Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Kansas horizon was painted in wide, lazy strokes of gold and rust, the kind of raw, open sky Dean Winchester hadn’t seen in too long. Out west, under the endless sun, the land looked cracked and dry as old leather—but it still breathed. There was a rhythm to it, slow and stubborn, like a heart that refused to quit.

Here, in the early stretch of morning, long shadows spilled across an ocean of flat fields and old fence lines, telephone wires humming with the ghosts of country ballads. Dean could hear them in the static of the car radio, songs half-remembered from long ago—back when road trips meant beat-up cassettes and Dad barking at them to shut up or sing along, no in-between.

He guided Baby—his beloved ’67 Impala—down the two-lane highway, the tires humming against the asphalt, the rumble steady beneath him. The windows were half-down, letting the sharp tang of dust, earth, and cow shit roll through the cab. The scent of home, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth. No matter how far he drove, no matter how many stages he stood on or how many cities he forgot the names of, Kansas had a way of dragging him back by the collar.

Dean leaned back, one wrist hanging loose on the wheel, the other reaching to adjust the volume on an old mixtape crackling through the speakers. Zeppelin. Because of course. The playlist was muscle memory by now—songs for the long haul, for the places between places.

A streak of sunlight caught in the rearview mirror, and Dean squinted, rubbing a rough hand over his stubbled jaw. The circles under his eyes looked like bruises—dark, sunken things that told the story of one too many sleepless nights and bad habits.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “I look like Keith Richards’ ghost.”

His voice sounded rough, raw from hours spent in the car with nothing but old mixtapes and silence for company. He yawned wide enough to crack his jaw, blinked grit from his eyes. His stomach ached from gas station snacks and too much caffeine. A couple of half-empty Red Bull cans rolled in the footwell when he shifted his feet.

The Impala rattled beneath him, the low purr of her engine steady and grounding. A comforting sound. Like an old friend saying: you’ve looked worse, kid.

Dean had left Wichita around three in the goddamn morning, too wired to sleep, too stubborn to wait. Every instinct had told him he should crash for a few hours, rest up, but today wasn’t just any day.

Today, he was going to see Sam.

His little brother. The gangly, brilliant, too-good-for-his-own-damn-family kid who’d made it out, who’d gotten himself a full ride to some tiny liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere Kansas. Dean hadn’t seen him in months. Not since the end of the last tour. Not since everything in his life had started to feel a little... off.

The road blurred beneath his wheels, long stretches of nothing dotted with the occasional roadside cross, abandoned gas station, or sagging barn. Crows lifted from the fields in lazy flocks, wings flashing black against the gold.

Dean flexed his fingers on the wheel, jaw tight. He didn’t want to think about it. The dwindling ticket sales. The label rep with a forced smile telling him, “Maybe just focus on your back catalogue for now.” The songs that came out thin and tinny, no heart behind them.

Dean Winchester, once the rock-and-roll golden boy of the early 2000s, now circling the drain. A memory in flannel.

But Sam? Sam was always new. Always moving forward, toward something better. Dean liked that about him. Hell, he envied it. Sam still believed in the next thing. Dean... wasn’t sure he even believed in now.

By the time he rolled into the sleepy college town, the sun had fully broken across the horizon, gilding the tops of the old brick buildings in a honeyed glow. The air was crisp, cool enough that his breath fogged faintly when he cracked the window further.

The streets were quiet, save for the slow trickle of students yawning their way toward morning classes—shoulder bags slung low, earbuds in, coffee cups gripped like talismans.

Dean pulled Baby up to the curb outside the dorms and killed the engine. His phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

Sammy💻📚:
u here?

Dean grinned, fingers flying across the screen.

Dean:
Outside. Come give your big brother a hug, nerd.

Less than a minute later, the front door swung open. Out came Sam—tall, hoodie-clad, a duffel slung over one shoulder. His hair was even longer and more of a disaster than Dean remembered, the wind ruffling it in every direction. He was leaner too, taller maybe, a little of that baby face carved away. A grown man now. It tugged something sharp in Dean’s chest.

“Dude,” Dean called, leaning against the hood of the Impala. “You look like a goddamn Labrador with that mop.”

Sam rolled his eyes but grinned, striding over. He pulled Dean into a hug—tight, warm, the kind that made something in Dean’s chest loosen just a little. He clapped Sam’s back once, twice.

“Jesus,” Dean said, pulling back to look him over. “You been eating enough? What’s this, bone?” He prodded Sam’s shoulder. “College turning you into a skeleton?”

“Nice to see you too,” Sam deadpanned, shouldering his duffel higher. “You look like somebody left a washed-up rockstar in the dryer too long.”

Dean barked a laugh. “Still got that Winchester charm, I see.”

