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“And if you look straight up you can see the fresco painted on the top of the ceiling, The Apotheosis of Washington, painted in 1865 by Constantino Brumidi,” Dean explained to his tour group, five South Dakota families melting in the D.C. summer. They all snapped their pictures while Dean longed for a bottle of water—shouting over every other tour group in the echoing Capitol rotunda was killing his voice.
The rotunda was packed with tour groups, both the intimate, congressional staff-led tours and the rowdy, large public tours. Dean waved to Kevin, an intern from Michigan, as he led his group toward the old Senate chambers. Kevin only had three people trailing after him, and Dean wished they could trade places. Corralling his group, full of kids playing Pokémon Go and their exhausted parents, was more challenging that Dean’d expected.
A roped off aisle down the center of the rotunda provided a clear avenue for representatives and senators making their way to and from meetings and the floor. Dean checked his watch, and right on time a paunchy, balding senator and part of his staff walked down the aisle toward the Senate floor. Two interns trailed after the senator—arms full of dossiers, juggling their work and personal phones—as he was briefed on some policy by another man.
Dean knew precisely three things about this other man: 1) his name was Castiel, 2) he worked as a policy aide for Zachariah Adler, a Blue Dog Democrat from upstate New York, and 3) he was the single most handsome man Dean’d ever laid eyes on.
Castiel looked up from his briefing and met Dean’s eyes for just a moment. He smiled, soft and small, and Dean crashed into a stanchion.
---
When Dean saw Castiel later that week, he at least didn’t have another trail of Bobby’s constituents to watch his humiliation. Castiel was walking out of the Senate Majority Leader’s office with murder in his eyes when he clipped Dean on the shoulder, sending Dean’s work phone flying across the hall.
“I’m so sorry,” Castiel said as he went to pick up the phone, “I should have been paying better attention.”
“Nah, it’s okay,” Dean said, trying to act nonchalant. He shrugged, leaning on a column—or really, he would’ve leaned on the column if he hadn’t misjudged the distance. He stumbled, but quickly righted himself, and hoped Castiel hadn’t seen. “Anyway, you looked like you were in a rush.”
“I wasn’t,” Castiel said, looking over his shoulder at the office he’d just come from, “I just—I don’t enjoy having to compromise my principles.” He handed the phone to Dean, his fingertips just barely brushing Dean’s in the handoff.
“I get that, man. Thanks for grabbin’ this—” Dean waved his phone, “Just maybe wear a bell next time.”
Castiel cocked his head, a question in his eyes.
Dean laughed. “So I can hear you comin’.”
Castiel laughed, too, and then disappeared around a corner. Dean groaned.
I’m such an idiot, he thought, I should’ve told him my name.
---
Castiel stopped by Representative Singer’s office in the Rayburn House Office Building only a few days later, startling Dean yet again.
Dean was hiding behind his tall wooden desk, trying to get some e-mails sent out between Bobby’s committee meetings and hearings.
Bobby had only run for his congressional seat as a protest candidate, but goddamn it if he hadn’t thrown himself heart and soul into the job when he’d won. Then he’d brought Dean with him to D.C. to manage his office, a somewhat unusual move since most congressional offices were staffed by whoever was most qualified. And Dean knew there were more qualified applicants—kids with degrees from Harvard and Yale and Princeton—but Bobby said he wanted Dean, cum laude South Dakota State graduate and lifelong family friend.
God only knows why.
“Hello,” Castiel rumbled, squinting at the placard on Dean’s desk, “...Dean.”
Dean yanked out the earbuds he technically wasn’t supposed to be wearing. “Um, hi,” Dean said, “Do you have an appointment?”
Castiel scowled, and Dean hoped Castiel wasn’t annoyed with him. “No, Senator Adler did. I was sent in his place.”
“Tell the kid I ain’t talkin’ to him,” Bobby shouted over the muffled sounds of C-SPAN from an inner room. “Zach wants a favor, tell ‘im he’s gotta ask me himself.” Bobby kicked his door shut and that was an end to that conversation.
Castiel rolled his eyes.
“Your boss probably isn’t gonna like that, is he?” Dean asked.
