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Dean shoved his way inside Milton's Books and Cafe, shut the door and relocked it. He puffed out a chilly breath. Outside, snowflakes began to come down in thick chunks. The sidewalks would probably slick over with ice. It’d be another dark, cold Friday in January. Nothing a good book and a latte couldn’t fix.
He went about his pre-opening duties: flicking on the bright overhead lights, opening a brand new shipment of books and piling them on his cart. He got on and swooshed toward the horror section—his favorite. Riding on the back, he skidded his cart to a halt, jumped off, and grabbed a book. It was Carver Edlund’s newest addition to the Supernatural series. Good books. Not very popular. Huge cult following.
Dean put it on the shelf, upside down, pages out. He grinned. That’d get a rise out of him and the thought alone—well, he was giddy with it. He whistled as he darted off to a different shelf and put away another book wrong. A third, a seventh, thirteen—all put in wrong, scattered throughout the store. It was his version of revenge, an OCD Apocalypse primed and ready for the bookstore’s anal retentive co-owner from Hell. He cackled to himself like a mad scientist—then ducked into a dark corner when the antique bell rang overhead. It’d be hours until they were open and he knew he’d locked the door behind him. Unless—Dean narrowed his eyes—it was him.
Dean checked his watch. It was 7:05 AM. He was early, hours before he usually showed up. Why? There was only one logical explanation: the evil son of a bitch had figured out his plan—oh, wait, no. They had a major sale going on today.
“Dean!”
He tiptoed away with a few books, huddling them to his chest like a shield. The hell beast huffed and puffed his way down the aisles, feet like lead and temper hot. Dean shot across the store to the romance section and hid. Listened. It was too quiet. Then, there was a noise, like a dying whale. That, and another dramatic sigh/growl thing.
“Goddamnit, Dean! Where are you?”
Must have been one of his book-traps. Dean grinned to himself.
“Are you hiding from me?”
“No,” he answered, then slapped a hand over his mouth.
When the beast-man rounded the corner, Dean spun and played it cool. He slotted in another book the wrong way and ignored the stomping feet behind him. Hellfire breathed down his neck. Slowly, purposefully, Dean slipped in another book, upside down and pages out, just to be a fucking asshole. He could almost hear him grinding his teeth behind him. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was him clenching his fists like he always did when he was pissed. Also him, leaning in really close because the idea of personal-fucking-space was lost on him.
“In the back. Now.”
His spine tingled. That voice, deep and bedroom dark—no. Keep the course, dumbass. Dean nodded to no one and straightened his shoulders. Like a death row inmate, he was marched toward the back room. Hot air blasted down his neck every step of the way. Feet like Satan’s hooves heavy behind him. The backroom opened large and wide, filled to the brim with stuff he hadn’t cleared away yet. Boxes full of the cafe’s supplies, shipments of used books they hadn’t found a place for in the store yet. A large refrigerator hugged one corner, filled with Anna Milton’s delicious pastries and beignets. The other corner—an office desk topped with papers and account books, and whatever else. It was the everything room. Particularly, his favorite place to fire or berate employees.
Lazily, Dean turned around, adopting his usual fuck you body language. He crossed his arms, clenched his jaw tight, and made sure his face looked like it’d been forged from steel. No, those blue eyes didn’t make him weak in the knees. And no, his face wasn’t… gorgeous with those fuckable lips, sexy bed hair and clean, chiseled lines. In fact, he looked stupid in his black-rimmed glasses, sweater vest and blue tie. And those dark, tight jeans? Sure, they hugged his hips in all the right places and showed off his runner’s legs, but so what? He wasn’t… attracted to him. He didn’t want to fuck him.
Okay, so maybe he did. But only a little bit.
Okay, a lot. Whatever.
“What is your problem, Dean?”
“I don’t know, Cas. Why don’t you tell me since you’re so good at it,” he said flatly.
Cas narrowed those blue eyes at him. The wheels started turning in his head, probably devising a plan to draw and quarter him and stuff his pieces in the corners of the bookstore. Putting those books away like that? In his crazy head, it was a felony. Up there with not turning on the coffee makers in the morning. And murder.
