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Castiel has a problem with his neighbor.
In working from the home he’s lived in for almost ten years Castiel has a good routine going: bedtime at eleven p.m., wake up at seven a.m., spending his days working on his wood and alternating between sunbathing or some light gardening. He’s a creature of habit and would rather like to keep things that way until he dies of old age in about eight years (he’s felt rather dismal since his fortieth birthday six months ago), so when the house on the corner lot next to him sold two months ago, he’d held out the hope that someone elderly would be moving in to fit the general theme of the quiet neighborhood.
No such luck.
The man that moved in to the cute little yellow house with a fenced in yard is pretty much everything Castiel doesn’t want in a neighbor. He has guests over almost every weekend, he has a cat that insists on using Castiel’s garden bark as a litter box every time it’s let out, he plays music from the impressive sound system in his living room with all of the windows in his house open, he drives an obnoxiously loud muscle car that echoes under his carport every time he turns the engine, and last but not least…
He mows his lawn at the ungodly hour of six a.m.
Castiel hasn’t ever actually gone out while the man mows his lawn; he rather maturely pulls his pillow over his head every Wednesday morning, trying to muffle the sound of the mower. It takes the man a little over an hour to mow, Castiel has timed it, and then he spends usually about twenty minutes weed whacking. Occasionally Castiel can hear the brush of a rake across the ground through his open window, and while it’s a great thing to have a neighbor with a manicured lawn, it’s a rather dismal thing to have a neighbor who only finds the inspiration to groom his lawn before the rest of the world wakes up.
But, Castiel also understands wanting to beat the Texas heat for yard work. He himself has a thankfully modest plot of land and gets away with only weed whacking it, a mower too large to comfortably or easily move around the space. Most of his yard is garden, anyway; flowers, herbs, vegetables, bark. The neighbor’s cat’s litter box.
In truth, Castiel has never said a word to his neighbor. The guy occasionally waves whenever he sees Castiel outside, seemingly friendly enough, but Castiel is too much of an old grouch to give anything more than a consternated frown in return. The guy never seems to mind. Prior to the man moving in Castiel liked to do his wood working outside on his back deck, the clean up of wood shavings much easier to handle when he can sweep them off the deck and into his (previously cat poop free) bark plots. But now when he goes outside he finds he can’t focus, too busy glancing over to the cute little house with a fenced in yard, a weeping willow tree neatly groomed in the back corner, an aluminum shed with doors that sound like nails on a chalkboard, and a cordoned off plot with a motorless fishing boat propped on blocks.
The house hadn’t been in any sort of disrepair before the man moved in, as far as Castiel knew, but he had cleaned it up considerably. The older man who had lived in the house previously had some sort of terminal illness and rarely kept up on any of the outside maintenance of the house. When the new guy had moved in Castiel had still been working outside for a little bit; watching the comings and goings of the man and his friends toting out carpet remnants and sheetrock and bringing in paint cans and table saws. It didn’t seem to be a huge project, and the guy still occasionally seems to be doing something or other on the inside, but eventually all of the commotion had become too much for Castiel to handle. So he’d moved his wood working back into his basement, spending hours cooped up in artificial light and inhaling sawdust, ignoring the fact that he’s being maybe a bit immature about his neighbor simply existing.
In any case, Castiel does not enjoy being neighbors with this man.
This morning is no different than any other Wednesday morning. At promptly six a.m. the roar of the lawn mower starts and Castiel’s eyes blearily blink open to stare at the ceiling, the errant thought that he should maybe go to bed at ten instead of eleven on Tuesday nights working its way through his sleepy brain. Something about this morning is particularly grating, though, and Castiel sits up to rub at his face tiredly, swinging his legs out of the bed and letting out a low groan as his spine cracks. He makes his way to his bedroom window, hating that it faces the man’s house and, therefore, his damn lawn, pulling the curtains aside so he can squint down to where the noise is coming from.
He can’t see the man; he’s probably around the corner of the house and the giant car port blocks a lot of Castiel’s vision anyway. Letting the curtains fall back into place Castiel moves to his dresser to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt, uncaring of how rumpled he probably looks as he slips his feet into a pair of flip flops and makes his way out of the bedroom. In the kitchen he thanks God for keurigs as he fixes a quick cup, doing his best to stay on course before he loses his nerve and decides to not go outside. Coffee cup in hand, hair a mess, clothes loose, Castiel makes his way out onto his back deck, taking a sip of the hot liquid in his mug before he starts descending the steps into his yard. He pads over towards the cyclone fence that separates his lawn from the neighbor’s and rests his elbow on top of it, bringing his mug up to his lips again as he squints across the way, waiting for his neighbor to come into view.
When he does, Castiel almost spills coffee down his shirt.
Castiel has always figured the man is a contractor of some sort, probably a business owner as he sets his own hours and seems to leave at random. He’s always associated the man with masculine things like the barbecues he holds every weekend, the power tools he wields effortlessly, and of course, the muscle car parked under the car port, gleaming beautifully. The man has a robust laugh and a deep voice and broad shoulders, a real man’s man, and maybe that’s why Castiel had been so annoyed with him. Blatant machismo has never settled well in his gut.
But when the man comes around the corner of his house pushing his lawn mower, pretty much all of those assumptions Castiel has made fly out the window.
The man is wearing cut off denim shorts straight ouf of a porn. The hem is frayed, like he cut them with a knife instead of scissors, and they ride dangerously up his thick, thick thighs. The pockets of them are visible, the hemline is so damn short. Castiel can’t see from this angle but his mind supplies him with the image of Dean’s bubble butt eating the denim between its cheeks and fuck. Arousal pools deep in his gut as his eyes forcibly lift from the sight of the cut off shorts to where a red flannel is unbuttoned on the guy’s torso, flowing in the breeze and with his movements, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He’s tan, cut, and all of his muscles are flexing as he pushes the lawn mower and angles it to get around the corners.
