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It was a tale as old as time; a legend as crusty as a loaf of stale bread; a story older than Sam's awkward phase (which was still going by the way).
Boy meets girl—or rather, girl meets boy. Like Sandy Olsson and Danny Zuko: blonde locks, leather jacket, and an added sprinkle of the girl’s disapproving father. Not that they cared, even if hindsight would tell them they should’ve—for a whole different bag of reasons. Girl marries boy, and they buy a house, fully embracing the boomers they planned to become: white picket fence, 2.0 kids, because the last 0.5 never arrived before the girl turned to ashes, taking the whole damn home with her.
Okay.
Let’s elaborate.
The beginning was like a modern fairytale—or at least an old movie riffing on the crap Romeo and Juliet already tried and failed at. Samuel Campbell had sure as hell done his part, even if Henry Winchester wasn’t home enough to pick up on either his boy’s love life or the tension surrounding it. Mr. Campbell had tried his best to scare off John Winchester from his darling daughter—beautiful Mary, who had been his pride and joy from the moment he laid eyes on her. He failed. Tremendously.
Like telling a cat not to knock stuff off the counter, Mary reacted accordingly, as so many kids had done before and would do after her short lifetime. Making art out of pissing her parents off.
She didn’t even stop after the hard slap across her left cheek when she told them she was knocked up. If anything, the red blooming over her face only made her more determined.
Neither Samuel nor Deanna could be accused of being supportive parents—not even by late ’70s standards. While Mary was technically an adult, she still lived at home. That was an easy fix. With one bag, she jumped into the rumbling ’67 Chevy Impala parked outside her brand-new former home. The event entered the neighborhood’s Gossip Hall of Fame.
Well, right alongside gossip about the Walkers’ monthly poker games ("where they bet more than just money”), and how everyone on the street was fairly sure Frank Desperaux had "gotten rid" of Mildred Baker’s cat, since he’d accused the poor animal of spying on him for the government for years.
That last one? Totally true, Dean had been told.
So was the gossip about Mary getting pregnant before marriage (gasp!), tarnishing the Campbell name with unprotected sex (the horror!), and getting kicked out for it ("It was the only thing you could do, Deanna, really. You can’t have that kind of girl living at home!”).
But John was a proper man, working as a mechanic. With Mary putting in hours at a diner, they had enough to buy a house just after little Dean turned one. Why Mary wanted to name their firstborn after that devil of a mother, John would never understand. But being a traditional man, he figured naming the kids was the woman’s job, so long as “Winchester” followed.
Oh, and John was such a proper man that he let his wife (by then, she was officially his wife) take care of the home and the screaming baby while he “provided for the family.” And he tried. Really. Even if he lost more than he won at gambling.
At first, he reasoned it was for the family.
If I just get a good hand this time, we’ll be rich.
If the horse pushes a little harder, we won’t have to dig for couch change every week.
If the dice lands just right, I can open my own shop.
When none of that worked, he turned to the bottle more often than not. Because what was the point of anything if he wasn’t drunk?
Mary, bless her, tried too. Maybe it was out of spite for her parents, or maybe she really was in love. It only got worse when little Samuel was born. (John objected loudly to the name this time, and while he lost the fight, the kid was called Sam or Sammy so much that everyone forgot it wasn’t his full name.) Another child, another mouth to feed. Postpartum depression hit Mary hard, and John’s late nights turned into full-blown absences. Mary started to feel like a single parent.
As rare as it was, John was home the night of the accident. After the house was gone and the firefighters had put out the last of the flames, fingers pointed in all directions. Had drunk John forgotten a lit candle? Had exhausted Mary missed unplugging the iron or turning off the stove? Or was it little Dean, unsupervised and up to who-knows-what?
The house was dust, and the cause was never determined. That could’ve been the end of the story, but what followed were years of psychological—and sometimes physical—abuse for the two boys. So much and so deep that it took Dean Winchester five years after his dad finally bit the dust to realize he was truly fucked up and needed therapy.
Sam started therapy three years before John died of liver failure, but screw you, Sam. Just because he was smart, while Dean was as clueless as a squirrel trying to climb a smooth wall, didn’t mean he was winning at life.
Except he was. And Dean had to do something about that. Because again, screw you, Sam.
Which was why Dean Winchester, 37 candles on the cake and still looking like a birthday wish come true, was on his way to Straight to the Heart: Speed Dating Night. It was time he started talking to women in a more… sober state than usual.
Ugh. He hated therapy. He hated Pamela Barnes. And they’d only just started scraping the surface of all the crap that made him, well, crappy.
Still. None of that mattered if he couldn’t find the damn entrance. By the time the event started, Dean was still circling the block. Google Maps in hand, he looked like a tourist trying to find the closest bathroom. He was on the right street, but city planning and reconstruction had made a mess of the old system, and no one dared rename the paths because of "historical significance."
Finally, he spotted a sign. Perfect. He walked in—and froze under the gaze of a dozen very male, very predatory stares.
Dean backed out, this time reading the sign on the door as it shut behind him:
Love at the Speed of Light: Same-Sex Sizzle Night!
Well, sex sounded good, but—oh. OH. Okay. He could read it now. Clear as day.
The rainbow theme and the added Bro-Mance is Tight—Find Your Mr. Right! provided important context for what was happening inside.
Dean stumbled back in his hurry to put some distance between himself and the door, muttering curses. No one from Lawrence would see him, right? That’s why he’d come to Kansas City.
He ducked behind a bush on the far side of the yard, scanning for witnesses. He let out a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart.
Shit.
He checked his watch—the only keepsake from John Winchester, kept only because it had once belonged to Henry Winchester. Well, he was officially intergalactically late now. After the scare he just had, he wasn’t sure it was even worth finding the right door.
Dean leaned back against the building, dragging a hand over his face.
Shit.
How was he ever going to show Sam he wasn’t a fucking loser if he couldn’t even get this right? It was just Kansas City, not some foreign place on the other side of the world. Sam would ask questions, give him that irritating look, and say something like, “It’s okay, Dean. Better luck next time.” Then he’d go back to Eileen, and they’d laugh their asses off.
Okay, well, he knew the last part wouldn’t actually happen—probably—but that’s what it felt like right now.
And how would he ever stand on top of John Winchester’s toxic grave (seriously, no point planting flowers there with the amount of alcohol buried underneath—shit would wither before the sun set) and say, “Fuck you, John. Fuck you for all you’ve done and all you didn’t. Look at me—being happy—and pissing on your grave.”
“Ha!”
He hadn’t decided yet if he’d actually piss on the grave, but the sentiment would definitely be there.
Still, he was late. And he’d been losing at life for 37 years, so what was another week? “Don’t set yourself up for failure,” Pam had said. Maybe finding the right door to a big-ass hotel in downtown Kansas City had been aiming too high.
Fucking pathetic.
Well, it was what it was. Dean would just have to find another opportunity in his conquest to win at life and flip John the bird.
A big fucking Fuck You that’d make the man spin like a hula hoop in his grave.
Something that’d really drive the point home.
Something—
Huh.
Dean peered around the bush again, the rainbow colors on the sign popping even in the dim evening light. A lightbulb kind of frown appeared on his face.
Huuuuuh.
Wouldn’t that be something, huh?
It ticked a lot of boxes.
- It’d kill John Winchester a second time. Hell, it’d probably piss him off so much he’d come back to haunt Dean. And wouldn’t that be something?
...
Okay, so there was really just that one box. But it was a big fucking box.
At the same time…
Dean gnawed on his lower lip, torn by the dilemma. Sure, going to speed dating for guys would get his point across—loud and clear. But it also meant he’d have to...
Well.
Speed date dudes.
