia glanced back at him.  “Nope. Just talking about the office husbands.”

“Alicia!” Dean hissed, and that time his embarrassed panic was laced with anger.

She shrugged innocently.  “What? Everyone on the team calls you guys that.”

That was news to him.  “They do?”

Max slid in between them, crossing his arms over the top of the bar and leaning into them.  He was looking at Dean as he teased, “Oh, but Dean doesn’t think Castiel is handsome, remember?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “You guys got no idea what you’re talking about.”

And they proved him absolutely right when Max said, “Whatever.  Just wish you guys would sleep together already. I can’t stand the sexual tension anymore.”  At least they didn’t know everything. Dean was at least kind of relieved.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed, but his gaze flickered past them, to where Cas was standing.  He was talking with Garth, who was already way too giggly after only half a beer, which was classic Garth.  He was showing Cas something on his phone as he sat at a table. Cas leaned over to look, but he kept a healthy distance, Dean noticed.  He also noticed the curve of Cas’ ass as he bent over.

He didn’t mean to chew his bottom lip raw . . .

“Cadet Winchester!”

Dean whipped around.  The outside group that had been standing together around the bar had disappeared, leaving only one person standing near the entrance.  Dean blinked. “Sammy?”  

Sam was garbed in military fatigues from the cap on his head to his mud-caked combat boots.  “Is that any way to address your commanding officer?” Sam shouted in that deep, rough voice he sometimes got when he was really mad or he was trying to sound tough.  

Dean immediately snapped to attention.  “Sir, no, sir.”

It felt a little weird talking to Sam like that, but Dean wasn’t about to get in trouble and have to wake up before dawn to run the length of the campus.  Again. He’d gotten that punishment way too many times.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn’t buying it.  “Do you have a problem with authority, Cadet?”

“No, sir!”  A little bit.

Sam glared, and for a second Dean thought he was about to get a dressing down, but then Sam called, “With me, Cadet.”  He stiffly about-faced before Dean could ask where they were going, but it was probably for the best. He didn’t think Sam would take too kindly to questions right now.

Sam marched through the door leading outside, and Dean loosened his posture while he wasn’t looking.  He quickly followed Sam out—right into a rolling field lined with perfectly diagonal, uniform gravestones.  The sky was slate gray, with no hope of the sun peeking through. Sam was marching down the path in between the graves, and Dean half-jogged to catch up.  When Sam turned, spine ramrod-straight, and marched down a row of graves, Dean let himself be led towards one in the center of the row.

A shovel was sticking out of the grass.  Sam stood to the side. “Get digging, Cadet!”  

Dean’s eyes shifted to the gravestone, breath catching when he read the name carved into it: Dean Winchester, US Army.  There was no mention of his rank or his tours in the Middle East, almost like they’d never happened.

He didn’t know why he was surprised to see the grave marker.  After all, he was dead, wasn’t he? Yeah, he remembered now! He was dead!  He just kind of wished he didn’t have to dig his own grave. That seemed kind of unfair.  Shouldn’t it be someone else’s job to bury him? It was a little rude that he had to do all the work himself.

He looked back at Sam, but suddenly Sam wasn’t alone.  There was a mass of people congregated behind him, all of them dressed in black.  He spotted Charlie and Benny and Jess; there was Jo; his entire team and a few other people from work.  Lisa and Ben were even there. It was a pretty good turn out, actually.

He always thought he’d have a pretty raging funeral.  He’d get all the credit for throwing it, but he wouldn’t have to plan anything or technically even be there.

“You guys here for the funeral?” he asked.

Everyone in the group exchanged glances, and then at once they all burst out into a fit of laughter.  Dean jerked his head back in surprise and confusion. It was Charlie who explained, through her laughter, “Funeral?  No way! We were told there’d be food after.”

Dean gaped, a tendril of hurt curling in his gut.  When it spread out to his bones and sinew, it transformed into bitter anger.  “You know what, screw it.” His hands wrapped around the splintering handle of the shovel.  He tore it out from the dirt and then slammed it back in. He used his foot to dig it in deeper.

It was grueling work.  He dug for hours, until dirt was caking his face and sweat was lining his brow and he had to shed the suit jacket he was to be buried in so he could cool himself off.  Everyone kept watching him. He could feel their eyes, judging him whenever his dress shoes slid on the loose dirt or the shovel snagged on a rock too heavy to lift. Every time he stopped for a breath, Sam shouted, “Did I give you permission to stop?  Dig!”  

He dug himself deeper and deeper.  Pretty soon, he couldn’t see over the top.  He stood inside the perfectly carved rectangle, a large pile of shifting earth to the right of it.  His arms were burning, back throbbing, hands calloused and raw.

A shadow fell over him, and Dean looked up to find Cas standing there.  He was wearing his normal suit and tie. For a moment, Dean thought he was going to help him out of the grave.  He’d even raised his arm up so Cas could grab his hand and pull him out.

But then Cas said, “Dig, Dean.”

Dean felt like he might collapse.  He hung his head, staring at the rich brown dirt under his feet.  The walls of the grave seemed a little too narrow. If he dug any deeper, he’d reach China.  “I can’t, Cas,” he said, voice cracked. The air was cooler down there, but he was still having trouble pulling it in.  

Cas’ voice was warm when he spoke.  “Yes, you can, Dean.” Maybe he’d just needed a little encouragement.  Dean struck the earth again with a loud grunt.

He kept going until Sam ordered him to stop.  And relief flooded over him when he was told, “Assume the position.”

Dean knelt down on the ground, the earth pliant under his knees as it stained his trousers.  He laid down on his back, and folded his arms across his chest. He closed his eyes—and waited.

And waited.  

He winked one eye open, but all he could see was the overcast sky framed by the opening of the grave.  “What, no eulogy? No, ‘Gee, I’m sure gonna miss my poor, dead brother. Too bad we killed him’?”

Sam came into view.  “Oh, no! You did this to yourself, Dean.  No one asked you to.”

Dean scoffed, because that was a load of horseshit.  “You literally just asked me to!”

“I didn’t ask you to dig that deep,” Sam defended.  Dean popped his brows, but Sam wasn’t looking down at him anymore, he lifted his eyes to Cas across the grave and said, “Begin, Lieutenant.”

Cas picked up another shovel, and disappeared for a second.  He reappeared with the shovel held horizontally, fresh dirt piled on it.  He strained with its weight. He overturned it inside the grave, and it came down heavily on Dean’s legs, earth scattering.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be down here with me?” Dean called.

Cas didn’t answer.  He disappeared again, and another shovelful of dirt came raining down.  It burst on Dean’s chest, some of it getting into his eyes and mouth. He sputtered.  “Cas!”

No answer.

“Cas, what the hell?”

Just more dirt.

Dean gave up.  “Fine, whatever.  Let’s just get this over with.”  

The dirt kept incoming, until Dean’s body was covered, legs and arms paralyzed under the weight.  Until all he could see was darkness.

“Come on, let’s do another round of shots before we call it a night,” Alicia suggested, playfully hitting him on the arm.  Immediately, the mixed sounds of the bar flooded back into Dean’s system. He blinked, moistening his dry eyes. Cas was standing upright now.

///

Not long after that, people started slipping into their coats and trickling out of the bar.  Each of them wished each other a goodnight, and thanked both Dean and Cas for “putting this together” like they were a gay couple hosting their annual Christmas party.  Dean settled the tab, which was pretty easy to do because he was still sober despite his best efforts, and then Cas put the charge on his corporate card.

The two of them walked out together and headed for the subway station, which was a nightmare because Dean really just wanted to be alone.  But he and Cas had to take the same train uptown, so there was really no escape—especially because the streets were in a wall-to-wall deadlock, with cars stalled in the middle of intersections beneath the changing lights.  A symphony of loud, pissed off honks filled the air among the crimson glare of brake lights. Taking a taxi was out of the question, even if Dean did feel like splurging on one.

They walked the three blocks to the subway in what Cas probably thought was companionable silence, but what Dean would call painfully awkward.  He tried to think of something to say that didn’t involve inviting Cas back to his place, but he couldn’t, so he thought it was best to keep his jaw locked just in case it spilled out anyway.  Every now and again, he would feel Cas’ eyes on him, and he would glance over just in time for Cas to glance away. When they did manage to connect gazes, Dean tried to push a tight smile, breathless as the bright city lights blending into an aura twinkled in Cas’ eyes.  And he thought, sometimes, this city could be as magical as people claimed.

That illusion was quickly shattered, because the subway station smelled like dirt and piss.  A homeless guy was sitting at the top of the stairs, huddled in a blanket, holding out a blue paper coffee cup for spare change.  Dean always felt kind of bad when he ignored them, but he rarely carried cash, and when he did, it was for a specific reason. He wasn’t a charity, after all.  But Cas dipped down as they passed to put a buck in the cup, and the homeless guy said, “Bless you,” and Dean wondered just how often Cas did that. And he found himself hoping this city wouldn’t eventually make Cas cold and apathetic, like it did to everyone.

Before they even got through the turnstile, Dean could see the hoard of people packed together on the platform.  It was about seven rows deep, and it didn’t look like anyone was going anywhere soon. “Shit,” he hissed, pausing before the turnstile.  The people behind him glared as they shoved past him. Cas didn’t seem to notice. He was standing stock-still, eyes fixed on the mass of bodies.

“You can’t seriously want to try our luck there?” he said warily.

Dean huffed.  “Of course, I don’t want to, Cas.  But it’s either battle this or battle traffic.”  And he definitely couldn’t take a cab. The bus was a possibility, but he’d have to switch a couple times, and it would end up taking hours.  Even if it sucked, “This is the best option.”

Cas eyed him as if all of this was Dean’s fault, and that if he glared hard enough, the problem would just go away.  Dean stared back, resolute. It occurred to him that he could take the subway and Cas was free to do whatever he wanted.  But Cas sighed in solidarity and relented, “Fine.”

They swiped their passes and moved onto the platform.  Above them, the intercom crackled into life, and a muffled, unintelligible voice sounded off.  Dean couldn’t understand a word of the announcement, but he assumed it was something along the lines of, “You’re all fucked.  Welcome to hell.”

“Yeah, really helpful!” he groaned, flapping his arms against his sides.  They moved to the back of the crowd. Dean stood on his toes, trying to both count off how many people were ahead of him and willing a train to appear.  When he put his heels back on the ground, he said, “Let’s see if we can push to the front.”

Cas looked horrified.  “Dean, these people have been waiting here.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  Now wasn’t the time to have a conscience.  “Rules of the jungle, Cas.” He didn’t wait for a response before pushing into the crowd.

“Dean, wait!” Cas called behind him.  He felt Cas’ hand latch onto his shoulder, finger digging in, so they wouldn’t lose each other.  Dean kept pushing, ignoring the complaints of the people around him as well as the way his entire nervous system had narrowed to where Cas’ hand was placed on his body.  Eventually, they got two rows deep, which was good enough. Dean just hoped, when a train did roll in, the doors would stop in front of where he was standing, or else all of that would have been for nothing.

He leaned in to stare down the dark tunnel, hoping for a pair of headlights to appear.  Nothing.

“I wonder what the hell’s happening,” Cas said thoughtfully.  Dean didn’t answer, because it could have been anything. Police activity, someone got sick, someone left a bag behind, someone decided to ruin everyone’s night by jumping in front of a train because, if they had to suffer, so should everyone else.  But, usually, when it was this bad, the entire subway system was fucked up. Dean just hoped their train wouldn’t get rerouted; or worse, never show up.

“Fuck this city,” he said, shaking his head as that special kind of boiling-hot rage reserved only for delayed public transit clenched in his chest.  Something like this was enough to ruin his whole day. He was just glad the day was over instead of this being the morning commute.

“We’ll get home eventually,” Cas told him, and Dean retracted his earlier thought.  He really hoped this city would beat Cas into an apathetic husk of his former self. The sooner the better.

“Can you just commiserate with me for like two seconds?” Dean snipped.  Cas’ eyes slid towards him, completely expressionless, but it wasn’t his usual you’re an idiot, Dean brand of expressionless.  It kind of looked forced. It was weird.

It took what felt like forever, but eventually the white lights of an incoming train broke through the darkness.  It moved like molasses, but eventually it was rolling into the station. Through the windows, Dean saw the train was already packed as tightly as a sardine tin, which meant it wasn’t going to be easy to get on.  By some miracle, though, the doors came to a stop just to the right of where he was standing. Dean braced for impact.

“Okay, stick close,” Dean said over his shoulder.  He reached behind him for Cas, meaning to grab onto his coat so he could haul him towards the doors, but his fingers ended up connecting with his wrist.  A rock instantly formed in his throat, and he tried to jerk his hand away, but it was too late. Cas had slipped his hand into Dean’s. His palm was warm and dry and his long fingers wrapped around Dean’s—and Dean was probably sweaty and gross.  It was really hard to breathe all of a sudden, and he tried to blame that on the tightly packed bodies and the train fumes.

The doors weren’t opening.  Nearly two minutes went by and they remained closed, but Dean knew better than to let his guard down because they’d open the second he did.  It was tough to keep his body coiled so tightly, ready to pounce at any second, but that’s just the way it was. In the meantime, he tried to not make eye contact with the people staring out listlessly from the other side of the window.  They all looked as equally dead inside as he felt.

There was a telltale dinging sound, and Dean tightened his hand in Cas’.  The doors opened, and it was immediately like a medieval battleground of opposing armies slamming into each other in attempt to hold the line.  Everyone on the platform tried to squeeze inside, and a few people on the train tried to get out. Everyone bottlenecked. Dean twisted to the side to try to get through.

“Dean, I don’t think we’ll make it,” Cas said, frustration licking his tone.

“Not with that attitude!”

The train conductor came over the speaker: “Attention passengers, if you cannot fit on this train, there is another one right behind us!  Do not crowd the doors!”  Dean ignored it, and so did everyone else, because it was a bald-faced lie.  There wasn’t another train. There was never another train.

Somehow, by the grace of god, Dean and Cas managed to get on.  Dean pulled him away from the door to stand in front of the lucky bastards living the dream by managing to get a seat.  Dean grabbed onto the overhead handle bar, careful to keep his hand from overlapping with anyone else’s. Cas slipped his palm out of Dean’s to grab the bar, too.  More people crowded in, pushing the passengers inside. Cas, glaring at the people shoving at his back, inched closer to Dean, until their chests were touching.

Shit.

Maybe he should have taken the bus, after all.

He met Cas’ eye, and Cas shot him an apologetic half-smile.  Dean tore his eyes away. He regretted every moment of his life.  That included being born. Because Cas’ body was a warm wall against him, practically every inch of them touching, and it was really hard to ignore.

What’s worse, the doors weren’t closing so they could get moving.  He was completely trapped. He didn’t have enough room to take his phone out to check the time, but it felt like they’d been stalled there for five minutes so far.  With each minute that passed, Cas’ body tensed more and more.

“This is excruciating,” he complained, frowning deeply.  His eyes kept scanning the train car like he was looking for an escape.

He didn’t know the half of it.  “You’re telling me.” Dean tried to think un-sexy thoughts.  Sam’s toenails.  Charlie’s Jar Jar Binx Halloween costume from three years ago.  A Toyota Prius. All the germs infecting him from the handlebar he was white-knuckling.

“What the hell is going on?” Cas asked again, this time through his teeth.  Dean could feel his voice vibrate through his chest. But, actually, it was kind of adorable how mad he was getting.  Dean was just as mad, but he was also kind of happy he got to experience Cas’ first subway debacle. But also, he was really pissed about it.  Was it possible to be both things at once?

“Aww.  Baby’s first clusterfuck.”

Cas narrowed his eyes dangerously at him.  “Are you trying to get revenge on me for making fun of your axe-throwing capabilities?”

Dean grinned.  “Payback’s a bitch.”

“Stand clear of the closing doors!” an overly cheerful, recorded voice said through the speakers.

“Finally,” Dean breathed, and so did Cas at the same time.

The doors closed—and then opened again.  And closed. And opened again.

“For fuck’s sake!” Dean groaned, his voice overlapping with Cas, who said pretty definitively, “I’m going to burn this place to ash.”

Dean snorted, momentarily forgetting his irritation.  “You’re gonna get us arrested saying shit like that.” Usually, Dean didn’t give a shit, but he’d rather not top off this day by being questioned for domestic terrorism—as hilarious as it would be to see a cop try to intimidate Cas.

At last, the doors closed, and the train lurched forward, making him stumble, his leg stomping down between Cas’.  God, this really was the worst situation imaginable. Dean meant to grumble out an apology, but Cas’ eyes had gone comically wide, and then he just kind of fixed them on Dean.  Dean’s hand tightened around the handlebar. He considered the fact that a crowded train probably wasn't the most appropriate place to have sex, but it probably wouldn't be the worst thing that that had ever happened in these subway cars.

Dean ripped his eyes from Cas’ face.  It was best to shut that down immediately.

It took a half hour for their train to go two stops.  It kept stopping and starting—only to go a foot or two before getting stuck again.  The only thing preventing any feelings of claustrophobia was the forced air pumping through the vents.  Somewhere on the other side of the train car, a person was blasting their music without headphones—some fast-paced rap song.  It set Dean’s teeth on edge.

What was worse—at one point, when they were stuck in the tunnel for about ten minutes—Dean felt Cas’ hand fist the sleeve of his jacket with a kung fu grip.  He tried to tell him to stop, but Cas’ eyes were closed. His breathing was a little stilted through his nose as he focused on it intently. And it finally dawned on him that Cas was nervous—no, he was afraid.  He’d never seen Cas scared before.  He didn’t even know that was possible!

Dean guessed he didn’t like tight spaces, so he let Cas continue to do whatever he had to do to relax himself, even if that meant holding onto Dean.  He’d just have to take one for the team, he guessed.

The train came to a shuddering halt at the third station, where yet another packed platform waited for them.  Cas groaned, and knocked his forehead against Dean’s shoulder with a tiny whimper, then proceeded to lightly bang it like he was building up the courage to bash his brains in.  Dean glanced down at him, trying to not feel too much fondness. Maybe not everything about this situation was terrible.

When Cas lifted his head again, he huffed, “My apartment is twelve blocks from here.  It’d be faster to walk.” He shifted, trying to turn his body towards the doors that had yet to slide open.  His elbow connected with Dean’s gut, sending a quick burst of pain through him. Cas didn’t seem to notice. He was squinting around like he was trying to figure out the best route towards the doors.

As frustrating as it was to have Cas pressed against him for so long, Dean missed the excuse.  He knew he had a few more stops to go to get to his own apartment, and that he’d been bound to lose Cas along this epic journey eventually, but he still kind of felt like he was being jipped.  “Gee, thanks for the solidarity.”

“I’m afraid it’s every man for himself,” Cas told him distractedly.

Dean should just let him go.  It was better this way. He’d probably be on this train for another seventeen hours, but he had wanted to be alone in the first place.  He should really just let Cas go.

“Alright, I’ll come with.”

He really was the dumbest motherfucker alive.

Cas whipped around, eyes wide.  “What?”

Dean stammered, realizing that it must have sounded like he wanted to follow Cas to his apartment.  “No—Not—Not like that,” he tried to backtrack. Cas narrowed his eyes. “I meant, like—You’re right.  About walking being faster.” It was starting to get stifling in the train car. Shit, why was it so hot?

“Yes, for me,” Cas told him with a weird amount of force.  “Dean, you live all the way uptown.”

Dean tried to shrug, but there wasn’t enough room.  “Okay, so? I’ll walk some of the way and then hop back on.  Maybe all this’ll be cleared up by then.” Doubted.

Cas glared at him with trepidation, but before he could come up with an excuse, the doors slid open with a metallic whirl.  Dean’s eyes flickered towards them, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “We going?” he challenged.

Cas hesitated, and then started pushing through the crowd.  Dean went after him, and his arms and legs kept getting stuck in between people’s bodies.  At one point, his backpack snagged on someone’s arm, and every instinct inside of him shouted, Leave it!  Just leave it!  He yanked it, pulling it free.

They got to the doors, and Dean used every inch of his strength to get through.  This must be what the last bits of toothpaste feels like coming out of the tube. But, suddenly, he was stumbling into freedom, his knees wobbling slightly like a newborn foal.

He breathed out, relieved, and glanced at Cas, who looked like a harried mess.  Dean couldn’t help but laugh. Cas didn’t seem to share the sentiment. “It’s not funny, Dean!”  He spun around, and stalked through the crowd that had formed on the platform in the direction of the stairs.

Dean followed after him.  “Aw, c’mon. It wasn’t that bad.”

“That can’t be normal!”

Okay, he was right.  Dean chuckled until it died away.  “Alright, fine, it was pretty bad.”

“Thank you.”

They moved through the turnstiles and then up the stairs leading to the sidewalks.  The air was relatively much fresher and easier on the lungs than it had been in the bowels of the city.  “Pretty funny, though,” Dean said when they were above ground. The traffic seemed a little better in that area of town.

Cas took in a deep breath to clear his head.  It must have helped, because he let out a sigh, and there was an inkling of a smile in his voice when he said, “I’m glad you’re amused.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t have to do this to ourselves,” Dean said, gesturing generally at the city around them, perpetually packed with way too many people.  They needed another plague. “But here we are.”

Cas titled his head to the side like he couldn’t argue, but considered, “Well, overcrowded trains aside, I like it here.”

Dean grumbled.  “Good for you.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Dean letting Cas lead the way in the direction of his apartment.  The air was damp and thick, and he thought there might be rain later. He didn’t realize how close they were walking—as if being squished together wasn’t enough—until Dean’s knuckled brushed against Cas’.  He quickly retracted his arm, before Cas could do something like hold it again without the excuse of wanting to stick together. He willed his heart to slow down by telling himself the touch was only accidentally, no matter how much he could feel the residual electricity from it.

Cas seemed contemplative, his eyes downcast and brow pinched as they walked, and Dean wondered what he was thinking about.  He wondered if he should ask. Maybe Cas could explain why he freaked out over a crowded train. Penny for your thoughts?  It’d probably be a bad idea.

“Dean,” Cas spoke up after another half-block.  He lifted his chin to look at Dean, piercing blue eyes considering him.  “May I ask you a personal question?”

Dean’s stomach did a flop, mostly from guilt.  He remembered the last time Cas had tried to ask him something about his life.  No wonder it took him so long to risk asking. Honestly, Dean didn’t know if he’d react any differently this time around.  He shrugged. “Sure.”

Cas paused for a second, like he was trying to find the best way to word it.  He settled on, “If you dislike it here so much, why not go elsewhere?”

Dean snorted.  Had Cas not been listening to him this whole time?  “I mean, I’m trying! As soon as my car’s ready—.”

“No, I don’t mean on a trip,” Cas cut back in.  Dean blinked. “For good. I mean—you aren’t trapped here.  You could go live somewhere else. There are plenty of places in the world, much less expensive than here.”

He had a point.  Dean lifted his brows, conceding.  But, in truth, he didn’t really know where he’d go.  As much as he wanted to get out, this was still home.  And driving from place to place without a fixed address was a lot different than permanently moving somewhere new.  What if he got there, and he wasn’t happy there, either? And then he’d just be miserable and alone forever.

And what about a job?  Just get another admin position somewhere else?  He really didn’t know if he’d be good at anything else in the corporate world.  As boring as it was, he was pretty good at his job, because he was pretty good at putting other people before himself.  He wondered if there’d ever be a time when he could let that go.

“I dunno,” he answered, keeping his voice light.  “Sammy’s here.” That was really the number one reason.  Sure, Sam might move on with his life, but at least he’d still be around.  Sure, Dean might drive off one day, but he’d always come back home to his brother in the end.

“Yes, but he asked you to retire from the military, didn’t he?” Cas reasoned.  “He didn’t ask you to stay specifically here.”

Dean guessed he never thought of it like that.  “What’s the difference?”

Cas regarded him out of the corners of his eyes, looking like he was thinking up a storm, and Dean had the feeling he should batten down the hatches.  But Cas didn’t say anything. Maybe he was too afraid that Dean would react poorly—but, truthfully, Dean was too tired for that. He didn’t know if it was the day or the whole subway catastrophe, or the topic they were on, or just Cas’ general affect on him.  He wanted to crawl into bed.

“Dean,” Cas said, voice lower than before as he looked forward again.  “I won’t tell you that your brother doesn’t need you around. He always will, I’m sure; and you seem very close.  But you’re entitled to your own life.”

Dean really didn’t know what to say to that.  Most people wouldn’t word it like that. Charlie never did.  Neither did Benny. Hell, neither did Sam. They’d say, No, go on and have fun!  We don’t need you! We’ll be fine!  Enjoy yourself!  It was well-meaning, but it caused an ache in his chest, knowing that he could pack up and leave tomorrow and the people he loved wouldn’t even know the difference.

What Cas had said was pretty much the same thing, but different somehow.  It caused a different kind of ache, like longing. But Dean didn’t know what he was longing for.

He chuckled weakly, trying to fall back on humor.  “You tryin’ to get rid of me?”

Cas stopped walking abruptly and turned to Dean.  Dean halted, too, facing him. The people on the sidewalk behind them shot them a dirty look and circled around, but Dean didn’t notice.  Cas looked so earnest when he said, “Of course not.” And then his brow collapsed. “Perhaps I’m not saying this right.”

Dean shook his head, and pushed a smile.  “Nah, I hear you. But you know it’s not that easy, right?”

Cas looked like he didn’t understand.  “Why? I’ve done it countless times.”

The words were on the tip of his tongue.  You don’t have a family to worry about.  Dean stopped himself from saying them.  They were ugly and unfair and jealous, and it was just his natural defenses building up, telling him to shut Cas out before he got too close.

Instead, he tried to make light again.  “Yeah, yeah, Mr. World Traveler—gettin’ to go everywhere on the company’s dime.  Must be nice.” That last part sounded a little bitterer than intended. He turned quickly and started walking again.  The light at the crosswalk was telling him to stop, but there weren’t any cars coming, so he kept moving. It took a second for Cas to catch up with him.

“I wouldn’t exactly call what I do for work globetrotting,” he defended.

He was kidding, right?  Dean booked his travel, after all.  “You get on a plane, don’t you?” Cas didn’t know how lucky he was to get paid to travel.

“Well, yes.”  There was a but coming.  “But most of my trips are spent in a conference room.  The only parts of the world I’ve really seen are office buildings.  And on the rare occasion I do have time to myself, I . . .”

Dean glanced at him.  “You . . .?”

Cas seemed a little embarrassed.  It was the first time Dean had ever seen him like that.  “I don’t exactly take advantage,” he admitted. “It’s not as if I have anyone with me.  It seems . . . lonely. To sightsee alone.”

For a long time, Dean just stared at him, not paying attention to where they were walking.  He didn’t know what to say to that, what to think. He guessed, he understood. Things like that were better when they were shared—but Dean really didn’t have an option other than going at it alone, so he tried not to think about it.

In the end, he started laughing.

Cas looked over at him quickly, seeming hurt.  It only made Dean laugh more.

“Wow.  That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” he chortled.

Cas looked mad for another second, but then a shy smile cracked his face.  “I suppose you’re right.”

Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets to prevent the wayward urge to wrap an arm around Cas’ shoulders.  “We need to find you a travel buddy,” he teased.

Cas was full-blown smiling now, and Dean wished they were still facing each other, wished Cas wasn’t trying to hide it by ducking his head.  It was probably beautiful. “Shut up.”

“Okay, grumpy.”

Cas ignored him.  He looked up, like he’d just realized where they were.  “I’m on the next block,” he said, and it sobered Dean. He’d almost forgotten that he and Cas weren’t headed to the same destination.  “There’s a subway station on the next avenue, if you’re still set on that insane task.”

Dean guessed he didn’t have much of a choice, but he didn’t want to leave Cas just yet.  “Alright, well—I’ll walk you to your building.”

Cas turned his head towards Dean, eyes light up with smug humor.  “You’re a very considerate date.”

Dean rolled his eyes, if only to stop himself from blushing.  He made his voice sound agitated as he said, “Okay, it’s like—midnight.  And that street looks empty. Sorry, I don’t want you to get mugged.” Like anyone would try to jump him in such a nice area of town.  Cas would be fine, and Dean should say goodnight right then and there.

“How chivalrous.”

As they rounded the corner off the avenue, Dean grabbed Cas’ shoulder and playfully shoved him onto the adjacent sidewalk.  Cas shot him a grin over his shoulder. Dean followed him about halfway down the block.

Cas came to an ambling stop in front of the stoop of a tall brownstone.  Dean halted belatedly, and turned around to face him. He glanced up at the building, and could just imagine what the apartments inside must look like.  He didn’t know what Roman was paying Cas, but he did know they’d paid for his relocation, and for his security deposit. Dean had done the expense report for it, and it was more money than he made in three months.

“This is me,” Cas said, like it wasn’t obvious.  There were cars lining the streets—but instead of the Toyotas and Fords Dean was used to outside his building’s busy street, these were Alfas and BMWs and one Tesla.  He had no idea why anyone would park those on a street. But, then again, no one was driving down the block. It was pretty quiet around there, without any blasting stereos or sirens in the distance or honking horns.  Up and down the block, the ivy-laced brownstones had soft yellow lights illuminating from their curtained bay windows.

It was kind of amazing, actually, to think that Cas had all this.  An orphan from Philly who enlisted just to pay his way through college—and now he was here.  And he’d done it by himself. Cas was amazing.

And Dean wanted to tell him he didn’t have to be by himself anymore.

Instead, he glanced down at the space between them on the sidewalk.  “Okay,” he said, softer than he intended to. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.  Bright and early.”

When he looked back up, Cas had a smile lighting his eyes.  “Yeah.”

Neither of them moved for a couple of long seconds that felt like full minutes.  Dean’s skin was raising, going numb. His pulse was hammering throughout his body.  He had to get out of there before he did something stupid.

“Well, ‘night,” he said, and at the same time, Cas said, “Get home safe.”  They both let out short, choked sounds when they realized they’d spoken at once.  And then Dean chuckled, flushing as he rubbed at the back of his neck. Cas seemed mildly amused by it.

Dean dropped his arm back down.  Was it him, or were they standing a little closer than a second ago?  He didn’t remember shuffling towards Cas. But he wanted to get closer.  He didn’t want to leave, even if he was making a fool out of himself. Stalling, he said, “This was actually kinda fun.”

Cas pinched his brow.  “You planned it.”

“No, I know that.  I mean—,” he licked his lips, and saw Cas’ eyes dart down to his mouth.  “Team bonding,” he finished lamely, and he wasn’t sure if the joke landed.

It took a while for Cas to react.  When he did, he dropped his head to look down.  “Yes. It was fun,” he agreed. He tilted his head back up, gaze finding Dean’s.  He was giving him the same bedroom, come-fucking-hither eyes as he had at the axe throwing.

Dean didn’t know how to stall anymore.  He remembered the ache in his shoulder and the dirt on his hands from digging his own grave; but it was a distant memory now, fuzzy around the edges and lacking detail.  A dream, gone after waking up.

He felt the tips of Cas’ fingers brush against his—just a ghost of a touch, but it made his lips fall open as he drew in a breath.  Something in Cas’ face had changed, and Dean really didn’t know what to make of it. It wasn’t desire or lust, but something much gentler.  Dean could feel it pooling in his chest, as warm as sunlight.

And he thought, maybe, he cared about Cas a little bit more than he claimed he did.

Cas’ fingers pressed against his again, the touch less fleeting this time.  It lingered, their fingertips dancing over each other, until Dean slid his palm into Cas’ and laced their fingers together.  They were definitely standing closer now, with Cas’ chest a couple of inches from his and his face even closer. Dean could see their breath fogging, mixing together, as he looked downwards.  Cas tilted his head a little, and his nose brushed against the side of Dean’s. Dean’s lips itched to close the space between them.

In the end, it was Cas who did.  It was a chaste thing, an oasis of warmth amid the chilled night.  Firm and dry and achingly sweet. He was slow to pull away. When he did, his eyes lifted up to Dean’s again—those big, sad eyes.

They leaned in at the same time, deepening the kiss.  Dean’s free hand, the one not entwined with Cas’, came up to cup Cas’ jaw.  He felt Cas’ hand latch onto his arm. They kept kissing, slow and tender and languid, like water trickling down a mountain.  Cas’ nose brushed his again when he changed the angle of his head, and Dean tilted his own head in the opposite direction. He felt Cas’ tongue against the seam of his lips, and he breathed in as he parted them.

Cas let go of Dean’s hand so he could place it on Dean’s waist.  Dean brought his up to Cas’ other cheek, framing his face. And, yeah, he wanted Cas to lead him upstairs, but he didn’t even need to sleep with him tonight.  He just wanted this—this comfort, this closeness—whatever this was.

Because it was the kind of kiss that Dean had never experienced before, as if this was the first time he as Cas shared a kiss.  It was the kind that made everything slide into place. That put a few things in perspective. The kind that made him content.

The kind of kiss that made him want to stay.

It was funny.  There was no swell of music like in the movies.  No fireworks. No bells chiming. No end credits.  There was just the feeling of Cas’ mouth, the cracked dryness of his lips and the softness of his wet tongue.  Just the sounds of their mouths moving against each other, and the small sighs in between. Dean realized he was stroking Cas’ cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs.

It felt like it went on for hours; and it felt like it went on for mere seconds, like time meant nothing.

And then Cas broke away, turning his cheek to Dean’s lips.  Dean blinked his eyes open, dazed, and listened to the uneven breaths Cas was pulling in.  “Cas,” he whispered, and tried to bring Cas’ face back to him, but Cas placed his hand on Dean’s chest and pushed him gently away.

Dean’s heart stuttered, and then broke.  His hands fell away from Cas’ face.

“Dean,” Cas said, and he already sounded apologetic.  His nose was still basically in the crook of Dean’s neck, but Dean couldn’t feel it.  It was like all his senses had shut down.

He heard himself say, “Yeah.”  He stepped back, putting some space between him and Cas.  Feeling returned, tingling in the tips of his fingers and spreading out cold to the rest of his body.  He could still feel Cas’ mouth on his, and he tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand. “I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” Cas told him.  It was like he wanted to explain, but he didn’t know how—and, frankly, Dean wasn’t all that interested.  Why should he be? It wasn’t like he was attached or anything. “Dean, you don’t understand. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am.  I can’t—.”

“Can’t what?” Dean challenged, his voice raising.  “Throw it away on someone like me?” He got the message loud and clear.  He wasn’t worth the risk. And maybe Cas wasn’t worth it, either. It still stung like a bitch, though.

“I didn’t say that,” Cas retorted at once, showing his own ire.

“Then what the fuck are you saying, Cas?”  Dean threw up his hands, hoping he didn’t seem too helpless.  He felt how wide his eyes were, how desperate they must have looked.  He tried to harden them, to make them dead. Cas was pouting, eyes hard and jaw jutting out in a hard line.  “If you don’t want this to be anything, then why do you keep—?”

“I don’t know,” Cas cut him off, simmering.

“Not good enough!”  And it wasn’t. So, Cas was scared.  Dean was scared, too. Scared of not keeping Cas at arm’s length, like he did everyone else but Sam.  Scared of having someone else in his life that he cared about more than they cared about him. Scared of spreading himself too thin, because he didn’t have any more of himself to give to other people.  Scared of having something else to lose.

Scared that he’d forget about all of it—everything he’d protected himself from, everything he’d planned for his life—for Cas.

Cas jerked his head away, dropping his eyes.  “Obviously, I can’t—,” he began, his hands tightening to fists at his sides, “control myself around you.”  His expression was the picture of stone-cold determination. Dean made himself hard, bracing for impact. “Maybe we shouldn’t—.”  He stopped, took in a breath, tried again. “Maybe we can’t work together.”

Dean blinked.  Because, honestly?  He’d forgotten all about work.  The reminder was like a bucket of ice water poured over his head.  “You’re firing me?” He felt strangely like he was outside of his body.

Cas didn’t look at him, like a coward.  “No.” Dean didn’t know what was happening.  “It’s . . . your decision. But, if you choose to step out of your role, I’ll do whatever I can to place you somewhere else.”

That was so funny, Dean forgot to laugh.  It was hilarious, actually. What kind of HR-PR bullshit was Cas spewing now?

It was all semantics.  Because, yeah, Cas was firing him.  And, for a split second, Dean let himself believe that Cas was asking him to do this so he wouldn’t be Dean’s boss anymore.  So they could be together. But then Cas said, “It’s what’s best,” and that cleared that right up.

“Best for who?” Dean said through gritted teeth.

“For both of us,” Cas said coolly.

“Bullshit.”

Cas glowered at the sidewalk, mouth forming into a firm line.

Cas wanted him out.  But he didn’t get to do that.  Dean wouldn’t give him the chance.  “Well, then, I guess this is my two weeks,” he said, voice frigid.

Finally, Cas looked up, eyes flashing with sadness, and then shuttering with indifference.  “I accept your resignation.”

Dean scoffed and shook his head, staring him down.  Cas kept his eyes steadily on Dean’s like he expected Dean to blink first.  When it was clear he wouldn’t, Cas grunted and turned away. He walked up the stoop of his building, shoved his key in the door, and Dean didn’t let himself jump at the sound of it slamming with finality.

“Stupid son of a bitch,” he muttered, and had no idea if he was talking about himself or Cas.  He stomped down the street, back out towards the avenue. He needed a drink. Because pretty soon it’d hit him what just happened, and he’d start wallowing.

Two weeks.  He was out of a job in two weeks.  The Impala wasn’t finished yet, and he didn’t even have all the parts he needed yet.  Even if he did, he didn’t have enough savings to leave now. The first waves of panic shuddered through his gut.  Should he look for a new job? What was the point of that if he was leaving soon? Was he leaving soon?

He couldn’t think of that now.  That was tomorrow’s problem. He couldn’t think about anything.  He was too fucking angry. His fists tightened, and it was a miracle he didn’t drive his knuckles into a brick wall.

He reached the avenue, and drank in a deep breath.  His head was spinning.

Someone was standing in his peripheries.  He glanced over, and found Sam, again dressed in uniform.  He looked like he was about to say something, but Dean didn’t give him the chance.

“Yeah, I know,” he said: “Dig.”

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

He only had two more weeks of this bullshit.  Two more weeks of crappy coffee from a machine, of battling to the death just to book a conference room, of perpetually broken printers, of answering the goddamn phone in a tone that toed the line between I want to murder you and I’m happy to help in any way I can.  Two more weeks of back problems.  Two more weeks of staring at a screen all day every day.  Two more weeks of pretending to care about any of it.

God, he should have quit years ago!  Better still: he shouldn’t have ever gotten himself into this mess.  It just wasn’t natural! People weren’t supposed to be cooped up and all this crap.

He was free.  It was everything he’d ever wanted.  Sure, the anxiety of not being able to pay rent was a little daunting, but he could just pick up a bartending job or something until his car was finished.  Two weeks was plenty of time to figure out those details. Really, he should thank Cas for essentially firing him. Dean had a brand-new goddamn lease on fucking life!

And he was able to convince himself of that until the exact second Cas rounded the corner that morning and inevitably caught Dean’s eyes.  Cas froze in his tracks, and just stared for a little bit. He looked so resolute and reserved in the way his fists tightened and flexed at his sides, the way he set his jaw into a hard line.  But those blue eyes had a weary slant to them, dark bags beneath them like he hadn’t slept much the night before. And he looked regretful—sorry, even. Pained.

It made the lines of Dean’s face slacken, and it was a little hard to breathe.

He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what.  He wanted Cas to say something, too. And, somehow, Cas must have heard that silent prayer as if it was broadcast over a megaphone.

“Dean,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion but firm with determination.  And Dean just stared, pulse quickening, not sure what he expected to happen.

Cas walked to his desk in long strides, with enough force to spin the Earth in a different direction on its axis.  Before Dean could even react, his computer monitor was crashing to the floor, the wires connected to it snapping, taking his keyboard and mouse flying after it.  His phone got tangled in the mess, too, and the bang it all caused caught everyone’s attention. And Cas didn’t even look like he noticed.

He leaned across the desk between them.  Both of his hands flew to grasp Dean’s, and Dean gasped at the contact.  His throat went dry and eyes went wide because what the fuck was happening?

“Dean, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry, Dean.  Please, don’t go,” Cas begged.  Dean didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to tell Cas it was too little, too late, because he had his chance and he lost it.  And another part of him—the part he wanted to bury so deep and never let see the light of day, the part that he couldn’t show anyone because it was way too personal—wanted to stay.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas told him earnestly, leaving no room for argument; and Dean wasn’t proud of the weird, choked, surprised, sobbing sound that punched out of his own throat.  He wanted to believe that was true, but it couldn’t be. How the hell could it be?

Cas reached up and touched his face, and Dean couldn’t help but to sink into it.  A chill ran over his skin, too soft and sweet to be real.

He wanted to tell Cas he didn’t have to beg.  He just had to ask. He wanted to say he loved him back, but he wasn’t even sure that was true.  He didn’t even know if he could love someone like that. He didn’t know if he was brave enough for that.   But he really wanted to. And he wanted it to be Cas.

“Will you stay?” Cas asked him, and Dean knew he had a decision to make.  Stay there and be with Cas, or get out once and for all.

And maybe, in his wildest, craziest fantasy, he could have both.  “No,” he said, and Cas’ hand stilled on his cheek. His eyes drooped, devastated.

He felt everyone’s eyes on them, waiting.  And Dean couldn’t even believe he was saying this, because it felt like he was in the world’s most boring romance novel.  But he said it anyway: “Come with me.”

As if Cas would give up everything he’d worked for his whole life.  His career, his livelihood, his stability. Because Dean just wasn’t that lucky.

Or maybe he could be.

That big, stunning gummy smile spread on Cas’ face, and Dean felt it when he leaned in and kissed him, and the whole team stood up in a round of applause.

Dean grabbed him by the hand, and dragged him across the desk.  He didn’t even bother packing up his shit, because none of it mattered.  Not with the way Cas was grinning at him, eyes sparkling. They walked down the row of desks toward the aisle, and out to reception.  Sam, Jess, and Charlie were there, and the rest of the company was crowded on the stairs and along the railings of the floor above, clapping like they were seeing the happy couple off on their honeymoon.

It felt like a fairytale ending, the kind that only happened in the Disney-sanitized retellings of the Brothers Grimm.

Cas kissed him again in the elevator, arms wrapped around Dean’s neck, laughter frothy on his tongue.

The Impala was waiting on the street outside, newly minted and shining in the sun.  Tin cans were attached to the back, with a sign on the trunk reading, Just Quit.

Cas’ hand tightened in Dean’s like a promise.  And Dean could let himself have this. He could have it all.

And then the phone rang.

Cas was still standing there, sad eyes looking back at him.  The sound of the phone must have taken him out of his trance, too, because he quickly jerked his gaze away, aiming it to the floor.  His hands balled again at his sides, and he power-walked into his office, closing the door behind him.

Next to Dean, Alicia hummed, catching his attention.  “Looks like he’s in one of his moods. You gonna get that?”

Dean blinked, not comprehending until the phone rang one final time.  Distantly, he’d been aware of its ringing, but the meaning behind it never actually processed.  The call went to voicemail. Dean stared at the phone, dread creeping up on him with the realization that it was too late.  He’d been too slow.

For the rest of the day, except for when he had meetings, Cas pretty much stayed in his office.  His door stayed closed, and Dean wasn’t about to get up and knock.  Because it wasn’t his problem anymore. He IM’ed him his five-minute warnings before meetings, and Cas never replied.  He didn’t ask Dean for anything; but at one point, Jack went up to knock on the door, claiming Cas had emailed him asking for his help on something.  Which meant Cas would rather rely on the intern than on Dean—because he was a fucking coward.

Not that Dean gave a shit.

Dean knew he should probably be putting together instructions and some kind of guidebook for whomever his replacement was going to be, but he really wasn’t inclined to do that.  He figured he’d be able to procrastinate until the very last second and then curse himself for not starting earlier. That sounded like a plan.

He spent the morning generally ignoring all his responsibilities in favor of looking up cheap motels and campsites along the map he made for his roadtrip.  When that got old, he signed up for some sketchy websites connecting travelers to people looking for house sitters while they were away. There was also some site for people who actually wanted their space invaded by inviting randos to crash on their couches while they blew through town.  Because that wasn’t a good way to get murdered or anything. But, hey, it was free.

If he was smart about this, he could actually stretch his budget until he needed to find work somewhere.  Because he had no idea if he was getting unemployment, since it was pretty unclear whether he’d been fired or if he quit.  He should probably ask Cas that question—and, really, firing him was the least Cas could do! But he wasn’t asking today. No fucking way.  He still had his pride.

It was a little after lunchtime when Jack came out of Cas’ office for the millionth time that day, and he walked right up to Dean’s desk.  Dean barely glanced up, because, really?  They were playing telephone now?

“Dean,” Jack said, sounding a little unsure, like he hadn’t worked with Dean every day for the last few months.

“What is it, kid?”

“Mr. Roman’s office sent around an email asking everyone to go to the reception area,” Jack answered.  He talked like he was still learning what all those words meant—slow and thoughtful. Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if the kid had rehearsed it in his head on the walk over.

Still, Dean didn’t need telling.  He’d seen the email pop up in Cas’ inbox a couple minutes ago.  He just really didn’t think it was his problem. “Uh-huh. And?”

Jack looked surprised, like Dean had gone off-script and it was stressing him out.  “And . . .” His eyes flashed from side to side.  “Castiel asked if you could gather everyone.”

Dean let out an explosive sigh.  The email asked the directors to gather their teams.  Of course Dean would have to do it, because apparently Cas wasn’t talking to anyone but the kid today.  He stood up, and Jack bent his neck a little to keep Dean’s eyes. “Fine. Tell his majesty I’ll do all the heavy-lifting.”

Jack blinked.  He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.  “Do I have to tell him those words exactly?”

Dean almost told him, yeah, Jack, you have to tell him those words exactly.  But he decided to be the mature one here.  Confident that Jack could figure out that one on his own—or not, because Dean really didn’t care either way—he walked off without answering, and told everybody to head for reception.

By the time he and his team got there, the place was already packed.  People were crowded around the railings of the upper-level that looked down over the first floor, and more people were either standing or sitting on the flight of stairs—which was definitely a fire hazard.  In the reception area, people had pulled out chairs from the conference room and were perched on them among the standing crowd. Some people had brought their laptops with them, holding them precariously with one hand while they typed, because for some reason they took this excuse to step away from their work as an opportunity to bring their work with them.

“What d’you reckon all this is about?” Mick asked, mostly because Dean was the person immediately next to him.  He folded his arms tightly across his chest and looked upwards at their colleagues above. “Think the company’s about to go under?  We’ll all be sacked?”

Dean doubted it, even though the sadistic side of him thought that would be pretty great.  He spotted Sam in the crowd, Jess right next to him, and of course Sammy would be one of the nerds who’d brought his laptop.  Dean licked his lips, annoyed that he wouldn’t be able to catch his brother’s eyes, and returned his attention to Mick.

“Nah,” he said.  “Dick only pulls this shit when it’s good news.”  If it were bad news, it would be an email from HR telling them that they’d be doing Summer Fridays again that year, with something buried in fine print on the way bottom.  It’d be past the point where any normal person would stop reading, saying something along the lines of, oh and by the way we’re no longer doing commuter benefits and none of you will be getting raises this year.  Not like Dean had ever gotten a raise, of course.

There was movement in the corner of his eye—which was just fucking stupid, because there was about a billion bodies packed around him, so of course there was movement.  And still, the only thing that caught his eye was Cas entering the reception area as if he were the only thing in color. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his trousers, because he still hadn’t gotten the memo that most people just wear jeans to work, and he hung back from the rest of the group, remaining right at the mouth of the hallway.  Probably so he could make a quick escape when all this was over.

Dean’s eyes moved up and down his body before he could catch himself.  His mind flashed back to the previous night.  Cas’ hand in his, his fingers on Dean’s hip, the scratch of his stubble, the way he breathed in the space between them, the stuttering of Dean’s pulse as if begging for the moment to never end.  When his gaze got back up to Cas’ face, Cas was looking back at him, and Dean forced himself to look away. Forced himself to remember everything that happened after their kiss. Everything that was still happening.

Upstairs, people were parting like the Red Sea as Dick appeared.  He was already wearing his fake, shark-like grin, and saying a quick and faux-warm hello to people whose names he totally didn’t remember, if he’d ever known them at all.  Dean cleared his throat just before the rest of the crowd hushed, and he ignored the fact that he could still feel Cas’ eyes on him. And that he felt the exact moment Cas looked away.

“Hi, everyone.  Thanks for taking the time to come,” Dick began, like any of them actually had a choice.  “I know you’re all very busy, so I’ll be brief.” That’d be nice. Every time this guy talked, Dean got the creepy-crawlies.  Despite the promise, Dick took a pause to build up anticipation, and he said, “As some of you may know already, we won the first round of the GM pitch.”

There were a few excited gasps, and everyone started clapping.  A little belatedly, Dick motioned with his hands to hype up the crowd like this was a sports game, “Give yourselves a round of applause!”

As for Dean, he only blinked.  There was no way it was his idea that won.  He knew Cas had taken it to Rowena, but he didn’t hear anything else after that.  He kind of just figured she’d hated the idea and Cas was just sparing his feelings.  There was no way they ran with it and it actually won the pitch. Right?

Dean looked around again, his eyes on Cas in silent question.  Cas’ eyes flickered back, and there was something in them. Not happiness or anything.  He didn’t smile. But it was the way he was looking at Dean. Kind of . . . proud?

Holy shit.

Dean realized he was gaping.  His eyes wide, he looked back up at Dick just in time to see the guy hold up his palm again to settle the crowd.  When the clapping died away, he said, “Now, it’s not over yet. You’ve all been working hard on this—but we gotta give them one final push.  I don’t need to tell you how big winning this account would be for us,” he laughed, clearly meaning, how big it’d be for me.

