#writer!cas

He cleared his throat.

“Hi.” Great work, Winchester. Thankfully, it was considered more socially acceptable to stare into someone’s eyes, so Dean did just that, gazing into the deep blue he found there, letting himself drown in it. There was some trepidation there and distrust and Dean really needed to tell the guy why he was there and maybe try and convince him that he was not in fact a creep.

“Uh. I think you still have my jacket?” he asked. It wasn’t really a question.

Those eyes were very, very blue.

Instead of answering, Cas turned around and came back a few seconds later, holding the green jacket in his hand.

Dean took it, trying to think of what to say next.

Usually, he was quick on his feet, always had some remark or joke up his sleeve, but now he stood there empty-handed, searching desperately for a way to help the situation.

“So. How do you like Lawrence so far?” he settled on.

Cas forced a smile. “It is nice. Although I haven’t seen much of it yet.”

“No? Well how ‘bout we fix that? I’m kinda dead today, but what do you say to tomorrow and lunch at two? I know the best burger place in town.”

Cas seemed to mull it over, leaving Dean sweating on the doorstep.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d make for good company.”

“Nonsense. Look, you’re new and I really don’t mind showing you around. I’ve been wanting to go for a while, but I never seem to make the time. You’d be doing me a favor too, actually.” Plus I’ve been avoiding all the other people in my life and I’m gonna go insane unless I talk to someone other than my brother and Bobby.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely."

On the fifth day they finally managed to kick him out of the hospital. Dean was, of course, rather reluctant at first, but when the doctors, very rightfully, mentioned that Sam could be out quite soon and would need someone to look out for him in the right environment because someone with a concussion and two broken legs, which would require him to use a wheelchair at least for a little while, needed extra care Dean eventually found himself driving back to his apartment to prepare for that event.

His place might not be all that much, but his complex's got a rather spacious elevator – contrary to Sam's nerdy loft downtown – and his apartment allows enough room at least in the most important spots for Sam to maneuver. Bathroom, guest room, living room. Only the kitchen might be a problem, but since Sam is prone to set an oven on fire just by looking at it Dean isn't really keen on letting him inside that room anyway, no matter the consequences.

So it comes that he's currently changing the sheets in his spare room when the doorbell rings.

Dean is inclined to ignore it at first, so not in the mood to deal with anyone at this point, but the person on the other side of the door is rather persistent and eventually even switches to an impatient knocking, making it absolutely impossible to blend out.

Dean growls and swiftly opens the door, more than determined to let out all the frustration and anger from the last few days on the person in the hallway because he's just classy like that.

But the words die in his throat as he sees himself face to face with Cas.

“Cas?” he croaks, so overwhelmed by the expected sight of his best friend he doesn't even know how to cope.

“You tried to ignore me, didn't you?” Cas narrows his eyes before pushing himself inside, suitcase right behind him. “You're getting way too predictable.”

Dean simply stares after him in a daze, wondering if he's dreaming or not.

“Aren't you supposed to be in Alaska?” he blurts out in the end.

Cas casually parks his suitcase in the hall before walking to the living room. “I was, yes. And now I'm here.”

For a moment Dean gapes at the luggage, frozen on the spot, and eventually follows his friend. “Did you just come right from the airport or do you intend to move in here?”

Cas' lips curl upwards. “Both.”

Dean blinks in confusion. “What?”

Cas sits down on the couch and pats the spot next to him in invitation. Dean considers refusing at first, to keep some distance between them, but in the end he's utterly helpless against the pull drawing him near this man who became everything to him somewhere along the way.

Not that he ever dared to voice that out loud, though.

“I'm sorry it took me so long to come back home,” Cas says as Dean drops onto the sofa cushions beside him. “I actually wanted to set out the second I heard about Sam, but the whole thing turned way more complicated than I anticipated.”

Dean clears his throat, chiding himself not to say anything stupid. “But … what about your book tour?”

Cas had been touring the US and the better part of Canada for several weeks now. And even though Dean had missed him terribly he's been so happy and proud of Cas' accomplishments. Cas had been rather successful with his writing for quite a while now, but his latest publication went through the roof faster than anyone could've imagined and he became high demand more or less over night. The book tour only one of many things on his tight schedule.

