The following situations and characters are a work of fiction.

Any similarities between real or actual events or people is purely coincidental and are in no way intended to offend or appropriate the subjects they have adapted to these particular circumstances.

Readers may encounter some ideologically sensitive material such as homophobia, depression, drug use, alcoholism, violence, sexual scenes/references, strong language, and illness.

You Catch Me; I'll Catch You.

"What if I told you
Thats it's just a front
To hide the insecurities I have?

And what if I told you
That I'm not as strong
As I like to make believe I am?"

- Jason Walker

Part I

Life's never been easy for Dean Winchester. It's always been kinda rough, sticky, and downright unfair; but it's always been his life and he's always dealt with it. But this? This never-ending week has been shitty. Even by his low, dwindling standards.

Dean runs a large, tanned hand through his dirty blonde hair, tired green eyes scanning the bottles on the shelves in front of him as he leans his back against the cool wooden bar. He tucks a greasy cloth into a pocket of dark jeans and straightens out the scarlet-red apron that keeps his lower half out of sight and away from alcohol-related mishaps. His hands smooth over the rough 'Harvelle's Roadhouse' logo on the bottom right before resting on the bar top. His large, worn-in fingers curl beneath the counter as he slacks his elbows and releases the tension in his shoulders. Dean leans his head back, rolling it from one shoulder to the other before sighing; expelling tired, used air from tired, used lungs. He closes his heavy eyes briefly, feeling his thick eyelashes touch his cheek as he relishes in empty darkness.

Dean has always liked the dark.

"Dean?" A pretty blonde with deep brown eyes stands in front of him, delicate arms crossed over her chest. She stands with one leg bent, hip jutting out and exposing bare skin between pale blue jeans held up with a thick black belt, a small white vest clinging to her skinny frame like cling film.

Dean peels open his eyes, scans and assesses the situation before grunting as he rolls his eyes and straightens up.

She raises a neat eyebrow in an apathetic response.

"What?" He snaps, his deep voice rumbling around the empty bar.

"Oi, don't give me that attitude Winchester. You know I don't scare easy."

"Sorry, Jo." Dean pulls his back away from the bar and crosses his arms, half smiling at Jo with a curve from the corner of his mouth. "It's just… school stuff, you know? So much to do, so little time and all that crap." He reaches out to touch her shoulder. "Ignore me, I'm just fucking shattered."

Jo sighs. "Tonne of homework, huh?"

"That doesn't even begin to cover it." Dean laughs, though it doesn't sound as humoured as he intended. He shrugs it off, shoving his hands back to the depth of his pockets.

Jo places a dainty hand on Dean's large forearm and smiles, eyes lit with empathy. "Well, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, then, but I'm off. Mom's taking me away for the week and our flight leaves at 3am."

Dean's heart sinks. Great, this is exactly what he needs - a long night on his own dealing with arrogant sons-of-bitches who come in at two in the morning demanding to intoxicate themselves with more than they can handle. "Are you freaking kidding me, Jo? I hate spending a night at the bar alone, it's draining and boring and-"

"Sorry, Dean, but – wait, Dean, oh for gods sake; would you just listen!"

Dean clenches his jaw, tired of everything and, to be perfectly honest, everyone. He knows he's being moody as hell, but goddammit he feels like this week he deserves to be. He raises his eyebrows, waiting.

"You won't be alone, okay? Mom asked the new guy to cover for me; he's coming at midnight. You'll be alright for an hour, so quit moaning." Jo pats Dean on the shoulder, rolling her eyes and attempting to suppress an amused smile.

Dean sighs, stringing the cloth between his hands. Somehow he'd subconsciously pulled the damn thing out of his pocket. "Yep, go. Guess I'll spend the night making awkward conversation with some dude then." He mumbles, turning around and spraying some borax on the already twice cleaned bar top. Jo leans onto her toes, places a hand on both of Deans shoulders and reaches round to peck him on the cheek. Dammit, though, Dean really does like Jo. She's such a sweet kid; she kinda reminds him of Sam.

"Thanks, Dean. Sorry, but I really do have to take off!" She scoops up her things, flinging a battered black bag over her shoulder as she stumbles towards the exit.

"Great. I'm sure as hell looking forward to the rest of this night." Dean mutters to himself, slamming the cloth on the bar and scrubbing viciously at the counter.

