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“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” – Jorge Luis Borges
//
Dean doesn't go to the library all that often—he reads, thanks, but he's more of a used bookstore kind of guy. Their library’s a nice enough building though, tidy red stone that looks almost prim. Sam likes to nerd out about it being built by some Carnegie guy, but right now Dean's more appreciative of whoever gave it a parking lot big enough for him to keep Baby a safe distance away from the other cars.
He locks Baby and strolls in, looking for someone who can point him to the right section, and spots a guy sitting at the Circulation desk, hunched over a blocky old computer monitor. He looks about Dean's age, with messy dark hair and broad shoulders and tanned skin, and a jawline sharp enough to draw blood. He's dressed like Rupert Giles' love child—blue tie, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and an honest-to-God linen waistcoat. Dean's never even seen one of those deployed in the wild.
The guy looks up as Dean walks closer, and Dean nearly stops in his tracks, like he's in one of those cheesy chick flicks that he maybe occasionally watches. His first thought, besides Jesus, is that this guy's eyes are so stupidly, irrationally blue, they could make Paul Newman jealous. Making eye contact with him is like staring into a searchlight, and Dean can feel himself stand up a little straighter under that focus. He feels an electric jolt of recognition, even though he’s sure he’s never met this guy before. Dean wouldn’t forget a face like his.
"May I help you?" Blue Eyes asks, and Dean has to make a concerted effort to use his words. This guy is good-looking in an offbeat, absent-minded-professor sort of way, but more than that, he's intense, like his presence is too big for his body. Dean feels like he might burn away just from looking at him, like Wile E. Coyote turning into a pile of ash.
"Um." Dammit, his face is getting hot. "Do you have any LSAT prep books?"
Blue Eyes considers this with as much seriousness as if Dean just asked him the meaning of life. "Yes, we do. They're next to the Internet computers. Would you like me to show you?" His voice is surprisingly deep and rough, like he just rolled out of bed.
"Uh, no, that's okay, I can find them. Thanks."
"Of course." The guy nods, all wide-eyed helpfulness, and Dean beats a hasty retreat, willing himself not to stumble. He swears he can feel curious eyes on him as he walks away, like a palm nestled between his shoulder blades.
He finds the test prep section and grabs a couple books for Sam, and then spends an embarrassingly long time dithering in the stacks over whether to go back and try to talk to Blue Eyes, or just take the coward's way out and use the self-checkout. When he finally convinces himself to be a big boy and go back to the counter, Blue Eyes isn't there—there's a woman at the desk instead, also dark-haired and blue-eyed and pretty; she looks like she could be the guy's sister. He must look uncertain, because she smiles gently at him.
"Did you want to check out?" She has a kind voice, and there's something calming about her.
"Uh, sure," Dean says, and hands over the books, feeling oddly disappointed. He walks out in kind of a daze, and he's distracted all afternoon.
//
Make that all week, actually.
He's been thinking about the librarian, so sue him. It's been a while since he's gotten this flustered by a guy. He had good hands, Dean had noticed—graceful and dexterous, like he could probably disassemble an engine block by feel or, just theoretically, take Dean apart in the dark with only a few touches. But it's fine. Dean will get over it, and definitely doesn't need to find an excuse to go back to the library to see the guy again, or learn his name, or find out whether his eyes are as shockingly blue as he remembers.
He sticks to that story for three more days before he asks Sam if he wants some more LSAT books. Dean's just being a good brother.
//
He slinks back to the library on Saturday, but it's a bust. Blue Eyes isn't there, and neither is his sister-worker. This time it's a tiny redhead wearing a Princess Leia T-shirt and one earbud, bopping her head to music Dean can't hear. She looks up when Dean skulks around the desk for a bit too long, craning his neck to see if Blue Eyes is in the back.
"Hi, can I help you?" Red asks, and looks him over like she can't decide whether to be concerned or amused.
"I, um. There was — a guy here a few days ago? He helped me find some stuff?" Jesus Christ, why is he asking, it's not a question. Judging from Red's reaction to whatever his face is doing right now, she's definitely decided to be amused.
"Were you looking for more stuff, or for the guy?" Damn it, now Dean's face is burning up. She must take pity on him, because she offers, "Was he dark-haired? Dreamy?"
"Uh. Yeah, actually."
Red looks at him again, like she's sizing him up. "I'll allow it. We don't wear nametags, but I'm Charlie, and that was Castiel. You can try again Monday, . . . ?"
"Dean. I'm Dean."
"I'll tell him you came by, Dean," Charlie says with a worrying glint in her eye.
"Uh, thanks. Nice shirt," he says, and flees, bookless.
"Thank you!" he hears Charlie call out behind him, but he's already speed-walking through the door.
//
Come Monday, he goes back to the library and this time actually grabs the remaining LSAT books for Sam. (He may or may not be wearing what Jo calls his “sluttiest Henley” for the occasion.) Since he's here anyway, he swings by Sci-Fi to grab Something Wicked This Way Comes; he hasn't read it in years. He hugs the books awkwardly to his chest as he walks up to the desk, armed with his excuses. It's really slow today, so there aren’t even any other patrons for him to hide behind.
Castiel is there like Charlie said he would be, score, and he's reading . . . a gay romance novel? The cover looks like an ad for one of those period dramas Sam likes to watch when Dean's not there to roast him, but with two guys. Castiel looks really engrossed in it too, and Dean’s brain immediately starts to short out over the tantalizing possibility that Castiel might not be straight. He's wearing a navy blue blazer today, and a T-shirt that says 'Get Lit' above a drawing of a stack of books. Dean snorts at the caption, and Castiel hears him and looks up. He's just as pretty as Dean remembers.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel rumbles at him, and God, the way his name sounds in Castiel's mouth. Dean could drop a rock down the well of that voice and never hear it hit bottom. "Charlie said you might stop by. Is there anything new I can help you find?"
