Archive of Our Own ^beta

Frankly, the beach was a disappointment.

“Sunshine, sure,” Dean said bitterly, ambling along with a closed umbrella slung over his shoulder, a frown behind his sunglasses. “Sand, alright. There’s the sea. Big whoop. It’s all brown. Sea’s too cold. Sun’s too hot. Where’s the ice cream? Where’s the kids running around building sandcastles? Where’s the hot chicks, huh? What’s the point if there’s no hot chicks?”

“I imagine,” Castiel said, walking beside Dean with his hands in his trenchcoat pockets, “we could pick a spot on the sand and sit. Enjoy the refreshing breeze.”

“Yeah, and even that smells gross,” Dean complained. “I smell seaweed and sewage.”

“You were the one who wanted to come out to the beach, Dean,” Sam said amicably. Dean looked back with a sneer, observing how his brother was perfectly happy to already have gritty sand scraping his feet from inside his sandals. Of course his hair was mussed by the wind but not tangled. Of course it was. And then he had the audacity to say: “Just enjoy it!”

“Enjoy it,” Dean uttered, stomping on a loose chip packet as it blew along the beach. “Puh.”

“This place is great!” Jack cried, running back to them from way out ahead. “Did you see the rock pools? There’s little crabs in there! Castiel, you’ve got to come and see! Come on!”

Castiel gave Dean a placating smile, though his eyes were lit up brightly, letting Jack take him by the sleeve and pull him away. “I suppose I’ll catch up with you two later?”

“Hey, what,” Sam laughed. “I’m coming too! I wanna see crabs.” He handed his beach-towel-and-sun-lotion tote bag to Dean, and ran off with the others, the three of them windswept and sun-sparkling like overgrown children.

Dean pouted, all alone, in the shadow of a cloud.

“Stupid sticky air,” he grumbled, scowling at the damp sand below him. “Stupid weekday.” He looked around. “At least let there be pie.” He mentally crossed his fingers.

His eyes lighted upon a little storefront on the left of the beach, up past a brick wall and across the boardwalk and unpainted road. The store had a delicate blue sign, crammed between an antique store and a nameless bookshop, and declared itself to be a Parisian-inspired bistro.

Bistros served beer and pie, right? Beer and pie, as a combo, could fix anything, right down to the sand in Dean’s socks.

Dean started making his way up there, assuming (correctly) that the others would sniff him out the moment they realised he wasn’t still sulking on the beach, waiting for the sun to burn him.

Dean’s belly leapt with hope when he saw the bistro was open for business, and already had customers inside. At least he wasn’t the only one who sought solace via his stomach.

The bell chimed over the door as he entered, and he immediately relaxed: the aroma of coffee beans and sugar and expensive-but-worth-it afternoons filled his head. He smiled easily, bundling his luggage over one arm as he strolled up to the counter. He took his sunglasses off and tucked them into the collar of his t-shirt.

The place was tiny: there was only enough room for three circular cafe tables up against the wall on the left, each with three white seats around it. The table nearest the door was taken by two men, one in a black suit, one in brown tweed, sharing a quiet conversation.

In his reflection in the glass shield over the counter, Dean saw how his eyes gleamed; he felt as if he was glowing gold, not just because of the Edison bulbs draped artfully overhead, and the increased vibration of teaspoon-tapping and gentle conversation echoing into his soul, but because every foodstuff on display looked an absolute delight. Delicate little pastries, swirled into perfect buns. Cupcakes with pastel frosting and sugared gumdrops atop their peaks. Pretty cakes, baked in visible layers, each layer a different colour.

There was one that caught his attention, partly because of its cream-pink-yellow layers, all adorable – and partly because it was labelled as ‘Angel Food Cake’. There was a winged angel drawn beside it, wearing a robe, waving an English flag. Dean smiled.

“Good afternoon, lovely, may I help you?” came the voice of a gentlewoman.

Dean looked up, showing her an even bigger smile. “Hi.”

“See anything particular you like?” the old lady asked, putting on a new pair of clear gloves. It was such a subtle, practised move, but the sight of fresh gloves over dark skin made Dean inexplicably happy. Everything here was clean, and germ-free.

Dean licked his lips. “You got any pie?”

“Pie? I’m afraid we don’t. We have a dozen flavours of gelato, though, and that’ll cool you down, won’t it? So hot out these days.”

“Sure is,” Dean agreed. He bristled his chin with his fingertips, eyeing the selection. He then turned to peruse the coffee selection on the chalkboard above the lady’s head. “I’ll, uh,” he started, pondering. “I’ll take a coffee, regular, black.” He hesitated, then added, “Could I get a lil creamer or something in there? Half-and-half.” The lady nodded, already reaching for one of the upturned while cups. “And—” Dean licked his lips. “And some sugar. Just a bit.” His eyes lingered on the Angel Food Cake, but then darted to the cookies further along. “And one of those cookies, whatever’s good.”

“They’re all good, precious,” the lady smiled. “Although our bestsellers are chocolate chip or salted caramel.”

Salted caramel! Dean drew in a gasp as she spoke, and she smiled, writing down his extended order in a notebook.

His mouth was watering already.

“That all, love?” The lady moved to the checkout, and Dean mirrored her. He eyed the Angel Cake one more time, but figured a cookie was enough. He wet his lips and nodded, pulling out his wallet from his jeans’ back pocket. “You got a place I can wash up? Got sand under my nails and I didn’t even touch anything.”

