Archive of Our Own

                He owns exactly four suits—one for every professional workday, and then a black blazer and a pair of dark blue pants for casual Fridays. He owns a 1999, Honda Accent that he stumbled upon while shopping at a second hand store. It was in the parking lot; it looked to be in good working order and had a For Sale sign in the window with the modest price of $2,500. He needed transportation because of his new job—otherwise he’d save his money and just continue using the bus to get around. He doesn’t own a big flat screen, even though with this new position—he could afford one now; but his old, clunky box TV that his father gave him when he went off to college, still works just fine. His apartment is tiny—however, it’s on the ground level so he has a back patio and a small grassy area where he’s set up some planter boxes; and since it’s just him and his cat, James—what else does he really need?

                Castiel Novak never saw the sense in shopping, in collecting material things that are barely ever used or, only used to flaunt one’s wealth.

                Why?

                What’s the point?

                He’s not a bird in need of colorful plumage and shiny objects in order to attract a mate and continue the survival of his species. In fact, from what he sees on the news—the need to get and get and get, and flaunt and flaunt and flaunt, usually ends up getting someone killed, or flaunting the country right into a war.

                No thank you.

                He is content with the little bit that he has. Now, he may spend a few extra dollars on the expensive canned cat food for James—but, that’s different.

                James is special.

                It’s a Tuesday—so that means his slightly lighter, dark grey suit is now fitted about his body. He shifts uncomfortably behind the wheel of his car as he sits in traffic, not particularly enjoying the tightness in the seams.  He knew the suit would be just a touch too small, but it was close enough to his size and the price was fair—so he bought it anyway; but usually he wears looser apparel. He doesn’t like to feel constrained. Comfort and movability allows his mind to work more quickly, and he needs to be able to think quickly if he’s going to perform well at his job.

                And, he likes his job. It’s technical and there are a ton of forms, and the calculations can take him hours to clear up and get down onto paper, but at least he doesn’t really have to talk to anyone. Sure, he talks to his boss—and Layla, the secretary, and Baily, the office manager, and a few of the other lower level accountants on that floor, but that’s about it; and for the most part, they all like to keep to themselves. It’s quiet in his office, and he’s been thankful for that ever since he began working there six months ago. A noisy workplace would only up his already peaking anxiety; because even though the people are nice and the job is decent and he’s getting paid a more livable wage, he’s still nervous every time he clocks in.

                He didn’t know it when he interviewed for the position … but when he arrived for his first day, he was quickly led up to his new, little office by Layla—he just wasn’t expecting to keep going up.

                Up.

                And up.

                And up and up and up.

                Fifteen floors of up.

                The elevator ride was like an ascent to the gallows. He began to sweat. He clutched his briefcase for dear life, and when the doors finally opened and Layla ushered him out onto the accounting floor, Cas thought he might actually pass out.

               Certainly not the impression he wished to make on his first day.

                “Are you alright? You look a little pale” Layla had asked him as soon as they stepped out of the elevator.

                “Oh—yes. I—I suppose I’m just nervous” Cas had lied—well, he kind of lied. He was nervous, but it wasn’t about the job.

                Layla, bless her heart, just nodded at him and then continued the tour, which ended with Castiel’s brand new headquarters. “You’re lucky, Mr. Novak. This office is actually nicer than the boss’s. It has the bigger windows.”

                Castiel froze at the doorway and stared across the short space to the giant, floor to ceiling glass that opened up to the city. It was a beautiful view, just one he’d much rather be seeing through the curved screen of his boxy TV … not while standing on the precipice of death.

                He proceeded to sweat through his suit jacket.

                Now, six months in—he has found little ways to manage his hazard of a work space. He set up his desk cattycorner to face the door, so he didn’t have to look out and down—all the way down to that street that thrummed and whizzed so far below. And he bought tall ficuses that he lined up along the edge of the glass (placing them there nearly gave him a heart attack) to give the illusion that he was actually on the ground amongst the steady, rooted trees and grass, and dirt that could never give way. He also pulled down the thin roman shades but sadly, they only drew halfway and the boss didn’t give him the okay to replace them with something longer.

                “That’s an extra, frivolous expenditure, Novak” Mr. Powell had said, and Cas couldn’t disagree. It was frivolous—in the eyes of the budget.

                So, he made do; and between the potted trees and the half shades, he forced himself to pretend that the still very open space between them was just the blue sky that he was seeing from a safe and secure spot on the ground.

                Yes, he made it work—he could pretend and get by, and perform fairly well as long as he had that very calculated illusion.

                But it’s Tuesday … the one day of the week that that illusion shatters—shatters like that glass could at any moment, breaking apart and letting the open air suck him out and hurtle him towards that humming street, which would come to a screeching halt the moment that his skull shattered against the pavement.

                Castiel hates Tuesdays, and he has no idea why he always wears his too-small suit on this day. Like he needs to be any more uncomfortable.

                “Good Morning, Mr. Novak” Layla chirps the moment he steps out from the elevators. It’s exactly eight o'clock, and the woman doesn’t even have to look up from her computer to know that it’s him. He’s always very punctual.

                “Good Morning, Layla. Any messages?”

                “Only one. It was Ms. Strong from the Fineman Group. She was asking about the plan on their account.”

                Castiel nods as he passes by her desk. “Yes—I’ve been going over the numbers, but something isn’t adding up. I'll fax her more information today.”

                “Alright, I’ll let her know to keep an eye out.”

                “Thank you, Layla.” Castiel says, but just as he's almost at the door of his office, he stops, takes a breath and then turns around on his heel. He looks to his left and then to his right. There is no one else within earshot. “Um … Layla, is there any chance that—”

                The woman smiles softly and shakes her head before he even has a chance to get all the words out. “Sorry, Mr. Novak. I saw them putting on their harnesses when I pulled into the parking lot this morning. They're here today—just like every Tuesday.”

                Castiel frowns and nods in defeat. “Very well” he sighs, turning back to enter his office. With white knuckles, he clutches his briefcase at his side—finally breaching the threshold and taking one, last cursory look at the looming windows … knowing that today is the day.

                Today is the day that the window washers come.

***

                It takes them a while to get to the fifteenth floor. It’s a thirty-floor building, so they start at the top and drop down—level by level until they reach him. Just thinking about the process gives him chills.

                Who would ever pick such a job?

                He knows it has to be done though—well, he supposes it has to. He’d be fine if the windows got so dirty, he’d never be able to see out of them again; but sadly, not everyone in this building feels that way.

                The first half of the day is the same as always—paperwork, coffee break, more paperwork, more coffee, bathroom break, e-mails and more coffee. He was actually so caught up in his routine that he almost forgot about what day it was—until he saw the bottom of that suspended scaffolding platform drop into view just outside his window.

                Cas feels his heart jump into his throat.

                He tries not to look, but the scaffolding swings ominously back and forth—buffers bumping the building's glass panes, making them shiver.

                Sweat starts to bead on his temples.

                Inch by inch, those steel cross beams come more into view—and then, there they are—human feet. Booted, toes scurrying to and fro across the platform, a thousand feet above where they should be.

                Castiel groans and puts his head flat on his desk, trying to breathe through the panic.

                Then comes the plunge; the heart-wrenching, vomit inducing plunge that he hates the most. Even though, in reality, they only lower the platform about a foot to get to the next set of windows, the whole metal rigging seems to freefall to get there—and it is just dramatic enough that Castiel has to look, only to ensure that the workers aren’t in fact, dropping to their deaths.

                He has no idea why he has that need though, because if they did drop to their deaths, he’d drop dead right here on the floor of his office.

                The scaffolding falls, and then stops, and then jerks violently as the worker holds onto the brake with one hand and his harness with the other. The whole ordeal leaves Castiel a ghost in his swivel chair—but thankfully, the rigging holds and the worker outside is safe … as safe as he could be while being suspended over the pits of hell.

                This is when Cas would normally look away again, swallowing down all the organs that tried to leap out of his throat; but his eyes linger a little longer this time, noticing a strange and alarming difference in this Tuesday as opposed to the last … there is only one worker on the platform instead of two.

                It’s unsettling.

                That is not how this is done.

                There should be two men out there—one to do the majority of the washing, and another to ensure that everything is safe and secure. How was one person supposed to do all those jobs on his own?

                Castiel can’t swallow at all now. He’s in a state of perpetual fear for this man.

                Had he been doing this alone all day?

                He has his office phone in his hand before he can even think about it—and the line is ringing for Maintenance a second later.

                “Hello, Maintenance.”

                “Yes, this is Castiel Novak from accounting on the fifteenth floor.”

                “Yes, sir—how can I help you?”

                “The window washer is outside my window right now—and he’s alone.”

                There’s a long pause before the man on the other end of the call finally speaks again. “Um—alright. Did he … did he miss a spot or something?”

                “What? No. He’s doing an exemplary job. My windows are very clean so far. He’s only halfway done with one.”

                “Alright—so what’s the problem?”

                Castiel groans, still staring out at the man on the platform—trying to keep the phone steady against his ear in spite of all the sweat slipping it around. “He shouldn’t be out there alone! Protocol states that two individuals must be on the platform at all times—for security.”

                “Uh … protocol?”

                Castiel groans again. After the first day he encountered the window washers—willing himself not to quit right then and there because knowing that there were men dangling on the outside of this impossibly tall building was just too much for his poor, fragile heart to handle—he went home and researched the job. He thought that if he knew more about the equipment, the protocols, the safety measures, he could rationalize the situation. He could tell himself that the people outside, defying gravity, were in fact safe, and not in danger of becoming stains on the ground below. It worked, until today. “Yes! Isn’t this your area? Aren’t you in charge of ensuring that the maintenance of this building is done correctly?”

                “Well, yes but—”

                “This man could fall! Something could go wrong and no one would be there to help him! Doesn’t anyone care about that?”

                “Mr. Novak—sir?” Layla is at his doorway and it makes him finally turn from watching the washer. “You’re very … very loud. Would you mind if I shut your door?”

                Castiel nearly chokes because when his office door is closed, he feels like he’s standing on a cliff’s edge with nothing but a sleek wall of rock behind him. “No! I—I’m sorry, I’ll keep it down.”

                Layla frowns and then looks to the worker outside, nodding with silent understanding before heading back to her desk.

                He watches her for a second longer, eventually rounding back himself to look once more to those awful, awful windows. The washer just finished with the first pane of glass and has now moved onto the second—seeming altogether peaceful with his current death-defying situation. He has earbuds in his ears and he’s mouthing the lyrics to whatever song he’s listening too, and he’s working—going through the motions and not paying anything else any mind.

