Archive of Our Own ^beta

Over the past few years, Dean has seen his fair share of all the hipsters Kansas State’s intelligentsia has to offer. It comes part and parcel with the business of managing an artsy little coffee shop near campus. Wayward Java is nowhere near frat row or the sports facilities and is nestled near the library, which makes it particularly popular among the liberal arts crowd. The place is always packed with professors, language students with flashcards, kids with tattoos and pink hair and pastels, and groups of students that sit together, reading countless books and writing endless pages, barely speaking a word to each other.

“It’s for, like, solidarity and stuff,” Krissy had told Dean after listening to his half-hearted rant on their smoke break. “Easier to focus if other people are focusing around you, that kinda thing.”

“Well it’s weird,” Dean had said, flicking the butt of his cigarette out toward the dumpster behind the shop. “They chat while they’re settling in, then don’t talk for like an hour, and then compare their progress, and then go right back to it.”

“Maybe they’re having a contest.”

“That actually makes it worse.”

Krissy snags Dean’s pack of menthols and steals a second. “Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t make it weird, Dean.”

Regardless, Dean was fairly goddamn certain he’d completed his weirdo bingo card several semesters ago.

And then, along with the frigid, frozen start of the so-called spring semester, Castiel Novak came to campus.

At first, Dean thought he was a mid-life crisis student, a rare breed of adult who sees their shadow and runs straight from their office for the nearest college. Novak certainly fit the bill—rumpled shirt and tie, fresh from a day in a white-collar world; a flannel-lined overcoat in case of inclement weather; a briefcase that had seen better days—but he didn’t order like one. He didn’t get espresso, or a macchiato, or a chai.

“What’s new?” he’d ask Dean, and it seemed like it was always Dean’s turn when it came to this weird, dorky little guy.

“I’m good,” Dean would reply, running on autopilot. “What can I get started for you today?”

And Novak would scrunch up his nose and frown before saying, “I just asked you what was new.”

Dean has no idea why he asks this, but it happens every single day, and then he doesn’t even order whatever over-sweet concoction Krissy’s smoked up this morning.

“Just...coffee?”

“Yes,” Novak says with a nod.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“A large black coffee,” he confirms. “In a mug, please. The name is Castiel Novak.”

Dean always shakes his head and chuckles. “I got it, Castiel Novak, you’re memorable.”

After picking up his coffee at the other end of the counter, Castiel weird-as-fuck Novak takes himself and his backwards tie and his coat and his briefcase and sits next to the garbage can.

The garbage can.

Novak sets his coffee to the right of his briefcase before pulling a large pad of graph paper out of it, followed by a box of colored pens—

“Sakura Micron,” Alex told him during a shift over the low rumbling of aerating milk. “No bleed-through, bright colors, good shit.”

—which he sets to the left of his briefcase. Then Novak sits for the entirety of their primetime traffic, watching the garbage can like a hawk, and taking notes.

Dean wants to ask, but also suspects that he probably doesn’t want to know. Why someone would spend four hours during every day of the first three weeks of school sitting and watching the college crowd throw shit away, he has no clue. But Novak tips well before he leaves, and so Dean leaves him to it. They have their tiny conversation every shift, and Dean absolutely doesn’t watch Novak as closely as he watches the garbage.

No, he has no reason to frequently glance over and notice how blue Novak’s eyes are, how they almost glow in the waning light streaming in through the glass door he sits beside. Dean never notices how cool and calm Novak looks when he’s concentrating, like he’s on a mission. He certainly never flicks his eyes up from the register to see Novak’s chapped pink lips break into a genuine grin whenever Dean confirms that he remembers his name. Dean has definitely never considered how Novak’s hair always looks like he had a partner into pulling and just finished having sex, and he absolutely hasn’t thought about styling that hair himself.

Dean is absolutely not fond of Castiel Novak.

Nope.

Not a bit.

* * *

“I’m not,” Dean insists as he ties on his apron.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Claire tells him Monday afternoon as she clocks in. “‘Fond’ isn’t the right word. What you are is completely fucked.”

Dean glares. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

“Oh, it’s not mine. It’s Mom’s.” Claire rummages under the counter for her red apron, some black-lace covered monstrosity from the Hot Topical.

“Your apron is what’s fucked,” Dean half-heartedly tosses out. “And what does the Sheriff know? She’s never here when he is.”

“What the Sheriff knows,” says his boss from over his shoulder, “is that you want to add the newest member of the anthropology department to your conquest list.” Jody smiles as she turns Dean around, pinning a large pink, heart-shaped button to his shirt.

Dean looks down and groans in disgust. “Seriously? Do I have to?”

“It’s the week before Valentine’s Day,” Jody explains. “So, yes, you do. If you’re going to insist on working all day, every day—”

“What, you’re going to screw me over for enjoying my job?”

