Chapter Text
He used colour carelessly —
painted his portrait a thousand times, or maybe just his smile.
He and his canvas would follow him, wherever they would go,
cos they were painters, and they had painted themselves
a lovely world.
Painters — Jewel
🌷 🌷 🌷
2009
As far as meet-cutes went, Castiel Novak supposed theirs was nothing all that original — a fact he would later find ironic, given both their aptitudes for creating a spectacle. Given that he had a head full of magic and saw galaxies every time he closed his eyes, he’d honestly always assumed he’d meet The One in a dreamy, outlandish, epic sort of way. The kind of first encounter that inspired love ballads — or Netflix specials — that kind of thing.
Instead, he found himself feeling stupidly optimistic every morning when he rode his motorcycle down the familiar route to The Daily Grind, (the coffee shop he managed, because Castiel was nothing, if not living the dream), due to the mystery mechanic who came in every day at quarter to seven, ordered a hot coffee with so much espresso, Castiel was surprised it didn’t dissolve the Styrofoam cup, paid for his drink with a twenty dollar bill, and dumped all the change he got back into the tip jar. Every. Single. Day.
If Mystery Mechanic could afford to spend over a hundred dollars a week at a coffee shop, well, Castiel was beginning to wonder (even more often than normal) if he might be in the wrong industry. He'd pondered if he should, perhaps, try to learn his way around a wrench, instead of slinging cappuccinos, and was only half joking.
More than his absurd generosity, however, the thing that first drew Castiel to Mystery Mechanic was the absolutely breathtaking green of his eyes... Ever the artist, Castiel had spent more frustrated evenings than he cared to admit, trying to replicate that exact shade of green on his canvas, but could never get it quite right.
(He realised after the first few weeks of this fruitless exercise, that he had covered endless stretches of canvas with likenesses of Mystery Mechanic’s eyes, and that the workspace in his apartment was beginning to look like it might belong to a serial killer. Thus, the Experiment in Green was born.)
Rather than continue to build his unsettling collection of paintings of eyes, he began filling canvas after canvas with everything from lush, green forestry to unearthly green-hued seas — even dabbling into abstract paintings, despite it not being his usual style. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, nothing he came up with could possibly compare with the real thing. In some ways, he was incredibly embarrassed about his fixation and lack of professionalism, but also, despite his best efforts, he found himself unable to stop thinking about the generous, mysterious man with the beautiful eyes who was slowly but surely becoming the highlight of Castiel’s day.
🌷 🌷 🌷
A bit more impressive than the story of how they met, was the event that led to their first conversation.
Dean slept through his alarm and woke up late — an occurrence that he loathed so much that when it happened, it was usually enough to throw off, and subsequently ruin, his entire day. He swore with impressive creativity and vigour the entire time he got washed and dressed for the day, almost disappointed that no one was around to appreciate the effort he put into insulting his non-existent advisory’s mother and anatomy.
Traffic, of course, was a bitch. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel of his 1967 Chevrolet Impala, and let fly a few more obscene turns of phrase, one eye on the row of taillights glaring through the windshield at him in the early morning light, the other carefully glancing at his phone to check the time. It was 06:52 already — he would have to skip the coffeehouse this morning if he had any hope of making it into the garage in even the most general of vicinities of being on time.
However, if Dean had learned anything at all from the last few months, it was that life was too short to not do the things that made you smile, so fuck work, he was gonna enjoy life while he still could.
(Okay, so maybe not really. He fired off a text to Bobby to let him know what had happened, and to go ahead and open without him. He figured he’d make it up to the old man in the form of coffee and pastries and all would be fine.
Bobby replied,
which did absolutely nothing to soothe Dean’s foul mood, but at least he felt a bit better about indulging in what was easily the best part of his day.)
The bell above the door jangled loudly as Dean walked in, causing him to wince, just like every morning, as the sound resonated around the inside of his head like a jackhammer. Still, he did his best to rearrange his facial features into a confident, if not slightly flirtatious expression, and tried mightily to hide his discomfort. The headaches were becoming more consistent now, but he’d be damned if he was going to let his numbered good days slip through his fingers because he was too busy bellyaching about minor pains.
There were a few customers ahead of him, so he waited patiently, hands jammed into the pockets of his green canvas jacket, until there he was. Dean’s gaze darted between intently studying the toes of his scuffed work boots, to surreptitiously staring at the gorgeous barista who was singlehandedly the driving force behind Dean’s newfound coffee routine.
It had really been (in)convenience that had driven him into The Daily Grind in the first place. Dean normally avoided any business with cutesy, punny names like the plague, but a burst pipe at his normal coffee spot meant it was either punny coffee or suffering through his own daily grind caffeine-free. He’d opted for cutesy coffee, figuring that if he added enough shots of espresso, it would cancel out the cringe. Little did he know that that he would end up falling for a pair of startling blue eyes and unintentionally becoming a regular customer.
Gorgeous Barista was looking especially... gorgeous, that particular morning. Under the black apron with the shop's name embroidered on the chest, he had on the blue and black plaid button-up shirt that Dean loved because it made his eyes seem... sharp, intimidating. Like they could pierce right through Dean’s very skin and see what he was made of from a cellular level.
(Dean’s chosen media for his art was sculpture, not painting, but more than once, he found himself idly wondering how hard it would be to replicate that exact, lovely shade of blue with paint and a canvas. Too hard, most likely, he decided, so he dismissed the thought immediately.)
‘Welcome to the Daily Grind, what can I get for you this morning?’ Gorgeous Barista asked in that deep, gravelly voice that made Dean’s knees weak, the same way he did every morning.
‘Extra-large black drip, four shots of espresso, to go,’ Dean replied, like he did every morning, because goddamnit all to hell, show him a set of beautiful blue eyes, (not to mention that ass), and suddenly every other word in the English language flew straight out of his busted brain.
(For a moment, he pondered how long it would be before even that short sentence became out of reach as well, but then he shook his head and handed a wrinkled twenty dollar bill to Gorgeous Barista. When he was handed his change, he dumped it all straight into the tip jar — what the hell was money, anyway? S’not like you could take it with ya.)
Typically, at this point, Gorgeous Barista would give him a small smile and tell him to have a good day, but today, he glanced over to his co-worker, who smoothly slipped in to take his place at the register. Moving a few steps to the side, away from the never-ending line of customers, he shot Dean a small, bashful smile. ‘I, uh, almost thought you weren’t coming in today. I was worried something might have happened to you.’
Dean, who had just taken his first sip of magical bean juice, was surprised enough by the break in routine, that he choked on his coffee, then was forced to go through the embarrassing process of attempting to recover from the coughing fit that immediately followed. Gorgeous Barista’s eyes widened with — concern, maybe? Though regret at having tried to be friendly with this socially awkward idiot seemed far more likely — and he shifted uncomfortably before asking, ‘Do you... require assistance?’
‘Nah,’ Dean wheezed finally, pounding his fist ineffectively against his sternum and choking back another cough. ‘Just went down- the wrong pipe.’ He cleared his throat again, just to be sure, before attempting to speak again. ‘I just, uh- overslept today. Gonna roll into work a bit late, but, uh- ya know, can’t start my day without...’ He raised his coffee cup awkwardly and gave it a little shake, causing some of the hot liquid to splash out of the lid’s opening and onto his hand. He hissed at the contact, his cheeks already heating up at his unbelievable social ineptitude. There was a time in which Dean Winchester could have walked into a room and charmed the paint off the walls, but that was... a different time.
Gorgeous Barista simply cocked his head to the side, a kind smile playing at his lips, and handed Dean a small stack of napkins, saying simply, ‘I see. Well, it’s good to know you’re alright, if not a bit tardy. Hopefully your boss doesn’t give you a hard time.’