                How?

                “Sir—I’m sorry, but the window washers are out of my control. They’re separate from the regular maintenance staff. I just make sure that they get here and that they get paid. That’s it.”

                Castiel sighs and tilts back in his chair, feeling like he might just throw up now—so he calculates how long it will take him to get to the bathroom, finally coming to the conclusion that if he does vomit, he’ll need to do so in his office trashcan. “So—there’s nothing that you can do?”

                “Uh—not really, no. I can try calling up to the roof where the company’s site manager is observing.”

                “Please—maybe, maybe he didn’t realize that he only sent one man down on this side of the building. I just can’t imagine he’d be that careless.”

                “Alright, I’ll let him know. Thanks um—for your concern.”

                Castiel nods, and his sweaty temples make the phone slide uncomfortably against his ear. “Of course. Thank you.”

                The call clicks dead and Castiel’s stomach roils. This isn’t right. The site manager had to have known—he just didn’t care. How could he risk someone’s life like that? And how could this man just let him? Did he tell his boss that he shouldn’t go alone? Did his boss force him to do the job by himself? I should call the Better Business Bureau. I can’t believe that in this day and age—

                His thoughts are interrupted by a tap on the glass.

                Castiel’s eyes widen as he regains focus—he’s been staring at this man for the last few minutes now, but he hasn’t really been looking at him; and apparently, his staring hasn’t gone unnoticed, because now the man is waving at him, shrugging a second later and then pointing at himself—as if to ask, “What on earth are you gawking at?”

                Castiel sits up sternly in his chair, heart racing even faster, but now, from embarrassment. “Sorry” he mouths, lifting up his hand afterwards in a gesture of apology.

                The man hanging outside his window just smirks and shakes his head, finally turning back to the job he has yet to finish.

                With a red face and still on the verge of losing his breakfast, Castiel tilts his head down and tries to focus again on his own work, but he just can’t help taking a peek every now and then—just to ensure that the man is still there—still safe. Although, every few times, he catches the worker peeking back, and it makes him turn even redder.

                His office phone rings abruptly and he thanks God for the distraction. “Novak” he says simply once he answers it.

                “Hello, sir—this is Andrew from Maintenance. I just thought you might like an update. I spoke with the site manager and he said that there have been some changes in the safety procedures that allow only one man to go down on the scaffolding as long as the equipment is up to code and a certain weight limit has not been reached. He assured me that it was all safe and completely within the legal limits, so you have nothing to worry about.”

                Castiel almost laughs. “I wouldn’t say that.”

                “Pardon me?” Andrew asks, sounding slightly annoyed now.

                “Nothing. Thank you for the update. I appreciate your efforts.”

                “No problem, sir. Have a good day.”

                “Thank you.”

                The line silences again and Castiel hangs up, wishing that he hadn’t heard what he just did. Now—he imagines, every Tuesday will be like this. Just him in this far-too-high office, looking out in a panic on a solitary man, doing the work of two … always just a second away from his own demise.

                I’ll never get any work done.

                He glances one more time to the window, just as the washer takes his final swipe with his squeegee, leaving the class almost invisible. The brake release button is pressed and then the descender is engaged, and soon—the whole rigging shakes and begins to lower. The man looks down towards his next stop, and Castiel watches nervously as inch by inch, he starts to disappear behind the ficuses, on and on to the next floor, knowing that the quick—final drop is about to occur; but just before it does—the worker looks up, locking eyes with Cas and unveiling a big, beautiful smile.

                The man waves.

                The scaffolding plummets.

                Castiel throws up into his wastebasket.

***

                The end of the day could not have come soon enough, and ever since he got sick in his office—he hasn’t been able to shake the nausea. He decided that he should run across the street to the drug store on the corner before he started his drive back home. God forbid he gets sick again while stuck in traffic. The sliding doors of his building’s lobby whoosh open and he bolts outside, practically crying when the fresh air hits his face. The smell of exhaust and the grime of the city meet his face as well, but at least he’s on the ground.

                “Hey.”

                Castiel is already picking up speed to get to the crosswalk when he hears the greeting, so he barely looks over to say hello back, but it’s the smile that stops him cold—if not for that smile, he would have kept on going.

                The window washer is looking at him—yellow hardhat tilted on his head, ear buds now draped around his neck, utility belt clinging to his waist, and unclasped harness, dangling from his hands. The man is standing on the side of his now grounded scaffolding, and he looks like he’s right in the middle of cleaning everything up; but for some reason, he stopped his work to say hi to Castiel. “You work up there, right?” the man asks, pointing towards the top of the building, and Cas is almost foolish enough to follow his finger.

                “Oh … yes. Fifteenth floor.”

                “Yeah, thought I recognized ya.” The washer’s green eyes arch with his grin, and Castiel’s gut churns even more.

                “Yes … that was me. Up there. Yes” he confirms stupidly, swallowing hard while grimacing at himself.

                The worker’s gaze bounces as he nods, and then it bounces lower, and lower and lower, falling towards Cas’s feet before finally dragging up to his eyes again. “I never forget a face.”

                The man’s words are cool and silky in spite of the rough grit in his voice—and the sound coupled with his piercing stare makes all the blood rush from Castiel’s head … and all the bile rush to the base of his tongue. “I must go” he garbles, immediately turning around and scampering to the crosswalk; which thankfully clears right when he gets there. His long coat flaps behind him as he speed-walks across the lanes of traffic, feeling even sicker and more determined with each step—because with each step, he can feel the man’s eyes still on him, scanning him up and down, watching the asinine way he moves, cataloging every flinch and lurch of his body. He almost collapses when he finally gets inside the drug store, listening to the automatic doors sweep closed at his back, shutting out the city and his too-tall office building, and that smiling, curious window washer.

                Stumbling, he makes his way to the Cold and Flu aisle, instantly grabbing every package of Pepto-Bismol that he can find.

***

                James seemed to snuggle extra close to him that night; and as the rest of the week went along, his friendly feline became the only thing he could truly count on. Everything else however, crumbled with his very touch. He lost the Fineman account. He messed up some calculations which then caused a chain of events that led to the company losing nearly a million dollars. An amount like that doesn’t really mean much to a corporation that large, but it’s still enough to take notice—and it’s certainly enough for them to seek another accounting firm to handle their business. Mr. Powell spent the majority of Wednesday morning screaming at the top of his lungs and lecturing Castiel on the importance of double checking his numbers. It’s something that he normally does—but given how ill he was feeling Tuesday, he forgot. He’s surprised he didn’t lose his job right then and there; but since it was his first offense, and he’s made more money for the firm than he’d ever lost, he got away with only a slap on the wrist and stern warning. He supposes he should feel lucky about that, but considering how he forgot his lunch at home on Thursday, and then how he spilt coffee down the front of his shirt on Friday, and how his car kept stalling while going to the grocery store on Saturday—and how poor James threw up everywhere on Sunday, making him have to lug the cat onto the bus in order to get him to the vet … come Monday, Castiel was not in a very good mood at all. And when he finally got home an hour later than normal thanks to all the stops the bus had to make, it was all he could do not to call in sick for work the next day, because he just wasn’t sure if he could handle watching the window washers on top of everything else. He needs a break—but he can’t imagine Mr. Powell would be too keen on him not showing up after making such a big mess for the firm, so he toughed it out and got ready for work Tuesday morning; cursing himself yet again for not changing his clothing schedule so he didn’t have to wear the too-small suit.

                The bouncing bus made him all the more uncomfortable, and he yawned and stretched and tried to shake away his lack of sleep—wondering how he ever used to do this before. Getting up an hour earlier just to catch the bus seems like such an inconvenience now, and he can’t wait for his car to be fixed so he can get back to his normal schedule.

                The elevator ride feels longer than usual, and when the doors finally open up to the fifteenth floor, the sight of his office is actually somewhat of a relief, because it at least means that he can start the day, which gets him that much closer to finishing it.

                “They’re here” Layla says, glancing over her counter at him as he walks up the hall.

                “Figures” Castiel mutters pathetically.

                “Sorry. Is your car fixed yet?” the woman asks, trying to be kind and change the subject—but little does she know, she’s changing it to a sorer one.

                Castiel shakes his head. “No. They predict that it won’t be finished until tomorrow.”

                “Oh, that’s always a pain. I’m sorry—at least it’s only one more day, though.”

                With a sigh, Cas taps the edge of her desk with his finger as he nods. “Yes, one more day.”

                “And is James doing better?”

                That finally does give him a reason to smile, so he meets the woman’s eyes with a bit of ease. “Yes. Thankfully the medication the veterinarian gave him seems to be working. He kept down his entire breakfast this morning.”

                Layla beams at him and it makes Castiel feel warm and calm—something that he knows he desperately needed today. “I’m so glad. Give him a little pat for me when you get home.”

                “I most certainly will.” He likes Layla—she has always taken an interest in his life, but never in an intrusive way—just in a way that shows that she genuinely cares and wants the people around her to be happy. It’s refreshing. Everyone should try to be more like her. With a sigh, Castiel gives her one last smile before he makes his way over to his office door, giving himself a final second to relax before he walks inside.

***

                It doesn’t take long before the bottom of the scaffolding catches his eye. He had only been working for a little over two hours—so the fact that the window washers were already down this far was fairly strange. They don’t normally get to the fifteenth floor till a little after lunch time, so Cas is already looking curiously at the rigging when it finally drops dramatically to his span of windows.

                Those green eyes lock onto his instantly.

                “Hi” the man mouths, giving him a little nod.

                His stomach was already dropping to his ankles with the sight of the swinging structure outside, but he nearly collapses into himself with the worker’s extra bit of attention. It somehow makes everything even more real—it brings that horrifying height even closer to his being and he wants nothing more than to look away and run; but he can’t, because he’s already been foolish enough in front of this man, and he doesn’t want to add to it. Castiel nods back curtly and flares his nostrils, determined to act like this is normal: just him and a random gentleman, exchanging pleasantries while one is suspended in mid-air.  No big, as his brother, Gabriel would say.

                The washer smiles again and then begins soaping up the window, and it’s the only part of the process that Cas enjoys—since for a few, solitary moments, the glass is too lathered for him to see outside. He laments and closes his eyes a second, opening them back towards his computer so that he can continue his work, but after a minute, just on the edge of his periphery, he can see soft swirls and curls beginning to form in the suds. He spins his chair around to face the glass, gawking when he sees words—letters and punctuation being scrawled out into the soap. The message reads: I’m Dean. Who are you?

