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Castiel.
The name hung in the air around Dean’s lips like recently exhaled smoke for the rest of the night, as strange and oddly lyrical as the man it belonged to. He couldn’t deny that the exchange with the tousled visitor had been peculiar. He was also vaguely certain that if a conversation like that had happened with anyone else, it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as intriguing. Or alluring. Or beguiling.
Yeah, the little bartending guru with his superhero philosophies and weird people-watching fixation was making Dean remember all the vocabulary words that he had heard from his brother his entire life, and laughed at. Sam had always ignored the friendly gibes, insisting that big emotions sometimes needed big, beautiful words. Not always, but sometimes.
Dean had to agree that this was one of those times. He had never wanted to get to know a anyone so badly in his entire life. He had spent enough nights with men and women alike, but never two nights with the same person. He’d never had a conversation that involved feelings, except when he was talking Sam through a fight with Jess, because there was something magical in being a big brother. But the handsome stranger with the name like music had fascinated him from the first, and Dean didn’t even care that he was having a chick flick moment. Or five.
When he went into work the next day after his Criminal Procedures and the US Constitution class, he found himself glancing at the door even when it wasn’t opening or closing. He kept running his eyes over the uncomfortable chair where Castiel had sat stiffly, albeit contentedly, watching the busy students studying the evening before. Both Meg and Anna noticed, and made remarks about his sudden lack of attentiveness. He could only be glad that Gabriel had left earlier to pick up a misrouted shipment of chai mix, or he might have gotten a formal warning—something that had never happened since he’d started work there. How could he possibly explain what had transpired the previous day? That he now saw long, graceful fingers that belonged to pale hands spreading across every surface in the coffee shop—that he imagined them gripping his neck and tangling in his hair? No one else’s gaze was a calm or as penetrating, no one’s voice as gruff and blunt, and yet he felt and heard the man’s presence at every turn.
He went home at night and wondered what it would feel like if it were just Castiel and him alone in his room. Would the bartender’s eyes still try their best to see through him, past the layers of history and clothing and tough skin?
Dean held out for two days before curiosity drove him to find Archer Saloon. He’d never heard of it, but of course his father had. John Winchester knew the ins and outs of every place to buy liquor in Wichita, and Dean found himself wishing he had asked about the bar two days earlier.
The drive to Archers was excruciating in more ways than one, and Dean tried to drown out his confusion with a helping of Foreigner blasting through the Impala’s speakers. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, or what he wanted, or if seeking Castiel out was even a good idea. But the invitation had been there no matter which way he turned. Come see me some night.
The outside of the bar was like most in Kansas. Dim parking lot, a chair or two out front, and a sign that needed replacing twenty years past. But the second Dean opened the door, he knew that Archer Saloon was different than the other bars—the air crackled with a certain subdued intensity, like the persistent kick long after eating something that hadn’t seemed all that spicy at first. It was rejuvenating and terrifying all at once, and Dean knew it was all because of Castiel.
The man stood behind the bar, looking completely in his element. Dean was surprised. He had half thought that Castiel would appear the way he had in Divine Brew: out of place, thanks to the odd mixture of sluggish and stiff that had first caught Dean’s attention. Instead, Castiel completely owned the space he inhabited here. The trenchcoat was gone, replaced by a button down shirt with rolled up sleeves exposing sinewy forearms as pale and inviting as the hands that had dogged Dean’s thoughts for the better part of forty-eight hours. Obviously at home, Castiel had a lazy smile on his lips, even as he wiped down countertops and washed tumblers and pint glasses.
Regardless of the other changes, Dean discovered that the bartender’s confident, inquisitive gaze was the same. Castiel’s blue eyes landed on him, and latched like a magnet. Something like a smile spread over Castiel’s face, a slow, subdued look of contentment, and Dean found himself walking toward it. He sat at the bar. Castiel nodded at him and Dean felt the nervous pressure in his chest slowly dissipating.