Dean could feel his heart racing — and this time, he couldn’t even blame the excessive amount of caffeine that kept him upright these days. As normally as he could, he said, ‘Well, seeing as my boss is technically me, I’d say he’ll probably just hand me my ass for being late.’ He took a chance and gave Gorgeous Barista a wink, which made those blue eyes go even wider.
‘Sounds like a real asshole,’ Gorgeous Barista quipped dryly. ‘Though there’s a joke in there somewhere about not blaming him for wanting to get his hands on that ass.’
‘Oh my God,’ Dean blurted out before he could help it. His face was definitely bright red now, whereas Gorgeous Barista, on the other hand, had a look of horror on his face, a hand comically slapped over his mouth like he couldn’t believe what the hell had just come out of it.
‘I am so sorry,’ he rumbled, mortified. ‘I shouldn’t have- That was so inappropriate- I apologise. I’d say you could report me to my boss, but, uh- well- he is me, so he’ll definitely be kicking my ass all day for running my mouth.’
‘Well…’ Dean said slowly, then decided what the hell, and just went for it. ‘I suppose there’s a joke in there somewhere about there being much better things to do with that ass than just kick it.’ He ducked his head, dumbfounded at his own daring and corniness.
‘Oh my God,’ Gorgeous Barista said, echoing Dean’s earlier reaction, right down to the bright red ears.
Dean’s phone pinged suddenly, shattering the moment into a million pieces, especially when Dean saw it was his brother doing his daily check-in on how Dean was feeling. He glared at the screen, hating how Sam’s motherhenning never failed to make him feel like some decrepit old man who needed constant minding, lest he fall down the stairs or something. By the time he had dismissed the message, repocketed his phone, and fixed his friggin’ face so he no longer resembled a pouting toddler, Gorgeous Barista’s cheeks had returned to their normal colour and his customer service smile was firmly back into place.
‘Well... I should probably...’ he gestured vaguely to the area behind the counter. Dean nodded.
‘Gotcha, gotcha. Well, uh- have a good one.’ Awkwardness settled back over Dean’s shoulders, as he felt the hand gripping his coffee cup start to tingle with that horrible pins-and-needles sensation. He switched it into his other hand and gave a little wave as Gorgeous Barista replied, you too, before turning back to his work.
Despite having made a terrific ass of himself, Dean couldn’t help the dumbass smile that took over his whole face as he made his way back to the Impala and fired her up. Though he knew there was no way he could, in good conscience, pursue anything with Gorgeous Barista, there was no reason why he couldn’t have a moment or two of normalcy before... well, before.
He shifted Baby into reverse, and had just eased his foot off the brake when she lurched forward unexpectedly. Moments later there was a clang, a bang, and a horrible scraping noise, and Dean was jolted forward, then jerked backwards in his seat, seatbelt contracting against his middle.
He’d accidentally put the car in drive.
He’d accidentally put the car in drive.
He had accidentally put his car into fucking drive.
Dean slammed the Impala back into park, feeling his throat tighten up painfully. He fought against the wetness forming in the corners of his eyes while he numbly got out to check the damage.
Of-fucking-course he’d been parked behind a fucking motorcycle of all things — the poor Harley had never stood a chance. It had been knocked on its side and pushed halfway out of the parking spot, mirrors and lights shattered, paint scratched to hell. Dean looked down at the carnage, swallowing hard a few times, before forcing himself to turn and walk back into the coffee shop, shaking all the way.
This was it — he was going to lose his license. He was going to have to file an accident report, the cops would interview him, find out about- about him, and all the shit wrong with him, and they were gonna take the final remainder of his old life.
Gorgeous Barista looked up when Dean walked back in, not even trying to hide his wince at the sound of obnoxious bell over the door this time, and his expression morphed into one of concern. Dean must have looked as awful as he felt, because Gorgeous Barista didn’t even bother waiting for Dean to make his way to the register — instead, he immediately came around the counter and made his way right over to Dean.
‘What happened?’ he asked, eyes flitting all across Dean’s pale face, and up and down his trembling body. ‘Holy crap, are you alright?’
‘I, uh,’ Dean started, but then he had to swallow again and clear his throat just to get the words out. ‘I just hit- in the parking lot- it- it was an accident. I was- I was in an accident?’ he stuttered, dazed and feeling so disconnected from the moment that it sounded as though he was asking, not telling.
‘Oh my God,’ Gorgeous Barista said again, though this time was nowhere near as satisfying as when he’d said it just ten minutes prior. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Dean shook his head to emphasise his point, ignoring how this made the pounding intensify. ‘I- It was parked. A bike, I hit a bike. A Harley.’
‘A Harley,’ Gorgeous Barista repeated with a groan. ‘Black on black? Blue pin-striping on the tailbox?’
‘Oh no,’ Dean said faintly. ‘Yours?’
‘Sounds like it.’ Looking grim, Gorgeous Barista turned and called over his shoulder, ‘Hey, Charlie? I gotta go take a look at something for a minute... you good?’
The redhead behind the register flashed a wide grin, giving him a big double thumbs up, which made Gorgeous Barista just shake his head. He held the door open for Dean as they went back over to the scene of the crime to assess the damage.
It was... pretty bad. Dean fought the urge to bounce on the balls of his feel like a little kid as Gorgeous Barista crouched down and sadly tried to collect some of the larger piece of broken glass.
‘Damn,’ he said finally. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Wrong gear,’ Dean replied quietly, feeling so ashamed he thought he might vomit. ‘Thought I was in reverse.’
The other man stared at him for a long moment, then said, ‘Sounds like you’re having a really shitty morning, huh?’ in a voice that was entirely too gentle for the current situation.
For once, Dean’s inability to speak had nothing to do with his aphasia, so all he managed was a jerky nod of his head.
Luckily, Gorgeous Barista seemed to accept this and stood back up. ‘Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘If you know somewhere or someone that can handle the repairs, I don’t think there’s a need to call the cops or go through insurance or any of that mess... I’m fine with us handling it privately if you are. I already pay through the nose for insurance on this thing — no reason to give them an excuse to raise our premiums, right?’
This response was so gracious, and unexpected, that Dean had to focus harder than normal to form an appropriate response. ‘Are you sure, man?’ he croaked finally. ‘Cos I can do the repair myself, right up at my shop, and it’ll be good as new, I swear. I can’t believe I- I mean- I’ve never done anything like this before — you gotta believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ Gorgeous Barista replied seriously, though there was no reason in hell that he should mean it. ‘And that sounds like a fine solution to me, if you wanna just give me your contact info and that for the shop...’
‘Of course!’ Dean reached inside the Impala to retrieve a pen and a piece of paper. On the back of a Home Depot receipt, he jotted down his name and phone number, as well as the info for the garage, and handed it to the other man, who read it over slowly, a small smile beginning to creep back over his face. He ripped off the bottom half of the receipt, then held his hand out for Dean’s pen, which Dean eagerly handed over. He wrote down his own information, before handing both the pen and paper back to Dean.
‘Cast-eye-el?’ Dean read slowly, knowing he was likely wrong, but wanting to try anyway. Gorgeous Barista — Castiel — shook his head.
‘Cas-tee-el,’ he corrected, with the air of someone who had spent his whole life doing just that. ‘Hello, Dean.’
Dean’s heart beat a tiny bit faster at hearing his name spoken in that voice, but he managed to reply, ‘Heya, Castiel,’ without sounding like too much of a moron. ‘I’ll call the shop and have them send the tow truck over. Depending on parts, I should have it back to you in about two weeks.’
