Dean Smith believes in two things in life: Tim Gunn's fashion sense and cold hard cash.
He definitely does not believe in love.
The way he sees it, love's a Hollywood thing; something made up so movies would seem more interesting. He's been in more loveless relationships than he can count, and all they've served to do is convince him even more that love is just a sham.
"Maybe you're just looking in the wrong places," Sam Wesson, the dorky Tech guy, suggests one night over organic Mediterranean take-out.
Dean's beginning to wonder why he even invites the guy over to his house in the first place; never mind the fact that Sam is his only friend in Ohio and frequently spends the night passed out on Dean's designer sofa. The kid can be a nuisance, and right now Dean just has to wonder why the fuck he even bought him dinner in the first place. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Well, who've you dated?"
Dean shrugs, half-heartedly turning his attention back to Project Runway and poking at his food. "This chick Rhonda. Um… Cassie. Lisa. Nearly dated this girl Jo…"
"There's your problem," Sam says, waving his fork around, and Dean shoots him a baleful look, frowning. Sam rolls his eyes, gesturing to Dean and making some half-obscene gesture. "You're gay, dude."
"Excuse me?"
"You. Are. Gay. Your hair, your suspenders, even the way you make your coffee in the morning. You like guys, Dean."
"I do not."
"You're sitting in your apartment in your underwear with your legs in another man's lap while watching Project Runway and eating some health crap. That's not normal heterosexual behavior, man."
Dean quickly withdraws his legs from Sam's lap, frowning. "Maybe you're gay."
"Dating Sarah from marketing," Sam says, holding his hands up. "Not going to sit here and say I'm one hundred percent straight but I'm definitely not gay."
Dean starts to wonder if he is.
Maybe.
He has been noticing Nick from HR a little more than usual.
And there was that one time he saw gay porn and ended up with a mess on his keyboard, but he had always figured that was normal.
But even in the face of this new (okay, maybe not so new) sexual identity, Dean could safely say he still didn't believe in love.
Being gay or bisexual or whatever isn't exactly a life-changing revelation.
He thinks about it while Tim Gunn is chewing out one of the contestants; there was that guy in high school who copped a feel in the science lab and Dean didn't exactly stop him from doing so. In fact, he was pretty sure he got more action from that guy than he did through the rest of high school. Then there was Jack in college, and Dean might have made out with him at a New Year's party, but that was no big deal.
So being gay or whatever the fuck he is isn't really a game changer.
Sam doesn't bring it up again for a while; it's a non-issue and nothing really changes. They still spend their nights together, and Sam's not bothered by it at all. He doesn't mention it outside of some good natured teasing.
Saturday rolls around, and Sam wakes Dean up by attempting to smother him with a pillow; it's unremarkable as far as anything goes, but it marks the beginning of a very remarkable day. Everything that happens in the next twenty-four hours goes against Dean's rather jaded view against love, changes everything he thought he knew, and effectively fucks him over. It's a turning point, a corner, another fucking door opening while one slams shut behind him, and it all happens because of one goddamn barista at some stupid little café.
Dean shoves Sam off his bed the moment he's awake, sitting up and yawning slightly, glancing at the clock; it's eight in the morning and he shakes his head, running a hand back through his hair. "You actually woke me up on time."
"Get dressed," Sam says from the floor, looking at Dean. "We're going to grab some breakfast."
"Where?"
Sam just grins at him.
'Where' turns out to be some artsy little café on the corner of Fifth and Main, chic little tables set up in the front and a canopy overhead, and Dean shoots Sam a dirty look over the top of his Ray-Ban's. "What are we doing here? We could've made breakfast back at my place."
"Everyone already thinks we're sleeping together, I don't need you making me breakfast in the morning to cement that." Sam smiles, pulling the door open and heading inside, glancing at Dean. "They have really great breakfast here. My treat?"
"Fine," Dean mutters, following him inside and pulling off his sunglasses, looking around. "Where do you want to sit?"
Sam shrugs, looking around before waving Dean over to a corner table, sitting down and kicking the chair out for the other man. "Come on."
"Is this a date?" Dean teases, dropping into the seat and flipping open the menu. "How's Sarah gonna feel?"
"She thinks we're sleeping together, too," Sam says, grinning at him. "So if she was going to care, she'd have done so already."
"Why does everyone think that? I barely like you as a friend," Dean grumbles, shaking his head and glancing over the menu again. "So you're definitely paying?"
"No, I was bullshitting. Of course I'm paying, jerk."
"Bitch," Dean says, smiling despite himself and looking at the menu. "I want the fat free turkey bacon and egg whites."
