Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a given that Dean thinks Cas looks good every day, but today—damn, he doesn’t know what it is about today, but Cas looks real good.

Cas is apparently oblivious to the fact that Dean’s watching him, and Dean takes the opportunity to drink him in, the way his joggers hug the curves of his thighs and ass as he crouches down to check on something in the oven, the way his clavicles are on full display because Jesus Christ the guy’s not wearing a shirt, the way his hair goes even messier as he shakes it out of his face, an apron cinched tight around his waist, its straps digging into the meat of his back and shoulders. Dean swallows past the bulge of wanting in his throat. He watches from the kitchen’s entrance as Cas pulls a fresh apple pie from the oven, and now Dean’s mouth is watering for more than one reason.

Dean may as well be in a movie, because Cas goes ahead and rests the steaming pie on a fucking windowsill, for Christ’s sake, before turning around and flashing Dean a bright, gummy smile. Kiss the cook is written in a faded cursive script across the apron (the fabric of which is currently straining against Cas’ chest), and goddamn if Dean can’t think of a million and one other things he’d also like to do to the cook as well.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, husky growl of a voice bringing Dean’s dick to attention. Dean rolls his shoulders, 

“Damn, Cas, what’s the occasion?” Dean asks, grabbing the back of one of the kitchen chairs and taking a seat. He’s about to drag the chair in closer to the table when he feels Cas’ knuckles brush against his back as he grips the chair and tugs it back.

“Do I need one?”

Dean blinks, stunned, as Cas slowly maneuvers around the chair until he’s straddling Dean, their chests practically flush. Dean can feel his heart pounding; he’s close enough to lick a stray smudge of flour off Cas’ cheekbone, and he’s sure Cas can feel him straining against his jeans.

Cas chuckles—yeah, he can definitely feel it—and loops his arms around Dean’s neck. Dean moves on instinct, resting his hands on Cas’ thighs, not trying to muffle the faint little gasp of a whine that escapes his throat. Cas smiles at him then, closing what little space had been left between them and teasing Dean’s earlobe with his tongue. Dean shudders as he feels Cas’ breath ghost along his jaw, dropping open-mouthed kisses that cause Dean to tilt his head back as he goes.

“Was that for me?” Cas whispers, and this time, Dean’s whine comes out as a groan and his hips buck up against Cas’ weight.

“Cas—”

Cas moves quickly, cutting Dean off by shifting his focus to Dean’s face. He leans in until their foreheads are resting against each other, and Dean struggles to match the pace of his own breathing to Cas’. He shifts his grip from Cas’ thighs to his hips and pulls him closer, delighting in the way he can see the corners of Cas’ lips tick up in a smile.

“Dean, Dean, I—”

Dean startles, eyes flashing open in surprise as he feels something land on his belly with a faint thud. The frustration he’d been feeling at his (most likely soon-to-be-wet) dream fades slightly at the sight of Cas, real and in the flesh, he’s sure this time, puttering around Dean’s kitchen.

Although the apron’s missing and Cas is instead wearing sweats and a faded blue shirt that somehow still manages to bring out the blue of his eyes, it’s still not a bad view, and Dean takes a second to drink it in before shifting his attention to what had been thrown at him.

“Spider-Man?” he asks. He stretches across the couch before sitting up and flipping the DVD case over in his hands a few times. “Seriously?”

“I thought you liked superhero films,” Cas says, head stuck in one of Dean’s cabinets as he searches for plates.

“Yeah, just not into watching Uncle Ben bite it for the eighteenth time in as many movies.”

His best friend shrugs as he continues gathering things in the kitchen. “Good thing it’s my turn to pick the movie for movie night.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he still can’t help the surge of affection that flows through him at Cas’ attitude. “Somebody’s sassy.”