The lady laughed warmly, nodding as she directed him to a passageway at the far end of the cafe. Dean decided it was a cafe and not a bistro, despite the signage: there was no beer anywhere to be seen, and it was definitely closer to a sit-in bakery than anything else.

Dean put down all his stuff, umbrella leaning against the wall by the second table down. He glanced at the two fellows conversing at the table nearest the windows, and supposed they’d look after his crap, even if one of them was wearing sunglasses inside, like a absolute douchebag.

The bathroom was surprisingly lavish. Clearly this was where all the profits went. Gold-framed mirror, a dangling pull-flush over the lavatory – plus fancy toilet paper. Dean washed his hands with floral soap and smiled at himself in the mirror, thinking to himself that a nice bistro bathroom could beat the public washroom on the beach any day.

He returned to his table to find all his stuff where he’d left it, and the two guys were just as into their talk as they were before. Dean sat facing the door, so he could see when Sam, Cas, and Jack would show up. Incidentally, that left him with a good view of the two men, half-silhouetted by the glare of gold from outside.

The guy on the left, dressed in all black – black shirt, black tie, black suit, with the black aviator sunglasses... he seemed a little shady to Dean. Not the sort of guy Dean would ask for help when hunting down demons, except perhaps in a pinch. From his dark olive complexion, slicked-back black hair, and especially good cheekbones, Dean thought perhaps he was middle-eastern. Syrian, at a guess, although Dean wasn’t fully convinced he knew what Syrian features looked like. The guy spoke softly, head tilted towards his companion. Dean couldn’t hear what he said – the acoustics in this place surprisingly lent themselves to privacy – but he picked up a faint hiss every few words. Perhaps the guy had a lisp.

But the other guy...

See, Dean thought, this was why he’d left his stuff here unattended. The other guy was perfectly nice, Dean could see it in his curved brows, his round eyes, his sweet smile, and the way he dug into his Angel Food Cake with his pinky finger raised. He was kinda pudgy around the middle – Ruebeneque, Dean supposed – and much paler than the first man, but still with a foreign look about him. Almost blond, but not quite. He wore a freaking sweater vest, brown, under a tweed jacket. His left hand moved to check his iPhone, and soon shook his head, looking back to his friend. He’d clearly stepped out of the 1920s and hadn’t looked back.

Dean perked up as the cafe lady brought him his coffee on a saucer with a few white sugarcubes beside a golden teaspoon. Dean uttered, “Oh, thank you, ma’am,” grinning as he accepted the cloth napkin handed to him. “Thank you very much.”

“Your cookie,” the lady said, placing a plate before him, upon which was a thick cookie with a five-inch diameter, soft and oozing with pools of glossy caramel, sprinkled with big chunks of pink salt. “Enjoy.”

“Oh, I will,” Dean promised, smiling as she left. He took an excited breath, snatching up his teaspoon to cut into the cookie, which sank and split beautifully under his pressure. Dean was already weak-kneed.

He melted inside as the cookie melted in his mouth. It was warm, and noticeably fresh. He purred to himself, eyes closed. As he opened his eyes again, unaware that anything could distract him away from this tiny Heaven on Earth, something did: the guy in black lay his head on the other guy’s shoulder, accepting a mouthful of Angel Cake from his golden spoon.

Dean’s stomach fluttered. Sugar rush, probably.

He lowered his eyes and chewed, licking caramel from his teeth, breathing over his coffee. With both sugarcubes plopped into the drink, and after a few stirs, he picked up his cup and took a sip, purring again as it sank down his throat like some kind of life-giving elixir. He’d never tasted better coffee in his life.

The guy in tweed patted the guy in black’s hair, combing it with his fingers, spiking it up a little. Dean didn’t hear what they said, but he could tell it was affectionate; the sentence ended with a forehead kiss. The guy in black straightened, a serpentine smile stretching his lips. He blushed behind his sunglasses.

Dean blushed too, but he didn’t have sunglasses to hide behind. He made do with his coffee cup, intermittently sipping and spying on the couple opposite. Clearly what they were up to was none of his business. Yet, after all Dean’s years sitting in cafes and diners and occasionally sneaking into a gay bar (just to see what the fuss was all about, honestly), Dean had never seen something like this.

They were comfortable with each other. They were friends, obviously, and very close ones at that. Even in the gay bars, there were flirtations passed back and forth – Dean had tried a few out himself, just to check if he liked it – but there was none of this. Steady, easy affection. Dean couldn’t imagine how long these two had been together – they seemed like old souls, like they’d been bound for practically all of eternity.

And to top it all off, this was a public space. Even if there was only one person looking – namely, Dean – there was an audience of strangers. And yet these two didn’t seem to have noticed Dean at all, or if they had, they didn’t mind he was able to see, nor that he was actively watching. Did they sense no threat? Were they confident that the power of their love was stronger than any hate someone else could confront them with? Or were they simply too wrapped up in each other to care?

Dean went back to his cookie, pulling parts off with his fingers and sucking them clean. His eyes stayed down, examining the newspaper folded on the tabletop... but he couldn’t help looking up, one more time, one more time.

He smiled, because the nose kisses were cute. Then he grinned, because the guy in tweed tended to fuss over the other guy, telling him off for something in a fond tone of voice, then reaching to clean his lips with his napkin, then leaning closer so the guy in black could sweep an eyelash off his pink cheek. The guy in black held the eyelash on his thumb and uttered to his companion, and they blew the eyelash together, probably making a wish.