“Production starts in a couple weeks.  So, let’s make sure our finished product is stellar!”

Dean wasn’t really sure if this meeting was meant to inspire, congratulate, or threaten.  Maybe a bit of all three?

Annnnnnd people were clapping again.  A little less enthusiastically.  Maybe it was a fear-clap?

Dick was easily able to call over it, “But before we get to work, there’s a few people I’d like to thank.  People who spent day in and day out on this pitch.” Dean straightened out a little, even though he knew he was being ridiculous.  He didn’t work on it. He didn’t spend any amount of time on it at all. He’d just given them the idea, so why was his heart rate picking up?

It’s not like this would make Cas realize that Dean was an asset and he should keep him around.  Dean didn’t actually do anything other than wax poetic about his car, for crying out loud! He really needed to curb his expectations here.

“Of course, Rowena,” Dick said, gesturing into the crowd, where Rowena’s flash of red hair was easily picked out.  She gave a big smile, seeming flattered, and made a gesture as if to say, oh stop, as people politely clapped for her.  Dick said, “And the two art directors who brought this idea to life—,” he paused, like he was fishing for the names, “Ed and Harry!”

Dean raised a brow.  Yeah, right.  Dean had seen their presentation.  The pair of them couldn’t win a game of Go Fish.  And still, they were bowing and waving and yucking up the attention like they were kings.  Dean rolled his eyes, because you’d think the dude who actually came up with the idea would get a thanks.

But it was fine.  It's not like Dean was bitter about it or anything.  Who needed to be thanked by some asshole in a three-piece tailored suit, anyway?

“And our stunning account managers who built such a rock solid relationship with the folks over at GM, Castiel and Max,” Dick said, gesturing towards them.  Their team lit up with whoops and applause, and it took Dean a second to realize he should be doing that, too. Because he was happy for Max—for Max.  Dude worked so hard and he was great at what he did.  He deserved the recognition.

Dean clapped, but it was pretty hard to muster any genuine enthusiasm.  He guessed that’s what happens when your idea was stolen from under your nose.

“Let’s give ‘em all one last big round of applause!” Dick said, and that was really it, huh?  Dean grimaced, and sucked on his teeth. Was it really too much to ask for to get some kind of recognition during his last two weeks?  Whatever. Just another reason he should have quit a long time ago. Thanks for the life lesson, corporate America.

After Dick wrapped up, chatter filled up the space.  Everyone slowly went back towards their desks with all the speed and resemblance of a herd of cattle.

Dean pushed through, wanting to get back to his desk as soon as possible.  He wasn’t sure if he just wanted to sit there and sulk for the rest of the day or if he wanted to cut his losses now, pack up his shit, and leave forever.  Screw two weeks.

Maybe he’d just take a really long lunch.

What were they gonna do if he did?  Fire him?

The last thing he wanted, though, was Cas catching up to him and grabbing his arm.  “Dean.”

Dean jerked out of his grasp and wheeled around, not really caring if he slowed the progress of everyone else.  People could walk around him if they really wanted to. “What?” he just about barked.

Cas didn’t seem too surprised at the outburst—because he’d probably be a dumbass if he were.  He held his hands up in surrender, or to show Dean that he wouldn’t try to touch him again. “I just,” he sighed, dropping his arms.  He glanced around like he was worried people would overhear them. “I think we should talk. Alone.”

Dean wanted to burst out laughing.  He swiped the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip.  “Oh, you wanna talk?” About what? About Cas rejecting him, or about his idea potentially winning them a million-dollar account that Dean wouldn’t see a penny of?

Cas’ eyes went big and beseeching.  “Please.”

“No way.”

Apparently, it was no more Mr. Nice Guy.  “Dean, now.”

Dean’s body sagged.  He guessed he didn’t have much else to lose.  Still, he considered digging in his heels and shaking his head.  He even halfway did it, but closed his eyes and played it off like he was rattling his thoughts into place.  “Sure,” he said, and followed Cas’ lead into the office.

He just kind of hovered there, as close to the door as he could without looking like he wanted to run and hide.  He left it wide open, too, because he knew he agreed to be alone with Cas but there was no way he was about to be that alone.  Because his skin was doing a weird buzzing thing and it felt like a hot air balloon was inside his chest, and he kind of wanted to go back to Cas ignoring him.

“The idea that won the pitch was yours,” Cas told him frankly after he’d walked around his desk.  He didn’t sit down.

Dean wanted to roll his eyes.  “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

Cas nodded sternly, that weird sorry-looking expression coming to his eyes again, no matter how much he tensed his jaw.  Dean didn’t need his pity. It was actually kind of offensive. “I did tell Rowena and Mr. Roman you’d come up with it,” he said, just to be clear.

And Dean didn’t need him to—because he already knew that.  He didn’t blame Cas for what happened. In fact, he was pretty pissed that he couldn’t blame Cas.  But, instead, he was stuck with these stupid butterflies flapping around his gut and he had no way of clipping their wings.

“Guess Dick didn’t think that was too important,” he said through his teeth, because if he couldn’t get mad at Cas for what happened, he could still take it out on him.

Cas’ eyes fell to the desk, his lips thinning.  “That was very . . . dick-ish of him,” he said.

Dean scoffed.  “You tryin’ be funny now?”  He really wasn’t in the mood.  Cas must have guessed that.

“No,” he said, bringing his gaze back up.  “But I think people should know where the idea truly originated.”

Dean didn’t really care.  Well, yeah, okay, he cared—but it’s not like it actually mattered.  And it sure as fuck wouldn’t matter in two weeks.  He twisted the corners of his lips downward. “Yeah, maybe they’ll give me a nice severance package.”

Cas sighed, and it sounded frustrated now.  Dean really didn’t need that. He flapped his hand out dismissively and turned towards the door.  “Do whatever you want, Cas. But you got a meeting in a few minutes, so don’t be late.”

Not that Dean gave a fuck.  He just didn’t want Cas anywhere in his vicinity.

Because just looking at him kind of . . . hurt.

“Wait, Dean.”

Dean froze, trying to keep his shoulders from dropping.  He took in a steadying breath, but didn’t turn around.

It took a second, but then Cas said, “About last night—.”

No.  God, no.  Fuck, no!  They weren’t doing this.  “Forget it.”

But Cas, the idiot he was, kept on trucking. “I wanted to apologize.” Dean didn’t have to be looking at him to see the straight posture, the high-held chin, the stern expression.  It was all in his tone. “What I said yesterday—how I acted . . . There’s no excuse for it, but, when I took this job, it was never my intention to put either of our personal or professional lives in jeopardy.  And I certainly didn’t mean to fire you.”

So Dean was fired.  Good to know.

He cleared his throat.  “I suppose I—.”

“Overcompensated?” Dean barked.

Cas’ voice was hard when he admitted, “Yes.”

Dean’s fingers twitched.  He steadied them. He glanced up, keeping his eyes on the wall, and waited.  Nothing. He turned around to face Cas, and Cas seemed a little surprised by that.  His fists clenched at his sides. Dean folded his arms over his chest, staring Cas down.  After a while, he prompted, “Okay.”

Cas blinked, thrown.  “Okay? What does that mean, okay—?”

“Apologize,” Dean told him point-blank.

Again, Cas didn’t seem to understand what he was talking about.  His eyes narrowed to slits. “I just did.”

“No, you said you wanted to apologize.  You didn’t actually do it.”

Cas’ fists tightened even more, and then he unclenched them.  And then clenched them again. His lips thinned and he nodded once.  Eventually, he said, as if Dean had just personally made him swallow glass, “I’m sorry.”  The whole display was fucking fascinating to watch.

Dean hummed, and nodded curtly to show he acknowledged it.

Cas stood there motionlessly, and Dean got the distinct feeling that they were in some kind of standoff.  In his head, an old Spaghetti Western tune twanged.

He must have won, because Cas said unsurely, “Isn’t this usually the part where you’d accept the apology?”

It was like the guy had never spoken to another human being in his entire life.  Dean shrugged. “Not always.”

Cas let out an explosive breath.  “Fine. Perhaps we should just say we were both at fault here for letting it get this far.”

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes, mostly because there was moisture building in them and he had to push it back down—but also, really?

Then, Cas told him, “I didn’t mean what I said.”  And that was more like it.  His voice had changed, going thick and soft and earnest.  “I . . . I don’t want you to quit.” His eyes swept downward again, and then back up to meet Dean’s, and he looked so sad that Dean felt a twinge of pity—and something deeper that he wouldn’t explore.  “I haven’t told HR about your resignation yet, so you can still reconsider. If you decide—.”

“Who decided?” Dean snipped.

Cas sighed, annoyed, but he caught himself before he could act on it.  Because he must have known Dean was right. Trying again, he told Dean’s shoes, “I’d like you to stay.”

Dean looked away.  He tried to keep his lips from falling open in a mixture of reverence and hope.  Cas wanted him to stay. But stay for what? For how long? Dean wasn’t sure he could do this.

As if he’d sensed that, Cas said, “You don’t have to make up your mind right now.  And, if you decide you’d still like to resign, I’ll accept that. But . . . will you think about it?”

Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering whether or not he should tell Cas to stick it where the sun don’t shine.  But he didn’t want to say anything he regretted—not with Cas looking at him like that, burning a hole in the side of his face.

And Dean wanted to say he was sorry, too.  Sorry that he was a jackass. Sorry that he led Cas on when he wasn’t ready to commit—probably never would be ready to commit.  And it was better that way, anyway. Dean was leaving soon. And even if he wasn’t, he didn’t have the energy or the time to hold down any kind of relationship.  Work already took up the majority of his every day, and he wanted his free time to be just that: free. His own. Not something he had to barter with someone else.  He wanted just one thing that was his, to do what he wanted when he wanted.

Cas deserved somebody who was all in.  But, hell, Dean really wished he could be that guy for him.

Without looking back, Dean said softly, “Okay.”  He heard Cas exhale with relief. Dean couldn’t allow that to give him hope.  It’d be pointless anyway. He couldn’t let Cas mean anything to him.

He swallowed hard.  He tried to glance at Cas, but he couldn’t.  “We done?”

After a long time, Cas answered, “Yeah.”

“You got five minutes ‘til your next meeting.”

Dean couldn’t get out of the office fast enough.

///

The week went on and Cas’ mood only got worse, which kind of made Dean feel like he’d changed his mind about asking him to stay.  Dean kept telling himself to get his head out of his own ass, because not everything was about him—and it wasn’t like Cas hadn’t been varying degrees of asshole in the past.  But his heart jumped up to his throat every time he needed to knock on Cas’ door for any interaction, no matter how brief.

On Thursday, Cas snapped at him for not reminding him to call a client, and then snapped at him again when Dean told him he’d never asked him to do that in the first place.  And instead of admitting he was wrong—which he definitely realized after three whole minutes insisting on the contrary, because Dean saw the way his eyes fractionally widened in the universal expression of, oh shit I fucked up—he told Dean he should have anticipated it.  Because, you know, Dean was expected to divine information out of thin air now.

On Friday, he told Dean to move all his meetings to Monday so he could “focus on the pitch” and then barely came out of his office the entire day.  And it was around that time that Dean started to get the inkling that all of this really wasn’t about him, after all.

Then, on Monday, despite having a day packed with meetings, he emailed Dean in the morning saying he was taking a sick day.  Which wasn’t like him at all, even though there was something going around the office. (Because when was there not?) But Dean couldn’t help the worry that overcame him.  He wanted to ask what was wrong, if everything was okay. But he reminded himself that Cas wasn’t his friend—or anything else—and his personal life was none of Dean’s business.  He just emailed back with a quick “feel better” and then obsessed about it for the rest of the day.

The rest of the week didn’t get much better, which was actually pretty annoying because GM had chosen France of all places for production and Dean had to book Cas’ travel.  The damn shoot was next week. Every time Dean asked for his input, Cas pretty adamantly insisted “I don’t care, please close the door on your way out.”

Cas did that.  Cas, who had an opinion on everything from airline preference to hotel rooms based on which way the sun rose in the mornings.  At least Max’s travel for the shoot was pretty easy; but then again, he wasn’t trying to be difficult.

It was Friday at around 3 PM when Dean was putting the final touches on Cas’ itinerary.  And he was already itching for 5 o’clock because this week had been hell and he really needed a drink—and some company.  Friend company.  Which was actually pretty lucky, because he had plans for after work.  Fun plans. And Cas would be gone for the shoot on Tuesday, so if his mood hadn’t broken by then, at least he’d be the great nation of France’s problem.  Everything was looking up!

“I’ve reserved an aisle seat for Mr. Novak.  Is that okay? His profile doesn’t indicate his preference,” the travel agent said over the phone.

“He likes the window.  You got any of those left?”  Dean told himself he knew that because it was his job to know, and not because, months back, Cas’ voice had gone all wistful when he talked about his love of watching the ground disappear upon take off and then being able to look at the clouds out the window.  And Dean may have not understood why all of that didn’t scare the shit out of Cas like it should any rational person, but he kind of missed that version of Cas. And he kind of wished there was something he could do to turn the blackened storm clouds surrounding Cas back into fluffy white.

“Of course,” the agent said, and there was the clacking of a keyboard on the other end.  “And I see we have a car picking him up to take him to the airport. The car service suggests 6:45 AM.  Is that okay?”

Personally, the time made Dean’s blood curl, and he knew Cas would probably hate it, too.  His flight didn’t take off until 10:30, and Cas wasn’t exactly the “get to the airport with plenty of time and wait around” kind of guy.  But pushing the car back too much gave Dean anxiety, and he really didn’t want to make that call in case Cas ended up missing his flight. Nothing like shifting the blame.

But, in order to do that, Dean would have to actually ask Cas what time he wanted to be picked up.

He sighed, eyes flashing to Cas’ door.  No way around this.

“Uh.  I’ll go ask him.  Hang on a sec.” He put the phone on mute, and ground his teeth.  It occurred to him that he technically could still quit, avoiding this altogether.

He hadn’t realized he’d groaned until Alicia turned to him and said, “Rough day?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “It’s about to be.”

She nodded, understanding but not really being all that sympathetic.  “Well, at least it’s Friday. And there’s only a couple more hours,” she said as a way of consoling him.

Dean hummed in agreement, even though he didn’t really feel it.  People were always saying shit like that, like they were excited about the clock ticking their lives away.  Just a few more hours.  Just one more day!

Always counting the hours and the days.  Dean didn’t even know what they were being counted towards.

For him, most days, he was just waiting to go home, eat some dinner, go to bed, and get up again to do it all the next day.  It was pretty sad, actually.

He huffed out a breath and pushed himself up from his desk.  “Well, here goes nothin’,” he said, rallying himself as he walked around towards Cas’ office.  He knocked once, and didn’t bother waiting for an answer before opening the door—which was probably his first mistake.

“Damn it, Dean, what?” Cas snipped the second Dean breezed in.  Dean popped his brows. Cas looked like shit—hair flattened and eyes sullen and bruised and out of focus, like sleep was playing hard to get.  Dean knew that look. He’d worn that look. It wasn’t pretty. Even uglier on the inside.

But he guessed Cas wasn’t really in the mood for sharing and caring, so he powered through.  “I’m trying to book your car for Tuesday morning. They want 6:45. That okay?”

Cas rolled his eyes—his whole entire head, actually.  “Whatever you think is best,” he said, obviously going for patience.  He turned back to his computer, pointedly ignoring Dean.

And that was so not what Dean wanted to hear.  “You’re kidding, right? Because what I think is best and what you think is best usually differ for shit like this.”

“Dean,” Cas said through his teeth, and so much for patience.  “Just decide.”

And that was it.  Because, yeah fine, Cas was freaking out over something.  Fair enough. But he’d been taking it out on Dean for over a week now, and it was bullshit.  Dean let out a blunt-edged breath. “Alright, you know what? I’m done.”

Cas blinked, staring back at him.  “What?” His tone was a little less harsh, Dean noticed.

“You’re the one who asked me to stay on.  I’m guessing that was so I could do my job, right?  So, let me do my fucking job. ‘Cause, if it’s gonna be like this . . .” He shrugged out his hands and let himself trail off, because he was pretty sure Cas could finish the thought for him.

Cas stared back at him, in some kind of weird stalemate.  But then the hardness faded from his eyes and he blinked downwards.  “Yeah, I—You’re right. Of course.” And maybe that admission was the most shocking thing yet.  Dean was right?  Maybe he should mark the date.  “Make it 7:30,” Cas finished, and that should have been it.  Dean got what he wanted, and that agent was still on hold. He should duck and go.

His fingers fidgeted at his side.  “Cas, what’s up?” He was so going to regret this.

Cas jutted out his jaw.  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Bull.  Dean grabbed the back of one of the chairs in front of his desk and pulled it out so he could sit.  He leaned in, so Cas knew he had his attention whether he wanted it or not. “You’re not. ‘Cause that look?”  He pointed to Cas’ face and twirled his finger around. “I’ve seen it in the mirror.”

Cas didn’t lift his eyes.  In fact, he ducked his head more like he could hide his face.

Dean wanted to ask him if he had anyone he could talk to, but that would probably make him a hypocrite.  And maybe, deep down, he hoped he could be the guy Cas had to talk to.

When Cas didn’t answer, Dean chewed on the bottom of his lip.  Okay, so Cas wasn’t the talky-feely type. Good. They had that in common—and Dean didn’t dwell on the fact that the things they had in common was a growing list.  But maybe there was something else that might work.

“Tell you what,” he said, hoping Cas would be open to it, “After work tonight, I’m going to this bar.  Meeting a couple buddies of mine there. It’s a place for—you know—people like us.”

He saw Cas’ brow furrow suddenly, and he looked up.  “People like us?” he repeated, and Dean heard the way he must have sounded.  Cas probably thought he wanted to take him to some gay bar or something. Which, admittedly, would be hilarious, but he didn’t think that’s what Cas needed right now.  Maybe another time.

Or, no—no way.  Definitely not.

“No, not—For vets,” Dean clarified.

Cas’ mouth fell open, and the lines of his face smoothed out, like he was ready to list off a slew of excuses.  “No, I—support groups aren’t—.”

Dean scoffed.  “I look like I’m trying to get head shrinked to you?” he asked, as if actually dealing with your problems wasn’t the cool guy thing to do.  Nope. Cool guys relied on alcoholism. Totally. He was cool. “It’s just a bar. And friends. And I figure you could use some of those since you’re still pretty new in town.”

Cas’ resolve seemed to weaken somewhat, but he still seemed reluctant.

“And, to be honest, I need someone else on my team for pool, because the dude I’m always paired with sucks ass.  So, you’d be doing me a favor.”

That seemed to work a little better.

“How do you know I’m any good myself?”

Dean shrugged.  “Figured you can’t be any worse than what I’ve got.  So, what do’ya say?”

Cas stared at him levelly, deciding—and Dean honestly didn’t know if he hoped for a yes or a no.  Mixing Cas into his friend group was probably a really bad idea. But he was actually relieved when Cas nodded and said, “Okay.  Perhaps I can stay for one drink.”

Dean grinned, slapping the desk.  “Yeah, ya can!” And he actually managed to get a smile, even if it was really small and showed no teeth.  It was more like a ghost of a thing, flickering in and out of existence, than a smile. But it was something.

Dean stood up, satisfied, and a little guilty for keeping the travel agent on hold for so long.  “I’m gonna go book that car now,” he said, pushing the chair back into the desk.

“Okay,” Cas said, voice low.  And then, “Thank you, Dean.” And Dean thought maybe he was thanking him for a little more than a car service.

“Don’t mention it.”

///

Cas didn’t say much on the subway right downtown.  He kind of just sat there staring out the window on the opposite side of the train car, where nothing but the black inside of the tunnel and his reflection under the harsh lights stared back.  Dean had to stop himself from waving his hand in front of Cas’ face to test for a reaction, because he was pretty sure Cas would have killed him instantly if he did.

The bar was on one of those old narrow streets that were probably built before cars were invented, and a building that was definitely once a crack den but was now renovated apartments for hipsters sat atop the storefront.  Thankfully, this place didn’t attract such a crowd. The only people who ever really went to Swayze’s were vets. Whenever kids did wander in, they didn’t stay long and ended up going next door to one of the places pedaling forty-dollar cosmos.

“Is the owner a Patrick Swayze fan or does he share the surname?” Cas asked, squinting at the signage above the door as Dean led him towards it.  It was the first thing he’d said since they left the office, and it kind of startled Dean, but in a good way. They weren’t even inside yet, and Cas was already acting more like a human being.  That was good.

He snorted.  “Who isn’t a Swayze fan?”  He reached for the door and held it open, motioning for Cas to go through.  Cas stared at him for a second, seeming unsure, and then squared his shoulders and walked inside.  Dean trudged in after him, the smell of beer and fried food instantly hitting him. His stomach complained, reminding him how hungry he was.

Cas stood in the doorway like he wasn’t sure what to do next.  His hands were fisted at his sides. Dean glanced around. There were a few people in the stools at the bar, chatting in groups of twos and threes.  The bartender moved from customer to customer. A few more familiar faces were seated at the tables, eating and drinking, while others were around the pool table.  At the back of the room, there were two tables pushed together, three men occupying the chairs while three other seats remained empty.

“C’mon, I’ll introduce you to some of my buddies,” Dean said, tapping Cas on the elbow for his attention.  He meant it to be a quick brush, but his hand ended up wrapping around Cas’ arm and pulling him towards the table.  A guy in a wheelchair cut them off briefly, but Dean only dragged Cas around him.

When they got closer, Lee glanced up, and his shittiest grin formed on his face.  He was leaning back in his seat, one arm slung over the chair next to him.  “Look who finally decided to show up.”

The other two men looked over their shoulders in greeting.  “Figured I’d build up the suspense,” Dean said. Cas was standing behind him, hovering close to his shoulder, like he was a shy kid using his mom as a shield against strangers.  Dean twisted to put his hand flat on Cas’ back and nudge him forward. “This is a buddy of mine, Cas,” Dean introduced. He’d practiced what he was going to say about a million times on the train ride over.  A buddy of mine.  A little rush went through him with the thought that he might have actually pulled that one off aloud.  It was kind of nice not having to introduce Cas as his boss. Maybe, for a little while, he could pretend.

“He’s Air Force, so go easy on him,” Dean joked.  And then, “Cas, this is Lee, Victor, and Ketch.” He pointed to each of them in turn.

“Howdy,” Lee said, giving a lazy two-finger salute.

“Cas, nice to meet ya,” Victor said in his fast-paced manner, standing up and offering Cas his hand.  Cas took it, giving a small but friendly smile, seemingly slightly more at ease because of Victor’s politeness.  Dean thought the two of them would probably get along. “And at least you’re not Navy,” Victor joked, still gripping Cas’ hand as he leaned in.  “Between you and me, I’m not looking to have a drink with a glorified lifeguard.”

Cas blinked like he was trying to decide whether or not he should laugh.  Dean made it easy on him by huffing one out, and then he steered Cas towards the seats.  He took the one next to Lee, and Cas sat at the end of the table, still keeping his distance from the rest of the group.  There was a half-full pitcher of beer on the table between them, and Lee poured them both some before topping off his own foam-checkered glass.

“Thank you,” Cas told him before taking a sip, probably so he wouldn’t have to say anything else.  The other three men sized him up, and Dean wanted to roll his eyes because he definitely hadn’t taken Cas there to be the awkward third—fifth?—wheel of their friend group.  For the first time, Dean realized that he’d just voluntarily put himself in the role of mutual friend, which meant all they’d do was talk about him for a while.  That was way too much pressure.

“So, Cas, was it?” Ketch asked in his weird upscale English accent that Dean sometimes thought was too fancy to be real.

“Castiel, yes,” Cas said.

“How do you know our darling Dean?”

There it was.

Dean drank his beer and shot Lee a look out of the corner of his eye.  Lee glanced back, seeming pretty damn amused by his discomfort. Dean didn’t know why he’d been expecting empathy.

“We work together.  We’re on the same team,” Cas said, carefully leaving out the part that he was Dean’s boss.  It gave Dean a little bit of hope that maybe, just for tonight, Cas was willing to pretend, too.

“Well, I gotta hear more about that,” Victor said, leaning in with exaggerated interest.  “Never could picture Dean working in an office. Half the time, I’m convinced he’s lying out of his ass about it.”  Dean snorted, and lifted his eyebrows in agreement; because he couldn’t picture himself in an office, either, and he lived it every day.

Cas frowned though, perplexed.  “Dean’s very good at his job.” Dean ducked his head, trying not to blush too much.  And then Cas said, “What do you do?”

They each answered in turn.  After leaving the service, Victor became FBI; and, as luck would have it, he was based at the local office.  Ketch was an investigator for a law firm, and Cas could probably guess from his bespoke suit and pocket square that the firm’s clients were people like the Rockefellers and the Bloombergs or whatever.

When they got to Lee, Dean slapped his friend on the shoulder and answered for him.  “He owns the place.”

Lee waved it away.  “Yeah, all the glory you see before you,” he added sarcastically.

Cas glanced around with new eyes. Deadpan, he said, “So you’re Swayze?”

Laughter rose up from around the table, and Cas seemed a little proud that the joke landed.  His eyes lit up a little, and his lips twitched with a grin he tried to bite down. It took years off his face, and it was nice to see some of the dark clouds that had been hanging over him break apart to allow for the sunbeams.

“Yeah, if only,” Dean muttered into his beer, earning him an elbow to the ribs.  But, in truth, he was kind of jealous of his friends’ jobs. They were all so cool!  Victor was saving people; Ketch was basically a spy; Lee owned a really awesome business.  And Dean was just some random office worker. It wasn’t really glamorous, and it usually made him self-conscious around these guys.  He loved hanging out with them—just as long as they didn’t ask him about work. He was the only one allowed to ask that question.

“Well, hey, this place might not be much, but it was the dream,” Lee said, both looking pleased and selling himself short.  “And, when I got back home, I went around to some of the other vet bars in the city. Didn’t really like ‘em. Thought—well, hell, I could do better.  So, I did.”

“Amen to that,” Dean said, knocking his glass against Lee’s.

He noticed Cas’ eyes flickering between the two of them with interest that he was obviously trying to be sneaky about.  But he wouldn’t ask, and Dean wouldn’t say unless he did. The answer was yes, by the way—but a long time ago, and not anymore.  He and Lee had known each other way too long for any of that.

“But at least I don’t have to see this one’s ugly mug every day,” Lee said, squeezing Dean’s shoulder and shaking hard.  “Tough break there. Wooh!”

Dean rolled his eyes, flushing.  “Alright, can we stop talking about me now?”

“No!” all four of them said in varying degrees of enthusiasm and volume.  Awesome.

The conversation went on from there, leading to where they all met each other.  “This guy saved my ass,” Victor said, pointing to Dean, “and took his sweet time doing it.”  To which Dean responded, “Yeah, I shoulda left you.”  And Ketch told Cas that he’d been “serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure” at the same base that Dean and Victor had been stationed for a while.  Eventually, Dean somehow found themselves talking about the time he and Lee got into a lot of trouble throwing a pool party in the simulation tanks back at West Point.  It probably wasn’t their best idea, but they’d had a pretty big turnout, so all in all he regretted nothing.

Cas didn’t talk much, but he seemed to have a pretty good time listening, so Dean relaxed.

After polishing off some hot wings, they racked up at the pool table for a game.  Cas was pretty good, even though he claimed he didn’t play that often but, “it’s all math.”  Dean groaned about what a nerd he was and told him to just play. They ended up winning the first game against Lee and Victor.

While the next game was being set up, Dean went over to the bar to order another round for everyone.  It was one of the perks of having the owner as a friend: he could drink as much as he wanted without having to pay.  He always did leave a big tip, though.

He wasn’t expecting company as he ordered, but Lee followed him over and leaned his elbow against the bar.  He shot Dean a knowing look, and Dean didn’t want to ask. His gut clenched up in anticipation, and he really hoped his friend would keep whatever he was thinking to himself.  But, if he wanted to do that, he probably wouldn’t have stalked Dean all the way over to the bar.

Dean grunted.  “What?”

“What,” Lee echoed, mocking him.  He was grinning. “C’mon, man, you know what.”

“No, I don’t.”

Lee sighed like Dean was making this harder than it needed to be; which was absolutely true.  Dean was one hundred percent making this harder than it needed to be. He said, “Cas. He a good buddy?”

Yup.  There was the question.  Dean hadn’t missed the way Lee had been eyeing them all night with humored scrutiny.  He shrugged casually. “I dunno. Only known him a few months.”

“Uh-huh,” Lee said, rolling his tongue.  “You wanna try that again?”

It was no use.  Lee knew that Dean was full of shit.  But Dean really wasn’t in the mood to be teased about this, if such a mood even existed.  He puckered his lips in annoyance, and threw a look over at Cas to make sure he was still preoccupied.  He and Victor seemed to be in conversation while Ketch lined up his shot on the table. Victor was perched casually on the corner of the table, and Cas was standing in front of him, looking anything but casual.  His body was rigid, and he was listening intently to whatever Victor was saying.

Dean’s heart sank.  God, he really hoped they weren’t swapping war stories.  Cas didn’t need that tonight.

“You wanna know a secret?” Dean said, turning back to Lee.  Lee popped his brows like that’s what he’d been waiting for.  Dean sighed. There really was no use pretending. “He’s my boss.”

That was probably the very last thing Lee expected to hear, because he instantly straightened out.  “He’s your what?” he admonished, and then ran his palm down his face with a groan. “Oh, man, come on!  When we said fuck authority, I didn’t mean literally. I thought we were on the same page.”

The bartender came back with the beers, and Dean picked his up to take a pull.  “Yeah, I know,” he muttered beforehand. After his drink, he maintained, “It was an accident.”

“Yeah, how many accidents?”

It was really annoying having a friend who knew just how full of shit Dean actually was.  For some reason, it made anger spike. He tried to keep it out of his voice, but he couldn’t help how hard his eyes had gone.  “It’s not like that.”

Lee softened, sympathetic.  “You like this guy?”

Dean didn’t want to talk about this.  He shouldn’t have said anything. He groaned again, this time making it sound a little more put upon and dramatic.  He grabbed his beer and another one, and left the other three for Lee to handle. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and didn’t allow for any further comment.  He turned around and headed back for the pool table.

“Who’s winning?” he asked, handing Cas the second beer.

“England,” Ketch said, bent over the side of the table with the cue sticking out behind him.

Dean barely paid attention.  Next to him, Cas didn’t take a sip of his drink.  He was just looking into it, in some kind of trance.  The lines on his face were back, and so was the darkness hanging over him.  Damn it. Dean shouldn’t have left him. Cas had been doing so well.

Risking life and limb, Dean leaned in and whispered, “Hey.  You good?”

Cas blinked and glanced up.  It took a second for his eyes to come back into focus, “Yes.”  He didn’t explain further, which meant he wasn’t good. And then he said, “Excuse me.  I’m going to sit down.” He walked around Dean, keeping a wide breadth, and went to one of the high tables around the bar, a little bit away from where most of the patrons sat.  Dean watched him go, shoulders dropping.

“Where’s he going?” Victor asked from the other side of the table.

Dean looked over at him.  Instead of answering, he asked, “What were you guys talking about?”

Victor shrugged, like it was no big deal.  “He asked me what I meant when I said you rescued me.”

Damn it.  Damn it! Dean knew he wouldn’t like being the main topic of conversation.  Cas didn’t need to know about that right now. Maybe when he was in a better mood, sure, but not now.  He didn’t need to hear about how Victor spent four months as a POW. He didn’t have to hear about the mission to get him out.

Dean pulled at his mouth, collecting himself and figuring out how to navigate this situation, and said, “Alright.  Gimme a minute.” He walked over to the table where Cas had sequestered himself, and stood across from him. Cas didn’t look up at him, but Dean knew he acknowledged his presence by the way he bristled.

“Look, Cas—.”

“I said, I’m fine, Dean,” Cas said suddenly, raising his voice.  And, yeah, he wasn’t fine. And Dean wasn’t about to leave him alone.

He pulled out the chair across from Cas and hauled himself up on it.  Folding his hands on the table in front of him, he asked carefully, “What is it?”

Cas kept sulking quietly, his jaw jutting out and his lips in a tight line.  He was glaring down at the table.

“You haven’t been fine for about a week now,” Dean continued.  When Cas still didn’t answer, he sighed, and said, “Look, I’m just trying to help.”

Cas softened slightly at that.  He breathed out, letting the pressure go with it.  The anger drained, and then he just looked sad. Exhausted.  “I think . . .” he started slowly. Dean listened. “Last week.  The crowded subway. I think it affected me.”

Dean remembered how nervous Cas had gotten, the way he’d closed his eyes with anxiety and gripped Dean’s arm like he needed a tether to reality.  Dean clapped his hands together gently. “Why?”

It took a second, but Cas’ eyes lifted to meet his.  At first, it looked like he wasn’t going to say anything; but then, “There was, um . . . in Afghanistan.  My unit had been tasked with evacuating a village. It wasn’t my usual detail, but we caught word that a target was coming in.  We were going to destroy the town, but we needed to get the civilians out first.”

His gaze was still on Dean, but Dean got the feeling that he wasn’t looking at him at all.  All the usual intensity of his eyes, the humming electric pulse of something that was always between them when their eyes locked, was missing.

Cas continued, “Our orders had been to check them for weapons before boarding them on the carriers, but we were running out of time.  I made the call to board them unsearched. There were too many people, Dean. Children. Elderly. We were packed inside. I truthfully didn’t even know if the carrier would lift off.”  He sighed. “But it did . . .”

Dean felt the skin on his arm bump.  Part of him didn’t want to hear the rest, because he could probably figure it out on his own.

But Cas said, voice textbook, “An enemy combatant with a concealed firearm—.”  He stopped himself short. And paused, swallowing down any memory of emotion. It didn’t really work, though.  “I managed to take him out before he downed the plane, but . . . not before he killed others.”

Dean shook his head.  It wasn’t Cas’ fault that guy had snuck on board.  “You did what you had to do.”

“No, I know that,” Cas said a little more forcefully than he had to, like he still wasn’t totally convinced.  His eyes came back into focus a little in the outburst, but the storm clouds lessened into a drizzle. “But it was an hour until we could land.”

Shit.  Dean didn’t want to picture it.  People packed inside the back of one of those carriers.  Some of them bleeding out. Some of them dead. Scared.

Jesus.  No wonder Cas hated crowds.

Dean hung his head, trying to figure out what the hell he could say.  There was nothing he could do to take away that memory. He couldn’t reach for Cas’ hand or hold him or whisper sweet words against his hair; and it wouldn’t help even if he could.  The only thing to do was to push forward. He looked back up, and said firmly, “Okay. So, we stay away from crowds from now on.”

Cas gave him baleful eyes, but he looked like he appreciated the sentiment.  “I don’t think that will be easy in a city, Dean.”

Okay, good point.  Damn city. “Alright.  Then, when we can’t . . . just let me know if you’re gonna start freaking out, and I’ll make an excuse to get us out of there.”

Cas’ eyes were a little lighter now, something grateful and starstruck sparkling within them.  And Dean realized he was talking about being there in the future. Being at Cas’ side. So, he guessed he wasn’t quitting, after all.  He was staying, and Cas got the message.

“How?” Cas asked, obviously not making a big thing of it.  Dean was grateful.

Dean shrugged.  “Code word? Me and Sammy have one.  Poughkeepsie.”

“Poughkeepsie?” Cas repeated, knitting his brow.

“It’s a town upstate.  Our parents used to take us there sometimes.”  He wondered if Sam would mind including someone else into their little secret language—but it was Cas.  He was sure Sam would be fine with it, especially if he knew the reason.  “So, you get overwhelmed or something, just work that into conversation—and leave the rest to me.”

Cas was looking at him with so much naked fondness now that Dean actually had to look away.  It made him uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. More like, he wanted Cas to look at him like that all the time, and that scared the shit out of him.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said gently, and Dean had to curl up his hand to stop himself from blanketing it over Cas’ on the table.

He cleared his throat, and looked anywhere but at Cas.  His eyes fell back on his friends at the pool table. “You up for another game?” he asked, trying to bring the conversation back into less vulnerable territory.  Cas seemed to appreciate that.

“No,” he said, but he wasn’t sulking anymore.  He slid off his chair to his feet, and he looked lighter than before.  Dean thought, maybe, they were over the hump. “I want you to exhibit the darts skills you were bragging about.”

A grin spread across Dean’s face.  He hadn’t expected that. “Alright,” he said, rising to the challenge.  He stood up, too. “Lead the way, hotshot.”

///

“Catch you later, man,” Lee said as they parted, clapping his hand into Dean’s and bringing him into a one armed hug.  Dean slapped his back lightly before pulling away. They were the last people in the bar, which meant it must have been close to 2 AM.  Dean hadn’t realized it had gotten so late, but time usually slipped away from him when he was with this group.  Besides, it was nice to have Cas there. Cas seemed better after their conversation, so maybe this whole night was kind of good, after all.

“Castiel.  Nice meeting you,” Victor said as he put on his coat.  He nodded his chin towards Dean. “And don’t let this one scare you off.  You should come around more often.”

Cas smiled gently at that, even if he was looking at the floor.  It still counted. In fact, Dean had counted at least twenty-eight smiles from him over the course of the night.  It was more than he’d ever seen on him in the time he’d known him. “Thank you. I think I will.” Dean tried not to feel too giddy about that answer.

They finished saying goodnight as they walked out the door.  Lee locked up and headed in one direction, towards his apartment.  Victor and Ketch headed in the other. It was starting to get warmer out these days, but at night Dean still had to shove his hands into his jacket pockets.  As he and Cas walked towards the avenue, he pushed out all the air in his lungs, expecting to see his breath. When he didn’t, he pouted silently in mild disappointment, but got over it pretty quickly.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight,” Cas said.  Their shoulders bumped as they walked. Dean glanced at his profile, taking a second to outline the straight line of his nose, the plush of his lips and his angular chin.  He tore his gaze away, instead looking around at the yellow lights still on in some of the windows around them. They passed another bar, where people were still inside, but it was nowhere near as packed as it would have been a few hours ago.  From the next block, he heard people drunkenly singing and laughing as they stumbled home. But, all in all, it was quiet.

“Yeah, this was fun,” Dean said.  “We all try to get together a couple times a month.  It’s nice—ya know. Having people who . . .” Maybe he was laying it on too thick.  He didn’t want Cas to spiral again now that he was feeling better. Weakly, he continued, “Who get it.”

He felt Cas’ eyes roaming his features, but didn’t dare meet them.  Cas said, “Yes, it is.” And maybe Dean was projecting, but it sounded like he was talking in specifics.  He tried not to think about it too hard.

When they reached the avenue, cars were zipping past at speeds probably too dangerous for a busy city street.  The whoosh of tires on the tar served as constant background noise. Dean turned towards Cas, who breathed out with a sigh of finality.  Briefly, Dean wondered how he could keep this night going, but that was a bad idea. Cas didn’t want that, anyway.

“So, guess that’s it,” he said, and he was so damn awkward.  He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You, uh—you call yourself that Uber yet?”

“Oh!” Cas said, eyes flashing.  He pulled out his phone and started tapping on the screen.  “I would have been standing here for hours waiting for it to arrive.”

Dean tsked him.  “I gotta do everything for you?”

“Apparently so.”  Cas tapped one more time and announced, “It’ll be here in six minutes.”  Six? Jesus, that was forever.  He couldn’t leave Cas standing there waiting on his own.  Cas read off, “An Infiniti Q50. I have no idea what that is.  I assume it’s some kind of car.”

Okay, perfect excuse.  Dean played it off with a roll of his eyes.  “Alright, I’ll help.”

Cas shot him a faux-guilty look.  “You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”  Dean looked over his shoulder, as if six minutes had already gone by and the car would be rolling up any second.  He pointedly did not notice the fact that Cas made no further attempt of brushing him off.

In fact, Cas had been quiet for a beat too long.  Dean felt his eyes on him again, and this time looked back.  Cas regarded him for a long moment, and Dean really didn’t know what he was thinking until he said, “You’re sure you want to take the subway all the way uptown?  We can share this car. I’ll pay.”

Dean looked at his shoes.  He kicked at a loose pebble on the sidewalk.  Paying wasn’t the problem. (Okay, it was a problem but not the main reason he absolutely could not allow himself to get into a car with Cas.)  “Nah, I’m good. Subway’s a pretty straight shot home from here.”

“You don’t have to go home,” Cas said—quickly, quietly, like if he said it low and fast enough, Dean might not hear him.  And Dean really wished he hadn’t. He let his eyes slip closed.

“Cas.”  When he was sure the mask of indifference was firmly on his face, he opened his eyes.  Cas was still staring at him. “No.”

He was disappointed.  Dean could tell by the way his expression shifted.  “Why?”

Was that even a question?  “’Cause, I go to your place, I’m gonna wanna sleep with you.”  Sure, it was brutally honest, but maybe they both had to hear it out loud.  Because they couldn’t pretend. They couldn’t pretend Cas wasn’t his boss, just like they couldn’t pretend there wasn’t some weird sexual tension between them that didn’t feel like any sexual tension Dean had ever had with anyone else.  He just didn’t know what else to call it.

Cas looked at him levelly, and said, “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

Dean wanted to laugh, instantly.  And he also really wanted to punch Cas in the mouth and leave him bleeding on the street corner.  He got as far as fisting his hands in his pockets before thinking better of it. He spun around and walked off a few paces, just to clear his head.  God damn it, why did all of this have to be so confusing? Why was Cas ice one minute and fire the next? Dean never knew if he was about to thaw off or get burned.

“That’s not what you said last week,” Dean reminded him.

Cas was silent for a second.  And then, “I know what I said.”

What?  What the fuck?  What the actual fuck?

Dean spun around on his heels and shrugged his arms out.  “So, what? We have a night out with my drinking buddies and suddenly that changes everything?”  What if Cas just changed his mind again tomorrow morning, or next week, or next month? Dean couldn’t live like this!  He was pretty sure knowing Cas had taken five years off his lifespan already.

“Nothing’s changed.  Us having relations—,” Dean rolled his eyes, because no one actually said shit like relations, but Cas wasn’t hindered, “is still a terrible idea.  It’s stupid and irresponsible, not to mention unprofessional, and it could likely start a scandal for the company if we’re found out.  At the very least, I could have a harassment suit filed against me, potentially ending my career.  You’d likely be fired, as well.”

Oh, yeah, that all sounded great!  Dean’ll take what’s behind door number one!

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.  His head was swimming a little from the alcohol, and his skin was a little numb; but this conversation was sobering him right up.  “Okay. Hearing a lot of cons, and not a lot of pros here.”

“The pro is you.”

Dean dropped his arm.  Huh?

For a second, all he could do was stare at Cas.  Because he was pretty sure Cas hadn’t actually just said that.  Dean had just imagined it, because he’d finally lost all touch with reality.  Cas had done it. He’d driven him insane.

But Cas was so steady and sure, even though he was probably freaking out just as much as Dean was on the inside.  He’d said it so logically—like anyone would have said the same thing.

They wouldn’t.  Dean wouldn’t even say it!

He gnashed his teeth, and shook his head.  And he had no idea why he felt so fucking terrified.  “Wow, I had no idea I was such a catch,” he said sarcastically.

Cas cocked his head to the side, confused.  “Why not?”

Dean laughed, short and bitter.  “C’mon, man! You serious?” There was a grin on his face—wide and fake and sterile.  It faded somewhat when he realized Cas was, in fact, deadly serious. And for some reason that just pissed Dean off more.  “I’m an admin!”

“Apart from the obvious, I don’t see what your job title has to do with—.”

“Everything!” Dean erupted.

Cas must have finally understood what he was saying, but the lines between his eyes only deepened, and the tilt of his head became tiltier.  He narrowed his eyes.  “You don’t think you deserve happiness?”

Dean could feel his walls building back up again.  Too bad Cas could see right through them. They must have been made of glass.

God damn it, this was the longest six minutes of Dean’s life.

“I’m happy.”

Maybe that wasn’t true.  Maybe he wasn’t better off alone, even if it was safer.  And maybe he didn’t know how to deal with that, so he went crazy and took off at the first sign of anything good.  Anything real. He’d done it with Lisa, after all.

Whatever Dean was selling, Cas didn’t seem to be buying.  “Dean,” he said gently, and filled in the space Dean had put between them.  “I know what’s at risk here, and maybe it won’t be worth while for either of us.  But I . . .”

He seemed like he’d been building up to something, but he stopped right before taking the plunge.  Dean licked his lips, and dared, “You what?”

He never found out.  Cas’ phone beeped, and he brought it up to a message saying his driver was almost there.  Dean was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Because, whatever Cas was going to say, maybe it would have convinced him.  And Dean kind of really wanted to be shoved in the right direction.

Regrouping, Cas said, “We don’t have to decide anything tonight.  We can take it slow.” He must have realized Dean had never agreed to anything, because he stammered out, “If . . . If you want to.”

Of course, Dean wanted to!  It was a miracle Dean wasn’t kissing him right now!  Every bone in his body was telling him to go for it. And every muscle was constricting around those bones, trying to suffocate them into silence.

He forced himself to remain still.  Weakly, he told the pavement, “Okay.”

Cas brightened somewhat.  “Okay,” he agreed.

A car pulled up to the curb.  Dean looked over his shoulder.  “That’s your guy.”

Cas lingered momentarily, and then walked around Dean in the direction of the car without even saying goodnight.  Dean wished Cas would invite him over again, because he would probably say yes that time. He was both hopeful and afraid that Cas would ask.

Cas reached for the door handle, and then paused.  He looked around at Dean, like he’d just remembered something.  “Come to Paris with me for the GM shoot.”

Dean blinked, his mouth falling open.  Out of all the things to say . . .

If this were Cas’ idea of going slow, Dean would need to invest in a crash test dummy helmet.  “Come again?”

“Call the airline on Monday and buy yourself a ticket.”

Dean’s heart was about to beat out of his throat.  Paris? Fucking Paris? France?

“You—I—,” he said, trying to find a coherent thought somewhere in all the jumbled mess.  What came out was: “Finance is never gonna pay for that!” Which, okay, was a lame excuse, but it was also true.

Cas, however, seemed to think it was a non-issue.  “Of course they will. I’ll get you approved.” He smiled.  Again. Dean realized he’d lost count. “I’ll tell them I need you there to keep me on schedule.”

Okay, so maybe Dean was in love.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t sure if he responded before Cas got into the car.  If he did, it was something along the lines of, “Uhhhhhhhhhh.”

He was still gaping and blinking when the car drove away.

Chapter Text

“You’re going where?”

“Paris.”

Dean glanced around the airport terminal from his place on his chair.  Despite the fact that it was early morning on a Tuesday, there were a ton of people around him scattered along the rows of chairs.  Most of them looked like business travelers, but there were a few families with unruly kids around that seemed to be taking advantage of the off-season vacation deals.  More people rolled their carry-on bags down the walkways towards their gates.  Dean’s gate was still closed up tight, and the attendant at the desk next to it was helping a line of customers with their tickets, wearing a smile way too big to be anything but murderous.

Personally, Dean was okay if the doors never opened.  Because, sure, right now it was sunny outside the big, bright floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the hangers and runways, but he saw those dark clouds rolling in.  Maybe they’d need to delay the flight—or cancel it. Which would be annoying, because taking off his shoes and getting violated by an overly-handsy security officer at the checkpoint had been a nightmare, but he was willing to forget about that whole experience as long as he never had to get on a plane.

Why weren’t they driving?  Why couldn’t people drive to Europe?  It was the year 2020. Shouldn’t a massive bridge across the Atlantic be a thing by now?

He was white-knuckling his phone to his ear, because it occurred to him that morning that Sam didn’t know he was going away; and he figured he should say goodbye before dying tragically in a plane crash where his body was never recovered from the bottom of the ocean.

He looked around again, making sure all the bags in his general vicinity were attended, and that no one looked like they were concealing a weapon.  Cas’ bag was the only one missing its owner, but Dean was pretty sure Cas wasn’t trying to kill anybody (except maybe Dean, most days).  And he’d just gone to the bathroom before they boarded in—shit—ten minutes, which was okay because it gave Dean time to freak out in private.

“When did that happen?” Sam’s voice came in over the line.

“Friday.  Cas asked me to go with him to the shoot.  It kinda just happened!” Originally, he’d gotten himself the last ticket in coach, but Cas told him to call back and get business class.  Dean never thought in a million years he’d get approved for that, but Cas had told finance that he wanted to discuss his itinerary for the production or some shit during the flight and they’d eaten it right up.  At first, Dean thought it would help that he’d have enough leg room to allow for human dignity and all the mini vodka bottles his heart desired; but, now that he was sitting at the gate, he realized none of that would really matter when his body was fish food amongst the burning wreckage.

“But, Dean, you hate flying,” Sam told him, as if Dean had forgotten.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Gosh, Sammy, thanks for the reminder.”  Sam didn’t say anything, which meant he was trying not to laugh at Dean’s expense.  Dean sighed, trying to calm himself down. His heart was zipping around his chest. “Alright, I just—wanted you to know where I’d be for the next few days.  Should be back by the weekend. If, ya know, I’m not dead.”

“You’ll be fine,” Sam told him, way too calmly, but then contradicted himself by saying, “Have a safe flight.”

Movement caught the corner of Dean’s eyes, and he glanced over to the magazine vendor in the middle of the terminal.  Cas was walking around it, headed for Dean. He was dressed casually for once—in jeans that were just a little too baggy around his ankles but hugged his thighs snuggly, and a white button-down with the top couple of buttons undone.  Every time he leaned over, the shirt would flare out and Dean got a pretty nice view of his chest, and he did not need that right now.  He was already on edge enough as it were.