“No, I’m going to use you to promote our holiday specials.”

“Whatever,” says Dean, rolling his eyes. “I’d file a complaint with the management, except that’s me. And I’d take it to the owner, but that’s you.”

“It’s good to be the queen,” Jody says, patting his shoulder.

“Couldn’t it at least be a circle or, I dunno, anatomically correct?” Dean flicks the offending button with his finger. “You know I don’t go in for the whole love and…” He pauses, searching for another word, but finds nothing. “Love thing.”

Claire huffs behind him. “Neither do I, but you don’t hear me being a primadonna about it.”

“Thanks for the solidarity, Grumpy Cat.”

“Besides, maybe your professorial crush is into anatomical incorrectness,” Jody points out.

“He is not my crush. I don’t get crushes, okay?”

“Fine,” says Jody with an exasperated wave, “your PILF, then.”

Dean quickly processes the new information as he counts out the morning’s till. “You said he’s a professor?”

“Anthropology, yeah.”

“He’s teaching my intro class,” Alex confirms as she shrugs on her peacoat. “Really smart guy. Kind of intense, though. Completely oblivious communicator.” She grins before cheekily adding, “Obviously married to his work. Probably single. Hot, but you know that already.”

“You know, Jody,” Dean says, closing the register harder than truly necessary, “I don’t need you or your daughters setting me up. I am the master of the art of the pick-up, okay? I could write a fuckin’ book on one-night-standing. I know every trick for successful sex in both bathrooms and backseats.”

“Those seem like unhygienic places for intercourse,” says Castiel needs-a-bell Novak from the other side of the counter. “Not to mention uncomfortable.”

“I don’t share my memory foam with anybody,” says Dean.

“Unless they’re from the theatre department,” Jody adds.

“Can’t exactly fit a cast party in my car, now can I?”

Novak stares at Dean. He’s not sure if he’s being judged or not. Eventually, Novak just nods over at Alex and says, “Hello, Ms. Mills.”

Alex blushes. “Hi, Mr. Novak.”

“We have a quiz tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” she confirms, “it’s on the syllabus. And you told us in class. Twice.”

“Good.” Novak smiles, turns back to Dean and asks, “What’s new?”

* * *

“It’s not like you were being slut-shamed,” Krissy tells Dean the next morning, blowing smoke out the back door and into the rain. “I mean, he’d have eventually heard about Dean Winchester, campus bicycle.”

Dean shrugs, his cigarette all but forgotten, nothing but a comforting prop in his hands. “I dunno, I just—” He sighs.

“Just what?”

“He’s weird, but I feel really drawn to him, y’know?”

“Then why do you never strike up a conversation?”

Dean gives up and tosses his barely-smoked menthol into the puddling water beneath the doorstep. “Because I might sort of want something a little more profound than my normal fuck-and-fly.”

Krissy looks over at him incredulously. “But you don’t date.”

“No,” Dean confirms, “but I wouldn’t mind having something regular. Someone to go back to. Something good.”

“So why him?”

Dean laughs. “Have you seen him? The man is liquid sex poured into a poorly-fit suit. And he’s got tall, dark, and mysterious written all over him.”

Krissy shakes her head and smiles. “Never thought I’d see the day where you wanted friends with benefits with someone you aren’t even friends with yet.”

“Aim high and shoot straight, Krissy,” he tells her, clapping her on the shoulder.

* * *

“What’s new?” Novak asks him that afternoon. His hair is damp from the rain and clings to his scalp. Water drips down his face. He’s already smiling today, though, wide and welcoming in spite of the weather.

Dean hesitates, then asks, “Why do you want to know?”

Novak shrugs. “I like being informed.”

“Most people, when they ask, ‘what’s new?’ are asking the other person how they are, what’s up, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Novak blinks. “I wasn’t aware.”

“Seriously?”

“Social conventions tend to elude me,” he says, somewhat sheepishly.

“What,” Dean asks, “rusty people skills?”

“Something like that,” says Novak, nodding sadly. It’s the first time Dean’s ever seen him look anything but confident, and he doesn’t like it.

“To answer your question,” he begins, hoping that redirecting the conversation will help Novak regain his footing, “Krissy’s come up with something special for Valentine’s Day called a...shit. Hey, Magpie!” Dean cranes his head and shouts toward the back room. “What the hell’s that monstrosity of yours called?”

“Triple Chocolate Covered Cherryccino,” she shouts back.

“That sounds…complex,” says Novak carefully.

“It’s a whole lot of something, alright.”

“I think I’d like to try one.”

Dean shakes his head. “What?”

“Yes,” Novak says, nodding again, “I will have one Triple Chocolate Covered Cherryccino. The name is—”

“You really don’t have to tell me anymore, you know that, right?”

