Chapter Text
This might’ve been one of Dean’s stupider ideas, he thinks, fidgeting with his itchy formal suit and staring out the darkened windows of the limousine all so he doesn’t have to look at the other men cramped inside. Each one is clutching a flute of champagne—champagne, for God’s sake—as they take turns gossiping nervously amongst themselves, everyone a phony. Dean pointedly ignores their attempts to start a conversation in favor of nurturing his growing sense of claustrophobia in a solemn, repressed silence.
“So, which girl are ya pulling for?” Dean’s brooding is interrupted with a soft bump of a knee against his own, and he turns to find that encroaching on his personal space is a southern gentleman type whose name Dean thinks is Benny.
“Cassie.” Dean says, unhesitating and firm.
His clipped anwer and curt tone draws uneasy looks from the other contestants, most of which are content to leave Dean alone. Don’t poke a sleeping bear, and all. Going against his natural tendency to wise-crack and charm, the first unfurlings of discomfort bud in Dean’s chest but he reminds himself that he’s not here to make friends. It’s gonna be a long night.
“Yeah, she’s pretty hot, huh?” Another guy ventures, taking a toothpick to the thick whale blubber that is the tension in the room.
The possessiveness Dean feels is instant, biting, and dangerous. His skin crawls with it, and his forced smile looks akin to teeth-baring as it flops and dies on his face. He knows it’s out of line, and damned stupid, but the rivarly and the cameras and the friggin’ champagne knock the bloodlust up a couple amps anyway. It’s not helping that this whole situation is his fault to begin with.
Dean blinks in and out, but mostly out of being conscious of his surroundings as the producers chase the other contestants out of the car, fussing over their appearance and instructing them on their entrance. Dean is given a pun to use. Whatever, it’s not what matters. He gets to see Cassie again, and that’s all he’s thinking about save a brief but thorough thank-you prayer to whatever powers that be that Dean isn’t the guy they’re forcing into chicken costume. And seriously, what the hell? Dean feels like he might be in for more than he bargained for, on that account.
The wait outside is longer than the one in the car, but at least Dean isn’t sweating in close-confines anymore. He’s still sweating, just under bright film lights that pepper even the most remote escapes sans a camera in sight. He wonders if he’ll get used to that, and come time to leave will wake up in a distress asking Sam where his beauty lights went. He smiles at the thought and then finally, it’s his turn.
His legs bounces the whole, taxingly slow ride. He wishes they’d let him drive, because it makes him think of the nights with Cassie, laughing and smiling, with nothing left for them except the relentless, mangled black arteries of the road like the spools of those cassette tapes that they’d listened to and that she made fun of him for having, later smashing them against the pavement and letting their innards melt out, shimmering. They pumped through those roads like racing blood and damn, it drove them wild.
They round another bend and there’s two figures standing on the driveway. People couldn’t decide who they wanted for a Bachelorette this year so in a sick twist of rules, the contestants themselves would be voting. Dean’s resentment for reality TV was bad enough before, but now he figured he couldn’t get through an episode of American Idol if he tried. He’ll stick to the soap operas, thank you. Why Cassie signed up, he’ll never know.
The two women come into clearer view, and Dean is sitting at attention. Cassie is stunning. Maybe he’d expected her to look different from the eight months they were apart, but seeing her unchanged breaks his heart anew. The band aid flies off and he’s still bleeding underneath. She’s in a floor-length, red evening dress and Dean devours every inch of it, praying that it commits to his long-term memory. He fleetingly acknowledges Lisa in her cheery yellow piece with her radiant smile, and she has such a captivating magnetism that he feels bad for tearing his eyes away to settle back on Cassie, the girl who’d drawn him out here.
They tell Dean it’s time, and it’s more of a warning than encouragement. He allows himself the one nervous tick of adjusting his tie before he steps from the car, his breath making a home of his throat instead of his lungs. Cassie doesn’t know he’s here. She could yell, kick him off the show on the spot and yet he’s tumbling into view anyways, not ready to embrace what she’ll offer him.
