Chapter Text
Snow is just beginning to fall as Castiel Novak takes his seat on the 14th Street line. He rubs his hands together absently, glad to get out of the cold and into the relative warmth of the bus. One day he's going to actually learn to drive and get a car of his own, he thinks (not for the first time) as he settles into one of the few empty seats. He hadn't relished the frigid wait at the stop, and he's lucky he got a seat at all. The holiday season is in full swing, and all the city's public transit has been overrun with shoppers and merrymakers. Perhaps the weather kept some of them in tonight, he reflects. All the better.
It's not that Castiel exactly dislikes Christmas; in fact, it had once been quite the opposite. It's just that he no longer has anyone to celebrate it with. Gabriel is off to who-knows-where—his journalism career takes him across the globe—and without Anna to get them all together, Gabriel's communication has dropped off almost entirely. Castiel got a postcard from Morocco two days ago with a generic Christmas greeting and a "miss ya, bro" thrown in for good measure, but Castiel isn't fooled. Gabriel doesn't want to see him, or he would be here. Castiel knows it's nothing personal, but it still hurts.
It's been three years since Anna…well, it hasn't gotten any easier, not really.
The bus grinds to a halt at its next stop, and Castiel shivers as a blast of cold air sweeps in with the new passengers. Snow swirls in the doorway, sparkling as it catches the light. An overweight and greasy fifty-something man lumbers toward the back, ignoring the open seat beside Castiel, for which Castiel is grateful, though he feels instantly guilty for the unkind thought. An elderly woman and a teenaged girl settle in the two empty seats across from Castiel.
Just as the door is starting to close, a hand grabs it and shoves it back open. The driver huffs in annoyance at the offending straggler, and a shit-eating grin appears on the face of the most attractive man Castiel has seen in a long time.
He's tall—probably six feet or more, broad-shouldered but lean with long, slightly bowed legs. His short, sandy brown hair might have been artfully spiked at one point, but the rapidly melting snow clinging to it weighs it down. Castiel is treated to a glimpse of hypnotic green eyes set in features somehow both delicate and masculine as the man heads straight for the seat beside Castiel.
The grin disappears as quickly as it appeared, and the expression remaining on the man's face is blank and closed off, but his eyes betray a weariness that Castiel guesses goes beyond the physical. Castiel feels a sudden, inexplicable desire to comfort him, to take him in his arms and hold him until those lines, too old for such a young face, smooth away.
Castiel laughs ruefully at himself. He must be truly, pathetically lonely if he's reached the point of craving empathetic contact with random (albeit beautiful) strangers on buses. Castiel banishes the feeling with disdain.
All the same…it can't hurt to make small talk with the man, can it? The finer points of social protocols may never have been Castiel's forte, but he can handle that much, surely.
But the opportunity is lost, or rather it never comes, because the man gives an obligatory nod in Castiel's direction as he sits down, then he immediately crosses his arms and closes his eyes.
Castiel curses to himself. Typical. There's a reason he's still single—hell, still a virgin—at thirty-one, and it's not (no matter what Gabriel might say were he here) due solely to Castiel's own reticence. He just has unusually bad luck.
With a resigned sigh, Castiel pulls out a small book from the depths of his trench coat's pockets. He might as well read to pass the next half hour or so to his stop, like he usually does. No sense in moping after a random pretty face. The guy is probably straight anyway.
It takes a few minutes to focus, but Castiel finally becomes engrossed in his book, so much so that he doesn't notice his neighbor's breathing even out in slumber. He does notice a weight land on his shoulder. When he lifts his head and turns in response, his nose brushes damp hair. He jumps a little, startled, but it's not enough to jostle his companion awake.
Castiel is flummoxed. This is a social situation he is not equipped to handle. What is the protocol when the stranger sitting next to you on a bus, whom you incidentally find very attractive, falls asleep with his head on your shoulder?
He feels his cheeks heat up as he notices a couple people eying him from across the aisle, and he supposes he should wake the man. But he remembers the tired look on the man's face, and something in him melts just a little. His companion must really need the rest. A tender hint of a smile softens his eyes as he continues to look at the handsome face, gone slack with sleep. Their sudden proximity gives Castiel an intimate view of long lashes fluttering against cheeks dusted with pale freckles. He swallows.
It would be unkind to wake him when he's so tired, right? He's not bothering Castiel, not really, and he's probably more comfortable like this than he would be otherwise. Yes, Castiel will just let him have his rest for a little while.