“I do know, yes,” says Novak. “But I like hearing you say my name.”

Dean busts out laughing. “Do you now?”

“Yes.”

And if Dean confirms his name as he writes it down on the doily for his mug, and calls it out to Krissy to make, and calls it out to Novak as he leaves...well, that’s his own damn business.

* * *

Krissy rummages around in the pocket of Dean’s leather jacket for his Icarus Zippo. “I bet you’ll have fucked him by Valentine’s Day.”

“What?”

“Castiel Novak, in your bedroom, with the lead pipe.”

“Look, Colonel Mustard,” Dean says tiredly, “it’s my mattress. It remembers me and no one else, capisce?”

“And I still think you’re gonna bump uglies with him on it by the fourteenth,” Krissy asserts around the cigarette between her lips. “I bet he’s a freak in the sack.”

“Why’s that?”

She lights her purloined menthol and puffs on it before answering. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

Dean cheekily asks her, “So what’s my excuse then?”

“Failed prophylactics,” she deadpans.

* * *

Wednesday is even rainier and drearier than the day before, which means Wayward Java is packed when Novak arrives. Dean throws a quick glance over at Novak’s preferred table, hoping it to be empty.

It isn’t. Of course it isn’t. No, Dr. Braeden is exactly where she’s been for the past three hours, winking at Dean every time he looks her way. Lisa, one of the four exceptions Dean made to his self-imposed “bring no one home” rule, is sitting squarely in the spot where Dean’s hopefully fifth exception always parks.

“You gonna make Bendy Braeden scoot over or what?” Claire asks him, elbowing him in the ribs.

“I can’t,” he replies. “She’s a paying customer, she’ll complain, she’ll tell people I have posters of Harrison Ford in my closet…”

Claire snorts. “Do you seriously?”

“So he’s gonna have to sit somewhere else.”

“I can’t,” Castiel Novak says, startling Dean.

“Why?” he asks him, hand reflexively on his chest as if that will settle his speeding heart.

“Because I’m studying your trash.”

Dean licks his lips. “I’m sorry, I’m recovering from a heart attack and I swear you just said you were studying our garbage.”

“I am,” says Novak matter-of-factly. “I’m a garbologist.”

“Gesundheit,” Claire says.

“No, a garbologist.”

“And what,” Dean starts, “pray tell, is a garbologist?”

“I study the accumulation of modern humanity’s consumer waste and the intersection between our garbage and our culture. Essentially, I am an archaeologist searching for meaning in the material cast-offs of our lives.”

“Whoa,” says Krissy, closing the back door behind her as she comes back in out of the rain. “Dean, you sure you want to bang that wordy of a motherf— ow!”

“Grumpy Cat, we don’t throw paper cups,” Dean admonishes. “Especially not an entire stack.”

“No, you said we don’t throw them at customers,” Claire says.

“Fine, okay, just clean it up.” Dean sighs heavily and scratches his scruff in thought. “Could you get a clear enough view from back here?”

“What do you mean?” asks Novak.

“If I pulled a stool out of the back room, could you sit behind the counter and have a decent line of sight to the trash can?”

Novak tilts his head and stares at Dean. “Would you allow that?”

“Will it work?”

He looks over at the garbage then back to the counter. “I think that would be suitable, yes.”

“Well then get your ass back here and set up shop, Castiel grades-my-garbage Novak.”

Novak smiles as he does, and smiles when Dean sets a Triple Chocolate Covered Cherryccino to the right of his briefcase, and occasionally just smiles at Dean. Though Dean wouldn’t know, because that would mean he was looking back, and he isn’t.

When the evening rush dies down and Novak starts packing up, he pulls Dean aside and confides, “I ask about the special drink every morning so I can add it to my log. I keep track of how much trash is generated per type of beverage.”

“Is that why you always want a mug?”

“It is,” says Novak. “I’ve studied garbage for too long to care to generate a great deal of my own.”

“Makes sense to me,” says Dean as he takes Novak’s cup to the sink. “Maybe you could let me know how to cut down on my shop’s, yeah?”

“Wayward Java is yours?”

Dean pauses as he scrubs the dried bits of chocolate foam out of the deep mug. “Not yet, but someday. Sheriff’s gonna sell it to me when she retires. We’ve got a written up agreement and everything.”

“Is that what you want to do with your life?”

“Before I landed this, I was just another broke douchebag with a guitar and a dream. Now I’m a comfortable douchebag with a guitar and a better one.”

Novak echoes, “Makes sense to me.” He puts on his overcoat and picks up his briefcase. “Have a good night, Dean.”

“You do the same, Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel.”

Dean looks over at Novak. “What?”

“Just Castiel, from now on,” Castiel says. “We’re friends now.”