“Hello Dean,” Castiel said, folding the towel he’d been using the moment before. Dean had to keep himself from staring at the bartender’s hands.
“Hey Castiel,” Dean replied, trying to keep his voice nonchalant, although a bit of gruffness slipped through.
“What’s your poison?” asked Castiel, leaning on the bar, looking and sounding like something out of a spaghetti western.
Dean had to think for a second before he remembered that when they had spoken at the coffee shop, Castiel had offered him his first drink at Archers on the house. It wasn’t lost on Dean that he had forgotten about the free booze, and that he had sought out Castiel for…
...for what? To talk about my feelings or some shit?
He cleared his throat and motioned at the closest bottle of Jack Daniels. “Tennessee Honey and Coke. Would be good. Thanks.”
Castiel smiled again, leisurely and sweet, and something coiled in Dean’s groin. What am I doing here?
It was only as Castiel made his drink that Dean finally noticed the music.
I can’t stop this feeling,
Deep inside of me.
Girl, you just don’t realize
What you do to me.
When you hold me
In your arms so tight
You let me know
Everything’s all right.
He chuckled as Castiel handed him his glass. "What's so funny?" Castiel asked.
"This song. It reminds me of the other day."
"Everyone else here is tired of it. They have all been very keen on telling me."
Dean asked why, though he had a feeling that he already knew the answer.
"I have had the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack playing on repeat since we met," replied the bartender in an even tone, not even a blush marring his pale cheeks. Dean couldn't say the same for his own face.
If Castiel noticed Dean's coloring, he was kind enough not to say so. Dean started to slurp his drink down, humming in appreciation of its smoothness. Castiel went down to the other end of the bar to refill another patron's glass. Dean realized that he didn't need to wait for the liquid courage to kick in before he could let his eyes rove over Castiel's form as it moved behind the safety of the counter. Despite the number of customers, Cas worked the bar like a professional: cool, calm, collected. He didn't seem bothered that he was the only bartender on duty—if anything, he looked as though he preferred it. The bar was his territory.
Dean was so absorbed in observing the man that he didn't realize he had downed his drink. The object of his interest was suddenly in front of him, retrieving the glass. "Another?" Castiel asked.
Dean nodded. He didn't need another drink—he probably shouldn't have even had the one—but he wanted to stay there and watch Castiel work. He wanted to talk to him. He wanted to be taken apart.
He looked up to find Castiel's gaze more piercing than before. Like a mind reader, the bartender wiped out the glass and said, "Maybe something less strong." It wasn't a question. "And you can stay as long as you like."
Dean was too surprised to be angry that this man had seen through his shell so easily. Dean was a Winchester. He was fucking good at hiding his feelings, his motives, and anything else that he hadn't wanted John Winchester to see. Even Sammy, for as close as they were, was often in the dark.
The cliche spilled out before Dean could stop it. “I bet you say that to all the guys.”
Castiel’s eyebrows shot up, and Dean wondered when he’d last been caught off guard. His eyes slid over to Dean even as he poured the glass of soda. “Actually I do not,” he said. He slid the glass of ginger ale to Dean. Dean touched it hesitantly. Ginger ale reminded him of bygone days when he used to shoplift drinks for Sammy. The days when there hadn’t been enough to eat or drink, when John Winchester was passed out on the couch, when there hadn’t been anyone around to make sure the boys went to school.
“You know what, Dean?” Castiel continued. His hands spread over the dark wood of the bar, nearly stroking it like a prized possession. “My profession affords me certain luxuries. One of which is being frank with customers. And I can most certainly say that you are the first to truly interest me.”
“Interest you?” Dean tried to make the retort sound less desperate than it was. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He wanted those hands on his face, on his arms, on his slowly awakening cock.
“Yes. You do know what I mean, don’t you?” Castiel’s face was serious. “Remember what I said about trying to figure people out before they can tell me themselves?”
