Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel Novak’s fingers were cramping by the time he tied off the final stitch.

The operating room was silent but for the soft beeping of machines and the faint buzz of overhead lights. The ribcage below him glistened, clean and still. He took a step back and turned to Raphael, a Cardiothoracic fellow, on his right.

“Close for me, Raphael.” He said as he peeled off his gloves.

“Yes, Dr. Novak.” The man replied, before taking over Castiel Novak’s spot.

Castiel watched the man stitch the tissue, layer by layer, just as he had instructed for the past two–almost three, now–years. He decided to just trust Raphael and took an early leave. He nodded to Michelle, his scrub nurse, then headed straight to the door. He heard a ‘thank you Dr. Novak’ before the door closed behind him.

He walked out of the OR with the same numb precision he used for everything these days. Head down, jaw tight, and back aching. In the locker room, he stripped out of his surgical gown and scrubs with methodical efficiency, checking the wall clock.

2:17 a.m.

The red numbers glowed, fierce as the veins burning at the corners of his eyes.

That, just now, was his fourth valve replacement today. Eleventh, if we’re talking this week only. The backlog from having the previous cardiothoracic surgeon colleague resigned to finish his Ph.D degree in Germany is taking a toll on his body.

His reflection in the mirror stared back like a ghost: dark curls matted with sweat, eyes hollowed from sleepless nights, collarbone sharp as a scalpel.

He looked like a man who hadn’t eaten in 14 hours.

He looked like a man who hadn’t come in months.

The Novak Pharmaceuticals symposium was held at The Marlowe, a red velvet monument to pharmaceutical money and strategic branding. Castiel attended out of obligation. His name was on the brochure, printed cleanly under the title “Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery.” The wine was mediocre. The speeches were worse. But of course he had to be there out of professionalism.

But the night took a turn when Balthazar spotted him.

“Cas!” That British drawl was unmistakable. “Darling, you look like hell. Sexy hell, but hell nonetheless.”

Castiel allowed himself to be swept into a hug. It had been years, but Balthazar looked unchanged, wearing the same impossibly tailored suit and that smirk that had always meant trouble.

They drank. They caught up. They ended up in a hotel suite.

And three hours later, Balthazar was sprawled naked on the bed, lips swollen, chest flushed. Hickeys were all over his body, but nowhere noticeable.

“Jesus,” he panted, rolling onto his side. “You’ve gotten rougher.”

“You’ve gotten louder,” Castiel replied, breath still ragged.

They lay in silence, sweat cooling on their skin. Balthazar eventually looked over, one brow arched.

“So,” he drawled. “Who broke your heart?”

“No one.”

“Then… who tied your dick in a knot?”

“No one,” Castiel said again, annoyance clear in his voice.

Balthazar stretched out like a cat. “You’re starving. Emotionally, sexually, maybe even spiritually. I’d prescribe something, if you weren’t so insufferably clinical.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a prescription.”

“You do,” Balthazar said, suddenly serious. He reached into his blazer, tossed onto the chair, and pulled out a sleek black card. “But I’m giving you a referral instead.”

Castiel caught the card midair. The lettering was gold, serif, minimal:

The Eros Protocol – Elite Private Companions

He stared. “You’re joking.”

“I’ve never been more serious. They're discreet. Tailored. Thoroughly tested and bound by NDA. No photos, no risk. You give them your preferences, they give you bliss.”

Castiel snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, I like the hunt . Like the thrill it brings before enjoying the main course. Escorts don’t provide that.”

“No,” Balthazar said, sliding into his slacks. “But they’re better than jerking off between surgeries. Trust me.”

And so, at 12:43 a.m., Castiel sat on his living room couch with a tumbler of scotch in one hand and his laptop balanced on his lap.

The Eros Protocol’s website was all white space and elegance. No pictures. No names. Just a login and a signup portal with the faintest gold-embossed emblem: a stylized E inside two concentric rings. He clicked the signup button, and filled in his data. The intake form was extensive . They inquired about his personal data, including ID card, income data, and credit card information. Then a few more pages regarding preferences, kinks, limits, frequency, and medical conditions, including last medical check-up data and proof of STD screenings.

He answered honestly. Brutally. In detail. Especially regarding preferences and kinks. He would like to see how they perform later on.

Under “Special Requests,” he typed:

Someone who gives mind-blowing blowjobs and doesn’t mind being used as a cumdump.

Must consent to raw.

Straight to the point and doesn’t expect aftercare

Amenable to schedule changes

Blood samples taken directly by my part upon first meeting

He hovered, then clicked Submit.

A message appeared instantly:

Thank you, Mr. CN. Your request is being processed. An agent will contact you within 24 hours.

Exactly 24 hours later, a black sedan pulled up in front of his building. A sharply dressed woman stepped out, with a briefcase in hand. A young man followed.

And Castiel forgot how to breathe.

He was all tan skin, sunlit freckles, and tightly packed muscle under a fitted jacket. Jeans hugged his thighs indecently. His hair was tousled, like he’d just rolled out of bed and made it fashion. The green eyes beamed with confidence. They’re watchful and calm. But what drew him the most were those full plump lips.

They’re downright sinful. Castiel couldn’t wait to have them wrap around his cock.

“Good evening, Sir,” the woman greeted coolly. “Thank you for your time. This is Dean.”

Dean nodded once, his posture controlled and professional. Castiel felt his slacks grow tighter. Castiel led them towards his penthouse, situated at the very top floor of the building. As they entered his suite, Castiel ushered them to the living room. The handler quickly opened the briefcase. Strict to business. She pulled out several documents, and handed them over. They’re Dean’s terms and conditions, Dean’s medical record, and three copies of NDA documents. The NDA was thick and thoroughly ironclad. Castiel read every page and signed it.

Dean didn’t flinch when Castiel brought up something he added in the additional terms and condition: The blood draw. The pretty boy just raised an eyebrow.

“You a doctor or a lab tech?”

“Something like that,” Castiel said, already snapping on gloves and readying two vacutainers. He’d prepared them beforehand, on the table.

Dean’s veins were perfect. Castiel slid the needle in and watched the crimson flow into the vial. He didn’t even wince. Castiel filled two tubes. Once they’re both sealed, he sets them in a prepared cool box.

"You'll have the results by tomorrow, I assume?" Dean asked, buttoning his sleeve. 

"Of course."

When they finished, the handler gathered the paperwork. Dean followed her out.

Castiel said only one thing before the door closed, “Return tomorrow. 21:00.”

Dean’s mouth curled into something like a smirk.

“Of course, sir.”

Dean arrived at 9:00 p.m. sharp.

Castiel had already loosened his tie, rolled his sleeves, and unbuckled his belt. He didn’t bother greeting Dean. Just stepped aside to let him in and pointed wordlessly to the living room.

Dean obeyed without hesitation.

He stepped in, let the door click shut, and slowly sank to his knees on the hardwood floor. His posture was perfect: knees parted, hands resting on his thighs, eyes lifted like worship.

“May I, sir?”

Castiel didn’t speak. He just unzipped.

Dean took over like he’d been doing this for years, which Castiel reminded himself, he had. His fingers were deft as he tugged Castiel’s slacks down just enough to free his cock, which was already half-hard from the anticipation.

Dean exhaled slowly, warm breath ghosting over the tip before he even touched it.

Then, tongue first.

He licked a slow stripe up the underside of Castiel’s shaft, from base to head, letting his tongue drag just enough to sting. He circled the crown deliberately, teasing the slit with the flat of his tongue, tasting precome before Castiel could stop it.

Castiel grunted a sharp, involuntary sound.

Dean smiled faintly at that and wrapped one hand around the base, holding it steady as he finally took him in. Lips parted. Mouth hot. Wet.

He started slow. Shallow bobs, eyes locked upward, like he wanted Castiel to feel every inch disappear. His mouth was tight, cheeks hollowing with suction on the pullback, tongue pressed firm along the underside on the way down.

When he reached the halfway point, he relaxed his throat and kept going.

Castiel’s breath hitched.

Dean didn’t gag. He didn’t stop. He let his nose press flush against Castiel’s abdomen and held there. Castiel could feel the throat fluttering around him, swallowing like he enjoyed the stretch.

“Fuck,” Castiel breathed, one hand finding Dean’s hair. Not to guide him, just to hold on.

Dean moaned around him. A low, hungry sound. The vibration made Castiel’s knees buckle.

Then he started to move, fucking his own throat in slow, controlled motions, slick and obscene. Spit ran down his chin, catching at the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his shirt, but he didn’t care. Didn’t stop. One hand gripped the base of Castiel’s cock while the other slid between his own thighs, shamelessly palming himself through his jeans.

He looked hungry. Devoted. Like Castiel’s pleasure was the only thing in the world that mattered.

When Castiel’s hips started to twitch, Dean pulled back  just enough to speak.

“Come in my mouth, sir,” he rasped, lips swollen, voice fucked-out. “I want it.”

That was it.

Castiel didn’t warn him. Just groaned low in his chest and spilled down Dean’s throat, fingers tightening in his hair as he pulsed hard, dizzy with it.

Dean took every drop.

Didn’t spill a single fucking thing.

He swallowed like it was a gift, then pulled back with a slick pop, licking his lips clean with a practiced swipe of his tongue.

Castiel stood there, dazed, half-undressed, heart hammering.

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stood, and asked, calmly “Where do you want me next, Sir?”

They barely made it to the bed.

Castiel didn’t bother taking off his shirt. Dean hadn’t even removed his jeans. He’d just shoved them down far enough to bend over the mattress, fingers gripping the edge like he already knew what was coming.

Castiel spat into his hand, slicked himself up, and pushed in without ceremony.

Dean gasped. A high, sharp, real gasp. But he composed himself quickly and shoved back to take it. He was tight, hot, and so fucking willing. His spine curved beautifully beneath Castiel's hands.

“Fuck,” Castiel groaned, gripping Dean’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re— Christ, you’re perfect.”

Dean didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

He arched back with each thrust, thighs trembling, cheek pressed to the sheets, panting like he’d been made for this. Like this was all he’d been made for.

Castiel lost rhythm fast. He was engulfed in heat. And Dean took it like a champ. Every inch. Every relentless snap of Cas’s hips. When Castiel grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back, Dean moaned louder, his mouth hanging open, eyes glassy with something between pleasure and submission.

The mattress creaked beneath them. The air stank of sweat and sex.

Cas didn’t hold back.

He drove into Dean like a need, like a punishment, like something sacred and dirty all at once. Each thrust dragged a sound from Dean’s throat, soft and broken. Nothing performative. No act.

Dean came untouched, moaning Sir into the sheets like it hurt.

Castiel followed seconds later, slamming deep one last time and spilling inside him with a low, guttural curse. His hips trembled. His fingers dug in like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.

For a moment, everything stilled—the weight of their bodies, the haze of breath, the soft hum of the bedside lamp.

Then Dean slipped out from under him, silent and practiced.

He cleaned up with quiet efficiency, grabbing some tissue and water from the bathroom, then tucking a folded towel under Castiel’s hip to catch the mess. He moved with the calm of someone who was used to leaving, without lingering, without warmth.

He didn’t ask for praise.

He dressed in the same quiet grace with which he arrived. Castiel watched him put on the dark shirt and leather jacket with no rush.

And as he reached the door, he paused, one hand on the handle. He didn’t look back. Just stood there very briefly, probably less than 3 seconds. And he exited, the door clicked shut behind him, soft and final.

Castiel sat on the edge of the bed, cock still damp, shirt wrinkled, chest heaving.

His thighs ached. His arms shook.

And for the first time in months, he didn’t feel like a surgical machine.

He felt wrecked. Spent. He felt human .

Maybe Balthazar had been right.

Maybe The Eros Protocol wasn’t a failure of willpower.

Maybe it was the fucking solution.

Chapter Text

The second night, Castiel got home late.

Complications in the OR. A cardiac arrest that took too long to stabilize. By the time he stepped out of the elevator into his penthouse, the time on his watch read 21:09.

Dean was waiting just outside his door, back against the door, legs crossed at ankle level.

"Evening, sir," he said smoothly, no judgment in his tone. Just that steady, unreadable calm.

Castiel unlocked the door with his keys, opened the door, stepped aside, and let him in. He removed his coat with practiced movements.

Dean watched him quietly.

Castiel undid his cuffs and rolled them up. Dean was already kneeling by the time he turned.

“Eager tonight,” Castiel murmured.

Dean looked up through his lashes. “Always, sir.”

And boy , did it wake his cock right up.

Dean opened Castiel’s fly without hesitation. Slow, deliberate. Like unwrapping a gift he already knew was perfect. He skillfully freed Castiel’s member from the briefs and guided it out of the unzipped slacks. It dangled heavily before those beautiful lashes. 

Castiel watched Dean’s face with rapt attention, noting the way his expression shifted—focused, almost reverent—as his gaze lingered on Castiel’s half-hard cock. There was no mistaking the hunger in Dean’s eyes, the way his breathing deepened, quickened. Each exhale brushed hotter against Castiel’s skin as Dean leaned closer, lips parted, mouth poised with something far too deliberate to be innocent.

Dean’s mouth was obscene. It was hot, slick, and greedy, wrapping around his cock like his favorite lollipop. His eyes fluttered closed as he took Castiel deeper, then deeper still.

Castiel let himself feel the stretch of Dean’s throat, the flex of his jaw. He bobbed his head in rhythm, saliva coating Castiel’s shaft, making wet, lewd sounds every time he pulled off. His tongue worked the underside. One hand gripped the base, the other braced on Castiel’s thigh.

"Look at you," Castiel growled, fisting a hand in Dean’s hair. "You love this, don’t you? Love being used."

Dean moaned around his cock.

Castiel fucked into his throat until Dean gagged, then held him there. Dean didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. When he was finally released, his lips were wet, smeared with spit. Tears were already forming at the corners of his eyes. Castiel couldn’t wait anymore.

"Get on the bed," Castiel ordered.

Dean moved fast and stripped. He put his ass up, knees apart, cheek pressed to the mattress. Slick already glistening between his cheeks.

Castiel groaned at the sight. Had Dean lube himself up before coming here?

Castiel pushed a finger against his furl and as Castiel’s digit went deeper, he felt Dean’s inside suck it in. Dean exhaled, shivering.

Dean’s ready.

Castiel withdrew his fingers and aligned his cock with Dean’s entrance. Without warning, he pressed the head past the tight ring of muscle, then drove in hard and deep until he bottomed out. Dean gasped, the sudden stretch pulling a sound of pain from his throat. Castiel paused.

"You prepped yourself before you came here," Castiel stated, not as a question, more of an acknowledgement 

Dean’s back arched. "Yes, sir."

"You expected to get fucked like this?"

"Hoped."

Castiel made a mental note. Efficient. Obedient. Slutty in all the right ways.

He pulled back almost entirely before bottoming out with one hard thrust.

Dean gasped, hands fisting the sheets.

Castiel did it again, pulling out slowly, and slamming back in. And Dean’s hiss turned into a muffled cry as he buried his face on the pillow below him.

"Good boy. You’re so ready for me," Castiel muttered, thrusting slow and mean.

Castiel kept the rhythm steady, unforgiving. Deep strokes that dragged against every nerve inside Dean, just slow enough to feel cruel.

Dean’s hands twisted in the sheets, body trembling under the weight of it—of him. He was gasping now, every breath a strangled sound, muffled into the mattress.

“You prepped for this, but I don’t think you knew what you were asking for,” Castiel murmured, voice calm. Icy. “You thought I’d fuck you hard and fast, get off, let you crawl home soaked in it.”

Dean groaned, wrecked. “No, Sir. I—I just want to make sure I’m ready for you to take—”

Castiel cut him off with another thrust, sharper now, angled perfectly. Dean cried out.

“That’s good to know,” Castiel said slapping Dean’s right ass-cheek.

Dean whimpered, spine arching as another thrust hit that same spot, over and over. There wasn't enough friction. Castiel hadn’t touched him once, hadn’t even looked at his cock. But his body was betraying him, cock flushed, twitching against his stomach, smearing slick over the sheets.

“You feel that?” Castiel’s voice was low and dangerous now, breath hitting the back of Dean’s neck. “That ache in your gut? That’s me. That’s all me.”

Dean was shaking. He tried to hold still, to obey, but his thighs kept tightening, hips twitching with every thrust.

Castiel reached forward—not to stroke him, not even to hold him—just to press one palm flat against the small of Dean’s back, pinning him down.

“You're going to come, aren’t you,” Castiel said softly, cruelly. “Without a single touch.”

Dean let out a strangled sound, desperate, already spiraling.

“You want to? Go on. Be good for me.”

That was all it took.

Dean jerked beneath him, a full-body tremor, back arched as his orgasm ripped through him—hot, sudden, untouched. His cock spilled against the sheets, pulse stuttering, breath torn from his lungs.

He collapsed, shaking, panting into the mattress.

Castiel didn’t stop.

He didn’t even slow down.

“Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully. “One down.”

He dragged his cock out slowly, then slammed back in, and Dean cried out—overstimulated and helpless.

“I’m not done,” Castiel said, voice calm, almost conversational. “And you don’t get to be done until I say so.”

Dean moaned, weak but open, body already responding again.

Castiel smiled.

This night was far from over.

Dean was still gasping for breath when Castiel moved—hands firm on his hips, guiding him over.

“On your back,” Castiel said.

Dean obeyed, sluggish with afterglow, limbs heavy and trembling. He lay back, legs falling open without hesitation, already wrecked and still ready.

Castiel climbed over him, settled between his thighs, and pushed back in with one deep thrust that had Dean crying out again. The change in position was perfect. Dean had nowhere to hide. Castiel could see the face Dean made as he fuck into him. 

“Sensitive already?” Castiel murmured, voice low as he bent over him. “You’re shaking.”

Dean whined, his hands flying to the sheets beside his head, gripping hard as Castiel began to move—slow, deep strokes that left no mercy.

“I said I wasn’t done.”

Each thrust ground against Dean’s prostate now, unrelenting, and Dean could barely take it—body twitching, overstimulated, his cock still hard and slick between them.

Castiel leaned in close, breath warm against Dean’s ear. “You’re going to come again,” he whispered. “And I’m still not going to touch you.”

Dean moaned, helpless under him, every nerve alight. His hips tried to buck but Castiel pressed him down, holding him steady, forcing him to take everything.

“You feel that pressure building again?” Castiel’s voice was soft, cruel. “You’re going to fall apart. For me. Just like this.”

Dean nodded through the haze, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, breath caught in his throat as his body betrayed him again.

“Come,” Castiel ordered. “Now.”

Dean shattered.

The second orgasm ripped through him—harder, crueler, pulled from a body already undone. His back arched, muscles locking as he spilled between them, untouched, overstimulated, moaning Sir like a broken prayer.

Castiel groaned, the sight pushing him over the edge. He drove in deep one final time and came with a low, rough sound, cock twitching as he spilled inside Dean, buried to the base.

Dean gasped as he felt it—hot, filling, too much.

Castiel stayed there, pressed to him, panting against his neck.

Then he slowly pulled out, and watched his own come leak from Dean’s stretched hole, sliding down his thighs, glistening in the low light.

Dean trembled, spent, lips parted, eyes glazed.

Castiel leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, too soft.

“Ten minutes,” he murmured. “Then I want you on your knees.”

After, Castiel sprawled on the couch, shirt half-buttoned, tumbler of whiskey sweating in his hand. Dean cleaned up in the ensuite, quickly and quietly. When he emerged, Castiel spoke without looking up.

“I’d like you to come more often.”

Dean turned his head. “How much more often?”

“Every night.”

Dean raised a brow. “My agreement was one to two sessions a week.”

“I’ll double the pay for the extra sessions. Cash. At the end of each session”

Dean blinked.

Then smiled.

“You got yourself a deal, sir.”

The next night, Dean showed up again.

And the next.

And the next.

Castiel couldn’t stop calling him. Dean never said no.

By Friday, it had become a ritual.

Surgeries during the day. Dean at night.

Castiel started looking forward to 21:00 the way most people longed for vacation.

And Dean? Dean took everything.

On the fifth night, Castiel was already stripping off his coat the moment the door shut behind him. He didn’t wait. Didn’t speak.

Dean stepped inside and blinked, halfway through unzipping his jacket, when Castiel crossed the space in two strides, eyes dark, mouth set.

"Strip. Now."

Dean obeyed instantly. No teasing, no smirk this time, just obedience. His boots hit the floor, followed by his jeans, shirt, everything.

Castiel didn’t even let him finish before his mouth was on him. He started biting, claiming. He was hungry. He shoved Dean against the wall, kissing him hard and wet, dragging his teeth along Dean’s jaw.

Dean moaned shamelessly, grinding up against him, already hard.

"You missed this, didn’t you?" Castiel growled, one hand gripping the back of Dean’s neck, the other slipping down to grab his ass. "You’ve been thinking about it all day."

"Yes, sir," Dean panted. "Been thinking about your cock since I left."

"Fucking slut."

Castiel shoved him to his knees.

Dean went down fast, eager, spreading his knees wide like he belonged there. His mouth opened automatically, tongue lapping at the length, eyes already glazed over.

"God, look at you," Castiel muttered, running his thumb along Dean’s lower lip. "On your knees the second I tell you. You love choking on my cock, don’t you?"

Dean nodded.

"Say it."

"I love it, sir," Dean said, voice hoarse. "I love when you fuck my throat. I love when you use me."

Castiel slid in deep.

Dean’s lips stretched wide, eyes fluttering, his hands resting politely on his thighs while Castiel grabbed his hair and started thrusting. Shallow at first—just to feel it. But the wet, obscene sounds made him wild fast. He started using Dean’s mouth properly, fucking into it hard, hand tightening in his hair to keep him in place.

Dean gagged.

Didn’t pull back.

Didn’t dare.

Spit and drool slicked his chin. His throat fluttered around Castiel’s cock, swallowing as best he could.

"Good boy," Castiel groaned, fucking faster. "Taking it so well. You love getting used, don’t you?"

Dean looked up at him with glassy eyes, moaned around him, and nodded again.

Castiel hissed, pulled out fast, and dragged Dean to the bed by the arm.

He shoved him face-down into the mattress and climbed over him, slicking his cock with one hand while the other pressed between Dean’s shoulder blades, pinning him down.

"You’re mine tonight," he growled.

Dean didn’t hesitate. “Yours,” he whispered, voice shot from the roughness of his throat. “All yours, sir.”

Castiel pushed in deep—one smooth thrust—and groaned at the way Dean took it. Open, tight, perfect.

Dean arched under him, moaning into the sheets.

"That’s right," Castiel muttered, setting a brutal pace. "This hole was made for me. You love it when I fuck you like this—like you’re just a toy."

"Yes, sir—fuck—don’t stop, please—"

Castiel grabbed his hips and slammed in harder, deep and punishing. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the room. Dean sobbed into the sheets, not from pain—never from pain—but from being fucked exactly the way he wanted.

"You know what I love?" Castiel said, voice rough and cruel. "That I don’t even have to touch your cock to make you come."

Dean whimpered.

"I bet you’ll come just like this—face down, ass up, getting ruined."

"Please, sir," Dean begged. "I need—"

"You don’t need anything except my cock," Castiel growled, and reached around to squeeze Dean’s throat just enough to make him gasp. "You’re mine to fuck. Mine to wreck. Say it."

"I’m yours," Dean choked out. "Yours to fuck. Yours to use. Please, sir—"

Castiel slammed in harder, chasing the edge. Dean’s whole body trembled, muscles quivering under Castiel’s grip.

And then he came.

Without a hand. Without a word. Just from being taken—completely taken—his body convulsing, spilling into the sheets.

Castiel didn’t stop.

He fucked him through it, relentless, until Dean’s moans turned into broken, blissed-out sounds and he was shaking under him—boneless, wrecked, utterly spent.

When Castiel finally came, it was with a groan that sounded almost like relief, hips buried deep, breath ragged.

He pulled out gently, hands still warm on Dean’s waist.

Dean didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Castiel cleaned them both with a warm cloth. Tucked the sheets around Dean’s limp, pliant body. Then curled behind him for a moment, just breathing in the heat of his skin.

He didn’t usually do this.

Didn’t usually want to. 

The next morning, Castiel walked into the hospital humming under his breath.

Michelle raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s in a good mood. Did something… good happen?”

He only smiled.

Gabriel caught him after rounds. “Jesus, Cas. You look like you got laid and found religion all in one night.”

Castiel didn’t answer. Just walked away.

By Saturday night, Dean’s thighs were shaking the moment Castiel laid a hand on them.

“You sore?”

Dean grinned. “A little.”

“Want me to stop?”

“No.”

Castiel hummed and pushed him down onto the couch.

“I want you to come with my cock in your ass tonight,” he said, voice low. “No hands. Think you can do that?”

Dean’s pupils blew wide. “Yes, sir.”

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Castiel pushed in slow and deep, holding Dean’s wrists down, rolling his hips in careful, relentless strokes.

Dean whimpered, eyes glassy, cock leaking untouched between them.

Castiel leaned in, mouth to Dean’s ear. “Good boy. Take it.”

Dean shattered.

Came hard across his stomach, hips jerking, breath caught on a sob.

Castiel kept going until he was empty, spent, sweat-slicked and panting.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He stayed pressed against Dean’s back, one hand stroking slowly over his chest like he forgot himself.

When he finally moved, Dean made no comment. Just rolled over and helped clean up.

Professional. Calm.

But Castiel sat there a long time after he left.

The air still smelled like sex and sweat.

And something worse.

Something dangerous.

That night, he opened the booking form on his laptop.

Changed the frequency from “1–2 times per week” to “As requested by client.”

Changed the booking period from “1 month” to “Indefinitely”.

His cursor hovered over the comment box.

Eventually, he typed:

He’s exactly what I need.

He didn’t send it.

But he didn’t delete it, either.

Chapter Text

By the second week, things took a turn..

Castiel was getting home later. Emergency surgeries, unexpected consults, long stretches in the OR — all of it ate into his evenings. He stopped calling Dean every night. He didn’t have time. He barely had energy.

Eventually, they settled into a new rhythm: two sessions per week. Monday and Thursday, usually. Sometimes Saturday, if Castiel felt particularly frayed.

Dean never complained. Never asked why the frequency changed. He simply arrived when summoned, on time, clean, and ready . God , he’s always ready for Castiel to take.

It should’ve felt transactional.

But it didn’t.

Castiel was in a better mood. Sharper, calmer. Gabriel pointed it out once between cases.

“You stopped growling at the residents,” he said, glancing up from a chart. “Did you start microdosing or something?”

Castiel ignored him.

He ran into Balthazar by chance one afternoon, walking past the valet station outside the hospital. He almost didn’t stop.

But Balthazar caught his eye, grinned like the smug bastard he was, and said, “Well, someone looks positively… satisfied.”

Castiel inclined his head. “Thank you for the recommendation.”

Balthazar laughed. “My pleasure. You always were wound a little tight.”

“I’m fine.”

“Exactly,” Balthazar said, with a wink. “And that’s the point.”

By the fourth month, Castiel had help.

Raphael, the fellow under his direct supervision completed their program, and had been appointed as junior attending. He was competent, efficient, and had the skillset Castiel himself had approved. The fact that he was uninterested in small talk, is another blessing. He took over post-ops and consults with minimal supervision, giving Castiel back chunks of his time.

It would’ve been easy to stop the contract. He’d never intended for it to last this long. He could go back to finding partners on his own, and it would be just as casual, anonymous, with no strings attached.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he kept Dean. Because it was simple. Predictable. Professional. And, more than anything, it worked.

Dean never overstayed. Never asked questions. Never forgot his place.

It had become a routine. And Castiel liked routine.

The dinners started by accident.

One night, after a particularly intense session that left Dean panting and covered in sweat, his stomach growled– loud and unmistakable. Castiel raised an eyebrow from where he was wiping them both down.

Dean flushed. “Didn’t get a chance to eat before I came over.”

He did summon Dean outside their usual schedule, and rather urgently at that.

Castiel stood. “Get dressed.”

Dean blinked. “Sir?”

“There’s a restaurant downstairs. We’re eating,” Castiel found himself saying. Probably because he felt guilty , he thought internally.

They went. Ordered steak and fries. Dean devoured his food like it was a last meal.

Castiel found himself watching his mouth more than he should have.

After that, dinner became part of the rhythm. Sometimes before sex. Sometimes after. Occasionally, Castiel would get paged mid-meal and leave Dean with a paid tab and a nod goodbye.

He didn’t explain his job. Never offered any detail beyond “something came up.”

Dean never pried. He only made a wry comment once— “Must be an important man, always running off like that.”

Castiel didn’t answer.

Their conversations stayed light. Detached.

Dean shared a few stories—nameless, faceless encounters from his past clients. High-paying CEOs. A weekend with a bored royal. Once, a client with a humiliation kink so elaborate it required cue cards.

Castiel found those stories funny, but he wasn’t sure why they seemed to irritate him, though just a little.

He stopped asking.

One dinner stood out.

They were at the Thai‑fusion place beneath his building. Dean’s phone buzzed. He checked the edition of Rolling Stone in front of him, frowned.

“You like Supernatural?” Dean asked between bites of pad kra pao.

Castiel paused. “No.” He lied.

Dean laughed. “Right. I apologize.”

“Actually,” Castiel said, recalling a recent episode he’d watched with a weird sense of curiosity. “I liked ‘The French Mistake.’”

Dean’s fork paused. “Seriously? That was my favorite.”

Castiel raised both brows.

Dean nodded, finishing his bite. “That episode was… absurd. Jensen and Misha go meta. It was bold.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Meta is risky.”

Dean smiled. “But it surprised me. Made me laugh. Felt… clever.”

Castiel sipped his wine, watching Dean’s hands tighten around the glass stem. Saw that there was more under the surface—attention, intelligence.

They didn’t say it, but at that moment, something shifted quietly.

The notice came during the fifth month.

A short, crisp email from Eros Protocol:

“This is your 30-day confirmation that your current companion will be concluding his contract on the agreed date. Please reach out if you’d like to discuss an extension or request a new assignment.”

Castiel didn’t think much of it.

In a way, it was convenient. He had time now. He could resume choosing partners himself. He’d never needed an escort before — Balthazar had simply caught him at a moment of weakness.

Still.

If the arrangement was ending, Castiel decided he was going to make the most of it.

He called Dean in more often.

Longer sessions. Slower fucks. Rougher ones.

He stopped rushing. Took his time. Fucked Dean over the arm of the couch, on his countertop, against the large window looking down the city, on his knees in the shower.

Dean moaned through all of it. Let himself be wrecked over and over again.

“You like knowing you won’t be able to walk in the morning?” Castiel asked once, voice rough as he thrust in deep, punishing strokes.

Dean's voice was raw. “Please. Sir. Make it hurt.”

Castiel did.

Their final session came quietly.

Castiel had requested a one-month extension – there’s an upcoming symposium and workshop he was in charge of, and it’d take a lot of time – but Eros Protocol sent an email, stating “Further extension of the contract is not possible as our companion refused to continue the service.” Castiel ignored the stabbing sensation in his chest as he read the message, but quickly got over it. After all, requesting another companion wouldn’t be difficult if he wanted to. But he’d prefer to get back to hunting partners.

Dean didn’t say it was the last time.

He never said anything, not with words. But there was something in his eyes when he showed up at the penthouse—shoulders squared, jaw set, gaze unreadable. Not soft. Not sentimental. Just… certain. Like this had already ended, and this was the echo.

He didn’t undress. Just stood in the middle of the room, lit in half-shadow, and said simply, “Use me.”

And Castiel did.

He said nothing. Just closed the distance, took Dean’s face in his hands, and kissed him like he could carve permanence out of breath and friction. Dean melted under it, gave way with a sound low in his throat, and let himself be turned, pushed, undone.

Clothes stayed on in fragments—denim jeans shoved down, shirt bunched at the collar, belt still dangling from one loop. Castiel didn’t care. He didn’t want romance, not tonight. He wanted memory burned into skin. He wanted Dean to feel him for days.

He drove into him with unrelenting rhythm, not cruel, but punishing in its intensity. Not a single inch given gently. Dean’s back arched off the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets, mouth open around a moan that barely made it out.

“Take it,” Castiel growled, voice like gravel against stone. “You’re mine tonight. No one else gets this.”

Dean whimpered, his whole body shuddering beneath him. “Yours, sir. Always.”

Always.

The word lodged like a knife. Castiel knew it was a lie. They both did. But still, he didn’t call it out. Didn’t break the illusion. He just sank deeper, anger coiled tight beneath the surface of his restraint.

So he held Dean tighter. Fucked him harder. Left bruises where his fingers dug into hips, bit down on a shoulder like it would keep Dean from disappearing when the night was over.

Dean came the first time chanting “Sir” on his lips, choked and half-sobbing. But Castiel didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just pulled Dean down onto him again, rougher this time, one hand tangling in his hair while the other pinned him by the throat—not tight, just firm, a reminder.

The second time came slower, messier. Dean’s hands were bound now, wrists crossed and tied with Castiel’s discarded tie. His face was pressed into the mattress, panting, body slick with sweat and come, twitching with overstimulation. And Castiel was still inside him, moving with cruel precision.

He didn’t ask if Dean could take it. Didn’t ask anything at all.

Because he already knew the answer. And because Dean had asked to be used.

Castiel came with a low groan, buried deep, holding Dean in place as he trembled beneath him. His chest heaved, jaw tight, fingers flexing around the tie like it was the only thing holding him together.

And still, he said nothing.

Because if he opened his mouth, he wouldn’t stop.

Because if he said Dean’s name now, it might sound too much like please.

When it was over, Castiel left cash by the door, as always.

Dean didn’t take it.

He just dressed, quiet, composed, and walked out without a word.

The next morning, another email arrived.

“Your designated companion has formally concluded the contract. Thank you for using our service and thank you for your discretion.”

Castiel stared at the message for a long time. The words blurred on the screen, sterile and polite, like the end of a business transaction instead of what it truly was: an absence he hadn’t braced for.

He didn’t reply.

He closed his laptop, sat in silence, and didn’t renew the subscription.

Instead, he told himself he could go back to what he’d done before. What had always worked before.

He tried clubs first. A man with tousled blond hair and an easy smile approached him near the bar—confident, a little loud, the kind of person used to being wanted. He leaned in too close when he talked, pressed a drink into Castiel’s hand without asking. They ended up in the back of a cab an hour later, hands already on each other. It was fast. Perfunctory. The man was vocal and eager, but the rhythm never synced, and Castiel felt more like a participant than a partner. When it was done, the man lit a cigarette and asked Castiel’s name again. He didn’t answer.

The app was worse. He matched with a lawyer—or was it a prosecutor—named Riley. They chatted briefly—just enough pleasantries to keep it from feeling rushed. Riley was attractive in a clean-cut way, wore cologne that lingered even after he left the room. He was polite, and respected boundaries. When they slept together, it was quiet. Too quiet. Riley kept asking if things were “okay,” if Castiel was “getting what he needed,” as if reading from a manual. The sex was fine. Technically. But Castiel couldn’t stop thinking about how Riley’s hands were too smooth, how his breath never caught, how his body never trembled like Dean’s did when he let go.

Once, a colleague from a hospital event introduced him to someone—tall, polished, articulate. Another time, an overly confident neurology resident flirted through an entire departmental meeting—smirking across the table, fingers tapping his pen like he owned the room. He was built like a gym rat: broad chest, sculpted abs, veined arms that strained the sleeves of his scrubs. The kind of man who clearly counted macros, posted gym selfies, and assumed desire was owed to him. Castiel had once enjoyed men like that. Enjoyed breaking them—watching their bravado melt into breathless obedience beneath him. But this one was all swagger and no soul.

When they finally hooked up in a nearby hotel, it was thoroughly dull. No sharp pull of breath, no flicker of surrender, no thrill in the giving over. Just motion and muscle and nothing else. The resident tried to push things further—asked if they could ditch the condom, breath hot against Castiel’s ear, begged to be filled. “Come in me,” he murmured, low and eager. “I want to feel it for hours.”

Castiel declined. He didn’t explain why. He didn’t owe him that. Instead, when he finished, he pulled out and painted his release all over the man’s face—marking him in silence, one hand tangled in his hair, watching impassively as it dripped down his cheek. The resident moaned like it meant something. Like it was a prize. When it was over, the man pulled his shirt back on with a smirk, satisfied like he’d just conquered something. 

Castiel only felt tired. And very, very empty.

He tried to be present. He tried to enjoy it. He tried not to see Dean’s shadow every time someone else pulled him close.

But nothing tasted right.

Nothing felt right.

He told himself it was just a transition. A phase. That he was adjusting.

But his hands reached for muscle memory that didn’t exist in these other bodies. His eyes searched for green that wasn’t there. His mouth hovered over words he’d only ever spoken into Dean’s skin .

And every time, when it was over, Castiel lay there with someone he didn’t want to touch, staring at the ceiling like it might give him an answer.

He stopped trying, eventually.

And told himself he preferred the quiet.

Six weeks later, he scrubbed in for a valve replacement in OR 5.

A straightforward case. Routine.

He was reviewing the chart when the Head of Anesthesiology stepped inside.

“Dr. Michael,” Michelle greeted.

“Good morning, Nurse Michelle,” the man greeted.

“Dr. Novak,” he said, “this is our new anesthesiology cohort. Winchester, you’ll be shadowing Dr. Novak today.”

Castiel looked up.

Dean.

Wearing scrubs. Hair slightly shorter. No trace of makeup. No hint of anything but calm professionalism.

Castiel swore he saw Dean freeze for a half-second.

Then Dean smiled—tight, polite, like any young resident meeting a senior attending for the first time.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he said.

Castiel's throat went dry.

He forced his voice steady. “Winchester.”

He turned back to the chart, not sure what to even look at.

He turned to Michelle, his nurse.

“Let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

Dean Winchester didn’t particularly like hospitals. The buzz of fluorescent lights, the recycled air, the constant scent of antiseptic—it was a pressure cooker of performance and pretending, which he was usually good at. 

But he loved being helpful . Loved to help stabilize emergency patients, loved the feeling of intensive care patients stepping down to regular ward, and loved helping with surgeries. Unfortunately, he wasn’t someone blessed with surgical hands. 

He had never harbored lofty expectations for his career in the medical field. Not only had he come from a non-medical background—he came from poverty. Scraping together enough money for his own education, and for his younger sibling’s, had taken years of effort and sacrifice. That was why he’d started medical school later than most of his peers. And the same reason he was only beginning his residency now. He’d matched to Anesthesiology at another hospital and finished one year of internship, before his little brother finished undergraduate program and said he got into Stanford Law.

Dean immediately suspended his residency, because Sammy’s Law School came first. He’d decided to focus on grinding for money. And six weeks ago, he could say he’d finally be able to afford all the money he’d need to cover Sammy's whole tuition and his own until he got his medical license. But it also wouldn’t have even been possible if not for Dr. Michael—a renowned anesthesiologist—who had gone out of his way to write him a recommendation to transfer his credit from the previous hospital to this hospital.

Even so, as he followed Dr. Michael down the hallway toward the operating rooms, a chill ran down Dean’s spine—sharp and sudden, like a warning. He chalked it up to the cold, sterile air that always seemed to cling to this part of the hospital, or maybe to the heavy weight of first-day nerves. But when they stopped in front of OR 5 and Dr. Michael turned, clipboard tucked under his arm, Dean's stomach twisted.

“Dr. Novak,” Dr. Michael announced, knocking once before pushing the door open, “this is our new anesthesiology cohort. Winchester, you’ll be shadowing Dr. Novak starting today.”

Dean stepped forward, looked up, and the world tilted.

There were three people scrubbed in, gowns and masks and caps in place, faces blurred into surgical anonymity. But only one of them turned, and Dean didn’t need to see the rest.

Just the eyes.

A single look, and something inside him dropped like a stone.

Even behind the mask and cap and sterile layers, Dean knew. He knew.

Blue eyes. He hadn’t seen them for a while, but he’d recognize that shade anywhere. Frigid Atlantic blue, too sharp to be kind. And staring right at him. Dean’s heart jolted like it had been yanked by a hook. His mouth went dry. His pulse slammed against his ears. For a split second, it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel it building, that strange, spiraling heat in his chest—panic, or adrenaline, or maybe just the sheer weight of memory slamming into the present without warning.

He hadn’t expected to see him again.
Not here. Not now.
Not like this.

Not gowned and gloved, scrubbed in and haloed by surgical light like he ran the place. Like he belonged to some other world now—clean, clinical, unreachable. His voice, when it came, was calm and direct, just like Dean remembered it—cool, controlled, with a low rasp like gravel rubbed into velvet. It hadn’t changed. Nothing about him had.

Dean felt his stomach flip again. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Novak.

Sir was Dr. Novak.

Of course he was.

Of all the ORs in all the hospitals in the goddamn city— It had to be his.

He pulled himself out of the trance and quickly greeted the man in front of him.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Dean said, his voice smooth by sheer force of muscle memory.

Dr. Novak didn’t flinch. Not even a blink. Just met his eyes like this was any other Tuesday.

“Dr. Novak,” a nurse called, pulling Dean out of his train of thoughts. Dr. Novak turned back to the chart in his hand. 

Dean should’ve figured. Should’ve run a background search when the client had demanded to draw his blood sample himself. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to. Why didn’t he feel the need to dig further?

He’d assumed Sir was a medic, maybe a trauma nurse or some field operative, judging by the callouses and the casual mention of late nights. What kind of surgeon had time for seven sessions a week? Not to mention sessions that lasted hours of rough plowing on top of surgeries by day and on call schedules.

But now—watching Castiel Novak glide across the OR like a storm in slow motion—Dean realized how stupid that had been.

What kinda nurse covers their dick and balls in Tom Ford like their junk’s too good for cotton? And no paramedic came home to a penthouse overlooking the skyline with marble countertops and a built-in wine chiller.

He should’ve known.

Dean fucking Winchester should’ve fucking known .

“Winchester,” Dr. Novak called. “Let’s begin.”

Roughly Seven Months Earlier

Dean had just returned from the nightclub—dragged there by Charlie, of course—when the notification from The Eros Protocol lit up his phone. The haze of tequila vanished almost instantly. He sat up straighter.

It was fifteen minutes to 2 A.M.

What kind of pervert makes a booking this late? he thought automatically, rubbing a hand down his face. Then he paused. Blinked. Realized— Oh. Right. All of ‘em.

Because that’s exactly what the service was for, wasn’t it? The desperate, the drunk, the lonely. The ones who couldn’t fall asleep without someone’s voice or someone’s hands. Dean let out a low groan, forehead thunking back against the couch. Jesus, I’m wasted.

Dean opened the message and scanned the summary forwarded by Eros.

The note was brief.

Client Alias: Cas
Preferred to be called: Sir
Preferences: Discreet, professional, no strings attached.

Well. That was genuinely new. And remarkably... business-like.

In his previous experience, this section was usually packed with details— gay , bisexual , bicurious , sometimes with a full list of preferred roles or positions. This one? Potentially a serial killer.

Dean figured maybe anonymity mattered more to this client than anything else.

He read the next line and raised an eyebrow.

Special request:

* Someone who gives mind-blowing blowjobs and doesn’t mind being used as a cumdump.

* Must consent to raw.

* Straight to the point and doesn’t expect aftercare

* Amenable to schedule changes

* Blood samples taken by directly by my part upon first meeting

Now this was more like it.

Dean leaned back and smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching as he read. Seemed like the client was just another garden-variety pervert. Probably a closeted married guy with too much money and not enough imagination.