"I just wanted to check you out, uh—check these out. The books. For my brother. Sammy needs more books." Fuck Dean's life. He has to fight the immediate urge to just leave the books and run. But he forces himself to look up, even though he's squirming, and Castiel looks—not offended. He's squinting a bit, but mostly he looks cautiously pleased, and maybe a little amused. He considers Dean with an inquisitive tilt to his head, like a bird, and looks at the books Dean's set on the counter.
"Your brother likes Ray Bradbury?"
"Uh. That one's for me, actually."
Castiel actually grins at that, and abruptly goes from pretty to gorgeous. "He's one of my favorites. Have you read The October Country?"
"No, is it good?" Dean would read fucking Twilight right now if it kept Castiel talking to him.
"Yes. Some of the stories are wonderful," Castiel says, and his eyes light up in a way that Dean is going to daydream about later. "If you'd like, I can put it aside for you. For when you come back."
Hell yes. "Awesome, thanks."
"Of course," Castiel says, and smiles at him, a bit carefully. "These will be due back in two weeks, but if you'd like to check out . . . anything else before then, please do."
Dean blinks. Was that an invitation? Are they actually flirting? "Thanks," he chokes out. "I—maybe I will."
"Good," Castiel says. "We're open every day except Sunday. I work weekdays."
"Cool," Dean says, stupidly, and manages to close his mouth long enough for Castiel to scan the books for him. Dean grabs them off the counter while staring at Castiel’s hands, and almost knocks the pile onto the floor. He's suddenly aware of Charlie sitting off to the side, watching them shamelessly with a look on her face like she just won big in Vegas. "See you around, Cas."
The nickname just slips out, but Castiel doesn't seem to mind. His smile returns, a little bit broader this time, like he's a plant that someone just moved into a sunbeam. "You will. Goodbye, Dean."
Dean makes it out of the building without tripping over his own feet, but it's a close call.
//
Obviously, what Dean needs are more excuses to go to the library. Sam, the traitor, says he has all the study guides he can handle right now, so Dean spends a probably embarrassing amount of time thinking about what books Cas might like—or at least like talking about—based solely on Bradbury and romance novels. What he comes up with is This Is How You Lose the Time War, a time-traveling queer love story about two rival spies that he idly stole from Sam's bookshelf last month and binged in an afternoon. It's a start, especially once he checks the library's online catalog to make sure the book isn’t checked out.
He goes back a couple days later and grabs it off the shelf; he planned this out so many times in his mind that he memorized the Dewey decimal number. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and marches up to the desk.
"Dean!” Cas says his name like it’s a blessing. “Back for more books?"
"Yeah, can't get enough." Cas’ eyes are on him again, like his hands should be, and Dean nearly trips over that thought. Cas’ hair looks like someone fisted both hands in it and pulled, and it’s giving Dean ideas he really shouldn't dwell on if he wants to attempt a conversation.
Cas smiles. "I have The October Country for you."
“Thanks, Cas. Have you read this one?” Dean asks, holding up his prize.
“Not yet, but it’s on my list. Would you recommend it?”
“Yeah, it was really good. I actually, uh, grabbed it for you. If you want.”
“Thank you, Dean.” Cas takes it like it’s a bouquet of flowers, and really, it might as well be.
Here goes nothing. “Would you maybe, uh, want to talk about it with me after you read it? Like, outside of work?” He makes himself look at Cas, and he’s looking back, steady and warm and pleased, like he’ll be happy to hear whatever Dean has to say.
“I’d like that. I enjoy talking to you, Dean.”
“Yeah? Awesome,” Dean grins. “This weekend?”
“Yes. Saturday?”
“You got it. I’ll, uh. Call you and we can figure it out? Here’s my number.” Dean fishes in his pocket for the business card from the garage that he’d written his cell number on, and slides it across the desk to Cas. Cas takes it and cups it in his palm like it’s a little baby bird.
“I look forward to it,” he says, and smiles at Dean in a way that makes him weak in the knees.
Yeah. Hell yeah. Dean is gonna date Cas or die trying.
//
Come Saturday, Dean and his nerves stroll into the coffee shop Cas suggested. He spots Cas tucked into a sunlit corner table, with his dark hair sticking up everywhere like he just jammed his finger in the electrical socket of knowledge. He appears to be deep in thought over the napkin dispenser, and seeing him settles something in Dean, like he knows everything’s gonna be okay now that Cas is here. It’s an insane way to feel about someone he barely knows, but he’s willing to see where it leads him.
Cas notices Dean walking over and his eyes spark up, blue as the flame from a welding torch, and fuck. Dean feels like someone just lit his pilot light.
“Hey, Cas.”
“Hello, Dean.” Cas’ hands are folded on top of the table, and he’s in only one layer today, a blue T-shirt with a rust-colored logo centered over his solid chest. His thick forearms are on display, and Dean guesses this must be how Victorian men felt when they got a glimpse of ankle.
"What's Powell's?" Dean asks about Cas' shirt of the day, because that seems like the safest thing that could come out of his mouth right now, and Cas' face lights up like Dean just asked him to describe heaven. He gets so into talking about this, apparently, giant bookstore in Portland that he starts gesticulating with his gorgeous hands, and then Dean just has the thought, unbidden: Someday I'm gonna take you there so I can watch you be this happy. I want to see you be happy.
Cas keeps rhapsodizing while they’re in line to order coffee, and Dean just lets him talk until they get back to their table. Dean’s maybe working through some things here.
“What, uh. What did you think of the book?” he asks once Cas peters out.
“I liked it very much. The use of language especially was intoxicating.”
Dean chokes on his coffee. “Intoxicating, uh, yeah. Me too.”
Cas reaches a hand out like he’s going to pound Dean on the back. “Are you all right, Dean?”
“Yeah—yeah, I’m good, actually.” Dean smiles. “Tell me more about the book, Cas.”
Before he knows it, an hour has passed without him even realizing it. Dean feels a little like those plants in the window, like he's, well, blooming under Cas' attention.
“We should do this again,” Cas says with a smile in his voice, and Dean flushes with pleasure.
“Next weekend?”
“Yes. Friday? I could meet you at the library at closing and we could carpool from there.”