They fell into step together, crossing the dew-damp quad. The air was cool, still touched with the last bite of spring.

A couple students gave Dean long looks—one girl whispered behind her hand, another guy squinted in obvious recognition—but no one approached. Dean kept his head down, shoulders slightly hunched. Fame, these days, came with more weariness than thrill.

“So,” Dean said, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. “What’s the Sam Winchester College Experience like? You got a keg under the bed? Secret cult? Midnight debates about existential dread?”

Sam chuckled. “No cult. One Econ professor might be immortal, but otherwise, pretty normal. And, uh...” He ducked his head slightly. “She and I are doing great.”

Dean gave him a sidelong grin. “Aha. The mysterious ‘she.’ You’ll have to give me the full report later. But first...” He gave a long, exaggerated sniff. “You got coffee in this town?”

Sam laughed. “Best shop’s about five minutes from here. Come on—you’re gonna love it.”

They wandered off campus, through the winding brick streets of the town proper. The place looked like it had been frozen sometime in the 1950s—antique stores with hand-painted signs, a tiny florist’s shop with a dusty “Closed” sign in the window, an ancient theater marquee missing half its letters.

The café was tucked on a corner, a soft glow spilling out through wide windows.

Honeybee Brew, the sign read, delicate gold script curling across the glass.

Dean caught the scent the moment they opened the door—espresso, cinnamon, something warm and earthy beneath it. He closed his eyes for half a second, just breathing it in. The kind of place that didn’t exist in L.A., with all its soulless chrome and glass. This place had heart.

It was small—half a dozen mismatched tables, worn wooden floors, honeycomb shelves cluttered with chipped mugs and handmade candles. A corkboard near the register overflowed with flyers: poetry readings, guitar lessons, missing cats.

And behind the counter—

Dean stopped mid-step.

Because holy hell.

The guy at the register looked like he’d been plucked straight from one of Dean’s half-drunk late-night fantasies. Tousled dark hair that begged to be touched. Eyes the color of a storm rolling in over the prairie—blue and sharp and too knowing. A mouth set in a serious, thoughtful line, like he had secrets he wasn’t about to share with the likes of Dean Winchester.

He wore a soft gray apron over a faded flannel, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His forearms were lean, strong, dusted with flour—or maybe chalk? Dean’s brain couldn’t quite focus. The guy moved with this slow, deliberate grace, pouring oat milk into a ceramic mug with the kind of care usually reserved for religious rituals.

Dean leaned toward Sam. “Okay. Who is that?”

Sam followed his gaze, raised an eyebrow. “Oh. That’s Cas.”

“Cas,” Dean repeated. “Like... Cassidy?”

“Like Castiel. He works mornings. Lives a couple blocks over. Kinda keeps to himself.”

Dean was still staring.

Sam elbowed him. “Dude. Stop eye-fucking the barista.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, straightening. “I’m just... appreciating the aesthetic.”

“Uh-huh.”

They stepped up to the counter. Castiel glanced up, voice low and rough.

“Morning. What can I get for you?”

Dean forgot how to speak. His mouth opened, then closed again.

Sam rescued him by ordering first. “Cinnamon latte. Oat milk, no whip.”

Castiel nodded. His gaze drifted back to Dean. “And for you?”

Dean cleared his throat, his voice scraping a little. “Uh... black coffee. Biggest you’ve got. Maybe... a little honey? If that’s not too weird.”

A flicker of something like amusement crossed Castiel’s face. “Not weird. We have a dark roast that goes well with honey. I’ll get that started.”

He turned to the machines, moving with quiet efficiency.

Dean leaned toward Sam again, whispering urgently. “So is he, like, single?”

Sam sighed. “Dean...”

“What? I’m just asking.”

“You’re, like, thirty—”

“Twenty-three, thank you very much. Same age as him, I bet.”

“Uh-huh. You gonna move to Kansas and be a kept man?”

Dean smirked. “Maybe I’ll write him a song.”

Sam gagged, loudly.

Dean grinned wider, eyes following every move Cas made behind the counter. The way his fingers curved around the handle of the mug. The way he tilted his head in concentration.

Castiel slid the drinks across the counter. “Enjoy.”

Dean took his coffee like it was a holy relic, fingers brushing Cas’s for the barest second. He could’ve sworn the guy’s mouth twitched. Maybe.

They stepped out into the sun-drenched street. Dean hadn’t made it to the damn parking lot before his soul practically exited his body.

“Sammy,” he said, clutching his cup. “I think I met God.”

Sam gave him a look over the roof of the Impala. “Dean.”

“No, listen to me,” Dean insisted, eyes wild. “He was beautiful. Like—like an indie-album-cover, cardigan-wearing, poetry-writing angel of coffee. And he made me this. With his hands!”

“I’m walking back to campus now.”

