Chapter Text
“Steve?” Shake, shake, shake.
“Steve!?” Shake, shake, shake.
“Gabe, have you seen Steve? I can’t find him.”
Castiel shook the cat treat bag, rattling the allegedly delectable squares. Steve, his fluffy orange tabby cat, was more addicted to them than a middle-class soccer mom was to their kid’s Adderall. Tonight on Channel 8 Uranus: The secret addiction of modern suburbia, story at eleven. And wouldn’t that make a better lead-in than the regular shit Gabriel threw his way? But no, Castiel was bestowed with stories like—Local knitting shop runs out of blue yarn after nursing home forms knitting club in Uranus.
Fuck his life, and fuck his brother Gabe for bringing him and his equally unsuspecting best friend Balthazar to this godforsaken town.
The next time an offer seems too good to be true, Castiel’s going to meticulously read the fine print before he signs—even for family. He was fresh out of journalism school when Gabriel had wowed him with the promise of an on-screen job as a television reporter, even throwing in a second offer for his best friend Bal as a cameraman.
The only catch, Gabe said, was that they had to come and work for him at the station to which he’d just been assigned. The fucker hadn’t said exactly where that would be, only that Dick Roman Enterprises recently purchased the struggling small town station as an experiment—something about determining whether media news was a profitable business gamble.
Because of that, they were on a timeline.
Gabe was the operations manager of the little station, so he and the general manager—some asshole who only went by the name Crowley—had one year to make it work or the whole thing would be mothballed. It was a no-fail opportunity to get experience for their resumes that they wouldn’t get anywhere else—at least that’s what Gabe had said. Very stupidly, Castiel and Bal took the bait, hook, line, and sinker.
The fine print? They signed a one-year contract to work for Channel 8 News, in Uranus. Or, as Gabe liked to gleefully say any chance he got: they all worked for Dick, in Uranus. While Castiel hated the idea that Channel 8 Uranus would forever be on his resume, he had already sold his soul to Dick. He was basically trapped. Logically, Castiel knew that a one-year assignment wasn’t the end of the world, but that was one year he wasn’t in New York, California, Colorado, or somewhere else that he would actually be interested in living and eventually settling down with the hypothetical man of his dreams.
Sometimes Castiel really despised his brother.
Like today. Between Gabe’s non-stop juvenile antics, and Bal’s passive-aggressive resentment, life in Uranus was no picnic. Steve, the cat, was pretty much the only thing in life that kept Castiel sane, and now he was missing. Castiel marched around his house, stopping to shake the fish flavored morsels every few steps, like a Shaman hitting his gong while performing a bless and cleanse. Unfortunately, after ten minutes of triple checking every square foot of his house and blessing it with tuna treats, the situation rapidly escalated to DEFCON 2 crisis conditions.
“This just doesn’t make sense, Gabe. You said you saw him twenty minutes ago, did he just suddenly develop the power of intangibility like Kitty Pryde? I don’t understand how he could just disappear.” Castiel shot Gabe his best don’t bullshit me glare. “I’m too fucking hungover to deal with this. Why did I let you convince me to stay out until 2 a.m. celebrating New Year's Eve?” He buried his face in his hands, almost hitting himself on his temple with the treat bag.
“You know, Cassie, I think we should move this search and rescue outside.…” Gabe tried to shoot for nonchalant, but he was never much of an actor.
“Why would we look outside? I don’t even have a cat door. Steve is an indoor cat, he has never been outside—not once in his entire life,” Castiel said with a raised eyebrow.
“I might have left the front door open when I went out to take a leak earlier. You were hogging the bathroom this morning with your dry heaves, so what was I supposed to do?” Gabe mumbled, fidgeting with a loose string on his Property of Uranus Fudge Packers Union hoodie. He was trying to look innocent but missing the mark by a goddamn mile.
It didn’t take long to do the mental math, even with a hangover. His date with the porcelain throne was hours ago, Steve could be anywhere by now. Castiel jammed his bare feet into his plushy bumblebee house shoes and grabbed the first coat he could reach from the closet—his old trench coat. Treat bag in hand and a dirty glare shot his brother’s way, he stormed outside to go find his damn cat.
“Steve!” Shake, shake, shake.
“Steve!” Shake, shake, shake. Castiel was desperate now.
“Steve-O! Where are you, you fuzzy little asshat? You’re gettin’ me in trouble with Cassie!” Gabe had followed him outside, looking just as bedraggled and haphazard as Castiel himself. His brother might be annoying, but Gabe’s heart was in the right place. Intentions were nice, but they wouldn’t stop Castiel from having a fucking panic attack in his own front yard, worrying about his only real friend in Uranus.