When he notices Castiel he cuts the engine, the smile on his lips radiant.
Castiel suddenly wishes he’d stayed in bed.
“Hey,” the man calls, abandoning the lawn mower and walking over towards Castiel.
Castiel wonders why the fuck he’s coming over at all when they’ve literally never exchanged a word, and then realizes that he had come out here with the initial purpose of telling him to stop mowing the fucking lawn at six in the morning, so he looks pretty expectant, all leaned up against the fence with his coffee mug in hand and looking very much like he’d been waiting to grab the man’s attention. Splendid. The guy walking towards him, flannel billowing, thighs flexing, abs shifting, nearly short-circuits Castiel’s brain and he takes a quick gulp of hot coffee to let the scalding sensation of his throat dying cell by cell rein in his control.
“Hello,” Castiel forces himself to speak once the man is closer. He resolutely keeps his eyes on his face, but that’s not much better than his body, the mix of a strong jaw, soft lips, and long lashes making Castiel’s fingers itch to touch. Freckles are smattered across the man’s skin like an angel spilled a bucket of kisses over him without a care, and Castiel clenches his jaw for a second before speaking. “Your lawn mower is rather loud at this time of morning.” Well, just get straight to the point, it seems.
The man blinks in surprise, like it hadn’t even occurred to him that someone might care about his early morning yard work activities. He rubs the back of his neck a little sheepishly and offers a friendly laugh, “Shit, man, you’re right. Did I wake you up?”
“Yes,” Castiel doesn’t bother glossing over the situation. “I normally wake up at seven every day and being jarred awake by your lawn mower is rather… unsettling.”
An amused expression flickers over the man’s face and makes his green eyes - green as his beautifully manicured lawn - shine a bit brighter. “An hour earlier than usual gonna kill you?”
Castiel squints. “It may.”
The man’s gaze drops down towards Castiel’s coffee mug, “Maybe you should drink something a bit stronger.”
Castiel lofts a brow. “I like my coffee the way it is, thank you.”
The man laughs, and if Castiel had been peeved before knowing the man, he definitely is vexed after exchanging words with him. In fact, a flurry of emotions and feelings are combating valiantly within Castiel’s brain (and body), and he doesn’t really appreciate or like a single one of them, so he takes a deep drink of his coffee to gather his thoughts before speaking again.
“Why do you mow so early?”
The man glances at his lawn thoughtfully, “I start answering calls at eight, so this is the best time for me to get shit done and still have time to clean up before work.”
“And I don’t suppose you would be privy to mowing your lawn near sunset?” Castiel asks plainly.
The man looks back at Castiel, the corner of his mouth quirked in a grin. “Evenings are reserved for television and beer.”
“I see,” Castiel glowers into his coffee mug.
“I’m Dean,” the man suddenly says, holding his hand out.
Castiel eyes his hand, gauging the strength of it, as well as assessing the possibility of him recovering his sanity after touching the man. Figuring both things will land him in trouble, Castiel keeps his hands to himself and replies, “Castiel.”
Nodding slowly and pulling his hand back slowly, Dean offers a small shrug. “Sorry for waking you up, bud, but I ain’t mowing my lawn in the evening.” He takes a step away, the collar of the flannel getting disturbed by the breeze and fluttering up against the strong line of his jaw. He’s smirking when he says, “Maybe you should try going to bed earlier on Tuesdays.” And then he turns around to head back to his lawn mower, Castiel’s eyes dropping without his permission.
Yep. Dean’s ass is definitely eating those shorts for breakfast.
Turning on heel and almost losing a flip flop in the process, Castiel ambles back towards the stairs of his deck, closing his eyes briefly to try and dispel the image of Dean’s perfect, porn star body.
The lawn mower starts again, and Castiel’s grip tightens on his coffee mug.
Now he definitely has a problem with his neighbor.
--
On Saturday Dean is having a barbecue, which is nothing out of the ordinary. He’s got the music playing from inside his house, the windows and doors open to allow AC/DC to wash over his back yard, and his friends are being their usual loud, cheery selves. Someone brought bocci ball and someone else set up a volleyball net and it looks like a regular shindig, half a dozen people in attendance, the smell of cooking food tantalizing.
Castiel is on his back deck in a cushioned rocking chair he enjoys lounging in while he whittles, the morakniv in his hand a comforting, familiar weight. It’s a beautiful evening and Castiel is tired of holing up in his basement; he doesn’t usually work on the weekends, doing his best to separate his work time and his leisure time, but he’s whittling because he hasn’t in a while, and it calms him. Occasionally his eyes glance over towards the yard, noting a beautiful brunette woman that seems to be at Dean’s side the entire time. As far as Castiel knows Dean doesn’t have a significant other; he lives alone and when he has company it’s usually a group of people, not a singular person, but even from a distance and without the aid of hearing their conversation, Castiel can tell this woman is very into Dean.
And who could blame her? Dean is captivating. After talking to him, seeing him up close, Castiel hasn’t been able to get him out of his head. Moreso than usual, and definitely moreso than thinking about him as an annoying neighbor. The fact that Dean had looked like something out of a twink fantasy despite his ripped body and deep voice has settled deep within Castiel’s conscience and he can’t fucking let it go. In the days since talking to him Dean has been dressed normally whenever Castiel has seen him in passing; jeans, henleys, flannel, the occasional tank top. He could almost surmise that he had imagined Dean in the getup, but then his cock reminds him that while he is inherently artistic, Castiel’s imagination isn’t that good.
Castiel gets lost in his whittling, the shape of the wood starting to resemble something like a wing. He’s working out the details of one of the feathers to see if he wants to detail the entire thing when a whistle catches his attention, his gaze sliding down towards the fence separating his and Dean’s yard without his permission.
Dean is leaning against the cyclone fence, sending a smile up towards Castiel. “Hey, grandpa.”