Still, the last part caught his attention.

Usually, clients trusted the health data vetted and pre-cleared by the agency. This one had requested separate blood sampling before the contract could even be finalized.

Dean didn’t mind. If anything, it was a good sign.

It meant the guy was serious. Prioritized his health. Didn’t want to play games with STDs—especially if he was the kind who insisted on going in raw.

He scrolled down, thumb gliding over the screen, and read the next line.

Eros Protocol Analysis: Elite-tier, high-paying, fee range double previous bookings, repeat bookings likely, depending on first impression. 

Okay. Private contract. Elite tier. Anonymous profile. Double Dean's previous rate.

Dean had no reason to hesitate. He’d been doing this long enough to know a good opportunity when it knocked. A few weeks with a high-paying regular would let him sock away enough to cover Sam’s first semester and maybe pay for his own residency relocation costs. Plus, the guy is high-paying and emotionally unavailable—his ideal.

He’d expected someone older. Crasser. Duller.

Instead, a man in his mid 30s had greeted them at the reception hall: dark-haired, blue-eyed, intense as hell. No introduction. Just a look that’s quiet and piercing. His first words to Dean was a low command: "Roll your sleeves."

From the second Dean had seen him, shirt rolled to the elbows, fingers skimming the lid of a tumbler glass, Dean knew: this guy wasn’t here to play. Next thing he knew his client took his blood like a trained medic. 

That first night had been feral.

The client - Cas, the alias Eros provided -  looked at him like a thing. Like an answer. Like he wanted to swallow Dean whole and forget he had a name.

Dean had dropped to his knees and given him the best goddamn head of his life. Not because it was a job. Because something in his voice made Dean want to be perfect.

The rest was a blur of hard sex and brief words. They'd fucked like animals. Dean left sore, limping and well-paid. He made a note to prepare his ass before every session, because this client spared him no foreplay and get straight to plowing into him. And Dean wants his asshole intact, thank you very much. 

The second night was worse. Or better.

Rougher. Longer. Filthier.

His client had deliberately taken his time stretching Dean’s hole with his big fat cock. Made Dean properly feel him.

Dean should’ve hated it.

He didn’t.

Something about this client was different. Controlled. Precise. The kind of man who thought before he touched—but once he did, he ruined you.

The man never gave his name. Dean never used the alias the Eros provided. He called him "sir". It was mutual. "Sir" never asked for Dean’s name. Although, his handler already introduced his first name before. He called him "sweetheart" sometimes. But mostly, just gave instructions.

“Open wide.”

“Bend over.”

“Don’t come yet.”

“Take it.”

“Hands behind your back.”

And Dean’s personal favorite. “Don’t touch yourself, I want you to come just from my cock.”

Dean always replied with a "Yes, sir".

By the third week, Dean realized he was looking forward to the calls. Not just the money—though, hell, the guy paid well, not to mention even outside the contract. A double rate offer had come in on the second night for nightly visits. Dean accepted immediately.

It was efficient. Strategic.

Dean didn’t need attachment. He needed Sam’s tuition fees. Residency prep. An escape route from poverty. And from this particular lifestyle.

Still, the man kept booking him. And Dean kept showing up.

A month passed. Then two.

Dean had never kept a client that long. Usually Dean cycled clients out every three, four meetings tops. He’d always found a reason to move on—too needy, too boring, too much.

But this one?

This one made him ache in the best ways.

Dean couldn’t pinpoint exactly when things drifted beyond just sex . Maybe it was the first time his stomach growled, loud and shameless, right after “Sir” had finished inside him. Somehow, dinner had crept into their sessions after that. They’d share light talks. Something simple, superficial. He’d ask about Dean’s favorite books. About music. About film. He’d pour them both scotch and pretend they were just two people, and for a while, Dean pretended too.

Until one night, Dean made a joke about Casablanca and the blue eyed man laughed so hard he spit wine across the couch.

Dean had stared.

His client had blushed.

And Dean had wanted to kiss him. Not for show. Not for money.

Just. Kiss him.

And that’s when he knew he should stop this .

The night he got the email from Eros Protocol asking whether to extend the contract for a final month, Dean hesitated for the first time in his career. He stared at the screen for ten minutes. One finger hovering over “Extend.” The smart choice was no . It was always going to be no. He just hated how it felt like ripping out a stitch before it healed.

He clicked "No" in the end. It was the right thing. The smart thing. Better to cut ties before the lines blurred.

Back to The Present

He hadn’t known the guy was a heart surgeon.

Didn’t know he was a Novak .

Didn’t know he’d be standing across from him in a goddamn OR.

Dean clutched the edge of the sink as he scrubbed in. His gloves were half a size too tight. His stomach twisted.

Dr. Novak barked out orders with military precision. His voice didn’t waver once.

Dean moved on autopilot. Adjusted dosages. Monitored vitals. Documented. He could do this. He’d done harder.

But those hands. Sir’s hands.

They were the same. Long fingers. Scar on the index knuckle.

The same hands that had gripped Dean’s hips and yanked him back.

The same mouth now issuing commands had once whispered, "Good boy. Take it."

Dean swallowed bile and focused.

The operation wrapped up three hours later. Dean remained focused the whole time, his hands steady, his expression neutral. He followed every instruction, anticipated every hand signal. His supervisor patted him on the shoulder as they scrubbed out.

Post-op, Dr. Novak peeled off his gloves and disappeared without a word. He didn’t even look at Dean.

Good .

At least the confidentiality agreement was mutual.

Dean stood in the hallway, scrubs damp, head buzzing.

Dr. Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “Not bad for a first day, Winchester.”

Dean nodded, smiled, lied.

He made it to the stairwell before he let his head fall against the wall.

What the fuck.

He had no plan.

He had two more months on this rotation.

Two months shadowing the man whose cum he'd swallowed. Whose name he hadn't even known. Whose ghost he'd tried to fuck out of every warm body since.

And Dr. Novak hadn’t said a word.

Thinking about it, Dean couldn’t even decide what he wanted more—to punch the guy square in the jaw or to grab him by the collar, shove him against the nearest wall, and demand if any of it had ever meant a damn thing. If he had ever meant anything. Which was ridiculous, really. Illogical, considering Dean had been the one to say yes to the arrangement in the first place—and damn near euphoric when the man started requesting him on a daily basis, drowning him in cash like it meant something. Like he meant something. But logic didn’t mean much when your gut was still trying to claw through old ghosts.

Instead, he wiped his face roughly with the sleeve of his scrubs, forced a long breath through his nose, and turned toward the nurses' station to find the next chart.

Professional. Polished. Keep moving. He reminded himself what mattered: the Eros contract was long gone. That life—what it asked of him, what it made him—was over. He was a doctor now. Not a whore. Not a voice on the line or a body for rent. He’d made it through med school, through rotations, through things far worse than a pair of too-blue eyes and the ghost of the best fucks of his life.

He could survive anything.
Even Castiel Novak.

Chapter Text

Dean had mastered avoidance like it was a second language—fluent, practiced, and nearly seamless. It wasn’t just that he kept his distance; it was how effortlessly he wove it into the rhythm of hospital life. He arrived at rounds with surgical precision, slipping in exactly two minutes after Dr. Novak had already started presenting. Never late, never noticeable—just late enough to guarantee that the focus had already shifted elsewhere. He lingered by doors instead of stepping into direct lines of sight. He made himself background noise.

In the OR, he maintained a consistent two-body buffer at all times, careful never to hover too close, never to make himself known unless spoken to. On call, he volunteered for anything off-service—transport, consultations, scutwork that took him to other wings, other floors, other specialties. Anything that kept him away from cardiothoracic surgery. Anything that kept him away from him .

It became a game of inches. Of seconds. Of breath held just a little too long in elevators as he pretended to read messages that weren’t there, just to avoid looking up and catching Novak’s reflection in the stainless steel. In the locker room, he changed with surgical speed, always choosing the furthest row. Once, he even ducked behind a crash cart when he spotted Novak coming down the hall—only to be caught by Dr. Michael five seconds later.

“You do realize that, given your size, hiding behind that thing is basically pointless, right?” Dr. Michael said, arching an eyebrow.

Dean straightened up, trying for nonchalance. “Hiding? No, I—dropped my pen Dr. Michael. Somewhere around here. Just now.” He immediately pretended to look for the non-existent pen.

Dr. Michael didn’t press, but the look lingered.

Another time, during post-op check-ins, Dean had pretended to forget a clipboard in a patient’s room just to avoid walking back to the nurses’ station alongside Novak. He returned five minutes later, only to find Novak already gone, completely unfazed. Another near-miss. Another breath of relief laced with something bitter.

The worst was the elevator incident.

Dean had been walking toward it when he heard the familiar cadence of Novak’s voice at the end of the hallway. Without thinking, he turned sharply into an empty conference room and shut the door behind him. Thirty seconds later, he cracked it open just enough to peek—and found Novak staring right at him from the elevator, expression unreadable.

Dean froze. A deer in headlights. A coward in scrubs.

But Novak didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t narrow his eyes. The elevator doors closed, and he was gone.

Dean had stared at that empty hallway for a long time.

But overall, aside from that elevator incident, Dean could say it kinda worked. It wasn’t easy—tracking Dr. Novak’s schedule with near-obsessive attention, adjusting his own assignments by the hour, sometimes faking interest in rotations he’d normally dread. But it kept Dean out of sight, and that was the goal.

The worst part was—Dr. Novak didn’t seem to notice.

Or worse, he didn’t care.

Two weeks passed in clinical, suffocating silence. No acknowledgment. No pointed looks. No sarcastic quips or lingering tension. Just crisp professionalism and cold politeness, like Dean was nothing more than another white coat in a sea of interns. It was exactly what Dean had wanted: no drama, no recognition, no trouble.

Except it wasn’t.

Because despite every conscious effort to remain unseen, Dean found himself watching. Staring, sometimes. At the set of Dr. Novak’s shoulders. At the practiced flick of his wrist as he tied surgical knots. At the way his voice could drop low and smooth when he gave instructions mid-operation. The kind of voice that made you listen. The way it commands the room. The kind of voice that used to curl into Dean’s spine when no one else was around.

He hated that it still got to him. That despite all the distance he put between them, something still pulled. Something still ached. And no matter how many halls he ducked into or case assignments he swapped, he couldn’t stop the quiet, gnawing truth:

Avoidance was easy. Indifference wasn’t.

And then he made a mistake.

It started small—or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it had been building for days, this dangerous, drifting kind of attention. The kind that came not from laziness but from longing .

Dean was scrubbed in, monitoring vitals from his usual corner of OR 5. Dr. Michael had been leading the anesthesia side, steady and reassuring as ever, with Dean assisting quietly and focused. Or at least, that had been the plan.

Until the call came in from OR 6. An emergency resuscitation. They needed another attending, stat.

“Hold the line here, Winchester,” Dr. Michael had said, already pulling off his gloves. “You’ve got this.”

Dean had nodded, throat dry, watching the door swing shut behind him. That had been fifteen minutes ago.

Now, it was just him.

And Dr. Novak.

Dean kept his head down. Focused on the machines. On the rhythm. On his breath.

Or at least, he tried to.

But Castiel’s voice cut through the sterile air like silk on glass—smooth, composed, instructing two residents on the nuances of the CABG technique he was demonstrating. Calm, definitely meant for teaching, but low enough to feel personal. The kind of voice that didn't demand attention so much as draw it out of you.

Dean found himself following the cadence more than the content. Watching Novak’s hands work: confident, precise. The steady flex of his wrist, the brief glance he gave to check suction, the subtle way he shifted his grip on the scalpel without ever pausing in speech. It was… mesmerizing.

Too mesmerizing.

So much so that Dean didn’t catch the spike in heart rate on the monitor until it was already obvious.

The beeping changed—sharper, faster.

And it wasn’t until a pair of sharp blue eyes snapped up from the surgical field and locked onto his own that he snapped out of his daze crashed back down to earth.

Castiel’s voice sliced through the OR like a scalpel.

“Is no one paying attention to the monitor?” he said, cold and cutting. “Even I can hear the increased beeping.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. His stomach dropped like a stone.

“I—I’m sorry, Dr. Novak,” he stammered, already reaching for the syringes he’d prepped. He pushed the propofol, adjusting dosage by reflex. The monitor responded within seconds, slowing back to baseline.

Too slow.

“Don’t lose focus, Winchester.” The reprimand was low and controlled, not cruel—but precise. The kind of voice that didn’t need volume to humiliate.

Dean nodded quickly, eyes still on the monitor, jaw clenched tight. He didn’t dare look up. He checked the rest of the meds again. Then rechecked. And again. Anything to anchor himself to the task and pretend he hadn’t just melted under pressure.

The rest of the procedure passed in cold, professional silence.

Later, outside in the hallway, he passed a pair of nurses leaning by the chart station.

“That’s the first thing he’s said to him all week,” one of them murmured, not unkind, but still too loud.

Dean didn’t stop walking. But his face burned all the way to the stairwell.

The silence that followed was somehow worse.

Dean kept his head down, focused on his work, his notes, his performance. He over-prepared for every case, every consult, desperate to keep things clean and perfect.

But the tension bled through the cracks. Nurses noticed. Orderlies watched. Even Dr. Michael had commented once, a hand on Dean’s shoulder, asking if everything was all right between him and Dr. Novak.

Dean had mumbled something about adjusting to his pace.

By the fourteenth day, he’d almost convinced himself the weird static between them would just... fade.

Then the emergency came in.

An aortic dissection. Late at night. No senior residents available. Most of the day team had clocked out.

Dr. Michael appeared at the nurse's station and clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You’re with Dr. Novak. He’s already scrubbing in. It’s a simple repair. Shouldn’t take long.”

Dean froze. “Alone?”

Michael blinked. “You’ve assisted plenty of times. You’re ready. Besides, Castiel asked for you.”

His heart skipped. “Right.”

The procedure had been quick. Efficient. Textbook, even.

Dean kept his focus razor-sharp, every step measured, every task executed with silent precision. He didn’t falter—not once—not even under the weight of Dr. Novak’s gaze, which felt like it tracked his every movement from across the sterile field. They spoke only when absolutely necessary: heart rate, suture timing, medication dose. No small talk. No acknowledgment. Just the mechanical choreography of two professionals doing their jobs.

The silence between them beat like a pulse—steady, tense, and too loud in Dean’s ears.

When it was over, Dr. Novak stripped off his gloves, peeled off his gown, and walked out of the OR without a word.

Dean stayed behind.

He monitored the patient through the early stages of recovery, adjusting oxygen, confirming vitals, logging every change with meticulous care. He didn’t rush. He waited until the patient was stabilized and cleared for ICU transfer. He was the last to leave the unit—intentional, maybe. Or maybe just tired.

The corridor outside the OR was quiet and humming with low fluorescent buzz. Half the staff had cleared out already; the other half kept their heads down, hurrying toward food, notes, or sleep.

Dean’s limbs ached with exhaustion as he made his way toward the changing room, scrubs damp and loose against his skin. The weight of the day had settled in his spine.

He was halfway to his locker when a hand closed firmly around his wrist.

Dean startled. Turned too fast.

Dr. Novak.

His expression unreadable. His grip unshaking.

And for a second—just one, taut second—Dean forgot how to breathe.

Before Dean could form a word, Dr. Novak gripped his wrist tighter and pulled him into the back corridor—the one that wound past the staff showers and storage rooms, rarely used, quiet as a tomb. The walls there echoed, sterile and narrow, and Dean’s boots scraped faintly against the tile as he stumbled after him.

“Dr. Novak, what the hell—” he started, breath hitching.

Then the man turned.

His eyes were darker than Dean had ever seen them. Not angry. Not soft. Just— contained . His expression unreadable, voice low and thick with something that sounded like restraint barely holding its shape.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he said. “This... whatever this is.”

Dean’s heart missed a beat. His chest tightened. “Doing what?”

“Pretending I don’t see you,” Dr. Novak said quietly. “That I don’t think about you. That I don’t want you.”

It hit Dean like a slap and a prayer. His mouth went dry. He blinked up, stunned. For one breathless second, something fluttered to life in his chest—hope, disbelief, a thousand restless butterflies beating their wings.

And then Dr. Novak added, calmly, efficiently:

“Let’s write up a new contract.”

Dean’s breath caught mid-inhale.

The butterflies died on impact.

Dean stood there, silent, as the words settled like cold ash in his chest.

It took him a moment to swallow the sting, to drag his thoughts back into something he could shape into speech. He didn’t know what he’d expected—not really—but it hadn’t been that.

Finally, he cleared his throat.

“I’m not with Eros anymore,” Dean said. He tried to sound firm. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

Dr. Novak stepped closer. “That doesn’t matter. We don’t need the agency. Draft your terms. I’ll sign them.”

Dean’s chest went tight.

Of course.

Not a confession. Not a step forward. Not something tender or terrifying or absurdly romantic. This isn’t Pretty Woman. Just logistics. A workaround. A new form of the same old arrangement. To get more sex.

He should’ve known.

He did know. How had he even let himself believe, if only for a second, that there could be something more between them? This was a contractual arrangement—one he’d agreed to willingly. He’d told himself a hundred times what this was: professional. Discreet. Emotionally detached by design. The whole point of Eros was anonymity. Clean lines. No one got hurt.

And still—somewhere along the way—he’d let himself forget.

He laughed, a short, breathless thing. Not amused. Just tired.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That you were about to ask me out or something.”

Castiel flinched.

“Dean—”

Dean pushed the disappointment down like a blade to the gut. It lodged deep, but he did what he always did—controlled the bleeding. He straightened, forced his shoulders square, and found the cold edge of professionalism again. That was safer. Cleaner.

“I’m a resident,” he said, voice clipped. “You’re an attending. This is already messy.”

It was the truth, and a shield. Something to wrap himself in before the ache showed through.

Castiel didn’t hesitate. “You’re not my resident. You’re not under my evaluation. You’re on a rotation.”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

He meant it to sound final, but it came out soft. Like he was tired of holding up that argument.

Then Castiel looked at him—really looked—and said, “Please.”

Just one word. But it was different from every other command Dean had ever heard from him. It wasn’t clipped or clinical. It wasn’t distant. It was quiet, unsteady, and aching . It cracked straight through the armor Dean had been desperately trying to hold together.

Dean swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.

It hit him low. In the chest, in the gut. In the way his legs almost buckled from the weight of it. He didn’t know what the hell to do with that sound—how real it felt. Because it wasn’t part of a script. It wasn’t part of the old arrangement. It wasn’t coming from Dr. Novak.

It was coming from Castiel .

“You didn’t know how much I missed you,” Castiel said, stepping closer, voice rough now, frayed with restraint. “How hard it was, walking past you every day like I hadn’t—” He stopped, jaw flexing, as if the words tasted like regret. “Like I didn’t think about your mouth. Your voice. The way you looked when you begged.”

Dean took a step back before he could stop himself, instinct or self-preservation or both.

But then—he stopped.

Something twisted in him. Broke. Or maybe just… gave in.

He stepped forward again, slowly, gaze locked to Castiel’s. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked . And for the first time, he saw Castiel unraveling. Not the composed, emotionally distant attending. Not the calm voice in the OR. But a man barely holding himself together, desperate to reach, desperate to be reached for.

It wrecked something inside Dean.

He hated that it still had this kind of hold over him. Hated that after everything—the silence, the cold professionalism, the near humiliation of wanting more—it still only took a single crack in Castiel’s voice to make him ache .

And maybe he was tired. Of pretending. Of holding it in. Of being good.

His mouth curved, bitter and breathless.

“You know,” Dean said, almost casually, “I’ve been thinking about you in the OR.”

Castiel blinked. His eyes went dark. Hungry. Dean didn’t stop.

“Every time you talk to the residents. Every time you give instruction without even looking at me. Every time your voice drops like that.”

Castiel’s breath hitched.

Dean stepped even closer. Close enough that their chests nearly brushed.

“Every time you ignore me like I’m not already on my knees for you in my head.”

Castiel shuddered.

Dean’s voice dropped to a murmur. “The contract can wait.”

He reached out—took Castiel’s wrist, firm and certain, like this time he wasn’t asking.

“I want you now.”

And this time, he wasn’t the one who broke.

Dean didn’t wait for permission.

He turned sharply, dragging Castiel down the tiled corridor with him. Their footsteps echoed off the porcelain walls, the sound oddly obscene in the otherwise empty space. The air back there was humid, thick with the faint tang of antiseptic and steam from the dormant showers. Unused. Unwatched. Perfect.

They passed stall after stall until they reached the last one, tucked into the far corner like a secret.

Dean shoved the curtain aside, pulled Castiel in with him, and yanked it closed behind them.

The second it snapped into place, he dropped to his knees.

His hands went straight to Castiel’s hips, fingers digging into the waistband of those dark scrub pants and dragging them down in one rough, fluid motion. Briefs too. His breath caught as he uncovered what he already knew would be waiting—hard, flushed, already leaking.

“Fuck,” Castiel hissed, one hand flying to brace against the wall, the other instinctively curling into Dean’s hair.

Dean wrapped a hand around the base, steadying. He leaned in, slow, deliberate, tongue flicking out to tease the head—tasting salt, precum, heat. His mouth watered immediately.

He looked up then, meeting Castiel’s eyes from below, the head of his cock brushing against parted lips.

“Missed this?” Dean whispered, voice low and smug, teasing.

Castiel’s jaw tensed. His eyes were dark, narrowed. “Don’t tease.”

Dean smiled with the kind of wicked confidence he only ever wore on his knees for this man. Then he opened wide, lips stretching, tongue flattening—and took him in.

Warm. Wet. Heavy.

Dean swallowed him down in one smooth motion, taking him deep until the head hit the back of his throat and his nose pressed into the base. He held there, breathing through his nose, letting the stretch and weight settle in his mouth like a promise. Then he pulled back slowly, letting the suction draw out with a slick pop , spit stringing between his lips and Castiel’s cock like a thread he didn’t want to cut.

Castiel grunted, low and wrecked. “Jesus—your mouth—”

Dean didn’t give him time to recover. He dove back in, hunger replacing ceremony. No teasing now, no slow build. Just practiced rhythm and filthy intention. He knew exactly how the man liked it—how to curl his tongue just right, how to twist his hand at the base, how to relax his throat so Castiel could slide deeper, fuller, without resistance.

He moaned around him, loud and purposeful, letting the vibration ripple through his mouth.

That earned a twitch in Castiel’s hips and a desperate curse. “That’s it. Fuck. Just like that.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered shut. His cheeks hollowed. He was lost in it now—in the sounds Castiel made, in the feel of him pulsing between his lips, in the hot, slick stretch of his mouth full and wanting. Spit was dripping down his chin, obscene and perfect, and still he didn’t stop.

Castiel’s fingers tangled in his hair, tight and possessive. Guiding. Anchoring.

Dean pulled off just long enough to suck in a breath, panting softly, eyes glassy with spit and need. He looked up again, flushed and beautiful.

“You’re not lasting long, are you, Sir? ”

The moment the word hit the air, Castiel’s entire body jolted like a live wire.

His hand tightened in Dean’s hair.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” he rasped, voice torn and unrecognizable.

Dean didn’t.

Dean took him back in, fast and filthy. His spit slicked Castiel’s cock, dripping down his wrist. He kept going until he felt Castiel’s thighs shake, the telltale tension.

He wanted Castiel to fall apart in his mouth.

And he was going to take him there.

“Dean—I’m gonna—”

Dean could keep count of how many times this man called him by his name. During the six months of their contract, probably only two or three times during their dinners. And this was the first he’d said Dean’s name – moaning his name – when they’re doing something indecent. So Dean didn’t stop, eager to hear his name out of the man’s mouth.

Castiel came hard, pulsing down his throat, hand clamped in his hair, breath harsh and uneven. Dean swallowed, let him ride it out, then pulled back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

They were both breathing like they’d run a mile.

Dean looked up.

“I missed you too,” he said softly.

Castiel reached down, helped him to his feet.

The kiss that followed wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

They didn’t speak again until they were dressed. Castiel adjusted his collar, breathing steadier now.

“We’ll talk,” he said. “About the contract.”

Dean nodded once. “Sure.”

But as they stepped out of the stall, Dean knew—

This wasn’t about contracts anymore.

It never had been.

At least for him.

Chapter Text

He shouldn’t have said it.

The contract. God . What the fuck had he been thinking?

The words were still hanging in the air like smoke, burned into his throat. He hadn’t meant to ruin it—whatever “it” even was—but then Dean had looked at him like that . Castiel swore the way the spark in Dean’s eyes dimmed was familiar. He’d seen it when he delivered bad news to patient’s families. Dean had gone still. Guarded. The way a man does when he realizes he was never anything more than a body.

Castiel gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white from the strain. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, though they flicked occasionally toward Dean in the passenger seat. Dean hadn’t said a word since they got in. He just stared out the window, arms folded neatly in his lap—like he hadn’t just gone down on Castiel in a public place. At work, no less. Something Castiel would never have allowed. Not before. Not until he'd whisper please. And Dean dragged him to the furthest empty stall to swallow him whole.

The rain hit the windshield in dull, slapping rhythms. The city lights blurred and bled into one another as they sped toward his penthouse. Dean still hadn’t spoken. He looked like he was back on the clock, all clean lines and distance.

Castiel knew that look. Knew exactly what he’d done to deserve it.

You should’ve kissed him , he thought bitterly. You should’ve shut your fucking mouth about contracts and kissed him.

But no. Instead, he’d initiated their first proper conversation about terms and conditions. He’d laid it all out in clinical terms. As if that was the only language he spoke. As if offering a blank check was the same thing as saying, I missed you.

Which he had.

Desperately. Stupidly.

It wasn’t the sex– though Christ, the sex had been maddening. But it wasn’t just that. It was Dean. Dean, with his crooked grin and tired eyes and thick lashes and sharp mouth. Dean, who would submit willingly, following every single order coming out of his mouth. Dean, who had shown up, again and again, and wrecked him in silence.

He'd lasted six weeks without him. Barely.

Now Dean was here again. Warm and breathing beside him. And Castiel was terrified he’d already fucked it up beyond repair.

They reached the penthouse just before midnight.

Castiel eased the car into the underground garage, the low hum of the engine the only sound between them. He parked in his reserved space without ceremony, fingers lingering on the wheel long after the engine had gone quiet. The silence stretched, thick and unmoving. Somewhere above them, the city still pulsed with life, but down here the world felt sealed off—just the two of them in the dim glow of the dashboard.

He could feel Dean watching him. Not openly, not in a way that invited him to look back, but in that subtle, unblinking way Dean had—waiting, measuring, daring him to break first.

Eventually, Castiel glanced over.

Dean’s expression was unreadable, the faintest trace of challenge in the arch of his brow. “Are we going upstairs, sir,” he asked, voice smooth and infuriatingly even, “or are we just gonna sit in your very expensive car all night?”

The title— sir —hit somewhere low in Castiel’s spine, dragging with it memories he’d been trying not to think about all evening. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.

God, he missed that voice.

He unbuckled slowly, the seatbelt’s click too loud in the stillness. “Come up,” he said, the words a shade rougher than he’d intended.

Dean didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. Just nodded once and got out of the car. Like it was their first meeting again, when Castiel instructed Dean to roll his sleeves before drawing his blood. Professional, strictly business. The sound of his door shutting echoed off the concrete walls. Castiel followed a beat later, the cold fluorescent lighting making everything too stark—Dean’s profile, the taut set of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw as they walked toward the elevator without speaking.

Inside, the space was too small, too quiet. The elevator doors closed, and the hum of the machinery was the only sound. Castiel stood beside him, hands in his coat pockets, staring at the ascending numbers, acutely aware of how close their arms were without touching. Dean didn’t look at him once.

It felt like the longest ride to the top floor of his life.

Castiel unlocked the penthouse door and stepped inside, the faint click of the lock echoing in the cavernous quiet. The city’s hum was muffled here, replaced by the low hum of the heating system and the soft thud of their footsteps on polished hardwood.

He shrugged off his coat, hung it neatly by the door, loosened his tie with fingers that felt too clumsy for the simple motion. When he turned, Dean was still in the foyer. He hadn’t crossed the threshold into the living space, just stood there, jacket half-off, gaze moving over the room like he was trying to reconcile it with a memory.

He looked… wrong here now. Not because he didn’t belong, but because he had , once—and that familiarity was now laced with distance. Like a song played in the wrong key. Like a stranger standing in the middle of a dream Castiel used to have.

“Do you want a drink?” Castiel asked. His voice came out low, measured.

Dean shrugged, peeling off his jacket and hanging it over one arm. “Sure.”

In three quiet strides, Castiel crossed to the built-in liquor cabinet—tucked into the far wall beside the floor-to-ceiling windows, stocked with crystal decanters and cut-glass tumblers. He reached for the familiar bottle of whiskey, the one Dean had always preferred, and poured two measures. Neat. No ice. Just like old times.

When he returned, Dean had moved to the couch but sat at the far end, one leg stretched out, the other braced against the edge of the coffee table. Castiel lowered himself onto the opposite cushion. Two feet apart. A chasm between them.

The silence was brutal. It pressed in on Castiel’s ribs, made every breath feel too loud. His hands wouldn’t stay still—first resting on his knees, then flattening against his thighs, then curling into loose fists as if holding on to something invisible. His gaze kept flicking to Dean’s profile, tracing the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, searching for any opening, any sign he hadn’t ruined this completely.

The truth burned hot in his chest: he’d made a mistake. The talk about contracts—that Dean should name any terms and conditions and he’d sign it willingly—had been the wrong language entirely. That wasn’t what he wanted from Dean. Not at all. He didn’t want their time together reduced to an exchange of currency, didn’t want to see that shuttered look in Dean’s eyes every time he thought of it. The truth was messy and selfish and nothing he could write down on paper: he wanted Dean without boundaries, without nightly rates, without the safety of pretending it was business. He wanted him here because he chose to be, not because he’d been bought.

Castiel’s fingers tapped once against his knee before curling tight again. If there was any way to undo the damage of that conversation, to scrape the ink off the page, he’d do it. Tonight. He just had to find the right words before Dean walked out again. No, right now . Before it’s too late.

He cleared his throat. “Dean—”

“Don’t,” Dean said softly, not looking at him. “Not yet.”

The words cut off whatever Castiel was about to offer—an apology, an explanation, he wasn’t sure—and left the air heavier than before.

Dean lifted his glass, swirling the amber liquid with a lazy rotation of his wrist. He took a slow sip, eyes hooded, then leaned back into the cushions. His gaze flicked to Castiel, holding for a heartbeat too long, something unreadable shifting in the green.

Castiel’s mind scrambled for answers. Was Dean angry? Reluctant? Testing him? Was he trying to decide if he’d already overstayed tonight by agreeing to come up? Or was he weighing whether to stay the night at all?

He could list every possibility but not a single certainty. That was the thing about Dean—he could be a storm or a still pond, and Castiel would never know until he was already in the water.

Finally, Dean set the glass down on the coffee table with a muted clink. He rose—not abruptly, but in a slow, deliberate unfurling, like each movement was a choice in itself. The air seemed to tilt with him, the quiet in the room sharpening until it thrummed low in Castiel’s chest.

Each step Dean took across the rug magnified the space between them… and then collapsed it until there was none at all. He stopped directly in front of Castiel, looking down at him with a gaze that was steady, unreadable.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Dean said. The words came out barely above a rasp.

Castiel’s breath caught. His hands stayed planted on his knees, knuckles white with the effort of keeping still. Every instinct screamed to reach for him, to stop him from pulling away, to anchor him here. He wanted to speak—anything, everything—to make Dean understand that he did belong here. That this was where he should be. That Castiel wanted him in this room, in this space, in his life.

Dean stepped forward, into the narrow space between his knees—and then stopped. He lowered himself slightly, bracing both hands on either side of Castiel’s shoulders. His face hovered close, close enough that the faint scent of whiskey curled between them like a secret. He stayed there, unmoving, eyes fixed on Castiel’s as though searching for something—permission, maybe, or an answer to a question he hadn’t spoken aloud.

Castiel’s pulse thudded in his ears. What was Dean looking for? A tell? Regret? Proof that Castiel meant the words he hadn’t yet found the courage to say? The longer Dean lingered, the heavier his gaze felt, pressing into Castiel until it seemed impossible not to break.

Finally, Dean’s mouth shifted—not a smile, not quite—and he leaned in a fraction closer. “But I’ve missed this.”

His hand came up, gentle but deliberate, cupping Castiel’s face. Warmth spread through Castiel’s skin where Dean’s palm rested, his thumb brushing slowly along the hard line of his jaw—a stroke far too tender for the tension in his eyes.

Castiel leaned into the touch like a man starved, because he was. His hand lifted, hesitant at first, then sure, covering Dean’s where it cradled his cheek. His fingers curled over the back of Dean’s hand, holding him there—not to trap him, but to keep him from slipping away.

“I’ve missed you,” Dean said, softer now, the words breaking through like a confession that had been battering at the walls for too long. His thumb lingered at the corner of Castiel’s mouth, the pad catching slightly on his lower lip, and the touch dragged a shuddering breath from Castiel before he could stop it.

For a heartbeat, the night seemed to balance on that single point of contact—on whether Dean would pull away or close the last inch between them.

Dean leaned down and kissed him. Slow, hot, thorough. Not desperate like before in the hospital—but deep, steady, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment and was going to savor every second of it.

When Castiel stood, Dean backed up toward the bedroom without prompting, their mouths still locked, steps slow and certain. It was quiet between them—but nothing felt uncertain.

By the time they made it to the bed, Castiel was unbuttoning Dean’s shirt, careful this time. His fingers trembled slightly—not from hesitation, but reverence. Dean let him undress him, let his hands roam, let himself be looked at like he mattered.

“I thought about this every damn night,” Castiel murmured against Dean’s throat. “You. Your mouth. Your hands. The way you sound when I get it just right—”

Dean groaned. “Dr. Novak… Fuck...”

Castiel smiled against his skin. “We'll get to it, sweetheart....”

He guided Dean gently down onto the mattress, the sheets whispering under them. Dean’s body gave beneath his hands—warm, yielding—and for a moment, Castiel just looked. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The flex of muscle under skin. The way the light caught on the curve of his hip.

Then he bent, pressing his mouth to the flat of Dean’s stomach. The taste of salt and heat met his tongue, and he lingered there, lips mapping slow paths across muscle and skin. Dean’s breath hitched, a low hum rolling out of him, and it went straight to the center of Castiel’s restraint.

He moved lower, tracing the ridge of a rib, the hollow at his side, the sharp jut of his hipbone. Every inch was reacquainted with purpose—worship disguised as touch. He let himself sink into it, kissing, tasting, memorizing. Dean’s fingers curled loosely in the sheets, a soft “mmm” breaking into a breathy “oh” when Castiel’s mouth found the sensitive edge just below his hip.

He wanted—God, he wanted—to be inside him. The ache sat heavy and insistent in his own body, almost unbearable. But the need to take care of Dean overrode it. He wanted to taste him first, to coax every sound from his mouth, to prepare him so thoroughly that when the moment came, there would be nothing but pleasure.

His hands smoothed over Dean’s thighs, coaxing them apart, the pads of his fingers kneading lightly at the tense muscle there. Dean’s breath stuttered, a soft, helpless whimper leaving him, and Castiel’s control tightened like a fist inside his chest. He kissed his way along the inside of one thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips catching on the faint stubble of hair, before moving to the other.

Dean made another sound—something between a sigh and a moan—and Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, breathing it in. Every part of him wanted to rush, to take, to give in to the hunger clawing at him. But he held himself back, because this wasn’t about the ache in his own body.

Cas’s hand slid lower, cupping between Dean’s thighs, feeling the tense heat there. His thumb brushed over soft skin, coaxing another shiver out of Dean before he reached for the small vial at the bedside. The slick was cool against his fingers, and he warmed it between his hands before he touched him.

He spread Dean’s legs a little wider, settling between them, his shoulders braced against the inside of Dean’s knees to keep him open. One oiled fingertip traced the seam of muscle, slow and careful, watching for every twitch, every hitch in Dean’s breath. When he pressed in, just enough to breach, Dean gave a startled gasp that slid into a low, breathless moan.

Cas exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. He eased his finger deeper, curling it slightly, the slick heat clenching around him making his restraint ache. Dean’s head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted, a quiet whimper spilling free when Cas began to move with small, shallow strokes that let Dean adjust around the intrusion.

A second finger followed, stretching him with gentle care. Cas worked them together in slow, steady circles, listening to the soft sounds spilling from Dean’s throat. His other hand smoothed over Dean’s hip, grounding him, stroking idle patterns into skin he’d already kissed.

When Dean’s thighs trembled, Cas shifted his angle, pressing deeper until he felt that subtle give inside, the place that made Dean’s voice break into a shuddering moan. He didn’t chase it yet. Just teased, brushed past, and coaxed the muscles to loosen under his touch. By the time he added a third finger, Dean was pliant and warm beneath him, hips rocking faintly into the rhythm Castiel kept.

Cas bent, lips finding the inside of Dean’s knee, teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp. His fingers kept working, opening him, readying him not just for the act, but for the taking that would follow. Every stroke was a promise, every kiss an apology for making him wait. And still Cas held himself back, because tonight wasn’t about his hunger. It was about Dean. About giving him every ounce of patience, every indulgent touch, until he was ready for so much more. About giving him every reason to stay.

Dean shifted restlessly beneath him, thighs tensing, heels digging into the mattress like he might pull Cas closer by sheer will. Every breath came out in shaky bursts, punctuated by soft, desperate noises that tightened something low in Cas’s spine. His hands flexed on Dean’s hips to keep him still, but the faint roll of Dean’s body against his own was a silent plea.

Dean’s head tipped back, lips parted, eyes fluttering half-shut in a haze of want.

“Sir,” he whispered, the word dragged out on a breath like it had been wrestled from deep inside him.

Castiel’s breath caught, his chest going still as the sound settled heavy in the air between them.

“Say that again,” he murmured, low, nearly hoarse.

Dean swallowed, voice trembling but sure when he obeyed. “Sir. Please…”

Castiel didn’t tease—he gave. He gave Dean exactly what he wanted, exactly what he needed , but at a pace that bordered on cruel. He lined himself up behind Dean and pushed in with one steady thrust, sinking in slow and deep, letting the thick head of his cock breach the tight ring of muscle before easing forward inch by inch. Dean’s moan cracked in the quiet, knees spreading wider as his back arched off the sheets. Castiel bottomed out with a groan low in his throat, buried to the base in tight, clenching heat that pulsed around him. He didn’t move right away—just held Dean open, held him full, hand pressed between his shoulder blades.

When he did start to move, it was slow, devastating. Castiel rocked his hips in long, dragging strokes, cock sliding out slick and hard only to sink back in deep enough to knock a sound from Dean’s lungs. His hands gripped Dean’s hips firmly, possessively, thumbs pressing bruises into skin. Dean’s fingers curled tight in the sheets, body already shaking. “F-fuck, Sir,” he gasped, voice breaking. “You’re so deep—fuck—” The praise came out broken, but Castiel heard it, felt the way Dean’s body pushed back into every thrust, hungry for more.

“Stay still,” Castiel murmured, low and calm. “I’m not in a hurry tonight.” He bent over Dean, lips brushing the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder as he ground in deeper, hips flush to the curve of Dean’s ass. He was deliberately slow, fucking him with the kind of control that came from knowing every inch of the body beneath him. He timed every thrust to hit that same tender spot, again and again, until Dean was panting helplessly into the mattress, sobbing without tears. His cock leaked untouched against the sheets, twitching with every grind of Castiel’s hips. He was wrecked, and Castiel had barely begun.

Dean’s hands flew back at one point, grabbing blindly for Castiel’s arms, shoulders, anything. “Please,” he begged, “please, Sir, I—I can’t—” But Castiel caught his wrists and pressed them down into the bed, holding him there. He didn't speed up, didn’t let up, just kept fucking him with ruthless precision. “You can,” Castiel said softly. “You will.” And Dean whimpered at the finality of it, head twisting to the side like he was trying to hide the way his mouth had fallen open, lips red and bitten, eyes glassy.

“You’re so fucking good like this,” Castiel murmured, voice rough against Dean’s skin. “Taking me so well, like you were made for it. So tight. So fucking sweet when you beg.” He let go of Dean’s wrists only to slide one hand under him, palm flat against his stomach, holding him still as he kept moving. His cock dragged along that swollen spot inside again and again, and Dean let out a strangled cry, legs trembling. “Sir—please—I’m close—I can’t—” he gasped.

“Don’t come,” Castiel said. “Not yet.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t need to. Just that low command made Dean clench around him, made him cry out like the denial alone pushed him closer. Castiel didn’t touch his cock—wouldn’t. He wanted to feel it, wanted to see if Dean could fall apart from this alone. And he did. Minutes later, Dean came with a loud, shuddering sob, untouched, cock spurting against his stomach as his whole body seized beneath Castiel. His hole clenched hard around the cock still buried inside him, sucking him deeper, tighter, until Castiel groaned and had to still himself to keep from spilling too soon.

Dean slumped forward, boneless and gasping, face buried in the sheets. But Castiel didn’t stop. He pulled out just enough to thrust back in hard, slow again, relentless. “Good boy,” he murmured. “You did so well.” Dean whimpered, raw and overstimulated, but he didn’t tell him to stop. He never did. “You feel like mine,” Castiel whispered into his ear. “ Like you never left. ” Dean’s only response was a choked moan and a shake of his head, like he couldn’t bear to answer honestly. Castiel adjusted his grip and started to move faster, his control thinning now, breath growing heavier as slick heat surrounded him. The sound of it filled the room—wet, filthy, real.

It didn’t take long. Dean was still clenching around him, body twitching with aftershocks when Castiel finally let go. He drove in hard one last time and came deep, cock pulsing as he spilled inside him, groaning low against Dean’s neck. He held him there, buried to the base, hips flush, breath catching in his throat as heat flooded between them. Dean let out a soft, broken noise, something between a moan and a sigh, as Castiel came down slowly, hands still firm, like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

Afterward, they didn’t move for a long time.

Dean lay on his stomach, stretched out across the bed, skin damp with sweat, his breathing shallow and uneven. The room was quiet but not still—just the sound of their breath, the cooling air, the quiet hum of something unnamed between them.

Castiel ran his fingers along the length of Dean’s spine, tracing each dip and ridge like he was trying to memorize it. The touch was light, almost reverent. Not searching. Not wanting. Just being there —tender and unhurried.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. Soft. Barely a whisper.

“You can stay,” Castiel said quietly. “If you want to.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He shifted slightly, face still half-buried in the pillow, then gave a small nod. “Just tonight,” he said.

Castiel didn’t push. Didn’t ask what that meant or why it hurt a little to hear it.

He simply reached down, pulled the blanket over them both, and settled behind him. One arm curled around Dean’s waist, the other tucked beneath the pillow. Dean let him. Said nothing more.

And Castiel held him like that—close and quiet—until sleep came and took them both.

The sun was already peeking through the curtains when Castiel stirred.

For the first time in weeks, he’d actually slept. Slept. Not a two-hour collapse between surgeries. Not the restless, dreamless half-state of exhaustion he’d grown used to. This had been real rest. The sheets still held traces of body heat, and the pillow beside him smelled faintly of Dean.

But Dean was gone.

The other side of the bed was empty, cool to the touch. No note. No sound from the apartment. Nothing—except the faint tackiness on the rumpled sheets where Dean had been lying. His gaze caught on the slick, messy patch in the hollow where Dean’s hips had been, the unmistakable drying mix of sweat and come.