A titter breaks out across from him, the teenaged girl the culprit, and Castiel tips his chin up just a bit and meets her gaze defiantly. She sobers immediately and looks down at her lap. Let it never be said that Castiel Novak is anything but steadfast in his decisions.
Castiel sits stiffly, hardly daring to breathe. He's not sure if that's from a genuine desire not to awaken the sleeper, or if it's from nerves at sharing such familiar space (however accidental) with someone he finds so attractive.
Okay, so maybe Castiel is a little smitten. It's been long enough since someone caught his interest at all; he's entitled.
About twenty minutes pass in this way, with Castiel barely moving a muscle. The stranger hasn't stirred; his breathing is deep and rhythmic. Castiel's own stop is only a few minutes away, and he realizes he's going to have to wake his companion.
He also realizes they're the only two people left on the bus, and he's almost always the only one that rides the bus this far out.
A horrible feeling of guilt settles in his stomach. The stranger probably slept through his stop, and it's all Castiel's fault for not waking him.
Well, there's nothing for it. Castiel steels himself, then reaches across the man's body to gently shake his opposite shoulder.
The stranger jerks upright and furrows his brow, momentarily disoriented. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, then as he turns toward Castiel his eyes widen with dawning clarity.
"Son of a bitch," he says. "Was I sleeping? Like, on you?"
"Yes," says Castiel honestly.
"Damn it. Jeez, listen man, I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a day, and I don't usually ride the bus—"
Castiel holds out a placating hand. "No, no no no, don't apologize. It's quite all right. It was my pleasure," Castiel says, because today is apparently the day to actually be the creeper Gabriel jokingly accuses him of being when he wears his trench coat. He winces mentally.
"O…kay," the stranger says with a dubious expression.
"That…didn't come out quite right," Castiel says. "I only meant that you looked very tired, and I hated to wake you. But I might need to apologize, because it's only just occurred to me that you might have slept through your stop. Unless you were wanting to get off at Taylor?"
"No, I needed to get off at Second. Wait, how long was I asleep?"
"Probably twenty or twenty-five minutes," Castiel says, somewhat sheepishly.
"Son of a bitch," the stranger says again.
"I'm sorry."
"Hey, it's not your fault I'm an idiot and fell asleep. So, can I just take this same bus back?"
"You can, but it doesn't go straight back. It loops around." Castiel glances at his watch. "And you just missed the one running the other way." The stranger groans, and a sudden idea comes to Castiel. He doesn't pause to examine his motives but instead barrels ahead with the suggestion. "Look, I feel just terrible about this. My house is only a couple blocks from here. Please let me call you a cab, and I'll make you some coffee or something while you wait."
"Thanks, man, but that's totally not necessary. Don't worry about it."
"But I am worried about it," Castiel says frankly as the bus pulls up to the stop. He stands, but he turns back to give his companion a look of earnest entreaty. "Please. I'd feel much better knowing you've gotten some caffeine in you and are being delivered straight to your destination."
The stranger laughs suddenly, and it changes his whole demeanor; if he was beautiful before, he's doubly so now. There's something of relief to the sound as well, as though the man has had little about which to laugh in recent days and is seizing the opportunity with abandon. Castiel has a wild thought that he wants to make him laugh as often as possible. "So, I need looking after, huh? Well, when you put it that way, I guess I'd better come."
The driver clears his throat, glaring at them in the rear-view mirror, and Castiel only now notices the cold draft sweeping through the bus. The stranger immediately stands and follows Castiel to the exit. Once outside, Castiel turns up his collar and shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Holy crap it's cold," the stranger exclaims, easily matching Castiel's brisk pace.
"And wet," Castiel agrees.
"I'm Dean, by the way. Thought you might want to know the name of the guy you were snuggling with."
Castiel stops in his tracks. "I didn't snuggle with you, Dean," he says soberly, alarmed that Dean might think he took liberties.
"…It was a joke, dude.''
"…Oh."
Dean laughs again, and Castiel is pleased despite his embarrassment. "I didn't actually think there was any unsolicited snuggling going on," Dean says as they resume walking. "You know, aside from me using you as a pillow."
"I didn't mind."
"Yeah, you said that," Dean points out, amusement still in his voice.
Castiel hadn't needed the reminder. He stares straight ahead, wondering when he had become so transparent and clumsy. At least this time his wording hadn't made him sound like a pervert.