“It’s obvious to me that you don’t appreciate your job—“
“I’d appreciate it a whole hell of a lot more if you wouldn’t ride my ass so hard, buttercup.”
“I—don’t… I wouldn’t…” Cas’ face grew red hot. “If you’d just… do your job—“
“I do my job, Cas. It’s just not ever good enough for you.“
“Shelving the books incorrectly—“
“It was a fucking joke, okay? I was going to right them before the store opened,” Dean snapped.
Cas clenched his jaw and so did he. Two bulls facing off. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Your insubordination—“
“Excuse me? Insubordination?” He challenged. “When? How?”
“Stop interrupting me,” Cas growled. It was a command, not a suggestion. “Insubordination was to get your attention since you can’t seem to keep quiet.” Ha. Good one. Cas stopped there, though, running his fingers through his sexy—er, messy bed hair. “Dean…”
The way he said his name, heavy and… forlorn—this was it. It was the end.
“You’re firing me, aren’t you?”
“I can’t have an employee who can’t seem to do his duties.”
“Like what, Cas? I do everything you tell me to!“
“This morning alone, you didn’t turn on the coffee makers or refill the sugar canisters. The coffee has yet to be refilled. My syrups, the caramel—and that’s just the cafe area, Dean. The nooks and crannies are a mess. There are napkins and coffee cups everywhere. The worst thing? You failed to sand the sidewalks—“
“And you’re also two-fucking-hours early!”
Cas startled, then narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like it when he yelled at him. At all.
“That may be so, Dean,” Cas said calmly. “But on a normal day, you’re lazy, consistently late. You have an attitude—“
“I have an attitude? You have a fucking attitude,” he roared. “You know what? While we’re sharing, let me help point out your problems. Let’s start with… berating me in front of customers, yelling at me, calling me names all the fucking time—“
“I do not call you names—“
“Oh, and you’re a fucking dick.”
His blue eyes flew wide. “What did you say to me?”
“You heard me,” Dean repeated. He got in his face. “You’re a fucking dick.”
“You’re fired,” Castiel hissed through clenched teeth.
“I’m fired?” He said incredulously. “You’re firing me?
“That’s what I said.”
“Yeah?” He clenched his jaw. “Well, here’s what I think about that.”
Dean grabbed his face and kissed him—which, what the fuck. Acceptable and slightly illegal would’ve been punching him in the face. Better would’ve been knocking over some books or unstraightening some magazines on his way out. Kissing him? That was a whole new level of no—and yes at the same time. Cas’ lips were soft under his, full, and completely… dreamy. He could spend hours kissing those lips. Days listening to the little noise Cas made at the back of his throat. It was sweet, a touch surprised, and a whole lot of hot. That alone made his dick hard—and he was in way over his head. He let go and stumbled back.
They stared at each other.
Stupid, shame, and what the fuck crashed in on him. In response to getting fired, he… kissed him. Maybe, in some fucked up part of his brain, he’d hoped that Cas was a homophobe, that kissing him would freak him out. The reasonable part of him, the part that made sense, told him he’d always wanted to kiss him, that this was his last chance. That after this, he’d never see him again, so fuck it, why not?
Surprisingly, he’d done stupider things.
He couldn’t think of a single one.
“So, uh—yeah. I’m going to go,” Dean said eventually. “Please don’t call the cops, okay?”
He had his escape route all planned out: dash through the horror section, make a right at romance, and snatch one of Anna’s mouth-watering beignets before Cas could stop him. From there, he’d just have to dash out the door—not slip on the ice—and he’d be home free.
He didn’t make it as far as he’d hoped.
He turned—and that was about it. Strong fingers grabbed his arm and before he knew it, he’d been spun, yanked close and kissed. Cas was hot and heavy on his mouth, arm wrapped tight around his waist. His brain short-circuited, sputtered, then flicked on.
Holy shit, Cas was kissing him.
