Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Light. Bright light. Orange? Brown. Brown walls? Bricks. Table. Book. Textbook. A smell. Coffee. A blur. 

The blur formed into a shape. The shape was familiar.

A person. Shit.

“Haha, sorry. I’d meant to put that down a lot more quietly.” The faceless blur was a man.

Castiel had been woken by the sound of his triple shot caffeinated death-in-a-cup, hitting the table. He’d been torn from a brief dream of about Titian’s Venus and Adonis. It was a good dream. Castiel was there watching the scene unfold. Except Adonis wasn’t leaving Venus for the hunt. He was coming towards Castiel; needless to say, less clothes were worn. Tearing himself away from the memory of what seemed only minutes away from a renaissance art sex dream, Castiel took in the situation. He’d fallen asleep on his textbook while studying, again. Sitting upright he intended on thanking the barista, but stopped dead.

He was gorgeous. Castiel considered: he was certainly an apt replacement for his Adonis. Still finding his bearings, Castiel took a moment to appreciate the little things: the legitimate concern in the green eyes that were in front of him (a concern that his own frenzied awakening had caused), the way that the apron around his waist had caused his shirt to ride up revealing a hint of hip bone, the way the pink of this strangers lips almost matched the subtle shade that ringed his eyes, a sure sign of exhaustion substituted with caffeine. In that moment, everything about the man seemed to be placed just so, hinting at a hidden narrative. Titian would have had a field day.

Castiel was so engrossed by the man in front of him that he failed to notice the post-it note annotation that had been transferred from his textbook to his forehead. He jumped at a flutter of yellow in front of his eyes. In shock, Castiel’s knees hit the table. A sharp gasp of pain. The thump of a textbook falling, landing on his foot.  In one fluid motion, the barista's hands shot out, grabbing the precariously tipping coffee cup, his reflexes saving an English-to-Greek dictionary as Castiel's papers tumbled around them.

The stranger helped Castiel gather the notes which had flown in multiple directions. Castiel thanked him profusely, promising he wasn’t always this much of a mess

The barista’s features seemed to recede towards his nose for a moment before his face and torso were consumed by a warm, rumbling laugh. His eyes wandered from Castiel’s face towards the open textbook (which had, until recently functioned as a pillow). Castiel, missing whatever nuance had been quite that funny, internally shrugged it off as he balled the little yellow note up without looking at it and crammed it into his jeans. Anyhow, he was far too fascinated by the faint hint of freckles which bounced on the man’s nose and around his eyes as he shook.

“So I take it, you’re an art history major...” His eyes darting to the named note book, “Cas-teel?”

“Cas-ti-el,” he amended “double majoring art history and classics, and apparently every known dead language.” Castiel laughed a practiced laugh as he gestured to the mess of four gargantuan textbooks splayed from their once neat pile on the floor. He knew what was coming next.

“How’ve those books not crushed you yet?”

“Well I go to the gym a lot, so they’re nothing.” Daring.  A little proud of his use of sarcasm, Castiel’s smile grew more comfortable on his face.

“Oh yeah, where do you go? I’m over on Kingston.”

Castiel would probably have been more disappointed that his newest social gambit had been missed if he wasn’t so entranced by his Greek Adonis’s might arms, imprisoned but rebellious beneath the fabric of their black uniform T-shirt. Wow. Castiel noted to himself; he was far too easily distracted when this tired.

“…so I'm gonna take your silence as meaning not David’s either…” he laughed, oblivious to how off topic Castiel’s mind had drifted. Oh yes. Gyms. Castiel looked down at the sinews under his woollen jumper and then back at his Adonis’. Realising his sarcasm was going to need more work before it could feature in his social repertoire again, he blankly back pedalled and desperately tried to think of something clever to say.

Castiel fumbled at his pocket, finally pulling out the crumpled ball of yellow. He knew his hands often needed something to do when he was nervous, so they began unravelling the note and reforming it into a sphere. All the while Castiel searched the man’s eyes for a clever retort, desperately trying to not actually notice the depths of green and flecks of amber. Eureka!

“I don’t know if I’m ready to share that vital information with you yet, considering I barely know you. I don’t even know your name yet.” Yes, turn the conversation back on him. Castiel said a silent prayer, which consisted mainly of profanities, begging that last sentence to sound friendly and playful.