He licked his lips, not really knowing if it was because of nerves or because of the unbuttoned shirt thing.  “Yeah, thanks.”

“And tell Cas I said so, too.”

“Fine, whatever.  Bye.” What Sam had said processed way too belatedly—but when it did, all Dean could do was wonder why the hell Sam was wishing Cas a safe flight.  It’s not like they knew each other. He said, “Wait, why?” But Sam had already hung up. Dean held his phone out, staring in confusion at his home screen.

“Is something wrong?” Cas asked as he lifted his briefcase up from the chair next to Dean’s and plopped down.

Dean rattled away his thoughts, because he guessed Sam was just being polite.  “No,” he said, pocketing his phone. “It was just my brother.”

“How is he?” Cas asked distractedly.  He was digging through his bag for something and couldn’t seem to find it.

“Fine.”

“And Jessica?”

Dean looked at him like he had about a million heads.  “You know Jess?”

“Of course.”

Oh, of course!  Of course he did!  Dean shrugged out his hands on his lap.  “How many times have you talked to my brother?”

The contents of Cas’ bag shifted as he dug deeper.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Dean,” he said, and that didn’t answer the question at all!  Cas grunted in frustration. “I forgot my sleeping mask.”

Dean hadn’t been expecting that, so he really couldn’t be faulted for cracking up hysterically at the sudden image of Cas wearing a sleeping mask.  Cas cocked his head to the side, seeming both confused and offended. “What?”

Dean did his best to control himself.  “Nothin’.”

“I don’t like any amount of light when I sleep, Dean.”

He really wasn’t helping the situation.  Dean bit down on his tongue and shook his head.  “No, no—totally.”

Cas sighed, and appeared to give up.  Or maybe not quite. He made one last half-assed attempt to look through his briefcase before banishing it petulantly to the seat next to him.  They fell quiet for a second, and Dean did another look around, just to make sure everything was still kosher. It looked like they were getting ready to open the gate.  The pilots had arrived, and one of them said something to the attendant while the other straightened out his striped uniform tie. Dean’s stomach sloshed, and he tapped his fingers against his knees in attempt to get some of his energy out.  It wasn’t working.

Next to him, Cas leaned over in his chair, and Dean quickly focused on him reaching towards a dulled penny on the floor.  Dean pulled a face, because it was just a penny. If it had fallen out of Cas’ bag while he was rifling through it, it probably wasn’t worth the germs on the carpeted floor.  But then Cas flipped over the coin and left it there. He slouched back in his chair again, expression completely neutral.

Dean blinked at him.  Because what the hell?

“What?” Cas asked, eyes still forward.

Dean tore his gaze away, realizing he’d been staring.  “What?”

“You were looking at me.”

Dean considered just leaving it alone, because it’s not like it mattered.  It was a penny.  Maybe it was some OCD thing.  If it were anyone else, he’d forget about it.  But it was Cas—and he needed to know.  “Why’d you just do that?”  His tone was all wrong, like he was accusing Cas of something.

“Do what?”

“The penny.”

Cas turned his face towards him, seeming perplexed, and for a split second, Dean wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing.  But then Cas said, “Are you unfamiliar with the concept of a lucky penny? It was my understanding that it was universal.”

Dean shook his head.  “No, I know what a lucky penny is.”  Was Cas superstitious? Dean would have never guessed.  “But you’re supposed to pick it up.”

“It’s only lucky when it’s found heads up.”

Dean had no idea what that meant.  And then, for the first time, he glanced down at the coin.  It was heads up now.  Understanding dawned on him, even before Cas explained, “Now, it’ll be lucky for the next person who finds it.”

Was he serious?  Did he just go around flipping pennies all day?  It was ridiculous. And Dean couldn’t stop staring at him.  Because, just when Dean was sure he had Cas all figured out, he did something like flip a penny.

“You’re still staring at me.”

Dean blinked.  He hadn’t noticed his lips had parted, but when he did he closed them.  “No, uh—just didn’t take you for a guy who put much stock in that crap, is all,” he excused, because it was kind of true.  Cas was usually so logical. Things like lucky pennies didn’t fit.

Cas turned forward again and shrugged.  “I used to. Luck, fate. Faith.” His eyes flickered downward, but only briefly.  “Not anymore. Now, I tend to believe people choose their own paths. And, at times, rely on the kindness of strangers.  Even if it’s a small kindness.”

Dean wanted to ask what changed.  Instead, he said, “Hence the penny?”

The corners of Cas’ mouth quirked, like he was glad Dean understood.  “Hence the penny.”

Dean was still staring at him.  Cas noticed. “Is that strange?”

“No!” Dean answered automatically, but, yeah.  But not in a bad way.  Kind of the opposite. And Dean kind of felt like he was floating outside his body now.  Because only Cas could take something so simple and turn it into some existential life lesson about the triumph of the human spirit like it was something people just did sometimes.

And Dean had to look away to fight the urge to smile.

“Attention passengers,” a friendly voice sounded from over the loudspeaker.  Dean’s neck snapped up.  For a second there, he’d forgotten he was afraid.  But then the desk attendant said, “We’ll be boarding flight 586 to Paris in five minutes, beginning with business class.  Please have your tickets ready at the gate.”

Dean stood up, just about at the same time that a few other people began moseying towards the gate so they could be the first people to get inside the metal box they’d be trapped in for over seven hours.  Cas looked up at him in question. “I’m gonna go get some snacks for the plane,” Dean told him in ways of an excuse. Because it was probably a good idea, anyway. No way he was trying to eat freeze-dried rubber in-flight meals.  He’d probably gag just thinking about any kind of food, but at least a bag of chips was edible.

But, really, he just needed an excuse to clear his head.

Cas nodded and said, “Hurry back,” like they wouldn’t be sitting at the gate for a hundred years, anyway.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and paced towards the magazine stand.  He circled the kiosk around to the other side, casually flicking at the covers of paperbacks and pretending to be interest in the packs of gum on the rack as he went, just so it didn’t look like he was trying to get away from Cas.  It was no use, because Cas was still visible in the corner of his eye the entire time.

It was a little easier to breathe when his view was obstructed.  He stood there for way too long, staring at the colorful bags of chips on hooks in front of him.  And he tried to focus on picking one, instead of the fact that he was pretty sure he was actually falling in love with the guy he was about to be stuck next to on an international flight.

And what a fucking mess that would be.  It was only a matter of time until Cas realized Dean really wasn’t worth the risk of ruining his career.  And Dean . . . well. Dean wouldn’t be good in a relationship, anyway. He didn’t know how to be with someone else for more than a night.  He’d just end up screwing it up like he did before. He was better off just keeping this thing between them—whatever the hell it was—casual until the flame burned out.

The thought of Cas getting tired of him was enough to make him want to vomit; which meant he probably shouldn’t have agreed to go to Paris with him.  He wondered if it was too late to back out.

Distantly, he heard the cheery attendant over the loudspeaker, welcoming them to the flight and calling rows.

Yeah, it was probably too late.

Dean sighed, and turned his head to the side, where a rack of overpriced flight “essentials” were on display.  There were a few blow-up neck rests, some earbuds, earplugs.  There were sleeping masks.  Dean reached out and spun the rack around, looking at the sleeping masks.  There were pretty standard ones—black or navy or brown. But there were some that looked like they were for kids, too, including one bright pink mask with scripted golden letters reading, the princess is sleeping.

A smirk lifted his cheek.

Dean grabbed the mask and brought it and a bag of BBQ Chex Mix up to the register.  He brought them back over to the gate in a plastic bag, and found Cas standing on line outside the gate.  Cas seemed relieved when Dean came up to him.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “Dude, relax. Plane’s not going anywhere.”  He ignored the pouty look Cas shot him and lifted up the bag.  The plastic crinkled as he reached into it and said, “Got somethin’ for you.”

Cas looked confused, and he opened his mouth to say something, but before he got the chance, Dean pulled out the sleeping mask.  The thing was twenty bucks, which was highway robbery, but it was worth it to see the look on Cas’ face. Dean offered it to him, grinning.

Cas looked at him, and then down at the mask, and then back to Dean.  His arms stayed at his sides. He looked fucking pissed.

It was hilarious.

“C’mon, now you’ll be able to sleep!” Dean told him innocently.

Cas huffed out a breath, which was definitely a laugh but he was trying to make it seem like he was annoyed.  “You’re not expensing this,” he said, and ripped the mask out of Dean’s hand.

Dean laughed.  “Worth it.”

///

I can do this, he told himself as he coiled his entire body like a python and stepped into the plane.

I can do this, he told himself as the flight attendant greeted him with a smile and a “welcome” before checking his ticket and pointing him in the right direction (which was a little unnecessary because there was only one direction he could go in).

I can do this, he told himself as he didn’t throw up.

Oh.  Okay, maybe I can do this, the thought when he saw the chair he’d be in for the next few hours.  It was kind of a sweet setup.  He could recline it and there was plenty of legroom.  There was a little TV on the back of the seat in front of him.  He got a pretty big armrest and a little cup holder. He even got a little pillow and a thin folded blanket.  It was a lot better than the last time Sam had dragged him on a plane a few years ago, and a hell of a lot better than any of the military carriers he’d been strapped to by a harness.

Sure, the plane smelled stale and funky, and he was still trapped inside a screaming metal death trap hurling through the air at a zillion miles per hour, but maybe he didn’t have to think about that.

Cas stowed his briefcase in the overhead compartment before taking the window seat and immediately sliding up the window shade to the blinding sunlight bouncing off the plane’s white exterior.  Dean winced at the sudden onslaught, and decided to keep his backpack with him instead of stowing it. He remembered the whole “contents may have shifted during flight” thing, and the last thing he needed was to open up the compartment to get a stick of gum and having everyone’s carry on bags fall on top of his head, rendering him unconscious.  And maybe it made him feel a little better to hug his bag against his chest like a teddy bear.

Next to him, Cas settled in pretty quickly.  He rested his chin on his hand and kept staring out the window, bored, completely oblivious to the way Dean’s adrenaline was pumping in his ears.  Damn it, maybe Dean should have taken a Xanax before he got on the plane.  He spotted an emergency instruction pamphlet in the seatback pocket and flipped through it, looking at all the calm cartoon people very pleasantly accepting their inevitable death.

It only stressed him out more, so he stowed that away and plucked up the SkyMall mag, flipping through the overpriced items.  He wondered if anyone actually ever bought this crap. Like he needed an electronic drum set. Wait, did he need an electronic drum set?

He managed to take his mind off his current situation just in time for the stewardess to get over the intercom and announce they were closing the doors.  Dean’s fight or flight instincts instantly kicked in. But he managed to calm himself down . . . until the plane started rolling away from the gate.

And then they were on the runway for like a hundred years, and Dean managed to get used to that, too.  But then they started rolling again, and then going really fast, and then everything started vibrating, and then there was this weird dropping feeling in his stomach—like driving too fast over a small hill in his car—and the plane was suddenly vertical.  Dean clamped his eyes shut and tried to tell himself not to die of a heart attack before a plane crash could kill him.

“Dean,” he heard Cas whisper, and it gave him just enough comfort to wink one eye open.  Cas was looking at him, brow crumpled in confusion and concern, and the world was getting smaller and smaller at a rapid speed outside the window behind him.  Dean should have never opened his eye.

He hadn’t realized he’d been grasping Cas’ wrist tight enough to restrict circulation until Cas blanketed his other hand over Dean’s and asked, “You really don’t like flying?”  And Dean didn’t know which part of all this was more embarrassing.

“I told you that!” Dean snapped, because it was easier than screaming in terror.

“I assumed you didn’t enjoy it.  I didn’t know you were afraid.” Dean could barely hear him over the whirling of the engines, but the word afraid came in loud and clear.

“I’m not afraid!” he said, even though he was really afraid.

Cas didn’t believe it for a second.  He raised a brow, but mercifully didn’t comment further.  He just patted Dean’s hand once and turned to look out the window again.  He didn’t rip his wrist out of Dean’s hold though, which Dean was actually kind of happy about.  He closed his eyes, swallowed, and leaned back against his headrest; and he tried to focus solely on the warm feeling of Cas’ skin and the protrusion of his wrist bone.  It helped a little, until the plane seemed to even out when they reached altitude and Dean built up enough courage to let go.

About two and a half hours into the flight, Dean hadn’t calmed down much.  He’d scrolled through the list available TV shows and movies on the screen in front of him before settling on some blockbuster that definitely wasn’t meant to be viewed on a three-inch screen a thousand feet in the air.  He couldn’t focus on it, though, so he gave up to listen to some music. He’d already eaten through his bag of snacks, and the gross sandwich they’d passed out for lunch (and Cas’ gross sandwich). Really, he just wanted to barf it back up, but he somehow refrained.

Meanwhile, someone a few rows back kept coughing, and Dean could practically feel the germs floating around the air.  He’d probably have the Black Plague by the time all this was over.

Beside him, Cas had his laptop out and was reviewing some decks for other clients with the shitty airplane Wi-Fi.  He looked way too used to all of this, which Dean guessed made sense, and it was equal parts annoying and reassuring.  Outside the window, the clouds rolled by in the distance, and there was nothing but ocean in every direction. Dean told himself not to look.

About an hour later, just when Dean had been lulled into a false sense of security that everything might just be okay, the plane began shaking.  He scrambled for Cas’ wrist again, but he couldn’t find it so he ended up white knuckling the armrest instead. A second later, the fasten seatbelt sign dinged on over everyone’s seats.

Next, the intercom crackled into life.  “Uhhhhh, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just turned on the fasten seatbelt sign,” the pilot said, voice muffled, and this was it.  He was about to tell everyone that their engines had failed and they were all about to die and that, for some reason, wearing a seatbelt would make everything better.

“And, uhhhhhh.  We’re headed through some patchy weather, uhhhhhhhhh,” the pilot continued.  “Should be out in no time. Uhhhhhhh. Please remain seated.” The intercom went off.

Dean swore under his breath, and at the same time Cas closed his laptop and folded up his tray table.  “I think I’ll try to get some sleep,” he said, and stood up, having to duck in the small space. Dean blinked up at him, astounded and horrified, because the pilot just told them to stay seated!  And Cas wanted to sleep, anyway, so why was he standing up?  What, did he sleep like a horse? Or was there a bed in another part of the plane that Dean didn’t know about?  Shit, he couldn’t leave now!  There was turbulence!

“Wh—where are you going?” Dean asked, trying not to sound small and scared and totally failing.

“The lavatory,” Cas told him like it was obvious.  “Excuse me.” He tried to walk past Dean, but Dean shot his leg out to stop him.

“They put on the fasten seatbelt thingy.”

Cas looked at him like he was ten kinds of simple.  “Dean.” And, okay, maybe a guy who’d flown a plane while being shot at wasn’t concerned about some bumpy weather but Dean was!

Cas dropped his shoulders in a sigh, his eyes softening somewhat.  “I’ll be right back. I promise. But I have to use the bathroom.”

“So?  I’ve had to pee for hours!”  He probably said that a little too loud, but that was the least of his concerns.  His first concern was the rattling plane. His second was the discomfort of holding in pee.  His third was that the rattling wasn’t helping the fact that he really needed to pee!

“Dean, it’s a seven hour flight, and we’re not even halfway through,” Cas reminded him—because Dean totally needed reminding.  “I recommend you take care of that issue.”

No way!  Oh, no! Dean wasn’t about to cramp himself in one of those dirty things where the toilet didn’t even have water in it.  And what if he did go and there was some really bad turbulence while he was mid-pee and it got everywhere? Or if the turbulence was really bad and the plane went down and his body washed up on the shore of some remote island with his pants around his ankles?  And some locals found him and he was known for the rest of time in their culture as the dead guy with his dick hanging out?  No way! If he was dying, he was dying with his pants on, thank you very much.

Cas sighed again, this time less patiently.  “I’ll be right back.” He stepped over Dean’s legs and into the aisle.  Dean almost frantically grabbed his shirt to pull him back, but he told himself not to seem that pathetic.  He watched Cas walk towards the front of the plane and then disappear into the lavatory.

The plane jounced again.  Dean gritted his teeth, and slammed his hand down on the armrest before holding tight, because there was no way any of this was normal.

And then the shaking got even worse.  There was a groaning noise that sounded like the gates of hell were opening up wide and their hinges really needed oiling.  It was followed by a crack and a bang, and Dean didn’t even have time to whip around before the entire plane lurched.  His mind flashed back to the time Dad had taken him and Sammy to Six Flags one summer and made them take a spin on Nitro.  Sam had thrown up during the coaster’s second upside down loop, and it splattered all over the people in back of them. Dean had laughed so hard that, after they got off the ride, he’d tossed up his lunch, too.

This felt a lot like that—but not funny.  No, this was terrifying,

Dean was clutching the armrests on both sides, and he was slunk down low in his chair—and why the hell hadn’t the oxygen masks come down?  Because he couldn’t breathe! And where the hell was Cas?

He looked up the aisle, eyes fixed on the bathroom, hoping Cas would come out.  The plane kept shuddering and it was making that whistling noise like in cartoons as it dropped through the air.  There was a corkscrew in Dean’s gut, twisting and twisting and—holy shit, this was it. Why was no one else freaking out?  They were about to die, for crying out loud! But everyone else in the immediate area was going on like business as usual—sleeping, reading their books, watching the TVs with idle disinterest.  Dean wondered if he should start screaming bloody murder, just to get the energy flowing.

The door of the cockpit slammed open, its bang resounding, and the flight attendant strode out.  She walked calmly to the little phone intercom thing and picked it up. Her voice came over the speakers, “Excuse me, passengers.  Please be advised we’re flying through inclement weather. Unfortunately, it’s resulted in the left wing of the aircraft dislodging.  Please keep your seatbelts fastened until the fasten seatbelt sign is turned off. Thank you.”

Dean blanched, eyes near enough popping out of his skull.

“At this time, I’d like to ask if there are any pilots on board,” the attendant went on in a measured and almost bored tone.  There was a friendly smile on her face. “Both the pilot and co-pilot have been incapacitated due to unsecured baggage shifting during flight and falling on their heads."  What? How was that even possible? Were there even overhead compartments in the cockpit? “Again, we ask if there are any pilots on board today.”

Dean was about to shout, I know a pilot!  But he didn’t even know if Cas was still alive.  Maybe he’d been knocked out while he was peeing! Damn it, Dean knew those lavatories were a bad idea.

But then the bathroom door was ripped open, and Cas walked out.  A pair of aviator sunglasses were perched on his face, and he was wearing a brown leather pilot jacket.  There was a visor-helmet tucked under his arm. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a Tom Cruise flick.  Dean was blinking way too rapidly, and he really needed to pat himself on the back here for managing to get turned on even when he was in immediate, life-threatening danger.

“I’m a pilot,” Cas announced in a tone of voice that would make anyone full on hand-to-forehead swoon and declare, my hero!  “What seems to be the problem?”

“The damn wing broke off!” Dean yelled before the attendant could answer in her way-too pleasant way.

Cas glanced and him, and then back at the flight attendant.  He flashed a wide, handsome grin. “Leave it to me.” With that, he rushed into the cockpit.

Dean stared after him, and some stupid, reckless voice in his head told him to get up and help Cas—not that he could really do anything.  He wasn’t sure anyone could do anything! But he, especially, knew nothing about how to fly a plane, and he’d probably just get in Cas’ way.  But maybe Cas needed help? Or at least an audience. Besides, the passengers on this plane needed saving, even if they weren’t acting like it.

This was a bad idea.

Mustering all his bravado, Dean took in a sharp breath and unbuckled his seatbelt.  He got up on shaky legs, attempting to stay upright as the plane continued to bounce and whine like it was about to come apart.  He gripped the headrests of the seats as he made his way towards the cockpit. No one even glanced up at him.

When he got there, the two airline pilots were propped up against the back wall, unconscious.  Cas was at the helm, flicking a bunch of lit up switches and doing something with the . . . joystick?  Steering wheel? Dean had no idea what it was called.

He glanced over his shoulder briefly.  “Dean—good. I could use your help. Sit down.”

Dean glanced out the window, where rain was splattering on the tempered glass.  The only thing he could see beyond were black clouds all around them—a sea of swirling pewter gray that was moving way too fast.  In the distance, a jagged bolt of lightning cut through the emptiness.

Dean stumbled into the co-pilot seat and strapped in immediately.  He glanced at Cas, noticing that he had a headset on now. He surveyed the buttons and switches and levers around him, and found another headset among them.  He put it on. “Uh. Cas? Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” Cas told him, focus elsewhere.  Damn, this guy could really keep calm under pressure.  Maybe Dean should have been able to guess that already.

“Okay.  Wh-what can I do?”

The next thing that came out of Cas’ mouth made absolutely no sense.  “Monitor the bladdy-blah and check the readings of the blah-bladdy. They shouldn’t exceed four trillion.”

“Wha . . . what?”

Cas barely spared him a glance.  He just kept flipping switches and pushing buttons like any of this made sense.  “Dean, please. This is very important.”

Dean was way out of his depth, but he had to try.  He looked back at the dashboard, eyes flicking from one control to the other.  There were some pressure gauges, all of them with their needles straining against the red danger zone, but they looked familiar.  Okay. Maybe this wasn’t too complicated now that he was getting a better look at it. It kind of looked like the dashboard of a car.

Yeah . . . Yeah!  There was a speedometer and a tachometer.  He knew what those were! The more he looked at it, the more familiar it all became.

“What’s the ammeter registering?” Cas asked.

Dean found it right where it was supposed to be.  “Negative ten.” That wasn’t good.

“Damn it,” Cas said, as if this were an ‘80s action movie.  He flipped a few more switches.  The needle on the ammeter slowly began rising.  “And now?”

Dean had no idea what he’d done but, “We got battery power.”

It went like that for a few more minutes, with Cas asking him questions and Dean actually being able to answer.  The panic slowly began ebbing away, and he didn’t know if that was because he understood what was going on, or that he was keeping himself busy trying to fix the problem, or if it was just from watching Cas.  Knowing Cas was there and had everything under control, and maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe flying wasn’t so bad, as long as he was Cas’ co-pilot. Maybe neither of them had to be afraid of falling.

Eventually, the rain stopped, leaving nothing but windblown streaks on the glass, and the dark clouds made way for blue skies.  Beneath them, the ocean sparkled in the sunlight, just as blue. And everything was blue, blue, blue when Cas looked over at him with a triumphant, gummy smile.  Dean realized the plane wasn’t shaking anymore. Everything was smooth sailing. He smiled back, breathless.

“We did it!”  He ran his hand down his face, relieved.  “Holy shit.”

“I told you there was nothing to be afraid of,” Cas said through the headset.  His voice was warm. Dean sunk back into his chair, calmness washing over him. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean closed his eyes.  He felt like he could sleep.

“Dean.”

Cas sounded a little confused.

“Dean!”

Dean ripped his eyes open.  He was back in his seat in business class.  Cas was standing over him, brow pinched in annoyance.  “Move your legs,” he said.

For a second, Dean had no idea what was going on.  But then he realized he was slumped in his seat, his knees against the back of the chair in front of him, blocking Cas’ way.  “Oh.” He quickly scrambled to sit up, and tried to make himself as small as possible. He pressed his knees as best as he could against his chair, and tried to decide if parting them or pressing them together would help more.  Cas didn’t really wait, though. He squeezed through at an awkward angle, his foot getting caught on the strap of Dean’s backpack under the seat.

He huffed, “Dean,” like the cramped space was Dean’s fault.  Because, you know, Dean designed and built airplanes now. But Cas managed to shake the strap off, and he fell into his chair.  Dean found himself staring at Cas, eyes wide, still a little breathless.

My hero.

When Cas settled, he furrowed his brow at Dean.  “What?”

Dean rattled his head and looked away.  “Nothin’.”

Cas didn’t say anything else.  He fished through his seatback pocket for a second and pulled out the hot pink sleeping mask Dean had bought.  And he actually put it on. He settled back in his seat, crossing his arms against his chest, and went to sleep.  Dean couldn’t even bring himself to laugh.

It was right around then that he decided business class was still way too cramped for his liking.  He glanced up. The fasten seatbelt sign was off.

Screw it.  He was peeing.

///

Eventually, Dean managed to nod off, but it wasn’t a very restful sleep.  It was the kind of sleep he imagined an antelope might get when it knew a pride of lions were hiding in the grass close by.  But it was, technically, sleep. One of the flight attendants coming around to hand out customs declaration slips woke him up.

He blinked down at the paper, the mini pencil he’d been given rolling between his fingers.  It asked him for his name and address, which he knew how to answer. But he had to pull out his passport to check the number and expiration on it when he got to that question.  Really, he was surprised the thing hadn’t expired already. He’d gotten it he didn’t even know how many years ago.

And then he got to the “reason for trip” section, and he really didn’t know what to put.  It was for the production shoot, but Cas also mentioned something about sightseeing. Did he need to write that all down?  He didn’t know how much into detail they wanted him to go into. He glanced over at Cas’ paper, feeling like he was back in high school copying the test answers off the person next to him.  Cas’ hand was huge around the pencil, his long fingers curled in, and Dean got momentarily distracted. He had just written business in that section, so Dean did that, too.  Except, he wrote business trip, because if there was anything he learned from cheating in high school, it was changing around the answers just enough so it wasn’t obvious.

Cas had to ask him what the name of the hotel they were staying in was, and it slipped Dean’s mind completely, because Cas’ voice was rough and low and sleepy, like he still wasn’t completely awake yet.  His hair was a little messy where the band of the sleeping mask had ruffled it, and he kept yawning big enough to stretch his mouth open a lot wider than Dean needed to think about.

It took another hour for the plane to start its descent, which was even more terrifying than taking off because it was dark outside and the ground was hurtling towards them.  Dean closed his eyes and tried to breathe, even when Cas told him to look out at the Eiffel Tower among the distant, sparkling lights of the city. Dean figured he’d see it up close soon enough, anyway.

Once they touched the ground, it was easier to breathe.  Dean wanted to get out immediately and kiss the ground with the promise of never leaving it again, but they taxied for what felt like longer than they were in the air.  Even when they got to the gate, the doors weren’t opened right away. Dean’s jaw was aching as he clenched it, just wanting to get off the plane. Apparently, everyone else did, too.  Up and down the aisle, people were standing to open up their carry-on bags.  And then they just stood around like idiots, eyes staring dead and blank ahead as they waited.

The customs line wasn’t much better, and Dean realized that a lot of traveling was basically just waiting around or standing on line.  If this whole experience taught him anything, it was that he definitely preferred driving. That sentiment only doubled when the customs officer asked him ten million questions that he’d already answered on the declaration slip, except it felt more like an interrogation.  Then, it took another forty-five minutes to get their checked bags.

Yeah, flying definitely sucked ass.  He really couldn’t believe that human beings somehow managed to go against all laws of physics and evolution by finding a way to traverse the skies, and they made every aspect of it as excruciating as possible.

By the time they got into the car bound for the hotel, Dean was ready to sleep for a week.  He’d only be allowed a few hours, but at least they didn’t have to immediately go to the shoot.  He probably wouldn’t have been able to survive that. Not with the way his eyes were burning. He felt sticky all over, but also his skin felt dirty and dry down to the innermost layer of epidermis.  His stomach was hollowed out, too. Why would anyone do any of this voluntarily?

Regardless, he felt a little more like a human inside a car, and he was able to get his first good look at Paris as they drove through the streets.  Everything looked so old, like he’d just walked into a storybook. The buildings were squatter than he was used to, and everything was so much smaller—but not cramped.  Just tiny. He was pretty excited to explore in the daylight.

After they got to the hotel, which looked more like a townhouse than a hotel, Cas checked them into their rooms at the tiny desk set up under the stairs.  Because apparently Cas knew French—just in case he wasn’t hot enough.

There was a little restaurant in the next room, where people sipped on wine and ate little cheese and tarts, and Dean’s stomach complained.  But—and he couldn’t believe he was saying this—his body was probably too exhausted to even digest food properly right now. He had no idea how Cas lived like this.

They dragged their bags upstairs, where a narrow, carpeted hallway ran the length of the building.  Three rooms were on either side. Dean’s room was closest to the stairs. He put his keycard into the reader, and groaned a little when the light flashed red.  The second attempt was a success, thank god, because he probably would have just kicked the door down at that point.

Cas was still behind him for some reason, body sagging tiredly as he watched Dean.  The door swung inward, and Dean shuffled inside before turning back towards Cas. And, actually, he was kind of pissed he had to say goodnight.  He felt like they’d been on an epic journey together, and he wanted nothing more than to reap the rewards from it. The rewards being a hot shower and a warm bed, and Cas curled up in his arms.

And that was a scary thought.  Because it was the first time he thought about sleeping with Cas without actually sleeping with him.

“Okay,” Dean said awkwardly.  His fingers wrapped around the door.  Behind him, the room was dark and he wasn’t even sure he’d turn on the lights before collapsing into bed and zonking out.  “Guess I’ll . . . see you at breakfast.”

Cas nodded, his lips pressed together.  His hands were almost white-knuckling the handle of his rolling suitcase.  “Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean let his eyes drag up and down him—all soft and worn down and travel-rumpled.  After a second, he stepped back into the room and closed the door gently. He waited, holding his breath for some weird reason, until he heard Cas’ footsteps moving down the creaking hall of this building that was probably older than all of America.

He felt around on the wall for the light switch, and the ceiling light didn’t do much.  It was yellow and shaded, but Dean was just happy he got actual electricity and not a candle with one of those dishes with the little thumb handle thing like in the old movies.  He had no idea why he’d expected this trip to Europe to somehow send him back to the early 1800s, but he was glad it didn’t. The only pre-indoor plumbing time travel he’d ever tolerate would be a trip to see some cowboys.

But, glancing around the room, it seemed to have all the comforts of the modern day.  There was a bed, which was kind of small and firm looking, but he could live with that.  There was a TV that looked like it belonged to this decade. A small bathroom with a weird looking toilet and a shower he was way too tall to fit into comfortably.  A lumpy armchair in the corner. It was a hotel room, alright, but it seemed very . . . European.

Which he guessed made sense.  Because he was in Europe, so he should quit complaining.

He was in Europe.  And he was about to spend his first night ever in Europe alone in a hotel.  That didn’t seem very fun. He thought maybe he should go out, find a bar—a pub? Do they say pub in France?—and find someone to party with.

But he was jetlagged, and he’d probably throw up if he didn’t get some sleep any time soon.  He felt kind of lame. Maybe he could compromise—have a few drinks and some company without having to leave the room.  Maybe that’s what he really wanted to do, anyway, and he just had to come to that conclusion the long way around.

He rushed back to the door and tore it open, his head whipping in both directions even though he knew which way Cas had gone.  Cas had just made it to his door towards the end of the narrow hall, and Dean whisper-shouted his name. Cas looked up immediately, key poised in front of the reader, and squinted.

“Do French hotels have room service?” Dean asked, still leaning out the door.

“Um,” Cas said, still seeming confused.  “Yes.”

“Oh.”  Great. That was good.  Dean’s stomach fluttered nervously, and his throat went thick, but he forced himself to say, “You hungry?”

Cas paused.  He lowered his arm, smiling.

///

After some deliberation, Dean ordered a burger and frites—because apparently the French didn’t call French fries “French fries.”  Go figure.

Cas told him not to order that.  He said Dean should get something like cassoulet or escargot or poulet basquaise—but Dean wasn’t about to get something he couldn’t pronounce.  And he definitely wasn’t eating snails, but thanks for the offer. Cas ordered a ratatouille, and TBD if there were actually rats in it. Dean made an idiot of himself when he mentioned the Disney movie, but Cas only blinked at him and eventually said he’d never heard of it.

While they waited for the food, Dean sat on the bed—which was actually harder than it looked, like sitting on a flat boulder—and scrolled through the channels.  There wasn’t much on, and everything was in French, but one channel was playing a dubbed version of the Parent Trap.  That movie was never Dean’s first choice, but he left it on because at least he knew what was happening without dialogue.

Cas was sitting in the armchair, his laptop open on his lap as he typed away.  He generally ignored Dean, which didn’t make for the fun night in Dean had planned on, but hopefully the bottle of wine they’d ordered would change that.  In the meantime, Cas didn’t even react when Dean busted out laughing when the evil step-mom woke up on a floating mattress in the middle of a lake.

When Dean got bored of the movie, he glanced over at Cas, and that glance quickly turned into a stare.  Cas’ hair was askew and curlier than usual. The blue light from his laptop screen cast shadows on his cheeks and down the line of his nose.  His scruff had grown in throughout the day. He looked pretty tired, if the circles under his eyes were any indication.

“What?” he asked without looking up.

Dean’s first instincts were the look away quickly and pretend he hadn’t been staring, but he’d already been caught.  He said, “What are you doing?”

“Working.”

Dean snorted.  “It’s like, ten o’clock.”

“Not back in the office, it isn’t.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean uncrossed his legs on the bed and stood up.  He wasn’t about to let Cas waste the night answering emails because Dick Roman was seven hours behind them.  “So? Don’t you think you have an excuse?”

“Dean,” Cas said, sounding agitated.  He paused to dig the heels of his palms into his eyes.  When he brought them down, he looked even more tired than before.

“C’mon, Cas.  Give it a break.”  He walked behind the armchair, and winced down at the light coming from the screen.  Cas really was answering emails, but Dean didn’t care enough to read them. He was mostly focused on making Cas not care, either.  “We’re in Paris,” he went on, and placed one hand on Cas’ shoulder. He shifted his eyes to the crown of Cas’ head.

Under his touch, Cas relaxed, and breathed out a long sigh.  Dean squeezed his shoulder as further incentive. He tried to work out the tension there.  Cas hummed, and dipped his head to the side to give Dean more access. A little thrill went through Dean, especially because Cas’ fingers had stopped typing.

“You’re very good at that,” Cas told him, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Magic fingers,” Dean told him.

“Yes, I know from experience.”

Dean squeezed a little too hard, silently telling him to shut up.  Cas tilted his head back to meet Dean’s eyes, a teasing smirk slanting his mouth.  Dean really couldn’t help himself. He bent over and planted an upside down kiss to his lips.  Cas responded right away. He brought one of his hands up to wrap around the back of Dean’s neck to gently hold him in place.  Dean’s spine protested wearily from leaning over, but it was kind of a pleasurable pain. He squeezed Cas’ shoulder one more time before cradling his face with both hands.  He was pretty sure Cas could feel his victorious smile when Dean heard him fold his laptop closed.

He dipped his tongue into Cas’ mouth, reveling in the sweet, low sounds he was able to pull up from Cas’ throat.  And Dean fleetingly thought, eat your heart out, Tobey Maguire.

When they pulled apart for air, Cas curled his fingers around Dean’s wrist and tugged him gently.  Dean got the message, and walked around to the front. Cas placed the laptop on the floor, his gaze never leaving Dean’s.  His eyes were hooded for a reason other than sleepiness as he pulled Dean downwards.  Dean climbed onto the chair, straddling Cas’ lap.

They kissed languidly, but deeply, and despite the tiredness in his bones, Dean felt something stirring in his lower abdomen.  He realized he was giving out soft little grunts into Cas’ mouth, and Cas was sending warm puffs of air into his throat as he moaned.  Dean’s hands were in his hair, roughing through the tangles. Cas’ fingers were splayed on Dean’s ass, holding firm to keep him from slipping.

Too bad it didn’t last, because there was a knock at the door, and Dean remembered they’d ordered food.  He hummed as he pulled away, half-annoyed and half-starving, and tried to pick himself up from Cas’ lap. Cas grabbed his wrist and pushed his forehead against Dean’s.  “Maybe they’ll go away,” he whispered, and it made Dean squirm a little with glee that Cas didn’t want to break this little bubble they’d found themselves in, either.

But he was hungry.

“It’s the food,” Dean told him, getting to his feet.  He was bent over, still leaning into Cas’ forehead, his wrist still in Cas’ grip.  He huffed out a laugh. “They got wine, remember?”

Cas smiled a little.  “I remember.” He was the one who picked out the bottle.  Dean didn’t know anything about wine. It all tasted the same to him.

Cas let him go, and Dean walked towards the door, trying not to make it look like he was working with a stiffy with every step he took, because he didn’t want Cas thinking he was a teenager who got a hard on just from kissing.  But he was pretty sure Cas noticed, which would probably be mortifying if Dean allowed himself to think about it. He powered through, and did his best to straighten himself out before opening the door.

There was a guy there with a cloth-covered pushcart with two covered plates and a bottle of wine on top.  He looked at Dean, and Dean blinked back, feeling way too self-conscious that this dude knew exactly what was going on before he got there.  The dude said something, and for a second Dean thought his embarrassment had caused him to stroke out, because he had no idea what was being said.  It all sounded like gibberish. And then he remembered they were in France. The guy was speaking French.

“Uh?” Dean articulated.

The guy seemed a little frustrated, and he repeated himself.  Dean still didn’t know what he was saying. Behind him, Cas answered in French and waved the guy inside.  Which is probably what Dean should have done, because it’s not like he didn’t know why the guy was there.

The set the tray up in front of the bed, and Cas said, “Merci.”  Dean was just kind of awkwardly hovering there, rubbing at the back of his neck.  He was trying not to think about the fact that Cas was way smarter and a whole lot more worldly than he was, and it was only a matter of time before Cas realized that.

Like it could help the situation at all, Dean said, “Merci,” to the employee as he walked out, and immediately regretted it.  It came out choppy and idiotic. He sounded like an American douchebag just skating by with a false sense of entitlement thanks to Google Translate.  The guy said something back in French, and Dean didn’t understand it but he was pretty sure it was something along the lines of, you stupid asshole, Cas is way too good for you.

Maybe Dean just sucked at traveling?  Shit. He better not. Because that would ruin just about every plan he ever had.  But everyone in America spoke American, so he figured he at least had that going for him on his roadtrip.

“Shall we?” Cas asked, indicating the plates.  Dean got over himself, and walked towards the bed.  His burger and fries sat on a plate next to Cas’ food, which looked more like a pretty tasty wheel of stewed vegetables and less like a rat.  And Dean never thought he’d call vegetables tasty; usually, he just called them necessary, because he was in his thirties and every few days his body demanded he eat something that grew in the ground.

Cas poured them each a glass of wine, his knuckles brushing against Dean’s as he handed him the stem of one glass.  “Welcome to Paris,” he said dryly before sipping his wine, and it was kind of a piss-pour toast. Dean awkwardly raised his glass anyway before taking a drink—and, yup, that’s wine, alright.

Dead plopped down on the end of the bed and shifted his plate closer to him.  Cas did the same, sitting at a distance, and it felt a little weird on a bed but probably not weird at all since they were eating.  Dean didn’t know. Was he overthinking it?  His head hurt.  Because everything was weird when it came to Cas.

Especially the way he unwrapped his utensils from the cloth napkin and primly placed said napkin over his lap like he was afraid of getting his jeans dirty.  Dean must have been looking at him funny, because Cas said, “What?” without even looking.

Dean teased, “I didn’t realize we were dining with the Queen.”

Cas shot him a glare.  “Eat your cheeseburger.”

Dean sniggered, and did just that—and immediately felt his soul leave his body.  It was like he’d just stepped into a puddle with nothing but socks on his feet. Holy shit.  Holy shit.  The thing was edible.  It was definitely edible, because he swallowed it.  He hoped it was edible.

He wasn’t even really sure if he was eating beef.  It was too dry. Was it like, lamb or something?

“I thought French food was supposed to be good!” he complained.  Hang on, why did he taste apples? Was there an apple on his burger?  What the fuck?

“I did warn you,” Cas said without an ounce of pity.  Dean pulled a face at him, because he hated when Cas was right.  But maybe he should have ordered a more local cuisine, because obviously French burgers were disgusting.  He was kind of afraid to taste the fries. He picked one up, and stared at it hard, looking for anything bizarre.  He bit the tip of it tentatively, and okay, at least it was normal. He could eat this.

He glanced over at Cas’ dish, and wondered how it was.  He looked back at the TV, where two Lindsay Lohans were talking to Dennis Quaid in French.  Cas reached into Dean’s plate and swiped a fry. Dean tried to slap his hand away, but Cas was too quick.

“Hey!  That’s my dinner!”

“I just want one,” he lied, because that’s what everyone Dean had ever dated said when they didn’t order fries at a restaurant, and then ended up eating all of his.  Not that he and Cas were dating! But the same rules applied.

“Whatever,” Dean grumbled.  “Eat your rats.”

Cas huffed out a laugh.  Dean picked up his burger again, deciding whether it’d be better on a second attempt.  He chanced a bite. It was mostly to distract himself from wondering whether he and Cas were dating.

///

It turned out jetlag was worse on day two, especially since he had to wake up at five in the fucking morning.  Which wasn’t pleasant, even though he’d slept pretty well last night. And that was just crazy because midnight local time was 6 PM according to his body.  Not only that, but Cas hadn’t gone to his room that night. He conked out on Dean’s bed, curled up on top of the covers.

In Dean’s defense, he’d tried to wake him up.  But Cas just grumbled and blindly swatted him away, which was actually really cute.  But the bed was just small enough that two grown men couldn’t fit on it without touching, and despite Dean’s best efforts, his feet or shoulder brushed against Cas every time he changed position.  With every small bit of contact, Dean’s adrenaline spiked. But the soft, sleeping sighs Cas gave out relaxed him easily enough, and Dean drifted off listening to them.

But now, he was exhausted.  The kind of exhausted that made it hard to move his limbs.  He was pretty much chugging coffee from craft services during the shoot, and even then, it wasn’t until about 10 AM that he actually felt like a human being.

Production itself was pretty much what he expected: lots of people running around with cables the size of his arm, ladders everywhere, bright lights, and a ton of waiting around.  He did his best to stay out of people’s way.

The ad itself wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.  At least, not so far. He imagined it would be kind of cool seeing his idea come to life, but it was actually really boring.  It was mostly shots of the car driving around, and some interior shots. Dean wondered why they couldn’t have done this back in America.  It was an American car, after all. But he guessed Paris was exotic or whatever. Like they could trick consumers into thinking they could drive around France in it; which was impossible because, again, no cross-Atlantic bridge.

Still, the day did have its upsides.  The food was one of them. Dean spent most of the day stuffing his face, which was probably really unattractive, but the craft services was a lot tastier than his dinner the night before.  They had these foot-long baguette sandwiches with brie and butter that he was ready to live on until he died of high cholesterol.

Another upside was the ad’s actress, Suzy, who he managed to strike up a conversation with during one of the breaks.  And friendly conversation turned into flirting pretty quickly.

Which led to the best part of the day: Cas materializing out of thin air every time Dean and Suzy gravitated towards each other while the cameras were being reset.  He and Max spent pretty much every second with the client in the production tent, but Dean could practically set his watch by how long it took Cas to pop up and ask him to do something tedious whenever Suzy was in a fifteen-foot radius.

Dean, can you help me bring coffees to the tent?  Dean, I need so-and-so’s number. Dean, set up a call with myself and this-or-that for when we get back to the office.  Dean, I’m totally watching you like a hawk instead of doing my job because I’m super jealous.

Dean started making a game out of it.  And the game didn’t stop when production wrapped for the day.

After the shoot, everyone went out to some wine bar near the hotels to celebrate the first day of production.  And Dean suddenly understood the upsides of this whole twelve-hour day situation, because at least there were free drinks at the end of it.  And, the best part was, he was still technically working, so he’d be able to put this on his timesheets. Possibly. He wasn’t really sure, but he was going to do it anyway.  He was in for a hell of an overtime check, even with the cutbacks.

Maybe it was because Dean was still tired, or maybe wine was stronger than he gave it credit for, but he was slightly tipsy after two glasses.  Not really tipsy—but relaxed. Relaxed and sleepy and full of wine in Paris. And he wasn’t the only one.

Cas kept his distance, usually chatting with Rowena or the clients across the restaurant so small, it’d be considered a coat closet in America.  But he kept making eye contact with Dean, and Dean could feel it like a blanket every time he did. He ended up staring back, watching Cas’ eyes over the rim of his glass, watching his throat work as he swallowed a mouthful of wine.  His eyes were a little dark under the yellow bulbs over the bar.

Dean mostly stuck with Max, until Max got up to get them another round and Suzy took his place.  Which was fine by him, to a certain degree. She was hot, and it was Paris, and Dean should have been all for it.  Especially because she didn’t keep her distance at all. She kept leaning in to talk to him, closer than she really needed to, because the bar wasn’t that loud.  At one point, she got up from her chair completely and squeezed around the table so she could sit next to him. She oriented her body towards him, and was all smiles and strands of blonde hair coyly tucked behind her ear.

And the warm blanket of Cas’ gaze turned into a constant weight.  Dean thought he might be crushed under it, like a cartoon anvil might land on him any second.  But, actually, it had the opposite effect. It made him feel light. It made him feel damn near invincible.  And that meant he could do anything. That meant he could be daring. Because Cas was jealous, and Dean really wanted to see just how far he could push it.  Because he was shameless.

He turned into Suzy, but not completely—just enough so Cas could see his flirtatious grin and the way he leaned into Suzy.  He put his arm over the back of her chair as she showed him pictures of her last shoot in Barcelona. He was less focused on the photos on her phone than he was on sneaking glances at Cas out of the corner of his eyes.  In fact, he was goddamn obsessed with doing that. He was shocked Suzy wasn’t spontaneously combusting with the way Cas was glowering. He was surprised the roof over their heads wasn’t caving in. How the hell was everyone else in the room so oblivious to the energy radiating off of him like a nuclear power plant about to go into meltdown?

If Dean knew he had this kind of power, he would have flirted with more people while Cas was looking.

She passed her phone to him, asking for his number so they could “hang out” after the shoot one day, and his grin stretched wider as he punched in the number.  He counted down in his head.

One . . . two . . .

“Dean.”

He licked his lips, taking a split second to collect himself before glancing up.  A smirk was still pinching the corners of his mouth. Cas’ eyes were fixed on him, completely ignoring Suzy’s existence.  “Yeah?” Dean asked innocently.

“Can I speak to you for a minute?  I want to go over the logistics of getting to the shoot tomorrow morning.”

Oh, ho, ho!  He was going to have to do better than that.  Dean just barely contained his bark of laughter.

“Logistics?” he asked, raising his brows.  “There’s a car coming to pick you up outside the hotel at six.  You need me to draw you a picture?”

Cas’ jaw tensed.  This was too easy.  “Dean, now.” He spun around on his heels and walked back towards the bar.

Dean gave an excessive sigh and rolled his eyes in a way that would put any Broadway actor to shame.  “Sorry, sweetheart,” he told Suzy, and handed her back her phone. He wasn’t even sure if he saved his contact.  He honestly wasn’t even sure if he’d finished putting in his number. “Duty calls.”

She looked a little disappointed when he stood up and squeezed by her.  He followed Cas to the bar, brushing the pad of his thumb along the bottom lip as he went.  He didn’t miss the way Cas’ eyes flickered down to track the motion.

“Gotta tell ya, Cas,” Dean told him when he was close enough to keep his voice down.  “You wanna drag me away from a pretty girl, you’re gonna need a better excuse next time.”

Cas raised one brow, and really, every pretty girl in the world never stood a chance.  “An excuse?”

Dean ran his tongue over his teeth, amused.  “It’s okay to admit you’re jealous.”

Cas leveled him with a look.  He said, “I’m not jealous.”

“That so?”  Could have fooled Dean.

“No.  But I am tired.”  His eyes slid over Dean’s shoulder, looking at the exit.  “I believe I’ll go back to the hotel and get some rest before tomorrow.”

What?  That was a little disappointing.  Okay, it was a lot disappointing.  What, was Cas trying to get back at him?

Maybe not.  He was looking at Dean kind of funny, like he was expecting him to pick up on some subtlety.  But what the hell was Dean supposed to catch on to? All Cas said was he was headed back to the hotel—Oh.

Oh!

Realization must have dawned on Dean’s face, because Cas whispered, “Wait five minutes and then make an excuse to leave.  I’ll be down the street.”

Dean fought back a smile as something undeniably thrilling bubbled up inside of him.  He let his gaze drag up and down Cas’ features. “Whatever happened to going slow?” he taunted.

“We can go slow.”

Dean’s eyes pretty much rolled to the back of his head at that.  In his pants, his dick twitched a little, like it was saying, oh, hello, here I am, happy to be of service!

“Five minutes,” he agreed.  Cas walked by him, their shoulders brushing.  It took all of Dean’s willpower not to look back at him.

He ordered another glass of wine, just so it wouldn’t be obvious.  He considered going back to the table to talk to Suzy again, but he wouldn’t know how to shake her off after five minutes.  Maybe Max? He glanced over, where Max was chatting with a couple of the producers. No way Dean was getting in the middle of that.  He sipped his wine, and checked his phone, pretty much counting the seconds. Maybe if he went now? Would anyone really notice?

Did they already notice?

Was he acting weird?  Just hovering there by the bar drinking his wine alone like a lonely middle-aged soccer mom trying to get picked up.

He looked at his watch again.  Two minutes to go.

Maybe he should just leave now.

Cas was waiting for him.  Standing about a block away.  Probably overlooking the river as the city lights of Paris were hazy starbursts in the distance.  Dean chewed his bottom lip. He should go.

“Ah, man, don’t tell me you left that hottie hanging,” a loud, intrusive voice shattered the image in his head.  Ed and Harry had managed to sidle up next to him. They leaned against the bar, like the three of them were old pals, their eyes clearly on Suzy.

Dean checked his phone.  One minute. He didn’t have time for them.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” he grumbled.

Ed shook his head like he was ashamed of Dean’s life choices.  “Oh well, I guess more for me.” Dean raised his brows. He shook his head, too, half in amusement.  He sipped his wine.

“For you?  No way, Ed.  She wants me,” Harry said.  Dean snorted. Neither of them noticed.

“What, are you blind?  No way a chick that bangin’ would want you.”