He knows he's overreacting; He just doesn't care. He's had a god-awful week with 12 hours of training for Coach Allan, all of which spent with the idiot, Michael from his Architecture class, as a newbie to the American Football team and making his life a living hell, his car – no, his baby – a gorgeous, classic 1967 Chevrolet Impala, broke down after his Dad had drunkenly decided to slam it into a tree. It's gonna take Dean months to fix her, and Hell, where's he gonna find the damn time?

Dean throws the dirty cloth into a bowl of soapy water on top of the counter before stepping out from behind the bar and straightening out the chairs. He makes his way around the bar organizing the little things: the salt and pepper pots, the vinegar, the placemats. He steps back and admires his work, praying that no one comes in for a while so he can get on with his homework. He heads over to where his bag is stashed and folds himself onto a chair. Pulling a large black folder out, he opens it to a page full of sketches and measurements and places it on the table in front of him. He might as well get to work while he has some time.

Dean's been studying Architecture at the University of Kansas for nearly two years now, but there's been many times when he'd thought he'd have to drop out, to let go of his dream; mainly because of his Dad. Dealing with an abusive drunk would never be easy, but Dean's biggest problem was that he'd seen the way his Dad used to be. When his Mom, Mary, was alive, John was the kindest man Dean thinks he'll ever know. But when she was killed in that accident just over 14 years ago, something changed in John. He was loud, abusive and mean. The thing is, though, that Dean doesn't care what John does or says to him. He cares about Sam, his little, skinny, 15-year-old brother who can't stand to watch his Dad throw Dean around. Well, Sam used to be little and skinny, he's taller than Dean now by about an inch – but he's always going to be his little brother, no matter what. Dean can take the punches, the blows, if it keeps his Dad's rage away from Sam. Dean sighs, straining his eyes in the dim glow and struggling to concentrate. He puts his pen down on the paper, stretching his arms out in front of him and clicking his fingers together. His large hands look too rough and tortured for a 21-year-old, lines and scars etched across the surface drawing a detailed map of his life: the small red line, just below his fourth finger on his left hand, from where his Mom had tripped down the stairs and thrown him against the banister. Dean remembers her anxious tears as she held him – he never thought she'd let him go. There's that red burn mark on the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger too, from when his Dad was trying to throw a kettle at Sam and Dean had only just pushed his 10-year-old brother out the way in time. Oh, and the worn-in finger tips from endless hours spent beneath the hood of a car – namely his Chevy – or maybe from practicing his guitar to help Sammy calm down, plus there's the lumps and bruises on his right knuckles from defending Sam with the odd punch thrown here or there; they were all battle scars and wounds he'd earned from protecting some noble cause. Dean scoffs. Noble. Nothing about Dean feels noble.

The door rattles, chasing Dean out of memory lane with a start. He hurriedly composes himself, trying to fold up his schoolwork and shove it into his bag before the customer makes some snide comment about working on the job. Dean stands up, running his hands down his chest and smoothing out his white shirt before turning round, a fake but polite smile plastered across his face. The thing about Dean is that he can falter anyone's intentions with a beautiful, big white smile and kind green eyes. He'd got that from his Mom.

"Can I help you?" Dean asks, his eyes shining with fake enthusiasm.

A tall guy, only a little shorter than Dean himself, stood in front of him wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt and dark blue jeans with rips above the knee. The t-shirt, cut off just above the biceps, exposes large tattoos covering his arms – no doubt his body, too, Dean thinks – and black rosary beads coiled around his wrist like a bracelet. His thick, dark hair shadows his face as bright blue eyes meet Deans, a hint of a smile on his plump lips.

Dean finds himself staring, before shaking himself and raising his eyebrows. "Dude?"

"Oh. Of course – you think I'm a customer." He pulls out a dark red apron from his back pocket, revealing bright white teeth and a deep, echoing voice.

Dean groans internally. Great – another one of those emo dudes who pretends to like classic rock and hates everyone. Exactly what Dean wanted to deal with tonight. But, as things go, this is the way his luck usually runs.

"Castiel," he announces, holding out a hand for Dean, "I'm on the late shift with you, I believe?"

Dean takes his hand and shakes it, turning the corner of his mouth up in a polite smile. "I'm Dean." Castiel. What the hell kind of a name is that? Dean scolds himself for being judgmental, knowing that the smirk across his face is probably giving away every thought in his head.

