Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean got the door unlocked, his keys jingling in his hand at his side as it shook. He stumbled through the door and to the bathroom. His knee screamed in protest when he walked, it was a miracle he hadn’t screamed yet.

He collapsed onto the lid of the toilet, first aid kit in hand. He was panting, grinding his teeth as he tried to remember to breathe.

It would be a struggle to get his jeans off, Dean knew, but there was no way around it. Stubborn and not wanting to have to buy another pair of jeans, he opted to get them off as quickly as possible instead of using the pair of scissors he had at the ready.

Tears ran hot down his cheeks as he moved, his muscles protesting the strange angle he was bent at. Dean gave up once the jeans were pooled at his ankles.

He closed his eyes, refusing to look down before he got in a few lung-Fulls of air. It wasn’t going to be a good sight.

Dean didn’t think that his mediocre sewing skills would come in handy for a situation like this, but he was morbidly glad that he knew how to tie small knots in thread as he threaded the smallest needle he could find.

He had stabbed himself with pins when sewing clothes back together enough to have a good idea of what he might feel, but he wasn’t prepared for the sensation of trying to push a needle, that was not sharp enough for the job by any means, through his own skin and flesh.

Dean could feel the needle going through the layers, sure, the pain was blinding, but it was mixing with everything else so he refused to even try to pinpoint which part of the pain was which. It was weirdly hard to get the needle through, maybe because it was his own leg he was stitching. If it was someone else, would he have found it easier?

He was far from a medical professional, but the 12 stitches he managed seemed like they would be enough to keep the two sides of the gash together for the time being, until he could get to a doctor at least. By stitch 5 he was reasonably confident in his abilities, but that could have been from the whisky, which he kept in the first aid kit.

Judge him if you must, but a small bottle of whisky was cheaper than proper antiseptic spray. And it was multi-purpose.
He didn’t really know how he got into the situation. Well, that was a lie.

Dean had been on his way to the local bar and grill he liked, just wanting one of their burgers and a drink or two after a too-long day at the shop. After getting screamed at by a customer, covered in engine oil twice, and smacking his head on one of the hoists, he had thought he could justify spending $30 instead of actually cooking, especially since he could not be fucked.

He had parked Baby down the street like normal, a block away from the bar and grill, because the small carpark they had was A) Gravel, and B) Small and always full. It was less than 2 minutes to walk down the street then across it to the place, so it wasn’t like it was a hardship, especially since it kept Baby safe.

And then he was unable to breathe, speak, or stand properly.

One moment he was heading to the bar he frequented, then the next someone clasped his shoulder. He vaguely recalled throwing the first punch, getting whoever it was square in the jaw, or nose, or something. Dean didn’t care, he just knew that he felt and heard the crunch of bone.

Then his thigh felt hot, too warm to be normal, and he knew for a fact he didn’t piss himself. He had stood there for a second or three, dumbfounded, until the pain caught up to him. Whoever had stabbed him was gone by the time he managed to open his eyes again.

He should probably wrap his hand, he thought absentmindedly as he put a clean dressing and bandage over the wound.

With another mouthful of the bottom shelf whisky, he took his jeans the rest of the way off, before turning his attention to his hand. The wet slap against tile after he finally kicked them off was not comforting.

His knuckles were bruised, and looked a little grazed. Probably from stubble, Dean thought to himself again. He cleaned the small cuts with the whisky before wrapping it the best he could with what he had.

The last thing Dean wanted to do was limp to his car and go to the ER, so he opted to use the wall as support to make his way to his room. He fell onto his bed out of pure instinct, feeling a wave of dizziness coming on. He whimpered into a pillow after his thigh made contact with the bed.

No matter how soft it was, his own weight of any capacity on the wound was excruciating. He couldn’t find the words or even the energy to scream from it, though.

He didn’t expect sleep to come, but he sure as hell wasn’t moving from where he’d landed on the bed—unless it turned out staying put was more dangerous than the gash in his leg.

It was deep, too deep for him to see properly with the amount of blood that was still flowing from it as he tried to piece himself back together. He was confident that his stitches were not up to standard for the kind of wound it was.

As he drifted, sleep or exhaustion beckoning, he didn’t know which at that point, he wondered if trying to close the wound himself was worse than leaving it and just wrapping it.

That was a problem for future-him and whatever poor doctor had to deal with him the next day.

Dean was shaking as he sent Benny a message when he woke up, saying he had a doctor's appointment he had forgotten about. Benny bought it, giving him a small lecture about remembering when he had important shit to go to before telling him to let him know when he was on his way in for the day.

He didn’t want to go to the doctors, he never did. They freaked him out, all sterile smelling and white waiting rooms full of wailing sickly children. He knew he would have to go when he finally sat up.

The bandage he had put on was soaked red, having seeped through during the night through the bandage and the sheet on his bed. He stripped the bedding, soaking it in hot water with the stain remover he had got after Sam got sick one time.

Dean didn’t bother trying to redress his thigh, just put on his oldest, most worn pair of jeans before making his way to the impala. The stairs down from his front door to Baby were pure torture, but he made it in what he would consider record time. (It took him 7 minutes to get down 5 stairs.)

He was thankful that the gash was on his left leg as he drove to the closest medical clinic. He didn’t know what he would have done if he couldn’t drive himself.

The carpark was thankfully pretty empty, probably because it wasn’t even 8am, but he wasn't going to complain as he got the closest park possible to the front door.

He limped up the ramp, using the rails as a crutch until he got to the door. The waiting room was empty apart from an elderly man that sat reading the paper. Dena paid him no mind as he limped to the front desk.

He was greeted by a blonde woman, her smile and welcoming demeanor catching him off guard for a Wednesday morning.

“Good morning, did you have an appointment with us today?” She asked politely, giving her full attention to Dean.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes as he replied, “No, I don’t, I hoped you’d accept a walk in. I have a cut I think I need some stitches for, just need someone to take a look,” He explained briefly.

“Of course, that’s not a problem. I’ll get one of the doctors out to you as soon as possible.” She assured before taking his details. He glanced at the name tag on the left of her shirt, Donna.

Dean thanked her before limping to the chair furthest from the now coughing elderly man.

It wasn’t long before a dark haired doctor called his name and welcomed him back to the exam room. Her badge read Dr Jody Mills, and Dean already knew she wasn’t someone to mess with.

“So, I hear you think you might need some stitches?” she said as a way of greeting.

Dean flinched at the sound of gloves snapping against her wrists as she put them on. “Yep,” he said simply, popping the ‘p’.

“Alrighty, if you could do what you need to to show off the wound that would be great. I am yet to perfect x-ray vision,”

Dean let out a huff of breath, shaking his head slightly as he moved to undo the button of his jeans. The look she gave him was enough to make him shrink into himself as she took in the blood soaked bandage over his thigh.

“So this made you think ‘oh, i might need stitches’ and not ‘oh fuck i need to go to the hospital’?” Dr Mills asked rhetorically.

“Don’t like hospitals,” Dean muttered, looking anywhere but his leg as she knelt down to unwrap the bandage.

“Jesus Christ, kid, what happened?” she cursed, shaking her head at the state of his thigh. “Did you at least use antiseptic on it before you tried to sew it back together like an old shirt?”

“I used whisky?” He said with an uncertain grin.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Dean guessed he wasn’t supposed to hear that.

Dr Mills explained what she was doing the whole time, keeping his nerves mostly at ease, like she could tell how badly he was freaking out on the inside. She explained that she would need to do a couple different styles of stitches for the deeper areas before she could get to stitching the top of it, like he had.

Dr Mills did a good job of distracting him before she injected the local anesthetic around the gash, but Dean still hissed as tears welled in his eyes. THe pain was sharp, concentrated, unlike the throb and burn of the cut.

“Your knots are surprisingly well done,” she had stated as she gently cut through the thread that was holding him together. Dean took it as a compliment. “That doesn’t mean you should do it again, Mr Winchester.” She quickly scolded. It was like she knew what look was on his face before he did.

“Alrighty, I’m going to give you some dressings and bandages to take with you so you can change them out yourself.” Dr Mills handed him a bag full of wound dressings, bandages, antiseptics, and a prescription for some pretty good pain killers. “If there is a next time, please don’t try to be a hero, yeah?”

Dean just nodded, “Thanks, Doc.” and went on his way.

It was the first time in his life that he was pleasantly surprised by the bill.

“Seriously? Only $200?” Was he dreaming? Dean pitched his side just in case.

“Yup, $200 all up, Dr Mills said she has your insurance paperwork and got the approval all sorted,”

“Oh, I don’t have-” he started, before clamping his mouth shut at the look Donna gave him. “Right, yes, sorry, I gave all of that to her in the appointment.” He added quickly.

Donna nodded, making a quick note on her computer before turning back to him. “Alrighty, and the payment plan you discussed with her is correct as well? The $15 a week?”

Dean just nodded, taken aback, but he wasn’t about to argue. “Yep, yeah, yes, that’s good, thanks.”

He paid the first $15 before limping back to the impala. He texted Benny to let him know that he was about 20 minutes away and that he would do a coffee shout. The only response he got was everyone's orders.

Dean pulled Baby into the lot with one hand tight on the wheel and the other balancing the cardboard tray of coffees like it was holy. The smell was strong enough to almost cover the faint copper still clinging to his skin, but not strong enough to drown out the throb in his thigh.

He forced himself out of the driver’s seat with something that wasn’t a limp, no sir, just a “normal walk” that happened to look like hell. He bit down on the grunt that tried to escape as he made it across the gravel.

Charlie was first to clock him, perched on the office desk with her tablet. “Coffee boy lives,” she announced, hopping down and plucking her cup from the tray. Her eyes narrowed almost instantly. “You’re walking like my grandma when she forgets her hip meds.”