"Okay, let's try this again," Dean says, thankfully letting the other subject drop. "I'm Dean, and you're…?"
"Castiel."
"Castiel," Dean enunciates, testing it out.
"Yes."
"Mouthful. Foreign?"
"Esoteric," Castiel corrects.
"Huh?"
"It's the name of an angel in some obscure religious and pseudo-religious texts. Theophorically speaking, it means "shield of God." That sort of thing was a particular interest of my parents."
"Huh," Dean says, obviously a little bemused by the terminology, to Castiel's private amusement. "I was just named after my grandmother, so nothing quite so interesting over here."
"That may not be as interesting as mine, but it's more meaningful," Castiel assures him sincerely, feeling—quite illogically—personally offended that Dean would minimize anything about himself. Then another thought occurs to him. "Wait, your grandmother was named Dean?" he asks, furrowing his brow.
Dean snorts. "Deanna, actually. My brother Sam is named after my grandfather."
They've arrived at Castiel's home, a two-bedroom mid-century Cape Cod with a modest yard. Castiel unlocks the door and beckons Dean inside.
"Nice place," Dean says.
It is a nice place. Castiel has been working to renovate the house little by little since he purchased it six years ago. He's finished the major renovations—knocking out the walls between the kitchen and the living room to create an open floor plan, gutting the bathrooms and the kitchen and putting in all new appliances, countertops, and fixtures. The front door opens into a small entry with a knee wall between it and the living room, which is furnished comfortably in a classic style with the occasional quirky touch, like the oversized, nest-like round chair with its pile of mismatched pillows in the corner by the fireplace. He still has a few aesthetic accents he'd like to add, and he has done nothing to the guest bedroom beyond filling it with basic furniture when he'd moved in.
He's saved the spare bedroom for last, because despite his optimistic visions of it one day hosting frequent guests, the reality is that in the past three years it has sat empty save for two brief visits from Gabriel. Anna had visited often.
"Thank you," Castiel says, feeling a little like a proud parent. "And thank you for coming."
Dean gives him a searching look, shaking his head a little. "You're a weird one, you know that? You're the one going out of your way to be nice to me, and here you're thanking me. You trying to get in my pants or something?" He says it with a smile, so it doesn't sound like an accusation, but Castiel's eyes widen all the same.
"No! I mean, well, I—no." Castiel shakes his head firmly, half to reinforce his statement to Dean, and half to convince himself of its truth. He is interested, but that's not the point of this. And he doesn't want a one night stand. He's always sought something more meaningful than that. He brought Dean here out of kindness, as an apology for his oversight, not out of any selfish agenda. Right?
He feels his cheeks warm, but Dean is the first to break their eye contact. He shuffles from one foot to the other and scratches absently at the back of his head. "Hey, I was just teasing, but just so you know, I, uh, I don't swing that way."
Castiel would say that wasn't a crushing disappointment, but he'd be lying.
"It's fine, Dean," he says, knowing full well that he's deflecting, but maybe saying it will make it true. "That wasn't why I brought you here."
"So why did you, really? 'Cause I gotta say, most people wouldn't invite a stranger home with them just because he fell asleep on them."
Castiel doesn't know how to answer that question, so he tries for levity. "Well, as you said, you were using my shoulder as a pillow for half an hour. I suppose I got a little attached."
Dean chuckles and shakes his head again, his expression an odd mixture of amusement, incredulity, and (if Castiel didn't know better) something almost akin to fondness. But Dean doesn't pursue the subject any further. Instead, he asks, "How 'bout that coffee, Cas?"
Cas? Did Dean just give him a nickname? Technically it's a little rude of him to be so presumptive, but Castiel doesn't care in the slightest, not when Dean's mouth tugs up at one corner as he drawls it out, warm and familiar in a way it shouldn't sound after so brief an acquaintance.
Castiel has never been Cas to anyone before, and now he wonders why. It seems such an obvious shortening. He was Castiel to his father and his schoolmates, he's Novak to his coworkers, and he was occasionally Cassie to Anna and still is often to Gabriel (and is perpetually to one particularly impudent coworker). Perhaps Cas is a name belonging to someone he's not.
