Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A bell at the door rings out into the otherwise quiet store as Castiel enters. At a quick glance, he can tell that he’s the only customer there but that’s hardly unusual. Not a lot of people go antiquing at 10 am on a Tuesday. Castiel aside, there is only the bored-looking young woman at the counter, who barely looks up from her phone before calling out:

“Hey Al, Professor Pervert is here.”

Castiel sighs, stepping over the threshold and letting the door shut behind him. “Good morning, Christine.”

Christine spares him a quick, insincere smile. “Al’s in the back, he’ll be out in a minute.”

Castiel has observed her with other customers and he knows that the dismissive attitude is nothing personal. The nickname is a little different, but he’s certain she doesn’t mean anything harmful by it. After all, Castiel suspects he is the only regular who comes specifically for gay erotica. He’s explained to Christine before that far from being personal purchases, the photographs are essential primary resources in his dissertation on queer aesthetics and desire in the pre-Stonewall era but by the time he gets to this part of the explanation, Christine has usually tuned him out.

It’s alright. Castiel is used to his work being misunderstood, even by other academics. He’s had little backing from the University, due to the apparently controversial nature of his work, and so has largely had to resort to local vendors in order to secure photographs and the occasional film reels. Alan Carter runs one of the three antique stores Castiel frequents and has been by far the most helpful, taking personal interest in assisting him.

Christine has been less helpful but she at least isn’t interested enough to be all that judgmental, which is more than Castiel can usually expect.

Castiel’s ruminations are interrupted as Alan emerges from the back, holding a wooden crate. “Hey there, Cas! Got my email?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Castiel says dryly, unable to completely hide his smile at Alan’s jovial greeting. He’s the kind of man, tall, wide, and bearded, who would appear intimidating if not for his cheerful demeanor, and he always talks to Castiel as if he were an old friend and not just a particularly good customer. 

Alan puts the crate down on the counter, beckoning Castiel to look closer.

“We’ve had quite a weekend,” he tells Castiel. “Cain Adams - you know, the photographer?” Castiel shakes his head. “Well, he bit the big one a few months back and his niece just dropped off some stuff from his estate this Saturday. His own work only goes back like twenty years but I figured some of the photos from his personal collection might be worth checking out.”

Castiel peers into the crate, interest piqued. There are a few albums as well as stacks of unsorted photographs. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his gloves and putting them on, before getting to work. 

Most of the photographs aren’t labeled by date. Those few that are, aren’t of much use. They’re all anatomical studies and while a man posing nude in front of a camera will inherently hold homoerotic qualities due to cultural norms, it isn’t quite what Castiel had in mind. 

The unlabeled photos hold some promise. Some of them, Castiel can tell at a glance, are too recent to be relevant to his work, either based on the photographic techniques or the hairstyles of the models (since there aren’t many clothes to go off on), but others appear much older. He works through them methodologically, putting aside anything that might be of interest, and by the time he’s nearing the bottom of the crate he’s got a good dozen photographs picked out.

“Good find, huh?” Alan asks, pride beaming from him.

“We’ll see once I can get these photos dated.” Castiel pauses, looks up from his work and gives Alan a smile. “But yes, I think so. Certainly, this is the most extensive private collection I’ve come across.”

“Cain had a real appreciation for our history,” Alan explains. “That and, well, a healthy libido. I met him a few times, good guy.”

Castiel hums in response, reaching for the last unsorted photographs. They’re turned upside down and as he flips them around, he feels a momentary sense of disappointment - they’re in color - but it quickly dies down as he takes in their content.

There are five photos, all of them of the same subject: a young man, in his early 20s at most, naked and reclined on a brown leather couch. His body is immaculate, all lean muscles and long, sprawling limbs, his cock curved against his stomach and his pale skin flushed with desire. The photographs are taken at various stages of arousal, all of them equally enticing. In one, the model is biting his lower lip, in another his frame is taut and his toes are curled, clearly on the brink of ecstasy, and one is taken in the immediate aftermath, his body relaxed and hand still curved around his spent cock.

But none of that is what catches Castiel’s attention.

Rather, it’s the expression on the boy’s face in every photograph. At once shy and rapturous, vulnerable and defiant. It’s love, pure and simple, and he’s looking right into the camera - or rather, right at the photographer. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alan says, and Castiel flinches as he’s suddenly reminded that he’s not alone. “Those are some of Cain’s pictures, don’t know how they snuck in there.”

He reaches for the photos and on instinct, Castiel takes a step back, clutching them closer to his chest. He feels like a fool in the next instant, blushing under Alan’s gaze as his eyes widen in surprise, but he can’t find it in him to let go of the photos.

“I-” Castiel croaks. He clears his throat, tries again, “I suppose some of Cain’s work should be preserved for posterity at the University.”

He knows he’s not being convincing, particularly as he sees Christine roll her eyes, but Alan doesn’t point it out, just offers an understanding smile and rings him up for his purchases.

“You let me know if any of those pictures pan out,” he tells Castiel as he’s leaving.

Castiel nods absentmindedly, still too unsettled to offer a proper goodbye. In his eight years working on his dissertation, he has never reacted this way to his research material.

Maybe Balthazar is right. Maybe he needs to get out more.

It’s late by the time Castiel gets home that night. He’s spent most of the day at the office, save for his trip to Alan’s and an hour-long lecture in the afternoon, and yet he feels like he’s gotten almost no work done. Some days are like that; one step forward, one step back.

At least the pictures he purchased from Cain’s collection have been sent off to have their age verified. All, that is, except for Cain’s own photographs, which are buried deep inside Castiel’s satchel. 

Walking into his empty apartment (and God, does it feel emptier by the day), Castiel quickly shrugs off his coat and makes a beeline for the kitchen. He picks out a prepared meal from the freezer and chucks it into the microwave, getting out a glass of wine as he waits for it to finish cooking.

Like the late nights at the office, this pathetic meal for one has become part of a daily routine. Somehow, while he wasn’t looking, Castiel has turned into a very boring and very lonely adult. His workload, mixed with less than stellar people skills, have left his social life flatlining. If it weren’t for Balthazar and Anna, Castiel doubts he’d socialize at all, and Anna hasn’t been in town for two months.

The microwave beeps. Castiel retrieves his meal and, feeling almost aggressively morose, eats it standing in his kitchen, leaning against the counter. Thinking of his sister, Castiel recalls the dating app she installed on his phone the last time she was in town. It was some combination of joke and a desire to help on Anna’s part but Castiel hasn’t opened it since she first showed him how it worked. 

He fishes the phone out of his pocket now and after a brief hesitation, opens the app. He has no notifications but that’s hardly surprising; to his understanding, you have to “match” with people in order for them to contact you. 

Flipping through the profiles available to him, Castiel remembers why he never got into the habit of using this app. With only a few photographs and a sentence or two of description to go on, if that, it isn’t enough to spark his interest in any of these men. Castiel simply isn’t the kind of person who can form a connection through the phone. Or at a bar, for that matter, as he’s learned from the increasingly infrequent excursions Balthazar takes him on.

Is it any wonder he’s been single for the past four years?

Then again, Castiel suddenly thinks, maybe the problem with the men on this app isn’t that a few pictures isn’t enough to intrigue him. The problem might be the pictures themselves. After all, Cain’s photographs are still burning a hole in his satchel, an impulse purchase that Castiel has been studiously spending the entire day not thinking about.

Having gone a few hours without looking at them, Castiel feels the doubt creeping in. Were they that captivating? Or has he just gotten so accustomed to only seeing naked men in black-and-white, that the brief shock of color was enough to catch his attention?

Well, he has to know now. No harm in looking at the pictures again just to check, right?

The excuse has barely formed in his head but Castiel is already halfway across the kitchen. His satchel sits at the door where he put it down, harmless and unassuming. He picks it up, walking back into the living room as he begins to dig through it.

There. 

Castiel retrieves the pictures, two and three at a time. One of them has a new crease at the corner and Castiel feels instantly guilty - whatever their personal value to him, they deserve more care than this. The guilt quickly evaporates as he looks at the young model’s face again.

Captivating was the right word for it. Alluring. Seductive, even.

Looking into the model’s eyes, Castiel can’t help but feel that they are looking right back at him. That this come-hither stare is meant for him, the bravado in the curve of his lips and the tilt of his chin daring Castiel to come closer. 

Castiel sits down on the couch, feeling at once aroused and ashamed of that arousal. The young man isn’t looking at him and Castiel isn’t meant to view his research subjects in this way. 

Darling , says a voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like Balthazar, that’s what those pictures are for. 

Intellectually, Castiel knows that. It’s what he set out to prove when he picked the topic for his dissertation; that there is nothing shameful or sinful about queer desires. Why should his own desire be any different?

He looks at the model’s face again, this time not stopping there but letting his eyes roam down his chest, the dusky pink of his nipples just barely visible in the faded photograph. His arms, all wiry strength, framing his upper body and hands touching himself so teasingly, one resting at his hip and the other just barely grasping his half-hard cock.

Castiel shifts in his seat, his own cock hardening in response. He leans back, reaching to open his belt buckle with one hand while he picks up another picture. This one is taken in the throes of passion, the model’s hand in blurry motion and a look of helpless arousal on his face. 

He is still looking into the camera and Castiel grips his cock through his underwear. He would have told the model, Castiel imagines, to keep his eyes open and on him the entire time. The model would do so, eager to please, eyes flickering as his desire rose but never quite closing, never disobeying.

Castiel rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, already wet with precum. He’s not going to last long, more turned on than he can remember being in a while. His eyes slip shut but the model’s visage still dances behind his eyelids, and he can picture him in motion now. 

Hips undulating, moving in tight circles as he fucks into his fist, stomach muscles tightening in anticipation for his release. Moaning Castiel’s name, flushing under his gaze. He wouldn’t be putting on a show, even as he wanted Castiel to watch, too caught up in his own pleasure to be anything but genuine.

He would be watching Castiel in return, straining in his desire to touch and be touched but staying right where he was because that’s what Castiel told him to do. Castiel pulls his cock out of his underwear at last, imagines the model’s eyes growing dark at the sight of it, another moan tumbling past his lips unbidden.

Castiel’s hand moves faster. It chafes just a bit at the lack of lube but his cock is weeping, and he pictures the model licking his lips in response, his hand’s movement mirroring Castiel’s. Pictures the model’s body tensing all over as he comes, ejaculate spilling across his stomach, marking himself like Castiel wants to do. 

It’s this image that pushes him over the edge. Castiel’s eyes squeeze closed tighter and he groans as he spills over his fist. 

He slumps against the couch, a warm exhaustion washing over him. The blissful aftermath lasts only a few moments, only until he opens his eyes and remembers that he is still alone. The model looks up at him from the pictures spread across his sofa table, frozen in a decade-old moment, unaware of Castiel’s existence. 

Castiel looks down at himself and sighs. He’s going to have to change his shirt.

Chapter Text

Rocky’s Bar is only the fourth gay bar to have opened in Maysville. 

Dean knows, because he checked. When Cain died, when Rocky’s became more than just a pipedream, Dean spent days obsessively thinking up any reason he could for why him opening a gay bar would be a bad idea.

There’s little to no gay culture in Mayville. There’s too many bars in general in the downtown area. Dean has no experience running a business, even with all the responsibilities he took on during his eight years at Ellen’s Roadhouse.

His friends pushed him to go through with it anyway and in the end, Dean caved. It was Cain’s dying wish, or one of them at least, for Dean to take his inheritance and use it to build towards his dream. Might as well try to make the old man proud.

Four months later, here they are. Rocky’s Bar has been open for a couple of weeks and despite all of Dean’s worst fears, business is more than fine. Even tonight, on a Tuesday, the bar is more than half-full by nine o’clock.

“Got a good thing going here, Winchester.”

Dean slings the dish towel over his shoulder, nodding at Dorothy, who’s leaning against the other side of the bar. It’s been a while since he saw her; last he heard, she was in Argentina.

“Thanks,” he tells her. “Good to see you back in town.”

Dorothy nods absentmindedly, looking behind him. Dean knows exactly who she’s looking at, doesn’t need to turn around to know that Charlie is looking right back.

“Good to be back,” Dorothy says. “Might just stick around for a while this time.”

Dean hums and, maybe sensing that the conversation has hit a dead end, Dorothy places her order for a whiskey on the rocks and wanders off to greet other people. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Charlie thumps Dean on the back.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was back?” she hisses.

“Didn’t know,” Dean says. Then admits, “But I probably wouldn’t have told you if I did.”

“Dude!”

Dean turns around. Charlie is glaring up at him, five foot five of righteously pissed. “Come on, kid. It always goes the same way when she’s back here. You guys hook up, go on a couple of dates, then she fucks off to some other country and you wind up heartbroken.”

“Well, it won’t happen this time,” Charlie says but it’s half-hearted at best. She sighs, crossing her arms. “Anyway, it’s my heart. It’s my risk to take.”

“She’s right,” Pamela chimes in. Dean turns around to glare at her but she’s not even looking their way, busily slicing limes. “Don’t confuse protective with paternalistic.”

Charlie smirks at Dean. “Hah.”

“Dean’s also right,” Pamela adds, and it’s Dean’s turn to smirk. “Nothing worse than pining over somebody out of reach, take it from him.”

Just like that, the smirk drops. 

“Thanks, Pam.”

Pamela looks up at him, grins. “You’re welcome, hot stuff.”

“Are we talking about that now?” Charlie wonders. “I mean, he just died a few months ago.”

“And I’ve been over him for years,” Dean says. “I was just a dumb kid with a crush, can we leave it alone already?”

Because, yeah, Cain was more than just his friend/mentor/benefactor. He was also the first guy who broke Dean’s heart and it’s one of Dean’s worst kept secrets. He really needs to get new friends, ones who don’t know every embarrassing thing about him.

Well. Almost every embarrassing thing.

“You’ve still got his pictures hanging on the walls,” Charlie points out.

Dean huffs. “One, they’re not his pictures, they’re pictures he took. Two, shut up and get to work.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow at him but does as told, going up to the counter to greet new customers. Pamela stays quiet, turning back to her limes, but the knowing grin on her face remains. Dean gets to cleaning the dirty glasses, grateful for the excuse to turn his back on everyone and focus on a menial task.

Cain is a sore spot… well, not still, but again. They’d been friends since they first met, back when Dean was a twenty-one year old with a GED, desperate for any work he could get, and Cain was an aspiring photographer in need of male models willing to pose in the nude.

Dean answered an inquiry in the local paper, half convinced that it was a thinly veiled ad for hookers. He’s not even sure he would’ve turned it down if it was but luckily, it never came to that. Cain was completely above board; all he wanted was to take some pictures. He never even touched Dean while he was working for him, though it didn’t take more than a couple of sessions for Dean to wish he would. 

But no, their relationship never crossed the line from platonic. It may have flirted with that line aggressively, toeing it almost past the point of no return, and Dean knows Cain found him attractive but nothing more ever came of it. 

When Dean asked Cain out at the end of their last photoshoot, Cain turned him down firmly but gently. Dean was too young and Cain wasn’t over the death of his wife (and hadn’t that been a shock for twenty-one year old Dean, finding out there really was such a thing as bisexuality). 