Then, inevitably, came the squawking, as the guy in tweed observed the eyelash making a sharp left turn and plunging into his coffee. “Dear!” he tutted, standing up. “You really do test me, sometimes.”

The guy in black muttered an apology, flicking his fingers dismissively, and the guy in tweed sat back down, looking put out. He sipped his drink again – and Dean cringed a little too hard.

His flinch caught the attention of both men, who looked at him.

Dean looked back, ears burning, cheeks burning. He sank down and hid behind his coffee.

The others lost interest in him quickly, turning back to each other, absorbed by conversation again. But Dean knew, he sensed, that now they were aware of his existence, they knew he’d been watching, and undoubtedly had opinions about their interactions.

They didn’t kiss at all in the time it took Dean to finish his cookie and wash it down with half his coffee.

He started to panic, wondering if they thought he was judging them. Eyelash coffee was one thing, but homophobia was another, and from they were sitting, could they tell the difference? He could flinch because of one thing and maybe they thought he was flinching because of the other.

Dean Winchester could not abide by that. He was many things: a hero, a villian, a brother, a fighter, a survivor, and a freckle-faced Led Zeppelin fan, but he was not a homophobe. At least he really hoped not.

There was only one way to explain himself. He tipped back the last of his coffee, invigorated by the sweeter sludge at the bottom. He patted his lips with his napkin and stood up, approaching the other customers, tugging on the corner of his plaid shirt as he went.

“Hi,” he said, feeling too tall, as he towered over the two, and for once in his life, was glad he had bowlegs, or he’d be even taller. “Um. Look, I don’t mean to bother you, but,” he took a hurried breath, fidgeting, heart racing. “I just. Like. I don’t really see people. You know. Same-sex couples. A whole lot. At least not all, uh, out-and-proud the way you guys are. And it-it-it,” Dean flushed hotter and hotter, realising his babbling wasn’t helping his case at all. “It’s awesome. You guys are awesome. And you look cute – good together.” He managed to smile, and relaxed a little, because the guy in tweed smiled, even though the guy in black continued to judge Dean from behind his sunglass-shaded eyes. “You just keep doin’ what you’re doing.”

“Did you hear that, my dear,” the guy in tweed said, in such a British-sounding way, placing a well-manicured hand on his partner’s black sleeve, giving a squeeze. “Wasn’t that nice? Particularly for an American.”

“Quite,” the guy in black said, in British. Dean wasn’t sure if that meant ‘somewhat’, ‘yes’, or if it was sarcastic and meant ‘not at all’.

“Just,” Dean wet his lips, reaching to rub the back of his neck, eyes drifting. “I, um. I never really said it before, but, uh. I sometimes wish—?” He shrugged, fist tightening by his thigh, then releasing as he gulped, “Kinda wish I had that kind of confidence, you know? Just to – y’know—”

“Be confident in who you are without fearing some almighty judgement,” the guy in tweed said.

Dean’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah.”

The guy in black snorted softly, muttering to his friend, “What real judgement is there nowadays, angel? Our Creator hardly cares.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, both taken aback and pleased beyond belief at that single word of affection. Angel.

“Ah,” the guy in tweed tipped his head, pondering. “There’s enough. Enough to keep a closet door firmly closed and bolted, my dear.”

His eyes moved to Dean’s, and they shared a soft moment of understanding. Dean didn’t fear what came in the afterlife – he’d been there, done that, and in his experience the endless torture had nothing to do with romantic or sexual orientation at all – but he never liked the fog over his shoulders, awareness that a fellow human being was watching, and thinking uncomfortable thoughts.

Dean shrugged a shoulder, then licked his lips. “Anyway. I just wanted to... say something. And explain myself. Before, back then, I was just – heh – freaking out about the eyelash in your coffee.”

“Eyelash?” The guy in tweed peered into his cup. “Dear, I thought you took that out.”

“I did,” the guy in black complained at Dean. “Really, now. The nerve.”

Dean was perplexed. He’d never seen him fish anything out. Dean’s lips hung open, but then closed in a smile as the blond guy assured him, having examined his drink, “No eyelashes in my Earl Grey, thank you.”

Dean grinned, pointing a finger gun at him. “Right. Okay. So.” He cleared his throat and backed up. “See ya.”

“See... you,” the guy in tweed said, as if testing out a new phrase. To his partner, he uttered, “My-my, what an astonishing turn of events. And you thought he was judging you for wearing sunglasses inside!”

Dean smirked to himself, sitting down at his own table, out of earshot again.

The moment he replaced his napkin on his lap, Sam opened the door to the cafe, letting out an “ah” of triumph, having found Dean. He took a look around, smiled pleasantly at the couple, then turned to look at the food on display, hands on his hips, squashing the hems of his orange plaid to his waist.

Dean noticed the guy in black staring at Sam’s back, then shaking his head in disdain. He probably didn’t like the plaid. That was rich, Dean thought, coming from a guy with his knees pressed to a pair of brown wool slacks. Tweed was hardly any different from plaid. Maybe he just didn’t like orange.

Sam ordered some coffee, and a double scoop of raspberry gelato, and brought the gelato to the table with him, sitting down and making the chair scrape nastily on the terracotta tiles.

The noise drew the attention of the couple, and Dean shot them a subtle apologetic smile over Sam’s shoulder, before stealing the second spoon Sam had brought and taking a scoop of his ice cream.