“She’s been eyeing me all night.”

“Nah.  She was looking at me.  You were just in the way.”

It was a shame.  Dean almost wished he could stay to watch her chew them up and spit them out.  He had half a mind to do it himself, because these guys really needed to be put in their place.  But something told him she’d rather do the honors. Besides, he didn’t want to be late.

He drained his wine and stood up, then slapped Ed on the shoulder as he past.  “Good luck, fellas.”

The two kept arguing as Dean went to the coat rack and grabbed his jacket, and he had a secret bet with himself that neither of those losers would end up making a move before the night was over.  “Hey, Dean, you headed out?” Max called, and Dean’s stomach soured. He really hoped Max wasn’t trying to accompany him. But then he realized they were in different hotels, anyway, so he was probably panicking for nothing.

“Yeah.  Guess I’m still living in the wrong time zone,” Dean excused.

Max nodded, eyes wide, like he agreed, but then he went back to his conversation.  Dean shrugged into his jacket and peeled out before anyone else could talk to him. He was already a minute late.

It was misty with rain outside, the weird kind where the fine droplets danced in the air instead of falling straight, where an umbrella wouldn’t do much good.  There was a little bit of a chill, too, which was pretty normal for nighttime in early spring—or, at least, it was normal for Dean.  He didn’t know what was normal in France. But, to be fair, he was about to go sleep with his boss, so who the hell was he to decide the rules of normalcy?

He flipped up his collar to protect against the dampness, and because it just looked cooler.  And it was about that time that he realized he had no idea which way Cas went. He guessed the direction of the hotel was his best bet, and he was pretty sure that was to the left.

He strolled in that direction, going a couple of blocks, looking out for Cas.  After a few minutes, he decided that Cas had either gotten tired of waiting for him or that Dean was headed in the wrong direction.  He stopped on the sidewalk, and did one last glance around. Hoping he didn’t look like some lost tourist idiot, he pulled out his phone and pretended to consult a map—even though he definitely wasn’t about to make his bill go up with international fees or whatever.  He shook his head like he’d just realized something, and turned around, even though he was pretty sure no one actually cared about the little show he was putting on.

Either way, he was six minutes late by now, and he was starting to get worried Cas would actually leave.  He hustled, overtaking a few other people walking down the street pretty easily. He was already a pretty fast walker, and he walked as fast as he could without breaking into a full sprint.  He past the bar again, and walked a few more blocks, about to lose hope until he saw a familiar ass-ugly tan coat.

Cas looked exactly like he had in Dean’s fantasy.  The river, the lights framing him. He was standing near the railing overlooking the water, arms crossed over it, one leg kicked out in back of him.  His hair was a little flattened by the rain and breeze. There was a frown pulling down his mouth and scrunching his brow. Dean stopped walking, surprised and relieved and a little breathless but he was blaming the last thing on the fast walking.  Cas had stayed.

Dean shook himself out, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t just panicking about missing his window—or that he was a sweaty, dampened mess of a human being.  He ran his hand through his hair, straightened out his jacket. He walked up to Cas.

“Hey.”

Cas looked over at him quickly, seeming a little surprised himself, like he didn’t think Dean would actually come.  Then his expression softened—but only for a second. He pulled it taut again. “You’re late.” And maybe, a few weeks ago, Dean would have felt scolded and sorry.  But there was something buried under that, you’re late.  It sounded a little more like, you’re here.

Dean filled the gap between them and grabbed Cas’ face.  He kissed him, deep enough that Cas would know that, no matter whom Dean flirted with, there was only one person he was interested in going home with.  He didn’t know why it mattered to him so much that Cas knew that.

It took a second, but Dean felt the tension bleed away from Cas.  He kissed back—and Dean loved that moment. When Cas started kissing back.  When his fingers tentatively grazed Dean’s sides before latching on like Dean was something worth clinging to.

They broke apart slowly, instead of in a rush for air, and lingered close.  Dean ran his teeth over his bottom lip, dragging in the taste of wine from Cas’ mouth.  “Your place or mine?” he joked.

Cas' smile was closed-mouth.  He pinched Dean’s sides, and it should have made Dean feel self-conscious.  It made him feel wanted. “Come on.”

They walked along the river to the hotel, close enough that their shoulders brushed.  Their knuckles brushed. Their fingers brushed. And Dean looped one finger around Cas’ between them, and Cas’ eyes sparkled as he snuck a glance at Dean.

It felt a little weird, knowing in advance that he was about to have sex with Cas.  He couldn’t help but think, if they were home, things might have gone a little differently.  Maybe it would have seemed like a bad idea. But home was like, a million miles away, and all of that was really easy to forget, especially when they got inside and Cas’ hands latched back onto Dean’s hips from behind.

They made it about halfway up the stairs before the heat of Cas’ touch became too much.  It was making Dean’s head spin, and he was already sporting a little bit of a hard on just from the anticipation.  He turned around, and pulled Cas in by the tie. Cas’ arms went around his neck, wrapping him in close. He was already making soft grunting sounds in the back of his throat.  Dean wanted to kiss down his neck and feel their vibrations.

“Dean,” Cas said against his mouth, and pecked his lips again.  He sounded so needy.

Dean grinned into the kiss.  “Thought—you—weren’t jealous,” he taunted, because the way Cas was kissing him seemed just a little too much like he was claiming him.

“I’m not.”  Cas broke the kiss, and for a second an ice cube slid quickly down Dean’s spine with the feeling he’d fucked up.  But Cas stayed close, his breath puffing against Dean’s lips. His arms tightened around Dean’s neck; and, from Cas’ place one stair lower, he had to lift himself up on his toes.  “You came here with me.”

Dean really didn’t know what to say to that, but he guessed he didn’t have to say anything because Cas was kissing him again in a way that made Dean dizzy.

Somehow, they managed to get upstairs without ripping each other’s clothes off right there in the stairwell, which would probably drop this hotel’s five star rating down to a star and a half.  They went to Dean’s room, because it was closer. As Dean got his keycard out, Cas sucked on the skin beneath his ear.

They were still kissing as they stumbled into the room, Cas fists twisting in the front of Dean’s shirt, pulling him along, and Dean groping Cas’ ass.  Once they were inside, Cas fumbled with the light switch, and Dean closed the door behind them with his boot. Cas was giving off short humming sounds against Dean’s mouth every time a kiss landed, and they were going right through Dean, rushing through his veins and making his dick perk up with interest.

“Dean,” Cas said, voice rough and gritty.  He backed Dean up against the wall, and Dean squeezed his ass through his pants, drawing him in closer so their bodies were pressed against each other.  “Dean.”  He reached down to cup the front of Dean’s jeans and rubbed back and forth.  Dean’s knees almost gave out. He tipped his head back against the wall and tried to swallow.

Cas pressed his face into Dean’s neck.  “I don’t know how I manage to keep my hands off you.”  He dragged his lips up Dean’s throat, landing on his jaw.  “I want you naked.”

“Cas,” Dean managed to get out.

He kneaded harder at Dean’s cock, making Dean arch off the wall.  “God, I wish I could fuck you. I wanna fuck you, Dean.”

Dean wanted that so badly, he thought he’d pass out.  But they didn’t have anything—and for a second, he considered using the damn watered down sample-sized lotion in the bathroom as lube, but that would probably be a bad idea.  And that was ridiculous because they were in fucking Paris.  Shouldn’t stuff like that be readily available and on hand 24/7 in the city of love?

“Fuck, Cas.”  Dean lifted his arms up and grabbed Cas by the face, pulling him into a bruising, open-mouthed kiss.  They moved further into the room, headed towards the bed. Dean shed his shirt along the way, dumping it somewhere on the floor, and then his fingers stumbled over Cas’ as they both tried to rid him of his button-down.  They drew apart at the foot of the bed to take off the rest of their clothes, moving as quickly as possible.

When Cas stood back up, Dean’s eyes drifted down his body, lingering on the freckles over his nipple, moving to the ridges of his ribs under muscle, to his bronze thighs and perfect dick.

Shit, maybe Dean should man up and deal with the consequences of using the hand cream as lube.

Cas was looking him up and down, too, like he was drinking in the sight.  He took in a sharp breath, and said, “Oh, Dean.” Dean blushed, a tidal wave of embarrassment crashing into him and dragging him under.  Or maybe that was just Cas. He rushed forward, his arms going around Dean and bringing him in close so they could keep kissing. Dean shoved his body hard against Cas’, wanting to feel every inch of him against his skin.  He grabbed at Cas’ back, groping whatever part of him he could get his hands on.

“Get on the bed,” Cas ordered, and pressed one more kiss to Dean’s mouth.  “On your hands and knees.”

Dean shivered a little at the request, which sounded a hell of a lot more like a command.  And said in such a gravel-deep, gritty voice? Dean was surprised he wasn’t on the bed already!

He crawled up on the bed, facing the headboard, and did as he was told.  After a second, the mattress dipped as Cas knelt behind him, and Dean had no idea what was happening.  Was Cas going to try to fuck him dry? Was he crazy? Was Dean about to let him? Jesus Christ.

But then Cas draped himself over Dean’s back, arms wrapping loosely around his torso.  He ran his mouth along Dean’s shoulder blades and spine, up the back and sides of his neck.  His cock was prodding into Dean’s legs, and all of it made Dean’s body rock with waves of pleasure. Unconsciously, he spread his legs a little wider.

“Dean, you’re beautiful,” Cas told him, and it might have been corny, but he sounded so fucking earnest.  And any and all complaints flew out of Dean’s mind when Cas reached lower and wrapped his hand around his dick.  He pumped Dean until he was fully hard and they were both moaning. Dean’s hips were thrusting into Cas’ fist, and Cas was circling against Dean’s ass.  Cas dipped his forehead to rest against Dean’s shoulder blade, panting as their bodies moved in a rhythm.

Cas jerked him one more time, and then both of his hands went to Dean’s hips.  He gave a deep, possessive sound from the back of his throat and tore himself away.  Dean gave a sound of protest, wanting his mouth and hands back. Cas had already moved on, kissing down the curve of his spine and then on the globes of his ass.  Dean hissed when he realized what Cas was about to do. He moved his knees further apart again, not caring about the ache in them from supporting both their weight.

Splaying his hands on Dean’s ass, Cas moved his mouth down his cleft, and Dean could feel the wetness of his tongue darting out.  Dean’s throat was parched as he fought to drag in air, but he honestly didn’t care if he suffocated. Cas flicked the tip of his tongue around Dean’s rim, and all that oxygen Dean had managed to force inside him was quickly let out in a shout.

His body rocked backwards into Cas, wanting more.  His vision blurred as Cas kept at it, his pointed tongue moving against him.  When Cas’ palms firmed on him, parting him further, and his tongue darted inside of Dean, Dean’s fingers clawed at the bed sheets.  His elbows were shaking, wanting to crumple with the strain. His eyes rolled back.

“Cas!  Fuck—Oh, fuck!  God damn!”

He couldn’t take it anymore.  He bent his elbows, arcing his body downwards.  He supported his head with one arm and moved the other down to jack himself off.  Cas was still moving inside of him and around him, alternating between flattening and spearing his tongue.  Dean worked himself hard, broken noises escaping his throat. It didn’t take very long for his vision to go dark, and he was spilling out with an aborted shout.

He collapsed on the bed when he was done, and rolled onto his back to catch his breath.  Cas was still above him on his knees, swaying slightly, face red and hair a mess. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

Dean needed a minute.  He needed a few minutes.  He stared up at the ceiling light, blinking as the shadowy vignette faded from the edge of his vision.  He felt like he was back at school practicing suicide sprints. Only problem was, his breath was about four yards ahead of him.  He sucked it back in, and it came back in a loud chuckle. He threw his arm over his face, pressing his eyes into the crook of his elbow.

He felt Cas shift to sit back on his ankles, and he was laughing, too, breathlessly.  Dean moved his arm so he could see that smile. He scanned Cas up and down, eyes snagging on the curve of his erection, and he really couldn’t leave him like that.

“C’mere,” he said, holding a hand up as if to reach for Cas.  His voice was scratchy, and his throat was too dry. Cas leaned in before laying down fully on top of Dean, and he let out a noise that Dean could only describe as a purr.  His eyes were still at half-mast, flickering over Dean’s face hungrily. God . . .

Dean really wanted to kiss his lips, but there was no way he was about to do that after where Cas’ tongue had just been.  Instead, he lined Cas’ jaw with his mouth, moving beneath his ear and nibbling at the skin there. Cas moaned, just like he had the last time Dean had focused on that spot, and it sent a thrill through Dean.  He rolled his body against Dean’s leg.

Dean roughed his hands down Cas’ back and landed on his ass.  He pressed Cas into him, dragging another loud sound out of him.  He pitched his body upwards, taking Cas with him, and Cas’ body was pliant, allowing Dean to roll him onto his back.

He took his time kissing down Cas’ neck and shoulders, nipping and teasing at the sweat along his clavicle.  He allowed his hands to roam, moving them flat along the solid plain of Cas’ stomach, following the V of hips down lower towards the rough hairs leading to his dick.  Cas’ breath snagged, his body lifting up off the bed to gravitate towards Dean’s touch. But Dean didn’t go there yet. He moved his hand slowly back up to swipe his thumb on Cas’ ribs.

“Dean,” Cas whispered, voice plunging so low it had probably come up from the earth’s core.  Dean moved up, circled Cas’ nipple with the point of his tongue, eliciting a sharp sound and another, more urgent, “Dean!”  His eyes were closed, screwed tight in intense concentration.  Dean wanted to see him come apart.

He slid his palm back down so he could wrap it around Cas’ dick, overheated and pulsating against his hand.  Cas responded at once, pushing himself into Dean’s fist. A broken kind of sound punched out of him, and Dean considered the fact that he probably could have gotten Cas to beg.

Maybe next time.

Dean moved his fist up the shaft and twisted at the head before sliding back down the other side.  He pumped Cas hard, his other hand still digging into Cas’ ass.

“Come on, Cas.  Come on, babe,” Dean encouraged.  Cas was giving out a lot of low, grunting sounds.  His mouth was open, eyes out of focus. There was a line between his furrowed brows.

“Dean—oh, Dean.  Oh my god. Fuck.”

“Come on, Cas.  Come for me. I wanna see you come.”  Wait, hang on, how come Dean was the one begging?

“Dean, oh!”  His movements started to get more erratic.  He must have already been pretty close, which made Dean’s heart quicken.  Because the thought of Cas almost getting off just by making Dean orgasm was way too hot.  “Dean. Dean.  Dean!  Ah—.”  Cas hands tightened around Dean’s sides, and he came into Dean’s fist, his name repeating again and again until he came back down from the high.

His breath kept hitching as he tried to catch it, and Dean couldn’t take his eyes off Cas’ dry lips pulling in air.  When Cas’ breath evened out, Dean exhaled and rolled onto his back. “Fuck,” he hissed.

Cas let out a quick, low laugh.  He lifted his hand, and brought it back down on Dean’s chest with a light slapping sound.  “I should take you on all my business trips.”

It only served to remind Dean how awkward all this was going to be once they got back to America, and his grin flickered slightly, but he wouldn’t let this dampen his spirits.  That was a problem for later. He wiped his hand on the bed sheet, and said, “Tell you what—you remember the lube next time, I’ll get on any plane you want.”

Cas lifted his head, suddenly stern.  “Dean, if I packed lube, I wouldn’t be able to wait until we landed to fuck you.”

Dean shrugged.  “That’s cool. Always wondered what it’d be like to join the mile high club.”  He spread his grin wider, showing his teeth.

“Actually, commercial flights are usually six to seven miles up.  One mile would be very low for a plane to fly—.”

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Top Gun!” Dean yelled, and pounced.  He rolled back into Cas, and kissed him just to make him be quiet—even though his mouth was still nasty.  Dean didn’t really care.

Cas chuckled against him and kissed back.

///

The next three days were pretty similar to the first.  They’d wake up at ass-o’clock and take a car over to the production location, Cas would spend the day with the clients, and Dean would do jack all until someone asked him to help out with something.  One time, he helped set up the lighting, which was kind of cool; but mostly, he was just getting the clients coffee, and that really made him feel like an indispensable part of the team!

He mostly looked forward to after wrap, when he and Cas tried to get some actual sightseeing in.  As exhausting as the days were, Dean usually got his second wind right around the time the production trucks were packing up.  That could have either been from the fact that he was finally getting used to the time change, or all the coffee he was drinking, which, admittedly, was a lot better tasting than he got back in America.

Or maybe it was just excitement.  He never thought he’d be excited to do touristy shit; because, after living his whole life in a giant city, he was trained from birth to groan loudly and stomp around the slow-walking tourists taking up the sidewalk as they gawked up at the tall buildings.  But that was him now, and he kind of understood the appeal.

The first night, Cas took him to the Louvre, which was way too big to get through in the couple of hours they had until closing—but, really, it was just to see the Mona Lisa.  Because Sam would probably never talk to Dean again if he went all the way to Paris and didn’t check it out.  But, standing in front of it, Dean was pretty sure Sam’s mouth would be curved downwards in disappointment as he looked at it.  Dean was unimpressed, anyway. The thing was like, two inches tall, and it had an entire wall to itself. Meanwhile, in the same room, these massive paintings of battles and nature that took up entire walls all to themselves were hung up.  Those were definitely cooler. Mona Lisa wasn’t even hot. What was the big deal?

While there, they did a quick drive-by of a few other wings.  Cas seemed mostly interested in paintings that depicted the French Revolution, and they spent a good five minutes in front of that one really famous painting that Dean didn’t know the name of but had seen a million times.  The one with the dead bodies and the people with guns and swords trampling over them? With the lady with the flag and her tits hanging out? Yeah, that one.

The sections about Ancient Egypt, Rome, and Greece were pretty cool.  Dean always preferred artifacts to art. The idea that something as simple as a spoon from thousands of years ago could be preserved and guarded behind a glass case was both absurd and fascinating to him—because that was a spoon!  Someone used that spoon once! And now he was looking at it! And there was a mummy over there!

Okay, the Louvre was pretty awesome.

The next night, they hit up the Eiffel Tower, and Dean was a little disappointed that they couldn’t take a ride up to the top.  But all the elevator operators had gone home for the night, and he couldn’t blame them—as much as he wanted to see Cas with all of Paris lit up behind him, as much as Dean wanted to kiss him on top of the entire city.  He guessed that was something he’d just have to imagine. And the view from below wasn’t too bad, even though it mostly felt like he was looking up a girl’s skirt when they were standing directly under it. When he told Cas that, Cas gave a sly sideways smirk and a laugh; and despite the lack of height, Dean still felt on top of the world.

After that, they strolled along the banks of the river, with its bridges and vendor stands pedaling skyline paintings and books, and Cas sighed wistfully as he said, “I wish you could have seen Notre-Dame without the scaffolding.”  And Dean really wished he could have seen it, too, even though he wasn’t much for churches. He wanted to tell Cas they’d just have to come back after it was rebuilt, but he didn’t want to jinx it. Who knows? Cas might get sick of him long before then.  Instead, he just grabbed Cas’ hand, and they walked in silence.

The next day, Dick Roman flew in for about twenty-four hours, and Dean wondered what the hell the point was.  But he guessed he wanted to show his face for such an important client, which would have been no skin off Dean’s nose—except, Cas was busier than usual.  That night, Dick took the clients, Cas, and Rowena out to a dinner, which meant there would be no sightseeing. And that was kind of lame.

At least, it was lame for Cas.

Dean spent the night hanging out with Max.  Initially, Max had invited him to check out the Arc de Triomphe and the Moulin Rouge, and then they’d call it a night.  That was not how things went.

Everything started out as planned.  At first, Dean felt bad about going without Cas, but Cas said he’d already seen both in passing, so he was cool with it.  The Arc was pretty much just a traffic circle, and it really wasn’t anything Dean couldn’t see in Washington Square Park back home, but he snapped a photo for Sammy, anyway.  They walked right past the Moulin Rouge the first time, because they were both expecting it to be a huge dancehall—but it was actually kind of small. They couldn’t even go inside, because it was closed for the night.

After that, Dean thought they were going to pack it in, but Max asked if he wanted to get a drink—and it was a day that ended in Y, so yeah, Dean wanted to get a drink.  It sure beat going back to an empty, Cas-less hotel room.

They went to some wine bar nearby and ordered a bottle.  The other patrons were pretty friendly, despite the language barrier, and somehow, three bottles later, they found themselves suddenly part of a group of people that were headed to a club after the bar.  When the inevitable remark of “you should come with us” was presented, Dean probably should have said no. But he was on vacation!

Kinda.

Max was game, probably because he and one of the hot French guys in the group were eyeing each other, so they tagged along.  And the so-called “club” was less clubby and more like an underground rave—or maybe Europeans just knew how to party. Regardless, their new friends kept buying them rounds of cognac, which was a weird choice, but Dean still drank it.  It’s not like he could do much else. The music was so loud, he could barely hear himself think, much less hear other people talk.

Their new friends dispersed pretty quickly, pairing off to go dance, and Dean never saw them again.  Max and the hot French dude were dancing, too. Dean stuck close to the bar. So far, two chicks had come up to him at different points, but Dean wasn’t into it—especially when he glanced over and noticed someone had lost a penny (or whatever the euro equivalent was called) on the bar, tails side up.  Dean smiled softly to himself. He flipped it over.

And it occurred to him at one point, in the swimming yet life-altering way drunken thoughts do, that he wished Cas were there.

He also realized he was a sappy wine-drunk.

But wait, he missed Cas.  They hadn’t even been apart for a full day!

And, when Max came up to him with a questioning, concerned expression, as if to ask what was wrong, Dean said, “I miss Cas!”  Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

To that, Max responded, “What?”  At least, Dean thought he did. He couldn’t hear it over the music.  He just used context clues, which was a fucking miracle that he still had brain function, because that cognac was kicking in.

“Me and Cas are sleeping together!” Dean shouted, because that also seemed like a good idea.  He really didn’t know why; except for the sudden belief that, if he didn’t tell Max right then and there, he would die.

Max leaned in, brows scrunched.  What?

“Me and Cas!” Dean yelled at the top of his lungs.  The music thumped through his chest. His throat hurt.  “We’re sleeping together! I wanna be sleeping with him right now!”

Max fluttered his fingers around his ear and shook his head.  He mouthed something that Dean couldn’t hear. Probably, I can’t hear you.

“What?”

What?

Dean waved it away in the universal gesture of forget it.  “I’ll tell you later!”

Max seemed to understand, and then his hot French guy came around with more cognac.

And the next thing Dean knew, he was puking his entire intestinal track into a dirty toilet, the music still a dull thud against his pounding skull.  Some big, portly dude that Dean didn’t even know was gripping his shoulder in comfort, and telling him in a heavy Russian accent, “Is okay. Let it out, my friend, let it out.”  And Dean was pretty sure he was never going to drink wine and/or cognac again for the rest of his life, which could very well end right then and there in that gross bathroom at a Euro-trash rave.

Thank god, Max appeared behind the Russian dude and said, “Okay, man.  I think it’s time we got you to bed.” Which was an understatement because, when they got back to the street, the sun was a pink line of the horizon and newspaper stands were already opening up shop.

Max, who wasn’t looking too hot himself, put Dean in an Uber and sent him back to his hotel, and Dean wanted to be concerned about Max getting back safely but he was too busy not dying.

Getting up the stairs to his room was like an Olympic sport, and he was trying his damndest not to make too much noise, because he didn’t know where Cas was.  Because having two rooms was kind of a waste, since Cas spent every night so far in Dean’s bed. He could be there now. But then Dean remembered Cas didn’t have a keycard, so he was probably in the clear.

Or he was, until the door down the hall opened, and Cas came out, already dressed for the day.  Shit. Dean had really been hoping to avoid him until he got into the shower and threw up ten more times.

Cas’ eyes went wide.  “Dean?” he said, and Dean really didn’t know how someone could make their voice sound confused, worried, pissed, and relieved all at the same time.  Dean tried to give him an innocent smile, but it was way too shaky. He needed to open his door and curl up in bed ASAP.

But, apparently, Cas had settled on pissed.  He stomped down the hall, his footfalls way too loud, and Dean realized he was in a suit and tie.  Damn it. He’d forgotten that it was the last day of the shoot. And Cas wouldn’t be on set today. He, Max, and Rowena would be holed up in the conference center at Rowena’s hotel meeting with the client.  Dean probably should have known that—but he guessed he was shitty at his job.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cas snarled when he was close enough.  He actually fucking snarled. And he was doing that thing were he was keeping his voice low and raspy, which meant Dean was in the deepest shit imaginable.  There was a vein popping in his forehead.

Dean swallowed hard, collected himself, and, very calmly, said, “I went out with Max.”  What he really wanted to do was collapse into Cas’ arms and weep, Never leave me alone in this weird-ass city ever again.  But that probably wouldn’t go over well.

Cas narrowed his eyes.  He stayed quiet for a really long time, seething.  And then, “Get inside.”

Dean blinked.  “Huh?”

“I don’t have time for this.  I’ll be late. Get inside and sleep it off.”  His tone was clipped. Dean felt like he was going to throw up again, but for a different reason now.  No, no, no. He’d fucked it all up. He was really trying not to self-sabotage this time, and he’d gone ahead and done it anyway!

“No, I’m cool.  I can go. I can go with—ooh,” he tried, but his head decided to start spinning at that very moment.  He leaned against the wall, woozy. And he guessed it served him right for going out partying with a guy about a decade younger than him.  Man, Dean was getting old.

Cas ripped the keycard out of Dean’s hand, and really, Dean hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding it.  He opened the door and manhandled Dean inside, and Dean almost wanted to laugh at how much he’d fucked up.  “Go to sleep, Dean,” Cas told him firmly after shoving Dean into the room. Before Dean had the presence of mind to answer, Cas reached for the knob and closed the door loud enough that the sound made Dean groan as it echoed inside his skull.

And then he was alone in the semi-darkness, with the morning sun trying its very best to peek through the curtains with a dull gray light.  He stared at the door for a long time, not really taking in the emergency exit floor map of the hotel posted on the back.

Cas was pissed at him.

Dean had gone and ruined everything; and, the worst part was, it was their last full day in Paris, so he didn’t even have time to make it up to him.  Which meant Cas probably wouldn’t want anything to do with Dean once they got back to America.

A weird kind of pressure was building in Dean’s gut—slowly filling his chest and throat.  He felt like a balloon being twisted into some animal shape by a clown at a kid’s party—except he was also the clown.  And the pressure inside him definitely wasn’t puke.  He wished it were puke.

He was pretty sure this whole situation was the cosmic equivalent of a dog owner shouting, “What are you eating?  Spit it out. Spit it out!”  And here he was: staring God directly in the eye and chewing faster.

Without anything else to do, he slipped off his shoes and curled up, shivering and sweating, in bed.  This was stupid. Why was he so hungover? He didn’t even seriously think it was possible to get drunk on wine.  He thought people who did were just making it up. But wine-drunk was the worst kind of drunk ever, and wine-hungover was the shittiest experience of his life.

Somehow, he fell asleep, and woke up a few hours later, overheated and nauseous.  He thought, maybe, he should get something to eat, but Cas had taken his keycard so he wouldn’t be able to get back in.  He settled for going to the bathroom and chugging water from the tap. Then, he tossed and turned for thirty minutes before giving up and putting on the TV, eventually landing on some soap opera marathon he couldn’t understand.

As if he’d pay attention if he could understand it.  He was way too focused on Cas. A brick sat at the bottom of his gut all day, constantly restricting his lung capacity.  He was such a fucking idiot.

It was a little after 5 PM when there was a knock at the door.  It made Dean wince, and it made his stomach drop—but not because he was still sick.  Physically, he felt better. He’d even managed to take a shower earlier, so he was at least halfway to being a person again.  But he knew there was only one person that could be knocking, and he’d honestly expected Cas to avoid him until the plane ride home tomorrow morning.  Dean blinked in the direction of the door, the remote control resting on his thigh and the soap opera marathon still in full swing. For a second, he thought he’d imagined the knocking, but then it sounded off again, accompanied by Cas’ muffled voice calling his name.

Damn it.  Cas probably only came by to yell at him.

Sighing, Dean rallied himself and got out of bed.  He walked to the door, took a second to make sure he was psychologically ready for this (he wasn’t), and opened it.  Cas was on the other side, eyes already narrowed, dark bags under them like he was tired. The knot of his tie was loose, and the top button of his shirt undone.

Dean gave a phony, disarming smile that didn’t do much to butter Cas up.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asked, and it sounded more like, I’m about to stab you in the throat and watch you bleed out slowly, choking on your own blood.

Dean’s eyes flickered up and down his person, making sure Cas wasn’t carrying any pointy objects.  He was in the clear, but Cas was clutching a paper bag in one hand, so it was still a possibility. “Uh, fine.”  Dean really didn’t know where to go from there, and Cas kept glaring, back rigid and expression taut. “Do you, uh—wanna come in—?”

Cas was shoving past him before Dean could even finish his sentence, and Dean wasn’t sure if he should close the door.  What if he needed to make a quick escape? He chanced it, and let the door swing shut behind him as he slumped back towards the bed.

“I’m told you and Max had an interesting night,” Cas said.  He was standing over the bed, looming like a thundercloud. He’d tossed the paper bag down on the mattress.  Dean plopped down next to it, on the other side of the bed, keeping his distance.

“Uh, I guess you could say that.”  He wondered what the hell Max had said.  And he wondered what the hell Max knew, because Dean vaguely remembered telling him that he and Cas were boning.  He was pretty sure Max didn’t hear him, but he honestly had no idea. The brick in his stomach was slowly building up into a wall.

Busying himself, Dean peered into the bag.  There was a baguette sandwich and a bottle of seltzer inside.  His mouth watered, and his stomach felt hollow, but he wasn’t sure he could eat if he tried.  Not like it mattered. That was probably Cas’ dinner.

Cas remained silent, but he was doing it in a really loud way.  Dean breathed out heavily, dropping his shoulders. He rubbed his eyes, and really wished Cas would just get it over with.  “I get it, okay? I fucked up. You’re pissed at me and I’m fired. Am I close?”

Cas was still silent—and being a little quieter about it.

Dean glanced up, not really sure what he’d find.  He really hadn’t been expecting the confused line between Cas’ otherwise pissed off expression.  “Fire you? Dean. I’m not—.” He growled, trying to marshall his thoughts. “Yes, what you did was irresponsible and unprofessional, but I won’t—.”  He sighed. And then, “Eat.”

Dean was confused.  Not just about the sandwich.  But the sandwich was a part of it.  Had Cas brought him food?

He blinked, and Cas stared him down.  Tentatively, like he thought a bear trap would clamp down on his hand the second he reached into the bag, Dean pulled out the sandwich.  He didn’t unwrap it, but stared down at it in his lap. He was a little more interested in the seltzer, though, because his stomach was still slightly queasy, but he wasn’t sure what exactly was causing that.

“Thanks,” he whispered.  Cas didn’t respond. “Look, it wasn’t . . .” Dean wanted to say, last night wasn’t all that fun because I kept thinking about you.  He didn’t.  He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to bring himself to say something like that out loud.  But he had to say something. “Lame excuse, but I didn’t plan on that happening.” Cas stayed quiet.

Dean didn’t know why he said it: “I didn’t hook up with anybody else or anything.”  He just thought Cas should know.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw something in Cas’ stance shift.  When he looked fully, Cas had gone even more rigid than before. His fists were tight at his sides.  But there was something in his eyes—some kind of relief. Some kind of awe. He asked, like he was afraid of the answer, “On purpose?”

Dean wondered if he should be offended.  He remembered the girls who approached him at the club.  If this was a few months ago, he would have taken either one of them up on the offer—and that was a fucking scary thought.  “You callin’ me ugly?”

Cas blinked, and at once the tension rolled off of him.  Dean didn’t know what to make of it. “No, I’m not—You know I don’t think that.”

Dean leaned back against the headboard.  He uncapped the seltzer with a hiss and took a swig, the bubbles tickling down his throat.

“So.  On purpose,” Cas said, like he wanted to ask a question but wouldn’t.

Dean shrugged half-heartedly.  Cas was making a bigger deal out of it than it was.  “Yeah, well, figured there wasn’t much of a point without you there to get jealous,” he said, falling back on humor.

Cas almost smiled.  His fingers flexed at his sides.  He looked off for a second, swallowed, and then turned back to Dean.  “I wasn’t jealous,” he maintained, a certain litany back in his voice.  The swelling in Dean’s gut settled. Maybe Cas wasn’t pissed at him, after all.

“You keep tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart.”

Rolling his eyes, Cas shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto the armchair.  He climbed into bed, rolling into Dean on his side. Dean’s gut was fluttering for a whole other reason now as he settled in against Cas.  He brought his eyes back to the TV, idly watching the home-video quality program still playing.

“So, Max was there today, huh?” he asked after a second.

“For the morning,” Cas said, his voice firmer again, but not by much.  “He seemed a little worse for wear. I sent him back to his hotel before lunchtime.”

Dean winced, but he guessed it was good that Cas didn’t mention anything about Max acting funny.  Maybe Max didn’t know about them, after all. Dean relaxed marginally. “You’re not gonna come down hard on him, are you?” he worried.

Cas breathed out a sigh through his nose.  He slung an arm over Dean’s torso. “Possibly slightly less than I’m going to come down on you.”

That sounded flirty.  Dean hummed. “That a threat or a promise?”

Cas shrugged against him, seeming to consider it.  “A bit of both.” Dean snorted, and snaked his arm under Cas so he could wrap it around his waist.  And then Cas asked, “What are you watching?”

Dean brought his attention back to the TV.  On a laugh, he admitted, “I got no idea. Can’t understand a damn word.”  That didn’t really stop him, though, just like it didn’t stop him when he accidentally flipped on the Spanish channel soaps back home.  Over the course of the day, he’d actually gotten pretty into this one.

“But here’s what I think’s happening . . . So, Jacques—I dunno if his name’s really Jacques, but that’s what I’m calling him.”  He pointed to the guy on screen. “Anyway, Jacques’ sleeping with Griselle’s twin sister, Margot—.”

“Are their names really Griselle and Margot, or did you make those up, too?”

“They’re really Griselle and Margot,” Dean said.  “Anyway. So, Griselle pretended to be Margot and tried to trick Jacques into sleeping with her.  But Jacques knew it was her and . . .”

He was aware that his eyes were lighting up in excitement as he described the plot, and he probably looked like a total nerd, but it was fun.  And he was pretty sure Cas wasn’t listening, anyway. Because Cas hadn’t glanced at the TV once. His eyes remained on Dean’s profile, barely blinking as his gaze flickered slowly up and down.  They were doing that happy sparkling thing again. But there was something different about it this time. It was still really intense but—softer, in a way. Warmer. Fonder.

Dean didn’t really know what to do with that, so he just kept prattling on about the soap opera.

Chapter Text

Cas’ bedroom windows had those thick, blackout curtains on them, like he was expecting somebody to shine thirty stadium lights directly into his apartment.  Only a sliver of the sunlight, white in the way it was only on sunny mornings, got through the cracks in the sides.  The garbage trucks had woken Dean up—with their noisy beeping and slamming and guys shouting back and forth before hopping back on the back of the truck and audibly zooming down the road, somehow managing to rattle against every goddamn pothole.

Usually, that pissed Dean off.  But he really didn’t care too much that morning.  Because Cas’ bed was comfortable and his body was warm, pressed skin-to-skin against Dean’s under the covers.  Dean brushed his fingers along the line of Cas’ bare shoulders and sank his cheek against Cas’ hair as his head rested on Dean’s chest.  Cas was still asleep, probably unaware that one of his arms was dying beneath Dean and the other one was curled over Dean’s stomach; or that their legs were tangled together pretty much from knee to ankle.  Cas was kind of an octopus. Dean wasn’t complaining.

Well, he was complaining about one thing.

It was Monday morning, which meant they had to go back to the office.  It felt weird to think about that, when they’d been in Paris only two days ago.  Dean hadn’t even been back to his own apartment yet. Their flight got in early Saturday, and Cas’ place was easier to get to from the airport, mostly because a car had picked them up.  He crashed there for a while, expecting to only take a nap—but it turned into the whole weekend. And if there’d been any question whether or not they were sleeping together before, there wasn’t now.  Dean was sore and aching in all the best ways.

But he was still pretty jetlagged.  How the hell would he be expected to put in a whole day’s work if he was wide awake now, at 6 AM, but would probably crash at three?

They’d technically gone on the trip for work.  It only seemed fair that they were given enough time to recover.  But he guessed that wasn’t how things worked and people were supposed to just power through.

At 6:15, Cas’ alarm on his phone went off.  His phone had already buzzed a few times with incoming emails, but if the garbage man concerto hadn’t been enough to wake him up, probably nothing so quiet would.  But the alarm seemed to do the trick. Cas’ body tensed as he sniffed awake. The alarm was the same basic tone that Dean had set, and it was like nails on a chalkboard.  He had a visceral reaction to it, and his hand automatically shot out to the nightstand to silence the phone.

Cas’ had, too, blindly and at the same time, and the phone ended up scattering away in a mad dash, still blaring.  It fell off the nightstand and clattered onto the floor. Shit. Cas lifted his head off Dean’s chest, his eyes cracking open.  He glared at Dean, which probably would seem more threatening if his hair wasn’t rumpled and his cheek wasn’t red where it had been pressed against Dean’s shoulder.  Dean couldn’t help but to snort out a laugh.

“Make it stop,” Cas grumbled, and rolled over to shove his face into his pillow.

“Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean laughed, and Cas only gave a muffled grunt in response.  Dean twisted halfway off the bed and scrambled for the phone. He turned off the alarm as he brought it back up to the nightstand.  Next to him, Cas sighed in relief.

A chill rocked Dean’s spine, and his skin bumped where the blanket had slipped off.  The room was kind of chilly outside the warm bed, and it would probably be a herculean feat to get up.  They’d probably have to give him a medal for it.

“Okay, fine.  Not Sleeping Beauty.  You’re Grumpy.”

“Those are two different movies.”

All thoughts of how fucked up it was that Disney put out two separate movies about chicks falling into comas aside, Dean wondered if he should stop by his place before going to work.  The clothes he’d packed needed to be washed, but he could probably get away with wearing something in his duffel for one more day. But showing up to work with his suitcase would probably look suspicious.  Then again, going all the way uptown would take forever.  It just sounded like a lot, and annoying either way. It was best to stay in bed.

“Pretend that never went off,” Dean said, rolling onto his side.  He wrapped an arm around Cas’ middle and pulled him back in.

Cas let out an annoyed hum at being manhandled, but he instantly curled against Dean, back to chest.  He breathed out heavily, like he was trying to rally himself. “We’ll be late.”

“So?  We’re jetlagged.  We earned it.”

Cas twisted his neck around to shoot Dean a look, and he looked more awake now.  “We can’t both be late. It will raise questions.”

Dean rolled his eyes.  All this sneaking around was going to be hard to keep track of.  “Then, we won’t get there at the same time. Or, even better—,” he slid his hand down Cas’ side, coming to a rest at his hip, “we don’t go in at all.”

Cas looked really tempted.  He groaned. “I have meetings.”

“I’ll reschedule them.  Perks of sleeping with your assistant.”  He lifted himself up to kiss the corner of Cas’ mouth.  “I’ll work extra hard to get you a ton of free time.”

Dean rested back against the pillow, but he was pretty sure Cas was smiling gently.  He had that smiling gently voice going, no matter how gravely it was from sleep.  “And what would I do with this free time?”

“Me!  Duh.”

Cas rumbled.  Dean felt the tremors of his body.

“C’mon!  Ain’t it time for my quarterly review?”

Cas laughed a little deeper.  Unexpectedly quick, he rolled over in Dean’s arms, and pushed his back to the mattress.  Dean grinned into the kiss, and he felt Cas smiling right back.

All in all, he’d had worse Monday mornings.

///

“You went all the way there and didn’t even go inside the Moulin Rouge?” Charlie scolded, her voice going up in pitch until it was a squeak that broke the sound barrier.

Dean rolled his eyes.  He was still kind of annoyed that he wasn’t in bed, and not for the usual reasons—but Cas had managed to drag his ass out the door a little before 9 AM so they weren’t late for work.  He’d left his suitcase and shit at Cas’ apartment, which meant he’d have to go back there tonight—which was fine by him. The only thing was, he had to borrow one of Cas’ shirts, and it was a little big.  He felt like someone was going to call him out.

Hey, didn’t I see Castiel wearing that last month?  

Say, why are you swimming in that shirt?  Did you lose weight?

So far, no one noticed.  They didn’t notice the fact that it smelled like Cas’ apartment, either, and Dean got a whiff of it every now and again; but he guessed that was because no one had ever smelled Cas’ closet.  Maybe he was in the clear.

“I know, right?” Dean told her, looking back down at the photo on his phone in her hand.  She was perched on the edge of his desk. He wiggled his brow suggestively. “I wanted to see some naked French ladies.”

Charlie pulled a thoughtful face.  “Uh, I don’t think it’s a strip club, dude.”

“Yeah, it totally is.  Just like, a really fancy one,” Dean said.  At least, he thought it was. Wasn’t that what the movie was about?  “I’m pretty sure.”

She seemed less sure.  “I dunno if we’re that lucky as a society.”

He snorted, and plucked the phone from her hand.  “Whatever. I didn’t show you the Mona Lisa.” He flipped through the photos, careful to avoid the one he’d taken of Cas in his pink sleeping mask on the flight home.  And he definitely wasn’t showing her the candid of Cas looking out the window mid-flight, chin propped on his hand, the sunset golden on his face and lighting up the tips of his hair like a halo.  Dean wished he could make that his wallpaper.

“Heard it’s tiny,” Charlie said as he scrolled.

“It’s fuckin’ tiny!”

There was the telltale click of Cas’ office door opening, a sound that Dean was basically trained to react to at this point.  He glanced up, and got distracted by Cas and Jack walking out. Jack was balancing an opened laptop in his palms, and Cas had one hand clasped around the kid’s far shoulder.  “It’s good work. I’d like to discuss it further,” he heard Cas say, and Jack smiled proudly up at him.

“Thank you, Castiel.”

They were probably going over the end-of-term presentation every intern had to put together to show Dick and Rowena.

Dean couldn’t help but smirk a little fondly as he watched Cas’ hand slip away from Jack’s shoulder.  And then he was watching Cas watch Jack walk back to his desk. He really cared about that kid, and Dean didn’t know if he’d be like that with every intern or if he’d just taken a shining to Jack.  Because it’s not like it was Cas’ job to help out the intern with his assignment. He was just a good guy like that.

Cas eyes swept towards Dean like they were made of magnets, and Dean felt his cheeks heat up as he quickly looked back to his phone.  Even while pretending to find that picture for Charlie, Dean was hyper-aware of Cas pacing towards them.

“Hi, Castiel,” Charlie said cheerfully, twisting around and giving him a dorky wave.

Cas smiled.  “Hello, Charlie.  Nice to see you again.”  Dean definitely was not watching the exchange with careful and rapt attention.

“Did you have fun in Paris, too?”

“Well, it was a business trip,” Cas reminded her, “but, yes.  It was pleasant.” Dean tried not to hope too much that he was the reason it was pleasant.  Which was kind of hard to do with how pointedly warm Cas’ tone was.

He stopped pretending to be on his phone and put it down.  “Hey,” he told Cas, keeping his voice gruff, and he was probably laying it on too thick.

Cas looked back at him, or maybe he hadn’t stopped in the first place, and his mouth was curved in the slightest, loveliest smile that softened his eyes and made him look tender and sleepy.  “Hi,” he said, and it was around that time that they both remembered they had company. Cas shuffled a little, and asked, “What do I have next?”

Right.  They were at work.  Dean sat up a little straighter and moved his mouse around for pretty much no reason as he looked at the calendar opened on his monitor.  “You got the next half hour free. And then that Biggerson’s call.”

Cas pressed his lips together and nodded once like it was the most important thing ever.

“Oh, and I saw you put in a lunch appointment on Wednesday,” Dean remembered.  It was just a two-hour block that said lunch.  No other details.  He’d been waiting all morning for Cas to fill him in, but so far nothing.

“Yes.  Just lunch with an old contact while he’s in town,” Cas said, and it really didn’t provide any more details.  Like, at all.

“Okay.”  He let it hang in the air for a second.  And then, “Anything you want me to do with that?”

“No.”

Dean blinked.  He somehow felt like he had even less details than he started with.

“Uh.  Okay.”  Dear god, Cas was a freak.  Why was Dean so into him?

Charlie kept looking from one of them to the other like she was watching a very suspenseful movie.  All she needed was a tub of popcorn.

“If that’s all, I’ll just go—,” Cas twisted around, looked back at his office, and then blew out his lips.  And Dean kind of got the feeling he’d come over just to chat. “Catch up on emails.”

He looked at Charlie, and nodded again, and then turned around.  Both of them watched him until he disappeared back inside the office.

And Dean could practically feel the curious energy radiating off Charlie.  She was going to say something. There was no stopping her. He braced for impact.

“He seems,” she said, trying to decide on her words as they came out, “smiley-er than usual.”

If Dean wasn’t blushing before, he definitely was now.  He dipped his head to hide it and pretended to click through the calendar.  “Oh, yeah?” He hoped he sounded disinterested.

“You don’t think so?”  She was still pondering the office.

Dean shrugged a little too big.  “I dunno, Charlie. I guess I spend a lot of time with him.”  His voice was too angry for the situation. He needed to dial it back.  “I haven’t noticed.”

That was a lie.  Dean noticed every time Cas smiled.

“Mmmm, you sure?  Because you’ve been smiley-er lately, too.”

God, he was really glad Alicia was at a meeting.  He didn’t need anyone overhearing this.

He made a show of rolling his eyes and glared dully at Charlie.

She understood it as a warning, but shrugged innocently.  “I’m just saying. Kinda thought it’d be awkward for you guys.  After . . . you know.”

His heart skipped.  He looked around, making sure no one was listening.  “You wanna talk a little louder?” he hissed.

It was met with another innocent shrug.

He sighed loudly.  “I’m not—smiley or whatever.  It’s the jetlag. I’m delirious.”  Another lie. He’d actually gotten some pretty awesome sleep over the weekend.  Despite waking up so early, the crash hadn’t hit him yet. “Give me a couple days, I’ll be back to my normal asshole-self.”

She sighed, too, except a lot less dramatically, and hopped off the desk.  “Whatever you say, weirdo,” she told him. “I gotta get back to work.”

Thank god.

“Later.”

Dean turned back to his computer and mumbled, “Later.”  He pretended not to watch her walk away.

///

The next few days were pretty boring.  He got dinner with Sam on Tuesday to catch up, but they mostly just talked about how Sam had gone to a hundred jewelers and couldn’t find the right ring to ask Jess to marry him.  Dean nodded and smiled and hummed, and he even offered to help Sam look, but the whole time he felt like he was at the bottom of a ravine and the walls were crumbling down on him.  Even if he did mean it when he told Sam he was happy for him, and that he’d throw him the most kickass bachelor party known to man.

He spent the rest of the night moping and trying not to text Cas to complain, because Cas knew Dean was fucked up but he didn’t need to know he was that fucked up.  Whiskey worked just as well, anyway. Kind of. Not really.

He went in on Wednesday with a pretty bad headache pounding against his temples and a feeling like how he imagined a wet rag collecting mildew in the dark might feel.  Luckily, the morning was pretty slow for him—but only because Cas’ morning was pretty busy. Which was great, because he didn’t have time to notice that Dean was slowly recovering from a hangover.  He went from meeting to meeting, and then he had that lunch Dean knew nothing about at noon.

Dean waved him off, and tried to decide whether or not he was hungry enough to risk eating food.  He fucked around on the Internet for another hour, just generally ignoring his responsibilities—scrolling through websites for used cars he’d never buy, taking some stupid quiz that told him which cheese he was (mozzarella), and killed a minute and two seconds playing the NYT mini crossword puzzle.

It was after 1 PM when, next to him, Alicia put her computer on sleep mode and picked up her bag from the floor.

“Hey, me and Max are going down to the Halal truck.  You want in?” she asked him. She stretched a little, and Dean pointedly didn’t look—partly because she was basically just a kid, but also because he was in a committed relationship.  Maybe? Or at least a relationship. Possibly? Fuck if he knew. The point was, he wasn’t interested and neither was she.

Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand.  Like Max. Dean had been pretty successful in avoiding him the last few days, especially when Cas was in the general vicinity.  It wasn’t like Max gave any hints that he knew what was going on. He’d been totally normal, actually. Dean was pretty sure he didn’t know.  Like, 90% sure. Okay, he was 75% sure Max did not hear him confess to sleeping with Cas that night at the club.

And Alicia was getting lunch with them, so it wasn’t like Max was trying to corner Dean to get at the truth, right?  Everything was fine. Plus, Cas was still at his lunch, and Dean rarely got the opportunity to actually step outside during the day, so he should take advantage.

“Uh, sure,” he said, and he couldn’t believe he was actually agreeing to this.  But he needed to get over it. Max didn’t know anything! If Dean kept acting like a spaz, though, he’d probably get suspicious.  Time to buck up, Winchester.

“Hey, you ready?” Max said, suddenly appearing on the other side of their desks.  Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, and then the window.

Luckily, neither of them noticed, because Alicia turned to her brother and said, “Yeah.  Dean’s coming with.”

Max nodded.  “Cool.” He said it casually.  Too casually.

Or, no.  No, he didn’t.  Dean was just being paranoid.

The three of them walked in the direction of the exit, and Dean ignored the tingling in the back of his head that made him feel like he was marching towards the gallows.  He listened to the twins chatting about visiting their mom’s house that weekend and planning how to get there. It kind of made Dean feel like an awkward third wheel, but it was better than having all the attention on him.

