Chapter Two! My update speed is not particularly shabby, no? Naw, but I was seriously shocked and awed by the rapid response. You guys are truly, truly, truly outrageous.

When Dean saw the "SOLD" sign in the front lawn of the place next door, he'd been a bit worried. Just a little. He could think of infinite ways for this to end badly. The guy who owned it currently (or, given the whole 'just been sold' thing, the previous owner) had bought the propery and done some major renovations for the sole purpose of selling it at a much higher price. As a result, the guy was barely ever around. Dean thought his name might be Colin, but he couldn't be sure. It might have been Charlie or Carlos or something else that started with a C. The dude was only there to do renovation work, anyway, banging away at shit with power tools the poor bastard could barely lift, what with his limp noodle arms.

Dean was (ironically) a private kind of guy. Well, no. That was a flat-out lie. More like, he wasn't fond of people's reactions when his private life became not-so-private. People got all judgy and Dean just didn't feel like putting up with their shit when they did, so it was just easier all around to keep his own yap shut tight about exactly what he did for a living.

Dean made gay porn. Really, really explicit gay porn.

It was very well-made porn, as far as gay porn was concerned, but for some reason, that didn't matter much to folk who found out before they were ready to take it. Nothing quite like introducing yourself as a porn star to get the conversational ball rolling.

Granted, he didn't work solely as a porn actor. He held down a normal job as a carpenter, and when his agent phoned him with a gig, he'd take a few days of absence from his day job and... well.

It was an honest living, for the most part.

And now some new neighbour, one who was exceedingly likely to be nosy and obnoxious and judgmental (Dean knew his own luck far too well to expect anything less) was going to be right next door.

Judging him.

With judging eyes.

Maybe they'd stare at him through open windows, then quickly shut their curtains when they realised he'd noticed them.

He'd keep the whole thing a secret for as long as he could. It wasn't exactly public knowledge, and if they recognised him from his work... well, they probably wouldn't be too judgmental if they knew his work that intimately.

"I'm telling you, Sammy, I'm so fucked," Dean whined into the phone. "A car pulled in, like, an hour or two ago and this lady waltzes out like the Queen of Sheba and this little girl is trotting after her. Momma's got her nose so high in the air, it's like she's trying to get a good whiff of everyone else's inferiority. And they've got a prius. You've gotta be kidding me."

"There's nothing wrong with owning a prius, Dean. Maybe they're just an environmentally-conscious family."

Dean snorted. "And maybe I'm a prolific member of Congress(!) I'm just saying, you can see the Aunt Petunia just radiate off this ho."

"You read a book!"

"Try not to faint."

"No promises. Fetch me my fainting couch, peasant," Sam said, deadpan. Dean bust up laughing.

"Oh! Oh! Here's the moving van! I thought the prius was a little... impractical for a move," he said, eyes tracking the van's progress through the blinds. "Hang on. Updates straight from the front lines, Sammy."

"Try not to do anything to get yourself shot. At least not on the first day."

"Too right. I usually save that for the second date."

"Have we forgotten Patience and that one thing in Whitefall?"

"Everyone's making a fuss. She only shot me once."

Sam tried to stifle his snickering, but it still made it over the phone. "People have no idea we're quoting something, huh? I'm just imagining what the conversation has to sound like to anybody listening in and hearing only half of it."

"Hey. Hold up. Guy is getting out of the van. Riding shotgun."

"Is he ugly?"

"I can't really tell from here. He's white," Dean offered. "Looks like his hair is dark brown. Almost black. Hang on; I'm going in."


"Still here. Just going to get a closer look is all. Call it research. I can just pretend to be watering my plants."

"You have plants?"


"Ones you haven't killed?"

"...I never said that. But he's not gonna know, and I'm not gonna tell him."

He could practically hear his brother shake his head. "Keep me posted if you're not dead in an hour."

"Can do. Toodles, sweet-cheeks," he said, making a kissy noise into the phone at his pissy, cursing brother, and hanging up. Now, for the research.

Out of the corner of his eye (he had to keep up the pretense of watering his very-much-dead bushes from the plastic water bottle he'd brought with him), he could just make out his new neighbour.

The new guy looked to be just a shade shorter than Dean, so maybe about six feet tall. Respectable. The way his shoulders pulled in made him seem much smaller, though. He had on a white business shirt - he'd even tucked it in - and a tie that was actually kind of nice. Dean hadn't known that ties existed that weren't ugly. The new neighbour's hair looked like it had at one point been neat and orderly, but since had been ruffled all out of place by nervous fingers running through it. It was endearing in a weird way. The guy seemed to bounce around with a nervous, panicked energy, trying to direct the movers as best he could. Whoever gave him caffeine needed to sit down and rethink their life choices.