Whoops, too late.
“Gabe, anything 45°F and below is too cold for outdoor cats, we just did the news segment about that last week.” Castiel gritted out, pulling at his bedraggled dark hair as he trudged through his muddy yard. “What if the temperature differs for indoor cats, like Steve? Oh my god, what if he’s already frozen like his namesake Steve Rogers was and I have to wait 70 years to see him again? I’ll be almost 100, he won’t even recognize me.”
The corners of Gabriel’s mouth twitched as they continued their search.
Yep, Castiel was definitely losing it.
Tonight on Channel 8 Uranus, watch our very own Castiel Novak have a pajama-clad meltdown over a common house cat.
Unable to locate paw prints on the sidewalk, Castiel abandoned the search to cut through his neighbor's side yard, too distraught to worry about things like property lines. As one of his bee slippers was temporarily lost to a sucking mud patch, Mrs. Baker peered out her window, curlers bobbing and face alarmed when she saw him hopping like an idiot to retrieve it. Rolling his eyes, Castiel waved a hand dismissively in her direction before bending down to investigate her shrub line for any glimpse of tabby-orange.
After thoroughly checking the back and side yards, they returned to the front. Gabe leaned back against the large Oak tree and crossed his arms as Castiel almost lost his slipper (again) while pacing up and down his walkway.
“Cassie, I think we need a new plan…this isn’t accomplishing anything and it’s cold as fuck out here,” Gabe said as he shivered, still leaning against the tree.
“I was just about to say that! I think it’s time to consider that Steve was cat-napped in some elaborate midwestern cat trade and will only be returned if we pay an exorbitant ransom.”
Gabriel snorted in response, but his undoubtedly witty comeback was interrupted by a drawn out yowl from above his head.
“Steve! Oh, thank God, you’re ok!” Castiel hurried over to the tree where Steve had taken perch. It took all of three seconds for his relief to switch back into panic when he realized just how far up the cat had climbed.
Gabe let out a low whistle. “Goddamn, that’s high Cassie. I don’t think you have a ladder, but even if you did, it wouldn’t reach him.”
Steve yowled again in agreement.
Now that he knew where Steve was, Castiel tried the treats again. He held the bag as high as he could and shook it while using his best sing-song voice to coax the cat down. Steve yowled one more time, clearly communicating that he was going nowhere.
Of fucking course. Small town life, small town drama. His cat was stuck in a tree and they’d have to call for help. The two brothers watched in silence for a moment, analyzing the situation. Steve was shivering from the cold and seemed to be precariously balanced on a branch that was barely supporting his weight. He gave a sad little cry, letting Castiel know he wanted down and was too scared to try—and it went straight to Castiel’s heart.
The wind picked up and blew a gust of freezing cold air down the street like they were in a giant wind tunnel. Loose detritus was picked up and pelted in their direction, stinging Castiel’s exposed skin. The biting cold cut through his coat and he might as well have not been wearing it for all of the protection it offered. Steve must be freezing up there and scared for his furry little life as the branch swayed slightly with the wind. That thought galvanized him into action.
He could do this, Steve was depending on him. He reported the news for a living—he had the who, what, when, where, and why down pat—he could calm the fuck down long enough to call for help. Castiel took a deep breath and with his trembling hands, he dialed the emergency number.
“911, what's your emergency?” A soothing, maternal-sounding voice answered his call for help.
He let out a breath, collecting himself further as he prepared to give out the required information. However, Castiel’s newfound stability cracked the moment that Steve stopped moving or meowing, and the cool professional aura he’d been going for switched to all out panic.
Castiel transformed from Mr. Calm-Cool-Collected-Alluring-News-Reporter to the less fortunate and significantly less endearing neurotic-hungover-single-cat-dad-in-his-pajamas, who assumed Steve had just developed severe hypothermia and was in mortal peril. He started blubbering to the overworked and underpaid 911 operator, not even quite sure what he was saying anymore.
The operator—a kind woman named Missouri, if he remembered correctly—stayed on the line. Gabe, for his part, ran back into the house and grabbed a couple of throw blankets to help them stay warm while they waited. His brother appeared to be so cold that he threw his own blanket over his head with a groan as Castiel continued to talk to the kind operator.
Finally, Castiel heard sirens. They were much louder than he imagined they would be. Huh.
Unfortunately, the reason for the volume quickly became apparent when two police vehicles, one fire truck, and an ambulance pulled up to his house simultaneously, all with their lights flashing and sirens on. Castiel’s peripheral vision caught the rustling of curtains and opening of doors up and down his street. Apparently, Steve’s predicament had caused quite a commotion. Gabriel peeked through the blanket covering his head and groaned again, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath; Castiel definitely heard his name mentioned at least twice.
