If you need an Alan sequel about him being big, maybe him and thanksgiving with relatives who haven’t seen him in a while? Everyone getting obsessed with how big he is. How much he’s grown and in so short a time
went in a slightly different direction with this one, hope u like it >:)
(CW: slight transphobia and antifatness and Uncomfortable Family Interactions™️)
Alan had thought—pretty reasonably, he might argue—that this would not be an issue.
First point: he was fat. Sure, this hadn’t stopped him from looking so obviously pregnant by the end you could tell from space last time, but generally, fat tended to hide a baby bump. Point two: he was hardly fourteen weeks along, just dipping his toe in the second trimester. Even his first enormous baby hadn’t stretched him out so much by that point that a well-chosen top and a couldn’t hide it, more or less. Point three: he’d only given birth to said enormous baby about half a year ago. That gave him plausible deniability: he could still have a bit of a belly. By all rights, he should be able to get through this visit without anyone knowing.
But these twins just loved getting on his nerves.
“Is this… better? Worse?”
Alan turned in front of his phone, propped up next to the mirror. A pile of rejected shirts sat next to him, and on the screen, his girlfriend tapped her lip. “Mmm, turn to the side,” she said.
He complied, and glanced in the mirror, pulling at the (nice, demure, boring, acceptable-to-relatives) shirt.
Tulip’s voice came through the tinny phone speaker. “Well, this one’s cuter!”
“Tulip. Answer the question.”
“I guess you look…veeeeery slightly…less pregnant. In this one.”
Alan turned to the phone. “This is hopeless, isn’t it.”
In the mirror, his reflection stared back at him. The bottom hem of the shirt hung low enough to cover the band of his maternity pants, at least, which had already become a necessity at week ten. He couldn’t bind—not while he was still breastfeeding, and it’d hurt like a bitch right now anyway—and they pulled at the shirt, heavy and swollen. And yet they still weren’t enough to direct any attention away from his middle.
He looked, without any semblance of doubt, extremely goddamn pregnant.
Pregnant enough to pop, on some people, but he’d been around this size at the tail end of the second trimester last time. Round, stretched, and taut, clearly heavy with something inside. He could pull on the loosest, boxiest clothes he had, and this belly would poke through clear as day.
But he had to get through this. He could hear the rumbling of voices from downstairs, the crowd of people waiting to see him emerge. And he was not about to walk downstairs for his family Christmas party looking like this.
So he grit his teeth, and sucked in his gut.
To say Alan was the black sheep of the family was an understatement. He was more like the rainbow-colored zebra holding a burning American flag who inexplicably got mixed in with the shepherd’s herd. His parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles were all the type of moderate-to-Democrat who loved beige and insisted that unions were a “complicated issue.” Alan’s mom had an actual “live, laugh, love” sign in the bathroom.
Meanwhile, Alan was a raging polyamorous bisexual trans man with pink hair and pronouns who had literally given birth to a demon. Out of wedlock, no less.
A knock came at the door, and Alan took a breath and opened it. He let it out when he saw who it was.
“Hey,” said his brother. Avery (the only cis Avery, Alan liked to joke) peeked around the corner, voice hushed. “How’s Benny?”
“Oh, I got him down an hour ago. I’m just using him as an excuse to hide up here.”
Avery nodded. “Wise. Well, unfortunately, you’re gonna have to come down. I am literally fighting to the death trying to keep these people from storming up here to see the ‘precious little baby and his daddy.’ I think Aunt Mabel is going to knife me.” He flicked his eyes up and down. “Nice shirt. You look appropriately lame.”
“I look pregnant,” Alan mumbled. “There’s no way everyone doesn’t figure it out immediately, right?” He realized he was unconsciously leaning over, trying to obscure his middle. Even the slight bend made him feel like his organs were in a juicer.
“Listen, I’ve done my part. Your turn now, oh master of disguise.”
“Shut up.”
“No, but, seriously, if anyone’s a dick about it…”
“I’ll send all dicks your way,” Alan said, nodding appreciatively. Alan’s older brother was more or less the only reason Alan had any contact with the family at all. He’d been Alan’s number one support for as long as he could remember, always making it extremely clear that he would take no shit. Mainly through the standard policy of “if you are transphobic/homophobic/fatphobic/an asshole to me and my brother you will never see us or his adorable baby again.”
