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Working in the city has its perks. For one, the pay is incredible. Dean wised up and got an apartment on the outskirts of one of the neighboring towns to cut down on rent and utilities and parked his car (his beautiful, beautiful car) in the garage so he could ride the public transit system instead. Moving to Seattle from his hometown of Austin hadn’t initially been a no-brainer idea, but when Dean learned he could gain much more in his profession by moving locations… well. Dean’s always been the hungry type.

His job isn’t terribly glamorous; he doesn’t need to wear a suit and he doesn’t need to swindle his way in or out of anything. But damn, does it pay the bills. Saving money by walking or taking transit everywhere helps line his pockets, too.

But days like today Dean really could use the safety and comfort of his car. He’s unsurprised when rain clouds gather and start pouring on the city, but that doesn’t mean he’s prepared. His umbrella is in the caddy of his work office, sitting innocently and mocking his lack of forethought to bring it along. It’s rush hour, everyone else clocking out for the day as well, the sidewalks packed and cars honking in the lanes. Dean doesn’t have a long ways to walk to the light rail but the rain is making things drastically unpleasant, so he huffs in defeat and slips out of the crowd when he sees an awning in front of a building.

Shielded from the rain Dean lets out a breath, glancing down at himself. He’s soaked to the bone, his jeans uncomfortably wet, his henley stuck to every inch of his torso. He scrubs a hand over his face to wipe the water away from his eyes and then lets out an unabashed, frustrated groan. He didn’t even wear a hoodie. He’s got no way to protect himself from the rain.

A gentle tap against his thigh catches his attention. He glances down to see the tip of an umbrella an inch away from his leg; his gaze travels up and his breath gets punched out of his lungs.

The doorman to this building is… stunning. He’s wearing a fitted suit, tailored to each curve and broad plane of his body, deep navy in color with gold accents. The black tie done in a windsor knot is stark against his white button-up and he’s sans hat, dark hair coiffed up neatly, the undercut parting it to the right cut sharp and tight. He’s clean shaven, skin tan, jaw sharp, and Dean flaps his lips a few times uselessly which, in turn, causes the doorman to lift a sexy, perfectly shaped brow.

The doorman gently taps Dean’s thigh again with the umbrella. Dean looks at the black gloves on his hands and then lets his gaze travel to the nondescript parasol, and then he finally reaches down to take the item.

“Uh,” Dean clears his throat, finally feeling like he might be able to speak without tripping over himself. “Thanks. It’s raining.”

The corners of the doorman’s lips tighten slightly, as if he’s fighting a smile. A shame, because Dean bets this guy is only even more gorgeous when he smiles. The doorman’s eyes are blue as his suit and brighter than the big dipper and Dean finds himself coughing again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“D’you mind if I hang here for a few?” Dean asks, shaking out his free arm. The doorman’s eyes track the movement, and the chill of the rain is blasted away by the heat in his gaze. “Wanna dry off a bit before I take off.”

The doorman’s gaze lifts back up to Dean’s and then he gives a slow, but curt nod. He folds his hands in front of his body and resumes his stance (ex-military, maybe?), and Dean swallows thickly before moving to the other side of the awning, as far away as he can get without rain spattering against him in the breeze. He pulls out his phone to check the time, thanks the tech gods for waterproof phones, and then sighs. He needs to get out of here if he wants to make the weekly conference call. Putting his phone back into his damp pocket he decides he can’t wait much longer; he shakes open the umbrella and pushes it up, turning a friendly smile over to the doorman.

The doorman meets his gaze coolly, chillier than the late summer rain, and goosebumps spring over Dean’s skin.

“Uh- thanks. I walk this route every day so I’ll return this tomorrow?” Dean suggests, wiggling the umbrella a bit.

The doorman gives another nod.

Dean hightails it outta there.