‘Two weeks,’ Castiel repeated glumly, but then sighed and said, ‘Sounds good. Just make sure you take good care of him, alright? That bike is my baby.’
Well, if Dean hadn’t been ass over tea kettle for him before, then that just about sealed the deal. He felt another pang of regret that it wasn’t something he could even hope to dream about, but forced the thought down just as quickly as it came.
Instead, he pulled out his phone to let Bobby know to send the tow truck over. While he listened to the phone ring, he had the passing thought that, despite everything, it was looking like waking up late hadn’t ruined his day after all.
🌷 🌷 🌷
It took all of two days for Castiel to crack.
Mystery Mechanic (whose name ended up being Dean — who knew?) had awkwardly offered to give Castiel a ride anywhere he needed to go until his bike was fixed, but Castiel had graciously declined. Dean had taken the rejection in stride, though he did make a joke about being a much better driver than the current circumstances might imply. It had fallen just a little flat, mostly due to the inexplicable sadness in his (breathtaking) eyes.
(When Castiel had gone home the afternoon of the accident, even though he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to go back to that watering hole, he’d still immediately tried to recreate Dean’s eyes in one of his many sketchbooks, like the goddamn stalker he was.)
He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to finally talk to Dean that day — perhaps it was the feeling of disappointment that had settled in so snugly under his ribcage when 06:45 had come and gone with no sign of his favourite customer. Even Charlie had noticed and, together, they had speculated about what might have been keeping him. When they both saw and heard the big, black muscle car rumble into the parking lot, Charlie had actually cheered out loud.
Then, of course, like the pain in the ass she was, she’d made an embarrassingly loud comment about Castiel’s ‘hottie’ finally showing up, which made several nearby customers chuckle and Castiel turn bright red, which only seemed to delight her even more. Winking and a little too enthusiastic, Charlie had danced away from the register mere seconds before Dean had entered the shop.
(Dean probably didn’t realise, but as the manager of the coffee shop, Castiel was rarely — if not never — required to work the register. He might have started making a daily exception at 06:45 only, but Dean didn't need to know that.)
Since Castiel was currently without his usual transportation, Charlie had offered to carpool with him in exchange for gummy worms and him agreeing to be her handmaiden for the next three LARP events. Castiel had eagerly and gratefully accepted these terms, apparently forgetting exactly who it was he would be depending on to get him to work on time.
(As it turned out, Charlie’s perpetual tardiness didn’t magically disappear just because she had a passenger.)
‘A queen is never late, young hobbit,’ she remarked snidely when she caught sight of Castiel glaring at the clock on the dashboard of her yellow Gremlin. ‘Nor is she early. She arrives precisely when she means to!’
‘Well do you think she could possibly mean to arrive more than twenty minutes before the damn shop is supposed to open?!’ Castiel grumbled as he struggled to unlock the door to the shop.
Charlie didn’t even bother responding to that. Instead, she snatched the keys from Castiel’s fumbling fingers, getting the key in the lock on the first try and unlocking the door with a simple flick of her wrist.
Unsurprisingly, being as late as they were ended up sending their entire morning into a snowballing chaos machine. They’d hardly had time to brew the house roast before the earliest of their early birds began trickling in, then for the rest of the morning, they had to scramble to catch up on all the baking and brewing that needed to happen. By 06:45, even though a few more employees had arrived, Castiel was still ready to pack up and move to some far distant corner of the world that had never heard of coffee beans.
‘Mornin’, sunshine,’ he heard a familiar voice say. Exhaling for what felt like the first time all morning, he felt his mood lift considerably with just those two words.
‘Hello Dean.’ Castiel wiped wiping an arm across his brow, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he’d been running around like a lunatic all morning, and likely looked like a sweaty, disgusting mess.
‘Rough day?’ Dean asked, green eyes twinkling. ‘Or is this new look just part of the shop’s feeble attempt to drum up new business by tempting all the ladies — or fellas, I don’t judge — with that ‘just fucked’ hair ya got going on?’
‘Oh my God.’ Castiel felt his warm cheeks get even warmer, which, to be fair, seemed to be his default state with Dean. ‘I can assure you, no one here was engaging in intercourse this morning. I believe the look you’re referring to is called ‘ripping my hair out in frustration so I don’t rip my employee’s head off instead’.’
Dean smirked, clearly enjoying watching Castiel squirm, and asked innocently, ‘Trouble in paradise? Maybe ‘engaging intercourse’ would help take the edge off.’
‘Well, first of all: that would be an excellent way to get myself fired, seeing as I’m her boss, and second: we are both, unfortunately, the incorrect gender for the other to be even remotely interested.’ It occurred to Castiel a moment too late that this was exactly what one of the younger employees, Kevin Tran, meant when he gave Castiel grief for his tendency to overshare. He shifted uncomfortably, wracking his brain for a change of subject, but all he came up with was, ‘Ah, well... I suppose you’d like your daily aneurysm-in-a-cup?’
Now it was Dean’s turn to look uncomfortable, but he recovered much more quickly than Castiel did. His grin was back in a flash as he said, ‘you got it,’ and handed over his customary twenty dollar bill.
Castiel punched in his order and gave Dean his change, which he promptly dumped into the tip jar. Charlie, never one to hold a grudge, seemed to have gotten over the several squabbles she and Castiel had gotten into earlier. Like the eternal wingman that she was, she slid into position to take over the register, leaving Castiel free to continue to chat with Dean.
‘You don’t need to do that every day, you know,’ Castiel said as he and Dean stepped out of the way of the next customer, the pastry case between them.
Dean shrugged. ‘It’s just money... can’t take it with you.’ There was a strange note of bitterness in his voice that Castiel didn’t quite understand, but then Dean sighed and smiled again. ‘But anyway- in all seriousness... bad morning?’
Castiel made a face before he could stop himself and grumbled, ‘Late morning. Charlie, for all her wonderful qualities, is someone who’s going to be late to her own funeral — which, incidentally, will be sooner rather than later if she keeps getting us here that close to opening again.’ Obviously having heard him, Charlie glanced over and stuck her tongue out before taking the next customer’s order.
‘Too bad some asshole took out your wheels so you can’t drive yourself,’ Dean said with deadpan sympathy. Castiel rolled his eyes, but then Dean continued, ‘Y’know… I meant it when I said I’d drive you anywhere you needed to go while the bike’s in the shop. I know you might not trust my driving after all this, but I swear, I haven’t even gotten a ticket in the last decade, much less been in an accident. My car’s my baby, same as your bike is yours.’
‘Oh,’ Castiel said, feeling a bit guilty about Dean’s obvious self-consciousness. ‘Dean, it’s not that I don’t trust your driving, it’s that I have to get up at the asscrack of dawn to get here on time and would never expect you to suffer through that for me.’
‘I don’t mind, Cas,’ Dean argued earnestly. ‘Seriously, man — I don’t really sleep too much, so I’m usually up around four or so anyway, just dicking around until it’s time to head to work. So honestly — if you want a ride, I’m at your disposal.’
Castiel’s stomach fluttered pleasantly at how Dean had shortened his name and the way it sounded so natural coming from his mouth. Riding that high, before he could talk himself out of it, he said, ‘Uh, well... okay then. If you’re really sure you don’t mind...’
‘I’m sure,’ Dean declared, the familiar twinkle coming back into his eyes. ‘Besides, there’s a really great joke in there somewhere about giving you a great ride.’
‘Oh, for the love of-’ Castiel rolled his eyes and handed Dean his drink. ‘Here. Take this and get outta here before someone hears you and files a complaint about me. I’ll text you my address later?’
‘Sounds good.’ Dean looked extremely pleased with himself, now that Castiel was properly wound up. ‘Talk to you later, Cas. Hope your day gets better.’
