#coffeeandcas

Today, nobody comes. Dean sits at the bar and stares at his own reflection in the mirror backing bottles of gin, whiskey, vodka and schnapps. His hair is a faded pink at the moment, the front styled into a vintage quiff and the sides buzzed pretty short. He eyes his neck tattoos with mild interest, wondering if he has room for another, in between the feathers of the wings that curve up his back and wrap around his throat and collarbone and the Enochian script detailing a spell for immortality. He's been interested in celestial mythology for years, and his skin is marked in a variety of places with the language of the angels. He sighs. Benny had loved his ink. The sprawling patterns and artistry that cover his shoulders, both arms and most of his chest have taken him years to perfect, and he's still working on them. He has a piece in mind for his stomach and upper thigh, which he's already booked in for. After Benny’s sudden death, a life insurance policy had allowed Dean to quit the garage he hated working at and instead enabled him to pursue his passion in life: the arts. It had taken him a while to work up to using Benny’s money on himself, but had eventually been coaxed into it by his younger brother who insisted Benny would want his happiness. He had apprenticed at a tattoo parlour, worked at a record shop, and now works as a curator at a modern art gallery deep in the underground heart of the city he loves so much. He sighs, touches his fingers to an unmarked space just between his collar bone and Adam's apple. What could he put here?

His thoughts are rudely interrupted by the start of a bar brawl and he makes a sharp exit out into the balmy night. In the past, he would cheerfully have joined the fray but not now. Now he doesn't see the point. Why fight and scrap and claw your way through life when your mere existence is so fragile? He heads instead to an indie bar across the street, painfully cool and packed full of hipsters, because he doesn't fancy going home just yet. He normally has one last drink after his shot to honour Benny’s death: one for himself, to signify his continued life after such a loss. Life after death.

He pushes open the door to the bar and fights his way over to order a drink. As suspected, everything is expensive and too cool for him, and he stands out a mile in his leather jacket and lip stud. Oh, and the pink hair never fails to draw attention. He runs a hand through it, scrunching it up at the front then smoothing it back, musing. Perhaps green next, to match his eyes. Or maybe…

He turns, walks smack into someone standing too close behind him, and they both spill their drinks on each other. Fuck.

“Oh, God, I'm so sorry.” The other man is immediately babbling his apologies in a low, rich voice that sends shivers down Dean’s spine. “My fault. Utterly. Please, let me buy you another…”

And he looks up from wiping beer from his suit and tie, his eyes lock on to Dean’s, and time comes to a halt. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, hear the hiss of his breath as he inhales and exhales, but all he can see are the blue eyes of the stranger; all he can smell is his cologne; all he can feel is longing. Like the pull of gravity altering the path of a comet. And by the way the other man’s lips part and his eyes widen just a touch, he feels it too. Dean is sure time is passing, seconds, maybe even minutes, but they just stare at each other, mesmerised. The guy is gorgeous, there's no doubt about it, but Dean barely even notices. All he knows is that he's staring deep into the eyes of someone he was meant to meet. The blue eyes are dark and layered, and could contain galaxies of their own if they glittered just a little more. Dean hears himself take a deep breath in, then on the exhale he just about manages, “hi”.

Blue... he should dye his hair blue... definitely blue...

“Hello.” That voice again, like warm melting caramel, and for some reason an innate hunger sweeps through Dean. Hunger for what he hasn't a clue, but whatever it is he wants it. The other man is smiling now, his hand on Dean's arm to steady him even though he's standing up perfectly fine on his own. Neither of them hear the exasperated voice until the speaker is right beside them, hissing dramatically and waving a hand in front of the man’s face and just like that the spell is broken.

“Cas! Heaven’s above, I've been calling you for an entire minute.” The man, British and stuck-up looking, eyes Dean with disinterest. “It's my round. What shall I get you?”