“Indeed.” Cas sets down plates and cups on the coffee table before nudging Dean like a persistent puppy until Dean swings his legs aside so Cas can reach his designated spot on the couch. “Pizza will be here in twenty minutes.” Once he’s settled, cup in hand and legs curled up underneath him, he smiles warmly at Dean and taps one of Dean's ankles. Dean is wearing bright yellow socks with a hot dog print on them, a gift from Cas after he'd noticed how often Dean wore his favored hot dog pants.

“So," Cas says, retracting his hand (and forcing Dean to pretend he absolutely doesn't miss the feeling of Cas' fingers brushing against his skin, no matter how brief), "how was your day?” 

Dean likes each iteration of Spider-Man well enough, but he hadn’t realized just how much Cas digs the Tobey Maguire version. He’s got a comment or tidbit of trivia every few minutes, from the iconic scene with Peter Parker on a rooftop struggling with his newfound web-slinging powers—“Go, web! Fly!” Cas whisper-shouts, doing a halfhearted impersonation of shooting a web from his wrist—and Uncle Ben’s death scene—“Sorry, Dean, cover your eyes”—to Peter and MJ’s iconic upside-down kiss.

“This is the most romantic kiss in cinema history,” Cas says, voice soft and wistful.

It’s jarring enough for Dean to grab for the remote and pause the movie. “I’m sorry, what? Seriously?”

Cas stares at Dean, surprised by his surprise. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Come on,” Dean says, gesturing to the screen, where Peter and MJ’s lips are locked, their love frozen in time. “Poor dude’s got blood rushing to all the wrong places.”

“Valid,” Cas says, “but still. What’s more romantic than kissing in the rain? Especially after you’ve just saved your crush from danger. You’ve got their hand caressing your cheek, their breath hot at your throat, closer and more vulnerable than either of you have ever been.” He shrugs, then sinks back against the couch, hands raised as if to say I rest my case. “I really don’t think it gets any better than that.”

Dean blinks, jarred out of the fantasy he’d started building alongside Cas’ words. Cas’ hand is so close to him, too, so close that he could just reach over and entwine their fingers together, giving his hand a soft squeeze.

It’s no upside-down kiss, but it’s still something. 

Dean clears his throat, managing to shift himself subtly. “Yeah,” he says, throat drier than he’d been anticipating. Hoping the move seems casual, he reaches for his beer and takes a long sip. “Might just be onto something there, Cas.”

“I know I am.” With that, Cas grabs the remote, hits play, and leaves Dean alone with his thoughts in the darkened living room.

Dean remembers the day he’d seen the moving truck backing slowly into the driveway of the house next door. He’d felt like an unruly Karen, peering through his side window ready to pounce on his new neighbors, reporting any misstep or faux pas to NextDoor, that stupid app Sammy had convinced him to download, if not for the illusion of safety, then at least for the laughs. 

The small bungalow had been empty for months, so long that Dean had begun to wonder if he’d ever get a new neighbor at all. So it had been with a welcome sense of curiosity and anticipation that Dean had watched the moving truck shift into park, then curiosity and, well, lust, if he’s being honest, the second he got eyes on his new neighbor.

But Dean’s never been that lucky. At first, he had halfway convinced himself that the stunning dark-haired man had just been there to help out a friend or family member. He’d been halfway through the grieving process when he overheard another man shout, “Hey, Cas, where do you want these boxes marked ‘living room’ to go?”

When Tall, Dark, and Handsome (creative, Dean knows) had answered, “I don’t know, Gabriel, perhaps the kitchen?” with a roll of those baby blues, Dean had practically melted with relief—and terror.

He’d been out of the game for a while, and his flirting had always been hard to come by when it came to men. But even then, even the very first time Dean had heard his name, he had known Cas would be something—some one—different.

NextDoor be damned; Dean had ditched his phone on the couch and bounded out the front door, the words already halfway out of his mouth before he’d gotten out the door.

“Hey, there, need a hand?”

Dean remembers the first time Cas had approached him about a week after moving in. He had been taking a break on the front steps with a cold water bottle in hand, and Cas had been lamenting about the fact that he doesn’t have a lawn mower.

