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Entry tags:
spn ficlet: first date
first date
Castiel/Dean | PG | ~800 words
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dirtyovercoats.
--
"Okay," Dean tells his reflection. "Okay. You can do this. It's just dinner."
They're at the ritzy Italian restaurant in Smith Center, which is the kind of place Dean usually avoids unless he's questioning the manager about the weird rattling noise in the stockroom or the cold spots behind the bar. The mirror in the restroom is rose-colored; between that and the dim lighting he seems younger, more bright-eyed. He doesn't look like a guy who's been to hell or been a demon or -- any of that.
He checks his watch. He's been gone a little over eight minutes.
It took him about four years to realize he was in love with Cas and about three more years to actually admit it. Another two months passed before he finally worked up the nerve to ask Cas out, and then it was another month before the monsters cut them a break long enough to make a reservation somewhere. All of that, and now Dean is hiding in the restroom like a fucking baby because that's easier than making conversation with a guy he already more or less lives with.
"Okay," Dean says again. The restroom's floor and counters are all dark-polished marble, so his voice hums around the stillness, just enough to set his teeth on edge.
Nine minutes. Cas doesn't really get bored, not like humans do, but he does get irritated sometimes, and Dean's been gone so long that he's starting to imagine the worst -- Cas drumming his fingers on the fancy tablecloth, frowning at the breadsticks the server brought over in a delicate, gold-wire basket, stabbing a cocktail straw into the twelve-dollar martini he ordered.
A fucking chocolate martini, because molecules or not he's developed a sweet-tooth over the last few months. He chews watermelon gum when he drives, and he leaves Starburst wrappers on the couch when he watches tv, and he likes to hang out in the bunker's kitchen when Dean is baking, just so he can sample the pie filling while it's hot and sneak raw cookie dough behind Dean's back. When Dean tells him not to, he just shrugs and says, Stop worrying, Dean, I can't actually get botulism.
Ten minutes. Dean should really get back out there, before Cas gives up on him and leaves. They drove over in the Impala, but Cas knows how to steal a car. He's got his own credit cards now, so he could pay a taxi. He could --
"Dean?"
Dean doesn't quite jump out of his skin, but it's close. He turns around as Cas is stepping out of the shadows in the doorway, and -- wow. Dean has seen him in his gray fed suit a hundred times, but he's wearing a slate-blue shirt tonight instead of his usual white, and his soft, grey and blue tie is a little loose, the knot slightly off center. His throat is all smooth skin and long lines, and Dean can't stop staring. He wants to touch, but that feels like it should be impossible. With the restroom's dull light humming behind him, Cas looks as otherworldly as he actually is, like all that stardust and intent is just right there, bright enough to burn Dean out if he gets too close.
"Dean," Cas says again, taking another step inside. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I was just -- um."
Cas pauses for a moment, his mouth soft at the corners. Soft and kind of sad. "If you're uncomfortable, we don't --"
"No, I want to," Dean blurts. "I want to. I just -- I don't really know how to do this."
"If it makes you feel any better, neither do I."
Oh, right. Of course. Dean feels like the biggest idiot alive.
"You know, this isn't necessary," Cas continues, his voice careful and low. "As I understand things, people date so they can get to know each other, and so they can decide if they'd like to pursue a relationship. I already know everything about you, and I don't need to decide anything. I chose you years ago."
"Cas," Dean says. His throat feels tight. "I just -- I wanted us to do something normal. You know, just once."
Cas studies him for a moment, then kisses him, leaning in slow and brushing their mouths together easy and soft. He tastes like chocolate and vodka from his stupid martini, and he curls his hand around the back of Dean's neck, stroking his thumb over the dip behind Dean's ear. As he pulls away, he slides his other hand down Dean's arm, pausing at Dean's wrist before he laces their fingers together.
"Dean," he says quietly. "Have dinner with me."