Castiel bristles a little. Dean is easily ten years younger than him, and Castiel knows that he’s a cranky bastard, but the familiarity with which Dean speaks to him ruffles his feathers a bit. “Hello, Dean.” he replies evenly.
“You hungry?” Dean hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Got plenty to share.” The surprise of being invited over to Dean’s place must clearly show on Castiel’s features, because Dean quickly speaks again. “Figure it’s the neighborly thing to do.”
“You know nothing about being ‘neighborly’,” Castiel replies sarcastically, lifting one of his hands to curl his fingers in air quotes.
Dean barks out a laugh. “Ya got me there.” His smile doesn’t fade. He’s gorgeous. “Anyway, if you wanna come over, dinner’ll be in about thirty minutes. Bring your own beer.”
Castiel rolls his eyes a little. “Right.”
Apparently that’s good enough for Dean because he turns around and walks back towards the crowd, that woman appearing and handing him a new beer. Castiel clenches his teeth; it’s stupid, to not want to go over there because a woman has Dean’s attention. But Dean had come over and specifically invited him, even though Castiel had been a major ass to him just a few days ago, and that amounts to something even in Castiel’s ice cold heart, so he sighs and stands up from his chair, setting his knife and his unfinished wing down on the little table. He goes inside and washes his hands, moves to the bedroom to pull a hoodie on over his tshirt, and then makes his way down the steps of his deck so he can walk along the line of the fence. When the Dean catches sight of him through the smoke of the grill his face lights up, looking genuinely pleased (and not surprised at all) that Castiel had decided to come over.
“Heya Cas,” Dean greets.
Castiel wrinkles his nose at the nickname as he gets closer. “Hello.”
“Guys,” Dean turns a little so he can address his friends, who have all abandoned their games in favor of sitting down in seats surrounding two tables. “This is my neighbor Cas. Cas, the gang.”
Castiel nods his head, unsure of the last time he’s ever met so many new people at once. As pretty much an old hermit, it’s probably been a couple of years. “Pleasure.”
“Hey!” a redheaded girl waves her hand enthusiastically. “Come sit over here. I’ve been asking Dean about you for ages- your tomato plants are fucking gorgeous and I wanna know your secrets.”
Humbled, Castiel sits down next to the woman with a small smile. “Thank you. I believe all of my plants thrive because I compliment them.”
The woman nods seriously, “You talk to your plants? I’ve read about that but I feel really stupid having a one-sided conversation with an onion.” She holds her hand out towards him, “I’m Charlie by the way.”
Castiel shakes her hand warmly. “Perhaps try it in private before you go into the yard. If you speak quietly, no one will know you’re talking to the plants.”
“You talk to your garden?” Dean butts in as he sets down a plate of toasted buns on the table.
Castiel sends Dean a rather impatient look, “Yes, although sometimes it’s hard to hold a conversation when someone is mowing his lawn before the sun rises.”
Dean shrugs and walks backwards towards the grill. “Like you’re out talking to your plants at six in the morning.”
“Maybe I would if it weren’t so noisy next door,” Castiel quips.
“Boys, boys,” Charlie laughs and pats Castiel on the shoulder. “Dean mows his lawn that early?”
“Every Wednesday,” Castiel says, leaning back a bit in the lawn chair.
The brunette woman speaks from the other side of Charlie, “Makes sense. Wednesdays are his early day.”
Castiel tries not to let his mood dampen at her addition to the conversation.
“Oh,” Charlie snaps her fingers, then points to the brunette as she looks at Castiel, “Lisa said earlier that your bell peppers look a little small.”
Castiel’s brows raise, his gaze shifting from Charlie to Lisa with barely concealed surprise. A few things flit through his head, and he does his best to squash the ‘why do you care about what size my bell peppers are?’ that almost flies from his mouth. Instead, he takes the words into consideration, and then nods. “They are a bit on the smaller side.” Why is everyone so interested in his garden?
“Plant some matches in the soil,” Lisa suggests with a smile. She’s beautiful and has a kind demeanor as she leans a bit so Castiel can see her past Charlie.
“Matches?” Castiel repeats.
Lisa nods, “Bell peppers like a bit of sulfur in the soil.”
“I never knew,” Castiel says honestly. His gaze turns towards his yard thoughtfully. “I will give it a try.”
“Shoulda known you and Lis would get along,” Dean says as he returns to the table, this time to sit in a chair across from Castiel. He picks up his beer and takes a swig with a grin. “Do you do yoga too, plant boy?”
Castiel’s gaze narrows a little towards Dean. “Yes.”
Dean splutters a laugh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Shit, I was kidding. Really?”
Castiel bristles. “It is important to be of sound mind and body.”
“Where do you go?” Lisa asks. “I instruct downtown.”
“I practice at home,” Castiel says.
Lisa pulls her purse off of the ground by her feet and rustles around the contents a little, wearing a warm smile. “You should come take a class sometime! Men that do yoga are hard to come by.” She holds out a business card towards Castiel, which he takes.
“You just want a hot dude to draw in a crowd of more hot dudes,” Charlie says with a laugh. Dean hi-fives her from across the table, which confuses Castiel slightly, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Well Dean refuses to come, but Cas is much more handsome,” Lisa says with a teasing grin. “Women love an older man that’s into yoga and vegetables.”
Castiel flips the card over to read the address on the back, “I’m gay, so I’m afraid your other patrons would be severely disappointed.”
Lisa is unaffected as she waves a hand, “Eye candy is eye candy, no matter what the sexual orientation is.”
Castiel glances up, feeling Dean’s gaze on him. Green eyes are regarding Castiel curiously, and Castiel drops his gaze so he can shift and tuck the business card into the pocket of his pants with his cell phone, before leaning forward slightly to glance past Lisa towards the occupants of the other table. A scruffy blond man with a charming smile notices him looking and waves friendly fingers, and Castiel replies with a small smile in kind.