And that wouldn’t really be a bad thing—if it was something he felt completely indifferent about.
As it was, just the thought of it made his skin tingle with excitement on one side and fear on the other.
Shit. He was at least thirty therapy appointments away from even thinking about breaching that subject with Pam.
Still.
It wasn’t like he had to tell Pam about this particular meeting.
And the odds of running into someone he knew were so low they might as well have been underground, sipping cocktails.
Which, come to think of it, was probably what they were doing on the other side of that door. And who was he to turn down a cocktail?
Well, except for that stupid sober rule.
Dammit, Pam.
Dean made it as far as the door, but his hand twitched weakly by his side instead of reaching for the handle. His mind was whispering reasons not to walk inside, and he was caught between ‘just do it’ and ‘turn the hell around’.
That’s when he noticed the presence of someone next to him—a large figure appearing suddenly to his right.
“Meatballs!”
Okay. That probably needed some explanation. Growing up with John Winchester had given Dean access to a vast collection of profanities, and like any kid, he’d soaked them up like SpongeBob SquarePants. Unfortunately, John’s misogynistic streak extended to his curses, which included gems like drama queen, bimbo, bitch, fag, whore, pussy, and cunt.
Charlie had once pointed out—correctly—that yelling “son of a bitch” when you stub your toe wasn’t ideal. Dean hadn’t even needed to think about it to know she was right.
So, after a drunken night of inventing new curses, “Meatballs” was born. What started as a joke eventually became as much a part of his vocabulary as “awesome,” “pie,” and “I’m fine, shut up, Sammy!”
Still, the guy next to him couldn’t know any of this. The look he gave Dean—a mix of confusion and disbelief—wasn’t surprising. Dean caught him mouthing the word “meatballs” silently, and wow, wasn’t that a nice pair of lips?
Chapped and all manly.
Harrumph.
Moments gone, Dean turned back to the door, relieved that the awkwardness had passed—only to realize it hadn’t. They stood there in silence, side by side. From the corner of his eye, Dean saw the man frowning at the sign.
Damn, he was a looker, though.
Aaaaaand, Dean thought.
Both of them stood outside the entrance to a Bro-Mance Night. If this wasn’t Lady Destiny handing him the solution to his problem, what was?
The man was obviously as late as Dean.
Dean turned to the stranger, who eyed him warily.
“Hey, wanna grab a burger?”
Okay, so the guy—Cas something something—was fucking awesome.
Not only did he have that hot, messy vibe going on, but hell, Dean couldn’t even say he was easy on the eyes because if he looked too long, he started sporting a chubby. Damn, he was good-looking in a dorky, sexy kind of way, and if Dean ever admitted to having a type, he’d definitely point in Cas’s direction. Dark, soft-looking hair, rough stubble, blue-fucking-eyes, and the stupidest smile Dean had ever seen. And he moaned like a two-dollar gremlin when he—
Wait. That didn’t make sense. He and Charlie were going to have to circle back to that one.
Anyway.
The guy was awesome and sexy, and he clearly loved a good burger as much as Dean did. That was... well, important if this was going anywhere. At the moment, they were sitting at the bar in a hole-in-the-wall place Dean had found after 40 minutes of searching. He’d be damned before setting foot in one of those hipster kale-and-quinoa joints—no, no, no, no, no way. Sam could have those all to himself. Cas had gone along with the search without a single complaint or sign of irritation over Dean’s particular tastes.
And somehow, Dean didn’t feel nervous at all. As soon as he decided to take the guy on this impromptu date, all his fears had turned to dust in the wind. Who the fuck was John Winchester to dictate his life from the grave? The man had done it Dean’s whole life, but enough was enough. Just thinking about it made Dean angry, but damn it, he wasn’t going to let John screw this up too. He pushed the anger aside and just... felt.
And it felt fucking good because Cas was just that fucking awesome.
He’d even offered Dean his trench coat, and Dean had to bite back a snarky comment about how awful it was. Cas had been so damn nice and gentlemanly—wait, was that even a word? Gentlemanly? Whatever. The gesture had made Dean stupidly happy, especially since he’d been freezing his ass off in just a green flannel over his Zeppelin shirt. He’d assumed he’d be either in his car or a bar all night but had ended up everywhere but. The trench coat was ugly as hell, but damn, this fast-track date was going way better than Dean could’ve imagined.
The guy was kind of quiet, though, Dean realized after yapping for 20 uninterrupted minutes. That wouldn’t do.
“So, what were you looking for tonight?”
Cas looked up, blinking slowly as he finished chewing. “Looking for?” he echoed.
“Yeah,” Dean said, taking another bite of his burger. “Speed dating?”
The man was watching Dean’s mouth with a frown, his own slightly open, before blinking back to the conversation. “Oh, speed dating? I... I don’t really know. My brother made me go.”
“Noh weh!” Dean laughed, washing down the bite with a swig of his 0% Guinness—because he wasn’t a total loser. “I was forced too! What are the odds?”
“Fairly low, I would assume.” Cas wiped his mouth with a napkin, and Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from his pink lips.
“If I may ask,” Cas continued, “who forced you?”
Dean snorted. This dude was a riot—all proper and shit. Then the question sank in, and Dean rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, catching some spilled sauce he greedily licked up.
Well, nothing to lose, right?
“Uh, my therapist, actually,” he admitted, wiping his hand on his jeans. Cas’s eyes followed the motion, his nose wrinkling slightly in the cutest way.
“Said it was time to try something serious, you know? I’ve been doing the whole ‘wham, bam, thank you’—uh, ‘for the pie’—kind of thing, but... I think I want something more. No, I do want something more. So, yeah. Yeah.”
Cas nodded solemnly, his expression softening. “I understand. That’s very courageous of you.” He paused. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?”
“Shit, sorry.” Dean reached across the table, and for a moment, he got to appreciate Cas’s big, dry hand as they shook. “Dean. Dean Winchester.”
“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, smiling. “As I was saying, I admire those who are brave enough to work through their—” Cas trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Their crap,” Dean offered.
“Yes, their cra—oh, no, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay. There’s a lot of crap.”
Honestly.
There was.
A lot.
Cas tilted his head slightly, the furrow between his brows returning. “Okay. Well, ‘crap,’ then.” He even used air quotes. What a dork.
Cas paused again before nodding to himself. “It’s brave of you, and I wish I had the same courage.”
Dean nodded, appreciating the words but unsure how to take the praise.
Time to deflect.
“Why’s your brother making you do this, then?” Dean asked, gesturing between them.
“This?”
“Yeah, you know.” Dean flashed his best smile. “Meeting people?”
“Oh, that. Yes. Well, I think he’s tired of me being alone. He believes you can only be happy if you’re sharing your life with someone, and he’s been trying to force that ideal on me. I have to admit he wore me down in the end, but I didn’t have high expectations.”
“Hm.” Dean nodded along. “So, are you, then?” He took another bite of his burger, watching Cas closely.
“Am I what?”
“Yuh know, haffy?”
Cas stared at him for so long that Dean started to worry he’d put his foot in his mouth. He finished chewing, washed the food down with another drink, and waited. Just as he was about to change the subject, Cas spoke.
“No. I’m not.”
Oh.
Dean couldn’t have that.
Quick as a viper, he caught Cas’s hand under the table. Cas’s gaze followed the motion, his expression curious.
“What do you say we do something about that?” Dean asked, flashing a grin.
Cas looked back up at him, head tilting slightly, the frown softening into that stupidly charming smile.
“Okay, Dean.”
Castiel was not sure what he would tell Michael when he asked how the speed dating went.