“Ah, you got me there, I’m Dean.” (Success!)

Dean.  Castiel thought about it. Good. It suited him. Dean. Deaaan. Dean. Unravelling and reforming the name in his mind. Deeeaaan.

“So Castiel, what brings here at this hour?” Dean’s eyes gesturing to the clock on the wall. 3am. WHAT?! Castiel suddenly remembered. He’d been pulling an all-nighter last night to finish an essay which had started as a historical review of Planudes and ended up a full critique of Polemic theology. Tonight he was doing battle against sexual imagery, baroque saints and depictions of angels.

“It appears I’m trying to reconcile art, religion, philosophy and science in 5,000 words. You?” He immediately regretted that last bit and flushed pink. Nevertheless Dean beamed and let out a pleasant chuckle.

“Well, I work here…” He slid Castiel’s coffee towards him “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you should probably drink this,” The full body laugh which crinkled first his nose and then his eyes consumed Dean’s face again. Castiel decided it was good laugh: sincere, warming, yet strong and booming.

Dean sat in the seat next to Castiel, which, noting the entirely empty café, was not nearly as scandalous as Castiel first had presumed. They spoke for some time. Castiel’s essay, the weather, films, and eventually themselves. Dean had intended on going to college, but after the death of his father, took up numerous jobs to help pay for his little brother’s way through school. By the sounds of it, he was quite smart and off in a private high school somewhere a few states over, in his senior year. Dean had never really had any pets, and honestly wasn’t a big fan of dogs. Dean also had a past girlfriend, but things hadn’t worked out. Castiel took note of this, and figured, at least maybe, he could gain a friend from this social exchange, if not a Renaissance Adonis. Upon being asked about his past love life, Castiel tipped a weak grin and shook his head. No girlfriends there.

Castiel, liking his privacy, opted not to talk about his family and instead his studies again. Dean seemed not to mind. Despite understanding little, he sat in fascination as Castiel explained the influence of the Council of Trent on later Baroque style. Castiel contemplated how much of lecture was being lost on Dean, but the barista seemed to be enjoying the lesson, so Castiel continued. Maybe it was the sense of camaraderie, being awake at such an unholy hour, but the two got along surprisingly well despite their differences in everything from gym attendance to musical tastes.

The two continued onto Dean’s others jobs: a mechanic in a small shop on the border of town during the day, and a bartender at his family friend’s tavern when he wasn’t rostered at the café for the night shift.

“Have you ever considered actually sleeping?” Castiel quipped.

“Considering I work in a place that specialises in caffeinated beverages, I suppose it never crossed my mind.” Dean retorted, a tired grin creeping across his face. “Though, I suppose the last three days have been a bit of mess. Then again, my studious friend, can you really say much?” Dean eyed the dark bags which were a nearly permanent feature of Castiel’s face and extended a finger out to touch one. His touch electrified Castiel’s skin, entirely unprepared for physical contact. All three caffeine shots suddenly seemed to seep into Castiel’s system, most of which ran to his cheeks. Dean was obviously growing increasingly tired and evidently had not been as fazed by the connection and apparently hadn’t noticed the rush of pink to Castiel’s face.

What time was it anyway? Castiel’s eyes, charged and still quite shaken, darted to the clock. Five. After triple checking, it dawned on him that Castiel had been speaking to this attractive stranger for two whole hours. It was unlikely he was showing up to lectures today, the six hours of sleep he had promised himself earlier in the night now reduced to one if he ran home now.

“You know, I’ve been contemplating whether I should tell you. Umm, you’ve got a little…” Dean’s finger circling the growing furrow in his own (flawless) brow, as he took a deep yawn.

“I don’t understand.”

 “… A smudge on your… the, uhh, post-it note.” Castiel’s eyes flitted to the scrunched up ball in his hands and then back at Dean, squinting in confusion. Dean let out a tired chuckle. “I’ve got it.”