                What on earth?

                The squeegee suddenly runs down the middle of the message in one, smooth sweep—revealing the smiling face of the worker outside … the worker he now knows as Dean.

                Castiel can only stare at him, mouth slightly open as he cocks his head to the side.

                Dean stares back—his smile finally faltering as he shrugs and mouths “Well?”

                It snaps Cas out of his shock just enough for him to sit up, look around a moment and finally grab his name placard off the front edge of his desk. He fumbles with it at first, dropping it once before picking it back up and turning it towards the window—so that his name, displayed in gold leaf and cherrywood, could be visible to the man.

                Dean squints and presses his nose against the window, smudging the freshly cleaned space—and his hardhat clinks on the glass, pushing it up onto his head. His hands then cup around his eyes, blocking the sun’s reflection so he can clearly see on the placard.

                Cas tilts forward an inch, trying to bring the thing closer for Dean to read—feeling ridiculous and even more nauseas while doing so.

                After an agonizing amount of time, Dean finally pulls away, scrunching up his face as his lips form around Castiel’s name. He mouths it again and again, like it’s some puzzling question that he really needs to work out.

                And even though he wants nothing more than to turn away now, Cas finds himself waiting eagerly for approval—as if this worker’s acknowledgment of his name is the green light he needs to continue with his day.

                A smile soon returns to Dean’s face and he focuses in on Castiel once more. “Nice to meet you” he mouths with exaggeration, ensuring that Cas can figure out what he’s saying.

                With some hesitation, Castiel mouths back “You too”, wondering if anyone else is watching this unbelievable scene through his open office door. He turns quickly, but Layla is on her phone and typing away at her computer, not paying him or the window washer, any concern. When Cas swivels back though, Dean had already begun cleaning the glass of the second pane—making it seem like their odd moment of conversation had come to a close. Castiel sighs with relief and then returns to his computer so he can get back to his much-needed work. He opens up his e-mail, immediately noting the message from Mr. Powell, informing him of a change in tomorrow’s meeting. Castiel reaches for his pen so he can write down a reminder on a sticky note—only to find that his pen isn’t there. He turns his head and looks around his desk, but he still can’t see the thing anywhere.

                A tap on the glass pulls him back to the man outside—giving him vertigo as well as a serious case of deja vu. Dean is looking at him, but then his eyes dart away. Then he looks at him again— and then he starts pointing to something on the other side of Castiel’s desk.

                He clamors his brows together and mouths “What?” but Dean just keeps pointing. So he gives, and tilts up from his office chair to look over the wood surface—only to see his pen, now sitting on the floor. He must’ve knocked it off of his desk when he was fussing with the placard. His cheeks heat up as he glances back at Dean—knowing now that the man has been watching him  this entire time, even while he cleaning the windows … how else would he have known that Cas was looking for something? With a bit of reluctance, he eventually hoists himself from his seat and wobbly moves around the side of his desk to where the pen is resting on the floor—and with a bend and crack of his knee, he picks it up, rocking his eyes upward as he does so, checking if Dean is still watching him—and of course, he is.

                Seriously?

                Castiel stands upright once more and squirms in his suit, which is now feeling extra tight since he was hunched over and balled up. He tugs at his sleeve and then he aligns the buttons of his shirt, finally using the palm of his hand to brush away the soft wrinkles in his pants; and for a moment, he forgets that he is being observed—until his eyes meet with those green ones once again, only now, Dean is giving him a thumbs up and mouthing “looking good” just as Castiel finishes his primping.

                The skin on Castiel’s neck burns, so he whips around, putting his back to the man and staring wide eyed out the door of his office, hoping that Layla is still distracted. She is, but she must feel him looking at her because she soon glances up—giving him a quick smile before going back to her duties.

                Castiel sighs and clears his throat, trying his best to unite himself, because he can’t just keep standing here. Dean is still outside of his window, and he’s probably still watching him, and Cas can’t just ignore him forever—well he could, but that would be pretty rude.

                Why is this happening?

                He asks himself the question over and over, hoping that he can come to an answer within the next few seconds so he can turn back around feeling better prepared for whatever is to come, but he can’t think of a thing. No logical reason … no reason other than: he’s him, and wherever he is, awkwardness always seems to follow. Castiel sighs a final time, admitting defeat and turning around—looking up at Dean as he finishes the top half of the last pane of glass. The man has his ear buds in again, and he seems to be muttering along with a song—much like last week, and Cas wonders for a brief moment, what kind of music Dean must be listening to—but those grassy eyes fall upon him too quickly and cut all his thoughts short.

                Dean gives him another grin, and Castiel forces a smile back—but he knows, it’s nowhere near as appealing as the worker’s. Then the strange, but intriguing window washer reaches out to release the brake and powers up the descender, jolting the rigging to life.

                Castiel jolts with it—but sadly, his movements are not overlooked.

                Dean’s smile twitches as he gazes at him over the top of the ficuses—face quickly breaking with some sort of epiphany. He grins wider and then nods, looking cocky and excited.

                It’s bizarre, and Castiel takes a cautionary but inquisitive step forward, already feeling his knees shake from being this close to the glass—yet something about the man’s mannerisms is drawing him in.

                Dean narrows his eyes, watching the approach like a predator—but then he turns to his left and looks at the bar of controls. With a wicked smile and a exaggerated wink, he presses a button, causing one side of the rigging to drop—making the entire platform tilt and swing hard against the building with a crash.

                “Ah!” Castiel screams, falling backwards—straight onto his ass.

                “Mr. Novak! Are you okay?” Layla yelps from somewhere behind him, but Castiel can’t look away.

                He’s shaking—stark white and wide eyed, gaping at the dubious man that clutches onto the cable of the rigging outside … the man who’s now laughing maniacally and pointing at Castiel as he lays on the floor of his office.

                “Mr. Novak?” Layla is crouching down beside him now, looking him over to make sure he’s okay. “What happened?”

                Castiel tries to speak, he tries to come up with something coherent—something that will explain what he had just witnessed, but all he can think of is “Asshole!” and he certainly doesn’t want to say that to Layla.

                The woman’s face puzzles further, until she follows Castiel’s gaze to the man outside—soon joining her supervisor in watching Dean as he levels out the rigging. It takes her moment, but she seems to piece it all together, and before Cas can stop her, Layla is standing back up and marching over to the edge of the glass, banging on it furiously with the side of her fist.

                Dean turns to look at her, quickly jumping away—obviously not expecting the sight of the stout, seething woman to be so close to him.

                “Not funny!” she yells, trying to be loud enough for the man outside to hear.

                Dean’s smile droops to a frown, and he tilts onto his toes to look in once more at Cas—who is still flat on the floor and fairly colorless. After a moment, Dean moves back to acknowledge Layla, finally shrugging and mouthing “sorry” before busying himself with more controls. In a breath, the platform is inching away, out of sight to the next row of windows, but since Cas is still prone, it takes a little longer for the man to escape his view; and just before he does, Dean peeks in between the pots of the ficuses, and between Layla’s impatiently tapping feet, and he gives Castiel another wink.

                And Castiel, promptly passes out.

***

                The bus stop smells like urine.

                Wonderful.

                What a wonderful way to end this horrible, horrible day.

                All I needs now is for the bus to breakdown.

                Cas quickly shakes his head to banish the thought—he doesn’t need to jinx himself. Maybe I can just start working from home on Tuesdays? He wonders if Mr. Powell would allow that.

                “Hey.”

                Castiel goes rigid. That voice.

                “So look—sorry about earlier.”

                He twists to his left to see Dean, now—minus the hardhat, looking more like every other person out on the street, and not so much like the evil dare devil that he is.

                “We always come across people in the offices who get a little freaked out by what we do—it’s kind of our thing to mess with ‘em. Never had anyone freak out that much though, so—yeah. Sorry.” Dean looks down at the ground before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and rocking back and forth. “We cool?”

                Castiel doesn’t quite know what to say; he’s still furious, and he really should stand up and give this man a piece of his mind, but—something about the look in Dean’s eyes makes him seem very genuine. He truly does feel bad, and Cas isn’t too proud to accept an apology. “Well …” he begins, swaying awkwardly against the metal bus bench, “I suppose I can see how it could be amusing … in a very twisted, sick kind of way.”

                Dean’s face seems to light up with a soft, humorous smile. “Yeah—” he laughs and then clears his throat, standing even straighter, “but still … sorry, man.”

                Castiel squints at him, but smiles in return. “Apology accepted … Dean.”

                Dean is grinning now. “And you’re … Cas-teel?”

                With a short chuckle, Cas shakes his head. “Cas-ti-el. It’s an odd name, I know.”

                Dean waves off the implication and then sits himself down, right next to Cas on the bench. “Nah, man. It’s unique, which is cool. I like unique.”

                Cas is blushing—both from the compliment and from the closeness of the other man. “Well, um … very good then.” He swiftly turns back and looks sternly across the road, waiting for the bus to cross his eyeline; but he can feel Dean fidgeting beside him.

                “So—uh, the whole people-dangling-outside-your-window thing really bugs you, doesn’t it?”

                Castiel’s briefly solidifies before he slowly turns back to meet Dean’s eyes, which he can now tell—are a much prettier green than he had originally thought, because they are also gold, and brown and they catch the sun perfectly. He swallows hard, feeling himself start to sweat all over. “It’s … unsettling.”

                “Why?” Dean seems genuinely interested and that is even more unsettling, not warm and comforting like it is with Layla.

                “Well … um” Castiel looks away once more, hoping that it will help him calm down, but he can clearly feel the warmth radiating from Dean’s body, and it makes his heart pound even harder. “You just are very—very high.”

                “You don’t like heights?”

                “Not even a little.”

                Dean chuckles. “You work in a high rise, man … like, you’re up there.”

                Cas shivers. “Yes, I’m aware.”

                “Not a fan of that office then?” Dean asks with a sigh.

                “Not particularly” Cas admits. “I know most people enjoy an office with a view, but I was disappointed when they didn’t place me in a cubicle.”

                A short, high pitched whistle escapes Dean’s lips. “Jeez—I know people who would kill for digs like that.”

                “Yes, well—I’m afraid my digs, will kill me” Cas counters dejectedly.

