Chapter Text
Castiel is sitting in the waiting room of a medical office. A physiotherapist, to be exact. There is that quintessential smell of disinfectant in the air, the reception desk is bare apart from one strategically placed bottle of hand sanitizer, a shelf behind it with various brochures and pamphlets on display. It’s exactly what you’d expect of a medical office, or it would be if not for the neon sign hanging on the wall. The sign in question is of a skeleton, it is vibrant and blue and it has the words Let’s Bone written beneath it, which is a slightly disconcerting sentiment ahead of Castiel’s first-ever physiotherapy appointment.
He stares at it, as though he’s admiring a Warhol or a Raysse, just for something to do while he waits. His parents own a gallery in Ohio, so even though he can appreciate the nod to pop and modern art, he can’t help but wonder what they would think of it.
“Cas—uh, shit,” comes a disembodied voice from down the corridor, presumably the physiotherapist who very kindly agreed to fit Castiel in at the last minute, and so the neon sign quickly becomes the least of his concerns. “Cas-ty-elle? Is that how you say it?”
That is not how you say it, but Castiel can’t focus on that because the physiotherapist is standing in front of him now, and he is remarkably attractive — like, genuinely soul-crushing stuff — he’s got brown hair and green eyes, he’s wearing this tight polo shirt that really accentuates what appears to be a set of very well-kept shoulders, meanwhile, Castiel is dressed in an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and at this moment, has forgotten how to speak.
The physiotherapist looks right at him. “Are you my seven o’clock?”
“Sorry,” Castiel manages. “That’s me.”
He takes in a steadying breath, and then very carefully, he gets to his feet. He does really try to do this elegantly, but the pain in his neck is bad enough that he groans with the movement, and so of course, the mortifyingly handsome physiotherapist steps closer to render assistance.
“Easy, buddy,” he says. “Can I give you a hand, there?”
Castiel would shake his head if he could. “I’m fine, thank you,” he says, straightening his posture as best he can. “Where to?”
The physiotherapist chuckles. “Down the hall, first door on the left.”
Castiel walks independently, albeit, slowly and with muscles he didn’t know he had spasming in fierce protest. The room is small, there’s a desk in the corner with a stool beside it, then a bed covered with a paper sheet in the middle that he can only assume is for him.
“So,” the physiotherapist says, whistling as he pulls the door closed behind him. “I’m Dean, I’ll be looking after you today— well, tonight.”
Clumsily, stifling a flinch as he sits down on the edge of the bed, Castiel says, “Thank you for fitting me in.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s no problem… Cas-ty-elle.” With an iPad in tow, Dean wheels a stool over to the bed and positions himself right in front of Castiel, closer than would otherwise be socially acceptable if not for the circumstances. “I feel like I might be butchering that.”
“It’s Castiel.”
“Ah.” Dean clicks his tongue. “Cas-ti-elle,” he says, seemingly distractedly, now typing away. “And what brings you in today, Cas?”
Dean glances up from his notes, fixing those green eyes right on Castiel, they are sort of castleton around the edges but almost chartreuse in the middle. He is mostly brunette, but there are a few sun-bleached tufts through the front, he has freckles on his cheeks and his nose, his lips are a very modest shade of pink, and Castiel is fast starting to regret ever having walked in.
“Well, I’ve hurt my neck,” he says after too long.
Dean exhales a laugh. “Yeah, I get that,” he says. “How? What were you doing?”
“Nothing,” Castiel says, to which Dean nods and looks down at his iPad again. “I’m not sure if I slept in an odd position, or if this is just part and parcel with having recently turned thirty, but I haven’t been able to move my neck since I woke up this morning.”
Dean hums in acknowledgment, concentrating on whatever it is that he’s typing, but there is the smallest hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth now. “It’s pretty gruesome, isn’t it? This thirty business.”
“Awful.”
“Well, for what it’s worth,” Dean says, flickering up to meet Castiel’s eyes once more. “You’re looking pretty good for thirty.”
