Work Text:
Cause baby, you’re a firework!
Come on, show ‘em what you’re worth!
Make ‘em go, “Aah, aah, aah”
As your shoot across the sky-y-y!
Dean rolled his eyes so far back into his head that for a second he thought they might get stuck. Gabriel loved that Katy Perry shit and had it playing constantly, interspersed with the other pop songs that 12 year olds loved. Dean longed to plug his iPod into the system and hear some real music, but he only did that when he was on the late shift and there was no one around. It didn’t look like that was in the cards tonight, though, he thought as he glanced around the coffee shop.
Divine Brew had had a steady stream of customers all day, and it didn’t seem as though it would let up anytime soon. All the college kids, frantically cramming for final exams and typing maniacally on their laptops, had taken up residence in the comfortable arm chairs and couches, particularly the ones nearest outlets. Some had come by, and, distraught to see all the good seats taken, had begrudgingly settled themselves at the small tables in the back with the weakest wifi connections. And they all wanted coffee.
Dean didn’t mind the busyness. Work was something that he knew, something that had always been part of his life. If he wasn’t working with his dad, he was working to make sure Sam had the things they usually couldn’t afford without a little extra money. That had been his reality since he could remember. The only difference now was that he was taking classes, too. He wasn’t as smart as Sammy, but he wasn’t the dumbass John Winchester thought he was. He knew he could do more than the odd construction job for the rest of his life. Not that being the barista with the most shifts at Divine Brew proved that, but Dean figured everyone had to start somewhere. If a garage was good enough for Bill Gates, then wiping down tables and making over priced macchiatos was good enough for Dean Winchester.
It was a few minutes after 7 pm when the stiff man in the rumpled trench coat entered. Dean saw him right away—how could he not? The guy was gorgeous. He moved like he was wading through molasses, mild blue eyes roving slowly over every table and chair. Dean was glad he didn’t look like he was in a hurry, because he was already trying to make three drinks at once. Dean cursed internally at Ruby for calling in at the last minute without anyone to cover her shift.
The tousled man—Dean thought that was an appropriate term to describe both his ruffled hair and wrinkled clothes—appropriated the only vacant seat in the shop, which had recently been abandoned by an elderly gentleman who had looked more than peeved at the presence of so many young people. As Dean opened a new carton of soy milk, he wondered if the man was simply waiting for the line to die down before ordering anything.
Eventually the line dissipated thanks to Dean's quick work, and he settled into wiping down the counters and making sure their ancient ice machine was still working properly. He was in the middle of restocking the muffins when he noticed that the man in the trench coat wasn't approaching the counter. He wasn't even looking at the chalk menu that Anna had painstakingly redrawn the day before. He seemed content to sit there, in what happened to be the most uncomfortable chair Divine Brew had to offer, and people watch.
Dean was typically frustrated with people who came in to sit, but neglected to purchase anything. He waited for the familiar angry twist in his gut, but was surprised to find only curiosity.
The man had been noticed by several of the college girls as well, some of whom were digging in their laptop bags and purses hoping to find hairbrushes or even a tube of lipgloss to make themselves look a little less like manic students. Dean thought for a moment, as he caught his reflection in the chrome finish of the coffee maker, that if he had someone else to cover the counter he would go into the bathroom and run a hand through his hair.
An hour and twelve lattes later, the crowd began to disperse, leaving only the truly dedicated (or truly desperate) behind to continue studying. But the tousled man didn't move from the uncomfortable chair.
I came in like a wrecking ball!
I never hit so hard in love.
All I wanted was to break your walls.
All you ever did was wreck me.
Yeah, you, you wreck me.
"Excuse me."
The soft, gravelly voice startled Dean and he looked up from refilling the sugar bowls that Gabriel preferred over individual packets. The tousled man had come to the counter without making a sound, and had Dean fixed in his steady, unwavering gaze. Something jolted through Dean’s body, hot and electrifying, at being so close to those eyes and the hair that he suddenly wanted to pull and tug at while he licked at the man’s throat—
“Yeah?” he shook off the feeling as best he could, straightening up. For fuck’s sake Dean, you’re at work.
“This song...it’s terrible,” stated the man.
No shit was what Dean would have replied to someone like Sam or John or any of his coworkers. “Yeah,” was what he replied to the stranger.
The man nodded slowly, then withdrew his hands from the pockets of the trench coat. He rested them on the counter, pale digits blinding against the black formica. He spread out his fingers evenly as though steadying himself, and Dean had to banish more than one dirty thought.
“Okay…Dean,” he continued as he glanced at the name badge pinned to Dean’s breast pocket. “I can’t listen to it anymore. I am afraid that my ears may disintegrate. Could you possibly change it to something less...Miley Cyrus-y?”
Only paying customers get to request music changes was what Dean would have said to anyone else who walked through the door and complained. “I’ve got you,” was what he found himself saying instead, despite the fact that it was only 8:15 and the coffee shop was still half full of patrons.
Dean glanced around the shop to make sure no one was coming toward the counter to ask for anything, then motioned for the man to wait a moment. He darted to the back of the store, where his backpack and jacket were stashed. Pulling his beat up iPod out of the front pocket, he grinned to himself. He had only obtained—aka stolen off of Sam’s computer—the album the day before, and it couldn’t have been better timing. He turned to the sound system and switched the input from Gabriel’s Pandora playlist to the auxiliary cable. He plugged the iPod in, running his fingers over the click wheel. He selected the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack, scrolled down a few tracks, and pressed play.
