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honeybeesintheimpala · 4 years

Text

Title: An Angel's Lullaby

Pairing: DeanCas, Destiel

Rating: Explicit

Words: 93,662

Status: Complete

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984306/chapters/18268822

Chapter One - The Man with the Ocean Eyes

"Excuse me," a gravelly voice suddenly fills the room and Dean's pen nearly goes flying, heart pumping. It's been at least two days since anyone's even walked through those doors and being alone with his thoughts isn't exactly a new thing but for that long, it gets to be a surprise when someone says something. He keeps it under control though, doesn't look up except a quick glance at a nice pair of khakis and a deep purple jumper.

He goes back to scribbling on the piece of paper where he's supposed to be filling out a request for another truck to come and take away a few boxes of older books, bring them to a charity or a foster house somewhere.

"What can I help you with," he says, surprised that his own voice is bored considering his heart is pounding out a Jamaican beat and he's pretty sure he almost pissed his pants.

"I was just wondering if there are any books that you might recommend? I'm in the mood for reading, but not really sure what to look for," the man speaks at a low volume, as if there's anyone here to be disturbed.

Dean's intrigue is piqued though, so he pauses his doodles, knits his eyebrows together and looks up.

His eyes trace up the outline of his jumper, which wraps nicely around a narrow waist and a great chest, then leads into a white collared shirt, tan neck, a scruffy jaw that can't decide between chiseled and soft, some full lips that look like they might be chapped bit also look incredibly kissable, a straight-edge nose, and finally, two unfathomable blue eyes, shining bright as the Caribbean ocean that Dean is entirely too sure they are made of. His hair is a messy looking, bed-head-esque mop of dark chocolate brown and he smiles down at Dean as if he isn't the most attractive person Dean's ever encountered.

He's actually blown away by the fact that this man is inside a nearly failing library right now instead of out modeling a white pinstripe suit and blue tie from Men's Warehouse somewhere.

This time, Dean thinks he may actually piss his pants, but he refrains from any sort of urination onto cloth, as a mind-blowingly handsome man with some captivating blue eyes that seem to have stolen the sea is standing in front of his desk, asking about books.

He also refrains from exhibiting all of these passing thoughts on his face, because it feels like it's been a few minutes since he asked the question and the guy's probably starting to think Dean's some weirdo who can't speak under pressure.

"Library's a dying business, sir," he sits back in his chair and sets the pen down slowly. "Yeah, all the kids got their...electronic readers and...there are bookstores that sell books. Never out of stock of a specific book. Sometimes we get that; not having a specific book because all the copies got checked out...or we used to have that..."

The man stares down at him with such focus and intent, nodding along and knitting his brows together. Who is this guy?

"Nah, I mean, it's amazing that...someone wants a book so badly and loves it so much that they gotta buy it and have it forever," Dean continues, then leans forward again, grabbing a book to his left and wiggling it in the air. "Not so awesome for the library."

"That's so...intriguing...that you respect those other industries so much..." He replies, squinting, head tilting in a puppy dog manner.

Dean chuckles, setting the book down. Stares at the black cover as his smile slowly fades.

"Not much else I can do," he shrugs, shuffling through several books to find the one with the light yellow-beige cover, red outline and text reading Oliver Twist glaring up at him, and a small, square, painted picture of a boy in a hat playing at the edge of a wood sitting just above the title. "Once these places shut down, I'll inevitably drift into a bookstore, sign up to be a clerk or a stocker. 'Cause I mean," he flips the book over and opens the back page. Pulls out the name card from the pocket glued to the inside of the cover and examines it. "Yeah, a book ain't been checked out from here in three months."

He laughs and throws the book to his right, watches it skid across the table and come to a stop beside the red canvas hardcover with shiny blue letters indenting the words Of Mice and Men.

"Wow...so...I mean, how do you guys stay in business?" The guy is leaning ever forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk and arms stick straight as he balances himself over the books.

Dean smirks up at him.

"Ah," he scrubs at the back of his neck, cheeks hot, and looks away into the corner of the main entrance. "Well, charities? Mostly...and, uh, you know, school fundraisers, donations from the coffee shop down the street." He squints up at the giant skylight making up about ninety percent of the roof, thinking. "Oh, uh...this one guy. Some sorta bookwrite. Author of...damn, what are those things called...gaaahh...oh! An Angel's Lullaby!" Recognition passes over the man's face in clear abundance. "Guy's name, I'm still drawin' a blank on--"

"Chuck Shurley," the guy cuts him off but Dean is impressed. It's such an obscure book but he obviously knows it well.