He can’t look. There sounds a nearly inaudible gasp, hushed under the hungry cameras, and Dean steels himself before dragging his gaze up and into Cassie’s eyes. He can’t fathom looking away. For a second, they both forget the cameras. Her eyebrows start knitting together with pain or confusion or longing or all of them at once. He almost breathes her name, it catches on his tongue like a worn key fitting into a new lock but he swallows it into silence.
He beams at her. It’s the first time he’s seen her in his entire life, and he’s giving her the smile that made her fall for him the first time, “I’m Dean Winchester.”
That’s funny. In all the ‘coincidences’ it took to get him there, he hadn’t needed to change his name.
“Do you have a name?” Dean recites into the 9-volt battery between them, “Or should I call you mine?”
It’s not funny. She’s not laughing. She’s shocked, voiceless and motionless.
“Wow.” Lisa laughs, awkward, and Dean looks at her for the first time, “That was bad.”
He fixes his grin on Lisa and it’s a bit phoney in the middle, teeth going crooked and lips cracking, “Nice to meet you, Lisa.”
She opens up her arms and that’s how Dean ends up hugging Lisa first. It’s a formality, but pleasant enough. Sam tells him that he needs to ground in moments like these, so he feels the soft skin of her back as he rests his fingertips and imagines the roughness she feels in return. She’s warm and her hair tickles Dean’s face, smelling like something pink. He tries to acquaint himself with these new sensations for the moment she’s in his arms.
It’s different hugging Cassie. He draws her in quick and she startles, then relaxes in his embrace. He knows what Cassie smells like, knows how his hands meet the dips and swells of her. And yet he’s a stranger coming back. Unwelcomed in his own home.
“Hey, Cassie.” He marvels at her from arm’s length.
She’s still unspeaking, her face a mask devoid of expression. Dean, remembering where he is, just grins at her instead of prostrating at her feet.
“I’ll see you two inside.” He steps away and tries to ignore everything except that, at the last moment, Cassie gave him a hesitant returning smile.
The next couple of hours are torture, frankly. Dean mingles with the other contestants, more out of curiosity and an obligation to the show’s contract than anything else. There’s the faux loverboys, the white-collars, and a heaping dose of personalities so mind-numbingly boring Dean couldn’t pick them out of a line-up. The names of only a couple guys stick. Like Kevin, a nerdy asian guy who looks young enough to be in highschool but seems nice enough. Or a scrawny fella named Garth who’s either stoned out of his mind or suffers from being too friendly, and who Dean tries to avoid for the rest of the evening. And there’s Micheal and Lucifer, both grade-A douchebags just cut from different cloths. Luckily, they hate each other right off the bat.
Dean gives up on ‘mingling’ and instead settles on the couch, where he’s greeted with another odd character, one with messy dark hair and piercing blue eyes that he fixes on Dean immediately. Uncanny is the word that comes to mind for this man who sits to himself, not talking to anyone. Except that it suits him, and he looks more likely to be in a dated painting than sitting on a reality TV show. The contrast is so surreal that Dean tries to find it amusing, but it settles into intimidation instead.
Dean’s tongue laps the inside of his lip, “What’s your name?”
The man considers him like a microbe squirming pathetically under a microscope, “Castiel.”
He doesn’t ask Dean’s name, so Dean volunteers it with a smile, “I’m Dean.”
Castiel’s eyes leap down, catch a draft, then come soaring back up to Dean’s face. It reminds Dean of his stint in a reformation camp for angsty teens where the camp leader, Miller, roused them all up and asked one by one if they were ‘planning anything’. He was just a paranoid bastard, but it was the look that stuck with Dean. Like he was sizing ‘em up careful, just waiting for one wrong move.
It looks like Castiel decides something before he says, “Nice to meet you.”
Dean would say something back but Cassie and Lisa make an entrance and he’s already standing up, moving towards them, and giving Castiel a nod as he departs. He wants to catch Cassie’s eye again, but the producers rush into the fray and gather up the contestants in their hands, shuffling them liberally and dishing them back out at measured intervals to speak to the Bachelorettes and Dean doesn’t even make it over there before Cassie’s saddled up with someone else.