                Dean is laughing again. “Nah—dude, you’ll be fine. I saw what you did with the potted plants. That’s smart. You could also try just getting some curtains or something; but then again, you wouldn’t be able to see my smiling face if you did that.” To emphasize his point, Dean smiles grandly when Cas looks his way again.

                It makes Cas laugh too. “Yes well—as much of a crime as that would be, I did ask my boss if I could fit some longer window coverings into the budget, but he said no.”

                “You can’t just go buy some?” Dean asks, as if it was all so simple.

                Cas opens his mouth to answer, but then closes it quickly—realizing, that it is that simple. It is his office after all. “I suppose …” he begins in awe, “I suppose I could buy my own. I hadn’t thought of that.”

                “Well—glad I could help” Dean smirks, sobering the moment the bus squeaks to a stop in front of them.

                Castiel rises to his feet and then looks at Dean—but the man doesn’t budge. “Are you not taking the bus?”

                Dean tilts his head up slowly, taking his time scanning up the length of Castiel’s body—much like he did last week when they were standing on the corner; and also like last week, it knocks the air out of Cas’s lungs. “Nope. I got my car parked in the underground lot.”

                His lack of breathing only worsens with that. “So—” he wheezes, fiddling with the belt of his trenchcoat, “so you just sat down to … to speak with me?”

                Dean grins.

                “Ya gettin’ in or what? I got a schedule, ya know!” The bus driver hollers at Castiel through the open door, and it makes him jump.

                “Guess you gotta go. I’ll see you next Tuesday, man.” And with that, Dean pulls himself off the bench and turns on his heel—heading back out and around the corner to where the parking lot stairwell is located.

                Cas watches him go, astounded when he finally allows himself to do what Dean was doing and look the man up and down. He’s attractive. Obviously, he knew that Dean was attractive just by his face—but he never really looked at the rest of his body. The broad shoulders, the bowed legs, the wide, firm back that curves down to a very, very shapely rear-end.

                His cheeks burn even more.

                Was he … was he flirting with me?

                But the sound of the bus pulling away doesn’t allow him to ponder the question any longer. “Wait!” Cas yelps, whipping around to chase down the bus.

                "No, no, no, no, no!"

                The bus’s brakes whine as they halt the tires for a second time, and he breathes a sigh of relief when those doors open up again.

                “Seriously, man? You’re killin’ me!” the bus driver gripes, and Castiel can’t blame him.

                He apologizes when he steps on, quickly swiping his bus pass before slowly making his way to the back. It’s less crowded back there, so that’s where he normally sits—but this time he has another motive, because just for a moment, if he really strains his neck, he can still see Dean, all bow-legged and broad back, sauntering his way down the street.

***

                It’s Tuesday again … but he’s actually excited about it.

                Don’t get your hopes up—he told himself, he could’ve just been making conversation. No need to get eager.

                The mantra didn’t work however, because as he stands in front of his bathroom mirror, he takes some extra time with his hair, and he’s wearing the too-tight suit again, because he remembers the way Dean looked at him the last time he wore it. The restricting fabric doesn’t feel quite as bothersome anymore. Cas even dabs on a bit of cologne—having to immediately laugh at himself because—Dean will be on the other side of a thick pane of glass, he won’t be able to smell him. And it’s not like they’ll run into each other at the bus stop again; Cas got his car back. He’s back to his normal schedule. Everything is about the same as it always was, except—now, Castiel is glad it’s Tuesday.

                I am going insane.

***

                “Wow, Mr. Novak—you look sharp today” Layla says just as he steps off the elevator.

                He blushes some and waves off the compliment. “I just put in an effort. I am capable of cleaning myself up every now and then.”

                Layla chuckles before handing him a stack of messages. “Well, I think you look very nice all the same.”

                “Thank you, Layla” Cas says, taking the papers before making his way to the office.

                “Oh and I got good news!” she jumps in, stopping him just as he gets to his door. “The window washers aren’t here today!”

                Castiel frowns.

                I hate Tuesdays.

***

                The week dragged along at a snail’s pace—but finally, it was Tuesday again and he made another attempt at looking presentable.

                Layla’s giddy grin greeted him as soon as he got to the fifteenth floor. “Two weeks in a row, Mr. Novak! You are probably pretty happy!”

                Why me?

***

                By the third Tuesday, he didn’t even try. He didn’t even take the time to iron out the wrinkles in his suit—his darker, larger suit that was actually probably a size too big. It was comfortable though so he figured it was for the best.

                It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.

                It was hot that morning too, so as he drove to work, he rolled the windows down; and by the time he got to the office, his hair looked like a raccoon had nested in it.

                “Good morning, Mr.—” Layla bites her tongue as soon as she glances up at him. “Oh, what happened?”

                He gives her a puzzled look before he realizes how disheveled he must appear. “Nothing … nothing” he grumbles, transferring his briefcase to his other hand so that he can run his fingers through his hair, trying to calm down the mess.

                She smiles at him weakly, soon sliding over the stack of morning’s messages. “Mr. Powell wanted you to call him when you got in; and Bailey wanted to know if you ever recieved his e-mail yesterday.”

                Castiel gives up on his hair and then nods. “Yes—very good. I’ll talk to them both. Thank you, Layla.”

                “Oh, and I didn’t see any workmen outside today. Maybe we contracted with a new company that only comes on the weekends or something.”

                The woman’s tone is hopeful, but it brings Castiel nothing but dread. “You think so?”

                Layla shrugs. “Maybe.”

                “Could you call and find out?”

                His secretary’s face churns with concern. “You want me to call? Call who?”

                “Maintenance. They would know.”

                Layla takes a moment to look him over, as if to make sure he’s actually serious. “Um—alright.”

                Castiel waits as the woman picks up the phone. She speaks quietly, and her side of the conversation is clipped, so he can’t really make out what’s being said one way or  the other; but after another minute, she hangs up again and faces him.

                “They said that that company was hired for some architectural job. He’s not sure when they’ll be back.”

                “Oh.” Castiel hangs his head and looks at the dingy grey carpet below his feet, feeling oddly connected with the color.

                “I thought you’d be happy to hear that” Layla says, interrupting his moment of pity.

                “Yes … yes. I am. I—I just need some coffee. Thank you for inquiring about that for me.”

                Layla frowns at him, obviously not buying a word that he says. “No problem, Mr. Novak.”

                With a forced smile, he’s soon twisting around to head into his office, sighing heavily as those ominous windows make him quake in his oversized suit.

                Maybe I will buy those curtains.

***

                Most of the day passes without incident, but when the edge of the scaffolding drops down past the brim of his shades, Castiel jumps—accidentally knocking over his coffee cup and soaking all the documents on his desk. “Oh—no! Why? Dang it!” he cries, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that this would be the day. This would be the day that he’d choose to give up, and then Dean would magically appear.

                Figures!

                He rushes out to the bathroom and grabs some paper towels, returning to the mess, and to Dean, already busy soaping up the first window. He doesn’t seem to notice Castiel—even when he walks into the office and begins wiping up the coffee … with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm. With a sigh, Cas calms down, continuing with the task of cleaning up the coffee—knowing that by spilling it, he just set himself back in his work by at least an hour. Angrily, he chucks the soiled papers into the trash and then sits back behind his desk, now feeling very self-conscious in his giant suit. He tugs and twists at the fabric, trying to straighten it out so it doesn’t look as bad—but when he peeks to the right to catch Dean’s eye, he’s disappointed to find, the man still isn’t looking at him. He’s not acknowledging Castiel at all.

                Come on … notice me.

                A couple of minutes later, for a brief moment, it seems like Dean might turn his way—and Cas raises his hand to wave, but the man just continues turning, finally reaching around to grab a rag that’s tied to the cable by his hip. He wipes off his squeegee and then moves back to the foamy window, scraping down its face to leave it shining and clear.

                Cas is perplexed. Is he … is he upset with me?

                That can’t be. He didn’t do anything upsetting! Unless—did Dean somehow know that Cas was looking at him inappropriately? His chest begins to tighten with fear. Maybe … maybe he really wasn’t flirting. Maybe he was just looking at my horribly tight suit! Maybe he just thought I looked ridiculous.

                He feels like he could throw up again, but for once—it’s not because of the height.

                You’re such a fool, Castiel! A man like that—he’s probably got a girlfriend or even kids. A man like that …

                Castiel strangles down the self-deprecation, knowing that it won’t do him any good now. He just needs to hunker down and get back to work. He needs to forget that any of this insanity ever happened.

                He begins typing furiously, filling out new data sheets—trying to distract himself; but even still, from the corner of his eye, he watches Dean move to the last window—coating it from seam to seam with soap, scraping at the spots and scrubbing at the smears. Slowly, his image then disappears behind the wall of white … no more bow legs, no more broad, broad shoulders … no more cocky smile and beautiful green eyes.

                “Hey, Cas—when you get a chance, can you fax me those reports? I –” Baily’s voice cuts off and Castiel looks up from his computer to see what else the man needed, but the shock on Baily’s face, shocks him too.

                “What’s the matter?” he asks, tilting his head in his manager’s direction.

                The young, fun-loving man simply points—looking more serious than Castiel has ever seen him. He often wonders how such a man got this position, because Baily could never go two seconds without making some kind of inappropriate joke.

                Concerned, Castiel follows his gesture, all the way across his office and on to the window, still dripping with suds—but now, there’s something else.

                His jaw drops when he sees the letters and numbers—now slipping down the glass like the text in a horror movie. “Call me?” he reads, adjusting the words to a question for his own sake.

                “Did—did the window washer just … did that guy just give you his number?” Baily asks, his astonishment now breaking into a grin.

                But Castiel doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even breathe—all he does is accidently knock over his coffee again as he clamors across his desk for a pen.

***

                “I can’t do this, James!”

                The tiny grey and black striped cat just looks up at him curiously, tilting his its head back and forth before letting out one, long, scratchy meow.

                “You don’t understand! He’s very attractive. He’s far more attractive than any man I’ve dated before.”

                James meows again.

                “Well—Thomas was decent looking, but he was hardly a good man. He stole all my favorite sweaters.”

                His cat meows a third time, but its more low and guttural than before.

                “Exactly. He was a heel—but Dean …” Cas leans up against his fridge and stares dreamily off into the distance. “He could be a heel too, but he doesn’t strike me as one. He’s a bit too cocky for his own good, but then again … with a body like that …”

                James weaves in and out of Castiel’s legs and then meows eagerly.

