Chapter Text
Kevin cleared his throat, glanced at his notes, and held forth with varsity debate volume and poise: "Hey, everybody, welcome to another edition of our film series, Cult Movies Without Cults. Most of the time, these movies highlight the work of, shall we say, lesser-known practitioners of the cinematic arts. Which makes this month a special treat: tonight we present the 1982 TV movie Mazes & Monsters, featuring the star talent of the man sometimes called 'the modern Jimmy Stewart.' Yes, everybody, in his first starring role, it's two-time Academy Award winner Tom Hanks!" Someone broke into applause, and the small crowd of regulars took it up; Kevin paused till the clapping faded, tapping index cards on one wrist.
"It's the timeless tale of a group of college students who play Dungeons and—I'm sorry, "Mazes and Monsters," totally different tabletop RPG, legally distinct for all purposes—and of course, because of its evil and stuff, are inevitably sucked into self-harm, delusions, and yes, even that most deviant of all activities, LARPing." He grinned at Charlie, who spent a few weekends a year in a local park in boots and doublet, yelling “Lightning bolt!” at people wearing orc ears; she stuck out her tongue. "The movie's based on a novel by Rona Jaffe, author of staff favorite The Best of Everything." (Sotto voce cheer from Anna, womanning the register.) "That's enough background, I think. Charlie, you wanna get here and go over drinking game rules?"
"Naturally!" She bounced out of her front-row seat, paper in hand, and started reading off a list of prompts: "OK! Listen up, cats and kittens. First, every time JayJay wears a new stupid hat, take a drink..."
After the lights went down and the first stupid hat appeared (a spiked German helmet), Dean nudged Cas's knee with his own, offered him some bourbon from his hip flask—a best-man gift from Sammy, engraved with his initials. They were sitting in the back row; actually, they were the back row, sharing space on the couch where they'd first kissed. Yeah, it had turned a few customers' heads when Castiel Novak walked in with him (wearing Dean’s Fahrenheit 451 shirt, holding his hand), and yeah, Dean was hiding a little. It shouldn't be nerve-wracking to be out in public with him, really. It wasn't even the first time, since they'd put their clothes on and had dinner out more evenings than not over the past week. But something about being here, in his store, watching a terrible movie with the people he thought of as his tribe? Gut butterflies all over again, and the back row seemed the better part of valor at the moment.
Cas didn't seem to mind, though, sipping the whiskey delicately and returning the flask to between Dean's thighs; he rested his hand on the one closest to him. Dean laid his own hand over it, stroking the line of a tendon with his fingertips, and Cas flexed beneath his touch, hooked their index fingers together gently. Sneaking a look out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas was half-turned towards him, smiling fondly. His heart lurched, for the thousandth time that day.
He'd stopped correcting Charlie when she referred to Cas as his boyfriend (which she did often, and with gusto: "it's so nice to see you all permanent-afterglow!"), and had moved on to correcting himself when he mentally slipped into the wrong preposition; he was falling for Cas, not falling in anything, this was an important distinction to make. Because never mind that it was too soon to be this infatuated—eighteen days, he kept reminding myself, you met the dude eighteen days ago—it was downright delusional to let himself feel anything more profound. To feel like he stood on the edge of a precipice, that if he stepped off he might fly instead of shatter. So he wouldn’t, simple as that. Always time later on if it lasted.
In the meantime, it was perfectly acceptable to enjoy himself, enjoy Cas. And the sex. Definitely enjoying the sex, and the cuddling, and the waking up turned towards each other, like flowers to the sun.
Dammit, he was doing it again. Calm and collected, he thought. Observe your emotions but don't engage, Vulcan-style. He turned his hand palm up to lace all his fingers between Cas's and gave him an affectionate squeeze. Glanced one more time and turned his attention to this glorious trainwreck of a movie.
They held hands for half an hour, hardly moving—every now and then a moment of tightened grip while they laughed, or a thumb stroked softly over a knuckle. Then Cas extricated himself, working the stiffness out of his joints, and moved to put his arm around Dean, who tensed, just a little, as his hand came to rest over his bicep.
Cas leaned in to whisper in his ear, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "Relax. It's only my arm, Dean, very family-friendly and proper. I'm not going to blow you in a room full of people." He laughed, low in his throat. "I'm going to blow you in your office after the movie's over. If that's acceptable."
Dean swallowed. "Yeah, of course it is," he said. "Although usually we all go out for drinks after, Charlie and Anna and Kevin and me. This comfy pub called the Boulevard, hipster-free with pinball. Was hoping you'd come hang out."
"Yes!" said Cas. "Yes, I'd enjoy that very much. But I'd also enjoy blowing you in your office, so why don't we do that first and then catch up?" Dean nodded so fast he made himself dizzy for a second. Cas laughed, dropped a chaste kiss on Dean's earlobe, and went back to watching a multiple Oscar winner emote wildly at an ill-lit puppet.