SPN – Dean/Castiel – PG – Shut Up ‘verse, AU, Christmas Fluff, Advent Ficlet Collection
7. First snowfall
[AO3]
“Call it,” Dean mutters, refreshing his email for the third time in as many minutes. “C’mon, you sons of bitches, call it, call it—”
“Production is leaving,” Benny reports from around his computer screen, phone to his ear and mouth pulled away from the receiver. “Art and Design are leaving. HR is leaving, ces couillions.”
“I’m leaving,” Victor says, already slinging his bag over his shoulder and pushing his chair in. “I’m parked on a snow route and about to get towed if I don’t. See you morons next week.”
“It’s Boston, they’re not going to shut the firm down for two days,” Dean says distractedly, refreshing his inbox again.
“Maybe not, but if you think I’m coming in from New Milton while we’re digging out of that,” Victor says, pointing, “you are out of your damn mind. Call me if it’s urgent, but a phonecall’s all you’re getting.”
He stalks out past the break room television he’d pointed at, the screen barely visible from Dean’s desk. WCVB Channel 5 has been broadcasting video of what’s left of New York state after Winter Storm Argos passed through. Most of the footage is whiteout blizzard conditions, some of it car wrecks and highways slowed to a crawl.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Benny says, and under his breath adds, “asshole.”
A new email appears, and Dean stands up so violently he sends his chair flying backwards. “Yes!” he says, arms up.
Benny throws the phone at its cradle and grabs for his mouse. “Hell yes!”
“Gentlemen,” Missouri calls over. “Please, curb your enthusiasm.”
“Can’t, snow day,” Dean says, logging off with two keystrokes. “Official-fucking-snow day.”
“It’s early dismissal, honey,” she says, still typing away. “All one hour and forty-five minutes of it.”
“Can’t talk, bailing,” he says brightly, swiping his coat and bag off the desk next to him. “See ya!”
“Don’t die out there, brother,” Benny yells after him, and Dean heads straight for the stairs at the northeast corner of the building and trots all the way down to Castiel’s floor, where there are already people gathering in the corridors and chattering excitedly.
Dean blows into the accounting department with a wink for Ambriel’s owlish stare and Hester’s grumbled, “This used to be a quiet place,” as he passes her. The cubicles down here never get any nicer but all the way in the back is Castiel’s cluttered and at this point cupboard of an office, the man himself turning towards the door as Dean comes up to lean on the jam.
“Hi there,” Dean says, and doesn’t care if his grin looks idiotic. They haven’t seen each other since that morning, and Castiel is wearing his glasses and a tired frown— marks of a rough day down in Finance. Still, the sight of him so incredibly good, like strong sun after days of rain, that Dean just drinks his fill while Castiel’s expression turns arch, then long-suffering.
“That was very fast,” he observes dryly. “I suppose you’ll want to leave as soon as possible.”
“That’s the idea, yeah,” Dean says. A horrific thought strikes him. “You’re not going to try to stay until five? Cas, we’ll get trapped by traffic even if the snow doesn’t get us and trust me, that car does not sleep two full-grown men.”
“No.” Castiel sighs, and takes the glasses off to set aside. “No, that would be foolish. Hold this,” he says, and proceeds to dump half the contents of his desk into a fat tote while Dean holds the handles up. He makes Dean carry it, too, and Dean’s not exaggerating the way the weight makes him stagger on the way to the elevators.
Well, only a little bit. And only because Hester and company are watching, and that always makes Castiel shoot him that flustered look of amusement and embarrassment.
“My life was much more predictable before I met you,” he muses as Dean unlocks the car for him, slipping inside while Dean heaves the tote into the back seat.
“Complaining?”
“Of course not,” Castiel says easily, then pats his pockets. “Wait, did I leave my—?”
Dean takes the glasses off the top of the binders stacked in the tote and leans forward to tap them on Castiel’s shoulder. “The real question here is where your scarf and gloves are,” he says severely.
“Oh,” Castiel says, caught in the act of rubbing his hands together. “Uh.”
“Jesus,” Dean mutters, and slams the door closed. He pulls the beautiful black merino from his own neck and hands it to Castiel as he climbs into the driver’s seat. The Impala warms up slower than most. “ Don’t lose that.”
Castiel grabs for it eagerly. “I won’t.”
There’s about a fifty-fifty chance he will, even if they drive straight home and never leave the car. Dean watches him wind it around his neck three times and sigh blissfully, and thinks it’s probably worth the risk.
When they pull out of the parking garage, the first small flakes have already started falling. They’re not huge, but Dean has to put the windshield wipers on after just a few seconds, and ground, the buildings, even the air is turning pearly gray around them. Victor could have the right idea.
“How long do you think we’ll be driving?” Castiel asks, angling his head to look up at the glowering cloudcover. The streets are already swelling with cars, horns and sirens slightly deadened as the snow sweeps in.
“Not too long, once we get across the water,” Dean says, and turns into traffic going north.
kototyph 