Cas is a name intended for overuse, suitable for yelling across a house to ask the whereabouts of a wayward pair of socks or a misplaced magazine. It's a name to be slurred as the drunken friend throws lax limbs around its owner, a name to be ground out in the familiar frustration of an oft-rehashed argument. It's a name to be called to say breakfast is ready, a name to be protracted by the wheedling friend in need of a favor, a name to be cried out in the throes of pleasure. It's a name to be invoked in urgent appeal for advice in a crisis, a name to be mumbled drowsily into the darkness of the early hours while pressing in closer.
Cas is the name of someone who is friendly and approachable, someone down-to-earth and loving and savvy. It's the name of someone who is cherished.
Castiel thinks he'd like nothing more than to be this Cas.
He's so distracted by those three letters that it takes him a moment to register the rest of what Dean had said. Dean's eyebrows are raised at him expectantly before he finally jumps into action.
"Yes, of course," Castiel says, bustling away from the entry where they'd been standing toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. "Sit down wherever you'd like," he calls over his shoulder. "Please make yourself at home."
Dean doesn't sit but instead wanders around the room, poking into things without a worry for his nosiness. Castiel watches him over the breakfast bar while measuring out the coffee and turning on the pot. Dean runs his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelves, tilting his head a little as he reads the titles. He advances from there to the round chair and flops down in it. He's instantly half-swallowed by all the pillows.
"Hey Cas, I bet you curl up in this with a book just like a baby bird in a nest, don't you?" Dean smirks at him.
"I'm not a baby bird, Dean," Castiel says primly. He does curl up in the chair to read—quite often, in fact—and has even fallen asleep like that on several occasions, but all that's entirely irrelevant.
"Whatever you say, Big Bird."
"Big Bird isn't a baby either. He's supposed to be six years old, although the character has been around since the sixties."
"Shut up," Dean points a finger at him in mock sternness, his grin giving him away. "And I'm not even gonna ask how the hell you know that."
"I have a good memory," Castiel mumbles, feeling a little defensive, and he turns to retrieve mugs from the cabinet and hide his face.
He dares a look again in a minute, and he finds Dean hasn't moved. "This is actually pretty comfortable," Dean muses.
Castiel chuckles. "You'd better get up, or you're going to fall asleep again."
"You're right." With obvious reluctance, Dean heaves himself out of the chair (never an easy thing, since it's so deep and cushiony). He saunters over to the fireplace. "Hey, you've got a real fireplace rather than one of those lame-ass gas ones."
"Yes. It's a lot more work to keep clean, but it's worth it. You may light a fire if you'd like. There's some wood on the back porch if there's not enough there, and there should be some matches and a starter block on the hearth."
"Sweet," Dean says, and he immediately opens the screen and takes stock of the supplies. "Hey, you don't have stuff for s'mores, do you?"
Castiel scrunches up his face. "I don't know what those are."
Dean is walking toward the French doors that open onto the porch, but he stops in his tracks beside the refrigerator and turns toward Castiel with exaggerated outrage on his face. "Seriously, dude? Graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows? Put 'em on a stick and hold 'em over the fire until they're nothing but gooey goodness?"
"No, but those do sound delicious."
"They're the freakin' best, man."
Dean ducks outside and is back in a second with the logs. As he's arranging them, the coffee pot beeps to say it's done.
"How do you take your coffee?" Castiel asks as he pours the mugs.
"Black," says Dean.
Castiel doctors his own coffee, then he carries the mugs over to the coffee table and sets Dean's on a coaster. He settles himself on the L-shaped sofa just as the fire starts crackling.
Dean rises from his crouch with a satisfied look and brushes his hands on his pants. He joins Castiel on the couch and goes to reach for his mug, but he freezes suddenly. "Holy crap," he says.
"What is it?" Castiel asks in consternation.
"This mug."
Castiel follows Dean's gaze to the mug still sitting on the table. He colors. He had been so flustered earlier that he hadn't paid attention to what he was grabbing.
"I can explain," he says quickly. "See, my brother—"
"Cas," Dean says, ignoring Castiel's fumbling excuses. "You watch Dr. Sexy?"
The mug in question features two images: On one side there's a silhouette of a shaggy-headed figure in a lab coat, and the text beneath it says, "The doctor will see you now." On the other side is a picture of a pair of cowboy boots and the text "Oh, Dr. Sexy!" with little hearts around it. It's awful and cheesy and tacky and highly incriminating.
"It's very compelling," Castiel defends feebly, giving his remaining dignity up for lost.