He was busy licking tart sweetness from his upper lip when he realised the couple had turned their attention completely on Dean and Sam. The guy in sunglasses even raised the glasses to squint.

They then turned to each other, muttering, the guy in tweed shaking his head, the guy in black spreading his hands palm-up like it was obvious.

Dean wondered what the hell they were talking about. Their conversation was getting very heated, very quickly.

The guy in tweed cried a last complaint of, “Oh, dear, no! Sit down,” but the other guy’s idea was clearly too enticing, as he stood up and made his way to Dean’s table.

“For the record,” the guy said through a toothy grin, standing in front of Dean’s table, slim hands on his hips, blazer pushed back, “you also make, as they say, a very attractive couple. Congratulations.”

Sam stared at the black sunglasses, as if expecting an explanation to scroll across them like a teleprompter.

Dean had started to blush, and there was really no stopping it. He took a few seconds to realise his spoon still hung from his lip, and he tugged it away, unable to make eye contact with anyone.

“Uhhh,” Sam said, as the guy in black looked terribly proud of himself, and his angel died of embarrassment at the next table. “Wait, I’m not sure, but do you mean....?” He waggled a finger between himself and Dean, as Dean shrank behind his purple plaid shirt like a bisexual tortoise who hadn’t planned on coming out today.

“I rather think the plaid is a nice touch,” Mr. Sunglasses said, a smirk on his thin lips. “Very matchy-matchy. Very becoming of couples these days.”

The cogs in Sam’s head finally wound up, and with a ding, he blurted, “Oh, no, no, no, we’re not— Ahahah, no, we’re brothers. We’re brothers. I’m Sam, this is Dean; we’re brothers. Not a couple.”

“I told you!” Mr. Tweed cried in dismay from his table.

Sunglasses hissed to himself, the corners of his mouth tense with dissatisfaction. “Oh, well then,” he said, eyeing Dean. Somehow Dean could feel those eyes on him, glowering, as if judging him for being in a cafe with his brother instead of a beau. “Sssso sorry, my apologies. Carry on.”

He slunk away like a cat from a windowsill, returning to bask in the sun, as the beam had now crept to touch his angel’s shoulders.

Sam watched him sit, then turned back to Dean, perplexed. “That was weird.”

“Hm. Not that weird,” Dean said, sucking more gelato off his spoon, leaning his elbow on the table carelessly. “You do kinda give off a gay vibe.”

Sam frowned, thoughtful. “No, I mean, the way he said it. Like we’d had a conversation already.”

Dean shrugged, head down to examine his empty coffee cup, pretending his face wasn’t on fire. “So,” he said lightly. “How’s Jack enjoying the rock pools?”

“Castiel’s telling him about the evolution of fish,” Sam said, chuckling. “There’s always been big plans for fish, apparently.”

Dean chuffed in amusement. His spoon tapped onto Sam’s as they both dug for the same bit of gelato. Dean forced his spoon down, battling Sam in a miniature parry over the dessert, eventually snatching the entire bowl to his side of the table and declaring victory with an “a-ha!”

Sam rolled his eyes and let Dean have the rest, occasionally reaching across the table to take some.

Dean was just polishing off the bottom of the bowl when he saw Castiel and Jack wandering outside, looking around. Jack came up to the glass and shaded his eyes with his hands, peering into the dim cavern of the bistro, and grinned when he saw Dean. Dean waved, and Jack waved back, running to get Cas and direct him towards the shop.

“Incoming,” Dean said, smiling as the bell chimed. Sam turned to look over his shoulder, as Cas and Jack brought the briny air and a waft of fresh sunshine with them.

“Ooh, they have ice cream,” Jack said, poring over the selection.

Castiel stood by Jack, hands in his pockets, smiling. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at Dean.

Dean smiled back, getting to his feet and loping up to Castiel’s side, patting his back. “Hey.”

“Hello, Dean. It’s a shame you didn’t come out, you would’ve liked the rock pools.”

“Uh, no thanks. Only pools I like are hot and bubbly, and the only rock I like is Led Zeppelin.”

There came a grunt from behind Dean, and he looked back to see Sunglasses wearing an expression halfway between appreciation and dismay, and Tweed resting a cheek on his hand, gazing at Castiel in consternation. Dean shot them both a friendly wink, then turned back to the display, slowly letting his hand slide away from Castiel’s back.

“The cookies are good,” Dean suggested to Jack, as Jack caught the attention of the lady, and started making an order. “So’s the ice cream.”

“Gelato isn’t made the same way as ice cream,” Castiel remarked, as Jack waited for his order, watching it scooped out. “Although it does mean ‘ice cream’ in Italian.”

“So much for the Parisian bistro theme,” Dean uttered, nudging his elbow against Castiel’s side. “You should get the layered cake, Cas, it’s practically made for you.”

“It is?”

“See the angel?” Dean pointed, tapping the glass. “Always said you’d look good in a robe.”

Castiel squinted at him. “You’ve never said anything of the sort.”

“Eh.” Dean cocked his head, grinning. “Must’ve thought it.”

Castiel considered him for a while longer, then turned a smile to the lady, and said, “Two slices of Angel Food Cake, please. And black coffee.”

“Coming right up,” the lady said. “Goodness, it is crowded in here now, isn’t it?”