Dean smirked, though it felt tight. “Slept funny. Perks of being old, huh?” He shoved the tray at her before she could press further. “Make yourself useful, distribute these before Benny eats me alive.”

“You’re not even 30, Dean.” Charlie shot back. Dean chose to ignore her.

Benny himself emerged from under the hood of a Chevy, wiping grease off his hands. “Took you long enough, cher. Thought that ‘doctor’s appointment’ was just to get outta work.”

“Yeah, well, turns out I’m not dying. Disappointing, I know.” Dean passed him a cup, shifting his weight before his knee buckled on him.

Garth ambled over last, snagging his coffee with a grin. “You look pale, man. Like, extra pale. You good?”

Dean shot him a look. “I’m peachy. I have one doctor's appointment and what? Nothin’ better to do but worry about me, huh?”

Charlie folded her arms, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. And the sudden fashion choice of baggy jeans? Totally unrelated to you moving like you’ve got a stick shoved up your ass.”
Dean barked a laugh that sounded more convincing than it felt. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Red.” He popped the lid off his cup and took a scalding gulp, willing the conversation to die.

It didn’t. Benny tilted his head, eyes sharp despite the lazy Cajun drawl. “You sure you’re fit to work today? You look like ten miles of bad road.”

“I’m fine,” Dean snapped quicker than he meant to, then softened it with a shrug. “Seriously. Just tired. Coffee’ll fix it.”

No one looked convinced, but thankfully, engines didn’t fix themselves. Benny grunted and turned back to the Chevy, Garth trailed after him, and Charlie gave Dean a long, suspicious glance before retreating to the office with her tablet.

Dean let out a breath through his nose, shifting his weight off his left leg. His stitches pulled, sharp and hot, but he swallowed it down and headed toward his work bench. He leaned up against the work bench like it was normal, pretending to be casual as he read through the diagnostics he got back for a mustang that was due to come in later that day. It was not looking good.

Chapter Text

He heard it before he saw it, the rumble of the ‘67 mustang seeping into his bones. Dean made his way out the front to give the customer the bad news.

Dean could remember the first time he watched Gone In 60 Seconds. He knew almost every line by the time he was 13, and it was while watching the movie for the 100th time that Dean realised he didn’t just like Angelina Jolie, but Nick Cage too.

It was Eleanor that stared back at him from just out front of the shop. It obviously wasn’t the one used in the film, but the ‘67 Fastback was a thing of pure beauty.

He was already drooling over the car, never mind the man that stepped out of it like he was in a movie. Time seemed to slow, wind tousling his already messed hair. Dean swallowed around nothing, blinking.

“Hello, I’m looking for Dean.” The man said, leaning on the roof of the mustang. The sleeves of his button up rolled to his elbows showing off the flex of muscle in his forearms. Dean didn’t think he had a thing for hands or arms or whatever, but that could always change.

“You’ve come to the right place then,” he managed, adjusting the weight from his left leg as much as he could without looking like he needed to pee. The anaesthetic was wearing off.

“Ah, good.” Was all he said as he closed the door behind him and walked the few steps over to Dean.

“I’m Castiel,” the man held out his hand, looking him up and down with calculating eyes.

“Dean, nice to meet you.” Dean shook his hand, grip firm, like it was a life line. He didn’t say anything about the way Castiel had looked at him, probably in disgust, though he hid it well. He looked young and a bit haggard, sure, but he knew his stuff and wouldn’t leave a single scratch on the Mustang.

“So, I got the diagnostics back from the previous shop you went to, and it isn’t good news.” Dean started out, having got the tablet and the history of the Mustang up on the screen. “From what I can see, it looks like the cylinder head needs to be planed, along with some new valves. I would also suggest reconditioning the injectors while you’re there, just future proofing. You haven’t heard any sort of knocking from it at all?”

Castiel read the history he had up on the tablet, nodding along like he understood everything Dean had said when really, he had no idea what it would actually entail. “I haven’t heard or felt anything out of the ordinary, and the way the other shop was going on about a full engine replacement didn’t sit right with me.”

Dean looked over at the man with a frown. “It doesn’t need to be replaced, a little love and hard work will get her back to normal. It’s the original motor right? So, it’s to be expected that she may need a tune up.”

They discussed further what it would look like, what sort of time frame to expect, how labour intensive, and if Dean could do it all in house before Castiel seemed to relax a little. Dean noticed, of course, how the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. But he was rambling, and he knew it. How Castiel hadn’t asked him to stop talking yet was mind boggling.

“Last question, I promise, but what sort of budget are you hoping to keep within? I’m happy to do a more in depth quote for you before you agree to anything. I just ask because there can be a few options with parts, better quality and life span will cost you, but the cheaper option could bite you in the ass. There's also a chance that when going through it, there could be some parts that need replacing at the same time.” he explained, listing off how, with a car its age, it could need a few replacement heater hoses and things like that if he gets in there and can see that something looks like it is about to cause problems when he starts to reassemble.

“I want it done in a good time frame, and I want it done right the first time around, so if there is anything you see that could do with replacing or there is just a better option, then just do it. My budget is flexible but I don’t want to go over the $100,000 mark if possible.” Castiel said with a serious look on his face.

Dean couldn’t help the look on his face, it happened before he could stop it. He couldn’t even imagine having $100,000 in general, let alone $100,000 aside just for vehicle maintenance.

Castiel must have taken the look on Dean’s face the wrong way. “Have I underestimated the costs?” he said with a frown.

“No, god no, you’ve over estimated by a long shot. The biggest cost will probably be labour, but I can work on it in my spare time to keep the costs down and everything for you.” Dean assured, “I’ll put through a proper quote for you, just cause for rebuilding jobs we like to keep signed records and all. Do we have your email?”

Benny was impressed with how he handled everything with Castiel, later telling him that he was a pretty big name when it came to his field. Dean was still trying to screw his head on straight, his thoughts drifting back to the man every few minutes.

Dean’s whole body hummed like an overworked engine when he finally locked up and left the shop. Benny had offered him a ride, but pride, or maybe plain stupidity, had him brushing it off with a “nah, I’m good.” and climbed into the impala, hiding how badly his thigh throbbed as he made the movements he wouldn’t usually think twice about.
The drive home was short, but the climb up the 5 stairs to his front door had drained him completely.

He dumped his keys in the dish by the door and stood there for a second, forehead pressed against the wall, trying to even his harsh breathing. Dean would never admit to the few tears of pain and frustration that rolled down his cheeks.

The shower scalded him raw, but it helped loosen the grease and sweat of the day. He braced one hand on the tile in front of him as he tried to unwind the bandage on his thigh. The stitches looked angrier than they had that morning, red around the edges, taut against puffy skin. He hissed through his teeth, cleaned it as best he could before he limped out of the shower to get his thigh re-wrapped. His hands weren’t steady.

By the time he collapsed into his bed, every muscle ached. Even ones he didn’t realise he had. He didn’t even bother with dinner. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—probably junk mail, maybe Charlie sending him a meme—but he ignored it. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, he tried not to think about the way Castiel’s eyes had cut through him that afternoon.

Morning came, far too soon for Dean’s tastes. He was full of stiffness, pain, and the dull roar of exhaustion. He shoved coffee down his throat, slapped on his work smile, and made it through the morning on fumes.

He’d sent Cas the full quote the night before, discounts included, with a barebones email that felt too formal no matter how many times he rewrote it. It was either that, or something that could come across so wrong it wasn’t funny.

Heya Castiel, here's the quote for your Mustang we talked about today. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to call or come in, we’ll get you sorted

Yeah, Dean didn’t need him to think he was uneducated, or worse, a creep.

Cas had replied early that morning with a short, polite thank-you. Dean had read it three times before shoving his work phone back in his pocket.

By lunch, the shop was quiet, filled only with the distant voice of his coworkers. Benny, Charlie, and Garth were crammed into the break room, arguing over leftover pizza.
Dean stayed behind in the bay, leaning on the workbench, sweat prickling his neck. His thigh throbbed something fierce, the bandage already soaked through from the morning’s strain. He tugged his jeans down just enough to peel it back, grimacing at the sight. The stitches hadn’t torn, but the skin was angry and raw.

He grabbed the first-aid kit from the shelf, balancing awkwardly on one leg as he tried to wind fresh gauze around his thigh. His fingers fumbled, slick with sweat. He muttered under his breath, “Come on, Winchester, it can’t be that hard-”

“Dean?”

The unmistakable voice that came from behind him froze him in his tracks.

Dean jerked his head up. Castiel stood in the wide doorway, framed by sunlight, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled. He held a takeaway cup carrier in one hand and a bag that smelled suspiciously like real food. His sharp blue gaze dropped immediately to Dean’s half-wrapped thigh, the bloodied bandage on the bench, then back up to Dean’s face.

Dean’s mouth went dry. “It’s not what it looks like.” he insisted, eyes wide. He didn’t want to know what he looked like at a glance.

Cas arched a brow, calm but unyielding. “It looks like you’re hurt. And doing a poor job of fixing it.”

Dean let out a breathy laugh that sounded too much like defeat. “Yeah, well. Story of my life.”

Castiel walked over without an ounce of hesitation, placed the paper bag and takeaway holder on the work bench and took the gauze from Dean’s shaking fingers.

“It is very important you keep even the tension even when re-wrapping a wound like this,” he explained as he knelt on the dirty concrete in front of Dean. “Like this.”
He knew what he was doing, the way deft fingers ever faltered as he moved the bandage from hand to hand around the back of his thigh.

He must have noticed Dean’s trembling as he wrapped the bandage around and around and around his leg. “You’re doing so good,” Castiel said gently. Dean froze instantly, cheeks burning red.

Castiel secured the bandage with a safety pin before standing again. Dean didn’t know where he got it from. “Thanks,” he managed.