“Oh no,” says Dean, “we can’t be friends unless I give you a nickname. Claire’s is Grumpy Cat, because she is one. Krissy’s is Magpie because she always steals my shit. I call Alex O’Keefe because she’s an art major. Jody’s the Sheriff ‘cause she’s in charge. You hang around here long enough,” Dean continues, chest-passing the towel across the shop to Castiel, who catches it neatly, “I’m gonna rename you.”

“So then rename me.”

“Are you gonna ask nicely?”

“Should I?” Castiel asks, his voice dropping into a range that speaks directly to Dean’s dick.

Dean swallows. “It’s...it’s one of those things that happens naturally. I can’t just do it at the drop of a hat.”

“That’s funny,” says Castiel as he opens the door and steps out into the cold night. “I was under the distinct impression that you do it whenever you want to.”

Krissy cackle-snorts loudly from the back room.

* * *

“You haven’t been wearing your button,” Alex chastises Dean, reangling herself to stay out of the wind-blown smoke of Dean’s cigarette.

“It’s a dumb button.”

“Mom said you had to wear the button. We all have to wear the button. It’s festive.”

“It’s dumb.”

“It’s a holiday,” she insists.

“Which is also dumb,” Dean replies. “I mean, who even comes to a coffee shop to celebrate Valentine’s Day, anyway? We’re not having a drum circle or a poetry slam or whatever. There’s no need for the Sheriff to be redecorating the whole fuckin’ store with pink and red streamers and putting carnations on tables. Probably just doing it to fuck with me.”

Alex shrugs. “Be that as it may, you still have to wear the button.”

Dean takes out his frustration by stomping his cigarette out under his boot. It’s childish, sure, but he feels childish. The only holiday he celebrates every fourteenth of February is Unattached Drifter Christmas. Dean hasn’t liked Valentine’s Day since he left elementary school and homemade valentine’s mailboxes behind. He hated getting secret admirer cards and love notes stuffed into his locker, hated the stupid dances and the dinner dates he had to sit through. The only good thing about Valentine’s Day was the deeply-discounted candy the day after, but that was a poor consolation prize for having to have everyone else’s romantic notions stuffed down his throat for the preceding week or two.

“Look,” says Alex gently, like she’s far older than Dean, “let me see what I can do, okay? I know it bugs you, and I know Mom doesn’t really get why it bugs you, or that it does so badly.”

Dean shoves a hand through his hair and nods tightly.

* * *

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets him cheerily, and Dean tries to summon a smile, but it’s seen through quickly. “What’s wrong?”

“I really hate Valentine’s Day and all of the…” He gestures around the room at all of the new decor. “ Accoutrements that come with it.”

“Ah,” says Castiel. “I can’t say that the Feast of St. Valentine has ever been my favorite, either.”

“Too much paper and packaging to end up in the trash?”

“Partly. Primarily though…” Castiel looks away, his shoulders drooping slightly. “I have trouble with traditionally-accepted dating relationships.”

“Man, I don’t know what that feels like at all,” Dean commiserates sarcastically.

“Well,” Castiel begins, “it feels like never being understood or accepted or—”

“No, no, Castiel, hold on. I was joking. Y’know, sarcasm?”

“Of course,” says Castiel. “My mistake.”

“For such a funny guy, humor sure does have a habit of flying over your head.”

Castiel frowns. “Am I funny?”

“That shit you threw at me last night was killer.”

“I don’t recall throwing anything at you,” Castiel tells him, “except, that is, for the towel.”

“The whole ‘you do it whenever you want’ bit?”

Castiel squints in concentration for a few seconds before suddenly grinning. “Yes, I suppose that is very humorous, looking back.”

“Oh, great,” says Dean, “just what I needed; an accidental comedian.”

“I shall endeavor to be funny on purpose in the future,” Castiel solemnly swears.

Dean laughs and waves him off. “Just go take your seat so I can bring you your coffee, alright?”

One of Castiel’s eyebrows raises sharply, and Dean gets the instinct impression that he’s being reprimanded for something.

“...Please go have a seat?”

Castiel’s face softens, and he does, and Claire or Jody or whoever the hell it was is right—Dean is completely fucked.

* * *

Alex came through in spades, and Dean has never been happier to pin flair on a work uniform in his entire life.

“I will have you know,” Jody tells him after he opens the bright green paper bag, “that Alex tore up my craft closet hunting down Shrinky Dinks and pinbacks. You also owe me a hot glue gun, because mine will never be the same.”

Dean is only half paying attention, because he has an array of shiny new conversation heart-shaped pins in various shades of green and yellow. “NAH,” says one; another proclaims, “I’M GOOD.” His favorite is the “NAY” one because it reminds him of Charlie, and he knows as soon as he sees it that he’ll wind up giving it to her on the fifteenth. For now, though, it rests beside “NOPE” and directly beneath “EH”.