Castiel returned the sentiment before turning back to the clusterfuck that was the rest of the shop, thinking that the day was already looking like it might turn itself around.
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Dean was actually having a great time playing chauffeur, despite the extra pressure he felt to make sure he was in absolute control of his movements at all times, because, despite Cas’s reassurances, he remained mortified over having gotten into such a stupid accident.
Dean had been incredibly amused to find that Cas was decidedly not a morning person. He would stumble out of his apartment bleary-eyed and plop himself down onto the passenger seat with a grunt that Dean soon learned was early-morning-Cas’s way of saying hello. Usually about five minutes into the drive, the rest of Cas’s brain functions seemed to come online, and Dean would be able to coax actual words out of him — usually by teasing him about his sexy ‘just fucked’ hair that Dean secretly loved.
(He loved even more that Cas would very pointedly argue that one must have a partner to have ‘just fucked’, and as he did not, it was clearly a case of sleep deprivation and poor self-care, rather than an active sex life. If Dean had had... time, he would have been all over that, but as it was, he just made another lewd joke about Cas potentially naming his hand, and they continued on from there.)
On especially grumpy mornings, Dean would pop a cassette into the tape deck and sing along to what Cas had christened ‘mullet rock’ until Cas would crack a smile and roll his eyes when Dean told him to take a drum solo. This dynamic reminded Dean so much of Sam, who, incidentally, was still texting like clockwork every morning just to check in, much to Dean’s annoyance.
After dropping Cas off at the coffeehouse at 04:15 on the dot, Dean would return to his own apartment and putter around for the next few hours until it was time to head back out for work, and his second trip to The Daily Grind. Cas had stopped charging him for his coffee as a thank you for driving him in, so Dean had taken to just throwing his cash straight into the tip jar, despite Cas’s protests. It was kind of comforting — this mundane daily routine they had fallen into — and Dean realised he was sort of dreading finishing the motorcycle repair, because it would mean an end to those few stolen minutes with Cas in the morning.
Unfortunately, the day inevitably came, and all too quickly. (It ended up being only ten days, rather than the quoted fourteen.) Dean briefly entertained the thought of delaying telling Cas the job was done, just to squeeze out a few more morning car rides, but ultimately decided against it. He knew if it had been him waiting to get the Impala back, he would want her back as soon as possible.
With mixed emotions, the following morning when he picked Cas up, he deliberately placed Cas’s keys on the passenger seat where Cas would be sure to see them.
It was almost worth the tug of disappointment in Dean’s gut when he watched Cas’s whole face light up when he caught sight of his keys waiting for him.
‘Aw, he’s ready already?’ he asked. It might have been wishful thinking, but Dean could have sworn he heard the tiniest flicker of disappointment in the words.
‘‘He’?’ Dean asked, raising one eyebrow.
Cas just rolled his eyes. ‘Haven’t we established several times by now that I have no interest in ‘riding’ anything remotely female? Also, Charlie says giving inanimate objects female pronouns is an archaic practice that upholds the patriarchy, so she decided the bike is a male named ‘Balthazar’, because she says that makes him sound both badass and bougie.’
Dean snorted. ‘So, you ride a dude named Balthazar to work every morning, huh? No wonder you always have that just fucked hair.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Dean — by that standard, your ride is a forty-two year old female named ‘Baby’... Now which one do you think sounds more absurd?’ Cas retorted, quirking his own eyebrow.
‘Hey, now, I’m an equal opportunity... rider.’ Dean raised his hands in mock surrender as they pulled up in front of the coffee shop all too soon. ‘Ah, well... swing by any time and pick him up then, okay? I’ll be around all day.’
‘I will. Thank you, Dean.’ Cas opened his door and reached over to unbuckle his lap belt, his fingers flexing slightly. He hesitated before climbing out of the car, looking at Dean for a long moment before asking, ‘I’ll, uh, see you later? Before you head to work?’
‘Of course, Cas,’ Dean replied, a strange tightness in his chest as he watched Cas climb out of the car for the last time.
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Castiel could hardly wait for his shift to be over, both so he could go pick up Balthazar, and so he could see Dean in a whole new environment.
(He’d spent not an insignificant amount of time daydreaming about Dean in a pair of coveralls, a smudge of oil on his cheek, holding a- a wrench or drill or whatever it was that mechanics used to fix cars. It was a mental image that had distracted him on more than one occasion — to the point where Charlie had started calling him out when he got a certain faraway look, and would loudly tell him to stop thinking about his ‘porn with plot mechanic fantasy’, regardless of how many people might be around them at the time. Castiel learned to be much more cognisant of his facial expressions after that.)
Charlie agreed to drive him over to the ‘Singer & Sons’ garage when they got out of work, on the condition that she got to come inside and ‘get a load of the eye candy’. Castiel groaned, but agreed, because he didn’t want to have to walk and calling an Uber just for that seemed superfluous.
The first thing they noticed when entering the shop’s reception area was a striking metal sculpture of a huge bear in a baseball cap standing right in the middle of the waiting room. Castiel, immediately distracted, went right over to it, slowly circling the piece and taking in every detail.
It appeared to be made entirely of a conglomeration of metal objects, masterfully welded together to create an intricate pattern of texture that Castiel very much wanted to run his fingertips over. He was sorely tempted, but it was such a work of art that he almost felt like he should be looking at it from behind stanchions, like at a museum.
An annoyed looking older man in a baseball cap came out of the back just then, interrupting Castiel’s awestruck reverie, and grunted, ‘Somethin’ I can help ya with, or didja just come to gape at the scenery?’
‘Oh, ah, yes sir,’ Castiel stuttered, distracted by the brief, bizarre thought that this gruff man in his hat looked very much like the imposing metal bear in its baseball cap. ‘My name is, uh, Castiel Novak... I believe Dean Winchester works here? He told me I could stop by and pick up my motorcycle today?’
The man’s expression softened for a split second, but then he smirked and leaned back to open the door to the garage. He poked his head inside and hollered, ‘Hey, lover boy! Your barista’s here for his bike!’ He turned back to Castiel and Charlie and said, ‘Give him a minute. Can I getcha a cup’a coffee or somethin’?’
‘Oh, noooo thank you,’ Charlie piped up. ‘Any more coffee for me, and you will not enjoy the fallout. Same with Castiel... he’s been an over-caffeinated mess all morning, but that’s probably just because he’s been dying to catch a glimpse of Dean in a pair of dirty coveralls.’
‘Charlie!’ Castiel hissed through gritted teeth, wishing he could melt into a puddle right there on the dirty waiting room carpet.
Thankfully, Dean appeared then, looking every bit as hot in his work uniform as Castiel had imagined. It took everything in him to not lick his lips like a damn creep as he took in the whole picture, down to where Dean’s name was embroidered over his right breast pocket.
‘Heya, Cas,’ Dean greeted him, pulling a rag from his back pocket, wiping his hands on it in a way that was far too sexy to be allowed. ‘Ready to come take a look at him?’
Castiel nodded, and he and Charlie followed Dean into the garage. He was surprised to see there were several more metal sculptures peppered throughout the space, though considerably smaller than the one in the waiting room. He was about to go examine one, when he caught sight of Balthazar in the far bay, and all other thoughts flew straight out of his head. Dean led him over, then stepped back so Castiel could give the bike a good once over, marvelling at how he somehow looked even better than he had before the accident.
‘He looks great, thank you Dean,’ Castiel said happily, swinging one leg over to sit astride the seat and bouncing a little to test the shocks. Dean watched him, mouth slightly ajar, then quickly looked away, biting his lip, and giving his head a shake.