“The same again, please, Bal.” The man, Cas, hasn't broken Dean’s gaze for even a second. “And the same for…”

The pause extends just long enough to become awkward before Dean realises he's supposed to speak. “Oh! Winchester. Dean, I mean. Dean Winchester. That's… my name. Hi.”

“Hello.” Cas says again, this time with a drop of amusement in his voice. “Dean.”

And fuck if that didn't go right through him like a bolt of lightning. Damn. Who the hell is this guy and why is every cell Dean possesses itching to launch itself at him? Body, mind, heart and soul?

“Here.” Another long, long minute passes with them both just watching each other, studying the lines of each other's faces, and soon the bitchy Brit is back and is shoving drinks at them. “Jesus. Get a room, for all our sakes!”

And like that Dean realises where they are. In a crowded bar, and they certainly aren't alone. Cas appears to be with friends, if a quick glance over his shoulder at the snickering group is anything to go by, and Dean’s entire upper body flushes with embarrassment. What were they just doing? Staring at each other like two lovesick puppies?! What the hell, man?

He starts stammering his thanks for the drink whilst simultaneously trying to press it into Cas’ hands, but warm fingers wrap around his wrist and he finds himself being tugged through the throng of people to the door, where it's quieter and they're shielded from gawking onlookers. Cas looks him up and down, a once-over but not the type Dean is familiar with. He's used to disdain, judgement, surprise, even distaste. But this look is different. It seems… awed.

“I'm Cas,” The guy says, and he leans in close to Dean as he says it, his cologne thick and spicy and so good. It seems to envelop them both in a pleasant haze and they both move just a bit closer. “It's nice to meet you, Dean. I apologise for spilling your drink.”

“I think you already said that.” Dean’s mouth is drier than the Gobi desert. “But it's OK. It's fine. You're fine.”

“I am?” Cas raises a perfect eyebrow and Dean groans internally. Get it together, Winchester. You never seen a hot guy before?

“No, no, you're not fine. It's fine. I'm fine. You're not. I mean, maybe you are I don't know… are you? Fine?” For fuck’s sake. Dean normally has a silver tongue and charm for days. What on earth has happened to him since stepping into this bar? He's turned into a gibbering wreck akin to his teenage years.

“I'm much better now that I've met you.” Oh, damn. It's a line, naturally, but Dean loves it all the same. He waits to see if there's more. “Maybe this is too forward…” The air surely crackles around them where Cas’ fingers come up to brush his shoulder. “But… are you seeing anyone?”

Dean shakes his head, his lips part to speak but nothing comes out. Cas smiles. “Good. Then, would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” His right hand slides down to clasp Dean’s left, and a second later his gaze follows it and he frowns. Dean looks too, puzzled, then he realises. Damn. His wedding ring. It's pressing into Cas’ finger.

“I'm not married,” he says quickly, too quickly. He's always hated this part, and luckily hasn't had to do it very often. The men he's been with since Benny have been quick flings, no dinner dates mentioned, and only a couple have asked. “I mean, I was. Before. Uhm.”

“You're separated?” Cas’ eyes look a little wary now, but he hasn't let go of Dean’s hand. A good sign.

“No.” He's calm, calmer than he normally is when discussing Benny. Weird. “He passed away. A few years ago. Firefighter. I'm OK with it.” Stop talking, Deano.

“I'm so sorry,” Cas says and, oddly enough, it looks like he really is. He isn't just saying it to be polite. He grips Dean’s hand just a little tighter and is shyer when he next speaks. “If you don't want to go out together, I’d understand.”

“No. I do.” His heart is racing once more, this time with nervous excitement. A date, his first date since he was 22. And with the most incredible guy he's seen since he was 25. How could he not want to?

“I'm glad.” Cas smiles and pulls him a bit closer. Suddenly the bar seems to melt away, the lights around them blurring and expanding to encase them in their own private moment. His breathing accelerates. Is Cas going to…

Cas kisses him, softly, on the cheek and presses a card into his hand.