Castiel shook his head. Castiel started for the door, one hand resting on the doorknob, before he stopped. “I’m Castiel, by the way.”
“I know—I mean, Jo told me. She’s Representative Harvelle’s daughter and they’re just down the hall …” Dean trailed off. He coughed to cover up his embarrassment and Castiel just gave him a curious, but appraising look.
“Nice to meet you, for real this time,” Dean said gruffly as he held out his hand over the top of his desk. Castiel shook it, his long, lithe fingers wrapping around Dean’s calloused hand and giving it the perfunctory up-down motion Dean had come to expect from D.C. politicians.
“I hope we run into each other again soon,” Castiel said as he ducked out of the office. Dean sighed and put his earbuds back in. At least Castiel knew his name now.
---
Dean readjusted his tie for the fourth time before checking the time on his watch—only 3:45. He told Castiel he would be stopping by the Senator’s office in the Russell building at four, and in his haste running through the tunnels under the Capitol, he’d made it in record time. He hoped he wasn’t sweating too much under his suit jacket.
Another minute ticked by painfully slowly as Dean paced just around the corner from Senator Adler’s office. He didn’t want to hang around outside the doors—that would just seem desperate.
A flush from the men’s room echoed down the hall, and Dean wondered for a moment if he should go to the bathroom to kill time.
“Dean,” Castiel said, walking up behind him. Castiel’s fancy shoes reflected the overhead fluorescents and clacked loudly on the marble floor. Eyebrows raised, he looked surprised to see Dean. “You’re early.”
Dean winced. Being early made him seem eager.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, “No traffic in the tunnels.”
Castiel chuckled. “That’s surprising.”
Castiel led Dean into Senator Adler’s office. Aside from two staffers typing diligently on taxpayer-funded computers, the office was empty. They furtively watched Castiel lead Dean into a small room off to the right—Castiel’s office if the placard on the door was any clue—and Dean fought the urge to tell them to mind their own goddamned business.
“So, why did you want to see me?” Castiel asked as he pulled the door to, shutting out the eavesdropping interns.
“My brother was gonna be in town tonight so I bought these Nats tickets, but he bailed because he’s under the delusion that studying for the bar is more important—”
“The Nats?” Castiel asked, brow furrowed.
“You know, The Nationals,” Dean explained. “The Washington Nationals.” Castiel still looked confused, and Dean sighed. “Baseball, Cas.”
Castiel mouthed an ‘oh.’
“Anyway,” Dean continued, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ve got an extra ticket and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.”
“Oh! Sure,” Castiel said, “I don’t know anything about baseball, though. Are you sure you don’t want to take someone who understands the sport?”
“Nah, it’s not that complicated. I’ll teach you.”
---
“Dean, why did that man advanced to first base? He didn’t hit the ball and the … um, count? Yes, the count is only two balls and two strikes.”
Dean dropped his head in his hands. “It’s a balk, Cas,” Dean said into his hands. “The pitcher made like he was gonna pitch to the batter, but then he threw over to first.”
“And that’s not allowed? Why not?”
“It’s just not, okay?” Dean said.
Castiel hummed and scrolled through something on his phone. He turned the phone to Dean, showing him some article he’d pulled up. “Yes, it says here that this pitcher’s motion makes him prone to balks. Interesting.”
Castiel balanced his phone on one knee so he could see the article he’d pulled up about keeping score. On the other was the souvenir program Dean’d bought him, held open to the scorecard page. Dean thought Castiel’s whole precarious set up was a little ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but smile at Castiel’s enthusiasm as Castiel drew a line from home to first on the small diamond and wrote ‘BK’ next to it in neat block letters.
The next batter walked into the batter’s box. As he kicked at the dirt and dug in his cleats, Dean tugged on his glove—Dean’d bought these seats knowing he was in a prime spot to catch a foul ball.
Castiel was still bent over his phone, reading up on some arcane baseball rule Dean’d never heard of. Dean tapped him on the shoulder “Heads up, man. If he hits it foul, it’s gonna come right for us.”