“Yeah, Cas. That sounds great.” He grins. “You can meet Baby.” At Cas’ confused squint, he adds, “My car. She’s a ’67 Chevy Impala.”
“That would be lovely.” Cas smiles. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Well,” Dean says, “don’t overdo it.”
//
Dean dreams about Cas' hands that night: wrapped around a coffee cup, holding books like they're treasures, and holding Dean like he holds the books. He dreams that Cas takes his blazer off, flaunting those strong forearms Dean wants under his hands, and pushes him up against the brick wall behind the Test Prep section. Cas kisses him breathless until Dean fucking whimpers, and then Cas says, with searing eye contact, "Shh, it's a library, you can't make any noise," before he drops to his knees and makes it basically impossible for Dean to be quiet. He scrabbles at the rough brick behind him and tries so hard, and he's sure he can't do it, but every time he makes a noise, Cas takes his mouth away. And it's a fantastic mouth, Dean is discovering, really stellar, and he needs it back immediately, so he does what Cas says and ends up having the quietest orgasm of his life, and then all but drags Cas upright to return the favor.
He wakes up hard and wanting, touches himself back to sleep by imagining Cas' hands on him, thinking of the line of his throat, the cat's-tongue rasp of his voice, but also—even more damning—of the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners when he saw Dean again, the way that felt like winning the lottery on the first try.
Fuck, he thinks just before sleep drags him back under, I'm in trouble.
//
On Friday, he makes a beeline for the library desk, but Cas’ chair is empty.
"He's back in Children's, they're understaffed today," a chipper voice says, and Dean snaps his head up to find Charlie looking at him unflinchingly from her side of the desk. "You know, I'm rooting for you two, but if you hurt him, they will never find your body. Just FYI."
"Uh, thanks," Dean says, "noted."
He's still processing that when he enters the kids' books section and finds Cas near the front, sitting on the floor by the shelves with a little boy, maybe five years old, and a small pile of books. Cas has his concentration face on, like he's about to set something on fire with his mind, and he doesn't see Dean off to the side, watching while Cas speaks quietly and seriously to the kid about what stories he likes and then pulls a couple more books for him to try. Cas' hands are gentle with the books, and his voice is even gentler with the kid, and Dean feels something lurch behind his sternum, like his heart just pulled against the reins. He must make some kind of noise, because Cas looks up and sees him and smiles, warm and pleased and with those incredible eyes shining at him, and Dean almost staggers under the weight of whatever it is he's feeling here. He's losing his mind, or maybe just another important organ a bit farther south.
"Hey, Cas," he manages, and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets before they can do something stupid. "Molding young minds?"
Cas' smile turns wry. "Just helping Nathan here find some new books."
"They won't let me check out more than twenty at a time," the kid—Nathan—says sadly, and looks wistfully at his pile, his curly blond head drooping.
"Ah, I bet you'll go through these in no time, and then you can come back for more," Dean reassures him, and joins them on the floor to grin encouragingly when Nathan looks up from his book hoard.
"I will," he says, looking as determined as if he just made plans to climb Everest. Dean holds up a hand for him to high-five, and Nathan stretches across Cas to smack his small palm right in the center of Dean's. Between them, Cas gathers up the books.
"Nathan, do you want to go get your mother and check these out? We'll be closing pretty soon."
Nathan nods, and Cas unfolds himself from the ground to stand up. "I'll be right back, Dean."
"Okay," Dean says, and admittedly enjoys watching Cas walk away, shadowed by Nathan, whose head barely comes up past Cas' knee. When Cas comes back alone a minute later, he holds out a hand to help Dean up. Dean takes it, and gets to see Cas' eyes up close again. They're still amazing, and they're studying Dean like Cas can't quite figure him out.
"You were good with him," Cas says, and Dean ducks his head a little.
"Ah, Sammy was like that too when he was a kid. Whenever we moved someplace new, he had to find the library first thing. I used to get him all the books he could carry. He almost always won prizes from the summer reading program if we stayed in town long enough."
That was more than Dean really meant to say, but Cas is still searching his face. Dean doesn't know exactly what he's looking for, but he doesn't want him to stop, not now and maybe not ever.
"Anyway, you ready?" Dean asks, because he doesn't know what to do with this sort of focused attention, like Dean is a new language Cas wants to learn. But Cas reaches out then, still watching Dean's face, and brushes his fingertips against the back of Dean's hand, which ends that train of thought real quick. Dean swallows, and turns his palm to tangle his fingers with Cas', and holds on.
"Yes," says Cas, "I'm ready."
//
Cas tows him to the lobby while he takes care of a few final librarian things before closing—“Just for a few minutes, Dean, I’m sorry”—and Dean feels like he’s waiting to pick up his prom date. It takes him right back to being a gangly teenager, psyching himself up in his car, taking deep breaths with his hands on Baby’s wheel. But he makes it through the next ten minutes, with only minimal deep breathing and one nervous trip to the bathroom, and he’d deal with a lot more than that to find Cas waiting for him when he’s done.
Cas set up camp in one of the lobby chairs while Dean was in the bathroom, and he's got a book cradled in his beautiful hands and his legs pretzeled underneath him, lotus-style. He’s down to just a green ringer T-shirt and jeans, and he’s got a dark five o’clock shadow working its way down his jaw and throat the way Dean's mouth wants to. He looks like a damn chiaroscuro painting curled up in that chair, all shadows and high contrast (and Dean knows that kind of shit, okay, Sam made him sit through The Power of Art once and Dean stayed awake for like a solid third of it). The library is dim by this time of night, but Cas is lit by a floor lamp next to him that haloes him from behind, throws his eyelashes into stark relief against his cheekbones and glows warmly onto his broad shoulders like the favor of God. It changes Dean's breathing just to look at him, at the line of his jaw and the arc of his mouth and the way he inhabits his body, centered and immovable and fully himself. He's completely absorbed in whatever he's reading, and Dean never thought he'd be jealous of a book, but he knows how it feels now to be the center of Cas' attention and God, he wants it all the time.
He works his throat a few times before he can speak, clears it a little to get Cas' attention. Cas startles a bit, but when he looks up and sees Dean, he puts the book down and smiles. Dean's heart flops around desperately in his chest like a dying fish.