Dean straightened up on the barstool, so that he was eye-level with those bright blue orbs. “And you think you have me figured out, is that it?”
The man cocked his head slightly, and that same contented look he’d had when he’d first entered Divine Brew started in the creases of his brow, unfurling like a map over the rest of his face. “Not yet. Not really. But I would like to. Very much.”
“Your little superhero ability, right?” Dean hoped he didn’t sound too sarcastic.
Castiel’s face was open and forthright as he said, “I want to figure you out. I want to read you like a book. But...I would like it much better if you would tell me those things yourself.”
Two days ago, Dean would have made a poorly timed joke about free will, or something equally inappropriate, to cover his fear. But tonight was different. This bar was different. Castiel was different. This fear was different, because in it was the thrill of discovery and the unfamiliar.
Two hours later, that fear had turned into molten hunger, gnawing at Dean’s loins. In between serving the other patrons, Castiel had chatted with him. He only asked small questions, slowly prompting—the breadth of information came from Dean himself. The important things remained unsaid, loitering in sideways glances or fingertips skirting the edge of a glass. When he talked about taking basic classes in Criminal Justice so that he could someday be a bounty hunter, he willed Castiel to understand that it had always hurt a little that Sam was so much smarter than he was, that people had always compared them in ways that were unfair. When he mentioned that he’d taken on part time jobs since he was 16 to help out, he hoped Castiel knew that John Winchester was an asshole and that it was thanks to Dean that Sam had food on the table, and a car to drive, and money for the lawyer-y textbooks that were apparently worth their weight in gold.
The small sparks of lust that Dean had felt since the day in the coffee shop had become a blaze as they spoke. Castiel listened to him. Really listened, and seemed to care as much as a stranger possibly could. Castiel understood the hidden nuances, the unwritten parts of Dean’s less-than-stellar history, and was not deterred. A few minutes from last call, when the bar was nearly empty, Castiel was still interested.
Fuck, why is that so hot? Dean thought, watching Castiel wash the last of the glasses. There was one patron left, save Dean, and he was asleep at a table in the corner. The Runaways played in the background, the soundtrack still on repeat. Dean had cast off his jacket half way through telling Castiel about the fact that his mother had passed away. Cas had watched the leather peel away, and nodded. “Mary is a lovely name,” had been his only reply, and Dean knew that he, too, had lost someone once. He touched the jacket now, pulling it onto his lap, feeling nervous. It felt remarkably like the end of a date. A weird date, sure, but a date nonetheless. And Dean was not the kind of guy to hover at someone’s front door, wondering if they should kiss.
It’s now or never.
“So...you’re off now, right?”
Castiel dried his hands. “Technically. But since I’m the only one left working tonight, I need to bus down the tables and get our friend over there outside before I lock up.” His eyes shot up to Dean’s. “Why do you ask?”
Dean lowered his voice. “You wanna get outta here?”
He thought he saw Castiel’s pupils dilate, but the light was was too dim to know for certain. “It will be at least another twenty minutes. Can you wait?”
Dean hesitated. He had waited two hours. Two days and two hours, really. He could wait a little longer, if he knew that Castiel’s thoughts were running the same way his were. He shifted uncomfortably on the stool, pulling the jacket a little higher on his lap to hide the bulge in his pants that had suddenly become very interested in going somewhere private with the bartender. The movement was caught by Castiel’s ever-observant gaze, and he grinned lasciviously.
“I see you cannot wait, Dean Winchester,” his voice was knowing, silky, suggestive. It oozed sex, and Dean blushed yet again.
“Look man, it’s fine. I just—”
“Shh…” Castiel held a finger up to his full lips, eyes darting at the now snoring patron. He moved out from behind the bar for the first time since Dean had entered Archer Saloon. Tight jeans gripped his hips like a lover, and Dean’s heart beat a little louder. Castiel switched the open sign to closed, and then held out his hand. “Leave the jacket,” he whispered.
