Castiel Novak never fancied himself much of a risk taker. He preferred to stick to what he knew, and the few times in his life he had taken a chance, it never ended in his favor. There was one day, however, when he wished he had taken a chance: the day he met the charming and beautiful Dean Winchester.
Saturday at 11:30am finds 24-year-old Castiel sitting at his usual table in the cafe around the corner from his building, sipping on a double espresso cappuccino and reading his favorite book for the third time in a year. He was lucky to have snagged this table when he did, as the place soon filled up with the mid-morning crowd, and just about every other seat was now occupied. He prefers this particular table because it is accompanied by soft, plush armchairs instead of the hard wooden stools that accompany the other tables. It is also backed by a large window which provides lots of light for him to read by, something he spends about half of each Saturday doing in this very spot.
He's twenty-six pages into the first chapter when he senses someone standing next to his table. He looks up to see a young man approximately his age, cup in hand, with short, sandy-brown hair, lush green eyes, and freckles abound. Played across his lips is a radiant smile that reaches those pretty green eyes and inspires little crinkles to form at the corners. At a loss for why this perfect human being has appeared before him, Castiel can only stare back until the man's smile falters a tiny bit and he clears his throat before asking, "hey, umm... do you mind if I sit here?" He gestures at the empty armchair opposite Castiel's, "it's the only spot left and I have some work to do."
Castiel notes the messenger bag slung over the man's shoulder. Maybe he's a student, he muses vaguely. He nods once and then returns to his book, lifting it a bit higher to hide the blush that is creeping up to colour his face. Keep it together Novak.
"Thanks," says the green-eyed wonder before collapsing into the chair. He sighs heavily, pulls some papers and a tablet from his bag, and gets to work.
They sit in silence for the better part of an hour; the stranger working on whatever it is he's working on, and Castiel reading his novel. He tries to sneak a few glances over the top of his book to see what the man is doing, but the print is too tiny for him to read. He manages to catch glimpses of Latin and Italian, and something to do with theology, which only serves to make him more curious. After a while he gives up, and begins directing his glances at the man himself. In one hour, he'd only read eight pages, having spent most of that time cataloguing various aspects of the beautiful person across from him. His long eyelashes, the way he traps his lower lip between his teeth when he was thinking hard, and he will never admit it but Castiel spent quite a while trying to count exactly how many freckles peppered the bridge of his nose.
About a quarter past noon, the man puts everything back into his bag. Castiel continues pretending to read as he watches him yawn and stretch in his periphery. He thought the guy would stand up and leave and that would be it, another chance spectacularly blown, but instead he remains seated. Castiel can feel the man watching him, but he adamantly refuses to look up. He turns the page to make it seem as if he's still reading, though he'd given up on that endeavour 45 minutes ago. Say something before he leaves! screams the non-neurotic part of his brain. Do it!
"What are you reading?" asks the voice from across the table, startling him.
Castiel slowly lowers the book and wills himself to make eye contact. His vibrant green eyes are soft and friendly and Castiel relaxes marginally. However, they're still devastatingly gorgeous and have no earthly reason to be looking at him, which keeps him in an anxious state.
"You probably wouldn't know it," Castiel offers lamely in an attempt to dissuade him.
"Try me." He doesn't seem in any hurry to leave, and an amused smirk is quickly spreading across his lips.
"It's called 'The Lathe of Heaven'," Castiel concedes, and he feels a small spark of triumph when the man huffs a laugh and shakes his head.
"You're right, I don't know it," he runs a hand through his short hair and continues, "I'm Dean, by the way," and extends his hand.
Castiel tentatively shakes the offered hand, and replies, "My name is Castiel."
"Castiel," Dean says thoughtfully, as if testing it out, "there's a name you don't hear every day."
The blush quickly returns to Castiel's face and he desperately wants to hide behind his book again, but he resists the temptation.
"You're here a lot, aren't you?" Dean asks, and Castiel is once again at a loss.
Dean, unperturbed by his conversation partner's lack of participation, pushes forward, "I see you here quite a bit. Always in that chair. Always reading..."
Castiel is completely thrown for a loop; he most certainly would have remembered seeing Dean before. "Yes," he answers, "I do enjoy reading here. I've never seen you, though."
