Chapter Text
Knock, knock. Knock, knock.
A vibration against Dean’s face encourages his eyes to flutter about, taking in the dim lights, as he smells a powerful bouquet of stale beer. Whoa, his vision goes wonky as Dean raises his head from its resting place. A pretzel plummets from his cheek. Sleep deprived eyes squint in confusion. “Was that necessary?”
“You drank half a beer and passed out. I think you need a bed, not a bar.” Casey grins, her revealing black tank top not even registering with him. The woman’s attempts at bedroom eyes are tiptoeing towards boring. “Rough day?”
Dean harshly rubs his cheeks, trying to discover a semblance of consciousness. “With the rain rolling in by early afternoon, my boss Rufus wanted us on the site at 5 a.m. so we could beat the storm.”
“Being a roofer must suck.” She swipes a lock of brunette hair behind her ear. A deep-wine painted fingernail taps on the bruises across his knuckles, “But I don’t think these came from banging a hammer.”
“Second job to pay the bills, got a letter a few weeks back. Sam’s college tuition goes up next year but his scholarship amount remains the same.” Dean explains, hiding his purple bruises and cuts under the cuff of his flannel.
She snags his drink, pouring the flat beer into a miniature sink behind the bar. Casey points to the shiner on his face, “Does your brother know how you’re making up the difference?”
“Sam’s doing his part. Keeping a 3.5 GPA to hold onto his current scholarships is hard enough, I’m not going to stress him out over the small stuff.”
Shaking her head, the bartender drums those manicured nails on the shiny oak bar, “KU is a perfectly good school and costs a fraction of Stanford. Just saying, killing yourself to keep Sam’s dream alive doesn’t seem fair.”
“I come for the alcohol, not the advice.” Dean tosses his keys on the bar as he pulls out some cash for his drink. Finances may be tight, but he’s got fucking manners; a person always tips. He bobbles a bit, almost tipping off the stool.
In the second it takes for him to drop the cash, Casey has snagged his keys, placing them securely in the back pocket of her skintight black jeans. “Use it for bus fare, Winchester; you’re so exhausted you can barely keep those apple green gems open. Crashing that beautiful car of yours would be a travesty or,” she side-eyes him, smirking, “you can wait an hour and walk me home. I promise to let you sleep,” she winks, “eventually.”
“Shut your mouth, woman, I can totally drive.” Dean trips on the leg of his stool, nearly nosediving to the sticky floor. God, he’d need a tetanus shot if he’d landed. The Roadhouse was many things, sterile or even sanitary was not one of them. Popping up quickly, he rethinks the plan, “I’ll be by tomorrow at lunch for those. Keep them safe with your life.”
Casey’s gaze narrows as she mouths silently to herself, “safe with your life.”
“OR guard them with your life. Whatever,” he shakes off his blunder, “don’t lose them.”
The brunette bartender laughs, slipping the keys in between a rack where many men have gone before. “I promise, now scoot. It’s a little after 5 p.m.; the next bus will be by in ten minutes.”
As he stumbles out the front doors, Dean’s immediately doused with a classic month of April rain shower, soaking through his flannel and jeans. Ah, yes, a reminder of how he was able to leave the construction site early for a Friday. Dean leans against the little sign marking the bus route, his shoulders aching and his eyes threatening to close again. Perhaps Casey had a point.
“Lightweight,” he taunts to no one but himself.
A few minutes later and the light blue bus for Kansas University students stops to pick him up. The City of Lawrence has a deal with the school allowing the general public to also use the university’s transportation, for a fee of course. He’d have to transfer mid-campus, but a small price to pay for his Baby’s safety.
The windows are dark from the stormy sky, making the lights in the bus bright and painful. Dean grabs a seat, tucking in by the window and closing his eyes. The buses run on a loop; if he missed his stop it would come back sooner or later. Not his first fatigued buscapade. Swiftly the world vanishes as Dean passes out.