"Yeah!" He points at the guy. "Yeah, yeah. You know him? I mean, his work?"

"Yeah...too well...why?"

"Ah, no...I'm just...just surprised, you know? Not a real popular selection," Dean thinks for a moment and it falls silent once more. Then: "You met him? He did a book signing here once. Not many people came, but..."

"Oh, yeah I've met him..." He doesn't elaborate, but Dean suspects it's because he just explained it for the guy, and it seems like it's making him a little uncomfortable anyway.

"Uh," he looks for something that might change the subject. "Well, to answer your first question..." He opens his mouth to continue but ends up chuckling and shaking his head. "Look, man, there's just too many books and not enough time. I've been coming to this library my entire life, probably read every single book by now. I mean, I can point you to some of my favourites, I guess, but really the only one off the top of my head and without me getting up is An Angel's Lullaby."

"Are you religious?" He asks suddenly and Dean's bewildered by the inquiry until he realises how obsessed he must seem with the book.

"Oh..." He breathes out a laugh. "Nah, that's...I'm an atheist, actually. I'm just...really into angels. Religions and...gods and deities are my thing. To be honest, I could probably list thirty Christian angels off the top of my head."

"Really," he seems impressed and Dean blushes harder. "How about...the three main archangels and...the Angel of Thursday."

Specific...and strange. But okay, he'll play along. For the sake of flirting.

"Okay...well there's Michael, the eldest son of God who was set to the task of casting Lucifer, second oldest, into hell because he claimed he could not love humanity as he loved his father. Gabriel, protector of humanity, present at the birth of Jesus Christ and the deliverer of the Holy news. And then...actually, my favourite, if I'm honest-" he looks up and watches the man's lips part, a blush crawling up his neck too, and he briefly wonders why, "-Castiel. Angel of Thursday, keeper of prayers said on that day." He smirks for a second before adding, "Always heard he was a real looker."

The man seems flustered, tugging at his jumper, pulling the v-neck away from his chest and adjusting his collar.

"Me too," he chokes out and Dean thinks it's entirely unfair how cute this man looks with a scarlet flush painting his cheeks and his hands not able to find a resting placing.

"I..." Dean starts, gazing down at his hand fiddling with the edge of a hardcover, nail scraping against the canvas. "I think I remember a few more books. Not real sure what you would like, but, uh..." He tears a corner off of the paper he was drawing on and scribbles down the titles and respective authors, then continues as he hands the list to the man. "Most of 'em are...classics...Little Women, Gone With the Wind, A Wrinkle in Time, Wuthering Heights...the original and best...version of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland."

The man smiles down at the list and then down at Dean, and Dean's heart leaps into his throat.

"Thank you," he says quietly and Dean's eyes flit down, small smile of modest pride lifting his lips.

"Don't mention it," he whispers back, gaze meeting the man's once more. Then he leans forward and takes up the pen again, waggling it between two fingers. He leans on his bent arm and says, "So, you plannin' on checkin' anything out today, sir?"

And, without blinking or missing a beat, the man replies with the most unexpected answer, letting the words drip from his lips like fuckin' honey when he replies, "Just you."

Dean is astonished at this guy's guts, but a brazen vocabulary and a cocky attitude is exactly the kind of thing that gets him going.

He opens his mouth in a shocked kind of smile, and shakes his head as if he's offended at the nerve of those words.

"I...don't even know your name," Dean says slowly, eyes twitching from the man's leg to his chest to his mouth to his eyes. When they meet, the man tilts his head with another squint, this one more challenging than curious. Amazing how he can squint in the same manner with just the slightest differences and change the entire composure of the movement.

But Dean doesn't let himself get too distracted by this ability, and soon encounters a moment of realisation.

The blushing, fidgeting, stumbling words when he talked about Castiel...

"Your name is Castiel," he whispers, astounded. "And you have three brothers." Then more realisation. "And you haven't met Chuck Shurley, you used to live with him."

Castiel pushes his lips out and looks down, scratches through the stubble on the edge of his jaw, nods.

"And I assume," Castiel says, squinting at the wooden triangle at the corner of Dean's desk and smiling, then continuing, "your name is Dean Winchester and you work as a librarian."

"Hey, I am not...a librarian," he protests playfully, grin growing on his teeth. "I am...a book obsessed...checker...outer."

Castiel laughs and Dean gives him a look for a moment before bursting out into his own fit of laughter at how utterly ridiculous that title sounds.