“You weren't supposed to be back for another four weeks,” Dean points out because yes, he kept a close eye on these things. “I don't want you to miss out –”

“Do you really think a book tour would be more important to me than Sam and you?” Cas asks incredulously.

Dean presses his lips into a thin line. “No, of course not,” he hurries to clarify. “But as I told you, Sam's gonna be alright –”

“I can easily reschedule the rest of the tour,” Cas cuts in with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Didn't you hear? I'm a world famous writer now, I can do whatever I want.”

A laugh bursts out of Dean's chest.

The first one in five days.

Damn, how he missed having Cas around.

“So … you wanna move in?” he wonders, nodding at the suitcase in the hallway with a question mark on his face.

“Naturally,” Cas agrees. As if that's the most normal thing in the world. “Sam told me you want him to stay with you until he recovers. And considering your apartment would be very accommodating for a wheelchair that's quite the wise choice, I have to say.”

“So you –”

“I want to stay and help out as well,” Cas says with a shrug. “Don't worry, I'll just take the couch.”

Dean feels something warm blossoming inside his chest and for a moment he's barely able to breathe. Because Cas is wonderful and selfless and if Dean wouldn't be such a chickenshit he would've confessed his freaking love a long time ago.

“Cas, man, I really appreciate it,” Dean answers, his voice a bit shaky. “But – like I said, Sam is getting better – I'll be able to manage it myself –”

“I want to be here for Sam,” Cas insists. “But I also want to be here for you!”

Dean raises his brows.

“Because I know you,” Cas goes on before Dean is even able to come up with a follow-up question. “I mean, just look at you. You seem like you hadn't had a minute of rest since all of this happened.”

Dean grimaces. Of course he's totally right about that, but Dean seriously doesn't want to confirm that. Not with Cas assessing him like that.

So he mumbles, in good old Winchester fashion, “I'm fine …”

Cas instantly rolls his eyes at him. “You're not fine,” he claims. “I talked with Sam, you know? You barely ate or slept, you didn't even think about telling your employees what was happening. You just rushed out of the garage and never returned.”

Dean grimaces.

Right.

He knew he forgot something.

“Shit,” he whispers, rubbing his temples and cursing his past self.

“Well, at least you remembered to call me,” Cas states. “And when he didn't hear from you Benny reached out to me to learn what's going on.” As Dean immediately opens his mouth to dig further about that, Cas adds right away, “Don't worry, I explained everything. He's managing the garage in your absence.”

Dean can't help feeling incredibly guilty all of a sudden. He noticed several messages and missed calls on his phone, some of them from Benny, but he ignored all of them because he didn't have the strength to deal with any of that. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and urges himself to call Benny pretty soon.

“I didn't mean for you to feel bad about this,” Cas apologizes immediately as he notices Dean's expression. “I just wanted to point out that you're a selfless person. And an idiot.”

Dean scowls at that. “Hey!”

“You always go out of your way to take care of anyone else,” Cas continues, a gentle smile on his lips. “You're a natural nurturer, Dean, and that's one of the things I love about you.”

Dean chokes on air at the nonchalant use of such a powerful word and can't help a fierce blush.

“But you're horrible in regards to yourself,” Cas accuses. “Be it either to take a step back to get a little rest or see yourself a patient in the first place. Remember the last time you had the flu? I basically had to chain you to the bed.”

Dean's flush only grows as he recalls Cas actually ending up sitting on top of him to keep him warm and cozy underneath the covers. That memory has a very special place in Dean's mind.

“So I'm here to help you,” Cas summarizes. “To help you not to work yourself to the ground.”

There is another protest forming on Dean's tongue, eager to get out there, but it gets stuck in his throat as Cas' hand suddenly cups his cheek. For a minute or two everything else ceases to exist apart from that soft touch and Dean almost whimpers, it feels so good.

And he doesn't even know how it happens, but just a moment later he finds his head nestled in Cas' lap.

Dean's heart runs wildly, making him go dizzy in the process. But at the same time he feels weirdly relaxed, Cas' familiar smell letting his muscles loosen up all on their own. Like a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

And when eventually fingers card through his hair, Dean sighs in contentment and knows for sure that nothing could ever feel any better than this.