Embarrassingly, only noises come out of Castiel, no actual words, and Dean the very handsome physiotherapist just continues on with his notes. The silence soon starts to feel awkward, as do most things in Castiel’s presence, so he looks around the room in search of something else to focus on. He’s always had a bit of a thing for academia — in addition to having just completed his master’s, he also works as a tutor at his university — so it’s only natural that he finds himself reading the various accolades and credentials proudly on display. As it happens, Dean’s surname is Winchester, he has a bachelor’s degree in physical therapy, for which he graduated with honors, thank you very much.
“Okay,” Dean says suddenly, getting to his feet. “I’m gonna take a look at that neck of yours now, if that’s cool with you.”
Castiel swallows. “Of course.”
Dean stows his stool by the desk, then proceeds to stand within a bare inch of Castiel, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to see the gentle sweep of his eyelashes every time he blinks, which is just so much closer than Castiel was expecting.
It only gets worse.
There is the press of Dean’s hands to the tops of Castiel’s shoulders, a few gentle squeezes there before he moves up to Castiel’s neck. He prods his fingers, in and out, peering into him as he does. It’s all rather intense, perhaps just because Castiel is in the midst of a dry spell. He just hasn’t been touched in so long.
“Look this way,” Dean says, framing Castiel’s face now. “All the way, as far as you can.”
Dean turns Castiel’s head to one side by his chin, further and further, extending his neck to an angle that is far beyond what he’s been able to achieve all day, which is enough to send a sharp pain up his spine and into his jaw, which is of course enough to make him grimace.
“Sorry.” Dean’s lips twitch with a sympathetic half-smile. “Is that sore?”
“A little,” Castiel says, being very brave about the whole thing.
Dean continues in this manner, turning Castiel’s head, left and right, up and down, in such tight proximity, with nowhere to look besides at each other. Then, abruptly, he tugs on Castiel’s t-shirt. “Off.”
“What?” Castiel asks. “Why?”
Dean’s forehead twists. “So I can look at your back.”
“The injury is in my neck.”
“The injury is presenting in your neck,” Dean corrects. “That don’t mean it’s not affecting anything else.”
That seems overkill as far as Castiel is concerned, but nevertheless, he pulls out of his shirt, cautious and uncoordinated so as to avoid further hurting himself, and then he’s just sitting there, half-naked and entirely on display. It’s not like he has anything to be ashamed of — actually, he keeps in very good shape for an academic, if he does say so himself — but it still makes him squirm to have Dean staring at him, up and down and in silent appraisal. Castiel can only wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s enjoying the view.
“You can lay down when you’re ready,” Dean says then. “Flat on your stomach.”
Right. Castiel obliges, ignoring the way his cheeks have started to color as he shuffles into position. Then it starts again. Dean touches the nape of his neck, then each of his shoulders. He moves meticulously down the length of Castiel’s spine, lower and lower, giving instructions as he goes: ‘Breathe out’ and ‘Lift your arm’ and ‘Tell me when it starts to hurt.’
Dean’s hands are warm, they are soft, and at this very moment, they are much further south than Castiel would have thought necessary for a neck injury, and then naturally, so fucking humiliatingly, he finds himself a little giddy with the sheer closeness of it. He finds one very specific muscle growing harder and harder in response.
“So,” Dean says, breaking the silence but notably not the tension, working his fingers into the small of Castiel’s back. “What do you do for work?”
Castiel clears his throat. “I’m a university tutor,” he says, trying to keep his voice even despite the erection now rubbing against his underwear. “I assist the students with their course work and run workshops on academic writing and researching, among other things.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do,” Castiel says. “More so than I thought I would. I’ve actually just completed my master’s in education, which wasn’t even my major.”
“Oh, so you’re really into it.” Dean chuckles, and then finally, he steps towards the head of the bed once more. Thank God. “And what was your major, then?”