"I'm guessing that sounded better in your head?"

"It did," Dean nods and chucks the pen at one of the books, sitting back in his chair again and kicking his legs up onto his desk. He cranes his neck and reaches behind him, grips the back of another rolling chair, and rolls it over so it's facing him. Pats the seat and jerks his head. "Come on around." Castiel looks uncertain, sliding the torn paper into his pocket and pursing his lips, slight squint of his eyes. Dean chuckles. "Come on. I don't bite."

"Isn't that against the rules or something?" Castiel asks as he makes his way around the right side of the desk and through the opening in the side, in spite of his words.

"'Eah, mostly," Dean shrugs and pushes his lips out, then smiles. "But no one else is around, don't have any cameras, and-" he holds out a hand, "-I'm a rebel."

Castiel laughs wholeheartedly at this, grin huge and gummy - the most enchanting thing Dean's ever seen - and his head tilted back, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Dean notices a slight dimple in his left cheek and stores that information in the back of his mind for later, when he's having a rough day.

"What," he says, though he knows Castiel is laughing at his insanely stupid joking around.

"Nothing, you're just...really...interesting--"

"Interesting meaning...lame?" He squints and adds, "Dumbass, weirdo, bad amusement--"

"Hey, I genuinely laughed at that," Castiel points a finger at him, not hiding his grin.

Dean shakes his head, looks away, licks his lips. Things settle for a moment.

Dean plays with the hem of his black t-shirt, scratches his nails over the faded denim of his jeans, examines the familiar dark splotch of oil on the knee. He would dress nicer for work, but the last time anyone even walked through the doors was 48 hours ago, and he wasn't expecting any company today, either.

"Can't believe I'm flirting with the son of my favourite author," he mutters, reaching back over the back of his chair to snatch up another pen.

Castiel scoffs playfully, and Dean catches the smirk on his face when he turns back around.

"You call that flirting," Castiel quips, unbuttoning the wrists if his collared shirt and rolling the sleeves of both the shirt and jumper up.

Dean lets his brows drop and pushes his lips out in confusion. "Well...yeah..." Dean watches Castiel stifle a smile and glance down and away. "Why, what do you call it."

Castiel peeks up through mischievous, dark lashes and swimming eyes, lips parting in a secretive smirk.

"Honestly?" He starts, shifting in his seat and sitting back, settling his hands together in his lap. "A sad but sweet attempt to impress me."

"Oh, is that so?"

Castiel nods, grin growing across his cheeks.

"And what would you consider flirting, mr. big-shot-I-know-exactly-how-to-woo-the-ladies?"

"Well, first of all," Castiel leans forward, rests an elbow against his knee, uses the armrest to balance himself, and points at Dean with raised brows, as if he's about to teach a lesson. "Sir. There's a difference between being laid back and being downright cocky. And you-" the corner of his lips twitches up very briefly, and his cyan blue eyes turn dark "-are neither."

"So what, exactly," Dean whispers, fingers a bit too loosely woven around the pen, teeth digging into his lip. "Do you propose I do about it?"

Castiel's gummy smile is printed into his teeth again and he shrugs a shoulder, bringing his lips down in an impressed bow.

"Well, that's the first step. Ask what you are instead of asking what to change. When you know, even if it's not true, even if it's only what another person sees, you can accept it."

Dean squints, leaning further back into his chair, pressing his index finger into the ballpoint, black ink tip of the pen and the other to the textured top of the cap wrapped around the end, pushing his tongue into his cheek and pursing his lips.

"Alright, fine. What am I?" Dean imposes, then grips the tip of the pen between his thumb and finger and adds, "To you. Smartass."

This earns him a short chuckle and an approving nod.

"Well...I think...you're reserved. You act like you're king shit and like you know exactly who you are, like you don't give two flying fucks about where you're headed in life, or maybe like you've already accepted it. You act comfortable with yourself, but what nerd is ever actually satisfied with their existence?" He's leaning ever-forward and Dean's cocksure smile is ever-fading, eyes becoming wide with marvel as the man-who-knows-too-much continues. "I think you're unsure. You're scared and you...you hide things that you think no one cares about. You're upset and self-deprecating. Eyes of a guilty conscience."

Dean drops his gaze, first to the floor, then to the pen, still grasped tightly by his fingers which have fallen into his lap and which fiddle vapidly with the object, nail scraping at the black polycarbonate and over the white indents that spell out the company name.