Castiel’s eyes followed the barista’s hand as he removed it from the textbook he’d been mindlessly flipping through, and brought his thumb to rest upon his plump pout. Castiel gazed as Dean slowly drew his lower lip down with his thumb to lick the pad of this thumb and reveal a gleam of white which stood in stark contrast to the dark blond, stubbly begginings of–shitfuckshitshitabortabort– Castiel’s cocked head bolted upright and his squint exploded into a look of pure fear as he realised he was staring, slightly too intensely at Dean’s mouth and from the sudden look of realisation and possibly shock on Dean’s face, it was probably quite obvious. Damn it. Damn it all to hell, look casual, LOOK CASUAL, Oh look a textbook, that’s nice, Flemish Baroque painting. Yep. Fascinating. Castiel forgetting to breathe as he swore to never look up from page 243 ever again.

For what felt, to Castiel, like an eternity, both sat in silence contemplating what course of action to take next. Surely, Dean would say something first, especially seeing as he hadn’t been the one to just embarrass himself out of his wits. No? Apparently not, as the silence drew on. Castiel, still trying not to acknowledge the world’s existence, turned the page to reveal Brouwer’s The Bitter Potion. He could not stifle a quiet scoff at the nearly five hundred year old peasant who seemed equally repulsed by the situation. Dean had apparently woken from his introspective hibernation.        

“Dude —uhh— bathroom’s over there” Dean pointed across the room; Castiel’s eyes followed ensuring they didn’t fixate on the now visible, glistening underside of the thumb, the moistening of which had previously been his undoing.

Castiel let out a broken word of thanks and rapidly scuttled off towards the lavatory. Not entirely sure of what was going on, not entirely bothered that he didn’t understand why Dean had offered directions; Castiel was simply pleased at the excuse to extract himself from the awkwardness he had created.

. . .

Clutching the sink, Castiel tried to breathe. Turned on the tap; he needed the cool of running water on his face and neck. He needed to calm and recollect his thoughts. No, what he needed to do was wake the hell up: Getting caught ogling a straight barista he’d just met. Really, Castiel… Really? Splashing water on his face he pondered what would Meg say.

Cassie, my blessed child. I can see we have some work to do here.

Dear god, always “We have some work to do,”. There was a girl who would not rest until she’d gotten her roommate laid. Half a smile sneaked across Castiel’s face. If he ever survived this ordeal he may have to tell her. He certainly wouldn’t live it down anytime soon, but she could definitely use the laugh as of recently.

Eventually, Castiel begun to feel like himself again. He was alone. He was safe. As long as he stayed in this five by ten foot heaven everything was manageable.  Allowing the tension gripping his shoulders to flow down the sink hole, Castiel let out a silent huff; he could deal with this. It wasn’t that awkward. He’d think of something. His gaze moved up the wall to the mirror in front of him, gaze meeting those two sea-blue eyes, bloodshot to hell and back… And that’s when he saw it.

Horror struck, every muscle in his person tensing. Back arched, chest winded, and possibly growing lightheaded, Castiel’s hands clawed at sides of the basin to balance himself.

The unmistakable inverse printed across his forehead, now ink bleeding down his face. For the past few minutes… The whole time he’d been talking to Dean… Every time Dean had looked up at… The post-it note? THE POST-IT NOTE! Castiel could feel his cheeks ignite. He could barely believe the situation. Sex me. Castiel could not believe that for the past two hours his forehead had been demanded something (that despite probably being an entirely enjoyable experience was) so outrageous.

Castiel scrambled to bring the perpetrator out of his pocket and unfolded the crumpled yellow nightmare.

Castiel looked down at the scrawl of past caffeinated-urgency and unfamiliar shorthand.

Having no greater response, Castiel let out a cathartic groan. “Sex meant as an antithesis: post poc” Maybe he’d make sense of “post poc” when he got home and discovered the context of the annotation, assuming he didn’t throw himself off something tall beforehand or, Castiel mused, assuming he ever left the bathroom.

What now? What one earth does one do when parts of their body start asking for sex from good looking strangers named Dean? What’s the social protocol? Castiel drew a blank.

Amongst the mixture of sudden understanding of many of Dean’s jokes throughout the night, what could only be described as utter mortification and unspeakable embarrassment, Castiel noticed an unexpected sense of relief: Dean hadn’t caught him staring longingly at his mouth. Maybe Dean wasn’t entirely aware of how entranced Castiel had been by every element of his physicality. Maybe he might even be able to see him again.

Maybe.

Titian’s Venus and Adonis: link
Brouwer’s The Bitter Potion: link