“Oh,” Dean seems to realize that Castiel hasn’t been introduced to anyone else. “Damn, sorry. Uh, Cas- that’s Benny, Jo, Ash, Garth, Bess, Kevin.”
Everyone waves when their name is announced so Castiel can match it to their face, and he nods politely. But they go back to whatever conversation they’d been having, wrapped up in their own little bubble, and Castiel sits back in his chair once more.
“No beer?” Dean asks as he stands up.
Castiel shakes his head, “I don’t drink.”
Dean gives him a rather dead look, “You don’t drink.”
Castiel blinks up at Dean, arching a brow almost in challenge. “I don’t drink.”
“Huh.” Dean licks his lips thoughtfully and then turns back towards the grill, and Castiel wonders what that means.
Dean had called him grandpa, made fun of him for talking to his plants, and was surprised that he did yoga - and Castiel had outed himself without a second thought - so maybe Dean was rethinking inviting him to his get together. Castiel would understand. He keeps to himself so much because he seems to rub people the wrong way. Or they rub him the wrong way. No matter which way it goes, Castiel-plus-people usually doesn’t turn out too well.
He’s pulled from his thoughts when Dean announces that food is ready, and everyone starts chattering excitedly as they grab plates and buns and start forming a line at the grill. Dean plates everyone’s food with a flourish and a grin, and Castiel allows himself to be last in line, fingering the edges of his paper plate idly. He doesn’t feel unwelcome. Dean’s friends are much more tolerable now that he can hear their conversations and be a part of them, and he feels himself growing less and less cranky about their weekly get togethers, likely because he is now a part of them. Well, this one in any case. It’s up to Dean to invite him back, and Castiel thinks that for all the bickering they’ve shared, it might be unlikely.
“Hey,” Dean says when it’s finally Castiel’s turn to get a burger. He slides a patty onto Castiel’s bun, looking up at the other through his lashes. “Thanks for comin’ over.”
Oh. Castiel blinks in surprise at the soft thanks and the possible meanings behind it, looking down at his perfectly cooked burger. He is quiet for a moment, trying to prioritize the thoughts going through his head, and then finally looks up to see Dean waiting a bit unsurely for a reply. “Thank you for inviting me.” Castiel says.
The relieved smile on Dean’s face lights him up from within. “No problem buddy. Enjoy your burger.”
Castiel returns to his seat and waits his turn so he can dress his bun, keeping things simple with cheese, lettuce, and mayonnaise. Conversation flows easily, the other table joining in as well, and occasionally Castiel answers questions directed at him, but for the most part he’s content to sit back and listen. Surprisingly, Dean is also listening, not contributing much to the conversation as he eats and looks between his chattering friends. He seems content in their happiness, in their involvement with one another, and Castiel glances down at the last bite of his burger in his fingers, his perception of the man slowly shifting and changing with every moment that passes. Sure, he’s annoying, a bit blunt and doesn’t have a brain-to-mouth filter (much like Castiel), but he indulges his friends, takes care of them, and seems to be at relative peace with everything happening around him.
Castiel doesn’t think he can forgive him for mowing his lawn at six a.m. on Wednesdays, but he does make a mental note to be a little less cranky about it in the future.
After dinner everyone helps disassemble the volleyball court and put away the games, Castiel helping out even though he hadn’t played. People start trickling away, getting in their cars parked around Dean’s corner lot, and finally it’s just Dean, Castiel, and Lisa filling a garbage bag in tandem.
“Thanks for dinner,” Lisa says as she claps her hands a little, brushing crumbs off of her fingers as she smiles at Dean. “Ben will be back from camp next weekend, are you still going to take him fishing?”
“Ah, yeah,” Dean grins. “You can drop him off Friday night and pick him up on Sunday.”
“Great,” she pats Dean’s shoulder affectionately, and turns her attention to Castiel, who’s busy tying off the garbage bag. “It was great to meet you Castiel. I hope to see you at the studio sometime.”
Castiel offers a small smile, trying not to let his eyes drift to where Lisa’s hand is resting on Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll drop by if I’m in the neighborhood.”
Her smile is warm, “See you.” She walks off down Dean’s driveway, and when she’s gone, Castiel dumps the garbage into Dean’s trash can wordlessly.
“Is Ben your son?” Castiel asks, hoping he sounds casual. He probably doesn’t.
“Huh?” Dean seems surprised by the question. “Oh- nah. Ben’s dad isn’t in the picture and I’ve always had a soft spot for the little guy so I take him out a lot. Needs a good male role model and all that.”
“And you do that because your relationship with Lisa…?” Castiel inquires, trying to sound politely curious and not like he’s fishing for information.
Dean snorts an amused laugh. “Lisa’s great, but we didn’t work out.”
“Oh?” It’s Castiel’s turn to be surprised. “You two seem like a good couple.”
“She uh,” Dean looks like he’s trying to find words. “We disagreed on a few things. Ended up not being healthy for us.”
“My apologies,” Castiel finds himself saying, even though he’s secretly pleased that he’d dug a little. “I don’t mean to pry.”
“Most people do,” Dean says with a shrug as he finishes folding up the lawn chairs. He and Castiel both carry them towards the shed, and Castiel winces hugely when Dean pries the doors open.
“This shed is atrocious.”
Dean just laughs. “Yeah, but building a shed is a project I don’t really wanna tackle right now.”
“Just buy one,” Castiel says as he hands Dean the chairs from his hands.
After Dean has everything put away he comes out of the shed, straightening from his crouch and yanking the doors shut with an ear-shattering clank. He fixes the carabiner and flashes a smile to Castiel, “Nah, I think I’ll start building one at six a.m.”
Castiel’s eyes narrow in a glare. “You wouldn’t.”
Dean whistles innocently, brushing past Castiel towards his grill. Rolling his eyes, Castiel pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time, and then hums.
“Do you need help with anything else?”