If patience is a virtue, Dean is going to hell. He rolls his neck, flexes his knuckles, and sighs liberally as he watches the other contestants dole out flirtatious smiles under the doting lights of the cameras. Dean wonders how he’s gonna endure weeks of this if he’s already sweating after just a few hours, and curses himself for being a goddamn idiot again before they call him up to see Lisa.
Maybe it’s the break from boredom or the pressure cameras, but he finds himself grinning at her with a real warmth as he sits down, pinching his tongue between his teeth for a second as he lets his charm come out to play, front and center. After all, she’s an attractive woman and this is a show about romance, it’d be a shame if he didn’t put on a show. She bats her pretty eyelashes at him for his work and it goes miles in enticing the flirt out of him. It’s something he’s always enjoyed doing, flirting. It makes talking with Lisa like he’s thinking about marrying her—for the cameras—easy.
“Dean.” She smiles at him in greeting, “How’s your night going so far?”
“Fantastic.” His eyes fall briefly to the other contestants, backlit against the golden warm glow of the house, watching and waiting for their turn, before meeting Lisa’s eyes with a new intensity, “Better now that I’m out here with you.”
Her face flushes the slightest of pink with amusement, or maybe he’s really flattered her with his cheesy as hell pickup line, but either way Dean admires it, likes how easy he draws it out of her. She takes a breath and smooths the edge of her dress, “The other guys treating you alright?”
“Me?” He raises his eyebrows playfully, still smiling. He’s been smiling the whole damn time, “I’m fine. Are they treating you alright?”
“Everyone is nice.” She tells him, nodding a bit.
“Just nice?” He echoes, “So you’re telling me there’s been no surprise proposals yet? No declarations of love?”
She laughs, “No.”
“You’re not ready to drop everything and elope yet?” He teases.
“No, not yet.” She tries to suppress her smile.
“Well, the night’s still young.” He says gravely, over-done.
“Right. There’s hope for me yet.” She relaxes against the seat more than she had a moment ago, which Dean considers a job well done. She tips her head a bit, her tone earnest, “So, Dean, what do you do?”
“I’m a car mechanic.” He tells her.
“Really?”
“Yep. You wouldn’t be marrying me for my money, sadly.”
Lisa’s laugh is back, briefly, before she’s beaming at Dean in a thoughtful sort of way, “This sounds weird, but you remind me of my son.”
“Oh, no.” Dean’s face falls, he tries to recover with a sheepish smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the ‘you’re like a son to me’ bit.”
“No!” She waves a hand at him dismissively, giggling, “Not like that! I meant, Ben’s got a sense of humor, too. I think you’d get along with him.”
“Do you miss him?” Dean asks, and the pain that flashes across her face makes him amend, “Sorry, that was a dumb question. Of course you do, it must be hard.”
“Yeah, it is.” She breathes, “But, I’m here trying to find a father figure for him.”
“I can see why. He seems great, if he’s anything like me.” Dean jokes.
She’s smiling again, but it’s not as present, thinking of somebody whose miles and miles away. Dean knows the feeling. “I know you’re supposed to get to know me, but my son is the most important person in my life. So, it’s important for you to know about him, too.”
“Of course.” Dean nods, understanding, “And all this time I’ve been getting to know about what a great mother you are. It’s impressive.”
This time when she blushes, Dean’s sure it’s because he’s flattered her. Though, the rosiness of the garden has a hand in inspiring the romance in the air, the parched hydrangeas framing the perimeter and the twinkle lights overhead start getting to him; he regrets when the next contestant takes that moment to interrupt them, leaving the spark between he and Lisa to fade into the warm dust night.
All the camera lights make his head swim, so once he’s back inside he grabs a drink and chews on his conversation with Lisa. He loves Cassie, loves her so much he’s here. But his heart is big, incapable of keeping out the white noise. He’s never been unfaithful, but it makes it too easy for him to start liking Lisa. To start thinking about liking her.
Then he speaks to Cassie. He’s miserable with his love, his heart trips itself headfirst into asphalt, his palms catching at the scratchy fabric of his pants as he crosses towards her. Her shoulders bob up and down on a great big breath, spitting out turned air.