                Castiel peers down at the feline and smiles. “Don’t be jealous—no man could ever be as handsome as you.” He bends over and scoops up the cat, chuckling happily as James’s whiskers tickle his cheek. “I just don’t know if I should actually call him” he whispers, hugging James even tighter, and the cat purrs against his neck in response. “He could’ve left me his number as a joke … then again, why would he leave his actual information just for a jest?” Cas had Googled him. He even paid ten bucks to some scummy website so he could look at all of Dean’s information. His last name is Winchester. Oldest son of Mary and John Winchester. He has a brother named Sam, and he used to live in Kansas. He went to Lawrence High School. He has never been arrested—thank goodness. He had moved around a lot, and now he lives in California on the far end of town, about fifteen minutes from Castiel’s apartment. He stopped reading there because it started to feel far too intrusive, and he didn’t really enjoy stalking the man. The snooping did lead him to what he was originally searching for though … Dean’s phone number; and what he wrote on the window was his actual phone number—his home phone number no less; which for whatever reason—seemed far more personal to Castiel.

                It made him smile.

                James mews, long and screechy into his ear, so Cas sets him down again. “I know, I know—you’re hungry and you don’t want to hear any more about my sorry love life.”

                James flicks his tail.

                “Alright—I’ll get you your dinner and then … I suppose, I will have to call him. It’s the polite thing to do if nothing else, right? I don’t want him to think I’m rude.”

                His cat doesn’t make a sound but the silence speaks volumes.

                “Yes … I’ll call him.”

***

                The phone rings twice. “Yo, this is Sam—what’s up?”

                Sam? Castiel hesitates a moment before he remembers that Dean has a brother. “Yes—hi, hello. Is—um, is Dean available?”

                “Is he available? Well yeah—he’s pretty available. Haven’t seen him unavailable in a while. He’s kinda phobic about being unavailable, if ya catch my drift. There was once about three years ago—”

                “Is that for me?” Dean’s voice is faint but stern in the background.

                “Maybe” Sam laughs, sounding playful and teasing.

                “Dude! Give me the phone!”

                “No—this guy wants to know if you’re available, and I’m telling him that you’re very available. Like super available.”

                “Oh my god, I hate you! Who is it?”

                “Oh—dunno. They didn’t say …” There’s some rustling and then Sam’s voice booms even louder through the speaker. “Hey, who are you?”

                Castiel is almost too scared to speak, finally squeaking pathetically after biting the inside of his cheek. “Castiel.”

                “He says his name is Castiel—isn’t that biblical or something?”

                “Dude … give me the phone now!”

                “It is. It’s like the name of an angel. Is this guy your angel, Dean?”

                “I swear to god, Sammy! I’m gonna kick you in the nuts!”

                “If you could kick that high, I might actually be scared.”

                A loud thud and then a high pitched yelp rings directly into Castiel’s ear.

                “I can’t kick that high, but I have no problem with punchin’.” Dean’s voice sounds pleased, but further away—then Cas hears more rustling rub against the speaker. “Hello? Castiel, are ya still there?”

                “Ye—yes” he breathes, not really understanding what’s going on.

                “Oh … cool. Sorry ‘bout my brother. He can be a real dick sometimes.”

                “It’s … it’s alright.”

                “I hit him in the nuts” Dean says bluntly, and Castiel could laugh, but the air suddenly seems far too thin. “Anyway … glad you called, man. Didn’t know if the numbers stuck long enough for you to jot ‘em down.”

                “Yes. I—I noticed them quickly.”

                “Awesome” Dean laughs, and it’s a wonderful sound, one he wishes he could hear more often. “Anyone pissed that I left that window all soapy?”

                “I didn’t mind” Cas says quickly—and it’s true, he didn’t. Even after the message the man had left for him had warped and crusted with the sun, making it unreadable and rather gross looking, the fact that the messy window was still there was a pleasant reminder of what had transpired.

                “Good. I’ll make sure it’s all shiny next week.”

                “Alright” Cas says, and then the conversation quiets—if he could even call it that. He hates talking on the phone for exactly this reason, there are no other distractions. The only form of entertainment is his own voice, and in his opinion, that’s not very entertaining at all.

                “So … uh, I guess I should ask—just to be clear …” Dean starts up again, saving Castiel from complete embarrassment.

                “Yes?” he asks warily.

                “Are you gay … or bi, or somethin’ like that? Because … I’m goin’ for broke here.”

                Castiel’s legs give out from under him, and thank God he’s close to his couch or else he would’ve fallen flat on the floor. This man has that effect on him.

                “You there?” Dean adds on, sounding fairly worried.

                “Yes!” Cas yelps. “And—yes, I am. I am a homosexual.”

                Dean is laughing again and it makes Castiel relax into the cushions. “Sweet. I was worried there for a minute. Like, I totally got that vibe from you—but I know that the best way of knowing is to ask.”

                “Yes … that is the most effective.” Cas straightens out, searching his brain for something else to say. “And you … you are gay as well?” He clamps his eyes closed and curses himself. Of course he is! Why else would all this be happening?

                “Yeah, well—bi. I date chicks too. I’m really not picky.”

                “Oh” Cas mutters, feeling a little saddened by that.

                “Not that—shit, not that you’re like, not good enough … fuck, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I think you’re really hot. Like … attractive, not just hot.”

                “Aren’t those one and the same?” Cas queries, genuinely curious.

                “Kinda—but like, you’re hot but you're also interesting. I dunno … you seem like someone who’d be good for more than just a fuck.”

                “Um …” Castiel’s mind is racing, unsure of which part of all that he should try to focus on first.

                “Damnit … no, not like I was thinkin’ about that. Well, okay … I was, but I’m a guy. I mean, you know how it is, right? Or maybe you don’t. Okay—maybe I’m just a perv. Wow … sorry, this whole conversation is a trainwreck.”

                It’s a surprise when it starts, but Castiel begins to laugh—and then he laughs harder, not able to stop and feeling even more embarrassed because of it.

                Thankfully, Dean quickly joins him and soon, they’re both busting up and filling their phones with humor. “Oh man … okay, can we just start over? Because I feel like this went a little sideways.”

                Castiel finally settles down, feeling his embarrassment temper, moving aside for some much needed ease. “Yes—that sounds like a good plan.”

                Dean sighs. “Alright, we’re starting over … hi. I’m Dean Winchester.”

                Castiel grins sheepishly against the phone, not wanting to admit that he already knew that. “It’s nice to meet you, Dean. I am Castiel Novak.”

***

                Their first date came that very same night—which Cas thought was kind of poetic (plus he didn't want to lose his nerve) but Dean apparently thought it to be a little weird. Not just because it was sudden,  but also—not much ever goes on during a Tuesday night, so other than dinner, they couldn’t find much to do; but for Castiel, that was completely fine.

                He would rather just sit somewhere quiet and talk, whether it be a restaurant, or a park bench or in Dean’s beautiful, beautiful car. When the man had pulled up in front of Cas’s apartment, he could hardly believe his eyes. Seeing Dean step out of such a sleek and sexy vehicle, while dressed in a leather jacket and fitted jeans—James Dean reincarnated (which is who he named his cat after, so the fact that Dean possessed the second half of that name seemed a bit serendipitous) had Cas practically salivating. The date was already perfect in that moment; and he didn’t think anything else could top it—but then, Dean took him out for pizza; and Castiel loves pizza. Then, they walked around downtown before heading back to Dean’s car; and then they drove here and there—with no particular destination in mind.

                They just roamed.

                Dean did most of the talking and Cas did what he’s good at and listened intently, learning all about Dean’s life … things he could never learn from Google.

                Like how the man lost both of his parents at a young age, and then he raised his younger brother, Sam as if he were his own. Cas learned that Dean’s the one who rebuilt this car after it was wrecked during the crash that took his parents’ lives.

               Some might think it macabre, but Cas could see it for what it truly was—Dean’s way of honoring them. It was a mobile memorial and he prized it more than his own life.

               Castiel also discovered that Dean is unbelievably loyal, he loves pie, he prefers rock music but has a few guilty pleasures like Taylor Swift and Beyonce … and, no matter what he’s listening to, he just can’t sing at all.

                He tried, much to Castiel’s dismay.

                “What I lack in talent, I make up for in heart” Dean had said, and Cas didn’t doubt him for a second.

                The night had ended when Dean pulled back up in front of Castiel’s apartment, or … he thought it would end there—until he heard himself invite the man inside.

                “You—uh, you don’t have to invite me in, Cas. It’s only the first date.”

                His rational side responded with “Yes, of course. Thank you for the wonderful evening. Goodnight, Dean” but that side didn’t seem to speak loudly enough, because a whole new side was screaming at the top of its lungs, shouting “Take me now!” And at first, he was thankful when he realized he wasn’t actually yelling—that the words came out in a different way, but when he opened his eyes to see that Dean’s were closed, and his head was tilted just a little to the left, and their lips were connecting with a subtle hint of tongue mixed in between, all that relief mutated into absolute panic. Castiel leapt backwards, causing him to hit his head on the roof of the car and bang his elbow on the dashboard.

                “Woah … man, are you okay?”

                He hisses and rubs his elbow as he nods. “Yes—I’m alright.”

                “You sure? That looked harsh.”

                “It’s fine—I’m fine. I’m sorry. I should … yes, I should get inside.”

                “Alright. Well, I—I had a good time, Cas. Thanks.”

                Castiel is already opening the door when Dean reaches out and squeezes his hand.

                “Really. It was fun” he says, more sincerely the moment Castiel turns back to meet his gaze.

                There’s kindness there, and laughter, and an appeal that he just can’t deny, and of course, there’s heart. “Dean?” Cas asks, breathless and shaking with nerves.

                “Yeah?”

                “Please come inside with me.”

***

                “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!”

                “It’s alright—you couldn’t ha-ha-ha” Dean sneezes again and then rubs at his face. “Agh. Damn.”

                Castiel feels horrible. He had no idea that Dean was allergic to cats. Maybe that’s something he should have asked him before he invited him inside—maybe he should’ve mentioned that he had a cat. Maybe he should’ve actually thought this through for more than a second and a half.

                Dean sneezes again.

                “Do you need to go? I would completely understand. I’m so sorry.”

                Dean smiles amidst another sneeze and watering eyes. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m fine. Stop apologizing.”

                “Okay. I’m sor—okay.” Castiel feels helpless, so he hands Dean another tissue, hoping that that will showcase the apology that he so desperately wants to say.

                “So …” Dean chuckles again, blowing his nose as he warily looks down at James, “is there any room in your place that the cat doesn’t go into?”