They stayed friends, once Dean got over his broken heart, and Cain looked out for him after that as best as Dean would let him. When Cain got sick, Dean took care of him in turn along with his niece, Ruby. 

They were both there when he died.

Dean wasn’t expecting Cain to leave him half his money. Part of him still can’t believe it, all those months later. He was just some kid who Cain took a chance on and who probably caused him more trouble than he was worth over the years. Ruby, at least, was family.

But then, Cain was always something of a dreamer, underneath that gruff exterior. He’d never been shy about telling Dean that he deserved more than the hand he’d been dealt. And Dean has to admit he was clever about it; Dean never would have taken that money while he was alive. 

No, instead he had to be a stubborn asshole and wait until Cain died before he let him help. Making it so that Cain could never see what became of his money, never got to see Rocky’s Bar open to a full house of queer folks, from the grumpy old men who’d run in his circles for decades, to young kids just barely out of the closet and humming with the excitement of it.

Hanging some of Cain’s pictures on the walls - besides looking cool as fuck - is Dean’s way of letting him be part of it all. He picked them out while he and Ruby went through Cain’s belongings - only the classy stuff, nothing full-frontal. 

He also looked for his own photos but gave up after a couple of days. Cain had boxes and boxes of unsorted photos and he’d sold the original prints a while ago. Dean’s not sure he even made copies.

Too bad. Dean might not have hung them up on the wall but it would’ve been nice to have a little keepsake of one of the hottest fucking things to ever happen to him. Especially now that his love life’s taken a hiatus while all of his hours into getting Rocky’s off the ground.

“Hey bossman, I’m taking my break.”

Dean looks over his shoulder, just in time to see the back of Charlie’s head as she hip-checks her way past the bar. She’s making a beeline to one particular table, and as Dean cranes his neck he can see Dorothy sitting at it, her face lighting up with a smile as she sees Charlie approaching.

“She’s gonna get her heart broken again,” Dean mutters.

“Probably,” Pamela agrees. “But what’s life without a little heartbreak?”

Better , Dean wants to say. Safer . He’s been in love twice since Cain and it ended in tears every time. He’s been more careful in the years since.

But then again, he’s also been alone.

*

Cain’s pictures have been relocated to Castiel’s office at the University. Despite his determination not to feel ashamed of his own desire, Castiel can’t quite stop being embarrassed about the effect they have on him. They’re safer kept in a semi-public space, one where he can at least pretend they might end up as research material.

He chucks them in the topmost drawer of his desk when he arrives in the morning and does his best to forget about them. 

This proves easier than expected. Between a ninety-minute lecture, answering the emails that have already begun to pile up over the week, including a lengthy back-and-forth with his advisor, and a feverish writing session, the morning rushes by. It isn’t until Balthazar knocks on his door that Castiel even realizes that it is noon.

“Come join me for lunch,” Balthazar says, stepping inside without an invite. 

Castiel, who normally hates having his space invaded, is used enough to this behavior from his friend that he hardly notices. 

“I can’t, I’ve got work to do.”

“The work can wait.” Balthazar leans forward, ignoring Castiel’s faint protest and pushing his laptop closed. “I haven’t seen you in a week, you need the time off.”

“I take time off by myself,” Castiel says, even knowing better than to think Balthazar would believe that.

Just as expected, Balthazar goes on as if he hadn’t spoken. “We are going to that little French bistro on Fourth Street. The one with the handsome blond waiter who couldn’t stop staring at you the last time we went.”

“Please don’t.” 

He remembers the place, and the waiter. He looked to be the same age as most of Castiel’s students so even without Balthazar’s uncomfortable interference, pursuing him would be wildly inappropriate.

Though Cain’s model looked about the same age. But that’s different. He’s a photograph, not a flesh-and-blood person Castiel might inadvertently take advantage of. 

Balthazar grabs Castiel’s coat from its hook on the wall, throwing it at him. “Come on, Cassie. Love waits for no man.”

Castiel sighs, then gets up and shrugs on his coat. He is getting hungry. “Just promise me you will keep the inappropriate comments to a minimum.”

“You wound me, darling, I am never inappropriate.”

Despite the teasing, Balthazar doesn’t bring up setting Castiel up with the waiter or anyone else once they’ve actually sat down for lunch. They eat together, and talk about their past week and their work - Balthazar has been invited to attend a conference in Prague that spring, which makes Castiel both proud and terribly envious of his friend.

It’s a pleasant lunch, even if the blond waiter is indeed on shift and has gotten, if anything, less subtle in his flirtations. Balthazar shoots Castiel a teasing look as the  waiter leans in far too close to refill his glass but otherwise doesn’t comment on it, much to Castiel’s relief. 

Castiel is feeling invigorated by the time they’re walking back to the University an hour later. 

“You really should go out more,” Balthazar tells him. “If not to have fun then just to stop yourself from going insane.”

Cas snorts. “Maybe you’re right. I do spend most of my time with black-and-white people these days.”

“Not bad company to keep, I’ll admit,” Balthazar purrs. “You wouldn’t happen to have any of that research material lying around that you haven’t found a use for? Because I would gladly take it off your hands.”

Cain’s model pops unbidden into Castiel’s mind and he has to fight back a blush.

They’ve just reached Castiel’s office when Balthazar’s phone rings. He takes the call while Castiel walks inside, mind already half-way occupied by the revisions he will need to make on the morning’s writings.

“Cassie?” Balthazar has followed him inside, turning the phone against his shoulder. “Have you got a pen and paper?”

“In the top drawer,” Castiel answers absentmindedly, sitting down at his desk and flipping his laptop open.

He doesn’t realize his mistake until he hears Balthazar draw in a sharp breath behind him. 

“No, wait!” he exclaims, swinging around in his chair, but the photos are already in Balthazar’s hands.

“I’ll call you back,” Balthazar says to whoever’s on the phone, hanging up. He glances incredulously between Castiel and the photos, a grin spreading across his lips. “What’s this?”

“Nothing.” Castiel stands up, reaching out for the photos, but Balthazar steps away, getting on the other side of the desk. “Research material, like you said. You know my work.”

“Too well, dear,” Balthazar says, eyes focused on the photos now. “Well enough to know that these are far too recent to be relevant to your research.”

Castiel steps around his desk, finally getting within reach. Balthazar doesn’t resist as he snatches the photos from his hands, looking utterly delighted at Castiel’s embarrassment.

“I didn’t know you had it in you. Do you keep all of your pornography at the office?”

“Shut up,” Castiel mumbles, perhaps a touch childish, shoving the photos back down in the desk drawer and slamming it shut.

“I know him.”

Castiel’s heart stops.

“The photographer,” Balthazar adds. “Cain Adams, right?”

Something - not disappointment but something close to it - unfurls in Castiel’s chest. “How do you know they’re his?”

Balthazar shoots him an amused look. “His signature is on one of the photos.”

“Oh.” Castiel hadn’t noticed. “I - I see.”

“You should come out with me on Friday,” Balthazar says, which is such an unexpected change in topics that Castiel nearly experiences whiplash. 

“What?”

“The photographer, Cain?” Balthazar gestures at the closed desk drawer. “There’s this bar that just opened, his work is on display there. You should come see it.”

Castiel eyes his friend with suspicion. This sounds like an excuse to drag him out for drinks more than anything.

But it’s been a while. And Castiel must admit that the lonely nights at home are getting somewhat repetitive. Going out to bars may not be his scene but at least it would be a change of pace. 

Although, knowing the nature of Cain’s work…

“It isn’t a sex dungeon, is it?”

Balthazar laughs. “Honestly, the behavior you suspect me of. No, Cassie, it’s just a normal bar. I’ve even thought about bringing you there before, it’s quiet as far as bars go. Good looking staff.”

He grins at that, as if he’s just told some private joke.

“What’s the name of this place?”

Balthazar tilts his head. “It was something rather pedestrian… a reference?” He snaps his fingers. “Rocky’s!”

“Rocky’s?”

“That’s right.” Balthazar smirks. “Rocky’s Bar.”

Even with a name like Rocky’s Bar, Castiel was expecting something different when Balthazar said he’d already been there. Balthazar has a taste for the expensive and the extravagant. Most of the bars he frequents require a membership. On the other end of the spectrum, he also enjoys clubs with throbbing music and neon lights casting their glow onto a dance floor filled with grinding, sweaty people.

Rocky’s Bar is neither. It is an understated establishment - Balthazar describes it as ‘rustic’ before they arrive, which Castiel isn’t sure is meant to be a compliment coming from him but it seems to suit the place. 

The walls are brown wood, the warmth of them emphasized by the low, golden glow of the lights lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling. There is no dancefloor but there is a pool table, a sitting area with a good number of seats and booths, and red leather stools by the bar. About half the seats are currently occupied, although there are many more people standing around, their chatter blending with the music.

Cain’s photographs line the east wall, the only decoration in the place aside from a big rainbow flag by the window out front and a painted sign behind the bar that says ‘Rocky’s’. They’re black-and-white, considerably bigger than the photographs in Castiel’s possession, tasteful rather than erotic nudes sitting in simple black frames. 

The overall effect is… pleasing. Cozy. Castiel can almost picture frequenting this place: picking out a booth in the corner and retreating to it every Friday night along with some friends (well, friend). Playing pool, if he could recall the rules of it. Meeting other people who share his history, maybe even ones who might be interested in his work and would find it fascinating rather than perverted.

“Well,” Balthazar says, interrupting Castiel’s ruminations, calling his attention to the fact that they are still standing in the doorway. “Shall we?”

He puts his palm between Castiel’s shoulder blades, gently pushing him inside. They make their way to the bar, and Castiel quickly scans the menu on the wall as they approach it. Balthazar may have enticed him here with the promise of viewing Cain Adams’ photographs but Castiel is much more excited by the wide variety of local brews available.

“Welcome to Rocky’s,” one of the bartenders, a friendly-looking red-head greets them. “What can I getcha?”

“Shall I?” Balthazar intervenes and Castiel nods. He trusts Balthazar’s taste in drink better than his own.

As he places their order, Castiel looks around. The people here are mostly young, though a few exceptions aside not much younger than Castiel himself. There are also some older people, mostly men, and mostly sitting in the booths in the corner. This isn’t the colorful crowd drawn in by flashier nightclubs but all of these people are, if not queer, then at least supportive enough of the queer community to not be put off by the rainbow flag in the window visible from the outside. It’s enough to make Castiel sentimental, bringing a soft smile to his lips.

He really should be going out to queer bars more often. If not for the drinks or to socialize, then just to be in this environment. 

“When did this place open?” he finds himself asking the bartender as she hands them their drinks.

“A couple of weeks back,” she answers. “But it’s been Dean’s dream - he’s the owner - to open a place like this for a while. Wasn’t possible until recently and then he had to get all second-guessy about it.” She adopts a low, gruff voice. “‘What if it fails? There’s too many bars here, not enough gay people’.”

Balthazar laughs and Castiel joins in to be polite. The bartender grins.

“Yeah, I know. There’s like one gay bar still open in town! And that’s supposed to be enough? But that’s Dean for ya, he can never take the good without looking for the bad.” She shakes her head. “He should’ve known, there’s always more of us than it looks like. You just gotta build it and they will come!”

“Hey, what did I say about quoting Field of Dreams in my bar?”

Castiel looks up, eyes automatically seeking the man who interrupted their conversation. He’s just emerged from an area beyond the bar, walking towards them, and Castiel’s first thought is that he’s very handsome.

His second thought is that he looks kind of familiar.

Then their eyes meet and it hits him like a punch to the gut.

“You also said not to reference Pretty Woman and you did that yourself just last night!”

The red-headed bartender continues her banter with the man - Cain’s model - but Castiel can hardly hear them. It’s like they’re at the other end of a tunnel, the sound far away and distorted. 

The man is right in front of Castiel now, and it is unmistakably the same face that Castiel pleasured himself to just this week. The same eyes, the same strong jawline, the same pink, plush lips. He’s even more beautiful in person, if that were possible, those green eyes sparkling with mirth and the crow’s feet at their corners speaking to a life well lived.

He’s broader, too, his shoulders and upper arms well-defined in a way that belies hard work and not hours in the gym. His body is narrower at the waist, which is where Castiel’s view ends, and he has to fight the urge to lean over and see the rest.

“You okay, man?”

Castiel snaps out of it, looking up at the man, feeling horrified at being caught staring. This isn’t a model in some years old photograph, this is a real-live person standing right in front of him.

“This is Castiel Novak,” Balthazar says in the seat next to him and oh, right . Balthazar, who saw those pictures in his desk drawer. Balthazar , who suggested they come here to ‘look at Cain’s work’. “You’ll have to excuse him, he doesn’t get out much.”

If looks could kill, Castiel is sure his friend would be a smear on the ground right about now. Balthazar at least as the grace to look abashed, although that doesn’t keep him from talking.

“This is Dean Winchester,” he says to Castiel. “The owner of this charming establishment.”

“Means a lot coming from you,” Dean says, voice dry. He’s smiling, though, and Castiel is just realizing that this must mean they know each other or have at least met before - is this some terrible trick being played on him?

No. Balthazar may tease him but he’s never cruel. This is extreme for him but he seems to think, judging by the poorly-hidden grin on his face, that he’s doing Castiel a favor.

“Castiel is a colleague of mine. His specialty is aesthetics in queer history.”

“No shit.” Dean crosses his arms, face lighting up with interest. “So, what, like drag queens, Andy Warhol, John Waters movies? That kinda stuff?”

“I-” Castiel clears his throat. Miraculously, the words find their way out, “I focus mostly on the pre-Stonewall era, actually. Before the modern queer activist movement.”

He looks down as soon as he’s finished speaking, eyes intent on the shiny wooden surface of the bar. He’s turning red, he can feel it, and there is no way Dean doesn’t think him an idiot.

“Darling, if you could show me the way to the bathroom?” 

Castiel’s eyes snap to Balthazar, who is focused on the red-headed bartender. Her eyes widen a bit, and then she’s nodding with a bitten-back grin. 

“Oh, sure. It can be tough to find, kinda hidden back there.”

Castiel makes a desperate noise at the back of his throat but Balthazar pays him no mind, following the bartender as she leads him away, leaving Castiel alone with Dean and oh god, is this a nightmare? Why won’t he wake up? 

“Not too subtle, is he?” Dean asks, amusement coloring his voice.

Castiel turns back to him, staring helplessly. 

Dean clears his throat. “So,” he says, looking for the first time less than fully self-assured. “Queer history, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel says slowly. 

“That’s, uh, gotta be interesting.”

It’s surely meant to be a throw-away comment, something to fill the awkward silence, but Castiel latches onto it. He never could resist talking about his work, even with the bone-deep mortification he is currently feeling.