‘So, uh- I just need ya to sign off on the invoice for the repair, sayin’ everything looks good and all’a that,’ Dean explained, handing Castiel a clipboard with the repair paperwork attached. He started pointing out various repairs he had made against the notes on the invoice, some of which Castiel thought he might even understand.
When Dean finished speaking, Castiel signed the bottom of the paperwork with a flourish and climbed back off the motorcycle so he could pass the clipboard back to Dean and shake his hand.
‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you doing all this work, not to mention driving me to the shop every morning,’ he told Dean sincerely. ‘Really, Dean, you saved me a ton of hassle.’
‘Aw, Cas, it was really the least I could do. Don’t forget which idiot caused all these problems in the first place.’ Dean rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. ‘I know I said it before, but I still can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this.’
‘And I know I said before that it really is okay. Accidents happen, and there was no permanent damage done,’ Castiel assured him for what felt like the hundredth time. He smiled shyly, then said, ‘Plus, think of this — if not for the accident, we might have never been officially introduced, and I would have had to keep calling you ‘Mystery Mechanic’ whenever I talked about you.’
‘Spent a lot of time talkin’ ’bout me, didja?’ Dean asked, tone teasing and eyes alight with fond amusement. Cas loved every time he was to get that reaction out of him. Dean smirked. ‘Now what kinds of things were you sayin’ ’bout this mysterious mechanic, I wonder?’
‘Oh, you so don’t want to know, dude,’ Charlie said, wandering back over from where she had been looking at one of the sculptures. ‘For real — he never shut up about you. It was like being stuck in the world’s worst YA novel.’ Before Castiel could die of humiliation, however, she barrelled on and asked, ‘So, I gotta know: what’s with all the Decepticons? Super cool aesthetic; I definitely dig it. Where’d you get ’em?’
‘Ah.’ Dean looked uncomfortable again. ‘Just from some asshole who thinks he’s artsy or something. Kinda stupid lookin’, if ya ask me.’
‘No way, man!’ Charlie argued, practically skipping back over to a dragon-esque one next to a toolbox. ‘This is, like, recycling at its finest! I would love to have one of these for my Moondoor room at home — look at how each scale is a different piece of hardware! It’s like steampunk meets Michelangelo meets Tolkien... it’s amazing!’
‘Sure is,’ the man from the reception area interrupted, coming up behind them. ‘Dean here’s quite the artist, ain’t he?’
‘What! You made these?!’ Charlie exclaimed, punching Dean on the arm. ‘What the heck, man — no fair catfishing! This is so awesome!’
‘I didn’t catfish,’ Dean protested. ‘I said an asshole made them, and that’s the God’s honest truth.’
‘Aw, can it, ya idjit,’ the older man said with a mix of admonition and affection in his voice. ‘I’ve had it up to here with you shit-talkin’ yourself. Told ya you got a talent for this stuff, didn’t I?’
‘You really do, Dean,’ Castiel added earnestly when he saw Dean open his mouth to start arguing again. ‘I always wished I could create something physical like that,’ then hurried to add, ‘Don’t even try to make a joke about being physical or getting physical or any of that.’
‘Nobody appreciates my wit,’ Dean complained. The older man laughed.
‘Well, seein’ the fit you’re havin’ when we try ’n appreciate your art, can ya blame us, boy?’ he asked with a snort.
‘Yeah, yeah, okay Bobby,’ Dean said, rolling his eyes. ‘Go sit down, old man, before that hip starts actin’ up again.’
Bobby scowled at Dean, turning back towards the office, but as he turned away, Castiel saw his expression soften again into something that looked uncomfortably like sadness.
‘Ignore the old man,’ Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck again. ‘He makes these things into a much bigger deal than they need to be.’
‘He really wasn’t wrong, though,’ Castiel said honestly. ‘Your work — it really is incredible. What’s it like in your brain?’
Dean’s entire disposition darkened so abruptly that Castiel subconsciously took a step backwards, startled. ‘Not great,’ Dean said curtly.
‘Oh. Ah, I get that, you know,’ Castiel said quickly. ‘I mean- like- when I’m painting, things can get- you know, stressful. Especially trying to make it, uhm, professionally... Sometimes it seems like more hassle than it’s worth. Hence the, uh, coffee slinging for a- you know- steady paycheck or whatever.’
‘Well, that’s just cos you never think your stuff is good enough to show, Castiel,’ Charlie countered, then turned to Dean. ‘Cas is, like, a really good artist, but he gets too in his head about it, and doesn’t ever want to promote himself or his paintings. Then he turns around and decides he’s a failure because he hasn’t made a name for himself. Catch-22, dude.’
‘You paint?’ Dean asked Castiel, his sunny disposition back so quickly it was almost like the strange moment had never happened.
‘Occasionally,’ Cas mumbled, uncomfortable. ‘Nothing as cool as your sculptures, though. Like I said, I always wished I could make something like that.’
‘Hey, art don’t gotta be one or the other, ya know,’ Dean said. ‘I always wished I could draw or paint, but my, ah- my brain just don’t work like that. I have to see and feel everything in 3-D Smellovision. That’s why I just do these little projects on the side... Keeps me sane, turnin’ these ideas into somethin’ you can touch, you know?’
‘Oh, you artists. So deep. So morose.’ Charlie sighed dramatically. ‘Dean, you should come with us to the Wild Angels festival at the end of next month. It’s awesome — tons of art and music and food, plus the proceeds go to the Trevor Project, so, like, yay supporting LGBT youth, right? It’s gonna be rad.’
Dean was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘Thanks, but I don’t think that’s gonna work for me. Appreciate the invite, though.’
‘No problem, dude,’ Charlie said, unperturbed, then glanced at her Star Wars watch. ‘Oh man, I gotta get going — the Moondoor High Council Skype call starts in half an hour, and I’m still in my coffee peasant garb! Gotta jet, guys. Cas — so very glad you got Balthy back in one piece. Dean — it’s been real. Think about Wild Angels, okay? Should be a good time. Well peace out, bitches!’ She flashed them the Vulcan Salute and ran off, avoiding slamming into the burly mechanic in the first bay by mere inches. Dean watched her go, laughing.
‘Is she always like that?’ he asked Castiel with a grin.
‘She really, really is,’ Castiel replied with groan of feigned dismay. ‘Keeps life interesting, though. And she was right — you really should think about coming to Wild Angels with us. They’re really cool — they let you set up a small showcase with any size donation. I bet people would go crazy for some of these sculptures, maybe you could even try to sell some. Could be a cool side hustle or something-’
‘I already said no!’ Dean snapped, dark mood reappearing like black storm clouds rolling back in from the horizon. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the ground.
Castiel’s eyes widened. ‘I- Sorry,’ he said faintly, taking another small step backwards. ‘My mistake, I- I didn’t mean to push.’ He shifted uncomfortably, then steeled himself, because he knew he would regret it if he didn’t at least try. ‘Hey, can I- can I buy you a drink sometime? As a, uhm- a thank you? For fixing my bike, I mean? No mentions of festivals or side hustles allowed, I promise.’ He smiled nervously, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans while he waited for Dean’s answer.
Dean just looked... tired. He clenched his jaw, still glaring at the oil-stained concrete floor, then wrenched his gaze up to meet Cas’s eyes. ‘Thanks, but… I don’t think that’s a good idea. You lettin’ me fix the bike here instead of callin’ the cops on me was thanks enough. Let’s just, ah- leave it at that, alright?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course, Dean,’ Castiel said, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. ‘Well, thank you again for fixing him. I really appreciate it. And sorry again, for — well, you know.’
‘No problem, Cas,’ Dean said with an unhappy sigh, shifting uncomfortably. ‘You take care of yourself, alright?’