Embarrassingly, Castiel realized he might have overreacted just a tiny bit. It especially hit home as a pissed off Steve started yowling obnoxiously from his perch, complaining at the vehicles that disturbed his slumber. It belatedly became apparent to Castiel that Steve was taking an uh, cat nap, as cats often seem to do, and he was in fact not frozen in suspended animation, destined to one day lead the Avengers.
Whoops.
Dean plopped down onto one of the several old recliners at the fire station and pulled the lever to put his feet up. Getting comfortable, he dug between the cushions until he found the remote, blowing off the lint and little dust bunnies clinging to it for dear life. Considering that he was on the second half of his 48-hour shift, he was surprisingly rested, even with last night being New Year's Eve. His unit hadn’t been dispatched once—it seemed that the extended coverage on available rideshares and the dangers of drinking and driving that Channel 8 did was a success.
Lazily, he clicked through the channels—acting like he was contemplating his options—just in case Benny wandered in after completing his work chores. He stopped clicking when he got back around to the local news station. On a weekend and at this time of the morning, Channel 8 played reruns of segments from the week before.
Now, it wasn’t that Dean liked watching the news. Hell no. He just liked watching the heartthrob of a reporter, Castiel Novak, report on the news. Oh, and how he did like watching him. Not that Dean was a creepy stalker or anything, he just happened to know what days/times he had to tune in to see Castiel—totally not stalker behavior. Fan behavior, if anything. Respectful fan behavior. Very respectful. Dean respected the hell out of Channel 8’s star reporter.
Too fucking bad he had blown his only chance to meet the action star handsome, eleven out of ten in a town full of solid midwest-gas-station-that-serves-heavy-Pepsi fours.
When Dean first moved to Uranus last September, he got a call from some British douchebag named Crowley, claiming that he was with the local news station and wanted to set up an interview with “Mr. July”. How in the fuck the pretentious asshole had somehow caught wind of who he was—Dean had no damn clue, but he immediately shot that shit down.
That calendar was the biggest fucking mistake of his even bigger fucked up life.
It all started when the bored suburban housewives of Kansas turned their National Firefighter Charity Calendar’s glossy pages to July 1st; that was the beginning of the end for Dean. His more-than-half-naked picture went fucking viral on Suburban Mom Twitter. Tasteful his ass, that calendar was softcore porn and the hoopla around it dogged him so badly he felt he had no choice but to leave the city—and the state.
Not only did the local Kansas media want a piece of him—literally—but the freakin’ national news and talk show circuits came banging down the door. They harassed him and his fire company non-fuckin’-stop, begging him to relent and make appearances, enlisting his superiors when he tried to say no.
The brass had been all over it, saying that it was “good PR” and going so far as to horrifically nickname him “Mr. July” and post it all over social media. They trotted him out to every bake sale, birthday party, and toddler beauty pageant like a prize pig at the state fair. Yes, the whole situation made the station a shit ton of money for much needed equipment, but at the cost of his self-respect and dignity.
Dean really thought the attention would die down eventually, but he suffered through months of non-stop harassment anytime he left his house. In the end, for his privacy and mental health, he was forced to take action.
So, he filled out what felt like hundreds of applications, accepted the first halfway decent job offer thrown his way, took what was left of his dignity, and got the hell out of there. He packed his bags, gave two weeks notice, and suddenly found himself in a dying town with an asshole for a name.
Now Dean didn't go through all of that and leave his big city FireMedic gig for nothin’, so he damn well wasn’t about to announce his appearance in Uranus with seventy-six trombones and a big parade. That’s why he said no to Crowley. If he’d known at the time that the welcome wagon would have included a one-on-one with Castiel spent-all-night-fucking, sex hair Novak, he might have agreed to do the whole damn interview shirtless. After all, Castiel Novak was hotter than Satan’s housecat and Dean would have done just about anything for a chance to tap that ass.
So yeah, Uranus was a step down from his big city job and he’d missed his chance to meet his ultimate crush. On the plus side though, the cost of living was ridiculously cheap, he actually found a fully furnished apartment twice the size of his old one for one third of the price. Rural America, fuck yeah! Ok sure, it was an apartment over an old shutdown Blockbuster video, but all he had to do was watch the place for the landlord and keep the rat traps freshly baited. He quickly found out that was a serious tally in the “pro” column, as it was still filled with movies he could watch for free. Sure, most of them were VHS titles he’d never heard of, but rural America loved its thrift stores, and he actually found a working VHS player at the shop down the block.