“Interesting,” he repeats. “Yes, I suppose. It’s more than that, though. It’s… necessary, I think. To learn our history, to keep telling it, when it’s been so deliberately erased. We’ve been kept in the shadows for so long. It hasn’t been a linear process of coming into the light and uncovering, the Weimar republic for instance was fairly queer friendly during the 1920s-”

“-and that’s without even touching on the contributions of people such as Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin-”

Someone bumps against Castiel’s back and he cuts himself off, suddenly aware of the fact that he’s been speaking for several minutes straight. He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to start a lecture. I’m sure my students would tell you I have a tendency to go on for far too long.”

Dean shakes his head, leaning against his elbows propped up on the bar. There’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “No, keep going. I never learned any of that shit in school. Hell, I always thought history was boring.” He shrugs. “Might be why I’m just a barkeep today.”

There’s a chagrined tilt to his smile and Castiel can’t let such a slight pass, even if it comes from Dean himself.

“Why did you want to open this bar?” he asks.

Dean looks surprised at the question. “Uh. I guess it’s… it’s always been something I wanted to do? I used to work at this other bar, the Roadhouse. It was kind of a dive but it was also a place where you could sit down and shoot the shit and not have to worry about the outside world for a while. It was like home for a lot of people, y’know?

“Not to me, though. I loved it, don’t get me wrong, but the clientele weren’t exactly the most liberal bunch. So I’d work there five, six nights a week and then I’d go hit one of the two gay bars around - this was before The Flamingo Lounge closed down. But they didn’t have that homey atmosphere, they were mostly places you’d go to hook up. And I always thought when I got back to the Roadhouse, ‘why can’t there be a place like this in town that’s for people like me?’.”

“And you say you’re ‘just a barkeep’?”

“I mean, I am,” Dean says, looking uncomfortable.

Castiel shakes his head. “What you do is so much more valuable than you give yourself credit for. Gay bars have historically speaking been some of the few spaces where queer people have been allowed to exist as themselves. Having that kind of space, the opportunity to get to know your community, is priceless. The history I study wouldn’t exist without gay bars.”

Dean is staring at him, and Castiel suddenly realizes that he’s been leaning closer to him as he speaks. There are only a few inches between them, close enough so that he can clearly see the captivating green in Dean’s eyes, notice for the first time the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

He leans back, feeling very self-conscious. If Dean noticed his social faux pas, he says nothing.

“I have some books on the subject,” he offers into the awkward silence. “If you’d like to borrow them. There’s one in particular on the history of gay bars in New Orleans, it’s among the most comprehensive in terms of evolving perspectives on sexual identity and their context within the larger culture at the time-” He cuts himself off, blushing. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling again.”

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says with an easy grin. “It sounds interesting. I’d love to read it if you’re serious about that offer. Though I might be too busy for now actually running a gay bar to do much reading about them.”

“I understand,” Castiel says, chastened. 

“It’s kinda cool, though,” Dean continues. “We’re like two sides of the same coin. You’re studying the history and I’m part of it.”

Castiel swallows. It’s a lovely sentiment but all he can think of is how intently he’s ‘studied’ Dean’s photographs in the past week. 

“So what do you do when you don’t have your nose in a textbook?”

“What do I-” Castiel stutters. It might just be his imagination but is Dean looking at him differently now? “I, um.”

“You go to bars?” Dean says. “Hang out with your friends? A boyfriend?”

No, it’s not his imagination. Dean is definitely flirting with him and for all that Castiel wants to be excited about this, wants it to be a good thing, he can’t. Using erotic images the way they were intended is one thing but to be confronted by their subject when he has no idea that Castiel has seen him in his most intimate moments is another. For all he knows, Dean never wanted those photos to be seen by anyone but Cain.

“I should go find Balthazar,” he says at last.

Dean’s expression falls. Then he’s smiling stiffly, giving Castiel a polite half-nod. “I wasn’t gonna rat him out, but he got completely wasted on tequila slammers last Ladies’ Night. Probably for the best someone keeps an eye on him.”

Castiel gets up. He takes half a step back but his hand remains stretched out, resting on the bar. He doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to deprive himself of Dean’s presence. They’ve only just started getting to know each other and he’s already utterly captivated by him.

But this isn’t right. They can’t keep talking under these false pretenses and Castiel is too much of a coward to tell Dean the truth. Better to leave now.

“It was nice meeting you,” Dean says as Castiel fails to leave for just a few moments too long. 

“You- you too,” Castiel manages. He turns away, begins to scan the room for signs of Balthazar. 

He doesn’t see him. Probably he’s hiding out in some corner Castiel isn’t aware of, certain that he’s done him a big favor by setting him up like this and then getting out of the way. 

He heads for the exit. Balthazar can be angry with him for leaving unannounced tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Dean wishes he could say that Castiel Novak slipped his mind as soon as he left his bar. That the busy nights, the somehow busier days, and the literal dozens of men who flirted with him as he took their order over the weekend were enough to push away all thoughts of this weird, dorky little guy.

But that would be a lie. Dean can’t stop dwelling on it and he’s honestly not sure if it’s more about Cas or the way he rejected him. 

Cas was easy to talk to. It’s clear from their one conversation that he has a tendency to rant but everything he had to say was interesting. And it wasn’t one-sided; when Dean spoke, he listened. He heard Dean’s explanation of why his biggest dream had always been to open a gay bar, and he got it, right away. 

It also doesn’t hurt that Cas is easy on the eyes.

On the other hand, there’s that rejection. Dean hasn’t been turned down this spectacularly in a while and never by someone he was so sure liked him back. He shut Dean down so fast it left him reeling and then he bailed even quicker, leaving behind his friend and his half-finished drink like the bar had caught on fire.

Clearly, he didn’t like Dean hitting on him. No matter how many times Dean goes over the conversation in his head, he can find no other explanation. He was all for a good conversation but as soon as Dean started flirting, he shut down.

Maybe he’s got a boyfriend, though judging by the way Balthazar was clearly trying to set them up Dean doubts that. Maybe Dean was being too aggressive or moving too fast. Cas might be one of those people who needs to get to know a person before he can even consider dating them.

Or maybe Dean’s just not his type. That’s a depressing thought but it’s possible. 

At least Dean isn’t alone in having had an off weekend. Charlie returns to work on Monday afternoon after leaving with Dorothy on Friday, looking considerably less chipper than usual.

“It’s all because of you,” she tells Dean sullenly when he asks. “You got in my head. We were on our way to her place and then I couldn’t go through with it.”

Dean puts down the crate of beer bottles he’s been hauling from the back. “Can you put those away in the fridge? And what do you mean, ‘couldn’t go through with it’?”

“I just…” Charlie sighs, bending down and beginning to pick up the bottles two by two. “You were right, okay? I always end up pining after her when she leaves and then when she comes back, I convince myself that it wasn’t so bad or that it’ll be different this time and it never is. So I told Dorothy all of that-”

“You told her?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Yes, imagine that. Healthy communication instead of bottling up my feelings until I explode!”

Dean scoffs, unamused.

“So I told her,” Charlie repeats, “and she said she knew I had no reason to believe her but she’s actually planning on sticking around for good this time.”

“And did you? Believe her?”

Charlie is quiet for a few moments, putting away the last of the beer bottles. Then she straightens, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.

“I think so,” she says. “But I don’t wanna rush into something again. So I told her we could try being just friends first, see where it leads us.”

“And?” Dean prompts.

“And we’re meeting for lunch tomorrow. As friends ,” Charlie adds defensively. “She’s doing some work at the University so I’m meeting her there.”

Dean throws up his hands in defeat. “Then what the hell were you so bummed about?”

“I haven’t gotten laid in five months.”

“Oh my god .”

“Five months, Dean! I haven’t had a dry spell that long since high school.”

Dean doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is that he’s closing in on six months himself and you don’t see him bitching about it. In between taking care of Cain and opening Rocky’s, he hasn’t had much time for a personal life, never mind trolling for hook-ups.

Charlie must pick up on some of that energy anyway because she carefully asks, “So how’d it go with the hot professor on Friday?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean mutters. 

“Strike out, huh?”

Dean huffs, leaning back against the bar. Okay, so maybe he does wanna talk about it. “I don’t know what happened. It was going great and then as soon as I hit on him a little more obviously, he shut down. He didn’t even really turn me down, he just left.”

“Maybe it wasn’t about you?” Charlie suggests. “There’s lots of reasons why a gay man in the Midwest might have hang-ups about getting hit on.”

“He teaches queer history,” Dean points out.

“Doesn’t mean he’s got all his shit figured out. Trust me, you can be loud and proud about who you are and still feel shame when it comes to actually,” Charlie makes an obscene gesture with her hand, “y’know, putting that stuff into practice.”

“Maybe,” Dean says doubtfully.

Charlie’s expression brightens. “Hey, come with me tomorrow!”

“You want me to crash your date?” Charlie purses her lips and Dean rolls his eyes. “Not-date, friend date, whatever.”

“No, but if you’re at the University to, say, give me a ride then you’ve got a perfect excuse to ‘run into’ your hot professor. And don’t tell me,” Charlie adds, preemptively cutting off Dean’s argument, “that you have to work. You haven’t taken so much as half a day off since you bought Rocky’s, you can afford a couple of hours.”

“...Cas isn’t my hot professor,” he protests, half-hearted at best.

“Oh, it’s Cas now, is it?”

Dean crosses his arms. He’s not gonna lie, Charlie’s idea isn’t half-bad. If he’s already there, dropping by Cas’ office wouldn’t be that weird. And he’s got another excuse ready, doesn’t he? Cas offered to lend him that book, he could say he’s there to see if that’s still on the table.

“You don’t think it’d be creepy?”

Charlie waves her hand. “Nah, I don’t think so. Maybe just a touch stalker-ish.”

“Thanks,” Dean says dryly. “Really fills me with confidence.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

The University is bigger than Dean remembered. After he leaves Charlie at the entrance, it takes him ten minutes just to find the right department. His casual drop-in is starting to feel like anything but when he finally spots Cas’ name on one of the office doors.

It’s cracked open and Dean can see Cas inside, sitting at his desk, head bent over a stack of papers that he’s attacking with a red pen. Dean stops in the doorway, softly rapping his knuckles on the door.

“Yes?” Cas says. Then he’s looking up, eyes going wide. “Oh.”

This is a bad idea. Charlie was wrong, Dean is being a monumental creep right now. He should turn around, maybe there’s a chance Cas hasn’t seen him yet.

“Dean.” Fuck. “What are you doing here?”

Dean opens his mouth. He’s got an excuse, he’s got two , he just needs to word them right so they come out casual and not calculated.

“Book?” he says instead.

Fuck .

Cas’ eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“I, uh,” Dean laughs, hoping it doesn’t sound as forced as it feels. “I was just giving my friend a ride to campus and I figured, since I was already here… you said you had a book I might like? About gay bars?”

“...Right,” Cas says after a moment. He blinks, finally looking away. “I did say that.”

He gets up, walking over to a bookshelf covering one of his office walls. Dean stays rooted in his spot, watching as Cas reaches one of the top shelves, picking out a book with a colorful cover. This is it, his window of opportunity is closing and he’s thought of nothing else to say. As soon as Cas hands him that book, he’s got no reason to stay. 

But Cas doesn’t hand him the book. He turns to face Dean, holding it in both hands, thumb running nervously against its spine. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did on Friday, that was exceedingly rude of me.”

Great, now Dean’s made Cas feel like he’s the one in the wrong by cornering him like this in his office. It would’ve been better if Cas just thought he was being creepy.

“Dude, no. You don’t gotta be sorry about leaving when someone makes you uncomfortable.”

Cas grimaces. “Dean, that’s not - I was uncomfortable, yes, but that wasn’t your fault. Honestly, if the fault lies with anyone, then it’s Balthazar.”

Balthazar? He didn’t do anything weird, did he? All he did was introduce them and then bail.

“I owe you an explanation,” Cas says, taking a few steps closer. He hands the book off to Dean, who takes it with a puzzled frown. “I didn’t tell you about my thesis topic, did I?”

The sudden change in topics has Dean reeling.

“You’re losing me here,” he admits.

“This is all relevant, I promise.”

Cas walks around his desk, opening one of the drawers. He pulls out a stack of photographs, turned down so Dean can’t see what they’re of. They’re old, though, faded yellow and crinkled around the edges.

“I’m studying queer aesthetics and desire in the pre-Stonewall era,” Cas says and Dean has never heard that combination of words before but Cas rattles them off like he’s said them a hundred times before. Probably has. “There are some elements of queer culture that tend to be cast aside in the pursuit of mainstream acceptance and I wish to highlight their importance and give them their due credit.”

Dean stares, feeling like he’s just stumbled into a lecture. It’s interesting stuff but not really what he came here for.

Cas smiles apologetically. “That’s a long-winded way of saying… I study early to mid-20th century homosexual erotica. Photographs, mainly.”

Dean turns that over in his head. “So, old nudes?” 

“Essentially, yes,” Cas agrees, looking very much like he wishes he wouldn’t have to.

Something occurs to Dean. There’s only one other person he knows who was so into old nudes and if Cas has been looking for that stuff then it seems almost impossible for them to have never met. It would explain what Cas was doing at Rocky’s; he doesn’t exactly seem like the type to hang out at bars. 

“Did you know Cain?”

Cas’ expression freezes. He stares down at his desk for a long moment, then, just as Dean is wondering if he should start worrying, exhales softly.

“No,” he says. “But I… I came across some of his photos at a local antique store last week.”

Dean nods. That makes sense. After he had his pick of Cain’s collection, Ruby was left with the rest and he knows she wasn’t interested in keeping it. At least some of it ended up in good hands, with someone who appreciates the photos for what they are and not just as some collector’s items.

Cas clears his throat and Dean realizes that neither one of them has said anything for a little while. Cas doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to continue the conversation, looking at Dean like he’s expecting him to say something. When Dean just stares back at him, confused, he sighs.

“ His photos,” Cas says. “Not just the photographs he collected but the ones he took himself.”

“Wait.” Dean crosses his arms. There’s something tickling at him, some realization just out of reach. “You said- why would Cain’s stuff even be relevant to you?”

“It’s not. At least, not in a professional sense.” 

Cas looks down at the photographs in his hands, a guilty expression on his face and oh . Suddenly Dean knows, without needing to look, exactly who they’re of. He holds his hand out and with a pained grimace, Cas gives them to him.

Dean turns them over and yep, that’s his twenty-one year old self staring right back at him.

And his twenty-one year old dick, front and center. 

He flips through them, one by one, face growing warmer as he takes each photograph in. They’re so much filthier than Dean remembered. His young self looks so shameless, basking in the attention of the camera, Cain’s attention. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, and oh right , Dean’s not alone. “I didn’t know who you were when I visited your bar, I promise. Balthazar saw the photos in my desk drawer and I suppose he thought he’d be doing me a favor by making sure we met.”

“Balthazar saw them?” Dean chokes out.

Cas’ eyes widen. “Yes, but he’s the only other one!”

“Besides whoever sold them to you, you mean?”

“I - yes,” Cas says miserably. “Besides Al.”

Dean looks back down at the photos. Wasn’t he thinking just the other day that he’d like to get his hands on them again? He wasn’t ashamed thinking of them then, has never really been in the past. He modeled for Cain because it paid well and because he enjoyed it. Why should he be ashamed of that?

