His jacket has a More Than Large Hole in the right pocket, (thank god he didn’t put his phone in that side) it’s raining, and his shoes slip and slide along the sidewalk with ease.
Dean huffs out a breath, and with amusement, stares at the fog drifting in the air as he moves past him.
The ground, littered with fossilized gum pieces, stands shiny against the greying outside world. Underneath a shop awning, Dean untangles himself from the crowd of people wearing long black coats.
Umbrellas reflecting rain almost poke him in the god damn face, and Wow. Why did I ever think it was a grand idea to move to New York? What the hell was going thro—-
Shoulders collide, and it sort of hurts.
"Sorry, sorry, I," the man wipes Dean’s shoulder from the new wetness that has happened there.
That’s a first. Who apologizes for bumping into someone here?
"Oh, no problem man. Don’t worry about it," Dean tells the man, "really."
The man, in a tan coat instead of black, dark hair mussed from the rain, smiles softly to himself. He nods.
He’s walking away, the coat belt swaying slightly in the wind.
Dean picks up his humming.
Going into the heated coffee shop was probably the best decision he’s made today.
It’s bright, insanely warm, and full of the sound of people in conversation.
He comes here every time he’s stuck on an article. Being a journalist sometimes needs new surroundings for thought.
Dean opens his laptop, sitting at the tall table next to the window. His coffee, steaming slowly and steadily, is engulfed by his freezing fingertips.
Tiny raindrops stick to the glass, running slowly down and colliding with each other. Dean realizes he’s distracted and turns back to his computer. A sigh makes itself known.
He promised himself that he would finish the article before the jazz concert at the bar tonight. Some relief after this pain-in-the-ass story, he thought. Coffee creeps down his throat, both warming and energizing him.
Here goes nothing.
The bag slides off his shoulders with ease, crashing to the floor in the sound of a metallic clang as his keys come in contact with it. Dean huffs out a sigh of relief, slugging his coat (still lightly wet) off his shoulders.
He has thirty minutes until he goes to the jazz concert.
Dean never gets sick of the saxophone, and he drops the needle on the record gently and confidently. He finds his foot tapping against the hardwood, and then he’s dancing.
Pretending he’s holding a girl against his chest, Dean twirls her. Their feet move along each other perfectly to the time of the beat.
He’s laughing as he bring her to him again, and then he stops.
"Be right there, hold on a second!" His response to the knocking on his door was taken directly from his ass. Dean removes the needle from the spinning record and goes to answer it.
"If you don’t turn that down, I swear to go—"
"Sorry, Zac. I got uh," he nervously laughs, "carried away, is all. Won’t happen again."
Zac eyes him suspiciously. “Alright. Make sure, okay? At least play something better than Sinatra, Winchester.”
Showers are godsent, tapping on the white tiles, make sure to tell God he did one thing right. He knocks the shampoo bottle over seconds after that.
Smoke hits him in a dense cloud when Dean exits his apartment building. Coughing, he makes his way along the sidewalk.
Buzzing lights shine against the dark sky. Blue, red, green and yellow paint the fog (or smoke? Who can tell the difference anymore?) in the cold air.
Dean stumbles into the bar, hurriedly trying to escape the frost of the night.
He sits at his usual spot, the bartender nodding towards his general direction upon Dean entering the scene. He pours Dean his drink, and goes to tend to the other men tapping their hands along the countertop.
He looks towards the red curtain illuminated by a fading golden light, awaiting the music to follow. Dean smiles, happy he made it. He truly feels content here, now.
He sips his drink as the band emerges from the curtain, walking towards their respective instruments.
The lights come on, and they begin immediately filling the room with noise.
Dean’s eyes flutter closed, as instinct, reveling in how it makes him feel.
One of these mornings,
You’re going to rise up singing
He opens them, and locks eyes with the bass player. He’s seen that man before.
Dean registers that the gentleman plucking a bass and moving slowly to the beat is the same one who bumped into him this morning.
Dark haired, blue eyed, mystery man smiles at him, acknowledging.
But ‘til that morning
He blushes, looks back down at his instrument. Dean swallows.
There’s nothing that can harm you
They finish the song, and the lead makes a joke about singing the song “Summertime” just as winter starts. Dean finds bassist, bumping-into man staring at him again.
The crowd cheers and laughs.
Dean winks in his direction.
Their set is amazing, making Dean wanting to get up at every song and just dance in front of everyone, (did he have too much to drink?) but luckily, did not.
Dark haired bassist abandons his instrument and hops off the stage unceremoniously. Dean clutches his drink in his fingers as he realizes the man is walking toward him.
"Yes. Hello," the bass player smiles at Dean. "I’m Castiel."
Dean grins and looks up at the man.
"Dean. Well now I know you’re good at three things," he laughs. "Bumping into people’s shoulders, apologizing, and playing some damn good bass."
Castiel’s cheeks turn pink.
"Oh, thank you. I try."
"Y’know I’ve been coming to this bar every Friday for jazz night, and," Castiel places his elbow on the corner of the bar, staring at Dean through his lashes. "I’ve never heard somethin’ as good as that. You really know what you’re doin’." Dean says, trying not to stutter or slur.
"Why, thank you, Dean. You’re not so bad at making eyes at me from fifteen feet away." Castiel quips. Dean breaks out into a stupid giggle fest, which Castiel joins seconds afer.
"Wanna go get coffee later? I’d bet my left arm it’s gonna rain tomorrow," Dean’s looking into his stunning eyes. "Nice place to warm up, if you ask me."
"I’d love to, Dean. That sounds perfect." The bassist blushes again, running his hands into his already slicked back hair.
The crowd riles up all of a sudden, getting clearly excited. Castiel turns to find the band returning to the stage. He holds up a finger to Dean, and rushes to join his fellow bandmates.
"You were such a lovely audience, we’ve decided to play one more," the lead says through the microphone. He looks at the others on stage, then counts to 3 quietly.
The piano starts, and the others chine in soon after.
all of me, why not take all of me
Dean finds his eyes glued to Castiel, plucking happily to the rhythm.
cant you see
im no good without you
Castiel’s piercing eyes find Dean’s, and he doesn’t stop staring.
take my lips
i want to know them
Breath warm against his face, Castiel backs Dean into the brick wall on the outside of the bar.
Red hot lips attack Dean’s own, moving so hungrily. Dean’s tongue finds its way into the other’s mouth, meeting in a burst of warmth.
take my eyes
ill never use them
Freezing hands come up to stoke Castiel’s cheekbones, gently. Dean breaks away, seeing his breath cloud the air in front of them.
In the chilling air, Castiel laughs, and Dean does joins him.
"You spelled ‘their’ wrong in this article, Dean," Castiel chimes from the kitchen table, "how did you even do that?"
Dean mumbles around his toothbrush. “Shut up. ‘s tired” Cas hums.
He closes the laptop and gets up to drop the needle on the record player, surrounding the apartment in piano not long after.
"I love this song," Dean says, coming out from the bathroom.
Castiel’s hands grasp Dean’s and he sways them to the music.
He leans in, close, breath agaisnt his ear. “You know why?”
Dean huffs out a laugh.
“‘Course I do.”
He spins Castiel, then brings him close to his chest.
so why not
Cas kisses the tip of Dean’s nose.
take all of me?