All in all, a month after moving in—and subsequently becoming a recluse that only left his house to go to work, pick up groceries, and walk downstairs to “borrow” (and return, he wasn't a heathen) movies from the abandoned Blockbuster—his mental health wasn’t doing too great. And that’s where the late night discovery of Channel 8’s hottest reporter came in, helping him bridge the gap between spank bank fantasy and getting a hand (no pun intended) on acclimating to small town life.
Finding small town friends would have been helpful though. His brother Sam’s calls had gotten shorter and less frequent with every passing week. Studying to be a big shot lawyer at Stanford took a lot of his time. Dean couldn’t hold that against him, but Sam was pretty much all he had.
He didn’t have any buddies from his previous life, since the crewmates from his old station that he had thought were his friends all turned out to be jealous assholes. Douchebags started hazing him at every opportunity right after the stupid calendar came out and sold his whereabouts to the media, so reporters could stalk and harness him more easily. Pretty fuckin’ dangerous to be in a burning building when you couldn’t trust that your “brothers” had your back.
So Sam was it, but his actual flesh and blood brother didn’t beat around the need for Dean to have more social interactions than his weekly calls. Even though he was busy, Sam threatened to hop on the next plane and stage an intervention if Dean didn’t try to make more of an effort in his new town—the last thing Dean needed was for his little brother to see how truly pathetic he was in person.
So, he tried. He started going out with the guys after a shift to grab a few beers and shoot some pool, he hung around the firehouse to talk shit after late calls. He even helped Benny on occasion with some odd jobs around his little homestead—the dude was crazy about his chickens and his horse, Matilda. Lucky for Dean, that all seemed to pacify Sammy for the time being, and Dean felt moderately more welcome, too.
Now that he was finally settled into town, life was looking up. He was determined to start the new year off right, and if that consisted of watching a rerun of Channel 8’s Castiel Novak report on the dangers of leaving animals outside in extreme temperatures (in his wet dream inducing voice), well, that ain’t no one’s business but his own. Dean adjusted himself into the recliner cushions to get a bit more comfortable and pressed play.
But of fucking course, dispatch made it their business as they dropped tones, rudely interrupting Dean’s alone time with grainy TV Castiel. So much for starting the new year off right. He sighed, got up from the chair, and shut the TV off, tossing the remote back on the recliner seat to await his return.
Upon arrival, Dean opened the door and hopped down from the cab of the fire truck after police declared the scene safe in record time. Dispatch had said the call was for a 9-year-old boy—Steve—who had been exposed to the elements for several hours and had become unresponsive. He knew by experience and training that he should expect to be dealing with both a seriously ill child and their family in crisis.
The parents were easy enough to spot—if unexpected for small town Missouri—two men standing by a large oak tree in the front yard. One of whom, dark haired and looking frantic with worry, kept pacing under the tree. He couldn’t get a good look at him with all of that pacing. The other parent was shorter, had a blanket over his head to stay warm, and seemed much less concerned. Strangely so. Dean made a beeline for the couple; the rest of the crew could get to work with the set up. He was the only one cross trained as a paramedic and a firefighter on site, so despite being the new guy in town—he was running point.
Dean approached the odd couple with confidence, plastering on a comforting smile.
“Hello, my name is Dean and I’m here to help get your boy to safety, now wh—”
“Oh my God, you’re Mr. July!” He heard, more than saw, the distraught dark haired man gasp in astonishment while briefly pausing from the frantic pacing. Welp, that was a new record, a whole three seconds. And fuck, couldn’t Dean get some peace and quiet? You do one viral calendar shoot and suddenly that’s all anyone cares about. Just another pretty face, except after a while you don’t feel pretty—you just feel used.
It was a struggle not to roll his eyes and make a face. Instead, he focused on scanning the area for the boy and turned toward the more sane parent. “Right. Regardless, I’m your best shot at helping your son. Let’s focus here, where did you see him last?”
The less concerned parent pointed up; Dean followed with his eyes. He squinted, then rubbed his eyes and looked again. Nope, still didn’t help. Huh. There was no one there.
If this was the big city where he had come from, his first suspicion would be that drugs were involved and he was dealing with a group hallucination—not as fun as it sounds. It would explain why one of the men was so hysterical that he couldn’t even see him properly, and the other peculiarly calm and collected. Don’t do drugs, kids.
Dean looked at the calm one again. In his periphery, he could see all of the other first responders waiting for directions. “Dispatch said that we were here to rescue a 9-year-old boy who was possibly stuck somewhere and in immediate distress,” he said slowly and clearly.
“Cat,” said the more sedate man bundled inside a red, plaid couch throw as he pointed up again. From inside his impromptu hoodie, Dean could see the man’s upturned half smile. “Steve is a cat.”