"Hey, Cas. Good to go?"
"Of course," Cas says, and stands and stretches with his arms behind him, opening up his chest and rolling his neck. Dean swallows and tries not to stare. Cas just looks back at him, steady and patient, and Dean's not sure how long they stand there before the spell breaks.
"I, um. Parked out back."
Cas nods and follows him outside. Cas looks otherworldly like this, and Dean stops at the curb to stare. The moonlight clings to Cas' skin like a jealous lover, like it'll run its silvery fingers along his cheekbones and the bow of his mouth while Dean watches, and eats his heart out.
“This way,” Dean manages, and walks Cas to the Impala. Baby looks pretty good herself, and Cas catches sight of her and zeroes in. He's not a car guy, Dean can tell, but he's still assessing Baby like she's a rare manuscript that's going to be the missing piece in his research.
"You have a beautiful car, Dean."
Dean grins at the pronouncement, and runs a loving hand over Baby's flank. "Hell yeah she is. I rebuilt her. She used to be my dad's."
Cas smiles, a little lopsided quirk of his mouth. "She suits you."
“Thanks, Cas. After you.” Dean opens the door for him, and Cas slides in like he belongs there. He looks at home in Baby's passenger seat, like he should be there at the edge of Dean's peripheral vision, always. The ambered streetlights drift past as they drive, strobing Baby's interior and sliding off of Cas' cheekbones like honey. Dean feels steady with Cas next to him, like he could weather an apocalypse and come out unscathed.
Dean takes them to a brewpub downtown that has good beer and better burgers, and he gets so caught up in watching Cas talk and gesture with his long-fingered hands that he almost forgets to eat. Dean draws him out like it's his job, and Cas talks about how he ended up a librarian and why he wanted to be one, about stories and who gets to tell them. He'd focused on queer literature, which he tells Dean a little pointedly, and he talks passionately about diverse books and how reading increases empathy and improves critical thinking.
They keep talking about books and burger toppings, Dean's penchant for grilling and the big-ass Weber he just bought, about his memories of the 4th of July and being lit up with it, with joy like a firework. This feels a little like that. He doesn’t want the evening to end, so after they’ve stuffed themselves, he asks Cas if he wants to see town from the bluff. Cas says yes, so their conversation continues while they settle the bill and Dean drives them out of town on muscle memory, windows down and heart open.
The bluff has always been one of his favorite places, especially this time of year. From up here, it looks like someone cranked the volume dial on summer. The air is buzzing with life around them, the rush of green growth and the hum of cicadas, a June rock band doing its sound checks. The trees are churning out blossoms in a slow, controlled explosion, and there's honeysuckle rioting everywhere, spilling itself foamily over the chain link fences like a flowery beer. Everything smells like summer, heady and indomitable.
They end up sitting on top of Baby's hood, with the town lights spread out below them, which Cas seems to enjoy; he's leaning forward toward the bluff like he's about to take flight. Fireflies glint off of Baby's chrome, and the sun snuffs itself out on the horizon. The warm humid air crowds in between them to press its sweaty palms against the backs of their necks and make Dean even more hot and bothered than he already is. Cas' eyes are even bluer out here, away from the harsh fluorescents. There's unmediated wonder on Cas' face at the view, and Dean knows then that he's going to kiss him—going to do a lot more than that, Cas willing.
“Your car makes a surprisingly comfortable perch,” Cas says, and slants his eyes and cheekbones at Dean like his heart is coming in for a landing. What’s a guy supposed to do with that, except flash a go signal like Dean’s a firefly himself?
“I, uh. I don’t let just anybody get this up close and personal with her, you know.”
“I’m honored.” It’s so earnest that Dean doesn’t know what to do with it, so he scoffs, but Cas isn’t fazed. He just watches Dean like he’s waiting for revelation.
The fireflies are out looking for love too, and Dean seizes on the distraction. He catches one as it hovers right by them, and cups it in the palm of his hand. “Make a wish,” he says, and Cas smiles. Cas blows softly into the cup of his palm, dislodging the firefly, and Dean shivers.
“That seems almost greedy at this point. What do you think I should wish for, Dean?”
“I, um. What do you want?”
Cas just smiles again, serene. “It’s lovely up here. How did you know about it?”
“Uh. This is kind of my spot. I came up here when I was a teenager; that’s when I found it. We moved back here because Dad still had connections, but when he cut out on us, we just stayed put. Sammy liked it, and I didn’t have any better ideas, so he finished out high school here.”
"High school was a battlefield for me. I was supposed to go into the Air Force, and my parents didn't approve of library school, or—other things. They kicked me out before I even graduated. We don't really talk anymore."
"I'm sorry. I used to come up here when, uh . . . when things were rough at home."
"I wish I'd had someplace like this. I used to hide in my room."
"I wish I'd known you in high school," Dean murmurs, and Cas laughs at him, but it’s not unkind.
"Did you like closeted Christian nerds?"
"Maybe not in general, but I would've liked you."
“Oh?” Cas says with a glint in his eye, and turns all the way towards Dean. “Am I your type, Dean?”
“Uh,” Dean manages, “yes? Have you seen you?” That escalated quickly, he thinks, and then Cas leans a little closer and raises one eyebrow, and Dean stops thinking at all.
“Hmm,” Cas fucking purrs at him. “Do you know what I thought of the first time I saw you walk into the library, Dean?”
“No—nope,” he says, and they’re so close now that they’re sharing the same air; when did that happen?
“I thought about the Greek gods and their lovers. Achilles and Patroclus, Hades and Persephone, Artemis and Orion.”
"Greek mythology . . . reminds you of me?" It comes out a little breathy; Dean can’t help it.
Cas looks back at him unflinchingly, like he's just accepted a dare. "Yes. You have the kind of face the ancient Greeks would have fought wars over, Dean. They would have loved you, would've called you summer-eyed. Yours are green enough to make Persephone long for home."
Dean blushes and drops his chin, and Cas watches him like a hawk, rapt.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, earnest and low, and Dean's cheeks get even hotter.
