Chapter Text
DECEMBER 2019
KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI
ESPN News reports that the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim have signed right-handed pitcher Sam Winchester from the Kansas City Royals. Winchester, runner-up for this year’s Cy Young award, became a free agent in October and is rumored to have penned a deal for around $175 million over five years. If confirmed, those numbers would propel the talented young righty into the ranks of the highest-paid players in the game. Winchester will also be reunited with his older brother in Anaheim, catcher Dean Winchester, and his longtime manager with the Royals, Bobby Singer, who announced his own signing with the Angels last week.
Dean leans back against the wall of the press room and smirks. He might be a grown-ass man, but he’ll never outgrow the joy it gives him to watch his baby brother be awkward.
“Uh, yeah… I mean, of course Dean’s presence influenced my decision, but I’d have signed with this club regardless. It’s a great organization and I’m proud to be playing here.” Sam fidgets with the bright red Angels hat in front of him. He looks uncomfortable and Dean tracks his brother’s gaze as it flicks around the room, his knees bobbing up and down under the conference table where he’s sandwiched between their manager, Bobby, and Gabriel, the president of baseball operations. Sam had been introduced as the new ace of the pitching staff just a few minutes ago, and was now fielding questions from a group of assembled sports writers. The room is hot and crowded and filled with the intermittent clicks and flashes from cameras. Dean is able to blend into the background, free to watch his brother sit at the head of the room and squirm under the scrutiny of the press.
“But obviously, you know, it’ll be great to have him catching me again,” Sam smiles genuinely for perhaps the first time since he entered the room, expanding on his answer to some writer from Bleacher Report. “Dean’s the guy who taught me how to throw my slider and how to stare down a batter. I wouldn’t be here without him.”
Dean ducks his chin, hiding his smile. Despite his best efforts to remain aloof, Sam’s answer causes warmth to flood his system. Bela, his and Sam’s agent, catches the smile from her perch next to him and rolls her eyes. “You two are almost enough to thaw my icy heart,” she whispers, her fingers pausing from their furious typing on her phone to rib him.
“Eat me, Limey Lugosi,” he whispers back, lowering his cap further down his forehead.
The hands of various journalists fly into the air again. “Tim? Go ahead,” Gabriel calls out.
“Sam, you finished second in the Cy Young voting. Can we expect to see anything different from you next season to help you improve?”
“I think you guys should tell me. You’re the ones who voted for Verlander,” Sam responds, raising an eyebrow. “I won 21 games, too, and I didn’t have to rely on anyone banging garbage cans to get the run support from my offense.”
Dean’s sharp bark of surprised laughter rings out over the clicking of camera lenses and causes most people to swivel in their seats, looking for the source.
“Looks like you outed yourself, Dean-o,” Gabriel says from the stage, smiling mischievously. “Why don’t you come on up here and take some of the pressure off your little bro?”
Pushing himself up from where he was slumped against the wall, Dean scratches his nose conspicuously with his middle finger. “Sure thing, boss.”
Gabriel rolls his eyes at Dean’s reaction while the new manager, Bobby Singer, scoots his chair over to make room at the long table. “Idjit,” he mutters quietly, smiling faintly as Dean takes a seat.
“Ok, ok, do your worst,” Dean says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, scowling. The press doesn’t fluster him the way it does Sam, but answering their inane, rude, and often overly personal questions has always rubbed him the wrong way. After seven seasons in the majors, Dean has gotten a reputation with them as obstinate and evasive, which only seems to egg the lot of them on.
A man’s voice shouts over the din, not bothering to wait for Gabriel to recognize him.
“Dean, any comment on those rumors about your left ACL?”
“You mean the rumors that y’all started? Nah, I’m good.” His knee was not, in fact, good. Neither were his hips or his right rotator cuff. At just twenty-eight years old, his body felt about ninety. Aches and pains were normal for players his age, particularly for catchers, but his limbs currently felt like they were breaking down piece by piece. There’s no way in hell, though, that he would ever admit anything like that to these vultures. “Isn’t this supposed to be about Samsquatch? His hair alone should warrant at least two thousand words.”