“Cassie.” He breathes, wanting to kiss it into her skin, missing her even though she’s right in front of him.
“Dean.” She says, and the aches and pains consume him head to toe.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“All this way and you’re speechless?” Her smile shoves itself through the shutters of her house, drawn closed. It’s pinched and flat, hopeless to be made right again.
“Sorry, can I start over, or something?” Dean’s laugh doesn’t take the edge off the evening.
“We don’t have to.” She says in front of the cameras but secretly she whispers to Dean with her eyes and not her mouth, “We don’t have to have this argument anymore, Dean. I made my choice.”
“I want to.” The cameras hear, but in earnest Dean says, “I still want you.”
“No, you don’t.” Her silken hands encompass his larger, leathered hands and it’s only ruined when she looks at the camera, stiffening, “Just be the real you.”
“The real me came all the way out here for a pretty girl. Pathetic, huh?” He remembers their argument, screaming up crows from houses over with bitter, angry caws of their own. They were so angry, burning out bright and fast and giving everything they had as an accelerant.
“I signed up for this show before you, Dean. You’re just playing catch-up.”
Damn, that smarts. Even more because Dean believed in big gestures, thinking they could just pack it up from where they’d left off, pick up and go. But it’s too late. He never should’ve come.
“You’re right.” He mutters, praying that the editors cut up this conversation so that it’s even passibly normal.
She glimpses the cameras, sits upright in her seat as she flows into the performance, “So, Dean, why’d you come here?”
“I came here thinking I could say all the right stuff.”
“Well, you can’t.” Her smile is careful measures of pity and remorse, “That’s just the reality of love.”
“You’re right.” He says again, looking at her. She’s something sweet crusted over, crystalline. Then he shakes his head, and the moment passes, “Sorry, um. Anyways, you look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you, Dean.”
“Times up.” Barks a producer from the sidelines, and it’s time for Dean to walk away.
He stands up; he can do it. It’s right there waiting to be grabbed, so damned easy it goes back ‘round to being hard. And he takes a step, then another, leaving the floral perfume of the garden feeling like a drug addict cutting clean.
For the second time that night, Dean needs a drink. Then he needs the obligatory second drink and he even needs the ‘this is probably a bad idea’ drink, which is how the rest of the evening goes blurred and fuzzy in his mind, like he’s watching it unfold through rosy bulletproof glass.
The only thing he finds sobering is the vote, where he scribbles Cassie’s name on a piece of paper and tucks it into an official-looking box. He could be petty and write Lisa, but since he’s screwed up Cassie’s first chance at love he might as well give her another, free of charge.
They’re sent to the rose-ceremony room to wait while the numbers are tallied. Dean admits that it, too, like the rest of the house has an elegant beauty that is unphased even in the horrendous lights of the crew. Vines curl flirtatiously at the windows, open to the world outside of them, and the scratched sand-stone bricks have ragged edges that hold the mysteries of years of use. Then, the host, Crowley, enters and the contestants preen up, bated breaths lodged like lumps of clay to their throats, and without too much deliberation the next Bachelorette is announced.
Cassie takes it well. She doesn’t cry or yell in outrage, just gives a weak, saddened smile as she does a quick goodbye to the room at large. A couple of the contestants noticeably disheartened but none more than Dean, who sinks into himself like a pin has been expertly jabbed into the meat of him, letting his air escape in one massive exhale.
And to add insult to injury, the final surprise of the night is that Dean himself receives a rose–the indicator that he gets to go on to the next round of competition–from Lisa. What she sees in a guy who’s been tispy half the night, finalizing the heartbeat that he’s been putting off for months, Dean isn’t sure. He marches up to her robotically, wondering if she can see the sickness in his face and hands. Or if maybe he’s more obvious than that, and there’s a clawed-out gorge vomiting up blood where his heart is supposed to be. Evidently not, because she grins at him as he accepts it. He tries to give her something with teeth back, but it comes out looking like a half-baked sneeze.