It wasn’t exactly how Dean expected or wanted his second ever encounter with the unfairly attractive man to go, at least this was not the context in which he wanted to be pulling his jeans back up after Castiel had been kneeling in front of him.

“I would suggest no unnecessary lifting or strain when you can. Re-wrap it when you get home, and be sure to disinfect everything.” Cas said simply as he held out one of the takeaway cups.

Dean accepted the cup automatically, fingers brushing Castiel’s as he took it. It was hot, stronger than the swill from the shop’s machine, and smelled like actual quality beans. He swallowed before speaking. “You, uh—you didn’t have to do that. The leg. Or the coffee.”

“I was only here to discuss the quote,” Castiel replied matter-of-factly, though there was a glimmer in his eyes like he knew exactly how off-balance Dean felt. “But when I saw you struggling, it seemed… prudent to step in.”

Dean cleared his throat, tugging his overalls back into place and pretending it wasn’t a goddamn ordeal. “Right. The quote. Uh—yeah, I’ve got the paperwork in the office.” He gestured awkwardly, trying to shake off the warmth buzzing under his skin.

They walked together to the front office, well, Castiel walked and he limped. Dean forced himself to focus on the numbers and not on how Cas’s presence seemed to fill every square inch of space. He pulled up the file on the computer, printed out a hard copy, and slid it across the counter.

“So, like I said in the email,” Dean started, motioning to the quote, “this covers the cylinder head work, valves, reconditioning the injectors, plus a cushion for anything we might find once I crack her open. Labor’s a big chunk, but I’ll try to keep that down where I can.”

Castiel leaned over the counter, scanning the numbers with sharp, deliberate attention. “This is… thorough. And very reasonable.” His gaze flicked up to Dean’s. “When would you be able to start?”

Dean hesitated, calculating in his head how to fit the job around everything else, the other jobs that he was sure Charlie had booked in, and his leg. “If I shuffle a couple of smaller projects, I could get her on the lift by early next week. Figure a turnaround of two, maybe three weeks, depending on parts.”

“That will be acceptable.” Cas signed the form with the pen Dean handed over, his handwriting neat and deliberate. He slid the page back across. “Just keep me updated as you go.”

Dean nodded, tucking the paperwork into the customer file, trying to ignore the pulse pounding in his throat. He felt like he should say something else, something normal, but his brain was too busy.

His thoughts kept swirling, back to how Cas sounded as he said you’re doing so good, like he meant it, like Dean was doing something to be proud of.

Cas straightened, gathering his bag and the now-empty takeaway holder. He paused at the door, fixing Dean with that steady blue stare again. “Be careful with that leg, Dean. No project is worth worsening an injury.”

Dean barked a laugh, more defensive than amused, trying to brush off how the man's stare made him want to obey every word he said. “Yeah, well, easier said than done.”
“I’m serious,” Cas said simply, then inclined his head in farewell and walked out the door, the Mustang’s engine roaring to life a moment later.

Dean just stood there behind the counter, coffee still in hand, staring at the empty doorway. He didn’t move until Charlie’s voice called from the break room asking if he wanted the last slice of pizza.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day blurred. He went through the motions, tools in hand, bonnets open, elbows deep in one engine bay or another, but his mind kept circling back.

Cas kneeling in front of him, Cas’s steady hands on his thigh, Cas’s voice telling him he was doing good. By the time they closed up shop, Dean couldn’t tell if he was more exhausted, in pain, or just plain confused. Probably all three.

The days bled together after that. Coffee, grease, paperwork, repeat. Dean kept his head down, did the jobs in front of him, and pretended he didn’t still feel the phantom weight of careful hands wrapping gauze around his thigh.

His coworkers gave him grief for limping around, but he brushed them off. Healing was slow, aching and stiff, and sometimes there was this itch that he wasn’t meant to scratch, but fuck did it get to him. He had resorted to smacking it a few times like he’s had to do with a few healing tattoos.

The stitches were out now, and it held under him well enough. At night, though, when the shop was quiet and the adrenaline had worn off, he’d feel every throb of it, the ache reminding him he wasn’t as invincible as he liked to think.

And sometimes, more often than he’d like to admit, his thoughts wandered back to Castiel. His voice, low and steady. His fucking forearms and the way his shoulders trained against his tailored button up shirts. The way he’d looked at Dean like he wasn’t an idiot for half-botching his own stitches. The ridiculous fact that he’d actually brought decent coffee. Dean hated how often that part stuck with him.

A couple of weeks slid by like that, jobs in and out of the bay, paperwork piling and un-piling after he couldn’t ignore it any longer, until the calendar ticked over, Castiel due to bring the Mustang to the shop to get started.

Charlie flagged him one morning with a reminder that the Mustang was due in. Dean nodded, brushing her off with a “yeah, I know,” but truth was, his stomach had already dropped the second she said it. He couldn’t forget if he wanted to.

By the time he heard the familiar rumble out front, that tell-tale sharp growl of a ’67 Mustang rolling into the lot, Dean’s pulse had already started to increase.

Dean walked out of the open roller door to meet Cas, absentmindedly wiping his hands on the rag hanging from his back pocket. The Mustang was truly beautiful, the slight metallic in the paint showing off in the sun, a classy contrast to the solid gloss back racing strips over the bonnet and roof.

And then Cas got out.

Same button-up as last time—different color, but still crisp, still criminally unfair. Sleeves rolled to the elbows again, showing off forearms that should’ve been illegal, veins standing out just enough when he shut the car door. He had a cardboard drink carrier in one hand, a folder tucked neatly under the other arm.

Dean swallowed hard, forcing his jaw to unclench. He hated himself for noticing the little things, like how Cas’s fingers curled around the cup holder, long and precise, or how easy it was to picture those same hands wrapped around—

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted, voice low, even, like it always was. No rush, no nerves. Just steady. He held the drink carrier out. “I brought coffee.”

Dean blinked, took one of the cups a beat too late, his fingers brushing Cas’s again. “You didn’t have to,” he added quickly, “But thank you.”

“I know,” Cas said simply, a ghost of something unreadable flickering across his face. “You’re welcome.”

Dean took a sip, buying himself a second to breathe. It was the good stuff again, rich and dark, nothing like the tar that dripped out of the shop’s machine. Of course Cas would ruin him for regular coffee.

Dean led the way into the small office, using the tall desk to his advantage as he leaned back against it. The weight off of his thigh was relief.

Castiel set the folder on the counter, but instead of launching straight into business, his gaze flicked down, sharp and deliberate. “How’s your thigh?”

Dean nearly choked on his drink. “My uh, my thigh?”

“Yes,” Cas said, tone unflinching. “The wound. I trust you’ve been re-wrapping it properly?”

Dean rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, like that would hide the heat crawling up his cheeks. “Yeah, I’ve been… keeping on top of it.” Which was a generous way of saying he’d half-assed it more often than not. “Healing up fine.”

Cas’s eyes lingered a second longer, like he didn’t buy it, before he gave a short nod. Dean pretended he didn’t notice the way he glanced at his thigh for a beat too long. “Good. I’d rather not find you with your pants down like that again.”

Dean barked a laugh, too loud, too sharp. “Yeah, uh, me too.” He fiddled with the lid of his cup, desperate for distraction, but his thoughts betrayed him, zeroing in on Cas’s hands again. The way his knuckles flexed as he flipped the folder open. The neat slide of his fingers across the page. Big hands, strong fingers, careful but sure. God, the things he could do with them-

Dean swallowed, hard. Jesus Christ.

Cas slid the paperwork across the counter, pulling Dean out of his head with that same steady voice. “Shall we go over the time frame?”

“Yes, yeah, ‘course,” Dean cleared his throat, putting his coffee to his right and turning to Castiel fully. “I’ve already started ordering the parts we discussed over email, some have arrived already, the new pistons and such, and everything else is due in tomorrow, which gives me time to start getting the engine out, so if there is any delay on parts it won’t halt progress,”

They went back and forth for a few minutes, Dean explaining everything the best he could, but he was no teacher. Castiel mostly asked about time frames, what would be considered checking in too much, which Dean found reasonable considering the nature of the job.

“You can call anytime, or come in, to see progress and make sure she’s safe,” Dean assured with a smile, noting the way Castiel’s brow twitched when he was uneasy.

“Better yet, if you throw on this hi-vis, I’ll show you where she’ll be kept while I work on the engine side of things,” he offered, moving around the desk to grab the vest. He held it out to Cas, who took it with a small smile.

Dean showed Castiel around the workshop, briefly introducing his coworkers, answering his questions about the other vehicles that were in the shop and what was happening with them.

Dean showed him his bay and where he would be working on the engine, the area dedicated to painting and sandblasting, and finally the covered storage area where the Mustang would be staying while Dean worked on her.

“I didn’t want to be too hopeful, but I am quite glad that this yard is under cover.” Cas said, explaining how he was worried about the possibility of the Mustang getting stolen or damaged while there. Dean could tell the car was his pride and joy, and he respected that.

The two men talked for a few more minutes, Castiel was at ease, none of the previous tension in his shoulders, at least not from what Dean could tell.

“Thank you, Dean. I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to reassure me about this.” Castiel said with a smile.

Dean almost forgot to respond, too busy thinking about how nice his smile was, the way his gums showed a bit, how when it reached his eyes he had little crows-feet lines, and Jesus Christ his teeth were white.

Dean snapped back when he tilted his head slightly at Dean, confusion settling on his features. “Yeah, yes, of course, that's not a problem, Cas, happy to.”

“Cas?” he quirked a brow.

“Mr Novak, Castiel, sorry.” Dean apologized, shrinking in on himself mentally. He shouldn’t have assumed that he would be okay with the nickname he had mentally given him.

“Nonsense, I like it, no one’s called me Cas before.” he smirked, and Dean almost melted into the concrete right there.

