Chapter Text
The clock chimes seven o'clock in the morning, and Dean questions why he's even alive. He'd spent the previous night trying to escape the pain that came with the anniversary of his mother's death, the hurt gripping his heart with spectre thin fingers, as he fed crisp notes earned in the past month working the bar at the Roadhouse straight back into Ellen's pocket in exchange for alcohol. The sweet lull of the honeyed liquid had lapped at the shore of his mouth and tumbled down his throat, numbing the ache for a while.
Now, though, he's left with a headache the size of Russia and a purpling smudge on his neck left by a pretty brunette girl who trailed her fingers down his chest and who, try as he may, he can't recall the name of. It may have begun with R, he thinks, or maybe an M. But then again, those two are pretty different, so he doesn't rely on either being right.
Twisting onto his front, Dean buries his face in a pillow, pulling the duvet closer around his body, and waits for the comforting arm of the sandman to curl across his shoulder. It doesn't come, and his headache ricochets up from a measly 3 to a 7 on the pain-o-meter that he and Sammy invented in high school; back when Dean would get into fights with people three times his size and Sam would patch him up with a sigh, and a fish hook, and a length of thread. Without his brother, Dean wonders where he'd be. Probably battered and bleeding on the side of the road, and that's a thought that makes him smile.
"Sammy?" The elder man calls, the syllables sticking in his throat and clogging up his mouth, the word slurred. There's no reply, so Dean figures he's probably out getting breakfast with his girlfriend, Jess, who is arguably the one person other than Dean himself that Sam cares for.
With a sigh he presses a hand to his temple, the realisation that his brother isn't available to help fresh in his mind as he rolls out of bed tentatively and begins the long trek across the floor to the kitchen in a half-hearted search for coffee. "Fuck," he mutters, clinging to the counter before the fog clouding his vision clears just enough for him remember that he ran out of coffee a few days ago. "I guess it's a trip to a coffee house."
A shower and two doses of tylenol later, Dean is out his apartment and has slipped into the seat of his Impala, cushioned between the soft leather of the seat and the harsh press of the steering wheel. He pats the dashboard, smiling softly at the machine he lovingly calls 'baby' and starts her up, the purr of the engine soothing beneath his hands. And then he drives small loops around the town, watching the people huddled under their umbrellas change against the constant backdrop of brick and steel and glass. He follows the same routes he always does until, on pure impulse, he takes a right down a road off the high street, deciding to head away from Starbucks where people mill around, talking obnoxiously, their consumerist hearts etched onto the thin sheaths of green paper that they hand over to the cashier without any thought. Oh, how Dean despises them!
The small lane he ends up on is a strange mish-mashed conglomeration of shops and houses, and Dean glides along for a while before stopping as a softly-lit building catches his eye. A sign swings gently in the breeze, rounded and faded blue with a minimalist coffee cup printed in the center. Dean bites his lip and makes a quick judgement call, needing the caffeine like breathing, before he makes the dash from the safety of the car into the unknown territory, rain splattering the lapels of his jacket, running in rivulets down his cheeks as he pushes open the door and steps inside.
There's only a smattering of people, so few that Dean could count them on his hands, and warmth envelops him like a blanket. The smell of coffee sticks to his skin, melting through the flesh and bones and muscle and sinew. He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, slips his jacket from his shoulders onto the chair, and crashes down into a seat by the window, head in his hands as he watches the world go by in slow-motion through the rain-spattered pane. The droplets race across the glassy surface, joining and separating and joining again, a gentle consummation between two parts of the same entity. He breathes out deeply, letting the atmosphere wrap comforting arms around his body. It pushes through his chest, hands cupping his heart, and he smiles sleepily.
It takes a few minutes to shake the drowsiness from his bones and free himself from the wooden confines of the chair to pad over to the counter. Glass-fronted cabinets full of cakes and biscuits in various colours and flavours catch his eye before he looks over the chalk board brazenly announcing the drinks on the menu. The barista's back is turned - probably cleaning the machines, Dean thinks - and he slouches against the lacquered wood, clearing his throat. He bites back a chuckle when the barista jumps, spinning on his heel, and Dean finds himself looking up into what he thinks are the bluest eyes he's ever seen and god help him, he's drowning in the vast fucking ocean of them.