He goes to bed as soon as they let him, and he’s disappointed but not surprised by the twin beds, packed four to a room, that he’ll be spending the next eight weeks of his life in. His two suitcases that carry the entirety of his possessions are pushed to the far wall, closests to the window, so he takes the bed to match. It’s lumpy like a hotel mattress, but it’s somewhere to rest his head.
He lays down and draws a pillow into his arms, clutching it as he revels in the
unfairness that is him being here and Cassie not.
In the morning Dean wakes up late, rubbing fists into his bleary-eyed hangover as he tries to remember where he is. When he does, he wants to floop back down into bed and sleep through it all. He peeks at a bed-headed Castiel in the bed adjacent to him as well as Lucifer at the far end of the room, and wedged between the two is one of the guys whose name starts with an ‘A’. An Alfie or Andy, or something. Seeing other people only makes Dean feel worse instead of better, so he rolls over and faces the wall.
He’s able to sulk in bed for a couple more hours, dozing in and out of sleep, until the guy whose name Dean can’t remember ducks his head into the room, “Hey, thought I’d let you know, they’re asking for all the fellas to come downstairs in ten.”
Dean, whose lacking dress and readiness to be on camera, leaps into action with a simple, “Oh, shit. Thanks, uh…”
“Ash.”
“Thanks Ash.” Dean pauses, taking a moment to actually look at the guy, “Sick mullet, by the way.”
Ash gives Dean a half-hearted salute and nod of approval, “I’m keeping it real, man.”
By the time Dean makes it down to the living room most of the other contestants are there, overflowing the furniture at the direction of the directors, who are trying to get everyone into a good shot. Dean is flushed along to an empty seat next to a guy who sits rigidly, eyes slinking and sliding over every contestant like he’s tallying up their flaws and virtues, stacked and ready to deliver.
“What’s your name?” The guy spits out, and Dean almost jumps at the low lashing sound, startled to hear him speak at all.
“Dean Winchester.” Something in Dean wants to add on a ‘sir’, formality seeping through nonetheless. He tries again, remembering where they are, “And you?”
“Victor Hendrickson.” The harsh syllables whip automatic from his mouth, and it seems Dean has lost his interest because Victor doesn't tack on anything else, and Dean doesn’t press. Dean pegs him for a cop.
Dean doesn’t mourn that lost conversation, especially as the director who Dean now recognizes as Rowena, she seems to be somewhat of a top dog around here, is barking at them in a thick accent, “Everyone settle down! We’re about to start rolling.”
Rowena’s announcement adumbrated the near instantaneous arrival of Crowley, the show host, who will be accommodating any and all major show events. Today he’s here to deliver the boys’ first date card, calling upon Andy, Benny, Lucifer, Ash, Ed, Harry, Castiel, Garth, Kevin, and Dean. His insides feel like someone’s got their hand between his stomach and small intestine and they’re trying to play thumb-of-war with his kidney.
As Dean gets ready for the date, he reminds himself that he only has to stay until the end of next week. To prevent guys flooding en-masse after the true Bachelorette was revealed, they’d all signed a contract promising to stay until the second rose ceremony. A short time later, and Dean is wishing Lisa would kick him off long before then.
It’s unbelievable. The sun’s too hot and the water is soaking Dean’s shorts and giving him an undignified chafe, and this creek that they’re in–it’s not a proper river–has been mocking him for the past three hours. And on top of all that, they’re somehow in last place. The producers had decided that the first date should promote bonding between the contestants and Lisa, but also between the contestants themselves, which is why they were saddled up with one of their roommates in order to foment friendship.
“Can you stop paddling on the left side of the boat?” Dean is brusque, his temper having gone to boil and steamed out the top of the kettle long ago, and he takes frantic spoonfuls of water with his oar on the right side.
“It’s called a kayak.” Castiel informs him aloofly, and Dean is no longer intrigued by but might actually hate him, especially as Castiel neglects to move.
The team in front of them is becoming more and more pin prick-like in the distance, where objects in Dean’s vision begins to go fuzzy, “We’re not paddling fast enough!”