It was a little late for the lunch rush, so the Halal cart’s line wasn’t very impressive.  They ordered and stood off to the side, hovering nearby as the people inside put together their meals.

“So, Dean, you never told me.  How’d you like Paris?” Alicia asked, and once Dean got over the initial panic of being addressed, the rest of the question seemed pretty innocent.

He shrugged.  “It was okay. The food was pretty good.”  He was still trying to figure out where he could get one of those baguette sandwiches in the city.  He wouldn’t say no to some gratin, either, because who in their right mind would turn down a steaming pile of potatoes swimming in cheese?

Alicia let out a soft laugh, seeming amused.  “Yeah, it’s all about the food.”

“What else do people do when they travel?” Max interjected, taking the words right out of Dean’s mouth.

A beat went by then, where all three of them fell silent.  Dean watched the smoke puff up and disappear from the food cart.

“That night we went out was pretty fun,” Max said then, like he’d just recalled it, and Dean felt his entire body coil.

“Uh, yeah.”

Move on.  Move on, move on move on move on.

Max shoved his hands into his pockets and laughed a little.  “Man, you got so wasted.”

Dean felt the back of his neck heat up, and the rest of him went cold.  He rubbed at the flush, trying to sooth it before either of them noticed.  “Yeah, guess I didn’t know wine could get you that drunk.”

Max let out another humored sound.  “Uh, yeah, but drunk enough for what you told me?”

Record scratch.  Freeze frame. Spit-take.  Car crash. Every possible cliché movie trope to signify how fucked Dean was.

Or maybe he wasn’t.  No, he wasn’t. Max could have been talking about anything!  Yeah, anything. Dean said a lot of things! He barely stopped talking most days!  “Huh?”

Max, who’d been watching the cart, slid his gaze to Dean.  “You know. The thing.”

“Yeah, so much for, he’s not even that hot,” Alicia teased, but Dean barely heard her.

He had no idea what his face looked like, but Max’s expression had fallen, and Alicia just looked confused.  From somewhere under water, Max said, “Oh, shit. You don’t remember telling me, do you?”

Slowly, feeling returned to Dean’s fingers and toes, and then spread out to the rest of him.  And he really wished it hadn’t, because the only thing he could liken this moment to was the couple seconds after an IED exploded nearby and everything was spinning and ringing like static electricity.  And then, awfully, the pain set in. He thought he could even feel blood on his hairline.

“You—It was too loud,” he heard himself say.  He cleared his throat, coming back to himself.  He swiped his hand through the air in total denial.  Because he was past denial now; he was in survival mode.  “You couldn’t hear me.”

Max’s face collapsed in confusion.  Between them, Alicia was glancing back and forth from Dean to her brother.  And her previous words finally processed. She knew, too. Dean wanted to throw up.

“What?  Dude, you told me in the bathroom,” Max said, and Dean had absolutely no memory of that.  “Remember? Right before you started puking?” Dean tried really hard to remember. He tried harder to time travel back to that day and kill his past self before that asshole could spill the beans.  Neither thing worked.

Max lifted a finger, pointing, and he seemed slightly amused again, judging by the way he was smirking.  “You really don’t remember any of this?”

Dean bent his neck and cradled his forehead in his hands, wishing he could curl up into a ball and disappear.  “Fuck, I’m such an idiot,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

“Uh,” Alicia said, obviously trying to salvage the situation.  She placed a hesitant hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re not gonna tell anyone.”

And that was just fucking rich because, “You told her?”  He’d spat out the words, dropping his arms and putting as much hostility into his eyes as humanly possibly.

Max opened his mouth and let out a few aborted sounds, like he did nothing wrong.

“Dude, we’re twins.  He tells me everything,” Alicia said with a chuckle, and Dean really didn’t think any of this was funny.  He glared at her, too. All it did was make her cross her arms and say, “If you’re really that worried about it, why don’t you just call it off?”

Dean let out a humorless laugh.  Because what the hell did they know?  Besides everything, because that’d clearly be the sane thing to do.  Because it was only a matter of time until this shit got out. And now, like a rabbit from a shitty magician’s hat, it was out.

But it was Cas.  He’d have to give up Cas.  And they had no idea how much of a difference that made in this situation.

Off his reluctance, Max said, “Jeez.  No way he’s that good. What, does his dick do cartwheels?”

Dean ran his palm down his face.  He hated this. He hated them. Because, yeah, kind of!

Alicia blanched.  “No way!” She looked like her whole world had just been rocked.  “Novak’s good in the sack? You’re kidding.”

What, did she miss the memo that Cas was totally hot?  Wasn’t she the one who wouldn’t shut up about it when he first started?

And, for a split second, Dean wanted to tell them that Cas had pretty much ruined everyone else ever for him, and he wanted to say it in the most wistful way possible.  Instead, he stuck a finger between them sternly and warned, “Shut up! Not a word of this to anyone, got it? Either of you!” He made a quick decision: “And definitely not a word to Cas!  Or I’m breaking all four of your kneecaps!”

He’d said it in a very threatening way, but they didn’t seem very threatened.  They shared a look, one of those stupid twin ESP things, but apparently they decided in his favor.  Max held up his palms and leaned back in mock surrender. “Alright, fine. Not another word. Sorry for bringing it up.”

One of the guys in the Halal truck called their names to pick up their food, and Dean was more than happy to have an excuse to get the hell away from this conversation.  He shot them each another glare, just to show he meant business, and then stomped towards the cart.

And the second his back was to them, he sucked in a deep breath, because he wasn’t as tough as he acted.  Because fuck. He was fucked.

When they got back upstairs, Max and Alicia went to eat their lunch in the kitchen—and probably to talk about Dean, but he didn’t give a shit.  As long as there was some distance between him and the twins, he was good. He needed time to think, and to decide if he actually trusted them to keep this secret.  He guessed he didn’t have a choice. But maybe he should talk to Sam or Charlie, to fill them in and see if they could help keep a lid on this.

That was probably a bad idea.  Sam would just get pissed at him, and he loved Charlie but she had a big mouth and couldn’t keep a secret to save her life.  Maybe Benny? He had some idea of what was going on already. Or Lee? They were objective third parties, and it wasn’t like they could slip up and tell anyone because they didn’t work at Roman.  But he didn’t know what kind of advice they’d be able to offer—because they didn’t work at Roman.

And what about Cas?  Should he tell Cas? The guy probably deserved to know their secret was out.  And, if it got out more, he deserved a fair warning. But what if he got weird?  What if he realized Dean had fucked it all up and broke up with him? Could Cas even break up with him?  Were they dating?

He beelined right into Cas’ office without even dropping his container of food on his desk first, mostly because he needed a second alone; but also because it was kind of second nature at this point to go into his boss’ office while they were out to see if anyone left a voicemail.

He didn’t expect to find Cas in there—but there he was, sitting at his desk, flipping through a deck.  Even though his calendar allotted for another half hour for his lunch appointment. Dean yelped.

Cas jumped.  And then settled.  “Dean!”

Dean blinked at him, trying to figure out if Cas was real or if his poor over-stressed mind was hallucinating.  But Cas was really there, staring at him like he was some kind of jackass-simpleton crossbreed, and Dean cleared his throat.  “Hey. Just checking if you got back yet,” he lied smoothly, and lifted the warm tin container between his hands. “Stepped out to get lunch.”

Cas dropped his shoulders like he didn’t care and looked back down at the pile of papers so big, Dean felt like he should personally fly down to the Amazon and plant a tree.  “Yes, I’m back,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world but still needed spelling out.

Whether that was for Dean’s sake or not, it didn’t really matter because Dean hadn’t been listening.  He was still too wrapped up in his own head, weighing out the options of telling Cas about Max and Alicia.

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, but it was long enough for Cas to glance up again in question.  “Is there something else?”

Dean shook his head.  “No—no.” But he needed an excuse.  He glanced out the door, making sure no one was hovering outside, and took a few ambling steps closer to the desk just in case.  “Just wanted to—you know. Thank you. Again.” He had no idea what he was going to say until the words were coming out of his mouth.  “For letting me go to Paris. It was fun.”

Cas’ expression softened at that, and he seemed a little pleased.  That rare, openly affectionate look was in his eyes again, and it was being directed at Dean—and Dean decided right then and there that Cas didn’t have to know about Max and Alicia.  Dean could handle it on his own.

“Thank you for coming,” Cas said, and then, deadpan, “And thank you for accompanying me.”

It took a second longer than usual, but the joke eventually landed somewhere in Dean’s ravaged mind.  He rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh before he could catch it. “Alright, Casanova.”  Cas seemed even more pleased with himself than before.  Dean said, “I’m gonna go eat my lunch now.”

Once he beat back the guilt of keeping a secret from Cas, he actually felt a little more at ease.  Cas was still smiling at him, and he seemed like he was in a pretty decent mood. It helped Dean’s mood improve, too.

Before he left the office, Dean glanced over at the phone to make sure the red voicemail light wasn’t blinking.  He walked around his desk and placed the food on the surface like the precious cargo it was before haphazardly plopping down on his chair and rolling back a couple inches.  He opened the food with one hand and clicked through his inbox with the other, checking what he missed.

It was mostly junk mail from catering companies that had no business asking him if Roman needed a new vendor with delicious seasonal menus.  They all got deleted.  How’d these people even get his email address in the first place?

Next, he scrolled down to Cas’ inbox to look for any meeting requests.  He was focusing more so on his food though, mixing in the pinkish chicken and rice until the red and white sauces blended together into gooey slop.  It smelled like a fresh dog turd. No one in their right mind would eat it. His stomach rumbled, and he couldn’t wait to dig in.

Cas’ inbox was pretty full, with about a bazillion unread emails, but that was mostly because he never deleted a damn thing.  From time to time, Dean considered going in there and doing some spring-cleaning, but that seemed like a lot of work. He brought a forkful of rice to his mouth at the same time he clicked on an email from an outside person under the address [email protected] with the subject line, offer’s on the table!

Hi Castiel,

Great lunch!  Amara and I think you’d be a great fit here, so feel free to give us a ring any time to talk terms.

See you soon!

Chuck Shurley
SVP, Account Management
Carver & Edlund Publishing

The rice fell off the fork, some of it landing back into the container and some of it scattering on the desk and Dean’s keyboard.  He kept the empty plastic utensil poised in front of his opened mouth, and read the email again. And again.

He dropped the fork, and used both hands to pull up a web browser to type Carver & Edlund Publishing into the search bar.  A few hits came up—the website, some news articles, a few LinkedIn profiles, and a quick view map with the company’s stock price, Wiki page, and location.

Philadelphia.

Cas was moving back to Philadelphia.  Cas was leaving.

It suddenly felt like someone had shrunk his lungs a few sizes in the wash.  They were too tight around his breath. A little voice inside his head said, Good.  Tell him to leave now.  Another little voice said, This is all your fault.

A louder voice said, That fucking asshole.

Dean caught movement above his screen.  He glanced up, and watched Cas leave his office and head towards the aisle, probably off to the bathroom.  Dean’s chest was doing a funny thing—numbing and pulsing all at the same time. His hangover came back in full force.  His fingers fidgeted, and then tightened around the fork. He focused on the plastic digging into his palm, and every other sensation felt choked, almost.

Before he even decided to do it, he tossed his lunch in the trash and picked up his backpack.  He shut his computer down. He didn’t have a lot of time.

He made for reception, stopping off at Jack’s desk on the way.  Jack was clacking away on his computer, brows scrunched with focus intense enough to diffuse a bomb.

“Hey,” Dean said, and his voice sounded way too rough.  But maybe he could use that to sell his lie. For once, he was glad he had a hangover that morning.  That’d make all this more believable.

Jack looked up.  “Oh. Hello!”

“Hey,” Dean said, and realized he’d already said that.  His hand tightened around the strap of his bag. “I’m headed out.  Not feeling too hot.  You mind taking care of—of the big guy for the rest of the day?”

For a second, Jack looked completely overwhelmed with the responsibility, but to his credit he stowed it away pretty quickly.  “Of course. I’d be happy to help—.”

Dean hardly waited for him to finish before muttering, “Great,” and turning away. 

As he stomped towards the exit, he heard Jack call, “Feel better!”  Dean doubted he would.

He peered into the hallway to reception before heading inside, because he didn’t want to run into Cas.  He’d probably clock the guy if he did. Luckily, the coast was clear, and Dean hurried out as quickly as he could without fully sprinting.

The elevator took way too long to get there, even though he pressed the button about five hundred times.  When it finally dinged open, Dean jammed his finger down on the close door button. The doors closed with the same lack of urgency as they usually did.

And then he was alone—trapped in a small space, and he breathed in, trying to expand his lungs.

He tried to make the space smaller, more manageable.  He dipped his head against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool metal, and breathed.  The only thing that welled up inside of him was rage, quick and boiling.

He kicked the wall, pain shooting through his big toe and ankle, metal rattling beneath the veneer of the wooden paneling.  It wasn’t very satisfying. He kicked it again.

///

“Dean, if you don’t like the eggs, don’t eat ‘em,” Benny said from his place on the floor across the coffee table.  Dean had already claimed the couch. He’d claimed it before Benny woke up.

Yesterday, when he got home, he couldn’t believe he’d wasted all the alcohol in the house on Sam.  He really needed to plan his freak-outs better, or to schedule all the people he cared about walking out on him in wider intervals.  He guessed he could have walked a few blocks to the liquor store, but that seemed like a lot of work once he got into bed.

It’d been easier to stay and challenge the ceiling to a staring contest.  It won. It always won. Dean thought it would at least take pity on him and throw the game, but he should have known that was stupid from prior experience.

Every now and again, his phone buzzed with a text from Cas.  He didn’t read them.

He ended up eating mostly everything in the fridge just to keep himself busy.  He even nuked those microwave burritos that had been buried at the bottom of the freezer collecting ice crystals for two years.  Nothing he ate actually tasted like anything. When that lost its appeal, he tried watching some porn, but he couldn’t even come so he gave up.

And then he went back to staring at the ceiling as it got dark around him.  He had no idea how much time he wasted doing that, and he didn’t really care.  But that was fine. Sometimes, he needed days like that. As a reset. A day to just not exist, to feel like he didn’t exist.  To hold his breath and close his eyes and not move until the air ripped from his lungs.

He’d waited for sleep to come.  Benny got home first. Sleep didn’t follow him through the front door.

When his alarm went off that morning, he ignored it and rolled over.  Normally, he’d be able to suck it up. To go through the motions. It was a little tough going through the motions when the motions revolved around scheduling Cas’ every waking hour.

He didn’t bother calling in sick, because it wasn’t like Cas would be his boss for much longer, so what did it matter?

God, he felt so pathetic.  So what? Cas was leaving. So what?  Dean could deal.

He could deal.

He was good at dealing.

He realized he’d been pushing around the scrambled eggs that Benny had made for him on the plate balanced on his knees.  They were congealed and a weird shade of yellow now, probably cold. Benny was scraping up the last bits of his breakfast on a slice of toast.  He was already dressed, ready to head out the door to work in a couple minutes.

It was close to eleven and Dean was still in his robe and boxers.

“Eggs are fine,” he said, just so he didn’t hurt Benny’s feelings; but, really, he didn’t know if he’d even taken a bite.  He couldn’t remember. Actually, he couldn’t remember most of the morning, except that he’d dreamed he was still overseas, and it was time to go home, and the carriers took off without him.

“Uh-huh.  You feelin’ alright?”

Dean glanced up.  Benny had a piece of egg stuck in his beard.  Dean didn’t bother mentioning it. “I feel fine,” he lied, except not really.  He wasn’t sick or anything.

“Not talking physically, brother,” Benny corrected.

Dean sighed.  He hated when people in his life tried to shrink him.  It was hard enough keeping all his crap from Sam, but at least it was easier to hide shit from someone when you weren’t living with them.  Hence the reason Benny was usually spot on.

Dean ran his hand down his face.  “Cas is moving back to Philly.” It felt weird to say out loud.  Real.

“Your boss?” Benny clarified.  Dean shot him a look. He knew Cas wasn’t just his boss.  He’d heard them that first night. Benny wiped his mouth with a paper towel, missing the piece of egg.  “You’re still carrying a torch for him then, huh?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” he half-teased, leaning back, his palms flat on the floor behind him.

Dean didn’t know why things couldn’t just be simple.  He’d finally found someone he really liked, someone he could picture himself with, and right from the jump everything had been stacked against them.  What was that thing people said about office romances? He couldn’t remember. He’d never actually paid attention to it because he figured it’d never apply to him.

“How do you pull it off?” Dean asked him.  “I mean, you and Andrea work together and you’re still together.”

Benny smiled at that.  “Well, Andrea ain’t my boss.”  He said her name differently than he said everyone else’s name.  Like it was something awe-inspiring and treasured. Kind of like the way Cas said Dean’s name.  “But, if she was, I’d’a quit a long time ago. Can’t let a job get in the way of true love.”

True love.  What Hallmark bullshit.  Dean had no idea if what he felt for Cas was anything remotely like that.  He was still trying to convince himself he wasn’t on the cusp of falling in love with him.  True love would just be a step too far.

He thought about those Disney princesses in their comas, waking up because of true love’s kiss.  Basically dead, and then all of a sudden coming alive again.

“I can’t just quit my job, Benny.  Not for no reason.” It’d disappoint Sam.

Benny seemed confused.  “You said you were quittin’ when you took off on your trip.”

Dean didn’t need to consider the answer to that.  “That’s different. I’m coming back.” The words felt wrong, like they always did.  He kept saying them, but he honestly didn’t know if it were true. Come back to what?  For what?  The only reason he would was for Sam, and Sam didn’t even need him anymore.  He thought, maybe, he’d found something worth not leaving in the first place; but he guessed he was wrong about that, because Cas didn’t need him either, if he was beating Dean to the punch.

“So, a vacation, you’re willing to drop everything for, but Cas is no reason?”

Dean’s head hurt and he blamed the lack of sleep.  “Doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s moving, remember?” he said, just so this conversation could be over.

“You ask him not to?” Benny asked, like it was simple.  But it wasn’t. Dean couldn’t do that. He couldn’t ask Cas to give up his life for him.  And he didn’t think he’d physically be able to get the words out if he tried, anyway.

He dropped his head and shook it.  There was a twisted, bitter smile on his face—more like a wince than anything.

“Maybe he just needs to be asked,” Benny went on, and a traitorous thought popped into his mind before he could suffocate it with a pillow: So do I, but you don’t see anyone asking me.

But no one would.  No one would. He wasn’t even sure he wanted them to.

Benny put his legs under him and picked himself up.  He wiped his mouth again, getting the egg that time, and balled the paper up before tossing it on his plate.  Carefully, he reached over the coffee table and lifted Dean’s plate, too. He went to the sink, put the plates down, and then walked back over.  He didn’t sit again.

“Get your head on straight today,” he suggested, a gentle but firm hand patting Dean’s shoulder in warm assurance.  “Figure out the rest tomorrow.”

Dean’s chest constricted.  His eyes were stinging.  He didn’t cry. His body didn’t even attempt it.  None of the pressure got released. It just built up inside of him, filling in the vacant spaces like fog.  He nodded, even though he didn’t really believe it.

Satisfied, Benny told him he’d see him later, and then he was out the door.

Despite his best (okay, moderate) efforts, Dean couldn’t actually get his head on straight.  He moped around the apartment a little more, zoning out while an episode of Dr. Sexy played on the TV, before deciding to head to the storage unit to check out Baby.  Because, if he couldn’t fix himself, he could at least fix his car—and it was kind of the same thing.  More than that, it was the better option.

Even though that option was a little pointless in and of itself, because the Impala was done.

Sure, there were minor things left—but she was done.  Up and running. Road ready. Finished. Eager to feel the road under her tires.

Dean knew that as he inspected the body, eyed the interior as if he was looking under a microscope, and dug in under the hood.  She was done.

But he felt like there was something he was missing, in that way he always did after working on a big project.  Some box he hadn’t ticked. Something he’d overlooked. Something he could do better. He wasn’t a perfectionist by any means, but the Impala couldn’t be finished just like that.

Because that meant he had no excuse—no, not excuse.  Reason. He had no reason to stay.

He thought, when this moment came, he’d be itching for it.  He should have been itching for it.

Because he needed to do this.

Because maybe things would be different after his trip.  Maybe he’d be different. He could hit the open road, roll down the windows, and all the shit that had been festering inside of him would fly out on the breeze, left on the side of some deserted highway in god knows where.  He’d come back and he’d want all the things people are supposed to want: a 9 to 5, a two-day weekend, a place to sit still and call his own, and a person who wouldn’t leave him.  And he could be that person for someone else—steady, reliable, present in every moment.

He wouldn’t look off to the west and feel a tug in his chest towards it.  He wouldn’t live with one foot out the door and his head in the clouds. He’d come back with all that out of his system and he wouldn’t want to run anymore.

It seemed like wishful thinking, but why not keep hope alive?  He wished he didn’t have to. He wished he could want all those things now.  And he did. He wanted them.

He wanted to want them.

He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just make up the difference.

Now more than ever.  Ever since he met . . .

But there was a voice in the back of his head telling him, No.  You have things to do first.  Go do them. Things will be different in the after.  When you come back, your old self won’t be waiting for you.

But what if it was?  No matter where he went, he’d take himself with him.  In the backseat, in the rearview mirror, sticking up its thumb on the side of the road, a phantom passenger.  Even if Dean could shake it, what if it caught up again? Or what if it got home first, and was waiting for him, sitting on the sofa with the light off?

What if he got back and his fingers still fidgeted and his mind still wandered?  What if nothing was different? What if that wasn’t the problem?

Oh well.  Couldn’t hurt to try.  He was out of any other options, anyway.

There was a tapping sound on metal, overlapping with, “Dean?”

Dean jerked up, the top of his head banging hard against the inside of the hood.  It jumped before crashing back down equally as hard on his head again. All he could do was shout, “Ow!  Sonofa—Ow!”  He sprang away from the car, shocked and betrayed that she would ever do anything to hurt him, but really it wasn’t her fault.  He wheeled around angrily to see who should really take the blame and potentially pay for his hospital bill when he needed stitches.

Of course.  Cas. It would be Cas.

Cas was standing there, fist still raised against the tin door of the storage unit, staring blankly at Dean.  He was dressed in a suit, which meant he’d gone into work that day. And, to Dean’s surprise, the sunlight was dimming outside the unit.  He hadn’t realized it’d gotten so late. Cas must have come straight from the office.

Embarrassment swept through Dean, but he really couldn’t be bothered to care, because his head was pounding.  He lifted up his hand to touch the back of his hair, and checked his fingers for blood. Thankfully, it came back clean.

“I—,” Cas said slowly, his eyes moving from side to side like this situation, so far, wasn’t what he’d pictured in his head.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Annoyance flared in Dean.  “You didn’t—,” he started, but then halted himself, because it was pretty clear that Cas had scared the shit out of him.  He licked his lips and turned back around tensely. “What are you doing here?” He snatched up his tool belt and began rolling it up.  “How’d you even find me?”

“Sam told me you might be here,” Cas supplied, still standing outside the unit.  “He gave me the address.”

“Sam,” Dean grumbled, making a mental note to kick Sam’s ass later.  Why would he even tell Cas, anyway? It’s not like Sam told random strangers and acquaintances Dean’s whereabouts on the regular.

For now, he went back to his original question: “What do you want?”  He kept his back facing Cas as he brought the tools back over to the workbench.  He didn’t have to organize them once there, but he didn’t want to turn back around and he needed an excuse.

It took a second, but Cas said, “What’s wrong?  Are you . . .?” Dean’s fingers froze on a rubber mallet.  He waited. “Alright?” Cas finished.

Dean basically threw the mallet back into his toolbox.  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he challenged, voice rough.

“You seemed to leave in a hurry yesterday, and it’s evident you aren’t ill today since you’re doing physical labor.”  Dean wanted to scoff, to say something like, way to use context clues.  He stayed quiet.  Off his silence, Cas continued, “Dean?  Is there something you’re not telling me?”  And Dean could picture him: the tilt of his head, the vertical line between his eyes.  He could see it all as clear as day, as sure as he could see the white knuckles of his fists.

And, for some reason, that pissed him off.  Because, gun to his head, he wouldn’t be able to describe most people’s physical attributes to save his life.  He’d even have trouble telling you what color Benny’s eyes were with absolute certainty! But Cas? It’s like an image of him was burned front and center into Dean’s brain at all times.

Too bad Dean had been so blind to the rest of the picture.

“I dunno, Cas, you got anything you wanna tell me?” he barked, putting down a lug wrench with more force than was needed.  It clattered against the metal surface.

Cas sounded surprised, and even more confused, as he answered unsurely, “Um.  No.” It sounded like a question by the way his voice went up at the end. Dean didn’t know if he was asking him or telling him.

Dean shook his head down at the bench.  It was a small motion, barely enough for Cas to see it.  Something hot was pressing against his ribs, like magma cracking through the dirt.  If Cas didn’t want to tell him he was about to take a job in Philly, that was fine. It wasn’t Dean’s business, anyway.  Dean could come to terms with the fact that he’d read into this—whatever it was—way too much and way too soon. It was just a fling, and Cas wanted out.  And that was cool, because the Impala was ready and Dean could get out, too. Hell, he’d race Cas out! He’d win!

“Forget it.”

“Forget what, Dean?” he sounded frustrated now, so close to losing his patience.  “I can’t forget anything if I don’t know what’s going—.”

Like all things between them, the situation escalated far too quickly.

“Are you in or out?” Dean asked, whipping around.  He did it before he realized he was going to do it, and for a second it felt like something had possessed his body and done it for him.  When he realized it, his face went numb with humiliation.

Cas was staring at him, and how anyone could look pissed off, concerned, and perplexed all at the same time, Dean had no idea. The fading light of the sun was playing off his cheeks in reds and fiery orange, and the other side of him was shadowed and grayed out.  “What?”

“Because I’m all in,” Dean said, powering through, his voice thick.  He’d meant to balance out the embarrassment of his last blunder—to make it seem less needy, less emotional.  It kind of only made it worse.

He flapped his arms at his sides in an aborted motion, trying to rebuild his walls with whatever mangled debris was left in the rubble.  It all crumbled to dust and slipped through his fingers. “So just . . . let me know if you’re not. Or whatever.”

Cas darted his eyes to the side, like whatever answer he was looking for was written on the concrete wall of the storage container, before bringing them forward.  “What are you talking about?”

Dean grunted and turned around again.  This was hopeless.

“Are you referring to . . .” Cas said, either working it out or choosing his words.  “You and me?”

You and me.  Not us.

“That we’re . . .?”

Ah-ha!  So Cas didn’t know what to call them, either.

Dean stopped busying his hands, waiting to see if Cas would finish the thought, because he’d really like to know what to call them.  It felt like maybe one of them should decide.

It’s not like they needed a label.  This wasn’t high school. But it’d still be nice to have some kind of category that wasn’t boss and assistant or sneaking around.  But the silence stretched on until Dean felt like he was treading water in the middle of the ocean.

Maybe it was leftover from a minute ago, but Dean’s face was heating up.  He was sorry he even spoke up. “Forget it,” he repeated.

He moved back over to the Impala and gently put the hood down.

Cas gave the sigh to end all sighs.  “Fine. I think I’m missing a piece of information.  Since it’s clear you won’t give it to me, I’ll go.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat, and a quick burst of nausea twisted his intestines.  There were footsteps, signifying that Cas was already walking away.  And Dean should let him. He should really let him. But he couldn’t, and he called, “You really think leaving’s gonna solve anything?”

The footsteps paused.  After a second, he heard, “I’d likely be doing you a favor.”

Dean’s blood boiled.  He clamped his jaw and turned around, already finding Cas facing him again, but this time at a greater distance.  He yelled, “You got any idea how fucked up what you just said is?”

Cas looked down at the ground.  “Dean—.”

“Doing me a favor?  Really?” Dean spat.  “Good to know I'm that shitty at this whole relationship thing!”

Fuck. He didn't mean to say relationship. They weren't in a relationship. And maybe that was a good thing, because Cas clearly thought Dean was better off alone, anyway. And Dean was starting to think so, too.

He almost missed it when Cas’ head snapped up, and he was blinking far too rapidly.  “What? You think you're the problem?”

Dean shook his head. Cas hadn't even blinked at the whole relationship thing, but he latched onto that?  “Uh, kinda,” Dean said, like the obvious thing it was. He held his arms out akimbo as he did, like it proved his point.

“You're not the problem, Dean.”

Huh?

“Huh?”

“I. . .” He trailed off.  Pulse pounding in his throat, Dean popped his brows, waiting on an explanation.  He was a second away from telling Cas to scram.

But then Cas sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders.  He was looking away again, voice quiet, when he said, “Dean, I’m not—.”  A muscle in his jaw jumped as he squared it. “I’m not something that people want.”

Dean’s body felt like it went into immediate shutdown. Slowly, the systems came back online, and he realized his mouth had fallen open, but nothing came out.

Hold up. Cas thought he was the unwanted one?  No way. That couldn’t be right.

Orphan Cas.  Friendless Cas.  Cas, who moved around from place to place.  Cas, socially awkward and reserved and never convinced he belonged.  Cas, all alone. It’d probably be hard to live the life he had and not think that.  Dean guessed he’d never really thought of it like that, because from the second he first laid eyes on him, from the very first night they met, you're something that I want. 

“That’s crap.”

Slowly, Cas looked back at him, blue eyes big and sad and glistening as the sun dipped deeper behind the buildings and cast them in darkness.  “Dean,” he said, and it was barely a whisper.

He rubbed at his eyes, seeing the black swirl under his lids.  And, yeah, maybe they didn’t need a label, but they needed something.  He said honestly, “Look, man, I really dunno if this is going anywhere, or what.  But . . .” He dropped his arm, and blinked back into focus. He really didn’t know how he was going to follow that up until he sighed.  “All I know is, when I’m with you, I can sleep through the night.”

Shit, wait.  No. That sounded better in his head.  That sounded too emotional out loud. Too raw.  It was a truth too big.

For the second time in five minutes, Dean was mortified about his own admission.  Because it was actually true. And because you don’t just say that to people.  You don’t just give them that kind of power over you.  He had no idea if that knowledge was safe in Cas’ arms, but he wanted it to be so badly.

He heard Cas’ breath snag, like he wanted it, too.  His expression melted, eyes lighting up in a smile that never reached his mouth.  And he was beautiful and stunning and sad and Dean didn’t deserve to be looked at like that.  Because Dean was the one no one actually wanted. They just needed him for a time, like a wrench or a hammer—a tool.  And now no one even needed him anymore, so there was no point to him. It’d make no difference to the world if he’d never been born.  He definitely wasn’t whatever Cas was seeing in him right now.

He looked down at his boots, and cleared his throat.  There was a long pause between them, and then Cas stepped inside the storage unit.  Dean tensed, skin crawling in fear that Cas would kiss him. Or worse, that he’d say something gentle and kind that would make his heart kick-start.  That would bring him back to life.

But Cas asked, “How’s the car coming along?”

His voice had been a little thicker than before, but Dean didn’t mention it.  He was happy for the subject change. He cleared his throat again and brought his attention to the Impala.  “Yeah, good.” The reminder loosened something inside him. He remembered he had something to be proud of, something he accomplished.  “Great! Actually, I think she’s pretty much ready to go.”

All he’d have to do now was sign over his part of his lease to Benny’s girlfriend, put the stuff he wanted to keep in boxes in his storage unit, and sell the rest.  And that’d be it. And it was exhilarating, but terrifying. After all this time and waiting and planning, he could get what he wanted.

He looked at Cas to gauge his reaction, something hopeful tugging at his chest.  And Dean didn’t know what he was actually looking for on Cas’ face. Maybe he was still looking for a reason not to go.

Cas looked back, a soft smile on his face, but it wasn’t in his eyes this time.  Not really. He said, “That’s good, Dean. Congratulations.” And maybe Dean was projecting, but Cas sounded a little disappointed.

Steeling himself, Dean focused on the car and said, “Yeah, I mean—there’s still a few scratches to buff out.  Probably needs a new paint job. But that’s minor stuff. Other than that . . .”

Cas nodded, not adding anything.

Dean put his hand on the car’s hood, and something eager sparked inside of him.  He wouldn’t know for sure if she were ready until he gave her a test drive.

He said to Cas, “Wanna go for a spin?”

Cas’ eyes flickered to him almost conspiringly.  A grin grew on his face. “Yeah.”

Dean ran his fingertips along the cool metal as he made his way towards the driver’s side door.  Cas walked up to the passenger’s side, and the two of them just kind of looked at each other over the roof.  Dean felt something in his chest stutter and fumble, like skidding over black ice, but it was thrilling. Fun.  He opened the door, hearing the slight creak that he purposefully didn’t oil out, and slid into the bench seat. Cas followed his lead.

He could still feel Cas watching him, but Dean kept his eyes on the dash.  He fiddled with the keys for a second, knuckles brushing the bullet shell keychain his dad has put on there years ago.  He remembered to breathe as he stuck the key into the ignition and turned.

The engine rumbled into life, filling the small space around them and bleeding out into the wide, asphalt pathway separating the storage units.  He’d started the engine before, of course, just to make sure everything was running smoothly. But this was different. This was the first time he’d be driving her in years.

The gravity of that washed over him like diving into a pool of warm water on a hot day.  He was a little nervous—nervous that he actually had missed something and they’d end up broken down on the side of the road somewhere.  But the nerves blended with the feeling of the steering wheel in his grip, the vibrations of the car under his feet. And everything else—every doubt and fear—melted away, because this is where he belonged.

He smiled, and looked at Cas in the passenger seat.  And the soaring in his chest hit a bump of turbulence.  Because he wanted Cas to belong there, too. But he knew Cas didn’t feel the same.

“You ready?” he asked, pushing that to the side.  He didn’t want to sour this moment for anything.

Cas nodded in a way that Dean interpreted as ride-or-die.

They rolled carefully out of the unit and towards the back gate of the facility.  Dean had to get out and head inside to the security desk to tell the guard to open the gate for them, but it was a small interruption.  When he got back, Cas was still in his seat, hands folded loosely on his lap as he glanced around the interior. Dean thought he was admiring the handiwork.

The gate grumbled open, and Dean tried not to be too hasty and skid into oncoming traffic.  He waited for the cars on the road to pass before following them out.

Dean pointed the car north to weave through the suburbs on the outskirts of town instead of fighting his way to the bridge through the city.  It took them a little out of the way, but he didn’t think either of them minded. The point was driving, after all; not reaching a destination.

Really, Dean didn’t even know he had a destination in mind until he hit the gas pedal.

There was a little bit of traffic around the more populated parts of town, where the subway still reached and people could still technically claim they were from one of the city’s boroughs.  They sat at a few intersections, waiting for the red light glinting off the Impala’s hood to turn green, and Dean idly watched the people walking up and down the concrete sidewalks lining the bodegas and shops.  A few of them turned their heads to admire the car, which made a rush of pride go through him.

It didn’t take too long for them to reach the scenic parkway along the river, where Dean could stretch Baby’s legs a little better.  “Alright, let’s open ‘er up,” he said, and pushed down on the acceleration. He wove through the cars on the double lanes until he reached an empty stretch.

Around them, the trees were beginning to bloom, new leaves lit up golden in the last bits of sunlight.  The revving of the engine bounced off of the trunks. The city no longer loomed over them. He took in a gulp of fresh air—and Dean felt like he was flying.

He didn’t even realize he was laughing until Cas joined in—low and rumbling, like the car.

A few more minutes went by before Cas asked, “Where are we going?”

“Wanna show you something,” Dean told him as he watched the road get eaten up under the hood.  Then, he looked at Cas, and realized he was obsessed with seeing him in that seat. “You’ll see.”

Cas gave him a suspicious look, but seemed to accept it well enough.

Dean kept driving up the parkway, towards an exit near the end of the road, where it diverged into two other highways: one leading to the mountains, and another across the river.  He figured those could be roads for another day.

Instead, he drove through the town where he grew up.  It was pretty small: a strip mall with a grocery store and a dog groomer that used to be a liquor store.  A gas station. A library and a town hall. A pizza place and a Chinese place—the latter of which was new.  An ancient building that looked like something out of the old west that might have been a law office.

He passed by an old church and a bone yard, next to a bed and breakfast that was definitely haunted (and he was shocked that it was still opened for business because no one ever actually stayed there).  There was an old one-room schoolhouse that was no longer in use but kept in good repair as a historical site. They’d painted it white. He preferred when it was red.

And then there was nothing.  Just houses. Dean could do this drive in his sleep, which was probably a good thing; because the sun had completely set by the time they arrived.  The moonlight bent against the car. It bathed Cas’ face, and if Dean thought Cas was gorgeous in the sunlight, he was damn near otherworldly under the moon.

The engine echoed through the green yards and the spaces between the homes, divided by fences and trees or little gardens already beginning to show signs of life.  The only concrete visible were the thin sidewalks along the street and the walkway that led up to the door that Dean knew so well.

Or maybe he didn’t.  Once he got a better look, he realized it was a new door.  Brown, he thought. It was a little hard to tell at night. And the big, spindly tree that had sat in the front of the house had been chopped down, a new one barely five feet tall in its place.  Dean’s chest weirdly felt like a weight was placed on top of it—not a heavy one, but heavy enough to restrict his airflow.

That tree had been basically dead his entire life.  He couldn’t think of a time it had more that three leaves on it at a time.  It was an eyesore, and he wasn’t surprised the new owners got rid of it. But still.  That was his tree.  It was his mom’s tree.

The day that tree dies is the day I die, Mom always used to joke.  Turns out, it had outlived her, but not for long.  And fuck, she was really gone, wasn’t she? Someone else lived in that house.  He wouldn’t find her there—or himself, or Sam, or Dad. He didn’t even know why he’d taken Cas there.  Maybe a part of him still expected everything to be the same. Maybe he just wanted Mary to meet Cas, and to tell Dean he was the one worth chasing after.  The one worth staying still for.

Dean swallowed and killed the engine, and the only sounds left for a few long seconds were the grasshoppers singing.  It seemed like it should still be too early in the year for that.

Cas shifted audibly against the seat.  He pulled his tie looser, eyes reflecting as he looked out the window.  “Which bedroom was yours?” he asked, like he didn’t even need telling where they were.  He already knew. And he didn’t question why, the second Dean was able to drive wherever he wanted, he chose to go straight home.

But the questions itself seemed like kind of a weird thing to ask.  Maybe he just didn’t know what else to say. And why would he? It was an awkward situation, to walk down someone else’s memory lane.  It was like that woman in the office who showed everyone pictures of their kid. After the fortieth picture, it was hard to say “ooh” or “ahh” and still sell it.  Dean shouldn’t have brought them there.

Still, Cas sounded earnest enough, like he really wanted to know.  Dean leaned in, ducking his head to look out Cas’ window. He pointed to the upstairs corner of the house.  “That one,” he said.

Cas looked back at him, and then to the house again.  He pointed. “That one?”

Dean smiled.  “Yeah.” He traced his finger through the air.  “And that one was my parents’. That was Sammy’s.”

Cas kept staring for a long time, taking in the layout of the house.  Dean watched his profile, until Cas said, “It’s a lovely home.” He meant it.  Dean knew he meant it.

Dean shrugged, cheeks heating up for some reason.  “I dunno. It’s kinda normal.”

Cas looked back at him, the corners of his lips pushed up slightly in a sad kind of way.  “Yes. It’s very normal.” According to him, that must have been a good thing. And sometimes Dean forgot that Cas never had anything like this.

Maybe he’d have it one day.  A family. A couple kids. A spouse.  In some suburb outside Philly.

Dean’s eyes flickered to the door in thought.  He wanted to ask Cas not to take that other job.  He didn’t even know how to begin. He didn’t even know if it was his place.

He blinked, focus remaining on the door, and barely noticed that the night had disappeared around him.  The sun was sparkling down, casting its light on the white door and the muted green clapboards. The black bark of the tree’s spidery branches made shadows on the lawn.  In the back of the house, Dad’s tool shed was visible, the ladder that was usually stored, propped up against its sidewall, missing.

Dad had stopped keeping it there after Dean and Sam climbed up onto the shed’s roof and Dean told Sam he could fly; only for Sam to crash down to the ground and break his arm.  It’d all been fun and games until Dean put Sam on his bike’s handlebars and tried to pedal to the nearest hospital so his parents wouldn’t find out what happened. It was funny, how that was a good memory now.  

Movement on the porch caught his eye, and Dean watched the front door swing open.  Two young boys bounced out of it, rushing down the stairs onto the lawn. A blonde woman with a dazzling smile came after them.  She stopped at the top stair, and put her hands on her hips, laughing and shaking her head. The older boy ran around the tree, using it for cover as he held his fingers out like a gun.  The younger boy mimicked the gesture, and they both made sound effects with their mouths as they pretended to shoot each other like they were at war.  

And the older boy didn’t know that, one day, none of it would be pretend.  None of it would be a game.

“Is that you and Sam?” Cas asked, his eyes on the older boy.  

Dean nodded.  “Yeah.” He looked back to the woman on the porch.  “And that’s my mom.”  

Cas turned, eyes big and blue as he searched Dean’s face, anxious but imploring.  Dean felt the same emotions in his gut. He opened the car door. “C’mon, I want you to meet her.”  

Or, really, he wanted Mary to meet Cas.

Cas blinked and swallowed down a lump, but he nodded.  He opened his door, too, and Dean walked around the car to meet him there before they both started down the walkway together.  It was a warm day, summer licking at their heels. He raised his hand to catch Mary’s attention with a wave. “Hey, Mom!”

Mary looked over, her smile growing and expression softening, as if she’d just noticed them.  “Dean,” she said as they approached, voice sweet and lyrical, exactly like he remembered. He knew that voice could be hard, too, uncompromising and downright unpleasant.  Still, it was nice to hear it again.

Dean walked up the steps, ignoring the shrieks from the boys on the grass.  Cas tentatively walked behind Dean, staying close to Dean’s back. Dean leaned down to give Mary a kiss on the cheek, and she reached up to squeeze his arm once before eyeing Cas a little suspiciously.  

“Who’s this?” she asked, like Dean would bring home the Unabomber or something.  But it was right then and there that Dean realized he still had no idea how to answer the question.

“Castiel,” Cas said, coming to a rest at Dean’s shoulder.  He held out his hand, and Mary shot another look at Dean before relaxing and shaking it.  Dean watched the interaction carefully. He really wanted Mary to like Cas, which probably wouldn’t happen in a single handshake.  She took a while to warm up to people, and even longer to trust them; and Cas was pretty standoffish himself.  He wondered if there was a way to expedite this process, because they didn’t have much time.

Inside, there was a familiar dinging sound from a timer.  It was like a Pavlovian response for his mouth to water at that, because there were only two things Mary cooked, and it was too early in the day for Winchester Surprise.

“Oh—I think the pie’s done cooling,” Mary said, eyes lighting up.  “Do you boys want to come in for a slice?”

Dean grinned from ear to ear.  “Hell, you know me,” he answered.  

She waved them in, but paused momentarily at the door to turn around.  “Dean,” she called to the boy in the yard. Young Dean stopped what he was doing—pointing his finger-gun down at Sam as the younger boy was sprawled on the grass, playing dead—to give his mother his attention.  “Yeah?”

“I’ll be inside, okay, sweetie?  If you or Sam need anything, come get me.”

Young Dean waved it away, like it wasn’t the single greatest example of love he’d ever get.  Because John definitely never said stuff like that. He basically lived up at West Point during the weekdays, training the cadets as a drill sergeant, and came home on weekends.  When he was home, he spent most of the time reminding Dean that Sam was his responsibility. That he and Mary were counting on him. That Sam’s safety was top priority. That he was the man of the house when John was away.

It was a job Dean took way too seriously as a kid, and he used to hate it when Mom babied him.  But now? He was sure as hell glad she only ever treated him like a kid.

Because Mary didn’t need a man of the house.  She had it covered.

They followed her into the house and towards the kitchen, where she told them both to sit at the table.  Dean had smelled the pie from the second they cleared the front door, and now he watched as she went up to the stove where it was cooling, pinched the lip of the tin quickly to test if it was hot, and, satisfied, picked it up to place on the counter.

“So, why’d you decide to come by?” she asked as she cut into the pie.  “Not that I’m not happy to see you.”  

Dean shrugged, not really knowing the answer himself.  “I got the Impala up and running again,” he said as an excuse.  

Mary half-turned, one hand resting on the counter and the other fisted around the gooey knife.  “You did?” she asked, astounded and proud.  

Dean flushed at the attention, especially when he glanced at Cas across the table and saw him giving Dean that gentle, fond look again.  Dean allowed himself a second to bask in it. “Yeah. Uh—good as new.”  

“That’s excellent, honey,” Mary said.  She scooped out two slices of pie, plated them, and brought them over to the table, forks balanced precariously near the sides of the plates.  “Hope you like apple,” she told Cas. “It’s Dean’s favorite recipe.” It looked awesome. She squeezed Dean’s shoulder one more time, and he brought his hand up to blanket it over hers in thanks, and then she sat down at the head of the table between them.

Cas said, “Then, I’m eager to try it.”  He picked up his fork, and stuck it into the slice.  Dean did the same, and hummed happily around the first bite.  It was awesome.

They talked a little after that—about Dean’s work, about Cas and how they met, and Mary didn’t even blink when he said Cas was his boss.  Dean knew that’s not really the way it’d go down, but it was nice anyway. And, as the conversation carried on, Mary and Cas addressed each other directly, instead of speaking through Dean.  It was great to watch them getting along. More than that. He thought, maybe, Cas could belong here, and that Dean could belong with Cas. And maybe he always had.

After their second slice each had left sticky sugar and apple on the plates, thundering footsteps came through the door, kitchen-bound.  The two boys came through. Mary lifted her chin from where it was propped on her hand, bringing her focus on the kids as Young Dean said, “Mom, can I show Cas my room?”

“No, I wanna show him my room!” Little Sammy whined.  

Cas smiled at them, wide and gummy.  “I would like that,” he told them.

Mary gave a dismissive wave of her hand.  “They’re just gonna show you some Legos and papier-mâché volcanoes,” she told Cas.  “Go for it.” And then, to the boys, “But take turns!”

“C’mon, me first,” Young Dean said, grabbing Cas’ one hand with both of his and trying to pull him up from the table.  Sammy grabbed Cas’ wrist and joined in. Cas chuckled down at them as he stood up, towering over both of them. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean, and gave an overwhelmed but happy expression, before following the boys out of the room.  

Dean watched him go, and kept watching long after he’d disappeared.  He felt like Cas had been there all his life. Like Legos. Cas was the bigger picture; everything else was just building blocks.

He realized his mom was looking at him, her chin in hand again and a twinkle in her eye.  She was smiling closed-mouth and knowingly when Dean looked at her.  

“What?” Dean asked, ducking his eyes.  

For a second, she just kept smiling.  And then she said, “How long have you two been together?”

Dean lit up red and hot.  “We’re not,” he told her, and it was the truth.  They weren’t together.

They weren’t together.  

He found himself looking at the spot where Cas had disappeared again, his shoulders sagging.  “Truth is, I don’t think we’ll ever be.” It sounded a lot sadder when he said it aloud. So concise.  So inevitable.

Mary’s smile flickered, and she pulled her brows together.  “Why not?”

Dean sighed, and told himself to keep looking at her.  “He got another job offer in Philly.”

“Oh.”  Mary still seemed confused.  “Did he take it?”

Dean’s mind stuttered.  He realized he hadn’t actually considered that.  “I mean . . . he had lunch with the guy, so I guess.”  

Mary blinked, sitting upright.  “Well, did he tell you that?”

That wasn’t the point.  But Dean shook his head.  

“So, how do you know he’s going to take it?”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that.

“Did you ask him?”  

He scoffed.  “No.”  

“Why not?”

He tensed his jaw, swallowed.  It was harder to do than normal.  He scraped his fork through the apple goop just to have something to do.  “What if he says yes?”  

Mary was quiet for a long time.  Long enough that Dean glanced up to make sure she’d heard him.  And then she asked, “Do you want him to say yes?”

Dean’s kneejerk reaction was to say, “No!”  And he did say it. But then, upon reflection, “Maybe.  I dunno.” Because maybe it’d be easier if Cas left now.  Because, “If he stays . . . I’m gonna want to—.” No. He couldn’t say it.  He rephrased, voice quiet, “I’m gonna keep putting off starting my trip.”

Mary sat back heavily, seeming to understand.  “What if you invited him to come with you?” She made it sound so easy, but it wasn’t.  Cas wanted stability.

“Nah, he wouldn’t be into it.”

“And you wouldn’t stay?” she asked.  

He would, and that was the problem.  He’d stay. But how could he? “I’ve been wanting to take this trip forever, Ma.  You know that.”

She nodded, not having an answer for him.  “I know, honey.” He really wished she had an answer.  

“What if this is just a wrong place, wrong time situation?” he worried.  He could feel the worry on his face, in his bones. “I mean, we want different things.  And it’s not like he asked me to stay, either.”  

Mary looked at him, and kept looking.  And Dean wondered, if Cas asked him to stay, if he’d be resentful or relieved.  

“Dean,” Mary said.  She reached over and placed her hands over his on the table.  They were soft and warm and felt like home, and he hadn’t felt home in a long time.  “I think you know he already has.”

“I think someone’s spotted us,” Cas said.

Dean blinked back into reality.  His eyes flickered up from the darkened front door, to where a yellow light had been flipped on in his parents’ old room.  A figure was standing in the window, a blonde woman, but not the right one. She was watching the Impala warily, probably two seconds from calling the cops.

“Right,” Dean said, still a little groggy.  He straightened out and turned the keys in the ignition, and the engine turned over with a beautiful roar that instantly put him at ease.  Cas was in his peripheries, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

Because, if he did, he’d remember that day in Cas’ office, where he asked Dean not to quit.  He’d remembered Cas waiting for an Uber outside Swayze’s, inviting Dean to Paris. He’d think of Cas coming to the storage unit to find Dean earlier that night.