Fuck. He hadn’t cleaned him up.

Castiel was no stranger to skipping aftercare—in the past, he’d been a zero-effort man after sex, rolling off and leaving the mess to whoever was left behind. But last night, he’d planned to take care of Dean. He’d meant to wipe him down, kiss him, let him sleep without the uncomfortable reminder of what they’d done still inside him.

And yet Dean had fallen asleep like that. With Cas’s come still warm inside him. The image hit him all at once—Dean, boneless and quiet against the sheets, body slack around the proof of what they’d done—and Castiel’s semi-hard morning wood surged to full, aching hardness beneath the covers.

He dragged a hand over his face and checked the time on the bedside clock.

07:12.

“Shit.” He sat up abruptly. He was late.

And worse. He'd forgotten the cash.

No envelope. No neatly counted bills. No scribbled apology on a concierge slip. Nothing to acknowledge what they both knew had started as a transaction.

Maybe that was good.

He hadn’t made himself clear last night anyway. Maybe it was time to tell Dean what he actually wanted.

He didn’t want a contract anymore.

He didn’t want a transaction.

He wanted—

Well.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted. But he knew it was Dean. On his knees. At his table. In his bed. In his life.

Chapter Text

Dean wasn’t listed on the morning surgical schedule. Maybe that was a blessing. Maybe it gave Castiel time to breathe.

After the first case of the day wrapped — an aortic valve replacement on a man who refused to stop smoking — Castiel barely had time to finish dictating his operative note before his pager buzzed again.

MDT meeting. Conference Room B.

He’d been hoping to steal a quiet half hour with coffee, but the message was clear. Cardiac cases never waited, and “multidisciplinary” usually meant both bureaucracy and arguments disguised as polite medicine.

Conference Room B was already humming when he stepped in. Michael — head of anesthesiology — sat at the far end of the table, dark brows drawn together as he scrolled through something on his tablet. Gabriel, fellow cardiothoracic surgeon and perpetual thorn in Castiel’s side, lounged in a chair with one leg hooked over the other, coffee in hand. Raphael, the newest addition in his department, was already flipping through the printed case summaries.

On the opposite side, Zachariah from radiology sat stiff-backed, the man radiating an air of superiority that came standard with reading scans for thirty years. Next to him, Anna Milton from cardiology was mid-discussion with Michael about hemodynamic instability in high-risk valve cases.

“Milton,” Gabriel greeted, leaning back far enough to make his chair creak. “Still trying to convince Michael to stop trying to knock out every patient in the state?”

Michael didn’t look up. “Still trying to convince you not to bypass every artery in sight?”

“Only the bad ones,” Gabriel replied with a lazy grin.

Castiel slid into a seat beside Raphael, nodding a greeting. “What’s the case?”

Anna tapped the monitor at the front of the room, where an echocardiogram flickered to life. “Fifty-eight-year-old female, severe aortic stenosis, reduced ejection fraction. NYHA Class IV. She’s been in and out of our ward for months.”

Zachariah picked up smoothly, clicking to a CT scan. “You’ll note significant calcification on the annulus. Not a candidate for standard surgical replacement without serious risk of rupture.”

Gabriel’s lips thinned. “TAVR, then.”

Michael finally looked up from his tablet. “If she even survives induction. Pulmonary pressures are through the roof.”

Gabriel sipped his coffee. “Well, we can either stand here wringing our hands or actually plan something.”

Anna shot him a look. “We’re planning. Not rushing her to theatre without a consensus.”

Castiel stayed quiet, studying the scan. “We’ll need perfusion on standby, even if we go transcatheter. If she arrests, she won’t come back without full support.”

“I agreed\ with dr. Castiel,” Raphael said.

“Michael, can your team handle rapid conversion if it comes to that?” Castiel asked.

Michael’s mouth tightened. “We can. But she needs optimization first — at least 48 hours of medical management to lower her pressures. I’m not sending my team into a crash scenario with zero margin.”

Zachariah gave a theatrical sigh. “And yet, every day we delay, she’s closer to not making it to the table at all.”

The conversation kept rolling — a rhythm Castiel knew well. Each specialty defending their turf, every opinion steeped in experience and ego, all of them aware that if the patient died, the weight of that decision would be shared, if not equally, then loudly.

After three additional complex cases had been dissected across the table—each one a tangle of anatomy, comorbidities, and the polite but razor-edged disagreements that marked any high-level MDT—Castiel finally excused himself. Another surgery was waiting, his name already on the board. He gathered his notes, exchanged brief farewells, and stepped out into the cooler hush of the main corridor, already shifting his focus to the next patient on his list.

At 11:30, he stepped into OR 6 for the ALI case—a joint operation with ortho—and there he was.

Dean stood at the head of the table, eyes sharp behind the mask, hair tucked neatly under his cap. His gloved hands held the bag valve mask in a perfect C-E grip, calm and practiced, before he transitioned to the laryngoscope. The movement was clean, unhurried, and the tube slid home on the first pass. His voice was steady as he confirmed placement, no trace of strain, as though the whole thing had been effortless.

He didn’t look at Castiel.

Not when he entered and greeted the room.
Not during the review of imaging.
Not even when Castiel barked at his residents for the next instrument.

Dean’s focus stayed fixed—on the patient, on the monitor, on the orthopedic attending. He answered Dr. Lafitte’s queries with clipped precision, his tone all professional polish. And when Lafitte made some offhand remark—something light, not even particularly funny—Dean’s quiet laugh rose under the hum of suction and the hiss of the ventilator. And that somehow felt louder than anything else in the room.

Castiel felt it like a physical thing, sharp as a blade under his ribs. His teeth clenched behind the mask.

He had no claim. He knew that. Knew it down to the marrow. But the jealousy still curled hot and tight in his gut, bitter as bile. Dean’s voice—low and even—felt directed everywhere but at him. Dean’s body language might as well have been a closed door.

The worst part was how easily he played it: no edge, no pointed avoidance that Castiel could call out. Just… nothing. A clean, surgical absence.

And Castiel hated it. Hated how much it unsettled him. Hated the prickle at the back of his neck every time Dean spoke to someone else, the irrational burn of wanting that sharp gaze turned his way. Hated that it was there at all.

By the time they both clocked out that afternoon, Castiel was simmering. The surgery had gone well, at least. And mercifully, the rest of the evening was clear—no page-outs, no family meetings, no codes.

He wanted to leave with Dean, to return home together, like something normal people might do. But Dean was a resident, and residents couldn’t sign out before 16:00. So Castiel made himself useful. He holed up in his office, clicking through PowerPoint slides, adjusting bullet points for a conference presentation he wasn’t even sure he’d attend. Gabriel wasn’t around to interrupt him, which was a small mercy. For once, productivity felt like control.

At 15:58, he was already standing outside the OR—just far enough not to look like he was waiting. At 16:25, Dean finally emerged, looking mildly startled to see him there.

Castiel offered him a ride. Dean accepted, but asked him to walk ahead first.

Right. Of course. Castiel didn’t question it. It was better not to be seen together.

The silence on the way back stretched long. Comfortable would be too generous a word for it. But Castiel didn’t try to fill it, not until the elevator had already carried them most of the way up to the penthouse.

“I didn’t leave the money,” he said quietly, gaze fixed on the elevator doors.

Dean looked at him, but said nothing.

The elevator dinged. They stepped out into quiet carpeted halls.

“I forgot,” Castiel said once they entered the apartment. Dean shrugged off his coat without a word. He walked to the living room table, pulled his bag onto the coffee table, and unzipped it with the slow care of someone suppressing something louder.

“That’s not an excuse. But I wanted you to know that–”

Dean turned, a manila folder in hand.

Castiel’s stomach dropped.

Dean laid it flat between them and opened it. Inside were two identical copies of a contract: legal in tone, several pages long. A modified Eros Protocol contract. Castiel recognized the structure—the standard clauses, the print style, the template. The agency name had simply been removed.

“This isn’t about the money,” Dean said, calm but distant. “This is about structure.”

Castiel didn’t move.

“Sign it,” Dean said. “If you want this to keep going.”

Structure . As if that could contain what had happened the night before. As if that explained the way Dean had curled into him afterward, had kissed him not like a client, but like something that mattered.

But the walls were back—neatly mortared behind Dean’s eyes. Quiet. Unreadable. Firm.

Castiel reached for the pen. It hovered over the signature line. His hand didn’t shake, but something inside him did.

Dean noticed. “Right,” he said, the word clipped, almost clinical. “I haven’t had time to run STI panels.”

The words hit like a blow—sharp, sudden, and humiliating. Castiel swallowed.

“I can get it done first thing this weekend if you’d prefer. You don’t have to sign until the results are in. But I didn’t take any clients during the last contract. And I haven’t been with anyone since—well, I haven’t got the time to—”

“You don’t have to,” Castiel interrupted, too quickly. “I believe you.”

And he did. God, he did . His heart stuttered at the thought that Dean hadn’t been with anyone. That maybe, in some quiet, impossible way, Castiel had been the only one.

But it wasn’t enough. Not enough to erase the guilt curdling in his stomach, or the burn of being reduced to terms and conditions. Not enough to stop the way shame lodged itself behind his ribs.

So Castiel let the dread linger in his stomach. Dean hadn’t smiled once during the exchange. He’d simply handed it over like it was routine—like it meant nothing—and Castiel had signed it like a coward, because the thought of pushing Dean away again felt worse than the humiliation of reducing what they had to ink and clauses.

And if his signature looked steadier than his hand deserved, that was between him and the paper.

Dean flipped the top copy closed and slid it back into his bag—his copy. The other stayed on the counter, untouched. Castiel’s.

Castiel drew in a slow breath, letting it out as though that might quiet the heaviness in his chest. If Dean truly wanted this to mirror the way things had been under Eros, then fine. Castiel had already promised—he would abide by whatever terms Dean set, no matter how much it cost him in the end.

“You’ll be treated well,” he said finally, voice low. “Anything you want—new clothes, a new car… hell, I’ll sponsor the rest of your residency.”

Dean’s eyebrow lifted at that, a flicker of surprise, but his mouth stayed unsmiling.

“I mean it,” Castiel pressed, searching for something in Dean’s face. “You’ll want for nothing.”

Dean gave a short nod. “Then we’re good.”

But Castiel didn’t feel good.

He felt like he’d just signed his name to a beautiful lie—one wrapped in silk, sweet to the touch, but hollow through and through. And yet… he would have agreed to it a thousand times over, without hesitation.

Because Dean was here. In his penthouse. Within arm’s reach again.

And that was something.

Even if it would never be everything.

Castiel’s thoughts scattered the moment Dean without a word began unbuttoning his shirt.

He watched, transfixed, eyes dark with something greedy, something hungry . Dean didn’t speak, didn’t offer explanation or hesitation. Just slipped each button free with practiced ease, like this was inevitable. Like he’d already made up his mind.

Castiel reached for him, hands gentle where they found Dean’s waist, pulling him close with a kind of reverence that felt wildly inappropriate after everything. But Dean didn’t pull away.

Their mouths met in a kiss that was too tender to be transactional. Open-mouthed, unhurried, tasting of exhaustion and surrender, it pressed into something that had no name between them. Castiel stepped forward, walking them backward toward the bedroom, guiding Dean by the hips as though afraid that if he let go, the moment would vanish.

By the time they reached the bed, Dean had already undone his belt. His shirt slipped from his shoulders, falling to the floor like it had no weight at all.

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Castiel kissed the slope of Dean’s throat, letting his mouth drag slowly across salt-warmed skin. He moved deliberately, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses down the hollow of Dean’s collarbone, over his chest, the tip of his tongue catching against each breath. Dean arched into him, hands in his hair, legs already spreading without thought. Castiel’s touch was steady—measured, reverent—as though he were committing Dean’s body to memory one inch at a time.

He kissed lower, teeth grazing the sharp line of Dean’s hip, then lower still, to the soft skin of his inner thigh. Dean let out a gasp when Castiel sucked a mark there, deep and slow, a possessive bloom of color against pale skin. “Fuck,” Dean breathed, voice shaky, fingers twisting in Castiel’s hair. Castiel looked up at him—eyes dark, mouth wet—and then took him in, cock sliding past his lips inch by inch. Dean choked on a groan, hips jerking despite himself, undone by the sheer intensity of that gaze. Castiel never looked away, not once, like this act— this moment —meant everything.

“Sir,” Dean whispered, hoarse and pleading.

That undid him.

He let go of Dean’s cock with a soft breath and moved up, kissed the corners of Dean’s mouth like an apology and a promise. Later, he took him to bed, slow and patient, easing into him with careful hands and quiet murmurs. Dean lay on his back, knees bent, thighs parted, lips parted around the smallest, breathless sounds. Castiel pushed in with a steady roll of his hips, cock stretching him open in long, aching strokes. No orders. No harsh rhythm. Just the wet slap of skin against skin and the thick pull of tension stretched between them.

Dean clung to him, legs around his waist, hands trembling as they touched whatever they could reach—his back, his arms, his jaw. Castiel fucked him slow, deep, unrelenting but gentle, like the point wasn’t release but remembrance. He whispered Dean’s name against his neck just before he came, hips stuttering as he emptied inside him with a low, helpless sound. Dean’s body tensed around him, clenching tight as he followed, coming between them, cock pinned against his stomach, chest rising and falling like he’d just run miles.

Afterward, Dean didn’t stay long. He showered while Castiel lay still, watching the ceiling like it held answers he didn’t know how to ask for. Dean got dressed in silence, moving with efficiency, the distance already returning. But before he left, he curled up in the rumpled sheets for just a moment—barefoot, clean, quiet. Long enough for Castiel to memorize the shape of his shoulders in the dim light. Long enough to pretend that this was something they were allowed to have.

The sex picked up in frequency after that.

It happened again. And again.

Castiel broke every rule he’d set for himself—about boundaries, about public spaces, about keeping work and pleasure separate. It didn’t matter. Not when Dean was beneath him in the on-call room during a two-hour lull between cases. Not when Castiel dragged him into the back seat of his car because he couldn’t wait the fifteen minutes it would’ve taken to get home. Not when he fucked him against the back wall of the coatroom in his penthouse, Dean’s pants barely shoved past his thighs, breathless and flushed, the air still thick with the scent of dinner.

Messy. Immediate. Addictive.

Castiel couldn’t help himself.

And when Dean muttered that his laptop was lagging, Castiel took him shopping the next day. Bought him the newest MacBook. A new phone, too—“You need to be reachable,” he’d said, as if that made sense. When Dean’s shoes started to fray at the heel, Castiel offered to replace them. “You walk too much. These are a disgrace.” Dean rolled his eyes. Castiel bought him two new pairs anyway.

One afternoon, he came home with two sets of custom scrubs—soft dark grey, tailored just enough, their initials stitched inside the collar tags, invisible to anyone but them. Dean had held them up with raised eyebrows. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Dean had laughed so hard he snorted. The next day, he wore them and deliberately walked in front of Castiel during the morning round..

Castiel paid the price for it the entire day. He couldn’t stand still in the OR, shifting continuously, adjusting himself every chance he got because his cock just wouldn’t go down. Dean had walked in wearing the same goddamn custom scrubs, and Castiel hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. It wasn’t even about the scrubs. It was the thought of Dean pulling them on in the morning, sliding the waistband up over those hips, tying the drawstring tight over that perfect ass. Castiel’s dick had been half-hard from the moment they scrubbed in and stayed that way through three surgeries. Thank fuck for surgical gowns. Without them, the tent in his pants would’ve been obvious to everyone.

Castiel brought him to dinner twice that week. Not to show him off, not exactly. Just quiet meals in the private upstairs room of his favorite restaurant. No press. No colleagues. No one else.

Dean never let him hold his hand in public.

But Castiel didn’t mind.

For now.

Dean hadn’t meant for this to become anything.

He kept telling himself that—on the way to work, in the shower, every time he woke up tangled in sheets that weren’t his. It was just an arrangement. Temporary. Functional. Clean.

Only it didn’t feel clean anymore.

Everything about it now felt dangerously close. Too close. Not just the sex—though that was good, dangerously good. Not just the sugar-daddy perks either, though Castiel had definitely crossed into absurd territory. The man had tried to coordinate their scrubs after Dean wore the custom grey set he’d bought. Same cut. Same stitching. It should’ve been embarrassing. It should’ve been the final push to set boundaries.

But that wasn’t what got under his skin.

It was the way Castiel—Dr. Novak, Sir , whatever name fit depending on the room— looked at him. Like Dean was his. Not rented. Not bought. His. And the worst part? Dean didn’t want to correct him. Didn’t want to pull away or pretend it didn’t feel like something more. That silent, steady look made something in his chest twist, and the longer it went on, the harder it got to pretend this was still just a transaction.

The whole thing was stupid. Reckless. Doomed. He knew that. He had walked away, once. Had told himself it was over, that he needed to focus on residency, on survival. But here they were again—gravitating toward each other like it was inevitable. Meeting in the silence between surgeries. Disappearing into shadows. Unmaking each other quietly in rooms that didn’t have names.

And God, he was tired. Not of Cas. Of everything else. The brutal hours. The pressure. The pretense. Some nights he couldn’t remember who he was supposed to be—only that Cas would find him and touch him like he already knew.

Sometimes, in those stolen hours, it felt like peace.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because peace doesn’t last. Not in Dean’s world. Not in hospital stairwells and borrowed time.

It was going to end. Dean was sure of it. He just didn’t know when.

And maybe that was the part that hurt the most. Not knowing how long he had left before he lost something he wasn’t supposed to want in the first place.

Later that weekend, they lay tangled in the afterglow—Dean’s hair still damp from the shower, Castiel’s hand resting low on his bare stomach, warm and possessive in the quiet.

“You’ve got to stop buying me stuff,” Dean said, eyes on the ceiling.

Castiel didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because it’s insane,” Dean replied. “My brother thinks I’m running an underground organ trade.”

“You aren’t?” Castiel asked, perfectly straight-faced.

Dean rolled his eyes.

Castiel shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at him, brow furrowed with quiet concern. “I enjoy giving you things,” he said. “You deserve them.”

“I don’t need new phones every other week and enough sneakers to start a resale business.”

Castiel seemed to genuinely consider that. “Would it help if I bought gifts for Sam, too?”

Dean turned his head slowly to stare at him.

Castiel didn’t blink. He was completely serious.

“Oh my God ,” Dean groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “ No. That is— so much worse. ”

“Why?” Castiel asked, clearly baffled. “You said he noticed. I thought it might reduce suspicion.”

Dean groaned louder into the pillow.

Castiel chuckled and let his hand slide a little higher up Dean’s stomach, content.

The second time Dean stayed the night, it wasn’t planned.

He hadn’t stayed over since the night they’d restarted the contract. Not once. No matter how late it was. No matter how exhausted he looked. No matter how gently Castiel offered. Dean always pulled his clothes back on, always muttered something about early rounds or a case note he hadn’t written yet. It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t boundaries, not really. Castiel suspected it had more to do with the mornings—with the idea of waking up beside someone. That kind of intimacy was harder to explain than sex.

They’d finished dinner later than usual. Dean had been quiet all evening, his eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion, the kind that settled in your bones and stayed there. He’d spent most of the meal half-slumped into the booth, barely eating, murmuring occasional replies without lifting his head. Three surgeries and no lunch break would do that to a man.

Back at the penthouse, Dean made a half-hearted attempt at leaving. He peeled off his shirt with uncooperative fingers, muttering that he’d crash at home. “You should sleep,” Castiel said softly, watching the way Dean’s hands fumbled at the hem. “I will. At home,” Dean replied, like it was a promise he fully intended to keep.

Castiel didn’t push.

A moment later, Dean collapsed onto the mattress—still dressed, half-covered in a throw blanket, like he only meant to rest for a second. Just to catch his breath.

By the time Castiel came back from brushing his teeth, Dean was asleep.

Face turned into the pillow, limbs heavy with sleep, mouth slack. The kind of sleep that didn’t come easy to residents like Dean, and when it did, it came fast. Without ceremony. Without walls. Dean hadn’t meant to stay. He hadn’t even undressed properly. They hadn’t touched. Hadn’t kissed. Hadn’t done any of their nightly routine, really. And it didn’t matter. Not to Castiel.

Castiel stood at the edge of the bed and just… watched him.

There was no lust in it. No hunger. Just something quiet and deep and aching in his chest, something that wrapped itself around his ribs and settled there like warmth and sorrow at once.

He walked to the other side of the bed and gently pulled the blanket higher over Dean’s shoulders. Dean didn’t stir.

Castiel sat down beside him, turned off the lamp, and stayed awake longer than he meant to.

But he didn’t mind.

Not even a little.

Chapter Text

Dean lay sprawled out on Castiel’s bed, bare skin still flushed, chest heaving. He was already half-hard again, but it wasn’t the usual frenzied, aching need. This felt different—anticipatory, drawn out. He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the way Castiel hovered just above him, like he was observing a rare thing. His fingers traced along Dean’s ribcage, light and deliberate.

“You always go quiet when you’re nervous,” Castiel said, voice low and warm. “Are you?”

Dean blinked. “No. I’m not—”

He stopped, unsure of what he was. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t exactly calm either.

Castiel tilted his head, studying him. “I want to try something.”

“Okay…” Dean shifted slightly, his back sticking to the cool sheets. “Try what?”

Instead of answering, Castiel leaned in. Not for a kiss. He pressed his lips to the center of Dean’s chest—over his heart—and stayed there for a beat. Then he murmured, “Tell me what you like.”

Dean stiffened. “What?”

“I want to know what makes you feel good. Not just what gets you off. What you crave. Where you want me.”

His hand slid down Dean’s side, not with lust, but like he was reading him—searching.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t used to being asked. That wasn’t how this worked. He took orders, gave pleasure, and took the cash left by his client on the side table.

But Castiel didn’t fill the silence. He waited. Patiently. His eyes looked too gentle.

“I… I like it when you kiss my neck,” Dean said eventually. “Right under my ear.”

Castiel obeyed without a word, shifting up and pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the spot. Dean gasped—actual goosebumps lifting on his arms.

“Good,” Castiel whispered. “What else?”

Dean swallowed, then surprised himself by saying, “I like being touched. Like… full body. Not just dick and ass, you know?”

Castiel’s hand slid over his thigh. “Like this?”

Dean nodded.

“Tell me if something feels better than the rest.”

Dean did. One by one, he gave Castiel a map. It was clumsy at first, like trying to remember how to ask for something he hadn’t let himself want in years.

By the time Castiel finally took him, it was slow. Deep. There was no rush, no roughness, nothing performative or cruel. No slaps. No filthy names. No “good slut” rasped against flushed skin. Just steady rhythm, slick heat, and words that sounded more like reverence than possession.

“So beautiful like this.”
“Taking me so well.”
“I love hearing you like this, don’t hold back.”

Castiel moved with purpose, hips rolling in smooth, deliberate thrusts. His hands held Dean firmly by the hips, grounding him, guiding him. Every sound that spilled from Dean’s lips seemed to feed something in Castiel—something warm, something close to awe. The air between them was thick with breath and skin and tension that had been stretching for too long.

Dean broke first.

“ Cas –”

Dean gasped, the name slipping free before he could stop it. His body tensed, as if the word had startled even him. Silence bloomed, sudden and fragile, and Castiel stilled inside him.

For a moment, neither moved.

Castiel’s heart thudded against his ribs. His cock twitched inside Dean with the force of it, as if his body recognized what his mind barely dared to hold.

Then, quietly, Castiel leaned down and pressed his mouth to the inside of Dean’s thigh— the spot Dean had once whispered was most sensitive, the place he’d touched only when Dean was soft and undone. He kissed it gently, tongue brushing warm against skin.

Dean whimpered, high and helpless. “Please, sir.”

Castiel froze.

Not after that. Not after hearing how easily Dean’s voice had wrapped around his name, how sweet it had sounded in that breathless moan.

“No,” Castiel murmured. “Not sir .”

He lifted his head, eyes dark and serious as they found Dean’s.

“Use my name,” he said. “Say it again.”

Dean paused for a bit, contemplating.

“Dr. Novak…?” Dean offered, voice feather-light and laced with mischief.

Castiel’s mouth fell open in sheer disbelief. Speechless.

Dean burst into laughter. “God, you should’ve seen your face.”

Castiel pulled out with a sigh, sitting back on his knees in exaggerated exasperation. Dean caught his wrist before he could fully retreat, tugging him down again.

“It’s not funny,” Castiel muttered, sulking in a way that made Dean grin even harder. This version of him—bare, flushed, faintly indignant—was so stupidly endearing it hurt.

“Come on,” Dean said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That was a great joke.”

“You’re not going to leave me like this, right? High and dry?” His voice dropped lower, more coaxing now. “Right, Cas?”

That was all it took.

In one swift motion, Castiel pinned him back against the mattress, hands locked around Dean’s wrists just below the headboard. The shift in him was instant—playful Castiel gone, replaced by the one who moved like heat and hunger had hollowed him out. Dean didn’t even have time to catch his breath before Castiel slammed back into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs.

“You need to be punished,” Castiel growled, thrusting deep, each stroke landing with deliberate intensity. “Mouthing off like that. Teasing me.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean gasped, head thrown back, voice already frayed. “Please—Cas—”

Castiel didn’t slow. If anything, the sound of his name only made him rougher. He fucked Dean with singular focus, chasing every reaction, drawing it out with maddening precision. His hips snapped forward, relentless, filling Dean again and again until moans were all he could offer.

And still, Castiel wanted more.

“Say it again.”

Dean barely managed a breath. “Cas—”

“Louder.”

Dean cried out as Castiel angled deeper, hitting that spot that made his spine arc off the bed. “Cas—fuck—Cas—”

The sound of it undid him. Castiel rolled his hips harder, eyes fixed on Dean like he couldn’t look away, like every breathless repetition of his name was another thread pulling him apart. He milked every sound from Dean’s throat, every moan that stumbled into a plea, until Dean was shaking beneath him, voice cracking, fingers curling around the sheets.

He wasn’t sure when he came—only that his whole body seized around Castiel, and his name was the only thing Dean remembered saying.

Over and over.

And Castiel never stopped listening.

The silence afterward was soft. Unhurried. The kind that settled into the corners of a room like warm light. Castiel didn’t move the way he normally did—no quiet slipping out of bed to grab a robe, no ghosting away to the shower like he needed the space or the distance. Instead, he stayed right there, still pressed close, skin bare and warm. One arm draped loosely around Dean’s waist. The other hand rested on his stomach, fingertips moving in slow, absent patterns—circles, maybe. Or nothing at all. Just a rhythm to stay grounded.

Dean lay still, staring up at the ceiling, breath evening out one inhale at a time. His chest was still rising too fast, his body too sensitive, but it wasn’t just from what they’d done. It was the quiet that came after—the way Castiel hadn’t pulled away. The way the bed felt different now, not something bought with money, not empty. Just... full.

Then Castiel’s lips brushed his shoulder. Barely a kiss. Barely a breath.

“You’re perfect when you let yourself be known,” he whispered, like it wasn’t meant to be heard out loud.

Dean turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the faint silhouette of Castiel’s face in the dark. His profile was soft in the low light—tired, calm, unguarded . And for a second, Dean didn’t know what to do with the warmth curling in his chest.

“That some poetic doctor thing, or…?” he asked, voice low, almost teasing.

Castiel huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that vibrated against Dean’s skin. “Maybe.”

They didn’t say anything after that.

The silence stretched, but it didn’t press. It wasn’t cold or awkward. Just... suspended. Like time had paused for them alone, leaving space between their bodies that wasn’t meant to be filled with words. It felt less like the aftermath of sex and more like something unspoken was quietly blooming in the quiet. Something they both refused to examine too closely.

Eventually, Castiel shifted just enough to pull Dean in closer, tucking him in like it was instinct. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. His breath was steady now, deep and slow against the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean stayed still.

He could feel his own heartbeat, steady but loud in his ears. He was too aware of it. Of how it had stuttered a little at those whispered words.

You’re perfect when you let yourself be known.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more—that he liked hearing it, or that some part of him desperately wanted to believe it was true.

And neither of them said a word.

Because something was changing. And maybe neither of them wanted to stop it.

But neither of them had the language to hold it just yet.

The restaurant was one of those neon-lit fusion places tucked between a dry cleaner and an abandoned shoe repair shop, not exactly Michelin-starred, but Dean liked the look of the menu. Burgers, garlic noodles, cocktails named after sins. Something about it screamed "weird first date" and he figured that suited them just fine.

Castiel looked deeply out of place as they walked in — all trim wool coat, black slacks, and expensive shoes. The hostess tried to seat them in a corner booth before hesitating, as if debating whether this man should be shown somewhere nicer. Dean just said, “That one’s good,” and plopped down without waiting.

They didn’t talk much at first. Not in a tense way, but in a quiet, familiar one. The kind Dean hadn’t known he missed.

When the food arrived — black pepper udon and kimchi fries for Dean, something complicated and seafood-based for Cas — Dean nudged his plate forward. “You gotta try this.”

Castiel raised a brow but leaned in anyway, letting Dean feed him a loaded fork. He chewed slowly. “That’s… aggressively flavorful.”

Dean snorted. “It’s a good thing I like aggressive .”

Castiel smiled faintly and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “I’ll find us somewhere next time.”

Dean shook his head. “Nah. I like this. No maître d’ watching you like you're about to drop twenty grand on wine. Just… garlic and grease and too much soy sauce.”

He didn’t say the next part — and you, sitting across from me like you’re mine. But Castiel looked at him like he’d heard it anyway.

They drove in circles after dinner. Just loops around the upper city, windows half-down. The kind of drive people take when they’re not ready to say goodnight.

Dean was sucking on a milkshake — chocolate with extra whipped cream, not his usual — when Castiel said, “I like this.”

Dean glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “What? Milkshakes? Fast food dates?”

“No. The way you relax when we’re not…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Dean leaned his head back against the seat. “When I’m not on my back?”

Castiel’s lips twitched. “Something like that.”

They stopped at a red light, engine idling. Dean didn’t think too long about it — just unbuckled, leaned over, and unzipped Cas’s slacks.

“Dean,” Castiel warned, hand twitching on the gearshift. “We’re—”

Dean cut him off with a look. “Nobody’s out here.”

And then his mouth was on him — slow, thorough, like he wanted to be doing it. Because he did. Because Cas hadn’t ordered him to, hadn’t pulled his hair or said get to work. Because he wanted to see him fall apart in the driver’s seat of a car that probably cost more than Dean’s entire life.

Castiel’s hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. He didn’t say a word — didn’t command, didn’t groan, didn’t warn. When he came, it was with a sharp exhale, his body trembling just once, quietly, like the release embarrassed him.

Dean pulled back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, casual.

“You’re going to kill me,” Castiel muttered, tucking himself away again.

Dean just grinned. “Not unless you crash.”

They parked not far from Dean’s neighborhood, as always. Castiel didn’t try to follow him home. But before Dean could get out, Cas reached into the back seat and handed him a large paperbag. No tag. No explanation.

“What’s this?”

“Shoes,” Castiel said simply. “The red ones you looked at in that window three days ago.”

Dean blinked. “You—Jesus, you really are trying to be my sugar daddy.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Castiel replied.

Dean rolled his eyes, but he took the box.

Dean kicked the front door of his house shut with the back of his heel, arms full to the point of absurdity. Shopping bags dangled from both wrists—thick, glossy things in navy and gold, the kind that crinkled like stiff paper and screamed money before you even opened them. One had a braided ribbon for a handle. Another had gold foil embossed lettering. Nothing inside them could be remotely practical.

From the kitchen table, Sam looked up mid-chew, spoon halfway to his mouth. His eyebrows rose slowly, like he was trying to calculate whether he was impressed or worried.

Dean let the bags drop onto the couch with a grunt, muttering under his breath. “Fucking guy bought me three pairs of sneakers. Who the hell needs three?”

“Jesus,” Sam said, eyes narrowing over his laptop. “Did you rob a designer store or something? You’ve got more boxes than Macy’s!”

He just huffed and bent to unzip one of the bags, pulling out box after box like it was nothing. Which—physically—it was. But the silence hung heavy around them. Sam’s suspicion wasn’t loud, but it was present. Tightly wound. Ready to unravel something.

Earlier last week, it was a new MacBook and a new phone. This time, bluetooth headphones, a ridiculously expensive water bottle, three pairs of sneakers, still in boxes. Then designer scrubs in neatly folded plastic. And of course, a hoodie that probably cost more than Dean’s rent last year.

Sam’s brows drew together, the amusement fading. “You’re not saying no.”

Dean sighed and scratched his temple like the gesture could dismiss the weight of the moment. “It’s not… It’s not a big deal.”

Sam raised a brow. “Dude, last week you brought home a laptop that easily costs like, two grand .”

Dean froze. Just a beat too long.

“I—I just…” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “A family of my ICU patient came with a thank you gift for Dr. Michael and me. Dr. Michael handed his over to me as well.”

Sam stood, slowly. He crossed to the couch, eyeing the pile like it might rearrange itself if he stared hard enough. His gaze landed on the packaging. “Dean,” he said, voice level, “you know that kind of... gratuity is a gray area at best. Illegal, if we’re being technical.”

Dean opened his mouth. Then shut it again. “Yeah, well,” he said eventually. “They insisted. Would’ve made a scene if we didn’t take it.”

Dean didn’t say anything else. He started organizing the stuff on the table, folding things into a neat pile like that would somehow make them more defensible.

Sam didn’t push, bless him. Just went back to his laptop and said, “At least keep the receipts. In case the IRS kicks your door in.”

Dean gave a humorless snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Then quietly, Sam said. “You used to always go back home.”

Dean blinked. “What?” He paused and turned towards Sam.

“You always came back. No matter how tired you were. You’d roll in at 3 a.m., faceplant on the couch, mumble something about hell and then pass out. Even during your worst rotations. Even post-calls. You always came home.”

Dean blinked at him. Slowly. Uneasy.

Sam didn’t look up from his screen. “But lately, you’re just... not here. Most nights. You’re gone.”

Dean swallowed. Because Sam’s right. He’d stayed over at Cas’ penthouse more as of late. “Sam. You know residents basically live at the hospital. It’s—”

Sam raised a hand. “I’m just saying… make sure you’re not... Overworking yourself...”

Dean froze again.

Sam’s eyes softened. “I just don’t wanna see you get hurt, that’s all.”

Dean forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

And that was the end of it. Sam let it drop.

But later that night, long after the lights were off and the apartment had gone still, Dean lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The silence pressed heavier in the dark. And for some reason, his chest felt tight in a way he couldn’t name.

He didn’t know what he was trying to prove.

But it felt like he was already failing.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure where home was supposed to be.

The OR was cold, humming with quiet purpose. Monitors beeped steadily, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air. Castiel stood across from him—gloved, sterile, composed. His voice remained calm as he reviewed vitals with the scrub nurse, tone even, clinical, unshaken by the controlled chaos around them.

He didn’t look at Dean. Not once.

Not when Dean scrubbed in. Not when he adjusted the ventilator settings mid-case. Not when he called out the patient’s pressure shift or paused, just briefly, before pushing the next dose of vasopressor into the IV line. He might as well have been any resident. Any body in scrubs.

Strangers. Again.

Up in the gallery, Dean’s attending—Dr. Michael—stepped behind the glass. Watching silently, arms crossed, clipboard in hand. Evaluating.

The surgery itself moved like clockwork. Smooth, efficient, textbook. When it was done, Castiel peeled off his gloves with practiced ease, walked to the sink without ceremony, and said without even glancing at Dean, “Winchester has excellent hand stability and situational judgment. He could run these solo within the week.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s ready?”

“He’s already doing the work.”

Michael made a note on his clipboard. “Noted.”

Dean felt something stutter in his chest. Pride bloomed sharp and sudden. Recognition. Praise. A win . He stood taller.

But then Michael added, “I’ll start assigning him more of the minor thoracics. You won’t need to supervise.”

Dean blinked. The words landed with a strange thud—part honor, part loss. Less time with Castiel. Less of his voice, his gaze, his steady presence. Less of everything Dean had been quietly trying not to crave. And more responsibility. More pressure. More chances to fail.

He swallowed the ache and tried not to let it muddy the pride.

In the scrub room, Castiel walked past him without pause. Their shoulders didn’t brush. They didn’t meet each other’s eyes.

“Nice work, Dr. Winchester,” Castiel said, voice as professional as a closed file.

Dean didn’t say anything back.

He just stood there, hands still damp, heart beating somewhere beneath the quiet.

The on-call room was dark, lit only by the faint blue flicker of a monitor screen. It was 2:47 a.m., and Dean had exactly twenty-three minutes until he had to be back on his feet, checking vitals and pretending like he hadn’t just let himself be dragged into something reckless.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this. Not with him.

But Castiel had pulled him in hard by the elbow, slammed the lock into place behind them, and kissed him like he was starving. Like his lungs didn’t work unless Dean was against a wall.

Dean gasped as his back hit the cold tile, the noise swallowed into Castiel’s coat. “Someone could walk in.”

“No one will,” Castiel muttered, already fumbling with Dean’s belt, hands shaking just enough to make it worse. “I just—fuck—I need you. Just for a moment.”

They didn’t waste time. Couldn’t. Scrubs shoved down just far enough, Castiel’s fingers slipping under Dean’s waistband, his mouth pressed hot and wet to Dean’s jaw as he rocked against him with desperate friction. Everything felt fast, frantic, like trying to breathe underwater.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” Castiel groaned, rutting against him with sharp, hungry thrusts. “Always like this for me. Always so fucking good.”

Dean’s hands clung to his neck, legs barely holding, caught somewhere between grinding down and giving in completely. It wasn’t like the penthouse. Nothing was slow here. Nothing soft. Just the slap of skin, the sting of teeth at his throat, and Castiel’s voice—filthy, reverent—breaking against his ear.

Dean bit back a moan as he came, heat pulsing through him while his body jerked against the wall. He didn’t even touch himself. Castiel had wrecked him with friction alone.

Castiel followed moments later, breath catching as he spilled between them, forehead pressed against Dean’s shoulder like he was begging for mercy.

Neither of them moved right away. But they didn’t speak, either.

There was no time.

Dean wiped his chest with a dry corner of Castiel’s coat, then straightened his scrubs with shaking fingers, belt still misaligned, breath still uneven. He didn’t look back when he left the room.

His next patient was already waiting. He’d already think about the post-op check he’d have to run alone.

And Dean could still feel Castiel’s hands on his hips.

The next night, it was the surgical ward bathroom.

Dean had just finished charting his last post-op note when Castiel found him. He looked wrecked—tie loosened, collar open, shirt creased from hours of tension and not enough rest. His eyes were dark with something that wasn’t sleep deprivation.

The look was all it took.

No words. Just the soft click of the door locking behind them, the fluorescent lights humming low overhead, and then Castiel’s mouth was on his.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t meant to be.

Castiel kissed him like he couldn’t help it, like Dean had walked out of his dreams and he was afraid touching him would wake him up. Dean’s back hit the wall between the sink and the paper towel dispenser, the chill of tile forgotten beneath the heat blooming in his chest.

Then Castiel dropped to his knees.

Dean barely managed to brace himself on the sink, one hand gripping the edge like a lifeline, the other buried in Castiel’s hair. “You’re insane,” he breathed, already half-gone.

Castiel didn’t answer. Just worked Dean’s scrubs down with sharp efficiency and mouthed over his hipbone like it was ritual. When his tongue finally touched him, it was slow at first—teasing, exploratory, almost reverent. Then deeper. Messier. Greedier.

Dean’s head tipped back against the mirror with a dull thunk. The room spun in pulses of sensation. His thighs trembled. He could feel Castiel’s hands gripping him tighter, pulling him in, refusing to give him a second to think.

“You taste like sin,” Castiel murmured, voice thick, lips brushing the base of Dean’s cock. “And you make me believe in heaven anyway.”

Dean’s laugh broke apart mid-breath. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Maybe.” Castiel looked up at him, eyes burning with something wild and grateful, tongue dragging up in one slow, obscene stripe. “But you’re still shaking.”

Dean came hard—sharp and sudden—spilling into Castiel’s mouth with a groan that echoed off the tile. His knees almost gave out. He held onto the sink like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Castiel stayed where he was for a moment, lips parted, breath warm against Dean’s skin. Then he rose slowly, pressed a final kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, and smoothed his collar like they’d just shared a secret instead of something filthy and breathless in a hospital bathroom.

Dean didn’t say anything.

He pulled his scrub pants back up with unsteady hands, splashed cold water on his face, and checked the time.

Rounds started in four minutes.

He made it back to the nurse’s station at exactly 00:01.

No one noticed his limp. Or the way he was still catching his breath.

Later, in the elevator, Dean leaned his head back against the cool metal wall and closed his eyes.

His skin still buzzed faintly with afterglow—nerves frayed from pleasure, the ghost of Castiel’s mouth lingering somewhere behind his ribs—but his legs felt like rubber, barely holding him up. His pager had been vibrating non-stop for the past ten minutes, each alert a little jolt back to reality. He ignored it for now.

Sleep felt mythical. Something that belonged to another life. Meals were dreams made of vending machines and half-warm coffee sipped in supply closets. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down, the last time he’d eaten something with a fork. His body was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and Cas.

And that was another problem entirely.

The man who used to pin him down, gave him orders and clear instructions, now only asked questions.

Do you like this?
Is that good?
Where do you want me?
What can I give you?

Like it mattered. Like Dean got to choose.

He didn’t know the answers. Not anymore. Not when Castiel’s voice went soft like that, not when his hands touched with reverence instead of demand. Not when he looked at Dean like he meant it—whatever it was.

Dean’s chest ached, and not from exertion.

He just knew he was tired.

Bone-deep. Thought-numbing. Soul-tired.

So goddamn tired.

And still, when the elevator stopped and the doors opened to the dim hallway outside the ICU, he pushed himself upright, rolled his shoulders, and kept walking.

Because rounds wouldn’t wait.
And questions could.
Because whatever this thing between them was—whatever it was becoming—was too heavy to carry right now.

And Dean didn’t have room for anything he couldn’t explain.

He didn’t even remember leaving the OR.

One moment, he’d been watching vitals tick steady on the monitor. The next, the scrub nurse was handing off the last suture, Castiel’s voice a calm echo in the periphery—measured, unshaken, instructing the closure like nothing in the room was fraying.

Dean nodded. Or thought he had. He couldn’t be sure.

There was a dull ache pounding behind his temples, and his mouth tasted like paper. His body moved like it had been poured into scrubs instead of dressed. A shell, running on autopilot.

Four hours of sleep across three days. Six solo cases this week. Three rushed hookups with Castiel in corners not meant for closeness —each leaving his legs wobblier than the last. One night in a bed that was . And somehow, that had left him more unsteady than all the rest.

He hadn’t taken the money. Not this time. Not the last time either. And Castiel hadn’t asked.

It was starting to feel like a pattern. One he didn’t understand. One he didn’t want to think too hard about.

Don’t think about it.

He slung his bag over one shoulder, muscles groaning with the effort, and slipped out the back exit of the hospital.

The door clicked shut behind him. The cold night hit him like a slap.

The air was sharp. Not refreshing— cutting. It bit against his exposed skin, waking him up for half a second, just long enough to remind him that his body was too hot under the scrubs and too cold everywhere else.

He took three steps toward the street.

Castiel’s car wasn’t at the usual pickup spot. Dean’s legs walked him toward the appointed meeting point at the curb, each step a conscious effort, like walking through deep water.