“It’s not about speed, it’s about rhythm.” Dean might joke about that if he were in a better mood, but as it is he rolls his eyes at Castiel’s cool tone. Dean is eyeing the camera crew on a neighboring bank as Castiel turns to face him, “Are you paddling correctly?”
“Watch where you’re going!” Dean yells, the accusatory tone in Castiel’s voice rubbing him the wrong way. That, and he’s feeling particularly threatened by a log jeering out from the soft sides of the creek, “My paddling is fine, it’s your steering that’s the problem.”
“Well, if you’d just pay attention—”
“I am!” Dean barks back, demonstrating by accidentally jabbing his oar into the log that he was worried about just moments before. It sure snuck up fast. With a thwack, the kayak peters to the left at the same time Dean leans right, overcorrecting and sending their kayak jumping up and down on the swirling waters near the bank.
“Stop moving!” Castiel orders with a roar, trying to use his oar to move them away from the fallen tree. It hits the silken mud bottom and embeds, getting stuck. They’re still riding tumultuous waters and without thinking, Castiel tugs.
It’s all they need to completely topsize them. Dean’s anger burns hot and Castiel’s anger is iced to the core, but the tan, turbid waters that rinse over their vision and dunk over their heads is lukewarm, and it brings them back to a level playing field. Luckily, it’s not deep, and after the initial shock of water shooting up his nose and running down the back of his throat he’s able to stand up and start getting air back into his lungs, even if his tongue reeks all over of salt and mud.
He eyes Castiel, who's fighting the current’s pull on the kayak with face grit full of determination. Dean, who knows that their oars, and their dignity, is long gone, finds the whole thing ridiculous. He thinks this is the stupidest group date idea he’s ever heard of and he’s sure, above anything else, that he’s going home at the end of the week.
Dean, who should probably be helping Castiel, instead watches as Castiel loses his grip and their kayak goes skittering away. Standing there, looking dumbfounded and pissed to Hell and back, Dean wants to laugh. He also wants to curse. He doesn’t know which to act on, so he takes off his shirt.
“Cas, buddy, we’re friggin’ screwed.” Dean claps him on the back and Cas (new nickname?) jumps at the touch, tilting his head at Dean like an inquisitive dog but Dean just smiles at him, looking like a maniac all over, before diving headfirst into the water and beginning the long swim to the finish line.
Since they broke the rules, lost the kayak, and finished in last place, Cas and Dean along with the other losing team are not permitted to continue on the group date. Andy gets the date rose. Dean actually considers this a small mercy of the universe, because Dean has mud caked and flaking in places that mud should not ever, under any circumstance, be permitted to cake and flake off of. All he wants to do is shower and mope about Cassie, or make a game-plan about how he’s going to survive the next two weeks. This is evidently too much to ask for, because after he’s gotten the worst of the grime off himself and is drying his hair in bed, Cas enters the room and perches on the edge of his bed.
“Hello, Dean.” His voice sounds like hearing rain on a roof, hushed and apprehensive but solidly there. It’s a stark contrast to the Cas from earlier, who hit Dean with his oar in an ‘accident’.
“Hi.” Dean pipes, awkward. His shower worked the groan from his muscles and wound his nerves way down, but as far as reality-TV goes he think he and Cas might be sworn enemies, now.
“I wanted to apologize for earlier.” Cas says.
That came from way out of Dean’s peripheral vision, hitting him squarely on the side of the jaw, “Come again?”
“I’m sorry for not listening to you.” Cas’s teeth peek over his bottom lip and his eyes skate away in embarrassment, “And for flipping our kayak.”
The man before Dean is not the icy, peculiar bird-of-paradise that Dean thought he was. Cas is sincere and unsettled, unable to meet Dean’s eyes in his humility. It has the effect of making Dean feel like he’s about 52 different shades of asshole. Plenty of people used dating shows as a medium to sink their fame-seeking talons into, so Dean forgot that there might be the oddball here like him who actually came here for love. Genuine people like Cas.
“Shit, Cas.” Dean sighs, “No need, I get it. I got pretty heated there, too.”