Dean pointed at him dramatically. “You should’ve warned me! You brought me into that place like it was just some normal shop, and then BAM. Angel.”

Sam was already walking away.

Dean climbed into Baby, fired up the engine. He drove to his motel in a daze, coffee warm in his hand, the windows down. The town rolled by in blurs of brick and sky.

The motel was a dump. Smelled like mildew and betrayal.

He kicked the door shut behind him, tossed his duffel onto the lumpy chair, and collapsed onto the bed with a groan. The ceiling tiles looked moldy. The TV was ancient.

But Dean? Dean was vibrating.

He sat up, clutching the coffee. “What the fuck was that man.”

Another sip—only made it worse. Because it tasted good. Like dangerously good. Like this man had figured out the chemical formula to ruin Dean Winchester’s entire life in a single cup.

“Black coffee with honey,” he muttered. “That’s not even sexy. That’s like... sad cowboy shit. Why did that feel like a marriage proposal?”

He grabbed his phone, thumbs flying.

Dean:
does he have a boyfriend
does he even date
is he real
did he think i was cool or did he smell my washed-up rockstar energy

No response.

Dean flopped backward onto the bed, groaning into the pillow.

Castiel. Just Cas on the receipt—now tucked reverently into Dean’s wallet like a pressed flower.

He thought about the man’s voice—rough, low. The way he said Not weird. The way he didn’t smile, but somehow still felt like he meant every word.

Dean made a wounded sound. “God, I’m so gay.”

Then quieter: “I’m gonna marry him.”

Pause.

“I need to go back tomorrow.”

He bolted upright, grabbed his battered notebook, scribbled furiously:

You were honey in black coffee.
I was never much for sweetness,
but now I think I might be.

He stared at the words. Then hurled the notebook across the room.

Song later. Maybe.

For now? He had to figure out how to casually show up at that café every day for the rest of his life.

Spoiler alert: he already was a desperate idiot.

And he couldn’t wait to do it all over again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned early, pale light leaking through thin motel curtains that didn’t quite close. Dean Winchester sat on the edge of the bed like a man preparing for battle.

In front of him, the chipped motel mirror reflected a face he barely recognized.

Scruffy beard. Faint shadows under his eyes. Bedhead hair that no amount of combing seemed to tame. He ran a hand through it for the fifth time, fingers pushing the mess to one side, then the other. It refused to cooperate.

“Sexy bedhead,” he muttered hopefully. “Right? Maybe? Yeah. That’s a thing.”

His reflection looked unimpressed.

Dean let out a slow breath. “This is casual. You’re getting coffee. Like a normal person. Not like a washed-up rock star driving across town to thirst over a barista.”

He tugged on a black t-shirt, soft with wear, sleeves clinging just right to his biceps. Jeans—ripped at one knee, slightly faded. The old leather jacket followed, worn smooth at the seams, the smell of it grounding him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. The jacket always worked. It had history. Charm. Swagger. Right?

Keys in hand, wallet tucked in the back pocket, boots thudding against the thin carpet. One last glance at the mirror.

“Not desperate,” he told himself. “Cool. Chill. Normal.”

His reflection arched one eyebrow.

Whatever. Too late now.

“Sammy!” Dean’s voice echoed through the student union as he strode inside, eyes sharp, purposeful.

Sam looked up from his laptop, blinking blearily. “Morning?” he ventured, confused.

“Coffee run. You’re coming,” Dean announced.

Sam frowned. “Didn’t you get coffee yesterday?”

“That was yesterday. Today’s a new day. A man’s gotta have priorities.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You’re not seriously trying to hit on Cas.”

Dean gasped, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “How dare you. I am supporting a small business.”

Sam stared at him flatly. “You’re impossible.”

But he closed the laptop anyway, shoving it into his backpack as Dean practically vibrated with barely-contained energy.

Honeybee Brew looked exactly the same as the day before—gold lettering in the window, old brick walls, soft morning light catching on dusty glass bottles lined on the shelves.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside, the warm scent of espresso and cinnamon wrapping around Dean like a blanket. The low hum of conversation. Steam hissing from the espresso machine. Someone strumming softly on an acoustic guitar in the corner.

Dean’s heart slammed hard against his ribs.

Because there he was.

Cas.

Leaning over the counter, scribbling something in a small, battered notebook. His hair was falling across his forehead again, sleeves rolled high on his arms, ink smudged faintly along one wrist. He looked tired and thoughtful, utterly absorbed.

Dean’s feet stalled.

Sam elbowed him. “Don’t be weird,” he hissed.

Dean gave him a crooked grin. “I’m never weird.”

His voice sounded too bright in his own ears. He forced himself forward, the soles of his boots thudding softly on the worn floorboards.

Cas looked up.