I’m an alligator, I’m a mama-papa coming for you,
I’m the space invader, I’ll be a rock’n’rollin’ bitch for you.
Keep your mouth shut,
You’re squawking like a pink monkey bird
And I’m busting up my brains for the words!
When he emerged from the back, he saw that the stranger had satisfied look on his face. “Better?” he asked.
“Infinitely. Thank you,” said the man. He hesitated, and Dean wondered if he was finally going to order something. Instead, the man pulled out one of the dusty bar stools that no one had touched since Dean started working at Divine Brew, and sat down at the counter. “So,” he began, his fingers interlocking, “do you prefer Ziggy Stardust or—”
“Ziggy,” said Dean.
The man laughed, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, mimicking the wrinkles on the trench coat. Dean’s heart lurched in his chest and he realized that he had never found a stranger’s smile so intriguing. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Doesn’t matter. Ziggy or bust.”
“Fair enough. What other kind of music do you listen to?”
Dean watched the stranger’s eyes carefully. They were studying him in turn, meandering like a lazy stroll over his hair, his lips, his name tag, his apron, his hands. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but the tousled man was the most riveting person he’d seen in a long time. “Why do you people watch?” he countered.
The man tilted his head. “So you did see me.” Surprise and content colored his tone.
Dean smirked. “I work at a coffee shop. I learned early to watch the door, or you get an impatient patron who just can’t order quickly enough.”
“People ring at you?” he gestured with those lily white fingers toward the bell that said “For Service.”
Dean shook his head. “Not anymore they don’t.”
“You didn’t answer my first question.”
“You didn’t answer mine either.”
The smile came again. “I’m a bartender. I like watching people and trying to figure out what they’re going to confess to me before they do so.”
“People actually do that? Tell a barkeep their troubles?”
“It doesn’t just happen in the movies,” said the man.
Dean nodded politely, even as he weighed his options. The guy seemed nice enough, if not a little weird. Dean couldn’t really picture him behind a bar, pouring drinks for poor souls, but he didn’t look like the kind of guy who could lie either. And Jesus, Dean was weird too. The whole Winchester clan was fucked up in their own way, and sometimes seeing the oddness in other people was more than comforting. Now would be the time to find something else to do around the shop if he wanted to avoid further conversation, as he often did when one too many girls flirted with him after a long, tiring day. But this man was different, and Dean wanted to know more.
“I like the good old classics,” he finally said. “Everything from Elvis to ACDC.”
“Even Redbone, huh,” commented the man, tilting his head again. Dean realized the track had changed to “Come and Get Your Love.”
“Yup. This soundtrack is unparalleled.”
“Guardians of the Galaxy, right?”
“Yeah. You saw it?”
The man nodded, and seemed to settle a little more comfortably onto the stool. He wasn’t nearly as awkward-looking as he had been the first moment he’d walked in.
“Gotta love a good superhero movie,” said Dean.
The stranger leaned on the counter. “I suppose. But then, people like you and I are superheroes in our own way, wouldn’t you say?”
Dean raised his eyebrows, unsure of how to answer without sounding like a complete dick. He wanted to make an impression on this guy—what kind of impression, he wasn’t sure yet, but dick certainly wasn’t one of them.
“I know it sounds silly,” the man continued. “When we talk about superheroes in everyday life, we typically think of firefighters or lifesaving surgeons. Perhaps superhero isn’t quite the right word for what I mean. Angel in disguise, perhaps.”
“I don’t follow,” Dean said. He fiddled with the towel he’d used earlier to clean the counter, because he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he put them on the counter, mimicking the pose the stranger had struck earlier? Crossing his arms would have been more comfortable, but that would look too defensive.
“We help people in our own way. In ways others can’t. It might not be lifesaving, but sometimes it’s just the little things that count, too. I listen when people are frustrated, sad, hopeless. You give students strength to continue studying, and you provide people who are nearly late to work with a good cup of coffee that may brighten their day,” explained the man.
“I’m not sure that’s exactly how that works,” laughed Dean. It was the quirkiest, most random conversation he’d had in years, but he found that he didn’t want to stop hearing the man’s husky voice, or stop watching his lips move.
The man gave a small, secret smile. “The little things,” he repeated.
“I dunno, man,” Dean shrugged. “I never felt close enough to anyone, especially not a stranger, to tell them if I felt frustrated or hopeless.”
“Maybe you haven’t met the right stranger,” said the man, his voice dropping half an octave.
Dean pushed down the sudden overflow of witty, and a little sexy, sarcasm bubbling up his windpipe as a young man in a WSU hoodie came up to the counter, looking over the muffins. He swallowed his words, and figured it was better they remained unsaid in his place of employment.
“Well,” the stranger pushed away from the counter, and tucked the stool back where it belonged. “I’ll leave you to your work,” he said.
“Oh. Okay. Yeah.”
“Listen,” he said, as he turned to go. “If you ever need to talk about...anything…” he gave Dean another long, lingering look, and Dean wondered just how much his bartender eyes really could see. “Come see me some night. First drink on the house.”
He began to walk away, and Dean forgot all about the waiting customer, the fact that he was at work, that Blue Swede was playing. “Wait!” he called. “I don’t know your name. Or where you work.”
The tousled man didn’t answer until he was at the door. “I bartend at Archer Saloon every night except Sundays. And the name is Castiel.”