“It was a frustrating situation—”
“And you were trying your best. I was being an ass.” Dean can’t believe how civil they’re acting.
“I was bad at the kayaking, though.” Cas admits.
“Yeah, Cas, you kinda were.” Dean’s voice flares up with warmth despite the insult, and he shrugs, “I was, too.”
“It was both of our faults, then.” Cas isn’t exactly smiling, but he’s not exactly not smiling either, which is a win in Dean’s book. Dean can’t help but wonder what the dude would look like with a real smile, though, all teeth and wrinkles around those incredibly blue eyes.
“Both our faults.” Dean agrees.
Cas nods once in silence, and then changes gears. When he speaks his voice is mostly nonchalant, a veiled thread of amusement coloring his words, “I like the nickname, by the way.”
Dean’s ears are left in an oven for two hours at 350 degrees, especially as he realizes that Cas is poking fun at him, “Oh, that. I, uh, sorry—”
“I said I liked it.” Cas chides gently, and gives Dean a small smile for real. It could barely be categorized as a grin but it’s there, lopsided and all, and it makes the stress of the day melt and slink away to become part of the floorboards, completely forgotten.
The next morning Dean saunters down to the kitchen and plops himself at the table in front of Cas. They’re not friends, yet, so it’s a sign of good faith when Dean flashes him an unusually cheery smile as way of greeting. Cas takes the bait, is decent enough to look bemused as he tucks his steaming mug of coffee a little closer to himself and alternates between looking up at Dean and staring into its bitter depths.
“Good morning.” Cas is formal, still studying Dean behind his blue eyes. Dean likes to think that there’s a warmth there, but he’s entirely unsure.
“Mornin’, where’d you get the coffee?”
Cas dips his thumb back towards the coffee pot sitting on the counter, steadily dripping a tap-tap-tap of fresh coffee into its belly. It’s a sound that’s music to Dean’s ears, who was expecting the shitty instant coffee like you’d find in a hotel. Dean stands up, fills a mug, and sits back down next to Cas without bothering with cream or sugar.
He drinks deeply and with a happy little humm, “Mmm...that hits the spot.”
“You’re friendly this morning.” Cas says into his own mug, raising it up to his lips and Dean watches them curl around the rim, trying to look for any traces of a smile.
“Maybe I could use a friend around here.” Dean ventures, boldly. But he’s decided that Cas is wired less tight than in the night of the first rose ceremony.
“The other men find me peculiar.” Cas tells him, perhaps as a warning, because it’s resigned and there’s no malice towards the other contestants.
“Well, I can jive with weird.” Dean thinks Cas’s mystery has been wasted on the other contestants, “It’s the drama queens I can’t handle. You a drama queen, Cas?”
Cas is pensive for a moment, making Dean bite back a grin at the hilarity, “No. I’m not.”
“We’re off to a great start, then.” Dean can’t help but give him another smile. For all his peculiarity, Dean finds him easy to talk to, “Although, I’ll admit. I still haven’t figured out why you’re here.”
“Why I’m here?” Cas echoes, confusion entering his face and making his eyebrows pinch tight in that way that makes Dean feel he’s being studied like an abnormal lab rat.
“Yeah, I mean fame, fun—”
“Love?”
“Yeah, that too.” Dean takes a drag from his coffee, “But even then, I don’t know what your deal is yet.”
“Hmm…” Cas mulls over this information, then he’s flashing his eyes to Dean and his gaze is equal parts captivating and intense, “What’s your ‘deal’, Dean?”
“I’m—” He’s about to say something snarky, but is struck with a sudden paranoia that Cas will know he’s lying. Or deflecting. Back to being a bug under a microscope, maybe Cas has sussed out his mannerisms and is already reading Dean like a book. Dean opts for the truth, as close as he can put it, “My last relationship didn’t end very well. I was hoping to get back in the game.”
“Fair enough.” Cas’s opinion on that is unreadable.
“I guess.” Dean said, feeling a little like his skin was being pulled too tight across his muscles, “Alright, then. What about you?”