For half a second, their eyes met—and something sparked there. Recognition. A flicker of surprise. And maybe… something softer. The faintest lift of his mouth.

“Morning,” Cas said, voice low and rough-edged. “Back again?”

Dean managed a casual lean on the counter, pretending his pulse wasn’t trying to escape his body. “What can I say? You make one hell of a cup of coffee.”

Sam buried his face in one hand.

Cas’s gaze lingered for a beat. “Glad to hear it. The black coffee with honey again?”

Dean lit up. “You remembered.” He winked—because apparently his body had a death wish.

Sam groaned aloud.

Cas’s ears went faintly pink. “It’s not a complicated order,” he said, though there was the tiniest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Dean tried to keep his voice light. “So… Cas… you always work mornings?”

Sam thudded his forehead against the counter. “Please stop,” he muttered.

Cas tilted his head, curious. “I do, actually.”

Dean grinned wider. “Guess I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, then.”

Sam muffled a strangled sound in his sleeve.

Cas glanced between them, bemused, but the faint blush at his ears remained. “I… look forward to it.”

Dean felt ten feet tall.

They paid, stepping aside as Cas worked the espresso machine. Dean leaned toward Sam, whispering urgently: “You see that? We had a moment.”

“You’re a menace,” Sam whispered back. “You’re going to give him a heart attack.”

“He blushed,” Dean whispered. “That’s progress.”

Sam looked heavenward, visibly praying for strength.

When Cas handed over the drinks, Dean let his fingers brush lightly against Cas’s as he accepted the cup.

A spark. Real or imagined—Dean didn’t care. His skin tingled all the way up his arm.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said, voice pitched lower.

Cas blinked once. Then again. Definite pink to the cheeks this time.

“You’re welcome… Dean.”

Dean nearly blacked out on the spot.

Roughly 4 hours of labour later

By the time Cas made it home that evening, the sky had turned a dusky blue, air crisp with a hint of rain.

His apartment was small. Two rooms. One shared sleeping space—half futon, half battered mattress. The other a kitchen-living hybrid that smelled faintly of burnt toast and cheap incense.

A sagging secondhand couch sat beneath the window, draped in one of Cas’s old flannels.

Gabriel was sprawled across it now, eating cereal straight from the box while an old sci-fi rerun flickered on the TV.

“Hey, Cas!” Gabe called lazily. “How was the thrilling world of coffee?”

Cas hesitated in the doorway, bag sliding from his shoulder. His heart still fluttered oddly in his chest.

Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “You’re flushed. Spill.”

Cas peeled off the apron, fingers fumbling slightly. He didn’t speak right away—just sank onto the edge of the couch, running both hands through his hair.

Gabe sat up, cereal forgotten. “Dude. What happened.”

Cas exhaled slowly. “Dean came back.”

Gabe blinked. “Dean…?”

Cas gave him a look.

Recognition dawned. Gabe’s grin spread wickedly. “Ohhhhh. You mean Mr. Leather Jacket. Mr. Broody Rockstar.”

Cas flushed deeper. “I did not—”

“You so did,” Gabe cackled. “You wouldn’t shut up about him last night.”

Cas groaned softly. “He remembered my name.”

Gabe gasped. “Cas, that is not straight-man behavior. They don't remember worker's names!”

“And he asked if I always work mornings,” Cas admitted, voice faint. “Said he’d be seeing more of me.”

“Oh my God,” Gabe howled. “He’s totally into you! This is it! This is prime small-town coffee shop flirting! I’ve seen this movie. You’re the brooding barista, he’s the washed-up star—he’s gonna write you a love song and wreck your life in the best way.”

Cas peeked at him through his fingers. “I don’t even know if he’s gay.”

Gabe snorted. “He winked at you.”

Cas hesitated. “...Yes.”

“Case closed!” Gabe declared. “Straight men do not wink at men in flannel aprons over coffee. That is certified gay behavior.”

Cas leaned back, heart still pounding. “He looked… tired. But in a way that made you want to take care of him. And he kept smiling at me. I didn’t know what to say.”

“You probably looked like you were about to pass out.”

Cas groaned again. “I think I did blush.”

“Good,” Gabe said smugly. “Mystique. Keep him guessing. He’ll be back.”

A long pause followed. The TV hummed in the background.

Finally, Cas whispered: “He’s so… beautiful.”

Gabe grinned like the cat who got the cream. “Three days. Tops. Before you write your number on his cup.”

Cas scowled. “I’m not doing that.”

“You’re totally doing that.”

Cas stared at the ceiling. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

Gabe flung an arm around him. “Oh, he’ll come back. You’ve got that broody barista thing on lock. No man in his right mind can resist.”

Cas sighed. “You’re infuriating.”

“Love you too, bro.”

Chapter Text