"Right?" Dean asks rhetorically, his enthusiasm bubbling over. "That's what I always say!" He seizes the mug and turns it around in his hands, nodding his approval at the design. He then sips from it with relish, as though the vigor with which he drinks the contents might pay homage to the vessel.
Castiel gapes at him, unsure of what just happened. That was the antithesis of the reaction he had expected.
"I like how they put the boots on here," Dean comments. "After all, the boots—"
"Are what make Dr. Sexy sexy," Castiel finishes, in something of a fog.
"Exactly!" Dean exclaims, and then they both laugh at the absurdity of it.
And that's it; Castiel's gone. Why oh why does this gorgeous, warm, and funny man have to be straight?
From there they fall easily into conversation, first talking about the melodramas of Dr. Sexy and the many nurses in his life, and from there progressing to general facts about themselves. Castiel tells Dean about his job in a mid-sized accounting firm downtown, and Dean tells him he's a mechanic with his own small business, specializing in classic rebuilds when he can manage to take them on. Dean practically gushes about his own '67 Chevy Impala, but a shadow passes over his countenance when he mentions that "she" is currently out of commission until he has the time and the money to fix her. He offers no further details, and Castiel doesn't pry, although he longs to know what sadness weighs on this man's heart.
Castiel talks about his family, about the mother he never knew and the father who was never home, about the twin elder brothers whose feuding eventually drove the middle brother to leave, about the sister, now lost, who soon after went her own way as well. Castiel had finally cut ties with the others too, or perhaps they had with him, deeming him guilty of the same crimes of disloyalty as Gabriel and Anna, by association if not actuality.
He even talks about the interrupted home invasion and the hastily fired bullet that left Anna dead on the kitchen floor in her own home and Castiel grieving his closest sibling. The way Dean looks at him through that particular story is not pity, but something far closer to true understanding. Castiel wonders if he too has known grief.
Dean doesn't talk about his family beyond mentioning a younger brother in law school in California. Dean speaks of his brother with obvious pride and affection, but there's something else there too, like the memory of an old hurt, that Dean is clearly trying to keep at bay.
Despite these occasional forays into serious or sensitive subjects, the conversation is still, as a whole, relaxed and comfortable. They've barely known each other for any time at all, but Castiel feels at ease with Dean like he has never felt with anyone but his closer siblings, and perhaps even more so.
This is not to say that they are always on the same page; in fact, quite the opposite is true. Dean makes jokes and references that Castiel doesn't get and laughs at his expense, though not unkindly. Castiel occasionally rambles about something on a technical or philosophical level using vocabulary that causes Dean's eyes to glaze over a little—a product of a formal, heavily tutored upbringing. But despite all this, Castiel feels as though they are in sync on a level that runs just beneath the surface—molecular, spiritual, whatever you want to call it—but organic and effortless and right.
When Dean gets up to throw another log on the fire, Castiel (whose eyes might or might not have followed Dean's movement with appreciation) happens to glance at the clock on the mantle. What Castiel had thought was surely no more than twenty or thirty minutes was, in fact, over an hour and a half, and it's now going on eight o'clock.
It's the most pleasant couple hours Castiel has spent in another's company since Anna died, and Castiel finds himself wishing it didn't have to end. If only that damned cab would never come!
…The cab.
He never called the cab! His subconscious seems bound and determined to make a fool of him today.
"Dean, I'm so sorry," he begins.
Dean pivots in his crouch by the hearth to look at him, puzzled. "For what?"
"I just realized I never called the cab. You probably have things to do, and here I—"
Dean's sudden laughter cuts Castiel off. "I know you didn't, Cas. It's fine."
"Why didn't you tell me then?" Castiel asks, incredulous. A warm thought that maybe Dean wanted to stay as much as Castiel wants him to creeps into his mind, but he doesn't dare pursue it.
"Maybe I didn't want to," Dean says, and Castiel's heart does a flip. "This has been fun." He grins at Castiel, but when Castiel does nothing but stare at him like the embodiment of social grace he is, Dean's confidence seems to falter. "Oh, hell, you, uh, you probably had stuff to do too, huh? And you probably haven't eaten. So we can call the cab now, and I'll be out of your hair in no time at all."
Castiel doesn't want him out of his hair. Actually, he thinks he might want to keep him forever. He smiles. "Dean."
"Yeah?"
"How does spaghetti sound?"
Dean looks at him blankly for a moment as he processes the question, but then he beams. "I'll make the garlic bread."