They were moving a table, a beautiful thing of what looked like mahogany, old and polished lovingly. They were almost scraping it against the unforgiving concrete, and Dean's soul cried a little. Apparently, the new neighbour agreed. He was subtly getting the movers the hell away from his stuff before they ruined it. Good man. It seemed, for all his nervousness and seeming shyness, the man could square his shoulders and get shit done whenever necessary. Dean liked that. The movers got their stuff together and took off in the emptied van, leaving the new neighbour staring at the table and whatever else was in that monster moving van that remained, running his fingers through his hair with a massive air of 'what-the-hell-did-I-just-do' and 'I-don't-know-but-I'm-just-going-to-have-to-shut-up-and-deal-with-it-somehow'.

Dean still didn't know what possessed him to speak up.

Er, metaphorically speaking.

"Need some help?" he asked.

The man's head jerked up, his whole body twisted around to find the source of the voice, and then they saw each other eye-to-eye, face-to-face for the first time.

Holy shit.

Dean wasn't normally flummoxed by a person's looks, but damn, son. His eyes were the most beautiful, piercing shade of blue Dean had ever seen. The shape of his eyelids, sloping upwards toward the crease between his heavyset eyebrows, gave him a world-weary, puppy-dog kind of look that was endearing as mess.

Dean tossed out a terribly executed joke (just beat your head against a wall, Dean), but it did the trick. Introductions were made straightaway.

Jimmy? Eurgh. He didn't look anything like a Jimmy. But maybe that was because he'd been watching too much Jimmy Neutron and had a hard time reconciling the two faces of 'Jimmy' in his head. Plus, in Britain, Jimmies were sprinkles you put on ice cream. Yeah, no. Not for that face. Although ice cream made him think of licking things, and that thought led to other thoughts and wait, what was going on again?

Oh, boooooooo. Boo you whore. He was married. To the Aunt Petunia lady. Christ on a cracker.

He needled at the guy to tell him what his other name was, and when it came, uncontrollable excitement reared its head up inside him.

"Castiel? You've gotta be joking." That was the coolest fucking name in the universe.

"I told you it was a ridiculous name," Castiel (yeah, he was totally gonna call him that now, from here to the end of the world) said, embarrassed. The more Dean talked with him, the more he realised that Castiel had a way of tilting his head slightly all the time, making him look perpetually confused.

Which, Dean supposed, he may very well be.

They went on talking, and Dean found a way to subtly (cough cough) invite himself into their house by offering to help the guy lug in his heavy shit. Yeah, his back might not like him for this, but his guy parts were currently disagreeing, and that was what really mattered.

It was several hours later that Dean went back to his own home, sweaty and gross and pleased as punch. Cas was an utter delight. Naive like a newborn, and yet somehow wise like someone far older. The dichotomy was adorable. Stubble or not, Dean just wanted to yank the man into a hug and give him a giant noogie (because Dean teased people he liked mercilessly - a bad habit left over from primary school). The Missus already didn't like him, but you know what? Screw her. Her husband was awesome enough for the whole family.


What a crying shame.

Straight. Married. With a kid. Who was cute. Wasn't that always the way? Dean toed off his shoes, socks, and eventually pants, shedding them uncaringly in a line of dropped garments on the floor on the way to the shower. Sam might be pissy, but Sam was in California, and could go stuff himself. Not everybody was a neat freak, and Dean revelled in his piggery, as Sam termed it. He yanked his shirt over his head and off with one arm in a neat, spiral motion, flinging it wherever. He heard a thunk and knew he'd knocked something over, but didn't care over much.

Last to go were the boxers, and by then, the shower was going and the water was warm enough not to freeze his important extremities off.

Dean just sighed out through his nose under the warming spray. Cas was a fucking delight.

So it was decided.

They were going to be best friends forever, and if somebody had a problem with that, Dean knew kung-fu.

(A/N): So yeah. Again, just stream-of-consciousness writing. Still haven't proofread anything. That's probably bad. Remind me to care when I don't have Biology and a Physics lab in the morning.

Regarding the title, it sort of has a double meaning in that it can be an "oh crap" phrase or something more tender and intimate. I'm fond of those sorts of double meaning things. I never title anything lightly, for all that I just throw words on a page for my actual content.