“No,” Dean says as he lifts the lid of the grill up, grabbing the bristle brush from the hook on the side. He turns a thankful smile towards Castiel. “You didn’t have to stay and clean up.”
“I don’t have other pressing matters to attend to,” he replies honestly.
Dean snorts a little as he starts scraping charred meat off of the grill. “Thanks anyway. You uh, can come over any time you want. I think the gang likes you.”
Castiel nods slowly, glancing around the yard. He’s unsure if making a habit out of hanging around Dean and his friends is a good idea, especially since he seems to be developing a bigger and bigger crush every second that passes while in the man’s presence, but the idea of getting out of the house and having… fun… is appealing in its own right. He spends so much time alone and in his own world, he knows this will be good for him. And maybe pull him out of his ‘over the hill’ funk.
“I would like that,” he finally settles on. “Goodnight, Dean.”
“Bye, Cas.”
When Castiel climbs into bed that night he feels tired in a way that he hasn’t felt in a while, and it takes him a few moments of searching his emotional memory bank before settling on what the feeling is.
Happiness.
Oh, that’s nice.
--
The following Wednesday morning Castiel is up at five forty-five fixing a cup of coffee, dressed in warm sweats and a warm sweater. The sun is already shining, but he’s looking forward to being on his deck which faces West, meaning that it’ll take a few hours for the sun to come around and warm him. He likes it that way; likes the chill of early mornings, likes the way it cools his blade when it slices through the wood, likes taking drinks of his coffee to warm his insides and refuel him. Today he’s up before Dean starts mowing his lawn, figuring that if he’s going to be awake, he wants to wake up on his own terms - meaning: the gentle trill of his alarm clock versus the roaring Honda motor of Dean’s top of the line mower. He makes his way onto the back deck and sits down in his rocker, picking up the whittling he hasn’t touched since the night of Dean’s barbecue, and starts working quietly.
Fifteen minutes later Dean’s shed skrrrrrrrks open, shortly followed by the pull of a cord. Castiel doesn’t lift his gaze from the feather details he’s currently working on, swirls and lines and bows. He has the idle thought that music would make the morning, but he doesn’t feel like wearing headphones simply so he can hear anything other than Dean’s mower. So he continues to whittle in silence with the mower as the background noise, and when he’s finally finished with the wing he blinks himself out of his concentrated stupor, taking in the piece as a hole. It’s a little larger than his palm, the details of the alula and the shape the most enticing and intricate thing he’s whittled yet. He should make another one so he has a pair of wings, but for a moment his traitorous mind wonders if he could make another one as good.
The sound of the mower cuts, Dean’s voice calling up from below.
“Mornin’, grandpa!”
Rolling his eyes and letting out a sigh he doesn’t even bother to conceal, Castiel stands up and walks to the edge of his deck, knife in one hand, wing in the other. He peers over the banister to where Dean is standing at the cyclone fence and feels his mouth go dry, eyes go dark, and cock jump in his sweats.
Dean is, once again, wearing cut off shorts and an unbuttoned flannel, and today he’s got a cap on backwards over his sandy blond hair.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Castiel replies, “Hello, Dean.”, suddenly forgetting that Dean had called him grandpa again.
“Woah, what’s that?” Dean asks, pointing.
Castiel glances down into his hand, remembering the wing he’s holding. “Ah- a… wing.”
“You made that?” Dean asks, sounding impressed. He can’t see all the details from that far, surely, but he’s very interested and it sort of warms Castiel better than the coffee he’d been sipping on.
“I did,” Castiel says, pulling away from the banister so he can walk down the deck steps and approach Dean. From the other side of the fence he holds out the wing in his palm, feeling an odd delight when Dean carefully picks it up.
“Fuck, that’s so cool,” Dean admires aloud, turning the wing this way and that in his fingers, the tips of which are stained green from the freshly cut grass. “I knew you did wood working but this is really cool, Cas.”
Unsure as to why he’s feeling so humbled, Castiel shrugs idly. “I haven’t whittled in a while so I decided to pick it up again.” He brandishes his morakniv gently.
“You did this for fun?” Dean asks, glancing up at Castiel with those pretty green eyes.
Nodding, Castiel tries to play it off.
“You gonna make a pair?” Dean asks, handing the wing back to Castiel.
Castiel pulls the blade cover from the pocket of his sweats so he can cap his knife, before taking the wing back and looking at it thoughtfully. “I was contemplating it, but I’m unsure if I will be able to recreate this a second time.”
Dean chews his lower lip, looking at the wing. “Even if it’s not perfect, wings should be a pair.”
“It’s nothing worse stressing over,” Castiel reasons. “I won’t be selling it.”
“No?” Dean’s eyes widen slightly, and then he grins wide. “I’ll buy it.”
“What?” Castiel asks, incredulous.
“The wing- and another, if you make it. I’ll buy ‘em.”
“Why?” Castiel’s brow furrows.
“Because they’re freaking awesome, man,” Dean says easily, like it’s obvious. “Besides, they’re the perfect size to hang over my shed.”
“Your tin can doesn’t deserve to be blessed with angel wings,” Castiel says primly.
“That what they are? Angel wings?” Dean asks, still interested as his gaze drops to where Castiel is fidgeting idly with the single wing.
“I-” Castiel blinks in surprise at himself. He looks down at the wing as well. “...I suppose they are.” There’s no real proper proportion to any living bird, he supposes, the wings their own manifestation of shape and breadth.
“Cool,” Dean says, clapping Castiel on the shoulder with his strong, gas-scented hand. “Tell me when you’re done and name your price.” He moves away from the fence, heading back towards his lawn mower, and Castiel scowls.
After a moment, Castiel turns on heel and makes his way back up the steps of his deck. He glances down at Dean’s yard, hating how fucking good Dean looks dressed like that, and hating even more that he manages to have pretty normal conversations with him despite the fact his libido, which had been pretty dormant until recently, is yelling at him to touch taste kiss the smattering of freckles across Dean’s chiseled body.