Indeed; Jack had pulled up a fourth chair to the second table, and the space did look kind of cluttered now. At least Dean wasn’t the biggest guy here – that would be Sam – so he didn’t feel like he was taking up too much room.

“Two slices?” Dean asked, finally catching up with what Castiel ordered. “You must be real hungry. Thought angels didn’t need to eat.”

“Don’t you want some?” Castiel asked, pulling his hands from his pockets to pay. “You looked at that cake in a way someone might describe as ‘hungrily’.”

“I did not,” Dean retorted. “Quit makin’ stuff up, buddy.”

“You do realise I know when you’re lying,” Castiel said casually, counting out dollar bills. “At least when it comes to food.”

“Hmph.” Dean waited with Castiel, arms folded, watching their cake being put onto plates. Dean’s mouth watered, and he softened in his realisation that he did want the prettiest cake, arms going slack again. He sighed as he took his plate from over the counter, then Castiel’s, thanking the lady.

“C’mon,” he said, cocking his head towards the tables. “Jack stole my seat, so I guess we’re sitting together now. Ain’t that fun.”

Dean and Castiel sat side-by-side with their backs to the counter and their faces to Sam and Jack, knees pressing together, elbows touching, ceramic moons kissing on one edge, identical slices of cake atop them. Dean took the new spoon from beside his cake, but then saw Castiel’s was silver and his was gold, so he reached to pry apart Castiel’s fingers to take his spoon, and give him the gold one. Cas liked gold, he once said it reminded him of the sun.

Castiel took an experimental mouthful of Angel Food Cake, and then nodded, content to chew and swallow: a rare choice for him. Dean grinned and ate some of his own, purring yet again, because it was even softer and fluffier and more delicate in flavour than he’d imagined. If Cas were a cake, he’d taste like this. This cake was made of loyalty, love, and sunshine, with a little creamy white frosting between the layers.

“Here’s your coffee, sweetheart,” the lady said, placing down a cup and saucer, where Jack hastily removed the empty gelato bowl so there was room.

“Thank you, Edna,” Castiel said, smiling up at her. “Your wife misses you very much, don’t think she doesn’t. She’ll be home sooner than you expect.”

The lady – Edna, apparently – touched her heart in emotional shock. “H— How did you—?”

Dean searched the front of her frilly apron but saw no nametag. Cas was doing his angel thing again, freaking people out.

But Edna quickly laughed, and waved Castiel’s remark away. “Oh, Lord, another one of you lot. You’d think one angel and his ex-angel friend would be enough for this tiny little town.” She wandered away, clearing plates from this table, then the couple’s table. Dean slowed his chewing to watch her pause at that table, speaking to the couple.

As she spoke, tweed guy’s attention drifted to Castiel, and he nodded slowly, absorbing Edna’s words with smug relish. Dean was no lip-reader, but it was clear to him that the moment Edna left, he uttered to his partner: “Told you.”

“Angel,” Dean said, realising.

Castiel looked up. “Yes?”

Dean flushed, realising his quiet exclamation might’ve sounded like a term of endearment, the same way Sunglasses said it to Tweed. Dean gulped and shook his head, dismissing a conversation before it began. “Uh. Nothin’. Don’t worry.” But his eyes lifted, and met with Tweed’s.

“You’re an angel too?” Dean mouthed to him.

Tweed smiled gently. He nodded just the slightest bit.

With a “hm!” of intrigue, Dean returned to his Angel Cake, enjoying it all the more.

He slowly let his eyes lift to Castiel, admiring him and all his angelic-ness. But clearly, there was a bit of human in him too; he sucked his teaspoon and hummed, then wiped crumbs from his necktie onto the table. He looked around the tabletop, seeing Sam reading the newspaper and Jack enjoying his gelato, and then his eyes fell upon Dean’s as-yet unfinished cake. He said nothing, and did nothing, but all at once, Dean knew what Cas meant, when he’d said Dean lied about food, and looked at things ‘hungrily’.

Dean pushed the plate closer to Castiel.

Castiel’s eyes brightened, and he glanced at Dean uncertainly, until Dean pursed his lips in a semi-kiss, and Castiel took that as firm permission to share. They ate from the same plate, forks not battling but descending together. Dean pushed the final mouthful towards Castiel, out of fondness, firstly, but also because he was pretty full after everything he’d eaten.

Castiel sighed in contentment, watching Dean chase crumbs with his fingertip before lapping them from his thumb to his tongue.

Dean had barely had a moment to wipe his face with his napkin before Tweed was at the tableside, Sunglasses behind him, tugging his arm and muttering pleas to sit back down.

“Hi?” Sam said, looking up from his newspaper. “Can we help you?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Sunglasses. “Angel, please, let’s go, leave this nice family to their private meal. Haven’t we embarrassed this poor lumberjack enough?”

Tweed seemed to reconsider, and with a small huff, he stepped back, then apologised as they left. His eyes darted to Dean, then Castiel, then away.

Sam’s attention followed them. “What’s up with those guys?” he asked quietly. “You weren’t here before, Cas, but they thought Dean and I were gay earlier.”

Castiel seemed even more curious. “Oh... how did I not notice?” he uttered. “It’s so obvious, now I’m looking.”

“Notice what?” Dean asked, bristling with alarm. Did he look bisexual today? Did everyone just know?

“The fellow in black is a demon,” Castiel said, tilting his head – but before anyone had time to get up in arms, he added, “but not an especially dangerous one. That’s why I didn’t notice. He doesn’t look very demon-y. Almost halfway angel. And... more than slightly human.”