Sam leans back and turns his head, hiding behind Gabriel’s back, and mouths, “Jerk.” Dean just winks and mouths “Bitch,” back at him.
Yeah, it’s going to be great to have Sammy around all the time.
“Ok, folks. Let’s get back on track. Last question.” Gabriel scans the crowd. “Kevin, let’s have it.”
A middle-aged writer in a wrinkled button down nods at being recognized and stands. “Bobby, do you think having the Winchester brothers on the same team is the key to winning the pennant and getting back to the World Series?”
This past season the Angels made it to the ALCS only to be beaten by the Royals, Bobby and Sam’s former team. The Royals, though, lost the World Series in five games to the Nationals, winning only the game that Sam started as pitcher. What kind of deal Bela had made with Satan to get them all on the same team, Dean never wanted to know, but he was incredibly grateful to the baseball gods it had all worked out.
“Listen, I’ve known Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, here, since they were kids, and they never play better than when they’re playing together. Add these two to the stellar group of guys we’ve already got, and I think we’re in for a real special season. Just wait and see, folks.”
FEBRUARY/MARCH 2020
TEMPE, ARIZONA
“Man, there’s nothing like a sunrise out here!” Sam calls out, a bit breathlessly, as he walks into the kitchen. He grabs a glass out of the cabinet and flips on the faucet, toeing off his running shoes as he fills the cup.
Dean just grunts from where he’s leaning against the counter, squinting in the morning sunlight that’s streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the loft as he waits for the coffee to finish brewing. He bought this place a few years back, and he and Sam are roommates for the duration of spring training. Still mostly asleep, he lunges towards the now-full coffee pot, accidentally brushing the back of his hand against his brother as he goes. He makes a disgusted noise and wipes his hand against his boxers. “Dude. You’re fucking rank and dripping your unnaturally cheery sweat all over my kitchen.” He pours himself a large mug of coffee and reaches for the Fruit Loops.
“Just give me the word and I’ll get out of your hair,” Sam begins, holding his hands up in surrender. “I don’t need to hang around here watching you give yourself diabetes.”
“Just ‘cause my diet doesn’t consist of only chia seeds and kale doesn’t mean I’m not healthy, you rabbit-ass bitch.”
“The twelve tons of sugar you consume daily beg to differ. Maybe if you cared more about nutrition your whole body would start to feel better. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty.”
Dean jabs his spoon at his brother. “Don’t start with that shit on day one, Sammy. You better remember to respect your damn elders, or Bobby and Rufus’ll have you benched, Cy Young finalist or not.”
Rufus Turner, the intense, no-nonsense pitching coach that Bobby brought with him from Kansas City, was one of the few people who was able to get through Sam’s thick skull when he was on one of his holier-than-thou tirades.
“Besides,” Dean continues, “I’m meeting with the new team doc after the workout today. I’m sure he’ll preach at me about the healing properties of tofu.”
“Nice! You’re gonna love him. But is your shoulder that bad?” Sam’s brow wrinkles in concern.
“My shoulder? Not really. Bobby just wants him to take a look at me and probably recommend some strength-training exercises or something.” Dean never talked about his various ailments with Sam, as his brother tended to take on the burden of care like it was his own injury. He’d made that mistake when he pulled his hamstring his senior year in high school, and Sam had taken it upon himself to monitor his every movement. “Now go get your crap together before we head out. Only you would workout before our workout. I don’t know who raised you to be this way, ‘cause I sure as shit didn’t.”
Sam contorts his expression into his patented Samuel Winchester Bitch Face but walks out of the room, shaking his head. “Don’t act like I’m not your proudest accomplishment, jerk.”