Well, he knew he would tell the truth, which was that he never made it to the speed dating at all. Michael would probably huff a little, and if Castiel had been younger, he would’ve been rewarded with his hair being ruffled.
"Always in the clouds," Michael used to say.
And it was true most of the time, and Michael knew it better than anyone. When they had been kids, Michael had to pinch Castiel’s thigh to make him concentrate on what the priest was saying, knowing their parents would question them about the sermon afterward. More often than not, he had to seek out Castiel at school to give him either his lunch or his lunch money, and if he didn’t follow Castiel home, Castiel would end up in the forest or someone’s backyard looking for animals or insects.
It wasn’t as if Castiel didn’t know what he was doing; he just had so many thoughts and wonders that he simply didn’t have time to bother with mundane things like eating or listening to the words of God’s servant. Nature fascinated him, and his interest in humans lay in just that: humans as a species, but not as individuals.
He had friends, or at least, he had had them. When he was still in school, a few people had, well, taken pity on him, pulling him along despite his curious ways. It wasn’t as if Castiel wasn’t aware that he had been different—or rather indifferent—and while he hadn’t sought out companions, he appreciated being able to observe human friendship up close. Those bonds had been easily broken as they grew up and apart, and to Castiel, that just… was.
The same pattern followed him as an adult—he worked with people, some closer than others, but by the end of the day, Castiel was alone in his apartment tending to his plants.
That just was.
Castiel wasn’t worried about being lonely, but Michael had always been worried about it for him. He had pushed Castiel to have lunch with his peers and to bring them home from school. He had dragged Castiel along when he was going out with his own friends, even though Castiel was four years younger. And it was Michael who had suggested Castiel try speed-dating, after several failed blind dates he had set his brother up on.
The blind-dating had been nothing but confusing.
First, there had been Hannah Johnson, a timid-looking woman that Michael knew through church. The evening had been pleasant enough; it was a nice restaurant, and Castiel had been there on time (Michael had seen to that). The food had been okay, but Castiel would never understand why you would want to have a meal before the main course. Hannah had been calm, and Castiel had liked her eyes and told her as much. He had also liked that she was quiet and told her that as well. He had asked what her interests were (as Michael had told him to), and she had talked a lot about her work and the team she was leading. She had looked really interested when Castiel had talked about bees, until she had interrupted him and asked if there wasn’t something else he wanted to talk about, and Castiel had been truthful (as Michael had recommended) and said, well, no.
She had politely declined a second date.
Then there had been Daphne Allen, also one of Michael’s acquaintances from church. This time, he tried to hold his tongue (as Michael had suggested) and had prepared (well, Michael had) several questions that would show he was interested in the other person. Daphne had been pleasant, and she’d had a nice voice. They had talked about God and His teachings, and she had been really happy when Castiel could recite parts of the Bible on command. It had been nice to make her laugh and clap her hands, but a part of Castiel felt like he was back in his parents’ house, answering his father’s questions about God.
When she had asked him what he believed was God’s greatest creation, he had answered truthfully (again, thank you, Michael) and said that while he saw himself as a believer, he wasn’t sure God—or any other gods for that matter—was micromanaging the world on that level, but if he was to choose something, it would be bees.
The date had ended pretty quickly after that, and that was how Michael got to know that his brother wasn’t quite the Christian he had thought he was.
But Michael persisted and searched outside church, finding April Kelly through a friend at work. That was the first date Castiel ended early after she had cut him off mid-bee fact, saying, “Look, Castiel, I’m trying to have a real conversation here. Can we talk about something that actually matters?”
Enough said about that.
It was after that Michael suggested speed dating, since he had failed to find a date for Castiel. And Castiel had agreed for the same reason he had agreed to all the blind dates: he really didn’t want to disappoint Michael.
Castiel was a little worried that Michael would still be disappointed when Castiel told him he didn’t even find the right venue. Not for lack of trying—he had circled what he thought was the right building for half an hour, but he only found the door to the same-sex meeting five times, and while the sign on the door looked really nice with the rainbow and all, Castiel wasn’t gay, and he didn’t want to waste anyone’s time simply because he couldn’t find the right door.
Then he met Dean Winchester, and Castiel had forgotten everything about Michael and finding the right door.
Because Dean Winchester was an enigma.
First, he had pulled Castiel with him in search of a hamburger restaurant that met his standard, and what that standard entailed, Castiel couldn’t decipher, but he understood that kale was the worst and therefore not acceptable.
Where the meatballs came in, Castiel wasn’t sure, only that he later concluded the restaurant they found didn’t serve them.
Dean also didn’t seem able to clothe himself appropriately for the weather, as he complained several times about how much he was freezing, going as far as pulling at Castiel’s coat and commenting that it looked warm even if it looked like "a relic from the ’50s." Even so, he had looked pleasantly surprised when Castiel had offered it to him, and Castiel had felt his lips twitch as he watched the other man curl into it with a boyish grin.
Dean then found the hamburger bar, a dimly lit space with peeling paint on the walls and mismatched chairs that seemed to have been collected from various places over the years. It was accompanied by the strong scent of grilled meat mingling with the faint odor of spilled beer. The sound of laughter and conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of dishes.
The place had a lived-in feel, with grease-stained menus and the odd piece of forgotten food stuck to the floor, but there was something about it that resonated with Castiel. He found himself appreciating the simple, unrefined atmosphere, so different from all the restaurants he had visited in his life.
What he had missed: as Castiel took his first bite of the hamburger, he was immediately overwhelmed by a surge of flavors and sensations. The rich, savory taste of the beef mingled with the tangy crunch of pickles and the sweetness of ketchup, creating a delightful explosion in his mouth. Each ingredient seemed to dance together, contrasting textures and tastes in a way he had never experienced before.
The hamburger was very good, and Castiel couldn’t believe he had missed out on this all his life.
Dean was also enjoying his burger; even Castiel could tell that. It was hard not to notice, really. Castiel had never seen anyone take such large bites out of their food. Dean’s cheeks bulged, and sauce dripped down his chin and hands, which he rubbed on his jeans. Dean’s tongue slipped out of his mouth, trying to catch food before it escaped, and when it did, he dragged his finger over the table to swipe it up and put it back into—
Oh my.
Castiel couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Mesmerizing.
He’d never seen anything like it.
And it didn’t end there.
Dean was cocky, sure, and spontaneous, but sometimes Castiel could see a glimmer of hesitation in the way Dean’s eyes shifted or he paused slightly before he answered. But he was courageous, and then he suddenly asked if Castiel was happy, halting whatever other thoughts Castiel had.
No one had ever asked him that, probably because happiness wasn’t something one would strive for.
Obedient, virtuous, hardworking, proud, strong, yes—but happy?
No.
And, well, no.
Castiel couldn’t say he was happy. He wondered if he could answer that he wasn’t unhappy, but being neither was perhaps an answer in itself.
Dean’s hand was warm in his own, suddenly enveloping his rigid fingers, and he felt something thrum inside of himself.
So, while Castiel would have to tell Michael he lost his way, that he never made it to the speed-dating venue because his head was in the clouds, he would tell him something better—that he had encountered something he never had before.
Someone interesting
Dean Winchester.
Dean wasn’t ready to call an end to the night when the food was gone—no fucking way he was. So far, this had been the best night he’d had for a looooong time—maybe ever? Fuck, he didn’t know, probably because he had been so drunk on his other nights out, and wasn’t that tear-dripping sad?—and if he played his cards right, the night wouldn’t end there. The thought should probably scare him, but Castiel seemed fan-licking-tastic, and Dean wanted both a bite and a doggy bag to bring home.
Hmmm. Doggy bag, perhaps drag it out a little, eat a little tonight but save enough for breakfast to have the taste stay well into the day…
Yes.