Which went a long way, but unfortunately it was apparently impossible to keep them from just being fucking weird about it all. Which was why Avery was also the only person here who knew Alan was pregnant again. Including their parents.
Closing the door gently behind him, Alan slipped into the narrow hallway, the sounds of a small crowd bubbling up from downstairs.
“Are Mom and Dad back yet?” Alan asked.
“Nope. I think they’ll be back soon, though.” They’d gone the long round trip to pick up an aunt, and Alan had arrived after they’d left. He would have vastly preferred an awkward airport pickup reveal over seeing them in front of their entire extended family, but here they were.
There was a landing in the middle of the staircase, so stage-like in its position that Avery and Alan used to put on “plays” there as little kids. And there, as Alan walked out on display, the entire crown of relatives looked up. And literally went silent.
Alan took about a half second to think, I thought this shit only happens in movies. He felt his lungs crushed against his spine, pulling his stomach muscles as tight as he could get them, and panicked. He was an idiot, of course they could still tell, of course they would clock it, why else would they be staring—and then he took another half second to remember that most of these people hadn’t seen him since his last pregnancy made him grow fucking demon horns and a tail.
“Alan!” his Aunt Laura cried, flinging her arms wide and somehow not spilling a drop of her wine. She set it down, rushing to hug him at the bottom of the stairs. He tried to act normal, ignoring how his bump pressed into her stomach. Laura tapped a horn. “Wow, these are cute! So is this a new trend? Little horns like these? I always like hearing what you kids are into.”
“Um,” Alan said. “They’re—”
“Alan, my man, come here!” Uncle Reg clapped him on the shoulder and gave him the most repressed masculine man hug Alan had ever experienced. Greeeat. Gender affirmation from Uncle Reg. “How the hell are ya, kid?”
“Don’t call him kid, he’s a mo—I mean, he’s a father now!” Aunt Mabel, Reg’s wife, wormed in, holding a cocktail in a manicured hand with the single most boring bracelet Alan had ever seen around her wrist. “Where’s the baby?”
“He’s asleep,” Alan said.“I’ll have to feed him in a couple hours, maybe I can bring him down—”
He was interrupted by being crushed to death. Once all the air finished exiting his already cramped lungs, his grandmother released him and kissed his cheeks. It was astonishing how old ladies managed to do that in a way that somehow hurt. “Alan, honey! So good to see you. Hair still pink, huh?” She laughed, and then tapped a horn. “Oh, it’s a shame about these, isn’t it. Have you tried clipping them off?”
“Grandma,” Avery said, warning. Before Alan could explain that not only would that probably hurt quite a lot as he could feel them, he also liked them, she put her hands on his shoulders and stepped back.
“Now let me have a look at you.” Alan stood stock still as she gave him a once-over. He stood up straighter, pulling his stomach in enough to feel light-headed. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought, but…oh no, why was she squinting her eyes—
“You look great!” Mabel said, rushing in to cover whatever his grandmother was queuing up. “I mean, you look more awake than I ever did with a six-month-old. And don’t worry, the baby weight’ll just drop off you eventually. I can show you some exercises I did—”
“So are you… breastfeeding?” Reg jumped in, possibly in response to Avery’s don’t make me give you a three-hour lecture on antifatness look. (He was bigger than Alan, and took no shit about it.) “Or, sorry, I’m supposed to call it chestfeeding, right?”
On the list of things Alan did not want to discuss with a guy who had an actual “man cave” in his basement, breasfeeding and politically correct terminology were probably in the top ten. Yet Reg persisted, with an expression of comedic discomfort. “Must be pretty weird as, you know, as a guy, right?”
“Hah! Look at you, Alan, you still look pregnant!” Yet another voice entered before Alan could respond. The warbling old voice of Alan’s grandfather still managed to drown out anyone else in the room. He laughed, and clapped Alan on the shoulder. “Oh, that is delightful, just like your grandmother. You should have seen her, people thought I’d knocked her up again for nearly a year after your mother was born!”