Dean rolls his eyes and takes a giant gulp of coffee, fondness for his brother welling up within him. Sam’s an infuriating ass, but he really is Dean’s proudest accomplishment. Dean doesn’t have many happy memories of his early childhood. Their dad, John, had mentally checked out of parenting after their mom died in a house fire when Sam was an infant, unable to get past the grief that consumed him. He wasn’t a bad guy, per se, but he didn’t know how to prioritize his sons when faced with single parenting. He’d take months-long construction jobs, moving his young kids around the country with him.
Once he was old enough to take care of Sam alone, Dean had asked John if they could stay behind with Bobby or Ellen—two old friends of the family—when he went out on jobs. Already clearly a bright kid, Sam deserved to be able to go to the same school for more than a month at a time and have some stability.
The adults reached an informal custody agreement in which the Winchester brothers would split their time between Bobby’s and Ellen’s houses, which were located in the same town in Kansas. Ellen even had a daughter, Jo, who was just a few months younger than Sam. And in between jobs, John would come and rent some crappy motel room for a while and the boys would stay with him.
Baseball was a habit that had been cultivated as a result of Dean’s desire to give his brother a sense of normality. What was more quintessential to the American experience than baseball? The first time he played catch with Sam was during a stint at Bobby’s. He was ten, Sam was six, and Bobby was managing a minor-league team in Iowa. It was late fall—Bobby’s season had ended a few weeks earlier—and it was cold enough that Dean had had to bribe Sam to wear his thick winter coat while they played outside. He’d found some old baseball gloves in the shed and showed Sam how to fit the adult-sized mitt onto his small hand. Dean demonstrated the proper throwing and catching form, encouraging him to cradle the ball in the palm of the glove. But the mitt kept weighing down Sam’s hand, causing the little boy to drop the ball over and over again. He threw the glove off in frustration and demanded that Dean just toss him the ball bare-handed.
“I’m not a baby, Dean! It won’t hurt me. Just throw it over here and I’m gonna throw it back so hard you’re the one whose hand is gonna hurt!”
Dean was a firm believer in learning by doing, so he shrugged and threw the ball back, not bothering to take any strength out of his throw. Sam caught the ball with a smack to his hand, but he didn’t flinch. Pursing his lips and frowning at his brother, Sam threw the ball with all the force his six-year-old body could muster, but his trajectory was off and the ball bounced onto the hard ground about two feet in front of him.
Dean had laughed his ass off but was patient with his brother, correcting his form and tossing the ball back and forth until they were both sniffling from the cold.
The next day, Bobby set a large square of plywood against a tree in the yard and helped both boys refine their skills. By the time spring rolled around and Bobby had to go back to traveling with the minor-league team, Dean and Sam were both much improved.
“Tell you what, boys,” he’d said before shuttling them over to Ellen’s, “I’ll make sure you get signed up for little league this summer, ok? You two got some natural talent, and it ain’t fair to deny you the joy of this game just ‘cause you got a daddy who can’t keep his damn head on straight. Besides, I’m sure Ellen will want to sign Jo up, too. That girl’s got too much energy for her own good. Running around the bases oughta tire all three of you chickens out.”
The boys took to baseball with an all-consuming passion. They spent hours together, Sam steadily growing stronger and more accurate with his pitching and Dean coming to love catching for his brother, always with the aim of helping him improve. Dean thought of his own skill in baseball as a happy accident—he would never have continued to play if Sam had lost interest—but the sport became one of the few constants in the boys’ lives. Home wasn’t a house, but instead it was the smell of dirt, grass and leather, the crack of a bat, and the thud of a ball hitting a mitt.
By the time Dean reached high school, he was just under six feet tall and had the talent to earn the starting catcher’s position, beating out guys four years older than him. He loved setting up behind the plate, planning and plotting against the batter. He’d spend hours drawing up battle plans for the next day’s game instead of finishing his homework. Dean was never good at concentrating on things that held little interest for him. “Catching is the thinking man’s position, boy,” Bobby had explained to him. “Lord knows how you’re so good at it, considerin’ that you got the brains of a chimpanzee.”