"Nice to meet you, Dean." If Castiel could tell Dean was inwardly sighing, he didn't acknowledge it. He smiles at Dean with kind blue eyes, before pushing past him to hang his bag in the cupboard behind the bar.

"Yeah, you too." Dean says, frowning as he watches Castiel tie the apron around his waist with gentle accuracy before locking the cupboard door. He can't help but admire his slender fingers and shapely palms. Damn, this guy had nice hands.

Castiel looks up, and notices Dean's perplexed stare. He cocks his head to one side, eyebrows furrowing in the centre to create a few little lines on his forehead.

"Is something troubling you?" Castiel blinks at Dean a few times, and Dean swears he can see concern in those brand new yet oh-so-familiar eyes.

"No. Just, got a lot of school work to do, you know?"

"Not really."

Dean frowns, a confused smile tracing his lips. "What?"

"School did not agree with me, much. Though I did attempt an English Major for a year, I'm kind of fascinated by language," Castiel smiles shyly, his eyes dropping to the floor as a hint of pink taints his cheeks. He peeks up at Dean through thick lashes, perfect teeth hidden beneath peachy lips. "However, I found writing was much more of a joy to me than the learning itself." Castiel steps out from behind the bar, waving a large hand dismissively at Dean before heading over to the sofa in the far corner.

Dean rolls his eyes. He's not so sure of his take on Castiel yet. He's… not what Dean expected. Dean snorts inwardly. So far. Dean has found that first impressions are always wrong. Just look at what happened with Benny.

"Anyway, Dean, I highly doubt this bar will be bustling tonight; it's a Monday. You look completely worn out. I can hold fort if you want to catch up on some sleep?"

Dean stares at this, this Castiel dude, bewildered by his kindness but also very distrusting of such selflessness coming from anyone other than family. "Why do you care if I'm tired?" His eyes narrow, feeling his insides twist as he squares his broad shoulders towards the sweetest man he might just ever meet.

Castiel looks away from the TV screen, which he had turned on to the movies channel and seemed to be entertaining the idea of watching 'A Bugs Life', "Because you seem like a nice guy. Jo was telling me about you yesterday."

Dean sighs, relaxing slightly. An eyebrow still raised, he struggles to hide a grin. Trust Jo - she's always bragging about how wonderful he is. Mind you, he could talk about her for days, too. "Well, thanks for the thought but I'd rather get on with my homework."

Castiel just smiles at him, running a hand across his right forearm. Dean notes how he subconsciously traces the outline of the cross he has tattooed in thick black ink and Dean wonders what it means. He toys with the idea of asking this stranger such a personal question, but quickly throws it out of his mind and sits back down to carry on with his measurements.

"So what do you study in University, Dean?" Castiel asks, eyes now fixed intently on Dean's face. Dean swallows, frowning at the nerves rushing through his stomach. It'd been a long time since he'd felt this nervous around a guy this cute. Plus, Dean wasn't quite sure what to make of the tattoos and piercings yet.

Dean shakes his head briefly, wetting his dry lips with a flick of his tongue. "Architecture. It's kinda my dream." Dean admits, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he smiles at the floor.

Castiel tilts his head at Dean, blue eyes narrowing slightly as he crinkles his brow. "Architecture..." he plays with the word in his mouth, rolling at across his tongue. "So you must be intelligent then, Dean."

Dean glances at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. He loves the way his name sounds coming out of that framed mouth. "Dude, I'm not like, a genius or anything. To be honest I'm barely scraping through, and my family aren't exactly..." Dean offers an amused smile, hoping that Castiel doesn't notice the worry in his voice.

Castiel just smiles at him. "I understand."

Dean laughs, closing his eyes and tilting his face towards Castiel with a smile and raised eyebrows. He opens them again, only to be met with a shock of electric blue grinning back at him. "You really are an unusual guy, you know that?"

"I have been informed." Castiel smiles, standing up and heading over to the table Dean's sitting at. "May I sit with you instead? Nothing seems to be on."

"Yeah, no problem." Dean places his pen down, and for once he'd rather have a conversation with someone than be a recluse. "So, Cas, can I call you Cas?"

Castiel frowns, mulling it over. He then smiles and nods, placing his hands on the table.