--

The following day is beautiful, because of course it is. Dean has swapped out his henley for a grey vneck, and he’s got the umbrella in hand as he leaves his apartment to begin his daily commute. He’s a little distracted all day, thinking about that devastatingly handsome doorman - and he gets even more distracted when he realizes he hadn’t checked to see what building he had been monitoring. Remembering the part of town Dean thinks it might be one of the high rise condo buildings, but he can’t be totally sure. He just knows he needs to walk on the east side of the sidewalk and watch out for a maroon awning.

He rolls his eyes as the day ends and he exits his own work building. It probably isn’t going to be that easy, but he’s not the type to give up.

He doesn’t remember how long he’d been walking yesterday until it started pouring, so today he’s got his head on swivel. Why are there so many maroon awnings? A few people cast him odd looks thanks to the umbrella he’s holding in his left hand, the right tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He really should have paid attention to things better yesterday, but then again, how was he supposed to know he was going to meet the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid eyes on?

Instead of maroon, a flash of navy catches Dean’s eye. His heart thuds in his chest as he approaches the awning, and there he sees the doorman doing his job - holding the door open for a posh couple coming out of the building with rolling luggage. When the couple is clear he allows the door to shut and strides confidently after them, opening up the door of the car waiting for them, and oh - oh. There’s that smile. Straight, white teeth, the faintest of dimples, crow’s feet tugging at his eyes. He shuts the door and then moves to put the luggage into the trunk of the car, and when he’s done he gives the roof of it a pat with his gloved hand, signaling for the driver to take off.

The doorman resumes his post, but his eyes travel over to Dean, widening a fraction in surprise.

Dean almost stumbles over his own feet. Under the awning, close enough to be heard over the general noise pollution of downtown, Dean holds out the umbrella.

“Uh- thanks. This helped a lot yesterday.”

The doorman glances down at the umbrella, clearly surprised that Dean had come back to return it. Shifting from foot to foot, Dean clears his throat.

“S’not raining today, though, so you can have this back. Thanks again. I uh- do I owe you anything?”

The doorman reaches out to take the umbrella from Dean. He turns and deposits it in a metal cylinder, which is currently packed neatly with other umbrellas, and then returns to his stance, hands clasped in front of him. There’s a twinkle in his eye and the smallest of smirks tugging on his lips, and Dean lets out a little reedy laugh, finding it really strange, but also really hot that this guy hasn’t said a word.

“Alright. So uh- guess I’ll see you ‘round. Thanks, buddy.”

He turns around to leave, but a deep, gravelly voice rumbles through the ground and into Dean’s feet, rocketing up his legs and into the base of his spine.

“You’re welcome.”

Exhaling hotly, Dean waves a flaily hand over his shoulder in departure and then speedwalks away from the awning.

Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

--

Over the next few weeks, Dean passes by the doorman every day. Man, he hopes the guy has weekends off. Every time Dean passes, whether he’s trapped in a crowd of meandering at his own pace, their eyes catch - the doorman nods in greeting, blue eyes sharp, and Dean flushes and gives some sort of awkward reply. He wonders why he hasn’t ever noticed the man until recently, but every time he sees him, he’s quiet as ever. When he’s being a doorman for both the building and waiting cars he says nothing, but offers friendly, courteous nods and small smiles. Dean himself is noisy as all get-out so someone quiet like this man slipping under his radar isn’t all that surprising.

A damn shame, though, because as Dean gets a little more comfortable looking directly at the man (it’s kinda hard to look at so much beauty all at once, ok?), he knows that the doorman is exactly the kinda guy that Dean would love to chat up.

But he’s not going to do that while he’s working. The man takes his job very seriously and judging by the yuppies that go in and out of the building, he probably gets tipped tremendously well. Dean won’t distract him from that.

On Saturday night Dean finds himself on Capitol Hill with Charlie, sitting on a bench outside of their favorite ice cream shop.

“So, door guy doesn’t talk-”

“He said ‘you’re welcome’ once-”

“-and you still wanna bang him. I mean, Dean,” Charlie picks up the cookie in her bowl with her fingers to take a bite of it, talking with her mouth full, “I’m gonna say this in the nicest way possible: isn’t he a little outta your league?”