                “The bathroom” Castiel says quietly, thinking that that probably isn’t much help. “Oh, and he doesn’t go into my bedroom as much; he tends to prefer the living room. There might be less dander in there.”

                Dean turns his gaze from the cat, to Castiel—and it morphs into heat and question with every inch. “Your bedroom, huh?”

                “Oh … oh, I didn’t mean—” he smacks his hand over his forehead and groans. “I wasn’t implying that … oh God.” Castiel stares up at the ceiling and silently prays for a comet to come down and obliterate him where he stands.

                “Dude … chill. If you were anyone else, I’d think that that was a line.”

                Castiel finally drops back down to look at the other man. “Meaning?”

                Dean laughs and then stands up, slipping his hands over Castiel’s hips. “Meaning—that I think you’re a bit too honest to make up crap just to get my pants off.”

                “Oh” Cas breathes, unable now to look anywhere besides Dean’s lips.

                Then Dean sneezes again. “But seriously, I gotta get away from your cat.”

                “Oh, yes—of course. Right this way.” Castiel steps to the side and grabs Dean’s hand, quickly leading him out of the kitchen and down the short hall to his bedroom. James follows them but once they get to the door, Castiel stops him with his foot. “I’m sorry, James. You must stay out here.”

                James sits down on the carpet and meows at him.

                “I know—but he’s allergic to you. You can’t come in.”

                Another meow breaks his heart.

                “I promise—you can come in later.”

                James lifts one paw and tilts his head to the side, twitching his ears the entire time.

                “I’m sorry … so sorry” Cas mutters, finally shutting the door, leaving the cat to mew and claw at the wood.

                “You—uh, you really love that cat, don’t you?”

                Castiel freezes, having already forgotten that it wasn’t just him and James anymore. “Oh … well …”

                Dean chuckles. “It’s cute. I suppose I do the same thing with my baby, although … she doesn’t follow me around everywhere.”

                Something in Cas’s chest seems to snap, and he whips around so fast, it makes him dizzy. “Baby?”

                “Not like that kind of baby!” Dean sniffles but laughs harder now, obviously noting the alarm in Cas’s eyes. “My car. Didn’t I mention I call her my baby?”

                Honestly, he may have; but Cas was too busy watching his lips half the time that some things had probably slipped past him. “Oh, yes—sorry. I suppose I’m just not thinking clearly.”

                Dean smiles and then moves closer, sliding his hands onto Cas’s hips once again. “Dude … you’re nervous. It’s okay. I’m not expecting anything here, alright? I’m fine just sittin’ and talkin’ about my car and your cat for the rest of the night. Whatever you want—you don’t need to worry.”

                The lack of pressure should make him settle, it should make him breathe easier, it should make him want to sit and relax and tell Dean all about his life and his family and his hopes and dreams, but instead—the man’s words make him explode from the inside out, and before he can talk some sense into himself, he’s kissing Dean again; only this time—he has the luxury of bed behind them. They stumble, interlocked until they hit the mattress, and then they break apart—hands finding hems and buttons, stripping and revealing inch after inch of flesh until that seems to be all there is. And soon, that flesh is covered with a new layer of sweat and goosebumps, which is subsequently licked and bitten bare once more.

                “Shit—Cas. Yes … just like that” Dean groans into Cas’s throat as he writhes underneath him. “Oh fuck!”

                Castiel’s hand moves up and down the length of Dean’s cock, making sure not to move too quickly—he wants to take his time.

                “Damnit … I need you in me!” Dean growls a moment later, obviously not looking for the same, savored experience that Cas is—but he can’t say that he minds.

                Cas stops wringing the man out so he can lean over and open the drawer to his nightstand, grabbing his bottle of lube and a condom.

                Dean licks his lips when he sees the items, hunching forward a second later so he can kiss Castiel again, lapping him up like he’s starving for his taste. “I want you to open me up, Cas” he whispers against Cas’s teeth, and it makes them both seem to shiver and tense against the air. “Please.”

                The man sounds desperate, but in a way that’s still so in control, so determined and strong—Cas almost topples over the edge right then and there. So he wastes no time in clicking open the bottle of lube and squirting some onto his fingers, and then he slips back between Dean’s legs, letting his hand fall lower and lower until his nails are dancing along that sweet spot that makes the other man gasp and moan, and eventually fall back onto the pillows—spreading himself wide and ready for whatever Castiel wants to do.

                And he can think of a number of things that he wants to do to Dean; but he’ll start by fulfilling his request—slipping the tip of one finger inside him, losing his own breath as he soaks up Dean’s tightness and heat.

                “Shit! More … c’mon, Cas” Dean moans, shutting his eyes and bracing himself for what’s about to come.

                Castiel obliges, pressing his finger deeper, moving it around, stretching Dean out, and making room for another.

                Dean squirms against his touch and it makes Castiel impossibly hard.

                Slowly, he slips his index in beside the last one, watching as Dean’s cock leaks and twitches with the new sensation. Castiel smiles, proud of himself for being able to make this man come apart so thoroughly. He’s usually not the one in charge—his previous partners liked to take on that role; but something about Dean makes him want to take care of the man. He makes Cas want to take the reins and steer him towards nothing but bliss and blinding orgasm. He spreads his fingers apart and then thrusts them deeper, hitting that blinding spot that he knows will have Dean screaming—and scream, he does—twisting and grabbing as the headboard, just trying to hold on.

                “Cas … now—please.” Dean peeks open for just a moment and palms at the condom, eventually picking it up and handing it to Castiel.

                “Are you ready for that?” Cas asks, concerned that he hasn’t prepped him enough.

                “I’ve been ready since I first saw you through that window” Dean moans, turning slightly red afterwards, and Cas imagines that the man didn’t intend to share so much; but it makes him smile all the same.

                “Well, alright then” Cas muses, already feeling his own heart quicken as he tears open the condom with his teeth. Then, he slips it free of the packaging with his free hand, soon rolling the rubber onto himself, giving his cock a small stroke, just to feel his insides zing. “Are you ready?” he asks again, pulling his fingers out of Dean and then lining himself up with where they just were.

                “Fuck! Yes, Cas—please, just go!” Dean practically cries, thrusting himself downwards, almost seating his body onto Cas’s cock.

                Castiel gasps with that, but he doesn’t hesitate a moment more, finally pressing inside that deep, smooth, tight ring of muscles.

                Dean clenches down around him and then sighs, arching his head up and away as he relaxes against the bed. “Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”

                “L-likewise” Castiel stutters, gawking in wonder at the being splayed out below him. He’s beautiful—an artful arrangement of freckles and soft skin. Fine, blondish brown hair with subtle hints of red that is only visible if he tilts his head just right. There are perfect spans of muscle and bone, and cut lines that all etch out an extraordinarily caring man—a caring man that for whatever reason, wants him.

                Castiel closes his eyes and says a silent thank you to whatever force made this all happen—and then his inches in some more, slowly—carefully, making sure he takes pleasure in every moment.

                “You—ya gotta move faster, man” Dean says, sliding his body up and down the sheets, trying to do Castiel’s job for him.

                It makes Cas laugh. “You certainly are impatient.”

                Dean grins. “What can I say? It’s one of my few flaws.”

                “You’re modest too.”

                Dean opens his eyes just enough to roll them. “Will ya shut up and fuck me already?”

                Castiel reaches out and runs his hand down Dean’s stomach, making the man prickle with goosebumps. “As you wish, Dean.”

                He imagines he’ll probably get a few complaints from his neighbors, but he doesn’t really care—because the moment he powers into the Dean’s body, everything turns primal.

                Claws come out, and teeth cut on flesh. Limbs link around one another until they’re nothing more than a heaving ball of sweat and sex. Castiel does his best to keep his rhythm, but Dean has him shaking to the very core—groaning filth and want directly onto his tongue and down his throat. No words make sense, because all it is is combinations of “Fuck” and “Yes” and “Cas” and “Please”. The fitted sheet tears from the corner of the bed and encases their bodies, binding them together even more.

                Castiel sinks one last time into the man, fully sheathing himself and cumming hard when Dean seizes around his cock. He’s in a haze—but even still, with weak fingers, he reaches in between their slick stomachs and takes Dean into his hands, working over his tip and rubbing up his shaft, ensuring that every last drop spurts out of him.

                He wants him dry.

                He wants him drained.

                Cas wants him spent, unable to untangle himself or ever leave this bed again. He wants to soak himself in every bit of the man, to the point he’ll never be able to wash his smell off his skin.

                In this moment, he wants nothing more than Dean.

***

                He feels sticky. He feels sticky and sore, and he’s pretty sure the entire left side of his body is asleep.

                Maybe I suffered a stroke in the middle of the night.

                It doesn’t seem too unlikely, considering how insane Dean had made him. He probably dislodged something and then stroked out, too weak to even realize anything was wrong. He’s probably paralyzed now—unable to ever live a life of normalcy again; but as his mind wanders back onto the night before, Cas can’t help but smile.

                Worth it.

                “Are you awake?”

                He hears Dean’s voice—he sounds stuffed up; but also raspy and ragged. He sounds just like how Cas feels.

                “Yes. I think so.”

                “You think so? You either are or you aren’t, man.”

                “I can’t be sure. I can’t be certain of anything right now. Life is an illusion.”

                Dean’s exhausted laugh is the most pleasant wake-up call Cas has ever heard in his life. “You’re weird in the morning.”

                “And you’re incredibly adorable” Castiel admits, feeling his skin tingle because he’s normally not that blunt.

                “Aw, shucks … you’re such a sweet-talker.”

                With a creak, Cas finally turns his head to the left, instantly understanding why that half of his body is so numb—there’s approximately a hundred and eighty five pounds of attractive-man lying on top of it. “Good morning” he rumbles, smiling blissfully at the heart-warming sight.

                Dean’s eyes are still closed but he smiles too. “Mornin’, Cas. Please tell me you have coffee in this place.”

                Cas chuckles and then attempts to wriggle himself free, but Dean doesn’t seem to have any intention of moving. “I do, but you’ll need to get off of me in order to receive it.”

                Dean’s smile quickly morphs into a grimace. “Not worth it then.” He reaches out and snakes his arm around Castiel’s middle, locking him into place and forbidding him to leave.

                Outstanding.

                Castiel’s cellphone rings and disrupts this truly perfect moment.

                Not outstanding.

                “Don’t answer it. Nothing good comes from a call at this hour” Dean groans, holding tighter onto Castiel.