Well, fuck. Dean looked again, and sure enough, way at the top of the tree he could see a little ball of orange fluff. Closing his eyes briefly, he bit back an annoyed groan, the paperwork from this was going to take fucking forever. He turned to the crew behind, most of them had already caught on and were trying not to laugh. He assumed officers Donna and Jody had filled them in on the situation after they first assessed the scene, deciding to leave Dean out of the loop for shits and giggles. Hilarious.
“Pack ‘er up and head out. My truck only, come closer and get the aerial ready. I’m going up.” How the fuck did this call even get dispatched to him, it should have gone to the local shelter or tree care company. The mistake could have been made in the 911 dispatch office, but he doubted it.
“Which one of you made the call?” Dean said as evenly as he could, trying not to let his frustration show.
“Me,” the dark haired one mumbled sheepishly, hands covering his face in obvious embarrassment.
Well, that might explain it. It wouldn’t be the first time a frantic caller missed an important detail or two. Like the fact that they were calling about a goddamned cat and not an actual human child.
Benny pulled up by the tree, the aerial was ready to go. Dean nodded to his colleague to let him know he was coming. A quick side glance told him most of the first responders were gone, but a few of the neighbors were standing on the sidewalk, cell phones in hand, watching and recording. Saturday morning entertainment and all that.
“Okay, my friend Benny over here has the truck ready. I’m going to get in the aerial and he’s going to lift me up to get Steve. I need you both to stand over there to the side and stay calm. Can you do that for me?” Both men nodded and the blanket slipped off the head of the calmer man. His light hair was messy from static. He pulled his partner out of harm's way as they both settled in place to watch what is now going to be a very anticlimactic rescue for Dean.
Not five minutes later Dean was back on the ground with Steve the cat curled up inside of his turnout coat. Surprisingly, he didn’t bite, scratch, or hiss. Instead, the tiny vibrations against his chest told Dean that the cat is purring and content. Dean’s heart gave a little squeeze. Steve was damn cute.
The dark haired man hurried over while his partner stayed off to the side. Dean thought it was weird that the little dude was recording the whole thing on his phone, but whatever, not the strangest part of his day. Clearly, the anxious man in front of him was the one that was more attached to the cat.
Now that the crisis was over, Dean could finally start to take stock of the man in front of him. His handsome face and wind fucked dark hair seemed strangely familiar, but the look he had going on was somethin’ else and taking precedence in his brain. He had a fuzzy blue blanket over his shoulders, but under that was one hella ugly trench coat, fully opened to show the black t-shirt that said “Fuck the Patriarchy”, sleep pants, and—he did a double take—muddy slippers. All in all, the look is freakin’ adorable and exactly Dean’s type: a little feisty with a dash of unpredictability.
Too bad he’s clearly taken and co-parenting a cat. Dean opened his coat for the man to take the furball.
Except he didn’t. He got right up close and personal to pet the cat who was warm and happily perched on Dean’s chest next to his heart. He looked at Dean with the brightest, red-rimmed blue eyes, that he was pretty damn sure he could sail into, sink, drown, and die in. Worth it.
Blue eyes placed his left hand on Dean’s chest and kept gingerly stroking the cat.
“You saved him. Thank you,” the man said, full of emotion as he smiled for the first time since Dean arrived—and just like that, a wave of recognition hit him.
It was Castiel Novak.
The Castiel Novak.
Channel 8 News, Castiel Novak.
Castiel Novak, the same gorgeous reporter that has unknowingly given him so much fodder for his spank bank with those eyes and that voice, since Dean moved to town.
Holy fucking shit.
Dean was embarrassed and star struck, and truth be told, a little turned on. His dick was a bit like Pavlov’s dog when it came to Castiel—Dean had unintentionally trained it to respond whenever he watched the news. So sue him, everyone needed a hobby. But right then, he was tongue tied and could feel the flush on his cheeks. Play it cool, Winchester.
“Just doin’ my job.” The words stuck in his throat and came out sounding a little more deep and gravely than usual. So much for playing it cool, but wow Dean was in sensory overload—Castiel hadn’t moved, his hand on Dean’s chest felt like a brand, and the cat was still purring inside his jacket.
“Well, you're a hero in my book. Is there anything I can do to repay you?” Blue eyes pinned green in place, Dean couldn’t—or didn’t want to—move.
Lots of things, Dean thought. But none of them were things he could actually ask for seeing as a) he was at work, b) the two men were clearly living together, and c) he was an accidental creepy stalker and he shouldn’t seem too eager.
“Nah. But now that I recognize you from Channel 8, maybe you could help me—uhh, us—with some PR for our fundraiser next week?” Dean gave himself a mental pat on the back for his discreteness and quick thinking.