Dean didn’t make it there.

The world tilted—slow, then sudden.

Colors smeared. Red .

The air pulled sideways. The sidewalk didn’t hold.

His knees buckled, and for a terrifying second, there was no ground. Just sound. The thud of his pulse in his ears. The static of everything going wrong at once. Somewhere beneath it, faint and far away, something like a tire screeching—blurred under the deafening rush of his own heartbeat.

“—Dean?”

Castiel’s voice sliced through the fog. Sharp. Immediate. Too close and too far.

Dean couldn’t answer.

The curb was rushing up, the sky spinning out.

And then—

Nothing.

Just the cold.

And darkness.

Chapter Text

“Dean—Dean!”

Castiel was out of the car before it fully stopped, door swinging wide, feet barely hitting the ground before he was running. The tires’ screech and the horn blaring behind him barely registered over the roar in his ears.

Dean was there—on the pavement just outside the lobby doors. It was all wrong . Dean lay sprawled and unmoving, limbs bent where they shouldn’t be, skin the color of ash. His eyes were open but unfocused, glassy, as if looking through him.

“Fuck—no, no, no, Dean —” Castiel skidded to his knees so hard the concrete ripped through the fabric of his slacks, one hand already at Dean’s shoulder, shaking, too rough, too desperate. “Dean! Can you hear me? Dean—hey—look at me.”

Nothing.

His breath hitched— don’t think, just do—and he tipped Dean’s chin back, eyes darting to the rise and fall of his chest. Was he breathing? Yes—shallow, erratic. Pulse—Cas’s fingers fumbled for the wrist, sliding, pressing—there, but thready, fluttering too fast.

“Shit. Shit. Come on, stay with me—”

Dean’s skin was slick, clammy under his palm. Cold in a way that seeped into Castiel’s bones, like his body was losing the fight to hold itself together. Every second felt stretched too thin, the air around them ringing, each beat of Dean’s heart under his fingertips a frantic countdown.

Castiel didn’t think—just acted out of instinct.

He swept Dean into his arms like a ragdoll, cradling him against his chest. He barely felt the weight. The adrenaline rush made him stronger. Made the world narrow to the man he was carrying, the man whose head lolled against his shoulder.

The hospital doors slid open, and Castiel stormed through.

“We need a stretcher!” he barked at the stunned receptionist. “Now!”

“Dr. Novak—?”

“Get a trauma bed prepped. Run a full chem panel—electrolytes, lactate, CBC. And a non-contrast head CT,” he snapped, eyes wild. “He could’ve hit something on the way down—he could—”

A nurse hesitated. “But—”

“I said now !”

His voice cracked on the edge of something feral. He didn’t even care that the whole ER was basically looking at him carrying Dean in his arms. At least that jolted the nurses into motion. Dean’s pulse had been far too fast. His skin—cold, sweaty. Something was wrong. Something worse than just dehydration . It had to be.

Castiel pushed through the chaos, laying Dean down on a nearby stretcher himself. His gloves were on before the IV kit even arrived.

He punctured the vein with precision, muttering under his breath, “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” as he threaded the line and adjusted the saline. Dean didn’t stir. Not even a flinch.

He paced beside the stretcher, one hand flat on Dean’s chest, grounding himself to the steady rise and fall. Still breathing. Still alive. But pale. Slack. His fingers twitched. He wanted to cup Dean’s face, to whisper reassurances, but there were too many eyes.

Too many ears.

And then—

“Cassie?”

Castiel turned.

Gabriel. In his long white coat, sleeves cuffed halfway up his arms. Flanked by six cardiothoracic residents, all in scrubs, clipboards in hand.

His own residents.

Of course. Rounds. This wing. Tonight.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect . And Gabriel—of all people—had to be the one on call.

Castiel straightened immediately, dropping his hand from Dean’s chest as though it had been burned.

Gabriel took one look at the scene and tilted his head. “You bringing me surprise cases now? What’s going on?”

“Resident collapsed,” Castiel said, voice clipped. “Severe fatigue. Possibly orthostatic. I found him outside.”

“‘ Found him ,’” Gabriel repeated slowly. His eyes narrowed, before glancing at the stretcher.. “Is that… Winchester?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well. Looks like our golden boy bit the dust,” Gabriel said. “You were just… passing by ?”

Castiel forced a nod. “I saw him fall. I brought him in.”

“Mm.” Gabriel cocked his head but didn’t call bullshit—yet. 

“You want me to take it from here?”

“No,” Castiel said too fast. 

“No—I’ll stay. His airway’s clear. Vitals unstable. I’ve started fluids. I already started the workup. Ordered labs. CT is precautionary. I’ll log everything.”

Gabriel’s gaze flicked from Dean to Castiel, then down to the chart the nurse was compiling. “That’s a whole buffet of tests for someone who probably just skipped lunch.”

Castiel didn’t answer.

Behind Gabriel, the residents whispered quietly to each other, eyes flicking between Dean’s pale face and Castiel’s stiff posture.

“Okay,” Gabriel said after a beat, nodding slowly. “We’ll update Michael.”

Castiel flinched. Right . Dean’s right under Michael’s supervision. He should be notified.

“And… his emergency contact,” Gabriel added. “His brother, isn’t it? Sam?”

Castiel couldn’t speak. Didn’t even know Dean had a brother, or any other relatives. The realization landed heavy and cold. He’d spent months in Dean’s bed, in dark corners and locked call rooms, learning every sound Dean made when he was undone, every hitch of breath and tremor of muscle. And yet… here he was, watching monitors beep over a body he knew only in fragments. The rest of Dean Winchester’s life was a blank space he’d never thought to fill in.

Gabriel tilted his head again. “You look pale, Cas. Maybe sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel bit out.

Gabriel watched him for a long, pregnant moment—then clapped his hands together and turned to his residents. “Alright, people. Let’s move. Tomorrow we’ll talk about over-investigation and when your gut overrides the protocol.”

The sarcasm bit like a blade. Castiel couldn’t move until they were gone.

Once the hallway fell silent, he dropped into the chair beside Dean’s bed. The monitor beeped softly, steadily. Still fast, but slowing.

“Fuck,” Castiel whispered again. He rubbed both hands down his face. “What are we doing?”

He didn’t dare touch Dean again. He just sat beside him, staring at the sharp lines of his face. Noticing the shadows under his eyes.

He looked… small. Weary. Like the exhaustion had been building for weeks. Months. And Castiel had been too blinded by his own hunger, his own desire, to stop and notice.

They were supposed to be careful. Confidential. Temporary.

And now Dean was in a hospital bed, too sick to speak, because Castiel hadn’t been able to stop wanting him—hadn’t been able to stop taking, again and again, until Dean’s body had nothing left to give.

His family, Castiel remembered. Sam.

He stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor as if to announce his retreat. He took a step back, then another, like distance could undo what he’d done. He would wait here, but he couldn’t stay much longer. He shouldn’t be here when Dean woke up. He sure as hell shouldn’t be here when Sam arrived.

This was Dean’s real world. The one with brothers who called when something went wrong, with people who actually knew him, loved him, cared enough to notice when he was falling apart. Not some penthouse escape. Not skin against skin in stolen hours. Not whispered praise in the dark just to get him to stay the night.

This—this was reality.

And Castiel was the intruder who’d been taking what he wanted without ever earning the right to be here. A man too greedy to see the damage he was causing until Dean collapsed under the weight of it. Not a savior. Not even decent. Just another selfish bastard who’d been pretending otherwise.

Castiel was still at Dean’s bedside when two security officers appeared in the doorway.

“Sir?” one of them said cautiously. “Is that your vehicle out front? Black sedan, driver’s door open? It’s blocking the main lane.”

Castiel blinked at them, the words not making sense at first. Then it hit him. Right. The car. He’d left it in the middle of the road, engine still running. He’d even left the driver’s side door wide open when he’d pulled Dean out.

“Right,” Castiel muttered, standing. He glanced at Dean, pale against the hospital sheets, chest rising slow but steady. Someone should be here with him. Always.

He stepped into the hall, pressing the keys into the guard’s palm. “Valet it. Leave it in my slot.” The man opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel was already moving.

Instead of heading back to Dean, he turned sharply toward Admissions. The graveyard shift staff were groggy-eyed and slouched over their desks—until they recognized him. Posture straightened, voices lowered, the shift in the room immediate and instinctive.

“There’s a VIP in the emergency ward,” Castiel said, voice flat but cutting through the sleepy hum like a scalpel. “Mobilize a suite upstairs.”

A clerk glanced at the others, clearly flustered. “Do you mean—”

“I want him transferred now,” Castiel snapped, the word sharp enough to make the woman flinch. “Not in an hour. Not after paperwork. Now . Clear the floor if you have to, and get the attending to sign off while you’re at it.”

“Sir, there’s—there’s a process—”

“I don’t care about the process,” he cut in, the ice in his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “He’s not staying down here any longer than necessary. Call whoever you need to call. Move him.”

The room went silent, fingers fumbling for phones and keyboards.

Only then did Castiel feel the burn under his skin—not just anger, but fear, raw and knotted in his chest. It was easier to bark orders than to admit he didn’t know why Dean had collapsed, or how bad it might get, or if the next time he saw him conscious would be in a week or never.

He exhaled sharply, the weight of his own tone hitting him only after the first calls were being placed. “I… apologize,” he said stiffly, softer than before. “It’s urgent.” His gaze dropped for half a second, and then he straightened again. “Ready the suite within half an hour.”

By the time the younger Winchester arrived, Dean was already in the suite, but still unconscious. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and the expensive, barely-used linen reserved for VIP patients. Machines hummed quietly, their steady beeps a strange counterpoint to the storm still churning in Castiel’s chest.

Castiel had already failed at his own resolve to stay away. He barely moved from the chair at his bedside—just enough to adjust the IV line once, to check the monitors, to run a hand over his face in the few moments no one was looking. The quiet in the VIP suite was deceptive; it made the beeping of the heart monitor seem louder, the stillness of Dean’s chest more fragile.

Then the double doors opened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair too long for hospital policy. The resemblance was immediate—this had to be Dean’s brother.

“Sam Winchester?” Castiel asked. His voice felt tight in his throat.

“Yeah.” Sam stepped in slowly, like a man entering a crime scene. “And you are…?”

“Castiel Novak. I work with Dean.”

It was the truth. Or enough of it.

But Sam’s eyes didn’t linger on him. They went to Dean—and then Castiel could see the shock in his face. It must have been a great shock , he thought. The IV line, the pallor, the way Dean’s skin looked against the stark white sheets. The dehydration alone had left him almost unrecognizable, his lips pale, his breathing shallow. 

Sam’s jaw tightened. His gaze stayed fixed for a moment longer before he turned back to Castiel, something unreadable settling behind his expression.

“Can I speak to you outside?”

Castiel hesitated. Every instinct told him not to leave Dean. But there was something in Sam’s controlled tone that made refusal feel like a misstep he couldn’t afford.

He followed him into the suite’s private lounge. The silence after was heavy, almost oppressive.

Sam turned. His eyes were sharp enough to cut.

“How much?”

The words hit before Castiel could brace.

“I’m sorry?” he replied, head tilting to the side because it was all he could manage.

“How much would it cost for you to stop?” Sam’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t falter. “To stop whatever it is you’re doing to him.”

Sam’s phone rang with an unfamiliar number, and for a heartbeat he thought about letting it go to voicemail—until something deep in his gut twisted. He picked up.

“Sam Winchester?” The voice was clipped, professional. 

“This is Grace Memorial Hospital. Your brother Dean Winchester has been admitted—he collapsed earlier this evening—”

Everything after that blurred. Words kept coming— stable for now, you should come —but Sam’s mind was already surging with static. His throat closed, his pulse thundering in his ears. Dean. His brother. His rock. The one who’d raised him when Dad wouldn’t. The one who worked himself half to death to make sure Sam had food on the table and clothes that fit, even if it meant Dean didn’t.

And now Dean was in a hospital bed.

Because of him.

Because Dean had wanted the best for Sam.

Because Dean never stopped carrying a weight he should never have had to bear.

Sam didn’t even remember hanging up before his fingers were fumbling on his phone again, pulling up a rideshare app with clumsy, cold hands. His address, the hospital’s name— Book .

By the time the car pulled up, his legs moved before his brain caught up. He slid into the back seat, voice too tight when he gave the driver the address again, like it might make them drive faster.

He tried— God , he tried—to breathe slowly, to get control of the hammering in his chest, but the words from the doctor replayed like a skipping record: collapsed from fatigue … stable for now … stable for now .

He’d noticed. He had. How Dean had been coming home later. How the lines around his eyes had deepened, his shoulders slumped in moments when he thought no one was looking. Sam had brushed it off as Dean just being Dean—overworked, stubborn, indestructible. He should have said something. Should have made him rest.

What if it wasn’t just fatigue?

What if Dean was hiding something worse?

What if… what if this was the beginning of losing him?

Sam’s vision blurred, the blur hardening into a hot sting at the corners of his eyes. His nails dug crescents into his palms as the city lights smeared past the car window.

Dean had been the one thing in his life that never faltered. The one person who’d never left.

And the thought of that changing– of walking into the hospital and hearing he’d been too late–

Sam’s breath caught, and nothing calmed him. Because somewhere, deep down, he knew he wasn’t ready to face a world without Dean in it.

By the time Sam arrived at the hospital, his heartbeat had slowed from the frantic pace of earlier. The wild edge in his breathing had eased, and the white-hot panic that had been clawing at his ribs was now just a dull, heavy weight in his chest. But beneath that fragile calm, worry still gnawed at him, sharp and relentless, and guilt pooled low in his gut, whispering that he should have been there sooner.

The hospital was huge. Sam had passed by it before and seen it from a distance, but he had never been inside. Dean had once told him it was a well-known establishment, tied to some big pharmaceutical company. Sam could not remember the name. His simple clothes, a worn flannel layered over a T-shirt, jeans that had seen better days, and scuffed boots, made him feel out of place in the polished, echoing lobby. But the staff remained professional and greeted him with practiced warmth.

The nurse who guided him to the elevator had told him to head to the VIP suite, which made Sam hesitate right at the doors.

VIP? That had to be a mistake.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, thanked the nurse, and rode the elevator in silence. Maybe it was hospital policy for collapsed residents. Or maybe Dean was on some kind of list now—top of his class, favored by Dr. Michael. Still, a VIP suite? Sam would have to talk to billing later. Move Dean to a regular ward. He couldn’t afford this, and Dean sure as hell couldn’t either.

But that wasn’t the priority.

The priority was Dean .

He pushed through the double doors, heart pounding—and froze.

Dean was there, pale and still, an IV snaked into his arm. But the first thing Sam noticed wasn’t Dean’s vitals or monitors.

It was the man sitting beside him.

A man in a full suit and trench coat. Impeccably put together. Hair mussed just enough to suggest distress, but not a wrinkle out of place.

Sam’s first instinct was a doctor.

But then the man turned. And there was something too still about him. Too personal.

“Sam Winchester?” he asked, voice low, careful.

“Yeah.” Sam stepped in slowly. “And you are…?”

“Castiel Novak. I work with Dean.”

Dean had never mentioned anyone named Castiel. Sam knew his brother’s supervisors, his attendings. He knew their rotations.

Dean never mentioned anyone like him .

He moved toward the bed, gaze locking on Dean’s face—and that’s when he saw them.

Barely hidden beneath the collar of the hospital gown: faint bruises. Hickeys . One near his throat. Another peeking from his shoulder.

Sam’s blood froze.

He turned back to the man. Now that he was closer, Sam noticed the tear in the man’s slacks, near the knee caps. That wouldn’t have happened inside the hospital—no way. Which meant it happened outside.

Did he… help Dean?

Up close, the guy looked to professional to be a fellow resident. He looked like an attending. If he wasn’t one of Dean’s direct supervisors, then he must have gone out of his way to help. That kind of kindness was rare. Too rare.

Sam felt a cold thread of suspicion slip through his chest. All his life, he’d learned that nobody helped without a reason. Not strangers. Not without something in it for them.

Which meant… this wasn’t just a colleague.

And suddenly it all made a horrifying kind of sense.

The expensive phone. The laptop. The new jacket. The unexplained cash. Dean always coming home tired, but never letting Sam worry.

He had collapsed. And this man had been the one with him.

Sam swallowed hard, emotions roiling. “Can I speak to you outside?” he asked. Calm. Too calm.

Castiel nodded.

They stepped out into the suite’s private lounge. Sam waited until the door clicked shut behind them before he turned.

His voice cracked like a whip. “How much?”

Castiel blinked, visibly startled. “I’m sorry?” His head tilted like a pigeon.

“How much would it cost for you to stop?” Sam demanded. “To stop whatever it is you’re doing to him.”

The color drained from Castiel’s face.

“I’ll give it back,” Sam said, voice shaking. “Everything he ever gave me. Everything you’ve ever given him. The money’s still there. Most of it. I never spent it and God knows Dean would touch the money unless for basic needs. I’ll return it to you. Along with the laptop, the new phone, the sneakers, hoodie, and everything else. It’s still in the boxes. Or—fuck it—I’ll pay you to leave him alone. I’m sure I can squeeze out a loan if needed.”

Castiel’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Don’t,” Sam snapped, taking a step forward. “Don’t do that. Don’t deny it.”

Castiel flinched.

“I know , alright?” Sam’s voice cracked. “I’ve known for a long time . The cash. The bruises. The schedule. I just—” He broke off, swallowing. “I didn’t know he was the one being used . I thought maybe he—God—I didn’t know it was you .”

“Mr. Winchester. It’s not what you—”

“Enough with the lies, Mr. Novak. I know you’re one of his clients. Don’t pretend this is anything else. You’re some rich asshole who saw something pretty and bought it. You got your fill. Now walk away.” Sam cut him.

He dragged a shaky hand through his hair. “He’s everything I have left. Our mom’s gone. Dad, too. Dean raised me. He saved me. And now he’s hurting. And if I hadn’t been such a fucking burden , maybe he wouldn’t have…”

Sam’s voice caught.

“I just don’t want him to get hurt,” he whispered. “ Please . You’re a doctor. You have everything. He has me . That’s it.”

Castiel was silent.

Sam sniffed hard and scrubbed at his eyes, blinking away tears. His voice trembled, but the words came steady, deliberate. “I know there’s still kindness in you. You stayed with him even though it’s not your job. Not your responsibility. Maybe because of your code as a doctor, but still. You didn’t have to. But you did. So please… use that kindness to disappear from my brother’s life.”

The silence after was thick enough to choke on. Somewhere in the suite, a monitor beeped, steady and unyielding, like it didn’t care it had just witnessed the end of something. Castiel didn’t move. He looked as if Sam had cut the air out from under him, but there was no argument, no defense—only the stillness of someone who knew he didn’t deserve to win.

Sam’s shoulders shook once. He wiped his tears with the heel of his palm, then turned toward the room where his brother lay.

The door creaked. Just a whisper of movement, but in the silence, it sounded deafening.

Sam’s head lifted. His breath stalled in his chest.

Dean was awake.

His eyes were open, glazed with pain and the sheen of unshed tears. His lashes clung together in wet spikes, and his gaze—unfocused at first—found Sam, then another drop of tear ran down his left cheek.

Sam’s heart broke all over again. Dean had heard every word.

Dean woke to voices.

One of them, achingly familiar.

Sam.

His brain was slow to catch up, thoughts swimming sluggishly in the thick haze of exhaustion. But that voice cut through everything—he’d know it anywhere, in the middle of a crowd, in the middle of a war. It was Sam.

He didn’t open his eyes right away.

He couldn’t .

It took all his focus just to breathe without the ache in his ribs tipping him over into darkness again. His body felt like stone, sunk deep into the mattress, pinned by its own weight.

But Sam was close. Right outside the door. And someone else was with him.

Then he heard it.

“How much would it cost for you to stop?”

The words sliced clean through the fog in his head. Dean’s blood turned to ice, each syllable hitting like a strike to the chest.

He forced his eyes open. Light stabbed at them, and the blur resolved into shapes only when he blinked hard against the burn of tears.

Castiel.

Sam and Castiel. Outside. Talking about him.

And Sam—sweet, protective, stubborn Sam—was offering money. Pleading. Apologizing.

“I’ll return it all…”

Dean’s throat closed, a sour taste flooding his mouth.

“I know, alright? I’ve known for a long time. The cash. The bruises. The schedule. I just—, I didn’t know he was the one being used.”

No.

The word rang in his skull like a warning bell.

Dean pushed himself upright. The motion ripped a hot, bright pain down his muscles, his chest seizing against it, but he didn’t care. He moved .

Somewhere beyond the door, Sam’s voice cracked again.

“He raised me. He saved me. And now he’s hurting. And if I hadn’t been such a fucking burden—”

No, no, no, no .

Dean shoved the blanket aside, wires tugging at his skin like tiny restraints. The monitor spiked in alarm, but the sound was drowned beneath the pounding of his own pulse.

Sam opened the door.

For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Their eyes met, and everything inside Dean just… stopped. The hospital room, the hum of the machines, the ache in his body—they all faded until there was nothing left but Sam.

Dean didn’t even feel the tear that slipped down his cheek. Didn’t register the sting in his throat. All he saw was his brother’s face.

Broken.

Sam looked at him like the sight was a blow to the chest. Like he was the one lying here, bruised and hooked up to wires. Like all the strength had been drained out of him and he was standing on nothing.

Then Sam spoke, and his voice cracked in half—

“It’s because of me.”

The words cut clean through Dean. No, not cut—ripped. His chest split open around them, a pain so old and familiar he could taste it in his mouth.

He moved without thinking. Pushed to his feet though his legs were shaking, the floor tilting under him.

“Sammy,” he croaked, the sound almost breaking apart on his tongue. “No—Sam—”

But Sam was already sobbing. Not the quiet, swallow-it-down kind. This was raw, gut-deep, his whole chest trembling with it, like he’d been holding it in for years and it was finally breaking loose.

Dean caught him before he could crumble all the way. Arms wrapped around his little brother, fierce, desperate—like he could hold him together if he just squeezed hard enough.

Tight. Fierce. Bone-deep.

Sam collapsed into him, his face pressed into Dean’s shoulder. And for a moment, it was years ago again—Sam at fourteen, eyes red and wide, after Dad didn’t come home. After the world had tilted wrong. When the nights felt too big, too empty, too cold.

Dean had held him then.

And he held him now.

He didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

The sound of Sam’s sobs filled the space like shrapnel, sharp and merciless, tearing through every place Dean had kept stitched together.

The tears bled hot through their shirts until he couldn’t tell whose were whose. Sam shook with each breath, a fragile tremor that made Dean’s own chest cave in.

Because Sam wasn’t supposed to cry. Not Sammy. Not his baby brother.

Sam’s tears were wrong—an insult to the world, a mistake in the order of things.

Dean would’ve carried it all if he could. Every wound. Every sleepless night. Every ounce of blame and hurt and shame. All the weight in the world. He would’ve snapped his spine under the weight without complaint.

But not this.

Not the sight of Sammy breaking in his arms. Not the sound of his baby brother’s heart splintering against his ribs.

He would’ve traded the air in his lungs, the beat of his heart, the rest of his damned life—if it meant he’d never have to feel Sam shake like this again.

Outside the room, Castiel lowered himself onto the bench outside the VIP suite, every motion leaden and deliberate, like his own body wanted him to feel the weight of what he had done.

He stared at the floor, unblinking, as if the scuffed tiles might open up and swallow him whole if he stared long enough. His chest hitched once, sharp and soundless, and then nothing.

No words. No breath worth taking.

Because in that moment, he was not just failing. He was not just wrong.

He was filth in a borrowed suit. A fraud wrapped in the pretense of humanity. Something that could wear a face and still be hollow at the core.

Worse than the Devil, because at least the Devil was honest about what he was.

Chapter Text

The first time Dean understood hunger, he was seven years old and pretending a glass of tap water could fill him up.

Sam was five, his knees poking through ripped corduroys, cheeks still round with baby fat. Dean had scraped the last of their peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon and handed it over like it was a prize.

“Don’t you want any?” Sam had asked, voice small.

Dean grinned, all teeth, the way he’d learned to do when he wanted Sam to believe him. “Already ate, Sammy. Don’t worry about me.”

Dean hadn’t eaten in two days.

Back then, their dad was always “on a job,” which Dean learned early meant no cash, no food, no heat . The electricity would shut off sometimes, and Dean would make a game of it, lighting candles and telling Sam they were camping. When the tap ran cold in the dead of winter, he’d heat pots of water on the stove for Sam to wash up in, even if it meant Dean didn’t wash at all.

And a year later Sam got into elementary school, Dean brought home a permission slip for a field trip to the planetarium. He tucked it into the bottom of his backpack like a secret waiting to be found. He pulled it out at the kitchen table while Sam sat on the counter, swinging his legs and smearing peanut butter on his cheek.

The cost was circled in red ink at the bottom. A number that might as well have been a hundred miles tall.

Dean knew better than to ask. Dad had been gone three weeks this time, and the last few dollars in the coffee tin by the stove were already marked in his head for bread, milk, and a pack of socks for Sam because the holes in the heels were too big to hide anymore.

Two days later, Sam came home with the same permission slip. His eyes lit up as he told Dean how the teacher said they’d see stars on the big dome ceiling, and how they might even get to touch a real meteorite.

Dean smiled –big, wide, and easy– the kind of smile that didn’t show the pit that had opened in his chest. “That’s awesome, Sammy,” he said, ruffling his brother’s hair. “But, uh… I think maybe you shouldn’t go.”

Sam’s face fell. “Why not?”

Dean leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a conspiratorial secret. “Because I was thinking… we could have our own field trip. You and me. No teachers, no other kids. Just us. I’ll show you the stars for real.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Outside?”

Dean grinned again, brighter this time because Sam believed him. “Outside. You ever been on the roof of the laundromat? Best view in town. We’ll take the blanket, peanut butter sandwiches, and my flashlight, and I’ll tell you all the names of the constellations. The real ones. Not the boring ones from school.”

Sam beamed like Dean had just given him the moon itself.

That Friday night, while the other kids were riding a bus to the city, Dean was boosting Sam up the rusty ladder at the back of the laundromat. They lay on their backs with their sandwiches, counting lights in the sky. Dean pointed at the blinking ones and told Sam they were fighter jets, not satellites, because that sounded cooler.

Sam never asked about the field trip again. And Dean never told him that the stars overhead didn’t cost a dime, and that was the only reason they could afford them.

It broke him that the next semester the school announced a winter trip to the skating rink—$12 for admission, $3 for lunch—money they didn’t have. Sam spent the week chattering about scarves and hot chocolate, even drawing pictures of what he thought the rink would look like. Dean, knowing they couldn’t go, told him skating was cold and boring, that they’d have more fun sock-skating in the kitchen with marshmallow cocoa. Sam believed him, checked “No” on his permission slip without complaint, and that Saturday they slid across cracked linoleum until they were breathless with laughter. Sam never brought up the rink again.

Dean remembered, though. He remembered watching the snow fall outside their window that day, and thinking that the worst part of being poor wasn’t the things you didn’t get — it was having to teach your little brother not to want them in the first place.

Things got worse financially, but at least Dean was older. Old enough to do something about it. When he was eleven, he tried hustling—mowing lawns, shoveling driveways, sweeping up after old man Kravitz’s hardware store closed. He scraped gum off diner booths for quarters, returned bottles for pennies. Anything.

It was never enough.

But it had to be.

Because Sammy was only so little, and little kids shouldn’t know what hunger feels like. Shouldn’t lie awake listening to their stomach growl. Dean couldn’t let him go without—couldn’t let him see the edges fray. If something had to give, it’d be Dean, not Sammy. Always Dean.

By high school, hunger wasn’t always about food. People started looking at him differently. Teachers. Dads at PTA nights. Rich, bored moms at fundraisers Dean volunteered at because he needed the community service hours. He’d catch their eyes lingering too long, their smiles holding something unspoken.

Sometimes they offered him things. Rides home. A new jacket. A folded twenty pressed into his hand with a you deserve it . And sometimes—quietly, carefully—they’d offer more for just a little time.

Dean always said no. Always walked away.

Until sophomore year of college.

Sam had gotten into Stanford Law—his dream—and Dean had smiled and clapped him on the back and told him they’d make it work. But when he sat down with the bills, the numbers didn’t add up. No part-time job, no matter how many hours, was going to cover both of them.

He didn’t go looking for it. Not at first.

But then one night, at a faculty dinner he was working to earn extra cash, a professor’s husband leaned too close. His hand brushed Dean’s hip like it was casual. His breath was warm in Dean’s ear when he murmured, “I can help you out, you know. You’ve got a pretty mouth.”

Dean had laughed it off in the moment, stepping back. But on the walk home, his mind wouldn’t stop replaying it—not the words, but the offer .

He thought about Sam’s dream. About their empty fridge. About the rent notice folded into his back pocket, the paper worn thin from how many times he’d taken it out to check the date.

And somewhere between the streetlight on 4th and the corner liquor store, Dean realized he already knew what he was going to do.

When Dean signed on with Eros Protocol, he told himself it was nothing more than a stopgap. A semester, maybe two. Just enough to keep the lights on and make sure Sam didn’t have to turn down the acceptance letter to Stanford that had arrived, trembling and precious, in a thin white envelope. He had no illusions about it being glamorous—he wasn’t naïve. But the agency promised discretion, and the pay was better than any diner shift or late-night warehouse gig could offer.

He’d built his lie for Sam before the ink on his contract had dried. A scholarship—need-based, they called it. All the hardship they’d been through, it wasn’t hard to make it sound convincing. Sam had smiled, the kind of smile that carried a quiet relief, like maybe the universe was finally tipping in their favor. Dean had held onto that look like a talisman, telling himself it was proof the lie was worth it.

Looking back, he should’ve known better. Sam was too smart, too observant. Dean had barely scraped by with a B average that semester. He skipped lectures, handed in half-finished assignments, worked until 2AM and showed up to labs looking like something a dog had dragged in and decided wasn’t worth keeping. No scholarship committee in the country would’ve tolerated it. But Sam never confronted him. Never asked. Maybe he didn’t want the answer.

The work itself was…varied. There were clients—men, women, the occasional couple—each with their own quirks and demands. Some came wrapped in politeness, tipping generously, offering champagne and small talk before touching him. Some asked about his favorite color, his favorite book, like they wanted to pretend they were buying a slice of his life instead of his body. Others dispensed with pleasantries entirely. Their hands were quick, their voices clipped, their eyes already somewhere else. They treated him like an object they’d rented for the evening and would promptly return, unused scraps of humanity left in the folds of the sheets.

Sometimes, the sex was fine. Mechanical, sure, but not unbearable. A means to an end. He learned how to fake the kind of smile that suggested enjoyment without promising more. He learned which clients preferred conversation to touch, which wanted their fantasy catered to without a single question asked. But most nights, it left him feeling…hollow. Like his skin had been stretched too thin over something that wasn’t quite himself anymore.

The strange thing was, he didn’t notice the change creeping in. The way he stopped flinching at certain phrases. The way his eyes glazed over when someone touched him in a way that wasn’t about him at all. He got good at compartmentalizing—shoving every uncomfortable moment into a mental storage room and locking the door.

And then there was Sir .

At first, with Sir , it was nothing more than business. The arrangement was clean. A contract laid out with precision, no strings, no mess, no misunderstandings. It was the most beneficial deal Dean had ever landed through Eros; the kind of terms he didn’t have to haggle over because they were already better than anything he’d dared to ask for. The work was efficient, respectful, and predictable. The man had a big appetite. Called Dean twice a week when he’s very busy and on a daily basis if he’s got enough time. And for months, that was all it was. 

Then Sir started doing small, unexpected things. Offering dinner before they began. Asking if Dean had eaten that day. Pausing long enough for Dean to notice it wasn’t just politeness—it was care. Somewhere in those quiet gestures, something shifted. Dean started feeling…different. Which was exactly why, at the six-month mark, he ended it. Clean break, no lingering contact. By then, he’d made enough—from Sir’s very frequent bookings and the savings from the previous clients—to carry both him and Sammy through the remainder of his residency without ever taking another job from Eros. He walked away without looking back, and the rush of relief was sharp, dizzying. He was finally, finally free.

And then there was Sir . Once again.

Only this time, Sir had a name.

Castiel Novak.

Present – Grace Memorial Hospital

Dean opened his eyes to the sterile white of the VIP suite. The saline line itched in his arm. His throat felt dry. And the chair across from him was empty.

Sam had stepped out a few minutes ago. Said something about switching rooms. Said the VIP suite was too much. Said he’d go to Administration first.

Dean had let him go.

He didn’t know what to say, anyway. Not after listening to his brother cry for him.

The door creaked open.

Castiel entered quietly.

He looked like he hadn’t slept. Jacket wrinkled. Collar askew. Eyes rimmed red.

He didn’t meet Dean’s gaze. Just hovered by the edge of the bed, hands clenched at his sides.

Dean broke the silence.

“Head CT? Really? For simple fatigue?”

Castiel didn’t even blink. “You hit the pavement. I didn’t want to take any risks.”

Dean let out a weak snort. “I don’t even have a bump on my head, though.”

“Gabriel already said he’ll lecture me about bypassing protocol first thing tomorrow. Overinvestigating. Relying on gut instead of guidelines. But forgive me for being illogical. I can’t use my brain when it comes to you.” Castiel’s voice cracked then. 

Dean’s smile vanished. His throat tightened.

They both stood there for a beat, the silence pulsing with everything left unsaid.

Dean looked down at his blanket. “This is why I ended it. After the first six months. So it could stay clean. End clean.”

Castiel shifted. “And I fucked it up. I brought up that contract. I panicked. I didn’t want to lose you, and I used the only language I knew. Money. Terms. Control.”

He stepped closer, finally lifting his gaze. “It wasn’t just about the sex. Not for a long time. It was you. I never got the chance to say that.”

Dean frowned, voice low. “Then why’d you sign the damn thing in the first place?”

He looked up now, eyes gleaming.

“Why the gifts? The watches? The cash—”

“You never took the cash,” Castiel interrupted softly. “Not once. I left it in envelopes. You left it behind. I started hoping. I thought—maybe—you felt it too. That it wasn’t just a transaction anymore.”

Dean stared at him.

“I need to tell you before it’s too late,” Castiel whispered. “Before I hurt you more than I already have.”

Dean turned away.

He couldn’t breathe around the pain ballooning in his chest. The worst part was—he had felt it. The shift. The tenderness.

But it was built on sand.

On a lie he told Sam. On shame he swallowed down every night. On a contract they both pretended wasn’t still taped to the inside of Castiel’s desk drawer.

Dean closed his eyes.

“I can’t do this,” he said, barely audible. “Not if it means Sam thinking he’s the reason I sold myself. Not if he has to look at me and see something broken.”

He swallowed hard. “Not if I keep looking at you and wondering if I’m something you paid for. Or someone you love.”

Castiel didn’t respond.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t plead.

He just bowed his head. Slowly. Like something inside him broke and he didn’t have the right to reach for the pieces anymore.

Then he turned and walked out, but stopped by the door.

“Tell Sam, you’re staying in this suite until discharge. If he’s worried that I’m the one paying, tell him he needs not worry. The hospital covers all work related health problems as mentioned in your residency guidelines. It’s our policy.” And with that, he left.

Castiel realized that he IS worse than the Devil.

Because the Devil tempts.

But he had taken.

And now, he had nothing left to give back.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the machines and the occasional shuffle of footsteps in the hall. Dean lay propped against the pillows, the sterile white sheets tucked neatly around him. Sam sat in the chair by the bed, his shoulders rigid, his hands knotted together as though he needed to keep them from trembling. The silence between them was thick, weighted with everything that had not been said the night before.

Dean glanced at his brother, caught the way Sam kept his eyes on the floor as if afraid to meet his gaze. His voice broke through the quiet, steady but low.

“You must be curious.”

Sam’s head lifted slightly. For a moment he only looked at him, lips parting before he spoke. “You don’t have to tell me right now. What matters is that you get better. And besides…” He swallowed, his voice softening. “You don’t owe me any explanation, Dean.”

Dean studied him carefully. He saw the way Sam’s jaw tightened, how his eyes shone in the corners despite his effort to hold steady. Sincerity rang clear in his words, but Dean could see the fracture beneath them.

“It’s alright,” Dean said after a pause, his voice quieter than before. “You deserve to know. You’re the only family I have left. It’s only right that I tell you.”

He dropped his gaze to the sheets, tracing the folds with his eyes as if the story might be easier to tell there. His breath left him slowly, and he began.

“It started a long time ago. Back when we didn’t have much. You remember those days, Sammy… when we were scraping by. You were hungry all the time. I couldn’t stand seeing that. I couldn’t stand knowing you needed something and I had nothing to give.”

His fingers curled against the sheet, gripping faintly. “I was just so tired of juggling three jobs and school, and still not have enough. So when I’m legal by age, I made a choice. A way to make sure both of us can survive, can escape poverty. No matter the cost.”

He left it at that. No details, no sordid truths. He would not put those shadows in Sam’s hands. What mattered was the reason, the silent resolve that had carried him through.

When Dean looked up again, Sam’s cheeks were wet. His brother had not moved, but the tears slipped freely, running down his face unchecked.

“You—you shouldn’t have had to,” Sam whispered, his voice raw.

“Maybe not,” Dean answered, his chest tight. “But I did. And I’d do it again.”

Dean shifted, forcing a steadier breath. “Hey. Don’t carry this like it’s on you. It’s not. I was careful. Always careful. Eros gave me ways to keep control, to set the terms, to keep the risks low. I made sure I stayed safe. Healthy . I promise you that.”

Sam’s tears did not slow, though he tried to wipe them away with the heel of his hand. His voice cracked with bitterness. “Then how’d you end up in the hospital? What did that Novak bastard do to you?”

Dean flinched. The name alone struck like a blow. He hesitated, the truth rising to his lips but freezing before it could escape. He could not tell Sam that this—his weakened body, the collapse that had put him here—was not the consequence of work, but of something else entirely. Something he and Castiel had given into, together.

His throat tightened. He chose his words with care.

“He was my last client. Before I quit Eros.” Dean’s voice was low, almost hoarse. “We… met again. Unexpectedly.”

Sam’s brows drew together, sharp and suspicious. “Did he threaten to expose you? Use his position to coerce you into it?”

Dean’s eyes snapped up, startled. “No. Nothing like that. We had contracts. All terms came from me. It was… complicated, Sam. But not what you’re thinking. It was mutual. Beneficial.” He searched his brother’s face, desperate for him to understand without asking for more.

Sam’s expression softened only slightly. His shoulders eased by a fraction. After a long silence, he exhaled and said quietly, “I believe you. If you say so. But Dean…”

Sam leaned forward, his hand finding Dean’s and holding it with a grip that was firm, steady, unshakable. His eyes, though red and wet, burned with conviction.

“You don’t have to anymore. Any of it. You’ve carried too much, sacrificed too much already. Let me take some of it, for once. Let me be responsible—for myself, and for you.”

Dean’s throat ached, words lodged too deep to rise. He looked at their joined hands, at the way Sam clung as though he could anchor him here, safe, away from everything that had hurt them both. For the first time in a long while, Dean felt the weight shift, just a little, and he let himself breathe.

The silence returned, but it was no longer suffocating. It wrapped around them gently, brother to brother, hand in hand.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that grated against Castiel’s nerves. He stepped out onto the cardiac surgery floor, white coat pressed, tie straight, tablet in hand — the same uniform he’d worn every day for years. And yet it felt heavier now, clinging to him like guilt. The familiar scent of antiseptic and overbrewed coffee wafted through the hallway, but even that couldn’t settle the hollow ache spreading behind his ribs.

Dean was back.

Castiel had seen him that morning, across the main hall during rounds. Fresh scrub cap. Straight spine. The same walk — confident but never cocky, focused but always with a spark in his eyes.

Only this time, that spark never once landed on Castiel.

Not a glance. Not a twitch of acknowledgment.

Nothing.

Castiel hadn’t expected fanfare. He didn’t deserve that. But something inside him twisted cruelly with each second Dean passed by him in the hall like he didn’t exist — like those nights, that heat, that rawness they’d shared was just… gone.

He didn’t flinch when the OR doors opened. He didn’t break when Dean stepped into a conference room mid-presentation. He simply looked away, kept speaking, and told himself it was better this way.

Because if Dean hated him, at least that meant Dean was trying to heal.

So Castiel wore his mask. Stoic. Precise. Unbothered. His surgical team didn’t question it — not at first. He’d always been rigid, always a little cold. But now? Now there was something else layered beneath the surface. A sharpness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. A tension in his shoulders, in his hands. His incisions were still perfect, but his tone wasn’t.

At noon, Gabriel cornered him outside the physician lounge, two cups of vending machine coffee in hand.

“Jesus, you look like shit,” Gabriel muttered, pushing one into Castiel’s hand. “Like a man who’s pretending not to grieve.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He just stared into the cup, letting the steam fog his glasses.

Gabriel sighed. “You know you don’t have to do this alone. Whatever this is.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Gabriel cut him off gently. “Whatever happened, Cas… I don’t need the details. But you’re cracking, and I don’t like watching it.”

“I’m not your responsibility,” Castiel said flatly.

“You’re my brother .”

That silenced him.

Gabriel patted his shoulder once before heading off to the trauma floor. Castiel didn’t drink the coffee.

That night, the penthouse felt too quiet, the kind of quiet that made Castiel’s own breathing sound too loud. The lights were too bright, so he turned them off and let the room fall into shadow. It didn’t make things better. In the dark, the kitchen counter still had that same empty whiskey bottle — the one Dean had opened months ago, after their third or fourth night together, when his mouth was swollen from kissing and his laugh was rough from too much use. They had argued over whose bourbon was better, Tennessee or Kentucky, and Dean had said, “I can’t believe rich people have opinions about ice cubes.” Castiel had laughed at that. Now, even keeping himself from falling apart felt hard. Laughing was impossible. He told himself things might get better once Dean’s two-month rotation in cardiothoracic surgery was over, once Dean left again, far enough that Castiel couldn’t find another way to hurt him.

He opened the desk drawer without thinking. Inside was the original contract, cream paper still firm under his fingers, edges clean, Dean’s signature bold at the bottom. Six months. Limits. Safe words. A schedule. He hadn’t touched it since Dean walked out. Now he only stared, not really reading, just remembering — the way Dean looked that night, goodbyes written in the faint marks on his skin, lips trembling, walking out barefoot. The envelope of untouched cash had stayed on the counter like an accusation. Castiel didn’t cry. He didn’t even let his breath catch. He folded the contract with slow care, put it back in the drawer, and closed it.

Dean hadn’t slept much his first night in ortho, but it wasn’t because of Castiel.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He’d spent most of the night organizing his notes, reviewing the upcoming cases, memorizing surgical timelines and hardware types. Anything to distract his brain from looping the sound of Castiel’s voice — the way it used to drop when he said Dean’s name.

Dr. Michael greeted him in the breakroom at 6:05 AM, already halfway through his first protein bar. “You’re with Dr. Lafitte this month. You’ll like him. He’s a cowboy, but a sharp one.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Well I’ve met the man once in a joint op before. But a cowboy?”

“You’ll see.”

Turns out, Benny Lafitte was exactly that — tall, burly, Cajun drawl as thick as molasses. He cracked jokes during surgery, winked at nurses, and called Dean “cher” without a hint of irony.

But he was also sharp as hell. Methodical. And somehow made grueling 6-hour reconstructions feel like a beer-and-barbeque kind of afternoon.