He tilts his head, eyes resting on the post-coital photo. “You know, I looked pretty good.”

“Yes, you did.”

Dean looks up, amused when he catches Cas’ deer-in-the-headlights look. 

“Not professionally relevant, huh?” Dean says, Cas’ words coming back to him now that the embarrassment is fading. “So you bought these for, uh, recreational use?”

Cas has turned bright red. Dean would feel bad about teasing him, if it wasn’t so much fun.

“They hold a certain appeal,” he finally admits, looking off to the side. 

Wait, shit. Does this mean Cas jerked off to Dean’s pictures? 

… Not a mental image Dean needs right now, standing in the man’s office. But maybe one that can be tucked away for later.

Dean coughs, focusing again on the conversation at hand. “You must spend half your time looking at gay porn. You can’t tell me these are anything special.”

“But they are.”

Cas’ answer is quick and the fervor of it catches Dean off guard. He’s looking at Dean now, holding his gaze despite the redness still staining his cheeks, and Dean finds his heart beating faster at the intensity of it. 

“What I meant to say is-” Cas glances away, the spell broken. “It’s your expression.”

“Not what I’d expect anyone to focus on," Dean laughs, bewildered. 

“Like you said, I look at these kinds of images a lot,” Cas says. “It loses its novelty after a while. Your photos caught my eye not just because you are uncommonly beautiful, but because of the love that you so clearly feel for the man taking your picture.”

Dean looks back at the photos, something catching in his throat. It hits him just then how fiercely he misses Cain. “I was that obvious, huh?”

Cas says nothing. Dean has a feeling he regrets steering the conversation this way; they were awkward before but now the air has gotten a lot heavier. And still, Dean finds himself compelled to keep sharing. Maybe because he hasn’t really talked about the way he felt for Cain in years, certainly not since he died.

“He was the first man I, uh,” he shrugs “y’know. We hadn’t even known each other a month when he took these but…” 

“I understand. First love strikes quick.”

Dean nods. “Yeah.” He raises his hand, trying as surreptitiously as he can to wipe his eyes. Damn dusty office. “Rocky’s wouldn’t exist without him, y’know? I built it with the money he left me. Wish he’d been alive to see it.”

Cas is quiet for a long moment. Dean sniffles, then takes a few deep breaths to get himself back under control. He hasn’t cried since Cain’s funeral, he’s sure as hell not gonna do it now. 

He’s just about managed to pull himself together when someone behind him clears their throat. Annoyed at being interrupted, he turns around, only to see Balthazar smirking back at him.

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Dean looks away, fighting the urge to squirm. Great, so that’s two people in this room who have seen him naked. 

“You are,” Cas says flatly.

“It’s okay,” Dean says. He puts the photos back on the desk, face down, and gives. “I was just leaving.”

“Dean-”

“Hey,” Dean cuts him off. “Drop by Rocky’s soon, okay? I’ll need someone to talk to about this book.”

It’s maybe a bit presumptuous but Dean can’t regret it when Cas smiles, small and private. “I’d like that.”

Dean nods back, grasping the book tight to his side and turning to leave. He hears Balthazar say something as he walks away but then the doors to the office close behind him. 

Leaving the photos behind was probably a mistake. But Dean wants Cas to know that he’s not creeped out by him having them and, more than that, he wants Cas to keep thinking about him. 

He walks to the car, heart already pounding faster at the thought of seeing Cas again.

*

Castiel watches with a frown as the door closes behind Dean. While he is undeniably disappointed to see him leave so soon, there’s a part of him that is relieved as well. Their discussion today has revealed some new pieces to slot into his image of Dean and the picture they’re forming is unexpected.

He was right about one thing: the relationship between Dean and Cain wasn’t just one of photographer and model. Judging by the fact that Dean inherited at least a large sum of Cain’s estate, if not all of it, they were still together upon his death.

That’s over a decade. Castiel can’t imagine the pain of losing someone after such a long relationship but he’s certain it takes more than a handful of months to recover from.

“I really have become good at putting my foot in it,” Balthazar says with a stilted laugh, reminding Castiel of his presence.

Castiel sighs, sitting back down to return to work. “It’s fine. Dean was only here to borrow a book.”

“Sure, that’s what it looked like.”

“That’s what it was.” Castiel hesitates, then admits with some trepidation, “I would have liked it to be more but… Dean and Cain were together. I’m not going to make advances on someone who is still grieving the loss of their partner.”

Balthazar winces. “Well, fuck me. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have introduced you two if I had known.”

“I’m glad you did. Even if you did go about it in a terrible way,” Castiel adds. “Dean is a good man and I’m glad to have the chance to be his friend.”

“And you’re sure he’s not ready to move on? Because he doesn’t seem un interested in you.”

Castiel nods decisively. “I’m sure. You didn’t see the expression on his face when he talked about Cain.”

“But-”

“Drop it,” Castiel says. “Please. I don’t want to cause him any undue stress or discomfort. Telling him about those pictures was bad enough.”

“You told him, huh?” Balthazar tilts his head, picking up one of the photos and it’s only then that Castiel realizes they are back on his desk. “And he just… left them with you?”

That’s odd. But Castiel can’t be sure Dean meant to leave them - it’s just as likely that he forgot them. Even if it was on purpose, there are dozens of innocent explanations. It’s possible he felt keeping them would be too painful a reminder of what he’s recently lost.

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel says. He watches Balthazar watching the photos, an irrational anger bubbling in his chest, and before he can think twice he’s snatched them from his view. “And would you stop looking at them.”

Balthazar gives him an amused grin. Castiel ignores him, stuffing the pictures back in their drawer. 

“Whatever you say, Cassie.”

Chapter Text

Dean burns through the book Cas lent him in record time. He reads at home after he wakes up in the morning and before he goes to bed at night. He brings it to Rocky’s, keeps it at the bar while he works, reading a page or two at a time. 

Part of it is wanting to be done before Cas drops by again. Since he doesn’t know exactly when that’ll be, the sooner he finishes, the better. He wants to be able to talk to Cas about it and offer his own opinions, not just listen and nod. He wants Cas to see that while he may not be an academic, he’s still someone worth having a conversation with.

That’s part of it. A much bigger part is that Dean just plain enjoys this book. He can’t remember the last time he was this invested while reading. These days, he mostly rereads old favorites, since he doesn’t have the time to go looking for anything new. Doesn’t have the energy to get invested in something he doesn’t already know.

Charlie teases him about it when she spots him holding the book in one hand and wiping down the bar with the other.

“Do you think your hot professor will assign a reading list for every date or just the first one?”

Dean puts down the book just long enough to flip her the bird. “It’s not a date, asshole.”

“Try saying that without blushing and maybe I’ll believe you.”

By the time the weekend rolls around, Dean has read the book cover to cover. He’s even gone back to reread some of his favorite passages, marked with colorful sticky notes that he picked up during the week. 

What? He’s thorough. Nothing wrong with that.

Cas doesn’t show on Friday but that’s probably for the best, since Sam ends up stopping by for a beer. It’s not what Dean thought he’d be doing with his evening but nothing quite soothes the sting of disappointment like sharing a drink with your brother and watching him flounder as he tries to gently turn down every guy who hits on him while at the same time overtly signalling how not homophobic he is.

One older guy in particular just won’t take a hint, interpreting Sam’s flailing and stuttering as him being nervous, and it’s ten full minutes until Sam finally blurts, “I’m straight and I have a fiancée!”

Dean gets the poor guy a drink on the house and even manages to keep his laughter in until he slinks away.

“Holy shit,” he chuckles. “I should’ve started bringing you to gay bars ages ago.”

Sam glares at him. “Bite me.”

“Oh, I think I’d have to get in line.”

“Very funny.” Sam takes a sip of his beer, clearly deciding to be the mature brother and move on with the conversation. “So, what’s going on with you?”

Dean shrugs. “Not much. If I’m not at the bar, I’m usually running errands for it.”

“What about in your free time?”

“What free time?”

Sam gives him a look . 

“Hey, you’re the one who told me opening a business would be a lot of hard work,” Dean reminds him. “I’ll hire more people as soon as I can afford it, okay? Until then, I’m gonna need to keep my nose to the grindstone.”

“Fine, fair enough. I guess I’m not just used to you being so… work, work, work all the time.”

“That’s because I didn’t love any of my old jobs,” Dean points out. 

Not strictly speaking true but Sam doesn’t need to know about his modelling. That’s too much blackmail material to just hand to your younger brother.

“So there’s nothing else going on with you? Just work?”

Dean hesitates. He feels an urge to tell Sam about Cas, which is weird, because doesn’t really talk to Sam about guys (at least, not while he’s sober). 

It’s clear he’s hesitated too long when Sam’s eyes widen. “There is something!”

Dean huffs. “What? No. No, there’s- it’s not- it’s nothing Sam, okay? Forget it.”

“Yeah, right.” Sam leans across the counter, calling out to Pam, “Hey, is Dean seeing someone? Do you know?” 

“Not my place to tell,” Pam answers, angel that she is.

Sam turns back to Dean, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“It’s nothing,” Dean repeats. Then, because he’s clearly an idiot, “Cas is just-”

“Cas?”

This, because the universe hates Dean, is the exact moment Charlie returns from the back room.

“Ooh, are we telling Sam about your hot professor?”

Sam’s eyebrows disappear into the root of his hair. “There’s a hot professor?”

“We’re not telling him because there’s nothing to tell,” Dean stresses, giving both of them warning looks. “Now can we drop it?”

Charlie sighs. “You’re no fun.”

“How’s Dorothy?” 

“Alright, point taken.”

Sam clears his throat. “You’re gonna let me know when there’s something to tell, though, right?” 

“Sure,” Dean says flatly. “And after we’re done talking about boys, we can braid your hair and paint each other’s nails. How’s that sound, Samantha?”

“You’re the worst.”

Dean smirks. “I do what I can.”

Dean has just about written off Cas showing up on Saturday when he sees him entering the bar, less than an hour short of closing time. He doesn’t even think to disguise his relief, especially not when Cas spots him back and gives him a wide smile, hurrying across the crowded room to get to the counter.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he says as soon as he reaches it, sitting down on the nearest free stool. “I’ve been grading papers for the better part of the day and lost track of time.”

“No sweat, man,” Dean says. “You’re here now. What’ll you have?”

“The raspberry stout sounds good,” Cas says, pointing at the beer menu hanging above the bar. “And then I would like to hear your thoughts on In Exile . If you’ve had time to read it, of course.”

Dean smiles sheepishly, reaching underneath the counter to pull out the book, holding it so that Cas can see the numerous sticky notes littering the pages. They feel a lot more excessive now that he’s standing in front of Cas, like he’s trying too hard to impress him.

“Maybe I went a little crazy with it,” he admits. 

“Not at all,” Cas says, picking up the book and flipping through it. “It’s not often I see someone take reading so seriously outside of schoolwork. I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

Dean’s not sure how to answer that, so he turns to get Cas’ drink. When he brings it back, Cas has the book open.

“‘Here, surely, is the place I was made for’,” he reads quietly. He looks up at Dean, smiling. “I like that passage, too. Of course, one would expect Tennessee Williams to have a way with words.” 

“I didn’t even know he was gay,” Dean admits. “I guess that’s one thing I liked about this book. It’s like it was showing me this world that’s been there the whole time. Which is weird, because growing up I felt…”

Cas’ smile softens in understanding. “Alone in it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says hoarsely. He clears his throat, wanting to banish this weird vulnerability he’s feeling all of a sudden. “You get it. Or do you? I can’t decide if someone becomes a queer history professor because their parents were really liberal or really conservative.”

Castiel laughs. “I’m afraid in my case it was the latter. When I was fifteen, my mother discovered my… recreational magazines hidden underneath my mattress. She and my father sat me down and told me I would need to straighten up my act or they would do it for me.”

Dean grimaces. It doesn’t take a whole lot of reading between the lines to figure out what ‘doing it for him’ means. And here he’d thought John Winchester had been bad; at least he’d never threatened Dean with conversion therapy. “Yikes.” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees dryly. “So the following week, I found myself a girlfriend. A nice, Christian girl who intended to wait until marriage. We dated for three years. In hindsight, it was a cruel thing to do to her. When I pulled her aside after graduation to end our relationship, she was expecting a proposal.”

“Poor girl.”

“Yes, I don’t think she’s forgiven me yet.”

Dean can’t say he blames her. But then, he can’t exactly blame Cas either, doing what he could to survive in a difficult situation. “So your parents… they ever change their tune?”

“I don’t believe so.” Castiel pauses to take a sip of his beer. “After graduation, I moved in with my aunt in California to attend university. She offered me the support I needed to be myself and after a few weeks, I called my parents to tell them I was gay after all. I haven’t spoken to them since.”

“Christ,” Dean says. “I’m sorry your parents suck so hard.”

“It is what it is. I’ve been fortunate enough to have some supportive family members. My aunt financed the rest of my education and my sister and I resumed our relationship after she moved out of our parents’ house. I’m luckier than many.” Castiel frowns. “You know, I don’t think I’ve talked about this with anyone but Balthazar. You’re remarkably easy to talk to.”

“It’s the bartender effect,” Dean dismisses with a grin. “People see you behind a bar and it makes them wanna unload all their troubles.”

“I’m not sure.” Cas tilts his head contemplatively. “I think it’s rather the Dean Winchester effect.”

He says it so easily, like it’s his genuine opinion and not just a line. Dean ducks his head, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Jesus, one compliment from the guy and Dean is blushing like a kid with a crush.

“What about you?” Cas asks.

“Huh?”

“Are there any troubles you wish to unload?” he clarifies.

Dean waves his hand. “Nah. Besides, that’s not how this works. The customer does the unloading, it’s the bartender’s job to just listen.”

“Not if they’re friends.” Cas seems to catch himself, eyes widening. “That is - I don’t want to presume-”

“It’s okay,” Dean cuts in, leaning against the bar, shortening the distance between them just that little bit. “Presume away.”

Cas stares up at him and oh, he’s blushing too. It looks surprisingly good on him, the pink flush high on his cheeks even warmer against those bright blue eyes. Dean can’t help but let his own eyes wander, down to his lips.

Then Cas is sitting up straight, widening the distance between them again. “Yes, um. I believe you had only just started telling me what you thought of the book.”

Dean blinks, his stomach sinking. He was pretty sure they were on the same page but right now, Cas is sending some clear signals in the other direction. 

“Dean?”

“Right.” Dean gives Cas a smile he hopes isn’t as stiff as it feels. “Where was I?”

They end up talking way past closing time. Falling into conversation with Cas is easy, even if Dean’s not sure exactly where they stand. Every time it feels like Cas might be interested in taking things further, Dean tries to answer in kind and gets roundly shut down. 

It leaves him feeling wrong-footed and awkward but Cas always manages to distract him, leading them on to another topic, from the book to a more general history of New Orleans, to their sexual awakenings (Harrison Ford as Indy for Dean, Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch for Cas), to, somehow, medieval beer brewing techniques. 

Which is how it’s suddenly half-past one in the morning and Dean looks up to see Pam and Charlie have closed up the bar without him even noticing.

