#sometimes for fun i imagine random caps of dean as caps from some sort of dean/cas au #like maybe this is a still from some film about a man named Dean Winchester meeting Castiel Novak in the rows of some comic book shop #and maybe one day Dean takes a break from browsing the Enterprise models to browse through the store's trashy book selection #which in no way has anything to do with noticing the really hot tousled haired guy also standing there #and it's not like Dean starts regularly frequenting said shop for the hopes of glancing the guy again #and maybe through repeat encounters #and several not-dates at the coffee shop round the corner #Dean comes to learn all about Castiel and his quirks #and how he's actually one of his favourite sci-fi authors #he also comes to learn #that he's fallen hopelessly in love with him

(can't remember where that's from, but I want to write it and so.)

(cross-posted from tumblr)

—-

The bell of the comics shop jingles as Dean Winchester ventures inside. It's a lazy summer day in one of the southern states of America: which one exactly, he doesn't care to know. His job takes him along dusty highways with stodgy (and dodgy) roadside bars, where his only company is unfortunately his little brother and a beautiful, purring Impala…and the greats of rock music, but that's hardly companionship.

This shop, being just a little sublet off a grander book store - it's probably a franchise of some sort, judging from the clientele - doesn't even have A/C. It's got one off-white fan, spinning lazily. Under it, piles and piles of comic books line the shelves, stacked up to the ceiling.

He casts his gaze around the shop. The counter, where there should be a fat dude munching cheezles or doritos or something orange and unhealthy, is empty. 'Course, the crumbs are still there, but. The little fridge behind it, selling beers and juices in equal measure, is humming, and the stickers for the prices are more than a little faded.

In short, Dean Winchester feels like he's come home.

In high school, he was pretty much a jock. Ran around a lot, could fight with the punks and everything. But his little brother? Was a bit of a geek. Could quote the specifications of every knife under the sun - length, make, history of branding and stories behind them. Picking up birthday presents was always easy (get him a book about knives), at least until Sam asked him for some superhero comics.

Then it got hard for Dean to pry himself out of the shop. Superman, Batman, all those are things every kid learns about. But Transmetropolitan? A future city steeped in every kind of future sin? What about Falling Leaves? Sin City? Sandman? Neuromancer, Pulse, Cocoon, American Gods, Heartbroken. A man could spend a hundred lifetimes in the lives of these characters, and yet not learn enough.

So it's become like an addiction he can't cure: whenever they stop over at a town that looks like it's got a comic book shop (geekery shop, Sam calls them - ironically), Dean's got to go inside.

All the titles here are unfamiliar. His shoes carry him to the first familar 'verse he sees - models of the Enterprise, mostly. His hands brush over them, marvelling at the way they work, how the ship would work if humans got into space like the Trekkies did.

Dean likes science fiction novels. He got into them after English class studied Neuromancer - they had a weird teacher, but Mr. Singer got them all hooked on the weird, sci-fi stuff. Dean loved the war ones especially - Heinlein and Ringo, Hubbard was a bit of a freak but could write the pulp stuff good, Zelazny, Novak, Piers Anthony even. Asimov. Weber. Baen - he loved that publisher, loved it good. He mutters the names under their breath,

He wondered if any of Baen's graphic novels made it into this shop?

Dean turns around.

There's a man there, tousle-haired and blue eyes ice-sharp, staring at him. His trenchcoat is well-used, and he's smiling and it's all kinds of breath-taking, heart-breaking.

"Hi," the man says.

"Hi," Dean returns, his brow furrowing.

"I notice you're looking at Enterprise models?"

"Yeah. What of it?" He's brusque and rough because god-damn-it-all, the man's got the most disarming smile he's ever met, and Dean Winchester has seen a fuck-ton of disarming smiles in his profession, and they're dangerous people. Unpredictable.

"Most people come in here to pick up the independent titles, is all. They generally avoid this area like the plague."

"How cliche," Dean rumbles back, and huffs. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"I like to say cliches," the man returns, and sticks out his hand. "I'm Castiel."

"Dean," Dean says, and inclines his head, shaking Castiel's hand firmly. The grip is just right, the calluses on his thumb and web indicating a ton of writing. Judging by the pens sticking out of one of his trenchcoat's pockets, and the numbers written on his wrist, Dean guesses that Castiel is some kind of geeky accountant.

"Like I said, cliches: Dean! I believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

"I'm gonna be out of town in three hours, Castiel," Dean says. "I've got a kind of moving job."

"Pity," Castiel says, and drops his hand. Dean hadn't even noticed they were still holding over to each other. "Maybe you're free for a drink?"

"I don't drink with strange men," Dean says, then pauses, because Castiel is attractive, and god-damn if those puppy-dog eyes don't move him a little. "But I'd be willing to make an exception for not-strange men? I mean. Maybe next time I'm in town, I'll drop by."

"Good," Castiel says. "In the mean-time, can I recommend some of the sci-fi here?" His gaze is infinitely amused. "You read it?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "I do."

"Heinlein?"

"Definitely."

"You ever read A Moon Is A Harsh Mistress?"