That had to be the plan.
In some way, he had to bring Castiel home with him and make him stay the next day and not kick him out like he usually did with one-night stands. That would certainly show commitment and that he wanted a relationship. That would show Pamela, Sam (fuck him), and Dad (and fuck that guy) that he could be a functioning human being and that he wasn’t dependent on booze in his blood.
The only problem was that he’d never done anything like it before.
One-night stands were one thing; that was easy—been there, done that. "Wanna fuck?" Simple. "Wanna marry me?" Shit, even Dean knew that was too soon. But what happened in between? Was there a difference between a chick and a dude? Because Cas was certainly a dude. Fuck, who was he kidding? He wouldn’t know what to do if there was a woman in front of him instead of a man. He was in way deep, and he had skipped too many swimming lessons to pull himself out of this one. The ease he had felt when they had sat down at the restaurant was slipping away slowly but surely.
But he wasn’t going to let Cas slip away along with it.
"So, uh, Cas," Dean began, his voice a little gruff, "I was thinking, maybe we could, I dunno, go... do something? Like, together. You know, just the two of us. I mean, not like a thing, unless you want it to be a thing—" He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe grab… pie? Or, hell, go to a park or something. People like parks, right? They got trees and... and bees. Well, shit, maybe not now, the bees are probably sleeping. Wait, do bees sleep? Shit, I—"
"You want to spend time observing bees together?" Cas had his head tilted, looking at him funnily.
Dean's eyes widened. "What? No! I—wait, what?"
"You mentioned bees," Cas said seriously, but also, what—excited? "Are you asking if I want to join you in... observing their behavior?"
Dean stared for a second, completely thrown off. His mind scrambled to keep up. Was Cas into bees? Was that what he wanted to do?
Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah! Bees. Totally what I meant. You know, parks... buzzing little guys, real... fascinating stuff." He nodded, half-committing, half-panicking. "So, we head to the park, look for some bees? You’re into that, right?"
Cas's face softened, clearly pleased. "Yes, I find them quite intriguing. Their efficiency and purpose are admirable. I'm glad you're also interested in bees, Dean.”
Dean gave a tight smile, internally groaning. The fuck was happening? "Yup, bees. Great. Sooo…?"
Cas looked out of the window, and Dean followed his line of sight. "I do think it’s a little late for observing bees, sadly."
Shit. He was dropping the ball—well, if there was even a ball to drop because he didn’t know what the fuck was happening.
"Tomorrow?!" Cas startled and looked back at him, as did the patrons next to them. "What about tomorrow?" Dean asked in a lower tone, leaning closer over the table. "We— you could, well, spend the night, and we can head off first thing tomorrow to watch… bees?"
Cas looked back, and for a while, all they did was stare at each other. Shit, perhaps it was too forward? Too fast? Was it too soon? Was there some kind of rule about watching bees together? Shit, wasn’t there supposed to be something about flowers and bees? Fuck, he was so confused.
But he wanted that doggy bag, fuck, he wanted it.
He threw in a smile, and that seemed to do the trick.
"Yes, I think I would like that," Cas answered, albeit hesitatingly. "But, can I ask where you live?"
"Oh, in Lawrence."
"Oh, me too."
Oh.
That was, well, awesome.
"Oh, so… you wanna head back?"
"Yes. There’s a bus—"
Dean slammed his hands on the table, shutting Cas up efficiently. "Don’t fucking curse. We’re taking Baby."
Cas blinked back. "Baby?"
Dean smirked. "Oh, baby, you’re in for a ride."
Castiel found himself yet again following Dean Winchester, but if possible, the man’s steps were even more determined now than when he had been searching for food. Castiel had made an effort to offer his coat again, but Dean had been out of the restaurant with an excited clap of his hands, and with the speed he was moving, Castiel was sure he would be warm enough. Still, something drew Castiel’s eyes to Dean’s arms draped in a plaid shirt and how the fabric stretched over his shoulders. It didn’t seem to matter if the man was looking at Castiel or not—Castiel couldn’t tear his eyes away either way.
His thoughts were turning jumbled, something that Castiel was highly unused to. He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t stop watching Dean. It was as if every part of him was a new world to discover, and not just how his facial expressions changed with the speed of light, making Castiel feel like a ball in a pinball machine in his attempt to keep up. One minute he was holding Castiel’s hand, offering a gentle smile; the next it looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but at the restaurant, then suddenly he was stammering, blushing, and smirking—winking?
Castiel couldn’t decipher half of it, but he knew he was drawn in like a moth to a flame. Castiel was fascinated with life, and, oh dear, Dean was everything and more.
There was also a fluttering feeling in his chest, almost as if small butterflies had found their way inside of him. That made him equally perplexed, and he was nowhere near an explanation for that. It was as if Dean was so full of life that it seeped into Castiel, and for the first time in his life, he could feel his heart.
But he was doomed; he couldn’t clear his thoughts no matter how much he wanted to at the moment, because there was one thing that overshadowed everything else.
Dean Winchester liked bees.
Castiel had never met anyone else who liked bees, and now, suddenly, he was walking next to the first person he ever found interesting, and it turned out that…
Dean Winchester
Liked
Bees.
It was Dean who had brought it up even. Castiel had made a promise to Michael not to talk about bees, but it didn’t count if he wasn’t the one to bring them up, right?
No.
Dean had.
Something warm was spreading inside of Castiel, and for a moment, he thought something was wrong with his lips because they kept quivering before he realized that they were trying to smile. He let them, which earned another beaming smile from Dean.
"You like her then?"
Oh, they had stopped. The world suddenly came back to Castiel, and he started to look around for a woman. No, they were alone; it was just Dean and Castiel standing by a—
"The car, Cas! You like her, right? Of course you do, I can see it on your face!"
Car. A black, sleek, monstrous car. Castiel didn’t dare ask what the mileage was, but he still couldn’t help starting to calculate its impact on the planet. Still, when Dean opened the door, Castiel slid inside, and he watched as Dean jogged around the front and practically jumped into the driver's seat. Dean’s arm stretched long as it rested on the wheel, the other hand closer to Castiel as it lay on the stick. The light from the lamppost next to the car illuminated Dean, giving his eyes a shine that made Castiel forget everything else, except that:
Dean Winchester really liked bees.
And Castiel didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Shit, Dean was so fucking nervous that he was actually trembling a little. He was gripping the steering wheel tightly, trying to regain some composure, but the anticipation was expanding like a soda he’d shaken up too much, about to pop any second.
He was actually fucking doing this.
Cas was next to him, and they were heading back to Dean’s apartment, and this was fucking it.
This. Was. Fucking. IT.
And while that fact made him more excited than, well, ever, for all he could recall, a hot, pulsating panic was also beginning to take hold of him. Even in the darkness of the car, Dean felt neon lights pointing rainbow-colored arrows toward him, blinking rapidly for everyone in the state of Kansas to see. And with every mile they put behind them, and every mile closer to Dean’s house, the lights crept closer, and he could almost hear his dad yelling, “Fucking fag,” in his ear.
Yeah.
Okay.
Sooooo…
Maybe there was a little more to this than just getting back at his dad.
If you put a gun to his head and forced him to be honest.
And having a dude sitting next to him in Baby, heading home for some “harder, please!"’—that was as close to a gun to his temple as it got.
So, the thing was, Dean had been imagining this moment since he was fourteen and nicked the car keys without John noticing, driving up to meet his pen pal Lee during one hot and horny summer. Mind you, this was before cell phones were a common thing, and Dean had spent so many endless nights with Lee’s saucy letters that he almost—almost—didn’t want to touch the sheets of paper again.