"What didn't you like about the University life?"

Cas laughs; a sweet, short sound that bounces off the walls and makes Dean's insides squirm. "Everything. I much preferred writing poetry on a whim rather than when I had to. I found my literature, um, sucked whenever I had a deadline. Plus, I dislike profusely being told what to do. So, obviously, school wasn't for me."

"Obviously." Dean grins at him, rolling his eyes with a cheeky grin. "Okay, I get that; but why are you so against being bossed around?"

"My parents were Greek Scholars in Bible and Mythology, hence the name. They wanted me to head down the same route - to be a devout Christian and to serve the will of God. I didn't see that, uh, crap," Castiel raises an eyebrow, gaging Dean's reaction as if waiting for an offended response, "in my future, so I rebelled. That has had some severe consequences for me, namely being cut off from my parents and any money they would offer as help. But, I live. I take each day as it comes."

Dean frowns. It seems Castiel has a lot more hidden beneath those bold tattoos and strong arms. "Hence the name?" Dean frowns.

"Cassiel is an Angel, my siblings and I all have angelic names."

"I thought you were Castiel? Like, with a 'T'?"

"I am."

"Then why did you say Cassiel?"

"My mother was convinced she was having another girl. But she was disappointed, and by then she had grown attached to the name. My father believed the name to be too feminine so they compromised by creating a new name entirely."

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Man, sounds like your upbringing was the polar opposite of mine."

"How so?" Castiel frowns.

"Don't worry; it's a long story." Dean smiles halfheartedly, glad that Cas doesn't reply with the usual 'we have time' response. Instead, he leans back and smiles gently at him. "You're not religious, then?" Dean asks, changing the subject.

"Oh no, I am. I just disagree with the way they spread God's word - it wasn't the message I believed in. They were far too strict, and besides - I hate public speaking." Cas grins at the table shyly, peeking at Dean from behind thick lashes.

Dean frowns a little, resisting the urge to touch Castiel.

"You may do your work, if you wish. Don't let me stop you."

Dean smiles, knowing that he should. "Thanks, man. Not being rude, I just really have to get this done. Deadlines, you know?"

Cas nods, standing up and heading over to the sofa. "I'll keep an eye out, let you know if anybody shows up. I'm certain that it will be empty tonight. Like I said: Monday's are rarely nights for drinking."

Dean laughs, "Yeah, thanks."

Cas seems to settle down, a large hand running through his dark hair as he leans back against the sofa. "It really was nice to meet you, Dean." He smiles.

Dean looks up, surprised, and watches Castiel's face as the light from the TV screen reflects in his eyes. He considers, for a moment, the idea of being friends with this strange, intriguing guy and he feels a smile spread slowly across his cheeks. "I don't say it much, and to be honest I don't even really like people. But, you too, Cas."

Dean carefully unlocks the door to their 3-bedroom house in Lawrence, a couples miles out from the University. Castiel had spent the rest of the night offering helpful comments whenever Dean was stuck or in serious need of some distraction, and Dean had come to find that he liked Cas: Cas made him laugh.

He tiptoes into the house, rolling his eyes as he creeps past his Dad – passed out on the sofa - drunk no doubt. He picks up the beers from the floor and places them on the side, before heading upstairs and throwing his bag under the desk in his room. He frowns, seeing Sam asleep in Dean's own double bed. He sighs a little, knowing Sammy only sleeps in Dean's bed instead of his own when something bad has happened. Dean climbs under the dark blue covers next to his brother and into a sleep full of his Mom and the happy childhood he wished they could have had.

The next day, Dean yawns and stretches, turning off his blaring alarm and throwing his pillow at Sam.

"Sammy! Wake up!'

Sam groans, flipping Dean a finger and rolling over. Dean laughs, standing up and ruffling his little brother's hair. "Come on, Genius. We gotta get you to school so you can find your way out of this hell hole."

Sam sighs, squinting through one deep green eye as he grunts a defeated reply.

Dean heads downstairs, still quiet so not to wake John, and creeps into the kitchen to make pancakes. He coats one in strawberries and chocolate, and the other in lemon and sugar. He knows they're both Sam's favorites, poor kid can never decide, so he runs them upstairs and places them on Sam's desk. He's glad to see Sam has pulled himself out of bed and is getting dressed in the bathroom, so Dean locks the door to his bedroom so he can pull on some clothes.