Dean obeyed. His hand fit perfectly into Castiel’s, his rough calluses caressed by the bartender’s strangely soft fingers. Castiel led him into the back of the bar, past the Employees Only sign, to the staff bathroom. There was no time for nerves. The half-formed thought about the cleanliness of the restroom was squashed the second Castiel turned the lock and pressed Dean against the door. Hard muscles met soft flesh, and Dean found himself gripping at Castiel’s forearms. The sinews he had admired before were tight ropes beneath his hands, and the full lips he had been watching all night were suddenly on his.
Castiel kissed hard and urgently, like they were running a race. Dean moaned against him, opening his mouth to let their tongues meet. Castiel’s hands moved to Dean’s face, tilting him to the angle he liked. Dean let him, caught up in the deep kiss. Each swipe of their tongues was an assault on his dick, which was now so hard he thought it wasn’t so far-fetched to think that some people could come from anticipation alone.
His own hands began to roam over Castiel’s body, from forearms to biceps to chest, and finally lower. As Castiel nibbled roughly at his lips and then his neck, Dean fumbled with the bartender’s belt. Castiel chuckled against the skin of his Adam’s apple, and goosebumps spread like wildfire. Dean gasped when he finally got the buckle undone, eagerly unzipping the tight jeans. He could feel Castiel’s arousal against him, and knew he wouldn’t be disappointed with what he would find.
Castiel’s fingers curled around Dean’s dick through his pants as Dean’s hand crept into Castiel’s boxers. They groaned in unison, and Dean’s lips latched onto Castiel’s. He caught Castiel’s bottom lip between his, and everything was wet and hot and he could feel sweat forming on his forehead. He pulled away to lower his own pants, wishing that he had time to take all his clothes off. Castiel kicked his jeans away, and pulled down the boxers fully. His cock jutted out, shiny at the tip where Dean’s hand had smoothed the precum around.
Dean was about to kneel and take that gorgeous cock in his mouth when Castiel turned him around with quick, frantic clutches—the complete opposite of the cool, relaxed persona that he had previously emitted. Dean could feel Castiel’s quavering breath, his shaking hands as he grasped Dean’s ass roughly. Dean’s cock brushed the cool bathroom wall, a sharp contrast that cleared his hazy senses.
“Wait,” he muttered as Castil slid his fingers between his buttcheeks, stroking lightly past his asshole.
“Hmm?” muttered Castil, bringing his fingers back up. Dean shivered as they pushed lightly against him. He heard a noise, and felt a sudden moisture and realized that Castiel had spit. The natural lubricant felt good against his tight hole, and despite himself he began to relax.
“We don’t have any lube, do we? We might not be able to…” he pressed his forehead against the tiled wall.
“Fuck...I....I have a small packet with me. It is not enough for coitus, but should suffice for what I have in mind,” replied Castiel, who was suddenly rummaging through his pants pockets on the floor.
Dean didn’t even have time to laugh at the word “coitus” before he heard a ripping sound. He looked over his shoulder to see Castiel opening the packet. It was definitely small, but it had enough lube for him to coat his fingers. Dean leaned down the wall a little further, sticking his ass out for Castiel. He didn’t care if it looked desperate. The hot bartender had a hand full of lube, and he wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
He leaned his head against the tile again, but kept it turned so that he had one eye on Castiel. Castiel tossed the packet on the bathroom floor, then smiled slowly at Dean. “Ready?”
“Fuck me,” grumbled Dean, his cock aching and his asshole throbbing at the sight of the slick moisture on Castiel’s fingers.