"Toast?"
"No, that's carbs."
"Indulge a little."
"I don't want toast. I'll get a latte instead, is that okay?"
"No-fat soy?" Sam says, grinning, and Dean just nods. "I was kidding, but okay."
Dean shrugs, glancing around the café and eyeing one of the waiters currently wiping down one of the other tables. The guy looks a little older than him, dressed in khaki slacks and the work shirt of the café, and as he straightens up, Dean gets a good look at his face. The man's handsome in an unconventional way; he's got striking blue eyes and a few days worth of scruff, and Dean is immediately struck.
It's the way the man moves, the way the lines of his body look, the way he is; there's a presence about him that is unmistakable, unavoidable, and Dean swallows, mouth dry and eyes flickering over the man. His nametag reads Castiel. It's a fucking weird name, but not one Dean's going to forget any time soon.
Sam kicks him under the table, leaning against his hand and watching him curiously. "See something you like?"
Dean snaps out of whatever daze he's fallen into, looking back at Sam and frowning. "What?"
"You're staring at that guy over there," Sam says, pointing at Castiel absently and cocking an eyebrow. Dean really hates the look. "He's cute. Not really my type."
"Shut up," Dean says, kicking him hard and glancing up as the waiter approaches.
He shoots them a smile, looking between them and cocking an eyebrow. "My name's Cas. What can I get for you guys this morning?"
Dean just stares for a second before putting on his most charismatic smile; he's been out to Sam for a week or so now, and maybe it's time to get it together. Act normal, according to Sam, and get a boyfriend or something. It may not be love but it might be a means to an end. Plus, rigorous sex might help him along in his diet; it isn't really a bad idea. He isn't exactly sure if Castiel's gay or not; he doesn't have it tattooed on his forehead and as far as Dean can tell, he's not wearing anything significantly gay. Dean isn't really sure what to look for, but there aren't any major indicators like bright red platform heels or a rainbow scarf, so he might have to wing it.
By the time he zones back in, though, Sam's already ordered for them and Castiel's heading back up to the counter. Dean stares after him before looking at Sam, attempting to be casual. "You think he's gay?"
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because you figured me out."
Sam smiles slightly, glancing towards Castiel and shrugging. "I don't really know him. I only stop here for coffee every so often. He might be. He runs the place with some other guy."
"So he's taken?"
"It might be his brother or something." Sam taps his fork against the table, giving Dean a look. "Man, you're going to go on about this for ages. And look, I know you're lonely. I know it. But it's on you right now to do something about that. I'm your friend but I'm not your matchmaker. If you want to go for it, then do it. Because you're miserable enough to let me crash on your sofa, and maybe if you get a boyfriend you'll be nicer at work." Sam shrugs, glancing up as Castiel starts walking over with their drinks. "It won't kill you to ask."
"It will," Dean hisses, but now he's just being stubborn. He has no clue how to flirt. Dean Smith is not a relationship sort of man; his work is all he wraps himself up in, his diets and his exercise and everything else in his life, not relationships. He doesn't know how he's supposed to hit on someone. Be friendly, yes, but flirtatious is a whole new field, and he doesn't know how to play it. "Hi," he says automatically when Cas walks up with their drinks, the man cocking an eyebrow at him and smiling.
"Hey."
"You have nice teeth," Dean says stiffly, and Sam stares at him across the table in disbelief. "Uh… I mean…"
Castiel shrugs, probing at his teeth with his tongue and setting Dean's latte down, handing Sam his drink. "Thanks. Oral hygiene is important to me," he says, and the emphasis on 'oral' tells Dean all he needs to know.
"I'm Dean." He sticks his hand out, smiling genuinely. "This is Sam."
"Cas. I own the place with my brother," Castiel says, shaking Dean's hand and gesturing to the blonde man behind the counter before looking at Sam. "I know Sam here. He comes in sometimes."
Sam grins, standing up after a moment and looking past Castiel. "Oh, my girlfriend's here. See you in a few, Dean." He heads past them and Castiel watches him go before dropping down into the chair Sam was just in.
"I thought he was your boyfriend."
"Why does everyone think we're gay?" Dean murmurs, sipping at his latte and shaking his head. "He's just a guy from work."
"Oh. You two come to little cafes for breakfast often?"
Dean rolls his eyes good-naturedly, glancing around; the place is empty except for them and the guy behind the counter, Sam and Sarah sitting outside at one of the small tables and the guy behind the counter paying absolutely no attention to them whatsoever. Dean watches Cas for a moment, biting his lower lip. "Shouldn't you be doing your job?"