Finding Lee (through some project their schools had) had been both a blessing and Dean’s doom, because while writing to Lee had made him realize he really got off on dicks, it had also hurt him enough that his knee still wasn’t the same. John had intercepted him in his truck, and after finding the letters in Dean’s bedroom, any attempts to say ’it wasn’t like that!’ had been in vain.
And hey, even if you couldn’t punch the gay out of someone, John had done a good job beating it out of him for about 20 years.
He hadn’t even gotten to suck Lee’s cock, and that was almost as sad as the damage to his knee.
But now John was fucking dead, and Dean was taking a guy home.
No, not a guy.
Cas.
Who was awesome.
Well, he seemed to be—Dean hardly knew him but really wanted to—and that impressed look he had given Baby was really all Dean needed.
But even if he knew he didn’t want to be anywhere else than where they were heading, Dean almost felt dizzy. He kept his eyes on the dark road, lit only by Baby’s lights now when they were driving between the cities, and even if he knew the plains stretched out to their sides, all he could see was the narrow road ahead. Cas sat silently next to him, and the only thing that tethered him to the ground was the voice of Robert Plant blaring from the old speakers.
Still, he felt l’appel du vide knock on his brain, and he tightened his hands around the wheel to keep going straight.
Then, as if from nowhere, they were in Lawrence, and then they were in his driveway, as if life suddenly found the fast-forward button (he’s that old; yeah, yeah). Had he been with a chick now, the walk up to his door would’ve been a stumbling mess, hands finding skin even before they found the keys. Still, even in his super massive gay panic, the anticipation still thrummed inside of him because he knew that he and Cas were going to grind harder than gears in a busted transmission, and tomorrow they would go on a date in the park and look at bees—
Shit.
”Uh, hey!” Cas jumped next to him, and Dean had to clear his dried-up throat several times before continuing, feeling Cas’s heavy gaze upon him, his face only lit by the crappy light above his front door. “Uh, I didn’t—well, I wanted to ask—”
Fuck, he was starting to panic.
Get it together, Winchester.
For fuck’s sake.
”Are you out, or what?”
There.
Good job.
He watched as Cas looked around himself before settling his eyes on Dean again.
”I guess?”
Shit.
Of course, that was a good thing, but Dean wasn’t fucking dense—sure, he could have his unlucky moments, but he was well aware that guys out of the closet rarely saw the point in dating dudes still hiding inside of one. And well, Dean was so far into the closet he was expecting to be offered Turkish Delights from a witch any second now. He hummed in answer as the panic started to amplify.
Shit shit shit.
This was a hit it or quit it moment.
This was the moment he was standing at the buffet line of life, holding an empty plate, thinking, ‘Do I grab a giant slice of pie and finally dig in, or do I just quietly swipe a napkin and act like I was never even hungry?’
He imagined himself walking away, back to his pie-less life, where he kept pretending breadsticks were enough. But deep down, every time he passed a bakery, smelled apples, or heard someone else laughing over the pie, it fucking stung. Because he knew exactly what he was missing—and it was not the napkin.
Meanwhile, the pie was over there all warm and golden, like, ‘Bro, I’m literally here to be devoured. Stop being weird.’
Okay.
Weirdly enough, the pie had the same voice as Cas.
And he’s gonna hit that.
Because honestly, who can resist pie?
”I’ll be right back,” he croaked out and headed for the bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it.
Three deep breaths, telling himself to Leia the fuck up.
It took Sam three tones before he answered.
”Hey man, wasn’t tonight the speed-dating thing? Are you done already?”
And fucking hell, this was why Dean really wanted to punch Sam in the face sometimes (figuratively, he’s not John, geez), because he had the ability to sound interested, encouraging, and disappointed at the same time. He knew it was his own fault—what made him tell Sam about his plans in the first place?—but he still gritted his teeth while imagining Sam’s worried puppy eyes.
He just wants you to be happy, he just wants you to be happy, he just wants his loser brother to be happy—
This was like pulling off your boots after a long day—ugly, messy as hell, but it had to happen.
”Sammy. I’m gay.”
Silence filled the room, except for the blood pumping in Dean’s ears. It was almost surreal, standing in his dark bedroom waiting for his brother to react, but something also let go inside of his chest, and he had to place his hand over his heart. Shit. How long had that lump been there?
Oh.
Right.
Twenty years or so.
”You—Dean, what? You’re gay?”
”That’s what I said.”
”Oh, that’s—that’s great, man! I mean, it’s great that you wanted to share that with—”
”Nope, bye.”
Jesus, Sam and his emotions, fucking hell. He really didn’t need more of them right now. He pocketed his phone again and took another deep breath. Right. He was out and proud—here, queer, and still cooler than Sam, and he had a fucking awesome dude waiting—
Shit, Cas.
He stumbled out of the bedroom, finding Cas waiting obediently at the front door, weird trench coat still on. Well, joke’s on you, trench coat, Dean thought as he grabbed the collar and pulled Cas close as he reached him.
”I just came out to my brother.”
And then he closed the gap between them.
Castiel waited patiently at the door. Dean had disappeared as soon as they had entered, mumbling something about pie, but Castiel didn’t want to be a bad guest and assume that he was to follow. He was fairly sure he saw the kitchen to the left, however, but who was he to say where Dean would put his pie?
Instead, he observed the parts of the house that he could see. A pair of shoes was lying on the floor, and several leather jackets hung to his right (making Castiel wonder why Dean hadn’t brought one along with him, because obviously he did have the right clothes for the weather). Castiel even dared to touch one of them, after a quick glance at the door Dean had disappeared through. The leather was soft under his fingers, well-worn and probably well-loved.
When he peered over a little, he saw that the kitchen was definitely to the left, and he got a glimpse of Dean’s morning routine. An empty bowl that had probably contained Dean’s breakfast – cereal, if the box of Cookie Crunch was anything to go on – and a lone coffee cup.
The walls were empty, and Castiel knew that his own apartment emitted the same loneliness as Dean’s.
He looked at the jackets again and wondered what it would look like if his own coat hung next to Dean’s.
The door through which Dean had disappeared was thrown open again, and Dean strode out, heading right toward him. Castiel had just enough time to wonder where the pie was when Dean interrupted his thoughts.
“I just came out to my brother.”
And then Dean’s lips were upon his own, and Castiel’s world stopped.
Oh.
Oh my.
That was—
That was a really good kiss, but—
Castiel James Emmanuel Novak was not gay.
It wasn’t in any defensive way – Castiel saw himself as an ally, and he had never had a problem being called gay, other than finding it detestable that someone used the word as a slur.
No, Castiel was not gay, and that was just a fact.
Well.
He had assumed he was not.
In truth, he had never really given it much thought. His sexuality had never been put into question, never been discussed by either himself or his family. It hadn’t been given or decided, hadn’t been forced or debated.
It just was.
Because all members of the Novak family were as straight as the ruler his mother used on his fingers if he didn’t do his homework on time, correctly, and/or with the right amount of enthusiasm.
Well, no one had said growing up was supposed to be easy, and especially not in the Novak household. Michael had taken it with his head held high, but middle child Gabriel had done everything in his power to oppose their parents.
(Once, Gabriel had rewritten the ten commandments, and even to this day Castiel could recite each and one of them:
Gabriel's "Improved" Ten Commandments
(Guaranteed to get me grounded for eternity)
- Thou shalt have no other gods before Mom and Dad.
Because obviously, their word is law. God may run the universe, but Dad runs this house, and you better not forget it. - Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven images—unless it’s macaroni art for the fridge.
But don’t make it too creative, or Mom will say you’re “acting out.” Stick to Jesus and crosses, or else. - Thou shalt not take the name of the parent in vain.