Shouldn’t be so easy to talk to a man wearing daisy dukes.
--
Two Fridays later Dean’s speaker system has moved outside, fairy lights strung up in his yard. It’s more of a dance party than anything, and Castiel’s nose had noted the lack of barbecuing meat with poorly concealed curiosity. Instead of Metallica or Led Zeppelin the music playing is upbeat and slightly electric, easy to dance and move to. It’s not so loud that any of the other neighbors are going to complain - miraculously, Castiel is pretty sure he’s the only cranky neighbor Dean has in this neighborhood - and it draws Castiel out onto his back deck so he can regard the happenings fully.
People are definitely dancing, drinks in hand; where Dean’s grill is normally situated filled with an impressive glass-top u-shaped bar, Benny standing in the swell and looking like a professional surrounded by liquor bottles, glasses, and fresh fruit. It’s the usual crowd, and Castiel admires their youth with maybe a bit of a wistful gaze - but Charlie notices him and waves excitedly, trotting through the yard so she can approach the fence and call up to him.
“Hey Cas! Come dance!”
Castiel offers a slightly tight smile. “I don’t dance.”
Charlie rolls her eyes. “Come stand and listen to music!”
Unable to help a chuckle, Castiel shakes his head. “I can hear fine from here.”
Charlie rolls her eyes again, this time with her whole body. “Will you just get your ass down here?”
Waving a hand, Castiel turns to move back into his house. He doesn’t mean to be rude, but everyone at Dean’s house is tipsy and touchy feely and Castiel isn’t really sure he can handle that right now, even sober. Without his brain’s permission his body is already in his bedroom, though, trading out his sweatpants for jeans, replacing his hoodie with a tank top, and then he rolls his eyes at himself in the mirror when his hand lifts to try and tame his hair. He’s a decade older than everyone at Dean’s house, Dean included, and he shouldn’t be worried about looking good or impressing anyone.
Other than Dean, maybe.
Christ.
Accepting his fate, Castiel makes his way back outside, rounding the fence line so he can walk into the small crowd. Everyone cheers happily when they see him, probably more excitable thanks to the alcohol, and Castiel manages a sheepish smile as he moves towards where Benny is still standing at the mini bar.
“Welcome, brother,” Benny greets Castiel warmly, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder. His touch is vastly different from Dean’s, but not unpleasant.
Which is saying a lot, because Castiel, frankly, hates being touched casually.
“Hello, Benny,” Castiel greets. “Do you always bartend?”
Benny nods with a smile, “Used to be a tender back in college and kept all the skills handy for events such as these.”
“Handy, indeed,” Castiel muses.
“Can I fix you a drink? Get you a soda?” Benny seems to catch himself, like he’s belatedly remembering that Castiel doesn’t drink.
“A soda would be fine,” Castiel agrees, thankful that these people don’t seem to be the type for peer pressure. It’s a pretty high school concept, but Castiel has met his fair share of adults that try to tease him into having a drop.
Benny pulls out a 7UP and cracks it open, pouring it over ice in a solo cup and handing it over with a smile and a wink. “Dean will be back soon.”
“Where did he go?” Castiel asks, bringing the cup to his lips for a drink. The bubbles jump up and tickle his nose.
“Get another watermelon,” Benny says, gesturing to the bowls of fruit. Sure enough, the bowl housing the watermelon is almost empty. “Gonna make a sangria.”
Castiel nods quietly in reply, leaning against the bar after deeming it sturdy enough to do so. “Dean didn’t cook?”
“Nights like this we usually order pizza,” Benny says with a smile. “Easier clean up.”
“I see,” Castiel takes another drink of soda and then almost spits it out when his ass is groped greedily. He whips around to pin the offender with a glare - and is surprised to see Charlie laughing wickedly and holding up her hand.
“Sorry! I couldn’t resist.” She doesn’t look sorry at all, and definitely looks unaffected by Castiel’s murderous gaze. She sets her cup down on the bar top, takes Castiel’s and puts it next to hers, and then grabs his hand. “Come dance!”
“I don’t dance,” Castiel repeats his earlier words, even as Charlie drags him onto the grass where Ash is giving a spectacular rendition of the cabbage patch.
“So then watch the show,” Charlie says with a laugh.
It is, indeed, a show. No one is really taking the dancing thing seriously, and whenever people pair off it’s to jokingly grind against each other along with whatever ridiculous lyrics are being rapped over the beat. Castiel’s hands are in his pockets and he’s watching as Jo pulls her long blond hair up into a ponytail and ‘helicopters’ it around, everything laughing when the tail end manages to whip Kevin directly in the eyeball.
Castiel glances back at the bartop to debate grabbing his cup and is surprised to see Dean standing next to Benny, leaned in close to the other man so he can talk into his ear. They’re standing almost intimately close and Castiel has that same weird feeling in his gut that Lisa had instilled, and he squashes it down as he decides to approach the bar anyway. His drink is there after all. When he’s within earshot Dean pulls away from Benny and sends Castiel a welcoming smile, holding up his beer.
“Glad you could make it, Cas,” he says earnestly.
Castiel picks up his red cup and peers inside to make sure no bugs had landed in it, before he takes a drink. “As the old saying goes: if you can’t beat them, join them.”
Dean grins wolfishly. “You could always throw a party of your own, sometime.”
“Because my yard is large enough to host any event other than the annual bee gathering,” Castiel says dryly.
Dean laughs. “Ok- good point.”
Benny starts cutting up the watermelon, and Dean makes his way around the bar so he can stand on the same side as Castiel. “Charlie grab ya?”
“More or less,” Castiel says, glancing towards Dean’s friends. There’s a small smile playing on his lips. “You all always seem to have a good time.”