“It’s okay,” Charlie tells him, leaning in to give him a kiss goodbye on the cheek. “We also emptied the tip jar while you weren’t looking.”

Pam just gives him a smirk, shrugging on her leather jacket. “See you tomorrow, handsome.”

Cas turns to him after they’ve left, looking bemused. “I take it the bar has closed?”

“Half an hour ago,” Dean confirms. He scratches the back of his neck. “Shit, I’m sorry for keeping you so late.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. I enjoyed our talk.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah?”

“Very much so.” 

Cas is staring again - it’s apparently a habit for him - and Dean finds himself staring back. They’re the only people in the bar right now and it would be the easiest thing in the world for Dean to lean in and just kiss him. 

Except he wouldn’t get that far. Cas would back away before Dean reached him, just like he has every time Dean’s tried to shorten the distance between them tonight. Dean isn’t the smartest guy but he’s also not stupid enough to not recognize an obvious pattern. Whatever attraction’s between them, it’s clear Cas doesn’t wants to give in to it. 

Or maybe the attraction is all on Dean’s side and he’s been projecting this whole time. Just because Cas thinks he was hot stuff as a skinny little twenty-one year old that doesn’t mean he want to get with him now. 

The silence has stretched between them far too long to be socially acceptable, so Dean clears his throat.

“You need a ride home?”

Cas stares at him a moment longer, then shakes his head. “I’ve only had two drinks, I should be fine to drive.”

“Let me walk you to the parking lot, at least.” Dean thinks distantly that he might be coming off as desperate here but he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t want this night to end just yet. “It’s late, you never know what might be lurking out there.”

“Alright,” Cas says, amused. “I would appreciate that.”

Dean heads to the back to pick up his jacket. He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror, running his hand through his hair a few times, mussing it and then fixing it again. He sighs, frustrated. It isn’t gonna make a difference, anyway.

When he gets back, Cas is standing by the east wall, looking at Cain’s photographs. He turns around when he hears Dean approach, expression carefully neutral.

“They’re cool, huh?” Dean asks, mostly for the sake of saying something.

Cas nods. “It’s a lovely tribute.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Dean gestures at Cas and they get moving. “Plus it’s less conspicuous than the full-frontal stuff.”

“And there’s that,” Cas agrees wryly.

It’s cold once they get outside and Dean shudders, zipping up his jacket and flipping the collar to cover his neck. He gets the keys out of his pocket, quickly locking up.

“Is that your car?” Cas asks.

Dean glances up. Cas is looking at the Impala but since there’s only one other car left in the parking lot, Dean can’t say he’s too impressed.

“That’s her.” He pockets the keys again. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“It’s female?”

“She’s a lady,” Dean corrects. 

Cas shakes his head in amusement but as they approach the Impala, Dean can see him giving her an appreciative once-over. He’s damn right to, Baby is gorgeous.

“Well,” Dean says as they reach her, leaning against the driver’s side. He immediately regrets it as the coolness of the metal starts seeping through his clothes but he stays put, not wanting to show his discomfort. “This is me.”

Cas hums. He’s standing way closer than is necessary, eyes dark and inscrutable. Dean licks his lips, watches as Cas’ eyes dart down to trace the movement, and for a moment he thinks that maybe he wasn’t projecting. Maybe Cas has just been waiting for the right moment.

But then he’s backing away. Dean exhales, disappointed but not surprised. 

“I’ll see you around?”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. He looks like he’s about to say something else, opening and then closing his mouth, but after a long moment, he simply gives Dean a thin smile and adds, “Good night, Dean.”

Dean smiles back. For all that he would’ve liked things to go differently, it really has been. “Good night, Cas.”

He watches Cas walk away, climbing into the Impala only once Cas has reached his own car. He keeps watching as the headlights turn on, as Cas drives off, disappearing around the corner and into the night. Dean sighs, then starts the engine. He’s not a dick, he can do just friends if that’s what Cas wants. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to deal with an inappropriate crush.

Chapter Text

Castiel is no stranger to being attracted to someone he can’t have. His high school and college years were for the most part a miserable parade of infatuations with boys that were invariably out of reach. Either they were straight, or at least presented as such, already in relationships or were for one reason or another uninterested in Castiel. 

Being interested in a widower is a new experience but still in keeping with the trend of Castiel wanting what he can’t have. A trend he was sure he’d grown out of until he met Dean.

Not that Dean seems altogether… uninterested. But Castiel knows better than to take his flirtations seriously. Or to dwell on the exact tilt of his smile when Castiel says something he finds amusing, or the way his eyelashes fan across his cheeks whenever he glances down. Cheeks which are dusted with freckles and turn delightfully pink at the slightest provocation and… maybe Castiel is dwelling.

He’d distract himself with work but right now, that’s a source of tension as well. He’s hit a wall in his writing and the words won’t come, no matter how hard he tries. To make matters worse, his advisor has been emailing him every day for the past week, since the day Castiel was meant to send him his latest draft. Castiel barely even glances at the emails any more, just closes them and promises himself he’ll contact Crowley as soon as he’s got something worth showing him.

That strategy of ignore and avoid works for a few days. Then Castiel returns to his office after giving a lecture and there Crowley is, sitting at his desk.

Castiel stops short in the doorway. “Crowley! I was just about to-”

“About to email me?” Crowley leans back in his chair. “Sure you were.”

Even though he’s sitting down, Castiel can’t help but feel wary as he enters the office and approaches Crowley, like a prey animal circling a predator.

“Don’t forget,” Crowley continues, “I’ve been your advisor for three years. I know this song by now, this vicious cycle of missed deadlines you get yourself into. Avoiding me will only exacerbate it, love.”

Castiel sinks into his seat, shame blooming in the pit of his stomach. “I know.”

“I may be a vicious bastard but I’m here to help.” Crowley grins. “Besides, I quite enjoy cracking the whip on you.”

Castiel let out a pained noise. “Please don’t.”

“Alright, alright, I’m not here just to antagonize you.” Crowley rubs his chin, looking wary. “There’s been a complaint levelled against you. Apparently, you’ve been using University funds to purchase immoral and obscene material for your own personal gratification.”

Castiel’s stomach sinks. “What?”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley quickly adds. “It’s not going anywhere, I’ve already spoken with Naomi and she agrees with me that it’s meritless. Nothing but groundless accusations disguising thinly veiled bigotry.”

Crowley has a habit of always referring to the chancellor by her first name. Castiel isn’t sure just what their relationship is but at least right now, it seems to be working in his favor. 

“Do we know who filed the complaint?” 

“Not officially,” Crowley says. “But it was Adler, obviously. The bloody bastard even bragged about it to my face, though he knew better than to say anything outright incriminating.”

Well, at least it’s someone Castiel already knows hates him. “Is there anything we need to do now?”

“ You need to write. I will keep an eye on the situation though to be honest, I don’t think we need to be worried. Naomi was his ace in the hole, if she’s not taking his side then he knows the battle is already lost. It’s not the bloody eighties anymore. Or the nineties.” Crowley paused. “Or the early two-thousands, for that matter.”

Castiel nods. 

“And Castiel?”

“Yes?”

“Meet me in my office once you’re done for the day. I’ll get you past that writer’s block if I have to beat it out of your skull with a typewriter.”

In the end, such drastic measures don’t prove necessary. Castiel spends five long hours with Crowley and by the end of it, he’s not quite back on track but he’s getting there. 

He takes the next morning off, needing to recharge and having no lectures or appointments to attend. That doesn’t mean he’s sleeping in; rather, Castiel wakes up bright and early and goes out on a run.

It’s approaching the end of October. The trees are bursting with color and there’s a chill in the air, although the temperatures still haven’t dropped below freezing. Castiel settles on a route just at the outskirts of town, a ten mile circuit he frequently takes whenever he’s got the time. It’s a little cold as he starts, his t-shirt and cycling shorts not lending him much protection, but once he gets going that stops being a problem.

He loses himself in the rhythm of the run for a while and the gorgeous scenery around him. He rarely goes on these longer runs outside of summer vacation and it’s a luxury just to be able to take his time and think of nothing but putting one foot in front of the next. 

It isn’t until he’s passing a local brewery and spots a familiar black car in the parking lot that Castiel slows, heart hammering in his chest for completely different reasons than before.

Should he…? It’s a complete coincidence he’s here, after all. Castiel can’t be faulted if he needs to step inside for a glass of water or to use the bathroom, can he? 

Without even really making a decision about it, Castiel jogs across the road. There’s a small sign in the window of the brewery’s door declaring it open so Castiel steps inside, glancing around. The area in the front looks like a gift shop, with racks of bottle openers, novelty magnets and recipe books lining the walls. 

There’s a receptionist’s desk in one corner and in front of it stands Dean, half-way turned away from Castiel. He looks up as the door opens, freezing as he spots Castiel and, oh. There is no missing the way his eyes trail over Castiel’s body, lingering on his bare legs. 

Once Castiel is closer he snaps out of it, eyes respectfully raised. Castiel shifts on his feet, wondering whether Dean’s reaction is purely surprise at seeing Castiel so differently dressed or whether it’s something… more.

“Hey,” Dean clears his throat, “uh, hey man. Funny running into you here.”

“Yes.” Castiel glances down at himself. Did Dean notice the pit stains on his t-shirt? How red his skin has turned with the combination of the chill and physical exertion? “I - I was. Running, that is.” He wasn’t this bad the last time he spoke to Dean, was he? This is why he needs time to mentally prepare. “I was passing by and I saw your car outside…”

Dean nods. His cheeks have gone pink, Castiel notices. “Right! You, uh, you run?”

Castiel stares at him, uncertain of how to respond.

“Obviously you do, ignore that.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not working today?”

“I took the morning off,” Castiel says. “I may have overworked myself slightly last night. I’ve had some difficulties writing lately and I was working through them with my advisor.”

“Even geniuses have their off days, huh?”

Castiel blushes. “I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a genius. I’m not sure I would’ve been able to stick with this project for so long if it wasn’t for Crowley.”

“Crowley?” Dean repeats incredulously. “ He’s your advisor?”

“You know him?”

Dean makes a face. “I guess so. He’s technically a regular at Rocky’s but I don’t know why. He’s got nothing but complaints about the beer, the music, the, ugh, decor. And when he’s not complaining, he’s hitting on me.”

Jealousy flares in Castiel’s chest, so quick and so unexpected that he nearly physically reels from it. Which is ridiculous; Dean is an attractive man, of course there are people who would flirt with him. Besides, he doesn’t exactly look flattered at Crowley’s attention.

“Sorry, I’m sure he’s a great advisor.”

“He is,” Castiel agrees. “But that does sound like him. I’m sure he’s an equally awful customer.”

Dean snorts. “Fair enough.” He brightens. “But hey, since you’re here, we’ll be having a Halloween party this Saturday at Rocky’s. We’re not going all out or anything but there’ll be a DJ, a couple of drag queens putting on a show - Charlie hired them, she says they’re good but that’s more her thing than mine - and beer’s half off. Oh, and there’s a prize for the best costume.”

Castiel frowns uncertainly. A loud, crowded Halloween party doesn’t sound like something he would enjoy but he doesn’t want to give Dean the impression that he doesn’t know how to have fun, either.

“I won’t be working,” Dean adds. “I mean, I’ll probably get behind the bar a couple of times because I can’t help myself but it’ll technically be my night off. Pam and Charlie insisted.”

“I’ll be there,” Castiel says, not even stopping to consider. He regrets it in the next moment, realizing how eager his quick response might come off, but Dean’s smiling at him and that takes away some of the worry. “The costumes aren’t mandatory, are they?”

Dean laughs. “Just show up in that trenchcoat, man.”

Castiel isn’t sure what’s so funny about his choice of outerwear but he smiles back. “Then I will see you on Saturday.”

*

Ever since Dean came out to Sam as bisexual in his late twenties, extremely drunk and on accident, his brother’s been pushing him to share more about that part of his life. Dean’s been kind of reluctant to, feeling weird talking to Sam about something he hid from him so long, but the less he’s said, the more insistent Sam has been that he can be himself around him and that he’s not gonna judge.

Dean’s sure he’s regretting it right now but Sam made his bed, he can lie in it.

“I’m serious, man, you should’ve seen him. He could crush a watermelon between those thighs.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says into his coffee, looking like he wants to be anywhere else. Hey, Dean’s the one who had to see Cas all half-naked and flushed and glistening with sweat. The least he can do is share the misery.

“He could crush a man’s skull, really. Getting between those thighs could be actually lethal. It’s how I’d wanna go.”

Sam hums, still staring furiously into his cup.

“Scratch that, when I do go, I want them to bury me there. Between Cas’ thighs,” Dean clarifies, as if he needs to. “Just… jot that down. Put it in my will. Cause of death and final resting place: those damn thick thighs.”

If Dean were talking this way about a woman, he knows Sam would’ve shut him down by now. Hell, he probably would’ve stopped him ten minutes ago, when he was still rhapsodizing about Cas’ arms. Poor kid’s just too worried about being insensitive. 

“And the way his ass looked in those shorts, lemme tell you-”

“So is this the same Cas you’re too afraid to ask out?”

Dean’s grin slides right off his face. Leave it to Sam to ruin his fun. He grabs his own coffee, taking a lengthy sip instead of answering.

“He is, isn’t he?” Sam asks, smirking. “Your… what did Charlie call him, your hot professor?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And you’re just gonna, what, look at him really, really hard until he makes the first move and hope that works?”

Dean crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. “How is that any of your business?”

“You just spent what feels like the last hour making that my business. What’s the matter, why don’t you just ask him out?”

“It’s not that easy,” Dean says defensively. “He seems interested sometimes but then as soon as I get closer, he shuts down. I haven’t gotten signals that mixed since Heather Scott in middle school.”

(She’d been interested, for the record, but deeply insecure about her braces. God, Dean misses it when the biggest obstacle in his love life was a piece of dental hardware.)

“So?” Sam raises his eyebrows. “Just ask him. Worst thing that can happen is he turns you down.”

Dean would like to protest that. Much worse things could happen. They could both die, for instance. Dean could spontaneously combust out of embarrassment and take Cas with him. Or he could make Cas so uncomfortable with his feelings, he’d stop wanting to be around Dean altogether.

Neither scenario is exactly likely, though, so Dean keeps those thoughts to himself. 

“Huh,” Sam says, quirking his head as if something just occurred to him. “Actually, have you ever asked a guy out?”

Dean huffs. “Dude, I’ve had boyfriends before. This ain’t my first rodeo.” 

“Benny asked you out first,” Sam points out. “So did Aaron, right?”

“Maybe,” Dean mutters. He’s realizing with dawning horror that Sam is right. Or as good as, anyway. The only time he’s ever made the first move with a man was Cain and look where that got him. “Your point?”

“My point is, just nut up and ask this Cas guy if he’s into you or not. Then you can be gross about his thighs to the man himself and leave me out of it.”