Slam. The bus halts jarringly as Dean’s face nearly strikes the seat in front of him. Thankfully a hand leaps out, saving his nose. Flopping his head to the side, a glorious vision of stunning blue eyes against a delicious five o’clock shadow flickers before him.
With a sigh Dean announces, “You’re so pretty,” before plummeting onto navy dress pants and oblivion.
Thunder claps violently. Dean jolts up, coming face to face with plump, warm, slightly chapped lips. He can’t stop himself from reaching out and rubbing his finger across their supple skin. “I like kisses.”
The mouth in question remains silent yet he swears a purr builds under the man’s throat. Lacking complete social etiquette, Dean nuzzles the khaki shoulder as sleep heaves him under.
Obnoxious, unrecognizable dance music pours in through a cracked window. His forehead crashes into the glass pane as the vehicle passes fraternity row. Students litter the lawn holding red plastic cups, their heads bouncing in unison to the beat. When did it stop raining?
A quick turn slides Dean into the man next to him and once again the eyes of an angel stare down at him. Thick, wavy, dark brown hair screams for him to run his hand through the supple locks. Leaning in he whispers, “Can I keep you?”
On the edges of consciousness, he grasps a faint, “yes.”
Smacking his lips, he regrets not grabbing a bottle of water for the road. Although, the heated, soft pillow under his head helps to comfort his nap. Dean snuggles into the fabric scenting a delightful mix of honey, oranges, and blueberry markers???
“What the??” Dean grumbles opening his eyes to ogle into the abyss of gorgeous blue irises. “Who are you?”
The man he’s been using as a pillow answers stoically, “Castiel Novak.”
His brain clears a bit as he notes the tan trench coat and ill fitted navy suit. Yet, despite the poor choice in clothes, the guy’s hot. Dean flaunts his best get-you-naked smile, “So, Cas, going anywhere important?”
“It’s Friday.” Novak deadpans as if the day is the only explanation. “Friday is Italian.”
“Okay.” Hard to argue, the man has a plan. As he glances down, Dean notices his hand being held by old blue eyes. He’d pull away, but the bus’s AC is running at artic levels and he’s wet. The heat from Castiel’s hand is divine. Meh, what can it hurt? Although, now he’s terrified he snatched the poor dude’s digits and is holding them hostage, which forces him to blurt out, “We can let go if you want.”
“No.” Is all he gets for a reply; honestly, in the two minutes he’s known Castiel Novak, this seems appropriate.
Memories of silly spoken slurred words prance at the skirts of his memories as the bus charges forward through the dark. Oddly, he’s feeling better. “Hey Cas, what’s the time?”
The other passenger raises his free wrist to glimpse a fucking expensive silver watch. “The current time in Lawrence, Kansas is 7:52 p.m.”
“Shit,” he huffs. He’s been riding for almost three hours, explains the rested sensation. The holding hands continues with no fanfare. Huh? Dean doesn’t really care. He accepted his bisexuality in high school when Rhonda Hurley dressed him up in silk panties and Victor came over to take pictures. His stomach rumbles, loudly.
“Next stop,” Cas exclaims, his eyes watching the road.
Following the man’s gaze, Dean notices where they are in the route. Nestled in the swanky end of Massachusetts Street, where all the expensive stores and restaurants sit. Not his typical hangout spot. Growing up in town, the Winchesters kept to the southside limits with diners and the local thrift store.
The bus halts and Novak stands, yanking Dean with him. Guess he’s getting off too.
With a clear purpose in mind, Castiel stomps off the bus and heads farther north, passing ritzy stores and elegant restaurants. Dean trails behind mainly because he has no idea where they are headed, but the view of the other man’s strong shoulders with his jaw clenched gives Dean’s libido a surge of energy. Cas’s stride begs no question to who’s in charge; his movements could be seen as cold and calculating yet Dean believes otherwise. The tan trench coat billows behind him like Superman’s cape. Awesome.
Novak never releases his hand.
