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Dean really hates the subway.
It’s not quite at the same level as his loathing of planes (and all forms of airborne vehicles, actually), because at least this metal cage isn’t hurling through the air at however many thousand feet, but he’s still discomforted by the fact that he doesn’t know how the damn things work. Cars, cars are safe; he can take apart and rebuild a car with practice eased, and it’s reassuring. The subway is an unknown which would bother him even without the added disadvantage of the stench of sweat, the claustrophobia and, worst of all, the people.
He doesn’t even really like New York. Only moved here because his asshat of a brother wanted to be some kind of hot shot lawyer, which somehow landed him in goddamn Manhattan. Dean’s the chump who followed him across state lines because he can’t stand to be alone. Days like this when he’s stuck, sticky and uncomfortable on the subway, he almost starts to regret the decision…. But, then last time he kept his distance Sam was at Stanford and it fucking sucked.
Maybe he has Sam nagging him about ‘finding someone’ ever since he fell into his own sort of domestic bliss with Ms Jessica Moore, and maybe he could do without Sam busting his ass about his lack of social life, but yesterday Sam used one of his lawyer-y pay cheques to take him to one of the best damn burger joints in the city. He’ll invariably show up at Dean’s apartment every other Saturday night, lecture him about being a sad act with no friends, then get a take-out delivered and eat till they’re both in a food coma.
Dean still gets to be his best friend, so it is worth it.
Worth it when he’s not stuck on the subway because the traffic’s too bad to think about driving his beloved impala, trading in his baby for an uncomfortable seat in the underground land of sweat and misery. Right now he’d do anything to be behind the wheel of his baby, even if it involved moving to frigging Canada.
Dean glances up as the subway doors start to shut and resits rolling his eyes as some guy in a tan trench coat in a rush barrels towards the door, hurtling through with about half a second to spare. Dean’s a wait it out till the next one kind of guy. He doesn’t understand why everyone in this city’s in such a damn rush.
What he’s not expecting is the guy to keep up his momentum, topple over as the subway jolts into motion and somehow wind up sitting on Dean’s lap, but nonetheless he’s gone from managing to uphold the sanctity of his personal space to staring into a pair of blue eyes in approximately half a second.
Worse, in a failed attempt to steady himself, trench coat used the hand he was clutching his Starbucks with to stop himself from slamming into the wall, and wound up crushing the damn thing against Dean’s seat, just above his shoulder. Dean has lukewarm coffee dribbling down his neck and a lap full of random dude in a trench coat and he really, really hates the fucking subway.
But, those eyes though.
“Uh,” Dean says, after a few seconds of staring in which trench coat is still on his lap, still staring at him, and Dean’s had a chance to register that the guy has hair and lips as well as eyes, all of which are equally magnetic. Actually, had the guy not catapulted onto Dean’s lap, he’d probably have been semi-discreetly checking him out for a distance, but that’s not the case. He has the guy’s butt firmly placed on his thighs instead of in his line of sight.
“Hello,” Trench coat says, staring at him without blinking. Dean’s not really sure what to do with that.
“Hi,” Dean deadpans in response, raising an eyebrow that he hope communicates that trench coat should, by all social conventions, probably apologise, remove himself from Dean’s lap, make himself scarce in the other side of the carriage and pretend this whole thing never happened. There’s subway-etiquette and this sure as hell isn’t it.
“I apologise,” Trench coat says. Goddamn, but this guy has a voice, all rough and deep and, with the guy still sat on him, he can feel the words vibrate through his body and heat up the air around them.
Dean reminds himself that the guy is on his lap that they’re on the subway and the only way to make this more awkward would be to pop a boner.
“Okay,” Dean says. He wants to stretch out his thighs or something, because although he’d wager that Trench coat is probably an inch or so shorter than him and not as broad, he’s still got an unexpected lapful of grown ass man. And, by the weight, he’d hazard that the guys got some muscles under the shirt and lopsided tie combo. Damn.
They stare at each other a little more.
“Dude, usually you gotta at least buy me a drink before you get here,” Dean says, nodding down to his crotch.
“Okay,” Trench coat says.
“What?”
“I will buy you a drink,” Trench coat says, finally making a movement to stand up, but taking his sweet time about it. Dean’s not sure what the leg equivalent of groping is, but he’s pretty sure his thighs have definitely copped a feel of the guy’s ass by the time he’s standing.
And, damn, he looks half intimidating and half flustered at this angle, and it’s equal parts adorable and kinda hot.
