Dean, Sam figured, would be pissed if he ever found out, but if Sam were honest, he wasn’t sure which of them Dean would be more angry at: Sam, for kissing Castiel first, or Castiel, for letting him. Not that Sam was about to let it stop either way.
Castiel was, most impressively, a part-time barista at the Cuppa Joe coffee shop, which sat across from the math and business departments at Sam’s college. It was a 24-hour joint — unusual enough on its own — and during one of his all-nighters, it had been Sam’s salvation. At the time, Sam had just dragged up to the counter and wearily asked for the strongest thing they could make — a plea which Castiel had met with a cappuccino plus four extra shots of espresso. Sam had paid for it with a resigned sort of acceptance. After four years of 21-hour semesters, he wasn’t sure if even the espresso would do it, but Castiel had stretched to hand it to him over the coffee machine and covered his hands as they met around the styrofoam cup.
He’d said with a genuine, reassuring calm: “Whatever you’re needing this for, I’m certain you’ll do fine.”
Three months and maybe a billion coffees later, Sam could safely say that he was a bit infatuated, and it was easy for that infatuation to start burning at the edges with jealousy when he walked into Cuppa Joe to find Dean ogling Castiel with a dirty, little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Sam knew that Dean wasn’t subtle about his intentions — ever — and tended to be a bit more heavy-handed in his seduction of men than of women, which was saying something. If Dean had the intention of getting Castiel into his bed tonight, Sam would have to intercept fast to get a word in edgewise.
Which was honestly the reasoning behind why Sam had Castiel pressed up against the wall of the men’s restroom and his tongue in Castiel’s mouth. It made sense. Sam needed to be there first.
Castiel’s fingers fisted in the back of Sam’s shirt, and he whimpered so high and tight that Sam jerked back, remembering that he’d intended only to talk. Castiel merely yanked him back, turning him and shoving him until it was Sam’s back to the wall and Castiel crowding into his space. Though Sam wasn’t inclined to fight it, there seemed to be very little Sam could do to make Castiel think that they might be moving a bit fast.
“You’re slow,” Castiel informed him as he maneuvered between Sam’s knees and hooked his fingers in his belt loops. “Your observational skills could use improvement.”
“Um, okay,” Sam agreed, quite content to let Castiel say whatever he wanted so long as he also wanted to press his nose and mouth along the edges of Sam’s five o’clock shadow. “What does that mean?”
“It means we could have been doing this months ago if you were smarter,” Castiel said.
“Yes, that is generally how the script goes.” Castiel started flicking at the buttons of Sam’s shirt. “Can we continue with the kissing now?”
“Yes,” Sam gasped and very nearly moaned when Castiel proceeded to climb him, arms wrapped snugly around Sam’s neck and legs hitched over Sam’s hips. “Fuck, Cas—”
“Not here,” Castiel said, breath catching when Sam turned to press Castiel back against the wall, and promptly melted into the kiss with his teeth and his tongue and his lips and these soft, kitten noises that made Sam want to throw Castiel down and see what other noises could be pried out of him.
Then, just as Castiel’s fingers were carding through Sam’s hair, nails scratching against his scalp and along the nape of his neck — just as Castiel had started fucking writhing in Sam’s arms like every tiny thing Sam did was driving him crazy — the door to the restroom banged open.
“Hey, guys, whoa-ho, okay.”
Sam groaned and buried his face in Castiel’s shoulder.
It was Dean. Of course it was.
“Shielding my eyes, Jesus, Sam. Are you groping his ass?”
“You said you weren’t looking, Dean!” Sam snapped. He put some slack in his grip, and Castiel dropped a few inches before he tightened his hold on Sam, apparently not intending to let go despite their audience.
Dean kept right on grinning. “Well, hey, man. I just wanted to make sure that it was a job well-done. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.” He nodded to Castiel. “Verdict?”
“Very efficient,” said Castiel. “Your reputation is well-deserved.”
Sam gaped a bit. “Wha—?”
Dean ignored him. “You let me know if you need any more help, okay, Cas?”
“I won’t,” Castiel told him with a tone of great certainty. Then he paused, tilting his head in consideration while his knuckles rubbed up against Sam’s neck and his hairline. “That is, unless Sam does not improve upon his observational skills.”
“Right,” Dean drawled. “Okay well, my business here is done.” He then proceeded to give them a jaunty salute before opening the door — “You fellas have a great night” — and disappearing.
Sam stared at the closed door for a while. “Please tell me that you didn’t use my brother to trick me into making out with you in the men’s room.”
Unperturbed by Sam’s distress, Castiel resumed mouthing along Sam’s jaw and murmured: “You were very slow on the uptake.” When Sam made an agitated sound, Castiel leaned back and went: “Ah, I was supposed to lie, wasn’t I?”
“Yes,” Sam pleaded.
Castiel lifted his shoulders in an overdramatic shrug. “Your brother has nothing to do with us kissing.”
“Thank you,” Sam said, hugging Castiel close in relief even though his words had brought none of it. “I appreciate the effort.”
“Yes, well,” Castiel said, petting Sam’s shoulder. “To be fair, I’d only intended you to ask me out on a date. This is a much better result. Do you think Dean would appreciate a gift card?”
Sam sighed. “Get him beer.”
“Beer,” Castiel echoed, nodding. “Excellent.” He readjusted his legs around Sam’s waist and happily leaned into the hands that were on his thighs. When Sam looked up, Castiel was peering down at him with hopeful eyes. “Now, may we resume kissing?”