Saying “Oh my Dad” under your breath counts, and you’ll get the “What did you just say?” death stare. - Remember the Sabbath day, and don’t even think about sleeping in.
Sunday is for church, not for rest. And if you complain, congratulations—you’re volunteering to read Bible verses in front of the whole congregation. - Honor thy father and thy mother—but they don’t have to honor you back.
Want privacy? A voice? Nope. In this house, respect is a one-way street, and you’re walking uphill both ways. - Thou shalt not kill… time, especially if chores aren’t done.
If you’re caught lounging, expect to hear, “This house doesn’t clean itself!” every 15 minutes until you wish for divine intervention. - Thou shalt not commit adultery—unless we’re talking about sneaking snacks from the “only for guests” cookie jar.
In that case, it’s definitely adultery, and you’ll face the full wrath of Mom’s disappointment. - Thou shalt not steal, unless it’s a sibling’s turn to clean the bathroom.
Then it’s fair game to blame Michael for everything. Sharing guilt is a family tradition, right? - Thou shalt not bear false witness—unless it’s to avoid a lecture.
“Oh, yeah, Dad, I totally finished my math homework and didn’t just shove it under my bed. Pinky swear.” - Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s peace and quiet.
Because you live here, and quiet time is a luxury reserved for adults only. Meanwhile, you get constant yelling about how the Wi-Fi bill isn’t free.
He even remembered the footnote from Gabriel, hastily scribbled at the bottom of the paper:
"If I get struck by lightning for this, at least I’ll have some peace and quiet up there. But hey, if Dad can call these house rules divine, I can call mine an improvement. Smite me, Almighty Smiter!"
So, there were reasons sexuality had never been a topic of discussion in the Novak household; rather, it had been completely avoided because it just didn’t exist, alongside the existence of all genders beyond two (which had made college all the more eye-opening for Castiel).
And that just was. Castiel James Emmanuel Novak was not gay.
And still, Dean Winchester’s lips felt tremendously good upon his own.
Castiel hadn’t kissed—or been kissed—a lot of times in his life, but he knew this was a good one because it was the only kiss that had made his heart beat faster and his face turn hot. This made him conclude that Dean was not only a good kisser (certainly, he had a lot of experience, because Castiel didn’t think one could do that with a tongue if one hadn’t practiced) but also that something happened inside of him when kissed by Dean in particular. His lips felt as if they were on fire, as if a jellyfish had swept over them, and he almost wanted to pull away when Dean beat him to it, and he realized that Dean’s lips moving away was way worse.
“You’re not kissing back,” Dean whispered.
“Let me amend that,” Castiel whispered back.
The second kiss was even better, now that he knew that he had to have Dean’s lips against his own, even if it felt like he would combust with it. He followed obediently – after all, he had done just that the whole night – when Dean pulled him along with him. Castiel barely registered that darkness surrounded them as they entered what was Dean’s bedroom, drapes probably pulled shut before the windows. He steadied Dean with his hands on his hips as he felt the other man stumble when they hit the edge of the bed, an action that only drew them closer together, and even more so when Dean tugged him closer while leaning backward. Castiel held him even tighter, and that’s when he felt it.
Castiel broke the kiss and barely made out Dean’s concerned eyes.
“What—?”
“You have a penis.”
Dean had a penis. Castiel had assumed – even if he knew there were a lot more genders than male and female, and also that there were no hard lines between them – he had still made the assumption that Dean was a man and was in possession of a penis. Not that it was something he had thought about Dean’s penis in particular, but he hadn’t assumed that Dean was anything other than male. Now, with Dean’s rock-hard penis pressed against his own, it was difficult not to notice it.
Also, he couldn’t help but notice his own penis was equally as hard, pressed tightly against Dean’s.
Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, I do,” he said slowly, licking his lips. “And so do you.”
The last was said in an exhale, and the warm breath that came along with it and hit Castiel’s lips sprang him to life again.
It was true that Castiel had a penis, and for the first time, it had reacted to someone.
And who was Castiel to deny himself?
“Yes,” he murmured, before capturing Dean’s lips again.
This time, he followed Dean down on the bed when Dean tugged him towards himself again, and when he wasn’t busy holding Dean steady he could let his hands wander over the warm body underneath him. Soon, Castiel’s trench coat lay forgotten on the floor, his tie slightly askew, but he didn’t care. Dean was beneath him, warm and solid, his breath steady but shallow with anticipation. Castiel hovered over him, Dean's frame a foreign but not unpleasant sensation pressing against him.
His fingertips ghosted over the curve of Dean's collarbone, tentative and curious, mapping a territory he had never dared to explore. Castiel’s hand trailed to Dean’s chest, his palm absorbing the steady thrum of a heartbeat.
Every movement was deliberate, slow. His fingers traced the outline of Dean’s ribs, feeling the faint give of flesh over bone. “You’re...soft,” Castiel murmured, his voice a low rasp, as though the realization had only just settled in his mind. He leaned down, his lips brushing softly over the fabric of Dean’s shirt, testing its texture against his mouth. The sensation was muted, but the heat radiating through the cloth was unmistakable, a quiet testament to the life humming beneath.
Dean shifted slightly, his hands gripping Castiel’s shirt hard, though he didn’t push Castiel away. Instead, he tilted his head up, eyes dark with something Castiel didn’t fully understand but wanted a lot more of.
Castiel let his hands continue their exploration. His palms skimmed over the breadth of Dean's shoulders, his thumbs tracing the curve where muscle met bone. His lips followed his hands, pressing softly into the crook of Dean’s neck, and he stilled for a moment as his senses flooded with the earthy scent of Dean’s skin—a mixture of hamburger, sweat, and something he could only assume was Dean himself.
“Extraordinary,” Castiel whispered, the words more for himself than for Dean. He lifted his head, his eyes searching green ones as though looking for confirmation that this wasn’t some fleeting human illusion. “This is…you’re much more than I could ever have imagined.”
Dean let out a shaky laugh, his lips quirking into a small smirk despite the flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah, Cas, most people just stick with ‘sexy bastard.’ But I’ll take ‘extraordinary’.”
Castiel tilted his head as his fingers settled over the hollow of Dean’s throat, contemplating Dean’s words. “I don’t think you understand,” he said, his voice steady, reverent, but still not knowing how to articulate his thoughts.
Dean’s smirk softened, his gaze holding Castiel’s as he resumed his quiet reverie. ”I think I do.” In that moment, the world beyond the four walls of the room seemed to fade, leaving only the steady rhythm of their breaths and the profound, quiet discovery of touch.
Castiel’s hands trembled slightly as they came to rest at the hem of Dean's flannel shirt. The fabric felt rough against his fingertips, worn and softened by countless washes, but it held no significance compared to what lay beneath. Castiel’s gaze flickered up to Dean’s face, searching for hesitation, for some sign that he should stop. But Dean’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling steadily, his green eyes fixed on Castiel’s with unspoken permission.
Castiel knelt over Dean, his weight balanced carefully on his knees as his hands hovered over the edges of Dean’s shirt. The fabric parted easily, revealing the worn Led Zeppelin shirt beneath. Castiel tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he traced the faded design with his gaze. The image on the shirt was cracked and weathered, like an artifact that had lived through decades of battle, much like the man wearing it.
Castiel’s hands moved to the soft, thinning cotton of the t-shirt, fingers curling slightly against the hem. He paused, looking up to meet Dean’s gaze. “May I?” he asked, his voice low, reverent.
Dean swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gave a small nod. “Yeah, Cas. Go for it.”
With that, Castiel began to lift the shirt, his hands steady and deliberate. The fabric caught slightly on Dean’s soft belly, and Castiel’s fingers brushed against the skin there, warm and smooth. He paused for just a moment, as though the contact had startled him, then continued, and Dean rose slightly to help Castiel get both the garments off.