“Oh, but it wasn’t like this,” his grandmother said, smiling. “I don’t think I ever had a belly like this while I was pregnant!” She laughed, and waved a hand. “Oh, I’m just teasing you, Alan.”
“Oof, imagine!” Reg laughed. “Having another baby right after your first? I would have died. Mostly since Mags would have killed me, hah!”
“Mom. Dad,” Laura said, ignoring her brother, “He does not look pregnant. Everyone has a bit of a belly after giving birth. We don’t body shame, remember?”
“Well, of course he’s got belly some left over, the baby was huge, right? Your dad told me he was eleven pounds! I can’t imagine what you looked like—” Mabel said.
“Oh my god, really?” Laura’s brief enlightenment evaporated, and she turned wide-eyed to Alan. “Eleven? Did you have a c-section?”
At this point Alan was having a bit of trouble following the conversation. Both because everyone kept talking over each other, and because he was starting to feel slightly lightheaded. Boy, he would really love that lung space back. He blinked himself back into focus. “Um, no, I didn’t.”
“Ahh!!” Laura waved her hands, and Mabel clapped a hand to her chest behind her. “Oh, you have to tell me all about it, I love hearing everyone’s birth stories—have I ever told you about how when June was born, she almost—”
The rest of the story (which Alan had absolutely heard before, multiple times, in great detail, while he was preparing to give birth himself, which was just super fun and helpful) was cut off by the sound of a door, a sing-song “helloo-oo!” and a chorus of exclamations. Alan’s parents were home.
In the brief moment of distraction, Avery leaned over. “I’m going to kill our entire family,” he muttered.
“We can take them together,” Alan whispered back. “Except I might pass out first.”
Alan guessed that he had about sixty seconds until his parents rushed over to see their beloved boy. They’d always been clingy, but becoming grandparents had apparently turned their blood into pure sugary mush. He tried not to breathe.
And, of course, everyone just happened to scatter into the perfect position to make a clearing between him and Avery and their parents, so that the first thing they saw when they walked into the room was him, still standing at the foot of the stairs. They entered, looked right at him, and stared.
Alan felt his ears burn. The rest of the family hadn’t seen him, at least not since the early summer when a few had come to meet the newborn. But he’d seen his parents just over a month ago, at Thanksgiving, when he had very plainly not looked like he’d swallowed a watermelon. Just keep holding it in. Do NOT relax. It’s just one night. You don’t have to breathe all the time, you’re just being greedy.
“Oh, Alan!” his mom said, rushing over to hug him, his dad right behind. And, to Alan’s dismay, she looked right down at his belly, as flat as he could possibly get it, and back up at him. “Alan, are you—you’re not—”
“Mom…” he grimaced.
“Alan, are you pregnant again?” his dad asked, loud enough that everyone else in the room fell silent.
Next to him, Avery gave him a look. Sorry, bud.
“Um,” Alan said, face heating, looking around at the dozen faces locked on his. He sighed, exhaling, and, finally, finally, relaxed his stomach. A chorus of gasps rose from the assorted aunts and uncles as his belly extended, as if by magic, swelling up like the round, heavy bump it was. He put his hands on his middle, turned so everyone could see its full, glorious curve, and said, with a funerary air, “…surprise!”
Sometimes, Wangji thinks that the worst part of Wei Ying's death is not that he is not here (though that hurts a lot of course) but the fact that there is no one to talk about him.
When his mother died, even if he didn't understand at first what was happening, once he realized, he knew he had his brother by his side, that his loss was also felt by him, they shared the same pain. So, even when he didn't feel like talking, or didn't know how to express his feelings, he could look at his brother and feel understood.
But with Wei Ying that is not the case, no one could even begin to understand how he feels, how that big hole inside of him is trying to eat him alive. The only other person who had loved Wei Ying just as much as him is also dead, and the rest of the world, including his own brother, despises him.
Sure, Xichen felt concern about Wei Ying because he somehow knew what he meant to Wangji, but after everything that had happened, how he didn't stop others from harming Wei Ying, it was clear that he too, hated him for the things he had done, for the damage that it had brought to Hanguang-Jun's impeccable reputation.