Dean’s had the same thought wander through his own head. But in passing the doorman always smiles, there’s always a flicker of something … more, in his eyes, and Dean’s just trying to find the balls to follow up with something more concrete. It’s rough.

“Like,” Charlie continues, kicking her feet idly under the bench, “your hookup game has been limited to whoever says ‘yes’ in a bar.” She puts her wooden spoon thoughtfully on her tongue, and then says, “Y’know what? It’s actually not that surprising that you’re jonesing after a dude who’s only said two words to you. You do like ‘em kinda snotty.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t disagree. He’s always been a glutton for punishment and Charlie’s right - he likes em’ bossy and snotty. Not that he’s had enough of a conversation to tell any of this about the doorman, but the guy gives off a certain… air. A certain air that has Dean always walking on that side of the street and always trying to catch his attention for something as simple as a fucking nod.

He’s got it bad.

“What’s stopping you from striking up a convo?” Charlie asks.

“I don’t wanna bug him while he’s working,” Dean says honestly. “Guy’s good at his job and I don’t wanna throw him off. Besides- I look all…” he gestures at his jeans and flannel, “I look like a lesbian and he looks like he should be on the cover of GQ.”

“First of all, apologize to me right now,” Charlie says. Dean rolls his eyes. “Second of all, who gives a crap? If he weren’t into you he wouldn’t make eyes at you. And Dean, I swear, your self-esteem is ridiculous sometimes.”

“Whaddya mean?” Dean gruffs, stabbing his wooden spoon into his ice cream.

“I mean,” Charlie reaches up with her free hand so her fingers can grip Dean’s stubbly jaw and force his head to turn to the left, away from her. “You’re hot and, like, everyone notices. Even when you’re pouting into your ice cream.”

Dean’s gaze travels over to a group of guys hanging outside a restaurant - at least two of them awkwardly tear their gaze away from him, but one guy brazenly winks directly at Dean, causing him to blush slightly. Dean knocks Charlie’s hand away from his jaw and huffs, “We’re in Capitol Hill, Charles, all genders check each other out up here.”

“Ok but,” Charlie huffs in reply, “they’re checking you out because you are good looking.” She takes another bite of her cookie. “Give Mr. Doorman your number on Monday. See what happens.”

Dean stares into his bowl where his melting ice cream is making his cookie soggy. He stabs into the cookie to break it up and make it mix with the ice cream, before taking a huge bite. He chews on it for a few minutes, and then when he swallows, he lets out a little sigh.

“Fuck it.”

Charlie claps him on the shoulder. “Atta boy!”

--

On Monday pretty much everything goes wrong. Dean’s apartment lost power due to a thunderstorm and his phone died in the middle of the night, causing him to wake up late without an alarm. His shower had been cold, he couldn’t fix himself a cup of coffee, he didn’t have time to stop at a stand during his commute, and quite frankly, by the end of the day he’s forgotten all about giving Doorman his phone number. In fact, he’s kinda totally forgotten about Doorman altogether as he bundles his coat tighter around himself, September not treating anyone nice this year, his (half-charged) phone pressed against his ear.

“Yeah, look- I’ve got everything worked out, I just need a sign-off. I know- I know it was due-” he lets out a blustery breath, scrubbing his hand over his mouth as he frowns at the sidewalk, not paying attention to where he’s going. “Alright, I just-”

Instead of the person on the other line cutting him off, Dean is physically interrupted. Gloved fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling his phone away from his ear, tugging his body out of the throng. Dean’s heart thuds when he sees navy and the flash of gold cufflinks and suddenly he’s pressed up against a solid, muscular chest, phone far away from his ear as physically possible without dropping it, staring into blue blue blue as Doorman draws Dean so close their breaths mingle.

“Dean?” the tinny voice from his phone sounds confused.

“Dean,” the doorman says, tasting Dean’s name on his tongue like it’s some sort of fine, imported wine.