                He smiles, nodding with just how true that is— only to wince with a sudden realization. “This hour? What time is it?” He forces his body upright and twists around to look at the clock on his nightstand, trying his best not to disrupt Dean but he can’t really help it now. “It’s eight thirty? I’m late!” He clamors out of bed and out of Dean’s vice-grip hold.

                “No … you can’t be. It’s …” Dean’s eyes soon burst wide as well. “Oh shit! It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

                “Yes!” Cas yelps, rushing over to the closet to find a clean, pressed suit.

                “Shit!” Dean yanks himself out of bed too, stumbling onto the carpet and stomping around, looking for his discarded clothes. “This’s why we shouldn’t have had our date on a Tuesday night!” He finds his shirt and then slips it on, doing the same with his boxers a second later.

                “I’m so sorry, Dean. I wasn’t thinking.” He feels awful—he should’ve listened when Dean said that taking a mid-week date was kind of strange. Although, he never imagined it would end how it did.

                “It’s fine, it’s fine—you weren’t expecting all …” Dean gestures towards the ratted up bed, “all this, and neither was I. We both kinda lost it and didn’t think about anything else.”

                Castiel frowns and nods, but he still feels bad. He was the one who invited Dean in, after all. “I’m sorry.”

                Dean finishes pulling on his jeans before he walks up and corners him, pinning Cas between his body and the closet door. “Cas … seriously, it’s fine. I had an awesome time last night. Like, it was crazy good. Don’t you dare apologize for that. So, we’re late? It’s not the end of the world, okay?”

                Castiel smiles and then drops his head, nodding as he takes a breath. “You … you really had a good time?”

                Dean lifts his hand and cups it against Cas’s cheek, leaning in shortly afterwards to kiss him on the forehead. “I really did, Cas.”

                He bites his lip, trying his best not to burst. “Good. I’m glad.”

***

                Mr. Powell was a far cry from happy, telling Castiel that he “was on thin ice” and “needs to shape up” or else his job may be on the line. It wasn’t necessarily uncalled for, but the reprimands bothered him anyway. He would’ve had such a perfect morning otherwise. So what if he came in nearly two hours late? He was happy—and Mr. Powell shouldn’t try to sully that.

                Castiel lumbers back into his office after his verbal beatdown, wincing when he sits in his chair because his sore muscles pinch and twinge with every single movement; but the pain only makes him happier, because it’s a reminder of the night before—of that beautiful window washer that decided to take a chance on him just after a few glances through some glass.

                And it’s right then that Castiel realizes, he hasn’t even noticed the windows yet. Usually, that’s the first thing he does when he even gets close to his office door—he stares down those long panes, begging them not to take him; but today, he’s been too distracted, and that is probably the biggest thrill of them all.

                A sudden thump makes him turn to his right—jerking when he sees the edge of the rigging.

                “Dean?” Castiel whispers to himself, quickly yanking his head back again to look at the date on his computer. It is Wednesday. He’s not so out of it that he’s glossed over an entire week.

                What’s he doing here? 

                “Layla?” Castiel calls out, not bothering to look out his door at her—instead, training his eyes once more on the man now descending the side of the building.

                “Yes, Mr. Novak?”

                “It’s Wednesday—why are the windows being cleaned?”

                The woman walks up to his door and leans against the frame just as he spins around to wait for her answer. “Oh—I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you.”

                “Tell me what?” Castiel asks, watching her as she watches the windows.

                “Mr. Powell saw that one of your windows was skipped for a complete cleaning and he got pretty upset. He called the company and insisted that they send someone out today to finish the job.”

                “Oh” Castiel mutters, feeling both uneasy and excited about seeing Dean again so soon. He hopes that the man isn’t upset about having to come back over here, though.

                “Why—why was that window left like that, anyway?”

                Layla’s tone makes it seem like she already knows the answer to that, and Castiel takes a moment before he makes eye contact again. “Baily told you, didn’t he?”

                The woman smiles as her cheeks start to tint. “Maybe … I think it’s cute.”

                “Yes, well …” Castiel clears his throat before pointlessly straightening out the papers on his desk. “I should get back to work.”

                “Of course, Mr. Novak” Layla chirps—a little too sing-song for his liking.

                She’s never going to let this go.

                A tap on the window immediately follows Layla’s departure, and Castiel imagines that Dean has been watching the two of them talk. He turns and acknowledges the man, unable to control the smile that forms the second he meets those green eyes.

                “Hey, Cas” Dean mouths, tipping up his hardhat—which, now that he’s looking at it, is impossibly sexy.

                Castiel’s pants begin to tent.

                Dean then turns to lather up the one, dirty window—having to work extra hard to scrape the old, crusty soap off the glass.

                It’s not what he’s supposed to be doing, but Castiel adjusts his body so he can watch Dean work—leaning back in his chair as he does so; and for once, he finds he’s truly enjoying the view.

                The dutiful window washer peeks at him every now and then, grinning wider each second that Cas refuses to look away.

                My God, he’s beautiful.

                His thoughts are rushing between how the man looks now, to how he looked last night—and all the other ways he might look if he was in nothing but that hardhat and his harness.

                Maybe we could use that harness to—

                Dean begins writing in the soap again. “Touch yourself” the message reads.

                Castiel’s cheeks turn to fire, and he shoots upright, twisting around to see if Layla is looking—and her head is turning to look into his office at just the same moment. With a yelp, Cas leaps from his chair and rushes to the office door, slamming it closed and blocking the view of any wandering eyes. “What are you doing?” he hisses furiously, even though he knows, Dean can’t hear him.

                Dean peeps at him through the other pane of glass and then tilts back, smearing over the soap so he can write a new message.

                Castiel watches and reads aloud as word by word, Dean’s thoughts are scrawled out.

                “Take … off … your … pants.”

                “I can’t do that!” Castiel yelps, gesturing frantically at Dean to come to his senses.

                Dean adds on to the letters. “No one can see you.” He then leans to the side and smiles at him again. “No one except me.” Dean underlines the “me” for emphasis.

                “No!” he mouths, but then Dean’s eyes drop down, all the way down to where Castiel is now helplessly pointing at him—hard and eager to follow the request.

                Dean licks his lips.

                “Oh my God” Cas whines to himself, rolling his eyes upward and begging the universe for strength.

                But then Dean steps to the left, to the largest space between the ficuses—fully exposing his body in the clean pane of glass. His hand then slips down the firm length of his own stomach, and swiftly disappears behind the button of his jeans. His head is then lulling backwards and his eyes close, and he moves his fingers beneath the denim—stroking himself into a not-so-secret mess.

                Castiel’s mouth goes dry.

                Those green eyes slit open again as those pink lips curl around the words: “Now you.”

                The room seems to shrink around him—the dubious height making itself known yet again, while the closed door at his back pushes him closer and closer to the brink. Panic and fear nip at his ankles, but the only thing keeping it from crawling up his legs and snapping him in half—is the unbridled need to join Dean on this dirty, little escapade.

                Shakily, his hands meet at the fastening of his suit pants, and after some fumbling—he has them undone. Then, his fingers set to work on shimming those pants to the carpet, giving his eager cock more room to stretch out and dictate what it wants.

                And he knows, what it really wants is to be inside Dean again; but Castiel has to be realistic … there’s no way that that can happen now—so instead, he gives his cock the next best thing, massaging it from base to tip with a rough and aching palm. He moans—sinking back against the door to his office, feeling the dread of falling succumb to the pleasure of cumming. Dean’s actions already have him so close, so watching the man continue to touch himself—make himself squirm, make himself jerk and gasp in that harness, and his chest, heave hard, just on the edge of release, only makes Castiel burst into the palm of his own hand, choking and coughing immediately afterwards as he shutters and slides down the wall and onto the floor.

                “Mr. Novak? Are you alright?” Layla’s concerned calls tumble down through the seam of his office door.

                He tries to answer her, but all that wriggles past his lips is another, pleasure-filled moan.

                “Sir?” she pushes at the door, which finally rouses him back into reality.

                “Just—just a moment!” he garbles, looking around quickly for something to wipe off his hand. The wastebasket catches his eye, and he sees that a few old worksheets are crumpled inside. He lunges across the floor and knocks over the container, making the balled up sheets roll out towards him. Victoriously, he smiles and then grasps at the paper, un-wrinkling it some so he can scrape his messy hand across the creases.

                “Sir?” Layla says again, now able to push open the door a crack since Castiel had moved.

                “No! Wait!” He stops her entrance with an outstretched foot, allowing him a single second more to tuck himself back into his pants and button up.

                Layla’s head pokes into his office and looks around a moment, eyes expanding when she finally spots him laid out on the ground. “Oh my goodness! What happened?”

                “Nothing, nothing—I’m fine” he ensures, waving her off when she steps inside and tries to help him up.

                “Did that window washer scare you again? I swear to god!” the woman growls, turning around quickly to approach the man on the other side of the glass.

                Castiel panics even more, certain that they’re filthy, perverted moment of public indecency is about to be discovered—but when he turns to look at Dean through the window, he sees the man—earbuds in, bobbing his head to some music, squeegeeing down the face of the pane, as if none of the last five minutes had ever even occurred.

                Layla taps on the glass with one hand as the other is perched on her hip. “You certainly got some nerve!” she scolds, pointing angrily at Dean when he finally looks at her through the striped foam.

                But the man barely reacts ... just shrugginger after a beat, pointing to his own ears and mouthing “Sorry ... can’t hear you.”

                Layla drops her hand and stomps furiously at the ground, finally whipping around and marching out of Castiel’s office. “His supervisor will hear about this!”

                He would stop her, but at the moment—Castiel can only gawk, watching as Dean carries on cleaning the windows, only pausing for a solitary second to toss Castiel a wink.

***

                “Did you get into any trouble?”

                “Yeah—my boss tore me a new one. Said if I keep messing with the office workers, he’ll dock my pay.” Dean is laughing on the other end of the call, but Cas can’t see how any of that is funny.

                “That was very risky, Dean. We could’ve been caught.”

                “Yeah well—life is more fun with a little risk, don’t ya think?”

                Before Castiel can answer, another voice chimes in behind the other man on the phone. “Is that your angel?”

                “Go away, Sam!” Dean grunts, now—not sounding amused at all.

                “It is—oh, Castiel!”

                “Don’t you have something better to do? Or is your life so pathetic that you always have to try ‘n mess up mine?”

                “Jeez—someone’s touchy. You must really like this guy.”