He has never been one to talk unnecessarily, but knowing that there is no one out there who can share with him the burden of this loss, that all he can hear is slander of the person he loves most, it makes him want to scream what a good person Wei Ying was from the rooftops.
He can’t do that though, so he bottles up all these words inside of him, the retellings of the memories he has with Wei Ying, the praise to all his good virtues, how kind he was, how his smile could light up a room, how he did all those things because the world didn’t give him another option.
And sometimes, when he can’t keep them inside anymore, when he sees A-Yuan sleeping so peacefully unaware of what happened, of all the amazing people of his past, he finds himself whispering all these stories to him, in the silence of the Jingshi.
A-Yuan will never hear this while awake, it is dangerous for him to remember, but saying them out loud is healing, so he sits there, by his bed, pretending that he’s telling his son bed time stories while waiting for Wei Ying to come home.
You can blame @tenacious-minds for this. Cas, this is payback for all the angst you throw my way
Yo if any yttd fans are also fans of rock/metal could you help me out? Or really anyone with who has a similar music taste to what Reko plays give me some songs you think she would play/enjoy
Overworked Prompt fill for @haunted-by-catholic-guilt @celosiaa for the bingo
SEND ME SOME MORE PROMPTS IF YOU LIKE!!!!!!
It’s evening. At least Martin thinks it is. He’s rather lost track. Time stopped making sense for him a while ago. Had it really only been this morning when he was in his office, doing an endless stream of meaningless paperwork?
Weeks and weeks and weeks and months and months and months of small meaningless tasks.
He really hadn’t thought about it until now. Is it really that much work to fill out a single form? It shouldn’t be. It isn’t. But the sheer number of them… that’s what makes it drudgery. Makes minutes and hours stretch beyond all logical comprehension. Not to mention the endless intrusions of Peter Lukas.
No. Not thinking about that. He’s …dead? Right?
Martin isn’t sure. In the Lonely… out of the Lonely. Everything a blur. A cold, miserable, sandy blur. And all he wants to do is sleep, but apparently that isn’t happening. His brain is still trying to catalogue the endless, meaningless tasks he is leaving behind. Still trying to run the budget and the expenses, and the personal reports that have been sliding over his desk for months.
Paperwork heavy on the brain… heavy on the body. Especially when that body has nothing to look forward to at his empty flat with its empty fridge and its empty bed.
He is very tired.
He can’t shake the feeling that this is a vaguely unsettling dream that he will wake up from in that cold and empty bed and search for breakfast in that empty fridge (because breakfast is the most important meal of the day, some distant parental voice tells him every morning even though the thought often turns his stomach) and hurry out of his empty flat for his empty office and that infernal ticking clock. Measuring out every word he types. Every breath he draws. Every paper he signs. Every spreadsheet he makes. Every thought of Jon that he carefully does not think.
‘For all the compasses in the world, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.’
Had he heard Jon say that once? A quote from a play that Jon liked. Hadn’t he read it to impress Jon, once upon a time? A lifetime ago? A death-time ago? Three deaths ago?
“‘For all the compasses in the world, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure.’” He says it out loud, this time. The first words to drop from his still frozen lips after leaving that Forsaken place. Was? Was that a joke?
Jon’s head shoots up. His eyes are wide and locked on Martin’s. (Not that that is new, Martin keeps catching him staring. Even as he tears around the archives gathering clothes and and statements and toiletries. (Has Jon really just been living here?) “Was that… that was… did you?”
Martin blinks at him. It might be his exhaustion making whatever Jon is trying to say incomprehensible, or it might be Jon’s exhaustion, for that matter.
“That was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” Jon eventually stutters out, looking dumbstruck, half of a jumper that Martin thought he had lost sticking half out of a very battered backpack. “You read it?”
Martin doesn’t have the energy for more words. He nods.
“I didn’t know you read it!” Jon has perked up considerably. “I read it in primary school, maybe a bit dark for a child, but my grandmother just bought me what was inexpensive… I was actually in it in uni….”