“Text me in the morning and we’ll make plans.” Then he steps away, looking full of regret. Before he lets go of Dean’s hand he lifts it and presses a kiss to his tattooed knuckles. “See you tomorrow, Dean Winchester.”

He walks away and Dean is left staring after him, wondering how everyone else is just carrying on as normal when it feels like his whole world is transforming around him.

*

Cas looks drop-dead gorgeous when he meets Dean outside his building the following evening. He's in much more casual attire - dark, fitted, expensive jeans paired with a soft, luxurious t-shirt and a pale grey jacket slung over the top. His hair is artfully disheveled and his eyes almost glow softly in the early evening light. Dark hair, blue eyes, layered muscle under his clothes… Dean definitely has a type and Cas is hitting every mark. He's barely slept for thinking about the other man and that chaste, fleeting kiss on the cheek, and had spent an anxious day torn between worry and excitement about their upcoming date. But as Cas walks towards him, Dean forgets it all. Forgets that he's a little tired, a little nervous, and all he sees is Cas. The wind messes Cas’ hair as he reaches Dean and comes to a stop, smiling like he's just laid eyes on the most beautiful thing in creation. Dean almost checks behind himself to see what he's looking at, then blushed as he realises: Cas has eyes only for him.

They eat at a small pizzeria down a side-street, and talk for hours. Three courses, two bottles of wine, and eventually the waiters have to subtly ask them to leave because they need to close the doors, and they both laugh in shocked surprise as they realise it's well past midnight. Hand-in-hand, they walk through the busy city streets and carry on talking, with no destination in mind, just the desire for it not to end yet. Dean learns about Cas. He's a corporate litigation lawyer, one of the best, and he enjoys his job. He has siblings, has no pets, enjoys to read spy novels and watch foreign films. He shares his own passions with Cas and the man listens avidly, his hand leaving Dean’s to come to rest on his hip, his arm firm and possessive across his back. Dean leans towards him a little more with each step and soon they're walking pressed together. Cas takes Dean’s other hand in his, and when they reach the glossy revolving doors of a hotel Cas stops them and just looks at Dean.

“This is me.”

“Oh.” Dean is lost, swept away in ocean-blue eyes.

“My apartment is being refurbished. I'm staying here for a week.”

“Oh.” Nothing more intelligent comes to mind.

“Should I walk you home?” Cas is so close now, his arm snug and tight around Dean’s waist and they're sharing a breath. “Or…?”

Dean tilts his head. Cas gets it, and takes the invitation, lowering his lips to the tender skin of his beautifully tattooed throats to press gentle kisses there. Dean sighs, and his decision is signed and sealed.

“I like the sound of or.”

*

“Top or bottom?” Cas murmurs into Dean’s hair, so gruffly and quietly that Dean almost misses the words. He's occupied, cut him some slack: he's pinned against a wall, his legs wrapped around Cas’ waist, one hand on the other man’s neck and the other in his hair, and he's being kissed to within an inch of his life. Cas keeps locking their mouths together, lapping at Dean’s tongue, then pulls back to attack his neck with nips and bites and soothing licks. It's heaven.

“I, uh, dunno… Both… whatever you want, you decide…” Dean is being kissed again and it's so passionate and intense that he's breathless and panting with it all. The heat between them has built to a staggering level already, and Cas shifts him against the wall, pressing closer.

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas actually growls this time. He captures Dean’s los again, crushing their mouth together and breathes, “Tell me. I want to know.”

“I… mmm, that's so good…” Cas has pulled Dean’s v-neck t-shirt to one side and is sucking a deep red mark into the hollow of his collarbone. He struggles to focus: what do I want? I want him. I want control. I want to be controlled. I want him to take me. I want to see his face as I take him. I want his hands, his mouth, I want him on top of me, underneath me, I just want him so much… “Everything, Cas, I want it all. Whatever you wanna do to me, I'm yours.”