Castiel opens his mouth to answer but is abruptly cut off when Dean pinches much less gently at the offending muscle in his neck. “Uh— art—” He takes a breath, then tries again, “Fine art and art history.”
“Sorry about that,” Dean says, but he doesn’t stop, applying so much pressure now that Castiel can hear all the structures pop and crackle beneath it. “Spend a lot of time hunched over your laptop, I’m guessing?”
Through his teeth, Castiel says, “Unfortunately.”
It seems as though the diagnostic part of the appointment is over now. Dean continues with much firmer, more intentional maneuvers for what feels like an eternity. You’d think that would be enough of a deterrent, but somehow, Castiel still spends the next twenty minutes avidly fighting off a boner. He just hasn’t had sex in a while, like he said. All things considered, between the summer heat and the proximity and the cling of Dean’s hands to his bare skin, physiotherapy is far too intimate an experience for something that is inherently otherwise, and by the time it finally comes to an end, Castiel has made the decision never to return. Never, ever, ever again. Ever.
Dean has other ideas. “Alright, dude. Your neck is all the way messed up,” he says. “I’m gonna give you a couple stretches I want you doing at home, but you’ll have to come back for another few sessions, at least. That sound cool to you?”
Dean stands in front of Castiel, a printed set of instructions at the ready, and perhaps Castiel is just in a state of shock from having spent almost an hour getting his spine steamrolled, but he sort of forgot how attractive Dean is, how green those eyes really are, and so he finds himself powerless but to agree. “Very cool.”
Dean smiles, holding out his hand as though to help Castiel get to his feet. Castiel declines, then as quickly as his body will allow, he gets himself out of Dean’s vicinity. Or he tries to. Unfortunately, Dean walks Castiel out to the waiting room and prompts the receptionist to book him in for three additional sessions.
“See you Wednesday,” Dean says, lifting into a wave.
“See you then,” Castiel lies. He’ll do the stretches and whatever else Dean has prescribed, but as sure as the day is long, he’s not coming back.
Two weeks later
It is almost the end of semester, which means the chaos of finals is almost upon them, and so the majority of the university’s tutoring staff have been cramped into the faculty lounge for a briefing on the upcoming exam schedule. Riveting stuff.
As Rowena gives the address, Castiel stares blearily ahead, one-handedly massaging the area that Google identified to be his trapezius muscle. He is listening, of course, but as that twinge in his neck has now progressed into a dull but steady pain that spans the entire width of his shoulders, he is doing so distractedly.
Meg peers at Castiel sideways from her seat, smirking, absolutely relishing Castiel’s misery. She’s been his self-proclaimed bestie since they started working together five years ago, so he obviously told her all about his very uncomfortable encounter with Dean the very handsome physiotherapist, and she has obviously taken it upon herself to harass him about it ever since.
You can only imagine Castiel’s surprise when said physiotherapist appears.
Dean looks different today, having exchanged that branded polo for a dress shirt, it is well-pressed and well-fitting, the sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. Unlike at the clinic, he trails into the room like a puppy dog, right behind Tessa from human resources.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says to the group. “I just wanted to introduce Dean, one of our new tutors. He’ll be replacing Cassie after she finishes up on Friday.”
Rowena excuses herself to speak with Tessa, leaving Dean alone and exchanging awkward pleasantries with his new colleagues. Castiel slides down his chair as best he can, an attempt to conceal himself, but Dean’s eyes still find him from across the room. Then, naturally, he makes his way over.
“Sup?” he says by way of greeting, like a true academic. “How’s your neck?”
“Fine, thank you.”
From beside him, Meg makes a questioning noise. “Do you two know each other?”
Dean doesn’t answer, just stands there tight-lipped and arms folded, his features collected in such a way that it seems like he’s waiting for permission to divulge the particulars in the name of patient confidentiality. Very professional, very considerate, and so very attractive.
“This is Dean,” Castiel admits. “The physiotherapist.”
“Oh.” Meg’s eyes widen, a grin that is equal parts bright as it is menacing creeps over her face. “This is your physio?”