Dean doesn't care much for his body. He has a couple scars here and there, and he keeps fit from playing football and fixing cars; but he doesn't really care about what other people think. It's something he's always been proud of – not giving a damn about opinions. Why should it bother him if the guy with unlimited tattoos, a stretcher and Avenged Sevenfold blaring through battered headphones wants to think he's some jock with three girls on his arm? You can judge anyone if you look hard enough, and still find you know nothing about them.

Dean finds himself thinking about Cas; Appearances, Dean concludes, are deceiving.

"Dean! I left my stuff in your room!" Sam bellows, slamming his fists against the door. Dean shakes his head, doing up his belt buckle and unlocking the door.

"Sorry Sam, I was getting changed, you know, because it's my room."

Sam laughs, pushing past Dean in a towel wrapped around his waist. "S'okay. These for me?" Sam grins, holding the plate full of pancakes.

Dean nods, grabbing his blue shirt off the back of his chair. He's got work at Penney's later, so he might as well go straight there after dropping Sam at school.

Penney's is the University Café that Dean's been helping out at since his very first lecture. An old family friend owns the Café, and Dean can't stand the idea of letting anyone down. Luckily though, it's good money – and Dean needs all the money he can get if he's going to be able to send Sam to Stanford in just over a year's time. Plus, Dean's gotta fix his Chevy now too, and there's no way that's gonna be cheap.

Dean curses, running out the house and climbing into the drivers seat of his Dad's old 'Soccer Mom' car; a 1984 Dodge Caravan Camper that rattles when you turn a bend.

"Sam!" He yells, sticking an elbow out the open window as pokes his nose out. "Hurry up!"

"Coming, coming.' Sam mumbles, just loud enough for Dean to hear, tripping over his things as he tumbles down the slanted driveway. "Chill out Dean." He laughs, clambering into the passenger seat and throwing his blue backpack into the back. Sam cocks his head to one side, deep green eyes shining humorously. "What?"

Dean creases his eyebrows together, his lips tight. All he wants is to do well by this damn kid. "Nothing." He smiles, caving in and flashing a grin in Sam's direction. He sets the car in reverse, ruffling Sam's hair as he throws his arm behind him to get a better view.

Dean struggles to concentrate as Sam tells stories and mishaps from the day before, filling Dean's eyes with tears of laughter when he goes into full detail about his friend Elliot and the incident with the urinal. Nothing seems to make Dean smile quite like journeys with Sam. Glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye, he feels his chest swell as admires the man his little brother is shaping into.

Castiel stumbles up the brick pathway, breath caught in his chest as he bundles his scarf close to his jaw. The wind licks across his pale cheeks, scarring them with thick red marks; the unusual April day leaving his fingers stiff and numb, but Cas' mind is somewhere else completely.

Dean Winchester.

Ever since those gentle green eyes gleamed up at him, peeking out from beneath thick dark lashes, Castiel had rarely thought of anything but.

It wasn't that Cas had never met an achingly beautiful person before, he had – and many times at that. Cas smirks behind his scarf, blinking the water from his eyes as he pushes determinedly towards the café door. In fact, Cas can recall doing some rather unsavory things with achingly beautiful people, and the thought of doing those things with Dean…

Cas shivers, not sure if the icy kisses left on his body were from the winter breeze or something else entirely.

Finally he reaches the big white door, his eyes widening as the nest of bustling elbows, coffee mugs and laughter fill every table, bench and stool. Castiel feels a weight in his stomach, shoulders slumping as he curls his lip in the direction of anyone who looks at him.

Cas really wanted it to be quiet. He wanted to sit in a nice corner with his poetry book and wait until Dean noticed he was here – Cas was even planning on showing him some poetry. But with all these ears prying, he didn't think Dean was likely to even notice him, let alone have time to sit and chat. Cas groans inwardly, squeezing past a small girl with red hair who seemed as if she was trying to bite the cherry stick out of another person's mouth. Rolling his eyes, he shoves himself into a corner and removes his coat.

Usually, Castiel is a people person. He's never had a problem with anyone without a just cause – the exception being that he didn't so much care for the idle chitchat of university students who think their entire life revolves around who's skinnier, who's sexier, or who's got the biggest muscles.