“We could knock on the door?” Cas suggested.  “Perhaps, if she knew you grew up there, she’d let us see the inside.”

It was a nice thought, and Dean was tempted—but it was late, and it was probably a bad idea.  Because it wouldn’t be how Dean remembered it. It’d be all new furniture and clutter and pictures in frames.  Someone else’s stuff. Someone else’s life. It’d shatter the image he held in his memory.

“Nah, no one wants that,” Dean excused, because it was easier.

Cas tilted his head.  “I’d like to see it,” he said.

Dean licked his lips, and forced himself to look at Cas fully.  He gave a shaky smile. “How ‘bout we come back another day?”

For a second, it looked like Cas would argue, but he nodded and sat back in his seat.

Dean pulled away from the curb, tires crunching down the street.  And he tried not to think about all the ways Cas had asked him to stay.

///

It was close to midnight when they parked the car on a scenic overlook along the parkway.  The river cut, deep and dark and twinkling with the swimming lights of the buildings reflecting on the water, between them and the city.  The buildings were monoliths across the way, and the bridge was lit up in white as the motorcade zipped along the four lanes on each side.  Red on one side; white on the other.

Cas’ back was pressed up against Dean’s chest, his legs stretched across the bench seat of the Impala.  Dean’s arms were wrapped around his middle, with Cas’ loosely draped over them. His spine was digging against the door handle, but the rest of him was too comfortable to move.  Cas’ hair tickled his cheek as Dean rested it there. They sat quietly for a long time, just breathing and looking out at the side, the radio on low. No other cars were parked near them; and, if not for the occasional revving of an engine or a flash of headlights on the parkway behind them, Dean would think they were all alone.

The only other people that existed were on the other side of the river—in that city packed to the brim with its multitude of colorful lights that had no business blending together in the sky above, polluting the air and blocking the stars like a bruise.  Or a beacon.

Every skyscraper was filled with people.  So many people, all of them there because it’s the greatest city on earth.  Or where else would I go?  Or if I can make it here . . . And that was the problem.  People in that city forgot there was a life outside of it, that there were other places in the world.  That, once they left it, all the sounds and lights and stimuli bombarding them would be distant and silent.  Just lights reflecting on the river’s current.

And it was kind of sad.  But lots of things were sad from a distance.

And, in that moment, Dean kind of understood the appeal.  Because Cas sighed contentedly, his shoulders rising and falling in the breath, and maybe there was nowhere else in the world, after all.

“Dean,” Cas said softly, breaking the quiet.

Dean grunted, prompting him to go on.

“You did a good job with this car,” Cas complimented, but it didn’t sound like that’s what he wanted to say.  It sounded like there was more. He just took such a long time to say it, Dean thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.  Just as Dean was about to say thanks, Cas took in another breath. He said, “I suppose that means you’ll want to go on your trip soon.”

Dean’s chest clenched.  He reminded himself he was supposed to be eager to leave.  He’d always been so eager for it—hungry for it, starving. But he just wanted to wrap Cas tighter against him and not think about going anywhere ever again for the rest of his life.

But he had to.  He’d regret it forever if he didn’t.  There were a lot of things he was okay regretting; that wasn’t one of them.

He hedged, “There’s still some stuff I have to take care of.”

Cas didn’t say anything.  The line of his body was a little tenser than before.  And Dean didn’t know why it mattered so much anyway.

He wondered if he should bring up the email he saw in Cas’ mailbox.  Because, even if Dean decided to stay put, that didn’t mean Cas would.  Maybe it was better not to get attached. The thought was hilarious. Because Dean was so far past attached at this point.

“What, uh—,” he began, still deciding whether or not this was a bad idea.  But he had to know. “What about you?”

Cas sounded confused, and Dean could picture the squint of his eyes, when he said, “What about me?”

This was definitely a bad idea.  Dean didn’t want to know the answer.  “You got an email from that place in Philly offering you a job.”

He expected Cas to get pissed at him, but Cas only snorted.  “You read my emails?”

“I have access to your inbox,” Dean defended.  “I was . . . browsing. For meeting requests.”

“You were snooping.”

“Okay, I was snooping.”  That wasn’t the point. “So?  Philly?” He made his tone lighter than he felt.

Cas paused, and leaned slightly further into him.  “I figured it was worth a conversation, but I don’t think I’ll take it.”  And it was the damndest thing, but Dean was relieved.

Then, Cas said, “There was another offer a few weeks ago.”

Dean tensed his jaw, preparing himself.  “Oh?”

“It was at a startup production company.  Everything would be in-house.  It’s based in California.”

Dean didn’t realize his hold had tightened around Cas until Cas blanketed his hand gently over his.  He continued, “But there seems to be a lot of traveling involved—mainly domestic. So, I could work from anywhere in the country.”

Dean’s arms slackened.  “Oh,” he said again, a little more brightly than before.

“Again, I can’t say I’ll leave Roman for it.  I’ll likely stay.”

Maybe that was even more of a relief.  Dean kind of liked being with Cas all day every day, even though that’d be way too clingy and weird to say aloud.  Instead, he said, “Yeah, yeah. ‘Cause you like it here.” Cas had said he liked it there. Dean remembered that now.

Cas shifted, sitting up slightly so he could turn his head to look at Dean.  He said, “I like it with you.” And he made it sound like it was a paradise. Heaven.

Dean looked down at him, a smile trying its damndest to tug its way onto his cheeks.  Before it got there, Cas pecked a kiss to his lips. Dean didn’t let him get very far.  He leaned in to capture his lips again. The angle was awkward, but he brought one hand up to cradle Cas’ face and to keep him turned into the kiss.  Cas didn’t make any attempt to go anywhere.

When they parted, Dean nuzzled his nose into the hollow of Cas’ cheek.  “We should probably get back, huh?” he brought himself to say. It was late.  They both had work in the morning.

Cas let out a shallow sigh, and then sat up.  Dean’s arms fell limply away as Cas scooted across the bench to the passenger’s side.  It felt a little weird not having Cas pressed up against him anymore. He didn’t feel cold or anything—not physically.  Actually, it was kind of a reprieve, because he’d been starting to feel sticky with body heat and the door handle hadn’t been doing any favors for his back.  But “cold” was really the only way he knew how to describe the feeling that washed slowly over him like the dark waters of the rolling river.

Trying to distract himself, Dean glanced back at the city across the way.  It’d been nice getting out of it. He didn’t actually remember the last time he’d done that; but his head felt clearer for it.  And maybe he didn’t have to travel far and wide to get that feeling. Maybe he just needed to breathe in the fresh air of the mountains every now and again.

The thought felt forced, like the wrong piece of a puzzle.  Not fitting into place. Not quite matching the picture on the box.

Dean put the car into reverse and, foot firm on the brake, looked at Cas, letting his eyes linger, and his chest did that weird crushing thing again.  Cas glanced back in question.

To cover it up, Dean asked, “You wanna crash at my place tonight?”  Just as the words got out, he realized they’d only ever stayed at Cas’ overnight.  Having Cas over would be different. Having him curled up next to Dean in his bed, taking a shower and brushing his teeth in Dean’s bathroom, borrowing Dean’s clothes to sleep in, waking up and puttering around Dean’s kitchen in the morning.  In Dean’s imagination, Cas fit in those places so well, like he’d done it all before.

The perplexed lines on Cas’ face softened, and he nodded.  “Okay.”

Dean nodded, too, repeating, “Okay.”

He backed up in the parking lot, and then pulled onto the parkway, both hands gripping the steering wheel.  He thought, maybe, there were a lot of things he could hold on to as long as he used both hands.

Chapter Text

Dean was leaned back in his desk chair, ankles crossed and legs kicked up on top of the cabinet under his desk.  He scrolled idly through Yelp, trying to find a place he and Cas could go on their honest to god date that weekend.  It felt kind of weird. They’d gone out to eat plenty of times, sure, and they’d ordered in to the office on the nights they worked late together, but they’d never planned ahead for it.  Dean definitely never obsessed about finding the perfect menu, or whatever the hell ambiance was.  And he’d never made a reservation for them before, either.

But when Cas had said that morning, “Let’s go to dinner this weekend,” Dean basically broke out into a cold sweat.  He was lucky they were in the shower at the time, actually. Why the hell did Cas want to go to dinner? What, was he going to propose?  Was Dean planning his own proposal?

Wait, no, that was stupid.  And way too fast! That’s not what was happening.

Right?

Nah . . .

“Ugh!”

Dean looked over to the aisle, where Becky was standing in front of the printer.  Her toes were tapping impatiently, and her expression was twisted into fuming ire.  Dean sighed. Just another day at the office. Minimizing his browser window, he picked himself up from his desk and walked towards Becky.

“What’s up?” he asked.

As if she’d been waiting for someone to take her frustrations out on, she groaned, “This dumb, stupid, idiot thing is broken again!”

Duh.

“Can we just have them buy us a new one?”

Dean shot her a look, because he didn’t know who she thought “they” were, but he was pretty sure the answer would be no.  Even though it should have been yes. At this point, Charlie had probably replaced every cartridge and unit in the damn machine over time.  It would have been cheaper and a lot less time consuming just to buy a new one.

“Yeah, don’t hold your breath,” he griped.

“Ugh!”  She smacked the side of the printer with what was probably all her might but was actually kind of weak.

“Alright, relax.  Lemme take a look.”  She stepped out of the way, and he bent over to take a look.  The screen was giving a warning message for a paper jam in the back door.

“I already removed the paper,” she explained.  “It’s still saying it’s back there! See?” As if he needed evidence, she picked up a piece of printer paper from the top of the filing cabinet.  It was a little bent, with faded lines of ink running down the sides, but it didn’t look ripped, so there probably wasn’t anything jammed up.

Dean tried to reboot it, but all it did after it kicked back on was make a weird whirring sound and beep a lot.  The error message was still there. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed out, and stared the printer down as if glaring threateningly might make it stand down.  Actually, that might work if Cas was the one glaring. Too bad he was in a meeting.

“Alright, let’s see something,” Dean said, more to himself than anything.  He grunted as he hefted the printer around so he could open the back door. Everything looked pretty normal, but he wasn’t exactly a printer technician or whatever.  But how hard could it be?

He played around for a couple of minutes, just taking out the parts that were removable and making sure everything was kosher.  His fingers got pretty chalked up with toner dust, and he remembered Charlie once telling him that the stuff was toxic, but he was basically in one long game of chicken with God at this point, so who cares?

He really had no idea what he was doing when he reached inside and ran his fingers around the walls of the printer, jiggling the little pulleys and wheels that weren’t removable and playing with the wires.  Something felt weird. One of the wires had a rip in its protective coding, and it felt like it was fraying. Frowning, he pulled out his phone and pointed it into the dark crevice of the dismantled printer.

Becky leaned in, too, crowding him.  Dean glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes.  “Becky,” he said, trying to be patient.

He was pretty sure she’d heard the curtness in his tone, because she said, “Oh. Right. Sorry.” She moved away.

Dean got back to work.  Or at least he tried to.

Becky leaned in again, only slightly less than last time.  “So,” she said, stretching out the word like she was trying to make it innocent.  She folded her arms behind her back. “How’s Sam?”

Head still inside the printer, Dean rolled his eyes.

“Are he and Jess still together?”  Another innocent question, asked very innocently.  She lowered her voice, conspiring, “Because, you know?  I think I saw her and Luis from accounting getting a little too cozy in the kitchen—.”

Okay, that was enough.  “Becky!” Dean growled, pulling his head out to glare at her.

Her eyes went wide.  Innocent.  “Sorry.  Just saying,” she meekly defended.

It didn’t matter.  Because, whatever she saw Jess doing, it probably actually was innocent.  She was just jealous—and she spent way too much time at the water cooler. Dean tried not to hold it against her.

He actually got back to work, and sure enough there was a loose wire.  He really didn’t know what it went to or what it did, but it looked like he could fuse it back together.

He stood up, and glanced over his shoulder, happy to find Jack at his desk.  “Hey, kid,” he called.

Jack looked up, blinking like a deer in the headlights.  “Yes?” He asked it like he was afraid he’d done something wrong—like he ate too many cookies before dinner—and was about to get in trouble.

It was actually kind of adorable, but Dean huffed just to keep up appearances.  “Call down to facilities, would ya? See if they have a pair of pliers.”

Jack didn’t answer.  He hastily picked up his desk phone and dialed the number.

“Uh.  Do you know what you’re doing?” Becky asked unsurely, like she was only now figuring out that Dean was just making it up as he went.

Dean shrugged, voice going a little higher as he said, “Sure?”

Alicia came up behind him, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the printer like it was the enemy—and it was.  “Maybe we should call Charlie down here.”

Dean sighed.  He loved Charlie, but there were some things not even she could do—and, the fact of the matter was, Dean was better at taking apart machines than she was.  “When I need someone to hack into the HR files so they don’t fire me after I break this thing, I’ll call Charlie.”

“Not very reassuring.”

Dean shot her a tight smile before looking back at the printer.

About a minute later, Gabe walked over with a small pair of pliers in hand.  “Whoa-ho-ho!  Are we doing a science experiment over here?” he cheered.

Dean took the pliers from him.  “Yeah. We’re gonna watch me electrocute myself.”  By that time, a small audience had congregated behind him, and other people stood up from their desks to see what was going on while still keeping enough distance to claim reasonable deniability.

He bent back down to get inside the printer, and made Becky hold her phone flashlight inside so he had something to work with.  Bracing himself, he decided, fuck it, and started stripping the wire.  He was aware of everyone leaning in slightly to see what was happening, even though his body was blocking most of the view.  Really, they’d just be checking out his ass—which, he’s been reliably told, was a good ass, so they could thank him later.

Using the end of the pliers and his fingers, he twisted one end of the wire to the part it had come off of.  There was no way to seal it up again, but he figured if this worked, he could run out and get some electrical tape.

When he was done, he stood up, back stretching out.  He put all the parts back in and closed the door. Then, he went to go turn it on.

“Uh, wait, Dean,” Alicia said, stopping him.  “Not to like, diminish your manly abilities or whatever, but are you sure you should do that?  You might start a fire.”

A little bit of doubt twisted inside of Dean, but he ignored it.  Maybe he’d just broken the thing, sure, but, “It’s not gonna start a fire.”  On the plus side, if the printer were broken beyond repair, maybe they actually could get a new one.  In which case, they should be thanking him. Again.

He flipped the power switch.

There was a moment were nothing happened, and he felt like everyone was holding their breath, himself included.  And then the printer made a sound, and the screen illuminated, and the error message was gone. It started chugging, kicking out paper.  A victorious grin spread on Dean’s cheeks.

“Oh my god, you did it!” Becky squealed, and jumped up to throw her arms around him.  Behind him, people started clapping. Dean laughed until Becky let go.

“Alright, everyone back to work,” he joked.  He didn’t really mean it, because he was happy to soak in the praise, but people started drifting away, most of them thanking him as they went.  Dean handed the pliers back to Gabe, who used them to salute, and then he left, too.

Sometimes working in an office was okay, he guessed.

Dean looked up, meaning to head back to his own desk.  He saw Cas hovering in the doorway of his office, watching him from the distance.  The back of Dean’s neck heated up, because he was pretty sure somebody had been checking out his ass, after all.

He kept his eyes locked with Cas as he walked back to his desk, and Cas darted his tongue out to wet his lips.  His gaze dragged up and down Dean’s body. Dean wasn’t sure if that was an invitation to follow him when Cas turned around and headed into his office; but, when he got back to his computer, there was an IM waiting for him.

Well done.

Dean scraped his teeth over his bottom lip, and another IM came through.

Remind me to thank you later.  

Dean kind of wished the printer would break more often.

He did a quick glance around to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder before typing back, how about now?

A message came up telling him Cas was typing.  And then stopped typing. And then started typing again.

And then stopped.

Okay, was this promising or?

Later, Cas said when he finally sent the IM.  Dean pulled a face, cheeks dimpling.

And then Cas started typing again.

But actually, do come in here.  I have something to tell you.

Dean’s brows perked up.  He hoped that something was gossip, and not the Becky kind.  He was really running low on anything that didn’t consist of, “you’ll never guess who Novak’s sleeping with,” and he thought the other assistants around the office were starting to notice his lack of contributions.

He X’ed out of the chat window and picked himself up from his desk, going into Cas’ office.  Cas glanced up from his computer. He had a red Sharpie tucked behind his ear, and Dean didn’t know why that was doing it for him.  “Dean, good,” he said, like he hadn’t just asked Dean to come in one second ago. “Close the door.”

Okay, maybe this was promising.

Dean closed the door.  He walked further into the office, shrugging his arms out.  “What’s up?” He came to a rest on the other side of the desk.

Cas leaned back in his chair, eyes bright with a smile as he looked at Dean.

Dean scrunched his forehead.  “Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“We won GM,” Cas told him.

Dean blinked.  The information didn’t really process too quickly in his head.  His heart was quicker. It skipped a beat. “What?”

They won?  His idea won?

Cas was grinning in earnest now.  The blue of his eyes were ocean-deep, and they sparkled like water in the sun as he looked at Dean.  “They’re moving forward with our spot—with your spot,” he amended.

Dean dipped his head, ears heating up bashfully.  “Nah, c’mon. It was—I didn’t do anything.”

“You came up with the entire premise.”  Cas’ voice had dipped into—not really confusion.  But kind of mock-confusion. When Dean looked up, his forehead was lined with the same thing.

Dean rolled his eyes.  He knew what Cas was doing.  “Dude. It’s not like I wrote it or anything.”

Cas shot him a look.  “Dean,” he said sternly.  And then, “Congratulations.”

Dean’s face was pink under the praise, and it felt so different than the job well done he was getting a minute ago.  He partly even felt like he deserved it.  Okay, maybe not all of it—but it was his idea, after all.  His gut was fluttering at the thought alone.  He let out a laugh. “We really won?”

Cas nodded happily.  “You won.”

Dean walked swiftly around the desk, and Cas swiveled his chair to the side to face him.  “We won,” Dean said again, not really talking about Roman or Rowena or anybody. He was really just talking about the two of them.  He leaned in, his hands going to Cas’ cheeks. He kissed him. Cas smiled into it and kissed back, his hands wrapping around Dean’s wrists.

When the kiss broke, Dean asked, “Who knows?”

“A few people,” Cas said like it didn’t really matter.  “There will be a company-wide announcement later today.”

Dean doubted his name would be in any part of that announcement, but he didn’t even care.  He won. He’d done something for this stupid company that mattered.  He had no idea he’d be so happy about that.

Maybe it was just the way Cas was looking at him.

“I’ll have to thank you twice now.”

Dean could consider that fair compensation.  “Now’s still on the table.”

Cas shook his head, but he seemed pretty humored, even when he lightly pushed Dean away.

Dean chuckled, and walked back around the desk.  “Whatever, baby, you coulda had a winner.”

“Get out,” Cas laughed, turning back to his computer.

Dean opened the door and stepped out, still feeling pretty bubbly.  But everything beyond the door was normal. He guessed no one else on the team heard the news, so there wasn’t a swell of people ready to congratulate him.  There probably never would be, but that was fine. Cas was enough.

He went back to his desk, and slid into his chair.  Was it weird that he actually wanted to get some work done?

There was an IM from Sam waiting for him: Hey, you hear about GM?

Dean paused for a second.  It’s not like Sam knew it’d been Dean’s idea.  He probably wasn’t IMing for that reason. He was probably just gossiping.  Dean typed back, yeah, cas just told me.

It’s a pretty big deal, Sam said.  And yeah, maybe it was a big deal!

And then Sam was typing again.  Dean waited. It took an unnaturally long time for the IM to come through: hey, you free tonight?  We should get dinner.

Wait, did Sam know?  There was no way.  Dean hadn’t told him, so who else would have?  There was no way this was a celebratory dinner.

So, his heart totally not slamming in his chest, Dean typed back very coolly: sure.

Either way, Sam suggesting they go to dinner was a hell of a lot less stressful than Cas suggesting it.  Dean figured the two of them could just find a burger (or a salad, in Sam’s disgusting case) somewhere.

Sam sent him a thumbs-up emoji, and Dean figured that was the end of the conversation.

He clicked out of the IM window and actually got some work done.

///

After work, Dean walked to the bar they usually went to for drinks.  Sam was running a little late wrapping things up for the day, but Dean figured there was no harm grabbing a table and some menus while he waited.  Even if sitting there alone, idly scrolling through his phone and telling the waiter “oh, he’s just running a little late but he’ll be here soon,” always made him feel like he was getting stood up on a date.  Which was dumb, because he’d never gotten stood up in his life.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long.  Ten minutes after Dean arrived, Sam walked through the front door.  He was easy to spot, standing about a foot taller than the growing happy hour crowd as he scanned the bar.  Dean lifted his hand to get Sam’s attention. And then raised it higher when Sam still didn’t see him. And then started waving it like an idiot—which was, naturally, the same moment Sam spotted him.  And then he watched his little, enormous brother side step through the crowd with tight smiles and saying things like, “Excuse me—oh, sorry, can I just—? Thanks.” Dean rolled his eyes.

When Sam got to the table, he was already apologizing as he slid into his chair.  “Sorry about that. Brady asked me to draft up the final contract for the new Sandover spot at like, 4:45.  That for me?” He pointed down to the glass of water on the table in front of his seat.

Dean nodded, because it sure as hell wasn’t for anyone else.  “It’s cool.” Dean lifted up the beer he’d been working on. “Already got started without you.”  He glanced around at the other patrons and staff, just making sure they all knew he wasn’t alone and he definitely hadn’t been stood up.  No one glanced back, because none of them cared or noticed in the first place.

When he cleared his throat, and looked back at Sam, he was actually chuckling at Dean’s joke.  Which was suspicious. Sam didn’t think he was funny. He usually just pursed his lips whenever Dean said anything remotely amusing.  Why was he in such a good mood?

After settling in with his jacket over the back of his seat and his backpack on the floor, Sam opened up his menu, glanced at it so briefly there was no way he actually read anything, and shut it again.  “So, pretty exciting about GM, right? I bet you’re pretty happy about it.”

Dean was confused.  Did Sam know it was his idea?  He sipped his beer. “Why would I be happy about it?”

Sam opened his menu again.  And closed it again. Dean knew there were probably about five actually edible items on it, but this was starting to freak him out.  “Well, I mean. You came up with it, didn’t you?”

Dean jerked his head back, not even having to ask the question.

Sam looked up.  “Cas told me.”

Huh?  “Cas?”

Sam shrugged.  “Yeah, last week.”

Dean blinked, completely dumbfounded.  “You talked to Cas last week?”

Laughing, Sam said, “Yeah.  We were both working late and decided to grab some dinner.”

Dean shook his head—and his hands, and his whole body.  “You got dinner with Cas?”

Now Sam looked confused, like Dean was the one not making sense.  “I mean, kinda. We’re friends.”

What?  “Since when?” Dean practically shouted, voice cracking as it went up in pitch.

There were those pursed lips.  “Dude.”

Dean blinked again.  He got no further explanation, because Sam had already moved right the fuck on.  “Anyway, congratulations.” He lifted up one giant hand, indicating Dean. “On the big win.”

Dean really didn’t know what to focus on: Sam congratulating him, the fact that Sam and Cas were apparently BFFs who got dinner together from time to time, or the fact that Sam and Cas were apparently BFFs who got dinner together from time to time and talked about Dean while they did.  What the hell else did they say about him? Did Sam know they were still sleeping together? There was no way! Sam would have totally been up Dean’s ass about that if he knew!

“Uh.  Thanks,” Dean said, because he wasn’t sure he was ready for the other conversation.

Sam flipped open his menu again.  He was acting weird. Dean started bouncing his knee, a growing sense of dread welling up in his lower intestine.  It got even worse when Sam said, “Anything else new?”

“Are you asking how my day was?” Dean spit out.

Sam looked at him innocuously.  He shrugged. “I guess. How was your day?”

Okay, Dean was going to get PTSD from this moment.  No question. He needed to end this right now. “Fine.  I fixed a printer. Why are you acting weird?”

Sam’s smile flickered.  “I’m not acting weird.”

“Sam,” Dean growled.  “You got that acting weird face on.  What is it?”

Sam’s smile actually grew.  Dean felt like he was in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

A waiter came up to them.  “What can I get you boys?” Dean almost told her to fuck off.

Instead, he kept glaring at Sam.  Sam looked at her and said, “Uh, cobb salad, please.  No bacon.” He smiled at her as he handed her the menu.  “And a beer. We’re celebrating.”

What the hell were they celebrating?

Dean half-looked at the waitress.  “Cheeseburger. I’ll take his bacon.”

The waitress slid his menu off the table.  “You got it.” She walked away. Dean kept glaring at Sam.

Sam was unfazed.  He put his arms out on the table and crossed them.  “Okay, I wanted you to be the first one to know,” he said.

Oh god, he had cancer.  He was dying. He was dying, right?

“I proposed to Jess.”

Dean’s heart stopped.  Everything stopped: the noise in the bar, time, oxygen, Dean’s brain (even though it was debatable that had ever been up and running in the first place)—everything.  He heard static. It started as a low buzzing, and incrementally got louder and louder until it overcame him.

“Dean?”

All at once, everything started up again.

Dean snapped back into focus.  Sam was frowning, concerned.

“Did you hear me?”

Oh, Dean had heard him alright.  But his head and his body were giving mixed signals.  He realized he was smiling. Hell, he was grinning—widely, cheeks hurting.  His skin was buzzing with happiness.  And in his head? Still static.

“Heard you?” he said.  Before he gave himself the okay, he was on his feet, arms spread.  “Sammy! Bring it the fuck in!”

Sam stood up, too, accepting the hug.  Dean held him tight, his fists balling on Sam’s back.  He didn’t know if he was congratulating him or clinging to him.

When the hug broke, Dean leaned back and clapped his hand to Sam’s shoulder, still hanging on.  “That’s awesome! When?”

Sam shrugged again, in the way he did when he was happy but trying to downplay it.  “Over the weekend.”

Dean was still smiling.  It was real, but it also felt a little staged.  He didn’t know which side of it to believe, and wasn’t that the most fucked up thing in the world?

“Well, hell, I’m happy for you,” he told Sam.  “I mean, I need to tell Jess to run away as fast as she can, but . . .”

Sam rolled his eyes and looked off in a small laugh.  While he wasn’t looking, Dean’s smile faltered. And that was a mistake.  Because, in that moment, the dread in his gut spiked up to his throat. The static got louder.  Sam looked back, and Dean was grinning in full again.

“And, hey, now I get to plan that kickass bachelor party.”

“Yeah, who says you’re the best man?” Sam teased.  Dean sucked his teeth and shoved Sam away. Sam laughed again as they both sat down.

Dean tried not to fall into his chair, but his limbs were suddenly too heavy.  Both of his knees were bouncing under the table now. His fingers were full of adrenaline.

“So, how’d you do it?” he heard himself ask from somewhere far away.  It was the weirdest feeling. It was like, he knew there was happiness inside of him.  Pride. Joy. It was there, rattling inside his chest. But it didn’t feel like it belonged to him.  It felt like it belonged to someone sitting next to him, and Dean was only allowed the aftershocks. The echoes.  None of this felt real. He was convinced he was about to wake up.

Sam gave him the play-by-play of the night he proposed.  It was pretty standard: dinner, ring at the bottom at the wine glass or whatever.  Dean listened without processing any of it. There was an undercurrent of static riding Sam’s words.

It stayed like that for the rest of the dinner.  It stayed like that as they paid and walked outside, as Dean threw Sam into another hug and told him how happy he was, as Sam beamed back at him, as they said goodnight and parted ways.

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d blinked.

He got on the subway, meaning to take it all the way uptown to his stop.  But then the doors opened at Cas’ stop and, in a game-time decision, Dean got off.

He figured maybe he should call before just showing up at Cas’.  That would probably be the adult thing to do. And Cas might not even be home yet!  He could be working late. But Dean was walking too fast down the street, crossing at the intersection when the walk sign was flashing a red hand at him, and huffing embarrassingly as if he’d been running a marathon.  He didn’t want to break stride by taking out his phone to text Cas. It would only slow him down; and, besides, at this rate he’d probably get there before he even managed to send the text.

When he reached it, Cas block was as quiet as ever.  The setting sun behind the buildings was graying the air and casting shadows on the trees lining the block.  No cars went up or down the street. Dean hustled up Cas’ stoop and buzzed his unit. There were only two units in the building.  Dean could see them both through the window in the entrance door: one on the left, a welcome mat beneath it with a package from Amazon dropped haphazardly on top, and Cas’ on the right-side.  A small tiled foyer separated them.

Dean banged on the entrance door, hoping Cas was inside, and he could hear him, and that he’d hurry the fuck up.  “Cas, you home?” He was two seconds from pulling out his phone, after all.

But then Cas’ door opened, and he stepped into the foyer.  He was in black sweats, bare feet poking out under them, and a heather t-shirt with the words AIR FORCE across the chest.  He looked unbelievably soft, and Dean didn’t think that was a sight he’d ever get used to. That thought was a small mercy, and things started to feel real again.  Dean took in a deep breath, no longer convinced he was sleepwalking.

Cas’ forehead lined.  “Dean?” he asked when he spotted Dean through the window.  His voice was muffled.

Dean really should have texted before showing up.

He gave a guilty half-smile, and a meek wave.

Cas opened the entrance door.  “What are you doing here?”

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, not really knowing how to answer that.  He couldn’t exactly say, my brother is moving on with his life and I’m stuck here and it isn’t fair and I just wanted to kiss you so I could feel something again.

He said, “What, a guy can’t drop in unexpected for a movie night?”

“I thought you were having dinner with Sam?” Cas asked.

Dean bit down on his lip.  He felt like he was about to rattle out of his skin.  This was so stupid.

Cas took another step forward, his eyes like laser beams.  “Dean. Are you alright?”

Dean’s stomach dropped with panic.  “What? Me? Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

Cas didn’t seem to buy it.  His eyes narrowed.

Dean pressed his mouth together.  “Can I come in?”

Cas’ eyes slit further, and for a second Dean thought he’d say no—and that’d be exactly what Dean needed tonight.  But Cas’ expression became less intense, and he nodded.  He stood to the side, and gestured for Dean to come in.

And Dean went in.

They camped out on the couch in Cas’ living room, watching movies on his giant flat screen that he claimed he “rarely used.”  Which was a crime, by the way. Because the thing was huge and 4K and it was mounted on an exposed brick wall, just in case his apartment wasn’t fancy enough.

Or, the architecture of it was fancy.  Old school. What a person might expect out of a brownstone townhouse.  Cas’ décor, however, was pretty lacking. It was mostly a mix-match of things: furniture that only went together because none of it went together.  Even the chairs at the breakfast table looked like they came from wildly different sets—neither of them actually from the table. It wasn’t quite on a hand-me-down, bought-at-a-garage-sale level, but maybe a step up.  Dean wondered if Cas had bought any furniture in the last five years.

And he understood.  He did. Hell, Dean was in his mid-thirties and his coffee table and bed frame were shit he’d gotten from his parents’ basement.  His dresser had been something Sam had given him because he’d been trying to get rid of it after he moved in with Jess.

Furniture was furniture.  He really didn’t give a crap about it.  He just wouldn’t have expected anyone living in one of these apartments to have the same attitude.  But he guessed he should have known better from Cas by now.

The TV was the only thing worth a damn, and apparently the apartment’s previous occupants had left it behind.  Something about it being too hard to unmount from the bricks. Dean didn’t care. He was just happy to watch it whenever he was over Cas’ place.

But, about halfway into their second movie, Dean couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the picture quality.  He was staring blankly at the thin black wire that ran down the wall from the TV and disappeared behind the shelving unit.  He hardly even blinked at it. Nothing registered—not the nighttime darkness bleeding in from out the window, not even the blue flickering light from the TV trying to combat it.

He was wedged on his side as he lay down, his back pressed against the back cushions of the couch and his arm propped up so he could rest his head on his hand.  Cas was on his back in front of him, his fingers idly brushing through Dean’s scalp as he watched the movie. Or didn’t watch the movie. He was looking at Dean.  He’d been doing that for a while now. Dean only realized it when Cas said, “Dean?”

Dean blinked, his eyes dry and stinging.  He swept his gaze down to connect with Cas’.

“What’s the matter?”

Dean tensed, trying to sell it: “Nothing.”  He hadn’t even realized he’d been thinking about his dinner with Sam.  He guessed it’d just been swirling around in the back of his head—unrelenting.  The feelings the news elicited had dulled to a thump in the base of his throat. A numb sensation, felt only by its absence.  Like when the dentist numbs your lip to fill a cavity and you can’t stop focusing on how weird it feels to not feel anything at all.

Man, he was really fucked in the head.

Cas’ hand stilled in Dean’s hair, and he tilted his head rapidly on the cushion in an expression that read I wasn’t born yesterday.  The fabric of the couch whooshed softly under him in the motion.

Dean rolled his eyes.  Cas was going to keep nagging him if he didn’t say anything.  “Sam asked Jess to marry him.” He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

At first, Cas’ eyes flashed with surprise, but the pleasant kind.  The kind Dean should have reacted with. A warm smile pulled at his cheeks.  “That’s wonderful.” He seemed genuinely happy for Sam. Dean felt like an asshole.

“Yeah, it is,” he said, dropping his gaze.  It was wonderful. It was fucking awesome.

“Then, what’s the issue?” Cas asked, sounding confused—and who the hell wouldn’t be?

Dean’s lungs twisted with all the words tumbling around his head.  He felt them rise up his diaphragm, like an empty pot dropped into a flooded sink before the water got inside and weighed it down.  They bobbed along the surface, but the second they reached his mouth, they all sank like a stone. “No issue.”

Cas let that hang in the air for a second.  And then he exhaled heavily through his nose, because he knew Dean was full of shit.  But he nodded sternly and pretended to look back at the TV.

“I’m happy for him, alright,” Dean defended himself, because he didn’t need Cas thinking he was a terrible person.  Or a terrible brother!  Cas’ eyes immediately snapped back.  “Hell, I’m proud!”  And he was.  It was true. But it didn’t sound true.

“Of course,” Cas said, not in a condescending or placating way.  He said it like it was a given. “That goes without saying.”

Dean popped his brows.  “Exactly!”

“But?”

Dean dropped his neck.  Cas really wouldn’t give up.  He shook his head in one last-ditch effort.  “It’s stupid.”

Cas’ fingers were petting the back of his head again, slow and soothing.  “You could never be stupid.”

Dean snorted.

Cas let out a breath, aborting whatever he was going to say, because apparently he was trying to focus on one thing at time.  Because Dean had multiple things going on at once.  Because he might have been a miserable bastard, but at least he was a well-rounded one.

“Dean,” Cas said again, but it was less of a question now and more of an order.

Submitting, Dean said, “I dunno, man.”  And he didn’t know. He had no idea what the hell his problem was.  But he kept talking anyway. “Sam’s just . . . he’s Sam. Ya know, he’s always wanted stuff like this.  Normal crap. Growing up, he’d always talk about like—college and getting married and having a job and whatever.  And he’s doing all that! Good for him. But I just don’t . . .” He blew out his lips. He wasn’t explaining this very well.  Hell, he didn’t even know where he was going with it.

But Cas, in typical Cas-fashion, seemed to understand.  “You don’t want those things.”

Dean shrugged down at Cas’ chest.  The tips of his ears were burning and his muscles were vibrating under his skin, and he didn’t even know why he was embarrassed.  “Yeah, I do,” he said weakly. “Eventually.” He turned his head into his hand holding him up, and dug the heel of his palm into his eye.  “I’m just . . . not there yet.”

He felt Cas watching him for what felt like an hour.  The soundtrack to the movie swelled in the background, unnoticed.  “You don’t want to lose him.”

And how the fuck Cas got that from all Dean’s ramblings, Dean had no idea.  Because they barely made any sense to Dean. But, “Yeah.” His voice sounded raw, ashamed.  He cleared his throat. “I’m not there yet and he is. And what if . . . What if he gets so far ahead of me, I can’t catch up?”

“That won’t happen.”  He sounded so sure.

That numb thumping in Dean’s pulse point started needling again, gradually getting the feeling back in it like a dead limb.  Dean tried to choke it down with a too-wet sounding laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

“It won’t,” Cas insisted.  “You care for one another too much, Dean.  And perhaps his path isn’t the one for you.  Maybe you’ll take a different route, but it’ll never be too far away from your brother.  I know neither of you could ever let that happen.”

Cas was still carding through Dean’s hair.  The TV was casting moving shadows on his face, lighting up the lines of his nose and the hollows of his cheeks.  The whites of his eyes were glistening, and Dean didn’t know when he’d started looking Cas in the face. Cas’ resolute, beseeching face.

Dean said, “Am I a shitty person?”

Cas’ eyes went big and sorrowful.  “No,” he said, and maybe a part of Dean believed him.  “You can be happy for him and anxious for yourself. That’s allowed.  But, Dean, there is nothing to worry about.  Sam isn’t going anywhere.”

And, okay, maybe he was right.  Dean swallowed hard, trying to process the information.  It made sense, logically, and the validation was nice. Dean could get his head to believe it.  The trouble was getting his heart on board, too. But at least it didn’t hurt so much anymore. The thudding had stopped, like Cas’ words were a soothing balm.  Emotional Bengay or something.

And Dean really couldn’t believe he’d just admitted all that, especially to Cas.  Because he knew what Sam wanted. He had no idea what Cas wanted. And maybe what Cas wanted didn’t align with Dean.  Maybe Dean had just spilled the beans on that and he’d lose both Sam and Cas in the same night.

If that were the case, he’d rather prepare himself.

“And, uh,” he said, licking his bottom lip and then scraping his teeth across it.  “Where are you at?”

Cas knitted his brows together, clearly confused.

Dean rolled his eyes at himself, mostly just to quell his nerves.  “What, uh—route are you taking or whatever?”

“Oh,” Cas said.  He paused. His fingers had stopped moving.  Dean probably didn’t want to know the answer.  But then Cas said, “I’m here.”

Dean looked at him steadily, his heart cracking open—but not in the bad way.  The way that kind of felt like it was molting so it could get bigger. Only problem was, his chest stayed the same size.  He couldn’t bring himself to care, because he was too busy stopping himself from saying what just popped into his head. The gargantuan, certain, no-turning-back-now thought of, I fucking love you.

Instead, he said, barely able to speak, “Here’s good.”

Cas smiled softly back at him, all of it in his eyes, visible even in the dark, blue light.  Then, he turned back to the movie, and his fingers started moving again.

///

On Friday after work, Dick and Rowena (or, really, Jody and Donna) put on a mixer in celebration of winning GM.  The entire office was invited, and it was held on the top floor in the kitchen area. Which was a little cheap, because they’d just won a huge account and probably had money to burn—so, really, they could have gone to a bar.  But that probably hadn’t been the ladies’ decision.

They did a pretty good job with what they had.  All the tables were taken out of the space and replaced with smaller, round cocktail tables for people to gather around.  A bar had been set up, complete with a bartender and hard liquor. There were waiters walking around with trays of mini lobster rolls and sliders and all that good stuff.  Music was playing beneath the swell of chatter as the kitchen eventually became too crowded and people spread out into the surrounding conference rooms, hallways, and the landing over the staircase.

Dean was just outside the kitchen, leaning against a windowsill talking with Charlie, who was full-on sitting cross-legged on the sill.  He was feeling pretty good, actually—which might have been because he was on his second glass of free bourbon. But he guessed he was also getting used to the idea of Sam and Jess getting married now that he had a few days to sit with it.  He felt like shit for tainting the memory of Sammy’s big announcement with his own personal freak out, but Sam never had to know that. And sure, maybe at some points he could feel the anxiety of Sam moving on with his life without Dean start to become overwhelming; but he tried to focus on what Cas has said.

Because Cas had been right.

Sam wasn’t doing anything without Dean.  Dean would be right there, planning the bachelor party, going tuxedo shopping and taste-testing cakes, standing up on the altar next to him as best man, and eventually being the most awesome brother-in-law and uncle on the face of the Earth.  There was no being without his brother.  Their family was just expanding, and wasn’t that the name of the game?

And who knew?  Maybe Sam didn’t have to be the only one expanding the family.  It was still way too early to tell, but if Dean were a betting man (which he was), he liked the odds for him and Cas.  Things had been rocky at first, but maybe not anymore. Hell, they even had a date the next night at some swanky steakhouse that Dean couldn’t afford (but figured Cas could pay the bill since he’d done all the legwork).  Maybe it was the first of many. Maybe, if Dean played his cards right, this could work out for them.

He wanted them to work out.  Because Cas made him feel like driving did.  At home. At peace. Free. Alive. Like there was something more to find.  Maybe Dean didn’t have to take off far and wide searching for it. Maybe it had found him first.

That line of thinking made something like sadness well up in him, but the kind of sadness that circled back around and felt happy.  It was confusing. He didn’t think he could pick that bundle apart even with a needle. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

Distantly, he was aware of Charlie telling him about the Skyrim championship she was competing in over the weekend, but he’d kind of stopped listening.  He was scanning the kitchen, not having to do it for very long though, because his gaze found Cas as if everything were in black and white and he was the only thing in living Technicolor.  Dean felt himself smile, fondness like an inflatable beach ball swelling under his ribs.

Cas was near the counters, talking with Crowley.  He must have felt the stare, because he looked back at Dean.

And Dean’s smile dropped.

Something was wrong.  Cas was tense, shoulders rigid and practically to his ears.  His knuckles were white as he fisted them at his sides. His eyes were ultra-focused, like a plea.  A sea of people, packed in like sardines in the small kitchen, stood around him.

“Hey, Charlie, can you hang on a sec?” Dean said, not really sure whether he’d interrupted her.

He must have, because she sat up a little straighter in surprise, and it took her a second to say, “Oh—yeah, sure.  You okay?”

“Fine.  Be right back,” he said, probably lying.  But he was already walking away, twisting through the crowd towards Cas.

He watched Cas give a tight smile to Crowley and say something that must have closed the conversation, because he started walking towards Dean with all the pep of a prisoner walking to the electric chair.  His jaw went so tight, Dean practically felt his own teeth chipping, and he was threading through the crowd like he was trying not to touch anyone. Which was impossible.

They met in the middle, which was probably stupid because that’s where most people were congregated.  Dean opened his mouth to say something, but he didn’t get the chance.

Cas’ hand came to Dean’s side, fingers bunching up his shirt.  “Poughkeepsie,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Dean’s head snapped to him immediately, eyes going big.  “What, right now?”

Severely, Cas nodded.  He swallowed hard, throat working.  He looked like he was about to start sweating.  Dean had to get him out of there.

“Okay, okay.”  He ran his hand down his mouth, eyes flickering around for an alcove or a table without any people.  The whole kitchen was packed. They’d have to leave entirely. Maybe they’d be able to sneak away.  Maybe no one would notice. He looked back at Cas. “Let’s go to your office,” he suggested, taking in a deep breath and hoping Cas would follow along.  He nodded, too, and Cas nodded back faster.

“Okay,” Dean answered for him.  He stepped out of Cas’ personal space, because, as much as he wanted to take Cas’ hand, they couldn’t make this look suspicious.  He signaled for Cas to follow him and, fists clenched, Cas paced behind Dean towards the staircase.

As they went, Dean kept glancing around, making sure they weren’t attracting any looks.  No one seemed to actually notice. It wasn’t until they were jouncing down the stairs, when Dean made the stupid mistake of glancing up at the overhang, did he see Alicia staring back at them.

He shot her a look, equal parts keep your damn mouth shut and this isn’t want you think it is.  He didn’t know if she understood both messages, but her lips thinned into a line, and she quickly looked back to the person she was talking to.  Dean let himself relax slightly.

The reception area was empty, so Dean held his hand out to brush his fingers against Cas’, just in case he wanted to take it.  Cas fumbled their hands together, turning his palm into Dean’s and threading their fingers. His skin was burning up, and he squeezed hard enough to cut off circulation, but Dean didn’t complain.  As they walked down the hall towards their department, Dean looked over his shoulder to make sure Cas was still keeping it together. So far, so good.

Their section was empty, too.  No stragglers or party-poopers that decided to skip the free drinks clacking away at their workstations.  Dean tugged Cas along the wall towards his office. At that point, Cas let go of his hand and walked past Dean, clearing the door first.

By the time Dean got inside, Cas was standing over the front side of his desk, palms flat on the surface and head hung between his shoulders.  He lifted up one arm to pull at the knot of his tie. The line of his shoulders was rigid and rising and falling rapidly. Dean could hear him breathing.

He closed the door, blocking out the soft sounds of the party upstairs, until all that could be heard was a muffled baseline that was only audible if you were trying to hear it.  He paced towards Cas, hand raised, ready to touch his back so Dean could soothe him. But maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Maybe Cas didn’t want to be touched right now. He curled his fingers and dropped his arm, feeling helpless.

“What d’you need?” Dean asked.  Cas didn’t answer. He just kept pulling air sharply into his nose.  Dean moved to the desk to stand next to him, turning into Cas. “Cas?”

Cas picked his head up and nodded rapidly.  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” He didn’t sound fine.  Dean didn’t know what to do. He just stood there like a dumbass until Cas’ breathing became less urgent.

And then Cas sighed.  He took his hands off the desk and turned around so he could perch on the edge.  His posture slumped. He closed his eyes, but he wasn’t twisting them shut, so maybe he was okay.

Dean blinked.  “You good?” he asked, his own voice sounding weird as it broke the silence.

Cas nodded again.  “Yeah.” He sounded parched and breathless, but at least it was partly true this time.  His eyes fluttered open, the blue of them clear and vivid against the bloodshot whites. He looked down to grab Dean’s hand again.

“You need some space?” Dean asked.

“No.”  He shook his head, and brought up their conjoined hands to his face.  He pressed his lips to the inside of Dean’s wrist. “You help.”

Dean’s heart felt like it was on rollercoaster hurtling down a steep incline, and now really wasn’t the time.  “Happy to be of service,” he tried to joke. It fell flat.

“I know.”  He sounded a little better that time.  He dropped Dean’s wrist and reached up, settling his hands around the scruff of Dean’s neck.  Dean moved in closer to make him more comfortable. “I’m fine. I think I’m fine.” Dean let himself be pulled into a kiss.  It was a quick kiss, followed by another one. Cas left a trail of butterfly kisses on Dean’s mouth, cheeks, and nose. He let out a small grunting sound.

“Cas, it’s—,” another peck to his lips interrupted him.  He hummed into it and then finished, “It’s alright. You’re good.”  He put his hands on Cas’ waist.

“I know,” Cas said again, and kept kissing him.  They became deeper, more needy. If Cas needed that to ground himself, Dean was more than happy to let him; but the kisses were starting to make Dean’s lower stomach stir, and it really wasn’t the time for that.  Not unless Cas said so.

“I know.  You took care of me.”  Cas’ voice had dropped into a rasp.  “Let me take care of you.”

Dean worked his throat and closed his eyes.  He didn’t want Cas doing this just because he thought he owed him.  “You don’t gotta,” he said, his own voice getting deeper. Cas just had that effect on him.

“Dean,” Cas said sternly.  When he kissed Dean’s mouth again, Dean kissed back.  “Let me take care of you. Tell me how.” He dropped one hand from Dean’s neck and brought it to his side.

An electric current zipped under Dean’s skin.  He turned his head to look at the door, making sure it was closed fully.  Cas nipped at his ear, and it felt so damn good. Dean turned back into him, his nose pressing into Cas’ cheek.

He thought about the office’s soundproofing.  He thought about all the people upstairs at the party—all their friends and coworkers, none the wiser.  And, yeah, the door was closed, but someone could walk by any second. Someone could notice they were gone and come looking for them.  And that thought wasn’t helping, because the danger of being caught was only making him hotter.

It made Dean bold.  He whispered against Cas’ skin, “How many times you think you can make me come on that desk?”

Almost immediately, Cas’ other hand clasped onto Dean’s side, holding him tight.  He growled as he spun them around so Dean was against the desk and Cas was crowding into him.  “Let’s find out,” he said, and Dean barely had time to draw in a breath before they were kissing.

And that was the Cas he knew and loved, taking back control.

Dean’s fingers latched into Cas’ hair, drawing him in closer.  Cas’ stubble had grown in over the course of the day, prickling against Dean’s chin and lips, but it was a nice scratch.  And Cas’ mouth was slick enough now to stop it from burning. When Cas turned away to drink in air, Dean lined his chin with his lips, reveling in it.  He moved to the bolt of Cas’ jaw to suck on it, and Cas tilted his head into it. “Dean,” he said, voice already low and rough. It made Dean’s dick announce itself in his pants.

Cas stood still for a second, letting himself be kissed, and Dean loved that.  He’d be fine if Cas just let him take care of everything tonight. But then Cas’ fingers tightened at his sides, and he started pulling Dean’s shirt out of his pants.  He reached up the back of it, hands a shock of cold on Dean’s spine. Dean shuttered against it. Cas didn’t even apologize.

He moved his hands lower and kneaded Dean’s ass through the seat of his pants.

Apology accepted.

Dean’s muscles lit up in his thighs, and the fabric of his boxers almost made him jolt when it brushed against his dick.  About seventy-five percent of his focus narrowed down to that feeling. Another twenty percent was on Cas feeling him up. And the rest—how many more percents to get to a hundred?—was kissing Cas’ neck.  He mouthed at his Adam’s apple, feeling it bob beneath his tongue, and moved down to the unbuttoned neckline of his collar.