Martin would very much like to be paying attention to what had to be one of the most verbal and sharing Jon moments he has been witness to, but he’s very tired and it just sounds like white noise and he’s still thinking about that ticking clock floors above and an office he won’t go back to and paperwork that will never be finished and a half finished granola bar he had in his drawer for emergencies. He could get his phone charger and laptop, in fact Jon probably already had… but ….but all that work. All that he has done and all that he hasn’t… it’s all there. And it’s going to stay there. And Martin very much has not accepted that he doesn’t need to finish it. Because he has been told every day in every email that he needs to finish it. That there is a never ending stream of work that he can never catch up with that he can never overtake. So he stayed long hours, turning himself into quite the hypocrite. And Jon is still talking, his too-tiny form slightly revitalized with his excitement and nervous energy as he continues to pack.
They are in a car. Daisy’s, Martin thinks. And Jon is still talking. Possibly still about the play? Possibly not. Martin can’t tell. He thinks he just heard Jon mention something about Scotland being a conspiracy of cartographers? Is that right?
Martin barely feels like he is there. Is he tangible? Or no… that isn’t what he is wondering. He feels TOO tangible. Too heavy but still not solid. Like he is a wavering stack of signatures and numbers instead of a person. Just a vehicle for meaningless work. A thought that makes him dead tired. What is he without that structure, those spreadsheets. He has lost himself in the lines and fine print. And he doesn’t know what is left. Half fog. Half paperwork. All gritty eyed, and salty haired, and bone-weary.
Jon has stopped talking. He is… a passible driver. Passible at best. Having run himself out of things to say, the exhaustion is creeping back in. His hands shake slightly on the wheel and they still have to stop by Martin’s sad, empty flat before they can leave London and make the terribly long drive to wherever it is they are going. And Martin doesn’t have it in him to drive, and even if he did, he really really shouldn’t. An ex boyfriend had tried to teach him once. Once when he thought maybe he could drive a cab and maybe that would bring in enough money to fill his stomach, but that relationship didn’t last, and Martin was still scared shitless of driving anywhere but an empty suburb going 32 km/h or less.
He curls around himself, trying to ward off the guilt that starts to gnaw at him then. Jon shouldn’t have to drive the whole way. Jon is exhausted. And they don’t even have time to spend the night somewhere. At least… that’s what Martin managed to get from the conversation with Basira that he… had technically been physically present for.
No. No. No. He’s fine. He can pack. He will Not make Jon do that for him. Jon is clearly shaking. Jon can take a shower and have a nap on his sofa (or his bed a little part of his brain says, leading to a dangerous heat in his cheeks) while Martin packs. He can pack his own clothes.
But they are at his flat now. And Martin can hardly drag himself out of the car and up the two flights of stairs (broken lift). His head is swimming and his limbs are heavy. He sits heavily on the couch to gather himself, and Jon is already rushing around riffling through his things, stuffing jumpers and boxers and binders and socks and tea into a duffle bag that has seen better days. He can’t bring himself to be embarrassed. He wishes he could help.
Then there is tea in his hands. Made completely wrong, but Martin appreciates the effort. and there are their bags at his feet and Jon is next to him. There is no distance between them, and Jon leans into his side and Martin finds himself holding back tears. Or failing to hold back tears. In any case, he is tired and his face is wet and Jon is shaking slightly against his side and he can’t tell if this is the worst he has ever felt or the happiest he has ever been. Perhaps both at once.
Jon is easing him to his feet, nudging him towards the shower so he can wash the sea-salt from his eyelashes and hair.
Martin is in his shower.
Martin is divested of binder and in an overlarge hoodie. Hair wet but not salty. He can’t help trying to picture Jon in that jumper. Even large on Martin, Jon would be swallowed whole by it. Jon is in his shower. In his (Martin’s) less empty flat. But his flat is hollowed out and gutted. Jon asked him about 20 times if he would be alright on his own while separated by running water and water vapor and a door. Martin had nodded each of those times. Clinging to the sounds of Jon singing softly through the door.
Martin gets the feeling that Jon is doing that just to ground him and Martin can’t say that he minds. He wish Jon doesn’t need to, but he is grateful.
He is coming down from a panic attack, and Jon is done in the shower but has yet to return. Martin feels like he has been hard reset. He is curled up on his couch. The last of his possessions have been packed. He isn’t going back to work. He can rest. Well… soon. He can rest in the car. He can rest in Scotland. They both can, with any luck.