‘You too,’ Castiel replied. He sat back down on his motorcycle, immensely grateful that he was able to put his helmet on and cover his burning, humiliated face.
🌷 🌷 🌷
Dean was absolutely miserable. It was another bad day, to top off what had been a solid two weeks of Bad Days. He’d known it was coming — the day when the scale tipped from kind of okay to decidedly not okay — he just didn’t think it would happen so soon. The headaches, which had been a consistent hum of misery in the background of every day with peaks and valleys of intensity, had escalated to the forefront of almost every day. This tied in with the nausea that made even the idea of eating almost unbearable. Anytime Dean felt brave enough to even attempt to choke down a protein bar or a piece of toast ended with him doubled over the toilet, retching horribly not ten minutes later.
He hadn’t been back to the garage since the day Cas had picked up ‘Balthazar’ (which even Dean had to admit, was a pretty badass, bougie name), though Bobby checked in every day, and his wife and Dean’s surrogate mother, Ellen, had been by three times with Tupperware containers full of homemade soup that went woefully untouched.
Dean pulled out his phone to read the latest text from Bobby —
— and sighed. Bobby wasn’t wrong... If it was him in Sam’s shoes, he would want to know. He would want a chance to visit... and say goodbye. And wouldn’t it be better, if Sam came now to see him while Dean still bore some resemblance to the badass older brother he had been all his life, instead of... whatever he would become?
The thought of Sam, keeping vigil by Dean’s bedside until... well, that idea damn near broke his heart. As the oldest son, Dean had done that for both his parents — stayed by their side right up until the very last second, and would never forget the sound of their last breath. That death rattle had hit him square in the chest, seeming to steal the air from his own lungs, and it haunted him to this day. He’d vowed then and there that he would never ask Sammy to suffer through that for him. Little did he know the day would come so soon.
He tapped Sam’s name under messages and typed out,
Sam’s response came so quickly, the three dots hardly had time to appear.
Dean sighed and closed his eyes, glad to have one less thing to worry about planning.
🌷 🌷 🌷
Castiel was absolutely miserable.
He felt awful about how awkward he had made things with Dean… and apparently Dean agreed, because he hadn’t been back to The Daily Grind since the day Castiel had picked up Balthazar from the shop and made a complete ass of himself. It had been over two weeks, so the message was pretty obvious.
It wasn’t as though this was a breakup or anything, but in some ways, it still felt like it. He had gone from seeing and talking to Dean every day to just... nothing. Castiel thought about texting him, but really, Dean had only given him his phone number so they could communicate about the repair, and that was finished now. Not to mention, Dean had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t interested in seeing Castiel anymore, so... Castiel respected his wishes.
(Didn’t mean he didn’t take his phone out about a dozen times a day, thumb hovering over the ‘New Message’ icon, only to put it away again, feeling a little worse every time.)
Charlie tried relentlessly to cheer him up, even going so far as to come over Friday night, demanding they have a Star Wars and wine movie marathon weekend (in chronological order, not release date, of course). While it had definitely been a good enough distraction, Castiel’s heart just wasn’t in it. By Sunday night, as the end credits rolled on Return of the Jedi, Charlie was watching Castiel more closely than the screen.
‘Hey,’ she said, scooting in closer and giving him a light punch in the arm. ‘I know it sucks, man, but it’s gonna be alright.’
‘I know,’ Castiel replied with a sigh. ‘I know I’m acting like an overgrown version of my emo teen years, it’s just... well, you know, Charlie. It’s hard to find someone you connect with like that, and I just feel like an idiot for making him so uncomfortable that he doesn’t even want to come to the shop anymore. Like- how badly do you have to hate someone to give up coffee? Especially one you put four shots of espresso into?’
‘Castiel,’ Charlie chided him gently. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. And you do know we’re not the only coffee shop in the city, right? Nothing says he gave up coffee altogether. It’s rough, dude, but he’ll either come around — or he won’t. But you’re not the idiot for taking a chance and asking him out... You’d be an idiot if you didn’t try, cos at least now you know, right?’
‘I guess,’ Castiel said gloomily, leaning his head onto Charlie’s shoulder. ‘At least I still have you, right, my queen?’
‘Too right, handmaiden. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me for the long haul,’ Charlie replied with a grin.
Well, thank goodness for that.
🌷 🌷 🌷
It took another week from the day Dean had texted Sam to come by, for him to have a Not-So-Bad Day — because that was about as good as it got lately. It seemed as though actual good days were officially a thing of the past. Sam had shown up that Friday afternoon, taken once look at Dean, and immediately burst into tears, which Dean would’ve felt goddamn terrible about, if he hadn’t already been so exhausted. Since then, Sam had admitted he had only booked a one-way ticket, and that he would be staying with Dean until... until. And, as much as Dean complained and as guilty as he felt about the mess he was inevitably leaving behind, a small, scared, selfish part of him, deep, deep down was glad that he wouldn’t be alone.
He could’ve asked Bobby to be there, and the man would have done it in a heartbeat, but Bobby saw him as his own son — that was the joke behind the shop name ‘Singer & Sons’ because Bobby’s ‘sons’ were Dean and his stepdaughter Jo, who’d agreed to take over ownership of the shop together as partners when Bobby retired. Dean felt a small lurch of guilt that he would be leaving that burden entirely on Jo now, but she was tougher than any dude out there, not to mention the other mechanics — especially Meg, the shop’s only other female mechanic — had her back. Dean knew she’d be just fine. Bobby, on the other hand... Dean didn’t want to do that to the old man. There was a pretty good chance that forcing Bobby to watch his son’s last breath just might break him.
Both Sam and Bobby argued with him relentlessly about going to the hospital, but Dean knew that once he walked in, he wouldn’t be walking back out, and that there wasn’t anything they could really do for him anyway. He also figured, why leave behind a massive pile of medical debt, in addition to all the other bullshit Sammy and Bobby were going to have to sort out after. If and when he was going to go, he was going to go in his own clothes and his own home, and on his own terms.
So, seeing the unexpected opportunity as the gift that it was, on the Not-So-Bad Day, Dean asked Sam to drive him to The Daily Grind. It had been about three weeks since he’d last seen Castiel, and he felt just awful about how he’d left things with him. Cas didn’t deserve Dean being a dick to him just because Dean wanted so very much to be able to go with him to a festival in almost two months’ time. However, the stark reality was that if Dean wasn’t dead by then, he’d be enough of a mess that he’d wish he was.
‘Dude, are you sure you want to be getting a coffee right now?’ Sam asked from the driver’s seat of the Prius he’d wasted no time renting when he got to town, despite Dean’s complaints about being driven around in a ‘tree-huggin’ chick car’.
‘Ain’t about the coffee, Sammy,’ Dean gritted out, fighting the wave of nausea that could have been a result of the headache, or the vertigo, or the impaired vision — who fucking knew at this point. ‘I owe someone an apology, and I only got so much time left to say it to him.’
That shut Sam up just like Dean had known it would, and Dean welcomed the silence. Every part of him was aching or malfunctioning in some way, but he still tried with everything he had to walk as steadily as he could into the shop when Sam dropped him off at the door.
The bell above the door jangled, same as it always did, and Dean fought the urge to vomit right then and there. He forced himself to take a deep breath instead, and slowly made his way over to the register. By now, it was early afternoon, and the morning rush was already over, so the shop was thankful pretty empty.
The young Asian man was standing at the register smiled when Dean approached, and said, ‘Thanks for stopping by The Daily Grind! What can I get for you?’
‘Uh, just a bottle of water, I think,’ Dean said, the idea of anything more substantial making his stomach churn uncomfortably. ‘Also, is Cas- I mean, Castiel here? I need to talk to him.’