He knows he's too old to be here. At 23, even if he'd carried on with his course he wouldn't be here anymore. He's possibly the most senior citizen in the entire room – and he doesn't like it.

Grandpa.

He bites his lip, disguising a ridiculous smile. It's not at all courteous to laugh at one's own jokes, Castiel, he scolds himself, hearing his Mother's high pitched voice echoing in his head. He rolls his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows and letting his eyes scan over the spilt coffee stains and dried ketchup still stuck to the blue table top. His fingers fiddle with the silver piercing in his nose.

He yawns, then decides he should probably pretend to be proactive, so he digs around inside his cream trench coat pocket, fingers catching in the rips and tears. Finally, they happen upon the thin black notebook and he yanks it out and places it on the table. He unwraps the scarf from around his neck, revealing a small pair of black, square reading glasses folded into the neckline of his white t-shirt, and he carefully unfolds them and places them on the bridge of his nose. His pale blue eyes blink a few times, long eyelashes catching on the dark frames as he looks down at the notebook in front of him.

Castiel has always had a fondness with his haggard leather notebook, something about the way it only squeezed a few tangled scrawls of his barely distinguishable script across each line, the missing corner that left a raw tear across the cover – and he hasn't even began to think about the words he's written inside. He could spend hours, days perched at a table with an old fountain pen and this particular notebook - and Castiel doubts he would have it any other way.

"Cas?" A deep voice rasps, startling Castiel as he blinks, wide-eyed, trying to regain his thoughts.

"Yes, yes, sorry-" Cas stops, eyes fixing on a familiar face, one now painted with an amused smile that made deep green eyes shine like copper coins found at the bottom of the sea. Cas swallows with a dry click in the back of his throat, frowning slightly as he felt the heat creep into his cheeks. Thank god for the cold wind to blame the pinkness on, he thinks, attempting to slow his frantic heart. "Dean? Y-you startled me."

Dean laughs, a hearty sound that shook his shoulders as he places a hand on Cas' shoulder and squeezes it gently. "Sorry, buddy. What are you doing here?"

Cas' eyes move across Dean's arm: up the pale blue shirt that stretched taut against the biceps; across a chest where buttons, pulled until fit to burst, hung on to the fabric - daring the others to let go. The hand that wasn't in immediate contact with Castiel's shoulder, the left one, was balancing precariously a tray with six beer bottles, three wine glasses and a stack of empty starter dishes. The muscles in that wrist must be –

"Cas, really? Did the cold freeze your brains inside out?"

"Something like that." Cas frowns up at Dean, pursing his lips together and pushing his glasses back up his nose with a finger.

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. "Want a coffee? I'm sure I can convince Bobby to give you one on the house." Dean removes his hand from Cas' shoulder to point behind him with his thumb.

"I don't want you to go through any trouble, Dean, I can pay-"

"Shut up, asshat. We're friends now right? No trouble." Dean flashes a glaringly beautiful smile at Cas, and Cas feels every core of himself melt. This guy was going to kill him sooner or later.

"Thanks, Dean."

Dean smiles again, this time a little softer, before turning and heading over to the bar. Cas smiles down at the table, his notebook catching his eye as he flips through the pages with his fingers. He comes across a page he's been looking at for a while, another tattoo he's considering getting. Its prose is one of his favorites, a Shakespeare quote no less, and he can envision it perfectly in the centre of his back, just below the tattoo across his shoulders. He reaches out a finger to stroke the edge of the page thoughtfully, remembering the feeling of needles against skin, the satisfaction of seeing such beautiful artwork that feels so possessively yours.

Castiel leans his head back and closes his eyes, rolling his shoulders back and scrunching them in the middle. He sighs, slouching again but this time leaning back against the chair.

"'Hell is empty and all the devils are here'?" Dean asks, peering over his shoulder. He angles his head slightly; eyebrows creased as he flicks his gaze towards Castiel.

"A tattoo I'm considering." He answers casually, trying to fold the notebook away and back into his pocket.

Dean raises his eyebrows, shakes his head and hides a grin; all in the space of the three seconds it takes him to sit down and push a coffee at Castiel. Cas looks up, feeling the warmth of the coffee under his nose as he wraps his fingers gingerly around the mug.

"Thank you." Cas holds Dean's gaze, the corners of his mouth pressing gently into his cheeks.