“Right, yeah, okay, Cas.” Dean said softly. Cas just smiled, wishing him a good day before going out to wait for his ride.

Dean stood in the same spot he left him in for a minute before his brain caught back up to his body and he moved to get back to work, he had to seal the bumper he had been working on before he could start on the Mustang.

Dean didn’t expect to hear from Cas so soon, but the man had followed up before the Mustang’s engine was even halfway out. Not that he was complaining, he liked talking to Castiel, even if it was just about car parts. He liked his voice more than he would dare to admit.

The email was short, neat, polite:

Dean,
I hope you don’t mind me checking in. Have the remaining parts arrived?
Regards,
Castiel Novak

Dean smirked at the formality. He wasn’t used to customers asking so carefully, like they thought they might be a bother. He typed back before Charlie could come snooping:
Hey Cas,

Parts came in yesterday. Everything’s on schedule. Almost have the engine out then I can start looking at the internals.
–Dean

He almost hit send like that, then hesitated, double checking for any typos before deciding it was good enough and got back to working on getting the engine out.

Dean likes cars like this, older, simpler to fix and replace, no unnecessary electronics that could cause failures, nothing he couldn’t fix with his own two hands. He was thankful that he got to work on classics like the Mustang he was currently elbows deep in.

Dean didn’t check his work email until the next day around lunch. He found a response from Cas waiting for him.
Thank you, Dean.

I know it may be idiotic, but I am quite attached and worried that something might happen while you’re working on her.
Thank you again,
–Cas

That was how it started. Cas would email a couple times a week, sometimes asking for updates, sometimes asking questions about parts Dean didn’t expect him to even care about. Every time Dean sent back an answer, he found himself wanting to grab his phone to give him photographic proof of the work he was doing. It started with him showing Cas the brand new valves sitting next to the ones he just took out of the engine, so he could see the difference, and it escalated from there.

He started to send photo updates in every email, even if Cas hadn’t contacted him for updates, he would show him every step, photo by photo.

Not that he would have been able to tell, but there were many photos Dean sent that had him in all sorts of positions trying to get them, crouching to get a better angle of the engine or laying under the frame for a shot of the undercarriage. It became automatic, show Cas.

A couple of weeks in, Cas showed up again. Not to hover, but to drop a paper bag on the counter with a casual: “Lunch.”

Dean blinked. “What—?” he turned around, not expecting to find Castiel standing right there. He smiled softly, wiping his hands on his rag that hung from the back pocket of his overalls. He had just finished securing the new crank shaft.

“I thought you might appreciate something edible. Real food, I mean. You ingest enough grease as it is, go wash your hands” Cas’s mouth curved, the barest hint of humor.
Dean did as he was told, but not before rolling his eyes at Cas. Cas could tell he was smiling as he walked away though.

Inside the bag was a pair of deli sandwiches and two bottles of iced tea. Dean didn’t even realize he was starving until he tore into it. “You didn’t have to,” he muttered around a bite.

“I know,” Cas said simply.

“Thank you,” Dean said softly, wiping his mouth on a napkin from inside the bag. “That was the best sandwich I think I’ve ever had.”

The next Friday, it happened again. Then the one after. By the third week, Charlie had started raising her brows when she spotted the telltale paper bag and Cas leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching Dean unwrap his sandwich like it was ritual.

It became routine. Dean found himself waiting for it, the sound of polished shoes on concrete, the shadow in the doorway, the scent of real food cutting through motor oil, as well as Castiel’s cologne. Musky, vanilla, leather, he started associating the fragrance with safety and good.

The Friday lunches weren’t long, but they stuck with him, the calm in Cas’s voice, the way he listened like Dean’s rambling about engines was worth every second.

And every week, without fail, Dean told himself not to look forward to it as much as he did.

Chapter Text

It was a Thursday when it happened.

Dean was in Bay 2, cutting off a stubborn piece of corroded exhaust with the angle grinder, sparks flying in every direction. He wasn’t meant to be working on the exhaust, but Garth had to race out with Benny to pick up a car that had crashed and needed a tow. He was careful, he always was, he had heard far too many horror stories, but his glove slipped just once, the metal shuddering, and the edge bit into his wrist before he could yank back.

“Shit—” Dean hissed, dropping the grinder with a clatter. Blood welled fast, hot and slick, running down his palm. He clamped his other hand over it, staggering back from the car.

He didn’t dare look, let alone try and take off his glove. He flicked his right glove from his hand as he staggered back, knowing that getting anything in the cut could make for a worse situation.

Charlie swore from across the shop, having seen everything, and bolted for the first aid kit, but Dean waved her off with a gritted-teeth, “I got it—don’t—”

He didn’t. His knees felt weak, the gash running deeper than any garage patch-job could handle. By the time Cas walked in—Friday bag in hand even though it was Thursday—
Dean was slumped against the workbench, pale and trembling, his rag pressed uselessly to his wrist.

“Dean?” Cas’s voice cut sharp through the ringing in his ears. “Dean, it’s okay, hold on.”

Dean blinked, heart lurching. “Cas—”

The paper bag was abandoned instantly. Cas was at his side, steady hands pulling Dean’s away just enough to see the wound. His jaw clenched, blue eyes going darker. “This is deep. You’ve hit something important. You’re doing so well, keep the pressure on, that's perfect.” He assured again, a hand around his waist, the other over Dean’s own as he led him through the workshop.

Dean tried for a smirk, but it came out more like a sob. “Yeah, I slipped, the grinder, I don’t,”

“Hold still.” Cas’s tone left no room for argument. He grabbed the gauze from Charlie’s frozen hands, when she showed up, Dean didn’t know, wrapping Dean’s wrist with quick, practiced efficiency, his thumbs pressing firmly to stem the bleeding. “You need a hospital, Dean.”

Dean shook his head, panic spiking. “No, no, I can’t, please, don’t take me in—”

Cas caught his eyes, firm and grounding. “Dean. You are losing blood. You may have severed a nerve. You must go.”

Dean’s chest heaved, tears pricking his eyes before he could stop them. “Cas, please don’t—don’t leave me there.” His grip shot out, fist tangling in Cas’s sleeve, clutching like a drowning man.

Cas didn’t flinch. He leaned closer, his voice low and even. “I won’t leave you. Do you understand? I’ll stay. The entire time. I promise.”

Dean swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “You swear?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no room for doubt. Cas’s hands stayed steady, even as Dean’s blood soaked through the gauze. “You’re safe, Dean.”

Charlie shoved the Impala’s keys into Cas’s free hand. “Take him, I’ll lock up.”

Cas didn’t argue. He put his hand back over Dean’s wrist carefully, his other braced tight around his waist, guiding him out with calm efficiency. Dean pressed his face against Cas’s shoulder on the way, shaking too hard to hide it.

The drive was hell. Every bump in the road sent lightning through Dean’s arm, white-hot pain ripping sobs out of him before he could choke them back. Cas’s voice filled the car, low and steady over the roar of the engine. Dean would later be upset he didn’t get to see Castiel driving Baby like he owned her.

“You’re doing so well. Just a little longer. Breathe with me, like that. In. Out. That’s it. You’re doing so good for me.”

Dean clung to his sleeve the whole time, knuckles white, refusing to let go. He was unable to stop the tears that rolled down his cheeks, or his unsteady hands.

By the time they pulled into the ER bay, Dean’s face was streaked with tears, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline. He didn’t release Cas even when the nurses descended on him, tugging at his arm, barking orders.

“I’m not—don’t—” Dean’s voice cracked, eyes wild as they tried to separate him.

Cas leaned down, calm and immovable. “I told you, I’m not leaving. Look at me, Dean. I’m right here.”

Dean locked on to his voice, and just nodded, hoping that Cas would advocate for him, hold to his promise.

“Sir, I need you to let go, he can’t come back with you,” a nurse said from Dean’s left. Dean froze, his eyes going wide.

“No, no, he can’t go, he can’t-” he started, his breathing more erratic than it was when he got the cut on his wrist.

“I am his boyfriend, well, working on husband, and he can’t be alone in hospitals since the accident. I'm sure you can find it in his file, but I will not be leaving his side, thank you.” Castiel interrupted sternly, leaving no room for argument.

The nurse just nodded, a small apology on her lips as she led the way to one of the beds. “A doctor will be in soon, I’ve already paged them.”

Dean stayed clinging to Cas like a life line. Cas helped him onto the bed, never letting go of his hand. “Dean, I need you to look at me,” he said gently, and when he didn’t, he used his free hand to hold his jaw and make him. “Look at me, sweetheart.” he whispered. “I’m not leaving you, I made a promise, you’re okay. I need you to breathe with me, okay?”

He was doing his best, really, but the overhead lights were hurting his eyes, and the sterile smell sent memories rushing through him in the worst ways. Castiel must have noted the distant look in his eyes as he tried to copy his breathing, because the next thing he knew Cas was holding his cheeks in both hands.

Castiel held Dean’s gaze, not caring about anything else that was going on around them. “You’re doing so well for me, Dean.” he praised softly, his voice somehow deeper than usual, like silk and gravel. “Just like that, sweetheart, in and out.”

Dean was finally calming down, his heart still beat erratically in his chest, threatened to escape, but he could breathe. He focused on Castiel’s cologne, the vanilla and leather, how it smelt warm and safe.

“Mr Winchester?” came a voice from the end of the patient bed, one that Dean recognized. “Well, I didn’t plan on seeing you so soon.” she said again, putting down the clip board that was in her hand and moving to put on some gloves and prepare what she needed.

Dean swallowed, nodding. “Just keeping you in a job, Doc.” he managed, his voice a rasp from the begging and crying.

“I can do that myself, you don’t need to keep getting injured just for me,” she joked, taking some instruments out of the blue and white sterile packaging. “And Castiel, a pleasure as always.” Dr Mills added with a smirk. “How did you manage to get past the nurses?”