Dean might have a pretty face, but he knew how to leverage an opportunity when he saw one. For a chance to spend time with Castiel—taken or not—he’d trot out Mr. July for a victory lap. Since he hadn’t let Channel 8 interview him when he first moved to town, he knew there was no way they would pass up the opportunity now. Especially since it was about to be presented on a silver platter. Channel 8 would get exclusive coverage with Mr. July, and Dean would get to see Castiel again, in person instead of on the TV screen. It was absolutely worth his dignity, no way would he blow his chance again. Of course, he could ask Castiel to hang out like a normal person would, but he never really did things the easy way. He felt slightly guilty when he thought about Castiel’s partner, but hey, all’s fair in love, war, and charity fundraisers. Besides, Dean just wanted to get to know him better, maybe they could at least end up as friends.
Castiel nodded with a small smile, eyes never once leaving his. “Whatever you want, Dean.” His voice sounded huskier than it normally did on TV and Dean knew without a doubt he’d be thinking about that after his shift tonight.
Benny honked the horn on the truck, breaking the spell.
“I gotta get back to work, have your people call my people.” Fuck, that was lame. Dean took a breath and tried again. “You’d better take Steve before he decides to come with me.” Dean winked as he unleashed his panty dropper™ smile. And then you can “come” with me too, he thought. Down boy, down—bad, unprofessional downstairs brain.
He hadn’t flirted or tried to pick anyone up since before the calendar dropped, but rusty as he was, Dean still recognized a direct hit when he saw one. Castiel’s pupils dilated and Dean tried not to stare when he subconsciously licked those puffy pink lips Dean had spent an unhealthy amount of time thinking about. It wasn’t easy.
With Dean's permission, Castiel reached into Dean’s turnout coat and collected his cat. Cas brushing against his chest felt like a low frequency electric current running through his body. It was more erotic than Dean wanted to admit, and the sense of loss when the hands were gone was acute. He looked into those piercing blue eyes one more time.
“Dean, we gotta get back in service. C’mon Cher,” Benny hollered from the truck. It really was time to go.
Dean said his farewells to the pair and headed for the truck.
He’d be seeing blue eyes in his sleep tonight.
Castiel held Steve close and together they watched the fire truck make its way down the street and turn the corner. Once it was out of sight, he turned and headed towards the house, his mind—and heart rate—in overdrive.
Mr. July—Dean—was even more handsome in person. How was that even possible? He somehow looked sexier holding Steve, with his rosy wind burnt cheeks. They made his gorgeous green eyes pop. He was definitely sexier in real life than he was in the calendar photo.
For the love of all that was good and holy in this world, why would someone with cover model good looks like that sequester himself in a small town whose only claim to fame was an embarrassing name and a candy factory that specialized in wordplay?
Once they were back safely inside, Castiel set Steve up with some treats, a fresh bowl of food, and water, and moved his little cat bed closer to the hot air vent so he could warm up faster. For all of his adventures that day, Steve seemed none the worse for wear.
When Castiel was absolutely certain that his cat was okay, he turned his attention back on his brother, who had caused all of the trouble to begin with. He owed Steve an apology, and Castiel was just about to demand one when his brother cut him off.
Gabe grinned wider than the Cheshire Cat, frantically texting on his phone. “Cassie, get dressed in real clothes, I’m calling an emergency brunch meeting. I just thought of the best business opportunity that’s going to save all of our derrières.”
Later, if anyone thought to ask, that’s the story of how Castiel found himself at the Roadhouse for the not terribly official, impromptu Channel 8 Uranus emergency meeting, nursing his hangover with hair of the dog.
Bal was sitting beside him and drinking overpriced craft beer. His college-roommate-turned-best-friend-turned-cameraman was counting down the days until judgment came and they were all blessedly released from their contracts. Bal was tremendously overqualified for his position at the station. Being a new graduate with a master's in cinematography didn’t mean shit without making important friends first. His talent and skills were beyond what the small station could ever utilize, but everyone had to start somewhere. Luckily, even if they couldn’t get the news station up to standards by the one year deadline, Bal would still be allowed to transfer within Dick Roman’s other media enterprises. Either way, this shitty job was still going to jump start his career.
Castiel sat across from Gabe, who was holding court in his dual roles of operation manager and webmaster. He was also currently on his third Appletini, labeling it as a “work expense”. The fact that Gabe held both jobs should have been yet another red flag when he accepted the reporter position, but he desperately needed the experience. Besides, if Castiel was being honest with himself, after years of only seeing each other during holidays, it was nice to live close to his brother. He had declined his brother’s initial offer to be roommates. Castiel well remembered that Gabe was both lactose intolerant and had an ice cream addiction. He let Bal scoop in and take advantage of the cheap rent and smelly digs instead. Cas rented a small house close enough that the brothers could still share a drink or spend an evening with takeout watching Hell’s Kitchen or documentaries whenever they wanted.