"I apologise for my lack of response. It was rude to have kept you waiting," the man says in a voice that's all gravel and razorblades scraping over skin. He stares intently at Dean, twisting his fingers in the charcoal apron slung about his front. "How can I be of assistance?"
"Can I get an Americano?" Dean asks, eyes flickering over the man, cataloguing his features. The bed-messy dark hair, stubble speckled jaw and guarded expression speaks of experience but chapped lips, honest eyes and the earnest slope of his brow tells another story. He's like a riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside a.... taco, Dean thinks, and he leans a little further forward. "Two sugars."
"Of course," the dark stranger replies, swiping a hand across his face tiredly before setting to work with the order. Dean watches him carefully, noting the way his hands move; small calculated movements that look almost like clockwork. He doesn't know why, but he feels the urge to talk to this man, to open up, and it's strange - even with Sam there's a strict no-chick-flick-moments rule, and it's adhered to pretty damn hard on pain of TV control.
"You sound like you've had a long day.. I uh, I know that feeling," he says, shooting a sympathetic look at the barista's back. "I'm Dean, by the way." The response he gets is silence, and Dean goes back to watching the mechanical movements of his hands, which are currently occupied with writing sweeping black lines across the surface of the take-away cup.
When the man eventually turns back around, his lips are curled up into a gentle smile and Dean catches a glimpse of the shiny brass name tag pinned to his crumpled apron as he slides the order across the wooden surface of the counter.
"Castiel," Dean says, rolling the name on his tongue, slouching a little more. His fingers close around the corregated cardboard of take-away coffee cup, caressing its sides, the digits cutting through the neat black lines that read 'D-E-A-N; Americano, sugar (x2)' that the barista has written across the white canvas in block capitals. "Are you named after an angel?"
Castiel stares at him, unblinking, face deadpan save the slight knit of his eyebrows to show any sign of shock. In his years walking the crust of the Earth - trekking through the wilderness of high school and college, trapping himself within the confines of musty books and old words instead of the company of people - he had been greeted with frowns and sneers when it came to introductions; a strange name for an even stranger boy. "Yes," he murmurs, voice dipping quieter. "How did you know that?"
Dean traces the 'D' on his cup with a fingertip, eyes dropping a little. He says nothing for a while, holding tightly to the spool of silence that spans out between them, the line feeding out slowly until Dean can't stand it anymore.
"My Mom. When I was young she used to tell me there were angels looking over me and my kid brother, Sammy," He smiles softly, sadly, his eyes flickering with the memories. He can recall them, but they're like old polaroids - grainy and fuzzy, fading over the years. "Kids in my class grew up with lullabies, but Sammy and I fell asleep to the names of angels."
He hears Castiel make a faint noise, and now he's started he can't stop; it's a flood pouring out of him and he's lucky that there's only three other people in the coffee house, one of whom is sleeping. "Yesterday was the anniversary of her death," Dean says casually, but his fingers grip the cup tighter. "That's why I came here.. I was looking for somewhere to get coffee and nurse my hangover."
He shakes his head, a mirthless chuckle bubbling up from his throat and he fishes in his pocket for change. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Cas. I'll just... I'll pay and be on my way." Looking up, he notices the barista has frozen, lips parted in an gentle 'o'. Shocked.
"You called me Cas," Castiel murmurs, holding onto the countertop a little. He sways ever so slightly, and Dean worries the man is going to faint.
"Should I.. stick to Castiel?"
"No. No, I like it. Thank you, Dean." The sentences are quiet. Dean wants to clutch at them, pull the syllables tight against his body and wrap himself in the words. He smiles weakly and drops the change into the barista's hand.
"If you ever need someone with whom to talk, I am always here." There's a pause as Castiel reconsiders what he said. "Well, I am not always here. My shifts are 5am to 9pm, Monday to Friday. Saturday is when my brother, Gabriel, takes his shift." He smiles gently, passing Dean a napkin. "If you should need someone then, I will be here."
Dean thanks him with his eyes and his mouth, nods once and turns, slinking back to his seat by the window. Castiel's eyes follow him, tracing the outline of his body against the smooth glass panelling and he leans against the cash register, watching Dean watching the world go by.
The words 'I'll be waiting' hang unsaid in the air.