“Just rest,” Cas whispers. “Let go for a while and recharge your batteries.”

Dean looks up, right into Cas' eyes. They're tender and filled with emotions and Dean realizes he's the luckiest guy on the planet. And if he'd have a bit more energy he'd heave himself upwards and kiss those inviting lips.

As it is right now, though, Dean merely smiles lazily and whispers, “I'm glad you're here,” before drifting off to sleep.

For the few seconds it took Dean to walk around to the driver’s side, Castiel let himself sink into the cozy depths of the Impala’s front seat. He was starting to adapt to this hugely bizarre idea that the things he’d written about were manifesting in flesh and blood, leather and steel. He ran his fingers over a seam in the upholstery. He knew this car -- knew what it was to the boys. Knew about the army man in the ash tray and the initials under the foot well. Knew about Dean rebuilding her from scrap after their father’s death. He’d put those marks there as much as Sam and Dean had. Or more? Hoo boy. That was a philosophical quagmire that he did not have the mental energy for right now. Either way, the fact that the seat cradled him like his own bed was... inescapably comforting. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that he belonged here.

The car door creaked open and Castiel tensed up again, knocked out of his reverie by the very tangible reminder that this was weird. Dean Winchester was driving him home, and it was so horrifically narcissistic to develop a crush on one of your own fictional characters, but here he fucking was, sharing the quiet intimate space of a car’s front seat with a man he had literally created as his own private wish fulfillment. Castiel took a deep breath and tried to focus on something else, but Dean’s presence was inescapable. From his low voice humming along to the quiet strains of When the Levee Breaks to the glimpses of his profile Castiel kept catching out of the corner of his eye.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing. The Impala smelled like old exhaust fumes, various oils, corn nuts and jerky, the unmistakable odor of two men in close quarters and semi-irregular showers. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but something about it put Castiel at ease.

“So Cas -- Can I call you Cas?”

Castiel blinked at Dean, taken aback. No one had ever called him Cas. “Uh -- Sure,” he said.

Dean was clearly aiming for nonchalant, gliding his hands easy over the Impala’s steering wheel. “Lemme ask you a question,” he said. “Have you been noticing anything strange lately? Any, I dunno, weird smells? Cold snaps? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Castiel nearly burst out laughing. Understatement of the century. “You mean besides being attacked by an ambulatory shadow?” he asked.

Dean gave a short huff that was more showing teeth than laughter, but Castiel’s heart still tripped over the dimple that creased his cheek, the moment of eye contact when he glanced his way. “Humor me,” he said.

It was right on the tip of his tongue, between his teeth -- the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But he stopped. Dean. This car. Sam. Suddenly it was all too real. It was one thing to say it to his half-mad-himself brother or in the privacy of his own mind; it was entirely another to suddenly declare himself the creator of a man he had just met. This had to be a coincidence, or a psychotic breakdown, or something but surely it was not his fictional characters coming to life. And even if it were -- how do you find the words for something like that? Even more pathetic, he found himself wanting to impress Dean, and this was definitely not the way to do it.

“No,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing.”

Dean glanced over at him and back to the road a few times. Out of the corner of his eye Castiel watched the shrewd expression of Dean’s mind at work, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth or hedging. Castiel closed his eyes and let himself sink deeper into his exhaustion, hoping that it would deter Dean’s natural inquisitiveness.

It must have worked, because the next words out of Dean’s mouth were: “You were at the Roadhouse weren’t you?”

Castiel’s eyes popped open. “Uh. Yes.”

Dean was smiling again, just a little quirk at the corner of his lips. “I thought so. I saw you there.” Dean swallowed, a shy little hesitation, then said, “What’s a nice-looking guy like you doing in a dive like that, hm?”

Nice-looking?? Castiel felt his mouth drop open. “I -- Uh. Just. Um.” Even if he had been in the Roadhouse for totally innocuous purposes, hearing something so much like a pick-up line from one of the most gorgeous men Castiel had ever met would have had him flummoxed.

Dean rescued him from his fish-mouthing with a more genuine laugh and a friendly pat to his shoulder. “Relax,” he said, “I’m just teasing you.” He turned a more serious eye on him then. “You just don’t seem the type for the Roadhouse, you know?”