“Oh, I’m the boyfriend, working on being the husband though,” he explained simply with a wink at Dean. Dr Mills pretended not to notice.

Dr Mills came up to Dean, asked the usual questions, how did you manage that, can i see your wrist, you did a good job of that, Winchester.

“You’re definitely going to need stitches, and it’s gonna take a while for it to fully heal with how deep the grinder went,” she explained the time frame to expect as she started threading some needles and readying painkillers and anesthetic.

Dean really tried to hold it together, but he couldn’t stop looking and how deep the gash really was. He swore he saw bone. Getting air in his lungs proved to be a battle once again. He was dizzy, ready to let unconsciousness take him when he was moved around by strong hands.

“I’m moving you now, Dean, coming behind you, okay?” Castiel said, talking him through his every movement even though he could tell that Dean couldn’t hear him, wherever he was mentally. “There we go, see, easy. I’ve got you, sweetheart, lay back, just like that. Can you hear my breathing, Dean? Copy that for me,”

Dean caught pieces of what he was saying, he caught an ‘I’ve got you, sweetheart’ and something about breathing again. Deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, he started to match his breaths, Castiel's chest rising and falling, Dean copied him. He kept his eyes closed, screwed shut, and kept nuzzled into his chest.

Castiel kept an arm around his waist, holding Dean to him just in case, while his free hand rested in his hair. He seemed to like it, he noted, as he leaned into the touch.

Dean sighed softly, vanilla and musk clouding his senses in a blanket of warmth. He wanted to stay wrapped up in this safety, though he knew it wouldn’t last.

Dr. Mills gave Cas a look that was both apologetic and firm. “I’ll need him still. This is going to sting like hell before the numbing kicks in.”

Cas gave the smallest nod, shifting his grip on Dean so that his arm caged him in protectively, keeping him pressed against his chest. “Did you hear that, Dean? Jody is going to start now, and it’s going to sting at first until the numbing is working fully.”

Dean’s body went rigid when the needle pricked his torn skin. He jolted, breath tearing out of him in a ragged cry. His free hand clawed at Cas’s shirt, knuckles white, his forehead digging into Cas’s sternum like he could fold himself away from the pain.

Cas bent his head low, lips near Dean’s ear. “I know. I know it hurts, I’m sorry. I’ve got you.” He pressed a steady hand over Dean’s chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart, and guided his breaths again. “In. Out. That’s perfect. Stay with me, sweetheart.”

Dean’s muffled voice cracked against him. “I can’t—I can’t do this—”

“You can,” Cas answered without hesitation, his voice like iron wrapped in velvet. “You’re doing it now, sweetheart. Look at you, holding on, breathing with me.”
His words didn’t banish the tremors running through Dean, but Cas felt the smallest bit of weight lean into him more, surrendering, trusting.

Internally, Cas’s chest ached so fiercely he thought it might split. Dean wasn’t just trembling from pain, there was obvious fear there too, from memories Cas didn’t yet know but could feel in every broken gasp. Every time Dean flinched from the needle, Cas’s stomach knotted, but he forced his own hands to stay steady, his own voice low and calm, because Dean needed him to be unshakable.

If I could take this from him, I would. Every stitch, every ounce of fear. I’d bear it twice over if it meant he never had to look at me with eyes that wide and desperate again.

“Almost done, I promise,” Dr. Mills murmured, but Cas didn’t look at her. His whole world was the man shaking in his arms, the way Dean tried to muffle his whimpers like he wasn’t allowed to make them.

Castiel pressed his forehead briefly to Dean’s temple, murmuring, “You don’t have to be quiet, Dean, I know it hurts, you’re allowed to cry. I know I would be crying if I was getting stitches. There was one time I got a splinter, quite small, really, but I cried when I tried to remove it. I had to make my brother do it for me. I was 24 at the time. My pain tolerance is very low.”

Dean’s next exhale was a shuddering sob, hot tears wetting Cas’s shirt. Cas only held him tighter, hand smoothing over the back of his neck, letting him break apart safely.
Dean’s world narrowed to heat, light, and pain. Every pass of the needle sent fire licking up his arm, and every time, his body jolted like he couldn’t help it. But Cas was immovable — one arm firm around his waist, the other braced over his chest, grounding him.

“Good, Dean. Just one more,” Cas murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was lying. He only knew that Dean needed the words, needed the constant reassurance.

Dean was panting, his face hidden against Cas’s chest, and Cas tilted his chin down just enough to press his lips briefly into sweat-damp hair. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.
“Almost there,” Dr. Mills said again, voice gentler now, as if even she could see the unraveling.

The final knot was tied, the edges of the wound neatly closed, but Cas still felt Dean trembling against him, like a taut wire ready to snap. He didn’t loosen his hold until Dr. Mills pulled the gloves from her hands and said softly, “Done.”

Dean didn’t respond. His breaths were still short, ragged.

“Dean.” Cas said it quietly but firmly, hand sliding to cup his jaw again, coaxing his head up. “It’s finished. No more needles. You did it.”

Dean’s eyes cracked open, bloodshot and dazed. He blinked like he wasn’t sure if he believed him.

Cas’s throat went tight, but he forced a small, steady smile. “You did so well.”

Finally, the tension bled out of Dean all at once, leaving him slumping heavily against Cas. His breaths evened just slightly, but his body was dead weight, exhaustion dragging him down.

“I’ll take care of the bandage from here,” Dr. Mills said, setting her tray aside. “But he’s wiped out. He should stay overnight, just in case.”

Cas nodded, his fingers smoothing absently through Dean’s hair. “I’ll stay. I already promised.”

Dean stirred faintly at that, mumbling something against Cas’s shirt. Cas leaned close to catch it.

“Don’t leave, please Cas,”

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t even clear, but Cas felt it like a knife between his ribs. He pressed his palm firmer to Dean’s back. “I won’t. Not even for coffee”

Dr. Mills worked quietly, wrapping Dean’s wrist with clean gauze and taping it down. Cas barely noticed her, too focused on the rise and fall of Dean’s chest, the little twitches of pain even in sleep.

He trusts you. God help you if you ever break that, he thought to himself.

When Dr Mills finally left, promising to check in soon, Cas eased Dean back onto the thin hospital mattress. He stayed bent over him, brushing damp hair from his forehead, reluctant to let go even for that.

Dean cracked his eyes open again, glazed with exhaustion, and whispered, “You’re bossy.”

Cas huffed a quiet laugh, relief warming his chest. “And you’re all back in one piece. That’s all that matters.”

Dean’s lips twitched like he wanted to argue, but the fight wasn’t there. His eyes slipped shut again, his body finally giving in to rest.

Cas stayed at his side, hand still wrapped around Dean’s, listening to the steady rhythm of his breaths. Only then did he let his own shoulders sag, the fear finally bleeding out of him.

Don’t ever do that to me again, Dean Winchester, he thought, eyes soft on the man sprawled in the bed. I don’t know if my heart could take it.

Cas watched as Dean slept, keeping his gaze on the rise and fall of his chest, making sure he was still there, still breathing. He whimpered a few times in his sleep, tried to roll onto his side, and when it didn’t work he let out a frustrated huff of air. Cas couldn’t hide his smile if he tried.

He was falling asleep in the chair, he was distantly aware of it as his head rested next to their entwined hands.

Castiel blinked awake slowly, his back and neck immediately letting him know he was an idiot for falling asleep in such a position, but he didn't care. There was a weight on his head, running through his hair. He hummed softly, but his voice in the mornings was always deep, especially before coffee.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean murmured from above him. Cas could practically hear the smirk he was wearing.

“Morning, sweetheart.” he shot back without thinking, “Sleep okay?”

“Like a horse on tranquilizers,” Dean replied with a yawn, meeting Cas’s gaze as he moved his head up.

“Good, that’s good.” Cas said half distractedly, silently praying that they wouldn’t be stuck there too long because he needed coffee as soon as possible.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long as an older man came through the door, wearing a trucker’s cap, blue jeans, work boots and a flannel, a full carrier in his hand.

“You must be this Cas I keep hearing about,” he said in a way of greeting, his voice gruff, like he could be intimidating as hell if he wanted to, but was really a teddy bear.

“That would be correct, yes,” Castiel mumbled, slowly sitting up. He wasn’t exactly ecstatic to have Dean’s hand leave his hair, but there was coffee, and respecting elders, etc, etc.

Chapter Text

Bobby set the carrier down on the side table with a grunt, giving Cas a long, assessing look from under the brim of his cap. “Huh.”

Cas froze. He could stare down a boardroom of executives, argue with editors over deadlines, even kneel in front of Dean Winchester with blood on his hands and not falter. But under Bobby Singer’s weathered glare, he suddenly felt like a teenager caught sneaking back in after curfew.

Dean groaned quietly from the bed, sitting up a little. “Bobby, be nice. He saved my ass yesterday.”

“Saved it, or claimed it?” Bobby muttered, still watching Cas like he could peel back his soul with one squint.

Cas cleared his throat. “Ah. Yes. About that.” His fingers fussed with the cuff of his sleeve. “I may have… embellished the truth somewhat in order to ensure I could stay with Dean.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Embellished.”

“I told the hospital staff I was his boyfriend, and that I was trying to be his husband,” Cas admitted flatly, because there was no dignified way to dress it up.

There was a beat of silence. Bobby’s mouth twitched, but Cas couldn’t tell if it was irritation or amusement.

“Did you now,” Bobby said slowly, shifting his gaze to Dean.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, ears red. “Don’t look at me like that, it worked, didn’t it? You know how I get, Bobby...”

Bobby nodded before shrugging. “Winchester, you’ve always had a talent for collectin’ trouble. Didn’t figure it’d show up in a button-down shirt and a tie, but hell, I’ve been wrong before.”