“Yeah-” Dean says a bit distractedly, eyes on the doorman’s, even though his voice is projecting towards his phone. “Look Chuck, I’ll get it to you first thing. Gotta go.” Numb fingers manage to end the call but Dean still doesn’t move, trapped by the doorman’s strong arm wrapped around the small of his back.

“Are you alright?” the doorman asks. Dean feels a little floored. He’s not alright. Not at all. The doorman’s beautiful blues search Dean’s eyes for a moment and when he starts to release his hold on Dean, Dean has the stupid visceral reaction of clinging onto the other man. Arching a brow, the doorman’s mouth quirks in the smallest of smirks. “You seem ready to faint.”

“I uh,” Dean probably is gonna faint. Holy hell this guy is hotter than anyone Dean has ever seen, and he’s holding Dean so strongly, so surely, like Dean weighs nothing (and Dean knows for a fact that he does weigh something, and he’s also suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s never been held in such a manner). “I dunno.”

The doorman helps Dean steady himself on his feet, gloved hands gently brushing over the shoulders of Dean’s coat without any real purpose other than to, rather blatantly, feel him up. There’s a blush high on Dean’s cheeks and he swallows thickly, knowing something stupid is about to fall outta his mouth, so he stays resolutely quiet, allowing the doorman to get his fill.

“Seems as though you aren’t having the best of days,” the man says. His gaze once again meets Dean’s, and Dean feels himself deflate a little.

“Yeah- had a rough start and it kinda made the rest of the day shitty,” he finds himself admitting.

“Apologies,” the doorman concedes. He gives Dean the slightest amount of space, which isn’t saying much, because his cologne is currently wafting right up Dean’s nostrils and putting a haze over his brain. “Normally you’re much more… chipper, when you walk by. I was concerned.”

Dean blinks. Then blinks again. Tilts his head, opens his mouth to say something, then clicks his teeth together as he fails to come up with something intelligent to reply with. Of course he’d been ogling the doorman for the past few weeks, and he knew that the man was also paying attention to him, but not to that degree. Belatedly, Dean realizes that the doorman made him hang up on a very important phone call.

A little less belatedly, Dean realizes he doesn’t give a shit.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks through all the fodder floating around in his brain.

“Castiel,” the man replies easily.

Dean’s gaze flicks up and down Castiel’s ensemble, enjoying it in full now that he’s so close. And hey, he’s allowed, right? Castiel basically just literally swooped him off his feet and then felt him up, Dean’s allowed to have a gander. A gander that Castiel accepts and maybe even encourages as he straightens his posture and tilts his head slightly.

“Uh,” Dean licks his lips, deciding to just go for it. “You uh. Wanna get drinks with me sometime?”

“Are you always this smooth or am I an exception?” Castiel asks, a teasing glimmer in his eyes.

Dean feels some of his nerves leave him, “Whatever, Romeo, I’m not the one tryna sweep strangers off their feet.”

“Did it work?” Castiel asks, eyes glimmering.

“Still on my feet,” Dean points out.

Big mistake.

Castiel’s arms are suddenly around Dean again and he’s hoisting the slightly larger man off of his feet, swooping him up into his arms bridal style, Dean letting out a very unflattering noise of surprise as his hands move to grasp at the back of Castiel’s neck. A few passersby arch their brows at them but Castiel spins them in a slow, deliberate dance, keeping eye contact with Dean as he holds him without any sign of trembling or weakness.

Holy fuck.

Castiel’s hair is still perfect and his uniform is crisp and he’s smiling in a way Dean has yet to see - there’s some crinkles at the bridge of his nose, his crow’s feet are deeper, his gums are showing.

“Fuck me,” Dean says aloud.

Castiel seems undeterred, spinning another slow circle. “Perhaps not on the sidewalk.”

Dean’s feeling properly wooed and it’s kind of ridiculous, and kind of awesome all at the same time. He’s still holding onto Castiel tightly, his body curled to make it easier for the man to hold him, and arousal sweeps through Dean’s extremities when the wind changes and Castiel’s cologne permeates his senses. “Don’t care where,” he finds himself saying.