Castiel was quick to oblige. The lube-free hand anchored itself on Dean’s hip, while the fingers on his right hand resumed their place against Dean’s asshole. The warm lube slipped against the puckered, tight rim, and Dean took a deep breath. One finger breached him, then two. He reached one hand down, prepared to stroke himself in time with Castiel. Castiel’s fingers twisted and turned slightly before they began to slowly slide in and out. “Jesus Christ,” Dean moaned, rubbing the head of his cock to spread the precum. It had been a long time since he’d been touched there by someone who knew what they were doing, and god damn if it didn’t feel amazing.
He stroked himself fervently as Castiel’s rhythm sped up. He tried to keep as quiet as possible, remembering the sleeping patron, but whimpers and mutterings escaped him with every pass of Castiel’s fingers against all the sensory nerves. He nearly wept in ecstasy when Cas curved his fingers against his prostate.
Castiel added a third finger, and found Dean’s prostate again. “Can you take this?” he muttered against Dean’s still-clad shoulder. When Dean moaned in breathless reply, Castiel continued. “My cock would fill you up even more than this. Promise me you’ll let me fuck you for real. Dean please…”
“Yes. Yes please, you can fuck me for real. But oh God..oh God—I have to...Cas I’m gonna come…” he cried against the wall, his right hand frenzied against his cock. Cas pressed a little harder against his prostate, and Dean saw stars. Streams of jizz landed on the wall, on the floor, and through the rapture he wondered faintly if he should clean up the mess or leave it for the janitor.
When he had finished shuddering, his knees were weak. Cas carefully withdrew his slick fingers, and turned to wash them in the sink. Dean pulled his pants up, wincing at the fabric against his sensitive skin. When Cas turned back around, Dean saw that he was still hard as a rock.
With a short laugh, Dean dropped to his knees. “I guess I get my wish,” he said.
Castiel grabbed his cock and stroked slowly. “What’s that?” he asked, that peculiar twinkle glimmering in his eyes. He winked at Dean’s genuflected form, and Dean’s breath was caught short all over again.
“That first day…” Dean said slowly, reaching out to draw Castiel’s lower half closer to his mouth, “...I thought about kneeling in front of you, your dick in my mouth, and your hands gripping my hair tight. I was going to do it earlier, but you had...different plans.”
Castiel let go of his cock, and it nearly slapped Dean in the face. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said, his voice low, and rough hewn against the edges of the words.
Dean gripped Castiel’s thighs and opened his mouth against the leaking cock. He swallowed down as much as he could, before pulling away. “Fuck,” said Cas, winding his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Do that again,” he commanded.
Dean opened his mouth wide, relishing the salty skin against his tongue. Castiel began to thrust in and out of his mouth, holding onto Dean’s short hair as best he could. Dean opened his throat and prayed that he wouldn’t gag. As Castiel slowly fucked his face, he began to move his tongue around in directions Castiel wasn’t expecting. Castiel’s breathing got heavier and heavier, his eyes weighing down on Dean. Cas tried to control his breathing, and let go of Dean’s hair. His hands pressed against the wall behind where Dean knelt, and he used the leverage to continue his thrusting. Dean matched his pace, and moved one hand to stroke what he couldn’t reach with his mouth.
It was over sooner than he expected. Castiel shuddered violently, and thick cords of cum shot down Dean’s throat. He swallowed as quickly as possible, sucking down every bit of Castiel he was offered.
Castiel smiled down at Dean, his grin lazy and pleased. “That was...unexpected. And wonderful,” he admitted as he began to pull his underwear and pants back on.
Dean felt something bloom in his chest, but all he could think to say was, “Yeah?”
“Yes,” said Cas, zipping his jeans and buckling the belt. “I...I had hoped that I would...see more of you, Dean Winchester, but this...here and now…”
For the first time, Castiel seemed lost for words. Dean shrugged the pressure of explanation away. “I know.”
Castiel smiled again, dimples appearing in his cheeks. He unlocked the door, and held it open for Dean. “Can I have your number, Castiel Novak?” asked Dean as he stepped through the door.
Castiel followed, reaching for Dean’s hand. “You may, Dean Winchester.”