“I will buy you the Impala of hot glue guns, Sheriff.”

“Why didn’t you say something, Dean?”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal to everybody else. Not the first time I’ve had to deal with it, just the first time here.”

“Well after you and Claire came out at the same time…” Jody closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m glad she had you to come to and talk with about it, because I...well to be honest, I still don’t completely understand, but I’m trying.”

“Which is awesome, because Mom and Dad and Sam still ask me when I’m gonna settle down with a nice girl. Although Sam at least includes men as a possibility.”

“I keep fucking it up, though,” Jody says. “First I thought Claire was going to sleep around like you do—”

“To be fair,” says Dean, “that’s more a me thing than an aro thing.”

“I get that now. It’s going to take me even longer to wrap my head around the not-interested-in-sex thing.”

“Yeah, but you’re trying. That’s what matters.” Dean slips his apron on over his head, looks down at his chest, and beams.

Jody reaches around him for the apron strings while he’s distracted by his pins and crosses them, bringing them around to tie in the front. “I did it the other way around this time. I assumed that if Claire didn’t give two shits about Valentine’s Day that it wouldn’t bother you, either.”

“You know the old saying.”

“And I am certainly an ass,” she says as she finishes tying a double bow like she’s securing shoes on a kid.

Dean pulls her in for a hug. “I can’t be the only asshole around here all the time.”

* * *

“Well one of us is going to have to go home and change,” Claire says, pointing between their matching sets of buttons.

“I vote you, Grumpy Cat,” replies Dean, sliding a plate of freshly baked, anatomically-incorrect, heart-shaped sugar cookies into the case. “If I go home, I’ll just come back with lightsabers and battle it out with you.”

Claire makes a retching noise. “Nerd.”

“So your mom apologized,” Dean says, shutting the case and ignoring her jab.

“We might have had a talk last night,” admits Claire. “I told her it wasn’t good for business if you constantly looked like you wanted to vomit.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“It’s your shop, too,” Claire says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You should get a say before Mom decorates the place in bubblegum and tutus.”

Dean bites his lip, but says nothing.

“You work your ass off,” she continues. “Taking you into consideration is the least she can do.”

“Dean is a hard worker,” Castiel says from the front of the counter, “but his ass looks fine to me.”

Claire gags again, covers her face, and speedwalks toward the back room. She smacks into the door frame, readjusts, and goes in, kicking the door shut behind her.

“Sex-repulsed,” Dean explains.

Castiel nods in understanding. “That must make working with you very difficult.”

“She manages,” says Dean with a smile. “So you look at my ass pretty often, huh?”

“When the opportunity presents itself, yes.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Presents.’ You have no idea you just made a joke, do you?”

Castiel shrugs in response before asking, “What’s new?”

“Still runnin’ with the Tee-Three-Cee. It’s been pretty popular.”

“I’ll take one to go, then.”

Dean’s face falls. “Not gonna sit and monitor my garbage today?”

“I have a meeting with the head of the department.”

“Dr. Moseley? What about?”

Castiel grins excitedly and sets his briefcase on the counter. He opens it up and pulls out a flier, handing it to Dean.

It’s a picture of Uncle Sam standing in a trash can, the speech bubble proclaiming, “I want YOU to join the Kansas State Garbology Squad!”

“You’re recruiting?”

“It’s a fascinating field, and several students in my classes have shown an interest,” explains Castiel. “I am very passionate about trash.”

“Yeah, O'Keefe said you were married to your work,” says Dean, staring down at the flier. He’s never even imagined a star-spangled trash can before.

“I suppose so. It certainly minimizes the impact of ceremonial ephemera in waste.”

Dean shakes his head as he squats down to look under the counter. “Here,” he says as he pops back up with a Force Awakens travel cup. “You can borrow my mug.”

Castiel blinks. “That isn’t necessary, Dean.”

“I insist. I know you’re good for it, and if you forget,” continues Dean with a wink, “I’ll just come over to your place to get it.”

“But you don’t know where I live,” Castiel says with a frown.

“You could tell me.”

“I could.”

Dean waits for him to pull out some paper and write down an address, or maybe a phone number, or anything. But Castiel doesn’t do any of that. He stands there with a small smile, staring at Dean, and Dean has no idea what to make of it.

So he makes Castiel his ridiculous coffee, drizzles extra chocolate syrup over it, adds a second cherry on top, and hands it over. Castiel pays and leaves...and that’s all.

“You could have written your number on the cardboard sleeve,” Claire tells him later.

Dean scoffs. “That’s so fuckin' cliche.”

* * *

“You’ve got to speed this up, Dean,” Krissy says Saturday morning after stealing Dean’s last cigarette.