Benny rubbed his palms together as they stepped out of the OR, still in scrubs, sweat at the edge of his hairline.

“You kept her numbers steady like a pro,” he said, nodding toward Dean as they walked down the corridor. “Smooth ride for a bumpy hip. Damn good gaswork, Winchester.”

Dean gave a half-smile, pulling his cap off to run a hand through his hair. “She barely twitched when you drilled into her femur, so I’d say we both did alright.”

Benny grinned. “Don’t sell yourself short. You were dialed in. Quick reads, clean intubation, smooth titration. You got a surgeon’s intuition without the god complex.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Give me time.”

Benny gave him a once-over that lingered. “Nah. You’re too pretty to be that grumpy.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but his ears burned anyway. “You always flirt with your anesthesia?”

“Only the competent ones,” Benny drawled.

“You must’ve flirted like crazy with Dr. Michael then.”

“Damn right I did! But I found it more challenging to flirt with the ones who look like they haven’t laughed in weeks.”

Dean blinked. Then, almost involuntarily, he laughed.

It was easy. Maybe too easy. The banter. The pace. The way Benny didn’t press too hard when Dean stayed quiet, but knew when to crack a joke to make him smile anyway.

By week’s end, Dean found himself laughing in the cafeteria. For real this time.

Benny slid into the seat beside him, tray already full. “You sleepin’ better yet?”

Dean blinked, surprised. “Actually, yeah.”

“Good.” Benny stabbed a fork into his potatoes. “I was starting to think I’d have to start spoonin’ ya just to get you to relax.”

Dean laughed, a real, full laugh that made a few heads turn.

He didn’t notice the pair of blue eyes watching from across the room.

Didn’t see how Castiel stood frozen at the hallway’s edge — coffee untouched, heart thudding in his throat, jealousy roiling in his gut.

Dean did sleep better that night. Not because he’d forgotten Castiel.

But because, for the first time since their last conversation, the weight of missing him had settled into something manageable.

He could breathe again.

Even if it still stung a little.

Grace Memorial Hospital was quieter at night — not peaceful, not gentle, just quieter. The kind of quiet that sank into the bones and made every sound too sharp. Castiel stayed late more often now, long past the hour when the halls emptied and the vending machines hummed louder than voices. He told himself there was work to finish, charts to review, notes to dictate. Anything to justify why he was still here.

The truth was simpler. He couldn’t bring himself to go back to the apartment. Every corner of it was Dean: the couch where they’d sat too close, the counter where their shoulders brushed while cooking, the bed that still held a weight he could no longer touch. Going home meant remembering. Remembering was unbearable.

So he lingered. He found excuses. He volunteered to cover shifts, even offered to take Raphael’s call, but Raphael only gave him a long look and suggested, with a rare gentleness, that he rest. Castiel had nodded, but he stayed anyway.

Now he sat behind his desk, the lamp throwing tired shadows across scattered post-op notes. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, motionless, the words on the chart blurring until they were meaningless.

He hadn’t eaten dinner. Couldn’t remember lunch.

Couldn’t remember anything. Just Dean.

Dean in the hallway. Dean smiling at everyone else. Dean laughing with Dr. Lafitte. Dean not looking at him.

Castiel noticed it everywhere, in flashes and fragments that lodged under his skin. Dean had a way of brightening a room that felt almost cruel now — the easy grin he gave the nurses when they teased him about refusing hospital food, the warmth in his voice when he asked after the orderly’s daughter, the quiet thanks he offered to every aide who adjusted his IV line. He was light, careless in the best way, giving pieces of himself to anyone who crossed his path.

Castiel watched him tilt his head back and laugh at something Benny said in the lounge, the sound echoing down the corridor. The kind of laugh that loosened shoulders and drew others in like moths. A laugh Castiel hadn’t heard directed at him in days.

It should have been enough, seeing Dean happy. He had told himself that, tried to believe it. But the truth was harder. It burned. Because Dean smiled at everyone else with a softness that used to be his, looked at strangers with an affection Castiel would give anything to feel again.

And when Dean’s eyes brushed past him — not meeting, never meeting — it was like being struck and dismissed in the same instant. Not anger. Not disdain. Just absence. As though Castiel had already been erased, an old chapter in a book Dean had closed for good.

It was unbearable. And deserved.

His phone buzzed — a message from Gabriel, something about Friday’s M&M conference and a patient consult that could wait. Castiel let the screen glow in his hand, too tired to answer, too unwilling to be pulled back into the world of rounds and responsibilities. He stared at it until the light dimmed, leaving him in shadow again.

Almost without thought, his thumb slid to another thread. Dean’s name.

The first messages were stark, clinical. Come at 9 p.m. sharp. Don’t be late. That was all. His own words, stripped of warmth, written like commands. Dean had replied with a simple Understood.

Later, the tone shifted. Casual notes slipped between them — Castiel offering to order food, Dean joking about greasy burgers versus real meals, lists of restaurants Dean swore he’d drag him to if they had time. There were reminders, too, Castiel’s clipped scolding about post-op restrictions, each warning softened by Dean’s teasing replies.

Then came the heavier strings of messages, nights when Dean had asked about his patients, when Castiel had found himself typing more than he should: outcomes, worries, the doubts he rarely voiced aloud. Dean’s answers had been brief but steady, grounding in a way that had unsettled him.

And at the end — the last conversation — the words had burned hot across the screen, reckless and unguarded. Teasing that turned into confessions, half-jokes that dissolved into raw wanting. Dean had typed wish you were here now , and Castiel’s answer had been immediate, desperate, tell me how you’d touch me. The thread unraveled from there, each reply more dangerous than the last, until his hands had shaken too badly to type. He shouldn’t have kept those messages, but deleting them had felt impossible. They were the last echo of something he couldn’t admit he missed.

Castiel read them like scripture, each one a verse he had already memorized. He remembered the exact moment Dean had sent them, the hours of the night, the rush of pulse each time his name lit up the screen.

His thumb hovered over the call button, the temptation a live wire under his skin. To hear Dean’s voice again, even a single word — it would be enough to keep him breathing.

But he didn’t press it.

He didn’t have the courage.

More than that, he didn’t have the right.

The phone buzzed again, startling him. A new notification slid across the screen. Balthazar.

The message was brisk, almost flippant:

"I’ll be at the conference in two weeks. Don’t bore me to death."

Castiel’s eyes lingered on the words. Two lectures. One case discussion to moderate. Responsibilities he had agreed to months ago, when his life had felt contained, when his chest hadn’t been this hollow. Now the weight of them pressed down on him like another punishment.

The rooftop bar was loud — not with music, but with conversation. Laughter and clinking glasses and the kind of post-conference release that only a room full of overworked, underfed, ego-heavy surgeons could generate.

Castiel had agreed to the drinks mostly because Balthazar wouldn’t stop pestering him. That, and the bourbon didn’t taste half as bitter when it was chased by the sound of someone else’s voice.

“Ah, the ever-brooding Novak,” Balthazar said as he handed Castiel his second glass. “You always look like someone just kicked your puppy. Relax. You presented brilliantly.”

Castiel didn’t answer. Just drank.

Balthazar eyed him for a beat. “You know, normally I’d be thrilled to have your attention at one of these things. You used to vanish the second the talks ended. Yet here you are, brooding on a skyline.”

Castiel sighed, then swirled his glass. “I made a mistake.”

Balthazar’s grin froze. “Define ‘mistake.’”

“I… crossed a line,” Castiel murmured. “With an Eros' companion.”

Balthazar blinked. “Shit.”

Castiel didn’t flinch. “It lasted months. I thought I could keep it clinical. I was wrong.”

“Well,” Balthazar said, straightening, “on the plus side, at least it wasn’t with a med student. That would’ve been far messier.”

Castiel shot him a look. “Not helping.”

“Right. Sorry.” Balthazar took a sip of his drink, watching Castiel carefully. “You in trouble?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Is it over?”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Yes. He left. Ended the contract. Then reappeared in my OR as a resident.”

Balthazar choked on his cocktails. "Wait! He's a resident?" Balthazar said a little too loud. He calms himself and goes quieter "The Eros Escort is a resident?"

"Keep your goddamned mouth shut about this! I signed an NDA and it goes both ways!"

"Hey, hey" Balthazar started, hands up in the air. "Don't worry. People got circumstances. I'm not judging. And I definitely won't out anyone."

Castiel slumped on his seat. Palm covering his eyes, massaging his temples. It's been buzzing since earlier. 

"But damn. That’s so soap opera. God, I love this for you.”

Castiel scowled.

“Alright, alright. Joking aside… that’s brutal.” He softened. “Is that why you’re like this? You actually cared about him?”

Castiel looked away.

Balthazar’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh my god. You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Castiel’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.

“You are.”

“I am,” Castiel whispered. “And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if I should. I fucked up beyond repair. Asked him to extend the contract even when he's no longer with Eros. And his brother found out and I- I..."

Balthazar sighed and leaned against the railing beside him. “You clearly still want him in your life. ”

“It’s not just about me anymore,” Castiel said, voice rough. “It’s him, his brother. His career. Mine. The moment this gets out, we’re both ruined.”

Balthazar studied him. “You think you haven’t already ruined it?”

Castiel looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to ruin them .”

Balthazar was quiet for a long moment. “Then fix it, Cas. Whatever ‘fixing’ means. Because this version of you? The walking corpse? You're not going to survive this.”

Castiel didn’t respond. Just drained his drink and asked for another.

It was a chest trauma case. Emergency paging. Gabriel needed an extra pair of hands for a complex vascular repair, and Castiel, being the nearest available attending, had no room to decline.

He stomped into the surgical prep lounge, still tying his gown.

“His arteries better burst open,” Castiel muttered under his breath, exasperated. “Because if not, there’s literally no explanation whatsoever I’m needed—”

He froze.

Dean was already there.

Standing at the head of the patient, setting up for sedation, his gloved hands moving with the same measured confidence Castiel remembered from a hundred nights ago.

Dean looked up.

Their eyes met.

Everything stopped.

The silence was suffocating.

Dean’s pupils dilated slightly, but he didn’t move. Neither did Castiel. The fluorescent lights hummed above them, the beeping of the monitors suddenly unbearably loud.

Castiel’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His mouth closed again.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

He couldn’t.

Dean looked away first — not fast, not bitter, just… tired.

That broke something in Castiel’s chest.

Gabriel entered, whistling under his mask. “We good to start, Deanno?”

Dean nodded, his voice even. “Patient’s under. Vitals stable.”

Gabriel blinked at the tension. “Alright then.”

The surgery was textbook. But the atmosphere wasn’t.

Castiel barely spoke. Dean didn’t speak at all.

Gabriel, at the center of it, cut and clamped and repaired while watching both men with surgical precision of his own.

He saw the way Castiel’s hands shook only once — right after brushing too close to Dean’s.

He saw how Dean didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

By the end of it, the patient was stable, the chest closed, the vitals steady — but the silence in the room was deafening.

Gabriel peeled off his gloves slowly. “Well,” he said, voice light but sharp, “that wasn’t uncomfortable at all.”

Neither of them laughed.

Gabriel glanced between them, a quiet frown forming. Then, wisely, he said nothing more.

He left them in silence.

Castiel lingered only a second longer. Long enough to catch the way Dean refused to look back at him.

Then he walked out, the echo of the OR doors slamming shut louder than it had any right to be. 

Dean didn’t even know where he was walking.

His hands were still trembling when he scrubbed out. His surgical mask had gone cold with breath and silence, and his cap itched at the crown of his skull like it was sewn from regret.

He didn’t say a word to Gabriel.

Didn’t look at Castiel.

Didn’t answer when one of the nurses asked if he was okay.

He just walked. Down a hall. Through a stairwell. Past vending machines that blinked in cheap blue light. He ducked into an unclaimed on-call room, turned the lock, and leaned against the back of the door like it was the only thing holding him up.

The silence hit like a sucker punch.

So goddamn quiet. Too quiet.

Dean inhaled once. Twice. Then slid down the door until his back hit the floor and his knees bent up like they were shielding his chest.

The room smelled like detergent and exhaustion. A thin cot sat in the corner, sheets wrinkled, pillow flat as a cutting board.

He didn’t move toward it.

Just sat.

Eyes unfocused.

Mind racing.

And then it hit.

Castiel’s voice in that OR — except there wasn’t any voice. Just the way he looked at Dean like he was drowning. Mouth parted. Words caught behind his teeth like splinters.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Because now he could see it. The way Cas had flinched when he walked in. The way his hands shook for the first few minutes, subtle but there. The way he couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes for the rest of the procedure.

Dean had been professional. Of course he had. He knew how to be.

But it had taken every cell in his body not to reach out and touch him. Shake him. Shout: Say something. Please. Say anything.

But Castiel didn’t.

And Dean didn’t either.

Because he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. Not after that night with Sam. Not after Castiel told him it was never just a contract and Dean had to turn him down because Sam’s the most important thing for him.

And now?

Now he was here. On a cold floor in a borrowed room. Shaking.

He let his head drop back against the door. Breathed through his nose. Jaw locked.

But his chest… it ached. Sharp and mean, like the space beneath his ribs was collapsing inward. Like all the oxygen in his lungs was suddenly *wrong*.

He gritted his teeth.

And still it came — the fucking tears.

Hot.

Silent.

Undeniable.

He clenched his fists in the fabric of his scrubs, but his shoulders were shaking now. Like his body was betraying him one tremor at a time.

A flash in his mind — Castiel’s hands on him . Tight. Possessive. His mouth rough against Dean’s throat, saying “Mine. Say it.”

Another — The last night before Dean ended things with Eros. Dean begging for more. Asking Cas to hurt him, and Cas had. Not cruel, but real. Too real.

And then… silence. An envelope on the counter. Dean walking out quietly, the echo of his own name never once called after him.

He curled onto his side like that would protect him from memory. Like the fetal position could hold back the swell of grief he hadn’t let himself feel.

A sharp sound cracked out of him — halfway between a sob and a laugh.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he whispered to no one. “So fucking stupid…”

He pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes until colors bloomed behind his eyelids. Willed the pain to stop. Willed himself to stop.

But his body didn’t listen.

His heart didn’t listen.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, curled in on himself, breathing through the ruins.

All he knew was that somewhere between the fourth or fifth wave of tears, he whispered it — like a secret. Like a sin.

“…Cas.”

Just that.

No title. No defense.

Just his name. Bare and broken.

The sound vanished into the stillness. Nothing answered back. Only the hum of the hospital vents and the distant squeak of wheels on linoleum. He pressed his fist against his mouth until his jaw hurt, as if he could shove the word back down, undo the betrayal of saying it out loud.

He didn’t even know he’d fallen asleep until a hand touched his shoulder.

He startled — jerked half upright, heart hammering — but it was just Gabriel.

“Whoa, hey, kid.” Gabriel crouched beside him, his usual sharp grin nowhere in sight. His brows were drawn, his eyes lined with fatigue but softened in a way Dean didn’t expect. “Easy.”

Dean blinked at him, disoriented, face damp, throat raw. His whole body ached in places sleep had no right to reach.

Gabriel studied him, not with pity — Dean would’ve hated that — but with something quieter, steadier. A kind of recognition. Like he knew too well what it meant to break apart in a dark room and hope nobody saw.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “You should shower. We’ve got another case at five.”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, nodding numbly, forcing his body upright. He wanted to say something — anything — but the words were drowned in the ache lodged behind his ribs.

Gabriel didn’t ask why he was here. Didn’t mention the redness in his eyes, or the cracked rasp of his voice. He just stood and made for the door, steps quiet.

At the threshold, he hesitated. Glanced back once, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

“You’re not the only one losing sleep over this, Dean,” he said softly. Not an accusation, not advice — just a simple observation, too sharp to dismiss.

The words landed heavy, settling somewhere Dean refused to touch. His pulse stuttered, the air thick in his throat. But he said nothing. Couldn’t.

Gabriel lingered a fraction longer, his hand braced against the doorframe. For a second, Dean thought he might say more — might rip the silence open and name the thing Dean had been choking down since the OR. But then Gabriel only gave the smallest shake of his head, like he knew it wasn’t his to say.

The door shut behind him with a muted click.

Dean sat there, still and unmoving, the echo of that line scraping against the raw edges inside him.

And when the silence closed in again, it swallowed everything else.

Leaving him where he always ended up.

Alone.

Castiel hadn’t turned on the wipers. Rainwater streamed down the windshield in lazy veins, blurring the city lights into streaks of gold and neon.

He had left the hospital, keys clenched too tightly in his hand, and driven without thinking — only to pull over halfway home, on some side street lined with shuttered shops and empty lampposts. The engine ticked in the silence, headlights dimmed, but still he couldn’t make himself move again.

He sat there in the driver’s seat, shirt collar open, slacks creased from the long day, his jacket discarded in the passenger seat. The faint sting of surgical alcohol clung to his skin, sharp and stubborn, impossible to wash away. He pressed his thumb into his palm until it hurt, as though the pain might make him feel real again.

He had only gone back for his keys. Should have left without hesitation. But he lingered, just long enough to hear it: a nurse mentioning that Dean had disappeared after the procedure. That no one could reach him. That he’d gone silent.

And Castiel knew what silence meant. Knew that particular wound.

Because it was the kind of silence he himself had caused.

He closed his eyes. Drew a breath through his nose, held it until it burned, and let it go slowly.

He didn’t feel like a man anymore. Not a surgeon, not someone tethered to vows or purpose. He felt like a ghost hunched over the wheel of a car that refused to take him anywhere. A coward pretending at flesh.

And Dean was the one left bleeding for it.

You’re in love with him, aren’t you?

Balthazar’s voice, merciless in memory.

Then stop being a coward.

But Castiel didn’t move.

Didn’t start the car again.

Didn’t even cry.

The rain thickened, streaking the glass until the world beyond dissolved into broken light. His heart thudded against his ribs like something foreign, sharp and unrelenting, and with every beat he understood more clearly:

He hadn’t broken the contract. He’d broken Dean.

Chapter Text

The hallway outside OR 5 was the same as it ever was — sterile, too bright, humming faintly with fluorescent overheads and distant telemetry beeps. Dean wasn’t paying attention, not really. He was halfway through his third cup of burnt coffee, charting still to finish, another trauma consult waiting in PACU.

But then — that laugh .

Loud. Sharp. Familiar.

It cracked out of nowhere, echoing down the corridor from behind the OR doors. Like something he hadn’t heard in weeks. Months, maybe. Not like Castiel’s usual clipped chuckle, the one he reserved for dry sarcasm or when Gabriel said something so stupid he couldn’t not acknowledge it. This was different. This one was real. Carefree. Deep in his chest, gravel-soft and stupidly rare.

Dean froze mid-step. Coffee sloshed over his knuckles.

His breath caught before he even registered why.

Cas.

That laugh used to belong to him. Or maybe not belong , not really — but Dean had been the reason for it, once. Had coaxed it out with bad jokes over burnt pancakes and lazy Sunday mornings on the couch, wrapped in the quiet warmth of something almost domestic. Back when they still had inside jokes. Back when Cas would let go enough to laugh like that, mouth tilted wide, head thrown back just a little, teeth bared like he wasn’t scared to feel good for once.

He hadn't heard that laugh since— Well. Since before everything broke.

Now it came from behind locked OR doors and didn't belong to him anymore.

Dean blinked hard, took another sip of coffee just for something to do. It burned down his throat, bitter as hell. He didn't slow his pace, didn’t turn toward OR 5, just kept walking. But the sound echoed after him anyway, stuck behind his ribs like something sharp and stupid.

He hated how much he missed it.

Hated even more that Cas could still laugh like that.

Without him.

The second time Dean heard it, he was elbow-deep in the satellite pharmacy closet, trying to hunt down an ETT for a kid getting rushed into the trauma bay. He'd barely slept, the coffee in his veins had turned to acid, and the overhead vents hummed loud enough to drown out most of the hallway noise.

But not that laugh.

It cut through everything — low and rough and easy. A little quieter than the first time, but still warm, like it belonged somewhere safer than this place. Somewhere soft. Somewhere Dean wasn’t.

His spine stiffened before he could stop it. He froze, fingers still curled around the tube package. The laugh came from just outside the door — not far, maybe ten feet down the hall.

He stepped out slowly, quietly.

There was Cas, standing near the wall-mounted whiteboard just outside OR 5. Coat off. Scrubs crisp. He looked like he hadn’t missed a beat since the last time Dean had really seen him — really looked at him — and Dean hated how fast his heart tripped over itself.

And beside him: someone new.

Younger. Shorter. Definitely surgical, judging by the badge and the way he held himself — but not a resident. Not even close. Not one of the new trauma interns either. Looked barely old enough to rent a car.

Intern? Med student?

Too young. Too fresh.

Dean squinted just in time to catch Castiel’s hand — resting lightly on the kid’s shoulder. Not heavy. Not anything crazy. But there . Steady. Familiar. Dean had felt that hand, once. Had felt it on him . He remembered the weight of it against his neck, the press of those fingers against his hip when no one else was looking.

He shouldn’t be looking now.

But he couldn’t stop.

"You’ll adjust to the rhythm, quickly," Castiel was saying — voice low, gentle. Confident. That warm kind of encouragement he’d never bothered wasting on the rest of the interns. Not even Dean, back when he’d started rotation.

Then the hand squeezed — brief, casual — as Castiel nodded toward the OR doors and led the kid inside.

Dean didn’t move.

He just stood there in the hallway, fingers tight around the ETT, like that little moment had stuck him in place.

It meant nothing. Probably.

But something ugly had already started turning in his gut.

The third time he heard that laugh, it was even worse.

Benny had texted him to meet in the cafeteria. Said they had a fifteen-minute window between cases and something resembling food with their names on it. Dean was already halfway there, scrolling past unread emails and patient flags, head pounding with the kind of ache that caffeine couldn’t fix.

Then he heard it — again .

Castiel’s laugh.

And this time, Dean didn’t even have to turn to know where it came from.

There, by the back wall of the cafeteria, just beside the coffee vending machine — Cas again. Still in scrubs. Hair messier than usual. And next to him, the same kid. The same new face. They were seated across from each other, heads close together, Cas pointing at something on a tablet screen between them. A diagram. Arterial, by the look of it — veins and branches and annotated angles.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, not from this far back, but the shape of their interaction said enough. The way Cas tilted slightly to readjust the screen. The way the kid laughed back, head ducked, embarrassed but pleased. The kind of look interns got when an attending they admired paid too much attention.

It was too easy. Too casual.

Castiel — the man who never let anyone in unless he had to — was smiling .

Dean stopped walking.

The hallway buzzed behind him — footsteps, rolling trays, nurses laughing about something on a phone — but it all turned to static. White noise around the roaring in his ears.

He thumbed open his phone. Benny had just sent a thumbs-up emoji, probably already waiting by the register.

Dean’s fingers moved before he even processed the thought.

Just remembered to collect data for a case presentation tomorrow. Go ahead without me.

He hit send, turned on his heel, and walked out the way he came.

He didn’t look back.

By the time the burrito showed up, Dean had almost convinced himself he was being dramatic.

Almost.

He was holed up in the anesthesia workroom, restocking lines and running through equipment logs, trying not to spiral over hallway glances and misplaced shoulder touches. Trying not to think about that laugh, and how it sounded softer now — like Castiel had given it away to someone new.

There was a knock on the frame, and Benny walked in holding foil-wrapped salvation.

“You forgot to eat,” he said, tossing it into Dean’s lap. “Again.”

Dean gave a faint huff of a laugh and didn’t argue. “Thanks, man.”

Benny leaned against the counter, arms crossed, chewing something invisible for a second before he spoke again.

“Got a joint op this afternoon,” he said. “Limb salvage case. Teenager with osteosarcoma. Pretty bad involvement around the distal femur. They’re hoping to save the growth plate.”

Dean nodded, halfway through unwrapping the burrito. “Ortho lead?”

“Me,” Benny said. “Novak’s in for vascular reconstruction.”

The foil crinkled in Dean’s hand. His fingers stilled.

Benny didn’t seem to notice.

Dean blinked once, slow. “Novak.”

“Yep. Gonna need clean lines and steady pressure if we wanna keep the leg functional.” Benny’s tone was easy, like it was just another Tuesday. “You’re running sedation?”

Dean cleared his throat, nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

He took a bite of the burrito just to give his mouth something to do. It tasted like cardboard and cumin.

He kept his face steady. Neutral. Casual. Like it didn’t matter.

But inside, something twisted.

Another surgery. Another OR.

And Castiel would be in it.

The silence in OR 7 was deafening.

The lights were up, machines humming, sterile trays laid out in perfect rows. Dean stood near the head of the table, gloves already on, checking and rechecking the doses of midazolam and propofol like he didn’t already know them by heart. The nurse on the other side of the cart gave him a polite nod before stepping out to prep the patient’s chart.

It was the kind of lull Dean usually liked — precise, predictable. Just him and the hum of pre-op.

But today, the quiet felt like pressure behind his eyes.

Then the door opened.

He turned, expecting Benny, maybe one of the scrub techs early for set-up.

Instead, it was him — the kid .

The same one who’d been orbiting Castiel all week like a moon on a string.

He stepped in, hands neatly scrubbed, eyes wide and a little too eager. “Hi,” he said, breathless. “I’m Jack. Jack Kline. I’m an intern — surgery rotation. Dr. Novak said I could come in and observe the reconstruction.”

Dean managed a smile. It was the polite kind — reflexive. A muscle twitch. “You scrubbed in?”

Jack nodded, already moving toward the back wall to check on available PPE. “Yes, sir.”

Sir .

Dean hated how old that made him feel.

He looked young. Really young. His badge said intern, but he couldn’t have been more than twenty. Hell, the kid didn’t even look eighteen. Too bright-eyed. Too clean. Still believed in things like full recovery and clean saves.

Dean remembered being like that once.

Jack smiled at him again — wide, genuine, eager to help. Dean forced his own smile tighter. “Well. Just stay out of the way, yeah?”

“Of course.” Jack nodded quickly. “Thank you, Dr. Winchester.”

Dean turned back to the meds. His hands didn’t shake, but something in his chest did.

The rest of the team filed in not long after — Raphael first, nodding as he scanned the vitals, then Benny, who greeted everyone like it was a damn brunch. And then—

Castiel.

He walked in without so much as a glance toward Dean. No nod. No greeting. Just silence, like Dean was a piece of equipment in the corner.

Dean didn’t let it show. He focused on the monitors, double-checked the sedation settings, swallowed down whatever was crawling up his throat.

“Jack,” Castiel said, voice calm, clinical. “Observe carefully. This is a good chance to study arterial repair. You could even apply it in a trauma-adjacent case.”

“Yes, Dr. Novak.”

Dean watched out of the corner of his eye. Cas didn’t just instruct — he guided . Close, patient. He let Jack take the first suture on the artery. Let him. And when the kid’s hand trembled slightly, Castiel stepped in, adjusted his grip gently, guiding his movement like it was second nature. Like it wasn’t intimate at all.

“Good,” Castiel said softly. “Adjust your angle. There. That’s it.”

“Thanks, Dr. Novak.”

Dean looked down quickly, pretending to double-check the pressure line. Anything to not watch the way Cas leaned in to murmur something else. Anything to stop himself from flinching at the way Jack lit up at the praise.

Even Raphael raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching. Benny gave a low chuckle.

“Didn’t know Novak could talk more than two sentences during a surgery,” he muttered.

Dean didn’t answer. His insides were on fire.

When the last stitch was down and Castiel stepped back to strip his gloves, he looked toward Benny and Raphael.

“Jack,” Castiel said, already half out the door, “Make an overview report of the procedure by end of shift.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have another surgery scheduled,” Castiel announced to the OR, not glancing Dean’s way once. “Raphael will be on standby here.”

Jack followed a second later. Gone.

Dean stared at the empty doorway.

Then the monitor beeped — loud, sudden. The patient's heart rate was climbing.

Shit.

He leaned forward, scanned the values. BP rising. Eyes twitching under the lid.

“She’s waking up,” Dean said to Benny, already reaching for another dose of propofol.

“You good?” Benny asked, glancing up from the drill.

Dean nodded stiffly. “I’ll handle it.”

He turned toward the med tray, grabbing a syringe. Hands still steady.

But his throat felt like it was closing in.

Dean was running on caffeine and fumes.

It was barely 10 a.m. and he’d already assisted in two crash intubations, walked half the length of the hospital twice, and been called back into pre-op over a dosing conflict that turned out to be a typo. His pager wouldn’t stop going off. His eyes felt like sandpaper.

All he wanted was ten uninterrupted minutes in the OR lounge — quiet, coffee, maybe enough peace to start notes from the night before.

Instead, he walked into chatter.

A cluster of interns huddled near the lounge couch, textbooks and tablets spread across the table. They were all wide-eyed, scribbling, panicked in that particular med school way — anxious about impressing attendings they were too sleep-deprived to understand.

Dean almost turned back out the door.

Then someone spotted him.

“Dr. Winchester?” It was him . Jack. Bright as ever, polite as ever, stepping forward like Dean wasn’t two seconds away from a breakdown.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but would it be possible to give us a quick overview on vasopressors?” Jack smiled nervously, clearly pushing his luck but trying anyway. “Dr. Michael told us we might get quizzed today, and… well, Dr. Novak suggested that we consult you.”

The words dropped like bricks in Dean’s chest.

Dr. Novak suggested.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It was work-related. Clinical. A small mention in passing.

But it landed like a backhand.

Cas talked about him.

Cas recommended him.

Dean blinked. His throat was suddenly dry.

He forced a smile — just enough to not scare the interns off. “Yeah. Sure. Give me two minutes to grab my notes.”

Jack looked relieved. Grateful.

Dean turned away before anyone could see his jaw clench.

Once he noticed it, he couldn’t un -notice it.

Jack was everywhere .

In the hallway outside the residents’ lounge. In pre-op, trailing two steps behind Castiel like a loyal shadow. In the cath lab observation deck, scribbling something in a notebook while Cas adjusted the imaging screen for him. Always close. Always eager.

Dean didn’t say anything. Not to Benny, not to Gabriel and the rest of the cardiothoracic, not to himself. But the quiet started building in his chest like pressure behind scar tissue — nothing visible, but sore every time he moved.

Then came the “coffee”.

Dean had been walking past the breakroom on his way to grab a fresh gown when he caught it: Jack, pushing the door open with two takeaway cups in hand. One was handed off — easily, instinctively — to Castiel, who was flipping through something on his tablet.

Dean slowed, not enough to be noticed, but enough to watch.

They didn’t see him.

Jack was saying something about rounds. Castiel nodded, sipped his coffee. Relaxed. Comfortable.

Then Jack said, “Here you go, Cas,” like it was natural. Like it was normal to call him that. Like Dean hadn’t had to earn that name over months of bruises and late nights and whispered apologies between the sheets.

Dean didn’t react. Not outwardly. Not visibly.

But his stomach lurched.

Then Jack laughed — some offhand joke Dean didn’t catch — and said, “You know, if I don’t get a new laptop soon, I think this one’s gonna combust mid-note.”

Castiel looked up, unbothered. “We’ll pick one up this evening, if you’re free.”

Dean stopped walking.

Evening.

We’ll .

Something cold curled low in his gut. His heart didn’t drop — it stuttered .

It can’t be.

No.

Cas and Jack can’t be like that. Not like him and Cas. Jack’s just a kid. He’s—

Dean’s pulse skipped.

He turned around. Walked briskly to the resident computer terminal and logged in with stiff fingers. Navigated to the intern roster, hands moving without thought.

Jack Kline.

His photo popped up beside the file. Smiling. Youthful . Too much hope in the eyes.

Dean’s gaze dropped to the numbers.

Age: 19.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Not a minor. At least that .

But the relief didn’t last long. Not when it soured into something else.

Jealousy. Rage. Guilt. Disgust.

He shut the window. Logged out.

And didn’t look up for a long, long time.

It wasn’t subtle, the way Dean was watching.

He didn’t mean to be obvious about it — not really. He never looked long enough for it to count as staring , never hovered or lingered. But his eyes drifted more than they should. Followed too many movements that weren’t his business. Watched for moments that he shouldn’t care about.

But Castiel noticed.

Dean saw the way his posture changed — a slight stiffness in the shoulders, the way his expression shut down whenever Dean entered the room. He started choosing different corridors. Cutting conversations short. He didn’t ask for updates. Didn’t linger near anesthesia like he used to. If Dean showed up at the same nurse’s station, Castiel finished his notes in half the time and left without comment.

It was subtle. Surgical.

And it hurt like hell.

Dean didn’t know what Cas thought he’d done — maybe that he was still angry, still bitter about everything that happened. Maybe Cas thought Dean blamed him for moving on, for training someone new, for laughing again.

But it wasn’t anger.

It was something so much worse .

And Castiel — in all his quiet precision — had no idea.

So he did what he always did when he didn’t understand someone’s pain: he retreated.

Dean felt him slipping away all over again, piece by piece.

And this time, it wasn’t about secrets or shame.

It was just silence.

And a distance Dean didn’t know how to close. Not that he’s going to act on it even if he knew.

The joint op was messy .

Multiple trauma. Young patient. Blunt force injuries to the femur and significant thoracic damage. Orthopedics and cardiothoracic working side by side, a balancing act of clamps, drills, and sutures, the kind of chaos that Dean usually found clarity in.

But today, everything felt off.

Jack was there again — of course he was — standing just behind Castiel, hands neatly clasped, eyes wide with focus. He wasn’t scrubbing in this time, just observing. But even that was too much.

Dean tried to ignore it. Focused on vitals, on oxygen levels and sedation windows, but the kid kept hovering — a little too close to the sterile field, shifting in and out of Dean’s periphery like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

“Jack,” Dean said finally, voice low, clipped. “Step back from the table, please.”

It wasn’t harsh. Not really. But it landed hard.

Jack startled slightly, blinking at him. “Oh. Sorry, sir.”

Dean didn’t respond. Just turned back to the monitor, jaw tight. 

And that’s when he caught it.

The urine bag. Clear a moment ago. Now a dark, bloody red.

“Urine’s hemorrhagic,” Dean said sharply, pointing it out. He glanced at Benny, the lead. “Could be an unassessed urinary tract trauma. You want to get Urology cito?”

Benny barely hesitated. “Yeah. Call it.”

Dean leaned toward the circulating nurse. “Angela—consult Urology, cito . And grab the ultrasound. Pull up the pre-op CT workup, full abdomen. They’ll want it.”

Angela was already moving, efficient as ever.

By the time the ultrasound arrived, Dean had gloves stripped, probe gelled. FAST scan—bladder looked intact, no obvious leak. He slid higher, over the right flank. Shadowed edges, irregular collection. Hematoma . He froze the image.

When Urology pushed in a few minutes later, the OR felt smaller, tighter. Dean turned the monitor toward them, finger tapping the screen. “Right kidney—here. Looks like a hematoma.”

The room was crowded now—orthopedics, thoracic, urology huddling in and out, monitors beeping. Jack had shifted forward again, in the way of the urology resident trying to get to the tray.

Dean’s patience snapped. His voice cut across the hum of the OR. “Jack. If you can’t stay out of the way, then you leave. Now.”

Jack froze, hurt flashing quick across his face. He excused himself and retreated from the OR.

Castiel’s head lifted immediately, eyes cutting sharp toward Dean. Just a flicker of disapproval, quiet but unmistakable, before he turned back to adjust a clamp for the cardiothoracic team. He didn’t say anything—there was no space for it here—but the look lingered.

Dean swallowed hard, forced his gaze back to the monitor. No time. The work was still moving.

The urology resident leaned in to study the frozen image, conferring quickly with Benny. Instruments shifted hands, orders called out, the rhythm of the OR resuming its relentless pace.

The surgery went on—bone screws, clamps, the rhythmic buzz of the drill. Urology had crowded in by then, asking for a couple of additional blood bags and telling Benny they’d begin their part once Castiel’s team finished with the thoracic field. The OR shifted rhythm to make space for the new set of hands, the balancing act growing sharper, tighter. Dean kept his head down, his hands steady.

When it was finally over and they were handing off the patient to recovery, Dean lingered at the OR charting station, logging vitals.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel heading his way — steady, deliberate, something unreadable in his expression.

But Benny got there first, clapping a big hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Winchester, you’re one hell of an anesthesia. Sharp eyes. Most folks would’ve missed that kidney bleed until it was too late. Real damn observant.”

Dean gave a short nod, muttering, “Just doing my job.”

Castiel stopped just short of them, silent. His jaw tightened at the words, pen tapping a little too hard against the edge of his clipboard as Benny kept grinning.

“Keep it up, darlin,” Benny said, giving Dean’s shoulder a squeeze before moving on down the hall.

That left only Castiel. He approached Dean with firm steps.

“You didn’t need to speak to the intern like that,” he said quietly, not looking up from the digital log.

Dean didn’t turn. “He was too close to the field.”

“He wasn’t breaking protocol.”

Dean’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “Could’ve. He was in the way when Urology came in—you want me to gamble on someone tripping in the middle of a kidney bleed?”

Castiel’s eyes flicked up for the first time. “He would’ve moved if you’d asked.”

“I did ask,” Dean muttered, jaw tight. “Didn’t stick.”

Castiel didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice. Just let the silence draw out.

“Not everyone is trying to get under your skin, Dean,” he said finally, softer but no less firm.

Dean’s face stayed tight, anger still simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t answer.

He finished the entry, logged out hard enough to make the console beep, and walked away before his hands could shake.

The chaos of the joint op was already filed away in the hospital’s endless churn — another chart, another case, another near-miss tucked into memory.

Later that week, outside the OR, Dean passed Gabriel and Michelle mid-conversation. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop — just happened to catch it as he rounded the corner.

Michelle’s voice, amused: “Dr. Novak’s new favorite. Cute little intern, always attached to his hip.”

Gabriel chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the guy’s going soft.”

Dean didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t react. Didn’t blink.

But his jaw locked tight, and his face didn’t move.

Not once.

The lounge was cold.

Too cold for July, too sterile for rest. Dean sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, fingers locked in front of his mouth like a prayer he didn’t believe in. His scrub top was still wrinkled from the last case, his hair damp with sweat he hadn’t noticed until now.

The door was closed. The lights were off. Only the narrow window lit the room — glass filtered through dull fluorescent hallway light.

Dean stared at the floor. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

He couldn’t stop seeing it. The shoulder touch. The coffee. The fucking laugh.

He tried to shake it off, to tell himself he was being irrational. That it wasn’t his place to care. But the knot in his chest wouldn’t loosen, and his hands — normally so steady — wouldn’t stop curling into fists.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift outside the window.

Castiel.

He was standing just outside the glass, half-turned like he wasn’t sure whether to knock or walk away. His coat was off. His expression softened when he spotted Dean — not pity, not quite — but gentle in a way that made Dean’s stomach twist. Like he was offering something Dean didn’t want, something Dean couldn’t take.

Dean looked up at him, anger flaring hot behind his eyes. That softness only made it worse. Made him feel cornered, exposed. He glared back hard enough he thought it might burn through the glass.

But Cas didn’t look away. He just held Dean’s gaze with that maddening calm, like he could wait him out.

Then another set of footsteps approached from the other side.

Jack.

He slowed as he reached Castiel, following the line of Castiel’s gaze toward the window. Toward Dean. The tension was thick enough to feel, and Jack’s shoulders hunched almost instinctively, like he’d walked into the wrong room.

Visibly uncomfortable, he glanced between them before whispering, “Did I… do something wrong again?”

Dean didn’t breathe.

He waited — for Castiel to brush it off, for the wrong words, for confirmation of every fear clawing at his ribs.

But Castiel just kept his eyes on Dean. Didn’t look at Jack, not even once.

“No, Jack,” he said softly. “Not you.”

And the way his voice carried through the glass—

The way his eyes never left Dean—

That was the worst part.

Because Dean couldn’t tell if Cas meant it as comfort.

Or a confession.

Chapter Text

“Are you okay?”

The question landed harder than Dean expected. Like Sam had just thrown a punch straight through his ribs instead of a casual check-in. He didn’t look up from his beer. Didn’t want to. His thumb traced slow circles through the condensation bleeding down the glass, like maybe the ring of water could answer for him if he stared at it long enough.

Across the coffee table, Sam leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees, watching him too closely. Dean could feel it, that unrelenting little brother scrutiny he’d never grown immune to.

“You’ve been off lately,” Sam said finally. His voice was soft, careful, but not careful enough. “Snappy. Distracted. You blew off movie night last week, and then you nearly bit my head off about the stuffing recipe.” He tilted his head, studying Dean’s face like he could read it if he just squinted hard enough. “Is it… something at the hospital?”

Dean exhaled through his nose, short and sharp. “It’s nothing.”

Sam didn’t buy it. He never did. He lowered his voice, almost cautious now. “Is it that Novak bastard? Did he—did he try something again?”

Dean barked out a laugh, bitter enough to scrape his throat raw. There wasn’t a trace of humor in it. “No. No, it’s not like that. He didn’t… It’s not me.” A pause, heavy enough to sink between them. “It’s my replacement.”

Sam blinked. “Your what?”

“Cas.” Dean’s voice was flat, brittle, like glass about to break. “He’s got someone else now. A new intern. Looks like he just hit puberty. Nineteen. Still got the baby face and everything. He’s—he’s with him. Or at least, that’s what it looks like. Comes in with him, leaves with him, fucking glows when the kid’s around.”

Sam winced. “Nineteen? That’s… that’s barely—”

“Barely legal, yeah.” Dean’s mouth twisted. “That’s what I thought, too.”

Sam leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. His expression turned guarded. “So, what? You think Cas is grooming the guy?”

Dean actually flinched at the word. Like it cut deeper than Sam meant it to. His knuckles tightened white around the neck of his beer. “I think the kid’s too young to be tangled up with someone like Cas.”

Sam arched an eyebrow, lips parting slightly before he could stop his reflex. “Younger than you were when you started?”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Sam froze. His own words seemed to hang in the air, ugly and echoing, and the instant they left his mouth he wanted to snatch them back. His stomach twisted with the sick realization of what he’d just said.

Dean’s head snapped up. Whatever exhaustion had been weighing him down was gone, burned out by a fire that hit Sam square in the chest. His eyes blazed, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Sam’s gut dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t expected the words to come out of his own mouth, hadn’t expected them to land like a blade. And he definitely hadn’t expected Dean to look at him like that, like he’d just betrayed him in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Dean set the bottle down with more force than necessary, glass thunking against wood. “You really wanna know, Sam? You really wanna know how young I was when I started?”

Sam’s breath caught. His chest squeezed tight, but he didn’t answer.

Dean leaned forward, voice dropping into something low and scalding. “Thank God I was a few weeks past eighteen the first time I got on my knees. First time I sucked cock for cash. Few weeks. That’s the margin you’re hanging your big brother on right now.”

Sam flinched like he’d been struck. His stomach dropped out, a rush of sick guilt clawing up his throat. He couldn’t breathe around it.

Dean let the silence stretch until it was unbearable.

“You think I don’t know how young I was? You think I haven’t spent years wondering what the hell I was doing, letting myself—” His voice cracked, then sharpened into something furious. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face like it’s the same damn thing.”

Sam’s arms slowly uncrossed. The defensive wall dropped into something smaller, something guilty. “Dean, I… I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice softened, stumbling over the words. “I shouldn’t’ve said it. That was low. I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head, eyes cutting away, the fury cooling into something quieter, heavier. “Yeah, well. You said it.”

Sam swallowed, regret sitting thick in his throat. He wanted to argue, to explain, but the look on Dean’s face shut him down.