Jon is coming out of his washroom, drying his hair and in another jumper Martin thought he lost months ago.
Jon is in front of him, hovering and looking like he isn’t sure if he is allowed to touch. Martin reaches out and grasps his fluttering hands. And Jon sinks to the floor in front of him.
They are in the car. Martin is dozing against the window on the passenger side. Jon is behind the wheel. They are holding hands.
Dean goes on a terrible Tinder date. Cas is the waiter and sees the whole thing. “I can do way better than that.”
also on ao3
Cas notices it about two minutes after they’ve sat down. Actually, he notices it before, when the guy pulls Dean’s chair for him, and Dean looks a bit dumbfounded and clears his throat like he does when he’s uncomfortable. Cas is immediately on high alert.
Dean’s been a client here for a while – bringing dates, friends, or even sometimes dining alone. He’s friendly, a generous tipper, and his warm laughter makes Castiel weak in the knees. Also, he’s ridiculously attractive.
Which is why Castiel doesn’t understand what he’s doing, week after week, with a different and insufferable date. He understands why Dean always end up taking a cab alone at the end of the night, though. Cas knows this because he’s usually on his break, hanging out on his phone in the back alley, when Dean leaves, and Dean stops to chat with him if he’s managed to escape alone. It’s how Cas learned his name and the very few other details he knows about him – like the intricate pattern of freckles scattered on his cheek, and the fact that he’s a mechanic and owns his own body shop. It’s how he knows that there’s nothing in the world Dean loves more than his little brother, even though his car comes pretty close second.
It’s also how he knows that one of those dates deserve him, but the mystery remains of why he’s dating them in the first place. Dean shouldn’t be trolling for dates on a stupid hookup app – people should be lining up in the street for a chance to be with him.
That man should be loved and cherished every single day, and if Cas had a chance with someone like that… But he chases those ridiculous thoughts away as he makes eye contact with Dean from across the room. He can see already that this is going to be another bad one, just from the way Dean glances around with a contrite look on his face as his date keeps talking about his very scientific workout and diet in details.
Cas can only see the back of the other man – broad shoulders in an expensive suit, a haircut worth at least 200$, and too many rings on his large fingers. Their eyes connect again, Dean’s widen in a please help me way Cas knows too well.
“Are you ready to order?”
“Yes, finally, we’ve been here for at least an hour,” Dean’s date complains when Cas steps up to their table.
Dean frowns and opens his mouth, probably to apologize, but Cas shoots him a reassuring smile. That guy isn’t the first client to be a dick, and Cas is used to it – at least he’s not the one who has to sit there and listen to him all night long. He orders a chicken salad but asks for a vegan dressing, which makes no sense but Cas notes it down anyway. Dean looks at him the whole time, sympathy and apology in his stunningly green eyes. Warmth, too. His eyes are warm like the sunshine through the leaves on Cas’ favourite plant and they make him melt from the inside out.
He’s worked in this restaurant for years, has been a waiter for even longer – yet he almost forgets to note down Dean’s order because he’s too busy getting lost in the delicate pattern of freckles on his cheeks. In the admiration of his pink, plush mouth, in the way it moves as he speaks. Cas blinks quickly when he realizes Dean’s not talking anymore, and that both him and his date are watching him expectantly. His hands are shaking as he picks up their menus and his heart beats loud against his ribs all the way back to the kitchen.
Dean is leaning over with his head in his hand when Cas walks towards him, balancing two plates on one arm and a water carafe in the other. He only looks up when Cas puts his steak in front of him and then gives him a weary smile, along with the usual thank you, which so many costumers don’t even bother with.
“Is your date gone?” Cas asks, slowly refilling the water glasses just to give himself reason to stay.
“No, uh, just the bathroom, I think. Shit, I’m sorry, he’s been such an asshole to you.”
“It’s fine,” Cas chuckles. Dean’s hair is sticking out from running his hands through it. “What does he have on you?”
“What?”
“Why are you still here? You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
Dean huffs, the hint of a beautiful smile spreading on his lips.