“Speed what up?”

“Getting Professor Novak to screw your brains out,” she explains as she lights up. “I’ve got twenty bucks riding on Valentine’s Day.”

“Who are you betting with, Magpie?” Dean asks, stealing the cigarette back after she takes a puff.

“I mighta told Charlie about it.”

Dean groans. “Great. Next thing you know, she’ll be writing fanfic.”

“Oh come on. Anybody with eyes ships it.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to be shipped,” says Dean. “I don’t want a relationship. Not like the two of you constantly read up on. I’m not rescuin’ anybody’s princess and living happily ever after. I’m good on my own.”

“So are you Frodo or Samwise in this equation?” she asks smugly.

“I thought you two were Bagginshielders.”

“I can appreciate the classics.”

* * *

Much to Dean’s chagrin, there are couples and PDA everywhere. Customers keep asking about his plans for Sunday, and when he tells them he’s going to work all day before going home to pizza and beer, they look at him with pity. Dean hates it. He hates people assuming that there’s something inherently wrong with being alone on February fourteenth.

Dean burns most of the coffee on purpose, and there’s far less finesse in his latte art. If one more college kid asks if he can make a heart in the foam, he’s going to scream.

Alex keeps her distance, and he’s grateful for it, because today sucks and Dean doesn’t want to talk to romantics any more than he already has to. It’s bad enough that she’s reading Pride and Prejudice; like hell is he going to put up with her excited rambling over it.

“You seem agitated today,” Castiel notes when he arrives. He’s still dressed like he’s on his way to class, and Dean has to stifle the urge to reach out and fix his tie for the umpteenth time so he stops embarrassing himself in front of his students. “Are you dreading your plans for tomorrow?”

Dean stares at Castiel in disbelief. “Not you, too. I’m surrounded by idiots, I don’t need shit from you.”

Castiel bristles. “There’s no need to be rude, Dean.”

“Sorry,” says Dean, deflating. “I don’t mean to be snappy. And you weren’t giving me shit, but everybody else is.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, Dr. Novak, why don’t you assess the situation?”

Castiel narrows his eyes and tilts his head to one side. Dean feels nearly naked, and goosebumps pop up on his arms. He’d lean back as Castiel leans forward, invading his space, but he doesn’t want to. Dean wants to see what will happened if he just stays still and waits.

It feels natural, and that frightens him as much as he finds it thrilling.

But Castiel does nothing, instead retreating and saying, “I’m not a doctor.”

Dean does his best not to look disappointed. “I thought you were a professor.”

“Adjunct, yes. But I only have my master’s degree.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “So what, you get your students to call you Master Novak instead?”

The corners of Castiel’s lips twitch up momentarily. “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.” He pauses, then adds. “Why? Do you want to?”

Alex spits her chai across the counter.

* * *

“So do you?” Charlie asks him over the phone as he stuffs packets of raw sugar into the dispenser the next morning.

“Fuck, Charlie, I’d call him anything he wanted at this point.”

Charlie whistles lowly. “You got it bad, boy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he says as he switches the phone to rest between his other ear and shoulder.

“I never said it was. I’m just saying that you’ve never pursued anybody like this before. You’ve never wanted to commit to somebody.”

“It kinda scares me,” Dean admits.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to give up my wanton ways.” He sighs and plays with the coffee stirrers. “I want to have more than a night with Cas, right? But I don’t want to limit myself. I like sex. One partner isn’t satisfying. We’d both end up miserable. And I don’t want to go on dates or hold hands or do any of that fucked up couple-y stuff.”

“Okay,” Charlie starts, “but have you said any of this to him?”

“No.” Dean plops sideways into an armchair, dangling his legs over the arm. “He did say he had trouble with relationships himself, but that’s because he’s an awkward motherfucker who has no idea what his words sound like most of the time.”

“Dean, he asked you flat-out if you wanted to call him ‘master’. Pretty sure he had a clue what that sounded like.”

“Okay, but that joke Cas made the other night? The one where he—”

Charlie snorts. “Oh yeah, Krissy told me all about that when she came over to buy off me. But did you consider that maybe he had a different intent than making a joke?”

“Like what?”

“Maybe he’s trying to fluster you. You said he likes studying trash. Maybe he likes studying you, too.” She pauses. “Did you just nickname him ‘Cas’?”

Dean shifts in his seat. “I think I did.”

* * *

“I would wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day,” says Castiel to Dean’s back, “but it would be disingenuous seeing as neither of us celebrate it.”

“I’ve heard it from every other customer already today,” Dean says tiredly as he finishes pouring the coffee before turning around. “It wouldn’t be a big—”

Castiel’s not wearing a shirt and tie today. He doesn’t have his trenchcoat, wearing a leather jacket, instead. His jeans have seen better days, and his bright green sneakers probably glow in the dark, but it’s the t-shirt that catches Dean’s attention, plain and black and tight in all the right places.