For a long moment, Castiel simply looked. Dean lay bare from the waist up, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Castiel’s gaze lingered on every detail—the freckles scattered across his shoulders like constellations, the faint scars that marred his skin, the firm lines of muscle that hinted at a life of constant motion and conflict. Each mark, each curve, told a story that Castiel found himself desperate to understand.
His hand moved instinctively, fingertips brushing over the pale, jagged line of a scar just above Dean’s ribs. “This,” Castiel murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What happened here?”
Dean shifted slightly under his touch, smiling faintly. “That one? Uh, tell you another time? Not the most sexy story, I’m afraid.”
Castiel frowned, but nodded nonetheless. He would not persevere, not when Dean would tell him later.
His fingers brushed over another scar, then another, tracing their stories in silence. Dean's breath hitched again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Cas...” It was neither a plea nor a warning, just his name, spoken with a mix of wonder and disbelief.
Encouraged, Castiel moved lower, his hands skimming along Dean’s sides until they reached the waistband of his jeans. His thumb brushed the metal button there, and he paused, looking up once more. “May I?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.
“Yeah. Yeah, you can.”
Castiel made quick work of the button and zipper, even as he felt his hands shake. He tugged the jeans down slowly, again with help from Dean, feeling the friction of the denim as it peeled away from Dean’s legs. The sight that greeted him was both ordinary and extraordinary.
He sat back on his heels for a moment, taking it in—the slope of Dean’s shoulders, the curve of his hip bones, the taut lines of muscle and the vulnerability of his stillness. Dean was indeed in possession of a penis, and it lay hard and leaking on his stomach, twitching several times as Castiel let his finger trace alongside it. Castiel’s gaze softened, his head tilting slightly as he tried to process the flood of emotions coursing through him, the same emotions that had been stirring inside of him the whole eventing that he still couldn’t name.
“You’re magnificent,” Castiel said at last, his voice trembling with sincerity.
Dean exhaled a shaky breath, his lips turning into a half-smile that betrayed both his unease and his trust. “You make me sound like some kinda work of art, Cas.”
“You are,” Castiel replied simply. He leaned forward, his hands resting on either side of Dean’s body, and pressed a soft kiss to the center of Dean’s chest, as if sealing the truth of his words into the man’s very being.
Holy fucking shit on a stick.
Here he is, completely naked and trying really hard not to freak the fuck out. He’d had plenty of hookups in his time—he knew the drill: meet someone, charm their pants off (literally, of course, moving on), and have a good fucking time. But this? This was not the usual script. Because no one had ever looked at him the way Cas was looking at him now—like he was the damn pie on the buffet table waiting to be eaten.
Like Dean wasn’t just a guy in a ratty Led Zeppelin shirt but some kind of rare museum piece Cas had stumbled across and wasn’t sure he was supposed to touch.
“Uh, so...” Dean cleared his throat, trying to sound casual even though his heart was hammering like he’d run a marathon (hah, like that would ever happen!). “You always undress people like this, or am I getting the VIP treatment?”
Cas didn’t even crack a smile. He just tilted his head, those ridiculously blue eyes fixed on Dean like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re special,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Dean blinked. His brain immediately short-circuited. “Well, damn,” he muttered, a nervous laugh escaping before he could stop it. His cheeks burned, and he suddenly felt way too exposed—not just physically, but... emotionally? Was that what this was? No, nope, not going there. Focus, Winchester.
Cas didn’t move, still studying him with that calm, steady gaze that somehow made Dean feel both naked and... kind of awesome. “What?” Dean asked, his voice a little sharper than he meant. “Did I spill ketchup on my chest or something?”
“No,” Cas said softly. His hand moved, trailing over Dean’s chest with maddening slowness. “You’re beautiful.”
Dean snorted, the sound coming out way too loud in the quiet room. “Buddy, I’m not a freaking oil painting. I’m just a guy who drinks too much beer and maybe works out once a week when I feel guilty about it.”
Cas’s lips twitched, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, his fingers traced a line along one of Dean’s ribs, as if he was committing the feel of it to memory. “You’re much more than that,” he said, his voice low and sure.
Dean groaned and threw an arm over his face. “Oh my God, you’re serious. You’re actually serious.”
“I am,” Cas replied, his hand now resting on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. The touch was warm, grounding, and Dean tried really hard not to melt into the bed like a total sap. “You’re... unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”
Dean peeked out from under his arm, his lips twitching into a nervous grin. How did Cas manage to say stuff like that with a straight face? More importantly, why did it feel like Dean was about to burst into flames every time he did? “Okay, well,” Dean said, his voice a little shaky as he gestured vaguely at the air between them, “you’re setting the bar pretty high for me, buddy.”
Cas tilted his head, his hand brushing softly against Dean’s skin. “It’s not a bar,” he said. “It’s just the truth.”
Oh, fuck this—Dean’s nerves were doing a weird tap dance in his chest, and while it wasn’t completely unpleasant, he had to do something to take back some damn control over the situation. “Okay, well, I’m not gonna be the only one here looking like Adam before the apple. Your turn!”
Cas frowned briefly before he seemed to catch Dean’s meaning, huffing out a breathy laugh as he started to pull off his tie.
Too fucking slow.
Dean sat up and unceremoniously unbuttoned Cas’s pants (some weird damn pants with a hidden button on the inside—what the hell was that about?) and pulled them down along with his boxers in one brusque motion. There was only one person in the room acting like it was the first time they’d opened a birthday present.
He had, however, forgotten that this was the first time he would be eye to eye with the one-eyed snake.
Shit.
“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered, his cheeks burning hotter than Baby’s dashboard in July, “you’re not too bad yourself, Cas.”
That earned him a smile as Cas pulled the rest of his clothes off, leaving Dean utterly useless at the sight of his cock.
What a sight it was.
And that was the moment he knew he’d never be able to get into bed with a woman again, sober or not. But maybe—just maybe—that wasn’t going to be a problem anymore, he thought as he fell back on the bed, Cas climbing on top of him.
This wasn’t just some casual fling anymore—not with the way Cas was looking at him, touching him, talking to him like Dean was more than the sum of his bad jokes and cheap beer habits.
This doggy bag was in his hand.
And damn it, Dean wanted more. More of this. More of him.
As Castiel’s hand found Dean’s chest again, warm and steady, he tilted his head slightly, those impossibly blue eyes locking onto Dean’s. “May I touch you more?” he asked, his voice low, almost reverent, as if Dean was something sacred.
Dean’s breath hitched, and for a moment, all he could do was stare. His brain was scrambling to keep up with the situation, ping-ponging between holy crap, this is happening and how do I not screw this up? His mouth opened, but no sound came out—like his vocal cords had gone on strike. He cleared his throat, managing a shaky, “Yeah, uh... sure. Knock yourself out.”
Cas didn’t waste a second. His fingers moved lower, tracing the line of Dean’s stomach, exploring with the same deliberate care he’d used before. Dean felt his muscles twitch involuntarily under the touch, his whole body on high alert. Every nerve felt like it was firing off sparks, and Dean was pretty sure he was about two seconds away from either fainting or combusting.
“You’re trembling,” Cas observed, his tone somewhere between curiosity and concern.
“No kidding,” Dean muttered, his voice tight. “You got magic hands or something?”
Cas tilted his head again. “They’re not magical. They’re just... mine.”
Dean let out a strangled laugh, his head thumping back against the pillow. “Yeah, okay, Cas. You’re not helping the situation here.”