"No one else is here and Lucifer takes care of the cooking." Cas shrugs, tapping his fingers against the table. "And since Sam ditched you, I might as well stick around, right?"
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Good."
"Good?"
Castiel shrugs, rubbing at his face; Dean gives him another quick onceover, because he's never found someone this attractive. He isn't sure what it is; Castiel looks burnt out, dark bags under his eyes and scratches on his arms and a glassy look in those blue eyes, and despite the small voice in his head that screams drugs, Dean discovers he doesn't care. Because it isn't love, it's never going to be love. It's just a thing, a small connection, a little bit of something more. And it's never going to be serious.
Except it gets serious.
Because that morning in the café isn't the only time they meet; Dean finds himself making his own coffee less and less and stopping by the café more and more. Lucifer starts to recognize his face and Castiel looks happy when he shows up, and Dean ignores the track marks on his arms and the vague smell of pot that sticks to him because it isn't anything. It's just a little infatuation.
They start dating; it's a casual thing at first but by the fifth or sixth date, Dean's starting to realize that maybe it's more than anything he's experienced before. Castiel is funny and sharp and good-looking, and despite the drugs (Dean knows they're fucking drugs but he doesn't know how to approach it or bring it up) he's perfect. It's Dean's first taste of the idea that maybe there is someone out there for him.
They kiss on Date Number Seven, and there's no sparks. Castiel grabs him by the scarf and pulls him in and kisses him, and it's slow, soft, and Dean wants to pretend there's violins in the background and sprinklers and fireworks and all the shit in romance movies, because maybe it would reassure him, but he pulls back after a moment and studies Castiel's eyes and there's nothing but the faint taste of Cas on his lips. Dean wonders if it's normal. "Did you feel anything?" he mutters as they link hands and make their way down the street, and Castiel shrugs.
"I don't know."
"Maybe it's not right?"
"It's never right." Castiel pauses, glancing at Dean and smiling a bit. "But look, man, I'm happy."
"Me, too," Dean says, and although it isn't love, it's okay.
He brings up the drugs a couple weeks later; a two month anniversary spent in Dean's apartment, legs tangled together on the sofa as they eat take-out and watch some stupid romance movie. "So… what do you do?"
"You know what I do," Cas says, frowning. "I'm a waiter."
"No, Cas," Dean mutters, looking at him. "Drugs."
Castiel shakes his head, scratching at his arm and holding it out. "I stopped. It's scars," he clarifies, and Dean runs his fingers over the skin there; the flesh is mottled in places, scarred and pockmarked, but none of them are fresh. "It was heroin. Some methamphetamines at times. Pot. I'm better now."
"Why'd you do them?" Dean asks, and it's low and interested; he's a privileged white boy from a privileged white family, and hard drugs are a thing that he's never really come in contact with. It's a thing like love; a plot device, something that isn't real, just another driving factor. "Are you okay?"
The look that flashes across Castiel's face says 'no' but he just smiles and nods and leans in, pressing his mouth against Dean's neck and avoiding the question. Dean doesn't bring it up again.
Castiel isn't the one, and Dean isn't sure if 'the one' even exists; he fights with Cas and kisses Cas and holds hands with him, but sex is something he avoids like the plague. Castiel is his boyfriend but he's not his lover, and to be honest, the idea of sleeping with a guy is taking some getting used to. Sam tells Dean he's being a pussy; sex is sex is sex, and he's been dating Castiel for ages and they're getting serious, and if he keeps leading the poor guy on, it's not fair.
It's fucking nothing and fucking everything at the same time, because Dean isn't in love with the guy but he cares about him enough to want him around, and despite the fights and the sleepless nights and the shit they put themselves through, the fresh marks Dean sees every so often on his boyfriend's arms, he still wants to be with him. Castiel drives Dean insane, and he's fairly certain he does the same to the other man, but that's okay. They make it through.
Four months in and Dean decides it might be time to fuck Cas.
He announces it over dinner at some fancy restaurant, swishing his wine around in his glass and cocking an eyebrow at Cas across the table. "You want to take it back to my place tonight?"
"About time," Cas says, grinning, and everything falls into place from there.
They lose it in the elevator on the way up to Dean's place, mouths meshing and chests heaving and Castiel yanking at Dean's tie like it's a fucking leash; maybe there aren't sparks but there's a fucking fire in the pit of Dean's stomach and a burning in his chest, and everything is hot. He's fucking hot, and they don't stop kissing when the elevator stops; they stumble towards Dean's apartment, half-undressing each other in the hallway. Dean has his shoes off the second he's in the foyer of his place and it doesn't stop there; Cas goes down on him in the front hall, flips him over and fucks him in the living room, takes him to the bedroom and makes absolutely fucking sure Dean's first time with a guy is something he's not going to forget. They wake up in the morning aching and sore and fucking exhausted, but Dean lets Castiel pet his hair and press his mouth to his temple, and for once, he thinks maybe this is right. Maybe it's okay, maybe it's love, just not the glorified version he's been taught.