He didn’t know when he’d pressed his body forward into Cas’ hip, but it felt great.  Cas pulled him in closer by the ass, encouraging Dean to rut up against him. And Dean did—once.  Cas hissed, like it wasn’t good enough. He tightened one hand on Dean’s ass and the other went up to the back of his hair, tugging Dean’s face back up.  Dean let himself be manhandled. Cas’ hand still gripping his head, Dean stared at him with dark eyes and a bruised mouth and made it look challenging. Cas stared right back.  His chin was glistening, mouth red and parted, the blue of his eyes swallowed up.

He leaned forward to crash his lips against Dean’s.  His mouth was incessant—pushing and demanding. Dean knew how to keep up.  And he knew how to make Cas needier. He slipped his leg between Cas’, and pressed his thigh into his groin.  More blood rushed downward at a dizzying speed when he felt Cas’ dick against him. Cas’ hips pitched forward into Dean’s leg.  He grunted into Dean’s mouth.

Dean let out a pissed off not-whine when Cas took his hand off his ass.  But it was worth it because Cas started undoing Dean’s jeans. Dean ripped his mouth away just to look between them so he could watch Cas’ hands work.  He expected Cas to reach down the front of his pants and pull him out—but that would have been a mercy. Cas knew it would have been a mercy, and the guy was a tease.

Instead, he looped his arms quickly back around to reach down the back of Dean’s pants to grab fistfuls of his ass.  His hands were hot now, and Dean’s whole body felt overheated—especially when Cas’ fingers dug in hard to part him and skim his hole.

Dean didn’t know what to do with his hands.  There was a total disconnect from his brain and his body.  All systems offline. One hand ended up fisting the knot of Cas’ tie, and the other landed on his thigh, trying to align their bodies so Dean could rub against his dick with his knee.  He was trying to wrap his own legs around Cas’ hips, too, because he needed some kind of friction, even if that meant humping his leg like a damn dog. His eyes rolled back, and when they corrected, they flickered to the office door behind Cas.  Still closed. The party was still in full swing upstairs.

As his brain caught up, the first thing it spit out was: “Man, we really gotta—stop getting caught with—without lube.”  He didn’t mean for his voice to hitch so much, but it was kind of tough to control anything from shaking with the way Cas was circling the pads of two fingers against his rim.

He was watching Dean with rapt attention, and he gave a breathless smile.  “You may be right.” His voice was further down than where even the subways reached.  It was in the city under the city under that city.  Where the mole people lived or something.

Cas slid his hands out of Dean’s pants, and Dean wanted to collapse into a puddle.  He pressed a kiss to Dean’s jaw and said, “Turn around and put your hands on the desk.”

Dean jerked his head back to look at him, eyes lighting up with interest.  Cas arched a brow, waiting. And Dean really didn’t need to be told twice. He turned around and leaned forward, putting his palms flat on the surface.  One was on the wood, and the other on a pile of papers. He tried to lift it, but the paper just stuck to the sweat. He pushed his ass out, brushing it against Cas’ erection but making it seem like he was just getting situated—and a thrill of satisfaction went through him when he heard Cas grunt.

“Keep your hands there,” Cas ordered, his own hands back under Dean’s shirt.  He slid them up either side of Dean’s spine. Dean’s breath came out choppy. He had to curl his fingers against the urge to touch himself.

“You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

Cas only hummed in response.  He lifted his shirt halfway and kissed his lower back, down the last few vertebrae of his spin, along his jeans’ waistband.  Where no one else had kissed him before. Dean skewed his eyes closed. He focused on the heat of Cas’ mouth, on the pulsing in his thighs and cock, on Cas’ hand moving down his ribs and reaching around.  Dean’s stomach jumped under his touch as it passed over. And Cas’ fingers slid down beneath his boxer’s waistband and brushed his dick.

Dean bit down a moan.  He immediately jerked his body forward.  Cas wrapped him in his fist and moved it slowly down the shaft.  He used his other hand to tug Dean’s jeans down. He pulled Dean out, thumb circling the head.  Dean’s hands were in tight fists on the desk.

“Dean,” Cas said, demanding, and Dean didn’t know what he was supposed to do.  But Cas let go of his cock and lifted his hand to Dean’s mouth. He tapped Dean’s lips, insistent.  Dean realized he’d been biting down on his lip. He wasn’t sure what Cas was asking for exactly, so he covered all the bases.  He licked a strip up Cas’ palm, not really proud of the hungry sound that escaped him as he did. And then he took two of Cas’ fingers into his mouth.  He sucked on them, twirled his tongue around and between them. He heard Cas’ breath snag and pick up.

When Cas took his fingers out of Dean’s mouth, a strand of salvia following them out, he formed a loose fist in front of Dean’s mouth.  Dean kissed his knuckles, the back of his hand, those stupid-long fingers. His mouth was watering.

Cas brought his arm back down and played with Dean’s balls, but not for very long.  Because he probably thought Dean had waited long enough—probably from the way Dean was about to shake out of his skin with the urge to touch himself.

He wrapped his slick fingers around him and started pumping.  Dean let out a broken sound because—finally, finally, finally.  Cas twisted his wrist at the head, using the moisture there to mix in with the spit.  He worked Dean back down to the base.

His free hand was back on Dean’s ass, holding on tight and squeezing.  Dean fucked himself into Cas’ fist. He lost balance for a second, hands sliding down the desk.  The papers scattered and fluttered to the floor. A couple pens and a stapler clattered.

“Cas—sonofa—.”  His mouth was coming up with words that his brain never approved.  He was moving his hips fast, and Cas kept pace. He felt Cas pressed in close behind him, Dean’s ass hitting against his dick every time he thrust backwards.

He heard Cas’ breaths coming out hard through his nose as he tried to steady himself.  He pictured the willpower—the line of concentration and determination between Cas’ brows.  He thought of Cas slowly losing that will, coming undone as he worked Dean hard.

Dean’s muscles started constricting.  Heat was pooling at the base of his spine.  Cas’ hand was flying up and down his shaft, and Dean couldn’t believe there was ever a time he thought Cas’ voice was steady and in control when he said, “Come, Dean.  Come loud. You’re so beautiful when you’re loud.”

Dean came loud.  And he was really glad the music and chatter upstairs was loud, too.  He came hard, all over the front of Cas’ desk, ropes of it messing up the wood.  His elbows shook under the weight and nearly collapsed. He felt like he was flying, like his feet weren’t even on the damn floor.

When he came back down, he dropped his head to his chest and breathed.  Adrenaline was spiking through him, making his sensitive cock and inner thighs pound.  He felt sticky all over.

Cas’ hands slowly left him, and Cas backed away.  Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Cas wipe his hand on his shirt.  And then he ran the back of his sleeve across his brow. His hairline was glistening.  Dean’s gaze dropped, and saw him still rocking a bulge.

Shaky and tender and blissed out, Dean stood up straight.  His spine protested slightly, but he felt too good to care.  He pulled his jeans back up and tucked himself back inside, quickly doing up his fly.  He tried to focus on breathing. The air around him was humid with sweat, and he swore they’d raised the temperature a couple degrees.

He looked around again, where Cas was watching him, eyes still dark and lips chapped from pulling in breaths through them.  “Enjoyin’ the show?” Dean teased.

Cas hummed out a lowly kind of rumble.  He paced in closer again, and Dean turned around fully to greet him.  He flattened his palm on Cas’ chest, and leaned in to press their lips together.  Cas accepted it easily, short grunts and desperate noises lifting from his throat.  Dean moved his thumb back and forth, feeling Cas’ nipple harden under his dress shirt.  Cas rattled against it, his hands flying to Dean’s sides.

Dean put his other hand on Cas’ stomach, a rush of victory zipping through him when the muscles there shivered.  He dragged it down lower and lower until he was cupping the front of Cas’ pants. Cas broke away from the kiss, breathing choppy on the other side of a moan.  “Dean.”

Dean slid his hand back and forth against his erection before giving up on that entirely in favor of squeezing and tracing the length with his thumb in slow strokes.  Cas let his body surrender to it. His hands went tight as he hung on. He pushed his hips forward. Dean watched the micro-expressions playing on his face, from pleasure to concentration to frustration, from comfort to ecstasy.

He took his hands away, and chuckled a little at the bratty sound Cas shot at him.  “Gotta get to the main event, sweetheart,” Dean placated him as he undid Cas’ belt.

“Mmm.  And what’s the main event?” Cas asked, and there was a gritty texture to his voice now.  He was so far gone. Dean loved it when he got like that. He loved it when he made Cas like that.

He kissed the corner of Cas’ mouth, and, belt undone, pulled him by his waistband back towards the desk.  “You want me to suck your dick?” he asked. It’s what he’d been planning. It’s what he wanted to do. But he guessed it was always nice to ask.

The sound that came out of Cas’ throat was like distant rolling thunder, and Dean wondered if he should count the seconds before the lightning hit.  “Yeah.” And then, in a moment of clarity, “Wait—hang on.”

Dean blinked, thrown.  But Cas turned them around again so his back was to the desk.  He leaned his ass against it. “Do it here.”

A grin broke out of Dean’s cheek.  The only thing better than blowing Cas on his desk would be blowing him in the desk chair—or, fuck, maybe Dick Roman’s desk chair, if they really wanted to add a level to the danger.

“You got it,” he said, already undoing the button of Cas’ fly.  He put his hands on Cas’ hips, and palmed off his pants at the same time as he dropped to his knees.  He only pushed them down to mid-thigh, Cas’ boxer-briefs still on and too snug, with a wet mark on the front.  Dean glanced up at him, just because he knew Cas would be looking back down at him with hyper-focus, eyes nearly glowing with intensity.

Dean lifted up the tails of Cas’ shirt and pressed his forehead to his belly button, his nose brushing against the hairs leading down below the waistband of his underwear.  He kissed the skin there—firm in a way Dean’s stomach probably never had been. He kissed down and down and pulled off Cas’ briefs. Above him, Cas’ breath came out broken as his swollen dick curled up to his stomach.

Dean licked his lips, planning his route.  He rounded his palms around Cas’ hips to grip his ass.  He didn’t start in just yet. He mouthed at Cas’ Adonis belt, and nipped at his thighs.  He squeezed his ass. Cas jerked forward a little—and way too pointedly, and Dean wasn’t going to give in that easily.

He did give a little preview, though—just a warm up.  He brought one arm back around so he could wrap a fist around the base and twist.  Cas was so hot under his touch, and straining so hard he must have ached. And, as Cas started petting down his hair, Dean had the errant thought that he ached for him.

He also thought, for a second, Cas stopped breathing altogether, but then it kicked up again, loud and labored.  He wrapped his lips around the tip of Cas’ cock, swirling his tongue along his foreskin. He speared it to brush at the slit.

Impatient, or maybe he didn’t know he’d done it, which was a compliment either way, Cas tried to push himself deeper into Dean’s mouth.  Dean pulled off, a shit-eating grin lighting his eyes and he looked back up.

“Dean!”  Impatient, it was.

“You’re lovin’ it,” Dean slurred, head still foggy and thoughts dancing from his orgasm.  And Cas’ dick so close to his face usually had that effect on him, anyway.

Cas closed his eyes, mouth parted, because he couldn’t argue.  But Dean decided to get this show on the road.

He squeezed Cas’ ass before letting his hand drop, and said, “C’mon, get comfy.”  Cas did. He slid up onto the desk, sitting just at the edge. Dean shuffled in, and he straightened out a little taller because of the height difference.  He splayed his hands on Cas’ thighs, dragging them up and down from hip to knee in a caress. He leaned in and mouthed at the side of Cas’ shaft, and listened to Cas moan out his name.  It was a great sound.

Dean took a second just to breathe over Cas’ cock, sleek with saliva and overheated, to let the air wash over it.  He listened to Cas breathe, too, in a way that suggested he was focusing hard.

Dean put his lips back on him, and sunk in.  Above him, Cas made a keening sound. One hand went to Dean’s hair, gripping where it was long enough on the top, and the other wrapped around the side of the desk.  Dean moved up to mid-shaft and hollowed his cheeks, tightening the pressure. He slid slowly back down.

“Dean.  Dean, more,” Cas was saying, fingers scrambling and tightening on Dean’s scalp.

When he got back down to the head, Dean swirled his tongue teasingly around it.  Then, he pushed back up, going as far as he could go—until he could feel Cas’ cock against the back of his throat.  Cas groaned loudly. His hand moved to cradle the back of Dean’s head.

Dean wrapped two fingers and his thumb around the base of his cock, forming a circle.  He twisted as he sucked. Cas’ cock rested like a weight on his tongue, and twitched against his inner cheek every time Dean constricted his lips.

Keeping his other hand firm on Cas’ thigh, he used his other to thumb at Cas’ balls, to circle and press and kneed.  Cas leaned back slightly to give him more access. All the while, he was whispering encouragements down at him. Things like, keep going; and, you look amazing; and, just like that, Dean.

Things like, you’re mine.

His voice bathed over Dean like someone had found a way to make sex liquid.  Like alchemy, but better than gold. Better than anything precious and stone.

Dean’s spent dick decided to rally itself just a little again, like it could be interested if it learned more.

When he heard Cas’ voice start to break, he knew he was close.  Dean swiped his thumb lower, against Cas’ perineum. Cas let out a quick, loud shout that was quickly aborted—surprised, but in a good way.  Undone. It was an old trick, one Dean only brought out at parties and on special occasions. Cas was always a special occasion.

Cas’ hand tightened around his scalp, and he heard the heels of Cas’ shoes knock against the side of the desk and his body tensed.  “Dean,” he tried to warn. Dean hummed around him, sending up a vibration that, if orgasming was any indication, worked for Cas.

Dean felt his cock twitch again, harder that time, and Cas spent himself, sweetly bitter and hot, down Dean’s throat.  He came with an ah-ah-ahh filling the air.  Dean sucked him through it, until Cas was doubled over him and wobbling.

He slid off with a wet pop, and fought air back into his system.  His mouth always felt weird after that—jaw aching, but empty. He focused on filling himself with oxygen.  Presently, he was aware of the spit running down his chin and the moisture on his lips. He wiped it with the back of his sleeve.

And then he looked up.  Cas still had his eyes closed gently, like he was trying hard to drift back into a particularly good dream.  Dean took that as a job well done.

He picked himself up from the floor, lungs burning so hard he felt like a car just left skid marks on them.  Cas was panting, but in a good way now, his chest rising and falling. The hollow of his throat glistened with sweat where his tie was pulled loose and his shirt button was unclasped.  Dean fit himself between Cas’ knees, palms balmy as he rested them on Cas’ thighs. He pressed his forehead to Cas’, letting their breaths mix. Small puffs of laughter kept eking out of Cas’ mouth, and Dean felt his cheeks stretching with a smile.

“Feelin’ better?” he asked when he had enough oxygen.  His voice felt scratched raw. He really needed to down a bottle of water, ASAP.

Cas hummed happily.  At some point, he’d put his hands on Dean’s hips, but now he was sliding them up to grasp his shoulder blades in something like an embrace.  “I am. Thank you.”

“What can I say?  I’m a great assistant.”

It wasn’t all that funny in and of itself, but it made Cas close his eyes and toss his head back with a gruff chuckle.  Dean could listen to that sound all day. He took the opportunity to kiss Cas’ neck. It was a quick thing—chaste. He mostly did it to get close to Cas’ scent.  Dean was completely enraptured by him; and, like every other time he was with Cas, a sense of contentment so powerful overcame him, it felt like relief. He’d be okay wrapped up in Cas’ arms forever; he never wanted to leave again.

Cas lowered his head to look at Dean, a big, rare, gummy smile on his face, the kind that made his nose scrunch up and eyes line.  He was fucking gorgeous. Dean’s hold on his thighs tightened, and he beamed right back. “What d’you say we get outta here?”

Cas nodded gently, seeming more than on board.  Dean pecked him on the lips one more time before stepping back to give him room to hop off the desk.  As Cas pulled up his pants and buckled his belt, Dean snatched some tissues from the box on the filing cabinet and wiped up the spunk on the desk.  He scrunched his nose in disgust when it left a wet trail behind, but at least it hadn’t dried onto the surface. “Gross,” he muttered, balling up the tissue.  He tossed it in the trash can.

Meanwhile, Cas picked up the papers and scattered items from the floor and tossed them back onto his desk.  He unplugged his laptop from its docking station under his monitor and shoved it into his briefcase. Dean rolled his eyes as he zipped it up.  “You wanna take another ten years?”

Cas shot him a look, which really wasn’t all that intimidating because his cheeks were still red and his hair was a mess.  His shirt was untucked and wrinkled and the knot of his tie was practically down to his chest. Dean probably didn’t look much better.

“Let’s go,” Cas said, walking around the desk.  He grabbed Dean’s wrist with both hands, fingers curling around it, and pressed in close.  He brushed his lips to the shell of Dean’s ear, and Dean closed his eyes into it. “I’ll take as much time I damn well want.”

Dean’s face cracked at that, but he controlled it when Cas leaned back.  He clicked his tongue. “Promises, promises.”

Turning, he started for the door, Cas still latched on to his wrist as he followed Dean out.  At first, he only opened up the door enough to stick his head out to glance around. It was still empty, the fluorescents casting a green light on the desks against the night outside the windows.  Someone’s screensaver was pulsating with a ball of changing colors. There was still music and chatter coming from upstairs. He peeked over at the aisle between the workstations, and then down the wall to make sure no one was coming out of the hallway.

“All clear?” Cas asked with such comical seriousness, Dean could almost picture him on the battlefield.

“All clear,” Dean reported back.  He opened the door all the way and walked them out.  Just as they cleared the threshold, Cas’ grip on his wrist tightened.  He pulled Dean back into him, and Dean spun around into it. He crowded Cas against the doorframe, his free hand going to Cas’ neck.  He pressed his thumb into Cas’ pulse point as they kissed. He felt it quicken and stutter under his touch.

Cas let go of his wrist and snaked his arms around Dean’s neck, drawing him in closer.

They really needed to get home.

Dean pulled away fractionally.  “Alright, let’s go before I pull you back into that office.”

Cas bit down on his lower lip and hummed, eyes dazzling.

And then his gaze flickered away, over Dean’s shoulder.  Quickly. And his smile faded; his eyes widened. Slowly.

Or, at least, it felt slow.  It felt like it was happening in fucking slow motion.

“Dean.”  The abrupt change in his tone made Dean go cold.  He reverted back into a kid cowering under his covers from the monster in the closet.  And, like that kid peeking his head out, hoping beyond hope he was safe and the closet was still empty, he looked.

Becky was standing just outside the hallway.

“Oh, I—,” she jumped and stammered.  All the color was drained from her face, like she was the one who’d been caught.  Dean had no idea how long she’d been standing there—if she’d just walked in or if she’d been watching them make out like a perv—but it really didn’t matter right now because she was there and she’d seen them.  He wanted to throw up. He felt his fist twisting into Cas’ shirt, clinging to him.

“Becky,” Cas said.  He ripped his arms away from Dean, and Dean jumped back, too, like he’d touched the scalding metal of a frying pan.  He did it like he could trick Becky into thinking she hadn’t seen anything, as if the damage wasn’t already done. Cas was scrambling to tuck in his shirt.

“I—I—,” Becky was saying, her dinner plate-sized eyes on the floor.  She lifted one hand to the side of her face to shield her periphery vision.   “I just came to get my purse, and—I didn’t think—I didn’t see anything!” Oh, she’d definitely seen something.  She’d seen a whole lot of something!

Dean’s panic quickly took a hard left into mortification.

“Becky, this isn’t—,” he started, a desperate kind of chuckle coloring his words.  He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Cas. “This isn’t what it looks like.” Yeah, right.  What else could two sweaty and debauched dudes look like? “I was just—.”

“Helping me to, um—,” Cas tried to supply like this was a game of Mad Libs, but apparently that was as far as his mind got.  Dean hadn’t even gotten that far. His brain was on hyper drive, going way too fast to actually land on anything.

“Yeah, yeah, totally!” Becky agreed.  She held up her palms in surrender, or maybe as a barricade.  She still wasn’t looking at them. She backed away. “I should just go.  You two are clearly in the middle of—helping—.”

Oh, no!  Hell no! They couldn’t let Becky leave!  If she left, they were done for. They had to grab her and—and—what?  Kill her? Because there was no way a good old-fashioned talking to was going to shut her up.  But obviously, they couldn’t kill her . . .

“Becky, hang on!” Dean called, voice a little—okay, a lot—angrier than he intended it.  He took a few hasty steps forward. Becky’s eyes snapped to him. She yelped. And then she ran.

Dean ran, too.  “Damn it—Becky! Becky!”

Behind him, he heard Cas calling after her, too, except he sounded a little more reasonable about it.

Dean tore down the row of desks, rushing after her where she’d disappeared down the hallway.  He rounded the corner.

And he couldn’t go any further.

A surge of people broke against him, pushing him back.  They were all shouting over each other, arms held out as they stuck objects in his face.  Bright white lights were glaring and flashing and blinding him. He winced against them, stumbling backwards.  The hoard of people were yammering, jumping up and down and practically trying to climb over one another.

Dean’s eyes adjusted, and he realized white lights were coming from cameras—the old timey ones with the big bulbs.  Men and women in suits and A-line skirts and heels with pencils tucked behind their ears were advancing on him. Some had pads of paper in their hand as they eagerly scribbled things down.  The things being shoved towards his face were handheld recorders.

“Mr. Winchester!  Mr. Winchester!” they all called, vying for his attention.

One reporter with heavy red lipstick managed to get her recorder closer.  She asked, “Mr. Winchester, how long have you been sleeping with your boss?”

“Uh—,” he stuttered.  He wanted to curl up and die, but there were more important things.  He stood on his toes, trying to find Becky over the tops of the reporters’ heads.  A camera winded up and flashed, causing stars in his eyes. He blinked them rapidly away.

“Mr. Winchester, will this scandal cause you to lose your job at Roman?  What about Mr. Novak?” another reporter in a fedora asked, and hell if that wasn’t a good question.

Someone from the back shouted, “Mr. Winchester!  Was it worth it?”  

Dean ground his teeth.  “Get the fuck outta my way,” he said, and tried to elbow through them.  They packed in tighter, barring his way. He was feeling more and more hopeless by the second, which made his frustration boil up inside of him until it was bubbling over with ire.  “I said, move!”

They didn’t move.  They kept clamoring.  Dean couldn’t hear what any of them were saying; they were all talking over each other.

But then one reporter nearby asked, “Mr. Winchester, does this mean the end of your affair with Castiel Novak?”  

Dean froze.

He couldn’t stop being frozen.

The frenzy and noise faded out of existence like a film reel at its end.  The projector still cast a blank square on the wall. And then even that clicked off.  Dean wasn’t being jostled anymore. He stood in the mouth of the hallway, body sagging and arms limp at his sides.

Becky was gone.

He closed his eyes, and tried to pretend Becky had never been there at all.  It was just in his imagination.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes ripped open.  Cas’ voice was soft, worried, far away.  Dean looked over his shoulder, and found Cas, tousled and rumpled and a fucking mess, still standing outside his office.  He looked just as dejected and afraid as Dean felt.

Dean clamped his jaw, a muscle jumping.  He faced forward again, looking at the empty hallway, and ran his palm down his face.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

He had the same dream three days in a row.  A grave. A shovel. Earth. Someone shouting, dig.

Or, no—it wasn’t the exact same dream.  The details were slightly altered.

On Friday, when he finally managed to sleep, eyes dry and mind exhausted of thought and the sun red on the horizon, he was standing to the side of the grave.  Cas had a shovel in his hands and sweat on his brow. Cas had fear in his eyes. Cas sunk deeper and deeper into the dirt. Dean shouted, dig, again and again.

On Saturday, it was Dean whose hands were calloused and bleeding from the handle of the entrenching tool.  It was Dean who used the last of his frail might to overturn the soil and sand of the desert dunes. Dig, Cas kept shouting from his place nearby, hand on his rifle.  But he didn’t sound like himself. Dean’s own voice came out of Cas’ mouth.

On Sunday, Dean wasn’t digging anymore.  He was under the earth. The box around him was pine.  He was on his back in the confined space. It was so dark that his eyes couldn’t adjust.  He beat his hands against the inside of the lid, scratched his fingernails down to nubs. He tried to cry out, help, and, let me out, and, I’ll do whatever you want, and, don’t leave me here.  But the only thing that came out was, dig.

The worst of it all was that he barely spoke to Cas.  He had to cancel the reservations for their date, which sucked.  Cas texted him once on Saturday, telling Dean that he was “dealing with it,” and he’d call Dean when it was “taken care of.”  Which was suckier. Dean would have felt a lot better if they were in this together. They were supposed to be in this together.

Instead, Dean was holed up alone in his apartment, drinking and Googling shit like, is it illegal to sleep with your boss, to vague and confusing search results.  He also spent his time ignoring Charlie and Sam’s phone calls and texts.  He read them, and it was enough to tell him that everyone at work knew now.  Apparently, it was the new hot topic.

He only answered Sam once—something to the effect of, we’ll talk later, which Sam tried to argue down to we’ll talk now—so the kid wouldn’t come knocking down his door.  And he felt really shitty about the whole situation, because that wasn’t how he wanted Sam to find out.

It was pouring rain on Monday morning.  The kind of rain that flooded the streets and had people huddling in doorways.  The kind that trickled onto the underground subway tracks through cracks in the drains and concrete and delayed all the trains.  The kind that made it look like nighttime outside. The kind that pounded inside your eardrums, even when you got through the revolving door of your office building and shook off your jacket, your pants, your backpack, and your useless umbrella.

It was the kind of rain that soaked Dean to the bone.

He was already in a bad mood, made worse by the crowded commute in as the train trudged through the tunnels with grinding slowness.  He nearly slipped on the tile floor of the lobby when he scanned his ID badge, despite the needless wet floor sign they put up.

And, regardless of all the chaos, the day was somehow still all around him.  The train had been quiet. No one on the streets spoke or called out in favor of getting inside.  The only sounds were background noise, as if coming from the other side of the wall. A muted gray film had descended upon the world, tinting his vision and dulling his senses.

Everyone in the elevator he was inside, also packed, was silent.  But they kept looking at him. All of them kept looking at him. People he didn’t even know the names of were looking at him.  All in quick, secret glances.

Maybe that was why the outside world felt so still.  Because nothing could compare to the battle raging inside Dean’s body.  His heart was slamming. He chewed the inside of his cheek raw. He had a headache that lit up against his temples like he was dehydrated.  His stomach was apparently auditioning for an acrobat job for the circus. He felt nauseous and waterlogged all over.

He shouldn’t have even gone in.  He should have stayed in bed. Because what was the point?  He was just going to get fired anyway.

When the elevator doors opened, Dean stepped out, and the still silence followed him.  He didn’t look, but he could have sworn the receptionists were gaping at him as he passed them.  He kept his head down as he walked down the hall towards his department—and he stalled right before the threshold.  His fingers drummed against his thigh. He swallowed.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn back.

He set his shoulders, firmed his jaw, and picked his head up.  He wasn’t turning back. He wasn’t about to abandon Cas.

He moved forward, and immediately every one of his team members’ eyes landed on him.  People in mid-conversation abruptly stopped. The bagel Garth was eating fell out of his mouth and thwacked onto his keyboard.  Max was giving him guilty eyes, even though none of this was his fault. He knew how to keep his damn mouth shut.

Becky was over by the printer, hugging a stack of papers to her chest, completely frozen in place.  Dean stared at her, keeping his expression carefully blank. He kept looking at her even as he turned to walk to his desk.  She looked away and hurried back to her workstation.

When Dean passed Cas’ office, the door was shut.  It looked dark inside, but so did everything else.  The rain was beating against the windows, and the overhead lights were doing a pitiable job at living up to their name.  Maybe Cas was inside, or maybe he was still “dealing with it,” whatever the hell that meant. Dean wanted to knock on his door, but a small tendril of shame slithered through him.  Everyone was still looking at him. He didn’t want to give them more to talk about.

He went to his desk and slid into his chair.  He booted up his computer and checked Cas’ voicemail.  The mailbox was empty. On his monitor, his log in screen popped up, and he stalled momentarily, wondering if his credentials would actually still work.  He typed them in, and it signed in like normal, so he guessed they hadn’t fired him yet. He never expected that to slightly shift the weight on his chest.

Midway through clearing out the junkmail in his Outlook, Alicia returned to her desk.  She was staring at him. He felt it prickling on his skin. He kept looking forward, deleting some spam about an online job training a little too aggressively.  She woke up her computer, but it was probably just for appearances, because she leaned into him.

“Dude,” she whispered.  Dean was grinding his teeth.  “I swear to God, I didn’t tell anyone.”

He sighed, dropping his shoulders.  He rubbed at his eye will his index finger.  “Yeah, I know,” he said, because he didn’t blame her or Max.  His eyes flickered to her. “Thanks.” He guessed he’d never done that—thanked her for keeping it a secret.

She pressed her lips together, seeming a little relieved that he wasn’t angry with her, but her eyes were way too sympathetic.  It made him feel like an old stray dog nobody wanted to adopt, and that pissed him off.

She scooted her chair a little closer.  “So, do you know what happens next?”

“How the hell should I know?”  He didn’t mean to sound so frustrated, but it had been a really long, way too short weekend.  She couldn’t exactly blame him.

She shrugged.  “I mean—did they talk to you?”

He shook his head, confused.  “Who?”

“Roman,” she said.  She glanced around to make sure no one was listening.  But of course people were listening, or at least trying their hardest to.

Dean didn’t even give a shit about that right now because, “Roman’s talking to people?”

She nodded.  “Yeah, him and that bitch Naomi from HR.  They’ve talked to the whole team. That’s what I just got back from.”

He shook his head, a mental block going up that was hell-bent on preventing him from understanding.  “About what?”

She shot him a look, as though it were obvious.  “You, dumbass!” And then, “They wanted to know if we knew anything about you and Novak—or if we noticed him giving you preferential treatment or whatever.”

That was ridiculous.  No one else knew anything.  But she did. Max did. Panicking, he asked, “What’d you tell them?”  He sounded completely angry now, voice coming out rough and low as he tried to keep his voice down.  He didn’t mean to sound that way.

Her expression turned pleading, guilty.  Fuck, she’d told them everything. He let his eyes slip closed.

“I had to talk,” she explained.  “Me and Max, we—Look, Dean, I’m sorry, but if they found out we knew and we told them we didn’t—.  I don’t wanna get fired.”

And, the worst part was, he couldn’t be mad at that.  He got it. Hell, he would have told her to do exactly that if he’d known about any of this.  He nodded, hoping it would resolve her of any guilt. “Yeah, okay,” he said. There was nothing he could do about it now.  His gut clenched. He glanced up at Cas’ closed door. He had to talk to him. Things would maybe be okay if he could just talk to Cas.  They could come up with a game plan. “You know if he’s in?”

She shook her head, again looking sorry.  “Haven’t seen him.”

He kind of figured as much.

Cas’ line started ringing on his desk phone, and both of them snapped out of their thoughts.  She shot him another look before rolling back over to her workstation. He looked at the caller ID, but it was an outside number.  He really wasn’t in the mood, and he really shouldn’t have picked up.

“Castiel Novak’s office.  This is Dean.” It was weird how, in such a short time, those words felt so natural.  They rolled right off his tongue. He couldn’t imagine not saying them again, even though there was a solid change that would be the last time.

That thought rattling through his empty skull, he barely heard Jo over the line.  “Hey, Dean. Got Edgar here. Castiel in yet?”

Dean wanted to laugh, but he really didn’t have it in him.  He pinched his eyes shut and dug his thumb and forefinger into them.  “He’s, uh—busy,” he said, because it was easier than telling the whole story.  He’d tell her later anyway. It wasn’t like he didn’t have her cell number in his personal phone.  They could keep in touch. “Can I have ‘im call back?”

There was a pause, and then, “Sure.  Hey, you okay? You sound—.”

“Hungover,” he grunted, and it wasn’t exactly a lie.  He’d been drinking all weekend. Hell, he did a shot before he even brushed his teeth that morning just to buy himself some courage.  So, yeah, not a lie; just not the whole truth.

She snorted.  “Happy Monday.”

He just grunted again in response.

“Take it easy,” she laughed, and he wished he could, too.  “Talk to you later.” The line went dead before he could respond with something stupid like, yeah, you will, just not at this number.

He’d barely placed the phone back down on the receiver when another call came through, this time on his own line.  It was Charlie. Shit.

Shit, shit, fuck.  This was not going to be fun.  He let it ring, half a mind to make it go to voicemail.  His conscience got the better of him at the last second.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t yeah me,” she said, sounding as pissed as someone with a voice like hers could get.  “Hallway near reception. You and me. Now.” She hung up.

He pulled the phone away from his face and stared at it, listening to the faint sound of the line going dead.  He hung up, too, resisting the urge to slam the phone down.

He sighed, and mentally prepared himself for another endless walk through no-man’s-land as a thousand enemy eyes pointed their guns at him.  He walked to the hallway.

Charlie wasn’t there when he arrived, probably because she had to walk all the way across the floor.  Which gave him just enough time to flee for his life. He considered it very seriously, and then made himself stay.  He pushed his back to the wall and looked down, breathing.

He closed his eyes.

Dig.

There were footsteps.  Familiar footsteps. Angry footsteps.

He ripped his eyes open, and for a second, it wasn’t Charlie charging towards him.

Or maybe it was—beneath all that Viking plated armor and the horned helmet.  Maybe—

He blinked, and she was wearing a cardigan over a Rugrats graphic tee.

“Talk,” she said, not allowing an inch of compromise.  She stood right in front of him and crossed her arms tight—as if he couldn’t easily pick her up and move her out of the way if he wanted.  Only, right now, he was too damn exhausted to try.

He let out a heavy breath.  “I’m guessing Dick and Naomi interviewed you, too?”

Her eyes went wide.  “Yeah! And I couldn’t answer any of their questions because I didn’t have any of the info.”  She looked off, mellowing. “You know how embarrassing that was?”

He shot her a look, because seriously?  “Oh, I’m sorry.  You’re embarrassed?”  He lowered his voice, whisper-shouting through his teeth.  “’Cause, last I checked, it’s my sex life aired out to the whole damn office!”

She didn’t seem to have any pity.  Or, at least, not when she asked, “So, it’s true?”

As if that wasn’t obvious.

He ran his hand down his face.  “Yeah. It’s true.”

When his hand fell away, she was giving him an incredulous look.  “Even the part about you guys doing it in the boardroom?”

What?

“What?”  He rattled his head, because he should have known the rumors would get crazy.  “We never—! Ugh—Charlie. I don’t have time for this.”

She shrugged timidly, crossing her arms tighter.  “Sorry. Don’t kill the messenger.” And then, more indignantly, “Maybe I’d be able to help if I wasn’t just hearing about this.”

Guilt snapped at his ribcage, but he was right before: he didn’t have time for this.  “Look, I’m sorry, alright?” he said, and he meant it, even though it was rushed. Either way, she tugged her lips to the side and seemed to accept it.  He moved on: “Just, do me a favor and lay low ‘til I can talk to Cas, okay?”

Her eyes went wide.  “Oh,” she said. It wasn’t a good, oh.  Judging by the way her features sobered, it was a pretty fucking bad, oh.

Dean felt his heart ratchet up into his throat.  “Oh?” he echoed. “What’s oh?”

She looked to the side, as if searching for someone to rescue her.

“Charlie!” he gritted out.  His pulse was slamming against his esophagus.  His mind spun with every single possible thing that oh could mean.

“Well,” she said, clearly trying to find the best way to word it.  “Frank, uh—kinda sorta told me to shut down Cas’ Outlook account and ID badge.”

The pulsing in his throat immediately stopped.  When it started back up again, it was in the soles of his feet.

Cas got fired.  He was gone.

No, he couldn’t just be gone.  He would have told Dean. He would have at least texted.

“Dean?” Charlie asked, raising her hand as if to comfort him but then thinking better of it.

He realized he was looking down the hall, towards his department.  Cas would be there. Cas would be in his office.

“I gotta—,” he said, and didn’t bother finishing.  He walked down the hall, ignoring the stares he attracted when he reached the row of desks.  He doubly ignored them when he walked towards the closed door to Cas’ office. He didn’t have any room for shame right now.  There was only blind panic.

His hand was on the knob, his other raised to knock.  He leaned in close to the frosted glass, listening for signs of life inside.  Nothing. The lights were definitely off. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath.

He knocked.  Once. Twice.

“Cas?  You in there?” he called, low enough that he hoped no one else heard, but loud enough for it to be heard inside.  

There was a heart-pounding moment when nothing happened.  And then, “Come in, Dean.”

Dean let the familiar voice wash over him like a balm.  Cas was there. He wasn’t gone.  

Dean ripped the door open, stepped inside—

And the room was empty.

The motion sensors on the lights kicked on, painting the room in a white glow that bounced off the bare walls.  But that was normal. Cas wasn’t really a decorator. He never hung things up like Mildred had. And yet, the walls seemed barren now.  Maybe because the desk, too, usually piled with papers and binders and a mess of fucking office supplies, was totally clean.

The monitor and keyboard sat atop it.  That was all.

Or, no, not all.  Something shiny was reflecting the overhead light.

Dean stepped closer, and he never realized how long the walk from the doorway to the desk was until that moment.  It seemed to stretch on forever. When he finally—finally—made it, his jaw was locked up.  His fingers were practically shaking as he reached out and picked up the penny.  Heads up. He pinched it between two fingers and brought it level to his face.

And what the hell was Cas trying to tell him with this?  Good luck?

But good luck with what?  With the day? With everyone whispering about him?  Was it a good luck until I see you tonight and we can talk?  Or was it more of a final good luck?  The kind of good luck that really meant goodbye?

Dean let out a breath.  It might have just been a breath.  It could have also been a scoff. It might have been a laugh.  His mouth twisted downwards. He wrapped his fist around the coin, the cool metal digging into the meat of his palm as his knuckles turned white and red.

Good fucking luck.

He tightened his grip on the coin, and he reeled his arm back.  He chucked the damn thing right at the window, so hard that the glass shattered.  It all came raining down—

“Dean?”

Dean whirled around to find Jody peeking her head into the room.  She had her sad eyes on, the one that kind of reminded him of his mom.  The kind that said, you’ll be okay and everything is going to be okay.  Let me make you a pie and tuck you in.  But that look never made him feel safe, not even on his own mother.  It only ever made him feel hopeless and unprepared for whatever fight was coming.  And he had a feeling this particular fight was one he couldn’t win.

“Hey,” she said, taking a half step inside.  “Mr. Roman asked me to come get you.” Dean kind of figured it would only be a matter of time until that happened.  He was probably about to get fired, too, and he really didn’t have the emotional capacity for that to even matter right now.

“He, uh . . .” Jody looked him up and down, and it was like she couldn’t hold back saying, “Oh, Dean, I’m really sorry.”

Yeah, he was totally fired.  At least now, he and Cas didn’t have to sneak around.

He remembered the penny digging into his hand.  He considered the fact that maybe Cas didn’t want that.  Fuck. Dean should have walked away first, while he still had the chance.  But he had no idea if he would have been able to if he tried.

He made himself nod.  “Yeah, okay,” he said, voice rough, and he realized that answer didn’t make sense.  He unfisted his hand, which was a little hard to do under the strain, and put the penny back on the desk.  He said, “Thanks,” and that seemed like a better answer.

When he looked up, she gave him a tight smile, and turned around.  He followed her out of the office, into the hall, towards reception.  It felt like he was a kid being sent to the principal’s office. He felt like he was following his mother’s casket out of the church at her funeral.  He felt like he was on a patrol march through the desert. He felt like he was in a nightmare.

He didn’t know what made him look up when they were passing through reception; but he did.  Maybe he was just looking for an escape route. His eyes went to the exit doors that led out to the elevator well.  Two people were standing there in a conversation Dean couldn’t hear through the glass. It was Sam, his back to Dean, his shoulders straight in the way they always were when he was trying to stay strong.  Dean saw him nod his head as if agreeing to something.

Agreeing to something Cas had said.

Dean stopped walking.

Cas was there.  He was right there.  His tie was loose; his briefcase was hanging off his shoulder.  He had his coat on. His expression was drawn with exhaustion and defeat.  Dean was gaping. He couldn’t move.

Cas’ eyes slid away from Sam.  They found Dean, and they were as blue as ever.  Bluer, maybe, in the gray curtain that had fallen over everything.  And they were tilted downwards with emotion. He held Dean’s stare, and Dean had no idea what he was trying to convey with it.  Probably because Dean’s mind had puttered to a stop.

Whatever it was, Cas’ gaze swept to the floor before Dean could figure it out.  Next to him, the down-arrow light above one of the elevators lit up. Both Cas and Sam glanced at the doors sliding open.

Dean’s head was still blank, but his heart leapt out of his chest.  It told him to stop Cas.

He watched Cas turn towards the elevator.  And he moved. He was moving before his brain told him to do it.  He was fucking sprinting.

“Cas, wait!” he called.  He slammed his hand into the button that unlocked the doors, and pushed hard through the glass.

Both Cas and Sam whipped around.

“Dean.”

“Don’t go,” Dean said.  He barely clocked his brother as he rushed around him.  His eyes were on Cas. The only thing he could see was Cas.  The only thing he could think or say was the same goddamn thing he’d never been able to before.  Not to anybody. But it came out so easily now. “Please, don’t go.”

The elevator doors slid closed.  Cas didn’t try to stop them. He stood still as Dean got closer to him, and remained that way as Dean framed his jaw with his hands.

“Don’t go, Cas.”

Cas’ lips parted in a breath, and it sounded relieved.  He opened his mouth a little more. “Dean—”

“Sweetie, come on,” Jody said.  She tugged lightly at his sleeve.

Dean blinked, confused as to why he was still standing there.  Hadn’t he just been in the elevator well? Hadn’t he been with Cas?

Through the doors, Cas was walking into the elevator.  Sam was just standing there, letting him go. And Dean couldn’t even be angry, because he was doing the exact same thing.  Why wasn’t he moving?

“Dean,” Jody said, her tone only slightly more firm.

Dean turned towards her, still blinking dumbly.  Why the hell was he just letting Cas go?

Jody patted his arm and started walking again.  Dean went on autopilot and followed her, and he had no idea why.  Because, in his head, he was still with Cas. In his head, he didn’t let Cas walk away.

She led him down the short hallway that brought them to the executive suites.  Donna was at her desk, and as soon as she made eye contact with him, her usually bubbly demeanor shifted.  “Hey-ya, Dean-o,” she told him, somehow making it sound like, I’m sorry for your loss.

Dean kind of just stood there as Jody knocked on Dick’s door and stuck her head inside.  He said, “Hey,” which was just another automatic function.

Jody opened the door all the way, and motioned for Dean to go inside.  She looked like she was sending him to the firing squad. But she wasn’t.  He knew this song and dance very well. The fact that it was inside an office building instead of an army base in the desert made no difference.

He stepped inside the barebones room.  A dingy industrial light cast a yellow glow into the wooden corners of the windowless concrete walls.  It hung above a beat-up tin table. There was a chair on one side. Three people in camouflage fatigues stood on the other side.

Dick Roman in the middle.  Naomi was next to him. Bela Talbot was there, too, probably just to put a PR spin on this whole mess.  After all, they didn’t need any of this getting out to the general public, especially if things got into “war crime” territory.  Especially when their orders were “by any means necessary.”  

Dean looked down at his bound wrists, and then over his shoulder at Jody.  She was standing at attention next to the open door.

Dean didn’t have to be told what happened next.  He’d been on the other side of that table plenty of times, and they could do their worst.  After all, it’d probably be nothing compared to the things he’d done to gather information during a field interrogation.  He wasn’t in intelligence, but he’d been told plenty of times that he should have been. He’d been told he had a talent for such things.  It was usually the Major telling him that. It never felt like a compliment coming out of Alistair’s mouth.

Maybe it was Dean’s turn to be in the hot seat.  Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he’d sing like a bird.  Maybe it’d give him more things to dream about. Maybe they’d use his own tactics against him.

Dig—

“Dean, good.  Please sit,” Dick said, standing up from his cushy leather chair behind his desk.  He was gesturing to one of the armchairs in front of his desk. Naomi was in the other one, and it was turned sideways.  Bela was at the head of the conference table under the window. The rain was beating down on the glass, bursting in thick splatters.  Outside, the fog sat thick and heavy atop the skyscrapers. On a clear day, Dean bet he’d be able to see the departing cruise ships on the river from that view.

“Jody, you can close the door,” Dick said as Dean resigned himself to inevitable unemployment and walked to the chair.  The door clicked closed behind him.

Everyone’s eyes were on him as he settled into the chair, the leather rustling and creaking under him as he shifted.  Shifted, not squirmed. Definitely not squirmed.

“You, uh—,” he said, and had to clear his throat of the lump that had formed there.  “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Dick said as he sat back down in his own chair.  He leaned back and crossed one knee over the other. He folded his hands together on that knee.  He kept a smile on his face, but it was phony and shark-like. It felt cold. “As I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve been speaking to some of your colleagues about your personal relationship with Castiel Novak.”

Dean nodded, trying not to grit his teeth.

“We’ve already spoken to Castiel.”  Dean’s heart stuttered and fizzled. “And we’d like to hear your side of the story.”

His side?  What story?

“Well, uh,” he said, trying to find the best way to word this.  He tried for a grin, but it probably didn’t look convincing. “Like you said, isn’t that kinda, you know, personal?”

Dick blinked at him like he didn’t understand.  It was Naomi who explained, “That’s what we’re trying to ascertain, yes.”

And now Dean didn’t understand.  He stared at her blankly.

She leaned in over the notepad on her lap that her pen was poised above, because apparently this was something she had to take notes on.  Dean’s eyes flickered down briefly to see what she’d written, but he couldn’t read her handwriting upside down.

“Mr. Winchester, I’ll be frank,” she said, and his nerve-wrecked mind provided him with, Okay, Frank, I’ll be Dean.  It was a miracle he didn’t say that out loud.  “We’re aware that the idea for the GM pitch originated from you, and that Castiel was the one to bring it to Rowena.”

That wasn’t very frank.  He had no idea what she was accusing him of.  “Okay,” he said. “You’re welcome?”

“Did you use your relationship with Castiel to push your idea forward?”

Dean felt like she’d just reached over and slapped him across each cheek.  His eyes widened, because what the fuck?  Her expression remained completely neutral, too, like she’d been asking what he had for breakfast.

“What?” he shouted when all the shock was shoved hard out of the way to make room for offense.  “Are you kidding me?”

She didn’t answer.  She just waited for a reply.  Dean glanced at Dick, as if that asshole would actually help him.  He forced himself to simmer down by licking his lips. He said, very clearly, “No, I didn’t sleep with Cas to get him to pass my idea to Rowena.”  He really didn’t know if he was more offended for himself or for Cas. “We were just . . . in his office after a think tank meeting and the idea just . . . I dunno, it just happened.  I didn’t even think it was an idea in the first place until Cas said it was a good one.”

He remembered that night—how Cas had looked at him.  With a tenderness that was close to awe. In retrospect, it made Dean feel like the smartest, most capable person in the whole building.

He shot a glare at Dick.  “You wouldn’t even have that client if it wasn’t for him, so maybe you should be thanking him instead of firing him!”

Dick pressed his brows together, like all this was news to him.

“There’s no need to get defensive, Mr. Winchester,” Naomi said, holding up her palm like he was an animal in need of taming.  “We’re all very grateful for your contribution.” Bullshit.

Double-bullshit when she said, “I’m also told you accompanied Castiel to Paris for the production.”

He was pretty fucking sure that was a question.  “As his assistant!  He asked me to go!”

“But your relationship began prior to that trip, correct?”

Dean’s hands tightened into fists on the arms of the chair.  His teeth were gnashing together, probably wracking him up a giant dental bill—which was a shame, because he was about to be out of dental insurance once he was fired.  “Yeah,” he admitted, making it sound more like a challenge.

“Can you tell us when, exactly, your relationship began?” she asked, and Dean had enough.  It was none of their fucking business!

“Look, are you gonna fire me or what?”

She seemed confused.  “Excuse me?”

“Fire me,” he repeated, and then looked at Dick.  “’Cause it’s like, illegal to have sex with your assistant or something?”

“It isn’t illegal,” Bela spoke up behind him.  He turned around quickly in his chair, because he’d kind of forgotten she was even there.

“Okay,” he told her, and swiveled back to face front.  “Then, what the hell’s the problem here? We didn’t break any rules.  I didn’t do it to get a free vacation or whatever. I did it because—,” because I love him.  They didn’t need to know that.  Marshalling his thoughts, he switched gears: “So, it’s none of your damn business.  It’s personal.  You got no say over my personal life.  You get that, right?”

“Of course,” Naomi answered politically.  Dick stayed quiet. “But there are certain protocols for these things, you understand.  We take no issue with employees creating personal romantic relationships with each other, but it has to be disclosed with HR—especially when one of the partners is the other’s subordinate.  It prevents favoritism.”

Dean snorted, because if that was Cas showing favoritism, Dean really didn’t want to know how he treated everyone else.

“Is that amusing to you?” Naomi asked, raising a brow.  “All of this is stated clearly in the employee handbook.”  Dean didn’t mention that he’d thrown that shit out without so much as skimming it.  He really didn’t think he’d be there for so long when he first started. “Castiel knew that.”

It was just more bullshit.  “You’re saying we needed a permission slip to be together?”  What kind of corporate fuckery was that? What, were they trying to control every aspect of his life?

Besides, if they did know, he’d doubt they’d let him stay on as Cas’ assistant.  They’d probably move him to a different department—or fire him sooner!

Which led him to his next point: “Look, whatever.  We didn’t sign your contract or something. I get that.  My bad. But you’re really gonna fire us over it?” He really didn’t care if they sacked him, but Cas—Cas liked it there!

I like it with you, Dean remembered.  He tried not to let it get to him.