“I don’t think I fully understood how quickly grass grows,” he says sheepishly, rubbing a hand along the back of his slightly sunburned neck.

Dean chuckles, leaning back on the steps so that he’s propped up by his elbows. “No grass at your old place?”

“Apartment complex,” Cas says. “Part of the reason I made the decision to finally move was the fact that I had no outdoor green space, and look where that got me.” He gestures ruefully to his new home behind him. It’s not a huge lawn, but the guy already seems overwhelmed enough that even the smallest thing would cause him to go into a spiral, and hell, Dean absolutely knows how that feels.

When Dean’s eyes eventually wander back to Cas, he’s surprised to see him looking longingly at Dean’s mower. “Would it be too much trouble if I borrowed it from you later this afternoon?” 

Dean had squinted up at Cas from his seat on the steps, the sun glowing warm and bright behind his head, and considered his options. He could…

1. agree to lend Cas his lawnmower once, an agreement that would only last a few months if he was lucky (and Dean had already used up all his luck on Cas being his neighbor), or at least until Cas bought his own, or 
2. propose something mutually beneficial, something that would put Dean in Cas’ good graces while also giving him a hell of a batch of eye candy while doing his own yard work for the foreseeable future, and maybe even an excuse to keep Cas hanging out with him—or at least coming around—more regularly

It had been a no-brainer, really. 

“Tell you what,” Dean had said, reaching into the small cooler at his side and grabbing another water bottle, which he promptly tossed over to his new neighbor. “I’ll mow your lawn if you use that ladder to clean out my gutters.”

It had sounded vaguely dirty, but Dean hadn’t meant it that way (not that time), he swears.

He can still remember the way Cas’ brows had wrinkled together in adorable confusion. “Why don’t we just trade our tools?”

Dean chuckles. It’s a reasonable question, but he’s not about to spill his guts about his fear of heights (which had eventually morphed from his initial fear of flying) to his hot new next door neighbor. The guy’s gotta at least buy him dinner first.

“Trust me, man,” he says. “You’d be doing me a favor.” He tips his head back and takes a long, deep swig of his water. When he rights himself again, he could swear Cas is averting his gaze because he’d been staring.

But maybe that had just been the heat.

Dean remembers how swapping yard work had eventually led to weekend beers, which led to weekly movie nights, which led to invitations to concerts, craft fairs, and plays, which led to a friendship Dean really, really wished would be something more. 

While it’s been almost a year with no signs of something more, what they have now is still something, and Dean’s determined to enjoy it. 

It’s an unseasonably warm day in early fall, and a few days after their Spider-Man movie night, Dean texts Cas to ask if he’s up for their usual yard work tradeoff that weekend. Cas agrees, and soon enough, Dean’s got a grass stain on his knee and a slight crick in his back after a morning of lawn mowing.

Cas might be the one up high, legs dangling off the edge of Dean’s roof as he digs out the gutters by hand, but Dean absolutely considers himself to be the one with the view. He spends a few precious seconds watching Cas work from his seat on the steps—the focus on his face, the way his long fingers grasp handfuls of leaves, the faint sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead.

Hell, all that’s left for Cas to do is take off his shirt and trench coat (or at least roll the sleeves of both up to the elbows, throw Dean a fucking bone here), and Dean will have spank bank material for the next few months.

“Careful up there, Evel Knievel,” Dean calls. “You know most people just do this with a ladder, right?”

“How long have you known me, Dean?” Cas asks.

Dean’s brows furrow together, confused, but he answers anyway. “Two years.”

“And when,” he says, digging another handful of leaves out of the gutter, “in those two years of knowing me, have I ever done anything resembling the habits of ‘most people?’”

The dude’s got two fistfuls of leaves, but he still somehow manages to throw in some air quotes to go along with that last bit.

Dean chuckles and purses his lips, considering. “Point taken,” he finally says. “Hey, I’m gonna get us some waters. You good up there unsupervised for a sec?”

“Fine!”