They stop in front of Angelo’s Ristorante. Dean’s taken a date here once and ate Ramen noodles for a week to afford it. Patting his barely dry jeans and flannel, “Cas, I’m not dr—”
“Balthazar won’t mind.” Blue eyes respond, tugging him inside.
Dean knocks into Cas as he enters shouting, “Baltha …who?”
“Balthazar.” An older blonde man with a British accent answers, wearing a sleek black suit. “Castiel, you didn’t tell me you were bringing someone tonight?”
“I’m bringing someone.” Cas counters not a touch of teasing to his tone.
“Can you introduce your new,” the guys eyes sweep over Dean, a frown building on his lips, “…friend?”
“No.”
“Dean Winchester.” God, Cas doesn’t even know his name. “We just met.”
Nodding, Balthazar wanders through the space, weaving past cloth-adorned tables with candles burning and deep mahogany leather seats. “Explains quite a bit actually. Our Castiel isn’t,” he pauses as Dean and Cas take their seats. It’s a tad awkward since Novak holds his fingers tighter, “a people person. You might be the first to eat with him who isn’t a blood relation or coworker in years.”
Although most would assume Castiel has no reaction to the jab, Dean immediately sees his shoulders slump ever so faintly and a tiny micro frown turn on his beautiful mouth. Glaring at Balthazar with disdain he shoots back, “I’m happy to be here.”
With a dramatic sulk the blonde Brit returns to the front of the restaurant. Using one hand Dean opens his menu to figure out what he can afford. Nothing. He could use his one good credit card; however, it’s his only backup for emergencies.
When the waiter arrives Cas speaks first, “We will both have a glass of chianti, the lasagna plate and Caesar salad with ice water no lemon.” The guy writes it down and disappears before Dean can correct the order. As if reading his mind Castiel adds, “I will pay.”
“I’m not a bum. I can cover my tab.” It’s a bold face lie, because his half with tip could be over fifty bucks.
“Can you make pancakes with honey instead of syrup?”
The question seems to come from out of nowhere. Dean chuckles his reply, “Yes, I’m pretty handy in the kitchen.”
“Good, I will provide dinner. You can take care of breakfast; problem solved.” The adorable wisp of a lift to Cas’s lips makes Dean’s heart stutter.
Now, the strange guy has deduced they will be eating breakfast together. Dude appears to assume a lot. To his credit, Dean can’t stop his mouth from a muffled, “Alright.”
Dean would interrogate Novak further, but their wine and salads arrive and he’s starving. They eat one handed in a pleasant silence.
In the lull before their lasagnas arrive, Dean decides to get to know his impromptu date further. “Do you work for the university?” In Lawrence over half the town residents are employed by KU in one form or fashion, so it’s a pretty standard opening query.
“Yes.” The seaworthy gaze locks onto Dean, “I’m a professor of mathematics. What do you do,” Castiel’s voice drops another octave, so fucking sexy, “Dean?”
“Me?” His voice cracks, reminding him of a prepubescent teen. “I work in construction, nothing to write home to Mom about.”
“I disagree. You create where once there was nothing, and you take what’s broken and give it new life.”
Damn, that’s the fanciest way to describe his job. Never has a date accepted his career so easily but also didn’t try to encourage him to do better. The women in his life are always telling him how it’s a great stepping stone. No, Castiel simply lets him be proud of who he is, in the here and now.
“Thanks, Cas.”
Professor Novak tugs their connected hands towards him, inspecting the damage to Dean’s knuckles before tilting in extremely close to get a better view of his black eye. The man exclaims, “I do not approve of unlawful violence. Explain, please.”
“It’s more of a grey area with regrettable side effects.” Unlike with Casey, Dean refuses to shroud the marks. Instead, he merely waits for his dinner companion’s reply.
A piercing stare envelopes him as Castiel appears to be weighing his options. Obviously, a man of Novak’s intelligence does nothing on the fly; maybe opposites really do attract. Seconds drag out to feel like hours; finally, the professor relents. “We shall postpone the topic until further information becomes available.”