Last but certainly not least, sitting next to Gabe was Crowley. Even from his short tenure, Castiel had noticed that Crowley had an affinity for trinket laden and over-sweetened cocktails. It was like he was trying to fry his liver and give himself diabetes at the same time. Today, he was gleefully slurping his Piña Colada, miniature umbrella and color-changing straw included. Crowley’s good mood was definitely unnatural. For as long as Castiel had been at the station, the smarmy, Armani clad GM had been constantly in and out of heated meetings with his bosses at Dick Roman Enterprises. At this point, corporate seemed to be uninterested in extending the business experiment past its original term, as failure still meant a huge corporate tax break. But Crowley was hell bent on trying to convince them of their rural station’s relevancy. He probably thought of it as a game—and he hated to lose.
The local paper got shut down last year, and Channel 8 Uranus was going to follow suit if a miracle or a murder didn’t happen soon. Castiel was hoping for the former, but the latter would suffice. It’s not like he didn’t enjoy watching the True Crime Channel at home—especially the bits about murder husbands. He wasn’t quite sure what that said about him as a person, so he buried that thought and kept trying to manifest a miracle.
Evidently, Gabriel thought that their “miracle” was taking the form of a panel interview and fundraiser coverage with one Dean Winchester a.k.a. Mr. July himself. There was no way he wanted to be on the interviewee side of the equation answering questions about getting his cat rescued from a tree. Castiel was well aware of how doltish that was going to make him look—even in this town—but of fucking course his so-called “friends” agreed with Gabe. Like hell was he going to let them objectify Dean and humiliate him on a live broadcast (well, more than they already did anyway) discussing the 911 fiasco, especially while sitting next to Mr. July himself. Castiel was not going to agree to that, even if he did secretly want every opportunity to see Dean again, the fundraiser coverage would have to suffice. He readily agreed to the second part of the plan and tried to talk them out of the first, but he forgot one key factor: he was surrounded by assholes.
Castiel had made quite a lot of mistakes before noon today, but his biggest one might have been assuming that he actually had a say in the matter. Fuck his life, Dean would never agree to go on a date with him if his humiliating public embarrassment aired, even assuming Dean was interested in men and single.
Resolve faltering, he gave an exasperated sigh and turned his attention back to Crowley.
“Castiel, you giraffe, a cat getting stuck in a tree and rescued by a firefighter in the form of a walking sex doll is headline news in this bloody town.” Crowley scowled as he repositioned the mini umbrella in his Piña Colada. “You know what increases ratings? Cat videos and sex appeal. It just so happens that you have both.”
Balthazar barked out a laugh, while Castiel squinted at Crowley, mouthing the word giraffe to himself. Tilting his head, he thought through the ten fast facts he knew about giraffes that he remembered from a segment he did a few months ago, but none of them seemed to apply to him. He didn’t quite get that reference, especially since if Castiel was turned into an African animal, he was quite sure he would be a gazelle. They’re intelligent enough to outmaneuver cheetahs, and are adaptive, robust creatures. Of course, he respected the work giraffes did as pollinators, but he definitely had much more in common with a gazelle.
While Castiel was justifying his animal kingdom identity to himself, he completely tuned out the cycling conversation. Fuck, this brunch was never-ending.
“Cassie!” Balthazar clapped his hands in front of Castiel’s face, jolting him out of the safari and back to reality. Unfortunate, really.
Balthazar sighed, turning in his seat to better look at Castiel. “Cassie, please listen and take this seriously. I am actually agreeing with Crowley on this, you have to do this with Dean. You might be content to waste your best years stuck in this literal shit hole, but I’m planning to jump ship as soon as I can. And that requires good ratings so my next potential employer can bypass where we actually work.”
Castiel opened his mouth to protest, thoughts of gazelles gracefully galloping away, but was cut off by Balthazar lifting his hand up, motioning him to pause. If Castiel wasn’t still hungover, he would have half a mind to be irritated with him.
“Think about it. The most interesting segment we’ve had since we started working for Channel 8 was in October when we covered the marching band fundraiser. Do you remember that, Castiel? Do you remember what we covered?” Balthazar narrowed his eyes, squeezing his beer bottle a little harder than necessary, knuckles turning white.