“Gross?” Dean repeats with mock-outrage. “What about one man’s love for another man’s body parts is ‘gross’ to you exactly, Sam?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Very funny, Dean. I’ve seen what you’re doing now, it’s not gonna work anymore.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Sam’s got a point though, much as Dean doesn’t like to admit it. If he wants to know how Cas feels, mixed signals and all, he’s gonna have to ask. The sooner the better, and it’s only three days ‘til Halloween.

God. He’s gonna crash and burn, isn’t he?

Chapter Text

Halloween arrives faster than Castiel is prepared for. It’s been years since he last attended a proper party (he has a feeling the occasional faculty soirée doesn’t count) and the whole business of costumes only complicates things. Will he look foolish if he dresses up or stuck up if he doesn’t? Dean said it was fine not to wear one but what if he was just being polite?

He ends up calling Anna, who urges him to wear a costume.

“It’ll make you look fun and approachable,” she says. “Or, if you pick the right one, even sexy.”

Castiel frowns. “What exactly constitutes a ‘sexy’ costume?”

“I guess it depends on who you want to impress. What’s this guy into?”

“I’m not trying to impress Dean,” Castiel reminds her. “We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Anna says, sounding utterly unconvinced. “But you’ll still be in a bar filled with single gay men, won’t you? Go for something generically sexy, like a firefighter or a cowboy.”

Castiel is quiet for a long moment as he takes in Anna’s advice. Sexy? Castiel ? Calling her was a mistake, he can see that now. 

“I’ll think about it,” Castiel lies and hangs up.

He decides against wearing a costume.

Thankfully, as he arrives at Rocky’s on Halloween eve, he discovers that while he’s in the minority he’s far from the only one. In between all of the colorful wigs, sparkling outfits and no small number of sexy firefighters and cowboys, there are a few people like Castiel, looking faintly out of place in their everyday clothes.

There are also quite a few people already visibly inebriated, despite the early hour. Castiel grimaces as he squeezes past a group of rowdy college students, some of which he recognizes from his own classes, on his way inside. 

He’s a little worried about finding Dean in such a crowd but that worry turns out to be unwarranted: Dean is behind the counter, just where he said he shouldn’t be but probably would. He’s dressed in a white t-shirt and a red jacket, his hair styled differently than Castiel is used to seeing. 

Of course . Dean has found the one way he could make himself even more attractive - dressing up as the Hollywood leading man of young Castiel’s dreams.

Castiel is well aware that he may be blushing already as he approaches the bar, especially when Dean spots him and grins widely.

“Dean,” Castiel greets, voice almost disappearing into the din of music and chatter surrounding them.

“That’s right.” Dean winks. “The name’s Dean, James Dean.”

Behind him, Charlie groans loudly. “That’s the fifth time you’ve told that joke!”

“And it’s hilarious every time,” Dean shoots back. 

Charlie ignores him. “Are you here to take him off our hands, Cas? He promised he wouldn’t be working tonight.”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Dean reaches around his waist, pulling off the apron he’s wearing on top of his costume. “But I’m here if you guys need-”

“ Go .”

Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel, as if to say ‘you see what I have to put up with?’. Castiel, uncertain of whose side to take, just smiles awkwardly. 

“Wait right here,” Dean tells him. “I got something in the back for us.”

He’s gone before Castiel can respond. Charlie is already off assisting other customers so Castiel leans against the bar, drumming his fingers on the wood, idly wondering whether he should try to find a stool and sit down. 

Someone bumps into him, drops of beer spilling on Castiel’s sleeve.

“Sorry, dude,” says the man, peering at Castiel from underneath a white wig. He’s dressed as some character Castiel is certain he should be able to recognize, if he kept up with popular culture even a little bit. “Hey, cool Constantine!”

Castiel glances down at himself. Is there something about his clothes that telegraphs ‘third century Roman emperor’ or is that a reference he doesn’t get?

The man who bumped into him leans in closer. “You know, I always had a thing for Keanu Reeves.”

Castiel stares back at him, bewildered.

Thankfully, Dean returns at that moment, emerging from behind the counter with two bottles of beer. He glances between Castiel and the white-wigged man and then, ignoring the interloper entirely, turns to Castiel and loudly says, “Come on, I saved us a couple of seats.”

Castiel nods, relieved, and follows Dean through the crowd towards the booths in the back. The seats are for the most part occupied but one of the booths has been roped off, a sign on the table reading ‘reserved’. Dean pulls the rope aside and hands one of the bottles to Castiel as they sit down.

“It’s pumpkin ale,” Dean tells him. “The best pumpkin ale in the state. I pulled a couple of bottles aside for us, since I figured it might sell out pretty fast.”

“Did it?” Castiel asks, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a sip. It’s good, rich and spicy, leaving a sweet aftertaste on his tongue.

“In half an hour,” Dean says with a smile. “I was picking them up the other day, when we, uh, ran into each other.”

He’s blushing. Whether that’s due to any drinks he might have had or the warmth inside the bar, Castiel isn’t sure, but whatever the reason it’s undeniably enticing. As is the way his lips wrap around the head of the bottle as he takes a sip of beer, and the sight of his tongue darting out to catch a drop on his lower lip.

Castiel sighs and takes another sip. He’s never had this much trouble keeping his attraction to a friend at bay. Then again, he’s never started a friendship with someone whose picture he masturbated to before they even met.

“So you decided not to go with a costume?” Dean asks, thankfully derailing that train of thought before it can travel any further.

“I’m not much for dressing up,” Castiel admits. “My sister suggested going with something generic, like a cowboy, but even the thought of it felt… silly.”

Dean’s neck bops as he swallows. “Cowboy, huh? I dunno, I think the point of Halloween is to get a little silly.”

“You aren’t,” Castiel says, perhaps a little too honest, but he can’t regret it when Dean grins and glances down, clearly flattered. 

“You should’ve seen me last year as David Bowie, man.”

For the sake of Castiel’s poor heart, it’s probably for the best he didn’t. “Is that a theme in your costuming? Bisexual icons?”

Dean blinks. “James Dean was bi?”

“I’m sure he never used that word to describe himself but there are substantial rumors of him taking male as well as female lovers.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean leans forward in his seat, a curious gleam in his eyes. “Like who?”

Castiel lets the question linger for a moment, as if trying to recall the answer. Really, he just enjoys having Dean’s undivided attention as he tells him something new, likes the hunger for learning so apparent in Dean’s expression.

“There was Marlon Brando, most famously. But he was also allegedly involved with Paul Newman and Rock Hudson, among many others.”

Dean whistles. “Damn, Brando and Newman? The guy had game.”

“He was very attractive.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that. Though I gotta say,” Dean adds with a teasing grin, “I’m surprised you know this much about some actor’s love life. Pop culture’s not exactly your strong suit.”

“I do have some pop culture knowledge,” Castiel says, mildly insulted.

“Dude, I had to tell you who Mark Hamill is.”

Castiel frowns. He doesn’t want to say what he’s thinking, which is that Star Wars was always too mainstream - too straight, really - to catch his interest. He’s sure Dean already thinks he’s something of a snob and tonight is about showing him that he can be fun and relaxed, too.

“You need to watch Star Wars sometime,” Dean says. “At least episode IV, to see if you’re into it. I have the DVDs.”

“Maybe,” Castiel says uncertainly. “Although I would need to purchase a DVD player before you could lend me any discs.”

Dean’s smile falters slightly and Castiel feels a twinge of guilt. Should he have shown more enthusiasm? Perhaps the Star Wars franchise is very important to Dean.

“Right,” Dean says. “Well, lemme know if you do.”

Castiel nods. They fall into an uncomfortable silence, although what exactly is causing that discomfort, Castiel is unsure of. Thankfully, they are interrupted before long as the voice of the DJ rings out from her booth:

“Alright people, she’s forty minutes late but let’s give it up for the lovely, the talented Miss Octavia Sublime!”

Castiel turns around in his seat and even sitting down, he can spot the drag queen walking towards the makeshift stage by the east wall, her wig towering head and shoulders above everyone else. She’s dressed in a sparkling bodysuit, blowing kisses at the crowd as she accepts a microphone from the DJ.

“Don’t give me that ‘forty minutes late’ crap,” she chastises, voice gravelly and deep, comically at odds with her beautiful face. “No one likes a queen who’s early. You want on time, hire a magician.”

She smiles widely as the crowd laughs. Castiel grins, feeling a surge of pleasant nostalgia. Drag shows were never exactly his scene but he did attend them with some regularity throughout college. He hasn’t been to one in years and right now, he’s not sure why.

Octavia Sublime spends a couple minutes more telling jokes, before launching into a lip sync performance to some energetic pop song Castiel hasn’t heard before. He watches as she twirls and high-kicks her way through the song, turning away only once it starts to wind down and she’s gone on to collecting the well-earned tips thrust at her from every direction.

“She’s good,” he comments to Dean.

“Looks like,” Dean says. “Charlie hired her, I don’t really know much about this stuff myself. I don’t even watch Drag Race.”

Castiel hums. “I’ve seen a few episodes.”

“Yeah? You know, Charlie keeps telling me I need to get into it. Maybe we could catch some of it together?”

“I didn’t like it,” Castiel admits. “I enjoyed the artistry but I’ve never been comfortable with reality television. It seems made to profit off of human misery.”

“What about coffee?”

Castiel blinks. “What about - what?”

“Coffee,” Dean repeats, so apparently Castiel didn’t mishear him. “You- do you like coffee?”

“...Yes?” Castiel says, uncertain of how the conversation arrived here. Is there a chance he momentarily blacked out in the past few minutes?

“Okay. Just… checking.” Dean takes a swig of his bottle, emptying the rest of it, then stands up. “I’m gonna get us another drink.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond so he simply watches Dean go, utterly lost. He isn’t sure what it is about tonight but his usually easy interactions with Dean feel like… well, like his interactions with most people who aren’t Dean. It’s not just the strange tension between them but the feeling that there are layers to the conversation that Castiel is too socially inept to understand.

There’s a rousing cheer as Octavia Sublime begins another routine. Maybe that’s the problem? Would Dean rather be out there in the crowd, enjoying himself, free from having to entertain Castiel? Does he regret asking him to come tonight?

It’s a few minutes before Dean returns, long enough for Octavia to conclude one number and begin another. Long enough that Castiel has almost convinced himself that he should do them both a favor and slip out quietly, texting some excuse to Dean as to why he had to leave.

But he’s still there when Dean does return, holding a martini glass in each hand filled to the brim with some bright green liquid.

“Sorry,” he says as he sits, placing one of the glasses in front of Castiel. “Got caught up at the bar, they needed some help.”

“It’s alright.” Castiel attempts a smile. He’s sure it comes across as more of a grimace.

“Sorry about the drinks, too,” Dean adds. “I was just gonna get us beer but Charlie insisted.”

“Oh no, they look-” Castiel looks down at his glass. There is pale green foam gathering at the edges. “...Appetizing?”

Dean snorts. “Sure, if you say so.”

He raises his glass and Castiel follows suit. The cocktail is sticky and overwhelmingly sweet, and as they finish drinking Castiel finds himself once again at a loss for words. 

“Sorry,” Dean says suddenly. “I’m making tonight kinda awkward, huh?”

Relief blossoms in Castiel’s chest at having the tension acknowledged. So at least it wasn’t just in his head. “Is there something on your mind?”

“Kinda.” Dean scratches the back of his head. “But - uh, it doesn’t matter right now. We can talk about it later, night’s still young.”

“If it would make you feel better to get it off your chest-”

“It wouldn’t,” Dean cuts in. “Anyway, I invited you out here tonight to have fun. So let’s have fun.”

He leans forward on his elbows, a serious expression on his face. Castiel mirrors him, curious.

“What did you have in mind?” he asks.

“Shots.”

Castiel swallows. Shots does not sound like his idea of fun but looking into Dean’s eyes, green and sparkling and intense, he feels increasingly reckless. Besides, what better time to step out of his comfort zone than Halloween night?

“Alright. Let’s do it.”

Shots, Castiel has discovered, are fun. 

At least, Dean makes them fun. Castiel has lost track of how many he’s had; shots of rum to start with, chased down with whiskey and tequila, watching hungrily as Dean made a show of licking the salt from the back of his hand, followed by shots of some mystery sparkling liqour that Charlie reffered to only as ‘glitter bombs’.

They’ve made their way onto the dance floor since then, Castiel’s trenchcoat and tie lost somewhere along the way. Dean’s jacket is gone as well and his white t-shirt clings to him almost indecently, sleeves straining against his arms as he raises them to wrap them around Castiel’s shoulders.

They’re dancing, and the thought alone makes Castiel smile. He hasn’t danced in years , not since his college days, and even then it was a rarity. He’s always felt too awkward in his own skin to let go of himself that way.

Dean makes it easy, though. He’s laughing, clinging to Castiel as they sway completely out of sync with the music. Castiel feels light-headed, from the alcohol, from Dean’s nearness, skin burning where Dean’s touches his. 

He could kiss Dean right now, Castiel realizes, and he thinks Dean might welcome it. They’re already pressed together almost from head to toe, what’s one more touch? It might be a bad idea but Castiel is having a difficult time remembering why , especially when Dean’s tongue keeps darting out to wet his lips, teasing him.

He leans in close and Dean mirrors him, resting his forehead against Castiel’s. Castiel can feel his breath on his lips and his stomach tightens with anticipation. 

But before he can close the gap between them, the music cuts out.

“Alright, bitches!” Charlie shouts from the stage. “It’s almost midnight, which means it’s time to announce the best costume!”

Castiel lets out a pained sound as Dean pulls away. He doesn’t go far, keeping one arm warpped around Castiel’s shoulder and leaning against him as he turns to look up at the stage.

“We’ve checked out the pictures you guys tagged us with on Instagram, and here are our finalists.”

“Let’s go outside,” Dean says, leaning in close enough so that his lips graze Castiel’s ear as he speaks. “I need some fresh air.”

He takes Castiel’s hand without waiting for an answer, pulling him along through the crowd and out the back door. The cool air hits Castiel like a bucket of water; he hadn’t realized how hot and humid it was inside the bar before.

Dean is still holding onto him. Castiel glances down at their joined hands, thinking faintly of how well they fit together. Dean notices him looking and drops his hand in a hurry, wiping his palm against his jeans. 

“Uh, about earlier tonight...”

Castiel raises his eyes, meeting Dean’s for a moment before Dean looks away, uncharacteristically nervous. He feels more sober now than he did just moments ago, the fresh air and the slight distance between them helping clear his mind.

“Yes?” Castiel prompts.

But Dean doesn’t keep speaking. He just looks at Castiel, gaze darting between his eyes and lips, in a way that’s impossible to miss, especially this close.

“Just-” Dean licks his lips. “Just tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop, okay?”

And he leans in, raising his hand to cup Castiel’s neck, thumb gently resting against his jawline. Castiel’s heart races at the touch, going dizzy at the warmth of it as Dean pauses just an inch away, giving Castiel time to react.

Castiel doesn’t move, eyes slipping shut as Dean closes the distance between them, lips pressing against Castiel’s in the softest kiss. 

It’s overwhelming, it’s not enough, and before he can think it through, Castiel grabs the front of Dean’s shirt and pulls him in closer, licking the seams of Dean’s mouth. 