Castiel blinked again, still not sure what to make of that. “And exactly what sort of type do you think I am?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Dean grinned. “More like.... wine hour at the library, I guess.”

And if that didn’t make Castiel want to melt through the seat. Library. Great. Just what every guy wanted to hear.

“Hey, I didn’t mean that as a bad thing,” Dean was quick to reassure him, his hand lingering now on Castiel’s shoulder. He allowed himself exactly 30 seconds of being captivated by the sweetness of his grin and the warmth of his hand before forcing himself to get a fucking grip already.

“Do you, uh -- Do you come to the Roadhouse often?” Shit. Now who was the one with the pick-up lines?

Dean was still grinning through when he said “Whenever we’re in the area. Ellen’s an old friend.”

Castiel nodded. “She said as much.”

“Really? You were talking about me?”

Castiel shrugged, non-committal. “I, uh. Might have asked about you.” Dangerous territory, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Oh did you now?” And fuck if that voice hadn’t just dropped an octave into a definite, unmistakable Sex Register. Castiel felt his stomach flip over, hot. “Did she threaten you with the shotgun?”

“... It might have come up,” Castiel said with a smirk.

Dean had turned all the way toward him, one hand along the back of the Impala’s bench seat, fingers sliding suggestively along the leather upholstery. “Well don’t worry. Ellen may have a shotgun, but I’ve got a rifle. Several, actually.”

“Is that supposed to turn me on?”

FUCK. The words had dropped out before he could stop them. Red alert, red alert, where the FUCK did that come from Novak. Back off. This situation is complicated enough as it is. Back. The. Fuck. Off.

But Dean was just grinning at him more wolfishly than ever. “Depends. Is it working?”

Far better than it had any right to, if Castiel was being honest, but he was not about to say that. He blinked the stardust from his eyes, bit his lip -- and only then realized that they were no longer moving. That they had been stationary for some time, in fact. The song had moved on to Kashmir and there was a gentle hiss of rain on the roof that had not been present when he got in the car. He looked out the window on his side and finally recognized the front steps of his own apartment building.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I wondered when you were gonna catch on,” Dean teased, but warmly. Castiel turned back to take one last look at his small, slightly smug smirk. At the gleam of his eyes. The smattering of his freckles. The breadth of his chest and shoulders filling out his father’s leather jacket. The way his torn jeans pulled tight around his hips. The relaxed curl of his hands, square and work-rough.

What the fuck, Novak, stop staring and just get out of the damn car already.

“Well, then. I, uh. Guess I’d better --” he fumbled with the door handle.

“Hey, listen, uh --” Dean stopped him before he could get the door open. He was scribbling something on the back of a hastily-grabbed piece of paper. “If you, uh, think of anything, y’know. Or if anything else happens. Give me a call, okay?”

Castiel took the paper, the tips of two of his fingers just barely brushing the tips of Dean’s. He felt that touch linger, tingling on his skin. He slipped the paper into his pocket and nodded. “I will,” he said. “Thank you, Dean. For the ride, and for -- you know. Saving my life.”

Dean tossed him a grin, a thousand megawatt jolt straight to Castiel’s heart. “All in a day’s work,” he said as he shifted the car into gear. “See you around Cas.”

And that was Castiel’s cue. He pushed the door open and stepped out. “Goodbye Dean.”

Dean lifted a hand to him before checking his lane and pulling off the curb. Castiel forced himself to turn and go up the steps and not stand there in the fucking rain to watch Dean’s taillights disappear around the corner. He did, however, grip tightly to the little slip of paper in his pocket that held Dean Winchester’s impossible phone number.

Start from the beginning 1 on Ao3

He sees the man a few days later, this time from the outside of the building when he’s coming home from a grocery store. He tries to be stealthy when he’s watching him moving expertly over the scaffoldings, using tools Cas doesn’t know the names of, but he must fail because when the man turns around, he gives him a smile and a cheeky wink. Castiel almost runs inside.

Having strangers able to see inside your apartment means you can’t walk around half naked like you are used to. And Castiel loves not wearing much when he’s home. His home is his safe space, where else should he feel free to do what he wants? Well, the restoration of the building’s facade means an end to that. The problem is Cas forgets sometimes.