Next to him, Dean nods, looking out at his friends with a fond look in his eyes. “I bought this house so we could all keep in touch. We’ve all been friends since college, and after graduating and getting jobs, we started drifting apart. So I nutted up, bought a house, and now we have a gathering place.”
Touched, Castiel’s gaze turns towards Dean. He looks over the man’s features for a few moments, drinking them in; the fairy lights make his green eyes twinkle, and Castiel speaks before his brain can catch up. “You’re a good friend, Dean.”
Seemingly surprised, Dean glances over at Castiel. “Yeah?”
Catching himself staring, Castiel drags his gaze away. “Yes.”
He can hear Dean’s smile in his voice. “Cool.”
--
The next time Dean is wearing his cut off shorts, Castiel can’t help but stare. Dean is squatted in front of his lawn mower, tinkering with it, and Castiel’s eyes have been glued to the pink waistband sticking out slightly from the top of the denim.
Panties.
Dean is wearing daisy dukes and panties.
Castiel doesn’t stay outside for much longer after that, turning to move inside of his house and lock himself in the bathroom with his right hand.
Why does he have to have such a nuisance for a neighbor?
--
Between wood projects Castiel whittles, working on another wing to match the one he already made. Much as he suspected it’s not identical to the first, no matter how often he references the original. This wing is the same size, but the details are slightly different; some feathers longer, narrower. Instead of being frustrated, Castiel thinks about Dean’s words (even if it’s not perfect, wings should be a pair), and allows the knife to chip and slice through the wood without too much thought. When he’s done it’s Thursday afternoon and Dean’s car is parked in the driveway, so Castiel gets up from his rocking chair, wearing worn jeans and a tank top, skin warm from the sun.
With both wings in hand Castiel walks around the fence into Dean’s driveway, walking up to his back door. Castiel hasn’t been inside Dean’s house - his domain - and even knocking feels really foreign. But he lifts his hand and raps his knuckles on the screen, since the wooden inside door is propped open, hoping Dean is around to hear.
“Comin’!” Dean calls from somewhere in the house. When he comes to the screen his brows raise in surprise - he’s shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and Castiel tries to keep his jaw from falling slack. “Hey Cas, what’s up?”
Dumbly, Castiel holds up both of the wings. “I’ve finished.”
“Oh shit,” Dean exclaims with elated surprise, opening the screen door. Castiel steps out of the way so Dean can come out, handing over the wings almost shyly. Dean holds them reverently, looking them over with excited eyes, his thumbs sweeping over the inlayed details gently. “Cas, these are fuckin’ gorgeous.”
Feeling a blush heat his cheeks, Castiel shrugs and scratches the side of his nose idly. “I’m glad you like them.”
Holding them up a little, Dean looks between them. “I don’t know what you were worried about. They don’t match exactly, but they look bad ass. You didn’t spend too much time on this one, did you?” Dean asks, wiggling the second wing.
Castiel shakes his head, “Just some free time. Whittling doesn’t take too long.” It’s not a total lie. Most of Castiel’s free time went to the second wing, hours and hours, but it didn’t feel laborious.
“How much?” Dean asks.
“I won’t accept payment,” Castiel finds himself saying resolutely. “They are a gift.” Because Dean, as annoying as he is, has been very welcoming and nice to Castiel, even if sometimes he drives the older man up the wall.
The smile that breaks out on Dean’s lips is breathtaking and he, surprisingly, accepts Castiel’s words. “Awesome. Hey, wanna come in? I was just fixing some lunch.”
Castiel’s gaze sweeps over Dean’s form without pause, “I don’t want to impose.”
That causes Dean to glance down at himself, and he huffs out a laugh of surprise. “Oh- fuck man, sorry. Today’s project finished early and I kinda hate wearing clothes when I’m at home.”
Thinking about the fact that Dean was probably lounging, naked, before Castiel had knocked on the door makes Castiel take a step back. “It’s alright. I should get back to my place. I was-” he scours his brain. “-bees.”
Dean sends Castiel an amused look. “You were… bees?”
“I was researching apiculture. Beekeeping.” Castiel backtracks a little, feeling spectacularly stupid.
“Oh,” Dean nods, and then shrugs as he turns to open up his screen door. “Maybe next time then, bee boy.”
Castiel squints as the screen door cracks shut behind Dean, who turns to smile widely at him from the other side of the screen. “You are quite frustrating.”
Dean waves with one of the wings in his hands, “See ya, Cas.” He disappears into what’s probably his kitchen, leaving Castiel alone.
Castiel huffs, turns on heel, and walks back towards his house.
A nuisance.
--
The next few weekends Dean spends working out in the yard building a new shed. It’s a simple one, with a design plan that doesn’t look overly complicated, and when Dean is done screwing everything into place and putting the doors on hinges that don’t shriek of death every time they’re opened, Castiel admires the new addition. Benny had hauled off the old ‘tin can’ in the back of his truck, in pieces, and Dean’s yard looks infinitely better.
Today, Sunday, Dean is mounting the whittled wings above the doors of the shed carefully. Castiel watches from his seat on his deck, admiring how gently Dean handles the wings. Once they’re up Dean takes a step back, hands on his hips, looking all sorts of proud. Castiel stands and moves over to the banister, resting his elbows on it and calling out.
“They look good.”
Dean turns up at Castiel with a grin, giving a thumbs up.
Dean looks pretty good, too.
--
It happens suddenly, but naturally.
Dean is mowing the lawn in those godawful shorts and Castiel is plucking around in his own garden, pulling weeds and talking quietly to the plants. He keeps stealing glances over at Dean, keeps catching peeks of red satin, and Dean keeps catching his eye like he knows. It’s a stupid game of chicken that Castiel doesn’t even want to be playing in the first place, and it all comes to a head when Dean is suddenly on Castiel’s side of the fence for the first time, ever. Freckled skin, bright eyes, thick thighs.