“Look,” Sam tried again, voice gentler now. “I get it. The age gap’s gross. It doesn’t sit right. But the guy’s in med school—that’s not nothing. And if Cas is doing something wrong, it’ll catch up to him. You don’t have to carry that.”

Dean’s laugh was hollow. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” Sam said, leaning forward again, trying to bridge the gap he’d just widened. “Because right now it kind of sounds like you’re hurt. And instead of dealing with that, you’re spinning out over something you don’t even know is real.”

Dean didn’t answer. He just stared at the label on his bottle, like maybe if he focused hard enough it would peel itself off and spare him the conversation.

After a long stretch of silence, Sam spoke again, quieter this time. “I’m just glad you’re not being used anymore. That you got out. That you’re safe.” His voice faltered, hesitant. “But if this kid isn’t being used… if it’s just you catching feelings… don’t go crucifying someone else to protect yourself.”

Dean didn’t look up. Didn’t say a word.

And Sam didn’t push.

The silence lingered heavy between them for the rest of the night.

Dean got to the hospital an hour earlier than usual.

Not because he had to. He told himself it was just to prep notes, check the OR roster, maybe catch up on some med logs.

But that’s not where he went.

He planted himself behind the wide stone pillar just off the lobby entrance — half-hidden, posture casual like someone waiting for their ride. His coffee was already cold in his hand. He wasn’t sipping it.

At exactly 6:57 AM, the automatic doors slid open.

And there they were.

Castiel. In that same stiff, elegant coat he always wore. Shoulders squared, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Jack Kline beside him, scrubs wrinkled and hair messy, but his face lit up like he was walking next to a damn celebrity.

They were talking — too quiet to hear — but Jack laughed at something, and Cas smiled in that restrained way Dean knew too well. The kind of smile that barely touched his mouth but lit up his eyes.

Dean stared. Grip tight.

From this early?

Later, Dean checked the intern break room. He pretended to be grabbing an old form, some phantom chart he’d "left behind."

Jack was inside with the others, sitting cross-legged on the couch, notebook open on his lap. The group looked nervous — prepping for one of Michael’s ambush quizzes, probably.

Dean almost let it go. Maybe he was wrong.

But then the door opened, and Cas passed by outside. Not even fully in the room — just a glance through the window.

Jack noticed instantly.

He smiled, radiant, and stood without a word, brushing past the others like gravity had shifted. He caught up to Cas in the hall, and though Dean couldn’t hear the words, he didn’t need to.

Jack practically bounced in place.

Cas didn’t smile this time, but his head tilted toward the kid. Listening.

Dean turned away.

Later that afternoon, Dean waited outside the blood bank, arms crossed, trying to stay out of his own head. Two minutes of peace. That’s all he needed.

But voices filtered through the hallway — just around the corner.

Castiel.

And Jack.

"...Didn't I tell you to refer to me as Dr. Novak in the hospital?" Cas’ voice was calm, but firm. "Let’s keep it professional."

Dean froze. Everything inside him clenched.

Professional.

There was a pause. Then Jack’s voice followed, sheepish.

"Yes, Dr. Novak."

Did Jack call him Cas in the OR?

How often did that slip happen? Was this the first time? Was this the only time?

Or were they just getting too comfortable?

Too close.

Dean didn’t move. Not until the hallway emptied again.

And even then, he stayed there a while longer, fingers twitching at his side like something was trying to break loose from under his skin.

Charlie dropped onto the vinyl couch like she’d been hit by a truck.

She tugged off her scrub cap and let out a long, dramatic groan. “If Novak breathes through his mouth one more time, I swear I’m gonna slap a non-rebreather on him and walk away.”

Dean, across the room, looked up from the vitals chart he wasn’t really reading. “Rough day?”

Charlie gave him a deadpan stare. “You have no idea.”

She toed off her surgical clogs and leaned back like she was dying. “You know who I got stuck with today? Gabriel. Literal menace . Won’t shut up, keeps cracking jokes in the middle of cases, pokes at every little thing just to see if you’ll crack. He swapped out my pen for a syringe today—like, actually handed it to me during rounds just to watch me freeze up. Total chaos goblin energy.”

Charlie pressed her palms over her eyes. “And if it’s not that, then it’s Raphael, who’s the complete opposite.” She dropped her hands and groaned. “I thought I was being punished in Obgyn. But cardiothoracic? Novak? He’s just like Raphael but worse ! He’s icy. No warmth. No eye contact. Barely speak unless it’s to critique my induction timing and the way I titrate pressors.”

Dean tried not to react. “That’s… pretty on brand.”

“On brand? The guy doesn’t even acknowledge I’m a human being.” She mimicked in a clipped monotone: “‘You should’ve adjusted the pressure on the vent sooner.’ Like, yeah, thanks, dude. I’ve been working for four straight hours in a room with 38-degree air and zero emotional support.”

Dean smirked. “He’s not big on praise.”

Charlie shot him a look. “You say that like you don’t know he was different with you .”

Dean blinked. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon. You were his golden boy. Every other sentence out of his mouth is: ‘Winchester would’ve stabilized faster,’ ‘Winchester usually prepped his own airway tray,’ ‘Winchester handled that better.’ Like I’m you or something.”

Dean blinked again. “He said that?”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Wait— you didn’t know? ”

Dean gave a small shake of his head, trying to mask the lurch in his chest.

Charlie groaned again. “Jesus. You’re in his head , man. And I don’t even know why. It’s not like you were blowing him behind the OR curtain—”

Dean choked on his spit and coughed so hard he nearly dropped his tablet.

Charlie froze. “Holy shit. You weren’t , were you?”

“I—no. No!” Dean sputtered. “Jesus, Charlie.”

She held up her hands, laughing. “Alright, alright, relax . I’m just saying, Novak acts like you’re some kind of ghost that keeps haunting his OR.”

Charlie didn’t notice the shift in Dean’s expression — or pretended not to. She grabbed a protein bar from her pocket, bit into it like it owed her money, then spoke around the chew.

“Oh, and the intern? Jack Huggies or something?” She waved vaguely. “Always around him. I thought Novak didn’t tolerate clingy types, but this kid’s like… his freaking shadow.”

Dean’s throat tightened. “Jack Kline.”

Charlie snapped her fingers. “Yeah, that’s the one. He’s sweet, I guess. Too sweet. You know the type. Straight A’s, calls every attending ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ like he’s in the Navy. Still blushes when someone says ‘femoral access.’”

Dean managed a dry smile. “Sounds green.”

“Oh, neon. But Novak? He’s weirdly patient with him. Doesn’t tear into him like he does the rest of us. Just... guides him. You know how rare that is?” She unwrapped the last of the bar. “He let him assist with a suture last week. Like, hand-over-hand . It was… honestly? Almost tender. ”

Dean’s jaw locked.

Charlie didn’t notice.

“He brings him coffee, too,” she added. “Every morning. I saw him in the break room once. Just poured it into Novak’s cup without asking. Like it was a routine . Who does that with their attending? And Novak didn’t even flinch. Just nodded. Took the coffee. Said thanks.”

Dean stared at the floor.

Charlie cocked her head. “You’re awfully quiet for someone who lives for gossip. Spill — you know Jack Baby Wipes ?”

Dean’s voice was quiet. Controlled. “He’s on my rotation this month.”

She shrugged. “Then you already know. He’s got that kicked-puppy look. Makes you wanna be nice to him even when he’s asking something stupid like how to calibrate a doppler. I’m just saying — if Novak’s getting soft, it’s probably that kid’s fault.”

Dean forced a laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”

Charlie stood to toss her wrapper. “Anyway, if you get tired of being an OR haunting ghost, feel free to come back and take your crown. Some dude actually liked working with you.”

Dean smiled thinly. “Noted.”

But when Charlie left, Dean stayed right where he was — hands still, heart loud.

On-call was supposed to mean pre-op checklists, caffeine, and maybe catching Benny’s interns before they screwed something up too badly. Instead, Dean walked straight into hell.

A mother was raising her voice in the middle of pre-op, her daughter clutching her arm in a sling, and one of Benny’s ortho interns standing off to the side looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Dean walked in, chart under his arm, badge clipped crooked, already bracing himself.

“Hi,” he said, tone calm but firm enough to cut through the noise. “I’m Dr. Winchester — anesthesia. I’ll be in charge of making sure your daughter’s surgery goes smoothly.”

The mom turned on him like a hawk sighting prey. “Are you in charge of this ?” she snapped, jabbing a finger at the ortho intern hovering off to the side.

Dean glanced — the kid was pale, sweating, trying to fold his arms like it might hold him together.

“Because if so, you’d better tell him smiling at my daughter like that isn’t part of the damn treatment plan.”

Dean held back the wince. The trauma wasn’t even that bad.

Her daughter, Lara — sixteen, scooter spill, fractured ulna and some road rash, nothing major — sat small on the gurney, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I wasn’t— I was just being kind—” the intern stammered.

“Kind?” the mother shot back. “You asked how she was feeling three times in five minutes. You lingered over her shoulder like—like you were her boyfriend. She’s a minor . Do you get that?”

Dean held up a hand, steady. “Ma’am, let’s slow down. I’m here to get her ready for surgery, okay? Let me take a look.”

His pager buzzed at his hip — trauma consult, five minutes — but he ignored it. One fire at a time.

He set the chart aside, crouched beside the gurney, careful to keep his voice even. Stabilized Lara’s arm in silence, movements efficient, neutral. When the sling was in place, he stayed low so he wasn’t looming.

Dean stabilized the fracture in silence, kept his face neutral, voice calm. The girl looked scared but not hurt, not really.

“Hey,” Dean said gently, squatting next to her once the sling was in place. “You okay?”

She gave a small nod, not meeting his eyes.

“You want your mom to step out?”

This time, she hesitated. Then nodded again, more firmly.

Dean looked up at the mother. “Could you give us just a second?”

The woman bristled, like she might argue, but after a tense pause she exhaled and stepped into the hall. Her voice carried anyway, cutting through the curtain: “I’m not leaving her alone with that boy again, I don’t care what you say!”

Dean turned back to Lara. Big eyes, chipped blue nail polish, initials carved into her sneakers with ballpoint ink. She looked more like someone’s kid sister than someone’s patient.

“You’re not in trouble,” Dean said softly. “But if something didn’t feel right… you can say so.”

Her throat worked like she wanted to answer but couldn’t. He didn’t push. Just waited.

After a minute, she whispered, “I don’t know. It was just… weird.”

Dean nodded. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Outside, the intern — maybe twenty-one, fresh-faced and sweating — stood with his arms folded, trying to look composed.

Dean stared him down.

“Look,” he said flatly, “you don’t get to decide how safe someone feels around you. You’re in a position of power the second you walk into a patient’s room. Act like it.”

The intern blinked. “I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to—”

“I don’t care what you were trying to do,” Dean snapped. “You smile too long, you lean in too close, you don’t watch your tone — that’s not bedside manner, that’s blurred lines. You think you’re being kind. But attention can look a hell of a lot like affection. And that screws people up.”

The intern paled. Dean left him there.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he was back in the elevator.

Attention can look a hell of a lot like affection. And that screws people up.

It echoed in his skull like a heartbeat.

He was nineteen. He remembered what it felt like when someone older, someone you trusted, looked at you like you were more than a body. When “kindness” blurred into something else, and you told yourself you were imagining it because the alternative was worse.

He pressed his palm to his chest like he could tamp it down. But another thought pressed harder.

Jack.

Eager, wide-eyed Jack, shadowing Novak like a puppy. Hungry for approval. Too willing to take attention for care, too green to know where the lines blurred.

Dean exhaled, long and shaky. If Jack ever learned the same way Dean had at eightteen… he wasn’t sure he could stomach watching it.

But Dean wouldn’t let it happen.

Dean didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

Okay — maybe he did. He wasn’t proud of it.

He’d ducked into the OR lounge between cases, looking for caffeine and maybe a moment of silence. What he found was a group of interns huddled around the back table, whispering like they were passing state secrets.

He caught Jack’s name first.

“—saying Dr. Novak let him scrub in on a valve replacement,” one said, clearly trying to sound casual but practically vibrating. “That doesn’t happen unless you’re already in your second year of residency.”

“He got to tie off the damn graft,” another muttered. “Dr. Novak guided him. With his hands. ”

“Maybe it’s a mentor thing,” someone offered weakly.

“Or maybe he’s Novak’s favorite ,” the first one said, loaded with meaning.

Dean’s chest tensed.

Then came the one that did him in.

“I saw them leaving together once,” the second intern said, voice low. “Same elevator. Late night. Jack was smiling like a kid who just got asked to prom.”

Dean didn’t hear the rest. His ears buzzed too loudly.

He stepped out before they noticed him, tossed the untouched coffee in the trash, and headed straight toward the cardiothoracic hallway, steps quick, thoughts louder.

And that’s when he saw him. Castiel. Alone, tablet in hand, about to enter OR 5.

Dean didn’t think. “Hey,” he snapped.

Cas turned, brows knitting in faint surprise. “De– Dr. Winchester.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. He strode closer, voice low but sharp. “You always said professionalism mattered.”

Cas blinked, caught off guard. “It does.”

Dean’s throat worked. “Then maybe you should act like it.”

A pause. Cas tilted his head just slightly, that small furrow forming between his brows. “I don’t understand. What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Dean’s chest burned. His hands itched to grab words he couldn’t say aloud. Jack’s name. The way he lights up around you. How you let him scrub like he belongs in your OR. How the interns whisper about him like he’s already a second-year prodigy.

Instead, he replied firmly. “You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t,” Cas said, steady but confused now. “Dean… if this is about a case, then—”

“This isn’t about a case.” Dean cut him off, sharp. “It’s about lines. Boundaries. How they matter. How someone like you should know better.”

Cas’s grip on the clipboard tightened, knuckles paling. His voice stayed calm, but there was something wary in his eyes. “You’re being deliberately vague. If you want to have a conversation, at least make it honest.”

Dean’s pulse thudded. He doesn’t even see it. He doesn’t even know this conversation is happening. He wanted to scream: Do you have any idea how that looks? How he looks? Like he’s the only one in the world who matters in your OR? Like he’s glowing under your gaze? Like everyone else disappears?

But he couldn’t. He could only press the words he could say into Cas’s chest. “Maybe you should look at how things come across. Because it’s not just about what you think you’re doing. It’s about how it looks. How it feels to someone else.”

Another pause. Long, heavy.

Cas stared at him, expression unreadable. Finally, he said quietly, almost coldly: “Then perhaps you should look again before you decide what you see.”

And with that, he turned, pushing into the OR without another glance.

Dean stood frozen in the hallway, the echo of Cas’s words hammering at his ribs. His fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch a wall. Or sink against it.

Later that night, Grace Memorial Hospital hosted a benefit sponsored by Novak Pharmaceutical — the company most people assumed owned the hospital, though the administration always referred to them merely as a trusted partner.

The ballroom smelled like sterile flowers and expensive disappointment.

Dean tugged at the collar of his dress shirt, half-wishing he’d stayed home, half-wishing Castiel would walk through the double doors and pretend like none of the last six months ever happened.

Instead, he stood by the drink table, fingers curling around a watered-down whiskey, while the pharmaceutical reps glad-handed their way through a crowd of people too exhausted to enjoy the open bar.

Everyone looked shiny and bored. A sea of formalwear, fake laughter, and hollow flattery.

And then he saw them.

Cas. And Jack.

Together .

Castiel wore a navy suit, perfectly tailored, tie neat and severe against the pale of his shirt. Jack looked like he borrowed his outfit from someone older, sleeves too long and posture a little too hopeful.

They didn’t arrive arm-in-arm. That would’ve been too obvious. But they stayed close. Talked in hushed tones. Jack smiled like this was the most exciting night of his life.

Dean watched from a distance, heart clawing against his ribs.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

Charlie found him somewhere around the appetizer tray, already annoyed. “Novak,” she muttered, “was born without a personality, I swear. I made a dumb joke and he just stared at me like I asked him to crack open a thoracotomy in the lobby.”

Dean grunted.

“Also,” she added, leaning in, “he hasn’t stopped hovering around his intern. Like, dude. We get it. You have a favorite.”

Dean’s grip on his glass tightened. “Charlie.”

She held up her hands. “Alright, alright. Just saying.”

Hours blurred.

Castiel moved from group to group, charming in that too-precise way he reserved for hospital board members and pharma execs. Jack followed at a respectful distance — always close, always watching.

Dean stopped pretending not to look.

The low lights made everything feel surreal, like a dream stitched together by insecurity and whiskey. The string quartet in the corner played something elegant and soft. The food looked untouched. Every conversation around him felt fake.

At the end of the night, Dean slipped outside for air.

That’s when he saw them again.

In the parking lot. Castiel held the car door open for Jack, who said something that made him laugh — laugh — and then slid into the passenger seat like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Cas walked around, calm, composed, and got into the driver’s side.

And they drove off together.

No hesitation. No distance.

No room for doubt anymore.

Dean stood in the dark, barely breathing.

“Winchester?”

The voice pulled him back hard.

Dean blinked, turning. Gabriel stood a few feet behind him, jacket draped over one shoulder, expression unreadable.

“Dr. Gabriel.”

Gabriel studied him for a moment. “Didn’t peg you as the moonlit brooding type. That’s more of Castiel’s thing.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Gabriel stepped closer, tone casual. “Hell of a benefit, huh? Nothing like lukewarm hors d'oeuvres and dry speeches to remind you how soulless healthcare can be.”

Dean still didn’t speak.

Gabriel tilted his head. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Mm. You look like someone stole your puppy and then ran over it with an ambulance.”

Dean gave a weak laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Gabriel didn’t push. Just looked out at the parking lot. “Funny, isn’t it? How you can miss someone standing ten feet away. Like the distance is measured in something other than steps.”

Dean’s throat felt tight.

Gabriel turned to him again. “Know any burger joints that don’t taste like regret? I’m craving something actually edible.”

Dean blinked. “Uh. Yeah. Roadhouse is open late.”

“Perfect.” Gabriel tossed him the keys. “You’re driving. I’m technically tipsy and morally exhausted.”

Dean caught the keys without thinking.

“You sure about that?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Gabriel shrugged. “You get to escape this place for a bit. I get to pretend I’m making friends.”

Dean almost smiled. “Roadhouse it is.”

He didn’t look back at the empty parking space.

But he felt the absence like a bruise.

The Roadhouse wasn’t exactly upscale, but it was warm, and the grease soaked into Dean’s nerves like a balm.

They sat in the far booth under a flickering neon “OPEN” sign. The radio played something twangy and forgettable. Gabriel had already stolen one of Dean’s fries and was eyeing his milkshake like it owed him money.

“God, bless America,” Gabriel moaned around his first bite. “Actual cholesterol. My ancestors demand tribute.”

Dean snorted. “I assumed you came from the line of doctors, and I bet at least one of them is a cardiologist or a cardiac surgeon like you.”

“Exactly. They’d approve of the risk.”

For a few minutes, they just ate.

It was easy, weirdly — quieter than Dean expected. Gabriel could talk endlessly when he wanted to, but now he just worked through his burger with the efficiency of someone who needed the distraction.

“You ever miss being a resident?” Dean asked eventually.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You trying to insult me?”

“No, I mean… before all the politics. Back when it was just patients and caffeine and hoping your preceptor didn’t hate your face.”

Gabriel leaned back, sipping his Coke. “Yeah. Sometimes. There was a freedom to it. Less second-guessing. More... adrenaline. Less liability.”

Dean nodded, fingers tapping his cup. “You were good at it, though. Still are.”

A beat passed.

Gabriel tilted his head. “You’re fishing.”

Dean smirked, caught. “Maybe.”

“You want me to say you’re good too?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know what I want.”

Gabriel watched him a second longer, then said, “Then let me ask this — what do you think he wants?”

Dean stills.

“You think he’s moved on,” Gabriel said, voice quieter now. “Just because he looked slightly happier around the interns.”

Dean’s stomach twisted — not just from the words, but from the way Gabriel said them. Casual. Certain.

Dean looked up sharply, brow furrowed. “How the hell do you know about that?”

Gabriel gave him a look so dry it could’ve been used for kindling. “Seriously? You think I don’t notice the tension crackling through the air like we’re trapped in a bad medical soap?”

Dean’s face darkened. “There’s no tension.”

“Oh, please,” Gabriel said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You two walk into a room and the oxygen level drops. Half the nurses think you’re ex-lovers. The other half convinced you still are. ”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it, clenched his jaw instead.

Gabriel smirked. “Castiel’s not exactly subtle, you know. He turns into a corpse when he’s around most people. But around you?” He tilted his head. “He gets quiet in a different way. Like… waiting to be forgiven.”

Dean swallowed hard.

“And you,” Gabriel added, “look like someone trying not to bleed out every time he doesn’t look at you.”

Dean blinked fast. That one hit too close.

Gabriel leaned back with a sigh. “So yeah. I noticed. I'm not a complete idiot. Just annoying, but very charming.”

Dean looked down at his empty plate.

Gabriel popped another fry into his mouth. “For what it’s worth, Cas doesn’t replace people. He buries them. Leaves them behind like they’re radioactive. If you’re still on his radar… you’re not gone.”

Dean looked down.

Gabriel went on, more gently. “He’s got a wall of professional distance thick enough to deflect bullets. You were the only exception I ever saw.”

Dean snorted. “A wall of professionalism, huh?” His knuckles tightened on the paper cup, eyes distant.

“I don’t know, pal. Sounds like you did miss quite a lot of things if you say I’m the only exception you ever saw. Not when even the interns take notice of the nepotism taking place.”

Gabriel blinked. “Nepotism?”

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. Some kid walks in wide-eyed, gets a clear track, all the best attention. Scrubs in like he’s a third-year. Gets guided through every step, special treatment, coffee deliveries—” He exhaled sharply. “Gets handed stuff people work years to earn. All because he’s… connected”

Gabriel frowned, thinking. “Connected... to Cas?”

Dean’s mouth twisted. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

It landed a little off. Too clipped. Too bitter.

“Who?” Gabriel tilted his head.

“Some kid named Jack Kline,” Dean laid it out there, not sure why he even brought this up in front of Gabriel.

Gabriel squinted, puzzled. “You think Jack’s related to Cas?”

Dean hesitated just a beat too long. Then said flatly, “Yeah. That’s gotta be it.” He should really leave it at that. If only to keep Jack’s privacy.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. Something about the tone was wrong.

But Dean was already pushing his tray away and standing up. “Thanks for the burger.”

Gabriel let him go. Both Castiel and Dean seemed too stubborn to listen to any advice he’d offer at the time. It’s better to give it a bit more time.

Later that night
Gabriel’s apartment, 3:12 a.m.

Gabriel snapped upright in bed, heart thundering like he’d been paged in his sleep. For a moment he sat there, disoriented, the quiet pressing too heavy.

“Yeah. That’s gotta be it.”

Dean’s voice echoed in his head, low and tight, the way it had cracked earlier. Gabriel frowned, scrubbing at his face. Something about it had been off. Way off.

It wasn’t the usual cynicism Dean threw around like confetti. Not the clipped frustration he had with every other surgeon.

No, this had been different.

Jealousy.

Accusation.

The kind of edge that didn’t have a damn thing to do with professionalism. Or nepotism. Or chain of command.

Gabriel stilled. The realization crawled up his spine, slow at first—then crashed through him all at once, a wreck at full speed.

“Holy shit.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, staring at the empty stretch of wall in front of him like it might spell it out.

Dean Winchester thought Castiel was sleeping with Jack .

Chapter Text

Gabriel leaned against the wall outside OR 5, arms crossed, chewing absently on the end of a capped pen. Through the window, he could see Castiel still at the operating table, calmly instructing Jack on closure technique.

Jack’s hands trembled slightly as he held the needle driver. Castiel’s voice didn’t waver once.

“Not there. A little more lateral. Good. Try again.”

Gabriel watched. Frowned.

Jack was green, no doubt. But that wasn’t what stood out. What stood out was Castiel’s tone — patient, measured. He didn’t use that tone with anyone else. Hell, Gabriel had assisted on aneurysm clippings and barely gotten more than a grunt and a nod. And he’s the senior one out of the two of them.

Cas was… soft.

And Jack? Jack was hanging on every word like a damn golden retriever.

Gabriel tracked the nurses and the residents too. Charlie, especially, had been stiff the whole procedure. She barely looked at Cas, but when she did, her expression was tight. Unimpressed.

Yeah.

The vibe was weird.

He stepped away from the glass and waited until the team had cleared the OR. When Castiel finally stepped out, pulling off his cap, Gabriel fell into step beside him.

“Good work in there,” he said lightly. “Kid didn’t faint. That’s something.”

Castiel didn’t look over. “He’s improving.”

“Uh-huh.”

They walked a few paces. Then Gabriel nudged him gently with his elbow.

“Just a tip, Cas. Tone it down a little with Jack.”

That got his attention.

Castiel turned to him, brows drawn. “Excuse me?”

Gabriel shrugged. “You’re not doing anything wrong, per se. But the way it looks?” He tilted his head. “Not great.”

Castiel frowned. “He’s my intern.”

“Sure,” Gabriel agreed. “And you’re giving him good opportunities. I’m just saying, to other people, it reads… off .”

Castiel’s steps slowed. “Off how?”

Gabriel stopped, gave him a pointed look. “It looks like favoritism. Or worse, if someone’s already bitter and watching too closely.”

Castiel blinked. “Is someone?”

Gabriel didn’t answer. Just smiled faintly. “You’ve been in this field long enough to know perception matters, Cas. Even if it’s unfair.”

Castiel looked away.

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just saying — a little distance goes a long way.”

Then he walked off, leaving Cas standing in the corridor, tilting his head like he’d just heard thunder but couldn’t find the lightning.

Dean rolled his stiff shoulder as he stepped out of OR 4, the remnants of a brutal comminuted femur fracture still weighing on him. Benny had already clocked out, leaving him to finish up the last of the case notes and grab his gear.

He was just about to head to the lockers when a flash of movement across the hall made him stop.

Jack.

Of course it was Jack.

The kid was trotting down the corridor with two coffees in hand, still in scrubs, hair a little wild from being shoved under a cap too long.

And he was heading straight for him.

No. Not for Dean.

For Castiel.

Cas had just emerged from the hallways, scrolling through something on his tablet, sleeves pushed up. Jack stopped in front of him, holding one of the coffees up like a peace offering.

“Long night ahead,” Jack said with a smile as they walked past Dean in the lounge.

Dean stopped in his track.

Castiel looked up — tired, but softened. He took the coffee with a small nod. “Thank you, Jack.”

Dean watched it happen in slow motion. Cas’s hand resting briefly on Jack’s arm. A gentle squeeze.

It wasn’t much. Barely a second.

But it made Dean’s stomach twist.

He didn’t realize Gabriel was behind him until a voice cut the tension.

“You have a very prominent temporal and facial vein ,” Gabriel said casually. “I should call the interns and use you as a live anatomy model.”

Dean didn’t respond. Didn’t laugh.

He kept his eyes on them as he bent down, picked up his duffel bag from the floor — only to drop it again when Jack’s voice drifted back to him:

“Maybe we should reschedule tonight. You have two more surgeries, right? I’ll just head back first.”

The click in Dean’s brain was instantaneous.

Tonight.

Cas didn’t correct him. Didn’t say what they had planned. Just gave a small nod, tired and trusting.

Dean’s grip tightened on the bag handle. His jaw locked. Breath sharp.

That was it.

He crossed the floor towards the door in three long strides.

“Dr. Novak,” he said, voice low and clipped. “We need to talk. Now.”

Jack blinked, startled. Castiel turned toward him slowly, confused.

Dean didn’t wait for either of them to speak. He yanked the lounge door open and stood aside.

“ Now .”

Jack looked worried. “Is… everything okay?”

Castiel handed him the coffee back. “Go back first.”

Dean didn’t wait to make sure. The moment Cas stepped out of the lounge, Dean followed and closed the door behind them.

Dean led Castiel to a secluded area. A familiar spot only both of them know. Near the unused inventory room that no one ever goes to.

Castiel’s heart raced. Dean couldn’t be— But this is where they did it most of the time.

When they turned at the corridor shaped like letter L, Dean spinned on his heels and didn’t waste time.

“You need to be more professional in the hospital,” he snapped.

Castiel blinked. “What?”

Dean stepped forward, just short of invading space. “You’re being sloppy. Touchy. Giving him special treatment. Don’t think people haven’t noticed.”

Cas tilted his head, clearly thrown. Then Gabriel’s words surfaced once again. To other people, it reads… off. If someone’s already bitter and watching too closely.

“Are you… referring to Jack?”

“Of course I am,” Dean bit out. “Who else? I have to say Cas, I know your sexual appetite is the size of a black hole, but I didn’t know you couldn’t keep it in your pants! I never thought you’d stoop that low.”

Castiel’s brows drew in. “Dean—”

“You think just because you could buy me , it makes it okay?” Dean pushed. “You think that gives you a free pass to prey on some wide-eyed kid who doesn’t know any better?”

The words hit like stones. Castiel recoiled slightly. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s a fucking kid , Cas.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edges now, bitter heat leaking out. “You don’t get to have him on his knees sucking you off just because he needs money. That’s not mentoring. That’s prostitution! ”

Castiel looked like he’d been slapped. “ What?! Are you out of your—”

“No, you’re out of your damn mind!” Dean yelled, the anger rising, finally uncaged. “He’s nineteen! Nineteen , you disgusting pervert! And you’re all over him in the middle of the hospital like this is some goddamn romance movie!”

Castiel was frozen, staring at him like the world had tilted.

Dean didn’t stop.

“Do you even care how that’ll affect him?” Dean hissed. “He’s a kid. You want him branded as Dr. Novak’s little whore ? You wanna drag him down like you did with me?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Dean turned on his heel.

“I’m warning you, Cas,” he spat. “Don’t use him the way you used me.”

He stomped his way back towards the lounge.

But Castiel stepped forward, catching his wrist. “Dean. Stop. I don’t know how you got this idea, but it’s not like that. Jack—”

Dean yanked his arm free, eyes blazing. “I don’t wanna hear it. I don’t need your excuses.”

His voice was shaking now. His eyes stung.

He vanished without looking back.

Dean stormed down the corridor with his duffel slung over his shoulder, fury still buzzing under his skin. The confrontation replayed in fragments behind his eyes — Cas’s stunned face, the sound of his own voice cracking. He needed to get out. Needed air.

He rounded the corner into the main lobby — and of course, the universe had one more hit queued up.

“Dr. Winchester?”

Dean stopped.

Jack Kline stood near the taxi booth just before the main entrance, hands wrapped around a half-empty coffee cup. He looked up, blinking fast, and gave a tentative smile.

Dean didn’t return it.

Jack stepped forward a little. “Is everything alright with Dr. Novak?” he asked, head tilted in that same subtle way Cas did when confused. “He looked… I don’t know. Shaken?”

Dean’s jaw ticked.

Jack went on, still gentle. “He’s always kind of jumpy when you’re around. Like earlier, when he saw you in the lounge? He tensed up immediately. I thought for a second he might drop his coffee.” Jack gave a soft, nervous laugh. “It’s almost kind of… cute?”

That word landed like a slap.

Dean’s eyes snapped to him.

Cute.

Jack blinked, realizing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean— I mean, it’s probably none of my business—”

Dean gave a small, cold chuckle. “You’ve been watching him pretty closely.”

Jack paused. “Well… I guess I’ve just noticed a few things. Little things. I don’t think he realizes how obvious he can be sometimes.”

Dean squinted at him. “What are you saying?”

Jack hesitated — then just smiled, trying to sound casual. “Nothing. Just that… maybe you’re important to him. That’s all.”

Dean stared for a second too long. Then gave a tight, humorless smile.

“I get it.”

Jack blinked. “Get what?”

Dean took a slow breath. “You’re jealous.”

Jack’s face screwed up, confused. “Wait, no—what?”

“You don’t need to feel threatened,” Dean said, voice smooth and bitter. “Whatever you’ve got going with him? It’s fine. I’m not getting in the way.”

Jack looked genuinely startled. “Dr. Winchester, that’s not—”

Dean stepped in just slightly, lowering his voice. “Let me give you some advice, Jack. Be careful around Dr. Novak.”

Jack’s brows drew together. “Sorry?”

Dean shrugged like it didn’t matter. “He’s not as good of a person as you think he is.”

Jack opened his mouth, but Dean had already turned and walked out, leaving the boy blinking under the hospital lights, stunned and alone.

Dean let himself in the house, door closing with a low click behind him. He didn’t bother turning on more lights — the soft orange glow from the hallway was enough. He dropped his duffel by the door and stood there for a moment, just breathing.

He felt like he’d just walked out of a car crash.

Sam was still up, sitting on the old couch with a laptop open and a half-eaten sandwich on the table beside him. He looked up the second Dean stepped inside.

“You’re late.”

Dean rubbed at his face and moved toward the couch. “Yeah. Long shift.”

“You eat?”

“Not hungry.”

Sam didn’t say anything to that. Just shut his laptop and watched his brother lower himself onto the other end of the couch like gravity had finally won.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on knees. Didn’t speak.

Sam broke the silence. “Rough day?”

Dean gave a bitter laugh. “You could say that.”

Sam hesitated, then asked, “Was it Cas?”

Dean didn’t look up. “I said it was a long shift.”

“Dean—”

“Don’t.”

Another beat of silence. The fan hummed louder.

Sam tried again, quieter this time. “Look, I’m not trying to pry. I just…” He sighed. “I know you. And I know that whatever this is couldn’t possibly just be something in the OR.”

Dean was silent for too long.

Sam continued, “Did you talk to him?”

Dean gave a small, grim nod. “Yeah.”

“And?”

Dean rubbed his eyes. “And he’s… just proving me right, that’s all.”

“About what?”

Dean hesitated. Then: “Jack.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You still think something’s going on between them?”

“I don’t think , Sam. I saw it.”

“What did you see?”

Dean’s voice tightened. “The kid brings him coffee. Touches on the arm. Always with him. Cas lets him scrub in when other interns don’t even get close. And tonight—he said they had plans. Like, outside the hospital.”

Sam processed that. “Dean… that still doesn’t mean—”

“He’s nineteen, Sam.”

“It’s young, I get it. But, he’s legal.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is,” Sam said. “Because if what you’re accusing Cas of is what I think you’re accusing him of—”

Dean cut him off, sharp: “I’m not accusing him of anything. I’m just saying I know what it looks like. ”

“Do you?”

Dean looked up then, finally meeting his brother’s eyes.

Sam’s voice was even. “You sure this isn’t about something else?”

Dean stiffened. “Like what?”

Sam hesitated. Then: “Like maybe… you caught feelings.”

Dean blinked.

Sam quickly added, “I’m not judging. I just—if this is about you feeling hurt—”

“It’s not,” Dean said. Too fast. Too flat. “It’s not that.”

Sam studied him, frowning. “Because if it is …”

Dean stood up suddenly. “It’s not,” he said again, heading toward the hallway. “Don’t make it something it’s not.”

Sam stayed seated. Quietly: “Just make sure you’re not blowing something up because you’re scared it might’ve mattered to you.”

Dean didn’t answer. He disappeared down the hall.

The door to his room shut with a quiet click.

Sam sat alone, staring into the dark.

He didn’t believe the lie — not for a second.

Castiel’s head was going to explode.

He’d barely made it through the confrontation with Dean, barely scrubbed in without replaying every word— Jack’s just a kid , you think you can buy him like you bought me —and now he was standing in OR 5, elbow-deep in a thoracotomy, trying to pretend his entire personal life hadn’t just caught fire. He needed to clear the misunderstanding. Desperately . He needed to pull Dean aside, explain, do something —but instead, he was here, operating. Again. The patient couldn’t wait, and Castiel couldn’t justify walking away, no matter how loudly his mind screamed for damage control. His concentration was hanging by a thread.

And then Gabriel couldn’t wait another time to annoy the hell out of him.

It started with a snort.

Castiel didn’t hear it at first — he was focused, precise, mid-dissection around a thoracic mass. Surgical focus. Clean lines. Steady breath.

But then again — snrrkk — from the other side of the table.

Castiel didn’t look up. “ Gabriel .”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you here?”

His face was covered with a mask, but it’s evident that he’s grinning from ear to ear with from his voice alone. “Doing my part for the overworked. Consider it a mercy shift.”

“This is a closed OR.”

“And yet here I am,” Gabriel said, as if summoned by divine will rather than his own meddling.

Cas shot him a warning glance. Gabriel winked. Charlie, assisting across the table, visibly rolled her eyes behind her goggles.

By the time they were halfway through the first surgery, Gabriel was openly giggling at seemingly nothing. He remained clear from the sterile zone, but remained a distraction for the OR team. He fumbled an unsterile clamp. He swayed to the playlist. He whispered something about "penetrating incisions" and cackled at his own joke.

Charlie, who was trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism, muttered under her breath to Cas, “If I inject midazolam into his neck, will it count as medical homicide?”

Cas grunted. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Gabriel looked delighted to be the problem.

They managed to close up without killing anyone — though it was a near thing — and Castiel scrubbed out while Charlie prepped the second case.

Gabriel, of course, stayed.

“Seriously?” Castiel asked, walking back in to find Gabriel still present and still vibrating with barely contained amusement.

“Come on,” Gabriel said. “You can’t tell me this place isn’t better with me in it.”

Charlie shot him a glare. “I swear to God, if you knock another tray over—”

Castiel held up a gloved hand. “That’s enough. Gabriel, out .”

Gabriel put a hand to his chest, faux-offended. “Throwing me out? You wound me.”

“You’re a distraction,” Castiel said firmly. “And someone will stab you. Possibly me.”

Gabriel sighed, dramatically peeling off his gloves. “Fine. But on one condition.”

Castiel didn’t dignify it with a response.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Gabriel said, already backing toward the door, “on the helipad. Come find me when you’re done playing doctor.”

He slipped out before Castiel could tell him to shove it.

Charlie exhaled with audible relief. “Thank God .”

Later — Rooftop, Helipad

The city lights blurred beneath the building like melted gold. A wind cut through the rooftop, sharp and dry.

Castiel stepped out of the stairwell, coat half-buttoned, tie loose.

Gabriel was waiting near the railing, grinning like someone who’d won something.

Castiel didn’t even bother greeting him. “Whatever this is, get it out of your system,” Castiel muttered.

“Trying,” Gabriel wheezed, holding his sides. “But your face—God, the way he— Jesus, Cas—”

Castiel crossed his arms, sighing heavily.

“Alright,” he said. “What the hell is wrong with you? Spill it.”

Gabriel leaned against the railing, smirking. “Didn’t know you were screwing your nephew.”

Castiel’s blood froze.

“What?!”

Gabriel held up both hands, mock innocence. “Just saying what Michael’s golden boy is apparently convinced of.”

Castiel blinked. “You were listening?”

Gabriel’s grin widened. “Oh yeah. Everything. Your favorite anesthesia thinks you’ve got Jack playing intern by day, something else by night.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped. “You— you knew he misunderstood— that —and you said nothing?”

Gabriel didn’t even flinch. “Well, I could have corrected him. But then I would’ve missed that Oscar-worthy meltdown.”

Castiel stared at him, stunned.

Gabriel wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, breathless. “I mean— 'he’s a kid, Cas, you don’t get to have him on his knees’ —I nearly coded, I swear to God.”

Castiel’s face darkened. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Maybe not to you,” Gabriel said, “but from my perspective? Watching Dean spiral over our nephew because he thought you were letting him do… favors in exchange for coffee? That was cinematic.”

Castiel looked like he was about to explode.

Gabriel shrugged. “Hey. In my defense, you weren’t exactly subtle. Hovering. Smiling. Touching the kid’s shoulder like a nervous prom date. Dean saw what anyone would’ve seen.”

Castiel looked away, teeth gritting from anger.

Gabriel added more gently, “You know how he looks at you, right?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

Gabriel turned his gaze to the city. “Might be worth asking yourself why it hurt him that much.”

Chapter Text

Castiel hadn’t slept.

The hospital lights felt brighter than usual, the corridors louder, sharper, every voice and footstep grating along the inside of his skull. He’d spent the night mentally replaying every word Dean had thrown at him — pervert , kid , prostitute — and now, standing in the elevator at seven a.m., he felt like he was still bleeding somewhere invisible.

He needed to talk to Dean.

He needed to explain.

More than that, he needed Dean to listen.

By midmorning, he’d passed Dean twice in the hallway. Both times, Dean looked through him. Not at him — through him. Like he wasn’t even there.

During rounds, Castiel caught sight of Dean with other anesthesiology residents during the ICU round with Michael, chart in hand. He waited for the group to break up so he could approach, lingered a few steps behind. But before he could say a word, Dean glanced over his shoulder, spotted him, and walked the other way.

He didn’t even fake a nod.

The rejection hit hard. It was surgical in its precision, quiet, sharp, and deep.

Castiel stayed rooted in place for a few seconds longer than he should have, heart caught somewhere in his throat.

“Awkward~” Gabriel singsonged from behind him, popping the last bite of a protein bar into his mouth. “You two break up again or just pick up where you left off?”

Castiel turned to him slowly. “Do you have to be here right now?”

Gabriel blinked, mock-innocent. “I work here. Remember? Fancy little badge and everything.” He wiggled it at Cas’s chest. “Also, watching you chase your maybe-boyfriend through the hospital like a sad, emotionally repressed ghost is my new favorite pastime.”

Castiel exhaled through his nose and walked off. Gabriel followed.

“Did you try texting him?” Gabriel asked.

“I did.”

“And?”

“He didn’t even read it.”

“Ouch.” Gabriel winced. “That’s worse than getting ghosted. That’s active contempt.”

“I’m aware,” Castiel muttered, picking up his pace.

Later, outside OR 2, Castiel waited until the surgery inside had concluded. He didn’t go in — he didn’t need to — he just leaned against the wall, watching through the small rectangular window. Dean was speaking with Charlie, pointing at something on a chart. He looked exhausted, but focused.

When he came out, Cas straightened up, ready to intercept.

But Dean didn’t even slow.

“Dean—” Castiel tried, voice low.

Dean brushed past him like he’d spoken to air.

Castiel stared after him.

Gabriel’s voice floated from around the corner:

“You really should start wearing waterproof mascara. Just a suggestion.”

In the staff lounge, Castiel tried once more. Dean was at the sink, rinsing a cup. Cas stepped inside cautiously, shutting the door behind him.

Dean turned.

Saw him.

And left.

No word. No glance. Just silence, heavy and deliberate.

Castiel pressed a hand to his temple, trying to stay composed.

Gabriel was perched outside the lounge, pretending to read a vending machine label. He didn’t even look up when he said, “You know, for someone who’s emotionally constipated, he’s shockingly good at dramatic exits.”

“I swear to God,” Castiel muttered, heading for his office, “if you say one more thing—”

“Fine,” Gabriel said. “I’ll be quiet.”

A pause.

Then: “But just so you know? He’s definitely still in love with you. This level of petty takes feeling .”

Castiel didn’t respond.

But his steps faltered.

And Gabriel smiled.

Castiel opened the door to his penthouse and was hit in the face with a wall of bass, the kind that rattled the floorboards and pressed against his temples. He paused on the threshold, jaw tightening. Of course Jack had the volume this high.

Castiel loosened his tie as he stepped through the door, unbuttoned his collar. His jacket landed neatly on the coat rack — muscle memory more than intention.