“What situation?” Cas asked, his fingers now brushing around Dean’s belly button. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”
And holy crap, Dean thought, was he trying to kill him? Because that voice, that serious, calm, I’ll-be-gentle voice, was doing things to him he didn’t even know were possible.
Cas’s hand moved again, more confidently now, and when Cas’s hand finally found his cock, warm and sure, Dean’s brain short-circuited. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a gasp, his hips jerking slightly of their own accord. He wanted to reach out and touch Cas, but his hands were gripping the sheets tightly, unable to do anything else as Cas closed his hand around his dick. “Oh, God,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “You really know how to make a guy feel useless, you know that?”
Cas paused, his movements stilling as he looked up at Dean again. “You’re not useless.”
Dean barked out a laugh, though it was shaky at best. “Buddy, I’m lying here like a dead fish while you—” He gestured vaguely with one hand, his cheeks burning. “I don’t even know how to describe what you’re doing.”
“I’m learning,” Cas said simply, his hand moving again, slow and exploratory, like he was mapping every inch of Dean he could reach. “I’ve never done this before.”
Dean froze, his head snapping up to look at Cas. “Wait, what? You’re telling me this is your first time?”
“Yes,” Cas said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and he pulled the foreskin back, looking intently at his own ministrations. “But I want to do it well. For you.”
Dean’s heart did something stupid and fluttery at that—something he’d normally make fun of himself for. But right now? He didn’t have it in him. Because no one had ever said something like that to him before. Not in this way. Not with this kind of sincerity.
Fuck, he didn’t even know you could panic in a good kind of way.
“You’re doing fine,” Dean muttered, his voice rough as he let his head fall back against the pillow. “Better than fine. Just—yeah. Keep doing... whatever that is.”
Cas’s lips curved into the faintest smile. It didn’t matter that Castiel didn’t have experience, because everything he did sent tingling shots throughout Dean’s legs, making his toes curl, but soon Dean’s restlessness caught up and he pushed himself up, meeting Cas in a kiss as he fumbled for the other man’s cock.
His heart thumped at the same time Cas’s breath hitched when he found it, and he let his hand enclose the warm member.
Shit.
This was real.
He had a cock in his hand, Cas’s cock, and a hand around his own and-
It was better than he’d even imagined.
Slowly he began to jerk Cas off, and he didn’t even mind that Cas' own hand stopped as soon as Dean started. He tried to do the things he dug himself, but it was hard doing it to another person. Cas didn’t seem to mind, as he moaned into Dean’s mouth before he seemed to gather himself and moved his hand again, only stopping from time to time when Dean flicked his thumb over his slit.
It didn’t take long before their hands moved in frenzy, and Dean grabbed a hold of Cas’s neck and pulled him down again, Cas hovering above Dean’s body as they continued to work their dicks over. Dean felt the familiar tightening in his lower stomach, and the fireworks went off when Cas pressed a little harder around him, making Dean jerk upwards, knocking their cocks together like two popsicles giving a toast. The orgasm shot through him like a Marvel movie’s sky beam, and he cried out as he curled into Cas, feeling his own hand become wet as Cas erupted shortly after.
Meatballs.
Dean was pretty sure he’d ascended to some higher plane of existence. Either that or he was dead, and if this was the afterlife, it wasn’t half bad. He lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling like it had the answers to all of life’s questions. Before he could process anything else, Cas collapsed on top of him with all the grace of a very heavy, very sweaty blanket. “Dean,” Cas murmured, his voice soft and breathless, “that was... extraordinary.”
Dean let out a wheezy laugh, his arms instinctively wrapping around Cas, though mostly to keep the guy from smothering him. “Yeah, buddy, it was... something, alright.” His words came out between chuckles, the sheer ridiculousness of the situation hitting him all at once. Here he was, lying in bed with the most intense, weirdly perfect guy he’d ever met, and all he could do was laugh like an idiot.
Cas didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, he leaned up slightly and kissed Dean’s forehead. “You’re remarkable,” Cas said, his voice filled with so much awe it was borderline embarrassing.
Dean barked out another laugh, squirming slightly under the intimate gesture. “Feels like I just won the sex lottery.”
Cas retreated slightly, his brows knitting together in that way that was both adorable and mildly infuriating. “I didn’t know there was a lottery involved,” he said seriously. “But I’m glad I won.”
Dean snorted, shaking his head, before shifting slightly, trying to get comfortable under Cas’s weight. “Not that I’m complaining, but you’re kind of crushing me here, big guy.”
Cas blinked, then immediately rolled to the side, propping himself up on one elbow. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” Dean said quickly, waving him off. “I just need my lungs to, you know, breathe.” He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a deep, contented sigh. “Man, I can’t believe this just happened.”
Cas frowned slightly, his hand coming up to rest gently on Dean’s chest. “Why not?”
Dean blinked up at him, caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know. Guess I didn’t think I’d ever... do something like this. With a guy, I mean.” He paused, his grin turning a little sheepish. “Been in the closet so long, I think I’ve got splinters.”
Cas’s brows furrowed. “You were trapped in a closet?”
Dean groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “It’s a figure of speech, Cas. Means I haven’t exactly been open about... you know.” He gestured vaguely between them. “This.”
Cas tilted his head, his expression softening. “I see. Well, I think you’re very brave.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. “Alright, alright, tone it down, Shakespeare. You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you’re falling for me or something.”
Cas didn’t hesitate. “I don’t see why not. I have nothing against the idea of falling for you. I just hope you're okay with that.”
Dean blinked, still processing the weight of what Cas had just said. He shook his head with a quiet laugh, his grin widening. “Alright, alright, Cas, you’re officially the most intense person I’ve ever met. But hey, before we hit the pillow, I’m thinking it’s time for a shower. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna pass out from exhaustion, but I’d rather not smell like a bunch of things when I do.”
He pushed himself up slightly, still half-amused by how comfortable Cas had made him feel. He gave him a mock serious look. “You in, or do you plan on falling asleep right here on top of me?”
Cas didn’t budge, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he nodded. “A shower sounds good.” He hesitated before adding, almost as an afterthought, “And we need to sleep, since we have to rise early tomorrow.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious. “For what? Are we getting breakfast at some ridiculous hour or—”
“No,” Cas interrupted, his tone so deadpan it was almost hard to tell if he was serious. “We need to get to the park at sunrise. I want to catch the bees when they are most active.”
Bees?
“Bees?” Dean repeated his thoughts aloud.
Cas nodded seriously, as though they were talking about something actually normal. “Yes. You said you were interested in observing bees in their natural environment.”
Dean blinked, his mind momentarily going blank as he tried to piece together the fragments of their earlier conversation. Watching bees in their what now? Had he seriously said that? He could faintly remember something about bees, but mostly his mind was blank. But, looking at Cas’s earnest face, he couldn’t really back out now.
Dean nodded slowly, struggling to keep his composure. “Alright, alright, I guess I’m in. I mean, bees are cool and all, but... this is, uh, a whole new level of weird for me. Watching insects,” he watched how Cas’s face fell and quickly went for damage control, ”at dawn.”
It seemed to work, as Cas tilted his head, looking slightly confused instead by Dean’s reaction. “Yes. I believe it’s the optimal time for observing them. The morning light, their activity—everything aligns for the perfect experience.”
Dean ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a soft laugh. “Alright, Cas, you’ve convinced me. Bee-watching at sunrise. Guess that’s what we’re doing tomorrow. Can’t wait. But now,” he rose and dragged Cas with him, ”shower.”
As he turned to head toward the bathroom, Cas tagging along behind him, he felt his cheeks hurting from smiling. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the beginning of something
fucking
awesome.
Oh, yeah, and fuck you Sam—Dean was so winning at life right now.