AU where Dean owns a record shop and Cas owns a book shop right beside it, and they both hate each other for stupid petty reasons and they constantly trade insults; one day Cas tells Dean to shut up, and Dean says “make me” and smirks, so Cas shoves him right up against the wall and bites his lower lip (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧
MY HAND SLIPPED
Fic behind the cut:
For the fifth time that morning, Cas Novak jumped, startled out of Paradise Lost by the sudden sound of AC/DC booming from next door. Irritated, he flicked the book shut, eyes raised beseechingly in the forlorn hope that some god or other might deign to solve the problem of Dean Winchester. The man was a menace – three months he’d been running the neighbouring record shop, and in all that time, there hadn’t been a single day when he hadn’t somehow managed to get on Cas’s nerves. It wasn’t just his taste in music, though that was questionable at the best of times, being tragically mired in the same decade responsible for hot pants and Happy Days; it was the volume, and the stupid antique cowbell he’d attached to his door, and the roar of his equally stupid car, which looked like the improbable lovechild of a mako shark and a briefcase. He was inconsiderate, noisy and utterly incorrigible, but all that would still have been surmountable if not for the fact that he’d also leased the long-vacant flat above his shop, which meant that Cas, who lived in the flat above his shop, had to deal with his proximity out of hours, too.
Gritting his teeth, Cas rose and stalked to his door, absently straightening a misaligned stack of books in passing. His bell, which was small and bronze and appropriate to a secondhand bookshop, glingled cheerfully as he exited. Annoyingly, it was quieter on the street, a fact made all the more apparent when, two seconds later, he stormed into Impala Records – wincing, as he always did, at the wantonly ludicrous clatter of the cowbell – and found himself assailed by the full force of Thunderstruck’s chorus. Unsurprisingly, there were no customers present: just Dean Winchester, who had been playing air guitar, but who stopped the moment Cas entered. Leaning back against the counter, he flashed a grin so punchable you could’ve boxed three rounds with it.
‘Hey there, Cas! What can I do you for?’
It was so loud, he was barely audible. 'Turn it down!’ said Cas.
Dean cupped a hand to his ear, the gesture deliberately exaggerated. 'What? I can’t hear you!’
'I said, turn it down!’
'What?’
'TURN. IT –’ Dean flipped a switch; the music stopped instantly, '– DOWN!’ bellowed Cas, into the unexpected silence.
Dean grinned again. 'Hey, no need to shout.’
Cas glowered. 'Why do you delight in torturing me?’
'Torturing you?’ He actually looked offended. 'With Thunderstruck? Are you kidding me?’
'It’s not the song that’s the issue.’
'Then what?’ He threw out his arms. 'Come on, Cas, lighten up! Live a little! Stop being so, so –’
'Normal?’
'So quiet!’
Cas huffed. 'There’s nothing wrong with quietude. I –’
’Quietude? Oh, man. You really do need help.’
'I don’t need help,’ Cas snapped. 'I need peace.’
'To do what? Sell books?’
'For starters, yes. I also like to hear myself think. Though I’ll understand,’ he added, with all the withering scorn he could muster, 'if the concept is unfamiliar to you.’
Dean laughed, shaking a hand as though he’d singed his fingers. 'Ouch, Cas! That almost hurt! But seriously, man – what the hell is your problem?’
Cas was so taken aback, it shocked him into stepping forwards. ’My problem?’
'You bet it’s your problem!’ Dean actually looked angry. 'Ever since I got here, you’ve been riding me like I’m some dumb hick who keeps crashing your poetry readings. I mean, I’m an easygoing guy, but you – you ain’t happy without something to complain about, and I don’t know why, but apparently, you’ve decided it’s gotta be me. So lay off, all right?’
Cas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 'Listen, I don’t know what your definition of easygoing is, but from where I’m sitting, you’re pretty much the opposite.’
'Oh?’ said Dean, raising an eyebrow. 'And what does that make me?’
'An inconsiderate jerk, mostly.’ Cas started ticking things off on his fingers. 'You have a cowbell. You leave your bins every which way, and I have to straighten them up. You let your junk mail pile up on the back stairs, and I have to tidy that up, too. You play music all hours of the day and night –’
’It’s a music store!’