Cas bristled, straightening in the chair. “I assure you, my intentions were—”

“Relax, son.” Bobby cut him off, shoving one of the coffees toward him. “If you were lookin’ to scam him, you’d have run screaming already. I can tell you’ve got some sense. That, and Dean’s still holdin’ your hand like it’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic.”

Cas glanced down. Sure enough, somewhere in the midst of Bobby’s entrance, Dean’s hand had found his again, stubbornly laced between his fingers. Heat crawled up the back of Cas’s neck.

Dean smirked, eyes half-lidded but amused. “Guess you’re stuck with me now, sunshine.”

Cas had no rebuttal. Not when his chest felt like it was caving in, and not when Bobby gave him that look like he’d just been weighed and measured — and maybe, just maybe, not found wanting.

Dean’s breathing evened out within minutes, a gentle rhythm that said he’d finally surrendered to sleep. The fight had drained right out of him — out of all of them — and the pale hospital light made the dark freckles at the corner of his eyes look softer. Cas stayed put, knuckles still threaded with Dean’s, watching him like he could memorize the rise and fall of his chest.

Bobby waited until he was sure Dean was actually asleep, he knew all of is tells. He didn’t whisper the way TV told you to; Bobby had learned long ago that people could sleep through anything if the house felt safe enough. He cleared his throat instead, slow and dry, looking at the paper cup Cas held in his hand with a grunt. “You finish your coffee?”

Cas handed Bobby the cup with his free hand, still holding Dean’s with the other. “Thank you.” His voice was small.

Bobby pulled the chair opposite and settled into it like it was a throne he’d stolen. He only looked at Dean for a beat, like making sure the man before him was truly out of immediate danger, then focused on Cas. “You done good,” he said, plain as a hammer. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Cas blinked, not used to such blunt praise. “I—thank you, Mr. Singer.”

“Call me Bobby.” The old man’s eyes softened just a fraction. “Name’s been around long enough that I don't need the ceremony.” He shifted, chin propped in his hand. “Look, kid—” he jerked a thumb toward Dean, who didn’t stir even when the sheet shifted. “—he’s stubborn. He’s loud. He’s a pain in the ass, but thats why we love ‘em. Folks who look after him don’t come cheap, you hear me?”

Cas squeezed Dean’s hand, the way someone might squeeze a fragile thing to make sure it was still there. “I understand.”

Bobby’s mouth pulled into something that could almost be called a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. I’m not usually the sappy type, but I’ll say this once and I’ll say it straight — thank you. For what you did, for staying. I’ve never seen him this calm in a hospital. There’s a backstory there that I’ll leave him to explain, but it ain’t pretty.”

“I thought so, and I’m not going to push it.” Cas’s tone was steady, but Bobby could hear the edge under it — the same edge Bobby himself used when he was about to say something important. “I’m not going anywhere, baggage or not. He’s also the one fixing my car, so he’s stuck with me for now.”

Bobby’s gaze sharpened. He leaned in like he was settling on a verdict. “I ain’t askin’ you to be a saint. I’m tellin’ you what happens if you hurt him.” He let the words hang a second, low and heavy. “You hurt Dean Winchester on my watch, I will find you. I will walk into whatever life you’ve got and I will make sure you regret the day you ever thought that was a good idea. You got me?”

Cas didn’t flinch. He looked straight at Bobby, calm and unblinking. “You have my word.”

Bobby watched him for a long time, studying the man who’d lied about being Dean’s boyfriend to keep him from being alone. Finally he nodded once. “Alright then. Keep him safe. And don’t let him go back to work too soon — I’ll personally come down and throttle him if I have to.”

Cas managed a thin smile at that, a small, real thing that made something in Bobby’s chest soften even further. “I’ll make sure he rests.”

They sat with Dean breathing between them, the room quiet except for the small sounds of a hospital night shift — distant voices, a cart rumbling somewhere down the hall. Bobby took another sip of his coffee, then cleared his throat. “You hungry? I brought a sandwich. Don’t let him hog it when he wakes up.”

Cas’s laugh was soft and surprised. “No sir, I’ll eat.”

Bobby gave him a long look, then pushed himself up. “You get some sleep too, kid. If you’re gonna be around him, you’ll need it. I’ll be back soon, make myself at home at his place and sort out dinner.” He dropped a hand on Cas’s shoulder before he left, rough and almost fatherly. “And Cas?”

“Yes?” He hoped he was doing a good job of hiding the pain in his eyes. He had never had a father, let alone a father figure in his life. Not one worth mentioning anyway.

“He doesn’t remember to look after himself all that much, take care of him, ya hear? I can tell yer not going anywhere anytime fast.”

Cas smiled then, small and certain. “I promise.”

Bobby nodded once more, tipped his hat in a way that might almost be affectionate, and shuffled out into the darker corridor. Cas watched him go, chest strangely full, then turned his attention back to Dean, who slept on like someone who had, for the first time in a long time, allowed himself to be taken care of.

“How long was I out?” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s shoulder, having rolled over into him. If Dean could smell how Cas thought he was smelling (like someone who hadn’t showered in 3 days), he didn’t mention it.

“About 3 hours, they’re getting your discharge papers now, and Bobby’s gone back to your place to cook and ‘make himself at home’.” Cas held up his free hand, making air quotes as he did his best impression of Bobby.

Dean chortled a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s pretty good,” he said to Cas with a grin. “But now I’m worried he’s going to judge my pots and pans.” he groaned.

“Ah, particular about his kitchen tools?” Cas hummed, nodding. “‘I’ll judge them with him,” he added with a smirk. Dean just pinched his shoulder.

The discharge papers took another half-hour, the usual dance of signatures and reminders about painkillers and rest. Dean mostly tuned it out, leaning heavier into Cas than he meant to when the nurse handed over a little white bag with his prescriptions. Cas didn’t comment, just guided him toward the elevator with a hand steady at his back.

Outside, the night air hit cool and sharp. The Impala gleamed under the parking lot lights, black paint holding the glow like a promise. Dean hesitated for half a second, watching Cas circle around to the driver’s side like he’d done it a hundred times.

His chest pulled tight. That was his car. His baby. No one drove her but him.

And yet—he found himself handing over the keys without a word.

Sliding into the passenger seat felt wrong and right at the same time. His thigh throbbed with every movement, and by the time he settled back into the leather, sweat was pricking his neck. Cas adjusted the seat, rolled his sleeves back another inch, gripped the wheel with those long, steady fingers—and Dean was gone.

His stomach swooped. He should not be thinking about Cas’s hands while sitting next to him, while half-drugged and half-broken and too tired to fight himself. But God, they looked like they could do things. Strong, sure, careful. He imagined them on his bare skin, gripping his hip, wrapping around his throat, sliding—

“Dean?”

He jumped, heat crawling up his neck. “Huh?”

Cas shot him a sidelong look, brow furrowed but voice even. “You alright? You’ve gone very quiet.”

Dean grunted, turning to glare out the window, hoping the night hid the blush burning his face. “M’fine. Just… tired.”

Cas hummed, unconvinced but unwilling to press. He guided the Impala out of the lot smooth as if she’d been his for years, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting easy on the gearshift. Dean’s eyes kept snagging on the veins in his forearm, the slow flex of tendons.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly way too aware of the hard press of denim against his crotch. He was not going to pop a boner in the goddamn passenger seat of his own car. Not when Cas was right there, sleeves rolled, smelling like coffee and clean soap and something steady that Dean didn’t have a name for.

Cas glanced at him again, and Dean swore he could feel it, heavy as a touch. His pulse kicked hard.

Dean was focused on willing his dick to stop what it was doing as it was not the time or place and no matter what he had said to the nurse, they were in fact not dating and he was also pretty sure that he wouldn’t be Castiel’s type.

They were polar opposites afterall, rich and poor, tidy and cluttered, whole and broken; Castiel would never want Dean. He would fix up the Mustang and he might see him once or twice in town, share an awkward smile or wave and move on.

“Dean, sweetheart, I need your address,” Cas interrupted his thoughts, sounding ike he had already tried asking him the question before.

“Huh? Oh, right, sorry.” he mumbled, cheeks burning red for a whole other reason this time. He really didn’t want him to see where he lived, from fear of the judgement. It was far from nice, the house he rented. “Just, uh, take me to your place and I can drive home from there,” he said with a shrug, trying to play off the fact that his heart was hammering in his chest.

“You can’t drive with your wrist the way it is, Dean. Did you listen to the nurse at all?” Cas asked, his tone playful, but it hit Dean square in the chest.

Cas waited, patient as ever, for Dean to give him something more than silence. When nothing came, he sighed softly, turned the Impala down another street, and tried again.
“Dean. Your address.”

Dean’s jaw flexed. He stared out the passenger window so hard it felt like he might burn a hole through the glass. “Drop me at your place. I’ll figure it out from there.”

“That isn’t an option.” Cas’s tone was calm, but it brooked no argument. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean muttered.

“It does.”

Dean’s chest tightened, prickly heat crawling under his skin. Why couldn’t Cas just leave it? His pulse kicked up, and before he could stop himself, the words came out sharp, clipped. “Back off, alright? Just—drop it.”

The air in the car went heavy. Cas didn’t press, but Dean could feel the weight of his gaze. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He shifted in the seat, leg throbbing, wrist aching, every nerve jangling with the desperate need to hide.

After a long beat, Dean huffed through his nose, gave up fighting, and spat out his address like it was being dragged from him. “There. Happy?”

Cas didn’t flinch. “Thank you.”

Dean crossed his arms tight, retreating into silence. He could feel it—the shift, the way everything had gone brittle and sharp between them. His stomach twisted, the old familiar voice in his head hissing that he’d screwed it up, ruined whatever fragile thing had been forming.