Dean finished his freshman year with the second-highest batting average on the team and an invitation to play over the summer with a traveling league. He wouldn’t leave Sam, though, so he just continued to practice with his brother in the high school’s empty fields, teaching him to perfect his windup and how to psych out a batter. His brother had a natural talent for pitching, and between Bobby’s coaching and Dean’s own input, Sammy was getting written about in the local papers when he was just thirteen, having thrown the first no-hitter in the city’s little league history.
It didn’t hurt that Sam’s own growth spurt had him clocking in at over six feet when he was a freshman, joining the high school team for Dean’s senior year. That season the Winchester brothers earned nationwide attention for their talent: Sam for his stoic, commanding presence on the mound and Dean for his ability both behind and at the plate. According to the press, theirs was a feel-good story, perfect for sandwiching in between the macabre reports of war, crime, and politics. In the evening news, they were just two handsome American brothers turning to baseball to overcome their broken home. Dean would tell anyone who asked that he and Sammy had grown up just fine, thanks, nothing broken about them (his interviews were usually cut out of the final broadcasts).
After high school, Dean spent two years at community college before he was drafted by the Chicago Cubs. It was the first time that he’d be away from Sam for more than a few days at a time, and he felt his brother’s absence acutely. Dean coasted through the minor leagues, spending just under two years causing scouts to salivate before he made his debut in The Show, called up to fill out the roster for the playoffs. He hit a home run in his first professional at-bat and made a defensive play worthy of SportsCenter, causing baseball’s talking heads to remark that “Winchester will be something special in this game.”
Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and even his Dad were at Wrigley Field to cheer him on. The home run ball, still streaked with mud, was kept on Ellen’s mantle.
Dean was soon traded to the Texas Rangers, before signing a long-term contract with the Angels four years ago. He quickly became a fan favorite and was selected for three All Star Games. He never shied away from a confrontation, yet managed to charm his way out of most situations with umpires and opposing batters with a wink and a well-timed joke.
Sam, always able to balance school with baseball, was selected by the Tampa Bay Rays in his senior year but elected to accept the scholarship he was offered to Stanford. He was a starting pitcher for the Cardinals all four years and set school records with his low ERA and high winning percentage. He ended up being drafted in the first round by the Royals, the team that Bobby had recently been hired to manage, just before he graduated cum laude with a degree in political science.
If Dean was honest with himself, watching Sam walk across the stage had made him weep like a little girl. As it was, though, Dean never allowed himself to own up to such emasculating feelings and had claimed the tears were due to his allergies acting up in the spring weather.
“Toxic masculinity is what that is, Dean,” Sam said, shaking his head at his brother. “It’s OK for men to have feelings, you know. No matter what Dad says.” He kept his voice low, watching the man in question laugh with Bobby a few feet away.
Dean had smacked the back of Sam’s head and stalked off to find some women to flirt with.
Sam’s contract had kept him with the Royals until this past off-season, when Bela had brokered a blockbuster deal to send him to the Angels. The two Winchesters were playing for the same team for the first time in a decade. Bleacher Report had somehow gotten hold of a photo showing a beaming Dean and Sam in their little league uniforms and had tweeted it, causing the hashtag #WinchsterBrotherGoals to trend on Twitter.
__________
Dean practically pours the coffee down his throat when he looks at his phone and realizes they have twenty minutes to make it across town. He sprints through the loft, throwing on shorts and a tee shirt before yelling for Sam to stop doing his hair and hurry the fuck up. Bobby may be like a second father to them, but he’ll punish them all the same if they show up late on the first day.
Spring training is one of Dean’s favorite times of year. It reminds him of the excitement he felt when little league would start up again every season, finally giving him something to look forward to every day. He loves walking into the training facility and smelling the freshly mown grass and that weird plastic scent that accompanies new shoes and equipment. He loves oiling his mitt and playing lazy catch with the pitchers to warm up muscles that have been mostly dormant for the past four months.