“Well, not mine,” Castiel says. “Just that one time.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, and then smugly, “just the once.”
Meg nods, chuckling under her breath as she looks between the two men, and so Castiel is bracing himself for whatever it is that she’s going to say next. Against all odds, Tessa beckons to Dean from the front of the room, and so Dean makes his exit before Meg gets the chance.
Rowena continues on with her briefing. Castiel sits there, pretending to listen, going over the situation as he watches Dean walk away. The minimum requirement for becoming a tutor at the university is to hold a bachelor’s degree with honors, so while Dean is certainly qualified, he hardly jumped at the opportunity to discuss it at their appointment two weeks ago.
“Oh, Clarence,” Meg beams just as soon as the meeting comes to an end. “This is gonna be fun.”
Castiel mumbles something vague in disagreement, and fortunately, as Meg has an appointment with one of the students, her teasing doesn’t go any further than that. Castiel, on the other hand, has to proofread the syllabus for one of the university’s upcoming summer programs (one of the many pitfalls of his senior tutor status) and he’s just not going to survive that without caffeine.
He’s almost made it safely to the cafeteria and back when the shadow of a presence emerges from behind him. Knowing his luck, he can only assume it’s Dean.
“So,” Dean says, because of course he does. “You canceled all your appointments.”
“Yes, well.” Castiel turns around with such haste that his shoulders seize up painfully, then he winces, and then he almost drops his coffee. “My neck is much better.”
Dean blinks at him. “Yeah, looks like.”
This seems like the logical conclusion to their conversation, but Dean remains right there in Castiel’s personal bubble like he’s not yet satisfied. Castiel’s people skills have always been a bit lacking, so as Dean stares down at him, sizing him up, he’s not really sure what to say or how best to proceed.
Eventually, Dean shakes his head, then he sighs. “Are you headed to your desk?”
“Pardon?”
“Your desk,” Dean says emphatically. “If you don’t wanna come see me again — which, for the record, is all the way against my professional advice — then you should at least let me fix your chair for you. That’s probably like half your problem right there.”
Students are more likely to seek help with their studies if the tutors are already sitting in a common area of the university, such as the library, rather than in a secluded office. Thus, while Castiel does have a desk, he doesn’t spend a great deal of time there. He still lets Dean accompany him, anyway. He’s only human.
Side by side, they walk out of the cafeteria and down the dilapidated university corridor, a wave of thick heat ready and waiting for them outside.
“So, your friend,” Dean says, maybe just to fill the silence. “She seems… nice.”
“My friend?”
“Yeah, you know. Brown eyes. Attitude. Back in the lounge.”
“Ah.” Castiel combs a hand through his hair where the breeze has pushed it onto his forehead. “That’s Meg.”
“Meg,” Dean repeats, taking a long step to avoid a stray rock in the middle of the path. Then, like a brick, “She your girlfriend, then?”
Castiel’s eyebrows draw harshly together. He glances sideways at Dean. Dean looks back with this little hint of a smirk like he knows exactly what he’s doing. So cocky, and so presumptuous.
“No,” Castiel says, and then pointedly, “she’s not my type.”
Dean grins, full-out, briefly tugging his bottom lip up under his teeth. “Should have guessed.”
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Dean says innocently, gesturing in Castiel’s direction as though his perfectly dull ensemble of trousers and a dress shirt is going to provide any clarity. “Just, well, you know… the whole ‘art guy’ thing.”
Castiel scoffs. “That’s rich coming from you,” he says. “The last time I checked, your job is to massage the very vulnerable body parts of other men.”
“Hey, it’s not massaging,” Dean defends. “It’s biomechanics— it’s science.”
Castiel would shrug that he could. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
Dean flings this heated, heavy sort of look at him, very much blurring the line between anger and something else altogether, but Castiel just keeps on walking. They venture down the path and through the garden, eventually arriving at his building. His desk is one of three others within a small office at the end of the corridor, otherwise known as a bullpen, or more simply, a sensory hellscape and the introvert’s worst nightmare.