Castiel cleared his throat, knowing where this was headed. “Bal, I do, but—“
Balthazar slammed his palm on the table, rattling the glasses. “Cow chip bingo. We were outside for six hours, freezing our balls off, waiting for Betsy the cow to take a shit on the spray-painted football field that some 14-year-old with a cowboy hat, belt buckle the size of Texas, boots with real fucking spurs on them, and that God awful plaid shirt, spent four hours making. Honestly, be a cowboy or a lumberjack, why do people combine the two?”
The cameraman threw up his hands, somehow more exasperated than he was before. “Who in the bloody hell even thought to make an event where you place bets on where a cow will take a shit? Cassie, Gabe made you say the lines ‘plop down money for cow chip bingo’ and ‘waiting for the chips to fall’, is this really why we all went to graduate school? I, for one, did not get a master’s degree in cinematography so we could report on where cows take a literal shit!”
Bal looked around the table, wide-eyed, breathing heavily after his outburst over the delicacies of cow manure.
Breaking the stunned silence, Gabe reached across the table to squeeze Balthazar’s shoulder. “Do you feel better, buddy?”
Balthazar huffed out a humorless laugh, draining the rest of his beer. “I will feel better when we can all leave this shithole town and work in a real city, pun very much intended.”
Castiel frowned. “Bal, I didn’t know you felt so strongly about Betsy. She was nothing but sweet to us. She followed us around the field for hours and let me stand close to her rather large, warm body when my teeth started to chatter.” Castiel paused, smiling at the memory.
Crowley slurped obnoxiously through his color-changing straw. “Did Castiel just admit he cuddled with a cow?”
Promptly ignoring Crowley and the laughter from the table, Castiel crossed his arms and side-eyed Balthazar. “If someone wanted to film you taking your daily constitution, I bet you would have some performance anxiety too.” Castiel reached for and downed the rest of his drink, wincing a little at the burn. His hangover was actually improving a bit. Huh, hair of the dog actually does work—not that he would admit that to Gabriel.
“Anyway, Betsy had that patch of black fur around her eye that made her resemble a pirate, I found her to be rather endearing,” Castiel said, raising his eyebrow at his brother. “Although, I could have gone without Gabe’s horrific manure puns.”
Gabriel waggled his brows. “Did you really expect me to not write in toilet humor when we live in the actual town of Uranus? I mean, why do you think I took the job here? Well, that and the fudge, who doesn’t love fudge from Uranus?”
Gabe chuckled at his own joke, but no one else did. Crowley had long been desensitized, Bal just chalked it up to another reason why he wanted the hell out of this town, and Castiel would rather chew off his left arm than encourage his brother’s nonstop juvenile antics.
Castiel sighed, rubbing his temples. It was becoming apparent that he was not leaving this booth without agreeing to be humiliated on air, especially since Charlie, one of Channel 8’s anchors, would be conducting the interview. At least it wasn’t Meg. Small miracles.
Maybe he was being petulant, but when your crush was Dean fucking Winchester, a.k.a. Mr. July in the National Firefighter Charity Calendar, he felt like he earned it. So what if he had a copy posted in his office—and his bedroom? What cosmic deity did he cross for his meet-cute with Dean to involve him at his absolute worst? Hungover and disheveled was not the first impression he would have chosen to make.
“Castiel,” Crowley said firmly. “Enough of this. It’s one interview, then one fundraiser later in the week. We need a spike in ratings for this quarter and this is how we’re doing it. A little bit of torture on your part will hopefully lead to happy endings for all of us, with all possible innuendos intended. For the bloody last time, I’m asking you to say yes, because I am your benevolent boss and friend. In exactly five seconds, I will no longer be asking.” Crowley raised his eyebrows at Castiel expectantly.
Castiel sighed in defeat. “Fine, yes, take my last shred of dignity. Just promise me you won’t play the 911 tape on the air.”
Crowley smirked. “Castiel, you know I torture all my friends, it’s how I show my love.”
Truth be told, taking a job at “Channel 8 Uranus” for Dick Roman Enterprises had taken the last of Castiel’s dignity before he’d even stepped foot in this town.
Crowley scooted his smarmy ass out of the booth, signaling the end of their meeting. He brushed imaginary dirt off his expensive black shirt. “As always, it’s been a pleasure, boys. Gabe, we will discuss the finer details of our arrangement later, as for you two, see you on Monday.”
Bal and Gabe followed suit, leaving Cas alone with his thoughts. Castiel knew Crowley and Gabe well enough to know that he was about to be sacrificed on the altar of dignity in hopes of scoring the station a little more breathing room. It wasn’t like he had a chance with Dean anyway, but still, the thought of being humiliated on air in the other man’s presence added insult to injury.
At least he had Steve. If Castiel was destined to die sexually frustrated and alone, his cat could keep him company until the bitter end.
He stood, threw a few bills on the table, and headed for the door.
“Fuck my life.”