Dean looked over at Sunglasses, who was busy berating his angel counterpart for his hypocrisy. They bickered so kindly, it was intriguing to watch. It all ended with a limp flap of a hand upon Sunglasses’ shoulder, and Sunglasses rolled his head – since he couldn’t show an eye-roll behind those dark lenses – and took off his blazer to reveal a black waistcoat with black shirtsleeves beneath.

They settled close, and Tweed poured some more tea into a teacup. Sunglasses took a guilty sip, then Tweed took it from his hand and took a sip too, settling down to chat again.

“Sooo,” Jack said, squinting like Castiel often did, “are we meant to kill him if he’s a demon? Or is he an ally that we kill later, like Crowley?”

Sunglasses stood up suddenly. The teacup rattled on its saucer.

Tweed grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. He went, but he went muttering.

Dean realised that as an angel and a demon, they’d heard every word Jack said. Dean cleared his throat and stretched his neck, pulling at his t-shirt collar.

“No,” Castiel smiled at Jack. “No need for that.” He looked over at the other customers, and smiled placatingly. “This is a ‘safe space’, I believe. There’s no fighting here. We all just came for a much-needed break from the perils and peculations of the world.”

Dean smiled to himself, looking down and smiling into Castiel’s coffee as he lifted it and took a sip. He handed it to Castiel, and Castiel took it, sipping, then sipping again. “Good coffee.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean agreed.

“The tea’s better,” Sunglasses said between Sam and Castiel’s shoulders, making them all jump.

“Jeeeeez,” Dean breathed, hand over his eyes as his heart settled. “Okay! Okay, this is a day I’m having. Wheeew.”

Sunglasses went cackling back to his seat, swatted at by his angel boyfriend. He responded only by leaning closer, and planting a kiss on Tweed’s cheek. Tweed evidently wasn’t expecting that, as he stared curiously – but Sunglasses was looking right at Dean, Dean could feel it in his bones despite those douchebag glasses between him and the demon’s eyeballs.

Dean’s feathers ruffled. On the one hand, there was lovey-dovey affection, and then there was straight-up challenge. This was the latter. The demon dared Dean to do what he’d never had the courage or opportunity to do. Right here, right now, in public.

Safe space or no, that was just too much.

Dean snorted in Sunglasses’ direction.

Castiel looked over his shoulder, then back at Dean. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Dean said, sulking over Castiel’s coffee, stealing some more.

“If you say so,” Castiel said.

“I do say so.”

“Can I have some more gelato?” Jack asked Sam.

“Yeeeeah, why not,” Sam said, not looking up from his newspaper but digging in his pocket for cash. He handed some over, then on second thought, got up too. “Dean stole mine, I oughta try a flavour he doesn’t like.”

“Fat chance,” Dean muttered. “It’s all good. Edna said so.”

Jack went off to get more gelato from Edna, Sam right behind him. Thus, Dean and Castiel were left alone at their table.

Sunglasses was still watching Dean with intense pressure, like he was waiting for something. Tweed scrolled something on his iPhone, but looked up when Sunglasses folded his arms.

Dean frowned. He wasn’t about to get peer-pressured into anything by a demon, even it was a nice, gay demon. And anyway! What was he being pressured to do, besides?

His eyes shifted to Castiel, who swirled around the last of his coffee, then offered it to Dean. “Do you want the last bit?”

“You can have it,” Dean said, scowling at the demon. “All yours, bud.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel said, drinking it down. “Ahhh. This really is good coffee.”

“Tea’s better,” the demon mouthed to Dean. He unfolded his arms, pretending to yawn, and stretched his arm over Tweed’s back and wrapped him in a one-armed hug. Tweed didn’t seem to notice, just leaned closer into his partner’s embrace.

Dean felt his heart tingle. That looked nice. He wanted to do that.

Sunglasses rested his cheek on Tweed’s head of tousled blond locks, and nuzzled.

Dean almost pouted. Where was he meant to get a guy who’d allow that?

Sunglasses kept his head against his lover’s, but turned to look at Dean once more. He lifted his sunglasses between two slim fingers, and showed Dean his yellow snake eyes, which ought to have chilled Dean to the bone – okay, they did, just a bit – but they were not eyes filled with malice, only encouragement. Do it, those eyes said.

Dean gulped. Sure, he said back in his mind, on the off-chance Sunglasses was telepathic. But he had nobody to be insufferably adorable with.

It took several seconds of inactivity before Sunglasses started to frown, aviators dropping back to his sharp nose. He nudged that nose pointedly towards Castiel.

Dean’s eyes shot to Castiel. Castiel was examining the bottom of the teacup, remarking to Dean that these cups were made in England, and that was a very long way to travel for a teacup.

Dean looked back at Sunglasses, aghast. Cas was his best friend! Not his lover. Not anything of the sort.

Sunglasses retracted his arm from around Tweed’s shoulder, crossing his arms instead. Tweed shifted, then complained, and wrapped his arm back over Sunglasses’ shoulders. Despite trying to scowl at Dean, Sunglasses smiled helplessly.

Dean smiled back, then grinned, head down. He looked softly at Castiel, admiring his squinty blue eyes, his always-curious expression, his careful fingers as they skimmed the rim of the teacup. Dean sighed in longing – and not only did he hear himself – oh, God, how pathetic did he sound? – but Castiel heard him. He looked up.