“Jesus,” Dean says, whistling as they draw closer. “You’d think an arts major would get a little more say in the decor.”
Castiel is fairly sure that Dean is critiquing the print of Monet’s Impression, Sunrise above his desk — as in, the very painting that gave impressionism its name — and while it’s hardly as impressive as the gold-framed replica hanging in his parents’ gallery, he still can’t help the bitchy tone to his voice when he says, “Excuse me?”
“Dude.” Dean points at it. “That thing is fugly.”
“That’s a Monet, I’ll have you know.”
“Monet?” Dean asks, and then for whatever reason, he laughs. “Shit, that’s the guy with the ear, right?”
“No,” Castiel says dryly. “That’s Van Gogh. Although he was largely inspired by Monet’s work, I suppose.”
“Huh.” Dean nods, clicking his tongue. “Well, no offense, but this Monet guy better Van Gogh get some glasses, ‘cause that painting’s blurry as shit.”
Castiel glares at Dean, at his green eyes and his freckles and the visible part of his throat with the top of his shirt having been unbuttoned, the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows. There is the urge to correct him, to tell him that the deterioration of Monet’s vision was of significant influence in both his work and his life. There is also the urge to step forward and yank at Dean’s collar — whether this is to fight him or fuck him Castiel hasn’t entirely decided — but Dean shoots him this sly little smile as though he’d welcome either one.
To Castiel’s credit, he does neither, but he does think about it. He thinks about it as he sits down at his desk, as Dean crouches down beside him to make the fabric of his chinos pull unbelievably tight around the meat of his thighs and the cut of his hips and the shape of his crotch. He thinks about it as Dean peers at him and scrutinizes his posture, he thinks about it with each graze of accidental contact while Dean adjusts the height of his chair. He thinks about it when Dean’s hand finds its way to his shoulder to squeeze when he’s finished.
He thinks and he thinks and he thinks.
Despite Dean’s adjustments, Castiel’s neck does not improve over the coming days. If anything, it’s getting worse — there is a pulsing ache below both of his ears, he cramps up every time he tries to turn his head, and it’s spreading now, down his spine and across each of his ribs — and with the way that Dean is currently watching him from the other side of the library, it seems as though he is very much aware of this.
Castiel repositions, shifting his shoulders, his face scrunching up involuntarily with the movement. It’s like clockwork then, Dean hits him with one very raised eyebrow and shakes his head, as though to communicate telepathically that he knows that Castiel knows that he’s going to have to come crawling back for help eventually. Dean’s probably correct, but it’s much more fun to wind him up and pretend otherwise.
“Yo.” From beside him, Charlie taps her pen to his page, getting his attention. “Earth to Castiel.”
Very slowly and cautiously, he turns to face her. “My apologies.”
“Hey, it’s cool, I get it,” she says. “I mean, he’s not my type, but he’s hot in an obvious sort of way.”
“Pardon?”
“Dean,” she says. “You can eye-fuck him all you want, you know I love to see it, but my GPA is literally slipping through my fingers right now, dude.”
Castiel stares at her blankly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Charlie rolls her eyes. She’s an IT student on an academic scholarship, which is hardly Castiel’s specialty, but Charlie has been coming to him since she was a freshman, and loathe as he is to admit it, he finds her quirky sort of carefree attitude to be rather endearing.
“Whatever you say.” Charlie leans back in her chair, glancing back and forth between Castiel and Dean from across the thoroughfare. “You know he’s not flying the rainbow flag though, right?”
“Yes, he is,” Castiel informs her. “Trust me. My gaydar is exemplary.”
“Yeah, well, I heard him saying some pretty not-gay stuff to Cassie yesterday, so.”
Interesting. Castiel considers this for a second. “Perhaps he’s bisexual,” he says, and he does not say because Dean has also said some very gay stuff to me.