“Nuh-uh.” Cas nips him, hard enough to mark, and Dean groans, gripping his hair and pulling him closer. It's a silent request for him to do that again. “If you can't decide then I guess we’ll just have to do more of this until you do.”

Then Cas’ hands come under his thighs and he turns them away from the wall, displaying surprising strength as he carries Dean across the hotel room with ease, depositing him on the bed and falling on top of him to continue their make-out session. Hands pull and drag at clothes, yanking t-shirts off and fumbling with belt buckles. Shoes are kicked off and hit the floor with a thud, and throughout it all Cas keeps kissing Dean. Kissing him like he's something precious and someone to be worshipped, but at the same time it's heated and dirty and they both pant with lust, worked up.

“You,” Dean gasps as Cas rakes his nails down his sides. “I want you. I want you inside my body.”

He groans as warm, wet lips move to suck at his nipple, then gasps as he's bitten gently. His legs fall apart and Cas settles between them, both of them blissfully nude, hot between their thighs and he can already feel dampness between them. One or both of them is dripping with need already, and he's sure it's him. He's never felt so turned on in his life from nothing more than making-out, and lets his head fall back and just enjoys as Cas works him over. His throat, his chest, his sensitive nipples, the cut of his abs and lower: Cas licks and kisses him everywhere. Everywhere. He opens Dean up using his mouth and thumbs, and Dean comes with a helpless moan, thighs pressed to up his own chest and completely exposed to the endless pleasure the older man is unleashing on him.

Then they're fucking, and Dean is brought close to a second climax by nothing but the feel of Cas’ cock pumping in and out of him at an agonisingly slow pace. Deep, sensual thrusts make him whine and gasp, and soon he's rocking his hips down and impaling himself even deeper, gasping out and sobbing with need, want, desperation, and something else. Something that frightens and intrigues him, and it's something he sees mirrored in Cas’ eyes as the other man looks down at him, driving himself into Dean’s body over and over and kissing every part of skin he can reach. They fuck for hours, Dean on his back, then his hands and knees, then pinned against the wall with his legs around Cas’ waist (he loves this, he screams Cas’ name and arches on his cock, hands tight in dark hair and lips biting a caress into his neck), then on his back again, exposed and desperate and falling.

As he comes again, crying out helplessly, there are words on his lips that should terrify him. He doesn't know if he says them: the pleasure than crests and breaks over him ignites his whole body and he arches, his muscles contracting and spasming deliciously as Cas pushes into him one final time and comes, hard, deep inside Dean. He doesn't need to verbalise the thought that drifts through his hazy, post-orgasm mind: he wishes they hadn't used a condom. He wants to feel Cas, wants to be connected to him in every way.

Next time. Next time…

“You're incredible, Dean.” Cas is braced on his forearms, lying in the V of Dean’s hips, and is kissing him with slow desire, panting just a little and skin shining with sweat. “You're… I feel like… yeah. You… I…”

“Me too.” Dean stares up and runs his fingers through Cas’ hair. “Me too, Cas. Me too.”

*

They don't sleep. They're afraid of missing even a single second in the other’s presence. Dean lies sprawled on his back while Cas explores his body from the top down, tracing the lines of each tattoo and listening avidly as Dean talks about them. His touch is feather-light and sends tingles rippling across Dean’s skin in its wake.

“What does this say?” Cas traces a line of words in beautiful script that arcs across Dean’s ribs and Dean smiles bashfully.

“It's a charm, for infinite happiness. It's in Enochian. The language of-”

“The angels.” Cas’ voice is soft and almost awed. “And this?” He traces Dean’s left collarbone.

“An Enochian prayer.” Dean studies Cas’ eyes, dark and focused in the dim light of the bedroom. His lashes are so long they cast shadows on his cheeks as he blinks slowly, studying the art on Dean’s tanned skin. “You've heard of the language? Not many people have.”