Dean’s not even sure the screen door has closed before he hears a commotion of activity outside, combined with a surprised shout from Cas. Abandoning the water bottles he’d just plucked from the fridge, Dean darts back outside, only to come face-to-face with what looks like a scene out of a slapstick comedy.

Cas, who had been fine a mere thirty seconds ago, is now tangled in the gutter. The ladder he’d used to get himself up on the roof has fallen to the ground, narrowly missing the hydrangea Dean planted a few weeks earlier. A few more seconds of observation shows that Cas isn’t just tangled in the gutter; hell, he’s not even just hanging from the side of Dean’s house.

He’s hanging upside fucking down.

“I thought you said you were fine!” Dean says in a voice that absolutely does not crack (it doesn’t, he swears).

“I lied!”

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to push past the initial anxiety welling up in his chest as he decides how best to tackle this situation.

“What the hell happened?” he finally asks, dragging the fallen ladder away from the house. The last thing he wants is for whatever’s holding Cas in place to come loose and for him to come crashing down on top of it. The grass may not offer the softest landing, but Dean’s confident it’d feel a hell of a lot better than the cold metal of the ladder.

“Did you know there’s a family of squirrels in your gutters?” Cas asks, chest heaving.

Dean stares at him. “Get out.”

Cas looks at him flatly—or as flatly as he can, being upside down and all. “That’s what the squirrels said too, clearly. Can you just help me, please?”

“Yeah, hold on, let me just…”

Dean trails off, unsure of what step to take next. He had initially been sizing up the situation, trying to figure out the best, safest way to get Cas down, but before long, his mind flashes—not to a broken bone or hospital room, not even to how this could earn them both big bucks on America’s Funniest Home Videos , but back to their movie night.

“This is the most romantic kiss in cinema history… You’ve got their hand caressing your cheek, their breath hot at your throat, closer and more vulnerable than either of you have ever been… I really don’t think it gets any better than that.”

“Dean?”

He can’t do this.

Dean shakes his head slowly, more to himself than to Cas. He can’t even believe he’s fucking considering this.

But then again, he sort of can. His crush on Cas has been steadily building from the moment they met, and if it takes a falling ladder and Cas dangling from his gutters for Dean to make a move, then it takes a falling ladder and Cas dangling from his gutters for Dean to make a move.

Cas’ voice is just a bit higher now, a trace more panicked. “Dean!”

The whole thing is so absurd, so unexpected, so very them, that Dean can’t help it anymore. Heart pounding, he leans in and presses his lips—anxiously, hesitantly, hopefully—against Cas’.

It’s more awkward than he’d anticipated, but sue him, he’s never kissed someone who’s upside down before. The point, though, is that he’d read this right: Cas doesn’t pull away. In fact, he leans in as much as he can, humming happily when Dean takes another small step and cups his jaw.

Dean can’t help the smile that materializes across his lips, and Cas doesn’t seem to mind it either, judging by the way he runs his tongue across the seam of Dean’s lips, sighing contentedly when Dean grants him more access.

Maybe Tobey Maguire had been onto something.

“Have I ever told you,” Cas starts once they pull apart a few seconds later, and Dean’s breath catches in his chest as Cas’ hand ghosts gently across Dean’s jaw, fingers trailing along his scruffy beard, “how much I like this?”

Dean smiles down at the ground before darting his eyes back up to Cas’. Truth is, he’d been a little hesitant about the change in his facial hair, a little unsure and self-conscious, but to have Cas’ seal of approval? Well, hell, he’ll keep the damn beard going for the rest of his life.

Can’t make it that obvious, though.

 “Sure that’s not the blood rushin’ to your head talkin’, Cas?” he asks teasingly. 

Before Cas can answer, he gasps as whatever had been snagged on the gutters starts to give, jerking him down a few inches closer to the ground. Jerked out of their impromptu like confession, Dean goes into protection mode, steadying Cas’ broad shoulders under his hands and murmuring reassurances and the steps they’d need to take to get him down. 