“What?” Dean says again, because at some point between the, oh let’s admit it, fucking gorgeous guy falling into his lap and then not moving, his remaining brain cells took a vacation. They have the attention of at least a quarter of the occupants of the carriage too, which isn’t exactly reassuring. He’s probably going to wind up on one of those spotted-on-the-subway pages that Sam finds hilarious and Dean doesn’t understand. He’s not New-York enough, or something.
“To apologise properly,” Trench coat says, “It was not my intention to land on you.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “I figured.”
Trench coat must think he’s a complete fucking moron.
“Or to soil your clothing with my coffee.”
“You always drink your coffee cold?” Dean asks, using the space he finally has to dab at the wet mess that is his shoulder. He’s got four hours of crap to do before he gets to head home and isn’t really savouring the thought of being damp and smelling like coffee until this evening. At least it doesn’t seem like its douchey coffee. It lacks the pungent sweetness of the syrups or soy milk stench that Sam drinks for ‘health reasons’ (when he's not stuffing his face with Chinese food).
“Not generally, no,” Trench coat says, frowning at him, “It has been a… challenging morning.”
“No shit?” Dean says, just as the subway jolts to another stop which, for some inane reason, is enough to send trench coat falling straight back onto him again. “Dude, we gotta stop meeting like this.”
“Balance is not my greatest attribute.”
“Or ties, apparently,” Dean says and then, God know why, he’s reaching forward and straightening his tie like that’s a normal thing to do when men fall on you on the subway. His homo is definitely showing and he doesn’t really want to make trench coat uncomfortable, but then trench coat is the one on his lap and not exactly falling over himself to get up (just falling over himself in general, apparently), so Dean’s probably okay.
Dean swallows.
“Your shoulder’s wet,” Trench coat says, because that’s where his hand landed on in the fall, take two.
“That’s what happens when you tip coffee over a guy, dude.”
“Castiel.”
“What?”
“My name,” Trench coat, apparently Castiel, says. He’s almost smiling and he sort of squeezes Dean’s shoulder. The whole thing derailed into weird quite a while ago, but Dean’s still sort of baffled by what the hell is happening over here.
“We’re at the names stage, huh?”
“I assumed since I’ve already sat on your lap twice, adding names to the equation wouldn’t be grossly inappropriate,” Castiel says, standing up for a second time, “Do let me know if I’ve misjudged the situation.”
“Dean. Nice to meet you, Castiel,” Dean says. He’s pretty sure this has already diverted into flirting territory, and he is more than happy to help the cause along. Even if the guy has a weird name and a worrying inability to stay vertical, he’s all kinds of attractive.
“I’m sure you say that to all the people who fall on you on the subway,” Castiel says, voice a low, deep rumble. “Dean.”
“Pretty sure only person who’s ever fallen on me was a little old lady,” Dean says, “So I skipped the introductions and went straight for a pick up line.”
Dean is a complete moron, making stupid fucking jokes like a first class ass, but at least this Castiel is smiling rather than backing away from him.
“I see.”
“What’s the big rush, anyway?” Dean asks, “Not that I don’t appreciate the intrusion, but there’s like a train every three minutes, Cas.”
“My boss is… in a very bad mood,” Castiel says, head tilting at Dean, probably because of the nickname that fell out of Dean’s mouth.
“He some kind of douchebag?”
Castiel considers that for a moment.
“Yes,” He decides, “Zachariah is very much a douchebag.”
It sounds like it’s the first time the guy’s ever said something derogative about his boss in his life, like he’s testing the words out on his tongue and Dean definitely wants to know everything there is to know about this strange, attractive dude who doesn’t know how to trash talk his boss. He’s pretty sure most people have worked that one out within the first week.
“However, he also has the power to fire me, which would be highly inconvenient.”
“Them’s the breaks,” Dean says.
They jitter to another stop and Cas, for fuck’s sake, sways forward for a third time. Dean has a hand on his chest, steadying him on instinct, before he falls properly this time. Castiel is warm and solid under his palm. He smiles at Dean.
“Dude,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow, “Maybe you should sit or, I don’t know, hold on or something.”
“I’m getting off at the next stop,” Castiel says and Dean’s not really sure why he’s so disappointed, “When are you getting off, Dean?”
Dean blinks at him.
Could he not have phrased that any different?