"No, I—no," he manages, and he peeks up through his lashes to see Cas' eyes gleam with victory.
"Your mouth is redder than her pomegranates, riper and more lush." Cas reaches up and touches his thumb to the swell of Dean's lower lip. Dean's breath freezes in his throat, and Cas just keeps going, relentless. "You are more beautiful than Apollo, than Achilles. Aphrodite herself would have wasted away with longing for you, and poured herself out like wine at your feet."
"Jesus, Cas," Dean chokes out. He can't quite look at him, but Cas' fingertips skim up the line of Dean's jaw and Dean tilts into Cas' touch, helpless. He can practically hear Cas smiling, and then he's even closer, nose against Dean's cheek and lips almost but not quite at the corner of Dean’s mouth, kissing his laugh lines softly once before pulling away. Dean finally looks at him then, stunned.
"You’re even lovelier when you blush," Cas says, dark and warm and pleased, and leaves Dean reeling, lips and cheeks still tingling.
Dean buries his burning face in his hands and takes a breath, trying to recover his cool, but before he can, careful fingertips brush against his knuckles. He lowers his hands to check, and yep, that’s Cas, looking at him with concern, still touching him, one hand loosely circling his wrist.
“Dean? Was that too much?” Cas’ thumb sweeps slowly back and forth against his pulse point, soothing and inflammatory at the same time.
“I—s’okay, Cas,” he manages, hoarse, “I’m all right.”
Cas smiles at him from close range, and Dean’s not sure what his own face does in response, but it makes Cas move even closer. It makes him slowly, carefully lift both hands to Dean’s face, and Dean doesn’t stop him. He leans into it again, drops his face into Cas’ broad palms and lets himself be held, just a little. He lets Cas cradle his jaw and stroke his cheekbones with his thumbs, like Dean is something precious, like Cas is going to keep him. And Dean’s not exactly a hermit, okay, he does fine for himself, but it’s been a long, long time since anyone touched him like this. Dean’s a little ashamed of how good it feels, this loving affection when they’re not even kissing, but it lights a spark-plug glow somewhere inside him to be looked at like he’s wonderful, like Cas wants to learn him in every way possible, and not just because Dean’s hot.
The way Cas looks at him, talks to him, touches him—always with that unshakable, careful kindness that seems to radiate from him—it's enough to crack Dean open and make something inside him rush for the surface, like Cas broke through the ice surrounding Dean and dove for the running water underneath, the river that Dean wasn’t even sure was still there. He feels like he’s taking his first deep breath in years.
He lets his eyelids droop shut, and Cas’ thumb brushes the delicate skin under his eye.
“Look at me, Dean.” It’s technically a command, but it’s so gentle. Cas is so gentle with him.
“Can I kiss you again?”
“God, Cas,” Dean breathes, “you can kiss me whenever.”
“I may hold you to that.” Good as his word, Cas leans in and kisses him again, like he's breathing life into him. Cas’ hands show Dean where they want him to go, so Dean follows them, fists his own hands in Cas’ shirt when he lays them out on Baby’s hood. His mouth lingers, slowly marveling over Dean’s. He touches Dean like he's sculpting him out of clay, Cas' fingertips against every line of his face, sweeping and sure, until Dean feels remade under his hands, known and held at all his edges. Then Cas starts over with his mouth on Dean's forehead and cheeks and jaw, murmuring praise against Dean's throat like a litany. Dean buries a hand in Cas' hair and holds on.
Cas is well on his way to leaving a mark, and he surfaces for air only to make direct eye contact while he presses his palm against the base of Dean's throat, carefully, slowly, like Dean is fine porcelain. His whole body goes hot, thrumming like a live wire, and his eyes flutter shut. He tips his head back, pushes his throat farther forward into Cas' hand and feels it curve around him, just a little. He wants to remember this, the way he can feel both their heartbeats at the base of his throat, the way the heel of Cas' palm fits into the space between his collarbones, the way Cas’ fingers are long enough to barely stroke the hinge of Dean's jaw without moving his hand. Dean forces his eyes back open to see Cas' face, and it's worth it to see the way Cas is looking at him, awed and reverent. It's seriously threatening Dean's whole self-image to be looked at that way, but God, he could get used to it.
Cas notches two fingertips behind the bolt of Dean's jaw and touches his thumb to the corner of Dean's mouth. "Open for me."
Dean shivers and obeys, turns his head to take the pad of Cas' thumb into his mouth and tongue at his fingerprint while he listens to Cas' breathing grow ragged. Cas replaces his thumb with his mouth and kisses Dean like the end of the world is in five minutes, and when he pulls away for breath, their lips cling to each other for just a moment, like their mouths can't bear to let each other go.
“Um, uh. Wow. Okay,” Dean babbles, but Cas just looks at him like he’s spouting poetry. “Should we—take this somewhere?”
“Mmm, not tonight,” Cas says, but sweetly, and runs his spit-slick thumb over Dean’s tingling lower lip to ease the disappointment. “But you can drive me home, and we could go out again soon. And until then, you can think about what you’d like me to do with you, so that you can tell me about it later. Will you do that for me?”
“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, while his jeans get noticeably tighter. “I can do that.”
//
So they drive, and it’s all Dean can do to keep his eyes on the road. Half his brain is still replaying how it felt to be pressed up against Cas, to have his mouth and hands on him, but he follows directions to Cas’ place somehow, even with Cas radiating heat from Baby’s passenger side.
It’s a nice house, a little 1950’s bungalow with blue paint and a white-columned porch. There’s a porch swing and a lot of hanging baskets and planters, overflowing with flowers. Someone’s obviously put a lot of time and care into the plants and the house both, and he adds it to the mental model he’s been building of Cas, slots it in next to his steadiness and patience and his skill for tending things and people.
When Dean walks him to the door, Cas sees him looking at the flowers—they’re pretty, okay, and buttery yellow—and deftly plucks one from its planter. Cas tucks the stem into Dean’s shirt pocket, braces a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and kisses him chastely on the cheek, so softly that Dean almost thinks he imagined it.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Dean. I’ll see you soon.”