Castiel sits back on his heels as he peers up at Dean through his lashes, opening his mouth to try and come up with some witty rejoinder that would likely break the tension, but nothing comes out. Instead Dean drops to his knees and reaches forward, hands cupping Castiel’s face and dragging him forward for a hot, searing kiss. Dean tastes like fresh cut grass and sunshine and Castiel throws his arms around broad shoulders, climbing onto his lap and pushing him backwards. Dean goes willingly, his hands sliding down Castiel’s back to grip his ass and grind their pelvises together, the warmth from the early morning sun suffusing the atmosphere and making it grow headier faster.
Castiel is wearing yoga pants and a tank top, and Dean’s hands work to divest him quickly. Castiel sits up to shuck off his shirt, leaves his pants on, and bends so he can wrap his lips around one of Dean’s perky nipples. Dean gasps and arches into Castiel’s mouth, fingers tangling into dark hair, and Castiel maps out the dips and planes of Dean’s hard, strong body, teeth scraping, fingers dragging. A bit of squirming and Dean sheds his flannel, sitting up and hitching Castiel up on his lap as he mouths at Castiel’s neck, tongue hot, teeth sharp, hands possessive as they press down on Castiel’s hips to get him to resume grinding against him.
The thought that they should move this inside crosses Castiel’s mind, but he hasn’t had a neighbor on the other side of his house in over a year, and the house behind his backyard is a rancher, so no prying eyes will catch sight of them. But, as Dean moans Castiel’s name and writhes beneath him, Castiel thinks that he could care less if anyone spots them.
Another shift and Castiel is off of Dean’s lap, instead kneeling between splayed thighs as he pops the fly of Dean’s daisy dukes.
“These… infernal shorts,” Castiel growls.
Dean huffs out an amused laugh, touched out with arousal. “You don’t like ‘em?”
Castiel bends so he can bite Dean’s sharp hip above a belt loop. “No.”
“I think you’re lyin’, Cas,” Dean says breathlessly, fingers tight in Castiel’s hair.
“I don’t like them,” Castiel iterates, pulling down the zipper, “because I know what they’re hiding.”
He can feel the heat radiating off of Dean’s body with his blush, the flush spreading from head to toe. Sure enough, he tugs the shorts down slightly and reveals red silk panties, a damp spot in the front from where Dean’s hard cock is pressing against them. Castiel pulls off the shorts the rest of the way, leaving the panties hugging Dean’s gloriously thick body, and lowers so he can press his face to Dean’s bulge and inhale. He still smells like cut grass here, musky with sweat from mowing the lawn while wearing the soft article of clothing. Castiel can’t see any pubes peeking out from anywhere and his mouth waters at the thought of Dean shaving himself bald.
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes out.
Castiel glances up to catch his gaze, smirking as he puffs a hot breath against Dean’s covered cock. “You’re so pretty, Dean.”
Dean swallows, adams apple bobbing, and he looks like he doesn’t want to enjoy the praise as much as he does. But his reaction is visceral, his muscles tensing, his pupils dilating, his erection twitching, and Castiel decides to not waste any more time as he reaches to pull the panties down enough to expose the length of Dean’s dick. He’s heavy on his tongue and glorious in his throat and Castiel swallows him down messily, not all the way because he’s terribly out of practice, but enough to make Dean thrash on the bed of flannel and grass.
Dean’s hips pulse upwards and Castiel pins them down, allowing himself to gag a little. Dean moans, a high-pitched and fucked out sound, and then Castiel pulls off with a slurp, pushing his yoga pants and underwear down to his thighs to expose his own hard cock. He’s aching with need, the sight of Dean splayed out like this before him etched into his memory forever - something he will likely see in his dreams for the rest of his life - and he lines up their bodies, gripping their cocks tight in his hand, shifting so the slide of the satin panties catches on his skin as well. Dean drags him down for a hungry, needy kiss as they grind a bit sloppily together, driven by the pure lust and want built up between them. Castiel thinks about how long he’s fantasized about his attractive neighbor, but those thoughts get derailed by Dean chanting his name repeatedly, blunt, oil-stained nails digging into the arch and curve of Castiel’s back.
When they come they spill over Castiel’s hand and Dean’s panties, creating a sticky mess that drips down Dean’s right side and schleps onto the neatly trimmed grass blades. They take a few moments to gather their breath and then Castiel is propping himself up with his hands on either side of Dean’s head, his eyes searching over Dean’s features, almost as though he’s waiting for Dean to come to his senses and yell at him, or brush the whole thing off.
What he gets instead is a sated smile, Dean laughing and relaxing down against the ground. “Shit. Waited too long to do that.”
Castiel frowns. “How long?”
“Probably since I moved in,” Dean admits, green eyes tracing over Castiel’s features like he’s seeing him up close for the first time. “Took you forever to notice me mowing my lawn.”
Castiel frowns deeper. “You did all that on purpose?”
Dean’s smile could light up a thousand galaxies. “Fuck yeah I did.”
“And your clothing…”
“Also on purpose.” Dean props up on his elbows so he can brush his nose against Castiel’s. “Didn’t expect you to be such a cranky old man.”
“It’s six in the God damn morning,” Castiel rumbles furiously.
“Yeah, and we just had a pretty awesome orgasm, so I’m counting that as a win.” Dean squirms a little. “Now lemme up. My panties are starting to chafe.”
Castiel shoves Dean down by his shoulders, making a whuff of surprise leave the slightly larger man as he blinks up at Castiel in surprise. “You deserve it.”
A smirk quirks on Dean’s lips. “What else do I deserve?”
Castiel allows his gaze to rake over Dean’s form, debauched, flushed, freckled, cum-stained.
“I have yet to decide.”
“Well maybe you can decide while we take a shower,” Dean suggests, reaching up to slide his fingers back into Castiel’s hair, coaxing him down for a slow, languid kiss.
“You are annoying,” Castiel grumbles against his mouth.
Dean merely chuckles in reply, sounding way too pleased with himself. “Good.”