Also, Dean’s been so distracted by trench coat that he literally doesn’t have a damn clue where he is, and he’s growingly aware that he’s pretty sure he missed his stop. Like, definitely a hundred percent missed his stop, and that’s too embarrassing to admit to.
“One after that,” Dean says, because Castiel is expecting an answer and Dean, by all accounts, should have one. “So I guess we’re out of opportunities for you fall on me again,”
“I said I’d buy you a drink,” Castiel says, sending a squinty frown in his direction.
“You did,” Dean says.
“I intend to follow through on that promise, Dean,” Castiel says, “At least to make up for the damage to your shirt.”
“Um, okay?”
“Here,” Castiel says, digging a hand into his trench coat and pulling out a frigging business card thrusting it into Dean’s hand, then they’ve reached the next stop and Castiel is back to dashing out of the subway train, spilling out onto the platform and nearly running in the direction of the stairs without so much as a ‘goodbye’.
Dean, baffled and a little bit confused, frankly, glances down at the business card. He’s not really a business card type. Sam has one, but then he’s technically a lawyer douchebag these days. He’d been more hoping for a haphazard number scribbled on the side of his crushed Starbucks cup than a business card, but it’s still better than a brush off.
At the next stop he sheepishly gets off and heads towards the other platform to backtrack, vaguely hoping that he can make the return trip without any more attractive tax accountants (according to his business card, anyway) landing in his lap, more coffee poured all over him or anyone noticing that he’s literally just come from this direction. Not, that on this occasion, any of those events were as terrible as they could have been.
*
Sam is, once again, giving him a lecture about how he’s going to be alone forever because he doesn’t have a social life, which is hilarious given that Dean’s ninety percent sure that Sam hasn’t spent time with anyone who isn’t Dean or Jess for about a month. His lawyer-partners are all kind of douchebags (Dean’s words, not Sam’s) and he avoids socialising with them outside of work, so they don’t count. He hasn’t really got a leg to stand on, here.
“You need to get out there , Dean,” Sam’s saying, wildly gesturing with a mouth full of chicken chow mien and, oh yeah, his brother is such a catch. Jess is a real lucky girl. “Where are you gonna meet someone? The apartment you only leave for work? The subway? You think the perfect girl or guy is just going to fall into your lap and –“
“– well,” Dean says, mouth quirking up slightly, “Funny you should say that, Sam.”
“What?” Sam says then, “Dean, was that your front door?”
“Uh, maybe?” Dean says because he’s pretty sure it was his door, but he’s been a little lax on keeping Sam updated about things, so he doesn’t really have a readily available explanation as to why that’s not a point of concern. Sam looks very much he’s considering using the plastic chopsticks as some kind of defensive weapon which has the potential to be hilarious, but... “Hold fire, Sam,” Dean says, standing up and stepping into the hall.
It is his front door and it is Castiel.
“Hello Dean,” Cas says, stripping off his trench coat and hanging it up. “I hate the subway.”
“I dunno,” Dean grins, “It’s not all bad.”
“I suppose good things do happen on the subway occasionally,”
“So, you’re making use of your key,” Dean says, watching Cas kick off his shoes and loosen the mess of his tie even further. He’s a little too into Cas making himself at home to think about the fact that Sam’s in the kitchen but, well. Updating Sam was on the to-do list.
“Zachariah was…”
“Being very much a douchebag?”
“Yes,” Cas says, continuing through his apartment into the kitchen, “I bought food.” He continues, then stops short when he see's Sam. “Oh.”
“Well we already ate,” Dean says, following him, “But Sam’s pretty much a bottomless chasm when it comes to take-aways, so we’ll probably be okay.”
“Uh, hi?” Sam says. He has a noodle on his t-shirt. He's still holding his chopsticks in the defensive position.
“Cas, this is my brother Sam. Sam, this is Cas my, uh…”
“Boyfriend,” Cas says and, damn, that’s kind of nice.
“Right, that,”
Sam just blinks at him for a few seconds.
“How did you two, uh, meet?” Sam asks, a little while later, after the awkwardness has dissipated a little bit and Dean’s tried to telepathically convey the message that Cas wasn’t a secret so much as Dean didn’t want to jinx things. He’s not entirely sure that Sam got the whole message, but he at least hasn’t blurted out that Dean’s never mentioned him before this second.
“Cas fell into my lap on the subway,” Dean grins, which is hilarious just because Sam has no idea whether he’s being serious or not. Dean has zero intentions of ever putting him out of his misery, either. It’s Sam’s fault he has to take the frigging subway, after all.