'– at a volume,’ Cas continued over him, '– that should, frankly, be illegal, and while I appreciate that your ostensible purpose here is selling CDs, that doesn’t excuse you singing classic rock in the shower every single morning! And singing it badly, too!’
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again. Cocked his head. 'You can hear me sing in the shower?’
'Believe me, I wish I couldn’t.’
'Yeah, but – is that all you can hear me doing?’
Cas coughed, discomfited by the sudden slyness of Dean’s smile. 'My bedroom is on the other side of the wall. I, uh, there’s a lot of sound – that is, the sound carries, and I can’t – I mean, it’s not like I want to listen, I just –’
Dean raised his hands, a placating gesture ruined by the accompanying smirk. 'Hey, hey, no judgement. Whatever gets you through your, uh, quietude.’
And he winked. He actually winked.
Cas didn’t know where to look, or even what to say. The conversation had gone from being within his control to veering quite spectacularly off the rails, and now it was all he could do to take a deep, shaky breath and force himself to recover. 'Just, please – keep the music down, will you?’
'Sure,’ said Dean, in a cheerful tone that suggested he had absolutely no intention of doing so.
Cas gave up, and turned to leave.
Just as he pulled on the door, the music started up again, loud as ever.
'THIS OK?’ Dean yelled.
For a moment, Cas almost rose to the bait. But then the cowbell clanged, and he beat a retreat without answer, hurrying back to the relative safety of his own, Dean-free store.
*
Dean watched Cas leave, chuckling to himself. Man, it wasn’t like the guy didn’t have it coming, but still, he was such an easy target, it was hard to feel good about hitting a bullseye. Cas Novak was like something out of a sitcom, he was that uptight: for the love of god, what sort of man wore a damn tie and suit to work in a secondhand bookshop he owned? It wasn’t like he was selling first edition Bibles in there or anything, either; so far as Dean could make out, most of his stock was the same sort of stuff you’d find anywhere else, only dustier and with fewer pictures. Also, no magazines, which was a shame, because at least then, Dean could’ve pretended to browse without boring himself unconscious.
Dean counted to twenty – more than enough time for Cas to get settled back in his batcave– then, with a sigh of extreme forbearance, turned the volume down. He could be a jerk sometimes, sure, but he wasn’t a complete jerk. And anyway, Cas had started it.
Hadn’t he?
Dean stopped, caught off balance by the disconcerting realisation that maybe, just maybe, Cas had a point. He thought back to January, when he’d first taken over the store. He’d bought the whole thing entire – stock, fixtures and all – from the previous owner, who’d seemed like a decent enough guy, but who definitely hadn’t mentioned anything about an overbearing, anally-retentive neighbour, even though he’d been honest enough to fess up to the presence of mould and a bunch of missing invoices. His first night there, arriving after a ten-hour drive but far too wired to sleep, Dean had tackled the mould, listed the paperwork in the Deal With It Later column, and promptly set about cleaning his flat, which had been untenanted for long enough that the dust showed insect tracks. And so, of course, the first thing he’d done was –
'Oh,’ said Dean.
– vacuum. At four AM. While playing music. And, he suspected, singing. Even if Cas had banged on the wall – and no one else would have; they were the only two residential tenants left in their row of shops, the surrounding businesses all having long since expanded onto multiple floors – Dean likely wouldn’t have heard. Instead, he’d cleaned until dawn, when the removal truck had arrived with his things.
’Oh,’ he said again.
There were two ways into Dean’s flat: one was through the shop, and the other was an external staircase accessible from the back alley. A shared staircase, in point of fact, as it also lead to Cas’s door – and now that he came to think about it, what with all the boxes and bits of furniture he’d been lugging up from the truck, and given how heavy they were and the fact that the cheapass removalists had taken one look at the stairs and decided they’d really rather not, it was entirely possible that Dean had, without actually meaning to, blocked Cas’s front door for most of that first day. And, well, OK – sure, he’d made some noise moving in, but that was only fair, wasn’t it? Moving was noisy business! And it wasn’t like Cas had ever complained about the vacuuming or the door or any of it, but Dean wasn’t psychic; and man, if Cas was too chicken to say something at the outset, then how was that his problem?
But as for the rest of it… Well, fair was fair: he’d cop to ignoring the bins and the junk mail, though he hadn’t known they were an issue. How could he have done, when every time he remembered to check them, everything was all tidied away? How was he meant to know that Cas was the one doing everything?