“Damn,” is all he manages to say. He’s lucky he hasn’t dropped the coffee at this point.

“It’s my day off,” Castiel explains.

“Can it always be your day off?”

“That would be very impractical.”

Dean rolls his eyes and walks down to the other end of the counter to set the coffee down. “You look good, Cas. That’s all I’m saying.”

Castiel’s cheeks darken slightly as he mumbles, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Same thing?” he asks on his way back.

“Same thing.”

Dean works mostly in silence, but he steals frequent glances at Castiel, who is, in turn, apparently attempting to stare holes through Dean. He’s got his hands jammed into his pockets, thumbs in his belt loops, rocking back and forth on his feet.

“You nervous ‘bout something?”

“Somewhat, yes,” Castiel tells him, but leaves it at that.

“You gonna make me play twenty questions or is it private?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Dean’s shoulders shake as he laughs quietly, managing to keep his hand steady as he mans the whipped cream dispenser. “Well when you figure it out,” he says, flipping it into the air and catching it when he’s finished, “let me know.”

“Don’t worry, Dean,” says Castiel. “I will.”

* * *

Castiel stays for the remainder of the shift, sipping his coffee and reading on his phone. As far as Dean knows, Castiel hasn’t looked back over at him, but his mere presence is keeping him grounded today. His smiles are genuine, and the few couples that do wander in after their dinners or matinees get his best coffee, not burnt.

Dean makes the executive decision to close early when he notices it’s been over an hour since he made a drink. He walks over to the front windows and flips over the sign from “Effing Open” to “Effing Not” and starts rolling down the shades, a subtle hint that the handful of remaining customers quickly get. Dean brought the rest of the cookies up with him, and encourages everyone to take a few since he’s kicking them out before normal closing hours. Since they cater to hipsters and college kids, no one complains because hey, free food.

Castiel sneaks up on him, same as always, announcing his presence with a quiet, “Dean.”

He jumps and loses his balance, falling back, but not far—Castiel was standing much closer than he thought. Dean’s practically got his head back on Castiel’s shoulder, knows he could tilt his head just enough to follow the line of Castiel’s jaw, tilt it a little further and start biting kisses up his neck.

Instead, he chokes out, “PDA.”

“The shades are drawn over all the glass, and we are very much alone.”

And it’s exceedingly unfair of Castiel to use his sex voice again, because Dean is at work, and doing anything on the premises would be incredibly unprofessional, so obviously Dean turns around immediately, grabs Castiel by the lapels of his jacket, and crashes their lips together.

The kiss is frantic on both sides, and Castiel is better at this than Dean expected someone with limited people skills to be. Dean always leads when it comes to kissing—it comes with the territory of being tall, strong, and muscular—but Castiel is fucking demanding and Dean is very, very willing to hand over the reins. Castiel has one hand in Dean’s hair, grabbing his ass with the other and pulling him in flush with his hips. He slips his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and he still tastes like that too-sweet coffee, like sugar and chocolate and cherries, but Dean finds that he’s suddenly a huge fan of the drink.

Castiel finally pulls back for air, nipping and pulling at Dean’s lip on his retreat. “I have to tell you something before we go any further,” he says.

Dean whines but opens his eyes and looks straight into Castiel’s. “Sure, but tell me quickly, yeah?”

“I don’t do…’normal’ relationships.”

“Well fuck, Cas,” Dean says with a grin, “that’s perfectly fine with me.”

“I know that,” he replies. “I saw your buttons.”

Dean’s going to buy Jody at least ten hot glue guns.

“So what’s the problem?” he asks, moving his hands from over Castiel’s jacket to under his shirt.

“I’m very attracted to you, Dean. But I have certain...proclivities.”

Dean tries not to bounce impatiently. “Oh my god, man, spit it out already.”

“I’m a Dom, Dean,” and he says it hesitantly—not as if he’s ashamed of it, but like he’s about to launch into an explanation, like he expects he’ll need to, so Dean cuts him off.

“Great!” he says. “Awesome. Surprising, but super. I haven’t subbed in forever. Can we please get back to the getting off now?”

Castiel looks stunned. “You—”

“I was the twinkiest twink to ever twinkle, okay? Shit happened.”

“We’ll—uh,” Castiel sputters. “We’ll need to lay down some rules and negotiate and—”

“You can tie me up and spank me later, alright? We can talk about it over breakfast. I’ll take a day off, you can show me your toys, I’ll show you mine, we’ll have a playdate.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Well aren’t you a bossy bottom.”

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

“I look forward to finding out,” and the next thing Dean knows is the feel of his back hitting the front window, and the sound of the shade rustling and knocking against the glass. Castiel pulls his arms over his head and holds his wrists against the window, tight enough to make Dean hiss.