"Yeah," Dean says, kissing him again. "Yeah, I can do that."
Castiel/Dean | PG | ~800 words
For
--
"Okay," Dean tells his reflection. "Okay. You can do this. It's just dinner."
They're at the ritzy Italian restaurant in Smith Center, which is the kind of place Dean usually avoids unless he's questioning the manager about the weird rattling noise in the stockroom or the cold spots behind the bar. The mirror in the restroom is rose-colored; between that and the dim lighting he seems younger, more bright-eyed. He doesn't look like a guy who's been to hell or been a demon or -- any of that.
He checks his watch. He's been gone a little over eight minutes.
It took him about four years to realize he was in love with Cas and about three more years to actually admit it. Another two months passed before he finally worked up the nerve to ask Cas out, and then it was another month before the monsters cut them a break long enough to make a reservation somewhere. All of that, and now Dean is hiding in the restroom like a fucking baby because that's easier than making conversation with a guy he already more or less lives with.
"Okay," Dean says again. The restroom's floor and counters are all dark-polished marble, so his voice hums around the stillness, just enough to set his teeth on edge.
Nine minutes. Cas doesn't really get bored, not like humans do, but he does get irritated sometimes, and Dean's been gone so long that he's starting to imagine the worst -- Cas drumming his fingers on the fancy tablecloth, frowning at the breadsticks the server brought over in a delicate, gold-wire basket, stabbing a cocktail straw into the twelve-dollar martini he ordered.
A fucking chocolate martini, because molecules or not he's developed a sweet-tooth over the last few months. He chews watermelon gum when he drives, and he leaves Starburst wrappers on the couch when he watches tv, and he likes to hang out in the bunker's kitchen when Dean is baking, just so he can sample the pie filling while it's hot and sneak raw cookie dough behind Dean's back. When Dean tells him not to, he just shrugs and says, Stop worrying, Dean, I can't actually get botulism.
Ten minutes. Dean should really get back out there, before Cas gives up on him and leaves. They drove over in the Impala, but Cas knows how to steal a car. He's got his own credit cards now, so he could pay a taxi. He could --
"Dean?"
Dean doesn't quite jump out of his skin, but it's close. He turns around as Cas is stepping out of the shadows in the doorway, and -- wow. Dean has seen him in his gray fed suit a hundred times, but he's wearing a slate-blue shirt tonight instead of his usual white, and his soft, grey and blue tie is a little loose, the knot slightly off center. His throat is all smooth skin and long lines, and Dean can't stop staring. He wants to touch, but that feels like it should be impossible. With the restroom's dull light humming behind him, Cas looks as otherworldly as he actually is, like all that stardust and intent is just right there, bright enough to burn Dean out if he gets too close.
"Dean," Cas says again, taking another step inside. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I was just -- um."
Cas pauses for a moment, his mouth soft at the corners. Soft and kind of sad. "If you're uncomfortable, we don't --"
"No, I want to," Dean blurts. "I want to. I just -- I don't really know how to do this."
"If it makes you feel any better, neither do I."
Oh, right. Of course. Dean feels like the biggest idiot alive.
"You know, this isn't necessary," Cas continues, his voice careful and low. "As I understand things, people date so they can get to know each other, and so they can decide if they'd like to pursue a relationship. I already know everything about you, and I don't need to decide anything. I chose you years ago."
"Cas," Dean says. His throat feels tight. "I just -- I wanted us to do something normal. You know, just once."
Cas studies him for a moment, then kisses him, leaning in slow and brushing their mouths together easy and soft. He tastes like chocolate and vodka from his stupid martini, and he curls his hand around the back of Dean's neck, stroking his thumb over the dip behind Dean's ear. As he pulls away, he slides his other hand down Dean's arm, pausing at Dean's wrist before he laces their fingers together.
"Dean," he says quietly. "Have dinner with me."
"Yeah," Dean says, kissing him again. "Yeah, I can do that."