'Aw, hell,’ he said, smacking an angry palm on the counter, 'who else was it gonna be? The tooth fairy?’
Aggravated now, Dean ran a hand through his hair. He’d moved to Monument for a clean break, wanting to get away from everything and everyone in his old life, and while that was fine in theory, it also meant he’d landed himself in a strange city with no family and no acquaintances bar his landlady, and she was a retired accountant living three suburbs over. He’d known he had a neighbour, but he was new at this whole domestic thing, and the idea of just knocking on Cas’s door and introducing himself as someone who maybe wanted a friend had seemed like only slightly less fun than shooting himself in the balls. So he’d gone into Cas’s shop instead, thinking he’d try to strike up a professional repartee, but the last time Dean had been in a bookshop that didn’t also sell porn, he’d been buying texts for school, and all he’d done was flail about awkwardly for something to say before making a crack about Cas being big into Dickens, because it was all he could think of.
And Cas had squinted up at him, in his bland blue tie and his cheap black suit that made him look like a tax inspector, and asked if he wouldn’t mind turning his music down. And Dean, who felt the rebuke had come out of nowhere, had bristled, and refused, and made some more bad jokes, and the whole thing had gone south from there.
Even so, if Dean had known anyone else in town, he might’ve just let things lie. But the sad fact was, he didn’t then and still didn’t now, because for all his bravado, it turned out he was just as gunshy about striking up genuine conversations in bars as he was doorknocking neighbours, and as Cas-the-bookseller was someone he at least had a pretext for talking to, so Cas-the-bookseller had become his main source of amusement. Hell, he’d even taken to playing his music loud on purpose, just to goad Cas intro dropping by, because the only other conversations he had were with customers, and whatever their commercial virtues, he couldn’t tease them, and they weren’t a captive audience. And isn’t that sad, he sneered at himself, that deep down, you’re still a six-year-old pulling pigtails? Come on, Winchester. Admit it: you’ve been a complete dick to him, and now he hates you. Just give up.
But the idea that Cas might actually hate him left Dean feeling drymouthed and queasy, like he’d gone to drink from an empty glass he’d thought was full. Which was completely irrational: he hardly knew the guy, and from the little he did, Cas wasn’t his type, not for friendship or anything else. He used words like quietude, and spent all day in a bookshop, and complained about AC/DC playing too loud, and why the hell should Dean give a shit what he thought? He was just some weird, obsessive little man in a bad suit, who squinted and sighed and clucked at him like a librarian who’d found a skin mag shelved with his Shakespeare, and if it wasn’t for the slight hitch in his shoulders when he’d stormed out, Dean could almost have convinced himself that was all there was to Cas. But somehow, he knew better, and now that he did, he had to try and apologise.
Only thing was, he’d never been good at apologies. If he was, then chances were, he’d never have run to Monument in the first place. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try and get better.
Starting now.
*
Cas stood up, and promptly sat back down again. Even with the music reduced to a reasonable volume, he still felt at a loss for what to do. Had he been too harsh? Had he been a bad neighbour? Dean Winchester might be an inconsiderate jerk at times, but he was new to the area, and the first time he’d come in to introduce himself, Cas had ignored the man’s obvious discomfort at the scenario in favour of offering criticism. That had hardly been charitable, and if everything Dean had done since then, or failed to do, was just a reaction to Cas’s rudeness, then that was, if still not optimal, then at least understandable. But that didn’t mean he should just roll over, either – he’d been within his rights to be upset, and there was a difference between trying to make amends and setting yourself up to be a doormat. And Cas, whatever else could be said of him, was emphatically not a doormat, though it sometimes felt like he’d spent the past decade trying – and failing – to prove it.
His shop bell rang, and Cas was on his feet before he realised it wasn’t a customer. Dean stood in the doorway, arms crossed awkwardly over his chest, and stared around the room like he’d never seen it before.
'Nice place,’ he said, gaze skating over the sale table. 'I should, uh, come in more often.’
'You could do that,’ said Cas, warily. 'Whether or not you should is a different question.’
Dean ducked his head, and Cas frowned, unable to fathom his sudden change in demeanour. Gone was the smirking confidence, replaced by a sort of self-conscious shuffling that was reminiscent of nothing so much as a bemused penguin.