“Nothing, just… my brother’s been on my ass to settle down since his wedding. I guess I want that too, y’know. Figured I gotta give people a chance.”
“People, yes. Him? I think you should run.”
Dean laughs fully at that, and Cas heart flutters happily. He made Dean laugh. He did that.
“I would, believe me, I would… But he works with my brother, and I don’t wanna make things awkward between them, y’know. Straight up leaving wouldn’t be subtle.”
“I could tell him you have an emergency.”
Dean doesn’t have time to reply that the guy gets out of the bathroom. Cas could swear his hair is even more shiny and wet-looking than it was before, as if he’s dropped a second bucket of hair gel on it while he was gone. He’s not bad looking, with a professional stubble on his large jaw and piercing blue eyes, but comparing him to Dean would be like comparing a rock to the actual sun. Cas gives Dean an apologetic look and makes his exit before the guy can comment on how long it took for the food to arrive.
“How is everything? Are you enjoying your meal?”
“Chicken is cold,” the guy says, and Cas doesn’t miss the way Dean looks at the ceiling in a silent prayer.
“I’m so sorry, do you want me to take it back?” Cas politely offers, resisting the urge to tell him that of course the chicken is fucking cold, that’s why it’s called a cold chicken salad.
“I don’t know, are you sure there’s no eggs in that dressing? I feel like I can–” the guy ticks his tongue against his palate in what is possibly the most annoying noise Cas has ever heard, “–I feel like I can taste it, it’s eggy, it’s–”
“No, there are no eggs, sir. It’s a cashew nut dressing. Will that be all?”
The guy shoots him a glare at the interruption, like Cas is the most offending person he’s ever met.
“No, we’re fine.”
At that moment the man’s phone – that’s been laying next to his glass the entire meal, Cas saw him check it almost obsessively whenever Dean managed to slip a word in – lights up and starts ringing. He takes it with a rude “excuse me” directed at Dean and steps away from the table.
“Help me,” Dean immediately whispers. His green eyes are pleading, his hand reaches forward as if to touch Cas and then falls back on the table, grasping at his utensils. “I’m fucking dying here. He keeps talking about the benefits of egg white and about how dumb his assistant is and how much his fucking suits cost and I’m about to stab this fork into my fucking brain.”
He still manages a smile when Cas laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The easier way would be to tell Dean that he has a phone call, but thanks to modern technology, no one calls restaurants to talk to costumers anymore. He’s seen Dean use the emergency phone call trick a few times, but on his last date the girl definitely saw through it and started yelling at him in front of the whole restaurant. Dean ended up having to comfort her and his eyes stared at Castiel in complete panic as she sobbed against his chest.
Cas isn’t entirely sure of what he’s about to do when walks back to the table. He has a bottle of the wine the guy’s ordered in his hands, ready for a refill, and he mulls over his options. The thought of just grabbing Dean and kissing him crosses his mind – he could maybe pretend to be his jealous ex, make a scene – but that would basically be assault. It’s tempting, though. And could possibly work, but…
This is his brothers’ restaurant, and Cas is their best waiter, so he can get away with a lot without getting fired – but he suspects that assaulting a client in front of his date would be crossing the line.
He still has no clue when he steps up to the table. The man is currently explaining something to Dean and Dean is looking down, his cheeks a little red. Cas frowns, and then he hears it – “Look, I’m not saying you’re fat, but you could use to eat a little less pie, if you know what I mean–”
Cas’ ears are ringing and he doesn’t even question it – he pours half the bottle of wine directly into the man’s cold chicken salad. There’s a moment when everything is still, except for the dark red liquid pouring and sloshing and dripping all over the white tablecloth… and then the guy shoves his chair back and scrambles to his feet.
“What the fuck, idiot?” He yells, his face as red as the wine, as Cas calmly straightens the bottle back up. “This is a ten thousand dollar suit you incompetent fucking moron!”
There’s barely a drip on his pant leg but he’s wrapped his hands around it as if Cas had stabbed it with a butter knife.