“Oh, yes.” Cas smiles, lifting his gaze to Dean’s. “I have.” There's a pause. “My full name is Castiel. It means…”

“The angel of Thursday.” Now its Dean’s turn to sound awed. Cas nods, tracing the words with a fingertip and Dean shivers pleasantly.

“I was born at a minute past one on a rainy Thursday morning. Apparently, I didn't wish to breathe on my own for a while. I'm told it gave my parents quite a scare.” Cas smirks up at Dean, then his smile softens a little. “One of the nurses who looked after me told my mother she was sure I'd been touched by an angel, and that's why I'd lived. I don't know if there's any truth to that, but my mother believed it and named me accordingly.”

“Castiel.” Dean tries the name out; it feels good rolling off his tongue. “It suits you. It's beautiful.”

“I've never felt worthy of it really.” Cas shrugs, matter-of-fact. “I've never even met another person interested in angels before, let alone a person who knows what it means. But then you showed up…”

“Do you have any favourites?” Dean gestures to himself, referring to his ink. He's curious. He loves every design equally, but he wants to know which one speaks to Cas the most. Cas considers, then nudges at his hip for him to turn on his side.

“This one.” He traces the feathers of one wing, sounding lovestruck. It's the curved wing, the one that comes up to wrap around Dean’s shoulder in a mimic of an embrace, and Cas takes his time to trace every feather. “I've never seen such beauty.”

“My artist is incredible.” Dean has his head pillowed on his crooked elbow, and is staring out of the window at the lights of the city, letting Cas explore. From behind him comes a low sigh.

“I wasn't just talking about your ink, Dean.”

They trade soft, sweet smiles that turn into soft, sweet kisses with the potential to turn passionate. But Cas isn't done with his exploration of Dean’s skin just yet. He traces the Enochian words with his tongue then pulls away, and Dean’s heart pounds. Cas is looking right at the base of his sternum, where a red heart is inked in the centre, and suddenly his face is unreadable.

“Is this him?” He traces the outline of the heart then, with a touch so soft Dean can barely feel it, follows the lines of two letters, B.L., inked on the inside of the heart. Dean can only nod.

“It doesn't bother you, does it?” His voice sounds oddly choked up all of a sudden.

“Bother me?” Cas doesn't look up. He's studying the tattoo intimately, tracing the lines over and over. “No. Absolutely not. You had someone in your life who loved you and kept you safe. How could that bother me?” He glances up, and his eyes are so intense Dean has to blink a few times in order to feel stable enough to hold his gaze. “It's a privilege to lie here with you, Dean. I only wish he hadn't been ripped from you so viciously.”

“But it led me to you…” Dean hears himself say into the long silence following Castiel’s words, and a smile touches the other man’s lips.

“It did.” He kisses the apex of the heart. “It led me to you.”

*

Dean takes Cas to get tattooed for the first time, months later. Cas is oddly secretive about the design, sending Dean from the room despite looking pale and nervous, and comes out an hour later looking shaky and even more pale but satisfied.

“Let me see!” Dean grins eagerly at him, his fingers already itching to pull back Cas’ sleeve to see his wrist. “Cas, show me!”

“Just a minute, let me pay.”

Outside, Dean can't wait any longer. He takes Cas’ hand - gently, mindful of the tender skin - and pulls his sleeve up, then the words he was already preparing get lost somewhere between his mind and his lips. Cas has two small, beautiful, intricate angel wings tattooed onto the inside of his left wrist. They look like a miniature version of Dean’s, and he's left speechless and so touched he feels himself start to well up.

“They remind me of you,” Cas says quietly. “I hope you like them.”

“Like them…? Cas, they're…” Dean can't find the words. He swallows around a lump of emotion and tugs Cas’ hand to bring him close for a kiss. “Perfect. Just like you.”

“Just like us.” Cas adds, tapping Dean gently on the nose and following his touch with a kiss. Dean doesn't stop smiling the whole way home, and spends most of the evening with his hand linked with Cas’, just staring at the tiny, beautiful angel wings. And thinking.