‘Yep! He’s in the back, I can get him for you in just a sec,’ the young man said as Dean handed his cash over to pay for his water. The barista handed the water bottle and change to Dean, and said, ‘I’ll go grab the boss.’
Dean dumped his change from his water into the tip jar and, on a whim, pulled the rest of his cash out of his wallet, and threw it in there as well. He knew this was probably the last time he’d be in this shop, and possibly the last time he’d be out for... well, a while, so he figured... it was probably the least he could do, especially after what an ass he’d been.
‘The boss is coming right out,’ the barista said, then caught sight of the now overflowing tip jar next to the register. ‘Holy shit! Uh, hey man, did you really mean to put all th-’
‘Dean?’ Cas interrupted, coming out from behind the counter. His mouth fell open as he took in Dean’s appearance —pale, sweaty skin, dark circles under his eyes, and having lost a significant amount of weight in the elapsed weeks due to the not eating/constant vomiting thing. ‘Oh my God, you look awful. What happened?’
‘Well good morning to you too, gorgeous,’ Dean replied, trying to go for levity, but he just felt too ill to convincingly pull it off, so he sighed. ‘Can we talk?’
‘It’s not morning, it’s almost one o’clock,’ Cas retorted, but then said, ‘Yes, of course,’ in a softer voice, and led Dean over to one of the many empty booths.
Dean settled in as best he could and said quietly, ‘Alright, well- I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For snapping at you in the shop, I mean. I didn’t mean to act like such a dick, and you didn’t deserve it.’
‘You don’t need to apologise for that, Dean.’ Cas leaned forward in his sear earnestly, his hands twitching where he had them resting on the tabletop, like they wanted to reach out and find Dean’s own hand. ‘If anything, I’m sorry for- for pushing. You said you weren’t interested in going out with me, and I continued to badger you about it. I shouldn’t have made you uncomfortable.’
Dean let out a bitter laugh at the idea that he — or anyone, for that matter — could ever be uninterested in going out with Cas. When Cas cocked his head to the side quizzically, Dean explained, ‘It’s just funny. I would have loved to go on a date with you, Cas, if things were different, but it wouldn’ta been fair to you in the long run. I didn’t wanna hurt you like that, so instead, I guess I hurt ya in a whole different way. But, uh- for what it’s worth, I just wanted you to know that I am — sorry, I mean — ’n that I hope the bike’s workin’ out alright, ’n that you have a really great life, ’n all that jazz.’
‘Why does this sound like a breakup?’ Cas asked quietly, brows knit together, clearly confused. ‘Especially when you won’t even give me a shot?’
‘It’s for your own good.’ Dean’s tone was harsh even to his own ears. Suddenly exhausted, he realised he was deeply regretting coming here at all and just wanted to go back to bed — maybe it wasn’t a not-so-bad day after all. He let out a long, slow breath, then said, ‘Well, I said my piece, and my brother’s waitin’ for me in the parking lot, so I gotta bounce. Be well, Castiel, alright?
Without waiting for a reply, he stood, ready to walk out the door and never look back, but at that exact moment, everything went white, then black. He let out a strangled cry, gripping the table with his right hand to steady himself, panic making his entire body rigid.
‘Dean? Dean!’
He could hear, but not see Castiel calling from somewhere to his left.
‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Dean whispered, trying like hell to not fall right the fuck apart. He blinked hard several times, but still saw nothing. ‘Oh fuck.’
‘Dean, what’s happening?’ Castiel sounded closer now, and a moment later, Dean felt a light touch on his left shoulder. ‘What can I do?’
‘My brother,’ Dean grit out, because that was the only thing he could think of — well, that, and clinging to the edge of the table for dear life. ‘He’s in the parking lot in a douchey-lookin’ blue Prius. Couldja- I mean- would you mind gettin’ him for me?’
‘Yes. Of course,’ Castiel agreed immediately. ‘Just, uh, wait here.’
Dean reached his left hand out to feel around for the seat again and carefully lowered himself into it. His head was still pounding, and the sudden loss of vision had done it no favours. It was all he could manage to just maintain the death grip he had on the edge of the table and fight back the bile rising in his throat until, he heard two sets of footsteps approaching.
Like a life raft amidst a stormy sea, he heard Sam say his name, but his voice was so full of fear that Dean was forcibly reminded of the little boy who had been afraid of monsters in his closet.
(Back then, Dean had had the genius idea to fill a spray bottle with water and a few squirts of Mom’s old perfume, and tell Sam it was ‘monster repellent’. Sammy, of course, had believed him without question, and for years refused to go to bed without warding his room against the closet monsters. Dean wished more than anything that it could be that easy to soothe his brother’s fears now.)
‘Heya, Sammy,’ he said, as evenly as he could manage. He forced himself to focus on taking deep, slow breaths in the hopes that it would stave off the panic until he could break down in private. ‘So, uh- It seems that I lost my, uh- I can’t see, man. It’s all dark.’
In the voice of a child who’d just seen the bogeyman, Sam choked out the word, fuck, his obvious fear making Dean’s chest ache.
‘Yeah, said that already,’ he tried to joke, but he ended up just sounding brittle and weak. ‘So, I’m gonna need ya to, you know- help me get outta here, so I don’t go knockin’ over the mug display or whatever and makin’ a big old mess for Cas to have to clean up. Think you can manage?’
‘Right, I mean- yeah- yes, you got it, just let me-’ Sam stuttered, sounding very much like he was trying not to hyperventilate. Dean felt Sam take one of Dean’s hands in his and wrap the other arm around his shoulder, gently helping Dean to his feet.
Like oversized participants in a three-legged race, they slowly made their way to the door, making the bell jangle obnoxiously again. The fresh air helped a little, and a few moments later, Sam was easing Dean down into the front passenger seat.
‘Hey- Wouldja mind goin’ back in there and tellin’ Cas I said thanks for goin’ to get you for me, ’n that I’m real sorry for causin’ a scene?’ Dean asked. He needed just a few minutes alone to get his shit together, so he didn’t lose it all over his little brother’s car right in front of him.
‘Yeah, man. I can do that. I- I’ll- I’ll go do that- now.’ Sam sounded like he might need a moment alone as well.
‘Thanks, Sammy.’ Dean waited for Sam to close his door, then leaned his head against the window and exhaled slowly.
The vision loss might be temporary — it wasn’t unexpected, after all, and he had been experiencing increased blurriness for days — or it might not. The doctor had warned that this day would come, but — like all the other days he had been warned about — Dean had thought (hoped) that he would have had more time. It was this, more than anything else, that made him feel like the end of the road was closer than ever, the proverbial final nail in his inevitable coffin.
There was a melodramatic, maudlin thought in there somewhere, that if this was permanent, he could have done a lot worse than having Castiel be the last thing he saw, but he was too tired to fish it out of his mess of a mind. Instead, he just let his aching head be momentarily soothed by the cool glass of the window, and waited for his brother to come back and take him home — likely for the last time.
🌷 🌷 🌷
Castiel watched Dean being led through the parking lot by his giant of a brother, completely baffled by whatever the hell had just happened. He’d pretty much given up hope of ever seeing Dean again when they hit the three week mark of having had zero contact, so just the fact that Dean had been there at all had been a shock.
An even bigger shock had been the state Dean was in, however. He was so thin that his clothes hung limply off his frame, and he looked like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. Castiel had secretly wondered if maybe his disappearance had been drugs-related, but then dismissed the thought, mentally scolding himself for making assumptions.
Only then, after witnessing Dean’s freak out and subsequent request for his brother to come help him to the car, had Castiel thinking that maybe his initial theory held some weight after all.