'Did you want something?’ Cas asked, pointedly.
Dean ran a finger over a copy of Pride and Prejudice. 'Yeah, as you mention it. What the hell kind of name is Cas? I mean, what’s it short for? Caspar the Friendly Bookselling Ghost?’
'It’s Castiel, actually.’ He dropped his gaze, the old embarrassment ingrained to the point of reflex, and squared himself against the expected mockery. 'Go on.’
'Go on what?’
Cas blinked, confused by Dean’s confusion. 'Laugh.’
'I’m not going to laugh at that.’
'Why the hell not?’
'Because.’ Dean shrugged. 'It’s better than Caspar.’
Cas just stared at him, inexplicably furious. 'What do you want, Dean?’ He stalked forwards, prompting Dean to step back. 'Do you even know? Or are you just here to insult me some more?’
'What? No!’ Dean inhaled and laughed, albeit shakily. 'Believe it or not, I actually wanted to apologise.’
'Apologise.’
'Yeah, you know.’ He hugged himself with one arm, gesturing feebly with the other. 'For earlier. For the music and, you know, the other stuff.’
'And you thought the best way to do that would be… asking about my name.’
'It broke the ice, didn’t it?’
Cas stepped closer, deriving some small measure of satisfaction from the sound of Dean’s back bumping into a bookshelf. 'I’m not feeling very thawed.’
'Yeah, so I’m seeing.’ He bit his lip, then grinned. 'You’re kinda cute when you’re angry. Anyone ever tell you that?’
Heat flashed through Cas, and not just his face. 'Shut up.’
'What? It’s true!’
Goaded beyond endurance, Cas grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back against the shelf, hard. 'Shut up!’
'Make me!’
Cas kissed him, so fast he was barely even conscious of having done so. He felt Dean’s shock, the indrawn breath that parted his lips and let Cas in, and braced for the inevitable revulsion, rage; for Dean to shove him away and flee.
But instead, Dean kissed him back: tentative at first, then passionately, one hand gripping Cas’s hair, the other splaying across his side, pulling him close. It was more intimacy than he’d had in months – in almost a year, even – and Cas lost himself in it, anger completely forgotten, letting his hands slide down to Dean’s hips as he melted into the kiss.
And then, abruptly, he came back to himself, and realised what he was doing. He pulled away, hating the feeling of letting go, of being let go, and stood there, breathing no less heavily than Dean, whose eyes – green eyes, and how had he only just noticed that? – were wide and glazed, his bottom lip swollen where Cas had shamelessly sucked it.
'I’m sorry,’ he said. The words came out in a gulp. He stumbled backwards, knocking over a pile of books and for once not caring, stopping only when he hit his desk. 'I shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have done that.’
'The hell you shouldn’t,’ Dean panted, touching two fingers against his mouth. It wasn’t until he stared at their tips, his expression almost wondering, that Cas realised he was looking for blood – that he must have actually bitten him. Lust, and embarrassment, burned him like fire. He gripped the edge of the desk and levered himself behind it, falling into his chair before his legs could give out. Had he ever kissed anyone like that? Had anyone ever kissed him like that? And why, of all people, did Dean Winchester have to be the one to make him wonder?
'You should go,’ he said, realising how bad that sounded even as he spoke.
'Seriously?’ Dean straightened, leaning away from the shelf. 'That’s what you’re gonna say to me after – we’re not even going to talk about this?’
'Not now,’ said Cas, and some of his distress must have coloured his tone, because instantly, Dean went from affronted to resigned.
'Right,’ he said. 'Sure.’ He swiped a palm down his thigh – they’d been pressed close enough together that, to put it delicately, their mutual enthusiasm had been readily apparent – and half stepped, half stumbled towards the door. 'I’ll, uh. I’ll swing by later, maybe. After hours.’
Cas’s mouth went dry. 'After hours,’ he echoed, his imagination so enraptured with the possibilities, it took him a good four seconds to remember he was trying to avoid that sort of scenario. He licked his lips and said, 'No, wait –’
But Dean was already gone, the shop bell ringing his exit like pantomime.
(Note: I’m still writing this fic, but this is the bit that seemed most appropriate to the original prompt, and it kinda stands alone, so here it is.)
(via tcgficreblogs)
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