Their entrees appear, and the tense moment is gone. Balthazar saunters up to their table with a white rose in his hand. “Castiel eats alone so I typically don’t offer a flower, but would you enjoy …”
The man still sporting a trench coat snatches the rose and places it on the table in front of Dean’s plate. “The green stem matches your eyes.”
“Maybe you can teach him some better pick-up lines,” Balthazar snickers.
“I don’t know.” He lifts the rose sniffing its sweet odor. “He’s doing pretty well all on his own.”
Balthazar rolls his eyes, “Oh, so awkward and silent is your kink.”
“No.” Dean strokes Cas’s knuckles with his thumb. “Handsome, intelligent, kind, and honest has me hoping for the best.”
At some point the rude man shuffles off, but Dean doesn’t even care. They seem to be lost in each other’s presence with no need for words. When the meal finishes Cas pays the bill as promised and gently guides him out to the sidewalk.
“My house is 5.7 blocks away. We could walk from here.” A sweet nervous twitch builds in one of Castiel’s cheeks. “If you want?”
“Lead on, Macduff.” Dean winks.
“That is a misquotation from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 8. The actual statement is lay on Macduff, which means a spirited assault or attack. I do not wish to attack you, Dean.”
“Not yet anyways.” His attempts at flirting are crashing and burning with bright, shiny flames.
The other man only nods walking down the sidewalk, the moon reflecting off his charcoal hair and a glint of a smile.
Something about Castiel Novak, mathematician, puts Dean at ease. He’s just made an ass of himself and strangely he doesn’t give a shit. Heck yeah, he’s making this guy the fluffiest pancakes to ever fluff.
Three blocks north and they take a left onto Illinois Street, where the houses match the neighborhood with long, green manicured lawns and looming ridiculously massive homes. Cas turns into a driveway of one spectacular remodeled Victorian with a killer wraparound porch.
“My house,” the professor announces, unlocking the door and waiting for Dean to enter too.
“Jesus, how big is this fucker.” Dean stumbles into a sitting parlor with two couches and bookshelves on three of the walls.
Castiel pauses to tilt his head, “Three thousand six hundred and fifteen square feet with four bedrooms, three baths and a third-floor study. Follow me.”
“Okay,” Dean mumbles, watching the trench billow out as his guide ascends the staircase. As they climb, he hears several squeaky steps along with a very loose railing. “Hey, you might want someone to check out these stairs.”
They reach a landing spreading out towards the back of the house and several closed doors. Cas points to the one painted tan, “My bedroom. Please do not enter. We are not there yet.”
Honestly, Dean gets the point and nods his agreement. “I can lea—”
“NO!” Novak yells, a flash of panic in his face. “For sleepover purposes I have a guest bedroom. Hopefully, it will meet with your approval.”
“Dude, I live in a basement studio apartment where my toilet and shower are blocked off by a plastic curtain. It’s doubtful your guest bedroom won’t give me a Ritz Carlton vibe.”
Crossing the hall to a non-descript dark wood door, Cas throws it open, gesturing for Dean to step inside. “You have your own bathroom.”
Bees. In every space available are bees in one form or fashion. The wallpaper is crème with tiny bees littered throughout, the hardwood floor is covered with a large fluffy rug in the shape of a bee. There are bee pillows tossed across the yellow comforter. On the shelves lining one wall are hundreds of glass, wooden, and porcelain bees of every shape imaginable.
“You really love bees,” Dean murmurs as he twirls around the space, taking in the hive.
“Yes.” His host responds, gently gliding into Dean’s space, his fingers ghosting over his black eye, “Do you require medical attention?”
Weakness captures his knees at being so close to the mysterious Castiel Novak, he replies softly, “I’m good.”
Cas’s head tilts to the side with a curious expression, “Of course, I expect nothing less; however, I wish to discuss in the future how such events can be circumvented.”