He does not love, however, meeting all the newly hired staff. Every year there’s turnover, with traded players and replacements for various coaches, but when there’s a new manager there’s even more new faces around the clubhouse, making Dean feel squirrelly. He has a small circle of people he trusts, and in the world of professional sports there are plenty of assholes ready to sink their claws into those naive enough to let them get too close.
Managers tend to bring their favorite staff from their last job, and Bobby is no exception. In addition to the pitching coach, Rufus Turner, he’s brought over his bench and hitting coaches, as well as his much-lauded team doctor. Dean has been hearing about this guy for the past two years from both Sam and Bobby—they told Dean he was a "natural healer" and had a "way with the players"—but he was holding out judgement. Sam was as trusting as a baby lamb and, in his opinion, the kid could use a dose of skepticism.
“Guy’s like a master strategist, Dean,” Sam had gushed excitedly over the phone a season ago, after getting help with back spasms. “He grew up around baseball so he knows all about the game, and he’s got the sharpest mind for figuring out exactly what to fix on a player.”
“Yeah, cool, man. I’m glad to hear that your back’s doing better. I’d hate to take you deep again when we play your sorry asses next week just ‘cause you’re not feeling a hundred percent. I want all my hits off of you to be well-earned.”
Dean could hear the eye roll over the phone. “Oh, ha-fucking-ha, asshole. Your batting average is still under .300 against me.”
“Yeah, but that game-tying homer cost you the win, bitch.” He’d miss having the chance to go up to bat against Sam, but getting to catch for him again more than made up for it.
____________
It’s a few minutes before three as Dean walks through the corridors of the stadium towards the training rooms, running his hands through his still-wet hair in an attempt to flatten it. Today’s workout had been intense but had felt good, though he could use some more ice for his throbbing shoulder. He’s got to admit, he’s intrigued to finally meet this superstar doctor that Sam can’t shut up about.
Finding the large room used for treating the players empty, Dean walks over to the giant ice machine and begins to fill a plastic bag to tape over his shoulder.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean flinches so violently at the unexpected noise that he drops the ice scoop, and it goes clattering to the floor.
“Jesus Christ! Are you a fucking ninja?” Dean yells, turning to look for the source of the voice. He’s met with the calm, yet jarringly intense stare of the clearest blue eyes he’s ever seen.
“My apologies, Dean. I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. I’m Doctor Castiel Shurley.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Dean holds out his hand, waiting for the doctor to shake it.
The other man just keeps staring into his eyes, head tilted slightly to the right as if he’s trying to glean information from Dean’s irises alone.
Dean clears his throat and drops his hand. “Well, ok, then. Anyone ever told you that your glare is pretty intense?”
The doctor blinks and straightens up, looking self conscious. “Again, my apologies. Gabriel says that my ‘people skills’ are ‘rusty’,” he explains, using air quotes. “I spent the off-season traveling with Doctors Without Borders, and then went trekking solo in the Andes. Beautiful country, Chile, but sparse population in the mountains. I only arrived in Arizona early this morning.”
“They need sports medicine in Doctors Without Borders?” Dean takes in the other man’s appearance and notes that while he seems disheveled—his white button-down is wrinkled in several places, and his hair looks like he’s spent the better part of the day running his hands through it—he still holds himself with an air of confidence.
“They need every doctor they can get, but I completed my residency in orthopedic surgery before switching focus. I am indeed a ‘real’ doctor.” Castiel tilts his head again, regarding Dean curiously.
“No, man, that’s not what I meant! It’s great that you did that.” He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed, now that he’s inserted his foot firmly in his mouth.
“So, uh, another Shurley, huh? You’re related to Gabriel? And Chuck?” In addition to being the president of baseball operations for the Angels, Gabriel Shurley was the son of one of the all-time-great baseball players, shortstop Chuck Shurley. Chuck had won Rookie of the Year, led the Yankees to back-to-back World Series titles, and was a five-time MVP. He was the youngest player to 500 home runs in history and was a shoe-in for the Hall of Fame by the time he was midway through his career. He’d suddenly retired, though, and immediately disappeared from the public eye. He hadn’t even shown up to his induction into Cooperstown, sending his son Michael to make a speech in his stead. His sons have taken various positions within Major League Baseball, but none of them have played.