He’s making coffee in just his favorite old t-shirt and boxer-briefs when he hears an agitated: "Dean! Are you even paying attention?"

"Yes, yeah, of course."

"Well, it seems like you’re paying attention to something else than this."

"I have no idea what are you talking about."

With his cheeks burning, Cas grabs his mug and leaves the kitchen. He puts his pants on, his hands a little unsteady, but part of him is happy that he’s not the only one who found a nice ass to look at thanks to the ongoing construction.

He meets Dean again inside the building. He’s accompanied by an older gruff man with a beard and a baseball cap. He’s probably Dean’s superior judging by the way he’s talking to him.

Dean shoots Cas an apologetic smile and hell, not only his ass is exquisite. He’s overall well built and his face is one of a movie star. He looks as if he stepped out of a page of the magazine Cas used to keep under his mattress as a teenager.

Cas almost says "Hello, Dean," but at the last moment realizes they are not supposed to know each other and he’s definitely not supposed to know the man’s name.

The works on the facade continue and Cas grows more and more annoyed. And he’s bored too. There’s a story idea lurking at the edge of his mind but he can’t get a grip on it. All he has is a feeling of something new, exciting, a little dangerous. It’s like a craving. It makes him restless.

He once again forgets to dress in the bathroom and walks through his living room in nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. He sees the familiar silhouette behind the window. And there’s an idea - exciting and dangerous and utterly crazy.

He turns his back to the window. He’s probably just imagining eyes on him. He leans forward to grab the glass on his coffee table and lets the towel slip from his fingers.

There’s a loud metallic sound from the outside, like something heavy hitting the scaffolding.

"Fuck!" Dean cries out, alarmed.

His heart thudding with shock, Cas jumps to the window.

"Are you okay?" he calls.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," Dean answers a little breathlessly.

"I thought you were falling off."

"Yeah, me too."

"Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize... I’m sorry. Could I... make you tea or something? As compensation for the fright?"

Dean lets out a small sound, half amused and half surprised. "You make it sound like you did it on purpose."

"I...um... "

"Serves me right, I shouldn’t have been peeking."

Cas lets out a relieved chuckle and rubs the back of his neck that feels unusually hot.

"You should put your pants on before I come inside. Or I might get the wrong idea."

"Why do you think it would be wrong?"

"Oh my god."

"Please, don’t fall."

"I’m trying not to."

"So? The tea?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. I can take a break. I only have to...to tell Bobby... my supervisor."

"Of course. I’ll get the water boiling."

"Sure. Um. I was serious about the pants. Get dressed."

"I’ll see about it. I’m at my home after all."

"This job will be the death of mine," Dean mutters as he walks away.

It takes Dean ten minutes before he rings the doorbell. When Cas answers the door, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Dean’s expression is equal parts relieved and disappointed.

"Um. Hi? I’m Dean," he offers Cas his hand and Cas shakes it- It’s warm and calloused.

"I know," he answers and enjoys the way Dean’s eyes widen. They are a very nice shade of green. "I’m Castiel, come in."

Dean toes off his shoes and steps in, closing the door.

"Do you really want tea or would you rather have something else?"

"I’m more of a coffee guy, to be honest." Castiel isn’t sure if Dean missed the innuendo or decided to ignore it.

"Coffee it is then. Milk? Sugar?"

"None. Thanks." Dean follows Cas to the kitchen where he leans against the counter.

"So, what do you do for a living, if I may ask? I um... I noticed you spend a lot of time here."

"I’m a freelance writer."

"Wow, cool," Dean grins. "What are you working on."

"A queer romance taking place in a dystopian universe."

Dean freezes a little. His lips part. They are pink and a little wet and so nicely curved that it physically hurts Cas to tear his eyes off them when Dean speaks.

"Queer romance, huh? Do you draw inspiration from personal experience?"

Cas tilts his head. "Well, I haven’t met any monster hunters recently, but I know about a hot construction worker I’d like to get to know better. I might base my next protagonist on him."

"Cas..." Dean breathes out as he takes a step closer. Cas turns to him, leaving the kettle on the counter, the mugs empty.

"Dean?" He grabs the toolbelt and uses it to pull Dean closer.

"This is very unprofessional," Dean says as he leans down, his lips just a breath away from Cas’. "I might get into trouble."