“Just a heads up,” Dean says, “your coat might rip on the way down, man.”

Cas pouts. “This is my favorite overcoat.”

Dean can’t help but roll his eyes affectionately at Cas’ disappointment. “There’s a reason it ain’t exactly known as go-to gutter-cleaning attire. Guarantee I’ll find you one just like it at Goodwill. Let’s go.”

Ideally, Dean would have more time to scope out the situation and come up with the safest way to get Cas down, but his gutters are old, Cas ain’t exactly a beanpole, and time isn’t exactly on his side. “I’ll catch you,” he finally says.

Cas goes still at that, staring at Dean in a way Dean assumes is supposed to be serious, but only comes across as funny while he’s still upside down. “You’re not.”

“I am.” He rolls up the sleeves of his old green shirt and takes a step back, sizing up the space where Cas is most likely to end up once he falls and positioning himself squarely in the center of it. “Unless you got a better idea?”

The creaking of the gutter answers for him, and Cas squeezes his eyes shut. “Fine,” he bites out. “What do I have to do?”

“Use those yoga moves of yours—” Dean brings his hands as close as he can to his feet in demonstration “—and shake loose whatever it is that’s holding you up. Probably a belt loop on your coat or somethi—Cas, Cas, Jesus Chri—”

Dean is cut off as Cas comes tumbling out of the air, landing more on top of Dean than in his arms. Dean’s taken by surprise by the whole motion (he’d been expecting their efforts to start on the count of three, at least), and instead of trying to catch Cas, he just sort of uses his body as a space for Cas to land on. In the blink of an eye, he’s on his back on his front lawn with Cas crumpled on top of him, peering curiously at him.

“Dean,” Cas says, tossing the tie he’d been wearing over his shoulder so it’s not dangling in Dean’s face. “Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Dean coughs, more out of reflex than actual need, and waves Cas’ fingers away. “‘m fine, Cas. And four.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Cas relaxes, but doesn’t make any move to get off of Dean. Instead, he reaches above Dean’s eyeline and gently pulls some leaves and a stray twig from Dean’s hair. Satisfied, he uses his thumb to swipe a strand of hair from Dean’s forehead before dropping a quick kiss there, as well.

“For the record, my blood is rushing to all the right places now, and this,”—he traces his fingers along the stubble on Dean’s jaw— “is looking better than ever.” 

Dean had been half-expecting some crack about being Cas’ knight in shining armor, but this is better than he could have imagined. He lets the muscles in his neck relax, dropping his head down into the grass, and laughs.

“Glad you approve.” He tugs Cas down without preamble so their bodies are flush, pressing another kiss to his lips before pulling him into a hug. “Let’s get inside before one of us rolls onto a fire ant nest or somethin’, huh?”

That gummy smile looks even better up close, and Dean grins as he feels the tip of Cas’ nose brush against his. Cas gets to his feet and offers a hand to Dean to help him up. Cas pulls Dean to his feet like he weighs no more than a sack of flour, and if Dean thought he’d been turned on before, hoo boy had he been mistaken.

 “Your gutters,” Cas says sadly, looking forlornly at the half-cleaned gutters lining Dean’s house.

“Trust me,” Dean says, wrapping an arm around Cas’ waist and pulling him close enough for Dean to flip Dean’s trench aside and dip his hand into the back pocket of Cas’ pants, “they’ll survive. You, on the other hand…”

“It was just a minor misstep, Dean!”

“Yeah, yeah. Inside, Bob the Builder.”

On their way inside, Dean feels his phone vibrate in his pocket; it’d somehow survived the mess he’d just gone through unscathed. There are a few random notifications, from Instagram to Gmail to a reminder that he still needs to do that day’s Wordle, but the latest one, an alert from NextDoor, has a slow smile spreading across his face.

Did anyone see the two hooligans making out on the lawn of 41 Garrison just now??? Seriously, people, what is this, high school? Think of the children and get a room!!! 😠