1.
The first time, Dean just stares at the crumpled dark blue fabric.
He stares at it from the first to the tenth floor, where he has to leave the elevator and get to his desk because he is late again (this weekend he's gonna take a look at Baby and see what makes her stop every twenty miles).
2.
The second time he stares again, can't take his eyes from the lopsided knot and the grey inside of the tie showing at the end. He wonders if the guy does it on purpose, if he tried once, failed and just doesn't give a shit or if maybe he's completely unaware of how messed up his tie is.
That is when Dean actually looks at the guy – bed hair, a hint of stubble, worn out trench coat – and decides that it's probably a morning thing, that he'll fix the tie and comb his hair once he's in his office. Something like that. He's probably from the photography department or something, Dean thinks they are on the twelfth floor and they don't care as much about clothes as, say, editors or whatever.
Dean hates that the elevator is so fucking slow.
3.
The third time Dean still stares. Then the guy looks up abruptly and his eyes meet Dean's and fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dean thinks. Because damn him if those aren't the bluest eyes he's ever seen on anyone, blue eyes and an irritated, confused frown and apparently Dean has been really obvious.
Except after a moment of mutual staring Blue Eyes nods with this half questioning, half serious look. "Hello," he says with a gravelly voice, "I'm Castiel."
"Winchester," Dean replies numbly and so very thankful for the easy out, "Dean Winchester." He wonders briefly if 'Castiel' is the guys first name or last name and why it sounds familiar.
"Nice to meet you, Dean."
Castiel could make a lot of money in the phone porn industry.
Dean jerks off to Castiel's blue eyes and raspy voice for the next few nights.