“I’ve got my paperwork at home,” Dean says in a rush.

“I trust you would tell me if you weren’t clean.”

“I appreciate that, but it matters to me that you’ve seen it. Not braggin’, but I’ve had a lot of partners.”

Castiel hmms as he thinks, grip never loosening.

“And I’ve got no intention of changing that, so you’re aware.”

“I’d not ask you to change yourself for me, Dean.”

“Where the hell have you been all my life?”

Castiel smirks as he nudges Dean’s feet apart. “Arizona,” he tells him, slotting himself in between Dean’s open legs. “You can move now.”

“Uh, where to, exactly?”

“Forward, I’d imagine,” Castiel says seriously before grinding against him.

“In my pants like a teenager, huh?” Dean manages to get out between breathy moans.

Castiel leans in next to Dean’s ear and says, “You did tell me you ‘twinkled’ at one point.”

His memory isn’t as great as it was before he met Charlie and her tricked-out grow room, but Dean’s damn sure that he’s never giggled while frotting before.

“Besides,” Castiel continues, “I like knowing that you’re so desperate for whatever I’ll give you that you don’t even consider asking me to take you home first.”

“To be fair—oh fuck, do that again.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Fine, please, but to be fair, you barely even asked if I was interested.”

Castiel stops moving, lets go of Dean’s wrists, and steps back. “I told you earlier I would let you know.”

The back of Dean’s head thunks against the glass of the window. “I said barely asked. Emphasis on the third word.”

“Beyond my issues understanding conversational intent,” Castiel begins, “I have trouble distinguishing between what is romantic and what is platonic. I find my feelings...confusing.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, Schrodinger's aro, that’s cool.” He beckons with his hands without removing them from the glass and adds, “Can you come back over here now?”

He watches Castiel watching him, follows his tongue as he licks his lips. Castiel stands there, arms across his chest, sizing him up for what probably amounts to a short amount of time but feels unbearably long. Dean sighs and lowers his arms.

“Did I fuck this up?”

“Hardly,” says Castiel, and that’s all the warning Dean gets before he leans in and drags Dean back against him. He turns him around so they’re front to back and brings an arm across Dean’s chest. His other hand lands directly over Dean’s pants-and-apron-covered cock. “It’s simply been brought to my attention,” Castiel tells Dean as he rubs him through the layers of fabric, “that you enjoy being caught off-guard.”

“From what I can tell,” Dean gasps, confused as to whether he should grind forward or back, “you’re more than okay with that, too.” At a loss for a place to put his hands, he throws one behind Castiel’s head, tangling into his hair, and clutches his arm with the other.

Castiel doesn’t respond beyond an approving growl as he pulls Dean closer, removing any possible gap between them, setting a rhythm for them until Dean’s slumped in his arms, both of them breathing heavily, coming back down.

“Your mug is still at my house,” Castiel finally says.

“Yeah, but you never gave me your address.”

Castiel releases him and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out one of his Micron pens. Dean follows him over to the counter, where Castiel picks up a doily and starts scribbling down his address.

“Here,” he says, handing it to him. “Close shop, go home, clean up. Be on my doorstep by eleven.”

Dean chuckles. “Aren’t you demanding?”

“Very.”

“Well alright then.” Dean folds the doily in quarters and stuffs it into his back pocket. “See you later.”

“I look forward to it,” says Castiel as he moves toward the door.

“Hey, what am I supposed to call you? ‘Sir’?”

Castiel ducks his head back in the door and smiles. “Dean. I think we’ve already established what you’ll be calling me.”

* * *

Krissy is pissed, and there’s not enough of Charlie’s personally-developed strain in the world to change that. Jody called her at three in the morning to tell her that Dean had called in, and she’d be opening the store by herself and running it until Jody got there at six-thirty. That means Krissy had to actually show up on time, and sober, and wouldn’t get a smoke break because Dean wouldn’t be there with cigarettes to steal.

The situation soured further when she got to Wayward Java, and saw that Dean had done a half-assed job of closing up the night before. There are dishes in the sink, and he didn’t run the sweeper or lint-roll the chairs. Dean’s been managing the place since Krissy was still in high school; she’s never known him to be neglectful like this.

Krissy’s drying the last plate when her phone chirps. She reaches blindly behind her to grab it off the counter, then unlocks it with her nose while she stretches to put the plate in the stack with the others.

It’s a text from Dean. Worse still, it’s a photo from Dean of him and Novak snuggled up in bed looking perfectly sated and smiling sleepily.

“Castiel Novak, in HIS bedroom, with the rope,” reads the message.

Krissy groans and slams her phone back down on the counter. “Son of a bitch.”