Jack’s sneakers were already by the couch, abandoned beside a half-open anatomy textbook and a mug of something sweet and probably too caffeinated. Papers spilled across the cushions, and Cas bent automatically to gather them, sliding the pen back into the book before carrying the mug toward the kitchen. At least one of them still had the energy for schoolwork.

The music only got louder as he crossed the room. Some synth-pop beat with far too much autotune, blasting unapologetically through the penthouse’s built-in surround speakers, the kind designed for orchestras or symphonies.

“My little soda pop
You’re all I can think of
Every drop I drink up
You’re my soda pop
My little soda pop—”

Castiel slowed, frowning faintly at the words. He tilted his head, as if a different angle might make them make more sense. The earnestness of the voice was almost devotional, and yet… It was about soda. He couldn’t decide if it was meant to be romantic, aspirational, or if the singer was simply very enthusiastic about carbonated beverages. His brows furrowed deeper the longer he listened, a crease forming at the bridge of his nose. Either way, the system’s state-of-the-art speakers deserved better.

He found Jack in the kitchen, half-dancing as he loaded leftovers into the microwave, humming along without a care in the world. Jack didn’t notice Castiel until the microwave beeped.

“Oh!” Jack jumped slightly. “You’re home.”

“Yes,” Castiel said mildly. Then, with a small frown: “Would you turn that down?”

Jack blinked, then darted for his phone and thumbed the volume down until the bassline dulled into the background. “Sorry. Got carried away.”

“I gathered.” Cas opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water. “You’re up late.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t feel like studying in the call room.”

“Everything alright?”

Jack hesitated. “Yeah. Yeah, just… long day.”

Something about his tone made Castiel glance over. Jack was fidgeting, not in the usual restless way, but like he was holding something in.

He stirred his bowl of reheated pasta, cleared his throat, then blurted:

“Did you break up with Dr. Winchester because of me?”

Castiel froze mid-sip.

Jack looked at him, completely serious. “Because if you did, I swear I didn’t mean to get in the way. I just — I wanted to be helpful. I didn’t know there was a thing between you two. But if there was, I wasn’t trying to, like… third-wheel your vibe.”

Castiel blinked. Twice.  “What?” he said flatly.

Jack winced. “I mean, you don’t have to explain. I just figured, like… maybe he got jealous or something. I mean, he was glaring at me a lot.”

Castiel stared at him like he’d just confessed to murder.

Jack kept going, undeterred. “And then he kind of warned me about you in this vague and kind of intense way, and I thought, oh no, he probably thinks I’m trying to seduce his… uh—” He paused. “His mentor?” he offered weakly.

Castiel placed his water on the counter very, very slowly. “You think I broke up with Dean… because of you?”

Jack nodded once. Then immediately frowned. “Wait, you were dating, right? Or trying to? Or… hooking up? I mean, I figured it wasn’t professional, but, like, it’s kind of impressive how much sexual tension two people can pack into a three-second hallway stare—”

“Jack,” Castiel interrupted. His voice was tired. Threadbare. “Please stop talking.”

Jack did, mercifully.

There was a long beat of silence.

Then Jack asked, because of course he did. “So… does this mean you didn’t break up?”

Castiel stared out the kitchen window, the city twinkling below like it didn’t know his entire life had just imploded.

He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what it means.”

Jack leaned on the counter and offered a single, devastatingly earnest observation. “You’re really bad at relationships.”

Castiel looked at him, deadpan. “You’re not helping.”

Jack grinned, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “I’m also your nephew, so if I catch you making heart eyes at anyone again, I’m legally obligated to intervene.”

Castiel muttered something under his breath.

Jack didn’t catch it, but he smiled anyway — chewing and content.

Jack twirled his fork idly, studying Castiel like he was a puzzle to solve. “You know,” he said around a mouthful of pasta, “you could just… talk to him.”

“I tried,” Castiel replied, tone clipped. He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle again, more for something to do with his hands than actual thirst. “Dean doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Jack squinted. “Okay, yeah, but maybe he just didn’t wanna talk to you in the hospital. That’s, like, the worst possible vibe for a soft launch.”

“A what?” Castiel asked, wary.

“Soft launch,” Jack said patiently. “You know. When you’re kinda dating someone but it’s not official, so you only hint at it.”

Castiel blinked. “…That’s a term for relationships? I thought you were describing weapons testing.”

Jack choked on his pasta, grinning. “No, dude. Not missiles. Instagram. The Internet says it’s a step.” Jack perked up suddenly, eyes lighting with mischief.

“Anyway—what if you just, like, trap him somewhere he couldn’t dodge you?”

Castiel’s head swiveled slowly. “…Trap him?”

“Yeah! Like—pull up to his house, wait until he gets home, and ambush him at the door. He literally can’t ghost you if you’re standing right there.”

Castiel closed his eyes. Took a long breath. “Jack. That is definitely disrespectful to Dean’s choice and completely an invasion of his privacy.”

Jack deflated, though his grin didn’t quite disappear. “Okay, yeah, when you say it like that it sounds… um. Predator-adjacent .”

“It is predator-adjacent.”

The next evening, Castiel was a predator-adjacent hypocrite.

It had taken forty-five minutes for Dean to clock out and head home. Forty-five minutes of Castiel pretending to be interested in patient charts in the ICU corridor, pacing beside vending machines, ignoring the looks from the night shift nurses. Jack had long since gone back to the penthouse, and Gabriel had stopped trying to distract him after one failed attempt at handing over a bottle of Gatorade “in the name of divine hydration.”

It had taken Castiel nearly an hour to trail Dean across the city, driving without lights for a stretch like some inept stalker. Every turn of the wheel made him despise himself a little more. He hated that this was what he’d been reduced to. But he hated the silence more — the way Dean refused to even look at him at work, let alone speak. He’d tried everything. Brief “ Hello, Dean ”s in the hallway. Awkward small talk in the lounge. Nothing landed. Nothing cracked through.

He, Castiel Novak, the man who had solemnly explained to Jack that respecting boundaries was sacred… was now parked across the street from Dean Winchester’s humble house, staring at a sun-bleached mailbox and a crooked fence, and wondering if this counted as “ambushing at the door” or if he’d at least technically leveled up to “lurking adjacent.”

When the Impala finally pulled into the driveway, Castiel sat up straight. His heart pounded like he was about to jump into oncoming traffic.

Dean got out, shoulders hunched. His duffel bag was slung over one shoulder as he headed toward the porch.

Castiel slammed his own car door a little too loud as he hurried across the street. “Hello. Dean.”

Dean whipped around. “What the hell—?” His eyes narrowed as Castiel jogged up the walk. “Are you serious right now?”

“You won’t talk to me at the hospital,” Castiel said, breathless.

“So your solution was stalking me to my goddamn house?”

Castiel swallowed. “It’s important.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Dean snapped.

Castiel slowed on the front walk. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… intrude. I just—” He exhaled. “You need to know the truth.”

Dean was halfway to unlocking the front door. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Castiel’s voice cracked. “Jack is my nephew.”

Dean froze.

“I’m not—” Castiel’s hands clenched at his sides. “I’m not involved with him, Dean. Not like that. I never was. I never— as you said, get him on his knees sucking me off just because he needs money . Dean, he’s my nephew . You have to believe me.”

Dean turned around slowly, jaw tight, face unreadable in the low porch light.

“Your… nephew,” he repeated, flatly.

“Yes,” Castiel said, stepping closer, the words tumbling now, raw and urgent. “Jack’s under my and my brother’s guardianship. I helped raise him.”

Dean let out a short, brittle laugh. “That’s… convenient.” But the heat behind it was already fading. His hand flexed tight around the keys, the metal biting into his palm.

Castiel’s chest heaved. “Then don’t believe the words. Believe me. You know me, Dean. You know who I am. I would never hurt him. He is family. He’s my child in every way that matters. Dean, please—please believe me. I would never exploit him. Not for anything. Not for you.”

The silence stretched, heavy. Dean’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. The fight in him wavered. He looked away, toward the dark street, because meeting Castiel’s eyes suddenly felt like standing in front of a mirror he couldn’t face.

The door behind Dean creaked open. “Castiel?”

Sam stood barefoot in the doorway, hair mussed, T-shirt rumpled from sleep. The second he saw Cas, his expression hardened.

Sam’s eyes were sharp as glass. “You here to cash out your investment? Because if that’s what this is, I’ll save you the trouble—I’ll box up whatever you think you’re owed and have it delivered to your door.”

Castiel flinched. “No, that’s not—”

“Then why the hell are you here?” Sam snapped, bristling. 

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but Sam stepped out onto the porch, slipping past Dean to block the path.

“Stop bothering my brother,” he said firmly. “You should leave.”

Castiel hesitated. “Sam, I only—”

“You don’t get it. Dean doesn’t want you here. And I’m not letting you stand on this porch and keep twisting the knife.You’re not welcome here,” Sam cut in. “Seriously. Get lost.”

Castiel’s gaze darted past him, desperate. Dean was still standing there, the keys loose in his hand, his face unreadable in the porch light. No protest. No correction. Not even a glance in Castiel’s direction.

The silence hit harder than Sam’s words. Like Dean had already answered — and the answer was to let Sam speak for him.

Sam shifted, softer now, turning back toward his brother. “Come on.”

Dean followed him in without a word. The screen door slammed shut behind them, the lock clicking.

Castiel stayed frozen on the walk, heart pounding, guilt and desperation clawing up his throat. Sam’s accusation echoed in his ears. Dean’s silence echoed louder.

Chapter Text

Castiel saw Dean four times the next day. Once in front of the pharmacy depo, once in the Recovery Room, once in the elevator, and once in front of Michael’s office. Each time, Dean looked distracted — eyes darting, posture stiff, deliberately avoiding eye contact. It wasn’t the same as pretending Castiel didn’t exist; this was different. This time, Dean acted like Castiel was right there and that being in the same room with him was unbearable.

But Dean didn’t run away. Didn’t bolt the moment he caught a glimpse of Castiel. But it made Castiel feel shitty all the same. So Castiel gave him space. Gave him a room to breathe.

The next day, the hospital was too quiet.

Not literally. The pagers still screamed, the intercom still crackled, and someone was always sprinting for gauze or coffee. But for Castiel, the world had lost one specific sound: Dean’s presence. It had a shape, a frequency. Something between footfalls and laughter and sharp-eyed silence.

And now, it’s gone. Dean was gone.

He hadn’t seen Dean in the hallway. Or in the lounge. And most unsettling of all, he hadn’t seen him in Benny’s OR.

That’s what made Castiel stop pretending to be busy and start asking questions.

He stepped into the anesthesiology bay, hoping to find Charlie or someone who knew why Dean was suddenly… absent. Instead, he found a tall, awkward-looking new resident hunched over a chart, trying too hard to look like he belonged.

“Excuse me,” Castiel said, voice even. “Where’s Dr. Winchester?”

The new resident blinked, startled. “Uh… I think he rotated off this week?” He checked his clipboard like the answer might be printed there. “I’m his replacement. Dr. Tyler.”

Castiel’s heart dropped somewhere near his shoes.

“Rotated,” he echoed. “Didn’t anesthesiology rotate for 8 weeks?”

“Yes. I mean, Dr. Lafitte said it was last-minute, but official.” Tyler shrugged nervously. “Sorry. I thought everyone knew.”

Castiel didn’t respond. He just turned and walked away.

“You look like someone unplugged your emotional ventilator,” Gabriel’s voice called from behind him before he even cleared the hallway.

Castiel turned, slowly. “Where is he?”

Gabriel raised both brows. “Wow. You didn’t know?”

“Gabriel.”

“He rotated,” Gabriel said simply. “Didn’t you notice he was gone all morning? Benny’s probably crying into his power drill, when he noticed his beautiful anesthesia was swapped with a new one.”

Castiel swallowed. “He didn’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t see why he needs to. Probably should ask Mikey. He is his attending, right?”

Castiel didn’t realize his feet had carried him halfway to the main OR until the smell of antiseptic snapped him out of his haze.

He paused just outside the operating suite, peering through the glass panel in the door.

Benny was scrubbed in, focused, hands deep in what looked like a partial femur replacement. Charlie stood beside him, adjusting suction settings and quietly relaying vitals. Castiel’s brows drew together.

Charlie? Why is she in Ortho OR and not Cardiothoracic?

He waited until the incision was nearly closed before he slipped into the anteroom, stripping off his coat and slipping on a sterile cap. He stepped inside only to be met with Benny’s voice, firm but polite.

“Not now, Novak. We’re almost done.”

Castiel paused, then backed away, stripping off the cap again.

He couldn’t ask Benny. Not mid-op.

Which left him one option. Michael. 

He made his way to the cardiac floor.

Michael was outside a patient room, scribbling into a chart, posture loose in that perfectly postured way of his — like nothing ever touched him deep enough to shift his spine.

“Michael,” Castiel said, stopping just short of him.

Michael glanced up — and raised a brow. “Surprised to see you here, Castiel.”

“I was looking for–”

Then his pager buzzed.

CITO: GSW chest. R lung injury, ?IVC dissection. Hypotensive, unstable. OR 5.

Well, shit.

“I gotta go. There’s a gun-shot wound that probably tears IVC in OR 5,” Castiel yelled as he jogged towards the OR.

The operating room was already in chaos when Castiel shoved through the scrub doors, hands still dripping from the sink. Raphael was bent over the gaping thoracotomy, gloved elbows slick with blood as he fought to control the torrent spilling from the shredded right lung. The suction whined and sputtered uselessly under Brad’s hands, clogging faster than he could clear it.

“Through-and-through,” Raphael barked without looking up. “Right lower lobe’s a sieve. Blood everywhere.”

The monitors screamed in counterpoint. Charlie’s voice cracked over the alarms, urgent and desperate: “Pressure’s tanking—seventy over palp, tachy one-forty! I’m pushing blood now!”

Michelle was already at his side, hanging O-negative, hands steady even as her eyes tracked the rising flood on the drapes. Another chest tray clattered open under her practiced movements.

Castiel pulled his gloves tight with a snap, stepping into the sterile field like a commander onto a battlefield. “Talk to me,” he demanded, eyes sweeping the field. “Where’s the bleed?”

“The IVC’s probably torn,” Raphael said, jaw tight as he tried to clamp the lung hilum. “I can’t get control—field’s drowning.”

Charlie shouted from the head of the table, voice rising over the monitors: “Pressure’s in the sixties! I’m losing waveform! Oxygen sats at forty!”

“Brad!” Castiel’s tone cut through the room like a scalpel. “Retract. Get me exposure, now. Raphael, keep that hilum under control—cross-clamp if you can.”

Brad leaned hard on the retractors, suction roaring back to life in his other hand. “Clear!” he called, voice strained.

Raphael grunted, sweat dripping under his cap. “Partial control. Not clean.”

“He’s peri-arrest!” Charlie cried, hands flying as he pushed air and blood and hope into a body that was bleeding faster than any of it could matter.

Castiel’s voice was steady, commanding, unshakable. “Michelle, bypass on standby. Charlie, tube him deeper, max FiO₂, keep pouring blood. We’re not losing him.”

Michelle was already on the phone, perfusion on call. Raphael’s hands pressed deeper into the wound, fighting a tide that refused to yield. “If we don’t stop the caval bleed now,” he said grimly, “there won’t be a patient left for bypass.”

“Then we stop it,” Castiel snapped. His eyes were flint, his hand already outstretched. “Brad, Satinsky. Suction up—I want that IVC.”

The room pivoted on his words, chaos narrowing into desperate focus as every hand and every breath turned toward the single impossible task of holding life inside the body laid open before them.

And after a 40 minute bloodbath, the roar of suction had quieted to a steady hiss. The bleeding from the IVC was finally under control, the massive clamp in place like a dam against a broken river. Perfusion had stood down, though the pump still waited just outside the door.

Castiel exhaled through his mask, the sound sharp in the silence that followed. Sweat beaded under his cap, but his hands were steady as he shifted his focus to the shredded lung. “Alright,” he said, voice firm but calmer now, “let’s move on. Brad, hold that retractor—give me a clear line of sight to the lower lobe.”

Brad adjusted, shoulders tight with effort. Raphael leaned back half a step, watching Castiel’s movements. “Field’s drying out,” he said. “We can work.”

Michelle passed instruments as if she’d been reading Castiel’s mind, each one arriving just as he asked.

“Laceration tracks across the lower lobe,” Castiel murmured, dissecting carefully, sutures ready. “Through-and-through. We’ll need a wedge resection.”

“Sat’s climbing,” Charlie reported from the head of the table. Relief softened his voice for the first time since they’d started. “Pressure’s stable at ninety systolic. He’s holding.”

“Good,” Castiel replied, tying off another bleeder. “Let’s keep him that way.” He paused only a beat before asking, “Do we know what happened to him? Anyone get a history before they dragged him in here?”

“EMS said gunshot at close range,” Michelle answered, keeping her eyes on the tray as she counted sponges aloud for herself. “Bar fight downtown. Witnesses scattered, no ID on the shooter.”

“Close range explains the tissue destruction,” Raphael muttered, suctioning gently near Castiel’s hand. “Bullet had no time to lose velocity.”

Castiel nodded, eyes never leaving the lung. “Trauma like this isn’t random. Someone wanted him gone.” His tone was clinical, but the weight of it settled in the room.

“Or he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Brad offered, voice tight as he retracted.

“Wrong place can still get you killed,” Castiel said. He placed another stitch, his hands decisive. “Clamp here. Tie that off. Good. Now, staple line across the damaged segment.”

The gunmetal jaws of the stapler closed with finality, biting through ruined tissue. Castiel leaned back just slightly, scanning the field. The oozing had slowed to a trickle. For the first time, the wound looked survivable.

“Resection complete,” he said, his voice lower now, measured. He glanced toward Charlie. “How’s he holding?”

“Better,” Charlie said. “Sat’s ninety-two. Pressure steady. Heart’s still running hot, but he’s perfusing.”

Castiel’s eyes softened, just for a heartbeat, as he looked back down at the chest. “Then he’s got a chance. Let’s close him up clean.”

The room had quieted to something close to normal. The bleeding was stanched, the lung resection stapled, the monitors finally finding rhythm instead of chaos. Michelle counted sponges under her breath; Brad kept the field open as Raphael tied off the last stitch.

Castiel stood back, gloves streaked but steady, gaze drawn—despite himself—toward the head of the table. Charlie was adjusting the ventilator settings, shoulders tight from the hours of strain, her voice low as she reassured herself with the stable rise and fall of the patient’s chest.

He lingered longer than he should have. When he finally spoke, his tone was stripped of warmth, the praise sounding almost like a reprimand. “You recognized the crash early,” he said, his voice cool but measured. “That kept him alive.”

Charlie blinked at him, caught off guard. From Castiel, that was no small thing. She hesitated, then gave a quick, almost defensive nod. “I wasn’t about to let him bleed out on my watch,” she muttered, then busied herself with the monitor again.

Castiel almost spoke then—Dean’s name pressed at the back of his throat, heavier than any clamp or scalpel he’d wielded tonight. He wanted to ask, wanted to know, but the words jammed like a faulty instrument. Instead, he let the silence stretch, the beeping monitors filling the space where his question should have been.

Raphael’s voice broke the spell, crisp and practical. “Closure’s good. Field’s clean.”

Castiel blinked once, then forced his gaze back to the wound. “Right. Let’s close.” His tone carried its usual authority again, but a part of him lingered at the head of the table, with the words he hadn’t spoken and the anesthesiologist who, for one suspended moment, had almost heard them.

By the time the patient was wheeled into recovery, the chaos had thinned into routine: lines checked, drips hung, the ventilator sighing with every breath. The harsh urgency of the OR gave way to the muted hum of machines, the kind of quiet that only followed survival.

Castiel stood at the bedside, still as stone, watching the patient’s chest rise and fall. He didn’t speak until Charlie came in behind him, flipping open the chart with weary fingers, her eyes already scanning vitals she knew by heart.

“Dr. Novak?” she asked carefully, half-expecting him to issue another clipped order.

Instead, his voice came low, almost reluctant. “Winchester…” He paused, eyes fixed on the monitor as if the question could be directed there instead. “…do you know where he is?”

Charlie’s head snapped up. For a heartbeat she just stared, as if unsure she’d heard him right. Then suspicion flickered across her face. “Why? Is he in trouble?” She shifted the chart against her chest, voice quickening. “If he did something—if he said something—he didn’t mean it, alright? He’s been running on fumes. Don’t hold it against him.”

“No.” Castiel cut her off, more quickly than he intended, the word sharp with urgency. He shook his head once, a rare crack in his usual composure. “No, it’s not like that. I just… didn’t see him this morning.”

Charlie searched his face, trying to read what lay behind the words. Whatever she saw, she kept to herself. After a moment, she said quietly, “He’s on a forty-eight-hour shift in the ICU. His cases aren’t stable—half of them are circling the drain.” She hesitated, then added, softer still, “If you need him for something… wait until he’s off. Otherwise you’ll get a ghost, not Dean.”

The silence stretched. Castiel inclined his head, the barest nod, but his gaze lingered on the floor as though the answer weighed more than he’d expected. The steady beep of the monitor filled the space where his reply should have been.

Castiel did not know what possessed him, only that his feet had carried him here against every reasonable thought. He should have been in bed. He should have been asleep, recovering from a day that had already taken more from him than he had to give. The gunshot wound case, the two other marathons in the operating room, the weight of lives balanced on his hands. And yet it was eight forty-five in the evening and he was standing on Dean Winchester’s porch, knocking on a door he knew Dean would not answer.

The porch light flickered once before the door opened. Sam filled the frame, tall and tired, one hand braced against the wood. He did not look surprised, only wary.

“Castiel.” His tone was flat. “You seriously stalking both of us now?”

“I am sorry,” Castiel said, breathless, his voice rougher than he intended. “I know this is inappropriate. But I… I needed to talk to you.”

Sam did not move. The door stayed half open. “Dean’s not here.”

“I know.” Castiel’s voice dropped, quieter. “That is why I came.”

Sam raised a brow. “So you waited until he was stuck on a forty-eight-hour shift to show up on my porch? What do you want?”

“I am not here to justify myself,” Castiel said quickly, a little too quickly. “I only need to explain.”

Sam folded his arms, his shoulders blocking the doorway. “Explain what? Why you messed with his head? Why you slept with him under a contract and made him believe it meant something?”

The words landed like a blow. Castiel flinched. “It did mean something. It still does.”

Sam’s expression did not soften. “I don’t buy it. And even if I did, that doesn’t mean you get to stand here like some brokenhearted ex and ask for sympathy.”

Castiel let the silence fall between them. The porch light carved shadows under his eyes, making him look hollow, worn. He had not slept in days. “I am not asking for sympathy,” he said at last. “Just a few minutes. Please.”

Sam studied him with the practiced patience of someone who had spent a lifetime managing the damage left in his brother’s wake. Castiel’s posture was rigid, but everything else about him—his eyes, his voice, the way his hands hung at his sides—was raw. Miserable. Not calculated. Just lost.

Sam let out a long breath through his nose. “This better not be some manipulative bullshit.”

“It is not.”

“You’re not here to try and win him back?”

“No,” Castiel said, softer this time. “I am here because I love him. And I think… I think I broke him.”

That silenced Sam. After a long moment, he stepped back from the door. “Fine. Come in.”

Castiel entered cautiously. The door closed behind him with a low creak. The air inside smelled of wood polish, laundry detergent, and the faint trace of whatever takeout Sam had last eaten. Underneath it all, buried but unmistakable, was Dean.

They ended up in the kitchen without ceremony. Sam set a mug of tea in front of him—more civility than kindness—and took the chair across the table. His voice was clipped. “Talk.”

Castiel’s eyes fell to the steam rising from the mug. He spoke as if the words were fragile. “I love your brother.”

Sam did not answer, but his knuckles tightened where they rested on the table.

“I never planned for it,” Castiel continued. “It began in a way that neither of us are proud of. But it changed. I changed. He did too. It became something real.”

“You had a contract,” Sam said, blunt as stone. “You paid him.”

“Yes.” Castiel did not try to deny it. “But it was not about that. Not for long. You must know that. You have lived with him. You have seen him.”

Sam remained silent.

“I tried to tell him the truth,” Castiel went on, voice quieter now. “About Jack. About everything. But by then he had already made up his mind about me. And I thought perhaps that was because you did not want us together. Because you told him not to trust me.”

Sam’s eyes snapped up. “I never told Dean what to feel.”

“You did not need to,” Castiel said gently. “He listens to you. He always has. We ended the arrangement the day you confronted me, because you wanted it stopped. And I understand why. I know Dean understands too. You are the most important thing in his life. Whatever decision he makes, it always circles around you, Sam.”

Silence stretched between them. Sam’s expression shifted as though he were weighing something he did not want to admit aloud.

“I did not come here to beg for another chance,” Castiel said. “I came because I needed you to know that despite how it began, the moment I saw him again at the hospital, I had no intention of using him. I would never use him. And if I never get the chance to tell him how I feel again… then at least someone will know.”

Sam stared at him. For a second, Castiel thought he saw a flicker of something in the younger Winchester’s eyes, something dangerously close to concern, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“What perfume do you wear?”

The question landed so abruptly that Castiel blinked at him, caught off guard. He did not answer at first, trying to gauge what relevance it had.

“It’s nice,” Sam went on, tone flat but edged with something sharper. “It’s subtle, not in your face. Just… smells clean. Expensive. Like rich people scent. Had to be some custom cologne, right?”

Castiel frowned, uncertain, but inclined his head slightly. “It is. Tom F—”

Sam cut him off. “Took me a while after you two called it off to realize it wasn’t Dean’s new perfume. It clung to him for months. On his shirts. His scrubs. His jacket. Hell, sometimes on his pillowcase.” His mouth twisted, and his voice dropped lower, heavy with distaste. “It was all you.”

Castiel closed his mouth into a tight line. He swallowed, the taste of regret bitter on his tongue.

“You’ve hurt him more than you realize,” Sam said at last.

“I know.”

“But…” Sam’s voice softened a fraction, “I also think he’s hurting more because he loves you than because he hates you.”

Castiel’s head lifted sharply, startled.

“Hell, I know for a fact he doesn’t hate you,” Sam said, his jaw tightening. “But I do. I hate you the same way I’ve hated anyone who ever laid a hand on my brother.”

The words were a blade. Castiel absorbed them without flinching.

Sam rose, taking his empty mug to the sink. His voice was flat again, but less cutting. “Don’t take that as a green light. Just… figure your shit out. Before he breaks for good.”

Castiel stood after him, pausing near the doorway. He nodded once, silently, and made his way toward the front door. He was nearly outside when Sam’s voice stopped him.

“If you come back here just to hurt him again,” Sam said, calm but iron-hard, “don’t.”

Castiel turned slightly.

“Because I won’t let you,” Sam continued, his gaze steady as steel. “And I won’t care how much you love him.”

Castiel held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded again. Slower this time. And stepped out into the night.

The door shut behind him, and the cool air wrapped around his face. He walked back into the dark, and for the first time in weeks, allowed himself the smallest spark of hope.

Chapter Text

The ICU was quiet, but the kind of quiet that buzzed — tense, overcaffeinated, too bright. Dean stood at the central desk, flipping through patient charts and trying to ignore the throb behind his eyes. It was nearing 3 a.m., and the fluorescent lights had started burning holes into the back of his skull.

He didn’t look up until someone nudged a clipboard into his line of vision.

“Night delivery from ortho,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Signed, sealed, sedated.”

Dean blinked at her, eyes sluggish. “You doing transfers now?”

“Only for special cases,” she said with a grin, brushing a curl behind one ear. Her scrubs were wrinkled, and she looked about two seconds from collapsing, but her eyes were alert — watchful. “Patient’s post-op from Benny’s table. Doing fine. Technically doesn’t need ICU, but... figured I’d bring her up myself.”

Dean gave her a look. “You didn’t have to.”

Charlie shrugged. “Didn’t want the nurses to drop her in a hallway and forget her again.” She leaned in a little. “Also maybe I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that. But lately you’ve looked like someone fed your soul into a suction canister.”

Dean gave her a dry look and went back to charting.

Charlie didn’t budge. “You know, Novak’s been asking around about you.”

Dean froze for a second — barely — then kept writing.

“Like, weirdly often,” she continued. “He asked Tyler who’d taken over Benny’s OR, and I caught wind he’d asked a few attendings if they knew where you rotate to. Hovered outside the nurse station like he was lost. Honestly, it was kinda unnerving.”

Dean stayed quiet.

Charlie tilted her head. “You get on his bad side or something?”

Dean snorted. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she said plainly, “he looked like he was ready to bite someone’s head off. And you looked like someone who’d already been bitten.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s not like that.”

“Look, man,” Charlie said more seriously, “I don’t know what went down. But he’s clearly stressed, and you—” she motioned to him— “you look like you haven’t slept since 1993. So if this is one of those surgical turf wars, or whatever it is that happens when two attending egos collide, just… I don’t know. Don’t let it eat you alive.”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. “He’s not mad at me.”

Charlie looked skeptical. “Could’ve fooled me. You sure you didn’t mess with one of his patients? Or his surgical plan? Or like… insult his tie?”

Dean gave a hollow chuckle. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Alright. I believe you,” she said. “Just weird seeing the guy act like a Roomba with abandonment issues.”

Dean gave her a sidelong glance.

“You know he actually complimented me this afternoon? I mean I guess I was pretty damn good. But a compliment?”

Dean frowned. “You’re pretty damn good. You know that. And Novak better knows it, too.”

“Anyway, I knew it was too good to be true. It was just to butter me up into telling you where you rotate to,” Charlie said.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. BUT…” Charlie held both her hands up in the air. “I also told him you’re on a long shift, and to not bother you until after the shift is over.”

Dean sighed. Charlie cocked an eyebrow like she’s trying to figure out what’s going on. But Dean quickly snatched the chart from Charlie’s hand and pretended to read it.

Charlie changed the subject, thank God. “By the way, have you seen Jack around? Kid’s been missing from half his intern duties today. Weird, considering how he usually clings to Novak like a Velcro sticker.”

Dean’s jaw tightened.

“Maybe he’s sick or something,” Charlie said, oblivious. “Or maybe Novak finally sent him home for being too clingy.”

Dean muttered, “It’s not what you think.”

Charlie blinked. “Okay… wasn’t really thinking anything, but noted.”

She watched Dean a little longer, before deciding to head out. “You need anything, page me. I’m heading out after this.”

Dean nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She took a few steps toward the door before pausing. “And Dean?”

He looked up.

Charlie frowned, serious now. “If he really is mad at you — just don’t let it blow up bigger than it already has. He’s intense, but he doesn’t seem like the type to hold a grudge for no reason.”

Dean didn’t answer.

Charlie lingered another beat, then nodded and disappeared down the hallway.

The ICU was quiet again. But Dean could still feel the buzz under his skin.

Dean almost made it to the parking garage.

Almost.

He was halfway to the Impala when someone whistled low behind him and said, “You’ve been avoiding me, Winchester.”

Dean didn’t bother turning around. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gabriel caught up in three strides. “You haven’t made eye contact with me in two days. For a guy who used to sneak extra propofol to mess with patient monitors, that’s suspicious behavior.”

“I’m tired,” Dean muttered.

“Bullshit,” Gabriel said cheerfully. “You’re brooding.”

Dean sighed. “Gabriel—”

“Nope,” Gabriel said. “You don’t get to deflect. Not when you and Castiel are both walking around like someone shot your favorite dog.”

Dean stopped walking. “It’s none of your business.”

Gabriel cocked his head. “You’re right. It isn’t. But I overheard you two the other night.”

Dean stiffened.

Gabriel added, softer this time, “I heard what you said. About Jack. But I also heard something I didn't think I was supposed to.”

Dean rolled his eyes and began walking away.

Gabriel caught his sleeve. “Wait, wait, please. Hear me out.”

Dean glared. 

Gabriel started with “I don’t care. It’s not my business. It’s not my life. I have nothing to say about it.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

That landed harder than it should have.

Dean’s jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed like the sentence had cut too deep.

Gabriel didn’t flinch. He leaned back, folding his arms. “Because you are bringing it up. Even if you don’t say it out loud, you’re carrying it like it’s killing you.”

Dean turned away again, quieter now. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Gabriel exhaled. “Of course I wouldn't! Come on. Let’s get a drink. You look like you could use actual grease and alcohol.”

Dean shook his head.

Gabriel didn’t move. “Burgers are on me.”

Dean still hesitated.

Gabriel’s tone shifted — a little quieter, a little more real. “You’re both so miserable for each other, it’s not even funny anymore. Well—” he grinned, “—it is still funny. But also sad. Really, really sad.”

Dean didn’t reply, eyes glued to the ground.

“Come on,” Gabriel said. “Let’s go to the Roadhouse.”

Dean gave him a long, silent look.

And then, against his better judgment, he followed.

The Roadhouse wasn’t exactly upscale, but it was warm. The smell of grilled meat and old beer clung to the walls like wallpaper.

They settled into a booth in the corner. Gabriel ordered them both bacon cheeseburgers and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Dean didn’t argue.

They ate in silence for a while. Gabriel dipped his fries in ketchup with annoying precision.

Dean finally muttered, “You gonna lecture me?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Not my style.”

“Then why drag me out here?”

“Because,” Gabriel said, setting down his drink, “you’re trying really hard to pretend you don’t care. And it’s pissing me off.”

Dean looked away.

Gabriel leaned forward. “Dean. I know something happened. And I know it wasn’t just you thinking Cas was screwing an intern.”

Dean’s eyes flicked back to him — sharp, warning.

Gabriel ignored it. “I don’t care how weird or messy it was. I don’t care if it started under… unusual circumstances. But you’re in love with him.”

Dean laughed. A harsh, humorless sound. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “So what was it, then? Why’d you say he ‘used’ you? Why’d you go nuclear over Jack?”

Dean pressed his lips together.

Gabriel softened. “Look. I know Castiel. He’s a wall. Cold, professional, emotionally constipated. But around you? He wasn’t any of that. He was something else entirely.”

Dean stared down at his drink.

Gabriel added, “I don’t know what deal you two had. But I think it mattered. I think you mattered to him.”

Silence stretched.

Then, barely audible, Dean said, “It wasn’t a relationship.”

Gabriel waited.

“It was…” Dean swallowed hard. “I was a prostitute. He was my client. That’s how it started.”

Gabriel blinked.

Dean didn’t stop. “It was supposed to be a six month contract. Before I raked up enough money for my residency. Then when we met again. He… proposed another contract. I don’t even know when it stopped being about the money.”

Gabriel leaned back slowly, all humor gone.

Dean kept going, like something had broken loose. “It was easy to lie to myself. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was just sex. But then he started asking for less and less sex, and things just became domestic. And I—”

He cut himself off. Jaw locked. He really wished the waiter got here faster. He could really use some alcohol right this instant.

Gabriel let out a breath. “Jesus, Winchester.”

Dean didn’t look up.

Gabriel gave him a moment, then said, “So all this time, you thought Jack was… what? The next you?”

Dean gave a bitter smile. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

The waiter came with their orders, thank fucking God. Dean poured himself a glass and downed it immediately.

Gabriel shook his head. “Well, you’re an idiot.”

Dean looked up, startled.

Gabriel grinned faintly. “You’re in love with him. And instead of dealing with that like a human being, you tried to destroy him. Classic repressed male behavior.”

Dean didn’t deny it.

Gabriel heaved a long sigh. “You know he’s in love with you, right?”

Dean looked away, jaw tight.

“I mean, I’m not good at the whole ‘serious talk’ thing, but even I can see it. You lit him up like a damn cancer on a PET scan. And now? He’s burnt out.”

Gabriel plucked a fry from the plate between them, twirled it idly in his fingers, then sighed like a man carrying the patience of the world. “You know, you should really talk to him.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He sat hunched over, his eyes fixed on the amber swirl at the bottom of his glass as if the liquor could offer some divine wisdom. Gabriel reached for the bottle, topped him off until the liquid almost spilled over the rim, then set the bottle down deliberately in front of him. His own glass remained untouched. He figured he’d better be the designated driver tonight. Someone had to keep Dean from drowning too deep.

“I mean really talk,” Gabriel said, his tone softer this time. “Not yell. Not assume. Just… talk.”

Dean’s fingers tightened around the glass, knuckles pale in the dim bar light. His throat worked once before he muttered, “We tried. Well, he tried. Guess I’m just stupid for not listening.”

Gabriel tipped his head, watching him with that peculiar mix of sharp wit and unexpected gentleness. “Tell you what. I’ll give you this whole bottle right here. All yours. If you promise you’ll drunk-call Castiel after midnight.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched, the first ghost of humor breaking through. “And say what?”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, letting a slow smile curve his lips. “Start with the truth. It’s overdue.”

Dean huffed out a laugh that wasn’t quite bitter but not free either. “If I downed the whole bottle, he’d just think I got… what’s the word, disarthria? Then he’d call an ambulance, demand I get sent straight to the stroke unit.” The mental image slipped out unbidden, ridiculous and sharp enough to make him smirk.

Gabriel caught it instantly, and soon he was shaking, shoulders trembling as he tried to hold his laughter down. The sight was contagious; Dean felt his own grin stretch wider, the weight on his chest lifting just a little.

When Gabriel finally caught his breath, he leaned forward again, voice gleaming with mischief. “How about you just… text him? That way if you’re wasted, or if he doesn’t respond, or if you change your mind when you sober up, you can always claim it was drunk texting. Easy out. Nobody loses.”

Dean frowned at that, turning it over in his head.

“Come on,” Gabriel coaxed, eyes dancing. “At the very least, it’d be a good prank. I can be your witness. You wouldn’t even be lying. Win-win for everyone. Well… maybe not for Castiel, but who cares, right?”

Dean barked out a laugh, full and warm this time. The alcohol was starting to hum in his veins, though not nearly enough to explain why Gabriel’s scheme sounded so damn appealing. Ridiculous, reckless, maybe even cruel—but also, in some sideways way, like hope.

And Dean wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey or Gabriel’s grin working on him, but for the first time in weeks, the idea of reaching out didn’t feel impossible.

Gabriel had one arm hooked under Dean’s, half-carrying him up the porch. Dean was mumbling nonsense into Gabriel’s shoulder, his boots scuffing the wooden steps with each uneven lurch. Gabriel rapped the door with his free hand, and Sam appeared, taking in the sight with a grim set to his jaw.

“Special delivery,” Gabriel said brightly, shifting Dean’s weight toward his brother. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this, Sammy. Every time I see you, your brother’s unconscious.”

Sam caught Dean before he face-planted and frowned. “We’ve met before?”

Gabriel gasped as though struck. “You wound me. A handsome guy like me and you forget? Tragic.” He pressed a hand to his chest, shaking his head in mock despair. “I’m an attending at Grace Memorial. You’ve definitely seen me around.”

Sam squinted, adjusting Dean against his side. “Anesthesiology?” he asked warily. “I know everyone from anesthesiology.”

“Please,” Gabriel scoffed. “Gas passers? No offense, but no. I’m cardiothoracic.” He flashed a quick grin, proud of the word alone. “Made good friends with your brother. Just trying to help him out.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sharpening. He shifted his grip as Dean groaned, the alcohol heavy on his breath. “Then what the hell happened here?”

Gabriel only shrugged, his grin turning sly, evasive. “Mutual pining.”

Sam blinked, momentarily thrown. Pining? Before he could ask, Dean lurched violently, leaning sideways to vomit into the bushes with a wet retch. Sam exhaled through his nose, grateful it hadn’t landed on the porch. Still, he was already calculating how much water it would take to clean up in the morning.

“Fantastic,” Sam muttered, steadying his brother as Gabriel patted Dean’s back with theatrical cheer.

“And on that delightful note,” Gabriel said, straightening his coat, “I’ll let you boys have your quality family time.” He offered a wink and strolled off into the night, leaving Sam glaring after him with Dean sagging heavily against his side.

Sam was sure of one thing: whatever Gabriel’s idea of “helping” was, it had damn well involved way too much whiskey.

Sam half-dragged, half-guided Dean into the house, ignoring his brother’s clumsy protests. Once he got him on the couch, Dean immediately slumped sideways, face buried against the armrest like a passed-out teenager. Sam crouched in front of him, shaking his shoulder gently.

“Dean. Hey. Stay with me for a second.”

Dean groaned, eyelids fluttering, but cracked them open just enough to see Sam’s blurry face hovering over him.

“Good. Open your mouth.” Sam tipped a water bottle toward him.

Dean whined, head lolling. “Not thirsty, Sammy.”

“Too bad. You’ll thank me later.” Sam pressed the rim to his lips and trickled the water in slowly, one swallow at a time, careful to keep Dean from choking. Dean obeyed in lazy gulps, sighing afterward like the task had exhausted him.

Once Sam was satisfied, he stood and grabbed a clean t-shirt and sweatpants from Dean’s room. He came back to find Dean peeling clumsily at his buttons, missing half of them, still smiling to himself like some private joke was the funniest thing in the world.

“Let’s get you changed before you reek up the place,” Sam muttered. He helped Dean out of his crumpled shirt, swapped it for the clean one, then worked him into the sweats with the kind of patience he usually reserved for small children. By the end, Dean was sitting upright, a little bleary, his hair sticking up and his grin still plastered on.

“You know,” Dean slurred, pointing a crooked finger at Sam, “I had this brilliant idea. Gonna drunk text Cas.” He giggled at his own words, the sound boyish, loose.

Sam stilled, arms crossed. “Dean…”

“Oh, shit,” Dean clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with exaggerated horror. “Forgot. Not supposed to talk about Cas to you.” He peeked between his fingers, then broke into laughter again. “Oops.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, real smooth.”

Dean leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice like he was spilling classified intel. “I miss him, Sammy. Like… really miss him.” His grin faltered for a beat. “Stupid, huh?”

Sam’s chest tightened, but he kept his voice even. “No. Not stupid. But drunk texting him? That’s stupid.”

Dean slumped back, staring at the ceiling. “I screwed it all up. Said the worst thing. Thought he was… you know.” He waved his hand vaguely. “With the intern. But it was his nephew. Nephew, Sammy. Who has a nephew? Cas does.” He let out a helpless laugh that cracked in the middle.

Sam sank onto the coffee table across from him. “You don’t need to prank him. You need to apologize.”

Dean tilted his head toward him, lips quirking. “You’re so serious. Always damage control. Always the grown-up.”

“Somebody has to be.” Sam’s tone sharpened. “You accused him of something that could ruin his career, Dean. People talk. Rumors stick. You need to make this right, not hide behind jokes.”

Dean stared at him, bleary-eyed, but there was a flicker of awareness in the green beneath the haze. “What if he doesn’t want me to?”

Sam sighed. “Then at least you’ll know you tried. But… you’re wrong if you think he doesn’t want to hear from you.”

Dean blinked slowly, his expression caught between hope and fear. Then he laughed again, soft and broken. “God, you sound just like him.”

Sam frowned. “Like Cas?”

“Yeah.” Dean closed his eyes, still smiling faintly. “All stern and bossy. Like he knows better. Like he… like he cares.” His words slurred into a whisper. “That’s what kills me. He actually cares.”

Sam studied his brother, the lines of tension finally softened by exhaustion and whiskey. He wanted to tell him that Cas wasn’t the only one who cared. But Dean’s breathing was already evening out, his hand gone limp against the couch.

Sam reached for the bottle again and nudged it against Dean’s chest. “Not done yet.”

Dean groaned, rolling his head to the side, lids half-shut. “Sammy…” His voice was a stretched-out whine, petulant and boyish.