An elegant brow arches as Castiel regards Dean, contemplation in his eyes. Another slow spin and then Castiel is setting Dean down carefully, hands everywhere all at once to keep him steady on his numb feet and weak knees. “Now?” His voice is pitched deep, lips parted to draw in deep breaths, his pupils threatening to swallow the blue of his irises.

Whatever spell he’s under has Dean nodding. Castiel’s strong fucking hands are on him again and hauling him into the breezeway of the building his mans and Dean loses his breath and coherent thought. Castiel crowds him into a doorway that leads into what must be the doorman’s office; a small area with a desk, chair, standing wardrobe, and a half bath tucked off to the side. Castiel’s scent is strongest here and Dean swallows mouthfuls of it as Castiel hoists him up and deposits him onto the desk. The door slams shut with a weight and Dean hears the lock click from the inside but then his ears are full of the sound of his clothes being pulled apart and off, Dean’s hazy brain struggling to keep up.

When he regains a bit of sanity he notes that he’s shirtless and shoeless and his pants and underwear are hanging off of his right ankle, Castiel apparently too impatient to get him fully undressed. Castiel is still impeccable, suit pressed, collar starched, hair perfectly coiffed and when he reaches up to start undoing the buttons of his overcoat Dean suddenly reaches up, grasping his wrists.

“Leave it on,” Dean breathes. “Leave it all on.”

Castiel licks his lips, tongue disappearing into his mouth to give way to a sinister smirk. “Gloves too?”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean says.

Castiel either agrees with Dean’s kink or doesn’t care either way, because he fastens the one button he’d undone and then drops into a crouch, holding Dean’s legs spread wide open to start kissing a trail up the inside of his left thigh. Dean leans back on his hands, the tops of his shoulders pressing against the wall the desk is against, and lets out a huffy moan. Being basically naked while Castiel is still fully dressed - fully pressed - is short circutinging all his nerve centers and when Castiel’s teeth sink into his flesh Dean grunts and knocks his head back against the wall, stars exploding behind closed lids for all sorts of reasons.

He’s going to have stubble burn and bruises in the shapes of bite marks but he doesn’t care as he tries to help Castiel scoot him towards the edge of the desk. Castiel’s mouth is on him, in him, around him, and Dean feels like he’s going to spontaneously combust. When he opens his eyes and looks down all he can see is Castiel’s perfect hair - oh, he wants to mess it up but he also wants to keep it like this, talk about a war of emotions - and the uniform stretched over his broad shoulders and wowowow yup, yup, precum splurts out of his cock and he lets out a very undignified whimper, toes curling.

“Please please please please,” Dean begs. He fucking begs and he doesn’t think he’s ever done that before in his life, but Castiel - Castiel with his life all buttoned up and pretty - is decimating Dean’s sanity.

Castiel pulls off with a smirk, the tip of one of his fingers pressing against the tight, fluttering furl of Dean’s hole. Dean whuffs out a breath, feels sweat drip down from his temple to his earlobe, and Castiel straightens to his full height. Dean’s legs fall to wrap around his waist and red hot arousal flares through his body when Castiel licks his lips and then purses them, a dollop of spit slowly dropping from his mouth to land precisely where his finger is teasing against Dean’s hole. Fuck, that’s hot. Dean feels when the saliva connects with his skin and Castiel slips his finger inside just as Dean moans, immediately searching out the sweet spot that makes Dean’s vision whiten.

“Hurry,” Dean finds himself babbling. “Please, Cas-”

Castiel slips another finger inside, the burn pleasant, spit as lube not exactly functional but Dean sort of likes it rough.

Ok, really likes it rough.

“What do you want?” Castiel asks, his voice rumbling the furniture Dean’s sprawled on.

“You,” Dean pants.

“Be more specific,” Castiel says casually, scissoring his fingers, the accompanying stretch making Dean’s vision go spotty.

“Your cock.”