“Maybe,” Charlie says airily. “But either way, those two are for sure fucking nasty, my dude.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Castiel flickers down to the page in front of them. “Now, where were we?”
They get back to work after that. Occasionally, Castiel looks up at Dean, and occasionally, he finds Dean is already looking at him. He’s not exactly worried about Charlie’s assessment of the situation, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little bit curious, enough so that thinks about it for the rest of their appointment.
It’s just after midday when Castiel packs up his things and heads outside to eat his lunch. The university grounds are really quite scenic, especially this close to summertime, with luscious green grass and garden beds of sunlit flowers. In the ten years he’s spent both studying and working on campus, he’s come to rely on his half-hour with nature to get through the day, sometimes with Meg on the rare occasion that she’s there. Like Castiel, she majored in fine art, and unlike Castiel, she is actually a talented artist, so her freelance work takes up most of her time these days, and Castiel has by now reconciled himself to eating his lunch alone.
Today, it seems Dean has other plans. He sits down beside Castiel, without even having been asked, and then so cheerfully, “How’s your neck?”
“Fine,” Castiel says, very determinedly ignoring the twinge up his spine with the stiff bench beneath him.
Dean makes a disbelieving noise, but he doesn’t press the issue, and so for a few moments, there’s nothing but the swirl of the wind and the hum of honeybees between them. Dean takes in a breath, deeper than usual, giving the sense that he must be working up to saying something important. Then, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” Castiel says.
He turns to face Dean as best he can, just enough to see that nervous twist of a half-smile (and incidentally, that he has dimples, which are very cute, indeed) and perhaps it’s just the anticipation, or the serenity of the view, the romance of blooming roses in the late-spring afternoon, but Castiel can only wonder what sort of question requires such a preface.
“Why did you stop coming to physio?” Dean asks, and with the benefit of hindsight, Castiel really should have seen that coming. “Was it me? Did I do something or say something or… something?”
Dean looks at Castiel earnestly, this real professionalism in his voice, and even though the explanation is simply that Dean is painfully handsome and Castiel is painfully horny, Castiel’s attraction has now blossomed into a full-blown crush, so he’s not going to admit it.
“You take this very seriously,” he says, slightly patronizing and entirely against his better judgment. “Your clinical practice, I mean.”
“Well, no shit,” Dean says. “It’s kinda my livelihood, and you know, just to cut the shit for five seconds, it is a vulnerable sorta situation — coming to physio — and I don’t wanna be out here making people uncomfortable. That’s just not my style.”
Castiel fights a smile. “Well, you certainly didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says. “I can promise you that much.”
Dean holds Castiel’s stare like he’s waiting for the rest of it, but it’s obvious in the flush creeping over his cheeks and jaw that he understands, in the way that he rolls his eyes as though to deflect the insinuation.
“Right,” he says, still blushing. “Well, then maybe you’ll think about coming back.”
“If that’s what you want,” Castiel begins, sly and low and for no reason but to see what Dean makes of it. “Do you want me to come, Dean?”
Dean does a double-take, there are seconds where time seems to hang between them, and Castiel worries that he’s pushed things too far. Then Dean says, “Oh, uhuh, I sure do,” and he nods his head for emphasis. “Yeah, back to the clinic, I do. Real bad.”
“I think you just like seeing me without my clothes on.”
“Hey, if it means I don’t have to see you slouching like that.” Dean lifts his eyebrows, shrugging. “You’re meant to be able to like, actually move your neck and stuff, you know?”
“Truly?" Castiel asks, gasping for full effect. "I had no idea."
Pleasingly, that’s enough to make Dean huff out this stiff, exasperated little noise. Displeasingly, it’s also enough to make him get to his feet. “Alright, Quasimodo,” he teases, very rude and distasteful of him. “I gotta go, but don’t say I didn’t try.”
Castiel says nothing, but he does glance sideways, and he does watch unabashedly as Dean walks away. From there, in those chinos, Dean’s ass looks so phenomenally toned. Castiel wonders what the view would be like if he weren’t wearing any clothes.