Dean moans, the sound vibrating between them and driving Castiel crazy with want. He wants to drag all those pretty sounds from Dean’s lips, wants him writhing and naked underneath him, wants to taste the salt of his skin and the heat of his desire.

He’s pushing Dean backwards, not noticing until Dean hits the brick wall behind him with a grunt, but Dean just grips him tighter, returning his kiss with more fervor. He rolls his hips against Castiel’s, hardness rubbing against Castiel’s thigh, and distantly it occurs to Castiel that this is a terrible idea.

He pushes the thought away in favor of trailing his lips down Dean’s jawline, down the tantalizing column of his neck. Dean gasps, hand tightly grasping the back of Castiel’s shirt.

Castiel raises his head, meeting Dean’s eyes again. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushing a pretty pink, lips slack with pleasure and wet with spit, and Castiel is suddenly, violently reminded of the image he first saw of him, a young man in a faded photograph. 

The thought brings Castiel crashing to earth. He pulls away, hand on Dean’s chest keeping him still when he moves to follow.

“We - we shouldn’t,” he says, and as painful as the idea of stopping now is, he knows it’s the right decision. “This is a bad idea.”

Dean blinks. “Wha - why ?”

“I think we both know why.”

“Do you not want-” Dean laughs, a small, nervous sound. “I mean, I know you liked those pictures. Is it - am I too old now or something?”

“No!” Castiel says, something painful rising in his chest at the idea that Dean could ever think himself undesirable. “I want you. More than I've ever wanted anyone, much more than I wanted the boy in those pictures.”

“Then why do we have to stop? You want me, I want you, what's the problem?”

He tilts his hips and oh, that is a very compelling point. 

Castiel steels himself, taking a deep breath and then taking a step back. He immediately misses the warmth of Dean's body.

“We're both drunk,” he says. “And I don't want us doing something we might regret. I value our friendship too much.”

“Who says we're gonna regret this?”

“It's only been months since Cain passed,” Castiel gently reminds him. “I wouldn’t expect you to be ready to move on.”

Dean stares at him, looking utterly lost. Perhaps shocked at the frankness of Castiel's words; they've spoken of his loss only indirectly since that first conversation.

“What?” Dean's voice is hoarse. “What does that-”

The sound of breaking glass and muffled shouts cuts through the rest of his question, echoing from inside the bar. Dean and Castiel exchange a bewildered look and then Dean is pushing past Castiel to rush inside. Castiel follows on his heel, head spinning at the abrupt end to their conversation.

Inside, the music has been turned down and the crowd is gathered around one of the booths. Dean shoulders his way past the onlookers and Castiel follows, finally spotting the source of the noise. One of the tables is sideways on the floor, its legs cracked in half. It’s surrounded by broken glass and puddles of what looks like beer, and in the middle of it all lies a man in a red spandex suit, conscious but clearly disoriented.

“What’s going on?” Dean shouts, voice booming through the crowd.

Charlie, who is kneeling next to the man, looks up. “Spiderman here thought it’d be a good idea to test the durability of our furniture.”

“I’m sorry,” the man sniffles, visibly distressed.

“Okay, give us some breathing room,” Dean calls, waving his hands at the people around. He turns to Castiel and, voice lowered, says, “I gotta take care of this. Just - hang on, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for Castiel to respond, crouching next to Charlie to help her make the spandex-clad man comfortable, slipping an offered jacket under his head and checking him for injuries. 

Castiel watches them for a few moments, feeling disoriented, then turns and walks away. He fetches his coat and tie from behind the bar where he left them, the word coward, coward, coward echoing in his head as he puts them on and leaves out the back door again.

He’s not being a coward, he reasons with himself as he begins the lonely walk home. He’s being responsible; this is a conversation they need to have sober. Dean might feel very differently about what they’ve done tonight in the light of day. Castiel doesn’t want to be someone he regrets knowing. 

It’s all bullshit, of course, Castiel knows that deep down. He just doesn’t want to face rejection, at least not yet. Not with the taste of Dean’s skin still lingering on his lips.

Chapter Text

2000

“That’s it, last shot.”

Dean’s body relaxes instinctively at those words. The camera goes off before he can think to pose, one last flash of light, and just like that it’s over.

Really over. Tonight is the last session Cain paid for and he hasn’t mentioned wanting to book another. It’s that fact more than anything that runs through Dean’s mind as he gets up from the couch, scurrying over to the corner where his clothes lie piled up as Cain starts packing up his equipment.

These moments are always a little awkward. During the shoot itself, even after he’s come, Dean’s able to get lost in the moment, obeying Cain’s directions without question, thinking of nothing but the intensity of his eyes on Dean’s body. It’s different once the camera has been lowered and they’re no longer artist and subject, just two people with no set roles.

Well, Dean’s not gonna let a little awkwardness get to him. Besides, he’s got a plan and tonight is literally his last shot at it. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see Cain again after tonight, so what’s he got to lose?

“Dean?”

Dean looks up, suddenly aware that he’s still topless, just staring down at his tshirt in his hands. “Uh, sorry.” 

He quickly pulls it on, walks over to Cain. He’s kneeling on the floor, packing up the last of the lighting equipment and Dean feels off balance for a moment, looking down at him.

“Do you think you got everything you needed?” he asks, more for a lack of anything else to say.

“Yes, I think so.” Cain shuts the kit, gratefully taking Dean’s outstretched hand as he gets up. “You’re a very talented model, Dean. I feel privileged to have worked with you.”

Heat rises in Dean’s chest, to his cheeks, and he ducks his head to disguise it, even though it makes him feel like a stupid teenager with a crush. 

“You’re the talented one,” he mumbles. “You were the one taking the pictures, I just did what you told me.”

“And you do that very well,” Cain says, amusement clear in his voice. Dean looks up, feeling defensive, but there’s no hint of mockery in Cain’s eyes, nothing but kindness. “But that’s less than half of it. Trust me, not everyone is able to come to life in front of the camera the way you do.”

He says it so easily, like he really means it. Like Dean is something special, someone worth that warmth and kindness. Dean wants so badly to be that person, to be whoever it is Cain sees when he looks at him.

That desire hits him like a shot to the heart. It makes him feel brave. Reckless. He takes a step closer to Cain, looks up at him through his eyelashes. Cain has gone still, watching him carefully.

“You know, tonight doesn’t have to be the end,” Dean says, and it’s not what he planned to say but maybe it’s better. There’s confidence in his own voice he barely recognizes, the kind that usually takes him two or three shots of whiskey to achieve. “We can keep seeing each other, even if I’m not modeling for you anymore.”

Cain’s expression shifts, a tightness forming around his eyes. “Dean…”

The way he says Dean’s name, gentle but firm, sends something cold down Dean’s spine. He’s about to reject him, Dean realizes. His stomach sinks.

How could he have been so stupid ? 

“You’re a beautiful, remarkable young man,” Cain tells him, voice sounding distant to Dean’s ears. “You could have almost anyone you want.”

“But not you.”

Cain smiles and it’s small and sad, like Dean’s the one who upset him . “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says, even though it’s really not. 

He feels numb with mortification - how could he have thought that Cain would feel the same? That Dean was good for anything other than a couple of photos to jerk off to, that he could ever deserve to have something real?

“This has nothing to do with you.”

Like hell it doesn’t. Dean nods, eyes on the ground, too embarrassed to keep looking at Cain.

He startles when Cain’s hand grasps his shoulder. It’s a solid grip and even the sting of rejection can’t keep Dean from noticing the way Cain’s thumb rests against his collarbone.

“I mean it,” Cain says. “I’m not right for you. You’ll realize that someday soon.”

Dean blinks. Great, just when he thought this couldn’t get more embarrassing, now he’s gonna start crying? 

“Whatever,” he mumbles, taking a step back and out of Cain’s grasp. “I gotta go, it’s getting late.”

He’s almost out when Cain calls out for him and despite his best judgment, he stops at the doorstep.

“Hold onto my card,” Cain says. “I may not be able to give you what you want right now but I would like us to stay friends, when you’re ready for that.”

Dean wants to tell him to take his card and shove it. 

He leaves without saying a word instead. 

present day

Dean wakes up feeling like shit and for a long moment, he’s not sure why.

His head hurts and he’s mildly nauseous but it’s hardly the worst hangover he’s had. Maybe it’s because it’s been a while - not a lot of time for drinking when you’re working seven nights a week - but Dean gets the feeling that’s not it.

Then he remembers.

He kissed Cas. 

He kissed Cas. Not only that but Cas kissed him back, and it was the hottest thing Dean has ever experienced. And then some drunk idiot climbed on a table inside and crashed to the floor, and they had to stop kissing.

Wait. Dean turns that over in his head. That’s not how it happened, is it? They stopped before the crash. Cas was talking some utter nonsense and before Dean got an explanation, they were interrupted.

And Cas left. Even after Dean asked him to stay, he left. Snuck out, made Dean look all over the bar for him like an idiot for a good fifteen minutes before he realized he’d been ditched.

Well. Message received. 

“No, hold up,” Charlie says, slinging a dirty dishrag in Dean’s direction. “Message not received. What kinda message is that supposed to be, anyway?”

One unfortunate effect of running your own business - you still gotta show up for work, even if you’d like nothing more than to mope in bed all day. 

Charlie’s on the morning shift too, helping Dean tidy up the rest of the mess from yesterday and get ready to open again in the afternoon. She’d taken one look at Dean’s hangdog expression when she arrived and insisted he share every detail from the night before while they cleaned. 

“Have you not been listening?” Dean asks, scowling. “I fucked up! He obviously wants nothing to do with me now.”

“If everything you just told me is true then that is a wild conclusion to come to.” 

Dean leans against the bar. “Is it?” He holds up a hand, raising a finger at a time as he recounts, “First, I try to make my move but choke. This is after weeks of getting mixed signals from him, by the way. Then, I get him drunk. And then, instead of just nutting up and finally asking him out using my words, I shove my tongue down his throat. He asks me to stop, then sneaks out the backdoor after I ask him to stay. You think he would have done that if I hadn’t crossed several lines?”

“Put like that, it sounds kind of bad,” Charlie admits. 

“See?” Dean says, not feeling particularly victorious.

“But that’s only because you’re phrasing it in the worst way possible.” Charlie crosses her arms. “You left out the part where he kissed you back.”

“Yeah, but-”

“And the part where he said he wants you.”

More than I’ve ever wanted anyone were Cas’ exact words. Not that they’re burned into Dean’s brain or anything. 

“Maybe.”

“You can see how it doesn’t add up,” Charlie says. “There must be more to it. What exactly did he say after you stopped kissing?”

Okay, so grand declarations aside, Dean’s memory is a little fuzzy on that point. He hadn’t exactly been focusing on the conversation, too busy wondering why they weren’t still making out. 

“He didn’t wanna damage our friendship,” Dean recalls. “And I guess he thought we were too drunk.” Something tugs at his memory and he frowns, suddenly remembering, “He said something about Cain? It was weird.”

“Cain?” Charlie repeats urgently, leaning in close. “Why would he bring him up?”

Dean’s face grows warm but he can’t dwell too much on the potential embarrassment of Charlie finding out how he and Cas met - why did Cas bring up Cain?

“Something about how long it’s been since he died.” There’s a creeping sense in Dean’s mind, a realization just out of reach. “He said… he thought I wouldn’t be ready to move on? It was weird, almost like he thought-”

The light bulb switches on. His head snaps up and he meets Charlie’s eyes, wide as the realization hits her too.

“Cas thinks we were an item?” 

It sounds ridiculous and yet - it all fits. Cas met him through Cain’s pictures. Dean even told him he’d been in love with Cain! He never exactly said it was unrequited either, a fact too obvious to himself to state out loud. And, hell… he even told Cas that Cain gave him the money for Rocky’s, didn’t he? 

Holy shit, Cas doesn’t just think they were an item. Cas thinks they were together for almost twenty years . No wonder he thinks Dean’s still in mourning.

“Oh, fuck.”

Charlie hits his arm. “I told you he was interested! That’s why he insisted you stop, he didn’t wanna be the rebound. He doesn’t just wanna hook up, he likes you!”

“He likes me,” Dean repeats, dazed. He runs his hand over his face. “I’m not dreaming, right? This is my actual life, not some hokey romantic comedy?”

“Dean,” Charlie says, voice very serious, leaning forward and putting her hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Go to him.”

Dean slaps her hand away. “Fuck off.” 

But she’s got a point, doesn’t she? He needs to go find Cas, needs to set things straight. If this is all some big misunderstanding and they actually are on the same page - Dean doesn’t let himself finish that thought. He runs to the back, grabs his jacket, and he’s by the bar again when something occurs to him.

“I don’t know where he lives.”

“Okay, so call and ask him,” Charlie says. “It’s a little less romantic but-”

“I don’t have his number.”

Charlie stares at him.

“What?” Dean asks. “It never came up.”

“You can’t ask a guy you like for his number?” Charlie throws up her arms. “Good lord, you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“He didn’t ask either!”

Charlie gives him an unimpressed look and oh, right, there’s that whole thing where Cas thinks he’s mourning his dead partner. Still, Cas could have asked in a friend way, couldn’t he?

“Forget the number,” Dean says. “I know where his office is, I’ll go down there and…”

He trails off.

It’s Sunday .

“Son of a bitch!” He throws his jacket on the bar. “I gotta wait until tomorrow ?”

“You could look up his contact info online?” Charlie suggests.

“Right, ‘cause that’s not creepy at all.” Dean sighs. “No, I have to do this right. Bad enough I got him drunk-”

“Dude, you bought him drinks, you didn’t shove them down his throat.”

“Bad enough I got him drunk before making my move the first time,” Dean repeats, stressing the words. Charlie rolls her eyes. “I’m not gonna fuck this up.”

*

When Balthazar rings his doorbell around noon, Castiel has been up for all of ten minutes. It’s not that he slept in - that would have been too merciful a fate for him, apparently - but rather that he spent the better part of the morning awake in bed, wallowing in his guilt and the worst hangover he’s had since his early twenties.

The last thing Castiel wants to do is talk to anyone but he forces himself to go and open the door anyway. Balthazar’s eyebrows climb up to his forehead as he sees him and he takes a good long moment to look Castiel over before speaking.

“You look awful,” he finally says. “Fun night?”

Castiel waves him inside, trudging over to his living room and all but collapsing on the couch. “More like a series of poor decisions.”

Balthazar follows, sitting down in the chair opposite him. “That’s all most fun nights are.”

“I question your definition of ‘fun’,” Castiel says, rubbing his forehead. Balthazar isn’t entirely wrong; the night had been fun until it very suddenly wasn’t. “What are you doing here?”

If it were anyone else, they might take offense at Castiel’s blunt question. Luckily, Balthazar knows him better than that.

“I was hoping to take you out to lunch but I see you may not be up for it.”

An understatement if there ever was one. The only thing Castiel feels ‘up for’ at the moment is crawling back into bed and falling asleep. Unfortunately, he’s meant to be a functioning adult, which means sleeping away the rest of his weekend is not an option.

