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Dean lunges forward and grabs Castiel’s arm. ‘C’mon!’ He doesn’t bother to wait for Castiel to start moving, just hauls him forward and down the hall.
There’s a clatter of voices behind them, one of the girls shouting, ‘Joe -- hey, Joe!’
Whatever else happens, Dean does not want to meet Joe.
There’s a rising clamor of voices behind them as he drags Castiel around the corner and through a swinging door. They’re in a poorly-lit, narrow hallway now, nothing like the flashily colored and wallpapered one behind them.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck---’ Dean chants to himself.
‘There is a door at the end--’ Castiel points past him, struggling back into the trenchcoat.
There’s a heavy footstep behind them and Dean doesn’t bother to wait for anything more. He grabs Castiel’s arm, shoves him in front, and gets them down to the outer door as fast as possible. The door’s locked but the universal key -- a good solid kick -- works. There’s a waft of cold, wet air, a faint smell of garbage, and -- more than they deserve, Dean thinks -- a solid fire escape.
‘Go -- go!’ He pushes Castiel out and slams the door behind. The lock, too well broken, doesn’t even come close to catching. ‘Oh, crap---’ There’s nothing on the fire escape he can brace it with and though the Impala’s just a few dozen yards down the alley, he doesn’t enjoy speed trials and Joe might be faster than them.
‘Here.’ Castiel stretches an arm past him and presses his palm just above the broken doorknob. There’s a metallic snk and when Dean pushes against the door again, it doesn’t budge. Something thuds against the far side and he jerks back reflexively -- but nothing else happens.
‘They jammed the door with somethin’!’ someone yells inside.
‘It will hold,’ Castiel says calmly but Dean isn’t about to wait around and make sure. He turns Cas around and pushes him towards the clanking stairs.
By the time they get to the bottom, Dean’s got his breath back and his sense of humor comes with it in a rush.
‘What the hell, man -- What did you even-- I mean, what the hell was that?’ Dean jumps the last few feet off the ladder and lands next to Castiel and an overflowing trashcan.
Castiel has pulled his coat all the way back on, but his shirt’s still half-out of his pants and the tie hangs limply around his neck. He looks faintly embarrassed. ‘I -- was trying to make conversation.’
‘Make conversation?’ Dean can’t help it: the laughter is uncontrollable and he’s about one whoop away from having to brace himself on something. ‘Jesus, we gotta teach you about small talk!’
Castiel rolls his eyes -- the alleyway light is dim but Dean can still see it -- and the motion seems so much like a little boy that Dean starts to laugh again, this time from a strange feeling of fondness: only Cas would do something like that. He’s the only person Dean can think of who would think of starting conversation with a stripper by talking about her absentee father.
Castiel is frowning at the ends of the tie, fumbling at the strip of fabric.
‘Here, let me--’ Dean takes the ends, tugs them even, his thoughts running on without his really paying attention to them. Cas is the only one who’d look embarrassed about something like this: not angry, not upset, not self-righteous, just sheepish. It’s another fail at understanding humanity and Dean pats him on the shoulder without thinking about it. ‘S’okay. You’ll get it right next time.’
Castiel frowns, dropping his chin slightly so he can watch Dean’s hands. ‘I do not think I wish there to be a next time.’ He sounds faintly sulky and Dean resists the urge to roll his own eyes.
‘C’mon, man, it wasn’t that bad--’ Dean fails at making a neat knot and pulls the whole thing out. ‘It’s worth it, I swear.’
Castiel huffs and shifts position slightly. ‘What makes it worth it?’
‘Oh---’ Dean flips the tie end the wrong way and the knot undoes itself. ‘Shit. Just -- y’know -- being with someone else. Feeling good. All that.’
‘Nothing about that felt good.’
‘No shit, man. You didn’t get to the good part.’ Dean scowls at the strip of fabric; surely it’s being deliberately awkward now.
‘What is the good part?’ Castiel puts his hand over Dean’s and pulls the tie gently through his fingers. ‘Do not bother. I will fix it later.’
‘The good part?’ Dean echoes a little dumbly. ‘I -- well -- you get --’ He shrugs, shuffles a little, and only slowly becomes aware that Castiel’s fingers are still on the back of his hand and Cas is watching him intently. He asked the question and he wants an answer; Dean should’ve known: Cas doesn’t do small talk.
‘I mean, you get to--’ he makes vague movements with his hands that could be pushing or pulling or tweaking or rubbing or opening a drawer for all he knows.
Castiel’s fingers stay on his knuckles.
‘Well, you --’ Ah, what the hell; he’s definitely had enough beer for this. He takes a deep breath and ducks forward, pressing his mouth against Castiel’s for a brief moment. The moment -- lasts longer than he expects it to, though: Castiel’s mouth is warm, softer than he’d expected -- if, y’know, he’d done something like think about how this might go -- and tastes faintly of cheap beer and, at the very corner of Castiel's lips, waxy-sweet lipstick. At the edge of his attention, he can feel Castiel’s cool fingers sliding over his, locking their hands together palm to palm.
When he pulls back, it’s because he desperately needs more air than what he can get through his nose and -- Castiel doesn’t let him move far.
‘I just -- I mean -- uh--’ Dean tries for an insouciant laugh but he knows he’s never sounded faker in his life. ‘Yeah. Uh. Hi.’
‘Hello.’ Castiel rubs the pad of his thumb over Dean’s knuckles, looking down at their joined hands for a minute. Dean can practically hear him thinking; he can feel the silence getting thick around them in that way it only does when Castiel’s really giving something a going over. And how does he know that? When did he learn that? Why doesn’t it make him nervous? Why does it feel something like security?
‘So---’ Castiel looks up at him and the yellowish light from the streetlamp at the end of the alley makes his skin sepia-colored, his eyes dark. ‘That was the good bit?’
Dean tries the laugh again. It sounds even worse. ‘Uh -- yeah? Sorta? I mean -- uh -- like -- not with me obviously-- But I -- um--’
‘I liked the good bit with you,’ Castiel says soberly, dropping their hands so he can step closer to Dean, close enough that the buttons on the trench brush against Dean’s shirt.
The air catches in Dean’s throat and he has to cough. ‘Uh -- really?’
Castiel nods. ‘May I try it again?’
‘Um--’ Before Dean can come up with anything intelligent, Castiel’s lips are on his and, honestly, he has no protest to make. He can’t think of one reason why he’d want this to stop. His free hand finds the back of Castiel’s neck and he can feel soft hair brushing the backs of his fingers. It takes a lot of control not to wind his fingers into the strands and tug: just a little, just enough to tilt Castiel’s head back, expose that smooth pale throat, that notch between the collarbones--
Castiel pulls back, but leans his forehead against Dean’s. ‘Yes. I think I like that very much.’
Dean runs the tip of his tongue over his lips and nods, a little foolishly. ‘Okay. Good. Good. I -- uh -- yeah. Me, too.’