"But," Castiel starts up again, voice soft and lilting. Dean swallows hard. "I think you have a lot to give. I think you have...maybe too much to give. Too much forgiveness, too much love, too much doubt, too much strength and care. I think you are the embodiment of generosity, but you don't take what you really need in return. And I think that can get dangerous, but I also think that nothing is ever really too much." Dean's eyes flit back up in time to catch Castiel's angling downward, past Dean's chair, through the desk, through the floor, staring wistfully at something intangible. "People are greedy. And you're too willing to give."

Dean searches the man's face for any sign that this is all some sort of joke, that he's being filmed or some shit, but all he finds is truth and wisdom and knowledge, and possibly a glimmer, just a glimpse in those blue eyes, of a bittersweet past, an origin for where these words came from.

"I was right!" He exclaims as he sits back in the chair, shoulders trembling with a silent laugh. "You like to cover up your pain with gay jokes and stupid references."

"Now, that, I can't deny," Dean nods and everything falls silent. He rocks his chair gently, side to side, left to right, fingers still fidgeting with the tips of the pen, his head tilted in thought. Castiel's mouth is pulled up into a ginger smile, his eyes faraway and swimming in themselves, in the past, in glistening memories and soft-edged, slow-motion, sunny-fielded dreams. "What about you?" He asks suddenly, voice crackling and ripping through the still air as a quiet question. Castiel eyes don't move but his smile grows slightly. "I mean...what do you think of yourself."

"Not much," he replies, head lolling to the side and back, eyes catching on the impotent, pathetic little piles of books scattered about Dean's desk. "I like books. Reading. Writing. Time-consuming, arbitrary activities which include my eyes scanning words on a piece of pressed wood?" He furrows his brows and Dean throws his head back in a genuine, full laughter that he hasn't experienced in a long time.

"I can tell you write. What do you write about? Like, schmoopy romance novels? Sci-fi thrillers? Action adventure futurism?"

"And I can tell you do a lot of librarian...ing..." Castiel squints and presses his lips together in the contrite afterthought but continues, nevertheless. "I write what my dad would call 'a bunch of gay shit'." Dean cocks a brow. "Get your head out of the gutter, it's not as sexy as it sounds. For the most part. Bottom line, I'm gay, I hang out with gay people, and I wanted to dedicate my life to writing about it, about that experience. But my dad has never approved much."

"You don't say."

"Yeah...he's...more into theology. I think the one book he's ever written that really ventures into the realm of fiction, or at least dips it's toes past the line, is An Angel's Lullaby."

"Which parts are real?" Dean scratches the pen across the bumpy plastic chair arm and watches the black ink run in splotches over the grey of the polyvinyl.

"Our names, obviously," Castiel shifts again, bringing his leg down from across his knee and kicking off from the floor so he spins in a circle. Dean watches with a strangely adoring smile. "It's funny that that's the part most people think is fiction. But, no. Mom was a Jesus nut and Dad is too passive to care, so we ended up with angelic names and weird looks from sane people. The only parts that aren't completely true are the things like our address, the colours they painted our rooms, some of the dialogue that he added or got rid of in order to make the conversations more interesting or sensible - you know, just these really inane things..."

He trails off and he's staring at Dean with expectant brows, and Dean realises he's staring too, realises Castiel probably stopped because it's weird how attentive he is.

"Sorry. You're fun to listen to."

Castiel's cheeks paint themselves a thick fuchsia and his eyes drop to his empty palms resting uselessly in his lap, the lines becoming suddenly very interesting. Then they catch on his watch and widen and his head whips up.

"Well, if I'm so interesting to listen to," he leans forward, snatches the pen from Dean's hand, then takes the other hand and begins a careful scrawl across the back of it as he continues, "why don't you call me. And we can figure out a time to meet at the-" he recaps the pen and gently replaces it in Dean's hand "-coffee place down the street. But, right now, I have to go. College...and shit. Studying for a major in English takes a lot of time away from socialising."

"Sorry to keep you, I didn't--"

"No no no! It was..." His blush deepens and he stands, head down. "It was incredible to meet you. I really hope I can see you again."

"O-Of course," Dean's voice comes out stammered and soft, crackling with hope and fear and adoration, and Castiel smiles broadly.

"Great," he whispers back, then he's rushing around the side of the desk and out the front door and Dean is left to wonder if the entire exchange was even real or if his lonely, empty mind is just playing games.

When he looks at the neat, black little numbers on his hand, he realises just how real right now is.

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