“Should I order some takeout?” Balthazar asks. “You can take a shower while we wait for it. Might make you feel less like death warmed over.”

“I want a burger,” Castiel mumbles, pathetically grateful to his friend for the suggestion. “A greasy one.”

Balthazar sighs. “Only for you.”

Castiel does feel more human after taking a shower. His burger has arrived when he gets out of the bathroom, which is even better. He sits by the kitchen island as he eats, across from Balthazar, who despite his earlier judgment also ordered himself a burger. 

“I thought you stopped eating red meat?” Castiel asks between bites.

“I figured since we were acting so wildly out of character this weekend, I might as well break my fast.”

“Funny.”

“So what happened last night?”

Castiel swallows. He looks at his burger and suddenly doesn’t feel like eating any more. He puts it down.

“I think I ruined my friendship with Dean,” he says. 

Balthazar gives a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Castiel mutters. He rubs his hand over his eyes; there’s a headache coming on, he can feel it. “Even if it’s not that bad, I’m sure I’ve ruined any chance of us becoming anything more.”

Balthazar is quiet for a long moment. “Maybe that’s for the better? Even if you were to become something more, who’s to say how long you’d be waiting around for him to be ready for another relationship?”

It doesn’t matter is Castiel’s kneejerk reaction. He’d wait for Dean for as long as he needed. Months, years, however long it took.

“I could set you up with someone else,” Balthazar continues. “If that would help you move on?”

The idea is so viscerally unappealing, Castiel almost recoils. Someone else? He doesn’t want someone else, he wants Dean. 

He loves Dean.

“Fuck,” Castiel breathes.

That’s it. He loves Dean. That’s why he’s been hurting so much. This is him, brokenhearted and in love and the realization is like a sharp punch to the gut. 

“What?”

He can’t tell Balthazar. Just the thought of saying it out loud makes him feel ridiculous. It’s been only a few weeks since he met Dean, how could he possibly be in love with him already? He’s not a young man, he doesn’t open his heart so easily anymore. Even at his most inexperienced, he never fell so hard, so fast.

But then, it’s Dean. How could he not love him?

“Nothing.” Castiel leans against the table, resting his cheek against this forearm. “Absolutely nothing.”

He closes his eyes. Now that he knows what he’s feeling, it’s somehow both better and worse. Better, because at least he knows why he’s been hurting. Worse because, well, he’s in love with someone he can’t have. And that really, really sucks.

“Are you alright, Cas?”

Castiel considers the question. “I’ll be fine,” he says, because it almost doesn’t feel like a lie. 

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Balthazar says. “So should I find someone for you?”

Maybe Castiel should tell him yes. The thought of moving on from Dean feels awful but what other choice does he have? What he wants is something Dean can’t give, not now and probably not for a very long while, if ever.

“No,” he says anyway. Then adds, more to keep Balthazar happy than anything else, “Not yet.”

“Just say the word, darling. I have at least three candidates in mind I know would be crazy about you.”

Castiel snorts. He’s never in his life felt less desirable. Middle-aged, lonely, heartbroken and hungover. It occurs to him for the first time that Dean, in addition to being out of reach for more complex reasons, is also simply out of his league.

If only he’d realized that from the very beginning.

*

Monday morning arrives and Dean finds himself standing in front of the University, unable to get his feet to move.

He knows exactly what he needs to do. Having figured out the reason for Cas’ behavior in the past few weeks, he knows there’s almost zero chance of rejection. And yet, here he stands, heart beating out of his chest, stomach twisting itself into anxious knots.

What if Dean got it wrong? Or what if he got it right and Cas turns him down anyway because he’s got more than one reason against getting involved with Dean? That’s possible. Probable, even. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Dean runs a hand through his hair, feeling thoroughly aware of the pathetic picture he’s making right now. He’s a grown man, acting like a teenager with their first crush. He hasn’t been this much of a mess over a man since… well, since Cain. But look how that turned out.

A woman walks past him towards the entrance, shaking him out of his thoughts. Watching her easily cross the threshold like this is any old building (it is ), Dean feels like an idiot.

This is so stupid. He’s acting like a coward and Dean Winchester may be a lot of things, but he is not a coward.

He starts walking. 

The University corridors are mostly empty this time of day and Dean’s footsteps echo loudly as he strides down them. Still, he can barely hear them over the roaring of blood in his ears. He feels like a man on a mission and stupidly, that makes him feel a little bit braver. Like he’s accomplishing something great, just by telling some guy he likes him.

He’s only been to Cas’ office once but his feet seem to instinctively carry him in the right direction and in less than a couple of minutes, he’s there. The doors are shut and Dean takes a moment to gather his courage before knocking.

He waits a few seconds. No answer.

He knocks again.

“Are you looking for Professor Novak?”

Dean jumps. He turns around to see a blonde girl with a backpack slung over one shoulder standing right next to him. 

“Because he’s not in,” she says.

Dean gestures at the still closed door. “I figured.”

“Are you his friend?” the girl asks. “You look too old to be a student.”

Dean scoffs. These fucking kids, whatever happened to respecting your elders?

Clearly not expecting an answer, she continues, “He should be in lecture hall 2b. It’s down the hall and to the left.”

“Awesome,” Dean says. Then, reluctantly, “Thanks, kid.”

The girl nods and walks on, and Dean takes a moment to mentally berate himself - “ kid”? this is why she called you old - before taking off.

This is it. Cas is just down the hallway. Dean is gonna explain away the whole mess with Cain and he’s gonna tell him how he feels and whatever Cas’ answer might be, in a few minutes he’ll at least know for sure. 

Dean turns to the left and the doors to lecture hall 2b are right there, staring him in the face, the only thing separating him from his goal. He doesn’t let himself slow down but strides right on, pushing the doors open with a resounding thud, prepared to call out Cas’ name and -

The room is filled with people.

Dean freezes but it’s too late. Everyone has turned around, rows and rows of students - because of fucking course Cas has students here, what else would he be doing in a lecture hall ? - staring at him with wide, curious eyes. 

And there, at the front of the room, standing by a blackboard filled with scribbled notes is Cas, looking more shocked than any of them. 

“Uh…” Dean flounders, nearly tripping over his own feet in the doorway. “I… sorry, I thought -”

He trails off, mind going blank. He has no excuse.

Cas clears his throat. His expression is impossible to read from across the room and his voice is calm as he asks, “Is it an emergency?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Then please, have a seat.”

The back row is empty so Dean does as told and picks a seat there, the one closest to the exit. Everyone is still staring at him but Cas clears his throat again and most of them look away, attention back to the front of the classroom.

Cas picks up the lecture where he presumably left off, speaking like he never missed a beat. He’s talking about the Weimar republic, a topic Dean remembers him going off on at Rocky’s all the way back when they first met.

God, it’s not even that long ago. What is Dean doing, losing his mind so completely over a guy he didn’t even know existed until last month?

As if in response to Dean’s unasked question, Cas picks that exact moment to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing surprisingly broad, tan forearms. 

Dean sinks lower in his seat, feeling like he must be broadcasting his dirty thoughts over the entire room. Soon enough, though, he realizes he doesn’t need to worry. It really is like he never burst into the room in the first place; the entire class is perfectly focused on the lecture.

This is Cas in his element. He’s impassioned but measured, pausing only to scribble some new note on the blackboard for emphasis, moving smoothly from talking about gay bars in Berlin and Paris to drag balls in Harlem to whatever the hell the ‘pansy craze’ was. 

His students are all enraptured and damn if Dean isn’t too, as much by what Cas is saying as the way he’s saying it. He’s commanding yet earnest, and if Dean didn’t know how important this stuff was to him before, he’d sure as hell know now.

He’s such a good teacher that Dean has almost forgotten why he came here when the lecture suddenly ends and Cas is dismissing the class.

Most of them leave quickly, walking past Dean on their way out and shooting him not-so-subtle looks from the corner of their eyes. A couple of students linger, one or two going up front to say something to Cas before they go. 

Soon enough, it’s just Dean left still sitting in his seat, face burning hotter by the moment as he realizes this really is it. He’s trapped. The only way out is through.

“Dean?”

Dean stands and slowly makes his way down front. Cas is leaning against his desk, sleeves still rolled up, reading glasses tucked down the front of his shirt. He couldn’t look more like a wet dream come true if he tried.

“I’m sorry I made you sit through that,” Cas says as he approaches.

“Don’t be,” Dean says. “I liked it, kinda feel like I should’ve brought a notebook or something.”

Cas smiles but it fades quickly, replaced by concern. “Is something wrong?”

Right. Straight to the point.

“Not exactly.”

“Then why are you here?” Cas asks. “Not that you aren’t always welcome but to say I wasn’t expecting…” He trails off, looking awkward. “I realize I made some mistakes last weekend.”

Dean crosses his arms. “Like kissing me back?”

“I- yes,” Cas says. “But you have to understand-”

“Because of Cain,” Dean cuts in. “Because we were together until he died this year?”

Cas swallows. “Yes.”

Huh. Dean had figured it out but hearing Cas say it out loud still feels odd. Like his ears popping, a massive pressure he’d stopped even noticing suddenly relieved. 

“But what if we weren’t?”

Cas shakes it head. “I can’t play ‘what ifs’ with you, Dean. I understand that you’re not ready to consider someone seriously so soon after Cain’s death but to me - it could never be anything but serious with you.”

Dean's heart skips a beat.

Honest to God skips a beat .

Christ, his life really is a romantic comedy.

“I’m very fond of you,” Cas continues, oblivious. “Too fond for this not to matter as much to you as it would to me. And I understand that I’m asking you for something you can’t give yet, that’s why I never would have brought it up if not for one careless, drunken mistake.”

Dean is going to spontaneously combust. 

He is going to melt into a puddle right here, on the floor of this lecture hall, and some poor janitor is gonna have to mop him up. This is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to him and he is not equipped to handle it.

But he can’t let Cas go on suffering like this.

“Thing is,” he says, “it’s not about ‘what ifs’. Cain and I weren’t together.”

Cas stares at him.

“Ever,” Dean adds helpfully.

“You - but you…?”

“I was into him, yeah. Back when we first met, when I was twenty-one and modeling for him.” Dean grimaces, the memory still stinging a bit after all these years. “But he turned me down flat. We became friends after I got over my bruised ego, and I took care of him while he was sick. That’s why he left me his money. Well, that and he didn’t really like most of his family.”

“So you- you were never together?” 

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” 

Cas keeps staring. He’s looking at Dean strangely, like he’s expecting him to disappear any second.

“I’m fond of you too,” Dean adds, neck growing warm at the admission. “In case that wasn’t obvious. I mean, that’s kind of why I kissed you.”

“You’re serious,” Cas says. “You and Cain - that was all a misunderstanding? This isn’t some terrible practical joke?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Dean says, because he needs Cas to know that right away. “Dude, I’m so into you it’s embarrassing. Whatever way you want me, you’ve got me, okay? I’m yours.”

Something shifts in Cas’ eyes, a sudden spark. “I’m going to kiss you.”

And he does, hand cupping Dean’s neck and pulling him in. It’s heated, almost desperate, and Dean stumbles against Cas as his knees go weak, overwhelmed by the reality of the moment. 

They pull apart way too quickly but they don’t go far, faces still bent close, bodies pressed together. 

“This is very unprofessional,” Cas says, still holding tightly onto Dean.

“C’mon professor, you telling me you’ve never had this fantasy?” Dean asks, wagging his eyebrows. “On the desk, against the blackboard?”

Cas’ eyes grow darker. “Not while my students are standing right outside.”

“So what I’m hearing is we should come back after hours and-”

Cas shuts him up with another kiss. 

Fine by Dean.

*

Six months later

It’s late by the time Castiel finally gets home for the night. 

He’s expecting the apartment to be empty, since Dean said he’d probably be working, but it’s not; the lights are on, there’s a delicious scent wafting through the air and most conspicuously, there’s Dean himself sitting on the couch, playing on his phone. He looks up as Castiel enters, smiling in greeting and Castiel feels such relief, he would cry if he weren’t so exhausted.

“Long day at the office?” Dean asks.

Castiel sighs, shrugging his coat off and dropping his bag by the door. “The longest. But it’s done.”

“The day or-?”

Somehow, Castiel finds the energy to smile. “The draft. I turned it in to Crowley fifteen minutes ago.”

He sits down next to Dean, who immediately wraps his arms around him, kissing the top of Castiel’s head as he rests it against his shoulder.

“Congrats, babe. I knew you’d kick it in the ass.”

“It’s not over, of course,” Castiel can’t resist saying. “That was only the first completed draft, I’ve got months of revisions ahead-”

“But it’s out of your hands for now,” Dean cuts in. “That’s what you said, right? You’re on break now, no talking or even thinking about it until Crowley gets it back to you.”

Castiel sighs. “That is what I said, isn’t it?” 

He allows himself to relax even more fully into Dean’s side, feeling all his tension drain away at the warmth and softness of Dean’s body against his. 

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve got something for you.”

Castiel lets out a noise of protest as Dean shifts away but he doesn’t go far, only reaching over to the other side of the couch to retrieve something. Reluctantly, Castiel straightens in his seat, holding out a hand to accept a tote bag that Dean hands him.

He peers inside and it takes his sluggish brain a couple of moments to realize what he’s looking at.

“It’s one of Cain’s old cameras,” Dean explains. “Most of them have been collecting dust in my closet since… uh, well. I just figured it’s a pity they’re not being used and I don’t really have an eye for this stuff but you…”

“I’m not a photographer,” Castiel says, but he reaches into the bag, carefully pulling the camera out. 

“Yeah, but you spend a lot of time looking at photos,” Dean says. “I know it’s not the same but - and I read up on them, picked out a beginner friendly one. It’s really easy to use, the hard part is just knowing what’s gonna look good on film.”

Castiel turns the camera over in hands. It’s heavier than he was expecting but it looks very well cared for, only the wear on the lens cap and some fading around the buttons betraying any use. 

“Thank you, Dean,” he says. “It means a lot that you would entrust this to me.”

He looks up to see Dean looking away, flustered as always in the face of Castiel’s sincerity. 

“Okay, yeah,” Dean mutters. “Whatever. You’re welcome.”

Castiel leans in, unable to resist pressing a kiss against Dean’s flushed cheek. He rests his fingers against Dean’s jawline, gently pulling him for a kiss on the lips next, smiling when Dean melts against him, one hand coming up to cup Castiel’s head and run his fingers through his hair.

They part and Dean clears his throat, clearly pleased despite his shyness. “And hey, if you ever need a model…”

And, oh. Castiel can immediately picture Dean on this very couch, naked and spread out just as in Cain’s pictures. He’d be just as enticing and eager as in his youth but even more beautiful now, not only in love but knowing he’s loved in return.

But first… Castiel leans back, flicking the lens cap off and raising the camera. He gets off a shot just as Dean starts laughing and reaching out to block his view a moment too late. 

“C’mon, I didn’t mean it like that. You can’t just snap off, I gotta get camera ready.”

“You always are,” Castiel tells him.

“You are such a sap,” Dean says, fond. 

Castiel raises the camera again. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

And he takes his shot, right as Dean begins to smile.