AN.
This was going to be serious. Then writer's block. Whoops.
The words never come easier than when he's alone.
When he's alone, delirious things happen to his works. There's a lingering sense of personalization and loveliness the press will never erase.
He works a 60-hour week every week, the dedication and passion for writing keeping him going. The thrill of meeting deadlines will never dull to him. He lives alone in an apartment in upstate New York, working for the local college newspaper. He gets to meet new people and see new things every day. The price of long days is nothing to him.
Moving from his hometown in Kansas had been a blessing. Charred remains of his home were just nightmares now; nevertheless, the remaining foundation that hadn't burned was just a painful reminder of what could've been.
It's two a.m., and he's sleeping in his bed for the first time in a month. He hadn't been asleep for five minutes when his work phone went off.
A series of ringing resonates throughout his apartment. Groaning, he reluctantly gets up to answer it.
"Winchester."
A shuffling noise comes from the other side of the line. Papers, most likely. 'What papers are this important at two in the morning?' he thinks.
"Yes, Mr. Winchester? My name is Naomi Delacruz. I'm calling on behalf of my co-worker, Castiel Novak."
"Who is- oh. Yeah." He coughs and mentally scolds himself for being unprofessional. "Yes ma'am, how may I help you?"
The woman's voice sounds uncertain as she speaks, and he knows she caught the slip-up despite his prayers. 'Good job, Dean,' he thinks bitterly.
"Is there any possible way we can reschedule his interview for Wednesday?"
He'd have to put in major overtime, but he could make it work. "Yes ma'am, I have a slot open at 5 p.m."
"Thank you," she sighs, obviously relieved. "I'm so sorry for bothering you, but it couldn't wait."
"Right. Good night."
"Good night."
He hangs up and passes out shortly afterwards.
x
He was able to forget about the strange occurance until Wednesday, when he saw the appointment in his planner. As soon as he opened it he did a double-take because he was 99 percent sure he didn't write the appointment down.
Maybe he was sleep walking?
He's still pondering the answer to this five minutes after five when Castiel shows up.
Three knocks on the door signal his arrival.
"Come in," Dean yells.
A young man with a trenchcoat and disheveled black sex hair enters.
Dear God, those are the bluest eyes Dean's ever seen.
"Castiel," he greets, holding out his hand. Castiel shakes it firmly. "My name is Dean Winchester, please have a seat."
The man seats himself in one of the chairs. "You're the first to get my name pronunciation right."
When Castiel first speaks, it's like a punch to Dean's face. He hadn't been expecting the deep, gravely voice that had come out.
"I-uh-" he stumbles on his words, his eyes widening. "I researched it. Online."
Castiel quriks an eyebrow. "Relax, your reaction is normal."
Dean wants to ask if he means the stuttering or name researching but drops it.
"So," he starts. "Can I call you Cas?"
He startles abruptly. "Cas?" he questions.
"Yeah, like a shortened version of Castiel."
After a moment of silence, he nods. "That's the first time anyone's called me that."
Before Dean can stop himself, he's blurting out, "But your name is so long."
"THAT'S NOT THE ONLY THING THATS LONG," CAS YELLS AS HE WHIPS OUT HIS DICK
"BOY YOU AIN'T FRONTIN," DEAN SWOONS. THEY HAVE HOT PASSIONATE GAY SEX.
THE ENDZ