Castiel nods. “Gabriel is my older brother, and Chuck Shurley is our father.” His voice is deep and raspy, and Dean takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He tells himself that it’s residual adrenaline running through his system from the scare Castiel gave him, but a traitorous part of his mind begs to differ. The part that’s always appreciated a deep voice and a broad set of shoulders. The part that wonders what if… when he sees a chiseled jawline darkened with stubble and wants to know what it would feel like to drag his own cheek against it.
Dean firmly shuts the door on that train of thought, pushing it away like he always does. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How do you want me, doc?”
Castiel’s eyebrows rise and Dean flinches when he realizes what he’s just said. “Ha! I mean, how do we do this? Do you want me in your office? Should I put on a paper gown for an examination?”
Dean wonders briefly if he’s actively having a stroke, causing his brain to vomit up the worst case of accidental innuendo he’s ever suffered.
“No need to undress, Dean,” Castiel replies, a small smile on his face. “But yes, why don’t you come into my office and we can talk about your body.”
This time it’s Castiel’s turn at embarrassment. His cheeks turn red and as he opens his mouth to say more, Dean jumps in.
“Wow, we are really good at this whole ‘talking’ thing, huh? Why don’t you show me your office and we can both work on not saying anything awkward.”
“I … yes, thank you. My office is right through here.”
Dean follows the doctor through a short hallway and into a small, brightly lit office with a large window that looks out onto the field. “I apologize for the lack of seating options, but try and make yourself comfortable.”
There’s a single plastic chair on one side of a wooden desk that holds just a stack of files and a laptop. Behind it, Castiel takes a seat and moves to open a file labeled “Winchester, D.” Dean sits, feeling a bit like he’s about to be given a lecture from the principal.
“So, Dr Fernandez left me some notes on your previous injuries before she retired,” Castiel says, shifting a few pages around and examining the MRI results that Dean recognizes as the ones taken of his shoulder last September. “Why don’t you give me an update on your shoulder? Have you been doing any PT, or seeing a doctor in the off season?” He clicks a pen and holds the ballpoint poised over a notepad, looking at Dean expectantly.
“I’ve been working with Jo Harvelle for the past few months—she’s a PT in LA and an old friend—and we’ve been focused on strengthening and stretching and whatever. The pain’s been minimal, though, so I’m not too worried about it.”
“Right. I’ve talked to Ms. Harvelle through Sam, and she seems to be quite adept at her job. She mentioned that you might be a bit recalcitrant when it comes to addressing your pain levels, so forgive me if my questions feel repetitive.” Dean snorts and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t interrupt. “Also, Bobby mentioned that you might have sprained your left ACL in the last game of the season and that your hips have been giving you some trouble.”
Dean shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “Look, doc, Jo and Bobby have known me most of my life and they’re just being, I dunno… dramatic? I have aches and pains, sure, but I’m fine. Nothing I can’t handle with some ice and ibuprofen. Catchers’ bodies get a lot of wear and tear, but I’ve got some life left in me, ok?”
Castiel drops the pen on the notepad and sits back, studying Dean with the same intense look that he’d had when they’d met. “I’m not suggesting that you don’t know your own body, Dean. But it’s my job to make sure that you’re healthy and able to play at the highest level. I noticed that you favor your right leg when walking, indicating that the left is in some pain. From the way you’re shifting around in the seat, your hips are probably feeling sore and uncomfortable, and I know your shoulder isn’t at one hundred percent, because during the throwing session today you kept rubbing at it, and you let Milligan take the lead with Sam. So I need you to be honest with me, here, and to trust me.”