It was better than having high hopes, though. He should’ve known better by now. Hoping and wishing for something that could maybe happen never went well for him, it made the end worse, having gotten closer, his heart involved whether he wanted to or not. Easier to cut it off himself, shove the blade in and twist before someone else could. At least then he was in control of the pain.

So he didn’t explain. Didn’t offer anything. Just pressed himself harder against the passenger door, like he could melt into the steel and disappear. The Impala purred beneath them, steady as ever, while his pulse clawed at his throat. The city lights smeared across the glass, blurring in his eyes, and he blinked hard, furious at the heat gathering there.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until the copper tang filled his mouth, trying to ground himself. But the lump stayed, a jagged thing stuck in his throat. It was better this way, he told himself. Better to push Cas out now than wait for the inevitable moment he realized Dean wasn’t worth the trouble. But God, it still fucking hurt.

The silence was deafening. Cas didn’t press, didn’t push for answers, and somehow that made it worse. Dean kept waiting for the judgment, the tight-lipped dismissal, but all he got was quiet patience. It made his chest ache like a bruise.

When Cas finally turned into his street, Dean’s body was wound so tight he thought he might snap clean through. He swallowed hard, forcing out a rasped, “Thanks,” as he shoved the door open. His thigh screamed when he hit the pavement too fast, wrist pulsing hot at his side, but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t look back. Couldn’t. He kept his head down as he stumbled up the stairs, vision tunneling until all he saw was the door in front of him. He fumbled the handle, slipped inside, and let it close with a final, muffled thud that sounded too much like the end of something. Tears were already rolling silently down his cheeks.

Bobby said something from the living room, voice rough with concern, but Dean barely registered it. He walked through the house like a ghost, the ache in his body a dull echo against the rawer pain tearing through his chest.

His room was dark, unmade, familiar in all the wrong ways. Dean collapsed onto the mattress, curling in on himself like he could keep the pieces together by sheer force. His throat burned. His eyes stung. He buried his face in his hands and tried to swallow it down, but the sob cracked through anyway, muffled and ugly.

He pressed his fist to his mouth to stop the rest from escaping, chest heaving. He hated it—hated feeling this weak, this exposed, over someone he’d barely let in. But Cas had touched him, seen him, said you’re doing so good like it meant something, and now Dean couldn’t scrub it out of his bones.

He shook with the effort of holding himself together, every jagged inhale catching on the truth he didn’t want to face: it had been a long damn time since someone made him feel like maybe he wasn’t entirely unfixable. And he’d slammed the door on it before it could break him.

Still, alone in the dark, Dean wasn’t sure if the worst pain was from pushing Cas away, or from wishing, desperately, that he would come knocking anyway.

Dean didn’t know how much time had passed. Minutes, hours—everything blurred into the ache. His pillow was damp beneath his face, and his throat burned from holding back sobs that ripped through anyway, muffled against the fabric. He’d tried to stop. God, he’d tried. But his chest kept splitting open, again and again, and there was no patch job for that.

The floorboard outside his room creaked. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket over his head like that could hide the sound of his ragged breathing.

“Kid,” Bobby’s voice came low from the doorway, gruff but careful.

Dean didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He bit down hard, hoping Bobby would just leave him the hell alone.

But of course, Bobby Singer wasn’t the leaving type. After a beat, the mattress dipped as the old man sat down heavy at the edge of the bed. He didn’t touch Dean right away, just let the silence sit there, thick and unbearable.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” Bobby muttered finally, not unkind. “You’re gonna give yourself a migraine on top of everything else.”

Dean huffed, the sound more broken than he wanted, and yanked the blanket tighter. “M’fine.” His voice cracked straight down the middle, betraying him.

Bobby sighed through his nose, the sound full of long years of knowing better. “Boy, I’ve seen you fine. This ain’t it.”

Dean’s chest hitched, sharp and painful. He shoved his face into the pillow, voice muffled. “Just drop it, Bobby. Please.”

That one word—please—carved Bobby open more than he’d ever admit. He reached out, heavy hand settling on Dean’s shoulder, grounding him through the trembling. Dean flinched, but he didn’t pull away.

“You’re allowed to be a mess sometimes,” Bobby said, softer now, like he was talking to the kid he’d half-raised, not the grown man curled up like he was bracing for impact. “Ain’t weak to let somebody see it. Not with me. Not with Cas.”

Dean’s breath stuttered, breaking apart. He shook his head under the blanket. “Don’t—don’t say his name.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it—” Dean’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. He yanked the blanket down just enough to glare at Bobby through red, swollen eyes. “Because it hurts, alright?”

The words tore out of him, jagged and wild. His lip trembled, and suddenly he was gasping like the air had turned solid. “It—it hurts so bad, Bobby, and I don’t even know why. It’s not—he’s not—I shouldn’t—” He broke off, hands fisting in the blanket like he could strangle the feelings out of existence.

Bobby didn’t flinch. He just shifted closer, pulling the blanket down the rest of the way, rough fingers brushing through Dean’s sweat-damp hair. “Because you care, idjit. Because somebody finally showed up and gave a damn, and you don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

Dean let out a choked, miserable laugh that dissolved into another sob. “Don’t deserve it.”

“Bullshit.” Bobby’s voice snapped sharp, but his hand stayed steady on Dean’s shoulder. “You think I’d let some stranger hang around if you didn’t? You’re my boy, and if I can see it plain as day, then you sure as hell deserve it.”

Dean’s breath came in harsh pulls, but something in him cracked at that, a softer break than before. He curled closer to Bobby without meaning to, his forehead pressing against the older man’s thigh, shoulders shaking.

Bobby just kept a hand on him, firm and steady. “Ain’t nobody judging you, Dean. Least of all Cas. Man looked like he’d walk through fire just to keep you breathing. You hear me?”

Dean couldn’t answer. His throat had closed up again, heart thundering like it was trying to break free of his chest. But the words lodged somewhere in the mess of him, burning in a way that wasn’t all bad.

Bobby rubbed a slow circle between his shoulder blades, quiet but unyielding. “You’re allowed to let somebody stay, boy. Just this once, try not to chase off the one person who wants to.”

Dean sobbed harder then, body folding in on itself, but he didn’t pull away.

 

The days blurred.

Dean drifted through them like a ghost, never fully present, never quite gone. His body healed in fits and starts — stitches tugging at his wrist, his thigh aching when he moved wrong — but nothing touched the ache inside his chest. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t even look at it straight on. Every time his mind brushed the thought of Cas, his stomach dropped like he’d missed a step.

Bobby didn’t leave him to his own devices, though. The old man made himself at home, as he’d promised. He cooked, shoved plates into Dean’s hands and sat there until he ate.

He stood in the hall until the sound of the shower came on. He switched on the TV, grumbled about whatever show was playing, and dragged Dean down onto the couch beside him until Dean’s stiff frame gave in.

“You’re gonna rot if you keep this up,” Bobby told him one evening, shoving a beer into his hand.

Dean took it, because fighting cost too much. He stared at the flickering TV, at nothing. “Already am.”

Bobby’s sigh filled the room, but he didn’t argue. Just kept sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, as if his presence alone might anchor Dean.

By the third day, Benny swung by, full of charm and no-nonsense, arms crossed like a disappointed older brother. “Ya ain’t steppin’ foot back in that shop ‘til Bobby gives me the green light,” he drawled. “And don’t try me, brother, ‘cause I’ll hogtie you to this couch if I gotta.”

Dean muttered a curse, but the truth was he didn’t have the fight in him. He let them fuss, let them hover. It was easier than trying to justify why every breath felt like it hurt.

Eventually, though, he had to go back. Work was all he knew how to do. Half-days, Bobby said, and Benny backed him up, so Dean agreed. It was something.

 

The shop was loud, familiar, and wrong all at once. Dean buried himself in the easier jobs, kept his stitches clean, avoided looking too long at anyone’s face. By lunchtime he was bone-tired, crouched in Bay 2 with a rag in his good hand when he heard Benny’s low voice carry across the garage.

“C’mon, Cas, you don’t gotta do this—”

Dean froze.

He turned, and there Cas was, standing by the office desk. The man looked nothing like the polished, steady figure who’d carried him through fire just a week ago. His shirt was wrinkled, sleeves rolled like he’d shoved them up with shaking hands. His hair was a mess, and the shadows under his eyes were stark enough to make Dean’s throat close.

“I can’t,” Cas was saying, his voice rough. “I won’t put him through it again. Just—give me the bill, everything that was quoted, I’ll pay it. But the Mustang…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “I’ll take it somewhere else.”

Dean’s chest caved in.

Benny looked ready to argue, but his gaze flicked past Cas and caught Dean, and the silence stretched. Cas followed his line of sight.

The moment their eyes met, it was like something detonated. Cas’s whole body went rigid. His breath stuttered, lips parting on a word he didn’t seem able to form.

“Oh.”

It came out wrecked.

Dean swallowed hard, throat burning, but nothing came out. He couldn’t move.

Cas’s hands flexed at his sides, his composure crumbling. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, voice shaking, too loud in the cavernous shop. “I didn’t know he was- fuck, im sorry.” His chest was heaving, panic clear in every sharp line of him. “I should’ve stayed away, I’m sorry-”

Dean’s vision blurred. He wanted to shout, wanted to deny it, wanted to demand what the hell Cas thought he’d ruined, but the words were stone in his throat.

Cas took a step back, shaking his head like he couldn’t bear the sight of him. “I’ll send someone to pick up the car and engine and everything, I’m sorry Benny, I’ll, I’ll put the payment through in a minute, i have, i’ve got the details.”

And before Dean could catch his breath, Cas turned on his heel and strode for the door, every inch of him carved with guilt and despair.

“Cas,” Dean rasped, his voice a whisper, but it was too late. The bell above the shop door rang sharp as a gunshot, and he was gone.