“I—yep, you too,” Dean manages, blushing. Cas goes inside with one last look over his shoulder, and there’s enough promise in it that Dean has to lean against the porch column to steady his knees before he goes down the stairs.
//
He comes by the library a few sexually frustrated days later to return the Bradbury books, and honestly just to see Cas again and make sure that Dean hasn’t hallucinated this whole affair. Cas isn’t at the front desk, but Charlie says he’s around, so Dean wanders back into the shelves.
He rounds the corner into Self-Help and there’s Cas, looking rumpled and focused. His blazer is off and he's shelving books, in a faded AC/DC T-shirt that's arguably too small, but Dean's not arguing. The shirt is thin enough that he can see the muscles in Cas' back shifting as he moves, and Dean's mouth goes dry watching them slide and pull under the fabric. He wants to feel them under his palms, wants to vault up onto those broad shoulders like a gymnast on a pommel horse.
Cas is also sporting enough stubble to tip him over into scruffy beard territory, and Dean's brain can't decide which part to short out over first, so his body decides to plow him into the cart of nearby books for reshelving. They scatter all over the floor while his cheeks burn, and that's it, he's going to die of embarrassment in front of this unfairly attractive, not-so-little nerdy dude who will definitely never touch him in a non-platonic way again because he'd probably prefer someone who doesn't turn into a clumsy, flustered twelve-year-old every time he makes eye contact. Cas, of course, witnesses the full extent of Dean's shame.
“Are you all right, Dean?” Cas reaches down to pull him up and looks him over with concerned scrutiny, while Dean tries not to fidget. His hand comes up to scuff his knuckles against Cas' jaw, totally without Dean's permission, and Cas blinks at him.
"Nice peach fuzz," Dean's mouth says, while he considers his total loss of motor control and tries not to think about what Cas' beard would feel like on every part of his body.
"Oh. Thank you? I need to shave, but—"
"No!" Dean yelps, and then immediately feels himself turning red again. "Uh, I mean, it's fine. You look fine. Not that I—"
Cas is considering him in a different way now, assessing, one eyebrow raised.
"You think so? I usually don't let it get this long. Do you think I should keep it?"
"Uh," Dean says. Nothing like a witty rejoinder, he thinks, and clutches the bookshelf behind him as if it's going to tow him away from whatever self-inflicted humiliation is coming next. "I mean, up to you, Cas, I don't really—"
Then Cas takes a single step closer to him, and Dean shuts right the fuck up as every cell in his body alerts him that something very important is going on here: all hands on deck, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Cas is very much in his personal space, and his right arm comes up to brace on the shelf next to Dean's head. He's close enough that Dean can feel Cas' body heat bleeding into his own, and he can see exactly where the line of Cas' beard stops, fading out just below his Adam's apple. Dean wants to trace it with his tongue; his mouth waters.
He swallows and tears his eyes away from Cas' throat before he can get caught staring, which definitely didn't work if the faintly smug look on Cas' face is any indication. Cas isn't actually taller than him, but somehow he's still looming, and his eyes are everywhere, touching Dean all over. God, they're so blue.
"Do you," Cas says, very clearly, "think I should keep it?"
Dean feels lightheaded, electric, weak in the knees. He feels like they've just rounded at least a couple of bases, and Cas hasn't even touched him.
"Yes," Dean manages, in a way that is totally manly and not at all like he's a quivering damsel from one of those romance novels Cas reads. "Yeah."
One corner of Cas' mouth quirks up, and Dean's falls open, just a little.
“Have you been thinking about what we discussed in your car, Dean?” he asks, calm as if they’re talking about the weather.
“Only every fucking night,” Dean chokes out.
"Good," Cas says, and leans in slightly, slowly. He's close enough for Dean to feel the heat from his skin, for all of the fine hairs on his body to stand up and reach out for Cas. "You should come over this weekend," he says, voice even lower than usual, “so we can have . . . dinner.” Dean tilts helplessly into his space, seeking.
"Yeah, okay," Dean breathes. Cas just smiles before he strides off down the aisle, leaving Dean dazed and confused and at least half-hard, leaning against the shelves until his breathing evens out. So yeah, he's probably fucked. But not as fucked as he'd like to be; not yet.
//
Dean doesn’t street-park Baby for just anyone, but Cas’ house doesn’t have a driveway, so they’re living dangerously today. Dean gets as close to the curb as he can, but he still feels like he’s leaving his child outside as he grabs the six-pack he brought and walks up Cas’ porch stairs to knock. Neither of them really had plans for the 4th—Bobby’s out of town and Sam is holed up studying—and they’re both off work, so they’re spending it together.
Cas opens the door, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners, and seeing his face is still a sweet shock every time. He’s wearing a bright purple T-shirt that says ‘I have no shelf-control,’ he’s still rocking the scruff, and his shoulders are, well. They’re really fucking good.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas says.
Dean grins. “Hey, Cas.”
Cas shifts a bit, and Dean glances down to see a cat, smallish and vaguely Siamese-looking, sitting at Cas' feet, staring coolly up at Dean with eyes almost as blue as its owner's. Cas does that thing where he smiles at Dean without using his mouth. "This is Tiamat," he says, and nudges the cat gently with his foot.
"Tiamat, like the Babylonian goddess of chaos Tiamat?"
Dean gets a full-on head tilt for that one, and an appraising look. "Yes. You should've seen what she did to my old sofa. You know your mythology."
Dean snorts. "Sam does. He loves to get nerdy about it to anyone who'll listen. You'd like him."
“Maybe I’ll get to meet him sometime. Now that you’ve met my cat and all.”
“Well,” Dean says, grinning again, “I guess you might as well invite me in, then.”
Cas laughs, and Dean wants to burrow under that sound like a weighted blanket. “I guess so,” Cas rumbles, and holds the door open for him.
The first thing he notices when he gets inside is the books, books everywhere. Almost all of the available wall space is taken up by bookshelves, and there are even some scattered piles of books on the coffee table and kitchen bartop, but it still manages to feel homey instead of cluttered. He suddenly remembers that John Waters quote about ‘If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them’ and thinks, a little hysterically, Got that covered.