Their eyes met.

Dean was sure his heart skipped a beat. It went real quiet inside him for a moment, and the world also vanished for that same moment; his fingers prickled, his lips tingled, his hair stood on end, and his vision seemed to brighten, all the colour in the world narrowed to the blue in Castiel’s eyes, the summer tan of his skin, and the hundreds of shades of glorious brown that flowed in gelled waves from his head.

Maybe his heart skipped a beat, or maybe he had a mini heart attack. One of the two.

Knowing that Dean wanted to try Angel Cake, deep down, was not the same as recognising a spoken lie; Dean knew that. But Castiel did have an uncanny knowledge of strangers’ deepest desires and fears, so it only followed that he knew more about a friend.

Cas was right. He’d always been right. Dean wanted so much Angel Cake he’d happily choke on it.

Dammit, he wanted Cas. It wasn’t that he didn’t know, or had never known, but it just seemed clear to him that pie, or what came in lieu of pie, were more his speed at the time. Angel Cake was for later, or when there wasn’t anything else available, or maybe someone else would take it first, and then he wouldn’t have to do the hard job and decide to take some himself. It was just easier not to want it, or think about wanting it.

But there was enough longing in a sigh to count as a lie. Castiel had heard enough. And now he knew Dean wanted him.

Dean had to start slow. He didn’t wanna freak Cas out.

And so... he only kissed him once.

Just gently.

On the lips.

Castiel froze up, his eyes set on Dean’s, his breath caught, his fingers still, his lips parted. There was a tiny dot of Dean’s saliva on his lip – and he licked it. That was far grosser than eyelash coffee, but somehow not gross at all. Castiel’s gaze dropped, and a wrinkle fluttered between his eyebrows, then vanished.

Dean looked over at the couple, and saw how they watched him proudly. Sunglasses slumped back with his elbow crooked over his chair support, grinning something awful, while Tweed clutched his perfect hands together under his chin, beaming like he’d just seen a puppy howl for the first time.

Dean sucked his lower lip and looked back at Castiel.

Castiel was still processing. He scratched his head, examining the table, then the wall, then squinting tightly, thinking really hard. His eyes opened, and he looked at Dean, taking one breath, then another.

“Did you...?” He tilted his head. “Did you mean to do that? Was it a mistake?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Did it seem like a mistake?” he asked – not in challenge, but out of worry.

Castiel gave a lopsided grin. “A little, yes.”

Alarmed, Dean blurted, “What? How?!”

“We were both wholly unprepared,” Castiel said. “It was fast, sloppy, and you didn’t warn me beforehand.”

“Oh, well, jeez, thanks, that’s a compliment right there,” Dean uttered, shoulders shifting. He glared over at Sam and Jack, who were still picking gelato flavours, getting Edna to pile up their bowls in a half-dozen colours.

“I don’t mean it was bad,” Castiel said, picking up the newspaper, poring over it with his brows raised, so carelessly it could only be on purpose. “Could use some practice, is all.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean breathed, inching closer in his chair. “Practice, huh?”

“Yes, you know the concept,” Castiel said airily, thumbing the newspaper to turn to the next page. “Doing something over and over again until you get better.”

Dean gulped. Of course he knew. But it was unavoidable: Cas was baiting him to kiss him again.

“You want warning this time?” Dean said.

“Enough that I know what’s about to hit my face, at the very least,” Castiel said dryly.

“Okay, then? This is your warning,” Dean said, taking Castiel’s jaw in hand and pulling his face closer to kiss him a second time.

There was a little jovial cheering from the couple’s table. “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you, dear? The one in the trenchcoat! His angel.”

Dean smiled out of the kiss, finding himself grinning, then laughing, because Castiel did the same, blue eyes aflame with heat, the top line of his teeth showing in his gladness. As they gazed into each other’s eyes, so close together, Castiel’s grin grew, and soon showed his pink gums, and crooked bottom teeth. Dean loved that smile so much he kissed it again, and then swallowed whatever pride he ever had and nuzzled Castiel’s forehead like a goddamn cat.

Castiel pulled back, rubbing his bumped forehead with his fingertips, but still smiling.

“Hey, Jack,” Sam said, nearby. “Let’s, uh. Let’s sit here.”

Dean turned over his shoulder and saw Sam and Jack sit at the third table. Sam gave Dean a big smile, eyes crinkled.

“What,” Dean said, crooking his arm over the back of his chair. “Think you’ll catch gay cooties if you sit too close?”

“No,” Sam said, stuffing his mouth with the Italian word for ice cream, “You’re just gonna steal all my gelato. Again.”

Jack smiled back at Dean, offering him his bowl. “You can have some of mine, I don’t mind. The mint’s the best.”

Dean looked back at Castiel, then at the smug couple sitting shoulder-to-shoulder a table back. “Nah,” Dean said to Jack, nudging him with his hand. “All yours, kiddo.” He kicked Cas under the table, then asked him, “You wanna share some salted caramel gelato?”

Castiel looked affronted. “Are you really still hungry?”

Dean stood up. “Mm. Not hungry anymore, not exactly.” He rustled his fingers through Castiel’s hair, then paused to tidy it again. He lowered his hand and stroked Castiel’s jaw stubble, so damn happy to do that, too happy to notice if anyone was looking. “‘Cause I got what I wanted, didn’t I? C’mon, bud. I just like sharin’ with you.”