“Okay.” He’s not sure the bruises can be avoided, yet lost in the man’s gaze he’d promise anything to remain. Such a gorgeous man with his own gravitational pull sends arousal all through Dean’s body.
An alarm beeps from Castiel’s watch. “If you will excuse me, I spend at least an hour every night working on my numbers.”
“Sure.” He does adore watching the guy walk away.
Although, Novak returns, waving his arms, “You need pajamas!” Opening the closet door Castiel retrieves an ironed pair of men’s pajamas in his size; white with …surprise …bees on them. Handing over the sleepwear, a tiny upturn of Cas’s lips shares the kindest of grins. “My work room is on the third floor. Thank you for being here, Dean.”
A long stare then the other man dashes away.
He doesn’t even hear Dean’s tender, “you’re welcome.” Shutting the door, Dean hastily changes into the fresh pajamas. Silly bees or not, the material is super soft and Dean’s been wearing wet jeans all evening. In a bizarre twist they fit perfectly, plenty of room to fly commando. His boxers demand a drying out period. Displayed in the bathroom are a brand-new packaged toothbrush, toothpaste, floss and mouthwash. He uses the items and takes a leak after washing his face.
The books burrowed between the yellow and black figurines all seem to fall in line with the theme. Seriously, if Dean spends enough time here he could become an expert on the life and times of bees.
However, a desire to snoop wins out as Dean searches for the small set of stairs to the third floor. In his bare feet he tiptoes up to peek in on Novak’s work room. The door at the top is open wide, but Dean ducks down praying he doesn’t disturb the other man, who must be deep in thought.
The top room is huge with floor to ceiling white boards on two walls and shelves lining the other half. In the center is an old solid cherrywood desk with a laptop and papers scattered everywhere. Castiel has a blue marker in his hand scribbling numbers and letters at a fast pace. Four lamps on the brightest setting rest in each corner, casting shadows across the mathematical equations penned by his host. Two side by side windows break up the bookshelves, facing the front of the house and overlooking the yard.
Suddenly, Dean feels out of place. Castiel Novak isn’t simply smart; the guy is clearly a genius by anyone’s standards. Why would a brilliant college professor want to spend time with him? Dean Winchester with his GED, pitiful bank account, and manual labor career. Unable to stop himself, he enters, startling Cas from his beautiful mind.
“Can I ask you something?” This whole night has been some marvelously weird dream; shit, Puck could pop up at any minute.
Castiel stops his writing and faces Dean, still wearing his trench coat. “Yes.”
“Why am I here?” He curls his toes and twists his fingers, terrified the answer will be about his pretty face or cute ass.
The professor returns to his personal space, way beyond anything resembling socially appropriate. “We agreed.”
It takes a few beats for Dean to conquer the overwhelming desire to kiss those supple lips.
“I know I decided to stay.” He shakes his head dragging a hand over the scruff on his cheek, “Cas, why did you invite me to dinner, to your home? I guess I’m asking why me?”
“You are special, Dean.” The reply is calm and genuine.
Chuckling, he rolls his shoulders, “I think you’re missing some shit there, Cas, no one thinks I’m special.”
“No. I think the pieces no one else sees are what makes you perfect,” a sparkle glitters over amazing eyes, “to me.”
A deep burning to touch has Dean stretching out his hand, carding fingers through incredibly silky midnight brown hair. Castiel’s head slants into his palm as the man in question hums. A second later the professor’s head shoots up as he stutters, “I will meet you for breakfast in the kitchen.”
Stunned into silence, Dean meanders back downstairs and into the bee hive.
Crawling into bed, he relaxes onto a memory foam queen mattress. His back muscles are praising God because the crap mattress in his apartment has springs poking him nightly. Dean could certainly get used to Novak’s world, yet he’s not completely unaware of how odd the evening has been. None of this should be real.
As he drifts off to sleep, only one reflection dances through his mind. No matter what happens in the morning tonight goes down as THE best first date ever.