“So, uh,” he starts, “I brought beer, and I can grill us some burgers if you’ve got charcoal.” He’d texted Cas earlier to check on the food situation, but he forgot to ask about fuel because he was too busy picturing all the ways Cas might want to show his appreciation for Dean’s cooking.
“I do.” Cas leans back on his palms against the edge of his countertop, and he angles his whole body at Dean, somewhere between coy and predatory. “I love burgers.”
“Okay. Awesome,” Dean says, and Cas practically glows at him.
“Yes. It is,” Cas replies, and moves over to his fridge to fish out the hamburger for Dean. “Here you go. Tiamat may want to supervise. She has a lot of cooking opinions.”
“Well. As a fellow carnivore, I can respect that.”
Cas laughs again before he grabs the meat and follows Dean outside, and Tiamat watches from the window while he grills and Cas talks to him. It shouldn’t be this easy to talk to Cas, but it is. Dean feels like he’s known him for years, even though it’s only been a few weeks.
Before long, Dean is plating the burgers and rambling about Westerns, only to find out that Cas’ lack of knowledge on the subject is appalling.
“You’ve never seen Tombstone?!”
“No.” Cas blinks at him. “Is it necessary?”
“Hell yes it’s necessary! Okay, we’re watching that after dinner.”
“All right,” Cas says, looking sweetly bewildered. So Dean gets to introduce Cas to a classic, and borderline cuddle on the sofa in the process. Win-win.
They get the movie going, and Dean tries not to fidget as he watches Cas more than the movie. He hasn’t tried the yawn-and-stretch maneuver since he was sixteen, but hell, Cas makes him feel like a teenager again, so it seems fitting. When he puts an arm around Cas, Cas just looks directly at him, grabs Dean’s hand, and fucking holds it where it’s draped over his shoulder.
“You don’t have to resort to subterfuge, Dean,” Cas says with a smug little smile that shouldn’t be nearly as sexy as it is. “This is hardly the first time you’ve touched me.”
Dean swallows. “Yeah, uh. Great point.”
So he holds Cas while they’re on the sofa watching the movie, and they gradually tilt down to horizontal, with Dean sort of hugging Cas while he strokes his fingers through Dean’s hair. Cas strokes his thumbs down the back of Dean’s neck and rubs his palms soothingly over Dean’s shoulders, and Dean is so calm that he feels like he’s floating. It’s awesome.
Cas seems perfectly content to just pet Dean, for lack of a better word, and when he digs his fingers into the knots at the top of Dean’s spine, Dean almost groans. No one touches him like this, not really. Sam and Bobby slap him on the shoulder, and occasionally Sam gives him a hug, but this feels like thawing out in front of a fire, safe and warm and contented.
It’s so primally good that he falls asleep before the credits, and wakes up with his face pressed against something heated and firm that smells fantastic. He blinks himself the rest of the way conscious when he realizes it’s Cas’ chest. He’d be embarrassed, except Cas clearly passed out too. Dean feels a little insulted on Tombstone’s behalf, but this is a comfy couch.
Cas makes a bleary noise and shifts underneath him, tightening the arm he has draped around Dean’s waist. Cas’ eyes squint open and lock onto him; Dean’s breath hitches.
“Dean. This is very agreeable.” Cas blinks, and there’s a little furrow starting between his eyebrows. “Please don’t take my unconsciousness as a reflection on your company.”
“No problem, Cas,” Dean returns with a grin, and settles back down onto him. “And hey, fancy meeting you here.”
Cas rolls his eyes at that, but his other hand finds its way back into Dean’s hair. His fingertips slide under the hem of Dean’s shirt to touch the small of his back, and just that lights him up, makes him swallow a gasp.
“Cas,” he chokes out, and Cas is watching him, lips parted, face already flushed. “Can I—“ Dean manages, not even sure what he’s asking for.
“Yes,” Cas rasps, and Dean surges forward to kiss him, and God. Cas’ mouth is somewhere he wants to stay, and fucking bask in the way it always welcomes him in, tells him he’s wanted. Cas’ hands come up to cup his face, and when Dean runs out of breath, he switches to those instead, pressing kisses all over one of Cas’ gorgeous hands and drawing two fingers into his mouth. Cas’ eyes flutter shut and his breathing is ragged. His fingertips curl against Dean's tongue, and Dean groans.
“Dean,” Cas says, his voice idling low, “will you take your shirt off?”
Dean nods frantically, sits up on his knees, and peels his T-shirt off so quickly he almost tips over. Cas looks at him like Dean just came down from Olympus, so Dean’s hands go to the hem of Cas’ shirt. “Can I?”
Cas nods, sits up enough for Dean to pull his shirt off, and then hallelujah, they’re halfway to naked, and Christ, there’s a lot to look at. Cas is even broader than he seemed in those blazers, and the way the muscles in his chest and abs shift as he sits up to meet Dean is making his head spin. Cas has a tattoo high up on his ribs, a few lines of text that Dean is going to ask him about later, but for now he’s going to memorize it with his tongue. He’s pretty sure it says Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known, which seems fitting because Dean’s got something pretty incredible right here, and he needs to touch him everywhere to prove it. He curls his hands around the arch of Cas’ ribs, kisses up Cas’ sternum and noses into his chest hair, and buries his face in Cas’ chest with Cas’ hands resting on his head like a blessing.
“Dean,” Cas rumbles, “I imagined you like this so many times.”
Dean laughs; he can’t help it. “Same to you, buddy.”
“Will you come to bed with me, Dean?”
“Hell yes.”
Cas gives him a boost off the sofa, careful but eager. They can’t take their hands off each other long enough to walk normally, so Cas herds him down the hall backwards into his bedroom and closes the door behind them.
“Are you, uh, expecting company?” Dean manages to crack, while he digs his fingernails into Cas’ amazingly well-defined lats.
“The cat,” Cas says from somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s collarbone, and okay, fair enough.