“I’m gonna fucking break your–”
“Alright, alright,” Dean says and Cas finally looks at him – he looks strangely calm, as if he’s fighting hard to keep a straight face. He quickly stands up and places himself between his date and Cas, almost like a shield. The whole restaurant has fallen silent, all the eyes are on them, but Cas only sees Dean – standing tall and protective in front of him. He smells like a field of wildflowers under the sun, he smells like cool wind and an autumn walk…
“There’s a dry cleaner two blocks from here, if you run you can make it before it closes. I’ll deal with him,” Dean turns towards Cas as his date frantically tries to wipe his pants with a handkerchief. His eyes lock with Cas and there’s a spark in them, almost teasing. “I’ll make sure the ‘idiot’ gets fired.”
The guy barely lets him finish that he’s storming out of the restaurant, phone against his ears, saying something along the lines of “I know you’re it’s after-hours you dipshit this is a fucking emergency”.
Dean stares at Cas like he’s just fallen from Heaven and crashed right into the restaurant. Wine drips along the leg of the table.
“Holy fuck, Cas,” Dean finally says. “I could fucking kiss you right now.”
“That would probably be inappropriate since I’m on the clock,” Cas answers without thinking. He’s too lost in the way Dean is looking at him, soft and adoring. “But my break starts in five minutes.”
He hears the words come out of his mouth but doesn’t fully register them until Dean’s eyes widen and his lips part. And suddenly Cas isn’t standing in front of him anymore, but instead he’s slamming shut the door of the walk-in and leaning back against it, sighing in relief as the cold metal presses against his back.
Crap.
Oh god. Oh god, Cas has made a complete ass of himself. He just poured wine all over a table, caused a scene, and then somehow managed to expose his feelings for Dean in the most pathetic way possible.
He takes a few minutes to breathe and let the crips cold bring him back to his senses. He still needs to clear his head, though, so he grabs Anna in passing and asks her to take care of his tables for a few minutes. He hears Gabriel call for him – “who the fuck just poured wine in the middle of my dining room?” – but manages to escape through the back door. He’s barely made two steps that he collides with a warm, insanely good smelling chest and would’ve fallen back on his ass hadn’t it been for Dean grabbing him.
“Hey,” Dean chuckles, his breath warm on Cas’ face.
For a moment Cas is too shocked to answer. Dean’s face is breathtaking form up close, and Cas resists the urge to grab him and kiss him senseless.“Dean, I’m so–”
“Did you mean it?”
Cas stares at him, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest and he’s pretty sure Dean can feel it. Their noses are inches apart. Dean’s never looked quite as beautiful, the hard lines of his face softened by the yellow glow of the street lamps.
His eyes dart down to Cas’ lips, then back up again. His grips softens around Cas’ waist but his hands remain there, warmth seeping through Cas’ clothes and onto his skin.
“Yes,” he breathes out. He feels like he’s under a spell. Dean’s eyes flick down to his mouth again and he licks his own lips. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the first time you walked into the restaurant.”
“Damn it, Cas. You should’ve said something earlier.”
Before Cas can reply, a smooth, warm mouth presses against his lips. His eyes flutter close, his fingers grasp at Dean’s shirt to bring him closer. The kiss is gentle, soft and tentative at first, but Cas can’t resist deepening it. Dean groans his approval and his arm curls around Cas’ waist, slamming him against his chest, his other hand sneaking into Cas’ hair and pulling. Cas pants, heaves, grasps at Dean’s strong shoulder as if he could possibly hold him closer. This is so much better than anything he’s dreamed about, Dean’s lips are plump and soft and fucking sinful to bite into, his tongue is playful and warm and Cas feels shivers running under his skin and deep into his bones.
“Really should’ve done that a lot sooner,” Dean mumbles when they finally part. He still keeps them close, resting his forehead against Cas’.
His cheeks are deliciously pink and Cas can’t quite believe he’s real.
“Maybe I should give you my phone number so you can call me and save me next time I’m on a shitty date,” Dean murmurs, letting his lips run along Cas’ jaw, then down his neck.
Cas freezes. Again, the words leave his mouth before he can even think about them.
“Or maybe I should give you my phone number so you never have to go on another shitty date again.”
Dean smiles wide and bright, and his neck kiss leaves Cas dizzy and barely able to stand on his wobbly legs.