Castiel nodded and put down his phone. He watched the pitcher closely—probably trying to still figure out how the last play was a balk—as he pitched from the stretch.
The bat cracked as it made contact with the ball. The ball went high, arcing over into foul territory before falling back into the stands. Dean stood up reaching for the ball, but it just glanced off the fingertips of his glove. He heard a plop and a groan, and turned around to watch Castiel fish the ball out of his souvenir cup with a sigh. Beer dripped off the ball and Castiel grimaced as some of it splashed on his shoes.
Dean laughed as he took the ball from Castiel and wiped it off on his shirt. “Nice catch, man,” he said as he handed the ball back.
“My cup did most of the work,” Castiel said, looking the ball over. He smiled at Dean, proud and delighted. “I think I like baseball.”
---
Their bikes leaned against a cherry tree—Dean’s a secondhand Schwinn cruiser and Castiel’s a lean road bike—a few feet back from where they sat on an old flannel blanket Dean’d found one summer in Bobby’s attic. The Tidal Basin brimmed with activity—tourists on paddle boats, kids playing in the trees, someone stupidly feeding the ducks—and somehow this was the first time Castiel’d gotten out to see any of it. Dean covertly passed Castiel a beer can, quickly scanning the area for any metro cops, before popping the top on his own.
Sitting outside, hiding away from the rest of the world, sneaking a beer—it was just like Dean’s teen years skulking around Bobby’s junkyard. Dean sighed pleasantly and laid back on the blanket. He closed his eyes and let the cool late-summer breeze waft over him—
“Ow!” Dean shouted as he pushed Castiel’s fingers from his hip. “What was that for?”
“You’re bruised,” Castiel said, “I could see it when you laid down and your shirt rode up.”
Dean sat up and looked at the yellow-brown mark. It was a lot smaller than it had been, and almost healed, but it still was tender. “Doesn’t mean you should poke at it,” Dean grumbled.
“Sorry.”
“Besides,” Dean said, a grin tugging at his lips, “it’s all your fault anyway. You distracted me in the rotunda and I walked into a stanchion.”
“I distracted you?”
“You know.” Dean looked out over the water, across the way to the Jefferson memorial. “You smiled.”
“Oh. You’re flirting with me.”
“Cas,” Dean groaned.
“Did you not mean to? I can ignore it.” Castiel spoke with a straight face, but Dean detected something teasing in his voice.
Dean rubbed a hand down his face. “This is not going how I planned,” he whispered.
“Planned what?” Castiel asked.
“Askin’ you out. Like, on a real date.”
“I thought this was a ‘real’ date,” Castiel said, “Though my dating experience is limited, I thought this had all the hallmarks: you paid for lunch, you took me to a romantic spot …”
Dean hesitated. He hadn’t planned on this being a date, but he had wanted to make sure Castiel was more likely to say yes. “So,” Dean started, his pulse racing, “would you want to go out with me again sometime?”
“Yes, I would like that, Dean.”
---
Dean finished off the last of the take out as Castiel yelled colorful curses at the umpire on TV. Castiel’s TV was small, much like the rest of the apartment, but at least he didn’t have to share a single bathroom with three other congressional staffers in a tiny townhouse on Capitol Hill.
“Bobby wants to poach you,” Dean said around a mouthful of sesame chicken, “He says he needs a policy wonk and you’ve got all those fancy finance degrees.”
“Just the two, Dean,” Castiel said, muting the baseball game, “And I think I’d like working for Representative Singer. Is it likely he’ll win reelection?”
Dean shrugged. “He’s running unopposed. Should I set up a meeting?”
Castiel looked down at his wonton soup, considering the broth very carefully. He asked softly, “Will it be weird?”
“Hmm? Weird how?”
“Since we’re together now,” Castiel explained, looking at Dean like Dean was a few cards short of a full deck.
“I don’t think so,” Dean said, “Plus, I’m not the weird one.” Dean gave Castiel a self-satisfied smirk and Castiel rolled his eyes.
“Just set up the meeting, Dean,” Castiel said as he kissed Dean on the temple.
“Okay, but you gotta promise me you won’t be weird.”
“Dean, I will throw you into the Potomac.”