“Drink,” Sam said firmly. “Or you’ll hate yourself twice as much in the morning.”

Dean heaved a theatrical sigh, grabbed the bottle with clumsy fingers, and promptly fumbled it. Sam caught it before it could spill, steadying it in his brother’s hands. “Here. Slow. Like this.” He tipped it carefully until Dean managed a few more gulps, water dribbling down his chin.

Dean swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sagged into the couch, head lolling against the cushion. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, but his tongue was loose, too loose to stop the words from tumbling out.

“You’d like him, Sammy.”

Sam froze, his stomach clenching at the name unspoken but so obvious.

Dean’s smile was hazy but warm, the kind of open grin he kept locked away from most of the world. “Cas. You’d like him if you really let yourself. He’s… he’s a gentleman, Sammy. Can you believe that? With me.” A breathy laugh escaped him, incredulous, fond. “Takes me out like I’m worth showing off. Opens doors, pulls out chairs, buys me dinner that isn’t just greasy takeout. Like I’m… important. Like I matter.”

Sam’s throat tightened, the words cutting sharper than Dean probably knew.

Dean’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, his grin softening but not fading. “Sometimes he just looks at me, like he can’t help himself. Like I’m… hell, I don’t even know. Like I’m something he wants. And he doesn’t hide it. Not once. It’s always there, plain as day.”

Sam shifted on the coffee table, his jaw working. He wanted to tell Dean to stop, to save this talk for when he was sober. But the sound of his brother’s voice, so stripped down, so unguarded—it pinned him in place.

Dean tilted his head back against the couch, voice dropping to a whisper, rough and reverent. “Makes me feel… taken care of, Sammy. Like I could let go for once and not fall apart. Like somebody actually…” He broke off, rubbing a hand over his face, his laugh cracked and thin.

Sam’s chest ached, a deep, guilty squeeze he couldn’t shake.

Dean chuckled weakly, turning his face into the couch cushion. “If we’d met different, maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d get why…” His words slurred, blurring into a laugh that caught somewhere between humor and hurt. “God, listen to me. I sound like a kid with a crush.”

Sam swallowed hard, pressing his palms against his knees. His brother didn’t sound like the hard-edged man who never let anyone close. He sounded like a man already undone, stripped raw by love and too drunk to guard it.

“Drink the rest,” Sam murmured, pushing the bottle gently into Dean’s slack hands.

Dean obeyed sluggishly, tipped back another mouthful, then let the bottle tumble onto his chest. His head lolled sideways, eyelids fluttering, lips still curved in that faint, wistful smile.

Sam stayed where he was, watching the lines of his brother’s face soften as sleep claimed him. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the faint hitch of Dean’s breathing as he drifted under.

The words clung stubbornly, circling in Sam’s mind long after Dean was gone to dreams. You’d like him, Sammy. If we’d met different.

Sam leaned back, staring at his brother’s sleeping form, and—for the first time—wondered if maybe, just maybe, he’d been wrong all along.

Dean woke with a start, his bladder screaming for mercy. For a second he didn’t even know where the hell he was—his head was buzzing, mouth dry as sandpaper, a headache already curling behind his eyes like a storm. He forced his eyes open and found himself tucked safely under his own sheets, though he had no memory of how he’d gotten here.

With a groan, Dean rolled out of bed, feet hitting the floor heavier than bricks. His legs wobbled, his stomach lurched, but the bathroom was calling and there was no ignoring it. He shuffled down the hall, cursing under his breath with every step, and finally made it to the toilet. Relief came with a long, shaky exhale, but halfway through he nearly toppled forward, catching himself clumsily on the wall with one hand.

“Graceful,” he muttered, swaying.

When he was done, he staggered back to his room, collapsing face-first onto the mattress. He meant to just breathe there for a second, but something caught his eye. His phone, resting on the nightstand.

Dean groaned, stretching an arm out and fumbling for it. The screen lit up, stabbing light into his pounding head. He squinted until the blur sharpened.

3:10 a.m.

He huffed a laugh, rolling onto his side. At least there were a few more hours left before morning duty called. But then he noticed it: one unread message.

He tapped it open. An unknown number popped up with a text that read:

Remember to drunk-text Cas.

Dean’s brow furrowed, then he let out another short laugh, half a scoff. Of course Gabriel had sent that. He would need to ask where he got his contacts from later. The timestamp read exactly midnight. Dean shook his head, imagining Gabriel grinning like the smug bastard he was. 

Still, the idea snagged.

Dean lay there, staring at his phone, debating. Should he? What would he even say? Every phrase he could think of sounded too weak, too sharp, or too damn desperate. None of it fit what he wanted to get across.

He dragged a hand over his face. Texting wasn’t enough. Not for this. Not for the way things unfolded for them.

Before he could stop himself, Dean typed out four words. 

Can I call you?

He hit send. His thumb hovered over the screen, as if willing it to buzz back immediately. Maybe Cas would be awake. Maybe he’d call, and Dean could spill it all out before the whiskey haze wore off and his defenses clicked back in.

But the seconds stretched, the silence in his room too heavy. His eyelids drooped. The phone slipped from his hand onto the pillow.

Sleep claimed him before he could see if Cas ever answered.

Chapter Text

Castiel woke to sunlight slanting through half-closed blinds, pale and intrusive. His phone was still on the nightstand, screen dim but glowing faintly with a single notification.

One unread message.

Dean Winchester – 3:22 a.m.
Can I call you?

For a moment, he could only stare. The words didn’t make sense at first, as if they’d been left by someone else entirely. Then realization hit, sharp and electric, and his stomach dropped.

He’d missed it. The phone had been on silent. He hadn’t heard the buzz, hadn’t felt the vibration through the mattress. Of course he hadn’t—he’d been half-dead from another twenty-hour shift.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the quiet. The word came again, rougher this time. “Fuck, fuck.”

His thumb hovered over the screen. There was no strategy to this, no thought, only instinct. He pressed call before he could stop himself.

The line clicked. Once. Twice. Then—

Dean’s voice. Sleep-thick, unguarded. "Cas…"

His pulse stuttered. It was ridiculous, how quickly that one syllable unraveled him. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d missed hearing his name like that, soft and careless, as though it still belonged to Dean’s mouth.

He said his own name in return — "Dean" — and the sound of it broke something loose inside his chest.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer right away. I was asleep.” He apologized before Dean could speak again that he hadn’t meant to ignore the message.

Dean laughed quietly, and the sound was paper-thin but still alive.

"It’s okay," he said. "I sent it at the ass crack of dawn. Didn’t expect a reply. Cas, I—"

There was a pause before Dean continued, "God, I said something really awful. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. For what I said to you. I should've said something earlier, but my mind was a complete blank."

The apology landed soft but heavy. Castiel closed his eyes, felt it settle somewhere beneath his ribs.

Dean kept talking. "I’ll apologize to Jack too, once I can pull myself together. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… needed to say it."

Castiel leaned back against the headboard, heartbeat drumming faintly in his throat.

“Dean… you’re already forgiven.” He said, quietly. He meant it, but it still hurt to say out loud.

Silence hummed across the line.

“And I can see why you thought what you did,” he added quietly. “Gabriel confronted me about it before you did. I was stubborn. Overly attached to Jack. I’ll take both your advice and his—to tone it down.”

Dean chuckled softly at that, and for half a breath the world seemed right again. But even through the phone, Castiel could tell it wasn’t the same carefree laugh he remembered, only an echo of it. The ease was gone. It sounded like something borrowed, worn thin at the edges.

“You do that. And while you’re at it, maybe stop comparing Charlie to me. Or at least don’t say it to her face. Please?”

Castiel winced. “I didn’t realize I’d said that aloud. I’ll be more mindful, Dean. It’s just that you’re—” perfect, he almost said, but caught himself. “—very efficient. I can see why Michael holds you in such high regard.”

Dean snorted. "Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Cas."

“I know,” Castiel tried to answer lightly, but couldn’t quite keep the dejection from his tone. Whatever fragile thing had once lived between them had already burned out. He could feel the ash in every word.

A pause. The kind that stretched and hummed and made him painfully aware of every shallow breath on the other end. Then Dean’s voice again, lower this time.

“The things I said,” Dean began, voice lower. “About you using me…”

Castiel went very still.

“I don’t feel used,” Dean kept going before he could respond. “I knew what it was. I knew it was a contract. Everything was on paper.”

Castiel exhaled through his nose, slow and uneven.

“For the first arrangement, yes,” Castiel replied. “But restarting it here, at the hospital, that was my fault. Something I never should’ve suggested in the first place. It was never my intention Dean...”

“I know.” Dean’s voice softened, fraying at the edges. “I remembered… when I collapsed, you told me… you... I get it, Cas.”

It should have been enough. It wasn’t.

Castiel wanted to keep him talking. Wanted to hold that voice a little longer, memorize the small hesitations and breaths that had nothing to do with apology and everything to do with missing someone. But Dean sounded steadier now, like he’d already decided where this conversation would end. He could already sense the distance re-forming. Whatever hope flickered there, it wasn’t enough to rebuild what had burned.

Still, he wasn’t ready to lose even this.

Castiel hesitated, then asked the only thing that seemed possible. “Dean.“ A pause.

"Can we at least stop pretending we don’t know each other? We could… be friends... or colleagues. If nothing else.”

There was a pause long enough for doubt to bloom, for him to imagine the quiet disconnect, the dead line, the finality.

When Dean finally spoke, his voice had changed. Softer now, worn thin at the edges, but still carrying that stubborn gentleness that had always undone him.

"Of course, Cas."

Castiel sat very still, staring at nothing. The words lingered in the air, small and devastating. They were simple. Ordinary, even. But something inside them broke as they fell, a crack too quiet to echo, too deep to fix.

Castiel closed his eyes. He could almost see Dean saying it, jaw set, mouth tilted in that half-smile he used when he was pretending not to hurt.

He wanted to say something else, anything, but the moment was already gone, dissolving between them.

He told himself it was enough. That friends was better than nothing. That at least now, when they passed each other in hospital corridors, they wouldn’t have to look through each other like ghosts.

He told himself these things until he almost believed them.

Outside, morning light had fully breached the blinds. The city was awake again. On the other end of the line, he could still hear Dean breathing — steady, distant, heartbreakingly alive.

Castiel didn’t hang up right away. He let it linger a few seconds longer, long enough to memorize that sound, just enough to hear Dean exhale before whispering a quiet goodbye and ending the call.

For a long time, Castiel sat in silence, the hum of the city bleeding softly through the blinds. The weight in his chest no longer felt like it was trying to crush him; it had shifted — still there, but gentler somehow. A dull ache instead of a wound. He pressed a palm to the space over his heart, half-expecting to find the shape of Dean still there, warm and steady, the ghost of his voice lodged between one breath and the next.

He told himself this was enough. It had to be. That letting go — or at least loosening his hold — was the kindest thing he could offer. Everything happened for a reason; he’d always believed that, even when the reasons were cruel or far away. Maybe this was the universe’s way of teaching him not to be greedy.

Dean deserved peace, a life that wasn’t shaped around someone else’s gravity. He was still a resident, still trying to carve his place in the hospital, and Michael watched him closely — too closely, sometimes. Castiel couldn’t, wouldn’t, be another weight for Dean to carry. Better that Dean pour his restless heart into his work, into the small miracles of survival that filled his days. Better that he be free, unanchored, unburdened by everything that had burned between them.

And yet, beneath all those reasonable thoughts, hope still found a place to hide.

He would keep it quietly, tucked somewhere safe — a small, unassuming thing that would never demand or disrupt. He’d let it live there, where it couldn’t hurt anyone. Maybe Sam, with all his quiet understanding, would let Dean go when the time was right. Maybe Dean, when the world wasn’t so loud and uncertain, would find his way back.

Not now. Not soon, perhaps. But someday.

Castiel let himself imagine it for a moment — the soft inevitability of two lives finding their rhythm again, not in guilt or grief, but in something lighter. He pictured it not as a grand reunion, but a quiet one: a cup of coffee shared between shifts, a smile that reached the eyes this time, the kind of simple peace that felt like grace.

And if the universe was kind — if the stories it wrote were merciful for once — that happiness would hold them both.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting the morning fill his lungs. The light was brighter now, spilling across the floor, turning the edges of his world gold. It wasn’t the same as being held. But it was warm. It was alive.

Some endings, he thought, were just another name for beginning again.

Just like this one.

The End

Just Kidding. Sorry. Here's the rest of this chapter.

The cardiology conference room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and stress. By the time Castiel arrived, half the seats were already taken, the screens alive with spreadsheets and echo reports. Someone had brought muffins from the cafeteria, though no one seemed willing to risk food poisoning from whatever species had begun growing on them overnight.

He took his usual place near the end of the table, beside Gabriel, who looked far too awake for a man who had finished a double shift three hours earlier. Michael sat opposite, posture straight, expression carved from stone. Around them, the morning’s multidisciplinary team assembled in predictable chaos.

Anna Milton, chairing the meeting, was already trying to bring order to the room. Her voice, calm but firm, carried over the low hum of conversation. "Let’s begin with cardiothoracic updates."

Castiel straightened his notes. The rhythm of these meetings was as mechanical as the heart itself. Listen. Present. Defend your numbers. Endure criticism. Repeat.

To his mild relief, radiology was being covered today by Inias instead of Zachariah. The air immediately felt lighter. Inias smiled when he spoke, used humor like local anesthetic, and never treated other departments as opponents in a war.

Gabriel leaned closer and whispered, "Maybe we’ll get through one of these without bloodshed."

Castiel hummed in agreement, though he doubted it.

They were halfway through the post-op cases when the first volley came. Hannah from nephrology leaned forward, eyes sharp behind her glasses. "Cardiology has been a little generous with furosemide again," she observed. "Two of my patients came back looking like shriveled fruit. Did we switch from treatment to mummification overnight?"

Uriel from Internal Medicine added, "At least they were dry for once. Usually ICU send cardiology patient back floating."

Michael’s mouth tightened.

Anna clearly wasn't pleased by the jabs. "We follow standard hydration and diuretic protocols. You might review your own documentation before assuming negligence."

Hannah smiled in the brittle way that meant she was just getting started. "Of course. But I would hate to think the heart team and is compensating for unresolved emotional issues with aggressive fluid management."

Laughter broke out around the table (read: Gabriel). Even Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Gabriel raised a hand with mock solemnity. "In their defense, cardiologists are naturally dehydrated creatures. We thrive on sarcasm and caffeine. It’s an ecosystem issue."

Uriel snorted. "An ecosystem that runs on Lasix and denial."

The laughter grew louder, this time Inias joined in as well. For the first time in weeks, Castiel felt the faintest tug of a smile. It was absurd, this ritualized combat, but also grounding. The medical hierarchy had its own strange intimacy. They insulted each other because the alternative was silence, and silence in medicine meant loss.

The meeting moved on. Inias presented imaging that somehow managed to sound optimistic. Anna reviewed discharge statistics. Gabriel elbowed Castiel every time Michael made a pointed remark about scheduling delays.

For a brief, improbable moment, Castiel almost forgot the weight of the morning. The conversation with Dean still lingered at the edge of his mind, but here it felt distant, muted by fluorescent light and bureaucracy.

As the meeting drew to a close, chairs scraped and the usual post-session chaos began. Gabriel was halfway through a story about a post-op miracle that involved divine intervention and the cafeteria’s lasagna when Michael’s voice cut through the noise.

"Gabriel, a word."

Castiel looked up instinctively. The way Michael said it was casual, but Gabriel’s grin faltered by a fraction. He followed without protest.

Castiel gathered his files, pretending not to listen, though the acoustics of the conference room made that impossible.

Michael’s tone was quieter now, but clipped. "Do you know why Winchester requested a transfer to ICU? He’s not finished with his rotation in Orthopedics. I asked Benny but he was also confused by the sudden notificaton."

The name hit like a skipped heartbeat.

Gabriel’s pause was brief but noticeable. His eyes darted to Castiel for a second before he could stop himself. Castiel kept his gaze on his hands, willing himself to stay still, but his pulse betrayed him.

Gabriel’s answer came after a beat, too light, too quick. "No idea. Probably just tired of Benny hammering and drilling into bones."

Michael’s response was stripped of humor. "Winchester doesn’t quit rotations. If something happened, I should know."

The air in the room tightened. Castiel could feel the blood drain from his face. He pushed back his chair, muttered something about a consult, and slipped out before the silence could stretch further.

He didn’t look back.

The corridor outside was mercifully empty, its hum of fluorescents swallowing the sound of his footsteps. He walked fast, almost a jog, his mind a blur of calculations. If Michael suspected anything—if he started asking the wrong questions—nothing good would come of it. Michael’s loyalty to his department was absolute, his sense of propriety unshakeable. The thought of him discovering the truth made Castiel’s stomach twist.

He turned the corner too sharply, nearly colliding with a junior resident, mumbled an apology, and kept moving.

Past the nurse’s station. Past the row of lockers. Past the glass wall that threw his reflection back at him in cold, clinical light. He barely recognized the man in it—eyes hollowed, jaw tight, a face built on restraint.

He didn’t stop until he reached the cardiothoracic office.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt printer ink. He shut the door with more force than he meant to and dropped his files on the desk, papers sliding apart in uneven stacks.

Both hands braced against the surface, he waited for his pulse to slow. It didn’t.

The urge to avoid Michael settled like a physical ache under his sternum. He could already picture the conversation—the calm interrogation, the quiet disappointment, the precise way Michael’s eyes would narrow if he sensed deceit. Castiel wasn’t sure he could survive that scrutiny.

He stayed that way for a long moment, breathing in shallow increments, before he straightened his coat and pressed his palms flat against the desk to stop the tremor.

He needed to think. He needed to get ahead of whatever was coming. And above all, he needed to make sure Michael never connected the dots between himself and Dean Winchester.

The door opened before Castiel could gather his thoughts. Gabriel slipped inside and shut it behind him with a soft, final click that left no room for excuses.

“How dare you!” Gabriel snapped, throwing his folder onto the chair so hard the papers scattered. “You just ran away and left me alone with Michael. Do you have any idea what it’s like standing there while he’s staring at you like he’s about to cut you open without anesthesia? How could you run off and leave me to explain your mess?”

Castiel straightened, annoyance and something colder at the edges. “I did not run away.”

“You practically vanished faster than when a code blue is called,” Gabriel snapped, disbelief written all over his face. “You left me with him.”

“I had another patient to review,” Castiel said, fingers going automatically to the files he’d scattered. He began to realign them, because some small, surgical order soothed the tremor in his hands.

Gabriel stared at him for a long, too-long moment, then let out a brittle laugh. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”

Castiel kept his eyes on the papers, not rising to the bait. The edges resisted his attempt at neatness, sliding unevenly under his palms.

Gabriel planted himself against the desk and folded his arms. “He asked about Dean.”

The name hit like a dropped instrument. Castiel’s head snapped up. “I heard that. What did you, uh, tell him?”

Gabriel gave him a look that bordered on disbelief. “Nothing! What the hell do you think I’d say? ‘Oh, Michael, by the way, your golden boy resident used to be on Cas’s payroll for sex and wait, there's more to it! He became Cas' sugar baby when he showed up to cardiothoracic OR!' I like living, thank you.”

Color drained from Castiel’s face. He felt faint, as if the ceiling had dipped. “How did you—” he began.

“I know,” Gabriel interrupted, sharp now. “I know everything. If you think I didn’t put two and two together, you are sorely mistaken.”

Castiel’s voice was small. “Did Dean… did he tell you?”

Gabriel threw up his hands in exasperation. “Do you know how mortifying it is to hear your brother’s life narrated like a cautionary tale, straight from the person who lives it? Dean told me enough. He told me what he needed to say. If I did not know how much this ate at you, I would have borrowed Benny’s ortho hammer and used it on your stupid face. Or on your—” He stopped, the joke collapsing into something more real.

“Look, I am not here to judge your past. You did what you had to do to get your cock sucked, I get it. But continuing that arrangement here, knowing he was Michael's resident, in Michael’s hospital, under his nose? That’s fucking stupid, Cas! What the fuck were you thinking?!”

Castiel’s chest tightened until his breathing came in shallow bursts. “Did Michael suspect anything?”

Gabriel scrubbed a hand over his face. “He suspects everything. That’s his default setting. The man doesn’t sleep—he powers down in diagnostic mode. He was already looking at me like I’d buried evidence in the sub-basement.”

For a moment the room held nothing but the steady hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint shuffle of paper. Gabriel’s face was washed pale by the overhead glow; the shadows beneath his eyes looked deeper than they had that morning.

Castiel kept his voice low. “I would prefer he remain uninvolved. Michael finding out about any of this would help no one.”

Gabriel’s reply came out as a snort, edged with frantic humor. “No shit, Sherlock. If Michael actually knew the full story, he would have a coronary right there in the conference room, and I’ll be doing compressions while praying the autopsy says ‘natural causes.’ And when he gets ROSC, he’ll come straight for you with a scalpel and slice your carotids! And then I’ll get fired for standing too close to the blood spatter.”

Castiel winced despite himself. Gabriel’s dramatics weren’t entirely wrong. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” Gabriel’s laugh cracked halfway through. “You think he wouldn’t? Michael treats gossip like a tumor—if he's a surgeon, he’ll excise it with the widest margins possible!”

That image twisted in Castiel’s stomach. The sound of his own heartbeat filled the room, arrhythmic and ugly. Gabriel’s anger was loud, but it carried something else under it: a warning and, begrudgingly, a protection.

Gabriel exhaled hard, shaking his head. “You owe Dean a better ending than this, Cas. If you want to fix things, do it before Michael starts sniffing around.”

Castiel set his jaw and folded his hands over the files, a quiet hinge of resolve. “I know.”

Gabriel glanced at him, the edge of his anger softening into something close to worry. He crossed the room and dropped his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, brief and unceremonious. “And next time, don’t leave me to wrestle the wrath of Michael alone. I nearly flatlined myself.”

Castiel let out a single, mirthless breath and nodded once. "Noted."

Gabriel studied Castiel’s expression for a moment, his usual irreverence thinning into something close to concern. “You know you look like hell, right?”

Castiel exhaled, a faint ghost of humor escaping despite himself. “I’m aware.”

Gabriel tapped the desk once with his knuckle. “So. What’s the plan? You and Winchester talking again?”

Castiel hesitated. “We spoke this morning.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows lifted. “And?”

“We cleared the air. He apologized about Jack.”

Gabriel grinned, relief flickering across his face. “Progress. That’s good.”

Castiel hesitated long enough for the pause to mean something. “We agreed to start over. As friends.”

The grin faltered. “Friends,” Gabriel repeated, testing the word as if it tasted strange.

Castiel nodded once. “It is for the best.”

Gabriel tilted his head, searching his face. “So not together. Not even… maybe someday?”

A faint, practiced smile touched Castiel’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “We were never together, Gabriel.”

That shut him up for a moment. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally muttered, “You really are terrible at lying.”

Castiel almost smiled again, but it broke before it reached his mouth. He turned his attention back to the paperwork, aligning corners that didn’t need fixing.

Gabriel pushed off the desk and straightened his coat. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t tell Michael anything. And I won’t. Not my story to tell.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Don’t mention it. Literally. Ever.”

Gabriel started toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. “You know, for someone who fixes hearts for a living, you’re absolute shit at handling your own.”
Castiel didn’t answer. He only looked down at the mess of paperwork on his desk, the sterile light blurring at the edges.

When Gabriel left, the silence rushed back in, thick and clinical. Castiel stayed where he was, motionless except for the faint tremor in his fingers.

He wanted to believe that friendship would be enough. That it was the safe, rational choice. But in the hollow quiet of the office, he could feel the lie pulse beneath his skin, steady as any arrhythmia.

Michael’s office was still when Dean stepped in, the air faintly tinged with antiseptic and stale coffee. The blinds were half-drawn, cutting the daylight into thin gray stripes that stretched across the polished desk.

Michael sat behind it, reviewing paperwork, pen tapping once against the folder before setting it aside. “Close the door, Winchester.”

Dean obeyed. The click of the latch sounded final. He adjusted his posture, standing just inside the doorway until Michael gestured toward the chair opposite him.

“Sit.”

Dean sat. The chair was too comfortable for what this felt like.

Michael studied him for a moment — not accusing, not even suspicious, just that particular kind of gaze that made people tell the truth without being asked. “I received your request to transfer out of orthopedics a few days ago.”

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me transfer.”

“It’s not usual to move just a couple of days before the rotation ends,” Michael said mildly. “Dr. Lafitte tells me you’ve been performing well in theatre. Focused. Reliable. He was surprised. I'm surprised.”

Dean kept his tone even. “I just needed a change of pace, sir. Different environment. ICU’s short-staffed — I can help there.”

Michael leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. “A change of pace,” he repeated, testing the phrase as if it were a specimen under glass. “Not because of a problem with Ortho? Or with anyone in the department?”

Dean shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing like that.”

Michael regarded him for a long moment, expression unreadable. The silence wasn’t hostile, only deliberate — the kind that stretched until the other person filled it. Dean kept his eyes on a point just above Michael’s shoulder.

“Sometimes,” Michael said at last, voice calm and quiet, “when residents move abruptly, it’s because something has unsettled them. A case, a mistake, an interpersonal issue. If that’s the situation here, I’d rather know before it starts bleeding into the work.”

Dean’s throat tightened. He forced himself to meet Michael’s gaze. “It’s nothing like that, sir. I just thought it was time to rotate somewhere that challenged me differently.”

Michael’s eyes lingered, then softened almost imperceptibly. “All right.”

Dean exhaled before he realized he’d been holding his breath.

Michael reached for his pen again, signing the transfer form with steady, precise strokes. “You’ve done well this couple of months,” he said, not looking up. “You’re one of the few residents I can trust to handle induction without supervision, and one of the fewer who knows when not to.”

Dean almost smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Michael set the pen down, folding his hands atop the desk. “It’s good to want change, Winchester. Just make sure it’s not avoidance disguised as initiative.”

Dean froze, then managed a small nod. “Understood.”

Michael’s gaze softened further. “Good. ICU will suit you. Different tempo, different kind of pressure. It’ll make you sharper if you let it.”

Dean nodded again. “I’ll do my best.”

Michael allowed a faint smile, brief but genuine. “I know you will. That’s all.”

Dean stood, grateful for the dismissal. As he turned for the door, Michael’s voice stopped him again.

“Winchester.”

Dean looked back.

Michael leaned back in his chair, studying him with that same unsettling calm. “Whatever the reason for this transfer, leave it behind you. Hospitals are small ecosystems. Rumors travel faster than oxygen.”

Dean swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

Michael’s tone softened once more. “You’re a fine anesthesiologist in the making. Don’t let distractions dull that. I have high expectations from you. You remember when I told you I have great plans for you, right?"

Dean nodded, quietly. “Of course, sir. I'm forever grateful.”

He stepped out into the corridor, the sound of the closing door almost too loud in the hush of the hall. The fluorescents seemed sharper out here, the air cooler.

He walked slowly toward the ICU elevators, trying to shake the conversation off. Michael hadn’t accused, hadn’t pried — but somehow that was worse. The man’s gentleness had a weight to it, one that left no room to hide.

Dean told himself it was fine. The transfer was already official, anyway. Distance was what he needed.

But as he pressed the elevator button and watched the light flicker, he couldn’t stop replaying Michael’s parting words — leave it behind you — and realizing he didn’t know how.

Chapter Text

The fifth valve replacement of the week should have drained him, but Castiel’s hands were still steady, his focus too sharp to call it exhaustion. The final stitch came together cleanly under the lights. The hum of the perfusion pump quieted, and the anesthetic gas hissed low as Tyler adjusted the settings.

The air in the operating room smelled of antiseptic and cauterized tissue, a tang that clung to the back of his throat. Sweat gathered under his cap, trickling down to the edge of his mask. He ignored it. He always ignored it.

“Last arterial gas came back stable,” Tyler murmured, eyes flicking between the monitor and the chart. “BP ninety over fifty. Urine output’s borderline.”

Castiel glanced at the Foley bag and then at the nurse preparing to close. The numbers confirmed what he already knew. The patient would not recover smoothly tonight.

A part of him—small, shameful—felt relieved. ICU transfer.

He caught himself before the thought finished forming. It was absurd, unworthy of a physician, let alone him. Thanking God for a complication felt like spitting in the face of prayer. Yet the truth pressed tight in his chest: it meant he would have to step into the ICU. It meant he might see Dean.

“Let’s get him to intensive,” Castiel said, pulling off his gloves. The snap of latex broke the stillness. “Keep him on inotropes. Maintain the pacing wires until morning.”

Tyler nodded briskly. “I’ll make the call and transfer with the team.”

“I’ll do it,” Castiel said, too quickly. “You can finalize the documentation.”

Tyler blinked. “Sir, anesthesia usually—”

“I’m aware,” Castiel interrupted, tone calm but absolute.

From the scrub sink, Michelle, one of the OR nurses, shot him a sidelong glance that said she knew exactly why he was insisting. She didn’t comment. Tyler, wisely, didn’t either.

The ICU corridor smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee gone cold. The lights were low, the kind of artificial twilight hospitals adopted after midnight. Machines beeped in rhythm, patient alarms punctuating the silence with soft, persistent reminders of mortality.

Dean was at the central station, half-leaning against the counter, a clipboard balanced on his forearm. His attention was buried in the patient chart, the overhead light drawing shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted but alert, the kind of exhaustion that had learned to function.

Castiel’s chest tightened, the reaction immediate and unwelcome. He hadn’t expected it to hurt, seeing him again. Dean looked exhausted, the kind of fatigue carved into the edges of his posture rather than just his face, yet somehow it only made him more striking. There was something almost infuriating about how composed he remained even at this hour, scrub top clinging to his shoulders, a faint sheen of sweat glinting under the ICU lights. The stubble shadowing his jaw was uneven, darker along the line of his throat, and his hair—flattened on one side, curling at the other—looked like it had fought a losing battle with his hands.

Castiel caught himself staring longer than he should have. Even like this, Dean carried a steadiness that drew people in, an ease that had nothing to do with charm and everything to do with control. It was daunting, how beautiful he was in motion—alive, deliberate, entirely unaware of the quiet gravity that pulled at everyone around him.

They wheeled the bed closer, the rhythmic squeak of the gurney wheels filling the corridor. Dean looked up at once, the reflex of someone who could recognize the sound of a patient transfer before it even rounded the corner. His attention sharpened in an instant, and then his brow furrowed.

Castiel saw it immediately, the faint crease of confusion between Dean’s eyebrows, the quick flick of his gaze from the patient to the team and then to him. Of course he would be puzzled. It wasn’t typical for an attending to escort a post-op transfer, much less to bring it personally into the ICU. That was the anesthesiologist’s job—or, at least, the resident’s. Castiel could almost see the question forming behind Dean’s expression: Why are you here, Cas?

“Post-valve?” Dean asked, already moving toward the bedside.

He lifted his chin, composing himself before nodding at Dean, as if his presence required no justification at all.

“Severe regurgitation,” Castiel explained. His voice was calm, deliberate. “Residual pulmonary hypertension. He’ll need ventilation overnight.”

Dean checked the vitals, scanning the readouts. “Got it. Central line still patent?”

“Yes. Femoral CVC. I’ll replace it tomorrow if there’s any issue.”

Dean looked up at that. It wasn’t judgment exactly, but close. “You’re planning to change a perfectly good line?”

Castiel hesitated. “If needed,” he repeated.

Dean’s mouth twitched as if he were suppressing a smile. “You know,” he said, his voice low and calm, “if anything’s wrong with the CVC, anesthesia’s more than capable of handling it.” The faintest trace of teasing threaded through the words, enough to make the air between them shift.

Castiel inclined his head, pretending to study the monitor again. “Of course,” he said. “I only meant as a precaution.”

“Sure you did,” Dean murmured, turning back to the infusion pump. The corner of his mouth was still curved, but the smile never reached his eyes.

They fell into motion, the rhythm of professionals who had worked side by side long enough to anticipate each other’s movements. Dean adjusted the monitor cables, fingers quick and precise, while Castiel rechecked the ventilator tubing, smoothing the kink near the connector. The room filled with the soft, mechanical hiss of oxygen and the steady pulse of the ECG.

Their shoulders nearly brushed once, twice, in the narrow space beside the bed. Neither acknowledged it. The silence between them was heavy but strangely fluid, shaped by years of shared instinct and the deliberate restraint of everything they could not say. For a moment, it felt almost like before.

When everything was finally settled, Dean leaned over the infusion pump, adjusting the rate. “Shouldn’t Tyler be doing the handover?” His tone was light, but the question carried weight.

Castiel kept his eyes on the monitor. “He’s finishing the post-op documentation. He’ll join us shortly.”

Dean looked at him, head slightly tilted. “Yeah, but what’s a big shot like you doing bringing a patient yourself? Last I checked, consultants don’t wheel their own transfers.”

Castiel’s fingers brushed the metal rail. “I wanted to ensure he stabilized.” His tone was flat, measured, but his hands betrayed him; they lingered a moment too long.

Dean noticed, because of course he did. A faint smile touched his mouth, brief but warm. “Of course you did.”

Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of notes. “These are the post-op instructions. Vasopressin and norepinephrine can be weaned once the mean pressure holds above sixty-five. Keep an eye on the drains. If they exceed two hundred per hour, call me. Immediately.”

Dean took the paper, their fingers brushing for half a second. “I’ll watch him. You’ll want me to update you if anything changes?”

Castiel nodded once. “Yes. Text me. I’ll be up late reviewing the rest of today’s cases.”

It was an excuse, but one that would give Dean reason to reach out later. A lifeline disguised as protocol.

Dean slid the note into the patient’s file. “Will do.” His voice softened slightly. “Good work, Cas.”

The casual use of his name landed like a quiet blow.

Castiel forced composure into his reply. “You too, Doctor.”

Tyler appeared at the doorway, transfer forms in hand. “All set, Dr. Novak.”

Castiel took the clipboard briefly, signing where needed, then handed it back. “Thank you, Tyler. Dr. Winchester will take over from here.”

Dean nodded in acknowledgment. “Got it. See you around, Dr. Novak.”

Castiel gathered what was left of his composure, nodded once in return, and left the ICU. His steps were steady, deliberate, the echo of his heels carrying down the corridor like a heartbeat he couldn’t quiet.

Behind him, the machines continued their soft rhythm, mechanical and alive all at once. He told himself it was relief he felt. Relief that the case had gone well. But the warmth in his chest said otherwise.

Tyler glanced toward the door once it closed. “Dr. Novak’s kind of weird,” he said. “Most attendings don’t do their own transfers.”

Dean kept his eyes on the monitor, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

When Castiel unlocked the door to his apartment, the last thing he expected was noise. His home was usually still by this hour — the kind of silence that matched him too well. Tonight, though, laughter rolled through the hallway, unmistakably Jack’s, followed by a louder, more unrestrained one that could only belong to Gabriel.

He closed the door behind him and stood for a beat, the grocery bag still in his hand, listening to the sound of clattering dishes and the faint buzz of the television. “Why are you here?” he asked finally, setting his keys down on the console. His voice came out flat from exhaustion, though he didn’t quite manage to sound annoyed.

Jack was sprawled on the couch, a paper plate balanced precariously on his knee. He looked up, caught somewhere between guilty and delighted. “Uncle Gabe brought pizza.”

Gabriel’s voice floated out from the kitchen. “Surprise visit!” He appeared in the doorway, holding a beer in one hand and a half-eaten slice in the other. “Your prodigal nephew here was starving, and I figured you were probably surviving on caffeine, regret, and that one protein bar from two days ago.”

Castiel exhaled slowly. “I had two TAVRs today.”

“Exactly my point,” Gabriel said, as if that confirmed a private hypothesis. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Castiel remained standing. “Why are you in my apartment?”

Jack shot Gabriel a helpless glance. “He said you wouldn’t mind. And he helped me with the laundry.”

“Domestic bliss,” Gabriel said, raising his slice like a toast. “See? I’m practically a positive influence.”

Castiel folded his arms. “That’s debatable.”

Jack grinned. “You should’ve seen him trying to fold bedsheets. It was like watching surgery performed on an octopus.”

Gabriel pointed his slice at Jack. “You hear that tone? He gets that from you. All this polite judgment wrapped in a cardigan of disappointment.”

Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not wearing a cardigan.”

“Trench coat to be exact, but that’s metaphorical,” Gabriel said. “Don’t ruin my imagery.”

Jack’s laughter filled the room again, soft and infectious. “You look tired, Uncle Cas. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s not,” Gabriel interjected. “He’s brooding. Again. About Winchester, no doubt.”

Castiel’s stomach twisted. “I am not brooding.”

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, conspiratorial. “I knew you’d find out, Uncle Gabe. He was stubborn about it. I offered to help, but he refused to do anything. He doesn’t even know how to flirt properly.”

Gabriel looked positively delighted. “Now, Jack, I wouldn’t say that.” He turned to Castiel, smirking. “You didn’t tell me you told our nephew about yours truly! But yes, Cas stares like a cat in a thunderstorm. Lots of staring, zero follow-through. He just expects people to interpret it as affection.”

Jack nodded solemnly. “He’s bad at it. And worse, he can’t even communicate like a normal person. Did you know Dr. Winchester thought I was trying to get into Uncle Cas’s pants?”

Gabriel choked mid-sip, spraying beer across the table. He coughed violently, eyes wide, and turned to Castiel. “What?”

Castiel only sighed. “After that argument,” he said pointedly, so Gabriel knew which argument he meant. “Dean bumped into Jack and—”

“He basically said ‘don’t touch my boyfriend,’” Jack cut in, grinning. “My flabber was gasted. If he hadn’t looked like he was about to strangle me, I would’ve laughed in his face.”

Gabriel blinked, looking from one to the other like he’d just stumbled into a telenovela. “Your life is ridiculous.”

Castiel ignored that. “Dean already apologized.”

Jack frowned. “He did? Because he still runs in the opposite direction whenever he sees me.”

Gabriel burst out laughing. “Oh, I wish I could've seen that.”

Castiel frowned. “He said he would talk to you properly. He just needs time.”

Jack squinted at him. “And you know that… how?”

Castiel hesitated. “We cleared the misunderstanding.”

Jack sat back, eyebrows raised. “You did?”

Gabriel draped an arm over the back of the couch, grinning. “You know, Jack, people say Uncle Gabriel is nosy and meddlesome, but I get results.”

“Spill,” Jack demanded.

“Well,” Gabriel said, feigning modesty, “since Dean and I are practically best friends now, I got him slightly drunk and made him talk. Worked like a charm.”

Jack turned to Castiel, triumphant. “See? I told you we should’ve asked Uncle Gabe for help. You should thank him!”

Gabriel beamed. “Yes, Cassie. Where’s my thank you? My shoulders are still sore from hauling your very drunk boyfriend back to his brother’s place.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “You brought him home wasted?”

“I did more than that,” Gabriel said proudly. “I even reminded him to drunk-text you at midnight. Did he?”

Jack clapped his hands together. “Since you’re clearly talking again, he must’ve texted! Which means the next step, Uncle, is obvious.”

Castiel blinked. “The next step?”

Jack looked exasperated. “We already know the feelings are mutual. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gone all territorial before. So just ask him out properly. A real date. Dinner. Flowers. Eye contact longer than five seconds.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Unfortunately, kid, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

Gabriel's gaze met Castiel's eyes. They shared a knowing look.

Castiel’s voice was quieter now. “His brother does not particularly like me. And Dean values his brother’s opinion above anyone’s.”

Jack made a face. “That’s ridiculous. What’s there not to like? You’re practically perfect brother-in-law material.”

Gabriel and Castiel visibly cringed at the same time.

Jack leaned back against the couch, grinning with that dangerous kind of enthusiasm that usually meant trouble. “Not until Uncle Gabe helps me make a perfect plan for you and Dr. Winchester.”

Castiel closed his eyes briefly, as if summoning divine patience. “Jack,” he said, voice low with warning, “there will be no plan.”

Gabriel perked up instantly, like a cat hearing the word treats. “Oh, there will absolutely be a plan,” he said, already rubbing his hands together. “Step one, we find out where Dean hangs out outside the hospital. Step two, we orchestrate a casual, not-at-all-staged encounter. Step three, we—”

“Stop,” Castiel interrupted, setting his pizza back in the box. “Whatever follows step three, I do not wish to know.”

Gabriel ignored him entirely. “—we unleash the full Novak charm. You show up in a soft sweater, maybe bring him a coffee, act like it was fate.”

Jack nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! Coffee is romantic and non-threatening. It says, I’m emotionally available, but also professional.”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. There was truly no counterargument strong enough to compete with this kind of chaos. “You both need lives,” he said finally.

Gabriel grinned. “We have one. Yours. It’s much more interesting.”

He exhaled, long and tired, the kind of sigh that seemed to come from his bones. “I am going to pretend I did not hear any of this.”

Jack was already pulling his phone closer. “We’ll just brainstorm while you rest.”

Castiel gave them both a look that could have sterilized instruments. “Do not use my name or his in whatever nonsense you are plotting.”

“Of course not,” Gabriel said, already smirking. “We’ll use code names. Very discreet.”

He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he pushed away from the counter and left them to their so-called scheming, the sound of whispered arguments over “coffee strategy” following him down the hallway.

In his bedroom, he hung his coat carefully on the rack, headed straight to the bathroom and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The faintest smile tugged at his mouth, uninvited and unwilling to leave. The apartment behind him was still filled with laughter and the rustle of pizza boxes, a domestic noise he’d never thought to miss.It was chaotic, undisciplined, and entirely the opposite of what he came home for. Though, he wondered if Gabriel and Jack would come up with something actually helpful.

He stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was hot, almost too hot, scalding across his shoulders, but he stood under it anyway and let the steam blur the edges of the day. He washed quickly, muscle memory guiding each motion. Hair. Hands. Scrub the iodine from beneath his nails. Rinse. Turn off the tap before the warmth could lull him into staying.

For once, he intended to sleep early.

He toweled his hair dry, pulled on a clean t-shirt, and crossed the dim room. The bed was cool when he lay down, the sheets smelling faintly of detergent and the open window. He reached for the lamp, hesitated for a second without knowing why, then turned off the light.

The dark settled around him easily.

He had just closed his eyes when his phone buzzed against the nightstand.

He had just turned off the light beside his bed when his phone buzzed.

For a moment, he stared at the screen uncomprehending, the name Dean Winchester lighting up the dark like an accusation and a balm all at once.

MAP holding at 72. Drain output <80 ml/hr. Vasopressors weaned by half. No arrhythmias so far. Thought you’d want to know.

And below the text, there was a photo. A page torn from a pocket notebook—Dean’s handwriting, uneven from being written against a clipboard, ink pressed too hard in places like he’d been in a hurry.

Castiel’s heart stuttered at the text. Professional, as if they did this every day.

He read it twice before typing back.

Thank you. Monitor urine output overnight. Text me if there is any sign of tam­ponade or ectopy. Even if it is minor.

The response came quicker than expected.

Already watching. Go to sleep, Novak.

He stared at the screen, the corners of his mouth betraying him with a slow, helpless pull upward. The light from the phone cast a soft glow across the sheets, catching the edges of his smile like it wanted proof.

He typed, then deleted the words twice before settling on the simplest reply.

Good night, Dean.

The screen dimmed after a heartbeat, but Castiel did not set the phone aside. He lay there on his back, the warmth of the device seeping into his palm, and stared at the ceiling with a quiet, private sort of ease he had not felt in a very long time.

For the first time in weeks, sleep came without a fight.