It was Cas’s turn to look uncomfortable, looking down at the tile-topped kitchen table where his hands lay, still now that he was finished with his coffee, “Well, to tell the truth, I would like to experience falling in love.”
“You’ve never...oh.” Dean says, quickly switching gears, “Well, that’s fine.”
Cas sighs, “I’m aware it’s...odd.”
Dean draws a hand across the stubble on his face, trying to figure out what to say. Cas’s motivations were odd, but incredibly sincere. It was respectable. He settles for vague, “I hope you get what you came for.”
Cas looks up to Dean’s eyes but he’s somewhere else, somewhere dreamy where the morning sun settles like dopey honey across his features, “I hope so, too.”
It’s a day later and Dean is sprawled across a plush, faded-orange and lime armchair and sipping on a beer with his elbows propped on his knees so he can lean in to fixate his stare on Cas. They haven’t spoken much, yet, and Dean has only barely got a feel for his personality.
“Tell me about yourself.” He demands, trying to mimic the intensity of Cas’s stare with cartoonish exaggeration.
This rings one of Cas’s bells, as he’s bringing his fingers up to tap soundlessly at the top of his thighs, “What do you want to know?”
“Hmm…” Dean strides to find balance between boring and dipping past personal boundaries, “What do you do for a living?”
“Pediatric surgery.” Cas answers casually.
Dean’s face brightens as he sits up, eyebrows practically jumping into his hairline, “Dude. You’re a surgeon?”
“Well, I’m a first-year resident.” And he looks confused, maybe a little frustrated. Like somebody missing a joke, “Why is that so important?”
“Wow, Cas.” Dean shakes his head, impressed, “You must be a genius, is that right?”
Cas’s lips fold into a thin line, intent on answering, “I’m not a genius. Although I’ve never had my IQ tested. I’ve always fundamentally disagreed with using IQ as a measure of intellect. In fact, it’s quite–”
“Cas. I’m a car mechanic.”
Cas digests this, looks at Dean like he’s imagining it and giving a little nod when he’s satisfied with the image, “A respectable occupation. Like a car engine, the human body is an organic machine. You should be proud, Dean.”
“Sheesh, you sound like my brother.” He says, even if he’s a touch flattered, “He’s pre-law on a full ride, but he was proud of me for getting into trade school.”
“Hm.” Cas remarks, thinking, “Are you close with your brother?”
“I practically raised the kid, and he’s the only family I got besides my dad.” Dean wonders if Cas can hear how much he misses Sammy just from his tone of voice, “And you? You got any siblings?”
“I have two brothers, Gabriel and Balthazar. They were my legal guardians. I have a younger sister, Anna, but I didn’t know of her until a couple years ago.” Cas explains, putting it in its simplest terms.
“Oh. Cool.” says Dean, “So your parents–”
“I’d rather not discuss it.” Cas interrupts him, trying for an apologetic smile that turns into a grimace on his face.
Dean nods vigorously, his method of apology, “Yeah, sorry, my bad.”
His brain is now, of course, soaked with morbid curiosity about Cas’s home life but he wrings it out with a deep, refreshing breath and settles for changing the subject, “Anyways, I’ve been thinking. We need to make an alliance.”
“An alliance?” Cas is intrigued.
“Well, you know how these shows work.” Cas stares at him with a look that says no, he really doesn’t, so Dean explains, “The plan is this: we don’t sabotage each other in winning over Lisa, first thing, and then we also are gonna spill about anything interesting we find out the others. Teaming up against the bad guys, and all.”
As Dean speaks, Cas looks charmed, an amused smile creeping at his lips but not fully forming, “And we couldn’t accomplish this just by being friends, of course.”
Oh, sarcasm. From Cas it’s as deadpanned as the rest of his voice and that makes it unexpectedly sharp. Dean blushes, but laughs at his own over-eagerness, “That too, I guess. But we should still probably shake on it.”
Cas gives him a small grin, picking up his beer bottle he’d been neglecting and holding it out towards Dean, suggesting a cheer, “To being friends.”
Dean smiles and taps the neck of his bottle to Cas’s even though it’s the cheesiest thing he’s done to date, “To being friends.”