“In that case,” Castiel rolled his eyes, snatching Dean’s hand and pulling him back to his seat. “Let’s just share each other’s company, Dean. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Dean sank his chin down on his hand, looking at Castiel as his heart swelled with affection. “Yeah,” he said, with a satisfied sigh. “That’s enough.”

“Boy, would ya look at that,” Dean said in delight, holding tight to Castiel’s hand as they strolled away from the non-Parisian non-bistro. “What is that, a Bentley?”

There was a fancy vintage car sitting prim and proper, parked a good distance behind the Impala. Dean thought he was crazy for not having noticed it before. It was as black as night, with a black canvas fold-back roof and flimsy glass windows. Clearly an original, not altered or ‘improved’ as time marched on.

Dean let go of Castiel and peered through the driver’s-side window, hands crooked over his brow, and grinned when he saw there were no seatbelts. “Livin’ life on the edge, those two.”

“How do you know it’s theirs?” Jack asked, still finishing his melted gelato soup in a takeaway coffee cup.

“Who else would drive something like this, besides historical car enthusiasts?” Sam replied, weighing all their belongings over one arm. “Looks like it’s from the twenties. I’d take a guess and say the car belongs to the guys who lived through that era.”

“Nineteen-twenty-six,” Dean confirmed. “And...” He tilted his head, trying to look at the cassette lying on the front seat. “What is that, Best of Queen? Huh. Guess the douchebag demon has good taste. Zeppelin’s my jam, but I can appreciate a little Freddie.” He took Castiel’s hand again as he stepped back. “Their car’s got nothin’ on my baby, though.” He led his troupe away from the Bentley and towards his own car, his beloved 1967 Chevy Impala: also black, also unaltered, also awesome.

“You wouldn’t think it,” Castiel said, “but you do have a lot in common with that particular demon.”

“How dare you,” Dean said. “The nerve,” he added, before remembering the demon had said those exact words in that exact tone to him, not an hour earlier.

“Really,” Castiel insisted. “Besides the car, and the music, you both think you’re much more suave than you are. And,” he cocked his head affectionately towards Dean, nudging his side as they came to the Impala, “you both have a penchant for angels.”

Dean couldn’t even scoff. Cas was right.

He gave Cas a cheek kiss – well, why not? – and opened the back door, twirling a hand to gesture Castiel towards the car.

“Perhaps you are a little suave,” Castiel admitted, giving Dean a half-wink (a blink, practically) before getting into the car. Dean shut the door behind him, and paced forward to get in beside Sam – but paused, seeing a collection of paper signs taped on the glass front of the vintage bookshop. They’d parked right in front of it.

Back in 2 hours, maybe 8-and-a-half, said the first sign. Out for brunch-elevenses-lunch-afternoon-tea-dinner-supper delete-as-applicable.

Books are disPLAY ONLY, said another sign, the letters getting progressively larger as they neared the far side of the paper.

Parking permitted, said a third sign, which Dean had already seen. ‘Permitted’ had been crossed out, and replaced with ‘encouraged’.

All three messages were signed Owner: Mr. A. Ziraphale. & Assistant-slash-pest: A. J. Crowley.

Castiel wound down his window. “What’s taking you so long, Dean?” he asked.

“Crowley,” Dean murmured. He shrugged. “No relation to the Crowley we knew, right?”

Castiel looked at the signs. “Aziraphale,” he said quietly. “Oh, so that’s where xe went. The angel garrisons did wonder. I suppose xe found enough to be getting on with, down here on Earth.”

Dean gnawed his lip, then started to grin. “Who’d’a thunk it,” he said to himself, opening the car door and getting in. “An angel, and a kind-of-okay demon. Strange couple.”

“There’ve been stranger things,” Castiel uttered, a smile in his voice. Dean felt Castiel’s hand touch his hair, scrunching through it. He shut his eyes, enjoying the affection.

“Can say that again,” Dean almost whispered.

He wondered if he’d ever find this normal. Give it time, he thought to himself. Someday...? Someday, he’d be able to give and accept affection to and from Cas the same way Crowley and Aziraphale did, and not feel all tense and nervous inside like he did now. Like many things, it would take... well, practice.

When Dean peeked to his right, he saw that Sam watched them with a smile. Dean threw his gaze back to check on Jack too, only to see him looking at Castiel with true happiness in his eyes. If Cas had felt Dean’s longing... well, maybe Jack, a half-angel, had known something of Castiel’s, too.

Dean took Castiel’s hand and held it over his shoulder for a moment. “All right,” he said, patting his hand. “Enough of that, angel. Can’t drive if you’re petting me.”

“Is that a challenge?” Castiel asked. “Dear?”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, I think I’ve had enough challenge for one day,” he said, turning the key in the ignition and revving his baby to life. “Go easy on me.”

“Never,” Castiel said haughtily, making Dean laugh.

He put his car in ‘drive’, and then drove.

Beside them, the brown sea licked at the seaweed-covered shore, endlessly sticky and gross, but, as Dean passed by, casting glances in that direction, he supposed there was a beauty in it.

Maybe this particular shoreline was a little dirty, a little ‘off’, but under it all, it was ultimately a positive, wonderous part of the natural world, and had perfectly good intentions.

...Kinda like the demon Crowley. (No relation; probably.)

...Kinda like himself.

As the sun shone on this edge of the country, and Dean drove his family towards the horizon, the sun sought to follow them, bathing them in gold.