Everything falls to fucking pieces a month later.
It's bright out, sun seeping through the window of Dean's office, and he goes about everything as usual; paperwork gets filled out, Sam comes up for lunch, there's some sort of meeting about revenue and what a good, fine job Dean is doing; mention of making partner comes up and Dean just grins, because everything is turning up daisies.
And then his phone rings.
It buzzes in his pocket and he tugs it out, presses it to his ear and smiles slightly, because it's Castiel's number, and after the last week, their relationship has hit its stride. "Hey," he says, bright and polite and as close to loving as he gets, eyes flickering to his clock. "Why are you calling?"
"It's Lucifer," the man on the other end says, and Dean goes pale.
"Lucifer? Why… what's up?"
"Cas is in the hospital," Lucifer says softly, and something inside Dean shatters.
"What happened?" Dean barely manages to choke it out, because this isn't right. This shouldn't be happening. Because Dean is fixing himself, he's putting himself back together and trying to fall in love and Castiel is the one he wants to be with, and now it's broken. "Is he okay?"
"He relapsed. Overdosed. I found him in our bathroom. Can you meet me at the hospital?"
Dean's chest crumples and he nods even though he knows Lucifer can't see it. "Yeah."
Everything's a haze; he tells Zachariah there's a family emergency, clocks out, and leaves. The drive to the hospital is hazy, foggy; he has no clue how he gets there. He's on autopilot, his mind racing, because he asked Cas. He's talked to him about it, asked him if he's okay, tried to make it seem like he knew what he was doing when it came to help. But it wasn't enough.
He meets Lucifer in the lobby of the hospital and the older man leads him to Cas' room; Castiel is conscious, if just barely. He smells like charcoal and medicine, and Dean drops into a chair at the side of the bed in disbelief. He wants to ask him if he's all right, if he's okay, if his stomach hurts and if he'll live.
Instead, he sits in silence for a minute before pressing his hand to his forehead and murmuring, "Why?"
Castiel shakes his head, quiet and unresponsive for once in his life, and he reaches for Dean. Dean takes his hand, and he's struck by how fucking weak Castiel feels; when they hold hands, he doesn't feel like this. Dean is suddenly hit with the idea that this man in front of him is not his boyfriend.
"Weren't you happy?"
"Yeah…"
"Then why the hell would you do this?"
"I don't know," Cas says, and the answer isn't good enough. It isn't fucking good enough, because Dean is fucking falling to pieces. His chest hurts and his stomach is roiling and he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to do. He's never dealt with this, and maybe it's his fault and maybe it's because he was sheltered as a kid, maybe it's because he was raised as a spoiled white kid in some fucking suburb with a sister and a dog, but he can't do it, not now. He can't deal with it, he simply can't, and the idea makes him sick inside.
He tries to puzzle it out and he realizes it's because he loves Cas, he loves him, he wants him and he needs him and maybe this isn't stupid Hollywood love and maybe fireworks don't go off every time they kiss and maybe some soft indie song didn't start playing when they fucked for the first time and maybe they aren't Cinderella and her fucking Prince Charming but Dean still loves him, and the man in front of him, the addict with the glassy eyes and the weak hands and the pumped stomach is not his Castiel. He's not the man Dean loves, and Dean knows it's selfish but he cannot do this.
He pulls his hand out of Castiel's, leans down, presses his mouth to the other man's ear and whispers a soft apology, because there is no way he can be truly sorry for what he's doing. Castiel watches him with those damn baby blues and Dean shakes his head because he's still not sober, and Dean stands up, shakes Lucifer's hand, and leaves.
And it might be the biggest mistake of his entire life.
It might fuck up the first feeling of love he's ever had, it might make him feel like some sort of broken human being, and it might wreck him, but he knows there's no way he can't stay. Dean Smith was not made for that sort of life. He was not made for a drug addict, he was not made to fall in love with a man who may not be himself, and he might be selfish, he might be fucked up, but he simply can't.
So he doesn't.
He goes back to believe in two things and two things only: Tim Gunn and the money he makes at his job. And it's okay for him. It isn't perfect, but his life isn't a Hollywood romance.
It was never meant to be.