“Hm,” Castiel seems to contemplate this. Dean watches Castiel watch his fingers, and Dean grits his teeth and flexes, his hole tightening around Castiel’s digits. Castiel’s eyes darken visibly. “No.”

“What-?!” Dean splutters out his surprise as Castiel drops down to his knees and swallows his cock down in one go. Once again Dean knocks his head back, finally reaching out to grip Castiel’s hair, feeling his fingers fucking roughly into his body, curling every third thrust or so to stroke against his prostate. Castiel’s tongue does wicked things to his dick, his lips are sinful on his sack, and his fingers fuck Dean just as good - maybe even better - as any cock has before. “I- Cas, fuck-” Dean pants out, his feet planted on Castiel’s shoulders, his back starting to ache with being cramped up against the wall, his tailbone forming a faint bruise from where the edge of the desk cuts into it.

Castiel glances up, deep deep blue and an arched brow, and Dean loses it. He comes with a sharp cry, nails digging into Castiel’s scalp, spilling down the man’s throat. Castiel swallows it all without missing a drop and then stands; he leaves Dean slouched on the desk and reaches to unzip his slacks, pulling his hard cock out, Dean fresh off orgasm and still feeling insatiably hungry. He watches Castiel jerk off, watches the way his strong fingers wrap around his thick cock, and Dean’s mouth waters so much some drool leaks out the corners of his lips and spills down his chin. He doesn’t have a condom, and Castiel probably doesn’t either, so this is about as good as it’s going to get.

Letting his legs fall lax, Dean reaches down with a hand to fondle his softening cock, stroke over his balls, and then uses the tip of his index finger to pull on his rim from the side, exposing the fluttering muscle. “Cas,” he moans, eyes still glued to Castiel’s leaking cock. He moves his other hand to spread his ass cheek, two fingers now tugging himself open, his hips gyrating slightly, the high of orgasm still buzzing through him.

Castiel’s pace on himself quickens and then he lets out a low grunt, cum erupting from his cock. He points and aims and Dean feels sticky hot wetness spill over his fingers and without thinking he moans, fingers smearing the substance around his stretched hole, wanting so badly to push it inside. Castiel drops to his knees and swats Dean’s hands away, spreading his cheeks and leaning in to clean up, tongue collecting his own cum and licking around Dean’s sensitive rim. Dean shudders and moans in reply, his over sensitive skin singing, and Castiel leaves him with one last, longing suck to his hole, tongue swirling before he stands up. Dean fully collapses, then, unable to hold himself up, and watches Castiel tuck himself back into his slacks. The man looks unrumpled, save for the flush on his cheekbones and the sexy set of his jaw, and Dean finds himself smiling hazily, feeling incredibly satisfied and like he could live off of this high for a week.

After he catches his breath, Castiel skillfully helps Dean gets redressed. He then helps Dean to his feet properly, pulling the man close to him as he does up Dean’s belt buckle, fingers sliding along Dean’s hip bones. His fingers dip in a few places, and Castiel leans in to press a surprisingly soft kiss to Dean’s lips before he pulls away and adjusts his tie.

“Have you been properly swept off your feet?” Castiel asks, that arch to his brow now a bit more playful, but no less sexy.

Dean grins, feeling the weight of Castiel’s phone number on a piece of paper in his front pocket. “Dunno. Think I’m gonna need another experience, y’know. To make sure I’m not missing anything.”

Castiel leans forward and pats Dean’s pocket, his palm suspiciously close to Dean’s soft cock, which gives a twitch in reply. “I’m available on weekends,” he murmurs into Dean’s ear, and then pulls away to leave the small office area.

Taking a second to gather himself, Dean leaves the office as well. Castiel is already wrapped up in a resident, helping her heft her suitcase into her trunk (“My apologies, ma’am, for being late”, “Oh, Mr. Novak, being late once isn’t going to tarnish your reputation!”), and Dean grins to himself as he starts whistling and walking towards the light rail.

Weekends are about to get a whole lot better.