                “Get out of my room, Sam!”

                “Fine, fine. Bye, Castiel!”

                The sound of a door slamming gives Cas his cue to speak again. “Your brother seems—interesting.”

                “He seems like an ass who can’t mind his own damn business” Dean growls, and it makes Cas chuckle.

                “My brother acts the same way. He seems to enjoy torturing me.”

                “You got a brother?” Dean asks, tone lightening with the change in subject.

                “I have a few, actually; but Gabriel is the joker of the family. I am afraid to tell him anything about my personal life, in case he can use it against me.”

                “Oh man … I bet him and Sammy would get along great!” Dean’s smile is obvious.

                Cas smiles too. “I doubt either of us would survive if those two ever met.”

                The other man’s laughter peaks and then settles within the same breath. “Yeah … probably.”

                A silence fills up the air between them, but it doesn’t make Cas uneasy like it did the first time they spoke on the phone.

                “Hey, Cas?” Dean whispers after a minute of the two of them, just listening to the other think.

                “Yes, Dean?”

                “Are you really named after an angel?”

                Castiel chuckles again. “Yes—in fact, I am.”

                Dean sighs. “Good.”

***

                Seven months pass by without any warning. He and Dean went from having random, casual dates—which mostly ended at Dean’s place since James made him sneeze too much, to dinners with Sam and his girlfriend Jess, as well as long nights just watching movies, and early Tuesday mornings, driving together to work. When the holidays rolled around, Dean spent Thanksgiving at Castiel’s parents’ house—which made him unbelievably nervous; but by the end of the night, he was singing tipsy karaoke in the middle of the living room with Gabriel and Castiel’s other brother, Michael.

                Cas’s mother pulled him aside just before they left and told him to “hang onto to that one”. Castiel promised her that he would do his best.

                At Christmas, he joined Dean, Sam and Jessica for a few days at the Winchester’s Uncle Bobby’s house. It was a long drive away and the brothers bickered the entire time, but it gave Castiel a chance to really get to know Jess … he likes her a lot, and he thinks Sam would be a fool if he didn’t propose soon.

                On Christmas morning, Dean had given him a set of books that he’d been eyeing, as well as a new collar for James and three panels of 80” curtains—that he could only put up as long as he promised to keep them open on Tuesdays.

                Castiel agreed.

                After New year’s it seemed like everything between them was perfect—too perfect, and Cas began to get a gnawing feeling his stomach that he was going to mess it all up. Nothing good in his life ever lasted for long, and Dean was certainly good … too good for him. Too good for the world.  But that didn’t stop Castiel from trying to find flaws. Dean was impatient—and the silly, risky things he did from time to time, did make Castiel anxious. Also, he never wanted to stay at Cas’s house anymore because of James—and even though he never asked him to get rid of his beloved pet, Cas was afraid that such a request might be in their future, and he just couldn’t stand for that. All these exaggerated worries and more, made him pull away little by little until; and sometimes the only way they would see each other was on those Tuesdays, when Dean would tap on the glass to get his attention.

                And he knew, it was making the other man upset.

                But Castiel just couldn’t help it.

                It’s always been him and James. No one else.  That’s the only life he was good at.

***

                The pounding on the window makes him accidently scratch a long, black streak across his paper with his pen.

                Castiel snaps his neck to the left to see Dean, throwing his hands up in the air and mouthing “What the hell, man?”—the curve of his lip making it obvious that he was angry. They’ve been together long enough now that Cas can almost hear his voice with every word too, and it only makes the guilt burn deeper.

                Dean frowns as Cas just shakes his head at him and attempts to go back to his work. So Dean chooses to pound at the panes again; but this time when Cas looks up, Dean is pulling out his cellphone and soon, the office phone is ringing.

                “Dean” he snips instantly upon answering.

                “Thanks for finally pickin’ up my calls, man! Took ya long enough!”

                “Dean—I’ve been busy, you know that.”

                “That’s bullshit. You’re just as busy as you were seven months ago, only now you got a stick up your ass and I wanna know why!”

                Castiel grimaces at the graphic implication and then he turns to look at Dean once more—and the man is still glowering at him through the window. “I don’t want to get into this with you right now.”

                “It’s now or never, Cas!” Dean’s hand is on his hip, and his jaw is set at a hard angle, making the strap of his hardhat cut into his skin.

                Castiel sighs, knowing that he shouldn’t—but he never was any good at controlling his own mouth. “You don’t stay at my apartment.”

                “What?”

                “You never want to stay over.”

                Dean’s body sags, as if he’s in disbelief—and he probably is. “You know I’m allergic to your cat.”

                “Yes, but you don’t even want to try anymore.”

                The man’s face twists on every one of Castiel’s words as they travel through the phone. “Try what? I’m allergic and you can just come over to my place. It’s an easy solution.”

                “Easy for you! But that always leaves James all by himself, and that’s not fair to him.”

                “Seriously?” Dean hisses, throwing an angry gesture into the air, and it makes Cas flinch on the other side of the window. “You’re seriously screwing up our relationship because of your damn cat?”

                “He’s not just my damn cat, Dean! He’s more important than that, and I thought you of all people would care about what’s important to me!”

                “I do care, Cas!”

                “Obviously not!”

                Dean’s faces seems to crack as he steps up closer to the glass. “What’re you saying, man?”

                Castiel sighs, and he hates himself—he absolutely hates himself, but now, he’s already taken this so far. “I’m not saying anything, Dean … I just—I have to go. Goodbye.” With that, he hangs up the phone and turns away, focusing furiously on his computer, trying not to acknowledge the man he just left to dangle out in the open air.

                There’s another pound on the window.

                Castiel ignores it.

                He can hear the faintest sound of his name being bellowed against the panes—but still, he keeps on working.

                Then, out of the corner of his eye—he sees Dean move, harshly—almost thrashing, and when Cas finally does give in and turn his head, he watches in horror as the man smashes down on one of the controls, sending the entire rigging plummeting out of sight.

                “Dean!” Castiel screams, exploding out of his chair and sending the thing toppling to the floor, but he doesn’t look back. He only clamors as fast as he can to the glass, knocking over several of the ficuses so that he can stare downwards, terrified with what he’s about to see—and what he sees drops him to his knees.

                Dean—about ten feet below him, lying flat on the platform, hands draped casually over his stomach while he looks up at Castiel and softly chuckles to himself.

                Castiel yanks all the curtains closed.

***

                “It’s Tuesday, Mr. Novak.”

                “I am aware, Layla.”

                The woman shifts awkwardly in his doorway until she finally catches his eye. “Do you want me to open the curtains? Dean is probably almost down here.”

                “No need” Castiel grumbles coldly, turning back to the e-mail that he’s been typing.

                “But—”

                “I’m very busy, Layla. Thank you.”

                The woman’s sigh is sad, and he feels badly for being so blunt with her, but the last thing he wants is to be reminded that it has now been a week since he’s seen or spoken with Dean. It’s been a week since he basically ended their relationship, and—it’s been a week since Dean scared him nearly to death. He just wants to drown himself in his work and get through this day so he can get back home to James.

                Just a few more hours.

                His fingers clack against his keyboard—more numbers and figures that will hopefully seal the deal on a new account that Mr. Powell has been chomping at the bit to get. Castiel has been working tirelessly to have everything ready, so when someone in the office begins playing music—he’s rather aggravated by the disturbance. “Layla—I don’t know who that is but can you tell them to keep it down?”

                “That’s not coming from in here, sir.”

                Castiel stops typing and looks up, connecting eyes with the woman to see if she’s joking—but she seems just as puzzled as he is. “Then, where is it coming from?”

                Layla gets up from her desk and walks over to his door. “It’s louder in here.”

                “What?” Castiel gets up now too, and then walks out of his office and onto the accounting floor. She’s right. “How can that be?”

                “Sir?”

                Castiel turns around to see Layla, now standing by his windows, looking at the wall of dark blue curtains that Dean had purchased for him.

                “I—I think it’s coming from outside.”

                Outside?

                Castiel takes a hesitant step forward, watching with labored breath as his secretary pulls back the drapes, letting the view of the city, in.

                Oh my—

                Layla puts her hands over her mouth and steps backwards, soon tracing the span of his office with her eyes until they fall once more on Castiel. “Sir!” The excitement in her voice only highlights his own shock.

                There—centered on the platform of the rigging, dressed head to toe in a suit and tie—boombox and speakers at his feet, stands Dean—swaying back and forth and mouthing the words to Beyonce’s “Halo” as he holds a box of Allegra allergy medicine high above his head.

                “I cannot even believe—” Cas begins, not sure if he should grin, or crawl into himself with embarrassment.

                “Novak? What’s going on in here?” Mr. Powell appears behind him, shutting up instantly when he looks in on the scene unfolding inside Castiel’s office.

                “Oh my God! This is so romantic!” Layla squeaks, jumping up and down and clapping her hands.

                “What’s romant—holy crap!”

                Castiel turns around and sees Baily, now standing behind Mr. Powell, already vibrating with laughter.

                Just great.

                “Novak … are you behind this?” his boss growls, but he’s still too stunned to really be a threat just yet.

                “No, sir” Castiel admits, finally looking back to the windows, just in time to see Dean lifting his cell phone to his head.

                After a second more, Castiel’s office phone rings.

                “Answer it! Answer it!” Layla practically shrieks.

                Castiel runs over to his desk in a hurry, scooping up the phone and pinning it to his ear. “Dean! What on earth—”

                “Just listen, okay?” Dean bends over and turns down the music so it’s no longer blaring through the air. Castiel watches him move, waiting for him to stand up straight again—but when he finally does, he finds that he just bring himself to look into those deep, green eyes. So he turns away; but he simply can’t escape Dean’s voice as it continues to rumble through the phone. “Castiel Novak … I love you. Not like … not lust … not I just find you kinda funny every now and then, I like—I really love the hell outta you, man. And if that means I’m always gonna have a stuffed up nose because of your cat, or if that means I need to wait until I’m at this window just to see you every week, then so be it—because fuck, you are an angel, Cas! I … I can see your halo.”

                Wide eyed, Castiel slowly turns back and gawks at the man standing just on the other side of the glass. “You are by far—the corniest person I have ever met in my life, Dean Winchester.”

                Dean grins at him—just as beautifully as he did that very first day. “But—you love me for it, right?”

                Even with every eye in his office on him, Castiel just can’t help himself—he smiles back. “Yes … yes I do.”