The tall brother re-entered the shop a few minutes later. Surprised, Castiel approached the other man, peering into the parking lot to see if he might catch a glimpse of Dean, but the Prius was parked too far away.
(To protect his precious hippie doors, Dean would have undoubtedly said if he’d been in his right mind. Castiel couldn’t help but smile at the memory of Dean’s incessant grumbling about any vehicle made after 1995 during their week and a half of early morning commutes.)
‘Hey, uh… you’re Cas, right?’ the brother asked, sounding like he was trying very hard to keep it together. When Castiel nodded, the brother continued, ‘I’m Sam. Winchester. Dean’s brother. He- he wanted me to come back in here and say thanks for letting me know he was having a problem, and that he- he’s sorry you had to see that.’
‘I don’t really know what I saw,’ Castiel replied honestly. ‘Is... is Dean alright? He looks like...’
‘Like he’s dying?’ Sam barked a humourless laugh. ‘Yeah, that’s cos he is. Looks like it’s gonna be any day now.’ He looked as though he were mere moments from breaking down in tears.
‘What?’ Castiel gasped, completely taken aback. ‘What do you mean, dying? I- I had no idea.’
‘Oh. Shit.’ Sam ran a hand through his long hair, looking sheepish. ‘I didn’t- I just- I thought you knew that- Damn. I shouldn’t have said anything, sorry. I don’t like to- It’s Dean’s story to tell, not mine.’
‘From what you’ve said, it sounds like he’s not going to get the chance to tell that story,’ Castiel said quietly. ‘Please, Sam. What’s going on? I... I’ve only gotten to know your brother recently, but I do care about him. Very much.’
Sam eyed him for a long moment, then it was like all the fight drained right out of him, everything about him seeming to sag right before Castiel’s eyes. Swallowing hard, he said, ‘Dean’s sick, like... really sick. He was, ah- getting these headaches a few months ago, but by the time they were bad enough for him to finally go get checked out... Well, the doctor said the tumour was inoperable, and gave him a month. That was two months ago.’
Right around the time Dean had started coming into the shop, then, Castiel thought. He stared up at Sam, stunned, and all he could think of to say was, ‘I’m very sorry, Sam.’
‘I know.’ The words seemed to catch in Sam’s throat. ‘Me too. Dean’s... He’s a great guy, ya know? Best- best brother ever. And so smart. Have you ever seen his sculptures? They’re amazing. Dean just- he just sees the world in this unique way, where a piece of trash isn’t just a piece of trash, because he sees what it could become. I... I’m gonna miss that.’
‘I know,’ Castiel echoed, because he did know. He was going to miss it, too.
‘Anyway — thanks for letting me unload. It’s been a, uh- a rough few weeks. But I... I appreciate you being a friend, or whatever, to Dean. It’s good to know he hasn’t been alone the whole time.’ Sam sniffed and ran the back of his hand over his eyes before giving Castiel a clap on the shoulder. He hovered for a moment longer, then flashed Castiel a tight smile and wordlessly turned and walked back out to the parking lot.
🌷 🌷 🌷
Castiel finished the rest of his shift in a daze. Of all the ways he’d thought the situation with Dean was going to resolve, certain death had definitely not been one of them. He felt sick, remembering how frail Dean had looked, clutching the side of the table like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. Maybe it had been.
After work, instead of heading straight home like he usually did, Castiel hopped on Balthazar and just... rode. He needed to be alone with his thoughts, and there was nothing like a long, hard motorcycle ride to help clear his head.
He wasn’t giving much thought to where the road was taking him — actually, he didn’t pay attention to much of anything at all, aside from the roar of the exhaust and the wind whipping past him.
Some indeterminate amount of time later and almost by accident, he found himself stopping at a bar a few towns over. Deciding he’d stop in for just one drink before turning back around for the long ride home, he hopped off Balthazar and entered the bar, his helmet tucked under his arm and his heart in his throat.
‘Hey hon, what can I getcha?’ the bartender asked when Cas stumbled over to the bar and collapsed onto a stool. She leaned towards him in a way that Castiel was sure had encouraged many a man tip generously, but he barely looked at her and her cleavage, just numbly ordered a whiskey. When she handed it over, Castiel threw it back without a second thought. The bartender paused sympathetically and asked, ‘Rough day?’
‘What gave it away?’ Castiel asked dully, staring at his empty whiskey glass and debating ordering another.
The bartender smiled. ‘Well… a man throwin’ back shots like that at four in the afternoon on a Monday, lookin’ like the world’s ’bout to end? Usually means he’s lost his job, lost his girl, or lost his mind. So, which is it for you, darlin’?’
‘I found out today that my friend is dying’ Putting that truth into words felt like a knife between Castiel’s ribs. ‘I’ll take another whiskey, if you don’t mind.’
The bartender gave him a sympathetic smile and refilled his glass. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, hon.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ Castiel downed the second drink, savouring the way it burned his throat, because it gave him something other than his grief to focus on. ‘It just- it sucks. He’s just so... he doesn’t deserve this. I mean, no one does, obviously, but... he’s just different. And I just feel so helpless. I wish there was something I could do.’
‘Hm...’ The bartender hummed thoughtfully, giving Castiel a good once over. After a few beats of silence, she said finally, ‘Well, what if there was?’
‘What do you mean?’ Castiel asked, not comprehending her question at all.
‘I mean,’ she said slowly, ‘what if there was something you could do?’
Castiel stared at her, head tilted to the side in confusion, as he studied her just as intently as she’d been studying him.
It might have been a trick of the light or the result of the rapid succession in which he’d downed the two drinks, but he swore in that moment, it looked as though her eyes had flashed black.
🌷 🌷 🌷
Dean woke the next morning and just laid in bed for a few extra moments, eyes still closed, clinging to the last few seconds of the dream world where he was still healthy and whole.
He didn’t want to open his eyes to the inevitable nothingness, but knew he had to bite the bullet sooner or later, so with a groan, he forced himself to sit up. He leaned back against his headboard and opened his eyes.
And he saw... everything. His bed, the blue walls of his bedroom, the stacks of boxes shoved into the corner of the room that were marked TOSS, SAVE, DONATE and contained most of his worldly possessions. The small trash can that Sam had insisted Dean keep at his bedside ‘in case of emergencies’, aka for if Dean started puking his guts up again.
Dean shook his head in amazement, so grateful to at least have one more day of sight, and was astounded to realise the for the first time in weeks — months — his headache had subsided. The absence of that screaming pain made his head feel so light that it might just float away.
Encouraged by this unexpected good fortune, he pulled back the covers and made it all the way to the bathroom to take a piss before it hit him that his joints weren’t aching, and his limbs didn’t feel weak and tingly, either. He hadn’t felt this good in — well, shit, almost half a year, really.
He’d just returned to his room with enough energy to change into real clothes for the first time in what felt like forever, when his stomach made an audible growling noise. Shocked, he realised he was actually hungry — a concept that was so foreign by now, that its sudden reappearance had him laughing like a giddy schoolchild.
Still grinning madly, Dean made his way to the kitchen and scanned the mostly empty fridge, before deciding he and Sam would be going out for breakfast that morning. He figured he deserved it.
‘Hey,’ he called over to his brother, who was still fast asleep on couch. ‘Rise ’n shine, Sammy!’
Sam startled awake so violently that he fell right off the sofa. From a crumpled heap of blankets and long, gangly flailing limbs, he called back, ‘Dean?! What’s wrong? Are you alright?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine, kid,’ Dean said, coming into the living room and sitting down gingerly on the edge of one of the armchairs. ‘I feel great, actually. Starving, though. What d’ya think ’bout you ’n me goin’ out to grab food somewhere? I could go for a nice pig ’n a poke — and maybe a good cup of coffee.’