Dean manages a quick look around before his eyes roll back in his head, and it’s cozy, like Cas nests in here. There are several abandoned coffee mugs next to a reading lamp, books and a Kindle on the side table, and . . . little embroidered bees on the bedspread? He’ll figure that out later, because Cas practically tackles him onto the bed, and his shoulders are just broad enough to span Dean’s when he follows him, to fit Dean inside the shape of Cas' body like he belongs there.
“Hey,” Dean says softly, spread out underneath him. He lifts his hand, not even shaking, not really, and touches Cas' beautiful face. He skims his fingertips against the grain of that dark stubble, fits that sharp jaw against his palm and curls his fingertips into the dip behind Cas' ear, with Cas watching him intently the whole time. Cas' eyes darken, and his expression goes soft and wondering. Cas curves over him, face turned toward Dean's like he's seeking solar power, and Dean's not exactly sure when they closed the distance, but Jesus, now he's definitely touching Cas' face with his mouth, searching out all the places he's wanted to kiss: the furrow between Cas' eyebrows, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the slope of his cheekbone, the hinge of his jaw.
They're breathing in sync now, already, like one organism, and Dean isn't even entirely sure he's awake anymore, but when he pulls back to check on Cas, he knows that he must be; he'd never have the imagination to dream Cas looking at him like this, like he's something wholly unexpected and miraculous, holy. So Dean has no response to that, really, except to kiss Cas on the mouth, amazed, and Cas makes a small, disbelieving sound against Dean's lips and opens up for him, a new world to discover.
They move against each other like Cas is the ocean and Dean is his shore, like there was never meant to be any air between them. Cas fucking plunders his mouth like he’s the Dread Pirate Roberts, and Dean gives as good as he gets.
The combination of hunger and gentleness in everything Cas does is really blowing his mind, and Cas smells amazing; he smells like home. Dean noses into the base of Cas' throat and just breathes for a second, lips parted and hands gripping his hips, drawing Cas as deep into his lungs as he can. The scent of him makes something light up in Dean's brain, makes him want to rub his face everywhere.
Cas laughs at him, gently. "You're like a bloodhound," he says, and strokes a hand into Dean's hair. Dean can feel himself blushing.
"Sorry, I didn't—"
"Don't be sorry," Cas murmurs, and leans down to kiss under his jaw. "I like it. I like the way you smell too." His hands move down to Dean's hips, his stomach, and drag up over his ribs. Dean shivers and raises his arms, and Cas puts one hand on Dean's shoulder, the heat of his palm like a brand. "And when we're done," he says, his other hand resting low on Dean's side, "we'll smell like each other."
“Yeah, okay,” Dean breathes, and Cas slides down to kiss the bit of chub around his navel for good measure. Cas’ hands rest on his hips while he takes his time, leaves marks, gets Dean literally gasping for it. Cas rubs his scruff against Dean’s stomach, and Dean makes a noise he refuses to call a squeak.
”What do you want, Dean?” Cas purrs. “Did you think about it like I asked?”
“Yeah, I—I just want you, Cas,” he manages, too turned on to be eloquent about his fantasies.
“Dean,” Cas burrs, eyes huge and dark, “you have me,” and shows him exactly how much. He feels overtaken, consumed, remade, full and filled and wanted, and his voice isn’t working so well but he tries to tell Cas with his body what that means, that meeting Cas was like turning the lights on in a dark room. He thinks maybe Cas understands.
“I want to look at you, Dean,” Cas says, “you’re beautiful,” and pulls Dean, tongue-tied, on top of him. Dean straddles him and puts Cas’ hands, strong and clever, where he wants them, so Cas can get him ready while Dean sinks into it, all of his nerve endings fizzing. It’s been a while but Dean rides him like he’s a mechanical bull, shows off as much as he can manage while blissed out of his mind. The way Cas is looking at him is almost enough to get him there by itself, like Cas can’t believe this is actually happening, like God himself just came down for a visitation.
“Next time,” Dean gasps, “we should get you a cowboy hat,” and Cas’ hands tighten on his ass.
“I’m your huckleberry,” Cas rumbles, deadpan, and Dean comes laughing, shocked by his own happiness. He doesn’t even have time to warn Cas, but he just follows him, laughing too.
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, slumping down to kiss him, smiling almost too hard to do it, “I think you are.”
//
The fireworks wake him up just before midnight, all the neighbors setting off what’s left of their stash, and he grins helplessly after he remembers where he is. Cas is half-sprawled across him, one calf between both of his and an arm thrown over his waist. Cas doesn’t really wake up, but he rubs his face sleepily into Dean's ribs, like a cat scent-marking its territory. The rasp of Cas' stubble against his skin makes Dean's hips arch up a little, and that’s what gets Cas’ eyes to slit open. He blinks at Dean blearily, one eyebrow raised.
Dean kisses him again; he can’t help it, and his thumb sweeps over the arch of Cas’ left eyebrow.
“I like this one,” Dean says, and softly drops a kiss there too. "It's always happy to see me." Cas laughs softly, and it echoes up into Dean's palms, his arms, his heart.
“Happy 4th of July, Cas,” Dean says, still grinning, and rolls closer to kiss his cheek, his other eyebrow, the line of his nose, the point of his chin.
“Happy 4th of July, Dean,” Cas says, kisses him drowsily, and slips back under. Dean nuzzles into that space at the base of Cas’ throat where he smells most like himself, and falls asleep smiling.
//
When he wakes up again, there’s early morning light glowing through the curtains and he’s kind of snuggled into Cas’ hip; it’s comfier than he would’ve expected. Cas is propped up against the headboard, radiating drowsy heat, and Dean cranes his head up to appreciate the view. Cas has a massive paperback splayed open in one hand, and he’s wearing reading glasses, which is a shockingly erotic development that Dean looks forward to exploring.
Cas crinkles his eyes down at Dean when he sees he’s awake, and his free hand starts carding through Dean’s hair. Dean closes his eyes again, savoring this, and settles in for the foreseeable future.
"Cas?"
"Yes, Dean?"
"Read to me."
"Of course."