Dean stood rooted to the spot, chest heaving, as Benny swore under his breath. His knees nearly gave out beneath him.

Cas’s hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his phone. He managed to pull up Jody’s number, pressed call, and pressed it to his ear with a clammy palm.

“Cas?” she answered quickly, warmth and concern in her voice. “What’s going on?”

“I—” His throat closed around the words. He swallowed hard. “I… I need a ride.”

That was all he managed. Jody didn’t press. She just said, “I’ll be there in five,” and hung up.

Cas’s legs felt unsteady, so he leaned against the brick wall just outside the garage, head tipped back, breathing shallow. The edges of the world blurred, sound distant, like he’d been shoved underwater. He tried not to picture Dean’s face in the shop — pale, stricken, silent. Tried not to hear his own voice cracking like glass.

By the time Jody pulled up, he was pale and trembling. She slid out of the driver’s seat with the ease of someone used to this, and Cas climbed in wordlessly. She made sure he put on his seatbelt before closing the door and getting back in.

“You’re scaring me, Castiel,” she said softly as she drove. “Talk to me. What happened?”

He stared out the window. His reflection looked unfamiliar — hollow eyes, drawn mouth, a man unraveling. “I hurt him,” he whispered, voice raw. “I don’t even, I don’t know, but I… it doesn’t matter, it’s done.”

Jody’s hand twitched on the wheel, but she didn’t answer. Not yet.

At home, Cas moved like a zombie. He went to his desk, found the old Mustang quote he’d filed away, and pulled it up on his computer. His hands trembled as he typed in the transfer, the quoted amount plus an additional $1000. He paused over the notes section, then typed with grim finality:

For Dean. Do not tell him who it’s from or why. Add it into his next paycheck.

His finger hovered over the enter key. For a moment, his chest seized, a voice screaming at him that this wasn’t enough, that nothing would ever be enough. Still, he pressed send.

The confirmation popped up, neat and clinical. Done.

He dropped his head into his hands, numbness spreading like frost. His thoughts spiraled darker and darker: Dean’s face when he saw him, the way he froze, the silence that said more than words ever could. He should’ve stayed away. He should’ve never stepped into Dean’s life. He was poison. He should have known.

“Cas,” Jody’s voice came from the doorway. She hadn’t left. “Talk to me. Please.”

He couldn’t. The words jammed in his throat, his chest heaving with air that wouldn’t go deep enough. His pulse roared in his ears. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw sparks.

And then — his phone buzzed against the desk.

He flinched, heart hammering, and looked down. A new message. From Bobby.

Cas’s stomach dropped. He swiped it open with trembling fingers. The message was short, but every word hit like a hammer:

Cas, I don’t know what the hell happened between you and Dean, but he’s falling apart. I’ve seen him bad before, but not like this. He’s not eating, not sleeping, just… wasting away in front of me. I’ve tried everything I know, and it ain’t working.

I need your help.

Cas’s breath stuttered out of him. He read the message once. Twice. A third time, the words blurring as his vision burned hot. His whole body went cold, like ice had replaced his blood.

Jody crouched beside him, eyes sharp on his face. “What is it? Cas, what happened?”

He couldn’t speak. He just handed her the phone with a shaking hand.

She read it silently, then looked back at him, gaze softening with something like pity. “Oh, Cas,” she murmured. “You love him.”

Cas pressed a fist to his mouth, trying to hold back the sound clawing up his throat. His lungs hurt, his heart hurt, everything in him screamed. He wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. Not when the truth was splitting him open.

Jody had been mercilessly practical. She didn’t say much, just guided Cas into the shower, the warm water sluicing over him, helping him scrub at the tension and filth that seemed to have built up like armor. His hands shook as she handed him a towel. Clothing came next — something neutral, practical, nothing flashy. She watched him dress with a quiet patience that left no room for argument, no room for denial.

By the time they pulled up to Dean’s street, Cas’s legs felt leaden, his chest tight. Jody parked the car and rested a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got this. Just… be there. Let him see you’re human too. Let him have you.”

Cas nodded, but it felt like swallowing knives. He followed her to the door, where Bobby was waiting, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“Cas,” Bobby said immediately, his tone shifting to concern, sharp and fatherly. “You look… hell. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m… fine,” Cas said, though his voice cracked despite himself. “I can do this.”

Bobby gave him a long look, like he wanted to argue but knew he couldn’t. “Alright. Just… take care of him. Don’t let him eat you alive, either.”

Jody and Bobby left then, leaving Cas standing at the threshold, alone with the weight of what he had to do. He took a deep breath, then moved inside.

He filled a couple of water bottles before heading up to Dean’s room. The sight of him made Cas falter. Dean looked like hell frozen over — pale, disheveled, eyelids heavy, shoulders slumped. His wrist was still bandaged, and even under the dim light, the exhaustion clinging to him was palpable.

Cas knelt beside the bed, placing a bottle of water gently in Dean’s hands. “Here,” he said softly.

Dean’s gaze lifted, dull, haunted. He didn’t speak. Cas’s chest tightened. He swallowed and tried again.

“I… I’m sorry,” Cas began, words trembling. “For… everything. I don’t, I think I, I don’t know… I’ve hurt you, and I can’t—”

Dean’s hand twitched, almost reflexively, letting Cas continue. He let him talk, like a dam had broken somewhere inside him.

Cas’s voice was low, earnest, almost ragged. “I thought I was helping you, i know you don’t, dont do well with hospitals… I, I… took advantage when you were hurt. When you
were on all those painkillers. Holding you… touching you… I don’t know, and I can’t face the thought that I hurt you.”

Dean didn’t interrupt. He just looked at him, pale and quiet, letting him unravel.

“I’m… I’ll have someone else handle the Mustang,” Cas said, voice breaking. “You won’t have to see me again. You won’t have to… I won’t make you feel unsafe. I won’t ever do that to you again.”

Dean’s lips twitched, the faintest acknowledgment, a quiet exhale that told Cas he was listening, even if he didn’t know what to do with the words.

Cas bowed his head, letting the weight of it all sink in. He felt hollow, shattered in ways he hadn’t anticipated, but he had done what he could, admitted it, apologized, and made the decision to step back.

Dean’s room was quiet, save for the faint hiss of the radiator and the rasp of his breathing. Cas stayed a little longer, offering what comfort he could without touching, without
speaking, just presence. Then, finally, he rose.

“I’ll… go,” he whispered. “You won’t see me.” he promised

Cas’s hand was on the doorknob, already halfway out, body taut with the weight of guilt. Each step toward the hallway felt like walking through quicksand. He had made the decision. He had to leave. He couldn’t hurt Dean again.

Then, a voice broke the silence, low and hoarse, shaking in a way that made Cas freeze.

“Cas…”

He turned slowly, heart hammering. Dean was sitting up in bed, pale and disheveled, eyes wide, voice raw. It was the first coherent sound Cas had heard from him all day, and it stopped him in his tracks.

“It, it’s okay, Dean, I know what I did and-” Cas started, voice breaking, but Dean cut him off.

“No. Don’t.” The word was fierce, trembling with emotion. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Cas’s chest tightened. “Dean… I… I can’t. I—”

Dean shook his head, letting out a harsh, frustrated laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t care. I don’t… I don’t know why you think you took advantage of me. You didn’t. Not even close.” His voice cracked, fear and something raw and exposed underlining each word.

“I…” Cas’s throat tightened. His stomach twisted. “I, when you were hurt, on those painkillers, I just…”

Dean leaned forward, resting heavily against the headboard, hand fisting in the sheets. “I know. I know what you were doing. And I, I fell for you. Too fast. Far too hard. I’m
terrified, Cas. Terrified that you’ll see me, see where I live, see how I… live—, and you’ll think I wanted something from you, or you’ll see I’m broke and disgusting and I didn’t want the illusion to go away. I just, i liked how you treated me normally. I don’t want your money or anything, I’m… I’m not… I’m not a whore, i promise, or, or a gold digger” His words broke off, choked, the shame and fear hanging like a weight.

It was the closest Dean had come to admitting that he had been before, a whore, to make sure Sammy was fed when John wasn’t there. When he was 15.

Cas stepped closer, hands trembling at his sides, desperate to close the gap between them. “Dean… I never thought that. I could never think that of you, sweetheart.”

Dean swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, and choked on a sob. “Please, stay, please,” he whispered, breaking in another way, yet his heart was back in one piece.

“Of course, Dean.” Cas’s voice was low, unsteady, but resolute. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean let out a shaky breath, almost collapsing back onto the bed, finally allowing himself to feel the panic, the fear, and the vulnerability. Cas moved closer, sitting on the edge of his bed, placing a gentle hand over Dean’s. The gesture wasn’t intimate, not in a way that pressured or demanded, it was grounding, safe, honest.

Dean’s chest heaved, eyes shimmering, and he whispered, almost to himself, “I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t gonna let myself…”

“I know,” Cas said softly, thumb brushing over the back of Dean’s hand. “I know. You don’t have to explain. I was going to try win you over.” Cas admitted with a small smile. “I
uh, I spent too many hours, on company time, researching cars and classic rock to try,”

Dean’s shoulders shook as he let a single tear escape, even as he let out a wet laugh. “I fell for you, Cas, just as you are, you don’t need to try. I’m scared that I’ll ruin it, though.”

“You couldn’t ruin this, Dean,” Cas said firmly, eyes locking with his. “Not ever. I’m not going anywhere. I think im in love with you, Dean, and i want to try, I want to earn it, if you’ll let me.”

For the first time in days, Dean let himself lean into that truth, into the presence of someone who wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t judge him. He clutched Cas’s hand like a lifeline, letting the weight of his fear, his heartbreak, and his relief wash through him.

And Cas stayed, hands and heart both trembling, but there, unflinching, letting Dean’s vulnerability meet his without breaking either of them.