"S'okay, man. I really like your ink by the way."

Cas looks down at his bare arms, stretching them out in front of him a little. He feels his chest puff out with pride as he grins down at the artwork he helped design.

Dean, obviously pleased he'd made Cas happy, relaxes back in his chair and crosses his arms.

"Thank you. Would you like to know more about them? Most people are intrigued."

"Only if you wanna share." Dean held out an upturned hand, before lifting it and scratching his forefinger against his jaw with a surprisingly interested smile.

Cas frowns gently at this adorable, clean, almost too-perfect guy in front of him. He feels his nostrils flare slightly, closing his mouth and licking his chapped lips. "Well," he holds out his right arm, palm upturned on the table, and points with his left forefinger at the black cross. The cross runs the length of his forearm, the two lines intersecting much closer to his hand than his elbow, with a white line bordering the inside. It's dead straight and remarkably plain, yet Cas finds himself drawn to this one frequently. "This cross was my first. I drew it when I was seventeen, and got it done as soon as I was legal. The plainness of it reminds me of how black and white things should be, but the ambiguity of such a cross reminds me of who my parents wanted me to be, and who I really am. I have a strange fondness for this tattoo." Cas glances up, and when he sees Dean's stare fixed intently on his mouth he feels a tug in his lips as he tries to hide yet another smile. He angles his left shoulder at Dean, looking over it and points to a symbol on the lower half of his bicep. The symbol looks like a Wiccan version of a treble clef, painted with deep blue ink and white highlights. "This is a biblical symbol that means 'embrace life'. This one was my second tattoo, and possibly the one my parents disliked the most. They thought I was using the Bible incorrectly." Cas snorts, raising an eyebrow. "The Bible is supposed to be interpreted in whichever way the beholder sees fit."

Dean shakes his head, a thick grin plastered across his face. "You just made the Bible sound a hell of a lot more interesting than anyone I've ever met. And believe me, people have tried." Dean raises a dark eyebrow, leaning his elbow on the table and pressing his cheek against his hand. He looks at Castiel with those stunning green eyes, one corner of his mouth upturned and showing just the slightest hint of pearly white teeth. Cas looks down, biting down on his lip to avoid a full-blown smile. If Cas weren't certain that Dean was unreservedly straight, he could have sworn those eyes were flirting.

"I didn't know you wore glasses." Dean says, poking Castiel's shin with the toe of his dark boots. Cas feels his cheeks grow hot as he pushes them back onto the bridge of his nose.

"Damn things are too big for me." He mumbles, eyes shining with humor as he leans his forearms on the table and ever closer to Dean.

Dean laughs, the hearty sound booming around inside Cas' ears and teasing his mouth into a smile. "Well, they suit you Cassie." Dean winks playfully.

Cas' cheeks flush, again – he was really starting to make a habit out of this. Or rather, Dean was really starting to make a habit out of his blushing cheeks. He mutters a thank you whilst glancing down at his fumbling fingers, not quite sure how to react to the simple compliment.

Dean's hand reaches over the table and rests against Castiel's arm. Cas feels his heart beat in his mouth as he feels the warmth radiate against him. He tries vigorously to remember the last time he had this much chemistry with someone, perhaps Andy? No, not even close. Dean makes his body react in a way he's never experienced before; it's such a shame the feeling is rather unrequited. Cas lifts his eyes up to Dean's, turning only one corner of his mouth into a half-hearted smile.

"Dean! Get your ass back here son and stop flirting with pretty boy!" A large man with a gruff Texas accent and a messy beard yells across the room.

Dean waves a hand in his direction, sighing and leaning across the table. He picks up Cas' pen and notebook, scrawls a number into a blank page and pushes them back towards Castiel.

"I guess Bobby needs me. Give me a call, we can try and arrange to do some double shifts at the Roadhouse next week okay?" Dean stands up with a grin, slapping Cas on the back and making his whole body jerk forward. He swallows dryly and nods at Dean, glassy-blue eyes wide and shining.

He turns and walks towards the bar; leaving Cas in possibly the most flustered state he's ever been in. It feels worse than that time his Mother walked in on him with his high school boyfriend, Drew, and that was horrific by anyone's standards.

But there was a difference this time.

Castiel can't stop smiling like a lovesick fool.