“No one said you were fired,” Dick said calmly, finally speaking up.  He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “In fact, I’d like to know where you got that idea.”

Dean blanched at him.  They weren’t firing him?  But, “You fired Cas.”

“Castiel quit,” Dick said.

What?

“Uh—Actually, he stepped down to pursue other opportunities,” Bela corrected, like she was reading it off a script.  Was that the new company line? Those were the semantics they were tossing out to keep all this under wraps? Bullshit.  Because Cas was fired and they all knew it!

Dean shook his head.  “No, wait—hang on! Look, this wasn’t just Cas, okay?  It was me, too. You want one of us to go, fire me!” He didn’t care if he was throwing himself under the bus.  Cas couldn’t leave. He couldn’t go. He couldn’t lose everything he worked for because of Dean. “Look, I’ll quit—or step down.  Or whatever! But you can’t fire Cas, okay?”

Was he begging?  He didn’t give a shit.  He’d beg for Cas. He’d dig himself a hole so deep, he’d never be able to get out.  He’d bury himself alive, just as long as Cas stayed above ground.

Dick stared at him levelly for a moment, as if considering it.  It made hope pluck at Dean’s heartstrings like a violin. But the strings snapped when Dick said, “Unfortunately, I can’t do that.”

No.  That made no sense.  Cas was the one they wanted.  Dean was just an assistant. He didn’t matter.  But he mattered to Cas, and Cas had to stay. Cas had to stay with him.  “Why not?”

“I can’t,” Dick said simply, like he thought he didn’t owe it to someone like Dean to elaborate.  He continued, “If you’d like to resign, I won’t stop you. It would be a shame, of course, but it’s your decision.  But, understand, if you do, that doesn’t mean Castiel will have his position back.”

Dean didn’t understand it.  He didn’t want to understand it.  He never wanted to be able to get into the minds of people like them.

“Whatever you decide,” Naomi told him.  She flipped to the back of her notepad and pulled out a few stapled printed pages.  “We’ll need you to sign this.” She turned it over and slid it to Dean across the desk.

Dean looked down at it.  It was some kind of contract, but the black inky words were swimming before his eyes.  He felt like they’d ask him to sign it in blood. “What is it?”

“An NDA.”

Were they kidding?  A fucking gag order?  No way he was signing that.

Misreading his hesitation, Naomi explained, “It simply states you won’t go to the press or any other third party regarding your relationship with Castiel.  All of your colleagues that we’ve spoken to have signed it; so did Castiel. It’s for your own protection, as well as the company’s.”

More bullshit.

“I think I want my brother to look this over,” he said, because it probably sounded better than go fuck yourself.

“We’d be happy to send you a digital copy of the agreement after you’ve signed it,” she said.

He looked at her sharply.  Did she think he was an idiot?  “Does that actually work on people?” he asked.

She just held out a pen for him to take.  “Your brother also signed this.”

Fuck.

“There’s nothing duplicitous in the agreement, I assure you,” Bela said, and that sounded exactly like something a duplicitous person might say.

He looked down at the contract, and tried to focus on the words.  He didn’t even know if it was written in English, and there were like, ten pages.  Yeah, totally nothing hidden in there.

He glanced up again.  “Sam and Cas signed this?”

Dick nodded, and Dean didn’t know whether to feel better or betrayed by that.  They probably didn’t give them an option—just like they weren’t giving him one.

And, honestly, why the fuck did it matter?  He wasn’t going to talk to Adweek about him and Cas, anyway!  But this kind of felt like signing his soul over to the devil.

He steeled himself against that feeling, and snatched the pen out of Naomi’s hand.  He signed and dated the contract. Naomi took it back and glanced it over, like she was checking to make sure he hadn’t signed with a fake name.  Satisfied, she tucked the contract away.

Dick stood up again, saying, “Well, thank you for your time, Dean.  Hopefully, our next interaction will be more pleasant.” That was kind of a low bar.  Dick went on, “And let us know what you decide about keeping your position. I’d truly hate to see you go—,” bullshit, “but I’d understand.”

Dean opened his mouth, about to quit right then and there, because he felt like he needed a shower after this meeting.  But something stopped him. All of him. His breath got caught in his lungs. He really didn’t know why, because he never actually liked this job.  It was just something he had to do for money. Sure, the free food and occasional box of donuts was a nice perk, but he really didn’t have any qualms about leaving the world of low-stakes gossip and pretending to look busy every time someone past his desk.

But he liked his team—even if Becky was on his shit list now—and he didn’t want to disappoint Sam more than he definitely already had.  He didn’t know why that made quitting so hard.

He nodded, again feeling a step out of sync with his body.  Everything was fuzzy around the edges. He realized he was turning around and walking towards the exit.  He barely felt the cold metal on his palm when he twisted the doorknob.

Dean stepped out of the office and closed the door behind him, and then he just kind of stood there for what felt like ten minutes.  He couldn’t be sure though. It was more likely Father Time jumped a flight to the Bahamas for a quick getaway.

He stared blankly ahead, not really seeing anything—not Jody and Donna glancing up at him with pity and caring, not the rain streaking down the window behind their desks, nothing.  He guessed he was still processing what had happened inside Dick’s office, and maybe he’d process everything happening now later. Maybe that was just his life from here on out: delayed reactions, living just a step out of sync with reality.

His hand was still wrapped around the doorknob.

And just like that, everything caught up with him.

He gripped the knob tighter, whipped back around, and threw open the door.  He was ready to do what he should have done two minutes ago. Hell, what he should have done three years ago—

“You okay, hon?”

Dean’s eyes flickered over to Donna, more attracted by sound and movement than anything else.  It took a second for her words to form any meaning in his brain.

He let his hand slide away from the knob.

“Yeah,” he said softly.  His voice sounded like that of a man who just spent the last week stranded in the Sahara.  It looked like she wanted to ask more questions. Both of them did. Questions like, are you sure?  Or, is there anything we can do?  Or, how could you be such a lovesick idiot?  Or, do you think you’ll really quit?

Dean didn’t have an answer to any of those questions that wouldn’t come out belligerently and probably make them never want to speak to him again.

Besides, he had a few questions of his own that were a lot more pressing.  But they couldn’t answer any of them. Sam could.

“I gotta, uh—,” he said, meaning that to come out a lot more coherently.  He didn’t even try to correct himself. He quickly walked away, down the small hallway that separated the executive suites from the rest of the employees.  He felt their sorry eyes following him.

He walked right to the legal department, which was probably the equivalent of Dante walking through the Inferno right now, but he was determined.  He was fucking dogged.

Maybe his footsteps were really loud, or maybe he gave off some kind of negative energy that rippled through the air, but everyone looked up as he past their desks.  Necks swiveled to keep him in their sights, all of them like weights. Dean was only looking at his brother.

Sam looked up when Dean was still a good fifteen feet away.  His eyes widened slightly, and his lips parted. He stood up in a rush.  They stared at each other, a conversation already passing between them—or, at least, the start of it.

We gotta talk, Sam’s eyes conveyed.

Angrier, Dean shot back, We gotta talk.

“We gotta talk,” they both said at once when Dean was close enough.

Dean grumbled.  “Yeah, ya think?”

Sam’s jaw formed a rigid line, but his eyes glanced around, as if he didn’t already know that everyone was looking at them like they were an attraction at the carnival.  His eyes landed briefly on Jess a few rows down, and he nodded once. Then, he looked back to Dean. “Okay, let’s go.”

They went to the conference room in the corner, and Dean went right to the opposite wall.  He could see his reflection, miserable and pissed off, in the window before his eyes refocused to the black clouds over the river in the distance.  Behind him, Sam closed the glass door gently. If it had been Dean, he would have slammed it.

“Alright,” Sam said, stepping further into the room.  In the window’s reflection, Dean saw him run his hands through his hair.  He paused, and stood up straighter. His shoulders dropped in a breath. “Dean, what the hell is going on?”  He was talking low, which meant people were still looking at them. Damn those all fish tank conference rooms.  Would a little privacy kill anyone?

Dean turned around, and almost regretted it with the way Sam was glowering at him.  He’d really fucked up that time—but he didn’t really care. He only had the capacity to care about one thing right now, and it wasn’t answering Sam’s questions.

“Sammy, I’ll explain everything later.  But right now, you gotta tell me what he said to you.”  He heard the way he’d said it. There was desperation in his voice, and at the same time he was trying to placate Sam with empty promises.  He couldn’t help it. The only thing he could see behind his eyelids was Cas’ face through the glass doors leading to the elevators.

He shouldn’t have let Jody pull him away.  He should have gone after Cas. He didn’t know why everything seemed so urgent, and maybe he was overreacting, but it felt like that was the last time he’d ever see Cas if he didn’t move fast.

But Sam seemed hell-bent on preventing that.  He was shaking his head quickly. “No. No way.  Dean. You’re talking. Now.”

Fuck.

“C’mon, Sam!  Like you don’t know!  Everyone in the fucking office knows!  Look at ‘em!” He gestured wildly to the cubicles outside the conference room.  At least three people had the good sense to quickly turn away to pretend like they hadn’t been caught.  The rest kept shamelessly staring. Dean wished there was a curtain or something he could pull down.

Sam crossed his arms like a brick wall over his chest and leaned back against the table.  “Yeah, I know, Dean. Roman and Naomi basically interrogated me about it this morning.”

Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut, because knowing it wasn’t as bad as hearing Sam say it.  He pictured someone walking up to Sam’s desk like the fucking KGB and dragging him off to some dark basement to torture the answers out of him.  He gave Sam the quick once-over, just to make sure he was okay. No visible wounds or blood. He still felt like a piece of shit, though.

He felt like an even bigger turd when he asked, “What’d you tell them?”

Sam leveled him with a look, lips pursing with annoyance.  But he said, “Nothing.”

Dean breathed, relaxing fractionally.  That was good. At least Sam’s job wasn’t in jeopardy.  Sam would never forgive him if Dean got him fired.

Sam, however, still seemed ready to hold a grudge.  He spread out his arms and forgot to lower his voice.  “Yeah, Dean, because I didn’t know anything!”

Dean scoffed.  “That’s not true.  I told you what happened when Cas started here.”

“Yeah, and then you left me totally out of the loop!”

“What, and Cas didn’t?  ‘Cause you two are apparently best friends!”

“Yeah, he didn’t either, but you’re my brother, Dean!”

Dean scoffed again, even though he knew Sam was right.  And, yeah, maybe he deserved this, but he didn’t need it right now.  He was already ashamed, and guilty, and convinced Cas never wanted to see him again for getting him fired.  He didn’t need Sam disowning him, too.

“I mean, what the hell?  Is it that you don’t trust me or something?” Sam pointed back to himself with both hands, practically leaning over.

And wasn’t that the most ridiculous thing ever?  “What? No! Of course not, Sam! This isn’t about you!”

“Yeah, I know, Dean.  It’s about you!”

Huh?

Dean had no idea what that was supposed to mean.  Sam had basically shouted it, voice so full of anger that Dean could only take it as an insult.  But maybe it wasn’t. Because Sam sounded worried, too. Why the hell was Sam worried?

Sam dropped the tension from his shoulders—tension that had been there for much longer than that morning.  Dean had never seen it before. But now, he watched Sam look sideways at the floor and shake his head softly.  He eyes looked a little wetter than before.

Oh god, was he about to cry?

Dean’s fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.  Or maybe it wasn’t that. It was more like maternal instincts versus his allergy to talking about feelings.  And Sam definitely looked like he wanted to talk about his feelings. Dean glanced up at the people at their desks.  Most of them seemed to have lost interest, but there were still a few quick looks every now and again.

“I knew what was going on,” Sam admitted to the floor.  His voice was low now. Dean had to look at him to hear it.  “Before this morning, I mean. Way before. Because, lately . . .” He sighed.  His hands wrapped around the edge of the table. He seemed to be rallying himself before he said, “Lately, it’s felt like I had my brother back.”

Dean tried to pick apart that statement, but the yarn was made of steel.  The only way to unravel it was to get a solder and blast his way down the middle.  “What are you talking about?”

Sam let out another long breath, and he wasn’t crying but it definitely sounded shakier than before.  “I mean, Dean, you’ve always—,” he picked one hand up and gestured at Dean in an aborted motion before letting it drop.  “Lived inside your own head. Even when we were kids, you just—you were never happy.”

Dean tensed, and he could feel the walls rising up around him brick by brick.  He didn’t want to talk about this. There was no reason to talk about it. But Sam kept going.  He let out a humorless laugh. “Hell, I think that’s why you really went into the army. ‘Cause you were chasing whatever fantasy you thought you’d find overseas.”

Fantasy?  Dean balked.  “What, you thought I was having tea parties over there, huh?  Rescuing princesses from dragons?”

Sam grunted in frustration.  “No! Dean, of course not!” His eyes slid over to Dean again.  “Look, I can’t imagine the shit you had to do over there. I know you wouldn’t want me to even start imagining it.  But, whatever it was, I don’t think it’s what you thought it was gonna be.”

Of course, it wasn’t.  It was messy and chaotic and ugly and backwards.  More days than not, he felt more like the villain than the hero.  Even if, sometimes, he felt a rush of glory, it was fleeting. Because being a good soldier was different than being a whole person.  “It’s never what anyone expects,” he excused.

Sam nodded.  “Yeah. And, you got back, and you were—I dunno, Dean, I thought you’d get better but it just got worse.  Especially after Mom died.”

He wasn’t making any sense.  Dean shook his head, about to cut Sam off, but then Sam kept talking.

“It’s like you—you—you just retreat into yourself or something,” he said.  “It’s like you think ignoring your problems or just running away from them is gonna help!  But you’re even unhappier now than you were before. And I know that scares you, Dean! I know it does!  But you won’t let anyone in.  You won’t let me in because you think I won’t understand or something!  But then . . .”

His eyes were fixed on Dean now, and Dean couldn’t look away.  He must have looked like a deer in the headlights.

“Then Cas . . . He could understand it all.  And, these last few months, you’ve seemed—.”

Don’t say it, Dean wanted to beg.  He couldn’t hear it. Because, even if Dean knew it, it’d be different to hear someone else say it.  It would put too much into perspective.

But Sam just went ahead and said it: “You seemed like you didn’t wanna run anymore.”

Whatever walls had formed around him were immediately destroyed, like in an air raid.  There was rubble at his feet and pressure in his eyes. It stung. It stung everywhere.

Sam let out a wet sound.  “And, man, the way he talks about you . . .” He shook his head.  Dean’s stomach lurched, because he wanted to know. He wanted to know what Cas said about him; he wanted to know how his name sounded in Cas’ mouth when Dean wasn’t around to hear it.  And, at the same time, he didn’t want to know.

Sam only offered a shrug.  “I thought maybe you guys had a chance at being happy.  And I figured, eventually, you’d wanna tell me about it . . .” He left that hanging.  An implied, but you never did, lingering in the air.  Dean wanted to collapse.

He had no idea Sam had been keeping that inside for so long.

“Well, gosh, Sammy.  I didn’t know you cared.”

Shit, that sounded sarcastic.  He really hadn’t meant it to.

Sam sighed again, visibly disappointed.  Dean really was the biggest asshole on the planet.

“No, shit—I’m—.”  He spun back around to the window, and ran his hand down his face.  Every instinct told him to brush it off, to tell Sam he was fine and there was nothing to worry about.  But that wasn’t true. And it’d be extra untrue if Cas dumped him.

“Dean, just,” Sam breathed, “talk to me.”

Talk to him.  How?

There was no reason those words should have elicited the reaction they did.  But Dean’s eyes started to well up. His temples began to thump and his fingers twitched.  His skin numbed with raised bumps.

He laughed—a quick, pathetic thing—and turned around.  His mouth was twisted into a smile that was probably no more than a wince.  “What d’you want me to say?” he asked. And he was really asking.  He hated how thick his voice sounded.

Why was everything coming to the surface?  Why now? Why couldn’t he shove it back down and bury it like always?  He just didn’t have the energy for it.

“Sam, I don’t know how to make you understand.”

“I’ll understand,” Sam promised, eager.  He sat up a little straighter. But how could he understand when he wasn’t even picking up on the most basic issue?

Dean shook his head, and swiped out his arms.  “No, man, you’re not getting it! You’re like on a whole other wavelength!”

Sam froze, still at attention.

Dean licked his lips.  They were suddenly cracked and dry.  “And that’s not your fault, okay? You’re doing everything you’re supposed to.  You got your job, your girl—you got a life. And I’m—man, I’m proud of you, I am.  But you don’t—.”

Fuck, why was it so hard to breathe?  Did someone shut off the air? Jesus, was Dean’s nose running?

“You don’t need me anymore, Sammy.”

Sam was on his feet at once.  “What?”

“Nobody—.”  He closed his eyes, let his own words sink in.  Because it was about time they did. “No one does.  Mom and Dad are gone. And you’re getting on with your life, and there just . . . There’s no room for me in it, Sam.”

Sam blinked, gaping.  Dean barely registered it.  He laughed, and that took the last of his energy.  He collapsed back against the window. The glass was chilled as it seeped through the back of his shirt.

“And I tried so hard to fit, Sam.  I did. You gotta believe me. I retired, I—I took this job.  And I thought, hell, I could be good at it. Maybe it’s the only thing I could be good at because it’s basically just looking after people and—and taking orders.  But I can’t even do that right, apparently! And—fuck.” Something warm dropped out of his eye.  He whipped his hand up to wipe at them with his thumb and forefinger. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

He realized Sam hadn’t said anything for minutes.  It striped the air straight out of Dean’s lungs. He dropped his hand, and faced his brother.

“You’re right,” Sam said, expression hard.  “I never thought about it like that, but it’s true.  I don’t need you, Dean. I never needed you.”

Dean felt his knees give out.  He sunk down the wall and—

“Is that really what you think?” Sam was looking at him like he’d been punched in the face.

Dean was too tired to laugh again.

“Dean,” Sam said, stepping forward, and he said the word like it contained every important thing that’s ever happened to him.  He shook his head. “Of course, I need you. You’re all I’ve got.”

No.  No, that wasn’t true.  Sam was just saying that.  Dean shook his head. “You got Jess.  You got your career.”

“Yeah, but—Dean, my career—that’s just a thing.  And Jess . . .” Sam glanced away, like he could see Jess around the corner.  He turned back to Dean, face set like he meant business. “I love Jess. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with her.  But—all that life I had before? Dean, that was with you.  And I wanna share everything that comes next with you.”

Dean couldn’t believe that.  He couldn’t let himself. Because, sure, it may have been true, but it wouldn’t be forever.  Sam would break that promise eventually. He’d forget he’d ever made it. And still, hope seeped in like the rain on his back.

Sam kept talking, fire in his words.  All of them were so firm, like he was trying to beat them down with a hammer to get them to stick.  “When me and Jess get in a fight, who do you think I’m gonna call? When I’m freaking out the first time our kid gets sick—or—or when I just need some advice on how to be a person—Hell, when I just need to kick back a few beers and go for a drive.  Dean, I’m calling you.  Because I know you’re always gonna be there, no matter what.”

Dean couldn’t breathe.  Couldn’t even think. His mind was short-circuiting.

Sam’s eyes went big and sad.  “Dean, you’re my big brother. I’m always gonna need you to put me on your handlebars and bike to me safety.”

When feeling returned to Dean’s limbs, he ripped his eyes away.  God, he was such and idiot. He was so blind. He’d been so wrapped up in his own shit, thinking he was losing Sam, he didn’t realize he was the one pushing Sam away.  And Sam was the stubborn asshole digging in his heels and refusing to go anywhere.

“Yeah, you probably wouldn’t fit on them anymore, Gigantor,” Dean muttered, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say to make it right.

Sam let out a low breath of laughter.  And then he looked up again, still digging in those heels.  He said, “And I wanna be that person for you, too, Dean. I’m sorry if you—I’m sorry if I made you feel like I’m not.  You do everything for me. Let me help you for once.”

He sounded like he was talking in specifics.  Like he was ready to start right then and there.  Dean met his eyes.

“Tell me how to help, Dean,” Sam said.

It brought Dean back to himself.  It gave him a goal—something to reach, even if it seemed too far away.  He had to try. “Tell me what he said, Sam.”

Sam nodded, just as determined.  “Not much. But—something about a job offer.  He said he was on his way there now.”

Fuck!  Maybe Dean was already too late.  His adrenaline spiked. It flooded his ears.  “In Philly?”

Sam shook his head, nothing else to offer, but it was enough.  “I dunno.”

But Dean did.  He was sure. And, no.  No, no, no. Cas couldn’t just leave him like that, without even a goodbye.  Something in Dean raged at him to just let Cas go, because if that was the way Cas wanted it, fine.  If Cas wanted to abandon him, fine!

But there was something louder inside of him.  Something that whispered, don’t you dare let him walk away.  Not him.

“Fuck, Sammy.  I gotta stop him.”  He already felt out of breath.  “I can’t—I’m not losing him. I can’t.  He—He needs me . . .”

Shit.

No.  No, Cas didn’t need him.  It was something else. Just a slight something, but the gap between the two might as well have been a mile deep.  Deep enough to fall down. Dean hadn’t realized it until now. “He wants me.” And Dean wanted him.

Sam’s expression flattened out.  He stood taller. He nodded. “Okay,” he said in his getting down to business tone.  “Okay, then. We look up trains, buses, flights—anything going to Philly in the next couple hours.”

Research.  Good. Sam was good at research.

Dean nodded back.  It was good to have a game plan.

“Okay, right.  Yeah, you do that.”  He had something else in mind.  His stomach flopped at the thought of it as he glanced at the door to the conference room.

He walked around Sam, and pushed his way back into the aisle of desks.  As he moved, people stood up and watched him, but he didn’t look back. He was too spurred on.  He was too—

No.  No, fuck that.  Fuck thinking about it and getting himself worked up.  Fuck dreaming.

If he was doing this, he was doing it right; or, at least, he was doing it at all.

“I got something I gotta do first,” he said.  He walked around Sam, and pushed his way back into the aisle of desks.  He stormed down the hall into the executive suites.

Jody and Donna must have heard his footsteps thundering against the floor, because they both looked up.  Dean didn’t know what kind of expression he was wearing, and he hoped it looked as uncompromising as it felt, but Jody’s eyes immediately widened.

“Dean, think about what you’re doing,” she said, like she knew exactly why he was there.  She stood up. So did Donna.

“I’m done thinking,” he told her, because he wasn’t going to be talked out of this.

“Maybe not the best idea, Dean-o!” Donna tried.

Dean ignored them both and slammed through the door.  He heard them both gasp, but only because he was so goddamn present in the moment.  He was aware of absolutely everything around him—and absolutely everything happening inside of him.  Every beat of his heart. Every ounce of adrenaline coursing in his ears. The stillness in his fingers.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had so much clarity.

Inside, Dick and Naomi were standing over the conference table.  They had the stack of NDAs spread out around them. Bela was gone.  They both looked up quickly, scandalized. He didn’t let them so much as suck in the crooked air they needed to speak.

He announced, “I fucking quit.”

Damn, that felt good.

Neither of them looked surprised.  Actually, Naomi looked kind of relieved, like she couldn’t wait to get rid of him.  The feeling was mutual.

Dick said, like he just wanted to have it on record, “You do?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and he wasn’t done.  “So, you soulless sons of bitches can take your gag orders and your relationship permission ships and shove them up your ass!  Because I fucking quit.”

Damn, that felt even better.  He wondered how many times he could say that before it got to be too much.  Probably an unlimited amount. It almost felt as good as an orgasm.

He turned around, and started for the door, and then he realized he still wasn’t done.  He looked at them and said, “Oh, and you’re right.  That idea that got you millions of more dollars? It was mine.”  They blinked at him.  He told them, “You’re welcome.”

And now he was done.

They both blinked at him, expressions blank, like none of it really mattered.  For a split second, it made his gut clench with embarrassment, but then he remembered he really couldn't care less.

He walked out, and he didn’t give himself a second to consider the fact that he’d probably just blown up any chance of a reference for his next job.  But professionalism could suck his dick. He felt great. Jody and Donna gaping at him didn’t even give him pause. He wanted to throw himself a parade like it was goddamn Independence Day.

At the end of the hallway, he practically ran into Sam, whose phone was held in his hand, screen still lit up.

Dean felt like he was on fire.  Maybe, the second his adrenaline faded, he’d crash, but he was riding this as far as he could.  “What’d you find out?”

Sam blinked at him, and his eyes briefly flashed in the direction of the executive suites over Dean’s shoulder.  “Dean. What did you just do?” he asked, even though he sounded like he already knew the answer.

Dean dismissed it with a wave.  “Sam.”

Sam dropped it for now.  “Right.” He looked back at his phone.  “Okay, so no more trains to Philly today, and the next flight takes off at 9:45.  But there’s a Megabus leaving for there in—,” he checked his watch, even though there was a clock on his phone.  Dean didn’t have the capacity or the time to tease him about that right now. “Twenty-seven minutes.”

Goddamn it.

“Where’s the bus leaving from?” Dean asked, because that was one.  Cas would be on that bus. Dean could feel it under his skin.

“Thirty-fourth Street.”

Dean turned around quickly on his heels.  He needed to grab his backpack and leave—and never come back, mostly because they probably wouldn’t allow him on the premises again after that display.  But any photos or personal crap he had on his computer, Charlie could wipe it for him; and Sam could get anything physical off his desk. Fuck it for now.

He had to move quickly.  Thirty-fourth was too far away to walk, especially in the pouring rain; and he didn’t want to risk the subway getting backed up.  The bus would take forever with how often it stopped. He’d need to grab a cab. It was worth the expense.

“Okay, I’m going now,” Dean called over his shoulder.

He heard Sam say, “Good luck,” like it was the most serious, important mission in the world.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks.  He didn’t know what came over him—maybe everything.  He turned back around and marched towards Sam. Sam’s brows pulled together, confused, but Dean didn’t let that hinder him.  He threw his arms around Sam and pulled him into a tight hug.

At first, Sam went rigid, surprised.  And then he settled into the hug. His arms went around Dean, and his chin hooked around Dean’s shoulder.  It was nice, and probably lasted a little long but Dean was okay with that.

Until he remembered that he was on the clock.

He leaned out of the hug, and offered a hopeful smile up at his brother.  “Thanks, Sammy,” he said, and he meant it more than Sam could ever know.

Sam smiled back, and nodded once.  “Go get ‘im,” he said.

Dean turned around again, and went to go get ‘im.

///

The rain was coming down in sheets now.  Streams of it slid down the sloped road, escaping the storm drains as they ran towards the rushing river along the harbor.  Traffic had worsened, too—and so much for a cab being faster than the subway. Cars were jammed in the intersection on all sides, headlights on and windshield wipers swiping hurriedly back and forth.  The pile up went all the way down the street, where Dean could see the looming shadows of the charter buses, nearly invisible in the gloom. The only things that stood out were the orange lights of the destination signs atop them.

Boston.

Washington, DC.

Cleveland.

Philadelphia.

Dean’s stomach was in knots.  He didn’t know why. In this traffic, the bus wasn’t getting far anytime soon; and, according to the ticket he’d actually purchased on the app he’d actually downloaded, it wasn’t scheduled to leave for another ten minutes.  But it felt like he was running out of time.

Above the intersection, the light changed green.  Immediately, there was a cacophony of honking horns, someone laying their hand down on theirs for one continuous beep.  No one moved, and it didn’t take long for light to turn yellow, and then red again. Dean’s eyes flickered to the meter of the cab.  $12.65. Now $12.75. The TV monitor built into the back of the seat in front of him was on mute, Alex Trebek on screen giving the answer to a passenger-friendly Jeopardy! question.

Dean had to go.  Now. He couldn’t just sit there.  Damn the traffic. Fuck the rain. Cas was on a bus on the other side of the intersection and he was about to leave forever.

“Let me out here,” Dean decided.

The taxi driver didn’t argue, or even seem to care.  He certainly didn’t seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation.  He slowly lifted his hand to the meter to turn it off. Dean’s knee started bouncing nervously.  He looked back over at the bus to make sure it was still there.

The TV screen changed, showing payment options.  Dean clicked on the debit option, and waited for the screen to load.  “C’mon, c’mon. Son of a . . .” he muttered, his heart jumping into his throat when it told him to swipe his card.  This was taking too long.

Need a receipt?

Fuck no.

Dean barely muttered a thanks to the driver before bracing himself and opening the door.  The rain rushed inside, hitting the black seats and sliding along the plastic interior of the door.  Dean jumped out and slammed it closed. He’d forgotten his umbrella, which probably wouldn’t do any good anyway, judging by the inside out wind-ruined umbrella that someone abandoned on the sidewalk.  There was one brave soul tenting her jacket over her head as she rushed through the downpour, like she could avoid being soaked if she moved fast enough. Most people were huddled under the scaffolding across the street, waiting out the rain.

Dean couldn’t wait with them.  He was already drenched as he rushed down the sidewalk, running along the river of rainwater.  His boots slapped along the concrete, seeming to echo, and the splashing puddles kicked up water onto the bottom of his jeans.  His clothes were clinging uncomfortably to his chest and shoulders. His hair was flattened. He thought he could drown it all.

He didn’t stop when he got to the intersection, even though the crosswalk sign was telling him to.  He wove diagonally through the cars’ bumpers, which remained at a standstill, and broke free on the opposite street corner.  Water was spilling into his mouth, running cold under his collar and down his back.

There was a line of people outside the Philly bus, clutching their umbrellas low on their heads and curling in on themselves.  As Dean got closer, he didn’t recognize any of them. There was no dark hair curling behind ears, no slouched but broad shoulders, no sturdy legs.  Cas had probably already boarded.

God, Dean hoped he was right about Cas being on that bus.

Dean waited on line, still jumping up and down, even though he was there.  He’d made it. There was no reason to be nervous that he’d miss Cas.

But there was every reason to be nervous that Cas would send him away—that Cas would want to leave every aspect of his life over the last few months behind and start anew.  That Dean would be left alone, watching the bus drive away as he stood on the street corner in the pouring rain. Jesus. He felt like he was in a bad modernized made-for-TV remake of a Jane Austen novel.

He flashed the digital ticket to the bus driver as he stepped on board, now mercifully shielded from the splattering rain.  His breath was coming out in short bursts, and he didn’t know if that was because he’d ran and he was really out of shape or because he was terrified.

His eyes moved down the rows of seats.  People were settling in, backpacks on some of their laps, others squeezing the water out of their hair and shaking it from their clothes.  Cas was toward the back, temple resting against the window, his reflection transparent in the streaked glass. His hair was in wild, hopeless waves as it dried, and he looked miserable.  He stared out blankly, blue eyes still. Dean stopped in his tracks, suddenly second-guessing himself.

Maybe Cas didn’t want to see him.  Maybe he wanted to leave. Maybe Dean should let him.

The person behind Dean cleared her throat pointedly, and Dean was forced back into reality.  There was no turning back now. Literally. There was a line of people behind him, and it’d be too difficult to turn around and get off the bus without Cas noticing him.  He rallied himself, and made for the empty seat next to Cas. He didn’t let himself think about anything. Didn’t let himself try to renege on this. It was too important.

He put all his focus on the seat, like it was the only thing in the world.  And, whatever happened after he planted his ass down on it was a problem for later.

When he reached it, he allowed himself to look at Cas, who was still staring out the window, his briefcase hugged against his chest.  Dean swallowed hard, hovering there. He said, “This seat taken?” It was a terrible joke. He wished he could start over. Damn it. Cas would definitely tell him to leave now.

Cas blinked, seeming to come awake.  He glanced up, his mouth pressed in a polite but annoyed kind of way, like he was about to tell the stranger asking to sit there that the seat was free but he wasn’t happy about someone claiming it.  But then he saw Dean, and his eyes flashed—like he was afraid.

“Dean,” he said, gobsmacked.

Dean forced a slanted smirk onto his face and sat down.  His hair was dripping. His clothes were dripping. Everything was dripping.  “Thought you were gonna leave without saying goodbye?”

Cas’ eyes followed him, his mouth still agape, his gaze roaming around Dean’s face.  “I—,” he said, but he didn’t seem to know how to follow that up. He tore his face away and whispered, ashamed, “I’m only going down for a few days to look at apartments.  I was going to call you when I came back.”

It kind of hurt, because Cas wanted to make sure everything was in place so he couldn’t back out before talking to Dean, so he couldn’t be convinced to stay.  Dean had been ignoring the hurt; but, now that he was looking at the guy, it crept up on him. A lump was forming in his throat. “Why?” he managed to rasp out.

Cas’ nostrils flared.  “So I could come up with a reasonable explanation.”

At least he was honest, but that hadn’t been what Dean was asking.  Cas knew that. “No, why didn’t you tell me you were going?” Dean snapped, because getting angry was easier than feeling all that hurt at full force.

Cas’ jaw tightened.  And then, “I didn’t know how to say goodbye to you.”  He forced himself to look up. “I’ve never had anyone to say goodbye to that means what . . .” Whatever he was going to say, it doubled his fear.  He reorganized his thoughts. “Anyone like you.”

It made Dean afraid, too, but he thought he was probably okay being scared shitless until the day he died.

But he didn’t really know what to say to that, because it was way too big to process all at once.  Instead of answering, he said, “I quit.”

Cas’ expression quickly shifted into shock.  “What?”

“I told them they should keep you on instead.”

Cas sighed, dejected.  “That’s what I told them about you.”

Dean could feel his expression melting in a soft smile, and his eyes probably turned heart-shaped.  They felt like they had, anyway. He couldn’t shove it down, and he didn’t even try.

Cas swallowed, and asked, “What happened?”

Dean shrugged, letting out an awkward kind of laugh.  “Well, you’re still fired,” he admitted. “And I’m still gone.”

Cas shook his head at his lap.  “You shouldn’t have done that, Dean.”

Dean disagreed.  “I shoulda done that a long time ago.”  Maybe he was still on the high from it, and he’d regret it tomorrow when he realized he had no source of income; but, for right now, that wasn’t important.

“Sammy told me where you were headed.  So, I came straight here. Booked myself a ticket.”

“You what?” Cas was gaping again, and Dean’s stomach lurched with the fear that Cas didn’t want him, after all.

He tried to hide it by rolling his eyes.  “Yeah, dumbass. Why do you think they let me on the bus?”

Cas shook his head, and Dean chose to interpret the look in his eyes as awe instead of irritation.  “Why did you do that?”

Dean snorted, because wasn’t it kind of obvious by now?  “To get you off of it!” Cas only blinked at him, the cogs behind his eyes visibly spinning.  Dean really wished he knew what he was thinking. He powered through, “So, you can either get out with me here and now, or I’m gonna spend the next two-hour bus ride nagging you about it.”  He gave a tight, cat-like smile to show Cas he wasn’t messing around.

Cas shook his head again, and Dean really hoped he wasn’t about to get rejected, because he’d rather be shot dead.

“I already accepted the job in Philadelphia.”

Was that all he was worried about?  “So un-accept it! Who cares?”

“For what, Dean?” Cas said, anger suddenly in his voice.  It flashed in his eyes. “I stay here, and you’ll go on your trip.”

It was kind of funny.  For the first time in his life, Dean forgot all about his trip.  It had been in the back of his mind every waking second for years; but he hadn’t even thought about it all day.  And he knew he had a decision to make. It wasn’t a decision that he should be making on a whim while sitting on a bus.  But he did. “No,” he said surely.

Cas didn’t seem to understand.  “No?”

“No,” Dean repeated, feeling even more sure.  “We both stay here, or I go with you. That’s that.”  Was he being clingy? He didn’t care. He was okay with annoying the living hell out of Cas for the rest of time.

Cas seemed pretty okay with it, too, from the way his eyes softened.  But he said, “I can’t let you uproot your life for me.”

Dean barked out a laugh.  He gestured his arms out. “What life?  I quit my job, remember?”

“But, Sam—.”

Okay, yeah, there was Sam.  But Sam would be happy for him.  Sam would want this for him. Dean groaned.  “It’s Philly, Cas, not Guam. I can have dinner with Sam every night and still be home for Letterman if I wanted to.”  Even though Letterman wasn’t a thing anymore, but that was beside the point.  The point was: “It’s not that far. Stop being dramatic.”

Cas shot him a withering look.  “Dean, you just chased after me in a torrential downpour and bought a bus ticket in a grand gesture.  Which one of us is being dramatic?”

Okay, fair enough.  Dean stopped himself from blushing by licking his lips and staring ahead at Cas.  “Don’t change the subject.”

Cas looked away, and Dean had the distinct feeling he was losing him.  In the front of the bus, there was a whining sound as the bus driver closed the door.  Dean glanced that way quickly, heart pounding. There was no time left.

“Cas, look at me,” he said, shuffling in his seat to turn his body more into Cas, and he edged closer to the divider between them.  He dipped his head, fishing for Cas’ eyes until Cas relented. Dean steeled himself. “I’m about to ask you to do something, okay? Call it a personal favor.  I never asked anyone to do this—ever. And it’s gonna be awkward as hell and I might throw up on you.”

Cas knitted his brows together, but that was his problem because who on earth wouldn’t find the prospect of that whole speech appealing?  “Dean—.”

Dean leveled his hand between them to show he meant business.  He inhaled, ran his tongue over his lips, and said, as steadily as he could, “Stay.”  He didn’t even blink. “Cas, please. Get off this bus with me. We can figure it all out.”

Cas’ eyes had gone a little glassy, and Dean was pretty sure that actually was amazement on his face now.

Some of the emotion that Dean had tried to keep at bay was seeping into his voice now.  “Come on, Cas. Figure this out with me.” He swallowed, and he was terrified of the answer, but he wasn’t finished because everything inside of him demanded him not to end it with a plea.  He said, “Or, I’m following you to Philly and you’ll never get rid of me—and that’s a threat, you understand what I’m—?”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence.  Cas grabbed him by the front of the shirt and hauled him into a kiss.  The force of it kind of hurt, and Dean wondered if he’d get a fat lip, but he was willing to take the risk.  He kissed back, his hands coming up to cradle Cas’ jaw. They were both soaking wet, but Dean didn’t feel waterlogged anymore.  He felt like he was floating.

And he took that as a yes.

Suddenly, he heard clapping.  It broke into his head, shattering the intimacy he’d forgotten they didn’t actually have.  He whipped around to see the source of the noise. It was the woman—probably just in her mid-twenties—across the aisle from them.  She had a huge smile on her face and joy in her eyes as she applauded them. Around her, everyone else was absorbed in their books or cell phones, or they were already asleep.  Dean and Cas just blinked at her.

She must have noticed she was the only one clapping, because she slowed to a stop, and glanced around in clear embarrassment.  “Oh,” she said, letting her hands drop to her lap. “I thought that was gonna be more of a thing . . .”

“What?” Cas asked, and Dean could tell he was glaring with his you’re an idiot eyes by the tone of his voice.

Dean had to agree with him.  “Mind your business,” he told her.  She must have been from out of town.

She quickly looked away, and Dean turned back to Cas.  However, before he could say anything, the bus lurched forward.  Both their eyes swept to the front, where the bus driver was boredly staring out at the road in the overhead mirror as he merged.

“Guess that settles that,” Dean said, accepting it.  He should have been a lot more annoyed, because now he’d have to spend a few hours in traffic going to Philly, and he didn’t even pack a bag.  But he was weirdly okay with it, because he’d be with Cas. He grinned. “Looks like we’re going to Philly.”

Cas smiled back, a beaming thing, even if it was close-mouthed.  He reached for Dean’s hand in his lap and intertwined their fingers.  And, by the way he was looking at him, Dean must have hung the damn moon.

“I may have a third option,” Cas said, giving his hand a squeeze.  “If you’re up for it.”

Dean was up for anything in that moment.  He said, “Well, whatever it is, you got the whole bus ride to convince me.”  But that wasn’t completely true. Because, if Dean got his way, they’d have the rest of their lives.

///

They spent three days in Philly, with only a couple of hours dedicated to Cas canceling his viewing appointments with realtors and property owners, and going into Carver & Edlund Publishing to “regretfully” inform them he wouldn’t be taking the position, after all.  Dean was in the hotel room with him as Cas called that startup out in California accepting their offer. It was a little bit less money than what the publishing house had offered, and Dean stupidly tried to talk him out of it, but Cas seemed pretty adamant.

During the rest of their stay, Cas showed Dean the city—some touristy spots, just so Dean could say he’d seen the Liberty Bell and some pretty impressive murals; and Cas took him to some local spots, too.  And he couldn’t exactly leave Philly without a cheesesteak. Cas showed him the orphanage he’d spent his more formative years in, with the Catholic school and church attached. He didn’t seem too surprised that a few of the nuns, who “were old when I was a child,” were still alive, because “they’re too mean to die.”

But Dean thought they were actually pretty nice.  One of them even gave Cas a big hug and regaled Dean with stories about how much of a troublemaker Cas was when he was a kid.

“This guy?” Dean had blanched, pointing at Cas, who rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yes,” was the answer.  “He never did as he was told.”

When he really thought about it, Dean guessed that fact shouldn’t have surprised him.

The next two weeks were used to clean out their apartments and put what they could into Dean’s storage unit.  The rest was sold or donated. Dean signed over his half of the lease to Andrea. Cas broke his lease for the end of the month.  They signed another one for a condo whose owners were moving out at the beginning of autumn and were looking for renters. It was up in the mountains, about fifteen minutes from where Dean had grown up.  The bedroom windows faced west, rendering Cas’ blackout curtains useless. He seemed pretty excited about that.

Dean had scoped out the neighborhood, and he figured there were a few places he could find work.  Some bars with a help wanted sign in the windows.  A garage that might need help in the office, which could eventually lead to him working on cars.  Lee mentioned that he heard the admissions office in West Point was looking for an admin, and their new place wasn’t too far away.  Dean guessed he wouldn’t say no to that job if it came to it. He was just done with corporations and skyscrapers.

But that was a problem for the future.  As for now, there was really nothing left to do except pack the car and pick a route for their roadtrip.  They’d head cross-country, so Cas could go into the home office in Santa Monica and introduce himself to his new team.  On the way back, they’d have to make a stop in Denver for a few days so Cas could show his face at a production shoot that, funny enough, was another car commercial.

Other than that, their route was a little up in the air.  They could do the northern states on the way to California, and the southern states on the way back.  Or the opposite. Or they could zigzag, depending on what sights they wanted to see and where they wanted to spend more time.  Dean had a list, which he had to compromise on now that he was sharing the road with someone else. Cas had a map on his phone.

He was still squinting down at that map, phone in one hand and coffee thermos in the other, on the morning they were leaving.  The last of his apartment had been packed up, his suitcase and a few pillows and blankets were added into the Impala’s trunk with Dean’s stuff.  Sam and Jess had come by to help, even though there wasn’t much left to do.

Dean finished filling the cooler of beer, water, and food with ice and left the two of them to do one last sweep of Cas’ apartment to make sure it was completely empty.  The only thing that remained was that beautiful 4K TV, but he tried not to think about it. He carried the cooler out to the car parallel parked between a BMW and a Range Rover on the quiet street.  It was a pretty warm day, promising a hell of a summer, and Dean was already a little sweaty from the heavy lifting.

His eyes flashed to Cas, who was leaning against the back passenger door of the Impala’s fresh black metal glinting with starbursts.  He was supposed to be watching the open trunk to make sure nothing got stolen, but he was so focused on his phone that Dean was pretty sure he wouldn’t notice a hoard of people walking up and robbing them blind.

He was doubly sure of that when he put the cooler in the trunk and slammed it closed.  Cas jumped, surprised, his eyes ripping away from the phone. He settled when he realized it was just Dean.

“Good job being lookout,” Dean teased.  Maybe if this block weren’t so empty, he’d be more frustrated.  Or maybe not. There was a static hum running under his skin. It’d been like that since last night, and he never knew that insomnia could actually feel so thrilling.  There was a fidget in his fingers that came from excitement—the peculiar brand of jitters reserved for anticipation of a big trip.

But, honestly?  Dean wasn’t sure it was the trip causing it.  He thought it was more about Cas going with him.  All his life, he’d pictured doing this alone. He pictured turning towards the shotgun seat and finding it empty, and he never realized that empty wasn’t the right word for it.  Missing.  Something had been missing.

It wasn’t missing anymore.

Dean rounded the back of the car and settled in next to Cas.  He leaned his ass against the heated metal and folded his arms across his chest.  Their shoulders brushed. He peered down at the map on the phone, hardly visible in the glare from the sun.  “Still can’t decide?” Dean asked. He leaned in to drop a quick kiss to Cas’ shoulder.

“I’m deciding,” Cas assured him.  Dean wanted to call him a liar, but all he did was grin.

He caught movement when Sam and Jess exited the apartment building, closing the door behind them, behind Cas, for good.  The thought made Dean’s mood sour. He glanced back at Cas’ profile, letting his eyes flicker up and down. His stomach turning, he made himself ask, “And you’re sure, right?  Like, really sure?”

Cas huffed like he was expecting the question, which was fair because Dean had asked it about a hundred times.  He lowered his phone. “Dean, it’s a little late to change my mind now.”

It wasn’t an answer.  “Well, yeah, but . . . You’re sure?”

Cas cocked his head to the side, but not in confusion.  He raised his brow, leveled Dean with a look. Dean didn’t know what his expression was doing, but whatever it was, it made Cas turn into him fully.  Cas draped his arms over Dean’s shoulders, careful not to spill his coffee. He said, “Dean. There’s nothing I want more.”

He sounded certain.  Dean believed him. He placed his hands on Cas’ hips, and he wanted to stay like that for good.  He said, “Yeah, me too.”

A soft smile twitched at the corners of Cas’ lips.  It was more prominent in his eyes. He looked like he believed it, too.

Dean leaned in to kiss him.  Cas kissed back, warmer than the morning sun.

It was broken short when Sam and Jess came up behind them, and Sam complained, “Ugh!  Come on, guys. Like you’re not gonna do enough of that on the road.”

Dean leaned away, his smile turning mischievous as he looked at Cas.  Cas looked back with darkened eyes, and a promise of just how much they’d do that in the coming months.

They separated, and Dean looked around to his brother with a smug expression.  “Yeah, figured we’d give you one more show first.”

Sam groaned and rolled his eyes.  And Dean was going to miss him. He hadn’t been away from Sam since his last time overseas.  It was a shame, really, that Sam wasn’t going with them. It almost felt wrong, in a way. But Sam would be there when they got back.  And they would be back.

As Sam circled around him to say bye to Cas, Dean went to Jess.  She gave him a smile that was equal parts I’m excited for you and I’m going to miss you.  She gave him a big hug and a kiss to his cheek.  He told her, “Now, I’m serious, if Sammy starts to be too much, just gimme a call.  I’ll drive right back and kick his ass.”

She laughed, eyes flashing to Sam over Dean’s shoulder.  “Thanks, but I think I can handle the ass-kicking.”

Dean nodded.  “Damn straight.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder as she moved around him to say goodbye to Cas.  Dean turned to his brother, and something heavy formed in his chest. He pushed a smile, and flapped his arms against his sides.  He had flashbacks to all the times he’d said goodbye to Sam before leaving for his tours, unsure he’d ever see him again. Unsure he’d make it back home.

But he was sure now.  He was sure.

So, why was this still so hard?

Sam’s eyes were big, his smile tight, like he was thinking the same thing.  And then he opened his mouth. “Dean, I swear to god, you better answer your phone when I call.  I’m not letting you skip out on your best man responsibilities.”

Okay, illusion shattered.  Dean dropped his shoulders in an exhale.

“I’m not skipping out on my responsibilities,” he mocked, dismissing it.  Sam pursed his lips like he didn’t believe it. Dean shot him an exasperated look.  “Dude. The wedding’s like, a year away. We’ll only be gone for three months. And we already picked out that venue upstate so what’s the problem?  Renting a tux can wait, right?”

Sam huffed, even though he couldn’t argue.  He tried his damnedest to, anyway. “Okay, but you’re the one who’s getting all crazy about the bachelor party.  You know you have to book that stuff soon, right?”

“Oh, I got it covered!”  He did. He was all over it.  Years of admin work taught him that pretty much anything could be done over the phone.  “Stop being such a Bridezilla. C’mere.”

He lifted his arms, pulling Sam into a hug.  Sam dropped the attitude immediately, because it wasn’t real, and fell into the hug.  Dean tightened the embrace, holding on for what was probably longer than socially acceptable.  When it broke, Sam cleared his throat and looked down, not meeting Dean’s eye. Dean glanced to the side and took a step backwards, too.  When they were far enough away, they made eye contact, and Sam nodded. His smile was a little shaky again.

“See ya soon, Sammy,” Dean promised.

Sam nodded.  “Yeah. Call me from wherever you land tonight.”

Which reminded Dean, he still had no idea where they were going.  He promised Sam he would anyway, and then he walked around the car to join Cas inside.  Cas was looking at his phone again as Dean stuck the key in the ignition and listed to the engine turn over.  His fingers tapped against the leather steering wheel, eager to get started.

But he looked up into the rearview mirror, where Sam and Jess’ reflection waved them off one more time, and then started down the street.  Sam looked over his shoulder as they walked. Dean smiled gently, even though his brother couldn’t see his face, and lifted his hand in a wave.  As Sam retreated further away, he waved back, and then turned around again.

As the car warmed up, Dean brought his attention to Cas.  “Alright, TomTom. What route are we taking?”

Cas sighed heavily, and dropped his phone to his lap.  He looked forwards, his eyes bright blue as the sun lit them up.  He said, tone thoughtful, “Why don’t we make it up as we go?”

Dean pulled the sides of his mouth down and shrugged.  It sounded good to him. They had a general plan, anyway.  An outline. Everything else would get ironed out. He was with Cas; and, if they got lost, at least they got lost together.

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed.  He put the car into drive, and glanced back to make sure no one was coming.  All clear. He pulled out onto the street. “I’m good with that.”

END.