“Oh, hey, before I go.” Dean turns over his shoulder, catching Castiel red-handed. He lets a beat go by, then pointedly, “Anyway,” he says. “Are you going tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, you know, that drinks thing? Cassie told me all you dorky tutor guys go to Rocky’s after work on Fridays.”
“Well, I suppose that explains why she invited you,” Castiel says. “But personally, I don’t tend to partake.”
“Oh yeah, okay, wise guy,” Dean says. He’s clearly trying to be playful, but there’s a layer of thinly-veiled disappointment there. “I’ll see you around then, I guess.”
Castiel does not dare watch Dean leave this time. He eats his lunch and gazes out at the gardens, and then once he can hear Dean has reached the steps at the building’s entrance, “But maybe I can make an exception,” he calls out after him. “It is Cassie’s last day at the university, after all.”
Dean doesn’t answer, perhaps to give the impression that he didn’t hear, but he lingers there on the stoop for long enough that Castiel is pretty sure that he did. Castiel is pretty sure that Dean is glad for it. Castiel is pretty sure that Dean is crushing on him, too.
01:13 Castiel: Are you going to Rocky’s tonight?
01:17 Meg: Not tonight. Stuck doing an installation.
01:18 Meg: Why? Are you??
01:26 Meg: ????
01:31 Castiel: Possibly.
01:31 Castiel: Just to say goodbye to Cassie.
01:33 Meg: Mk. Is your hot physio going?
01:34 Castiel: Maybe.
01:39 Meg: LOL
Castiel gets through all of his appointments, he tidies his inbox and organizes his schedule for Monday, and then instead of going home, he makes his way to the bar across the street. Meg has managed to strongarm him into attending perhaps five or so functions in all the years that he’s been working at the university, partly because he’s spent every spare minute furiously writing his thesis, partly because it’s always just a little uncomfortable seeing his colleagues in such a strange environment, and so he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself once he arrives.
For a while, he just sort of hangs by the bar, biding his time, then eventually, he has no choice but to venture onto the dancefloor. It’s all sweaty bodies and flashing lights, he pretends he’s searching for Cassie while he searches for Dean. There are a dizzying few seconds as the music changes, something fast and catchy and unquestionably indie starts to play. It’s familiar enough that Castiel recognizes it, not enough for him to identify it by name, but the people around him start moving in time as though they know it perfectly, he can feel the rhythm of it pounding into his skull, and that’s just about all the socializing he has the stamina for.
Outside, the night is still and calm, there’s a refreshing breeze rolling in from the bay. In the heart of the city, Castiel’s apartment is only a ten-or-so minute walk away, less if he cuts through the alleyway to the park.
This is also where he finds Cassie, pressed up against the side wall of the bar, one of Dean’s hands on her waist, the other in her hair.
Castiel freezes. He backtracks towards the road, but the scuffle of his shoes against the pavement is enough to announce his presence.
“Shit— Castiel, I, uh—” Cassie’s voice comes out all breathy and hard, perhaps because she’s rushing to catch up with Castiel, perhaps because of what she was doing with Dean. “I didn’t, uh. I didn’t realize you were there.”
“I apologize,” Castiel says, but then he doesn’t know what else to say, and so he lies. “I just wanted to pass on my best wishes and, well, if you need a reference in the future, you can feel free to contact me. Or not. Goodnight.”
“Thank you,” she says, a real note of sincerity there, very contrasting to the state of her bra strap as it hangs in disarray off her shoulder. “Thank you so much. For everything.”
Castiel does not get the chance to respond before Cassie throws her arms around him. As things so often are when he’s involved, the hug is awkward. He makes eye contact with Dean, which is also awkward. There is a smear of red lipstick on Dean’s mouth, a hint of apology in his expression, and on the eve of summer, the air is humid and thick and warm, nauseatingly so, and so Castiel just gets back to getting himself out of there.