Dean laughs quietly and drops his gaze to his hands which are folded on the table. He looks, for all the world, as if he's shy, and Castiel once again cannot fathom why Dean is still talking to him. Dean raises his head to give Castiel a timid smile, "No reason you would have." Castiel thinks that there are plenty of reasons.
Dean points to a table across the cafe, "I usually sit over there." He takes a long sip of his coffee and continues, focused on the now empty cup that he is fidgeting with. "I watch you sometimes," he says quietly, almost too quiet for Castiel to hear.
Castiel wonders briefly if his reality is crashing down around him. Why would Dean be watching him? He's certainly nothing special, with his disheveled, near-black hair, watery blue eyes hidden behind old-fashioned thick-rimmed reading glasses, and oversized sweaters.
While Castiel was mentally reasoning this out and staring into the void, Dean's expression had changed from shy fondness to mortified. "Oh god. You probably think I'm a total creep."
"No!" Castiel says, maybe a little too loudly, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. "Um... it's okay?" he doesn't know why that sounded like a question. But if Dean thought he was being a creep then what does that make Castiel, who had been doing exactly the same thing five minutes ago?
Another radiant smile from Dean and Castiel thinks he's died and gone to heaven. He quickly drains his cup, and is working up the nerve to ask Dean if he would like another, a chance to prolong their embarrassingly one-sided conversation and allow Castiel time to come to his senses.
Before he can even open his mouth, Dean is standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Well, I'd better go." He seems regretful at having to depart so soon, and Castiel wonders if maybe he's missing something. "Thanks again," he says, giving Castiel a half-smile that looks a bit sad, "I'll see you around, Cas..."
Castiel doesn't want him to leave, but can't think of anything to say that would convince him to stay and not just freak him out. He nods once and attempts a friendly smile. Say something you idiot!
"I hope so." Surprised by his own boldness, Castiel immediately hides behind his book. He receives no response, and when he sneaks a peek, Dean is gone and half-way across the parking lot.
Castiel groans and tilts his head back against the chair, covering his face with his book. Minutes pass while embarassment filters down into regret. Great. Just great. The first attractive guy I kinda sorta talk to in years and he's actually smart too, and nice, and –
His inner monologue is interrupted by an 'ahem' from beside the table. Castiel lifts the book off his face and whips his head up to see Dean standing in front of him, a coffee in each hand.
He's...back? "I thought you had to leave?" Castiel asks, trying not to sound too pleased.
"I did, but I decided to call in sick," Dean says, and fakes a cough, confident smirk wavering slightly, "figured you might need some more caffeine." He holds out one of the cups for Castiel to take.
"Thank you," Castiel accepts the cup, noticing something besides the drink order written down the side; a phone number. He looks at the bar, there's only one barrista currently working, a 67-year-old man by the name of Fred who has been happily married for 40 years. Well it's not Fred. But then...
He looks at Dean, who has noticed Castiel's confusion and is wearing an amused, if slightly nervous grin.
"It's my number, Cas." He holds out a felt-tip marker and his own cup.
Castiel stares at them both until Dean slowly takes his cup, brushing his fingers across Castiel's probably more than was necessary, and places the other in his hand, sliding the pen across the table. "Can I have yours?"
He stares at the cup in his hand, and the first thing that comes to mind is, "Why?" Cas tilts his head to the side, staring at Dean as if the answer will be written somewhere on his beautiful face.
"Well... so I can call you. If you want." Dean is still grinning like it's the funniest thing in the world, but that wasn't what Castiel was asking.
"No, I mean why me?" Castiel reiterates. Dean's expression becomes intense and thoughtful, like it was when he was working, "I dunno... You are kind of adorable with your huge sweaters and glasses and messy hair," he smiles fondly at Castiel, "I like how you're always reading something new. You're... intriguing." Castiel huffs sarcastically but Dean's smile doesn't fade.
He picks up the pen and twirls it around with his fingers once before holding it out for Castiel, "And I told myself I was going to take more chances. This is a chance I want to take."
Castiel stares into those bright green eyes for a moment longer before taking the pen and writing his number on Dean's cup. "Me too."
A/N: I'm on a writing binge.
BTdubs, "The Lathe of Heaven" is a real book by Ursula K LeGuin. I wanted it to be kind of obscure, but also have themes that tied back into the show a bit. It's about a man who can dream anything into reality. People tell him to dream things that are supposed to fix the world, but not all of those endeavours turn out well. It reminded me of how Castiel often tries to do good and it rarely ends well for him.