Dean kissed him back just as hard and desperate, matching passion for passion. Their lips fused together, their tongues engaging in some sort of… heated wrestling match. It was ungraceful, messy, and fucking awesome. At some point, Cas’ glasses got smashed against his face. They stopped just long enough for Cas to tear them off and toss them on a shelf. When they kissed again, it was like he’d died and gone to Heaven.
Cas started backing up, dragging him along. Obediently, like the good employee he was, he followed. They knocked into a box of old books. One of them tripped over something. If they broke anything, they didn’t notice. They kept kissing, backpedaling until they bumped into the office desk. Papers fluttered. A pen fell to the floor. Before Cas could say otherwise, Dean spun him around and bent him over. Cas didn’t complain. Instead, Cas busied himself with unbuckling his jeans and whipping them down. Nice, naked ass in the air. He gave it a little squeeze. The times he’d thought about fucking him—God. Sometimes, it was hard and rough, to get him back for all the times he’d been a bastard. Other times, long and slow, as if they’d been together forever. He hadn’t decided how he’d treat him—
“Fuck me, goddamnit.”
—never mind. Hard and rough, it was. He slipped a thumb down his spine, to the top of his ass. With a sly smile, he quirked a brow and said, “And if I don’t? Is that… insubordination?”
Cas glared at him over his shoulder. Dean winked and buried his thumb inside him. With a groan, Cas flopped his head down on the desk. There was no hesitation on Cas’ part. Eager, greedy, Cas thrust his hips back and fucked himself on it—and it was the hottest goddamn thing he’d ever seen. Cas was loose around him and his entire body trembled as if he were starving to be fucked. The noises that came out of his mouth—he couldn’t describe them. They were on the verge of pain, but had no reason to be. So full of bliss and ecstasy, too, that—fuck, he’d probably shoot a load in his pants right now. Cas speared himself on his thumb until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Until, shaking, Cas threw his arm behind and grabbed at a belt loop, yanking him forward. His hard cock, still nestled in his jeans, rubbed against his bare ass, and Cas basically gasped with it. Needing contact hard and now.
Dean backed away and fumbled for his wallet. He ripped out a condom, put it between his teeth, and dropped his jeans and underwear. Sensing heat, Cas wiggled his naked ass back, grinding against him. The skin-on-skin contact blew his fucking mind. For a second, he thought about throwing the condom out and running him through, rough and deep. Common sense kicked in. He suited up, grabbed his dick and rubbed it over Cas’ hole. They couldn’t wait and met in the middle with one hell of a thrust, crashing together in a head-soup of feel good, need, and carnal instinct. Being inside him, filling him up… how many times had he thought about this? He recreated everything in his fantasy right here and now. Dean grabbed his hip with one hand, tangling the other in Cas’ dark hair. Gripping it hard. Pulling. Cas whimpered, but didn’t struggle. Finally, he had control—and he liked it.
A lot.
Dean pulled his hips back, then shoved forward as hard as he could. Drew them back again before burying himself in Cas’ ass. Twice more, just like that. Hard, brutal thrusts. Cas groaned filthy each time, louder and louder as if it were a contest. After that… he went to fucking town.
He fucked him as hard as he could. His thrusts were punishing. Cas dropped his head to the desk and took every single one. The fragile, beautiful way Cas whispered his name, breathless, needy—if Dean could punish him like this every time Cas berated him in front of a customer—shit, it'd be worth it. The embarrassment, the anger, he'd take a fuckton of it, just to have Cas like this, bent over and taking every inch of him. When Cas grabbed himself and started jerking off—he lost it. Came like a broken fire hydrant. Cas didn’t last much longer.
After they’d caught their breath, Cas yanked his jeans up, buckled, and turned. He looked… pretty fucking adorable with his dark hair everywhere. His sweater vest and tie were in shambles. It was as if he'd dragged himself right out of bed after a full night of fucking. His beautiful face flushed, blue eyes sparkling—a paper clip indentation on his forehead.
“Clean this up,” Cas said. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
The uptight bookstore owner tilted his chin up, turned and walked away—right into a stack of books. Cas grunted, grabbed his glasses off the shelf, and stalked out of the back room. Completely unraveled, flustered, and unsettled.
Dean leaned against the wall and grinned.