Dean scrubs a hand at the back of his neck again, feeling completely caught off guard. The old team doctor had always taken him at his word, letting him go about his business without too much probing into the truth of Dean’s assertions that he was fine.
“You were watching our workout?”
“Of course. How can I assess my players if I don’t see them perform?”
“You’re really, uh, thorough. Sam didn’t mention that.”
“I try to be, yes. And I have Sam’s trust, as well as Bobby’s, and now I’m asking for yours. Asking you to take a leap of faith, if you will. I promise that I have your best interests in mind. It’s a delicate balance to strike, being invested in the success of the team while also treating the players and prioritizing their health. I like to think that I’ve honed that skill in the past five years, and I’d like the chance to prove that to you.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust your ability—Sam swears by you—but I just don’t think I need any extra care, man.”
Castiel’s brow furrows again. “I can’t force you to tell me anything or accept any treatment, but I can give you some advice. Best-case scenario: your shoulder holds out this season, your sprained ACL has healed enough in the past few months to let you play, and your hips won’t hurt any more in September than they do today. But how long will the band-aids last? Your rotator cuff is going to keep getting worse, until the tissue tears cause you so much pain you can’t keep playing without having surgery. Your already-weakened ACL might actually tear the next time you steal a base or hop up to throw someone out. And your hip pain could be anything from tendinitis to bursitis to simple inflexibility. If we don’t look at these issues now, you could be cutting your career short by years.”
Feeling anger rising in his chest, Dean takes a deep breath in an attempt to avoid snapping at Castiel and keeps his eyes glued to the desk in front of him. This dude has known him for ten minutes and is already forecasting his early retirement.
As if sensing his patient’s mood, Castiel leans forward and puts up a hand in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to cause you any anxiety, here, Dean. I just want to be clear about what’s at risk if we don’t take these aches and pains seriously. You’re an amazing ball player—clearly passionate and incredibly talented—and I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I let you walk out of here today without clarifying all of this.”
Castiel’s gaze remains locked with Dean’s as he speaks, and neither man looks away when he stops talking. Dean knows they’ve passed the time limit for socially acceptable mutual staring, but for some reason he can’t make himself focus on anything except the clear blue eyes of the doctor.
A door in the hallway bangs open and loud laughter echoes through the corridor, effectively breaking the spell between the two men. Dean looks back down at the MRI that’s still out on the desk, and Castiel waits for him to speak.
“Let’s say that I agree to be a bit more, uh, open with you about my totally inconsequential aches and pains. What good would that do? I’d just end up on injured reserve for something that don’t warrant that level of seriousness.”
“Should you agree to be honest with me about where your injuries lie and what sort of pain you’re experiencing, we’d create a plan of attack to address your various needs in an effort to get you back to your healthiest. I can’t promise not to recommend that you take time off to heal, but as your physician you have my word that I will be completely open with you about all your options.”
“If we do this, I only want to work with you. I don’t need any of those chucklehead specialists poking and prodding at me. It’ll be just you and me. And no tattling to Bobby, got it?”
“I’m at your disposal, Dean. Just you and me.”
Dean nods and claps his hands together. “Ok, doc, have at me.” Dean winces. “Look at that! We made it almost ten minutes without me sayin’ somethin’ awkward. Absolute fail-whale, man.”
“I don’t understand that reference. How are whales a failure? They’re brilliant, prehistoric creatures that are quite graceful.” Castiel’s brow furrows in confusion.
Dean laughs. “And here I thought you were gonna make fun of me for using an old-ass reference.”
Castiel shrugs. “I’m not what you’d call ‘up to date’ with pop culture. The only CD I’ve listened to in the past year is literally stuck in my Prius, so I’ve had no choice but to hear it on repeat.”
“Wow, there is so much wrong with that statement; I don’t know where to begin. Is it at least stuck on something good?”
“Oh, absolutely. Queen is timeless, Dean.”
He has to agree. Freddie Mercury’s voice just does something to him. “So, where do we start?”